Soldier Ghost, Part 6
The $540 Billion Defeat
Jews Jaws Three Up
Shark America Seven Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 195 (Major Quake in the Philippines)
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: The Secret Story, Soldier Ghost (6)
Today's code is "63rd Day, Last Year".
As the Republican American Fascists and their pet Israeli fascists prepare for the dirtiest deed of all human history, a massive invasion of Islam under the guise of direction by Judeo-Christian scriptures, I am paying no attention to this but instead am looking at the tableau of God's Space War to save this Earth from the human being.
It is a pity my country, the United States of America, has taken the side of Satan in the great Battle of Armageddon...not a surprise, just a pity.
At I.C. News we are running hard before the wind, our sails full, hull dipped to port just enough to bring foam through the scuppers; and the scuttlebutt is we at long last get to go up against the United States Navy, the prigs who began America's torture-enslavement of me back in 1967.
Other than that, it is a quiet news day.
I have been remiss in not noting the passing of William F. Buckley Jr., at 82, on February 27, so I will say this:
In the some 35 years of America's torture-enslavement of me I have written what must be at least 100 letters and emails to famous Americans, asking, of course, that they speak to the return of my constitutional rights.
Few answered me at all, and all but one who answered me answered in a vicious manner, the first "President" Bush being particularly vicious.
William F. Buckley Jr. was the one famous American who answered me in a civil and kind way. He did not support me, no, but he was civil to me.
Almost harder than to find teeth in the mouth of a hen is for me to find a civil famous person in America.
We talk a lot about the survival of the human soul in this work, and we say without a doubt that George w. Bush has lost his soul for the lowest of crimes, Child Murder, and that all the Americans who have tortured me, except those whom I might personally forgive, have lost their souls.
I have been chumming around with God for some seven-eight million years now, and there is one thing among many things I know about God; God loves a civil human being.
The lack of human civility is one of the primary causes for the approaching death of this Earth in 2064-2065.
I am not the judge in this court of Judgement Day; nor, thank God am a I lawyer; I am just a crusty old soldier in God's war to save this Earth, but I think if you could look at the big pile of the damned and the little pile of the saved Christians assume to exist, William F. Buckley Jr. would be among the saved.
God loves a civil human being; the others are to God but apes without fur.
Now let's return to our story, Soldier Ghost, and keep our course steady toward The Secret Story, the story how God's Space Sailors saved and preserved the Japanese race back when North America was truly beautiful--about 660 BC.
Soldier Ghost, Part 6
Life thinks. That was Tea’s working theory as he explored the metaphysical.
Within Tea's theory, thought might not be of the brain, but of the spirit. Thought, Tea's theory went, exists past the departure of the brain; the ghosts had taught him that; so, did the thoughts of a person exist before birth of the person who possessed the brain?
Tea theorized life forms might be time-released encapsulations of Life itself; that Life creates life forms to give itself a sense of balance, such as a sleepy person with eyes closed walking down a long, dark hall might put arms out to touch the walls.
The elephant tells Life one thing, the snake tells Life another, and all the information given to Life by all the life forms gives Life Wisdom and Foundation.
The student of space war understands that this initial survey of the metaphysical must be like the skipping of a stone across a pond. Sure, the depth is passed over, but the first view of the horizon of God's Space War can be seen in this way; so you, Dear Readers, are like the first test pilots to view the curvature of this Earth.
Tea’s assignment in Vietnam came to a close a few weeks after Soldier Ghost attached himself to him; and Tea knew Soldier Ghost and the others were still attached to him when he boarded the evening Air France flight to Tokyo.
It might have been disturbing to most human beings of that time, but to Tea it was almost matter-of-fact that he would be bringing back with him some of the ghosts of the dead of the battlefields he had walked upon. He had been a magnet to ghosts all his life.
There were other things on his mind than those ghosts; and he more or less assumed these contacts with the Vietnam dead ghosts would be glancing contacts, as his hundreds of other contacts had been; but this was his first experience with fresh battlefield dead.
Almost immediately upon arrival at Haneda International Airport Tea became aware there was something about Soldier Ghost the Japanese dead who were there to welcome him did not like. Their dislike for Soldier Ghost was like static in the air.
The reason for their hostility was yet unknown to Tea; but the odd thing was their hostility did not seem to be directed at the other dead Americans, only at Soldier Ghost.
That’s how the trouble got started; that's how Tea came to experience war on a level greater than the day that Gook put his rifle muzzle hard to his head; that’s how Tea came to discover, or rather to be introduced to, the Not-Forgetting Society of Japan.
One needs to know a little more about the Not-Forgetting Society before one begins to understand the danger Soldier Ghost--and by extension Tea--suddenly found himself in.
“What danger? He was already dead”, the wag might mock. Danger enough. Danger enough. Danger enough for any dead American soldier.
