Jeremy Christian

Upon first visiting Oregon I had found it pleasing to learn that the state was considered a liberal state. I wouldn’t have become involved and interlinked romantically with a woman from a traditional right-wing and conservative state like Texas for instance, I certainly wouldn’t emigrate into that kind of socio-cultural-political environment, not that in return I would assume a Texan female would have been remotely interested in being romantically involved with a Brit. Flags were a waste of good cloth, I always believed, I hated guns.

 

I once flirted with a pretty black lady from Ohio, and a French poet from Arkansas before marriage; she read Plath, was smitten with my words and would send sensual selfies to help me sleep. When her uncle died in Paris, I didn't show at Heathrow. 

 

The attitude one seemed to acknowledge and assume from the enlightened few I knew in Oregon seemed to be a liberal, “historically we’re an immigrant country, a nation of immigrants, none of us would be here otherwise”.

 

I visited Oregon twice before moving there and for the second vacation in mid-spring we had driven southward along the thin and sinuous rocky coastal sea roads to Coos Bay, stopping at scenic junctures to take photographs of ourselves and of landscapes containing sandy beaches and oceans, snapshots for the family album. We stayed in cheap motels with hollow walls and I met her mother and youngest brother who was thin with a shock of red hair and he talked about Radio Caroline and her mother about cats although deaf to my replies and later after the wife had shown me her old hang-outs and the school she had attended whilst still a child we went to the cinema and caught a movie, it was late, I think the movie was called Source Code. I had recently flown over Chicago, like the camera during the opening credits. 

 

My wife came to the land the Greeks knew as Tin on three separate occasions. We would alternate between Portland and London with three month gaps in duration in between. I took her to many of the free museums and I carried her up the stairs as a grand entrance to the Tate, there were two aeroplanes in the building, one dangling from the ceiling and the other one flat on the floor. On one occasion in January near her birthday I took her along the spine of the country by National Express coach passing through the verdant green of the countryside she was starry-eyed to see and I showed her the city of Wakefield in West Yorkshire where I had sprung forth-into-the-world from and I introduced her to some of the family, my nattering old Nan, and silly sister, and coolest cousin, and I showed her the Sculpture Park where I had lived as a teenager. We walked by the rolling river and waterfalls, around the lake of blue, I took photographs of the sculptures, the Pooka rabbit, Kafka's door, and Henry Moore; she was always my reluctant model during this time and we were happy. We danced on the musical wooden floor panels and I led her across the Ha-Bridge which I had suggested the design idea for in 2003. Although there wasn't a cloud to be seen in the clear and open sky it was felt by the sensory afferents and perceiving apparati to be a cold northern winter and I think she had expressed never having felt as cold before in her life. Her hands and fingers became blue, like a Smurfs, and I held and rubbed them to keep her warm. I was born a hyperborean. 

 

On the third night of my first visit to the states I was violently assaulted, knocked clean off the rotational computer chair as I sat in front of the screen, “Get out of my way!” 

 

I had been listening to disco and the music had been adjudged too loud, but the underlying reason was mammalian envy and jealousy, because the man had being a suitor to my wife and he had assumed they would become an item after her husband had died after suffering and fighting a long and arduous battle that reached over a decade with the debilitating demyelinating disease Multiple-Sclerosis.

 

I was told by one of the other males, a Mexican who lived in the house, “you’re living the dream, but you're here for our women”. He talked about poor people donating body organs to the rich, and he was signing up himself for his liver to be sold in exchange for the promise of cash. I thought this foolhardy.

 

We married in Washington State on Thursday, October 7^th, five days after I had first arrived stateside. My love interest had driven us along the freeway from Portland to Vancouver on the Monday morning and we signed and filed the requisite documents with the courts for a license to marry which took two days to be processed. The idea had been hinted at on the Saturday after first arrival and I said, “Do you want to do it? Let’s do it!” and we did. Travelling back-and-forth, hither-and-thither, across the Atlantic was expensive and the absent months in between weren’t conducive for a full and complete relationship. Distances were a dismal drag. We bought magic his-and-her rings from Saturday Market by the Willamette.

 

I was never more serious articulating syntax than when I held her lax hands in mine and spoke the vows during the ceremony in front of the judge who uttered words of "in sickness and in health" and the two witnesses that came across the bridge into the evergreen state with us who stood to the sides. My wife bought a red suit that looked like a dress, but they were baggy flare trousers and I wore a black anarchy T-shirt, black trousers and a luminous yellow-and-green cardigan; vibrancy over void. After the wedding, in the evening, we drove by ourselves to a coastal town called Seaside and stayed in a hotel overlooking the beachfront. We stood before the shore and experienced hand-in-hand the consensual illusion of sun falling into sea. We ate a meal at the restaurant and I almost ordered an eighty dollar bottle of wine by mistake, before realising the price, my wife’s face was the picture of complete incredulity, and we eventually settled on an eight dollar bottle instead. "Mad Ingliza". 

 

On the Saturday morning I flew back to London and I was awestruck to see the majestic view of the twin mountainous peaks of Hood and Helena piercing through the blanket sheet of blue-grey clouds and I imagined to myself what it would be like standing on top of the mountain, one would be invisible to all beneath. Arriving back home was a real comedown, the plane, and the drain. 

 

Back in the bedsit in Streatham I called the Batcave, I opened up the Arts Lit forum which was the regular online hang-out we frequented and I submitted the few fun poems that I had written on the flight home. I was always writing poems back then and I discovered to my deep dismay and dark distress that our marriage had been leaked by my ex-fiancé who had spoken to the tyrant of the forum, she was of his harem, and our beautiful week had within an instant being turned into nasty and inappropriate headline news, “Justin Loves Grandma”. Helen, wearing rare tanzanite and diamond had being viciously jealous and acerbic with cruel words over the phone on account of my wife’s age which was 16 years my senior the difference and I pressed end-call abruptly, and I never spoke to her again.

 

We had initially decided that the wife would come and live with me in the city of London, but the more we looked into this the more complicated this procedure seemed to become for us. I for one wasn’t earning enough money from performance poetry and from writing and self-publishing books of poetry which were admittedly poor attempts at the art. I also sold books to second-hand bookstores, but the financial revenue was not enough to meet the stipulated criteria laid down by the law of the UK government for immigration of foreign nationals into the country. The wife also had a good job in the states, although customers could be rude, it was steady and stable and for her to perform the same role in Britain she would have needed to have gone back to college and acquired British qualification certification, her skills and experience were deemed non-transferable on the eastern side of the Atlantic. They had different rules.

 

By December we had decided that it would probably be best if I went over to live on the West Coast of America with her, and we began the VISA application process that same month. This seemed an overlong and drawn out process, we were eager and keen newlyweds kept apart by red-tape and it took approximately a year and three months for approval and was considerably expensive for us in financial costs. This ordinarily for a British individual would take approximately a year in duration, however because I was documented on medical records as suffering  from a rare genetic disease that affects the central nervous system an extra three months were added seeing specialists, with even more expenses accrued consisting of several hundreds of dollars.

 

I had inherited the disease from my grandfather on the paternal side of the family which had leap-frogged my father unawares and was not something considered illegal for immigration acceptance however, although it may have been at one time in America’s past, and the only reason I had for concern of being permitted entry was the detail and description of drug usage from my college years that featured on my medical records, LSD, MDMA, and Marijuana which admittedly really did not look good. My police records however were entirely clean NO TRACE they stated boldly with regards cautions, reprimands, convictions or final warnings so I knew I wouldn’t have an issue passing US entry requirements and standards on that level.

The VISA was finally issued in April 2012 in the form of my passport with the official stamp affixed inside and was delivered to my front door in South London by courier on a motorcycle which I had to sign for. I was on a plane by the end of the same month and I gained pre-entry approval and my provisional permanent residency card which was good for an initial two years at the US customs desk at Shannon airport where there I discovered the hatred in the eyes that the Irish seemed to feel for the English.

 

The wife met me from the plane at Portland airport and we were chauffeur driven off in her red Mitsubishi Mirage to live in her ground floor house in the city of Hillsboro that was shared with six other people and I made up the seventh person. The wife was the household provider, the matriarch of the domicile, as all but one other person was working at that time, but not earning enough to contribute.

 

It had taken me a week to fulfil an earlier promise, but I called my Nan and she was happy for me that I'd found a new home overseas. She had lived in the Middle-East for a time and Malta too where my mother and uncle were brought up and she thought the States would be a great experience for me and character building. She died the following day peacefully in her sleep, and my wife's mother died two days after that. 

