PHANTASMORGIA

NEVERBEFORE SEEN OR SEEN AGAIN

I have just escaped the cult after having been trapped there for the past 3 years and 3
months. I was lured to the Unarius cult to be set up to be raped by them, to be mind controlled,
brainwashed, hypnotized, attacked, robbed, deceived, manipulated, indoctrinated, and then later
on when they were finished using me, to be killed by their hit man.
They experimented on me emotionally to see just how much pain I could endure without
collapsing. This cult is expert in the using mind energy to do mental telepathy, reversal thought
forms, implants, manipulation of data, accessing past lives of excruciatingly painful deaths, and
making you undergo the same exact pain now, with no help and no assistance.
If anyone knows of a good law firm that would like to help me sue the cult Unarius for
First Amendment Rights Civil Rights violations and for the crimes, abuse and Intentional Infliction
of Emotional Distress and fraud, rape, negligence, medical malpractice that they did to me, email
me at aswallows@hotmail.com.
May all of their evil words, thoughts, crimes and actions return to Unarius cult, multiplied
a billion times over. Amen.
POSTED BY: Anita Swallows 20051

Anna Swallows I have seen you rant other web sites. You are lying about Unarius. All your doing
is spamming this site with your misinformation. You have posted a very series allegation. I am a
unariun and so I know unarius is not a cult. Maybe I should call the cyber police on you. Anna if
that is you reel name. You are syber bulling unarius. What kind of person are you to use the
internet to slander people especially unarius. Unarius is a new science of life and not a cult. I
dont know why someone would do something like this to unarius. Girl that is low to use the
internet to slander people.
POSTED BY: Cinnamon_Gurl 2005

Bag of dog food on his shoulder, Zim stepped back into his apartment to meet an
excited Godley. Ears back, tail wagging, the low happy growl that comes before being
fed: fooooooooooood.
-

I am so sorry girl, Zim said. You eat and then we will go for a long walk, okay?

Food food foooooooooood.

No computer, no writings, the books he had been reading Science And

Hypothesis, Moby Dick, Labyrinths seemed irrelevant now, forgotten, silent. Lit up from
the shared joints and beers, irritable at the thought of Truman descending further and
further into Colleens helpful arms, Zim didnt want to sit around and watch Godley eat.
Need to go back. Cant leave like that.
-

I will be back soon girl.

Zim took a dark side road that he knew would lead him onto Johnson Street,

where under the lights he could walk for several blocks. Dont want to be there with Bull
and Truman. Here: A town of fences and clapboard homes, stitched together with
telephone and electrical lines. Know everyone of these houses and apartments. Which
way the doors open, a blue floral or black leather couch inside. Which ones have dogs,

which ones have kids. Some homes I know more than I want to. Drunks in some. Filth
is what gets me. Can smell sickness. The aroma of neglect. Fear and hurt in others.
Small kids look at me as if I am the enemy when they should be seeking help. Stench of
a dead animal here in the street. Real nose pincher. Step carefully. Dont want that goo
on the shoe. Black mass over there. Cant see. Dead for days though. Someones pet.
A loved one. More than a child I bet.
He steps onto Johnson Street, the yellow light of the safety lamps cast a sickly
hue. How the familiar can look so strange. As if taking a last look. Before it all
disappears. Future to past: what do we see versus remember. Streets are clean but for a
piece of newspaper here, a plastic bag there. A faded RV parked on the street, set up on
wooden blocks. An old pick up truck, weathered, shedding its layers of paint, metal and
putty wrinkled patches on its hull. A dilapidated trailer hooked up to its rear bumper.
Good for moving from house to house when rent is due. Fences around each home,
cyclone for the most part, although some have inserted wooden slats between the rows of
wire, redwood slats chipped and broken in places, some areas covered over with blotches
of raw board, some draped with flowering vines and bushes of bougainvillea. Scarred
agaves reach up and over some areas of fence, names and initials carved into their warped
tentacle bone. The sidewalk broken with weeds, dirt leaking from the yards. The homes
are small frame houses, some stuccoed, with bowed roofs covered with gravel, a stray
tennis or volley ball from years past tapped up top, porches cluttered with broken and
unused furniture. Jacarandas with their panicles of blue corolla, the carpet of fallen
flowers like a shadow beneath the tree. Some homes have their windows boarded up
with warping plywood. Dead trees in ceramic pots, cement cherubs still dancing in the

bare earth gardens, a blue kids swing hung from a shade tree. Cacti stabbed into piles of
ornamental rock. Blue tarps covering the unknown. An RV parked in the driveway, light
on inside, a NO TRESPASSING sign into its back window. An American flag flying
from a pole in the back yard. Wide cement driveways on which broken down vans and
old off-duty post office jeeps sat rotting. Every yard a square of dead and dying grass, a
patchwork of the hardiest weeds that can survive the drought.
Rivers and streams are now cement flumes, mossy conduits that carry a trickle of
slimy green water. Graffiti on the sides of the flume painted over with white and grey
paint.
Water from a reservoir in the Cuyamaca mountains flowed into diversionary
dams and into a six-foot wide by four-foot high redwood flume. At an original cost of well
over $1,280,000, the flume entered the valley near Lakeside and followed the hillside
contours at the 700 foot level to the south side of El Cajon. An eight by ten inch regulated
line ran to each farm and provided the life-giving water for semi-arid agriculture. El
Cajon resident Arthur Ballantyne went to work for the Flume Company in March of
1900, serving the farmers needs in this time of drought. This drought also brought a
water shortage to the City of San Diego. In response, San Diego made a deal with the
Flume Company, bringing water to its citizens and increasing the water rate for El Cajon
farmers from $.0125 to $.10 per thousand gallons of water. This marked increase
threatened to force valley farmers to curtail their water use to allow extra water to flow
to San Diego. The farmers reacted angrily. On Monday, April 3, the eighty-five farm
owners of the valley came together in response to the problem. The El Cajon litigation
committee, led by Mr. Liffering, J.M. Paul, and Dewitt B. Williams, represented forty-five

citizens and 51 percent (forty-three) of the valley's farms. This group raised $600 and
hired San Diego lawyers Ernest Riall and C.H. Rippey on April 18. The two attorneys
convinced Superior Court Judge E. S. Torrance to issue a restraining order against the
Flume Company and order them to appear in court on 27 April 1900. Trying to avoid a
court battle, the Flume Company offered to lower the new rate to $.075 per thousand
gallons, which the farmers quickly rejected. The court found for the farmers and rates
remained favorable. 2
At the intersection RVs are permanently butted up to the edge of the flume, neatly
arranged, trimmed with white lattice, covered with white sun shades. Satellite dishes
pointed at the southern orbits, wind screens separating the tiny parcel of land for each
resident. Shade trees have been decapitated so as to allow the electrical lines to crisscross the street like the wires holding up a circus tent. Look down the darker alleys into
the real chaos of suburban life: ramshackle fences, junk and garbage. Old cars. Things
even the bums dont want.
Many of your customers are the old folk who are locked in their trailers,
retirement apartments or hospital rooms, they try to convince you that they dont need the
paper anymore, that they signed up only because some little kid came to their door and
cried that if they didnt sign up for the paper, that he wouldnt be going to camp this
summer and would have to work in his dads dry cleaners all day breathing those fumes,
and so I gave him some money but I really dont want the paper, I cant even read it my
eyes are so bad, I used to do the jumbler, you know the jumbler, but I cant even do that
any more, my hands shake so bad I cant even hold the paper to see it even if my eyes
were any good, so I dont think I want the paper any more, as you can see I am not doing

