The Decadent Worker

ATTITUDES

Supposing you found me in your home, uninvited. If you shot me dead, in many states it would be justifiable homicide.

Or imagine that someone, say the Queen of England, plants a bugging device on you — up inside your sinus, say, or near your inner ear. And then suppose this same individual or organization invites individuals they have recruited in one way or another, any number of them, to monitor your movements at all times, in your home and out. Is the second outrage better than the first?

Are not both instances of intrusion? And isn’t the second, if anything, worse — to have to deal not with ust one prowler in your house, but with numerous intruders in your life.

That is the situation in which, since 1976, I have gradually found myself. You Masons and Jesuits and Elks and whatever, you initiates in secret societies, recruits of the Neighborhood Justice Centers, you disciples of mediums and pawns of Nixon, Howard Hunt, Griffin Bell and/or whoever else — you infufferable Lights (as one faction dedicated to making themselves into living high-pressure advertiseents is called) — all you who surveil me regardless of how or why — you are intruders in my life. Were the facts known or provable in court, most juries would not blame me for killing you.

Does it never occur to you that you are in violation of your own laws and of Natural Rights as well as of every commonsense conception of justice?

In my particular circumstance, battling a clique of genocidal Nazis as I am — though precious few of you seem to comprehend that much about it — I am glad there is an audience. You happened to intrude uninvited into a life where great crimes were happening already, greater than yours, and I want someone around afterwards to tell the world what happened.

So even though you arrived in my life uninvited and by the most despicable of means, I prefer to tolerate you as guests rather than to rent about your spying per se.

However, yhou are, at best, guests — not gracious hosts. I am the host. You are tromping around in my life. Try to remember your manners.

Especially, do not expect you are in any position to tell me how to live my life. Do not try to tell me, for example, which cafes I may or may not frequent or which radio stations I should or should not listen to. For arrogance like that is not in any way called for by the nature of the situation. If you want to enlist my cooperation, allow me to suggest that cooperation breeds cooperation. Tell me who escalated the Indochina War and how they went about it and the composition of that conspiracy now, instead of bombarding me with your totalitarian demands, your annoying gossip and your thought policing. Think about what you will tell your grandchildren when they ask, as the young in German do the old, why you heedlessly tolerated — in fact aided and abetted — a holocaust far worse than Hitler’s. So far it’s been of what asinine, trivial thing to say next time you see me so as to continue your desperate imperialist filibuster about anything and everything but crimes against humanity. — Kerry Wendell Thornley

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“Kerry, do you believe someone can be subjected to mind control technology and yet retain their own identity?”

“Yes I do, because of the definition of man. We define man in terms of his behavior. So a man is everything that influences him to the extent that it influences his behavior, because that is what we mean when we say ‘he did this or that’ — the collection of impersonal forces, both within and without, causing him to do ‘this or that.’” This metaphysical realization first occurred to me intuitively, one night at Subic Bay in the Philippines, when I was standing under a tree in a light rain storm, watching lightning flash in the sky beyond a distant horizon. I discovered confirmation for it in The Upanishads and in discussions with fellow Marine, Raoul Gayon, and placed a rap about the whole notion in the mind o one of my fictional characters, Raoul Santana, in a novel I started in New Orleans — leaving it unfinished because my friends all said Santana was too intellectual to be convincing.

I regarded my discovery as the answer to the debate about free will versus determination — neither side being correct because the determining forces are what we mean by the will. And I was so proud of my great idea (which I fancied was heretofore uncontemplated in the West) that I could not be bothered, just then, with the common sense implications of what I was saying in sanctioning mind control — which seemed both to amuse and please Brother-in-law.

Recently I had written a poem about this experience of penetrating the relation of will to environment and when I tried to explain it to anyone who did not immediately grasp it, I became impatient. Swept up in the beauty of an abstraction, I was not paying attention at all to what was happening with this man in this room in this particular here and now. So I freely granted him permission, in effect, to brainwash me. (I imagine a Zen master could cite this as an example of the dangers of partial enlightenment!)… (pp. 72-3)

“Kerry, the Fascists are now experimenting with advanced thought control techniques. You know, there are Fascists in this country/. Among them is Henry Luce, who publishes Time and Life magazines. They are planning to build a society comprised of nothing but human robots, with transistors installed in the backs of their heads, so that they will be absolutely obedient to subliminal messages.”

