Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Listen to the Hummingbird


was originally THIS:

There's a story here waiting to be told...

Listen to the hummingbird

Whose wings you cannot see

Listen to the hummingbird

Don’t listen to me.

Listen to the butterfly

Whose days but number three

Listen to the butterfly

Don’t listen to me.

Listen to the mind of God

Which doesn’t need to be

Listen to the mind of God

Don’t listen to me.

( Leonard Cohen )

Wednesday, November 30, 2016

A Thousand Kisses Deep

For many women, Leonard Cohen represents the perfect imaginary lover.
Multiply those thousand kisses by the 4,000 women he boasted of having over the course of his life. And think about what that does to a man, just for a moment -- not to mention the damage to the women.

I don't always appreciate the worshipful way people talk about him. It's disorienting for people who knew him, as the real, screwed up guy he was -- in fact, without his screwed-up-ness he would have been totally boring. He did not present himself in a superior light to those he met, in fact he preferred to come across as a hunchback or leper -- that was his style, his charm, his peculiar calling in life. He treated people as equals. Except secretly of course, he must have wanted to be worshipped because at the end of his life he had millions of fans around the world speaking of him in breathless superlatives. On the surface, he was well spoken and polite, like some incarnated Buddha radiating holy wisdom with every thought, word and deed. He worked his way into our souls, through a lifetime of misery.
painting by David Wilson
People simply can't fathom his catastrophic negativity, that some could sense from a distance. His criminal mind, disguised in a suit, speaking in rhymes like a page from some Victorian tome. How, for years, almost nobody in his home town liked him, and most avoided him like a rare disease carrier. And how, to this day, although people miss him, many are probably as relieved as I am that he's gone. My relief, on hearing the news, outweighed the shock. I couldn't squeeze out a single tear. I felt his life had been strange and tragic, his success covering up real dismal failure. I felt glad that he no longer had to contain all the contradictions that had dogged him and that in vanishing had finally gone home, to be with the Roshi, and become One. Now we will experience him only through his songs, which will play on -- without needing wonder where those tortured notes originated. His extreme emotions which he hid carefully -- anger, self-hatred, pride, despair -- also are gone with the wind. I'm grateful to have known him, but mostly he was a load of trouble that constantly needed sorting out. He was a puzzle to men and a scourge to women, and lived to disappoint the people he struggled to love. Now he's finally at peace, in the ground where he can't torment us with his never-ending guilt and unspeakable secrets. The truth about him would freeze your heart, or maybe save your life. It's the truth we should be focusing on, not the fairy tale. I'm just glad I no longer have to witness him dying over decades, failing to answer his koan, giving those endless repetitive interviews of elegant profundity as his inner world shrank. He has gone to meet his Maker, or his Mom, in a place that is not heaven. It's probably some workhouse where they'll put him to work repairing broken toys or sewing up souls whose hearts he ripped out while alive. I'm sure he'll be fully employed, laboring among the demons who encouraged and controlled him from the Other Side. If a mythology must be built, let's make it an adult blend of dark and light -- not the Disney version. All this does not prevent me from feeling a kind of love for him in his absence. That's how old I've gotten. He was probably the most ravaged soul I have encountered in this world, and I suspect it's not the last time. But for now I'll just say goodbye, Leonard. Thanks for letting me get that close. I hope you're finally free of that murdering cabal.

And for the trolls who keep spamming the Comments:

* He lied often, e.g. in order to manage situations that he had created. He used his loyal followers to help him manage his complicated affairs. When confronted with his own lies, he was brilliant and elusive.

* He turned his nannies and other women into accomplices in his sometimes unconscionable, secretive behaviour – .

* He was a drug addict and alcoholic – he used drugs and booze to mask his depression. How much of his depression was really guilt caused by having to live with the consequences of his own actions, whether he remembered them clearly or not?

* He lied about Kelley Lynch whom he accused of stealing his money. This has never been proved in a court of law.
* He lied to the Roshi about his real reasons for going to India in 2000. They had nothing to do with 'spiritual enlightenment.'

* While adopting an image as a peaceful, impeccably kind and reasonable sage, he absolutely believed in violence. He owned guns and was trained in using them. How does that align with his public image?

* He had a number of apparently separate personalities – with different goals, different relationships, and secret histories. The likely cause of his dissociative behaviour is the documented fact that he was a victim of CIA mind control at one of the leading institutions where this program was created. He was probably a Manchurian Candidate since he went on missions to Cuba, Greece, and Ethiopia. He hid these facts about his early career while sometimes mentioning them in his writing, private conversations etc.

* He was skilled at psychological warfare techniques including ‘gaslighting’ – which he used on many people including myself, for years. He also understood the uses of gossip and 'fake news', particularly to discredit people he was close to. He both created chaos around him and meticulously managed it.

I'll be exploring these topics further in the second edition of THE MAN NEXT DOOR. Coming soon.

Tuesday, November 15, 2016

All Good Things

Adam Cohen's message on the death of his father, Leonard

November 12 at 10:44pm

· My sister and I just buried my father in Montreal. With only immediate family and a few lifelong friends present, he was lowered into the ground in an unadorned pine box, next to his mother and father. Exactly as he’d asked. As I write this I’m thinking of my father’s unique blend of self-deprecation and dignity, his approachable elegance, his charisma without audacity, his old-world gentlemanliness and the hand-forged tower of his work. There’s so much I wish I could thank him for, just one last time. I’d thank him for the comfort he always provided, for the wisdom he dispensed, for the marathon conversations, for his dazzling wit and humor. I’d thank him for giving me, and teaching me to love Montreal and Greece. And I’d thank him for music; first for his music which seduced me as a boy, then for his encouragement of my own music, and finally for the privilege of being able to make music with him. Thank you for your kind messages, for the outpouring of sympathy and for your love of my father.

Message from the blogger known as Ann Diamond

Although I knew it had to happen someday, I wasn't prepared to hear the news last Thursday night, as I sat reading about Donald Trump's victory in the US elections. First it arrived as a text from a friend but I didn't believe it. A minute later another text arrived, and another, and then there were links to Leonard's Facebook site and Rolling Stone. That's when I started thinking it might not be a hoax after all. Finally, CBC's Peter Mansbridge made the announcement and nothing could be more final for a Canadian. In my shock I received an email Inviting me to talk about him early the following morning on CTV Toronto. I was grateful for the chance to say goodbye. Over the next 24 hours, I got two more requests to talk about Leonard from the perspective of someone who had known him.

