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waywardandwestward · 6 years ago

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Let Me Be Your Shelter

Chapter 3 (Updated)

Gally x OFC

Warning(s): Never enough editing, Not beta-read. Mild Swearing.

When you lose someone, you try to remember the last time you saw them. And most of the time it’s a blurry memory, because at that time you had no idea it would be the last.“ - Hedonist Poet

A/N: The tags are still messing with me, so like last time I will reblog this post with the Masterlist Link about an hour after posting. Enjoy!

Day 7: Remembrance

I had been assigned to help Zart in the gardens and he was... he was okay. He was friendly and he made me feel comfortable enough to have conversations with him. I had found out in our time together that among all the boys he was the most recent to arrive before myself. He was glad to be free of the "Greenie" title.

“It’s nice not to be the new guy anymore,” he’d say.

Newt had been elected second in command, but always seemed to find himself with us, planting seeds and gathering fertilizer. He told Zart and I it was because he felt the most useful with us. His limp made it more difficult to be a builder. I liked Newt. He didn't talk as much as Zart, but his charm and easygoing attitude made him enjoyable to work with.

The only thing I knew for sure though, was planting crops was certainly better than working with that stupid shank, Gally. He had both Mikey and Bach slaving away on the new homestead, while he disappeared into the woods every morning. So much for everyone doing their part, I thought to myself as I kneeled in the dirt, pulling weeds out of the ground, watching Bach and Mikey struggle to carry lumber across the Glade.

Zart had spent most of that morning trying to get Newt and me to laugh; cracking jokes and throwing dirt around. Newt had enjoyed his antics, and often thew dirt back at him, meanwhile I tried really hard to keep a straight face, but every now and then he would catch the side of my mouth slide upward.

"There's that smile," Zart said proudly with his hands on his hips. "You think I can't get it out of you, but I can." In jest, I thew one of my grungy gardening gloves at him. He winced as the thick fabric hit his shoulder. Now that made me laugh.

"Alright you two," Newt said carrying a bucket of fertilizer over to us with a grin on his face. "Enough giggling, back to work!"

"We are working," Zart attempted to act innocent. "That lead builder of yours on the other hand..."

"Where is Gally, anyway?" Newt asked. "I haven't seen him all morning. Come to think of it, I didn't see him most of the morning yesterday either.."

"Or the morning before that, or the morning before that, or the morning before-"

"We get the point, Zart," I said.

He stuck his tongue out at me and continued to talk to Newt, "The Shank just disappears until lunch time."

"Really?" Newt questioned.

"Who knows," I mumbled. Honestly, I hadn't really cared.

"Hey-hey!" Mikey's annoying voice rang in my ears. "What's everybody doing over here?"

"Our jobs," Zart replied playfully as Mikey approached us. His stride is lazy, but confident. "You know, the thing you should probably be doing right about now."

"I'm just taking a break," Mikey defended himself. "Gally's got us working overtime. Meanwhile, he gets to sneak off and do whatever he wants. What's up with that, Newt?"

Zart snickered , "He's probably jerki-" Zart took one look at me and then to the other two boys. That stopped him from finishing his sentence.

"What?" I asked as I watched the two other boys giggle to themselves.

Zart's face had gone pale, and he swiftly went back to laying down new soil. "Nothing. Never mind. Get back to work." I could still see him chuckling.

"Okay..."

Mikey coughed before asking, "What about you, Greenie?" That devilish smirk appeared on his face. I despised it. "How's the farming business?"

"It's fine," I asserted trying really hard to get back to my work. I could feel his eyes boring into me like I was the food he's been deprived of the last few months.

"You look pretty thirsty," he said pulling out his canteen. "Here, take my water."

"I'm good, thanks."

"I could give you a hand, if you want."

"I'm fine, really." The smirk was still there. I couldn't see it, but I could feel it driving into my soul. My body tensed as I kept trying to figure out what he was doing. Oh, no, I thought. Flirting? Was this flirting? If it was, I was pretty sure I didn't like it.

Newt and Zart were no longer paying attention to Mikey, but had refocused on their own work. He was about to pester me again, but thankfully, someone interrupted us.

"Mikey," it was Alby, who appeared not too far away from where we stood. "Get back to work."

"Whatever you say, oh fearless leader," Mikey winked at me before he strode off, leaving my stomach churning.

I rolled my eyes and stood up letting out a small groan. "Hey Alby."

"Jo, could you do me a favor."

I nodded, brushing the dirt of my pants. "Sure, I guess."

"I'll take over for you here," he said. "Just go find Gally for me. He's slacking off, which isn't like him, you know?"

"Actually I don't," I shrugged, and then I mumbled, "I don't really know anyone."

"Poor choice of words," Alby apologized. "But could you find him for me please."

I thought for a moment. Avoiding Gally had been my number one priority the last few days, and I had done a pretty good job so far. I hadn't spoken to him at all since that night at the bonfire. The only interactions we had was when I caught him staring at me from across the Glade. I could never tell if he was just angry about what happened, or maybe it was just an overall utter disdain of my being.

I didn't think I was ready to face Gally again. But Alby had asked, and even if I was still a little mad at Alby about the maze situation ,he was still technically my superior. It wouldn't take that much interaction would it? I'd find Gally, yell at him to go see Alby- from a far- and then make my way back to the gardens. No harm done.

"Sure thing, Alby," I sighed.

I marched my way into the woods, feeling the dirt and soil sticking to the bottom of my shoes and hearing the twigs crack and the leaves crumple as I stepped on them. It hadn't taken me long to find him. He was picking up broken logs and dead wood along the wall of the maze, just far enough away that he hadn't noticed me, but close enough that if I could have called out to him he could spot me. And that had been my plan, to just shout it out and then walk away. Unfortunately, my curiosity got the better of me. If he hadn't been at work all morning that meant, that wood couldn't have been for the future homestead. So, what was it for?

I followed him a few paces behind and we stopped at a large round, crack, maybe even big enough to be considered a small cave that resided in the Maze's wall. I watched as Gally plopped his wood down on the ground. Two walls had been built around the crack, and what appeared to be the makings of a door and a roof were leaning up against the wall of the maze.

"What are you doing?" The words slipped out of my mouth.

Gally jumped. "What the hell, Greenie? You couldn't worn a guy when you're gonna pop up so you don't scare him half to death."

"Sorry," I said. "What is all this?"

"Well, it was supposed to be a surprise," he snapped. As he let out a frustrated sigh, he lifted his arm and brushed his fingers right through his hair, tugging on it slightly.

"A surprise?"

He took a second to breathe in what had just happened and examined his surroundings just to be sure none of the other Gladers were around. He wrapped his arms around his body, like he was trying to close himself off to me. "More like an apology," he confessed. "To you." I raised my eyebrows and stared at him blankly. "Things can be pretty overwhelming when you first get here. Most of us have been here so long we forget that. I also don't think we recognized how much worse it would be for you. So..." He moved toward the structure and looked inward at the hole in the wall, a hole probably just narrow enough to fit two people. "I figured you might want some privacy, and this is where I always come to be alone, so..."his voice trailed off again.

I simply stood in awe at all of the work he'd done. "You did all this in five days?"

"I don't sleep much," he shrugged. "I don't even know what time it is. If your up I guess that means..."

"Mikey and Bach have been waiting for you for the last three hours. Alby sent me to come find you." Gally nodded in understanding. I watched as he began gathering his tools together, and it clicked. This wasn't work for him. It was a passion. "How did you know how to do all this?" I asked.

He shrugged again. "I just sort of knew, I guess." Something clicked in him too in that moment. I wasn't sure what it was, but I could see the gears turning in his head. "I should probably head back I guess. Don't want to get in trouble with Alby." He swung his satchel of tools over his back.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" When I asked him this, he looked down as if perhaps he had dropped one of his supplies, but it eventually dawned on him, that that's not what I had been talking about.

"I'm sorry." His body was rigid, almost like he wasn't comfortable in his own skin, and yet there was something genuine and soft about the sound of his voice. "We shouldn't have- I shouldn't have cut you down like that, even if I didn't agree with you."

"So you'll talk to Alby?" I pushed.

"I already did. He said the vote had to be unanimous and that there was no point when the vote would still be split."

I nodded in disappointment. "He won't even let me make my case."

"Jo," his voice could have easily come off abrasive in this moment, but he chose a kinder tone. "No matter what you say, Alby and I are still gonna vote against you." His hands moved to his pockets. I watched as he brushed his left foot back in forth in the dirt. "You know why I can't."

I didn't really.

"Yeah," I said. I could have taken the opportunity to ask again about the boy he saw go into the maze, but I couldn't, not when he was this vulnerable. "It's just- I don't know if I can stay here and ignore whatever's going on out there."

"You know, if you were any other dumb Greenie, I'd tell you to go anyway. I'd let you leave and I'd tell you never to come back."

"That's a little hypocritical don't you think?" I asked crossing my arms over my chest.

"That is one hundred percent a possibility, yes."

"Don't use my own words against me," I snapped.

He took a step closer, just enough to make my arms and legs tighten in anticipation. "Look, Alby is trying to make this place a home for us. Is that really such a bad thing?"

I supposed it wasn't. After all, we'd been put there for a reason. Maybe Gally was right. Maybe it was to keep us safe. My gut told me that wasn't true, but my mind wanted to believe it so badly. When looking at the boy in front of me, and thinking of the others back in the Glade, I had to ask myself, was this place that I had found myself in really all that bad? We had food and water. We had shelter. We had some form of companionship. Was it really worth risking my life to leave?

"Come on," Gally said. "We have a pit stop to make before I catch up with Alby."

Gally led me to the other side of the Glade, waving at Alby as we passed him from afar. Alby nodded at him, in approval, squinting through the sun in his face.

"Wow," I breathed out as we stopped in front of another part of the maze's wall. Two thick groups of vines grew up the side, maybe seven feet in width from each other. Between the sprouting vines were ten names carved into stone. Six were clear.

ALBY

MIKEY

ZART

GALLY

BACH

NEWT

Four had been crossed out.

GEORGE

WES

ANDY

GIBS

"We're a family," Gally stated. "I know it doesn't always seem like it, but we are. We want you to be a part of that too."

There he was again. His eyes falling right into mine waiting for me to take the knife that he pulled out of his holster. He was being open and honest with me, as he had been since the very beginning. And that scared the shit out of me.

"Stop staring at me like that," I turned away from him.

His face squinted in confusion. "Like what?"

"Like that!" I snapped. "Like the way you and Mikey- Look the fact that I'm a girl is not lost on me okay? But I don't want you to look at me differently, or treat me differently because of it."

Gally was taken aback. "I don't think we were planning on it... And I don't look at you differently."

"Than why did you say if I was anyone else, you'd let me leave?"

"Fair enough," he admitted softly. "You are different. You're special."

Special. I was special? I let the word sink into me and just as it hit, my heart I rejected it. "No. I'm not special. I just have a vagina. So, stop staring at me like that. "

Half of me expected him to laugh, but all I saw was the look of a boy who was trying desperately to find the right words to say. "Look, you feel... familiar," he said quietly. "I don't know if it's your face, or your voice, or that long blonde hair of yours, or the way your ears get all red when your angry. And yeah, maybe, maybe it's because you're a girl. But you feel familiar. You're like this remembrance of a memory that was taken from us." He took in a deep breath. I could feel my heart rate speeding up. "There were a lot of things I hadn't thought about until you showed up. Like my mom. Or my sister. Or the girl I had a crush on. And that's how we all feel. We don't think your any better or any worse than the rest of us, but having you around... it's a comforting reminder."

"You have a sister?" I asked meekly.

"I don't know!" he projected almost as if he were saying, Seriously, that's what you got out of all of that? "But I could. I might."

"Gally," I moved a step closer to him, and spoke honestly. "I don't want to be a mom, or a sister, and I certainly don't want to be anyone's crush for that matter."

"I didn't mean it like-you listen but you never actually seem to hear what I'm saying. The only thing we want you to be is alive. And if you go out there, you'll end up like them." His eyes shifted from mine to the wall grazing his hand over Gibs' crossed out name. "I don't want you to be like them," Gally's voice shuttered. I went to reach for his arm, but he didn't notice. He quickly shook off his vulnerability as he turned back to me holding out his knife, waiting for me to take it.

I stared at the knife for a moment, before I decided to reach out and grab it. My fingertips brushed against his palm as I went to grip the handle. It wasn't the first time we had touched but it felt like it. Electricity moved from my hand, all the way down my spine.

As a blush creeped up into my cheeks, I became aware that all of the other boys were looking over at us from the other side of the glade, waiting for me to make a decision.

I didn't want to let them down. But, I needed to do this my way.

My hand let go of his knife, returning it safely back into Gally's hand. He looked down in defeat while I moved my own hand to the holster that sat on my hips. I pulled out my own knife, the one I had discovered on my first day. When I looked around at all the boys waiting patiently at the other end of the Glade, I saw a new expression on all their faces.

Hope.

I touched the blade to the wall just underneath Gally's name, and hit the handle hard with my other fist, making a deep dent in the stone. I carved out two letters.

#gally #tmr #tmr gally #will poulter #fanfic #gally x jo #gally xofc #gally x reader #my fanfiction #my fanfic #tmr fanfic #lmbys #lmbys update

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toushindai · 6 years ago

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What are some lines/passages you've written that you're proud of? (i.e. you know, *those* lines, the ones you hope readers will notice and exclaim over/highlight in their comments).

Ooh, wonderful question, and this post is naturally going to get long. In no particular order--

This passage from “With the Devil by Your Side;” I originally wrote it for another Ronny/Maiza fic but had to remove it and was beyond elated that it fit in here.

“Can’t you simply read my mind?”

“I could.” The demon shrugged, an air of casual superiority in his posture. “But I like hearing you humans put your experiences into words. The human ability to give form to what you think and believe should not be underestimated—I admire it, personally.”

He spoke frankly, with an approving tone to his voice, but Maiza found himself wincing in return. “Like one admires a dog that’s learned to shake for table scraps, I suppose,” he muttered.

“Like a river admires a dam,” was Ronny’s cryptic response.

I’m terribly pleased with the entire conversation between JPA and Fermet in “Epilogue D,” but more than that, I think I want the ending lines to stand out most of all:

I only hope that I have laid a hand on your heart and made you feel, if only for a moment, the fear and despair that I drown in every day.

If I have achieved that, then as a poet and as a playwright, I am satisfied.

Pretty much the entirety of “Northern Star,” which straddles the divide between “excessively eloquent meta” and “very short fic.”

In “Inches Apart and Far Away,” it’s my hope that this bit implies how deeply uncomfortable Huey is, without Huey allowing himself to be aware of how deeply uncomfortable he is:

...Fermet bares his teeth like an animal that’s cornered its prey, all pretense of gentleness gone. He doesn’t reach for Huey again, but he doesn’t need to. Even without seeing his eyes, Huey knows that they must be bright and possessive and as inescapable as time itself.

But he hasn’t made any effort to trap Huey against the wall again, so it is a simple matter to slip away from him and proceed down the hallway. Fermet’s gaze does not really touch his back like a physical thing, he knows; it only feels that way.

Ronny’s letter to Majeedah at the end of “The Dwarf in the Flask” is a bit more poetic than much of my writing is and I like that, as well as the warmth in it:

I found myself inclined to keep a shard of the homunculus’s flask and it occurred to me you might feel the same way. If I am wrong, no need to go through the hassle of summoning me to give it back; simply toss it into the ocean. In a century, even this will capitulate to the ever-changing nature of the universe, and the sea will shape it into something beautiful.

Be well, Majeedah.

Now some Transistor fic--

Honestly most all of the banter in “Drinks with Friends” delights me, but I also like this passage of the intensity and specificity of Red knowing what she wants against a baffled sense of what’s appropriate in the moment:

It’s patently obvious that he’s talking himself down, his internal monologue made external by how much he’s had to drink. But what is she supposed to say? ‘Screw our friendship, I’d rather make out’? She wants to take the risk, because she trusts the bond between them to bear it; she wants to seize him by the collar and kiss him until they’re both seeing stars.But this isn’t a decision she can make against his will. Certainly not when he’s drunk.

This, from “Rhythm,” is similarly on the theme of Red navigating the intensity of her emotions vs what she feels is safe to act on:

When he finishes, she uncurls herself and hands over his water bottle. “Is it as cathartic as it looks?” she asks.

“It’s pretty great,” he admits. He takes a solid swig of water and then tosses a little over his head as well, using his wrapped fingers to comb the droplets through his sweat-damp hair. “Why? You want to give it a try?”

She turns her gaze away from him (with some effort) and towards the punching bag, still swinging slightly in place. She thinks about her pale hands, about the polish that’s still on her nails from the concert because of course he doesn’t have polish remover. Her heart stutters.

“Not right now,” she says.

If she started punching, she’s not sure she’d be able to stop.

And then from “Through Cracks,” one of my Hades fic--this bit is the point of the entire fic, sorry not sorry:

Megaera stands still. Hades had warned her about his son: that he was impulsive, impertinent, an exhausting waste of time and energy. But he had never warned her of this devastating sincerity. Zagreus has a way of baring his soul over the smallest matters, making it blindingly obvious that his defenses are down, and it’s one thing to see and toy with that in bed but outside of that context Megaera never knows what to do about it. Somehow it turns part of her to rubble, exposing something that hasn’t seen the light in centuries as she stands in the dust and wreckage. She has to learn to survive it eventually, if they’re going to keep doing this.

#agallimaufryofoddments #thanks for the ask!#ask meme #tou and a stupid commotion #tou and the sword boyfriend #tou and the being nice sim #tou wrote a thing

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ianference · 6 years ago

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One hundred years ago today, Wilfred Owen, a Lieutenant in the 2nd Manchesters – and an as-yet unknown poet – fell to German guns in the crossing of the Sambre-Oise Canal in the Second Battle of the Sambre. Here’s a brief account of the final three years of his life, in which he joined the army, suffered wounds and shell shock, found his poetic voice in a hospital, and then perished almost exactly a week before the Armistice took hold and the guns went silent. The story will be told primarily in Owen’s own words, taken from his poems and Collected Letters (Oxford University Press, 1967), and illustrated with stereoviews depicting some of the places and situations that he discusses. The letters will be compressed for brevity’s sake, an as ever, an anaglyph gallery will be positioned at bottom.

Troops marching through Oise, near the canal where Owen died. Courtesy of the Boyd/Jordan Collection.

