Tag Archives: CIA

“Je suis le Capital Siege” or “The Secret of Father Brown” Yours truly, bad and evil.

CHESTERTON FATHER BROWN

The only way to be able to direct souls to the Living Truth is to be humble enough to admit that one could be capable of that which is most bad and evil, for only in that way are we open to Him who saves us from ourselves. Make no mistake: this is not about “thinking like a criminal”, this is about being the very criminal in potentia, as in: “There but for the grace of God go I”, quite literally. This is The Secret of Father Brown, of G.K. Chesterton fame. It’s well worth the read, as are all things Chesterton. A little humility goes a long way. This is one chapter in the volume with the same title. If I were a chaplain to the CIA, this is what I would present to them with some examples. Very tightly scripted:

FLAMBEAU, once the most famous criminal in France and later a very private detective in England, had long retired from both professions. Some say a career of crime had left him with too many scruples for a career of detection. Anyhow, after a life of romantic escapes and tricks of evasion, he had ended at what some might consider an appropriate address: in a castle in Spain. The castle, however, was solid though relatively small; and the black vineyard and green stripes of kitchen garden covered a respectable square on the brown hillside. For Flambeau, after all his violent adventures, still possessed what is possessed by so many Latins, what is absent (for instance) in so many Americans, the energy to retire. It can be seen in many a large hotel-proprietor whose one ambition is to be a small peasant. It can be seen in many a French provincial shopkeeper, who pauses at the moment when he might develop into a detestable millionaire and buy a street of shops, to fall back quietly and comfortably on domesticity and dominoes. Flambeau had casually and almost abruptly fallen in love with a Spanish Lady, married and brought up a large family on a Spanish estate, without displaying any apparent desire to stray again beyond its borders. But on one particular morning he was observed by his family to be unusually restless and excited; and he outran the little boys and descended the greater part of the long mountain slope to meet the visitor who was coming across the valley; even when the visitor was still a black dot in the distance.

The black dot gradually increased in size without very much altering in the shape; for it continued, roughly speaking, to be both round and black. The black clothes of clerics were not unknown upon those hills; but these clothes, however clerical, had about them something at once commonplace and yet almost jaunty in comparison with the cassock or soutane, and marked the wearer as a man from the northwestern islands, as clearly as if he had been labelled Clapham Junction. He carried a short thick umbrella with a knob like a club, at the sight of which his Latin friend almost shed tears of sentiment; for it had figured in many adventures that they shared long ago. For this was the Frenchman’s English friend, Father Brown, paying a long-desired but long-delayed visit. They had corresponded constantly, but they had not met for years.

Father Brown was soon established in the family circle, which was quite large enough to give the general sense of company or a community. He was introduced to the big wooden images of the Three Kings, of painted and gilded wood, who bring the gifts to the children at Christmas; for Spain is a country where the affairs of the children bulk large in the life of the home. He was introduced to the dog and the cat and the live-stock on the farm. But he was also, as it happened, introduced to one neighbour who, like himself, had brought into that valley the garb and manners of distant lands.

It was on the third night of the priest’s stay at the little chateau that he beheld a stately stranger who paid his respects to the Spanish household with bows that no Spanish grandee could emulate. He was a tall, thin grey-haired and very handsome gentleman, and his hands, cuffs and cuff-links had something overpowering in their polish. But his long face had nothing of that languor which is associated with long cuffs and manicuring in the caricatures of our own country. It was rather arrestingly alert and keen; and the eyes had an innocent intensity of inquiry that does not go often with grey hairs. That alone might have marked the man’s nationality, as well the nasal note in his refined voice and his rather too ready assumption of the vast antiquity of all the European things around him. This was, indeed, no less a person than Mr. Grandison Chace, of Boston, an American traveller who had halted for a time in his American travels by taking a lease of the adjoining estate; a somewhat similar castle on a somewhat similar hill. He delighted in his old castle, and he regarded his friendly neighbour as a local antiquity of the same type. For Flambeau managed, as we have said, really to look retired in the sense of rooted. He might have grown there with his own vine and fig-tree for ages. He had resumed his real family name of Duroc; for the other title of “The Torch” had only been a title de guerre, like that under which such a man will often wage war on society. He was fond of his wife and family; he never went farther afield than was needed for a little shooting; and he seemed, to the American globe-trotter, the embodiment of that cult of a sunny respectability and a temperate luxury, which the American was wise enough to see and admire in the Mediterranean peoples. The rolling stone from the West was glad to rest for a moment on this rock in the South that had gathered so very much moss. But Mr. Chace had heard of Father Brown, and his tone faintly changed, as towards a celebrity. The interviewing instinct awoke, tactful but tense. If he did try to draw Father Brown, as if he were a tooth, it was done with the most dexterous and painless American dentistry.

They were sitting in a sort of partly unroofed outer court of the house, such as often forms the entrance to Spanish houses. It was dusk turning to dark; and as all that mountain air sharpens suddenly after sunset, a small stove stood on the flagstones, glowing with red eyes like a goblin, and painting a red pattern on the pavement; but scarcely a ray of it reached the lower bricks of the great bare, brown brick wall that went soaring up above them into the deep blue night. Flambeau’s big broad-shouldered figure and great moustaches, like sabres, could be traced dimly in the twilight, as he moved about, drawing dark wine from a great cask and handing it round. In his shadow, the priest looked very shrunken and small, as if huddled over the stove; but the American visitor leaned forward elegantly with his elbow on his knee and his fine pointed features in the full light; his eyes shone with inquisitive intelligence.

“I can assure you, sir,” he was saying, “we consider your achievement in the matter of the Moonshine Murder the most remarkable triumph in the history of detective science.”

Father Brown murmured something; some might have imagined that the murmur was a little like a moan.

“We are well acquainted,” went on the stranger firmly, “with the alleged achievements of Dupin and others; and with those of Lecoq, Sherlock Holmes, Nicholas Carter, and other imaginative incarnations of the craft. But we observe there is in many ways, a marked difference between your own method of approach and that of these other thinkers, whether fictitious or actual. Some have spec’lated, sir, as to whether the difference of method may perhaps involve rather the absence of method.”

Father Brown was silent; then he started a little, almost as if he had been nodding over the stove, and said: “I beg your pardon. Yes. . .. Absence of method. . . . Absence of mind, too, I’m afraid.”

“I should say of strictly tabulated scientific method,” went on the inquirer. “Edgar Poe throws off several little essays in a conversational form, explaining Dupin’s method, with its fine links of logic. Dr. Watson had to listen to some pretty exact expositions of Holmes’s method with its observation of material details. But nobody seems to have got on to any full account of your method, Father Brown, and I was informed you declined the offer to give a series of lectures in the States on the matter.”

“Yes,” said the priest, frowning at the stove; “I declined.”

“Your refusal gave rise to a remarkable lot of interesting talk,” remarked Chace. “I may say that some of our people are saying your science can’t be expounded, because it’s something more than just natural science. They say your secret’s not to be divulged, as being occult in its character.”

“Being what?” asked Father Brown, rather sharply.

“Why, kind of esoteric,” replied the other. “I can tell you, people got considerably worked up about Gallup’s murder, and Stein’s murder, and then old man Merton’s murder, and now Judge Gwynne’s murder, and a double murder by Dalmon, who was well known in the States. And there were you, on the spot every time, slap in the middle of it; telling everybody how it was done and never telling anybody how you knew. So some people got to think you knew without looking, so to speak. And Carlotta Brownson gave a lecture on Thought-Forms with illustrations from these cases of yours. The Second Sight Sisterhood of Indianapolis —— ”

Father Brown, was still staring at the stove; then he said quite loud yet as if hardly aware that anyone heard him: “Oh, I say. This will never do.”

“I don’t exactly know how it’s to be helped,” said Mr. Chace humorously. “The Second Sight Sisterhood want a lot of holding down. The only way I can think of stopping it is for you to tell us the secret after all.”

Father Brown groaned. He put his head on his hands and remained a moment, as if full of a silent convulsion of thought. Then he lifted his head and said in a dull voice:

“Very well. I must tell the secret.”

His eyes rolled darkly over the whole darkling scene, from the red eyes of the little stove to the stark expanse of the ancient wall, over which were standing out, more and more brightly, the strong stars of the south.

“The secret is,” he said; and then stopped as if unable to go on. Then he began again and said:

“You see, it was I who killed all those people.”

“What?” repeated the other, in a small voice out of a vast silence.

“You see, I had murdered them all myself,” explained Father Brown patiently. “So, of course, I knew how it was done.”

Grandison Chace had risen to his great height like a man lifted to the ceiling by a sort of slow explosion. Staring down at the other he repeated his incredulous question.

“I had planned out each of the crimes very carefully,” went on Father Brown, “I had thought out exactly how a thing like that could be done, and in what style or state of mind a man could really do it. And when I was quite sure that I felt exactly like the murderer myself, of course I knew who he was.”

Chace gradually released a sort of broken sigh.

“You frightened me all right,” he said. “For the minute I really did think you meant you were the murderer. Just for the minute I kind of saw it splashed over all the papers in the States: ‘Saintly Sleuth Exposed as Killer: Hundred Crimes of Father Brown.’ Why, of course, if it’s just a figure of speech and means you tried to reconstruct the psychogy — ”

Father Brown rapped sharply on the stove with the short pipe he was about to fill; one of his very rare spasms of annoyance contracted his face.

“No, no, no,” he said, almost angrily; “I don’t mean just a figure of speech. This is what comes of trying to talk about deep things. . . . What’s the good of words . . .? If you try to talk about a truth that’s merely moral, people always think it’s merely metaphorical. A real live man with two legs once said to me: ‘I only believe in the Holy Ghost in a spiritual sense.’ Naturally, I said: ‘In what other sense could you believe it?’ And then he thought I meant he needn’t believe in anything except evolution, or ethical fellowship, or some bilge. . . . I mean that I really did see myself, and my real self, committing the murders. I didn’t actually kill the men by material means; but that’s not the point. Any brick or bit of machinery might have killed them by material means. I mean that I thought and thought about how a man might come to be like that, until I realized that I really was like that, in everything except actual final consent to the action. It was once suggested to me by a friend of mine, as a sort of religious exercise. I believe he got it from Pope Leo XIII, who was always rather a hero of mine.”

“I’m afraid,” said the American, in tones that were still doubtful, and keeping his eye on the priest rather as if he were a wild animal, “that you’d have to explain a lot to me before I knew what you were talking about. The science of detection —— ”

Father Brown snapped his fingers with the same animated annoyance. “That’s it,” he cried; “that’s just where we part company. Science is a grand thing when you can get it; in its real sense one of the grandest words in the world. But what do these men mean, nine times out of ten, when they use it nowadays? When they say detection is a science? When they say criminology is a science? They mean getting outside a man and studying him as if he were a gigantic insect: in what they would call a dry impartial light, in what I should call a dead and dehumanized light. They mean getting a long way off him, as if he were a distant prehistoric monster; staring at the shape of his ‘criminal skull’ as if it were a sort of eerie growth, like the horn on a rhinoceros’s nose. When the scientist talks about a type, he never means himself, but always his neighbour; probably his poorer neighbour. I don’t deny the dry light may sometimes do good; though in one sense it’s the very reverse of science. So far from being knowledge, it’s actually suppression of what we know. It’s treating a friend as a stranger, and pretending that something familiar is really remote and mysterious. It’s like saying that a man has a proboscis between the eyes, or that he falls down in a fit of insensibility once every twenty-four hours. Well, what you call ‘the secret’ is exactly the opposite. I don’t try to get outside the man. I try to get inside the murderer . . . . Indeed it’s much more than that, don’t you see? I am inside a man. I am always inside a man, moving his arms and legs; but I wait till I know I am inside a murderer, thinking his thoughts, wrestling with his passions; till I have bent myself into the posture of his hunched and peering hatred; till I see the world with his bloodshot and squinting eyes, looking between the blinkers of his half-witted concentration; looking up the short and sharp perspective of a straight road to a pool of blood. Till I am really a murderer.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Chace, regarding him with a long, grim face, and added: “And that is what you call a religious exercise.”

