dreadful carrot juice and beer
(i awake from my blog writing trance to realize Ben has fixed his hair and cut his beard)
Mary Driscoll Kangas wore a perfume called Opium mixed with her ever present cigarette
she told my mother she should leave my father and return with the children to Oregon
dreadful story
dreadful as the word du jour
dreadful things told me by a friend
dreadful: grandfather/rapist
veteran who blows off the head of another man in front of sister
boyfriend/babydaddy who is either shot off, pushed off, or jumps off the horrible bridge
dreadful: beaten with a coathanger by mother
dreadful: smashed in the face by father
dreadful: incessant swearing
the dreadful mood swings
my tolerance
what we have accomplished
undreadful things:
space
time
health
reversions
inversions
haunting things:
breaches of presumed confidence
erik ellis of ragsved
being carjacked in los angeles
lovely things:
imagining all my lovers on a carousel in my mind. as the circle around, i admire each for their beauty and attributes, content that i still love them all
freedom from the dreadful city smog
the blessing to the mind brought only by oxygen
memories of london which flash before my eyes constantly like a film
dreadfulness:
the way my brother treated me january 20, 2013
the way my mother treated me october 1, 2013
and once in 1998
and all other times of foul-temper
wondrous:
the coolness of my father Mr. Jazz
disastrous:
watching my father losing his cool as a three year old as he smashed a guitar on the patio pavement about 1980 i was three years old and i was the only one who saw it. by age four he had explained the draft to me and written a poem about it. he did not explain i would be drafted, as a woman, at age 21 for mind control research projects for department of defense residua cultura ala MKultra via my mother's glib 1998 sudden true-beliverism in freud-totemism.
the propaganda worked.
i liked the enhancements of Prozac, but not much else.
Prozac made me fast and thin and asexual and anorexic in 1995 and it was glorious.
i pondered the ugliness of men, wondering if it made me a lesbian.
by 1997 i slept with a woman and it was heavenly.
by 1998 i wanted to see ransom eng. i was denied access by mother.
she then locked me away for a good nonconsensual drugsport upon my person. three months later i emerged bloated. dejected, and utterly crushed by the cruelty of it all.
but the cruelty began earlier.
the cruelty began as i was left alone with father for mother's nightly slave-shifts for the veteran's hospital.
father never fed us, cooked. he never had us brush our teeth. eventually around age twelve or so i began to enjoy him, as he talked incessantly about JFK, Vietnam, Bay of Pigs.
the first time i was aware of his dreadfullness i heard him say "Sons of Bitches" probably around age four for me, as he spoke on protracted 4 hour phone calls likely to John Moran of Nicaragua, who doubtless had a foul tongue himself far worse than father. Father in his infinite tolerance liked John's good side, or knowledge.
sitting in the Belle Meade driveway with the car overloaded with books as Dad braved the thickets of newspapers, books and smoke which made up the Moran home . . . i found later that the son of Moran attended historically black tennessee state university on a minority scholarship.
Mother corrected father's foul language: that he should never speak thusly around the children.
Later then he was a refuge and solace from her screaming episodes.
My mother who is seventy has just discovered that i write my impressions of my childhood autobiography on the internet. she is furious.
oh well.
the truth does not stay hidden for long.
the truth wants to be free, or information wants to be free, as julian assange would say.
reading a good blog of the autistic that newtown forgot to gain access to the lingo of the neurodiverse people of the future, who defy the Regime of control.
http://thatautisticthatnewtownforgot.blogspot.com/2013/11/autistic-vocabularies-of-resistance-and.html
Father was his own kind of hacker, borrowing the John Moran identity as a Vanderbilt Alumni to gain access to the University Library.
My strangest memories are as of a child on the cold floor of a dreary spooky old library my brother Michael and I called the "scary library" in contrast to all the other libraries we inhabited as toddlers.
Father would echo his voice like Lawrence Olivier with absurd vibrato sounding like a spook.
In some ways father was a dream house-dad-writer, aside from letting all our teeth go to rot.
Ransom Eng's cremation number was 517 to identify his body, a metal tag was affixed and included in the ashes.
