Tricky & Martina Topley Bird - Makes Me Wanna Die live
when i was 19 i moved to ireland for the summer. i had a sony walkman and the CD of tricky.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmrJlC3KDpQ
i would listen to this song about Mary walking along the stones of dubliners, ulysses, or portrait of the artist.
to the liffey, and the modern gallery, and upon st. stephen's green.
i was troubled by the murder spots where a homosexual was killed or the murder at the fast food place on the north side of the liffey or the murder at the park where u2 played.
mothers wrote in huge letters upon white sheets "DRUG LORDS GO HOME" and hung them from the windows of their North Dublin Slums.
that was 1997.
i loved the goya. st. francis in ecstasy at the gallery, and went there to see it exclusively many times.
i would eat apples i bought from the market where the market sellers called me "Love."
i would furtively smoke a half a cigarette here and there trying to quit.
i amassed huge piles of Irish Coins from my pub job where i was paid 2 pounds an hour under the table and called "Tennessee" and "Jack Daniels" as nick names.
i did not care for drink and found the job more like a nursing gig for the very intoxicated irish who refused to admit such a thing as alcoholism exists.
i had crushes on the other bar maids and a very drunk man named freddie.
i was once invited to his picnic and was told he was "rich" on account of having Converse shoes and a small TV.
i loved the melodious voices of the Irish.
hayley greene met me there at the McDonalds in Dublin with her father.
i met todd anderson of Montgomery Bell Academy and Vanderbilt one day in dublin. i advised him to go on to london, as dublin was too sedate poor and uninteresting.
i regretted that i did not myself go to London that summer, although life was easy and fair and the irish people so kind and lovely to me.
i was quite sentimental about all the irish literature i had studied so it was perhaps a good chore to stay a while.
i promised myself to return for the beautiful green parks, but have barely fulfilled my promise to myself outside a stop in dublin airport which barely counts.
i read many books while i was there, but dreamed of a lovely red-headed dream boy i never seemed to meet yet.
i returned to america, for school, although if i could have stayed, or attended Trinity i would have.
returning to america, is always very depressing for me. there is so much possibility, but so much squalor. i don't know which lies to believe.
then later in england more recently i noticed my favorite people in england were irish, and so kind, and reminded me of the irish side of the family.
i have cousins with an irish father and one cousin with an australian father and so in some ways have a foot in the door of a few countries.
i have angered my easily angered friend with my tales of various culture shocks.
one does long for friendship wherever that might be.
the man on the train in the hat and gloves and trench, reminded me of my irish friend in beverly hills. so formal.
he reminded me of beckett all over, and how the year 1997-1998 i began an intense focus on samuel beckett's works, reading Beckett exclusively in 1998, putting aside all other nonsense.
Beckett's Texts For Nothing, for which i cannot rave enough held such a fascination for me. i read them to myself perhaps 10 times in a row, sometimes aloud for the melody of the language.
and then after screaming at me horridly as she was wont to do my whole childhood, mother called the police to lock me away in an asylum and drug me heavily on Lithium and Haldol and Depakote to punish me for feeding the homeless of Nashville and inquiring about why she did not take me to DC to meet my dying grandfolk.
I terribly wanted to go to DC to see Ransom Eng and ask him for money to go to university again, but mother had other plans for me, having firmly decided i was "peculiar" and thought I as an adult should have no freedom of movement outside the handcuffs and pricks of her needles by proxy.
it was horrific what she did and haunts me to this day.
it was entirely un-necessary and caused my brother to be so afraid of her wrath of terror upon me, incarcerating me like Lucia Joyce for crimes of atheism, vegetarianism, philanthropy, or lesbianism---that my brother took off to go live as a homeless teenager in Boston, lest she also incarcerate him.
Lucky him, he snuck into lectures at Harvard and MIT and participated in an MIT research project on "Telepathy" which for the purpose of the stipend he claimed to experience.
i tried to ask mother to admit her incarceration of me, was to punish me for dressing un-femininely and was a homophobic hate crime, but she doesn't see it that way. she was in fact more conservative than an Islamic Morality police cleric and what she did to me was a Gender Based and Homophobic Hate Crime as my brothers got off scott free. it was very distressing to my father.
a burka is less confining than the needles and incarceration and physical violence and stripping and sexual humiliations and threats, i experienced under her order.
i despise these memories.
it isn't as if growing up in a religious fanatic environment wasn't revolting enough prior to her incarceration of me at age 21 under false accusations.
As a child, i should have reported them to child protection services and moved to DC and demand Ransom have custody of me.
