SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0390
WORLD LABORATORIES OF WESTMONT, 2294
SBT-DATFILE: 041212.126 THURSDAY MORNING
BLOG SUBTITLE NUMBER FOUR:
“TO RESPOND TO YET ANOTHER NOTE”
BEGINNING BLOG:
Another note was in-between my outer and inner doors where I live, along with a quarterly PHA rag of a sort that provides some local information to us tenants. Before I tell what it says, I allowed the horrible covert WOMO MILITUFORCE persecution of Friday and Saturday last week, to override my judgment, and now original plans have altered regarding my YOU-TUBE project of slowly uploading and posting my material into public domain. I have sent off a letter to the Federal Bureau of Investigation, officially telling them that I went to complain about things that were happening to me in 1988, and that they told me they would put me on the back burner, to quote these lovely darling agents, and their misfeasance has caused the total ruination of my entire freaking adult life through constant and continual covert persecution and the literal secret destruction of my entire life. Every job I ever tried to get that was decent, everyone I went to for help in any matter whatsoever through the years, legal, personal, social, financial, it all was hacked and wrecked. Every single seed I ever tried to plant was killed by Clapton's sheriff, and yet, I managed to shoot no deputy's, or anyone else for that matter. I have had landlords all my life since my mother died who illegally violated my civil rights as an adult, prohibiting me from having anyone over to my residence, questioning even the cable and utility company visitations, with relentless annoying probing and threats of eviction. Not one person will believe me or help me. My own daughter teased me with that mean nasty commercial, knowing fully well that I would be watching that show later that night, on that particular channel back late in twenty-oh nine, Misses Schoolforceplay Marola of 1969. I promise you folks, we all took the movie, “2001, A Space Odyssey” in 1969, with a grain of sand in the same manner as movies of today are all much wilder and crazier, but we hold no attachments to their importance such as show 30 years from now, we might pronounce things, be them future years or future beers, or even future queers for that matter, tom Reale, oh buddy. Oh, sorry, you would be a past queer. Misses Marola who knew in advanced, that people would not be saying twenty-oh-two, or twenty-oh-three, and so forth, did not make this mental leap because a movie came out pronouncing the year one of the millennium as two thousand one. After all, we all knew that two thousand would be called two thousand, we all were very excited about this soon to arrive event, and called it by name, TWO-THOUSAND. Still, all SYFY shows depicted years to be pronounced unlike the space movie with the spaceship robot named HAL, and they were all wrong, all that is except for the ever smirking and quite mysterious Misses Marola. Yes, the great Misses Marola, who because of her absolute incorrigible insistence that I do a part in a school play on a holiday, Memorial Day, on May 30th of 1969, placing me as a direct result, at a time that I would not have been there otherwise, on a particular street in Atlantic City, New Jersey, called Tennessee Avenue, right where the great Sarah-Stacey Krassle and her peeps, whoever these folks from the stars and beyond really were and are, were just waiting to stumble into me while walking down this street later in the afternoon of the 30th day in May of 1969, oh yes indeed, that is the way it goes, or went, by the reference frame of now up here in this 'future' relative to back then.
