Mrs. Jack Swanson, Brian Wilson, my death is a protest of your hypocrisy.

Senator Hatch, I protest your:  “I’ve heard what you do to some of your listeners.”  As I have said, hypocrisy does not begin to describe your corruption.    

A snuff site.

A special treat for the millionaires, Michael Weiner, and Don Imus, and Ron Owens; now you can watch your victim die.  What pleasure for you!  What satisfaction!  Any millionaire can have cable TV, travel around the world, live in mansions, but how many can have the pleasure of forcing another to his death?  

The house in the center was Marlene’s and mine . . . I was not always as you see me now.  The house under that picture is a house in Florida I adjusted after a hurricane.  A house wreck.  The woman on the left is an angel.  The one on the right in red and green is harder to see.

My books have been my family these last years.  I have felt responsible for all of these things but particularly the books.  I have kept them in plastic boxes to protect them from dust and mice.  The storage locker has been our home.  It has been a great comfort knowing that they were there, safe.

But the rent is $400 a month.  And the money is nearly gone.  So I have to find them a new home.  Each one tears at my heart but then I try to remind myself that nothing lasts. 

You can not take it with you either.  Giving all these things away is a practice for the final relinquishment of life itself.  Preparations.

Preparation of the Dead

Meditation on the Dead

At what point do you know you know?

After betrayal, how do you know when the betrayal has come to an end?

‘Oh, well, yes, we betrayed you then, . . . but this is now, you can trust us now.’

I’ve just gotten some calls from prospective employers.  Are they genuine?  Or did Michael Weiner, or Don Imus, or Ron Owens, or Michael Krasney, or Mrs. Jack Swanson put them up to it? 

Is this another one of your tricks?  Run me around?  Make me jump through some hoops?  More psychological warfare?

I want a job.  Not because it will alter my decision.  It will not.  No, I want the job so that you can not say afterwards, ‘Oh, yeah, he killed himself . . . he was unemployed you know.’

I want the job so that when I sit down on the sidewalk in front of the KQED building and pull the plastic garbage bag over my head, with my back to the wall and put the gun in my mouth, and blow my brains out the back of my head, you will not be able to think, ‘He was unemployed.’

That is meditation.  The, ‘He was unemployed.’  A lot of you think that meditation is some arcane special thing.  It is not.  You do it all the time.

Alan Watts gives the example of how, after sitting for a time, reading for example, absorbed in some activity, and then you stop, and get up, and go to the window and look out.  Just look out to see what’s going on, the weather, the time of day, just looking.  That is meditation.

After I am gone, you will hear that someone has shot himself in front of the KQED building.  There has been a shooting.  And some of you, those of you who have first hand knowledge of these matters, who have listened to the tapes that Michael Weiner has secretly recordedyou may feel . . . what, shock?  Can shock jocks be shocked?  (One leftist journalist on KQED said that there is a web site where you can listen to recordings of “disturbed people.”  Am I on some of those audio files?  Did you listen to me after my father died?  After my mother?  How long has Weiner been recording?  You see, one never knows.  What is real, what is Psy Ops?)

Or you may be one of the ones at KGO who know about the stolen notebook.  You have heard Mrs. Jack Swanson boasting about how she had me followed and would drop references in her broadcasts about where I had been, or about the stolen CENCAL letters.

And there may be a moment of recognition, that you knew about what had been done to me for all these years, possibly  . . . well, not exactly guilt . . . but a moment of thought, ‘Oh, so he did kill himself after all . . .’ 

But if you simply stay with that thought and follow your thoughts, just watch, just to see what is going on, then as one thought follows another, that process, this watching your thoughts, just to see, that is meditation.

I do not want you to be able to have the thought:  ‘He was unemployed . . .’  I do not want to give you an easy out.  I want you to face the fact that I said I would kill myself to protest that I live in a world where people, like you, will simply watch as another man is destroyed.  I want you to face that fact.  My death in protest of you.

However, if you are an “experienced meditater,” like Yvonne, or my sister Susan, then you will simply face the fact that I am dead.   Then the thought may come, ‘He was unhappy.’  Or ‘I should call . . .’  Or something.  And there will be some other thought. 

At first you might even feel guilt.  There may be the sudden realization that now it is too late to say anything; to give evidence.  You may even be one of the people whose actions I am protesting.  But if you just watch your mind, after a while your thoughts will settle down again.  That I am now dead will settle in.  An accomplished fact.

Time will pass.  The phone will ring.  You will get hungry and start thinking about lunch.  This is the thing about meditation, watching, after a while you come to realize that one thought follows another. 

Some of you may be suspicious that being an “experienced meditater” is not such a good thing.  I mean if you have tormented another human being for a dozen years and that person has just killed himself in protest, and after watching the feelings of guilt arise up, you then watch them subside?  You get hungry and make plans for lunch?  It may sound inhuman.

Well in Buddhist philosophy this is why one should not engage in wrongful conduct.  The karma of wrongful conduct is that it causes these feelings of conflict and guilt, etc. to arise and cloud meditation.  Most Westerners mistakenly think of karma as “divine retribution” or some system of justice.  But karma really just means cause and effect.  You should not betray your fellow human beings because the effect will be to cloud your life with problems. 

