Diary of a Marked Woman
So for the past months I've been spending my days as follows: get up between 8 and 9, make coffee, drink coffee, take shower, clean around. Sometimes I turn on my computer while drinking coffee and read all morning. Sometimes I go out to shop for food before noon.
When I shop I buy twice the amount of staples I would normally buy to limit contacts with cashiers who have harassed me at several shops by deliberately keeping me waiting under a variety of pretexts (Bricorama, G20, Géant Hypermarket, Monoprix)I'll detail this later.
Then I prepare food by peeling potatoes and another vegetable for several meals and cook them and prepare a salad. I eat this for lunch with fresh fruit for dessert.
In the afternoon, most of the time I just go the the internet space for two to four hours, download articles onto disks and return home. I take my bike to make the trip and every time I park it I remove the seat because during the hot period of bike vandalism last August I once found my bike with the seat missing and it cost me €26 to replace it. So I never leave home without my bike seat and my key #13 (hey! 13!).
To get to the internet space I used to ride on the sidewalk up av. Choisy against traffic, but changed routes by taking rue Caillaux to av. Italie and then up. As soon as I started taking this route, every time I reached the corner Caillaux/Italie, there was a vehicle parked right at the corner forcing me and the other cars to manoeuvre around the obstacle. The first time it was an extra-long van and instead of moving around it I cut the corner altogether behind it by going on the sidewalk. And the next few times there was a different vehicle parket at the very same inconvenient spot no matter at what time I passed there. Today I took my camera to photograph the situation and there was nothing at the corner.
When I think of all the time and preparation it must take just to annoy me, I think the family members who do all this planning and pay other people to carry out the harassment are very sick in the head. I mean, they get on the phone, they discuss what they're gonna do, they must obsessively observe my comings and goings. Let's imagine their reaction when they found out that I was taking a different route to go to the internet space. "Hey! She's taking a different route to go to the internet space!" "I've got an idea, let's have an extra-long van parked at the corner so she'll have to move around it!" "Great idea! Let's do it!" Don't these wankers have anything constructive to do? Think about the asshole waiting in his van just to annoy me and annoying all these other people at the same time. Same thing at the supermarket when a cashier starts counting her bills ever so s-l-o-w-l-y, or leaves, or starts an animated conversation with a co-worker as soon as I put my things on the moving belt. Really, folks, you're VERY, VERY SICK IN THE HEAD.
On Oct. 10, as I entered the building and opened my mailbox, I found somebody else's name-label taped on top of my own. Can you imagine the incredible audacity of doing this? And whose name was it? My nephew Yoan Schnee. He lives next door to me and belongs to the French Team (Equipe de France)of American Football. But it was not only his name, there was also the name of Christian Molinari taped right above it. I write these names in bold just like they were on my mailbox. So these two guys prevent me from receiving mail, obliterate my identity and also threaten me with violence: two footballers against a woman. Starting with my mother, they all have the mentality of gang rapists in this family. When I removed the two labels taped on top of my name, I found ANOTHER label with Yoan Schnee's name on it, in a lighter font. I pick up my mail only once a week, since I don't correspond with anyone, so what must have happened is that for several days I didn't notice the first label in the light font, so my nephew made another one in bold font to attract my attention. I don't think he lives with a man named Christian Molinari, I think he has a girl friend. The Molinari name is just an invention to scare me with a Mafia-looking name. Which doesn't mean that my family is not connected to the Mafia. After all, my father said twice, several years apart, that he was a gangster. And this bus driver who tried to run me over back in 1990, his name was Anthony Pizzimenti (Operation Roadkill), and my NYC slumlord between 1989 and 1999, his name was Sylvester Bonarti. Which doesn't mean that all Italians are mafiosi, but... where there's big money, people get amazingly racially tolerant. For instance during Prohibition in the 1920's, JFK's father Joseph Kennedy, an Irishman, did business smuggling booze from Canada with Al Capone, a Sicilian mafioso, who did business with a Jew named Meyer Lansky. See what I mean? Different looking tentacles, same octopus.Oct. 26: I was reading an article by Mike Ruppert about the 2004 US presidential election where he reviews the candidates, their affiliations -or lack thereof- to the CFR and other behind-the-scene powerful institutions, who their campaign managers are, whether they address the issues that DO matter... an in-depth analysis. Way down in the article where he addresses candidate Dennis Kucinich, he says that he is "extremely leery" of his campaign manager, Sheehan, because this man has a record of gagging people he's supposedly helping, telling them what NOT to talk about, and also because "Sheehan is the man who literally destroyed two of the best and biggest lawsuits connected to CIA drug dealing in history: the Christic Institute lawsuit in the 1980s and a civil suit arising from the murder of Marine Col. James Sabow at El Toro Marine Air Station after Sabow had discovered CIA-connected C-130s flying tons of cocaine onto his base in 1990 and 1991" So when I read about a lawyer literally destroying his clients' lawsuit I paid close attention because it happened to me, remember, the personal injury lawfirm of Levine & Slavit back in 1990-1993? (See Operation Roadkill)
So Sheehan destroyed his clients'lawsuit because he was covertly working for the other side, that is the CIA, to protect it from the public revelation that it was trafficking in drugs. Since my lawyers destroyed my "just an infortunate accident" case, I was correct in assuming that they were covertly working for the former New York City Transit Authority. But why would they commit such a monstrous breach of ethics if it was just an accident? Because it was NOT an accident of course! You can tell the enormity of a crime from the enormity of the cover-up.
