A PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT

Public Service Announcement


14 April 2014

Visible is moving home April 15th 2014.

At the same time, all his blogs - including this one, will be relocating, too; this means that soon this page will disappear - as will all other pages on Vis' sites. The move (the blogs' move that is, not lord Visible's) is expected to take somewhere between 3 and 8 Earth days so should complete some time between 18 and 25 April 2014.

The blogs will remain accessible however, on their old blogspot.com URLS, and here is where you are going to find them - so please bookmark the following links!


Reflections in a Petri Dish
Smoking Mirrors
Visible Origami


Please also be aware that although all the existing blogs' content will remain accessible, many image links and other bits and pieces may look a bit tatty for the duration of the move (not that anyone visits Vis blogs for pretty pictures anyway, but it's just polite to let you know)



Thank you for bearing with us during the move!



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Thursday, May 22, 2008

The Whine; Chapter Four

Chapter Four

I am definitely getting too old for this shit. Today I saw what was left of a ten year old kid after someone got through with him and also after the rats and whatever else had gotten into him. They weren’t through with him. We had disturbed this recycling of the formerly animate, presently transitive.

You don’t know what it’s like. You think you do but unless you’ve been right up on it you haven’t got a clue. It’s not just the sight of it, or the smell of it; there’s a lot more to the full environmental effect. As they say in the real estate game, “location, location, location.” There is a particular horror to be found in the one remaining red sock; in the missing eyeballs...you notice where the sweet spots are, the spots that the vermin hit first. You wonder about the wounds...what/who caused which wounds? ...Pre-mortem? ....Post-mortem?

Later you’ve got the full graphic effect whenever you close your eyes. And you know that there are people who will pay a lot of money for the photographs. You know that there are people who will cum hard over the idea and the image. You know there are people that wished someone had videotaped the event and maybe videotaped the feeding afterwards. You know these people. You’ve met them in the course of your business day.

Other people get to talk to the postman and the sales clerk. Sometimes I meet these people too but it’s not a happy time. Sometimes they are no longer speaking except in forensic tongues.

It seems like it was easier when I started. I’m going in reverse. They say the more you’re at it, the less you really notice anything but the evidence. They say you crap out in the beginning or you harden up. I don’t remember feeling the way I do now back then. Yeah, I was shocked, angry and I occasionally got sick but it didn’t stay with me like it does now.

I had a bad incident two years ago and I can trace the change from that time. Somebody hit me in the head with a crowbar and fractured my skull. They say I hung on the edge of the final departure for over a week while I was in the coma. I was told my heart stopped twice. It took some time getting out and about after that. Now I’ve got this neat lightening bolt scar that dances from my left eyebrow up into the hairline. I’ve got another across the occipital lobe. The first blow was such a nice shot that the guy just had to add one more on my way down.

My partner put one through his liver about the time he was winding up for the coup de grace. I suppose I’m lucky. They always say things about how I’m ‘lucky to be alive.’ I don’t know that it’s all that good to be alive here though. I don’t know that it isn’t better somewhere else outside the sight line of this planetary space. After I see things like I saw today I am of the opinion that it has got to be better somewhere else.

Maybe we’ll find the guy that did this and maybe we won’t. You can’t make it an all or nothing kind of thing. I’ve found that some things never get resolved. In this world justice does not always triumph and the good do not prosper any more than the evil. Quite often the evil prosper very well.

I’ve kicked this around in my head a lot of late. I know that there is a balance to it all because I see that balance in many instances in my work. I see it in the symmetry of the planets and I understand that if you go really small it’s the same thing. And I understand that the space between the atoms is, relatively speaking, the same as the distance between the planets, or the stars. Whatever, it’s a lot of distance, relatively.

Yeah, I know that there is some kind of a balance, some presence of Justice. But the more I think about it all, I think that a lot of it must be handled somewhere else, because we don’t see a lot of it here.

Things have been very different for me since I got hit on the head. I’m not the same as I used to be. I used to be pretty tight except for a certain period about six years ago. I knew what I was doing and where I was going and what I would probably do once I got there. Now I have to think about it. It’s because of all the new stuff that wasn’t there before. Now I hear things and sometimes I see things, mostly peripherally. I hear ringing tones on occasion that vary in pitch and sometimes I hear other things. The doctors said this is an after effect of the clubbing; “auditory hallucinations” he called them. The visual things are not identifiable because they are always to the side and if I turn to look at them they’re gone. That parts not too bad. It’s the things I see sometimes when I close my eyes that make me very uncomfortable. It’s the dreams I have that are every bit as real as real life. Of course I have to be careful who I talk to about these things or I would be out of a job. They don’t really interfere with what I’m doing. The real effect is that they make me more insecure about who I am. They make me wonder if I’m okay. At least I don’t have the headaches some people get after severe head trauma. At least I’m still here only I’m less sure of that than I was.

I’m a detective with the Manhattan PD. Except for a short time traveling after I got out of the Army I’ve been in police work. That’s ten years now and I’m thirty-two and probably look forty since my hair turned snow white in the hospital after the attack. Around the station house they refer to me as Andy Warhol but not generally in my hearing since I am none too fond of bad artist cocksuckers. I guess that’s not very PC of me and that would be fitting since I am none too PC anyway. Most of us aren’t these days since it usually means bullshit and extra work. There was a lot more understanding, more give and take, before it all got forced on us. We’ve got a fine victim industry going in these United States these days.

It used to be that a victim was someone with an empty purse, a bleeding body part or a missing car. We’ve expanded on that in the true spirit of American entrepreneurship. Now a victim is anyone who perceives themselves to be, or is perceived to be a victim because of; one’s sex, one’s color, one’s physical height, one’s age, one’s religion or lack of religion, one’s mental state, one’s addiction, one’s predilection or one’s victim-abled status. These are all criteria to determine the nature of the offense. We’ve got a handbook down at the station, about the size of something James Minchner might have written. Unfortunately they didn’t include a codebook to go with it since it is written entirely in perceived, victim-assistive language and no one can figure it out. This is okay because this is handled by the people for whom this entire new area of offense was created; personal victim lawyers. These are more or less the same people who adopted the old crime industry and made it their own. They always know immediately if an offense has been committed; but I digress.

People call me Whitey now which is funny sometimes, like when a black officer wants my attention and some of them still laugh and I do too of course. And probably I should say that I’m not down on cocksuckers or cocksucking as an art form either, I just don’t like Andy Warhol. He represents everything I don’t like about the things I don’t like about New York. I’m routinely amazed when people use words like ‘cocksucker’ as a pejorative; don’t they like blowjobs? Well, I guess Clinton showed us that maybe a lot of people don’t. Anyway, my real name is Peter Reilly and I do like blowjobs, getting them that is and pretty much all the facets of Vanilla sex, only maybe I would call it French Vanilla in my case but I haven’t had much sex in awhile and I’ll get to that in good time; not the sex, I don’t know when that’s going to show up, but the “how come I haven’t had much sex.” part of it.

So I’ve been in police work for some while. Once I thought that it would be all of what I did and that I would eventually be old, stout and consistently drunk like the bulk of my associates with Irish forebears in the department.

My father lived in Belfast and finally had all that he could take of ‘the troubles’ and British Justice; emigrating in the 60’s through the good offices of an uncle who helped people find things that fell off of trucks down at the wharf. He taught my father how to find things and my father did pretty well with it. Several years later he met my mother at a parish dance and I was the sole issue of that strong but all too brief passion. Two years after I arrived my father himself fell off of a truck and sustained fatal injuries a great deal more severe than one would expect in a fall from a truck that was not even moving at the time. During that period there was a rash of injuries suffered by Irish dock workers; the uncle broke both of his legs when he somehow managed to interpose himself between a brick wall and a moving car. Apparently things falling from trucks had become a growth industry that sparked a competitive rivalry between my father’s group and another group concerning the boundaries of relative enterprise. This was all sorted out shortly thereafter and the number of accidents reduced to the usual attrition. My father, unfortunately, did not benefit from this, having already moved on to other areas of enterprise unknown to me or to anyone in a position to tell.

I’ve heard it said that this is what led me to police work. I would dispute that. I trained as a policeman by default in the military and that led me, by default, to a position in law enforcement. It turned out that I was good at it so I kept doing it. I don’t see any Freudian mystery outworking itself in this regard.

There are a great many days when I wonder what I may be doing next; today being one of them. There is no excuse for dead children, not in my worldview. It may be that this is just a part of life’s ancient sorrow. One can die at any age but when one is hastened to it through violent outrage and when one is ten years old...it becomes something beyond my ability to understand. As I said, I am getting too old for this shit.

