Don’t Give Up on Us, Baby

It seems so presumptuous of me to think George Lucas still wants me after 44 years of not seeing me.  Almost a year ago, George said we should hang in there, but when you have the might of the US Military working against us, it’s hard to stay positive.  I’m still clinging to the side of the cliff with my fingertips.

I have so much to tell you, George.  Don’t give up on your fans either, George.  There are a lot of people who truly love you.  Don’t let the loudmouth haters make you believe otherwise. It’s a setup.  Your recent ties were working against you because of me.  I know that’s harder to believe than anything else I’ve said so far.

I think I wrote “Don’t Give Up on Us,” for you.  I remember I wrote a poem just like it for the apparition of someone I couldn’t remember.

Did you know I wrote “If you could read my mind?”  Gordon Lightfoot heard it and didn’t like it.  I thought it was the best thing I’d ever written, so we wrote the last verse, That’s about how stupid I thought he was for not liking the song, and he gave me $50 and left, and called me a chump over his shoulder.  Sweet guy, huh?

I think it was prophetic.  When I wrote the first verse I cried for three days.  My college roommates read it and didn’t get it, but were concerned for me.

Then I wrote the second verse and I cried for another three days, because how would any man love a ghost chained inside a wishing well inside a fortress?

And here we are, 44 years later, stuck in this song.  I knew it when I wrote it.  It is the best thing I’ve ever written.

If you could read my mind love

What a tale my thoughts could tell

Just like an old time movie

About a ghost from a wishing well

In a castle dark or a fortress strong

With chains upon my feet

You know that ghost is me

And I will never be set free

As long as I’m a ghost you can’t see

If I could read your mind love

What a tale your thoughts could tell

Just like a paperback novel

The kind the drugstore sells

When you reach the part where the heartaches come

The hero would be me

Heroes often fail

And you won’t read that book again

Because the ending’s just to hard to take

Make people see me, George.

George, Just so you know, I went and told Trump I would charge him with rape because he raped me in 1967; and he bragged to Billy Bush that he tried to rape me when I was giving him political advice.  Sorry, I was angry; but that means he won’t help you.  I won’t charge him if he does help you, but it would be dangerous of you to try.

The NSA knows every move you make so everything has to be public.

I’ll be in Isleton until 8/1

Posted in Reclaiming My Life!, Lynn Mickelsen | Tagged | Leave a comment

Hi Mr. Lucas

The NSA and the satanic church has people everywhere, and between the two, I am watched in person every day.*
One day I was in Yuma Arizona outside of the movie theater in the mall. There was a movie poster of a Star Wars picture.**** I was looking at it for a long time. Those posters are so intricate and there’s so much going on, I was sucked in. George Lucas freehand draws them all, you know.** The poster was situated between two buildings. I may have stood there an hour, I didn’t think anyone could see me.
A man walked by to see what I was looking at. It must have been the poster for Star Wars 1. A while later the man strolled back up to me. He said, “I thought you were lost. I thought this must be a map of the mall and you couldn’t figure out where to go. You’ve been here over an hour, you know? I told them, so we checked Lucas, that’s what you call him, right, Lucas? And sure enough, he stopped what he was doing, and walked over to that poster, and looked at it for a while. How did you make him do that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I can’t make anyone do anything.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you. Forget I said anything.”
Evidently there were many times George and I could feel each other. We often did the same thing at the same time. We think the same way and feel the same way and react the same way.
Now the NSA is charged with keeping us apart. They have their own private George Lucas channel, and if Mr. Lucas questions it, he’s told it’s for his own protection. They are protecting him from themselves.*** The women who come up to him pretending to be me are all NSA agents or satanists. It’s all a horrible big game to them. They like giving us a terrible time and they laugh when we struggle. The NSA are also charged with changing George’s personality. They want to make him dislike me and he won’t recognize me when he sees me. That’s what happened to us before. They keep doing the same horrible things to us because we want world peace and they want world war. They are sadistic, wicked, evil, fiendish, diabolical, because their goal is world annihilation and ours is saving the world and making it a better place to raise children.
They are cruel and sadistic, and the man who gave the orders is the cruelest of all.
If the men and women in the “Intelligence” community don’t wise up, we’ll be living in Water World soon. Get you’re eye back on the ball. Don’t let the military distract you into being crack-head perverts. Be all you can be. (That’s my slogan, by the way.) Stop killing all the good people!