But if you are an “experienced meditater” you know that you only need to sit and watch and those karmic feelings will eventually be replaced by other feelings.  Life goes on.  Being an “experienced meditater” does not mean that you have thought about justice, or living a good life, or anything at all.  It just means your are experienced about watching the different feelings and thoughts arise and go away.

In the San Francisco Bay Area we have a lot of “experienced meditaters.”  With what result you can judge for yourself.

I just do not want them to be able to think, ‘Oh, he is dead, . . . he was unemployed you know.”  They will not be able to take that route. 

So though I do not know if one of my tormenters is behind these recent calls from prospective employers I will go and interview.  Suspiciously. 

In Memoriam

After I wrote the Last Letter I was dismayed that no one came forward at that time.  Obviously many people knew about what had happened.  I expected that in time Yvonne, or my sister, someone, would acknowledge what had been done, perhaps apologize?  (Yvonne did explain herself with her story.  (see Yvonne’s Story in the Stolen Notebook) But my sister never explained her participation, not to this very day.)

As the months passed my alienation grew greater.  ‘So this is my country?’ I thought.  I had been betrayed and abandoned.  I determined never again to become involved in politics.  The sole survivor.

The following year there was the first World Trade Center

attack and the attackers were clearly connected to Iraq.  Several had come from Iraq, others fled back to Iraq after the attack.  I was mystified that no one  discussed this at the time.

Then a few months later, President Bush himself was the target of an Iraqi assassination attack.  I had warned him to remove Saddam Hussein, he had acknowledged my letters, the Senate also, and many Senators had also acknowledged my letters.

They were trying to K-I-L-L him! 

And again, no one seemed to notice.  Mr. Bush himself had nothing to say. 

That no one came forward about me.  That the local Public Broadcasting Station could interfere with my private contract with Yvonne, harasse me for months, ok, fine, no one cared. 

But here was the former President of the United States, targeted for assassination, by an enemy power, against which we had just fought a war in which hundreds had died, and no one cared about that either?  Not even the target?

I told you so.  Yes I thought that.  But more importantly I could not understand how human beings were thinking.  How?  Why?  It was incomprehensible.

Then came the profound sense, in mid 1993, that if they would do nothing for Mr. Bush, how could I possibly ever have thought anyone would care what PBS’s KQED did to me?  If the Senate does not care about him why would they care that some scribbler was destroyed because he wrote to the Senate? 

And so history unfolds and I am sitting in my car in front of Farmers Insurance and the radio mentions that a plane has hit the World Trade Center.   I get out my TV and look at the towers burn, crumble and the huge cloud of dust.

No one responded to the Last Letter in 1992.  No one cared what was done to me.  No one cared what was done to Mr. Bush!  God Damn You.  God Damn You.

Connect the dots?  I can not express the contempt I feel for you.

I grew increasingly suspicious of Yvonne after she took Marlene and me to the KQED studio in November, 1991, for several months, into 1992, I grew increasingly alarmed that people were making references to me and Marlene.  Yvonne pretended ignorance.

And an aspect of my situation is that there has never been any final confirmation.  No moment of resolution.

The Red Comedian, (he would want me to use his name), one day made a reference to me, and I burst into tears.  So it was true!  Yvonne was a liar!  All lies.  A gigantic con.

And I know that many readers are reading this and shrugging their shoulders.  So they did you in a bad way.  People are like that. 

Saddam Hussein killed hundreds of thousands in Iraq between 1991 and 2003.  Bernie Ward recently said on his Sunday show that “there was no genocide in Iraq.”  He calls his Sunday show God Talk.. 

You do not care?  Do not care that Yvonne is liar?  Do not care that PBS’ station KQED used its power and influence to destroy a man solely because he wrote some letters? Do not care that a group of Iraqis tried to blow up the World Trade Center?

At first I was going to jump off the Golden Gate bridge.  (Years later Duane Garrett would in fact jump.)  Then I set out to expose the conspiracy.  I determined that before I killed myself I would prove that Yvonne had betrayed her client, that KQED had . . . etc. etc. etc.

What followed then were months of searching.

I tried but as I say there was never any final proof, no moment of resolution.  I did go back to see Yvonne again, she did tell her story, (Yvonne’s Story), but she has never to this day admitted anything.  She has remained true to the Revolution, or the Cause, or whatever Red Socialist Ideal it is that motivated her and the others.

I remember only the people.  The buildings.  I photographed them.  Coming.  Going.  Trying to establish a connection between my sister Susan, and Yvonne, and KQED.  I organized protests in front of KQED.  Trying to provoke a response.

And all these years later the conspiracy holds fast.  The World Trade Center has crumbled and fallen.  Wars swept over the land.  400,000 have perished.  But the conspiracy lasts.  In fact has grown, with Michael Weiner and Don Imus and others joining in.  God Damn you.  God Damn you.

Wake

Whither shall I go from thy spirit, whither shall I fly from thy presence? If I ascend into heaven thou art there, if I make my bed in hell, behold thou art there. If I take the wings of the morning and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me. --- Psalm 139

I awoke with a start.  As the day of my death draws near I sleep less soundly.  It does not get easier as the time grows closer. 

