Getting out: Dodge and Bagram

April 30th, 2013

Click here for Afghanistan Central:, the portal to the Going to Afghanistan” series.

~ This is Post #2 in the Series “Leaving Afghanistan”.

Getting out: Dodge and Bagram

When the letter below was written Bagram was a very new military airfield built for the Afghan government by the Soviet Union as a place to land the Soviet Migs that the Russians had given to Afghanistan.  Just about exactly 53 years ago most of the American supplied planes that comprised the Ariana Afghan Airlines air fleet were stuck on the ground at Bagram as the letter will tell.

Fred is stuck in Kandahar, again.  Everyone (meaning a bunch of Americans) are stuck trying to get in or out of the country.  It’s not exactly chaos, but tensions are rising.

The road from Kandahar to Kabul was still mostly dirt in the spring of 1960 – the “Kabul – Kandahar Highway” was still a dream, but my father was working on it, working on making it much better, with asphalt and all.  The Mission Director (of USOM) had different ideas, he wanted just slurry seal or something cheap and similar.  It took Fred 13 hours to go the 325 miles.  Now the old caravan route is about 25 miles shorter.  In 1960 there were still as many camels as trucks; now there are just trucks.  And the journey is faster: six hours, not thirteen.  But as you can read, in 1960 the journey was safer.

The Lataband Pass is the “high” road that is the A-1 that they now use; the Kabul Gorge route is the “low” road that was by far the better road back then.  So much of that nice road work shown in the first pictures I posted from Afghanistan was washed out by the flood pictured in the words below. 

 ________________________________________________________________________

AIR LETTER

Addressed to:
Hemme Martin
149 No. Forest Street
Gilroy, California

Senders name and address:
(rubber stamp)
FRED W. CLAYTON
c/o American Embassy / USOM-Kabul
Department of State Mail Room
Washington 25, D.C.
(letter) #9

________________________________________________________________________

Kabul, Afghanistan
April 19, 1960

Dear Family, – Kenneth, Freddie, Grandma,

Maybe someday you will get a letter from us and we shall get one from you if this interminable rain ever stops.  It has been raining here for so long that we have been thinking in terms of Noah and how to build an ark.  Actually we have our ark pretty well ready, but I will get to that later.  The facts seem to be that it has been raining for seven days and the clouds are very low this morning.  However, we think this might be a thick, rising fog as there is no rain falling.  A while back I wrote that they were allowing the use of Bagram airport with its paved runways for commercial flights now during the wet weather and during construction of the Kabul airport.  However, paving does not help if one cannot see the mountain tops around about as flying here is strictly on a visual basis.  Result is that there have been no planes coming or going for days.

Last Saturday father*, Hyde, and Sanger finally got off to Kandahar on his second try.  On Monday Bert Hyde got a plane back into Kabul, the only one that has flown since the 9th.  Father* was supposed to return on Thursday as we had a small, special dinner planned for them.   That morning the Delhi plane took off, but returned after an hour of flying because it could not get through the Ghazni pass.  Since the 11th people have been accumulating in Kandahar, Kabul, Amritsar and other places waiting to go someplace else.  I am glad it did not develop this way last year or we would still be sitting in Amritsar waiting for our “April 12″ arrival in Kabul.  There have been a lot of parties in Kabul either given without the guest of honor (in transit) or cancelled because he did not arrive.  I went to one, and of course our dinner on Thursday went on without father*.  I heard a few days ago that there were over fifty people accumulated in Kabul.  Then there is the mail and shipping, etc.  It will take Ariana a long time to get out from under this.  One of the sad things is that two or three of the planes are grounded at Bagram where there are no mechanical facilities or storage sheds.  Otherwise the time could have been in to do some much needed mechanical work.  One wonders how Ariana can survive even with subsidies, yet we need it so desperately.

Father* could not wait in Kandahar forever so on Thursday afternoon at one he took a “Dodge Personnel Carrier” – magnified jeep made for the navy so it can even go on lake bottoms, four wheel drive, extra gears, big wheels etc., brand new for one of the projects – and started to Kabul with a couple of other people.  86 miles out of Kandahar they picked up an Austrian trying to do it in a little Russian car taxi.  He had a three hour head start on them already.  So in about thirteen hours of travel time they got to Kabul.  They managed to average about 25 miles per hour, starting with 28 per hr. on the first stretch that was in relatively good condition.  This vehicle is our “ark”, and one could figure it would get through almost any place.

Sunday we took this vehicle down the gorge road a ways to see the busy river crashing its way through.  There is such a high silt content that the water does not exactly churn like clear water, but splinters into small droplets everywhere it meets obstacles.  It was busily chewing away at the road some places and we are sure that by now in some of the places where it was already working behind the retaining walls the road must be gone.  The Lataband Pass {map} was working for a while although rumors have it that it was closed by slides.  There were some bad ones in the gorge too.  So, if mail is slow, you see why.

We are all well although father* got very tired on his long drive in the rain and dark.  He has been busy documenting all of his problems for Mr. Cawlthorn who is supposedly due in Washington on the 18th of April.  I have been semi-retired working on patching the family clothes – and this is a big job since it has not been touched for the last year.  I enjoy it in the rain.  Half of my time is taken up with cleaning up after the dogs, but they are still cute.  Sheelah is supposed to be a long hair I have learned.

Boys, you will get a big kick out of this.  Kidston railroaded a commissary meeting into voting that this one should affiliate with the Karachi one.  Eve was not even told much about it and said the action was really crudely done.  Now the latest scope is that Karachi refuses to have us, saying it would take $60,000.00 to put into the order they want us in.  Also, the Embassy has taken the warehouse space so they have to operate out of ICA warehouses on this side of town.  Oh joy!

{Page #2}

Mother, I hope you got your desert trip.

To go back to the old questions.  I did not bother to pay Copenhavers again as it was done by then.  I had paid American express on Sept. 5, air mail.  I have never used your address on anything on any of the forms we have had except for the Carson City post office.  Anything you have forwarded to us we have changed to this address – this particularly would apply to American Express.  The one exception is the Grollier Society books.  I explained to you and to them carefully, that last year we received one book “Book of Knowledge Annual” before we left Carson and I sent them a check for that.  I never received any other and the billing you eventually forwarded showed the Harrison St. address, so I presume that is where the book went and it was probably returned by the P.O. to them.  There should be two books each spring, and they are very interesting to read them and save.  My letter to them was very clear after you finally sent me the report on it all.

I am glad to notice that my letters seem to be coming to you better now that I have complained to your post office and started putting my “guilty conscience” notes under the stamps.  Someone sure made a haul last fall on the stamps.

No gardens here yet, everything is drowned out.  Lots of the mud walls are down and much trouble for the people.

Much Love from all of us.

Fred & Lloydine & Donald

{Father* is Fred W. Clayton, Lloydine’s husband and father of Donald (in Afghanistan), Kenneth (in Reno, Nevada) and “Freddie” (Frederick Martin Clayton in Redlands, California).    The letter to Hemme (her mother; “Grandma”) is the original, Kenneth and Freddie receive carbon copies of Page #1 of the same letter.  Lloydine has adopted the use of father to avoid referencing Fred in letters that may be intercepted by parties unknown.  Ghazni Pass is also known as Batai Pass.}

2013.04.30 – 18:35.

Afghan Hounds & Commodity Losses

April 29th, 2013

Click here for Afghanistan Central:, the portal to the Going to Afghanistan” series.

~ This is Post #1 in the Series “Leaving Afghanistan”.

Afghan Hounds & Commodity Losses

It has been a long-long time since I have posted anything from Afghanistan or about Afghanistan.  My mind has been more on Korea.

When I was in Afghanistan the country had been at peace since long before the United States had fought in the First World War, the Second World War and in the “Police Action” in Korea, now known in the United States as the Korean War.

In those days the United States had only a handful of military men in Afghanistan.  The only ones there were Marines, the Embassy Guard that guarded the United States Embassy.  The Marines lived near the embassy at the “Marine House”.  They never worried about IED’s, hostile nationals, any enemy of any sort; they were stationed in Afghanistan, not Germany or Korea.

