I'm no complete Christian, but the bizarre act of hacking and spewing and gasping by whoever was next door while I was reading the Bible was telling of its claims.
“that girl really fucked you over.”
I wasn't sure what exactly the voice was besides the voice of God itself, or maybe even the same voice who had warned me who'd win the election and was right, and so eternally and internally always kind of a voice I trusted, and besides that, I was sure it see right. The evil girl next door had really fucked me over— not just in one way, but several, and finally culminating in no longer even having an apartment. She had fucked me out of an apartment! The more I complained about her door slamming, incessant obsessive stalking, and the way she played mind games whenever she could find me about in the small space between our two doors, it was nothing short of her method of targeted warfare— to have given me a plant was for her to be able to say she was trying to be my friend, but everything else she did around that was evil, and the more I complained about the door slamming, the stalking my door and setting up loud conversations just outside of it in order to irk me, slamming the door each time I took a bath or a shower, or used the toilet for several months, she had indeed fucked me over, and run me over, and I was lost— I didn't understand that people could just be like that and I didn't want to just attribute it to race, but she was a white girl, and all the red flags and flares indicated that the game she was playing was race war— her goal to return me to the streets or the shelter where she could presume her dominance in the structure of social culture because it made her so uncomfortable that we had the same thing. She had never been inside of my apartment, but she was aching the entire time to get in, and the entire overall factor was, that I just never felt safe around her, despite her broad gestures and gifs and supposed openness— her words and her presence spoke an entire hidden language, telltale signs of betrayal, and maliciousness, and as much as I wanted them all in my head, they were not. Now the new property manager seemed to be taking her side, and her actions seemed more egregious— knowing I had come here from the shelter meant that there were entire parties of people enraged that the city was helping people to come out of homelessness and to bridge the gap between homelessness and inequality, but it was easy to see over the course of the gentrification process that white people were mad at this equality, and acting out, and even acting very outrageous, and the problem with me personally was that I wasn't even from New York, or out of the system in a certain way, but the people who were treating me with such degradation and disrespect couldn't see that. They could only see “black” and “formerly homeless”.
What's worse, is they couldn't see the many books I'd written or art I'd made, and this contributed to their overall devaluation in my kind— or worse, they could, like the girl next door, who had read an excerpt of my writing under the guise that she was a helpful person, and had become enraged with dissolution and jealousy; it was as if she couldn't understand that not only might I be equal to her, but even intellectually superior in a certain way, or at the very least artistically superior, and began to act in such a destructive way that paired with the noise form the morortcycles and incessant harassment from outside the apartment which bled into all spaces of the apartment throughout the day, combined with her incessant door slamming and disruption to anything I did while I was at “home”, which never felt like home because of these things exactly, it made me seem crazy and ungrateful any time I complained to the property management, and that seemed to be the game. I even surmised that she was connected to the noise from outside and the particular strangeness that someone seemed to be listening to me inside the apartment as well, as she had somehow seemed to know things I was talking about on my unpublished podcast episodes— things she could not have possibly heard from next door, which meant there was some sort of audio recording on the premises she had access too. It became a cat and mouse game, because she knew where I was in my apartment and began to attack my psyche anytime I was in the apartment, and especially when I attempted to create. Now, facing almost certain death and removal from the only stability I'd ever known, it was partially due to this incessant and rampant behavior that I was almost always at a loss. I had once again been bullied out of something I desperately needed by a white girl who felt justified and untouchable— only this time, it was more serious. I wasn't just in trouble at school, or some kind of job— she had manipulated things in such a way that this time I was out of a place to live— under the guise that she was a good person, giving gifts and acting strangely friendly, she had planted seeds and initiated acts of warfare, and in the recovery process of having left abusive situation after abusive situation, it was hard to wrap my mind around the fact that this was yet again another one. I kept telling myself it was only in my mind, despite the evidence of otherwise. That she was not evil but simply ignorant, or misguided, and aloof because of her privelege— but now, understanding that once again I may have no where in my own country to go, I understood the earth shattering truths of equality and integration, and gentrification. Not only did they want to bring in wealthy whites and Asians, they wanted (and needed) to push poor blacks and Latinos out, because of the value the white people placed in themselves. Too many of us made them feel weak and vulnarable, and insecure— and I was certaint that reading over my writing the girl had felt she'd met her match— that even my presence at all was a threat, not just because I was black, but because I was smart. So the way she contributed to the forces of white power was the simple way the race war continues to be fought— by working on the mind, forcing it to weaken and crumble by slamming things during times of vulnerability— baths, showers, toilet use— and that way, for months at a time, I no longer felt safe at all, and of course, it was ungrateful to complain— I should just be happy to have a place to sleep that was my own. But to have peace and quiet and sanity, recovery and health? How could I ever deserve that? In fact, I didn't deserve it, and they made it clear— and there surely was a dorrelation between the noise outside and the noise inside: somebody was trying to make a very violent point— and they were using me to do it.
