Once, I told my Uncle Wayne that I was studying Japan and its culture, and he was like, “As long as it ain’t Africa!” That was my Uncle Wayne on my mother’s mom’s side, because her father’s brother is also, UNCLE WAYNE, and he has, at one time or another, owned nearly every part of my county and much of Atlanta, too.
My “mother” stole her Yankee husband from his 25-year length marriage when she was his student in Law School at Georgia State. I once wore her cowboy boots to his son’s wedding party and got naked and in the hot tub, all by myself, and nearly passed out from being so drunk and naked in front of everyone… because that’s just what we did in Atlanta; that’s how the parties ended: drunk, naked, and in the hot tub. But this was in TEXAS and I didn’t exactly know how conservative it is there then… I was like 16 or 17? Oh, at this event, I also posed with my stepfather’s ex-wife for a photo in the day time. 😉
My Yankee stepfather came and got me from New York City one time in the summer between my junior and senior years in high school, when I was at a painting program at the School of Visual Arts up there. He came and got me from his homeland because my grandmother was dying; she had called for me on her deathbed and I came to her from New York. When I showed her some of the art I had done up there, she couldn’t really see it, because she didn’t have her glasses on in her hospital bed; but she smiled and cooed and nodded and said she liked it anyway. This was the last time I ever saw her.
My mother was gifted a house, an abortion, an education at The University of North Carolina (Chapel Hill), presumably a car(s), dresses for her beauty pageants, vacations to Hawaii, college summers in France, one of the largest, most decadent weddings my town has ever seen, a reception wherein she and my father left it in a helicopter, childcare for my sister and I at the local Montessori, and placement at the top of the (social) heap for all time, being the first-born Princess Daughter of James D. Mason, of the Chamber of Commerce, Georgia House of Representatives, and Snellville City Council(s), and a Jaycee Man of the Year nearly at the same time as Elvis Presley got his. I also think we’ve got a funeral plot in the graveyard that this grandfather, Jimmy, donated to the city and is currently buried in.
I also think my grandfather, Jimmy Mason, who was on the Ports Authority, for the STATE of GEORGIA, was murdered, in spirit, name, and person. And there’s more to it all than that, too.
He was a Freemason Brother, who worked in business, real estate, and politics with his actual brother, Wayne MASON, and they ran the shit out of this here million-horse town. Descendant of Sheriffs and founders of systems (one Ivy Lee, on of the inventors of Public Relations and toady for the Rockefellers) and one little Native squaw, it was Jimmy’s job to convince foreign governments and businesses to bring their goods in through the port of Savannah. I once met a young woman named Savannah who went to my mother’s old high school and was, shall we say, “interfered with” by her father, in the that very graveyard wherein my grandfather is buried. You know, the one that was his land at first, which he donated to his city.
Jimmy died on June 5th, 1998 (a day on which I have been called to go to court twice now) and never spoke to anyone in our family about his death: it was “very sudden”. He “fell” in Brazil with his “coworkers” when on a trip there tryna convince Brazilians to bring their shit through our Savannah Port. I say shit, because of several reasons, but first, I have to say a few things for foundation: in representation, there is such a thing as Quadrant Analysis, as in the top of anything visual/physical is the mental space, and the bottom is the sexual space. Likewise and historically, the left is the feminine space, and the right is the masculine space. So, it could then be concluded that each corner of anything is associated with either the minds of men or women, or the sex of men and women. Therefore, if one were to look at a map of the U.S., the Florida Quadrant is the Male Sexual Space. That’s why it’s a droopy dick: the “pizza” in Florida (and America) is both hot and cold, if you catch my symbolic drift…
So, then, Savannah is kinda down there, near this “male pubic zone”, and is kinda like some weird asshole-port right above the dick. Aaaaaaaaaand Hilton Head is RIGHT THERE. Very close by (as is Jackall Island and all those shady white ppl places to hide out at while at the beach…) So, let me tell you another story while I tell you this other story…
Once, when I was young, this Grandfather of Fortune and Fame (I did grow up with a silver spoon and like, two silver cups???) took me and just my boy cousin Austin-when there were two other, GIRL cousins as well-down to the beach. I do not remember this. I do not remember ALL of this… I DEFINITELY DO REMEMBER being sooooooo excited by this when it was decided upon that night after Jessica’s baby beauty pageant: how my grandfather had CHOSEN only me (and Austin) that night to go on this beach trip. I remember waking up at like 5 am, because that’s how my Papa did it, and then we went to Waffle House for breakfast (the actual one is now closed and just sits there, vacant and haunting me, at one of the busiest intersections in town).
