Thursday, August 31, 2006

A Short Autobio

The first day of the summer of love was June 21, 1967. It was also the day I was born. I was not aware of this fact until I was about eighteen, the time when I started my own journey into tye-die's, classic psychadelic and progressive music, mind-alteration, metaphysics, and so on. Mind you, this was no attempt to fit into a local counterculture. In fact, for quite a time I was the only person I knew that wore tie-dye being a young man in suburban Detroit in the mid-eighties. Soon, to my delight, I would happen upon a small, tight-knit circle of highly creative people.

Then, something out of my fledgling character happened. At twenty, in 1987, I was without clear direction in life and I needed to get out of my living situation, an old story. I was also young enough and male enough to get caught up in the testosterone of false-patriotism that I was moved by the power of machines of war as we watched them on the boob tube. Yes, as you may have guessed, I joined the military, specifically - the navy.

Boot camp sucked. At one point I wanted out. Let me tell everyone that thinks, erroneously, that I knew what I was getting into. FEW people actually know the full extent of what they are getting into in the military. If everyone were actually on the up and up with all of it, recruiters would not still be lying to potential recruits. Boot camp teaches anger. That anger becomes a contained pressure that is carefully cultivated and controlled. When one gets in a situation, like war, where one is allowed to let that rage out with the sanctioning of the American system(which is often supported by family and friends and thus becomes a proxy sanctioning of loved ones) and immediate superiors, then those not too blinded may see what it has all been about. People in general in this country are justice-starved and this is directly responsible for the lustful hatred and calls for lynching of whoever the system tells us is the bad guy. People in the military are expression-starved and after years of training and being emotionally and psychologicall beat up, that expression, waiting to be let out, is an angry one. Deprivation of justice also explains the uncanny ability of people to just KNOW who did it and who did not in any highly publicized court case on the television (the medium is the missile) and to cheer 'their' side in a case that, in reality, they have nothing to do with and know nothing about. It continues to amaze me how people can at once admit that the media lies and at the same time embrace some of those lies merely because they tell the spectator what he/she wants to believe is true.

After boot camp, it was off to Virginia for training as an Operations Specialist. An OS has a variety of things to learn as operations refers to anything conducted by the military that has anything to do with battle or preventing such. Logistics support operations. As such, an OS must learn military strategies and tactics, navigational skills, the specifics of enemy and friendly offensive and defensive systems.

I graduated at the top of my class and got my choice of assignments, within certain parameters. I took this specialty in the navy because I knew my strong point was my brain and the occupation was the closest thing I would find to chess. I chose Long Beach, California. Finally, like one of my hippie mentors, I would go to California though under far different circumstances. One thing was sure though, I was at least as free as I was under the umbrella of the parental home and I was, at least, having new experiences.

Long Beach, I would find out, was merely an extension of L.A. so I would end up ducking gangs on payday to make it on the bus to Belmont Shores in order to have a little off-base fun. Eventually, I would merely go and get drunk at base's club and spend much of the next few months trying to have a good time there all the while dodging westpac widows. Westpac is west pacific tour, a tour that west coast sailors make eventually that includes Hawaii, the Phillipines, Thailand, Japan, Austrailia, and the Persian Gulf, among others. Westpac widows are the wives left behind for six months who will tell a drunken sailor anything he wants to hear so long as he will have sex with them. Unfortunately, on a given night at Long Beach Naval Station, anywhere from five to thirty married women would show up to get the, sometimes unsuspecting, sailor to help her cheat on their men. Now, I am not much for the institution known as marriage, personally. Still, this is a little sad. I sympathize, now, with both the men and the women.

Soon, I would befriend a couple of people stationed on my ship, the USS Gary FFG-51 (anti sub ship), and we would use Gus's vehicle to expande our repertoire of weekend fun to make trips down to Tijuana. At least here, we were seeing mostly women from San Diego that were college students. The westpac widows largely stuck to the bars at U.S. naval bases. Still, it was more of the same, in a general sense, and this too got boring.

On one fateful day, while in Belmont Shores, I was walking down the main avenue (I cannot recall its name but I believe it was a part of the Pacific Coast Highway) and a hippie girl was posted out on the sidewalk, next to a few friends, trying to sell a few tapes and magazines created at the commune she lived at. They were trying to raise money to stay alive as a community and, according to her, trying to further the revolution. This sounded like the revolution I believed in - a revolution not of arms but of the mind. They called their project Zendik Farm.

