The Denizen Murders by Esther Planas

The Denizen Murders by Esther Planas

The Archive from The Tavistock Institute

Last week a series of papers, objects, and documents came piled, folded, and packed from my dad’s office at the Tavistock Institute.  A year ago he was diagnosed with terminal cancer and retired. Now we have lost him and as his only heir it’s my task to sort through his possessions.

I know that some of its old students at Tavistock Institute are intending to build up a whole online archive with all the body of its research, files, and notes.  This perhaps will turn in to a sort of website? As now is quite usual.

In terms of investigation and research, I believe the project that was closest to my father’s heart were a series of regression experiments he conducted with older local residents from Hackney suffering from a collective memory loss. The patients displayed neurotic and compulsive symptoms that my father discovered were a response to the gentrification going on around them and during the process of transforming the old Hackney areas on to one of the most exclusive and expensive part of The New London.

Even if in those times, many of us all perceived this events with a sort of hopeless sadness. We have come with time to an acceptance on how life and capital in the big metropolis like ours, is always and would ever be, in this constant flux.

One thing that is for sure: In less than a decade London had ceased to be the place once fixed in their imaginations and had became somewhere else entirely.

I am writing from the 10th floor house I have inherited that overlooks Hyde Park. Today, the green that I can see enclosed by our tall buildings, is akin to New York’s Central Park. When my father was young London and New York were utterly distinct. But today with its weirdly shaped high-rises, London merges in the imagination with many other global cites.

London and its multiple shaped high rises, are these days as dense and spectacular as in any of the top metropolises of our world. The skyline of my hometown has nothing to envy from Dubai or Shanghai. Its splendour and greatness, always overcoming any comparison. The peculiar harmonic scale and the former horizontality of London’s urban context and neighbourhoods, strongly but hopelessly defended by Prince Charles, is no longer to be seen or experienced.  There are just fragments of small areas left.  As if they were those twentieth century Dutch aristocratic neighbourhoods like the ones Edith Wharton described. Instead, the reminding ones are now living under the new long and dark shadows of our newest high rises.

Of course, London could not avoid, such evolution. High rises are the one and only solution for a buzzing and vibrant city to succeed. No one remembers anymore what was like back then, when London’s houses had a limit on their highness and proportions. And London consisted above all else of endless streets of terraced houses. The speed with which the city is revamped is breath taking and brilliant to behold. It is this thrust upwards that has ensured our lush green countryside remains well kept, enclosed, and protected from the masses. The country out of the metropolis is always protected with our almost unperturbed beautiful greeneries, our country houses, and villages. Our glorious countryside.

In contrast, London is this great world of global unexpected population with its own laws and its own frontiers and taxes too. In a way, it has had this purpose for centuries, like a new Rome. Today I open the first folder of papers to come from the Tavistock Institute. Inside there as a note my father had written to me.

Dear son, I guess you are holding these papers now after my passing. I know how much you had loved to study psychology and psychiatry in its old traditional ways that are today totally eradicated. Perhaps the series of notes and these volumes about my experiments, can give you a hint of alternative methodologies, as we all know to look at antiquity has never been totally unfruitful. I am leaving you a diary or memory journal by one special patient of mine. Who was a friend of a very dear friend, and who was so desperately hopeless in front of her consuming condition. I hope it will shed some light on to dynamics which are not mentioned and still at work between our apparently perfect and just society. 

With love, your dear father…

The Diary

(as found by Doctor Joseph Hirst (OB) from one of its patients, he called Rebecca)

London 3 January 2018  

Across time and all the years that had passed, I found myself once more, fully immersed in these deeply self-absorbed moments. As I was back at Lucy’s place at The Barbican and in front of the huge windowpane from which to stare on to the massive sighting of that side of London.

Letting my mind go in to the issues that occupied me. I could see the few references in the buildings and orientation that oversaw my own place beyond the border of the East End. The low houses, with its horizontal and green open perspectives, that were spreading up around the neo-baroque 80’s added reforms of the Cripplegate Building that was almost as tall as ours and quite overwhelmingly close. Totally out of proportion if thinking in terms of the usually wider distances that London urbanistic principles seemed to have always followed. The perspective from such highness –it was one of the Barbican 5th floor duplexes — their top-floor studios where placed at an 8th level, which was the taller of the floors from this horizontal long part of the layout.

As I usually did when staying overnight, I ended up standing in a meditative mood in front of the huge crystal mass. It was massive and it ended in an arched shape and made the room space as if a small “Basilica”. Feeling like floating above the lands of London’s heart.

The shifts in the view that time unavoidably had placed, appeared every time I happen to stay at Lucy’s. As it will happen after few years gaps, the changes perceived, will be quite apparent. But this night was completely different. It was this big, threatening, and menacing cranes that filled a spiked horizon, between rows of plastic.

Looking straight down, next to the Cripplegate mass, the half destroyed original Bernard Morgan House building laid all wrapped and walled. Looking terribly hopeless under the bright full moonlight of the first of January 2018. The sad and hopeless sight of an agonising building and an agonising urbanist spirit that was ripped open under the moon blue shades. 

