Posted by: Sk | February 22, 2009

3 Blackmailing, accidents and coincidences

Blackmailing, accidents and coincidences

Posted on by *Ask 4 Ten

Dear Sask,

what an accident. Such an accident, that it almost brought back the oldest memories I was still trying to order giving them a very specific turn, and even, yes, even some kind of meaning. At the end, you will finish yourself by believing that some underlying intelligence is ordering the world in a very specific way, seen how meaningful coincidences may become.

Not that I would ever forget you. If I wanted it or not, you’d been the source of most of the fun I had had for many years, and even, you may say, I finished up by keeping slight chances of survival thanks to you. Not that you knew about it, but that’s almost meaningless. In fact, one of the main questions I had kept in my bag while leaving Greece in 2003 was to know how much you knew yourself about me, and if yes, why, and if no, why it had become possible that I knew so much about you without you knowing about my existence.

If you ever receive this very funny letter, you should know first of all, that I’ve been making researches in my very particular way concerning your factual existence ever since October last year, through different means: , are full of little references to my dear Sask, a strange character (I thought) I had built up around 2001 and whose tortured civilized understanding would almost always crash with my Enkidu inspired natural irony.

Not that I intended to bother your peaceful existence (if ever). The problem was, that around 2002 some quite bizarre telepathetic happenings started to bother seriously my own peaceful wandering around existence, and that resulting of that derived some quite worrying facts that may concern not only you but a nation whole. I tend not to believe in such things, but the fact that words like ‘manishma’ arrived to the field of my consciousness, which finished by meaning ‘how are you’ while verifying in Jerusalem, gave the whole too much of truth in order for it to be neglected. But I spoke a very peculiar language at those time, where mythology and fantasy got slightly mixed with psychological observations and intended deformation of facts, so that it was almost impossible to really know what it was all about.

In any case it was clear that the most worrying question of all was to know what the damn you could be interested in me, as, as far as I knew, I was just pretending (very peacefully) to restore shepherd’s life in a lost village in Greece.

Were it not that you appeared again on the surface of my reality a few days ago, I would perhaps have forgotten about it all, as I seemed to have solved the problem of the mental disposition leading to telepathetic states somewhere around in (curiosités, I think) and that in a certain vague way, I could presume that it all was nothing but the result of the straining of some mental facculties that led to an exaggerate awareness of things happening beyond the Mediterranean Sea.

I still though needed the theoretical frame for the ‘transmission of information theory’ as getting some kind of image through internet information flow as image for psychic transmission, as slightly touched as subject in (Computer functions as image for psychic interaction.)

Now see how it all happened (again). I was working at a page for an art gallery in Quito and I had decided to travel to Quito a few days before in order to determine the frame to be given to the whole, when I decided to launch my international career by putting an order into thousands and thousands of images I had collected for the last year, suddenly aware of their intrinsec value and of the possibility of finding an intelligent buyer. I had finished my task quite happily, when, after having bought my ticket, I went, on Sunday, to an internet café, to allow time passing. From one thing to another, I discover a link made to the page that seems a page through which someone had arrived to that one. I thus open that page and state, (It happens sometimes) that no link seems to be made from that page to mine, but it makes me laugh: the page titled ‘vain promisses’, seems to make a funny reference to a joke of the Russian Prince Vladimir (an invented character) in It contains whole lots of vain promisses, too, thing that makes me laugh very much and although I had sworn I would behave myself at least for a little while, I start picking whole tons of images that fill quite quickly my Corsair flash. It’s then that I have the brilliant idea to make a research on msn on Betty Catroux and find some results I didn’t know of before. One is a blog with many pictures of Paris and one of the latter in a fine café and some references to Lagerfeld’s photographic studio 7L, and the whole attracts strangely my attention. The pictures show some kind of ressemblance with Omer’s pictures, which seems to tend indicating that it’s a special camera and highly protected. Stranger is that the series show an appalling regrouping of images around subjects of my interest: shoes and hats, art deco hotels, geometrical structures embedded in urban decor, and some etc. I profit of the occasion to get some pictures that seemed extremely secure on Yves Saint Laurent and Betty Catroux, I had been aiming at for almost a year (for the quizz of the security system) and build up what I call the layer: a background allowing to pick them, if ever possible. While doing this, I state that the bus is leaving 5 minutes later, and cutting short to the recording of some mp3 pieces (I had stated mp3 does eat up most viruses) I leave running and manage to get the bus just because it leaves 15 minutes later than it should.

