pause button

I just dropped a blog and it took me a week of hard yakka and then I put it up on facebook.  Now it's sitting there like a Showgirl after Bump Out in a Dark House and that just adds to the excruciating tsunami of  utter futility that has cornered me from all sides of the globe and got under the skin of everything I thought I was for the past thirty odd years. Jesus died at 33 so can you tell me how old was he when he was raised again?

I need something to look forward to besides death.  They colonised my past to erase my future and now they've started threatening me if I don't put down the camera and keep my mouth closed.  Well not exactly started but after thirty years of targeting a decade is a blip on the time machine. I don't tell my tale for entertainment but I know if I don't entertain I'll lose you before I have even begun to explain. Time is of the essence so excuse me if I pause to say..

This blog is my right of reply because my right of reply is what they took away from me.  They stripped me of my Kennedy and gave me their Crazy.  They traumatised my Mother and her Mother and her Mothers Mother creating a river of grief between us between each generation so when they sent in the Other Mother I would think I was home.

Identity is the first thing that they force you to let go of.  They take your surname off the slate board and before you know it you're Mrs Foret and you no longer have the Kennedy to back you up. The Assassins don't come in with knives, they come in with Razor Blades and inflict death by 1000 cuts over not months or years but decades and generations in an Orchestrated campaign aimed to destroy an innocent persons life through covert harassments, malicious slander and carefully crafted and executed psychological assaults ok I'm quoting now...


 Gang stalking deprives the targeted individual of their basic constitutional rights and destroys their freedom, setting a stage for the destruction of a person, socially, mental and physical, through a ceaseless assault that pervades all areas of a persons life. What drives such campaigns may be revenge for whistleblowing, or for highly critical individuals, as outspoken people have become targets. Other reasons why a person may become a target individual for stalking: ex-spouse revenge, criminal hate campaigns, politics, racism.
The goals of gang stalking are many. To cause the target to appear unstable mentally is one, and this is achieved through a carefully detailed assault using advanced psychological harassment techniques, and a variety of other tactics that are the usual protocal for gang stalking, such as street theater, mobbing, pervasive petty disrespecting.
Targets experience the following:
1. A total invasion of privacy
2. Pervasive and horrific slander
3. Isolation, partly through alientation that is caused by the slander
4.Destruction of, or alientation from all things that the target holds dear.

The gang stalking is aimed at achieving one or all of the follow:
1. induced suicide
2. financial devastation
3. homelessness
4. institutionalization in psyche wards.(this is my gangstalkers goal **me Jackie Therrien)
There's more here:


Sometimes I get tired so I just have to cut and paste but you get the picture.  I'll have a cup of tea now and leave you with my story so those words have some pictures. I shot these pictures myself by the way. I edited them together. I wrote the narration. Just saying...

That's more than my Organised Gangstalkers are capable of.  Hard Work.

One lump or two ?

Who Am I again ?

One of the basic ideas of creating a mind-controlled slave, is to control the entire milieu of the slave. This is expressed in Nexus Seven. The environment of the slave is designed for what is called “story immersion.” Fritz Springmeier.

I was born in 1963 the year the Kennedy was murdered by the CIA and Christine Keeler brought down the British Government in a Scandal known as the Profumo Affair captured for posterity by a man named Lewis Morley who twenty years later would capture my own Monarch Programming over a fifteen year period from 1986 to 2001.

I was born MFK like JFK except if you take away the F you have MK. If you turn the M upside down you have W. If you give her a lead she turns into Alice Moon on a butterfly trail that will lead her all the way back to her Great Great Grandmother Mrs Eliza Moon or more infamously known as Miss Octavia Hamilton.

Hi I'm Wednesday Kennedy. Or am I ?

I was the third baby born in the third month of the third year in the social engineering decade of the six six sixties. You know how those 33rd degree Freemasons love Numbers. Total show offs when it comes to maths. They're all masters of meaningless with PHD's in semantics. They all claim to be Masters of Logic as they destroy the lamb who is in fact their food source. That's real logical yo? 

 They have the memory of an elephant though. I will give them that.

They would say I was just begging to be MK'd.  I had butterfly written all over me and stretching back to the 10th Earl of Penbroke. A horny horse breaking head case who wrote a book on how to Break Horses for the British Military 

who was renowned for seducing a woman from the arms of her Groom on her Wedding Day In Venice and then getting her pregnant (with Caroline Medcaff) before abandoning her to go back to his Mrs who just happened to be a Spencer. Elizabeth I think her name was but it might as well have been Diana because those Spencer women have had a long history of Princes who turn into frogs.

"Husbands are dreadful and powerful Animals" wrote the long-suffering Elizabeth after taking her husband back. But she was not completely helpless. She prevented him from giving Reebkomp the surname "Herbert". (Reebkomp had to make do with adopting the name "Montgomery" in 1782.)
She and Henry ended up in separate quarters at Wilton (him downstairs, her upstairs).
Eventually she left him in 1788.  She moved to Pembroke Lodge, Richmond Park, London (put at her disposal by the King).

Thank God for Wikipedia because I've never been good with names which meant I've never been able to drop them. Perhaps that was part of the programming?  Or maybe it was that I was too busy looking at the body language and trying to work out who was friend and who was foe.   Turns out they were all Frenemies and Dark Mothers and other forms of ghoul life.  But I couldn't see the ghouls until I turned up at the wakes.

