My mother's misappreciation of my intelligence.

My mother was very intelligent. However, she never accepted the challenge of intelligence. She was content to ride along on a small ambition. This did not prepare her for the subtleties of raising a child who was even more intelligent than she was--myself. It was evident at graduation from Yale, where she was in attendance, that all of this commotion was a feather in her cap, and that was as far as she was able to take it. Such was the guidance I got from day one at this college. My father was an outsider but at least did not mount an effective obstacle course to it. They all were into emotion and the range of possibilities it allowed. It was this estimate of the potential I had that I played out.

My disappointment at not being taught to read the first day of school went as an anecdote and a curiosity, and this marked the duration of my flirtation with school to the last day of my years at IIT.

It was the sighting of the burning building a la Moses's bush that brought things into allignment. The oversize enlargement of my potential was made greater still by the emotional pettiness I was born into. Ecological forces stepped in and this is continuing to today. Even the comprehension of the Mafia of my potential is rooted in emotional misapprehension. They are right about one thing--I need to work out the significance of my crossdressing and get back on track in the male role path.

The effects of having lived as a male for sixty years.

Probably the most difficult problem I have now is that I look like a male in my face and have developed a vast set of reinforcements for expressing the male gender. I have seen that these lead nowhere, so it doesn't basically influence my decision making, but nevertheless it makes for a hard transition.

I didn't grow up with a constant desire to be a woman. My desire was for having sexual arousal and orgasms while crossdressing and the rest of the time I just went along for the ride, doing what was expected of me. But this produced a dysfunctional man, unable to realize his most profound desires. The key ingredient, of living as a woman and having female orgasms, was absent from the world that was given to me, and consequently I didn't have before me a set of choices from which i could assemble a wholesome career and family life. So what then happened? What the hell was I to make of all this? Part of what was given to me was that I was being loved and nurtured by my family, and being educated for a useful life by the educational establishment. My duty was to believe in this, and my psyche was considered by my parents to be less important, or they wouldn't have considered my unusual gender identity an obedience problem.

The educational establishment had one chance to rectify all this. As a freshman at Yale I recognized that A) I needed a good outside opinion, and B) I was in a place where I could get one. I went to the University Health service, got an appointment with a conselor without stating what it was about, and showed up not really knowing what I needed to say or ask for except to just state I had a history of crossdressing. The counselor, after I made this statement, said something that seemed compassionate but she didn't have any questions for me. I said I understood that she was telling me that crossdressing was not a problem. I was centered on that issue rather than the larger and more urgent questions of just what I needed to do at this point. My parents had instilled the idea that I was an obedience problem in this matter and if I could get the counselor to commit to a judgment that it was not a problem then it was not an obedience problem and I would be relieved of the need for self-chastisement. The counselor answered my statement by rushing in to say she didn't mean that crossdressing wasn't a problem. It was at that point that my memory of the session ends. I left completely unsatisfied with the outcome and without any idea where to turn next. So I turned nowhere and five years later was in a mental hospital after sufferring an acute psychotic break.

For this reason I consider that Yale did me a disservice by the remarks of the counselor I saw. My openness to counseling was quashed and I never attempted to get more help. Well, perhaps negligence is hard to prove here, I don't know. I'm just not happy about Yale and what it has done for me in life. But that said, what can I expect from them now? These days, not much. It's not a happy story. Maybe I'll come to better terms with it with time. I am able to see, though, that my displeasure with Yale is based in my male complications and my female identity is basically patient about his.

Considerable rethinking awaits me, that's for sure, if I don't instead just throw out the whole male bag and accept truth as a female.

The New Haven girl who laughed.

I experienced for a moment with a New Haven girl the power over women that a Yale Man has. We went to East Rock Park. I doubt she would have gone with me if I had not been a Yale Man.

