The $524 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Seven Up
Shark America Three Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 285
Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Describe Action Poetry
Today's code is "47th Day, Last Year".
"Operation Queer" seems to be making me decidedly unpopular. Oh, gee, what'll I do? Well, I think it is queer to be liked by the people who torture me, anyway.
Being 68 is a difficult age. A man's erotic thoughts move from Miss Piggy to Jane Fonda; and with Miss Piggy there was always the illusion of the possibility of consummation.
I always liked Jane Fonda. Guts, brains and beauty; what was there not to like?
I always felt we had something,.like she was the mare to my Attila the Hun. To understand this reference read my February 14 report.
This was not a fan mag thing, rather a metaphysical/philosophical feeling; like we both were soldiers on the same battlefield, and every battle was Nirvana.
She, of course, lived on the morning side of the mountain and I, of course, lived on the twilight side of the hill, so, of course, there was no chance, and so I stayed with Miss Piggy for the sake of the children.
I am thinking about Jane Fonda today because of the uproar about her having said the "C-word" on television. You can see it is a slow news day at I.C. News; but apparently it was a slow news day yesterday all around America because the C-word got top billing.
Watching the clip and reading the journalistic reports on the incident reveals just how gramatically sloppy current American journalism is. One report said she used a "slur"; but the C-word is only a slur when one calls someone a C-word, and that was not how Ms. Fonda used the word.
If she had said, "George W. Bush is a C-word" that would have been a slur. One should never call an intellectual pussy a C-word, even if he is one.
The interview in which the C-word showed its smiling face was about the play, The Vagina Monologues, and Fonda was asked why she did not like the play at first. She said that was not the case, but that she had been offered a play called "Cunt" and she did not want to get involved because she already had enough problems.
To hear the news media tell it she had gone on a vulgar rampage. As usual, the media made a mountain out of a Mound of Venus. What is this, junior high school?
Since it seems to be a slow news day, and since everything I know about the near-blanket damnation of queers is unpopular reading, I thought I would tell you about the time I did a love "Action Poem" for Jane Fonda.
Before your mental graphics get too outrageous I will tell you what an Action Poem is.
An Action Poem is something I developed and used a lot in the early years of America's psycho-fascistic torture-enslavement of me. It was a kind of street theater, probably growing out of my love for Charley Chaplin's character, "The Tramp"; and it involved a telepathic narrative combined with silent, low-key action.
The Action Poem was first developed in an attempt to show there was merit and artistic beauty within my audible mental telepathy. Fat chance, sure, fat chance; but I still had faith in the American people then.
One Action Poem in San Francisco, for example, involved lessons on safety for children, combined with much telepathically broadcasted singing. Children loved it; and I felt that perhaps such action poems might lead to an acceptable use of my telepathy.
(To this day I still think I could have used my telepathy to find children lost in forests, but that's another story.)
This Action Poetry was presented, of course, before the American people became so mean to me. After a while my life became too painful for the telepathic broadcasting of anything but pain and anger and accurate anticipations of death and doom.
As the twig is bent so grows the tree.
Another Action Poem, also in San Francisco and at the same time as "The Children's Song", was called "Putting on the Ritz", in which I stayed at the Mark Hopkins Hotel; and at the famous Top of the Mark restaurant I had a very nice dinner while doing a quiet, beautiful tribute to US Navy carrier pilots of World War Two, large numbers of who frequented the Top of the Mark before sailing for combat against the Japanese.
(This Action Poem also recorded the first openly cruel perfidy of the American people toward me; which, as I have explained earlier in this work, led to the assassination of San Francisco mayor George Moscone many years later.)
Even then God was watching; and America was digging its own grave.
Another Action Poem was delivered to the people of France when I was in Paris about a year after America's torture-enslavemnt of me began.
I was in Paris in the course of traveling around the world in a vain attempt to find a true friend or a welcoming country; and also with the quiet purpose of working out things with God.
By "working out things with God" I mean getting my balance and coming to understand why God had given me the gift of audible mental telepathy..
I was rather hippie-like in those days, with a broad-brimmed blue leather hat and hair down to my shoulders, and wore a bluish trench coat, and carried a very ornate one-of-a kind walking stick.
(The walking stick was later taken from me by a US Marine at the American Embassy in Singapore when the American government was railroading me into prison there; and the Marine danced around with it in the Embassy lobby as if it was a Samurai sword taken off a Jap on Saipan.
(As I have explained earlier in this work, this cowardly, smirky action by that US Marine led to the deaths of hundreds of Marines further down the road.)