If you have read the letters in the “Going to Afghanistan” series you may have noticed that they were filled with enthusiasm and hope.  I stopped posting in the series as I “lost hope” that America’s endless war in Afghanistan would ever end, (then) like the never ending U.S. war in Korea.

Now there seems to be reason to believe that the U.S. excursion into Afghanistan may be ending, just as my tour and time in the country was approaching an end in April, fifty-three (53) long years ago.  For my father, for my mother, probably even for me what was once an adventure was becoming an ordeal.  The American plan (then as now) was not working.  Morale was low.  The writing was on the wall.

The only way out of Afghanistan (for us) was through Korea.  Korea was (then and now) a country with tens of thousands of U.S. troops and military people, men and women “manning” the lines of “freedoms frontier”, living in barracks and Quonset huts and the occasional tent, or for officers a life in the suburban setting of South Post, South Korea.

While Afghanistan was a nation at peace, Korea was (then) a nation recently destroyed by war and technically (meaning actually) still at war.  Where in Afghanistan efforts were promoted under the U.S. flag (meaning USOM), in Korea it would be the United Nations flag that was ubiquitous.

Below is the first letter in the “Leaving Afghanistan” series.  It is a transition to “Korea“.  It may or may not be (now) like the Korea situation following the Korean War, meaning troops stationed in Afghanistan for years and decades indefinitely.  Maybe the point is, it’s hard to leave Afghanistan once one has been there, one wants to stay, to always look back, to take another look, just one more look.  I know.  As you can plainly see, I know.

________________________________________________________________________

AIR LETTER

Addressed to:
Hemme Martin
149 N. Forest St.
Gilroy, California

Senders name and address:
c/o American Embassy / USOM-Kabul
Department of State Mail Room
Washington 25, D.C.
(letter) #8

________________________________________________________________________

April 9, 1960

Dear Mother,

This is to be a short letter, but just to say everyone is well.

The two puppies keep us busy but we really enjoy them.  They are such personalities.

Fred is off to Kandahar today after trying to get there yesterday.  The winds made landing visibility too little so they had to return after being more than half way there.

Spring is peaking around the corner here.  Thanks for the news on the dresses, etc.  I am glad you got your dress done.  I finally finished a wool housecoat I have been working on for about two weeks.  It is late, but I was determined to get it sewed even if I couldn’t wear it.  Mostly I have to sew things into different sizes and lengths, and now it is too late to rework my winter things.  I don’t need new things.  However, we all like to hear word about new styles.

Maybe you are in the desert now.  Bet it is hot.

Gilroy must be going arty now.  We shall bring back two originals from here, one is our  sketch (educated scribbling), the other an oil by Mme Choukour of Afghan mountains, a gift.

News of the Sly visit was all new.

Did you get my letter asking for a complete itemization of all things paid by you for us?  The records are mixed up and I must have this list.  I have sent letters that were poorly numbered, but in general they are as follows:  February 12, Feb. 27, Feb. 29, Mar 16, Mar. 29, Apr. 9.

My diary is a mixture of the frivolous and serious.  I’ll try to get it out with me if I ever have to leave in a hurry.  It is purposely written in a manner that is hard to seperate.  You’ll perish trying to read it.

Groceries are just terribly high by the time they get to this inland part of the world.  Commodity losses are almost 30% enroute, due to rain and other damages.

I have been doing tax report and owing them as usual.  Have been sewing and have neglected my other projects for almost a month.

Almost time to think about going home again, especially when it comes to selling things, and doing your own packing etc.

Will close to catch the mail now.  Much love from all of us.

Fred & Lloydine & Donald

2013.04.30 – 04:32.

Open House, Open Lives

April 29th, 2013

~ It’s what the surveillance state and I have in common.

Open House, Open Lives

Perhaps I live two (different) lives.  In a sense doesn’t everybody?  I’m not talking about the “I Led Three Lives” FBI type television show of the 1950’s; I’m talking more about my home life and my website persona.

Increasingly the two are probably becoming just one.  It wasn’t always so.  In the “old days” (say just two or three years ago) the only people that (I knew) that knew I posted things on the web were a few close friends, and they only knew because I had told them.  Even then they didn’t Google Qala Bist and it was pretty hard to Google “Donald Clayton” because all most people got was “Donald Clayton Porter” (an author about white Indians) and he was everywhere (meaning everywhere where books were sold).

Then Google changed a little.  The idea was to make things a little more timely and have not just everything based on total hits.  If one didn’t post for awhile things took awhile to be put up.  If one posted new content regularly (mostly meaning often) then the search engine spiders would “web” you in as little as a second or two, sometimes “instantly”.

The new “New stuff” approach to information searches favored (of course) the major networks and biggest players.  They had both hits and timeliness.   But frequent fliers, meaning frequent writers and posters of all persuasions benefited by gaining a web presence above a three year old bid to sell another “white Indian” book at a local bookstore in the days before Amazon and E Bay had taken over nearly everything.

So, the reason I post everyday (or almost that often) is because my words go up virtually instantly, meaning that they can be googled on Google or most any other search engine.  When I don’t post so often, it is because I don’t care, or care so much about the instant messaging.

Now (too) my neighbors are getting younger.  Many older neighbors never really use the web.  They would be shocked and appalled if they knew how much about them was up and posted; their full names, their middle names, their age, the value of their house.  In the past these were often things that even their kids might not know, much less all relatives, much less not only casual friends but “nosy” strangers.

In a sense life, or at least my life, has always been like this.  Openness and honesty has always been a virtue.  The idea was always that everything you do is potentially public, that if there are secrets, no secret is really hid, or stays hidden for long.  Every kid on the playground practiced the mantra by twisting someone’s arm, who was weaker, behind their back and saying, “Tell me, or I’ll break your arm.”  Virtually no arms were ever broken, but lots and lots of secrets were spilled.  Waterboarders are just the “all American” playground bullies that grew older, but never grew up.

So yes, the state, the GOV, the powers that be will always get it out of you.  They will hold you hostage threatening to tell your most private tale.  They will tell everyone how much you have, how much you’ve made and how if you cross them; maybe even if you don’t cross them.  The power of secrets and how to use them to keep control is the secret behind skull & bones at Yale.  Now it’s national and international.  Now the state (every state) tracks everything, that’s how they keep control.

When I was young and living in Carson City we seldom locked the door.  My parents had open houses, paragraph sized articles appeared in the newspaper, virtually anyone and everyone (who thought they knew us) were invited.  My father had his “whole life story” published in Who’s Who in Engineering (by Marquis).  My name was there, my birth date, my middle name and middle initial, all the family names, where my father worked and had worked, my mother’s maiden name – everything it seems; or at least everything then that seemed to matter.

This went on year after year with each new edition.  Just go to any library, you could look me and my family up.  No secrets, not at all.  Then in High School there were yearbooks that spilled out even more; social things and jock type things mostly, not where after school you worked.

There is no “Who’s Who” for dishwashers, and there is not one for maids.  Most yearbooks favored the jocks, not the more thoughtful people, not even the mindless nerds.  The Chamber of Commerce never had a gas station owner or a grocery store owner as President (unless he owned a whole chain).  The Business Section was about Big Business(es) and not the Mom & Pop stores that made America great.  The public disclosures (public information) that was out there for everyone to read read like one endless Horatio Alger story unless it was a story about a shoplifter, a criminal, a crime.

Every successful person in America (according to the meme) “started from scratch”, never had “two nickles to rub together”, had to “work long and very hard for every last dime”.  But “hard work”, “perseverance” and “patient industry” paid-off in the end and that’s why “everyone” can say (and said), “I made it, and so can you”.

1% in America DOES make it.  99% of the time the 1% inherited huge wealth or huge advantages from their parents or grandparents or both.  It’s the truth.  Most everyone else “has it going” for a little while at some point in their life, then they misstep, lose step, lose count, and lose out; meaning they end up “just getting by”, or a “little better” or “not that much better”.

So, my point?  My point is that too little has been published, printed, put out on the web about the mainstay of the American experience.  The reality is that each life is exceptional; often every bit as diverse or as interesting as mine.  I tend to tell and retell the same episodes and time periods over and over, like I link the same songs over and over; it’s like I learned to do on record players that were built that way.

