Dear Greta,
I don’t know if you will read this letter, or someone else will, anymore than it will really be possible to know if I am writing it to you or to someone else, in large measure because you won’t be able to tell if you are real to me. That’s what happens when you venture into a world chaperoned by the celebrity superstate, a place where someone, under better circumstances, might convince you to send me your autograph. Even though a number of psychotic celebrities have spread the rumor that I am a dangerous person for courting attention from the media ivy league, another set of showcased personalities are more interested in what I have to say and that I say it to them. Not that I leave the public out, these are usually open letters these days, but that adds to the feeling that the person I address is just a medium to be used to say something by way of public address, a sort of scarecrow debate.
One of the things my jealous rivals have always hated about me is my ability to make things understandable to people, which fascinates the mighty. So they say they don’t understand me. Because of my birth position in society they deafened me, they didn’t stop there, but one of Reagan’s attorneys referred to it as “the too-good principle,” meaning, I had too good of a position and had to be cut down. They didn’t stop there, and that pretzel is the meaning behind why I feel it is you I have to address, because the same weapon they used on me is now under the waters with its periscope looking at you. I was much younger than you, as healthy and fun. These aren’t people losing sleep over the fate of the world’s children.
A man from middle America a short enough time ago that it is still fresh in memory walked into a synagogue across the street from my house and opened fire on Jews young and old, killing many, some of whom I have known all of my life. Not long after I woke up to find the news that Soairse was dead, a girl your age, just as casually removed by the same minutes. She was a juicy target because I didn’t know she existed and they knew how I would feel. They said publicly, “you paid with your heart.” I don’t know what sort of people love you, Greta, but these minutes are targeting those who I do, for no other reason. They have total impunity, as the public taunt, “you paid with your heart,” made clear, because no one ever investigates them. This puts you in their crosshairs, whether I say it or not. They will labor to convince you that this is not true, and that it is just me putting this idea into peoples’ heads.
Your speeches make me cry with relief, although I know that the movement you started isn’t likely to make a difference in time. I’ve tried and failed many decades to convince people this issue needed to be the focus of our political world. What you are doing needs to be done, but so does understanding the role you are playing. Since I was forcibly cast into a role that is being used subversively to your own, despite my support for you, this is a pretzel masquerading as a paradox. Psychological pretzels can writhe for a long time. My hope in giving you this letter is that you will have a problem-solver notated to refer to when you need to work it out. This is a statement of faith in you, but behind the scenes of the apple cart is the simple truth that there are reasons built in-to the very fact that I was cut out for a role in the fact that you are playing a role, too, in fact one in which you have a namesake that was brought to my attention before you took to the streets. In fact, the entire Confederate operation I refer to has long been known to go by the code term: Little Girl, after the Neva child starlet, DD Mancine who seduced me as a Little Boy in a revenge play the British portray as Shakespearean over the Little Boy bomb on Hiroshima that saved my father’s life when he was in the US Navy. Her name was Greta Garbo. She ended life as a very sad, strange, isolated, lonely, despairing person. A postcard with her picture was sent to me and when you understand why you will see why I am writing around you, as well as directly to you.
I worked in Falk Medical Library in 1984 when the first information about AIDS began to arrive. My father also showed up sick and died as well of a different disorder. A lot of irony went on, like the scrawls on his obituary, German Green Party, “injecting” of “parochial values” and so on, when you turned it over to its back. From the comments in D.C., a feeling you are familiar with grew in me, rage against the callousness and stupidity of the Administration. It seemed to me, having grown up in the 60’s and heard a lot about drug traffic, that Reagan must have been behind AIDS and it was an attack. If so, I saw they would want to entrap individuals and force testing. This, I hoped, might prove or disprove that someone was planning it. Zell, on Mt. Desert Island, encouraged by a gang from Salk Labor who were following me after attacking me as a child, sent me a Greta Garbo postcard and lured me to Mt. Desert Island. Working through child traffickers at Warhol, defending DD Mancine, Peter Gabriel lied and scribbled an alibi for the Zell gang who set upon with a woman who had a tattoo of the grim reaper on her inner thigh and forcibly tested me with the words, “if you wash we’ll be offended.” Many people I tried to advise took this as the devil of Peter Gabriel’s sick mind making a political insider’s trust movie.
Shortly after the shootings at Tree of Life and the murder of Saoirse, but before the Wuhan Flu attack, Clint Eastwood sent me a smoking gun autograph. Like you, Clint Eastwood is someone I don’t know if I should bother even trying to trust. Like you, Clint is someone with public recognition, in politics who I like and admire. Pittsburgh hooligans used to say to me when I was writing about being kidnapped and tortured as a child to Amnesty International, you like Peter Gabriel? He don’t like you! And they were right. Gabriel is an assassin. I don’t know if the day will ever come when you look into the mirror and think, they are targeting me for a thrill kill, but it came for me. The girl, legally a child, with Downs Syndrome, who you would admire, born deaf, an orphan, who taught me sign language, was savagely raped by the death squad at an early hour of the morning outside her home to punish her for teaching me sign language. Those are the politics of the Warhol crowd. Since no one has ever accused me openly of thinking I am John Lennon for writing as a kid about peace, you can be sure it is something that they only whisper for spiteful ends and that it has nothing to do with reality. Peter Gabriel bases his entire take on reality on the spiteful claim that nothing is real. You, and your mission, certainly is not real to the British Empire, for all their currying of your favor, any more than deaf Jeannie was.