I always wondered why Norma would draw portraits of me with the eyes of a lost child and then email them to me with a cold cryptic message that belied her nanna image.  Norma was the Other Mother and she introduced me to Lewis Morley and he shot my portraits even though he said I had a head like an Irish Potato. That Irish in me was my Grandmother Minnie Reardon who was a great beauty. The Belle of Petersham actually who married the son of Alice Moon and Benjamin Lloyd in a Catholic ceremony and then he nicknamed her Minnie and told her that any boys she gave birth to would never be allowed to go to church. My Maternal Grandpa was a Honey Trap Husband but who knew that his Grandma was Octavia Hamilton?  An Operatic Celebrity of the Gold Rush era whose body of work was buried in scandal when Alice Moon was dragged kicking and screaming from a Melbourne court room and into a state run orphanage because her Dad Augustus Moon would no longer pay for the bastard offspring. after Octavia moved in with the Wine Merchant. Some one must have known because that scandal is in the court records but the bastard in my blue blood goes even further than that right back Henry Herbert.  AMan who broke horses and women. A man who at Fourteen already looked like a cross dresser.

 A  Monster according to his wife who ends up with his name on a boat that later becomes the Endeavor and gets filled up with convicts and sent to Australia.
   Captain Cook's famous ship, the Endeavour, was formerly the Earl of Pembroke (possibly also referred to as the Lord Pembroke). It was a merchant ship built 1764, named after 10th Earl, purchased for Cook 1768, refitted and renamed the Endeavour.

Which totally makes sense of my I had a dream Captain Cook hallucination that somehow made it into my book 21st Century Showgirl. It's in the Monarch blood man.  WHO KNEW?

I thought I came from two Petersham Catholic working class kids who shared an umbrella outside St Pats Church and lived happily ever after. I am the twinkle in their eyes and the trouble in their chop and two veg.  My Dad comes from Coal Miners and Sheep Shearers and his Dad was a clerk on the Wharves.  That's what I identified with.  The Scottish in my Father and the Irish Catholic in my Mother.  Who knew I was five ancestral degrees and a Cad away from Princess Diana. 

Just think if I had have known my bastard blue roots thirty years ago I could have dropped in for tea at Highgrove House when I was doing Wonder World stories around England in 85.  Instead of meeting the M15 on the side of the road where we were shooting Charles and Di's house and having our Tripod case inspected to make sure it was not a rocket powered grenade blaster I may have been invited inside for Devonshire tea and a barf.

I'd light up a fag while she went to throw up and I'd be too busy worrying about the smoke on my breath to care about the vomit on hers.  I would have been the best friend that she never had and she would have been mine. We could have compared what the Luciferian old farts had done to our great great great great wedded and unwedded Grandmothers.  

We could have tip toed back through the bloodlines setting off land mines which would rip all the rocks off the spiders still hiding in the recesses of our traumatised psyches.  She might have avoided Paris and I might have not married that French man. I don't know what's worse. To be used as a breeder or locked out of the breeding programme all together? It's all tragic at the end of the ride. Princess Diana is proof that you can have the top private health insurance and still be waiting all night for the ambulance to turn up.

Those French can't be trusted.

The French were in on my programming also. This is because my Great Great Grandmother Mrs Eliza Moon, otherwise as the Soprano Butterfly of Colonial Australia Miss Octavia Hamilton

became pregnant with my Great Grandmother Alice Moon right around the time she was doing a Show with Emille Coulon.  Alice Moon (my Great Grandmother)  was born with brown eyes to two blue eyed parents looking suspiciously froggy  My sister's sorry that she shared her  delicious bit of detective work about Emille Coulon and Octavia Hamilton because I have taken that information and I am running with it.  I've got skin in this game. She wasn't the one who got sent the French Husband in the Green Room of a Noh Theatre in Tokyo. Where I was playing the role of the Wife in a show that was written especially for me.  She didn't have a Gay ex USA Navy Mishima Loving Director by the name of Don Kenny who had the show scripted around her MK programming  I can't remember the name of the show but I have the photos. This is typical of me. I am Stevie Wonder in reverse but there is no point in having eyes if you don't know what you're looking at. 

For years I shoot video that I couldn't look back on. Especially the Barry Kosky Trip. That was ridiculous. What was I thinking. I couldn't explain it so I couldn't talk about it. I had a few episodes like this that I couldn't explain because I wasn't quite sure how I got there.  I'd go into such a dream space and it would also happen to me in Australia but it was more intense when I went Somewhere over the rainbow in a city like Tokyo or New York or Paris. Once you take off on the yellow brick road Everyone is either a wand waving fairy or a stick wielding munchkin. Tell me I lie.

  Paris hosted me twice. The first time as a Bride and the second time as an Artist.  Ian Runner invited me to Paris under the guise of doing a Voice Over in the summer of 2001 but it was actually to re activate my programming because Paris was a vicious dream that mocked and triggered me and I felt I was being observed the whole time.  

The apartment he put me up in had videos like Last Tango in Paris and art house erotica laying around and they probably had cameras in the walls and set the whole flat up with triggers just to see how I'd respond.

Well my response was to put on a movie and pick up my camera and walk around shooting everything with no clothes on. I didn't look back at that video for another 12 years when I was starting to crack and being flooded with memory.

Mr Runner brought his wife and child to that Paris job which was weird considering that he was working all the time and couldn't spend any time with her.   Why bring your wife and baby all the way from Australia to shlep around by themselves? She didn't seem very enamoured with the city and who could blame her. Paris is the city of lovers not mothers...