Joining Up

Having always been a sensitive and scholarly boy, with a literary mind – by age 10, he wanted to be a poet, and was enamored of the Romantics, particularly Keats – Wilfred Owen was an unlikely candidate for a military life. Indeed, at the outbreak of the war, Owen was living in France, working as a tutor, and immersing himself in the culture of the land – and he was in no rush to join up. He planned a trip to Havre, which was cancelled suddenly as passage was denied. When it became apparent that his options were narrowing, he wrote to his mother (henceforth Susan or SO):

Friday – I kept back these extraordinary announcements under a presentiment that my Voyage would not come off—and, indeed, at six o’clock this evening I learnt that it can’t be done. Principal reason stated—my English Nationality. The Voyage to Havre might be managed but not a Return. But, a fortnight next Saturday, I shall most undoubtedly be able to sail to Havre, & perhaps cross to Newhaven, free of charge, for I shall be returning to join the Army… –Addendum to letter to SO, postmarked Bordeaux, originally dated Wednesday 18 August 1915

It would be another two months before he officially joined up:

In the middle of this letter I was called to lunch; and then went to ‘swear in’. This time it is done: I am the British Army! Three of us had to read the Oath together; the others were horribly nervous! and read the wrong Paragraph until the Captain stopped them! ‘Kiss the Book!’ says Captain. One gives it a tender little kiss; the other a loud smacking one! … After that we had to be inoculated for Typhoid. And that is why I am in bed since four o’clock! The delightfully kind, confidence-inspiring doctor gave us full instructions. There were scores of Tommies taking the ordeal before me, and believe me some were as nervous as only fine, healthy animals can be before doctors. One fainted before his turn came, merely as a result of the Doctor’s description of possible symptoms! … We have sick leave until Monday morning. The hours are 9:30 to 4! Jolly reasonable! … The Poetry Bookshop is about 7 mins. walk! There is a Reading this very night! – Letter to SO, postmarked Les Lilas, 54 Tavistock Square, W. C., dated 21 October 1915

Clearly, Owen is still a bit naive as to what he’s signed up for – living in a French boarding house on the square in which Dickens resided whilst writing Bleak House, among other works, and amusing himself with evening poetry readings. Soon, however, he would be shipped off to training campt, and his attitude would change:

I was put on Guard Duty from 9 a.m. yesterday to 9 a.m. today. Miserable time: not allowed to take off packs or boots during 24 hrs. I was Sentry from 11 to 1 and 5 to 7 etc. a. and p.m. I was with fellows that I don’t like—chumps all of them. We got enough to eat; and I made toast on my Bayonet. There was not much Challenging to do. I am one of the orderlies again tomorrow. Now that the novelty is wearing off, this Camping is beginning to get troublesome. I had a card from Stanley Webb today. I am not off this weke end. How is everybody? You W.E.O. – Letter to SO, postmarked “From Cadet W.E.S. Owen, 4756/Hut 6a, Artists’ Reg’t C. Coy./Hare Hall Camp Romford Essex”, dated 28 November 1915.

Very likely a French version of the “chumps” that Owen so despised throughout his early months in the army. As he abhorred course language, excessive alcohol use, and so on, he found few peers early on in his time in the Army, as noted time and time again in his letters. Courtesy of the Boyd/Jordan Collection.

Owen would be training in various capacities – almost always seemingly annoying to him – until he was finally commissioned into the Manchester Regiment in June 1916. But after being denied a position in the Flying Corps, it was more training, as the 5th Manchesters were currently a reserve unit. Owen became an expert marksman, impressing his superiors, and on the 29th of December, he boarded a train to a shipyard – it appeared he was going abroad. In fact, he was to travel to France on New Year’s Day, 1917 – to join the 2nd Manchesters at the front.

The Somme

From arrival in France, it took three days to arrive at Owen’s first destination, the journey wasn’t pleasant, and the other soldiers were even more “chump-like” than his fellow cadets in Britain:

My own dear Mother, I have joined the Regiment, who are just at the end of six weeks’ rest. I will not describe the awful vicissitudes of the journey here … Since I set foot on the Calais quays I have not had dry feet … After those two days, we were let down, gently, into the real thing, Mud. It has penetrated now into that Sanctuary my sleeping bag, and that holy of holies my pyjamas. For I sleep on a stone floor and the servant squashed mud on all my belongings; I suppose by way of baptism. We are 3 officers in this ‘Room’, the rest of the house is occupied by servants and the band; the roughest set of knaves I have ever been herded with. Even now their vile language is shaking the flimsy door between the rooms. –Letter to SO, 4 January 1917. From this point, Owen may only note that he is sending his letters from the 2nd Manchester, so as not to divulge locations in the event of intercepted mail.

It wasn’t long before the young officer was thrown into the action, as the Battle of the Somme was already well underway – the German retreat to the Hindenburg Line was not far off – and Owen found himself in the abandoned village of Bertrancourt:

My own dear Mother, I have just received your long-looked-for letter. It seems wrong that even your dear handwriting should come into such a Gehenna as this. There is a terrific Strafe on. Our artillery are doing a 48 hours bombardment … When we arrived at this deserted Village last night, there had been no billets prepared for the Battalion … for my part I … discovered a fine little hut, with a chair in it! A four-legged chair! The Roof is waterproof, and there is a Stove. There is only one slight disadvantage: there is a Howitzer just 70 or 80 yards away, firing over the top every minute or so. – Letter to SO, 9 January 1917.

The Somme was often like that – every time one side advanced, it would take advantage of whatever features it had captured, down to abandoned huts, destroyed farmhouses, and so on.

A farm at the Somme, rather more devastated than the one Owen stayed at on 9th January. From my collection.

A week later, Owen would finally be truly battle-tested, capturing his first dugout:

I am sorry you have had about 5 days letterless … I can see no reason for deceiving you about these last 4 days. I have suffered seventh hell. I have not been at the front. I have been in front of it … I held an advanced post, that is, a ‘dug-out’ in the middle of No Man’s Land … we had a march of 3 miles over shelled road then nearly 3 along a flooded trench. After that we came to where the trenches had been blown flat out and had to go over the top. It was of course dark, too dark, and the ground was not mud, not sloppy mud, but an octopus of sucking clay, 3, 4, and 5 feet deep, relieved only by craters full of water. Men have been known to drown in them. Many stuck in the mud & only got on by leaving their waders, equipment, and in some cases their clothes … High explosives were dropping all around out, and machine guns spluttered every few minutes … we reached the dug-out, and relieved the wretches therein. –Letter to SO, 16 January 1917.

And a few days later, had his first experience with something that would be one of the focal points of his most well-known poem, Dulce et Decorum Est:

I went on ahead to scout—foolishly alone—and when, half a mile away from the party, got overtaken by

G A S

It was only tear-gas from a shell, and I got safely back (to the party) in my helmet, with nothing more than a severe fright! And a few tears, some natural, some unnatural … They want to call No Man’s Land ‘England’ because we keep supremacy there. It is like the eternal place of gnashing teeth ; the Slough of Despond could be contained in one of its crater-holes; the fires of Sodom and Gomorrah could not light a candle to it—to find the way to Babylon the Fallen … It is pock-marked like a body of foulest disease and its odour is the breath of cancer … No Man’s Land under snow is like the face of the moon chaotic, crater-ridden, uninhabitable, awful, the abode of madness … To call it ‘England’! I would as soon call my House (!) Krupp Villa, or my child Chlorina-Phosgena. – Letter to SO, 19 January 1917.

Soldiers in a trench prepared for a gas attack, as Owen would come to be – imagery such as this pops up in many of his poems, most notably in “Dulce et Decorum Est”. Gas warfare was an everyday hazard during the Great War. Courtesy of the Boyd/Jordan Collection.

Besides the intermittent bombardments, Howitzer fire, and gas attacks, life on the front was quite mundane – even officers such as Owen were expected to help dig and reinforce the trenches, a chore he found terribly boring – and complained about to his mother with almost as much frequency as his constant requests for socks, cigarettes, chocolates, and volumes of poetry. It is fairly safe to say that this last item probably stood out among officers at the Somme front at that time. In any case, Owen hated digging trenches.

British soldiers digging second-line trenches, hence their relaxed poses. Owen was on the front line. From my collection.

Then, on March 14th, the monotony was broken, as it were, by a fall. In a letter which does not survive, but which was quoted by Edmund Blunden whilst writing his memoirs, Owen wrote from Le Quesnoy-en-Santerre:

Last night I was going round through pitch darkness to see a man in a dangerous state of exhaustion. I fell into a kind of well, only about 15 ft., bur I caught the back of my head on the way down. The doctors (not in consultation!) say I have a slight concussion. Of course I have a vile headache, but I don’t feel at all fuddled.

But the next his mother heard from him, the situation had changed:

My dearest Mother, I am in a hospital bed, (for the first time in life.) After falling into that hole (which I believe was a shell-hole in a floor, laying open a deep cellar) I felt nothing more than a headache, for 3 days; and I went up to the front in the usual way—or nearly the usual way, for I felt to weak to wrestle with the mud, and sneaked along the top, snapping my fingers at a clumsy sniper. When I got back I developed a high fever, vomited strenuously, and long, and was seized with muscular pains. The night before last I was sent to a shanty a bit further back, & yesterday motored on to this Field Hospital, called Casualty Clearing Station 13. It is nowhere in particular that I know, but I may be evacuatd to Amiens, if my case lasts long enough. – Letter to SO, 18 March 1917.

A field hospital in France, much like the one Owen mentions in the above letter, photographed by A. O. Fasser, an American surgeon who came over to give aid during the Great War. Courtesy of the Boyd/Jordan Collection,

During the stay of a couple of weeks in Amiens, Owen became increasingly bored, as reflected in his musings about the terrible people in the hospital, a sudden desire to become a pig farmer (!), sketches of bungalows he could imagine himself living in, and so forth, that he would constantly send off to his mother, brothers, sisters – really, anybody whose address he had committed to memory. Around this time, he was having conflicting thoughts – he was beginning to adapt to life at the front, while meanwhile, he was imagining himself in easier roles, such as a hospital assistant:

The man in the next bed told me this. We have two cases, pilot & observer, who are terribly smashed. They will both recover, but the pilot has both arms broken, abdominal injuries, both eyes contused, nose cut, teeth knocked in, and skull fractured. It makes me ashamed to be here. But I help to look after him at night. The sister has a wonderful way with him. I like her very much. Constitutionally I am better able to do Service in a hospital than in the trenches. But I suppose we all think that. -Letter to SO, 30 March 1917.

Another of A. O. Fasser’s photographs, of three injured soldiers recovering in a field hospital. Owen clearly felt both inadequate (in not having sustained as serious an injury as most of the dozen or so men in that hospital at the time), but also superior to the wounded men – in that he did not feel that they were worth conversing with. His attitudes would soon change. Courtesy of the Boyd/Jordan Collection.

In direct contradiction to the sentiment from the 30th March letter, however, his following letter is very telling as to his evolving (or, perhaps, devolving) mental state:

Dearest Mother, Know that I have cut my forefinger with a tin of Lobster, and that is why I write shaky. I have just been 4 days caravanning from the CCS, & have just found our H.Q. Journeying over the new ground has been most frightfully interesting. The Batt. has just done something great which will find its way to the Communiqué. I am going up to join them in an hour’s time. They have lost one officer & many are wounded, Haydon among them. I shall no doubt be in time for the Counter Attack. I have bought an automatic pistol in town (from which I sent a P.P.C.) By the time you read this we’ll be out of the line again. … Tonight will be over . . . . My long rest has shaken my nerve. But after all I hate old age, and there is only one way to avoid it! – Letter to SO, 4 April 1917.

When Owen returned to the front, with a shaky hand and admittedly shaky nerves, he arrived to find his commanding officer dead, many of the men badly wounded, and morale terribly low. His orders were to find out the position and strength of the enemy near the trench he was defending – and that meant giving away his position. After casually alerting the enemy of the Manchesters’ presence in the trench, two heavy machine guns bore down on the area. Owen now knew that he was facing a tougher enemy, with little recourse – so he and his men held on, as low as possible, for four days and nights, until it was safe to retreat. In the midst of this, the man standing next to him took a bullet through the bicep – and Owen wrote home with a detached tone that he was envious of the man.

A typical trench at the Somme, presumably much like the one Wilfred Owen was defending in early April. From my collection.

On 9th April, Owen posted a half-completed letter to his brother Colin – whom he had previously written to his mother “would not last three weeks in this sector of Hades” – describing in impersonal, almost robotic detail the killing power of the Bosch machine gun. After this, no word reached any of Owen’s family members until the 25th, when the following letter – reproduced below in its entirety – was posted to Susan:

My own dearest Mother, Immediately after I sent my last letter, more than a fortnight ago, we were rushed up into the Line. Twice in one day we went over the top, gaining both our objectives. Our A Company led the Attack, and of course lost a certain number of men. I had some extraordinary escapes from shells & bullets. Fortunately there was no bayonet work, since the Hun ran before we got up to his trench. You will find mention of our fight in the Communiqué; the place happens to be the very village which Father named in his last letter! Never before has the Battalion encountered such intense shelling as rained on us as we advanced in the open. The Colonel sent round this message the next day: ‘I was filled with admiration at the conduct of the Battalion under such heavy shellfire . . . The leadership of officers was excellent, and the conduct of the men beyond praise.’ The reward we got for all this was to remain in the Line 12 days. For twelve days I did not wash my face, nor take off my boots, nor sleep a deep sleep. For twelve days we lay in holes, where at any moment a shell might put us out. I think the worst incident was one wet night when we lay up against a railway embankment. A big shell lit on the top of the bank, just 2 yards from my head. Before I awoke, I was blown in the air right away from the bank! I passed most of the following days in a railway Cutting, in a hole just big enough to lie in, and covered with corrugated iron. My brother officer of B Coy, 2/Lt Gaukroger lay opposite in a similar hole. But he was covered with earth, and no relief will ever relieve him, nor will his Rest will be a 9 days-Rest. I think that the terribly long time we stayed unrelieved was unavoidable; yet it makes us feel bitterly towards those in England who might relieve us, and will not.

We are now doing what is called a Rest, but we rise at 6.15 and work without break until about 10 p.m. for there is always a Pow-Wow for officers after dinner. And if I have not written yesterday, it is because I must have kept hundreds of letters Uncensored, and enquiries about Missing Men unanswered [remainder missing] – Letter to SO, 25 April 1917, from “A. Coy., My Cellar”

But Owen hadn’t told the whole story. During the barrage, over 30 men under Owen’s command had died. But that wasn’t the worst of it. The “Rest” Owen mentions above quickly turned into one of the most transformative experiences of his life – he was examined by a doctor before being returned to the front, but the doctor found explicit signs that he was suffering from what at the time was known as Neurasthenia, but was commonly referred to as shell shock. The reason would become clear in a later letter to his sister, again reflecting a detached tone:

You must not entertain the least concern about me because I am here. I certainly was shaky when I first arrived. But today Dr. Browne was hammering at my knees without any response whatever. (At first I used to execute the High Kick whenever he touched them) i.e. Reflex Actions quite normal. You know it was not the Bosche that worked me up, nor the explosives, but it was living so long by poor old Cock Robin (as we used to call 2/Lt. Gaukroger), who lay not only near by, but in various places around and about, if you understand. I hope you don’t! – Letter to Mary Owen, 10 May 1917.

Corpses of men killed by trench bombardment – but not in the sort of close quarters that Owen had shared with what remained of “Cock Robin”. Courtesy of the Boyd/Jordan Collection.

Wilfred Owen had lain in shock, for days, without food nor drink, amidst the fragmented corpse of his friend. This would be a shock to anybody. And while Owen was not quite the naive, sensitive lad who’d signed up with the Artists’ Rifles, he was not dulled enough to the horrors of war not to be shaken to his core by this experience. He shifted hospitals a couple of times, before finally arriving at Craiglockhart Hydropathic Hospital in Edinburgh.

Craiglockhart, Return to the Front, and Death

It was at Craiglockhart that Wilfred Owen came into his own as a poet. But first, there was some other business to attend. He continued to write letters rather constantly, which is why such a rich archive of his thoughts during this time period exists. He experimented with poetry, and sent drafts of many poems – most of which only exist as uncompleted fragments in a 1983 collection, “The complete poems and fragments” edited by John Stallworthy – to his family members and friends.

Notably, he was first published in Craiglockhart’s fortnightly literary magazine, The Hydra, which he also promptly took over editing on the advice of his doctor. He not only edited the journal, but anonymously wrote articles, editorials, and commentaries. Although during this period he occasionally yearned for the action of the front, he was content to delve into poetry, further exploring the poets of his youth, whilst biting into newer poets, such as Elizabeth Barrett Browning, of whose work he was immediately enamored. But it was the arrival of a notable “patient” at the hospital that really gave Owen the spark to create his greatest works.

In late July, Siegfried Sassoon arrived, already a published poet, and somewhat notoriously brave (there’s an oft-repeated tale that he once scared off 60 German soldiers by recklessly throwing grenades, singlehandedly capturing a machine gun nest – and then forgot about it entirely, pulling out a book of poems and reading at the nest, and confounding his superiors who didn’t know whether he was alive or dead). Sassoon was a bit of a sore spot for the British government at the moment; he’d published a statement that was read in front of the House of Commons condemning the war. Thus, he’d been placed in Craiglockhart to “recuperate” – in other words, to stay out of trouble. But in August, Owen and Sassoon would cross paths, and immediately take to one another:

At last I have an event worth a letter. I have beknown myself to Siegfried Sassoon. Went in to him last night (my second call). The first visit was one morning last week. The sun blazed into his room making his purple dressing suit of a brilliance—almost matching my sonnet! He is very tall and stately, with a fine firm chisel’d (how’s that?) head, ordinary short brown hair. The general expression of his face is one of boredom. Last night when I went in he was struggling to read a letter from Wells; whose handwriting is not only a slurred suggestion of works, but in a dim pink ink! Wells talks of coming up here to see him and his doctor; not about Sassoon’s state of health, but about God the Invisible King. … Next day – … So the last thing he said was ‘Sweat your guts out writing poetry!’ ‘Eh?’ says I. ‘Sweat your guts out, I say!’ He also warned me against early publishing: but recommended Martin Secker for a small volume of 10 or 20 poems. [Here Owen actually inquires about the addressee of his letter briefly, before returning to Sassoon.] Sassoon quite admires Thos. Hardy more than anybody living. I don’t think much of what I’ve read. Quite potatoey after the meaty Morals. You’ll have had enough of Sassoon, what? Just one more tit-bit. Wells said in his last letter: hope you will soon ‘devote yourself to the real business of your life, which is poetry only by the way.’ Poor Wells! We made some fancy guesses as to what he meant:—Tract-writing? stump-oratory? politics? what? Cheero! I’m well enough by day, and generally so by night. A better mode of life than this present I could not practically manage. – Letter to Leslie Gunston, 22 August, 1917.

Clearly, Owen was enamored with Sassoon from the get-go. Over the next couple of days, he wrote letters to Susan, to his father, Tom, to his sister Mary, and quite possibly to others raving of Sassoon’s virtues. The two became fast friends, albeit in a relationship marked by an imbalanced power dynamic – the younger Owen practically worshiped Sassoon, so much so that he’d write alternate drafts of some of his earliest (and one of his best known) war poems, and have Sassoon choose versions, wordings, even titles, as he did in the case of what was originally titled “Anthem to Dead Youth”, and then “Anthem for Dead Youth”, and finally the poem we all know today:

Anthem for Doomed Youth

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle? -Only the monstrous anger of the guns. Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle Can patter out their hasty orisons. No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells; Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, – The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells; And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all? Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes. The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall; Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds, And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.

–Wilfred Owen, written at Craiglockhart in September-October 1917, with the assistance of Siegfried Sassoon

Sassoon would also introduce Owen to a great number of prominent figures in the literary circles of the era, including Robbie Ross and Robert Graves. It is through the latter that we most extensively know that Owen was homosexual (or, possibly, bisexual); although other sources confirmed it, Owen’s brother Harold posthumously destroyed his diary, and severely redacted and/or destroyed many of his letters and some of his poems. Sadly, these are almost certainly entirely lost to history, as Harold’s widow donated everything that remained to Oxford University in the 1970s.