to well, heaven knows (and they are not lying) I am not sure I will be around for three
more months, so maybe you should just cancel it, it just stacks up over there and makes a
mess and anyway I cant lift things anymore so I cant even carry them out, I have to
have someone come in here and carry our the papers and I havent even read a one of
them. You listen and smile and then look at them real kindly and tell them, honestly, I
can cancel your subscription that is no problem, you tell them, but dont kid me that you
arent going to be around for three months, how long have you been telling yourself that,
ten years, twenty years, youll be around probably longer than me, but sure I can cancel
your subscription, I just want to make sure that if I do, you dont think twice about it and
realize later that you really want the paper even if only to look at the headlines and the
picture on the frontpage and see for yourself that its another day, a new day, lots of
people get the paper just so they can be reminded that they have lived another day, no
kidding, it is not so much a measure of time passing, but a testament to perseverance, if
you know what I mean, it is more than an accomplishment, it is a validation, a tribute, it
is something to look forward to, and you never know, you may not read the paper for two
or three days, maybe not even for week, but suddenly the paper arrives and there is a
story on the front page that you would have missed, I mean it is less than a quarter a day,
thats it, so are you sure you want to cancel.
Sure enough she pays you another twenty five dollars and you know deep down
she will live another three months some of these people will live another three months
just because of you, to get the most out of their money. You admit there is a masochistic
glee that you get out of this, and part of the reason you actually love your job, is that
behind every door is a new surprise, it could be a guy who just smacked his wife and now

needs to atone by making up to you, a young kid who just lost his job and sees you as
someone lower on the totem pole that he can fuck with, a drunk who has learned that by
acting like someones friend you might go away, a retired surgeon who has Alzheimers
and answers the door butt naked, half his face shaved the other half slathered in Gillette
Foam, who stands there with his long faded memory asking you again and again who are
you and why were you here until finally his old lady rushes to the door, pushes him aside,
and without saying a word gives you a look like how dare you and slams the door and
you can hear the two of them screaming and yelling and you stand there thinking maybe
you should knock again if only to remind them that the world outside here goes on no
matter how fucked up your memory becomes and how awful your inner world is, there is
another world, the one right outside your door, and sometimes when it knocks you need
to answer and deal with it. But you dont, you leave and as you walk away you can hear
the woman crying from an open window, her husband shouting, wheres my tie, wheres
my tie godammit. And you know that maybe not the next time, but another time soon,
you will return to knock on these doors and there will be no answer, or another face will
answer, your old customers having moved on to places where they can see, where they
can remember.
Zim thinks: Could never give a truthful picture of this town. Seems to exist
outside its own boundaries. Can bring up the strangest details of another place, decades
ago. But close my eyes and all I know about here vanishes. Maybe the problem is
memory. Just cant retain it all. Need to jot things down each day. Tattoo the titles. Then
maybe Ill remember that I have a history. Look back read what I forgot. Better: for
someone else to read. The Dead Zim scrolls. All over him. Open casket. Come on kids,

lets pay our respects. Read Zims life story. His senseless jottings. All about respect. Put
a bulb in my belly. Project the words into all the rooms.
Suddenly there was a loud boom, as an empty trolley car came to rest against the
rubber-padded wall where it would be serviced. Papers scuttle across the roadway.

He walked past an apartment complex that he knew better than others, where
every month he came to visit with Mr. Mahab, an infirmed man who could not leave his
couch. A car sped out of a nearby parking lot, banging it tail pipe on the road, a brief
bolide that flittered in the darkness. Like one of his stories across the freeway:

Come in, the voice boomed immediately when you knocked on the door, as if
your knuckles had met with a sleeping man's chest. It's the newspaper, you shouted,
when an object caught your eye, a small Mexican crucifix, about two feet in height,
created from what looked like drift wood, the worm-eaten surface inlaid with irregular
pieces of colored glass, in the upper portion of the main beam a shellacked picture of the
blue eyed blonde haired baby Jesus. The crucifix was positioned outside the apartment
like just one more item to be removed to the garbage, not a totem to memorialize the
invisible or a talisman to protect this home. Nearby, on the ground was a rolled up piece
of carpeting, an Oriental pattern still apparent in its faded weave, an area rug, a prayer
blanket perhaps. In any case, the roll of carpet had laid there for some time, flattened like
a beached pinoped, soaked through by the garden sprinklers, the tassels at one end like
the poor animal's ragged flipper feet. Draped over a wall on the other side of the patio
was a red and white striped flag, the American flag without the blue sky patch and white

stars, a red serpent or bolt of lightning slashing across the center. Clay pots held the flag
in place, and over time the soil had run from the bottom of these pots and created grey
streaks down the fabric. Finally, there was a nylon windsock hanging from one corner of
the wall, a flaccid tube for there was no wind to keep it erect created from the colors
of the rainbow. Like the others, this item was neglected and damaged from the sun and
other elements. Indeed, on this person's patio were a collection of what could have been
sacred articles now discarded and forgotten, and if religion or personal passion weren't
such superficial topics, you might have begun wondering what trauma or upheaval had
taken place on the other side of this door to create such an abandonment of ideals, the
willful neglect of man's inner beliefs. What would cause a man, any man to take down,
toss out and close his door on such inner components of life and leave them to fade, rot
and disintegrate outside but let's face it, religion no longer has superiority over any
other of our institutions such as baseball, slot machines or cars. Our religious icons speak
to us from prepaid phone cards, swing from rear view mirrors or bob on the dashboard of
our car until they fall beneath the seat. Our churches and temples offer ever increasing
jackpots for immediate salvation. Our nation's flags are made of paper and scotched taped
to the window until they become so faded we peel them off and throw them away. Sure,
at some point, perhaps at many points in our lives we need to renew our faith, but that
most often and most conveniently means buying something new without the thought of
recycling or saving the old. Your attention suddenly turned to a corner of the patio where
there was piled a disheveled collection of instruments, gardening tools it seemed, a spade,
a scythe, and several broken items, part wood and part rusted metal. You thought a few of
these might be splintered javelins but the metal ends were fitted with foreboding hooks

that bore no material benefit to the sport. Perhaps they were broken spears rescued from
the sea's drift. In any case, these items broke the ecclesiastic spell that had come over the
bow of your consciousness and momentarily swept me away. It was then you noticed the
shadow on the door jamb left when a medusa had been removed.
It's the newspaper, you shouted again realizing you received no answer. I know,
the deep voice yelled back, come in, man. You opened the door and walked gingerly into
the darkness, leaving the door open behind me to paint some inward guidance as well as
leave an illumined trail to follow out. There was a sweet smell in the air that you couldn't
recognize, but a smell associated with sickness, that much you knew. The first and only
thing you saw in that darkness was across the room, looking at you, a single eye shining
through the shadows like the end of a harpoon, no eyelids or ligaments attached to the
hideous monocular gaze peering at you.
I've been waiting for you, he said as the inky darkness drew back, just enough so
that the menacing eye retreated into a face that was not nearly so evil in its countenance,
although the eye still protruded in a terrible unnatural fashion. Are you Mahab? you
asked the man seated across the L-shaped couch that framed the small room we now both
occupied. At first you thought he was wrapped in blankets, yet the thought did strike you
that he was monastically engaged in this sweet darkness on some task or ritual, perhaps
mending a sail you thought, the oddity of such an absurd task not even occurring to you
at the time.
Yes, he replied, so how you doing today? Okay, you answered then added, Sorry,
its kinda dark in here. However, you didn't say what you were sorry for, apologizing as if
to excuse the fact that you were standing there before him without reaction, when in

