 
THE INVISIBLE EAR

WRITTEN AND LIVED BY

MICHAEL HARDING

PUBLISHED BY THE GRACE OF GOD

GAYLORD L'ANSE NISULA WINONA MASS CITY

VANDERBILT EAST LANSING EVANSTON

CHICAGO SAN FRANCISCO LOS ANGELES

PILSEN REALNESS COOK COUNTY JAIL EDEN

THE INVISIBLE EAR

Copyright © 2018 by Michael Harding

All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without permission from its author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permissions contact: outshinedark247@gmail.com

DISCLAIMER

Legal mumbo-jumbo:

This book is a combination of mostly facts about my life and an occasional embellishment. The information in it is true and complete to the best of my knowledge. I have tried to recreate events, locales, and conversations from my memories of them. Names, dates, places, events, and details may have been changed, invented, and altered for literary effect. The reader should not consider this book anything other than a work of literary nonfiction. In any case, the claims I made are based entirely upon my personal experiences and opinions. Furthermore, like some justices, judges, and prosecutors, I am not a legal expert; therefore, I am not accusing anyone I may have mentioned in this book of any illegal wrongdoing.

ISBN 978-1-980-92681-8

For more information visit:

www.outshinedark.wordpress.com

# CONTENTS

There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

—MAYA ANGELOU

CONTENTS

DEDICATION

EPIGRAPH

PREVOICE

INTRODUCTION TO MY DESTRUCTION

Cloudy with a Chance of Phish and Chips

A NEW BEGINNING ANEW

Bread and Butter

MIND OVER MATTER

Walking to the Beat of City Streets

Telecommuting

Drinking Games and Mind Games

Broken Record

Silent Reading

FIRED UP! READY TO GO!

The Sounds of Success

Along Came a Spider Network

Cloudy Hazing

Insane in the Membrain

Fire and Ice

INDICTMENT AND CONFINEMENT

Tipping the Scales of Justice with Money

Jailing

Night Light

Tunnel Vision

I Know Why the Caged Jailbird Sings

Buried Treasure

Waiting for Our World to Change

Disorder in the Court

Lady Justice Has Gone Gaga

SISU

Guiding Light

Trials and Tribulations

'L'OVE

Freedom's Just Another Word for Illusion

Window to the World

Pee-Wee, May I Borrow Your Tinfoil Ball?

Alexa, Siri, How Does Technology Work?

Eeyore, I Feel Your Pain, Honey

The Walls Have Invisible Ears

BILL OF RIGHTS

SPECIAL THANKS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

WISE WORDS BY WHICH TO LIVE

LAST BUT NOT LEAST

# DEDICATION

A sister is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit,

a golden thread to the meaning of life.

—ISADORA JAMES

I wholeheartedly dedicate this book to my niece, goddaughter, and hero, Carly. And to Carly's "mommy," and my sister, Leah. Leah is no longer with us physically, but she lives on in all the lives she touched. I only briefly mentioned Leah in this book, but her name graces the cover, just like she graced my life. She's always with me and always will be. And for all the individuals I know, and for all the individuals I haven't yet had the privilege to meet who have had their voices muted, ignored, or silenced. I heard you, I hear you, and I care deeply about you. Your cause is my cause. I promise always to do "write" by you while keeping in mind that actions speak louder than words. Special thanks at the end of the book.

# L E A H

1983 – 2015

My heart still aches in sadness, and secret tears still flow...

What it meant to lose you no one will ever know...

Your love will live on in my heart forever...

# EPIGRAPH

Always aim high, work hard, and care deeply about what you believe in. And, when you stumble, keep faith. And, when you're knocked down, get right back up and never listen to anyone who says you can't or shouldn't go on.

—hillary rodham clinton

Author's Note: Love her or HATE her, the above are wise and inspiring words by which to live.

# PREVOICE

Where you see wrong or inequality or injustice, speak out, because this is your country. This is your democracy. Make it. Protect it. Pass it on.

—THURGOOD MARSHALL

THIS IS MY STORY, BUT I WROTE IT FOR YOU. I wrote The Invisible Ear hoping it would awaken the senses and clear the cobwebs from the minds of everyone who reads it or hears about it (no puns intended). I wrote this book for the future of our country, for the future of the human race, and for the future of our world. I wrote The Invisible Ear because I care about you, and I love you. SPOILER ALERT: Welcome to the New Age! It's been "waving" at you, and you've been "waving" back without even realizing it, yet.

I think it's worth noting that the writing in this book contains some grammar mistakes. Most of the minor errors I made were intentional (more on my reasons for doing so later in this book), but a couple were quite possibly the result of my own grammatical ignorance. Admittedly, I even ended a few sentences with a preposition. In fact, I ended the previous sentence with a preposition. Can you identify my attempt at humor? Reread the third sentence of this paragraph and think about it for a second. *ba-dum-ch* (I love word games! Grammarians, I love you too!)

I added grammatical errors for the following reasons: First, my writing is full of symbolism and some hidden and not so hidden double meanings. We are all surrounded by countless symbols, many of them have deep, dark, and secret meanings that are widely unknown to the general public. For example: the first (6), middle (6), and last (6) numbers of most product barcodes, which are also called the guard numbers. (Check for yourself if you don't believe me.) This book, my writing, and the words I used are symbols. Not only are words symbols, the word words is an anagram of the word sword.

Secondly, this book and my writing aren't perfect, I'm not perfect, and neither is the world we live in. (Or the world we live in now or the world in which we live to avoid the ghastly mistake of ending a sentence with a preposition.)

Lastly, but most importantly, while this book isn't perfectly written, at least not grammatically, that doesn't mean that the story I wrote isn't honest and truthful. Just like the honest and truthful voices of individuals who aren't perfect who find the courage to stand up to and speak out against powerful people and organizations that seem close to perfect until their immoral and criminal behavior is finally exposed.

I know that a lot of individuals who have been victimized don't always speak up when they are abused because they fear that nobody will believe them or listen to them. Not necessarily because of the perceived believability of the claims they want to make against their attackers, but often because of who they are, who they are not, and sometimes out of concern that they will be judged by the words they use or misuse.

Compassionate, intelligent, hardworking, and extremely patriotic Americans who struggle to make an honest living in a world where the cards are stacked against them, often through no fault of their own. Mainly because we live in a society that is dominated and controlled by an "EL-LITE" group of corrupt individuals and organizations that allow specifically targeted groups of people to suffer needlessly no matter how hard they try or how loud they speak up about the injustices they face and struggle to overcome.

Our society often places a higher value on an individual's education level, vocabulary, grammar, financial net worth, job title, zip code, and so on, than it does on their moral character and virtue. For the record, I don't think there's anything wrong with recognizing educational, professional, and financial success; however, I personally place a much higher value on a person's loving heart, helping hand, and their caring soul—the real, not perceived, value and net worth of someone's life.

I've heard the echoing silence, scared whispers, and the all too often unanswered pleas for help from disenfranchised Americans without a voice. Voices that are frequently muted and silenced by a system that is rigged against them. A system that allocates more funding to throwing the book at someone in a court of law than it does to educating them with books, teachers, and good schools. If you continue to read this book, you will hear some of their voices in my voice. A voice I finally found after listening to and learning from some of the frequently ignored and unjustly discredited voices of a lot of remarkable people.

Readers have told me that The Invisible Ear contains a remarkable, powerful, and inspirational narrative. It's a story I not only wrote but also lived. From start to finish, it took me about two months to write. I would have spent more time working on it, and I eventually will, but once I decided to write this book only weeks ago, I wanted to make it available as soon as possible. I deeply regret that I waited for as long as I did to open up about the terrible secret I've been living with that I now know is damaging the lives of countless other unsuspecting innocent victims—quite possibly even you or one of your loved ones.

I think it's worth noting that I am an amateur writer. This book is the first book I have attempted to write. (I hope and plan to write several more.) The most I had ever written before I started to write this book was a ten-page college term paper, and I've never taken a writing class other than basic college English. My writing, much like my life, is a constant work in progress.

I hope you enjoy reading my story, and I hope it empowers you. Please feel free to let me know how your overall experience reading this book was by writing your review online or by contacting me personally. I appreciate all constructive feedback, and I will use it as the foundation for my upcoming book projects. More about me and how to contact me at the end of the book in the "About the Author" section. Many heartfelt thanks!

Sidebar (there are a few italicized "sidebars" in this book): One of the grammatical errors I made in this book is I referred to businesses, organizations, and the like as they/them/their. I know I should have used it/its instead; however, since the Supreme Court's ruling in Citizens United v. Federal Election Commission in 2010, corporations, by law, have the same rights as individuals. (Supreme Court: It's We the People not We the Corporations!) Therefore, I'd argue, respectfully and peacefully of course, that using they/them/their to describe corporations is grammatically correct.

# INTRODUCTION TO MY DESTRUCTION

Every great dream begins with a dreamer. Always remember, you have within you the strength, the patience, and the passion to reach for the stars to change the world.

— _HARRIET TUBMAN_

## Cloudy with a Chance of Phish and Chips

ALTHOUGH MY LIFE HAD EXPERIENCED more than its fair share of storms—almost more storms than one life can take—it was going well. I wasn't perfect, and neither was the life I lived, but I tried hard each and every single day to build the best life I could. I did my best regardless of whether I experienced rain or shine, sleet or snow, foggy mornings, or clear starry nights. I put forth a valiant effort irrespective of the weather conditions and circumstances I faced, and I had a lot of help and support along the way.

My teachers and mentors not only provided me with countless tools and other valuable resources, they also taught me how to use them. Their support and guidance—along with my drive, determination, and passion—helped lay the solid foundation I needed to build the structured and well-balanced life I had always dreamed of having and living.

Many of my dreams and goals were finally becoming a reality. Not even gravity could hold me down as my life started to rise higher than the trellis of flowering vines that grew high into the sky in front of a house I once called home. A nurturing home, located on the top of a hill that overlooks San Francisco, where I once lived, laughed, learned, and flourished.

I'll be straight with you, the life I led was far from perfect—it was even disastrous at times. My life was definitely a work in progress with a major learning curve, but I firmly believed it was headed in the right direction. I might not have been an up and coming cut-throat salesman, and I'm not the most excellent writer, but I was becoming a pretty darn good foreman of sorts. With the help of many wonderful people, I drafted a blueprint for the purposeful life I planned to build and live. A life I intended to use to serve Americans and change the world.

Life, much like weather, can change suddenly and severely without any warning. The weather was calm and comfortable on the dreadful and ominous day that changed my life drastically, dramatically, and forever. Unsurprisingly, perfectly predicted by my favorite Chicago weatherman.

I trusted the weather forecast of this locally beloved meteorologist and a man of the community. He had nothing to gain by lying about the weather or by protecting his loyal and faithful viewers from an approaching storm without warning them. If he lied about the weather, he would risk losing his credibility and damaging his reputation.

I once read that this weatherman didn't always need advanced technology to predict the weather. According to the article I read, all he needed to do was stand on the balcony of his high-rise condo and look at the sky.

I've stood on balconies in and around Chicago that have provided me with unobstructed views of spectacular sunrises over a Great Lake named after a great state that is home to some of the greatest people I know. From the windows and roof tops of some of the world's tallest buildings, I've taken in panoramic vistas of stunning sunsets over a pleasant prairie that is home to some of the most pleasant people I've ever met.

Hundreds and hundreds of feet below those balconies and skyscraper outlooks, I had an even better view: the landscape and lifescape of a metropolis built by the world's broad shoulders, bright minds, loving hearts, and caring souls. An unparalleled view of a city where millions of people from around the world enjoy life and a magnificent view when it isn't obstructed.

On that picture-perfect day, as I stood firmly on solid ground and looked out in amazement at the wondrous world around me, I slowly but surely made my way through the city in a garden that I had lived in most of my adult life. At the time, I had no idea a storm of sorts was brewing on my horizon. My eyes didn't see any clouds in the bright blue sky above me, and I had no clue that an invisible cloud of sorts surrounded my head.

Not a puffy cumulus cloud like the ones I would watch form and travel across the sky while I enjoyed a lazy summer day at Hollywood Beach. Not a dense layer of low lying fog clouds that form when the cool air of an ocean named after the Latin word for peaceful dances with warmer inland air; the finger-like fog I used to love to watch roll past the Golden Gate Bridge and over the San Francisco Bay as it gently blanketed a city filled with golden hearts and peaceful souls. Not to be confused with the picturesque and tight-knit city by the bay (more like small-town with a big heart) located in the Western Upper Peninsula of Michigan where I had the privilege of being raised. I saw those cloud formations as clear as day. I didn't, however, see the invisible cloud my head was in on the picture-perfect yet fateful day that I will now write openly and honestly about as well as the days, months, and years that followed.

During the past few weeks, I've been hastily trying to write this book hoping to open the eyes, ears, and minds of everyone who reads it or hears about it to a secret I have been living with for more than ten years. A secret I have known to be true—without a doubt in my mind—for about three years. It's a secret so perplexing and surreal, I have been trying for years to figure out how it is possible and how to explain it to you.

I wish I didn't know about this deeply hidden secret, and I wish I could keep it private. I would keep this secret to myself if I felt convinced that I could protect you from its powerful and violent storm. I can't even begin to try to shelter you from the grave ramifications of this secret if I don't at least try to tell you about it.

My shelter walls are covered in cobwebs, invisible ears, and even invisible eyes. I have conclusive and irrefutable evidence that proves your shelter walls are too. Have you heard the sounds of silence? Do you have an invisible ear? Is your head in a cloud?

Everywhere I go a cloud follows me. No, my name isn't Eeyore. My name is Michael, and this is my story. My story is not fiction, and it is not science fiction. The Invisible Ear is a factual and detailed account of my horrendous ordeal with a debilitating phenomenon that I have had to try to live with on and off for more than ten years. I'm writing this story about my real-life experiences because I don't want anyone else to have to go through anything like the excruciating mental abuse and trauma I had to forcefully and arduously endure.

I don't always need a meteorologist's forecast to provide me with the information I need to prepare myself for the weather. Sometimes, all I need to do is open my eyes, listen for sounds, feel the air temperature, and use common sense. I hope my story will help you open your eyes and your mind to what is happening in the world behind closed doors, right in front of your face, and deep inside your mind that affects your life much more than the weather does.

# A NEW BEGINNING ANEW

I dedicate this chapter to my jail family. Although it came with bologna, I've never broken bread with better people.