For the previous nine years I had led a solitary and individual life in South London and I largely went unseen, unnoticed, and unknown. The house I lived in was occupied by African migrants. In the room next door to me was Trois, a French Ethiopian man, downstairs was a man from Ghana who loved smoking ganja and upstairs lived several men from Morocco, the proprietor was Canadian and his wife was Irish. The room I rented was private and self-contained and I enjoyed cordial relations with the proprietor and neighbours and the few other individuals in the town I would see and speak to regularly.

 

It seemed a struggle to live in a small crowded house with Americans, I had lost the privacy and freedom of personal space, there was no time to think, I liked to pace around, and in addition to this I had almost immediately and unwittingly been thrown into the assignment of becoming an unpaid babysitter to a restless infant who cried incessantly. I would change dirty diapers, and hold her as I walked until she fell asleep. The TV seemed to be on 24/7 in the background and I had a pathological disdain of the lumpen's lantern. I became largely misophonic, the noise seemed unbearable to me. My wife would be away at work, it wasn’t her fault, it was the environment I was in and the lack of control I felt, and I would block out the sound by listening to classical music on the headphones which was the only way I could ever get some work done. The TV seemed to me, guns, police, crime, drama with adverts interspersed in between around every nine minutes which carried us into the next segment of noise, guns, police, crime, drama. I became moody and grouchy. I regretted leaving home.

 

I pleaded with the wife, “we need to move” that “for us to work as a couple we need our own apartment, I can’t stay here”. I argued rhetorically that "it wasn’t her responsibility to be covering rent and bills for three other fully grown unemployed men. They needed to get jobs and we needed our own privacy in a place away from here".

 

We made a public announcement within a few days that we were looking for a place to rent and the house immediately fell into anxiety and apoplexy. I had become the random anarchic factor that the American males had imagined and feared I would become whilst still only visiting. The man who had knocked me from off my seat started praying and watching religious shows on TV, I hated the preachy background noise and dogma. The wife’s brother got a job at a local hardware store for the first time in six years. On an evening my wife and I would look together at possible available options for making a break away. One night she discovered the Boxer apartments through an online search engine and the apartment complex was situated in the city of Forest Grove where her niece lived about seven miles away from us in Hillsboro. Forest Grove it seemed was basically a small town, a suburb outside of Portland that in England would hardly be even considered a city. They were convenient apartments for us as their management team didn’t require credit checks which was the primary motivating factor for selection because our financial history wasn’t great after accruing debt from expensive cross Atlantic flying. The tenancy was relatively and comparatively inexpensive to other potential vacancies available either in Portland or around the circumference of Portland. I had wanted an apartment with a swimming pool, ideally, I had seen the photographs of several places with offers online, but we compromised.

I was informed by a member of the household that Forest Grove was out in the countryside, near a university called Pacific, "do you prefer the countryside or the city?" I was asked, and this seemed to become interesting for me now as I had enjoyed years of solitude in the countryside as a teenager in close proximity to a university in all but name, and I mused as to whether or not I could go back into studying the soft science psychology as I had years before? Maybe I could even work toward academic qualifications?

 

We had a tour of the apartment complex which was led by a Thai lady who was married to an American man before filing the application forms each that included administration fees just to submit the forms, and we moved into the apartment a few weeks later in October 2012, now two years to the month since we were first married.

The apartment blocks were constructed of wood and they were old and rotting with a painted facade of cream. They had been built in the sixties and seemed to be in need of repair. Within a few days Comcast came and wired the room so I could use the internet and satiate my addiction and within about a month my wife’s email account was hacked and an unsavoury and bitter message written in a kind of a mad Schizophrenise gobbledygook had been sent from her account to the panel physicians in London that had recently enough passed me medically fit to be in America. I felt terrible about this as I had met and interacted with these professional people amiably and I immediately had my suspicions of who the culprit was. The wife had become friends online on a virtual reality site called Second Life that I had shown her several months earlier with a man called Ziggy who was said to be from Manchester.

 

“Oh, my husband supports Manchester United, he watches all their games”.   

 

I can recall going through a time that lasted perhaps several long months where I felt the happiest I could ever remember feeling in life and the love increased when we adopted a cat that a neighbour had abandoned after the police came to escort her off the property. The black lady had been crying, her face was swollen with tears and she shied away from me as I stood outside on the balcony observing.

 

The cat had appeared at the door meowing quietly on the frequency range of an alternate and alien dimension during a hailstorm where the ice that fell to earth from the heavens were half the size of golf balls. The cat became almost like a surrogate child to us, the centerpiece of our conversations, she was my silver shadow cat. I called her shadow cat because she would blend so well that she became invisible in the half-dark-spaces. Outside of the apartment within the grounds she would watch me from the shadows, and follow me in the shadows, and I would spin around and catch her and I would point and say "Ha ha!" I would sleep on the sofa in the front living room and the cat would sleep nestled in-between my arm and my body, and she would alternate to move in between my legs where she would lay at full stretch every night of the week and I looked after her, she wanted for nothing, and one day Friskies Gravy Lovers appeared on the shelves of Safeway just a few weeks after I had commented on Twitter that my cat just sucks out all the gravy from her meal and leaves the meat.

 

It felt good to me for a life to be so completely dependent on me, it gave me meaning. This had never happened to me before.

 

 

The feeling of being the happiest one has ever felt in life swings from the apical balancing tip almost immediately after articulation, “I feel the same way too”.  

 

A new management partnership moved into the adjacent apartment building and they worked in the main office by day. The grounds became unkempt, the lush green lawn outside turned into a sun-scorched and tarnished brown. The male of the dual partnership had laughed aloud rudely from behind the office desk when he'd first heard my British accent as I was paying the rent. This became a cue for him to begin a year of aggressively staring at me and attempting to psyche me out whenever he would see me. He wanted me to know he was boss, this was his country; he also wanted to cement his position as Alpha-male of the complex, as I believe and model. He seemed basically a moron to me, a right-wing brute and a thug who was into guns, a hunter of animals.

 

Before the end of the year 2013 I began suffering with a recurrence of my old neurological complaint that had initially started nine years earlier as an abreaction to a high emotional exacerbation stressor that had been centred on what I interpreted as a crooked bureaucratic inquisitional sector of the NHS. I had treated this complaint between the years 2005 to 2010 with the pharmaceutical Risperdal after having checked myself into Guys and Saint Thomas’s hospital where I asked to see a doctor. I was treated by a man from Africa, who was the best of the head doctors I saw. 

The villain of my mindscape now was “Paddy”, an Irish man whose real name was Phil. He was someone that I had once worked alongside years earlier in a recording studio at Crystal Palace and we hadn’t issue with one another during the time of working together. I performed the role of "mentor", a somewhat pretentious title I always thought, working for Bromley MIND and I skirted with the fringes of the NHS where I was assigned to clients with mental-health diagnoses doing community based projects. They were making a rock album and I believed and said at the time "this is a carrot-and-stick", I argued "why not make the album for real instead of having a larval-limit or bureaucratic ceiling?" The album took six years for them to create and in the end they were unable to release it due to copyright infringement as they had performed cover songs. 

I was at Antenna recording studio on a Tuesday and a sports centre in Bromley on a Monday, throughout the week I worked with a client on a one-to-one basis. My role was to attempt to try to prevent the revolving door effect so the client could live independently in the community. This as it turned out was at variance and antithesis with the modus operandi of the larval-psych who wanted a more paternalistic effect. He was a Father, a vicar. He wanted clients on welfare, for purposes of control, yet he saw himself as right-wing. On a Friday I worked for Rethink in east London.  

 

The amygdala nuclei contains an emotional memory trace, I believe. The primitive oceanic ganglion has to remember which foodstuffs to avoid, which are noxious, which revolt it, which makes it ill, this precedes the evolution of the hippocampus which became a more specialised and adapted physiological organ within the central nervous system for processing the function of memory. 

