What I hope to illustrate with you in the next several pages is what I believe to be a cold deliberate calculation of executions. Not because I intended it, or because the people who died deserved it. On the contrary, I believe they were victims of our own creation(s). Unable to field an answer to their question, or a satisfactory statement about ‘who we say they are’, the only answer they were afforded was made by our bullets.
A production artist working at a computer store shared information with me about how to use the new technology to edit video, and another referral in the same area led me to locate a set of decks to edit the videotape we were using at the time. The person who I spoke to about the strategy suggested that I work on reaction shots of events that I’d been struggling to capture, and though I couldn't afford to get the decks, the advice turned out to be very valuable to me.
And, one of my best friends from another new location during our flight from offenses in our old neighborhood to the basement of his house one day, where his Dad was pouring lead from a crucible in the furnace. Right next to the furnace was a basket full of laundry, where a pair of girls' panties was lying with a puddle of semen in the crotch. I won’t be specific about the family name, but referring to Santa (the one who makes a list of who’s naughty and nice) is enough to be clear about who was at work behind the scenes. The significance of which didn’t dawn upon me until I found myself working in a high security facility with patients whose behavior wasn’t fully understood. One of whom I was introduced to in a small quiet theater all by himself who had real claws on his hands.
Perhaps the first real friend I remember well may have come to erroneous conclusions about my behavior due to assumptions about himself resulting from an unfortunate connotation of his name. Because I was prone to getting lost and being confused by the age of 6, I don't think anyone seriously believed that an errant bat swing by me at that age was a serious threat, though he may have. Naturally, after being hit, one tends to get upset about it. The problem was that I completely forgot about it after sulking around for a summer or two aware of the fact that I wasn’t welcome, and the Police didn't think it was natural to ignore a mistake like that, so, I was taught to have respect for those who get out the gurney, and use a stretcher to get people into an ambulance and off to the hospital.
My position as an advocate within Hospitals resulted, and after my return from the endeavor, I was also expected to teach children how to use a cell phone to call 911, and how to respond to an injury properly.
When dying doing what we're told, how do we appeal the expectation?
But First Responding now includes the requirement to use a neck brace for someone with a head injury before moving them onto a stretcher or moving them at all. And, by teaching swimming, I was able to reach children who were the same age as I was when dazed and confused, so that whether by travel and exposure to foreign cultures, or by the shock and trauma of the injury I may have caused - even the consequence of death might be reconciled.
So, while working with AIM and the Red Road community, and concerned about a gun that went missing, someone else was working on the rebuild of a 1938 Eliason (snowmobile). I don't mean to take one circumstance or another too seriously, but after working on a hate crime scene I'd become sensitive to anything that might lead to the source of the problem. And, upon reflection, the juxtaposition of these seemingly unrelated events may have been used to suggest that because I don't see too well I might be a Nazi too (I employed a Native woman to help with the composition of a local Mission, who's daughter celebrated her birthday on the 8th of November at my place). Each independent of the other don't suggest a thing, but combined they refer to Kristallnacht or the start of the Nazi Holocost.
Shortly after sharing some of this information online by way of an Open Letter a segment on the subject of Black Lives Matter was hacked, and on a fresh morning in the spring, I found my grocery store (where I was finally able to buy groceries after many years of living on the food shelves) plundered and looted. It isn't easy to pay a penance by returning problems like those at Napa State Hospital on bended knee, or to live with the noise in my apartment as a form of communication, but I do, and I marked it up online just like every other objection I encountered, including "I don't want to go back to prison." But by this time, I was dealing with death threats, and no one was answering my letters, so I keep them published at: Open Letter
But the similarities between the circumstances of my life, and the victims in my city are undeniable. The fact that a secret service agent followed up on the use of a 50 dollar counterfeit note passed by my roommate in 1984 made it really clear that something was up. My roomate, a well known St. Paul Minister 'outed' his homosexual lifestyle in order to combat an ordinance in St. Paul, and lost his family and parish as a result. The fact that he contracted HIV was not significant to me then because the problem wasn't widely understood as a serious public threat, but I was placed in an apartment with him due to suspicions about me. Again, I didn't realize that I was under suspicion at the time, but I realize it now. I'm not gay, and my placement with him had nothing to do with my sex conduct, but upon reflection, I realize now that some people thought I might be.
