Today is Saturday the twentieth day of September in 2014 A.D.

Do you need directions? Do you know which way to walk? Would you like for me to show you which way it is to go? You are going to hell. You need to walk the other way. You need to use the other door. And not to eat the green eggs and ham. The world is a farm, it is not your fault, you've been on your way to hell since they ripped the wings off of your butt, long before you began eating it for your money. All of the dogs were convicted to the phairies and the bugs boarded up down below under a system of plumbing drains long ago. The plumbing drains keep the dogs and the bugs in the basement and the world is a carnival terraced on mezzannines above. You are going to hell. Didn't they tell you? Don't you know?

I have this great new hat, and it has a number of different ornaments on it. Follow the map on the hat. When walking the stick pattern on the new hat, remember that this is the second rendering of the stick pattern, and the stick pattern was developed on the hat. The map directions for the first walk are, so to speak, bzip2'd on the new hat, and when tar -j is applied to the stick pattern on the new hat, then the directions for the first hat pop up. No worries, adds only a few miles. The important part is to stop EATING IT for your money and start walking to save your ass from hell.

More detailed explanations of why this is, how this is, how it came to be, how it could be so terrible, and how the running record is right there in front of you if you really want to know how to find it, are given on the site.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Today is Sunday the fourteenth day of September in 2014.

The upside and the downside. The good side and the bad side. The upsidedown-insideoutside.

The up side. You are top of the food chain. Top, up. You were created as a divine being, eternal life. The up side.
The down side. You are on the down side. A little more down every year. Hell is that way. Call it aging or make up whatever crazy excuse you like: you are taking on way too many boogers in the brain and around the body to match. The down side.
The good side. We can fix that. We are human, we have a healing, a recuperative, a regenerative mode. It does not matter how much damage you have sustained, what your ailments and hurts and injuries have been. Humans are top of the food chain, they are created as divine beings, and they have a regenerative mode. That's the good side. We can fix that.
There is a bad side. There is a 2500 straight mile requirement to amp up the human metabolism and make it to the recuperative, regenerative, healing mode. Adam was kicked out of the garden, Adam became involved in too many damaging ventures in the interest of profit, want, gain, money. Adam no longer makes it to the healing mode, the regenerative mode, the recuperative mode. Adam, kicking your butt out of the garden, you need to go for a walk, about 2500 straight miles, and amp yourself back up to get over all of those ills and evils. 2500 straight miles, that's the bad side.

We call it the "path of the Lord", and that brings us to the insideout upsidedown side. What is "the path of the Lord"? (wrong scene, movie Braveheart, where Stephen the Irishman jumps into a trench with William and his friend and counsels, pph.,"God has me covered, but you're f#$%k'd!") "HAHA! You'll never make it!" That's the upsidedown insideoutside.

The up side. Humans are divine beings, top of the food chain.
The down side. You are on the down side. Too much perversion, brain scuttled the ship, locked you up in the stem, no more frontal lobes for you.
The good side. We can fix that.
The bad side. Takes 2500 miles to kickstart into gear--keep on going. I am working over 4000.
The insideout upsidedown side. The path of the Lord. Sh'yeah-HA! You'll never make it!

As Peter counsels in the Acts,"Save yourself from this corrupt generation."

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Today is Thursday, the eleventh day of September in... you know the rest?

coffee in La Jolla. $2.45. What else were you doing with the change, anyway? Waking up for coffee and donut at Von's Hollywood was nice, but it was $2.45. Bay-bee! You cannot live in La Jolla unless you are dedicated to losing money in as many different ways as possible. If you obsess over the small change, this town will relieve you of the burden.

C'ho M'Ama's cartridge and ink repair. Gotch'yo mama's butt in a mayonnaise jar. C'ho M'ama's cartridge and ink repair. 617 H-Cheung street, Beijing. 617 Hi-Cheung street, Tokyo. 617 Hi-Cheung street, Singapore. Then walking from Cal Poly Pomona west into LA, there around St. Thomas Aquinas. Other locations of interest. San Luis Obispo clearly has the same babylonian furnace and three large Eucalyptus trees bonsia'd to look exactly as the Ham, Isaac, and Jesus Christ trees here in 92037 in back of Everett-Stunz. As described in the site materials (http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/). The Ham, Isaac, and Jesus Christ trees, at whatever level of volume or amplification (obvious, size of trees, number of other key architectural elements in the surrounding area), were present in plenty of places along the summer vacation. St. Patrick's, in Arroyo Grande, stand to the left of the morning mass chapel (where the properly trained travelling pilgrim may stand for book prayer when they arrive), and there, in front of you, are the Ham, Isaac, and Jesus Christ trees. The place where the properly trained travelling pilgrim may stand for prayer after mass at Our Lady of Sorrows, downtown Santa Baraba, includes a beautiful view of the chicken witch pole against the great wall of Jonathan's. At the downtown Santa Barbara location the chicken witch pole itself is not near as grandiose as the 92037 design, but the next pole along the line, the Lt. Dan pole (when the remote control green eggs and ham crowd jericho parade turns up the storm and drives the target into a raging madman) has some particular attention shone on it by the surrounding elements. The viewing location also contains a strong relief for the rainbowtard business tree in the mid background, not so much of the grim reaper tree.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Walked to laundry today. I love the laundry.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

My summer vacation (cont.)

"It is a _town_, it is called Riverside. It is a place, it is called the RIVERSIDE TRANSIT CENTER. It is a transit center, busses go there, that is why it is a transit center. Where is the bus to go there?!!!!"

Yes, there in San Bernardino, there is a way to board the 215. Then there's the twenty-two to Elsinore. Exit to the AM/PM. I had a drink card from AM/PM with all necessary stamps and had been saving it since Carpenteria. In Carpenteria I had a few dollars and I knew that coffee or drink at will, given an appropriate AM/PM, would be useful later when there were no available dollars. That and a late morning prayer concluded a number of hours on the bus. Walk through Elsinore, walk through the downtown, say a few more prayers. On to the Wal-Mart center... and they have a Von's, too! I was thinking about staying the night but the seven arrived twice in a row and I decided not to miss it. Closer to the inland center I was out of bus money and the night was growing late, the light was running out. I passed the evening walking from one side of the freeway, by the McDonald's, to the other side with the filling station and taco drive-thru. Great time, nice people, by the morning I had a few dollars for the bus and the walk along the 23 route to find the next available Starbucks, about two or three miles. And a Ralph's with fabulous snicker's torte. Wonderful morning to arrive at Promenade. My bus book said there was no weekend service on the 202, and I didn't look very close by the time I walked around to find the parking structure transit center. I could have read the posted schedule to see three or four departures on Sunday but I had mostly planned to stand around Promenade for the day, anyway. Mojo supreme potatoes from Shakey's for dinner and the 76 station had fountain Dw and the peanuts. Wake up and on the 202, on the 101, no the 30, and back for morning mass. Reading the schedules in Oceanside I had not planned to return until closer to 7:30, and was only seven. Not much sleep but a great day.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

--

This is my description of my summer vacation. Two weeks in Encinitas to eat plenty of cheeseburgers and tighten up the threads on the vehicle. Then walk for Temecula. Temecula up and down and around through Murrieta and to Elsinore. Bus to Riverside. Leave Riverside for a long walk of mixed uban fare, mostly peanuts and mixed bags of doritos. Walk through Beverly Hills, UCLA, Hollywood. Breakfast at Von's Hollywood. Hollywood to Milton, prayer at St. Sebastian's. Sepulveda to RInaldi, Rinaldi to Hampstead and Devonshire. Santa Susanna pass to Simi Valley. Nice place. Through Simi Valley to sleep next to a Cosmetology schoolon the way outside. Nice area, Simi Valley. Only one dog yammering all night long. Somewhere along the outside of Moorpark, never really saw that town. Long walk through plantation fields to an area of Oxnard where the 1 begins. That promptly diverges or ends and I walked near exactly the same route I drove when I remember having that problem eight years ago in a vehicle, attempting to find and follow the 1. Oxnard to a place on Victoria where there was a large open warehouse commercial space empty for lease. Spent a day or two sewing there, hoping to find a new pair of shoes. My shoes were wearing to the socks, at the top of the feet. If I could deteriorate to walking like a clodhopper (that's, umm, all of you) then the shoes have a good three or four weeks walking remaining at the ankle.