A woman I knew briefly, in the biblical sense, told me I had laughing eyes. She said they danced and reflected starlight. She was something of a poetess and thereby prone to exaggeration. I expect it is out of vanity that I remember her words. I’ve a wide rugged face as befits a man of my heritage. My nose is straight and my chin is square. On a good day I’m just over 5’ 10’ and weigh one hundred and seventy pounds. This hasn’t changed more than a pound or two since I was sixteen, except during my hospital time when I lost forty pounds and had to more or less learn to walk all over again. My sense of equilibrium had been vastly altered by the headshots. Apparently I had to develop new neural pathways. I’ve never understood this and I don’t think the doctors did either. There are worse roads to travel. I consider myself lucky, if, being ‘here’ is lucky.

This dead kid had been missing for about a month. We already knew about him since the day he didn’t come back from school and his parents called him in missing. Missing kids are the only time we break the twenty-four hour rule. Usually when someone goes missing we wait at least that long before we give it any interest. You have to understand that when someone goes missing it’s a much bigger issue to those affected than it is to a cop. People go missing all the time and usually they show up again. Kids go missing all the time too, more so than adults on the average and they too usually show up again, well before twenty-four hours have passed. Still, we go on the lookout for kids pretty quick, especially if they’re pre-pubescent and they go to parochial school and they never went missing before, like little Johnny Carson.

I caught this case along with my partner Max Bloomberg, who is an orthodox Jew and the butt of no end of station house humor. He takes it all in good stride, recognizing just how incongruous he is in the general mélange of the force. He belongs to some sort of mystical sect, not your usual Hassid and he’s got some weird views on why things are the way things are. Max is one who has been somewhat advantaged by the PC virus, as I call it. He’s allowed to keep Kosher in that he gets the Sabbath off, no matter what and he gets to wear a yarmulke to work. This isn’t such a big deal, now that he’s in plainclothes and when you see some of the guys in their Bermuda golf outfits. I guess the only real standout is that strange fedora of his. I know he wore the yarmulke under his cap when he was in uniform.

He’s been my partner for going on four years now, ever since he came into homicide. I’d come into homicide about a year before that and still hold the record for the quickest ascent ever because of a pretty spectacular piece of work concerning a bank robbery which was blind luck really and that was followed by another serendipitous event when I nailed a national fugitive that I spotted in a topless bar where I never would have been except for I was drinking a lot at the time. That was a dicey period for me and thanks to unknown fortune I kept that going only in the off hours until it just sort of dribbled away. It’s more than passing odd that I would have had all these career changing events just as I was about to slide off the short end of the pier. Why that was I don’t want to talk about right now. For whatever it’s worth, here I am now. If this is where my luck brought me today then I’m not sure what kind of luck it is.

Max is stereotype in appearance all the way, curly black hair, hooked Semitic nose, big brooding, melancholy eyes that watch you all the way. He’s 5’9” and goes about one fifty with all his clothes on. I like Max, he’s easy and he’s smart and he also saved my life. More than that, he never brings it up and doesn’t want to hear about it. He’s happily married to a diminutive woman named Sarah with magnetic brown eyes and a wonderful tumble of brown curls that ring her oval face. You can find her picture in the dictionary next to the word ‘sweet’. I’ve been to their house for dinner a few times but I try to avoid that. They’re a great family but I really don’t like the food. They’ve got two kids, a boy of ten named Hersh and a daughter who’s six named Esther. I feel like I’m in an old linotype photo when I go there to eat. They’re warm and friendly and all around good people but culturally miles away from anything I understand, especially when they break into that secret language as they are prone to now and again.

Two hours after Johnny didn’t make it home, officers were going round the neighborhood and tracking his movements. The only thing we found out was that he didn’t stop at the corner store for his after school candy bar so we knew something of the parameters in which he went missing.

It was two days later that we got a call from a ninety-three year old lady who spends every good weather day sitting in the window of her ground floor apartment. She’d seen it on the news and then called the police.

Ms. Ceauseziew told us that she had seen Johnny walking on the other side of the street when a...and I’m quoting here, “dark green 1998 Toyota 4runner with tinted windows” pulled up alongside him. Ms. Ceauseziew saw no action but when the 4runner pulled away there was no Johnny on the sidewalk. There was a ‘B’ and a ‘9’ in the license plate, which was from New York and the spare tire was in a silver metal case on the rear door. I hope I can see and remember things like that when I reach ninety-three, God willing.

Besides looking out of her window all day, Ms Ceauseziew watches cop shows along with every crime drama movie she can get from the local video store. She’s what we would call, ‘a trained observer’.

Max was still shaking his head a block away as we looked for further witnesses. “Only in New York.” he muttered. You might wonder why two homicide detectives were looking for a little boy who was only missing at the time but it’s our nature to pitch in when we can and our duties permit.

When we processed this information on the 4runner we found out that a similar vehicle had been seen before in two other locations where children had gone missing, one of them in Yonkers upstate. In the Yonkers disappearance someone has gotten a brief look at the driver. This time the details were not as specific as those provided by Ms. Ceauseziew. The man had brown or blond hair, was between thirty and fifty years old and may or may not have been wearing sunglasses. He may have been Spanish, or Italian, or Greek and he might have had a moustache, or maybe not. This made Max shake his head even more. “I can’t wait to get this guy in a line-up.” Max said. By now we more or less knew the kid was dead. In the last two months an eight-year-old Hispanic kid in Washington Heights and an eleven year old black kid from Brownsville had also turned up. Both of those bodies had been sexually molested and found in dumpsters. “I imagine there’s more than that.” Max had said. “They don’t always find the bodies in the trash.”

We got no leads on the 4runner and we looked at a lot of 4runners. Toyota is a very popular make and there were hundreds, thousands of 4runners out there and the plates could have been fake... of course.

Do I sound like a depressed personality? Doing what I do, living where I live, it comes with the territory. I want to get into something else but I’ve got this idea that I make a difference. I know that I do not make a difference and I think it is this lying to myself that causes the depression. I don’t want to face reality. Max tells me that reality is a personal construct and that reality is measured by its level of integration with the whole; not that that is really reality. He says there are millions of overlapping bubbles and that reality, morality, truth and every other relative intangible has meaning only in relation to its environment. Then he says that every environment you can imagine is present here. Then he goes on further to say that all of this is irrelevant in the larger sense since our environment, our sense of self and every focus of our attention is an illusion. Only God is real and the point of life is to discover that. So, if I weren’t depressed from the things I mentioned before, the shit Max tells me guarantees it. See, I’d said that I felt like I had no effect on anything, that nothing I did mattered and here comes Max to tell me, “as a matter of fact, you are correct Sir.”

I’m alone and often despondent and the world is getting crazier and less explainable every day. Take that 9/11 thing. If you work for the police department it didn’t take very long to figure out that this was not a terror attack planned and carried out by a small rag-tag group of Stone Age Arabs. Besides hearing the recordings of firemen who reported that the fires were all but out and couldn’t have caused the towers to fall, there’s the way the buildings fell and the fact that no skyscraper in history ever came down from a fire, much less two of them and another building that didn’t even get hit by anything. And no way do these buildings come down straight down and all at once and... shit, you don’t want to know. Most people don’t want to know... And if you talk about any of these things too loud where anyone can hear you; if you are a cop, well... let’s just say it’s not a good career move. But we all know. We all know this was some kind of an inside job. I met the guy who found Mohammed Atta’s passport on the street. Somehow it had fallen unharmed from the planes explosion into the side of the tower when nothing else survived. He didn’t want to talk about it. Nobody wants to talk about it. It’s going to happen again.

Besides our regular jobs we now have to be practicing brown-shirts in the interest of Homeland Security; report all suspicious behavior... in New York City? You got to be joking. Max is lucky. Max has God. Everything works out. Everything is perfect, according to Max. Everything is meaningful, nothing means anything. Everything is important and nothing is important; Zen and the art of Jewish police work with one hand clapping. It would usually piss me off to hear this kind of thing but for some reason it sounds funny when Max says it and somehow that puts it all into perspective, if that makes any sense. Max says you can either laugh about it or cry about it. We generally tend to laugh about it, though not today. There’s nothing funny about what we found today. It seems like every cop in all of the other divisions wants to work in Homicide. What do they think that consists of? “Go figure.” as Max would say.

