BLACK BOOT DIARIES – Squidgate Trial Part 8

The Spielberg ending, multiple quotes (all done from memory and therefore perhaps slightly inaccurate):

“I. Am. Coming. Home.”

“What a wicked thing to do…”

“No way around that, eh?”

“Because you don’t really need me…”

“…is eternal vigilance.”

“You got no time for the messenger. Don’t want to hear about some thing that you don’t understand. You got no fear of the underdog.”

“They didn’t get everything they wanted.”

“There’s a battle ahead. Many battles are lost.”

“On the eighth tentacle…”

—–

(Author’s note. This is the reason I suppose writers try to get further in before making a portion of a work public. I am writing these just before posting them. I just realized that this was not really the end. I wish I could have made it work that way, but it wasn’t and isn’t and therefore I couldn’t. Apologies to those who expected one).

This is where I have to step back again a few months. I’ve covered some of this in bits and pieces, but not as a thread unto itself. And, by rights, it has no business being in this post. Kind of. It has little to do with what actually happened at the restaurant where we spent some time after the sentencing hearing. But it is what was going on inside my head up to and after. It certainly doesn’t go hand-in-hand with the good news.

To set this part off, I’m putting in the dash-lines to bracket it.

—–

The euphoria and the “dependence on someone else” portions. As I’ve noted often, these are items 11 and 12 of a 1955 draft MKULTRA memorandum that escaped the destruction order as a result of being misfiled or similar. Rather conspicuous that it could be found so easily once I looked for it, but the sheer brazenness of these people does not quite take off the table who might be responsible even though it too easily points in that direction. It’s a mess, a multi-layered onion soup with several red herrings stewing it it, as the world of cloak and dagger often is. And what are those brown lumpy things floating in there?

The euphoria had been an on and off again thing from some time in the Fall of 2007 (just after meeting Jonathan Rhys-Meyers in a restaurant, mere days before his episode in an airport and losing his mother) that lasted until May of 2008 or so. This was followed by a slump, a sort of depression that lasted all Summer until the euphoria returned in October 2008. During the high period, I drafted, wrote, modified and worked on The Wisp. During the down period, I read, beginning with Blindsight, handed to me by my friend Stu who picked it up on the recommendation of a Barnes & Noble employee.

The cyclic nature of the longterm mood swings would seem to point to a malady, the name of which I’ve forgotten, but that is a sort of seasonal manic-depression. That is not what it was, I assure you. While I cannot dispute that manic-depression is a real disorder the cause of which is likely overwhelmingly not often the intentional doing of some group of spooks engaging in mischief, I can also point to item 5 of that same 1955 memo, that of mimicking the symptoms of known diseases for harassment purposes. And, though I have yet to compile a comprehensive list of the maladies they have tried to convince me I had at one point or other, it is preposterous that any one human being could have so many of them; and I am not a hypochondriac by any stretch of the imagination.

Back to the timeline, this second round of euphoria lasted until around May of 2009. By that time, I had written the first issue of the We Were the Freedom Federation comic. As I’ve noted, some changes were made and they were the idea of my artist, Ben. I approved them. But, for example, having NSA agent Mendoza alter TV programming was Ben’s idea. I don’t think either of us thought that sort of thing actually happened except maybe in very limited, extreme circumstances. Now, of course, I think it is the norm. Supporting perpetual war and transforming America into a nation of xenophobic sociopaths is hard work, but someone has to keep the military industrial complex monkey-on-back fed.

And of course, 2009 was when the s really hit the f. Same sort of Summer phase, except this time the mania or euphoria did not return in October or November. I had WWTFF issue one printed by September and started distributing in October.

Then came the incident involving Amy Goodman of Democracy Now with the Canadian border guards in November ’09 and exactly two weeks later the incident on the Blue Water Bridge involving Peter Watts in December.

I’d say is was about the 19th of December when the euphoria returned and was so much more intense, it just felt like I was in love with the world. Got that? 12/19/2009 (or 2009/12/19 if you prefer). The “love” feeling.

