I am not driving, usually, but had no choice, yesterday...Earth Day, of all days to burn gasoline. Perhaps regular readers might recall that I changed up my work schedule just after midterms. I did not have too; nobody made me. 

                               I did my old Thursday on Monday.

National Security...Counter Intelligence, Organized Crime; call it what you want because  you pay the bills. I’m leaking, politely, because I can. I’m breathing until I can’t.  

             I’m using up all of my White privilege; pissing it away like a abolitionist, leaking out the trade secrets of the invisible empire. The MIC has moved on. Me too.  We both outgrew the cloak and dagger era, the Goldman Saxification of HR...revenge will only get any one shofar. 

              My office for 22 years was on Ramshorn Drive, not on Fort Monmouth property, and neither was Charlie’s. Charlie worked out of Pine Ridge, and was the best in the business: he may have been the best ever.

              I squeezed in the back door, at the end of Charlie’s  career. His many decades of service began during Prohibition, before radar. Horses and Pigeons were more important then. Charlie had to hire thousands. He sold sporting goods out of his basement. He made sales calls to local schools, he was not very successful. The locals called him Charlie no Profit. He was humble, and church going. None of us kids who knew everything suspected he was the chief of civilian personnel. I never called him Charlie, I called him Captain Charlie, before he was a captain, when I started working for him in 1972. 

               The MIC...our end of it, any way, is the razor’s edge. The cutting edge, fair but cruel.  Your phone bills and tax dollars and our sweat equity got US from former colony to superpower. I was wiping balls on the sideline and taping ankles before games at fourteen, preferring my Scout Uniform to shoulder pads, until I got good enough to shoot pictures...all in my freshman year. 

                I do HR now, but never was the chief or captain of any government operation. I teach Counter Intelligence, and field operations, in the field. I worked yesterday, I drove, fearlessly optimistic. 

                 I’m leaking, and that’s that. I did fifteen of my forty seven years in public affairs. I know my stuff. I’m leaking because I call my own shots. I don’t work for Trump or Pelosi. I’m a contractor. I work for the people who pay me. They is US. Is leaking bad for business? Mostly, yes. 

                  Is impeachment bad for business? Is regulation bad for business? Is the rule of law bad for business? Is genocide bad for business? 

                   Today, I am not driving. The Red Rocket is road ready, and 2020 is coming around the mountain. Strength through peace. I’m running on that, not as a Democrat, but as a survivor of American Fascism, a party of one. I’m not fighting, I’m riding my old bike down from the double wide to the bayside. I’ll peddle my message until someone else does. 

                    Charlie rode his old bike to the boat, his boat, that he kept at my mother’s house on the estuary until he got rid of it. He wore a straw hat. I had an office there too, and I’d help him if he asked, no charge. I don’t think my mother charged him to keep the boat there either. Charlie no prophet? 

                     I’m leaking here, History...National Security history. Old news. I’m sorry that I cannot share more. I’m a historian, but was not a historian when Charlie died. I was telling stories in his living room, it was raining. I had practically grown up there, on that floor, watching Star Trek in color. 

                      I know my stuff. We know our stuff, and yours too. Strength through peace. We are diverse, prepared, and I am not driving, I’m letting the kids drive. I’m riding the old bike with my Nike dryfit cap...no straw. It’s windy down there, and I’m doing about twenty five down the hill, a straw hat just won’t do. 

                       I’m twenty four years younger than Charlie was when he died, I know that I’m not going to live as long as he did. He survived D day...earned a bronze star. I did not know that until he died. Charlie never leaked. I leak. Im no Snowden, or Manning, I’m no Charlie. I represent the cutting edge, from the razor’s edge. We all want to go home tonight, but not all of us will. We volunteered, some for better reasons than others. I was just fifteen, and wrong, and I admit it. I’ve grown up, and old...I know better now;  I teach better now. I taught well yesterday. I made it home alive. The Red Rocket is ready for 2020. I will try hard to make it, too. 

                        Whatever happens, I got the midterms I wanted. I’m standing down, not backing off.  I can do wait and see. I’m going to do what I do...what I have been doing, just less. What’s your plan? 


Views: 34

Comment by J.P. Hart on April 23, 2019 at 9:05am

extrapolation (n.)
1867, noun of action from extrapolate by analogy of interpolation; original sense was "an inserting of intermediate terms in a mathematical series." Transferred sense of "drawing of a conclusion about the future based on present tendencies" is from 1889.

...something's happening here...

Left is free...right fire brimstone. I've only got gambling analogies. A used running suit. An SUV with new shocks and fresh brakes, loaded with spring greens and new laptops for the Casa Maria Hospitality House...like my untyped reply to Maui Surfer: '...didn't they try...

file: My best fishing trip evah was ruined that Friday when that 19" black and white TV with the lousy vertical hold bled with young kids hands up tried tried tried to escape Columbine HS...
And even now Beulah and me awoke to parents of Parkland HS victims...Beulah cried a little bit. I did a series of pushups on my aluminum bar, freighted by the man I've become, typing as I do it, certain that MSNBC ask not ad finitum 'show off portraits of POTUS GQ with voice over journalism....' And I thought of other walking wounded, still running.

Sure, sure, RBJ, it is humid in Memphis already. Right there y'll, Old Man River, and you can hear the whistle blow...

Comment by Robert B. James on April 23, 2019 at 9:47pm

Dr. Hart! Robeson...my fellow alum, Rutgers, I don’t think Princeton would have him.  Saved my life a few back, from the dead, he did. The future was yesterday, as usual. Yemen makes Sri Lanka look like an after school soccer game. Bombs away! 

Justice comes flying bacckachya ...back at US, at least even steven, so sayeth the grim reaper...fair and cruel as she be. Innocents for innocents. I’ve seen  how it works and do my best to do my duty...to help the planet at all times. I’m partially impartial, because my call is nobody gets hurt, but who listens? Not war mongering oligarchs, or even my all of my Texas living ex’s. I’m mostly just sitting on the dock in the bay, and ok. I’m ok, finally. Not fine, but much better.  Them who phone it in, well ...there ain’t no cave we can’t find them in. I’m half out, and happy to be alive saying so. I have stood toe to toe, and sucked up a few best shots. With my hands behind my back, even. And I’m no pacifist, just patient. She will be coming around the mountain, when she comes...she always do. 


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