London 4 January 2018

Since the days when I came to live with my English partner in Shoreditch and Hackney, I was awed at the whole series of social housing projects. This included the Barbican too, as it was the site where our friend Lucy lived. Next to the series of delineated buildings that formed The Golden Lane Estate.

The whole area, was basically profuse with all those urbanistic projects of social housing estates that were made once with care and respect. It had been a society, that was build up in rigid class divisions and the ruthless exploitation of its bodies and lives on its perfected bio-political designs. These urban plans for care and homes where quite unique. The site (or zone) from which I could watch, was at the border of the City of London with the East End. A vast geography, opposed to the London’s West End and South West. An East End that was opposed, in all senses, as any good book on the history of London and its orderly social divisions text, would inform.

5 January 2018 

For me, coming from such sinister country as Spain, with its unresolved fascist past and in its present forms: In our retarded and post-feudal social structure; filled with corruption to the core and knowing just a few European capitals like Paris, Berlin, Rome or Madrid, the way London had considered its peoples, seemed quite the Utopia.

But of course, after the first year here, I became aware of a series of truths about the lost and foregone “spirit of the 45”. A spirit, that generated such a strong and committed counter revolution at the core of the quiescent powers. Succeeding in further rooting and consolidating its ancient tall order and structural ethos. After which, there would not be any spirits left, but only a few angry ghosts.

Retracing once more the events of the night of the new year, I can recall how the quietness of the night was so absolute and how the full moon light suspended all notion of time. Everything appeared shining, gleaming, and invested with a sort of liquidity, with a residual humidity, that the long hours of the day’s rain have left remind. The enormous moon, glowed beyond her misty coloured halo and covered the sad body of the Iconic building, caressing the rubble and its pain.

My eyes gazed upon the shadows, the protuberances, and the shapes of such archaic creature that now seemed to be breathing quietly.

The building’s body, lay opened and collapsed, with its organs exposed and defeated, petrified. And while I was mourning the past solidarity and empathic qualities of our decaying society, I seemed to enter slowly in to a sort of trance, unable to count the time passed or its pace.

My mind was not there, it was just abstracted beyond any specifics.

At a point, some event occurred, to which I did not pay attention to, as I was very far gone on to my politically worries and thoughts, by then.

It would be much later in time and after a long process and series of experimental tests, that these sequences and images would get retrieved and with them, something much more dark and traumatic that my conscience would had ever wanted to recall.

January 16 2018

The Body Body found behind City of London School for Girls in the Barbican, Farringdon

Police search for answers over woman’s death in Barbican

A WOMAN died with “significant injuries” in the Barbican on Monday morning.

City of London Police officers were called to an area of the estate behind the City of London School for Girls at 5.38am after a victim believed to be in her 50s was discovered by passers-by.

 She was pronounced dead at the scene and officers are now working to inform her family. At this stage, the woman is not believed to be connected to the school.

 Detective Chief Inspector of the City of London Police major crime team said: “We are appealing for anyone who may have witnessed the incident, or who may have information which can help, to contact police immediately.

I saw this announcement about a mysterious body walking across the Barbican, on my way to Lucy’s New Year’s Eve dinner party. But by the time I was ringing Lucy’s bell, this board and its sad intriguing contents, had been forgotten.

In a way, it was chance playing its role once more, that of meeting doctor Hirst and commenting to him about my distractions and memory loss during the new year’s dinner.

I had unwillingly opened a zone of awareness that probably would have gone unnoticed, if it wasn’t because he found this to be an issue of great interest and quite a pressing problem too. He then offered me to go to his office at the Psychiatric Institute, where he worked and was conducting a series of surveys on few peoples with very similar symptoms with a sort of method he was devising, a kind of Hypnosis.

As the doctor had mentioned to me (it seemed) more and more people —who were the old locals living in the East End or in that peripheral parts of the City of London, as The Barbican inhabitants were— had flocked to various surgeries and asked for urgent help to each of their GP’s. Desperately asking assistance for what it seemed to be like a virus or else, that caused a vanishing memory and an impossibility of remembering, either of texts that had been read or learned recently, or their own usual walking trajectories in the neighbourhood.

Doctor Hirst, told us, how this had been going on for enough time, so that he had already being able to recognise and establish a pattern of a sort of common symptomatology and a series of signs, that where intrinsic to all those that in a way or another, where losing their memories. All the elements had happened to me, ultimately even to the point of leaving me with a certain sense of fear that could not get any remission.

24 January 2018

A series of apparently unrelated events had appeared in the press —almost as a part of the post-truth tactics— as the hopeless attempts from some journalists to help to expose some of the most hidden secret agenda’s and interconnections that moves the power streams in the City, had appeared during the few weeks around Christmas. But the blurriness and brain foggy-like of my state of late, seemed to be so pervasive on this quasi automatic and quotidian actions, as reading the news on the press was.

There was a case that was very close to The Barbican, the project and building of a new site replacing the Bernard Morgan House and the scandal about the failure by many neighbours and protesters to stop the construction to The Denizen (as it was called) was not in my mind when all this happened.

Distracted as I was with my own anxieties and nightmares about the gentrified zone where I lived, and the ever-growing groups of these peoples that were taking away all of our sites and referents. Settling around with their new pastel coloured cupcake shops, TV show style themed bars, exclusive fashion shops, private member’s clubs, imposing hotels, and of course and very distinctive sleek clean and glossy hyper normal cool ways of life. A lifestyle that went on in each of the new high rises or refurbished industrial warehouses that once had us living and working.