Then it became attached to someone after January 3, 2010. When I asked myself how I could possibly have been in love with someone I’d never met, my brain somehow came up with justifications and explanations. I had, it seems, seen him before and noticed him unconsciously. And of course this feeling was so intense, so far off the scale, so much more than I ever felt for Jesus, my mother or anyone else (in fact it felt like put all the love I ever felt for anyone and combine it and it would still fall short) that there had to be a reason for it.

And the third excuse… He and I were somehow psychically linked. I could feel what he was feeling and vice versa, I had been tricked into thinking. Because I didn’t and still don’t believe in naturally occurring ESP, I decided that whoever was running the show was linking this nameless person and I together using some wireless electronic means. I had, in Minneapolis, spent some time remotely with him. I had sort of been lead to believe. Just a variation on synthetic telepathy.

Of course it wasn’t until some time in early February that I realized I had any feelings for this person at all. Even then, not knowing if they were reciprocal, expecting it would pass, being loyal to my partner, I tried very hard to fix the current relationship. A dinner at Le P’tit Parisienne (note the spelling of P’tit. Can you imagine what fun they had with that mixing the letters up?), a restaurant that opened mere blocks away after the incident on the bridge, was disappointing to say the least and I suspected then that, at least until the trial was over, the longterm relationship was going to be on the rocks.

But there was the security blanket of this other guy…almost religious, isn’t it? Perhaps conspicuously so. He had reminded me of a friend I had had a crush on in ’99 and 2000. We were inseparable for a time (though people got so tired of Julien and I having so much fun they tried frequently to do just that, often unsuccessfully). That had passed. Julien was straight. So possibly was this guy and I still very much loved Jim.

So, when the verdict was in, I was still thinking of this person whom I referred to as “No One” (partly because I didn’t want him targeted, just like the Spoon song said; partly because a single small punctuation mark transformed the meaning of the name completely; and then there were the final words of a Chris Isaac song I couldn’t get out of my head). He couldn’t be there and did not know the verdict. Caitlyn’s dad I think it was, handed me a court document that listed Peter’s background info as we left the courthouse. It was devoid of offspring in that section. I don’t entirely understand what was happening on the Canadian end of things, why I’d been given it, except my inability to contain the intense feelings manifested itself in some crazy emails to Peter.

But I could “feel” this guy’s worry (I thought). It wasn’t until a few minutes after David Nickle went and posted about the sentencing that that feeling of worry or dread dissipated and I relaxed enough to enjoy the outcome of the sentencing hearing. It was, it seemed to me, the main reason David had posted it, to tell this special someone the outcome.

I’m going to skip ahead now, past the lunch and beer (paid for by Doug) for the moment.

They had me convinced that whatshisname was coming to Minneapolis. It just had to be. I waited quasi-patiently. Nothing. I got frustrated. Homelessness was just around the corner. Harassment continued. The desperation to resolve the problem (convinced by brainhacking that it was whatshisname’s mother–don’t ask me how…it’s remote brainwashing combined with whatever drugs they pumped me with) I made that crazy trip across a bridge under construction. That lead to more crazy emails to Peter. Those emails lead to the events detailed in the three-part post on this blog entitled “You Bury Me.”

In June 2010, I started hearing Smith’s voice occasionally saying, “He’s not coming.”

This was when the democratic party I guess decided to try to turn me into their version of James O’Keefe III. It also coincided with the clear message that the longterm relationship was over, kaput, dead.

Is it really difficult to understand how much I would hate a group of people who would prefer to exploit my pain for their own political purposes? What is it, exactly then, that is supposed to separate that party from the other one? I go by what people do over what they say. Slavery and driving someone to insanity (or taking advantage of someone else doing it) says to me that they are no better in practice. Hence my vote this November for Jill Stein. I’m sick of the bulls***.

But Smith’s voice was combined with the sudden cut off of my “psychic link” with No One. And I had written part or all of Learning to Fly. One scene involved a character “letting go” and falling to his death, or so he assumed. (Note how that, similar to the robbery of the local comic store in Brooklyn in October 2009, affects the First Amendment. “We didn’t actually prevent you from using free speech, we just punish you every time you use it.” Though, side note, I think denial of service attacks and their ilk are just that).