## Bread and Butter

I WASN'T A DEEPLY RELIGIOUS MAN, but I was spiritual. I saw, heard, and felt God wherever I went (more on how and where throughout this book). I hadn't regularly attended church since I was a child in Sunday school and confirmation, but I believed in God, and I had faith in God. I also had faith in our world, faith in humanity, faith in the Land of Liberty, and most importantly, faith in myself. I believed that I needed to have faith in myself before I could put my faith in God.

I lived in the light of love, and I shed light on the shadows cast by darkness whenever and wherever I found them. No, I didn't regularly attend religious services, but I spent as much time as I could in a church of a different nature—my church is our world. And I didn't need to attend prayer breakfasts or soup suppers for fellowship, although those are wonderful community gatherings. All I had to do for fellowship was make a reservation at my favorite restaurant or swing by a friend's house for brunch or dinner.

Every meal I shared with others had soul food on the menu. Not necessarily the food itself, but rather the camaraderie, thought-provoking conversation, laughter, and feelings of love a table of people who at one time or another were complete strangers can manifest—phenomena of light and love. When I dined with others, I often felt like I was breaking bread with God.

It was the Sabbath, or Sunday Funday as many people call it now. Instead of drinking the blood of Christ from a gold-plated chalice and sitting in a pew with other holy worshipers, I was sipping on white tea sweetened with raw sugar as I took a seat at a table with a handful or so of other hungry brunchers. My unorthodox Sunday fellowship, which had become a new tradition and ritual for me, was in full swing.

My friends and I feasted on the following: cage-free (but not free-range) eggs served scrambled, sunny-side up, and over easy; sizzling applewood-smoked bacon; smoked hickory sausage; American fries with sausage gravy; crispy hash browns; flap jacks with pecan wood maple syrup; cream-filled butter-sugar crepes; a variety of freshly-squeezed fruit juices; coffee; tea; and brunch simply isn't brunch without liquid libations. I was feeling a little under the weather, so I downed a couple of sports drinks and continued to sip tea.

I had never tasted food so good. Every nibble I gobbled up and every mouthful I swallowed were pure bliss—like a party in my mouth. I didn't want to stop munching and brunching with my friends, and although I was joyfully immersed in fellowship, I felt the need to spend some time outdoors—at "church"—alone. I hadn't spent much time outside in nature in recent months because I had been working a ton and the weather was awful. I could tell by glancing out a window that the drizzly wet morning had turned into a glorious afternoon.

Based upon my limited knowledge of weather, I assumed a front had passed. The sky was still mostly cloudy, but the rain had stopped, and the sun was starting to peek through. I hadn't watched the daily weather forecast of my favorite local meteorologist in weeks because the weather had become as depressing as the news. But I had heard from several people that average day-time temperatures, which had been falling precipitously for some time, were finally going to rise again. Midwesterners were finally going to get their first taste of summer. Yes, I lived in a world swarming with weatherman, and since I'm on the subject, I also lived in a world crawling with political talking heads and self-righteous preachers with a choir but no church.

I often got baffled by the fact and unfortunate truth that people talked more about the weather than they did about life. Everywhere I went I got a weather forecast and a daily rundown of the current political climate. Sometimes, I even got preached to by someone who didn't know me from Adam. I never understood how someone could judge another person without ever having spent a single moment in their world.

Even more baffling and troubling, I rarely got asked if I was happy. I noticed that people often shared how they were feeling physically, but hardly ever mentioned their mental health, if at all. I also listened to a lot of people talk about how health conscious they were, but when it came to their level of spiritual consciousness and personal enlightenment, I heard crickets.

On this day, like most days, I was happy and doing well, but my mind was overloaded with over-stimulating conversation as well as thoughts of work deadlines and a tumultuous breakup. My heart had been broken recently, and I only had myself to blame. Thankfully, my loving and sweet as sugar friends helped me wash down the jagged bitter pill I had to painfully swallow. Whenever my world came tumbling down, I always had caring and supportive friends to lean on until I was ready and able to stand up and start walking again.

I noticed that my leg had fallen asleep. My eyes became heavy and my energy level was waning, so I thought about switching to my usual coffee. I wasn't drinking coffee because I hadn't been sleeping well as of late, and as I mentioned earlier, I was feeling a little under the weather. To make matters worse, I had slipped into a food coma, so I decided it was time for me to skedaddle. I felt so exhausted at this point I could have fallen asleep standing up, which I had done before while riding a packed 'L' home during my daily commute.

# MIND OVER MATTER

My first day in Chicago, September 4, 1983. I set foot in this city, and just walking down the street, it was like roots, like the motherland. I knew I belonged here.

— _OPRAH WINFREY_

## Walking to the Beat of City Streets

AS I PULLED OPEN THE SLIDING GLASS PATIO DOOR of the charming home where I had just finished devouring a savory Sunday brunch, I was warmly greeted by dazzling rays of sunshine and the melodic songs of chirping birds. I tapped my pockets to make sure I had my keys and phone, thanked my friends for their hospitality, and I hoped nobody was mad at me.

In addition to a hot gourmet breakfast, my friends and I also had a heated and passionate debate about politics and world affairs. We were mostly in agreement, but we occasionally disagreed on some hot-button issues. Judging by the giant bear hugs my friends tightly embraced me with as I made my way out the door, everyone was fine and dandy. Phew I thought as I smiled and let myself out.

The sun had dried up all the rain, but I tripped on the slippery wood stairs that were still wet from the recent monsoon-like thunder storms that had drenched the area. Thankfully, the sturdy porch rail broke my fall. I leaned my back against it for a few seconds and laughed at myself for being so clumsy.

I regained my footing and radically accepted my stomach urgently needed some medicine. I hated taking medication unless it was necessary, but I felt dizzy and nauseas. I had also puked up some greenish and whitish bile earlier that morning. My gurgling gut was obviously trying to tell me something.

I briefly thought about going to a hospital, but I had work deadlines and several other obligations to meet that day. I dreaded the likely possibility of having to spend several hours in an ER, so I decided that I'd make an appointment with my primary care physician later in the week if my stomach problems worsened. I already had an appointment scheduled with my quack on Tuesday. I figured why not kill two birds with one stone, if needed. I really wasn't all that worried, in fact, I was dying of laughter. Yes, I felt disoriented and I fell, but I got right back up, kept walking, and sang to myself "zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay, my, oh my, what a...." as I made my merry way home.

For reasons I don't know or understand, I often find myself laughing when I should feel humiliated, enraged, or sad. I also haven't figured out why I almost always walk with my head held high—even during moments of immense shame, regret, and embarrassment. My best guess is that there's no use in crying over spilt milk. If you had milk in the first place, the milk man will most likely come around again.

As my journey home continued, I walked down a stone path lined with flower-filled ceramic clay pots. The fresh and fragrant air was enchanting. I paused again briefly not only to smell the roses, but to also admire an American flag flapping freely and gracefully in the wind of the Windy City. After I took a moment to take it all in, I closed the sturdy iron gate behind me and entered a blossoming city.

At the time, I had no inkling—not a clue—that before the early summer sun would gradually fade over the western horizon, and the sounds of singing birds would be replaced by chirping crickets and peeping frogs, I would hear sounds of a different nature. Piercing sounds that over time would shock my senses, trigger a mental breakdown, and significantly diminish the respect, deep trust, and unwavering support I once had for the government (not the people) of the United States of America. Deafening sounds that nearly killed me. I couldn't hear, see, or feel the senseless attack my life would soon face coming at all, but it already had me completely surrounded. (Author's note: throughout this book, you'll get a taste and a "partial disclosure" of things to come.)

I could, however, feel the warm inviting breeze and see the bright blue sky. And although I was still feeling a little under the weather (no pun intended), I decided to take a longer but more peaceful route home. Instead of taking a Sunday drive through the country, I went on a winding Sunday stroll through my favorite city—the Second City and my adopted hometown.

Long, invigorating walks helped me clear the cobwebs from my brain. During my urban hiking adventures, I loved to take in all the amazing sights and sounds of the wondrous world that surrounded and hugged me. I rarely listened to music when I bebopped around the city. I preferred to listen to the sounds of life in a metropolis very much alive and well.

I slowly passed through one quiet tree-lined street after another and stayed as far away from the bustling central boulevards as I could to avoid the ear pounding and body rattling noises of nearby construction projects. I favored the sounds of leaves gently swaying in the breeze, neighbors gabbing and laughing on their porches, gleeful children playing in the parks I passed, dogs barking at chattering squirrels, as well as the sound of my flip-flops slapping the solid ground I stood on and walked along. All those sights and sounds brought me a sense of peace, a sense of comfort, and a sense of belonging. I went for long walks by myself often, but I never ever felt alone.

Although I wanted to stay outside in the great urban outdoors, my leisurely Sunday stroll had to end. I needed to stop dragging my feet and head indoors to get some work-related projects completed before Monday morning and adult duties called.

I unhurriedly approached my apartment and continued my snail-like pace up the concrete walkway that ran through the middle of the simple yet pleasant garden in my building's courtyard. I pulled open the heavy front door, and as it abruptly slammed shut behind me, I thought to myself that I couldn't believe that the building maintenance crew, if one existed, still hadn't fixed the broken hinge.

I climbed up the creaky, carpeted stairs to my flat as gingerly as I could. I had to jiggle my keys around in the sticky locks of my apartment door to open it. As I entered my home, I gently placed my heavy shoulder bag on the shiny hardwood floors and tiptoed across the main room. My hardworking and accomplished roommate, a very close friend of mine since we first met in college, often worked into the wee hours of the night, even on weekends. I didn't want to disturb her if she was getting some much-deserved rest. She wasn't home, so I was alone, or so I thought.

As I plopped down on a simple and unassuming futon (a treasured and celebrated artifact from my roommate's college days) and took in the relative silence of my apartment, all I could hear was the humming of the a/c unit on the other side of the room. I was pleasantly surprised when I noticed that I could no longer hear the maddening dripping sound of the leaky kitchen faucet. I thought to myself that there must be a building maintenance crew after all. They weren't something I had imagined or made up in my head. I then stretched my long, tired legs out against the futon cushions to relax my body before I put my brain to work.

I finally stopped procrastinating and shifted my attention to the stack of manila folders piled next to me. As I began to peruse through work reports, I heard the distinct voice of a coworker coming from inside the room. I immediately became alarmed and terror-stricken. There wasn't a single person within sight or sound. I didn't even hear anyone walk up the creaky stairs or knock on the battered wooden door.

## Telecommuting

THE SMALL, DIMLY LIT ROOM I WAS ALL ALONE IN just moments before, suddenly became filled with voices I was more accustomed to hearing at a packed work meeting in the large, brightly lit conference room at the corporate headquarters of my employer. All that was missing from my make shift home office were the savory aromas of coffee brewing and a catered hot lunch, the sound of a Xerox machine copying, a power point projector humming, and quite frankly, actual people.

My quiet and peaceful home became a petrifying house of horrors. Shaking and scared senseless, I frantically and nervously paced the squeaky floors of my apartment for several mentally agonizing hours until the haunting sounds abruptly stopped. Deeply troubled, I spent the remainder of the day trembling in fear as I tried to make sense of what I heard but couldn't see. I eventually popped a couple sleep aids hoping it would help calm me down and fall asleep. I had to be at the office in the morning for real.

At work the next day, I heard some of the same voices that had rocked my sanity and rattled my nerves the day before. This time, the voices came from actual people, or at the very least, through my work phone and voicemail. The terrifying inner voices that had shocked and blindsided me on what was supposed to be Sunday Funday were gone, but the hair-raising ordeal I went through was still very much with me.

As time progressed, I thought less and less about the puzzling experience I couldn't piece together or solve. I did my best to mentally hang in there and maintain the well-framed composure and image I had effortlessly exhibited prior to the off-the-wall experience I painfully suffered through on what had started off as a picture-perfect early summer day.

## Drinking Games and Mind Games

A COUPLE OF MONTHS LATER, I ATTENDED a private social function. I showed up fashionably late, and by the time I got there, the party was in full swing and jam-packed with people. The lively and inviting atmosphere was bursting with laughter, celebratory cheers, and heart-thumping music. My favorite sounds at the boisterous end-of-summer soiree were the voices of friends old and new. Just moments after I arrived, one of my buddies caught my attention when he shouted my name and motioned me to join him and some other people I recognized at a picnic table next to the bar and buffet.

The main entrée at this feast of food and fellowship was pig. While the hog was cooking in an underground pit, guests were invited to dig in and pig out on a mammoth spread of food unlike any I had ever seen before. Smoked barbeque meatballs; spicy cocktail wieners; chicken pâté; wafer, club, and buckwheat crackers; a variety of tossed salads; homemade buttery buns; and a fresh fruit tray were just a few of the mouth-watering appetizers and savory sides that lined the copious buffet of delectable dishes. There was also a seasonally inspired dessert cart for guests to indulge their taste buds in after dinner—that is if they weren't already filled to the gills with pig meat. Just looking at all the sinfully delicious food made my mouth drool and my midsection grow. I didn't want to look like the pig being roasted, so I only sampled and nibbled on a few hors d'oeuvres as I made my way over to my group of friends.

While enjoying the enticing aroma of the roasting pig, I cracked open a beer and started to get chatty. After I finished drinking my first adult refreshment, I began cracking jokes and gossiping. By the time I had my third drink, I found the courage to mingle and even flirt a little with the party guests I didn't already know. All the booze in Chicago wouldn't have given me the liquid courage I needed to deal with what happened next.

To the best of my knowledge, there wasn't a ventriloquist at the party, but as I was engaged in a conversation with one of the party's hosts—a bosom buddy and favorite pal of mine—the sound of his voice suddenly came at me from two different directions. One voice originated from my friend's mouth; the other from deep inside my head. The two voices I heard sounded exactly the same, but they weren't saying the same words. To make matters worse, painful memories of the haunting voices I had heard months before—and had since tried to erase from my memory—came rushing back to my mind at a supersonic speed.

Despite the jovial atmosphere, which I had been thoroughly enjoying, it became increasingly difficult for me to be social or even present as I mentally attempted to wrestle with the strong and heady force that was beating the drum and pulsating the lobe of my invisible ear. My mind was under siege by a severe and persistent attack. It got bumped, hit, beaten, slammed, and nearly tossed over the edge of the deep chasm between sanity and insanity by the grappling brain bashing power of the battling inner and external voices that were simultaneously pounding my mind to the brink of a mental breakdown.

My head was throbbing, and I was unable to think straight. I tried to relax my quivering body and calm my unraveling nerves by methodically taking subtle deep breaths while I gripped the wooden handle of the picnic basket I came with that I hadn't finished unloading yet. This desperate attempt to ground and center myself failed miserably.