I fear only depressives can kill themselves. 

I want to live but I must die to protest . . . to protest . . . Yvonne’s betrayal, and Marlene’s too.  I see now that I stayed with Marlene as long as I did because . . . well because of the same reason I held on to being an insurance adjuster . . . held on like a hand in the rigging during a storm . . . held on for dear life . . . I was beaten down long before the Bay Area politicos got to work on me . . . I protest all of it.  I do not care if my tormenters know I protest them or not or if  they rejoice.  I do not care if they enjoy driving me to my death.  Or that they feel they have won!  I protest their enjoyment of their victory even as they cheer. 

Well I do not want to hang on anymore.  Michael Weiner and Don Imus enjoyed the spectacle of watching the crewman hanging on, trying to right himself . . . like spectators at the coliseum . . . watching the tigers circle . . . “look,  oh, this will be good.”

And protest also the rest of them, all the aiders and abettors.  Why did so many help them.  And in particular the Senate.  It still amazes as it hurts.  “I have heard what you have done to some of your listeners.” --- Senator Hatch

What liars.  I protest you most of all.

I woke up last night from a nightmare.  I was working on a movie.  I had to set up the lighting for the scenes.  The sets for the movies were all painted black.  The scenes were to be digitally added later in post production but the actors would walk in front of sets with various black painted forms, or backdrops, and the lighting on the actors had to be perfect.

I examined each set carefully, going over the script and how the actors would move on the set so that I could judge where the lights should be placed.  In this scene, a light here, then another there, backlighting, side and front, where the shadows would be cast.

Then the sets had to be worked on more quickly.  No sooner had I worked out the details of the best location for the stage lighting than another set arose up and displaced the last one.  I worked more quickly, literally flying up and installing a spotlight here far above the set, then zooming down to install flood lights down on the floor, then up again for a backlight, and then the next set, all black, and increasingly gigantic, wood loom up out of the vast darkness. . .

I worked faster and faster, but it became impossible to keep up,  . . . trying to cast light on the dark sets . . . in which the actors would cross, strut and fret their hour . . .

I awoke with a start, in a real panic . . . my time is almost up . . . all will be darkness.

Alan Watts assures us that death will not be like going to sleep.  We will not dream.  Death will be like that time before we were born.  Not sleep but nonexistence. 

Yet, I do not want to die.  It will have to be an act of will.  A murder.   

But as I say, enough of all that.  They want the votes, the Democrat and Republicans, they want their money too, but mainly they want to buy the civil peace.  The top 20% wouldn’t support the Social Security system if they did not get their end from the paychecks of the bottom 80%.

All through life they ripped off the people manipulating the government, to manipulate the market, squeezing the supply, raising their prices,  why should they stop now in retirement and become altruistic?  Especially in retirement!  Now, when they can no longer raise their prices!  No longer on the corporate expense account, no longer sucking the whory tits.  Now, in old age, they must squeeze every last drop from the great sow,  with their last dying strength.

I die to protest them.

And no, I do not suppose they will in the slightest way be changed.  Neither my words, or my blood, or my last sudden breath as my head kicks back against the wall of the KQED building, will move them.  I know.

I do not care. 

Still one never knows.  It is impossible to tell.  Michael Weiner is such a schizophrenic that he himself has no way of telling what will happen to him.  Like Mrs. Jack Swanson, they are both of them such obsessive compulsives that it is as likely that their neuroses will actually protect them as cause them to be tormented for the rest of their days fixating on how they drove a fellow human to his death.

Don Imus, the degenerate druggy, also obsessive compulsive,  and ---- now that I think about it, these broadcasters, these carnival barkers, they all of them are neurotics, obsessive compulsives aren’t they?

Yes, . . . think about the job, everyday they must go in and perform, good days and bad, showmen!   Their neuroses actually help them perform!   Most people would be too ashamed to go on the air again after saying the sort of things they say every day. 

Yes!  Of Course.  After Duane Garrett’s death I stopped going to see Yvonne.  But when Michael Weiner used his contacts in the ADL and the San Rafael Police to burglarize my room at the Colonial Motel I wrote a letter to Yvonne.  After the week of listening to Weiner read from the stolen notebook, (see Stolen Notebook archive at the Moynihan), I was outraged, but then, the following week, Brian Wilson, Mrs. Jack Swanson, and the others, Jim Dunbar, Ted Wygant, Ted Baxter—Ed Baxter, all of them made references to the stolen notebook.  I thought I could embarrass them --- not knowing how sick they really were.

So I wrote a note to Yvonne about the burglary and their on air references to the notebook, (see Dear Yvonne archive at the Moynihan), knowing that she would share the note with others and the word would get around.  I thought that I would turn Yvonne around, use her to get out the word, instead of having her work against me as she had done, betraying me.

And it worked.  She did share the notes.  They all started making references to what I had written to Yvonne.  I had sought to shame them, but they would not be shamed.    Yes, they seemed to be saying, we know about the burglary, we know your notebook was stolen and a jolly good read it was!

I was shocked.  I wrote a few more letters.  They positively roared with laughter, making even more references.  ‘Yes we know so what?’,  they seemed to challenge.

No, they were not ashamed. 

