I would like to understand this better. He's handsome. He's a 10 on any woman's scale, but there is something I really want to get to know better about this image. I wouldn't call it haunting. I wouldn't call it seductive. I would call it dangerous and disturning. Stalker comes to mind. There is a prior image I have to refer to as it is almost impossible to get anything out of this self-portrait. And this is NOT Dada, which I sense he claims it is. Or at least that his work is influenced by Dada. Dada is seeing aage. You remember not the image, but the experience. And you remember forgetting absolutely everything else you saw at the exhibit. The horror, the horror is not dAdA. tHE TERROr OF THIS IMAGE. I'll just add my paart of Clarissa. In case you don't know this "novel" is the second one ever written according to English majors. The Russians think oyu people are idiots. They invented the comples called the Third World to take over America. Sorry. Romaniticsm is a sorry bunch of fools compared to one line from the depths of Anna Karenin. Not Karena you stupid, donkeys and more donkeys and more donkeys and more donkeys until there are no donkeys because donkeys ares tupioid fucks. That's a typo to you, not us and me and I am one of me not you. I hate to disturb your brain further, but I am The Director of the Kommmunisant Gubermiento Bureau. Slowly and carefully, sneaky my ass...silently...one watches and watches and watches, but my watch says it's close to MIDNIGHT. Who is innocent here? He stares at the camera, my stalker. This photo is a response to an image that is completely taken down from the Internet of his wife staring at the camera, saying, "Oh, David, even though I am no longer I am still one of the most beautiful women in the world, aren't I" and his response, "Yessss..." Why does he pursue me? To kill me. If this man was in your house in the middle of the night, like he was often in mine, you would obsess about him to. Imagine him staring at you like that in the dark. Such a nice guy. You remember a backgrounf of trees in autumn, dying trees, friends with the Coen brothers, who in their masterpiece about the mafia and another movie kill the trees for the special effect of autumn. Why doesn't he make real films? Like their new one about autism, The Udris Brothers on autism, a dogooder film out of this maniac. His brother so naiive, probably his work, but David, his name, takes the credit. I have no evidence that Michael, one brother, isn't hostage. I saw an image in The Washington Post of Bengazi. He is obviously the executive producer of some widely watched tv specials, such as Bengazi and 9-11, the made for tv movie. I know this. I just want to understand why. Is it power, the power of fascism. Leading the masses in the name of Communism into the World Trade Centers, 150,000 innocent people, to start the revolution. If they died it was for the people. Is it all him: No, I think he is a leader of a movement. A leader of a fascist movement in Hollywood and America, that might or might not even know it exists. What are his people like. It was too dangerous for me to ivestigate more closely. I tried to be his friend. He came up to me at a party, "Friend?" He put out his hand. I didn't take it, "Friend?" "Friend?" he gave out his hand still. I still did not take it, "Friend?" He reached out once more, "Friend?" "Friend?" I finalized. I had gotten cameras from him and his brother and handed them back for the year. It was Halloween. But this was the second time I noticed him. A woman in my class pointed them out as they walked by, David in front of Michael. "That's the Udris Brothers, Michael and David. It's said that David does boys." I should go for one of them, I thought. Michael is an inch taller; I'll go for him. I remember getting in a car accident and going to Penny Lewis' house. I sat there in my cast having just been a coma. David would turn and look at my face. We would laugh at the same time. I thought at the time: "We're playing who laughs first." Over and over, we looked at each other and laughed. I thought we were laughing about Nicholas Butterworth picking up Penny. "The media controls the government." Two. "All one," Nicholas says, turned on. We turn to each other, David and I, and laugh. At the same time. Who laughs first. "The government controls...[something]," Penny said. "All one," said Nicholas. We turn to each other and laugh, David and I. Who laughs first. "The [something] controls the media," said Penny. A triangular argument. "All one." We turn to each other and laugh. That's how it was, ritualistic. The same thing over and over. I had no idea he was a telepath. My telepathy turned off in Belize. But Ellen Rooney heard. She had it turned off. She though, God knows what. He stood at a party with Diane Bellino. They were making triangles with their fingers and hands. "Triangle." "Triangle." "Triangle." "Triangle," I said, spreading my legs apart to make a triangle. He looked at me and pretended he thought, genius. He thought I was the ugliest woman he ever saw. Abigail Metcalf invited me over. "I'd like to invite you over to meet a pair of guys." Two guys in black. Sitting there to my left on the couch. I don't know if it was David and Michael or