Oxnard up to Ventura, missed the exit to the bicycle path by about 100 yards, turned around to try and walk some way through Ventura, ended up in Ojai. New hat!

North of Ventura is a nice place known as Capenteria. The police advised me to keep walking for Santa Barbara. The police in Santa Barbara quickly informed me that they didn't like homeless people. Keep walking. Goleta, pick up a bell ornament for the hat. Goleta to Orcutt, that's good exercise. Orcutt for a few days, nice church, St. Louis de Montefort. The deputy himself arrived to counsel me that he didn't like me sitting around sewing ("Am I doing anything wrong yet?" after watching the cruisers circling for a morning "No, you're not doing anything wrong yet."). No sense arguing with the fellow that has handcuffs. Difficult to leave that situation. On to Santa Maria. I could stay here or keep walking. I'm more accustomed to leaving tonight rather than sticking around for morning. On from there, across a few fields, next to big power lines to sleep, then coffee in Nipomo. Never managed to find the church in Nipomo, wasn;t looking real hard. Stopped for a few hours to sew a repair or two then on to Arroyo Grande via Pomorroy. That was a fun walk. Arroyo Grande, Pismo Beach, pick up the peacock feather for the hat in Shell Beach. Shell Beach trolley driiver arrives at the moment morning prayer ended to ask if I would like a ride. I didn't see much of PIsmo Beach when I walked through, my kind of area, bowling alley, billiards and pool, and plenty of local and tourist name coffee houses for the tourists, good luck finding Starbucks. Shell Beach trolley driver takes me to Pismo Premium. Oh, now, here's an area. Shell Beach trolley driver hints that the bus north goes all the way to San Luis Obispo, and there's a mission there. A day thinking about it and then up to San Luis Obispo. The bishop is having lunch next week Sunday. Nice area, stay and sew for a week, have lunch with the bishop on Sunday, and then back to St. Patrick's and St. Paul's for a week. Everything in the Arroyo Grande area is another 2 miles just to pick up and walk somewhere else. Very different from 92037 around-the-block routine. Added another hundred miles waking up in the morning, walking to mass, and then to a grocery store area. Walk north through San Luis Obispo. Another nice walk. Walk north to, what, Morro Bay? I wasn't there for ten minutes to fix a few sticks on my hat while talking to a fella showing me where this and that (grocery, laundry, post office, library, the Arroyo Rock), then the whole place turned into a festival of dead reanimated carnival beasts (that's no dog, it's four fishing poles and a couch cushin, the skull is some old dog from the bottom of hell, it's dead, jim, but how do we know it? how do we know it? he's dead jim. The eyes are dead, those are not living eyes. He's dead jim. We know it's the truth but how do we know it?). I decided to walk for the 101. The map and the guide and the fella next to me confirmed that the next three anything through there weren't much larger than the filling station. Long walk up the 41 to Atascadero. Stay for two days and become inspired by a ten dollar bill and catch the bus returning to Santa Maria through San Luis Obispo. Santa Maria to Lompoco, another dead reanimated carnival beast festival as I passed through the town. Leave Lompoc on the 1, fun walk, but the walk up to Atascadero really wore me out. Why am I still walking 12-15-20 miles between towns and never seeing more than a day or two of rest?

If you leave everything behind you may walk further and longer, but it is only worth freezing to death once over. I did that one thousands of miles ago. When carrying everything, maybe a person may go three months, but there's a point where there's just no more point in wandering between towns like this.

The 1 back to Goleta is a nice walk, and I was helped by a fella, Mark. Arrive in Goleta on Friday night with a $15 card for Little Caesar's and extra dollars for coffee at McDonald's. Saturday morning prayer with St. Rafael (see the statue out front? he has wings... why yo' ass hurt so much, from having the wings tore off out of the steam press, that's why yo' ass so fat) and then on the bus to Santa Barbara. Spend Saturday vigil and Sunday with Fr. Raf at Our Lady of Sorrows and then on the bus on Monday, oh, shoot, Labor Day, well, back to morning mass and then catch the bus to Oxnard on Tuesday. Oxnard, walk around through Huanome to Camarillo.

A day in Camarillo, a small position in a jazz cafe washing dishes for two hours, twenty-five bucks, and bus money south to Simi Valley, then the Metrolink train to downtown LA Union. "Hello, I am going to Elsinore via Riverside. How do I go there?" "Red Line, 12:40 pm" "Is this MetroLink ticket good for transfer?" "No" (transfer passes usually lose a grade level at transfer points, no more riding the premium rails, trolley and bus only) "How many dollars to Riverside?" "$13" I don't have, $13. "How do I take the bus to Riverside" "You can't", then the equivalent of the THANK YOU and the window closing. I walk to the other customer service, ask same questions. "What you need to do is call this number."

I know there's a bus to Riverside, I've seen the book, I should have saved that bus book, the bus goes there, I know it does. I need the 68, 70, or 76 out of this place. Then I began remembering the walk around the days of Von's Hollywood, and it seemed if I could just make it back there (HAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back (that much longer). The police arrive to interrogate me. "I need to go to Riverside" I squeak, they begin giving the hard muscle stares, so I begin spouting bus numbers "10, 18, 30". The police are now upset. "There is no 10 or 30 from here!" he barks, and he's right. "What you need to do is go downstairs and get on the red line trolley to north Hollywood, that's where you want to go right?" I just want the officer to quit barking at me, and I had just been thinking that if I could just make it back to Von's Hollywood (HAHAHAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back.

So I arrive in north Hollywood and promptly decide that I should not have taken this line this direction. But there had been so much trouble at LA Union, the guards had to escort me through the pass checker point, because my ticket wasn't good as that transfer, or something, I don't know. I was perfectly blind after the encounter with the police, hardly knew which direction to go to ask for directions. So I walked back to downtown by following the signs (didn't intend to make it right back downtown at that exact point again, I was following the signs and reading directions on the way). Was advised by a passerby "Your pass is fine, good for all of today, just get on the gold rail going east"

Now if only I knew what bus to find after that. It wasn't until another night, after I spent the final remaining dollars on Starbucks and cookies (SUGAR, need SUGAR to keep knockin' down these miles), that, hey! look, right there in front of you, all the time. The 68. Walk through the Korean and Vietnamese districts watching the 68 go past me every twenty minutes or so, wishing I had bus fare. I yet didn't know how the 68 would make it to Riverside, only that such a feat was possible, and I had no excuse to ask the bus driver if I didn't yet have any fare in my pocket, so I kept walking on by general direction. Turns out that neat any of the transit centers from Fontana on will have some service-or-other to Riverside. Would have been nice to know that some select stations will see a bus from places, like, oh, PROMENADE in Temecula. At Baldwin Park I take the rail again (10:57, leaving, the hell with it, money or not I am on this rail). Then I knew, somehow or other, maybe I talked with somebody, but I knew the 215 goes to Riverside.

