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Showing posts with label Scientology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Scientology. Show all posts

Monday, December 13

Friday, October 29

Latent Legacies of the Chinese Immigrants in to California, and Los Angeles - Examining Hate Crimes Against the Chinese.

 Being largely of a Chinese distinction, as for myself, I personally burden the weight of discrimination against myself, and my people.

Despite this distinct tensor contextual attractor to my malfeasance and personal rebuke, and the obvious distaste for the hatred towards my people, I recognize the shortcomings and pitfalls inherent in our American nation’s attitudes towards an age-old abuse and ridicule of a people, and a rich history that stretches far back in to the ages and millennia. It’s a shameful facet of American livelihood itself. Who hadn’t been brought up on Chinese industry and manufacture in this nation of America, particularly of the current living generations? It’s a widely known and much-disregarded feature of our lives, which characterizes the virtues of the Chinese, of an intrinsic nature, here, upon examination. Today’s corollary aptitude, bringing the topic forth, in to relevance for my readers, would be the electronics and semiconductor industry (although it is apparently largely a Taiwanese industry; yet they are somewhat of a similar lineage, here). Foxconn, for example, is a major manufacturer of our mobile device wiring and circuitry, of the small, yet intrinsically necessary, small parts that connect our devices, within their logical frameworks. 

The Chinese are commonly given one or more representative localities, where they can collectivize and gather, of their homesteading intentions becoming fulfilled. A Chinatown is a well-known feature of many of our major civic metropolises, here in America, just as other cultures and races have localities bearing their namesake, for distinction. 

A previously unknown, yet apparently sesquicentennial, upon this year, being 2021, at the original date and time of this writing - tragedy that beset the Chinatown of my current hometown of Los Angeles, (also where I had been brought up: Los Angeles County), happened in 1871, on October 24. Recently, our mayor of Los Angeles appeared at a press event, where he apologized for the massacre, and publicly acknowledged the violence that happened, back then, and he (Mayor Eric Garcetti) brought the issue forth, in calling for an end to the current waves of continuing hate and criminal activity against the Chinese, in particular, in Downtown LA’s adjacent Chinatown, which sees a 164 percent increase in violence, in recent years: (ostensibly; I didn’t listen through, or research, and discover, the actual transcripts of his speech).

With modern-day warfare establishments extending in to the nether-regions of heretofore unthought-of territories, of most of the American populace - A.I., space warfare, and energy-directed weaponry, such as remote-sensing apparatus installations and mechanized weaponry, we see plain intimations of brinksmanship, as plainly as the skies above us. Given that, I get my own particular spot in the world, and my own personal perspective on things, for being an outgoing avid pigeon-feeder, as my common habit and pursuit (although I’m not quite supposing that air-writing messages are personally targeted for me; I just happened to be privy to the camera shot, here in this photograph).

A special message in the sky, on an auspicious late afternoon of public recognition of my efforts (somewhat; it at least played out in my remote-sensing periphery and playback, of the day, as for myself).

Just days later, people who were out and about saw rich corroboration, in our Southern California daytime skies, while the news media published upon China’s forthright aggression, in firing off hypersonic missiles, whereas it was reported that U.S. combat technologies, within the same field, fell short of impressiveness, and superiority. It’s a fairly simple premise: in a remote-sensing and spectrography maritime environment (and in this day and age, wartime preparations and engagements are an “all the time” coming to fulfillment apparatus of our global societies) - we burgeon society and progress upon the work and worth of the people, who leverage what they can, or might, given what resources we have. In this day and age, where Chinese people are still collectively disregarded and dismissed, of the insults to our culture, and our people: where others still bicker and subsist at a lesser-level society, founded upon weaker intelligence and culturally-downgraded (albeit, surreptitiously, not quite publicly, as it goes) set of cultural habits and characteristics, where they feed upon better establishments of good health, sound ethics, and more nurtured environments, of the targeted victim’s upbringing, and aptitude (here, in my case, I am commonly derided as a Nazi, of my Eurasian heritage; my other half being Lithuanian descent). 

