Some CIA Methodologies and More
CIA Methodologies, Psy Ops, MK Ultra and More
I was younger then, had no reason to pay attention to such things as tradecraft, psy ops, spy crap in general.
I'm older know and have had reason to pay attention. If one uses the analogy of a human mind being akin to a computer or better still a computer chip called an EEPROM, electrically erasable programmable read only memory, this might be helpful for what I am about to describe.
Based on my life experiences, I believe CIA targets some folks froma very young age to develop in those individuals as they get older certain proclivities, preferences, and ultimately actions, that the individual not realizing that events earlier in his or her life were actually bits of 'street theater' with intention to form memories, favorable or less so depending upon the goals to be achieved.
In my case as I look back at my introductions to sex and narcotics, and having been told in 2014 by a 'former' (if there is such a thing) CIA agent how much I had misperceived in my life, using the 'key' this agent perhaps unwittingly gave me (with those boys one never knows) a key, or a prism with which to look back at events in my life, asking myself were these acts of 'street theater'?
My introduction to porn, to marijuana, to poppers, to cocaine. As I look back each of these events if seen as 'street theater' performed with purpose so as to cause me to in years, even decades later, to act in manner predictable to those who had set earlier bouts of 'street theater' in action.
Let me digress and then return to the idea presented above.
In April of 1990, I was happy to have finished my six year enlistment in the US Navy. It hadn't ended well. I was given an RE4 reenlistment code on my DD214, a form related to my Honorable Discharge.
It had started well enough, being selected as honor recruit in boot camp, #1 of 640 new recruits, and #1 graduate thereafter from my Electronics Technician class A school. I even recall my grade, a 97.9. Funny the things we remember, the things we hold of value in our minds. In retrospect, these few honors, meaningful to me as a 19 and then as a 20 year old, were likely demonstrations of the CIA's ability to manipulate, to manufacture the results it deemed necessary in keeping with its goals.
And in my case, the goal of the CIA was to create a history that could stand up to inspection by FBI, by media, and those interested in arcane topics such as presidential assassinations.
They, the CIA needed, a bright boy, but a troubled one, with ups and downs so as to mind f*** the public as they had done with Lee Harvey Oswald, Timothy McVeigh and others.
They, the CIA, had learned from blowing off Kennedy's head and blaming a man named Lee Harvey Oswald who died on TV of a gut would proclaiming likely the truth, "I'm a patsy' to take care and make great efforts to establish a past that would withstand scrutiny.
I think about it, about him, about Lee, a man I never knew and how horrible that moment of realization that he had been played, that he was to be a patsy, what that must have been like for him in those last few hours with no escape, possible, none at all.
In 2014, after having been lied to by my Russian FSB honeypot trap ex-wife Svetlana Macy, that I was under a death threat by a Russian man named Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, this causing me to retreat from Russia in October 2013. Not until May 2014 would I connect the dots, realize they had not only conspired in this false death threat but had at one time been lovers. Perhaps they still are. This I cannot say.
I can say that upon my bold return to Russia in late December 2016 with my 16 year old son Nicholas, him fully bilingual and holder of two passports, I had made a bet that 3 years apart perhaps had been enough for her and him, this Tregubov.
I was surprised to learn that Svetlana having agreed to reconcile called upon her elderly aunt Valentina Nikolaevna to trial the 1000s of kilometers from Russia's 3rd largest city Nizhniy Novgorod locate deep in the Eastern portion of Europe, not quite as far as the Ural mountains, to Saint Petersburg, Russia's 2nd largest city. This city where I once bought an apartment in 2006 from once American, now Russian multimillionaire August Meyer at Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35. This site remarkable not only for its commanding location on Lev Tolstoy Square but also for its mysterious and unsolved Notre Dame like roof fire on May 29, 2009.
I would learn unasked from an American expat I had met in Russia in the 2000s, Jason Smolek, that this date, this May 29th, was the birthday of John F. Kennedy, JFK. Unless I miss my guess Jason Smolek is an active CIA agent, hence his earlier all too active attempts at friendship with me, now blocked on Facebook as I realized the reasons for his 'warmth' and attention given me. In this manner of behavior Jason was not alone.
