"Yet each of us has the indisputable impression that the sum total of his own experience and memory forms a unit"

JOURNAL ARCHIVE: From: Kerry Burgess

To: Kerry Burgess

Sent: Tuesday, May 9, 2006 6:01:15 PM

Subject: Right


I wonder if this is where that guy painting the picture was standing?

http://local.live.com/?v=2&sp=aN.47.619681_-122.348911


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 09 May 2006 excerpt ends]













https://www.google.com/maps/@47.6191758,-122.348918,3a,75y,4.04h,108.24t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1s-lfueBIXwUv3LKH8_yDIyw!2e0!7i13312!8i6656

Google Maps


156 4th Ave N

Seattle, Washington










https://www.google.com/maps/@47.619317,-122.34844,3a,75y,338.61h,84.76t/data=!3m8!1e1!3m6!1slRkZ0MIduEAAAAQfDY4Jzg!2e0!3e11!6s%2F%2Fgeo3.ggpht.com%2Fcbk%3Fpanoid%3DlRkZ0MIduEAAAAQfDY4Jzg%26output%3Dthumbnail%26cb_client%3Dmaps_sv.tactile.gps%26thumb%3D2%26w%3D100%26h%3D80%26yaw%3D55.1239%26pitch%3D0!7i7680!8i3840

Google Maps


KOMO 4










http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html


Stephen King

The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition


Chapter 21

Stu Redman was frightened.

He looked out the barred window of his new room in Stovington, Vermont, and what he saw was a small town far below, miniature gas station signs, some sort of mill, a main street, a river, the turnpike, and beyond the turnpike the granite backbone of far western New England—the Green Mountains.

He was frightened because this was more like a jail cell than a hospital room. He was frightened because Denninger was gone. He hadn’t seen Denninger since the whole crazy three-ring circus moved from Atlanta to here. Deitz was gone, too. Stu thought that maybe Denninger and Deitz were sick, perhaps dead already.

Somebody had slipped. Either that, or the disease that Charles D. Campion had brought to Arnette was a lot more communicable than anyone had guessed. Either way, the integrity of the Atlanta Plague Center had been breached, and Stu thought that everyone who had been there was now getting a chance to do a little firsthand research on the virus they called A-Prime or the superflu.

They still did tests on him here, but they seemed desultory. The schedule had become slipshod. Results were scrawled down and he had a suspicion that someone looked at them cursorily, shook his head, and dumped them in the nearest shredder.

That wasn’t the worst, though. The worst was the guns. The nurses who came in to take blood or spit or urine were now always accompanied by a soldier in a white-suit, and the soldier had a gun in a plastic Baggie. The Baggie was fastened over the wrist of the soldier’s right gauntlet. The gun was an army-issue .45, and Stu had no doubt that, if he tried any of the games he had tried with Deitz, the .45 would tear the end of the Baggie into smoking, burning shreds and Stu Redman would become a Golden Oldie.

If they were just going through the motions now, then he had become expendable. Being under detention was bad. Being under detention and being expendable… that was very bad.

He watched the six o’clock news very carefully every night now. The men who had attempted the coup in India had been branded “outside agitators” and shot. The police were still looking for the person or persons who had blown a power station in Laramie, Wyoming, yesterday. The Supreme Court had decided 6–3 that known homosexuals could not be fired from civil service jobs. And for the first time, there had been a whisper of other things.

AEC officials in Miller County, Arkansas, had denied there was any chance of a reactor meltdown. The atomic power plant in the small town of Fouke, about thirty miles from the Texas border, had been plagued with minor circuitry problems in the equipment that controlled the pile’s cooling cycle, but there was no cause for alarm. The army units in that area were merely a precautionary measure. Stu wondered what precautions the army could take if the Fouke reactor did indeed go China Syndrome. He thought the army might be in southwestern Arkansas for other reasons altogether. Fouke wasn’t all that far from Arnette.