I bough a tape and a magazine. I read the magazine and listened to the tape. The music was not my type but the words were. Wulf Zendik wrote the kind of things that, I realized, I USED to think about in my own meanderings. His words, and the words of others, reached deep into my psyche and activated my long dormant conscience. I suddenly remembered who I was and at that point (seems sudden in retrospect - it actually took a few days), I knew I was involved in something that was wrong. You see, there had been something I had been noticing about the operations that our ship was involved in, something troubling. Until now, I had had the disassociative ability (cultivated by boot camp) to bury what I was seeing beneath a sea of distractions, i.e. wine, women, and song.

I would tread very dangerous ground here by providing specifics as to what I am talking about. I have been a rather high-profile activist at times and I have, at times, been thoroughly watched and even harrassed by corporate and governmental entities for some of my research. As such, here, I will only say that I was stationed in Long Beach, California and worked closely with the Coast Guard during the height of the crack epidmeic (1988-89) ala Iran-Contra. 'Nuff said.

Soon, I would be AWOL. Within a couple of days I would be at Zendik Farm. I will never forget it. Though I was only there about three days, the impact would last forever. It didn't take long, however, for me to realize that I was not ready for a life of exile and hiding and this community I was experiencing never asked to be subject to the long eye of the man. They had enough problems in that day and age without harboring a semi-known fugitive.

So, I went back and was soon discharged, honorably! This blew my mind a little. Later I would find out that often people who were discharged due to sudden conscientious objection AND had access to highly classified information would be given honorable discharges as sort of a friendly pat on the back, as if to say, "Now, now. We've been nice to YOU."

A couple of years later I would meet my first circle of all-out Deadheads and on my twenty-fourth birthday, would see The Grateful Dead for the first time, WITH Jerry, and with the help of lots of 25.

Needless to say, it was life-altering.

A few months later (trying to expedite the last part of this piece - I might've gotten carried away so far) I was on my way to live at MY first communal experience though it was also quite a resort, a massage school, and a new age retreat of renown such that it once housed Aldous Huxley . It was there I would first meet Wavy Gravy .

This place is a place I cannot say enough about. I got in touch directly with the shamanic while experiencing Harbin Hot Springs. I was happier than I could recall. My love life, my shamanic sense, my pagan attitude, my buddhist mind, my bohemian endeavor - all of these things were catered to in a perfect way and for the first time, I felt I was experiencing California for what it was. Talk about extremes. I would later find out that like every other place, California had every shade of good and bad as well. Today, I consider most of northwestern California to be a wonderful place but as far as I am concerned, if the rest falls into the ocean, I only hope Texas and Florida join it.

Have you figured out yet that I am opinionated? I think opinions are formed by intense experiences, at least the opinions that are not merely adopted from others.

In June of 1992, while still a resident at Harbin Hot Springs, I would meet a man who once worked with Wallace Black Elk. He was a man of strict indigenous tradition, something pretty rare for a white man and when I say this I mean STRICT. According to some native Americans, a ceremony involving prayer and sweating that is mostly indigenous people is a sweat lodge while one that involves a red man leading it, attended by mostly white people, is a hippie lodge and one that has no red man present is a cowboy lodge. I tell you that regardless of who attended this man's lodges that they were SWEAT lodges. I hope you get the idea.

Anyway, that June I would follow this man to South Dakota in order to attend my first Rainbow gathering, an event surrounded by rumour little of which has any truth to it. Also occurring at the time, in Custer, was something called the Gathering of the Eagles. Representatives from tribes all over the Americas were present, expressing unity among first nations. There were runners, bearing a torch that was on its way from Alaska all the way to Mexico City. As it happened, I found myself sharing pipe ceremony with Yellow Horse, chief, I was told, among the Native American Church. I was honored. It was my birthday.

It was also here, in the Black Hills, that I would witness strange experiments in the wild of those hills that to this day I do not understand. I can only, half-surely, call them Teslian.

After the gathering, I would end up travelling a bit, taking up a nomadic life that consisted of drumming, fire-tending, cooking for thousands, and praying. Oh yeah. We partied too.

I did this for a long time.