I knew parts of him. Death seemed to unify the parts and bring them closer. It was like being back at Zero, where birth and death are one. Or like the shock of our first meeting.

Later I learned he had died on Monday, November 7. I need to check my journal but I believe we met on that day, 39 years ago, 11/7/1977. If accurate, that would be eerie. Thirty-nine is three times thirteen, the number of years I lived next door to him. When I was 39, he took my photo and said "Now you look very much like yourself." That was 26 years ago, or 2 x 13. And I was 26 when I met him so that's lots of thirteens.

In fact I owe my life to Leonard Cohen. That is a fact he never mentioned, as it would have been too traumatic, but it ran in the background of our friendship even through the years when we were no longer on speaking terms. Like many things that are true, it can probably never be proven, but it seems appropriate to mention it here.

That plus the fact that I will miss him, although these days he's hard to miss, being everywhere. He was like no one else, and now that he's gone, there is even less chance that he can be replaced. Let alone captured.

So now we can go on missing him, forever.


I've been shooting phone videos of the crowd at Leonard's house opposite the park. I used to live around the corner, for 13 years, so it seemed like the normal thing to do. It was my old neighbourhood too.

On Wednesday I ended up at the fresh grave on Mount Royal -- I hadnt intended to go there but all my appointments were mysteriously cancelled and I had nothing better to do than climb to the cemetery, a half hour walk in mist and drizzle. At the grave site, three people were standing looking down at a fresh patch of sod, two plastic-wrapped bunches of wilting flowers and a drooping white rose -- forbidden in Judaism and probably left there the day before by unsuspecting Catholics. The three visitors all spoke French. One said "This empty space is really in the image of Leonard."

Someone had pinned a poem to the sod with a rock, in what looked like Leonard's handwriting, describing a wonderful conversation they had and how he 'understood'. There were about two dozen small rocks on the headstone, which was blank, not yet inscribed with his name. I said I had known him personally. The taller man left, and the remaining couple started taking photos of each other beside the modest plot. They offered to take mine. I forgot to look sad -- in fact I look deliriously happy -- this is how farewells affect me. After the couple left I hung around in the fog for about an hour. Leonard's barely noticeable grave directly faces another belonging to someone named "FRAID." I sat on the base of FRAID's tombstone but couldn't think of much to say except "Sorry."

I can't understand why there was no actual funeral. When his friends Pierre Trudeau and Irving Layton died, Leonard became pallbearer. I think people were expecting a procession or motorcade, and a huge crowd at Paperman's funeral home. Instead, nothing happened. They say he wanted it that way. He died suddenly in his sleep after a fall before dawn on Tuesday morning (of the election). They shipped the body to Montreal. There was a report that he was already buried before his death was announced on Thursday evening, but his son Adam issued a statement the following Saturday in which he said they had just come from the cemetery. The Globe and Mail wrote that only 15 close friends and relatives attended.

If this all sounds a bit strange, it's because it is.

In lieu of any public ceremony or state funeral, Leonard's house has become an outdoor shrine with hundreds of flowers and candles filling the sidewalk opposite the little park where there was an impromptu concert last Saturday.

Death is not what it used to be. Death is exactly like birth and triggers a simultaneous expansion and contraction that erases conscious thought. We are back at the moment before anything has begun to be spoiled.

Followers of the way, don't be fooled. As Leonard once said, "Nothing is always happening."

Goodbyes are only for those who love with their eyes. Because for those who love with heart and soul there is no such thing as separation.

~ Rumi

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

John is Alive, Magic is Afoot

As we all know, Beatle John Lennon was shot in December 1980, at the entrance to the Dakota Apartments in Manhattan. So the man in the above photo, taken in 2008, cannot possibly be John Lennon. Can he? Officially, the Lennon lookalike is said to be a professional impersonator, Mark Staycer, of Travers City, Michigan. Above we see him performing on the set of Let Him Be -- a low budget Canadian mockumentary that went nowhere when it was released, back in 2009.

You can watch the full movie here, and I recommend you do. It opens awkwardly with a scene narrated by Tim Bennett, a young documentary filmmaker who just happens to stumble on a home video that his dad bought at a garage sale somewhere. The video was shot at a house party somewhere in rural Ontario, and features a short segment of a guitar-playing guest who -- to Tim's astonishment -- is a dead ringer for the late John Lennon. Of course, he has aged about twenty-five years since the last time we saw him, back in 1980 prior to getting shot.

If you can get past this opening premise -- or blatant narrative device -- Let Him Be is a watchable little movie that starts out as a quest to track down the lookalike glimpsed in the video. In fact, I'm surprised it seems to have been taken out of circulation soon after it premiered in Hamilton, Ontario and later at a film festival in Vancouver. Oh, and it also played in Liverpool, England - birthplace of John Lennon. Very little was written about it at the time, although the few reviews I've found were positive. Peter McNamee, the first-time director, set up a Facebook page for it, but otherwise seems to have done almost no promotion or distribution. And then wham, it disappeared.

Under normal circumstances, a film like this would have got more mileage, especially as books and movies about John Lennon's life and death tend to do quite well. Let Him Be had all the makings of low-key Canadian success. So why was it pulled from distribution before anyone got to see it, and not even available on YouTube until recently?

I got interested in the possibility that Lennon was still alive back in 2014 when someone alerted me to an article by the brilliant researcher and writer Miles Mathis. You can download it here and read all about how Mathis, with typical zeal and sarcastic flair, decoded the forensics and arrived at the conclusion that Lennon had faked his death, mostly based on his investigation of Mark Staycer, a Lennon impersonator, who plays "Noel Snow" in the movie. Snow, we are led to believe, has been hiding out on a rundown farm with his buddy Stanley Fields, played by the late Graham Wignall. In a memorable pub conversation, Stanley lists all the reasons Noel Snow cannot be John Lennon. Of course this only persuades young Tim that he is closing in on the fugitive rock star -- who only wants to be left alone to impersonate himself in peace.

The last thing Noel Snow needs is exposure -- if he's really John Lennon, that is. The film teases the audience with brief glimpses, culminating in another performance where Noel plays songs that really sound like Lennon could have written them. Mark Staycer just happens to look and sound like you might expect a 67-year-old Lennon to sound and look. What right does the nosy filmmaker have to reveal Noel's whereabouts, thus alerting the Powers That Be who may want Lennon to stay dead?