The paragraph above could go on all night and well into the rest of April 2012, non stop, so we must break things up at a certain point, to leave them for a continuing at another yet future time, where right now will also be the past, referenced and relative to there. A little more of Superman and his daytime Houston humor, with all of the curly girls not withstanding, despite the Henry Fonda 12 angry jurors, BUTT computer attacks following wild stair tag chases in movies, so yes, why not the late seventies Superman movies as well? Dots do all connect, it is not always a super simple task to correctly solve the puzzles perfectly, but I for one will keep on trying to solve my troubles so long as breath remains in this body of mine. My old pal at the Camden County Prosecutor's Office who I met on December 5th in 1989, lived in a set of apartments at this time directly from where I was working security guard weekend duty at the high rise building similar to the one that I now reside in down here in Fort Pierce, Florida, and was called the Echelon Towers. Interesting abbreviation letters, you know, ET. Now, not for End transmission, but let me move on instead with Ron Wirtz Senior. He claims that he shortly thereafter, moved a number of miles to the northeast of Voorhees Township, to a town called Tabernacle not that far north of Hammonton, where I would in the new millennium to reside in from Halloween day in 2000 or 31 October, through the 11th day in December of 2009, when I ran away in the dead of a chilly winter night to escape from the family from hell, and my daughter's distant cousins, all of of the great Kennedy family lineage, when numerous marriages are all factored in and included. I realize a complex maze is now staring into the faces of a few loyal super sleuths out here. You know about Tom Reale and the way he acted when I got off that jitney-bus on fireworks night in 1970 on Cornwall Avenue. You know about Paula the previous year around this very same time on the first Saturday in July. You know how I was given several powerful dreaming-interactions in 1997, and then it all began all over again after coming back onto the computer internet with my blogging after being totally off of it for 70 days in early 2008. You know about the interactions later on after the kidnapping while this family had me bound in a total Stockholm Syndrome role, in a home owned by the local town judge, Frank Raso, who I would not even begin to tell you no-no things about. You know about the island, my trips up there, my last trip being knocked out of my memory until early 2009, and then it was blogged. You have The Permission Barrier book from Halloween Day 1994, Merry Hollister. You have the information about the PAHOFA, the perfectly timed set ups with offices, residences, plans, my meeting Christopher Bennett, then through him, running into ed Lynch, then through this meeting his upstairs neighbors, and from here, it all begins before I could even start to think about stopping any of it. You have my being followed in Atlantic City as a boy, by the Mayor, by weird travelers and ghosts as you might perceive these things, the incident while at Selena Dada's rooming house, the hostility with lifeguards such as Matte, the getting my ass kicked on the beach in 1975 by two lifeguard mascots, Empire State Buildings and treadmills and teen queens, and the list goes on, without any foreseeable end, for virtually ever and ever. We have the contract on my life in Egg Harbor, the recurring 'school' dream, the stalking and day of terror by a large male of foreign descent in a lime colored van, police intentionally writing their police report in reverse showing the roles of my mother and m,e in reverse, the obvious blatant unmissable truth that all of this is real would stare anyone in the face, unless you just plain and freaking simple DO NOT WANT TO SEE IT OR BELIEVE IT, then of course, you won't, DUH. No rational explanation exists for what was noticed by my great friend now departed this veil of tears, Mister David Charles Roth, and this being that neither one of us seems to be able to get even close to doing anything involving MUSIC, without us being instantly and viciously assaulted, as if we were trying to steal the Crown Jewels or the gold of Fort Knox, Kentucky. This is no exaggeration, it is totally real. If anyone wanted to ever take me up on this as a bet for an example,m and shadow me around, I would win and you would lose, and you would have to pay off. This is real, I have no reason to lie or make this this gargantuan and unfathomable balloon hoax of a sort.
Now folks, this did not start out as a blog that had any main source or character involved in it, but anyone with half of a working mind is quite able to see that it has taken its own route, following the truths around it, and has led me to the fact there is a very good chance that you know who is indeed my biological daughter, and I do not see one person out here interested in proving me wrong, so we both can move on with our lives in a healthy way. I would be very happy to have a lot of things, not just t5his one, proven that I am wrong, but only if indeed I am wrong, I will need to be quite leery of lots of lurking hanky panky shenanigans, right Mister Robert McGuire? First, the website that only the Atlantic County, New Jersey has possession of, called morianity-foundation, on a disc; shows magic happening on his street, and Sarah's street as well, 10-SC Avenue. It shows a lot of things, a magical home on Plaza Place that no one seems able to ever be able to properly photograph. It shows a strange inter-dimensional scene right out beyond my automobile and into McGuire's parking lot of his building that he owned at the time that this website was being created in 2006, the Pittsburgh Hotel and Erin Bar. This was the place where 9 years before Ed and I came close to losing our lives by his wicked hands in October of 2006, I was at his bar and at his phone booth with him standing outside it bullying and intimidating me while I was speaking on his public telephone there, to Sarah Callio, who he called to set up a short phone-meet between us. When Sarah and I finished speaking on the telephone, she told me to put him back onto the phone and he was nowhere to be found, and I told her this, and she then said to tell the bartender to leave the message for him to have him call her. She was not very nice to me and told me she did not remember me from the sixties. I got 20 yards down the road, and not even to the Pacific Avenue intersection with Tennessee Avenue, and bang, I totally was ETTOS hacked, and could not for the life of me ever bring back into conscious mental waking world recall, the name of CALLIO, she could not make me forget the name SARAH of course, not even she could pull that off, or so it appears, but I am far from having all of my facts as of this very date way up here in middle April of Oh-Marola-Twelve.
