Tag Archives: Health

Leslie Gaines, purported “filmmaker”

leslie the asshole

Leslie Gaines is a criminal, a con man and an artistic failure.  He stole business assets from me personally, to the tune of six figures.  Yes:  $$$,$$$  He has left a bloody trail of many other duped & broken former “partners” behind him.  I pity anyone who trusts him with their priceless time, credit rating, camera equipment, or vehicles.  In addition to those crimes, he invaded my home and physically assaulted me.  He is currently hiding out in Montana, plotting his next big con job.  Warning:  do not ever, under any circumstances, believe one word this man utters.

He is a pathological liar.  He never speaks truth.  He sheds crocodile tears.  He is a bad actor.  He is a bad “filmmaker.”  He is a hypocrite, a racist, and a descendant of General Gaines, one of the foremost murderers of native Americans in this country’s history.  He, himself, is quite literally cursed by the Seminole and the Miccosuccee tribes — they have judgments against him for millions:  $,$$$,$$$, and he will never be able to own property in his own name as long as he lives. I believe he is suffering from early onset Alzheimer’s, or some other form of dementia.  Or, just as likely, he has just rotted his brain with too much drinking & drugging.

He abuses women, uses & emotionally abuses everyone he meets, and continues to steal & abuse me emotionally by using my deceased brother’s name as a credit on his illegally obtained footage!  I pray that he doesn’t harm anyone else.  Look at his face and run from it, should you see him.  Forewarned is forearmed.  I owe the world this warning, both as a human being and a fourth generation attorney.

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18 responses to “Leslie Gaines, purported “filmmaker”

  1. How terrible for you!

    Liked by you

  2. oh, don’t worry. he’ll get what he deserves! 🙂

    Liked by you and 1 other person

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  15. theyellowdaily

    A friend found your blog post shortly after this person contacted me and asked me to work on a project with him. Unfortunately, I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. Wish I had listened. He is a bully and a con man – tried to get me to sign a document that would give him 4 years of my hard work. And, give himself a lot of money for doing nothing. He wants me to pay him for things I never asked for or wanted and refuses to let me see the receipts. Something real wrong there – the constant emails, phone calls and messages – “we need to talk about…” but we had just talked about it three days before. Yes, I don’t think that the drugs or alcohol help him any but things seem more sinister than that. He makes me want to get in the shower and wash the filth away – to scrub and scrub. Anyone who is thinking about getting involved with this person really needs to pay attention to what has been said because this person will hurt you – in my opinion.

    Liked by you

    • He got away with $66,000 of mine shortly after I had brain surgery. He knew exactly what he was doing… we had been friends for nearly 15 years. He took advantage of my illness & our former friendship to squeeze me like a lemon. He forgot I am a writer, a lawyer, and an academic. He has forgotten what being honest is like. He has lost whatever it was that made him fully human. I can only pray that he gets it back & I get back what he stole from my children.

      Liked by you

      • theyellowdaily

        I don’t know how you keep looking at that face. It does not surprise me that he took advantage of a friend and won’t surprise me when we hear of more incidents in the future. I hope you get the money back but really doubt that would ever happen. He is no doubt onto scamming the next person now.

        Liked by you

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Giant Redwoods, a poem

illustration muir woods 2

Giant Redwoods

(Statements in italics taken from Ethics, by Baruch de Spinoza)

Look farther and farther toward thin blue sky, until the green feathery tops of the trees are like the northern pole on some dream planet.  Put the anger back in its bottle. These trees are generous.  Hatred can never be good.

Your carsickness from the ride up the mountain begins to fade, leaving behind a breathless, weepy echo not unlike your first religious fervor.  Hatred is increased through return of hatred, but may be destroyed by love.

When have you not been afraid?  The random can be scrutinized for meaning, the puzzle solved, when surveyed long & carefully enough.  Anything may be accidentally the cause of either hope or fear.

These trees have plenty of time.  As a child, you stared at Jesus’ sad face for hours, wishing you could marry him  — wondering what it was that made him love you.  Could you sacrifice yourself for the sins of the world, if it was that simple & necessary? Cathedrals turn us small and vulnerable again, for reasons both blessed & cursed.  Devotion is love towards an object which astonishes us.

Vague, starry eyes like yours feel at home here; the air is weighty, burdensome & solemn. You’ve loved trees before; this is different.  These trees have plenty of time – more time than you.  If we love a thing which is like ourselves, we endeavor as much as possible to make it love us in return.

