Candy and the King

A Mac Crary Editorial

July 24, 2017

In our society we want to validate the lie we have told about the AIDS attack. This overarching longing, to lie and cheat our children of the truth about what was done has become such a burning thirst and incautious necessity that stormtroopers of public opinion come gunning out of their authoritarian offices bellowing justifications for what we have found in the manner of child rape, serial murder and they seem to enjoy it, smiling when done, having proven themselves fit and up to emotional management of the affair, however heuristic and disingenuous their varying decrees. One laughs with horror at the Federal Bureau of Investigation's rigging in the matter of accounting for what has befallen their abandonment of an American kid allowing the pseudo-cultural preference structure surrounding Yoko Ono and the neo-liberal warlocks at the New York Times. Since it can be handled no other way, they reckon, but by disgraceful deceit, then brag of the deception.

Evidence is their undoing but there is nowhere else to turn and no place to run. Like the cobweb strange cast by the malevolent hands of collection pimps at the pornography socials, we are trapped by erroneous belief in the maturity and mutual consent of peers. My narrative is regarded with hostility, particularly by black people, for being very special, but it is, at minimum, the saga of how the tragedy of one deaf poet a generation behind them illustrates the tawdry sell-out of the 60's generation. The rabid have been openly sharing their claims with me, and I have no reason whatever to hide their society of victory's claims from you, so that you can see perfectly well by what method of underhanded cheat you were so rapingly backknifed by the British Government and the Beatles, whose status as the enemy of our betrayed enlists us by the common cause of a common tongue about which misuse we should have been more wary. By simple trickery they converted a term like "the used" into "the user".

Let me take a moment to recount how the rabid soothsaid into my own good auspices. The rabid from Her Majesty's accounting services, barking mad with deceit and hired to protect Gail Burstyn, someone Amanda Harcourt from Pentagon Disney, contacted me saying, "I was relieved to see the letter in the mailbox was from you and not from some weirder than thou type," speaking as attache for Peter Gabriel in Bath. The subtext is clear. She was not announcing, "No one is weirder than Peter Gabriel", but rather cooing soothing noises to the effect, "relax Jimmy Creary, you have earned a respite from the truly weird", and yet, in their characteristic facelying, the madness of their insane and brutal attacks were only just beginning.

Psychiatrists are no longer anywhere nearly as high strung as they were 30 years ago about my appearance on Gabriel song titled, "That Voice Again" about which my malicious mother of deliverance Nancy Jane Moore bore witness. The fact of microsoft brainwave sonar, consigned to the poor despair of a bona fide schizophrenic, whom the girls have rightly been told a rejected lover, under various pretexts protecting the experimental study, is swept under the table of good grades and high marks in the Honors Department, good conduct, well chastised, as the saints of the French Revolution used to say. So I don't mind the risk of derailing this report in detailing the obsessive intensity of their refrain on high. Each morning I wake up to the voices from Ultrahigh saying, "It's the saddest case in the history of the United States....everyone knows it's the saddest tragedy....it's a famous, famous tragedy." It is terribly important to the rabid that he make me believe this idea, that he make me feel it, for the gnawing in the pit of his stomach that someone will see the truth, that the murdering Fripp of King Crimson is the villian of the AIDS attack shadows his broadcast of libels like the circulurs of the White Rose dogging Goebbels in Munich.

There, now we move on, shedding the skin of the snake like unwanted readers, with hopping mad professors on the phones of their offices, yapping with horror, "The queerbait has lost all powers of insight!" I have offered police, campus police, Adminstration, high professors, talented students, no end of opportunities. I have on several rare occasions put the evidence down upon their desk and been given a scarce moment of reckoning. Almost without exception they have seen the point and been ashamed. On very rare and momentous occasions, they have said, my god that's so obvious, or shuddered and bid me put them away for a time. The evidence is perfectly clear, and the rabid made no attempt to hide it. Yet the will to avert your eyes is very stubborn and the desire to be assured with soothing noises from the back blade wielders is overpowering. They wink and direct you to dial up the deficiencies in my warning, the blind spots in my text as a far greater detective, they assure you, than you would be noting their cowardly lies.