 

What I call an imago of “Paddy” booted up sometime after hearing the lyric “Justin Case” in the song Where Are We Now? Paddy was as back then the last time that I had seen him in December 2007 which I hadn’t thought about at all after walking out of the recording studio gates on what turned out to be the last day of work. He was goading me with threats that he was going to attack friends and family seeming to delight in the revelry of the thought of his intended, imagined and desired behaviours. In addition to this he wanted to run off to David Bowie out of entirely misunderstanding my situation, history, and relationship with David Bowie and out of jealousy. He wanted to be a rockstar performing on Top of the Pops. He saw himself as an egalitarian and why should I have lyrical contributions to songs and albums when he did not? He was an amateur rock guitar player who performed in working men’s clubs on an evening and he always felt himself destined for fame. He was an obese nobody in his mid-fifties in my opinion. He was an inquisitor, at war with the English population which suited the establishment because they too were at war with the English population, and he would twist any available information at all that he could gather against oneself to further his scheming and agenda of oppression.

 

He could not understand and conveniently glossed over the point of the facts that inspired me to talk of my involvement with Bowie to my colleagues in the first place. The albums were creepy as f**k and each one of them - there were three at this stage - were death threats that had procured arbitrary judgement and sentence toward me. This seemed unfair and unjust to me. 

 

The Paddy imago was insistent that he would knock the professor out of a job and I would snap and snarl at the imago, I would beat him back with language, but he was always there beating me, and when I checked several online sources one day I discovered to my dismay that the professor had in fact lost his job in a high and eminent role in January, 2008. Soon after the discovery one morning I received a message from someone close to the family who had insinuated without specifically saying overtly that my worst fear had been made real and confirmed. I was fuming in frustration with Phil and in the morning I was walking the short distance from the local grocery store in Forest Grove with my twin plastic carrier bags in either hand and as I wove through the university grounds that I sometimes used as a shortcut situated as it was between the town and the apartment complex and I found myself lurching forward and screaming “RAPIST!” very loudly at the Paddy imago before realising my environment and that that was perhaps just a little too loud. They will understand, he was a professor!

 

The university, students and staff, heard my cry, but completely divorced from any intrapersonal context they could understand they erroneously jumped to the conclusion that this could not be righteous indignation on my part but that I must be the one in the wrong and that I could only be expressing that I was a rapist. I had purloined the term from Dr Thomas Szasz who wrote about psychiatry as a kind of rape. They were not discerning, screaming rapist at someone seems to me to be an entirely different context than permitting rape. A work of student art suddenly appeared, T-shirts hung along a washing line consisting of written and scrawled anti-rape statements.  

 

Phil was insecure with deep rooted feelings of inferiority, one of the surface excuse reasons he had used was that he wanted to attack the professor because I had been given a book store back in the year 2000 called Just Books. Why should you be allowed to have a store if nobody else can have a store? Insisted the egalitarian that just wasn’t fair, Phil was from a council house estate in a poor environment and he imagined me to be a bourgeois aristocrat, because I spoke well, I was nothing of the sort, I was on JSA. He was a CPN however, and the only one qualified among the team for that specific and unique role. The team was called an Assertive Outreach Team, and in my opinion and language, they were rapists in name, as well as in practise. I called them an Aggressive Outreach Team. 

One dark night walking home late from the local Safeway store in Forest Grove I noticed a policeman hiding in the shadows attempting to be inconspicuous. He looked about thirteen years of age to me, he hadn’t started shaving yet for instance, and when I to his embarrassment caught him lurking alongside a rare brick building he asked me questions regarding “where are you going?” and then “can we follow you home?” and when I asked “why?” he responded, “a police training exercise”. I was confirmed he was an ontogenetic juvenile employing the strategic thinking of a phylogenetic Palaeolithic hunter barbarian caste.

 

The American friends I knew told me this was “strange”, and they said that no one amongst them had ever heard of something like this happening before. We had being warned however upon first moving into a small town in close proximity to a police station that “the police would have nothing better to do!” When I had first moved into the apartments I had checked the crime statistics for the region and discovered to my relief and satisfaction that it seemed a low crime environment, stats were in their single figures, I was looking particularly at gun-crime which may be a cause of anxious concern for anybody moving from a country where the law abiding majority don’t have guns.

 

A few of the local males that I had spoken to had complained that the town was “Communistic”, there was “police corruption” I was told, “police had been busted in Clackamas for criminal activities”, I didn't make inquiry about. They warned me before they had left the apartment complex to city’s further away that I myself should get away from here, "you need to buy a house with your own private grounds. These people think they own you".

 

If you’re anxious depressed or paranoid, you’re in the wrong environment, I always believed. Move!

 

I was crossing a short road one morning on the way back from Safeway when a cop on a motorcycle pulled an illegal manoeuvre from behind traffic lights paused on red. He cut in front of the stationary traffic and revved across the road dismounting alongside me. I was given a seventy-five dollar ticket for "failing to obey an electronic signalling device". I mumbled something about living in "Korea". The same cop had been bothering a middle-aged female hairdresser as I had walked on my way down to the store. I had seen her big red station wagon pulled over at the side of the road with the cop issuing a ticket to her extended hand at the driver's side window. She had contested the charge in court and won her case, I was informed. I had paid the fine, took photographs posing outside the law office to show my friends back home the rumours were true, and the locals at Safeway were confirmed that I must be criminal. I would occasionally see the cop, hiding behind cars, predator-like, a cat in the bushes hunting small animals and waiting to pounce.

 

 

 

One night my wife came home late from work and she was palpably shaking because a cop in those menacing looking Dodge patrol cars had tailgated her for several miles all the way up to the parking lot of the apartment complex. Angered by this I created some stickers with an image of a pig on them and holding a tax certificate and I called the piece RIGIDGRIDPIG which was printed alongside the image. Without her awareness I stuck this image to a lamppost which was abruptly removed within about a day.

 

In the summer of 2016 I printed some images of an anxious Fish-Face and I applied the stickers to two lamp posts outside of the university and another one on a lamppost inside their grounds by the performing arts centre. This was a sticker containing an image from an ancient African cave painting from around 15,000 BC with a letter Y for its head where a bee had previously being. This was the Y-Art Shaman.

 

Two days after ordering the sticker from Vistaprint - after seeing an advert flash on my screen - I saw a college coach for the opposition football team parked on Main Street which interestingly had the license plate Y-Art 93. I’d already decided which lamppost I would tag and now there was no doubt in my mind at all that this art-crime would occur. I could barely contain my excitement at the discovery and I rushed back home to the apartment to grab the camera and I hoped beyond hope that the coach wouldn’t disappear by the time I got back to capture and upload the synchronicity online. The 93, I knew symbolised Thelema and the date was the 23^rd of June  a date that also had subjective meaning for me.  

 

 

 

On the 25^th of May 2017 which was my father's birthday, and was four years after I had participated in the world wide democratic protests against the infamous biotech corporation Monsanto, and just preceding the British general elections which were cultural and media factors in the background, I posted a series of images onto my open to the public Facebook page. The most pertinent image here being a photograph of rope configured so as to form the letters JC. Jeremy Corbyn. Beneath this was a humorous mock image of the poster for the 1987 movie Robocop spelt Robbo-Cop and the caption read “the future of Irish law enforcement”. Above the letters JC was an image of a blue flower containing water droplets on the petals.

 

Two days later, on the 27^th of May Portland police staged the prime time TV news drama of Jeremy Christian which was a terrible, violent, and dramatic hoax of a man murdering innocent people that became covertly an online public police profile and a live feed of a fictionalised and hypothesised version of me which would intermittently be updated by the police and professors from the university and even the dentist who had told me, or warned me, upon first visiting, “I’m a Mason”. A policeman appeared on TV dressed in blue and he was dry-crying crocodile tears from the supposed tragedy of the event. This was in emulation of the blue flower with water droplets that had been posted onto my Facebook page.

 

Almost every update seemed as false and ludicrous as the last. It was almost as if it was the government trying to understand oneself. Why were they even bothering? Who cares about a person's individual belief system and whether they vote for this party or that? Which group has fallen for adverts of false promises from party A or adverts of false promises from party B? I had called the government an "amalgamated monad" to a right-wing cowboy who was a Trump supporter, "They will say anything to get votes, doesn't mean they will do what they say once they get in". The information they typed in the Oregonian profile was malicious disinformation that sensationalised and scandalised my behaviours and belief system all out of rational proportion and context to my actual belief system and behaviours. It wouldn’t have being possible for them to do otherwise as I had never sat down formally or informally with any of the contributors involved in the profile other than the dentist and I hadn’t published any of my thought online at all they could read or analyse. There were only surface screen images for them to snoop, which they lacked the insight to interpret. This meant a kind of paranoid, abstract, and artistic creative invention on their part that amounted to socio-cultural-historical projections from their own pre-conditioned reality-sets and shallow surface skein guesses at distances as though they were old Victorian anthropologists looking through thick jungle foliage to analyse the thinking and behaviour of people they were not conversant with. Their own minds were co-mapped onto the character of Christian. They had “Christian” saying, "If you're not American, get out of the country! Immigrants are not welcome here". This statement was my personal experience of most Americans that I seemed to meet but was written and invented by the "liberals". I myself had never said anything of the sort! Why did they want to punish me by accusing me of their own behaviours? If their own anti-foreign behaviours were so reprehensible to themselves, and I agree they seem totally reprehensible to me too, then why do they have them?    