This is my description of my summer vacation. Two weeks in Encinitas to eat plenty of cheeseburgers and tighten up the threads on the vehicle. Then walk for Temecula. Temecula up and down and around through Murrieta and to Elsinore. Bus to Riverside. Leave Riverside for a long walk of mixed uban fare, mostly peanuts and mixed bags of doritos. Walk through Beverly Hills, UCLA, Hollywood. Breakfast at Von's Hollywood. Hollywood to Milton, prayer at St. Sebastian's. Sepulveda to RInaldi, Rinaldi to Hampstead and Devonshire. Santa Susanna pass to Simi Valley. Nice place. Through Simi Valley to sleep next to a Cosmetology schoolon the way outside. Nice area, Simi Valley. Only one dog yammering all night long. Somewhere along the outside of Moorpark, never really saw that town. Long walk through plantation fields to an area of Oxnard where the 1 begins. That promptly diverges or ends and I walked near exactly the same route I drove when I remember having that problem eight years ago in a vehicle, attempting to find and follow the 1. Oxnard to a place on Victoria where there was a large open warehouse commercial space empty for lease. Spent a day or two sewing there, hoping to find a new pair of shoes. My shoes were wearing to the socks, at the top of the feet. If I could deteriorate to walking like a clodhopper (that's, umm, all of you) then the shoes have a good three or four weeks walking remaining at the ankle.

Oxnard up to Ventura, missed the exit to the bicycle path by about 100 yards, turned around to try and walk some way through Ventura, ended up in Ojai. New hat!

North of Ventura is a nice place known as Capenteria. The police advised me to keep walking for Santa Barbara. The police in Santa Barbara quickly informed me that they didn't like homeless people. Keep walking. Goleta, pick up a bell ornament for the hat. Goleta to Orcutt, that's good exercise. Orcutt for a few days, nice church, St. Louis de Montefort. The deputy himself arrived to counsel me that he didn't like me sitting around sewing ("Am I doing anything wrong yet?" after watching the cruisers circling for a morning "No, you're not doing anything wrong yet."). No sense arguing with the fellow that has handcuffs. Difficult to leave that situation. On to Santa Maria. I could stay here or keep walking. I'm more accustomed to leaving tonight rather than sticking around for morning. On from there, across a few fields, next to big power lines to sleep, then coffee in Nipomo. Never managed to find the church in Nipomo, wasn;t looking real hard. Stopped for a few hours to sew a repair or two then on to Arroyo Grande via Pomorroy. That was a fun walk. Arroyo Grande, Pismo Beach, pick up the peacock feather for the hat in Shell Beach. Shell Beach trolley driiver arrives at the moment morning prayer ended to ask if I would like a ride. I didn't see much of PIsmo Beach when I walked through, my kind of area, bowling alley, billiards and pool, and plenty of local and tourist name coffee houses for the tourists, good luck finding Starbucks. Shell Beach trolley driver takes me to Pismo Premium. Oh, now, here's an area. Shell Beach trolley driver hints that the bus north goes all the way to San Luis Obispo, and there's a mission there. A day thinking about it and then up to San Luis Obispo. The bishop is having lunch next week Sunday. Nice area, stay and sew for a week, have lunch with the bishop on Sunday, and then back to St. Patrick's and St. Paul's for a week. Everything in the Arroyo Grande area is another 2 miles just to pick up and walk somewhere else. Very different from 92037 around-the-block routine. Added another hundred miles waking up in the morning, walking to mass, and then to a grocery store area. Walk north through San Luis Obispo. Another nice walk. Walk north to, what, Morro Bay? I wasn't there for ten minutes to fix a few sticks on my hat while talking to a fella showing me where this and that (grocery, laundry, post office, library, the Arroyo Rock), then the whole place turned into a festival of dead reanimated carnival beasts (that's no dog, it's four fishing poles and a couch cushin, the skull is some old dog from the bottom of hell, it's dead, jim, but how do we know it? how do we know it? he's dead jim. The eyes are dead, those are not living eyes. He's dead jim. We know it's the truth but how do we know it?). I decided to walk for the 101. The map and the guide and the fella next to me confirmed that the next three anything through there weren't much larger than the filling station. Long walk up the 41 to Atascadero. Stay for two days and become inspired by a ten dollar bill and catch the bus returning to Santa Maria through San Luis Obispo. Santa Maria to Lompoco, another dead reanimated carnival beast festival as I passed through the town. Leave Lompoc on the 1, fun walk, but the walk up to Atascadero really wore me out. Why am I still walking 12-15-20 miles between towns and never seeing more than a day or two of rest?

If you leave everything behind you may walk further and longer, but it is only worth freezing to death once over. I did that one thousands of miles ago. When carrying everything, maybe a person may go three months, but there's a point where there's just no more point in wandering between towns like this.

The 1 back to Goleta is a nice walk, and I was helped by a fella, Mark. Arrive in Goleta on Friday night with a $15 card for Little Caesar's and extra dollars for coffee at McDonald's. Saturday morning prayer with St. Rafael (see the statue out front? he has wings... why yo' ass hurt so much, from having the wings tore off out of the steam press, that's why yo' ass so fat) and then on the bus to Santa Barbara. Spend Saturday vigil and Sunday with Fr. Raf at Our Lady of Sorrows and then on the bus on Monday, oh, shoot, Labor Day, well, back to morning mass and then catch the bus to Oxnard on Tuesday. Oxnard, walk around through Huanome to Camarillo.

A day in Camarillo, a small position in a jazz cafe washing dishes for two hours, twenty-five bucks, and bus money south to Simi Valley, then the Metrolink train to downtown LA Union. "Hello, I am going to Elsinore via Riverside. How do I go there?" "Red Line, 12:40 pm" "Is this MetroLink ticket good for transfer?" "No" (transfer passes usually lose a grade level at transfer points, no more riding the premium rails, trolley and bus only) "How many dollars to Riverside?" "$13" I don't have, $13. "How do I take the bus to Riverside" "You can't", then the equivalent of the THANK YOU and the window closing. I walk to the other customer service, ask same questions. "What you need to do is call this number."

I know there's a bus to Riverside, I've seen the book, I should have saved that bus book, the bus goes there, I know it does. I need the 68, 70, or 76 out of this place. Then I began remembering the walk around the days of Von's Hollywood, and it seemed if I could just make it back there (HAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back (that much longer). The police arrive to interrogate me. "I need to go to Riverside" I squeak, they begin giving the hard muscle stares, so I begin spouting bus numbers "10, 18, 30". The police are now upset. "There is no 10 or 30 from here!" he barks, and he's right. "What you need to do is go downstairs and get on the red line trolley to north Hollywood, that's where you want to go right?" I just want the officer to quit barking at me, and I had just been thinking that if I could just make it back to Von's Hollywood (HAHAHAHAHA!) then I could remember the road back.