I said three to five years ago that we, America needs more stories from more people.  We need more truth, more openness.  We need to hear and read about the warts, the struggles that ended badly, from the college dropouts and not just the graduates.  We need to know far more about our neighbors next door, not just the IRS stuff, the police blotter, but the “back story” that can reveal the how, when and why.

It would be very hard for my government to blackmail me.  I try to be an open book.  Why tap my phone?  I’ve made it easy to read by writing it down on the web.  Does that mean “they” know me?  No, no better than you know me, I’m complex, I have my moods, I change my mind, I may change it back.  It’s like a diary.  And every day a little more is added, another piece, another “hang up” perhaps is stripped away.  Anyway, I read it that way.

So it’s time to go (back) outside.  I swept the front porch, I cleaned the (front) yard.  I have shingles that need to be put up on the roof.  Google Maps will catch up with me someday.  Maybe I will scoop them and take my own Street View street view pictures.  Why just live in the past when there is a present too?  Or maybe, it is NOT a question.

2013.04.29 – 21:04.

The Mouse that Nibbled

April 28th, 2013

~ The reality is that real “roars” come only from crowds, lions, just a few rivers and possibly jets.

The Mouse that Nibbled

The Mouse that Roared was (and is) probably one of my favorite books.  It taught me a lot, so I read it a lot and reread it even.  It was the summer of 1961, I lived in Korea.  The title (of the book) was catchy.  It made one imagine imaginary things – like mice roaring.  The story about the Duchy of Grand Fenwick, like the stories from Fenway, probably could have, or might have been true.  The “roaring part”, let’s be real, never.

Mice grow up, grow big, grow old and sometimes bold because they nibble on cheese, on grains and on corn – they eat seeds.  They will even chew off their own limbs sometimes if they are caught to escape from a trap, a mouse trap like the kind pictured here.   I know.  I used to do my best to trap them (meaning the mice) when I was six, maybe seven.  I did it to save chicken feed so the chickens could eat it and not just the mice.  If the trap just caught the tail I would let the mouse go.  They fled silently, they never even once roared.

Chicken feed is just such a small thing.  It’s like an ice cube compared with an iceberg.  It’s not unlike the Titanic.

There is not a person alive (or even dead) that can prove that the Titanic wouldn’t have gone down even without hitting the iceberg.  The iceberg put a “stop action” on things.  It changed the course of the ship and maybe even the course of history.  We will never know if the (original) course had continued if there might have been a bomb in the hold that exploded, a stash of dynamite that might have gone off, a submarine in the water that “accidentally” fired a torpedo.  Did you see the dust?  Look again.  Both the detonation and the “dust” were staged.

So I don’t know whether rainbow2sun has just been watching too many old Brenda Lee videos or whether she has just been rewriting stuff that someone else had already written (see here).  OK, she took out the long boring picture of the blue guy, reminds me of Paul Mauriat.  So did you see the iceberg, the bears?  “Proof” that the Titanic wasn’t hit by the iceberg, no survivors reported the bears.

So now the original source for the original video has posted a new video because the last one went viral.  It’s from sbdreamin, the title is “Boston Marathon Bombing – Guy Makes Dust Over Injured People – slo mo”.  It has 1,572 hits (at 21:12 on the 28th GMT) and counting.

The good thing about the new video version of  Boston Marathon Bombing totally staged – more proofis that it’s short, it’s sweet, the garbage has been cleaned up and the picture resolution is just SO MUCH better.  It still doesn’t make clear that the site is at the second Boston bombing, in front of the Forum Restaurant; actually more to the Atlantic Fish Co. side of things at 761 Boylston Street in Boston.  If you want to compare the viral video footage with the real scene as seen on Google Maps just click here.  Remember, a few things have changed since the Google cameras went around, a few pillars have been repainted.

So you can clearly see the door at the Forum from where the towels came out of.  You can see that (most probably) when the towels didn’t work they got the bag of “vomit corexit” from out of the back.  Fish, BP; now do you get it?  What BP did to the gulf makes anyone really want to puke, to throw up, to up chuck.  Where do they get their Oysters?  I guess people who have eaten here have gotten rather ill before.

Don’t get me wrong.  The Atlantic Fish Co. looks like a great place to eat.  I would go there if I were in Boston.  I would just eat the sole, not the oysters.  So the Forum doesn’t offer any names that one could contact about returning the towels.  The Atlantic Fish Co. does.  So one might want to give Michael Bainton or Executive Chef Danny Levesque a call.  Make it short, make it quick – they have far more important things really to do.

Anyway, ask THEM what happened.  Ask THEM for the contact next door.  Then the people at the Forum can say, “Look at ME, look AT ME!”  Maybe the fish mongers story can go viral, maybe Boston can get an idea of where one might eat.  Maybe rainbow2sun and sbdreamin can stop dreaming, stop their silliness, stop going viral.  And I have an idea.

Both Atlantic Fish and the Forum should offer a free dinner to the “twin gals” that are making the fuss.  They can fly out to Boston and meet the so-called “bad guys” for free.  Someone can film it, film them up close and see who really are the “actors”, see who really is planting the false flags in the minds of (mindless) people.

THAT video would go viral.   That video would show faces worth seeing; on one side the heroes, on the other side “actresses”, girls gone viral, girls that just wanna have fun at restaurant owners expense.

Maybe more later.  The link to what really happened (or close enough) is here.   End of mystery.

2013.04.28 – 21:52.

Barf Bag

April 27th, 2013

~ Oh, no.  It’s not a conspiracy if it’s just stupidity.

Barf Bag

So, here we go.  It’s about a video about to go viral.  See it here.  A numbskull (and bones) that wants everybody to, “look at me, look at me!”

If you wonder why the term “conspiracy theory” is associated in some minds with the notion of “nuts” I’ve got the proof.  “She” is rainbow2sun.  “She” has a nice picture of a nice girl on the icon, the word is probably “I Con”.  This poster, this site, looks like a disinfo site to me.  Rense should know better than to cater to those that try to fake it.

The title is, “Boston Marathon Bombing totally staged – more proof” (Video), not even a period.  Rainbow2sun, aka goody2shoes, is giddy about her previous 59 posts.  Nobody has stopped her, so she feels entitled to go on.  It’s terrible.  Her videos are terrible.  One might say that she is a public person, and as such, an unholy terror.  The alternative view is she is just a bit stupid.

Everything said here is just my opinion of course.  What “she” shows is brown stuff, stuff coming out of a bag.  She says it might be dust; it sure looks like sand; it is probably something else.  You think?  Does SHE think?

OK, here she is, at the sight of the blood.  It’s a bombing.  She knows that.  There is a lot of blood everywhere; probably too much to bear.  And since she clearly is mindless (in my opinion) she doesn’t know that blood when it is thick is really quite slippery.  One can fall.  One can slip and slide and “slip-slide” every which way which makes it hard to stand, walk or help care for the casualties – in this case the casualties of a war.

Now I’m not saying who the combatants actually are.  That has yet to be totally determined.  But you see, the people pictured are not really the actors.  Their intelligence is not an act.  Their caring in this emergency is not to be mocked, ridiculed or despised.  Rainbow2sun needs to WAKE UP and really GET A LIFE!

It’s a marathon.  It’s a lot like a school.  People run, people get excited.  Some people overdo it and then they get sick.  It happens every year.  It happens often at the finish line, at restaurants, wherever people run too much, eat too much, try too hard and then just lose it.  They upchuck, they vomit, they puke – people often puke (too) when in pain.  It clears the system, it helps those in distress to survive.

So, is there a solution?  Oh yes!  It comes in a bag.  It’s brown, like a power.  It looks like a dirt bag and just like dirt is pretty much chemical free.  Anybody with a “public school” education would know this; you know principals, teachers, teachers aides and probably most of the more observant students themselves.  It’s not a SECRET, it’s not a conspiracy, it’s “barf powder” and it comes in a bag.

Here’s a picture of just one brand of product.  The product is available in various sizes; you might need to know after reading the rainbow2sun person’s post.  It might make you want to let it all out and not just “gag”.

So let’s not vilify the person who wanted a cleaner, safer area to work; or for others to work in.  The video poster may like conditions like one might find in a factory in Bangledesh, but I don’t and I don’t find a problem with trying to mitigate the blood or the vomit or the things unseen that really were there that “she” doesn’t know were there because “she” wasn’t there.