I could no longer maintain my composure. I emptied the contents of my basket, which contained a brut bottle of bubbly that I wanted to give to the party hosts, and then politely excused myself. I feared that the swirling chaos overloading my mind was about to explode like sparkling wine gushing out of an uncorked champagne bottle.

Before I even had a chance to get lei'd, I hastily left the luau and hurried home. I didn't say a word—not a peep—to anyone about the uninvited guest that had crashed my mind and the invite-only private neighborhood party and pig roast.

## Broken Record

THE NEXT FEW DAYS WERE MENTALLY GRUELING and physically exhausting. My mind continued to be bombarded with and tormented by a never-ending deluge of internal voices and other peculiar sounds. (I now refer to the internal voices and other inaudible sounds I heard as the goons.) While the goons made their presence forcefully known, I tried to ignore them to the best of my ability; however, I became increasingly concerned about my mental health and emotional stability.

I can best describe the goons' voices—sounds I heard but others couldn't—as being somewhat like having a song stuck in my head. (An experience we've all probably had at one time or another.) But I wasn't hearing a catchy overplayed song, and I didn't have an earworm or stuck song syndrome. I was hearing deafening internal voices deep inside my head that wouldn't go away no matter what I did to try to mute them. Sometimes, listening to loud music helped muffle the voices and other sounds the goons made that only my invisible ear could hear.

At times, it seemed like I was engaged in a back and forth inaudible conversation with the goons that only my mind could participate in and hear. No verbal communication was required during those exchanges, not even lip reading. Mind reading hadn't crossed my mind, yet.

During the weeks that followed the party and my severe panic attack, I attempted to hold internal dialogues in my head by using the voices of my friends. I couldn't keep those inner conversations going for more than a couple minutes at a time. When the goons spoke to me with a voice that sounded exactly the same as the voice of someone whom I knew, those inaudible exchanges, which I heard all too well, frequently went on uninterrupted for hours and even days at a time without any effort whatsoever on my part.

I finally accepted the fact that something wasn't quite right in my mind. Worried and scared out of my wits that I was developing some sort of mental illness, I conducted extensive research on mental health disorders. Eventually, I stopped hearing the goons again, and so for better or worse, I chose to ignore the possible symptoms of schizophrenia that I might have been experiencing.

Despite the perplexing and excruciatingly painful mental trauma I suffered through that summer, I kept calm and carried on.

## Silent Reading

ABOUT A YEAR LATER, I TOOK A GIANT LEAP OF FAITH. I moved halfway across our great nation to a different city with different sounds. I traded the urban paradise that I had become comfortable with and often took for granted for a progressive utopia that I hoped and believed would provide me with a fresh perspective and golden opportunities. I headed west to San Francisco because my life in Chicago had become increasingly stagnant, and I believed a change in scenery would help me grow personally, professionally, and spiritually.

I missed my adopted home city and the sounds that came with the dynamic life I had there, but I loved listening to sounds I had never heard before. Instead of hearing the gentle waves of a Great Lake, I heard the pounding surf of the world's largest ocean. Instead of hearing the 'L' as it passed above me on elevated tracks (one of my favorite sounds), I heard the bells and cranks of cable cars filled with gleeful tourists climb one steep hill after another. Instead of hearing Midwest dialect and the various accents of people from all over the world living together harmoniously, I heard the voices of laid-back surfers, overly caffeinated techies, spirited hippies, and vocal liberal activists.

It may not snow in San Francisco, but there are more twinkling and stellar "snowflakes" in the Bear State and the Land of Milk and Honey than there were winter snowflakes in Chicago and the Land of Lincoln during the Snowmageddon of 2011. A catastrophic storm that shut down the city that works and left buses, cars, and commuters stranded on the city's awe-inspiring Lake Shore Drive (also known as LSD). Nevertheless, I went to work during the peak of the brutal blizzard. I don't even think that I had to wear a chook. Yooper blood is not only thicker than water, but it is also thicker than snow, ice, and even thicker than some of the horns I've seen hanging from camp buck poles.

My greatest fear of living in California was the threat of a catastrophic earthquake. Another fear of mine abruptly surfaced again. The goons followed me to San Francisco. As the roaring madness of the goons returned to my mind, my body started to shake violently. In addition to terrorizing my mind with the voices of my friends, the goons began haunting and taunting me with the voices of individuals I once knew who had since passed on. I began wondering if I was communicating with ghosts or developing psychic abilities.

I ruled out my short-lived theory that invisible spirits were summoning me when the goons started using the voices of elected officials from Chicago. I didn't have the mayor of Chicago's ear, but he had my invisible ear. The goons also disclosed some information about themselves, their purpose, and their reason for attacking my mind. They said that they were a secret government surveillance organization that screened and monitored current and prospective government officials. According to the goons, I was on their radar because I was being carefully considered for a future position in the government.

During one of my encounters with the goons, they instructed me to pick up a book, any book. I nervously scurried out of my room and rushed up a set of stairs to grab a book from my friend's vast personal library in one of the most exquisite and loving homes I have ever entered. Once I had a book in hand, the goons told me to open it and read the words on the pages to myself in my mind just like I would in a quiet library at school. This is how the goons ordered me to communicate with them. I had to do so in complete silence and without moving my lips even slightly.

The goons went on to reveal that I was a candidate for a training program that they could best describe as a boot camp for future political leaders. They asked me detailed questions about government and politics. Occasionally, they even complimented me on my depth of knowledge in those areas.

When I asked, the goons refused to provide me with any more information other than that they were a covert government agency. The goons went on to say that if I wanted to learn more about them, their mission, and the reasons why they selected me for their so-called training camp, I had to remain quiet, completely silent. I wasn't permitted to say a word about our encounters to anyone.

I remained tight-lipped but more intrigued and perplexed than ever before. I asked myself if the goons really were a secret organization trying to recruit and train me, why wouldn't they just contact me in person? Why did they only communicate with me telepathically? Despite my experiences with the goons, I still didn't believe telepathic communication was possible.

My limited knowledge of telepathy came from science fiction films and an article that I once read in a reputable science magazine about animals communicating telepathically with one another. I started to wonder if telepathic communication was possible in humans too. I remained very open-minded as I brainstormed and considered other possible explanations.

Was I hearing the voice of God? I was taught to believe that God was always watching and always listening. I ruled out my theory that God was communicating telepathically with me because the goons were usually very mean-spirited and mentally abusive when they spoke to me. I didn't believe that the God I worshiped and loved would say the things I heard deep inside my invisible ear.

Was I schizophrenic? This possible explanation had already crossed my mind numerous times, but I didn't think I was experiencing the same symptoms as the individuals I knew who did in fact suffer from schizophrenia. However, I did fear I was getting a glimpse into my future whenever I saw someone with schizophrenia. I thought about seeking psychiatric help.

I didn't know what to think, especially about what I was hearing. Thinking was part of the problem after all. I did, however, become increasingly anxious and troubled once I realized that the goons knew everything I did and thought—EVERYTHING! Even when I couldn't hear the goons, I often felt like they were watching me, listening to me, and analyzing every single one of my thoughts. It was a mentally draining, an incredibly creepy, and at times, a very humiliating experience.

Every thought I had was under constant surveillance, scrutiny, and attack by the goons. If you can mentally handle it, try to picture yourself being stalked. That is kind of what it felt like. But my "stalker" wasn't a shadowy figure I caught surreptitiously peeking into my window or following me down a dark alley. My invisible "stalker" surrounded and hounded me all day and all night. I couldn't escape or hide from the goons even if I was by myself in a safe, secure, and windowless room.

# FIRED UP! READY TO GO!

My fellow Americans, ask not what your country can do for you, ask what you can do for your country.

—PRESIDENT JOHN F. KENNEDY

## The Sounds of Success

I DIDN'T HEAR THE GOONS AT ALL over the next few years. They vanished without a trace—not that I looked for them—and without saying a word. I was once again able to enjoy the sound of silence. As my memories of the goons faded, my future began to get brighter.

After spending two rewarding years in San Francisco, I left the West Coast and moved back to the Best Coast (the Great Lakes region). I didn't leave my heart in San Francisco, but I left with a bigger heart from all the light and love I received during two of the most remarkable and memorable years of my life.

Blissfully back home in my adopted hometown and favorite city, which I deeply missed while I was away, I started a new job—a job I had dreamed of having for years. It wasn't a government position, but it was definitely public service related. I was a barista at a busy cafe. Every morning at work, I heard the voices and contagious laughter of some of the friendliest, funniest, and most interesting people I have ever met. Although I had to wake up before the earliest of early birds got their worms—and ride a bus and two trains to get to work—I never felt tired or unfeathered. I was as happy as a jaybird.

A year later, I made the sound decision to continue my formal education. I majored in Political Science. Instead of hearing frightening and mind-boggling internal voices (the goons), I attentively listened to fascinating classroom lectures taught by phenomenal professors. Moreover, I also received an invaluable and enlightening education from the unique and diverse life experiences and well-researched opinions of my classmates during our informative classroom discussions and debates.

I was excelling. I was an honor student, and my name was consistently on the Dean's List. I earned straight A's in most of my classes. I was recognized for my academic achievements by being named a Presidential Scholar. I also received an exclusive invitation to join an international honor society, which I accepted with sincere humility and great pleasure.

This was my third attempt at completing a college degree, so I had a lot of practice this time around. Although I hadn't graduated from college yet, I was very well schooled both inside and outside of the classroom. As the old saying goes: "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again." Not only was I trying again, I was finally starting to succeed.

Midway through my first semester back at school, a distinguished professor and student mentor at my college suggested that I consider applying for a highly selective and prestigious internship in our nation's capital—a coveted internship at the White House. I couldn't believe what I heard. My efforts and talents were finally being recognized.

On the proud day I submitted my application, résumé, essays, policy proposals, and letters of recommendation to the White House Internship Reviewing Committee, I ate Chinese food for dinner from one of my favorite local treasures. When I cracked open my cookie the fortune read: "Someday you will make an excellent statesman." I hoped and prayed it was a sign of things to come.

I waited for several months with great anticipation, but unfortunately, I didn't hear the response I had hoped for from the committee. I was disappointed but more motivated than ever before. I pushed myself harder, and I became even more active and involved in my community.

I could be seen and heard on the streets and on the phone gathering support for political candidates and social causes. I could also be seen and heard promoting my candidacy. I ran for and was elected to a position in the student government at my college. I loved being called Senator Harding. My friends and I thought it had a nice ring to it. Most of all, I loved listening to, addressing the concerns of, and working with other students I felt incredibly honored and privileged to serve.

When I wasn't at work, school, or studying and socializing at my favorite coffee shops, I could be seen holding campaign signs high above my head at political rallies and heard chanting catchy slogans at the top of my lungs at election night victory parties. On one of the most memorable and thrilling days of my life, I met my lifelong political role model—a human rights crusader, world leader, and U.S. presidential candidate. I tried so hard not to be nervous or star-struck, but as she made her way across the packed and boisterous UNION HALL to introduce herself to me and shake my hand, I froze solid like the Chicago River during a polar vortex.

No, I wasn't where I wanted to be professionally at this point in my life, but I was making some significant progress in the right direction. I was finally swimming upstream against the currents I was previously too weak and unprepared to swim against, until...

## Along Came a Spider Network

OUT OF THIN AIR, and faster than the speed of sound, the goons forcefully invaded my mind yet again. This time, they were more intimidating and direct than they had ever been before. The goons told me that whether I liked it or not I was part of the so-called Spider Network—a secret government organization—and if I ever wanted to work in the national government one day, either publicly or privately behind the scenes, I had to undergo their rigorous screening and monitoring—there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it.

The goons stated that regardless of how I felt about having my mind read and communicating with them telepathically, it was standard procedure for anyone who wanted to work in government. They emphasized that I needed to continue to cooperate with them and remain tight-lipped about our encounters. I reluctantly obeyed their orders.

The goons claimed that they knew everything about me, and a lot about my friends and my family. They revealed that they had been monitoring my life for more than a decade. The goons seemed to know more about my past than even I remembered. They brought back memories—good and bad—that I had long forgotten, and they reminded me of some of my past accomplishments and failures. They knew silly sayings and inside jokes I shared with my friends, and they even knew nicknames I hadn't been called since I was a child.

What bothered me the most—and still does—was that the goons knew every single secret that had ever been shared with me. Many of my closest confidants and even some strangers trusted me with their secrets. Secrets that I had kept private and fiercely guarded through the years. I could no longer keep anyone's secret—not even my own—because my mind was an open diary to a secret organization.

I struggled day in and day out as I tried to live with a secret that I didn't share with a single soul. A secret I desperately wanted and needed to talk about, but I didn't even know how to begin to explain it. I lived in a state of disbelief and shock as I tried to make sense of what was happening to my mind. The goons became so overpowering at times, I started to feel like I was living in an alternate reality. Some days, I felt like I was in a trance or under a spell.

No matter what I did or how hard I tried, I couldn't escape the goons or the myriad of different voices they used. They continued to mess with my mind by using the voices of my close friends and other people that I knew when they communicated with me. At times, in my weakened and fragile mental state, the goons managed to convince me that I was communicating with some of my friends telepathically. It was one of the worst experiences of my life.

In addition to mental head games, the goons inundated my mind with a plethora of detailed information pertaining to government, politics, and public policy. They started to schedule debate practice sessions with me. One of the goon moderated debates went on for more than a day uninterrupted! I begged and begged for a break. I can recall lying lifeless on my bed. I was so physically and mentally exhausted I couldn't move. Not that it would have mattered if I could have rolled out of my bed and walked away. Wherever I went, the goons followed. If they weren't on my mind, they were in it.

The goons and their relentless attacks on my mind were inescapable. I would go jogging on noisy city streets in the middle of the night trying to run away from what was happening deep inside my head. I could walk or run all night; nevertheless, the goons persisted, and I continued to hear every single whisper and scream they made as clear as day.

## Cloudy Hazing

I TOSSED AND TURNED AT NIGHT, and I was distracted at work and school during the day. I no longer functioned even remotely close to the way I once did. Before long, I resigned from my job, dropped out of college, and only communicated with friends and relatives—or anyone for that matter—when it was absolutely necessary. I couldn't think straight, let alone carry on a conversation with someone. I isolated myself from everyone and everything in the world I cared about, loved, and missed. Eventually, I confined myself to my lonely, desolate apartment, and I more or less quit living altogether. My perpetually closed window blinds took on a meaning of their own, and so did my cracked mirror.

