Blueprints of Mind Control Read online

  A hotel manager thought I had done something to her and came across the long colored carpet to investigate. He saw the cutting board of cheese and the bottle of wine. He insisted we get a room. His uncouth blindness of her unloading was infuriating. I gave him strong words tugged by stronger eyes. He took a tug of his own on his vest as his gold name-tag curtseyed. Mateo stomped away. She was forty-three when she told me. Two decades of trauma had spilled its business like popcorn in a theater. Her feelings were everywhere. I held her but noticed she was empty. She shrunk into a fetus from all contact. The memory was in her womb, so she kept herself high above the shoulders. She was the little old lady living in the attic of her empty mansion. Her body was dark from lack, and she kept it as a blunt instrument near the door in case of a burglar.

  Abortion causes an evacuation of somatic presence. The first voluntary abortion ever performed was sadistic and shocking. The second abortion was the same only it felt not quite as shocking. The third was even less so. The tenth abortion felt more like a procedure. The thousandth abortion felt as like a reproductive service. The ten-thousandth abortion felt like a civil right. We normalize each other’s brutality. We normalize what others do to themselves after we have it done to us.

  Body trauma locks us in our heads. We experience truth strictly from the senses above the shoulders. This is why we mutilate ourselves in public. We mutilate for sanitation. We mutilate for religion. We mutilate for politics. We always mutilate ourselves for a “thing.” We don’t feel the truth of slicing pieces of each other to toss in the incinerator. We have to stop pretending what abortion is not. Abortion is not a tribal tattoo. Abortion is not a haircut. We have to start calling abortion what it is. Abortion is the mutilation of a stargate.

  I keep a nature altar on my mantle. It begins inside an upside-down turtle shell stuffed with a rescued bird’s nest found in the road. There’s an empty bluebird shell perfectly cracked open. It rests inside a peach blossom of dried hibiscus. The flower’s crinoline is surrounded by stones and crystals from sunny beings I met on tour. The altar is my divine basket made sacred from the unanimous sequence of objects charged with love. A mutilated body is an eternal survivor. The sacred turtle shell has been gouged and scraped. We are disingenuous to call this process access or reproductive. Mutilation is a funeral to a part of ourselves. Abortion comes with flowers.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Trauma Army

  SHE SHOWED HER resistance by carving Trump’s name in her skin. She took a picture and posted it on Instagram. She was rewarded for her self-mutilation. She was rewarded for turning her calf into a billboard with a President’s name on it. The Dr. Ford experiment was a success. The Democrats already knew they lacked the votes. Dr. Ford was placed on camera as a trauma thumper in the desert. She was calling victims of injustice like some gigantic mythic sandworm from the dunes. The cracked voice of Dr. Ford sounded that way for a purpose. You can activate a trauma army with a simple story or facial expression. This technique is far from obscure. It’s not accurate to relegate it to the files of MKUltra. We are all Manchurian voters responsive to tribal pressure and centralized media. None of us are in touch with our bodies as much as we could be. If so we would be living in a world where lies were never successful.

  A trauma army has been mustering in this country for centuries. We were recruited psychologically, spiritually, and physically. Our victimization makes us zombies in the inevitable selfish spiral of our pain. Pain makes us selfish. This condition is intentional. We are kept in outdoor barracks on a psychological prison continent. The injected energy of news is always fear with a cliffhanger. We turn our tongues into bayonets for survival. They are sharpened continuously by false flag attacks activated from moving pictures. We’ve been trained to divide ourselves into teams of thought, color, and gender. We are a mosh pit in chaotic formation directed by an unseen conductor high on the cliff. He wears a mask to hide his voodoo. The spiral snake in your back is his now as he takes command of your internal dynamo.

