The channel 4 KOMO tv news studio is across the street from the Space Needle in downtown Seattle
On May 9, 2006, as I watched the tv from a few miles away, the weather guy gesturing to a video image on the sidewalk below where he was standing and there was a guy standing there on the sidewalk with a canvas on an easel and he seemed to be painting a picture of the Space Needle across the street from him
The next morning, May 10, 2006, I awoke in that grungy homeless shelter on the waterfront in downtown Seattle and I knew with absolute certainty everything I remember about my past was wrong.
Originally, after that day US Senator Patty Murray had her photo-op at the USA Veterans Affairs hospital in Seattle, where I was being escorted by social-workers hurriedly out a door on a different side of the building, those same gals seemingly distressed by the presence of the senator, they dropped me off a senior-citizens home named Theodora and eventually I was allowed to stay at the Shoreline Homeless Veterans shelter a few miles away. They kicked me out of there to that less-comfortable but clean, old place in downtown Seattle because I did not want to settle in and conform with a plan they knew only to work, mostly unsuccessfully in my view, for those people too weak to be anything other than substance and alcohol abusers. I had a real problem. Other than those losers they worked with, I had a real problem and it was not a problem I created for myself. All I can guess is that my presence gave other people the authority to justifiably assess the operation of that place I was staying. And those people working there didn't like that. It's some sort of complex, multi-faceted operation and it culminates with me - finally - getting to do what I have been selected to do. And prepare to be amazed when that finally happens.
May 10, 2006.
There has not been one single since then I have not sat here at a desk and tried to understand what happened to me.
And May 10, 2006, is when it got really weird.
by me, Kerry Burgess, Feb 18, 2023
Carefully documented in my journal, the one that was private, was that this all started for me on May 10, 2006
The fantastic stuff I've described all these years never existed in my mind before that day
NASA, USMC, Princeton, Thomas Reagan, the Phoebe Cates you don't know
from my private journal, as me, Kerry Burgess, typed after being released from the USA Veterans Affairs psychiatric hospital enduring many months sitting in a grungy two-computer room in a homeless shelter on the waterfront in downtown Seattle:
by me, Kerry Burgess, excerpts from my private journals: 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
https://www.google.com/maps/@47.619319,-122.3489358,3a,75y,1h,115.22t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sJl7U-6IaDw6_Do88gpLDYg!2e0!7i16384!8i8192
The Stand
"Blank Page"
limited series streaming-video episode 3, 12/31/2020
0:36:20
Stu Redman: Glen. Hey. Hey, buddy, wake up. Hey, look, Look at me. Hey. This painting. Tell me about it.
Glen Bateman: This is the most vivid dream I ever had. Yeah. Just figured I'd put it down on canvas best I could.
Stu Redman: Who's the woman in it?
Glen Bateman: Huh?
Stu Redman: Who is she? What's her name? Is it Mother Abagail?
Glen Bateman: Uh, I don't - I don't know.
Stu Redman: Are we having the same dream?
Glen Bateman: No, we're not. This is - We're remembering the same commercial. Old lady selling detergent.
Stu Redman: This woman told me to come see her in Colorado. Some place out in the mountains, near Boulder.
Glen Bateman: Hemingford Home.
Stu Redman: That's the one.
Glen Bateman: Phew.
Stu Redman: What else you been painting?