In any case, Sassoon had a tremendous impact on Owen’s writing style, pushing him away from the romanticism which had consumed his youth, into an area of stark realism – writing from experience. And much of Owen’s recent experience was rough and gritty and nasty, to say the least.

Things Wilfred Owen would be quite familiar with – gas masks, grenades, rifles, flamethrowers, sandbags, trenches… Courtesy of the Boyd/Jordan Collection.

Owen learned much from Sassoon, but he refused to take Sassoon’s biggest piece of advice – that under no circumstances should he seek to return to the front. Sassoon was himself a “danger junkie”; he reveled in taking almost absurd risks, which elevated him to the rank of Captain before he left the service in 1919 after a friendly-fire shot to the head. But he recognized that Owen, while brave, was not – and should spend his talents elsewhere – specifically in the writing of poetry. Nevertheless, in November, Owen was judged fit for duty again, and moved back to the 5th Manchesters at Scarborough. From there, he wrote the following to Sassoon:

I sit alone at last, and therefore with you, my dear Siegfried. For which name, as much as for anything in any envelope of your sealing, I give thanks and rejoice. The 5th have taken over a big Hotel, of which I am Major Domo, which in the vulgar, means Lift Boy. I manage Accommodation, Food, and Service. I boss cooks, housemaids, charwomen, chamber-maids, mess orderlies—and drummers … I had a Third Heaven of a time in London, and should have got into a Fourth or Fifth if I had not missed you on Wednesday. – Letter to Siegfried Sassoon, 27 November, 1917.

In December, Owen was promoted to Lieutenant, and Sassoon was sent back to the front, where he would remain until he was wounded by one of his own men. Owen, on the other hand, stayed on light duty until January 1918, when he learned that he would return to France.

Owen continued serving in the trenches for another ten months. He was noted as being a brave and fair commander of men, although he had softened some to their language and bad habits, as depicted in his final letter to Susan, written on All Hallows’ Eve, in which the men are almost admirably described:

Dear Mother, I will call the place from which I’m now writing ‘The Smoky Cellar of the Forester’s House’. I write on the first sheet of the writing pad which came in the parcel yesterday. Luckily the parcel was small, as it reached me just before we moved off to the line. My servant & I ate the chocolate in the cold middle of last night, crouched under a draughty Tamboo, roofed with planks. I husband the Malted Milk for tonight, & tomorrow night. The handkerchief & socks are most opportune, as the ground is marshy, & I have a slight cold! So thick is the smoke in this cellar that I can hardly see by a candle 12 ins. away, and so thick are the inmates that I can hardly write for pokes, nudges & jolts. On my left the Coy. Commander snores on a bench: other officers repose on wire beds behind me. At my right hand, Kellett, a delightful servant of A Coy. in The Old Days radiates joy & contentment from pink cheeks and baby eyes. He laughs with the signaller, to whose left ear is glued the Receiver; but whose eyes rolling with gaiety show that he is listening with his right ear to a merry corporal, who appears at this distance away (some three feet) nothing [but] a gleam of white teeth & a wheee of jokes. Splashing my hand, an old soldier with a walrus moustache peels & drops potatoes into the pot. By him, Keyes, my cook, chops wood; another feeds the smoke with the damp wood. It is a great life. I am more oblivious than alas! yourself, dear Mother, of the ghastly slimmering of the guns outside, & the hollow crashing of the shells. There is no danger down here, or if any, it will be well over before you read these lines. I hope you are as warm as I am; as serene in your room as I am here; and that you think of me never in bed as resignedly as I think of you always in bed. Of this I am certain you could not be visited by a band of friends half so fine as surround me here.

Ever Wilfred x

—Letter to Susan Owen, 31 October, 1918

Four days later, Owen would meet his fate in the Sambre-Oise Canal; accounts of the exact nature of his death vary, and none can be seen as reliable. It is certain that he was killed by German machine gun fire, but the exact circumstances are unclear. Owen might have faded into obscurity if not for the posthumous efforts by Sassoon to publish his works, and by his brother Harold to publish a biography & collection of letters – albeit heavily edited to remove most traces of his brother’s homosexuality from his legacy. In Britain at the time, homosexuality was still seen as deviant, and was a criminal offense – in the not too distant past, Oscar Wilde had been imprisoned for it, which led to his early demise.

But Owen’s legacy lives on; he is currently second only to Shakespeare in terms of poets read by British pupils, and he’s widely read elsewhere as well, generally named amongst the greatest war poets of all time. On Remembrance Day 1985, Owen, Sassoon, Graves, Blunden, and twelve other Great War poets were commemorated in the Poet’s Corner at Westminster Abbey; the inscription on the stone was from Owen’s unpublished preface to what he had planned to be his first monograph had he lived to complete it: “My subject is War, and the pity of War. The Poetry is in the pity.”

Owen is buried near where he fell, at Ors Communal Cemetery, with an inscription chosen by Susan Owen, who learned of her beloved son’s death on the very day – a week later – that the rest of Britain was celebrating the Armistice:

“SHALL LIFE RENEW THESE BODIES? OF A TRUTH ALL DEATH WILL HE ANNUL” W.O.

Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, 18th March 1893 – 4th November 1918.

Anaglyphs

Wilfred Owen: Anthem for a Doomed Poet One hundred years ago today, Wilfred Owen, a Lieutenant in the 2nd Manchesters - and an as-yet unknown poet - fell to German guns in the crossing of the Sambre-Oise Canal in the Second Battle of the Sambre.

#45x107 #6x13 #Amiens #Craiglockhart #featured #glass #Great War #history #poetry #stereograph #stereoview #The Somme #Wilfred Owen #WWI

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Testimonials

apollonian Jan. 9, 2020Don’t under-estimate Brian–he’s extremely clever. And Brian is actually a brilliant historian, understands Western Christian culture and philosophy, only coming at it all from his amazing Buddhist point of view–which absolutely throws those dumb kikes who hardly know what to say, think about it all. Most and best of all, Brian values and respects the Christian TRUTH ideal (= Christ, Gosp. JOHN 14:6)–see above notes by me. Only criticism I’d have of Buddhism is its too easy endorsement of non-existent “free” will which couldn’t exist in an objective, hence determined reality, which objectivity is agreed for both Christianity and Buddhism.Poet Samuel • Jan. 7, 2020What I notice about Brian’s work – He will inquire and investigate everything for himself in pursuit of his own personal / empirical insights and conclusions. And he will happily weather everyone’s judgement and scolding for doing so – Left, right, up, down, nobody can stop or correct a born truth-seeker from annoyingly examining every stone (lol). Keep on waltzing through the tidal waves of scorn and judgement from all alliances, Brian. Truth is king.

The Brian Ruhe Show Poet Samuel • You nailed my view, Poet Samuel! Thank you dearly. My Dresden survivor advisor describes me as a true intellectual. I just want to know the truth!

The Outsider

My Friend Brian Ruhe by American Buddhist monk, Venerable Paññobhāsa Mahathera Posted: 16 Oct 2019 01:17 PM PDTThe purest idealism is unconsciously equivalent to the deepest knowledge. —Adolf HitlerIt is better to make a mistake than to do nothing. —Adolf Hitler My Friend Brian RuhePosted: 16 Oct 2019 01:17 PM PDT No doubt some of you have noticed that I’ve begun doing weekly Skype interviews with the notorious Brian Ruhe, the “Nazi Buddhist,” president of the Thule Society (an organization that endorses the worship of a deified Adolf Hitler), and lord and master of the Brian Ruhe show, recently censored and banned from YouTube but still available on Bitchute. In fact some of you have started reading this blog because of seeing me on Brian’s show—after all, Herr Ruhe evidently has a larger following than I do, though that’s not saying very much. So I suppose I should explain why I am associating with such a notorious fellow, what I have learned from this association, and why I now consider him to be my friend. Our first contact was back in 2011 or 12, and was brief and uneventful. I think in those days neither of us was fully red-pilled, so to speak, and we were more or less “normie” western Buddhists, though still rather unorthodox and weird by mainstream standards. Anyway, upon returning to the USA after many years in Asia I sent out emails to many of the teachers and Dhamma organizations in the general area (mainly the state of Washington and southern British Columbia in Canada), and in those days Brian Ruhe was a reputable, more or less mainstream Dhamma teacher. Anyway, after offering my services to any Dhamma society that was interested, Herr Ruhe wrote back saying that he was pretty much a subsistence Dhamma instructor and lacked the resources to support outside teachers, and that was that. Several years later, after both of us had been “radicalized” by the Information Age and the Internet, a supporter of both of us suggested to Herr Ruhe that he should interview me for his show (the Brian Ruhe show, then still on YouTube), and so he contacted me. Not only did he ask me to be on his show but he further asked me to be the spiritual director of the Thule Society, which latter honor I declined for reasons laid out in a previous post. But we did the show, and it went rather well, and so we have continued with it. No doubt there are some people out there who think that a Buddhist monk associating with a devout Nazi—or National Socialist, as Herr Ruhe prefers to call himself—is somehow necessarily inherently wrong and reprehensible. On the contrary, I don’t think so at all. Some of Brian’s views are very different from mine, with regard to politics, the heroism of Adolf Hitler, the origin, ancient history, and current state of the human race, and also with regard to Theravada Buddhism—though ironically he is more of a scriptural fundamentalist than I am, at least with regard to cosmology and his belief in the texts’ authenticity and authority in general. So although I know the texts rather better than he does, I am also more skeptical, while Brian, bless his heart, is endowed with more of the Will to Believe. (In other words, going with the terms of Buddhist philosophy, he is more faith-oriented and I am more reason-oriented.) Regarding politics, I am not a Nazi or a fascist by any sane, non-hysterical reckoning. I see myself as more or less of a classical liberal, and consider the libertarian system set up by the founding fathers of the USA to be about the best so far devised and put to the test. The farthest I would concede to the fascists would be to say that, at this stage in the game, if I were required to choose between Marxism/socialism and some form of not-particularly-violent fascism, I’d almost certainly go with the fascists. Socialism sucks, and Marxism is historically, objectively worse than Nazism or small-f fascism in general, going with such objective criteria as numbers of corpses generated by each system. So, although I’ve been called a Nazi sympathizer, my Nazi sympathies are very limited and conditional. I do have sympathy for Brian Ruhe though, mainly because he’s a nice guy, and a sincere one. For that matter I am willing to hold a discussion in good faith with anyone capable of a sincere and more or less courteous exchange of views. Hell, I’m even willing to have a discussion or reasoned debate with a neo-Marxist, though most of them seem too hysterical or ignorant to discuss their views rationally, especially if there is feedback from someone who disagrees with them. (Objective rationality is, after all, a tool of white patriarchal oppression.) I have been hoping to have a discussion with some advocate of politically correct Social Justice on this blog, but again, most of them are adverse to having their views challenged. But I am willing, just as Herr Ruhe also is willing. So, a primary reason why I do weekly Skype sessions with Brian is that he is willing to converse and exchange views in good faith, even though we don’t agree on all points. We’re not overly concerned with changing each other’s views, either. And I must say that the conversations can be interesting, for us at least. Also of course the videos have increased the readership of this blog. I mentioned that Brian is more orthodox than I am in his Buddhism, at least sometimes. He’s literally a devout Buddhist Nazi, or rather a devout Buddhist National Socialist—“Nazi” was originally a derogatory slur, and Herr Ruhe tends to avoid the term. (I persist in using the term “Nazi” simply because it’s shorter and easier, and National Socialists ought to be tough enough to hear words they don’t like very much. Besides, it’s used so much that it’s hardly any more of a slur than “National Socialist.” It’s sort of like the term “Pagan,” which also began as a slur but was later reclaimed, and even accepted with pride by faithful Pagans.) Anyway, with regard to Brian’s devout Buddhism, it is interesting that he was actually ordained as a Theravada Buddhist monk for several months back in the 90’s, in Thailand, I’m pretty sure. Later he was a more or less mainstream teacher of Buddhism and meditation in the general area of Vancouver BC, until he was red-pilled and then ostracized by intolerant or fearful leftists. So Brian is a Buddhist first and a Nazi second. He takes Buddhist ethics very seriously, including the stuff about compassion and nonviolence. He understands Dhamma better than do most western Buddhists, and probably practices it better as well. Some people might assume, and reasonably too, that a Nazi would necessarily endorse militarism and even genocide. Nope! Brian simply denies all of it. Not only does he not endorse genocide, he firmly disbelieves the very idea that Hitler’s Nazis favored or perpetrated it; all that stuff is just propagandist lies promulgated to vilify the Führer. The Nazis were the good guys, even by Buddhist standards, according to him—there was no genocide of “subhuman” races, and Hitler was a peace-loving man, an inspired visionary who preferred designing buildings to bombing them, and who was forced into WW2 against his will by establishment warmongers spurred on by globalist Jews. Thus, among other things, Brian Ruhe is a sincere Holocaust denier. (Personally, I feel that although many of the stories against Hitler are probably exaggerated to some extent—just consider the stories against Trump lately—Hitler’s notion of Lebensraum pretty much implied an eastward invasion sooner or later, and I very much doubt that the Slavs were simply going to donate their territory to him. Also, preemptively dividing up Poland with Stalin’s USSR was certainly not persuasive evidence of his peaceful intentions, and his annexation of Czechoslovakia was an arguably predatory and shitty thing to do. But I suppose the “Hitler did nothing wrong” folks have their own explanations for all of this.) Ironically and maybe counterintuitively, as anyone who watches his videos can see, Herr Ruhe in his actual conduct is morally superior to the hysterical leftists freaking out at him on the streets of Vancouver. Most people who walk past Brian as he peacefully holds up a sign bearing a pro-Hitler slogan (or something equally politically incorrect) just ignore him, or glance at him and continue on their way; but some people curse him to his face repeatedly, bellow at him in a state of outraged anger, hatred, and self-righteousness, and sometimes even physically assault him. No doubt they feel perfectly justified and virtuous while doing so. Brian is almost saintly in his potentially self-destructive desire to peacefully wave Nazi signs in the midst of crowds of leftist activists. It is peculiar that the lefties going hysterical at Brian are literally more intolerant and more hateful than a Nazi. Let that sink in for a moment. But not only that: I would go even farther and assert that many Social Justice leftists, possibly even most of them, are more intolerant and more hateful than a Nazi, at least this Nazi. In a recent video of Brian’s one guy actually observes that Brian Ruhe isn’t a “real” Nazi simply because he isn’t hateful enough. Again, I assert that I am not a Nazi or a National Socialist, or even a run of the mill fascist, and I do not agree with a lot of what Brian promulgates, even though he is a nice guy and we have some interesting conversations. A good example of ideological disagreement would be our respective attitudes towards Jewish influence on western civilization. Adolf Hitler once said,The art of leadership…consists in consolidating the attention of the people against a single adversary and taking care that nothing will split up that attention….The leader of genius must have the ability to make different opponents appear as if they belong to one category.It seems plausible to me that the Führer walked his talk in this case by using Jews as the unifying adversary. No doubt he really loathed them, but still it does seem plausible that they were also a convenient political tool for unifying the militant righteous indignation of the German people. Nevertheless, Jewish influence on western civilization is much more profound than most people realize; and anyone who reads Kevin MacDonald’s The Culture of Critique is bound to become at least a little antisemitic (which is why it’s the only academic work banned by Amazon.com). Some Jews really are behind much if not most of the pernicious social phenomena running rampant throughout the postmodern west, including multiculturalism and the various forms of Marxism. The Holocaust may very well have been exaggerated (for propaganda purposes) for all I know; and with regard to Herr Ruhe’s theories about reptilian space aliens collaborating with powerful Jews, I suppose the less said the better. It seems to me that the greatest Jewish influence on western civilization was the advent of Christianity, originally a Jewish reform movement, although relatively few Goy Rights Activists place much emphasis on that particular point. So, Brian and I disagree on some things and agree, more or less, on others. Considering that we are both Theravada Buddhists, there is naturally quite a lot of agreement on basic doctrines of Buddhism and Buddhist ethics, and I even happen to share some of his weird ideas derived from ancient Indian Buddhist cosmology. Regardless of the objective truth or falsehood of his beliefs, Brian Ruhe’s conduct is morally superior to most of the people publicly bashing Nazism, including the outrageous hypocrites virtue signaling on cable news outlets. News announcers and commentators on pretty much all of the mainstream media pose as moral guides to the masses, yet they, unlike Brian Ruhe, are certainly not operating in good faith. These people are calmly, self-righteously, and cynically attempting to destroy anyone who threatens the narrative that they are paid to disseminate (and yes, they are paid by globalist Jews), regardless of actual guilt or innocence. For me, the mainstream leftist/globalist media’s ruthless, cynical attacks on Brett Kavanaugh were the absolute last straw; the guy is a totally vanilla, nerdy Christian white rich guy who obviously has never been a sexual predator, yet almost the entire political left in the USA were declaring him a serial rapist based on nothing but unsubstantiated accusations made by leftist activists. When he became upset and indignant at such sleazy attacks these same people cynically attacked him for being emotionally unstable. Their conduct towards the Covington High School kids, or for that matter towards President Trump, have been no better. Such “moral guides” are vastly morally inferior to the likes of Brian Ruhe the “Nazi Buddhist.” If I were ever to be interviewed by someone like Morning Joe, or Cathy Newman in the UK, they would certainly not be conducting the interview in good faith as Brian does, intent upon an actual exchange of views, and I would feel contaminated by the process. Not that they’d ever want to interview me. As it turns out, I am one of the only monastics of Brian’s own professed religion who is willing to associate with him in public since he publicly began endorsing National Socialism. A few others are willing to communicate with him privately, but otherwise keep their distance. This is understandable, but whether this avoidance of Brian is based on missionary diplomacy, cowardice, or something else would depend on their own mental states, which I surely don’t know. Anyway, I’m no Jesus of course, but even the Christian Messiah was criticized during his lifetime for hanging out with prostitutes, tax collectors, and other unsavory riffraff. And so, to sum it all up, Herr Brian Ruhe has got some very weird ideas (some of which may be true for all I know), but he’s a genuinely good guy, as far as I can tell. I suppose his girlfriend could describe a side of him that I haven’t seen, but then again she’s his willing consort and presumably loves him—but of course that’s none of our business. Thus far I have enjoyed our Skype interviews, and I don’t give a damn about political correctness hysteria, so I’ll keep going with them for the foreseeable future. Brian’s Bitchute channel is here. The website for the Thule Society is here. (insert 30s-era German military music here)P.S. At Brian’s request I am including here a short video of Brian characteristically offering up a Nazi salute in the midst of a crowd of protesting lefties, while fortunately being protected by a few police officers: https://www.bitchute.com/video/Fg7mLXklitO8/?list=jAwYD9IBVY8E&randomize=false