  The sun is reading a magazine as it drifts down sky’s river. Tiny fish bite the legs of boys in the shallow end of a lakeside swim park. Minnows munch like finger-sized piranha pecking the boys' legs with tickles. They are laughing at themselves for trying not to flinch. The first mutilation is a circumcision. This is a trauma disguised as sanitation to install a belief we were born unclean. The psychology of dirty is a powerful weapon. It keeps us out of the tips of our fingers and toes as we retreat from these extremities. We are shame in clothing. We are dirty as bugs. But bugs are cleaner than rain. We wipe scum on each other with our minds. We enter a trance of normalcy as we walk down the halls enlisted in basic training. After graduation, we rank ourselves by victimization and fall under the shape of the pyramid. We are trained to fight from two short blows of a whistle.

  There is no secret technology to mind control. It is a biological installation of energy, frequency, and vibration. Your blood is a natural hot spring. Sink your awareness deep and break the pockets of dry flour as you blend them back into the warm batter of your cake. Place your electric roots deep down into each arm pocket like a sweater and tug yourself to the very end of each finger. Wrap warm orange roots around your spine connecting every organ. Raise the twisting kudzu of consciousness around your trachea and collarbones. Let the magnetic current surround your throat as soft electric wires thread themselves into your vocal cords and tongue. Fill the arched ceiling of your mouth with electric vines that cling to the capillaries and rebuild the cavern of your mouth. This space is your king’s chamber. In one breath pluck your vocal cords and resonate your name across your lips like an airplane vaulted from the runway. Understand the greatest sin ever committed is the one we do to ourselves. Never leave your body. You will only end up in a trauma army mutilating yourself for street cred.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Man is the Living Soil

  WE THE PEOPLE believe in ourselves and each other. We the people have lost faith in our political parties and media. The time has come to hold ourselves responsible for the puppet we have created. Our country is rabid. It has been activated and spurred by an army of political terrorists. The media are corporate terror cells, and our political parties have been infiltrated by dual-citizens. These groups are subverting the strings of our country. They have lost our charitable trust. We do wrong to shelter them. They make no effort to serve the truth, and our freedom is no longer safe under their influence. We must hold the instigators responsible. We must step up to change our system. Media has formed a corporate mind cult dispensing emotional propaganda while our politicians are committing treason. Both groups wear lipstick and feed lies to a growing nation of zombies. There are too many sharks in the pool. There are too many snakes on this plane.

  “I am the living soil.” – Spoken aloud.

  The federal government of the United States will be voluntary. There can be no exception. You cannot experiment with democracy under a centralized district. The current system is too corrupt and forced consent is an act of violence. Our nation has given psychopathy too much control. From now on, the federal government will have to compete for our resources. If companies are willing to pay multi-millions of dollars to put their logo on a NASCAR vehicle, they can do it for a jet fighter. Stenciled underneath the pilot’s name, “This F-15 is sponsored by the great state of Michigan and The Home Depot.” Each of the states will go back to regulating their own militia. If America wants to attack Russia, each state can send as many troops as they deem appropriate. We will vote for war with our bodies – we give no one a rubber stamp. A political party is a secret society, and the media covers their allegiance with corporatism. Our representation by the media has failed us completely. They have forever lost our trust.

  Let our states become bioregions. A bioregion shares a common climate that unites a people entrusted with its protection. This is the true meaning of love for country. It is a love for the living soil. Man is the living soil. My state of
North Carolina has three bioregions. The coastal wetlands want something different from a government than the farmlands or the Appalachians. Bioregions can run like a constitutional republic – three branches of government, three systems of checks and balances. They can amend their own constitution; they create their own experiment in democracy. Each of our bioregions is united under one flag and the original Bill of Rights. Inside the bioregion are county seats and inside each county is a city or township. These will continue to run as public charters. A town serves the bioregion, and the bioregion serves the people. Our leaders will be our neighbors again. Our leaders will walk our streets and look us in the eye at the grocery store.