The moment was generated by the sensation I had taking her in my arms. It was the first time I ever felt lust with a woman. I had had the feeling of lust when I was cross dressing in secret and had my first orgasm. But with this woman I felt lust equal to that and was equally stymied by unsuitability of it. My first instinct was to say to her, "I love to feel you!" hoping she would open herself to equal lust herself. She didn't. She was struck by my virginity as if it was laughable, and that's just what she did. She laughed almost uproariously. It wasn't true virginity as I had copulated before, but once it was without attraction to the girl and the other time it was phobic to intercourse, for the sake of nominal virginity. This New Haven girl, of course, knew nothing of my history, but what was laughable about my behavior I cannot fathom. She probably was not aroused at all and my expression of feelings plainly declared that I was, and this inequality she took as some bizarre type of social advantage, and used that advantage to exult over my gullibility that she would be responsive. The words I said stand as a monument to the cruelty of people, for though her expression of advantage seems to me bizarre, to her it bespoke totally a presumption of due ridicule. She was laughing into her crowd, her social circle, while I spoke into the history books, for such is the nature of my published writings. My lust is empowering, and I never make excuses for it. If Yale taught me anything, it is that social circles are best left behind one as he sets out on a quest for eternal significance. Let the circles feel the effects in peculiar or distant ways, as is their need. I have a sense of the beautiful, or I would never have gotten this far, and it serves as a light on my products, hinting at the existence of some or other place where others, not just myself, will welcome them. It is not the complete product, but it counts. I think there is something beautiful in the story of the New Haven girl who laughed. It didn't lessen my lust. It served notice that lust for me is always close at hand, at which there will always be those who laugh. It could be worse, and in fact, in places it is. Other stories append there. Read the autobiography. The name of the New Haven girl of this story is Cindy Koval.

Not a life to emulate

Would I recommend the sort of life I have had to today's Yale students?

There are so many reasons not to. I am poor. I am mentally ill. New Haven's last official words to me were stay away. My blog is unpopular. Most of my family has disowned me. This is a deep and dark cavern to explore in looking for signs of do not enter.

There is no "BUT". I may have a life of substance in terms of accomplishments (now the but) but they are all resting on the slimmest footing and the most vulnerable chemistry, that of DNA, with respect to permanence. I will not succumb to a tendency to poetry in the interest of selling what I have not enjoyed. My life is not one to inspire imitation or succession. It has been a tedious existence. Little romance. Day after day of hunger and cold. Refuge in the unappealing arms of Social Security Disability. By any measure it is a tragedy.

Life itself has been an irritant.

Why?

There is a possibility the reason is that as a freshman at Yale I mused about my choice of a direction in life among all those I had seen and heard about, the lives of Yale alumni, and I came to a general but murky conclusion that the best way I could use my Yale education, were I to complete it, was to seek no reward but yet work, and do this in the company of the poor of America. I had no skills for it. I had no ideas to make it concrete and actionable. I only had a desire to admit myself into company which at the time I would have blushed to think of as fellows of the same kind. And for this choice there remains no reward. That keeps me in the company. It doesn't make me happy. I have never disowned my appetite for pleasure. I have learned to live with various levels of poverty, both in terms of money and in terms of logistics. I have no ashram to offer those interested in me, whether as a place to live or as a house to provide brief respite. I have not extended anyone's spiritual empire. I have not written anything pointing the way. These disqualify me for that one office which I can otherwise claim with reason, that of successor to Moses. So perhaps I shall ultimately disengage myself from that claim, and go entirely sui generis. Great. Another vanity.

Such as it is, it is a warning to all but those who disregard them, not to follow me.

Why I went insane.

I believe I know why I became mentally ill.

In my freshman year at Yale I had an intuition about the direction my life would take. I saw myself working in some inner city on behalf of the poor, with my own means totally unprovided for. I carried this into my preparations for a career at Yale, and when I got a job afterwards in an architecture office I continued to pursue this concept, and found no place for it in the profession and went nuts trying to find a place for it.

Today I face this same fate: no means, because my preparation was for no means and it's too late to make other arrangements. I am unable to conceive of anything related to money, so I am unemployable, and my English Transformation Art is not looking like a good sell.

Some new color schemes have replaced old ones.

Following discussions at conceptart.org with some artists I have created seven new color schemes to replace seven of the old ones for my English Transformation Art, available here on my blog. Three, c201, c202, and c204, are unchanged.

I think the new ones are exciting and I hope you will take a look. Click here.

For those interested in purchasing a special, whether of the text, "GLENBARD WEST", or of the text, "YALE", There is now a greenish color scheme--c209--for Glenbard West, and a blueish color scheme--c210--for Yale.

life design at Yale

When I was a freshman at Yale I rapidly accumulated a sense about other students. They were almost all bent on material success. I considered their humane values poor and I wanted to pursue a more noble path by aiming to be poor.

I certainly have succeeded.

But I find that, being poor, I can't eat as well as I would like. I realized at Yale that finding a spouse would be difficult if I were poor. I didn't realize I would have trouble eating well. Knowing a spouse would be problem I have worked on that ever since. I believe that I have made progress in that matter, with my courtship of Crystal Newell. However, I have not made progress in the matter of eating well. It is bounded by income.

