PSA

The following is written by Deborah K. Moss.

Friday, August 28, 2015

PSA

I have officially de-sistered my sisters. 

Rachel, Becki, and Becki's husband James spent the entire week of our father's funeral glancing at their cell phones and mentioning things I had said either in the confidence of my mother or alone.  Apparently, my mother's cell phone was recording and broadcasting our every intimate conversation without our knowledge.  As a non cell phone owner and user, I am not the authority on these manmade devices; thus, I still cannot explain this to my mother. 

I want to inform everyone of this type of organized harassment.  A majority of my family members present at the funeral participated in this bizarre form of exploitative  abuse.  They said things on topics I had mentioned over a month earlier as if they had been practicing memorized lines for a play designed solely to creep me out.  I had blood relatives lying to my face about our shared history. 

What do you do when you are thrown down someone else's rabbit hole?  The best I could do is live through yet another odd circumstance. 

I am under 5' tall, which, when coupled with my approachable face and introverted personality, has made me physically vulnerable.  I am the type of person who does the best to avoid abuse and when it finds me it is because of proximity.  Once I recognize it, I attempt to nip it in the bud, but it is often like talking to the creepy old man oddly out of place at a concert or club full of twenty-somethings.  He generally just sees you as a child who doesn't know what you are talking about and approaches when the mature sisters or friends leave to buy a drink or go to the toilet, attempting to corner you.  He does not take you seriously. 

Art Heist, Repeat

Our letters included our idiosyncratic markings and sentence structure.  We can both glance at a page and tell whether or not it is the original, like we might if we were trying to identify a painting.    A maker's mark?   A wobble of a brush stroke?  Which factory did this come from?  Created by the artist's studio or the master himself?

If your original writing is shared using your academic e-mail address, would the university be owed profit off of the selling of it, if it is thieved?

Let's bring Canada into this conversation.

In the Van Gough episode the writer cleverly combines characters.

A French-Canadian, real-life, former friend of mine, from the Gainesville era, is combined with his arch-nemesis, the postcard salesman.  The original story is, of course, a humorous autobiographical tale of a professionally trained academic writer.

The thieving of my writing and that of several folks one-degree of separation from me might just be part of the greatest art heist of the past quarter of a century.  Unbeknownst to us, we became slaves of the film and television industry.

Every single student who was in an English class with me in Mississippi public schools from grade 7 on should have the skill to be a professional writer.  Writing is subjective, as all art forms are, but once something is thieved it is automatically given worth.

Yo-Yo Virus

What's Up?

Art Heist

Mobile and Vacant, Hearing Voices? Dial up a New Friend's Number.

May 27, 2015

I think we have all had that experience of picking up the telephone and saying "Hello" to no reply.  I consider this a relatively normal, everyday occurrence.

However, yesterday, I experienced something all together different.

There was an odd pacing between telephone rings.  I decided to actually answer the telephone, which is something I just don't do often anymore.  So, I answer and say, "Hello," and I hear my mother's voice.  She is talking, but obviously not to me.  I say, "Hello," again, to no response.  My mother's voice continues on.  I hang up.  The last thing I need to listen to is either some bizarre crime against my mother I can't do anything about or some edited phone conversation or real-life conversation of my mother.  I am not interested in interloping. 

So, my relatives, other than my mother (just her cell phone, I assume), have participated in some strange espionage with me as the obvious target, using gadgetry.  This overlaps with the same time frame in which the local health care providers are abusing me and sharing lots of information, correct or not? 

The oddest thing is to have a relative lie straight to your face.  "I'm stuck down someone's rabbit hole, again," is all I can think, and they have all lost their moral compasses.  Lying about yourself.  Lying about our common past.  I don't even ask why.  Seriously, when adults do this; they do it intentionally.  It's not something I would ever participate in.  I still could not see a gun being held to anyone's head.

Some people are worse than others.  That's the experience of this.

I would like the Federal Government to just start prosecuting people as organized criminals or cult members.  Some people should serve prison sentences.  Some people should also go to rehab for misuse of electronic devices.  They should never be allowed to own them and only have jobs teaching about them in after-school programs.  It appears we are all supposed to either keep buying or paying to have our mobile devices replaced or repaired by the same people who have the knowledge of how to break them.  I don't know where to find my own damn files on mini-computer.  I'm looking for a DOS directory.  I decided I prefer the contents of a book.  If I could retrieve all of the knowledge in my own mind I would really not need a computer for anything other than communicating with other people.  I might try paper, a pen, an envelope, and a stamp like I did when I was younger.

©2015 D. Moss

Kundalini Shakti

I had to grow an ego to survive.


This links to a reference in my mind of something written my Swami Rama.

Time to Write; Please Share.

1982 Debbie in Dance Costume

June 23, 2015

The following writing is done by Deborah K. Moss.  I am still perturbed that my original writing, which should come under fine art law, has been thieved for over decade of my life.

I am self publishing as a means for everyone to be inspired, not just the select few who have discovered a way to profit off of well written, edited, and honest writing.  They have also profited off other people's biographical misery. 

I shouldn't need to get into the fact that people have recorded my voice and exploited me in that way, as well.  I would like them prosecuted, and I don't mind owning up to a little performance art.  I accept reality tv for its value.  I am waiting for someone to attempt to blackmail me with images from surviving a stay at a psychiatric hospital, when I live beneath the poverty line. 

               Yep, I had shriveled up boobs.  Yep, I'm actually a female.  Yep, that is indeed facial hair.  There     is such a thing as medical neglect.  Yep, that's me crying in anguish and surrendering to God.  I                can't recite the Lord's Prayer correctly.   Yep, I said a lot of strange stuff.  I actually remember                how my mind was working - over-time.  No one comes.  You just wait for the health insurance to           time out.  I did improve my pirouette during my stay.