I will make good on this claim by showing you what they say about me and asking you only observe what it says about them. All of what they have done is absolutely clear as well as in description, and yet all of what they have done is equally entirely ignored. The amazeless ceasing activity of society's safeguards had degenerated absolutely into aftermath collaborators, such accomplice is always as credulous as it is refined, as officious as it is dirty.

Making me deaf and poisoning me with Wattenmaker's nerve agent was useful in artificial subordination within the institution of higher learning. Sophomores grudging my talents in expression enjoyed turning my girlfriends around. Blacks had a field day. Penis Gabriel meanwhile broadcast his license as colorization of everything, and we now turn to his colorizations plan unfolded as cheap trickery from on high. Having arrived at his cover story, he brooks no rivals in gall, pronouncing himself JUDGE AND JURY right in the text of his smear campaign. He is allowed also to be all four: perpetrator and accuser as well, all the evidence is behind me.

How this is about the 60's is easy to see. After the suit and tie generosity of the peace movement's leadership was shot dead with the help of his own people, in the wake of the murder of King, the krimson kourt of the ku klux klan rolled up for the mystery circus and uploaded a new age criminal empire, pouring drugs into the schools. Happy go lucky they called one of their hostages, insisting that Jimmy Creary could only claim right to exist if made in the image of Adrian Belew. We issued no summons, but rather cultural apologetics and fait accompli when the Beatles by their actions and lyrics demonstrated them to be hardened criminals at work forming rat packs more scurrilous in Vegas than Sinatra. When they refused to conform to anything at all resembling the law, we announced it all in play.

The play incubated around queerbait into a legendary lucid dream that Pentagon Disney's Ming Na Wen announced was double fantasy on a fantasy island. Nothing is real, they insisted among the burning buildings. Screams they leered were simply a matter of the right harmonic chords. There was no need to warn or intervene in the spread, because one size fits all, simply normalize the case as one, they mused, as Eno tricked Frisco.

Elizabeth Blumenfeld whose cousin Sharon Samuels introduced me to Gail Burstyn, Reagan's pen name on the script, enjoys the society of Michael Tive of SONY, where Celine Dion and Penis Sinfield also hold court with Midori Goto, strategist of the crime under Queen Elizabeth. Elizabeth and Elizabeth created an Ivy League switchboard strutting the extra-legality of the ruling class in a mega-claim operating through hotspots as vigilantes. They believe Arnold Katz, they say. They have a report that Jimmy Creary pounced on Bruce Iby when an adolescent on a drunken spree, so "by a stretch of the imagintion" as Rosyln Katz would say, we can only fear greatly that Jimmuh quee would someday pounce upon Leslie, who had removed her nightly from his tongue. The university hired me and followed not a single institutional regulation requiring I be advised of the charges against me. They didn't ask me to see a counselor or a shrink, they had a pornographic plan instead.

The murderers, Ian Wattenmaker and Ian MacDonald, in the house of Patricia and Edith Wattenmaker and Patricia and Edith Fripp knew the source of the agony expressed in the letter to Leslie to be a neurotoxin, yet Pitt had no interest in anything but greasing their wheels with misdiagnosis about my father Ryland. The semantics in play from Herbert Simon's machine intelligence laboratory, working with Katz' familiar Ed Heath and Kyra Schon's neighbor Hugh Thomas, were what Riback liked to call semantics. Riback and Shiono, Vengeance of She in the semiotic quest for fluxus similitude in conscious engineering. Ri was got back by She Ono. The means was their opportunity, speak memory of the mental illness arranged by m.ilnes. Frankly my dear, I don't give a carrot from New Line Cinema and Tony Cervi of Tove's Tavern on Curtis and Hebron Cemetery.

Alexander Solzhenitsyn knew what Creary would never win. He said, "A warm man cannot understand the concerns of the cold man," ah, but how easy it is for the warm man to laugh and say, "but look over there, that man is colder than you."

Brrstyn.