“Yeah. There are people who say it can’t happen here. But I guess it can.”

“Remember the saying about how you can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him drink?”

“A friend of mine used to say, ‘You can lead a horse to water, but a pencil must be lead.’”

With characteristic unfairness about such things, Brother-in-law seemed annoyed at the irrelevant nature of my remark… (p. 141)
— The Dreadlock Recollections (c) by Kerry Wendell Thornley, 1984

A pathetic desire to believe I’m expressing myself cryptically continues. Unless I “tag” my communications with a clearing of my throat or by saying “quote end quote” they aren’t cant — to which I almost never resort anyway. Confusion often arises when what I say in plain English coincidentally sounds like I’m saying that I’m talking in cant. What is more, I’m telling the truth and the gullibility of people who believe those who say I am lying for some incredible ulterior reason not only makes me look like a monster who would lie (illegible after this point)

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Pictured upfront is one of the “policemen” who led the Dallas Mystery Tramps away from the scene of the crime and safely past police blotters as well. Note that he looks exactly like Watergate Burglar McCord! We have previously shown how two of the “tramps” resemble Hunt and Sturgis. An eye witness to the assassination identified a photo of Bernard Barker of the Watergate Team as the man he encountered behind the Grassy Knoll disguised as a “Secret Service agent.” See Coup detat In America by Weberman and Canfield for details.

Asked when Lee Oswald took his book, The Collective, to a typist, Marina Oswald said, “I think it was the end of June,” through a translator who seems to have been given to double or, in this case, triple entendre. June Oswald is Lee and Marina’s daughter. For years I have been hearing about an organization more secret, mysterious and unknown than even the Illuminati — called the June State (”JS” in my code). Allegedly, Henry Kissinger and Regis Kennedy, chief of New Orleans FBI when JFK was shot, are citizzens of this invisible government — as are any number of heavy-duty intelligence community leatherfreaks of varied political views.

In my opinion the June State functions somewhat like a trade union for spies, such as is presented in the novel, Station K. Very probably it is organized around a brain transmitter or similar device planted on June Oswald in the spring of 1963. Every initiate gets a listening device. As victim of a similar hoax I can attest that such electronic personality cults exist — wherein familiarity with the target is common denominator in cryptic communications.

Hitch-hiking, I got a ride with a man who told me there are four such living Rosetta Stones. Maybe Charles Manson and Stephen Gaskin are the other two.

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The reprinted excerpts from the article, “Jonestown, CIA, Assassinations, Drugs and Mind Control,” by John Judge first appeared in Critique, A Journal of Conspiracies & Metaphysics, Spring/Summer 1986, #21/22, and is reprinted with permission. Copyright 1986 by Critique. A sample copy of Critque costs $6. Please send all inquiries to POB 11451, Santa Rosa, CA 95406.

The role of Mark Lane, who served as an attorney for Jim Jones, is even more clearly intertwined. Lane had co-authored a book with Dick Gregory, claiming FBI complicity in the King murder…

With help from officials in Tennessee Governer Blanton’s office, Lane managed to get legal custody of a woman who had been incarcerated in the Tennessee state psychiatric system for nearly eight years. This woman, Grace Walden Stephens, had been a witness in the King murder… Grace Walden Stephens took up residence in Memphis with Lane, her custodian, and Terri Buford, a key Temple member who had returned to the U.S. before the killings to live with Lane. While arranging for for her to testify before the Select Committee on Ray’s behalf, Lane and Buford were plotting another fate for Grace Stephens. Notes from Buford to Jones, found in the aftermath of the killings, discussed arrangements with Lane to move Grace Stephens to Jonestown… Whether Grace ever arrived at Jonestown is unclear.

