Archive for Wednesday, 6th April, 2011


Green Gartside, to be exact.  But my ears pricked up as soon as I heard ‘Scritti Politti’, because when I was at the Polytechnic of North London (now London Metropolitan University, I think) studying English, I was in a class with a lecturer called Pat Jackson (so we must have been studying pluralism as critical method.  I think we had to go for another than our main option, in the final year) and she told us she had heard a song which she thought was rubbish, but when she realised it was Scritti Politti she understood how intelligent it was and it made sense to her, or something like that, because the songwriter, or one of the songwriters, in the band had been one of her students.

I can’t remember who it was, if she mentioned his name.  I just did a Wikipedia search and it says they were in Camden but there is no mention of the Polytechnic of North London.  I didn’t look at the biographies of all the band members, only two.  They mention another Polytechnic up North and Art College or something.  I wonder if they have disowned PNL.

I might not have listened if the Jools Holland television programme wasn’t being advertised on the BBC TV iplayer site.  I haven’t listened for the past few weeks, even though I have meant to.  But there is a main feature advert, so my listening can hardly be called coincidence.

How exposed do I want to feel?  It is hard, when everytime I try to look at something that would make me vulnerable to say, lady sheepy upstairs opens her throat and utters.  It must be something to do with the violence, that they are able to do that.  The hysteria I feel at the invasion takes away my ownership of what I want to say.  And for me that feels mentally and psychologically dangerous.  These people are demons feeding on my human blood, sticking their fangs into my emotionally open and meditative throat.  Keeping it open by their constant, doglike behaviour.

As I was saying, how exposed do I want to feel?  The Wikipedia article says Green Gartside has worked with Kylie Minogue.  Kylie Minogue was on Jools Holland’s New Year Hootnanny programme.  Among other things they were doing their usual toilet stuff, and in her mix which made it obvious Kylie used the word I used to use as a child for faeces, ‘a-a’ (said like the first syllable of ‘apple’ twice), and she performed an appropriate body movement while leaning on the piano.  There was more in that programme, but I didn’t get to record it for some reason I can’t remember.  But where did she get it from, because she definitely had it and used it.

I’m looking at my ‘free speech’ tag and feeling guilty about exposing this, because I told Tommy Boyd he could do anything he wanted with anything I gave him.  But I didn’t mean make a show out of it for years, while I am still living under people who are psychically going for my tongue and leaving me struggling to breathe.  They just banged again, just now.  Three sharp bangs.  They do that when they feel a change in energy or something.  Since they do it when sleep approaches, every time, that is the only explanation I can find for it.  So understand something of my complete fear and desperation.  When I lose it I shout a them to shut up.  I just did, and one of them rapped again and another went and peed.  This is a regular pattern.  I’m beginning to get used to it and see it as normal and not gross, and feel as if these people could possibly be friends.  There is something wrong with my mind,. isn’t there?  I’m bombarded with it all the time, from the media and everywhere.  There is no refuge.  Is this brainwashing?  Indecently intimidating brainwashing and dumbing down, or what?  They shut their doors at me when I go in and out, but do all this to me over my flat.  I began to dream about how I wanted relationships in my new home to be, when I get it, and they did it then as well.  They are holding me hostage.  I’m in Plovdiv.  It might be stupid to give my exact address.  My leaders know.  Knowing this, and that they are leaving me here, or trying to woo me, makes me feel as sick as being here with these gross human beings, whom to call dogs might make me a target for the RSPCA for cruelty to the real thing.

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This post which I found under propaganda is interesting to me and I recommend it.  I have a choice.  I can believe I can walk into the embrace of the pastors I love and who love me, and hope and have faith that my relationship with them will make a difference, or I can refer people to this post instead.  Two roads diverged – I’m taking the one most travelled, and losing my own life by trying to keep it, and not in the way I should be.

Colin Dye embraces the model this post talks about.  David Shearman talks about Aristotle.  Hey, what if the writer of this post is wrong?  Then I am further alienating two people I love and who are my life.

All of my stalkers and blog readers are pawing over me affecting intimacy and the right to identify and instruct, and not one of them is making proper committed contact.  Is it any wonder I can’t cope with life?

I just got up.  I went to the toilet.  My upstairs neighbours started fluttering over me and expressing signs of distress – because I’m going to the toilet?  Next thing I know, I’m thinking about what I want to say about it on my blog and am trying to approach it kindly, when savage voice zhena (woman) cries out again, straight into my head.

This is constant, I need it to stop.  My eviction procedure has gone into its second stage and so far I have not felt able to touch it – because I just can’t think straight.  So I’m naming names.  Nick Clegg, you lovely boy, don’t just bang about on your podium, imitating, as you think, the banging from my neighbours (assuming that you have read my blog and that was what you were doing yesterday).  Do something!  I emailed you, and you didn’t reply.  Now DO something other than a dramatic presnentation in parliament.  Contact me properly.  Please.  If that is appropriate and not taking what is properly a legal issue and making it a party political issue.

And while I am on the subject of parliament, for the past two days it has been impossible to watch it live streamed on the internet.  What is going on?  I suppose I can safely assume that I am not important enough for it to have anything to do with me.

I’ve sent Joan Ruddock, my MP, all the emails connected with my eviction and asked for replies.  I have received none.  I did this at the beginning, over a month ago.  From something that was said, by her, I think, it appears she is on strike over me until she gets the gratitude she believes she is entitled to, as if I have to prove myself to her.  The first time I went to see her she wouldn’t let me talk and all but threw me out of her surgery.  She stood up to dismiss me in a way which made me feel that if I didn’t go, the next step would be calling the police.  I have mixed feelings about her, I think she has tried to be nice, and I’m really upset about this. 

I was thinking about how I wanted to word that last sentence to most accurately express my feelings and say what I wanted to say, when my neighbours upstairs banged, leaving me with so great a feeling of desperation and outrage and enormity I didn’t know what to do.  Whatever words I had, or connection with the feelings I wanted, they went, as always. I continue to assert it is their awful mix of hallelujahs and violence and personal invasiveness which is causing this.  I say this kind of constant occurence is the result of their witchcraft.  I’m terrified.  I feel raped in my soul.  I feel as if I can’t speak without speaking to them.  I am effectively their hostage.  Or am I just hostage to my resentment and fear of all the prejudice and discrimination I face here continually, because of the way I am dressed and the way I look?  Security people in supermarkets relax when they see me get my money out, and I think that is gross.  Where before they have marched me and commanded me as if I am beneath them.  But I get my money out and suddenly I am not.  I was in Sofia a few weeks ago.  I wanted to be taken to a hotel in a taxi, and several drivers rudely and aggressively refused.

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