I’m calling for help, essentially. Good looks, and upbringings could only merit going so far in life, and the superficiality is inexorably unfulfilling and counter-productive. The point I was trying to get at, previously, is that the Chinese simply have more human populace to draw upon, to power a remote-sensing and directed energy-powered war mechanism, imaginably. Although I didn’t photograph the aerial clashes, on the days precluding the hypersonic missile news article publications, they did seem to corroborate what was being written and published on, in the news. 

A man of a different heritage spoke casually, perhaps to me, or another person present, at the time, of that “it’s easy to hurt somebody.” I felt quite differently, on the topic. Although I am commonly driven to angering and upsetting limits and concomitants, in circumstances, and for events that transpire, I am more commonly a self-injurer, rather than a willing combatant, when it comes to aggression, coming forth, above the surface, in person-against-person combatting. I recently broke my hand, a couple of months ago, by punching the wall. Even so, in resonance warfare tactics, which are not even necessarily of intentional nature, the greater fortitude sees victory, of a most patient and piecemeal formative nature. 

Somehow, I’m led to believe, that my closest connections, in my personal life’s history that had played out, are being exploited, to a most egregious extent. I’m at odds with enacting violence upon others, as a well-mannered Baptist Christian, that I was brought up as. Take it for what it is, this is a factual account, and my own personal reading in to, on this topic. People familiar with Chinese cultural history and acquisitions and assimilations would understand the significance of 150 years, yet here, in the melting pot of Southern California, Los Angeles, it is a burden that is all too much for our Christian heritage, and for God’s promise that we will not be made to endure beyond what is our human capacity to bear; and there are many nations to go, and to come, of their Christian heritage and westernization modernization apparatus, and we are still being mocked, and derided, in the streets, and in our homes. 

Update: 5:29 a.m. 10/30/2021

Apparently, the seething intention underlying the current disregard of the Chinese people lies within (purportedly) the Biden presidential administration playing out a sickening ruse in which I am ordered to leave town, while DTLA is blown up by a bomb, and unionized workers come in, from all over the country, to rebuild the Los Angeles Civic Center in record time, as well as burgeoned on the suffering and torture of some noted victims; in this case, I get arrested and remanded in to court for leaving town, as a profiled victim of law enforcement, with a warrant due, on a “couple of years-old” court case, which I had been neglectful of following up on, due to these traumatic and abusive ruses playing out in my mind, constantly, and also as the basis for me being arrested for the charge in the first place. The truth of the situation is that, in recent encounters with law enforcement, I was fairly simply cited for drug possession, and the district locality court which would attend to my remand court procedure had stated that they didn’t want to pick me up to go there, in essence. The case was one of those in which I had been hearing voices in my head, for days on end, and I became unreasonably psychotic, amongst a huge gathering of folks in Santa Monica. I was “stuck,” so to speak (in short), on a stone bench, and I had taken to the notion that I had become a Snapchat geolocation destination for tourists and for the attending youth, so that they could pwn me - as a bum, trying to air dry some sweat-soaked clothing articles, which I needed, since they were wet, and it was becoming evening, during the winter time. 

What a sickening 12 Steps Meditation Meeting. I don’t find negative conditioning to be any sort of proactive and effective rehabilitation measure. It’s blatantly well-known, to students of even the most primary psychology courses, at the university level. On one hand, I’d seen Joe Biden, many a time, on my news feeds and news articles contained within - appearing to be intoxicated and on drugs. Then, there was this notion being flouted around, of that crystal methamphetamine is burgeoned upon resources and activities gleaned out of physically torturing somebody. In the case of this allegorical, constituently entangled episode, and of our disparity of that we had not established formal acquaintanceship with the president (as well as given his lack of sobriety, at times), the premise arose of that he was seeking to bash out a quick series of claims, for those affected by the hypothetical bombing to-be, of DTLA, of cashing out the property owners’ insurance claims, hiring the nation’s foremen, construction workers, and contractors, all with the contingent pwn basis, of that some people, or perhaps simply only me, myself, being left with the lack of inclusion in to the story, of that I had to have been removed from society, unreasonably, and my loved ones tortured, and be set against one another, as well as myself, in the time leading up to this effort, and that my remand, in to incarceration again, would be the catalyst for such a course of action taking place. 