From 5/1/1949 ( 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 known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 5/8/1994 ( premiere USA TV miniseries "Stephen King's The Stand"::miniseries premiere "The Plague" ) is 10414 days
From 10/2/1959 ( premiere USA TV series "The Twilight Zone"::series premiere "Where Is Everybody?" ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 17022 days
17022 = 8511 + 8511
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 2/20/1989 ( from The Daily Princetonian publication, Princeton University: Stairway To Heaven? ) is 8511 days
From 5/20/1948 ( from The Daily Princetonian publication, Princeton University: Epithet Deplored ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 21174 days
21174 = 10587 + 10587
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 10/28/1994 ( premiere USA film "Stargate" ) is 10587 days
From 4/22/1954 ( McCarthy Army hearings begin ) To 10/28/1994 ( premiere USA film "Stargate" ) is 14799 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 14799 days
From 5/19/1983 ( as Kerry Burgess my official US Navy documents includes: Application - "For Enlistment in a Delayed Entry/Enlistment Program" - approved for US Navy Advanced Electronics Field on 05/21/1983 and scheduled for 6 years obligated active duty being 05/15/1984 ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 8392 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 10/24/1988 ( as Kerry Burgess my official US Navy documents includes: Date Earned - First Good Conduct Award ) is 8392 days
From 3/25/1745 ( John Barry ) To 9/30/1785 ( Point of Beginning - US Public Land Survey ) is 14799 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 14799 days
From 10/4/1968 ( premiere USA TV series episode "Star Trek"::"The Paradise Syndrome" ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 13732 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 6/8/2003 ( premiere USA TV series episode "Futurama"::"The Farnsworth Parabox" ) is 13732 days
From 5/13/1956 ( premiere USA TV series episode "You Are There"::"Benjamin Franklin's Kite Experiment (June 15, 1752)" ) To 11/18/1996 ( premiere USA film "Star Trek: First Contact" ) is 14799 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 14799 days
From 1/9/1967 ( premiere USA TV series episode "I Dream of Jeannie"::"The Greatest Invention in the World" ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 14366 days
14366 = 7183 + 7183
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 7/3/1985 ( premiere USA film "Back to the Future" ) is 7183 days
From 1/17/1991 ( from the thoughts in my conscious mind, coinciding with United States of America Veterans Affairs hospital psychiatric doctor medical drugs: the date of record of my US Navy Medal of Honor as Kerry Wayne Burgess chief warrant officer United States Marine Corps circa 1991 officially the United States Apache attack helicopter pilot ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 5592 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 2/23/1981 ( Ronald Reagan, 40th President of USA: Executive Order 12293 - Foreign Service of the United States ) is 5592 days
From 6/29/1995 ( the Mir space station docking of the United States space shuttle Atlantis orbiter vehicle mission STS-71 includes me Kerry Wayne Burgess the United States Marine Corps commissioned-officer and United States STS-71 pilot astronaut and my 3rd official United States of America National Aeronautics Space Administration orbital flight of 4 overall ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 3968 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 9/13/1976 ( Gerald Ford, 38th President of USA: Remarks Upon Signing the Government in the Sunshine Act ) is 3968 days
From 12/9/1957 ( from The Daily Princetonian publication, Princeton University: President Goheen Cites Science Advances Here ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 17684 days
17684 = 8842 + 8842
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 1/17/1990 ( United States NASA announces the selection of the Group 13 Astronauts ) is 8842 days
From 11/11/1976 ( from The Daily Princetonian publication, Princeton University: Professor Disputes British Psychologist's Data ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 10772 days
10772 = 5386 + 5386
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 8/1/1980 ( premiere USA film "The Final Countdown" ) is 5386 days
From 7/16/1963 ( Phoebe Cates - the world-famous actor AND from the thoughts in my conscious mind, coinciding with United States of America Veterans Affairs hospital psychiatric doctor medical drugs: the United States Army veteran and the Harvard University graduate medical doctor and the world-famous actor and the spouse of my biological brother Thomas Reagan ) To 1/21/2004 ( by me, Kerry Burgess, referenced here ) is 14799 days
From 11/2/1965 ( my known birth date in Antlers, Oklahoma, USA, as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 5/10/2006 ( ) is 14799 days
from my private journal as Kerry Burgess: 10/16/2006 2:00 PM
No, looking at the calendar, it was more likely 1/21 when I put in my notice. The 23rd was a Friday and was exactly two weeks before my departure date of Feb. 6th and I remember that my notice was slightly more than two weeks. I have also been thinking it was a Wednesday when I told them I was leaving.
from my private journal as Kerry Burgess: 01/21/07 6:09 PM
I'm pretty certain it was 1/21/2004 when I put in my notice.
Posted by me, Kerry Burgess - H.V.O.M at 7:46 AM Thursday, September 15, 2011
Hyperspace
From 11/2/1965 ( my birth date in Antlers Oklahoma USA as Kerry Wayne Burgess ) To 3/16/1991 ( my first successful test of my hyperspace portal ) is 9265 days
Posted by me, Kerry Burgess - H.V.O.M at 2:39 PM Thursday, September 15, 2011
Hyperspace matter transportation
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Neptune
Wikipedia
Neptune
Neptune is the eighth and farthest planet from the Sun in the Solar System.
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 37
At first Stu accepted the sound without question; it was such a typical part of a bright summer morning. He had just passed through the town of South Ryegate, New Hampshire, and now the highway wound through a pretty country of overhanging elms that dappled the road with coins of moving sunlight. The underbrush on either side was thick—bright sumac, blue-gray juniper, lots of bushes he couldn’t name. The profusion of them was still a wonder to his eyes, accustomed as they were to East Texas, where the roadside flora had nothing like this variety. On the left, an ancient rock wall meandered in and out of the brush, and on the right a small brook gurgled cheerily east. Every now and then small animals would move in the underbrush (yesterday he had been transfixed by the sight of a large doe standing on the white line of 302, scenting the morning air), and birds called raucously. And against that background of sound, the barking dog sounded like the most natural thing in the world.