Those newly painted houses, those minimalist shops filled with psychotic minimal designs and objects, those new neighbours who would walk up the streets wearing long fur coats with haughty faces and pristine leather shoes, where replacing the locals and folk that made the zone the place it had been. Looking down at us the locals, with contemptuous expressions, with their perfectly groomed heads: faces, hairs, beards and eyebrows or makeup.

28 January 2018

Meanwhile time goes away and us poor locals, are getting more and more lost and hopeless, evicted, served S21 vacating notices, feeling so unsafe, all so volatile with no laws on our side.

We are forgetting literally where we live, how to arrive back to our own places, forgetting who we are. Such is the daily basis of our lives, dealing with the sinister presences everywhere, with their self-assured poise, a forbidding way of self-styling, stifled and sharp, perfect and complicatedly simple, but with subtle signs towards certain haircuts and hair partings that indicated a love and a liberal apology of the Nazi youths.

A deep dark void and cruelness transpiring from their eyes, looking at us as the losers, the sort to be on the eugenics studies, to make sure we were never going to exist anymore. One could feel their dense hope to not see us around, if from their will this could happen right here and now, they would not mind at all that we all get removed swiftly. Having stolen our dreams, our sensible ways of being and relating to our companions, to our communities, quiet and humble warm and hopeful, our very own neighbourhoods.

29 February 2018 

The Sessions and the “shadows of ideas”

In the midst of my depression I have started these sessions, all solely in relation to my loss of memory and constant fogginess and nothing else that was not specific beyond a certain training in virtual space and visualization took place there.

Doctor Hirst had devised a way of helping us to exercise memory recovery, by a series of cues inspired in Giordano Bruno, De Umbris Idearum (‘The Shadow of Ideas’).

From this, which I will explain in basic terms, I was induced to recover data and a series of words taken from the press and blogs, connecting them to images, spaces and situations. What unfolded was indeed very unexpected and disturbing. I am going to cite the words that I had read during 2017 on various sites and occasions and that were almost totally retrieved under hypnosis.

Some were clear enough to go and look for the source, others I could not quite remember where I had seen them. To retrieve these words, that were all read in one paper or another, the doctor had me to imagine areas of my neighbourhood, squares I liked, points of interest. I found myself, suddenly remembering all the places that had been destroyed, pulled down and instead of coming with pleasant ideas, everything that appeared in my imagination became more and more oppressive. A series of cranes and noises, wrapped shapes, walls and horrific advertisements featuring perfectly bland and plain people, that reminded me more and more of a neo-nazi futurist utopia. The documents I would quote, are totally secret, and there is not a copy of them. For the doctor, it suffices to see his methods are good and working, he does not intend to aid the ambivalent “causes” that a couple of police chiefs have asked for help with.

1 March 2018

Here are the few notes made during the specific sessions to start to look at memory and exercise by remembering text I had read before.

Fourth session with doctor Hirst:

“…… believed to be more than 200,000 members under the United Grand Lodge of England, all …… men, …… refer …… each other …… brothers.”

Mr W … not ….. name…. people …… say …… .. “significant number” ….

…..Freemasons ….local Police Federation….

…… branches.”

“The late Lord Im…. also … took …. Freemasons ……… …… top job at Scotland Yard. So did Lord Condon ……… ……….. in 2014, the …. Commissioner…. said……. ……. . ……. he made it clear …. “for me as a …. officer, the secrecy of membership … concern…. police officers should be…. Transparent nothing to hide……… ….. Quite….. observed……. Stretching back… ….. to the dark days of endemic corruption in the Met ……   ……. 1980s ……. some detectives were …… in the …. same lodge …. career criminals. “

Sixth session with doctor Hirst: “As …. 1999, a ….. detective and a Freemason, Duncan… jailed …. more than eight years…. conspiracy…. rob, supply drugs …..

pervert the course of justice…..

It emerged….

…. Old Bailey trial

…..he ….. used a fellow Freemason……. …. a serving officer..

to help him …… make contact with …….another officer…

he tried …. to bribe.

home affairs ….select… committee ….announced: “We ….. undermines public confidence…..

….. public institutions …

knowledge …..public servants …. members of a secret society….. aims

28 March 2018

Seventh session with doctor Hirst:

Bernard Morgan House, ……   decades….. accommodation for 110 City of London police officers and nurses, in a fine example of postwar housing…….

designed to blend with the neighbouring, Grade II-listed Golden Lane estate, is now to be demolished …..


luxury apartment…..   …… The Denizen.

The frequency of this sessions, is very intense, as the doctor (even if not giving to the police what they’d asked him to deliver) has the “session” happening anyway —for his own purposes and mine— under a close control and attendance. The notes given to the police where invented between me and the doctor in the last ten minutes before the supposed end of the meeting.

4 April 2018

My exhausted body is getting more and more slow, the floating sense and the division from memory, dream and experience are increasingly blurry.