Indeed, this premise had been playing out, significantly, in my mind, and perhaps for others, as well. I hear the most egregious and atrocious episodes playing out, quite constantly, and I was definitely not brought up in the sort of home such that would suppose this sort of outcome, or even more depraved - appreciate the corollary inclusion of a promise of drug use consumption, and rewards, staked for the claimants - founded upon the torture and defilement of people, whatsoever. Take, for example, the anecdote I published on my other blog,, in which I describe the fascination of synthesizing and reconstituting a fragrance recipe based upon an orange flower absolute gas chromatography interpretation and analysis - the original might be just marginally superior, in practical usage, yet would smell largely the same as the original - either one, or the other, done properly. Our plants and material resources, in minerals and industrial milling, as well as our off-shore sea coal tar industry - produce fine products of all sorts - all of what good nature and medicine has given us. Recall the truth of the matter: crystal methamphetamine is “sometimes” prescribed to individuals, as a controlled substance. How, or why, ought an American-society’s legally ordained medicinal product, ever be burgeoned upon human suffering? It’s an unimaginable disparity, borne of a lack of patriotism, that seeds this type of story and scandal within the dregs societal demographics. For these individuals, sobriety and drug abstinence simply seems less compelling than talent and virtue, things upon which we study and celebrate in our religious and philosophical traditions, in Western society. On one hand, we are a western society, by tradition, and for that matter, even the Chinese had given up its territory and people for the sake of ceding to British rule and procedure in administration of Hong Kong, for a period of 150 years, for that matter. 


Friday, January 17

Chapter 1 of - a look in to the Accounts, Life, and Devices of Jay Ammon (iBook)