Hey America.  Let’s keep it civil.  There is much that’s gone wrong or awry.  There is much to comment on.  There are important videos to watch.  But let’s “cut the crap”, let’s not let it go viral – let’s keep the street battles clean.

We’ve all had enough of the blood.  The blood is real.  The video shows just how real.  No, actors would never make such stuff up.  Hollywood scriptwriters have NEVER tried to clean up the blood, mitigate the barf, cared about cleaning the set, because in their action scenes of ‘fake’ blood, ‘fake’ vomit, ‘fake’ violence and pathos it is never necessary.  It’s just a movie, not a place where real people take a fall and real people puke and what is left is a real mess.

So rainbow2sun take your two suns and try to go home.  Maybe take your video, or all 59 videos down.  Maybe one size fits all.  Maybe the world doesn’t need to look at you when they can learn to just see.

So, Have a nice day.  Two suns, “twin suns” – maybe it means double:

 

Or maybe you ARE just another yellow balloon.

2013.04.28 – 02:57.

An addition to the original post:

It is 12:10 PM in Albuquerque, a Sunday, just after noon.  In a closed quote search – Boston Marathon Bombing totally staged – more proof“ I started (15 hours ago) at 47, meaning the 47th highest “hit” out of maybe 275 site locations on the web that used that exact phrase.  An hour later I had drifted down to 59 after even more heavy hitters from the Conspiracy Movement (aka: “chatterbox cafe”) began to home in.

Now I’m down to place 112 out of 373.  Meanwhile the totally questionable video has gone from 17,000 hits to just over 38,000.  That maybe is not really viral, but it looks like a virus compared to the H7N9 virus in China, even if nobody (here) is actually dead.

This whole experiment in “truth” and the “truth movement” proves two things I guess.  First, Qala Bist as a website is still just NOT a heavy hitter.  Second, the power of disinformation and fear-mongering is as alive and well in the new “counter-culture” as it is on the MSM (MainStream Media) media outlets.  And it totally remains clear that if just one little ABC station from Peoria, or Emporia, Kansas picked up the story they would take the number one (#1) slot on the closed search search in less than a New York minute.

So, I’ve been “off the air” (off the web search radar) while I write this.  That alone may further hurt my “standings” (maybe not).  But, I intend to continue to stand and deliver the truth as I know it, to blog, to just hold the fort and perhaps carry on.

From the front lines, just a note from a friend.

Signing off.

“Calling all Cars”

April 26th, 2013

~ We are so used to “terror” and “terrorists” that we are probably on the verge of scaring ourselves to death.

“Calling all Cars”

OK, I grew up in Carson City (NV), not with TV.  Kids had better things to do then, to pass the time.  There was the Nevada State Museum for example, with the mine exhibit underground in the old vault where thousands of sacks of silver and gold coins once were stored, there were the old train cars from the V&T Railroad and the “Glenbrook” locomotive that one could do everything with except actually ride.  There was every kind of gun on display that anyone could imagine.  There were derringers and Colts and Remington rifles and Remington automatic rifles and machine guns from Eliott Ness days to the days of Normandy on display, so close you could almost touch them.

I had a horse.  I rode my horse up to main street, rode it to the hardware store and drugstore on occasion.  I rode my horse to my schoolyard and let it eat the alfalfa growing there.  I had chickens, I had a dog.  Life was good.

I also had an older brother (named Ken).  He was about seven years older (actually six years, six moths and change).  If I ran out of things to do on my own I could always call on him, or hang out with him or maybe him and his friends or buddies.

He wouldn’t play Calling all Cars with me, but sometimes he might play Monopoly.  I would always lose.  He had his own cars, beat up jalopies mostly.  They would sputter and go ‘bang-bang’ and rumble a lot until they (he and his friends) got them going.  The fumes and smoke would almost kill you.  There was never enough gas (meaning gasoline) unless you siphoned it from somewhere (usually meaning someone else’s car).  I was about seven when I learned to suck up gasoline, then always “leaded”, before they got the lead out.

The kids in Carson were mostly pretty good kids back then.  That doesn’t mean that there was never trouble.  The horses would get out sometimes.  We lived on the edge of town.  We had a pasture that we rented that was right next door, like literally just over the fence next door.  To the north (and somewhat west) and to the west and northwest you could see the mountains, the Sierras, beyond which not too far away was Marlette Lake and Lake Tahoe.  You could go there.  I would go up by car and ride my bicycle all the way down to Carson City on old dirt roads made for Stagecoaches or something.  It was a wild (and probably somewhat dangerous) ride.

To the east there was the Lynch’s house that I’ve talked about before.  Beyond the Lynch House, going due east, there was probably nothing for at least a thousand miles until you got to or beyond the far side of Kansas.  I mean this literally.  Sure there was sagebrush, the desert, a couple ranges of very serious mountains and then a few hills; wheat, cattle and corn; you know the drill.  There was room out there to do anything, anything one might want.  But out there there were no witnesses, so why do anything worth witnessing?

As I said, I had a horse.  So too did my brother.  Later both horses had colts (not meaning the guns), but that is another story.  The horses (of course) needed water.  There was no stream running through the pasture, no pond.  So my father and older brothers found an old hot water heater and had it cut in half and “presto” we had a watering trough.

When I say “old” hot water heater I mean really old, from the days before hot water heaters had insulation and safety valves on board and when they were made with rolled metal and rivets and things that might go bang in the night.  To say this thing was solid is an understatement.  It took a very hot welders torch just to cut it apart.

The watering trough was placed next to the fence, our fence, on the horses side so that we could use our hose to get them their water.  I had a vested interest in this thing, my horse, I was expected to help with the water even though my brother’s horse always drank more.  Some things in life just never seem fair.

So it was with no small amount of interest that day when a friend of a friend, meaning a friend of my brothers, decided to test the theory that a cherry bomb would really explode under water.  Cherry bombs (then), like all other bombs, were of course quite illegal.  They were not considered weapons of mass destruction back then (as they are now), but it was known that they could hurt and maim, even though they could probably not kill.

It might be said that (then) even in Carson City anyone could get them, or one.  I had friends (aged 7) that had the bomb, carried the bombs, lit up the day or night on rare occasion exploding their bombs.  The idea was to never get caught, but that everyone everywhere might hear the big bang.  Kids just want to have fun.  Then a new cop came to town, the “chief of police” and his one or two patrolmen and everything changed.  The cherry bomb rule would be enforced.  That was the law.

There has always been a tradition in Nevada (possibly elsewhere) that most of a police forces time is spent on chasing the kids.  Chase the kids down for drag racing, chase them in cars, chase them for speeding, bust them for walking too slow or stopping on a corner just to take a light (cigarette); bust them for just a lite beer, bust them for someone else’s fake ID, bust them for pleasure, bust them for fun, bust them enough and often enough and when once “they” were bad now they will certainly learn to be good – or “they” will make good cops when they grow older even if they never grow up.  That was of course the theory, the theory of course.

So the “friend of a friend”, let’s call him “Doug”, wasn’t interested in going all the way up to Marlette Lake or Lake Tahoe just to find water, just to test his theory or the popular wisdom or what was advertised in comic books (the internet of that day).  He would prove that Cherry bombs could indeed be exploded underwater, maybe be used for a kind of fishing of sorts.  And as his science teacher had said, “experimentation is good”.  He really was quite convincing, so I heard; I was not there.

My brother was not ever there either.  Meaning he was not there when the bomb went off, in our horse’s watering trough, the nearest place for big water even though it was really just a smaller sized tub.

The cherry bomb blew a whole in the tub, in the water heater half tank.  The water drained out leaving the horses with mouths that were dry.  Doug had decided that since the trough was on the other side of the fence that technically the cherry bombing had not occurred in Carson City.  The local two or three policemen would not have jurisdiction.  No way (he thought) would he be put under arrest.  He was wrong.

The patrolman on duty (yes, in the whole city then, there was just one) heard the bomb, tracked down where to look, knocked on the door and demanded to interview Ken.  “It’s about the bomb”, he said.  “I think it is yours, or was yours, it was in your tank.  I know.  I can see all the water and if you look closely you (or I) can clearly see the hole”.

