Monster?

This is a hard blog to write. Joseph Merrick, the man known as the Elephant Man, was actually an experiment gone wrong. He was said to have some disease, but in actuality, his owner kept him caged and beat him regularly to the point that he became badly disfigured. In 2003, I was told it happens from time to time because evil people want to have a Human Being to gaze at who was made by the Devil, not God. The other outcome was the torture was so severe they hoped to turn that person evil. It didn’t work with Joseph Merrick.
Every generation has an elephant man. I met such man, once. He and I both have had almost every bone in our bodies broken and our skulls crushed and still we were good people. I still am a good person, the man I met, I’ll call him Will, was a very good man until the night he died. Will was killed saving me, the night I met him. I realize now that death was the only way out of that Hell for Will. Now he’s one of my Angels.
The Elephant Man
I’ve decided to tell you the real story of my Elephant Man as an illustration of the power of the mind; and the evil that now pervades the culture of the US and the world. It’s disgusting, so if you’re squeamish you may want to skip this entry.
The way all my memories start is, I was drugged and brought someplace, and then I was awakened and expected to perform in some capacity. This time I knew I was expected to scream because this time I was tossed into a chair so hard I was jarred into semi-consciousness. I heard my owner say she had never heard me scream.
“It doesn’t matter how badly she got tortured,” she said, “she has never screamed.”
The man replied no woman had ever looked at the man he owned without screaming. “Everyone screams,” He said but then corrected himself, “sometimes,” he said, “the men just gasp or yelp, but the women ALWAYS scream.” He assured my owner she would finally get to hear me scream.
I was slapped awake. “Look at him,” my nightmare keeper demanded.
“Turn around and look at her,” Will’s owner cajoled.
The two owners left the cage.
I looked around and found I had been brought into a large cage. It may have been 14 feet square. It stunk. There were bars across the front and along part of the left side; and the rest was rock. There was a wooden bench along the back, rock wall; and a pile of old hay or straw covered part of the bench and the floor that surrounded the bench. There sat a cowering figure who said he didn’t want to make me scream. He saw me as I was dragged in and he felt so ashamed.
When he finally partially turned to talk to me, I didn’t scream, I couldn’t even understand why anyone would scream. I saw the kindness and confusion in his eyes. He never did turn all the way around to face me to talk to me; but that was okay. I thought this was probably the first time he’d ever had a conversation.
He told me horrible things about being beaten. He had to urinate so he apologized profusely and explained, because he was an animal, he had to do this vile thing. He stood with his back to me and peed onto the rock wall. He said, “You’d never do anything as loathsome as this.”
I replied, “I’d use the bathroom.”
He almost turned around this time as he took his curved, cringing place on the bench. “The what?”
“The bathroom? The water closet, the WC? You know the room you go into that has a toilet that you urinate into.”
“Do you mean to tell me you do this, too?” He sounded amazed. “But surely not my master, not his highness?”
‘Is this possible?’ I thought. I was dumbfounded to think this gentle man didn’t know people had to pee. Somehow the despicable criminal who owned this man had convinced him only animals eliminate their bodily waste. Keeping him caged, and in a constant state of healing, and away from other human contact, Will had no idea what other human beings were like. I was the one who had to let him know how badly he’d been lied to. “Humans are animals, too. We need to urinate and defecate same as all the animals.” I assured him.
“Even you?” He sounded genuinely astonished.
“Even me.”
“Then, why does his highness whip me when I do it?”
“He wants to keep you down. He lies to you. You’re not a monster; he’s the one who makes you look this way. He’s the monster, he’s the animal!” Then I explained lying. I couldn’t believe one human being would treat another with such vile contempt.
I asked Will what all the lumps were on his skin. He didn’t know. I walked over to Will and held my arm against the wall, close enough so Will could see my arm without moving his head. I said, “This is what skin looks like, but yours is covered in lumps the size of walnuts.”
“It’s from the whip,” he explained.
We heard footsteps, “Something’s wrong.” I heard his highness declare from outside the door, “She should have screamed by now!”
I ran back to my chair and sat down.
His highness burst into the cage with a whip and began whipping Will, screaming at him, “Show her your face – you monster!”
“He’s not the monster – you are!” I cried as I launched myself at his highness’ back, and I grabbed hold of him with my arm. I was almost up on his shoulders and my arms were wrapped below his chin. He spun furiously and crashed my body against the rock wall of the cage with such force he broke several ribs and cracked a few vertebrae and punctured my lungs. I couldn’t move. I had to let go.
His highness righted himself and screeched; “Now it’s your turn!” I felt the burn of the whip on me.
“No!” Will turned all the way around and ran to stop his highness.
“He’s never done that before. She put a spell on him!” His highness screeched, “This is all your fault!” He looked at me as he shot Will. “That’ll put an end to the freak show. He was the only reason people paid for this show.”
I passed out.
In 2003 I learned Will’s death was never investigated. People with that “disease” are never expected to live that long, anyway.
Some days, when the pain from that injury is so horrific it levels me, I can still taste the blood in my mouth.