Friday, May 16, 2008

The Whine; Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Being alone was a fine gift. I know for many, loneliness is a terrible state. Some fear it all their life. I have never understood this, because we are alone and one day, for all we know, we shall be alone forever. When I think of being alone I think of the stars twinkling in the sky. They are each of them alone, yet shining forth with a self-contained magnificence. It‘s what’s inside us that counts, just as it is in the stars. Those who seek fulfillment or completion in what is outside of them are lost and have missed the point of the whole affair.

I felt singularly blessed that early on I was left so often to myself. I won’t say that I didn’t like my parents. We just had nothing in common. I doubt that I was intended. I think I happened and only after I happened did it occur to my parents that they had neither the skills nor the vocation to raise a child. I suspect that my father took surgical steps following my birth to make sure that such a thing never occurred again. For the most part I was raised by my Japanese nurse, Honey. I expect that her real name sounded similar and it anglicized into Honey. When I was thirteen, Honey went back to Japan and she was replaced by a bonded weekly cleaning service. By this time my ability to take care of myself had surfaced and I was remanded into my own custody, so to speak. I missed Honey but like so many things I lost or never had, the feeling passed.

I imagine my parents said something like this, “Well, let’s just see how he goes. If there’s no problem, then there’s no problem and if there’s a problem we’ll deal with it then.” It’s how both of them talked. And I never did get into any trouble that got connected to me. My idea of a good time was to go to the library and travel in books. I also enjoyed sitting in public places and watching people or watching movies on TV. The human condition fascinated me. I’d always known that I was different and so I watched others to learn methods of conforming behavior. What I saw and what I wanted were seldom reflected in the perceptions and appetites of my associates. As time passed, I seldom watched movies; the observation of real life became more and more interesting.

There is a phenomenon that attends my work. It is something I do without planning or intention. It just happens. Once I have isolated the client in a secure environment, whether this involves physical transport or the certain knowledge that we will be undisturbed, there is a conversational exchange that takes place. This could be brief or it might occupy a significant length of time. Unfortunately, probably because of my demeanor, the client often assumes that there is a different conclusion in the offing than what is actually going to take place. Hope springs eternal...

Because I am more concentrated at the time on the exchange itself, I do not disabuse the client in respect of his wishful anticipation. Perhaps I think I will learn more from them if I allow for the clutching of straws. I admit to a certain curiosity in the information received but all the while, I am aware of something apart that is watchful and attentive to every word and gesture. Whatever it is, it is analyzing the process. It is prodding and probing to an end. It knows the subject with an intimacy beyond the subject’s capacity. Gradually it loosens and shifts, measures and weighs. I am reminded of a pathologist recording his findings and cataloguing the evidence. In some instances the work is remarkably similar, though in my case the subject is still alive.

Another interesting aspect is that during the exchange there will be noticeable variations in the pitch and volume of The Whine. Sometimes I feel as if I am about to grasp something, something very elusive. Then it slips from my mind like a wriggling fish. I can touch it, hold it for a moment and then it is gone. My personal relationship to all of this seems to be that of an uninformed medium. I wonder at this fact that I seem to play the priest before I am transformed into the executioner. After all of this time, my greatest sense is that someone other than me is listening in, that someone else is acting through. It is as if the entire drama were being staged for some unseen intelligence. It feels like I am like one of those court reporters who stare off into some personal distance while their hands are busy at the recording device. At times it seems that I am on television, performing for an audience that I will never see.

There are some small peculiarities to my physical form. I don’t know what, if anything, they have to do with my unusual state. There is a marked depression in the top center of my head. It is like something a thumb might make if pressed into a ripe piece of fruit. It is a very shallow indentation but palpable nonetheless. At about C-4 in the cervical area of my spinal column is a ridge of bone that sticks out from my neck for approximately half an inch. It is a half circle, about the same size as a quarter coin might be if it were buried in my spinal column. I can just feel a tough membrane of flesh in the center portion of it. I’ve never heard or read of anything like this and I’ve no clue at to what it means. The doctor said it was a harmless peculiarity which did not warrant removal. It’s never bothered me so I ignore it. Otherwise I’m pretty much like everyone else; in physical appearance that it.

Once Mr. Trent had departed on that day; the day of Mr. Trent’s permanent departure, I was in a state of extreme agitation. I thought that I might be going mad. I had taken two of my mother’s morphine tablets and eventually they served to partially detach me from the turbulence. It felt as if I was sitting on a cliff above a large waterfall. There was a constant surge of power and noise. At one point I could feel my mother inside me, more strongly that I ever had. It was uncanny. I was in the direct experience of her feminine nature. I could distinctly feel one of her many hats sitting atop my head. My mother was very fond of hats. And in that moment I could clearly hear her say, “That’s fine darling, I’m sure you look very nice.”

After the initial turmoil in my being there was a period of calm. I went to my fathers Rolodex where he kept the business cards. There I found Mr. Trent’s address. I wanted to arrange our meeting with a convenience for both of us. I knew that we would meet but not yet under what circumstances. All I knew was that ‘something must be done’. I knew too that the something was for me as well as for Mr. Trent. I had come of age and my work was to begin.

Having found the address, I sat again for a time at the kitchen table staring out at the gardens that stretched away toward the wood line. I knew that this was a major defining moment in my life. I had not yet consciously decided on a course of action. As I have said, much happens without thought on my part.

I sat at the table, drumming my fingers on the table top. Occasionally I would sigh as if releasing, by degrees, some long held attachment. As the minutes passed, my eyes moved over the familiar landscape. While this occurred, I had the sensation that there was no relationship between myself and anything objectively perceived. I felt altered within. It was as if the cognitive ‘I’ within me had been displaced by another mind, yet it was not uncomfortable.

While I was sitting there, I felt a hum begin in my balls. There was a crawling chicken-skin sensation as if low voltage electricity were moving over their surface. I could feel them contract and expand. They seemed like living things apart from me. Shortly the hum moved up into my navel area and then very slowly from there it moved to the center point at the top of my head. It felt like honey poured from a jar as it spilled back over me. The pitch and volume increased and I began to feel powerful contractions in my body. It reminded me of waking in the morning and the involuntary stretching that occurs as consciousness expands into the physical environment. I felt like a cat awakening from a nap. I rose to my feet. My biceps swelled. They felt pumped as they did after I had had a session with the weights. It would have been a supremely pleasant experience except for the constant presence of The Whine. At this time, in the initial experience, The Whine was a compelling, pressing force. Even with the morphine distance it was intense.

In times to follow, when I became more familiar with the process and The Whine had transformed more into an irresistible urge, rather than an insistent violation of space, I occasionally orgasmed in my pants due to the vibration passing through my scrotum. This passed too when I became more accustomed to the experience. I compare the vibration that attends the early onset of The Whine to that of a turbine operating at low RPM’s. I imagine a woman sitting on a washing machine during the spin cycle or with the handle of a vacuum cleaner pressed against her groin would have similar sensations.

My parents had given me a Jeep for my sixteenth birthday. Twenty minutes later I was at a payphone near a large reservoir, half a mile from Mr. Trent’s home. My every activity and accoutrement occurred and materialized by themselves. Everything manifested in spontaneity and in sequence. I did not know when I drove off in the Jeep where I would wind up. I did not know I was driving to call Mr. Trent. Prior to leaving my house I did not think about putting on the gardener’s rain gear and rubber boots. I did not anticipate taking the garbage bags and the dishwashing gloves. I did not comprehend the use to which I would put the chainsaw that went into a leather carryall. Something, someone, knew everything that would happen. I was nothing more than a manifest catalyst.

Let me paraphrase the conversation as best I remember it;

“Mr. Trent, it’s William. I have a problem that’s come up and I thought maybe you could help me with it.”

“Hiya Willie. What kind of a problem?” (Calling me Willie would have been reason enough for an ‘event’ were it not already out of my hands) Trent’s voice had a lubricious resonance due, no doubt, to the greater ration of post-work Trent’s Blend.

“This girl came over to my house. She seemed high on something. We came over here to the reservoir. She wanted to go. I guess she took some kind of drug or something. By the time we got here she was really high. She took off all of her clothes and is running around in there. I can’t get her to leave. She keeps screaming ‘fuck me’, I don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe you should fuck her, Willie.” Trent laughed at this and then had a spate of coughing.

“I’d rather do that at my house. She’s a nympho anyway.”

“A nympho huh?” I could feel the increase of interest and thoughts of possibility as they moved through Mr. Trent’s mind. “How old is this...girl?”