Mother used to brag that the first year of David's birth she worked every SINGLE night of the year in the dreadful hospital. How Infant Development is impacted by negligence? doesn't one wonder.
that was 1983.
the new information i have from mother was that Ransom Eng and Helen Eng were sending us 1000$ checks per month around the early years in the early eighties.
She tells me Stephen Eng was very adamant that she never tell his parents that he didn't make money writing poetry, and that she felt "under his thumb" to keep this great secret.
when Ransom and Helen Eng arrived in 1985 it was with sheer delight i absorbed the sense of what it was to have grandparents or any family aside from my quiet constantly writing and typing father.
Father was for practical purposes: neuroatypical, the absent minded professor, one might say "autistic" or "asperger's" but i could say he had "steve eng syndrome" if i must really stoop to the level of the psych-shaman industry.
the grandparents were a welcome relief of civilization.
no terrific outbursts of anger about money as i remember from my mother throwing plates on the floor at my dad in the kitchen floor of 1406 Eastland avenue as he whimpered like an abused dog.
her constant berating of his financial obliviousness which i call "rich kid syndrome" led him to pursue a job proofreading the king james bible for thomas nelson bible publishers, not to be confused with thomas nelson of hood river who represents yonas fikre a somali-swede tortured by the FBI for the Portland Oregon Trap Trial extravanganza of fake-bomb-iness for troubled Immigrant Somali-Teen Program circa 2010.
Father would take tremendously disgusting mayonnaise cucumber tuna fish slopp in a plastic square proto-tupperware cube with him to this new found "job" reading the Bible. I remember keenly how mother spoke of how much less money he made than she did as a nurse, and it was dreadful to see him on trial, thusly.
his CIA salary as a teen was $1.80 USA dollars in the fifties per hour.
Not to mention starring role as the "CIA Child Star" of Ransom Eng with the never ending cocktail parties and cold war joys of kensington and smog and guy fawkes and such dreary things as collecting monstrous rare book collections on the occult and science fiction.
dreadful:
perhaps it was peter chordas who drove me beyond the brink of suicide by denying my love with such finality in 2012
and not the other fellow at all.
how i could make it another 15 months to the heroin rush of new love, or a redheaded prince, boggles my mind.
apparently i filled it with valorous days fighting sexism, rape apologism, and general smog-haze days
a book that was terribly influential to me was about sweatshops of the industrial revolution.
when i think of the grand house Ransom Eng bought us, i can remember every single detail, every book i read. statecraft. every biography.
where i was as these pivotal intellectual realizations occurred.
the grandiosity of these visions was facilitated by place and time.
father would retrieve the newspaper in his white fruit of the loom underwear much to our horror.
he confronted Michael and I as we sat on the great front porch swing awaiting our ride to St. Joseph's Elementary.
He said: Anne is pregnant again. i do not want another child. i can't believe she is doing this to me.
his policy was a desire for a childless marriage. she eeked kid after kid from him meanwhile turning up the heat about him becoming a Money-Making Patriarch while he just wanted to be a writer and intellectual.
i felt sorry for him.
the sad part was: as the eldest daughter, father's lack of child-care intuition left me changing david's diaper when i was five and at seven, holding my dying sister elizabeth all the night long as mother worked the long night shifts at the dreadful Veteran's Administration hospital.
Elizabeth died and i never saw father so sad.
i sat in my room with my eyes closed feeling the sun on my eyelids and watching the image of my pupil dart back and forth on my closed eyelids like a screen.
grandfather really was an atheist. mother says he would query her on matters theological.
Father Stephen Eng used to say he was a "Card-Carrying Atheist" by age 16.
he was pushed into some occasional attendance at an episcopal church, which his atheist parents did not attend, on some kind of rare recreational or social or anthropological basis, but it served no help i religifying him.
mother currently thinks that stephen became religious. I look at it as more like deep-cover: he was always adaptable to the culture which fed him, and humans are lovable afterall and religions are full of humans, and the animal nature of humans is to flock together, and churches are cheap ways to do so, if you can tolerate the misogyny and masculinism and male-power-roles, which i couldn't.
i resent being used like a slave in my childhood to the greater glory of my father's literary career and mother's pompous drum-beating about her role as the primary money-maker of the family.