* And via satellite by several hundred people a day. It seems every two-bit crook can access the NSA channels George and I are broadcast on. We both are inundated with cameras and microphones in our walls and wiring. It’s secret illegal wiretapping run amuck. It isn’t fair that George is allowed to see me and I can’t see him. It’s tortuous to be apart so I don’t know if watching surveillance videos would make me more depressed.
** I told George once, that he was in good company because, as far as I knew, Toulouse LaTrek painted posters for the Moulin Rouge. I told him I wrote a paper about Toulouse and it seemed he was the only artist of his time who made money, and most of his paintings were still famous, and they were all painted as posters. He had friends like Van Gough, Monet, Manet, and Picasso, and at that time, when they were young, Toulouse was the only one who made a living at it. George liked that. (I think George is a better artist than those guys.)
*** They’re waiting for us to make a mistake so they can kill us. They work just like the Mafia. Don’t trust the men in the Government.
**** Star Wars Episode 1

And this is George’s poster of our movie. I’m the blonde in the middle.

I’m in your area, George, did your security tell you I was there? Did you get my letter?

Posted in Lynn Mickelsen, Reclaiming My Life!, World Peace | Tagged | Leave a comment

South Africa fifty years ago

Mr. Mandela was in a prison run by the decedents of the white European settlers, who brought their own laws with them. The problem was there had never been peace among the tribes, and now the white people in power where jailing the tribesmen for fighting (or warring) and that was taking the strong young men out of their families and their tribes and others had to make up for the chores, etc. that had been their responsibilities. This is a recently surfaced memory of a time that ended up with me brutally beaten and savagely raped by the white guards at the prison; and hospitalized for 3 weeks, so I think I may never remember it all clearly.
Mr. Mandela was in solitary confinement, he could interact with the guards but not the other prisoners. He wasn’t confined to his cell for parts of the day. He said he didn’t know what to do about the situation with tribes other than his own. He thought some of the white laws were good laws but felt people like him, he rubbed his forearm to show his color, should have a say in what happens to them. I agreed. (I should say most people rubbed their fingers on their forearm to signify black or white, I don’t actually remember anyone using words for skin color, just “like me” or, “not like me,” or “like you.”)
Since I was white the guards and others told me they can’t allow the indigenous black people to vote or become part of their society because they were “savages” and warring all the time.
Uniting the tribes was Mr. Mandela’s dream. I noticed the men sang as they worked, so I decided to unite the tribes with a song. There were three tribes represented at the prison. The Zulus were considered the best warriors. They were larger and darker than the other tribes. I noticed all three tribes sang their own version of the same song. I could hear the similar sounding words. They almost sounded like harmonies. So I pointed it out to some of the men and got a few together to see if they could make the songs mesh somehow. So, under the heading of choir mistress, I gathered more and more men and told them what the white guards and others told me, that as long as they were warring, they would not get the vote, which was something Mr. Mandela thought was important. We all struck up a working relationship, something that had never happened among the tribes.
I was told I could only talk to the prisoners if I was giving them commands, so I figured out ways to get messages to the men who I thought would be influential to making peace.
Someone said some dignitaries, officials and their wives were going to visit the prison and someone else knew where we could get a piano. I told the guards we wanted to put on a concert for the dignitaries. I wrote a song about fear and frustration, almost the same as the song depicting my visit, in the movie, The Power of One. Of course Hollywood made me a boy, a girl couldn’t do the things I did. Yeah, right. The boy who played me had my attitude and gestures down pretty well.
Morgan Freeman’s character was the Zulu chief, in real life. That real man was twice Morgan’s size and he was much darker. The rules in the prison were cruel, like I had to call a man – boy. If prisoners spoke to me first they got hit by a guard, and I couldn’t object.