“I think she’s fifteen. I’ll pay you a hundred dollars if you help me catch her.”

“Hmmm, that sounds good Willie” Here Trent paused and I could hear him taking a sip from his drink. “Where you at?”

I gave Mr. Trent my location and told him I would be up the path maintaining contact with the girl. Once he saw the Jeep he’d know where I was. He agreed to come right out. I hung up and went to the location.

It was a crisp autumn day. The path was littered with falling leaves and the white skin of the birches danced with reflected sunlight and flitting shadows. It was coming on to dusk. I have always loved the forests. I love every aspect of nature, especially when revealed in an encompassing totality. There are mysteries there that forever elude the empty, incurious minds of the hoi polloi. The seashore and the desert, the mountains and brilliant wet jungles, all give me something I can get nowhere else except in dreams.

The reservoir area is occasionally frequented by fishermen and reservoir employees. Without a permit there is no access allowed and certainly no hunting. Still, I knew, as I always know, that I would not be disturbed.

I walked some distance into the woods and stopped near a broken bluestone wall through which the path continued. I took the saw from the carryall and laid it against the far side of the wall, along with the garbage bags. I felt no need to test it. It would start. The contraction of my muscles continued as I studied the landscape. I did not think of Trent or his pending arrival. I was hot in the rain suit. A thin sheen of moisture lay upon my forehead and drops of sweat ran down my ribcage. Several flies buzzed in a holding pattern around my head. I pulled on the gloves.

Trent arrived ten minutes after the call. He must have made haste. I was a couple hundred yards into the woods but I could clearly hear his truck as it pulled into the parking area below. I heard the door open and then the thunk of it closing. Mr. Trent was now on his way. In the few minutes that it took him to arrive not a single thought passed through my head. Finally, Trent came around a close stand of trees with his thermos in his hand. In the other hand was a coil of rope and an old blanket lay folded over the forearm. Perhaps he imagined that he might fuck her on it there in the woods? Who knows? Was the rope to compel her to come with us, or was it part of some other scenario?

If I had asked Trent, I expect he would have said the blanket was to cover the girl and the rope was in case she caused a struggle. I imagine Trent had no clear idea of what events might follow but only hoped for what opportunity might provide.

I will present the dialogue and action as I remember it. I realize that earlier I said something similar, using the word ‘paraphrase’ to describe my recounting of the phone call. In fact my memory is near eidetic. I can remember intricate detail from years past as if it had happened but a moment ago. I do not want to give the impression that I consider myself someone superior to the mass of general humanity. This is not because I give a damn what you may think of me personally but because it would not be accurate. I’m just different. The facts show this. I have never attributed my special abilities to myself. I truly believe some other intelligence comes alive in my consciousness in particular moments and that it is this consciousness that possesses the supernormal abilities that I seem to exercise. As I’ve said, it is in the hope that I might learn something more of the truth that I am writing this all down.

I waved to Mr. Trent and he lifted his thermos to me in a gesture of response. Soon he was before me.

“So Willie, where’s the girl, you lose her already?” Then he noticed the rain gear. “You expect rain?” Trent looked up at a patch of sky as if some clue might await him there. His face was flushed from the whiskey and the activity of his climb. The path upon which I stood runs steadily up hill to the stone wall where it evens out for a time before it gradually inclines down to the water.

“There is no girl Mr. Trent.” This comment did not compute for him. His brow furrowed as he attempted to get his mind around the possible implications of my statement. To Mr. Trent I was nothing more than a callow, over-privileged youth.

Trent squinted at me and took a sip from his thermos. “Whaddya mean there’s no girl? Where’s the girl?”

I replied, “There is no girl Mr. Trent, there is only me and you.”

Trent’s eyes grew sly. He had no clue really. I can imagine some of what he must have thought at this time. There were never more than a few avenues along which Trent’s mind might travel. “Well now, if there’s no girl then why did you get me up here?”

I nodded again as if it were a reasonable question and looked directly into Trent’s eyes. “I can’t tell you exactly why. I’m not sure myself. I know what is going to happen but I don’t know the actual reasons.

Trent’s self interest began to flower. I can imagine that he saw money, the opportunity to expand his circle of abuse, the potential for control. His face began to take on that aspect that I envision the traders had when they brought the Indians blankets; disease, whiskey and death. Now it was Trent’s turn to nod his head. “You want to tell me then what it is that you need and how come you’re dressed up in that outfit?”

No way was Trent going to say anything provocative until he had a clear handle on the situation. He took another long sip from his thermos and stood there, licking the moisture from his lips.

“I don’t know why it is me that has to do it. I can see that it has to be done and I know that I am going to have to do it even if I don’t understand it.” The Whine had climbed to a terrific pitch now and I could feel my body trembling under the vibration. “I feel like there should be something more before it happens but I don’t know what that is right now. You are going to have to die Mr. Trent. If there is anything you want to say or do you should do it now.”

Well...this is surely not what Trent expected to hear. First his mouth made an O of surprise. He started to speak and then could not think of a fitting reply. The confusion on his face slowly turned to anger. He walked closer to me and glared at me from his pig eyes. “Let’s see if I have this right. You are going to kill me? Some little faggot in a rain suit is going to kill ME?” This last was punctuated with a short jab of his index finger into my chest.

Trent continued to poke my chest with his finger, working himself up into a state of wrath. I could imagine this was a common sight for his wife and children. Mr. Trent, though he outweighed me by twenty pounds came up only to my chin and for a moment I was struck by the ludicrous image of someone staring upward at the person they were seeking to intimidate. However, Mr. Trent was a powerfully built man and I am sure that in his mind I could be dispatched with very little difficulty.

I grasped the offending finger and snapped it. This turnabout surprised Mr. Trent perhaps more than anything else in his life until now. Once again there was this mute O that his mouth made. This time though, sound very quickly followed after as Mr. Trent howled at what was apparently a very painful experience. He hopped away from me, holding his injured hand in the air with his other hand and cursing me with a great intensity.

“Well.” I said, “Let’s get on with it then.” I walked toward the wall and picked up the chainsaw. Despite his pain this got Trent’s attention.

“What are you crazy?” He screamed. “Why are you doing this?” Trent began to back up significantly, as I suspect so would anyone in his position. His eyes were darting to all sides. It was apparent that he would soon begin to run.

I pointed the saw blade to the sky and pulled the cord. The chainsaw leapt instantly into life and the sound of it melted into harmony with the whine in my head. The smell of fired gas pushed the sweetness of the forest air into retreat. It was then I felt that concentrated, focused anger that became a trademark of all the events to come. Although I was not myself angry, I could feel that ‘someone’ most certainly was. I closed my eyes to a red pulsing darkness. I opened them and there was a shimmering red haze in the air. It was as if the anger were both inside and outside me at the same time. The anger found Mr. Trent and he turned and ran down the path as if his life depended on it, which it surely did.

I went after him then, the chainsaw at port arms, its pitch rising and falling as my finger reflexively pulled at the trigger. Soon, without a great deal of effort, I was directly behind Trent. I waited until he turned his head and then dropped the saw end and neatly clipped the Achilles tendon on his left leg. Trent tumbled to the ground and rolled to a stop, his hands clutching at his wound.

Terror, confusion and pain warred upon his features as he sought to staunch the flow of blood from his leg. “Please! Please! Why?” he screamed.

I looked down at Trent and said “I told you, I don’t know why exactly, I expect it has to do with the suffering you cause and the noise in my head.”

“What noise?” Trent cried. Tears flowed freely down his face, his features contorted in agony. I did not know how to respond further in conversation. The chainsaw revved and I set about doing what I was meant to do...a thorough job.

It proved to be a very good thing, wearing the raingear and the gloves. It became a very messy business. I now understood the purpose of the garbage bags that I had brought. I stood there for a few moments and studied this newly arranged Mr. Trent and had my first premonition of a coming intrusion.

Quickly I placed the raingear, the gloves and rubber boots into one garbage bag and the chainsaw into another. Then I placed both bags into the carryall. I returned to the Jeep, tossed the bag into the back seat and drove away. A quarter of a mile down the road I passed a speeding reservoir patrol car headed in the direction I had come. I expect you cannot operate a chainsaw for very long on reservoir property. The sound does carry. The whine in my head was gone.