Your nerves are suddenly frozen, by the unaccustomed richness of perfect light.  Your guide is tall & slender, hesitant to speak.  Her mother has the tattooed forearm of a Polish Jew of a certain age.  The knowledge of good and evil is nothing but an idea of joy or sorrow.  Sorrow is [a hu]man’s passage from a greater to a less perfection.

These trees have plenty of time.  She touches your wrist, and for a moment, you, too, want to grow taller, leaving the surface of the earth behind forever.  Shyly, she picks up a tiny pinecone, smaller than a toy.  You both laugh when she tells you this is their seed.  Joy is [a hu]man’s passage from a less to a greater perfection.

These trees have plenty of time.  And all around, their wise, fallen, hollow bodies litter the ground like the bones of saints.  Childlike, you understand a wish to die here, never to leave this hush.  They’re only trees – your neck bent back as far as it will go; only trees, yet wondering if the giants can hear your thoughts.  Love is joy, with the accompanying idea of an external cause.  Love and desire may be excessive.  When the mind imagines its own weakness, it necessarily sorrows.

Is there anything we have less power over than our own tongues?  These trees have plenty of time, growing wise as the Buddha, in their silence.

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Conjoined Twins, a poem

illustration-conjoined-twins

Conjoined Twins, a poem

Her entire pregnancy was uneventful until the second stage
of labor. Mother pushed and pushed, but we babies could not
budge. Surgeons came, made quick cuts necessary to disengage
us from the womb — found our joined skulls, an impudent topknot.

Mother wouldn’t let them separate us, she said the risk
outweighed the benefits. We learned to walk as best we
could; I, the taller, faced front in hopeful arabesque
while Sister followed. She didn’t mind, droll legatee

of my cranium, girl I never see. Despite our closeness,
we live in opposite ways; I view her face only in mirrors,
with my one good eye — our skin melts together, flawless,
pearly. A nice thing is, we never suffered night terrors.

We have never been alone. When they say, look, Siamese
twins, I want to scream. That is not the proper name for
our arrangement. Sister says, let them talk — I think she’s
crazy to let it pass, but I don’t say that. A big furor

won’t help at all. One trick we are good at is peace.
Negotiation has been our forte since that first incomplete
division; the moment each cell refused the other’s release.
We have minds of our own, thank god, and life is sweet

when you know where you’re bound. I go off to work,
Sister goes too. I sing while I type up my data, she reads
her mysteries, we break for lunch. My boss goes berserk
every once in a while; he’s got the same kinds of needs

for perfection we all possess. The one worry I have
not tamed is which of us will die first. I hope
it’s not me — how would she walk? I am the brave
one, the one who catches bugs. I would try to cope

without her. Once, in the night when she fell sick
with the flu, I held her until the shaking stopped,
until the fever broke. I wondered then, all dyadic
jokes aside, what if we had been cut apart, clipped

early into two separate forms? If it ever comes, will life
on my own be any easier? I’d save some of her long hair,
for sweet remembrance. She’d be a sharp phantom pain, a wolf-
gray stone with my birthday — my head a floating solitaire.

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She Hates Numbers

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doctor’s report: patient a, a short story

Kimberly Townsend Palmer

img244

(originally published in Burning Word)

Doctor’s Report: Patient A, a short story

Patient A is a living museum of femininity, and serves as transitory evidence of extensive neo-geo-psycho-socio-eco-political movement. Designed and built in the second half of the twentieth century, she first gained philanthropic prominence with a cynical, witty, overeducated man eight years her senior, Charles F. She stayed faithful to Charles F. for six months, but the intriguing tales of his former romantic partners, then numbering in the several hundred, irretrievably seized her imagination. She left, and never looked back. She shops for new men the way other women shop for new shoes.

She invariably rejects both the too-easy conquest and the too-stubborn resistance. Every season countless men flock near to witness her fleeting, hormonally-induced states of passion, and observe for themselves her classic “XX” architecture.

If it seems that everything has already been said about Patient…

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Temporal Lobe Epilepsy With Localized/Partial Seizures, a personal essay

illustration temporal lobe epilepsy

I couldn’t go to work today. COULD NOT go. Me. Me! Me!!! The Me I know as Miss Responsible (at least before), or Miss “Took Copious Notes and Asked Earnest Questions of Every Professor She Ever Had” (at least before), or Miss Order of the Coif & Law Review (at least before), Miss Top 5% (at least before)… I COULD NOT go. I could not go, as surely as if I had been very heavily & securely shackled and chained to my bedroom floor with no tools of any kind within reach.