Lane was forced to leave Ray in the midst of testimony to the Select Committee when he got word that Ryan was planning a visit. Lane had attempted to discourage the trip earlier in a vaguely threatening scene, he failed to warn Ryan and others, knowing that the sandwiches and other food might be drugged, but refrained from eating it himself. Later, claiming that he and Charles Garry would write the official history of the “revolutionary suicide,” Lane was allowed to leave the massacre alive. Lane says he and Garry wandered through the jungle, using torn pieces of underwear to mark their way back to Georgetown. If true, it seems an unlikely method if they were in any fear of pursuit. They had heard gunfire and screams back at the camp. Lane was reportedly well aware of the forced drugging and suicide drills at Jonestown before Ryan arrived. (pp. 57-9)

The meticulous daily notes and drug records kept by Larry Schacht disappeared, but other evidence did not. The history of MKULTRA and its sister programs (…ARTICHOKE, BLUEBIRD, etc.) records a combination of drugs… electroshock and torture as methods for control… One goal was the ability to control mass populations especially for cheap labor. Dr. Delgado told Congress that he hoped for a future where a technology would control workers in the field and troops at war with electronic remote signals…

On the scene at Jonestown, Guyanese troops discovered a large cache of drugs, enough to drug the entire population of Georgetown, Guyana (well over 200,000) for more than a year. According to survivors, these were being used “to control” a population of only 1,100 people… Drugs used in the testing for MKULTRA were found in abundance… The actual description of life at Jonestown is that of a tightly run concentration camp, complete with medical and psychiatric experimentation… On the eve of the massacre, Forbes Burnham was reportedly converted to “born again” Christianity by members of the Full Gospel Christian Businessmen’s Association, including Lionel Luckhoo, a Temple lawyer in Guyana (pp. 52-3)

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Excerpted from Quent Wimpel Notes by Kerry Wendell Thornley, this portion of which first appeared in Inside Joke:

In literature, as in everything else, too often the answer to one question simply brings up another mystery. In this instance, for example, Quent held what seemed like a two-way conversation with a radio D.J. who must have been some miles away. How was such a thing possible? Unfortunately, in this particular literary endeavor — unlike most — precise answers to all questions are not found.

To tell the truth, Quent could never explain this phenomenon to his satisfaction. That advanced techniques in electronic surveillance were involved was obvious. That it happened all the time, whenever he was near any radio or t.v. set, was something he was long used to…

In his notebook was a list of all the song titles on the back of the Zuma album. “Surf Turf” and “Seal Beach Waves” and “Sandy Beaches” were all references to the traumatic interval in his bewildering existence when he had, as he phrased it, “discovered radio.” Another song was called “Program Notes” and that was even more clearly about that night in Tujunga, California, just over two years ago, when his first conversation with a disc jockey occurred.

Already, by then, he knew that his little house on the hill must be bugged — or at least that was the hypothesis that explained the facts with the fewest assumptions. For every conversation he held there with anyone was soon the business of the whole community.

Eduardo Scott would come up some evening for a visit, during which they would share a joint and rap about the Fitzpatrick assassination or about Cosa Nostra… Later that night Quent would go to one of the restaurants along Foothill Boulevard for a cup of coffee and, inevitably, a waitress or another customer would be involved in a conversation about whatever it was Eduardo Scott had mentioned to him — adding information, giving Quent knowing sidelong glances. There was no mistaking it for coincidence, for the examples just described were only his first sips from the chalice of conspiratorial communications… Soon his whole public social environment consisted of nothing but reviews — on his conversations, his notes, his most intimate acts of ever-more-infrequent lovemaking and ever-more-frequent masturbation.

…So naturally Wimpel began talking to himself. More exactly he began speaking to the walls in his hacienda-like little refurbished chicken coop on the hill on Mrs. Walsh’s two-acre estate where he was groundskeeper in exchange for living quarters. Couching these presentations in radio-program format, he addressed them to his intelligence community captors, assuming them an FBI team with a terrible security leak. Much to his own surprise, Quent found himself talented in this direction. “You know,” he interrupted himself to say — in the midst of a lecture about civil liberties and the rights of witnesses to Presidential murder plots — “with a little background music I’d sound like a pro!”