And that’s it. That’s all she wrote. I remember nothing else about this trip, though I was so excited and my mental atmosphere so emotionally charged that I recall all else previous to this moment of Waffle House breakfast. I also remember many other trips down to Hilton Head, including the drives and approaches onto the island and all that happened down there. My memory is quite voracious and my emotions were super heightened about this particular trip and I am CERTAIN I would have remembered, excited as I was.
I’m actually pretty sure my grandfather, of fortune and fame and father to us all, drugged me with his Masonic knowledge of chemicals and potions and whatnot. I’m pretty sure he (and his brother in arms and wands, and money and business, and all the worst magic-my Uncle Wayne), did some sick shit to me down there. Like, more than a bit of it, too. I actually feel, based on the way I react to the movie The Butterfly Effect, that he had Austin and I fuck? I’m also certain, based on what some plants told me in Hilton Head one time, that he and my Uncle Wayne double penetrated me on that trip when I was like 4 years old. Yep, some plants on the island where it happened, told me my grandfather and his brother had a fun little sharing-of-my-baby-body, brother-moment there once to seal some Satanic deal over my short-circuited body…
And all this bad stuff they did, messing with my “port”, that early and under such circumstances, has had many adverse effects, but my least favorite is that I CANNOT HAVE AN ORGASM, and there seems to be no apparent reason for this (other than this obvious one). I’m not uptight, I’m not a prude, I’m physically intact… It is seriously just some mental/energy-block, left-over-magic fuckshit that a truth teller once told me came from “being molested” but not remembering it. Aaaaand, this is actually a typical situation in Satanic Ritual and Freemason Cult Rites, to fuck with your daughters’ and granddaughters’ “circuits” like this, for the evil purpose of dominance and plugging them into your bad magic matrix by making them into magical sex-slave proxies.
And now, I have a very hard time excreting, too, because none of this “shit” (all my subconscious SHAME) is moving in me. ☹ And I feel like it’s all tied up in the idea that I was tied to the port of Savannah and used as some sort of living “horcrux” for whatever human trafficking shit is going on down there in my name. And so, all the (Brazilian) sex slaves that are coming through Savannah ARE me, and are kept BY me and IN me in some weird sexual-Eskimo-sister style pact neither of us was down for or was aware of. And all of this is wrought on us and society through the medium of magic and by the use of dramatic ritual, linking me to them and conflating my life with theirs, for the purpose of holding down that entire sick system, in my very body and through my own sex life.
Because, while my dear grandfather was doin’ deals above board as some political/business liaison with Japan, and the Islamic countries with coastline, and Brazil, Australia, and South Africa or whatever-for America via our fair state of Georgia, he was ALSO secretly doing deals of death and destruction and dastardly enslavement for many helpless people around the world via MY VAGINA. Yes, using Masonic magic and me and my sexuality as magical ballast, my Papa was secretly bringin’ in sex slaves to the U.S. through the port of Savannah at the time that this “industry” was restructuring itself around computers and more modern shipping systems in the 70s and 80s. And he was bringing in lots and lots o’ them, and very nearly on the government dime. Takin’ ‘em off the boats, puttin’ ‘em on the trains, and shipping them everywhere in America-to all the little hellhole brothels that exist on every corner of your fair city, just underground.