Another item reported that an East Coast flu epidemic seemed to be in the early stages—the Russian strain, nothing to really worry about except for the very old and the very young. A tired New York City doctor was interviewed in a hallway of Brooklyn’s Mercy Hospital. He said the flu was exceptionally tenacious for Russian-A, and he urged viewers to get flu boosters. Then he suddenly started to say something else, but the sound cut off and you could only see his lips moving. The picture cut back to the newscaster in the studio, who said: “There have been some reported deaths in New York as a result of this latest flu outbreak, but contributing causes such as urban pollution and perhaps even the AIDS virus have been present in many of those fatal cases. Government health officials emphasize that this is Russian-A flu, not the more dangerous Swine flu. In the meantime, old advice is good advice, the doctors say: stay in bed, get lots of rest, drink fluids, and take aspirin for the fever.”

The newscaster smiled reassuringly… and off-camera, someone sneezed.

The sun was touching the horizon now, tinting it a gold that would turn to red and fading orange soon. The nights were the worst. They had flown him to a part of the country that was alien to him, and it was somehow more alien at night. In this early summer season the amount of green he could see from his window seemed abnormal, excessive, a little scary. He had no friends; as far as he knew all the people who had been on the plane with him when it flew from Braintree to Atlanta were now dead. He was surrounded by automatons who took his blood at gunpoint. He was afraid for his life, although he still felt fine and had begun to believe he wasn’t going to catch It, whatever It was.

Thoughtfully, Stu wondered if it would be possible to escape from here.










http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html


Stephen King

The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition


Chapter 29


Stuart Redman was waiting for Elder. He had been waiting for three days—and this evening Elder did not disappoint him.

At just past noon on the twenty-fourth, Elder and two male nurses had come and taken away the television. The nurses had removed it while Elder stood by, holding his revolver (neatly wrapped in a Baggie) on Stu. But by then Stu hadn’t wanted or needed the TV—it was just putting out a lot of confused shit anyway. All he had to do was stand at his barred window and look out at the town on the river below. Like the man on the record said, “You don’t need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.”










From 5/1/1949 ( the discovery of the planet Neptune moon Nereid by Gerard Kuiper ) To 5/10/2006 is 20828 days

20828 = 10414 + 10414

From 11/2/1965 ( my birth date in Antlers Oklahoma USA and my birthdate as the known official United States Marshal Kerry Wayne Burgess and active duty United States Marine Corps officer ) To 5/8/1994 ( premiere US TV miniseries "Stephen King's The Stand" ) is 10414 days



From 9/8/1950 ( the United States Defense Production Act ) To 3/16/1991 ( my first successful major test of my ultraspace matter transportation device as Kerry Wayne Burgess the successful Ph.D. graduate Columbia South Carolina ) is 14799 days

From 11/2/1965 ( my birth date in Antlers Oklahoma USA and my birthdate as the known official United States Marshal Kerry Wayne Burgess and active duty United States Marine Corps officer ) To 5/10/2006 is 14799 days










JOURNAL ARCHIVE: ----- Original Message ----

From: Kerry Burgess

To: Kerry Burgess

Sent: Wednesday, May 10, 2006 2:45:01 PM

Subject: Re: Finally


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 10 May 2006 excerpt ends]










JOURNAL ARCHIVE: posted by H.V.O.M at 6:56 PM Sunday, August 13, 2006


May 9th

May 9th seems to be a divergence point in my journal. When I look back to my entries, I see that I am still perceiving the world through the eyes of Kerry Burgess. After May 9th, I am starting to question details about that identity. The first clue is when I started taking a closer look at all the places I lived during the 90's. I began to understand that I didn't actually live at those places, rather the addresses are symbolic of something else. My entire memory of Kerry Burgess's live is symbolic of Thomas Ray's life. Most of it is symbolism, some of it is there for continuity.

For instance, one of the clearest clues was where I remember living in 1990 after I remember leaving the Navy. I lived on a street named Wexford in a community named Taylors. Taylors was a familiar name because that was the name of my first ship, the USS Taylor. Then, around May 9th, a flash of inspiration hit me to look up the meaning behind the name of "Wexford." I knew even before I read the article that it had a special meaning. Wexford is the name of a town where John Barry was born.