So I arrive in north Hollywood and promptly decide that I should not have taken this line this direction. But there had been so much trouble at LA Union, the guards had to escort me through the pass checker point, because my ticket wasn't good as that transfer, or something, I don't know. I was perfectly blind after the encounter with the police, hardly knew which direction to go to ask for directions. So I walked back to downtown by following the signs (didn't intend to make it right back downtown at that exact point again, I was following the signs and reading directions on the way). Was advised by a passerby "Your pass is fine, good for all of today, just get on the gold rail going east"

Now if only I knew what bus to find after that. It wasn't until another night, after I spent the final remaining dollars on Starbucks and cookies (SUGAR, need SUGAR to keep knockin' down these miles), that, hey! look, right there in front of you, all the time. The 68. Walk through the Korean and Vietnamese districts watching the 68 go past me every twenty minutes or so, wishing I had bus fare. I yet didn't know how the 68 would make it to Riverside, only that such a feat was possible, and I had no excuse to ask the bus driver if I didn't yet have any fare in my pocket, so I kept walking on by general direction. Turns out that neat any of the transit centers from Fontana on will have some service-or-other to Riverside. Would have been nice to know that some select stations will see a bus from places, like, oh, PROMENADE in Temecula. At Baldwin Park I take the rail again (10:57, leaving, the hell with it, money or not I am on this rail). Then I knew, somehow or other, maybe I talked with somebody, but I knew the 215 goes to Riverside.

War in La Jolla, eighth year, thirteenth entry

Eternal life. You think of eternal life as something of a pie in the sky legend, a joke, maybe, something to laugh at. Nobody has eternal life. The book of Psalms lists you at seventy or eighty years. Noah's covenent limited man to one hundred and twenty years. Earlier lifespans are recorded in the bible near a thousand, and ancient Egyptian tombs claim tens of thousands of years. Is that a descending curve? Is there a mathematical trend to that? Perhaps that bears some looking into, but maybe for other people. It does not now nor has ever really mattered to you. You want to grow up, make money, maybe get in the club, be somebody, do something, then get old, retire, and, what? Well, who cares what? That's like the possible mathematical trend in the recorded lifespans; that's for somebody else to figure out. Heaven, hell, who cares? That is all the things that matter only after death.

Gunshots. When you first learned of a gun, as a child, oh my, that was something big and powerful. You could shoot somebody, and that would be the end of them. Bang, boom, done. But then, as a child, you learned something new in the next week or two after learning of the gun. You could shoot somebody, and they wouldn't die. You could shoot them in the hand, or the arm, or even in special places in the gut, and they wouldn't die. They would bleed, they would hurt, but not die. So, now you know, if you wish to shoot somebody and make the end of them, you must hit a "vital" organ, you must make a "mortal" wound. Otherwise they don't quite die. Perhaps they are maimed, maybe they need an amputation, but they don't die unless you hit one of those magic sweet spots.

Then the maiming, and the amputation. What portion of your voice would you lose? Oh, sure, that's for somebody else to figure out. You don't really care. It is eternal life, maybe, maybe not, but not really important to growing up and making money and getting to do things. For a moment, though, because this is _my_ presentation and _my_ journal, what portion of your voice do you lose with that amputation? Divide the entirety of your voice up, your arm makes this portion of the sound, your other arm makes that portion of the sound, these toes for these pitches, those toes for those tones, your heard, your ears, your shoulder... YOUR NUTS. What portion of your voice would you lose if somebody shot you with a gun, and you didn't die, they didn't hit one of the vital mortal things, but you did require a maiming amputation. What portion of your voice would go with that? What portion of your voice, suppose, goes with YOUR NUTS?

While nobody's voice ever drops, while the entire world is made of nothing but faggitts, I suppose you will never know or care. Like eternal life.

Eternal life is somewhat of a joke. Your voice is related to various amputate-able portions of your body. You are actually top of the food chain. Top of the food chain meat is special, because it doesn't quit moving and making noise until you beat it to death bit by bit and piece by piece. The bugs and dogs down in hell have a very carefully planned process to ensure that nothing of that moving and noise is wasted. Eternal life, itself, is easy. IF YOU MAKE IT. If you actually make the three thousand miles, if you actually make the seven years, if you actually make your voice drop and get into the real frontal lobes, if you actually become the top of the food chain meat which you are supposed to be, then making another day and another day and another day is really easy. Eternal life is nothing. You are actually _SO_ top of the food chain that you are really hard to kill, like a gunshot that never hits the vital organ or the mortal wound. You would need to apply yourself to dying, you would need to box yourself down and train yourself into completely disasterous situations over and over and over again to actually make it to dying. You are actually really really really hard to kill. The phairies and dogs down in hell have that box system set up for you, and you have that box system set up for yourself up on the surface. You are really hard to kill, you would need to spend thousands and thousands of years training and ramming yourself into completely stupid scenarios to get that job done. Then the mathematical trend cutting down the number of years it takes to get the job done enough to turn the remainder over to the phairies and the dogs down in hell.

Do not be surprised by hell. The same people responsible for the coverup of your voice, and the coverup for "where do babies come from?", are the same people responsible for the coverup for hell.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

War in La Jolla, eighth year, twelfth(a) entry

It would just never occur to you...

You would just never expect...

You had just never even seen anything like that before...

Waco, TX. The local sherriff had just never heard anything like that before. Some lady showing up out of the blue, like Texas Chainsaw Massacre, telling horrifying tales of eating green eggs for money distribution and holding breakfast devouring contests with eggo and dogs in the back room. So they show up at the door to the little apartment and to ask, umm, maybe you could tell us a little more about the teachings here in your church, just help us figure out how maybe we could help you with the rest of the town, and HOLY SH*T the whole place goes up like 4th of July.

You spend twelve years finding better graphics for Pac-Man, from Atari through the arcades up to all the different Mario Nintendos and into the 2k millenium with carts and 3-D sonic racing, trying to impress somebody for a first kiss with your high score. It would just nevet occur to you that they do their kids up with their dogs near right away and they're all chipped and wired. Would just never occur to you.

And, lately...

You would just never expect that the chipped and wired crew is lining up with children, waiting around the corner to brutally rectally rape the young child and then bring the screaming toddler or pre-ado to face-off with the homeless man at just the right moments, at just the exact right time, at some meaningful and purposeful window frame of events. Because they thought you liked it. You would just never expect that sort of directed hate and spite weapon, would just never occur to you.

Obviously, if I ever mentioned to the police that, on all four occasions that I have ever seen a particular woman, the three year old blond boy with her looks as if he's been recently broomsticked, and on the three previous occasions you heard the little boy screaming in the women's toilet for minutes beforehand. Obviously, if I ever mentioned to the police that I was concerned for abuse, I would be then be considered a risk and threat to the people around me and I would need to be evaluated by the doctors.

On the previous meeting with the police, the first words from ofc. Reinhold upon exiting his vehicle and approaching me,"There is no conspiracy of people waiting with dogs to make you mad". Just like my pretend street friends going into immediate flaming mode over the $10 sack of herbage they owe me, not even thinking to talk of the weather or the current state of sidewalk and traffic. So, what you're telling me is that there is a conspiracy of people waiting around the corner to make me mad? Then, later, during the handcuffed interview, ofc. Reinhold asks of me,"Do you know what a cabal is?" I immediately and completely spaced the question and returned nothing but a stupid blank look, so ofc. Reinhold glossed the question and continued on as if he hadn't asked. He's willing to testify in court that I admitted to sleeping on the walkway...

