Although most of my childhood is a blur, my earliest memories involve jumping off the back porch, using an umbrella as a parachute when I was somewhere around two years old.  

 

I also recall being fascinated with balloons about that time. I knew that balloons could be made to float in the air but my two year old mind could not grasp the concept of gas molecules of the same weight occupying different sized space. Of course, my dreams and reality would often conflict, which caused me to wonder things like, if I could float away yesterday, why can't I float away today?

 

I also recall standing on a dock, looking at a boat with an inboard motor, thinking it was propelled by an inducted propeller resembling those later mass produced by the Bombardier company in their “Seadoos.”

 

This reminds me, if you know anyone interested in building all terrain vehicles, I had a friend named Danial, who, due to my tendency at the time to confuse dreams with reality, shouldn't be confused with Steely Dan and “My Old School,” or Elton John's “Danial,” who, somewhere around 1974, was telling me about using Jeno's all terrain vehicle as a place to hide away and smoke a joint. Jeno being about the largest employer in Duluth after US Steel closed down.

 

My all terrain vehicles, equipped with a standard internal combustion engine, should cruse at a hundred miles per hour on snow, ice and water in complete luxury, being I now have a background in the design and manufacture of intricate aircraft interiors. It's also possible to make this craft faster, and even roadworthy, able to go anywhere a van, truck or bus of the same size will go. All it takes is more money.

 

In the late 1950s, my father and uncle built a high speed, enclosed snow sled named the “Snowbird,” which is said to have reached a hundred fifty mph, but it didn't have breaks. My far superior design will have breaks. In fact, my studies in microchips and computer programming should allow me to make this as stable a vehicle breaking system, as well as able to handle turns and wind conditions, as used on those computerized smart cars that currently adjust the shock absorbers and anti-skid breaks, within a fraction of a second, on expensive cars built today.

 

My Education     

       

I attended “Nettleton” grade school, “Washington” jr. high, and “Central” high school in Duluth Minnesota. Since I grew up in a doomsday religion, taken over by a US Supreme Court Judge during WWII, and the world was slated to end about the time I was eligible for the Vietnam draft, I never thought of an education as being important to me.

 

By third or fourth grade, the school board changed its single classroom policy by knocking down a few walls and dividing classes up into sections, such as Science area, Art area, English area and Math area. As I recall, science class was more a group of plastic bins, called 'labs,' which contained experiments you conduct on your own.

 

The Art room and Science room were connected by a large hallway, or separated by the boys and girls rest rooms, whichever makes the most sense. I recall having a dream about a pretty substitute teacher stopping me in that hallway to talk to me about my grades. When she stooped down onto either a small chair or her knees her skirt raised, revealing she had a wiener.

 

Although I'm presently sure that teacher actually existed, there was also a guy who looked a lot like her who, somewhere around the same time frame, was sitting in the same place and position, writing checks in his check book, and then tearing them up. I asked him what he was doing, and although I'm sure I got a logical reply, I only remember him pulling a match out of a matchbook and cleaning his ear with it.

 

Many substitute teachers came and went at Nettleton. For instance, a math tutor showed up one day who identified himself as being from the FBI, the female body inspectors, on an undercover assignment. The next day or two some sort of government hit man showed up as a math tutor, and the first thing he did is place me in a painful wrist lock and tell me something like he would just as soon kill me as look at me.  

                  

Somewhere around the sixth grade, I recall talking to a witch named “Ms. Treehe.” She wanted to know about my home life, and I explained that it wasn't much of a life at all. My father was extremely preoccupied by something going on in his head, which really made him look like a prick when it took him a few minutes to answer a simple question. If my father wasn't undermining my self worth, the only time he talked to me is before he whipped me, told me to stand in the corner or both.

 

Ms. Treehe worked out a plan to send me home whenever I was disruptive to the class. For instance, she kicked me out of school for touching her telephone. Although this seems rather trivial, now that I've been an inmate of the Covert US Prison System for a few decades, I've learned to somewhat communicate on the psychotic crimes and punishment level used by the subliminal prison guards to relieve me of my wallet.

