Interview With The Big Fella

 

By Millicent Price

The Everett Clarion Times Revealator

Last week about this time I was approached by a student from one of our local Junior High Schools with a proposition.  She had heard from a family member who wanted to speak to the public and the state government about a land related matter.  Naturally I was interested.

This is an unusual student.  Her human name is Jane Savage.  She was a kind of foundling.  Six years ago she was seen wandering naked and cold in the trees around the edges of a playground full of school kids during recess break.

The other kids pulled her into the group, wrapping her up in one of their own coats, and brought her to the school office. The upshot of it all was that she was placed as a .foster child with a local couple, the Savages, Ted and Alice Savage.  She has been with them for six years and has attended school with their daughter, Molly.  She speaks perfect English and wears clothing and has lovely manners.  But, she still is in communication with the forest people and will make a perfect interpreter.

We met our interviewee on a beach up north.  Jane rode up there with me, MP.

Interview follows:

MP:  Hello Jane, good to see you, thanks so much for offering to help!

JS:  Of course, Ms. Price, I want to help.

MP: I see you’ve brought your very very impressive friend today! Um, what shall I call him?

JS:  Lets use “Big Fella” for now.  He doesn’t know what you mean by what to call him.

MP:  Okay!  Big Fella it is!

JS: The way he thinks about it is, a name is word you use when you want to summon a certain person. 

JS for BF:  He says when the family calls him they howl “Eeeeloooah”.  It carries well in the trees.

MP:  What an interesting name!  Eeeeloooah ok then!  Hello sir!  So great to meet you.  We’ve heard stories about you, but never actually sat down with one of you!  This is nice! Are you comfortable.  Is there anything I can give you.  How about a Coke, or some bottled tea?

JS:  He says he thought it was time and he has an important request to make of mankind, about Snohomish County, WA.  Ma’am I don’t think a Coke is a good idea.  Fizz kinda freaks him out.

MP:  Ok, well just let me know if anything would make him feel more welcome. 

I should mention to the readers that the interview took place in an obscure park on Camano Island, which is in Island County, outside of Stanwood. It’s a bit chilly here, but we have our jackets and the Big Fella has his pelt! He seems to like to be near the beach and the trees.  We are set up on a picnic table.

JS for BF:  He wonders if you have a smoke?  He feels he can really relax and talk better if he could have a smoke.  Normally he has to loot campers to get any and the pickings have been slim since everybody quit smoking.

MP:  Sure, anything he likes.  I have a couple of menthol Camels here.  Hang on…..ok.  Lighter?  Or does he use matches?

JS:  He knows how lighters work.  He watches you guys you know?  And it’s so windy here.

MP:  OK Eeeeloooah?  How’s that?  Sorry about the menthol.

Some wuffing and hooting from BF.  He gets up and kind of moonwalks around the picnic table and sits back down puffing.  He is really big and we are all alone out here with him.

MP:  Ok, what’s this all about?  Here I am.  All ears!

BF:  See it’s like this.  We want the eastern half of Snohomish County and we want you weirdos to stay out!!

MP:  What the hell!  You speak English?  Since when?  You mean this whole interpreter thing was…..

BF:  Nah.  We just like messing with you guys.  I’ve heard so many campfire stories and whispered confessions in bedrooms and loud birthday parties and tv programs through walls that I would have to be a simple primate not to learn the language! Lol

My name is Ralph. Hahahhahhha!  Eeeeeloooah!  WHooooeee!  Whommp!

⚠⚠⚠

MP:  So tell me, Ralph, why do your people want to claim the eastern half of Snohomish County?  Don’t you have it already mostly?  I mean there isn’t much out there but trees and mountains and water.

Here, I have some chips and pop, you big faker.  I’m hungry now.  You? Hey, I've got Gummi Bears!

I rustle around in my backpack and pull out some bottles and packages.  Ralph accepts a bottle of tea and grabs the Cheetos and the whole bag of Gummi Bears.  Jane, takes a package of Oreos. I tear into a little bag of Ruffles.  Oh boy. No Gummis for me!