Unless she was the cover and the baby was brought in as a trigger which it most certainly was.  Babies started being used as a way to taunt me and distinguish their position as wife and mother as opposed to my unofficial title as mistress or whore. Because there was more than one occasion that I felt Mrs Runner treat me suspiciously as if I couldn't be left alone with her husband even though I had known her husband for longer than she had and there was zero sexual vibe between us so her suspicions were absurd. But this happened a lot to me with various partnered women and I realise this is a tactic because it's always absurd and jarring when it happens.  It's just a really sneaky way of cutting me out of the conversation so I can't talk to another man as a colleague or just a friend. I have to be partnered not to be viewed as suspicious. This is partly what had me agreeing to marry these Serial Killers. So I could have a normal conversation at social gatherings. like everyone else.

That invitation to fly from New York to Paris to do a Voice Over for a Documentary that my voice was later taken off because apparently it was 'TOO SEXY''. We took you off because you're too sexy', was like the last punch in the belly on an ice cream and jelly of a trip that sent me on a wild MK fuelled goose chase to London, Prague and Austria.  As usual all my efforts netted Zero gain. Why hire ME if you don't want dulcet tones ? My voice is my signature. 

Unless my voice was never going to be on the Documentary. Unless it was only a ruse to get me back to Paris to print the next layer of my programming and observe the handiwork that Patrick had already implanted during my honeytrap marriage?

Telling me that my voice was too sexy was a great way of reinforcing the Beta Programming.  You're too sexy for this job. Too sexy for this world. Too sexy to be narrating a serious documentary for people who have a serious jobs and serious marriages.

. Giving me the job and then taking me off it was a feature of my programming and deserves its own blog but just to stay focused on Paris in the summer of 2001 I have blank spots.  For example I can't remember how I met that tap dancing hat passing gypsie showgirl and her band of merry men on the streets of Paris?

I can't even remember what streets they were or how I got there.  They just seemed to turn up when I turned on my camera and I followed them a few blocks where we stopped to speak to people and then carried on to a bar where she put down her floor and she tap danced herself into a whirling dervish and my world went spinning and I can't remember much after that....where I left them and what time I went home.  But I have it on camera so nobody can say I imagined it. It happened. The camera doesn't lie.

Why did everything and everyone feel distant and why did Mr Runner set me up in the apartment and just leave me there? Was he really that busy? It seemed reasonable at the time as I was getting paid and he was working but in retrospect I was floating in grimy French bubble where everyone seemed to be distant and detached and talking around me like that scene from Echo in The Doll House and then I get this idea like a bee in my bonnet to take a road trip to Austria to get Barry Kosky to direct me in a show at the Algonquin Hotel in New York.

I made a video of this. It's called Looking for Barry Kosky.  It's a Mad Capped Cinema Verite style journey that leads me from Paris to London then Prague and finally Austria and you know my Butterfly Jaunt up the Yellow Brick Road makes more sense to me now I know I have the blood of Emille Coulon.

“UPON THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD”: OPERA ON THE GOLD RUSH CIRCUIT (SAN FRANCISCO TO MELBOURNE, 1851–1861) Esmeralda Rocha University of Western Australia During the 1850s, two cities on either side of the Pacific Ocean, each gripped by gold fever, experienced unprecedented social and economic development. San Francisco and Melbourne, however, had more in common than their gold-driven boomtown economies. Between 1851 and 1861, each city grew from humble beginnings to become the leading cultural center in its region, largely due to the fervor with which each community supported and demanded opera. The operatic cultures of the two cities, moreover, were not discrete; no fewer than twentyone opera singers, impresari, and conductors migrated between San Francisco and Melbourne, establishing a trans-Pacific touring circuit. This highway was effectively an extension of the existing South American circuit that had been facilitating the transplantation of opera in the Americas since the 1820s, and it became one of the busiest cultural routes in the world. The operatic entrepreneurs who toured the trans-Pacific circuit (including Anna Bishop, Catherine Hayes, Giovanna and Eugenio Bianchi, W. S. Lyster, Emile Coulon, and Clarisse Cailly) were responsible for more than the mere transplantation of opera. Their pioneering endeavours also established a sense of cultural authority in these cities, which persists to this day.  Building upon this body of scholarship, this paper describes the symbiotic, and occasionally parasitic, relationship of these gold-rush operatic cultures, and contextualizes this connection with reference to the increasingly globalized nature of the world in the mid-nineteenth century.''

And maybe I ended up in Austria because that's where Emile Coulon performed his last concert. It must have been his last because the reviews were terrible. The Showman in him would have known they were pulling the curtain on his old tooth song and dance act. The critics always herald when your hour glass is spent. If you don't get off stage when you're told then they hound you to death. I'll have to find that review. It's like a Murder. A performer knows when their time is up because all Show Men and Women are dolls. The stage is the traditional training ground.  The Opera is the play thing of the ruling class and who knew there was a French man in my ancestral  Showgirl panties long before Patrick Foret turned up in the Green Room of that Noh Theatre in Tokyo.
And what is Noh Theatre? Traditional Japanese Opera. They say it's not over until the fat lady sings but who knew that fat lady was my Great Great Grandmother Octavia Hamilton ? Certainly not me.

But I remembered that butterfly trail without having been told. I just followed it.  I could smell that Emile Coulon like a Giant can smell the blood of an Englishman. Like a seagull can smell fish and a pig can smell truffles. I followed Emille Coulon from Melbourne to Paris to San Francisco and his final European curtain call.  His song line was chasing the gold rush and in a post punk 1980's sort of Wonder World Way so was mine. 