Special session 7 April 2018

Lost in the imaginary house

Entering the depths of the buried scenes. During the second week of our hypnotic sessions something happened that has increased the pressure on Doctor Hirst greatly. In the 48 hours since our last experiment with his “truth drug” an increase of a 30% had been noted in A&E admittances to psychiatric help. The anxiety and panic attacks of the old people of Hackney and Shoreditch had overwhelmed the main Homerton Hospital care capacities; there were not enough caretakers to oversee the new pilling in of patients, and they could not be placed on beds under medication as there were no spaces left.

The sessions had to do with the fact not known yet to me, that the police wanted to find out if we were all pro or against the developments, for some reason and considering the strength of our relation to the area, quite possibly a threat. I was very lucky to have doctor Hirst on my side, as he was also on the side of my friend Lucy, who was terribly affected by the situation and the case with The Denizen. As the East End and this spot inside The City of London, was rapidly swallowed up by this normalisation of a fake prime and clean shining standards.

This whole aural situation was affecting my health and my spirit so deeply. Doctor Hirst was concerned and had a few more ideas of how we could keep working, of course it was all experimental, as the phenomena was recent and still seemed quite a shock for the Psychiatric collegiate.

One thing that seemed to be shared by all those suffering from memory loss or fogs, was that they all were older inhabitants of the East End and the City periphery connected to it. People who had the symptom, seemed to have been living there a minimum of twenty years, most had been born there and felt as if they were about to totally lose their memories forever. Having got lost again and again trying to get back to their homes from the shops. Or losing the sense of where the place they would find themselves walking was at all.

Had they ever crossed this street? Asking this about a road they had known for thirty or more years. The doctor’s method was so intense that I managed to recite all the news I had read and which had so much affected my health that I had totally blocked it. Doctor Hirst would induce a semi-sleep trance but would also administer a well-known truth drug. A certain dose of anaesthetics produced miracles. His experimental procedure was in the first minutes of the trance to take me through the rooms of a house that we had previously invented together. A sort of house of my dreams. In each room and space, we had decided that occult memories would let us know what they wanted us to hear.

Then, it started:

The story follows a by-now-familiar plot. In May 2017 planning approval was given to Taylor Wimpey, despite strong opposition from local residents and businesses. During this process it emerged that the chair of the City’s planning and transportation committee, Chris Hayward, is a director of Indigo Planning, whose clients include Taylor Wimpey. Deputy chair James Thomson was formerly deputy chief financial officer and chief operations officer of Cushman and Wakefield, commercial property and real estate consultants, which marketed and sold Bernard Morgan House to Taylor Wimpey. The committee member and former lord mayor of London Sir Michael Bear was appointed chair of the planning consultancy Turley Associates – which also acts for Taylor Wimpey – a few weeks after planning approval was granted. Even if they had declared a potential conflict of interest and were advised that they need not stand aside from the planning process, the committee’s independence must have seemed questionable to local people. Meanwhile the one Golden Lane estate resident on the committee, councillor Sue Pearson, was advised by the assistant city solicitor not to cast a ballot as, having previously made an objection to the application, she could be seen to have a vested interest in the outcome. There is widespread opposition to the construction of apartments mainly bought by foreign investors as “safe deposit boxes in the sky”, with figures showing that 40% of residential properties in the West End are empty most of the time. They fear The Denizen risks becoming a similar ghost building. They are also deeply suspicious of the “artwashing” strategy, through which civic bodies, hand in hand with the developers, use culture as a Trojan horse for the advancement of the developers’ schemes. British towns and cities are chock-full of examples of the positive impact artists can have on places, from the trailblazer, Hoxton and Shoreditch, in east London, to the “creative quarters” and biennales springing up from Folkestone to Hull. US academic Richard Florida’s well-known book The Rise of the Creative Class urged cities to encourage artists and bohemians to flock there, but he did not add that those same artists would later be displaced from their homes, along with their communities.”

Did I remember all those words? Yes! All of them, and in perfect order, including comas and breaks. A whole article! The unconscious ways and the registering that our brains can achieve, are indeed mysterious.

After re-reading all these texts, contrasted with the previous fragments about the Masons and the involvement of a series of Police officers in certain criminal activities, I started to realise how perhaps, making some sense of this would be possible after all.

At the same time, Doctor Hirst, who had already talked to the various police detectives about my earlier small fragments of memories of other news, could not help himself feel a rising suspicion. A suspicion, that had affected his civic loyalties and convinced him that it was to me, Lucy and the rest of his affected patients, who would receive his support and protection. The police had not forgot about me and because the information I had to give to the hospital in which it was stated the day of a crisis coincided with the date of other (not to be disclosed events). The authorities pressurised the doctor for the sessions to continue. It felt as if they knew that there was something I could have seen or known that had to be under control, perhaps even suppressed.

Hirst realised that I was a great source of help for getting to the truth of this overwhelming situation. As it seemed, I had indeed put together certain hidden pieces, a not yet visible conclusion about disappearances, murders and secret societies involving the police, urbanist and development corruption, a white collar criminal ring. After all, in my sessions so far and with a series of light hints, there was a highly probable chance that in fact, I had witnessed something so horrific it shouldn’t ever be seen.

20 April 2018

Other intense session, the num 10th

The intense traffic of peoples, seemed to get higher with every hour that passed, and the doctor was required to be present everywhere and at all times.

