Oct 8, 06--Barely able to sit at my computer. The speed that I am being poisoned with has me high and in pain. I can no longer sleep on my back at all. My entire left leg is numb, and I can tell that the inflammation resulting from the speed has caused a painful pinched nerve right in the middle of my sacrum. What kind of permanent damage the bastards will cause this time remains to be seen. But I am going to fight through it as best I can. I started to write an autobiographical expose the outrageous abuse and violation that the Spiritual Life Institute originated; however it was erased when I attempted to mail it (I didn't have a floppy). I should have anticipated that. I know that the public library does not provide secure internet viewing. I can literally see the other user on the network accessing it. At the time, I wasn't so worried about my emails being blocked. I was more worried about clearing my head after that smirking Christian sat down next to me, spreading the same dope that the Christians have been poisoning me with ever since I got involved with the Spiritual Life Institute. (Oh, and by the way, tell that poor, psychologically blank, tabla rosa adolescent to go back to his Opus Dei or seminary studies. He makes a poor shadowing tail, and one of these days I am going to shock his sorry, sheltered behind right into the blessed creation reality where a child of God truly belongs--oh but then he would be totally ruined for the priesthood or Opus Dei, wouldn't he? My pleasure, young man. Give me one more chance. I'm ready this time).
I'm not even able to write on my own computer. Of course I knew it would be partitioned into a spy drive when I got it. I knew that I would be unable to access Administrator account (that was the way it was set up before). What I did not know was that I would not be able to write to either floppy or CD, making it impossible for me to keep a permanent record in easily accessible hardcopy.
That is alright. The web is going to have to be the first choice of documentation, even though it is subject to hacking and illigitmate editorial tampering. But I am going to do the best I can--even handwriting out my notes. I have been rereading a Scott Peck book, and in it he quotes a youthful unknown Sigmund Freud who was delighted that his future biographers would have such a difficult time deciphering him. That has never been my aim. As a matter of fact, more than anything else, I had wished to be anonymous to the world. I truly found the seclusion and escape of monastic religious life appealing. However that is not my vocation, and if I ever had sinful temptations to cling to such illusion, they have been completely dispelled by my long-suffering abuse at the hand of such religious communities. I have also had to accept that I am one of those individuals who others will probably be reading and pondering for a period of time, maybe a long time. So it is. While I strive for clarity, both my own changing viewpoints, as well as the difficulty in preserving my own true writing is going to make this difficult. But I am going to give it my best shot.
Today, I downloaded a picture of Anna Politkovska--a Russian journalist who spent recent years uncovering and fighting abuse and torture committed by her own government and its allies (wow! sound like something we could use in this country?--while ourjournalists spend their best efforts trying to btain salacious, muckracking sex chatlogs...). She has just been murdered. I downloaded the picture, because I identify with it. For all of her worldly savvy, (journalism is a hard-boiled, tough-nut profession--when it's done right--not the Katie Couric, inane stupid fluff that is the stuff of rapid promotion and high ratings in our society), her eyes are those of an innocent. She is the kind of innocent that believes good and justice and morality prevail in the world, and is utterly shocked and scandalized to find out that really there are overwhelming forces at work to derail this So now she is dead. But before she died, she courageously persevered in uncovering and presenting the truth.
The other Russian to whom I dedicate my entry, and my committment to persevere is of course, Alexander Solzhenitsyn. I finished his Gulag Archipelago trilogy, and apart from sheer awe at how such a sensitive intellectual survived such inhumanely harsh concentration camp life for ten years (I would be a "goner" within one--those Russians have incredible constitutions), I was most impressed with how people fought to keep their humanity. The Christians and Moslems continued with their prayers, hiding and memorizing tiny copies of Scripture and even making rosaries/prayer beads of dried bread. While I believe that AS was a man of faith in a non-demonstrative way, he attempted to fight for his humanity by maintaining his vision of human rights and dignity, specifically through literature and memory.
In the camps, they were not allowed to write (amazing how subversive the truth of th written word is). So AS, and a few others like him, "wrote" by memorizing hundreds and thousands of lines of verse they had created and never committed to paper for more than a brief few minutes, if at all (and here I complain if I cannot have access to immediate editing tools of software). When he did write, he had to hide it (or go to solitary confinement for punishment), in a multitude of hiding places from the insewn hem of a pantleg to a underneath a brick at the work site. And he did all of this writing imprisoned with no access to reading or writing implements, on starvation rations, doing hard labor for 10 hours a day, six days a week in Siberia, with nothing but a flimsy padded jacked and cap for warmth in subzero weather. And I complain because I have to catch a bus, and hope to use a public computer for an hour or two at a time. Even as he did write the final draft, he never had the entire manuscript in his possession. It was pieced together, literally in pieces from hiding places of sympathetic friends and colleagues.
So, like AS, I will have to beg forgiveness from any future readers. It is not my desire to be difficult or disjointed to read. Some future editor is going to have to do the best they can with what I have left behind. Unlike Freud, this is not by mischievous willfulness I had wanted to leave a clear presentation, but the persecution and pressures I experience make that impossible.
I promise to do the best that I can....
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