Now it happened that his landlady, Josephine Walah, was what Quent tended to characterize as an accumulator. That is, she never threw away anything — to which a gargage, two sheds and a barn on her property packed to the raftes with household items of every description attested eloquently. And it was in the barn on top of a nail keg under a sewing machine behind a davenport that he located a clock radio. (cont.)

“The attitude of great poets is to cheer up slaves and horrify despots. The turn of their necks, the sound of their feet, the motions of their wrists, are full of hazard to one and hope to the other.” — Walt Whitman

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“Then you might start a minor rumor campaign against him.” — Ex-CIA Agent Keehner, The Search for the Manchurian Candidate, John Marks, p. 174

“It is still better if the enemy attacks us wildly and paints us as utterly black and without a single virtue; it demonstrates that we have not only drawn a clear line of demarcation between the enemy and ourselves but achieved a great deal in our work.” — Mao Tse-Tung, p. 15

Over and over Brother-in-law asked me if I thought all publicity was good publicity, that bad publicity is better than no publicity at all. Every time I answered in the affirmative, without reservation. I may have been wrong, or at least too simple.

“Sometimes the concepts Brother-in-law wanted to convey were quite complex, and he seemed to be taking pains to speak awkwardly, possibly to give me the impression he was not an articulate, educated man.

“‘Kerry, what do you think of the idea of just scaring hell out of everybody — by convincing them that there is a situation, like say, where there are these enormous gates or something. And everyone expects a fierce lion or tiger to be behind them. They open and, instead, a kitten comes walking out.’

“I laughed and said, “I think that would be very funny.’” (The Dreadlock Recollections (c) 1984, Kerry Wendell Thornley)

At any point in time, there is always at least one more deal coming down. Rumors about me were oft planted when ‘the foundations of the world were laid.’ There actually are — and have been at least since 1959 — cults about me being some dubious famous person’s reincarnation, including Judas Iscariot and Napoleon Bonapart. I do not control these cults; they control me, particularly by means of rumors.

And of course all I get this way are rumors and rumors about rumors — particularly the latter, seeing as how the former were leading to the hypothesis of a genocidal depopulation conspiracy, with ruthlessly discocerting ecological logic, if also somewhat of a genetically chauvinist bias. The worst of Hitler, the exterminator of territories who utilized faulty maps — who could not grasp the reality that overcrowding is caused by the rent and/or the landlord.

As a result, my only purpose — stemming the tide of genocide — is defeated in the confusing babble of robot spirit mediums. Judas, in my place — in the poetically just mind of many a sober radical — would have said what I said: “Why don’t you frame some Communist?” — would have counseled cruxifiction of the Collective Christ, the Mystical Body of the Dialectical Jesus: the Communist Party. How can I blame them? That’s a rhetorical question; avoid right opportunist temptations.

As for Napoleon looks: a haircut which Judge L. Perez liked for that reason, it kept a lot of French rednecks off my back in its day. A class of the Harvard School of Business became the subject of a lifelong study that was highjacked by foreign intelligence. Somehow these Harvard grads became the basis of an organization to pass me off as a reincarnation of Napoleon, Meyer Lansky’s favorite historical personage. Slim Brooks called nut houses Napoleon Factories and called Napoleon Avenue, where earlier I resided, Crazyman Street. So the Napoleon Complex, as it is called, could also be a conspiracy to drive me mad.

There is in any case a virtual occult reich of these cults — half a dozen of which I am aware deem me this or that notorious figure from the past. When in my ignorance I was keeping my mouth shut about Brother-in-law, they were nice to me. These days they surround me with gullible pawns eager to help me work off bad karma by adding to my problems. Rumors are among their best weapons.