About Grace Gardener

Here’s my dilemma. I’m being abused by the NSA. My rights as a US citizen are nonexistent. My right to privacy is long gone. They have put a homing device and a microphone in my stomach, supposedly attached to my spine so there will be bone conduction. I have an X-ray picture of it. I was told if I take it out I will be killed. I doubt it, but still, it’s not a good feeling. If I go to the ACLU to complain, my phone call will be intercepted and my meeting will be recorded. If I confide in a friend about what’s happening to me, she’ll be killed.
The NSA has brainwashed my daughters into not trusting me. They’ve been working on torturing them every week for the past 15 years. When I left in my RV they loved and trusted me, but now that I haven’t seen them in so long that now they’re afraid of me. When I was there, living with or near them, even though they were being tortured to hate me (that’s true), once they saw me again they were fine. But I can’t even call them. I know most of my calls are diverted, and I know when they try to answer, that’s diverted, too. But I don’t try hard and I can’t talk to them about anything meaningful because I know they’ll be tortured for many hours. And then they’ll be tortured, drugged and electrocuted to forget and when I talk to them again they’ll say, “It never happened.”
NSA Agents are doing the same thing to George Lucas. I was told no one really wants to hurt George, but they “have to.” But they think he’s a nice guy so they feel badly about it. Well that’s something, I guess. But the Government and other cults should not have round-the-clock accessibility to agents who are trained killers and have had their free will taken away through torture and electroshock. The best agents have had their personality split, so one personality takes over to carry out “orders” while the original personality watches helplessly. There’s a better way to run the military, and I was about to get through to put forth my ideas when the order came through to kill the three Generals who wanted to listen to me: and to kill six special agents who had been listening to me.
I listen to these guys and I wonder if they have any feelings at all? I know they do even though they’re not “allowed to.” They’re not “allowed to” complain, either, under fear of death. If they try to retire, they’re not de-programmed, they are killed!
I watched the Clint Eastwood movie American Sniper about Chris Kyle and I’m sure I commented on it a lot, but my readership has grown significantly and I know I’m monitored and it’s the guys doing the monitoring, who I’m trying to help. Even tough guys need a little help sometimes.
I wonder if the death of Cris Kyle, played by Bradley Cooper, was planned the way it was to get me to say something about it. Everyone in the NSA knows what happened. Chris was killed because he got out. Tragically, Chris seemed to be capable of healing himself with the help of his family and still he was murdered. The man who murdered him was under orders. True! I have many, many confirmations on that statement.
The judge sentenced Eddie Ray Routh, Chris’s murderer, to life in prison without parole.
The movie writeup says – “U.S. Navy SEAL Chris Kyle (Bradley Cooper) takes his sole mission — protect his comrades — to heart and becomes one of the most lethal snipers in American history. His pinpoint accuracy not only saves countless lives.”
Back to my dilemma, I can’t get in touch with anyone for fear they will be tortured or killed.
You think, “I thought the US didn’t torture?” Well we do. My daughters and I are born and raised here. We are good people, we’re exceptionally good people and the NSA has a HUGE problem with that. The people who give the orders want war and we want peace, and they’re making us the bad guys?
The only emails that get through to me are business and junk. Supposedly I get comments on my website that don’t come through, and I have to wonder if our military goes around killing anyone who tries to contact me?
My phone rings all the time but not here. This was true when I was in NJ, too. Nobody got through to me. The call is sent elsewhere and other people pick it up pretending to be me and the women pretending to be me are nasty bitches. If I call someone and straighten something out, I find out later that the conversation never happened, I was really talking to someone in the NSA, and I have to get back to square one. Most times things are so impossible, I give up.
I escaped my ex-husbands satanic cult only to find myself embroiled in the government’s cult. A much thicker, stickier web. They have kept my money from me so I can’t even get an apartment. That’s stealing, but they’re the military so nothing is illegal, not murder or theft.
I feel if I call someone for help he or she will be killed or badly hurt. Just being my friend or talking to me can get you sick with cancer or dead.

I think people who I have helped, or who have asked to help me, need to go to the press to tell them what a pickle I’m in . There are many people who have offered to help me over the years. Many have been killed. I don’t understand how a kid in a uniform can break into Steve Jobs’ house and inject his brain with liquid smoke, or some other carcinogen: and if he questions those orders his buddy will be told to kill him. They have to kill each other all the time. It’s so f_ked up I can’t stand it. Neither can the Agents.
They don’t realize that “under orders” is meaningless. If they’re caught they’ll be tried for murder.
Steve Jobs was a great man. No one, no politician, and no officer, has the right to murder any citizen, especially one who makes this country proud.