And I feel that magically, what was done to me was a very basic binding, albeit a very Satanic, evil one; a ritual akin to the sexual dissociation and breaking down of a personality and mind and will in experiments done on mindslaves of the likes of MK Ultra experiments. Between two (Freemason) brothers (as is wont to be the case), my Uncle Wayne and his brother, my grandfather, Jimmy Mason, used me, and my energy, and my sex, and my body and vagina and life because they just wanted to make money. Also, I’m pretty sure once you’re in the Freemason Bad-Wizard Gang Cult, they basically own your balls with langlock magic and blackmail galore, and you’ve just gotta do whatever sick shit they say. And, basically, all this “Your Body, My Choice” shit has already been so much the way it is anyway. And all my/these Blade-Runner-Style “implanted memories” are really just residual side effects of actual sick energy work that Satanic fucks ritually and routinely do to kids, usually theirs. Because the “fallout” of what happened betwixt my cousin and I down in Hilton Head that time, is that we had a lil weird thing happen when we were still young.
It was super, extra weird; like, many layers of weird. First, it went like the Blade Runner implanted memory bit, with his showing me his and my not showing him mine. But then, it got weirder, because after this, and I don’t exactly know why or how this happened, but somehow this instance came to the attention of our other two cousins, my sister and his. And for some reason, I guess we felt we needed to defend the veracity of our claims or something in some sort of kid court with all us cousins and his sister, the eldest, as “judge”. I don’t remember what happened, but somewhere in all this I lied. I don’t know what I lied about, don’t know what there was to lie about, but it came about that Austin’s sister, my oldest cousin Jessica (of the baby beauty pageants and named essentially the prostitute name in the Bible) “ruled” in my favor in this kid court or whatever. But remember: somehow, I had lied. And yet, it was Austin who was ashamed and dejected and put out, even though he wasn’t wrong or anything and if we hadn’t been trying to reenact whatever happened to us in Hilton Head in an attempt to “deal” with the massive, repressed memories we “didn’t have” (our subconsciouses did know, though, because the body keeps score), we would have just been doing dumb, and a little illicit, kid stuff.
So, what “happened” to Sean Young in the movie Blade Runner, happened to me in real life. I put that in quotes because, as the Blade Runner plot goes, these you-show-me-yours-I’ll-show-you-mine memories of hers were implanted, or rather downloaded, because she is actually a Replicant (robot). This mirror of Sean’s character’s unreal memories as my real memories has always rested uncomfortably in my mind, but recently I’ve come to see the whole thing as a different light on a horse of a different color.
While media like Blade Runner may just be “stories”, there is an argument to be made that these stories in the media still come from a place of authenticity: our collective (un)consciousness. And so, while what happens to Ms. Young in Blade Runner is not “real”, her experience of false memories is still worth considering with regards to the larger narrative of society, and my own life, because it came from somewhere. And really, I feel like the device of her memories being “planted” and other Replicants having them too is just a way of expressing how those same memories of mine are really just common, ubiquitous aftereffects of something that happens to a lot of kids in a lot of regimented, stylized, Satanic ritual.
And all of this feels the same as when the trolls that my grandfather brought back from Norway for my cousins and me, are the same creepy one as the Norwegian Troll Pierce Hawthorne makes use of to scare Troy in the TV show Community. You know, that demon doll thing that “starts” all those fires. Yeah, that one; my Papa gave my cousins and I each one, and I KNOW it’s the same one because this thing has such a distinctive demon face and just a terrible, terrible energy. And this parallel also feels like some sort of arm of the Satanic program run on kids of Freemasons and the Illuminati and other ancillary dark entity groups, just like my weird Blade Runner memories are just some kind of generic experience that many kids have when trying to deal with the repressed memories of actual ritual abuse by all these old, evil, Freemasons. ☹
So yeah, I think this fucking guy, my fucking mother’s father, was some sort of secret spy, assassin, sex-slave-hustlin’, Freemason agent, who used me in his nefarious plans and I have figured it all out and now I am come to destroy it all!!!
YES, in a lot of ways, I feel like I have to “kill” my family; not only for the sake of my sex life (which is very important to me as sex is one of the driving and connective energies of life and a locus of combustion for my creative engine) but for the sake of the world. We are the Freemason Mason family of Gwinnett, and our blood is filthy with dirty sex, dirty land deals, dirty politics, dirty money and dirty, dirty shit all around this county; and while I will not physical kill anyone ever (unless they are trying to kill me), I will try as I might in the spirit realm to purge this world of my blood and my blood’s blood.