   

The language employed was American, the concepts were American, and therefore foreign and alien to me, it seemed and amounted to, extreme discrimination and prejudice. The only crime I had actually committed was the act of sticking several small stickers that were easy to remove and without lasting damage. The stickers themselves by more thoughtful people could have very easily have being interpreted as a cry for help during an intense personal struggle, exacerbated after the release of the movie, Warcraft and seeing that Bowie had starred in a movie manipulating the business of two brothers. These people were honourable and intelligent professional human beings; Bowie by contrast was a criminal minded mid-brain right-wing fascist and a thug.

 

My personal emotive complaints centred around the lies and extreme threats of criminal violence from David Bowie in his album the Next Day and from the follow up album Blackstar which were two albums and concepts that I had inspired and in part imagined for my antagonist and adversity from many years preceding their release. Blackstar would be dark Gothic Jazz, "he isn’t the best jazz I’ve ever heard"; the Next Day would be a double album, one of rock, and one of alternative rock. Song titles such as Blackstar, Born in a UFO, I’d Rather Be High and the Informer came from my language, thought, and suggestions - the latter in reaction to the Mind-Police immediately preceding my realisation they were the revised Catholic inquisition, not that I can’t be considered justified by “informing” considering I had been informed on myself by both David Bowie and Back to Basics. They had caused extreme embarrassment to me for one thing by turning me into a woman in their song Honeydew.

 

“Ask if he can do anything with the name Val", I had said, "It means star in old Norse”. The street names as he walks through Berlin came from my personal memories of walking though the city of Amsterdam and reading the word Strasse on each new road I past. “The album needs to be set after the recording of “Heroes”, in Berlin… It’s the next day”.  

 

The US stage-show Jeremy Christian drama appeared on nationwide television. The President of the United States flew into the city of Portland to meet and discuss with authorities, to make a political gesture and pose for the papers. Portland’s Mayor flew into London and upon return from London stated before the cameras, “it’s definitely imported”, and he made some vague reference I only half remember about the President caving in to the demands of certain people online as the reason for the “crime”. Some people I had spoken to had even blamed the event on, “immigrants”.  

 

Christian they alleged came from “Norway”; they presented him as a racist, a violent white supremacist, a Viking obsessed with the Rhineland, and a Trump supporter.  This seemed racial stereotyping in itself to me, I had white skin, blonde hair and blue eyes, therefore he must vote Republican, they thought, and this means something serious to us, you do not have political freedom in this town, said the liberal Doms!

 

Christian’s homeland of Norway was encrypted metaphorical code for North England and the place of his origin had been taken from my Facebook posts which had featured new artwork that I hadn’t seen before of a map of historical Yorkshire displayed on the floor of Wakefield Museum. I had missed living in Yorkshire, I wanted to show my friends from the city that I still cared about the region and socially show the Americans if they were watching that this was where I was from. They had the word Viking stretched on a large banner across Pacific Highway from lamppost to lamppost advertising one of their local sports teams and when I came home, I posted a relevant image.

 

What the bureaucrats on the hill were not conscious of was that I had lived in South London for nine years since 2003 until 2012 and even if they had of being told of this factor they would have had no geographical insight into South London being a multicultural and cosmopolitan environment with a large population of black Afro-Caribbean migrants. Most individuals seemed to be from Jamaica whether they had been there or not. Although not perfect, we hadn’t inherited the history of racial antagonisms from southern slavery in the midwest that were factors in America’s past and present, we had a more special relationship than that, at least it seemed to me according to my interpersonal experience, and belief, something they would not or could not understand. Their racial politics in the mainstream political arena seems a reflection of their terranean ground-floor-level mutual racial antagonisms.

 

Portland police lied with the Jeremy Christian hoax and invented three separate incidents between myself and black Americans that had not happened at all, at all. The underlying esoteric secret of the symbolism beneath these anthropomorphised and metaphorically fictionalised dramas was that the lampposts I had applied the Fish-Face and the Y-Art Shaman stickers to were coated with black paint. They were black lampposts.  

 

In their TV stage show drama they had Christian kill two white men and slash a third with a knife for it was published in print and told on screen they were “heroes” trying to protect a little innocent Muslim girl wearing a hijab, they liked to emphasise the word hijab because they were clichéd thinkers who thought in terms of stereotypes. The event itself did not happen at all, at all. Portland’s policing was fantasy based and not evidence based. They had used an artistic kind of paranoid critical method.

 

The two Fish-Face stickers on the black lampposts in front of the university became the two “victims”. The staged event itself was said to have taken place at Hollywood Transit Center. “Hollywood” meaning; an illusion of magic, manipulation, mind-control and propaganda. The Tri-Met station was chosen as a location for an attack because the third Fish-Face sticker had been applied to the glass of the Tri-Met bus shelter across from the Dollar Tree in Forest Grove. This image became “Christian”. Micah Fletcher was a stage name for the actor who was said to have survived the attack who was probably a former Military Vet chosen because he had a visible scar. The Y-Art Shaman affixed to the black lamppost outside of the Performing Arts Center within the university’s grounds had been taken from a photograph I had taken of a painting-collage that contained Native American arrow motifs against the backdrop. A Fletcher was an old Anglo-Saxon word for an arrow maker. Where the Y affixed to the shoulders of the shaman there was a slight incongruence which became interpreted as a scar. The reason that he was a "survivor" whereas the other “victims” were not "survivors" was because the sticker lasted for a full year in duration on the lamppost. This was graffiti art lingo.

 

I would follow the live-feeds and updates checking maybe once or twice a week. Sometimes the information was thoughtless, reckless, violent, and dangerous to both myself and anybody visiting our apartment, I sometimes looked after the granddaughter. I had to cancel the vacation of two of my closest and oldest friends from Wakefield from visiting us in the States. They would be stereotypically adjudged to be racist by the we’re more moral and perfect than thou crowd, and would have being sensationally turned into terrorists and/or accomplices of terrorism when they were just regular people from the UK. They have an American friend I was once introduced to in the north, I wasn’t concerned with why he was here.  

 

I visited Tidwell’s Dental Practice in the summer of 2017 and his female assistant shot him a quick sharp steely glance when I’d said I’d flown back to the UK to cover over my embarrassment at having spent the thousands of dollars for the dental repair work I’d needed on a plane ticket and that I’d subsequently missed the flight for, arriving at Portland Airport ten minutes late. I’d been smoking flower in the morning and lost track of time. Americans didn’t like you flying in and out of the country, it seemed. This wasn’t acceptable to them. They seemed to me to be a hermetic people of isolated separatists intolerant to cultures other than their own. The next time I checked the Oregonian live updates after the dentist visit new statements appeared, “Christian had been back to Norway, where there he is a member of a cult that possesses the secret knowledge that will spread chaos throughout the world”.

 

One day I was waiting for a 57 bus across from the law office in Forest Grove when a thin mustachioed man with balding dark hair and thick rimmed glasses stood outside the front door entrance to his workplace. He was giggling like the dog Muttley from the old Whacky Races cartoons and he stared at my black T-shirt which had a Superman emblem printed on the cloth.

 

I arrived back at the apartment just over two hours later and I’d already intuitively resolved to check the Jeremy Christian updates upon my return home. What I learned was that the cop playing “Christian” had been on the television news whilst I was on the bus, appearing in Multnomah court. With his back turned to the camera and as he walked away he could be heard muttering the statement, “Remember, there are no heroes in this case”.

 

The second event published in the Oregonian live feed which involved a “black victim” was a further invention which was alleged to be a Max train attack. This was taken from an event Pacific University had steered, set-up, manipulated, and manufactured.