I stopped writing to Yvonne.  But of course they did not stop.  Michael Krasney followed me to AAA, Michael Weiner used his contact with Scott Bobro at Farmers, (or was it Ron Owens? (see Psy Ops and Intel Operations on the main campus)),  Mrs. Jack Swanson had me followed for two years and used her contacts with the owners of CENCAL Insurance to obtain the letters, (see CENCAL Letters archives at the Moynihan),  and then Don Imus used his influence with GAB Robins and Frank Blaha to harasse me there.

That is when I started this web site, March 2003.

Fourteen years is long enough.  But do not suppose that I believe blood will shame those who could not be shamed with words? 

So, no, I do not expect my death will change them.  Or if it does it will only be because their weird psychological gyrations spin them that way, it is completely unpredictable.

For example, Don Imus will probably not pause for a moment on hearing that a shooting has taken place in front of KQED.   But what about Deidre Imus?  Who can say?

For example, recall that  she became hysterical about a toy cap gun and then, MY GOD!, a pocket knife TOO!  Why do you think she became so unglued?  Well just think about it.  She is married to Don Imus.  Is that normal?  What kind of psychology does it take to marry Don Imus?  Rich?  Well, yes.  But what is the psychology of someone who would actually . . . marry him?  Someone with an inordinate concern for security.

Someone who thinks it important that her child be born in a penthouse.  Mansions, and limousines, are important?   Especially if you are a neurotic like Diedre.  That is why she had the nanny put out in the middle of the desert at  four in the morning.  A POCKET KNIFE!  A neurotic’s paranoid delusion.  And Don Imus of course, desperate, puts the nanny out.  What does he care?  “Terrorist,”  that is what he said, but what did he think?   It was all very “amusing.”

“Amusing” is the word he kept using when he made repeated references to my situation.  He had heard about the Weiner’s burglary, the following from job to job, so when Shotgun Tom Kelly’s brother in 1998 was working at State Farm with me, well, here was his opportunity to get a piece of it.  (see Intel Operations and Psy Ops.)

But what will Deidre do after I am dead? Will she be driven mad?  Is she obsessive?  Oh, yeah, she is at least that.  What then Don?  Will you still find it “amusing?”

And after me who else she will wonder?  Deidre . . . oh, . . . Deidre Imus, . . . there are a lot of lone wolves out there . . . I will fund this web site for several years before I go over to KQED . . . who knows . . . not everyone is as cooperative as me . . .   Who knows what she will think?  Even she does not know, for even though they are such neurotics that they can not be shamed, still, others might come forward. . . . How many others has Don Imus done this to?   . . . She might be safe, but . . . what about her son? . . .  well . . . it does not matter.

Now there is a way to save Social Security . . . kill us off!   Better!  Force us to kill ourselves!  Brilliant!

But as I say not everyone will be as accommodating.  As I mentioned before,  if you can see that killing solves nothing then why kill anyone  . . . ?  But as I say not everyone is as “philosophical” about their life.

No, I die not to cause any change at all.  It really does not interest me to speculate.  For one thing it is unknowable.  Even Mrs. Jack Swanson does not know what will happen to her inside her disturbed little mind.  Michael Weiner may go on as before, or my death may trigger a psychotic reaction . . . even he does not know . . . to drive another to his death . . . he may confuse it in his own mind to the death of his father or mother, . . . or will it thrill him,  there is just know way of knowing.  Who cares?  

Even if they all go mad, Weiner and Swanson, Deidre, or if they should fall victim to some psychosis, who cares?  I take no joy even in the speculation.

And if not concerned with the fate of my enemies, much less the future of Social Security.  Even bio-warfare does not interest me now just days as I am from my own death. 

For years I have been studying developments, reading the books, The Coming Plague, The Hot Zone, The Cobra Event, all those years while these carnival barkers were  harassing me, I was studying the growing catastrophe, even as these vicious fools hectored me.   For  I realized very early, that bio-warfare was far more important than the laser disks about which I had written the Senate back in the late 1980’s.  (see Math Project and New Ruskin College archives at the Moynihan.)

But I was not going to get involved again.  I watched and said nothing.  I had had enough.  When the Clinton administration did nothing about the genocide in Rwanda I said nothing.  It was not just the one million killed, but the egotism of these phony liberals, all the Bay Area liberals, radicals, Greens, all of them, many the very ones who had attacked me because I was a Republican and they were more  ---  more what?  Good?  Honest?  Kind?  Horrible egotists, and they said nothing while a million were murdered.  Oh, they would have done something about the NAZIS, boy if only they had been alive then . . . the hypocrisy!

But I said nothing because I had written the last letter in 1992, (see The Last Letter archive at the Moynihan), and I had told everyone about what the people at KQED had done, how they had conspired with Yvonne, the counselor,  . . . and no one did a thing.  This was my society?  Yes!  What a fool.  I tried to interest society in the application of technology in education,  . . . why?  Hopeless.  I gave up.  These Bay Area “liberals” set out to destroy me because they disagreed with my politics.  And no one cared.

Senators acknowledged receipt of the Last Letter.  Senator Moynihan acknowledged receipt.  But even he, this great man, did nothing.  So I turned my back on society. 

