PGHIMC - Pittsburgh Independent Media Center

Deb Burnham's Pee Stains
by Mac Crary Sunday, Jan. 20, 2013 at 3:34 PM

About the day of the tragedy and the loss of family heirlooms to a foreign hate criminal.

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On the day the tragedy happened (the burning morning of garages) when Eben Platt gave me purple microdot my sister Laura was at home ironing when the school placed a rare call home. She told them I was sick but then said mother was coming home and would kill me. It was the last week of April 1974 and as I listened to King Crimson's Trio vines formed on the walls and I left to get away from mother, speeding senselessly down the killdevil slope of Heberton towards Dilworth School I made the turn towards Romero's full speed and found Kasperoski who I knew would be tripping too in an alley called Snively where Michael Barthnik bad us to a dark garage. This is why the F.B.I. said to say "we were sniffing." The language is all-important because Obama wants me silenced as an adult for racial reasons to cover up his pussyball operation covering up the truth about Mt. Desert Island and the nerve agent used on me to warp my judgement and render me hostage, traumatized and obedient as a battered child.

The brutally tortured me and gassed me. I was hostage to them and they traumatized me into neurobedience, ventriloquism of the private will by authoritarianism. Their beatings were severe and sudden, unprovoked and unexpected. Tom Gordon once said, "if you beat a dog it will love you more." This is the sort of blackmail thinking that Ian MacDonald also lives by and loves. That day in a dark garage, breathing paint thinner in a paper bag while tripping, Barthnik tried to engage me in homosexual touches and spoke to me in an incessant, uncivil, incomprehensible tongue of lucid babble that he thought hysterical when I became so confused I began kicking. I fear today with fuller understanding that it was a close encounter with Peter Gabriel's bullydom and psychological warfare.

That day, my judgement as a child was raped from me as much by fear of my mother's bellowing as anything, a fact I pathetically tried to bridge when I played her father Ward the song Song of the Gulls during one of his visits to Pittsburgh.

When we moved to get away from East Liberty I was wrapped up with Julie Sellers who had an English for a mother, typed me Selling England on onion skin paper and lived in the house that James W. Child rented when working for Pitt. Gabriel contracted with brutal pedophiles like Mancine, a lover of Sellers, to confiscate child sex film in trauma and tragedy in the hopes of supporting Obama's military religion, a pussyball war game clocked to the AIDS Onslaught.

From what I recall, aside from the calls that may have reached mother, for example the day Visco went to Pener Gabriel's Selling England with my tickets when I was grounded (a loss mother regretted enough to send me to Ottawa years later to see a re-enactment) there were no other calls to my home. A few calls doesn't reflect the absenteeism nor does it in any way document the horrible story of brutality, kidnapping and at times Black on white race terror that was at the heart of my subjection by British Labor.

Among the losses in love and meaning were all my photographs of the Governor's School when Gabriel claimed that I was hiding a rape and brutally extorted as much evidence as he could get neurobediently destroyed by torture reaction formations. He failed in his largest goal of hiding that Mt. Desert Island was part of the premeditated poison crime operation by British police including Peter Gabriel to which I was held hostage and poisoned first as a child and more recently in the stomach.

Ringo Starr has taken to assassinating people he doesn't like.

Something Mancine had in common besides friendship with my sister Laura with Melissa Riddle was timing her operations to KISS. One can just Omoja Paul Stanley syphilizing with Bowie about Sinatra.

Item: The only guns I saw were Ben Byington's, Ken Ferri's father's, Robert Schwartz' bee bee guns and a bee bee gun Ian Wattenmaker gave to me after I shot a bird with it at his instigation, a fact I've never forgiven myself for, it was pathetic.

Midori Goto was always this way. She takes up with men who burn people with fireplace pokers to bring them back to reality after they give their victims severe LSD and those were not even children. Then she calls us shitty names like a Reagan would and gets our loved ones raped, pinhead extremo, Seattle delecti.

I've never understood how the hospital could ignor the brutal suffering I am in or the poetry I am capable of in favor of shocking police preference for gangrapists. Obviously Obama's hard on is all-consuming at the situation room.

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