Unfortunately, I couldn't quit the goons. I begged and pleaded with them to stop mentally torturing me; nevertheless, the goons' aggressive attacks on my mind and their devastating affect on my life grew wretchedly like a beastly weed. The goons seemed to take great pleasure in all the pain and suffering they inflicted upon me. I obeyed their every order and tried to appease their every demand, but it didn't matter. The goons viciously taunted and tormented me every single miserable minute of every single miserable day.

I was petrified to speak out about the goons to anyone. First, as is often the case with individuals who are victimized and abused by powerful people or organizations, I didn't think that anyone would believe me. I wouldn't have been upset if nobody did. It was difficult for me to comprehend what was happening to my mind and I was the one who was experiencing it.

Secondly, while I didn't swear to the goons that I would keep our encounters secret or place my hand on a bible and take a binding oath, I didn't want to blow my chance and destroy my lifelong dream of working in government one day if being monitored telepathically was a mandatory prerequisite in order to do so. I began to wonder if the goons' relentless harassment and incessant mind games were their way of hazing me.

At this point, I no longer had enough strength to swim against the raging currents and the pounding waves that were drowning me and my sanity. If I wasn't well on my way to some sort of a position in government, I was well on my way down a path toward insanity.

## Insane in the Membrain

AS I STRUGGLED TO KEEP MY SANITY INTACT, my life continued to fall apart. I was severely wounded and tightly tangled in the invisible but all too real web that the Spider Network had meticulously spun around me, and my personal failures kept me stuck and trapped in it. I made one unsound move and thoughtless decision after another after another... I foolishly started to numb my unbearable mental anguish and treat my escalating anxiety by self-medicating hard and often. When I was inebriated, I didn't always hear the goons, and if I did, I was less fearful of them.

During this long and trying period of unforgiving personal weakness and constant unsteadiness, my self-destructive behaviors and actions tightened the already firm grip that the goons had on me and my life. I cried and cried for mercy, but the goons refused to loosen the suffocating choke hold they had my mind, body, and soul locked in.

As the goons paralyzed and dragged me and my dying will towards Hell, the once respectable and fulfilling life I had built and loved imploded and burst into flames. At the same time, the omnipresent light that had always guided me through the darkest of times and evilest of moments started flickering and then burnt out.

I traveled at the speed of darkness for several harrowing months until the devastating effects of substance abuse and the goons decapitating head games sliced and diced the shadowy figure I had become into a million little unrecognizable pieces. Severely beaten down and scared senseless, I surrendered and completely handed myself over to the goons. I had lost all control over my mind and my life. I could no longer handle living, and I quite possibly went insane. I wanted to kill myself, well, at least what was left of me in the cold and dark world I was barely existing in at this point.

## Fire and Ice

ON A DARK, BRUTALLY COLD DECEMBER DAY, in an uncontrollable fit of heated rage, I sabotaged my promising future by destroying everything in my bedroom that represented me and my past. I tore out page after page of my political science books and urinated on them. I cut and slashed expensive dress clothes, ripped up personal letters of recommendation, crumpled and tossed out straight-A report cards, shredded my honor society membership insignia, and I threw my college ID out a window.

Anything and everything I had any personal attachment to that my angry eyes saw, and my enraged hands could grasp, faced my unforgiving wrath and fury. I punched the screen and smashed the keyboard of my computer—I especially hated technology at this point for obvious reasons. I even seriously contemplated hanging myself with the dangling cords.

At one point during my rampage, the empty eyes of my hollow soul glared into a broken mirror at the altered reflection of someone I no longer recognized—a hideous phantom who scared the hell out of me. By now, Michael was long gone, so he no longer had a reflection—only a dark shadow remained. I hoped and prayed that Michael was on the other side of darkness hiding behind light. The grotesque image I saw in the shattered mirror, and my rabid mouth spat on, wasn't Michael, it was evil goon spawn.

After my psychotic breakdown ended, my ravaged bedroom and damaged possessions mirrored my life. The pain, anguish, and mental turmoil that I had tried so hard to deal with and hide from the world for months had become visible for everyone to see. The goons' invisible presence in my life had now taken on a physical form of its own.

The mayhem and madness I was experiencing and causing wasn't over yet, and the goons made sure of that as they continued to provoke me and damage my teetering sanity. The goons told me that I was Satan, and in order for me to "crossover," I had to kill my body with fire so that my soul could be set free. They were my masters now, so I obeyed their command.

I grabbed an aerosol can that was on top of my once neatly organized but now ransacked desk—ironically, it was a can of insect and spider poison. I flicked my cigarette lighter and started to spray and burn clothes I hadn't already ripped apart. After that, I began to burn a hole in my mattress. It was the very bed from where I would watch countless hours of world news, political commentary, and educational documentaries. I then lied down on my mattress and closed my eyes—the windows to my soul—hoping I would never open them again.

An eternity passed by in no more than a few seconds. During that very brief moment in time, but an infinite period of darkness, the undying will of my severed sanity persevered and somehow managed to muster up the strength and courage it needed to sneak past the oppressive and cunning goons.

My eyes immediately jolted wide open, and I jumped out of my bed. I sprinted to the kitchen sink and quickly filled a pitcher of (holy?) water. I dashed back to my bedroom—Satan's Lair—and doused the small but still smoldering fire that remained on my bed and clothes. The air was smoky, but for the first time in only God knows how long, I could clearly see what I needed to do.

While trying to control the chaos inside me, I searched the chaos that surrounded me for my phone. I praised God when I found it unscathed. I turned my phone on and dialed 9-11 as quickly as my fingers could move—a call I should have made months before. Once I had an emergency dispatcher on the line, I briefly explained what I had done, described my past and on-going mental breakdown, and pleaded for help.

As I waited for an ambulance to arrive, I curled up in a fetal position on my bed, tightly hugged my blanket, cried my eyes out, and prayed, and prayed, and prayed...

When "help" arrived, instead of being taken to a hospital for the inpatient mental health treatment I had begged for, without any warning at all, I was pushed face down over a metal rail and handcuffed. Although I was cooperating with the police officers, they manhandled me down a flight of stairs and through a crumbling courtyard to an awaiting squad car faster than my bare feet could move on the cold concrete walkway. I wasn't even allowed to put on my winter jacket or snow boots. As I sat quietly in the back of the police car I noticed that there wasn't an ambulance within sight or sound.

I couldn't hear the goons anymore. Perhaps the ambulance I called for took those psychopaths to a mental hospital. If only it would have been that easy. In a perfect world, the goons would have been removed from society (instead of controlling it), but I didn't live in a perfect world. I lived in a world I no longer recognized, and I was about to be introduced to a world I never knew existed.

As the police officers who arrested me drove me to jail, I was able to hear silence again. The officers didn't talk to me at all. They didn't ask me a single question or utter a word. My rights weren't read to me, and I wasn't informed of the reason for my arrest. I assumed that I was arrested for setting my clothes on fire and for burning a small hole in my mattress. I immediately regretted and was remorseful for what I did, hence my 9-11 call, but the damage was done. Some of my belongings were burnt, and my life was in flames.

# INDICTMENT AND CONFINEMENT

For to be free is not merely to cast off one's chains, but to live in a way that respects and enhances the freedom of others.

—NELSON MANDELA

## Tipping the Scales of Justice with Money

THREE MONTHS AFTER MY ARREST, I was still locked behind bars. I had no choice but to remain in jail because I did not have the small fortune necessary to buy my freedom—to pay my outrageous and unusually high bail amount of $350,000. To make matters worse, my case was backlogged, and the investigation was at a standstill. Although I had been detained for months, I wasn't even informed of the nature or the gravity of the charge I faced yet.

As my case slowly crawled through the corrupt and broken criminal (in)justice system, I started to realize that courts of law move slower than I did on my leisurely Sunday strolls through Chicago. The city I began sorely missing the day I was forcefully removed from it. A horrendous day I wish I could turn back time to erase along with the reckless and dangerous mistakes I made that damaged the lives and property of so many people I cared about and still do.

Regrettably, I could not turn back the clock, and time was standing still. The seemingly motionless hands of the clock in my jail cell block moved faster than the speedy trial and swift justice I naively and foolishly believed my Miranda and constitutional rights guaranteed.

I once heard that the wheels of justice turn slowly. Based upon my personal experience as well as the experiences of other individuals whose heartbreaking legal battles I have closely followed, I now know that our judicial system is grossly unfair and often rigged. The increasingly crooked and dirty scales of justice are often weighed down by big bags of money. The wheels of justice are broken, and some of the wheels should be recalled.

## Jailing

AS THE MONTHS SLOWLY PASSED BY, I started to get used to some of the sounds I couldn't escape even if I wanted to in the tightly controlled and heavily restricted environment I was forced to live in since the day of my arrest. By far, the worst and most troubling sound I heard was the thumping and banging noise of a metal door being slammed shut and locked behind me—a sound my body and soul felt.

All day, and sometimes during the middle of the night, I heard the sounds of men shouting, cursing, fighting, and sometimes even crying. I was woken up more than once by the unforgettable and woeful sounds of a fellow inmate in tears. During the entire time I was in jail, I didn't hear any tears of joy—not once.

Not every sound I heard was awful and upsetting. One of my favorite sounds, especially when my stomach was growling, which was often, was the sound of a plastic food tray being tossed at the foot of my tarnished metal bunk. Immediately following "chow" distribution, I would hear yet another depressing and heart-wretching sound: the sound of starving men ravenously devouring the bologna sandwiches we were served each and every single day. About once a week, the lunch trays (basically Lunchables) came with a packet of mustard. Those were good days.

Despite the loud and often unpleasant sounds that accompanied my life in jail, I was once again finally able to hear my own internal voice without interruption. A voice that I knew came from my heart, gut, and brain. The inner voice the goons tried to and often did drowned out during one of their relentless attacks on my mind, body, and soul.

I hadn't heard the goons—the manipulative, controlling, and incapacitating force that conquered my mind and overthrew my common sense—since the day of my arrest. I was finally of clear mind and body again. A feeling I can't even begin to describe. My freedom was gone, but my mind was liberated.

Since I was in jail, I had all the time in the world to think about what happened on the day of my arrest as well as the days, weeks, and months that preceded it, and thinking was pretty much all I did. I spent almost every waking hour meticulously analyzing my painful memories of all the horrific experiences I knew I had but didn't understand and couldn't even begin to explain.

I thought about everything I did that was so out of character, so unlike me. I completely accepted and took full responsibility for my part in all of it, which was undeniably and ultimately the reason why I was in jail. My mind was imprisoned by the goons long before my body was locked behind bars; however, I began to realize that I should have taken action and talked to someone about my escalating mental anguish and other problems. As the old saying goes: "Actions speak louder than words."

I started to think more deeply and rationally about possible explanations as to why I heard the goons. I gave considerable thought to the following:

Were all the auditory hallucinations I experienced caused by alcohol and drug use? I thought a great deal about this possible explanation; however, I also realized that I heard the internal voices and other sounds the goons made regardless of whether I was sober or not. I didn't regularly use alcohol or other drugs prior to my four-month binge that led to my arrest and quite possibly my temporary insanity. I also heard the goons after years of being completely drug-free. I enjoyed a drink or three every now and then after a long day of work and school or at a social gathering, but I wasn't a sloppy bar star or a raging alcoholic.

Was I schizophrenic/mentally ill? Just weeks after my arrest and the goons vanished, I felt mentally and physically healthy. Overall, I was full of life and light in a place filled with darkness and despair. I also didn't think schizophrenia would come and go so abruptly. I would hear the goons for a couple of hours one day and then not hear them again for years. At times, they would completely occupy my mind for days and even weeks in a row before they suddenly disappeared again. There was no rhyme or rhythm to their madness—no cadence to their craziness.

I also questioned whether it was scientifically and medically possible for auditory hallucinations or schizophrenic delusions to create the realistic and convincing illusions I had experienced.

As I mentioned before, when the goons spoke to me they often used voices that sounded exactly like the voices of some of my friends, relatives, and other people I knew. My mind would often get trapped in conversations with familiar voices that only I could hear. Those conversations seemed shockingly real at times. So real in fact, all that was missing during those painful, mind-bending goon encounters was the physical presence of the person whose voice I heard.

Furthermore, could hallucinations or delusions teach me the meanings of words I had never heard of before, and provide me with information I had no prior knowledge of, which I later learned to be factual from reputable sources? I didn't think so.

As far-fetched as it seemed, I began to think more about telepathic communication. Since I was in jail, I couldn't research telepathy on the internet. My only contact with the outside world was written correspondence through the mail and an occasional really expensive phone call to one of my friends or relatives. I came to realize that not only did I not understand how telepathy worked (if it did in fact exist), but I also didn't know how phones and other communication devices worked either.

## Night Light

AFTER I USED A TELEPHONE TO CALL MY court-appointed public defender and my family, I believed that after spending almost three months in jail, I was finally going to be a free man again. I wasn't convinced telepathy existed, but I felt confident that I was going to have my ridiculously high bail amount reduced the next morning at my court hearing.

Usually, it was the hissing of heater vents, the rattling of water pipes, and the bright blinding glare of fluorescent light bulbs that prevented me from falling into a deep and sound sleep. That night, I couldn't fall asleep because I was so wound up and optimistic about my chances of being released from jail the next day. I tossed and turned all night. Instead of counting sheep, I counted the disgusting spit balls and other unsightly markings on the ceiling. I eventually dozed off when my mind got distracted and lost in the barely audible but stupefying and trancing white noise of the artificial lights that surrounded me. (Lights that surround us all and negatively affect our minds!)

A few winks of sleep later, the deep, resounding voice of a correctional officer shouting the names of inmates who had court awakened me from my restless slumber. I hopped out of my bed, and nearly hit my head on the bunk above me. As quick as a bunny, I rushed over to the mop sink to wash my greasy hair and oily face during the few minutes I had to get ready. The showers were closed at this early hour, so I worked with what I had at my disposal. I wanted to look as polished and put together as I possibly could for court, and for my family, who had traveled hundreds and hundreds of miles to be there for me.

Before I even had time to comb my wet hair, I was called down to the first floor of my jail division to the security check point where inmates get frisked, searched, and shackled before they are transported from the jail to one of the half dozen or so criminal courthouses located in Cook County. I didn't have to ride an armored, windowless bus because my assigned courtroom was only a few hundred yards away from the county jail; however, the long and emotionally draining journey would make numerous "pit" stops along the way and end up taking several agonizing hours.