Then the next year, in 1993 Saddam Hussein attempted to kill Mr. Bush (41), and sent out and  later protected the bomb makers who attacked the World Trade Center Towers, and again no one did a thing . . .

I watched all of it, and I stopped writing letters to Yvonne because clearly that was not helping . . . and I would still not have said a word except that Don Imus started talking about my email at GAB Robins in 2003, the eleventh year of my torment.

So I do not care if  anything changes upon my death.  

Social Security, bio-warfare,  I am beyond these things now.  (I know! You could ask Don Imus.  “By the way Ali Sistani is just another Khomeini.”  He actually offered this opinion based on  . . . his several decades of boozing and whores.  It reminds me of Al Gore offering the reason for his assessment of Iraq.  “Based on my experience in Vietnam . . .”  But then, this is how they stay out there in the public, this impenetrable egotism, their fat relentless egos.  Yes, you should listen to Don Imus, and go to hell.)   

With my death I protest you, all of you, the ones who are silent most of all, but I do not expect you to change either. 

I want to live, but I die,  and I do not care if you or anything or anyone changes. 

The Condemned

The prisoner has been pouring over the help wanted ads.  Scouring them for any job.

I let him take one the last time we came down to “the end.”   That was when he took the job as a courier.  The one where the b----

Counselor:  Your women readers do not appreciate your constant use of the “B” word.

But she was a . . . Ron Owens’  . . Owens’ . . . we never did find out what that relationship was to the children’s clothing designer at Gymboree.  (see Psy Ops and Intel Operations)

Anyway the prisoner carefully examines the ads every day.  Searching.  What is he looking for?  Searching.  For what?

In the end he agrees, there is nothing that can be done.  We are finished. 

06-01-05

The last few days have been spent in tears.

I think that I have reached bottom, that I have come to terms with my end  . . . and then I discover some new awareness, a deeper level of despair . . . I suppose this is how it will be right up to the last second when I pull the trigger.  A series of moments, each more profound than the instant before right up to the very last.

My dreams have become hallucinatory.  Last night I was flying over the Himalayas.  I would pass mountain peaks, the veins of  the rock, the snow, the sunlight, were perfectly clear.  Then at a pass I flew over a plain stone stupa.  Everything perfectly detailed.  Red earth, green grass, and two men in golden robes and shaven heads their black hair bristling, smiling, looking up, and waiving at me as I flew overhead.

Then down the valley a small village, on the side of the mountain, on the right.  Every house of stone perfectly clear.  I could even see cracks or chips missing in the stones.  Goats.  And children.  Smoke from the fires coming out of the chimneys.  People looked up at me as I flew overhead, smiling, waiving.

Then night before last I was at home with my brothers and sisters.  Thirty years ago.  We were all going to go to a dance.  We were together in the living room.  My sisters in long dresses of blue and green.  Somewhat more elegant than my brothers and me in sports jackets, but with ties.

I was surprised that everyone was young and happy.  All smiles.  Cheerfully looking forward to the dance.  Joking. 

But, the thing is, I thought as I woke up.  My brothers and sisters never went to a dance together. 

Then for the last few days this deep melancholia.  Tears. Then long periods of sitting waiting for the end. 

I thought I had been all through this already.  What else, what more could there be?  And then this heavy sorrow . . . oppressing . . .

I still thought something might happen.   Somehow, something.  Even now after all this time . . .

My death only days away now, and still, this deep depression . . . and this hope . . . ?  Hope?  Why hope?

I think about all the others who have died before me.  Why should there be hope?   

06-07-05

The dreams continue.

Again as before there was this cinematic detail.  The factory was black and grey, but the lines on the shop floor were white, and red.  The walls were painted green to eight feet.  The porcelain drinking fountain.  The overhead  pipes were gray and white with the hoppers of stainless steel, and yellow connectors.

I moved through the factory and it seemed familiar.  I once adjusted a claim for a fire in a candy factory.  But in my dream it was night and all the lights were off.

Was I not supposed to be here?  There was a truck parked in the center of the plant with a set of doubles, high cube with the extended floors like the ones for movers and farm commodities.

Then I walked by.  There was some threat.  A confusion of encounters.  People talking.  The cargo.  What was being unloaded into the trailers from those stainless steel pipes overhead?

Then the truck drove away.  The FBI needed my help.    They were there at the factory but the truck was gone.  I walked into an office at the plant.  The Steelcase furniture, in pale blues and green.  The papers on the desks.  Everything was familiar.  And there were people.  They too were familiar. They knew me.  Greeted me.

I got the manifest for the tractor trailer that had just left.  I walked out to the plant floor.  Past the calendar.  The clock on the wall. 

I woke up.  Was it biologicals?  Or . . .?

(A small nuclear bomb is the equivalent of  12,000 tons  of explosives.  12,000 tons could be placed in a stack of shipping containers ten wide, five high, with eight in a row.  You can see such stacks all around ports.  Such a stack could be fitted in a small warehouse,  or a small container ship, or on a sea going barge.

“A marshal's task begins 12 miles off the Golden Gate, where the pilot boat, sleek as a yacht, waits for ships bound for San Francisco Bay.