Go ahead, read Mike Ruppert's article, just to see what Sheehan did to his clients. Scroll down fast until you see the name of Dennis Kucinich, Sheehan's heading is not far behind.HERE: BEYOND BUSH II
Just about the same time I received a power of attorney to sign from my mother's notary, regarding the sale of the basement to the manager of the Chinese restaurant on the ground floor, allegedly to enlarge the restaurant. Number one, I already gave my signed agreement for this sale to my mother last spring. Number two, my mother said that the man is only the manager, not the owner of the restaurant, and that he is not definitely employed but only on probation. So why would a probationary employee want to buy a basement to enlarge his employer's restaurant? So this is is a lie that my mother wants me to know is a lie. Number three, my mother said that the hairdresser's-beauty parlor on the other side has his fire exit communicating with this basement. But how could he come out through the basement? There are two huge garbage containers blocking the exit in a kind of closet. This is a second lie that my mother wants me to know is a lie. Number four, Sophie Picart (my third sister) acted revolted that it was our mother who was selling this piece of property because she didn't legally own it. But mom claimed that she had paid the property taxes on these 20 square meters out of her own pocket so it gave her some "rights" to this basement. So Sophie, acting indignant, asked me to go with her to visit the restaurant manager and asked him to give her the address of his attorney who handled the transaction. The man acted all surprised and guffawed as if he had never heard of it. This bit of dialogue was so theatrical that it was unbelievable. So again, the message was "We're lying to you and we want you to know it." But after the exchange, Sophie told me earnestly: "I'm not gonna let mom put that money in her pocket. You saw how the manager said he was going to go to his basement to fetch the address of his attorney? I'm gonna talk to his attorney." In fact the manager never said any such thing.
See how they mess with my mind? They lie to me and let me know that they are lying.So I have to wonder: why are they lying to me? What is the truth? It took me quite a while to realize what all the fuss was about but finally I put two and two together: they were threatening to bury me alive in this airless basement if I didn't take down my website! They had already threatened to burn my face in a similarly underhanded way, never saying it out-front because, after all, these threats are so hideous that they don't want to own up to them. They want to keep their hands clean, you understand. These are decent people after all. Sophie works for the government, yes M'am, and mom is a church-going catholic, a pillar of society, a mother of seven. So they let me do the work of wondering "why are they speaking so much of this basement if it is obviously impossible that the manager would buy it?" and finding all by myself the only possible answer.
I once visited the basement. It was before May of this year when I still believed that my psychiatric lover Roland Jackson would come to Paris to be with me and I was looking for extra space. So I must have asked Norbert about the basement. He told me that he had had that idea before but that it was impossible to do anything with it because there was no air, the Chinese restaurant's decoration on the outside wall was obstructing the air vent. Years ago, Norbert told me, he had stored some vegetable fiber mats there and they had mildewed. It was very humid and airless. But I was serious about storage space because Roland being a painter and me making fashion accessories and storing them at home, we would need more room than the one-bedroom afforded. One day Norbert told me that the basement door was open if I wanted to see so I went, and indeed it was awfully stuffy down there. Without exactly knowing why I was vaguely horrified when I returned to his apartment. Norbert was very matter-of-fact; "I told you so," he said. A few days later I was alone with his wife Diane and I mentioned it again. The horror stuck to me. "The fact that the door to the basement is at the end of this closet...with the garbage containers blocking the way... it must be a building code violation" I said, unable to formulate what I found so heinous about the place. "The garbage cans used to be in the courtyard but then your father sold the courtyard to the hairdresser so he could enlarge his store, and since that time the garbage cans have been where they are now," Diane answered in her soft voice. But the horror persisted. It was more than the violation that bugged me. When I understood the threat the horror of it was clear: it was because the entrance to the basement was concealed at the end of the closet, behind two garbage cans that blocked the way. Imagine being a prisoner behind that concealed door...
So when I received this power of attorney to sign for this basement, knowing that it doesn't make any sense for the restaurant manager to buy it, I take it as a new threat to bury me alive.
Fri. the 31st Day before yesterday I picked up my bike at the repair shop. The man had put on a new inner tube and a new tire because apparently both had been punctured by a screwdriver and were beyond repair. He also had put on a new wheel because it had been severely warped, also beyond repair; the front wheel was also warped but could be fixed. There had been systematic vandalization of my bike since early August, after I escaped from the loony bin and spent a few nerve-wracking days at my mother's: the chain has been messed with three times, the tires have had the air let out two or three times, the chain-guide (what the French call "dérailleur") has been violently hit and warped, so were the two wheels; the seat has been stolen, and several aluminum parts are dented. I bought this bike at the end of March and nobody did anything to it for four months, and all of a sudden, vandalism over and over and over. The repair cost me €66.95. Imagine what they would do if I had a car!
I've realized that one of the reasons I follow the Iraq situation with such fascination and horror is because the Bush gang reminds me of my own family. And every time I hear of an Iraqi resistance feat my heart goes out to this violated people.
[cont'd: november 2003] [to ToC] [Home]