Sydney led me to Melbourne and London and Tokyo led to Paris where Patrick Foret stole my hand in marriage not unlike the way Henry Herbert stole that Venetian woman from her groom on her wedding day.  I was more in love with the idea of my groom than the actual reality. Reality had long exited stage left. It was a mind control marriage and I had to be totally somewhere over the rainbow to go through with it. I was in love with the ghosts of the city that had stories in her windows and I wanted to spend the rest of my life exploring every room and I suppose I got what I wished for. 

But I was not driving my dream. My dream was driving me. I had a room at every Inn and a host at every port not to mention a credit card and a driver.  I just assumed that this was all part of the Miracle of my life until of course I get lost. I always got lost. Getting lost is a feature in my narrative.

• 
  'This is a little like the Wizard of Oz crossed with Waiting for Godot but I gotta feeling in this wizard none of us have any brains.'

Out of the mouths of babes and dolls.  That I said this at the time proves that I did know what was happening even when I didn't know what was happening a little like Cate Blanchett in Blue Jasmine. The fantasy life takes over because the real life is too hard to take. You're filled to the gills with invisible cuts and you turn a blind eye because you can't take it any more. The torture that is. The invisible perpetual humiliations that you smile though because you know the deal even when you don't. Does that make sense? No. I didn't think so that's why I  put that video away for over a decade because I didn't understand it myself.  

I understand now.

I understand that I am the Host and they are the Parasite. I understand that the source of all creativity comes from God but these people have worked out a way to syphon that source and use it to fuel their simulated empire.

I understand how Cultural Imperialism works from the inside out. I get it on a blood and bone level.  I understand just how the Terrorist gets in and sets up a time bomb in your heart and then sets that clock for the generations of Suicided Poets to come.

I understand my culture of forgetting now. I have swum with all the white pointers on my Fatal Shore and I understand exactly how that forgetting is orchestrated.

I understand that the world is run by a hidden hand and a gang of midnight men and secret societies that nobody ever talks about because they've taken some sort of oath or made some sort of contract that holds them to silence.  The silence is reinforced by fear and buried in shame and the stories are lost to generations never to be unearthed again.

There is not even a photo of Octavia Hamilton. Where is Lewis Morley when you need him ?

All I wanted to do was tell my story and discover my truth and for that I have been gang raped on a global scale. But all those rapes made me do was want to talk faster. Because on the Kennedy side of my blood I have a Grandmother named Murtle Bridges. She's the B in my Dad's JBK that he has initialised on his old suit case. She's the voice in my head that says 'Tell them to Go to Buggery'. 

I did tell them to go to buggery but they took me too seriously. What do I do now Grandma ?

I've been talking to the ghosts of my Grandmothers my whole adult life because all  I wanted to do was work out the mystery in this wound that I carried. All I wanted to do was tell my story.  I didn't want to grass on anyone's green or hold up anyone's dirty laundry. My Mum and Dad wouldn't approve of that. Dobbing is not in my blood. I just wanted to tell my own tale and fulfil my own destiny but the closer I got to the truth of my story the more I got hammered and cornered from all sides.  I was blind to the machinations because honestly who could imagine it? And once you can imagine it who wants to think about it ? Who wants to talk about it ? Nobody that's who! I took the punches with a smile because I had no choice.

I was going to call my book Black on the Inside for a very good reason. Because You don't have to be black to be niggered and you don't have to be Asian to be gooked.  Raoul Vaneigem was right.  Everything makes sense now.  The world was my oyster but the pearl was removed from the bed long before I climbed into it and now I know from the inside out that the game is in turning us all into a food source and everything is rigged from the cradle to the grave from the radio star to the spruiker. From the Mega stage to the run down church hall theatre where the poets meet and curdle. There is not a street corner left for you to sing off that hasn't been converted subverted perverted deserted. If you sit down for more than two minutes they'll fine you. If you put out a hat they will steal it. If you publish yourself they will send in the gangsters to ruin your book launch. They will ask to be part of the show and then mock you on stage. They will take photos and film it to show to their handlers. They will be given rewards for their efforts. Every dog has its day and every man has his price. Some get drugs, some get gigs, some get houses.  When the Killuminati are paying the piggy bank never runs out.

And where do you run when Everyone is in on it ? How do you escape the cult when the cult is the world ? Who loves you now that there's more money in hating you ?

Whose going to save you when everyone is scrambling to try to save themselves.  Those questions and more will be explored in the next Episode of my MK ULTRA LIFE. Where am I again?

                                        Stay Tuned...

or not. 

Emile Coulon.

Emile Georges Coulon is my Great Great Baby Daddy.  He toured with my Great Great Grandmother Octavia Hamilton and she came home from a Sydney tour pregnant to him and gave birth to a brown eyed baby named Alice Moon to two blue eyed parents. Octavia Hamilton was Mrs Eliza Moon in her real life and she was married to Augustus Moon who refused to pay maintenance on the bastard children when Octavia moved in with the Wine Merchant 8 years later....this was played out in a Melbourne Court Room and left Alice an Orphan at 8 years of age.  This is why I was sent a French Art Dealing Entrepreneur in Tokyo. I met him in the Green Room of a Noh Theatre after I'd got off stage Playing The Wife in a Kyogen Version of Moliere's Tartuffe.  Kyogen is traditional Japanese comedy that provides light relief in the middle of the long Noh plays.  Again Opera is part of my programming and scripting. My Director/Sensei  Don Kenny was an Opera Singer who arrived in Tokyo with the US NAVY. My French Husband Patrick Foret was a French Navy Brat.  He chased me back to Sydney and lured me to Paris for a Satanic ritual wedding where I agreed to things I didn't understand because I didn't speak French.  My Brother was there for this wedding. He witnessed my trauma and deep grief after the ceremony. My sister also was traumatised by her ceremony as she rang me in New York after it had happened.  



