Okay, Charity, I’ll show you where I am with this painting.
Greta speaks for me regarding the plight of our lives on Earth but not her silence concerning covid for as you know I already investigated the aids abomination. Greta is a trophy of the soul, now, so my painting was to honor my love for her but no there is nothing to the notion that I trust what she is either the player in or captive of, it’s out of the question. Reason does not fail me on these points. Memories of things that are nearly too painful to describe get in the way of the drone that journalism hangs its hat on, which is to say wrongly placed in the upside down pyramid of key-point-first its remedy is to minimize readers. Accordingly, I’m tempted to get off on the right foot and write what makes a sound, essay-formatted trajectory towards the more painful notes, but that’s a heads up, at four in the morning I write to exhaustion and still have key concepts left in corners of the page. Some of them might actually harm interest, such as a claim to hearing the British laughing.
In the depths of the most terrible melancholy, months homeless, then on a bench somewhere in Ohio, I neuro-compulsively reached for my detergent container, poured a cupful out on the sidewalk, and burst into tears. The neuro-hypnosis behind that cruel gesture, which continued to be propounded when a slasher murdered Shannon Harps over a penny, is behind a recent cyber-monitor’s remark for the Seattle Police concerning Greta, from the NAACP, who said to me, “that’s not for you.”
One of the things your favorites in Squirrel Hill used to tell me growing up was that the pre-Israeli Jewry of Europe went like sheep. Trump said on his way out, “be careful what you wish for,” almost like Aesop. Themes like Love is Hate in Orwell have other places they are encountered. A film called Night of the Hunter depicts an American school marm as ready with a rifle in the closet to protect American schoolchildren from a fire and brimstone ideologue. His knuckles are branded something like Orwell. In 1973 there was a book I bought at once called Who Speaks for Earth? One of the essays is by Lord Zuckerman. His eulogist is mentioned to have been Martha Gellhorn in his wikipedia review who wrote to me a letter I wasn’t allowed to keep. We had a neighbor when I was a child who went by Zuckerman’s odd name of “Solly.” That was, by the way, where a Kodak dated picture of me before a garage door showed up on which was painted, I Love Sira Siran, dated 1966, two years before Robert Kennedy was killed by Sirhan Sirhan, and we had a kitten our neighbor named Serendippity. It’s important that I was kidnapped and gassed into a state like Shangra La as a tot and subject to a sarin like nerve agent. During this short term of 1973 when Who Speaks came out, leading me to pen the song, “Who speaks for the silent weak?” a Trump signifier using all of his signals and signs, trademark gestures, appears in the film Network extolling money and they call him God. This is when the script came and about the time The Night Watch was rippered in Rekjsmuseum, the Rembrant painting King Crimson had just put out a song about, leading me to order a copy from the National Gallery I long had on my wall, and in addition to using the image “in a paper bag” which is how they gassed me with solvents, the album is encrypted: Acknowledgement to D.T.
The assassins are precisely as low as you imagine they couldn’t possibly be.. Making sport of sincerity, even hiding a little bag of it like the rarest snuff. It is the Trumpytune gig of old school gangsters like King Crimson who used appalling presentation of their divinity school freak outs to pronounce their bigwig mad hatter sessions as effervescence. I’ve met these people. They used their British wow as a wedge at CMU to promote Israelis like John Shulman, the notorious museum thief of recent acclaim whose gang chased me out of Pittsburgh and one of whom is now a Trump speech writer. America as a whole turned away while Israelis over there got the job done. It’s all synchronized to how I ended up at a Tacoma War College for covid.
The cynicism of Trump’s partner Yoko Ono is a ripper crying over its thrill kill’s escape. It you take a little trip back to CCAC when I was engaged to a namesake of the Green Party’s leader (I might have been more wary if I knew that at the time) the Proctor gang was playing a game on me of whose secret is worse, your necking in the stacks on the job, or Rosa’s going for your throat to cover for the aids attack mission you investigated? They ended up winning and have slaved me picking my brains.
The eye of suspicion falls on the arrangement whereby the beasts of learning can make more of my misunderstanding of Sabine women than is due. I had thought Sabines were women who sold themselves panting to be taken to the strong after the murder of their fathers, brothers, spouses and lovers, hun spoils, maybe not so vain and deceitful as Jacqueline Kennedy, but that defeated compulsion to make do is more a characterization that the British have made of me because King Crimson and Tacoma War College are forcing me to choose between Saoirse Kennedy and Greta. Saoirse was killed in timing to covid by Dialectical UW, promising the poor they could get rich robbing the poor, while speaking for the earth, and of course the elderly went like sheep. From poison gas to viruses the Trumpytunes cluck they are trying something new. Food weapons are the sidearm of choice, especially here in Seattle. Once these fiends start tormenting somebody they never let up.
The French see women grabbed and raped, used and destroyed, pimped into action, just as the English in Nottingham where it was recently editorialized in their press as a new norm. Knowing what I do about Ringo Starr it's easy to see why they can’t protect their daughters when they aren’t actively selling them by the pound. There doesn’t seem to be any steam left for helping refugees, not after covid. That brought the whole heartfelt age down to scale. Just shoot them and pass the Diet Coke, he scowled. The gobblers got away. More sex, more violence for them. Naturally, they would just about love, love, love to see police abolished and they will get the Black man to help them do it.
These most loathsome of blackguards have my love Greta Thunberg as their human shield. The third section of her strange name contains the hidden pun De Sade of “ono” and she poses in turns with a darling Hitler coiffure and the fascist sumptuary of Bowie’s clique. She’s the makings of the new devil. Her sexuality, in fact, is appalling. She’s absolutely gorgeous. And the wind whispered, Trumpytune.
Even if she did know what they were doing, the tragedy of terrorism that hovers over her galls me. Allegheny County, measuring their remaining lies for manipulation, their eyes light up at that. Crary got Saoirse killed, hey yeah, now he’s after Greta. Connect the dots, you get a dog, it’s a prah-duct of a Nottingham dog whistle, just clever enough for Scotland Yard, where what matters most in genocide is protecting the paintings. Ironically, the kid who got me painting started with putting one he did of Greta Garbo in the trash to see me rescue it, back in Philadelphia, 1981.
Let me give you a little rundown of how the cult of intelligence are playing this for maximum evasion of exposure by scandal. King Crimson made a career of chivalry on the cheap. They aren’t about to stop now. The traffic in LOVE, as Jack Ruby illustrated, needs a knight in shining gangster suit with revolver. Greta is a trophy. I gasped at how lovely she is. The sex power of Greta was planted to dawn. The mission tower called dibs. Saoirse was done in to illustrate devil-take-the-hindmost. The Green Party announces Greta with the words, that’s not for you, and mock her as a trophy of the hindmost. Like the Presidency, that’s not for you, Kennedy. Trump locks it down by securing the help of Bowie’s rubbish junkies; and the wind whispers, Trumpytune.
Did Greta side with the covid bombers? Now that would be exquisitely French. Like Obama at Columbia University nobody knows and the records are sealed. She certainly took right to promoting Attenborough, which is demotically close enough to cringe to Wattenmaker, the nerve agent researchers from Highland Park who got their start at Attica State Prison as head psychiatrist and sons. Even so it is hard on me to think badly of her, and there’s the rub, the joy chant, in like Leni Reifenstahl.
World War Two was such a celluloid fixxe. The Nazis killed JFK to save the Earth while Lennon boasted that the Beatles were the biggest bastards of all. Cudda fooled me. What you must keep thinking is that Kennedy was a traitor, and prove you’re not dangerous, screamer.