Even then God was watching, and America was digging its own grave.
Dressed as I was in Paris at that time, I might have been a variation of a character painted by the French Impressionist Talouse Latrec.
My custom in all cities I visited on that round-the-world fruitless search for an honest human being--honest relative to me, I mean--was to just walk around and take in the sights.
I had little money and for six weeks I lived on milk and sugar cubes, so I was unable to sample the food of Europe; but I enjoyed walking around and seeing famous places and buildings and works of art, and staying in cheap hotel rooms; and the people of France, as I have mentioned off and on in this work, were the kindest people I came upon in the course of that journey; and the Italians took a close second.
(The Brits were bastards, but that's another story.)
As I walked around Paris I would now and then collect a pigeon feather from the street and tie it to one of the two blue leather strands that fell down the back of my wide-brimmed blue leather hat.
As I said, I was rather hippie in those days.
True to my art of Action Poetry, while on that journey I would do long and I think somewhat beautiful poetic telepathic narrations on different subjects; in Rome on Dante's Inferno and the beauty of the Roman Catholic Church; in Jerusalem on Jesus Christ; and as I walked the streets of Paris (being abused by absolutely no one, if you psycho-fascist Americans can imagine that) I did a long narration about the greatness of France relative to the concept of Liberty, relative to the very introduction of the concept of Liberty to humankind; and as I approached the Arc de Triomphe I was telepathically talking about the greatness of the French soldier, including the greatness of the French Resistance during World War Two and the slaughter of French soldiers in World War One due largely to bad generalmanship.
There is within the Arc de Triomphe the Tomb of France's Unknown Soldier, where you sometimes see news clips of foreign dignitaries placing wreaths near the eternal flame with much ceremony.
Being what will come to be understood an extraterrestrial visiting dignitary myself, as I walked into the Arc De Triomphe I was telapathically saying something to the effect that I would protect the French War Dead forever in thanks for the kindness France has shown me; and I walked up to the Tomb and with quiet ceremony put one of the feathers from my cap next to the eternal flame, then I walked a figure eight within the Arc around the tomb, the sign of infinity.
That Action Poem was observed and appreciated by the French people who were following it.
So, now back to New York City, where people were more shitty; I had begun a repeating Action Poem in which every night I would walk up the middle of Central Park from about 75th Street to across 110th Street, and have a beer in a Harlem bar there, mine being the only White face around.
The meaning of this Action Poem, which the Blacks of Harlem clearly understood and appreciated, was, one, I was not afraid to walk through Central Park at night--which almost all New Yorkers were at that time--and that I trusted the Blacks with my life, and respected them.
Of course I was broadcasting telepathically throughout all this, in general doing a long tribute to the Black American experience.
So, enter Jane Fond into this story.
I heard Ms. Fonda would be speaking at Columbia University, which borders the southwest part of Harlem, and I decided to give her an Action Poem as tribute for her anti-Vietnam War work. This is what I meant when I said we were both soldiers on the same battlefield; we both spoke and acted against that war.
So I walked up the middle of Central Park in the dark of night, as usual, and went to the bar at 110th Street, as usual, drank a beer, as usual, tipped the waitress, as usual, and walked west down a dark Harlem residential street to the steps that lead up to Columbia University, which was not usual; and went to the hall where she was to be speaking, and took a seat.
Now I do not know if Jane Fonda knew of this Action Poem in her honor; but unbeknownst to me I had been followed on this walk, perhaps from the bar, by a Black man who took the seat in front of me; and he turned and saluted me with his eyes. He had observed, heard and liked the Action Poem.
After all, in those days a White man walking in Harlem at night was putting his life on the line; therefore the ink with which wrote that Action Poem was my blood.
In the whole course of these some 35 years of Americans torturing me day and night, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, and decade after decade, a torture in which literally hundreds of thousands of Americans took part, less than ten Blacks participated.
Consider how remarkable that is. Consider how meaningful and telling of the Black soul that is.
The suggestion in this work, which says God's Judgment Day began on the day I became audibly telepthatic, is that the Blacks saved their souls in this way, as well as in other ways; and those hundreds of thousands of American Telepath torturers lost that souls in that way, as well as in other ways.
In closing I will note that I received a Secret Message from my Old Pal God last night. I can't, of course, tell you what it was because it was a secret; but as this story plays out I expect to be able to show you how important it was.
Meanwhile, the United States of America, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 47th day of its last year.