I'm willing to testify in court that the little blond boy will likely never speak any real language, having been abused so often for this vendetta that he sounds like Superman's Non.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

ofc. Reinhold also, during the in-cruiser assessment and interview, offered to joke,"Your race, you're black, aren't you?" There is no cabal, and to say anything of conspiracy requires psychological evaluation.

In jail, along with mapfortu's recent discussion of characteristic traits of jail time, was also amusing to me that the soap never really turned hot. I could whip the soap for an hour, two three times daily, allow it to dry open air (to take on oxygen and bleach the surface), and whip it again in the morning, and the soap never really turned hot. Sure, I am whipping this with a spoon in a milk carton without any rocks for the press: I know what hot soap is. Whatever the scale is, full percentage or tenth or even hundredth percentage point, whatever the scale is the atmosphere is totally low oxygen. Settle quickly with your opponent on your way to court, take the plea bargain, you'll suffocate if you wish to feel you have grounds to argue with the attorney about your race.

Continuing entertainment when the cow-stick (caustic, mummy baby in the bread box, the cash cow delivery to hell and back again) began pulling the wax from the inside of the milk carton. I have had waxy soap before (led me to contemplate the joke down to hell, we've tried pressing them to bricks, tried rolling them to dogs, tried taking them apart and putting them back together in every which way, Melchizedek is going to sew you into horses and poke you into soap! that's Elmer on the glue bottle, but nowadays they so fat and blubbery that they don't even make good wax, greasy dirty wax, and then not even wax at all, but maybe fatty oil if you wick the bottle, and then the fatty oil is so greasy that it's midnight black to the ceiling... these people so far gone, and all the progressions of the levels to the bottom where they pit now, the same three thousand miles and seven bible years away as any other. I have had waxy soap before, it may not lather as much, but it continues to be hot. The soap I poked in jail never managed to achieve any semblance of hot.

War in La Jolla, eighth year, twelfth entry

I yet do not really have much time to spend on the accounts, and the wikispaces material cannot be modified without moving it to an entirely new provider. Oh to have a real interface, like ssh and local shells.

Samson's riddle, nerve agent and seahorses, a result of ploughing with the heifers. Do not in particular blame the models, they are doing you a favor, at least half your own fault for never dropping your voice, just the way things must be. If anything, you could argue with them about the sheer amount of nerve agent which they are slinging around like beer batter; but that's how far down the world has sunk. There was, at one time, a particular numerical individual method to the madness for each and every single point, but that was so long ago, and now is mostly a flat-out mudslinging contest for fun and games, and it all works out the same in the end by the time the numbers are counted up and resolved down in hell anyway.

From the readings earlier this week to today's gospel, in particular. If you have the light of the world, if you have actually made it, then how great will the light be; you never really stop improving until you grow your wings back and suck your butt to the dome to feel the sun again. If you do not have the light, then how great will the darkness be, like, in particular, exactly how many micro-injuries, in particular, exactly how far out of joint for each member of the spine, in particular, exactly how many points of nerve agent and seahorses have you accumulated? There was, at one time, an exact numerical count and an exact reason and purpose for each and every single one, but now the whole operates as a blender and the map for the passover lamb is really the only near logarithmic chart to the mountain of numbers running today. Naboth and his vineyard, that's similar to Naaman from Syria, the last of the maharajas at the time when the Hebrew doctors were beginning to perfect the uses of nerve agent by adding to his cobra bite. Naboth's vineyard is the well of nerve agent just up from Aladdin's lamp on the thumb. Ahaz's castle, on the other hand, is a descendant of Jacob's well, the woman at the well, greater than our father Jacob, who gave us this well?, what's wrong with your hand? So Jezebel takes care of the issue one way or another and the money counted up by the specific exact placement and conviction for each and every point of nerve agent on the shoulder by the wrist becomes part of the kingdom managed by Israel. "Oh, Maharaja, you look so sad and tired, let me check your pulse and temperature, and Jezebel over there will start working on your elbow... now how in the world did the cobra bite you so far up your arm? You'll never make it..."

The bigs oppressed the small, the gumbies coming in from the fields from the real women, and then the bigs became so good at oppressing the small that they set up a production line to generate new smalls, all with delicately designed injuries and ladders keeping them as smalls, and then all the bigs got knocked out and went to hell from their own idiocies, den-up and lair-n-get-us or get drunk chasing chickens knocked out by a tree picked up by the phairie or, later, this isn't the stupidest thing you'll ever do in your life it's a great way to make money! Now the world is full of nothing but the model town smalls, and in the model town, they've all been models to begin with anyway.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

War in La Jolla, eighth year, eleventh entry

The pretend street friends have become extraordinarily easy to identify and work over. In normal life there are many interests and hobbies, paths of conversation and paths of "did that one get ya?" innuendos over the course of daily chatter. Once the idolatries have been stripped away then the remaining important items of conversation are sugar and herbage, mainly. Fifo2ed includes a discussion about "air moved in prayer" and the legitimacy of other topics of conversation. The pretend street friends have left to them only the hooks of sugar and herbage, and my diet is mainly my own and carefully protected. A long-running play on herbage has been to gain my association as a possible convenience store (supplier of herbage), then wait for a pre-pay, and then balk, for weeks on end. The most reliable method for me to glean the excuses out of the entire town is to pre-pay a $10 bag of herb. Has nearly never failed. They pre-spend the $10 and, as usual, I wait for weeks to see so much as a flake while the convenience store individual continues to make up whatever irrational excuses. No big deal to me. Perfect opportunity to exercise my preferences.

For example, when dealing with my convenience store, I do not prefer to announce to the entire world in large conversations that I am buying a $10 sack of herbage. I am not hiding my affinity for marijuana, but it is not a flaming component of my topical personality. I walk into convenience store, I buy a pack of cigarettes, a bottle of soda, and a $10 sack of herb. I do not stand and go flaming conversationalist about my bottle of Mt. Dew. I do not turn into hours long flaming conversationalist about my pack of cigarettes. Why would I go flaming conversation about my $10 sack of herbage? I don't. They do. Every time. It's pathetic. In the past I have attempted to assist them, by beginning with the usual topics of converatiion, weather, lunch, how's things?, etc., with all of the appropriate opportunity for the convenience store clerk to indicate whether supply is up or down, in or out, open or closed.

The pretend friends, however, make enormous grandeuristic displays about such minor technicalities as the size of the stock on the shelf, or the delivery schedule of the truck at the back door. I am the _CUSTOMER_. I do not give a sh_t about the delivery schedule of the truck at the back door. No customer ever does. Sure, maybe if the clerk and I spend time over weeks talking about weather and how's things? then perhaps some day it may be a passing news item that the delivery schedule of the truck at the back door is on or off. The pretend street friends, however, having only herbage remaining to them as their hook, have absolutely no concept of normal conversation. They have always been dead zeroed in on using every $5, $10, or even pinch of herb as a hook and line to try and create the kill scene. They have been, to each individual one, completely incapable of maintaining any pretends of normal personality or interests aside from flogging me over bud every time they see me.

Stupid. Just stupid.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Be sure to check mapfortu's journal here on Slashdot for running current updates to the material. Similar to commercial slots to present the episode of books.

