Saturday, October 29, 2005

I'm feeling choice, mates. Shrimps on the barby!

Courtesy of "Zed Zero"

An' tha wallaby's on grouse. I.e. I'm feelin' fine.

"Strueth bluey, that was the bees knees! = I like that very much.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

Scarlet bleeding leaves

by cafegroundzero on Oct 27, 1983

The maple leaves lie strewn
across the sidewalk, frost-coated.
The November gust like a torch
rushes burning over us and the plains
laying an ash of cold and white on all.

Youth? Old man is left now with wrinkles
remembering his lost manly beauty.
He walks upon the stubbled furrows
trodding on a withered smut-stained stalk.
Force: and though he dreams when he was tough
now he lies curled in a fetal on sweat soaked sheets.

Come back! I screamed in silence as a teen.
Wake up! I told myself as I trod the walks
of brick, of concrete block, to myself I talk.
My girlfriend's eyes of frozen ocean blue
seemed even then to be so cold,
made me even then feel old.
And when I tried to find her warmth I felt ice
and could imagine her further under and receding
sinking into the black black pond.

I shouted! but in vain, agonized,
and I pounded the ice with chapp'd red fists
lifting my arms to strike but no use...

I wanted then to join the dream
to come out of the cold.
But in my dream her corpse was wrinkled,
and I was numb, so I retold
the dream in which I had foretold
our breaking up, way back in 1984,
in 1984 the year of Winston's tragedy,
a tale that left me sad for months when I first read it,
even riding the streets stealing peaks from the book.

In that dream again, she -- you, I wrote her then
--receded into the mirk which swirled and distantly
she seemed so pale,
even then as I woke I remembered her eyes sapphire,
even in my premonitions of her death her hair flamed red.

Comment? All rights reserved, cafegroundzero. Copying without permission for non-personal use is forbidden.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

Every day, Mum recites these prayers

I often call her Mami. She now has said the children can call her Mamita, the term of affection, or title, I used to call my own maternal grandmother who lived in La Barca.

Every morning, as soon as her feet touch the floor, she starts these prayers:

Gracias os doy,
Gran Senyor,
pues me has sacado
de las tinieblas de la noche
a la Luz del Dia,
hacer lo que gastes
en obras
de vuestro santo servicio
por Jesus Cristo
Nuestro Senyor.

A second prayer goes like this:

En este nuevo dia
gracias te tributamos
O Dios immenso
Senyor de lo creado.
Tu divina clemencia
se ha dignado acarnos
del horror de la noche
a la luz del sol claro.
Todo vasto teatro
del mundo cuanto existe
es obra de tu mano.
Por ti, reverdecen los prados.
En el agua los peces cantan
tu Nombre Santo.
y guia nuestros pasos
para que eternamente
tus santas leyes sigamos.

I have kept these prayers in my memory since childhood. I have now two squared and two score years, and two children. Today is my dear wife’ birthday. She is about the same age as I.

The death toll for our own troops in Iraq has reached 2000. The 2000th soldier died over the weekend from a bomb blast. I am one of the veterans of this war. For surviving with my limbs, body, and mind intact I give thanks. For suffering from depression, I give thanks too, for I know I am human. My suffering is a blessing for by this I know I am human, and I accept my suffering in atonement for my sins and the sins of others as well.

Tuesday, October 25, 2005

Learning from Poke'mon

Here's a great line,

__________"Evolution is what Pokemons are about!"

_____________________________Declared by one of Mikey's brothers in the "It's Edie!"

Sunday, October 23, 2005

Query: do nuclear arms and facilities pose a threat?

I am going back to the roots of the problems and solutions posed in the seventy-first volume, numbers seven and eight, of Fellowship, a monthly published by the Fellowship of Reconciliation. The headline is titled "Changing Course: Reframing the Nuclear World."

Rabia Terri Harris, the Interim Editor, makes the introduction with an essay titled "Judgement Call," in which she opens with the thesis "We are, and we are not, our governments."

"The destructive power of nuclear weapons is well known," according to 'a prominent statesman' in the May/June issue of Foreign Policy."

...given the United States' continued reliance on (nuclear weapons) it's worth remembering the dangers they presnet. A 2000 report by the International Physicians for the Prevention of Nuclear War describes the likely effects of a single 1 megaton weapon-- dozens of which are contained in the Russian and US inventories..."