 Ralph:  We’re sick of campers.  Tired of Big Foot hunters.  We’re ready to make our own city out there and we don’t want to see you guys up there stomping around beating on trees and howling and waking up the kids at night!  It’s a pain in the butt, honestly.  We tried to warn you off.  We acted like stinking fairies up there flitting around all freaky like.  Yeah, we know what you all call us!  And no, the wind is not blowing off the sewage lagoon!  

We’re tired of it.  You get ahold of Inslee and make this happen or else.

MP:  Are you kidding Ralph.  I can’t make this happen.  I don’t know the Governor and it would be hard for me to even get to speak to him.  He’s a total space cadet anyhow.  You want me to try to make sense with that? Give me a break!  I'm a low level newspaper reporter!

Ralph:  You tell him we are going to port the next bunch of Big Foot hunters we catch up there in the Baker National Forest right to somewhere they ain’t gonna like much.  Unless of course he makes it official.  NO MAN’s Land!  Whooomp!  Dammit!  No more nice ol Big Foot woootling around amongst the trees.  We mean business!

MP: I suppose I can try to phone him………..he isn’t even going to believe any of this.  Who would?  Ralph, you’re a myth, a boogie story to scare Indian kids at night.  You are like a breeze.  Nobody ever sees you, though they sure ought to be able to smell you! To mention you is to be branded a liar or a fool. This is an impossible thing you are demanding!   I cannot do this!  Are you trying to destroy my credibility?

Ralph:  OK, well on your head be it.  Jane, you ready? Get rid of that crazy stuff you're wearing.  Let’s get outta here.  We have a long way to go before night.

Jane pulls off her parka, her little sweatshirt, her t-shirt, her jeans, her panties and her shoes and socks.  She stands in the cool sunlight with her auburn hair shining and fluffing up.  She raises her head and looks toward Ralph. She smiles a little smile.

JS:  Sure Dad, anything you say.  Let’s go.

The song has nothing to do with the story.

I just think the sound fits

AI illustrations by LoneStar Neanderthal

Story by pbird

sQuatch Fest Report from our nanasbananas

 Well now, here I am with a short report on sQuatch Fest. Wow, there were at least 4 dozen vendors of all kinds. Some Squatch related, some other things, like soaps, jewelry, etc. Saw one with Native American flavored stuff and she had a gorgeous small dream catcher made of leather strips. A beer garden, duh. 😀 The food vendors were right out the door and it all smelled so good. Of course there were those who were selling books and even foot castings and such, talking about their own sightings and experiences, but they seemed sketchy to me. I think you'd recognize one guy, got a pic of him. Talked to him a bit, nice guy, didn't seem too strange. lol But he has that mind that may or not include things like aliens? I've seen a pic on here (see the shirt front?). He goes lots of places, next is Forks, Canby, and Marblemouth.

The main draw for us was the experts who not only had their stuff, some with books, but each one was scheduled to give a talk for about an hour telling us about their experiences and evidence and such. We were only able to attend one of the talks, Cliff Barackman. He's the one who was on the Finding Bigfoot reality show on Animal Planet. He had slides showing lots of footprints, history of the search from way back, etc. He used to be a teacher, now most of his time is taken by the North American Bigfoot Center in Boring, OR. He's been gathering tons of stuff from Bigfoot researchers through the years.

The lady declines to be identified, 😀 but I like her hat. lol (Says Bigfoot Country on it with a pic of Bigfoot and some footprints). 

My kid wanted to hear Dr. Jeff Meldrum who is very well known, but we couldn't get there early enough. He did purchase his book though. Thinking I'll have to read it, so much I don't know about.