Being poor was a frightening prospect when I was young. I soon realized I had put myself irrevocably down a road that would prove more difficult than I desired life to be. I began to improvise ways to avoid it. I tried majoring in economics. That didn't work. I tried architecture. Here I was confused by the difference between nobility and professional ability. It drove me insane.

Insanity completed my trajectory into poverty.

Now poverty has proven to be a task master of the highest order.

English transformation art is a noble business. Nobility is profitable only at vast scale. The final vast scale is time.

The blog art sale is up. Time will hone it.

allegation: Yale and Princeton admitted girls for some warped reason related to me

There is a presence in the audience resembling the frantic grasping used by Jon Astroth to pin me in less than half a minute in our finalist wrestling match in junior high school. It is disolving my creative work at a rapid rate.

Jon and I were both in the band in the seventh grade. We both played clarinet. He was ranked in the first few seats of the last row. I was in the last few seats. There were about 12 in the last row altogether. There was a challenge among everyone in the last row--a test of a piece of music in private audience by the band director. The results determined the new rankings. My father, Ken Batek, promised me 50 cents for every seat I moved up. I went to the top. I don't know where Jon went. It wasn't the top. I don't recall him being in the band in the eighth grade. I became first chair.

I don't recall what year the wrestling tournament was held--the one I recall wrestling Jon in. It was a 2-year junior high school.

My father forced me to apply to U of I for college. That's apparently where Jon went, as my investigations show he lives near there now. Maybe my father figured if I was such a hot wrestler in high school i could follow him to U of I and get a second shot at him.

Jon and I were both straight a students. He was a star athlete on the basketball team in junior high. He starred on the baseball, basketball, and football teams in high school. In football he was the starting quarterback. In football our school was in a 3-way tie for first in the conference our senior year. Jon was never in any of my honors classes, either in junior high or in high school. I don't know what his class rank was in high school. Mine was 8th of about 600 second semester junior year, 5th first semester senior year, and second semester senior year I had gotten into Yale, Princeton, and RPI and didn't bother to ask for my rank. My father had told me I would be rejected by Yale. I don't know if he was lying or not. Freshman year at Yale when I came home for break my father told me he had heard I was taking sociology and he told me he was very upset with me for doing so. I wasn't taking any sociology at Yale. Yale had determined that my father's fair share of my college costs was $2000 per year. He informed me he would only pay $1200. He wouldn't pay any more for me than he was going to for Sandy. Maybe he was trying to keep me from succeeding at Yale. In junior high my father's mother, Marie Batek, gave me a christmas gift of a math game called "wff n proof". It was over my head. One of the most famous things about Yale is the senior singing group called the Wiffnpoofs. In junior high my mother caught me cross dressing in my parent's bedroom and told me if I did it again she would tell my father. I did it again. Then one weekend the family took a trip to chicago and stayed in a hotel. They didn't invite me. I stayed at home and cross dressed. When they got back they said they saw Sammy Davis Jr. in an elevator. My father considered blacks as a racist. Yale admitted girls the year I arrived. Princeton did the same year. I wrote when I was having trouble with blacks in boston that the kkk had a general, meaning me. My father came, took me to see Al Haig's wife, and she gave me a bunch of used clothes. When my father's father died I went to the interment at Bohemia National. My father lurched in "tears" toward me, I think he was trying to see if I was grieving. When he left me at my apartment he made a comment under his breath that I would never be with a white woman again. His father was known to the family as having been in the kkk.

If Yale was induced to admit girls to manage my image with someone by making it possible I was a girl and not a cross dresser, is it any wonder I became mentally ill?

Let (Yale and Princeton admitted girls for some warped reason having to do with my father's furor over my cross dressing) = A.

If A, then B, I am the most important Yalie ever, C, someone has an investment of that scale in keeping me from distinguishing myself, D, no effort will be spared to be sure of that, and E, the active intelligence pitted against me is not my father's, but someone much more capable.

My role is not lessened by D.

Defeat for me implies I will not have a white woman.

The more damning condition is all the things I have done to distinguish myself which have been undermined because of C, D, and E. if A is proven, then the reparations will be astronomical. As Osiris, my deeds are enormous, all to no endorsement. The only sufficient terms are spotlights.

The presence resembling Jon Astroth's pin of me might be only one aspect of a larger presence that includes the power E. The pin effect would then be only my memory of it, not any part of Mr. Astroth's camp.