“Meet you at Yasukuni” was a popular saying among Japanese fighting men during World War Two. It was a statement of faith in functional life after death. It was as if American soldiers might say to their buddies, “If we both get killed let’s meet at Arlington”. Yasukuni was the equivalent.
The saying was accurate; the souls of Japanese killed in battle thousands of miles away were able to, in massive groups or as struggling stragglers, find their way back to Japan, and to Yasukuni.
What Praying Mantis had said to Tea just before Tea had gone to Vietnam came to Tea’s mind. "If you live, or if you die, please come back to Japan."
Tea wondered, if he had he been killed could he have returned to Tokyo? And if so, would there have been a place there for him among the Japanese war dead; and even if there had been, was there another place in the world he would have preferred to have returned to, or proceeded to in his spirit form?
Tea thought a thought he had thought long ago: "Thoughts for sleepless nights when sleep won't come and I must write. What is it that I know?"
The dime-sized circle of that Gook's rifle muzzle sizzled its Forever Spot on the back of Tea’s head; he had come so close, too close, to knowing the answer to these questions.
As the living man Tea still was, Tea loved Tokyo. More than any other city, it was his town. He loved its spider web of streets. He loved its people. It was his home, and for him to have returned to it from the jaws of war unmasticated was to him pure joyous relief. He dove into Tokyo like a dry frog into a familiar, warm pond. He wrapped himself in his woman, in his friendships, in his strolls down the Ginza, in his happiness of knowing he was home and alive.
The ghostly flashes he’d picked up on the battlefield kept quiet, so quiet that for brief moments he thought they might have been hallucinations--and that the oppressive, angry static of dead Japanese might be his misinterpretation of something else.
Those moments of self delusion were short lived. Tea knew the spirits of dead were more real than death, and that the dead American soldiers he was carrying were troubled and insistent. “Remember us,” the hallucinations said over and over and over again.
While waves of disbelief swept over Tea, the truth, the reality, stuck to him as tightly as Soldier Ghost had stuck to him moments after Soldier Ghost had been slain on the battlefield meadow I told you about as I began this story.
Considering the most unusual anger Tea was sensing from the Japanese World War Two dead, and the squad of dead Americans clinging to him, Tea felt the tightening vice of the possibility that he might very well become a battlefield of the dead.
Now let's turn away from this brewing storm and look to the humdrum.
See Tea fresh from the slaughterhouse called Vietnam, doing not much else but making love and drinking while in negotiations with UPI, which wanted him back in Vietnam getting into those tight scrapes which made his reports so often front page stuff; negotiating the terms of his abandoning his home sweet home in Tokyo for a room in Saigon and fifty-two weeks of combat coverage; coverage that would be altered so much by the UPI copy changers in New York that, except for his byline atop the story, nothing would be true; and, Tea, being sometimes somewhat slow to face realities, was, in fact, debating with himself whether he should stay in his beloved Tokyo or go back to Vietnam and gather combat facts for the bending and distorting by a business concern wanting to pay him $125 a week plus ten dollars a day while in the field, with Grunts dying and near-dying, and watching death harvest a crop all around him day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day, until he died or came home a Swiss cheese of himself.
That is, as strange as it may sound, the beckoning of the whore of war was still a temptation, even though his writings would have been so re-written that there would be no chance of him becoming a great war correspondent, even if the odds against him covering combat for a year and coming home with two arms and two legs and one dick, or coming home at all, were very much against him.
In the end, according to Tea’s log, what decided Tea was his Sweetheart's ass.
She was washing dishes one morning about two days after one of Tea's bosses told him he would be abandoning his career at UPI if he didn’t forget all this nonsense about copy integrity, close down his Tokyo apartment, and move down to Saigon.
It was like being hypnotized by a snake. Guile, that’s what Tea was seeing in the boss-man; but in his own way the boss-man was being straight with Tea; telling him to wake up and smell the system; telling him there was no such thing as freedom of press for the journalistic equivalent of a Grunt; telling him In America freedom of the press meant freedom of the owner of the press.
Even with all that, though, the lure of that whore called war was great. The high of the battlefield: there was no high higher; and Tea was about to reach for the telephone and call in his decision to return to Vietnam-- when he focused on the little peach ass under his Sweetheart's jeans and under her shiny black hair hanging way down past it, hair a man could blanket himself with, hair that looked like an auroa around Heaven when it was spread out across the sheet.
Tea asked himself in a moment of clarity, an amber whiskey, room temperature, no ice, no mix, in his hand, “What’s better for me, shrapnel or that ass?"
So, even without Soldier Ghost and those other rumblings--even if that metaphysical battle were not looming-- it was a momentous time for Tea. It was pure Shakespearean.
“To be or not to be?” In every direction there were slings and arrows.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 63rd day of its last year.
