End
All's Well Uncle Welles
Now they demand to know the true identity of all former Finnish Stasi agents. But there is no easy way out for Rosenthal's lost kids. Undoubtedly there has been and still is some kind of illegal and hidden international organisation that - like Stasi - wants to know absolutely everything about me. I wish I could name them exactly and demand that all secret documents concerning my case are made public. But I can only bring the fragments of my own experience and public hints together and draw some speculative and emotional conclusions. At first the Big Brother of Big Business just abused my innocence, but now I have given some feedback to the system. Is it only my own echo that I try to present as their confession? I know that it looks almost ridiculous: I am just like the Penguin who is sitting in the Gotham City Archives and studying papers in order to find out the true identity of his parents. Whether I tell about my case to a racist, liberal or whatever, such a situation can only lead to an embarrassing monologue. Of course I am nothing more but a pathetic loser who clings to his site as if it was his last hope. All that this tragedy needs is another narcissistic fool who can't any more look in the mirror without disgust.
On February 1, 2007, I received a "warning" by e-mail from my dear "Uncle" Ari (ari=ant in Japanese): they gave me three days to--or otherwise--
My sc. "uncles" are threatening me with future injustices as if I haven't suffered enough: they challenge the truth of Factum Non Fabula and accuse me of the desecration of a dead body as if I was carrying Gordon of Khartoum's head at the end of a pole??? I would gladly remove all references to them and their families if they gave me a written testimony that they are not really my relatives. I could put my trust in my "cousins'" honesty, but these "Big Uncles" must know better that they admit and now they have stooped to become the errand boys of the conspirators. Honesty is the greatest honour.
I have become more familiar with pain than laws during my life. However, if I have violated any law, copyright or good manner, I have acted so in order to reveal greater injustices. So, am I the only living "model" in this godforsaken country whom you can exploit without consequences and yet I am supposed to keep my mouth shut!?
When I make a mistake, I don't hysterically delete my errors but rather write more in order to get closer to the truth. When the basic trust is missing in your life, everything becomes significant. Often I draw too far going intuitive conclusions based on resemblance, but in spite of my many errors I still dear ask: is it right to lie to a child?
I don't seek for any revenge. I don't want anybody's money. Only Julie Andrews could heal my soul. All I need would be few straight answers from her, but until then I shall need my open internet therapy and I would die rather than give up my freedom of expression!
In Chapter 3 of George Orwell's "1984" poor Winston contemplates "escape":
The Brotherhood, he had said, never tried to save its members. But there was the razor blade; they would send the razor blade if they could. There would be perhaps five seconds before the guard could rush into the cell. The blade would bite into him with a sort of burning coldness, and even the fingers that held it would be cut to the bone. Everything came back to his sick body, which shrank trembling from the smallest pain. He was not certain that he would use the razor blade even if he got the chance. It was more natural to exist from moment to moment, accepting another ten minutes' life even with the certainty that there was torture at the end of it.
I am just like this Winston Smith keeping his diary on a blind spot. However, I don't imagine that I have the privacy of even one rotten corner. Winston didn't get a chance to end the rat experiment on him before the system broke his spirit. I also hesitate to do anything final, although I envy the dead at this "Hitler's long funeral". This has been a real circus, and while being in the spotlight, you start to think that you have two options: you can either be a clown or you can live dangerously and try to become a hero. But there must be a reasonable third way out!
Some of you must feel deep sadistic satisfaction when reading all this. Well, if you can't find my site any more, it means that Arethusa has reddened a new river. Will there be blood after bastards in baskets? Below you can see Marje Jack in bed right after I was born in Kauhava, 1968. Do you see what is under the bed? I wonder what really happened: was I literally abandoned and delivered to this hospital in that very same basket?
Sincerely, Mikko Jack