Finally, and quite late at night, four weeks after we had meet, the doctor was able to see me and get me into the final stage of his experimental process.

Breathing, smelling, recalling. Looking at the imaginary but very real house of my invention, walking from room to room, opening doors that produced in me anxiety and fear, it seems that finally I got there, once more looking outside from a big French window…

Hypnotised and in regression, I remembered these views of an amazing intense moonlight blue and its bright paleness all over the Denizen’s building site. The house was smashed and brutalised, its shape gaining contrast against the sharp light of the moon. Those shadowy forms have now taken the shapes of precise silhouettes, crowding in closer to each other, they formed an expanded and fragmented the circle. Small orange lights sparked between trails of smoke. The circle seemed to crouch and is now very low, then it disbands and disappears in a line, later another line will come back and the shapes will crouch back and forwards across the night, circles forming and unforming.

As I opened my eyes, in Doctor Hirst’s room, looking at the pilled books and orchids of his office, I realise how blurry this reality now feels, and how complex it is for me to understand that even if I had seen what I saw, there was no conscious recall about it. The event did not impress itself upon my consciousness and was not registered, but it was in the depths, at another level of perception and of communication. It entered my processing neurones via another portal. I can assure you, I never saw it.

5 May 2018

Something had been triggered after this session. As I was walking from the bus stop back home, I felt as if a new dimension was just taking over the space I was crossing into. I was using a drawn-up map to remember where my place was, as it was impossible by then, to walk around without a guidance. Once at home and feeling secure, I made myself a tea and sipping slowly on to its warm vapours I tried to think through and remember the session and the camouflaged movements on the construction site on the night of the new year. Instead, a stream of thoughts and words came back very vividly. They were phrases from articles I had read on the press, but also from films and books I had seen or read ages ago:

“Anne Baxendale of Shelter said: “The UK is in the grip of a housing crisis and nowhere is this more apparent than in the capital – and these luxury developments are certainly not the types of homes most Londoners need. The government must close loopholes which make it easy for developers to build high-priced homes that are way out of reach of ordinary families, rather than the affordable ones most people actually need and can afford.” ……. “Already in 1910, Homelessness is presented as London’s natural urban dynamic with the end of the lease on Whickham Place, situating the Schlegels (their father a German refugee) at the open door to the unknown, to a further nomadic existence. Their home will be demolished to make room for new flats as part of the reconstruction of the capital. The bricks and mortar of London, writes E.M. Forster, rise and fall in ‘continual flux’ with ‘the restlessness of the water in a fountain’ “.

Yes, of course, this is London in its most beastly sense. Empire and its greed fuelled capitalisation ripping at the heart of the ancient metropolis and hanging over its great industrial revolution that produced the lumpen proletariat. The London that was already called The Monster City in Victorian newspapers.

The thing is that such memories presented themselves to me in an unexpected way. They were so intense and precise, it was as if the door of consciousness had been wide open after the series of sessions with Doctor Hirst.

10 May 2018

Since few days as I have written before, the doctor’s induced hypnotic states are not needed for me to remember all the texts and references that are so relevant for what is happening to many of us. This flow of ideas and memories continues and keeps me awake. The tales of the City of one of London lost Rivers, the Walbrook and its relation to certain rituals and polemics, hinted strange insights to my sleepy mind and mixed with the blackbird’s early morning song.

Free associations and the mystery of the Walbrook. The Walbrook Club dining club near the Bank of England and the Mansion House is located inside the Ward of Walbrook in London, and it had been one meeting place for the project architects.

Most of The Denizen’s deals happened there, privately and secretly.

All those very English members Clubs where the fate of the globe and the misery of the poor gets designed and dreamed for.  From the Balfour treaty, to Spain, to Chile… and what not.

Of course, the plans for the renewal and profits about new buildings who are totally corrupt in their materials, shapes and urban disregards for the context are dreamed there too.

Involved with the Wallbrok is X.

I am suspecting that this man: I name X, X, in case I get persecuted. If X is, if not involved directly, at least he is sanctioning or indifferent to the whole working class and immigrants cleanse from The City of London. His fascist leanings towards Empire-like colonial supremacist manners are very well known and been published about. This is why I am aware of how these subterranean connections, like the hidden rivers of the ancient Roman Londinium are still at play.  It is known how X had a detached denial, and a loathing for the millions of Chilean people who suffered at General Augusto Pinochet hands. This folk seem to be allergic to humanist principles or empathy.

Socialistphobics, and irredeemable sociopaths. Their obsession to keep intact and unchallenged all their notions of self-entitlement and inheritance. The religious and ritual preservation of the old order in a “quasi Roman” trend. Between their lineages and connections, make a whole fabric of complicity. I know this maybe my rancour against the whole Annabell’s ring giving help to Pinochet, to escape from justice as the fascist nazi he was. But as a Spaniard (a persecuted Catalan) I know what this whole string of clever supremacist minds and connections mean. Because we had Franco (The Fascist Spanish-African military) placed in democratic Spain lands to provoke our sad civil war by the same sort of folk. Its known that General Franco was flown to commit rebellion against our democratic República by an MI6 pilot and airplane. Just looking now to this bit of information:

“One July morning in 1936, Captain Cecil Bebb started his Dragon Rapide aircraft in what was supposed to look like a vacation trip. His passengers were Cecil’s friend, Major Hugh Pollard (a known British intelligence service operative), Diana Pollard, his daughter, and Dorothy Watson, her friend. They took off from Croydon Airport in London and reported that they were flying to the Canary Islands, but their real destination and intentions were much more sinister. The plane was supposed to take Franco from his post on the Canaries and bring him to his loyal troops stationed in Spanish Morocco.