i resent father being called "sociopathic" by mother.
i resent the insecurity he showed to us, his vulnerable feminine scorpio soul suffering the ham-handed approach to "Reality" and her worshippers.
watching him suffer was like watching a horse be beaten. watching my mother work herself near to death for twenty years was like a form of torturing children, both deprived of the love and learning and affection we needed, witnessing our father constantly humiliated under this ever-present stress about his need to be "successful" as a writer, a songwriter, a screenwriter, or such things.
we lived in constant fear that our "Health Care Professional" Mom would wipe out falling asleep at the wheel due to chronic sleep deprivation.
her extreme arthritus was visibly painful to the observer.
How could the AMerican Hospital regime nearly work my Mother to death and starve her children of love and basic needs for food and hygiene?
Father was tortured by her lack of sleep. He vigilantly would try to protect her from her children's many needs.
They were both deranged obviously, i can see now, to neglect us so, with so many self-righteous justifications about career, or money, religion.
Reaganomics!
of course they neglected each other too. michael and i basked uneasily in the Coldness of their marriage. With Anne working 12 hour hospital night shifts ever so long, it's a wonder they didn't die from grief and loneliness, my father especially, was so neglected. there was never anyone to hold him or love him for who he was.
the lack of physical affection and total open verbal conflict i view as a possible key factor in my father's loss of speech and strokes. he was literally working himself to death too, furiously all night working on the typewriter and word processors. panicked about manuscripts. sleeping on the office floor.
resolutely declaring he would not eat. that he had gained weight. that he would survive on coffee alone. that mother kept too much junk food piling upon him.
he ate hydrogenated oil peanut butter out of the plastic tub: possible co-origin of brain decay?
his mylenization of brain cells under the horrors of american slaughterhouse ground beef---what horrors.
hydrogenated oils.
i have told Mother there is a movement to consider sleep deprivation a form of driving under the influence (DUI). her frequent meltdowns were half-delerious. she thought we children could simultaneously raise ourselves and keep the house immaculate to please her. oh would it were so.
she often called father her fifth child. (insulting eh? infantilizing?)
frequent scream-worthy infractions relating to unwashed dishes or uneaten food made rare episodes of "Quality Time" all the more bittersweet.
then at age 13 i became "marriage counselor" for their epic WWIII.
at age 16 i told mother she would do irreparable damage to natalie and david if she continued to neglect us for her constant hospital jobs and second jobs and third jobs.
i told her Michael and I were already lost souls, but perhaps she had a chance with the younger ones.
I made a simple oath to myself to stop craving affection and mothering at age 13. it was simply easier to stop wishing for what i could never have.
In retrospect, i relish the boundless freedom father gave us. he couldn't care less, after all.
there was also this perverse over-riding Eating Disorder atmosphere around my dreadful parents. Father and his mother were extremely thin always, whereas mother came from a butter-eating country folk. she tended to be slightly fuller in form. her beauty was possible father's fatal attraction for her, as her temper was surely repulsively unrefined. her finnish-swedish father Elmer Kangas lent her almond shaped asian eyes and magnificent cheekbones. her dreadful and wonderful mother Mary Kangas lent her a foul temper and and an Irish joyishness. Elmer must have had a foul temper too, but no ones knows what he was thinking as he never spoke.
he was born the same day of 1909 as Ransom Eng in the same Scandinavian Region of North America: May 2, sign of Taurus, a true anchor in the storm. Mary Kangas was a hot-headed Aries. She was beaten by Elmer Kangas, a crime which i will never forgive.
But it seems the corporal punishment of my Mother Anne was severe as well, with a life in fear of her mother's wrath and hitting her.
When i started to see my mother in the light of this physical tyranny: i realize her spectrum of violence was thusly impacted.
My mother was a child abuse victim.
Whereas my father's subtle scale of evil measured Tone and Volume, mother might say to me six weeks ago "beat me with a hose" as some kind of sarcastic linguistic blue-collar device i do not understand because she was absent my first twenty years and i learned language from my quiet scholarly father and not from her.
as it turns out the people of the Pacific Northwest are largely Barbarians and routinely issue "death threat" like comments about family members and even children.
horrible example: heard a woman saying "i want to kill him" three times about her great-grandson.
case: peter bechtold the "i want to strangle that woman" teacher in Portland State University's Turkish Armenian Genocide Denial Department.
