“I will tell you that those who think to hurt me will be surprised.”
Lucie is a 60-70 year old Los Angeles bag lady, who could easily be mistaken for a delusional schizophrenic. She has all the traits. Talks to herself, homeless, speaks in long streams, unedited, and unfiltered; has mysterious figures following her around all the time, and has an extensive back story that involves mind control. She sleeps outdoors, and resists attempts by “the psychiatrists who are always coming around here” to “help” her.
But when I looked into her story, it checked out in many parts.
It goes like this:
Guatemala, in this era, and particularly, this end of that era:
In a 1946 to 1948 study in Guatemala, U.S. researchers used prostitutes to infect prison inmates, insane asylum patients, and Guatemalan soldiers with syphilis and other sexually transmitted diseases, in order to test the effectiveness of penicillin in treating the STDs. They later tried infecting people with “direct inoculations made from syphilis bacteria poured into the men’s penises and on forearms and faces that were slightly abraded . . . or in a few cases through spinal punctures”. Approximately 700 people were infected as part of the study (including orphan children). The study was sponsored by the Public Health Service, the National Institutes of Health and the Pan American Health Sanitary Bureau (now the World Health Organization‘s Pan American Health Organization) and the Guatemalan government. The team was led by John Charles Cutler, who later participated in the Tuskegee syphilis experiments. Cutler chose to do the study in Guatemala because he would not have been permitted to do it in the United States. In 2010 when the research was revealed, the US officially apologized to Guatemala for the studies. A lawsuit has been launched against Johns Hopkins University, Bristol-Myers Squibb and the Rockefeller Foundation for alleged involvement in the study.
This morning, I saw her in her usual neighborhood, slumped on a bus bench. Driving by, I was touched with a rare affection for a homeless person, warm with recognition of her, in the sense of the root word affect, and then, as I analyzed my emotion, I realized I had actual affection for her in a nearly familial sense. Maybe it is her regular pick up line, or maybe it was that she told me she is a virgin, and I believe her.
While I had given her toasted bagels on many previous occasions, and generally avoided getting close to her in the literal or the physical sense-because of my own personal issues with body odor and dirt-her regular line, every time, is “Are you the guy who bought me a sandwich that one time?“-I was particularly affected today, because I had never seen her sleeping before. Despite the morning chill, she looked comfortable-and even comforting. As if her head, resting on her chest in a pile of tangled hair was itself in a warm bed, and my own head, somehow felt the warmth of it.
I circled the block, with a smile on my heart at the sight of her. Matted hair, dyed tawny red sometime in the recent several months past-the grey was showing at about two inches; usual sweat suit type casual slacks, coupled with a stylish dumpster dived blazer and various bags, and terribly sporty, colorful shoes.
The thing about Lucie is that even as a homeless bag lady, one can tell in seconds that she is quite a charmer, and has some class. That even at 60-70 she has a wink in her eyes, and delight in her heart, despite anything; and despite what the psychiatrists might say. And she has quite an entertaining wit-her mind, as far as I have ever seen-is clear as a bell. Not delusional at all.
She has a quick smile, and is full of life. Surprisingly full. “I will tell you that those who think to hurt me will be surprised.”
This morning, I spent an hour or so with her, as she treated me to story after story about the psychiatrists who try to “save her,” and how she craftily avoids them at all costs. Which, based on her history with psychiatrists, is probably not a bad idea. She even has a regular and clear recall of a particular psychiatrist, complete with a name that rings like the name of a mad doctor in any SciFi novel. Or Mengele; or Strangelove. Or- Gottlieb; Jessen and Mitchell, now come Sheridan, James, and Dietrich.
Sure. Nothing to see here. Move along now. Our country has evolved-look! We almost had a woman president!
“Who is going to find out? These women are trash. Nobody’s going to believe them.” –Hillary Clinton on Bill Clinton’s bimbo eruptions
As I listened to Lucie-again-and every time I listen to her-she fills in a new blank that makes it all clear-that targeted individuals are often actual victims, very well hidden and discredited victims, of highly orchestrated, highly targeted, extremely nefarious state and internationalist medical/legal/moral practices; and all of that mixed in with biographical data that checks out with known historical events, and since-revealed nefarious state/corporate/church/intelligence agency/police practices, and echoes much of what you will find here on this blog.
