The Amnesia Memoirs and Diaries
JUNE 1994 - 1/2
Tues. May 31: Buy CPLR, PL and CPL on Worth Street [Civil practice Law and Rules, Penal Law and Criminal Procedure Law]. My pager beeps three or four times. I don't know any of the numbers that appear and don't return any of the calls. It's probably my mother trying to get in touch with me through someone else.
Fri. 6.03: call police, Civilian Complaint Review Board, Deputy Commity, Action Desk and what not, to report failure of investigator Carlstadt and the other to make a report regarding attempted murder. I also call the Law Department of the City and talk with an attorney who defends city employees. I ask if he's the one I would be in contact with if I filed a complaint for official misconduct. He advises me to take a lawyer but I say I consider filing pro-se. He says yes, he's the one I would be in contact with and asks for my name. I ask his and say that I have his name listed in the Green Book.
Call Dean Chang at Daily News who wrote about "Car, the perfect weapon of death". He didn't return call.
Sun. 6.05: I realize that to my mother, I and my siblings have been and are nothing more than money-making devices. Contrary to what she said, she didn't have us because she didn't know contraception, or because a priest her mother trusted had said that a woman should have a child every year, but because she had found out that a child was the most profitable way to make money. If mink or pigs had been more profitable, they would have had minks or pig but they found out that children were the most profitable. My father used us for tax deduction while he didn't provide enough for our well being and cheated the tax authorities and professed utter contempt for the government, while my mother used us to get all the benefits that parents of large families are entitled to, like 75% discount on railroad trips and all the other government subsidies. Both of them were interested in us only to the extent that we were profitable and didn't interfere with the profitability. So on one side they exploited us to get the benefits and on the other the money the government gave my mother to spend on us, she kept for herself and that's how she made her nest egg, or as she said, her "black cash box": at the expense of her children.
While I was thinking about all this I felt so sad and disgusted that my sobs forced me to bend over.
Mon. 6.06: start writing motion, notice of motion and supporting affidavit to suppress deposition and hearing transcripts, and to quash subpoena.
Wed. 6.08: In the late afternoon, on my bed surrounded by law books, I write the name of everybody who participated in the conspiracy. There's a sheet for each culprit and a column with the law violated, and another sheet which I call the "Power tree", with my mom at the top, with the function of "chair" and "banker" with all the decision making and all the money. Below are my siblings, listed as Vice-Presidents according to their specialty. Each VP may come up with an idea how to harm me and if his/her idea promotes best the overall design of destroying me, by preventing me from making a living whether in the beret or the music area, by ruining my relationships with men and denying me the love of a man, or any pursuit of hapiness whatsoever, the idea retained gets a budget after some research by the VP, and if approved the VP uses his/her contacts and the contacts of an on-site director of operations and recruits the labor who will actually perform the stint.
On the back of the power tree, I wrote aproximately the following"Because she (my mother) feels guilty for enjoying the sexual episode with the priest when she was six, she can identify with the people she pays to rape and murder me." (I listened recently to the tape of the grapho-analysis of my mother by Dr. Teltscher and he insisted that because the priest wore a skirt, my mother's sexual identity was screwed up. I understood it to mean that she could identify with any sexual situation where I was involved, and even if she paid a man to sodomize me, she could identify with him. This possibility gives her an incentive to hurt me sexually and that's why I can't even try to have a relationship with a man.)
Since no charge of conspiracy can be brought without an overt act, there needs to be an overt act and it was the accident. Three arrows converged to the overt act. At the top of each arrow were Q.T. for Quick Track, A.P. for the bus driver, and "3rd man" for the pale thin man who asked for my keys (and who must have pointed me to the driver). Next to "overt act" I wrote "failed attempt" and a double arrow and just underneath "overt act" I wrote "cover-up" and listed Q.T., Dr. Nailor, the Slavits but deliberately I didn't list everybody. The three who executed the overt act I charged with attempt to commit murder in the first degree and conspiracy. I wrote that financial gain was the motive of the crime. All those who participated in the cover-up I charged with fraud and conspiracy, including Dr. Pflum who left a staple in my knee. I wrote the deadline to press charges against every one, the status of limitation being four years after the discovery of the fraud. Although I don't see a direct attempt to cover-up in his misdeed, the emotional pain that resulted burdened me in addition to all the troubles I was going through and occupied my mind enough to prevent me from seeing the situation for what it was. It might also be that my mother couldn't resist the opportunity to inflict additional pain. It is clear to me now that her paying off everybody around me to mistreat me was to cover-up her own guilt. She wanted me to believe that there was something fundamentally wrong with me and that nobody could love or respect me, instead of knowing the truth which was that she was unable to love me.