The Chronological History of the Negro in America

I haven't written a post dedicated soley to a book in a long time, but this one quite deserved the time, and enough time to read the whole book and then compose a review. The brothers Peter and Mort composed this compendium of history and biographies of African Americans in the Americas since colonial times till the December 1969.

For instance, now I'm in the year 1798, in which, on the 16th of March, Secretary of War James McHenry wrote to a Marine lieutenant on the frigate Constitution,
"No Negro, mulatto, or Indian to be enlisted, nor any description of men except natives of fair conduct, or foreigners of unequivocal character for sobriety and fidelity."

I've learned ot the existence of such men as James P. Beckwourth (1798 -1867) explorer, mountain man, and fur trader, who was born in Virginia. His father was a white man and his mother an African American slave woman. His father was also an officer in the Revolutionary Army.
In the early years of the 19th century, the Beckwourths, who had 13 children, relocated to a settlement near what is today Saint Louis. In 1816, James Beckwourth was apprenticed to a blacksmith. He ran away to New Orleans, then signed up with General Henry Ashley's Rocky Mountain expedition, to be a scout. The Bergmans report that one of the reasons for Beckwourth's nomadic existance was his determination not to be trapped in the accepted role of the Negro in white society.
In the 1820's and '30's, in the heyday of the scouts, hunters, and Indian fighters, Beckwourth became legendary, along with Jim Bridger and Kit Carson. The Blackfeet and Crow Nations accepted him into their communities. In 1848, Beckwourth became the chief scout for Fremont's expedition in the Rockies. He discovered the pass between the Feather and Truckee Rivers in California. Today this pass is called Beckwourth Pass.

Saturday, October 15, 2005


People talk about procrastination as if it's always a bad thing. They can't get things done, they can't accomplish, they don't succeed, whatever. But what if one started something, even with the best of intentions, and it got him (or her) in a load of trouble?

Introducing Benjiman Angwin, and "Gladyss's Clock"

Hey, it's a very pleasant autumn morning here in Glennville, Tattnall County, Georgia. Sun shining, birds singing, neighbour's cat skulking in the shade across the street. Wilma's running another porch book sale, and it seems to be going well. The lass just finished watching a Poke'mon animation.

I'm pleased to announce that we have another contributor, a writer who comes to us via I don't know much about him, but my first impression is that he's a hard charger, is driven in his work to finish a novel. I noticed on his postings that he was steadily working, and seemed inspired. Without further ado, I present Benjiman and an excerpt from his novel, Gladyss's Clock.

My name is Benjiman Angwin, and the name of the book is "Gladyss's Clock". This bit is from Chapter 10. And hey, good luck on your web journal.... here you go!