The night of the concert I was talking to one of my singers, Gino, and a guard said, “I’ll have to teach you a lesson,” so I left to conduct the concert, thinking he’d be slapped or punched or poked in the ribs with the nightstick. After I took off, the guard clubbed Gino, and split his skull. I realized something was wrong when Gino didn’t show up for the show, so as soon as the show was over, I ran back to where I left him and found him on the ground in a pool of blood, so I propped him up against a tree to try to stop the bleeding. I ran to get him water and as I was tending to Gino a guard pulled me away from the “savage.” So I got up, pulled away from the guard and yelled, “He’s not the savage. You are. Look what you did to him. He has a voice like an Angel.” Bad idea. I think I cried rape, because as I was being beaten and raped some of my friends from the choir came running. I said, “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.” A few of the white guards left me alone when I said that. My choir friends saved me.
I think they thought I was dead because I was thrown in the back of a pick up. I was taken to the hospital. Bits of my skull and scalp were coming off, I could hardly breathe and I couldn’t see.
The hospital kept me asleep for about 20 hours a day for the first week or two. I had a room right up front because the wives and sisters of the inmates were coming to visit so they could bring news of my recovery to the prison when they visited. Some of the hospital staff complained because it was an all white hospital. I told the women why it was important to settle things peacefully between the tribes. I said they should set up a system of negotiation while their men were in jail. I said women are better at that type of thing, anyway, and there would be no reason to change their system when the men got out of jail. I could see the extent of my wounds in the faces of my visitors. When my black visitors could talk to me without crying I knew I must be looking better.
The hospital personnel didn’t know what to make of it. They didn’t come in my room when I had black visitors. The Press came the second week and I told them I was helping a dying inmate who had been brutalized by the white guard for talking to me, when I was attacked by the white guards. I talked a little about the abuses the guards heaped on men who had been warriors. I said I thought it was unnecessary and degrading. I made sure everyone knew the black men came running to help me, and the white guards did this to me for helping an inmate.
In fairness, it irritated the white guards all along that I was doing anything at all to help the prisoners and to try to raise the consciousness of the people who dealt with the tribes. These were clearly people raised with rules that suited their society. The rules were different, but not wrong. The most evil people, I have found, judge others using criteria someone else taught them. Our values are often handed down from our extended family and from the society we’re accustomed to. It doesn’t mean our values are right and their values are wrong. It seemed to me the men who were tribal leaders had, at one time, questioned the logic of settling things with war, but that was how they were taught to settle things, so that’s what they did. Now that the Germans were taking over, they wouldn’t tolerate wars all the time and their solution was to jail the warriors – also wrong. So there was wrong doing on all sides, and the worst thing was that the German and English settlers did was teach their children that dark skinned people weren’t human, or deserved to be poor, or were born to serve white people. I found the black tribal prisoners to be more human and humane, giving, caring, and sharing than the white people I came in contact with. No one paid attention because they were taught not to.
While I was working at the prison I took up invitations to visit the cities that sprang up around the white settlements. It seemed to me everyone was trying to make the most of thier situation.
My compassion for my fellow man, no matter what color he is, was wrong in the eyes of the guards. They made fun of me every chance they got, so when the beating began the night of the concert, there was a lot of pent up frustration – they were teaching me a lesson; one I never learned.

Also, I should say that concert was wonderful. The songs were so melodious and rich, and the voices were resonate and strong. Having an audience made the men sing even better than I had ever heard them. There was an excitement and pride that was shared by the three tribes. It was glorious and moving. It put humanity in these people who were being exploited and I could see and feel minds being changed. Many in the audience were moved to tears.
The press had been told I was beaten during a prison riot started by the inmates, but the corrections that were printed included reports about the prison, so a lot of good came out of it. Eventually the police and even the government talked to me. I may have been asked not to return to South Africa.
By treating everyone as equals I was able to negotiate a lasting peace between the tribes. The arbitration system set up by the women worked. 15 years later the indigenous people got the vote.
Nelson Mandela wanted to see me before I went home. He was deeply troubled I had been so savagely raped, because, he said, “You were a virgin, right?” I was in my early teens. I leaned forward and said, “I still am. That was rape. Rape isn’t sex.” I smiled. He cried.

