Roach Motels Are Not Built in a Day #2

1 confess.

After half a lifetime of not knowing Mick Jagger, I landed on Mustique in 1992. The man who came out to meet me remembered me as a child and also the stupid girl who rejected him - maybe I was the reason he married other women but stayed "free" never trusting any of them. Trust was something he always brought up in our chats over years. He didn't trust me. He said it over and over like a mantra and I never knew why.

Why should he trust me? I didnt remember him. Therefore I didnt remember breaking his heart. I thought we had met for the first time in 1992 on Mustique- it wasnt even a meeting- more like a failed mission. I never understood why he wrote a song about it. I didnt see any of the other songs as being about me but I did start listening and watching videos to get to know him better.

I decided, on the basis of a hypnotic regression and comments from psychics that we had known each other in past lifetimes. I kept on believing that, while we chatted, missing the point, making flippant remarks which sometimes upset him - because I was so detached. For me, it was like an exciting online dating relationship - but I also often doubted whether it was really him. He used funny handles like "Shaik Iqbal" who I once saw in a chat room with David Bowie.

He sometimes treated me like a prostitute in our online chats, other times he seemed to see me as his patient. I was using my humanponysss id when we connected. So in truth I played the role of an online bdsm hooker, in fantasy-- this was how we connected. Thanks to Hans, the Dutch slave handler.

In fact this "humanponysss" name was given to me by Hans, who encouraged me to go on Yahoo chat - basically advertising my services. Hans told me he knew the Stones and had supplied them with sex slaves on their tours-- their "No Security" album cover featured what appeared to be a slave girl with her handler. It seemed plausible and I was curious.

I was also very busy in my new teaching job, and naive about the internet and especially the dynamics of Yahoo - like my own visibility, for example, but I played along as a pony. So I was acting this fantasy in the evenings -- after spending all day at school. During the day I wondered if I really was talking to Mick Jagger at night - or just imagining it. Mick was often very serious, almost passionate at times - but he would switch identities in mid-chat leaving me doubting if anything was real. He seemed to be interviewing me as a possible future girlfriend. Never once did he mention my family or knowing me as a child - that came much later, in 2019, when I questioned him about my flashback of him visiting our house in 1965.

After 6 months of online handypanky, in April 2001, I turned 50 and one of his chat personalities, a 19 year old boy, wished me happy birthday: "Wow you're old!" This really rankled. I went for a walk and cried. I decided to break it off. I told the boy he was a jerk and that "everyone said so". That low blow landed. It was never the same after that.

In 2003 I left Kamloops just as ex-Stones manager Andrew Loog Oldham was driving into town, having crossed from New England to the Cariboo where he bought property. No one told me that or I might have stayed. Following a dream I flew to Greece where in July I met Themis and climbed on his motorscooter for life or what became a longterm relationship that has survived rhe last 23 years.

Late in 2003 when I was on Lemnos writing My Cold War, about my childhood as a MKULTRA subject, I received an intense marriage offer by text message from Shaik Iqbal. I declined saying I had "business" and never heard from him again. instead he hooked up with L'Wren Thomas his official girlfriend until her death in 2014.

In 2006 I bumped into Jagger at the Montreal Jazz Festival and we exchanged a few sentences.

"Are you Mick?" I asked. "Oh no! Lets get out of here!" shouted his petite blonde companion.

"I'm Ann Diamond. Do you know me?"

Mick paused and smiled. "No, I'm Keith."

We bantered back and forth like that before she dragged him away.

His smile had been like a ball of light smashing into my forehead. That was our one and only face to face meeting. Every other conversation has been mediated - by cops and spooks and other prices including ALO. I get the sense he refuses to talk to me out of fear I will expose some old wound for which he blames me.

After all these years I completely understand why he would find me unstable, nuts, or worse, based on our interactions on line over those 12-13 years.

More than once he has said I didn't treat him well, didn't really like him, never returned his love, was unfaithful, unreliable, indifferent, cold. Narcissistic.

