Okay, where was I?
That last phrase, to those who have either enjoyed or endured my many years (more than 20) of teaching mathematics at Portland Public Schools, would denote when I had got to the end of a digression.
Now I realize the word just employed, “digression,” has three syllables, and so I have to, for today’s busy readers, explain the meaning [which is another way of saying that you can graduate college without knowing any words longer than two syllables], namely give an example.
So suppose you were in my class and I introduced the concept let us say of logarithms. Okay? It’s in the textbook. Wear gunna discuss logga-rithums tudday. Well then, after a dense but succinct digression back into the history of logarithms in ancient, medieval, and modern times, after about five minutes of talking, with about thirty seconds per sentence, I would pause and say, “Where was I?”
— and thats the definition of digression.
So when last we were discussing the topic of Trudy’s allegation, in writing, viz.
Trudy’s second sentence in the Attachment entitled “Danger to Others”:
“He has given one woman a bloody nose and his violence is always escalating.”
we nattered on and on and had to start a new post if there was to be any real effort at keeping the attention of the (supposing any exist) readers of this blog.
Now then. The woman is Pam Brown, reported by Mark Markiw to his sister Trudy as having been given a bloody nose. Trudy repeated, one does not know with what distortion, Mark’s account of a confrontation in the dining room on the day he reported that Pam Brown and her ten-year-old daughter had regularly been spilling water by the bucketful onto the bathroom floor, producing a stream of water flowing into the basement whenever either took a shower.
I had begun my explanation by emphasizing the immaturity, lack of responsibility, and constant evasion of the truth on the part of Pam Brown. Just today, 4 June 2016, a summons arrived [no I didnt open it; I respect the mail; but if you want to see where that respect gets me see the first part of this post] addressed to Pamela Jane Brown from
Washington County DA
150 N First MS 41
Hillsboro OR 97124
and I can only guess that it does not contain good news.
Oh, Pam Brown left our happy little hovel here at the headquarters of the Cascadia Chapter of the Pacific Green Party hours after receiving a message delivered (by Trudy, the would-be battered wife) to her from me, to the effect that if the accommodations at the Parsonage did not meet her needs she was free to seek others at her earliest convenience. That was on um, 16 May 2016. Two weeks later, to receive a letter from the District Attorney of an adjoining county is not, I repeat, a good sign.
No I have no idea where she is. I dont care.
The point is, yet one more item to lend credence to my claim that we are taking the word of a pathological liar and using it to . . . well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
When last we left the narration of the events reported by Mark Markiw
Update 5 June 2016: The police just left. I did not answer the door. I learned that much by experience. You will I hope understand that the fourth (or it could be fifth) visit by armed officers of the law with emotional problems in the last five days, would tend to distract an author. So a day or so of not writing is what I’m gonna do.. Sorry if that interferes with your plans but I am traumatized by five or maybe six visits by police in five days, two of whom or which or that resulted in arrest and greater or shorter stays (4 days? 3 days?) in Multnomah County Jail.
So be grateful — I sure am — that I am not under arrest again right now. And lets wait until tomorrow to open up this subject again, do you mind?
Update 6 June 2016: Beverly Brown, the Evil Younger Gold-digger in the Sons’ scenario, has unfriended me. She cannot associate with one who finds nothing wrong with speaking loudly when speaking to a woman. Beverly Brown herself, when at the Bipartisan Cafe at a meeting of the Portland Metro Chapter of the Pacific Green Party of Oregon, back some ten years ago, when the male-chauvinist Jorden Leonard insulted her, she did not defend herself.
No, she sat without a word while her 80-year-old husband answered, “Take care when you insult a man’s wife!”
Good feminist that she is, she exercised her Womans Option of not answering someone who speaks in a manner of which she disapproves.
Thats the point of course. No man ever claimed the right not to answer a charge because he did not like the manner in which it was delivered. And as we speak women (my wife; the judge; Beverly Brown) are enforcing the law which gives them that right.