Cliff Barrackman and Dr. Meldrum are very much science and evidence guys. In other words, Bigfoot is real, an animal that has yet to be discovered/proven to exist although he's been seen by many people and continues to be. That's always been my mindset as well. He's real, an animal, not a myth, though there are mythical-like stories and traditions about him. It's natural for our minds to imagine or interpret things in different ways, especially if we can't explain them to our satisfaction.

Guess that's the best I can do, sorry. But you can bet I'm going again next year, God willing! Maybe we can attend more of the presentations next time, and learn more.

(THANKS SO MUCH NANA!)

If You Had To Pick, Who Was Your Most Beloved Pet?

Now, as everyone knows, back a few years ago, I had a friend who was 7/8th wolf.  I loved her dearly and she understood me pretty darn well and had my number.  We were guilty of some shenanigans together and had a great time.  I shall always miss her.  She was a nut.

Oh, but for love, it was Henry, my cat.  He was born right upstairs in this very house, to a very interesting kitty with a strange tan speckled coat.  Henry came out looking more like a regular tabby, but his back fur was neither spotted nor striped.  It was tweed!  

He was a beautiful imperious bastard in his way, but utterly charming to me.

I knew him from the day of his birth until he died in my arms at Diamond Veterinary Clinic here in town.  Before he was two years old he caught that awful cat thing that destroys their gut.  It must be the extreme frustration of not being able to save or comfort, but I cried like a fool getting out of that place.  They let us out the back door so as not to upset the other patrons I think.

We were very close always.  My grandson named him Henry btw.  He's just napping on me here.

It's tempting to think he is somewhere still, full of stars.

I know we all have some dear creature we still think of.  It would be nice to hear about some of them.

A Nice Soft Day In The Pacific Northwest

 

What is the difference between a ghost and a memory?  Both arise unsought.  In the mind they look a lot alike.  On a day like this it seems like one or the other might be lurking about.

§

 Here is a ghost for you: 

My father’s father grew his own tobacco.  I didn’t see how he cured it but he must have because he smoked it.  I remember him outdoors because he didn’t smoke in the house.  He wore striped overalls.  He was hawklike when old. His hair never went white. He had a harsh face with a hooked nose and high prominent cheekbones.  He actually looked like a pale Indian.  He had icy blue eyes.  I remember him squatting like an Indian in the farmyard.  One knee up and one knee down.

I have a picture of him in my mind rolling those home made cigarettes, carefully, licking the edge of the paper and rolling them tight.  He used the cuffs of his striped overalls for an ashtray.  He didn’t leave butts lying around even outside on the farm.

He was famous for hitting what he shot at.

 I wonder things about him.  He was from OK originally.  When did he learn to squat like an Indian?  What made him tick I will never know.  He was a mysterious figure to me, unlike my mother’s father who was not.

I believe that he was a bit of a hard man.  But they were back then, living through the depression times.  He was born in 1889.  I don’t remember what year he died.

The boy on the right was Ernest David S.

That was his school class.

His sister is second from the left in back.

 

Seems like some really odd touching up.

one ghost among many

In The Tenth Year Of The Pandemonium

The Fourth Dream

In the year before the century change, they set the cats among the pigeons.

We were so innocent.

We pitied the poor Chinese, welded into their high apartment buildings.  We saw video of them calling out their windows for food and help.

We saw the Chinese in Italy dying at an unholy rate.

A man from China flew to the Northwest, here, and became ill.

They are closing schools now.  There are about a tenth of the schools that used to exist.

Birth is rare and treacherous.  Still men and women do make love and a few children come to birth.  Some of them die a few days into life.

A healthy child is a rare sight.  Their play is carefully watched.

We don't have professional sports now.  Too many were dying on the field.  It became too horrifying.  Most colleges and high schools have given up the tradition of team sports also.  Living teen children are too precious.  We hope some of them survive their early adulthood.  A whole generation is weak and fewer than their parents' generation, or indeed their grandparents' generation.  Boomers are stronger than their grand children.  There are very few great grandchildren.