“Yes,” said Father Brown; “that is what I call a religious exercise.”

After an instant’s silence he resumed: “It’s so real a religious exercise that I’d rather not have said anything about it. But I simply couldn’t have you going off and telling all your countrymen that I had a secret magic connected with Thought-Forms, could I? I’ve put it badly, but it’s true. No man’s really any good till he knows how bad he is, or might be; till he’s realized exactly how much right he has to all this snobbery, and sneering, and talking about ‘criminals,’ as if they were apes in a forest ten thousand miles away; till he’s got rid of all the dirty self-deception of talking about low types and deficient skulls; till he’s squeezed out of his soul the last drop of the oil of the Pharisees; till his only hope is somehow or other to have captured one criminal, and kept him safe and sane under his own hat.”

Flambeau came forward and filled a great goblet with Spanish wine and set it before his friend, as he had already set one before his fellow guest. Then he himself spoke for the first time:

“I believe Father Brown has had a new batch of mysteries. We were talking about them the other day, I fancy. He has been dealing with some queer people since we last met.”

“Yes; I know the stories more or less — but not the application,” said Chace, lifting his glass thoughtfully. “Can you give me any examples, I wonder. . . . I mean, did you deal with this last batch in that introspective style?”

Father Brown also lifted his glass, and the glow of the fire turned the red wine transparent, like the glorious blood-red glass of a martyr’s window. The red flame seemed to hold his eyes and absorb his gaze that sank deeper and deeper into it, as if that single cup held a red sea of the blood of all men, and his soul were a diver, ever plunging in dark humility and inverted imagination, lower than its lowest monsters and its most ancient slime. In that cup, as in a red mirror, he saw many things; the doings of his last days moved in crimson shadows; the examples that his companions demanded danced in symbolic shapes; and there passed before him all the stories that are told here. Now, the luminous wine was like a vast red sunset upon dark red sands, where stood dark figures of men; one was fallen and another running towards him. Then the sunset seemed to break up into patches: red lanterns swinging from garden trees and a pond gleaming red with reflection; and then all the colour seemed to cluster again into a great rose of red crystal, a jewel that irradiated the world like a red sun, save for the shadow of a tall figure with a high head-dress as of some prehistoric priest; and then faded again till nothing was left but a flame of wild red beard blowing in the wind upon a wild grey moor. All these things, which may be seen later from other angles and in other moods than his own, rose up in his memory at the challenge and began to form themselves into anecdotes and arguments.

“Yes,” he said, as he raised the wine cup slowly to his lips, “I can remember pretty well —— ”

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Filed under Intelligence Community, Law enforcement, Politics

TOR hackers, the CIA, the task most dangerous, humor

Just to inject a bit of humor into the situation here in these USA, I poke fun at myself, and let my associations run wild. Come along for the ride. You won’t be disappointed.

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The hit to the blog above had ultra-inaccurate Verizon Fios geolocators pointing to McLean[!], Tysons Corner[!], D.C.[!], and – as always – Charlottesville, in other words, to about five million other people and surely just a mistaken click on the blog… but, just to say, the TOR hackers disappeared all at the same time, all of them, just like that, totally.

Hahaha. In other words, it’s a good thing to keep a sense of ultra-light-hearted-humor in what are stressful times for many people, what with Covid policy treated as legislated law, what with the obvious fraud amounting to a coup d’état, what with religious rites still being smacked down by those who hate God and neighbor, our Constitutional Republic of, by and for the people, by those who hate the Rule of Law. Let yourself enjoy a bit of humor! Remember what Saint Lawrence said when he was being burned to death on a grid-iron: “You can turn me over now; I’m done on that side.” No matter how bad things can get, know that Jesus intends to bring us to heaven. And don’t forget, the CIA can continue full on with no government funding for multiple administrations of any POTUS.

Besides being steadfast in the faith only by the grace of God, besides keeping a sense of humor, I myself like also to fall back into nostalgia for a bit of wonderful distraction. So, when places like McClean and Tysons Corner come up, my first reaction is to render due honor where due honor is due. It’s like someone saying a word and then you have to say the first word that comes to mind. In this case, I instantly turn to this event honoring the great Joyce Kilmer, which happened a couple of years ago, when yours truly had the great honor of honoring this Catholic giant of poetry, this spectacular Catholic giant of the Intelligence Community. I wrote about it then. Here’s some of that post:

CIA MEMORIAL LANGLEY

July 30, 2018, was the 100th anniversary of death by sniper of forward field intelligence officer Joyce Kilmer. He’s personally the heroic example of what would become the Office of Strategic Services (OSS) which would itself turn into the Central Intelligence Agency. The CIA, the Central/Catholic Intelligence Agency, doesn’t much treat Kilmer as a forerunner, but in my opinion, they should.

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Descendants of Joyce Kilmer were there. The VFW was there in force, including the State and National Commanders. There were bagpipes, the bugle for Taps, the 21 gun salute.

After offering a few religious words about heroism and then enjoying the privilege of reciting the entirety of Kilmer’s Rouge Bouquet included below, I had the honor of commanding that honors be rendered. Here’s that ceremony:

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JOYCE KILMER: Memorial – Rev. George David Byers
July 30, 2018 – Centenary Memorial Service – Joyce Kilmer Memorial Forest

Joyce Kilmer was enthusiastically respected in all good friendship by his brothers in arms back in the day, a lively respect which continues today as we are now witnessing one hundred years later. Anyone who is profoundly immersed in their own times remains at one with us in all times. Joyce Kilmer is a hero because he leads us back to ourselves and who we are before God. Joyce’s poetical intervention about, say, any tree being awesome because of being just another tree, but made by God is an analogy bringing us into the lived reality of who any one of us is to be as a hero.

Like so many others in our topsy turvy society with wars and rumors of wars, in our day as people did in Joyce’s day, I have searched for heroism if not in all the wrong places then surely in all the wrong ways. Growing up in a military family, my father having been trained up at Parris Island as a Marine Fighter Attack Pilot in Guam, the Philippines, Japan, China and Korea, having been commander of the famed Checkerboard Squadron, I have bragged about him as my hero, perhaps making him too extra special. Joyce Kilmer knew there was a danger to making one tree more special than all the others, a danger of not seeing that we are all made by God, the danger of thinking that this other fellow is a hero so I don’t have to be one. That’s not the kind of respect a real hero wants.

At the same time I would go out of my way to greet any veteran I might see at a gas station or a supermarket or at church. I’ve learned NOT to say, “Thank you for your service,” as I would often get a half-hearted, or sad, or almost cynical if polite acknowledgment in return. To say “Thank you for your service” almost seems ungrateful to the very veteran before whom one stands, being thankful perhaps only for his or her service in unrepeatable circumstances so very far away, a fog of war that any veteran struggles to recount to anyone, a service which, therefore, is in danger of being forgotten if heroism is merely about things done, if heroism is just that specialized, that distant, that out of reach, my usual mistake of “he’s the hero so I don’t have to be one.”

To veterans then, I’ve learned NOT to say “Thank you for your service,” but simply, “Thank you.” The acknowledgment is immediate, sincere, one of appreciated solidarity. And yet, even in this thanksgiving there can still be something missing about the heroism Joyce Kilmer lived out, the heroism which won him the enthusiastic respect in all good friendship of his brothers in arms and of our own respect today.

An Army friend of mine who was taken up as a field agent of the CIA much along the lines of Joyce becoming a kind of distant forerunner of the best of our CIA operatives, reprimanded me, saying that I had much to learn about thanking any veteran. He said that a hero isn’t someone you thank so much as strive to imitate with intensity of service at whatever cost. That’s it, thought I foolishly. Striving to imitate intensity of service is a real compliment, a real thanksgiving, and goes a long way and is what any veteran would like to see from anyone. But it still isn’t the full story and is certainly not quite yet an appreciation of the kind of heroism lived out by Joyce Kilmer.

We’ve all heard veterans of foreign wars like Marcus Luttrell or Robert O’Neill say it; we’ve all heard our friends in Law Enforcement and Firefighting say it; I’m certain that most who are here today have said it, as heroes: “I’ve done nothing special.” And then they add what our Lord said we will all say should we make it into the gates of heaven: “I’ve only done what I had to do.” There are those who think that this is what humility is all about, misunderstanding this as some sort of self-deprecation. But they miss the point. This isn’t false humility to say “I’ve done nothing special.” It is to say in Joyce Kilmer’s analogy, that any tree is awesome among any other trees, each having been made by God, so that each tree, each person is to do what they have to do, what they’ve been given to do, what they’ve been called to do in whatever impossibly unrepeatable circumstances they happen to be in. We’re all called to be heroes.

What was so attractive about Joyce Kilmer to his brothers in arms and to us today is that he knew he had what we can all have by way of God: we can all have a love that is stronger than death, a love stronger than death. “Let me have the most dangerous assignment!” said Joyce Kilmer again and again. A love stronger than death given by God. That’s what we recognize as what we are all to have, a love stronger than death given by God; this is who we are all to be, one who lives out what we have to do, what we’ve been given to do, what we’ve been called to do in all our impossibly unrepeatable circumstances. What makes the hero is that which all can have, this God given love which is stronger than death. “Let me have the most dangerous assignment!”

So said the eternal Word of God the Father: let me have the most dangerous assignment; let me stand in their place, the innocent for the guilty, so that I might have the right in my own justice to have mercy on them. And we know what happened next: “God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life,” eternal life, a love stronger than death, the eternal Son of God, our warrior of goodness conquering evil because giving us of his love that is stronger than death so that we might also say: “Let me have the most dangerous assignment!” Jesus is the One hero, and we are all heroes in him, recognizing before this love that is stronger than death that is offered to us all, that we then do, in thanksgiving, what we have to do, what we’ve been given to do, what we’ve been called to do in all our own unrepeatable circumstances, as in Joyce’s day, so in our own. The thanksgiving that our hero veterans want to have is that we all become heroes.

My own prayer this day is that those who visit this forest, coming into contact with the eternal Creator of creation, might find out about the heroism of Joyce Kilmer, the heroism we can all have with that God-given love that is stronger than death, that love which is eternal. Only God can make a tree. Only God can make a hero. We thank God for all our heroes, begging that we might strive to imitate intensity of generosity by living out in our everyday circumstances, with enthusiasm, that love which is stronger than death. Thank you, Joyce. Thanks to all our veterans. Thanks to all our heroes. Thanks to Jesus for giving us a love stronger than death.

The Rouge Bouquet

In a wood they call the Rouge Bouquet
There is a new-made grave to-day,
Built by never a spade nor pick
Yet covered with earth ten metres thick.
There lie many fighting men,
Dead in their youthful prime,
Never to laugh nor love again
Nor taste the Summertime.
For Death came flying through the air
And stopped his flight at the dugout stair,
Touched his prey and left them there,
Clay to clay.
He hid their bodies stealthily
In the soil of the land they fought to free
And fled away.
Now over the grave abrupt and clear
Three volleys ring;
And perhaps their brave young spirits hear
The bugle sing: “Go to sleep! Go to sleep!
Slumber well where the shell screamed
and fell.
Let your rifles rest on the muddy floor,
You will not need them any more.
Danger’s past;
Now at last, Go to sleep!”
There is on earth no worthier grave
To hold the bodies of the brave
Than this place of pain and pride
Where they nobly fought and nobly died.
Never fear but in the skies
Saints and angels stand
Smiling with their holy eyes
On this new-come band.
St. Michael’s sword darts through the air
And touches the aureole on his hair
As he sees them stand saluting there,
His stalwart sons;
And Patrick, Brigid, Columkill
Rejoice that in veins of warriors still
The Gael’s blood runs.
And up to Heaven’s doorway floats,
From the wood called Rouge Bouquet
A delicate cloud of bugle notes
That softly say: “Farewell! Farewell!
Comrades true, born anew, peace to you!
Your souls shall be where the heroes are
And your memory shine like the morning-star.
Brave and dear, Shield us here. Farewell!”