On my return home I meticulously cleaned everything and returned them to their places. Shortly afterwards I was once again sitting at the kitchen table. I gave a long sigh and then noticed my fingers tapping once again upon the table. It was just as it had been before the event. It was almost as if the event had never taken place.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

The Whine; Chapter Two

Chapter Two

The first person I killed was a plumber who worked at our house. My family home was a secluded estate in the northeast. When there was a problem with the plumbing we called Mr. Trent. This wasn’t his real name but it will do for the purposes of the story. I saw him maybe half a dozen times before the event. Often his wife would be left sitting in the truck that was parked in our driveway, sometimes with a couple of children in the back.

My parents were away a great deal, especially as I grew older. As I grew older and more capable, when something needed to be done around the house, it was often me who arranged for it from a list that my father had placed on the wall by the phone in the kitchen. When it was a plumbing matter I called Mr. Trent. It never occurred to me to call someone else. His was the number by the phone. I was ten years old when I first saw Mr. Trent and sixteen when I killed him.

My parents loved to travel, also on inherited money. Our family had originally migrated to America on one of the early Pilgrim ships. There was a good amount of money that came available through assorted trusts of long standing. Once I became able to handle the ordinary responsibilities of the home my parents took it as a sign that they might travel at will. I would say that a good portion of my life from the age of fourteen onward was spent alone. There were initial checks from associates of my father but afterwards these became increasingly less frequent.

During his visits Mr. Trent would share with me his insights on life; The World According to Mr. Trent. You can go into any neighborhood in the world and find you a Mr. Trent. They come in all shapes and sizes and represent all economic classes. The Mr. Trents of the world know all there is to know about the niggers and the Jews and the spics and the slants and an awful lot about faggots and dykes. Mr. Trent had a master’s degree in the subject of a woman’s place and knew the necessary steps to take in order to maintain it. Mr. Trent also had a clear and definite knowledge and command of the subject and application of child rearing; simple, direct and effective. While sharing his views with me he would often add in conclusion, “Well, you’re young and haven’t seen anything yet but later you’ll see what I’m talking about.”

Amidst the clanging of wrenches, Mr. Trent would punctuate his tales and teachings with regular sips from an old metal thermos whose contents were referred to as ‘Trent’s Blend’. The occasional wafting aroma indicated that Trend’s Blend was composed of whiskey and coffee. I had these occasions to be with Mr. Trent (or whomever might be doing work at the house) as a defense against theft. Our home was filled with many precious things that my parents valued. I suspect Mr. Trent might have known why I was present during his visits but it never became the subject of conversation.

On most of the occasions when I saw Mr. Trent he was in some stage of intoxication. He was a short, squat, burly man with a round, flat face. He possessed a broken nose and mean little eyes that were always darting about. They mostly looked toward you but seldom at you. He had powerful shoulders and arms. His head sat like an off balanced pumpkin on very little neck. He had dark curly hair crawling everywhere except on his head.

When I saw Mrs. Trent I saw a sad, disappointed woman with downcast frightened eyes. Once I took her something to drink and found that half her face was a purple bruise. On another occasion I saw a young boy with angry welts traced up his arms and bloodstains on his Snoopy shirt. Mr. Trent had obviously been about his instructions.

Trent would often observe me when he was sure that my attention was elsewhere. Even at that age I always knew when someone was looking at me. I could feel it the way you could feel someone touch you on the shoulder. He had that sly cunning of the emboldened alcoholic. He was a man false to the core, offering a fraudulent aura of kinship although he resented and despised you. I could see him as a classic footpad from some centuries past, always quick with a “Yes your worship.” bound by a certainty of ways and incidents toward the gaol and the gallows.

I know what Trent thought of me. He thought of me as a rich kid faggot. I dressed too well. I was always alone. “How come you don’t have any girlfriends around this place? This place is a guaranteed pussy magnet. You like girls no?”

“My girlfriend is away at school. Sometimes she comes home for the weekend.” In fact I had no girlfriend at the time but I wasn’t going to tell Mr. Trent that. My solitary nature made the act of having a girlfriend a difficult venture. I did not socialize much. I read books. I didn’t know at that time that I was a telepath. I just felt uneasy around people. Later a great deal was clarified in that regard and once I had perceived what was taking place I was able to tune this power quite a bit.

At that time I would often be filled with an insane rage that would overtake me like a sandstorm in the desert, blinding me while it howled through my body. I remember standing in the train station in Baltimore. I was standing in line, waiting to purchase my ticket. My suitcase was in my hand. Suddenly a red haze enveloped me. It felt as if my body had caught fire. I recall that the old woman who had been standing behind me asked if I was all right. I am very grateful that, until I gained control of this feeling, there had never been a public acting out. I’m grateful that in the first events I was unobserved and left no trail. Later when I was storing my suitcase in the overhead rack I saw the imprint of my grip, deep and clear upon the metal handle.

As time passed I learned that these fits came about through telepathic invasion. The airwaves of the world are filled with hateful messages and energies moving through the slipstreams of consciousness. Our minds are like airports from which planes arrive and depart twenty-four hours a day. Before I had an air traffic controller in place I was subject to anything that wanted to land. I should go into this a little. First, there are all the thoughts that are moving about at any one time. Some of these are old thoughts and some are quite large and have the energy of a great many people attached to them. This energy is supplied from the subconscious where our racial, national and sexual fears are located. They feed our prejudices and apprehensions; often we are unaware of them. Even though they do not originate with us we can make them our own through identifying with them. They are always around.

There are the thoughts that are generated each day by aggregate humanity; judgments made on appearances, reactions to situations, personal attractions and repulsions, thoughts generated by appetite as well as daydreams.

There are high and noble thoughts that radiate from an archetypal location in the human psyche. I believe these are the result of beings from a higher plane or the results of inspiring art, philosophy and religion.

There are agenda driven thoughts that are broadcast consciously toward the control of humanity by certain cabals. These thoughts are also mirrored in the media controlled by these cabals. I have been very general and brief here. There is a great deal more to all of this but I plan to return to the subject now and again.

Before I had control of what came into my mind certain thoughts would enter at will and set off a terrifying reaction. That is how I understand it. Once I became aware of what was happening, some amount of discipline came into play. The thing I cannot control is my reaction to this high thin whine; the astral dental drill that tells me someone is causing Suffering. When I capitalize ‘Suffering’ I am referring to something more specific than the ‘suffering’ in which everyone has a part. ‘Suffering’ is the result of one individual’s efforts to make one, or many people, suffer as much as is possible. I mentioned ‘the cabals’ who broadcast specific thoughts to specific ends. The whine caused by them is greater than any other. One of the chief proponents of this is a New York banker who is associated with a former high-level politician. I’m going to get them. But it won’t happen until the whine tells me to.

Early on I was often the victim of violent thought. A great many of the violent actions that occur in the day-to-day are caused by these thoughts entering the unwitting and provoking them toward an end. This is amplified when that person is drunk, otherwise aberrated or already in the mood from some prior event. You would be most surprised to learn how often this ‘hijacking’ occurs.

Finally, by an intuition, I obtained a Navy watch cap. I made a composition from pencil lead and aluminum solution. I soaked the cap in it and when I put it on my head, the loud rush of voices, as perceptible to me as the sounds of a subway station at rush hour, were diminished by a factor of ten. This was a great help to me until I was able to insulate my mind from the inside. It was the practice of certain meditations taken from Eastern thought that have made my journey more bearable. Even so, some places are always hard for me to enter. In this regard, The Whine always prevails.

The cry of Suffering transforms me into a homing pigeon. I cannot fight it. I have no control over this driving instinct. I will suddenly find myself on some beltway outside of a large metropolitan area being drawn into the cauldron or on a country road following my personal GPS. I will often not remember how I came to be there or the steps through which I passed.

It is fascinating to me how I can be steered through thousands of voices, some of whom I can feel are also worthy of a visit. But I am drawn past them all to the door of my appointed client. By now it seems increasingly clear that there must be an intelligence that routes my way. Why these specific individuals? I have happened upon some who are surely deserving of a transition from this plane but the whine that I hear does not speak of them. Within this sound that I hear is a video-like stream of images that tell me what has been and what should be. I have found myself stopping at a hardware store, or a sporting goods shop to procure the tools necessary for the particular client, doing it all without calculation or thought.

I call it a ‘whine’. It is like a hum too. It begins at a low register. I feel warmth in the area of my groin. As it moves up my body to the back of my head the pitch steadily increases. It is like a police siren winding up, with the exception that when it reaches its height it remains. I know that place well by now. It is at that point that I park my car, or get off the bus, or pause in my stride to look about me, knowing that I am there.