I remembered the "Snow White" episode. I was two or three years old and she took me to Mme Feminier, the wife of the man who insured my father and with whom my parents were friends, so that she could baby-sit me. Mme Feminier showed me a book with the story of Snow White and I was extremely upset that a mother could hate her daughter. Something increased the impact of the story: the book was a pop-up book and I had never seen pop-ups before and was amazed that three dimensions could come out of a book. Since I was unhappy at home, the fairy tale explained to me why I was unhappy. When my mother came to fetch me, I was still in a state of shock, unable to speak, and without asking how we had spent the time, my mother apologized profusely to Mme Feminier for the inconvenience. She said there was no inconvenience at all. In fact we had had a great time the two of us and she had been very nice to me. But in my mother's eyes it was impossible that anybody could have a good time with me and she apologized and apologized in spite of her friend's protests. These apologies of my mother, that made me a nuisance, confirmed my understanding that she didn't love me and I didn't say a word on the way home.
From then on, every time I saw Mme Feminier, she called me "Snow White", unaware that the fairy tale was so closely related to my situation, unaware that in calling me so, she put my mother in the role of the evil step-mother, and I remember my mother's unspoken irritation every time this woman called me Snow White.
Lately I've been remembering episodes where the anal passage was the star of a specific incident, and I have concluded that these episodes, which were unusual, had been set up by my mother.
-there was this girl in the medieval show in 1972, who spoke before all the actors of somebody being "sodomized" and there was some reaction, and it turned out that she had believed that being sodomized meant being turned into a salt statue.
-there was the movie "Polyester" by John Waters in which a guy goes on stage and performs acrobatics with his anus. I went to see that movie at the instigation of a woman my age whom I met through my mother.
-Foued rue Blomet, who said he would only have anal sex with me like in the movie "Je t'aime, moi non plus" by Serge Gainsbourg.
-Arturo who after being impotent demanded sex in both vagina and anus as a prerogative. (Like in the hooker's world where the contract is that the guy may come twice).
-My mother who, when I was in Normandy in sept-oct. 90 said that she had taken a look at Gabrielle's anus because she thought she might have worms. (I had asked if she could ascertain the fact from looking at her granddaughter's anus and she hadn't answered anything.)
-the joke that she told about someone whose anus appeared at the location of the navel because he had massaged himself always from right to left instead of alternating sides.
She definitely has an anal problem. -and above all when I was being toilet trained through shame about the "caca", madame Andr‚, the mean looking fiftyish woman who was baby-sitting us while mother was at the store, dealt with three little girls'number two in the following manner: we would take turns on the potty in the middle of the room, and being the youngest my two older sister's caca was already in the potty went I sat down on it so I was forced to look at this horrible thing. After we were all done, instead of flushing the contents of the potty, Madame Andr‚ pushed the potty and all the contents therein under a chest of drawers and the effect was that for all of us and me in particular (since my nose was closest to the floor), the shame about this bodily function was constantly activated by the smell and couldn't be put out of mind not matter how entertaining the game.
I believe this was deliberate on my mother's part. She prepared us for later using the shame as leverage to get what she wanted. You could never shame or accuse too much was what she thought. For me it was the end of innocence. Before a child is toilet trained, he doesn't know his shit, if he's well taken care of it's promptly taken away and every trace of it eliminated so that he hardly knows how bad it looks and smells, it's a matter of no import to him, except that he feels good again after a bowel movement.
