These articles of mine have their collectors because they measure impunity in 21st century human trafficking. They use me to dare the sort of people who care, although even the perpetrators are frustrated in finding so many just look away. So they’ve committed some murders, but it hasn’t changed the balance at all. In fact, the more esteemed the victims the more dreary the outcome. Murder is licensed in the quarters responsible. They want this work to read and to gloat. They broke into and wrecked my home after mutilating me disabled as a child, to example me as a man without offspring. It was the American military so these letters are impotent. They have stories, too. It’s a strange drama in that way because it is a conflict originating with a so-called research school.
Their story usually begins, when they find a new audience, curious about the strange newcomer, seemingly so full of energy in their midst, deaf but by some estimations a scholar. It usually begins, “We know Jimmy, take our word for it, what he’s like will become obvious.” For most of them the saga of James MacRyland Crary who, pushing 60 at a Community College, having finally found someone to teach me sign language (she was raped in punishment) is old as the hills. In fact, I was born to it. They had a script in the house for the date of my birth their sibyl noted was six months exactly from Adolf Hitler, and they gave me a Social Security number beginning 1984. This is verifiable. There really is a script. The indexicalities were a deeply encrusted welcome mat to me, a little boy from Bush’s ship in the WW2 navy, on which my father Ryland Wesley Crary served.
When he divorced her, my mother was instructed by the government to marry Fox, so that David Lucarelli, sound technician for 20th Century Fox, who her second marriage made my stepbrother, could collect extortion from me as a property disabled purposefully for family containment. They consider my utterances the secret tapes of the Big Picture, but I am not the star. The starlet was an orange haired Valedictorian from an all Girls School who I met at the Pennsylvania Governor’s School for the Arts in 1978 where I studied poetry with Pulitzer Winner Peter Balakian, but she was his favorite. Leslie Katz was an agent of Swarthmore and Ellis Girls School who set up a war game in a very vicious attack.
The attack was AIDS, but they say that their trauma drama was just a scare from their drama school, claiming I brought on myself for interviewing Peter Gabriel who worked for the Beatles and Her Majesty’s Secret Service. The case is a hemlock case concerning my castration by atenolol for explaining what really transpired on Mt. Desert Island in 1988, where an AIDS testing war game was uploaded with the crime, alibi written by a man named Sinfield. The traffickers who tortured me as a child used Katz as an axis to turn the tables and demand collection while securing for Sotheby’s and Warhol Museum the estate of child bondage films they call psychiatric research to this very day. The British, led by rock band King Crimson, who I knew well, spun it that they are the victims and the government, to be cute, called me the responsible party, because as a child I was in the dark, and very afraid. It makes no sense that as a child I was expected to understand what every adult I know this very minute denies that they can understand, but that failure to understand makes me, as a child, the responsible party.
One of their games is campus politics. They depict me as a Sci Fi brain, a mangled man who lives infantilized by neurological trauma they play as self-inflicted, the lickspittle from a drug dungeon of his own creation testifying to the nightmare of the self-inflicted 60’s. When a scientist said no, his eyes show evidence of terrible childhood beatings, someone they loved was gunned down. So many people like that angle, however, and the attending claim that because I was following John Lennon (which I wasn’t) I am to blame for his death that the government has laughed about and set to allowing Warhol Museum to create a private prison of text-creation (I am in three splints from thirty years of constant writing without compensation) to benefit the attackers supposedly making it fair for the victims. It’s not as clever as it is workable. Might doesn’t make right, but tell that to the Jews cremated by Adolf Hitler. Nor does majority rule, but tell that the rice farmers in Vietnam. The signs and indexes that reveal how this script operated are being confiscated for the attackers by foreign anthropologists. They won the right to deny me victim status by support of the guilty and to hotwire our national estate by confiscating history for their branch of Hollywood. The text, the Texas Schoolbook behind the murders of Kennedy and King, have been kept under wraps as a Klondike Gold Rush frenzy of property claims.
Many of the dense pieces of evidence, the meaningful symbols, surrounded me as a very young child far too young to grasp the meaning, but you have to assume the photograph of I Love Sira Siran spray painted on a door taken Kodak-dated 1966 of me in front of a garage, the book of Mitsui and gas masks that mysteriously showed up on my porch, the signifiers in initialism to be significant. They can in fact and do explain themselves. You just have to work over their puzzle pieces. This was more than a master crime, it was a totalitarian description of reality, the place of the Royal and the dismissal of the unworthy.
Did I deserve it? The script they wrote all adds up and means only one thing, the only thing it could ever mean. For example, they kidnapped me as a child and gassed me in place called Kings Estate. They were holocaust survivors, their kidnappers were called The Pitmen. They added to the pain by using me as an AIDS testing guinea pig on Mt. Desert Island. John Stockwell of the CIA followed me to Allentown on my birthday in 1987. He said that it amazed him that a colleague in African mercenary activity who was horrible looking would say, “Women don’t want a handsome man, they want a dirty little pig like me,” and Stockwell grimaced recounting that he was right. The AIDS victims in Queer Seattle didn’t want justice, they didn’t want to protect others, they didn’t want the truth or to catch Gail Burstyn, they just wanted some screaming child in terror trauma being ripper attacked to subject to terroristic reprisals of hate crime. They used Leslie Katz because she rejected me, not because I hurt her, I never touched her.
