Love says trust me
And your heart breaks
Again, like a stone
That isnât supposed
To fracture,
By some ponderous law of pain
Or physicsâI say
If breaking my heart
10 times or 100
Pushes me, like a
Demi-urge, toward a kind
Of deeper
Love more meaningful
Existenceâthen,
Yeah.
Iâm ok with
That.
(C)2022 by Sanguine Woods
for JCCQ
*and Sophia, gratzi
#lgbtqia
Click above images to enlarge…
We now have LEAKED PROOF that the US govt ASSASSINATED President John F KENNEDY. I was shocked to see these burned pages!
âAs far as I know, this âburned memoâ is the only document that I’ve ever heard anyone claim could be the authorization to kill President John F. Kennedy.â
– Robert Wood, Ph.D., Physicist and Retired Aerospace Manager
These two pages are from a 9-page memo that was thrown into a fire to be destroyed but then pulled out by a man who died in 1987. Before his death he leaked the story of the âscorched memoâ. Thereâs a link at the end of this post to the whole memo and explanation. These two pages are the important ones. Things to note while readin: MJ-1 was code for Dulles himself. âLancerâ was what the secret service called JFK during his presidency. And the last words on the second image âit should be wetâ is known to be a code phrase taken from the Russians that means âto assassinate someoneâââwetâ being a reference to spilled blood.
So what this memo is saying is that JFK was getting to close to TOP SECRET information and Dulles is asking âMJ-12â (Majestic 12 = code name of secret committee of scientists, military, and govt officials, formed in 1947 by President Truman to facilitate recovery/investigation of alien spacecraft.)âand reminding MJ-12 that they may have âto wetâ or âwet upâ (second set of pages above) Kennedy, i.e., kill him.
One month after the date of this memo, JFK was shot dead in Dallas.
If you want to know the full details, this PDF has it all:
Click to access 6404101-JFK-MJ12.pdf
More here:
http://911debunkers.blogspot.com/2018/07/did-president-john-f-kennedy-seek-ufo.html?m=1
FBI doc on MJ-12 from FBI Website:
https://vault.fbi.gov/Majestic%2012/Majestic%2012%20Part%201%20of%201/view
Majestic 12:
https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Majestic_12
Video of Interest:
(trans. by AS Kline)
âSo the protective shadows might be yours,
and your head not be harmed by sun or snow,
Priapus, what skill of yours captivates lovely lads?
For sure, youâve no shining beard, or well-groomed hair:
naked you fulfil your role in the cold of cloudy winter,
naked too in the dry time of the Dog-Starâs heat.â
So I: then the rustic child of Bacchus answered me, so,
the god whoâs armed with the curving hook.
âOh beware of trusting the crowd of tender boys:
since they always offer a true cause for love.
This one pleases, that keeps a tight rein on his horse:
that one breaks the still waters with his snowy breast:
this one for his audacious bravery: while that oneâs
virgin modesty mantles his tender cheeks.
But donât let boredom seize you, if at first he denies you
fiercely: gradually his neck will yield to the yoke.
Length of time has taught lions to comply with man,
with length of time soft water wears away rock:
time ripens the grapes on the sunny slopes,
time drives the bright constellations on their sure course.
Donât be afraid to swear: the winds bear vain oaths of love
over the lands and over the surface of the sea.
Huge thanks to Jove: the Father himself denied their power,
so that foolish Love might swear anything in passion:
and Diana lets you swear by her arrows with impunity
and Minerva lets you swear by her hair.
But if you linger youâre lost: how swift time flies!
The day does not stand idle or return.
How quickly the earth loses its rich purple hues,
how quickly the high poplar its lovely leaves.
How the horse is despised when weak old ageâs fate
arrives, he who once shot from the starting gate at Elis.
Iâve seen a young man on whom later years now pressed
mourning his foolishness in days gone by.
Cruel gods! The snake renewed sheds his years:
but fate grants no delays to beauty.
Only for Bacchus and Phoebus is youth eternal:
and unshorn hair is fitting for both those gods.
Youâll yield to your boy in whatever he wants to try:
love always wins the most by deference.
Youâll not refuse to go, though he intends long journeys,
and the Dog-Star bakes the earth with parching drought,
though the brimming rainbow, threatens coming storm,
painting the heavens with its purple hues.
If he wants to sail the blue waves in a boat, with the oar
drive the light vessel through the waves yourself.
Donât complain at submitting yourself to hard labour
or roughening your hands unused to work:
while you still please, if he wants to trap deep valleys,
donât let your shoulders refuse to bear the hunting nets.
If he wants to fight, try to play at it with a light hand:
often leave your flank exposed so he can win.
Then heâll be gentle with you, then you may snatch
that precious kiss: heâll struggle but let you take it.
At first heâll let you snatch it, later heâll bring it himself
when asked, and then even want to hang about your neck.
Sadly alas these times now produce wretched arts:
now tender boys are accustomed to wanting gifts.
You, whoever you are, who first taught the sale of love
may a fateful stone press down on your bones.
Boys, love the Muses and the learned poets,
let no golden gifts outweigh the Muses.
Through poetry Nisusâs lock of hairâs still purple,
without verse no ivory gleams on Pelopâs shoulder.
He the Muses name, shall live, while earth bears oaks,
while heaven bears stars, while rivers carry water.
But he who cannot hear the Muses, he who sells love,
let him follow the chariot of Idaean Ops, and traverse
three hundred cities with his wanderings,
and cut at his worthless limbs, in the Phrygian way.
Venus wants room for blandishments: she favours
complaining suppliants and wretched weeping.â
These things the godâs mouth told me, to sing to Titius:
but Titiusâs wife forbids him to remember them.
Let him listen to her: but you praise me as master,
you whom sadly a wily boy possesses, by wicked art.