10

effect if you could actually see him, the sight would require an appropriate reaction of
terror or repulsion. You were quickly growing accustomed to the darkness, and you
could now see that this expanse across the sofa was not cloth or sail but all him, a giant,
shapeless form from which legs, arms and a head protruded to give that unidentifiable
form a few floating human elements.
Sorry I couldn't get up for you, he said, but I'm having a little more trouble than
usual here. Beside him across the couch were magazines, books, boxes of cereal, and
other odd items. These things were scattered about in some helter-skelter fashion, yet did
not represent a mess that one would expect from the continued claustrophobic
confinement this man Mahab must be enduring, instead there was an order to the things
around him you could subliminally sense, as if he knew he had to live in this defined
space and that these few simple items were the jujus by which he mastered and
maintained his knowledge of the rest of the outside universe, and that to lose control here
within this small radius was to lose control of everything outside of his reach, including,
even, the planets in their heretofore orderly and predictable orbits.
I was in the hospital, he said, for the last several days and so the papers just all
kinda piled up out there. See them over there, I haven't had the chance to read most of
them. How much do I owe you? Twenty five, you said.
From what you could see of his face, Mahad was a black man, his body wrapped
in light-colored clothes, a white surgical stocking stretched tight across his scalp which
would have look like one of tight knit hats worn by the black kids in the neighborhood,
but on him looked more like a kufi. His face had a countenance of natural cheerfulness,
soft, round, a smile even when the lips were straight and eyes indifferent. I gotta have

11

my paper, he said. Even more than the TV. Seems like you can touch things that happen
in the paper. The things you see on TV, they are meant to put you to sleep, not stimulate
you. But to tell you the truth, I'd watch it 24 hours if it could done put this fat ass to bed.
You see I can't sleep on account of my thyroid, you know. Up for five, six, seven days
straight. The word straight jabbed at me from his mouth like a knife suddenly unsheathed
by tongue and cheek. So I'm sitting here waiting at five am for the delivery boy. Couple
times I scared that little shit. He don't expect nobody to be up and waiting for him at five
am I guess.
As you fumbled to see the papers in your hand, he smiled warmly while the one
eye bulged far from its socket as if he had been smacked in the back of the head by a
sledge. That eye seemed to catch all the light in the room upon its swollen, protruding
cornea, a mirrored pole for the rare beams of light in that room. For the first time, you
noticed a painting on the wall behind him. There was only darkness there a minute
before, but now you could see a light emerging from this painting, which you assumed
was one of those mass produced oil paintings you bought at those hotel art shows, or
sidewalk booths, a dark shape rode some strangely illumined ocean waves, as if the moon
had fallen beneath the surface and all remaining light was locked in this stone and was
now drifting down to the depths. You could not see anything else and Mahab moved his
arms not to punctuate anything he was saying but you guessed to draw your attention
away from this pitiful work of art.
Despite your wandering eye, you must have conveyed more interest than you
thought as you waited there while he fumbled for the cash, because he kept on talking,
not like some lonely person who had harpooned some passing stranger into conversation,

12

but as if he had already measured you with that telescopic eye and knew you would
understand. Look at me, he said, four hundred and twenty eight fucking pounds. I used to
be fit, yea buff man, weighed less than you. Yea, I was in the Navy. Special forces. This
used to be muscle here, he said looking across his chest and shoulders, but it gone now.
All gone. The doctor, he almost killed me, you know. I went to him because I knew
something was wrong, I wasn't sleeping right and I was tired all the time, common stuff it
seemed, but turns out it wasn't common at all, it was my thyroid. All he had to do was
give me that thyrodine, or whatever you call it, instead he gave me this other stuff, he just
didn't know. The stuff he gave me, it blew out my kidneys, my prostate, gave me an
enlarged heart, and I swelled up like a whale, all water, edema I think you call it, my skin
it just burst out in these sores, see look some of them have healed but here's one that is
still bothering me. He had somehow managed to lift up the pant leg of his pajama and
show me one of the ugly black scars on his ankle, splashes of tar whipped across his dark
skin.
You had observed at several times now that his arm or leg would move in a way
that seemed out of synch with the rest of the body, as if forming a gesture that would
have better accompanied another word, punctuated a different conversation, or moving as
if to get up and walk but there was no place to go let alone a body willing to follow. Due
to these strange movements, these appendages seemed to be strangely autonomous, not
connected by the same nerves or sinew.
Got some Bactrin here, he said, that is clearing it up good. But it wasn't until he
lifted the pant leg higher that I became suspicious that these weren't just accidental scars,
meaningless marks, but hinted of a grander design that may have enwrapped his entire

13

body to his neck, a purposeful message whose ultimate meaning was far beyond me and
little exposed by what was revealed. These faint tattoos, strange letterings, like
hieroglyphics, painted on this man with the head of a cleric, the eye of the monomaniacal
intensity, this man was a Shelleyesque creation of Egyptian captain and selfless
Queequeg, stitched together from the pieces found in the belly that had consumed them
both. Better yet, perhaps it was more like a whale that had taken these human fragments
it had bitten and tore off and then sewn these human appendages to its side so as to create
in him an alluring deception much as the deep sea angler fish has evolved a fleshy
appendage that mimics exactly like the body of a certain fish which it dangles in front of
its mouth to attract other like fish who come to mate but end up being sucked down the
angler fish's gullet. And what should have been the source of some fear within you,
ironically filled you with even greater sympathy for this man.
But my prostrate, man, he said, shit, you know what that means don't ya, those are
my jewels. Take anything else but that for Jesus sake. He laughed. You know what I
mean. Sure you do. And see here, he continued, see what it's done to my eye, why its
popping out like this, that's why I gotta keep the light down, cause I can't close it none on
account of that swelling.
He had put down his purse and seemed to try for a moment to lean forward. Yea
that doctor did me in, done me in good man, he almost killed me. But I had been seeing
him since I was a kid. He just didn't know what he was facing. Not really his fault. This
doc, he was just an old guy. Just didn't know what he was doing was all. I mean I met
with some lawyers about it, but no one would touch me. I saw a couple other doctors and
they said man, Mahab, this is a case of everything and nothing, there is everything

14

wrong with you and nothing we can do about it. So you see they wouldn't touch me.
And so the lawyers wouldn't do a thing. But you know what, it don't matter none. For so
many years I could manage nothing but a maniacal hatred towards this man, this man
who took this all away from me, Id wake up and fall asleep with the curse on your lips: I
will grapple to the last with you, from hell I will reach for you, for hates sake I spit these
last words at you. But it ain't the man I'm after, it was just an accident. Chance is all. I
mean this here, all this fat and skin and bones, this ain't nothing but clothes we be
wearing, soon we'll all take them off and it'll be what's beneath on which we be judged.
So I ain't after the man, its Him above, he said pointing to the ceiling with a finger, his
one eye pointing too, it's Him that I need to converse with, not Man. You know what I
mean?
You didn't but nodded that you did. So you take this here, he said handing me the
money he had finally found in the medicines, purses and other things on the couch, and
remember that Mahab gave you the twenty five dollars he owed you before he died, he
said laughing loudly but with a measure of control as if worried that his eye would pop
out if he let go a real holler -- remember that's the kind of man Mahab was, and
remember too that when he died he did so with a little bit a humor on his lips. Okay?
Okay my man?
It was then you realized that despite your own crusted cynicism, you did indeed
believe in heaven even if you could not feebly believe in god. For there just has to be a
place for people like Mahab, not because they deserve such a place, which you'd vote
that they do, but because they must have glimpsed it, somewhere in their monastic misery
they must have caught a sight of that pastoral field, that sweet sailing ship, or that living