(insert 30s-era German military music here) You are subscribed to email updates from The Outsider. To stop receiving these emails, you may unsubscribe now.Email delivery powered by GoogleGoogle, 1600 Amphitheatre Parkway, Mountain View, CA 94043, United States Previous Next Sept. 22, 2019 Dear BrianJust wanted to shoot you a quick email to let you know how I appreciate you posting your views and interviews on “alt” dhamma. You’ve revealed to me that there are people who can benefit from sharing encouragement to strive on in this wilderness. the internet truly has great potential to reorient ourselves and bring our existing culture into focus by use of right view.After holding my own intentions under the microscope for some time, your example has encouraged me to make my own mini contribution in the spirit of friendship. So I decided to create a Bitchute channel and share the videos I’ve created for myself to encourage and inspire energy and devotion in my own practice.If you get a chance, please take a look. I am always very pleased to receive constructive criticism, thoughts and feelings by my elders in the dhamma. Please show me no mercy :).My hope in creating this channel is that we fellow wanderers can find some encouragement and inspiration to follow the buddha’s “pali line”, not the “party line” of present sectarian (special interests) dhamma.I believe it is our responsibility to implement the buddhadhamma as perfectly as possible in our individual, cultural, social and historical context. And I’ve found it helpful to start with what we have now (Western culture) and to “train” it in line with the dhamma. So I’ve been gradually “culturally appropriating” our popular movies, poetry etc and using it to develop propaganda to inspire pursuit of the dhamma. Here’s the link if you get a chance (Ministry of Cultural Appropriation)Anyway, thanks again. Your gifts, your offerings, your sacrifices, all appreciated as ever, my friend.Hope you are well! 2019-09-19 6:06 a.m., Hugo wrote:You are one of our heroes, Brian.Hugo o-d-i-n.net Molo_Tulo The Fuhuer sits in Valhalla with Wotan. He was the greatest man to walk upon Midgard! You rock, Brian! Keep up the cause!***Great video Brian! I posted the following comment…If you were wrong, someone would have debated you at length instead of people just repeatedly rejecting you and swearing like sailors. It’s very good to hear you explain the existence of the Transfer Agreement, AKA the Haavara Agreement that Hitler had with the Zionists. The Jewish author Edwin Black was one of the first to explain this in detail, and concludes that there should be a statue of Adolf Hitler in Tel Aviv because without him, no Jews would have been safely transferred to Palestine prior to the outbreak of war at the hands of the British and French.***Wow! They sure are triggered. There is no crime in standing on the street. If they can’t articulate an injured party (person) or (property), then there is no crime. Here’s some of what I’ve discovered in my search to expose the truth. In a Gallop poll in 1941, 83% of the USA was against blowing up Germany. Stay safe and thanks for the links! Peace,Robert Hiker1 Patex321 As an fellow Germanic i like to salute you for being/becoming awake!Patex321 As a german I thank you for your courage.RemelRemel Bloody hell. Good on you Brian for daring to tell the truth to the public. The guys complaining is just your typical brainwashed idiot. They can’t debate, just (((shut it down))). Funny how this idiot said you’re racist too. What a complete moron. Hitler was NOT racist.whitey333 The balls on you are enormous. Best Video I seen in forever.https://www.bitchute.com/video/sVJhWQ38k6O5/JimB Brian, you’ve got more courage than most of the big, puffed-up he-men “pumping iron” in all the gyms around the world. And patience! You’re a prime example of Buddhist tenacity.Bloody hell. Good on you Brian for daring to tell the truth to the public. The guys complaining is just your typical brainwashed idiot. They can’t debate, just (((shut it down))). Funny how this idiot said you’re racist too. What a complete moron. Hitler was NOT racist.Seekerofsanity Brian: I am new to you but really like what I have read so far. Saw the ridiculous shit that the renegade tribune wrote about you in march; pathetic slanderous lies if you ask me. Total cowardice. Look forward to more of your work!Western-Celt-UK More people need to do more of these vox pop billboard discussions in public in the big cities across the World and upload them, what a great way of getting truth across.Re_World I respect you brother, keep doing what you are doing.TheWestIsBeingDestroyed You are a patient man, Brian.aboutthetruthmedia TheWestIsBeingDestroyedHe seems like a friendly, approachable guy.anarchore Brian needs a volunteer security detail. Maybe with matching shirts. 😀rambetterIt’s about time that people learned the Truth about Adolf Hitler. Brian, thanks for having balls.Handsome Truth 6 MILLION POINTS IN STREET CRED BRO!!!CarlSyerforest Brian Ruhe…King of Cool

Kid_Dynamite If you keep displaying that sign I’m going to “try” to take it from you. Even that guy isn’t sure he can do it.CarlSyerforest • 4 days agoBrian Ruhe…King of CoolKid_Dynamite • 5 days agoIf you keep displaying that sign im going to “try” to take it from you. Even that guy isnt sure he can do it.−

The Brian Ruhe Show Kid_DynamiteI told him I was taller than he was

aboutthetruthmedia Very brave, very approachable Brian! It was good to watch. gingerj the brain washed sheep , this guy just refuses to listen and i think brian keeps his cool well, if it was me i think he would be on his way to a and e room.anarchore You rock Brian! Thanks for being a truth beacon.Jeffrey88 • 3 days agoWow! Great work standing your ground to that white knighters! That’s why I support the Brian Ruhe Show!Charley Howard I have to tell you, Brian you’re a considerably braver individual than I could ever be so hats off to you. If you wouldn’t mind a suggestion perhaps you could gently tell people about the slaughter of the Ukrainian people at the hands of the Jewish commissars prior to the outbreak of the second world war in the Soviet Union. I think they be quite interested to hear that the Jews had slaughtered far, far more Christians at the hands of their barbaric socialist system than ever were presumably killed in any kind of death camp. I doubt they’ll believe you, but perhaps in a light a fire in their mind and that will make them more inquisitive as to what the TRUE HISTORY is compared to what the Hollywood version of history that we have been fed. Once again, kudos to you for your efforts, stay safe! longdistancerunna We should be out there with Brian. Just imagine even 100 people walking alongside these men with similar signs against 2 jew defending “heroes”. It would be very interesting to see what would happen. Do you think something similar to the Munich Police shootings of the NSDAP’s march in 1924 that landed Adolf Hitler in jail for a year? Keep in mind that is what really caught the eyes of the German people who came to realize that they were being lied to about Communism. The Nazi parties election seats grew enormously after Herr Hitler was released a year later.

whitershadeofpale longdistancerunna • 4 days agoFair point, but I think if it got to the stage of 100 more people,standing side by side,would get attention from the authorities. A better approach would be to have smaller break-off groups working incognito. This is a very inspiring work from Brian though all the same.Sept. 18, 2019Hi Brian,these interviews were very interesting. To his credit, Armin at least approached the discourse with some semblance of balance and was far more restrained in denying you a chance to express yourself. The other guy…not so much. These guys are either incredibly naive (and/or ignorant of factual history) or they’re willingly denying the truth, so as to fit their Marxist dogma. I believe that many Euro-Canadians, Euro-Australians, Euro-Americans etc are coming to the stark realization that the fifth column Marxists have so corrupted our media and education, that they’ve damaged our young people, way more than we care to accept. If Trump’s presidency achieves nothing else, the exposure of the true size of the Zionist inspired Communist threat, will be achievement enough.Well done with your recently published David Duke interview. Dr Duke is one of the best around at exposing criminality of the Sabbatean/Frankist “death cult” that is Rothschild Zionism.– Chaz the Advocate On 2019-08-30 5:17 a.m., wrote:Hi Mr RuheI just wanted to let you know I really appreciate your courage to share your views and to take the initiative to interview Ven. Pannobhasa.The interviews on corruption in the sangha, alt-buddhism in the West and Mind Control I found really intriguing.Very encouraging to hear your friendly voices in this wilderness!Wishing good things for you.Thank you kindly Tristan,I am passing your message on to Venerable Pannobhasa. “Wilderness” is an excellent word to describe this world, eh?Hi Brian Amen, brother. An encouraging thought that the Wilderness is the most honest place to learn the true value of friendship. Feel free to share my gratitude, but not my name or contact details, as I am trying to tread lightly. There are snakes. 🙂 From YouTube commentsNov. 12, 2017And Roid 20 hours ago (edited)Hi Brian I’ve turned my attention to doing mediation more regularly and learning Buddhist teachings due to your influence. I think there’s a lot of suffering and lack of mindfulness among the truther community so you may be a person who’s in the right place at the right time. I honestly would probably never have heard of Ajahn Brahm and Ajahn Sona (let alone listened to Dhamma talks) for an indeterminate amount of time had I not been drawn to your interviews (I think it was the ones with Andrew Carrington Hitchcock and Dennis Fetcho that pushed me over the edge into looking into your work further). For people who love to learn and become a better person I think Buddhist teachings/practices are a great way to relieve the monotony of the “doom and gloom” content the majority of alternative media (or our personal lives even) seems to consist of. And if we feel like modern life is too much, some knowledge of existing support structures (such as forest monasteries) could be useful information.Brian Ruhe 9 hours agoWhat a testimonial, And Roid!! May I copy and paste this for others? I deeply appreciate your specific story, thanks! You make my job worth it.Oct. 2017 Alex Seferiades2 weeks agoBrian, your reverence for the German soldier brings warmth and happiness to my heart. Greetings from Ontario!! You are doing a great job covering what many are afraid to talk about but know in their innermost core to be the truth. It is most likely that you are a reincarnated official or soldier from the Third Reich era. Only you would really know that for sure though. You have my best wishes… Keep fighting the good fight! Brian Ruhe1 second agoThanks Alex! That makes my day. I was a Luftwaffe pilot killed in a crash about fall of 1944. I have discussed this in a few videos. My current girlfriend was my 13 year old daughter at that time and with her hypnosis session, she remembers far more about me than I remember. Read the full article

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windolfcolumn · 7 years ago

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The Lookout (A Karl Ove Reacher Thriller)

By Karl Ove Reacher

In those days I considered myself a poet, or something like a poet, although one would have been hard-pressed to find any lines of verse in my many ragged notebooks. The days were drifting one into the next, and Uncle Gunnar said, "Karl Ove, at some point you must become serious about your writing, you know."

It was very late in the autumn, the time of year that people will call winter without giving it a second thought, and no one corrects them. Gunnar and I sat in the chill of a dock with the sea wind blowing at us very coldly. Seagulls were wheeling about in the air and in my memory I see also that my uncle and I were not wearing heavy jackets in the fresh darkness and I see, too, that we were smoking slightly bent and rumpled British cigarettes plucked from a soft pack.

I said nothing but only puffed on the wrinkled stick made of paper with the tobacco leaf-scraps packed tightly inside it, and those scraps were burning. It was a fire, but controlled, and I supposed in that moment that I was its master.

"Karl Ove? Eh? Do you hear me?"

"Yes, yes," I said at last. "Who needs more of this dreaded 'literature,' however?"

We trudged away from the spinning sea birds and away, also, from the coldly blowing wind, and we moved on our legs toward a pub. Ever since the summer prior, a small group of romantics -- or so I had thought of those fellows, when I thought of them at all -- had been holding sway over the place, and a pair of them shot looks in the direction of me and my uncle as we stepped over the threshold and into the warmth.

We pushed bills across the surface of the bar in exchange for tall glasses of heavy brown beer and we tipped them back and I saw that the froth was clinging to old Gunnar's mustache, something he was quite unaware of, this bubbly froth, and I supposed that, in time, I would be the same way, just an old man drinking beer on an evening near to winter without even the slightest knowledge that the foam had attached itself to whatever facial hair will have sprouted from my skin.

Uncle Gunnar said something about the state of things in Europe, as if under the impression that we should "discuss politics" now that we had changed locations from the rustic dock to the supposedly more civilized environs of the indoors. Perhaps I would have replied intelligibly but I had not quite caught his words, my ears slow to adjust to the new acoustical atmosphere and the thrum of voices around me, and I offered him but a grunt. Perhaps, also, my failure to respond in kind owed something to the fact that I found myself a bit lost, or pretending to be lost, in my own pseudo-poetic musings about life and its meaning, if any. For instance, if there is no god to keep track of us, then what is the point? Then again, why should some higher power interest itself in human beings more than it would in, say, an ant? And what is wrong with being an ant? Why should I feel superior to such a creature? If the mere capacity of my brain was enough to earn me some sort of special status, celestially speaking, then what good had it done me? Or, perhaps more accurately, what good I done it? Here I was, drifting, depressed, accomplishing nothing of note. And yet, what was the nature of accomplishment? Could there be anything more futile than human accomplishment, which seemed to me necessarily intermixed with cruelty and oppression? Had any so-called advance ever been accomplished without one person's having stepped on the neck of another?

Suddenly, one of the romantic fellows brushed up against my back.

"Europe, eh?" he said.

"Excuse me," Gunnar said, "my nephew and I were having a conversation."

"Nephew, eh?" the romantic -- or so I thought of him -- said.

That was when he and I caught glimpses of each other's eyeballs. Eyeballs looking at eyeballs — that is a strange thing indeed, and it occurred to me that we had each canceled out the other's existence, if only for a moment. At the same time, there was a recognition in our mutual glance, for this was Henrik, who had been a schoolmate of mine. He had been a joker in those days and still I saw a bit of merriment and aggression in his eyeballs. It is a combination that I have long detested. The remainder of Henrik's face looked like a wooden board.

"Eh, Karl Ove Reacher!" he said, with a bit more volume than seemed suitable for a mouth so close to my ear. "We need you to be a lookout man. Go outside, then. Finish the beer, or take it with you, I don't care."

"Lookout?" I said.

"Go back outside, into the cold now, that's a good boy."

"Boy?"

And then I felt the cowardice crawling up my spine and nestling into my brain.

"Keep a lookout for police, foreigners, government officials, what-have-you."

"Foreigners?"

"I am sure you know just what I mean. Go on, then."

The cowardice had me stepping back toward the threshold. By the time I had reached it, a few of the other romantics had joined with Henrik, and they were asking my uncle to dance. Asking is the wrong word, however. They were demanding that he dance. They clapped their hands together and they cajoled him with phrases insulting to his honor and they gave him light taps that evolved into firm pushes, and poor Uncle Gunnar began to make foolish movements with his body that looked all the more pathetic given that he was not wearing the proper clogs.

Standing beside Henrik was a bull of a man names Ingmar. I had known him from the brief time I had worked in the cannery. How many slabs of whitefish had passed me by as I jotted yet another pensee into my notebook? At Ingmar's back were two other men who struck me as impressionable students. Perhaps on some sort of intellectual lark, they had seemingly fallen under the spell of these rough romantics, or so I had thought of them in my effort to block off the truth.

For all the crags in his face, for all his olden ways, Uncle Gunnar was known in the villages as a forward-thinking person who had no patience with the old mythologies, and as he continued with his horrible dancing, he appealed to me with a glance.

Up until this moment, my most serious physical altercations had involved only myself. And yet my moments of self-abuse of the last few disappointing years in which I had found myself unable to translate my pseudo-poetic feelings into any sort of publishable text had steeled me against my perhaps inborn distaste for violence.

I took three strides back to the bar. Henrik and his compatriots were laughing and clapping together their hands.

"That is enough," I said.

"Haha! Karl Ove says it's enough!" screamed Henrik.

"Oh, Reacher, we are frightened!" said Ingmar.

"Come outside, then," I said. "It is too crowded in this place for me to beat you properly."

"Beat us properly!" screamed Henrik.

"Yes, Karl Ove, we shall follow you and fight, then," said the bull-like Ingmar.

In a moment or two, I stood facing the four men on the street outside the place. Nearly a dozen others stood on the lumpy sidewalk, watching.

"Well, Karl Ove?" Henrik said. "When shall the fighting begin?"

"It already has," I said.

"Has it, then?" Ingmar said. "We did not notice."

"In our school days," Henrik said, "I did not know you to be much of a pugilist."

"I have known much failure since then," I said, "and it has made me tougher."

"Ah, but there are four of us and only one of you," Ingmar said.

"Apparently you are a mathematical genius," I said.

The two student types would come at me first. This I somehow knew. I was also cognizant that in their enthusiasm and confidence they would not coordinate their actions. The first one, with a reddish beard, stepped forward and threw a jab with his left. I allowed it to connect with my jawbone.

"Not going so well for you so far, Karl Ove," Henrik said.

In a front pocket of my blue jeans I had a house key. I fished it out with my right hand. With my left, I gave the red-bearded student-type a small slap on his right ear. Then, with the tip of the house key peeking out between two fingers of my right fist, I was able to punch him straight into his nose. The metal drove in past the bone and blood spurted out. Given that he was only playing at this hooligan stuff, in my estimation, he went down rather easily, stunned and frightened, cradling his face and wailing.

The second student-type then made his move. He was a smooth-faced young man with blond hair cut tight to his head. I managed to duck his wild swings, and as I did so, I noticed a loose cobblestone. I grabbed it, lifted it — it was quite cold to the touch — and I smashed it against the back of his head, knocking him out.

Henrik said, "When did you learn to fight, Reacher?"

I said, "I did not learn. Everyone already knows how to do it. It is like playing guitar."

"But can you play an F chord?" said Henrik, leaping into the air and kicking me in the face.

I admit I had not expected that. I found myself on the ground with blood trickling out of one ear. Beside me on the ground was the beer glass I had recently drained. As Henrik moved to fall on top of me, I smashed it and held a triangular shard forward. It penetrated his sternum. I gave it one turn to the right and one to the left for good measure. Henrik gasped and rolled aside, clutching his abdomen.

"Well, well," said the bull-like Ingmar.

I noticed steam emerging in wisps from his nostrils. At the same moment, at my back, I heard the sound of a moped engine drawing near. I turned around, shoved Jarl the postman off of his small vehicle, and leaped aboard the seat. Then I gunned it and drove straight toward Ingmar. In the split-second before contact, I popped a wheelie, and the front wheel of the bike clanked hard against his testicles. With a great heaving of breath and sudden popping-out of his eyeballs, he hunched himself over.

I drove forward a short distance and then turned the bike around. Within seconds, I slammed into him again at a speed of twenty miles per hour, I would guess. I hopped off the moped, grabbed the bloody cobblestone, and smashed it against Ingmar's neck. He lay in a heap on the street. For good measure, I stepped on his neck and told him he was useless and that all humanity was more or less useless, so that whatever notions he had as fodder for his political philosophy, if his collection of what I assumed to be tribal feelings amounted to something that could go by such a name, were not worth his time and effort, and that he should admit as much to me now.

It took a while to make my meaning plain but at last Ingmar got the gist and said, "I am useless."

"Let's go, Uncle," I said, then.

"Yes, I suppose that is enough fighting and talk for one evening," said he.

We walked up the hill, saying nothing, until we reached the clump of piney woods close to his house.

"The events of this evening have given me a notion," I said. "Do you suppose, Uncle, that I should try to write things with a bit more action? Fights and such?"

"I am not sure, Karl Ove," said he. "Perhaps physical altercations are best left to the street. Perhaps there will one day be a market for your melancholy musings."

"I am not so sure about that."

"Well, who can say what the literary trends shall be in the coming years? Good night."

"Good night, then."

Soon I reached home. I inserted the house key into the slot and wondered if the blood remnants would gum up the works. Inside, I found that the place was untidy, and the sight of it made me feel ashamed. First I went at the piled-up dishes in the sink. I washed them and I dried them. Then I scrubbed the floors on my hands and knees. By the time my hovel looked presentable, dawn was breaking, and I could hear the little birds on the other side of the walls and windows making their first chirps of the new day.

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ahouseoflies · 5 years ago

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The Best Films of 2019, Part I

On one hand, I fear the direction of American cinema, and I feel more personally distracted from great art with each passing day. On the other hand, my viewing was up 5% from last year despite my belief that I’ve gotten choosier. I even approve of most of the films nominated for Best Picture. Are the offerings just top-heavy this year? Are my standards declining? Answering questions like those is part of why I present a paragraph or two on everything I see each year, though I can’t even imagine someone sitting down and reading all of this.