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From the Catholic funerary rites:

Saints of God, come to their aid! Come to meet them angels of the Lord!
Receive their souls and present them to God the Most High.
May Christ, Who called you, take you to Himself; may angels lead you to Abraham’s side.
Receive their souls and present them to God the Most High.
Let us pray: We commend our brothers and sisters to you, Lord. Now that they have passed from this life, may they live on in Your presence. Amen.
Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls and all the souls of the faithful departed,
through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Render honors…

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Filed under hacking, Humor, Intelligence Community

Fr Byers, the FBI investigated you how many times? We want files! My real ID.




cia memorial

[[ This is put up again for a reason, years after I put it up originally, and with some revisions. ]]

Here’s the high pressure repeated request from a self-described [ex-?]CIA guy who’s now […] as cover: “Father Byers, the FBI investigated you how many times? We want files! Who are you, anyway?”

Playing along with this kind of interview, um… interrogation… can be fun for me because I like nostalgia, a lot. He baits and is thus baited back, a counterintelligence dance: which investigations do I know about, or do I know what my ID really is? Who am I anyway? ;-)

The short answer to the question about who I am and how many investigations there have been on me is this: I’m nobody. And I don’t know how many investigations. Maybe just one, as in lifelong and continuous. I would dearly love to see those “files”.

The [ex-?]CIA guy’s question (going after me and my parishioners incessantly) is incomplete and therefore inadequate. Not so smart. He said he only wants files merely from the FBI? I mean, go ahead and include the CIA (“Dedicatio par aevum” memorial pictured up top, but I guess he would already have those…) and DEA and BATFE and DHS and ICE and TSA and, most importantly, Counterintelligence for Consular Services at the Department of State and Diplomatic Security in Rosslyn. Be sure to include the dozen and a half other groups. In fact, include all those groups who were subpoenaed but who refused to answer the questions of Jason Chaffetz’s congressional investigation into Fast and Furious. Jason was ignored even though he was Congressional Chairman of Oversight. So, good luck with that, especially since I’ve been told by Main State that anything related to me has long been destroyed, the normal practice upon being placed into a perpetual interdepartmental program. Go ahead and ask for such files. Just know you might be asked, with polygraph, why you’re asking. Could be a career ending move, or send you to prison.

My rap sheet: No felonies. No misdemeanors. Ever. Nothing pending. Nothing ever having been pending. No courts. No settlements. And nothing having been “wiped” from the record. Well… There are some things that may have disappeared from my rap sheet as one sheriff told me when I asked him about it – disappeared things such as being pulled over for not wearing a seat belt when I was constantly starting and stopping to deliver meals to the home-bound for the soup kitchen. The cop admitted later that he ticketed me for purely political reasons. Anyway, that citation was, like, back in I think 2012. I found out at the court house that no one knew enough to grant permission about the statute at the time that permitted no usage of a seat belt in such conditions of constant service deliveries with permission. I can recall other times getting pulled over, like when my sister was teaching me to drive when I was twelve years old in 1972 (going on five decades ago) and I ran a trick stop sign that was posted inches behind a light pole so that it couldn’t be seen. Other occasions do come to mind. For instance, I remember I was going a little fast – like 5 miles over – in making the 1000+ mile trip to my dying dad’s bedside some decades ago. You get the idea.

A longer than short answer: I guess it would take an autobiography to even scratch the surface. I’ve had a pretty wild life. There was a time when I’m guessing that for a short while I was a most researched person in these USA. But, what do I know? That’s just a guess judging from the blog stats of hits from named and therefore not much secured servers of pretty much every intelligence HQ in these USA and around the world. You know the drill: USAIC, NNIC, DHS, DOD, DOJ, BATFE, IRS[!], SSA[!], FBI, CIA, Interpol, The Hague[!], etc., in so many centers for each all around, making the stats fly, scrolling quickly off screen, zip zip zip. I should see if I still have some screen shots from years gone by. Probably anomalous interest, right? If these were the named hits, I have to wonder what the blind hits were. It is what it is. At any rate, let me guess about a few incidents which may have instigated Federal research on yours truly now and again.

  • It’s just now just over four years ago in late 2020 since I’ve received my concealed carry handgun permit here in North Carolina, which has (in some cases by far) one of the more stringent series of local, state (SBI) and federal (FBI) background checks in these USA, a fact opening up North Carolina to reciprocity in most states of these USA. North Carolina even adds what amounts to presently illegal (because of duration, many months) checks into mental health. No records of that for me.
  • I got my Gold-Star driver license / “Real ID” when that was a thing and had to renew again in time for the election. This involves some pretty stringent background checks as well on Local, State and Federal levels.
  • I’ve been fingerprinted and checked all over the world, not for any particular reason that I could put a finger on, as it were, outside of association and location, you know, just because I happened to be in terribly dangerous places really a lot with lots of terribly dangerous people, people who have killed really a lot of people, or who are in charge of the militaries of their countries, et al. So, it finally becomes the ol’ “Who are you anyway?” kind of thing, literally, pretty much everywhere. Embassies literally ask that question in frustration, not being able to get a grasp of what good old Diplomatic Security can do. Sigh. I mean, it’s all I can do not to laugh out loud. It’s so predictable.
  • I’m still thinking about gathering some dates and info and documentation so as to sign up in the near future for Global-Entry, a jacked up version of TSA pre-check which involves checks even more stringent than for the NC firearms checks. This was still a thing in June 2020, except of course for uncooperative New York: see the CBP website. G-E involves checks against criminal and law enforcement indices (Federal, State, Local), customs, immigration, agriculture, and terrorist indices including biometric fingerprint checks and a personal interview (That‘s surely a well experienced interrogator). All the checks are not listed here. It’s a pretty long, exhaustive list. Fun!
  • Just because of past lives, as it were, I’ve recently called in some items related to financial groups and terrorism to, for instance – depending on the subject – Main State, Liberty Crossing Campus, the FBI. You can’t do such things without first being extremely thoroughly vetted by the FBI from multiple locations and on all sorts of levels. That particular and fairly recent investigation took fully two months: I was cleared by all FBI research centers spread throughout these USA and… So, fine. These series of checks are so comprehensive that they pretty much add up to joining any of our institutes or agencies minus the polygraphs. Thoroughness cannot be underestimated. Oddly, the guy taking the financial case wanted to know about terrorism. I mean, he asked about it like a half dozen times. Oh, I forgot, terrorism and financial malfeasance often go together. My bad. I finally told him to launder such amounts of money usually involves terrorist groups and, therefore, their financing. He knew I knew, and it all went forward.
  • Of course, Main State and the FBI do not put one on a perpetual interdepartmental program for no reason. It costs them resources, financial and personnel, who have to track me and, to them, my boring life. My consolation is that there’s a tiny chance that they will be inspired by at least some of the things I write. Once you’re on a program, you’re on. That’s it, forever, as the FBI strongly insisted with me, drilling this into me, way back in 1996, four years after Main State insisted on this with me in 1992. There’s no way off as there’s nothing remaining after destruction of files [Ooops! There goes those “files” the guy mentioned at the top of this post was is pressuring me about!] in order to base a new decision upon. It’s like the seal of confession. Even if the penitent gives you permission to break the seal you can’t break the seal. Someone could be putting him/her under some sort of coercion to request such a thing against his/her will (regardless of what he/she says). The information doesn’t belong to the priest. It belongs to Jesus. The same here: even if I request to get off the program I cannot do so. It’s beyond unmasking. It’s frustrating. There are summaries only with the Secretary of State and the Director of the CIA. Part of the program is to be “accompanied,” even in a terribly annoyingly obvious way, especially at airports and inside airplanes (as I was forewarned about). In analyzing this, the guy I call “The Guy” [an actual CIA guy] told me that this is meant to send a message to the idiots: If you mess around with this program you will be stopped. However annoying this can be, it’s also kinda nice. This started decades ago, perhaps when I was a teenager, in the mid-late 1970s. I need to write more about it. As mentioned above, Diplomatic Security on behalf of Counterintelligence for Consular Services established someone with secured alternative identities, as they do, the problem being that it’s my identity, that being convenient, as that guy is like the same age and looks like me, and still, after a lifetime, has my life experiences in the countries where I’ve been, and, as far as I can tell, many of my languages. He works for them. I’m groomed as the fall guy. This is the case for thousands of people in these USA. The difference with me is that I found out.
  • More recently, seemingly in April of 2018, this was all jacked up a bit. Already being in the area for something else, I had gone to FBI ATLANTA to talk about options for that perpetual interdepartmental program mentioned above. I was delayed for some twenty minutes from approaching the security building, that is, until CTU Virginia showed up. We parked together. The last two spots. He accompanied me twice to the security building (as I forgot my passport and had returned to my car to get it). He delivered a printout and entered while I was told to just go to the window. That printout was given to the agent who looked at it, looked at me, looked at it, looked at me, looked at it, looked at me, set it down, shoved it toward me and said that he has no one presently there who can speak to this. I was able to read the author’s name and the provenance of the printout, DOD DARPA. Good old nerdy DARPA. They created some mathematical complexities using massive amounts of intel that they’ve categorized and turned into that which is actionable in the field for whatever “target” they have on “the list.” That, of course, makes me, again, one of the most highly researched people in the world. Huge amounts of resources are used for such targets. Just Google “DARPA COMPASS”. I assume that this, in my regard, is simply meant to assist whomsoever in my being “accompanied” (to use Pope Francis’ terminology). As I’ve written previously, I once told the guy who was established with my identity (yes, I’ve spoken with him) that I regret the cost of such accompaniment, but he instantly cut me off before I could even finish to say that such costs are entirely negligible in view of the scope of the entire program. He cut himself off half-way through “program”, knowing he said too much.
  • I’ve been involved in one way or the other in numerous terrorist incidents [always on the right side of things, mind you], but enough to be further investigated through the decades by a number of countries, including the Holy See, Italy, these USA, Australia and, with some intensity at the highest military, intelligence levels, Israel. It is what it is. Try asking for their files on me, you know, like in המוסד. Good luck with that one too. I mean, would they give you something that had nothing to do with the real file? ;-) Either way, when you get those “files,” [pfft!] share them with me! Baiting for leakers is fun. I might even find out what is held to be my real ID. This quickly disintegrates into rabbit holes of counterintel mind games until, gaslighted, one can’t remember who one is anymore:

Having been trained into some basic counterintelligence as a teenager by a very special individual, I’ve never done the Jason Bourne thing. I never had to. In all of this, I apologize to sincere and patriotic agents of all our military and intelligence and law enforcement agencies. I poke fun at myself. I don’t mean to poke fun at you.

Meanwhile, to repeat, the reason for all the investigation thing is not because I’m special – oooh! special! – No. I’m a nothing. Nobody. And that’s the reason my identity was so conveniently used. I’m utterly expendable, truly nothing. I don’t count as a citizen of these U.S.A. I mean, the FBI were adamant about giving me an alternative identity so that I, as Father George David Byers, and a citizen in good standing, would just be disappeared. No more priesthood, no more family, no more decades of studies, all in favor of the guy who works for them and for whom I’m merely the fall guy.