COULON, Emile GeorgesBass-baritone singer, arranger
Born ? France, c.1821/2
Arrived Australia, Sydney, 10 September 1854
Departed Melbourne, 26 December 1860
Died USA, late 1874
Summary: According to his obituary, Coulon was a pupil of the younger Manuel Garcia (1805-1906). The same document reports that he was 53 at the time of his death (therefore born in 1821 or 1822), and that he made his debut in 1851. However, he was probably the M. Coulon in Mequet's new opera troupe at Brest in 1850, and the M. Coulon who was Bertram in Meyerbeer's Robert le diable in Paris early in 1853 (see also M. Coulon and M. Coulon, première basse-taille de grand opéra). By mid-1853 he must have been in the United States, for he appeared several times in the San Francisco opera season beginning in September 1853. There his regular co-artist was the tenor Laglaise (probably Jean-Baptiste Laglaise, or Laglaize), who from 1856 also sang with him regularly in Australia. In July 1854, Coulon assisted Catherine Hayes at her farewell recital, prior to sailing with her for Australia. For more on Coulon in San Francisco, see The Pioneer (1854), 114, 115, 245, and Martin, Verdi at the Golden Gate (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1993). The Hayes company's arrival in Sydney on 10 September 1854 was announced in an article in The Sydney Morning Herald the following morning that mentioned Coulon favourably. After working with Hayes and Lewis Lavenu in 1854-55, he and Laglaise (recently arrived from the USA) toured with Anna Bishop and George Loder in 1856 as a member of their English Opera Company. A contemporary appreciation of Coulon in Australia appears in Frank Fowler's Southern lights and shadows. In Melbourne on 13 April 1859, as reviewed in The Argus, he gave the first performance of Sidney Nelson's new national song, Advance Australia (published the following month). From July 1859, Coulon spent 8 months in Mauritius, returning to Melbourne in March 1860. He was in Sydney appearing in opera in June and July, and in Melbourne in October-November floated a scheme to form a European opera company for the colonies. Coulon finally sailed from Melbourne for England on 26 December 1860. In May, as reported in the press, local supporters of his touring opera company scheme received a letter from him stating that he had: "succeeded in organizing a company provisionally, which would be ready to proceed to the colonies upon approval … The company embraces three ladies, three gentlemen, 10 members of orchestra, and the nucleus of a competent chorus." However, at a meeting on 30 August, subscribers were told: "M. Coulon's opera scheme may be considered defunct." He never returned to Australia. Coulon reportedly sang Marcel in Huguenots in Brussels in 1864 (the correspondent for The Reader judged him "a careful and finished vocalist, but incapable of giving adequate expression to the fierce Calvinistic exaltation of the character"). He was at Covent Garden for the 1868 season. According to The Saturday Review, one Signor Collini in a revival of Robert le diable there was "no other than M. Coulon, who had for some years vainly striven to make a reputation for himself at the Grand Opera in Paris". The name Signor Collini had perhaps been coined the previous year, when Coulon appeared thus at Milan as count Capuleto in Gounod's Romeo e Giulietta. In 1873, at San Carlo in Naples, however, The Athenaeum's correspondent judged that Signor Collini as the "new Germont … must be regarded as a failure; he is the heaviest of heavy fathers, and his voice had a continuous tremolo, as if the old man had been attacked with the palsy: his make-up was quite hideous."

This obituary appeared in Melbourne's The Argus (23 January 1875):

The announcement of the death of Emile Coulon (which appeared as an extract in yesterday's Argus) will recal[l] to the reader's mind many a scene in the stirring times which followed the discovery of gold in Victoria. At the time when the "Salle Valentino" was the chief place for musical entertainment, the old Theatre Royal was being built, and long before the theatre itself was finished, the Vestibule was used, and very largely patronised as a concert room. It was here that Coulon sang twenty years ago and delighted the audience of that day (at it was a thoroughly appreciative and critical audience). The people who had come fresh from London, Paris or Vienna recognised the good quality of the singer who could do justice to the buffo music of Rossini and Donizetti. Here in those days Coulon's name was associated with many another yet remembered. Mrs. Hancock, Madame Carandini, Octavia Hamilton, Louisa Swannell, the Australian Nightingale, Charles Lyall, Charles Biall, "Johnston of the 40th" and "Callen of the 12th." From this time up to 1859, in which year M. Coulon left the country [recte 1860], he was associated in opera with the Bianchis, Laglaise, Greig and many others of note in those days, who have long since passed from the scene. It was expected when Coulon left Melbourne that he was to return with a complete opere company, but he did not return, to the great disappointment of many citizens well disposed towards the patronage of musical art. The little obituary notice from which we quote says that Coulon was 53 years old when he died, that he made his debut in 1851, and that he was one of the best of Garcia's pupils. We who remember him know that was a good singer, and had a good voice; while he remained in Melbourne he was in his very prime. The Garcia who was his master was the brother of Malibran and of Viardot. There is no such singer now in Melbourne as Emile CouIon was in those lively days we speak of.

Musical works: At Hayes's "Last grand concert" at the Royal Victoria Theatre on 30 September, under the musical direction of Lewis Lavenu, Coulon sang the French National Hymn La Marseillaise. He performed it widely. Following later Sydney performances in April 1855, on 10 May Woolcott & Clarke advertised their illustrated edition of the Marseillaise Hymn, arranged by M. Coulon, his only published work.