Again, all subjects touched on could be part of an entire library shelf. It involves something so big, that residents on the Planet Earth have not as of yet started piecing the truth together. I spoke of Ron the prosecutor, and told about his two residences he had, while I new and dealt with him and his office, but sometimes I admit to wondering quite seriously, just how seriously to take symbolism. After all, maybe he lives anywhere he wants to, and just seems to have these two physical locations of residence. Maybe a lot needs to be further explored about many things, with Ron being right up there on top of the fish list, after-all, EXPLOR-AT-RONS? Hay this is no joke, I have learned this since August in 1996 on that horrific day of sheer terror when my mom and I were threatened for doing nothing at all, after a stalking on the road for numerous miles, being blocked and trapped and boxed in by a gang of Mexican-American young women in Hammonton; and being told by an Egg Harbor Diner Waitress on the White Horse Julia Pike, directly before all of this started to happen, makes anyone wonder if they are not being messed with, and if you can insist after all of this and this is but a small smattering of the entire years and years of hell with these mysterious wild hellish frightening people, that I am just a crazy man in need of a couch and lots of medications, well, you know what, thank you for sealing my death warrant and my doomed fate. You have all murdered me, so I hope you're happy. Then my daughter pulls her little jokes, and when I decide to have just a tiny bit of fun and pull one back, she freaks out on me, makes a few calls, and I get the tar whaled out of me the following two days, yes it's all on the freaking bloody blogs folks.
Still a lot more is going on than any of this. Suburban Radio, Billy Harner, the list goes on and why risk offending a hundred people when two will do quite nicely; but all the things I ever do, is all stuff owned by me, conversations are copyrighted, music is my property and is copyrighted, and if a day comes in this digital age where folks want to protect their exact vocal sound, that is a matter for the legislature in the copyright world to address at some future time, and has nothing to do with me. I now tell GOOGLE, under a voluntary oath, this is all my property, all things that I ever post belong to me, are owned by me, and I had no idea just how much a little passed time, has made so many people hate my guts for no good reason. So as with Sir Billy, if anyone ever wants off my channel, fine, I'll take you off, after you post a public GOOD REASON. You didn't see me try and force a witness to testify and sue for what you did to me at my house, you know who you are who I am talking to, and so does the lovely girl who as I am suffering at the hands of her horrible distant family, thinks it is funny and makes TV ad spots making fun of both my plight as well as my garage moves that could teach Norris a few things on his best day, hay, I could have really held this against you, but call me crazy, I love you, you're my daughter. Mess with me all you want to, but don't be real shocked at a few things that might be popping up on my YT Channel. That really hurt me when you teased me like that,m especially after what you did on the website with my figuring things out too late. You made me cry for days and days, so I hope that brought you some real satisfaction.
Now a group of cut out words from headlines of various local papers I presume, made up this little scissors and paste job note that I got earlier today when UI was cleaning the baseboards and doing some dusting and opened up the outer door for a quick second around two yesterday afternoon. It said and I am quoting, “WATCH YOUR YOUTUBE POSTS BOY, OR ELSE”. I am saving this note for the county sheriff, Sheriff Mascara of Saint Lucie County. Obviously, the same person that visits someone on this floor, and who was SLAMMING LOUDER THAN I EVER HEARD BEFORE WHILE I PLAYED THE SONG CALLED, “REAL-GOOD-GIRL”, AND THEN SLAMMED AGAIN ALL DAY LAST FRIDAY ON THE VERY NEXT DAY AFTER I RECORDED MY NEWEST SONG AND POSTED IT UP ON THE YOU-TUBE CALLED, “DEAL-WITH-THIS- ANOTHER-TIME”, is part of this ofter told tool used against me so often, EXPLORATRONIC ACTIVITY AND ATTACK. This dreaming entity from a parallel universe, crosses over here, gets into normally, one of the transdimensional doppelgangers of itself, and then dominates it with full control. Now if even light cannot escape the galaxy-heart, to travel into a 5th dimensional current of endless parallel universes, how can an exploratron, is the big question in many minds, and I know this? Well, an exploratron is powerful, all dreamers are part of a 'dreaming energy' that is next to impossible for me to try and discuss intelligently about. You can see endless quintillions of them any time you want to give you some idea of this power. I will be glad to blow your mind, but if you don't want it blown, stop reading this blog right here.