He walked almost another mile before it occurred to him that the dog—closer now, by the sound—might be out of the ordinary after all. He had seen a great many dead dogs since leaving Stovington, but no live ones. Well, he supposed, the flu had killed most but not all of the people. Apparently it had killed most but not all of the dogs, as well. Probably it would be extremely people-shy by now. When it scented him, it would most likely crawl back into the bushes and bark hysterically at him until Stu left its territory.
He adjusted the straps of the Day-Glo pack he was wearing and refolded the handkerchiefs that lay under the straps at each shoulder. He was wearing a pair of Georgia Giants, and three days of walking had rubbed most of the new from them. On his head was a jaunty, wide-brimmed red felt hat, and there was an army carbine slung across his shoulder. He did not expect to run across marauders, but he had a vague idea that it might be a good idea to have a gun. Fresh meat, maybe. Well, he had seen fresh meat yesterday, still on the hoof, and he had been too amazed and pleased to even think about shooting it.
The pack riding easily again, he went on up the road. The dog sounded as if it was just beyond the next bend. Maybe I’ll see him after all, Stu thought.
He had picked up 302 going east because he supposed that sooner or later it would take him to the ocean. He had made a kind of compact with himself: When I get to the ocean, I’ll decide what I’m going to do. Until then, I won’t think about it at all. His walk, now in its fourth day, had been a kind of healing process. He had thought about taking a ten-speed bike or maybe a motorcycle with which he could thread his way through—the occasional crashes that blocked the road, but instead had decided to walk. He had always enjoyed hiking, and his body cried out for exercise. Until his escape from Stovington he had been cooped up for nearly two weeks, and he felt flabby and out of shape. He supposed that sooner or later his slow progress would make him impatient and he would get the bike or motorcycle, but for now he was content to hike east on this road, looking at whatever he wanted to look at, taking five when he wanted to, or in the afternoon, dropping off for a snooze during the hottest part of the day. It was good for him to be doing this. Little by little the lunatic search for a way out was fading into memory, just something that had happened instead of a thing so vivid it brought cold sweat out onto his skin. The memory of that feeling of someone following him had been the hardest to shake. The first two nights on the road he had dreamed again and again of his final encounter with Elder, when Elder had come to carry out his orders. In the dreams Stu was always too slow with the chair. Elder stepped back out of its arc, pulled the trigger of his pistol, and Stu felt a heavy but painless boxing glove weighted with lead shot land on his chest. He dreamed this over and over until he woke unrested in the morning, but so glad to be alive that he hardly realized it. Last night the dream hadn’t come. He doubted if the willies would stop all at once, but he thought he might be walking the poison out of his system little by little. Maybe he would never get rid of all of it, but when most of it was gone he felt sure he would be able to think better about what came next, whether he had reached the ocean by then or not.
He came around the bend and there was the dog, an auburn-colored Irish setter. It barked joyously at the sight of Stu and ran up the road, toenails clicking on the composition surface, tail wagging frantically back and forth. It jumped up, placing its forepaws on Stu’s belly, and its forward motion made him stagger back a step. “Whoa, boy,” he said, grinning.
The dog barked happily at the sound of his voice and leaped up again.
“Kojak!” a stern voice said, and Stu jumped and stared around. “Get down! Leave that man alone! You’re going to track all over his shirt! Miserable dog!”
Kojak put all four feet on the road again and walked around Stu with his tail between his legs. The tail was still flipping back and forth in suppressed joy despite its confinement, however, and Stu decided this one would never make much of a canine put-on artist.
Now he could see the owner of the voice—and of Kojak, it seemed like. A man of about sixty wearing a ragged sweater, old gray pants… and a beret. He was sitting on a piano stool and holding a palette. An easel with a canvas on it stood before him.
Now he stood up, placed the palette on the piano stool (under his breath Stu heard him mutter, “Now don’t forget and sit on that”), and walked toward Stu with his hand extended. Beneath the beret his fluffy grayish hair bounced in a small and mellow breeze.
“I hope you intend no foul play with that rifle, sir. Glen Bateman, at your service.”