That my case was reviewed by the Supreme Court, who decided my rights were not being violated, is — I suspect — a CIA lie; challenged, they fall back to the position that the Supreme Court refused to hear my case. A similar lie is that the American Bar Association stands forever on the sidelines of my life, forever prepared to help me if and when my rights are violated. I have never been plaintiff in any court in the land is the truth, unless there is some way it could happen without my knowledge. My rights — all the rights numbered in the Bill of Rights with the exception of the right to bear arms, and not to quarter troops, etc., which I have not been called upon to exercise — have been relentlessly and repeatedly usurped. Why? Because this country is full of servile dumbshits who will do anything to anybody as long as they are convinced it isn’t against the law. They slept through civics and never studied Natural Law, and so conspire night and day to deprive me of my civil rights because they think the Supreme Court approves, or that in any case a bunch of Nixon and Reagan appointees even understand what rights are to begin with.

Nixon will hang for war crimes if the truth is ever known.

That I somehow actually became philosopher-king, in spite of my attempts to expose the assassins and despite three plots I joined to foil the Nazis who wanted me for king, is another rumor that makes life impossible for me. Like the Elders of Zion conspiracy rumors about Jews and the hysterical legends that Gays secretly rule the world (such as are circulated locally by Will Jones), wild tales serve to justify persecution of the weak by fostering illusions that they are the strong. I am in fact possibly the most enslaved individual in the domestic intelligence community — in spite of my stubborn refusal to take orders or to join any long-range conspiracy or party or agency. Again I suspect the CIA, possibly the Ford Foundation.

That I am actually someone else impersonating Kerry Wendell Thornley is the belief of people who were misled by my own inconsistency. In Cosmic Trigger Robert Anton Wilson published a memo that I would no longer carry any identification; a number of years ago I was arrested in Tampa, Florida, for driving without a permit, so I went ahead and got a driver’s license — after which the inconvenience of going without other i.d. seemed pointless. So because I carry identification that says I am Kerry Wendell Thornley (Wendell Kerry Thornley on my birth certificate, etc.) many think I therefore could not be Kerry Wendell Thornley!

Additional slanders insist I am a sexual sadist, a Marx-Leninist, a rightwinger, a homophobic puritan, an ex-Nazi or Nazi, and what they call in conspiracy politics “old” — to name a few. All are either lies or misunderstandings. The idea that I am a Satanist is both, although I dislike organized religion.*

* Alleged: Bert Lance secretly recorded my 1979 sex magick experiment intended to blow up the Vatican in conclave, repentence for my foolish foiling of a 1978 Finn plot to attain a like end.

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HA-HA-HAHAHO: OHMLY REVOLTING WATTICISMS RULE

“(An) example is the ‘woodpecker’ signals emanating from the USSR in the 5-30 megahertz region and interfering with communications around the earth.

“These complex woodpecker signals appear to originate from two or three dozen powerful Soviet transmitters, each with a power estimated as high as 40 megawatts…

“Typically the signals may be found on, say, sixteen different carriers between 10 and 20 megahertz. Twelve of the carriers may appear normal, with normal ands, and the other four may have the carrier and both sidebands supressed but still show the biologically significant modulation… Other complex modulation frequencies, many of them changing, are present on the various channels.

“Normally, the brainwaves of mammals in an area are gently entrained by the normal oscillations of the earth’s magnetic field and are oscillating along at, say, 7.5 hertz. Under continuous radiation from the Soviet woodpecker signals, at a percentage (say 30 percent) of the mammalian brains may be captured by the 10 hertz modulation of the overpowering Soviet signals… If the signals are made much more powerful (for example, by focusing them into one particular area or increasing the power of the transmitters), then a much higher percentage of brainwave entrapment can be accomplished in the targeted area… The weapons implications are enormous: raw emotion such as sheer terror or panic can be transmitted; information content (thoughts and ideas) can be impressed directly into the captured brains and minds and processed as if originating inside each brain itself… Certain specific ELF frequencies can rapidly disable or even kill, and for wartime use those frequencies can be directly implanted in the captured brains themselves by the woodpecker signals. It appears that 1984 came a little early, and one can now understand Breshnev’s strange 1975 proposal to the SALT negotiations that we should also consider outlawing the development of new weapons more frightful than the mind of man has ever conceived.” – Thomas E. Bearden, Excalibur Briefing (Strawberry Hill Press, San Francisco, 1980)