Hugh Pollard, Cecil’s companion on the plane, was an intelligence officer who was involved in operations during the Irish War of Independence (1919–1921). At one point he was contacted by Douglas Francis Jerrold (editor of the conservative newspaper English Review and also a British intelligence operative) and invited on a lunch together with Luis Bolin, who was the London correspondent of the ABC Newspaper. Bolin later became the main press advisor of Franco, which is probably not a coincidence. During that lunch, Jerrold managed to persuade Pollard to participate in the Franco “expedition.” Pollard then informed his friend and former MI6 colleague, Cecil Bebb, and he accepted.

The de Havilland Dragon Rapide aircraft flew from London on July 11, 1936. When they arrived on the Canary Islands, Franco was already informed and waiting for the British officers to pick him up. The whole journey was undetected by the authorities and Franco was taken to Tetuan, Morroco, on July 19. He immediately began to assemble the Spanish troops and prepare them for the coup.

Although it is obvious that there was some kind of external influence on this awful moment in history, the British involvement hasn’t been confirmed. The British government was officially neutral toward the Spanish Civil War issue during that time. Either the British authorities knew about Cecil’s and Pollard’s actions and sanctioned it, or the men acted on their own for a generous financial reward.

 In an interview that Cecil made years later, for The Spanish Civil War (1983), a documentary made by Granada television, he said some pretty unbelievable things about his participation in the war: He said that a Spanish man had come to him and asked him if he would like to fly to the Canaries and pick up a rebellious general and help initiate a military coup in Spain. Cecil then told the reporter that the plan sounded like a great adventure to him and he accepted.”

In 1998, mister X, would like his adventures too, as the facilitator of Pinochet’s escape from justice. In the same vein, like in the past, other unapologetic right wingers had done to the rest of the world, and with Spain.

X was one of the many prominent English Tories to oppose the arrest and attempts to extradite General Augusto Pinochet, during a visit by the ageing former Chilean dictator to the UK. X is still supporting far-Right political organisations and colonialist enterprises that produce billions. All these thoughts are mixing up rapidly. The amount of data, blogs, texts I can find never stops. My mind keeps forgetting all just in a matter of hours.

12 May 2018

Thoughts, memories or post-traumatic flashbacks. Truth is, that those thick passages of information, literature and film scenes, flowed easily in contrast with the increasing fogginess when trying to find places or come back from the shops.

Writing it all down, drawing maps and listing names and numbers. This activity may have seemed absurd and unnecessary, but it really helped me. The sherry trees on a corner, the church’s garden, the tall tower seen at the right side of the wall next to post office…

18 May 2018

Doctor Hirst is so busy that he keeps delaying our next meeting. The crisis involving so many of the older population in the East-End and the City of London too, is this days impossible to bear. The weather has become extremely cold once more, and is the midst of Spring, so I am hiding in my place this freezing days. Looking at my computer, I can confirm that all my “recovered” memories, coincide with if not real facts at where at least, real assumptions. Never mind conspiracy theories, this is here for all to see and read. The police and the Freemasons, the secret cases of unsolved murders around the City of London.

I also found so much about The Walbrook, that paradoxically ran from Shoreditch Church in the East End with its spring in its garden, a place where I used to read and relax on sunny days. But its connections to the Romans, to the cult of Mithreus and the followers of certain secret society that intended to connect hundreds of years of history to a self- selected Cabal of important men and women. And ultimately there was this whole ongoing scandal around Taylor Wimpy and The Denizen.

Why did I not connect the dots? It only makes sense, knowing that my mental fog and loss of memory had affected my mental capacities. Now I am getting around the clues and using my own texts. I am retracing those names and issues. For example, I found this intro to an article in the Daily Mail…

‘Children need sunlight to grow’: Luxury London apartment block aimed at wealthy foreign investors ‘will plunge schools, homes and a busy park into darkness’

Locals oppose the proposed development on Golden Lane, north London

They say it threatens community while providing luxury flats to foreign investors

 UN investigators are examining if gentrification is breaching human rights”

I found so much more, it was quite complex to deal with. One for example from four years ago already records how things were starting to degenerate:

“The principal reason can be traced to the fact that awarding planning permission in the UK comes down to a Faustian pact. If the devil is in the detail, then the detail is Section 106 of the Town and Country Planning Act 1990, a clause which formalised “planning gain”, making it in the local authorities’ interests to allow schemes to balloon beyond all reason, in the hope of creaming off the fat of developers’ profits for the public good. Introduced as a negotiable levy on new development, Section 106 agreements entail a financial contribution to the local authority, intended to be spent on offsetting the effects of the scheme on the local area. The impact of a hundred new homes might be mitigated by money for extra school places, or traffic calming measures. In practice, since council budgets have been so viciously slashed, Section 106 has become a primary means of funding essential public services, from social housing to public parks, health centres to highways, schools to play areas. The bigger the scheme, the fatter the bounty, leading to a situation not far from legalised bribery – or extortion, depending on which side of the bargain you are on. Vastly inflated density and a few extra storeys on a tower can be politically justified as being in the public interest, if it means a handful of trees will be planted on the street.” 