Shark America Three Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 285
Virgil Kret's Cell Phone Number: (530) 276-4923
Expect a Disastrous Earthquake on December 26, 2008
George W. Bush Will Destroy the World
Looking for the Peru-Chile God Event
Today: Tactics of the Smallville Battle: Describe Action Poetry
Today's code is "47th Day, Last Year".
"Operation Queer" seems to be making me decidedly unpopular. Oh, gee, what'll I do? Well, I think it is queer to be liked by the people who torture me, anyway.
Being 68 is a difficult age. A man's erotic thoughts move from Miss Piggy to Jane Fonda; and with Miss Piggy there was always the illusion of the possibility of consummation.
I always liked Jane Fonda. Guts, brains and beauty; what was there not to like?
I always felt we had something,.like she was the mare to my Attila the Hun. To understand this reference read my February 14 report.
This was not a fan mag thing, rather a metaphysical/philosophical feeling; like we both were soldiers on the same battlefield, and every battle was Nirvana.
She, of course, lived on the morning side of the mountain and I, of course, lived on the twilight side of the hill, so, of course, there was no chance, and so I stayed with Miss Piggy for the sake of the children.
I am thinking about Jane Fonda today because of the uproar about her having said the "C-word" on television. You can see it is a slow news day at I.C. News; but apparently it was a slow news day yesterday all around America because the C-word got top billing.
Watching the clip and reading the journalistic reports on the incident reveals just how gramatically sloppy current American journalism is. One report said she used a "slur"; but the C-word is only a slur when one calls someone a C-word, and that was not how Ms. Fonda used the word.
If she had said, "George W. Bush is a C-word" that would have been a slur. One should never call an intellectual pussy a C-word, even if he is one.
The interview in which the C-word showed its smiling face was about the play, The Vagina Monologues, and Fonda was asked why she did not like the play at first. She said that was not the case, but that she had been offered a play called "Cunt" and she did not want to get involved because she already had enough problems.
To hear the news media tell it she had gone on a vulgar rampage. As usual, the media made a mountain out of a Mound of Venus. What is this, junior high school?
Since it seems to be a slow news day, and since everything I know about the near-blanket damnation of queers is unpopular reading, I thought I would tell you about the time I did a love "Action Poem" for Jane Fonda.
Before your mental graphics get too outrageous I will tell you what an Action Poem is.
An Action Poem is something I developed and used a lot in the early years of America's psycho-fascistic torture-enslavement of me. It was a kind of street theater, probably growing out of my love for Charley Chaplin's character, "The Tramp"; and it involved a telepathic narrative combined with silent, low-key action.
The Action Poem was first developed in an attempt to show there was merit and artistic beauty within my audible mental telepathy. Fat chance, sure, fat chance; but I still had faith in the American people then.
One Action Poem in San Francisco, for example, involved lessons on safety for children, combined with much telepathically broadcasted singing. Children loved it; and I felt that perhaps such action poems might lead to an acceptable use of my telepathy.
(To this day I still think I could have used my telepathy to find children lost in forests, but that's another story.)
This Action Poetry was presented, of course, before the American people became so mean to me. After a while my life became too painful for the telepathic broadcasting of anything but pain and anger and accurate anticipations of death and doom.
As the twig is bent so grows the tree.
Another Action Poem, also in San Francisco and at the same time as "The Children's Song", was called "Putting on the Ritz", in which I stayed at the Mark Hopkins Hotel; and at the famous Top of the Mark restaurant I had a very nice dinner while doing a quiet, beautiful tribute to US Navy carrier pilots of World War Two, large numbers of who frequented the Top of the Mark before sailing for combat against the Japanese.
(This Action Poem also recorded the first openly cruel perfidy of the American people toward me; which, as I have explained earlier in this work, led to the assassination of San Francisco mayor George Moscone many years later.)
Even then God was watching; and America was digging its own grave.
Another Action Poem was delivered to the people of France when I was in Paris about a year after America's torture-enslavemnt of me began.
I was in Paris in the course of traveling around the world in a vain attempt to find a true friend or a welcoming country; and also with the quiet purpose of working out things with God.
By "working out things with God" I mean getting my balance and coming to understand why God had given me the gift of audible mental telepathy..
I was rather hippie-like in those days, with a broad-brimmed blue leather hat and hair down to my shoulders, and wore a bluish trench coat, and carried a very ornate one-of-a kind walking stick.
(The walking stick was later taken from me by a US Marine at the American Embassy in Singapore when the American government was railroading me into prison there; and the Marine danced around with it in the Embassy lobby as if it was a Samurai sword taken off a Jap on Saipan.