Each has his own glory: let despised lovers consult me:
my doors are open wide to everyone.
A time will come when a loyal crowd of young men
shall lead my aged self along, carrying the laws of Venus.
Alas how Marathus torments me with loveâs delay!
…â
When someone asks you Do you have any heros? And you are about to say No. Because you don’t. You never have. And you’ve never gone deep on that point. But the truth is you haven’t been an easy person to understand, by your own self, let alone by others. You think no one could know your crazy heart, not because it’s complicated, just the opposite, in fact. A little anachronistic for sure. You don’t want anyone in that space. A hero? Maybe some runner ups. Faces of free spirits float in and out of your mind. People who would know why you can’t just belong to someone, something….when you belong to everything else. It would have to be someone you would like to meet, sync with, save from being gone too soon…someone you would be proud being and being with. Then it hits you. And you’d never even thought of it before that moment.
Gypsy steal my heart.
Sing my soul, hippie queen.
Lose the shoes; live your blues.
Flower Power.
And why not, Mama?
Why not. âĄ
“…and I’ll be yours, until the rivers all run dry. Yours, until the poets run out of rhyme. In other words…”
âImage: âMamaâ Cass Elliott, ca. 1960s
Publisherâs Note
Books in the Gaslight Series
Introduction
It Is Not the Cold Which Makes Me Shiver by Charles Prepolec
The Cuckooâs Hour by Mark A. Latham
The Spirit of Death by David Stuart Davies
Father of the Man by Stephen Volk
The Strange Case of Dr. Sacker and Mr. Hope by James Lovegrove
The Ignoble Sportsmen by Josh Reynolds
The Strange Adventure of Mary Holder by Nancy Holder
The Lizard Lady of Pemberton Grange by Mark Morris
The Magic of Africa by Kevin P. Thornton
A Matter of Light by Angela Slatter
The Song of a Want b Lyndsay Faye
About the Editors
About the Cover Artist
Need something New to Read
Detail
Link
I thought Cropsey was a stellar documentary. So I’m eager to watch Killer Legends, this filmmaker’s second documentary about Urban Legends and there possible sources. Check it out, now, streaming on Netflix!
For those unaware, like I was, but apparently, social scientists are trying to re-brand urban legends as âcontemporary legends.â Well, whatever the label, what these legends basically boil down to is modern folklore or oft told tales — usually with a macabre element or an ironic twist to them, deeply rooted in popular culture, with just a hint of plausibility to keep the gullible hooked enough to keep passing them along. These tales are used as fables, parables, possible explanations for strange occurrences or events, but, more often than not, they are used as cautionary tales that usually happened to a friend of a friend of a friend or someoneâs cousinâs uncle. And one of the prime examples of an urban legend is the tale of âThe Hook.’
It begins with a young couple parked in a secluded loverâs lane engaged in some premarital necking. And as hormones rage, passions heat up, and few hickeys are born, the music on the radio is interrupted by a breaking news bulletin revealing an escaped mental patient / mad-dog killer has just escaped from a nearby asylum / prison; and this fugitive has one very distinguishing characteristic: one of his hands is missing, and has been replaced with a stainless steel hook — which he used to murder several people. The bulletin ends with the authorities encouraging everyone to stay indoors until this madman is captured. Of course, the girl is frightened and wants to head home. The boy, who was >this close< to getting to second base mere moments ago, scoffs, saying the killer is probably miles away. And as the minutes tick by while they argue about what to do, a sudden scraping outside her door frightens the girl so much the boy finally gives up and drives away. But when he gets to her house, ever the gentlemen, he exits the car and hoofs it around the hood to get the door for her. And there, caught on the passenger side handle, hangs a torn-off stainless steel hook covered in blood.
(3B Theater Micro-Brewed Reviews)
You heard it right. At one point during the 1950-1960s, the “Hooked Man” urban legend had so infiltrated teen society, that Dear Abby featured the legend in her newspaper column.
A man and woman are in love, and after their date of dinner and a movie, they decide to go to a secluded spot and have some special quiet time alone with each other. They drive to a spot near the woods at a lookout point, which overlooks the city below. They turn on the radio to some soft listening music and begin to kiss, hug, and talk of their future together. As time goes by, an announcement comes on the radio telling of an escaped murderer that has a hook for a hand. The man blows it off however the woman starts to feel nervous and uneasy, as the place of the institution that this man has escaped from is just on the other side of the woods they are park at. She convinces her lover that they should leave, and the man, frustrated, speeds off in a frantic manner. They arrive at the woman’s home, and he gets out, opens her door to walk her to her front door. That is when he notices a bloody hook attached to the passenger side of the door.
According to popular lore, bloody hooks have been left hanging on car doors since the mid-1950s. It’s possible the roots of legends like The Hook and The Boyfriend’s Death lie in distorted memories of real life Lover’s Lane murders. There were actual cases of kids who’d gone necking coming back in pine boxes. The residue of news stories about those events would likely remain around for a while, mutating into cautionary tales with the addition of bloody hooks and scraping sounds on the roof of the car.
Real life roots or not, The Hook has been a legend for almost as long as anyone can remember. The key to this legend is the boyfriend’s frustrated response to the girl’s demand to end the date abruptly. Almost invariably, he is said to have gunned the engine and roared away. This behavior is essential to explain how the hook became ripped from the killer’s arm, and to underscore the moral of the tale. The boyfriend’s frustration stems from sexual denial. His girlfriend’s insistence on getting home right away puts the kibosh to any randy thoughts he’d been hoping to turn into reality that night, and he’s some pissed about it.
Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and Iâve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
Iâll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and thatâs a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.
â
(Waxwing, Issue IX, Summer 2016)
The Sanguine Woods 