I gotta go!

[Operating in memory in writing this piece. Harper’s Ferry became “Fort Sumpter.” I’ve changed it and acknowledge the error.”]

I received in my inbox this morning the following comment:

it’s the easiest thing in the world to recognise patterns. less so to analyse the event in full detail.

My take was a little different. There was no massacre, and John Brown was being given a back story that he would need to do his business at Harper’s. Part of his back story is that he took his cues from stargazing, seeing patterns in constellations and such as indicators to him personally that he must act in certain ways. Schizophrenia, in other word. The man was one wheel short of a tricycle, or so it was made to appear. Pattern recognition where there were not patterns got the best of him.

Enough of that, as I don’t know where this piece is going, but something is driving me to write this. Yesterday, as I did my workout at the gym, a man I know casually there stopped by on his way out and told me he had watched the band Rush in a concert in Denver. I know the name Rush, but not their music, and he played a bit of it from his own iPhone recording. One thing led to another, and we ended up talking about Jim Morrison. He mentioned a book he had partially read and given up on, called Weird Scenes Inside the Canyon, mentioning possible military connections between rockers and the military. I said off-handedly that Jim had not died, that his death was fake.

Such things are matter-of-fact to me, and I always need to remember that civilians are not prepared to deal with them. But the conversation went on, me oblivious to the fact that I had lost him and that he was beginning to think me batty. I could be, I add. I mentioned Jim’s girlfriend, Pamela Courson, had also faked her death and reappeared as Barbara Walters, replacing the original who was not cutting it. I noted how the original was of stooped posture, unsure of herself, and certain to fail, while Courson as her replacement was confident, beautiful, and successful.

I am not here to change minds. I long ago realized that only happens by accident and not by any magical potion that I dispense. I cannot help people without eyes to see the obvious. Recently, visiting cousins in Delaware, the piano player (and a good one) took time to explain to me that John Lennon and Paul McCartney had come off the road, gone in to seclusion, worked really, really hard, and had become the Mozart’s of their time. Ten years ago I might have taken time to explain that John and Paul were fakes, good singers but part of a much larger package of deceit and intrigue. Now I merely sat and listened. I do not know if I give off clues that people find off-putting, but I had no desire to set my cousin straight. I let it all go. Not my place.

I think this is bringing me around to where I want to go with this. A few months ago I did photo comparisons of JFK and Jimmy Carter, wanting to set straight anyone who followed Dallas Goldbug. To my shock I found that facial plates matched! I had dismissed Goldbug as a misdirection artist, him once claiming that Jim Morrison became Rush Limbaugh. I was able to set that aside, and JFK/Carter on its face seemed absurd, so I never followed up on it.

So I began to collect photos of Carter, assemble a time line,  and quickly realized the two men were so far apart in birth and death that one could not possibly be the other … so I now think. And, in so doing, I was forced to contemplate this mysterious character who appeared during the Carter presidency, his brother Billy. He was not present for most family photos. Maybe a good reason is that he was not the family’s best representative. I can see that. Maybe my own birth family would like me absent from family photos. I certainly want nothing to do with them, God rest their souls.

However, I did what I could … there is very little of Billy Carter available, but there is this:

That’s Billy and RFK side by side. Of course they do not line up! Perhaps, if Billy closed his mouth, they would. The hairline, eyes, nose say sometheeeeeng. I did something I’ve never done before. I put up the post, and walked away from it. This is too much, even for me. And, it is a sinkhole.

So, as I process all of this I have come to two conclusions:

1. 1. I have to follow up on JFK/Carter and RFK/Billy, to see where it takes me.
   2. Unrelated, I need to go back to 2015 or so, when I had an awakening of sorts and began doing photo work. I want to put together a compendium of all that we’ve discovered here since that time. I say “we” as many good helpers have come and gone. There’s tons of good work there.

I sound like a guy on his way out, but I am not. As long as I keep stumbling on things, and as long as random comments lead to long posts that seem unrelated, like the one I opened with above, I will keep on writing. I like writing, I like that it is so easy for me as I see others struggle.

Where once, in headier times I was getting 2,000 hits a day her, the trend is downward and will get to a point where I started in 2006, where I saw that in one day we got 80 visits! “I gotta go” has been the most common response over the years, and yet I feel in my soul that my lonely journey here, my search for truth, has taken me places that few others have traveled. It’s been fun, but also worth keeping. All of this work means sometheeeeeng.

Hence, the need to chronicle all the discoveries. It will take time. I know you gotta go, do so in peace.