Goods and services are impossible.  Groceries and pharmacies are only open for eight hours on weekdays.  Most have self checkout.  No one wants to be at the check stand.  Amazon is still standing.  Most goods are handled by online shopping.  Then we wait for the arrival of a shipment to our houses. 

Official shopping is done with gov. supplemental funds. It is never enough.

Few of us  have actual jobs.  But they need some of us.  We know how things work.

We didn't know it but, WWIII was waged against us.  We thought it would take place in the usual way between tanks, guns and jets.  There was a lot of Kabuki about Russia, Ukraine and China in the year 2023. But we didn't understand that we were their enemy and that they, the invisible and visible magi were our actual destroyers until it was too obvious to shy away from. The virus, but more, the vaccine, was the means of waging that war. For several years early on people believed and lined up for the shots.  Around 2024 even the loudest proponents became silent.  That was a relief anyhow.

Still, they needed goods and services, so there are farms, largely poorly run mechanical food factories.  There are also special dark farms run the old way, so that there are good things for them.  There are factories for their needs and department stores for them to shop in.  We don't have the money, even if they would let us in.  You must have a special invisible tattoo on your left cheek for the doors to open to you.  There is a reader at the door.

On the street level there are two types of people.  We are the survivors walking a tight rope for life.  Then there are the bees. Worker bees for the comfort of the powerful and elite.  Many of them were what we believed were illegals coming here on their own.  But they were brought here to take the place of natives.  They mind things for their owners and keep the streets nice to look at.  We don't drive cars.  They outlawed normal gas runners.  There are cars tucked everywhere, unusable.  We walk, and ride the rare and unreliable buses.  They drive fine strange vehicles.

All real houses of sincere worship were closed in 2025, for offensive language and racism.  They house third world migrants in them now, also in the hotels and some of the closed high schools and larger buildings of all types.

There are home meetings.  It's hard to get an invitation to one because of the danger of betrayal.  

We make our own music.  We use everything up.  We make our own food at home.  We plant gardens and hope that they escape notice.  We keep chickens.  

We mend clothing. There are tons of used stuff.  Everywhere you look there are the material possessions of the dead.  We look funny in our second hand outfits.  We try to stay away from medical care.  Too many of us go into a  hospital, but never come out.  We think euthanasia is the main treatment there.

In 2026 President Harris signed a directive making medical care the business of the government.  You don't want to end up in a hospital unless there is no other choice.  Better to die in peace at home if you have to.  

There are no more funerals.  They outlawed them. Each town has its own crematorium.  We are not sure what they do with the ashes.  When a family member dies and is processed, the family receives a document officially acknowledging the death.

They tell us we are happy.  But we are very weary. Everything is changed after the great Reorg.  We try to tell the children how life was.  You can't blame them for thinking it has always been like this.  There is not much in the way of history taught, just stories about how much better it is now.  We try to keep our children out of the govco schools.  For one thing, the schools are literally not safe for a child.  We teach them basics at home.

We have a black underground economy.  We have our own currency.  They destroy anything they find having to do with our means of buying and selling.  But we just start up a printing shop somewhere else and issue new bills, dated when they were made.  Old ones lose value quickly.  There is a lot of barter where it makes sense.

We know we will probably not be able to keep this up forever.

Forever.  We know who we are waiting for and we see the signs.  Against all odds, the Temple Mount in Jerusalem is in the the hands of the Israelis.  They made a new temple and started the sacrifices again.  There is no peace there.  A strange malignant figure is being spoken of.

Even so, come Lord Jesus.

December of the year 2030.

Lucky Socks As A Sort Of Metaphor

 Apparently anything, even a superstition, can be made into a product and sold.

Grab Your Lucky Socks; We’re Talking Fan Superstitions and the Psychology Behind Them   

🧦

That is just one example from all of the material available about how people use magical thinking about sports.  Most of the material I read was from the fan's point of view.  I was under the impression that it was the players that had the lucky socks to help them win.  My theory is that it began with players and continues for fans.

