Monday, June 30, 2008

A Flaming Fruitcake, Yessiree

It has always been hard for me to be political around people, though I am fascinated by politics, and have been since the age of 6 or 7, when my mother and her across the street lady friend took us, one of her children, and us three brothers, our mothers behaving like two schoolgirls, to wave at John Kennedy as his motorcade passed near our home in Norfolk, Virginia. Squealers were in back in the 50s and 60s, a phenomenon about which I know a little bit about, having seen not only John Kennedy but the Beatles, and the sound at the Beatles concert blew the other experience away.

Two Johns ... two assassinations. Coincidence? Or incidental? Was it meant to be, that these two men named John died for some divine person, like it was meant to be? Was either man punished for something they did grievously wrong, so that God should allow them to be humiliated by being murdered out in the open air, where people could watch both of them die from their wounds? I believe if evil wants to show in the context of time that there are weird mysteries out there to be associated with evil acts, I believe that evil would pay attention to dates and other significances to trick people into thinking that such control, even of a gruesome sort, is what God is cruelly best at doing. I used to think that until I read a fascinating passage from the Dead Sea Scrolls involving Abraham and Isaac.

It felt weird to be political around other people, because my mother was always very reserved. I would watch the Jerry Lewis telethon, because I loved Jerry Lewis, and by the end of the show on Labor Day ... I was all misty-eyed, and my mother would get mad at me for showing some emotion, I guess about something touching. Her mother had been a paranoid schizophrenic, the same malady with which I deal. One of them. But I'm good. Don't cry for me, Joe Salinas, Dulcinea, whatever. Eva. I've never been happier for a sustained period in my life, and that's a good thing. The medicines I take help greatly, which I can measure as an adult with and without these medications. There are good things, albeit dehabitating in the long run, which can help you maintain a quality of life for as long as you have it -- that is, of course, if you have a health plan. Imagine what the people who can't get the medication I get have to go through; I know what they go through. And I believe they suffer from outside interference as well. There is nothing in them that can hurt them ... it's all an outside game to be blamed on, in my view, the dark forces which invisibly surround us. I have drawn that conclusion because I know they exist, because a child around 6 doesn't have enough experience, stimulus, input to output the mental images which were output for me of a very elaborate, lucidly dreaming nature. In other words, I couldn't get away from them. If I'm lyin' I'm dyin'. I don't feel proud of that, Any Whitman, Esq., It just happens, like it once happened when I was much younger for up to a year.

But now, as I said, these visitors are different. They are, I believe, the Watchers that we have read about, ome of us anyway, in the book of Enoch. They are what we see as ghosts. Their spirits I believe are still with them, but they have carried a part of their bodies with them, because they are not wearing white, they are not translucent, as what I experience outdoors. Indoors, when I am stationery, Watchers, and outside, angels? They are clearly flying images, or standing beside me. I can compare it to rippling displaced air, of the sort we see at the end of a long stretch of road when it is very hot. That's the best way I can describe it. They are so translucent that even as you see their movement, they are barely visible, at times like plexiglass with just the slightest frost on it. I believe I am seeing something, and not operating on general nutiness, because of the cloud which appeared just over my house, roughly five feet off of the roof, at the southwesterly end of my house, just over the room, my bedroom where I do most of my writing.

Does that mean anything? To family and sort of friends it means I am a flaming fruitcake. Flambe or whatever. With those nasty little citron fake fruit nuggets that must have fallen in the candy apple goop, before being dried and actually sold. Distasteful, yes. Just too much and way over the top? Yes. Like a fruit cake that can move as fast as Powdered Toast Man, with plenty of gas to spare. ... By the way, I just got up to run to the kitchen because of the time I'm spending with you, even though this site get no hits. None. O -- which is a lot like when I was a kid and fancied being a disk jockey and taped open a walkie talkie, so that the button to transmit was always pressed, and preceded to do a radio show, with the schpeel or spiel and playing records and everything. My general thinking was, because of the magic of radio, all the frequencies flying around out there, that someone somewhere my pick me up and just really did the selection of records I was playing. That is one hopeful, electronically challenged kid, but I only did it a couple of times. The last time was when my brother quietly walked in on me. I was so embarrassed, which was a signal to me at least that I really didn't believe that I had been communicating with anyone. I was pretending, in the hope that somehow my show would get out. Feels a lot like now. A whole lot. Zero hits. None. Not even one. Not even half of a hit, or a whoosh by on the way to some other thrilling Blogspot site. Zip. I wonder what the percentage is for people who have web pages somewhere with some service like this one, a free service, who have never gotten a single hit. I get quite a number of hits on my website with the Squarespace people, but Google's Blogspot, nothing. Either that or their analytics have been rigged, and I am the target of a conspiracy, whereby the conspirators will one day appear and flail themselves at me shouting, "We're together, we're together." I don't know why anyone would want to block the truth. Ha ... see, I gotcha.

Where was I?

Oh, I remember, I'm the fruitcake who is seeing stuff of a paranormal nature, which is only paranormal, in fact, where the angels are concerned. They're different. But the people inside have dark and light shading, in shades of gray. They aren't physical present, it has occurred to me, but trapped somewhere. Why do I believe they are trapped, because they seem to be very interested in what I write, which gets posted on my websites, this one I share with Janet Devlin, who also helps out with TANATA, when she's not in class or chasing men. Why would they be watching me and what I write, why is there such a thing as Watchers, and where are they, and are they happy or sad? Or scared? I get the sense that some of them are angry, some threatening and some are genuinely interested in what I am writing. I should get some T-shirts and caps made us with some acronym like TAPS, which stands for what I don't know, but the ghost filmers wear them. Maybe I could put revelee or old soft shoe. Or a raven ... yeah. Or just my last name "Whitman," like the sampler, which has always been a weird name to me for a box of candy. Here ... sample this. You're not really sampling, however, you're eating the whole piece. If you were truly going to sample ... you'd take a little bite or nibble and put it back. Or you'd stuff yourself with piece after piece, if you're like me, sampling the entire stock of chocolates on hand. Speaking of that, I have a dark side. Or, let's say an avant garde side, which I am somewhat proud of, because I think Jesus was weird, or, he felt weird. I don't think he was cocky about what he could do ... I think it flipped him out as much as it flipped out anyone. We know from the remark at the wedding in Cana, which is near Galilee, the sea of and location, where Jesus says that it is not yet time for him to begin performing miracles ... and yet he does it anyway. That has always struck me as odd, just as it has that Jesus sort of chews out his mother. However, I can understand the latter better that I can the former.

Now there are some visitors, and they are apparently of a much different sort. Looking at them straight on, I see nothing; it is only out of the corners of my eyes, by peripheral vision, which allows me to see to the side, slightly in front of me and slightly behind me.

and not out of the corners of my eyes, I can't see them.

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