 

Pacific University would contrive and correlate events from my online public Facebook posts. When I mentioned English Rose on the anniversary of the death of Diana Princess of Wales the following day they had a female student ask me, “what time is it?” in an approximate attempt at an English accent. When I posted an image of Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz looking as astonished as I was to have accurately and publically predicted the Portland Thorns football result verses Kansas City the day before, the following day they had a female professor dressed up as Dorothy walking along the adjacent footpath along Main Street. I had smiled at the sight of her and continued walking home without stopping and speaking to her. When I had posted an old photograph of a Chinese woman with a bicycle the following day the university had arranged for a Chinese woman to be wheeling a bicycle past me and waving and smiling. I had waved back, before she had become unnerved as I had immediately remembered the previous day’s post and waved back again. For the stimuli that provided the fuel for their next set-up I vaguely remember having typed something about how I love the contradiction of being a famous person whilst also enjoying anonymity, in memory. I don’t have the specific quote saved and recorded.

 

The following morning I was waiting at the bus stop for the 57 and when the driver saw me she picked up her cell phone and made a call, this had happened several times before. She had stopped talking as I mounted the step onto the bus and paid for my travel to a store in Aloha. I sat at the back of the bus in the right hand corner next to the window. As the bus past through Hillsboro a black couple boarded who I’d seen at the stop outside through the window talking to one another. The man sat down and the woman who was huge and strangely ugly stood staring at me after acknowledging the image of a black bear on my black T-shirt with a widening of her eyes. Her staring behaviours seemed out of the ordinary and both rude and aggressive to me. I was minding my own business and I turned away so as to pay her no attention at all in the hope that she would find her seat and sit down. She continued to stare at me and I became somewhat unnerved by this and increasingly frustrated and I asked her “why are you staring at me?” and she acknowledged my words, but unperturbed continued standing and staring and I asked her again a little more loudly, “why are you staring at me? Will you stop staring at me?!” and she said, “uh, I thought you were a famous person. Aren’t you a famous person?” and I said, “no, I’m not famous” and with that she sat down on the back seat on the left hand side adjacent to me. She was carrying about thirty satchels with her, she was odd, and her obese stomach bulged out in front of her, and she rummaged around inside of one of her many satchels and pulled out a jar of peanut butter. Her boyfriend or husband was sitting a few rows in front of her and he wasn’t looking at her or talking to her and she jabbed her finger into the jar and swirled her finger around and put thick slabs of the brown paste into her mouth with exaggerated sucking sounds. This seemed initially gross, it made me feel queasy. I had always hated peanut butter.

 

I’d had a poor night’s sleep the night before, consisting of maybe around four hours in total and I was tired and the sucking sounds seemed to activate the back brain and I was at once a dozy new born child sucking from the teat of the maternal breast and then I was a man receiving felatio from a woman and I was falling asleep with droopy eyelids to these erotic seeming sounds. The blonde haired bus driver turned in her seat and saw me half dosing as I struggled to retain consciousness and I had to reassert myself and overcome the oppression of these stimulated hypothalamic melatonin bursts. I abruptly sat up in my seat and corrected my form so as not to be lulled into voodoo trance or slumber.

 

Her partner in the potential crime got off the bus along TV Highway without acknowledging his girlfriend-wife at all and she turned to me and asked, almost like a child, she was playing cutesy “do you drink? Do you like a beer?” and I said, “sometimes”. I believe in hindsight they’d seen a documentary that I’d posted onto Facebook of people in Wakefield drinking on Westgate, the show was called “Cops” and she said, “Would you like a beer? They’re only a dollar”, and she pointed across the parking lot to the mall, and I said, “I’m sorry, I don’t have a dollar”. I was looking at her many satchels which seemed ominous and entirely superfluous to me. I knew that I was a wanted man, and what I was wanted for. I also acknowledged that her partner had gotten off the bus at the previous stop so the entire event seemed increasingly like a sting operation and I wasn’t swayed into altering my directional path at all which was to visit some good people in a flower shop in Aloha.

 

Before getting off the bus I turned to look at her and she seemed menacing and even evil. She followed me with her eyes as I walked along the footpath beside the bus and she watched me cross the road and it was actually several weeks later that I read the report in the Oregonian which I almost didn’t even recognise because it stated that I had attacked this woman with a knife and was stabbing her and people yelled out “he’s killing her” in what was described as he was in "autopilot mode". This of course simply had not happened at all.

 

For the entire six years in duration that I stayed in the United States had being completely free and absent of any violence or threat toward any singular person or property. The previous nine years living in South London had also been entirely free of violence to any individual or property. One's past behaviour can often be an indication of one's future behaviour. 

 

America seemed to me to have serious race relation issues. Cowardly they looked toward a foreign immigrant to scapegoat in resolution for their very racist past and present, and for their international foreign policy which they seemed to know very little about. There have been an estimated thirty brown-skinned countries bombed since the end of the Second World War. They hadn't employed this technique on some unsuspecting white male American and innocent. They had used a British man.

 

My first thought upon seeing the Jeremy Christian hoax was this is US foreign policy domestically inverted and it seemed the very reason one notices a discrepancy differential between internal perception of value ideals and external perceptions of their external behaviours as exercised through foreign policy. They seemed to me in stark contrast. I also thought they were replaying their history of colonising the west through me and they seemed to assume that I must want to do to other races what they had done to other races in their past. Early American settlers hadn't fled persecution, they had fled to persecute. 

 

I had mentioned on Twitter with regards to the stickers that in Italy it was regarded as a thoughtful and honourable gesture by locals for travellers and scholars to leave a mark of graffiti at certain sites, and then I noticed the following day after posting the statement that outside of Forest Grove police station where they have the creepy statue of a man reading a newspaper the cops had parked a black Honda sedan in front of the small building. This looked straight out of an Italian movie. It was parked there in a morning and on several occasions. They must have learned of my first car which had been a Honda and the license plate of this black Honda was a code number I had used since first reading Crowley's book of the same name and number in my early twenties, 777. The letters GNT I believe may have symbolised God on the Cross. The Romans in ancient times would crucify individuals on T shaped crosses. This was supposed to be the Alpha and Omega of cars. In the back window of the sedan was a small rectangular sticker containing blue-lined-stripes with black interspersed between the blue. The sticker was a similar size to the ones I had employed on the lampposts and the symbol of the blue-lines was something associated with the personal history of my past. Once when the car was parked outside police officers were trying to encourage me into the building with wide smiles and joyful looks. "It's alright, come in, we're your friends, we'll have a party!" 

 

When the policeman acting the role of the felon Jeremy Christian appeared in court he flashed a sticker across to Micah Fletcher who was sat on the bench in the front row observing. This was the true crime he had committed! It was about stickers folks! Dramatically Fletcher abruptly stood up and left the court house. The sticker “Christian” held up was a symbol known to the US right wing which is of a coiled snake set to spring with the caption reading DON'T TREAD ON ME! In a real court of law, one could never sneak a sticker into the room. At the third court appearance the door to the courtroom fell in from behind “Christian” as he entered into the room. This was a farce!

 

The language that Christian was told to employ at the court arraignment "Free Speech or Die America!" was an attack by the liberal state against the first amendment of the US constitution. Been relatively apolitical and non-American this doesn’t seem my fight, we just seem to say what we want to say in Britain. It was also however metaphorical code for the sometimes visible and observable symptoms of the illness I carry which can involve talking to oneself whilst walking. I believe biochemically this may involve the dopaminergic system of the basal ganglia which is thought to play a role in movement. The chattering behaviour seems less evident whilst sitting. The modelling of the behaviour by American nervous system’s turned this into the language of the US constitution. A medical condition became political propaganda.

I personally had paid little attention to the US election as I had no TV set, I’m not American, and TV-game-show politics never interested me. I have never voted and would not vote Republicrat. Presidents seem selected, not elected to me. As a British citizen I wasn’t sure that I was even eligible to vote? They boldly proclaimed that Christian was right-wing, a fascist and a patriot with a hatred for Hillary Clinton who I had never spoken of at all either online or off. My guess and interpretation leads me to suspect that Mrs Clinton was metaphorical code for the pop-singer Madonna who could be seen on her online posts supporting Mrs Clinton and of whom I also had some personal involvement with, "show me your graffiti heart". The Oregonian live feed kept referencing Christian's obsession with "circumcision" which again hadn't come from anything I had said either online or off, but was in relation and regards to David Bowie's threats of violence in the album Blackstar which they had obviously listened to, and Madonna's extreme radical feminism as can be seen in the penile protrusion zipper of the orange pants she wore at the women's march speech in January 2017 which was an intended set-up. This theme seems also to be included in some of her Twitter and Instagram posts if one has a keen enough eye to see. This was the Oregonian's source of reference. After she had started shadowing my feed from Twitter, Madonna wore the letter Y stitched into the top left hand shoulder of her pink dress during a live television appearance on the Kelly and Ryan show.  