In 1997 I would catch a face full of teargas for attempting to witness a legal demonstration against an illegal tree-cutting in Eugene, Oregon. I watched a tree-sitter get ten cans of pepper-spray emptied onto him. First, they cut down all branches below him so that he could not scale down if he wanted to. They had nets nearby but they refused to set them near or under the tree. They cut his pants and sprayed his genitals. They removed his boots and sprayed the bottoms of his feet. They were trying to get him to fall. A nearby television camera turned off when the torture began.

So that no one could see what would happen, I presume, the crowd which had every legal right to be there (they were fenced off of direct contact with the area in question), the crowd was ordered to disperse. The twenty or thirty percent that did so immediately were the first to catch teargas as the police, who had shown up without their badges, aimed the first rounds a half a block away from the crowd that stayed in order that these people would not escape punishment for their audacity to have been there in the first place. I watched as a man ran with his eight year old son in his arms, trying to get away from the fray. I watched as a police officer chases both of them spraying. I saw children and the elderly get teargassed.

The next day the media reported that police were responding to rioters - the supposedly liberal media - the Eugene area media! I will never forget June 1, 1997.


By 1999, I had been involved in a degree of online activism for about two years. I was just becoming aware of the level of online surveillance that occured, managed by the National Security Agency. The full extent of it would not be made plain to me until about three years later but what I had already found out necessitated resistance, I thought.

So we devised a plan to get millions of people, worldwide, to send out emails on October 21, 1999, that would contain a long list of known keywords in the NSA's Echelon dictionary. Echelon monitors phone calls and emails for known keywords and other 'suspect' patterns. If you mention the word 'bomb', for instance, a hundred times in a months, a human will be reading your emails and evaluating you as a potential threat. If you set up a Hotmail account and send an encrypted email, the same day, to Baghdad, a red flag most definitely will go up. I think you get the idea.

The alert we sent out globally managed to get translated into at least seven languages. Very soon, though I had conducted all of this via webmail, I was getting vaguely threatening emails in my home AOL account. I left family, house, and home in order not to endanger them and went underground for a while. I thought that I would be safe. What I would soon find out was that my interests had been recorded as a signature in some surveillance CPU. I was alright for about a week but when I got online on a public computer in Santa Cruz, California and began to merely catch up on news, suddenly a two-year period of intense harrassment would begin.

Jam Echelon Day had targetted the premier surveillance outfit in the world. What had I expected - that they wouldn't find me? We had brought awareness of Echelon from conspiranoia trash to the spotlight of Sixty Minutes. I had personally done an interview with the Village Voice. Yeah, they had figured out that I was Robert Kemp and I was on their shit list.

Today, according to the Patriot Act, such a fight to publicize a lack of American privacy is categorized as terrorism. We knew we would not jam up the computers but we knew that by getting people to participate we would raise awareness.

Over the next two years I would be harrassed and come to know the meaning of hell, at least my own personal one. When one is homeless, and one has few options, cornering such a person into certain situations becomes easy. Soon, I was experiencing sleep deprivation, constant inuendos by people I didn't recognize, attempts to hook me on methamphetamine, and on and on...

A woman who was a very close friend of mine for over a year, one day, told me she had been assigned to me. With the Aryan overtones that had managed to make their way into my life, I dropped her like a sack of potatoes and have not returned to California since. I went to Boulder, Colorado which turned out, as well, to be a mistake. While California is behavior modification central, Boulder is defense contractor central, where the harrassment is less subtle and more direct.

Here, near the National Center for Atmospheric Research and the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration and CU's Laboratory for Atmospheric and Space Physics, near umpteen NRO, NGIA, CIA, NSA, and DOE contractors, I would happen upon a vein of research that would open a Pandora's box of revelations regarding 9-11 (Operation Two Towers) is that "C" word...chemtrails.

If you, the reader, are interested in more on this, email me personally. This blog is intended for other pursuits.

It was at the Boulder RTD bus depot that I would receive the first in-person death threat that I had ever had. An Alabama boy (judging by his drawl) with war written all over him would say these words: "I am going to kill you."

To put a long story short, I grew weary of being on the front line. I have largely retired from the foxholes. I still keep up and do a little word spreading but I have done my time. I need a life now. I now live in Michigan, I fish, I spend time with my family, and I pursue, largely, spiritual matters.

It could be that this is the greatest enemy of the system. I don't mean religion - I mean spirit.

Damn, my fingers are tired. I am going to end this post. More will be revealed in time. If you have questions, feel free to email me.



Also see the Buffalo Field Campaign. They need your help.


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