Let It Be plays with these possibilities, never really showing enough of Staycer to answer the obvious question: is this really John Lennon playing himself playing an impersonator? Seems like the kind of story only Lennon himself could have come up with. And obviously some people take this quite seriously.

Having watched it all the way through just once, so do I. Here is a list of all the reasons Let Him Be does not make sense as what it claims to be -- a quirky fiction. Like Miles Mathis, I think it was made by an undead John Lennon to send a message to his fans and play them his new songs. Several things about its pre-and post-production history are suspicious.

(1) If it's just whimsical fan fiction, why include the very serious assertion that Mark Chapman could not have shot Lennon, only to drop it, without either proving or disproving it?

(2) Why did it receive so little publicity when it came out? Although not a great film, its subject matter made it a likely candidate for interviews and journalistic articles, yet very little was written about it at the time, and almost no reviews.

(3) Why was it pulled from theatres and festivals soon after its release, even disappearing from the internet?

(4) Why do the professional actors involved not include it on their IMDb pages?

(5) How did the director Peter McNamee and lead actor Graham Wignall think up the concept that John Lennon was still alive, based on the 'conspiracy theory" (shown in the film) that Chapman was not the real shooter? That's quite a leap, when you think about it -- and raises questions like "So who really killed Lennon?" that never get answered. In writing and marketing such a far-fetched scenario you would need to present some rationale. Unless you just happen to KNOW Lennon is alive, because you are part of a network of cronies going back to Liverpool -- and you were handed this story on a platter, with instructions to go ahead and shoot it.

(6) What made the neophyte director choose this small town Ontario locale when he is from Liverpool, and practically grew up with the Beatles and Lennon.You would think if two Liverpudlians were making a fiction film about Lennon, their first thought would be to set the action back in their birthplace. "Write what you know."

(7) If Peter McNamee had no previous track record as a filmmaker, and Graham Wignall had never acted before, how did this project get Telefilm funding? Telefilm only works with established director/producers.

Everything seems to point to John Lennon having played a role in initiating this project. No easy feat to pull off from beyond the grave.

Tuesday, September 6, 2016

Saint George and the Dragon

I just dropped into Live Journal yesterday, in search of the journal of a friend who died last week. I wanted to find out what my departed friend shared with his online community over the years. I found this entry -- it's about me, dated a year ago.

Ann is sleeping on the carpet of the meditation room. Before going to sleep tonight she insisted that she was going to sleep on the balcony again. It was because she claimed the air in my apartment was stagnant and suffocating. I told her that all the windows were wide-open and you can't get more air in here unless we move outside. Anyway she said she needed to breath fresh air all the time or she would die. So Ann set up the cot on the balcony. However there was rain during the night and she got wet and now she has decided that suffocating is better than being cold and wet.

Yesterday was our first full day together. First in the morning Ann decided I needed to more air in my apartment. I am okay with the air circulation here as it is, certainly the air circulation is superior to the situation I endured in the basement, but having screens on the windows impedes the flow of air. I know that already and I accept that the screens block the breezes but I prefer the air being hotter in exchange for keeping out with local flying insects. But Ann is accustomed to living the free life in Greece and she wants to continue living the free life here.

So Ann has taken to opening the kitchen door and leaving it open to catch any passing breezes. She doesn't mind flies buzzing in and not finding their way out. I object to sharing my apartment with flies so I keep the kitchen door shut, and I pursue an aggressive no-fly zone indoors. Ann claims that in Greece she can snatch the flies out of the air in mid-flight and release them safely outdoors. I am not so adept. Also, because I am a nudist and because my kitchen faces a busy bus stop and because the open kitchen door allows anyone waiting for their bus to see into the kitchen and because I want avoid being arrested for indecent exposure and because in consequence I have to wear clothes when I go into the kitchen when the door is open and because this is my apartment and because Ann is the guest, I feel Ann is imposing on me even though I am providing her with a free bed and free food and free beer and free wi-fi. You can imagine that I feel annoyed with her. And yesterday was the first day of a visit of unknown duration.

Patrick died a few days ago on August 31. We were friends for about 45 years. If he's reading this, maybe he already knows what I am about to say, even if I don't.

When my brother died in October, 2012, Patrick came to the gathering for him but stayed outside in the street for most of it. He was a very private and shy person, with a deep sense of irony and humour. He was also a great listener who spent hours just letting me talk about my problems when few others would.

As for the air in his apartment, and the question of flies, and the life of a solitary nudist living on the third floor of a building overlooking a train station and bus terminal -- it was often noisy on the balcony, but I had the best sleeps of my life during that week plus a view of the moon and stars, rare in Montreal --

I remember opening the balcony door and failing to close it, and that once a fly flew in, and Patrick became very upset. He said that people across the street could see into his place, although they couldn't -- the kitchen door was behind a large maple tree blocking anyone's view of the kitchen, and even a person standing on the balcony was basically invisible to passersby or peeping toms -- therefore I didn't fully grasp Patrick's fear of exposure and arrest for being nude in his own apartment, especially as every window was sealed and covered with opaque paper, blocking any view either in or out. And even then, his nearest neighbours were across the street, well out of peeping range --

I had just come back from Greece and was concerned about Patrick, that he so rarely went out, and that he seemed to be living in seclusion. The only phone calls he ever received were around suppertime, from telemarketers. He sat for hours at his computer -- I remember that rainy night when I slept on the carpet in the living room. Several times a night, from the next room, he would shout in his sleep: "No! Don't!" I asked him why did did that, nearly every night, often waking me from a deep sleep. He said it was Nothing. He said it was Entities. He didn't know what it was that was attacking him .It got too cool to sleep outside. Then I found work and left him alone for about a month.

I was concerned because opening a kitchen door on a hot August day did not seem like such a serious infraction to me -- and the fly also left of its own accord, leaving no trace of itself, bothering no one. I remember cooking Greek food and bringing wine for dinner, and conversations -- I had not seen Patrick in several months and there were always things to talk about. He made the best dahl, which he ate every day, so my cooking had to be a novelty. After he complained (bitterly, repeatedly) about the fly, I got a bit worried. I remember going out with a friend who knew P├Ątrick and describing these strange dynamics to him to make sure I wasnt crazy. Patrick was alone, most of the time, for those last years of his life and my being there for a few days, with all its annoyances and unwanted air-circulation, seemed like the best thing I could offer him. He needed company. Alone, he became depressed and somewhat obsessive. His behaviour in the kitchen, when I cooked, was sometimes unnerving -- he would seize things from my hands, e.g. a pot or a wooden spoon, as if he couldn't bear anyone handling his things.