Gladyss had gone to bed late, about midnight. Niel had waited even more impatiently than Dylan had. Tonight was special for him in a way that he could not let Gladyss know about. He saw this girl named Britney about twice a week. Tonight was the night they had agreed upon. Once Gladyss was asleep he waited until about one, that is when the television snapped off. The change of constant sound to silence woke Dylan from his light and daydream like sleep. He had nodded off, laying on the floor looking at postcards sent from friends and family in Texas, talking to the people in them as if they were in the room with him, vivid and touchable. In the haze of his semi-sleep state, Dylan did not notice what had woken him, and rose up and fell into his bed recovering his lost sleep. Then the front door opened and shut. This caught his attention immediatly. Steps followed, and they were faster than Gladyss', more jubilant.
"That has to be him." Dylan whispered in the lit room. He turned off the ceiling light then to see better, having had his eyes closed for a while. The stairs echoed Niel's progress down them.
Niel was already upset he had to call Britney from the back porch to tell her he would be late, because Gladyss had stayed up later than usual. He waited another hour to make sure the woman was asleep before leaving. Now the door, with three panes of glass in it shut behind him and his breath came to life, forming its shape in the cold. Joe sat at the bottom of the steps, smoking a cigarette and drinking a cup full of Jack Daniels. He had on a hat and a t-shirt.
"Damn, arn't chya' cold Joe?" Niel said coming down to the sidewalk. Joe didn't say anything, and in fact he wasn't cold. He had grown up at the northern tip of Minnisota near Canada. Niel noticed his cigarette, and remembered he had only three left.
"Hey, chya' got a cigarette I'm all out."
Joe gulped from the plastic cup and and reached in his pocket feeling his full pack of cigarettes. "No, I'm all out, but if I give you the money for a pack and you run to the corner store for me I'll give you one."
"How 'bout I get you a pack of cigarettes on my way back home. I'll give ya the pack when I get back." Niel wiped his nose, running from the chill of the dropping temperature.
Joe would not fall for such things. He had let a friend borrow his truck once, on the promise that the truck would be returned with a full tank of gas. His friend had lied and they were no longer friends. The truck had returned with a thousand extra miles on it, next to no gas, and french fries scattered over the passenger seat. When Joe took his friend up on the state of the car, she had gone up to northern Michigan to see family.
"Did you know Niel, that Minnisota means sky colored water." Joe's random string of words out of sync with conversation was intended that way.
"What?" Niel said.
Joe drank from his cup, and took a puff from his cigarette. The he looked up at the starless, moon dominated sky and said nothing.
"Well I see ya later, gotta go about now." Niel said walking away. Joe was relieved.
Down the block, his shoes crushed browning leaves and he thought of Britney. He had met her over a month ago from a chat room online. Since then he sneaked out as often as he could. He would do anything not to have to share the bed with his wife. Reaching the corner he came to the suburban and once inside rubbed his hands together and started the engine. The start up seemed a little rougher than usual, but not worrisomely so. Niel turned on the heater and waited as the cold air blowing on him turned cool and then faintly warm. Peeling out, Niel sped past the church. Then, a block away the car stalled and the gas pedal felt stiffer then usual. After that the car completely died, shutting down.
"Out of all times it could of done so!" Niel yelled and hit the steering wheel. He turned the ignition and the colossal truck broke down as soon as it roared to life. The third time it could not even chug a few feet, and Niel realized it was futile to fight with the truck, though he tried again and again to revive the automobile. Now he banged on the dashboard and yelled in spurts of broken English and dirty language. He put the car in park.
"Dang." He said slamming the door, as a car honked and went around him. Niel looked under the hood and found nothing out of the ordinary, all the fluids in proper place and amounts. Jumping back in the truck, he shut out the cold. He tried once more, the rough start shook the engine and shut it down in the same moment. Niel knew his only choice, was to put the truck in to neutral and push it a block to his parking space right behind the fire hydrant, where no one else liked to park for fear of tickets or the yellow boot.
So he did that, hopping out of the truck, and guiding him self arduously with the steering wheel. Sweat formed in beads under his blonde hair and fell across his face, darkening the white cigarette in his mouth. A driver yelled out his window, "Hey dumbass, what the fuck are you doing? It's a one way not a push way the otherway!"
"Yeah, Yeah." Niel yelled back. The driver was twenty feet away already. Smoke spit out in balls from his thin lips, and the firey tip of the cigarette kept his nose warm as it could be in the night's low. It was five below freezing out now, the coldest night yet of the season. Niel had to work for each turn of the wheels, and they did not come easy. They grinded against the uneven pavement and crushed pebbles in their path. Finally relief came. After the first few rotations, the tires moved faster until the inertia of the previous push fueled half of the next. Crossing Seminary Street, Niel hopped in and applied pressure to the break. The truck stopped only with much effort, softly bumping the tiny, dent covered Ford focus behind it
Niel was extremely agitated, but he could do nothing to help the situation now. He called Britney, and she said he could take the "L" up to the Argyle stop. She lived in Little China Town. She'd be waiting for him there, in a bright green jacket. Niel despised public transportation, and felt it was disgusting and below his level of living. Stubborn as Niel is, the promise of a woman other than Gladyss persuaded him over. He shoved his phone in his pocket, and lacking enthusiasm for riding the train, walked to the Belmont station to wait under the ethereal lights.

Benjiman Angwin. Copyright 2005. Please do not reprint nor sell any portion of this without permission of the author. You may place a link to this website, and we would thank you for the courtesy.