Jews Jaws Three Up
Shark America Seven Down
Number of Earthquakes in the Past Seven Days: 195 (Major Quake in the Philippines)
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: The Secret Story, Soldier Ghost (6)
Today's code is "63rd Day, Last Year".
As the Republican American Fascists and their pet Israeli fascists prepare for the dirtiest deed of all human history, a massive invasion of Islam under the guise of direction by Judeo-Christian scriptures, I am paying no attention to this but instead am looking at the tableau of God's Space War to save this Earth from the human being.
It is a pity my country, the United States of America, has taken the side of Satan in the great Battle of Armageddon...not a surprise, just a pity.
At I.C. News we are running hard before the wind, our sails full, hull dipped to port just enough to bring foam through the scuppers; and the scuttlebutt is we at long last get to go up against the United States Navy, the prigs who began America's torture-enslavement of me back in 1967.
Other than that, it is a quiet news day.
I have been remiss in not noting the passing of William F. Buckley Jr., at 82, on February 27, so I will say this:
In the some 35 years of America's torture-enslavement of me I have written what must be at least 100 letters and emails to famous Americans, asking, of course, that they speak to the return of my constitutional rights.
Few answered me at all, and all but one who answered me answered in a vicious manner, the first "President" Bush being particularly vicious.
William F. Buckley Jr. was the one famous American who answered me in a civil and kind way. He did not support me, no, but he was civil to me.
Almost harder than to find teeth in the mouth of a hen is for me to find a civil famous person in America.
We talk a lot about the survival of the human soul in this work, and we say without a doubt that George w. Bush has lost his soul for the lowest of crimes, Child Murder, and that all the Americans who have tortured me, except those whom I might personally forgive, have lost their souls.
I have been chumming around with God for some seven-eight million years now, and there is one thing among many things I know about God; God loves a civil human being.
The lack of human civility is one of the primary causes for the approaching death of this Earth in 2064-2065.
I am not the judge in this court of Judgement Day; nor, thank God am a I lawyer; I am just a crusty old soldier in God's war to save this Earth, but I think if you could look at the big pile of the damned and the little pile of the saved Christians assume to exist, William F. Buckley Jr. would be among the saved.
God loves a civil human being; the others are to God but apes without fur.
Now let's return to our story, Soldier Ghost, and keep our course steady toward The Secret Story, the story how God's Space Sailors saved and preserved the Japanese race back when North America was truly beautiful--about 660 BC.
Soldier Ghost, Part 6
Life thinks. That was Tea’s working theory as he explored the metaphysical.
Within Tea's theory, thought might not be of the brain, but of the spirit. Thought, Tea's theory went, exists past the departure of the brain; the ghosts had taught him that; so, did the thoughts of a person exist before birth of the person who possessed the brain?
Tea theorized life forms might be time-released encapsulations of Life itself; that Life creates life forms to give itself a sense of balance, such as a sleepy person with eyes closed walking down a long, dark hall might put arms out to touch the walls.
The elephant tells Life one thing, the snake tells Life another, and all the information given to Life by all the life forms gives Life Wisdom and Foundation.
The student of space war understands that this initial survey of the metaphysical must be like the skipping of a stone across a pond. Sure, the depth is passed over, but the first view of the horizon of God's Space War can be seen in this way; so you, Dear Readers, are like the first test pilots to view the curvature of this Earth.
Tea’s assignment in Vietnam came to a close a few weeks after Soldier Ghost attached himself to him; and Tea knew Soldier Ghost and the others were still attached to him when he boarded the evening Air France flight to Tokyo.
It might have been disturbing to most human beings of that time, but to Tea it was almost matter-of-fact that he would be bringing back with him some of the ghosts of the dead of the battlefields he had walked upon. He had been a magnet to ghosts all his life.
There were other things on his mind than those ghosts; and he more or less assumed these contacts with the Vietnam dead ghosts would be glancing contacts, as his hundreds of other contacts had been; but this was his first experience with fresh battlefield dead.
Almost immediately upon arrival at Haneda International Airport Tea became aware there was something about Soldier Ghost the Japanese dead who were there to welcome him did not like. Their dislike for Soldier Ghost was like static in the air.
The reason for their hostility was yet unknown to Tea; but the odd thing was their hostility did not seem to be directed at the other dead Americans, only at Soldier Ghost.
That’s how the trouble got started; that's how Tea came to experience war on a level greater than the day that Gook put his rifle muzzle hard to his head; that’s how Tea came to discover, or rather to be introduced to, the Not-Forgetting Society of Japan.
One needs to know a little more about the Not-Forgetting Society before one begins to understand the danger Soldier Ghost--and by extension Tea--suddenly found himself in.
“What danger? He was already dead”, the wag might mock. Danger enough. Danger enough. Danger enough for any dead American soldier.
