THE SETH RICH COVER-UP

 

Seth Rich had worked for the DNC for about two years, when he started communicating with WikiLeaks.  He was able to provide WikiLeaks with John Podesta’s emails.  These exposed the DNC and Hillary Clinton as corrupt.  WikiLeaks shared many of these emails with the American public before the Presidential Election.

Mr. Rich was shot and killed about a block from his home at 4:20 AM on July 10, 2016.  Evidence showed that there had been a struggle.  Despite that, he died from two bullets to the back.

The DC police have concluded that this was a robbery gone wrong; but, if this was, indeed, a robbery, why didn’t the thief take Mr. Rich’es watch or his money?

Rod Wheeler, a Private Investigator, a former DC Police Homicide Detective, believes that it was the connection between Seth Rich and WikiLeaks that led to his murder.  Furthermore, Wheeler believes there is a cover-up in the DC Police Department – and he has been told to back down from his investigation.

This all seems very peculiar, even conspiratorial.

Think about it.  Why would a supposed robber beat a man up, shoot him twice in the back, and then not bother to rob him?

Isn’t it equally possible that something called the Deep State had him assassinated?

Lots of people seem to think so.

I wonder if the FBI Director that Donald J. Trump selects will be able to convince the DC Police to share the contents of Seth Rich’es computer?  That might shed some light on it.  Of course, like Hillary Clinton’s computer, all information on the Rich computer might already have been wiped clean, “like with a cloth or something”.

Time will tell, eh?

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The Old Man Shifted – Chapter 4

Henry!

Henry!

Supper’s Ready!

Henry!

The door opened.

Henry!  For god’s sake!  Pull yourself out of that trance.

“I swear.  I am so sick of your locking yourself away in here.  What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

The old man shifted in his wheelchair.  The wonderful Theatre of his Mind faded from view.  The velvety comfort of the theater seat shriveled and died.  The rich wood of the armrests changed to the clammy and brittle vinyl of his wheelchair, his prison, his torture.  His eyes fluttered open.

There SHE was, standing in front of him, fists on her ample waist, the familiar scowl on her face.

“Hm,” he said.

“Supper is ready.  Are you going to sleep your life away?”

He cleared his throat.  The clarity and lucidity of his fantasy-world had disappeared.  His headache returned.  He was, once again, aware of the pain in his lower back, the numbness in his legs, the burning, stabbing neuropathy in his feet.

“Something has changed,” he said, dazed and confused.

“I need a Dilaudid,”

“Got one right here,” she said, opening her right fist and holding it in the beefy palm of her hand.  She walked (how he wished he could walk) to the dresser next to his bed and snatched up a juice glass with water and brought it to him.

“Here.  Take this.”

He followed, as he always did, her instruction.  He reached for the pill, then the glass.  He swallowed the pill hungrily and thanked her.

“Supper is ready,” she repeated.

For all her faults, she was a good cook.  For all her faults, she had become an adequate nurse.  For all her faults, she did all the housecleaning and shopping.  He never left the house anymore.

“Ah,” he sighed. 

He grasped the wheels of his chair and followed her, rolling out of his bedroom and into the kitchen.

The smell of cooked onions and garlic, tomato sauce, and meatballs filled the room.

“It smells good,” he said.

“I can’t smell a thing,” she said.

“That’s a shame,” he replied.  “You are a very good cook.”

She shrugged and filled his plate.  She dropped it down on The Tray and he rolled over to it.

“Something has changed,” he repeated.

“Eat it while it’s hot,” she said.

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The Old Man Shifted – Chapter 3

The old man limped down three rows and threw himself down on the fine, upholstered chair that he knew better than his own soul.  He rested his cane on the seat beside him and looked sadly at the big screen in front of him.  He barely noticed the classy Greek urns that sat shining in the dim lights on either side of the screen.  He saw the bright EXIT lights grow muted and he watched as the heavy drapes rolled back, exposing the white projection screen with its small glass beads embedded into it, with the thousands of tiny, evenly-spaced holes that let the sounds from the speakers and the sub-woofers behind it.