Friday into Saturday night: a marathon of web writing

Saturday, October 15, 2005 01:12:20

The following are some notes I took, some composition of my own, and some quotes. This was done in the span of sixteen

Venice is like eating an entire box of chocolate liqueurs in one go.
- Truman Capote
Glennville is like getting a whiff of some good barbecue, then remembering that you still got to pay the mortgage, you don’t have any medical insurance, and you forgot to change the oil for the last two months. And your vehicle needs new tires. But you go ahead and buy one order, take it home, and split it among two adults and two preschoolers.
- John-Peter Creighton

Questions and answers: from

How do you actually (make friends)? I think all through my life people have always wanted to be MY friend and they approached me. I honestly don't feel that I even know how I would go about it. Sad, but true!! — 3 hours ago 1:10 pm Friday, October 14, 2005

Many people are slow to be what is called proactive. Are you one of these people? You may fear taking risks. This may be part of your nature. On the other hand, you may have a potential to take a risk for friendship, to offer to share your self, to listen, to speak about your own experience. What sri kalki and cathi beth said are true, and as you follow their advice, you may also realize in your self that there are skills you didn’t know you could develop. Just give yourself a chance to learn something new.
Just because you’ve been say, for instance, shy, all you life, or not strong enough, or not brave enough—I’m just giving examples, I don’t really know you—this doesn’t mean that you couldn’t start to practice in small ways being bold, being the first one to say hello, being able to endure someone whom you might not have given the time of day to, or sticking your neck out to defend someone else.
At the end of the day, it doesn’t matter how many friends you have. What matters is that you can say you honestly tried to live by your principles. And when you are more satisfied by this, you may find that it doesn’t matter how you make friends. There will be enough of what you really need.
Are your chances of winning greater if you pick your own numbers or get quick picks? — 11 weeks ago Friday, October 14, 2005 minus 11 weeks

Regarding whether it is better to guess your own numbers, or go with a random pick:

Probability theory. Hmmm… I think I can find a mathematical explanation of what Laura said. But right now, I’m about to scratch off the numbers on my Jumbo Bucks “Giant”ticket! I bought the ticket during the lunch hour, down the block and across the highway. My numbers are…
1 11 12 22
Let’s see what we have. Ready? (Drum roll)....
1st scratch…”Eighteen.” ($5,000)
2nd scratch…”Twenty-four” ($25)
3rd scratch…”Six. ($1.00) ...hmmm so far no luck… and scratch
4th … “three.” ( $1000)
5th… “twenty and nine. Nope” ($$100.00
6th…36-8-28-5-37-20-33-40-39. naaahhhh
7th and last, final drum roll “Four.”
So this one’s a bust. (musical notes…Wah wah wah wah waaaaaahhhh.”)

From Garrison Keillor, we could learn
that yesterday was the birthday
of the poet and novelist Sherman Alexie

, born near Spokane, Washington (1966) on an Indian reservation. His
first big success was his collection of short stories The Lone Ranger
and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven. It was one of the first works of
fiction to portray Indians as Americans who watch all the same TV
programs as everybody else and eat the same breakfast cereal.

Sherman Alexie said, "All too often Indian writers write about the
kind of Indian they wish they were. So I try to write about the kind
of Indian I am. I'm just as much a product of The Brady Bunch as I am
of my grandmother."

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

On the long way home, I found

I took the old road which connects Dublin, in Laurens County, with Macon.

Among other things, I had thought that I found the site where the Creek Treaty was signed, giving away most of the Western Creek Lands. It seems I may be wrong, according to the editors of Roadside Georgia, in this web document;

For 20 years the Creek struggled to regain the land taken by Georgia and only the able handling of the situation by Indian Superintendent Benjamin Hawkins kept the radical factions of the Creek Nation from revolting. After Hawkins got an additional cession from the chiefs in 1805 the fort was built to protect the settlers. Hawkins personally selected the site for the fort that would bear his name.(1)

If I am wrong, I don't feel too bad, for several individuals, including neighbouring residents, business folk, and law enforcement all seemed to know nothing of the history of the fort. It was amusing for me to find that 3/4 of a mile downhill, the road teed out on an avenue, directly onto the Popeye's Fried Chicken opposite. How very much like an American military base!

Here's what I had actually been trying to place, the site of The Treaty of Indian Springs.

Chief McIntosh, Gov. Troup's first cousin, agreed to cede all Lower Creek land to Georgia in the Treaty of Indian Springs in 1825. He had been manipulated by both the federal and state governments to sign the treaty. McIntosh also had no clear mandate from his people. After signing the treaty, and prior to the removal, McIntosh and several other leaders were murdered by angry members of the tribe. The Treaty of Indian Springs was ratified in the U.S. Congress by a single vote.(2)

Another tragedy, albeit more recent than the defeat and loss of the Creek nation, was the apparent abandonment of a recreation facility by Fort Hawkins. It may have been for the soldiers, and it could be for the community now, but the pool is filled in with earth, and the four basketball courts lie in ruin, the hoops a pitiful remnant, devoid of the bouncing of balls and the shouts and grunts of hard and fast court play.
The surrounding neighbourhood seems to be struggling, midway between sinking into further poverty and decay, or reviving with its tire, auto sound system shops, and other workshops and retail businesses.