## Tunnel Vision

HANDCUFFED TO ANOTHER INMATE, and with my head held high, I hobbled down the dark and dingy underground tunnel that connects one of the country's largest county jails (approximately 7,000 inmates on any given day) to the courthouse where I believed justice, at least for my family and me, would be served that day. I tried my best to hide my growing excitement from the other inmates I was chained to as I continued to feel increasingly optimistic that I was going to finally be released from jail later that day.

As I walked side-by-side with men who faced possible convictions for minor drug offenses to murder, I thought to myself that it was quite possible that at least one of the inmates in the group of about twenty men I was slowly shuffling to the courthouse with might be sent to prison, possibly for the rest of their life. It was hard for me to think about the justice I wanted and believed I deserved knowing that many of the men I was with would never know such justice.

I was behind bars with some very violent habitual felons and career criminals who deserved to be punished for their actions and removed from society until they are either rehabilitated or dead. With that being said, after I spent some time with and got better acquainted with other inmates, I began to realize many individuals with whom I was incarcerated were victims themselves. Victims of a system rigged against them. Victims of a society controlled and manipulated by a few powerful individuals and organizations that take great care and even greater pleasure in keeping certain groups of people down and ill-equipped to live up to their God-given potential.

## I Know Why the Caged Jailbird Sings

AFTER I ARRIVED AT THE FIRST CAGE in the basement pit of the courthouse, my handcuffs were unlocked and removed. The man I was shackled to and I were sent off in different directions, but his story of injustice remained bounded to the forefront of my mind as I mindlessly followed the yellow tape line on the concrete floor that I had to walk along during my transfers from one cage to another to another...

The story of injustice I heard from the man hand-cuffed to me as well as the stories of other individuals without a voice whose stories I heard and awful experiences I witnessed first-hand remain in my heart and on my mind, and they will remain there forever.

The second to the last holding cage I was locked in was painted yellow. The graffiti-covered bright yellow walls sort of matched the dried-up puddles of glowing urine on the floor, which in return complemented the feces smears on the wall near the seating area. Not exactly a place suitable for humans to be forced to wait in, let alone eat their lunch. But I was hungry, and I knew that it would be hours before I would be able to return to the much cleaner jail. As I began to eat, I tried to avoid even a slight glance at my revolting and vile surroundings. I just sat there and stared blankly at the discolored metal gate that led the way to the courtroom—the gate to Hell.

At least there was a roll of toilet paper on the broken sink and toilet that I was able to tear a few squares from and place on my lap to use as a makeshift napkin. I then ate my bologna sandwich in what was truly a mess hall. Many of the holding cages where I would have to spend hour after hour waiting for my minute or two in front of a judge were not only unsanitary, they often lacked something as basic and necessary as toilet paper.

I made an educated guess that the absence of toilet paper was the reason why an inmate had to "clean off" using the wall. I'm all but certain that the nearby judge's chamber was adequately stocked. He is so full of the stuff that comes with toilet paper he probably didn't have a square to spare.

## Buried Treasure

AS THE MORNING WITH NO SUNRISE PROGRESSED, for some unknown reason, I was transferred to a different, but still filthy and dungeon-like cage for further storage. I was moved just down the hallway from the cage where I am usually stored—the cage with the gate to Hell that guards the soundproof courtroom door. The cage where I had spent more hours than I care to think about to have, at most, a couple minutes of the court's time. The very court that had complete control over how and where I spent my time since I became entangled in their meticulously spun web of corruption and evil. Evil as dark as a judge's solid black robe (coincidence?!).

I found myself crammed between a wall and an even harder place. A place that will never escape my mind. A place where humans are treated like unwanted garbage and thrown away. I thought to myself that one evil and powerful man's garbage is another honest and insightful man's treasure. I didn't see any garbage from where I sat—but I did when I stood in front of the court. I saw hearts, minds, and souls made of gold. Tough diamonds in the rough robbed of their opportunity to shine by dark and powerful individuals whose bodies are made of nothing more than fool's gold, and whose hate-filled hearts are darker than coal and the darkest crude oil—nasty, nasty, evil people.

Deplorable people—more like trashy, revolting, and immoral court jesters—that I still had to deal with later that afternoon if I ever wanted my freedom back and an opportunity to take them down from their satanic temples secretly and not so secretly hidden behind ornate rotundas and swaying scales of justice by exposing them for who they really are. Not just by words, but by any peaceful means necessary to finally and forever expose their web of lies stacked on top of lies and secrecy that they have hidden—and not so hidden—right in front of our faces and deep inside our minds.

## Waiting for Our World to Change

AS I WAITED FOR MY NAME TO BE CALLED by the court, I practiced what I wanted to say to the judge over and over again in my head. I didn't have to memorize the words because they came from my heart and from deep inside my soul. I just wanted to make sure I was fully prepared to clearly and concisely vocalize my future vision to the judge knowing that I would only have a minute or two at best to address the court.

I was nervous to speak in the courtroom, but I looked forward to my opportunity to briefly explain to the judge exactly what I planned and hoped to do upon my release from jail. I was determined to try to get my previous job back—a job I loved and left on good terms. I also looked forward to a triumphant return to college to continue my education. I excelled in school in recent years. I only had one semester of classes to complete before I most definitely would have graduated with honors. I also planned to make an appointment with a psychiatrist and therapist to talk about what I had experienced (the goons) over the past several years.

I wanted to rebuild the productive and relatively normal life I had prior to all the madness that led to my arrest. This time, with a better grip on reality, and hopefully no further attacks from the goons. I was so incredibly grateful that I hadn't heard from them in months. The sound of silence that I once again enjoyed in my mind was music to my ears.

## Disorder in the Court

THE COURT SHOUTED MY NAME, and I was escorted down the dirty, dusty, and spider web covered hallway to the gate to Hell. As I entered the courtroom, I could see my mother, grandfather, and a family friend sitting in the first row behind the wall of dark-tinted windows that separated the court-room and the public seating area. I stood before the judge. An accomplished judge whom I admired.

I had heard that the judge assigned to my case was a former marine who had attended Chicago Public Schools. I couldn't help but admire and respect a man, a marine, and a judge whom I presumed originated from humble beginnings and did so much with his life and for our country against great odds.

Chicago Public Schools is a cash-strapped school system predominately made up of minority students that receives less funding per pupil than all the other (predominantly white) school districts in the state. CPS also has a history of being run by individuals as dirty and corrupt as many Chicago politicians. A former CEO of CPS was recently sentenced to prison for corruption. Members of the Chicago Board of Education are chosen by the crooks and cronies who run the city despite numerous attempts by parents and other concerned citizens calling for an elected school board.

I noticed the judge had a coffee mug with the logo of the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency) printed on it. I then wondered if he was associated with the CIA and government surveillance operations. I couldn't help but think that he might possibly know of the goons, since if the goons were in fact real, they'd likely be involved with surveillance operations.

I turned my attention to the American flag prominently displayed behind the judge as I waited for my hearing to begin. I felt calm, relaxed, and fairly confident about my chances of being released from jail that day as I gazed longingly at the American flag in front of me while knowing that my family was behind me. Just like they had stood behind me and supported me throughout my life.

I couldn't wait to bring my family, especially my grandfather (a union man), to the Chicago River the next day to show them how the Chicago Journeymen Plumbers Union dyes the river green during the city's annual St. Patrick's Day celebration. Given Chicago's strong Irish heritage, it's essentially the city's pride parade and festival.

Oh, how I love the American flag... I can fondly and vividly recall reciting the Pledge of Allegiance every morning while standing with my head held high next to my desk in the tiny little school with a big heart where my lifelong education began. It was a community schoolhouse that had phenomenal teachers and small class sizes. More than 30 years later, I am still close friends with several of my former classmates. One morning, while saying the Pledge of Allegiance, I sneezed uncontrollably. Since one of my hands was essentially glued to my heart, I couldn't block all the snot from my mega sneeze. A massive string of snot unlike any I had ever seen before covered me and my clothes. I was sent home sick, but not until after I finished reciting the Pledge of Allegiance.

I can also recall waking up at the crack of dawn and marching down several sets of stairs to an outdoor courtyard to pay respects to the American flag as it was proudly raised high up a flagpole while a band played the Star-Spangled Banner behind me. I was at Boys State, a summer camp of sorts where participants are taught about, form, and run a mock government. (Think about why I underlined mock government for a minute.) High school teachers nominate candidates who have demonstrated strong leadership and an interest in government. The American Legion, the veterans' organization that sponsors the program, interviews the nominees and then selects the lucky few students who get to attend. Oh, how I still love the American flag... I just wish we could knock the Spider Network's webs off it.

The judge called the court into session. I shifted my attention from the American flag to my public defender. My PD started speaking but she didn't say much. She informed the judge of what I could afford to pay for bail followed by a very brief and grossly inadequate description of what I did for a living prior to my arrest.

After my public defender finished making her short and weak statement, I raised my hand politely—just like I was taught to do in grade school if I had a question or comment. I wanted to provide the judge with a better description of who I was and who I wanted to become than my PD failed to do. The judge, with an annoyed look on his face, curtly motioned me to put my hand down. The judge then turned his attention to the prosecutor whom I once heard him refer to as the "arson guru." (Perhaps the judge referred to the prosecutor as the "arson guru" because she is a byproduct of Hell's flames and evil?!)

I noticed that the prosecutor ("arson guru") carried a planner that had a picture of a cat playing with a ball of yarn on the cover, which led me to believe that the prosecutor liked cats. I also assumed that the "arson guru" didn't like me as I attentively listened to her go on and on with her same old tired and factually inaccurate argument that even I had memorized by now after only hearing it a couple of times. Not in these exact words, but she more or less stated publicly on record to the court that I was a violent threat to public safety and a danger to society—very serious charges and arguably inaccurate claims to say the least.

I think it's worth noting that the prosecutor didn't know a thing about me. That is other than what was in a very thin file next to her all too symbolic cat-playing-with-a-ball-of-yarn planner, although a cat-viciously-attacking-a-scared-mouse would have been an even more appropriate cover. I knew that her file didn't contain my statement because I wasn't permitted to make one yet. I was never allowed to make a statement with an attorney present at this point, approximately three months after my arrest and indictment.

It became increasingly difficult and unbelievably painful for me to stand there and listen to the prosecutor utter one slanderous accusation after another, especially since she didn't present any physical evidence to support the defamatory allegations she made during the hearing—at least not to the best of my knowledge. I had yet to see any documents, evidence, or testimony pertaining to the state's case against me. Not even from my public defender.

My public defender never provided me with a copy of my case file. She also frequently flat out ignored me, refused to answer my questions, and she often looked at me and spoke to me in a degrading and condescending way. Only moments after I first met her, she walked away from me when I asked her a simple but very important question I had about my indictment. She not only made me feel like I didn't matter, she also made me feel like I didn't exist.

The judge agreed with the prosecutor, and he even added to the argument being made against me. (Whatever happened to independent and impartial judiciary as well as a defendant's presumed innocence until proven guilty?!) As the judge and the prosecutor continued to discuss how dangerous I was, I couldn't help but wonder if I would be granted an equal amount of the court's time to refute their claims and defend myself, especially since this was my bail review hearing, not a trial to prove that I was guilty. Since my public defender wasn't defending me, I once again politely raised my hand hoping I would finally be permitted to participate in the hearing at which my freedom was about to be determined.

CONSTITUTION OF THE STATE OF ILLINOIS
SECTION 8. RIGHTS AFTER INDICTMENT

In criminal prosecutions, the accused shall have the right to appear and defend in person and by counsel; to demand the nature and cause of the accusation and have a copy thereof; to be confronted with the witnesses against him or her and to have process to compel the attendance of witnesses in his or her behalf; and to have a speedy public trial by an impartial jury of the county in which the offense is alleged to have been committed.

The judge violated the constitutional rights of all Illinoisans by refusing to grant me an opportunity to speak at my hearing. He also denied my request for a bail reduction to an amount I could afford. He even went a step further to all but assure I wouldn't be a free man that day. He raised my already insanely high bail amount by $150,000. He set my new bail to $500,000—a half a MILLION dollars!!! My bail was now several times higher than the average bail of someone charged with kidnapping, rape, or voluntary manslaughter.

I think it's worth noting that the average bail range for an aggravated arson charge is between $75,000-$200,000. Besides a minor in possession of alcohol citation that I received when I was in college, I had no prior criminal record—not even a speeding or parking ticket. I wasn't considered a flight risk, and I didn't have a passport. The fire didn't cause any structural damage, and besides me, nobody was injured. Why was my bail set so high? I have a theory, but I'll leave it up to you to speculate...

I could no longer stand there and listen to the judge and the prosecutor portray me as a violent arsonist, especially since I wasn't permitted to make a statement or defend myself against the accusations that were made against me. I respectfully and calmly said to the judge that I was not going to leave the courtroom until I had an opportunity to speak to the court on my own behalf—to exercise my constitutional right. I folded my arms across my chest, and then I sat down to stand up for my rights.

As I continued to peacefully and patiently wait for my opportunity to speak to the court, albeit while now sitting rather than standing, the judge ran around the bench and positioned himself between the "arson guru" and me. The courtroom deviltry became more dramatic than a daytime soap opera. Nevertheless, I remained harmoniously seated on the floor (there were no chairs to sit on) and so far above the overly passionate and unnecessary spectacle that was unfolding around me in what was supposed to be a court of law.

All of a sudden, I felt an officer grab the back of my shirt. He then pulled me across the carpeted courtroom floor toward the gate to Hell and the cesspool the court calls an inmate holding cell or bullpen (FILTHY CAGES!!!). As I was dragged, my shirt collar became a noose. I grabbed my throat as I choked and gasped for air. I wouldn't have been able to speak on my behalf anymore if I would have finally been granted my constitutional right to do so. My body remained limp as I was pushed, shoved, and rammed against the bars of a cage. I was by no means fighting the officers, but I wasn't cooperating with them either. I was dead weight—as dead as my hopes of being released from jail that day.

I watched the boots of officers as they hauled my bloody, beaten, and spiritless body down the dirt and spit covered corridor floor to the tunnel and jail. The officers stopped only when I think that I passed out or fainted. I can recall my eyes being pried open as my motionless body was gently laid on the cold, disgusting floor. I literally saw stars and blurry images of the half dozen or so officers that arrived at the scene. Since that day, the stars on the American flag appear blurry to me.

Once I caught my breath and regained full consciousness, the officers transported me to the jail's hospital emergency room. While I waited for a medical examination, an incredible doctor, whom I had seen before for routine checkups, approached me and comforted me in my demoralized and depressed state. He thought that I had attempted to hang myself given the deep and bloody red welts around my sore and swollen neck. I was later physically examined and X-rayed by another doctor. I also received a mental health screening and a psychiatric exam.

