WHAT YOU DO NOT KNOW... CAN GET A LOT OF PEOPLE KILLED.

    The routine at the camp was mind numbingly dull to most.   I had always lived mostly in my own head, or other people's -- at least their books...   After the visit from the 'ghosts,' my life dimmed more than I thought possible.   I thought I knew depression, having written plenty of adolescent-esque poetry about lost loves and death in my high school years, after losing my best friend to suicide.  He was picked on, and me and my brothrs, all five of us, had protected him all our lives, best we could.  My parents divorced, we moved across the country, and six months later he was dead.   I blamed myself at the time.   Now I was responsible for thousands of deaths, and did not blame at all.  I could hardly blame myself for killing the ghosts.  They asked me, explained to me that the world was going to be on my shoulders one day, proved their seriousness with a Christ like martyrdom to hide their secret -- and to instill in me how deeply I had to hide my own.   I went back over it all during those weeks, a conscious life flashing before my eyes before my death, or the distinct possibility of my death.  Setting off the nukes, to take out the concentration of Federales in the city, and elsewhere, was  a job I would not live through.  That was why I was in the FEMA  camp.  I could have been in the mountains somewhere, or on a submarine..  those who thought of me as a Holy man wanted to preserve me...  could not understand why I wanted to make Chicago my stand.   I wasn't sure either, really... just something I declared I would do when they finally came for me.

Per the shadow war nothing is said literally, and nothing is chance.   I was doing okay, forty five years old, had an apartment on Sheridan Road over looking the lake, and was writing a journalistic blog, with a comedic edge that was popular, though not making me a lot of money.  I had been with the same woman for eight years, and she had stood beside me through the thick and thin, did not care that she made more money than me, put up with my cats, helped me host a literary reading once a week...  and smoked as much weed as I did.  Or even more, at times. 

I was friendly with everyone in the neighborhood, which was the most integrated hood in the most segregated city in the country.  Walking my Husky Ruby made saying 'Hello,' and 'She's friendly,' to everyone.  She was a lover who looked vicious with her mouth full of fangs.  They were said to be a terror in a fight, though jovial otherwise.  I could relate, of course.   I talked a lot with a 'musician' who worked at the carry out across the street from me, Tom Jones nephew, looked welsh, with black hair and blue eyes,  six seven at least, chubbed out enough to look threatening to some.  He was soft spoken though something about his eyes...   I was too into my own world to think too much about other people back then, to be honest.  I would later find out he was a spy, as was the woman I was with, and the one before...   Jimmy Peace he claimed was his real name, though I would later find out he lied reflexafly, like most spies, and this was just a stage name.   He worked at a place called Sonny's.   Only much later would I figure out the entire neighborhood had been planned for Operation Bluebeam.  There I was the storm itself, with no knowledge at all of the lightening inside of me.

Jimmy called me up and said, "How would you like to make all of your short stories into movies, and do a comedy radio show?"   The electric euphoria that came over me-- something like being a teenager and finding out the woman you loved from afar loved you back times ten....   every dream suddenly fullfilled in a phone call...  Dan Milano, Greg The Bunny creator, wrote me saying sometimes the clouds did open in the sky and reveal heaven...   I had the usual dreams in my youth of being a famous writer, fed myself on them in the darker times of my life, when I made a drunken fool of myself and lost the respect of a friend...  when people treated me like a loser in the cab I drove during my stints at universities in Toledo, Ohio and Chicago.  The feeling had almost went away by the time I was 45, as did the ghosts coming to me...  for the first ten years I expected something to happen almost every day...  then another decade passed.... and I began to think the plan they talked about had never come to fruitition, per my prayers, and the dread that came over me when I looked around the city and imagined everything I loved burning into an ash, turning the gorgeous lake front city into an unihabitable radioactive waste land.

The first meetings with the radio show executives they talked like me and the two other hosts were going to huge stars, that there would be tours...  I announced on my blog that I had gotten the call of a life time, and my one famous friend, evidently let hollywood know and suddenly my readership in southern California shot thru the roof...  then Gwyneth Paltrow mentioned me on Entertainment Tonight, something about pot smoking, which was a big deal in my writing, fighting for legalization.  The excitement did not die down though... became a manic feeling like I imagine speed out be.  I was not myself.  I thought I was just excited but I could not stop my racing thoughts...  later I found out they had begun drugging me when they offered the radio show.   My first steps toward fame, becoming known to the world, were well on their way.   My blog was read in over eighty countries, and the internet station they were putting the show on was huge, downtown Chicago, with a huge picture window where people could watch us do the shows....

