January 9, 2017
I used to dream of running away to Arizona. It would have been a smart decision but children at the age of 10 don't really have the license and ability to act on such urges no matter how serious and justified. Instead I'll mention a little of what happened in the hopes you can make sense of it, not observe through the squinted lens of ideological skepticism or whatever. I was born in Pittsburgh to a Naval Lieutenant from Iowa. This is no different than a letter to a close brother.
The attack was blindside. I was 12 years old. It was like being shot. I had never seen the attackers before. The kidnapping crimes were not only brutally violent, leaving me deaf with severe head injuries. They were demented in ways that are hard to describe. I was pre-lingual and still learning vocabulary in Elementary School. I suffered deeply ingrained neuro-traumatic amnesia. The lightning attacks to the head with sudden, swift, slaughtering blows out of the blue, the deranged looks, masks, speaking to me in tongues when I would grow conscious from chloroform genre pedophile hostage, sometimes after being force-fed compulsory, and obscenely powerful LSD, left me so demented from fear that I scarcely know what to say. 44 years later I still bite my fingernails bloody.
It went on and on for three months in 1974. I was hiding in my towel closet at home unable to explain, unwilling to go to school when my mother in tears agreed to sell the house she worked so hard for to move us where I wouldn't be so insane with dread.
Sometimes it seemed like I made a little headway. I went to the Governor's School for the Arts on a scholarship for my poetry in high school. Quickly the police set on me with a surreal, untrue armed robbery accusation. Frankly it was as if the ending of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre had been changed so that when the woman emerged from the woods (followed by a giant killer) helicopters from the FBI closed in, grabbed her, accused her of treasonous criticism of Pol Pot, and handed her over to the masked mutilator who hauled her off by the wrist screaming and screaming to no avail.
Somehow I learned Sign Language. Jeannie Tamburro taught me as a Mercy Hospital volunteer. She was attacked and raped to punish her for helping me, but I finally was able to go back to school. For the last two and a half years I have pulled a 4.0 QPA and won the Honors Department Poetry Contest last semester while taking 6 classes for 18 credits.
It is the Honors Department who know that my life was lost when I made the fatal error of interviewing Peter Gabriel for the school newspaper, Allegheny View, in 1982 when I was working in the Learning Center. After he began writing to me, I wrote back trying to explain why I was so confused. He found Shawn Brooks who had locked me out of his church when I tried to get help from the gang who had formed to kill me, mistaking me for being rich. Behind my back they spread the rumor that I was hard up because of rejection I live with as a deaf man.
Gabriel began soliciting letters from the people I had reported for child mutilation and torture which of course say that nothing of the kind ever took place. Deciding such denials carry greater weight than my words or injuries, and aware that a neuro-behavioral scientist named Wattenmaker had privately confessed to giving me a nerve agent without my knowledge when hostage as a child (I now have those papers of admission) and aware I knew nothing about the plaguing horror inside my cranium, they hired an obscene, indecent and vicious individual named Rosa from Italy to masquerade as in love with me to torment me in the gestating neuroplasm that ruptured as a result of this mistreatment, leaving me screaming for years in the streets of homelessness and destitution in places like Des Moines where I ran. They kept sneering that I was dangerous and freaking out. Frankly, given the horror of what they have done it is a miracle that I never did. It was not enough for them to rob me of my prime of life when I was 31 however. In some ways the worst was yet to come.
Seattle's hotly political medical community committed the next nearly fatal blows. They not only used an unwarranted medicine on my heart that pretty much chemically castrated me (my heart was damaged), but Dr. Tracy Tran, a Vietnamese doctor in a community clinic system heavily indebted to the Black Panther Party gave me a dangerous stomach medicine without warning so that I now can barely go out of my house. I deny any sort of wrongdoing, nor were there any charges pending, other than powerful slanders coming from Peter Gabriel that translated from rumor to received wisdom among his on-campus pseudo-symposium coterie. It was the final blow for my hopes of fatherhood.
Brooks, Gabriel and Wattenmaker are tormentors of the sort who see me as an abortion protest. They contracted sex on me for abortion to point the finger at me to clinic bombers. One of their soldiers attacked and ripper murdered a girl named Shannon Harps outside the Clubhouse in Seattle where I was lured on false promises of sanctuary.
