Virgil's Cave

 
God has frequently saved my life, but not in ways the Americans could witness.
 
This goes back to one of my functions in being the only audible mental telepath in history, that being to test the quality of the American people who are always praising themselves to High Heaven.
 
If my relationship with God were visible, the Americans would not be so revealing of what they really are; that is, they would not reveal themselves to be mean, petty people who torture ceaselessly and endlessly when the opportunity presents itself.
 
There are many Americans who would say, if they were honest or brave enough to say anything, that this is only how America treats Virgil, that this is an exception to the rule, but as history and the world knows, America's torture-enslavement of me is an accurate mirror of America's nature.
 
What follows here is a true story of how God saved my life when the psycho-fascist people of San Francisco tortured me to the brink of death, when those wicked people in fact gave me the choice between death or departure.
 
I had been living in San Francisco for about seven years, tortured every day, when it came to pass that the people of San Francisco realized they could kill me with noise torture, and set about to murder me.
 
I had found work as a temp word processor for Standard Oil, where I was typing out codes I did not understand and allowed only three errors a day, and where the black "man" who was the petty ruler of the crew, and who was what passes in America as a Christian, with many symbols of his good Christianhood on his desk, harassed me sadistically, which is pretty much the standard for American Christians but not American Blacks.
 
The worst harassment was saved for home, where my neighbors had learned the art of torturing in tandem, some sleeping or working while others tortured, so the torture went on every waking moment, and if I wanted to sleep I had to play music through earphones, and I would be awakened time and time again each night by the torturers, and after about three months I began to hallucinate from pain and lack of sleep, and I realized I must leave San Francisco or die.
 
(Later, when you see what happens to San Francisco, remember this.)
 
I was by that time a skilled backpacker, having stayed out in the wilderness for a month or more several times, and since backpacking was my great refuge and cure-all I decided to flee to the wilderness to recover my shaky health.
 
My plan was to walk from the famed Donner Pass in California, located on approximately the same latitude as Reno, to Palm Springs, on approximately on the same latitude as Los Angeles, along the Pacific Crest trail, a distance of perhaps 400 miles.  This would have been possible if I were beginning in early Summer, but I was beginning it in early September thinking to hike hard and keep ahead of the snow.
 
As I told you, I had been harassed into delirium and beyond and was dying from noise torture and lack of sleep, so of course my senseless plan was a product of that condition.
 
As it turned out, within a day or two of my beginning to hike south from the Donner Pass (made famous by the pioneer, covered wagon Donner Party that was snowed in there and practiced cannibalism in order to survive) a sleet and snow storm came up.
 
As I said, I was a very experienced backpacker by then, well equipped and well attuned, but when I dug into my pack I found that in my broken and harassed state I had packed no foul weather gear; no tent, no waterproof clothing, no thermal underwear, and I realized I was facing death by exposure within hours.
 
I had very cleverly brought a map and I got it out in the hope of finding an old cabin marked on it, but while there used to be many cabins in the California wilderness, most of them have been destroyed by the Forest Service to discourage squatters, so as I hunkered down in the blinding sleet my chances of finding a cabin in which to shelter was zero.
 
Then on the map a hallucination appeared.
 
I mean by this white letters appeared on the green map over a point on the map perhaps a quarter mile from my location.  The letters formed the the words, "Virgil's Cave".
 
The words were not printed there; they were a hallucination; there is no such place in the Sierras called Virgil's Cave.
 
However, I having chummed around with God for so many years and being used to God's style, I headed for the place the hallucination marked on the map.
 
Of course I found a cave there, and as the storm continued to develop I collected firewood, built a fire, and stayed quite comfortably in the cave for the three days the blizzard blew.
 
My point here, in addition the fact that God saves my life once in a while when it really needs saving, is that there were no witnesses to this event, and the wicked American people who torture me for fun and sport were unaware, and therefore unwarned.
 
I do not know why it is, but one of America's greatest pleasures since I became the only audible mental telepath in human history is to harass me out of any home I establish, and with this American pleasure are the tangent American pleasures of denying me love and children.
 
Still, the same people who torture me in this way think they are the "Good Guys" in life's movie, a repeatedly told American lie unquestionably believed by the Americans.
 
Now approaching my 67th birthday, I was some months ago driven into homelessness again, and I can see in their eyes and their smirks the how great is the pleasure the American people find in my fruitless search for a home, and by necessity a home out of noise-torture range; so I have again taken refuge in a cave, a motel.
 
When my money runs out--were my money to run out--the American people would have me again where they most like having me, living in poverty and pain on the streets.
 
Enter God, and God's defeat of the United States of America, the current focus of this work.