As my FSB Russian honeypot trap, or 'sparrow' as is termed by media, Svetlana Macy asked me on a Skype video call in December 2015, "Rick didn't you know that 80% of your expat friends were actually intelligence agents?"
Back to JFK.
JFK whose head was blown apart, we are lied to and told a lone shooter, troubled individual Lee Harvey Oswald, all on his own pulled off this most remarkable of assassinations. A lie. Told to the masses by men with power and influence.
On my voyage of horrible discovery in 2014, I had been told by my supposed buddy pal NCIS special agent Douglas Boyce how the police in the USA could and would fake things like medical test results, and more if it served their purposes.
Douglas had told me in his home in 2014 where I resided as his house guest for several weeks in the spring of that year that he had been when we met in Russia in 1999 employed by the CIA and so was familiar with such activities.
Doug explained with pride how using psy ops and other arcane techniques they, the CIA, would get targets to act unknowingly against their own self interest. In time I learned I was one of these targets.
A methodology I have experienced probably has a title, though I know it not. An example would include when a Russian man named Evgeniy Solomatin, whom I had barely known while working in a Moscow phone company, Comstar Telecommunications in 2001, and he, for a subcontractor or some sort that I do not now recall.
Out of the blue Evgeniy, as if we were old friends, which we weren't, invited myself and my son to some sort of telecoms/advertising conference in Moscow.
I thought it would be good for my son, and perhaps for self as well. I don't know what the term is for this methodology.
I was curious to pull on this thread of an unexpected invitation and to see to where it led. Specifically did CIA want me back to work in some capacity, or did they want something else?
And, in parallel, a man I strongly believe to be a CIA agent in Moscow, Jeff Letino, contacted me, or I him, of this I am not sure. Via Evgeniy I got Jeff a free invite to this conference where we got reacquainted for the last time I had seen Jeff had been in the 2000s.
We were, at best, acquaintences, not friends.
Jeff had in 2014 via email reached out saying that due to his position on the board of a Russian security company perhaps he could help locate my missing ex-wife Svetlana and son Nicholas.
We, Jeff and I, had agreed to meet in Asheville, NC on a weekend in July. The meeting never took place as I was pursued, harassed and gangstalked by up to 40 undercover vehicles at the time. Othe blog posts here capture and describe that dark adventure better.
The CIA thrives in the dark, in the realm of deniability. Evgeniy's conference invitation, leading me to reconnnect with Jeff Letino is a classic example of deniable tradecraft.
My son and I had just returned in the December of 2016 to Russia and to his mother, the woman who had lied to me about a false death threat that caused me to leave Russia in October 2013. My son departed Russia 14 months later to join me in the US, having been sent by his mother as a sort of secret weapon.
I was playing bigger games and cared not that he was sent with a plan to entrap me, I cared that a boy, this boy, my boy, had a father. And that was me. Damn his mother, and Damn their deception, I was the boys father and would act so even knowing she had sent him as a weapon.
I had been told by Svetlana's lover Alexander Tregubov, the man who poisoned me in August 2011 with a spiked beer causing me to lose 35 pounds in a month, that Svetlana had a plan to gain my US assets. That is to steal that which she had not already stolen in our divorce most fraudulent in the fall of 2012.
Why did I care so much about 'rescuing' my son from her, from Russia, from this spy tragedy most comic? They, the CIA had played their two top cards again and again against me, sex and drugs, sex and drugs. Powerful cards to be sure.
And yet as I realized these cards, sex and drugs, had been played against me in concert, in what legal lingo would term conspiracy, I was able to put the things that the sex and drugs were intentioned to lets say attack, I took those all too human feelings, weaknesses, liabilities, and put them in a sort of box. I realized a big part of the game was getting my son. For what purpose? For what plan? As to that I could only guess.
I learned in short order upon his arrival in New York at the airport we call JFK on December 4, 2014, that his mother, former prostitute, current 'sparrow', who had opened the doors for me into group sex and base carnal desire, had kept a series of compromising photos of me with women and with men.
She assembled these photos on a thumb drive and provided them to our then 13 year old son, a felony in the US, and likely also a crime in Russia.