I never considered Jon Astroth an arch enemy. Evidently my father considered wrestling my only way to redeem myself as a man despite my cross dressing. I think of it as a side show to the real conflict, which was intelligence. My father's mother committed herself to getting me into Yale. This proved an error that she was unable to easily fix. I find it repugnant that she used coercive means to get me to select Yale. Possibly the reasoning was not to get me to select Yale, but to get ambitious about going to Yale. Either way, it's coercion. It presumes that I would forever be subservient to her will, and not able to advance without coercion. It shows a lack of what it takes to be a leader, or just to raise one. The whole plan backfired. When A is proven it will be historical damnation for my father and his mother, not because they went so far to conceal my cross dressing, but because they coerced me into going to Yale, second thought it, and watched as my ruin proceded.

Evidently, since Dave Ristau was cut in at the moment of JFK's death, the mob considered me presidential material. This made coercion desirable to them. It's still unlike a leader. Better to let the country have a lesser president than a better president except for being coerced into going down that road, unable to know his life with clarity. Such is not a great president. We have plenty of the lesser kind, and that's all I could have become, if indebted to such a plot. The cross dressing is a result of greater sex appetite. They discount that I might have a great appetite for girls, which I do, than just about anyone. This marked me for greater destiny than the presidency. When A is proven, and history makes a sharp turn, many lives will be parted from many lives.

the case against Bill Wilt

I am going to, in this and coming posts, discuss each of the cases of my allegations of covert repression. This is so that each one can be investigated economically.

All the allegations, if validated, carry a death sentence for the entire group of people responsible, both from the time of onset of the repression, and currently. Anyone involved in the repression during any of that time will be put on the death warrant. My coming to be kingpin has not been a process of merely a few showy demonstrations of prowess. It has been one of surviving and keeping my personal style despite repression of various sorts and with various effects, all of them deterring me from either surviving or pursuing my personal style.

The first one I am going to discuss, preliminarily and not exhaustively, will be my uncle, William F. Wilt. I grew up in an atmosphere tinted with admiration for this traitor to my interests. Admired, but never reaching out to me as a potential colleague or protege, he climbed the corporate ladder to become president of a giant American aerospace corporation, Aerojet General. Little did I suspect how little he was aware of my own star developing, but only noting the highlights where they reflected his own directions. I was pursuing exactly what I have attained, namely, becoming kingpin, though I wouldn't have ever been able to tell you that on the way there. My glory is endowed with spiritual qualities concordant with the most vital position in America. His is limited to his place in polite society, albeit an industrious one.

And in industry is the rub. Bill fucking wilt thought I was lazy.

Now those who know me know I am not lazy. but Bill Wilt didn't know that and neither do his ministers currently serving his will on me. Why did he think I was lazy? Because I knew from an early age that I was deemed the carrier of the family leadership as chosen to be so by my mother's mother, and Wilt's mother, namely, Elizabeth Paxton Wilt, and knowing this, I granted myself a circle of pause around me enabling me to relax, for I had great goals, unspecific, but unlimited since I knew of no bounds to the title I had gained from my grandmother. Consequently, I let my hair down and Bill fucking Wilt thought I was profligate. He especially thought I was profligate because I had lost my social position by dropping out of graduate school at Yale when I relapsed after going off medication. Betty Wilt continued to perceive my pursuit of my potential and took me in while the rest of the family poured anathema on me, and in Bill fucking Wilt's case this amounted to covert repression. Deciding to go off medication was a good decision. Not doing so, I would be on Mellaril to this day, and maybe dead because it has that possible result. It also obliterates spirit. It makes you sleepy all day and I was of the opinion I was better than that. My current theory about mental illness is that it is caused intentionally by homo sapiens to cover their asses with respect to language effects leaking when people speak and miss their mark. to do this the species sets a threshold past which everyone susceptible to mental illness is drafted into it. This threshold is applied uniformly throughout the ranks of the species so as to get isotropic distribution of the drafted parts, so it hits good people as well as bad with equal volatility. I believe my theory is correct. Mental illness is no demerit.

I could have avoided Bill fucking Wilt's unattenuated repression by telling him off in the beginning of it, when he had me in his car after I dropped out of Yale and he told me I "need to work". That, however, was an invitation to argument and argument is always enhanced by time and self-discipline. I get to speak now and I choose to issue a death warrant for Bill fucking Wilt's living representatives and all their servants. The evidence is there. It can be proven he has inflicted his personal condemnation on me through his considerable power, and through my superior power I can express my contempt for it, once my allegations are proven.

university business

I periodically receive a phone call from a current UCSC student who tells me what is happening on campus and asks about my affairs. This is always a pleasant conversation. They always come at it with a preparation to hear anything and adapt to my circumstances. They know i gave the university twenty dollars a few years ago and they ask if I can give again. I cant but I don't mind them asking.