  We will fine-tune the science of the neighborhood. Let’s invigorate our nation locally from the block up. All of our federal tribute will be managed with the technology of blockchain. Like bubbling springs, each bioregion will compete for the trophy of who gives the most. We can spur a nationwide competition of volunteering. We will create a kind media where American Idol is replaced by American compassion. The only kind of socialism is volunteerism. From our soccer fields to our fire departments, volunteering is compassion-based local government. This is something everyone agrees on and something our media will never give its attention.

  We will rebuild this country by mending the soil. Our compassion and our militia will be locally sourced. Our arms will always belong to the people. This is our country. It does not belong to the government. Government is the child of the people. Returning to a system of volunteering restores the seeds of compassion. It returns responsibility to our fingers. We can replace a coercive government with a government of compassion.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Electric Cobra

  TEMPTATION WAS A snake from the Garden of Eden. It seduced us with a hunger for knowledge. Now its tangle of cords slithers from every wall outlet into our veins. Metallic fangs from rubber-skin charm us with 120 volts of venom. These snakes have infested our homes and village. We are raised on blue milk from the electric cobra. A hiss pours its juice from every socket and lamppost. The spirit of the campfire wonders why we decided to leave. I hear a new pitch rising in my ears as snakes shed their skin to slither in the air wirelessly. They learned to leap from the tops of towers as we birth a 5G spitting cobra with wings. We are a world addicted to the serpent of electricity. The very same snake offered Adam and Eve the first red pill. The apple gave up its bite so we may taste morality from a wet virgin tongue. The flavors of good and evil were good enough for eviction. Wrong or right – we are bitten now. We swallowed what was chewed. The venom is in our veins. We keep trying to spit it out but we can’t. Knowledge doesn’t work that way. Is it fair to ask God to forgive someone who knew exactly what they were doing?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  Purple Witch of Honduras

  HILLARY GREW UP in Chicago with a hatred for men and a severe control fetish. She developed an interest in witchcraft at Wellesley College. She met Bill Clinton at Yale in 1970. His infidelity fed Hillary’s sadism and pushed her deep into the black arts. Bill was the perfect patsy to practice the art of possession. His sex addiction gave her the flail and crook. Knowing someone’s addiction is the same as knowing their password. Bill Clinton was the pony Hillary always wanted as a child.

  It was a June morning in 1975. The future First Lady of Arkansas pulled the first live rooster out of its basket. Hillary had seen this spell performed in Haiti. She placed its kicking body inside a bag in her kitchen sink. The creature was a tiny velociraptor struggling under the plastic. She could sense it suffocating under her power, and she liked it. She wrapped her fingers around its throat and recited the Vodoun phrase from the index card on the counter. Hillary had memorized every word of it on the plane. On cue, she twisted and ripped the bird’s neck as her heart raced. She said the name, “Ayida” and felt a dip in her chest like she had just run over a speed bump. She pinched the spent cock’s neck like a garden hose to stop its bleeding. This ceremony was a calling of power for her fiancé. She bathed Bill in the blood of forty roosters to make him the new Attorney General.

  The very same day in Honduras, a mercenary caravan met at a private ranch owned by Manuel Zelaya. Fifteen people had been kidnapped and brought there including three priests, two women, five farmers, and some students. As Hillary wrung the blood from her last rooster, the five farmers were burning alive in a bread oven. The priests were castrated, mutilated and left to die in the sun. The two women were dropped into a well still alive followed by a stick of dynamite. All fifteen were murdered by US-trained paramilitary forces. Manuel spent one year in prison for the massacre. In 2006, his son and namesake would be elected the next President.

  It was Valentine’s Day, 1977. Suzanne Coleman, age 26, was being fondled by the new Arkansas Attorney General. William Jefferson Clinton was trying to negotiate a deal to get into her panties. Suzanne was seven months pregnant and carrying his child. She was done with Bill now and his sex addiction. She had laid out her demands on a typed sheet of paper and walked out the door. It was Valentine’s Day, and Hillary saw her husband’s pregnant mistress come out of his office. The next day, Suzanne somehow shot herself in the back of the head with a pistol. The first of many suicides recorded in Arkansas sans autopsy.