When Eva Watler said some such Barbarian thing about her brother with Cancer, i was appalled and said don't speak such a way about him.
from a JAIN point of view, of course.
she was extremely affronted and continues to shower me with silence which hurts.
in some dreadful moment of despair at my mother's rage at me after i painted her basement and she then kicked me out to flee to Seattle---i gave Eva Watler my British Macbook Air purchased in the Oxford Apple Store when a three year old in the Stockhome Radisson Blu kicked out the pixels of my first Macbook Air in 2010 December, snow storm, as i was rushing to London keen to show up at Finers Stephens Innocent to be hired as a free intern for the Communist Revolution of Wikileaks.
LAPD Police Brutality National Lawyers Guild cashola into Apple Products for activists.
My dream never came to be, so diffidently i read State Department cables, day by day, on slow drip, finally falling in love with the American Colonies after so much bitterness.
Nouveau British Royalism cannot be squared with my dear love of "human rights" at better hours, even though father taught me when i was twelve that "rights" are merely useful illusions.
re: horrible footage of British police beating Indians over the back in the 1940's and all manner of other British atrocities.
re: separation of Pakistan.
Father raved about England my whole childhood. England changed him. He knew who and what he wanted to be. He became a writer.
He was shy before, and emerged a confident human.
He stuttered as a child.
he suffered headaches, i hope not as dreadful as mine.
His mother was victorian with him, tying him to his bed, Mother says, i don't know if it was for a swaddling purpose or what.
David used to stand in his playpen pouring his bottle like a watergun out at the people. he was armed and dangerous. soon to be acrobatic. a biter. he bit all the little neighborhood children like a pitbull and could barely speak at all he was so quiet, perhaps neglected into silence.
mother beat him with a tree switch to stop him biting the children.
the first day i remember realizing the Japanese people were put in Concentration Camps in America i was standing in the Yellow Sunroom of 1501 Eastland Avenue in East Nashville.
Dolly Parton's "Deportee" schooled me on the plight of new americans. or the so called immigration matter.
its all ellis island to me, a mass of humanity swirling, dangerous, incomprehensible to eachother and cut-throat.
i am haunted still by the ghost of steve sady of the federal defender's office.
he was of the rare grace i only associate with ransom eng and henrik ragnar andersson of nils krumme aktiebolag.
when am i permitted my muttersprache?
well i had no mother as my mother was drafted into 50-70 hour work weeks.
but when Ransom Eng showed up to save us, i was still amenable to reason at age six and seven.
Helen Stephens eng called david Da-Veed as in the French way of saying it. Father took french and tutored others in pronunciation.
i am running out of energy.
have read much of Men who Hate Women by stieg larsson in the month of October in English. for some reason, i have read bits and bits in PDF but never the entire things from cover to cover, but pick them up browsing, this time for a more serious browse.
i was madly in love with sweden.
reine fiske was so stunned and calm when i boldly begged them take to me to sweden, standing outside the troubadour los angeles, on the footsteps towards beverly hills 2009. gustav on the other hand was so jovial and mattias so calm and amiable.
there is no end to the love that springs from petroleum.
i hope the climate conference is going nicely.
became roughly catatonic regarding the Typhoon in the philippines.
Making it into 44th day of a new way.
there is nothing much different other than a collapse of trust and a sense of impending doom of death in the family.
mother used to call the house ransom eng bought the "mausoleum" which is rather spooky of her to say.
right before the Petraeus clown show was rolled out like a post-Benghazi Trojan Horse, i had the idea to write a book called "CIA Wives" about the secret lives who worked as "wives" of the CIA men.
now it's nice to see the one woman in the photo still from the 1962 illumination of the mind CIA training video with ransom eng in his pale suit.
there is a ransom gin.
we painted it on the bottom studio wall lest any bats nead scaring away.