Because the thing is, when my Grandfather was murdered (with “just” the magic that made him fall, or in shadow under a Brazilian Freemason temple roof with a Tubal Cane, or in the library with the rope) on foreign soil, in 1998, ten years after he had quit the “land biz” (real estate is another sex-slave magic-mirror-proxy-system used to anchor the human trafficking trade as land is essentially female flesh) with Wayne, his brother, and ten years after IIIIIIIIIII was born, he was really just executed by his own guys for tryna “get out of the gang”. Like, GOT HIM; put a cap in his ass, street-thug-style execution… except with old, white, men making money working bad spells on the unwitting populus and each other instead of like, cocaine and AK47s. ☹
But what happened to my Papa is of cloth like this: one of the bad-spy-guys went rogue, and decided to sell the farm before the shit got too deep, and the other bad-spy-guys got mad and wanted a chance to win their money back (and also to make sure he stayed silent), so, they knocked him off, told the women and children a lil diddy, and then named shit after him. Like the FACILITY in SAVANNAH wherein they are takin’ these people off the foreign, overseas boats where they’re sealed up in SHIPPING CONTAINERS for weeks and putting them onto the trains that lead them to their “new lives” of daily rape and eventual murder and demise and dissolution in giant vats of acid! And this place is called the Mason Intermodal Transfer Facility and is totally in bed with the Georgia Ports Authority and bears MY NAME: Mason. ☹
And, though my mother may not “know this”, she knows it. She does. At least now that I’ve TOLD THE BITCH, she should see it, because the Freemasons and their cronies? Not such good actors, though not from lack of trying, I understand. From a dream I had and other media, I believe these fools try to tap into DRAMA MAGIC more than just in their diddling-their-kids rituals to do a lot of their nastiness. Buttttttt they’re really not trained for dramatic acting like that, and I doubt they’ve held up such a good front in front of my “mother” now that they know I’m talking to everyone, so, so loudly, about their dirty, dirty tricks. 😉
So, my “mother” needs to go. Tracey Mason needs to exit. She, too, is a sex-slave-anchor, mirror-magic-reflector for all of this, but she is too banal and insipid a person, and too blinded by all the flattery and favor in her former years as Princess Mason, daughter of the King, to see any of it. She is just deeper in the shit and has snorted the party line harder and has just gone further backwards in space and time, and deeper down into Hell, to the demonest dick, and sucked that shit dryyyyyyyy. And I know, because I heard it one time, in Hilton Head, behind the door of her one bedroom condo down there, when I slept on the couch while they fucked in the only real bed in the place. Because this Yankee fuck she took from another woman?? He was ITALIAN. Like, from the demon-dog-dick country of child-molesting Vatican fame; you know, the snake-with-two-heads wasteland that’s down there fuckin’ the Mediterranean and kicking the shit out of Sicily? And let me tell you, that bitch thought she was doing my Italian stepdad such a fuckin’ FAVOR fuckin’ him because he “wasn’t getting laid by his current wife”, who was some sort of frigid fundamentalist who thought that sex was only for making babies.
So, yeah, my mom and her “love life”? A front for the Freemason branch of human trafficking in Atlanta. And really, it gets worse, because it actually gets very Hamlet, really: because how Hamlet’s mommy marries his Uncle, formerly HER brother in law and erstwhile brother to the dead (murdered) King of Denmark, my mom and her Uncle, my grandfather’s brother and my Uncle Wayne, are like some May-December incest-couple running around down here on the Atlanta Political/Business/Real Estate Circuit. Plus, my father and my Uncle Wayne have the same initials and, really, come from the same family name, the Moores. AND, one time, just before I found my current partner, I fucked a guy named Wayne, whom I met at the gas station, who had dated a Tracey for like 13 years before this. My mother’s name is Tracey. She is a Superior Court judge here in “her” Gwinnett County, where I live, and which my murdered-by-his-brother(s) grandfather and his brother basically owned.
