SAFE JOURNAL, CHAPTER 0315
TEOHIV/TMCAM/MORPRO-1995
BLOG SUBTITLE NUMBER FOUR:
“THREE POWERFUL ISSUES NEED BE ADDRESSED”
© 2006-2012 MWM/MWM/BLOGS OF
MORIANITY-FOUNDATION AND MOUNTAINPEN
WORLD LABORATORIES SBT-DATFILE:
CH-0315-031912.823, THURSDAY EVENING
BEGINNING TRANSMISSION:
No wonder there was so much siege on the 18th yesterday, it was as always a lived up to and totally expected KARGE-DAY. She was born two lifetimes back, on the 18th day of July in “18” hundred and 96. Breaking these years down into two digit groups each of two digits, both of these numbers have great power in my own life as well. This is a minor issue, not that numerology when properly understood is minor. The greatest of all of the Astral Plane gods warns humans not to mess with it, gee I wonder why? Well, this is not my place to take that one bit further, and I do indeed know when to totally shut up, Uncle Atco.
As for my extremely annoying, impish, vulgar, and totally uncouth neighbors next door, they simply put, never shut the fuck up, in and out all day and night, yelling in the hallways, there are at least a dozen peeps over there, Housing authority, living there perpetually. There are lots of bizarre and strange ass things going on with them, and they make my life a living hell with all their fucking ass racket. I knew I should have said something during the survey, mentioned on a prior blog, but I kept my mouth fucking shut, 'WOMO/MO', tee-hee. As for my friend-witness, with the cot; this was not a made up story, and has been postponed due to obvious OTAMMIC reasons. Let me say shit, and POW-BOOM-ZAP-ALAGAZAM, something happens to delay or forfeit the plans all together, this is not something that happens rarely or a few times in my life, or even often. I can totally depend on this with the absolute freaking precision of a great Swiss time piece, BRO. What I am doing for now, is keeping a voice actuation portable tape recorder, right at the inside of my door. The recorder's handle is on a small rope, attached to a picture holder device on the wall. When sound from them occurs, I can make one daily dub of it all with my dubbing cassette deck, with no problem, and plan to leave a copy of this tape with Debbie at the office soon, unless this shit at least slows down. I know they are not allowed to have this fucking many peeps here, it is a totally OTAMM organized way of hitting me with continuous bothersome and persecuting noise attack. No other neighbor no matter where I ever move, ever bothers anyone else, but let me move somewhere, and it happens every single mother fucking time without fail, oh paranoid me, MISTER gotten-to Exploratronic Supermind of the Linda Club of Florida!!!!!!!! Since the recorder only goes off when I make a cooking sound in my kitchen and when they make their horrendous noises, the batteries do not get all used up as the machine as I stated, has a voice or really a sound adjustable activation sensing switch. I always watch TV through my headphones, and if I rarely listen to any music, also it is on headphones. What I do is nobody's business with all the fucking enemies that I have all over this planet. As I speak, some RFM signal struck me at 8:03 PM-EST, I have ways of knowing this as well, same basic tricks as the hanging tape recorder. Oh well, at least it isn't my hanging Great fucking uncle Arthur white-slave McGuire pop partner, HUNTINGTON of the great and mighty cursed Huntington family of Massachusetts, Pennsylvania, and New York, and now spread all over the entire globe when we count up in-law realities and multiple covered up truths, never to be learned me' friends, on the GOOGLE NETWORK, like DUH.