Update 7 June 1 am: I condensed my message down to bumper-sticker length today, while smoking and joking in the park across the street. “The trouble with this country is that none of the prison reformers ever went to prison.” That is, we allus assume that the pointy-headed innyleckchuls can do what they claim, although we show reasonable skepticism toward unauthorized inexpert testimony.
For example, if the mavens of Silicon Valley step up to a microphone and tell us that Google (or whoever; thats not the point) has made it possible for you to read the passage in English at the push of a button, why It Must Be So.
When your actual experience translating anything by machine shows its not really useful for much at all, well besides telling you what the passage is about, that is. What it actually says, well for that youll need a real living human brain.
So the same approach goes for everything. Were gunna do it, yessir, with the money and brains and Amurrikkun nohow nowhere, um what was I saying.
The Guys In Charge know how to fix it. Whatever it is. They know. They real smart. Weall be dumb. Cant speak real good. Dumb.
Well, dont you see, ladies and gentlemen who have managed to read this far.
Your Intrepid Reporter is an exception.
He’s not dumb for one thing.
He knows where the apostrophes go, and if he’s left them out it is deliberate.
Oh, that condensation. It came just before I was arrested again. Six hours ago.
Yes. I am back pounding away at a word-processor, as it were, metaphorically speaking, only six hours after being handcuffed, sat in a patrol car in a scrunched position [you bourgeois cocktail liberals have no idea just how uncomfortable that position is. Cops do.], stripped of everything on you — much of which is on a one-way trip into the maw of the Brutal Brotherhood — fingerprinted, photographed, and (O Fate Worse Than Death) sat for four or five, in this case I think it was three to be exact, hours with the Refuse and Scum of the Earth who get arrested. That is what happens in Multnomah County in the Year of Our Lord twenty-sixteen.
The painful part is up front, applied by the Arresting Officer. But the point is that I am intellectually robust enough to have that done to me six hours ago and after a short bathroom break and and even shorter lie-down on my bed I am writing to my readers what happened in the living room after I repeated the demand that Pam Brown tell her daughter, whose name is Lovena, to pick her stuff up off the dining room table.
Mark Markiw asked “Is this necessary?” He was clearly disgusted with my raising my voice. I answered him, gesturing toward Lovena’s stuff on the dining room table, stuff which she had just a few seconds before said was not there. “I will not put up with that!” I said. I would no longer allow the fantasy that there was nothing of Lovena’s on the dining room table. Rather, I would demand at an excessive volume that Pam Brown tell Lovena to get her stuff off of the dining room table.
But while we were having this exchange, that is, while Mark and I were speaking in rational terms with one another, him saying one thing and my response being succinct but a reasonable answer, . . . Pam Brown was in emotional meltdown mode. She had as the psychobabble of our day has it, lost it. Whatever it is.
Pam Brown ran from the dining room, where she had just seen for herself that there on the table lay Lovena’s stuff. While Mark and I spoke, she bellowed from the bedroom that I was traumatizing her child by speaking to her, the child that is, in such a tone of voice.
I was traumatized as a child when my mother cried. She did it several times. Dad was away and she couldn’t cope with three young boys without the help of daughters. Lovena had to post on the wall a prohibition against her mother crying, which her mother does/did so much that a written prohibition made sense to Lovena. Is she really gonna be traumatized by me raising my voice to her mother ??
Besides, I had addressed no word at all to Lovena. I repeated, now for the third time, and while making no effort to restrain my notorious irascibility, the direction to Pam to tell her daughter to clean off the dining room table of her stuff.
Pam Brown came storming out of the bedroom she shared with Lovena and into the living room where Mark and I were standing, putting her face into a snarl and shouting at me from two inches away.
Her exact words, and this is the basis for what followed, her exact words were, Shut The Fuck Up.
Mark — I am given to understand he’s now a one-name sort of person — has to corroborate this most important part of the account.