The loss to me was much, much greater than the loss of my faith in a person claiming to be from Amnesty International. I noticed your support for mental health in our society. Clint Eastwood is mentally ill and this letter is partly about that. The problem with putting too much support behind the mentally ill is when you support people who say they want to get well even though they are criminally insane. Peter Gabriel is criminally insane. Probably you don’t see why you should concern yourself, but I do. The men who tortured me started AIDS and pumped tons and tons of their noxious air freshner into our atmosphere so they could bring the roof down on anyone who doesn’t want to forgive and move by saving the planet as their slaves. It is an Axis Confederacy whose law is either they have totalitarian control or nobody gets anything. To make matters worse they have built their hocus pocus empire with a new Black power movement behind them. This is the curse on our souls of the Obama Presidency, one in which George Lucas, as though offering a maniacal light saber of doom, paid a huge sum to help build Martin Luther King’s memorial, who was killed in DD the little girl’s honor according to Yoko Ono’s very deadly Pittsburgh acid script. No less, at Kings Estate, a heavenly place, where they gassed me as a child in a special education created by Jewish Holocaust Survivors.
Since this is evil, you might ask why Harpers Magazine found it so laughable? Well, Clint Eastwood, you know. The problem with the celebrity superstate is that admiration for a star is direct bypass over what you think about and what is right or wrong. Stand By Me is a phrase they use. You gulp and swallow your qualms. Eastwood’s mental illness is perfectly clear. He wants to elect a super-Jewish moneybag to replace Trump and go back to the days of calling people racist names. There is nothing ever anyone can do to stop macho men in their definition of manhood, nor is there anything you or I could ever do to detach from women their sexual loyalty to such swag. When Gabriel had me chemically castrated he was fulfilling his Shakespearean script and making clear that he would easily run off with the girls. Accordingly, you might wonder what I did to deserve it, or why I let them do it to me to buy time. If you don’t, that’s okay, but you might not understand what they are using you to sell, either. The castration of James Crary is evidence and proof of the AIDS attack. The murderers behind it are stalking you. I know this from everything they have already been doing, how they profiled me, and how closely they watch me as their pet affair.
It’s easy to forget that when they force atenolol on me that they were gearing up to ripper murder Shannon Harps, that they had raped deaf Jeannie and that Peter Gabriel had defined each and every one of those sick acts, with the blessing of Amnesty International, as non-violence because they did not involve the transmission of AIDS. How would you like that, being held hostage by a remorseless killer who murdered your father and raped your mother and said, if you cry out again, I am going to inject you? That is the game Peter Gabriel is playing with the help and blessing of Warhol Queers in defense of those who released the AIDS attack. In his writing pretzel of justifications his minutes jeered that they had castrated to save me from being injected by them. They attacked me blindside walking to school as a child, full-grown armed men, and still get away, by this method of blood ledger, with calling what they are doing a Shakespearean duel. They would have you believe it is guilt processing on behalf of the victims, even after I have proven many different ways that they are doing it in defense of the true killers.
That is where you come in, Greta, by announcing the fate of the earth you are Little Girl arisen who can heal us all.
As usual the celebrity superstate was prepared in advance and has push button robo-methods to make it work, like Ozzie’s concept Fairies Wear Boots. It appeals to traitors with AIDS. The Axis scorns this observation by announcing a fight club, no one can call them traitors who does NOT have AIDS. Nice little box built by fascist Britain.
The pornographers call male erection “morning wood.” So the name Clint Eastwood, which can be written as a visual rhyme on a slang word for the female pudendum signifies Eastern wood, or lovemaking with an Asian princess, the script of whom was written about Midori Goto by Gail Burstyn. The Asian Sociologists in HitlerReagan cinema have a lot of turnaround semiotics laughing at the white boy with Hitler mustached anti-Charlie Chaplins in places like before a mock Eiffel Tower, the symbol of Hitler’s occupation. The Great Dictator is a Toon-burgh incident impacted in extrusion by Jaime Carbonell’s labs, the famous Carrot Tape of Carousel Club fame. Who looks like the enemy now, dogeyes, they like to defame.
The assassins hid their plan in names like Urmanyhazi which de-Greeks to your money and Germany Nazi, sponsored by Tree of Life patrons, no less. The pretzel, the British like to lisp, is just a turning wheel going around and around in the nature of reality where nothing is real.
Zappa’s faction impinged the carrot tape on the mind of the golem. They want me destroyed and silence as an offering to their Axis leader Yoko Ono, whose gang is behind the Wuhan Flu attack. It’s extrusion was a psychological operation in an ongoing takeover of the United States of America by the Axis. This is perfectly obvious from the role of Cliff Robertson who played JFK in a film, starred in the premier Outer Limits postponed for the State Funeral, rode in a private plane over the World Trade Centers on 911, before which posed Dia, with a dagger, a friend of Ono whose namesake called me on the Japanese anniversary of Pearl Harbor in 1980, before the AIDS attack, but not before they knew it was coming, having it all planned.
You are in their plans, Miss Thunberg.
