Morning Talking.

Good morning from the fair land of Acornia.

This is being written within a September morning. I'm located inside the magical barn with the bay door open wide. The crickets have started up early today. I suppose thats a sign of a warm day. There isn;t a hint of a breeze in the trees. Morning mists still make the sunlight squeeky clean.
The silence and remoteness of my hermitage is a warm gift.

I just got off the phone with a lawyer's office.

This will be my fourth effort to find one. I'm not sure whats going on. First one said I should go back to my first lawyer. I told him "no" and we parted.

The next effort at getting a lawyer met with seeming sucess. I had written of this in an earlier writting. But....funny thing? He never sent me the papers to sign and he just walked off. Didn't answer my e-mails.
Zilch, zip,nada, etc. So I figure I can take a hint clear enough.

Then I called this place for lawyers for the disabled.
They said they'd get back to me after they assigned me a lawyer. They didn't. So I called back...then they told me to call back again.Again I did. Spoke with a lawyer that time. He told me that what I explain doesn't make sense. I agreed. Then he said he has to talk to his boss before accepting the case. That sounds like "it" to me. He said he would call me back later this week. But I don't expect it.

So.....once more. Into the fray my brave lads.

Being as my rejection occurred in the beginning of this month and it's now coming to a close I have to act. I don't plan to wait past thirty days.
Not sure what I will do yet.

Supposedly I am entitled to legal counsel in America. And I would assume it would be one I feel confident with.So I fired my lawyer being as I wouldn't be here now....with this monstrosity that defies belief, if an appeal was filed by my original lawyer against the original decision instead of this time travel plan (post dated re-application to 1990) to make the 93,000 dollars disappear. Which failed to work as planned. How can I have confidence in that lawyer?

Oh My God......look at that paragraph above....I was babbling.
It's ranting. The ravings of a lunatic..

And I can't find a lawyer who wants to fight.

Yeah...Being as I fired that lawyer now I can't seem to get another one. Of course, any prudent person would change lawyers under those circumstances.

There's a letter I sent to some of my supporters detailing my situation which is quite cogent. I'll put it on here after I "X" out some of the personal information.

I wound up with several visits to the emergency room for anxiety , several visits to the crisis center, and an appointment to a doctor for my heart which was doing flip flops in my chest. That was the fruit of this problem for the first year of it's exsistance.
It's simply impossible to carry. It's insane.

I suppose it is difficult to accept that a paranoid schizo is the victim of a government plot. Yes. I admit that. But I''ve learned to accept it

On the positive side of the equation our local friendly congressional office has stopped trying to get me to sign a forgiveness form in collusion with the social security office, and has taken my perspective. So the actual "plot" seems to have disolved.

The last communication from the congressional office revealed they have made an inquiry into the overpayment which "you claim" is charged against your account. Which I take to mean is that they have returned to square one and are looking at facts instead of trying to mob me into submission. So I will aIso pretend our earlier contentions didn't happen and that they have no knowledge of the circumstances. This is a fine place for "us" to begin an "inquiry".

Very boring writting today.

This can't be high interest stuff.

Wait'll I post the letter to my supporters.
Thats interesting and makes good reading.

What about the nazis in the cornfield?
Remember that writting?

Well....it all started on one of the days immediately preceding the eviction.

I used to keep trails through the woods and household people would wander there as the spirit moved them to take advantage of the wildlife setting here at Acornia. One of those trails went down to the bridge and adjoining pond. I kept them mowed and trimmed the bushes back and removed the deadfall.They were one of the more pleasent features of our country experiance. At least I always thought so.

I was packng stuff up for the public rental storage bin, both here and in the house, when I came upon some cans of spray paint. At that point synapses and dendryites up in my skull began to fire and sizzle in ways heretofore that would be totally alien to my usual somber and adult demeanor.

Biochemicals started squirting out and causing electrical discharges...electrical discharges started sparking causing releases of biochemcals. Storms of activity swirled across my cerebral cotex like sun spots across the sun. My brain cells danced in an orgy of intimacy. My pleasure centers sprung to wide eyed alertness. One word sat in my mind like food to a starving man.
Slowly it descended to my lips and conditioned speech centers swung into action. "SPRAY PAINT!".

Thats what happened.

In the fever of my celtic glee I took the trail down to the pond hugging the spray cans to my chest as if they were lost children suddenly refound.