Last night when I crashed, or really around 5 AM today, I slept very soundly, but experienced the waking memory of extremely vivid hyperspace travel activity, (did a lot of remembered dreaming). The girl recently in my dreams from my work place is a gorgeous young female, but I assure you folks, as Michael Landon told the old white haired lady in his fantastic television hit show of the eighties by the name of, “Highway to Heaven”, it is never 'those' type of dreams. This girl is the direct descendant, in this parallel reality universe where you may be reading this blog, of President Ulysses S. Grant. There are extremely and outlandishly wild and off the scale powerful laboratory technician symbolism's involved with myself, and my boss, or this girl. It is all along the lines of voices getting onto tapes, only the psychic researchers of this particular phenomenon that made a big study of this back in the seventies, along with research institutes in on it as well; only an entirely different paranormal event is happening with these things, such as the word sound of 'MY' on the master open reel tape of the song copyrighted by me in August of 1986, called, “Real Good Girl”. But before I take this any further, I will inform my readership that just as Richard had become one of my persecutors at the Mullica Trailer Park blasting his television at top volume at me for no reason all the time, he was eventually reported by other peeps, and then something was done about it and it stopped. When I was the one complaining, it never was even looked into. This is of course all part of why I have every right to believe that I am under a horrendous nightmare family curse. Now the music man next door, still plays his music and his sub box, but it never seems to be real loud anymore. I know beyond the shadow of any doubt, that another Richard deal had to happen, and I knew all along, that it would only be a matter of freaking time before some other neighbor would complain about it, and of course, they must have, and again, I am saved by Zack and Slater's eighties bell. Just as powerful forces think they can mess with my plans to use my two kidnappings against WOMO enemies, by having ES insist that the passport photo does not look out of time or place that was taken of me in late 2007, he really thinks I buy into his deceitfulness. He is not aware that he is being channeled to act in the way he is acting with me, just as when he said that he and Sharon talked and he decided to no longer give me my private weekly fifteen minute sessions. You see, fool me once, shame on you, but, you get the rest of this, just as does the great television character Jack McCoy. “Abracadabra-counselor”, and without anyone ever having to give up their father, right mobster Frank Lombardo, old buddy from '75???Aniwho, this powerhouse “dreaming-interaction” last night or early today really, was complex, and involved numerous things. My great wonderful daughter MI came to me at the Harvest, and she and my boss, Jess; walked into an area that does not exist here in this universe while I am awake. Then they beckoned for me to follow them, and so I did. What I remember before this is in detail, but after this part, it is sketchy, but I'll share the clear vivid parts of my memory of this incident, after my entry into this weird area, with all of my readers now. They both were undercover police officers, and put strange uniforms on. Then several large gentlemen all ready suited up in similar uniforms, also came around, and I ended up seated at a chair, with three men and the two women, my daughter and my boss. While seated, one of the men grabbed my left hand, and placed it into a machine and told me it was reading my fingerprints for their computer records. I said something sort of silly and funny because my hand seemed to slip out of the gismo at first, and as they were reinserting it, one of them told me firmly to sit there and shut up. I did. Finally, I was told that I was shortly going to be arrested and that the sting was going on quite a while, actually about four years now since January of oh-eight, to quote the dude saying this to me. Then another officer in this sting-squad or whatever it was, spoke in a soft voice with piercing eyes and said to me, “Tell us about the apartment where a large utility pipe was broken and was underneath the floor of your bedroom”. I remember my heart racing and nearly fainting, in this powerful dream experience or my trip in hyperspace. The more I tried to tell how I had been wronged for the past forty plus years, the more the interrogation grew worse and increasingly hostile. Eventually, the three dudes were bouncing me off the walls and hitting me quite hard. When it was at a point where I though I was going to pass out or maybe fall down dead, I was pushed hard onto a bright green chair. The men left the office room, and my oldest daughter and my boss were there alone with me. I did not say a word. Finally, MI said this exact thing to me. “I am angry for when you were Governor, and allowed Saint Lucie County to keep the schools segregated until 1982; 1982, get that, 1982, get that; it is disgraceful, and you are more black than I am”. She is right of course, and this indeed is