My son Nick and I talked about this and about so much else. I wanted him to know everything that had happened between his parents, that had influenced his life. I tried to put myself in his place and were my father gone, what might I liked to have known. And I concluded, that would be, the truth.
Svetlana had in the fall, of 2012, after our divorce handed to me a CD claiming these were the last copies of those photos.
I thanked her and broke it into many pieces. She looked me in the eye as she turned over the CD and lied as she did it.
Svetlana is an excellent liar.
She'd have to be.
She was, of course, to be this generations Marina Oswald, and would have to undergo interview after interview had the CIA plot not failed, had Obama been murdered, had Biden been installed, and had I been blamed as assassin, though like Lee Harvey Oswald before me, actually a patsy.
Why did I care so deeply, so profoundly, to retrieve my son from Russia after my October 2013 retreat to the US post divorce?
The easy answer is I was his dad and what dad wouldnt want what is best for his son?
I think my answer different, more specific pychologically speaking, likely because my father was always removed, from me. Also he had died at 19 so I never got to know him as an adult.
And we were not close in my childhood. I wrote it off think as he was a pilot with seven kids, he was simply busy and when home tired.
I dont think that today. My experience being gangstalked by CIA, FBI, FSB, MI6 and others caught me attention and more.
My father was removed from me, and in my humble view this done likely on purpose and with intent for psychological effect by CIA to mold me into the 'history' they desired to create. The one they'd use when I along with Obama would be dead.
Related to this thought was a meeting I had just after my return to Russia in December 2016, a retired Anglican priest residing in Tallinn, Stiiv Knower, told me in early 2017, when he suddenly was granted a Russian visa after having had to wait for months and months.
My guess was his suddenly rapid visa granting had more to do with me than him.
The Russians know who the spies are, amd Stiiv is one IMHO. Stiiv couched what he wanted to tell me in terms obscure, in terms of 'God loving that which he creates', a deniable reference to the significant role the CIA, etc. had played in my life from a very young age, perhaps as early as 8 or 10, with some sexual abuse I have yet to describe that occured to me when young, meant to program me for later debauchery. This could be enlarged to include why my father so distant, with even my mother teaching me avout birds and bees, a task that ought to have been his.
All this of course unknown to me then, and done aforethought so as to make me think these thoughts on sex, with women, with men, my own, with no other origination point.
Now I know better, and have a far different paradigm for how thoughts transmitted like viruses are often quite not our own, even though we are of this unaware.
I recall later as a young teen being invited the one and only time by my piano teacher, Mrs. Bunce, who lived within walking distance of our Kingston, MA home. I took piano lessons for two years, wasn't taken by it, wasn't particularly talented as a pianist and quite after the two years.
But this I remember and remember it well. Unexpectedly Mrs. Bunce invited me to assist her on a Saturday to bind magazines in a container at our local dump. I accepted, not recalling why, perhaps as it was simply something to do.
I recall it was a cool day and I wore a sweater and a jacket. We climbed into the container. Mrs. Bunce produced twine and scissors and we proceeded to create piles of magazines to be bound.
Seemed a simple enough task. Then the unexpected occurred, a copy of 'Penthouse' magazine appeared amongst the clutter of magazines. Then another. I was just hitting puberty, these two magazines in the pre-internet era, representing the forefront of pornographic materials of that time.
I recall stuffing them under my sweater and taking them home without a word mentioned to Mrs. Bunce. Looking back now as I do through the filter provided years later in 2014 by former (if there is such a thing) CIA agent Douglas Boyce when he told me in the morning after the night of FBI gangstalkers both in vehicles and on foot harassing me, that July night I spent in his driveway with no where to go, when he told me that next morning how much I had misperceived in my life.
Perhaps I had misperceived that finding those two magnificent copies of 'Penthouse' in that container at the junk yard with piano teacher, Mrs. Bunce, was not random, but was intentional.
I recall later being so enthralled, so excited by the 'Letters' section, this portion of the magazine describing forbidden pleasures of married men, with the permission of their wives, cross dressing and fellating together strange men picked up in bars. Strong stuff for a 12 year old.
A few years later I worked at the Kingston Drive-In Theater, now razed, and the foundation for a supermarket. I was part of a small team that provided cleanup and maintenance during the daylight hours.