🏀

To broaden the idea a little, I was thinking of a little joke I have about the things I do.  I like to have the dishes washed and everything in the room where I paint just so, before I can settle down and put my mind to the paint.

It's the same with writing.  I call it wearing my lucky socks to approach it the same each time.  It's calming I guess.  It's also a little, um, something else, maybe.

Seems like there are two main ways lucky socks could work.

One, it's a flat out superstition.  Sympathetic magic.  If I had blue socks on the night my team won, and I wear blue socks each time there is a game, well then, they will win again.  Rules of magic, it is.  As anyone knows more than I do, there are many superstitions of the same kind.  

Two, it's just the restfulness of habit.  If I feel comfortable in my 'blue socks' I might just do a better job of whatever.  I guess it could just be an outward and visible sign of a centered and ready state.

It's Not Real Until The Paint Dries

Mostly an Open Thread

In all my years laying down paint on a surface, I noticed a funny thing.  No painting has authority and solidity to me until it has dried and I can run my hands over it.  All the fuss is over and it has become a thing of its own.  All my volition is over then.  Of course, when I work on one with many layers of paint this happens over and over.

I have to sit with it then, and decide what's next.  I have been looking at this golden sea/sky thing for quite a while.  It's new to me to take time with a painting and let it develop organically over time.  I am getting close to being done with it.  

Just like with writing now'days, I am getting a little bit better at hitting what I am shooting at.  That's a nice feeling.

We wore our paint smears like a badge of honor.

The University of Washington in 1968/69

1969 bombing of UW building remains an unsolved mystery 

https://magazine.washington.edu/1969-bombing-of-uw-building-remains-an-unsolved-mystery/

 All I know for sure is that I didn't do it!  There was always crazy stuff going on that year. People thought they were changing the whole world.

I was actually opposed to the destruction and the sit-ins, of which there were several.  Racial outrage seemed to the flavor of the day.

May 20, 1968: The UW Black Student Union Sit-In

https://radsearem.wordpress.com/2010/05/20/may-20-1968-the-uw-black-student-union-sit-in-2/

Though I didn't give it a thought at the time, it was a wild time.

So, anyhow this is the front door of the School of Art and History

1969 was the year the students took over KUOW, calling themselves the Pinky Hippo. lol.  Very important business!

Personally, to say the least, I was not political.  I truly did wear my painty clothes with pride.  It was a mark of special enlightenment, and retreat, in a sense.  We cared naught for the trappings of the Greeks, or the exigencies of the politically fraught.  More or less.  Some did.  There was this stoned guy who said "smash the state" in place of other speech.  He didn't seem to think beyond that.

I was just talking with the GS, 25 years old, about the realities on the ground that academic year at the Uof Dub.  He couldn't believe we did some of the stuff we did and got away with it.  Harmless mostly, but what girl student would attend a university now in overalls with nothing underneath?  I hasten to add also, that this was not done by me.  It was Samantha.  I wonder how her life has gone.

One day my father came to school, to look me up.  He found me wearing a pair of his jeans with holes in them and nothing under and a t-shirt of his in the same condition.  Then, down at the end of a hall, written in two foot tall letters, someone had painted "Priscilla will tell you!" on the wall.  Oh dear.  He was not a happy father.  He was not so distressed about my partial exposure as my lack of respect for the institution. Oh father. He never was allowed to finish high school, let alone college..and he should have been packed off to M.I.T.

There was a coffee shop in the basement, Parnassus, operated by students.  I had a round table there peopled by a group of students who met there every day before classes or whenever.  We didn't have blogs then, did we?  Now that I think about it, it does sort of ring a bell.  My round table scattered when I got involved with a boy, but that is another story.

In my opinion, not much of the art produced was particularly clever or good.  It was student work.  Student work is the bane of life.  Also in my opinion, I didn't do much better that year.  I really don't have anything left from back then.  I was given to very large very splashy stuff.  It's what we did then.  That's where the smears and dabs of paint came from.  Maybe there was an element of theater involved!  Can you imagine students involved in theater?