The Injured Bird - out on my own                                            in the streets of Los Angeles.
As the old saying goes, “if you can make it here, you can make it anywhere.” In Los Angeles, in our generation, coming in to adulthood amidst a seething somewhat maturity, we’d been hearing that line since we were children. All sorts of lines, in fact. Many of us arrived here from somewhere else, or some happenstance sort of lifestyle such that we were - that our parents were immigrants, or not, or that we were largely fraught with the spectre of a melting-pot metropolis of assimilation, due West, just a bit more than our suburban lifestyles had led us. That’s what I knew of Los Angeles. I was about 25 miles east of the epicenter of town that had (by now - 2020), become DTLA. Back then, it was about Hollywood. That’s where I reared my chops, as the story would go, as a failure of grad school at the University of California at Riverside. My professor told me that my aspirations, given my skillset, simply would not match up to the thesis project I had supposed of myself as being [manically] capable of enabling, in and of my means of creation, being a Music Composition Master of Arts student, in the year of 2005.
Aside from that, my instabilities, as a highly-endowed methamphetamine and cocaine user, in addition to my unbeknownst fallout of my college-years relationship were looming high above me. An iconic failure-to-be, of what my [aside-] entrepreneurial self had taught me were building blocks of character, in entrepreneurialism. That sort of Françoise romanticism was where the promise of the American Dream had hit me. For others, it was other things, of about town. For some, they could get by on cheap kitsch and slapstick maneuvers - a bitsy-step more distant, perhaps a bit more pragmatic, yet somewhat still leaning in to the notion of a narcissistic finery - one feature that delves deep in to the youth-minded psyche of our generation that came to fruition around the turn of the century.
Here, I had been taken in by a lover, (fast-forward a year and a half, given some rest, medication, a boxer’s fracture, yet I still had my car), and my parents’ still-supporting of me; luckily, I landed a girlfriend (to reiterate), and I successfully found a niche in a new marketplace: craigslist. New to me, anyways, for the most part. I felt like it was special. A vast frontier of freedom amidst the lackadaisical responsibilities of a small computers and tech section startup of a self-initiative founding sort - with a girlfriend? I set out to live what would turn out to be a life of ultimate-in-comfort, starting with a craigslist gig with a prominent Los Angeles photographer and filmmaker. Here (in this gig), I edited a photography shoot in to a YouTube video. Originally, with a Rolling Stone’s song as the backdrop, the video got a great deal of initial viewership, which I was proud of (40,000 hits, in about a week, or so). The video was taken down, due to YouTube’s copyright and Digital Rights policies, and the photographer had me come back to make a second and third video of his photography for him. He was also the one to get me in to an apartment on the West Side of Los Angeles, in Century City, just around the corner from the Century City Plaza shopping mall, right next to Ralph’s grocery. I paid $1,400 a month, and I was on my own. The girlfriend thing didn’t last long; we ended up getting in to spats, and we decided to call it quits.
The backdrop to all of this was that I was taken by the street scene that had been developing in the suburbs just off of Abbot Kinney in Venice Beach - the Shoreline Crips and a few other assorted characters were selling crack cocaine on the streets in small-batch pop-ups by night, and I was a most fond client of theirs. Back then, the narrow roads in a small perimeter, where they frequented, were backed up in lines of cars trailing down the streets. My girlfriend had chronic motion sickness, whenever she traveled in vehicles, so she didn’t come along with me. I would drive out, after days where I did my gigs on the computers and tech section.
James (the photographer who hired me for the craigslist gigs) opened up pouring faucets of the imagination, during the time that I knew him. He brought me on to one of his photography gigs, one day, where he had arranged a photoshoot with the (late) David Carradine, of television and motion picture fame.

This was my first introduction to Scientology, aside from having read the headlines on the tabloid newspapers when I was growing up. It was truly a fascinating experience, as the photoshoot took place at the Scientology Celebrity Center in Hollywood. Scientology would eventually weave its way deep in to my mind, once I hit age 30. Here, in the photo, I was in my mid-20’s. At the Scientology Celebrity Center in Hollywood, there had been two main facets of the location, at the time that I revisited it, which was, perhaps, in 2013. One of them is the mental health facet. Scientology is well-reknowned, in online literature, and also on its website, for denouncing anti-social behavioral disorders and abuses in psychiatry, as well as for their personality tests.

These are the results of my personality test from the Scientology website. I was invited to come in to the local Scientology Center to have a personal evaluation on the next morning. That’s my day for tomorrow. It’s out towards the beach, so I suppose I’ll have a beach day of it.


So, I did it. I went to the Inglewood Church of Scientology, and I met with a man named Raymond, who spoke with me about my test results. While I was in the lobby waiting for him, I was introduced, [via television] to the network, and to various shows and clips that the network had produced; apparently available on cable. The stuff was compelling, modern, and flashy, but not gaudy or overtly religious, from what I could remember.