Later, I was promoted also to the night shift, and finally assistant manager, a posting that gave me great pride.
I recall a one off story, that our boss, Paul Hachey, a World War 2 vet who lacked a finger, it having been removed as he hadn't been quick enough to remove his hand while loading a mortar against nearly ferocious German troops. Paul admitted he had been drinking in response to the horrors around him. Then as now I am nothing but sympathetic to Paul, who died too early. Great boss for a 15 year old.
So what was this one off story? Paul directed coworker Dan Tura, also a local Kingston boy like me, though a year or two my senior, a teen with the ability to hurl a rock over the towering Drive-In outdoor movie screen, while my heaves never failed to stop short, dinging that rectangular white monstrosity.
Our task? To drive to Billerica, MA, in Dan's pickup truck, to another movie theater, this one also owned by the same folk who owned the Kingston Drive-In theater, E.M. Loews. And there, we were to pick up a few hundred outdoor drive in movie theater speakers.
These were those tinny, metallic, cabled speakers, to be set on a pole, two to a pole, so as to support one car on either side. In our day job, Danny and I had an expertise in replacing and repairing these speakers, often damaged by customers, sometimes with intention, though usually not. The damage most often caused by the cars driving off, the vehicles driver simply forgetting to remove the speaker from the window and replacing it into the wire cage there provided to hold it comfortably until it's next use.
Our main goal easily enough to accomplish but that we had some time to kill as the speakers were brought together and loaded in Dan's pick up truck. So what was playing in the theater? Reasonable question. And the answer, also reasonable for its time of the late 70s, porn. 'Debbie Does Dallas', the Marilyn Chambers hits of those days like 'Behind the Green Door', etc. This was before the hey day of later porn actresses such as Ginger Lynn or Tracy Lords.
I recall the theater mostly empty, though the seats occupied, occupied solely by men, usually in outerwear resembling trench coats. I was not intrigued or interested in the least. Nor was I horrified. I was simply there to get speakers and return to Kingston with Dan. We, Dan and I simply had a job to do, retrieve the speakers and return to the South Shore of Boston, return to Kingston.
Years later this seed planted, as had those of the two pornographic 'Penthouse'magazines, I moved to Rochester NY to take on a new job. This with military radio manufacturer Harris Corp. I was attempting with my first wife of Plymouth MA, Christine Ryan, to sell our townhouse in Northern Virginia just off route 7 in order to buy a home in the suburbs of this western New York City whose hey day was 100 years behind her.
Rochester, home of Kodak, Bausch and Lomb, and Xerox. A well educated workforce, family focused, and a bit too much like the closed souls of New England, me having been exposed to the openness of those living further South in Florida and the DC metro area by then.
I stayed with a friend, I thought this from him a kindness now less sure. And on nearby Monroe Ave in Rochester NY a porn theater, much like the one in Billerica MA all those years earlier. And by then in the age of VHS tapes I had unwittingly begun to program myself with porn. I liked it. It felt good. It was porn.
I recall slipping into the porn theater excitedly as my first wife who I'd later leave was still in Northern Virginia trying to sell the townhouse we had bought only a year earlier. And so I was in a new job, new town, no friends, lonely. And so off to the porn theater.
It took time but as I watched the porn on the screen I also became aware of men pleasing each other in the back aisle, along the walls, in the loo. I was disgusted, yet thrilled. And in some time I pushed myself to sit in that back row and when it happened, a man standing in the dark with his erect penis jutting out hard as a rock, I took it into my mouth and fellated him.
Exciting. Forbidden. At approximately the same time, I had been to Russia and had met Svetlana who would become my second wife. Thoughts of this beautiful 21 year old girl prosituting herself to strange men for money was another variable rolling around in my head that had contributed to that strange calculus that led me to willingly please an unknown man in such manner.
And all along I thought these m decisions. In 2014 getting informal psy ops lessons from former CIA agent, current NCIS agent Doug Boyce in his Virginia Beach home, I learned about how people might be programmed. I was shocked to consider that thjs had happened to me. I looked back on events in my life and in time realized Goddammit I was a manchurian candidate. Unbelievable.