Now, let me tell you some stuff about Gwinnett County. It is one of the largest counties in Georgia, and it is basically the most diverse and fastest-growing county in America for like two or three decades. We have lovely parks and good roads and lots of different kinds of people, places, and things. We are a suburb, basically, of Atlanta, in the Northeast Region, or where the Male Mind is for Atlanta, or like, you know, 2 o’clock. So, it’s “kind of a big deal”, if you know. And I know. I do. I get around and talk to people and see the land. Our water comes from Lake Lanier, or the creepy haunted lake in North Georgia. You know, the one where all the black people lived peaceably in Oscarville, that were then told to GET OUT of their nice, prosperous, black-people town north of Atlanta, because the white men (my Uncle Wayne) wanted to flood it to feed Gwinnet County water…
Yes, my Uncle Wayne is responsible for the system that takes water from haunted-ass Lake Lanier wherein they never moved the black bodies from their “colored cemeteries” and we here in Gwinnett be drinkin’ water that is touching those graves… ☹ Also, I know some about them segregated graveyards. I’ve seen this shit “in action”: cemeteries in Hall County that are split down the middle: jagged, unmarked stones on one side and perfectly cut and carved, albeit old, grave markings on the other side for the “masters”.
So, yeah, in some way, we’re drinking water that at some point is mighty close to dead slave bodies as well as dead, free, black men and women who lived in Oscarville before it was just flooded over by, like I said, All the Old White Guys (like my UNCLE WAYNE).
And, IIIIII live in Lawrenceville, the heart of Gwinnett County, the SEAT. Also, if you look at a map of Lawrenceville, right in the middle, the way the roads come together in the center of downtown, near city hall and shit, it kinda looks like a man, sort of the way Atlanta looks a bit like a turtle… And since Lawrenceville begins with LAW and since the Court House is located here and I walk by it all the time, and since my MOTHER works there and sits all high up there on her “throne”, and since I’m a crazy person/genius spirit detective, I figure that Lawrenceville is some sort of mirror-magic town for the LAW or something.
There was once some crazy lawsuit here about Playboy wherein someone sued someone over the photos of the girls and then someone got shot??? Also, apparently, this county, before my Papa and his brother “cleaned it up” (aka, shooed the dirt under the rug and into MY shadow, where they could control it and profit off of it), used to be really lawless. Back in the day, most of the cars stolen in Atlanta were brought to chop shops up here, to Gwinnett County. And the worst prisons were here, too. One time, back in the day, many, many male prisoners here broke their own legs with sledgehammers to avoid the back-breaking, unfair, and hazardous work they had to do as wards of this fair state. How awful, right??? Right… Also, one time during Prohibition, the Sherrif (probably my ancestor) and his cronies shut down a bootlegging operation only to take the confiscated equipment down the road to their friend’s barn and re-set-up shop under the protection of their lawless lawfulness.
Anyway (JEEZE!), I first looked at a map of this man-of-law street-person that is the heart of downtown Lawrenceville, and I found that at his heart, is a roundabout right across the street from where my mom once lived. The 7000 block, right in the middle of this nice, new neighborhood, just recently built. So, I went there and saw that this was not the usual pretty roundabout, with trees and flowers and flowering trees that there are in the neighboring roundabouts just next door. This “heart of Lawrenceville” roundabout is sort of forlorn and intimidating because it is really just a ring of tall bushes around the perimeter and then, once I made my way inside these, I discovered that… there is nothing. Suspiciously nothing; just… empty ground. Like, just dirt and some rocks and not even weeds growing in all the unabated sunshine… Seemed weird and wasteful to just leave it empty, so I “planted” a little stick I had been caused to notice and so picked up on my way there.
Later, when I chanced to pass this place by again, *someone* had run into the low, brick wall that made up the base of the embankment of these bushes around their empty ground that are the main “decoration” of my Heart of Lawrenceville Roundabout. I felt pretty good about this, I’m not going to lie, because it is all part of my plan. You see, in the way my brain works, this is all this way for a reason and I think I can draw it all together now, starting with working backwards from the past.