I hope to be a citizen of heaven in future. You gotta have hope, right? The original sin in which I’ve post-hoc participated, and all my own sin, is all written out in the wounds of the Divine Son of God, now risen from the dead. It’s in Him that we find our identity as redeemed and saved so as to walk in humble thanksgiving in His presence, in His friendship. Saint Paul speaks of this as the Body of Christ, Jesus being the Head of the Body, we being the members. That’s the ID I want to have. Jesus is the One. He’s the only One. And He’s the one to judge us, who we are before Him. He will come to judge the living and the dead and the world by fire.

But you can’t get to know Jesus and know who you are, your “real ID” – Jesus’ love and truth and integrity – until you go to Confession. A lot. With sincerity. I do. That’s who I am: just another soul who goes to Confession, and no investigation will be able to provide anything more. Why? Because I know the following and so should we all:

Psalm 139 For the leader. A psalm of David. Oh LORD, you have probed me, you know me: you know when I sit and stand; you understand my thoughts from afar. My travels and my rest you mark; with all my ways you are familiar. Even before a word is on my tongue, LORD, you know it all. Behind and before you encircle me and rest your hand upon me. Such knowledge is beyond me, far too lofty for me to reach. Where can I hide from your spirit? From your presence, where can I flee? If I ascend to the heavens, you are there; if I lie down in Sheol, you are there too. If I fly with the wings of dawn and alight beyond the sea, Even there your hand will guide me, your right hand hold me fast. If I say, “Surely darkness shall hide me, and night shall be my light” — Darkness is not dark for you, and night shines as the day. Darkness and light are but one. You formed my inmost being; you knit me in my mother’s womb. I praise you, so wonderfully you made me; wonderful are your works! My very self you knew; my bones were not hidden from you, When I was being made in secret, fashioned as in the depths of the earth. Your eyes foresaw my actions; in your book all are written down; my days were shaped, before one came to be. How precious to me are your designs, O God; how vast the sum of them! Were I to count, they would outnumber the sands; to finish, I would need eternity. If only you would destroy the wicked, O God, and the bloodthirsty would depart from me! Deceitfully they invoke your name; your foes swear faithless oaths. Do I not hate, LORD, those who hate you? Those who rise against you, do I not loathe? With fierce hatred I hate them, enemies I count as my own. Probe me, God, know my heart; try me, know my concerns. See if my way is crooked, then lead me in the ancient paths. (nab)

These days people are talking about the FBI going through the files of priests at chanceries. Great! Have at it! Get that trustworthy counterintel guy who did up personnel for the FBI before being the fall guy… what’s his face… oh yeah… Peter Strzok. So, not so great then. So…

These days people are talking about the laity going through the files. Great! Have at it! Hopefully some kind of competence is involved, like law enforcement investigators. But people don’t like police these days, did you notice? So…

These days people are talking about any and all parishioners going through the files of the priests of their parish. That would be a real hoot. I can hear it now: “Father George chose blue as his favorite color on his million-question psych exam instead of yellow even though he’s got off the charts leadership skill sets (which would have to be yellow[!]). So, Father George has got to be lying. But why?” Meanwhile, I was thinking of Jesus’ good mom, who is depicted with blue because of the meaning of her Jewish name. That might be said to be ideological but it is sincere, and therefore not a lie. And blue is my favorite color anyway.

You want to know about my life? You sure you got the right guy? Have at it. But, I say, and so should we all: Jesus Christ, you are my life! Jesus is the One who is forgotten in all of this. Always forgotten. Jesus is not there in faithlessness. Jesus is not there in investigations. Jesus is not there in any solutions proposed by fallen human beings at all. I insist, and so should we all:

Jesus Christ: You are my life!

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Filed under Intelligence Community, Law enforcement, Military, Terrorism, המוסד

Fr Byers, who are you, anyway? Apologia.

[[ This post was originally published December 19, 2017. It’s republished now as baiting for some who need to be baited for their own good. ]]

With the videos above I poke fun at myself. Sorry for some of the language in them. I apologize to those who actually want an answer to the question about my identity, to those who don’t accept the answer that I am a simple back-mountain priest on the outside of the peripheries. That’s all I am. And I’m happy with that. Truly.

The problem is that there are those who are ferociously asking about my real identity even now as if that question has never been asked before, not knowing that I have been one of the most researched people on the planet by whatever wing of Catholicism, or Protestantism, or atheism, or of whatever religion, Judaism, Islam, or whatever political entity overseas, but most especially by our own intelligence services, the latter being interested because of my “Shadow”, and because and all the hyper-sensitive places I’ve been, all the terrorists with whom I have been “friends,” all the terrorist incidents in which I have in one way or another been involved, all the friends I have on the very highest levels in the military, in intelligence services, in the Church. But, hey! You newcomers! Go for it!

The question is, of course, why the interest in me? By all accounts, I am just another boring priest among the million or so priests on the face of the earth. I am just one more boring person among the billions of people who are presently alive. So, why me?

Inside the Church, the ultra-liberal swamp rats think that I am their hero because of some of the rather extraordinary people I know and the type of degrees I have behind my name, thinking that anyone with those qualifications (those people and those institutions) has to be one of the more dangerous-to-the-status-quo people on the face of the earth, and so I am welcomed, until they get to know me, but even then, their suspicions that I am way to the right in their estimation remains merely suspicion, for I simply can’t be of Tradition if I know their darlings and have the degrees I do. They think I am just being very, very clever, more political than they could imagine could be possible. Their question remains: “Who are you, anyway?”

Inside the Church again, the ultra-traditional-ism-ists treat me the same way, suspicious that I am a filthy liberal because of the people I know and the degrees that I have, and yet are confused by the things I have done in my life, doing more for the reinstatement of the Traditional liturgy (more than the Mass, also the sacraments and exorcism, etc), than most all of them put together. They think all that is subterfuge, a cover. “Who are you, anyway?” they scream, condemning me as one of those “priests” who loves “mercy,” but then wondering what is going on because they never see me embrace any heresy, any leftist position, so that they simply hate that I won’t hate who they hate as much as they hate, or even hate at all. They think I am a careerist, but then watch in amazement how I throw away “career” after “career.” I could certainly have had a multitude of careers in the Church, could have long been a bishop, actually archbishop at this stage, the problem being that I just won’t compromise, not to protect my record of not compromising, but because I believe in serving Jesus. But that is what they will not accept. “Who are you, anyway?” they scream again.

I suppose I should give a few examples. Early on I was invited to go to the Academia Ecclesiastica, but I turned that down with the excuse that I just would not make a career of compromising my priesthood. That was very offensive to some career diplomats, believe me. I’m sure many are devout believers. Some are anything but that. I knew quite a bit about those who were beholden more to the State than to Jesus. I have a lot of friends. But I felt I was too weak to last as a believer in such settings. Either I would cave in or be removed as useless to the ways of compromise. So, why bother? That’s just the way it was. That’s a confession about how bad and evil I was. Then there was a now long-deceased ecclesiastical superior who wanted to pull some strings and have me appointed as one of the Inquisitors at the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, but I dissuaded him as well. At the time, among some in the CDF, it was all about how to please bishops. I just couldn’t do it, fearful that I wouldn’t be able to remain faithful to Jesus, fearful that I would simply be removed as someone useless to the world of compromise. Mind you, the CDF did do some great things at the time under then Cardinal Ratzinger, especially the ghost-writing of the official interpretation of Canon 915 (upon which I had some incisive influence from afar). Anyway, there was also a push to get me into the Congregation for the Clergy, and the Congregation for Saints, heck, after my time at Vatican Radio, even Communications at their new offices was put before me. The biggest career I turned down, however, was to go to teach at a certain University in Buenos Aires, where I’m quite sure I would have in no time (if not from the very beginning) been put in administrative positions as a jumping board to other things. I turned that down because the whole thing seemed geared to smashing down my faithfulness to Jesus. I was afraid of my weakness, afraid of being removed as someone useless to political correctness of compromise. I have to wonder what would have happened between Father and then Archbishop Jorge Bergoglio and myself, what with our common friends. I have to wonder what would have been the future of the ghost writing of Amoris laetitia, if, instead, I would have written that in a manner manifestly reflecting the teaching of the Church. I am a failure, I suppose, for not having taken up those careers in the Church. I am certainly a failure for having been fearful of anything at the time. I have only since then learned by the grace of God not to fear anything, ever. Why? Because Jesus is the One. He’s the only One.

Anyway, outside the Church, because of my life-time relationship of sorts with my “Shadow” (which has nothing to do with me, by the way), the State Department, Department of Justice, Department of Defense and various and sundry operators of any and all military or intelligence backgrounds have long wondered and frequently asked, always after long investigations and always with frustration, “Who are you, anyway?” This has become, over many decades and with countless examples, both humorous and predictable. Some, if they are good guys, just do what they are told in my regard (because of the “Shadow” thing) or they are afraid to bring it further to Mike Pompeo or [[Tillerson]] Gina Haspel because their own treasonous behaviors would be brought to light, especially now, but that’s another story, that is, as to how I’ve been trying to bring those treasonous behaviors to light. At this point, it seems that my “Shadow” has successfully turned the tables so that it must be me who is the too vaunted Gray Man, in which case the question, “Who are you, anyway?” becomes both a protection and liability. It has, in fact, always been this way. It is what it is. There are benefits. There are drawbacks.

As it is, throughout my life my identity has been a standing “inside joke” for me and Jesus, for He has given me the grace which He willingly gives to all, the grace not to be novel, that is, no novelties, with the point being that only One who is important, the only One who has anything to say, is Jesus. He’s the One. He’s the only One. We are to our utmost to be instruments of His, letting His love and truth and goodness and truth and kindness and truth and mercy and truth be manifested through us. We are to have nothing of our own, no identity apart from Him. It’s all about Him. He is ever ancient, ever new. I am far from it, but it would be my hope to say that if there is anything that is ecclesial and of God in my life, that people will say: “Look at that. That’s not Fr George. That’s Jesus. Thank God for his great mercy.”

At the rare time that circumstances are such that it is important not to be novel, not to compromise, not to betray Jesus as regards Church or State, I have not compromised, ever. This is in itself so very novel, you know, not to embrace the novelty of being a “man of consensus”, not to embrace being a coward, that I have also been condemned as someone who promotes “admiratio” for this very reason. Ironic how that works. The very attempt to respect faith and morals, the attempt not to be Promethean, not to be neo-Pelagian, not to be self-absorbed, or self-referential, not to be corrupt, is the very thing which makes people condemn me as being all those things, for, they say, only someone full of himself, arrogant and Pharisaical, would want to be different from them, and instead want to be in solidarity with some sort of Sign of Contradiction. “Who are you, anyway?” they scream, wanting to know how it is that I could possibly not cave into their bullying ways. I could give a thousand examples regarding faith or morals or national security. But why bother? I have learned that people are not interested in arguments. They are only interested in pushing and pushing and pushing to see if, for real, there is faithfulness. In all their cynicism, they want to know if faithfulness is possible in this world. In the end, it’s all about being smashed down and, even while being smashed down, saying with Jesus’ love and truth and goodness and kindness and mercy: “I forgive you. I want to see you in heaven.” And in that way, there is no compromise, no novelty, nothing of me, only Jesus. I’m sure I’m not there yet. I am totally weak. But He gives me the grace to want to be nothing, that is, for Jesus, that is, to have no identity apart from Him, so that He can use me for what He wants, that is, His love, His truth, His goodness, His kindness, His mercy.

The “inside joke” is all about what happens. Here’s the deal: when you don’t compromise, you will get smashed down, hard. There are damned if you do, damned if you don’t situations, but you don’t compromise. There are horrific circumstances, but you don’t compromise. All is hopeless, completely hopeless, but you don’t compromise. And then you are smacked down, hard. O.K. But then, in remaining faithful in all things, Jesus picks you up. He makes life so very, very interesting in this way. How boring non-faithfulness must be. In contrast, the vistas of faith upon panoramas of hard reality are exhilarating. No amount of darkness can quench the bond of love with God that God Himself puts into our hearts. And this is one thing that is novel. This is something new. It is God’s love among us, Emmanuel. But Jesus brings that newness, not us. We can only receive that newness when we have nothing new of our own, nothing novel, no identity of our own.