My brother really did have a very good idea about who actually did it.  He didn’t have to be told that “Doug did it”.  The cop was standing there accusing just him, he was insistent, “maybe you’re in cahoots, do you have a bother”?  That’s where I came in.  I wasn’t there.  I never even heard the explosion (bummer), never saw the upward surge of water (super-bummer), had not even seen the hole in the tank (which was maybe OK), and didn’t even know my horse now needed water.

So it is so very true that as they say, blood is thicker than mud.  Given a choice of letting them arrest his little brother or speaking up about the larger nature of things my brother chose nature and nurture and pointed out that there were others in Carson who might have access to the field and yard.  There might be outsiders coming in, or insiders going out or others of any given age that might be willing to disturb the peace, light a fuse, blow water up with what really seems to be just a water bomb, not much worse than a water pistol perhaps.

Of course the cop wasn’t buying.  “I’ll contact your father, I’ll get a warrant, I’ll search the whole house, I’ll ask neighbors and friends, I’ll get you and your brother, you will regret this I’m sure – maybe from jail”!

In a day or two it was all pretty much over.  The hole was temporarily plugged.  The horses again had water to drink.  The real culprit was caught, then was quickly released.  Something political perhaps, I really don’t know.  My name (not my age) was written down as a “witness” even though I saw nothing, nothing at all and knew even less.  To this day I don’t really know who “Doug” really is or was.  I just know that at age 7 I was almost arrested and charged with a crime – a bombing – a bombing that I didn’t commit.

America has probably never moved on from the “Calling All Cars” and Dragnet mentality.  In fact this mind-set has probably just grown.  Now we call up the entire 6th Fleet to just search for a minnow.  We’ll comb the seven seas (seemingly) in our search for just one loan fish.  Cost isn’t an issue.  The destruction of things and certainly lives is not an issue.  Collateral damage is never discussed, it is dismissed as if it just doesn’t matter.  As you can see from the (actually true) story, it matters to me.

It may be too soon to look objectively at the new case from Boston.  I don’t care.  I’ll give it a try.  The first fact is the bombing.    Too many hours of television and movies have trained us to ask first “who dun it“, not the when, how or why.   We work backwards.  Our thinking is backwards.  We think that by finding a culprit we will know everything that needs to be known about the crime.  “If the glove fits, it’s the wearer at fault.”  Then the old saw goes, “if you know the wearer, you know what was worn”.  Obviously these (law enforcement guys) have never looked into or stepped out of a closet.  They wear uniforms, that’s what they think everybody wears.  That’s how they sort things.  That’s how they check out what they bother to check out, and why they usually don’t look into anything more.

So, let’s assume that maybe the “Tzar” Brothers really did do the bombing.  Let us assume that they wanted to get caught and caught quickly.  Let’s assume that it was all about, “look at me, look at me” and that the two people smart enough to hook up a circuit board to a bomb are too stupid to know that a late model Mercedes has GPS, can easily be totally tracked and virtually followed not by calling all cars, not even necessarily on foot.  The cars and the feet are unnecessary until you find a time and a place that you really want to “catch” them.

How easily we forget all the time and the money that law enforcement spends to set up a “sting”.  The idea is to let the small fish lead one to where the bigger fish are.  Stings are NOT necessary if the LAW knows that there are no bigger fish to fry.  So I ask you to consider the following facts.

The government (lets just call it the GOV) knows that the two bombers are still in their stolen car – the Mercedes.  They know from their GPS monitor every place that they go, every place that they stop, every turn that they make, every wrong turn.  They know that these guys have gas ($50 worth), that they can travel 300 miles at least, that they are probably going to and can get to New York City and a lot of “safe houses” that might be somewhere in between.  You know, where “contacts” might be, where “arms and explosives” might be hidden or stashed.  GOV can just secretly follow the car and solve the whole thing and keep every house in America perfectly safe.  They can “stop ’em” on the turnpike or some place remote where it’s nothing but safe and where there’s no place to hide (like a boat).

And yes, the U.S. really has drones; tests them in New Mexico; they can fly ever so high and they can monitor a target totally unseen and report instantly if the “suspects” ever stop their car for one single minute and try to get out.

GOV knows that the Tsar Brothers have just one gun, a handgun of sorts, and probably have some explosives – a kettle bomb (maybe two) that can blow up and even people five feet away can totally survive without injury, even when they have zero protection.  The good people of Boston sent them the pictures to prove it.  The “cops” have bullet proof vests, flak jackets, leather boots better than any gestapo, and helmets and visors, not just flimsy marathon caps.

So YOU make the call.  Do you forget all the good that you can find out by letting them play out the line (like when fishing) or do you figure that if they survive a shootout you can politely ask them questions in a hospital room, like, “are there any other explosives hidden in a safe house between here and New York?”, or “Are there contacts that you have that should be contacted?”

Do YOU go for the shoot-out, hope that somebody (or both of them) dies.   Do you take the chance of taking down a neighborhood, of shooting up neighbors, of creating fear in the streets as opposed to a short, civilized stop on a Turnpike, Freeway or Parkway?  No, THINK LIKE A COP, go in with all your guns drawn and blasting away.  Go for the publicity, the notoriety, the drama.  It’s better than the movies because some will say that it was “real”.  I guess it really is, “Look at me, look at me!”  It really wasn’t real.  America really deserves so much better, meaning better police work and better police and a job well done without just the search for the prime-time drama.

So when the meme gets so blatant that you can make it a board game and get the whole nation hooked on “Calling All Cars” and you can keep the cars rolling when it has grown to forces of (literally) 10,000 to 25,000 cops and cars and troop carriers and weapons carriers instead of just faith in a little (very expensive) GPS car, it makes one wonder which car (or cars) they are calling.

I wish it ended there.  It doesn’t.

The reality is that GOV shut down most of Boston; they told somewhere around 5 million people to stay home, stay indoors, stay worried until we say it’s OK not to be worried.  “Don’t answer your door”.  “Don’t take a train.”  “Don’t go to work.”  “Shelter in place.”

Let’s do the math.  Five million people living an average of about 80 years.   That means that 62,500 people in the Boston Strong area will die (on average) each year.  That number divided by 365 days means that (on average) 172 people will die in a day, each day.

If you (GOV) locks people away from seeing their doctors, their dentists, from buying food, from walking and just getting fresh air, from nurses and care-givers, from neighbors and companionship, from neighbors who might know CPR, from people to turn off the gas (or turn it back on), from the thousand and one contacts and activities in life that keeps all of life going – HALTED, shut down, “sheltered in place” with no contact and no one around that one may need…then how many MORE unexpected and unnecessary deaths will there be?  You get the point, the idea.  More people were killed in Boston by the GOV (the government) on Friday than were killed by any combination of bombers on MondayAin’t THAT the truth, I’ve presented the proof.  And the very sad part is that nobody cares enough even to record their names, even just for the record.

So maybe enough about the bombing, let’s focus on “the bomb”.  It’s clear, the “cure” was far worse than any disease.  There was a choice.  “Follow the car”, or play Carrie Nation – chop up the neighbors and neighborhoods (like) with a hatchet, more like with guns, weapons of mass destruction when in the wrong hands and they WERE in the wrong hands that Friday in Boston.

Don’t ever forget.  But, I live in Albuquerque so perhaps I can forget.  I won’t say it can’t happen here, I just think that it won’t.  It takes a very special (or specialized) kind of city to be held hostage and that then thanks the hostage takers.  It’s NOT our culture.   Maybe things are clearer in the desert.  Maybe the colors are more vibrant.  Maybe the hearts here are stronger and fairness is deeper and nobody here would “stay home” unless the message was bilingual and even then “probably not”; so not to worry.

2013.04.26 – 23:30.

Marathon Sunday

April 25th, 2013

~ “For sometimes when I am feeling as big as the land with the velvet hill in the small of my back and my hands are playing the sand.” Melanie

Marathon Sunday

There are a lot of wonderful people pictured in the pictures of Boston at the marathon on that Monday.  There are people of all races at these races.  There are representatives of all regions, all religions and many persuasions.  Then too, there is the crowd.  There are small signs, small smiles and large, half-hearted and full-hearted waves, worried looks and curious looks and clear looks of resignation, determination and even one or two looks of indifference too.

