What's Going On

“The only joy in life is to begin.”  Cesare  Pavese
“It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”  Mark Twain   

   

                     What went on in Mena, Arkansas in the dead, undercover center of the Eighties defies description, but is paramount in terms of defining the terrain.  In the parapolitical arena when examining the deviant elite, the disease is nothing, the terrain everything.  It’s where we’re going, how we got here, and along the way all the days and nights between stations.  Here is where we will pick apart the eldritch octopus that has seeped into the lives of so many at such crucial junctures in our shared secret history, unexamined by the media, unconnected by the mass consciousness.  You’ve come to the place where everything means something and where there are no coincidences, only dots not joined and happenstance unexplored.  Hopefully this can serve as a small nexus point where we all begin taking responsibility back, my small thimble tossed into a tsunami of  excellent work by Jeff Wells at Rigorous Intuition and Mae Brussell, late of World Watchers International, the two standardbearers. They more than any others are the ones who first hoisted the black flag for me.  We owe this to ourselves, and to Gary Caradori, to Terrance Yeakey, Paul Wilcher, to Dorothy Kilgallen, Paul Wellstone.  We owe this to Danny Casolaro, and to all those who’ve stayed up too late, peered too far over the edge, examined too closely, and not let go when time, circumstance, and well being dictated otherwise. We owe this to Mae. And to Don Henry and Kevin Ives, boys swept up in the gales of history one humid August 23^rd night in 1987 on train tracks that led both literally and figuratively straight into the thundering black heart of Mena and Amerika itself.  Blood on the tracks indeed. We owe this to the many whose names we’ll never know. This is for everyone everywhere ever whose temperament and personality have been pushed to a point where they said ‘no more.’  And with that I think the paraphrased words of Noel Gallagher will do just fine for now; “I think I know but I don’t know why/Questions are the answers you might need/ all my people right here right now, you know what I mean……”  

                   Placed under the microscope, you can remora the crimes of Mena to the whole putrid junta shebang.  Here’s Iran-Contra.  Oops there goes 9-11.  What’s a little human(child) trafficking between friends, right DynCorp? Or is that the Finders?… Perhaps a little of JFK’s skull on the side; some doctored autopsy photos, some missing brain….I’m sure they thought it was amazing the way they could manipulate Tippit’s body like that.  Then there’s their whole M.O., revealed over and over again.  Anthrax poisoning seems a particular favorite. Funny how Russell Welch, Arkansas investigator supreme of Mena strangeness, was targeted with the same military grade as were Daschle and Leahy, the two main antagonists of the passage of the Patriot Act. Two incidents and three people separated by 14 years and hundreds of miles, but for chuckles they’ll always have the fond memories of being tagged by Fort Detrick for the higher cause. The filthy blanket of National Security validates all.  But should we stop at 3, because there’s always that pesky tabloid publisher in Boca Raton that put out there those drunken pictures of the Bush girls…Time after time, decade after decade, we see the same names surface again and again. Nixon’s dirty tricks of Segretti lead straight to Rove. One investigative committee after another bought off, compromised, squashed. Kerry, Ben-Veniste, Powell. People who could’ve made a difference at the time, but didn’t. Chemical zombie(“You don’t use Ambien? Everybody here uses Ambien.”) Colin Powell now trying to cheap shot and retrofit his way into the morally upright intrigieren is particularly underhanded, galling, and loathsome.  Rumsfeld selling poison and calling it NutraSweet. Cheney selling slavery and abuse and calling it capitalism and freedom, the American flag turned into a goddamn fraternity pin.

                    Next we have the time honored thuggery of the small plane hypothesis, which has worked on everyone from Hale Boggs to Mike Connell, Cheney and Rove’s vote-altering guru, with Gary Caradori, JFK Jr, Paul Wellstone and Lord knows who else in between.   On the white collar non-wetwork side we have the economic muggings of the BCCI/Silverado scandals of the Eighties that dovetail neatly with the drugs and weapons corridors straight into South America, not to mention the 40 million missing that formed a nice adjunct to the network of ritual abuse and trafficking of children that was the Franklin scandal that will be delved into more thoroughly at a later date.  The icing on the cake is the 2.3 trillion dollars that went unaccounted for on September 10^th,2001, cited by none other than Don Rumsfeld.  But that was simple accounting error, right?  Right.  Ask yourself what kind of dark operation could 2.3 trillion dollars buy?  How many gagged mouths can be optioned for that? Why after 9-11 was there not one firing, demotion, or even the slightest reprimand? Because you promote and advance so the grade of security classification gets steeper, and the punishment grows ever more severe should the desire to squeal or whistleblow become overwhelming. If that piece of cajoling doesn’t work then comes the bribe, and finally the bodies. They start to hit the pavement with terminal velocity.  It works the same every time.                           “And where I live the game we play is compromise solution…”                        Not to forget the blackmail.  You wonder how many light-blasted sweaty faces of congressmen, senators, media personalities, even vice presidents and higher graced the cozy inner confines of Gary Caradori’s briefcase before it went missing in that 4-foot cornfield outside Chicago in the wee small hours of July11,1990. His Piper went down at 2:40 a.m.  His 8- year-old son was with him, but what’s one more innocent’s blood on their hands anyway? It’s what they live for in their perpetual Samhain.  Makes you wonder just what went on in those shadowy Embassy Row backrooms after the main party guests had filtered away before the start of another Rock Creek Park Horror Show. Most important is the realization we all didn’t just magically arrive here suddenly with no money in our pilfered pockets and a whole lot of wondering what happened. It’s been a progression.  We’ll be revisiting all this and more in the days and nights to come,  gathering power and momentum as we all sail on into the dark rift of  2012.