They had effectively dismantled my ability to focus, and the. Intercepted my strength— I had a Peloton for cardio, and a small treadmill— but lifting and strength training was out of the question; this was trademarked by the sudden appearance of a man paid to follow me into the small gym in the buildings— a man who looked enough like the man who had beat me in front of my two children, stolen my son and intercepted my every attempt to care for him, or even be in his life. This man, grunting and mumbling rap lyrics, would throw the 30 pound dumbbells from a over his head, sending them crashing to the floor across the room— absolutely unnecessary and unacceptable behavior, which I had at one point even captured on video, however, my visits to the gym ended when I decided to leave my phone in the apartment and I had been followed there by the same man, who threw the weights from above his head and acted like an animal. I simply picked up the weights and placed them on the treadmill as he lifted at the tension machine, grunting and mumbling rap lyrics, then silently walked away. I never returned to the gym again— this had gone too far, but overall since it was an obvious plan to diminish my ability to fight what was happening with the noise by staying strong, this strategy had worked. Now all I could realistically do was cardio, which took too much time and effort in order to reach what I had been doing in the gym beforehand— now that my psyche was being dismantled, it remained important to kee me awake during the day with the noise, so that I could not attend the gym at night, because I didn't have the energy to function anymore.
I was a trapped animal, and these sick mind games were nothing short of warfare. It had to be a government institution or privatized force, because their resources were immense— nothing like this could happen without a militarized approach; weaponizing people as effective weapons and dismantling my livelihood by any way possible was indeed an act of torture and psycholical warfare. I was isolated, without family or friends, and disconnected from any stable income— job after job application not simply denied, but ignored, as if my efforts were going into a black hole of nothingness. Then, it did seem as if all of my technological communications had been altered-1 my phone calls monitored and my internet history avalible to someone unseen, but not unfelt. It just so happened that the neighbor might be one of them, and that because I had no way of continuing my training regimen without being followed by strange men, who would then act in abrasive ways to further psychologically destruct what should have been strength training and recovery, I was weakened, not by one thing, but an entire organization of many.
Just then, writing and luckily somehow also recording, standing between the door and the bathroom after raising out of the bathtub, the merciless noise continued— a loud crash against the wall as I stood naked in the walkway of the apartment with a towel draped over my shoulders sent my heart shrieking and pounding into the cavern of my stomach— not just my entire heart racing but my gut wrenching with the beating of my heart….
“File that.”
I was standing over the doorway in the bathroom, still gripping the pslams of the first testament in my hand, but I didn't understand anymore what things to ignore and what to not. I assumed that it was just more mind games and frequency manipulation and that God itself had nearly been lost. In my time in the apartment, I became more connected from disconnected from the source in the way I knew it and had learned how to internalize God. I could no longer pray freely out loud— someone was listening to me in my apartment, and when I did speak, the noise was arranged to rile up until it shattered me, and I was quiet again.
—Tales of a Superstar DJ.
When was he ever a long hair,
but here?
I went to bed two hours ago,
But perhaps when I sleep I dream of you
Suppose that waking life's a nightmare
And when I look in the mirror
I see your eyes there
I need you to go to my apartment;
I'll be dead by the time you get there;
Don't worry, you won't find my body
I went over the edge elsewhere
I left you a note and some postcards;
The letters I put in the post beforehand
I need you to publish my books, my friend
Or no one will ever know of them
I left you a pen name
Who are you
Where you from
What'd you do for ten years
I dont know
Congrats from your accolades
From the academy
Down the hatch
The overwhelming message of the thing was, that because this girl was white, she could do whatever she wanted to me. To act however she pleased, or be as horrible as the wanted without recourse ir reprimand, and I could only assume that because I was now being pressured and rushed to hurriedly do things that I couldn't have done under the stress of the noise and harassment, that it was someone acting in favor of the regime of white dominance and structured power— that equality was not only ineffective, but impossible, because it was not what they wanted. The illusion of equality was better because in that way, they maintained control over our minds and our bodies in the same way slavery had structured—and though they could no longer truly own us in one way, they still could in another, and this is how they maintained their humiliation and disrespect, the dehumanization of war— by creating the illusion that it was peace.
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