I’ll offer you a picture, a commentary, then I’ll offer you my story.

There is now a lot to be said about this picture taken at 867 Boylston, the old Vinny Testa’s, that day; meaning that day after it became the “Back Bay”.  Vinny “T’s” was Italian in Bean Town.  I ate there when there was just the one (location) on Beacon Street in Brookline (MA).  It was a happy place, great portions of food, people from all walks of life working and eating together.

Vinny’s grew.  Then something happened in 2010 or sometime thereafter.  The place (now a chain) was sold, or sold out or came together or collapsed or something.  I’ll never know.  There’s no wiki article on “Vinny Testa’s“.  Things change, things are unknown or edited out like in this picture of a popular boxer, just 23, circa 2010 too.

There are those who suggest that it might be time to get out, to leave, to find “ex”-patriotism.   The idea of leaving, you gotta love it.  When my ancestors left Sweden, a lot of them (meaning contemporary Swedish countrymen) later went back.  “Try one place, if it doesn’t work out try another.”

For maybe a hundred reasons, or two hundred or more, I’m certain that the “second” bomb (or possibly a third) was destined to go off at the “test-a” site; the “Back Bay” in the back bay.  There was (for some reason) a change of heart or a change of mind.  In spite of appearances these people really are (or were) human.  It’s too bad that they were so stuck in Boston, the culture, that culture by the Bay and were not finding new vistas and visions perhaps in the desert, even in Albuquerque perhaps.

It’s not just Boston that has a marathon.  Albuquerque has one or two too. The big one (in Albuquerque) is the Run for the Zoo.  Our race is a little bit different than Boston’s.  We have no “finish line”, it’s a “race for the start line”, it’s more about the circularity of things, not just so “straight arrow”.

It’s a run, a “marathon” maybe, but more of a walk than a run.  I know.  Every year it passes very near my house (where you can often hear – literally – the roar of the lions from the zoo, in the zoo).  That might be why we call it “The Run for the Zulu’s“, Africa and all, all people, all races in our race too, for the Zoo – even animals seem to need money.

Like Boston is said to be Irish, Albuquerque is seemingly Spanish of sorts.  It’s all about history – some often ask, “are you talking about mine or are you talking about yours.”  It’s like the “red or green” mantra, there are two sides to the food and many sides to the race and a depth to the story.

The history of “Neuvo” is in some ways older than Boston, in some ways younger.  The “patriots” here came here in 1539 or about 1597.  They settled.  They went away and came back.  Albuquerque was settled in 1706, long before the “revolutionary” war (of 1776).  By then (1706) the Pueblo revolt was long over, the “new Americans” of the Southwest (not N.E.) had won.

These are the people who run in the marathon of today, their relatives, their ancestors, their descendants.  The people are the first Americans, the people of Spain, the pueblo people and others.  Each has and have their story, the one of the “long walk”, the other of long marches and treks, then there are those who lost limbs at the finish.

The people of Spain were Christians and Muslims and Jews.  The Jews and the Muslims lost at the Battle of Granada, lost their right to be free and were “converted” by a Catholic Jihad that offered them a new religion under threat of torture and death.  The faith went underground, but in some it still lives to this day.

The people of Acoma (oldest city in America) lost their native religion and even their feet when the Pueblo revolt was finished, when the winners drew a line in the sand or went over the line or something.  The men could never return to where they started, they could never look back.

I live three blocks away from a prisoner of war camp, now called Kit Carson Park, named after the hero or villain of the Navajo’s Long Walk in which many never survived.  The camp was for German’s, “Nazi” prisoners and prisoner’s of war that were shipped to the Southwest where (after the war) some of them stayed, or returned, or something.  The marathon passes by the site of the camp.

So, here we are all Nazi and Jew, Muslim and German, Muslim and Jew, Catholic and converted, native peoples and their religion, walking and running with those that oppressed and were oppressed.  We’re all just one people now.  We’ll “never forget”, but we have put the past far behind us, we remember the pain so that it won’t come again.  We run together, we walk, maybe we just watch.  Maybe WE are Albuquerque Strong, and are just getting stronger.  Maybe there’s hope for the future and no need to move, unless it is to move for a Marathon Sunday; not Monday.

Yes, I will be locked away on Sunday.  The truth is that I won’t be able to leave my house (maybe), my neighborhood certainly.  There will be barriers up and barriers all over.  There will not be enough cops, meaning traffic cops.  The mayor always says that for us there is a way out.  I’ve got news – NO WAY.  I’ve tried it before.  The entire neighborhood is hemmed in as certainly as if it were martial law, but in Albuquerque it isn’t.

Sure, I could step out of my house and watch a walker or two.  Actually there are thousands.  They all run for the zoo, but they are running for more.  They are running for yesterday, today and tomorrow.  There will be strollers, dogs pulled in wagons, wheelchairs of course and walkers (meaning those aluminum walkers).  There will be scientists from the labs taking a day off from their efforts to save or blow up the world.  There will be labs (the dogs) walking wearing their red bandanas.  It will be quite a show.  I think I’ll go, but I don’t have to, it’s all coming to me here; “hear, hear!”

So Boston, come here.  You might learn something about remembering and forgetting the past.  I think WE have something to share, and there, I’ve shared it.

I guess I won’t be moving, at least not really that soon.  This is my country; it may look a lot different than yours.  We do things here “our way” and maybe just maybe our way is just fine.  We may not be as fancy or polished as Boston, we may not have restaurants like the Forum, Back Bay, or Vinny’s.  But maybe it’s better that way.  We have red or green.  It’s really too bad that the Tsarnaev brothers didn’t have such a choice.  I think they would have made better choices.  That is my hope.

2013.04.25 – 22:06.

Anatomy of a Coup

April 23rd, 2013

Baby, do you understand me now; sometimes I feel a little mad
But don’t you know that no one alive can always be an angel
When things go wrong I seem to be bad, but I’m just a soul whose intentions are good.

Anatomy of a Coup

~ A Coup d’État is so often so misunderstood.

Things are happening at the speed of light, or are they?  If Mohammed won’t go to the mountain, the mountain must move to Mohammed.  It’s like trying to follow the Boston Bombing on Google Street View; there are so many cameras and camera angles taken from the car that it’s hard to seamlessly put them altogether when things can so easily disappear seamlessly through the seams (meaning simply: through the cracks).

On Saturday and on Sunday it seemed that this country was at the verge of a revolution.  The military had taken over Boston in what clearly looked like a classic “military” coup, or at least looked that way to people who have lived in countries where military coups are common, or at least common enough to provide an opportunity to demonstrate how they (almost) always work.  OK, I lived in Korea (as an example) and most of America hasn’t.

Most coups are about the media.  There is a clear show of massive force in one place (men and arms and heavily armed men and their machines) and then there is the drive to take over the radio station, the airwaves.  If the newspaper editors hear that the coup is successful they quickly capitulate and put out and print editions proclaiming “hail to the chief” (meaning to the new chief, the coup leader).

The “old order”, or the people, or the people in the street (meanwhile) try to protect the station.  They try to “keep it on the air”.  The typical announcement is that the “coup has failed”; often said even after the radio station is totally surrounded.  Sometimes loyal troops are on their way to surround those “surrounding”.  Sometimes there is no hope in sight and the “government” falls in fairly short order.

In the 1960’s the above scenario was not a metaphor, it was far too often far too real.  The troops trooping in the streets, the scene at the radio station, the secret communications behind the scenes were ALL unseen and unheard (of).  The only connection to the coup was the news on the radio – your “friend” – everyone’s friend.  The voice on the radio told you who was friendly, even if those portrayed as “friends” may have quickly changed.  The press has no loyalties.  They are just “professionals” reading their scripts, just doing their jobs.  They work for the government – new or old.

So think of Mohammed.  Think of the mountain.  The “mountain” in this narrative might be seen as “the people”, the “body politic” without the politics, the good people of this good green-blue-brown earth that see the world as it really is from each their own perspective.