Full disclosure: I haven’t seen Just Mercy, Monos, Portrait of a Lady on Fire, Good Boys, Frankie, For Sama, or An Elephant Sitting Still. The tiers, as always, are Garbage, Admirable Failures, Endearing Curiosities with Big Flaws, Pretty Good Movies, Good Movies, Great Movies, and Instant Classics. GARBAGE

129. Cold Pursuit (Hans Petter Moland)- A film professor of mine showed us Wings of Desire and City of Angels, its American remake, in order to show us how a film can technically cover a story while losing the essence that made it special. I can only hope that Hans Petter Moland's Norwegian original is better than his stab at an English language remake, which fails completely at balancing violence and comedy. The movie almost announces its own boredom with the protagonist as it shifts focus first to the villain and then to cops on the case, all of whom have artificial quirks to try to give them life where there isn't any. The Neeson character's journey toward revenge is empty, so the film drifts from him, but it doesn't have anything to say with the other characters either. 128. Domino (Brian De Palma)- Seeking revenge, a Libyan informant roughs up a potential terrorist by throwing him over a restaurant bar. Cut to two cops driving wordlessly. Cut to the Libyan guy dunking the other guy's head in boiling soup. That interruption spells out what the rest of the film does: De Palma could not be less interested in his replacement-level actor's shoddy policework, especially in the self-parody of the last twenty minutes. Any intensity the movie has comes from terrorists (or Guy Pearce over-salting a salad), and then the police drain the momentum. Just make a movie about terrorists, Brian! And, as I've urged you for years, get rid of Pino Donaggio. 127. Beach Bum (Harmony Korine)- Moondog, the spacey, Floridian hedonist poet at the center of the film, is supposed to be "brilliant" and "a good guy" at heart according to his daughter. But at the daughter's wedding, he shakes the hand of her fiance, whom he usually calls "limp-dick," and he says, "What's your name again?" The line got a laugh in my theater, but is it likely that he didn't know the name of his daughter's fiance? Especially if he's a good guy who doesn't hurt people on purpose? It's one example out of a thousand of Harmony Korine making the goofy decision instead of the one that would benefit character or story. I thought that Korine had taken a turn for the lucid with Spring Breakers, but he just isn't interested in making anything consistent enough for me. There's an hour of consequence-free episodes to follow, though I did cherish Jonah Hill's three improvised scenes, for which he tries a sort of Tennessee Williams voice. You can admire how audacious some of the choices are--describing Zac Efron wearing Jncos makes the film sound more fun than it is--but looking at the poster gives you about 70% of what you would get out of the long ninety-five minutes. Yes, McConaughey's shoes are funny, but what else have you got? 126. Fyre Fraud (Jenner Furst, Julia Willoughby Nelson)- Half as good as the Netflix one. Please, by all means, explain to me what a millenial is again. 125. The Kitchen (Andrea Berloff)- One of my mentors stressed that Shakespeare worked in "cultural touchstones," truisms that weren't difficult to prove but served as a sandbox for all of the juicy stuff. So we all know that, say, too much ambition is a bad thing, but having that North Star at all times allows Shakespeare to ply his trade with character development and imagery and symbol. I know that The Kitchen isn't funny or cool or original, but it also doesn't really have an emotional or thematic core. It's a movie with neither the window dressing nor the window. I don't know what I'm getting at, but I watched the last five minutes twice to make sure that it actually was as anti-climactic and inert as I thought.

124. Climax (Gaspar Noe)- Ah, to be a provocateur who has made his best work already and took all of the wrong lessons from it. I don't envy Noe, who insists on formal rigor even when it adds nothing, who goes to greater, more desperate lengths to shock. A third of this film, embedded somewhere between the three openings, is gross young people talking, lewdly and clinically, about whom they want to bone. I thought I started watching French art movies to get away from locker rooms. 123. The Best of Enemies (Robin Bissell)- The supporting cast of Anne Heche, Wes Bentley, and John Gallagher Jr. avail themselves better than the finger-wagging, scenery-chewing leads, but that hardly matters in a movie this fundamentally broken. Apparently no one saw the problem with making a Ku Klux Klan president the dynamic hero of a school integration that he fought against, but that's how the story functions. He's the guy who casts the deciding vote and gives the speech at the end, but it's a bit anti-climactic for an audience that assumes, yeah, the White race is not morally superior to any other race. Congratulations on your realization, buddy. Long before that, Sam Rockwell’s character is inconsistent. Neither the Rockwell performance nor the Robin Bissell script can thread the needle between showing the heinous terrorist that a Klan member is and revealing the depth that foreshadows the character's change. The answer is to show the character being nice to his developmentally disabled son, which, again, doesn't get all the way there. That's cool that you love your own son, but, uh, that has nothing to do with the hatred that made you shoot up a girl's house because she has a Black boyfriend. Of course you can show these contradictions and changes in a character incrementally--lots of good movies have--but this one ain't going on the list. 122. The Intruder (Deon Taylor)- Probably the most two-star movie of the year. Prototypical in its two-starness. Instructive to me as far as what I give two stars. There’s a point of view error in the first twenty minutes that ruined it for me. ADMIRABLE FAILURES 121. Little (Tina Gordon Chism)- We're all good on body swap movies for a while. This one, otherwise undistinguished in its comedy or storytelling, is notable for just how specifically 2019 it might look in a time capsule: Here's a joke about transitioning as we're on our way to our job developing apps; there's a kid doing The Floss and talking to Alexa. Whoops! Bumped into a guy wearing a VR headset! 120. The Kid Who Would Be King (Joe Cornish)- I appreciate that somebody is still making movies for 9-10 year old boys, but I checked out hard and kind of just left this on until it was done. I don't like lore. Much less funny and urgent than Attack the Block, and it's crazy that this is the only project that came together for Joe Cornish in the intervening eight years. 119. Godzilla: King of the Monsters (Michael Dougherty)- Exhausting and joyless in its large-scale destruction, Godzilla: King of the Monsters pitches everything at the same volume, and even the end of the world ends up not mattering as a result. Despite (or maybe because of) the presence of such great actors, the screenplay dilutes the characters by having three fighter pilots or three scientists when all the lines really could have been given to one of these interchangeable figures. That's first draft stuff, homie. Still, Kyle Chandler is kind of awesome as the weathered one shouting about how everyone else is playing God. He reminds me of Larry Fitzgerald toiling away with professionalism on teams that would never sniff the playoffs. 118. Blinded by the Light (Gurinder Chadha)- I made it about twenty minutes into this movie before flipping the switch and making fun of it relentlessly. It tries to strike the heart-on-sleeve authenticity that a Springsteen song does, but if The Boss never overwhelms you with language, almost every line of dialogue in this film spells out what the character is thinking. The overbearing father is especially intolerable: "What is this music? You need to get rid of distractions and focus on getting a good job so that you don't end up a taxi driver. Like me!" I'm only sort of paraphrasing. Blinded by the Light is too well-meaning to be offensive, but it's absurd in its spoon-feeding. LMK, ladies: On the third time that I have headphones in my ears during a conversation with you, and I start buttering you up with lyrics to "Jungleland," will you still love me? 117. Fast & Furious Presents: Hobbs & Shaw (David Leitch)- What a summer, huh? The go-for-broke final setpiece redeems the film somewhat, and Vanessa Kirby is a welcome addition to the universe. But Idris Elba's first line, responding to a question about who he is, is "Bad Guy," and the characterization doesn't go too much further. I feel as if I have honed the requisite disposition to enjoy a Fast and Furious movie, but that doesn't mean that the most cliched thing has to happen at the most cliched time in the most cliched way.

116. I Lost My Body (Jeremy Clapin)- Not for me ultimately. The film presents itself as above the tropes of cinematic romance but sure seems to circle around them. Clapin is willing to set up the pins of, say, "I'm actually the pizza delivery guy but have kept it a secret for a year," but he is unwilling to knock the pins down with anything resembling catharsis. I don't know if the French bowl, but feel free to substitute whatever kind of metaphor they might get offended by.

115. The Lion King (Jon Favreau)- I saw the original Lion King when I was ten: old enough to think that Disney movies were beneath me but young enough to know nothing about art or the world. And I remember the way that the songs transcended reality: "I Just Can't Wait to Be King" turning into a Busby Berkeley number, "Be Prepared" taking on an expressionist green tint. It was mass entertainment that was far from experimental, but I remember thinking, "Can you do that?" As an artistic experiment, this remake is kind of confounding, to the point that I don't know whether to classify it as an animated or live-action film. The final scene starts upside down, and your eye adjusts to the idea that you're looking at a reflection in a stream, but that stream is a Caleb Deschanel-aided, computer-generated reflection of a reality. However, I return to my original point: You're missing something if you think The Lion King is a better story if it's more realistic. Capably made as The Lion King 2019 is, no one is referencing 42nd Street. These Disney remakes just reference themselves. 114. Stuber (Michael Dowse)- The critical community has been pretty forgiving of Stuber; I guess because it's a type of studio film that used to be common but now is not. Judged on its own merits, however, it's labored. The screenplay circles around questions of masculinity, but not in a way that hasn't been done better in other recent comedies. Perhaps most disappointing of all, I've seen Iko Uwais and Bautista fight before, and it looked a whole lot cooler than the way they're sliced and diced here. The ending's sweet at least. 113. After the Wedding (Bart Freundlich)- Think of what Julianne Moore could have accomplished in the time it took in her career for her to shoot four crappy movies with her husband. This is the type of melodrama that makes more sense after all of the revelations have cleared the air, but that doesn't mean the preceding hour and a half was any more fun because of the aftermath. 112. The Goldfinch (John Crowley)- One day someone's going to figure out how to coherently adapt a Dickensian novel and actually do that thing Crowley is trying to do: condensing two hundred pages of back story into 1/8th of a page here or a line there. Somebody's going to be able to figure out the little moments that are important and the big moments that aren't. And you'll all be sorry. The movie is ultimately hampered by the bad ending of the novel, in which a person who isn't a mystery writer has to solve a mystery. Perfect casting for Luke Wilson though. He definitely looks like a whiskey-faced dad who would steal your social security number. 111. The Souvenir (Joanna Hogg)- This movie is autobiographical. The protagonist has the same initials as Joanna Hogg, and she's attending film school at the same time Hogg did. But what a self-own it is for your hero, based on you, to be this inexpressive and restrained and deferential. The film is mostly about a cold romantic relationship--and I guess what the character learns through that experience--but when her beau's friend asks what she sees in him, she can't really say. Neither can the audience. I guess it's a skill to write a scene in which a family is having an argument that is so clenched-jaw reticent that the viewer can't even discern the topic of conversation for a few minutes, but it's not a skill I appreciate. 110. The Dead Don’t Die (Jim Jarmusch)- Jim Jarmusch must be a very good friend.

109. Velvet Buzzsaw (Dan Gilroy)- If the film were funny, I wouldn't mind the lack of narrative drive. If the film had narrative drive, I wouldn't mind the lack of atmosphere--glaring for a film that circles around to horror eventually. If the film had more to say, I wouldn't mind how pedantically it says it. If the protagonist's change of heart made sense, then I wouldn't mind that his conversion apparently happens off-screen. At least most of the actors seem to be having fun. I wasn't. 108. It: Chapter Two (Andy Muschietti)- I started squirming in my seat during a sequence somewhere in the circuitous second hour. Bill sees his old bike in an antiques window, haggles with a Stephen King shopkeeper cameo, and finishes the scene on a triumphant note, believing that his old bike will ride like the wind. Cut to the bike falling apart on the road, deflating his pride with comedy. Cut to a flashback of him riding the bike with young Beverly, serene and warm. Cut to him riding the bike again with determination until he stops, terrified. Within fifteen seconds, the film jerks us into four divergent emotions at a whim. The overall tone felt just as arbitrary to me, and that's before we get to the always-unclear line between fantasy and reality. And this time, the flashbacks of each young character's encounters with Pennywise are less scary because we know they all live into the present. Andy Muschietti just does not have a light enough touch to make this movie work.The last forty-five minutes are interminable. But I had all the same gripes with the first chapter, so personal taste is a factor. 107. Trial by Fire (Edward Zwick)- Perfect example of a true story that could use some poetic justice. I don't want to give away anything that the first line of the imdb summary doesn't already, but this ending could have been much more satisfying by changing one or two lines. This is a movie that recreates, multiple times, babies burning alive, but the ending is somehow more punishing. It's also one of those films that should have just begun at the halfway point. If we can praise special effects when they're done well, then they should be fair game when they're this embarrassing. Zwick definitely put his flash drive into the Lifetime computers for fire.exe.

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punkrockisafulltimejob · 7 years ago

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@blacksteeldrake okay here’s the ice cream one!

chocolate: when was your first kiss?

I was fourteen, it was when my best friend was sleeping over. We were kind of experimenting...

french vanilla: how old are you?

I’m twenty! So boring, being twenty.

cotton candy: three places you want to travel to?

Mississippi (one of my mutuals knows why and he can fight me), Great Britain, and Maine. I’ve already been to two of those places, but whatever.

strawberry: a language you wish you could speak?

Italian. I already know Spanish and ASL, on top of my native English, and I’ve been writing a character who speaks Italian with his mother, so I’m already sort of learning. I can call people “fucking morons”.

coffee: favorite cosmetic brands?

Um... Black eyeliner can be bought anywhere, and that’s pretty much all I wear. I’m a guy, you think I pay attention to that shit?

mint chocolate chip: indoors or outdoors?

I think each has a time and place. If I had a whole day where I could go to the beach, or the river, or something nice like that, I will enjoy it immensely. But I’m also happy to sit inside and read.

cookie dough: do you play any instruments?

I played violin when I was in elementary school, and now it’s just the guitar.

rocky road: favorite songs at the moment?

Fuck you lol. I can’t pick! I have a playlist of over 1500 songs that I’ve labeled “favorites”, and I don’t even have close to all of the songs I want. Assume many of them are by the Eagles. But I suppose if you check the “lyrics” tag on my blog you’ll find a good portion.

butter pecan: favorite songs for life?

Anything by the Eagles. That’s quite literally the only band I’ve listened to since birth.

cheesecake: what's your zodiac sign?

I’m a cancer.

toasted coconut: the beach or the pool?

Beach!

chocolate chip: what's your most popular post?

Um... I don’t really know. Wait, yes I do. It’s a headcanon post for my favorite TV show (House MD)

bubblegum: books or movies?

Books, by far.

pistachio: manga or anime?

Neither? Sadly, I only really got into one manga/anime but I never got a chance to finish it.

salted caramel: favorite movies?

Repo! The Genetic Opera, Harry Potter, Shawshank Redemption, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, Dead Poet’s Society... A lot of Robin Williams movies... I think that covers it.

birthday cake: favorite books?

TOO MANY TO NAME

moose tracks: favorites for manga?

Fruits Basket.

orange sherbet: favorites for anime?

Fruits Basket and Ouran High School Host Club.

peanut butter: favorite academic subject?

Science. I loved physics and anatomy & physiology.

black raspberry: do you have any pets?

See Previous Ask Prompt Answer

mango: when and why did you start your blog?

Well, I’ve technically had this blog twice. I started it the first time in high school because everyone else was doing it. Second time, I made it because I needed a place to vent and just collect my thoughts. I’ve had it for three years total.

mocha: ideal weather conditions?

Warm and rainy.

black cherry: four words that describe you?

Sarcastic

Asshole

Loving

Caring (I know these all contradict lol but it’s true)

neapolitan: things that stress you out?

Life. My anxiety disorders.

raspberry truffle: favorite kind of music?

Classic rock, but I really just listen to what I like. I have almost everything on my computer (I really don’t listen to rap, that’s about it)

chocolate marshmallow: favorite brands of candy?

Just give me all of the Hershey’s chocolate. Now.

toffee: a card game that you're good at?

Phase 10 and Garbage. I think that’s what the second one is called. Well, my dad and I play it.

lemon custard: do you eat breakfast?

Nope. I can’t eat too early, otherwise I get sick.

dark chocolate: turn ons?

Clean: respect, playfulness. Dirty: some serious dirty talk, dominance (I’m a serious submissive), and bondage. I wouldn’t quite say I’m into BDSM but I’m up there.

fudge: turn offs?

Call me a bitch and I will kick you to the curb so fast you won’t remember what I’m wearing.

peach: how do you relax?

I... don’t?

praline: a popular book you haven't read yet?

I haven’t read Lord of the Rings and I’m ashamed.

superman: do you like sweaters?

I do! So much!

cherry: do you drink tea or coffee?

Coffee. Bean juice is the superior of plant based drinks.

dulce de leche: an instrument you wish you could play?

I think it would be awesome to know more piano than I do. I can do the basics. That’s about it.

blackberry: have you ever laughed so hard you cried?

Oh god yeah. A lot of the times I hung out with my best friend.

ginger: a new feature you wish tumblr could have?

Functionality.

blueberry lemon: favorite blogs?

@thethirdencore, @just-hilson-things, and my mutuals.

almond: favorite mean girls quote?

“Get in loser, we’re going shopping.” I say it all the time whenever I’m picking up one of my friends.

butterscotch: what color are your nails right now?

No color. If they’re ever painted (which is super rarely) it’s black.

cinnamon: have you ever been confessed to?

Yeah.

blue moon: have you ever had a crush on someone?

*glances at heart* unfortunately.

cappuccino crunch: do you take naps?

Hell yeah. I’ a college student with a job. Naps are my life.

mint: the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?

In second grade, I kissed a girl on the cheek for opening my snack when I couldn’t. In a full cafeteria.

brownie batter: do you like sushi?

I’m literally eating some as I answer this lol.

key lime: where do you want to be right now?

With someone...

red velvet: do you wear prescription glasses?

Yeah. I need new ones though.

green tea: favorite flavors of ice cream?

Chocolate and Cookies and Cream. One time my favorite brand came out with a chocolate ice cream with oreo cookies in it and it was literally the best thing ever but they discontinued it or something because I can’t find it anywhere now.

And there you have it! Thanks again for asking so many, so, so many questions.

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marinaandthedialogisms-blog · 8 years ago

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THE GRIM GROTTO Lemony Snicket

⋆⋆⋆⋆⋆

You know that joke your uncle used to tell when you were little, about some guy holding a piece of paper, and every time you’re about to know what’s written in that piece of paper something happens to prevent it, until it finally catches fire and that’s the end of the story? I don’t think this will be the case here, though it used to feel that way up to book 6.

This is my third 5-star rating in a row, beginning with book 9, “The Carnivorous Carnival”. We’ve been establishing things as the series progresses, like Count Olaf having “superiors”, so to say – the man with beard and no hair, and the woman with hair and no beard; and every single one of the Baudelaires’ guardians having some sort of connection with V.F.D.; and how everyone used to be good before getting seduced by suspicious stuff, which caused a schism in the organisation between people who were essentially good and people who were essentially bad, though this conflict between good and bad, quite black and white at first, has acquired a deeper perspective now.

The last book had raised a few suspicions in my mind, but I know them to be wrong now. Also, the Netflix version shows the Baudelaires’ parents alive from episode one, but, after reading this book, I’m inclined to believe it to be an entirely made-up plot for television rather than a huge spoiler.

