Ill Not Keeping Still

26 Jun

How the well hell did I convince myself that it was okay to write about the Bijlmer disaster? What made me think that I could write the demons off me? I got ready to hire a bandwagon and everything. The demons remaining steady on their own terrorizing wagon. Chemtrail sunbathing, while ordering another drink. Uranium and a malfunctioning bolt? I must be utterly mad. Under mind control of some cthulhu monster or something. I have no other excuse available. I have not been running a fever. No logic to hide the insanity of it. Cthulhic it is. Cthulhu reminds me of catholhies for some reason. Showing alcoholic priests. Mad point proven.

Media not touching the Bijlmer disaster, not even with a ten foot… ten meter pole, shows no-man’s-land. A desert harboring blinded scapegoats, and cthulhic priests hunting them. For a Black woman to take a stroll down there shows the double blind spell still working. For me to double dare publish on the disaster was to find myself a pariah even in alternative media. “Some people are loners.” Loner patsy. Duh. I told you that already. In forged isolation, I read plenty of articles showing the bits and pieces of the disaster story without mentioning it. No balls. No golf course. Only disassociation to show the schizophrenic natural state of living in Helland.

There is a lot more to 1992 than I realized even when I let “Seek Ye Her Gate” bleed blue from my pen onto white paper. All I knew was that it was a disaster. Even long after I was led to a place that held more answers than the media still do not dare to show. If only I had known so. I could have put together much work a long time ago already. With the help of so many eminent prominent professors at hand it should have come easy to show the victims how to get compensated.

Hmm. That may be exactly it. I got trapped, but I could not see the cage. Held back, and every hand moving in to get in touch only causing more confusion. Even now, I feel as if I got tripped and trapped to write about the disaster. “She does not know.” Of course not. It is with every document I study that more of the hidden craft shows. Yet, there is nothing I can bring out of the dark pit that is not already known by the State. All I can do, is show how Helland pushed to cover up something carrying a stink that should have stung the whole world as a warning signal.

Better save my own changed soul to believe in. For a while I need to choose to stay where I can get protected. Out in the open so plenty of agents can watch me breathing while keeping flank positions in mind. As savant idiot patsy, I can only do so much. Push the State of Helland to do right where it failed to prevent others from doing wrong. I have got it from a good source that it is deductible from the yearly ‘contribution’. Oh wait. That source is the State. Unreliable source showing a circle? Of course not. Their stone table is not really round. It is off by at least 3 degrees. As predicted by the Bijlmer disaster. What are the odds?

Nothing to see. They turned black what is white, and sought to take it out on any Black person daring to venture too much close to see. Asking questions seen as volunteering to get punished with ill. I got to the university right in time to watch them turn the executed plan into a program for the next generation. I can take every single course of the department, and show how it fits in with the disaster. No need to deal with this coinciding any further. I have made the point, even though this installment is to deal with the university some more. After all, NBP is the product of what started to spill out long ago during a certain exam.

More stank injustice put on display to show why I have such aversion against anything to do with “immigration” policy. Able to pinpoint the exact moment I went insane as I was forced to suffer a double course on it. Watching this babbling fool called professor pour some more insult into my wounds. Esteemed dooming professor overseeing the assassination of my doomed esteeming ambition. And some bimbo student sitting next to him given room to pipe in. In academic circles that is the biggest disrespect, showing certain academic death. To look at them and realize that their insanity did not skip a generation. But, I am running ahead of my own story.

Only yesterday, I did not think myself capable – willing – to write about the episode wherein I found myself under guidance of this trained sabotage babbler. Thinking him to be a benign teacher to present a coherent case on Dutch migration policy, I ‘volunteered’ to get into his class. If there was finally to be a Black professor in this department, then to know about the ‘minority and migration’ course could not be missing from the graduation list of such person. Yeah, the double BLIND thing had already been implanted. But all I could tell was that whenever I dealt with the white babbler, I had the clear feeling to be dealing with two different persons. One the benign looking old man giving wise nonsensical advice, but behind that wrinkled mask a very alert predator. Sort of an overlay? Sure. An invisible overlay, forcing the target to give the benign old babbler the benefit of the induced doubt.

To see his name connected to any article in media, is to bypass it. Cannot learn anything from it but to babble like him. And as he got a backstage pass to appear in too much mainstream medeah, he can be made to pop up at any inconvenient moment to further infuse my cthulhic mood. Sending him off to China clearly did not suffice to remove his tentacle print. Driven insane, I wrote him my first white pete story on his exam. The fever I was battling at the time did not allow me to do anything else. I had struggled out of bed only to get insulted by racist garbage disguised as an exam. My brain could not take another hit. Instead of tearing up the exam and ignore him for the rest of his life, I had something to say. His running mate had been talking crap on Dutch people to be called allochtoon and pushed into low class by number. I got physically ill listening to him week after week. By the time I was to take the sick exam I was running a fever.

The fever got broken down after the failed exam, to have me move on with the course and write a paper to get the remaining ill off me. I was keen to see if the two racists would react to my gross push for them to mend their ill way. It would be the least they could do as I sacrificed an exam to show them. They were so kind to show me that I had not taken to their subtle hints to make myself disappear. The babbler was set to address me in front of the class, and teach them how to deal with a ‘minority allochtoon’, a clear case of a savant A3b. The babbling fart told me – and the class – that I had “potential”, but was “not going to make it.” He spoke out yet another veto against graduation. Wow. I would have to talk to him after class about it. But, this jhw girl just out of her diapers, started to pipe up about Black people in the States still being at the bottom of the ladder, BEHIND Mexicans. And that is when I knew. Racism would not die with the old babbling fool. It had been successfully planted into the next generation. A1, A2, A3a and b, of much use to them.

They were done with me. I could blame the ‘fever’ all I wanted, but there was no graduation to be had. Not on his watch. The next watch informed on his decision, in consent. To get the eye of his greek island overseer off me took much effort, as she got hold of the department to run it into an even darker pit. I never understood why other people liked her, until one time I caught her with her mask ON. I had nightmares for days after. I continued to push for graduation, while collecting evidence for my book on their sabotage. Low grades and no grades to no avail. I was already pulling better grades elsewhere and helping myself to another graduation within a few months after they finally downgraded my thesis. Ever more evidence to show that they had been willfully holding me back. I got ready to show the whole of Helland the sick game. Still no problem for them.

If it was not for questioning the strange fever, I may have never mentioned the babbling professor ever again. No, something was wrong with that fever. The sudden rise of it at the right moment. Implanted as if a tool for their use. I had no interest to write a white pete answer to some racist question. I do not even remember what I wrote. Only the anguish as I watched myself write it and turn the page in. How could I have been turned into a ranting fool so easily? Instead of getting up and away, I let black ink hit the bleached paper to write as improper an answer to insulting questions. As if they would suffer me telling them they were wrong. Only giving them a reason in writing for the exclusion they had already decided on. Look at that foreign fever instead. It was not the first time they used it against me, and it would not be the last. A cover for something, that much I suspected. But where to find an answer? Nothing I could do about it. No. One thing. Suffer.

Was there glee in his eyes when he declared me an untouchable? If so, then there was a third person lurking behind his mask. Whatever. He can hide a whole cthulhu priesthood in there for all I care. Studying political nonsense called science was the worst thing to happen to me for many years. It fit perfectly with all the other bad things dropped on me to carry around. Already severely traumatized, I was among the wrong people to help make sense of this hostile Helland. The wrong people the right people to show hostile Helland. Just like the Bijlmer disaster, their perfect plan shows a plan. In the same way that ever more many people know about what really happened, there are some people out there who really know who I AM.



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