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 13 August 2006 excerpt ends]










JOURNAL ARCHIVE: posted by H.V.O.M at 7:42 AM Tuesday, March 13, 2007


There was one day I was sitting there in that homeless shelter in Seattle’s Pioneer Square and the thought occurred to me that I had never actually lived at any of the addresses as I “remembered” any of it. One of the first clues I started to research was to find out if there was any special meaning to the name Wexford other than what I actually “remembered.” Even before I discovered the source of the name Wexford – relative to the U.S. Navy – I knew it was going to be something profound. Even before the page came up describing that County Wexford, Ireland, was the birth place of John Barry, I knew it was going to mean something very important to me. John Barry, in some sources, is considered the father of the U.S. Navy and I have also read that he was given the first officer’s commission in the U.S. Navy. From there, I was equally puzzled over why I later lived off a road named Dresden that was near a park named Sheffield.


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 13 March 2007 excerpt ends]










JOURNAL ARCHIVE: ----- Original Message ----

From: Kerry

To: House

Sent: Saturday, August 11, 2007 8:34:43 PM

Subject: Fw: Sleep journal 5/13/06


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 11 August 2007 excerpt ends]





JOURNAL ARCHIVE: ----- Original Message ----

From: Kerry

To: House

Sent: Saturday, August 11, 2007 8:34:43 PM


I wasn't writing very much as this point about my new thoughts, although I did start writing a lot in my journal about it around this time. I think back and I was primarily puzzling over my memories of the places I "remembered" that I used to live. I think it was actually Wexford Drive that got me thinking that my memories were completely false. I started searching on the internet for something about Wexford and I found something right away and even before I began reading about John Barry, I knew that the detail about Wexford was going to have some profound meaning to me. I also think there is some part of my true identity that is very bored and has been locked into a room with only a small window to try to yell through. The people who locked me in there are at least now standing outside the door and listening to me as best they can but I don't understand why they won't let me out. Or I do understand. But I don't understand why they aren't working harder to complete whatever is their assignment that will allow me to finish my assignment. Or something like that. I have to wait. But why should I have to wait? Why is it that I have to sacrifice so much in terms of losing all these years away from the people I care about? Why is this all so backwards? I am the crime victim. I am the target of the identity thieves. Why can I not even go home? Why am I again a Prisoner of War as a member of the United States Navy and on an official United States federal undercover assignment? Why is this all so backwards?


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 11 August 2007 excerpt ends]










JOURNAL ARCHIVE: From: Kerry Burgess

To: Kerry Burgess

Sent: Tue, May 16, 2006 5:55:42 PM

Subject: Re: I don't know if I am winning or losing an effort by the Borg to assimilate my mind.


And what memories are real and what memories are manipulated? Did I ever live in a town named Greenville and work repairing cash machines?


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 16 May 2006 excerpt ends]










JOURNAL ARCHIVE: From: Kerry Burgess

Sent: Saturday, January 05, 2013 3:07 PM

To: 'Chel'

Subject: RE: Class of 1984

Michelle,

I’m glad to hear from you.

I appreciate your advice. You are correct. I know that I’m crazy. There’s just not much I can do about it. These problems did not start until *after* I received medical treatment.


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 05 January 2013 excerpt ends]





JOURNAL ARCHIVE: From: Kerry Burgess

Sent: Saturday, January 05, 2013 3:07 PM

To: 'Chel'

Subject: RE: Class of 1984


I was taking their prescription drugs for months after that.

Finally one day it all changed. I saw something on television and I woke up the next morning with the absolute certain belief that I was not the person I thought I was. That was May 9th and May 10th in 2006.


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 05 January 2013 excerpt ends]










JOURNAL ARCHIVE: - posted by H.V.O.M - Kerry Wayne Burgess 6:32 PM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Tuesday 23 June 2015 - http://hvom.blogspot.com/2015/06/ah-i-think-were-at-some-kind-of.html


Also, I have been thinking more today about how I have reacted to memories I still have of the time period before 6/13/2005.


