Thursday, October 16, 2008
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Woke up cursing life and cursing God for giving me this miserable, hateful, pain-filled, suffering life, after going to sleep praying to God for death. But maybe God doesn't listen to prayers of people whose souls are completely separated from individuals whose brains, psyches, and spirits are fried and severed by pshychotropic drugs. Certainly, I have no connection whatsoever with God or spiritual life. I am a lab animal,experimented on, without any regard for, or exercise of my free will or choice , a slug, a slave, a thing. In my mind, when I try to find the strength to keep living, I picture people who have endured and survived torture and slavery, people like John McCain or Solzynitsen, or most recently, the thought of all the millions of women and girls who are slave trafficked into prostitution, an institution fed by our sick, pornographic cultures (and don't blame the West you moralistic assholes--this is a product of patriarchal culture, not Western culture--same principle is shared--women are "owned."). I live to survive, hoping to one day regain my humanity. And if I don't, when I die, I hope to present to God the evidence that, at least, in my hidden soul, I retained my humanity, even if I was denied the right and ability to experience and live it. Being human is to be engaged in the exercise of vital powers. For someone like myself forced into a drug hazed suffering of alienation from life energy and reality, barely able to function, like someone with severe case of the flu, when normally I am energetic, productive, and completely in touch with reality, it can only be described as hell on earth, especially when I suffer constantly with physical pain caused by their GODDAMNED SATANIC drugs. But it was my stupidity and my once naive trust in the Spiritutal Life Institute/priests of the Roman Catholic Church, which has resulted in this-- my being sold out to the agents of Satan. I keep asking God for another chance at life, and this time I won't sell out to satanic forces whp blasphemously carry Christ's name, but so far it hasn't come, and I have to accept that it may never come.
So, I have to carry on, no matter how hard. It is turning winter, and I need to do a thorough house cleaning which for me in this condition, is almost impossibly difficult. I have to somehow get the energy to read and follow directions to transfer this blog over, and I HAVE to start writing, however difficult, on a deeper level. I can't leave the formation of culture to lies, profit oriented immaturity, and moral degenerates, which is so much influencing our pop culture. Most especially, I have been jolted by this article: http://www.americanthinker.com/2008/10/who_wrote_dreams_from_my_fathe_1.html, an essay that intuitively I know is true. It addresses much of the disconnects, disconcert, and unease that I experienced while reading Obama's autobiography (I believe that there is another powerful reason for the obvious disconnect and glaring omissions from his life, but that one I won't share, out of respect for his personal life decisions and choices--a politician has to keep his skeletons in the closet). However, what I now realize is that a book that really does not draw from, or is in touch with "soul" (and from a Black man!) or deep human truth and self-realization, and that it was ghost written by a true moral degenerate of the lowest order (and I don't say that lightly, but I know what it means, when my skin crawls every time that I see Wm. Ayers on tv, even without audio--he is a supremely self-assured and privileged sociopath).
I suppose that my realization leads me wide open to the charge of racism which seems to be the Obama's camp favorite weapon of choice against people who recognize and speak out about his limitations (of course he's too "politically correct to say it himself--he relies on the hoodwinked, sold out, Obama-for-ratings-and-profit media, and his surrogates). Bullshit. I remember myself as a young schoolgirl, sitting back in class (I always read books in the back of class, utterly bored by what went on in the classroom), hiding the tears on my face with my hands as I read Black like Me, and Maya Angelou's biography of growing up in the racist south. I remember staying up all night long as a college student (back in the day when a book could make me stay up all night long), completely enthralled by the remarkable autobiography and example of Malcolm X. To this day, I have greater admiration for Malcolm X than I do for MLK Jr, even though I think MLK Jr. was the greater man and "saint." But while MLK Jr. pulled himself up from the pit of racism to reach the pinnacle of great manhood and universal leadership and inspiration, Malcolm X pulled himself up from the pit of hell to become a deeply moral and spiritual man and leader, who was on the cusp of another religious conversion and, most likely, a greatness on the order of MLK Jr., when he was murdered by the Nation of Islam (which now proclaims Obama as the "Messiah"). There is nothing more dangerous to people whose self-identity and self-esteem rests on hatred, than the thought of someone who loves--especially the love of the "enemy."
Among many others, I've even read, and been impressed with the autobiographies of Eldridge Cleaver and (not so much) Hurricane Rubin Carter. I didn't agree with these men or the life choices or ideological conclusions that they made, but my God, did I respect their self-reflective honesty and pain. Both of them were "man enough" to spill their guts, their "soul", out on the page, and myself, and all of humanity is the richer for it. So no, racism does not blind me to the presence of soul on a page, but neither does misdirected, liberal white guilt or media imaged narcissism.
Personally, I have to confess that right now, I am stymied in my understanding of the implications of this realization. How do I feel about voting for a man whose political agenda I overwhelmingly support, but whose whole career has been launched and abetted from a platform of manipulation, lies, and deception, that begins with this autobiography? I don't know. I guess, as I often have in the last few months, go back to square one again. However, I am absolutely convinced that I HAVE to stand for the truth. In a time and age when the writers of America seem to aspire to a selective, convenient, and of course, profitable truth (from all sides of the ideological spectrum), I have to make some kind of honest contribution. I, or my words may be incomplete or harmful, but my God, I can't sit out on the sidelines while people like William Ayers set the agenda, to the point of launching the next likely President of the US based on deception and manipulation of deeply emotional wounds and scars.