And all of a sudden he is shown his shit and it's ugly and it stinks to high heaven, and if his mother is neurotic he is made to identify with it. This is what comes out of you, this is what is inside of you, what you are made of, this shit is you. And the child wants to sink into the floor out of shame. And he has to show it to his mom and psychologically, she really pushes the child's face into his feces.
I also wrote: "because she has such a low self esteem and she's afraid of being alone, she uses money to force her children to deal with her, and she can despise them for their venality." After writing these few lines I was exhausted because I had exposed the crux of the matter in as few words as possible, I was staring at evil but emotionally I held fine. Yes, this is what happened I thought, and it happened because... and the Big Lie that was my mother's love was revealed and I understood everything and I fell asleep.
The next day in the morning, I wonder what to do with these papers. They were between the cover and the body of a book. Later I wanted to pick them up and decide what to do with them and when I looked at the book the sheets were no longer there. When I had returned from buying the paper they were still there. Or were they? I thought I had already put them away but later I tried to remember where I had put them and I couldn't remember having touched them at all since the day when I wrote them. I searched and searched my memory and thought that maybe they had been stolen while I was out for five or ten minutes to buy some beer or the newspaper.
The following day I kept trying to remember where I had hidden them but although I remembered having mentally searched for a good hiding place, I didn't remember having put any of those sheets anywhere since the night before. I had taken a good number of sheets from the ream of laser paper and there had been left-over sheets, blank sheets, which I would have put back in place if I had put my writings away.
It was not difficult to assume that while I was out somebody had entered my room and taken them. I was already used to the idea of my place not being private.
Thur. 06.09: The lock on the door to the wing where I live has been replaced recently and the new lock is not very sturdy as they used to be, it's much smaller and I don't think it will last long with all the slamming that goes on. Moreover, the key is hard to remove from the keyhole and I was just on my way out when Alex, the black man, was trying to disengage his key. I said something to say something and I said: "It's a hard lock, isn't it?" on a pleasant tone and he agreed. After passing the door I saw that Bonarti was in the office and I think he understood what I said as an accusation, meaning that that lock was more difficult to deal with than the lock on my door.
Fri. 06.10: The 102nd street and Broadway branch of the Chemical is closing and around one I receive a message from the bank asking me to close my safe deposit box (where I have never put anything). I go there and get a referral to the branch of 106th street. the woman, consulteing her computer screen, assigns me the box number such and such followed by the letter B. I fill out a form and sign while she writes my box number on the inside flap of two small blue envelopes each containing a key, and on my contract. Then she says that it's not number such-and-such-B, but B-such and such and she says it's because of those locksmiths. At the word locksmith I have a reminder of United Lock and Cohen and I become more alert. I realize that the procedure the woman follows is different from the one followed at the 102nd street branch.
There, the officer had given me a sealed envelope containing two keys, with the box number already stamped and there was a stamp of the locksmith that said the envelope had been sealed by them. And I had broken the seal myself and after the officer had opened the first lock, I had opened the second with one of my keys, and the officer never touched my keys.
The woman proceeds to white out the mistake from the two envelopes and the contract and then she corrects. when she's finished, she attacks me and blames me for waiting until the last day to get a new box. I told her I was informed only earlier today that the branch was closing. Since until now the exchange had been friendly and her reproach came as a surprise. She hands out one of my keys to a tall young black man who asks me to follow him and he opens a box, at the bottom, with his key and mine. It's only after he closes the box again that he gives me my key. Then we return to the desk, he wishes me a good week end and I say good bye and leave. One more time due process is denied me. Is it worth to do something? But it's a safe deposit box for chrissake, not a malfunctioning appliance. It's my privacy again. I have to do something about it. If they have been bribed to make a duplicate of my key, they certainly had the opportunity. And the attack of the woman was to silence me at the moment I could have asked questions about the procedure she had followed. The procedure should be the same in all the branches, in all banks.