15

room with the wide screen TV, stereo surround sound and remote controlled lighting, for
why did heaven have to be some place above the clouds, why did it have to have the
sterile and lonely patois of driving through fog on a June morning. Perhaps that was why
his eye protruded like the eye on a gold fish, he had looked up from the lower ring and
gazed upon the vision that others will never see but understand only from the words we
receive from these pathetic souls we most lazily call crazy.
No there really ain't a God, not one that you would want to know, one that would
make people swell up like that and burst from their eyes and leak from their skin and
rupture their prostates like that, there ain't no God on account of these, the little things
that go unnoticed, until you are put in a room with them and suddenly they are as large as
any catastrophe on earth, perhaps larger, while most catastrophes are done and over with
within hours or days, this one here was a catastrophe that a man wore on his being for his
entire life, knowing that he would never be able to cast it off, he kept on trudging through
life, day by day with this burden upon him, what god would do that for Christallah's sake.
But heaven, yes, you may never see it for yourself but there clearly are others who
can, who do, and who are you to doubt them. It is important, you think. To differentiate
between those unfortunate souls who cover their misery with the rote they've learned
from church and so refer to heaven much as they would the lottery or any other thing that
would welcome them away from their sorry plight. You may never come across that
apparition, but then again maybe you can be thankful that you may never be placed on
shoulders that prop me up high enough to even glimpse that vision, perhaps you should
thank your stars that you do not need to lose your legs, have your face burned to a molten
mess, or gain a disease that turns your lymph to foam and paints black spots across your

16

face in order to glean what truly lies beneath the human condition. Your place is here,
low to the ground, at least for now as you see no evidence that you will be called upon to
stand upon a street corner and serve as the human arrow pointing to a better, distant life.

He kept walking. At the furthest end of Main Street there were rows of
warehouses, domed corrugated sheds and whitewashed brick factory buildings. Tall
cyclone fences topped with razorwire blocked the entryways. Walk eastward for five or
six blocks and the stucco and cement buildings gave way to older office buildings slipped
in and beside each other, sometimes at slight angles like old teeth grown crooked in their
jaw. These were insurance offices, an architect, used car lots and other small marginal
businesses. Beginning with a tombstone sign of The City of El Cajon, the traffic on
each side of the road was separately by a neatly manicured meridian. Along the
boulevard tall palm trees were evenly spaced, cloaked with their dead frond coats unlike
many other area of the city where these dead leaves were cut away to remove homes for
rats. At the corner is the Wrangler Family Barbeque. A cowboy with a rope is twirling
the name Wrangler. Across the street is a radiator shop where a dogs barks art every
passer by. Stucco covered office buildings house a car registration office and a store for
Tuff Sheds. The sidewalks are wide enough to drive a truck down them. Doors and
windows are wooden, without metal guard bars. Small plaques warn anyone that there is
an alarm system installed on the premises. Across the street, Pats Tools takes up half a
block, its red lettering on the white faade a simple landmark of sorts. The Open sign was

17

not turned around to closed. Next to Pats Tools is Ability Bail Bond, its name and
telephone number on a movie style marquee sign. In red white and blue is a pawn shop,
specializing it says in Rolex and Cartier. Top dollar paid. Bicycles crowd its front
windows. Next is Staxxs Hip Hop Skate Shop: block modern lettering, gothic style in
black and grey, mirrored windows prevent anyone from seeing inside. Rileys Motorcycle
Rentals has large curved windows trimmed in wood with a marine style of finish. Might
have been a restaurant at one time. Dumonts Tavern is right next door, a red fabric
awning and its white stucco exterior decorated with red flames around its base.
Separated by a four foot wide alley is El Cajon Blueprint, with a concave entrance and
dirty windows. Mannys Architecture finishes off the block before Wilson Street. On the
other side of Wilson is GI Joes Army-Navy Surplus. American flags still hang above the
red eaves below the blue and white sign. The next block is taken up with the asphalt yard
of Auto Elegance, a small two story building painted in a childish manner like an ancient
castle. Cheap late model cars are scattered across the lot, while jousting knights painted
on the walls protect. A wrought iron fence of medieval spears staked across the front of
the yard. A light is on, undoubtedly the late night TV watching of Retzy, the owner of
Auto Elegance, in his one room apartment that he has occupied for years, for as he says:
the company pays for it. Sycamore trees are staggered down the grassy meridian. Hells
Angels Dago headquarters is next, the doors and window heavily barred. A flying skull
with yellow Icarus wings painted on the front of the building. On each side of the small
stucco building are metal doors painted red with white flames licking from the ground.
Devil prongs top the metal doors.

18

People had appeared now on the streets. The faces seem darker now, black hair,
lashless eyes, squashed noses, more Asiatic than Mayan, more eastern than southern,
faces you met coming back from the steppes and fields in central China, dark, lost in a
pattern of history, where did these people come from, across what strait to get here.
In a genomic study of a relatively large number of Native American populations,
our work provides support to a variety of hypotheses about fundamental aspects of
Native American demographic history. In particular, we find genetic evidence that
supports a single main colonization event from Siberia, a coastal colonization route, and
a divergence process that may have been facilitated at the local scale partly by
differences between languages. 3

Martian maybe? [add description] Multicultural influence

Now, I can tell you that among natives of El Cajon the Unarius Center was, is, and will be a
veritable joke. The people who founded it and ran it are certifiable lunatics. Plain and simple. It
was the most amazing concoction of bullshit I have ever been witnessed to see, created solely for
the financial gain of Ernest and Ruth Gorman. Spaceship Ruthie was notorious for her big car
with the spaceship model on top and her outrageous costumes including a penchant for "tiaras"
and "magic wands". Truly, it is a cult designed to play upon the ignorance and incredible gullibility
of its devotees and nothing more. It has absolutely nothing to do with science, nor life, nor
helping people. Nothing! To me, calling oneself a "Unarian" is tantamount to calling oneself "a
mindless moron who'll believe anything".
P.S. P.T. Barnum was so right!
POSTED BY: Cogito_Ergo_Sum 2005

19

Unarius is not a joke thank you very much! And dont you even think about insulting the founders
of unarius. They are cosmic visionarys not lunatics thank you very much! And unarius is not
bullshit. You say that you have met the founders of unarius but I dont think that you did. You
might just be a fast talker or something. But you are wrong in what you are saying. That is your
opinion and I respect that.
POSTED BY: Cinnamon_gurl 2005

Sorry Miss but it is a HUGE joke, especially to those of us who are El Cajon natives. Your
"founders" were charlatans, confidence men, swindlers, and at the very least, certifiably nuts.
Cosmic visionaries? Please. The statement makes me have an overwhelming need to puke. The
woman was completely loony but nevertheless, very shrewd and money grubbing. I speak the
truth and I am deeply saddened that you have bought into this crap.
POSTED BY Cogito_Ergo_Sum 2005

You obviously need to learn a lesson in respect. Because you must not have learned that in
school. Respect for me. And Respect for my Unarius beliefs . And respect for the founders of
Unarius they have moved on to higher worlds and you should respect them. And it is certainly not
respectful to call the founders of Unarius nuts. I am not a cult expert but I know a lot about cults
and I can say that Unarius is not a cult. That is your opinion sorry it is wrong. Nun of it is true I
promise. I am a good and honest person. I dont lye still or cheat more then once or twice when I
was a child. And I am not the kind of person to lure someone in to a cult. To everyone reading this
I say to you Unarius is a new science of life and not a cult. And that Unarius has helped me a lot.
POSTED BY: Cinnamon_gurl 2005

Your "founders" have not moved onto "higher worlds". They are dead, nothing more. They do not
reside in the 73rd dimension, nor are they on Mars or any other planet, they are not on a
spaceship anywhere and they certainly are not reincarnated into somebody else. They are dead.
Just like I will be someday; here's a news flash, you will be too. In fact, just like every living