Upon disposing of me. she then embezzled my grandfather's inheritance which i would have judicially used only for education for all the children and not for stocks gambling and extravagant home renovations and other assorted con-men.
having conveniently pre-emptively declared me insane after abusing me for all those years as a teenaged domestic servant and pseudo-mother for my younger siblings and via child labor for my father's catastrophic office, it was rather convenient to abort me thusly, so i shouldn't interfere with her embezzlement of grandfather's CIA money.
you have to wonder about CIA wives.
the forthcoming book.
chemically narcotized i was then the first time i was raped, and having suffered police brutality instigated upon me by my mother, i was loathe to call police on my first rapist mark reynolds a fellow student of philosophy at vanderbilt who raped me early in the year of 1999 at the house of jaime swink in north nashville.
i was afraid of the police who had already brutalized me, and others before my eyes in my childhood on the nasty streets of east nashville.
mark reynolds, a plain boy with long blondish hair, was dating someone called cindy last i heard in 2002, and i told her he was a rapist and she freaked out.
cindy was a friend of my friend mark holladay, who loved meupon meeting me on the first day i realized in 1999 my dad was too senile to remember to take me home from the book festival after meeting me there.
mark and i met in the front yard of bongo java 1998.
i had a book from the festival of hunter s. thompson, which i was ripping up for collages.
last eve, i explained the medical malpractice and torturous flashbacks i had, and that i was forced to leave my hometown of nashville as a refugee from medical harassment initiated by my mother.
it was only in 2003 i broke free, to los angeles. poor suffering and struggling for money, but free.
i have been a refugee from a kafka-esque situation.
getting raped in 2002 wasn't even half of it.
the severe abuse of me by my mother and her proxies began in 1998.
it made me so depressed how she had tarnished my name and ridiculed my painting and my intelligence and my yoga and my vegetarianism and my manner of dressing and my interests and field sof study.
then to add to it, incarcerating me, for not turning into a heterosexual repressed poodle skirt version of her 1950's imagination of a woman---was about the worst.
i told her get a lawyer and sue for medical malpractice in 2002. what i saw and experienced there in the hellholes she sent me to, was a medical nightmare only dorthea dix or antonin artaud could fix.
i had read piles of irigaray and freud and kafka and beckett before the nightmare began, and gone to one flew over the cukoo's nest rehearsal's with the deceased director bart whiteman and played hester soloman in equus at montgomery bell academy. i was already aware of the horrors of MKUltra and electroshock and medical torture under the guise of psychiatry before she chose me as her medical torture target.
green light to target mary eng.
this is jsut the tip of the iceberg.
all the hatred she showed for my father she took out on me, as she was too sexist to punish him severely for his crimes of asbergers or neurodiversity.
why did she want his sperm, if she didn't expect 20 years tutelage with Stephen Richard Eng wouldn't result in Little Monsters?
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gmrJlC3KDpQ
i would listen to this song about Mary walking along the stones of dubliners, ulysses, or portrait of the artist.
to the liffey, and the modern gallery, and upon st. stephen's green.
i was troubled by the murder spots where a homosexual was killed or the murder at the fast food place on the north side of the liffey or the murder at the park where u2 played.
mothers wrote in huge letters upon white sheets "DRUG LORDS GO HOME" and hung them from the windows of their North Dublin Slums.
that was 1997.
i loved the goya. st. francis in ecstasy at the gallery, and went there to see it exclusively many times.
i would eat apples i bought from the market where the market sellers called me "Love."
i would furtively smoke a half a cigarette here and there trying to quit.
i amassed huge piles of Irish Coins from my pub job where i was paid 2 pounds an hour under the table and called "Tennessee" and "Jack Daniels" as nick names.
i did not care for drink and found the job more like a nursing gig for the very intoxicated irish who refused to admit such a thing as alcoholism exists.
i had crushes on the other bar maids and a very drunk man named freddie.
i was once invited to his picnic and was told he was "rich" on account of having Converse shoes and a small TV.
i loved the melodious voices of the Irish.
hayley greene met me there at the McDonalds in Dublin with her father.
i met todd anderson of Montgomery Bell Academy and Vanderbilt one day in dublin. i advised him to go on to london, as dublin was too sedate poor and uninteresting.
i regretted that i did not myself go to London that summer, although life was easy and fair and the irish people so kind and lovely to me.
i was quite sentimental about all the irish literature i had studied so it was perhaps a good chore to stay a while.
i promised myself to return for the beautiful green parks, but have barely fulfilled my promise to myself outside a stop in dublin airport which barely counts.
i read many books while i was there, but dreamed of a lovely red-headed dream boy i never seemed to meet yet.
i returned to america, for school, although if i could have stayed, or attended Trinity i would have.
returning to america, is always very depressing for me. there is so much possibility, but so much squalor. i don't know which lies to believe.
then later in england more recently i noticed my favorite people in england were irish, and so kind, and reminded me of the irish side of the family.
i have cousins with an irish father and one cousin with an australian father and so in some ways have a foot in the door of a few countries.
i have angered my easily angered friend with my tales of various culture shocks.
one does long for friendship wherever that might be.
the man on the train in the hat and gloves and trench, reminded me of my irish friend in beverly hills. so formal.
he reminded me of beckett all over, and how the year 1997-1998 i began an intense focus on samuel beckett's works, reading Beckett exclusively in 1998, putting aside all other nonsense.