Then, abruptly at 12:11 p.m. – perhaps because Miss Self-Blaming loves to make Miss Responsible feel horrible because she has not done anything productive on this (fucking difficult) day, I am suddenly ORDERED (by a part of myself I don’t know, and, frankly, do not ever want to know) to write about “temporal lobe epilepsy with localized/partial seizures.” This particular moment — Wednesday, August 12, 2015, 12:11 p.m., convinces me that my entire universe — the physical, the emotional, the intellectual, and the creative — has turned into one long, very long, seemingly endless, “temporal lobe epilepsy with localized/partial seizures” episode… at least for right now.

Helpless to help myself, mostly, except for a stubborn, almost instinctual, ability for self-care, feeding & watering. I’m conscious, but either (1) not able to speak aloud, or (2) uncontrollably babbling each & every random thought my storming brain generates. That’s how you can think of a seizure: an electrical storm in the brain. Complete, sometimes, with inner thunder & lightning & high winds. I sometimes wear earplugs, or I sometimes listen to the music I love — and there is a lot of music I love — loud enough to drown out all the sounds that go along with being in a room in a house in a city on planet Earth in the calendar year 2015. Block out the loud, the abrupt, the frightening; nurture the calm, the logical, the safe.

What has saved me thus far, mostly, is the fortunate fact that even in this fucked-up state I can still write — albeit with tons of spelling, punctuation, and grammar errors. At these moments, in particular, I thank God for the generations of computer whiz kids, who gave us things like word processing, complete with editing capabilities, and pretty good grammar & spellcheck. I thank them for these things because another aspect of these seizures is a barely functioning short term memory, and a dreamlike, almost hallucinatory perception of myself and my surroundings… very vivid while it’s happening, and very ass-kicking after it’s over. I do not recommend it as a way of life, or even as a temporary experiment.

I think, but do not yet know for sure, that my “temporal lobe epilepsy with localized/partial seizures” may be permanent, and treatable only with an alarming number of drugs, needing to be taken as many as four times a day. This entire state of affairs is due to the fact that I required brain surgery for a nonmalignant, though large, tumor, which was between, or around, or next to, my frontal and temporal lobes, and as a special bonus, was wrapped around the main aorta of my brain and my right optic nerve. The other permanent souvenir of my tumor and surgery is a 50% vision loss, more or less, in my right eye, and a funky-looking scar on my head that usually isn’t visible (thank god!) because I have very thick, coarse, wavy hair. Horsehair, I used to call it, and I am profoundly grateful for it now, for without it I would remind people of Frankenstein, and quite possibly frighten some children.

I’ve tried to write this without it sounding like a 30’s blues song… what comes to mind is “Down The Big Road Blues,” by Mattie Delaney (born 1905). When I am in this state I find myself missing my daughters… when they were children especially. I miss so many things about them! I miss listening to music or watching a movie or playing a game or just talking with them. They love music, and singing, and laughing, and playing Scrabble intensely. Aren’t the intimate connections, with our intimates & beloveds, what make life worth living? I am so humbly grateful for my beloved partner, my daughters, my dearest human & animal friends, my fellow creatives & nonconformists.

Without all of you, I would be lost. As part of a team — even if it’s only a team in my imagination — I am able to keep doing the next necessary thing, whatever that may be. Sometimes it’s cleaning the floor. Sometimes it’s snuggling my dog. Sometimes it’s work. Sometimes it’s reading. Sometimes it’s meditation. Sometimes it is putting my arms around a living, breathing, warm human. My daughters, as babies, taught me the value of plain old physical closeness to someone we love as we love ourselves. So, I say to myself… “Shoot The Loop,” just like the Acoustic Alchemy song my beloved partner introduced me to.

Thank you for your time and attention. May your day be blessed with clear thinking and right action and peace. May you, may I, and may all the human world keep on waking up from our “very long dream,” into a brilliant and fascinating future. Fascinating. Brilliant. All of us.

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Lilies of the Field, a short story

illustration lilies of the field

Lilies of the Field, a short story

Harry: Boy With Car

In the picture, Harry leaned back on his car, his arms crossed over his chest, tautly, the muscles bulging underneath his white T-shirt. He wore sunglasses and his hair was blown back off his forehead, as if from great speed. The car was a ‘57 Chevrolet, bright blue, brand new. He’d just left his mother’s house to live with a girlfriend, not Joanna — he didn’t meet Joanna for another 10 years. For a long time, he subsisted off a series of dead-end jobs and girlfriends while masquerading as a college student. The women he lived with all had a few things in common: uneducated but bright, a love of dogs, and perky telephone voices. They leaned against him in the front seat when he drove fast and their hair whipped his forehead. He was confident in those days, nothing had ever broken him. He had not yet been given the gift of suffering.