20

creature on this planet will be someday. Dead. No longer living. Dead. I know, it's not as pretty
sounding as the sickening sweet liturgy they feed to you at the Unarius center, but hey, at least
it's the truth. I do not doubt your sincerity when you say you are a good person. What I do doubt
is your ability to think critically, reason and judge.
POSTED BY: Cogito_Ergo_Sum 2005

As human beings we all deserve respect. And yes I am a sincere in what I believe. And for your in
formation I an not a con artist! I am a Unariun. And unarius are not con artists we give freely of
self. And I am not gullible thank you very much! Do not judge me by my beliefs you have not met
me in reel life so dont judge me. You do not understand Unarius so you fear us. Man fears what
man dont understand. Unarius is not a cult. If it makes you happy I will go to school to be a cult
expert. To show you that Unarius is not a cult. and the founders did go on to higher worlds. It is
called regeneration or reincarnation. This is the regenerative function of the human bobby mind
and spirit.
POSTED BY: Cinnamon_gurl 2005

Okay Melissa... You do what you feel is best for you. No matter what you claim, you will never
shake my views of Unarius and especially its founders but it really doesn't matter to me, only you.
Best of Luck with your decisions.
POSTED B: Cogito_Ergo_Sum 2005

How much influence did foreign-born citizens have on the social structure of El
Cajon in the early 1900s? Because of the proximity of El Cajon to Mexico and its
Spanish and Mexican background, one would expect a heavy influence from these
cultures. Surprisingly, only 22 percent or twenty-six of the 117 foreign-born citizens were
Mexicans and overshadowed by the 64 percent (seventy-five) of citizens from northern
European countries. Although traditionally undercounted in census figures, minorities

21

enumerated included ten Indians, two Chinese, and one Japanese. Of the ten Indians
counted, four were from the family of Jabusco and Mercedes Rodriquez with their two
sons Lucian, age two, and four month old Ronald. Jabusco, a Mexican citizen and
common laborer, could not read or write English. His identification as an Indian may
have been a misunderstanding; the special census form for Indians does not appear and
the name seems to be of Mexican ancestry. Jol Quin, a thirty-four year old Chinese cook
for hotel-keeper John D. Rush, and Chinese cook Son Fung reflect the roles of the few
non-whites in this small community. 4

She was so much prettier than you had imagined, a fullness that immediately
enthralled and excited you: you were meeting a woman, not a young girl. You had come
all this way, to this dark and dank city, to a hotel right off the crowded and dusty freeway,
to sit at a bar where no one spoke English or French or Spanish and it had taken gestures
of all sorts of madness to order a simple scotch. When she arrived you were surprised by
her looks to say the least. She spoke a beautiful English. She carried herself as a bit of a
tomboy, a strong stride to her walk, you had to hurry to keep up with her. She walked in
front of you as you wandered the streets for another place to eat, a place she
recommended when you said you would eat anything. She had a beautiful butt which
you wanted to touch as if that would finally introduce you to each other. For months you
had communicated via email and instant messaging. Her ass was never mentioned, never
imagined. Never a phone call. Photos shared, some writings, paintings she had made,
short poems you wrote for her. You came here not to see her, but to see this continent.
Now here, the vastness around you seemed suddenly familiar and worthless of wonder.

22

You did notice the other faces watching them. You did realize that you were the only
Caucasian among millions of what seemed at first to be a homogonous sea of Chinese,
but after a few hours this broke apart into many kinds of faces, many kinds of eyes, of
stoops, of walks, of hair and purpose. But you saw only here, and you realized suddenly
you could actually fall in love with this woman you had corresponded with for nearly a
year.
Until she became an insect.

He stands at the corner of Main and Magnolia where on one side the banners of a
well lighted used car lot flap and slap their faded US flags: Fast E-Z Credit. We Finance
Anyone We Please. Military Welcome. Consolidated Motors on a old metal sign, the
white post decorated with red gang hieroglyphics. Across the street, an old church, newly
painted, in its cross atop the steeple the single word: CHOICE.
On the northeast corner of Main and Magnolia the business hub of El Cajon
thrived. Businesses included a two-horse covered wagon for delivery of groceries or
supplies and the post office with John Burgess as postmaster. A hay barn and warehouse
could be found on the southeast corner of Main and Magnolia. Valley butcher D.S.
Bascom maintained his Bascom Meat Company by the Burgess warehouse. Bascom
reported valley consumption of meat to be "seven beeves, seven sheep, three veal and two
hogs per week." Druggist Albert Brouwer and barber J.J. Brenner became part of the
new business community at the four corners that included hotels, barbers, blacksmiths,
lumber, general merchandise, drugstore, livery, shoe shop, harness shop, butcher shop
and saloons. The community also expanded to include a Presbyterian church, south of

23

this area on Magnolia, and the Bostonia Episcopal Church. In 1894, citizens built the El
Cajon Hall on Prescott and Main St. as a social hall. This New England salt box, twostory frame commercial building with wood trimmed, double-sashed, multipaned
windows still stands today on its original site. 5
Zim looks ahead and sees two men meeting in the darkness. How many
conversations take place, never heard by another, words going, gone nowhere. Reminds
him of the time he last met his father. The man who fathered him appeared, dressed in a
blue suit, his hair cut and styled, face clean. Dirt under his nails. Truth there.
He tells Zim: Things are changing. Luck is changing. Sometimes you have to
wade through all the crap, let it come down on you, you know, take the blows, just let it
happen, then when the worse is over, take an assessment, tally up your belongings, look
at the damage, and see what options you got. Only then can you see what is really
important to you, what really matters, you know.
In Zims mind: Perhaps that is all we can do is look back at the dust and dirt that
has fallen and see in the pieces left behind what might have been, what could have been,
and from that understand what is now. What could he be looking at? He was born to a
woman with bones as big and thick as a mans, broad shoulders, thunderous legs. His
drunken father cowered in the womans shadow, whimpered in her presence. He died
when, drunk, he fell from a bridge onto the railroad tracks next to the muddymississippi,
days before his dads 13th birthday. His dads death baptized him to adulthood that same
day, no childhood. Two young siblings that he walking to school each day, crossing each
day the same bridge over the tracks. Younger brother always stopping to look for Daddy.
Saw him on the river one day, wouldnt go to school until they went down to the river

24

bank and exposed an old tire. But none of this was told to Zim, and therefore may or may
not be true, after all, he had a father who never spoke.
And so this is the story according to Zim: His dad got himself through college,
while earning money to keep the house, to keep food in the house, heat, electricity. He
was good in math and got his degree in engineering, a perfect profession as it required no
articulation, no expression, no emotion, all things that he had lost years ago with every
trek across the bridge. He married a woman who wanted to get out of the farmers belt,
whose desire to escape was the only reason he was able to marry her, a reason that would
lead to a long, but bitter union. He was a man who was reduced to thoughts that were
nothing but scraps of facts, not opinions, ideas or theories, simply regurgitated bits and
pieces of information he picked up from the newspaper, the TV, never an attempt on his
part to put into any perspective, to check the veracity, never a concern when different
facts were in blatant contradiction with each other or that what he said on day he no
longer believed the next. Your mother not only grew repulsed by your fathers
unattractiveness, she also grew bored of his shallow intellect. She took to torturing the
man both physically and intellectually. She knew his limitations and teased him like a
child. Once, you remember, your mother and father were entertaining another couple in
the family room, drinking martinis, your mother loud and boisterous and drunk so that
you could hear her from the other room where you watched TV. Suddenly she shouts,
William! Do you believe we have a soul? You rushed to the corner between your room
and the hallway so you could hear. Well uh, hmm you heard him stammer, you peeked
around the corner to see your father looking nervously about while the other adults held
back their guffaws. I believe in an energy, he finally said. An energy? Your mother