Mr. Mandela said the US was in for racial turmoil. I think he foresaw the young black teenagers being killed by police that’s happening now as a signal to white supremacists they can get away with murder in those cities. He said it would happen when I was older. He said the US was lucky to have me. Of course, the moocs saw to it that nothing worked out for me. They keep me alone and they make everything so hard for me it seems impossible. My prison without walls has become more and more difficult to negotiate over the years. Mandela could see that, too, but didn’t know what to do about it.
Nelson Mandela said he was going to be President of South Africa, and thanked me for making it possible to lobby for the black vote and to end apartheid. He was a kind and extraordinary man. Nelson became President in 1994. People like Nelson Mandela make this world a better place.
I wonder if the concert was recorded? I would love to hear it again.
The US has no right to keep me prisoner for being a good person. Freedom and justice for all? Just not for those of us who fight for freedom.
You can watch The Power of One for the basic story of the prison. Of course, I wasn’t a boy and I didn’t live in South Africa, I was just a visitor for a summer. I think my parents thought I was at camp.

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Contribute

My charity’s name is Grace Force PS. I would like to have enough money to be able to rent an apartment in the San Francisco area and work on child rearing concepts that will bring about change toward World Peace.
You can contribute to my charity by giving your bank my email address grace_force@aol.com
My bank is Chase and my business account is Grace Force PS.
I was told if you bank with one of the top 5 banks, that’s all you need to give your bank to make a deposit into my business account. My email, my bank name and my business account name.
My email, Grace_Force@aol.com
My bank name, Chase
and my business account name, Grace Force PS

Since the NSA keeps me from getting my emails and my phone calls, please leave a memo with the deposit.
Thank you.

Posted in the Force, World Peace

How to turn anything into velcro.

When I was in grammar school we had a summer house in NJ. We had some weeds whose seeds stuck to almost everything, but I noticed which fabrics they held onto the best and suggested a way to make that as a fastening fabric we now call velcro. Over the years the hook design was perfected so that almost anything could have tiny, almost microscopic, hooks.
Mooc scientists hell-bent on creating a sick society found that some chemicals would be devastating to our health if inhaled. What if we made clothes out of chemicals, they wondered.
Now there’s “micro fibers” in most of the fabric based things we buy, like coats, bed sheets, and especially under wear. Even the toilet tissue Cashmere has microfibers designed to cling to a woman’s crotch, and cause infections and even cancer.
Microfibers are a more dangerous immediate threat than just about everything because once they’ve got a hold of a part of your body, they’re hard to get off. All kinds of nasty chemicals are in our clothes and therefore in our lungs and throat.
The part I don’t like is the fabric made of micro fibers doesn’t breathe. A woven fabric has all kinds of tiny holes similar to a basket. With out fabric ventilation, your body perspires and can eventually get colder than if you had no coat at all.
What is dangerous is other chemicals are included and go into the air and cause respiratory, eye, ear, nose and throat problems.
***If the fibers were all natural and didn’t have those nasty little velcro hooks on them, microfibers could easily become the way of the future. The need to use slaves to make fabric would become a thing of the past.
There are many advantages to microfibers, especially in the manufacturing of fabric. The cotton, for instance, is sprayed onto a mesh that can even be stretchy, so you end up with stretchy cotton. Pretty cool. The entire sheet of material can be made in a minute and even have a print on it, like a rug or table cloth. You can have a nice, plush, Persian-type rug with a lovely, intricate design in 5 minutes. You can see the advantage to that?
I showed you my coat and my bedspread that are both very beautiful and warm, but they’re microfiber. I awoke one morning with my hands outside of the bedspread and my forearms resting on top of the bedspread. I had a rash for three days from that. Each time I washed my hands for three days, I washed my forearms as well, and the swelling and redness subsided. I have a tickle in my throat that won’t quit.
The FDA has to be restructured anyway, it should include fabrics to see exactly what chemicals are contained in your “all cotton” tee shirt. Also, they have to check to make sure, the microfibers should not be shaped like velcro.
Velcro type Micro fibers are also in the suspension liquids, most notably in marijuana tinctures. You knew there had to be something bad, right? Eat and drink something with any tincture or medicine.

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