“ ‘If this ship went up, we would have a big fireball,’ says Coast Guard Chief Petty Officer Mark Rea, one of two sea marshals assigned to board . . .” (SFGate)

At 12 miles the explosion of 12,000 tons of explosives would vaporize a cubic mile of ocean and the resulting tidal wave would put a wall of water 5 feet high onto the streets of San Francisco.

At 20 knots  the ship would be within six miles of San Francisco in less than thirty minutes.  There the detonation would cause a tidal wave of 12 feet and there would be a blast wave as well.

In less than an hour, the detonation would be within a mile of San Francisco, the downtown area would be vaporized, the blast wave would decimate the remainder, and the tidal wave would send a wall of water 12 feet high across the East Bay. 

Now, what if the containers were in a local warehouse already?)

Nightmare?  Is that what you think?

“US demands 2,000-mile track and trace zone
US - The United States is pushing ahead with moves that would force all ships to carry equipment transmitting their identity and exact location at a range of 2,000 miles. Any such step opens up a range of technical and political questions, not least the obvious unwillingness of hostile nations being forced to let each other know the latitude and longitude of all their ships at all times. The regulations — which the International Maritime Organization could adopt as early as 2005 — will be over and above the current drive to make the 50-mile range automatic identification systems compulsory by December this year. Although little noticed at the time, the idea was first raised in principle at the IMO’s December 2002 special conference on security, which drew up the International Ship and Port Facility Security Code. Since then, the idea has been discussed at several IMO bodies, most notably the subcommittee on radio communications, search and rescue, known in IMO-speak as Comsar. Now the US Coast Guard has gone public with the idea, in an interview given by its commandant, Thomas Collins, to the Reuters news agency. “We are working closely together on what should be the international requirement that we impose on international shipping, what the technical dimensions and standards of that should be, and then require them to implement it by a certain date,” said Adm Collins.” © 2000 - 2003 informa asia publishing ltd. all rights reserved.

You see why 2,000 miles? 

Now you understand? 

Satisfaction -  Completion

The cinematic dreams stopped for a time.  Then last night I had another.

I think they are related to my growing awareness of  my death.   The greater the awareness the more intense the dreams. The realization comes in waves.  Periods of deep despair as I once again come to the realization that nothing will change the course of my life which leads directly to my death.

Then there are periods when hope again is rekindled.  For example, when Al Franken first started making references to this web site I thought, “maybe he knows something?  Is he going to  . . .”  and then hope washes away, flows back down into the rising tide of hopelessness. 

The last several days have been grim.  Then last night this dream:

I was standing on a hill surrounded by other hills, an upland, in the sun, and all about me were ruins.  Stone ruins of cathedrals or castles, thousands of years old, Roman arches surrounding an amphitheater or circus, grass was going among the stones which lay on the ground.  You could make out the pattern of streets and avenues where once there was a city. 

Then I was indoors inside an old building bigger than a cathedral.  It was dark.  There was a roof supported by steel girders that had been added to hold it up.  There were sheds in side on the ground level with bare electric lights, and high up above in the distance you could make out the gray and blackened stones and here and there the arched windows without glass let in light far away and high up.

Walking with me were a group in hard hats, discussing the project.  The sheds were shops and they were showing me the progress in rebuilding this building.  There were workers but all the work was minuscule compared to the size of the building which soared high up and far away.  Here was the rotunda they said.  I looked up into the vast darkness, “this is were the rotunda used to be.”  And then a little further along this was the great entry hall, the entrance far away was borded up and there was darkness, pigeons flew from their perches up above.

The group explained to me that they needed help.  They had plans, they showed me their blue prints.  We hiked outside again to look over the problem. Outside in the sun again, standing among the swaying weeds and the fallen stones we stood together in a group discussing the problem. 

Looking about they explained that whenever they tried to rebuild a section of a fallen building it would collapse.  They pointed across from us to one building after another which they had tried to rebuild and showed the freshly fallen stones that had come down.  Only the great building, in which we had just been surveying, was still standing but it was far from complete, an empty shell of a building with steel buttresses needed inside to keep it standing.  What to do?

I became aware that the director of the project had appointed me to this task.  We looked again at the blue prints and the surrounding ruins.  I explained pointing to a cross section of the foundations that the buildings were founded on stones, large boulders, and as I pointed to the diagrams they turned into a video illustration.  Where there were large boulders under the building foundations the buildings had stood, but under the portions of the walls, and I pointed here and there, there was only slag and the ground could not support the walls.  The foundations would have to be made deeper to support the weight of the buildings.  This is why they had fallen.

We went back inside and began work immediately.  Yvonne was there in hard hat, smiling.  And as we worked there was an overlay of a calendar its pages being blown off year after year.  For it was an immense project, we had a huge team, bulldozers were brought in, the walls of the city began to rise, but the calendar pages pealed off, 1991,  1992,  . . . 1998,  . . . 2003, year after year, decades later . . .

We were standing under the great rotunda, I looked up into the vast space, the walls now glowed with a rich sandstone yellow, and the windows were now glassed in and there were many new openings in the old walls, modern windows among the old stones, light streaming in, and rich inlayed marbles and dark woods in intricate patterns all the way down as I looked down onto the main floor filled with light.  We walked into the great entry hall and now people were coming into the building, we went over to the entry and looking outside through the new curtains of glass we could see the whole city had been rebuilt, it was now filled with people, it was a glorious sunny day, and yet it was snowing.