the only message i had from ransom eng when i consulted his ashes in January as to how to approach the FBI Trap Trial was this "we were Vikings" and yes they were, of Ostwald outside Oslo, christian eng and olina olesdatter who gave birth to the american edward eng, who then bore ransom eng father of stephen eng father of mary eng.
i am somewhat patriotic about my norwegian last name, and have never cared for the sale of women and the obliteration of their name via patronymic marital name-games.
i look at men who need to put their name on women as ultimately emasculated and insecure that they would wish such an atrocity upon a woman, but then again via my father i was raised on a steady diet of mary wollestonecraft and emily dickinson. while true he sported the clueless 1960's marriage convention like a mod suit, i doubt he believed in it or cared for the inanity of it, as he was a free thinker, if not a nihilist like myself.
a girlfriend of his had an abortion before he met anne.
he dated a quaker who influenced him against war.
these sentiments i admit for braingarbage are purely provisional, conventions of linear words, fueld by tea and atoms for peace, this derivative chatter, is but an acho of an echo and partially recorded for my sibling's sake, as i worry that they do not know of the greatest event of all time: the descent of the gods from Valhalla, or the grandfolk from washington DC, into our dreadful hippy world of Nashville Tennessee in the nineten eighties.
i realize i purchased the same grocery store incense my father burned in 1985 and 1984 and then realize my father did actually burn incense and it sounds very very floral of him.
he spoke to the beer drinking peasant neighbors and i remember he was confused by their crudity.
he loved to point out out the semi-illiterate typos in all the terrible signage littering the terrible gallatin pike. the place patsy cline died of a car accident.
he was sent to the Pacific Northwest with a Covert Mystery (CIA) Federal Letter of Reference and began work as a social worker in the nineteen sixties. I wonder if this could be my reference letter.
I keenly realize my work in social work or activism in the Northwest has its roots in the family business.
they "spoil the brand" with their Abu Ghraib and Polish prisons, and call me a CIA revisionist, or a Wizard of Oz Hollywood re-write, but keenly i hope, my grandfather was as kind and good and true as he seemed, what with Hitler leaving the world a wreck and Stalin and Mao similarly.
Steve Sady said nothing to me, but basked in my first and final words: "Good job Sady, you're my new hero."
he held his head down, alone, with his happy go lucky walk.
how could there be a hero in the federal system?
his colleague Wax is more the celebrity lawyer, writer, speaker, yoo-debater. but sady is the hidden treasure of introverted oregon.
now then, someone knows, besides me, and nancy bergeson.
humans are such lovely screens, we project our fantasies on.
Wax was unbearable for ten minutes: a strong personality: i worried he might be an Aries. the air was acrid with my sense of masculinity, and politely sady remained unseen like yahweh, which is better isn't it?
they threw David De Rothschild's book in the booklist of the FBi Trap Trial pleading and @DRExplore didn't respond on twitter but i find it mildly hilarious to convert Fake National Security FBI Trap Trial Training Exercise/ Human Sacrifice into Global Warming propaganda.
the book man from margaritaville by steve eng was wrongly titled by jimmy buffet who might be in a snit as usual.
the MKUltra and political propaganda from my "conspiracy theorist" father as he has been so named, slipped into the pre-internet music biography---well---it's a heady cocktail.
i'd send a copy to each and every FBI if i had one, too.
Joe of KBOO sent out his Drug Assessment regarding what drugs the FBI Trap Trial Manchurian Candidate was being pumped with for his role in the Stoned FBI Home Movies ala Judy Garland.
it was sent to Sady, Wax, and Lisa Hay
and me in the bcc.
what company!
If an FBI Trap Trial Kid A is drugged whilst being converted into a Trap Trial FBI Fake Bomb Theatrical exercise in fake NatSec, well.
what does Sady hang around the smog for?
true he left NYC, but still?
where does he vacation?
is he addicted to caviar or some such thing it takes a lawyer's salary to buy?
did he pay for his daughter's law school?
will she lose her name when she marries the death penalty lawyer i sat beside assuring him he had a fabulous family?
sady looked at me like "so now you are sitting by my future son-in-law" who i must say was rather nondescript.
i dreamed of delightful dinner conversations with three lawyers at least in the family.
i feel guilty about my passion for benjamen pickering. in light of my love for sady, or nick maybury.
polymory will win ribbons.
so the CIA Wives books would be the pre-Valerie Plame pre-1970's look at the culture of the women in the GVT. The Cocktail Parites, the fear.