Somewhere on my other long way home I managed to make my way to S.R. 46, where I found a marker(3) indicating the proximity of Governor Troup's Tomb. Governor George Michael Troup is reputed to have announced to the federal government "We have exhausted the argument. We stand by our arms"." The plaque sums up the consequent history with these three words: "The Indians were removed."

I wonder if this is the same governor who refused Worcester v. Georgia (4) in 1832?) First the Creeks, and later the Cherokees were forced out of their rights and their lands. But there's so much more to that story, which I hope to examine in future posts.

4. Worcester v. Georgia, 6 Pet (31 US) 515 (1832)

History of The Creek Nation - American Indians in North Georgia


Калинка, калинка, калинка моя,
В саду ягода малинка, малинка моя,

Под сосною под зеленою
Спать положите вы меня.

Ах! Сосенушка ты зеленая,
Не шуми же надо мной!

Ах! Красавица, душа девица,
Полюби же ты меня!

"I met you" lyrics by Fedor Tyutchev

Я встретил вас – и все былое
В отжившем сердце ожило;
Я вспомнил время, время золотое -
И сердцу стало так тепло…

Как поздней осени порою
Бывают дни, бывает час,
Когда повеет вдруг весною,
И что-то встрепенется в нас, -

Как после вековой разлуки,
Гляжу на вас, как бы во сне, -
И вот – слышнее стали звуки,
Не умолкавшие во мне…

Тут не одно воспоминанье,
Тут жизнь заговорила вновь, -
И то же в вас очарованье,
И та ж в душе моей любовь

Monday, October 10, 2005

On horses of all different colours, striped and not

This one's for my daughter. I hope maybe something will coalesce into a comic book for her, or a childrens' book. I will be the author, God willing.

Indictments against Rove and gang?

In the news from Washington, our not quite so venerable capital, come more hints of corruption, skullduggery, skulduddery, and what not -- this time regarding Karl Rove, the whispering adviser reminiscent of Wormtongue of Rohan ill-fame, adviser to Eomer? was it? oh well, if I'm wrong, I can come back and edit this post. O.K. here, from Newsweek reporter Michael Isikoff;

"The White House's handling of a potentially crucial e-mail sent by senior aide Karl Rove two years ago set off a chain of events that has led special prosecutor Patrick Fitzgerald to summon Rove for a fourth grand jury appearance this week. His return has created heightened concern among White House officials and their allies that Fitzgerald may be preparing..."
(read more)

The MSNBC story goes on to give some clue as to what the indictments may be about:

In Cooper's account, Rove told him the wife of White House critic Joseph Wilson worked at the "agency" on WMD issues and was responsible for sending Wilson on a trip to Niger to check out claims that Iraq was trying to buy uranium. But Rove did not disclose this conversation to the FBI when he was first interviewed by agents in the fall of 2003—nor did he mention it during his first grand jury appearance, says one of the lawyers familiar with Rove's account. (He did not tell President George W. Bush about it either, assuring him that fall only that he was not part of any "scheme" to discredit Wilson by outing his wife, the lawyer says.) But after he testified, Luskin discovered an e-mail Rove had sent that same day—July 11—alerting deputy national-security adviser Stephen Hadley that he had just talked to Cooper, the lawyer says. In the e-mail, Rove said Cooper pushed him on whether the president was being hurt by the Niger controversy. "I didn't take the bait," Rove wrote Hadley, adding that he warned Cooper not to get "far out in front on this." After reviewing the e-mail, Rove then returned to the grand jury last year and reported the Cooper conversation. He testified that the talk was initially about "welfare reform"—a topic mentioned in the e-mail—and that Cooper then changed the subject. Cooper has written that he doesn't recall a discussion of welfare reform. [bold type and italics added by cafegroundzero to highlight key points]

Vertigo, by an unknown womyn poetess

What have we here? (Pastes) Hmmmm... a poem! Wow! Well go see for yourself, I don't have permission to publish it here.