25

screamed. What did he say? the guests laughed. I asked you, your mother said, do you
believe in the soul, the human soul. If you have energy, he said, you dont need anything
else. Anything else is well superstition. That is such nonsense, your mother yelled,
Energy? Only a coward would say something like that! Do you have a battery Bill? A
battery I have never seen? Show me your battery! Come on show me! Energy? What a
coward you are, Bill, you think like a coward.
A few years later, your mother told you father she wanted a divorce. He said
nothing but later that day, he accidentally splashed gasoline in his eye, and he cried,
begging your mother to help him. Fighting with his screaming and crying to wash out his
eye, your mother finally pushed your father away and told him, you are too much of a
baby. Go help yourself! I cant help it, he said, you dont understand, it is not just my
eye, it hurts all the way to my soul! Your soul? She laughed. You mean your energy!
She laughed as he sobbed and cried. I hate you, she said, I hate you and could give a shit
about your goddamn eye! Shortly thereafter you mother disappeared. She left to live a
life with a real estate agent, the one who sold you your parents your house, an old war
hero, with a broken leg, a piece of grey shrapnel in his arm, and tattoos that had faded
into a green mold beneath his skin. He smelled like wet metal, tried to crush your hand
when he shook it, asked your mother to rub his feet at night, yelled at you for getting
water on the floor in the bathroom, and never accused you but always let you know that
he knew you were stealing his scotch and adding water to the bottle. When you were
eighteen you left and never came back.
Twenty years later, your father showed up again. A bum. A ghost. You never
really were sure if he was real or an apparition. You never imagined your father capable

26

of a confession, but ghosts are capable of anything and he now tells you how he had
finally taken stock of everything, his life, his past, his sins and transgressions, how it was
true what they say that you have to hit rock bottom before you will do anything really to
change, there is something about losing everything, about being forced to dwell at the
lowest level of existence before you can even imagine picking yourself up again and
beginning again, the trick is how do you do this, how do you go through this humiliation
and destruction and not destroy yourself completely in the process, I guess that is what
happens to some people, maybe most people, they dont have the strength to come back
up, they give up maybe, or they extract such a toll on their own inner resources they
never can recover, no matter how hard they try. I think I have seen that too.
It can be pretty depressing, he said, to be my age and only then find out youve
got to accept that any life you consider worth anything is going to start now, that all the
last fifty years or so are all but wasted time, thrown away, cant remember them even if I
wanted to. And so here I am, standing like a child in front of you, my son, talking to you
for the first time probably, standing here in a place where I should be the man, giving you
some advice, and you standing where you should have been a boy, now I am the kid and
you are the man and I got nothing to offer you except a story that will make you hate me
even more.
And then how he talked you into going to get something to eat, and you realized
you had never seen your dad put food into his mouth, you had never seen the inside of
your fathers mouth, his teeth, his tongue, and this was something you found profoundly
grotesque. You sat silently while you father talked, drank iced tea, wiped the corners of
his lips with his napkin, his heavy eyebrows dancing while he talked, his eyes grey and

27

ashen, age spots like burn marks on his forehead, jowls and neck. He talked about the
group he sees twice a week, the men who cry, the women who have lost all their youth as
well as their teeth, about odds and ends in his daily life that he discovered suddenly had
meaning, such as finding a book on a bus stop which when he opened it had a sentence
written just for him, such as growing angry at a woman who was standing in front of him
in line until he was afraid he would erupt, when she turned around and with a simple
smile and few words let him know that most of the world was in fact kind and gentle,
such as the dog he saw wandering near the beach, covered with sores, one leg gimped up
behind it, how it could have given up and died yet without any hope it continued on
searching for food in the gutter, sniffing and licking at the garbage cans, out here you will
see the real force of life, the real energy in all of us, which is a curse, Zim, believe me, it
is not something to be proud of.
And how he took you to a bar, where he introduced you to his friends which you
could never have imagined he would posssess, and while he drank diet coke, he ardently
worked you into his stories with these guys, and suddenly you saw him smiling and
joking, laughing and physically woven into a community of men, arm and arm, slap upon
slap, winks and smiles, then even further enmeshed within these stories and tales, ribs
and jokes, and how you were a new but a permanent and increasingly accepted part of all
this, an old but obvious source of your fathers pride, your existence until this day but a
bit of folklore but not so outlandish your father could not risk bringing you here, and so
you began to see something in your father you had never seen before, an element of being
human, of being part of the world, of having an extension far beyond his solipsistic drink
and narcissistic poverty, here was a group of men who would a merry wake make, and

28

perhaps as your old man often said, that is all that matters in the end: all that matters is
how much fun others have remembering you. And so you actually began to like the piece
of shit you always thought you had as a father, you began to smile with him and his
crones, you began to laugh and before you knew it you had some stories of your own that
you hoped would good enough to be eternalized in this web of old man lore. If there was
never any hope for success, if success was impossible in face of the myriad events of
chance that would destroy it, there was at least the consolation that one could gracefully
acknowledge this condition of the world with a quick who gives a fuck and find meaning
in a laugh, some jokes, some moments with others when
Until just when you felt this night could go on for ever, in fact it was one of those
nights that crushed your idea that you had had all the experiences you thought were worth
having as this one showed that most experiences are small and seemingly insignificant
but ineluctably lead to a larger perspective, and so just when you were ready to ride this
out to the final hour, your father steps down from his stool, takes you by the arm and says
to everyone that you both have to leave.
Looking up, the sky was perfectly clear, stars appearing above the ridges and hills
which boxed in this town, kept the desert out. Mount Helix, back of a snail, climbing
where? seemed to loom overhead. The white cross illuminated. Try to capture some of
these lives. But what do I know. Really know. Nice night to visit Heyzeus.
You have never been to New York, LA or any other city than where you lived.
The U.S. did not interest you. You began your journeys in places where the world
seemed different, you loved the feeling of getting off a plane and greeting the sweat and
stench and incomprehensible language of another race. You were thrilled by the

29

strangeness of it all. You noticed everything down to the smallest detail. You spent one
year in the Caribbean, eight months longer than you had planned. You contracted several
life threatening diseases, at times your mouth was covered with chancres while you
shivered and sweated in bed. You lost weight from violent bouts of diarrhea. Yet you
never succumbed as many of the white men did to the disease of drink: sure you drank,
but you did not reach to the point where you woke up with the tremors that they did,
where you staggered out into the morning sun, crept behind the shack in which they lived
and clenched your knees and vomited dry retches of string as your eyes bulged and teared
and your arms shook and your countenance approached that death like state. No you
battled only the biological foes and those battles you won.
Back to Magnolia Street. Unarius Academy of Science. Windows lit up
showcasing various dummies of Ruth Norman in her Tinkerbelle dresses. Born 1900.
Husband believed Martians mated with earthlings to create the Chinese race. Sure, that
explains it. Also, believe everything is energy. As a form of energy soul contains records
of all past lives. Dad! This is where you belong!
Like Scientologists, Unariuns believe in soulic immortality and that all people
have past lives. They also believe that our solar system was once inhabited by ancient
interplanetary civilizations. Founder Ernest Norman writes that the Chinese evolved
from ancient interstellar migrants who began colonizing Mars a million years ago. They
are reported to have returned to Mars, where they live in underground cities, after being
attacked by natives of the Earth. A group which had become separated did not return
with them and this group branched off and formed the various Asian racial genotypes.
Ernest L. Norman was an apparent child prodigy whose father came from Scandinavia.