Donald Trump invented this game. He parlorized it as a rape meditation game. That played real well with campus politics. Matt Marcus’ partner Evan Knauer called me a hater for crying when Leslie ditched me. Marcus had this song, “I hate your blouse.” He burned two girls gangrenous with a hot poker after giving them LSD, he was sainted by all that gang because he worked at MisterRogers. Trump and Peter Gabriel worked together saying that I blinked in terror from being driven into homelessness after the rape of my girlfriend, a sin about as serious as hitting a foul ball in baseball, misunderstanding something and they said that meant D.T. for Defiant Trespass, that I had raped a girl during consensual sex. Didn’t happen. Didn’t pull out too fast, didn’t bore anyone I slept with. They made it up because I blinked when the ripper murdered a girl to warn me to take the pill they assigned for castration, because I wasn’t man enough, had left Leslie still a virgin. That’s what really happened. My classmates hate me, they groan, they say that’s too private, but they are also the ones who when I went to them for help only wanted to know one thing: who was I dating and how could they humiliate me.
It is historic record that the men who tortured me in 1974 were named Ronnie and Kasper just like Reagan and Weinberger. And there was a Billy Club led by a kid from England. Billy Rodd, Billy Beck and Billy Flynn were all faster than me. They attacked me, the key needy kid, blindside. It was a Manson ordeal. They help me for cinema in a gang custody named Mancine, kiddie pornographers. They called it getting me by the balls, because Neva’s sister led me on into their trap, and to make sure I never escaped, my new school had a pretty girl code named Dawson for Dawson City of Klondike, embarrass me, so the school would say see, he doesn’t accept that we all think he cudda saved John Lennon. They think it’s the perfect crime because they know for a fact I knew nothing about it. I no longer even believe it was real.
If there was a Billy Club of that sort then the government should have looked at the Donald Club, because there was one, right from the beginning, no greater power: humiliating me as having an operation that cause dual spray on my groin was Donald Gruber, looming over me and threatening me, Donald Finnegan, pedophiling me, Donald Ostro, and there on my father’s obituary was the coded name Donohue (don’t know who killed him) “injecting” parochial values next to a mention of the Green Party, who worked the war game from Seattle, cheering those who battered me, gassing me in Kings Estate as the symbol for the fate of the unlucky ones. Although it is clear that when holocaust survivors hire a name signifier gang to kidnap and gas a child they are creating a message, yet the psychiatric authorities blamed me, held me in traumatic bondage over ten years, flattened me and finally let me go. I didn’t even have emotions for years. They tried to destroy the evidence, the letter Martha Gellhorn had written to me, they tried to destroy the letters written by my tormentors who laughed of “putting the persona in a gaseous paint chamber,” and a dialectic about poison and paranoia they called “pigment and figment”. They scrawled, “just because you are paranoid doesn’t mean we aren’t out to get you,” and the psychiatrists were ENRAGED when I protested against their claims that I needed to be castrated to calm me down. They called me dangerous for being non-violent. Again and again, they said I wasn’t man enough. I didn’t do anything to deserve it. There was no trial. They barely even bothered to make anything up. It wasn’t that sort of play. They just said, hate that one for me, and society complied.
My new college is the same way. They say a real man would have never allowed himself to be so humiliated, but you see they slashered a woman to death, raped my best friend, threatened to kill the children in my family. Was I supposed to let them kill more hostages? They are proud of themselves for doing this to someone.
Nobody cared, nobody tried to stop them, not once, not ever. Their agents were women, the women did this, it’s like a police prerogative. You go to the courts and they say well good, that was wrong, but we believe them that they meant well, so, thank you, have a good day, free to go. Mother had a friend named Kutofsky (pronounced for what it means, cut off sky) who believed in programming children as education, that’s his scientific field; he worked with Jaime Carbonell, the carrot tape man, who played back things in language research they had inputted by psychic manipulation, lying about the facts, it was his specialty, he even discussed it with his classes, that computers will make monstrous mistranslations, so he set up a worldwide monstrous mistranslation with the help of his friend in the press, Peter Gabriel. Nobody cared, no one ever defended me, no one ever inquired. Mother put a finkish rabbit right up on the wall in her hallway as a contribution to the jest, the perpetrators would come to her Christmas parties. They pulled a joke they implanted out of the magician’s hat in the form of moral indignation, and then misattributed the mirth to me.
The White House and U.S. Government liked nothing more than to rip loneliness and suffering through the neuroplasm they impacted, which I neglected to mention, the implant, for the mind in the sci fi machine to pop off. They brought in the carrot tape gang who were at Thomas Merton Center and set up Don Timmerman for the pronunciation, “Don’t I’m her man,” when they made off with my fiance, raped my deaf advocate, and forced me castrated in homelessness as their man married the foxy lady, my loved one, hired to humiliate me in the name of Leslie for Marcus, their hero. They had no end of abuses because they want no end of writing from me as their earmarked slave. They are criminally insane.
The injuries and beatings caused me deafness, neurotrauma semi-coma and glaucoma, but after the semi-coma burst in seizures, ta ta coma, hello diabetes and worsening glaucoma, they moved me to Tacoma for the finishing scenes of the Glaucoma Tacoma show.
Martha Gellhorn once said of witnessing Dachau, “it did no man ever any good whatsoever to cry out from this place.” When the synagogue across the street from my home last year was the scene of massacre of people I knew from childhood, the murderers of course liked it to sort of refract onto me, since that is how they play honey, but the truth is that at four in the morning, I cried and cried, and there was no one there to see me cry, not even the sunrise.