Joanna: The Queen of Grief

Joanna, in a state of grief and intoxication, returning from her grandmother’s funeral, sat in an automatic photo booth in Atlanta, eyes closed, lips pursed, head tilted back, her skin glowing white, her face blurred, too high to be captured on film. She met Harry in the local airport when she got home. He was intoxicated also, and was leaving to report to the Marines. She gave him her address and phone number and one of the blurry photos. He kept the picture in his wallet and called her every day, collect, from boot camp. She lay awake all night thinking about him, reciting romantic poetry into a tape recorder, then sent him the tape. She was disappointed in love before, but only by herself. She was cold and polite while others were warm and fumbling. How did one love another, anyway? She was, at heart, a hermit, but too much of a coward to live as one. It made for a tumultuous love life.

If Wishes Were Fishes

Harry sat in profile on the edge of a riverbank, his hair dripping forward over his forehead, his shoulders hunched, wearing red bathing trunks, and his black boots lying on his crumpled clothing. He refused to look at the camera. A pale straw hat had fallen off his head and lay directly behind him. The day was bright and clear. He was home from the Marines after 8 weeks, having been excused on medical grounds. He phoned Joanna upon his return. He lived in his car until he moved in with her. Harry said he despised her money and wished she were penniless. Secretly, he realized it didn’t hurt that all the bills were paid regardless of what else was happening. He took to collecting glass paperweights, and Joanna bought one for him everywhere she went. Gradually, Harry started to acquire her taste in champagne.

Woman with Drugs

Joanna stood on a wolf skin rug over a floral Persian carpet, in front of a lace curtain. Her dress reached the floor, white, with puffed sleeves, taken in at the waist by a narrow belt with a small bow. She held a sprig of marijuana in her left hand. Her hair was dark red, her lips painted scarlet. Her skin was only slightly darker than her dress and the curtain. Flowers were scattered in front of her feet on the wolf-fur. Harry was behind the lens, mocking the Impressionists. He admitted to himself for the first time that he was glad Joanna had money, though he would still love her if she were penniless.   He was the opposite of a snob — he made Joanna feel guilty that her family had taken advantage of his by accumulating more than they’d needed. The shadow of her money hung over them like a disused, rotting gallows.

Drawing the Line

Harry and Joanna were dancing. He had his arm tightly about her waist. She wore a red hat and looked away from him, over her right shoulder at the ground. He asked her to marry him, and she refused. He kept asking, and in a year she got pregnant and said yes. She didn’t believe in abortion. He began to ask her to put some part of her assets in his name, for the child’s sake. She refused. He accused her of frivolous spending and waste. She took an extended trip across the country with the baby, leaving Harry at home to care for the dogs. While she was gone, he brought a prostitute home and lived with her for a week. The prostitute wore all of Joanna’s lingerie and jewelry, but Harry didn’t let her sleep in their bed. When Joanna returned, Harry had drunk half a bottle of whiskey and vomited on the kitchen floor.

Acquisition

Joanna stood in the yard wearing a blue silk windbreaker. It was bitter cold and windy. Her hair obscured her eyes. Both she and Harry felt like he was taking her picture for a “wanted” poster. The baby screamed while Harry took the photos. In the beginning, Harry had wanted Joanna to make him feel real, rooted, and loved, to have all the accoutrements of material wealth without having to actually acquire them himself. To acquire material wealth, oneself, was such a tiresome prospect. After all, thought Harry, Joanna did not have to acquire it herself, she got it from her family. Now he’d be satisfied if she paid him with a bit of kind attention. She waited patiently for him to commit adultery, not knowing about last year’s whore. Meanwhile, their life in bed had dwindled down to almost nothing. Partly due to his drinking, partly due to her disinterest.

Disposition

Harry sat on a kitchen chair, elbows on his knees, and hands under his chin. He tried to look cute. Joanna pointed the camera at him and smiled, hoping to hide her inner revulsion. The problem was, they never fought about anything specific — they just fought. She wanted Harry to want her in a way better than the way in which she wanted him. A needier, nobler way of wanting — something that would take the whole heart, not just a sad, tacky corner of it, the way she felt wanting Harry occupied hers. Unfortunately, Harry didn’t seem capable of neediness and nobility, no more capable than she. How much money would Harry want, she wondered? She had an appointment with a lawyer in the morning. Joanna had been lonely when they met. If she expected comfort from Harry, she did not get it. It was too bad about the child, it was always too bad about that.

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