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

Our Woman in the H'burg

I cancelled my health insurance.  My mother and father have paid it for over a decade.  We all wanted me to have the best chance possible to be healthy and happy.  Health insurance, in theory, should have gotten me the best medical care available locally.  This is not what has transpired.

Never having been to a psychiatrist before, I was held hostage the full 3 weeks covered for psychiatric hospitalization at the end of 2012, surviving something akin to a thyroid storm.  Of course, it's more complicated than that.  I was in survival mode without the right to a ponytail holder, a proper toothbrush, or an ink pen.  They even did the Japanese-prisoner-of-war technique of pretending to check on me every 15 minutes, 24 hours a day, 3 weeks straight making sure bright fluorescent lights shone into the room.  I wasn't going to sleep, regardless, in this stressful situation.  The good nurses were mostly glorified security.  And, I have an end of life colon that works well enough; it tries not to have excrement the diameter of a Number 2 pencil. I think I know why I had an appendix.

On Halloween 2014, I went nervously to have a CT of a pelvic mass I feel through my skin.  I was injected with what I was told to be dye.  I ended up with what I am assuming to be blood poisoning.

This is just part of my story. 

The Death Machine of Healthcare rolls on in Mississippi . . .

I can close my eyes and see all of the cogs and wheels made up mostly of people and coaxial cable, databases, apps, wireless, too

sharing data, sharing targets, sharing victims

Who does the choosing?

Broken pelvis

Swollen glands

Who is in charge

Nobody knows who is?

They know my face and my name before I enter the building

4'11" on a good day, I'm not one of your children.

 

Nope, I'm not dead, again.  

I'm tired, and I turn 40 this year.

I will keep trying to regiment my life with running, yoga, and healthy eating.  I really do try.

©2015 D. Moss