Monday, March 17, 2025
He
explained early on that he had to take minute portions of poisons to
build up his immune system, so every day, he had his "venom shot" that
he tossed off as if it was nothing. Just a faint and momentary snarl of
the lips and he was on to other things --- but I remembered, and I
thought --- helluva situation when you have to poison yourself to
prevent being poisoned.
Can't
be too good for your liver, and then, of course, there are the
professional hazards of an Amanah. Lots of late night toe-to-toe events
and exotic foods and drinks take their toll as surely as knives and
bullets. Neil could never call his time his own.
Neil
Keenan was a man on a mission from the first moment I met him, until I
am standing here today, nine days after his death on the other side of
the world, thinking, I didn't want to know, but I knew just the same.
The
old farm wives tell you to count your friends and relatives when you
hear an owl hooting, especially a Snowy Owl, at the edge of a frozen
birch forest just as the sun has slipped over the horizon and dusk has
come. Involuntarily, I thought of Neil. That was eleven days ago.
There
was something in Neil's voice during our last conversation, a bravado
that in one sense was the same as ever, the same old Fly Boy, but in
another way, very subtly, his tone faltered. He told me he'd been
poisoned again, but nothing to worry about. Rumors of his death had
been greatly exaggerated.
He
threatened to show up at the Anchorage International Airport "as soon
as this thing is finished" --- and give me a big hug. I imagined one of
his famous bear hugs, though nobody could ever quite place what kind of
a bear it was?
Koala? Blackie? Grizzer Bear? Kodiak?
The
"thing" he referenced was the return of all the stuff the bankers and
politicians have stolen from the living people of this planet, work we
both got engaged in many years ago. That's how we met. Neil was
bringing a major claim and lawsuit against the New York Federal Reserve
Bank, Southern District, the Baddest of the Bad, to force the rats to
return gold that had been left on deposit with them by the Chinese
Nationalist Government in 1928 --- to the Chinese Government.
Neil's
take on it, like mine, was simple enough -- the gold belonged to the
Chinese people, not the New York Fed, which tried to claim that the gold
had been abandoned by the original depositors and could not be returned
to them because of that little thing called death and The Cultural
Revolution.
Neil
was adamant, and I agreed; the Chinese gold should go back to the
Chinese. So we doubled down and sank our teeth deep, watching as the
corrupt court system turned tail spins on itself. They finally weaseled
things around to an out of court settlement. The gold, very quietly,
got shipped back to China, but not before Deutsch Bank, the Eternal Bag
Man of the Octagon Group, demanded the return of Nazi gold held by the
same branch of the Federal Reserve.
They
were told they'd have to wait for years and take repayment in small
tranches over a long period of time. Nazis are considerably less cuddly
and popular than the Chinese, when you get down to it.
While
Neil fought the good fight for the Eastern Hemisphere, I was left to
struggle with the endlessly complex and labyrinth-like banking empires
of the Western Hemisphere. Late at night, my time, which was morning of
the next day in Neil's world, he and I would commiserate over our
latest headaches, hopes, and occasional joint projects.
He
was the only person in the world who understood my frustration with
Karen Hudes, who, on one hand, was a very brave woman, who sucked it up
and told the truth when it was most inconvenient, but on the other hand,
could be so maddeningly coy and evasive about very basic points.
Like
Donald Trump still does, Karen used to make both Neil and I shake our
heads, open-mouthed, silently screaming --- "If you went THAT far, why
not just go all the way?" We loved her, because she was brave and to an
extent, she was a whistleblower, but in another way it was like a
frustration dream listening to her. She'd get right up to the moment of
kicking the can into the Grand Canyon -- and stop.
Like Donald Trump with the JFK records.
For
the record, we don't care what Mike Pompeo wants or thinks or says.
Ever since he described the Pandemic as a "live exercise" our edgy
respect for the man settled into the same pattern: so near, and yet, so
far.
Almost there....but, almost doesn't count, does it?
Same
thing with JFK's famous speech a couple weeks before his death about
the ruthless coterie of Bad Men he was going to expose. "Going to"
doesn't cut it. "Going to" just makes you a target.
When
you actually let it fly and let the chips fall, the Bad Guys are too
busy trying to save their own rumps to think too much about you.
As
the Japanese Elders say, "Do or not do." Or as my Grandmother and Neil
Keenan might both say, "For God's sake, get off the pot!"
Don't
threaten. Don't tease. Take your shot and walk your walk, if you want a
better world. Neil Keenan never missed a beat. Didn't stumble.
Didn't hesitate. Didn't waffle.
I
appreciated that about Neil. He was a man of constant action fueled by
constant thought. He'd consider the subject, weigh the facts, make a
decision, and that was that. Having made a decision in your favor, he'd
be right there at your back, come Hell or high water.
It
was that integrity, at least in part, that led the ever-skeptical and
watchful Elders to choose Neil to be the Amanah, a position he cherished
and earned.
All
of humanity has lost a faithful friend, especially those living in the
Eastern Hemisphere. I am saddened for them and for me.
The
meeting we planned for "when this thing is over" will never happen now;
I won't ever see his smiling face and one of his flamboyant high
quality Hawaiian shirts coming down the gangplank, aiming like a silk
torpedo with a Brooklyn accent, straight at me.
And my St. Patrick's Day observance, beginning with today, will never be the same, either.
Now
Neil and Karen Hudes are both gone, and I remain like that one stubborn
leaf that hangs on the branches and flaps in the wind, thinking about
the great people I have known, with all their endless diversity and
ultimate uniqueness.
There
will never be another Neil Keenan, and part of me says, he earned his
rest, while another small voice says, but I wanted him to see the
fruition of what he worked so hard for! And a third voice in the inner
choir says, silly, you know he'll see it, whether he's in the flesh or
out of it. So why are you sitting here waiting for dawn on Saint
Patrick's Day, and grieving over Neil Keenan?
Fair
enough. Maybe it's just to commiserate with his spirit, when all the
seeming obstacles of flesh and time and distance melt away, and only
what is true remains, and I embrace him as my brother and my
fellow-warrior in a fight that has taken our lifetimes and more.
Neil
and I never put the content of the struggle into words; we didn't have
to. We just looked each other in the eye; he knew I knew and I knew he
knew and that was that. We could be at peace with each other and stand
back to back, never saying another word. Old cadre, veterans of a most
Unholy War, we couldn't put that into words even if we tried to.
Sometimes, it's not the words. It's the silence between them.
Fare thee well, and the High Road to you, Neil Keenan!
Another
star fighter is laid to rest, and I don't have your poetry, Neil, to
ever say what that means to me. Let the silence between words remind
me. Let the wind wrapping around my hilltop remind me. Let the first
small flowers of spring remind me. Let the first blush of autumn remind
me, until I, too, turn homeward.
Much love,
Granna
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