Beckett's Texts For Nothing, for which i cannot rave enough held such a fascination for me. i read them to myself perhaps 10 times in a row, sometimes aloud for the melody of the language.
and then after screaming at me horridly as she was wont to do my whole childhood, mother called the police to lock me away in an asylum and drug me heavily on Lithium and Haldol and Depakote to punish me for feeding the homeless of Nashville and inquiring about why she did not take me to DC to meet my dying grandfolk.
I terribly wanted to go to DC to see Ransom Eng and ask him for money to go to university again, but mother had other plans for me, having firmly decided i was "peculiar" and thought I as an adult should have no freedom of movement outside the handcuffs and pricks of her needles by proxy.
it was horrific what she did and haunts me to this day.
it was entirely un-necessary and caused my brother to be so afraid of her wrath of terror upon me, incarcerating me like Lucia Joyce for crimes of atheism, vegetarianism, philanthropy, or lesbianism---that my brother took off to go live as a homeless teenager in Boston, lest she also incarcerate him.
Lucky him, he snuck into lectures at Harvard and MIT and participated in an MIT research project on "Telepathy" which for the purpose of the stipend he claimed to experience.
i tried to ask mother to admit her incarceration of me, was to punish me for dressing un-femininely and was a homophobic hate crime, but she doesn't see it that way. she was in fact more conservative than an Islamic Morality police cleric and what she did to me was a Gender Based and Homophobic Hate Crime as my brothers got off scott free. it was very distressing to my father.
a burka is less confining than the needles and incarceration and physical violence and stripping and sexual humiliations and threats, i experienced under her order.
i despise these memories.
it isn't as if growing up in a religious fanatic environment wasn't revolting enough prior to her incarceration of me at age 21 under false accusations.
As a child, i should have reported them to child protection services and moved to DC and demand Ransom have custody of me.
Upon disposing of me. she then embezzled my grandfather's inheritance which i would have judicially used only for education for all the children and not for stocks gambling and extravagant home renovations and other assorted con-men.
having conveniently pre-emptively declared me insane after abusing me for all those years as a teenaged domestic servant and pseudo-mother for my younger siblings and via child labor for my father's catastrophic office, it was rather convenient to abort me thusly, so i shouldn't interfere with her embezzlement of grandfather's CIA money.
you have to wonder about CIA wives.
the forthcoming book.
chemically narcotized i was then the first time i was raped, and having suffered police brutality instigated upon me by my mother, i was loathe to call police on my first rapist mark reynolds a fellow student of philosophy at vanderbilt who raped me early in the year of 1999 at the house of jaime swink in north nashville.
i was afraid of the police who had already brutalized me, and others before my eyes in my childhood on the nasty streets of east nashville.
mark reynolds, a plain boy with long blondish hair, was dating someone called cindy last i heard in 2002, and i told her he was a rapist and she freaked out.
cindy was a friend of my friend mark holladay, who loved meupon meeting me on the first day i realized in 1999 my dad was too senile to remember to take me home from the book festival after meeting me there.
mark and i met in the front yard of bongo java 1998.
i had a book from the festival of hunter s. thompson, which i was ripping up for collages.
last eve, i explained the medical malpractice and torturous flashbacks i had, and that i was forced to leave my hometown of nashville as a refugee from medical harassment initiated by my mother.
it was only in 2003 i broke free, to los angeles. poor suffering and struggling for money, but free.
i have been a refugee from a kafka-esque situation.
getting raped in 2002 wasn't even half of it.
the severe abuse of me by my mother and her proxies began in 1998.
it made me so depressed how she had tarnished my name and ridiculed my painting and my intelligence and my yoga and my vegetarianism and my manner of dressing and my interests and field sof study.
then to add to it, incarcerating me, for not turning into a heterosexual repressed poodle skirt version of her 1950's imagination of a woman---was about the worst.
i told her get a lawyer and sue for medical malpractice in 2002. what i saw and experienced there in the hellholes she sent me to, was a medical nightmare only dorthea dix or antonin artaud could fix.
i had read piles of irigaray and freud and kafka and beckett before the nightmare began, and gone to one flew over the cukoo's nest rehearsal's with the deceased director bart whiteman and played hester soloman in equus at montgomery bell academy. i was already aware of the horrors of MKUltra and electroshock and medical torture under the guise of psychiatry before she chose me as her medical torture target.
green light to target mary eng.
this is jsut the tip of the iceberg.
all the hatred she showed for my father she took out on me, as she was too sexist to punish him severely for his crimes of asbergers or neurodiversity.
why did she want his sperm, if she didn't expect 20 years tutelage with Stephen Richard Eng wouldn't result in Little Monsters?
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