I thus arrive quite happily to Quito, although somewhat tired and my intrigue concerning my new acquisitions is pushed to the back of my unconscious. The funny encounter with Viteri that makes me laugh for the whole day, is thus somehow touched by my concentrated research for a solution to the security system. Of course her computer is infected by a virus, but that seems parts of the plot, and although I manage to reactivate the antivirus system by eliminating a certain number of active functions, she finally causes a general breakdown by stopping it in the middle of its work. Thus she transfers (my request) an obviously infected amount of documents to my flash, which has already been infected, too, by a gif collection that had destroyed my family memories which I was trying to save at the same time. The flash contains thus presumably three viruses: the one of the newly acquired pictures, the one of Viteri and the one of the gifs. I thus take care not to leave any picture of mine on her computer, which may cause some kind of worsening of the situation, until I solve the problem. She seems to repair her computer a few hours later, although it still shows some kind of infection (error in run.exe). As my work is finished, I leave again for Cuenca.

Now, that’s my way of thinking, which I had always opposed heavily to yours, although I had to admit finally, that in a certain way, yours, if finely based on mine, may get me out of my lonely island, where so much a priori evidence was blinding me from common mortal’s reality. Evidence, as given empirically through pictures, satellites and statements of false witnesses, papers and documents, does say finally very little about reality, as the principle moving people to do something or the other can never be caught by a flash and thus a same fact of variable interpretation. On the other hand, principles without facts are no proofs, and you having the facts and me the principles I decided it would give a nive love story if both happily married. It’s true that great parts of my existence based itself on the fact of proving that facts are none without the grasping of the essential principle of the underlying logic in particular and as embedded in a general frame, and that thus and consequently, you became parts of my quizz causing greatest fun to my mind by my constant attempt to alter possible interpretation in the reality of facts – which did always seem so reassuring to you in their absolute meaning.

All this seems to wake up by the unconscious working out of the series of images that has landed into my nets, and my extreme tiredness due to 20 hours travels inside of a 36 hours days, does in fact lower the factual barriers you usually put in order to avoid so much unconscious work to invade your consciousness. The first thing that comes to my mind (after a long series of nightmares, or just before) is an accusation on Ines de la Fressange, linking her to a 1 million dolar exchange for a love story, gossip says. Well, I think, 1 million is not bad, and after all there are people who get through marital contracts much more and are not necessarily supposed to land in red lampions quarters. To tell you the truth, I have always known how to admire the one who knows to make fun on human’s weaknesses by getting enormous profit out of it, thing, which, honestly, is completely out of my psychology, but that’s exactly why people become interesting: in this that they give different answers to the same questions without loosing though dignity.

But what, I think, that is Sask’s language. Who would have concluded such a thing from what seems to be a quite indifferent series of pictures of a wealthy weekend in Paris? Almost no one. Which is to say, no one. My dear Sask, though, expert in subliminal mesages and perverted (I always said) psychology, may induce such a thing to the unconscious through exactly such an anodine sequence of images. Sask? What the damn is she doing in Paris? I ask myself, and look at the pictures again. Well, that may seem to be Sask, I conclude looking at one of them, which shows a slight deformation though, the kind you get through the function ‘sombreado’ of Adobe Photoshop, as if there had been an attempt to mask the features. If you take away the function through some kind of mental exercise, it shows an appalling ressemblance to the ‘Sask’ met at King David in 2003. How strange.

The pictures in the meantime have not been recorded, and while trying to solve what the hell Sask is doing in Paris, I build up a 2 to 3 system in order to record them. It works. Without too much of an effort, Betty Catroux and Yves Saint Laurent land into my cd and obtain special prices through the broken security system. But the flash is showing gravest disturbances and doesn’t open anymore. A new problem. I open thus the flash as a ‘dispositivo de medio portatil’ and although the contents is not visible, I can copy it on the computer, and thus save all my acquisitions.

But there are at least 6 elements that seem to be programs and attached to the system of the flash that have appeared through what I call a ’segregation’: viruses do usually show up their nose in some interactions and build an active function or other after some time in a working engine. Here though there is no active function, but three programs (recognizable as white squares as the one of the ‘audacity’ recording program I keep inside of the flash). Not only: there is a link to internet through an ‘explorer’ page of strange configuration and two elements seem to be essential parts of the flash chip itself, as they can’t be eliminated but show just the function ‘open’. I’m very much afraid the whole could be some kind of ‘bomb’ and don’t copy them on the computer, where I have saved the rest of documents. When the flash is empty, I just formate the whole and the device starts functioning again normally. In order not to put some virus again into the same, I simply cut the documents of the computer instead of copying them, hoping that what seems to be an in folder inserted disturbing function may not be transferred. It works well, it seems.