Is the abstraction getting too abstract?  The point is (perhaps) that the radio station long ago was taken.  They never announced the coup.  Power changes within the power brokers change so often that it isn’t useful to know if it is a corporal or a colonel that has recently gained the power; to coin a phrase it is the SAME “military-industrial (and banking and bureaucratic) establishment – it is “complex”.  It is the “powers that be” and their daily power palace politics intrigues and scandals.

In such a situation what use does Mohammed have for the mountain; or for that matter the mountain for Mohammed?  The two are of different worlds unless Mohammed can move to make it one; or unless the mountain can move to be one with Mohammed.   We’re talking motive here.  We’re talking about the highest of motivations.

Things often get off to a very slow start.  Slowly things change, things get to the point or get to the point that the point is not so easily understood.

So, the mountain rose up on Monday and said enough is enough to the coup.  The “no Miranda”, the no “habeas corpus” much less any habeas corpus delicti was troubling.  It was far too troubling in light of the blatant evidence on the street (April 19th) that the radio station had been taken and had probably been taken a “long, long time ago” (it’s amazing how the message can change daily, or it just the carrier frequency that changes).

By Monday (late) it seemed that the mountain that says it is the state had moved to Mohammed (or his professed follower).  The court (allegedly) left the courtroom and moved the courtroom to the corpus.  A real victory?  I wonder.  All the things that the good Magistrate Marianne B. Bowler (and the public) is accustomed to in the way of media and public disclosure was left behind in the real courtroom on the 7th floor of 1 “One” Courthouse Way.

I guess there is “another way” of “justice” in America, behind the curtain, closed off, (perhaps) not really according to law.  All the “papers” for this only on paper trial (really just a hearing, that nobody has really heard, just read about) seem almost to be in order (PAPERS IN ORDER HERE).

What I would like to see is the paperwork for the public hearing that allowed the court to hold “the court is now in session” sessions OUTSIDE a real Courtroom.  Why spend all that money to have a Federal Courthouse and Courtrooms at all if any room in America can become a “courtroom” not even identified by TIME or PLACE (meaning no mention of time of day and no designation of court or room, just the judge).

On the Constitutional level and on a practical level there should be great concern.  The “court” in question is not a court and (probably) cannot be a court pursuant to court rules.  There were no witnesses.  It was a totally closed hearing with NOT ONE reporter reporting.  The only “testimony” that this hearing ever happened is the sworn testimony of the “Court Reporter” who (whom) probably perjured himself because his court reporter contract only allows court reporting in a real courtroom and not just one on the fly, i.e. he doesn’t know the legal definition of the court that he is an officer of, or WORSE, he doesn’t care.

So, as time goes by we still don’t know if Dzhokhar Tsarnaev (aged 19) is really alive or talking (or “nodding”) – he may be nodding off.  How else (except by this sham court  – non-court hearing could the story continue and the pressure be taken off when the entire “mountain” is closing in?

That’s enough to think about for one day.  I think you get it.  There really has been a coup and the show of force proves it.  The media is gone.  It can’t be trusted.  There is strong and even “Boston Strong” evidence that the search engines (especially Google) are going down or have gone down that road to ruin by searching mostly for what is government run, meaning the marathon run that has become a run-around for finding out what one needs to know, or where “the court” might meet next.

The story continues.  Stay “tuned”, or stay in tune at least.

2013.04.24 – 03:25.    

Just photo play

April 22nd, 2013

Sad movies may make me cry; for the life of me I just don’t know why.

Just another day, photo play.

~ It’s not film or even a movie; it’s just digital images and digital stills.

So I don’t “speaka de language”, I get the idea (though).  I’ve heard it before or I’ve seen it before or I know the drill or maybe I don’t.  Whatever.

Everything I ever needed to know I learned in Kindergarten, or sometime before.

So, something happened last Monday.  I saw it.  I saw it “on the news”, I saw pictures, I got a real good visual image.  I saw the two towers falling.  I saw the Titanic in flames. I saw the Hindenburg torpedoed and the USS Arizona struck by an iceberg and the Lusitania staring in “Remember the Maine”, or the Alamo, or was it the burning of Fort Sumter?  The bombs were bursting in air over Waco.  Branch Davidians were falling out of the Murrah Federal Building like flies.  Bin Laden was caught killing cops at Ruby Ridge.  It was awful, just a blur.  All I remember was the Reichtag was burning and the underwear bomber couldn’t (or wouldn’t) just put out the fire.  I remember it all.  And now I move on.

Let me make it all perfectly clear.  I don’t live in Boston.  I wanted to once (or twice) or three times.  I wanted to live in (or near) Boston once; in Brookline or Cambridge or perhaps even Lynn.  I wanted the culture, a day after day in the park, meaning Fenway.  I would not have minded the Cheers, meaning the bar, and having every last person just “knowing my name“.  I don’t want to now.  I don’t want to ever live in Boston now, maybe not even ever again visit again.  It’s over.  Never, not now.

Remember MY name was not Tsarnaev, was not Kim, was not and is not Wong or Begay or another native name or native of Asia or Africa or from America, South.  My name is English enough, my family is Irish (enough), my roots go back far enough, I might have “fit in”.  But the real question is “where”.

I would have had “that” handicap of course; the one about not knowing all my friends from Kindergarten or before.  I would have had the handicap of not having ALL my relatives living in Boston and living next door or Like next door in Sudbury, Waltham or maybe Back Bay.  People might notice, might remember, might wonder why.

I don’t really know WHAT happened in Boston.  I think I know why.  The meme is quite simple.  An immigrant, wrong ethnic background, comes in and thinks he might want to stay.  Nobody can pronounce his name, much less remember it.  The Cheers and life at Cheers is just not for him.  He’s got quite a culture, but he must always just hide it away.

Maybe not.  Sure I know the meme, the chain of events, the “explosions”, the “blood on the streets”, the “cop killer routine”, the “thank heaven for 7/11 photographs”, the “chase scene”, the double back on the “boat person killer”; hiding like Anne Frank, but not quite so lucky.  Maybe we all buy into the American meme, meaning the “immigrants” too.

I suggested above that it was quite a blur.  I saw nothing first hand, nothing real.  I just saw photographs, images from cameras, images from TV, from CCTV.  I watched the digital feed from Channel 7 in Boston, nothing from Channel 4.  I never felt the rain or the drizzle.  I saw the raindrops on the screen, just like in any old movie.  I never felt the pain (not literally, not really).  Sure, it looked very bad.  But there were no credits at the end, no cast of characters, no names from a city where EVERYBODY knows everybody’s name and even for the Titanic they produced a passenger list.

Well now in Boston there is only one person who everybody knows his name.   He’s really quite the guy, quite famous.  If name recognition is what counts, he’s won it – Cheers!  He’s embedded in Boston now.  He’s a part of the city.  He will live there forever. One won’t ever be able to talk about Boston without remembering his name, “Dzhokhar Tsarnaev”, the Armenian, the Chetchan, the Dagastani, the Russian, the Asian – whatever.

Is every immigrant damaged or partially damaged.  Yes, of course yes.  “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched refuse of your teeming shore.  Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me.”   The Irish suffered in the famine.  The early Chinese too, faced starvation.  The Jews fled the pogroms.  German girls fled the rampages of Russian troops.  Countless Koreans and Vietnamese fled a childhood filled with perpetual scenes of death and dying, the bombs and napalm almost like a music to their ears. 

If you’ve been reading my posts you probably know by now that the Yellow Balloon (balloons) were the clue.  Follow the balloons (like “follow the money”) and you (maybe) will see what I saw.  I saw photographs, but so much more.  I saw a mosaic of America (and more).  I saw children.  I saw running.  I saw yellow balloons on the ground and rising.  The question is, “who’s yellow balloons are they”?

We lost a friend today,
We’ll just pretend to pray
We won’t cry about it
We didn’t like him anyway.
We’ll tuck the pain inside,
Better just to wait and hide
Say goodbye forever,
Through the shadows cast on lazy eyes

The more I think about it we were just kids
Listening to death music, looking for excuses to live
With all our vampire make-up on,
We were just kids,
But just you wait until you see what we did.