The show was about to begin:  that tired story of his small accomplishments, made large by the magnification on that big screen, the lies he had lived for, the lies he had told about himself for most of his life, and he felt the anger inside growing until it wasn’t just a germ or a virus, it was his entire unfulfilled and empty life.  The screen stayed blank, stark and black. 

His hands gripped the armrests and he felt the sweat begin to develop on the back of his neck.  He wiped his hands on his shirt and his palms were sticky.   He felt sick.

Let it happen, he said to himself.  Let it happen.  He almost said it out loud.  Where was the goal that he’d scored in that big game when his team won the league championship?  Where were the accomplishments?  What had become of his life?  He tried counting his breath.  He touched his tongue to the roof of his mouth, tried to get the psychic channel connected, that magic circuit he had mastered.  Nothing.

Panic.

After all these years, the dry and confident words of Dr. Maltz didn’t come.  That false confidence he had built and he had built on for all those many years, where was it?  He doubted his existence.  And in that moment, he knew what he was and what he wasn’t.

Now his breath came in shallow puffs of air.  Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.  He blinked and in that micro-second, a white dot appeared on the screen.  It was followed by more and more, until he saw the stars.  He saw the North Star.  He saw the galaxy, spinning in front of him.  He was transfixed, scared of what might come next.  And then, time stopped for the old man.

He saw for the first time, how small he was, how futile his life had been, and what his future was going to be.

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The Old Man Shifted -chapter 2

 

 

He smiled inwardly as his monkey mind spun and danced, trying to grab his attention, to pull him away, but he was having none of that.  He could hear the gentle, soothing voice of Dr. Maxwell Maltz, the creator of PSYCHO-CYBERNETICS, telling him over and over how to enter the void, to lose the distractions and find his inner self, his better self, his confident and happy self.

Then he was back in the barracks at Fort Sill, Oklahoma.  The record was spinning on the turntable and this new concept was being imprinted on his mind.

Dr. Maltz, the inventor of the term “cybernetics”, was a plastic surgeon.  In his career, he had known many patients who, after cosmetic surgery, were unable to see the drastic changes his skill had given to them:  they were consumed with their old negative images of themselves and could not accept the new reality.

Dr. Maltz discovered something basic and sad about human nature.

He invented Psycho-Cybernetics and the young man, a PFC in the army, listened, transfixed, to Maltz’ recorded voice as the doctor explained why people didn’t change and how they could change.

The old man’s head shook like a kaleidoscope and the vision changed and then disappeared.  Now, he was doing it.

He visualized himself standing, pain free, in an elevator.  When he was younger, and before the accident, he had pictured himself walking down a grand staircase, each downward step leading him into his psyche, into his unconscious mind, into that alpha state where he could reprogram his thoughts.  But, after the accident, he had been forced to change the script:  it literally hurt him to descend the steps and that fact kept him from using the old process.  So now, he was in an elevator.

He heard the door close with a hiss.  He held one brass rail with his right hand and steadied himself.  He reached forward and touched the round frosted-glass button with 1 on it and the car began to descend.

30, 29, 28, 27, 26, 25, 24, 23, and on and on.  The dim lights on the buttons glowed, each one for one complete cycle of breath.  In and Out.  In and Out.  As the elevator descended, down into the catacombs of his mind, he felt that inexplicable peace, like a fur coat, covering him, wrapping him in silence and in peace.

When the door of the elevator opened, he knew he was home.

He stepped into the lobby of the Theatre of his Mind.  There was a background noise of many voices, but no one was in sight.  The rich burgundy walls with the gold accents and rails surrounded him.  There was fine furniture, stately statues, Greek, up against the walls.  No lights were shining, but a pure glow filled the space.  He felt himself floating towards aisle 4, the center aisle of the theater, where, inside, he knew from hundreds, maybe thousands of experiences, that he would soon find his seat. 