The extract above is by Oliver Wainwright in The Guardian 17 Sept 2014: “The truth about property developers: how they are exploiting planning authorities and ruining our cities. Affordable housing quotas get waived and the interests of residents trampled as toothless authorities bow to the dazzling wealth of investors from Russia, China and the Middle East” 

19 May 2018

Like the previous piece of investigative journalism, I found so many, all confirming my suspicions during the long dark days of February. Of course, they made me think even more deeply about the whole series of intuitions and apprehensions I’d been experiencing. This sinister aura of people, some of them from the Art world. Peoples who could not show the least empathy for us.

In the midst of my confusion, a bit like a perplexed old disenchanted communist, I fought my dark feelings telling myself I was exaggerating the problems and struggle we faced. That all this was my paranoia, because I was too romantic and a moralist. Let’s say that these experiences were the early signs of a social transformation or mutation that on the surface seemed okay but underneath was deeply wrong.

20 May 2018

All my thoughts came again between rows of text on my computer, again the hypnoses worked on its own, streaming subconscious ideas I had never dared to fully develop before, like those about the neo-nazi style complicities of our neo-liberal society. In the worst nightmarish way, Goebbels had won. Orwell too, Huxley and Ayn Rand.

Then, a series of articles that were more precise and the first was definitely linking the text fragments I had remembered via hypnosis. It started:

The Standards Committee of the City of London council discussed Freemasonry on 3 February 2017 as item 3 on its agenda:

“The Town Clerk reported that, at the Committee’s request she had now made further enquiries with the Remembrancer’s Department to ascertain how the use of the Guildhall Crypts by the Masonic lodges was approved and on what grounds they received preferential rates. The Committee were informed that applications for use of the Crypts by the Masonic lodges were submitted to the Remembrancer as part of the non-Guildhall use report and that the Chief Commoner was also consulted. Whilst the applications were submitted at ‘no user charge’ some lodge meetings did incur additional costs and were charged accordingly. The Town Clerk added that she had been informed that the lodges received preferential rates on the basis that they had clear City of London/Member links.” 

From the same online source, I found how a certain Chris Hayward was a Freemason and part of the whole Taylor Wimpy/Denizen ring of obscure manipulations of the urban planning laws:

“A few weeks after this Taxi Leaks post appeared online, a document dated 14 June and headed BERNARD MORGAN HOUSE, 43 GOLDEN LANE EC1Y 0RS (BMH), circulated addressing the same Planning Committee’s potential conflict of interest issues with regard to permission granted on 23 May 2017 to Taylor Wimpey to build their planned luxury apartment block at 43 Golden Lane. The text was the work of the chair of the Bernard Morgan Liaison Group, Fred Rodgers. It reads in part as follows: Hayward told us in January that his Deputy Chair, Alistair Moss, a consultant to Westbourne Communications, Taylor Wimpey’s PR consultants, was conflicted and was playing no part in considering the Application. He was not at the 23 May Committee, where Hayward, without commenting on the Application, voted in favour…. Hayward was appointed a director of Indigo Planning Ltd (Indigo) on 1 January 2017. He is also a director of three family companies – one being Hayward Properties Limited and a Counsel for JBP Associates Ltd, a lobbying company, as well as being a director of MPAC Ltd, a corporate compliance consultancy…. Indigo has recently represented Taylor Wimpey. A planning appeal decision on 21 April 2017 re Chester West and Chester District Council (12/02032/OUT) being available on the Internet. Also available from the Internet is an indication that JBP Associates carried out unspecified PR work on behalf of Taylor Wimpey between December 2015 and February 2016.”

And this continued in another post:

“Keep Keepmoat Out Of The City – Say No To Walbrook Councillor & Keepmoat CEO James Thomson! Local people are furious about both the cost and quality of work as regards Keepmoat’s refurbishment of the housing tower block Great Arthur House in the Cripplegate Ward of the City. Despite this and against the wishes of local residents, it looks like the City will deploy Keepmoat on further Golden Lane Estate refurbishments. Throwing ‘trust’ to the wind, the City doesn’t seem to care how it looks when it gives work to a company whose CEO James Thomson is also a councillor elected on business votes for its Walbrook Ward.”

So, all pieces seemed to come together. The Walbrook Ward is mentioned and I’d recalled all that information about the river, the Romans… secret societies … and the Private Club. Finally, to nail down all the forgotten threads, I found this piece with the names of those openly involved:

“An application to build a huge luxury apartment block on the site of Bernard Morgan House – until now key worker social housing – in Golden Lane was approved by the City of London Planning and Transportation Committee on 23 May 2017. Thirteen of those present voted in favour and ten against. This development will steal light and sunshine from local homes, a park and three local schools. We don’t currently know the identities of all those who voted in favour of this application but we will add them to our role of shame as and when we can. In the meantime, we understand these members of the committee voted for the proposal, so this is our initial role of shame:

 Christopher Michael Hayward, Chairman.