In return for my being there, I bought him a new frying pan, a hand mixer, a coffee thermos, and a few other things that he said he appreciated. The last time, I brought him an espresso maker. He liked espresso in the morning. And rhubarb scones. And Spanakopita.

Now he's gone, and I can't quite believe it yet. I keep expecting him to message me on Facebook. I keep waiting for his next sardonic remark -- and in a few days I'll be arriving in Montreal to get a few things I left behind at his place. I was expecting to see him in September --

People, don't let your friends spend too much time alone. It can ruin and distort a life, and a friendship. Remember the good stuff, along with the irritating stuff -- the ways friends can challenge and bring out the best in one another.

And never stop loving them. Friends are so precious.

Sunday, July 17, 2016

A Failed Sex Slave

Not long ago I did this podcast interview with Jasun Horsley of "Liminalist" fame. We were sitting in his kitchen, talking face to face. We were talking about our "alters" : subconscious personalities, or fragments of ourselves, that we think may have been programmed into us as children. Jasun spoke of his "sociopath" alter, which had surfaced in a dream that same week, and asked if I felt I had any experience with alters. I talked about the fact that as a child, I had conscious memories (although at the time they appeared to be complex fantasies) of being sexually tortured with hundreds of other children in an underground facility. The torturers were dressed as witches, and used electric cattle prods on the children who were immobilized on a conveyor belt. This same bizarre scenario, which I tried (at age 4 or 5) to describe to my mother, turned up nearly 50 years later in accounts I found online by MKULTRA survivors. The details were too similar to overlook: scientists dressed as "witches and clowns" ... children strapped to a conveyor belt in an underground facility, which some suggest was at China Lake military base in California, in the 1950s. Here is the interview with Jasun Horsley, from last April. Part of me thinks I only scratched the surface.

We know -- or at least some of us know -- that children are being "sexualized" early on. We haven't been told that this programming has been going on for decades, and was something the scientists who ran the MKULTRA program were interested in. The purpose: fragmenting the human personality in early childhood to create alters -- unconscious parts -- that can be programmed in useful ways. For girls: prostitution was always a primary option. We're seeing the results of this in fashion and media.

As for me, I didn't end up acting on my programming -- as far as I know. But I believe it's in there, somewhere, and has influenced my life at times. It's a subject too strange and personal, maybe, to delve into here. But I hope to, elsewhere.

Meanwhile, I notice there are TED TALKS on "transgenderism" but none on MKULTRA. That's something that needs to be addressed. It is now okay, in fact fashionable, to come out as a transgendered person. But it remains taboo to talk about secret experiments on children that happened right here, in our lifetime, that continue to change our world in mainly unconscious ways.

Friday, June 3, 2016

Lucifer's Return

I met the man in this mug shot twice in Montreal in the summer of 1969 or 1970 on a downtown street where he sometimes stood in a black cape, hawking copies of the glossy Process Church magazine, with its feature article on the recently arrested serial killer Charles Manson. In fact, both times I saw John Roland Stahl that summer, I stopped to chat. I was 18 or 19, he was 22 or 23 — flamboyant, androgynous, charming, handsome, articulate — as he spoke of the unity of God and the Devil. I had the sense he was recruiting young people who stopped to talk to him, with inspired revolutionary zeal and Luciferian appeal. In those days he had rock star looks -- his dark shoulder length hair pulled back in a pony tail, his smile wide and generous. Still, I knew to stay away from people like 'King John' which was what he called himself back then.

Recently I heard he also ran a bar called The Image, on Park Avenue, around the corner from where I lived as a student. So we were neighbours and probably knew people in common. He oozed counter-cultural refinement that set him apart, and I had a soft spot for that kind of fallen angel. Later I wondered what became of him and who he really was -- Now I know.

Among other things, he became an artisanal paper maker in Mendocino County, California, and a known sexual predator. The hippie movement had plenty of charlatans like him and he played the part with flair. In the early 2000s, he moved to southeast Asia and when arrested in 2013, he was running another hip cafe, the Cafe Noir, on the beach in Sihanoukville, known as a hangout for foreigners and a place where young local boys came to play chess. Stahl was teaching some of these kids -- many of whom lived from collecting trash at the dump -- the art of papermaking. On his blog he sometimes expounded on "intergenerational relationships" -- making no secret of his pedophilia. Eventually the authorities caught up with him and he was deported back to California in 2013 for failure to register as a sex offender. In January 2016, he was reincarcerated for violating his parole conditions and remains in prison.

Married twice and the father of two children(his second wife died of cancer), he worked with youth, spreading his ‘gospel.’ Back in the sixties in Montreal he was a draft dodger, one of hundreds who crossed into Canada so they would not have to go to Vietnam. So it makes sense, maybe, that he would end up in Cambodia where another veteran of Montreal's downtown scene, Oscar Sanchez, turned up later. Sanchez died recently of "swollen feet" and was found by police keeled over on the toilet at his rented house in Sihanoukville, a seaside town known as a magnet for men looking for child sex. In the 1990s, Sanchez had worked with youth in Vancouver's Portage program,, and friends describe in stellar terms as 'an unforgettable man' and 'a comet in my life.' A photo shows several boys seated outside a lit-up front door at Sanchez' cement residence.

I didn't know Sanchez, but I knew some of his friends, e.g. painter Stephen Lack and filmmaker Alan Moyle, who acted in the 1974 movie Montreal Main, about drugs and pedophilia. It's a lifestyle that has been introduced since the 1950s, by intelligence cults like the Process Church. The trend is obvious when you look at how the counterculture was not just infiltrated, but set up and promoted, by mainstream media including the CBC and National Film Board of Canada.