The last time I bought her a toasted bagel and cream cheese, she regaled me with flirtations of all kinds, sometimes bordering on the charming and sort-of-really-cute. Even beyond old lady cute, she still has exactly what she claims to have-magic.
“I tell you I have not had sex for over twenty years. Twenty years. the last sex was with my husband. But I tell you, I have some very magical things that I can do-very magical. Even for you, they would be like magic.”
Of course I believe her. Without a doubt, after twenty years since her husband died, I am certain sex has crossed her mind many times. Often, women need to get very very old before they can admit to themselves a biological desire for sex, for it’s own sake. And certainly, those who have endured the trauma of Judeo-Christian narratology, and its attendant lies, mythologies and industries that exploit every piece of a person as thoroughly as a rendering plant, must recognize when they are being loved without penalty.
And such was she this morning-frisky, and flirtatious, and she loved my clothes, told me that she looks better with her hair washed, and loved my telling her that she is beautiful even with dirty hair.
And again, she regaled me with stories of the psychiatrist- the guy who kept her and pursued her, and tried to convince her it is all in her head. How he used the black men to threaten to rape her, and how they chased her out of her apartment. How the psychiatrist became a millionaire after he took her share of something or other. How Guatemala “was a long time ago, but they are still here, all the time. The psychiatrists are looking for me, and I know how to hide from them.”
That Lucie’s an everything bagel with garlic and all that; the real cream cheese. And I believe her. It is for the reader herein t decide what they believe, and what they do not. But you an look it all up, and do your own research, but herein, I have tried to point you in the right direction. You are welcome to listen to the “professionals” all you want-but Lucie, aka “Miranda” which is her real name, but which she disavows for some as yet undisclosed reason-has already been down that route, like many before her. These take the life right out of people by sheer utter stupid and circular DSM-V Big Pharma funded psychiatry, and it’s affiliated hench-persons and their black bags of dirty tricks, wielded like swords in court rooms, confinement hearings, and jails-prisons across America.
“But I tell you right now-I am thinking of that psychiatrist-and that witch! How they robbed me. Many millions I assure you. And I can tell you this, that even right now do you know what I am thinking? I am thinking magic. I tell you this-I can do magic things. Many men would want me to do this magic, and I tell you I have very special things I can do. But I will not do them, you know, they are that good. But I have done them before-one man, without even touching him, I made him very happy. Even women would want this magic. But that witch….”
Her voice trails off, and she is giving me her smile-the alertness in her eye, the keen awareness of her story telling ability, and her audience-the knowledge that what she is telling me has been heard, and appreciated, and believed, if only for the humor of the situation-her a bag lady, me a guy in a thrift store suit jacket, like a Harold and Maude at the back end of this generations Titanic-too in love for the youngsters to believe is possible-with magic, tossing chum out the mess windows, and marveling at the colorful sparkling wake behind our conversation, as everyone else drinks the fine and exotic cruise ship wine called “KoolAid” on the bow, sycophantic and helpless, waiting for an appearance of the captain who will reassure them that they are all the good guys, and everyone else, well….
When I first started writing this leg of the story, I had “Piper” on my mind-and how she told me that she had been a 12 year old prostitute, how I met her at 17 and thought she was nuts when she talked of “gangs of people who chase me everywhere, and always seem to know where I am,” but who I came to believe over time; a story much like the exact story of Jasmine, who, perhaps NOT un-coincidentally-also hails from Guatemala. It seems these things that I write about herein are interlinked in ways that seldom make the news. And also-as “they” like to remind those who “they” stalk: “What happens in darkness…”
And when I write, the hackers and the exploiters always take over my blogs, and sometimes, online harassment comes offline. So adios for now. Or, more in the vernacular “a Dios,” with toasted bagels.