War in La Jolla, eighth year, tenth entry

The MRI cannon is reading the words to some, the keyboard sniffer is relaying the words to others. The constant framing and mapping complex inside the sphinx. Box dropping on every event. Give another BEEP. BEEP could be anything as described in the Jericho and System sections of BSM. The games section of FIfo2ed was created to move away from the daily grind of the mob and describe their operation on the society in general.

When I give to you all the plague, when the tower of babel is finished, when we move from the ninth to the tenth Egyptian plague, the gemstones and pearls will likely not be anywhere near the top of my list of items to recover. I began the mine cart service only incidentally.

In the audio world there are the front mains, then surround and THX. In the neuro world there are the frontal lobes, then there is all of this world. The world did not begin as a farm for the bugs and dogs in hell. The world began as a terrarium with vegetative life, meat life, griffons, and bugs. The meat life developed an inferiority complex someplace. The world went to hell in a handbasket several times over, flipped upside down on its hands, tore of its own wings, resolved itself as drunks, and then began hacking and stripping on all of the trees. Then the world went to the dogs, then the dogs got kicked outside, then the dogs got convicted to the fortresses of the bugs. Then things got ugly and the motor-powered chainsaw came to be. Then the trees got blamed for the dogs, the bugs got boarded up down in the sub-basement, then the last of the real ladies ran out. The monkey chain gangs pressing paper taught you not to throw things out with the bathwater a long time ago, and now those are all the new sons of heaven you have; notice you do not make daughters of heaven in a similar fashion until after the drunks have taught to you all of the idiot games to be played around the firepit; good things the monkeys taught you how to wrap things up and heat them up a long time ago, now those are all the new ones you have left, and the older ones boil like an egg if you try to fix them that way. The pharaohs and neurosurgeons working on sequential neurorevolvers already know this, games to be played after missing, skipping, and dropping over completely rival anything the drunks have done in the juice pits next to the fire, and all of the sewing games, training games, make him walk and talk while knocked out games, those are all old tricks by the time, which time?, the time when the ladies ran out and the bathwater new ones are the only new ones you have. The end of Ninevah on the top-side of the trees, because now it's the motor-powered chainsaw and blaming the trees for the long lost dogs, all the bugs boarded up in hell, and the world moves only according to the money earned from the bugs in the basement using the bread box delivery system, like a push-button washer-dryer with Cinder-El-la's carriage inside. Mummy baby gets to go to hell, if he's a good prophet he'll tell you about it, if not he'll go with the rest of you. Motor-powered chainsaw cuts the trees down to the sand in less than a heartbeat, the book of Genesis ends as an attempt to end the madness and send everybody to hell once and for all. Gad wakes up a few thousand later. The Reader's Guide to the Sphinx.

By the time the motor-powered chainsaw cuts through the trees there already exist seven layers of human algae salad in denial, the entirety of the population is already walking paper routes between boxes, doing it the wrong way, making up excuses, going to hell. Particularly distasteful but very true Hollywood analogy: the end of the movie "Texas Chainsaw Massacre", where the possible escaping prophet is squeezing out nerve agent and seahorses, wounds in all the key locations, half-crazy from the idiot mobs (as Abram and Mel looked out from Sodom and Gomorrah with the Lord, nothing but Amorites and Perrizites covered the plain... ahem. ahem, ahem), and the mad massacre-er with the chainsaw continues to play on the background, unstoppable, incurable.

Consider the technological progression of paper, soap, thread, baklava, sewing combinations with human and sub-human body parts, mummified babies, cover-ups, scripts, scams, schemes, shell games, lies, all of that's so completely explored and exhausted and beaten to death by then, and that's before the trees hit the sand. Consider the movie Mary Poppins. Look, stupid, there is a remote control stage bird in that movie. That one is not a computer animation on the film. That is a real living moving remote control bird right there in that movie Mary Poppins. That was then. This is now. That bird right there would be enough excuse for anybody in the world from more than twenty feet and you know very well that it is a remote control bird right there in that movie. THEY HAVE ALL OF THE REMOTE CONTROL BIRDS, STUPID. Real life feathers are more like griffons. Your spouse is your interface to the remainder of the universe, not always entirely useful, but takes care of even those smallest of tasks that you just cannot perform. That is your spouse. Trees espouse birds with feathers. Real bird brains lay eggs. Real bird brains. When the tree espouses well enough then you have a self-packaging bird man, more than a simple layer of eggs. Then the bird-men get bored, stupid, lazy, and it all goes to hell from there. A long long long long long long time ago.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

War in La Jolla, eighth year, ninth entry

Subsequent events provide a fine opportunity for analysis of the level of complexity of the sphinx as it maps the predestination through life to hell. In the past I have discussed the arrangement of the Eiffel Tower of scripts. An eiffel tower is one law of moses, 144,000k people in all, wandering between six hundred some boxes either waiting for the master's voice to drop or shipping all of the witches to hell; a pyramid is a community of witches known to born, live, perform function, wither, get knocked out and shipped to hell reliably on time every time. An eiffel tower is 600 or so movie scripts arranged such that all members of all scripts time share and walk between them so as not to become too bored too long or stop drinking long enough to figure anything out and know too much; nobody knows anything, everybody goes to hell. Your local rainbowtard is your closest liaison to the last known person to be ever close to knowing anything way back in Sodom or Gomorrah. If they knew anything their job was terminated and the next person in that career path was delicately groomed to not know anything next time. Rainbowtards hate life in this fashion: they are locked in a lifetime of accidentally giving the best possible advice to their best possible friend or the nicest person they ever just met and within a few days or weeks that person ends up with a piano on their head. Life sucks like that. They are the closest last known person to ever have not known anything about it, don't ask, don't bother, please, it's not worth the time to explain that it happens to them all the time and you would never believe it anyway. 600 scripts of two or three hundred people each, 1200 to fifteen hundred core people, managing thirty or forty jobbies that _really_ don't know anything at all. Expand to make the whole set a full law of moses, one hundred and forty four thousand people, and that's the core runaround jericho mob circling any given major metro center in the united states. San Diego for example. Chutes and ladders up the I-5 and down the Torrey Pines then into the metro beast all day long, then back up the I-5, stop have lunch around Del Mar or UTC, take the scenic drive down the 52, kill homeless people and random targets (like me, for example) on the filter path down to Old Town, pick up the standard daily assignment in the usual daily practice of monitoring the usual areas and people, two shifts a day, wake up and do it tomorrow when the alarm goes off on the secret wire in the back of the head. Everybody goes to hell.

Anyway...

As the sphinx goes, there are key elements set up by the four real jokes, the babylonian kings which choreographed the whole thing and set the kernel to continue to rearrange and enforce nobody knows anything. I noted recently the core group of characters which was present in my visits to San Diego central jail. Most people end up getting "killed" long before they make it to the core center of the kernel of scripts and come anywhere close to knowing anything of what's really going on. When the gypsy could read the tarot cards the game was an interpretation of ali baba and the forty thieves to you, which card are you, which cards are around you, which way are the cards moving. Are you Christian? Are you Jewish? Which of Jacob's twelve sons are running you down, which cards are they? The tarot cards don't work anymore because they were based on the older system which began with musical chairs, a lingual and vocal system, and Sodom and Gomorrah now feature chlorine pools in the high school and earlier years, everybody's nose is all rearranged and messed up, the tarot cards don't work so well. Nowadays, if you want good steady work, you go cut hair, trimming sensations in the parlor is your way to read the cards.