A few hours later, I was transferred to 2N (the jail psych ward) for further treatment. I had sustained physical injuries—my body was covered in scrapes, bruises, bumps, and carpet burns—but my mind was okay considering everything I had been through. Not only were my rights abused, my body and the respect I once had for our judicial system were too.

The officers should have taken the judge who set my insanely high bond—the judge who didn't seem to understand the Constitution of the United States of America or the Illinois Constitution—and the crazy-cat-planner-carrying prosecutor ("arson guru") to the psych ward instead.

## Lady Justice Has Gone Gaga

LADY JUSTICE, THE MORAL FORCE in judicial systems, wasn't with me that day, but an immoral force was. As I tried to get comfortable on the psych ward floor in a plastic bed that looked and felt more like a toboggan, uncomfortable voices I hadn't heard in months rattled and shook my mind. The goons returned, and they had a message for me.

The goons said I had to get it together. They told me I was going to be part of the upper echelon of government someday. I just had to be patient and get my act together first. The goons went on to say they were going to take care of my indictment and bring my on-going legal battle to a close. They even said the Attorney General of Illinois was going to try to "broker a deal." Those were the goons' exact words. They told me once a deal was "brokered," I would be released from jail. By this point, given my past experiences with the goons, I wasn't buying what they were selling. I had learned my lesson. I could no longer trust the goons. They were full of hate, and they loved to lie to me.

The goons continued their web of lies by using the voices of my favorite professor of all time and the voice of the Attorney General of Illinois. I had never met the attorney general before, but I recognized the voice the goons were using from television—a voice I later heard in person when she welcomed my political idol to the stage of a campaign event I attended. Not only had I finally learned not to trust the goons, but I also learned that in order to have justice in America, well, at least in Cook County, you have to pay for it. Just like you have to pay for private access to public officials (pocket holders) in Illinois.

Several Chicago and Illinois politicians, including two recent governors, have spent time in prison for corruption convictions and various other crimes against humanity. Maybe I still do have a political future in Chicago. I just got my indictments and jail time out of the way ("The Chicago Way") before being elected to office rather than during or after. The former Illinois Governor who is currently in prison knows what it's like to not have a fair trial. FREE G-ROD!

To better protect Americans, President Trump should build walls around the Capital Building in Springfield, Illinois and government buildings in Cook County—also known as Crook County. Crime rates would plummet, and the world would be a safer and more peaceful place.

On second thought, since politicians, political appointees, and judges are rarely in their offices, that wouldn't work. Just like they don't work—at least not for their constituents. An indestructible and impermeable wall built around luxury spas, resorts, golf courses, brothels, country clubs, satanic temples, and fancy restaurants—places where politicians and judges like to go to sharpen their claws, refill their venom, and inflate their mega egos with hot air—would undoubtedly prevent those slimy snakes and cold-blooded reptiles from slithering back into an otherwise civil and thoughtful society.

How can you identify a Chicago politician or judge in a crowded room? Throw a bag of money on the floor and wait to see who is at the bottom of the pile. ("Snooki's got jokes...")

## SISU

SISU is a Finnish concept and cultural construct that is described through a combination of various English terms including stoic determination, grit, bravery, resilience, and hardiness. (Source: Wikipedia and my family)

IT WAS ST. URHO'S DAY, A FINNISH HOLIDAY similar to St. Patrick's Day, and although I was still in the jail hospital recovering from the wounds I suffered during my struggle for justice, I felt lucky and very fortunate because I had some financial assets I could use to hire an attorney. I called my mother to wish her a Happy St. Urho's Day and provided her with the information she needed to sell my stocks and liquidate my retirement account.

I also gave my mother the name and phone number of a well-known attorney someone had recommended to me. I wasn't going to wait for the Illinois Attorney General's Office to take action and "broker" a deal, as the goons claimed would be done; however, strangely enough, the "arson guru" was no longer involved with my case. At one of my upcoming court hearings, the judge announced that the "arson guru" resigned and took a position at the Illinois Attorney General's Office. Coincidence? I believe in coincidences, but I have never seen one. (The "arson guru" offered a position at the A.G. office?!)

My life and overall mental well-being continued to improve. I was released from the jail hospital and the horrible sounds that came with my stay there, although I could still hear the goons. The sounds the goons made no longer affected me and my mind as much as they once did. I was better-equipped mentally to handle the goons, and I started to accept that they were a part of my life whether I liked it or not. My indelible memories of the sounds of endless screaming, wailing, and pounding on walls that I heard while I was a patient in the jail psych ward haven't been as easy for me to accept.

There has got to be a better way to try to help and treat mentally ill individuals, especially before their illnesses get them into legal trouble. Cook County Jail, under the leadership of the county sheriff, as reported by a major cable news network anchorman, is trying. I strongly believe a national dialogue steadfastly focused on mental health disorders and treatment needs to begin in earnest.

## Guiding Light

UPON MY RELEASE FROM THE PSYCH WARD, I was transferred to a brand-new facility devoted almost entirely to the treatment of inmates with physical and mental health conditions. I had access to a psychiatrist, therapists, behavioral classes, and even art therapy.

As I entered my new division for the first time, I was warmly welcomed by other inmates. I was also greeted by the sunlight that sneaked into my world of darkness through the narrow bar-covered windows that wrapped around the top of the concrete wall. The sleeping area, day room, and bathroom of this impressive facility were relatively clean and sanitary, especially compared to the holding cages in the courthouse. All the sinks and toilets worked and were well stocked! The showers had hot water!

The shower water in the first jail annex I was housed in was almost as cold as the water I used to fish in through a hole drilled by my grandfather in the thick ice of a frozen Keweenaw Bay. I enjoy an invigorating dip in Lake Superior during the summer months, but the shower water in the first jail division I lived in was painfully cold. The frigid water might have been tolerable if I could have taken a hot and steamy Finnish sauna before showering. The temperature and high humidity in some of the courthouse cages I waited in for hours at a time sometimes felt as hot as a sauna.

By far my favorite secret spot in this unit was the metal counter of a handicapped accessible toilet and sink. When the correctional officers weren't looking, I would climb on top of the counter, stand on my tippy toes, and gaze longingly at the city and skyline in the distance. My body might have been locked up, but now I at least had a view of the city I loved and missed. I did get busted once for doing this, but the view was worth the risk of getting a ticket and possibly transferred to the hole.

Once a week, I was able to enjoy a film (no ticket required) thanks to the friendly and kind-hearted art therapist who brought much-needed light into my dark world. One week, I watched a beautiful and compelling movie based upon a true story that hit a little too close to home for me, well, more like too close to mind. As I watched the video, I couldn't help but wonder if the movie's main character was a victim of the goons.

The goons and I were getting along better. They talked all the time, which made my time in jail less lonely. Contrary to their previous treatment of me, the goons started to inflate my deflated ego. They assured me that I would have a future role to play in the government, and they also told me their secret organization had already decided that I was going to be the president of the United States of America one day.

The goons went on to reveal that they decide who will be president years in advance to allow adequate time for "preparation" and "grooming." As they put it, I was their "president-elect," and they continued to call me "president-elect" for months. The goons' new nickname for me was music to my ears along with the computer-generated songs they played that only my invisible ear could hear.

Some of the information the goons disclosed to me was informative and fascinating. All of it was deeply troubling and disturbing. They provided me with loads of information I desperately wish I didn't know... According to the goons, U.S. presidential elections—and many other elections—are well-orchestrated "sham-wows." They also divulged that they control every single function of the government as well as the individuals they hand select to "run" it. I will share more about what I "heard," learned, and experienced during my encounters with the goons (Spider Network) as permitted.

As for "President-elect Harding," well, it was entertaining to say the least. From an early age I had dreamed about a career in government and politics. The first television program I can remember watching was the live results of the 1984 presidential election. I was four years old at the time. I can clearly recall my grandfather (a life-long Democrat) yelling at the TV screen as President Reagan won reelection in a landslide. I also loved to build presidential campaign planes out of Legos when I was a kid. So obviously, politics and government fascinated me, even when I was very, very young. The goons knew this, and they used it against me to keep me quiet...

The goons told me that they had decided that I would run for president in 2036 and win; however, I wouldn't be elected to a second term. They even asked me where I thought my future presidential library should be built. My top choice was the campus of Finlandia University (formerly Suomi College), but the goons vetoed that idea. They said the Upper Peninsula of Michigan was too isolated and remote to attract throngs of visitors. Instead, the goons suggested my adopted hometown, Chicago, or the campus of the first college I attended, Michigan State University.

I found it very laughable each and every time the goons called me "president-elect." (I would literally LOL!) Come to think of it, maybe they weren't lying. After all, I was the president of my 4-H club, the president of my senior class, the president of my residence hall floor during my freshmen year of college, and I had some community organizing under my belt. By the time I was twenty-five years old, I already had more executive and community building experience than our current president and previous president combined. All I need to do is become the mayor of a rural small-town and point my moral (not mariner's) compass toward Washington and the White House. I could even ride one of the many moose that roam the U.P. to D.C.

Thanks, but no thanks, goons (Spider Network), I'll stick with my career in public service as a barista, plus I've never taken an acting class and I've never told a lie, in fact, I expose them...

I now realize the goons were just telling me what they thought I wanted to hear so that I wouldn't talk about my past and current encounters with them to anyone, especially since I had started seeing a psychiatrist and therapists. The goons once again made it abundantly clear to me that if I ever said anything to anyone about their existence I'd be "blackballed," banned from running for public office, and immediately disqualified from working in the United States government officially, unofficially, or at any other capacity.

At times, my ability to hear the goons was weak at best in the large jail cell I lived in that housed about forty men. So loud, I had to occasionally block one of my ears in order to better hear and understand the goons. This caught the attention of one of my friends once. Trying to avoid causing suspicion, I told him I had a pimple in my ear that I was trying to pop. After this incident, per the goons' request, I stopped blocking my ears to avoid drawing any unwanted attention. Instead, I would stay up late at night and communicate with the goons when most of the other inmates were sound asleep. Strangely enough, my friend who had seen me blocking my earlobe later mentioned to me that he had a terrible ringing sound in his ear. Something I've had, at the time of this writing, for almost three uninterrupted years in a row.

I now know that a persistent ringing sound in an individual's ear can mean that their mind is being scanned. Gently push down on the skin around your ears and listen for a ringing/buzzing/humming sound inside and around your earlobe. Doctors will most likely tell you that those sounds are symptoms of an ear infection. I highly doubt an ear infection can last for three years in a row uninterrupted. I haven't been diagnosed with an ear infection, and I haven't had an earache since I was a child. If only the ringing sound in my ear, and the goon sounds that come with it, would stop ringing like our country's Liberty Bell has.

## Trials and Tribulations

AS MY MEMORIES OF FREEDOM FADED, I gradually adjusted to life in jail. Instead of keeping a tally of the number of days and weeks since my arrest, I started counting months. I made the most of my time behind bars, and I had a lot of help. I made sure to stay away from and out of the way of the most hardened and violent criminals, but I also managed to meet some great men in this not so great place. Amazing, highly intelligent, funny, and big-hearted men I wish I would have met under better circumstances, but I am forever grateful that I had the privilege to meet them at all.

They have my endless heartfelt gratitude for all the light, friendship, and occasional laughter they showered me with during a dark time in my life that got even darker while I was still in jail. A time when I needed to be with my family and my family needed to be with me. My jail family helped me get through, by far, the darkest and saddest period of my life. I will never ever forget how these men, who were dealing with their own personal nightmares, helped me deal and cope with the unfathomable nightmare and horrific tragedy my family and I had to try to process: the disappearance and suspected murder of my oldest sister/childhood best friend.

Many of my family members and my friends on the other side of the jail wall also showered me with light and love. I received a steady stream of letters of encouragement, cards, magazines, and books. Books about the power of positive thinking, best-selling fiction novels, college textbooks—I had all the time in the world to read and study—as well as books about politics and government (essentially fiction). I was even sent a college textbook on communication. The goons and I could have added a chapter to it on telepathy.

My favorite book by far, besides the book about positive thinking that many other inmates also enjoyed reading as it got passed around the jail tier, was a book about a great group of people going through profound hardships and immense suffering together—they struggled to survive as they had to learn how to live in a world they no longer recognized. United by their shared beliefs and a common purpose, they didn't give up on themselves or each other. Eventually, they emerged from their state of shock and sorrow stronger and wiser than they had ever imagined possible. I was blown away by what I read. Their story inspired me in countless ways. I hoped my cavalry would come as I read it over and over again.

I also studied copies of the United States Constitution and the Illinois Constitution that my jail division's always cheerful and helpful law librarian gave me. She also printed me a copy of a legal ruling related to my charge. Based upon the legal ruling, which was made by an appellate court judge in Illinois, my charge didn't come close to meeting the criteria necessary for charging someone with aggravated arson, a Class X felony, the highest possible criminal charge besides murder.

The information the law librarian researched and provided me with could have been used to make a convincing argument to dismiss the state's erroneous aggravated arson charge that was filed against me. But my case wasn't dismissed. I don't even think the court looked over the document I had sent to them because it was never mentioned, at least not to me. (Please pardon my upcoming use of salty language.) I just kept getting screwed while I was in jail, but it wasn't in the showers. Time and time again, I got screwed and fucked over by the court system and by (so-called) people who are paid very well to assure that everyone in America has equal justice under the law.

It became painfully obvious to me that the Constitution of the United States of America, the Illinois Constitution, and a ruling made by an appellate court judge weren't going to help me finally have my day in court. I didn't have the financial means to buy my freedom—to post a $500,000 bail—so I carefully considered my few remaining options: trial by jury, bench trial, be reassigned to a public defender, or plead guilty.

I couldn't afford to pay for a jury trial. Obviously, I wasn't working, and I already had mounting legal and other bills that would financially imprison me upon my release from jail. A criminal defendant in Cook County can expect to pay at least $15,000 to start for very basic legal services. Criminal court trials, especially trials by jury, cost substantially more.

That is why people who have money to burn rarely spend a day in jail when they are charged with a crime. They simply post their bail, and then they spend hundreds of thousands of dollars—sometimes even millions of dollars—for the best defense their money can buy. It's also common knowledge that judges can be easily bribed. Yes, criminals with the financial means to do so can buy their freedom. In fact, that's usually how it's done.