That said, I couldn’t be more lost as to what happened to start this series of unfortunate events in the lives of the young Baudelaires, which is probably a good thing.

I have to admit I don't make much of an effort to try and predict stuff when I’m reading this series. I feel like I'd ruin it by thinking too hard. For instance, in this book, there’s constant mention to the three stages of the water cycle – evaporation, precipitation and collection. I knew there was a metaphor hidden in it, but I patiently waited for the author to explain it to me in the end instead of trying to figure it out by myself. Good metaphor, by the way. And great cover! Very beautiful illustration.

What is really nice about this series is that it’s supposed to be realistic – unfeasible elements notwithstanding. It’s not a fantasy series, like “Harry Potter” or “Lord of the Rings”. There’s logical explanation to everything that happens, though most of the time reality as we know it is pushed a little too far. The only “magical” element used to be Sunny’s sharp teeth, but her talent for biting has been replaced, or rather complemented with a passion for cooking. I like it, it was a nice addition to her character.

Another information that has called my attention it the fact that, one way or another, everyone seems to have a blood connection with someone else involved with V.F.D. Everyone but Olaf and Esmé. It seems to me that this sets the bar for people we can trust and people we can’t. Olaf and Esmé have no family ties, and therefore do not understand love and compassion. At the same time, we are now figuring out that no one is entirely good or bad, so maybe their lack of relations is starting to weigh on them. Would that be the reason for Esmé to want to adopt Carmelita so bad?

SLIGHT SPOILER

Snicket spends the entire book picking on a poet named Edgar Guest. Every time I came across his name, I could not help but wonder who the hell Edgar Guest was. So, naturally, the first thing I did once I finished the book was looking him up.

Having read a few of his poems now, I can see why Snicket hates him so much. He's too simple and straightforward, two features you will seldom find in good quality poetry. Still funny, though, all this hate.

END OF SPOILER

I’m curious to see what the two last books in the saga will bring. I’m inclined to believe the Baudelaires will be okay, seeing as this is targeted at children, but I wouldn’t bet my wits on that.

I would recommend this book to everyone who has made it this far in the series. We’re going to make it, fellows. We’re going to make it!

#the grim grotto #a series of unfortunate events #lemony snicket #book series #book blog #literary review #book review #bookworm #booklr #book photography #starbucks #marina and the dialogisms #children's books #children literature #illustrated book #contemporary fiction

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thebodyinparts · 8 years ago

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from the book of disquiet by fernando pessoa

A glimpse of open country above a stone wall on the outskirts of town is more liberating for me than an entire journey would be for someone else. Every point of view is the apex of an inverted pyramid, whose base is indeterminate. There was a time when I was irritated by certain things that today make me smile. And one of those things, which I’m reminded of nearly every day, is the way men who are active in day-to-day life smile at poets and artists. They don’t always do it, as the intellectuals who write in newspapers suppose, with an air of superiority. Often they do it with affection. But it’s as if they were showing affection to a child, someone who no notion of life’s certainty and exactness.

This used to irritate me, because I naively assumed that this outward smile directed at dreaming and self-expression sprang from an inner conviction of superiority. In fact it’s only a reaction to something that’s different. While I once took this smile as an insult, because it seemed to imply a superior attitude, today I see it as a the sign of an unconscious doubt. Just as adults often recognize in children a quick-wittedness they don’t have, so the smilers recognize in us, who are devoted to dreaming and expressing, something different that makes them suspicious, just because it’s unfamiliar. I like to think that the smartest among them sometimes detect our superiority, and then smile in a superior way to hind the fact.

But our superiority is not the kind that many dreamers have imagined we have. The dreamer is superior to the active man because dreaming is superior to reality. The dreamer’s superiority is to the fact that dreaming is much more practical than living, and the dreamer gets far greater and more varied pleasure out of life than the man of action. In other and plainer words, the dreamer is the true man of action.

Life being fundamentally a mental state, and all that we do or think valid to the extent we consider it valid, the valuation depends on us. The dreamer is an issuer of banknotes, and the notes he issues circulate in the city of his mind just like real notes in the world outside. Why should I care if the currency of my soul will never convertible to gold, when there is no gold in life’s factious alchemy? After us all comes the deluge, but only after us all. Better and happier those who, recognizing that everything is fictitious, write the novel before someone writes it for them and, like Machiavelli, don courtly garments to write in secret.

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renatedagmarmilada · 8 years ago

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December poetry /will edit into lines this evening- /

