Detailing a Strict Machine



What I hope to illustrate with you in the next several pages is what I believe to be a cold deliberate calculation of execution. Not because I intend it, or because the people who died deserved it - on the contrary, I believe they were the victims of our own creation(s). Unable to field an answer from us, or a meaningful statement in reply to the question: "Who do you say I am?" the words they needed were accomplished by meeting their maker.

Early in my career, a production artist with a daytime job shared a strategy that I wish I could've used that day. He suggested that I work on reaction shots during events I've struggled to capture, and even though I couldn't capture the reaction to the events on those fateful days, the advice turned out to be very valuable to me.

We were on the run from our effort to call out the offenses we lived with in our old neighborhoods, and one day, my friend's Dad was pouring lead from a crucible in the furnace, right next to a basket full of laundry where a pair of girls' panties was lying with a puddle of semen in the crotch.

I can’t be specific about the name, but Santa would've been a member of the family. The significance of this feature of my historical landscape was lost upon me until I found myself working in a high security facility with people whose behavior wasn't fully understood, one of whom was in a small theater all by himself with real claws on his hands!

My own behavior was perceived to be careless at best, and uncaring at the very least because I offended the first real friend I ever had without redress or recall, but I didn't remember doing so. And, because he had a difficult name like mine, he may have come to erroneous conclusions about me due to beliefs that resulted from the unfortunate connotations of his name!

Because I was already lost by the age of 6, an errant bat swing at the age of 7 must not have required formal intervention. Naturally, after being hit, one gets upset about it. I simply forgot about it after sulking around for a summer and when I returned, the Police didn't think it was natural to ignore a mistake like that. So I was taught to show respect for those who get out the gurneys and stretchers to get people into an ambulance and off to the hospital.

My position as an advocate within the healthcare system may have resulted from my failure to address these needs earlier in my life, so I chose to teach children how to respond to an injury properly.

First Responding must be prepared to provide for all possible outcomes, and one new requirement resulting from the ongoing practice was to use a neck brace whenever someone's had a head injury. Another is that my friend might've been dead on arrival, so the first web development project I was commissioned to provide was focused on the documentation of hate, genocide, and mass murder.

When dying doing what we're told, how do we appeal the expectation?


What dawned upon me after all these years of expectation is that while I had no intention of doing my friend any harm, apparently there were others who may have thought I did. And, the fact that I failed to acknowledge a feature of my character that didn't exist became a convenient way to illustrate their point: that I was a Nazi.

View of the back door from my windowWhile I was working with AIM and the Red Road community I employed a Native woman to help with the composition of a local Mission, who's daughter celebrated her birthday on the 8th of November at my place. Sensitive to anything that might have lead to the belief that I was a hate monger when assaulted by an accusation of racism, I realized the 8th of November was the anniversary of Kristallnacht or the start of the Nazi Holocost.

And shortly after sharing this information online by way of an Open Letter (among other things) a segment on the subject of Black Lives Matter I published was hacked, and our grocery store was plundered and looted.

I started working out of concern for behavior we didn't understand by fielding complaints at Napa State Hospital, and other high security facilities, and learned to adapt to the intentional noise in my apartments as another form of objection, like any other form of complaint that I encounter. But disruption to my sleep, and confrontations in public places, including challenges with threats of conflict such as: "I don't want to go back to prison." wore me out while living with death threats at assemblies, rejection at meeting places and no replies to my letters.

The similarities between the circumstances of my life, and the victims in my city are undeniable. The fact that a secret service agent followed up on the use of a 50 dollar counterfeit note passed by my roommate in 1984 made it really clear that something was up. My roomate, a well known Minister from a sister city 'outed' his homosexual lifestyle in order to combat an ordinance there and lost his family and parish as a result.

That he was infected with HIV wasn't significant to me because the problem wasn't widely understood as a serious public threat, but placement in a city apartment with him may have been due to suspicions about me. And again, the motivation for the suspicions I lived with weren't clear at that time. I'm not gay, so my placement with him, and exposure to the pathogen made no sense to me for any reason.

Now, I suspect the use of harassment achieved by the use of intentional noise may provide a new way to motivate tenants to become self-supporting by reinforcing unsavory adaptations to the unpredictable lifestyles of populations that suffer in these settings (drug use is also inevitable for these reasons, and trying to combat it is pointless).

Access to Google accounts and a Facebook account where I had established security clearance was lost as I tried to communicate about the problems, and most of the few remaining in touch with me are missing today.

Perhaps because I was required to move after establishing the security clearance, a person who moved into my place after I was forced to leave was able to obtain it. I don't know, but I keep my lines of communication open by any means and I'm doing all I can to find the friends that have gone missing.


One of the concerns raised by one of my last friends was that her monkey died. I could tell by the exasperation on her face online that it was a serious problem. She was working for the government to support local children by providing food and clothing, and wasn’t ashamed to share photos of her black friend, or the craters in her fields.

But the US Mail wouldn't deliver the shoes I sent - shoes she asked me to send, and some of the books I've studied in recovery used examples illustrating Mr. Brown, a person who has your wife, your home and your job within reach - to teach anger management. It's society's expectation that the alpha male, the 'Monkey' or the strong man get the food for the tribe, so we do our level best to take care of that duty and we get beat up doing that job, that's just the way it is.

I reflected on this problem by returning to memories of our surrogate father in Barbados, a Calypso singer who befriended me in some ways, and the last contact I remember having with him was curious. He asked to borrow my goggles when I was at the pool, and I remember feeling self conscious about my confusion over the correct use of the terms lend or borrow, but I don't remember seeing him at all.

The demands upon us to show respect for other cultures are increasing, and though I was afforded a wide range of cross-cultural exposure, I was not able to answer for the various kinds of obstruction we've erected to keep boundaries between them. I guess I didn't believe there were any, but for many, there still are. Perhaps many have struggled for so long to gain the advantage of a kinder point of view that they've sought a fairer court with a more loving father, and our experience online may actually need to serve that purpose.

The stray cats that were rounded up on the avenue and ended up in my Uncle’s lab did have electrodes in their brains, but it wasn't because I got lost following a cat down the avenue. My mother's admonition to speak in general terms about the adultery we adapted to led to ambiguity about the term, 'cat on the avenue' in one of my logs, but couldn't possibly be used to justify the murder of the men in our city.

But a Genetic Engineer who I was referred to who was responsible for curing Sickle Cell Anemia did more to correct the stereotype of urban black males in our city than I have. I did get lost following a cat down the avenue, and did get to know yet another culture after moving from German to Barbados, but equivocating his role in our life by referring to the cats that were rounded up by the University for experimentation was a poor way of covering a history that included him in a general way.

My ongoing work on Biotechnology does include visits to the Universities Biotechnology Department from time to time, most recently to work on the control of computers by use of intention. And, I do cite the achievements of students doing research there, but the work is non invasive, and I participate in their study by subjecting myself to the interfacing strategies myself, so I refer to our work on some of my pages as well.

Most of the patents in Genetic Engineering came from cord blood gathered from the umbilical cords of our infants. And, because it doesn’t belong to either of the parents or the child him or herself, nobody can require a share of the profits resulting from the adaptations developing as a result, so I don’t think anyone will mind the use of biotech products developed by use of stem cells from grapevines in my old neighborhood where we developed these tools, but as I've said before, my sensibilities were fashioned at a University in Dinkytown, and we went to Marshall U High.