Perhaps soon, I'll make enough money to need to pay taxes.  I researched it earlier in the year.  I need to make about $13,000.  I have never made that much in a year before.  It's hard to be motivated when others have made much more off of my autobiographical writing.

Old e-mail addresses:  iconodule, d2k, sugarkick.

Servers:  Yahoo, Hotmail, Geocities.

Tuesday, May 12, 2015

Yesterday, I dug a grave for Ado.  This feels like the longest, most difficult transition period in my life.  Physical pain lasting months makes it hard to forget the events of the past few years.  I depend upon my memory to survive.

I have finally remembered some of the strange, delightful, or even mundane moments in time that had been buried for years.  These are seen in retrospect with a mature perspective.  I am not the same young, frazzled, nervous girl.

Watching Dr. Forever (and a day) on tv has been therapeutic.  My mind remembers more than it registered at the time that I was working at Bewley's.

Monday, June 15, 2015

So, today a Lutheran told me that I look 12 years old.

No response.

So, my sad life moves forward (after that exchange).  I am looking healthier today, but I am having more stinging urination.  Healing is a lengthy process.  This is the kind of crime against me I could have never imagined suffering.  You don't forget what another human has done to you with this sort of slow, painful recovery.

So, I believe she said that there are 7,000 Lutherans in Mississippi?  I was born into this minority, especially when you pair it with Amish ancestry.  I would suggest a medical exchange between my relatives and I, but I am not sure if it would be used against all of us or not.  It seems pointless with all that non-relatives have already probably put together.  I am not sure any of us have a chance at a modern, humane, endocrinological perspective.  Research seems to have existed for over a century, but it is most likely being used by mad-scientists, not healers.  Besides, medical conglomerates seem to have begun their new version of tracking pre-existing conditions.  I studied a bit of database programming, so I understand how easy it is to tag people as related.

Sunday, June 21, 2015

I am trying to figure out the best way to drop some names instead of hints.

So, the scenario I am playing with now is the Female-Female Doctor(or any random family doctor of Mississippi, perhaps the Indian American I needed to inform which side of my chest my heart was on in front of a Sherriff's Deputy) giving a demonstrative teach to 13 year-old girls on what a proper breast exam is as opposed to molestation.  The doctor seems the expert at both.

This guilty consciousness stuff has got to end for all of the young women out there.  I don't know what to do about the women older than me.  Our society has to evolve.  Can we just make things transparent?  Systemized abuse, who does it serve? 

Guilt belongs with the guilty party, grrlz.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015

Have you ever looked out the back window and seen the beautiful tree leaves sway slowly in the heat of a new summer?  Yesterday, I marveled at the hint of golden light kissing the  surface of a window sill.  Beyond the pane, I could see the sky glowing in golden sepia.  I took a breath in, and I smiled the smallest smile.  Despite all of the harm being done by people in this world, in this land, to each other, to society, decaying our culture, isolating the thoughtful and naive, this place is still one of the most beautiful and romantic moments in time.  My mind might process and store the memories of trauma and abuse in triplicate, but there is still room for a childlike wonderment.  I can delight in a flower or the smell of the world after a warm rain.

Going back in time, around 2011, before I was kidnapped by a Sheriff's Deputy (still questioning his identity due to lack of professionalism .  .  . weird thing to do to a U.S. Citizen) and held hostage at a psychiatric hospital, before I had ever been to a psychiatrist, I was given a "wishbone pelvic break" at a women's center that depends on grant money.  "Tag; you're it!" comes to mind.  This is barbaric treatment, and at my size I am always an easy target for physical harm.

When I was underweight, living at the psychiatric hospital, I could feel the separation in what should still be a fused pelvis in a woman who has never delivered a baby.  With no flesh and just skin, my fingers could go between the broken, over-lapping bones.  The asymmetry was obvious.  One side no longer fused, but normal.  The other side with the tip on the part that should be fused double over.  Well, at least, "the wish" still belongs to me as I carry all of the pieces on my pelvis within me.

I had pain following that pelvic exam for about 5 days.  I had always had pain following pelvic exams for approximately 3 days.  The doctor palpitated my ovaries, which is something done to women with a history of overgrown ovarian cysts or to check ovulation.  I only needed a pap-smear in the first place because of one sexual assault that occurred when I was 24.  (I was supposed to be unconscious.  The man rather not be known as a rapist or a murderer.  We cryptically communicated the truth to each other.  I prefer to say I lost my virginity to a cardboard applicator for a tampon than a rapist.)  I believed in preventative care.

We all have to enter that trusting frame of mind in order to receive medical care.  We were trained as children to trust the doctor and the nurse so that we may be made better.  We are not to be defensive.  I trusted and was abused.  So, they fed their sadism and got paid for it.

I might live in Mississippi, the land of eloquent writers, yet known for ridiculous ignorance, but my thoughts have lead me to the conclusion that this abuse at medical centers is systemic and operates with cult-like rules with an organized crime hierarchy across this nation.  I honestly thought I was to receive second opinions with each new female doctors I went to see.

The monopoly radiological group might be a good source for a collection of images of small frame women's wishbone pelvic breaks, as well as other visual evidence of abuse. 

If I was not well written, this would be insignificant, as I am one of many who are undervalued and not heard.

I am not looking for sympathy.  I don't like to be coddled. 

hush now don't say a word

mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird

©D. Moss

April 26, 2011

December 25, 2011

January 21, 2012

Cheerleader, Age 11