Taken personally--------------------- I am amazedI have to admit to find that some fellow poets here on this siteto find it has been taken personally or as slight I have written constantlyI have said as it is for me, here and now I am talking of what is happening to me I have not sent anyone unsolicited messages I have only ever answered messages I have received which I thought was polite and am amazed At Uni we learnt that poetry encompasses all thought In my Masters literature studies of two nations I found this was so too That not only comfort poetry which makes one feel good is poetry but also the realityexpressed in every sense I am sad that you guys don't realiseI don't know who has sent you unsolicited messages but it wasn't me I am far too busy for that the only private thing I have ever writis if you want more details, please ask me! I am a very busy personI daily teach umpteen young people literature and have said time and again, remembering Germany of thenI write it to ensure no one can accuse me of not having told I thank those of you and am deeply grateful you who understand and have tried to understand of what I am talking and try to support mewhy so many voices seem to be misunderstood probably the old storythe message is not instant enough those who are corrupt shout louderand people believe the loudest tone At school I had a friendwho once explained to me, why no one listens to me two babies, one is crying one is notwhich will the mother go to? So, as this horror is happening to meam I supposed to somehow lie and say it is not? The health ministry------------------------ This one comes from the Health Ministry: Anna of the lab St Barthsdoes as she pleasesnot as is fitbeing not exactly the level she would like to beso has to use nasty waysto raise herselfand cover all her crimes The Health Minstry cannot stop heras she would have them all She used illegal deedsfrom Civil Servantsagainst ordinary people from various Ministries Pam of Pensionsput extra taxes on old granny and used her own expertise to cheat us in every way though we had little enough even the Junior Health Ministerused the Lab Computer to copy storiesof his family which were my familyDid they help to LITERALLY rebuild the nation as we did I wonder? after extended multi copying of all my workfor decades, the lab intended to black me as a copiertelling me to use my own work not copiesbut I got distinctions always in lit and art from school onwards? and so it goes on and on and on, using and robbingthe domino effect you see, scares them, losing high wages..so you see what a terrible ass the law really is when challenged by truely corrupt cheats! man, and we gave our lives back homeand risked death daily to help these jews or should we say Arabs-After all they have their country in arabia now.This one comes from the Health Ministry: Anna of the lab St Barthsdoes as she pleasesnot as is fitbeing not exactly the level she would like to beso has to use nasty waysto raise herselfand cover all her crimes The Health Minstry cannot stop heras she would have them all She used illegal deedsfrom Civil Servantsagainst ordinary people from various Ministries Pam of Pensionsput extra taxes on old granny and used her own expertise to cheat us in every way though we had little enough even the Junior Health Ministerused the Lab Computer to copy storiesof his family which were my familyDid they help to LITERALLY rebuild the nation as we did I wonder? after extended multi copying of all my workfor decades, the lab intended to black me as a copiertelling me to use my own work not copiesbut I got distinctions always in lit and art from school onwards? and so it goes on and on and on, using and robbingthe domino effect you see, scares them, losing high wages..so you see what a terrible ass the law really is when challenged by truely corrupt cheats! man, and we gave our lives back homeand risked death daily to help these jews or should we say Arabs-After all they have their country in arabia now. All poems posted on this website are the property of the author. They may not be distributed, copied, edited, or reprinted without express permission from the author. Split personalities One of the doctors who messed usbut not as badly as the Jewish onesSimon, of the corrupt labwas French now I would like to saythe French have a severe problem as brother hates brotherit is always the worst you will all remember that Charlamagneafter the wars of Christianity when the Saxon lords rode away having lostpromising to become Christian prayed to their Irmininsulthe Gauls took twenty three thousand men, then add their wives and childrenas reparation from the Elbe they are great ones for reparation are the Frenchthough I like the Gauls very much indeed it sounds better than the british lootingstop after the sergeant blows the whistle and any british troops may take what they wishfrom any private house in India and not be corrected right now think, these numerous thousands of saxonsall became part of the so called French nation so now you have the problemthe French have a split personality oh yes, personalities do countnature is never outdone I was a refugee and found people acted according to their inner personality so the poor french mandoesn't know whether to act as a saxon or as a gaul! For Goodness sake,we are all mixed can't we have a brotherly Europewithout all these constant inbattles we all had Empires, bullies and murderershonesty and sin belong to no one nation and now here comes the laughwhat is a nation, my blood or my political leader? OF EMPIRES WITHIN EMPIRES Mr and Mrs Green of Redbridgeformer brutal axe man and former workerat the lab St Barthson full payno longer come into workShe appears once in a while(he of cruelty fit for a Spielberg filmand she fills in false docutmentsor rather fills in documentsas someone she is notand uses my work off the lab computerand our refugee stories as theirsif by innuendoto send to magazines as her own)They are on over a grand a week I say because I have a good friend of decadeswho lives at Ilford who gets none of my lettersbecause the Green's fear I might confront them Listen I never ever read 'Main Kamfp'even though at Univerisity of LondonI 'studied' Communism and NazismThe teacher was a girl straight out of Uniwho hadn't a quarter of the facts I hadand merely filled the students headswith newspaper articles and such I hear though that now they don't teach historymy own daughter now a College principala former theology and philosophy studentwhen head of religious studiestold me that they had to teach the holocaustthe version over here without resistancenot the real one where millions of germans died too odd we hear nothing of the fifty eight million of the Gulagsof sixty million african slaves alone of the British Empireand the rest of the rest of the worldIndia and so one and all the rest from other Empiresbut ofcourse our Lords are jewishand need to keep their seats securely before I begin I want to make it plainwe were against Hitler from the startwe respect education and knowledgediginity and honour and he had noneeven when the British CHamberlain was giving him all he wantedbecause they well knew history I also hear that in America as over herethey do not teach history at low levelsthough at my German Universityand on my M.A. German LiteratureI was highly impressed by american studentswho were far superior in knowledge to the Brits(I mean that, I was impressed!) As you all know Prague was once the most eastward of the first Empire of Germany's Universitiesand that the French had sat on Germany's necksusing every kind of terror inlcuding throat tearing Senegalsfor one hundred yearsdestroying literature and culturetaking over seventy percent of the gross product Hitler promised them the French outand a job to every german but not only thatand here lies the reasons many germansother than that first two and a half percent who listenedbacked him to the hiltbesides being an extremely efficient nation Hitler did have a proper plana Europe run from a central area the eastern polish lands where to be farmlandswith their excellent heavy growing soilshe spared no farmers when moving for the planGermans from different parts had to be movedHe planned a deep sea canal to Leipzigfrom the North Sea so that goods could come inland before he went barmyhe planned many thingswhich would have created a strong united Europestrong enough to be able to stand up to a British Empirewhich is the main reason for the wars anywaytwo competitors at each others throats but he had a war to winand he went barmyhe went against the many, many allies he had at the beginning everywhereand like another President I know of nowdidn't know his geography at all wellknew some of his history too well as all uneducated peoplethe facts became too muchhe hadn't learnt not to wake the bearand he didn't listen to his clever peoplemaybe he saw just how lacking he waswhen they spoke I don't knowwe were always against himuneducated men have flashesbut rarely morewhich is why we are asked always to back up our arguementswhilst at University to teach us to make a practice of that sadly university is now little more than a job centre to keep young off the streetsmany wouldn't pass an old style leaving examI have a book of a sixties GCE maths examspupils sigh and cry at how high the level I used to teach my sixteens from a sixties JUNIOR english bookfew sixteen years olds can cope with it now!the levels had to be lowered for the second language students mayhap? when we came to this country after the warwe had to join in our age classes and that was thatno veils or special diet of easy peasy stuff for usboiled cabbage, boiled spuds with watery gravy, prayersties, blazers, skirts, white socks and do as we do...it was a healthier atmosphere altogetherwith strong standards respected world wide! I had also an english secondary leavers bookwhich the lab Pakistanis pinched for their kidsas they all want to be better than the whites-healthy competition if that were all it was-it is impossible to get hold of themMaybe the government is scaredif the people comparedthey would stop listening to journalists assurances! well I thing in Hitler's GermanyMr and Mrs Green would not have been suchI doubt they could have taken a Grand of tax money weeklyfor their comfortable life style in their big house in Redbridge but then we need to circle backwho taught Belsen these psychiatric nasties in the first placeGermany's jewish psychiatriststhen the Germans used it on themthen the americans brought it thereas they did most things worth bringingwhich the russians didn't nabtried it all out, bettered itand filed for the all time as too cruel to use so the Britsback in competition againusing it all secretly from Kaspar and Kissingerwhom they told we were 'dirt' so we could be used for murdertorture and robberyas did Hitler what was it Anna lab lady bossess put onto the machine''we could show Hitler a thing or two'' pressing my whole rib cage today!pain as of infectionthis is punishment because I taught childrenhow Yorkshire miners ladies had to pullcarts of coal up coal seamsI am not to teach kidstheir own historyor that is what they said it was for it will weaken the victim before her timequalify;testing the pressure of pulling a coal cart..... THE PRINCE COMING Du wirst nochmals ausgeraubt.. I made a tactical errorso the whole area has to be blanketed with her wordsthen send round lieslab was poaching they were atrocities. oh yesthe atrocities will be made goodbut you have killed peoplemade good in societythe Prince coming was far more important they're using the whole populationfor ground breaking experimentswithout the least safety guardby cheating we retain our leadthat's just Britain it is so outrageous people just can't believe itit depends on that to keep goingthe Mental Health Act does not allow for what Anna of the lab is doingthey are criminal offences you will get your bank statementand that is thatit has been rolled throughand the Pakistani lab staff have all taken a big sharebut prove it, any of it..... SEXING AND HEXING manufactured illnessesclose friends and family all dying of rare cancers Yes, I will take all her work off again for youwhat are the terms the tsunami was also oursall the major disasters in recent years they manufactured the naught girl theme on you/(me)to cover a sex programme from the highestthen they had to hex you to cover thatyou took the punches but didn't react Now write her Iron Cross story, that one(for yous out theremy mother told me that in Hitler's Germanypeople used to say:first you got the iron cross, a medalthen you got the wooden cross, death) She (me) told the police what you have donebut said nothing about the Royals(they think it is a hoax) she (me) is after the labsend a policeman round when her son is therethey already did-he warned her not to write the truthThis time I will tune him... Get rid of Mustafa the toilet cleaner Personnel Managerthey'll catch me out with him he can't be clearedhe is a child rapist twice over move him somewhere else Now Mix it, old stuff which everyone knowsthat confuse the trail of her stuff, I don't want the lab..........so that is why the lab friends needed establishingon her work..all the people on the machine will be wiped off soonThey took loads of her hair out I am going to deny it alla whisper in the P.M.'s ear that he comes alright feeding misinformationcovert insertionsdetermine what people hearfrom random bits and pieces of informationit is just sadistic destruction for the sake of it they wont let her have a normal relationshipso she refuses to have any at all, for two decades now..... ON A DARK NIGHT Saturday was black, wet and dismalwalking from teaching language and literaturethrough the alley of mother's flat there in Firth Park on the Pennine Wayhooded midgets in expensive geardrooping baggy jeans and swarthy skins only one lamp lit the alleywaya group of young menwith bags wet and glistening passing by me shouted out'she needn't think she's getting this stuff back'laughing loudly at me which is the method the lab favours for telling of its crimestonight New Year's day night, returning from mother's flat she's ninety one in a few daysyet the research beasts still use herand son, whom they hammer mercilessly two Pakistanis stood on either side of the alley openingsaid one to the other'that was her stuff you wrote, wasn't it?'-' Yea' and laughter That is the method the research beasts favourbecause they were told by L.A.this method brings anger to its limit L.A. man is a jew and a homosexual they saySad really, my grandparents saved jews from Hitlerand my best friend was a homosexual man! Three days ago, at three a.m. on microsoundthe lab put onthe whole area will be filled with her words sad how professionals teach the young to cheat and thievethe stuff the Pakistani wrote is of eastern european background to be copied as the jewish lab workershad used it to write stories in their own namesto Women's World, Cosmopolitan and other magazines So if the jewesess and jews had committed crimesthey have to ensure that everyone elsealso commits crimes, so their crimes seem less. THE KILLING MACHINE On the killing machine in the labSt Barths Human Researchthey have putmy danger iswater......... so dare I come over the pondto see all you guys..... and you knowthink about itif a man pulls a triggerhe is the killernot the machineall the lab operativesdoctors onwardsare all proper murderers I can't swim I don't swim as a tiny totmy mum used to despairmy pinny front was always wetprbably marry a drunk they all saidthe problem was definately water I just don't like waterit's cold and wetand not too clean where ever it iswater is my problemso says St Barths machine. THE WHITE MAN! In this rubbish which they call a trialthe lab staffall of them trained criminals and murderersincluding their doctors ...today's ordersgo into the house rob the sketch book she did one day on a sunny daywhen she went to sit at the nearby Botanical Gardensif she locks it awaysteal anything else..from the doctor who comes in daily... (I leave sketch books in a boxso in the evening after work I can take out which one I want to continueto continue it, easilysome of these, the lab thieves have stolen them) anyways, in this rubbish the part they call virtual reality(Anna the lab bossessmakes such a wonderful non real worldone of their idiots had put on the machine.Can't honestly say I agree!I could do betterand I am nothing but a painter-teacher) they rubbish which works in the labhas to put on to the machinetheir deepest feelings theory:they abuse me by using my and my family's liveswithout being asked to or invited against our wishes and then abuse meby my having to listen to theirsand my God, are they rubbish! this one skull smasher and squeezerput on this: I do not know how to conceal my hatredfor these white peopleI have to be with daily this guy gets a wage like the rest of us only dream ofthey get anything from being illegalto their insurances (because mine were robbed)ironed out by the white bossess (sorry I cannot call that a lady or a woman)they get family creditlive in West Londonthough they are not entitledget everything England hasto commit crimes for the 'bossess'endlessly He cannot conceal his hatred for white people? yesterday at the Post Officea young Pakistani womancollecting her hundreds and hundreds of Benefitsasked the asian post office clerk: you were open at Christmas? He answered : No she said'you celebrated Christmas?'he looked sheepish'well no'he said'but you did' she retorted triumphantly'the Post Office was closed!but it was open at Eid.' I nearly said this is still a Christian country you knowthen I realisedthat was rubbish toothis Christian country with its jews at the tophad had us committed to life torture and theft by the wayI am not surprisedas each new inmate came into the Concentration campsthey were allowed a bag of stuffgangs in the camps robbed the new inmates(this is recorded..part of my studiesWest Ham Art College Library)I never repeat gossip only recorded things When our group..the losers as the lab keeps calling uswere sent East and West afterwardspeople went mad for a short time as my mother called itsex and such from nerveslisten we all know about adrenalin and nerveswhich is what the evil lab plays withas people in this country are rather innocentvery sheltered and apathetic..and they talk about the chinese nanny state, pah!...but we did not rob our fellowssystematically as did the jews their brethren I walked out of the Post OfficeI had heard enoughthough the white man has black momentshe also had good momentsand all nations kill and slaughterit is the nature of the male human animaland women who have too much maleness incidentally guys it is not necessarywhen a Catholic St Lucian and his wiferefused to leave my homea Pakistani family with many children offered me a home for nine monthsthey celebrated both the lady sagely told mewhat Christmasit is our founder's birthday on Dec 25th!we are celebrating birthdaysIn this clever waytheir chidren were also kept happythis lady would have spat at the skull squeezerwhom the english elevate and she would have laughed at such stupidity!as would my friends were I lived at Jihad Headquarters.The stupid english again! In my household toowe celebrate all things Romanand then two weeks laterwe celebrate everything again Byzantineas my dad, the writer, was a Greek OrthodoxMe, I'd try to celebrate anything with anyone! let's all be happy and celebratenot make wars THE FAMILY Use the family for anything you want was the orderseries after series of illegal horror experimentsrobbery after robbery, costing us a small fortunetorture on torture, without any way to complaindestroying all in your paths..so sayeth the labSt Barths Behavioural Science to its 'helpers' The began using the boy when he was twelvehaving got the name of our familyfrom a dirty minded family doctorwho sent it to them in secretwho had less sense than a street prostituteand thought himself modern and clever in thoughtwith no idea of cultural or historical backgroundwhich even children in the East would know Prison would await themso the lab tried the biggest bluff ever to have been triedin the history of mandestruction before now destroyevery member of the familybefore they realise and can complain they began with 'sibling' competitionswhich one would be the strongestthey all must suffer to find out this answerthen began the straight forward hammerafter grandfathers operationsurgeons hands guided by the lab machinethey guided the boys now grown Order rang out from Anna and Steve, bosses of the labmake sure they get no schoolingmake sure they get a prison sentence somehoweven if only speedinga thousand pounds for speeding, an accident or two in the making or two weeks in prison Drugs range across the landanother game of testing to playmake sure to guide his hand to a kill each timenow add the BP hyper and the restthe lad has no ideaone wont touch drugs after the lab remote torturethinks its the drugsthe other goes in heaviertrying to find relief in the drugs from the remote torture the old octogenarian mother imagines she has a tumourits where the Russian officers bashed my skull with a rifle she concludesshe's too old to tell her of how the english playshe just wouldn't understand and searches for KGB menwont listen when I tell her its the english not the KGB The violinist with so much skill and talentis the weakestand succumbsThe lab Pakistanis start hammeringhe's dead anywayhammer him more The lad wont listen to his mumI tell him :know your community, your peoplego play your fiddle at the irish pubsthey'll love you even in a wheelchairlegless or what ever just strum that fiddle but the Pakistani heardand caused an accidentcut through his handonly a small cut at firstat the hospital the Pakistani doctordo exploratorywe haven't been allowed medical help for two decades nowonly the lab interventions with its own corrupt quack They rip the hand open down to the wristcut open three veins and musclesthe lab Pakistanis laughThe stitches go badthe stitching is crookedhis toes are blackhis hand ill matchedand now has no feeling well mother dear, the Pakistanis jeergo tell him to play his irish fiddle now..see what you can dohow you can still save himwe can do betterwe have more powerwe rule this land of yours now.. the fiddler sinks into deep depressionit is impossible to explainI saved the other childrenbut he is beyond me to savethey make a beeline for himas with me and dadmy dad the writer already deadme they keep trying to killand he is parcelled with us.... STRONIIUM RAYS I have kept my peace long enoughnever let it be said it was my silence ...now let is delete the cancerous material...we don't tell them it includes stronium rays guys, listen to me carefulthis is not a joke] this is one of the secrets of the nationsplease note I write, nations in plural most Presidents knowI thought there might be one decent one amongst them it turned out to be the KGB man after all we had suffered there, nothing like here listen: on the evil machinethey create a programme killing, raising or what everthe programme follows through and kills Is that the programmer or the machineis the question as for the reading of the brain chargesI did find a flaw in the interpretationa person with a filthy mind and evil deeds interpretes innocent things in an evil waythe innocent even interprete evil innocently but sadly the killers walk amongst ussmarming and smiling as they hide what they do knowing what lies the media is being forced to writesaying privately, I never knew England was quite so corrupt ..England will be victoriouswe will even beat the Yanks at their game... London has killed many, many on its programmeusing others as its red herring and tortured many... the Presidents all knew!two met their demise on the cancerous machine. I can weep no longer...just read when I tell you of it and believe all else seems nothing in comparison nowI am pleased they let the Polish Pontiff die properly. THE SKULL PRESS the torture remote is quite mild at the momentcompared to what has been the pressure on the brain and skull quite lightbut who thought of that one the Pakistani health workers and toilet cleanerstheir community has some odd shaped heads as many are long over in-bredin Pakistan they die at birth or lack of care here we give them every attentionso they live long and useless lives so they Pakistani workers who are barely literatecouldn't pass a Biology GCSE were allowed to use our bodies(''she/me to you, took the brunt of it'' they said) and press down, out, over and under my skulland guys, let me tell you, it is painful especially all night whilst sitting listening as I teach their commumities childrento try to glean a little at least, hoping to become semi literate Esther Rantzen on the BBC we told that you wiggle aroundand we had given you assistance not the reverse The BBC were told it was a sort of sex experimentFrost was in it too, but not what they were really doing beaming porn actresses into their studio as me; in the labarynths of the BBC is a small studio where Syd does his corruptions and there can be no reverse of this so called trialwe would be hanged or face life prison and the Ministries the next girl in has to repeat pressing glands nasty againwouldn't you think a 62 year old woman, ripped, with five kids had had enough of that, so to copy their kids thefts from me, they've now pinched my son's university computer stick with essaysmine had photos of teaching in China microsound:we did a deal with the chinese from Londonand you were our red herrings for use on them ah, now the chinese, the brits had them on their screenand used the pupils and system remote whilst I was there as well as me, so now the pupils there tell methe Dean and nearly all staff have changed and miss, suddenly we have so many english teachersmost come from Oxford, to a second rate private college I nearly fell over laughing but that is how they workuse what I do then give the other used a special pressy! Yesterday they had said: the chinese will be held backDo you want to be ruled by the chinese what stupid, stupid leaders they now havebut then lots of others in the system said the same! irritating my womb nerves at the momenttrying to clear up to make ourselves look good we just wanted to train all and every staff member we haveto be able to kill remote and to every crime on your helpless bodies and lives - you were chosen for yourvulnerability and turned out to be a gold mine for friends and lab still copying, copying, copying to cover our staff's earlier copyingwe had even ripped open letters to use for our own use and it still continues now severely battering the violinist sonsaid the Pakistani: well he's finished anyway so we can use what we want on him till he's finishedthough he is english and we are not, we can torment to his last days. The lab is asking for a family to be chosenfor a gift for bravery. another of their tricks, things we should have they give to others with much pomp. to cover theirusing our little family and destroying us to death three down, three to go to kill. All paintings gone, jewish ones particularly to the neighbours and writings as the lab creates more thieves.Stupid as she can prove where she was anyway! to cover the three jewish doctors in this.Ah- the corrupt old island hasn't changed an iota. THE PRINCE SNEERED On boxing nightwatching all the Royal televisionstill a Royalist ofcourse with split mentality of sorts just like being a Pombrought up here can never be shaken off The Prince over the words we're richsneered Now the lab has played my tvfor over twentyyearsand put on their version of things often so much becomes unbearable to watch tvand I switch over to wordless music they change the words tooand always havethey call it 'talking to me' they had talked like thisthe Prince's worst fear is thisthat someone steal my bank card so they have to wreck our financesto cover this worst fearthe Queen mother's worst fear was the wrong operationso they took out my dad's heartthough his was very strong and gave him a german oneas punishment for being in the german armyfor three months at the end rather than being shot!and killed himThe Prince has not checked an iota of the issues the lab had writtentaken all as honestbut should we be surprised all this because the lab had written for one issuenothing to do with me. please note 'I am rich'who the lab or the Prince?certainly not we fun hammering helpless people, isn't itwho have no way of escapingor of answering back... THE ROYAL PRINCE they say this royal princeor princeling or whatever came in again to askat the lab St Barths Behavioural Science exactly what was going onthough he has not bothered checking to this point They say the lab yet againlied or rather they say the (secret) queen Anna bossessundisputed of this land, she says 'I use language more cleverly'and merely told him, 'you victims had agreed' they told the Prince that we had offenced or someone had offenced a broad statement in itself for they had offencedand to set the record straight I have not I have a police certificate as a teacherwe are forced to get, which says as much. I had once imagined the Royals must be very clever people with so much knowledge at their fingertipsbut begin to wonder now does his majesty understandhow low the I.Q of this group is trained to care for the retarded, idiots of medicineeven the bosses and comfort the Health Ministry men I am a mere painter and poet, copied by this nation yet know they have the imprint of every Royal on that machineI have no power as a little woman but am desperately trying to get my imprintoff that machine being used for evil I do not want Mustafa the erstwhile toilet cleanernow personnel chief, pouring over my files gained illegally some of them illegals, yet the royals don't seem to careor are they just playing chicken and dare? poets postscript:I am a painter not a scientistmy impression is thisthey go over your electrical brainwavesre-translate them into actionswhich is translated onto the screen for them to readI might be wrong .. WHOSE MAST? This morning I wrote a letter to a friend in the States I told him of my christmas in Beijinghow I took my girl students to Church the funny things which happened thereof some even funnier things my kids did in Church when small and how my close friend in Londonhad taught me it was ok to get mad because I try never to show angerShe was the daughter of the Bishop of Iran taught me how even Jesus got madand threw the tables of the money lenders across the floors of the TempleThen Wakid one of their Pakistani who pressed my gut, though they have no medical trainingand now know the secrets of the most sophisticated machine and of every one at the top in every country in the world told how he was supposed to be a Ukrainianand put over Ukrainian punishments on us over their virtual world from the machineand how each one of the Pakis had taken one thousand out of my account and now have all changeddown a lot of the figures even though I moved it all to Germany for safety. The Germans say the labare totally lost and theirs now The Pakistanis want to rob half of all our savingsas we are a two lone old ladies with two kids two hours later over the t.v. progof 'Gone with the Wind' one of my most favouritecame this message tell us more tales about your kidswe have orders to rob your life in every possible way mix and matchI am another Oxford Grad's friend echoes of your work must be everywherethe L.A. Jew ordered that, because you saved them then Chris the Oxford Grad, lab bossess wanted for toy boypublished two books of my work in his name a present from the labsagely Wacky Wahid or whatever asked ''and whose Mast is it all going through?''You'll have to go to the very top for stop! paid by the labto copy and copy New York addedwe can't help you with our lawyers! to qualify:We don't give pocket money to our childrenhence the robbery of our money they say and a German POW told my mother back thenthat a british girl he had made love to back then smelt terribly, so we have to go through the gut pressingI could not stop it as it was all long before my time and the other things are matters of cultural differencesand beliefs. Odd how we have to respect Muslimsyet paid by the Brits they hit us constantly fetching more weirdoes, Indians and Parkis into the lab! THEY ROYAL NAME They used the Royal nameto qualify testing which was really tortureto qualify manslaughter which was murderto qualify international and internal crimesfor decades They used the Royal namefacing prison sentencesone and allto get permission from above(some clerk signed it)using lies and faked documents They used the Royal namewhen in daily agonyand every road blockedshe wrote to Pravda'the truth'what she had been told and what they had done They use the Royal name constantlyto continue the most terrible torturesand manslaughter to this daylies as are beyond beliefand crimes to cover those liesadding to it theft and destruction'give us every unworkable programmeyou have in your files'with special additions they are St Barths Behavioural Sciencewho call themselves Human Research "Losses will have to be made by victims-a lone woman, two fatherless kids and two ancient folk-until we are all clear, home and dry!"The Compensation is now so greatno one dare attempt a law suit... CLANCEY AND CYBERMEN they are growing quite an egothey have