Perhaps you have thought at this point that it seems careless of me to purchase a weapon in the area where I do my work. When I am inside The Whine, when The Whine is inside of me, it seems to affect my appearance. It makes it hard for people to look at me. It scrambles ordinary memory. It alters perception. I have seen the composites that went around after I had finished with someone. No, I don’t need to worry about that. I’m on a mission for a higher good. Someone has got to take out the trash. Whoever it is that made me the way I am has got some ‘juice’ at the level I need it. My papers are in order so to speak.

On the day that I saw Mrs. Trent’s face I experienced one of my fits. I had no reaction when I saw the little boy, though it was this latter event that triggered my visit with Mr. Trent. I should clarify at this point that rarely have I been motivated by outrage or compassion for the victims, even though my work would indeed remove the cause of their unhappiness. I don’t care about the victims per se. Until recently I’ve never really felt compassion, or pity, or empathy. I have an idea of what they are but I don’t understand the need for them. They seem to be an unnecessary luxury (if you want to call it that) that inevitably leads to entanglement and vulnerability; just like Love and a generous nature. All of these feminine emotions seem to wind up costing more than I would ever want to give. Just the exposure they would create seems suicidal. Life is chemical science and no skilled practitioner will grow attached to what guarantees a loss of objectivity. In this regard I have been a strict empiricist.

The human animal has this innate weakness, a need for companionship. Biological needs I can deal with and companionship is always available. People exist as types. Once you know the type that works for you, you can pick them out of a crowd. Any one of them is more or less like all of the rest. Have your companionship, talk about the big game, the political situation, compare backgrounds (I have any number of them on call) and become intimate if the need is there and then go your way. The more time you spend with anyone, the more your subconscious mind interweaves with theirs. Eventually they gain, or insist on the freedom to make demands, require assurances of comfort and generally come to see you as an extension of them, thereby becoming both a liability and a pain in the ass at the same time.

I’ve learned that you must gain detachment from yourself and needless empathy for others; become totally objective. Look at everything. I’ve been through Freud and Reich and the rest. I’ve got enough forensic background and psychiatric inquiry to teach the subject. I’ve seen what would satisfy the present day practitioner for an explanation, while realizing those explanations do not apply here. On the other hand there is the telepathy, The Whine, and the physical power. I’ve checked them out, rigorously field-stripped and reassembled them (metaphorically speaking) and they are just what they are. They are not ‘hearing voices’, they are not auditory hallucinations and they are not a hormonal anomaly. They just are. I’m open to the truth. I believe I will find it one day. I think it is in the resolution of my tasks.

There is this enormous pressure that builds and builds. I wouldn’t say that it is entirely unpleasant but I have no choice except to relieve it just like a schoolboy must masturbate to free his mind of the memory of a girl’s pretty legs and the awesome, imagined mystery at their joining. Unlike the schoolboy, I don’t feel any following guilt. If anything, I feel mystically cleansed and deliciously empty. Emptiness is as close to complete happiness as I have ever been. I don’t seek happiness; I just act. I am seldom happy or unhappy. I am generally ‘somewhere’ in the process of the events. But after an event, not only is the whine of the beacon stilled but all of the other voices and the background hum as well. Usually my mind has the continuous resonance of a low-key cocktail party or a theater lobby; the county fair as heard from a distant parking lot. Aside from the occasional brief distinctive voice, it is mostly unintelligible chatter.

I often carry a small antenna in my hand that I constructed myself. This has proved very useful for gathering the energy that buffets about me. I have a technique that winds the energy around the antenna the way a diner spins his forkful of pasta in a spoon. Then I can discharge it into the ground, or process it for another application. The background hum, after this brief respite, returns again and sits at its waiting level, until it begins to build again, until the cycle is complete once more.

When I saw the little boy with the welts I had an epiphany. I was struck down on the road to Damascus. I saw that if I should remove the source of this boy’s pain that the rage in me would leave or be transformed. I knew that this would be so. When I saw the boy was the first time that The Whine came to me. I had no idea of its origin. A door opened in my mind and I saw through and into a place that I had not seen before. Trent was there, vibrating as a form of energy. I could clearly make him out even though there were these muddy colors flashing and pulsing all around him. I knew then that this terrible whine was coming from Trent. Trent and The Whine were inseparable and to silence The Whine, Trent must be silenced too. Early on, the experience of The Whine was very uncomfortable. It caused me an almost unbearable dis-ease and I was often barely in control of myself. It took some doing to bring it all into a manageable state.

I remember running to my mothers’ bathroom and grabbing a bottle of morphine tablets that she kept there along with a host of other analgesic exotica. My mother had a friendly doctor. I think it very possible that she was sleeping with him. He provided her with all that was possible for him; Tylox, Demerol, Percocets and other things. I expect that she was addicted to some or all of them but since she managed never to over-medicate herself and since supply was never a problem she never had to deal with its absence. There wasn’t a problem, unless you count the sense of distance that showed itself in her manner and communications. I didn’t. Distance for me was always a good thing and I am grateful that my mother’s emotional and chemical state and my father’s preoccupation with finance precluded the usual intimacies.

My parents and I seemed to be moving in different directions at all times. Yet none of us ever seemed concerned by it or even remarked upon it. If was as if we were on entirely different planets but due to a dimensional warp we were able to see and to speak across the distance. Ninety percent of everything I remember my mother ever saying to me consisted of some variation of, “How are you?” “That sounds wonderful, I’m sure you’ll do fine.” Or “now if you need anything or if anything comes up you call us at this number.” We never once had a discussion of any depth.

My father would ask about school or sports. He might ask if I had enough money. On rare occasions, emboldened by a quantity of unblended Scotch he would share certain mysteries of the world of money, until a phone call, or a visitor or my mother took the space.

I am certain now that my parents were grateful for my independent ways, grateful that I seldom had any questions and for the distance in me that matched their own. Because I was never inconvenient for them they were more than content to leave well enough alone.

Monday, May 12, 2008

The Whine; Chapter One

Without a great deal of ado I give you Chapter One of “The Whine”. Feel free to offer me your commentary on whatever you may feel compelled to discourse upon. Begging your indulgence:



The Whine; Chapter One

I’m going to tell my story, for myself or for someone as yet unknown; just let it come out how it wants to. It won’t be the whole story. Telling the whole story is not possible. No one could tell the whole story. No one knows the whole story about anything. Just imagine trying to describe even the moment you are in. Immediately there are things that would be beyond the reach of words. Then, if you were to describe the objects around you, if you were in a room, it might then occur to you that each object had its own story; a personal history. You would soon be out of your depth before you have even gotten to yourself and the myriad connections in space and time that are as defining as your appearance and actions. Even if the story took place in your mind, the entire world would still be there. No, we can tell only parts of the story and let the imagination do the rest.

Life and its presentations are enormously complicated. A host of mental disorders are spawned from a preoccupation with minutiae. You have to concentrate on the point you are trying to make. I’m not Proust, dipping biscuits in tea.

I’ve got some time on my hands. Unless I hear The Whine, I’ve no responsibilities of any kind. This does give me a unique freedom denied to many. In telling my story I hope to understand it better. Should it reach other people it will soon be of interest in the wider world as well. This kind of story has all the elements that generate interest in the wasteland of unexamined lives. And there are so very, very many of you. Never have there been as many of you as there are now.

I will write this with the idea that someone else is listening in or perhaps will soon read it. I have the sense that this will happen. It makes it more of a confessional and suits my purposes, as much as I understand them, better than another format.

Soon, after you have some idea of what I have been up to, you may think that I had best be careful about the possible physical evidence of what I write down; the possibility that I can be traced or identified by events or locations. I’ve no worries on that account. I will be general where I have to and specific when I can and I don’t think it would matter much even if I were known because I have never been known. The mask is seen but the real face is hidden; hidden even from myself. I don’t anticipate exposure. I am private and careful; private by nature and careful without thought. Often it seems as if some other intelligence is on hand to guide me in my actions. I am reminded of so much that might have gone forgotten in the critical moments.

Over time I have gained some small control over The Whine but I do not know its origin. I have learned to surf it like a storm-fed Hawaiian wave. It has become easier over the course of opportunity. Have you ever been enraged beyond control or driven by purpose so focused and powerful that there was no possibility for reflection except in the aftermath? Can you imagine what it is like to host something so powerful and encompassing that you are nothing more than a witness to its efforts within you and upon the outer world? I know well of the compulsions in others and the arcane manner in which these forces travel through strange humors and intoxications into terrible combustions. I have studied these things first hand and seen things that neither you nor intelligent professionals have ever seen. Professionals witness the aftermath. They study the evidence but they have not seen the thing in process. I have seen it directly and from a distance within. I have looked at the face of nightmare and watched the awful rage and the surgical detachment. I know how it is with them.