Who am I, anyway? I hope for a love which casts out all fear. I hope one day to say that I am nobody, nothing, that Jesus is my All. I hope to say that Jesus is the One, that He’s the only One, that I find my identity in Him, that He finds me and brings me into the reality of love and truth.

P.S. At the moment, someone is condemning me as someone who is enjoying the all too easy life of a pastor on the peripheries. If only they knew! Well, I must say that I love being a priest, a pastor, and on the peripheries. I love being a priest. I love watching Jesus, the Priest, at work. I love everything about any possible way and manner of being a priest. It is true that an intellectual / academic “career” would be tough, as the Common Doctor says when commenting on the brightness of a halo in the Summa, as there is a 1000 times more anguish for the flock in such circumstances. In this regard I would absolutely love being the or one of the Papal Theologians (though I’m not a Dominican). My goodness, the things I could write on Genesis, on ecumenical cooperation with biblical manuscripts (going to the heart of ecumenism), on the women of the Gospels, on papal infallibility, on reaching out to the Orthodox, on being a missionary, on mercy, on the formation of seminarians… But, I am here, and I am also happy where I am, in the tiniest parish in North America, in the most remote place possible. I love it. That’s who I am, one who is in love with everything about The Priest, Jesus.

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Filed under Intelligence Community, Jesus

TORs & Proxies. Fraud & Hackers. Why?

According to Scamalytics (I don’t know if that’s legit or self-congratulatory), there, is, of a sudden, the most vaunted fraudsters and hackers around the world visiting ariseletusbegoing. Why? These guys have been subject to the courts and investigations by all sorts of agencies.

They are the best at extracting hard drives, flash drives, at following everything done on a computer, a phone, whatever device.

Most appear next to The Hague or over in Hesse. Whatever.

What are they interested in me. Maybe because I’m such a nobody. Maybe because they think they can find secret messages in “Flowers for the Immaculate Conception” – and indeed the Sacred Mysteries are often the subject of those posts and many others.

I don’t get it.

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Census Bureau mocks my religion, threatens $5,000 fine 5 years prison or both

I knew it was dead serious trouble when the façade-of-niceness lady came to this particular church in the backsides of back ridges of Appalachia on behalf of the Atlanta, GA Census Bureau Regional Field Office, that is, on behalf of the Census Bureau quarters in Suitland, MD, that is, under powers of the Secretary for the US Census Bureau in Washington, DC.

Her first trusted Census Community partner in the region was yours truly. She wanted desperately to get her hands on info regarding our Latino community, it being that most of them are Catholic and, you know, I’m their priest.

The obvious question back to her without answering her Latino community questions was this: So, how much do you know about Gaming Theory? She was instantaneously livid with anger, controlled, but shaking, explaining, while gritting her teeth, that she had taken doctoral degrees in this area of statistical hell and from the Jesuits no less. Taking the opportunity of her off-kilter emotions, having caught her off guard, another question was put to her face about whether or not she had worked for the US ARMY’s DARPA *COMPASS* program, (a side note on war-games involving also individual citizens HERE). What with all the stats and spreadsheets in her business of the Census, the COMPASS program would have been a great C.V. line-item to fly up the ladder. Yes, she admitted: plenty of work for DARPA COMPASS.

:-) I’m so bad and evil.

The Yin Yang philosophy behind COMPASS also specifically uses religion not just as an indicator but also as an identifier, as we will read below.

Here’s a summary of COMPASS:

  • An emergent type of geopolitical warfare in recent years has been coined “gray zone competition,” or simply “competition,” because it sits in a nebulous area between peace and conventional conflict. It’s not openly declared or defined, it’s slower and is prosecuted more subtly using social, psychological, religious, information, cyber and other means to achieve physical or cognitive objectives with or without violence. The lack of clarity of intent in competition activity makes it challenging to detect, characterize, and counter an enemy fighting this way.
  • “The Collection and Monitoring via Planning for Active Situational Scenarios (COMPASS) program aims to better understand and respond to an adversary’s competition. COMPASS seeks to leverage advanced AI and other technologies to help commanders make more effective decisions to thwart an enemy’s complex, multi-layered competition activity. The ultimate goal of the program is to provide theater-level operations and planning staffs with robust analytics and decision-support tools that reduce ambiguity of adversarial actors and their objectives.”

More concisely:

  • Targets, including individual citizens of these USA, are subjected to baiting and gaslighting, even using violence, so as to fill out the AI algorithms needed for a more accurate usage of COMPASS, with sources being social, psychological, religious, information, cyber. The point is to allow field officers to effect an extra-judicial killing on you, you know, with a clean conscience, because AI told them to do it. That’s easy. It’s the new version of the devil made me do it.

As I proceeded to grill the nice Census Bureau lady about abusing the census for gerrymandering and perverting elections, she retreated into ambiguous obfuscation: there are talking points we were given on that. And that’s all she said about it. Pfft. You know, just my opinion, but the mid-level guys ought to send out better trained people than her. To wit: the very day Trump signed an executive order forbidding the Census Bureau from using data for gerrymandering, she resigned, as she told me in an email. I wrote about that, and, instantaneously, I got a blog visit from the U.S. Census Bureau in Suitland to an obscure, long-archived humorous post on this blog about “little white lies” starring Lillian Carter and Jesus. The first time she had visited my blog through the Suitland servers she bragged within hours that she had visited my blog, laughing with glee. As it is, that unnuanced statement of resignation may mean that she is now moving up the ladder, as expected.

Her pet project, DARPA *COMPASS* has me on the list as a targeted individual, as I was informed by the new FBI compound just North-East of Atlanta, but not for nefarious purposes, just informational, I hope[!], inasmuch as Diplomatic Security just up from the Rosslyn, VA metro stop established a kind of Doppelgänger of mine with secured identity for work with CCS (Counterintelligence for Consular Services) at Main State (the main campus of the Department of State at Foggy Bottom), blah blah blah. I’ve written on all this before, too many times. I can’t get out of it. It’s a “perpetual” program, even “interdepartmental”. I’m really fed up with it. My protestations are detrimental to whatever it is that the Doppelgänger is up to, and that’s dangerous for me. He started out with arms transfers to the Sinaloa Cartel, that is, in its very beginnings, waaaay back in the day.

  • “The Bureau of Diplomatic Security, more commonly known as Diplomatic Security, or DS, is the security and law enforcement arm of the United States Department of State. DS is a world leader in international investigations, threat analysis, cyber security, counterterrorism, security technology, and protection of people, property, and information.”

Anyway, I had asked her if she would help me get out the “program”, seeing that she’s interested in actual numbers of people, what with the census, and there happening to be two of me, born of the same parents, at the same second, in the same hospital, with the same name, same social security number, same everything. On behalf of CCS at Main State, Diplomatic Security brags about this to me, and brags repeatedly: they are so very good at establishing alternative secured identities to people who then become that provided identity, and they NEVER make a mistake, not ever. The upper echelon census lady said with a rather severe voice that there was zero chance of her helping me with this, adding: “I will not help you.” Ironic, methinks.

Indeed, the stakes have been jacked up. I’m now faced with a damned if I do and damned if I don’t situation:

  • If I answer the unrepeatable particular life-history details of the American Community Survey (another program you absolutely cannot get out of, and penalties are established by the U.S. Congress) I will be told that I’m a liar, because the Doppelgänger surely has different answers. If I’m hit with lying, it’s up to a US$5,000.00 fine and/or up to five years in prison, or both.
  • If I just ignore the survey for a couple of months, harassment by the Census Bureau is guaranteed: constant phone calls, banging on the door, clogging my mail box, harassment which is all legal for them. If I continue to ignore them, it’s up to a US$5,000.00 fine and/or five years in prison, or both. And this will be repeated as time goes on.

Of course, people say that it’s extremely rare that such contempt for a congressionally mandated harassment about unrepeatable personal life history that has nothing to do with the local population is ever prosecuted, that they just want to scare you into compliance. That’s true, because they save a ton of money avoiding litigation. But sometimes they do prosecute, you know, if they are malicious. On that note…

I have to say that I did respond to the much more mundane questions of the actual census of the population, with alacrity, on time, and politely, even though I was told by the nice lady that even those basic answers would be falsified on purpose so that the rest of the answers couldn’t be referred back to me. Of course, they get to choose, for the sake of gerrymandering, which answers they want to manipulate, like about, say, race. But my good faith effort was very sarcastically, mockingly called into question by the Atlanta Census Bureau field office. How’s that?

I started getting many harassment phone calls from three guys, and, when I could, I finally picked up the phone over bluetooth in Sassy the Subaru. The Census Bureau guy asked with a sing-song “gotcha question” voice filled with sarcasm and triumphant mockery: “This is a Catholic ♬ rectory ♬ isn’t it?” “Yes,” I said. “Well, then,” he continued in his sarcastic voice, “it being that this is a ♬ Catholic rectory ♬ there must be all sorts of women and children who live there, right? I mean, after all, it’s a ♬ Catholic rectory ♬. There has to lots of women and children that you’re keeping there, right?”

Keeping there…” That’s like pronouncing that it’s an established fact that all Catholic priests, because they are Catholic priests, are imprisoning women and children in dungeons or doing up human trafficking or pimping them out or are trying to counter, say, immigration laws. Um… No.

It’s against the law for the Census Bureau to outright mock religion and with such baiting, mocking sarcasm. I should have these nice people thrown into prison for a much longer time than just five years. This is a religious hate crime wrought purposely by the Federal Government, deep as it might be at the moment. I told the guy that if any insists on that kind of stupidity I WILL SUE THEM INTO THE GROUND. So, I guess that ends this conversation, he said, and hung up. Nice guy. Coward too. The deeper you go…

A typical gas light

Oh, my bad. I forgot. They don’t give a damn about my Catholic priesthood. At one point – early 1996 – this time at the FBI Rome, Italy field office), they established me (without my asking) with an alternative identity. I rejected it, having seen what they did after having already entered back into Italy. They were really upset, for years, with yours truly. They tried over years to convince me, a citizen in good standing, with argumentation, then humiliation, to disappear without a trace with that alternative identity (and they would have made sure of the without a trace part), so as to make it easier for my Doppelgänger at this point in time, decades later, to continue his, um, work, under my identity. Father George David Byers would cease to exist. I would immediately have turned into no-history-man, which is something that gets you into unending trouble and then dead in no time. For these guys and gals, U.S. citizens in good standing don’t count. Just the Feds. The mantra of the Census Bureau is that each person counts. But not this citizen in good standing. I don’t count. Ironic, right, for the Census Bureau? But we knew that already.

This is a gas light acquired by yours truly a few years ago. Now even I can practice gaslighting!

The niceness lady of Suitland (in)fame reads this blog closely, so, she’ll get the message: I won’t comply. Send your thugs and buffoons. I won’t comply. Steal my money and throw me in prison. Fine! I’ll comply with you stealing my money and you throwing me into prison. But I won’t comply with your detailed personal history questionnaire. How can I? Do you know if I’m me, that I’m not my Doppelgänger? Really? How’s that? You’ll get yourself into trouble with a certain Secretary and a certain Director if you say you do. When “perpetual programs” that are “interdepartmental” come into play, we’re talking un-maskable, unless, like, you’re not only best friends with the Secretary and the Director, but you have directives coming from above the Secretary and above the Director. ;-)

But hey! I know! I’ve had a couple of requests about “the program” for years now. No one knows what they are. Just some little tweaks. Diplomatic Security asked what these were somewhat recently, but my response had to be that I can’t make those known over an unsecured telephone connection (on my end). So, hey! I’ll answer all the questions you got, but this time it’s gotta be quid-pro-quo. I have some simple requests. After all, you guys stole my identity. Now you owe me.