I cannot speak for the totally visually blind, but all sighted persons can close their eyes, and whether they take their hands and place them over their lids to make things darker, or just go into a dark basement or closet, you will see countless dots of energy. Some will try and make contact with you by growing brighter and moving in your vision field, left and right and up and down. What you will really get blown away with is this folks. Now open your eyes and stare across an empty part of a room and right onto a wall, a white or off white normal house or apartment wall. You will see these same energy dots, as they are everywhere. On a clear blue day, look into the sky, the more you become aware of this, the more you will see it. Children see only this at ages 0-4, and then eventually just stop ever seeing them or thinking about them, consciously. They are inside us, it can never go away. We only think that we are here in this here and now physical life, it is all pure illusion. We are awake, yet we can see the dream energy all around us, these are sleeping exploratrons. I have a strong feeling that even the blind see this truth, it is right there, and after a while it is all over the place, not just where a wall seems to bounce them off of for as better view, but they will be in the entire volume of the room. Anyone of them can take you over at any time, and also, you can take them over when you learn how to become a TYPE-4-EXPL. This is when they try and get at you, and you wait for them when you have more power as you always have more energy and power if you are the one with an awake body that's not dreaming. Falling asleep while concentrating on one in particular that seems to light up when your eyes are xclosed and all is dark, allows you to go to its parallel universe and control their awake body, they will still be awake and think they are in charge so don't get me wrong, but you will be able to think an idea into their head and they will start following suit and before you know it, you will have a major dominance only they will not be aware of it. How many times do we do and say things, or not do and not sday things, and then later on say to ourselves, oh shit man, why did I do or say or not do or say that, WHY, WHY? This is also how they do all the stuff that they do to me, right down to keeping me endlessly without a girlfriend or away from anyone who might possibly care or give a dam about me.
So now you know how they make the Huntington Curse work, a little bit better than you did last year, as well as in 10,9,8,7, or 2006. Bravo and Comocosi. They make people hurt me and hate me and never want to help me, and keep me down and endlessly hopeless and lost and miserable. Yes, again, welcome to the HUNTINGTON CURSE. So YYYYYYYYYYYY, many are asking? Well, a game from a long time from now is being played by bored to tears gods and goddesses. It is that age old nonsense that humans are horrible sinners and we need this savior horseshit, and so these exploratrons supply all the needed ingredients for playing this monstrous game, with all of us as the endlessly unsuspecting pawns. Well, hopefully, not endlessly, I am trying to expose this nonsense, but there's only so much that one cursed person can do.
There are a few plans for taking things to a level where this all does get exposed. One is to go out one day and start flying around like Superman. Laugh all you want, I can do this, actually, so can any Huntington once they remember that they can. Another thing is to bring my PEE down here with me and she can finish her invention. No one here would be looking for her, she lives in a parallel reality, as here, she never was born, as Paula miscarried while I lived at 1802 Robin Hill, it is way too complex to further delve into this tonight. She has an invention that literally takes whatever is placed onto it, and it is attached into a personal computer, and it can be turned into digitized media and sent through the internet to any station with a matching machine also attached. You can store yourself on the internet also, while awaiting a transplant operation, or any other situation. You can use it for medical purposes, transportation, coast to coast in less than a half minute, and so forth, and a blocker system can be engineered so that only permitted licensed tower-stands may be plugged in, also computers will need to be a bit more powerful and fast, but those obstacles will all overcome themselves in just a few short years. My problem is getting Paula King Junior out of the Harborfields Detention Center of Egg Harbor, New Jersey, from the universe she is in. This is why I travel a lot at night now, and have been talking with my beautiful younger daughter. However, last night, enemies caught me with her making plans to do this all on an exploratronic level, a totally feasible thing, and the authorities somehow got wind of this, and they overpowered me, and before I knew it, I was in a very unpleasant psychiatric hospital, and things were very bad. It seemed a year in real time there, before I managed to eventually dream out and away from there, and become awake back here yesterday morning. The song called “The Morning Light”, was written originally in 1979 here in this universe, by me, and yet in another universe, it was written in 1975 when I had moved into this apartment, and not in 1980. Paula had left me and we separatred in our marriage. She accused me of being too immature, she is an exploratron inside a body that is quite a bit older than me, but we are madly in love in many universes. Oh can it be true. It must be so. Anyway, in that universe where she comes crying over to the apartment saying that she lost the baby, my name is Mark Huntington Patterson. Our daughters are Donna and Carlittia. Donna in that universe is the one who one day took my song that I had written onto music paper in 1976, and sang therm on the open reel recorder along with an advanced keyboard that recorded multiple channels as well as multiple random harmonies along numerous octaves. It had a built in set of randomized drum patterns that match the style of the tune and its tempo, and was a 7500 dollar keyboard. I had a Harmon Karden amplifier, and four top end Altec speakers, plus a rack of effect units, DBX, equalizers with 54 channels, dynamic range compressor/expander systems, depth and reverb amps, the entire works. One day, Donna Patterson decided to have fun and sing this song and made a nice arrangement for it as well. Over in this universe, things happened quite differently. Still, I will post the song up to my YT Channel, unfortunately, the copy I have right now until I can afford to have copies made of much of my lost stuff from the Library of Congress, will stink, because it has a dub over. I have my voice singing over this song on this taped copy of a copy. It is not in good quality, just as with the Congressman's tape, when he and I both sing, “Long River Blues”. If and when I can secure better copies, I will re-post therm up.