The manic feeling was growing worse, I was walking the dog down at the beach, out onto a small pier, when it struck me without any evidence at all that I was being watched.   I had the idea of leaving the dog behind to see if it was true, and tied her to the pier and walked down onto the beach, ranting that I knew they were watching me, and I had no idea why, but I was sure of it...   A memory of the bloody  holes in the foreheads of the ghosts, the mist of red behind them that they fell through into the dark stream of water...   I cannot remember now everything I said.  A woman walked up with Ruby, asking if she wasn't my dog?   It seemed to confirm I was being watched but I was still lucid enough to know this could be a co-incidence.

Three hours later I had a seizure out of nowhere, from the drugs, which they later told me were in the water bottles we kept refilled in the refrigerator...  M would fill me in on what happened next later.  She called an ambulance and when they arrived I refused to go with them, telling M. they were going to kill me.  The paramedics called the cops, who I guess I tried to fight, though M. was there screaming at them that I had just had a seizure and was not myself... I woke up without any obvious bruises, three days later, with notes scrawled all over my body, telling M. that the tv had been talking to me.   I was nowhere near normal.   I felt as if some transition had happened though I could not begin to tell what.

They transfered me to St. Anthony's Psych ward for further brainwashing.  I had been in a psych ward twice before, during the depression and drinking that followed killing the ghosts...  this was nothing like that. One woman kept holding up her hands and saying, "Cameras!"   Other than that she was perfectly sane, gorgeous, slim with milk chocolate skin.   M and I had been having problems for awhile, and I grew a tremendous crush on Gem, the cover name she was using.   In twenty twenty I know she was trying to tell me I was being filmed all the time, but that would take forever to sink in... and when I found out the extent, the humiliation was...  I am getting too far ahead of myself.

I spent a week in the psych ward.  The classc sign of being brainwashed is not thinking you are someone else, it is knowing you are not the person you thought you were.   I knew something spirtual was happening, began to think the supernatural was the only explanation...  I asked for a bible, and this being a Catholic bible, that is what they brought me.  For reasons I still do not understand, I recoiled at the thought of reading the green covered tomb they offered -- and even though I was raised Baptst, I asked for a Mormon Bible..  I was beginning to suspect I was the Christ, and they had predicted my return in the states... this thought meshed with a South Park episode, a comedic cartoon that was huge back then, where everyone went to heaven and the Mormon's were told they had the right religion... and other, more mystical reasons that I leave up to God to understand.  Later they would tell me that this one decision had caused thousands of Catholics to convert to Mormonism.  The belief they already had in me out in the world, a belief nurtured by the miracle of my growing wings, and living thru situations that would have killed a normal person many times over....  and the brain washing, or whatever they did.  I was a moral person, used to look at life as a way of service, and aa had me volunteering wherever I went, trying to do good deeds.  Just the way I was raised in a small town, without prejudices that I knew of, and those that were around were burned out of me by t the thousands of enlightened minds I had read over the years. 

I had no idea that from then on my every action would be seen as the work of a deity.  Again, if I only knew then what I know now.



  When I left a nurse came up to me and told me she was very honored to have met me, which was not exactly the kind of send off one expects after a week in a psych ward.   A doctor had come in and wanted to put me thru treatment, which I refused, because I had quit drinking years before, and did not consider the poet a problem, and in addition, I was in chronic pain by then... and they wanted to take me off the pain pills...  the thought that people thought I was faking pain after six surgeries was a touchy one to me.   A friend, also named Jim, though the radio host went by Jimmy, came with M. to pick me up on the last day...  His words as he slipped my coat over my back would come back to me when I learned everyone around me of any significance, and quite a few strangers and neighbors I had never spoke to, had been planted in my life.  World wide domination, planned out for over half a century, at least, had given them plenty of time to recruit and plot and plan.   I should have been on the watch for such things, you think I would have been... but cognitive dissonance, not wanting to believe there is a world behind the world;  not wanting to believe what you thought was true is all a lie;  the God-awful realization that are at a fly trapped in a web of lies that flows from horizon to horizin, had kept me from doing anything about the predicted future.   I had put it so far out of my mind that even when the evidence became overwhelming, the anxiety and horror that filled me would make my mind recoil from the truth...  anyways, the words he said as he slipped my heavy, lamb skin aviator jacket over my shoulders -- a jacket of course the Russian Spy I loved had steered me toward, were... "'MY LEIGE."

Now I had been thru being looked at as a king, a fraud, a racist, a betrayer of his race, a pervert, a celibate, a mass murderer, a God, a Demi-God...   I went home from the Hospital and began writing in the voice of Jesus... poetry like nothing that had ever flowed from my fingers.  Enough that I filled a book, and would later publish under Waking Up Jesus.   A chronicle of an angry God trying to reshape religion, working on very little knowledge of what was really going on in the world.  I was a hostage, did not know it...  I was from a family or associated witha  group that was racist, did not know it...   I was considered a king, did not know it.   I felt powerless the years after 07, when we moved into a tiny, roach filled apartment.   I smoked weed all day, painted on my little porch, wrote prose in the endless voice of Jesus flowing thru my mind.   I would see signs something was going on, occasionally the television made half secret references to me.  I remember ordering a play station, and John Stewart showed a clip of a long haired guy eating nutello, my then recent love, playing playstation.  They thought I was ignoring the world going to hell....  I just had no idea.