(As I have explained earlier in this work, this cowardly, smirky action by that US Marine led to the deaths of hundreds of Marines further down the road.)
Even then God was watching, and America was digging its own grave.
Dressed as I was in Paris at that time, I might have been a variation of a character painted by the French Impressionist Talouse Latrec.
My custom in all cities I visited on that round-the-world fruitless search for an honest human being--honest relative to me, I mean--was to just walk around and take in the sights.
I had little money and for six weeks I lived on milk and sugar cubes, so I was unable to sample the food of Europe; but I enjoyed walking around and seeing famous places and buildings and works of art, and staying in cheap hotel rooms; and the people of France, as I have mentioned off and on in this work, were the kindest people I came upon in the course of that journey; and the Italians took a close second.
(The Brits were bastards, but that's another story.)
As I walked around Paris I would now and then collect a pigeon feather from the street and tie it to one of the two blue leather strands that fell down the back of my wide-brimmed blue leather hat.
As I said, I was rather hippie in those days.
True to my art of Action Poetry, while on that journey I would do long and I think somewhat beautiful poetic telepathic narrations on different subjects; in Rome on Dante's Inferno and the beauty of the Roman Catholic Church; in Jerusalem on Jesus Christ; and as I walked the streets of Paris (being abused by absolutely no one, if you psycho-fascist Americans can imagine that) I did a long narration about the greatness of France relative to the concept of Liberty, relative to the very introduction of the concept of Liberty to humankind; and as I approached the Arc de Triomphe I was telepathically talking about the greatness of the French soldier, including the greatness of the French Resistance during World War Two and the slaughter of French soldiers in World War One due largely to bad generalmanship.
There is within the Arc de Triomphe the Tomb of France's Unknown Soldier, where you sometimes see news clips of foreign dignitaries placing wreaths near the eternal flame with much ceremony.
Being what will come to be understood an extraterrestrial visiting dignitary myself, as I walked into the Arc De Triomphe I was telapathically saying something to the effect that I would protect the French War Dead forever in thanks for the kindness France has shown me; and I walked up to the Tomb and with quiet ceremony put one of the feathers from my cap next to the eternal flame, then I walked a figure eight within the Arc around the tomb, the sign of infinity.
That Action Poem was observed and appreciated by the French people who were following it.
So, now back to New York City, where people were more shitty; I had begun a repeating Action Poem in which every night I would walk up the middle of Central Park from about 75th Street to across 110th Street, and have a beer in a Harlem bar there, mine being the only White face around.
The meaning of this Action Poem, which the Blacks of Harlem clearly understood and appreciated, was, one, I was not afraid to walk through Central Park at night--which almost all New Yorkers were at that time--and that I trusted the Blacks with my life, and respected them.
Of course I was broadcasting telepathically throughout all this, in general doing a long tribute to the Black American experience.
So, enter Jane Fond into this story.
I heard Ms. Fonda would be speaking at Columbia University, which borders the southwest part of Harlem, and I decided to give her an Action Poem as tribute for her anti-Vietnam War work. This is what I meant when I said we were both soldiers on the same battlefield; we both spoke and acted against that war.
So I walked up the middle of Central Park in the dark of night, as usual, and went to the bar at 110th Street, as usual, drank a beer, as usual, tipped the waitress, as usual, and walked west down a dark Harlem residential street to the steps that lead up to Columbia University, which was not usual; and went to the hall where she was to be speaking, and took a seat.
Now I do not know if Jane Fonda knew of this Action Poem in her honor; but unbeknownst to me I had been followed on this walk, perhaps from the bar, by a Black man who took the seat in front of me; and he turned and saluted me with his eyes. He had observed, heard and liked the Action Poem.
After all, in those days a White man walking in Harlem at night was putting his life on the line; therefore the ink with which wrote that Action Poem was my blood.
In the whole course of these some 35 years of Americans torturing me day and night, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, and decade after decade, a torture in which literally hundreds of thousands of Americans took part, less than ten Blacks participated.
Consider how remarkable that is. Consider how meaningful and telling of the Black soul that is.
The suggestion in this work, which says God's Judgment Day began on the day I became audibly telepthatic, is that the Blacks saved their souls in this way, as well as in other ways; and those hundreds of thousands of American Telepath torturers lost that souls in that way, as well as in other ways.
In closing I will note that I received a Secret Message from my Old Pal God last night. I can't, of course, tell you what it was because it was a secret; but as this story plays out I expect to be able to show you how important it was.
Meanwhile, the United States of America, unaware of God's furious anger at it, finished the 47th day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 10:00 AM
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