Some have asked me why my little joke tape post up called, “Deal With This Another time”, seems to know about my boss up here, Jessica. I told you, it is a joke. I remember the exact details now of when and why this tape was all made back in New Jersey.
It was all after the blizzard of 1993. I jammed a tape into my car stereo but that was not the entire situation. I got it out but it was damaged and warped. Later on when I left the Meeker home to move into Williamstown at the Highview Apartments, I traded in my car for a Saturn, a 1994, on moon landing day in 1994, the 20th of July. Instead of making a new cassette from the open reel master, I put the messed up tape in the system that came with the car, it jammed again, and this time would not come out with tweezers or with anything. I wanted to upgrade to a better car stereo anyway, so I went to the Suburban Radio of Oaklyn, where I had been going since 1980, a loyal customer for 14 freaking years.
I had made this tape for fun, combining conversations with the mysterious lab technician spoken about in my book, “The Permission Barrier”. I really do have an unknown glandular dysfunctional condition to this day, just as I had then, and had since the 4th night in June in 1983. This did not include the song part that you hear by clicking into the KING NEBNOOSHOO search box on the YOU TUBE, and clicking on the song, “DEAL WITH THIS ANOTHER TIME” . One side was one of the Jason Forrest Aquarius Records ripoffs, as I never ever publicly displayed any titles on any tapes with the words, “The Meaning of Life”, as they claim I did, this is a 100% lie by these turds. But this was done in 1994 right after I had joined Haddonwood Club, so I knew I would be there in 1995. Also, I had recurring nightmares that I was down in Florida somewhere between 10 and 20 years in the future, and that I was stabbed to death there. I even had these nightmares earlier in my adult life back in my days working at the recording studio called RPL, in Camden, NJUSAESMWG. Chemtrails had been bad since late in 1987, as my song also on the YT depicts, and the 657 BLUES song was written by me in 1983. The lab technician is an exploratron, and a Huntington, don't be stupid peeps, you're not imagining anything. You have ears. This is why I do not blame Paula King, Patty Bitethroat, or any of them. I understand, I get it, when you have great power, you use it, just as does my own kid, when she came to me in the 2008 year over and over and drove me bonkers in my sleep.
I'll bet when you were banging my poor hubcap to death, Nicky, you never counted on eating dog-food for a month, no wonder you're sick. That'll teach you to be a good boy. Never mess with my kid, ask her friend the volleyball player, YO. Still, I believe exploratronics explains how you knew me as a punk of 15 and 16, when I did not even realize the lovely young lady who you had the crush on, was my kid. I had not even finished my sleuthing around in Atlantic City yet with the Callio clan. Only one thing can explain this entire cosmos, the world, the goings on, all of it, MY ENTIRE LIFE TOO, and that would be none other than EXPLORATRONICS.
Future lessons will get more into these topics, as well as the David Roth NEAR MUSIC STORE EXPERIENCE, at what would have been Zatman's. The problem is that he never got there. After a year of saving meticulously and religiously for a nice set of drums, his fairly new Cadillac just up and died on him, mister BO Jangles. He went to turn the key to go to this place, and nothing, the car was forever doomed to become a junkyard wreck. The money that was going into buying his so desperately dreamed of drum set, had to instead go into another automobile, oh well, that's showbiz, huh? OYR!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I have a bridge to sell anyone out here who buys into this pathetic story being a pure coincidence, it is in Brooklyn, New York, but you guessed that I suppose folks.
ENDING BLOG: WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA.
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