30

His father was a physician and Ernest read all his father's books eagerly, self-educating
himself alongside his formal schooling. He was born with an abnormally large cranium
and as a child already wore an adult size hat. He performed to family, neighbors and
teachers unexpected feats such as moving a heavy rabbit hutch using Archimedean
principles and small logs, building radios and winning arguments with parents and
teachers at an early age. Claiming to possess psychic ability, he told women of their
loved one's whereabouts and often deaths during the World War II years of 1942-1945.
When this practice, of accurately describing fatalities, lowered morale at war plants
where he worked, he left and started to give lectures espousing his own philosophy in
theosophical churches during the mid to late Forties.
Still waiting for the saucers to arrive. All will descend on top of each other in a
profound stack. Drawings of this moment look eerily like the Carousel Bar.
Coincidence? Went to one of their lectures: pretty women in attendance. Not one would
look at me. Where are they now? What planet? Here the women disappear into flying
saucers. In Juarez they turn up in fields and riverbanks, face down, legs and arms
disjointedly akimbo. The Mexican government sold the state of Chihuahua to Columbia
in 1993: police and federales instructed not to interfere with anything the men did.
Catholic Church a willing participant as well. Juniors had free rein over money, products
and lives. Amidst the terrible chaos predators and psychopaths moved in, snuff films
became an industry in this valley, girls a nightly game.

Teresa was small and light enough you could pick her up with one arm and nearly
lift her over your head. She had large brown eyes and a smile of crooked teeth, some
capped, others a rusty taint. Her large ears, the black hair that drifted lightly down the

31

sides of her cheeks, her large hands (see! bigger than yours! she would say pressed palm
to palm) her small girlish behind: the things you loved most at first. Within weeks you
fell in love with her tiny breasts, the dark nap above her ass, the way she rode on top of
you until she broke out in a sweat across her back before she collapsed on your chest, the
sign she was done. You had never met a woman who fell in love with you from the
moment you met, a woman was unafraid to find new ways to tell you this: first in small
poems she posted clandestinely on her web site, then in declarations that she would shout
to the world and finally in small gifts that she never gave you but would leave for you a
yellow flower tied to a tree, a note in your car door, the words tamo in chalk outside the
coffee shop you frequented gifts you would continue to find for many years thereafter:
a small cross made out of popsicle sticks near the library, a painting of a scene from
Mexico on a telephone pole, the initials TL drawn with rubber in an intersection in a city
across the Pacific. She was born in Ciudad Juarez and had no fear. She disappeared for
months on end to work in medical clinics in Chiapas, she spent weekends in Tijuana
producing musical events, she drove now and then to Juarez to visit with mothers of the
disappeared. If she ever saw the President of the United States she vowed to call him a
criminal to his face. She had told you before that she would make you fall heads over
heels in love with her, she promised that. But as she told you the stories of relatives dead,
of friends tortured, of human sacrifice, of a boyfriend who went to jail rather than turn
her over to authorities, of young girls raped in front of their mothers, of women killed for
sport by bored drug runners, of girls tortured and mutilated for snuff movies made for
politicians, you realized your love would have to rise above a violence you could never
challenge. And so your face dulled and your heart turned cold and without you to keep

32

her, she too vanished. Except for her gifts and of course a text message now and then, a
message from somewhere, you never knew where, to let you know she was alright.

Feminicides of Juarez7
In August 1995 the body of Olga Alicia Carrillo Perez body was found in a parcel at the
south end of the city where the bodies of other teenage girls and young women were
discovered in 1995. The medical examiners office said the girls right breast was severed
and her left breast was literally bitten off. She had been stabbed repeatedly, her neck was
broken, and there were signs she had been raped.
In September 1995, the body of Silvia Rivera Morales, a seventeen year-old student, was
dumped just south of the International Airport. Her right breast was severed and her left
breast mauled by human teeth.
In 1995, Adriana Torres Marquezs body was found off the highway. An autopsy
determined that Adrianas neck was broken as she was being strangled. Forensic experts
said other victims also had broken necks. They speculated the attackers did this to
enhance their sexual pleasure. Breaking the neck at a certain point of the vertebrae
generates a convulsion that certain attackers deliberately seek, the experts explained.
In 1998, the body of Silvia Laguna Cruz, a sixteen-year-old who also worked at a
maquiladora. was found about a hundred yards south of Zaragoza Boulevard. The
authorities said she was raped and stabbed twenty times. The police report also said her
killer or killers sadistically nailed an object to her chest.
The 1998 death of Irene Salazar Crispin, a twenty-four-year-old maquiladora worker.
They penetrated her vagina with a knife and cut it into pieces. They did the same with

33

her mouth. Her lips looked like flower petals scattered over her face, a mound of ripped
flesh.

On November 10, 2001: Claudia Ivette Gonzalez, 20; Veronica Martinez Hernandez,
19; Esmeralda Herrera Monreal, 15; Laura Berenice Ramos, 17; Mayra J. Reyes
Solis, 17; Maria Acosta Ramirez, 19; Guadalupe Luna de la Rosa, 20; and Barbara
Martinez Ramos, 20.
On February 2, 2007 the body of Lea Gmez Sable, 19, was found in her home by her
husband who was returning from work at the maquiladora. Initial investigations
showed that she had been brutally beaten and stabbed in front of her three daughters.
On March 2 the body of an 18 year old woman was identified as Mayra Carbajal
Solorio who worked at a nearby bar. Initially sources close to the investigations
commented that the women had been sexually assaulted and that her breasts had been
cut. Officials declared that she had sand in her lungs and had been buried alive.
On April 4 the body of an unidentified woman was found nude and with signs of
violence all over her body. Authorities declared that she died from a drug overdose
since she had many injection marks on her arms, but they also recognized that her
death was violent.
On May 26 the body of Blanca Guadalupe Snchez Villalobos, 32, was found nude
with a red shirt wrapped around the neck. There were bruises on her face and it was
determined that she had been sexually assaulted with a foreign object and choked to
death. Fernando Ramrez Camacho, 41, the bus driver of the area, is currently being
investigated for her murder.

34

 While more than 500 women have been killed or have vanished since 1993, more than
1,500 men are estimated to be victims of homicide and many more missing.

He walked past a small church. One side of the sign in Spanish, the other in
Chinese. Different times for different services. A couple arguing in an apartment parking
lot. Words unintelligible, emotions not. She begins to yell louder, lunges after him. He
backs away while she continues to swing with open hands and nails, he grabs her and
throws her down, she struggles to get up he pushed her down again, the struggle
continues into a darkened pathway, the clatter and crash, her cries, his shouts until finally
it all stops. She walks back out into the parking lot, lets fly a few last words and then
gets in her car and leaves. He appears. Tires peeling, she hits another car, drives on. He
stands in the parking lot. Walks back into his apartment. What if something had
happened he thought, would he have? He knew the answer and the guilt plagued him.
What goes on in the darkness? Mexico sold to the narcos. Now Mexicans want it back
now. War spilling onto our streets, women tossed from cars. Gun shots at night. Juniors.
Mercenaries. Assassins. Predators. Cannibals.
Mayor of the Mexican town is also the owner of the baja casinos. His residence a
mansion of dark orange walls with black impenetrable glass windows. Inside, long
shaded corridors make up the inner square where around the periphery panthers and other
exotic animals are housed in small glass walled enclosures. His name: like the noise a
goose makes. Hear he tried to get a white rhino for his collection. Women are his
favorite animals: a quote he gave to the newspaper just prior to his election. Has a wife
and four kids, the children not his own. Story is he was gambling with a friend who had