If you know someone in the NSA it’s your responsibility to let your congressman know what this country is doing to him. They’re being treated barbarically.
If you know my daughters please call them to lend an ear, because their memories are being erased in an attempt to make them cold and heartless and they’re suffering. Their memories are being erased and replaced with more horrible lies, and their ability to reason is gone. They used to be the smartest women on the planet.
If you know George Lucas do the same. The man we were both speaking with, who George considers a friend, ordered some horrific things done to George. They are trying to change his personality so he won’t like me, or so I won’t like him, like that could ever happen, but in the meantime his health and his mind will be suffering. Listening to him will be helpful. He also has a homing device and a microphone planted in him. His whole house is wired because he knows me.
If you’re a parent whose kid wants to join special forces let him know what he’ll be joining. I had someone with me get killed because he couldn’t kill his friend. I’m serious.
Watch the Manchurian Candidate, especially the part where people are being murdered, but the men see themselves at a flower show. That’s what it’s like. A Clock Work Orange shows how it’s done. And Mel Gibson’s Conspiracy Theory shows the aftermath. NSA guys read my books and my blog because I may be the only friend you’ve got.
I’d love to be able to take suggestions. I know I have to get all lawyered up, I’d like to sue the government for defamation of character and theft. That’s something I used to be able to do, but I’m powerless now.
What you can do.
God changed my name to Grace. I changed it legally in 2007. My slave name was Lynn. I was born Lynn Pezzutti, then I married Jay McDermott and I became Lynn McDermott, then I married Peter Mickelsen (now deceased) and became Lynn Mickelsen. Most of my friends in the entertainment industry think I’m Lynn Mickelsen.
So now I’m Grace Gardener, and while I’m not a slave, I’m a prisoner of the state.
If you’re a lawyer, see if you can get something going. I was thinking Amal Clooney could be very helpful.
If you know someone in the ACLU ask them to read this blog.
If you’re in my family, Doherty, Murray, Sullivan or Kelly and remember me from my Anti-War days and establishing Earth Day maybe there’s something you want to do.
Let the NY Times know I’d like this published as a letter to the Editor. Publish first, contact later.
Send a copy or link to your News.
Good Luck,
God Bless you.
Rise Up!
Think Peace.