“A free society’s best defense against unethical behavior modification is public disclosure and awareness. The more people understand consciousness-altering technology, the more likely they are to recognize its application, and the less likely it will be used… As with the Agency’s secrets, it is now too late to put behavioral technology back in the box. Researchers are bound to keep making advances. The technology has already spread to our schools, prisons, and mental hospitals, not to mention the advertising community, and it has been picked up by police forces around the world… Totalitarian regimes will probably continue, as they have in the past, to search secretly for ways to manipulate the mind, no matter what the United States does. The prospect of being able to control people seems too enticing for most tyrants to give up. Yet, we as a country can defend ourselves without sending our own scientists — mad or otherwise — into a hidden war that violates our basic ethical and constitutional principles. After all, we created the Nuremberg Code to show there were limits on scientific research and its application.” — John Marks, The Search for the Manchurian Candidate

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“Why’d you try to cut your arms like that? Isn’t that a mean thing to do to yourself?”

“Because I don’t want to live. I’m telling you there’s going to be a big new revolution of police now.”

“No, there’s going to be a rucksack revolution,” I said laughing, not realizing how serious the situation was; in fact Cody and I had no sense, we should have known from her arms how far she wanted to go. “Listen to me,” I began, but she wouldn’t listen.

“Don’t you realize what’s happening?” she yelled staring at me with big wide sincere eyes trying by crazy telepathy to make me believe that what she was saying was absolutely true. She stood there in the kitchen of the little apartment with her skeletal hands held out in supplicatory explanation, her legs braced, her red hair all frizzly, trembling and shuddering and grabbing her face from time to time.

“It’s nothing but bullshit!” I yelled and suddenly I had the feeling I always got when I tried to explain the Dharma to people, Alvah, my mother, my relatives, girl friends, everybody, they never listened, they always wanted me to listen to them, they knew, I didn’t know anything, I was just a dumb young kid and impractical fool who didn’t understand the serious significance of this very important, very real world.

“The police are going to swoop down and arrest us all and not only that but we’re all going to be questioned for weeks and weeks and maybe even years till they find out all the crimes and sins that have been committed, it’s a network, it runs in every direction, finally they’ll arrest everybody in North Beach and even everybody in Greenwich Village and then Paris and then finally they’ll have everybody in jail, you don’t know, it’s only the beginning.” ‘She kept jumping at sounds in the hall, thinking the cops were coming.

“Why don’t you listen to me?” I kept pleading, but each time I said that, she hypnotized me with her staring eyes and almost had me for a while believing in what she believed from the sheer weight of her complete dedication to the discriminations her mind was making. “But you’re getting these silly convictions and conceptions out of nowhere, don’t you realize all this life is just a dream? Why don’t you just relax and enjoy God? God is you, you fool!”

“Oh, they’re going to destroy you, Ray, I can see it, they’re going to fetch all the religious squares too and fix them good. It’s only begun. It’s all tied in with Russia though they won’t say it… and there’s something I heard about the sun’s rays and something about what happens while we’re all asleep. Oh Ray the world will never be the same!” — Jack Kerouac, The Dharma Bums, pp. 110-111

As a matter of fact, the so-called Woodpecker stations, created by the Russians, are said to reinforce the rhythms of low-freq. sound waves from storms on the sun, as they emerge on the North American side of the world, thus turning them into useful carrier waves for, among other things, nocturnal mind manipulation. Rosie, the paranoid in this scene, was, as is true of most of Kerouac’s characters, an actual person with another name — which is given in passing in one of the nonfiction books about Kerouac and the Beat Generation.

“Eventually — say by A.D. 2000 — perhaps all this depth manipulation of the psychological variety will seem amusingly old-fashioned. By then perhaps the biophysicists will take over with ‘bio-control,’ which is depth persuasion carried to its ultimate. Bio-control is the new science of controlling mental processes, emotional reactions, and sense perceptions by bioelectric signals.” — Vance Packard, The Hidden Persuaders, 1957, p. 206

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CONTACT ALIEN INTELLIGENCE: REAWAKEN YOUR MASTURBATION GUILT!