Since car bodies are symbolically analogous to human bodies, and Gwinnett County was where these stolen cars from Atlanta were “dismembered”, I feel it is safe to say that somehow, this county was safer to do that in than most other counties. The lawless way the police and jails operated here, let criminals know, on the down low, that crime was “protected here”, or at least more tolerated. And since these “bodies” were stolen, and then used, and then disassembled and sold for parts, it can be concluded that symbolically and in the side-along shadow-world of crime and theft and bad magic and human trafficking, the same was being done here, too, with actual bodies.
In a similar vein, the water, aka EMOTION, we drink here in Gwinnett, provided for us by the government, my Uncle Wayne, and cursed-ass Lake Lanier with its unmoved graves of black men and women, is similarly deathly and “stolen” and spiritually illegal, if you will; especially given Georgia’s history. And since Bipolar Disorder, which I “have”, is essentially an emotional disorder, it would stand to reason that somehow, in some way, I have been born this way, and developed this way, and had these experiences, and come across this knowledge, and have these insights and emotions and inclinations to probe and infer and connect the dark dots, and am even in this position, to SOUND THE FUCKING ALARM. Somehow, with all that has been done in my name and in my family and in my body and mind and soul, I have figured out some things and I say: THE BUCK STOPS HERE. No More. You SHALL NOT PASS over me or in my and by me and mine any longer.
I have been given the mind and spirit and eyes to see and to say and to stop what has been done in my name and by my flesh and blood that came before me and is still before me. I have been put in the city that is the HEART OF THE LAW in some weird way, to stop the law from protecting my family from it, because they are lawless, illegally-dealing, liars and charlatans and thieves and mountebanks of huge, huge illusions, and fractal-like meta-magical fabrications, and massive webs of manipulation of opinion, and façade, and the law itself through people like my mother, my Uncle Waynes and Garys and dead Uncle Harvey-who helped start and structure and still perpetuate and protect these sick systems here in Atlanta, Georgia, where much sex-trafficking starts, when the victims are brought through the port of Savannah, through the Intermodal Facility that bears MY name, down by Hilton Head, which is shaped like a shoe (or a shape of what shods your feet, the ultimate sex symbol), where I was brutalized by my older male kin in ritualistic, Satanic, sexual abuse-in a memory I can’t access (so I can never really quit or work through it), for the purpose of providing magical ballast for ALL the humans trafficked down in the Male Sex corner of America.
And really, I’m not special. This kind of thing is so rampant at this point, all our blood is so filthy, and our sex so degraded and defiled, and our love so absent from our love-making, that it was hard for me to identify at all how it had happened and how my role in all this was any different than anyone else’s. Because every woman and man and, really, child, is now a sex-slave surrogate, used and drawn into proxy-porn-magic through things like online dating, real porn, social media envy and covetousness and self-objectification. This is essentially done by the demons to ensnare and mis- and re-direct our sexual energy for profitable use by Satan and his Church (which are the regular churches, synagogues, temples, and mosques, people) and their corporations and governments and secret societies and all the lawful lies that hold this unholy system together with knots wrought from “holy writ” by the “holy see” that is cast as a net by the Beast in the sea onto the dry land, to capture us all.
And so, I tell you what I know. I tell you what I see, what I feel and think and experience to be true; not just for me, but for us all, though we don’t even know or see it ourselves. And THAT is why I am ok with someone having driven into the brick embankment at the heart of LAWrenceville when I set up my little stick spell in the stricken and stripped ground between the bushes of my mother’s erstwhile roundabout. Because I know that those bricks need to come down, and we ALL need to see behind the bare “bushes” and find the lost part of ourselves that is those men, women, and children that are used and abused and tortured and raped and trapped and just languishing away in death and despair and hopeless abandon down below us all, everywhere in America. Because right now, WE ARE ALL BORN IN THE SEPULCHAR AND RIDING SHOTGUN WITH DEATH AND DESTINED FOR THE END, even at our very beginning.
