Addressing after Memorial Day 2017 the sort of digest the medical authorities are vying to silence by pharmaceutical trickery. 30 years were taken from my future by a hospital poison crime. At present the elixir of death is making my hard work near impossible at turns so I am writing a long meditated letter to Psi Beta which while very premature has to be done in extremity or be lost in both spirit and substance. I would risk that and wait if I didn't feel this abridgement was at least sufficient and necessary. Meanwhile, Sir McCartney and the Tive assassin group at SONY, in addition to wanting to silence a witness, have created triangulation of klukker fixxe and prison gang civics in downtown Seattle of the type they were notorious engineering during such outrages as the AIDS attack and Graham Foundation/Cirque de Imbecile Slipperman Riots. They have snipers forging at me from six or seven conspicuous angles, such as Operation; Rescue, who attribute the gang bang to abortion politics; Black Panthers, who were accomplice in Pussyball; Yoko Ono's curse, King Crimson's weird alliance in defense of Reagan; East Liberty psychopaths covering for their violent child sex syndicate by accusing me of similar misanthropy, to which the psychiatric Frankenstein Wattenmaker had applied the Pitman ledger of his neuroplastic trauma induction; and of course the Queer rabid.
I didn't understand what was happening in a way I think a lot of people didn't but because am being targeted I cannot duck the encounter and look away without consequences. The goal of gaslighting phenomenon or crazy-making is to traumatize the victim into error so that it leads to abandonment by advocates and withdrawal of support. I have become a little morbid. The most notorious gaslighter, the mother of this deliverance story, Nancy Moore, double-named for Strom Thurmond's wife, both Judy Garland like Midwest war trophy brides I take it, uses the most sadistic of gaslighting tactics: normalizing what was done to me. If I mention that she never called police when I was kidnapped and tortured, she shrieks that I am wounding her deeply. If I cry, she pushes me away in contempt. You would like to think that people like my grandmother and grandfather on that side were like me, in some way, but the Distinguished Citizens of Poplar Bluff married on Halloween, Ward was called the Miami Herald's "secret weapon," and Marie knit me a way too small crimson sweater. Ward was employed in Wichita, Kansas, an area notorious for its guild of weird abortion witch hunters. We know that Nancy met with John Neihardt as a little girl, a man who would have known all about the smallpox question long before most others had access to the truth, and whose nieces and nephews including a twain named Gail and Kasper, the same names as the author of the script and man who attacked me a fact Nancy says is meaningless. If she was a renegade agent from the fringe of abortion politics, selling a genius attack of black confederates, using her own son, a lot would begin making sense. The Midwest has these warped types who really have it in for abortion. The inquiry is trapped by their rhetoric with questions like, "How could my mother do this to me?"
While this was incubating I was giving confidences and turning to help to the sucker play by Peter Gabriel and King Crimson, turning to someone who knew, who was using Amnesty International for torture in a depredation on the conscience of the aggrieved, being driven into torment by its own mother, turning for help to someone who did it. Notice the QE for Queen Elizabeth in WQED where much of this worked, where the strategic alliance of Nancy and MisterRogers was rooted. From the point of view of victim extremity it is impossible to imagine a more deadly perplex, nor one so welcome to the assassins.
At Pitt, who summoned me to answer and be punished in the name of absolute make believe charges, N.O.R. or the "nature of reality" was a catch phrase in the 80's invoking a union agreement to abide by heavy bias. At the time Lennon staged his disappearance, setting up the pussyball mark up on the name of the girl from Lydia Street, a case announced by a woman named Dia in Dec. 1980, while Burstyn's man Strub was at the Dakota for Starkey and Gister; Philadelphia Inquirer planted a cartoon of a scale with millions of notes being outweighed by one bullet. The travesty of this attack by the Second Amendment on the First Amendment should have been Willie Hortonized, but instead, the jackboot tapped out discipline.