It’s all too easy.

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Bait so as to receive: how very Kryptos. Plot twist. Jesus reveals our identity.

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The picture above, taken at a parishioner’s house, is of Alex Trebek decades ago. Yes, there are re-runs of game shows from a lifetime ago. I just thought this particular scene was humorous and so took a picture of it. Sorry for using poor “Shadow” the other day as bait so as to watch the the knuckleheads show themselves. And they did. It is to laugh, out loud too.

Sorry if this is all a bit Kryptic. Some are bewildered at such Kryptesque posts that mention my “Shadow,” the guy who has been “established with secured identity” by those in DS-Rosslyn, with my own identity. The analogy for the continuing bewilderment that comes to mind is the befuddlement over seemingly entirely outrageous statements of POTUS Trump that he makes correctly but without revealing important circumstances. Like clockwork, over the space of a week or two, this exercise in baiting has the knuckleheads go full apoplectic and show themselves for who they are, and then after they make fools of themselves, good old Trump reveals the rest of the story as Paul Harvey would say. Checkmate. They know they’ve been had. In my own little world the rest of the story may or may not be revealed in this lifetime. I’m working on it, and I’m having fun while doing it, laughing all the way, even if the subject matter involves otherwise stunningly illegal arms transfers and rather shadowy characters and endless violence and loss of life. My “Shadow” might well be revealed even while exaggeratedly attempting to remain hidden, an unexpected plot twist. I digress.

This kind of entertainment – and it is just that, for me, entertainment – takes up about 0.00001% of my free time. I write about it because it’s all so stupid. It just is what it is. And I cannot, cannot, cannot write about what happens the other 99.99999% of my free time, not to mention what happens in my full-on priestly activities in confession, in spiritual direction, all that for which I actually live. Don’t get the wrong idea.

You have to know, I absolutely love being a priest, all of the priestly everything about visiting the sick, providing Last Rites, doing up funerals, and preaching!

Oh my! I love preaching. I learn about the Sacred Scriptures pretty much only while I’m preaching, that is, not so much any preparation, if any, but in the actual preaching. I’ve often spoken of this with my confessor. He has the same experience in being brought into a crushing-uplifting reverence before the Living Truth of Jesus by the Holy Spirit while preaching. I guess that’s how the Lord tells us that we’ve said enough and need to move things along, because… after that… we can get choked up, and simply not be able to say anything more. Preaching from the heart? This is more like putting one’s useless heart aside, because, look… look at that Sacred Heart of Jesus… In trying to reveal what is otherwise hidden in the Mystery of God’s love for us – plot twist – our own inadequacy otherwise hidden also to ourselves is – plot twist – revealed before the Light that comes into such darkness. Such Light! I love it, but…

This kind of thing is almost annoying. Take for instance the Consecrations at Holy Mass. I can usually get through the first, but by the second I have to battle with all my might from getting choked up in the presence of the Most Sacred Mysteries – the ultimate Kryptos – of our Lord’s ever so hidden love for us. I am a weak and useless and simple man. So, there we have it, a plot twist. Who we are, our identity, is revealed not when we claim an identity, but when we stand ever so simply before our Creator. We are revealed for who we are. Jesus strips us of our fear in which we stupidly try to hide ourselves. Fear is not an identity. Being forgiven reveals who we are before our Redeemer because He forgives by pouring into us the created presence of the Most Holy Trinity otherwise called sanctifying grace. How to say it?

“Hidden.” That’s “Kryptic.” Watch what happens the other way. The dear Lord, by way of His goodness and kindness and the Living Truth that He is, lays open our souls before His majesty. We know who we are when like the Apostle Thomas , we place our finger into the marks of the nails, and our hand into the gaping wound in His side that was made on Calvary by the sword of the Roman soldier.

Plot twist? Oh yes. And the games human beings play in this world which congratulates itself on being clever and shadowy? It is to laugh, but also to cry, for there is altogether too much game playing and violence and not enough of being drawn into the Living Sacred Mysteries of God’s Love and Truth, of Jesus, who will come to judge the living and the dead and the world by fire.

And if you feel lost in all this seeming convolutedness, like it’s all still too Kryptic, let some piercing eyes cut right into your very soul revealing how you stand before God, for her soul was pierced through that the thoughts of many hearts might be revealed (see Luke 2:35).

pieta

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Mike Pompeo on China. Bringing swagger back.

Now, if we could just do something more about the persecution of Catholics and human rights abuses in China. But I have a feeling that this is also a concern in the present administration specifically in regard to China such that this will also arise more strongly in negotiations between these USA and China.

I’m not going to comment much on volleys of whatever kind between the Holy See and China in the last couple of years. A new friend, privy to that goes on with such things, enlightened me that there is much more going on behind the scenes, much much more.

But on a secular level, I’m so happy to see these USA speak frankly about some of the nefarious practices of China.

I even detect a bit of swagger, as was promised. That’s refreshing.

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HALO 78,000 ft > mach 3 SR71

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CIA: “Show time!” Angels: “Show time!”

The lead picture is from actual footage out of one of the windows of Air Force 1. POTUS was being accompanied by multiple F-16s on September 11, 2001. They were there to protect him.

I can’t even count the times I’ve seen such accompaniment from my own window in a commercial jetliner. Most incidents were on the Stateside termination of transatlantic flights. I’m guessing that this accompaniment was not for the protection of anyone inside, but rather to practice being in place for the downing of a commercial airliner if it suddenly itself became weaponized. A common exercise for the fighter pilots, surely. Some examples:

  • Chicago – O’Hare International Airport: With fuel mostly depleted after such an extra-long flight, we were, instead, put in a rather weird holding pattern. The pilot was punctuating the ticking of the clock with apologies. Five minutes, fifteen, thirty, thirty five… Passengers were getting a bit agitated. The weather wasn’t good. That was the excuse. Until the pilot started expressing some distress about running out of fuel, and that the tower knew that, but would not, not, not give permission to land. I think the pilot brought the fuel thing up like three times. I love flying, so I thought it was all good, especially because of the airshow outside, F-16s to the sides of the plane. Cool! It was stunning to me – I’m so naive – that no one could care less about the cool F-16s. The other passengers were too agitated with the flight attendants who were trying to keep people calm by proffering hope for getting to any connecting flights. These were the days of “mere” highjacking instead of the blowing up of planes or running them into buildings. The F-16 on my side of the plane (the left side) pulled away. Momentarily, another took its place. Just practice, surely. We landed. My connecting flight was to the Wold–Chamberlain Field of the Twin Cities in Minnesota. We were diverted mid-flight to what looked to be a small-town airstrip somewhere in a pasture in nowheresville, Wisconsin. After a long delay, everyone was hauled out onto the tarmac. All the luggage came off. Dogs arrived with a multitude of law enforcement… Inside the plane, outside the plane, with the luggage, with us… nothing. That was a fad for some years in my experience anyway. Again and again. Then it was back on the plane. Just training, surely. Great!
  • JFK International Airport: I’ve elsewhere told the story about my involvement when terrorists threatened to blow up a transatlantic flight half way to JFK. I’ll spare you. Needless to say, this was another occasion for accompaniment of a commercial airliner with F-16s. They weren’t there for practice, however. They were waiting for a go-ahead to down the plane if need be. We did land, only to taxi out as far away from the airport as possible, almost in the water of the Atlantic, to be met by a multitude of emergency vehicles and then a storming of the plane by special operators.

I remember the details of these incidents of accompaniment more than the details of others as there were more concomitant circumstances that were… special.

Dad used to train in fighter pilots at Andrews just south of DC as they were putting him through JAG law training at Georgetown University. But how do you train in pilots to down commercial airliners full of innocent American citizens? What’s going through the pilots’ minds and hearts and souls? Unimaginable. But that’s why you train. But the question is always, immediately, Is this just an exercise? And then you hear, No. It’s not. … … … as your heart about stops and then about breaks your ribs pounding so hard.

Analogy: We’re all each of us in crazy changing circumstances every day that are permitted or provided by our Lord who is the Lord of History. He sees all. Our angels see all. We’re expected to be faithful in whatever circumstances, to do what we need to do, whether this means anything from going to heaven when called, promptly, with enthusiasm, or “to protect and serve” as is said. And all in between. Do we think, however, that maybe our circumstances aren’t quite so dramatic, and therefore our faithfulness isn’t really a big deal in those small circumstances, so that – Hey! – we can be politically correct or “get along to get along” or not witness to the goodness and kindness and truth and honesty and integrity that our Lord demands of us every second of every hour of every day?

Here’s the deal: It might be faithfulness in that tiny circumstance that will especially touch the heart and soul of someone and have them turn to the Lord and be on their way to heaven. And that epic saving of a soul is incomparably more dramatic than anything whatsoever that could possibly happen to us in this world. The salvation of souls is about eternity. It’s the small things that are going to draw people in, goodness and kindness and truth and honesty and integrity, always, always, and everywhere, everywhere.

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Analyzing Strzok’s capacity to lie. The deadpan declaration: “I am America.”

Analysts love declarations. There are certain declarations that are stand-alone, and which simply cannot be voiced unless you mean them in any and all contexts or regardless of any particular context whatsoever. They reveal a helluvalot about a person.

Here’s Peter Strzok declaring away to Tray Gowdy at 5’38″…

“The American electorate I respect in their decisions and their right to vote is absolutely a cornerstone of our democracy so at no time did I insult or call into question the judgment or the power of the American electorate.”

And he later repeats a version of that. It’s ingrained into him.

It’s all in the “so.” The “so” inescapably indicates that Peter Strzok believes that he, personally, is America. But this is not the Patriotism of which he thinks he is the definition. Instead, this is, for him, about his inability to do wrong. This, my friends, is as cynical as it gets. It’s a licence to kill. It’s a licence to betray one’s country as doing so could not possibly be considered betrayal by him: he IS America.

There are plenty of false patriots who say: “I love America and I’m the most patriotic person ever and I embody all that America is.” No. That doesn’t work.

It needs to be added instantaneously that there is an ever present possibility that we can fall short, we are able to betray. It is this honesty and humility which keeps one sharp, frosty, and, indeed, able to see ever so easily how it is that this or that person is at the verge of or has already betrayed America and is a danger.

Anyone who embodies the “so” principle of Peter Strzok cannot be trusted.

Do the analogy. The person who, in the spiritual life says to himself that he is doing just fine and is strong because he hasn’t killed anyone in a long time or ever and that makes him all good is a fraud. The person who by the grace of God is in humble thanksgiving before the Lord gets it, knowing that he could fall at any time into whatever lack. Holiness is about the Lord creating us as His friends: “I call you friends.” The trust is not in ourselves but in Jesus. Jesus I trust in you.

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“The Fall Guy” “Insurance Policy”

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I am so very stupid, so very naive. When I was a teenager, I thought that “The Fall Guy” for whatever important op is to be someone who lays down his life for his friends, for his country, often with an untold story, but prepared to be smashed down by being asked to do it or by way of volunteering to do this. In a way, “The Fall Guy” is to seen everywhere in service roles such as Law Enforcement and the Military. I’m proud of my dad’s service, a USMC Commander of the Fighter-Attack Checkerboard Corsair Squadron; here are some of his medals, not including the international medals from various countries, et alii. That’s the Purple Heart, third one over (they’re laid out in proper military order, two each of each medal to the left of the Purple Heart):

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Anyway, and more specifically, the reason having “The Fall Guy” as part of an op is that there are certain ops that can’t be easily understood by the public at large. So, put the blame for what might be considered as that which has a fine line to it on just one guy, a scapegoat. Great!