Much has changed.  I was looking at online pages from the U.  Every one of them mentioned "diversity" and gave a place to register "areas of concern".  Oh please!  What will happen if they get a real area of concern, like possibly a life threatening one?  At least back then, it was a real war, and some real racial complaints.

I remain hopeful.  I think that most people rise to the occasion, if they have to.

Yours Truly, a rare image of that time.

Just A Thought About Something I haven't Heard Mentioned

 Un-Messiah?

Since I started watching world affairs sometime in the 70s, I have been aware, of course, that a world leader would arise and appear to solve all mankind's problems, before the final solving of all prophetic puzzles and the return of the Creator's Anointed Messiah.  I wondered how we would know him.  

   I also knew that the earth's problems were financial to a large extent.  The US owes more than it will ever be able to pay off.  So do other countries.  

   In addition, there are crazy disabling poverty and lunatic wealth existing at the same time and on the same planet.  None of it makes a lot of sense.

   I always figured that when some colossal world leader showed up who fixed all of that, I would know him as the anti-Christ, so to speak.  Trump worried me a bit at first.  He was too good, too slick.  But then, the invisible cabal cut him off also.  So he was just a guy who actually tried to do a good job as president!

The Dis-Peopling of the Planet?

Lately I have been just trying to understand why the unholy powers want to kill us.  They obviously do, but why?  From their point of view what kind of sense does it make?

   Is it because they just enjoy it in a "Bwahahahah!" kind of way.  They's just evil?

   Is it a massive sacrifice to the "god" of this world?  Could be.....very well could be.  They are that rotten...stinky bad people.

   Is it purely irrational?  If you have ever read C.S. Lewis' That Hideous Strength, you would have seen an irrational desire to destroy portrayed.  He also showed a kind of pointless ugliness that is characteristic of evil.  Maybe it's like that.

Or..could this depopulation plan have something to do with a way to solve the whole earth debt problem, to restructure everything.  Could it be a way to get rid of all us trouble-making people living our own lives as we wish, more or less?  A way to finally have power over all of the remaining elites and a few necessary worker serfs of the compliant variety?

   It's a crazy idea.  But, they seem to be crazy people.  I mean really, more worker bees means more tax money, right?  Why give up all that tax money.

   They seem to believe that the planet and the people are theirs to use as they see fit.  They will lie like crazy to get people to believe that all of this stuff is for the benefit of the common man.

You'll have to tell me if this makes sense to you readers.  It made more sense to me before I tried to write it down.  Perhaps I will clarify it in my mind over night.

One Windy Night

A sort of weather report

   As everyone on earth knows by now, in around 1980 we bought a little cabin on leased land up on Tulalip Bay, on the Tulalip Indian Reservation, outside of Marysville, WA. The photo is of our lot, after the tribe removed the cabin and shop. That is a long story and irrelevant.  As you can see, it is covered with very large Douglas Firs.  Some of them were very large indeed.

   There were tremendous wind storms up there sometimes.  We really noticed them because under all those trees, wind caused a lot of noise.  We were always losing power because the power lines out from town were not very robust, there were trees all down the road and the wind knocked all kinds of junk and branches down on the wires. Whole trees fell and knocked out the lines too.  A few years later they cleared the trees away from the lines, so outages were less frequent at the end of our time there.

   One outage lasted ten days. It was Thanksgiving week.  That was fun.  Fortunately, we had a wood stove.  Ahem.

   There were some wild storms.  There would be big logs washing around loose on the beach, etc. There was always a lot of damage in the neighborhood.  As volunteer firefighters, we were kept busy with calls sometimes during those storms.

One night I was home alone and the wind started whistling around.  I don't remember now where everyone else was, but I was glad that they were safer than I was.  The cabin was a lightweight structure that had been someone's summer place in the 50s.  The Bird had built a bathroom onto the main structure and a shop in back of the house.  A huge Fir stood between the bathroom and the shop.