The intentional noise I live with is so bad at times that one can't help but be disturbed by the noise, and it isn't a pleasant experience. Even unintentional arousal caused by low frequency vibrations can't be avoided and it's not possible to sleep through. I suspect the use of harassment similar to what I describe may provide a new way to motivate tenants to become self-supporting and reinforce the somewhat unpredictable lifestyles of the populations that suffer in these settings (drug use is also inevitable for these reasons, and trying to combat it is pointless).
I wrote up just one such incident that resulted from the noise in our apartment shortly after I returned to my fair city with my wife. And as we were publishing the war crimes she lived with during the Vietnam War our local Court ordered me to take the document down.
And, most of the few people who were staying in touch with me then are missing today. I don’t get replies from people who I write very often anymore, and my access to old Google Accounts and a Facebook that I established security clearance for was denied. Perhaps because I was required to move after establishing a security clearance, the person that moved into my place after I left was able to steel it. I don't know, but I keep my lines of communication open by any means.
But one of the concerns raised by one of my last friends was that her monkey died. I could tell by the exasperation on her face online that it was a serious problem. She was working for the government to supporting local children by providing food and clothing, and wasn’t ashamed to share photos of her black friend, or the craters in her fields, but the US Mail wouldn't deliver the shoes I sent - shoes she asked me to send, and some of the books I've studied in recovery refer to Mr. Brown as the person who has your wife, your home and your job within reach....clearly someone who "you've got to kill".
So, I returned to rediscover my surrogate father in Barbados, a Calypso singer who though he clearly tried, probably never really got to know me. The last contact I remember was curious. He asked to borrow my goggles. I was by the pool when I heard him ask, and I remember being self conscious about my confusion over the meaning of the terms lend and borrow, but I don't remember seeing him at all. And today, as we’re being asked to respect the culture, and answer for our various barriers and obstructions, I wonder if some haven’t paid the ultimate price to be judged by a fairer court, or a more loving father.
My experience with monkeys was very limited. I met them in the jungles on the islands in the West Indies, and I used research gathered by the study of their visual cortex before graduate school, but by the time I arrived to take classes, the University was dealing with Animal Rights activists who were marching on the avenue, and calling out vivisection and the research I used to compose my papers as a crime.
When I was a boy, the stray cats rounded up on the avenues ended up in my Uncle’s lab with electrodes in their brains, and I wondered if it wasn't because I got lost following a cat down the street we lived on. But my mother's admonition to refrain from discussing the adultery we adapted to led to ambiguity about the term, cat on the avenue in one of my logs, so my concern became more grave. What was once a clear distinction between my surrogate father, and the cats on the avenue wasn't as distinct. She had accomplished her goal to obscure the details about our history, but by using ambiguity to do so, or equivocating, the surrogate father became a target.
My ongoing work with the Biotechnology department at our University does include my visits from time to time to work on the control of computers by use of intention most recently. And, I cite the achievements of the students doing the research there, but the work is non invasive, and I've participated in their studies by subjecting myself to their methods of control, so some of the research we’re doing is now referred to on some of my pages as well.
Most of the Patents in Genetic Engineering used to come from cord blood gathered from our infants (some of whom were aborted). Because it doesn’t belong to either of the parents, or the child, nobody can require a share of the profits resulting from the adaptations, so I don’t think anyone will mind our development of biotech products developed from the stem cells of grapevines in the neighborhood we used to develop these tools, but then, my University at home was in Dinkytown, and I went to Marshall U High when I was a tween.