The Stand - complete edition, by Stephen King
(from internet transcript)
excerpts, Chapter 37
“Well, it’s just a dream, I suppose,” Bateman said. He stood up, wincing as his knees popped. “If I were being psychoanalyzed, I suppose the shrink would say the dream expresses my unconscious fear of some leader or leaders who will start the whole thing going again. Maybe a fear of technology in general. Because I do believe that all the new societies which arise, at least in the Western world, will have technology as their cornerstone. It’s a pity, and it needn’t be, but it will be, because we are hooked. They won’t remember—or won’t choose to remember—the corner we had painted ourselves into. The dirty rivers, the hole in the ozone layer, the atomic bomb, the atmospheric pollution. All they’ll remember is that once upon a time they could keep warm at night without expending much effort to do it. I’m a Luddite on top of my other failings, you see. But this dream… it preys on me, Stu.”
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.”
So they walked on down 302, one of them wheeling the barrow while the other drank a beer. No matter which was which, Bateman talked, an endless monologue that jumped from topic to topic with hardly a pause. Kojak bounced alongside. Stu would listen for a while, then his thoughts would trail off for a while, following their own tangents, and then his mind would come back. He was disquieted by Bateman’s picture of a hundred little enclaves of people, some of them militaristic, living in a country where thousands of doomsday weapons had been left around like a child’s set of blocks. But oddly, the thing his mind kept returning to was Glen Bateman’s dream, the man with no face on top of the high building—or the cliff-edge—the man with the red eyes, his back to the setting sun, looking restlessly to the east.
He woke up sometime before midnight, bathed in sweat, afraid he had screamed. But in the next room, Glen Bateman’s breathing was slow and regular, undisturbed, and in the hallway he could see Kojak sleeping with his head on his paws. Everything was picked out in moonlight so bright it was surreal.
When he woke, Stu had been up on his elbows, and now he lowered himself back to the damp sheet and put an arm over his eyes, not wanting to remember the dream but helpless to avoid it.
He had been in Stovington again. Elder was dead. Everyone was dead. The place was an echoing tomb. He was the only one alive, and he couldn’t find the way out. At first he tried to control his panic. Walk, don’t run, he told himself over and over, but soon he would have to run. His stride was becoming quicker and quicker, and the urge to look back over his shoulder and make sure that it was only the echoes behind him was becoming insuperable.
He walked past closed office doors with names written in black on milky frosted glass. Past an overturned gurney. Past the body of a nurse with her white skirt rucked up to her thighs, her blackened, grimacing face staring at the cold white inverted icecube trays that were the ceiling fluorescents.
At last he began to run.
Faster, faster, the doors slipping by him and gone, his feet pounding on the linoleum. Orange arrows oozing on white cinderblock. Signs. At first they seemed right: RADIOLOGY and CORRIDOR B To LABS and DO NOT PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT WITHOUT VALID PASS. And then he was in another part of the installation, a part he had never seen and had never been meant to see. The paint on these walls had begun to peel and flake. Some of the fluorescents were out; others buzzed like flies caught in a screen. Some of the frosted glass office windows were shattered, and through the stellated holes he had been able to see wreckage and bodies in terrible positions of pain. There was blood. These people had not died of the flu. These people had been murdered. Their bodies had sustained punctures and gunshot wounds and the grisly traumas which could only have been inflicted by blunt instruments. Their eyes bulged and stared.
He plunged down a stopped escalator and into a long dark tunnel lined with tile. At the other end there were more offices, but now the doors were painted dead black. The arrows were bright red. The fluorescents buzzed and flickered. The signs read THIS WAY TO COBALT URNS and LASER ARMORY and SIDEWINDER MISSILES and PLAGUE ROOM. Then, sobbing with relief, he saw an arrow pointing around a right-angled turn, and the single blessed word above it: EXIT.
He went around the corner and the door was standing open. Beyond it was the sweet, fragrant night. He plunged toward the door and then, stepping into it, blocking his way, was a man in jeans and a denim jacket. Stu skidded to a stop, a scream locked in his throat like rusty iron. As the man stepped into the glow of the flickering fluorescents, Stu saw that there was only a cold black shadow where his face should have been, a blackness punched by two soulless red eyes. No soul, but a sense of humor. There was that; a kind of dancing, lunatic glee.
The dark man put out his hands, and Stu saw that they were dripping blood.
“Heaven and earth,” the dark man whispered from that empty hole where his face should have been. “All of heaven and earth.”
Stu had awakened.
Now Kojak moaned and growled softly in the hall. His paws twitched in his sleep, and Stu supposed that even dogs dreamed. It was a perfectly natural thing, dreaming, even an occasional nightmare.
But it was a long time before he could get back to sleep.
Chapter 38
- by me, Kerry Wayne Burgess, posted by me: 9:30 PM Pacific-timezone USA Friday 10/18/2024