It could appear to some that with this manuscript I am seeking celebrity for my actions. I am no Jack the Ripper. I simply feel the need to tell my end of it now. It is curious because I have never felt this before. What has until now impacted only upon the lives of certain individuals and those that they might have harmed, is now going to impact upon the wider world. The end result may in some way change the life of everyone now living in one way or another. Some record of the truth should exist along side the speculation and myth that is sure to follow.

Ironically speaking, there’s that chance that someone will know what it is I am dealing with and clear it all up by posting something on The Net. Sure, “wish in one hand and shit in the other” as they say. Maybe that which impels me to act in my fashion, now also impels me to do this. It may be some factor in a wider purpose. Call it a confession. Call it what you will.

I’m not after fame or notoriety. I already have that. Even though no one knows that it’s me. I’m making an impact in the right circles. Telling my story is really about catharsis and clarity. A part of me feels like I will understand so much more once the story has played through other minds. I feel there is a telepathy that links the human race. There is a greater summing up as our individual thoughts add to the collective body. I can tap into that. I am very good at tapping into things. The impact of these thoughts can only do me good; can only help me to a greater understanding. I’m not in conflict about any of it. I’m not at war against some greater driving impulse. I go willingly enough without regard or regret. It’s just that I don’t know why. I don’t know if I’m reading everything accurately. It feels like something I’m supposed to do. At the heart of this is my need to know. I have never understood what has happened; is happening. I see the good of it, even though uninformed moralists may not agree. But I do not know who I am. I do not know why it is me who was chosen. I would like to know these things. That knowledge will not compromise my participation.

When he was asked about his music once (I don’t remember the context now), John Lennon said, “I’m a musician. I could bang two trashcan lids together and make music. It’s what I do.”

What I do is kill people, all kinds of people. I have killed men and women, old and young, rich and poor, all this without regard for race, creed or national origin. I’ve killed a musician; a farmer, business people, lawyers, a preacher, a multi-level marketer, a butcher and a baker (but no Indian chief, so far) a politician, a pimp, a biker, an infomercialist, a landlord and a plumber. Surprisingly I have killed no banker yet but there is one on the list. This particular banker and his sidekick are often on my mind Sometimes it seems as if I live their lives and the lives of their associates as much as I live my own; what little I have in the way of a personal life.

I’ll get to them when The Whine tells me to. I make the present count at 36. This is my first effort at recording any of it so we have to trust to the power of my memory which, if I say so myself, is much better than average. All the people I have killed shared one thing in common, something, someone, didn’t like them and they deserved to die. This involved an application of that Texas standard; “the sumbitch needed killing” law. Though not an actual law, it does exist and has been accepted and applied on various occasions. Some would say that was a feature of the Kennedy assassination.

Right about here I can feel certain minds saying, “What gives you the right to determine whether someone should die?” That’s a fair question. Something or someone gives me the right and since I in fact do carry it out then I must, in fact, possess that right. Is this not so?

This all comes back to the fact that it is impossible to tell the whole story about anyone or anything. Trust me on this, if you knew what I knew, if you were as compelled as I am, I do not think we would be all that dissimilar. Because you were not chosen to do these works, a great deal may seem foreign to you. Wait until I am done before you render your verdict. Let me add, in addition, that though events and personal claims of ability may seem outrageous and unbelievable, they are all true and stated without embellishment or taint of pride in respect of them. I am simply recording.

These were not good people. Most of them I did not meet until our only meeting, but, on occasion, I observed them from afar, within the theater of my mind and sometimes in dreams. You may think my responses, in any case, were a supreme over-reaction. There is a great deal more to me and my process of selection than can be so simplistically dismissed. If I killed all the people who provoked occasional dislike and annoyance in me the number would be much higher. I’m not a big fan of the human race. I hope to go into that at some point in my tale.

Let me just say for now that all of the people I killed were either devoted toward causing Suffering in others or well on their way to being so. These people generated Suffering. Suffering, like Happiness, has an infectious quality. It spreads. I can feel Suffering. I can see Suffering. Often the aura of Suffering will pulse like an envelope over a small town as I pull into it. I possess perceptions that would be called paranormal. I often know what people are thinking. I know when someone is approaching my location, well before I can hear them normally and regardless of their intention. A psychiatrist would look at this and diagnose some form of paranoid schizophrenia. Sure. However, the “proof is in the pudding”. I am still moving freely about and have avoided confrontation and possible capture many times.

I see as I continue that my narrative skills are not technically precise. I have a tendency to wander. I am not a professional writer. I ask you to be forgiving of my limitations in this area. I will do my best.

Suffering affects me in the same way that some people are affected by a set of fingernails dragging down the surface of a blackboard. I can enter some larger communities only through a great concentration of Will. Luckily that concentration is not my own. I feel the tension of the personal against the greater impetus by degrees. I wonder if some part of me fights against my actions and the pressing of The Whine. When I have located and dispatched a specific source of Suffering (for which I was sent), the subsequent change in atmosphere is wonderful, overwhelming really. I feel sometimes as if a soft summer rain were misting and falling all around me. I notice a lightness of step and mood in the people I pass on my exit. There is a definite sea change. I am of the opinion that I do good and necessary work.

I’m rich, well off from inherited money; not super rich but the kind of rich where I can go anywhere I want and stay as long as I like. I can’t maintain a string of luxury houses and boats and planes and retainers but I don’t want any of these things. I’ve got some toys and I can travel first class. I don’t live conspicuously by nature or design. Personality wise I am a very adaptive sort, easily integrative into the local coloration. I can wear a suit. I can go about in jeans and sneakers. I automatically adapt myself to the level of my company. My early drama training and ability as a mimic come to the fore on demand. In all honesty I have to say that I don’t feel any different acting out or being myself. I don’t know who ‘myself’ is anyway. Is it me in the day to day or me on a mission? Once again, it doesn’t trouble me. I’m comfortable in my skin. I don’t know why things are the way they are, why I am the way I am... but who does?

Physically I am a little over six feet tall and weigh right at one hundred and ninety pounds. At the moment I am halfway through my forty-first year. I’ve been told I look like Keanu Reeves. I imagine this appearance of vulnerability serves me well. People don’t run from me, though later they may have wished they had. Women like me. I think they get the impression that I’m a decent sort. I am a decent sort. Outside of my work I would say that I am pleasant and easy to be with. I’ve been told that I have an appealing and ironic wit. Now I am smiling.

I look like one of ten thousand men on the streets of any city or town. Besides the mental (psychic?) abilities, I do have one other characteristic; I am very physically powerful and I can move very, very fast. It seems like I have a more direct connection to the atavistic self than most people. I’ve noticed something similar in the men of the South Pacific islands. They are not much removed in time from the primitive life and I think that accounts for it. I don’t know how to account for myself. I work out. I stay in shape with the martial arts as well as rock climbing and hiking into the wilds but that does not account for the strength. I can rip a quarter in half and lift the front end of a car off the ground. Quite possibly I could lift the car entire off of the ground. There seems to always be more strength than what I actually use. This isn’t something that only comes about when I work. I can do it any time so it’s not some sort of psychophysical, adrenalin thing.

One time I threw a bowling ball through a living room wall and it had to pass through someone’s head on the way. Sexually I have remarkable stamina. Well, strength and stamina are not the same thing but I have no doubt there’s a connection. I don’t seem to lose vitality even though my interest is often less than I would suppose it is in another. Maybe that is the key. Sometimes it seems I am doing it the same way that a child will sit rocking in a chair for hours. I’m just doing it because I’m doing it. I don’t like orgasms and I rarely have them. Usually when I cum it is in my dreams and I am with someone fairer than anyone I have known in this life. In my dreams I meet many people in a great intimacy of heart and mind. Then I wake up and I am here again. Moments before there had been a closeness that only long association and a special sympathy could provide. My actual life is nothing like that.


As I have already stated, I’m not troubled by what I do but I often wonder if I’m not missing some basic human quality. Other people don’t follow an unpleasant whine that ends in what could be called murder. I know there are people that kill professionally. I’ve often wondered what they might have done without the official sanction of their work. I am here referring to soldiers and others in some line of government employ.