 

For instance, in grade school I had a homeroom teacher named “Candy Mattson” who lived in the yellow house the next door over from me. In Candy's room there are pictures of her savior on the wall, but to get to Candy's room you gotta walk the darkness of Candy's hall. But then, that's a Bruce Springsteen song so Candy was obviously “Blinded By The Light.”

 

“Manfred Man” appeared to make a lot of money singing Springsteen songs. By coincidence, my first realization of a lingering death concerned a Manfred Man who had sugar diabetes. First, doctors chopped off his toes, then his foot, then his lower leg, then his entire leg, then he died.

 

Lets pretend there was a Soviet Union school system scam going on in my home town. It's all masked behind something like the lyrics to “Stuck in the Middle With You” by  Steelers Wheel. For years I thought that song was about an inventor, starting out with nothing as his friends slap him on the back and say “Bleed.” I would never have guessed it was really about a self made man dealing with beggars.

 

Although I think Candy was operating in the capacity of a student teacher, and therefore couldn't have been at Nettleton the full year, Candy is much more fun to talk about, since as a neighbor she always had a kind word until experiencing me as a student, after which she always gave me the bums rush.

 

Candy's favorite cuss word around school was “Sugar!” which tends to make the kids chuckle. By coincidence, the makers of “Sugar Crisp” placed a record by the 'Archies' named “Sugar Sugar” on the back of their cereal package about the time Candy was at Nettleton.

 

Speaking of “Can You See The Real Me” by the Who, Candy wanted me to build a robot and bring it to school. Perhaps the reason for this is, about that time, I took an aptitude test that placed me at one of the highest spacial, dimensional, abstract and mechanical reasoning test scores in the country for little school boys, and Candy may have thought she was on a special mission which she obviously failed at miserably.

 

It's my understanding that children with special abilities, whose parents are poor or easily manipulated, must first be indoctrinated with a long list of guilt trips and hypnotic override systems that make manipulating the child's finances after he reaches adulthood a snap.

 

For instance, whenever I watch “Star Trek: The Voyage Home,” it reminds me of the time a group of government representatives were checking out my rubber hose welts in jr. high school. Some sort of police detective opened a grade school file on me and asked me what I was doing at the teachers desk in fifth grade, while the teacher was out of the class, lecturing in a Jerry Lewis voice about a gigantic whale named “Willy.”

 

This reminds me, if you know anyone who wants to make a movie about a couple mile long submarine that is powered by the laws of physics, rather than a nuclear reactor, I can work out several versions. Obviously, anything I produce will make perfect sense from a movie standpoint but can't possibly exist in real life because the US Navy will already have several fully functional versions that are old news.      

 

Most of what I remember about life in my home town is riddled with either guilt trips or some kind of despair over underlying events. For instance, I had a  grade school classmate named “Jim Kirsh” who I believe lived in the same house “Bob Dylan” lived in about fifteen years earlier, when he went to Nettleton. The art teacher liked my doodles, and decided to incorporate my style with Jim's in a large poster. Somewhere around that time frame, “Julian Lennon” came home with an exquisite masterpiece he composed in school which inspired John Lennon to write “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds.”

 

Although “Yellow Submarine” and “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds” obviously have nothing to do with me, I'd much rather talk about that than stealing candy from the corner store, throwing snowballs at cars, smarting off to grumpy old men, or throwing rolls of toilet paper off the top of the bank.

 

One thing about my home town that my mind finds extremely difficult to grapple with is the type of homosexual games played there. Although a number of the boys in my home town were either pointed out as homosexuals or displayed homosexual tendencies, I looked at it in terms of, I'd much rather have a friend who is gay than a friend who would injure me in some way.

 

Of course, years later, while undergoing a hypnotic police interrogation in Florida, the police interrogator, whispering in my ear, insisted my home town is a place where hypnosis based camera crews create undesirable niches in society for certain citizens. In order to expedite this process, the Minnesota County of St. Louise removed me from a big pile of rubber hose beatings, connected to a doomsday religion, and placed me in the care of a black homosexual named “Charles Garner.”