I ponder if I could use my enemy's deception against him, by storing in my safe misleading documents that would red-herring them. Or I catch them in their deception by returning to the branch, opening another box and ask why she acts differently than the first time, ask to speak to her supervisor and pursue the matter to the end and maybe unmask the corrupter. Or leave worthless objects in the safe just to let them know that I know and piss them off. I just laugh at the thought of the bad guy, after spending his brains and his money to have an unauthorized duplicate of a safe key and thinking he's so smart, finds oly some old shoes in the safe.
During those past few days I have been reading (for the second time) Theodor Reik's book "The Compulsion to Confess" in preparation for my next phone call to Mom. This reading has reinforced my admiration for the whole human being who, when feeling guilty, advertises his guilt because he knows he has removed himself from the living, but others don't know his guilt, and he feels undeserving of fair treatment. So that the compulsion to confess is part of the instinct for the preservation of the species. And I know now that this is why I resisted becoming asocial and doing things my conscience disapproved of because nothing can be done against this instinct, and the guilty betray themselves in spite of all their efforts to conceal their evil deeds, they lose control, and what they do to cover-up ends up doing them in. I can hardly imagine a feeling worse than being aware one is doing oneself in with total helplessness.
After reading this I decided I would not try to make my mother say anything, I would just, besides asking for money, broach the subject on her retreat at the catholic place in the Alps and let her speak about it, and on the commemoration of the American's d‚barquement in Normandy and take the opportunity to ask her about the pact she had made with a German soldier and their ritual with a consecrated wafer during the occupation in 1944, and just let her speak. Only what she would totally volunteer would be a proof of what was going on in her mind.
Sun. 06.12: I woke up at 6am, at the sound of the latin juke-box downstairs, very, very loud. I couldn't believe it, the insolence, the disrespect, after the several complaints I had made. I decided to go out and I prepared, put foundation on my skin at 6.30am ready to go out but then I changed my mind. I was going to face some party animals strung up on coke and having been one myself, I knew I didn't want to face any. So I went back to bed with the make up on my face trying to lie face up and the music lasted until 8am. Later I saw Gabriel, the boss and went to speak with him. I said I had enough and I was going to sue Bonarti (because the business is in violation of the zoning law) to have the business closed. He tried several times to divert my attention to the fire the previous night but I told him the fire had nothing to do with me and I was talking to him about the noise problem. He said he was going to do something, remove the loudspeaker from beneath my room and move it underneath the room next to me. I said it would incommodate the other tenants also, I said that I wasn't speaking only in my own name but also in the name of all the tenants who were disturbed by the noise but didn't complain.
When I returned from buying the Sunday Times, the level of music was much lower. I asked him what was the highest grade on the volume of the juke box, and he didn't know, but said that 24 was an acceptable level. I told him there was no soundproofing in his place and that all the surfaces reverberated the sound, and that the sound bounced off the wall that sustains the basement level against the street and that it entered my window. He tried again to speak to me of the fire the night before and again I fought to keep him on the subject. I ended up by saying that I had had enough and that it was the last time I complained and the next time I would take him, or rather Bonarti, to court. He said it wasn't his fault, he was never there. I said he was the boss, the owner of the business and that he was responsible for his employees'behavior. He tried that a second time. I just don't accept anymore people who evade their responsibilities. I find it really despicable for someone to deny responsibility. Bonarti does that a lot to and it infuriated me. At 4.45pm, I called mother collect. Here's the
She knows about the "power-tree" because:
A She refers to my accusation of attempted murder
- during our conversation she refers to two different prisons, one Fresnes and the other one the "Maison d'Arrˆt" de Clairvaux, using the politically correct word instead of "jail" or "prison" for the one where some distant cousin of hers used to work as a doctor. She brings in her connections, her distant family, and the respectability of a doctor.
- about the reason why her father went to jail, she says "les chefs d'accusation ‚taient minables". She uses the penal lingo and uses the word "minable" three times, as if to impress my mind with her contempt for criminal charges.
- she says that some Jews came to testify that her dad wasn't a Nazi sympathizer because he hid them. She says "WE built a defense around this". But if her father refused to believe that the Nazis were really bad, how could he help Jews in any way, particularly how could he hide them, if in his mind they had nothing to hide from? B She refers to my accusation of sexual deviation by saying that if her parents had known what's going on in society today, "les moeurs", it would have killed them. Implying that she herself couldn't do anything that would kill her parents.