As he dreamed, he enjoyed the sight of the decorative curtains to his left, those curtains so reminiscent of the RKO Keith movie theater where he had spent so many joyful afternoons as a little boy at the movies.  He recalled seeing the movie GONE WITH THE WIND in this long ago destroyed edifice. With a shake of his head, he disposed of that thought:  the theater remained alive in his memory and in his Thought Castle.  Those curtains, purely decorative, were eight inches tall, with gold tassels at the bottom, and hung above fine, burled maple woodwork.  An Old World gentility filled this world, this world of his imagination, this better world he had discovered fifty years ago.  It never changed. There was a concession stand to his right and a smiling teenaged girl behind the counter said, “Hello, Mr. Jones, it is so nice to see you again.”  She wore a sparkling white blouse and her teeth were perfect.

He nodded at her and continued on. 

He noticed that, in his right hand, he held onto a black carbon-fiber cane with a gold knob for a handle.  He wished for a moment, a moment that nearly brought him out of his trance, that he didn’t need the cane.  But he realized that he did.  He didn’t remember how long he had been using the cane when he entered the Theater; but, this was his new Reality and he accepted it.

He passed a few faces that, though cloudy and submerged in the ether of his subconscious mind, he had known in the past, but they were all dead, all gone, and, with a nod, he passed them by.

Then, he was at the entrance to aisle 4.  He stopped and looked behind to make certain he was not impeding anyone else from entering.  There was nothing behind him.  Not the girl.  Not the wraiths.  Not the lobby.  There was nothing to do but to fold the lush, rich velvet curtains aside and to enter the spotless, classic Theatre of his mind.

So, he did.

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THE OLD MAN SHIFTED

 

 

The old man shifted in his wheelchair.  He punched some keys on his computer’s keyboard.  His wife hollered across the room at him, “Are you at it again?”

“Yes, dear,” he said.

“Well, you’re stupid,” she said.  “All you do all day is get yourself worked up about politics and one day, someone from the government or some Muslim is going to come to our house and kill you.”

It would be a blessing, he thought.

“And quit breathing so hard!”

“I can’t help it, sweetheart.  I’ve got allergies.”

“Well, go in the other room!  All that snorting and sniffling makes me sick.

He finished typing and entered his comment on Facebook, turned off the computer and wheeled himself back in his bedroom.  Once inside, he twisted in the chair, grabbed hold of the door and began to shut it.  It took him three maneuvers with the chair to close the door. 

Her voice rang out through the closed door.  “Why don’t you just kill yourself?”

He wheeled himself to the dresser, slid open a drawer, and grabbed a prescription bottle.  He unscrewed the top and popped two Opana capsules into his hand.  He swallowed them without water.

Go inside, he told himself.  Go inside.

He took a few deep breaths.

Inhale, count to five.  Exhale, count to five.  Inhale, count to five.  Exhale, count to five.  Inhale, count to five.  Exhale, count to five.  He looked inside his lower dan tien and his filled it up with chi.  Then, he focused on his Third Eye.  Sparkling lights, like fireworks, went off underneath his eyelids. 

Soon, he was in his Safe Place, the Place where he always went, the Place where he went so many decades ago when his parents hurt him and when the other children hurt him.

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AI, Ayee, Ai Ya Yah! – a Feminist Essay

I woke this morning after dreaming of Ayahousca.  I suppose it isn’t all that unusual for a lady of my age:  I was growing up during the sixties.  The LSD years.  The Timothy “tune in, turn on, drop out” Leary years.  There was a time, kiddies, when people wanted to learn about what was going on inside their skulls, back when there were people searching for meaning in their lives and in their world, back before the struggle for existence became so all-consuming.

But, I digress.

I am writing, today, about how I brought Artificial Intelligence into my life, into my very living room, and how it has made my life infinitely better than it ever was.

Because all my friends had done so, I married a man, forty years ago.  All those other marriages failed and my friends had second and third marriages, lovers, or opted to living alone.  Not me:  I kept my husband around.  In many ways, it was like having a dog.

Except, unlike a dog, he didn’t shed.  And I didn’t have to pick up the yard after him.