John Stahl is also hard to forget. Young boys, his victims of choice, and their clueless parents, had a way of getting lured into his charmed circle and he was seen by some as 'a great guy'. It feels eerie to find him again after all these years. He stands out in my memory like a street corner mime, or possibly an unwitting front man for something sinister that keeps expanding. The photo below, which I can't get to stand upright for some reason, appears to have been taken years ago in his cafe on the beach, with a young boy seated behind him. Viewing it on my phone, I mistook the foot resting yogically on his thigh for an erect penis. I think this is intentional: a way to insinuate sex and rise above it at the same time. So it was, back in 1969, when we flirted on Ste Catherine Street. Maybe I felt sorry for the black-cloaked elf hawking a glossy Satanic magazine that nobody wanted. That could be why I stopped to talk to him: to demonstrate my nonchalance, or sympathy for the devil. I inquired about the Baphomet symbol, combined with a cross, dangling from his neck and he delivered an inspired and enthusiastic response, suggesting I read Hermann Hesse's novel Demian to find out more about the God, Abraxas. We bantered back and forth for several minutes. I flirted with a 22 year old future child molester dressed up in a devil costume in broad daylight on a busy street corner and never saw him again. -- And here he is, 45 years older, sending emails from prison.

Wednesday, February 10, 2016

Victorians in our Midst

Reprinted from Canadian Content:

I first discovered that Margaret Atwood and George Eliot are identical twins while visiting UCLA'S William F. Clark Library, in Los Angeles. Headed by an old acquaintance from Montreal, Bruce Whiteman, who used to be curator of Rare Books at McGill University, the Clark Library houses the world's largest private collection of Oscar Wilde manuscripts. While taking me on a tour of the building, Bruce showed me a room filled with portraits of Wilde's contemporaries and predecessors, including Dryden, Pope and Milton. Dwarfed by these likenesses of male literary giants hangs a tiny pen and ink sketch of Mary Ann Evans, known to the world as George Eliot. To my astonishment, I saw that it was the face of Margaret Atwood.

I motioned Bruce over to have a look. He said, "My God -- you're right!" Apart from the hairstyle (Eliot wore her dark unruly curls in the Puritan style, pulled back from a centre part to cover her ears), the resemblance was staggering. The same wide- apart, slightly crossed eyes, the aquiline nose, the full lipped Mona Lisa smile, the cheekbones, the rounded chin... Young George Eliot was Atwood in Victorian dress.

I recalled an interview I'd read a year or two before, in which Atwood confided that the only novelist she would claim as a major influence (apart from Dickens) is George Eliot.

Could Atwood be a continuation of George Eliot who -- after death -- chose Toronto as the best environment to continue her career? Canadian poet and novelist Robert Kroetsch once pointed out that Canadian Literature went from its Victorian stage into post- modernism with no intervening period of modernism. Atwood's career is emblematic. She attended the University of Toronto's Victoria College and got her first teaching job in Montreal in 1967, teaching Victorian and American Literature. In the 70's she rose to fame as Canada's premier woman writer.

Hot on the heels of discovering that Margaret Atwood was George Eliot in a past life, I stumbled across a portrait of Eliot's friend and mentor, John Chapman, in Frederick R. Karl's biography of George Eliot, Voice of a Century.

Bearded, handsome, sexy in a patrician kind of way, Chapman ran a lodging house cum publishing operation on the Strand in central London. Chapman was editor of the Westminster Review and a dead ringer for the late Robertson Davies.

Like Davies in his varied career as a journalist, playwright, editor and university man, Chapman was known for his egotistical manner and way with the ladies. Separated by an ocean and a century, he and Robertson Davies look as much alike as Eliot and Atwood.

Chapman introduced the young Eliot to British intellectual life in the early 1850s. In Toronto during the 1980's and '90s, Davies and Atwood teamed up in public, sometimes appearing as a neo-Victorian literary duo, and even going so far as to sing a duet of "Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better" at a PEN gala in 1992.

Flipping through Karl's biography, I found an 1859 photo of Eliot's long time companion, George Henry Lewes, whose reputation as a novelist has been overshadowed by that of his famous life partner. There's no mistaking his resemblance to Graeme Gibson, Atwood's husband in this lifetime, whose most recent novel was err, ah...

Eliot and Lewes socialized with Robert Browning, and frequently dropped in at Dante Gabriel Rossetti's studio on fashionable Cheyne Walk in Chelsea. After Lewes' death, Eliot married James Walter Cross and the couple moved in to number 4 Cheyne Walk, almost next door to Rossetti -- which made them, in a way, neighbours of Henry VIII (whose 16th century manor house stood at the corner).

If, during the 1970s, Atwood and Gibson had decided to love back to their former Thames-side digs, they would have had to put up with the new kid on the block, Mick Jagger.

Jagger bears a haunting likeness to a second-millennium BC pharaoh, Amenhotep IV -- but that's another story.

parts of this work have appeared in Geist and Matrix magazines

Tuesday, February 2, 2016


A very strange year, 1969. I'm surprised I can even remember back that far, but the release of Ninth Floor - which I still haven't seen - by the NFB has triggered memories that I'm now sorting through. See, I was there when it all happened.

When the Computer Centre Crisis began with the occupation of the ninth floor of Sir George Williams University, I was 17 and also the "news editor" of the student newspaper, the georgian.

The georgian office was on the sixth floor at the south-east corner of the downtown cube some people called the "air conditioned nightmare." When I wasn't going to classes, I spent most of my time there -- a short escalator ride down from the seventh-floor cafeteria and all the action. In a way, I grew up in the georgian office, during the crisis and afterwards. I even lost my virginity there -- in more ways than one.

Of all the events I have witnessed in my life, this was one of the most traumatic. After it was over, punishment came down on all the participants. Names were blackened, lives wrecked, and some fine journalists never worked again in journalism. In the aftermath, everyone tried hard to forget and put it behind us.

The following year, drugs flooded the campus and the georgian office -- and even more memories were swept away. It was 1969, and our minds were being blown, almost daily, in overt and hidden ways.

Ninth Floor by Mina Shum, National Film Board of Canada

But seeing that Ninth Floor trailer brings it all back, and once again I'm in that classroom auditorium (room H-110) listening to the speeches and grievances of black students demanding justice. I'm with Alan Zweig, the advertising editor, taking notes. We are waiting for something to happen. We know something will. After two hours, it comes in the form of a call to occupy the Ninth Floor. From my seat in the middle row, I watch as students, mostly black, with some whites joining them, fist raised, file up the aisle and out the exit. Four hundred of them. The occupation begins. It will last for two weeks, and end in a mysterious fire and a lot of wreckage, including of the two state-of-the-art computers.