The dreadful harrasssing phone calls.
Helen said she taught the embassy wives English, and imagine she must truly love being around international people as do i.
The adorable Nuland family: Victoria Nuland receiving her new appointment.
realize she is my actual human mentor via state.gov.
her face especially: i have learned from her face: the disdainful smile she employed for Matthew Lee.
bechtold hated her. when i challenged him, i asked him about her, as further challenge.
he winced and minced.
her son: her style.
her actual affection for her fellow.
what a lovely reception!
American Accents: how i deplore them!
Did Mother ever consider Stephen Eng a permanent hire? a Psychological Operation? an experiment in thought control?
Did she never think of chains of association, breakability, inevitability, paper trails, money trails, etc.
we essentially grew up in CIA-assisted affluence, in a grand CIA-financed house, with a magnificently enlightened father enlightened in only the way money time books privilege and society could enlighten one.
we were appalled at the Confederate boy on the school bus: deverough.
we mocked him: hating racism.
they lynched a black boy when i was seven a mile from my home.
Mother told me her family would never accept her marrying an African American.
Aunt Edna Bickell was overtly racist.
We left Portland Oregon also to get the children away from mother's racist family.
Never mind i'd be raped by a "black" man in Tennessee. i can say clearly though, two out of three of my rapists were "white" while the scourge of slavery will take it's revenge, women were always "white man's slave" as swedish poet sonja akeson would say.
the slavery of rape knows no end of terror. it haunts the generations and worse: Incest.
Victims of incest i have known: Eva Watler, Rebecca Stout, The Rich Girl on Wilshire, Benjamen Pickering's mother Julie Ivey whose father Fred B. Ivey (FBI) suffered her brother's revenge: a snapped neck.
take that to your house of horrors, men who hate women, rapists and pedophiles: there are men who make other men pay for their crimes to women and children.
you will never sleep easy now? will you?
the woman beater who is the father of her children holds away his place in detention.
until America achieves total liberation of women from domestic violence and gender-based violence and all forms of discrimination, america will limp slowly along like a three legged dog.
and then he was beaten by a woman.
she bit him and drew blood.
he will never be the same. he has battered man's syndrome and PTSD, not least from the men who tried to rape him and then beat him to a pulp.
the shrieking terror and volley of cursewords rivals the shrieking lady of a bronte novel i read in the grand bed ransom eng left for me to cry into.
i stayed in this fantastic room from 1986 until 1992 or so.
Helen left me Rhinestone things and assorted beautiful cocktail wear things.
mother told me her mother was so poor she worked as an indentured servant to the convent nuns who taught her schooling if she would pay tuition in domestic labor as a child.
helen eng was never victim of any crime that i know.
there was general disdain for her father dexter stephens circulated within the ruth balsey stephens alpha-lois-helen stephens matriarchy.
if i ever get the san diego archives of the society page i may know more.
it seems it was garden party stuff.
ruth balsey stephens was from chicago, as was the haggerty irish redheaded father of mary kangas.
which makes me 1/4 th chicagoan in a way, via 2 out of 8 great-grandfolk.
Father had infinite disdain for Nashville, whose appalling sexism and cronyism he lampoons in the Witch of East Nashville, his semi-autobiographical horror novel thriller which he wrote ever so secretively.
the political critique, infinite: Centralized Stupidity Agency, he wrote, of Vietnam.
a murder thriller about racism and child sacrifice and mutilation, based on true sadistic child-carving crimes happening in our neighborhood by alleged Satanists.
Parents warned us of the Local child-murderer-mutilators of Nashville.
Father had many words for barbecue fundraiser prison-labor exploiting Fate Thomas who i am now related to via my first non-marriage to mark holladay via his sister the former Meth Czar for DC-reporting pilot program against meth.
inmates fight forest fires for 60 cents and hour in Washington state i just learned.