 

 

The third black person attacked to complete the artistic metaphor that was taken from the lampposts being black and to frame me as a racist seemed to have been removed from the Oregonian reports. Many articles and references came and went as they amended and updated their invasive nonsense, but it seemed to happen something like this in accordance with the memory of my experience . . . 

 

I had been purchasing a gram of flower from Phresh Cannabis in Forest Grove when the Bud-tender Danielle told me that her co-worker Jordan, had been attacked outside of the small wooden shack in the parking lot on the previous day. She had said that she had been sitting in her car when a man approached her and "He was giving me the eyes, if you know what I mean?" I nodded not knowing what she meant. "He was hurling insults at me and threatening me". I was like, "did you know him? Had you seen him before, was he drunk?" Danielle was looking at me and trying to carefully measure her responses. "He's been here a few times before, he may have been drunk". 

 

She told me that Jordan had heard the commotion the man was causing and stepped outside to help and defend her from threat and persecution when the assailant turned on Jordan and badly beat him up, "Jordan's in hospital, he’s in a bad way, the police came and took the man off to jail" and then "it's all been captured on video camera", she added. 

 

The following day Jordan was at the store and he had his face half-covered with a black bandanna and he was wearing a black hooded top that was splashed and dashed with thick white paintbrush strokes. I asked him if he was okay and that it was pleasing to see that he was out of the hospital, but he simply ignored me with his back turned away as he feigned to look busy browsing over glass jars on the shelves. 

 

Linda who was an older woman with blond hair who worked in the store said a few days later when I inquired that she had seen the video recording of the event and that "Jordan gave as good as he got, he had jumped up and down on his head", she told me.

By the end of the week I had noticed the descriptions that Danielle had presented to me had now become a part of the police report in the Oregonian live feed of Jeremy Christian. I was appalled that the Americans seemed to lie so much! I couldn’t understand it. I had always been pleasant to these people, Linda herself had said "you are always nice" and I asked "if I could get you on film saying that?" Not that it pays to be nice in America, that's when one gets taken advantage of, it sometimes seems. I voiced a complaint of the conspiracy of this latest event on Twitter. The following day I walked down to Shango instead where I never had any problems with the staff at all. As I was walking down the hill to Shango along Pacific Avenue I saw several police cars rushing down the parallel road adjacent to me toward where Phresh Cannabis seems situated. I past Safeway and I was enjoying a private joke with myself which had tickled me, my kinesic expression was one of beaming alacrity when the police cars rounded the corner in file doubling back around the road before the flagpole up toward the station. I could see that the police woman seemed highly disconcerted when she observed my joyful appearance and I realised at this moment they had thought I must be heading to the store to confront and attack Jordan. I had no history of personal violence to another my entire adult years, a skirmish as a twenty year old with my ex-girlfriend’s latest boyfriend had been the very last time which had seen me knocked unconscious and the scar I had underneath my chin appeared in the opening lyric of the Reality album. The full opening line had been my creation and articulation. I believe crime encourages and gives the police an excuse to exist. A fine reason not to commit them in my opinion, and I deplore of violence. It’s just simply not something I would do to another.

In 2013 I had been walking over a short zebra crossing when a black woman in a huge chunky station wagon had rounded the corner without stopping. She had a clear and unobscured view of the road and she hit the accelerator, the engine revving, as the vehicle ran forwards. It seemed to me as though she sought to kill an anonymous random white-man.

 

I had jumped back in a split second before potential impact and when I saw her pull over into a parking space several hundred yards further up the road in front of the main entrance to Pacific University I had rushed with speed up to her and asked her why? She responded that it wasn't her, but I had kept my eye on the vehicle the entire way. 

 

Why was this woman not "stabbed in the neck" as the Oregonian liked to teach the children of America? Why wasn't she beaten up or her vehicle damaged? 

 

The university believed I wanted to harm everybody. This formulated their world-view and completely obfuscated their evaluations which were always framed with, "he must want to harm... such-and-such" I had never known anything like this in London. The Dragon was using the lie of violence as an excuse for violence. 

 

As I was walking home from the store one morning I saw the digital screen outside of Tidwell's Dental Practice which made allusion to the receptionist - I seem to recall in memory her name as Kirsten - saying goodbye to Forest Grove and the dental practice. Then I saw her a few days later in the town centre standing on a makeshift bandstand stage singing a sad and sorrowful song with her eyes wide open and soulful and I realised that these fools really thought I wanted to harm this girl too. I had questioned the narrow bandwidth smalltown reality seemed to exist in and demanded of all its citizens with specific mention to the verboten herd taboo of flying back home to visit friends and family, but I would never have thought of such a thing as hurting her. I had lived in Forest Grove six years and just typically rolled my eyes at such conservative ignorance and thought no more about it. 

 

I had liberal airs amongst these people coming from high immigration, high tourist destination culture in London. They thought they were the ones with the liberal airs and that I was the conservative coming from a backward culture when I thought of them as conservative and living in a backward culture. Smalltown didn't not only like one flying in or out of the country. They also seemed intolerant of international phone calling, or having friends overseas online. When the liberals are this intolerant to foreigners you will have a fascist society. 

 

There wasn't need to re-assign the receptionist to a practise elsewhere, I wasn't Jeremy Christian, he was a Jewish cop. Americans create and watch too many bullshit and over-the-top movies and police-state crime dramas on the idiot's box to think in their entranced stupors rationally, I believe. They even created their own TV show which was set in the local town and in part on the university's grounds. The show was called the Librarian's and the antagonist of the piece was a "mad Englishman" who they in typical cliched fashion had at one juncture proclaiming himself to be a "genius". I had walked out of the cinema in Forest Grove and I was very angry, "I hate TV!" my wife reassuring me, "but you're not like that".

 

One day I was in Safeway when I noticed on the rack by the self-service check-outs that the magazine headlines combined together read, Justin, Genius, Kings. I had thought, I really need to be getting the hell away from here!

 

I shouldn't have had to but I presented my clean criminal records check for immigration purposes onto my public profile page that the university-police alliance obsessively monitored and they proved themselves to me to be racists when they glossed over the official document pretending to themselves NO TRACE really meant TRACE. The female professor who had once dressed up as Dorothy in order to intelligence snoop insisting to me I had been in prison. She had also thought the lyrics to the song Heat implied that I’d been in prison. “Prison” had been my metaphor for Wakefield. The CRB counted for nothing to them.

 

The extreme racist seems to me to be the one that when the black man proves there's no criminal history or violence in his background the belief of criminality and violence can still be maintained and insisted even in spite of the evidence. The American's neural circuitry with regards their models of foreigners and immigrants has adapted to Mexicans who they believe and will tell you want to rape and kill white people and of whom can just ride right across the borders without police checks. It certainly wasn't known and understood default knowledge by the professors that green-card = passing US immigration police check evaluations. Strange for an alleged immigrant tolerant culture.   

 

I had sat down in the central circular court within the grounds of Pacific University, there was an image nearby of a tiger scorched onto wood. The written inscription said, “Endangered Species”. A few minutes later I could hear a quiet but audible alarm siren begin to sound and I saw that students were dispersing and filtering out of the buildings, heading to unseen places outside of one's purview. Then two guards approached with vicious looking dogs. I was unarmed, without rucksack, or anything else in hand, and I was simply dressed in black shirt and black trousers. I got up and with undaunted insouciance walked past the dogs and their handlers and into the town.

 

The following morning on my cyclical routine I had bought the wife bagels and cream cheese, and pepper-jack cheese, with heirloom tomatoes, and lettuce for breakfast with a strawberry Odwalla smoothie for drinking and I cut through the grounds passing the art section when the female professor approached. 

 

She had attempted to intelligence gain from me on three previous occasions before, once attired in fancy dress as Dorothy from Oz, and each time I had ignored her with the exception of a polite "hello" twice as she made her attempt. She appeared to me to look like a teenager and by automatic default setting processes I would always avoid students. I hadn't had a conversation with one the entire six years of living there.