And we can climb up on the roof top when it gets dark
And shout the names of all our lovers to the beat of our hearts
And we can smash out all the windows under the moon
But will it save us from the weight of growing up too soon?
Where is your yellow balloon

Where is your yellow balloon?
(Don’t let go, let go)

Don’t let go, were not growing old, no means no
We can paint our eyes all shades of black
We can get black eyes and baseball bats
We can get baptized in the blood of the cool
And will still be chastised in front of the school
Bracelet wraps razor wrists
Storms chastise relationships

Where is your yellow balloon?
(Don’t let go, let go)

Youth (youth)
Floating (floating) up into the air,
Like balloons (balloons)
Growing (growing) just enough to care
But the truth isn’t fair, isn’t there
Some sorta voice that isn’t there
Runnin’ from the choices you made
And the voice that you play with poison join the parade

Where is your yellow balloon?
(Don’t let go, let go)

2013.04.22 – 22:35.  

Mother and child reunion

April 21st, 2013

“I can’t for the life of me remember a sadder day.
I know they say let it be, but it just don’t work out that way”  Paul Simon

Mother and child reunion

~ It’s not only the right thing to do, it’s the “rights” thing to do.

Let’s just call it BREAKING NEWS now shouldn’t we.  They’re spinning it their way.  They don’t believe that Dzhokhar Tsarnaev has any rights, or at least not the right to an attorney and that the public has NO RIGHT to even know who the licensed Massachusetts DOCTOR is who is treating him, or perhaps not treating him that well.

The good mayor of Boston, Tom Menino, has warned the public that the “suspect” that was apparently only shot once (in a “self-inflicted” shot through the throat) but may have “unspecified injuries” (perhaps from the coppers that hauled him in) may “never” speak again, or speak out, or perhaps ever orally (or is it verbally) testify – or maybe it’s both.

This is a strange report after the reports that he was “hauled in” cursing.

No pictures from the hospital, no medical team testimony or news briefing, no embedded news reporter (not one!) at the scene of the alleged capture – only a Massachusetts State Police photographer was there, or was said to be there.  And then there is the ambulance detour thing, the ambulance bound to the hospital in Cambridge disappeared, the suspect showed up downtown (in Boston) at the same hospital where his brother allegedly died.

What is the NAME of this mysterious shutterbug that didn’t picture the suspects head, but showed off the absence of injuries to his body?  Who is the ATF agent involving himself with the throat, or is it really a “wound” as opposed to a simple field surgery?


MASSACHUSETTS STATE POLICE PHOTOGRAPH

So, there ARE a whole lot of questions that have been left unanswered.  Was the “boat person” really Dzhokhar Tsarnaev?  Did the boat person ever leave it alive?  Were there ever any police persons in the yard to check on the house?  Did they see the boat or check it for blood or a dry water stowaway?

Is the person in the hospital really Dzhokhar (Tsarnaev), “So help me God, I do solemnly swear.”  A mother would know, perhaps only HIS mother would know.

It’s time for the “fun and games” to be OVER.  Playing with a denial of ALL the fundamental rights guaranteed in the Constitution, like FREE SPEECH and a FREE PRESS is pathetic.

Even Lee Harvey Oswald, a cop-killer and assassin of the President (as a suspect) before the filing of charges was allowed to see his own mother, and his mother was allowed to see him and the press helped to facilitate this mother and child reunion.  For the full story click here.

But that was in DALLAS, perhaps stronger than Boston today; stronger than JFK’s home town, stronger than the dirt that is now being thrown from center field in Fenway.

Cardinal Sean O’Malley of the Cathedral of the Holy Cross in Boston, in Boston Massachusetts less than a mile away from the death and the carnage spoke out in his church about forgiveness.  He can show how STRONG Boston can be.  He CAN raise the people and money so that the mother of the accused can visit her only living son (if it is her son) in Boston before he dies or is hung or hung up by a Sanhedrinist (type) court, at this time, in his hour of need, in his time of pain.  We’ve heard the story before.  Need I say it again?

Here is her name: Zubeidat Tsarnaeva.  She lives in:  Makhachkala, Dagestan on the Caspian Sea, maybe see Prince Caspian.   Anyway, contact her – fly her over (to Boston).  Let’s see if the nasty’s will try to deprive a mother and child reunion.  What law will they cite?  What excuse will they have for barring the press?

If THIS COUNTRY is lost, let’s bring it on NOW!  Put up or SHUT UP Boston.  It’s your last chance to be strong.  It’s your last chance to show you have HEART.  If you don’t Boston, there…., well you can only imagine what the cold-hearted might endure.

Or am I confused about how deeply this “snake – reptile” thing is really embedded?

2013.04.22 – 04:20. 

AN ADDITION TO THE ORIGINAL POST / 2013.04.22 – 15:50:

A Barry McGuire Moment, Minute, Day or Hour:

I’m concerned today.  I’m concerned about the direction this country is going.  I’m concerned about the (2013) APRIL 19th MOVEMENT and what it means as a message.

The “eastern world IS exploding”.  It’s not just the “twin bombs” (rhymes with “twin towers”), but the lock-down, the para-military force, the show of overwhelming force in overwhelming the people and Constitution and basic constitutional rights that’s the BOMB, the real twin bombs in the bombing.

One pair of bombs killed and injured quite a few people.  The second pair of bombs is “taking out” an entire nation.  The motto “live free or die” has died or is dying or is left as speechless as Dzhokhar Tsarnaev (American citizen, aged 19).  It’s as if the whole nation was “shot in the throat”, the silence is almost complete, not golden.  The real (full motto) is: “Live free or die, death is not the worst of evils.

Barry McGuire warned of the eastern “world” exploding.  His message was spot on even if his geography might have been seen as far off.  Things are always closer than you think, or than they appear (in a mirror) looking back.

When Barry McGuire released his song it’s message of truth reverberated across the American landscape as if the whole nation as one had been shot.  The forces that be, instituted a ban.  The chords of response, and outrage, were so great that soon “Eve of Destruction” marathons rapidly spread (meaning the marathon playing of the record over and over again without pause, without stop, on the same turntable kept continuously running).

That was before Citadel and Clear-Channel Communication.  That was before all the “mom & pop” stations in America disappeared or were bought up or sold out to the common collective (as in farm) that clear cut Free America Radio from ours hearts and America’s soul.  Rock & Roll was once America’s soul, before the music died.

So, instead of a “moment of silence” to honor the dead, consider playing a marathon for what really might die.  Play the song over and over.  Click here and here and here again and go on and click here and HEAR, because you really can hear the explosion, the explosions and YOU ARE in the thick of it this time.

An Ode to Barry McGuire, his April 18th warning is (below) again slightly modified:

The eastern world, it is exploding; violence flarin’, bullets loadin’
You’re old enough to kill, but not for totin’
You sure believe in war, and that’s the flag you’re holdin’
And even the Deleware River has bodies floatin’

But you tell me
Over and over and over again, my friend
Ah, you don’t believe
We’re on the eve
of destruction.

Don’t you understand what I’m tryin’ to say
Can’t you feel the fears I’m feelin’ today?
If the button is pushed, there’s no runnin’ away
There’ll be no one to save, with the world in a grave
[Take a look around ya boy, it’s bound to scare ya boy]

And you tell me
Over and over and over again, my friend
Ah, you don’t believe
We’re on the eve
of destruction.

Yeah, my blood’s so mad feels like coagulatin’
I’m sitting here just contemplatin’
I can’t twist the truth, it knows no regulation.
Handful of senators don’t pass legislation
And marches alone can’t legalize immigration
When human respect is disintegratin’
This whole crazy world is just too frustratin’

And you tell me
Over and over and over again, my friend
Ah, you don’t believe
We’re on the eve
of destruction.

Think of all the hate there is in Selma, Alabama
Then take a look around and to Barack Obama
You may leave here for 4 tweets in space
But when you return, it’s the same old place
The poundin’ of the drums, the pride and disgrace
You can bury your dead, but don’t leave a trace
Hate your next-door neighbor, but don’t forget to say grace
And, tell me over and over and over and over again, my friend
You don’t believe
We’re on the eve
Of destruction
Mm, no no, you don’t believe
We’re on the eve
of destruction.

2013.04.22 – 16.29.

« Previous Entries