[JOURNAL ARCHIVE 23 June 2015 excerpt ends]










http://www.fema.gov/defense-production-act-guidance-and-publications

FEMA


Defense Production Act Guidance and Publications


Defense Production Act of 1950, as amended (50 U.S.C. App. § 2061 et seq.), is a United States federal law enacted on September 8, 1950










http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html


Stephen King

The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition


Chapter 65


He looked dreamily up at the basketball moon and smiled.

There was one other possibility. He thought the Eye would show him, in time. He might go there, possibly as a crow, possibly as a wolf, possibly as an insect—a praying mantis, perhaps, something small enough to squirm through a carefully concealed vent cap in the middle of a spiky patch of desert grass. He would hop or crawl through dark conduits and finally slip through an air conditioner grille or a stilled exhaust fan.

The place was underground. Just over the border and into California.

There were beakers there, rows and rows of beakers, each with its own neat Dymo tape identifying it










http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html


Stephen King

The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition


Chapter 37


Stu said nothing.

“Well, I want to get back,” Bateman said briskly. “I’m halfway drunk already, and I believe there will be thundershowers this afternoon.” He walked to the back of the clearing and rummaged there. A few moments later he came back with a wheelbarrow. He screwed the piano stool down to its lowest elevation, put it in, added his palette, the picnic cooler, and balanced precariously on top of everything else, his mediocre painting.

“You wheeled that all the way out here?” Stu asked.

“I wheeled it until I saw something I wanted to paint. I go different ways on different days. It’s good exercise. If you’re going east, why don’t you come back to Woodsville and spend the night at my house? We can take turns wheeling the barrow, and I’ve got yet another six-pack of beer cooling in yonder stream. That ought to get us home in style.”

“I accept,” Stu said.

“Good man. I’ll probably talk all the way home. You are in the arms of the Garrulous Professor, East Texas. When I bore you, just tell me to shut up. I won’t be offended.”

“I like to listen,” Stu said.

“Then you are one of God’s chosen. Let’s go.”










http://www.e-reading.org.ua/bookreader.php/80261/King_-_The_Stand.html


Stephen King

The Stand - The Complete & Uncut Edition


Chapter 66


It was time to go.

Time to go back.

This apartment was not like his house in Boulder. This place was furnished but not decorated. He had not put up so much as a single poster or hung a single stuffed bird from piano wire. This place had been only a way station, and now it was time to go on. He was glad. He hated it here. It had a kind of smell to it here, a dry and rotten smell that you could never quite-put your finger on. The people were mostly nice, and some of them he liked every bit as well as the people in Boulder, folks like Angie and that little boy, Dinny. No one made fun of him because he was slow. They had given him a job and joked with him, and on lunchbreak they’d trade out of their dinner-buckets for something out of someone else’s that looked better. They were nice folks, not much different from Boulder folks, as far as he could tell, but—

But they had that smell about them.

They all seemed to be waiting and watching. Sometimes strange silences fell among them and their eyes seemed to glaze over, as if they were all having the same uneasy dream. They did things without asking for explanations of why they were doing them, or what it was for. It was as if these people were wearing happy-folks faces, but their real faces, their underneath-faces, were monster faces. He had seen a scary movie about that once. That kind of monster was called a werewolf.

The moon rode over the desert, ghostly, high, and free.

He had seen Dayna, from the Free Zone. He had seen her once and never again. What had happened to her? Had she been spying, too? Had she gone back?

He didn’t know. But he was afraid.

There was a small knapsack in the La-Z-Boy chair that faced the apartment’s useless color console TV. The knapsack was full of vacuum-sealed ham strips and Slim Jims and Saltines. He picked it up and put it on.

Travel at night, sleep in the day.

He stepped out into the courtyard of the building without a backward glance. The moon was so bright that he cast a shadow on the cracked cement where the would-be high rollers had once parked their cars with the out-of-state plates.

He looked up at the ghostly coin that floated in the sky.