To be continued...
I was younger then, had no reason to pay attention to such things as tradecraft, psy ops, spy crap in general.
I'm older know and have had reason to pay attention. If one uses the analogy of a human mind being akin to a computer or better still a computer chip called an EEPROM, electrically erasable programmable read only memory, this might be helpful for what I am about to describe.
Based on my life experiences, I believe CIA targets some folks froma very young age to develop in those individuals as they get older certain proclivities, preferences, and ultimately actions, that the individual not realizing that events earlier in his or her life were actually bits of 'street theater' with intention to form memories, favorable or less so depending upon the goals to be achieved.
In my case as I look back at my introductions to sex and narcotics, and having been told in 2014 by a 'former' (if there is such a thing) CIA agent how much I had misperceived in my life, using the 'key' this agent perhaps unwittingly gave me (with those boys one never knows) a key, or a prism with which to look back at events in my life, asking myself were these acts of 'street theater'?
My introduction to porn, to marijuana, to poppers, to cocaine. As I look back each of these events if seen as 'street theater' performed with purpose so as to cause me to in years, even decades later, to act in manner predictable to those who had set earlier bouts of 'street theater' in action.
Let me digress and then return to the idea presented above.
In April of 1990, I was happy to have finished my six year enlistment in the US Navy. It hadn't ended well. I was given an RE4 reenlistment code on my DD214, a form related to my Honorable Discharge.
It had started well enough, being selected as honor recruit in boot camp, #1 of 640 new recruits, and #1 graduate thereafter from my Electronics Technician class A school. I even recall my grade, a 97.9. Funny the things we remember, the things we hold of value in our minds. In retrospect, these few honors, meaningful to me as a 19 and then as a 20 year old, were likely demonstrations of the CIA's ability to manipulate, to manufacture the results it deemed necessary in keeping with its goals.
And in my case, the goal of the CIA was to create a history that could stand up to inspection by FBI, by media, and those interested in arcane topics such as presidential assassinations.
They, the CIA needed, a bright boy, but a troubled one, with ups and downs so as to mind f*** the public as they had done with Lee Harvey Oswald, Timothy McVeigh and others.
They, the CIA, had learned from blowing off Kennedy's head and blaming a man named Lee Harvey Oswald who died on TV of a gut would proclaiming likely the truth, "I'm a patsy' to take care and make great efforts to establish a past that would withstand scrutiny.
I think about it, about him, about Lee, a man I never knew and how horrible that moment of realization that he had been played, that he was to be a patsy, what that must have been like for him in those last few hours with no escape, possible, none at all.
In 2014, after having been lied to by my Russian FSB honeypot trap ex-wife Svetlana Macy, that I was under a death threat by a Russian man named Alexander Valerievich Tregubov, this causing me to retreat from Russia in October 2013. Not until May 2014 would I connect the dots, realize they had not only conspired in this false death threat but had at one time been lovers. Perhaps they still are. This I cannot say.
I can say that upon my bold return to Russia in late December 2016 with my 16 year old son Nicholas, him fully bilingual and holder of two passports, I had made a bet that 3 years apart perhaps had been enough for her and him, this Tregubov.
I was surprised to learn that Svetlana having agreed to reconcile called upon her elderly aunt Valentina Nikolaevna to trial the 1000s of kilometers from Russia's 3rd largest city Nizhniy Novgorod locate deep in the Eastern portion of Europe, not quite as far as the Ural mountains, to Saint Petersburg, Russia's 2nd largest city. This city where I once bought an apartment in 2006 from once American, now Russian multimillionaire August Meyer at Kamennoostrovskiy Prospekt 35. This site remarkable not only for its commanding location on Lev Tolstoy Square but also for its mysterious and unsolved Notre Dame like roof fire on May 29, 2009.
I would learn unasked from an American expat I had met in Russia in the 2000s, Jason Smolek, that this date, this May 29th, was the birthday of John F. Kennedy, JFK. Unless I miss my guess Jason Smolek is an active CIA agent, hence his earlier all too active attempts at friendship with me, now blocked on Facebook as I realized the reasons for his 'warmth' and attention given me. In this manner of behavior Jason was not alone.