Disambiguation: Émile Coulon (mid 19th-century Belgian architect); Eugène Coulon (fl. London 1844-60): French dancing-master was in the ballet at London's Her Majesty's Theatre at the time, reputedly "introduced the Polka to England in 1844" (Coulon's Hand-book; containing all the last new and fashionable dances (1860/1873), see also Coulon in A Biographical Dictionary of Actors). A pianist, Miss or Mlle. Coulon, was active in London in the early 1850s, appearing for instance in 1851 at (her father?) Mr. E. Coulon's rooms, Great Marlborough Street. Eugene is the Coulon celebrated in the titles of several dance prints with music by Jullien. In Sydney in September 1853, Henry Marsh published an Australian edition (lost) of Pop goes the weasel "With description of the Figures by COULON, and the Original Music" (cf. extant 1853 US edition). On 16 March 1867, the Argus reported: "At the Hamilton Police Court on Tuesday, Emille Calon, professor of music, was charged with attempting to poison himself  with strychnine." The report evidently confused the memory of Emile Coulon with Edward Calon, the first known mention of a musician soon after active in Adelaide (where he was also accused of embezzlement) and later as organist of St. Paul's Church in Sale, Victoria.

Add 2013 (information from Allister Hardiman): Emile Georges Coulon (his contract with Catherine Hayes was signed "Georges Coulon") died in the USA in 1874. He probably belonged to the family of the dancers Jean-François Coulon (1764-1836) and his son, London-based from 1844, Antoine Coulon (1796-1849).
Works online: Marseillaise Hymn (arranged by M. Coulon) (Sydney: Woolcott & Clarke, [1855])


http://sydney.edu.au/paradisec/australharmony/register-C.php

PROLOGUE.

It's hard to know where to start telling your story when you wake up at Fifty to the unspeakable Full Body Knowing that your entire adult life has been an MK Ultra Monarch Mind Control experiment orchestrated by Luciferian Freemasons, Australian Military, US and French Navy and all five eyes of the bug eyed Secret Service who work in with their not so small army of Geppetos, Mary Shelleys and Magicians to re craft you in their image and keep you totally In Reach and Somewhere Over The Rainbow so they can use you, abuse you, turn you into their own Unique Doll which can be thrown off the Freedom Train at a time of their choosing.

Yeah I'm talking to you Bob Holman. Take your Bow.

The people I speak of have names and addresses but I don't want to do to unto others as they have done to me so most of those names will be altered HOWEVER if you dared to get in front of my camera with your team of Organised Gangstalkers  or infiltrate my body of work with your slow kill murder then the applause is all yours. I take no credit. Not even for the camera work. God kept that camera in my hands when I had been deliberately disassociated and my brain had stopped working. Praise the Lord and pass on the Gravy.

This is my story.

I was deaf dumb and blind for 30 years but Jesus Christ broke my mind control.  If you don't get to the end of my tale that's your takeaway.  This is a satanic mind control and your average shrink is clueless that it even exists or alternatively has been trained by the enemy to have you locked up or locked down in a state of medicated bliss.  

Joseph Campbell said the job of the artist is to follow their bliss but he's a Liar.  Bliss is just a brand of toilet tissue that they hand you to clean out your head when they've finished with you and I can tell you what lays at the end of the yellow brick road. A pile of ruby slippers the size of a drag queens  hoof outside a dog house where Toto is being served for dinner.  It's a masonic sodomite death cult that runs our world and the road to death is paved with Petite Mortes and Petty Power Pushers who all want to be god and who will sell out their Mothers to get there.

My quest for truth has only kept me in a state of terror and ongoing horror but I write hoping that my truth will set free the next generation of Australians.  I write for the Widows and Orphans. I write for the memory of my Monarch Slave Grandmothers who were killed off early and their memories erased.  I write to save my niece and vindicate my nephew because there is no next generation for me. They kept me in their butterfly collection until menopause because this is a Eugenics programme at the end of the day.

The group of participants involved in my enslavement collectively calls itself  The Family and over thirty years I have probably met all the relatives.  I realise now that meeting Eugene Gambino at that roof top part in New York was probably not an accident. He told me this adorable story about how he made a deal with God to go clean and that got him off a Jail sentence and I am a sucker for a miracle story but deal or no deal he still needed a job and I don't know how you unbecome a Gambino. To give him credit apart from that very naughty fib I saw the lamb in him. I really did.  He may have been born a gurgling Mafioso but Eugene was the most honest crook I ever met and much more authentic than all of the White Collar Creeps who have programmed and handled me over the decades. I did a story on him for the ABC radio but I never got a commission again after that was aired so I spose they were one step ahead of me.  There are Producers at the ABC who KNEW I was programmed and who commissioned work like Crazy just to show off my MK but I became less entertaining the deeper I fell in the rabbit hole. 

I think my stories saved me. My stories kept my hands on the table when they were trying to pull my body under the water.  My stories kept me on my quest and the quest was always truth and love and through my stories I humanised them and in doing so I gave them less reasons to hurt me.  Eventually they just let go of me. The one's with lamb in them anyway. Which brings me back to what I saw in Eugene and why I remember him fondly but I know now through the testimony of Kay Griggs that part of this global operation is run by the Brooklyn New Jersey Mafia and that's Eugene's mob so from this information I can surmise he was in on it.  But at least that mob still love their mothers and believe in Jesus not like the rest of the reptilians who whose Vision for the family is more like Charlie Sheen in Two and a half men. There's a good reason why the little man left the show and turned to Jesus. That kid was switched on.  