And  we had grown older after all these years, Yvonne and I, and our team of engineer builders they also were now old men and women.  No longer in hardhats we were all dressed in suits.  Yvonne too which was strange for I had never seen her in a business suit. We turned from the entry, and walked back into the entry hall a soaring space a dozen stories high, and we went past the reception area where visitors were being greeted and into the business offices.

We went down a long corridor.  It was huge.  It was wider and longer than any I had ever seen.  Carpeted . . .

We turned into a large room three stories high but windowless deep inside the building yet lit by light streaming down from above.  I was still looking around at everything checking to make sure everything was finished.  I had a sense of being much older now, a long period of time had passed by, and in my mind’s eye I could still see the pages of the calendar being pulled off one after the other.

There was a bank of chairs set opposite a large upholstered  swivel chair with cherry wood control panels set on each arm of the chair.  The director’s chair.  But where was the director?   He was standing with others discussing the completion of the successful project.  I checked the chair, every detail.  I could see the stitching in the plush yellow leather, thickly  padded.  The pattern in the carpet.  Dich paneled walls.  Everything in perfect detail.

The project was over.  I was much older.  And Yvonne too, the hair turned white, and all of us, we were older, but the project was complete.  There was this sense of immense satisfaction.  The city had been rebuilt and all was done, and in every detail.  The director was celebrating.  There was a huge crowd in the director’s office.  Joy.  There was champagne.  Beside the director’s chair was a hanging file tray.  I walked over and examined them disinterestedly.  Yvonne was by my side smiling.  We   both had this sense of completion and satisfaction.  I could tell by her eyes.  We had finished the job.

I looked over the files, and realized that these were the personnel files of everyone who had worked on the project.  All the builders, the engineers, everyone.  I looked for my file.  There it was.  I reached into the file and pulled out my file.  I was surprised how thick it was.  My curriculum vitae.  Yvonne was standing there, her white hair, her smile.  The project was complete.  There was this deep sense of completion, of satisfaction.  All those years.  And now everything was complete.

I opened the file it was my resume, but in hundreds of typed pages.  And there were illustrations in detailed line drawings like the drawings in the Wall Street Journal.  As I paged through I could see drawings of how the building looked when we had started, ruins.  Then there were drawings of the construction.  There was the illustration of the foundations.  All the images of the dream I had just had were there.  I tried to read the written words which normally in my dreams I can never quite make out.  I will focus on a page and see the letters, but I can never quite make out what it says.  And now I still could not see, focus as I might, but now there was not anxiety or distress, there was just this immense sense of satisfaction.  Completion.  We had finished.  Yvonne was smiling.

I continued to look at the illustrations reliving the dream I had just had.  And I could see the pages of the calendar pulling off the pad, year by year.  And I felt myself growing older.  And this rich, warm sense of completion and satisfaction.  Yvonne smiling.  We were done.  And the director was talking with the people.  And everyone was excited and happy that the city had been rebuilt.

And I awoke with this same sense of satisfaction and completion.  And even now after noon, I have been thinking of my death and still there is this rich warm feeling of completion.  Everything has been done.

And even after I compare my actual life so terribly foreshortened and diminished as it is, cut off from everything, how little I have accomplished, even fully aware of how empty, yet even so, there is still even now this rich warm sense of completion.  The city has been rebuilt on a new foundation.  Everything is done.

But for how much longer do you suppose will the director let you send his agents back to him this way?  If you beat and torment and murder them, crucify them, do you not suppose that at some point the director will become displeased with you?  Then what will he do?  Who next shall he send to you?

My internet access is about to be cut.  I have already lost my mailing address.  My phone will soon be gone.  The credit company is calling about the car payment.

I have overstayed my time.  I had wanted to leave before all of this started crashing in on me.  I have stayed as long as I have because of what I have been calling ‘the glitch.” (see also Psy Ops No. Nine 11-11-04   Paranoia:  Or How to Destroy a Man)

When you are alienated from people you stay to yourself.  This is the “fatal flaw.”  It is a flaw because we all need each other, no man is an island, yet if your are, as Dr. Edel put it, a “klutz”, you keep to yourself.  I did not want to be a problem for people.   Do you see?  It works both ways, “the glitch.”  It has kept me going yet it also blocked me.   Something about me.  So I have tried to live my life without causing trouble for others. Alone.

I don’t know what it is that allows others to continue.  How do you have a relationship with others?  I don’t know.  So I kept to myself.  I persevered for years. Alone.  And as the harassment mounted I withdrew further and further.  I tried to make a life for myself.

So many Christmases, New Years Days, birthdays, Fourth of Julies, alone, and alone.  One year I bought a Christmas wreath and hooked up Christmas tree lights.  I listened to music, read, listened to the radio.  I even had internet access this last year and a half.

I used to take walks but because I feared they would break into it, or steal the whole car, I always took walks so that I could keep the car in sight.  But these last few months I even stopped that.  Too much risk.  What if they ran up to it and got away before I could get back?