 

On this occasion she was wearing vulgar tight pink leggings that looked like an extra layer of skin and I thought to myself, she's a Madonna fan, maybe she talks to Madonna.

 

I wanted to get out of the environment as quickly as possible and I employed the kind of clipped get me out of here speech of a Parkinsonian patient. Her manner seemed to me impertinent, she was wrong-headed and I can remember thinking she thinks I want to harm everybody and how stupid this was. For using terms like “wrongheaded” she assumed it meant I must want to decapitate people, she was struggling with British vernacular. I realised I was talking to a brainwashed dunderhead who had fallen for all the ridiculous clichés and propaganda of their own brainwashing system. I called her a "teenage twit". She acted like she thought of herself as the social-mystic Borg of a hundred thousand men and women.

 

Her pre-conditioned wired and bonded neuronal semantic set seemed only respondent to cliches. If the language didn't fit the established grid then it was glossed over and discarded or else arbitrarily applied through electricity already having passed through the available "almost sounds like" analog circuit of nerve fibres. As the old Zen teacher used to say, "Go to the toilet before you come into the room". She naturally out of weakness manipulated my language so as to conform to an ignorant group-mind when I was the only one with knowledge of the personal history of myself. Her obsession with criminality amounted to snooty bureaucracy, transactional illusion of moral superiority. Ironically she herself was criminal of intent, she was wearing the clothing of her criminal intent, and she was paranoid, wanting to harm me because of her delusional belief system that I wanted to harm others. She was certain and absolute, whereas only maybe percentage chance possibilities existed for her. It was speaking to this woman that I myself had used the phrase, "autopilot mode" which was then taken entirely out of context and included in the language of the fabled assault on the Voodoo bag lady. Their hyperhysterical media creations seemed to be how their brains actually interpreted information.

 

When I was talking I held my thumb and forefinger together with the three remaining fingers pointing perpendicularly so that a circle was formed. I sometimes did this for precision and clarity when talking, but I could see she was staring at this and calculating.

 

I said, "It seems like you're paranoically placing a thousand victims on the end of a pin. You've turned twenty people into victims in twenty seconds". She was calculating and scheming and I said, continuing "when in real time there hasn't been a single act of violence to another person in six years of living here". She shrugged as though six years wasn't long enough to matter and with that her position broke down. She could only defer to invisible and non-existent places.

 

The following day the hand gesture appeared in the Daily Mail as a symbol of “white-power” and I checked the Oregonian live feed, they had updated their report. Now there was the language that Christian had stabbed his victim 11 times in 11 seconds. This was written as 11x11 which symbolised my apartment number, 22.

I was palpably perplexed. Then sometime later I saw that Madonna had appeared in the Daily Mail online wearing 11x11 knitted into her sweatshirt design as she walked through JFK airport.

 

I hurried out of the apartment and over to the university with the hope and intention of speaking to a professor, and I walked into the reception area and a couple of reception staff made some phone calls, but came back saying "there's nobody available to see you, it's half past five, everybody has gone home." I knew this was a lie and that the professors were lowly cowards. One of the female staff members was sitting in the side room behind the counter and seemed to be nervous, acting dubiously, and suspiciously, she had a mean face I seem to recall. 

 

I walked out of the building, off the grounds and I was about to walk across the road to the police station, If I couldn't get answers from a professor then I would speak to a cop, when a native American university campus security guard approached and he started asking me the same useless barrage of questions with extra added duty of suspiciousness, "who do you want to speak to? What is their name? What is it with regards to?" and I couldn't answer the questions, just as I couldn't a few minutes earlier. I don't know the name of a professor, and I can't disclose the information to reception or security staff. I walked away, down the footpath of College Road when this fierce white bald headed security guard was marching along the footpath before the main entrance of Pacific University towards where they have the metal dragon emblem and he was shouting and even screaming and I stopped and turned around and I started walking back up the road towards him and he was saying, "if you come any closer I will shoot!" and I thought he had a gun, there was low visibility, winter month, and I unfastened my long black Blake's business man's coat with quick speed, and held it out at arm's length, making it clear that I was unarmed. I continued walking towards him, "come closer", he screamed "and I will mace you! Get back!" I was still walking towards him, "this is pepper spray, get back!" and I walked right up to him. I'd never experienced pepper spray before, it seemed interesting, and I was curious, but instead of spraying me he violently shoved me backwards and something within me went skrit and I launched into a tirade of verbiage at him, loudly and dominantly, and the security guards were recoiling back and cringing with incredulity. He became very small all of a sudden, I became sergeant major, and he wasn't in charge. They knew I had mental health issues at this point, even if they hadn't being told. I'm not a macabre person, it wasn't violent language in that sense, but I was so angry my efferent motor nerve started jamming and my neck would lurch forwards and I had to steady myself several times from falling onto all fours.

 

I began to walk away, I heard them talking behind me, "should we call the cops?" "Yeah!" I was heading in the direction of the station and I wanted to speak to a cop. The apartment number wrapped up in such violent language was too much, they had gone too far. This was absolutely unacceptable behaviour. Outside the cop shop I saw that the lights were off inside and I read the sign on their door that I was outside of "business hours" and I walked down the main road and briefly spoke to a teacher who was with a student, but I interpreted their behaviour as rude and useless, one is less than a second class citizen when one doesn't speak in the accent, and I walked back up the road when the cop pulled up at the side of me. The native guard walked down the hill and as I was talking to the cop the guard served me a written officiated ban notice from the university's grounds. I sat down in the station with sergeant S. King, but he wouldn't give me any information about the Jeremy Christian case and the public online trial by media as performed by the perjurers of the kangaroo court, even though it was about me. 

On the Jeremy Christian police profile they had boldly lied when they stated that Christian carried a knife, I had never of the sort. Not that this was illegal, or something that couldn't be understood under the circumstances, but it wasn't true. I sometimes carried a single black Japanese throwing star or shuriken which was traditionally a defensive and not offensive weapon and of which I had never had to employ outside of training exercises, using trees, and collage-paintings inside the home. They were not aware of this. I would hold the star in my closed palm and run laps around the track in the dark on a night. Once they locked me in and I had to climb up onto hurdles and jump over the high wire fence which encircled the enclosure.

 

They had also lied when they said Christian had said something on his Facebook page that was so extreme and vulgar that everybody had mass deleted him. They used rhetoric that sounded like Iraq war propaganda, Christian they said, wanted to chop the heads off of babies. "I don't care whether you're friend or family get off my page if you don't agree". 

 

What I'd actually typed was in reference to an alleged school shooting in Oregon from years earlier after having read news reports, and before I was high-grade media savvy, and it was somewhat of a sensitive robotic response on my part when I stated, "if anybody on my friend's list owns a gun I want you to delete yourselves and I don't care whether you are friend or family". And what had actually happened wasn't a mass deleting at all as they had stated, but one single sweet little old lady had deleted me. 

 

 

 

The Oregonian made frequent reference to “Christian” talking about "decapitation". 

The decapitation event was reported by the press to have happened the week before the manufactured Jeremy Christian hoax. My wife had come home from work and told me what had happened in Portland. A man was said to have walked into a store with the severed head of his mother in his hand, and I was hit with a deep pang of horror and revulsion, and I thought, what a sick and evil place I have moved to. I'd never known anything like it.

 

Smalltown seemed a low-population density culture, the streets seemed empty, police patrolled grids. The people seemed gregarious and close-knit and the village seemed as obsessed with my Facebook posts as the local bureaucratic totalitarian tyranny on the hill were who seemed to run the town like a corrupt government controls a small country. The following morning in Safeway Greg was looking at me with a particular deep dread, the man looked pale and ill. I had only the slightest notion of what this may be about, maybe he had just bought into the fear and superstitions of mental illness? TV-media propaganda kept telling the bewildered to do this.   

 

Settling down in front of the computer screen at home with a smouldering joint and a glass of iced coffee I saw my Facebook posts from the previous day. I had posted them apologetically and impulsively when I realised that the Portland Thorns football team had been sitting in a ring outside of the apartments on the grass. What are all these girls sitting here for? When I arrived back from the store they were still there. Then I realised much later. 