It's roots reached under the house and under the shop.

   So the wind began to blow.  Then it began to really roar. Night was coming.  It was getting dark.  I had a fire in the little Waterford stove, so I wasn't cold.  But then the power went out.  OK. That was alright.

   Then the wind began to sound like a locomotive overhead.  It was a fantastic amount of noise!  I could hear the summer's crop of dead branches and fir cones hitting the roof.  It was black, dark as tar in the house.  I went to the door, opened it and looked out just to see the storm and hear it directly.  Blackness everywhere, except a few neighbors who had lanterns or candles in their windows.  None of them were very close, so the impression of blackness was not diminished much.  It was raining hard!  I got a face full of water quickly.

   The sky was just a bit lighter. Dark grey and black and loud wind howling.  My outdoor cats were laying low wherever they did at such times.  I didn't have Layla the wolf yet, so I was alone there, truly.

   What to do?  I didn't have the car.  I couldn't leave.  Oh I could have walked, but going out with all that stuff falling out of the trees would have been foolish and I didn't relish walking far enough to get to my friend's house up on the next hillside. The same type of trees lined all the roads.

   I could feel the floor flexing because of the wind moving that big tree next to the house that had its roots underneath.  That's quite a feeling.

   There really wasn't anything to do but wait out the storm and hope nothing fell through the roof, or any of those trees actually toppled.  Some of the trees on the block had done that before!

    So I said "you got me now Lord", and went to bed.  I did sleep.

   In the morning the sun was shining.  The house was in one piece. The cats were fine.  Life went on.  The storm receded into memory.

That was my storm.  It was a rather broad lesson.  Here in town, I never give the wind a thought, though if it hits just right it vibrates the plastic downspouts and that makes an interesting tone to listen to.

Who Goes There

A couple of questions.

I have never seen your face,

who rules here?

Has it always been the same old spirit?

Is there truly nothing new under the sun,

after all these years,

rolling and rolling,

and consuming?

"How did you get in?"

Is each human heart a portal?

No wonder a birth is required.

No wonder a Death was required.

Is every human story played out somewhere on the outskirts,

of this one?

The One Story.

 

Secret, Don't Tell

 A Book Report Of Sorts

Sometime deep into the 1970s I ran into Carla Emery's Encyclopedia of Country Living.  It fit right in with what everyone was trying to do back then.  We were trying to more or less, become as independent as possible.  Gardening was such a thing.  Keeping animals, and just generally trying to relearn everything our parent's generation had left behind them.  Her book is quite a tome.  You can still get it.  It may be on its 10th edition now.

I had a very early one, but not the first handmade edition.  She took subscriptions for the book and then actually, laboriously and determinedly, put it together from home printed pages.  She was late, life made it late, but she finally sent out the finished copies.  That was Carla.  She is gone now, but her books go on.  But, this report is not really about that book.  I just wanted to give a thumbnail sketch of who she was. Her ranch, with her Mormon husband, and her kids, was in Idaho.  She was not a Mormon.

Here is a user review I collected from Google Books:                                                 I got Carla Emory's book as a wedding present in 1977. Someday I will get it rebound, as the binding is split and its multi-colored pages are tied together with string. As a young wife in the wilds of British Columbia, with great ambitions of doing everything the "old-time way", this book was my constant guide. Every topic imaginable was covered, with clear instructions, written with such practical sense and warm humor. I would often just sit and read the book, chuckling over Carla's anecdotes, frank admissions of discouragement, and courageous triumphs. This is an indispensable book for anyone who is determined to be more self-sufficient. I am glad to see this published in a new volume, and renamed as an encyclopedia, which it really is.

When I got my own book, it seemed that my sister had overpaid by less than a dollar. I received a letter from Carla Emory, asking how I wanted to be reimbursed. I told her to "keep the change", and have kept that note in the book ever since.