The “glitch.”   I deliberately decided not to take a job because what if they harassed me again?  Some customer walks in and then starts ranting, accuses me of saying something?  The employer might know it was untrue but who wants the trouble?  How do you have a relationship?  Stand on your rights?  Do you even call it that?  You see, I just have no idea.  What is the framework?  What are the rules?   How do you say, ‘yes, there are a whole group of rich powerful people trying to destroy me, . . . but I promise to be a good employee . . .?’  I don’t want to bring anyone else down, cause problems . . . etc.

And so I was driven into greater and greater isolation.  When things began to become desperate I searched for some job, any job, pouring over the want ads, but what if . . .?

Now the end has come.

I have always had trouble relating to people.  They are difficult to fathom.  I tried to stay away from them, or interact only in clearly defined roles, with a specific relationship.  I always came early to work, stayed until the days work was done, careful of time, always correct in my conduct.  But none of this stood up to the harassment. I saved twenty homes at the bottom of our insured’s hillside in Napa that was threatening to slide down on top of them.  Were they grateful for my prompt action?  I helped thousands of accident victims, people whose homes burned down. 

I was a very conscientious employee.  Careful to explain all their rights.  Circumspect to a fault you might say.  Always very careful to be absolutely correct.

None of this was any good.  I was driven back at every turn.  And just for sport.

I want to thank all of you who have been visiting the sight recently; the numbers have jumped.  The site was set up for just a few people who were ‘in the know’ but recently many more from the ‘outside’ have been visiting.  I even considered another postponement.  ‘Maybe one of them can do something?’   Hope even at the last minute! 

I want to live.  It is this wanting to live that makes this a protest.  That hope.

But I have already stayed too long. 

I just want to explain the “fatal flaw” so you can see how it worked.  To help someone else.

For example when my little sister came home from college she pronounced that Ronald Reagan was responsible for AIDS.  He killed them.  Because of the budget.  I at first thought to explain that this was wrong.  Even if the budget were ten times higher for research or medical aid the solution, the cure, was no where in sight.  That the biology budgets had been ruined under the inflation of the 1970s, and that those budgets, had they kept up ten, twenty years before would have been the only way to “fight AIDS.” 

The basic research had not yet been done.  Not Reagan but reality, the world, our stark ignorance was the problem.  That what she had “learned” in school was just propaganda by leftwing professors . . . then I realized that I was the family “retard” that anything I might say would be rejected out of hand.  Who was I to say anything?  I withdrew from the discussion.

Or for example, fifteen years later sitting with my father when William Bennett was on the news.  My father looked over to me and said, “that man, what a pompous politician.”  My father directed his words to me, why?  I had never even mentioned William Bennett.  His name had never before come up.  Then I saw my oldest brother, Tom, sitting across from our father smirking at me.  Smirking?  At me?  He understood the attack on Bennett to be an attack on me.  Why?

I had sometimes mentioned my support for Reagan and Republicans.  Bennett had been the Secretary of Education under Reagan.  Our father was also a Republican but thought Bennett  “sanctimonious.”   This was years before the gambling problem was made public.  Bob Brinker also had similar comments about Bennett at the time the gambling problem was exposed.  Sanctimony.  A prig.   Bennett had spoken in favor of decency,  this marks you out as “sanctimonious” in today’s society.

What could I say?   I was, I guessed from my brother’s smirk the “conservative”, the brunt of unknown family jokes, smirks, remarks of ridicule.    And how much secret ridicule before? 

Or for example with Marlene.  Or Yvonne. Or with any of them?  How do you speak up?  How do you claim some right to speak?  Is that how to put it?  Right?  You see I don’t even know the basis upon which you live your lives.  Have you ever even thought to question yourself at this level?   Who are you?  By what right?  You have been marked out a “retard,” a fool, a loser . . . etc.  Has the problem ever crossed your mind?  Drowning on dry land.  How do you relate to all of them? 

How do you have a relationship with even your own family?  Your brother smirking in secret knowledge that our father is contemptuous.  What had he said before?

And so when I was targeted what could I do?  Who was involved?  But even if I knew what could I do?  Is this what Yvonne told them?  ‘He’s a loser.  He will not do anything.  He is an isolated vulnerable individual.  He will retreat into his shell.  Quite literally his shell.’  Is that what she told them?

How do you have a relationship?  How can you even confront people who work in secret? 

So I have tried to live.  In ever greater isolation, but I tried to continue, to make a life.

My father.  Marlene.  Yvonne.  My sister Susan.  What do you say?  I don’t know how to  . . . what?  Confront them.  Reason.  Talk?

But if you are a “retard” by what right, how?  You do not want to make “trouble”, to be a “problem.” 

Greater and greater isolation.

And then the attacks began.  Year after year.  From all directions.

Just a confusion of horrible egotistical lunatics.  And powerful.  They controlled my employers!  My bosses bosses!

And they might be anyone.

I don’t even know why the numbers of visitors has shot up.  First hope.  Then I realized that the interest was just that I am dieing. 

I just don’t know . . .

Everything has now been given away.  I gave everything to my sister Susan.  She did not keep the books.  She let me know that she had gone along with Tom and also took her "share" of the little money left me.  This is my family.    All there is left to do is to wait and see.  The minutes  . . .