Stephen Eng was born in San Diego after all with his Minnesotan Father Ransom conveying the most bland-mannered Norwegian grace.
the "Eng Genereal Store" bore such spelling. it was full of books and it was not just my father with a passion for book collecting, but perhaps also his grandfather.
a raymond eng exists: handsome brothers of ransom.
the family records are diffficult to digest but a critical letter from Helen Eng after Elizabeth Eng's death holds a key to her mentation.
none of this mystery concerns anyone but me and perhaps seven cursory blog readers.
avoiding lunch and breakfast and coffee will yield some dying refrain om mani padme hum into the typhoon which never came for me.
getting such a good education at st. cecilia academy i realize would not be possible on the west coast.
wonder if hijab in the home is important way to control the meltdowns.
the meltdowns in someways are evolving.
it appears ben has shaved off his beautiful red beard and fixed his hair as i have sat now typing this for two hours. i rarely slip away to get to the internet anymore as he is my primary job now.
the line about the "home for the blind" in morrissey's song "first of the gang" often powers how i feel about the smog pit of vipers "portland" and their horrific treatment of him.
realize six letters i need to write to the DOJ yesterday and consequently burnt dinner and will never cook again.
realize father NEVER cooked and that is the only fire-safe policy to take.
the top secret nature of the "oxygen in the air" must be kept top secret lest the smog-drenched populace arrive and spoil it with their crime and neon strip clubs.
whilst it is fine to play the "police brutality lottery" in Portland by Vegas, the lucre is so filthy one must wash ones hands and lungs of the toxicity of the city whether in sweden or elsewhere.
generally appalled at the "mentally ill" mantra that is making it's way through the linguistic drift.
extremely impressed by postsoftware.org lately and sorrowed that braydon fuller got mad at me for alleging that skiing is dangerous and nothing to inflict on one's undead children. i was never so impressed with him after he raised his Occupy LA mug over me to shatter on my apartment floor in anger at me, as that was: domestic violence. but overall he is a genius for tedious techie things, taught me a great deal for which i am indebted numerous Bitcoins, which leads me to speculate on Bitcoin Bankruptcies of the Tech Era.
watched the Atlantic Council speak of NATo and Machiavelli, the cold war and snowden.
love the glib chatter from jeremy Scahill when he became eager to get a question from a "WOMAN" meaning me after so many dreary droning portland political MALE questions.
honored to fill his "Woman" quota. his attractiveness bothered me long into the night as i sat over my youtubes chastely.
i popped a Benghazi to see which lines of orthodoxy he follows in terms of things we can't say and things we can.
what i think of more is that i told him to drink a lot of carrot juice to avoid cancer when he signed the book Dirty Wars for Eva Watler sister of cancer survivor Josh.
he said: Can i have Carrot Juice in my Beer, about which i laughed and maybe said, i guess i never thought of that.
i think a lot of ?
and then also of jemima khan on drones for the BBC and Zac Goldsmith on Elephants and Recall.
delightful people they are . . .
i dreamed i was making out with dick cheney, which sincerely disturbed me for days as i contemplated whether or not to tweet about it due to it's creepy hilarity.
wonder if there is a deeper meaning.
i dreamed of dustin mosley also, a best american lover, if one can stand americans, or texans rather. (one can sometimes.)
the architecture of london was built by slavery, and nothing to be impressed over.
but the golden electrical flash in zac goldsmith's eyes which jolted me, physically electrically, across the room, as not other human has had on me such power, must be the origin of my anglophilia become Nouveau British Royalism, although he might find it absurd.
I tried to defect to Sweden, but discovered it was it was the 51st state of the USA.
i am normally homesick for England all day long, every day for numerous trivial reasons, such as Rose Printed Perfumed Toilet Paper and the London School of Economics.
also dreadful: the terrible linguistic skills of this region, fears they will exacerbate all other self-inflicted lobotomies
hope the "oxygen in the air" will offset the smog-inflicted damage to my cells.
time
1:16 pacific
spellings and typos later
listening to this on repeat
amok atoms for peace vinyl rip
what a truth drug is thom yorke
bloom in the snow is a nice memory.
bloom sounded lovely in Ragsved in the snow. every day i felt more empty than before, more Buddhist than before. if only i could feel so empty now.
pretending to be serious and dejected about the loss of the red beard
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