David and Paul. I know one was David from the memory of his presence. And my quiet studied and studying reaction. "Can I have a beer?" I asked after we sat in silence for a few minutes. Then we just sat there while I drank the beer. What seemed like thirty minutes, but was probably five to ten. Nothing was said and I left. He used to some to talk to me in the middle of the night, so scary I would black it out. He and some others wrote a huge project called, "Who Killed Kurt Colbain?" on hypertext, a preinternet program. It was about telepathy as far as I could tell. Michael's was petrifying. So scary I couldn't think about it was David droning on and on for full pages with half a hard drive full of "What to do with the head?" "What to do with little genius Sarah's head." Terrifying because the summer after what was supposed to be my Senior year, before I was officially trained in Belize for The Central Intelligence Agency that had already accepted me, I had to move to a different location because one day I noticed that a piece of my mattress had been carefully sliced out with a butcher knife, the size of my head, an oval like my head. So carefully sliced out. But we were in love. What an act I had to put on. Robert Gates, my boss, was like, "Jesus, this is the best actor I ever saw in my life." People were convinced we were in love, not me daydraming and sad, but in love. But they weren't. I paced around a party in my red dress. "Sad," said the woman with him referring to me. Pathetic. They didn't buy it. Michael did. He was so angry. We hadn't been able to get together in an entire year, me and Michael. Finally, I "fell" for David the night he go together with Odetta in what they pretended was their "first time." He took some pennys while I was sitting at a table with and Michael and Odetta who I noticed for the first time. I was on acid. I was supposed to fall in love with him. "A clock made out of horses," he said, looking at a piece of wire on the wall. I turned and looked; I saw the wire, a cricle, made a clock made out of horses. "This guy is brilliant," I thought. "Wait, I
saw it first," loud enough for them to listen in. "I must be brilliant, too." "I have a friend who says a "cartoon" of cigarettes," said Michael. "I have a carton of cigarettes at home," said Odetta. What an intellectual, I thought. "Let's go get a donut," she said to David shyly. Apparently they used to have sex in that room in front of people watching tv. Unable to control themselves. And people would let them. And just not notice. But they were shy. They were just getting together. Who was the actor here? What did they want to accomplish. I like to think I am not manipulative, but I set the entire scene up. I was not prepared for them to be outside. Michael yelling at him, "I'm not giving you the key. I'm not letting you in the house tonight." He sounded hurt. Because of my act. And David had his back to me. Could he still see me? They stood there talking and I walked into my house, the house nest door. I had purposefully and carefully found a house next to an apartment that were both for rent. They were there the next day. I am not manipulative. The problem was I underestimated him. I saw their film. "It's The Udris Brother's film." Michael crying on camera, his synthesizer music as the sound track. In the snow. Michael in the snow. And flickering of black and white, vertically, up. The New York Times had just published that consciousness flickers at the rate of 1/30 of a second, which was one of the scariest things I ever read. Mine didn't. Or did it now? Was I going unconscious? Were we all? It was 1992. Time seemed faster then. Now I can feel miliseconds go by I am so conscious. Trying to stay alive does that. I have hardly no memories of 2001. the year of the bombing of the World Trade Centers. No anecdotal memories at all. I remember keeping pieces of paper to document my life because I knew I was forgetting it. Conscious of the bad marriage that was my biggest mistake in clandestine operations. I was asleep. My husband woke me up, calm, but terrified, "A plane has crashed into the World Trade Centers and your phone is rining off the hook." I opened my eyes. The tv had the image. Tower one. The little whole. George Tenet roared to me, you and I are taking this! If we make it I thought. Thank God my "father" was the only message. He had been The Undersecretary of Defe nse for Kennedy and Johnson under McNamara. I trusted him with everything. Impeccable judgement. It was too soon to be in shock. "This is not a nuclear war; it's a terror attack." I went to the tv and looked and we started a rally of phone calls. I can't remember what was said. I was being interrogated for somehow being responsible with George Tenet. I went to the tv. I saw The Tower fall, the second vieing. "I am sorry I missed experiencing this tragedy with our nation," I broadcast. "50,000 people were in The World Trade Center tower that just fell, said Peter Jennings. I can't even remember his voice. Just the shock. The horror, the horror. As many as Vietnam's Ho Chih Minh, the most poeple in one day, other than Hiroshima and Nagasaki, in less time. I ran to the phone. "50,000 people died!" THAT'S WORSE THAN HO CHIH MINH! I hung