As my FSB Russian honeypot trap, or 'sparrow' as is termed by media, Svetlana Macy asked me on a Skype video call in December 2015, "Rick didn't you know that 80% of your expat friends were actually intelligence agents?"
Back to JFK.
JFK whose head was blown apart, we are lied to and told a lone shooter, troubled individual Lee Harvey Oswald, all on his own pulled off this most remarkable of assassinations. A lie. Told to the masses by men with power and influence.
On my voyage of horrible discovery in 2014, I had been told by my supposed buddy pal NCIS special agent Douglas Boyce how the police in the USA could and would fake things like medical test results, and more if it served their purposes.
Douglas had told me in his home in 2014 where I resided as his house guest for several weeks in the spring of that year that he had been when we met in Russia in 1999 employed by the CIA and so was familiar with such activities.
Doug explained with pride how using psy ops and other arcane techniques they, the CIA, would get targets to act unknowingly against their own self interest. In time I learned I was one of these targets.
A methodology I have experienced probably has a title, though I know it not. An example would include when a Russian man named Evgeniy Solomatin, whom I had barely known while working in a Moscow phone company, Comstar Telecommunications in 2001, and he, for a subcontractor or some sort that I do not now recall.
Out of the blue Evgeniy, as if we were old friends, which we weren't, invited myself and my son to some sort of telecoms/advertising conference in Moscow.
I thought it would be good for my son, and perhaps for self as well. I don't know what the term is for this methodology.
I was curious to pull on this thread of an unexpected invitation and to see to where it led. Specifically did CIA want me back to work in some capacity, or did they want something else?
And, in parallel, a man I strongly believe to be a CIA agent in Moscow, Jeff Letino, contacted me, or I him, of this I am not sure. Via Evgeniy I got Jeff a free invite to this conference where we got reacquainted for the last time I had seen Jeff had been in the 2000s.
We were, at best, acquaintences, not friends.
Jeff had in 2014 via email reached out saying that due to his position on the board of a Russian security company perhaps he could help locate my missing ex-wife Svetlana and son Nicholas.
We, Jeff and I, had agreed to meet in Asheville, NC on a weekend in July. The meeting never took place as I was pursued, harassed and gangstalked by up to 40 undercover vehicles at the time. Othe blog posts here capture and describe that dark adventure better.
The CIA thrives in the dark, in the realm of deniability. Evgeniy's conference invitation, leading me to reconnnect with Jeff Letino is a classic example of deniable tradecraft.
My son and I had just returned in the December of 2016 to Russia and to his mother, the woman who had lied to me about a false death threat that caused me to leave Russia in October 2013. My son departed Russia 14 months later to join me in the US, having been sent by his mother as a sort of secret weapon.
I was playing bigger games and cared not that he was sent with a plan to entrap me, I cared that a boy, this boy, my boy, had a father. And that was me. Damn his mother, and Damn their deception, I was the boys father and would act so even knowing she had sent him as a weapon.
I had been told by Svetlana's lover Alexander Tregubov, the man who poisoned me in August 2011 with a spiked beer causing me to lose 35 pounds in a month, that Svetlana had a plan to gain my US assets. That is to steal that which she had not already stolen in our divorce most fraudulent in the fall of 2012.
Why did I care so much about 'rescuing' my son from her, from Russia, from this spy tragedy most comic? They, the CIA had played their two top cards again and again against me, sex and drugs, sex and drugs. Powerful cards to be sure.
And yet as I realized these cards, sex and drugs, had been played against me in concert, in what legal lingo would term conspiracy, I was able to put the things that the sex and drugs were intentioned to lets say attack, I took those all too human feelings, weaknesses, liabilities, and put them in a sort of box. I realized a big part of the game was getting my son. For what purpose? For what plan? As to that I could only guess.
I learned in short order upon his arrival in New York at the airport we call JFK on December 4, 2014, that his mother, former prostitute, current 'sparrow', who had opened the doors for me into group sex and base carnal desire, had kept a series of compromising photos of me with women and with men.
She assembled these photos on a thumb drive and provided them to our then 13 year old son, a felony in the US, and likely also a crime in Russia.