I didnt know what he meant. Maybe I was all those things but how would he know that?

There is a simple explanation, which I finally blurted out in 2020: "I dont remember you."

Until that moment, I hadn't ever stated it. Not because I was holding back, but because there was no need to. It finally dawned on me that *maybe* I had known him long ago, and totally forgotten him.

Just as it dawned on me in 2007 that I *might* have a large Psychiatry file, even though I had no memory of ever seeing a psychiatrist. And thats when the frightened secretary reached under the counter and showed me my emptied file.

In 2020 it finally dawned on me that Mick didn't realize I didnt remember him.

****

There are several layers to my amnesia. Lets start with the age discrepancy which in itself was a huge barrier. But there’s much more to what I've recovered, either through flashbacks or personal research - there's almost an urgency to all this as I am sure even Mick would agree.

Not only was I only five years old (to Mick's 13) when we met at Dr Cameron's "Open House party" at the Allan Memorial in early August 1956 (this party is mentioned in the John Marks files BTW at the National Security Library where I discovered the receipt for party favors in 2007: fruit punch, plastic cups and a bottle of ether) -- but I, like the other children (my twin brother were probably the youngest) were on LSD, either served in the punch or on candies --

So not only would I not necessarily remember an older boy, after waking up in my bed the day after the party (ask Keith Richards about his hangovers if you don't believe me) - but I might just as easily have forgotten about the magical ceremony that married us as ISIS and HORUS (which came back to me in a flashback for the first time in 2019).

Whereas a 13 year old boy from England on his first trip to Canada would likely recall meeting a tall French Canadian woman, who was my mother, after the party or perhaps before. This could have taken place in Dr Cameron's black limousine which (I have been informed) was deployed to transport important guests to and from the Allan, including children who had been chosen for a special future.

Young Michael would remember all that, plus the funny little girl he danced with at the party. Returning home he would tell his mother Eva, same age as my mother and also a likable, talkative kind hearted woman -- and the story would be added to their shared memory bank, discussed, and filed away for future reference.

Meanwhile I would go home with my mother who had witnessed nothing of the sadistic games played that day at the AMI, with just the psychiatrists' report on how well I had done, and a more negative report on my brother who broke his glasses in one game and had a deep cut on his eyebrow requiring stitches and would not be invited back due to his sensitive nature.

If Mick remembered me, I was the little girl he met in Montreal in Ravenscrag castle where he thought he was being introduced to Canada's elite in 1956 when he was chosen for future fame. He met my tall, striking mother whom he would replace, years later, with a dead ringer, L'Wren Thomas.

What would a 13 year old boy recall of a day in a foreign country attending a children's party in a converted mansion run by Tavistock scientists under the command of a Scottish sociopath named Dr Ewen Cameron? The only normal adult he met that day, after being drugged on LSD, was likely my French Canadian mother, who came to collect my brother and me after the party.

The rest was likely a blur of impressions that later would seem like he'd dreamed them. Back in England, he would be debriefed by the program. And go on to join a band known as The Rolling Stones.

Meanwhile I would go on in the program, with ups and downs and my mother's support, because great things were planned for me too (which I was never told about) -- like a career at the United Nations. We all know what became of young Mike who became the public face of the agenda pushed by Tavistock to take over the world's youth and convert them to "Satanism."

*** Reason #3 for my amnesia: it was all very traumatic, and apart from being memory wiped at every stage of my programming, I also wouldn't necessarily have wanted to remember young Mike whom I would see, notably in Toronto in 1959, where my brother and I attended a special summer school for the month of July for which neither of us retained any memories of actual classes we attended daily.

One thing I do remember: I was raped on the last day and taken to the doctor who said I might be menstruating early at age 8. "Its rare but it happens..."

I've been over this so often- Lets cut to the chase here. My conclusions about it all, in shortened form.

I think they split my personality into Good Annie Two Shoes and Bad Sister Fanny. Annie and Fanny. Annie was the good little schoolgirl and Fanny was the child sex slave. Guess which one they introduced to Mike as his future bride. Guess which one broke his heart.