For years I’ve been a serious practitioner of meditation along Zen Buddhist lines. Now I can hear someone saying, “Don’t the Buddhist’s subscribe to a non-violent harmlessness toward all creatures?” Yes they do. And didn’t I say, “Along Zen Buddhist lines?” I doubt that most of the people who read this have spent anywhere near the time that I have in the study of Eastern philosophy. If so, you would find that there are exceptions to everything and that ‘everything’ is included.

I consider myself in line with that certain aspect of the Eightfold Path that refers to following a ‘right livelihood’. I believe that whatever you were meant to be is what you were meant to be; not so much that we are all fixed in fate but more as if what we are is what we chose to be for a specific reason across the course of a great distance in time and determined long before we got here. I also think that you should be the very best you can at whatever you are. I think there is a redeeming feature in dedication, even if it concerns actions considered evil by the larger body of humanity.

I think most people are doing something besides what they really want to do. This comes about through familial and social pressure. Fear and confusion also play a part. Conditioning accounts for most of what most of us are. Most people are cowards in search of a safe harbor. Because they are not engaged in their true Dharma they slowly eat themselves up from the inside. You should be the best at what you do. I am. I am the very best killer I can be. I think of myself as a sort of cosmic policeman, a soldier on unusual assignment, cut off and alone from the greater body of troops but driven by duty to the success of his commission. A large number of people, especially the people of today, hold soldiers in contempt. The soldier often gives his life for people who would rather not know what he was about. I am reminded of Kipling’s poem “Tommy”.

Well, there is a lot of dark and dangerous work on this planet and all the people who do it are not heroes but some of them are. And they are heroes all the more since their work may never be known, understood or appreciated.

I believe that I am a warrior on special assignment. My superiors know and approve because they know all the whys and wherefores of its ultimate value. The man in the street doesn’t know shit. In the Bhagavad-Gita, Krishna says “there is nothing better for a warrior than a righteous war.” So I think of myself as an honorable warrior, a man of Bushido, in a private and very necessary war.

Monday, May 05, 2008

Jesus Love Me even if I am a Fat Pig

In the New Testament there is a quote that says “Enter ye in at the strait gate: for wide is the gate, and broad is the way, that leadeth to destruction, and many there be which go in thereat:” ...while thinking about this, it seems to me it once said something about entering at the narrow gate and the fact that there were few who found it but that could well be my projection or something said by someone else that was taken from it.

I once saw a cartoon that had two bookstores side by side. They each had a sign. One sign said, “Great books that will improve your mind and your life.” The other said, “Cheap and trivial crap for the masses.” There was a huge line in front of that store and no one in front of the other.

Tangentially, Disney is all concerned about Miley Cyrus showing some skin because Disney is all about family values; until you start looking at Disney behind the scenes. They refused to distribute Fahrenheit 911 and Disney has been up to much worse in the last few decades than sponsoring the twit offspring of an “Achy Breaky Heart” who offered up a glimpse of something that is already on sale with all its parts and levels. Whoring is the name of the game and whether you’re talking about Janet Jackson’s fashion accident, the musical accidents of the Mousketeers or the accidental coincidence of the violent rap they manufacture to counterpoint the high fructose content of the other, you’re talking about hypocrisy and profit and souls and flesh for sale.

Life has become a science fiction movie with H.P. Lovecraft overtones. It is as if a living darkness is winding up out of the factories and corporations, the schools and the entertainment complexes and moving into the sewers and subway systems until it comes through the ventilators, up over the airwaves, weaving into fantastic sounds and shapes; never fixed and ever changing. It is always saying two things at once. It is hungry and filled with a hot, black fire that eats its surroundings and then shits out stranger and stranger environments that become the new normal because it’s everywhere you look and everything you hear. It’s all Chthulu, winding like endless pasta around a pitchfork in the hands of a devil with a thousand hands and five hundred heads and it’s all the same thing.

In The Bible they call this thing ‘Legion’.

Yes, Disney Corp. is a lying many-headed, cold blooded industry with jibbering, cute cartoon characters that want us all to live in a safe, clean Wonder Bread world. It’s a safe clean Christian world too. In the Christian world all you have to do is ‘be saved’. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you’ve done and it doesn’t even matter what you do as long as it fits the schematic of the organization as its tenants have been translated by whoever is fronting for it. One born again Christian can even laugh about the execution of another born again Christian whose fate he controlled; g.w.b. mocked Karla Faye Tucker and that’s cool with Jesus too.

This may be why you see so many fundamentalist Christians wearing Wide Load Jeans and having to pay for two airline seats to fly from Mobile to Fresno. Once you’ve been saved you can eat as if it were breathing and all of that quivering Jello will smother and muffle the sexual fire that is a big, bad no, no... Yes, once you know that Jesus loves you then you can work that fork and spoon until you look like the Michelin Tire Man and float right on up to Heaven with The Pillsbury Doughboy; Reverend Hagee ...and dance among the stars with the lady from “Jesus Camp.”

Once you’ve been saved you can eat anything and become eligible for your own zip code. Once you’ve been saved, you can clearly see all of the people that are going to Hell. You can take anything in The Bible and translate it to mean anything that you want because you are saved. Being saved opens your eyes to a whole new world where you believe everything you are told as long as it is coming from someone else who is saved.

You can look right at the world and see it for what it is. Imagine that the world is a transvestite, like that guy from The Rocky Horror Picture Show. Imagine that he’s wearing a great big crucifix. He’s all gothed out and wearing a tight skirt that’s slit up to the crotch. He’s got two heads. One of them looks like Marilyn Manson and the other one looks like Halley Mills as Pollyanna. She’s got her tongue running over her lips. She’s on the left hand side and the left hand is holding a semi-hard cock that sticks out of the slit. On the other side Manson is giving you a stern look and wagging the index finger of the right hand in the “No, no.” way that your mom might have done when you were five years old. That’s the world and that’s Christianity too.

In the world of the saved Christian, Rush Limbaugh can demand that drug users get the death penalty and then get caught trafficking in massive amounts of Oxycodone for his personal use and where all sorts of doctor fraud was also present and it’s perfectly reasonable and alright. Bill Bennett can talk about the moral high ground and gamble away millions in Las Vegas. Jesus is down with that. Christian ministers and Republican lawmakers can get caught in droves engaging in homosexual pedophilia and propositioning park rangers and undercover police and it’s the first thing you would probably think of when you ask yourself, “What would Jesus do?”

Palestinians of all ages can be routinely murdered by The Chosen People in The Holy Land and that is God’s will when you are a saved Christian in a leisure suit, constructed by Omar the Tentmaker, waiting for the rapture that is sure to come just as soon as the real bad guys attack Israel.

Here’s a little tidbit from Charisma Magazine along with a telling quote, “Born-again Christians have not been spared this epidemic. In fact we actually lead the pack!” She’s talking about obesity. When you’re a saved Christian it’s hard not to be self-satisfied and self-satisfying while you are at it.

Let’s face it people, America is the easy way out society. It makes you wonder about entering in at the strait gate and walking the narrow path when you are a double-wide. It gives new meaning to “b-r-o-a-d is the way.” But heck, once you’re saved it’s as easy as pie, no matter how many slices you have. It couldn’t be any easier than being saved. Once you are saved you can do anything and be forgiven (snap of fingers) just like that!

Saved is one of the most successful scams in the world because it requires nothing more than a few moments of rigmarole followed by a lifetime of not having to worry about anything any more. All the other Christians are compelled to love you no matter how cinemascope you get.

I guess I’m just an insensitive guy. My problem is that I can trace the bloody footprints from the front door of a four hundred pound saved Christian to the Christian lobby to the halls of Congress to the blasted corpses of dead children in the streets of Gaza. My problem is being offended when white Christian teleministers in Banana Republic Safari Suits go to African famine zones and paint sugar water under the eyes of starving black children with distended bellies to attract the flies in order to make the photo-op more compelling... so they can rake in the donations that buy the Rolexes and pay for the all you can eat dinners for the Merchants of Hunger Porn.

Is this irony or is it something more? The two headed transvestite waves it’s dick at me and shakes its finger but it doesn’t say anything. I could maybe ‘do’ Halley Mills but not while Marilyn Manson is watching.

Visible and The Critical List: Jews from Outer Space by Les Visible and The Critical List♫ Overweight Lover ♫
'Overweight Lover' is track no. 3 of 9 on Visible and The Critical List's 1993 album
'Jews from Outer Space'

Lyrics (pops up)

Jews from Outer Space by Les Visible and The Critical List