Then Alan and I go upstairs to write up the story for tomorrow's georgian. It's a cold night in late January. Tomorrow will be the beginning of a long, slow siege.

Also that February, David Bowie would begin recording Space Oddity months ahead of the Apollo 11 Moon Landing on July 20. Also that summer, Brian Jones would drown in his own swimming pool. It was the summer of Charles Manson and the Sharon Tate murders. And would be followed by the winter of the Altamont Festival and the Stones' deadly performance of Sympathy for the Devil.

1969 The year we were told everything was about to change for the worse. What we're finding out, all these years later, is that some of these "mind-blowing" events were outright hoaxes. Not one was what it seemed at the time.


One of the people 'blackened' by his involvement in the computer centre affair, and by the stand he took at the time, was the georgian's Editor-in-Chief David Bowman. Interestingly, he has the same name as the astronaut in Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, which was the inspiration for David Bowie's 1969 song.

David Bowman, a thin wiry ultra-white 23-year-old whose British accent and pale blond Afro set him apart from the rest of the georgian crew, was a clear-thinking, principled guy. As editor, he came out strongly and never wavered in his support of the black students in their demands for an investigation into charges of racism against their Biology professor.

He and other journalists at the georgian were aware that Principal John O'Brien's administration had mishandled the case, and were not being straight with the students. These suspicions came to a head in a controversial letter allegedly written by someone in the Dean's office, suggesting that the occupation could be ended by "breaking a few windows" and calling in the cops to eject the occupiers. That is, by faking a riot.

In the days leading up to the final explosion of February 11, Bowman and others, including former georgian editor Frank Brayton and some journalists from the McGill Daily, attempted to leak this damning letter which exposed the administration as planning what today we might call a 'false flag.' But before the story could get out and embarrass the Dean and the university, Bowman and Brayton were accused of having fabricated the letter as a 'hoax' -- and soon after, the 'riot' exploded.

The following day, February 12, the entire staff of the georgian were fired by the administration, with support from the student council. Dave Bowman disappeared -- I'm not sure I ever saw him again. In the summer of 1975, I ran into Frank Brayton while I was visiting Vancouver. Recognizing me after six years, he said "We all come here to lick our wounds." I don't know what became of him afterwards. Though gifted and charismatic, he always struck me as too sensitive for a profession where sociopathic personalities rise to the top.

So in mid-February 1969 I ended my short (three-month) career as News Editor of the georgian, Canada's most radical student paper at the time, or at least a close second to the McGill Daily, then headed by the team of Marc Starowicz and Mark Wilson. Actually, as I recall, I was more of a proofreader/intern, and Alan Zweig was the real news editor. He showed me the ropes, giving me taxi chits so I could travel back and forth from the printers, late at night, where he and others sometimes came to do layout. In those days, the georgian came out twice a week -- although it increased to four times a week during the height of the crisis and occupation.

I couldn't join the occupation since I was still living in the suburbs with my parents. All I saw of the riot was what everyone else saw who was standing on the street on Bishop Street that morning. Helmeted cops herded us onto the sidewalk, as computer cards rained down from the windows that, earlier, had been belching smoke from the mysterious fire that, to this day, remains a mystery. Why would occupying students set fire to their own barricade? For that matter, why would a group of them have invaded the cafeteria at 4:30 am on that fateful morning, overturning food machines and destroying furniture, as they blocked the stairwells in their ultimate takeover of several floors? Up to then, it had been a peaceful sit-in. What was the point of all that violence, while most of the 97 occupiers were upstairs sleeping?

I haven't seen Ninth Floor -- maybe it has answers to these questions. But even people who were there don't really know what happened, or who did it. How could the people on the ninth floor know what was going on down in the seventh-floor cafeteria? Or on the other side of their own barricade, for that matter? Nevertheless, all were arrested -- "white revolutionaries, Negroes, and ladies" as they were quaintly labeled -- and instantly branded as guilty criminals. "Why should we not throw the book at them?" the administration asked, with amazing confidence and self-righteousness, the very next day in the special issue evening students' newspaper. Awfully fast, when you come to think of it -- almost as if they had the presses ready to roll in the aftermath. Along with condemnation of the destruction came the blurred photos of the smashed computers, piled-up furniture and the famous lineup of arrested students with their hands up against the cinderblock wall.

On January 21, using questionable judgment, the georgian had run a front-page interview with a photo of black power leader Eldridge Cleaver, and the headline: STICK EM UP, MOTHERFUCKER - WE WANT WHAT'S OURS.

Who made that decision, I can't remember, but it certainly sent a message of cross-border escalation. This was no longer just about six students and their Biology grades at a second-rate university in a provincial city noted for mainly for its night life. Who was stoking the story, blowing it out of proportion, turning it into a race war in the making?

But now, the little details didn't matter. What mattered were the headlines. Shame, shame. The shock. The glare of international attention and condemnation. In any case, the staff of the only paper with an interest in investigating, had all been fired. We were in disgrace for supporting the 'rioters.'

From that moment on, we all began to dissociate. We were ripe for psychedelic takeover.

Monday, January 11, 2016


         FRAUD ALERT :

Ellen Atkin has a blog at

There are several problems with Ellen's campaign, which is all about self-promotion and turning herself into the poster girl for MKULTRA survivors:

1. There are no records for Emma Jane Crunican at the McGill University Hospital Centre archives, i.e. no proof she was ever a Cameron patient.

2. Ellen's father is not the crippled boy in the wheelchair shown talking with doctors in a Quebec hospital ca. 1948 -- even if he was living in Quebec at the time, he would have been sent to an English hospital. Ellen lifted this photo from my blog.

3. Ellen Atkin is NOT the girl in the photo captioned "STRAIN ALL URINE" - this photo was taken in the US, not Canada. I have forensic photographic and other proof that the girl was an American child from a military family. 

Ellen Atkin is advised to stop masquerading as a MKULTRA survivor on borrowed evidence and a stolen identity.

Reportedly the now-famous photo of the little girl strapped down to a table under a sign saying STRAIN ALL URINE, first surfaced on a Japanese blog in 2008. I first saw it at Aangirfan blog, where it has been used repeatedly as an illustration of classified experiments done on children in the MKULTRA project.