My son Nick and I talked about this and about so much else. I wanted him to know everything that had happened between his parents, that had influenced his life. I tried to put myself in his place and were my father gone, what might I liked to have known. And I concluded, that would be, the truth.
Svetlana had in the fall, of 2012, after our divorce handed to me a CD claiming these were the last copies of those photos.
I thanked her and broke it into many pieces. She looked me in the eye as she turned over the CD and lied as she did it.
Svetlana is an excellent liar.
She'd have to be.
She was, of course, to be this generations Marina Oswald, and would have to undergo interview after interview had the CIA plot not failed, had Obama been murdered, had Biden been installed, and had I been blamed as assassin, though like Lee Harvey Oswald before me, actually a patsy.
Why did I care so deeply, so profoundly, to retrieve my son from Russia after my October 2013 retreat to the US post divorce?
The easy answer is I was his dad and what dad wouldnt want what is best for his son?
I think my answer different, more specific pychologically speaking, likely because my father was always removed, from me. Also he had died at 19 so I never got to know him as an adult.
And we were not close in my childhood. I wrote it off think as he was a pilot with seven kids, he was simply busy and when home tired.
I dont think that today. My experience being gangstalked by CIA, FBI, FSB, MI6 and others caught me attention and more.
My father was removed from me, and in my humble view this done likely on purpose and with intent for psychological effect by CIA to mold me into the 'history' they desired to create. The one they'd use when I along with Obama would be dead.
Related to this thought was a meeting I had just after my return to Russia in December 2016, a retired Anglican priest residing in Tallinn, Stiiv Knower, told me in early 2017, when he suddenly was granted a Russian visa after having had to wait for months and months.
My guess was his suddenly rapid visa granting had more to do with me than him.
The Russians know who the spies are, amd Stiiv is one IMHO. Stiiv couched what he wanted to tell me in terms obscure, in terms of 'God loving that which he creates', a deniable reference to the significant role the CIA, etc. had played in my life from a very young age, perhaps as early as 8 or 10, with some sexual abuse I have yet to describe that occured to me when young, meant to program me for later debauchery. This could be enlarged to include why my father so distant, with even my mother teaching me avout birds and bees, a task that ought to have been his.
All this of course unknown to me then, and done aforethought so as to make me think these thoughts on sex, with women, with men, my own, with no other origination point.
Now I know better, and have a far different paradigm for how thoughts transmitted like viruses are often quite not our own, even though we are of this unaware.
I recall later as a young teen being invited the one and only time by my piano teacher, Mrs. Bunce, who lived within walking distance of our Kingston, MA home. I took piano lessons for two years, wasn't taken by it, wasn't particularly talented as a pianist and quite after the two years.
But this I remember and remember it well. Unexpectedly Mrs. Bunce invited me to assist her on a Saturday to bind magazines in a container at our local dump. I accepted, not recalling why, perhaps as it was simply something to do.
I recall it was a cool day and I wore a sweater and a jacket. We climbed into the container. Mrs. Bunce produced twine and scissors and we proceeded to create piles of magazines to be bound.
Seemed a simple enough task. Then the unexpected occurred, a copy of 'Penthouse' magazine appeared amongst the clutter of magazines. Then another. I was just hitting puberty, these two magazines in the pre-internet era, representing the forefront of pornographic materials of that time.
I recall stuffing them under my sweater and taking them home without a word mentioned to Mrs. Bunce. Looking back now as I do through the filter provided years later in 2014 by former (if there is such a thing) CIA agent Douglas Boyce when he told me in the morning after the night of FBI gangstalkers both in vehicles and on foot harassing me, that July night I spent in his driveway with no where to go, when he told me that next morning how much I had misperceived in my life.
Perhaps I had misperceived that finding those two magnificent copies of 'Penthouse' in that container at the junk yard with piano teacher, Mrs. Bunce, was not random, but was intentional.
I recall later being so enthralled, so excited by the 'Letters' section, this portion of the magazine describing forbidden pleasures of married men, with the permission of their wives, cross dressing and fellating together strange men picked up in bars. Strong stuff for a 12 year old.
A few years later I worked at the Kingston Drive-In Theater, now razed, and the foundation for a supermarket. I was part of a small team that provided cleanup and maintenance during the daylight hours.