The physics and astronomy professor who served as my senior thesis advisor, George Blumenthal, has been appointed chancellor of the campus. He is popular. He also doesn't answer my emails.

The UCSC police when I was homeless and causing consternation on campus took me to the base of the hill where campus is located and dropped me off. On a later occasion when I visited I knew they might not want me there so I dropped in at the police station. There they told me I was welcome again.

Yale is not so forgiving. They're still consternated. They sent me to jail a number of times. The last time the judge told me to leave town. They were not comfortable with my use of campus facilities to escape the elements. Any alumnus with a bank balance would never be treated the way I was for doing the exact same thing. I will say the alumni organization office treated me like any other alumnus. They have a big common room and keep hot coffee and current newspapers for free to visiting alumni. And when I wrote from Chicago to the secretary of my Yale class that I was starving he sent me a package of gourmet fruit. That was nice and it changed the whole landscape of my relationship to the university.

IIT has become a combattant against me so I am fighting back. I went to a monthly social hour for graduates at a downtown pub—universities usually treat anyone who didn't graduate but was in good standing for at least one term as if they are full graduates. They treated me nice until they found out a) I have been in fights, and b) I am mentally ill. Then I detected the gearing up of a blackball behind their backs. I asked to participate in volunteer activities for the university. They told me you have to contribute $50,000 if you want to be on the board of directors of the alumni organization. I offered to do something less grand. They said they would contact me. I haven't heard from them in two months.
So I took action. I put the whole school officially at the bottom of the list of lists until I give the signal.
I'm not going to give the signal until they stop blackballing me and make good all the bad will they have created. Like everyone, they only listen to power and don't recognize power until it's too late. My fights and the onset of mental illness occurred before I entered IIT. That didn't keep them from taking my money for tuition and room and board. It shouldn't keep them from keeping a working relationship with me, but for some reason it does. The development office representative who must have blackballed me was named Kristin.

I carry a weighty responsibility everywhere I go and sometimes fallout is violent. Eventually the population will learn, some more some less. I have my lessons to learn. Others have theirs. They are not the same lessons.

inaugural post

Welcome one and all! It is with pride and determination I begin this enterprise, having come to it through no small feat of longevity. Many is the time I have been near death's door, pitting my acumen and wits against foe, adversity, hunger, cold, exposure, enmity, misunderstanding, and any number of other similar obstacles to simply getting to the next day ready to do it all again. Well, it's been a trip. Now I'm ready to launch into my endeavor to do what others care not to, because they are too concerned with compromise. If I had been willing to compromise, I would have become a hack like everyone else. Not that I am unaware of the top of the curve, either. I know there are exceptions out there. I saw them in college at Yale. But my position is different, even from them. It is not every milenium that a human sets eyes upon the fire of Moses. If my reading is correct, the last time it was Moses. Then it happened in 1992, here in Chicago--I saw it myself with my own two eyes. Of course I shudder to think of it. The portents are not good for certain dominant entities, just as was the case in Moses's time. I would not be honest if I said I had nothing to do with the Wall Street crisis of the past month. And the end is not in sight. Now I am in a different situation from when I was adrift alone, facing those things of which I just spoke. The tables have turned. And information is flowing in the other direction. Whether the money will too, that's anyone's guess. But the imbalance of resources, between me and the rulers, is now being reduced. Moses wanted the Jews freed. That was his path. Mine is different. I want some resources of my own. and when I get them, by any means legal, I will remove my lock on the economy. It's that simple.

Now I will say a little about the easiest way for me to be given resources. I am not a slacker. I like to work. I have a second B.A. from U.C.S.C. in physics and I am able to serve computer users less skilled than myself as a consultant. I will sit at your side at a computer and get it to do what you want, for $20 an hour. That's pretty cheap. I have taken out some ads in free online classifieds. We'll see if I get any emails from prospective customers.

That should do it for getting this ship assail. I hope we can have a free discussion of anything you want. I'm a pretty good conversationalist, and, despite the grim situation, and my part in it, I'm a pretty compassionate kinda fella. maybe that's my problem.

til next time...