And then I left. I didn’t have any money to purchase the Scientology Dianetics book, although I was strongly urged to. I was automatically scheduled to show up at the Scientology Church, and I felt like it would be a novel and relevant aspect of writing, here, since I was mentioning Scientology in various degrees, and early on, in my writing. At this juncture, of where and when we exist, here, in space and time; the year 2020: our childhood youths happened in the 80’s. Many of us, in Los Angeles, and, ostensibly likely, as well, in any likewise metropolis outskirts suburban surrounding area, thereof, we had the tabloids, where controversial things would happen to and from and of by Scientology and Scientologists.
In our early university years, Scientology was largely framed by figures such as Tom Cruise (of many feature films’ fame, and Katie Holmes (of a popular teen’s weekly show,[Dawson’s Creek]). Here, in the post 2000 era, when a person such as myself had split off from my childhood upbringing, in which my Cantonese mother had shunned these tabloids, popular culture, cable television, and the entire set of lifestyles like it; I had lived that life out, as mostly sheltered from it, yet I found a youthful rebellion in pseudo ‘darkness’ of Norwegian Black Metal, which was somewhat Classical music progressions of a relentless and dramatic theatrics nature.
I was raised Christian (trying to tie it all together, somehow), and innately so. I was not really some portrayal of that which had attracted me about counter and sub-popular cultures. I took a lot of it in, however. The world of psychedelics and speed attracted me, significantly. I had a healthy set of friendships with my counter-culture (for lack of a more modern term) - friends | peers, I would say, at this point, in that I had been reasonably well-socialized: I had a couple of girlfriends during those years prior to university; it was etc. common fare dating of backyard parties and kegger-type partygoers who all had (probably) some likewise similar dynamic of a lifestyle in high school years such that I did, as well.
Not that I mostly ever really found out about stuff like that. I never really caught up with people on Facebook. I somewhat just presumed that people who were patronizing the same scene and hanging out around us had some of our common and base-level behaviors. I would [seem to] discover these things much later in life, as I developed schizophrenia, [still trying to tie it all in together - which these things ostensibly do, in Scientology, which deals with mental health and psychiatry]. On some level, it would rack the mind to try to comprehend the intricacies and, as well, to access the magnitudes and felicitudes

} › felicitude
felicitude - Word in Context
... to those who were in the midst of the sordid round of tasks or the dull, heavy grind of poverty, of a felicitude that knew neither hunger, fear, nor pain; it offered a heaven forever to those who could endure a hell for a ...

Okay. Felicity means ‘intense happiness.’ Kind of like a beautiful Valentine’s Day celebration, when everything goes right. [cue the photo]. - ° | • • • ?  Bwippsy-cat?

Okay. Maybe.

But the photo is pretty compelling, to go with it. I find that novelty [full-stop; insert there] - (as a recycler), I find. . . that novelty is one of the seeking and needful behaviors fulfilled by such-named activity as recyclables collection, out and about, in the metropolis, as it pays, in various locales of America, and it suits it - the lifestyle; the novelty, the degradation of digging in the trash - for a certain type: ‘not so much, so’ - I figure people would say, if they who are them who are ones who are in and about:  of  ‘the business.’

Because it is a business.

On one hand. There are professional recycling centers that are operated by licensed and certified individuals who form businesses. Then, there are the recyclables collectors, ... etc. etc. various sorts and forms, although the path is ostensibly the same.

- not true.

Even within the sub-form of recyclables collector, there is some room for variety. There’s the ones who pull up at the recycling center, and who could understand where they had gotten all of those recyclables? [not my sort]. Perhaps it was a sporting event. I’d come to discover that some people list these things in the ‘free’ section on craigslist.

Much another forum and meeting place for a discourse on novelty. Of timeliness? That’s forum, short-form, written up. It’s important to incorporate rhythm in to the concept of novelty, sentence structure, regularity, expectation, and resolution of the listener’s expectations.

In this case, though, it’s [perhaps], (and, most likely) [as well] literature, so obv- oh-bee-vee it’s most ostensibly going to be read, although - . .  .

< • ,^ ° >

In these days of turned-up nose-cat, there’s liable to be some people sporting the accessibility feature of text-to-speech reading, which is novelty, in and of its own, that it comes into light, as such that reiterating the point, when a typical becomes particular; novel, sometimes, and for effect, the participle, of a reiterative form [and not even going back, to check grammar], we somewhat just trust that it’s right, and somehow, the money keeps coming.


It’s a psychological tool of novelty - recycling is, and as well, as is thumb-and-thumb 2-finger typing; essentially what aught be a symmetric and viable form, in that it ought be balanced, and well, in its form, in addition to being ostensible;

Just for trivia, I’m using the iPad, going on several pages, for now, in the keyboard of AZERTY, for the sake of my affinities for it, and I find it more elegant.