up. My father, I found out, called Rumsfeld and said, "Take that off! I am now The Undersecretary of Defense! Take that off! It's worse than Ho Chih Minh! That will be a nuclear war." I nominated, much later, him and Patrick for a Nobel Peace Prize for their behavior. Patrick, my hsuband, being so calm, though so scared, knowing on some level that I was the Assistant Deputy DIrector of The Central Intelligence Agency. While I was sleeping, I knew it was happening. I had been there in NYC the night before. I visited Putin with astral travelling and told him, "You might as well have a cup of tea. We have opened the silos. I am sorry. Just have a cup of tea. If you finish it, we can make it. It would be over. Just have a cup of tea." He did. I nominated him a Nobel, too, for his cup of tea. I cancelled it because he became President again. With one phone call. Influence, power. Yes. But so does David. And he seems so nice. Why were all their televisions on, already recording. They make these films and they don't put them on The Internet. Yet they have influence. They have power. He uses Michael's genius, I thought. But now that I have seen his photo, his self-portrait. His response. That says so much (It says more, but I got diverted), I know I must have somehow found a way to belittle his fucking mind, so he wouldn't act on his own genius. Me or Bob Aurellano. Or Kurt Niemand. One of the operatives working on him. Or all of us together. Even at the level I am at, we work quietly and unconsciously and figure it out later, the way they do, too. They. The They as I call them. The Enemies of The State. The evidence is so subtle. Just a trip to Guatanamo Bay, like I fucking did, that's what we need. I was innocent. I knew that, but proving it. Proving that I was innocent for pulling the fire alarms in the World Trade Centers that were the triggers of the package bombs. The PTSD in insane. The horror in my face. It was such terror, it was even more terrifying than 9-11 itself, just unconsciously, which is why they were so suspicious of me. Years in Guatanamo Bay. My body destroyed by the torture. I love you, David. I love you, David. I love you, David. I'd think about you for milliseconds every day as I drove to The Industry, The Entertainment Industry. Miliseconds. Nanoseconds. Go deep inside and thing, "david." And then go back to work. It kept me alive. I had cracks in my neck. Cracks in my sixth vertebra. From Mi-6 at the command of the fucking Queen, Little Miss Tea and The Times herself, to make me Nicole Kidman, instead of Princess Victoria. So they could "Discover Russia." Instead of her, me! And Mi6 in hypnotism, negative hypnotism. Polymorphous negative hypnotoism. They wouldn't even be able to have sex with me. I would be worse than Hitler. Hitler Hypnotized! I would destroy, carefully, destroy ALL. I know myself. I love you, David. But you had cracks in your back, too. The eyebrow is so distubring because that's all someone has to do to take you down. The danger was us moving to each other's bodies and from THERE having sex. Fuck you, Ellen Rooney. You black papered me from remembering my training in Belize. All I had was "George Herbert Walker Bush's daughter NEVER goes down!" And slaming my first in the air. You black papered telepathy from me, my training, my knowledge of being a Bush, my trust of my men in Belize. My trust of my husband in Langley. I should have just graduated in a semester and gone back to Belize, to Nirvana. No one knew what was wrong. You subterfuged The Central Intelligence of The United States of America. David, I know you watch. I know you hack on my computer. I know you do. I killed Pinochet and he finally fell in love with me. Russian Roulette. I am in Russian Roulette with David. Like I was in Russian Roulette with the chosen Director of The KGB, who had been hrainwashed by The Gulag Archipelego OVER Stalin to hate freedom and art and experience. Bush tuned in. David, the ring makes you insane.l Jealousy. Don't you remember telling me when my telepathy blasted on after Belize, over and over, "You can have sex with as many men as you want; I only want
to have sex with you." Over and over, "You can have sex with as many men as you want; I only want to have sex with you." Over and over. "You can have sex with as many men as you want; I only want to have sex with you." Yes, it is staling. You pretend to be nice; you pretend to be shy; you pretend to be a failure; you pretend to care about people. You pretend to be my best friend in The kGB. But my best freind in The KGB would not be instrumental in the bombing of The World Trade Centers, the master of the psychology to get everyone involved in the ways that led to their death. You killed our hero, the compiler of Marx that was proving he could NOT be Jewish. He died in 2001. I am too upset to get his name. He died in the demolition of The World Trade Centers. He was one of the people that roared, "Do any of you know David Udris?" when he realized he couldn't get out and called me on the phone and said he intentionally it make it look like it was the revolution to be televised. That is not a friend or lover or soul mate. David Udris is simply and utterly an Enermy of The State:An Enemy of The State.