I am so happy with my vocation--that of an honest, powerless person. I may be miserable in my life circumstances and slave condition, but deep in my heart I know, that with very miniscule exceptions, I have always been honest with myself, God, and others, and I thank you God, for allowing me the strength to choose that gift, because when I die, I want to present myself to you just as I have presented myself to others. But right now, as miserable as I am, I am alive, and I have to do something but right now I am too sick to continue.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
In constant, miserable pain as the speed spasms the muscles in my back and abdomen, neck and shoulders, totally crippling my left thigh with nerve, as I try to drag it, and my equally dead right leg along. I constantly wonder whether this force-fed speed is just an attempt at mind control. If so, it won't work, because I won't concede my humanity. I go through days and moments when I am "broken", but then comes the memory of my essential humanity which I wonb't sell out, no matter how miserable the pain and suffering.
They can break down my brain though. I desperately want to write what is going on with me, but the mind cannot focus. It cannot read. I tried to read a little of St Augustine's Confessions today, and the effort literally made me sick (makes me wonder what the mindfuckers are so afraid of...--I know that some sadistic security agent somewhere has his finger on the brain implants that make me sick, releasing the chemicals whenever I would attempt to touch base with Truth or Beauty). I may not be able to get in touch with the truth, but I a sure can smell the lies and the liars from far away, and am getting increasingly disgusted at the lies being fed to the American public. But I don't want to focus on outing lies and liars. I just want to focus on the truth, but the truth for me right now is constant pain and torture. Beats being a candidate as a sellout traitor to the human race, just to satisfy personal ambition or comfort.
Then there is the problem with memory loss--I saw my supe from a year ago today, and I was utterly stumped. I absolutely could not remember his name! I read articles, and later in the day can not recall what I read. But I have to try to cling to my humanity even though the mindfuckers would take it away from me. Hang on Tita.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Sunday, October 12, 2008
I am a walking zombie today--every muscle in my body is rigid and locked and I walk and move like the Munster patriarch. That is not the wrost of it though. I feel like I am in the hospital while tons of drugs go pouring thru me. So sick that even getting up to walk to the bathroom is a major feat of accomplishment. It hurts to open my eyes--I cannot take in the stimuli. Yesterday, pretty much when this all started, was a completely wasted day, as I could not take in any visual stimuli at all, but could only lay on the floor with a sheet wrapped around my head while I prayed to God to be released from this horrible suffering. Whatever drugs I am on make me severely autistic. I had went to yoga (big mistake--could barely move, and then I had to drive home when I could not even open my eyes to take in the stimuli), and before leaving the gym I used the toilet. While staring at the advertisement boards facing me, I realized how seriously messed up I was. I could not read the photographic faces staring at me. I had no sense of emotional subtlety or nuance whatsoever. Even now I am so goddamned drugged that I cannot explain it, even though I know what I want to say, but my ability to use language and organize thought is completely gone. Suffice it to say that the faces all looked like they were threatening me, when I know (from having seen the pictures many times before that they were not).
Somehow I managed to get home, by staring at the space in front of me while I tried to keep the anziety from overwhelming me. As soon as I got home I drank some stiff shots of gin. Why? Because I learned when I lived in Rio Rancho, that the only thing that takes off the edge of autistic anziety and stimuli overload is some really stiff alcohol. I would go to sit down to watch TV with my roommate and the time, and I didn't tell her, but the words were absolute gibberish and I had to close my eyes against the images. But I noticed after three or four stiff shots of whiskey that the words made enough sense to follow the program even tho I could not understand the emotions. Well, the alcohol worked -- for about three hours and once it wore off, I could not bear to open my eyes or watch TV. I tried watching football (very familiar) and could not stand to see the movement. All the faces in all the other programs looked like caricatures of evil, and all the people seemed to want to leap out of the tv and attack me.
Thus, these motherfuckers with their poison have forcibly made me mentally ill and autistic to the point that I cannot function in reality. Why? Because they knew that today I was going to go the church again (and guess what assholes---not your church--never), and the one thing they cannot bear is that I am happy, free, and prove myself to be quite functional. No, they want me totally handicapped and sick and unable to function while they shove their poison down me, insisting that the only future I have is in conformity with their plans for me. FUCK YOU! GET IT ASSHOLES! NEVER. As for me, all I can do is lurch about like the zombie I am today. More of my life wasted in the utmost suffering, pain and misery. Heckuva job--Im sure you r proud of yourselves, tools of satan.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Woke up drugged after a miserable day of being drugged to the point of being barely functional. Whatever the poison is this time, it is hard to keep my eyes open, and makes it difficult to read and comprehend what I read. It also does the familiar autistic move of making images from the tv cause motion sickness--in short all this shit makes me autistic. Anyway I dreamed that I was being abused with cleat marks all over my body. Ive been trying to force myself to accept being more sociable, but it is so hard when I am so goddamned abused with these weird drugs in my body making it impossible for me to even function. Typical abuser/abusee relationship--they blame me for the dysfunction their abuse cause! Kind of like the pedophile that blames the kid for being "seductive", they blame me for being dysfunctional socially when it is their repeated abuse--throwing me in jail for falling in love (fuck you assholes, I will love who I love and guess what, you aint included), preventing me from getting and holding a job and interfering with even casual relationships when I do, and making me so goddamned sick all the time with their poisonous Soviet-style psychotropic drugs that it is a monumental effort to relate to other people. But as sick as I am I tell myself that I have to force myself to move forward or else I am going to be at the mercy of these parasitical predators and their goddamned poison for the rest of my life.