 

Before I was placed with Chuck, I was placed on a farm run by “Ernie Mattson” in Brookston Minnesota. Other than the county paying Ernie a thousand dollars per month in early 1970's currency to have me shovel his cow and pig shit, the familiar names and faces resembled those in the movie “Buster and Billie,” except I can't think of anyone who was as emotionally disturbed as Billie.

 

Speaking of movies resembling real life as interpreted by dreams, I recall a Galaxy 500 spun the rock that broke the window in the same location on Ernie's school bus as in the Buster and Billie movie, while Ernie simply caused the student who owned the car to pay for his crime through a sworn statement Ernie filled out for the school board and police, and then went around and bad mouthed the guy to anyone who would listen. Also, I was nowhere near as self assured as the character portrayed by Jan Micheal Vincent. Nor did I kill anyone with pool balls and a pool cue. As well as, I don't remember driving anywhere else in Erny's old pickup truck than to get bales of hey. 

 

That is, unless I was intentionally turned into a schizophrenic for obvious reasons, or someone was demonstrating how clever editing techniques can be used to paint people into uncomfortable corners. Also, someone may have counted that picture I later painted on the wall of a dorm at the “Gunflint Lodge,” on the Canadian border, which may possibly be construed as my attempt at adding ambiance to college students and gay hustlers (servicing rich vacationers) spending their summers experimenting with LSD to the “Houses of the Holy.” That is, unless a computer student, studying object oriented programming, or a physics student, working his way through college, thinks it goes along better with “You Shook Me All Night Long” by AC-DC. 

 

Lets figure out how this 'Smile, You're On Candid Camera' secret police stalking scam  works. At the county's expense, I eat, drink and sleep under a homosexual, hypnotic police interrogator who rings bells and picks locks in order to adjust my personality to fit an agenda. After I'm 21 years old, if I don't first wind up as a psychopathic killer's love bitch in a prison cell, I somehow get it in my head that NBC wants to pay me a hundred thousand dollars per week for my set designs and movie plots but first I have to get on the casting couch with “Jerry Lewis.”

 

Of course, this Jerry Lewis casting couch scam was obviously initiated by the Florida, Polk County Sheriff's Department, since that's the domain I was living under when it started, as well as it was a Polk County Sheriff's deputy who filled out the psychiatric paperwork which led to the Polk County Mental Court ordering me into chemical treatment for telling potential investors of my background before the Sheriff hands potential investors background check paperwork on me that is so devastating that he bludgeons me with a hypnotic club whenever I try to view it. 

 

Before I left Duluth, a gay man named “Tom Gilliam” felt sorry for my homeless state and invited me to stay at his house. Most people I've met tell rather tall tales, usually associated with large volumes of alcohol, hidden police cameras and now it's your turn. Tom's somewhat tall tale involved his cousin “Terry Gilliam,” who made all those pictures of that chicken man, wandering through the art gallery in “Monty Python's Flying Circus.”

 

Although it can't be that much of a coincidence to be related to a somewhat famous person, my most famous relationship has to do with the scattering effect of photons bouncing off the mirror, as it relates to all the photons lining up with the rest of the room as though these things just don't have a better place to go than reveal exact positions of any point on any object placed in the room.

 

It turned out that the guy who owned the house where Tom lived was named “Ray Sylvester.” It would be nice to have a TV series, and exploit Ray's antics in a few episodes. Although people are people, gay or strait, some people are just better inspiration for TV writers.

 

During the early 1990's, while I worked at “Aircraft Modular Products” in Miami, for several months the name “Ray Sylvester” was routinely broadcast over the employee address system, as if my employment at AMP were a TV series, and this is the point you insert Sylvester Puddy Cat's face surrounded by feathers fluttering about. It turned out that AMP's Ray Sylvester was an engineer from the Boeing Corporation who looked a lot like my sister “Linda's” former husband “Steve Tilden.”  

 

The funny thing about a subliminal stalking ring carefully laying out a long list of buzzwords designed to distract me as I'm pushed into a corner while my property disappears, without access to the written files used to create these buzzwords, both in Minnesota and Florida, it's hard to tell the exact point where government stalking stops as it relates to the point my mind is merely trained to look for faces, situations, objects and so forth in order to go off on any number of negative mood trips.