“Keehner became disgusted by the picking-at-scabs aspect of TSS assessment work. Once the PAS had identified a target as having potential mental instabilities, staff members sometimes suggested ways to break him down, reasoning that by using a ratchetlike approach to put him under increased pressure, they might be able to break the lines that tied him to his country, if not his sanity. Keehner stated, ‘I was sent to deal with the most negative aspects of the human condition. It was planned destructiveness. First, you’d check to see if you could destroy a man’s marriage. If you could, then that would be enough to put a lot of stress on the individual, to break him down. Then you might start a minor rumor campaign against him. Harass him constantly. Bump his car in traffic. A lot of it is ridiculous, but it may have a cumulative effect.’ Agency case officers might also use this same sort of stress-producing campaign against a particularly effective enemy intelligence officer whom they knew they could never recruit but whom they hoped to neutralize.

“…’You pick the thing most fearful to him — the things which would cause him the most doubt,’ says the source. ‘If his greatest fear is that he can’t trust you to protect him and his family, you overload your pitch with your ability to do it. Other people need structure, so you tell them exactly what they will need to do. If you leave it open-ended, they’ll be scared you’ll ask them to do things they’re incapable of.’ (Footnote: This source reports that case officers usually used this sort of nonthreatening approach and switched to the roughter stuff if the target decided he did not want to spy for the CIA….)

“….The TSS staff assessors sent a report back to the field on the best way to deal with the new agent and the most effective means to exploit him.” — John Marks, The Search for the “Manchurian Candidate” (The New York Times Book Co., 1979), pp. 174-5

Early August of 1987: the 12th anniversary of a harassment campaign that has been going on against me since 12 days after I approached Public Safety Commissioner Reginald Eaves with information about my JFK assassination discussions with Brother-in-law. Every technique mentioned above has been used, among others, unrelentingly. Only I was not asked to join the CIA — even if retired CIA agent Tracy Barnes has been much involved. Instead, I was asked to follow the leadership of the Russian Communist Party. When that didn’t work I was asked to follow the leadership of the Chinese Communist Party.

As much isn’t necessarily an indication the Communists were behind it. Since my assassination testimony involved my personal prior knowledge of a plot to deliberately stir up a war in Asia — Vietnam, as it turned out — were I to join a Communist Party the truth of my allegations would be suspect. So it could easily have been the CIA and/or the Nazi Vril Society (and/or Jamaica’s Tryall Club, the Defense Industrial Security Command, the Trilateral Commission, John Birchers, Royal Arch Masons, etc., etc.) who instigated my non-stop persecution. Gerald Ford, who served on the Warren Commission, was President when it began.

Since I had in 1972 and 1973 been writing a column for San Francisco Ball, an adult bookstore sex tabloid, espousing Erotic Minority Liberation (liberation of all so-called perverts, following the cues of Black, Women’s and Gay Liberation), sexual harassment has been a principal means of psychological warfare employed against me.

For many years I have neglected to discuss this subject in full because: 1) my own sexual views are so radical and those of society in general so conservative and those of the intelligence community in particular so reactionary, that I cannot always decide what is persecution and what is, instead, simply values in conflict; 2) the very mention of sexuality is so threatening to many people that my detailed discussion of the subject is lost on them because their emotional blocks prevent any communication from occurring; 3) in order to make my experience comprehensible to others I will have to introduce so much tangential material that both the writing and the reading of a series of articles about sex and conspiracies will require unusual effort; 4) the attitudes about sexuality that prevail among intelligence agencies and secret societies are so hidebound and inhumane as to defy probability in the eyes of most outsiders; 5) so many of the other things that are happening in my life, in he context surrounding the sexual harassments, are so incredible to anyone unaware of the techno-cryptocracy that allusions thereto may seem like delusions, instead.