manipulated whole governmentsthey are said to be the government in all but namethey are the government for practical purposes How can you understand over the periphery calm? they said the same thing about Chicagoduring the prohibition Capone ran the townthe same way that St Barths Research is running alltheir own countrydefacto power to run everything easing people into a conditioning programmeinstead of using an open more violent approachcalling it an experiment bigger than any beforewith one tiny insert into the Times which nobody saw how was power taken from Capone?Liquor was allowed againhow can power be taken from these lunaticsopen up all the secrets It is laughable to read thiswhen a few of us know exactly what the brits are doing with their present from their friends over the pond: A community of people who believe the government is beaming voices into their minds ... may be crazy, but the Pentagon has pursued a weapon that can do just that and this is mild to what they can really dobelieve you me.. and if those guys over there think they are letting the London lab do their dirty workremember that we all know where the stuff comes fromlovingly presented by lovers to lovers of(ring a roses or what?)and who will get the crap for itand it won't be the cunning BritsCunning is something they have been known forsince the time of Queen Bess the firstand piracy and the restas they smile in your faces The lab anyway has sent them round all her systemto cover their international crimessetting off alarms at Santa Monicawith secret films from private bedroomsto amuse former lovers of labsover the pond (tv thenNew York secretly watches the poor woman and kids livesThe Nook in Crookmoor Sheffield on the Pennineslike we watch Eastenders and Coronation Street!) these secrets that the States carefully checkssend as private to its militarycarefully testswith cautious revealingof what they can doyet the enemy has been toldby the lab over here The lab just flounts uses everywhereon anyoneusing idiots and unskilledfor their own personal furtheranceas do the old twisted Lordsto whom lives don't countexcept they expect us to cry for theirs(well we helped you guys back then)spreading terror amongst the population with secret weaponrycarelessly usedand massively abused It's ok said the bossessno one will believe herjust a poet and artistno one ever believes themas she even destroys literature and artas well as worthwhile people. THEY ALL GOT A PRIZE FROM US Everyone has been orderedby the labto throw out and destroyanythingthey were given in writing from the lab The Germans have been well paidfor the crimes they committed for usand we told themtheir most stupid would passANYONE COULD PASS and become qualified to practiceon humansafter coming to Londonto play at crimes on helpless people The Germans were told:you were constant but not too clever upstairs (oh..)you were violent(oh..)you were sexual(I am celibateI was raped as a small child by a Russianand have a torn womb flapbesides other injuries)Smile from The big Berlin woman'bet that made you smile'from a nation whose womenwere raped from one end to the otherthat amount of understanding is unbelievableThere is now a technological rapewhich is something they used on the Royalsby remote irritating womens womb nervesmen they get very high erectionsit has been perfected for a long time from the sixtiesbut a side effect can be cancer..It says I tend to drop themThe lab shoves men onto mewho are in their thirties and rapiststhanks but no thanks At the bavarian children's home you had a small sore at the corner of your mouthaged about sixishyou have a drink problem(I am teetotal?) Klaus kills people his mind is like that of the English labhe broke my octogenarian mother's vertebraewith too much pressurehe gowned up and measured retarded women's vagina'swith his fingers!wonder if he tells his wifeLike the Lab Axe man Redbridge Mr Greenwhose daughter Faytold friends her dad works in healthso the lab laughed and added'he does, he kills more than he works with.''I can verify thatHe hammered my skull so badlyI will never forget(being formerly a russian jewish stockno crimes ofcoursenor his wife of German jewish stockwho falsified patient forms on us stole work from the screen for herself and daughter) the germans were toldwe have three fools hereMy mother is nintyone and they still abuse her dailyis it her?the former interpreter at the Foreign Ministryor my dadwell known satirist Semen Telewnyin the Free Ukrainian presseswhom the lab killed some time agojust another experiment, accident in the making they call murderor my daughter who is a Principal of a Collegeor the son they have crippled with experimentswho was playing violin in orchestras at fiveand always got practically full marksenough, I am not going onbut that is what they were toldeven that eldest son, an engineer for Bektelsis retarded! Some of the other germans were made upwhich Anna, bossess, calls her virtual reality(she's the lunatic in reality)One Berliner called Felix took out fifty percent of my hairas that is another thing they do They were told to try outall illegal acts on us whilst ''studying'' in England The Health Minister Arnoldofcourse also jewishand the junior Ministerwho wrote our life story as his family historyalso jewishso that was a laughas we come from the Ural Mountains long agobit far away from the deserts of Israel I'd saythough we did what we could to save them thenrear lover of the Bossessalong with Denis and ArthurCivil Servants of the Stateall of them lovers of the lab bossesswho also committed crimes for her(my present day tiny pension is witness of that)to keep her out of prisonand destroyed our livesand many others .....interference in private lives is expensiveadded one Toryeither for the familyor for the government.. Poor Arnold was so besottedhe could never work outwhich was lies which was truthof what she told himand was heard to sayhe was struck down with love for the bossesswho really doesn't know what truth and honesty meansnor her previous boss, Steveyet, they handled the Royal lives? Each of the Germanscreated a thief and a break into your (my) houseand a theft from the bank accountsas well as other crimesthey all passedthe Germans all got prizes ordered from Englandfor being criminals from us I sold your sob storyto everyone by everyoneand now I made you f*rt(pressing gut used on retarded) this is a prize labdoing this for the future of this countryTorture last night and this morning very badthere are two girls inwho seem to be particularly viciousand the bossess tried to threaten the Americans(now that was stupid in my mindGermans and their eternal guiltis one thing, but the Yanks something else) Sadly I had always seen english womenas strong and daring to tell the truthI am sure they were in the pastwhat is this scum at the top now-they are I find nothing of the sort how many more times do we have to spin this .. All I have to say is this:BULLYING IS NOT NATIONALEVERYONE DOES ITBUT THE BRITS DO IT MORE CUNNINGLYWITH MORE MALEVALENCETHAN THE REST! THE RETIRED COP On our ownsince the lab separated usbefore they separated the Royals now over sixtyknowing the lab ruinsany relation I might try in England (dangerous to them)thought I'd try the Statesland of the free and achievers on Christian Mingle I found someonewho looked right down my streetjust a possibility this might work then as answer to my mailsthe weirdest stuff you ever did seewhen I asked what it was he didn't answer at alland the relationship finished therethough I couldn't understand really now I am toldthey didn't send my letters throughtelling of my life and strife the point for this?the lab has violated every possible privacyevery liberty and every right to please their Might they say on the tvit was just another issue for us heresome are better at thinking them up some more vicious and to see if it was possibleso lonesome I remainknowing what could have been! SANTA MARIA KINDERHEIM As a childthe gentle nuns cared for memuch loved for ever by me I never forgot and send them letters and cardswhere ever I gowhat ever the english do to us I sent a Christmas greetingsto my old first school therein beautiful Furstenzell in Bavaria no answer, so I sent another oneand snail mail cards to the children's homeas we kids held a christmas play back in '52 no answers, have they all died methoughtthey always answerthe tv has just put the answer over all mails have been blocked for weeks nowall mail to your childhood home of many years have all been blocked too it says on this file which we have to usethe stupid women who deal with the retardedthat you have to make the Pakistanis community there your community, we do not want you outside of thatwe want to keep you contained there and all you sayThe germans who were paid by the lab St Barths it says on the file that you must forgetthe wonderful three ladies and your fifty sisters and brotherswhose lives you shared in for those years paid lab germans specially chosen who have killed or for stupiditywe were told by the jewish doctors you were desperatewe were told to torture you remote to give you a break down so they could put you into a mental homeand have you pinned downthey even control whether you can go to China they want you to go to Russia and disappear thereAfter the last war, anything any Jew says to us, we doas it was before the last war, for us nothing changes you Huns can try to fight for right but we can'tthe english paid us, we have to play their tunewe wanted you to come to Germany we wanted to make some of it up to youthat we have done to you and yoursexcept when you were over here at University we robbed and tortured you too of thousands and thousandsI thought you were sick or somethingthe file said you were a monster..(you believe that?) So now again, the nuns arn't allowed a greetingnor the children of the Primary School at Furstenzell in Bavaria. Blow, means another visit!Oh and they think I am english as do so many, even Chinaand think the english are wonderful because they like me! How can we stop you going to America and talking?ok Alyson, start painting...over televisiontv twetntieth December at midday ''Alyson has to paint all her (my) stuffthen everyone else also copies itIt is the life's work of a clever woman'' HARVEY MARGARET AND YOU Margaret was on the programme tooon that awful attrocity of a machineat St Barths and so was Harveyas well as you unwilling prisonersthe Princess and Charles (the Princess was askedshe felt it was her civic dutythe Prince likes different things) which therefore meansthe toilet cleaners and Asian health workers (now deemed experts)have access to the secret lives of all the top so Anna of the lab bossessnow I quote:the most evil woman ever in humanity whose every action is evildishonesty and criminalitytold to Harvey please have these drawingsand use them for yourselfthis poor soul from whom they come is badly retardedand will be gratefulif you use them as your own so since then Anna of the labhas been working hard with all her monstersto make us retardedand here I quote again is killing my family offone by oneincase we are ever heard! THE PRESIDENT AND THE LAB All of us have used and abusedour tiny family every one of ushas robbed themevery one of ustortures themmother nightlyincessantlythe crippled sonincessantlythe rest constantly (and I prayOh God, why didn't you let the Russiansship us to Siberiainstead of Westto this) we rob them remotewe torture them remoteif they survive that's their good lucktheir bent doctor Jackput it the bestif they die, they diefrom our torture remoteif they livetomorrow we torture them againthat was twenty plus years ago Father murderedson crippledthe rest held back Three in the morningbreaking sleep is their regularon the sound thrower Give the President the winkwe at the labare going to use all american trickson what is left of this little familywe have american imprints hereso will play little american games for our own amusementon the victimsand a new load of ''lessons'' are they real americansno, but we will put on all sorts of rubbishwhich we call a virtual reality worldfrom our imprintswhich is supposed to confuse youbut in the eventit does not we call them lessons so they sound nicerand no guilt is felt by the sadistic torturers and killerswe are training No respiteNo word will get throughthe dark young girlwho was the last beastblocked all things everything sentto family and friendsfor days and weeks nowShe is amusedthat she has taken partin the major destructionof helpless, innocent human lives Tell the President when we are donewe will send their labthe resultsof our torture, theft and sadism....They were always loyal to Americanswell they saved jewsand rebuilt usso what does that mean to us or anybody..Everyone and everything on the american machineswill now appear on the London sadists laband any trick will be performed over thereno secrets of any sorts possiblefrom a nation which prefers Muslims and its Pakistanisto hard working europeans who slaved and toiled for them all their lives.. The Americans have agreed everyone will reuse the work on the London machineillegally there from your (my) life's workpaintings, poems, family stories, academic and creative The Canadians have been trying to catch this system for long enough send that wink to the american President FILM POLITICS All the B.B.C. is peopled by pretty honest chapsand regularly shows these factpeople seem not to be ableto take two and two makes four Churchill in his dayfor the war effortallowed film makers to portray Germans in any way at all to change the countries swayit was never rescinded Until world war oneGermans had been seen docile, good natured chapswho worked hard.But then when the russians were needed Union-Labour members toured the workers of the landtelling people that Ivan is really not so bad!So guys what you see in films is not realit is what a director deems fit to filmfor what ever reasonsmoney or power or both The lab St Barths even made a film of meafter their beaming looped all over the placeThey tell me a porn second rate starletwas paid a thousand to pornwell, they could have used a first rate star at least!and put it through all powerful receivers world wide.but as porn is now common as muckwho cares anyway. Then they fetched the Queen and the Princeto the lab to view what they were going to showworld wide. The Queen they say went very white and frozeand the Prince murmered ..very sexyDon't ask me, I haven't a clue, I havn't seen it but German research who felt sympathy for mepaid to come to the lab to torment for themtried to keep me informed on latest steps on usdiscussed that it couldn't be meas genital hair was the wrong colour!(I think they guessed anywaybut are scared of the jews of this countryhence the country sends Briton and Curry to the E.U.) Now if they have to go to the bother of making films of ME!!!I now disbelieve all I see unless it is in the flesh!I do wonder what I do on it?They say if they can take one photoof you walking on the streetsthey can make a film of that. It is used to show the trainy researcherswith a file so dirty it would make a porn magazine sweatwhich is rather funny as my nickname as a young wifeby my ex's friend (separated from us by the lablike the Royal couple)was Little brown mouse! but as the file says I am dirty, stupid, slovenly, nymphomaniacgreedy, loose, spotty, hairless, frigid,thief, child molester,Nazi and the rest (I know that one was the old M.P.they said)They take all sorts of weirdo characteristicsand put them togetherfor me to be punished for I quote now'Is she climbs to the topwhich she could easily have doneWe'll be done for, all of us at St Barths' So I decided long agothat Black Magic is not deadthe way they played debasement at Mass and other ServicesWeird behaviour, dirty smells all of it are usedby this load of criminals and porn film makers What cowards our Royals arethough we used to be Royal servants of our peopleThey were a much better lot! AFRICA The lab St barths whird Mugabeas the english dojust how much damage can he do.. and they whired africans over here too''now the Africanhas been given all your ideas with guarantees for selling'' this is between the englishI know my dad the writer Semen Telewnytaught me that Empires are evil people want to rule themselves and learn by their own mistakeshe felt very strongly about this all I say is this..to my many African friendswho say, we like youbut the Germans treated us not nice You no doubt do not knowthat the Frenchwho had had their Army in Germanyfor one hundred years brought in Senegalese soldiers to Germanythese Soldiers not only raped hundreds of german womenthey also bit their throats through This was not told me by a Germanthis was told my mother by a French Nun at her Convent in Bratislava She, though French, was disgustedthe Germans did things for many reasons during Hitler's timeand most were not an island they had a beginningwhich history likes to hideas they lost well, I am not a Germanand I am finding outjust how brutal the english methods are.. and they tell methere is no use in running to France for safetyas the French have no methods of sorting such international problems only Germany appears to have solicitors who canand might....and before everyone gets emotional I am talking historical factsnot film fantasyremember, we lost more than any of youhelped to rebuild yous at your invite and what have yous done to us? EAST EUROPEANS 'I am impressed with Anna bosses of labSt Barths Behavioural Scienceof east european things..' the ministry breathed well she should growled anothershe's killed enough of them in their accidents in the making to get their inside picture..wey heycome to england slave for them to get richto become a test product for Anna and her evil lab so sorry my dear , she breaths at me with sound throwers nowyou had your uses for mewe used you allwe do not consider you as humansbut we do know how to do it secretly filling forms in everywhere as we gothat's all it takesfilling the appropriate formsand the Ukrainians got the chop I did say, she breaths at meI would correct things later the Ministry answeredno need to botherthough I no longer go to service them there anymore so we at the lab use a new severity of torture'but that lot are all innocent of anything' came the answer yes, but we at St Barths are not!now put something brutal on the machineas if it were gangrene..she tells her Pakstani boysthe violinist son won't survive anywayso we might as well torment him to death..yes, british born, british father and so onusing Pakistanis to kill him slowlyfrom a London lab all emails have been blockedbut here is a letter to the USA to a Federal PrisonNo let it go..why because she only writes of Christmas in Bavaria and G.I's No, we don't want them to know what we are doing reallylater she might get over there somehow the americans are starting a lobby against what we do herehaving seen us and Putin did it long ago(I saw it in China on computerPutin will sue anyone who tries any psychiatric tricks on himfrom this lab) and, answered the Paksitani swine of a murderer' I thought the family was restrained'Oh no, we the lab restrain themand add alsorts of rubbish onto her(me) file One nice notethe Indians are finding it too dirty, massive pay or notOne Assif, is getting outHe said,doing things like thishow can I prepare for the next lifeand he is off their list of murderers.... but the Muslims with all their holiness continue though I teach Muslim childrenand advice Muslim women I personally thinkyes, it stinks as well as stings on me and minethe british want to see who low will these muslims fall for themfor money with the deeds they do as they did in India...This morning sound throwersthe Muslims have paved their own graveswhat they have suggested will be repeated and Alysonthe woman who cannot paint nor writeand is now selling like madI quoteit is part of the experimentto make idiots perform for the labto get out of troublehas now mixed your family historywith her own to sellto cover doctor Meyer and his family believe methis is how carefully planned it isone paper back writerused all my family's names and all the places I lived in in east London.. I wouldn't careif they didn't rob my stuffbut they take all my years of work from my house The Asians are not bothering with anymoreclever mix and match per Anna bossess St Barthsthey have discovered that the U.S.also has copies of what I have done and doand it can all be found and will be foundlater.... POLITICAL POLITENESS political politenessis akin political correctness it skirts round rather than sortingused extensively by Brits 'the Germans we used in thiswill never know what we really sawthank you for your help'' ''She (me to you)was a problem to us at the lab''(the lab should have gone to prison) The germans were given a fileasked no questionsbelieving all their conquerors are so fine only we germans are badcould have done such wrong in the pastthe british are all angels on earth Now you knowwhy I do not want to go to Germanyhow ever often it has been suggested As Stalin saidno answers to our accusationswell put out a few more accusations this lab is an equal to Stalin any dayand much worseas of Stalin people knew These politically correct, smiling murderersof St Barths labno one thinks of as the evil doers they really are. No wonder one put on the soundthe germans are more stupid than we had imagined.and the spinning goes on and on and on now put on her file she lost all her friends in prison(she's never been to prison..) and now put on her filethey are all out of prison now-the lab put out an order the sons must be imprisoned years ago, no education allowedas they had been used as children remote by the labso one got a two week sentence for speeding another got three months in a category Bwith murderers and rapists at eighteen years oldfor standing guard when friends pinched some films She writes to death row prisoners in the U.S. to support themit is their detailscontinue the thieving of all her writings and paintings copy all her historical details to another friend of lab bossessshe learnt from her parents who came to rebuild Britainafter the war and helped us to become great again and that which she learnt at studies at Universities over the yearsI will write sort out sales and what you have to write as I have done for all the english failures who now sell for me at the labso I can never be caughtspinning spinning the country and the world from the lab...using political politeness as a front and no one guesses. DOCTOR DOCTOR doctor, doctorI hear voices don't worryit's just the machine at St Barths microsound messing doctor, doctormy cranium is so painful from all different angles at nights and my cortex is under some sort of pressure don't worryit is only the lab trying to weaken you using lasers and gama raysand turn you into a vegetable so they will have nothing to worry about any more. doctor, doctorI get the runs during lesson times, on buses, at meetings only don't worryit is only the lab pressing your gut by laserthey call it having a laugh and do it to the retarded. None of that system are medically trained doctor, doctorfor two months my breasts hurt like someone is hitting them don't worryit is only the lab hitting your mammary glands with the laser or rays, they'll continue to do that off and on continuously for yearswhen a new one tries to give you cancer, they put cancer spores on your skin too. Goodness knows how you have survived. You and the violinist son have taken the brunt of their endless punishments. doctor, doctormy womb is in pain only during certain lesson times don't worryit is only the lab Asians putting on the womb nerve irritantsrather ill informed chaps about anything especially medical matters putting on their particular form of torture.They are trying to get you to touch up some boy.(beyond normal mortals to understand) doctor, doctorI get these shakes of my head, and my skull seems to be pressing into my shoulders sometimes don't worryit is only the lab trying out alzheimers on you. They probably brush your eye nerves too, leaving you with blurred vision for a whileFun for them as you paint.. doctor, doctormy chest hurts don't worryit's just the stronium rays from St Barths on your sternum and lungslots of deaths already from that one doctor, doctorI smell horrible smells and they say some of them, that I smellI am in the bath daily? don't worryit is just Anna bossess at the lab, she smokes and eats meat and so on, so the combination of chemicals makes her smell strongly..they intensify everyone's smell by millions activate your smell cells and put it on your wavelength and vice versa. I can assure you, you don't smell of anything and the lab asians cover themselves with perfume, which you don't so they are punishing you, being young men. doctor, doctorI have palpitations and a tight ring round my chest don't worry, it's just Anna and her girls and boysit's just the machine at St Barths and some of the foreign folk paid to come and experiment on british citizens illegal, banned and unworkable programmes from America with spite added. doctor, doctorI have occassional memory loss and you name it don't worryit is just the machine at the lab. they wipe occassional words from your mind as your mind is on the machine which is why they use your work constantly incase they are sued to disprove their crimes doctor, doctor the pain in my arm, you wouldn't believe such pain, even during lessons at Barnsley College don't worry, it must be the bulls at St Barths powdering your bonesat your desk teaching and on the way there and back, that is why they block all establishment work in this country now for you and yours. doctor, doctormy hair came out in clumps, but only once in China don't worry, it was Felix visiting St Barths from Berlin, trying out range oh and they use that technique to threaten retarded patients to behave as they wish. doctor, doctorI have smallpox pustules all over me. They started just a week before I went to China. don't worrySt Barths, (actually Guys knows but is saying nothing)was going to try it on the nation everywhere but decided it wasn't worth the bother for the number of deaths. doctor, doctorI have broken bones don't worryit's just St Barths playing their gamesbreak a bone here, break one there remote ready for war and the War Lords doctor, doctorI wrote to the medical council and they told me to see a doctor don't worrythe medical council can't get that system over here. It is criminal law. Just try and live with it my dear until they kill you early from weakening processes carried out daily all night. I alone have given you two things you should see a doctor for..'now why should I see a doctor, it's from a machine, not a diseased body, take it off the machine.. even the Queen couldn't stop itThe Lords condone it, so just live with it.. LAX LAW fetch all the unworkable programmes from the US of Alet them praywe'll show them how it's donewhen we've wonwe'll telluntil thenwe'll just sellall that is hersand sell and sell and sellwhilst she sits teaching the next generation call using and selling hersby ours sponsoredpart of the experimentwe don't commit crimesjust experiments from labs on the People lax we are told means looseis not tight, is slacknot strict or exactlaw you all know, some respect some do not are rules of conductwhich were established for the nationsto save them from anarchy and self destructionexcept the lab St Barths and Health Ministrywho just ignore solicitors letters asking for at least an explanationreturn of stolen post and goods stolen by them to create new crimesand please will you finish this rubbishwhich the americans said was calous and crueland therefore unworkable the seeking of justice in courtswhich the technology of St Barths blocksviolaters of the lawunder the banner of experimentation the men actually tell me it was something elseAnna the lab bossess was very unimportantbut tried to become noticed and importantand found by the lewidity and misconduct of a doctora family which had once been placesbut do not crave power or noticeremember the musicians of Belsen? It is an odd thingthose who can and have do not have this adverse side to their naturesnot even under the baner of experimentation those who can and havehave a pride in what THEY can doand do not need to rob the work of othersnor surround themselves by copiers One should feel sorry for themif they left others alonebut they seem to need to destroyall who are different and all who are real people and our lax laws do not prevent them destructive trail..FREUD’S LEGACY from remotethey now irritate every nervein the female bodyespecially the womb nervesno wonder the chinese banned Freud's books the dark side of medicineyou wouldn't believe what they can and dopressing the cranium all last nightjust to train more sadiststo commit more crimes on tax payers money the women and men who do thiscall it the frustratorno one can imagine without having it done how terrible it is they did it to the retardednow they do it to people outsidethe retarded screamed in painthe people outside don'tthey just suffer and are played with these little known technologies which have been in practice a long timesince the sixties in factare never blamedthe sadists who use them get off free the Nations use them to further their own powerMany women are wrongly 'heated' it is calledthe theory is that they should then sleep aroundit is used as a punishment to keep women in their orderThe dear Princess had it used on her too You (me to you) were wrongly heatedyou were beamed to the Big Applewhilst being heated the people in charge of this section of the lunatic fringe of 'research'are mainly jewish so cannot be charged with crimes Massive damages were due youso instead the lab St Barths turned it all roundand used your family as lab ratsunfortunately you were all clever and talentedso we used you work as well as using youTHey even listen to my lessons and use them too for two decades now.Americans showed the lab how not to get caught in these practices as the bossess had bedded them too,though they never pushed them to such sadistic levelsSt Barths admits this We now have our own British S. A. and KGBcalled St Barths Behavrioural Sciencestaffed mainly by Muslims now doing as the jewish doctors have orderedtrying to silence me. Though I am in an open prisonbut I am not retarded and we had all this before! All done by satelite from a labstronium rays on a helpless populationlasers blazing secretly across the nationjust a few more deaths to our British Ministriesas long as they are not their deaths, who caresPandora's box is now wide open. THE DOMINO EFFECT All her Ministry guys, lovers say isDon't mess Annaas she kills and maims and robs The programme is soft porn from the doctors and labs imaginationusing imaging and all other devisesto train these goons and hooligans for the State's murders It was and is a sick parody of what was once psychologyno one checks if anything is true and all damages are done remoteThey punish the family then have to think of another crime for you the phrase 'too good to be on this earthreally is true' The crimes are as todays Asian (we rolled three thousand out of her bank account for ourselves)'is she still wearing short skirts'(I have never ever in my life worn short skirts!) They have orders to continue the tortures and invent new onesand to keep imprintingto add new people to their fantasy world I can't actually punish her (me) for anythingshe never does anything wrong so we invent the sinsso we keep weaking punishment up constantly hoping she will die In the words of the former Grand Duke Andrew of Russia'this affair inspires such passion on the part of the oppositionThey are afraid it might uncover what they are intentionally supressing develop frenzied activity to frustrate any enquiry they do not dare open this dossier to the public any investigation could be dangerous for thema scandal would be unavoidablecertain people have mingled their bad intentions in this case but all are terrified nowof the domino effectof setting us free from the machine and our jailers.. what have I done Anna blithely sighs to the men of the Ministrywho don't know what she actually does in her labmurders, robs and destroys calling it all an experiment and sweetly answersit was only one familywe all decided on a sacrifice for the nation! FREE FREEBEE ONCE ONLY from grossmisconduct to an opportunityrepair despair impair little known technological secrets long used pull cull dull mull full beaming looping with Major and plagershe'll just have to live with it the nation mustn't know now blow tear wear stare Blaire who doesn't careexcept for his own popularity not for the people deprive blight life trite the might and war lordslook for loopholes and scoop poles gritting their revenge sins begin bring fling think Thatcher guessed, they've pressedcouldn't do a thing so loudly sing and keep singing gift thrift drift sift and carry on sifting and sifting ordered L.A.brain waves translated all thoughts for the lab to nab round pound sound ground ordered prison sentencesfor her lads taken dad from the lab's bads, so sad and keep backthe elder children Try fry cry Di...Programme made to die.. fly talk walk stalk balk talk and talk gotta talk...writers don't say, don't really play she just prays.. there really is no law at all it's sickeningNo one cares.

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