In working class group interactions in the United States, STFU is shouted at someone in order to start a fight. Really. You’re sitting in a bar. You’re bored. What to do? There’s a guy lookin’ pretty capable of handling hisself sittin’ raiht next to yuz on the bar. So’s yuz turn to him an’ says, good and loud, “Shut the Fuck Up!” an’ he hits ya inna face and ya got a fight.
I own the house. The working-class guest, the guest who has been flooding the bathroom floor and lying to me about it, has just invited me to fight. In my own house. In front of witnesses.
I did fight, but I think “loses all control” doesn’t do me justice. Without moving a foot or a hand, simply by inclining my forehead forward, I hit her forehead with my cap-covered one. I hit her hard enough to tell her I was willing to fight but not enough to hurt her.
“Oh. I’ve got a nosebleed.” Whew. The fight was over. The Challenger lost and is withdrawing.
I wonder whether poor ol’ Brother-in-Law Mark remembers what happened and what was said next. Probably not; he hasn’t spoken to me since. The supposedly traumatized Lovena was the first to see her mother. “What happened?”
“He head-bumped me.”
“Was it deliberate?” as I have pointed out elsewhere, the ability to think in the family lies with the ten-year-old. Her three-word question could not be bettered for clear thinking.
“Yes. Well, no. He thought that.. well, I slipped on the rug, and he thought.. .oh, never mind.”
That is Pam Brown’s own testimony at the time. At the time, Pam Brown changed her story when recounting what happened to her daughter. She invented a made-up-on-the-spot “slipping” on the floor, that couldn’t be checked. Only she and Mark and me knew for certain that she hadn’t slipped but had quite evidently decided to challenge me to a fight.
That is exactly what your average pathological liar will do instantly, apparently effortlessly. He will produce an excuse that you cannot check, he will distract the show into something that it isn’t quite right but you haven’t got any way of getting hold of exactly what the falseness is.
The thing to look for in the story that the honest person tells is that the explanations are natural and hang together, but the explanations of the liar are weird. How could she slip and put her face two inches from mine [maybe it was one and a half: all I had to do was nod].? There was no slip. Mark and I are witnesses to that and I predict he will agree that there was no slip. It’s that, not having been locked up with pathological liars for years on end, Mark had no idea that there was no bloody nose, and the changing of the story within seconds was the tip-off.
No, good bourgeois that he is, Mark believes Pam had a bloody nose even though Mark saw no blood. The reason I am confident Mark saw no blood is because there wasn’t any.
We are talking here about my giving Pam Brown a bloody nose when the witness Mark cannot say he saw any blood. He relies upon his belief that Pam Brown meant that falsehood, a falsehood which she uttered in order to end the fight, and he said something along those lines to his sister my wife, who put her version of what he said into the petition granted by the Judge Hehn.
I continue. This bloody nose put no blood on the floor, there were no tissues with blood anywhere in the house the rest of the night. No one referred again to any nosebleed whatever, and when I saw Pam Brown then she had no blood around her nostril.
There was no blood. The conflict was ended and not resumed. Mark left and Pam Brown, daughter Lovena, and Your Intrepid Reporter got back to living together for another few days until I was arrested again for defying Fred Meyers. But I digress.
I expected Mark to consider the fact that he saw no blood and the fact that Pam Brown was the very person he Mark was accusing of causing permanent structural damage to my house. But no. There is no excuse for raising your voice to a woman. In both Mark’s and Trudy’s world view [Betty Brown, wife of Walt, agrees with them; she unfriended me shortly after offering to provide court testimony to my “excellent parenting skills”] it is against the law for a man to raise his voice when speaking to a woman.
But it isn’t against the law.
It is — if enough people think it is.
You remember I told you that this was a striking example of what you get when you allow hearsay? My thirty years of teaching high school without ever so much as shaking my fist at a sassy child is swept aside, and, since people believe that I gave a woman a bloody nose, why I lose custody of my two sons. No corroboration is needed.
Update 8 June 2016:
Lessee now, 6 June 2016 — arrested around 7:30; released 19:45 pm
Today, 8 June 2016 — arrested 6:30 pm, released 9:00 pm. They’re getting smoother.