When I first came across it in around 2010, I was shocked, as most people would be. I know children were subjected to this, and worse, by scientists funded by the CIA and governments. However I also questioned its authenticity. Where was the photo taken, and in what year? Who found it and how did they get hold of it? Does anyone know? Is it a real photo, from a real experiment, and if so, from which which program or MKULTRA subproject.

It's important to note that all records of experiments on children were destroyed by CIA chief Richard Helms in 1973. Although many victims have come forward recounting their experiences as children in this program, a huge effort has been made by all the institutions involved to hide or destroy any evidence, for obvious reasons. The biggest being, the possibility of a massive class action suit on behalf of the estimated hundreds of thousands of survivors.

Blogger and aerial photographer Ellen Atkin recently posted this image at her blog, alongside a photo of herself, possibly a school photo, in which she appears at "about eight years old in 1969". Give or take. So she stated, somewhere, but I recently learned Ellen is now 53 -- meaning she was born around 1963. That's way too late for her to be the same little girl. I think there is no denying a certain physical resemblance. What's lacking are details to back it up, e.g. details about when and where this disturbing photo was taken.

The girl in the "Strain All Urine" photo appears to be eight to ten years old. MKULTRA ran from 1953-64, if the information in the caption is correct, this little girl would have been born no later than 1956. However, the copy I found on the internet is dated "1961" - if accurate by 1969 she would have been a teenager, at least 16.

Like several other survivors, Ellen grew up on the Canada-US border, an area where many similar classified programs operated in the 1950s and 60s. I have met MKULTRA survivors - all women -- from that area of southern Ontario who claim they were trafficked across the border to laboratories and facilities in upstate New York, e.g. military bases with connections to Cornell University in Ithaca.

Joan Baez is a famous survivor of the Cornell mind control program. Another is the late Lynne Moss Sharman, whom I had the privilege of meeting and knowing briefly -- featured in a video posted at Aangirfan blog in 2008.

This is what a real survivor sounds like. She's not vying to be 'MKULTRA Girrrrl" -- the poster child in the photo.


The typewritten caption pasted in next to the STRAIN ALL URINE sign reads: "Unidentified white female between the age of 8 and 10 years old. The subject underwent 6 months of treatment using heavy doses of LSD, electroshock and sensory deprivation. Experiments under codename MKULTRA about early 60s. Subjects memory was erased and her brain is that of a newborn baby."

I don't know the source of the typewritten information, and I haven't tried analyzing the typeface to see if it is from a typewriter of the period, but the last line ("her brain is that of a newborn baby") suggests it could be from her 1960s medical file. If it is from written records, why would her name and date of birth not be included, along with the nature of the treatment? Why would she be called an "unidentified white female between the ages of 8 and 10." Why would her country of origin also be a mystery?

To me, this is reason to question the authenticity of this photo, or at least it raises the same issues mentioned above, re: its original source. Another problem is that the angle of the photo and the mask covering the lower part of the face, make it difficult to accurately compare the two faces.

Who took the photo? My best guess is, it was snapped by a nurse or orderly. Reportedly, temporary workers were hired to feed the laboratory children -- and ordered never to speak about what they saw. Some were forced to flee for their own safety.

Finally, what happens to an 8 year old child after her mind is wiped to that of a newborn baby? In the case of adult patients of Dr Cameron and others, they returned home unable to function, needing to be retrained to eat and use a toilet. So, where did that little girl go with her newborn brain? She would not have returned to her Grade Three class, or posed for a normal-looking school photo, and her school records would show an absence of many months. More than likely that brain-wiped child would have need 24/7 care in an institution.

Many children in these experiments ended up dead. Some, allegedly, went on to become 'mind controlled operatives', 'sleeper agents' and 'super soldiers.' Chances are, things did not turn well for the anonymous girl in the photo, but we will probably never know.


At about the same time this photo surfaced on the internet, I came into possession of a photo of a man in what appears to be a similar kind of experiment. This photo was captioned "McGill Hebb experiment, McGill 1951" and featured a man I suspect is Leonard Cohen. Some people disagree with me on that, but since Cohen also told me (and others including his ex-manager Kelley Lynch and her mother) he was in sensory isolation tanks in the MKULTRA program, and was an undergraduate at McGill in 1951, I think I'm justified in arguing it could very well be him.

I have another photo which someone sent me, which I believe is of Dr. Josef Mengele, in 1949, taken at a notorious Quebec City mental hospital where Duplessis orphans were incarcerated, abused, tortured and even killed in heinous medical experiments. For several reasons, I think it's Mengele -- but people at the Montreal Holocaust Centre laughed and shrugged when I showed them the image. In the first place it's too small for clear identification.

One person's photographic proof is someone else's cause for skepticism, or even ridicule.

In trying to prove that I, as a child, was taken to military bases and used in secret Cold War experiments, I've had to rely on all kinds of sources including:

my own fragmentary childhood memories

things I was told (and not told) by parents, relatives, and family friends as I was growing up

historical records that place my family and me at the centre of the MKULTRA project at McGill and around Montreal in the 1950s and 60s

a single file card (obtained with great difficulty from McGill's patient records department) stating my father was a Cameron patient in 1962

an emptied 'Psychiatry' file for me, dated 1955, i.e. age 3-4 which I was shown by McGill Records, but not allowed to keep. I was definitely hospitalized for 'Pneumonia' that winter, but no records exist for that hospitalisation during which my parents were told I 'nearly died.' By far the likeliest explanation is that my bout of pneumonia was the cover for slipping me into Dr. Cameron's secret LSD experiments on children, for which all records were later emptied, hidden, or destroyed.

my school records from 1958-59 (when I was in Second Grade) show I was absent for exactly 100 out of 200 school days) -- which was remarked on but never explained at the time. That was exactly when Cameron's subproject 68, involving drugs, hypnosis, ECT, and sensory isolation was at its height -- and there are CIA records to show that, which allude to "new research tools" he was using, probably children.

The following photos from our family album would appear to be about a year apart, possibly snapped en route to some kind of 'annual checkup.' I have been told that the destination was always a military base outside Montreal. It seems to me my parents were documenting these trips for some reason that they certainly never talked about to us while we were growing up.

I would be the first person to admit that the above list doesn't constitute proof in the legal sense and would probably not get me past the first interview with a lawyer -- and I have spoken about my case with Allan Stein, of Stein and Stein, who has successfully represented other survivors. He advised me not to pursue compensation, and showed me a thick file of letters he has received from dozens of people across Canada who were in programs similar to the most infamous one at McGill, as he explained why he was unable to help them.