Sometimes “The Fall Guy” was always expected and well known. Since being a youngster, I looked at Jesus as “The Fall Guy” for us. After all, God so loved the world that He sent His only Son to do just that. Jesus knew. So did His good mom, who caught Him:

pieta

Then, July of 1987 came around. I was already ordained a deacon and had spent some outrageous time throughout Nicaragua a couple of years before. I had plenty of experiences in the “war zone” so as to be able to understand what would be put on stage the Summer of 1987 for the whole world with the Iran-Contra “Affair”. During my free time of that Summer I had been cleaning up the parish cemetery with my little tape-recorder and ear phones playing talks of Archbishop Fulton Sheen while I worked. I was distracted, and ended up with a case of poison ivy so fierce that the skin came off both hands. I sat in the rectory kitchen with my hands soaking in a special solution for two full weeks. During that time I watched every minute of C-SPAN’s total coverage of the Congressional grilling of Lieut. Col. Oliver North, who, by the way, I thought was entirely hilarious: “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa!” The New York Times, confirming everything I thought about “The Fall Guy” for any op – (that they know and agree to being “The Fall Guy” beforehand) – reported this:

IRAN-CONTRA HEARINGS; Casey Had ‘Fall Guy’ Plan As Early as ’84, North Says
By FOX BUTTERFIELD and SPECIAL TO THE NEW YORK TIMES JULY 14, 1987

“Lieut. Col. Oliver L. North said today that the plan to make him the ”fall guy” for the Iran-contra operations was first suggested by William J. Casey as early as 1984 when the White House began its secret support for the Nicaraguan rebels.

“Colonel North had previously emphasized conversations he said he had with Mr. Casey last fall – as the Administration’s secret arms sales to Iran and the resupply program for the contras began to become public – about making the colonel the scapegoat. Mr. Casey, who resigned as Director of Central Intelligence in February, died in May.” [just before he himself was to testify to the Senate…]

The point I’m trying to make is that “The Fall Guy” knows beforehand that he’s going to be “The Fall Guy.” Everyone else for decades had the same idea as me. Thus, staying in the theme of arms transfers, the film “Lord of War” offers another version of this in 2005:

Notice that “The Fall Guy” is always an agreed to part of whatever op by anyone’s estimation. Except that that’s not true. Sometimes there are those who are “The Fall Guy” without knowing it. They are there, you know, just in case things go South. They are outside of a program, know nothing about it, and yet are continuously groomed for taking the blame as time goes by.

“The Fall Guy” who is unwitting has to be protected, to make sure he’s always around to take the heat. “The Fall Guy” who is unwitting has to be baited into experiences that will make him look like the actual Asset in every way, with the same travels, with the same experiences, with at least some of the same over-the-top skill sets, languages, contacts, indeed, especially with other Assets, making “The Fall Guy” look like he could be an Asset himself. It’s precisely that which makes him ready to be “The Fall Guy” at any time.

In my travels often hundreds of miles every week bringing me into the seven-state region near enough to Western North Carolina, I was speaking to a top military guy about “The Fall Guy” thing. He admitted that, yes, in fact, it has happened, does happen and will happen that there can be “The Fall Guy” for whatever op, even with “The Fall Guy” being someone who does not know about whatever program and is in no way to be connected with whatever program.

For instance, if a CIA Asset is being compromised, “The Fall Guy” is used to take the heat off the all important Asset, so that said Asset can continue doing what he needs to do. If the Asset is going to end up going to prison, it’s instead “The Fall Guy” who goes to prison.

Recently, CCS (Counterintel for Consular Services) at Main State (Department of State) had me call DSCC (Diplomatic Security Command Center). It was made crystal clear that […] ///

/// […] When “The Guy” of Black Sites fame at another time and place told me that there are always but always insurance policies for every single program so that there is no program without an insurance policy, I didn’t know what he meant. I asked him about that, a lot, over years. I never understood, just thinking it was an extortion type thing: “You do this or else.” But, no. Not that. And it’s not a Strzokian type of “Insurance Policy.” No, no. The Insurance Policy he was talking about is “The Fall Guy,” whether that guy knows it or not. He’s the scapegoat, the one to blame. /// […]

/// […] The question is, what if “The Fall Guy,” as unwitting as he is for so long, figures out that he is “The Fall Guy”?

The best way to take care of the problem is to make “The Fall Guy” a target, say, by spreading it around that he is, say, for instance, a CIA Asset himself. That’s easy to do since, with all the grooming, all the baiting, all the false friendships, “The Fall Guy” will indeed have contacts highly influential in various countries and troubled regions around the world. In researching rumors about “The Fall Guy”, various groups may well think that “The Fall Guy” is, instead, the Asset. And then they’ll take care of the problem that “The Fall Guy” now knows too much. How very convenient. Mind you, “The Fall Guy” who was up to this point unwitting has had no real training, has gained no real over-the-top skill sets that he can use to avoid trouble, that he can use to protect himself. It’s kind of like being put on the front lines like David did to Uriah the Hittite, and then having his fellow soldiers withdraw leaving Uriah quite alone against the enemy so that he is then cut down. Easy peasy.

This, of course, underlines the fact that especially “The Fall Guy” who was unwitting up to this point is the most unimportant, most expendable non-person in the world. He has no chance to prepare for a good death. It’s all very dark, very ugly, the most cowardly side of these USA.

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Intelligence Identities Protection Act 1982 PubL 97–200 50 USC §§ 421–426

The Intelligence Identities Protection Act of 1982 (Pub.L. 97–200, 50 U.S.C. §§ 421–426) makes it a Federal crime – enforced with a penalty of a fine or up to three years in prison or both regarding anyone with or without whatever security clearance and access / need to know – to compromise directly or by patterned indications an asset / agent in extremely broadly defined circumstances (as assessed by courts in view of the bias of relevant agencies), regardless as to whether the scope of such a law compromises the Constitution and Constitutional rights of citizens in good standing, including their right to protect the viability of their very lives. Intent doesn’t matter.

Questions:

  • When does justice and equity – the spirit of the law – begin to assert that “rogue” assets / agents are not allowed to destroy citizens in good standing at will, you know, just to protect their own salaries, stipends, perks, retirement packages, or even to protect  agencies from embarrassment about programs that gravely compromise necessary geopolitical allies?
  • When criticism of a program isn’t enough to stop the treasonous-esque behavior of “rogue” individuals, will the outing of whatever “rogue” agent / asset be allowed?

In this law, the answer to both questions is never.

I take that back. In the very law, it’s just fine for agencies to provide a pattern by which their agents / assets are indicated, especially in a quiet manner, in a counterintel fashion, especially if this is done with those who will thus be baited in turn into providing a pattern by which such agents / assets are indicated in a more general manner, with such citizens thus being manipulated into contravening this law and thus making them liable to being conveniently remanded to prison for years at a time, thus protecting the same agents / assets.

Interesting year, that: 1982. Very interesting.

Sometimes justice and equity, love of God and love of neighbor, push citizens in good standing to do the necessary at whatever cost to themselves. It’s not all about money and sex and power for all people everywhere all the time. No.

Indeed, there are those who, when cornered, when up against a wall, and wanting to do the right thing, simply do what’s necessary to find a solution, as in the video above, in which I rejoice. That video is very short, and well worth the watch. You’ll get the point.

The more cynical among us should understand that the cynical use of a law meant to thwart seemingly treasonous activities can itself amount to treason, with penalties much greater than some fine or even three years in prison. A word to the wise.

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Rafi Eitan and Jon Jay Pollard? “I don’t know nothing!”

When Rafael “Rafi” Eitan died, I put up this notification:

Rafi Eitan! May you rest in peace. I hope to meet you in heaven. Your legacy lives!

I laughed out loud to then hear that he was the “handler” of Jay Pollard. Certainly I didn’t know that previously, not even in another life.

Some years ago, when walking into the main doors of the departures terminal at Tel Aviv International Airport, that is, נתב״ג, you know NATBAG or TLV, not even one of the dozen soldiers outside under the overhang stopped me, and so I just nonchalantly continued on my way inside until, another twenty meters inside, I was asked where I was going and I responded “Rome” and that soldier also let me go as that was consistent with one of the flights leaving at that time. So I continued, but only slowly, as I instantly felt a collective “disturbance in the force” outside, kind of like all the soldiers with one electrifying whisper saying, “Oh S#|+”. It took about three more seconds until I was surrounded by the same dozen soldiers from outside plus another dozen who came out of nowhere from inside.

Their questions: “Who is the special person you met? Who’s your contact? Give us a name. We want a name! Who is it?” Not knowing what they were talking about, they snatched a bit of computer junk I had bought, an Israeli-Hebrew keyboard, and brought it to a backroom for the longest time. They told me to sit off to the side where there was an agent to accompany me. After say, 40 minutes of them having an intense powwow, looking over at me every few seconds, and with me not wanting to be late for my plane, and with me also wanting to see if a Jedi-mind-trick would work, I simply waltzed over to the flight counter and checked in and went on my way, much to their consternation. They were visibly upset, breaking their pow-wow and turning toward me, but apparently they were under orders not to detain me further. They didn’t tell me I was free to go. As far as I knew, I wasn’t supposed to move. You simply just don’t disobey IDF soldiers with UZIs (or whatever it was ten years ago) in Tel Aviv International Airport. But I did. You find out stuff by pushing the envelope a bit. ;-)

It wouldn’t be for another six years that Jonathan Jay Pollard, an American CIA agent who gave ways and means secrets to Israel would be “released”, to this day not allowed to go to Israel. So, they weren’t expecting to hear “Jay.” Maybe they wanted to hear “Rafi,” a well known household name throughout the Jewish world.

I recall that relatively very recently another CIA guy asked if once then a dozen times about “Jay”, not giving any further name for a while, just “Jay”, testing to see if – now years after the restricted release of “Jay” – I could guess that he was talking about J.J. Pollard. I pushed him hard on it, and he addmitted it was Pollard he wanted to know about. But in asking that, he was really asking about “Rafi.”

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Flowers for the Immaculate Conception (He said: “I want to kill Jews” edition or better “I did not forget you” edition)

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The above was taken this past week on the day off. I always instantly think of another six sided yellow star when I see flowers like this:

jewish yellow star jude

And then I think of a Jewess, the Immaculate Conception, good mom of Jewish Jesus. She knows all about Jews being put to death just to do it.

Early this morning I listened to this…

A guy well known to me and who is on the radar of the State Department and the top law enforcement under their control (coordinating all other law enforcement) called me up recently and told me he wants “to kill Jews”, you know, anyone and everyone who is a Jew, indiscriminately, that is, with all Jews being guilty of the “crimes” he imagines for any and every Jew, you know, because of what people like Hitler said. Note that the reference to “Jews” is in the plural. A mass killing terrorist incident is envisioned. He can do it. He’s owned four personal guns in his life (he says). More than that, he’s been an arms dealer for cartels, specifically for Joaquín Archivaldo Guzmán Loera “El Chapo”. The Sinaloa cartel, at last count, has already killed or disappeared some 226,000 people.

I’ve been baiting out what the actual interest might be in changing some policy about this guy. I already know that law enforcement is not interested in that he didn’t say “I’m going to kill Jews at this time and in this place.” So, policy is the way to go. I went to the upper floors of the main State Department building in Atlanta the other day. They confirmed for me my worst fear, that it is in fact about policy about this guy, that is, whether or not any terrorist incident may occur has no bearing on policy about this guy. Policy, however outdated, is paramount, even if innocent people do get killed. This guy has fully seven Jewish synagogues within a few miles of his safe-house.

/// What’s a few Jews being killed anyway, right? There was no holocaust, just like El Chapo’s genocide in Mexico is no big deal. Policy is important! /// – off sarcasm

If I give a flower to Jesus’ good mom, it’s because she didn’t run away when an innocent Jew – her Son – was being killed. She stayed there with Him in solidarity. She said:

“I did not forget you.”