“Meet you at Yasukuni” was a popular saying among Japanese fighting men during World War Two. It was a statement of faith in functional life after death. It was as if American soldiers might say to their buddies, “If we both get killed let’s meet at Arlington”. Yasukuni was the equivalent.
The saying was accurate; the souls of Japanese killed in battle thousands of miles away were able to, in massive groups or as struggling stragglers, find their way back to Japan, and to Yasukuni.
What Praying Mantis had said to Tea just before Tea had gone to Vietnam came to Tea’s mind. "If you live, or if you die, please come back to Japan."
Tea wondered, if he had he been killed could he have returned to Tokyo? And if so, would there have been a place there for him among the Japanese war dead; and even if there had been, was there another place in the world he would have preferred to have returned to, or proceeded to in his spirit form?
Tea thought a thought he had thought long ago: "Thoughts for sleepless nights when sleep won't come and I must write. What is it that I know?"
The dime-sized circle of that Gook's rifle muzzle sizzled its Forever Spot on the back of Tea’s head; he had come so close, too close, to knowing the answer to these questions.
As the living man Tea still was, Tea loved Tokyo. More than any other city, it was his town. He loved its spider web of streets. He loved its people. It was his home, and for him to have returned to it from the jaws of war unmasticated was to him pure joyous relief. He dove into Tokyo like a dry frog into a familiar, warm pond. He wrapped himself in his woman, in his friendships, in his strolls down the Ginza, in his happiness of knowing he was home and alive.
The ghostly flashes he’d picked up on the battlefield kept quiet, so quiet that for brief moments he thought they might have been hallucinations--and that the oppressive, angry static of dead Japanese might be his misinterpretation of something else.
Those moments of self delusion were short lived. Tea knew the spirits of dead were more real than death, and that the dead American soldiers he was carrying were troubled and insistent. “Remember us,” the hallucinations said over and over and over again.
While waves of disbelief swept over Tea, the truth, the reality, stuck to him as tightly as Soldier Ghost had stuck to him moments after Soldier Ghost had been slain on the battlefield meadow I told you about as I began this story.
Considering the most unusual anger Tea was sensing from the Japanese World War Two dead, and the squad of dead Americans clinging to him, Tea felt the tightening vice of the possibility that he might very well become a battlefield of the dead.
Now let's turn away from this brewing storm and look to the humdrum.
See Tea fresh from the slaughterhouse called Vietnam, doing not much else but making love and drinking while in negotiations with UPI, which wanted him back in Vietnam getting into those tight scrapes which made his reports so often front page stuff; negotiating the terms of his abandoning his home sweet home in Tokyo for a room in Saigon and fifty-two weeks of combat coverage; coverage that would be altered so much by the UPI copy changers in New York that, except for his byline atop the story, nothing would be true; and, Tea, being sometimes somewhat slow to face realities, was, in fact, debating with himself whether he should stay in his beloved Tokyo or go back to Vietnam and gather combat facts for the bending and distorting by a business concern wanting to pay him $125 a week plus ten dollars a day while in the field, with Grunts dying and near-dying, and watching death harvest a crop all around him day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day after day, until he died or came home a Swiss cheese of himself.
That is, as strange as it may sound, the beckoning of the whore of war was still a temptation, even though his writings would have been so re-written that there would be no chance of him becoming a great war correspondent, even if the odds against him covering combat for a year and coming home with two arms and two legs and one dick, or coming home at all, were very much against him.
In the end, according to Tea’s log, what decided Tea was his Sweetheart's ass.
She was washing dishes one morning about two days after one of Tea's bosses told him he would be abandoning his career at UPI if he didn’t forget all this nonsense about copy integrity, close down his Tokyo apartment, and move down to Saigon.
It was like being hypnotized by a snake. Guile, that’s what Tea was seeing in the boss-man; but in his own way the boss-man was being straight with Tea; telling him to wake up and smell the system; telling him there was no such thing as freedom of press for the journalistic equivalent of a Grunt; telling him In America freedom of the press meant freedom of the owner of the press.
Even with all that, though, the lure of that whore called war was great. The high of the battlefield: there was no high higher; and Tea was about to reach for the telephone and call in his decision to return to Vietnam-- when he focused on the little peach ass under his Sweetheart's jeans and under her shiny black hair hanging way down past it, hair a man could blanket himself with, hair that looked like an auroa around Heaven when it was spread out across the sheet.
Tea asked himself in a moment of clarity, an amber whiskey, room temperature, no ice, no mix, in his hand, “What’s better for me, shrapnel or that ass?"
So, even without Soldier Ghost and those other rumblings--even if that metaphysical battle were not looming-- it was a momentous time for Tea. It was pure Shakespearean.
“To be or not to be?” In every direction there were slings and arrows.
(To Be Continued)
Meanwhile, the USA, unaware it was about to eat the fire, passed through the 63rd day of its last year.
posted by Virgil Kret at 8:47 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home