Mostly the perpetrators of my perpetual abuse were not Prophets or Stoneage men. They're closer to the Golden Dawn, immersed in Crowley's uniform and friends of the OTO and the Hell Fire Club and Guru Adrian.  They're Students of Thelema  and acolytes of Ginsberg and Burroughs.  They're Atheists who think they're God.  They're Feminists who view other women with a pathological Jealousy.  The men don't know if they're Arthur or Martha because Baphomet has two tits AND a ball bag.  All Hail the Tranny and bring on (don't call me) Bruce Jenner. In short they're all Mad Scientists or programmed Dolls of Cognitive Dissonance.

Now turn on your television and tell me I lie. I was just the 80's Experiment and what was tested on me is LIVE and mainstreamed and how do you like your world now? Is it really Wonderful now you have a Double Groom on the Wedding Cake ? Do you all feel safe and at peace and excited for the future now Agenda 21 is at our doorstep and the Septic tank has leaked into your Disney strained brains?

These people turned me into their door knob and then gave me a set of keys that didn't work as they tied their arms behind my back and raped me.

They did it in such a way where nothing was said and nothing was done and well if you really want to know the machinations just listen to Bob Holman's Poetry.  He'll tell you how its done. In more ways than one. Sit down and pop the corn.  It's in the Box. It's Behind the Door It's in the Eucalyptus Octopus. It's an Immaculate conceptions spawned from mental masturbation.  They all want to be gods and goddesses but all they can really do is pervert and subvert God's creation. The devil is an imitator which may explain why we keep seeing the same stories, movies, musicals and art work pumped out over and over and over. Take God away and these creeps all run out of fuel.

My Puppet Masters did not have to take me to their Underground Barracks or Military labs to programme me. My Doll house was the world. It was Wonder Word in 1985 or  New York on September 11th 2001 or Cape York in 2009 and it continued to follow me where every I went because they knew where I was going before I did.  They knew because they planted it the ideas and they set up the sign posts and they organised the sweet old ladies to meet me at the other end. 

My MK Monarch Programming was a Full Immersion Affair where fact and fiction blend into each other like an oil painting.
It was on the streets and in the lanes and down the penny arcades

and in the Gardens.

It was in the theatres and pubs and squats and performance spaces.

and the share accommodation

It was in Paris and Amsterdam and London and Prague where it greeted me with a red crepe paper carpet.  It drove me to Austria looking for Barry Kosky. It invited me to Amsterdam and drove me through the Wedding strip of Las Vegas. It trapped me in New York and chased me all the way around Australia and the funny thing is that I got the whole hallucination on Camera so nobody can tell me that I imagined anything.  Those who tell me my torture is all in my head have been programmed to do so.  We've all been programmed to various degrees to see and hear nothing we're not allowed to see. 

The Hidden Hand likes to stay hidden.  The hand that rocks the cradle doesn't want you waking the baby because then the baby might scream and wake up the neighbours and if the neighbours wake up then the show will be over.  Magic doesn't work anymore once you know how the trick is done.

But where did this all begin? How was it even possible to lock me into an orchestrated world where I was handled from all sides, coerced into orchestrated narcissistic cycles (Idealise, De value Discard ) and my responses monitored and manipulated as I was loaded up with programmes and triggers like some wired up doll.

How would you do that? How would you induct someone without them knowing? How would you programme them without them having a clue what you were doing?

My story is long and as I had Wonder World training which taught me not to mention anything that couldn't be SHOWN so lets start with my Carrie at the Prom Style Debut through an MTV Film Clip.

Songs are the spells designed to alter your perception of reality and are stacked with subliminal messages designed to lock you in unwittingly.  We have laws against physical verbal and psychological abuse but where are the laws against Satanic Abuse ?

If you don't believe in the life of the Soul then there's no need to protect it? In a world where God does not exist the Luciferians hold court.  So this is why all my perpetrators pretend to be secular. The Dummies actually believe they are atheist and they just end up as worm food and road kill but the ones at the top of the tree know much better.  They'll use their secret spiritual knowledge against you and kill you without you even knowing you were murdered.  Howz that for clever.  Yes they're clever but they're all going to hell.

My Debut happened through the Satanic Ritual of an MTV film clip.  This was organised through my boyfriend at the time who introduced me to Alex Proyas the Director of Dark City, I Robot and The Crow. (Rip Branden Lee.) Did I mention God's of Egypt? Can anyone see a thread here about MK ULTRA Mind control and the Luciferian vision for the future. No?  Of course not.

What am I thinking? I must be crazy. Mea Culpa!

Or you might just be uneducated ?

I knew Alex when he was just a pre maturely aged pudding of a young man who was already hailed as our own home grown Kubrick by those in the know. He lived in a share terrace house on Australia Street and his production company Meaningful Eye Contact was just up the road in Newtown. They made film clips when MTV was killing the radio star.  They did mega budget clips with bands like Crowded House and INXS and so when I was asked to be the leading lady in a Flash in the Pan film clip entitled Midnight Man I was thrilled of course. Who wouldn't be! No doubt just as thrilled as Nicole was when she was cast in Eyes Wide Shut.  I thought I was the Cat's pajamas and the Bees Knees and when I look at the hive mind that I became hostage to perhaps I was right.

Because in retrospect this casting was not the compliment it presented itself to be and I recall I felt a little suspicious of it at the time.  I sang in a post punk band called Saigon Children's Choir and cared for kids during the week so the casting felt out of character verging on the ridiculous still Every girl wants to play the love interest.