And I had received a “forced” image, a daydream?, nightmare? *, of No One jumping off of the tall apartment building in Brooklyn, the one where I had come to think he might have lived in.

So, cut off from him emotionally, “He’s not coming”, and an image of him jumping. This implied he was dead. They were careful not to come out and say “He’s dead.” I don’t know if that omission was for some obscure legal reason or to leave open the possibility of using him as a manipulation tool in the future. Probably both.

That was where it was all going. One s***ty choice or another: Suicide. Some act of violence (possibly ending in being dead if not in prison). Complete insanity. Slavery (or commit a crime so they can blackmail me into same–I’m told this is how the intel community generally keeps discipline. I can believe it).

What a country!

—–

But enough ranting about that. This was a time to celebrate, if only to the degree that Squidgate wasn’t likely to get worse.

I met the juror who had written the judge on Peter’s behalf and her husband. I wound up going over to their home afterwards and spending the night and getting a lift to the morning train that got me moving back toward Minneapolis.

After David’s post, I relaxed considerably. There was an odd moment when everyone at the table had their beers except Peter. I went to the bar to check on it, and yeah, despite knowing nothing of the Manual linked to on the right, was looking for any mischief. I gather this was just another of those sort of harassing moments. It’s the kind of thing that happens all the time to TIs, designed to worry and raise stress levels.

I told Doug that I had never seen an attorney fight that hard for a client and wondered if the “water works” weren’t going to start there for a moment.

There was also a funny question from Peter while discussing porcupine quill craftwork with Donna, the juror.

“Now, what would make a dog go after a porcupine?”

“To see what it tastes like, and so that the cats can watch and know what not to do,” was my off-the-cuff reply.

Now, of course, I might have a different answer, depending on whether or not we were literally talking about dogs.

I took a few photos of the occasion. Really, I just wanted to remember it. It was then that I noticed Madeline taking my photo as I took hers and the rest of the folks there. Like I said, a woman after my own heart. Cautious, caring, concerned. I worried less about Peter because I knew she was there. I was therefore happy to hand her her sunglasses when she nearly walked out without them.

I asked Caitlyn’s dad (who teaches or taught classical theater) if he thought this was Much Ado About Nothing or All’s Well That Ends Well. He said he thought more had gone on but, I think, wasn’t sure from here on. I would discover in April that the police persecution of the juror and her family, Peter believed, had to do with Beaudry and DHS. Obviously, I disagree, but then my experiences are different from what the Canadians went through, at least most of them.

It was when we parted that I wondered, vaguely, again, if this was far from being over. Watts did a very obvious strange goodbye. I wondered if he weren’t trying to protect me from whoever might be watching.

But of course it wasn’t goodbye. I made it to Toronto this past April, two years after the events above.

And I had planned to do so in October 2011 instead but got delayed. And the reason for that, well, I was working on a bucket list. I just couldn’t go self-immolate (as they had–I assure you it is true–convinced me to do in August ’11) without clearing things up with Peter first.

But of course I was tricking my own brain. They had, on that day in August, given me the worst psychological “beating” I could recall and ended the session with, “There will be worse days than this.” I had been peppered with reasons for doing so one after the other, more than a dozen. Combined with the remote torture, the idea stuck for ten days or so. I used the October deadline to buy time to talk myself out of it. Yes, sometimes I even trick myself. (It’s true, “I don’t like to lose.”)

Funny though, I don’t recall those reasons they gave any more.

Yes, people. This is not only possible, it’s happening right now. Truly. Welcome to the 21st Century. Are we going to smarten up and meet the challenge of a new dark age ** or live as slaves for the foreseeable future?

There was, as they drove away back to Canada, a feeling of satisfaction. I’m not sure why that is. Maybe it’s because for once I’m not being forced to think about it.

—–

* People, if you read about a major scientific breakthrough in a mainstream media source, it is highly likely that someone else has already done this secretly on humans. We aren’t next. It’s already been done and is being done.

** I was thinking about this yesterday. It’s not so much a new “Dark Age” as too much “light.” Too much information can be as debilitating as none at all. Maybe the “Dazzle Ages” is a better name for it.

Advertisements

Leave a comment

No comments yet.

Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s