A bench trial is another option I considered. A bench trial is a less costly and shorter trial because a judge decides the verdict instead of a jury. Given my past experiences with the judge assigned to my case, I doubted he would be impartial and conduct a fair trial. After all, during my prior court hearings, the judge arguably denied me some of the rights defendants in Cook County are supposed to be guaranteed by the Illinois Constitution and the Constitution of the United States of America. If the judge found me guilty, he would have probably ignored sentencing laws as well. Although the death penalty is illegal in Illinois, I wouldn't have put it past him to send me to the chair.

My other option was to go back to being defended by a public defender. A PD didn't defend me the first time I was assigned to one—neither are most defendants who don't have the means to pay for a private attorney—so that wasn't an option I wanted to consider. Furthermore, based upon other inmate accounts, I learned that trials in which defendants are represented by a public defender frequently take years to get through the broken court system. I was in jail with several individuals who had been waiting for their respective trials to conclude for years! I met someone who had been in the county jail for more than three years waiting for his trial to wrap up!

Since I was rotting in jail, and all my other options stunk to high heaven, I began seriously considering taking the "deal" the prosecutor who replaced the "arson guru" and my paid attorney "brokered." By now, the "arson guru" was probably slouching in a comfy chair in the Illinois Attorney General's Office hopefully working on finding the individual(s) who caused the Great Chicago Fire, presumably a true arsonist and a real threat to public safety.

From the public seating area of a courtroom, I recently observed an attorney from the Illinois Attorney General's Office slouching in his chair. The slouching attorney was later harshly lambasted by the courtroom judge for not addressing the court from the podium, his lack of preparedness for court, and his dearth of understanding of courtroom decorum.

Mrs. O'Leary's cow, a suspect of interest for more than a hundred years for its alleged involvement in the Great Chicago Fire—a fire that burned thousands of buildings in Chicago but didn't destroy the spirit of the city—was cleared of all wrongdoing in recent years. Maybe justice in Cook County is eventually served, it just takes a century or two. Or perhaps Mrs. O'Leary and her cow became better connected with the system by saving their milk money and using it to make bribes.

After being locked away behind bars for almost a year, I wanted and needed to move on with my life, so I pleaded guilty to avoid the likely possibility that I would have to spend several more years in the county jail waiting for a bench or jury trial to be motioned through the motionless (and emotionless) court system. Moreover, if I took my case to trial and was found guilty, I would have been sentenced to at least six years in prison, per state sentencing guidelines.

Although I wanted to have my day in court, I held my nose and took the deal that had been brokered. In exchange for a guilty plea, the state offered me two years of court supervised probation. I was also ordered to make $2,600 in restitution payments to my former landlord.

A $500,000 bail for $2,600 in damages, no injuries?! Yes, I'm a violent arsonist alright. At least that is what my criminal record now states whenever a potential landlord conducts a background check on me. And yes, I have to mark "the box" on each and every job application I fill out. When I see "the box" on a job application, I now know my résumé will most likely be thrown in the trash instead of being placed on a human resource manager's desk. Most fast-food restaurants even refuse to hire felons, which is very ironic because they poison children and frequently disregard safety and labor laws.

I have yet to see any invoices that list the damages I was ordered to pay for or even pictures of the so-called destruction I was accused of causing. To the best of my knowledge, no invoices or pictures were ever presented to the court, at least not when I was there. Perhaps the "arson guru" flashed them to the judge and the courtroom when I sat on the floor to peacefully protest the violation and complete disregard of my constitutional rights.

Was I charged for damaging my own personal property? That's all I recall damaging except for the mattress that came with the room I rented. The old, stained, dirty mattress that came with the overpriced room. Was it for the floors that had some minor burn marks on them when I moved in? Was I charged for the flimsy closet wall I accidentally dented and put a hole in when I moved some belongings around?

The previous questions I had (and still do) should have been answered in the courtroom, but I wasn't permitted to ask any questions or even make a brief statement to the court. I guess that is what we call justice in America. Justice that helped turn a young man with a burning fire in his soul for public service into a convicted arsonist. God Bless America, she needs it, or at least Lady Justice does.

For the record, I know what I did was wrong and reckless. I'm not saying that my dangerous and reprehensible actions should have gone unchecked and unpunished, but an aggravated arson charge?! (Aggravated arson is the highest possible criminal charge besides murder.) I also think it's worth mentioning again that I extinguished the small fire that I had set on my clothes moments after I lit it. All it took was a pitcher of water. It was hardly a roaring blaze, the Great Chicago Fire II, or a premeditated act of destruction and terror hatched by an arsonist or an aggravated arsonist. My criminal charge states otherwise:

(720 ILCS 5/20-1.1) (from Ch. 38, par. 20-1.1)

Sec. 20-1.1. Aggravated Arson.

(a) A person commits aggravated arson when in the course of committing arson he or she knowingly damages, partially or totally, any building or structure, including any adjacent building or structure, including all or any part of a school building, house trailer, watercraft, motor vehicle, or railroad car, and (1) he knows or reasonably should know that one or more persons are present therein or (2) any person suffers great bodily harm, or permanent disability or disfigurement as a result of the fire or explosion or (3) a fireman, policeman, or correctional officer who is present at the scene acting in the line of duty is injured as a result of the fire or explosion. For purposes of this Section, property "of another" means a building or other property, whether real or personal, in which a person other than the offender has an interest that the offender has no authority to defeat or impair, even though the offender may also have an interest in the building or property; and "school building" means any public or private preschool, elementary or secondary school, community college, college, or university.

(b) Sentence. Aggravated arson is a Class X felony.

The city, county, state, and federal government spent tens of thousands of tax dollars to prosecute me. They also picked up the tab for my housing, all my meals, medical care, and even my "dry cleaning" while I was incarcerated. During the same time, the Chicago mayor's office cut funding for public schools, mental health care, public transit, numerous other vital services, and failed to fund the pensions of city workers. I think it's worth noting that the city's credit rating plummeted (just like mine) while I was locked behind bars waiting for a speedy trial and swift justice, which I have since learned doesn't exist unless you have money to burn.

# 'L'OVE

Spread love everywhere you go. Let no one ever come to you without leaving happier.

—MOTHER TERESA

## Freedom's Just Another Word for Illusion

ON A SUNNY, UNSEASONABLY HOT NOVEMBER DAY, I plowed through the cold metal turnstile exit gates of Cook County Jail and entered freedom I hadn't known for ten and one-half long months. I wouldn't have spent a single day, night, minute, or second in jail if I would have been able to pay my bail.

My body was free again—a noticeably larger body. I gained more than fifty pounds (most, if not all of it fat) while I was imprisoned in the human version of a dog pound. I attributed my excessive weight gain to my bologna sandwich and honey bun diet as well as my lack of exercise while I was incarcerated. During my entire time in jail—almost a year—I was only allowed to use the jail's outdoor yard area once. To be fair, I did have access to an indoor recreation room, nicknamed the bird cage, for about an hour a week.

I might have been free again, but my mind wasn't. It was still being hounded by the goons, although they should have been caged behind locked doors with an insanely high bail or preferably no bail at all. Indelible memories of my experience as well as the experiences of other inmates I had the privilege of getting to know were also firmly locked in my mind. I was finally leaving jail, but the jail didn't leave me.

Neither did the education that I received from the so-called correctional facility with razor-wire-covered walls that I wasn't taught at the universities and colleges with ivy-covered walls that I have attended. Not to be confused with the poison-ivy-covered walls of private Ivy League schools. (I'm proud of the fact that I've only ever attended public schools. I hate the fact that public tax dollars fund private schools and the education of EL-ITES.)

It's an education one can only receive when they are forcefully taken away from their friends, their family, and their life by people in power while also being denied their constitutional rights and human rights by people in power. Powerful people who use the power they are entrusted with to abuse people, who in many cases, helped put them in power. A number of powerful people abused me as well as the trust and utmost respect I once had for them and the institutions they represent. (I intentionally used the words power and powerful redundantly for a reason.)

## Window to the World

WHEN I WAS IN JAIL, I FANTASIZED AND DREAMED about what it would feel like to be free again. As I exited the fortress-like security perimeter that surrounded the county jail, I was hardly joyful or excited. Life in jail had beaten me down—mainly my battle for fair and balanced justice. I didn't look back as I walked along the broken and weathered sidewalks that form a labyrinth of sorts around the jail and courthouse, but I could still unmistakably feel bone-chilling evil behind me.

Once I made it through the rings of Hell, I began searching for the currency exchange that someone had told me was nearby. I needed to cash the check I received from the jail for $36 and change. That was the amount left remaining in my family and friend funded commissary account that I hadn't spent on honey buns and instant coffee packets.

My state ID was also returned to me. My phone, ATM cards, and credit cards were no longer at the jail. The correctional officer who processed me out told me that the police department sends unclaimed items to a warehouse in Southern Illinois after an inmate has been in jail for thirty days. I thought to myself that this would have been nice to know when I was arrested and booked so I could have had somebody pick up my phone and wallet for me. Perhaps the officers who arrested me forgot to tell me this when they also forgot to read me my rights.

It was late in the evening, so both of my banks were closed. Since my wallet and everything in it had been confiscated and sent downstate, I didn't have any ATM cards I could use to deposit my check or withdraw cash. Thankfully, the kind lady behind the window at the currency exchange I went to after I finally found it was able to cash my check. I then walked out of the currency exchange with about $30 in my pocket and departed on a mission. I wanted to ride the 'L.'

From the currency exchange, I walked a couple of blocks before I reached the 'L.' Along the way, I took in the sights and sounds of one of my favorite neighborhoods in the city—a little village with a big heart. It felt so incredibly good to hear spirit-lifting music jamming from car radios again, to savor the mouth-watering aromas of some of the best food I've ever tasted, to see brightly colored murals on the sides of buildings and walls (street art painted by amazingly talented artists), and to see and hear people talking, singing, and laughing. I was finally able to hear the heartening and uplifting sounds of life in the land of the free again. My favorite sound of all was the 'L,' which I heard and felt as it rushed down the elevated tracks above me.

Once I arrived at the station, I tapped the farecard the jail had provided me with on the card scanner, practically danced through the turnstile, and then skipped and hopped up the moving escalator steps. I didn't take the stairs, but I nearly lost my breath when I reached the heavenly platform high above the ground. For the very first time in almost an entire year, I had an unobstructed and breathtaking view of the world's greatest city and skyline, albeit through tear-filled eyes. I didn't know where I was heading, or where I was going to sleep that night, but I knew where I was standing. I was finally home again.

It's too bad that there wasn't a street musician playing a harp to greet me when I reached the top of the escalator, although there most likely was a solo musician or band playing on at least one of the subway tunnel platforms. I luckily got to enjoy the musical talents of the young lady with the angelic voice and magical guitar-playing fingers on the Pink Line later in the week.

As I boarded the 'L,' I sat right next to a window that faced the sparkling city skyline—every single window offers passengers a view of a thriving global community. A ticket to ride the 'L' costs a couple dollars—a bargain price for a trip that takes riders around the world. Sometimes, if you're lucky, you also get treated to a concert and various other one-of-a-kind talent shows.

I was riding high above the streets and at or just above the homes, schools, libraries, restaurants, cafes, shops, markets, churches, mosques, temples, galleries, theatres, museums, parks, gardens, and SOULS of just a few of the more than fifty vibrant neighborhoods that make Chicago such a uniquely special world-class city. I traveled through a couple South Side communities, circled the Loop (downtown), and then headed uptown toward the North Side. I had lived in many of the neighborhoods I passed by at one time or another. I had, at the very least, visited all of them.

Unfortunately for our children's future—and the future of our society—about fifty community public schools in Chicago were closed down, emptied, and shuttered in recent years. Tens of thousands of students were displaced, and communities were torn apart. I firmly believe that only a fool would close a school—or an asshole! When politicians close schools (and mental health care facilities) with one hand, and break ground on a new jail complex with the other, voters need to hand them a pink slip.

Chicagoans urgently need a new sheriff in town! The Cook County Jail has a phenomenal one, and the courageous and courteous public safety and law enforcement officers of the Chicago Police Department have had a lot of strong leaders in recent years. Since I'm on the subject, I don't think it's right or fair to demonize the city's "deputies" (police department) for the actions and inaction of the city's "sheriff" (mayor). I could go on and on...

Full disclosure: I originally supported the mayor. In fact, I volunteered for his first mayoral campaign, and I even attended his election night victory party. Since then, I've gotten a little older, a lot wiser, and I now pay much more attention to the actions and inaction of politicians than I do to their calculated, scripted, and sometimes even poetic rhetoric—pretty speeches filled with lies and broken promises.

As I continued my welcome back tour through the city where many of my dreams had become a reality, I still didn't know where I was going to sleep and dream that night. I wasn't thinking about much at all. I was mesmerized by the magnificent view I not only saw but also felt as I basked in the warm and brilliant glow of a big epic city with a friendly small-town vibe.

Through my eyes (soul) and heart, Chicago is a shining beacon of light that proudly rises high above the sandy and tree-covered southern shore of a vast freshwater inland sea. She is a sturdy and dynamic lighthouse of sorts brightly lit by all the dazzling, radiant, and stellar souls that give her the majestic splendor and the illuminating light that has guided and protected me during periods of darkness. My memories of when I lived, learned, laughed, and loved in her infinite light still lift me up when I feel down.

For a couple of hours—not that I was watching the clock—I stared out the panoramic windows of the 'L' at a miraculous view of a community built by and home to millions of strong and spirited souls. Eventually, I decided to get a cup of coffee, the fuel of my body. (The fuel of my soul is light and love.) It was late in the evening, but I still wanted a cup of morning joe. I knew exactly where to go after dark to get a freshly brewed cup of bold light roast that wouldn't be bitter and stale.

I got off the 'L' and entered one of my old stomping grounds. I walked down a few lively blocks before I finally made it back to a coffee shop that I used to frequent often. A place that I probably spent just as much time at—if not more—as I did at home or school.

With all my might, I enthusiastically pulled open the smudge and fingerprint covered glass door and entered the cafe. I paused for a moment to take it all in. Although I hadn't been there for what seemed like forever, my senses immediately recognized the familiar look, sounds, aromas, and comforting feel. My life had changed drastically during the past year. It felt so good to be somewhere that hadn't changed much, if at all.

I was warmly greeted by one of the busy baristas who, to my surprise, recognized me after my long absence. I took a seat on a stool that faced the floor-to-ceiling windows. It was the same spot I used to sit at almost every single day while I checked my email, typed and studied notes, wrote speeches, and worked on other homework. Some days, when I wasn't focused on schoolwork or mindlessly scrolling through my social media accounts, I would just sit there and watch—through my windows to the world—a live and unscripted documentary about life unfold right before my very eyes.

