• Imperial Wars – Bill Mitchell
  • On the Boardwalk – Juditte Erki


Imperial Wars

Dear Beachhead,

There are imperial wars of aggression and their fraudulent pretext and false flag psyops; but  in the case of Libya, there was not even a pretext, just the decision to attack, and that is good enough for mercenaries and the constantly compliant anyhow.

Motives exist in the form of oil and gold in Libya. It is the richest country in resources and is highly developed; therefore, the destruction and depleted uranium use for genocidal depopulation is “by the book.” It’s the book that Brzezinski read Obama in the closet or stream room back at Columbia when he was his professor teaching a course on disarmament of the Soviet Union.  That was the ultimate issue and goal for both of them.  All these smaller invasions are diversions.

We are conditioned to accept more use of military force here and there and anywhere for any or no reason necessary. It is just policy, and top secret, so end of discussion!  For discussion of motives would lead to those most benefiting and their track records, which would mean it is all lies, it is all about armed robbery and mass murder by any other name, would not justify nor disguise the truth, so we have to tell it at all times on all aspects of The War on Terror, which means 9/11 raw and unrestrained as best we can analyze it.

Bill Mitchell


On the Boardwalk

Dear Beachhead,

The rain has started.  Big pregnant drops are falling to the pavement.  The dark threatening clouds, earlier set above the Pacific, had moved to shore proclaiming the end of summer.  On the Santa Monica pier, the carousel with its thousands of brilliant lights flashing with a multitude of colors attracted its last customer.  The few remaining tourists are rushing toward their hotels.  Designer bags sit on the women’s shoulders; princess cut diamonds sparkle on their ring fingers.  Canon cameras rest against the men’s well-fed stomachs; and with iPhones in hand; their eyes anxiously glance at the latest figures on the stock market.

I don’t move.  No hotel room is waiting for me, not even a modest small apartment.  The homeless has no place to go.  We are objects, sitting on separate beach benches, like a twenty-first century art piece.  Next to me is my pushcart filled with my possessions.  Dozens of plastic bags full of useless stuff. There is a big plastic trash bag somewhere in there that could protect me from the rain, but I am too tired to look for it.  I have not eaten a real meal for days.  Stomach is empty, yet not hungry.  Soul is torn away from body.  Hope is left behind an empty cage.  My life is not mine.  Looking back into the past, I see a life that is familiar:  husband whispering sweet promises into my ear, dark haired children sitting on the couch watching TV waiting for their supper, the aroma of the pot-roast from the hot oven filling up the house, my supervisor announcing the closing of the store where I received the best employee of the year placard year after year, and the eviction notice on the front door of my house.  One thing I know for sure– the explosive device that blew up my life was made in the USA.  The blast blinded me.  When I look into the future, I see nothing.

What do these rushing tourists see and think?  They are passing so close to me, yet they don’t see me.  Selective vision allows them to enjoy their lifestyle without guilt.  The checks they write to the homeless shelter at Christmastime buy their tickets to heaven.  Maybe they’re deciding what to order for their dinner– steak or lobster?  For an instant the sweet buttery taste of the lobster fills my mouth.  The meat on my tongue firm yet easily melting. The memory weakens me.  It allows me to consider calling out to the tourists.  To beg them to buy me a sandwich.  To hold up a cup so they could put a few coins in it.  Giving me a single dollar could ease their conscience, but what would it do to me?  Begging for a piece of bread from the people who took it away from me would cost me dearly.  I hold on to the last shred of my dignity.  I don’t ask for nothing.  I’d rather starve.  I am a no good defiant homeless.  They call me a bum.  But I know the truth.  I take out the bottle of Southern Comfort from my handbag, take a drink and I start to feel like I am a woman, the same as the one who is rushing by me, holding the  rhinestone studded leash of her designer pooch.

Juditte Erki

Categories: Letters