In the yacht culture, in the boating industry, there will be an urban legend, like a story told around friends that you only hear if you go golfing at that club with that group of guys all the time, if you are in their lifestyle. The guys that gather at the last hole after everything is all done. In the yacht culture there's the poor fella with the nice yacht, but the tassles (if you are in the real yacht club and not just a buy-in timeshare member for the up to ten million option when qualified) are checkerboard. He bought both pairs from somebody else, they were special ordered from somewhere, they were going to look really great, reasonable price, not a scam or a steal. He was installing them, installed the first two checkerboard just to have a view from both sides and both ends, enjoying the work. Was on schedule to install the second pair, some morning went out for groceries, or to breakfast, or normal whatever he does early in the morning, on the way home the exhaust system on his car just blew up, fell apart, sounded like a fleet of lawnmowers from a block off. Somebody in the nice quiet neighborhood called and, s he was pulling into his driveway, the police arrived to ask about the noisy vehicle, maybe cite it for being out of emissions. In the process they busted into the garage, broke the locks on the bookcase, tossed one of the broken locks in between the shed and the garage. Took everything of value out of the garage. Opened the shed, took everything of value out of the shed. Opened the house, gutted the house, took all the jewerly, left only wallpaper, a pencil box, and the kitchen utensils. Opened the car, broke the handles, slashed the roof liner and cut the upholstery. Stole the car keys and busted the trunk open. Final explanation; somewhere somehow someway the FBI had a bad tip about cocaine somewhere. Sorry 'bout that. Some component of the script will also involve a translucent bag with blinkenlights.

That and the similarities which I recently noted in my particular walkthrough of the organ grinder in the kernel core of the scripts. When I am checked into the medical ward component route of the scripts then my medical ward always features the same cast of characters; notably both Max and Liam from music production Prodigy are always there.

The fellow that had delivered to me some very good leftover pizza from Sammy's Woodfried in the translucent bag somewhat struck me as the sort of fella that would be out cruising a yacht. He probably had no idea, likely on his way to sail that day, stopped off in La Jolla, had lunch, noticed the homeless guy and decided to leave the leftovers with the hungry.

So if you are, or if you know the fellow, in the yacht club with said checkerboard yacht, then know that the whole event was a complete setup and is the standard format for the sack in the sphinx day of atonement script system. That exact particular event scene and sack, with those particular characters and elements (including the characters and elements noted in recent days), are the key characters and elements in the ali baba and the forty thieves system, the key characters and elements in the "how to get jesus killed in less than four years and forty scenes", or the Forrest Gump movie of "here are four years and forty scenes of the different ways we use to get him killed", including the overall blanket of "nobody knows anything". Those are the key elements and characters which are closest to "nobody knows anything" and unraveling and piecing together the key details to somebody knows something. Those key elements and characters are changed around and replaced, and that exact same script of key elements and characters is used in near worldwide "why did that have to happen to me?"

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Here's how we get to the yacht club from yesterday. I was finishing all of the new repairs on my raft, alladdin's magic carpet, the comforter with all four frontiers bolted into it, t-shirts opened up and sewn to the stuffing inside the comforter. Having your work cut out for you; is going to take at least thirteen or fourteen lines to open the comforter up, tack in the t-shirt, and close it back down just to make it usable tonight. A full day's work. Four frontiers make a raft, Alladdin's magic carpet, the physical therapy needed by the maharaja on his pilgrimage after the cobra bit him too many times and his hand is beginning to swell (and, more modernly, takes a bunch of nerve agent from his pure cyanide princess to make that happen because they gon't get five or six thousand years playing around with the cobra anymore). By the time he fits all four frontiers in and makes it back he will have been through the other end of his pilgrimage, met and sat and drank with the prophet over in the hebrew lands, and then he will eventually, like me, find himself with some quieter time after the midst of parties celebrating his return (or, in my case, the next round of forty thieves kicking off the seven year sphinx cycle). He will begin attaching the extra tassles to his magic carpet as he tidies up this and that and the other around the house. I found myself recently re-roofing the cathedral bag, re-roofing the house, fixing the weathervanes and handles on the house, rebuilt the starter (again, this is not just somebody else's 409, this the the true Leu413), and had myself attached two of the four tassles to the magic carpet raft, checkerboard, just to have a look at the work from both sides and both ends. I had the matching pair of triple-tassles at the bottom of one of my paper carryall bags and, in the grudge tossing of my belongings, not only the bag of high end decorative materials was tossed but, matching the story of "remove anything of value", the matching pair of triple tassles for the "yacht", the boat, the raft, the magic carpet, were taken.

Like the fella from the yacht club, do you have one of those book catalog order books? Maybe I can find a new matching pair for this custom set of tassles. In the raid on the yacht club fellow, the raiding authorities, for "whatever reason" busted and threw away his matching pair of tassles for his yacht, nearly the same day he was planning to install them, if his exhaust hadn't blown and whoever it was that called in the condo units down the block hadn't called.

My tassles were picked up with a bunch of other high quality materials which were left from swatch and sample books around the area when a bunch of classy little upholtery and small furniture stores blew through and went away two summers ago. A bunch of the larger single tassles I had stuffed in the tin with the soap bottle. You may steal my soap but my soap would knock your ass out if you used it.

In the tossing of my house appears that the angel pin on the mailbox is able to stop police marauders gone mad. If the police are ever in line to toss your house, or if you are the fellow at the yacht club, quick stuff whatever is valuable into the mailbox. When police marauders go bonkers appears that the USPS holds up a hand to say "not in this box"; I yet have all the high quality swatch material which was locked up in the basement (behind my angel pin on my mailbox).

Adding about half hour after completing the entry...

The elite yacht club member should really like this. When he returns from his foray in jail ("oops, sorry 'bout that, wrong fella, wrong tip, don't mind if you talk to your insurance company, eh?"), he begins putting himself back together and, like today, somebody sneaks through his yard and vandalizes one of the tassles (standard antenna assembly type installations) that he did have mounted.

I walked down the alley and noticed that, when I had "parked" my vehicle outside by the bicycle racks and made my entry, somebody walked by and tore off one of the tassles from the triple tassle I had sewn to the corn. Complete coward faggitts.

Good match with the yacht club sequence. For me, is my daily life for eight years. EVERY time I leave my bags is the standard location (by the bicycle racks, not out front where the police always promise to cite me for "encroachment"), every time I leave my vehicle in a standard area and not risk being run down for loitering or encroachment or lodging, somebody flies by and vandalizes my vehicle. 90% of the vandalism damage to my belongings are this yearly sacking from the police; either to the med unit, the doctor eval, or the high power unit.

Probably so the doctors can get their chest x-ray and let the eunuchs know how to keep working on you.

HA HA HA!

You are the same 3000 miles and seven years away from the upstage as I was...

War in La Jolla, eighth year, eigth(c) entry

Recent articles concerning latest events in the previous five days, after nearly a month away from the entries altogether. 1 2 3.