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Edge of deadly. Still alive. Thanks mom, NIH-Bethesda

Back from the dead. I’m happy about that. I didn’t know that, for me in my own particular circumstances, a simple over the counter cold-remedy is a poison so powerful that it’s almost impossible not to die after ingesting it. I’ve put those cold-remedies in the garbage. I spent from January 1 after the last Mass for Mary, Mother of God, until now, barely moving amidst an allergic reaction so extremely rare that going to an Emergency Room is likely to raise the mortality threat just for sheer exhaustion of sitting in a waiting room until you die without being seen. Mortality rates are already high enough. I lucked out, beating the stats once again. I spend my life being at death’s door. Of course, I realize this is not about luck, but God’s providence for me. And if you’re wondering why I just didn’t pay attention to indications of counter-indications, it’s because the condition is so rare that listing counter-indications doesn’t seem to be a requirement. As the one GTMO guy told me what my “assignment” was – which was getting to know this statement of a particular counterintel spy – “The first thing you have to know about me is that I would never intentionally commit suicide.” Yep. I make that my own. Of course, that has nothing to do with this. Anyway…

Sure, there’s a prophylactic med to take developed a lifetime ago with my own mom as a guinea-pig at the Naval N.I.H., a med that’s really dirt cheap (especially in Europe and the rest of the world) and kind of works – until it doesn’t – but you’re not supposed to take that more than a few months as it causes liver cancer. She hesitated just a bit and died because of that fear. I’ve been taking it for most of my life (with liver cysts to prove it), and have severely put my liver through the ringer. More drugs have been developed more recently. Pretty expensive though. The best is a reactive drug instead of a prophylactic, and, say, at two doses a day in adverse conditions, it would cost more than USA $4,000,000 a year, enough to make an medical insurance company put a hit out so as to avoid payments to pharmaceutical companies. In my case, I’m guessing I could keep it down to no more than $500,000 a year, probably just $286,000. But, that’s still not within the limits of insurance tolerance is it? No. And instead of simply popping a capsule a day (as with the NIH solution), it involves a chemistry set and needles and sterile conditions and the patience of Job with nerves of steel, as you have to only very slowly inject the horror.

A CIA evaluator guy recently asked me what my evaluation of my mom was. Here’s the deal, she was willing to go through all-out-hell as a guinea-pig at NIH literally in deadly conditions, at the edge of death, for weeks at a time, in great pain, for my sake. I remember the phone calls we would get at home from NIH setting up the sessions out East. Just the phone calls were traumatic. The sessions were monstrous. My mom: a martyr of love for me. What do you think I think of her? Thanks, mom. You’re the best. You guys did good, too, at NIH. The head doctor for this talked to me over the phone back in the day, giving advice which has stood me in good stead all these decades. This was able to be set up because, of course, dad was USMC, which is the history of NIH.

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MI6, CIA, Fed-funded think-tank, me

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Enter yet another self-proclaimed CIA guy in my life (it seems like a daily affair). He’s urging me to spill my guts on a certain national security issue to – of all people – a certain MI6 guy, whose name is […] [Ooops! That would be an unmasking.] I looked up the MI6 guy some weeks ago by way of his public cover. An unmistakable face you can’t ever forget. It instantly burns itself into one’s front-burner memory.

Just now, YouTube, of course, put in front of me a boring panel discussion of a top-rated Federally funded think-tank physically housed for decades next to the White House. What I found interesting was not the topic, but rather the face of one of the presenters.

For all intents, purposes and plastic surgery reconstructions, the MI6 guy is coincidentally just like the think-tank guy on all levels: same age, same ultra-weird interests, same political persuasion, same moral outlook, same geographic assignments in the world (in this case impossibly difficult), same hair problems, same hair reconstruction fixes, same exact facial features, same plastic surgery failed fixes right through the years and all at the same time [impossible to hide], same neck features[!], same ears, etc., etc., etc., even the same physical gesturing when speaking (just toned down slightly but really hard to hide the subtleties as this belongs to entrenched neuro-behaviors), same type of prolific publishing on the exact same topics, same ol’ same ol’ in the finest detail, with both of them publicly supporting each other’s works and interests (an interesting self-promotion). Goodness gracious! Such coincidences! Oh, there is one difference: one has a contrived accent, the other doesn’t. Regardless of the truth of any lifestyle, any lifestyle accents are really easy (as there is no standard outside of all of them being contrived), and are therefore excellent covers of one’s real accent since, in this politically correct society, no one would question why someone would sound like, you know, like that. Anyway, all “three” of these people would know each other and freely admit that they do.

When I objected to spying on the U.S. through a friendly nation, the original CIA guy didn’t know what to do except to say that he thought it was all legal since I’m just asking a certain question out of interest as a private citizen with answers for all I know based on, you know, kind-of-perhaps-maybe public knowledge. Sorry. You won’t see me going overseas or to D.C. to speak to any such person.

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My history of taking bribes from intel, or not…

The following is just a starter list that I throw out off the cuff. I’m sure I can add to the list, but this will give you an idea.

I was a bit of a dullard back in the day, the mid-1980s. I was a deacon on my way to Nicaragua to deliver medicines to the Catholic clinics and Mass stipends to be distributed to priests by a religious community of nuns. On the way I sat next to a CIA guy working a cover as a communications guy for State at the local embassy in Managua (he was delivering massive cargo bins acting as his “diplomatic pouch”). This arrangement of being companions on the flight took two days for him to arrange, which delayed the trip. C’est la vie. Anyway, after what seemed like ten million questions on the longest portion of the flight leaving from Miami, he gave me his card and said that if I had any problems I was to request to see only him at the embassy. Usually, CIA are to keep their identities quiet, but conditions in Nicaragua were such that they let that rule be loosened up really a lot, kind of unique in the whole world. At one of the stops on the way, I think San Salvador, he watched over his cargo bins outside the plane, but then quick ran into the “airport.” He came out with an expensive bottle of whiskey, which he gave to me, asking me to give that to Cardinal Obando y Bravo of Managua who he knew I already had an appointment to see. Since it wasn’t for me, I thought this was acceptable. Maybe I am mistaken. Anyway, I was then obliged by the CIA Whiskey guy to see number 2 at the Embassy instead of himself within a period of 72 hours from landing. Sometimes, when they work with the naive, like me, they get what they want anyway.

Years later, over in Italy, the top brass of the anti-mafiosi of the Guardia di Finanza, insisted, strongly, repeatedly, with follow-ups, that I allow myself to be shuttled by police round about Italy, wherever I needed to go. All I had to do was to call the local police station and they would come with a car. Quite the bribe as I was at the time about 100 kms from Rome and local transport was often cancelled, meaning I would have to walk miles up a mountain. However, to his consternation, frustration, anger, I never took advantage of this offer. He was wanting me to spy on the Cardinals up in the apartments on top of San Callisto, which I’ve often called the Vatican’s Pentegon. I was, in fact, up there quite a bit. But the spying? Nope. Ain’t gonna happen. The pressure was put on for quite a number of years, sometimes benevolent pressure, sometimes malicious. Anything malicious I would follow up on right away until the cowardly backed down. That’s always the case.

This was going on about the same time the Italian Ministry of Defense wanted me to spy on some Mafiosi for them in southern Italy. The bribe was their offering me an assignment in a nice parish to be arranged by the liaison between the Ministry of Defense and the Holy See. The bribe came with the price of betraying penitents who came to sacramental Confession. Nope. Ain’t gonna happen. Meanwhile, stories of what happened to priests who didn’t cooperate were coming my way. Interesting, but not having effect.

So many stories flood into memory as I write this, but in an effort not to make this too long, let me just add some mentions of things from right around the world. There are those, particularly in the CIA, who are convinced that I am some sort of agent of said agency. You would think they would have noticed that I’m a priest. Anyway, the items or most extraordinary assignments I’ve been offered from which I could provide, um, information, are myriad. Since it’s not thought that I’m actually a priest (that being some sort of tricky cover, I guess), the bribes have sometimes been more, let’s say, secular in nature. For instance, I recall being shown NON-pornographic pictures of women which pictures nevertheless certainly objectified women also as sex objects. That may entice some 007 guy to go along with whatever so as “get some”, but I’m married to the Church with the wedding vows at the consecrations at Holy Mass. And anyway, also someone who is not a priest should not be interested in objectifying women or in taking advantage of pre-objectified women.

I call to mind a certain bribe that was given by the chief priests and received by the Apostle Judas Iscariot, thirty pieces of silver, the price at which they valued the Son of the Living God.

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CIA gaying American bishops, cause of abuse crisis. What 2019 Synod can do.

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Without being registered as a foreign agent, I did a favor for the Holy See by outing a CIA asset assigned there. He belonged to group of military intel officers who had become mercenaries. I know the guy who trained him though didn’t assign him. That was the CIA. He admitted to it. The guy I caught out was confirmed for me by the head of security of the Holy See. Anyway, the asset guy had full access for 40 minutes a day for years to all offices and files in the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, including that of the Prefect, which means he could manipulate one-copy hard-files on, say, candidates for episcopal office right around the world, making weak candidates for enemy countries look especially unacceptable, while making strong candidates look even better (to the end that they cause problems, like the now canonized Karol Józef Wojtyła did) doing the reverse for these United States and friends, so that strong candidates looked especially inappropriate even while the most inappropriate and weak candidates looked especially fit for the office (say, like McCarrick and friends). I know for a fact that this manipulation of files was a “thing” for many years, and not only in the CDF, but also at, say, the Congregation for Bishops and the Congregation for Clergy. But the CDF was the most notorious even while it was headed up by Cardinal Ratzinger. No fault to him for this. Bad actors are afoot and need to be removed from influence. Ratzinger insisted on following every single important case in the world, superhuman of him, but he did it, which also made his files especially sought after.

Of course, in outing that guy (who was forthwith given the boot), I suppose I was committing treason and I’m considered a bad actor against these United States myself. But I don’t expect any public complaint of any kind will be made since this would also involve free exercise of religion (a pesky little amendment in the Constitution of these USA).

So, just to spell this out: if, in America, we get ultra-super-homosexualist candidates they will be apt to rid the faithful in America of any well-formed conscience, of any morality, of any truth. Anything goes with whatever prevailing opinion. Anything the government wants that weak guy will be good with that. No trouble from that guy. Abortion? Big deal! Abortifacients? Nothing to see here, folks! Gay marriage? Awww! Aren’t they cute! Get it?

Oh, and if you’re wondering what this actually has to do with homosexualist stuff, I did see that guy later, all trans-dressed. Yep. The head of security of the Holy See tells me he’s dead now, but… Whatever.

Even if I have lots of friends in the CIA, I’m sure I’ve made one or two in The Company a little upset as well. But maybe they just laugh, thinking nothing can be done. Yet:

Solution for the Synod of Abuse in February:

I think an investigation could actually uncover manipulation of files, comparing, say, what was sent to the Congregations for the Clergy, for Bishops, for the Doctrine of the Faith (also with what’s to be found at the Secretariat of State), that is, in their files across the pond, with what was sent to those dicasteries by the Nunciature of the Holy See in these USA, that is, as is verifiable with files here in these USA. The Synod could order this comparison to be made, say, with the courteous help of the FBI. ;-)

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Coincidences

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These visits to the blog (the top one being interesting) came in immediately after I sent an email to a particular person of a particular service of a particular country. Perhaps it comes from a person (same provenance) who has everything to do with that particular intelligence community person of that particular intelligence service of that particular country, that is, regarding a very particular aspect of the URL visited which I know he knows about (because I told him) though it is not directly spoken about at that particular URL. But, whatever, it’s all just a coincidence. It means nothing. In mentioning this to a priest friend, with me rejecting that it meant anything, he said that, no, he doesn’t believe in coincidences, that such a thing is purposed. Hmm…

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