The fighting, a description of the life, prophesies, all the  questions you want to ask of God...  these are the sum of the recipe for this word stew.  Or is it merely Hobo Stew, water filled with a few rocks that are all I have to offer?   I was like that once.  Now I know too much.

Laying on the bunk listening to the people around me....   "They will have ISIS under control, no matter what they have'ta do.  I know it.  I was in the National...  well, my brother was in the National Guard."    Someone has made a mistake.  I intentionally do not look, but I know everyone else is.  Everyone who had served in the armed forces were supposed to report for duty.  None of them were heard of again and as much as cognitive dissonance stopped them from actually dealing with the thought, the suspicion that they were shot down, like the thousands, maybe millions of others considered Homeland Potential Security Risks was strong, if unspoken.   I wait a full minute before pretending to turn over.  I hear the same voice and look at the man.  He is in his thirties,  looks worried.   There is a food bounty for turning people in and most people had half starved families.   People had long before quit thinking of anyone except the few they already loved.  No one wanted to feel anymore death,   You kept everyone at a distance.   This is impossible for me.   Something has opened up that makes me love even my enemies, though I have had no problem having them murdered time and time again.   I am not human.  They told me I was all kinds of things, all the reasons they thought a child might have grown wings as a child... the wings they cut off, then used a year of chemotherapy to get rid of.

Thinking of the wings reminds me of seeing a doctor, when I was running out of pain med's all the time and ending up at emergency wards...  I told him about the treatment for my spondalolathesis, and he started saying, 'They do not treat...."  Caught himself, remembered who he was talking to....  the chosen one, back then.  Before they learned what they had really done when they took a man who grew wings and tried to brainwash morality into him.

I was already moral.  Too moral for them to understand, beyond the ideologes too far for them to see me.   Like a Bushka doll, they kept taking them apart until they got to the smallest, and inside found a cross of fire.   God had set them up.  They wanted to use a man to take over the world, operation bluebeam, start a one world religion around a being they documented growning wings, then march them into a one world religion.  Instead of a false God, they got me... the Real Thing.  Nothing like the actor they wanted.  A moral person unbuyable.  They were unbelievers, most of them...  I took a lot of them to an understanding of who I am until they filmed me masterbating, and sent this image out to the world saying it was my plan.   I was too humiliated to respond...  six months later I figured out they had been filming me and my fight was back.   Never has left again.

I am the most wanted man in the world, but they have other concerns, pockets of militias and homegrown lone wolves and groups of neighbors and families who listened to the underground ham radio broadcasts, before they were shut down, and know what was really happening.  That a fascist coup was fighting their way across the country under the guise of being an enemy of the state who was winning.  A brilliant and stupid idea, like all of theirs.  They took out the human element of their planners, of themselves, my enemies, and this made them underestimate how hard the animal fights when all they love is threatened.  They had cornered humans.   Now they were finding what on paper looked like a route, an easy march across the country killing everyone they did not need as slaves, had become a guerilla war they were fearing they would lose.

I provided the inspiration.   Still wrote my sermons in my head, the poetry that started the world looking to me for leadership....   every four months I surface and get messages out.  They tried to make me a general when this began, a non de plume among many I made for myself was gangsta general X.   I did not know enough about what was happening back then to be a general, and was not trained to be one.   I always thought my role would be like Thomas Paine, a writer who spurred on the revolutionares, the soldiers, who would take it from there.  The lesson that he died drunk and hated because his beloved revolution allowed slavery was lost on me, until now.  They had tried to use me in a race war, one of the many distractions that kept the real enemies, the zionists and a psychotic group of noble supramists, and billionaires...  mostly inbred over the years from a few bloodlines.   I am in the Scottish one.

I am watching to see which one looks like they are going to report the young man who blurted out he had been in the national guard.   I look for the skinniest, the most desperate, the men and women with the largest families.   I see two who look like parents talking quietly among themselves, the woman waves at the children and the husband, a ferret faced man with red rimmed brown eyes, his face creased and weathered from the ever more dangerous sun -- they had stopped the chemtrails that were keeping the greenhouse at bay to use the planes in the war, and the conspiracy theorists who had been talking about them for years were vindicated, sort of... the spray was not supposed to kill them, it was preserving what was left of the atmosphere from going full blown greenhouse, the self-perpetuating process that was going to turn the atmosphere to acid one day....   the man gets up and theatrically  almost looks around, then settles his eyes on the blonde haired guy who said too much.  Their eyes lock for a minute.  I think there is going to be a fight for a second, instead the young guy starts for the door first.   He probably believed them when they were told at the entry to the camp that they could leave at anytime.