My mother enrolled me in after school ballet classes at age 7 but I only attended one or two classes before they started taking me downtown, e.g. to parties in mansions, and also a behavioural lab where I was put in sensory isolation experiments with other children including the permanent residents who are all buried in an unmarked graveyard behind the Allan swimming pool and just off McGill property.

Young Mike went back to England and that year underwent a personality change at school where he became a bad boy, bragged of having had sex and of his lplan to move to America and drive a Cadillac. He also got into music - Chuck Berry' "Little Schoolgirl" was the first song he recorded with his band Little Boy Blue and the Blue Boys.

We can forgive him for taking my virginity in what was probably a drug- fuelled "game" at the summer school - i can only guess. Due to my incredible height he was probably told I was 12, not 8. I remember nothing of the experience, just the aftermath.

At 8 1/2 I spent days in bed, recovering from a string of childhood illnesses, reading a stack of children's classics interspersed with comic books and later Mad Magazine. I had a weird crush on Green Lantern who I think was a substitute for Mike - same Eddie Cochrane pompadour - I think the shrinks implanted this romantic fantasy while training me to masturbate which I did often.

I think this was the plan - to create a mind controlled prostitute who would eventually be trafficked to rock bands.

I think this was what they were doing with Lana Ponting whom they had paired with the young Paul Anka at around the same time, 1958-59. I believe Lana, 16 when she was placed in the Allan for a month in 1958, was rhe prototype for what happened to me later. They wiped her memory after trafficking her to men downtown.

Lana was a "bad girl" - adopted by a family whose father worked for the National Film Board, which made a documentary about Paul Anka and his teenaged fans, girls like Lana whom they subjected to drugs and electroshock and labeled "crazy"

I think the idea was to traumatize the future star by destroying his first teenage love. A broken heart is the key to the door of song writing- Mick's son Lucas just said the same thing in an interview. He has broken up with his first girlfriend and becoming a song writer like his dad

Unlike Lana in 1959 I still lived at home with my family. As I mentioned, I read lots of books. I basically taught myself to read in between visits to Grade 2 and 3, and missing days and weeks of school. One way i know I missed school: my report card showed 100 days absent in Grade 2, 1958-59. The next year I missed several weeks worth of school -- where was I? Dr Cameron's subproject 68 at McGill was in full swing. This is probably when I met Leonard Cohen around the flotation tanks on LSD.

I recall missing a week in Grade 3 during which our teacher, Mrs Williams, read us the children's novel Water Babies, a chapter a day. I know because after listening to the first chapter, I lost track of the story, returning to class one afternoon and catching the final chapter, after the hero had died. I still remember both chapters vividly, but the whole middle of the book was missing until I read it myself a few years ago. At age 8 I didnt realize I had been out of school all week -- thats how "missing time" fools you into forgetting you were somewhere else.

Just like ballet, where I still have a vivid memory of the first class (where we practiced positioning our feet and arms for future lessons). After that, I learned no more ballet for weeks until I was put in the recital not knowing the routine-- sink or swim, with my mother in the audience watching as I scrambled to keep up with the other little girls who'd been practicing for months. This was the peak year - 1958-59- for Subproject 68 at McGill where kids like me were being taken for experiments.

When I listen to Lana Ponting I hear my own story told in fragments. She doesn't share her love for Paul Anka - I heard about their relationship through the grapevine. She used to sing with him in clubs, allegedly. In a recent podcast she does talk about leaving the Allan nightly, after much primping in the mirror, and going downtown to see her "many boyfriends." She returned late one night with a diamond ring which she showed to the nurses on duty. "I have a very special secret i cant tell anyone," they reported her saying. Soon after she remembers being on a stretcher, bleeding from the vagina. She had entered the Allan a virgin. The following year she gave birth to a baby -- this is in her hospital records from Misericorde home for unwell mothers. She remembers neither giving birth nor knowing the father, whose name is recorded in the files.

That was Lana, at 16, who in her 70s obtained her records and learned of the baby.