It would be wonderful, in a way I suppose, if I had photos of myself lying on a table in a McGill experiment. I'm not 'MKULTRA Girl' but I have had flashbacks of being electro-shocked by a team of white-coated men. MKULTRA doctors and their military colleagues worked in secrecy and didn't leave many traces -- just scars on those who survived. The other children lie in unmarked graves.

I recently looked more closely at another photo of me, below -- taken in 1954 (the colour of the license plate is proof of the year). It's one of the series showing my brother and me at different ages, wearing different clothes, at various locations: always, apparently, in springtime in deserted roadside locations.

The interesting thing about this photo -- apart from my cute outfit (sturdy pants, probably overalls, worn under a spring coat) and innocent smile -- are the reflections clearly visible on the hood of the Ford Consul -- my dad was always a "Ford" man. On the left, a square-shouldered male figure in a fedora, which must be my father. On the right, not so visible, the photographer (probably my mother) who is getting me to pose. And also on the right, clear reflections of a flag flying in the wind, and some buildings: one of them low to the ground, the other with two storeys.

Yes, it definitely looks as if we've just arrived at the military base and are about to go inside, and my parents are recording the moment when I begin my career as a Cold War soldier, age three.

Meanwhile in 2004-6, while I was piecing together my family's story I was contacted by a group of psychics who , while knowing nothing about MKULTRA, demonstrated an astonishing ability to explore the program, via remote viewing. With no prompting from me, they described those long country drives from my childhood that ended at a military base south of Montreal. Then they went onto locate and talk to murdered children in the spiritual world, interview them, and in one session even read their 1960 files hidden in the catacombs under the Allan Memorial Institute. In the case of one little girl, strapped for months in a chair with electrodes in her skull, I was able later to find birth and death records for her in the Montreal archives. She also appears in a drawing by survivor Carol Rutz who was in experiments at the Allan that same year, 1960. Her dates of birth and death corresponded exactly with the information she provided to my team of remote viewers, and her death in 1963 at age 19 coincided exactly with the close of the program.

It's another piece of the puzzle. But proof? Proof is elusive, unless the missing records surface -- probably not in our lifetime.

Saturday, January 9, 2016

Interview with Ellen Atkin

I think we did this about two years ago, jammed together in Ellen's tiny house at Sun Lotus Yoga Centre, near Duncan on Vancouver Island. We talked about our shared history of having parents who were treated at the Allan Memorial by Dr. Ewen Cameron (of CIA MKULTRA notoriety). Of growing up in the 1950s and 60s under this secret program. Of electroshock machines piled to the ceiling in rooms at McGill. Of Robert Pickton and missing women and 'disposable orphans' and great names in Canadian medicine. Of pedophiles and Nazis and British eugenics, and how this society now embodies and practices mind control in every domain.

Ending with the need for a spiritual perspective.

Topics covered in this interview:

how Ellen and I met over the internet in early 2014 because Ellen's mother was a patient of MKULTRA psychiatrist Dr. Ewen Cameron; Cameron's record in Montreal: 10,000 electroshocked patients a year; a room at McGill filled with old electro-shock machines; Cameron's excellent reputation thanks to media exposure; misdiagnosis of patients who came for treatment for other ailments and ended up depatterned; Ellen's mother's broken life after depatterning and on tranquillizers; what is crazy?; Ann's father was a Cameron patient for 6 weeks in 1962; a high school music teacher who may have become aware of the mind control experiments on children; the project to create Manchurian Candidates using children (Project ARTICHOKE); children as 'blank slates'; children of the military were often used; twins as MK subjects; when you start investigating this subject other survivors gravitate to you; Quebec and the Catholic Church and the surplus of war orphans; less adoptable kids sometimes ended up in experiments at group homes, military bases, hospitals; Canada's reputation as a 'nice' country; Ann's research, Air Force involvement in MKULTRA; marginal "schizophrenics" often turn out to have been in MK experiments; media are heavily controlled and many people working in media are actually survivors of mind control programming; a societal problem; trauma-based mind control and bloodlines; ancient roots of mind control; trauma and special abilities like photographic memories; a non-human culture; sado-masochism and cults; pedophilia and sexual perversion; organized pedophilia and blackmail/control; 3000 missing women in Canada; why did the police let Robert Pickton operate his Pig Farm; snuff films; secretive men's clubs; child trafficking in Canada; systemic and controlled at the highest levels; Pickton and Cameron as fall guys; Canadian 'heroes of medicine' experimented on children who were kept in cages; Wilder Penfield; pedophilia as the Achilles' heel of a corrupt society; Ann's amnesia for being in Cameron's experiments; the illusion of growing up normal in a city filled with broken psychiatric patients; poetry and the arts as a gathering place for MKULTRA survivors; controlled schizophrenia at McGill, the aerospace industry uses children for experiments; artificial intelligence; creating cyborgs; MKULTRA is now entertainment and all-pervasive; comparing early mind control programs with today; the Allan Memorial and Dr. Cameron; Cameron's patron Allen Dulles and Roosevelt's death; the secret treaty with Hitler's SS that ended WW2; Operation Paperclip; the Nazi connection; rumours of Dr. Mengele in Montreal in 1967; possible photo of Mengele in Quebec City hospital in 1949; British and American eugenics inspired Nazi experiments with Rockefeller funding; the Tavistock Institute in London; the Tavistock-funded counter-culture; our Brave New World; chances for self-realization despite our MK'ed culture; believing we are 'special'; negative frequencies; rivers of guilt and shame; negative emotions; electronic bombardment; Ellen realization that she was being controlled by external frequencies; hearing voices; voice-to-skull technology going back to early 1960s; 'you're a bad mother' messages; creating schizophrenia while pretending to cure it; alters and multiples; John Marks exposed Cameron in 1977 otherwise he would have remained Canada's little secret; Wilder Penfield's experiments on children at the Montreal Neurological Institute; Carol Rutz describes Penfield's brain-mapping experiments on her and other children; "the fate of the Western World depends on your silence"; murdered children; Dr Cameron's secret behaviour lab that housed up to 25 children; how disposable children were programmed at the Allan Memorial; candies with LSD; unmarked graves in Montreal; 'A family that betrays its ancestors descends into madness.'

Ellen's story is at her blog