That sort of thing happens for a recycling (recyclables): ahem, collector. Not that it’s always so elegant, but that’s somewhat the consequence of what and why, but how? That’s somewhat the mystery of the schizophrenic mind, of which, perhaps, Scientology does some sue discourse, thereupon, yet I’ve not discovered it, as of yet. I can but of only just briefly contextualize upon the topic and religion.

Even that was a contextually novel thing to believe, or to say.

On one hand, the fluff of contextualization somewhat bwipps up some fluff about contextually relevant au par truthful, given the span of time that someone could hope to be paying attention to something. Sometimes, a difficult and much-bereaved task to endeavor that someone could muster, in and of their own spatial-consciousness, which typically, on its own, is contextually... I suppose, . . .

Okay. Easily forgettable. But a novelty will stick around for a much more memorable section of time. Such as a cigarette butt. Gross, some people would ostensibly think, but then, it was almost as if everyone had become only some people, for the sake of that the cigarette butt is like, everything - to the novelty seeker.

Actually, it was in Data Science - that I had rehashed, in my imagination, the sake of the word, and its terminology and ostensible rhetoric usage, in commonality, such that a researcher < NAME HERE > had properly mentioned it had been included in a study.

I remember it fondly. It happened on Twitter. One other endless fountain-eous ‘mon-tableau;’ contextually, here, seemingly a luxuriant thing, to consider, but now, in the scope of science, given technology - it’s a much-customizable user profile and interface such that a tableau could be considerably contextual mockup noms-nom of selectively tasty-pidgin selective of dry goods and used | new electronics, given släde.

But then,  . . . some people would, perhaps take issue and continue compounding upon the topic at hand.

[yeah, right],

But then, perhaps, someone would remember the context, given tableau, mockup au française, and the futility of maintaining attention-span, for the sake of  ‘’whatever.’

Okay. Done.

Here's the image muah!

By Jay Ammon
Check out the Valentine’s Day theme on this time lapse!

(I don't have the attribution data for the Twitter reference, yet).

Friday, January 10

I’m working at composing an iBook using iBooks Author and Pages.

As it turns out, I feel like writing has become more comfortable and fluid on the AZERTY keyboard of my iPadOS devices (now that I’ve picked up my holiday purchase of a 7th generation gold iPad from USC Village Target, and I’ve settled in, doing some updates on the device, here). The feedback of the text-to-speech works beautifully, and I can lean in to any position; in addition, as musicians would know, its a bit easier to be able to cheat by looking at the keyboard, not sticking to reading the music (piano players, at least).

The device, although, in several ways, simply marginal improvements over the 6th generation version, is a nicer aesthetic, with the thinner bezels on the side; and on this one, I’m riding bareback, at the moment. No cover or case for this one, right now.

For the weekend, I’m heading out to the Inglewood Scientology Center to get a personal evaluation on my Oxford 10 Personality Traits (currently) test and analysis of the results, of which test I took on account of the fact that I had taken it before; I’m older now, and I was in a better psychological and physiological position at the time I took the test, earlier this morning, and I’m doing some writing in my iBook which glosses over (actually, it’ll detail in significant degree, on second thought) - the experiences I had as a schizophrenic, the various characteristics of the experience, the aside stories, the paranoid plots I lived through, and some time-honored experiential insight and discussion of what it really was, and what it means, for myself, and as well, some thoughts on what it entails for others, as I’m targeting a modern-day mature reader audience, perhaps of parenting age of teenagers through young adults. It could be one of the few or only sources that touches on such psychiatric and mental health issues of its sort, at this point in time. I’d say that I haven’t read any literature such as what I intend to write, that is fully competent and capable in portraying the schizophrenic experience, to a large degree. I’m pretty impassioned about contributing to the book’s progress, little by little.

I’ll provide some updates when I get home 

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