It is hard to know where to begin a story like this, because my father was Chair of Philosophy of Education at PITT, but not present in our lives, so I didn't understand the significance of being tortured by a klan ring manufacturing a Horror Flick, until I learned of a book of his, Humanizing the School, dedicated to Martin Luther King. Very chillingly, the high command of Shawn Brooks' Christian organized crime is Franklin Graham who wrote to me with malice saying, "humanism is the greatest threat to America since Communism." Although Peter Gabriel may appear to be with the lunatic fringe of hippy politics, in reality he is a close partner of the Graham Family through his marriage to the daughter of Queen Elizabeth's Lord Secretary. On this point many people cease to care that I was butchered, and many peers have been vicious to me in retaliation. Ming Na Wen's pathological hatred of me led her classmates to stage a reckless driving incident at Kelly Elementary in which I was maliciously framed as the driver when, in reality, I was the absolutely furious passenger who quit the job over the affair. Wen's insistence that I am of bad character was so serious in their infamous home invasion by Rosa that I nearly dissociated. I was on the streets of Iowa vomiting in seizures and suffering ocular gyrations. My eyes nearly separated. The neuroplasm pushed to my face (where I learned it was there) with memories of being kidnapped on a snowy day as I walked alleys and sidestreets, absolutely freezing to death, in terror that if I went to school they would find me.
The goal of Wen and Gabriel was is not as hard to describe. Rosa was a priceless looking woman who I was deeply in love with. To punish me for reporting child mutilation, they wanted me to spend my life in homelessness, castrated, with the terrible reminders of those who took over my dead father's department one of them succeeding in marrying her and fulfilling his life by bloodcurdling capture of my dreams. When Rosa became engaged to me, she knew this was her mission.
As hard as it is to know where to begin a story like this, I would have to say that probably it begins when I was five or six years old and in a restaurant downtown where a popular local talk show was broadcast live. My father took me there to thrill me. I luckily turned over my grilled cheese sandwich, because the cook had pressed a large, short rusty nail into it. This was the dawn of a Horror Flick, a lifelong vivisection ordeal for which help never came.
You would think all this would be enough. Really, however, it doesn't limn the sadism very well. In winding down I want to go into an area that is dark and discussion about which tends to backfire, in the hopes of lamplighting. I see in all this a fragmented, but real and possibly esoteric theory of government working through offices in the State of Pennsylvania that is institutional in its forcing house of administrative support. They wanted it to be like this. Peter Gabriel sent me a message, in the style of the segregationist George Wallace and his practiced hand of klan intimidation, reading, "Wear your inside out." One of his attaches, David Reitzes, sneered at me, "We have ways of making record play." They used the anguishing agony of neuroplastic head trauma for extrusion without defence for the accused in media prompt interrogation attended by such things as tear gas in my home, for which there are hospital records, and skin creatures like scabies, also on record. The policing of the mind ruled out allowing that I am telling the truth. These individuals who are supposed to be defending Civil Rights had no qualms about truly sickening and disturbed acts of violent, mutilationist mayhem and torture.
The Pittsburgh Post-Gazette was party to this. They allowed Amanda Harcourt, an attorney for the original Broadway Musical of HAIR to put my father on trial as a Red Witch in a Roundtable discussion where I was publicly put to the sword of ideological interrogation. It was assumed that I am in that group of mentality so that it was fair conduct to allow. Being from dream media, they felt good about themselves claiming that I was being sacrificed as a racial reparation in a theory of compensatory coding that resembles to a great extent the rape scene and aftermath in the film Deliverance. They spread to the museum mafia in Pittsburgh the idea that I am a secret but humongous oil strike in a Green Party plan and that I am their victim, not only as hostage, but as a property. They consulted the most degrading individuals their money could buy, like Saul Brecher who never tires of bragging about dragging me through glass with his friends as I cried, but also the criminally ingenious Thomas Hale Gordon of Carnegie Mellon robotics. All of them are selling the same theme: that torture is for fun. Our society won't help a single person, not when our very soul is badly jeopardized.
I can't go on with this. I have a meeting with the City to attend tomorrow on other matters and have to be prepared.
Sorry,
Mac