¿?¿

 

This report is actually about Carla's second book, SECRET,DON'T TELL, The Encyclopedia of Hypnotism

Turns out that there is a source for it, from the publisher, her surviving husband. But no one else has it.  No publisher would touch it.  So they formed their own publishing company and did it themselves.   Acorn Hill Publishing

A note from Carla:

This Book Is For You

https://www.secretdonttell.com/shop/

Thank you for choosing to spend time with this book. I send my love and all I've learned. May every sleeper hear this call to wake and tear the wall of silence down!

Yes, you! It is not just hypnotic subjects who sleep. Ignorance and apathy have lulled so many into somnolence. So this book is for general readers who want to be well informed. Knowing real facts abut hypnosis will help you make wiser choices. It is also for those courageous individuals who are trained in hypnosis and who believe truth and justice are more important than professional solidarity, lobbying postures, income protection - even personal safety. And it is for legal specialists who may some day use this information in court to fight for justice.

Especially, this book is for all survivors of abusive hypnosis: past, present, and future. May every sleeper who yearns to wake and struggle toward freedom of mind find the courage to seek help in that waking and the blessing of achieving it.

https://www.secretdonttell.com/research/

There is a whole big website that goes into her research etc etc. Lots about the culprits.

§§§

(Oh, here is the whole book online, researched by LoneStar Neanderthal.)

https://sites.google.com/site/mcrais/emery

🕮🕮🕮

One night in 1989 I dreamed I reached out and grabbed a hair from the tail of a running, disappearing donkey as it melted back into a tangled, dense, dark, convoluted forest. I managed to grab only one hair of the tail before it was gone. As in that dream, again and again, I have captured another single strand of this long, complex, and tragic tale, the history and technology of unethical hypnosis. Working with each single hair, I have struggled to create the form and essence of the original donkey.

It is hard to explain a subject so complicated, unfamiliar, and controversial. I wrote this book out of a fierce desire to restore and defend true facts about mind-control technologies. This is the only book, or even article, in this field ever written by a subject. Up to now, only hypnotists, psychologists, psychiatrists, journalists, and historians wrote of these things – with rare quotes from clients, patients, or subjects. There is a big difference between how they view this data and how a subject does.

By quoting from many sources (often rare and difficult-to-find), I have tried to provide in this book an honest print dialogue on the previously stifled topic of mind-control technologies. Here, the good-guy hypnotists are heard warning of potential misuses of hypnosis. The mind-controllers talk to one another in assumed privacy, as in CIA memos. And voices of the mind-controlled cry out – wounded, confused, angry, pleading for help.

***

Please do check out the table of contents.  It is Exhaustive!  

https://www.secretdonttell.com/contents-at-a-glance/table-of-contents/

***

So what is so interesting about this subject?  Well, I was a child in the 50s. It was a time when people pretty much trusted doctors and authorities.  At least my very young parents did.  There are some odd tags of memory that just barely tint my conscious mind.  I have questions that will never be answered.  Only God knows.

In addition, here is an older video on mind control, by various methods.  

Along with Carla, and others, I find it outrageous what has been done to people.  Our minds have been tampered with from many directions.  One wishes to be free.  Indeed one wishes to be free of alien thoughts, commercial compulsions, the evil infusions of shadowy powers, both human and not. 

I, for one, implore the Almighty Father to clear out the rubble that lies between us! And I ask in the Name of His Ineffable Son.

BTW, Carla died in 2005 of complications of pneumonia while on tour they say.  I was always a little suspicious.  Not sure why.  Just a feeling.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Carla_Emery

They're Really All Open Threads

 But this one might be really really open.  I just can't settle on which color of egg to produce.

I better not wait too long though.

!!!

I am gestating a couple of stories, but tonight is not the night.

Maybe a better egg will appear in the morning!

Well OK, then, here is a nice rendering by that guy who did Tintin in the PNW.