The anthropocene is the road to extinction and strongly characterized by the Sorcery Machine in Hollywood being in charge of our inner-visions. We have in turn accepted and been tutored to regard the destruction of our media, educational system, and Constitution as Hollywood-just-being-asshole-Hollywood. I have been urging anyone who would listen to resist this due to what I have learned about the AIDS attack. The psychology of Cold War media follows conscription into Red Scare concepts of political statement like the old version of Invasion of the Body Snatchers from the days when the CIA were understood as butcher klansman from Southern garages meeting darkly in townie bars.
I thought about solving my peer relations problem with Hollywood attorneys by just sending Jack Nicholson a card apologizing for publicly insulting him, but can’t find the card I would use. One of his fans, evoking Clint Eastwood, who recently sent me his autograph, challenged, with a deadly tone, my right to have an Easy Rider poster on my wall. I found it an invasion of privacy and wasn’t really aware anymore that Nicholson was in it. On the other hand, Eastwood and Company have engaged in a ruthless and outrageous gang private eye operation of male-bonding by cruel, murderous torture and sadism towards me. None of them ever spoke out about Reagan and what was found in Pittsburgh. They may even be his spirit doing business as though to say, we transferred the illusion machine’s charge that Mark David Chapman made himself famous by killing John Lennon (which I think was part of a Hollywood heist and never happened) by reversing as a joke the psychiatric idea to make you, meaning me, famous by the celebrity of who murders me.
I put myself on the road to early death by believing the fiction that American Constitutional Law forbade such things as medical violence over political beliefs. My grandfather on my mother’s side was a copy editor for the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. These facts need to be known to fathom the storybook behind the invisible riddle at work in the Kennedy curse that recently struck again at Saoirse. My father Ryland was an important psychological operator who knew Bush, The Beatles, Eisenhower and many other noteworthy people for being one himself. He went his own direction into the field of Humanist Education which Franklin Graham, evidently speaking for Eastwood, considers the “greatest threat to democracy since communism,” although I suspect he meant to Hollywood, not to democracy. At Kansas University, the state in which my grandparents met and died after 66 years of marriage, journalism has a new name: Strategic Communication. I think anyone who reads my research investigative journalism realizes quickly I am a victim of targeting by strategic communicators.
The men who attacked me blindside as a child, leaving me already prior impaired by head trauma injury and deafness, were pre-selected for Asian hun-like Charles Bronson macho in Pennsylvania, allowing Midori Goto to reject rescue from them on grounds of fascist titillation among the groovies. Eastwood, looking over such gestures as my hitch-hiking from St. Louis to Pittsburgh just to hear Robert Fripp play his guitar, my having liked, at the time, King Crimson, called together his computer workshop and said wryly, “We’re gonna cook this little moron’s goose.” Eastwood exploited an interesting niche in the learning sequences of the Texas Storybook. He’s so much like a runaway kid caught up in something he detests that he’s practically Fu Manchu’s dacoit. He gave me asthma way back when being a heavy-breathy Secret Service running board attache in a film in the 90’s. Indeed, the major question of the script for him must be will anyone think Clint Hill was his namesake by foreknowledge and stand-in. He’s on hand, another patsy in the rough.
Your damn right I’m in a bad mood. There’s new evidence of onset kidney damage in what they have done to me by way of deliberate chemical castration for falling in love with someone I thought their appreciation of my love for King Crimson (gone) had led them to summon for a rescue betrothal as people enlightened by my scholarly work. They were targeting a prior head injury. Eastwood picked himself the perfect role as confessor-saint/felon in his film The Mule. But some of the allusions in that flick are a little off-color when it comes to the politics of what happened to me and Saoirse Kennedy by the same dogteam.
Being near deaf, and needing a place to play sax as a kid, I used to go to the far side of Mellon Institute in the chamber of some privacy provided by Doric Columns. Sgt. Reece of CMU found me playing there and spat scornfully that it seemed like I was glorifying a girl from the college who was raped there. What? I’ve been coming there for years, I told him. He said no, I had glorified rape and put it in his police ledger. It led me to shrug when Eastwood sent me a smoking rifle autograph a bit of a while after the shooting at the Synagogue across from my house back home. Unfortunately for Saoirse, I am still dealing with Sgt. Reece.
12 years ago a cardiologist poisoned me leading to erectile dysfunction and diabetes. Clint notes this span of time in The Mule and makes a joke about a cardiologist when two women, his pecans, follow him to bed. The Nicholson teamsters long ago got a big laugh out of the idea of putting allusions to a nobody, delusions of reference, in big cinema, and lead a cat and mouse game to the Big Picture Script they planted on their persona.
Because celebrity loyalty make you an ideological stakeholder, Clint Eastwood is in top form in this crossroads of the anthropocene, circling the criminal mentality at work and the celebrity impunity. His gang enjoy allusion fortune-telling, and preside in a fearful, watchful, predatory egoism, their ruling Kingdom asserting domain by the parable of Roger Waters spitting on a fawning child.