Who gave her the diamond ring? My guess is Paul Anka, already a millionaire from his first big hit, Diana - about an older woman, his first love. I would bet Crazy Love (1958) was written for Lana.

In the documentary Lonely Boy, Anka bestows gold cufflinks on an elderly casino owner. He says "they'll go with the ring I gave you." Then he kisses him.

Meanwhile, that summer, I'm in Toronto, the mysterious summer school, where instead of graduating I get raped. And they don't ask me what happened- not that I could remember given the fact the entire summer program has always been a blank. After my pelvic exam the doctor doesnt question: "did someone do something to you?" At age 8 I didn't even know the mechanics of sex. He tells my mother it could be early menstruation and they leave me to sort out the emotions- if there were any- in an information vacuum. Three months later I cry myself sick after reading Hans Christian Anderson's The Little Mermaid. She stands for me, a little girl forced to leave her home in the sea to pursue the Prince whose life she has saved on land, only to find they have little in common, and return to the sea to become foam.

As for Lana, she was recovering somewhere in the Maritimes-- estranged from her family who didn't know what to do with their wayward teenager.

I'm not just improvising parallel lives here- I'm comparing timelines. The same doctors treated us both, lying to our parents, arranging our lives, training us to be sex slaves to two future pop stars whom they also programmed.

One became a teenage heartthrob - the other the bad boy of rock and roll.

Lana and I become collateral damage.

She was 16. I was 8. Scientists are notoriously repetitive - when they come up with an experiment that almost succeeds they will replicate it. Paul Anka was their first lab-designed pop star, before Leonard Cohen. They tried it again on Mick but he formed a band which was harder to control. If at first you don't succeed ... get a girl with far-away eyes.

***

As you can see, I'm still trying to figure out what happened to me as a child and young teenager. Wendy Hoffman's memoir WHITE WITCH IN A BLACK ROBE had provided answers. Her descriptions of being "closed down" by her handlers following a mission are graphic and brutal. Physical details make all the difference, filling gaps in my fractured recollections. So do the familiar names echoing down peeling hallways that I once walked. Her story kept me awake half of last night like the endgame of a jigsaw puzzle when the last pieces fit so seamless you can close the box and move on.

They wanted me to forget I had ever known Mike, and they had ways including torture, hypnosis, drugs and electroshock, applied all at once while you were strapped in a chair. Wendy makes sure her reader gets the full treatment, which I must have got at age 5, 8, 12 and many more times as I was constantly taken out of school. I dont plan on getting hypnotized to relive it all -- it's enough that I remember the Before and After, and what my parents did when they found out something was wrong and decided to pull me out of the program.

That's the difference between them and Cult parents who fully participated in the destruction of their own child. The difference between me and Wendy, who needed sharp wits just to survive. Wendy's parents lived in a New York apartment complex where all the neighbors were in the Cult -- as she found out the hard way years later. But my parents were ordinary, smart but naive people who got caught in a trap laid by psychopaths operating a machine fuelled by narcissistic greed. I was just a visitor to their hell on earth. A tourist, so when I returned from my sudden trips I slept soundly, secure in my family's love, even at the worst of times. Unlike children who grow up in the Cult, I was never abused or neglected at home. That's something to be grateful for. I didn't have to suffer like Wendy - trapped from birth inside a nightmare. That she remembers so clearly and finds the exact words to express the horror, is amazing and heroic.

They say we choose our parents in each lifetime. Maybe in other lifetimes, she rose high in the hierarchy and was a true Mother of Darkness. Maybe this birth was a karmic return to the scene of her own past crimes. Maybe that applies to me, on a milder scale. I've been drawn to check into the occult but not to immerse myself or join any spiritual group or coven. Just as my parents stayed away from organized religions, I've remained an outsider, watching and learning from the margins, and from the Wendy's.

Which brings me back to this post title. Roaches check in to their deadly motels, but they don't check out -- as the saying goes. That could change with a little help from our friends who are waking up. There’s no reason we can't all learn to be like Wendy...