why my dad felt compelled to leave the small town of Toledo, Ohio nearly eighty years ago to join the Merchant Marines at the tender age of only sixteen and a half years. It seems he had found out the secret from his grandmother who he had always trusted and he felt had betrayed him. He learned that his name was not Martin as he had grown up believing it to be, but rather, it was MOHR, and his m other Clara Block had had him out of wedlock. Then my boss reminded me that I indeed had been the governor of Florida in that universe, in the days when Ronald Reagan first took office as President of the United States. I had a personal friend of mine who over there and here, sang songs for me, two of my copyrighted songs from 1980, that somehow I now think the Copyright Office has made a lot of it all disappear, knowing that I no longer have proof or copies of anything. I go up on the copyright site and see a lot of my copyrights, but all the shit sung by Donna in the spring of 1980, and my book TPB from 1994, and my 21st century karaoke projects and the waltz that I wrote for my lovely Sarah a hundred years ago, is all gone now. If Tom Glenn, my old music arranger from 1980, is still alive and well; I sure hope that he reads these words someday soon, and is willing to appear in court, and help me get this all straightened out. I t is amazing that the Congressman's stuff did not vanish, but then, since Paul Pedersen, of Studio Park Records; released my two country tunes and they were played around the world, a lot in Munich, Germany back in 1998, this may have kept them from destroying the proof that this all existed. Between Harner, the peeps at the Washington © Office, and many others, who can I trust anymore, and just how huge and far does this wicked conspiracy really extend? Who is insisting that I never existed? Well, for fifty-thousand dollars, a powerful computer hacker will sell me as he calls it, COURT-BULLET-PROOF evidence that will show beyond ANY DOUBT, that all of this is true. Still, even with this, they can always just go and do a Lieutenant Voorhees Sakavich, and then what can I do? Do you think anyone will stand up for me when all the mother fucking chips are down? Folks, simply put, the Astral Plane gods know that I am totally fucking on to them; as well as onto all of their games; and why they indeed are playing these games; and THIS MAKES ME MORE DANGEROUS TO THESE POWERFUL ENTITIES, THAN A THOUSAND HITLER'S ALL PUT FUCKING TOGETHER, YO!!!!!!
This brings me to the third and final major deal of today's blog text. This powerful hacker told me that he will be doing a lot of things starting almost immediately, to let me kn ow that he is there and on my side of the fight, for a price of 50K$ of course. It is always about the money, right Kevin? Don't go getting yourself shot, remember I used to rent the Steve Caruso Hammonton home, along with Ann and Dawn King, and Louis Chicky Laines, back in 2009, wow, WHERE ARE YOU JAMES PHONY STORIES PATTERSON? Do you think you could ever match my reality with your fantasy, YO?
I did not break any laws, FBI, I am just trying to survive a horrendous nightmare hell. So if these parallel-universe things are slowly pulling me into where I am about to get arrested here in this world, maybe we better do a sit down before things really do go to far, because Maggie is set to do away with the entire solar system should I be killed or imprisoned. This is merely a truth, and in no way, a threat.
Last time I checked, it was legal to protect yourself when innocent, still, we can all go to sleep with that right, and wake up the next day without it. One stroke of the pen, as my dad used to say so often. Wow, my kid would have made a great cop, forget the beauty salons. Still, in this universe, only one thing was set to be, and if it had not happened, I was permitted the small short opportunity to view the terrible consequences, and the quintessential misery that can be suffered by some if not on the top. The stock market crash of 1929 proved this even before I met Mizz Paul. Many would not have done much more than said, “Oh shit”, while many others proved they could not be alive and be a nobody and be poor; and they went right off of the bridges and the skyscrapers.
Yes life can be funny, it can billed with mystery, it can be all screwed up or great or in many gray areas in-between, and know matter what else it ever is or can be, Ernie-beat gardens and all, it never ceases to be a silly old dog. Still, peeps can tell me all they want how no-talented I am, and maybe I am, but why then have top acts always taken my stuff, made small alterations, and then turned them into such great hits over the past 40 fucking years, wow what a journey of symbol beats. Still, silly old dogs as well as very mathematically adept kitty cats; I told a time traveler who phoned me up stone drunk last autumn, and will reiterate again now, just what I told him, in-between his beer tears. Y shouldn't A DOG, live in a doghouse???????????????? Here I am a good person, and life hands me a huge piece of terra fucking crap for nearly 60 years. Silly old dog huh, OYR!!!!
END TRANSMISSION: I AM NOT IN THE MOOD FOR RABITS.
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