Michael David Bear Committee Member.

Mark Boleat Committee Member.

Andrew Paul Mayer Committee Member.

Brian Desmond Francis Mooney, Deputy Committee Member.

James Michael Douglas Thomson, Deputy Committee Member.

22 May 2018

I have found even more articles and events like this one from a couple of years ago:

Reality Check: What is affordable housing (online BBC News, 23 November 2016).

 “ In a move worthy of George Orwell’s Ministry of Truth, affordable rent will be higher than before, set at up to 80% of the local market rent. Across whole swathes of southern England affordable rented properties will simply not be affordable to people on low incomes… The background to the affordable rent policy is a desire to build more homes for less public money. Councils and housing associations bidding for funding to develop new affordable homes will have to show that they are bringing in other resources to fund housebuilding. That means selling off valuable properties… but also converting social rent houses to affordable rent houses when they become empty. For every affordable rent property that is built, one or more existing social housing property will be lost… the consequence of this policy is the creation of thousands of new benefit-dependent tenants while the £24bn housing benefit bill will continue to soar. The government has rendered the word affordable meaningless.” Affordable housing does not mean what you think it means (Guardian, 3 February 2014)”

Discovering, forgetting and the vision. The nights I am spending awake reading, lost in the internet, are leaving me even more exhausted and foggy during the days. I am always forgetful when waking up. I would not remember the things I read or written.

23 May 2018

Then, later… I go to my desk and there found instructions as notes to self. It said: please read this in its entirety.

You are suffering from memory loss and may have forgotten what this is all about. If possible, think about what this text makes you feel like today and if you have time, please keep investigating or just meditate. The length of the text is impressive. It seems to suggest even more than it said.

The thoughts and ideas about people and the gentrification process are true, but in a way, I had censored myself from thinking so much on such dark terms.

On reading this again, I can see how important it is. The fact that we are indeed not imagining things, but perceiving them clearly.

24 May 2018

Doctor Hirst called. Finally, I would be able to have another session. On my way to his place using drawings and notes to get to the bus stop, I felt I was followed. Before entering the doctor’s door, the man or his shadow, showed itself to me.

The doctor told me we were going to do some breathing techniques, and would go back to the imaginary house. Entranced, I walked around this spacious and empty house. The romantic abandoned house, or the closed place that sleeps in time and dust. The doctor was giving me directions about my breathing and suggested I stay in any part of the house as long as I wanted… but that I should remember how much I like to go towards the French windows to look out. After wandering between rooms, I found myself in front of the panes, looking outside.

Immediately the light of the day transformed into a full moon blue bright night. The garden was transforming into a more brutal landscape, with rocks and smashed bricks. The scene of the group of almost invisible and crouching shadows, started over. But this time I could see better, as if they were closer to me. They wore robes with signs reflecting silky tones of blue. Each had a bag, a plastic one? This wasn’t clear, the bags were medium sized, dark and mate. The orange lights are small lanterns, they open those at points when they rest the bags down between the rubble and open them. My breathing became uneven and seemed to stop. Doctor Hirst, talked from very far away but I managed to recover his words.

25 May 2018

On my own, back home. Notes for later:

I am daring to look at this now. It’s a blue light of a full moon night, shinning down on a construction site where a building its half pulled down. It looks phantasmagorical with its open wounds and holes. People in robes with embroidered patterns are moving around. I see one of them open a bag and extract a big piece of bloody meat, then he places the flesh in between pieces of detritus and covers it, with bricks and metal scraps. Once finished, he moves back to a place my eyes can’t reach. Another one, shifts his body and crouching holds a bag and opens it, then carelessly just turns it upside down: a piece of meat falls out. Half a leg? He then turns and stands up then moves out of view. But more men enter the scene, and do what the others have done. A very corpulent figure appears with a bag and the small light, catching a big rock he moves it and as he crouches, I can see his face. A familiar face, I must have seen him on the press. But do not know his name. He is very sweaty and his chubby face shines under the moon’s reflections. They seem to have been careless about the possibility of being viewed from where I am. Another guy approaches and hands the big man a few pieces of flat material, then stands next to him. The big man is looking at the floor pensively, lost. His hands open the bag, or perhaps it is a wrapping cloth. It is then I see a human head, dripping blood. I am seeing a dismembered body or bodies being buried by men wearing robes at the Bernard Morgan House demolition site. These will go into The Denizen’s foundations.

Now all makes sense. Under the symptoms of illness, my elusive memory and the shock, I was once more trying to tell a conscious self what I had seen. The demolition is complete and the project has advanced so much. My condition has advanced too, so aside from the doctor, who already is trying to synthesise a cure, no one would view me as a credible witness. The doctor totally believes me. He has been briefed by the detectives that if he tries to publish his research into patients like me, his career will end badly.

I keep forgetting everything until I find my notes to self, then I read the texts that explain everything and tell me to keep them somewhere safe and secret. This is possibly the last time I will read the notes, I know where I will hide them but can’t write it down because then the men who keep following me will find them for sure. Perhaps I can just write a note to self, saying there is an empty house with a French windows from which I can look at a wild garden. Perhaps the words garden and wild will remind me of what I’ve written? I will never know.


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