I call this life I lead the criminal protection program. I’ve opposed the elite and official publicly since paraquat...say 1977. I was happily breaking the law with the support of my elders until paraquat...even Rockefeller drug laws failed to deter me.
Even Before Reagan iced that cake, the MIC and I have gone round and round . Who,was I to be all up in their face...with no bank and no brains that they could discover?
At the end of 1978 the dark side of the MIC layed it on thick. I had been warned, but did take the warning seriously. I was twenty one...and as up their face as I could have been, knowing nothing at all.
And then came Reagan, and I was was already back from Austin, to Philadelphia where I landed on my feet but not without help from my brother, who had read more sci fi than me, and was working for Ford Aerospace in Willow Grove. I was learning Philadelphia after Austin, working for a MIC contractor, still trying to figure out what the heck had happened to me back home. I was...dumb as a post. I learned slowly.
I learned that the MIC was at war with itself. Or that is my theory any way. There was no real opposition outside, so the factions were sporting with the cannon fodder like myself. No hard feelings? Good cop bad cop but all sub Rosa (I’m not looking sub Rosa up) and for keeps; meaning that they had endless resources to either make you...or break you...Or break you and remake you...all in the name of national security. I had no fucking clue.
I was not ever going to be all that they wanted me to be...even before Paraquat. The best he was going to get with her was an audience...judgment. Why did I know this, and the MIC did not, and may never ? Nature is fucking reality! Can you here me now? It’s a dance not The War of the Rose’s...
So I’m up in the hills long after I Stopped Making Sense when I started to connect the dots after wig wag but Before Gore lost. I woke up after Rio in 1992 so wounded that it took me a year to find my way back to Jungleland. But I found my way home, where one never knew, did one? I’m ok with not knowing now. I know enough. I’m in the hills, waiting for the Saints to come marching in. I’m in that number, if I can ketchup to the smart kids who all had better hand writing than me. Kill Bill, they said, and she did...but not I,Quentin, not I.
The MIC writhes in the shallows with the invisible hand locked around an oxygen starved throat. I can’t see beneath the surface, but I feel it, becuase the MIC is Me Too, and you as well. We are being slowly hoisted on our own petards...and I can hear Satchmo singing from far away, that number. I wonder , up here in the hills Who’s on First ? But Jimmy crack corn...and I’m not driving.