  Over the next four decades, the Clinton’s would kill someone on average every four months. By 2009, the body count has reached over 120. These victims died by suicide, stabbing, gunshot, accident, or plane crash. These were investigators, employees, associates, criminals, and witnesses whose death benefited a Clinton coverup. Many were tied to CIA drug trafficking rings connected to Latin America. In 2004 Pulitzer Prize-winning Journalist Gary Webb was shot twice in the head for exposing them. His death was also called a suicide. The Clintons have been breeding foreign cocaine connections out of a small airport in Mena, Arkansas. The Clinton Foundation was their new base of operations.

  In 2009, the Honduras Supreme Court led a coup against President Zelaya. Secretary of State Hillary was backing the mutiny. She went against her administration, the E.U., and U.N. demands to allow the country’s elected leader to return from exile. Zelaya ran for his life to Costa Rica. During which, the country collapsed under the coup with a drop in employment and a spike in crime. Hillary delivering a broken Honduras was an offering to the Voodoo priest.

  Three months later, Hillary and Bill met Nanzi in Haiti at his underground church. His ritual practices have been outlawed on the island since 1835. The three of them would participate in a defilement ceremony for Hillary. Only Nanzi can give her what she needs to win the White House. Hillary’s ceremony would elevate her to his inner circle. This came with the ability to blackmail anyone in his network. Information is deadly to those who have secrets to keep. This is why Hillary must participate in his ceremony. This is her secret for Nanzi to record. There is a price to slip behind another layer of the curtain. Hillary had been both dreading and lusting over her ceremony for nearly a decade.

  The following night, Hillary ingests chunks of biological material from the orifices of the Nanzi, her husband, and several priests. At one point she vomited and was told to swallow it all again which she did willingly. She was here to prove she had no boundaries to keep. One of the priests sliced flesh from his arm and fed it to her like strips of bacon. She licked his gaping wound after swallowing his skin before she did the same from her thigh. A canopy of torchlight and cameras captured her depravity. The perimeter of the ritual pit was lined with strangers waiting to challenge her. Hillary pledged her allegiance to Kalfu as she gorged a man’s soiled taint. In the first evening’s crescendo, Hillary ate the living heart of an albino child she had purchased for the ceremony. By the second evening, she had pulled out most of her fingernails and some teeth. No one would stand in the pit with her any longer. The truth is Hillary was stronger than all of them. Bush, Obama, and McCain never had to work as hard as she did. But the elite who rule the world are men who would never accept a woman as their equal.
Voodoo and possession were Hillary’s only chance to slip through the gate.

  Six years later, Hillary began showing signs of Kuru disease. It started with the loss of taste in her mouth and the frequent bouts of shaking. Kuru attacks proteins in the brain after the body ingests prions from human blood. It’s a mad-cow disease for humans. Patients develop lacerations on the tongue and lose motor control. Hillary kept having spasms that sounded like she was cackling. Nanzi told Hillary he had a cure. He promised she’d have it when she won the White House. After the election, Hillary listened to Nanzi laugh at her through the satellite phone. He sang to her in Creole about the Voodoo criss-cross.

  The Clinton body count is staggering. There are fifty-six dead police and military; twenty-three dead witnesses; twenty-two dead bodyguards; twenty suicides; sixteen deaths by plane crash; thirteen dead lawyers; sixteen dead staffers; eight dead journalists; seven dead interns; six dead Marine One helicopter pilots; and five dead medical professionals. There have been half a dozen additions to the list since Seth Rich.

  Neither Clinton nor Zelaya is an anomaly. Politics, our State Department, the FBI, the CIA, and the Pentagon are all infected with psychopaths. Human predators are always attracted to a chain-of-command because following orders is mind control.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Wet Horse Broken