In the meantime I spend hours in deep anger with the ‘Sask’ who had developped such systems putting in danger humanity whole and forget a Catherine Deneuve picture in the computer. When I come back the afternoon, there are 4 pornographic images of little interest there and I discover I had forgotten Catherine Deneuve, eliminate the picture and … the four pornographic pictures disappear at the same time. (!) Oula, I think, what’s that again.

As, as usual, I leave my unconscious impressions express themselves through pictures and creations, I go back to see what I have been inspired of for the last days. First, some picture of Viteri, but that was part of my job. Then some works on the pictures of Paris and on my new acquisitions. Strange though is that I insert an element of those pictures on the Viteri composition as if somehow linked one to another. Then, Sask, which I had first accused of having given in to general pressure and having made a lifting or something related, is taken out of the lot and put into one of my fantastic inventions of 2003. Ines de la Fressange reappears, too, through a composition where she is attributed some picture that doesn’t show identity in the original.

In fact, Sask, as character, was the kind of horribly conservative unbearably frozen type, who finishes by causing all sorts of disasters through the repressed unconscious movement of her soul. She had different appearances inside of slightly similar logics, sometimes less conservative ans sometimes more, in any case always repressed and frozen. Her family life was disastruous and although she was supposed to be separated, neither her Rotweiler nor the wanderings around Ein Kareim would soften the quite sophisticated knot she had made inside of her soul, so that (in my story) she finished by drinking far too much Amaretto, which was always at the origine of Natasha’s despise, who in evidence, prefered … vodka.

In fact, the horrible irony regarding her character reflected in ‘Manual of a soldier’, based on one hypothetical observation, see the kind of the psychologist asking ‘do you like men or women?’, to which I used to answer ‘what do you care? It’s none of your business’, derives from the conclusion that this kind of question may only be put by a very repressed character, which, I observed, became more and more frequent, reason why I didn’t blame Sask for such misbehaviour, but just general schools in the understanding of the human soul. For me, the human doesn’t love genders but persons, and often hides away the factual object of love through extremely sophisticated mechanisms of defense, even more so when general social rules don’t allow the appropriate expression of soul.

Worse. Even if Sask did quite largely do as if such a question was of deepest insignificance, I remarked very quickly that in fact, she esteemed natural law, as such defined, as sole definite rule of human behaviour, reason why those who had answered to the question in the most inappropiate way, were put thousands and thousands of traps in order to be pushed back to the natural consequence. It’s not that I had always in the depth of my eyes some ironical light questioning her pretended happyness in her submission to those rules, it is that I started to get angry with the fact she wouldn’t leave people in peace draw their own conclusions on existence.

I thus made up a hilarious story, which was parts of my unconscious revenge towards my imaginary character, where Sask finished by being seduced by a Japanese prostitute, the first not knowing about the latter’s further activities, and even less, about this’s ability to get all sorts of documents and papers and information by playing the absolute innocence, so that finally all sorts of military secrets finished by causing the gossip depth of the underworld, where all sorts of real stories were transmitted as gossip, being at the origine of the most unbelievable transactions. This logical masterpiece – not easy to think – was obtained through the presumption that Sask was in fact jealous of men (but what wasn’t she jealous of, after all), and believing strictly in an equality she never observed, was imitating point by point men’s behaviour by integrating their particular logic. Although I could never understand such devotion to that parts of humanity I used to qualify as ’silly, lacking of depth, of sophistication and intelligence’ I thought it extremely funny to push her hypothesis as far as to say: “well, now dear, the only thing you need is a woman”, and creating all sorts of series of images as I had diligently learned from herself, lead her slowly to the arms of the before mentioned.

Problems started to arise when my story was cut short by the evidence that the Japanese prostitute did really exist, called Leya, I had the indefinite pleasure of a quite long conversation with the same at King David, where she informed me not only of what was all currently happening in Israel but also how easily agent’s papers may fall into her hands, as it seemed to have happened for some attached to the US Embassy. Shocked by the fact that my stories seemed to be much more real than I could have figured out, I started researches concerning the whole rest. In fact Sask appeared a little after: showing a 99% ressemblance with my character, she walked into King David around May 2003.

Leya’s story appeared thus back to my memory and I composed a hilarious superposition of story with reality by putting some ressembling Leya into Sask’s Parisian adventure. Strange though was that I composed the whole with 2 and three layers, as if my unconscious suspected deeply that behind the innocent series was hidden another amount of information, whose program of decoding was parts of the presumed virus and which, by then, had luckily been distroyed.

