How easy it is for bloodthirsty, anonymous people to point fingers at a victim of terror and cry, “Coward!” These same voters in representative government jeer public letters at Town Hall. It is Nov. 21, 2018 as I write, a Wednesday, school, a Community College, is closed. Work enough to make a senior deaf man cry on his desk has formed a wall against freedom to celebrate the holiday. Current events include the murder of a journalist named Khashoggi, an obliterative shooting massacre of elderly Jewish people across the street from my house in Pittsburgh, some of whom I knew since baby school, and wildfire deaths in California testifying to climate change. It makes me feel a little like the writer of the medieval Hojoki in Japan who lives in the woods alone after an earthquake. You would expect that he never expected to be read, but my reasons for doubting being read are a more difficult mechanism to describe than hermitage. I live very publically ignored. When researching small journalists, ink devils they used to be called, I learned they are challenged in publications surviving outside the mainstream by such issues as income for health care. This makes it bitterly difficult to take on the machine of news that many these days accuse of bearing fake news, catering to business as usual. My bones are all but broken from carpal tunnel syndrome in the attempt, blow by blow, to make my sentences count for something in the dim dream that there are aware readers of merit.
However when it comes to my thoughts and urgency, it never matters that I was personally acquainted with Martha Gellhorn, a journalist featured on a U.S. Postage Stamp. It never matters that I crawled from abuses leading to homelessness, deaf and shattered by neurological injuries, into Phi Theta Kappa from college, nor that my poetry teacher at the Governor’s School long ago won the Pulitzer the semester my work won the Honors Society Award. Nor does it mean anything that my father Ryland was Chair of Philosophy of Education at the University of Pittsburgh and dedicated a book to Martin Luther King. The screeches that attend all of those facts announce in answer that no matter the masterpiece, it amounts to a charcoal mustache scrawled on the Mona Lisa. They will never stop terrorizing me or committing acts of violent mayhem in response. Who? University of Washington, the mental health system of King County, the government of Pennsylvania, all of them are virulently enraged by the fact of my innocence regarding the issues they used to, for example, punish my deaf advocate by raping her for teaching me sign language. The authorities have sided with the Warhol Foundation in this form of police work.
I don’t have a girlfriend, they deafened me and poisoned me in the mouth. The British authorities had me chemically castrated through University of Washington Medicine in what they claim was justified revenge, again, because I was innocent of their weird lies, which enraged them, this wasn’t about innocence, this was about sociology. I am a white sucker, that is good enough. In other words, the drama of abuse targeted me because I was a high profile achiever and this mean a fake, a counterfeit, by sociological definition. The Stranger Newspaper made particularly clear what they think, that no matter how gold my achievements and writing, they consider me degradable to their outcasting methods, someone they can run down, besmirch, subject to evil, backroom laughter, and taunt by accidental meaning. In Florida, 26 students fell sick and demanded answers, in Seattle thousands of students died and The Stranger heckled me for being adroitly mauled to fit their support for the assassins. You forced us to side with them, they chuckled.
Ripper horror took place after I was banned from Seattle Central Community College for trying to warn Campus Security that there was murder in the air. I was banned because the Country Doctor Hilltop Clinic was set up by a monster who thinks I should be subject to disease transmission as an observation of sociological valor. Accidental meaning has attended many recent nerves into the media framework like a burning cross accidentally meaning threat and danger when lit on fire outside a black preacher’s home. A person who has seen the psyche that develops when concern for the individual is disallowed as a social formula by those who prey upon innocent persons’ reputations often sulk into hatred, buy guns or something and live shattered, cynical lives, destroyed by the ravages of grapevines that serve the brutal and ignorant, the street criminals who police our neighborhoods to make sure no one talks about such things as the trafficking of children. When the leaders arrive with big posters of themselves, allowing us to hear them speak as they duck in from luxuries, you have the special era of 50’s communism gratified locally, which in turn makes an informed person justifiably afraid for their life in the school of Town Hall.
Everyone I know knows entirely what is at work. Robert Fripp of King Crimson and Oliver Stone of Warner Brothers put a bounty on my persona, fed the evil I have lived with by punishing those who helped me and enriching those who tormented me, in a pathological quest to burn out their greed and evil by sinister, intimate acts of true horror and degradation, as though somehow their mania could someday be quenched. My death would make them feel cheated and their students brag about this online in chats they’ve wired my computer to intercept. Rivals with no moral standing to speak of whatsoever, loyal to Bill Gates, pry into my free time to leer about what they think I am really doing, like homosexuals confronted with the affront of a medical limp they wanted to bite off. This is the Palace of London by the way, working their will through the AIDS attack. The ripper murder in Capitol Hill of Seattle I tried to stop was their doing, they operated through the Postal Union with the help of Black Panthers.
Dr. Nelson Harrison and Ralph Proctor, family unit of Black Power in Pittsburgh schools, denied knowing Abira Ali, a schoolmate of Will Zell, the white Nazi who set up Mt. Desert Island, which helped them make lewd films of a child hostage held brutally in kidnap circumstances by the Pitman and pedophiles from the Neva Corporation working with Warhol as a child under the rubrics of psychiatric espionage, gloating over a neuroplasm they impacted experimentally, and threatened to murder anyone who even says the word Justice outside of their revenge for slavery reparations cult of compensatory coding, which isn’t black hate crime, now. I don’t believe that’s possible that they didn’t know her. Abira was the very princess of special ethnic details whose feet they would garland, an Indian girl adopted by Jewish holocaust survivors, so pure of symbol as to be bestowed as though by Disney himself. How could the callow, paleface white thing question her majestic redemption by the trivial matter of association with the murderers who set up the AIDS attack!
The Stranger is smug about all this. They know they don’t have to read it, that the authorities have already ignored it and allowed the ripper murders to continue. They have a neuro-network run by Brett Leonard to promote the framework that allows them to gloat that I forced them to side with mass murderers, like a contract prostitute targeting a Frankenstein head injury, they cry out, “Woe is me, Jimmy Creary made me feel threatened, myuh.” They invented lie after lie, openly operating from Carnegie Mellon Drama Department, writing boldly in text about, “Constructing a persona,” so they could descend upon me for scrutiny through their golden parascope of accusation. The accusation is a riddle, innocence proves guilt. This droll power to defame makes them Duke. Now they don’t have to explain pouncing on a rival they had maimed under the guidelines of their special committee’s “Too Good Principle.”
The ravenous, blood-drenched sadism of University of Washington’s pseudo-Intelligencia allowed fulfillment of the entire atrocity. It’s that simple, don’t try to make it something else. The Beatles were behind a lot of it at Warhol, making Lennon’s supposed death into an evil lampoon promoting the true killers and their real target: Kennedy. By compromising American history, which you already get in serious trouble for teaching these days, worse than it was during the Occupation of Czech by the Russians, really, they made it necessary for City Councils in Pittsburgh and Seattle to look upon the castration of a talented American poet as the fulfillment of a fetish visited upon a nobody, playing a game of name that tragedy for the bullwork of scavengers. Penis Gabriel, their lascivious leader of hate crime bellows, mocked our entire society with his grim, porcelain, jabber, hatter, genius assessment of our entire body politic, “I am lost within this half-world. It hardly seems to matter now.”
James MacRyland Crary
TACID