 

I had created an etymology lesson centred on local town names from Wakefield. The theory was something I had realized myself over the previous few weeks whilst thinking aloud and I posted images from Google searches to represent the ideas which were posted onto my public Facebook page. Thorpe, meant village in Old Danish, and in Wakefield we have Alverthorpe, and Chaplethorpe, and Kettlethorpe, and Painthorpe, and Gawthorpe, and Snapethorpe, and in my primary school years I had lived in a town called Wrenthorpe. Yorkshire had many other Thorpes, such as Middlethorpe and Shiptonthorpe. In Wakefield we had Thornes Park, and the old local bakery was called Thurstons, and the name of our local chocolates was Thorntons. The word Thorpe etymologically derived from the old Norse thunder God, Thor. The word pertained to a village and the Danes had named villages after one of their Gods.

 

I posted the representative imagery with the language of the lesson, it was a Thursday, and a lightning storm broke out illuminating the evening sky. The rain fell like only rain-forests knew, and I thought this was just perfect, and whilst the thunder was drumming in the skies, I came back inside and posted an image of Thor with his hammer flying orthogonally into an electric storm. I'd only learnt of the Portland Thorns very existence the week before, we were on a Max train after a game and I said to the wife, “They’re called Thorns?!” I capped the night's lesson off with an image of their club emblem. I had no idea or thought about what the team looked like as people. 

 

It would have appeared extremely rude of me from their perspective when the gate to the Boxer apartments freely swung shut with an abrupt clang, but I had no idea why these girls were sitting there or who they were. I’m really not the outgoing type who can just talk to a group of young girls with confidence, I’m somewhat awkward, shy, and introverted.

 

It was around midday when I realised and I was so disappointed I'd missed them. I Google searched images for girls with asymmetries and found a photograph of a girl with asymmetrical draw strings which dangled down from her shirt. This was to capture the asymmetry of my upper distal extremities in apology and as an excuse for my slowness. Then I typed into the search engine, Art-Heart and I used the first image of a heart I could find and posted this on the shoulders of the girl underneath, the photograph of which stopped short at the shirt collar so one couldn't see the girl's head.

 

Portland police turned this attempt at a friendly gesture of acknowledgment to the girls into Joshua Webb decapitating his mother. The mother was supposed to represent my wife and the dog was supposed to have represented my cat. Joshua Webb himself was a doctored photograph of the face of a man with asymmetrical eyes. 

 

In the on-going Oregonian live feed of Jeremy Christian the police using “Christian” as a vehicle had him talking about "decapitation". This made Christian appear profoundly twisted and sick, however the references were an encrypted internal group nod to the manipulated and manufactured events of the week prior, being with regards to, and in relation to the same individual "suspect", who was under investigation, and of whom appeared guilty without having committed a serious crime. They had extreme fatalistic determinism and had no intention at all of proving me innocent, quite the contrary; they welcomed the fictive invention of fake and unfounded scandals.   

 

I'd mentioned the Joshua Webb event to the female professor wearing the skin pants on the hill, and I said, to her complete disbelief, "I would never harm my wife, and my cat is my little girl, she's my baby, the best thing that ever happened to me". The wife and I had barely even had a row at this stage.

 

The following day, back at the apartment the wife noticed that my cat was pawing at her head which was drenched in yellow liquid puissance and she called me out of the computer room to take a look, "what is that?" she was saying, she didn't seem certain whether or not it was maybe a spilled foodstuff, "is it cream?" she asked. I lifted the cat up and brushed my finger across her fur and inhaled the residual of the substance from my finger, "it's definitely internal," I said, "there's bleeding too," I observed.

 

The wife quickly assumed authority and control and called a relative who came from the other side of town in her car and they drove off to the veterinarians where the cat received medical treatment. “It was probably from a dog” said the expert, “I see it all the time”.

 

The following morning I was waiting to be served in the local flower store when a student standing next to me held a small wallet in in his hands which he made visible and obvious to my attention, the wallet contained surgical instruments! He pulled one instrument out and slotted it back into its case. I knew then with horror and revulsion that the female professor with the skin pants had given the order and was responsible for this highly criminal assault on my feline companion and family pet. 

 

I reported the crime to the police, but they were complicit in the criminality and corruption of the university and did not act and no arrests were made. 

 

Portland's model of policing seems to me not evidence based, but one step removed, fantasy. Police seem to me to be the most paranoid profession in a social-system and I believe they were attempting to rid themselves of a racist American history and reputation by creating a smokescreen diversion onto a white scapegoat. The police have been known to shoot black men holding mobile phones in the states. In a similar way the pretence of liberalism creates a smokescreen illusion that the state had not issued the death penalty for 20 years. This seems quite obviously a lie for official public consumption when they can have an individual up for the death penalty for something as petty, minor, and trivial as sticking several easily removable and non-permanently damaging stickers. They only found out about the stickers because I revealed it to them on my public Facebook page. The university had an art department for God's sake. I knew they were obsessively stalking my posts, "must want to harm . . ." NOBODY! I was posting images symbolizing the phylogenetic and ontogenetic evolution of the species and nervous system and correlating this with the days of the week and the traditional planetary associations. A policeman for the Oregonian report lied with regards questions about Christian's online activity when he stated "police do not monitor people's online activity". They do, they just lack the intelligence to interpret.

 

That the policeman playing the role of Jeremy Christian was staged by being filmed at a demonstration was police code for my being a part of the world wide protests against the infamous bio-tech corporation Monsanto. This was a legal demonstration that had official permits from the state. I had taken photographs of the event and posted them online.

 

I always believed democracy came from the people in society motivated to make change by peacefully protesting against aspects of society and culture they find themselves at variance with. The word democracy derives from the Greek "demos", meaning people, and "cratic" meaning ruled by. America had told us incessantly through the Bush years that it was a country of "freedom and democracy", in the middle-east this meant get out of the country or the roof will cave in. My experience of America was of a closed National Socialist police-state, intolerant to outsiders, immigrants and foreigners adjudged not to fit in. They do not seem culturally tolerant people to me. I saw no mosques. 

 

The photograph of “Christian” at the demonstration where he wore the star-spangled-banner as a cape originally had a cyberpunk motif on his T-shirt. This was changed later to say Portland Police. He was performing a Fascist salute, ironic that he was a cop protesting against people democratically demonstrating against corporations, in preference to corporations. 

 

“Christian's” comic book collection were books I'd self-published online containing some of my sketches. The technique was based on Keith Haring's and consisted of two minute sketches I had then filled in with colour on an online editing suite.

 

The psychiatrist that was presented as having submitted a report in the Oregonian live feed was a woman who sat in her car in the busy parking lot outside of the new psychotherapy unit. I had walked past the cars and then spun around and saw this woman crouched down low in her seat with her clip-board resting on the steering wheel and a pen in her right hand. That was the “psychiatric evaluation”, I had never spoken to this woman, and her report seemed to conclude that I didn’t have a mental illness.

 

The other “expert” that was wheeled out seemed to conclude that listening to heavy metal music was relational to fascism and the types of right-wing and violent behaviours “Christian” was alleged to exhibit, he’d even published a book about this it was written, yet I don’t listen to heavy metal music. The background music I have listened to for the most part has been Classical, Jazz, Drum n’ Bass, Trip-Hop, Electronica and Shamanic hand drumming from Africa.     

 

They said I was anti-immigration when I was an immigrant, they said I was a Fascist when I had been pursued for almost twenty years by a Fascist and they said I listened to heavy metal music when his last song to point the death bone at me was a heavy metal song.

 

The photograph in the media of “Christian” seemed to be a lookalike taken from my Oregon state ID card, something we had opposed in Britain in the 90's because of its lingering association with Nazism which we believe we fought against.

 

The metaphor that Christian had been shot in the eye as a youngster came from the Irish cop called officer Anderson who had put me on the "eye operation" after administering the ticket he gave me for crossing the short cross road next to the automobile garage and across from the hairdressers. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flickr post July 13th 2016

Facebook posts 25th May 2017.

 

Flickr post July 7th 2016.

 

Flickr post June 25th 2016

Flickr post June 26th 2016

Reviews

[emmajoy]

Had to read but sadly, need be honest.

This is far too long and colourless as it is.
Sad, it has great potential.
Suggest time lapses, chapters or similar.
Indent too, is one over.long block of varying fonts.
Create far more shades of mood
Introduce your characters, make them live.
Add dialogue.

Forgive if too negative but seems you've had near a hundred people come and go, leaving nothing. Thought right or wrong, seems kinder to leave a few words rather than be yet another gap of nothing.

Best wishes.