After I spent a few minutes appreciating and enjoying what I had lost but found again, I realized that I needed to call my other home and notify my family that I was out of jail. I briefly spoke with a barista about my situation, and before I knew it, he kindly offered to let me use a phone. I called a couple of people to share the good news.

Everyone I talked to had already been informed of my release from jail, and they were anxiously waiting to hear from me. My childhood and lifelong friend addressed my most pressing problem—where I was going to sleep that night—by making a reservation for me at a hotel downtown. At last I thought, a bed with two sheets and a room all to myself. Well, I wouldn't be completely alone in my hotel room, the goons were still with me.

Tightly holding onto my ubiquitous white paper cup, I filled my pockets with sweeteners (just a few packets), a couple of bright green straws, and made my way out of the neighborhood cafe. Not only was I back, more importantly, I was back at it again and I couldn't have been happier. My mind was filled with the sounds of the goons, but it was also refilled with a renewed sense of purpose. I had another shot to do "write" by you.

## Pee-Wee, May I Borrow Your Tinfoil Ball?

THE DAY AFTER MY RELEASE FROM JAIL, I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist. I was diagnosed (misdiagnosed) with schizoaffective disorder. For the next year and a half, I received a variety of intensive mental health care treatments from an extraordinary and caring team that I always looked forward to seeing during my bi-weekly appointments.

Unfortunately, none of the medications, therapies, or other medical treatments I received reduced the resounding and never-ending voices of the goons at all, not even slightly. (A patient can't be cured of or properly treated for a medical condition they don't have.) If anything, all the prescription drugs I had to take by the handful every morning and again at night made my life much worse; the goons continued to attack my mind, and to make matters even worse, my body was drained of the vim and vigor I needed to rebuild my severely damaged life.

After more than a year of strictly adhering to schizophrenia medications that had successfully treated other patients but failed to even remotely reduce my rapidly escalating and increasingly debilitating symptoms, I finally knew (without a single doubt in my mind) that I was unwillingly communicating telepathically with a covert government surveillance organization—the Spider Network. I began to accept this one restless night and distracted day after another as I tried to figure out what I could do about it, if anything. I even considered wearing a tinfoil hat.

## Alexa, Siri, How Does Technology Work?

I CAN'T EXPLAIN HOW TELEPATHY works or even how it is possible. (Can anyone prove that telepathic communication doesn't exist or isn't possible?) Just like I can't explain how I can pick up my cell phone in California, hit a single button, and within seconds hear the voice of a friend in New York. I can't explain how I was able to watch a live stream of the Chicago Blackhawks playing in the Stanley Cup Finals in Tampa, Florida on my laptop in Illinois. I can't explain how I can access pictures and documents stored on my phone from a friend's computer or phone. I can't even explain how I can print this manuscript from a printer a few feet away from me. No cables or wires are needed for any of the above. Just Wi-Fi and radio waves sent from satellites, towers, and so on (the "Smart Grid").

More waves than there are in all the world's greatest lakes and oceans combined. More waves than excited fans in the stands of Comiskey Park, Wrigley Field, and disappointed fans in the stands of the ballparks of lesser major league baseball teams can generate. More waves than I've seen on my countless long walks and short strolls through the many cities and other communities I've had the privilege of living in or visiting. More waves than I've seen in the classrooms, hallways, and campus quads of the many schools I've been fortunate to attend. So many radio waves in fact, I can actually see them with my naked eye. You probably can too even if you don't have 2020 vision like I do. More on my 2020 Vision, a book I'm writing, at a later date.

## Eeyore, I Feel Your Pain, Honey

A CLOUD FOLLOWS ME WHEREVER I GO. A cloud most likely follows you wherever you go too. My head has been in a cloud right next to all my pictures, documents, text messages, and everything else that is stored in my digital footprint. Is your digital footprint, which most of us mistakenly believe is private and secure, in a cloud?

I now know, with complete certainty, that all my thoughts are in a cloud. I believe and worry that yours are too. Can you hear faint buzzing sounds in your ears? Have you ever heard the sounds of silence deep inside your invisible ear (inaudible voices and other uncanny sounds)? If so, you most likely don't have tinnitus, and you're probably not schizophrenic. It's much more likely that your mind has been hacked and is being monitored by the so-called Spider Network (the government's secret surveillance, mind reading, and mind control operation).

I'm not trying to scare anyone. The main reason why I decided to write this book was to inform and educate others about my experience with and comprehensive knowledge of government psychological warfare so that other unsuspecting targets of this sadistic government-sponsored domestic terror operation could identify whether they or one of their loved ones are also being attacked. Its existence and devastating effect on people's lives aren't widely reported yet, but it's all too painfully real, and it's affecting the lives of countless innocent victims.

You now have my personal account as well as a substantial amount of verifiable evidence. A simple internet search can easily provide you with even more information. I'll leave it up to you to be the judge.

## The Walls Have Invisible Ears

I STILL GO FOR LONG, INVIGORATING WALKS to clear the cobwebs from my brain and to take in the sights and sounds of life in the miraculous world around me. Instead of city slicking, I can sometimes be seen berry picking as I taste the fruits of nature during one of my journeys through the woods to enjoy the sights and sounds of nature that coexist harmoniously and peacefully in the wondrous world I live in that is home to so many incredible people, brilliant minds, loving hearts, and spirited souls.

I have yet to meet a "spider" in person that I'm aware of, but I'm still in constant telepathic contact with the Spider Network's goons that first whispered and then screamed into my invisible ear more than ten years ago.

Occasionally, during my leisurely strolls, hikes, bike rides, and day-long jaunts through enchanting forests and up tree-lined hills, I see spiders. Those eight-legged wonders of nature don't scare me, but the "spiders" that hid in my mind for more years than I care to think about do. While I might not be afraid of the spiders that live outdoors or hide inside walls—the walls with ears—I fear and worry that the Spider Network's spiders (goons) may be hiding in your mind and hurting you without you even realizing it, yet.

I hope and pray nobody else gets caught up and trapped in the Spider Network's web like I did. Be mindful of your mind. If you hear something, say something. Don't let the Spider Network's evil and hate trump your goodness and love.

))) THE END, FOR NOW... (((

SOMETIMES THE END IS THE BEGINNING...

# BILL OF RIGHTS

When injustice becomes law, resistance becomes duty.

—THOMAS JEFFERSON

I had planned to add a copy of the Bill of Rights to this book, but I decided not to for symbolic reasons. My rights, rights guaranteed by the Constitution of the United States of America, were violated. Our constitutional rights are infringed upon each and every day. The Bill of Rights has been replaced by a myriad of other laws and acts that have significantly diminished our rights to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

Countless new and often unconstitutional laws and policies are enacted and strictly enforced every day while the basic rights and freedoms upon which our country was founded are frequently ignored and forgotten. Rights and freedoms that should extend to every American regardless of who they are or who they are not. In our great country, We the People has become We the Powerful Few.

I don't think all hope is lost. I'm optimistic that we can take our country back and make it better and fairer than it has ever been before. I have been passionately working on a project that I hope to share with you in the coming months. It involves my 2020 Vision. I may have an invisible ear, but I also have an indivisible love for our country and the promise of our great nation that was envisioned by our country's Founding Fathers.

# SPECIAL THANKS

As you grow older, you will discover that you have two hands, one for helping yourself, the other for helping others.

—AUDREY HEPBURN

Contrary to what I wrote in the story of this book, I would like to thank law enforcement and community safety officers. I hold no grudges against the police officers who arrested me, nor do I hold any grudges against the correctional officers who removed me from the courtroom during my peaceful protest. I understand that they were following orders and doing their job. I have the utmost respect and admiration for the brave individuals who put their lives on the line to protect our lives. I have been protected by and cared for by the police more times than I care to think about. I want to mention that although I was taken into custody without being able to put on foot wear, a police officer gave me a pair of his shoes shortly following my arrest. Years later, when I was homeless, Chicago police officers provided me with food, and connected me with an emergency shelter. I could go on and on and on... When I was incarcerated, the correctional officers always treated me with courtesy and respect. They never made me feel like I was anything less than human in a dehumanizing place. I could go on and on and on... I will forever be grateful for their selfless and dedicated service to our communities and their service to me.

I would like to thank the Cook County Sherriff and the cable news network anchorman who brought much-needed awareness to the plight and treatment of mentally ill jail inmates. After I was released from jail, I randomly came across and watched their informative news segment about new approaches to caring for and rehabilitating mentally ill individuals incarcerated in Cook County Jail—a model that should be implemented nationally. Coincidently, I lived in two of the divisions where filming took place, and I'm friends with a few of the inmates who can be seen in the background. I take great comfort in knowing that some individuals in positions of power are listening to voices that often go unheard and are bringing much-needed awareness to causes that affect us all.

I would like to thank the caring and compassionate Cook County Jail physical and mental health care teams for their tireless and often unthanked efforts that they put forth each and every day as they strive to improve the health and well-being of inmates. They're miracle workers one and all! They not only vastly improved my physical and mental health, but they also managed to make me smile and laugh a few times in a not so happy and funny place.

I would like to thank the mental health care team—the core of my recovery—that tried to treat my goons following my release from Cook County Jail. While their professional medical expertise didn't eliminate or lessen the goons' voices, they took phenomenal care of me, and they helped me radically accept even the most difficult facts of life, such as the goons' presence in my mind and many other unfortunate and inconvenient truths. I always looked forward to seeing everyone on their remarkable team during my appointments. Together, they helped me improve my life by inspiring and empowering me in countless ways.

Speaking of accomplished teams, I would like to thank the Chicago Bulls and the Chicago Bears. I thanked my other favorite professional sports teams by mentioning them in the main story of this book (Chicago Blackhawks, Chicago White Sox, and the Chicago Cubs, at least when they are not playing the White Sox), but I couldn't find an appropriate spot to mention Da Bears and Da Bulls. All of Chicago's professional sports teams have provided me with a much-needed occasional break and distraction from the political games I closely follow. I must say, and I cannot stress this enough, many of Chicago's professional athletes are much better sportsmen and humanitarians than most professional politicians have become.

I would like to thank my friends and family who have stood by my side, supported me, and believed in me through good times and challenging times. I love them with all my heart, and I wouldn't be the honest, loving, and caring man I am today without them and the guidance with which they have provided me.

I would like to thank the natural world. Many of us have forgotten or never realized the natural world provides us with everything we could ever want or need. It's time to heal the world and humanity peace by peace.

Last, but certainly not least, I would like to thank my jail family. I not only found out who my real friends were when I was incarcerated, but I also formed tight bonds with some great men who are stronger than the jail walls we met and became friends behind. I most certainly don't miss jail, but I miss and often think about the incredible men I had the privilege to get to know in Cook County Jail. Although there "ain't no favors in the county," I met some of my favorite people in the whole wide world while "jailing."

# ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Even a small star shines in the dark.

—FINNISH PROVERB

Michael Harding is a proud uncle and brother always. He is a public servant by day (barista), and depending upon the season, a snow shoveler, gardener, and stargazer at night. He's been surrounded by "stars" his entire life. He is a Finnish American, Yooper, Michigander, Chicagoan, city slicker, berry picker, and a cosmopolitan redneck who is addicted to caffeine and has been known to occasionally pick up and move whenever he feels like it's time for him to take a vacation.

Michael has never met a person he didn't like, and he loves to spend as much time as possible with his many friends, family, and pets—preferably in the great outdoors with a cup of coffee in hand. He hopes to continue his career in public service by shedding some light on the darkness that prevents the beautiful people, loving souls, and brilliant ideas that exist or are trying to exist in our wondrous world from shining brightly and boldly. Let's light up the darkness!

Michael never officially completed college, but he is well educated in other ways. He is an engaged and attentive lifelong student of the fascinating world that surrounds and hugs him. Besides our planet and sky, some of Michael's other teachers are his curiosity, friends, family, and strangers he has not yet had the privilege to meet personally and get to know. He promises always to do "write" by you while keeping in mind that actions speak louder than words.

Feel free to say hello to Michael if you see him out and about walking to the beat of his favorite city streets, hiking in the woods, riding his beloved 'L,' or if you see him at one of his favorite cafes enjoying a cup of coffee and a view of the world.

Please feel free to contact Michael Harding at:

outshinedark247@gmail.com

https://outshinedark.wordpress.com

facebook.com/superyooper

(Super Yooper was Michael's nickname when he was a student at Michigan State University.)

GO GREEN! GO WHITE!

Or just ask the goons about Michael. They probably know more about him than he knows about himself.

# WISE WORDS BY WHICH TO LIVE

(I didn't want to end this book with a preposition.)

Do all the good you can.

By all the means you can.

In all the ways you can.

In all the places you can.

At all the times you can.

To all the people you can.

As long as ever you can.

—JOHN WESLEY

When the student is ready, the teacher will appear.

— _BUDDHIST PROVERB_

The things that we share in our world are far more valuable than those which divide us.

—CAPTAIN DONALD WILLIAMS

The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched - they must be felt with the heart.

— _HELEN KELLER_

It is during our darkest moments that we must focus to see the light.

—ARISTOTLE

Tough times never last, but tough people do.

—ROBERT H. SCHULLER

Let no feeling of discouragement prey upon you, and in the end you are sure to succeed.

— _PRESIDENT ABRAHAM LINCOLN_

If they give you ruled paper, write the other way.

—JUAN ROMAN JIMENEZ

Wisdom begins in wonder.

—SOCRATES

I pledge my head to clearer thinking, my heart

to greater loyalty, my hands to larger service,

and my health to better living, for my club,

my community, my country, and my world.

—4-H PLEDGE

May all beings be peaceful.

May all beings be happy.

May all beings be safe.

May all beings awaken to the

Light of their true nature.

May all beings be free.

—Metta Prayer

# LAST BUT NOT LEAST

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world: indeed, it's the only thing that ever has.

—MARGARET MEAD

I'd like to end this book the same way my classmates, teachers, and I started each and every day of class at Laird School. The tiny community schoolhouse in the heart of the twin cities of Alston and Nisula, Michigan where my keen interest in learning started to take root along with my most prized and hearty friendships:

THE PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE:

I pledge allegiance to the flag

of the United States of America,

and to the republic for which it stands,

ONE NATION UNDER GOD, INDIVISIBLE,

WITH LIBERTY AND JUSTICE FOR ALL.

GOD BLESS AMERICANS!

(Just not the "goons" that control the government.)

I'VE ONLY JUST BEGUN TO DO "WRITE" BY YOU!

ONWARD AND UPWARD BOUND ALWAYS!