Tues. 06.14: I wake up with a slight toothache. The tooth concerned is the back one in the upper right. It supports a 4 or 5 tooth bridge and by noon the whole upper right side of my jaw is throbbing with pain. I call Dr. Herbin's office and explain the situation and ask for a painkiller prescription. I take a cab to 94th and Columbus, rush to pick up my prescription and rush back out to the nearby drugstore to get some Tylenol with codein. The handsome pharmacist asks my date of birth and I say it was so long ago I forgot. I ask him to give me a pill right away and I walk back home and spend the rest of the day on my bed reading newspapers and the Brothers Karamazov (I'm almost at the end).
Around 4 pm the club starts playing loud salsa music and I'm beginning to hate the voices of the singers, finding they exploit a natural ability but in spite of sentimental lyrics do not convey any feeling. I get up and go downstairs. Le club is empty save for a man behind the bar, amiable looking and in his late thirties or so. I ask him if we can talk. He cranes his neck towards me in an effort to hear me and without raising my voice too much I repeat my question. He comes to my side of the bar and instead of lowering the sound goes out and I understand he wants to speak to me outside.
I see that the loudspeaker that Gabriel had said he would remove from under my room is now resting on some pipes near the ceiling, very close to the fire exit door that is just under my left bedroom window. I say to the man that he has to remove the loudspeaker from where it is, that I have talked to Gabriel and that he agreed to remove it from under my apartment. I told him that I would take them to court and have the club closed down if they didn't get reasonable because I had been complaining a number of times and that there was no progress. He said something that made me reply that I would much prefer to solve the problem amicably because going to court is a big hassle for everybody, but that they had to be reasonable. I guess he took me seriously because the music became faint and I enjoyed the peace and quiet, checking my pain (how much less does it hurt?) and reading. Both the New York Times and the Law Journal were interesting.
The pain doesn't go completely and at night I take two pills at once before going to bed. The club's music sounds distant and faint and I acknowledge that my talk with the guy did the job without anybody losing face. I wasn't bitchy or gesticulating, I was just determined as hell. I congratulated myself.
Wed. 06.15: I slept well and the toothache has notably receded, as well as the swelling around my tooth. But I want to check it out and call Dr. Herbin in the morning, asking for an emergency appointment. The secretary tells me to come at two and to wait. I ask if it isn't possible to ask a patient to give me his but she says this isn't done, patients have been waiting for their appointment day. I ask if there is no provision in the schedule for emergencies and she says that it's every day at two pm but one has to wait. I say I'll come today at two. Around one, the prospect of waiting maybe for long with my nerves frayed, discourages me from going and since I haven't taken any pain pills since the night before and the conditions seems to take care of itself, I don't see the emergency anymore and I go out to call and ask for an appointment even if it's in a few days. This time the secretary sounds like she wants me to come, she says that there is an opening at two and that I should come because Dr. Herbin won't renew the prescription for painkillers and I might run out of pills before the appointment. Since she insists that there is an opening I say I'll come at two. The waiting room is almost empty and shortly after my arrival a woman in her early twenties calls me for X-Ray. It reminds me of a former assistant who would talk to me as one talks to a child, on a cheerful and too loud tone that sounded completely insincere, and got on my nerves so much (as if one needed extra aggravation at the dentist's) that finally I told her not to speak to me like that. She also agitated furiously the saliva pump in my mouth while Dr. Herbin worked on me, and I had to tell her that she was hurting me and that my mouth was dry anyway and to take that thing out of my mouth. And subsequently she didn't deal with me anymore.
This time the woman is matter of fact and does not increase my headache with useless chatter. After she leaves to get the lead apron, I get up and go to the ladies'room to get some towel tissue to wipe my lipstick off. She returns before me and I meet her outside the room while she's saying "Where did she go?" as if she were afraid I had escaped.
After a brief wait Dr Herbin receives me and asks how I'm doing. I say that generally when I see him it's because I'm not doing too good and I have a problem.
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