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.