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lost everything, everything but his family. So he put them up for wager and lost again.
Two days later the wife and kids belong to the Mayor.
Angels. Olga, Sylvia, Veronica, Myra: what was it they liked most? Your hair?
Your eyes, your dark but not too shadowy skin? Not sure we can know now. Now your
lips are bent and torn, your nose broken never to be repaired, hair like tar, eyes swollen
like peaches. You were left naked, for all to see. Skin now white with cold, blotches of
heavy blue, green tendrils vein your legs and arms. Fingers dangling like broken
tentacles, nails yanked, torn free, hang like snake skin being shed. Mouths carved up like
flowers into your faces, vaginas stretched by fists and baseball bats, slashed with knives
and pruning shears, rectums pulled out, an umbilicus coated with mud and sand. Toes
clipped at the joints, feet peeling like boiled potatoes, bones forced to breath the air,
forced to drink the mud, where brains leak out through cracks and holes, where blood
forms an aureole like a hardened placenta and maggots swarm in and out of mouths of
nostrils of cunts of anuses of eyes caught in a cry. Fucked and kicked and fucked again
passed around from lap to lap then fed quinoa and lard to live another day. Punctured,
burned, sliced, poked, pried, twisted, broken, smashed, flattened, cracked, and torn then
fed to live yet another day. Necks broken while hard cocks struggle with the final
orgiastic spasm that shake them loose. Breasts sliced and bitten away by savage teeth,
sprayed with insecticide, doused with ammonia, covered with sand, buried beneath lime,
all found in your lungs. Cameras passed around. Wrapped in plastic, folded into boxes,
shoved in freezers, you were found. Others, your friends: where are they? Ask the hogs,
who one day will be slaughtered too. Olga, what? Sylvia, what? Veronica, what? Myra,
what? What cries, what whispers, what calls, what thoughts, what fear, what terror, what

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horror, what resignation, what anger, what hatred, what false love, what false pity, what
prayers, what names were said, what people were blessed, what memories remained,
what hope, what blackness, what retreat, what, what would have been left? Only death
offered you comfort.
Months have passed since you last journeyed to the border. As Truman said, not a
place to go for a Tequila shot and a blow job anymore. Too many black Escalades. Too
many people watching. A shadow across the border each morning, arms outstretched: a
cross made from planks and pieces of boards, from pallets and snippets of wire, from
broom handles, window frames and plastic bottles, a cross made of shoes and belts, of
school books, hair bands and backpacks, a cross made from pantyhose, muddied jeans
and torn sweaters, from socks and panties and matted hair. A dolls broken face, a ruler, a
candy tin. A cross that appears on the frontera, facing the morning sun, vanishing again
at night.
Teresa had told him: There is nothing we can do. We cant scream, we cant hate,
we cant demand, we cant plead, we cant even cry any more, our hearts are a desert, our
hope dried up long ago we cant even believe in our own fear, for that is how hopeless
it is.
Sure, you would liked to have believed that she created the distance that began to
not so much divide you as quiet you both. First talk faded, then laughter died away,
finally smiles vanished as well. You knew it was your doing. Her mind, her body, her
joy belonged to someone else now. And that is how she walked away one night, not even
a word about ever again.

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This maze of metal sheds, of cement block hangers, closed maquilas; this
labyrinth of silence; this piece of brittle desert, where screams scrape against the acid
crisp air, then shatter into a thousand shards of silence; cries captured by dust devils that
dance across the desert floor like drunken men, tossed in mid step into thorny scrub
bushes and ripped to shreds; voices without echoes. 8
The strange time when night was inevitable but the darkness had not fully
conquered the last light of day. Shadows dark and purple. Trees shuddering, leaves and
branches stirring restlessly, parrots shrieking and battering their stiff wings against the
disappearing sky, bats or swallows streak the sky like faint, silent illusions. The first cool
winds appeared. He shuddered with the thought that he did not know where to go. Fuck
bed, fuck sleep. From where inspiration? From where knowledge? How many times will
I let possibilities die?
Zim reached another road and walked to the right. Coming around the corner the
lights of Main Street once more could be seen. Across the street, a few blocks down, the
ghostly night shapes of Truman and Bull. Walking home. The blinking lights of the
Carousel Bar behind them. Squat water tower painted with carousel horses, bears and
lions circling the bar. Lights running and skipping around the circumference. True what
Bull had said. Creepy alright. But where do freaks belong but here. The bellybutton of the
town. Above, the sky blackened with the squid ink of night. Darkness complete.
Need to return now that the imps are gone. Repair the damage. She must
understand.

I am not trying to change what you think about Unarius. I am just stating the fact that unarius is
not a cult. If you think that it is a cult that is your opinion and I respect that! I am not the kind of

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person that would force my opinion on other people. I know that I can seem that way at times. But
I am someone that respects peoples opinions. And no mater what anybody says I will not give up
my Unarius beliefs. I was not trying to be a smart-aleck. Sorry if a seemed a bit forceful!
POSTED BY: Cinnamon_gurl 2007

Melissa girl you are not a woman and never will be one. first, get out of FIRST GRADE; you
cannot even spell first grade english: Your english is that of a 5 year old demented spoiled brat;
UNARIUS IS A CULT AND I WAS RAPED BY A UNARIAN MEMBER, I HAVE THE EVIDENCE IN
MY LOCKER IF YOU CARE TO SEE IT YOURSELF MY DEAR BRAT. SO YOU SHUT UP
ALREADY WITH YOUR LIES. YOU ARE A SPOILED BRAT AND A SICK ONE. A STRONG SIGN
OF CULT MENTALITY IS ANYONE WHO CANNOT HANDLE THE TRUTH ABOUT THEIR
CRIMES. I AM NOT SLANDERING; I AM TELLING THE TRUTH YOU IDIOT. GROW UP AND
FACE THE TRUTH. I SUGGEST YOU GET RAPED AND THEN TELL ME HOW IT FEELS. YOU
WANT UNARIUS TO GET AWAY WITH THEIR FILTHY CRIMES OF RAPE AND ROBBERY.
THEY LIE TO EVERYONE AS YOU DO MY DEAR. AND I HAVE A LITTLE SECRET ABOUT
THEM WHICH YOU DO NOT KNOW YET. WAIT UNTIL YOU HEAR WHAT IS ABOUT TO
HAPPEN TO YOUR CRAZY PIMPING RAPING FRIENDS AT UNARIUS.

HAVE A NICE DAY. HA HA HA

POSTED BY: Anita Swallows 2007

Anita you are a fool! You don't know what you are talking about because probably you have never
read a book in your life. Unarius is not about rape, theft and all of the crap. It is about books and
reading books - books by the Masters - books about Science - books about progressive evolution
and how you can achieve such. I don't know why anyone would ever claim to be drugged and
poisoned or raped and all of that crap because that is just what it is - Crap! It is not a cult but a
Science dedicated to proving the existence of life after death, life on other worlds, reincarnation,

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soulic evolution, and the understanding of who we are, why we are here and where we are going
all in a scientific provable way.
POSTED BY: cinnamon_gurl 2007

Oh Sunny Lynn, I wanted to chat with you intelligent people, but I have to go, a UFO has just
landed in my back yard and I have to go and share a beer with the aliens
POSTED BY: normal_person 2007

Go ahead make fun now. You are the child not me. The world will change as we know it. It will
change right before your eyes and all you will remember is that I told you so.
POSTED BY: Cinnamon_gurl 2008

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Notes
Not only things that vanish or appear mysteriously, but things that do not exist. (HH)
Chaos:
Labyrinth: The Past?

41

All of these are communications taken virtually verbatim from an Internet posting site on Unarius. I changed the names.
History of El Cajon.
3
Abstract from Genetics journal.
4
Hisory of El Cajon at 1900.
5
History of El Cajon
6
see: Harvets of Women
7
From Amnesty International Report
8
Borrowed from Revolutionary Worker newsletter.
2