At the Pennsylvania Governor’s School for the Arts, there was something simple and everyday about the protagonist in the film shown us by faculty A Touch of Hands in which an unusual student, considered oddball, rose to the occasion and was being commemorated with love after his early demise.   But you see, in this very sort of thing from the parts I come from, there is a role of something undisclosed and the dark matters of mystery, to be addressed by proper and desirable, dissertation require investigation.   In being lectured by the liberals in my new and old schools, regarding the function and condition of adjunct professors, a rumor was circulated by long belittling peers that I was trying to upstage the mighty, imagined myself a professor, on top of my game, worthy, in fact, of commiseration over the sabotage of my courtship, ages ago.  One of these professors, a mentor on advising in journalism, Patrick McGuire, had compromised himself by admiration of Mel Gibson, a person suspected in the death of my father, and himself under the hegemony of my evil maternal, nepotic godmother in the Orpheus of Learning, Jean Aston upon whom his life depends.  They were setting me up for very checkered applause of the sort that renegade parochial Greg Karl was snickering when, after inflicting severe trauma through agencies, he laughed at me as a child, “Jimmy (James MacRyland Crary, now known as Mac) is going to perform for us,” a word he drawled with heavy emphasis to signify the inside jest.

        Student Government interviewed me today about the role I sought, to be educated and tutored in the function of student leadership, a role I turned down at my old school in Pittsburgh when matriculating to TCC in Tacoma and for which act I feel I owe some explanation to CCAC, since there are interpretations and categorical imperatives at work in what I felt I should do, and what I thought was being expected from me.  In 2018, I enlisted in TCC (particularly a class in Linguistic Anthropology) and since this is the course central to the U.S. Government’s management of the AIDS atrocity, being held at a campus advertising ourselves as military friendly, the history of our city schools defending anything but the truth probably keeps faith here.   Gail Carolyn Burstyn, a homophone whose letter-writing, that any adult would have identified as hostile, was allowed by my parent (kin), clearly in the loop.  It was obviously now and by obscure self-disclosure then, from the companies of Linguistic Anthropology way back when.  Her letters delved into matters about which I am just now learning.

      Liberals wouldn’t fight to defend one of their own if they were being shot at and they never tire of covering for the saccharine mania of parched conservative colleagues who are playing the old hoodwinkers game of who is really in charge here top sacredly?   This tack was illustrated plain and simple in Texas by the old ward of corrupt parochials who wrapped up JFK for storytime in Dallas.   Despite this, I propose that there is in fact Honor Among Liberals.   Honor of any kind these days we should be slow to Impeach.  Yes, they were the finks in the AIDS attack, I mean, they threw us to the dogs.  There were lots of Students Of War (SOW) laughing with Karl and their mentors in arms, but some of us had believed in our faculty trust.  They were being problem-solvers and that role has been passed as a torch of done deal to young Joe Kennedy.

       Most of us would like to be accepted by a society we respect; poetry about injustice as a spiritual phenomenon is unlikely ever to be completely discarded, but the 21st century is very complicated.  Dishonesty has become a very serious matter.  I’ve had to invent terms like “dramaturge fever” to describe how being cased by corrupt perpetrators whose only game seem to be masquerading as friends to describe the well-known disappointment at betrayal endemic to the American condition these days.  If we are disliked and distrusted abroad it’s nothing compared to the fate appearing in our midst that we dare not question while being demoralized by it, resulting in the doomed glance of wish you’d just keep away that greets anybody nearly all the time.  Eventually it all comes down to the favor I did Hillary Clinton by my letter to Ellis Valedictorian Leslie Sanetta Katz from the city of nets way back when and how Obama used it to play Seattle Central for fools and UW’s effete elite in their enthroned squabble with neo-liberalism.   I personally really do not like running out of time due to a criminal policy of burning my life from both ends, but I guess that just shows more of my lack of magnanimity, myuh.

      Of course, I have some special experiences.  Contact with the Beatles for example, and being from George Bush’s ship in the Navy.  My opinions are always routinely totalled by their prestige.  It is the depravity at work in their celebrity chauvanism that absolutely galls me.  I’ll never shake it off, that magnitude of perversion from those who bestow Honor from above like pigeon droppings.   Still makes me feel much safer in the presence of Liberals in their deep freeze.  One can almost confess one’s heart to a zombie.  It’s sure better than snitching to a British backblade.  When it suits them they say, “We’re just people,” but really that is how Adolf Hitler managed to get away.

       Language research, poker faced with hidden satire, was crucial to getting the desired attitudes to play among the at risk and afflicted.   The crime becomes very evil as you sleuth the academic field where it is twisted like coils around the minds of newcomers in their possession through fields like Linguistic Anthropology.  For example, to hide the cowardly dissembling of King Crimson and Her Majesty’s Prosecution Service taunting the truly bereaved they vowed that it would be left between the deluded being X-terminated and the all-knowing soul-readers doing the X-termination in holy empathy and if you so much as try to warn anyone they will inflict you in jest.   The lewd venoms were given all trust.   Manipulation of developing young adults by cultivating and coding their thinking processes was a first mission of the British Attilla whose mouth Robert Fripp, speaking for the Dakota and White Album, lisped that his most awesome work was really not so quite an achievement actually but rather, “just something we did for that particular band,” in order to deceive the faithful to their betterment.   The monsters, just people really, have a secret weapon in Yoko Ono who ruled over tongue allowances of self-expression by cooing that she was saving someone she had mutilationed in serial mayhem from the ripper of glee, fuming that Lennon and Hitler were as one in her spellcrafts of peace.   Only the infected are true witches, they creamed, hiding the most pathological witch hunt ever allowed, making witch the in-status devotee designation, code from the twisted estate of Adolf/Lennon for the church ill, sneering it in defense of real kids, the important ones, fearless with insight.

     It isn’t just the abstract field of language they understood, but a control concept they manipulated.  They impugned the reputation of a golem they purposefully brain damaged and then squoze for the ooze of their brain slime they inputted through registers pitched to the sordid yap that they have ways of making record play, after recording record first.  The Wizard of Ooze, someone Obama, was the trump in the deck.