“M-O-O-N, that spells moon,” he whispered. “Laws, yes. Tom Cullen knows what that means.”

His bike was leaning against the pink stucco wall of the apartment building. He paused once to adjust his knapsack, then got on and set off for the Interstate. By 11 P.M., he had cleared Las Vegas and was pedaling east in the breakdown lane of I-15. No one saw him. No alarm was raised.

His mind dropped into a soft neutral, as it almost always did when the most immediate things were taken care of. He biked steadily along, conscious only that the light night breeze felt nice against his sweaty face. Every now and then he had to swerve around a sand dune that had crept out of the desert and had laid a white, skeletal arm across the road, and once he was well away from the city, there were stalled cars and trucks to contend with, too—look on my works, ye mighty, and despair, Glen Bateman might have said in his ironic way.

He stopped at two in the morning for a light lunch of Slim Jims crackers, and Kool-Aid from the big thermos strapped to the back of the bike. Then he went on. The moon was down. Las Vegas fell farther behind with every revolution of his bicycle tires. That made him feel good.

But at quarter past four on that morning of September 13, a cold comber of fear washed over him. It was made all the more terrifying by virtue of its unexpectedness, by its seeming irrationality. Tom would have cried out loud, but his vocal cords were suddenly frozen, locked. The muscles in his pumping legs went slack and he coasted along under the stars. The black and white negative of the desert streamed by more and more slowly.

He was near.

The man with no face, the demon who now walked the earth.

Flagg.

The tall man, they called him. The grinning man, Tom called him in his heart. Only when his grin fell on you, all the blood in your body fell into a dead swoon, leaving your flesh cold and gray. The man who could look at a cat and make it puke up hairballs. If he walked through a building project, men would hammer their own thumbnails and put shingles on upside down and sleepwalk off the ends of girders and—

–and oh dear God he was awake!

A whimper escaped Tom’s throat. He could feel the sudden wakefulness. He seemed to see/feel an Eye opening in the darkness of the early morning, a dreadful red Eye that was still a bit bleared and confused with sleep. It was turning in the darkness. Looking. Looking for him. It knew Tom Cullen was there, but not just where he was.

Numbly, his feet found the pedals and he biked on, faster and faster, bending over the handlebars to cut down the wind resistance, picking up speed until he was nearly flying along. If he had come upon a wrecked car in his path, he would have pedaled into it full-tilt and perhaps killed himself.

But little by little he could feel that dark, hot presence falling behind him. And the greatest wonder was that that awful red Eye had glanced his way, had passed over him without seeing (maybe because I’m bent over my handlebars so far, Tom Cullen reasoned incoherently)… and then it had closed again.

The dark man had gone back to sleep.

How does the rabbit feel when the shadow of the hawk falls on him like a dark crucifix… and then goes on without stopping or even slowing? How does the mouse feel when the cat who has been crouched patiently outside his hole for the entire day is picked up by its master and tossed unceremoniously out the front door? How does the deer feel when it steps quietly past the mighty hunter who is snoozing away the effects of his three lunchtime beers? Perhaps they feel nothing, or perhaps they feel what Tom Cullen felt as he rode out of that black and dangerous sphere of influence: a great and nearly electrifying sunburst of relief; a feeling of new birth. Most of all a feeling of safety scarcely earned, that such great good luck must surely be a sign from heaven.

He rode on until five o’clock in the morning. Ahead of him, the sky was turning the dark-blue-laced-with-gold of sunrise. The stars were fading.

Tom was almost done in. He went on a little farther, then spotted a sharp decline about seventy yards to the right of the highway. He pushed his bike over and then down into the dry-wash. Consulting the tickings and workings of instinct, he pulled enough dry grass and mesquite to cover most of the bike. There were two big rocks leaning against each other about ten yards from his bike. He crawled into the pocket of shade beneath them, put his jacket under his head, and was asleep almost at once.



- posted by H.V.O.M - Kerry Wayne Burgess 5:37 PM Pacific Time Spokane Valley Washington USA Saturday 06 February 2016