THE NSA AND THE MOOCS WON’T LET ANYONE GET THROUGH TO ME. THEY MAY EVEN HURT YOU IF YOU TRY. See the pages in the tabs of this blog, Grace Gardener, and, A Little About Lynn Mickelsen. If you know me and I don’t get back to you, then the email was intercepted. Never talk to anyone claiming to be me without asking questions to be sure. All site posts beginning 4/1/16 will be on Grace-Gardener.org. I’m not doing this for attention. I have 107 broken bones, zero disks in my back, and I’m exhausted. I need to get through to the people who knew me for credibility: but the NSA blocks my every move. I have to have the same acknowledgement and respect for my judgement I had while I was a ghost director in Hollywood and when I was CEO of the Rand Corp. Rand has been able to keep my work anonymous and credited to other people so they can collect my pay and residuals. They figured as long as they’re erasing my memory, and taking credit for my inventions, music, acting and directing; they may as well keep the money I earned. Also, the money would be proof that I did the work, so they’ve kept me poor all of my life.
The reason the conspirators made plans in front of me was because they were assured I would “Never Remember” them, their visit and the things they planned. They talked in a kind of code that I have since figured out. I would have turned them in after the meeting had I been allowed to remember.
I have to operate the way I do to keep away from my captors. GRR taught me most of the tactics I use. (Now he won’t help because his memory of me is implanted.) I know it angers some corrupt NSA Officers, but it’s a fact that I was a prisoner and slave at the Rand Corporation, and the NSA helped and still helps to keep me that way. I have to make evasive maneuvers to keep me, my daughters, this country and the world safe. Meanwhile I have no where to turn. I still feel like a candle in the wind.
https://youtu.be/uw6CIxD1pHo
My name was Lynn Mickelsen while I was a prisoner in a blue house and slave of a “club” based in northern New Jersey. If you know me PLEASE DON’T TRY TO CONTACT ME THROUGH THE RAND CORPORATION OR ANY OF MY FORMER EMPLOYERS OR ANY CONTACT FROM MORE THAN 9 YEARS AGO. People who tried doing this are being killed. Some people know the cult know it with a name similar to The Builder Berg Society or the Skull and Dagger Society.
There’s a HUGE bounty on my head that the cult I escaped from has no intention of paying. The plan is to have me killed and then to kill the person trying to collect the bounty. I thought up the plan and the amount because I thought it was going to be the plot in a movie. I told the people who wanted the plan, “This is one movie no one will want to see.” In short, anyone who kills me will be killed within 24 hours and will never see a dime.
Now I’m RVing but I’m still a prisoner in that I can’t get in touch with anyone, and no one can get in touch with me, except in person.
I found out about the other life I’d been living during a grueling five-hour conversation I detail in my Book, ‘the Conversation’ The reason I knew nothing about my own life was because I suffered selective amnesia – induced by the cult that owned me – with drugs, torture and electricity. ‘The Conversation’ is available in paperback at Blurb.com. The ebook is free.
I worked nights and weekends naming products, bands and internet services, or anything else the “club” wanted me to do. I would wake up in the morning and remember nothing about the work and meetings, and I never received ANY money. I could only remember my 9 – 5 job at a bank. I’ve written the eBook, ‘Garden of the Light,’ as a lighter, inspirational compliment to the eBooks – ‘the Conversation,’ and, ‘the Truth about Lynn Mickelsen’ which are intended to shed new, totally different light on the current world situation and change the world for the better. Apocalypse is a Greek word meaning, ‘the Revealing of Ancient Knowledge.’ I consider the book, ‘the Conversation,’ as Apocalypse because it reveals the ancient knowledge. We’ll have World Peace once we abolish child abuse. My view of Apocalypse has no battle, no war, no army. I believe the knowledge in ‘the Conversation’ is enough to save the world.
The blog grace-gardener.org lists just some of the accomplishments I achieved as a slave, to let everyone I’ve helped over the past sixty years, who I am. I will finally claim my life!
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/380321
If you’re a George Lucas fan you may remember some of these strange stories that involve him.
I met George on the set of American Graffiti; we got engaged when the movie wrapped. I was taken away and George was told I was dead.
Five years later I was hired to figure out how to make Luke Skywalker’s farm vehicle fly. The people who handled me (owned me) forgot that I had worked for this director once before on American Graffiti and they told him I was dead. I arrived and solved Lucas’s problem for him and he tearfully remembered me and told me what had happened five years before. I stayed on the set of Star Wars long enough to name the Star Wars characters and solve another animatronics problem with Chewy’s costume. I was told it was time to leave and started to follow my jailers the way I had been programmed to, when George asked, “When will I see you again?”
I began to say, “Oh, you’ll see me again,” but I realized I wasn’t certain of that because once before, when we got engaged, I never saw him again. So I turned around and started walking back toward Lucas and I asked, “How about now? Can I stay with you now? Because I don’t know when I’ll be able to see you again.”
George thought a second and agreed that I should stay. As I was walking back to him I saw his expression change and looked over my shoulder to see the man I had been following holding a gun on me. I kept walking because now I was sure that the story Lucas had told me about what happened five years ago, was going to happen again and I couldn’t allow that. Someone had obviously been playing with my life, and I couldn’t have that, so I kept walking toward Lucas and away from the man with the gun. Lucas’s expression changed again, this time his face was filled with fear and horror. I turned around and now there were three men holding guns on George Lucas. There was only about 20 feet of desert between us but I had to go with them in order to save Lucas’s life.
So, if you’re a fan of George Lucas you may remember someone being stolen off the Star Wars set at gunpoint. That was me.
Years later I was abducted and stolen from the Academy Awards. You may remember that incident – that was me.
Years later I was abducted and stolen from the Elton John’s post Oscar Party that benefits his AIDs foundation. You may remember that incident – that was me.
Years later Harrison Ford and George Lucas devised a plan to steal me off of the set of The Fugitive. This time I was shot with a coma drug. They used a hypodermic needle that went through my coat and slacks and into my thigh. Two bogus ambulance men came in a stolen ambulance and took me away.
The only other time I saw George face to face was during the making of Howard the Duck. George Lucas and Steven Spielberg made that ridiculous movie to try to rescue me again, in case you were wondering why they made that movie. I was supposed to see Lucas again on a set of Indiana Jones but this time it was George who was drugged and abducted. This makes 8 times George Lucas tried to rescue me.
I’ve spoken with Lucas on the phone only a few times over the past 40 years, and those phone calls and the conversations we had while shooting American Graffiti, are what makes up Yoda’s philosophies and Star Wars 7 – the Force Awakens.
The reason the people who owned me don’t allow George and I to get together is because they don’t want World Peace. War makes them rich. The greed of a handful of people keep the word in the turmoil it’s in.
The people in the entertainment industry know me as the woman with no memory and no name.
If you want to know more about me, check out my blog www.grace-gardener.org; or read my free ebooks the Truth about Lynn Mickelsen, and, the Conversation.
I‘m still trying to walk those 20 feet.

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