But it wasn't until I got on set that I realised that this film clip was not a love story. It was a hate story and creep fest of alienation. I hated the shoot and after it was released I couldn't watch it because it hurt to see myself cornered in that three minutes of musical rape. The clip opens with the words Ritten Off  graffiti d on a back street building.  This is an MK ULTRA double entendre.   Ritten rhymes with Kitten and the Cat is the marker for Beta Programming. Which according to the Masonic Dictionary  'beta - sexual/social programming, used for public personalities.  Usually a high charisma affair, beta is, contrary to popular belief, mostly for being a good entertainer, although there are often sexual codes in there as well.  Yes if you can't entertain the troops you will become their Candy girl or Comfort Woman. Those are the choice for Beta Slaves so you'd better be nice to your TV execs if you don't want to end up on the White Slave Trade.

Interestingly enough when I got the Wonderworld job, The Telegraph gave Hugh and I a full page article and the article to the left of our spread right above my head was titled 'Have Cat Will Travel'.

You think that's a coincidence ? I don't.  Lets go back to the Masonic MK dictionary and look up Cat - a pejorative term used to describe a female MK, usually associated with beta programming in the common usage, but possibly can contain any other level of programming as well.  I see the cat emerge over the years, the beta programme spread like a type of candida all through my body of work, through the shows and the poems and the photos and right up unto the dream that I had the night after I'd launched 21st Century Showgirl on Myspace  I had this dream about a cat. It was a black cat and for some reason I picked up an axe and I chopped it in half and I couldn't work out why I did that. It was spontaneous and sudden and the cat started screaming and dancing around the room in agony with its entrails spreading all over the floor like a pro hart painting and I had all these boxes on the floor. Many boxes unopened and the head part and the tail part were racing around the boxes like they were looking for each other. It was so unbearable. The worst dream I've ever had in my life I couldn't stand it so I picked up a box and stood over the head of the cat and got ready to drop it and it looked up in my eyes and screamed and that's when I realised The Cat Was ME. 

So that's where the cat ended up.  Ritten off from the first frame to the last dream.  The Film Clip I black starred in Midnight Man by Flash in the Pan provides the prologue and predictive programming.

As it closes in on my flat shoes walking through dark inner city streets as I walk up the stairs to enter my home where I'm cold and alone with Greta Garbo smoking nervously on my bed until a Big White Gloved hand

 knocks my door down busts into my room and forces me to get dressed to go to a night club

where everyone ignores me except a very serious predatorial looking dude who is standing on the other side of the room checking me out.

I must admit when I met my leading man I was disappointed. There was nothing attractive about him and so I couldn't even pretend to be partly intrigued by his interest.  But I suppose that's what Alex was going for. A mutual suspicion and a handlers contempt for the slave.

Nobody can pretend that this is a romance not even me in the aftermath because nobody understood at the end of that clip why I follow the Midnight Man out of the room and into the street.  Did I want to get raped or something? 'Where you goin girlfriend? whatchoo doing ?  She won't be able to tell you because that's trauma based mind control. You have no clue but you'll do it over and over again like some remote controlled robot.

Because fifteen years later I followed that same Midnight man back to New York to marry him knowing who and what he was. They're all shat outta the same can and cut from the same demon cloth.  I goose stepped back to my own annihilation in 2004  in a state of Stockholm Syndrome born out of having NO CHOICE because at that time  I was being isolated slandered gas lit and used as a Slave on the home front writing shows for Divas only to be spat out after the reviews had come in and it was time to pay me.  This didn't happen once. This happened to me over and over and over and over because if you had access to my triggers you could get me writing without a contract. I would be compelled by a type of spiritual thrall that I could not let go of until I'd finished. Maybe that's why my ex called me Moon Child? I certainly never ran out of fuel and never ran out of ideas and once I got a wind up I would  write day and night for weeks on end until I finished and handed it over and then I'd fall down in exhaustion and Wake up broke. 

From the outside I looked mental going back in to work with the same Abusers over and over and over. but if you consider that Monarch Programming is a systematic torture that puts up amnesiac walls to stop conscious processing then I wasn't mental. The people exploiting my programming for their own career trajectory were nothing less than conscious enslavers. It was a torture for me. That is the only way that I can describe it.

  This torture in Australia led me to a type of disassociation that floated me back to the Abuser I'd escaped in New York nine months earlier. You have no memory for your pain when you're a slave. You only want to be able to escape the hell that you're cornered in.  It's so perpetual. There's no let up. It's twenty four hours a day seven days a week and so you move from abuse to abuse in the search for relief which never comes.

 I didn't understand why I returned to Mr Manhattan in New York in 2004 after he had already shown me who he was and what he was capable of but that's why Fritz Springmeier calls it an Undetectable Mind Control.  Because nobody except the Programmers or Handlers can see it. Its all part of the deliciously dirty secret of the satanic ruling class. That's why the Midnight Man is wearing a tuxedo and a bow tie. That's why he's in black and white because it's always about duality - a common theme among the Freemasons, as seen in the symmetry of nature or concepts, which ultimately leads to a very special kind of retardation whose official symptoms are described as “black and white thinking”.

So the Midnight Man (the helping hand) all trussed up in a bow tie and a dinner suit comes striding in slow motion across the room to put his White Gloved hand on my shoulder and light my cigarette.

Lets not even mention the amount of X's and Boxes and did I mention triangles that have been etched onto the film frame and over my face and my body like a type of symbolic Bukaki

 It's obvious I'm scared of him and think he is a creep but I follow him back out of the club and into the alley way anyway just like an Monarch Programmed Slave would. The film is in short a satanic ritual, slave debut and a cinematic rape that officially marks me as the Enemy of Freemasonry. From then on I have been subjected to thirty years of White Glove Treatment.

Begin the Beguine....