Poor Sask, I thought, not knowing anymore whether I was talking to a real person or an imaginary one.

In fact, were it an accident, the whole explained whole tons of things that had really happened in Greece, among which the tons of information that used to land in very peculiar languages on my working desk.

Conceive that the series of pictures is an unconscious language. Which is to say, that the unconscious codes information in a determined way and that the language derived can consequently be decoded. If you look at the series, you conclude that poor Sask was horribly in love with myself, so much in love (but not erotically, I mean, because Sask was far too frozen so as to leave even the unconscious take such definite steps, just as a narcissitic projection of the self into another realization possibility) that she followed my wanderings step by step with the determined decision to reassure herself concerning her own choices by proving point by point that I was absolutely wrong. In the meantime though the unconscious was betraying her understanding and all sorts of love messages in bottles crossed the Seas and Oceans, as if, yes, only that way her own existence may take some meaning and thus disturbing my conscious channels in the most ambiguous ways. Thus, even after having left Greece, and well decided to escape to such obsessive prosecution by putting thousands of kilometers in between (not that I wouldn’t have given in to such pressure, as much as 1 million dollar, a high ranked military dress may seem seducing to some understandings, it’s that she wouldn’t assume such narcissistic refraction of herself as such and would have made my life as impossible as the one of the ‘night’s porter’, which went a little bit far too far beyond my own expectations of life), she continued hunting this repressed memory without being the slightest aware of it and decides, yes, even to become horribly jealous of Ines de la Fressange, who she thinks being the object of my latest devotion, not knowing how to make the difference between ironical fun and passionate love stories, which, were it my nature, I would discreetly hide away, as little exhibitionistic in essence. Thus, her unconscious goes on search of proofs that may distroy the idealistic idealization I’ve spon around Ines de la Fressange, and under thousands of excuses, finishes by finding what seems to be some definite reason that may slash my beautiful character.

Of course it fails. Were it true, which unluckily is rarely the case nowadays, it would just augment my deepest admiration for the same for one singular reason: in my way of thinking, among things that may have some material value, except of coffee and cigarettes, is a beautiful love affair (which are so rare, that I do rather avoid, on the other hand), which is to say, that I definitely reject the gracious offering of sexual exchanges, as the ‘free’ does take away from it the essential value I attribute to the same, not to talk about dignity. 1 million dollar seems thus to reflect adequately the price according to value, and such a price quite adequat to the creature in question, precisely, because she, as much as Sask, on the other hand, may give in exchange for it more than … vain promisses, which ads to the whole the ironical answer given to men’s pretension ‘money may buy up love’.

It’s an evidence that things may have a value if … there is love, but rarely without. I thus thought that Fressange’s hypothetical positioning was of extreme intelligence and regretted for a while not to be in possession of the million as the realization of the hypothesis would have been of extreme interest, in its ironical dimension … for myself.

Thus, Sask’s unconscious, as usual, played her a wicked turn, I thought, if it were true. Not that you don’t feel extremely satisfied with such things as if someone’s interest for yourself going that far low into the unconscious, may not allow suspecting deepest passions you’d have never thought be able to arise which is always gratifying for the ‘ego’ so that I even considered for a while to forget all my wicked considerations on Sask and write her a love letter, although I esteemed that the fact of not wearing a uniform any longer made her loose great parts of her attraction, when other most troubling unconscious movements made me forget my romantic moods.

What if the pictures had been taken by some one else who was thus usurpating Sask’s identity? What if the layers did not reveal love stories but hid military secrets? What if the unconscious transactions in Greece were taking dangerous forms by getting up to the surface of reality? What if my dear Sask was not to be accused of some dirty business she’d usually had hardly anything to do with? I don’t know, Sask, but if well considered, besides my funny considerations on human weaknesses and all the irony deriving, there may be something more serious hidden behind the whole, I can’t really evaluate. Thus, even if it is true that you don’t wear uniforms anymore, you may perhaps be able to get a clue of the whole yourself as being in possession of more sophisticated means as, in the worse of cases, I wouldn’t really like seeing you mixed up to dirty stories, which, on the other hand, may get some peculiar turn, as much as Fressange’s story, depending on the eyes that look at it. Thus, there you have parts of the series of pictures as I got them that day hoping you may write an e-mail denying definitely it could be … you.


These are the means by which the psychopath would have found you. I was right. You were danger of death. May this excuse some misbehaviour? To my eyes, it does.


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