Later, I was promoted also to the night shift, and finally assistant manager, a posting that gave me great pride.
I recall a one off story, that our boss, Paul Hachey, a World War 2 vet who lacked a finger, it having been removed as he hadn't been quick enough to remove his hand while loading a mortar against nearly ferocious German troops. Paul admitted he had been drinking in response to the horrors around him. Then as now I am nothing but sympathetic to Paul, who died too early. Great boss for a 15 year old.
So what was this one off story? Paul directed coworker Dan Tura, also a local Kingston boy like me, though a year or two my senior, a teen with the ability to hurl a rock over the towering Drive-In outdoor movie screen, while my heaves never failed to stop short, dinging that rectangular white monstrosity.
Our task? To drive to Billerica, MA, in Dan's pickup truck, to another movie theater, this one also owned by the same folk who owned the Kingston Drive-In theater, E.M. Loews. And there, we were to pick up a few hundred outdoor drive in movie theater speakers.
These were those tinny, metallic, cabled speakers, to be set on a pole, two to a pole, so as to support one car on either side. In our day job, Danny and I had an expertise in replacing and repairing these speakers, often damaged by customers, sometimes with intention, though usually not. The damage most often caused by the cars driving off, the vehicles driver simply forgetting to remove the speaker from the window and replacing it into the wire cage there provided to hold it comfortably until it's next use.
Our main goal easily enough to accomplish but that we had some time to kill as the speakers were brought together and loaded in Dan's pick up truck. So what was playing in the theater? Reasonable question. And the answer, also reasonable for its time of the late 70s, porn. 'Debbie Does Dallas', the Marilyn Chambers hits of those days like 'Behind the Green Door', etc. This was before the hey day of later porn actresses such as Ginger Lynn or Tracy Lords.
I recall the theater mostly empty, though the seats occupied, occupied solely by men, usually in outerwear resembling trench coats. I was not intrigued or interested in the least. Nor was I horrified. I was simply there to get speakers and return to Kingston with Dan. We, Dan and I simply had a job to do, retrieve the speakers and return to the South Shore of Boston, return to Kingston.
Years later this seed planted, as had those of the two pornographic 'Penthouse'magazines, I moved to Rochester NY to take on a new job. This with military radio manufacturer Harris Corp. I was attempting with my first wife of Plymouth MA, Christine Ryan, to sell our townhouse in Northern Virginia just off route 7 in order to buy a home in the suburbs of this western New York City whose hey day was 100 years behind her.
Rochester, home of Kodak, Bausch and Lomb, and Xerox. A well educated workforce, family focused, and a bit too much like the closed souls of New England, me having been exposed to the openness of those living further South in Florida and the DC metro area by then.
I stayed with a friend, I thought this from him a kindness now less sure. And on nearby Monroe Ave in Rochester NY a porn theater, much like the one in Billerica MA all those years earlier. And by then in the age of VHS tapes I had unwittingly begun to program myself with porn. I liked it. It felt good. It was porn.
I recall slipping into the porn theater excitedly as my first wife who I'd later leave was still in Northern Virginia trying to sell the townhouse we had bought only a year earlier. And so I was in a new job, new town, no friends, lonely. And so off to the porn theater.
It took time but as I watched the porn on the screen I also became aware of men pleasing each other in the back aisle, along the walls, in the loo. I was disgusted, yet thrilled. And in some time I pushed myself to sit in that back row and when it happened, a man standing in the dark with his erect penis jutting out hard as a rock, I took it into my mouth and fellated him.
Exciting. Forbidden. At approximately the same time, I had been to Russia and had met Svetlana who would become my second wife. Thoughts of this beautiful 21 year old girl prosituting herself to strange men for money was another variable rolling around in my head that had contributed to that strange calculus that led me to willingly please an unknown man in such manner.
And all along I thought these m decisions. In 2014 getting informal psy ops lessons from former CIA agent, current NCIS agent Doug Boyce in his Virginia Beach home, I learned about how people might be programmed. I was shocked to consider that thjs had happened to me. I looked back on events in my life and in time realized Goddammit I was a manchurian candidate. Unbelievable.
To be continued...
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