Under the bridge I went. And in a burst of release from the dark light of looming eviction I created a gallery of art. This was under the bridge. Which can only be reached from the house. And there isn't a building closer then a half mile to this man made cavern. We used it as part of the trail to the swimming hole, back farther along, tracing the edge of the swamp on the other side of the road.

And so it came to pass, that in an eruption of uncontrolled artistic release the cans spewed their ejaculate upon the cold cement walls.
In a place which was doomed by design of man to never kiss the sun of day, the sun of human creativity illumined it's darkness.

Satiated with the warm afterglow of artistic expression I returned to the house and it's environs and continued the dreary task of leaving my home of 15 years.

A nice police officer drove his car down the dirt road and parked immediately in front of the barn where I was packing and sorting the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. Somethings would have to be left behind.
Moving is always a traumatic experiance.
I looked up from the current box I had been rummaging through and glanced at the policeman. Sitting in his vehicle with a microphone in his hand....talking.

I thought,"Hhhmmmmmm....".
This is a relatively common thing for me. Thinking "HHhhhmmmmmm....". In and of itself it does not signify fear or foreboding, nor joy or the belief of approaching delights. It can best be described in its totality as thinking "HHhhmmm....".
So I thought "HHmmmmmmm...." this day too, as he advanced from his car and adjusted his police hat with exactitude.

Things went down hill from this point.
If they fix the tilt and demeanor of their hat with exactitude you're in trouble. Believe this.

There was an increasing spiral of events from this point on until I found myself chained to a bench inside a cinderblock room for three hours. Near the end of this time my desire for a visit to the men's room was of paramount importance. That aspect, however was a purely subjective experiance.

I developed a very strong revulsion to being restrained from this experiance. This revulsion is still present.

I was astounded. What did I do anyway?
Inside a flood culvert, out on a country road far from the domain of sidewalks and the suburban success stories (who support the drug war above human rights in Colmbia), I experianced the flair of human expression.
Whats the fuss about? Do I look like a Colombian?

And now the flat brainers in their struggle against tyranny have motivated the township's finest to chain me to a bench, for three hours in a cinderblock room. I told the police that I was truely sorry they had to
spend their time enforcing a mischief vioation inside a flood culvert and that I understood they were directed by "higher-ups".

Right??

However, avid readers, this plot thickens considerably. I was inexplicably caught up in one of their conspiracy theories. A bitter fate indeed. This tale will continue in a manner which will titalate and amaze even the most jaded among you.

I was unchained by a very realistic interpratation of Officer Friendly , allowed to visit the facilities( toilet), and asked if I was hungry. I ordered a cheese burger and a diet coke.

After eating....with my one hand chained to the bench leg, I was told that a Detective would like to speak with me.

I was still very available to thinking "HHmmm...." at this point. Especially after the hamburger and diet coke. And even after being being given the evident escape clause. "Unless you have something to hide?" The internal volume of my "hhhmmmm....." thinking bacame decidedly louder at this point enabling me to retain a pretty much "What? Me worry?" perspective I learned from reading mad magazine in junior high school.

For some reason I have always believed the unidimensionals will be nice if you are warm and compliant. This in spite of the experiance of my years. I'm 53. And also in spite of the fact of my sixties "training". I often declare myself to be from the sixties with the usual disclaimer that the sixties didn't actually occur until the early seventies and late 60s.
Thats bi-dimensional thinking. Flat brainers would have a hard time understanding that.

What was happening,see, is that the law enforcement people were into some kind of feeding frenzy and no "Mr.Niceguy" display of mine was going to alter it.

His name was .....wait.....I've been careful so far to not slander, can't use the dedicated enforcement officials "real" name.

Other people don't see my story as I see it. Most notably those who are ruled by flat brainer logic; Those who are on the other side of this spiritual revolution I'm currently involved in. All those whose minds have have been shackled by flat brainer sloganism and normalSpeak are mindless minions of my incarnate oppressor. Discretion is the better part of valor.

I should use a pretend name for the detective.How about.......
let me think......
Ma..dig..lee..oh....nay.
His had an Italian last name but was clearly a product of the american melting pot. He had no more Italian in him then I have English.

Madigleone'....pronounced Ma-dig-lee-oh-nay.

Actually he was "Investigator" and not "Detective". Actually he was "Interogator".
But all this comes later. He's allowed secret identities. After all, most bi-dimensionals have secret identities so I tend to exercise tolerance with flat brainers in this regard.
Anyway, he started off as "Detective".

Let me break here for a smoke.