Monday, October 10, 2016

Another Just-Happened Traffic Accident


Not, not traffic accident that I was involved thankfully. But we have already done this one, read, Car Crash of the Fat People posting. This time it was another Unfavored demographic group as  the vehicle occupants, negroes being featured. (Rare here). Three of them standing on the adjacent traffic island with their vehicle with the front end smashed up in mid-intersection. Somehow their vehicle didn't make the L hand turn off Highway 97 (Green Ave crossing) and smashed into something else, though I did not see what it was. I was held up at the traffic same traffic control with enough time to see one of the negroes flipping his dreads L and R in some kind of animated head movements. The police arrived behind me and put on their (de rigeur) flashing red and blue lights, and I managed  to get through with minimum delay. Funny how these just-happened accidents "happen" to Unfavored demographic groups.

All of the above was preceded with heavy vehicular gangstalking, especially at every turn.

A call from in-town (Victoria) brother at 0030h. The news was that our father died some 60 minutes earlier. And before any readers go sentimental over such, please be apprised that living in the First Feral Family means that all of them are quislings, and now one less. He has been in a care home for the past seven years, and with Alzheimers. He didn't have a clue who I was for most of those years. I didn't think the perps would terminate him for all the abetting he has done on their behalf for all of my 62 years. But as they have been grinding down his cognitive faculties, for at least the past 15 years, I suppose his run is done, and the thankless perps have mercifully taken him away. As if his First Feral Family treachery wasn't enough to swallow, my indifference runs deeper, read on. (Unconventional proviso; assuming this whole deal  hasn't been spoofed).

Getting slapped in the face by him countless times, very often in evening home tutoring situations when I "just didn't get it", (arithmetic then), aged 9 thru 12, put a decided chill on any kind of parental bond. (Though he wasn't alone in this department). In my teens I came to reject his obsessive, ossified and unrealistic perspectives, one by one, hence more emotional disassociation. He always figured I should  be a medical doctor even if  my grades started going down after age 12, the curse of learning disabilities with my ADD-Inattentive subtype. (Not that any remotely clinical cause was ever suspected by him or my mother). When I came  to later understand the whole of pre-med studies culture, the compassion component, and the rarefied smarts it took to get admitted to medical school, it just astounded me. And it still does; how could any parent be so totally out of it as to the glaring discrepancy between my mediocre abilities (and grades) and the decidedly accomplished level it takes to get to medical school?  Well, he was totally clued out, and as well, caught up in his own obsessive loop without room for any reality validation. Add in later obsessive and low-reality based advice I received over the following decades, and he was very much on my "auto reject" information filter.

Anyhow, his accomplishments were there in his earlier years; a wonderful figure and watercolor painting artist, though he largely gave this up by 1970 for reasons I have yet to understand. (And if fact, the best times I had with him were when aged 4 to 8, drawing and painting with him). In a rough Welsh coal mining  town he won a scholarships all the way to Cambridge University, UK. He was a RAF navigator on Lancaster bombers in WWII (Squadron 166 for war buffs) who won a George Medal for his heroics that brought a crippled aircraft back to safety. Then a PhD in Geology from McGill, Montreal, the beginnings of the "lost years" the perps laid on me, and I am still trying  to find out where I was and what was done to me. He did original geological exploration in the Sukunka region of British Columbia, that later became centered by the Tumbler Ridge community for coal mining. His geological work was for the BC government, and his survey treatise with accompanying maps was accepted into the BC Provincial Archives.

After he tired of government work, he went consulting on coal exploration, though I sense that he didn't work well in a collaborative environment, that is, engaging with others. He then worked claims on his own and that proved to be of sufficient worth which paved his retirement to a comfortable level. All his $40k/year fees and expenses of the care home never came from his capital. Anyhow, the whole deal is over for him, and living in the "cognitive-gone" land wasn't any kind of quality of life. I hope to never repeat that experience, not that I have near the cash to do so.

One interesting vignette related to him and what I now know as the "lost years" aged 2 to 5. About 20 years ago when I was near mid-forty, he mentioned that he taught me Gaelic, his native born language in S.Wales. I was totally flummoxed then as to why I had no clue as to why I could not even recall his language instruction/interaction, let alone any of the language. Well, this must of been during the "lost years", aged 2 to 5 y.o. as I since came to know them when the perps let me in on this component of this despicable travesty in 2004.

A day at the winery; one of the mainstay co-workers has gone into a terse grumpy state, and doesn't fail to mention my failings, the odd time I get stiffed with forced "forgets". Fucking tiresome to say the least, and haven't we done this before in the long past?

At the winery job I wasn't kept as scrambled and forgetful as yesterday that goodness. Perhaps this was faux (planted) "reaction" to my father's aforementioned demise. Believe me, I wasn't thinking about it very much, and if the notion was planted, it passed by quick and without any emotional registry. The perps had me in mortal fear of doing work there of late, because so much new was coming at me, and much of it inconsistent at times. Today, more training and patient instruction. Wonders never cease, good and bad.

Sunday on on this Thanksgiving weekend.

Studying alternate cancer treatments; Gaston Naessens developed 714-X cancer treatment in combination with his somatid theory and extra powerful microscope and got hauled into court in Quebec in 1989, and won handily. (Read "The Trial and Persecution of Gaston Naessens" by Christopher Bird). This anti-cancer treatment is available in Canada but one has to get it under a special permission on "compassionate grounds" when all other treatments fail. (You know, cut, burn, poison and otherwise hammer the piss out of one's immune system). BUT, the manufacturers of 714-X state that it is best used in early cancer diagnoses (that would be me, prostate cancer as of 06-2016). Like WTF; can we say government sponsored atrocity, one cancer patient at a time? What am I supposed to do? Depart from Canada and go to Mexico for a Canadian developed and manufactured anti-cancer treatment program. Guess so. It just pisses me off that the intense political machinations over getting cancer treatments are in my face, but of course this has been going on for 60 years or more.

Anyhow, I work tomorrow and so I should be posting this for the week.

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