Thing is, I'm amazed at those who persevere and do get published, who do go out and speak at the slams.

travelling at warp speed, the mighty cyberspace

While plunged deep into the depths of the cyberia, in the fertile forests of blogovia, i found some gems, among them a poem by a womyn who calls her blog Mighty Girl; the author calls herself maggie. She may or may not be Maggie Mason. What I'm sure of is that she is a promising blogger, maybe even a promising writer. No, I take that back no maybe. Definitely is. Check out her poem, posted on 15 September, the day before one of my favourite holidays:

One Egg

do not think me twisted
when, despite the world's galactic
ricochet of violence, i prefer, these days,
the retreat of breakfast.

Sunday, October 09, 2005

Having fun with another con job

"Now you can also be published on The Poets' Workshop for FREE - where, within hours, you can receive feedback from other poets and writers on the quality and character of your work. Honest, forthright and helpful reviews that will help you hone your craft, and will quickly move you into the ranks of world class emerging poets with solid critiques behind their works."

Here's a copy of jean-pierre's poem so you can read how I expressed my self after I got a second offer to buy a book with my own poetry in it, and buy a plaque, bla bla bla...

Dear Poetry Dot Con

You send me another notice
of a poem which you say
has won an award, say you!
Then I wonder who else knows?
You have a business,
You want to make a profit,
isn''t that right?/
Now don''t deny it!
doing such would be a lie.
Don''t even try it!
Now I''m not a great poet,
don''t I know it!
But I ain''t no fool
and I been to school./
So I says, you pay me
for the publication of a poem,
at least send me some free editions,
at the very least just one.
Is it a deal?
Can you make me a better offer?

"Get started for FREE! (it takes about 10 seconds - just three questions" Yeah, give your identity away, open yourself up to a whole 'nother wave of punishment by spammers).

Friday, October 07, 2005

What are we to think of this poll? Of course, it was not a professionally conducted poll, done by statistical standards, but by whoever wanted to participate, who was a customer of

Selected Poll
Do you think the federal government should or should not allow oil drilling in the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge in Alaska? (Discuss)
Should 59%
Should Not 31%
Unsure 8%
Total votes: 21923

FBI warns of renewed threat to subways, NYC Mayor says

As I start to peruse the news pages on MSNBC, mine eyes catch this ominous news item:

Officials in New York revealed the threat Thursday, saying an FBI source warned that terrorists had plotted to bomb the subway in coming days. But Homeland Security officials in Washington downplayed the threat, saying it’s of “doubtful credibility.”

Mayor Michael Bloomberg on Thursday called it the most specific terrorist threat that New York officials had received to date, and promised to flood the subway system with uniformed and undercover officers.

“We have done and will continue to do everything we can to protect this city,” Bloomberg said at a nationally televised news conference. “We will spare no resource, we will spare no expense.”

Those of us outside the NYC metro subway system must realize that it would be too easy for some terrorists to feint a threat there and then attack another site. I hope that our Homeland Defense keeps this in mind as they deploy resources.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Another day, how to live it? To the max!

And yet I sense that so much is wrong with the way I live, some of my choices. This blog has gone for weeks, even months without hardly a comment. I wnat to upgrade this blog, get some more photos, get sound bytes in, but I have to get out and look for work!

Let's face it, blogging, if you're going to do it right, is hard work.

Well, let's see what we have from Writers' Almanac:

On this day in 1930, William Faulkner's novel As I Lay Dying was
published. It's the story of the Bundren family and the journey they
take to bury their mother Addie in the family cemetery. They go
through a storm and a flood and there's a flock of vultures following
their wagon. Falkner wrote the book while he was working the night
shift at a power plant. He said he wrote it in six weeks without
changing a word. And he said that of all his books, he liked As I Lay
Dying the best.

Well, if Faulkner could do it working night shift, I could write my own novel , couldn't I? Why not? Oh, I know I'm no Faulkner. I'm myself.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Is there anything to this story at all, folks?

In the beginning, I always spoke of my political problems thinking this is where most of the problems were coming from. However, since the file was badly carried out, we realized it was sabotage by someone in the highest level of the CIA, either a spy or a corrupted person. In the end, you can understand that the political problems never interested them but it was especially the children they wanted to destine for sexually perverted people.

Also, keep in mind that when we use the term "Secret Service" or "Secret Service Agencies", what we really mean is Intelligence Agencies such as the CIA, KGB, DST, etc... This is the term used in Europe. Unfortunately, here in the United States the Secret Service has nothing to do with intelligence operations, they simply... (read more)