He was a compliant fellow, always there, sitting in the recliner watching television, always quick to get out of my way and to compliment me.  I would share with him the exciting events and relationships in my life.  He would nod and agree that I had lots going for me.  I would chatter away like a happy chipmunk, while he would mute the television and pretend to listen to me until I ran down.

Once in awhile, he would try to tell me something.  But, I would be quick to shut him off.  He was really very stupid, very childlike, in all of his ways.  When we first got married, he thought we would continue to have sexual relations.  Ha!  I straightened him out on that in short order.  Soon, he became my gelding, my eunuch, my testosterone-filled toy.  I suppose he was frustrated.   But, that was his problem.  I always told him he could leave.  He was too lazy to do so.  So, we stayed married until he died.

He got cancer.  It was his bad habits that killed him.  Goodness knows…..  I tried to tell him that he was killing himself.  At least he would take my orders and smoke only outside the house.  And I always made him take off his shirt when he came back inside.  Summer or Winter.

In short, he was pretty well trained.

So, when he died, I thought, I’d like to keep his memory alive.

Do you remember Roy Rogers?  How he had his horse Trigger stuffed and displayed in the Roy Rogers Museum?  That seemed bizarre to many, but it seemed like a great tribute to a pet, in my mind.

I guess you know where this is going.

So, I had my dead husband stuffed and mounted.  His carcass sits, as he always did, in the recliner, television remote-control in his hand, frozen smile on his face, and eyes that follow my every move.  Just like Billy Bass, the famous wall-mounted fake fish, he responds to me.  Only, instead of having to push a button to get him to talk (and, thank god, he doesn’t talk about his stupid things), whenever I enter the room, its eyes light up and its head turns towards me. in animatronic anticipation of my every mood.

It compliments me on my looks, on my projects, and on my plans.

Because I put a one-million-dollar life insurance policy on him, I now live like a queen.  Honestly, my life has never been better.

I’m going to check with a travel agent right now, to see about a trip to Peru.  I can afford it.  And I am anxious to tap into my unconscious mind to see just exactly how wonderful I really am!

Love you

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CHAPTER 4 (Modern Love)

I peeked through the peephole of my front door.  There were three stern-looking men on my front stoop.  Their beards were appropriately long and shaggy.  They dressed as I dressed; yet, I did not recognize any of them.

I called out through the intercom, “What is your business here, brothers?”

“Salaam,” said the one who was closest to the door.  “Let us come in, so that we may talk.”

My scanner showed that they all had knives under their robes.

My Security Laser cut them down and they lay panting and dying in my happy sight.

Over my shoulder, I called to Mohamed, “Call the Brotherhood.  There is another pickup for them.”

I kept watching until the last one stopped moving.

Mohamed said to me, “Why do you live in this neighborhood?  The Shiites have you surrounded.”

“I am too old to move,” I said.  “I have lived here for thirty years.  I lived here when I was the collector of jizyah from the dimmis.  It allowed me to live in splendor.  Surely, you recall.”

“Yes, of course,” he said.  “But things have changed.  Ever since Sheikh Obama was captured and decapitated by the Caliph of France, this neighborhood has become Jahannam.  I was stopped at two checkpoints on my way here.  If I was not a master of al-Taqqiya, I would be in prison, or worse, now.”

We sat across from each other again, drawing heavy clouds of cannabis resin smoke into our lungs.  My friend’s worries dissipated.

We laughed aloud as we heard the bodies dragged away from the front door.

With a conspiratorial whisper, I leaned to the side of my pillow and said, “You know.  The Caliph of Mecca has just declared that Angela Merkel and Sheikh Obama are now saints.  And he is sending an army to kill the Caliph of France.”

Mohamed Hashim Laith-Osman’s mouth hung open in disbelief.

“There are no saints in Islam,” he said.

“I’m just messing with you,” I said.  “The fact is,” and I nearly fell off my pillow then, “there is just one reason I stay here.”

“What can it be?” asked my friend.

“Fill up the bowl and I’ll tell you.”

Five minutes later (or was it an hour), he asked me again.

“Why do I live here, among the Shiites?  I just love killing them.”

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