For example in 1976 I discovered I was being electronically surveilled by a very large number of people; adequate hints were given to convince me of that much — although this conspiracy, whicih was obviously illegal, was careful not to furnish me with any evidence that could be used to convince others of its existence. These people struck me very much as someone’s captive audience — who cried when I was suffering and laughed when funny things were happening in my life. That most of them may have already been there before I became interested in solving the JFK murder mystery, did not even occur to me. My conclusion was that a number of foreign intelligence agencies and secret societies had collided as a result of all becoming interested in my case at the same time — that upon investigating me and my allegations they became entangled with one another, with the material of my life as their only common point of reference. Now what could sound more like delusions of grandeur? People will read it and say, ‘The poor guy! He took his findings to the police and the Senate committee and was ignored. That was such a crushing blow to his ego that his unconscious mind constructed an elaborate delusional system to maintain his self-esteem — because he needs to think that he is an important person after all. So he imagines that all these conspiracies are paying all this clandestine attention to him.’

Before I discovered conspiracy politics that is what I would have said about anyone who came to me with such a story.

But it gets worse. I left Atlanta and went to California to get away from all hese busybody spies — with no luck. Nor was it just some minor conspiracy to freak me out. When something particularly sexually unconventional happened to me — as once when a little girl caught me masturbating and declared as much delightedly and loudly to everyone in the house — everyone, everywhere I went in town, for the rest of that day, with few exceptions, was blushing. They were read as beets. There is no faking something like that.

Eventually I made a request. I asked for make-believe privacy. I said, “Just be kind enough to treat me the way the Jews in the Warsaw Ghetto treated one another.” Never, ever ask a bunch of Nazis to emulate the example of Jews.

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“Among the first and oddest things Brother-in-law was to bring up in our talks at his house were instances of freak radio reception. A woman had picked up a radio broadcast through her hair curlers. Every now and then, someone discovered their tooth fillings were sensitive to radio waves.

“‘Things like that actually happen,’ he said, ‘although rarely.’

“‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I think maybe once or twice it happened to me. A few months ago, when I was living across from Lafayette Square in a little room over Fred’s Inn I seemed to hear radio programs as I was drifting into sleep during afternoon naps — with station breaks, news, commercials, weather reports and music. When I woke up afterwards, though, I couldn’t remember the call letters of the station.’

“Brother-in-law nodded — as if to indicate that, yes, he knew about that.

“Since I had not discussed it with anyone, I dismissed his response as simply inappropriate. From such an unusual man I did not expect entirely comprehensible behavior at all times.

“I think I failed to add that I had also experienced audio hallucinations of a different nature when going to sleep at nights sometimes when I was in the Marines — during the interval I was serving with Lee Oswald in Marine Air Control Squadron Nine. I had written them off as a peculiar category of dreams. Nor did I tend to think that my radio program dreams experienced more recently had other than psychological causes.

“I gathered early on that Brother-in-law had a perchant for the exceptionally bizarre, and that his mind tended to wander from one weird variety of trivia to another without the benefit of a healthy skepticism…” (p. 46-A)

“Then there was something he mentioned once or twice that seemed even less credible than flying saucers powered by German secrets of perpetual motion. ‘In the state of California, Kerry, there is a plan to begin performing mind control experiments on people who live there. I.G. Farben, the economic arm of the Third Reich is involved in it. They are going to put surveillance devices in the heads of their experimental victims, in order to monitor them, and then they are going to subject them to mind control. So, if I were you, Kerry, I would think maybe it would be a good idea to stay out of California in the future.’…

“A couple of other times he spoke of what, perhaps because of the way he phrased it, sounded more credible. ‘Kerry, the Fascists are now experimenting with advanced thought control techniques. You know, there are Fascists in this country. Among them is Henry Luce, who publishes Time and Life Magazines. They are planning to build a society comprised of nothing but human robots, with translators installed in the backs of their heads, so that they will be absolutely obedient to subliminal messages.’” (p. 140-1) — The Dreadlock Recollections, Kerry Wendell Thornley (c) 1984 (manuscript version)

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