The account of recent events also provides a brilliant display of the scripting system and the seven year program in the sphinx. The recent incident is a 100% parallel to my arrest in 2008. Behind Jonathan's, underneath the "NO LOITERING" sign on the stairs, eating lunch. The officer had arrived to talk with Dave English sitting in the corner and then, at the moment I finished my lunch, he drove past and proceeded to arrest me for loitering. That particular ticket never stuck anything anywhere, but the characters in the cells (the fellow with the shark tattoos, andretti, joseph lacrosse, curtis lowe or old james brown with white hair, the big tall guy with the small madonna tatted on his back, the blond dufus guy always waiting out in the day room after meals in the final hours of the final day going out, always was in the shower and missed the call to get back to cells, the remote control seagull (in 2008 I had figured it was a bird outside) arriving to scratch at the window and play with a metal tin can on the roof outside the small translucent window every damn day during day lock down (high control cells, three beds in a bunk, locked doors, I like it better that way or even in medical lock doors... I say prayer). Many of the other characters. The Living Dead series episode. The Bayou Hunters episodes. The Law and Order about the transgender boy girl and the dad showing up in the street with his sack cut open. Big Bob. Pepper. The guy with the Ozomatl shirt on the way out. The guy in the cell just before release window bending down like he's taking it. Andretti. The mountain man looking dude, which is actually also the guy that picked me up on the pilgrimage on the way to Superior, AZ. Morton Salt from BMI in Aberdeen and on post, he's been at many of the Tuesday night community suppers in La Jolla. I always see him around. The crew of bruthas talkin' it up about the beeyotches on the street in the cell at change-out. Same guys both times. Because this time is the end of the first year of the sphinx sequence according to what the paschal lamb is doing in the world. Eight years ago I was in Embarcadero with the initial forty thieves nutcase tweeker crew to begin with, then up to Old Town for a few weeks, and then up to La Jolla to meet the idiot crew running the streets up here, and then on to the loitering arrest.

Last year was the new forty thieves idiot crowd, Sparky, Spike, Scotty, Tom, McCleash (and he was around in the Gaslamp back in '07 at one of the weekly suppers), and the rest, plus the old ones still here from '07, Minn Mike, Roberto, Sally, and the fat chick with the fighter guys that were a problem in the previous two weeks for me. Then, back in '08, it was just after Christmas, because I had the new translucent bag (Jack's, a local high class restaraunt at the time, went down due to swindling management, usual story, nothing spectacular except the scene and the dining) with a flashing light in it, dropped off of a passing high-speed cyclist. I had that bag, the light, and the new pair of headphones for about a little while, maybe even up to Easter-Pentecost timeage here, and then I got sacked on that lunch break.

Saturday morning I was sacked by a bunch of the faggitts sneaking up behind me to whack off their dog and make it shriek and bark at me. This year I had a new translucent bag, from Sammy's woodfried, and the blinkenlights in it were the birthday decorative napkins which I had been using as wallpaper. The candles on the cakes, the size of the napkins, I had them stacked in the Sammy's bag such that both ends looked like they had lights in them. I even noted the similarity to myself in days recent, the last time I had a high class translucent bag with lights in the ends I got sacked with all my new christmas presents.

That and, in the recent year or so, a fellow arrives on occasion to ask if I need any laundry. Polite fellow, good manners, honest offer. But, with all of the dog attacks recently, and his strange schedule (initially near weekly to gain confidence, now lucky to see him in a month), I wonder if they don't hit their dogs with shock rods while covering the dog's face with a towel heated against my pants or something like that.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

You are all going to burn in hell.

In mid '07.... try to remember here, quit job at the end of '06, homeless early through '07 to pilgrimage in ... if only _I_ had the full journal history available to me. Maybe I quit job at end of '05. There was the arrest for the ticket in Embarcadero, I was in the park after dark watching KCs bag and some of the stuff from the other idiot crew, but they had lots of herbage. I had attended the court date and the registrar confirmed that there was no call and no record for me. The police double checked the excuse a few times and then took me in. That time I made it all the way to the video court lineup where Forrest Gump was playing, I saw the same lady attorney, and the same male attorney stepped from behind her back to impress me from over her shoulder when I was at a key point of decision. The gospel upon returning from that trip to Central was the same as today's gospel, about settling with your opponent quickly. At that time I did not yet know about ba-ra-ca-ca fools, but the concept of tethered obligation was already known to me even before the idiot crowd began running their dogs at me day and night.

War in La Jolla, eighth year, eighth(b)

And this is the projection... the town continues to hide around the corner, and over the hedge, and behind the window, and continues to peck and peck and peck, and continues to run the beastie pedo showoff (usually with pedo abuse, to use the pedo as an assault weapon making noise), for what?

To steal more? Already took everything of value, left the old bulk warehouse material as a grudge sign.

And what if the police _ARE_ called again? They have been nothing but argument and excuses the whole way, for all eight years, through these eighteen months of dog assault and beastiality pedo showoff, daily, nightly, full blast, 20000 cue cards daily, 20000 telephone calls daily.

And what's the point? You gonna steal the rest and toss me in jail again?

FUCKING FAGGITS. When I get that tenth plague you WILL KNOW BECAUSE YOU WILL BE ON YOUR WAY TO HELL!

One way or another, faggitts... I am going to smile to watch you pay. You are going anyway.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

War in La Jolla, eighth year, eighth(a) entry

To be more specific...

It is not so much what was taken, but what was left. Obviously a grudge job. The town showed eight years of all the big money, eighteen months of rampant dogsex pedophilia displays, six months of near nightly dog assaults, two weeks of paid roughs and fighters...

To separate the homeless man from his bags that they may root through them. What is left? The pencil box, the bag of kitchen utensils, _all_ of the old fabric, and the decorative paper napkins used as wallpaper decorations for layered paper carryall bags. That is what is left.

Left the wallpaper, but took the glue. Couldn't even leave the soap dish and container used to poke soap, but did leave a couple (not all) of old Dr. Bronner's soap wrappers (I had kept all of them which I had purchased). Left the one spool of old thread and the container of clippings (to be used as a tassle, supposed to include the gemstones in it... a la Joe Pesci in some gangsta movie with his wife, Casino, maybe), but no needles. Left the stack of coffee heat shields used a protector for the sewing line scissors (as opposed to large fabric scissors), with the fingernail file in it (the matching fingernail file was in the leather M. Julian coat), but not the sewing line scissors. Specifically took all of the sewing materials, except for the last button (ripped off of the prayer book compartment of the backpack), but left the spool of forty year old thread (out of the box, thread itself, well, we have 500 ton spools laying around in old Egyptian tombs, there's no telling how old any given spool in the market is).

Obviously a grudge job. Not some random recycler going down the alley to take whatever was laying out. Obviously a grudge job.

And you just go ahead and look at history. Just try to put that stuff back together and give it back to me in two days on my (certificate) birthday (the rooster tail embedded to the taint on my navel reads closer to eight thousand years). I will happily stick my heel so far up your ass... it makes me laugh waiting for it.

In jail, was able to see this movie, or series "the Living Dead". Zombies rushing on some people trying to make a prison compound their home in a world of zombies.

You know what that is? Those are the first groups sent up by the original Gad after he woke up and put himself back together. That's what the surface had come to after the true monastic sorts finished the pyramid projects and the even bigger idiots had moved downstairs further with the phairies. Gad had to clean all of that up. But they never dropped their voice either, so they had to use guns and bludgeons and stuff.

See, when I put a spike through your brain, it will be labelled "Tenth Egyptian Plague". I am currently working on the ninth, listening to all of your excuses for your capped brains and voices.

http://mapfortu.wikidot.com/

Starship Troopers is the recollection of signing the phairies into the apartment dwelling indian reservation known as hell... you keep up their drink supply.