Eastern Addends

My AdSense problem is driving me to distraction, not because I was breaking even, or as yet had much hope of moving to a media outlet, but this was an investment I had made in my own abilities, after twenty plus years of publishing, and now it seems I have fallen into a bewildering hole, one that probably has a simple solution. I tried the AdSense community support in April, before LiveJournal Russia took it upon themselves to strip their paid users, and the respondent simply wrote what the AdSense FAQ already says about generated code. Benjamin has not returned my call, and the reason he lashed out at me, the ugly thing I wrote that pissed him off, was that when I was finally driven into another home, he did not have to visit me, since my family support amounts to a flush in the toilet; this is what set him off; he is not the best candidate to assist.

Over my huge Trader Joe's Angus beef burger, which either furthered the hypothetical occlusion but made me feel anchored, back to myself, which flagged the thought that perhaps I needed the fat and the protein, I thought of the investment in time and money it would take for me to try Drexel University's computer center. My cousin and his wife work in accounts, and I've been on campus before, not to any great impression. I cannot work this angle any futher this evening, but made one post for help @ LiveJournal itself. They owe me.

Eastern Abstracts

I rather do not know where Orlando is, since I have mentioned it, and it is not so beloved for its satire that I am willing to upchuck for a kindle edition. I am togging with my reacher, in the lower milk crate that one of my former female attendants put together. I did not like her either, and she is long gone, with her side dialogues to her *brother* driving the Paratransit van about Armageddon being upon us because of a black child selling pretzels on the expressway. Despite Niall Ferguson's respect and highlight of the Protestant work ethic, Christianity is absurd, especially in the mouths of minorities looking for an excuse. I know how easy it is. God took Joey away to punish me is an easier rationalization than the reality of the fact that my cat's urinary tract issues had me constantly stressed, and my choice not to overreact and get him in by the 15th of May is what killed him, and is affecting the stress on my own health. My entire left side feels like a stroke waiting to happen, and I have mild spates of light headedness. "Go to the doctor!" No. I do not wish to know whether the would be onocologist Dr. Lantz is right, and my fall in 2008 prompted metastasis, or I am right, and it is an occlusion from bad habits getting worse. If I no longer have the opportunity to succeed in this country, then no, I am not punishing myself with more surgery, or chemo, or breast reconstruction I cannot afford. I will surrender to my body, whatever event it wants to have. Orlando is not lost, and is in the bottom of my pile in the lower crate. Perhaps I will start it again today, a compromise between not doing anything at all because the humidity has me in a vacuum wrap, but not wishing to return to bed. I am not my Aunt Marie, my father's sister, and the harder reality for me to accept is I should not try to adopt again, at least until I make some sales, or find some income generating activity that can accommodate my failing strength, but I remain undecided. Vinne is still mewing, looking for Joey, smelling the cushion from my equally fucked ex-fiance where Joey slept, and this breaks my heart more.

Funereal Esplanade

I did call my brother this evening around nine to see if he would assist me with the AdSense authentication code for this Blogger account. Benjamin is *done* with me because he feels guilty about my circumstances. I ceased being the stoic elder among my siblings, surviving siblings, and took a pic axe to the birthday card facade, and the luv ya! from my unfortunate half brother, who is the sire of a dead alcoholic whose schizophrenia was blooming when he was my deceased mother's lover, turned into "you and your wicked tongue; no one wants to deal with you, probably bipolar, go get some help, you're not coming to my house and I am not responsible for your fucked up life..." but both he and the middle princess, Stephanie, were perfectly fine taking four thousand dollars from their disabled public housing sister who spent the early years of her twenties starving on egg noodles in the inner city. I have to be insane you see, because I violate good manners that Levi-Strauss worked so hard to prove was a universal concern through his research into the Borneo tribes in his now famous study The Raw and the Cooked, which I doubt anyone would contend isn't the structuralist masterpiece of its era, but I called him anyway, and can still pull rank even if diagnosing me is his way of compartmentalizing me aside, or downwind, from his familial stresses. I have a chip on my shoulder, as relates to his better half, in relation to his selfishness, but remain more wounded from my sister's indifference, which some of you may have read from my other account.




No mental health professional ever diagnosed me as bipolar like my mother, even when I drove myself in to one of the old intake centers during my post-supervisor depressive episode, and even when I suggested to a no name treating intern that I would try an anti-depressant to see if the drug would heal the wound. It did not. Brand name Wellbutrin (I nearly always misspell its proper name)  knocked me out. I could not transfer from my wheelchair safely, but it was only after Daniel Schneider came trolling to put me, poor spastic, on his poor man's groupie mailing list, that I tried saturating myself with a heavy fish diet and salmon oil and I posted that on good days, it moderates. I could not expect miracles after losing Joey, however, and grew a little weary, last week, of our species ocean rape for our seafood palette. Varied my diet but upped the oil ingestion.

Does the medical model label matter? I suppose it depends, if it might have saved David Foster Wallace, or Virginia Woolf, which it did not. Wallace had the technical advantage, and Woolf has my admiration. I am reading Jacob's Room, comforted by her mild individuation of Topaz the cat, who "was now a very old and mangy cat and would soon have to be killed." The only Woolf novel I ever formally studied and finished was To The Lighthouse, remarkable, however we label her diagnosis, that she could complete such a masterpiece. Woolf is no Sylvia Plath, and has a real social intelligence that remains a quiet genius that even the studio system quietly translates. I have Orlando and Mrs. Dalloway. The latter is still uncut; the former I may have to start again. I am in the middle, before the master's sex change. Whether or not Woolf was bi, and her mental instability may have contributed to that, I do not read Orlando in the modern sense of transgender advocacy. Many readers would disagree with me on this, but I will tackle my argument with a finished, fresher reading in the future. I viewed a mediocre adaptation of the novel years ago, when Bravo was actually a relevant syndicator.


Heat, grief, a life long marginalized poverty. I have to compartmentalize AdSense away this humid morning, but I hope to make an effort to solve my illiteracy after the heatwave, as I have a great deal of content to transfer anyway, aside from pitches, my creative writing, whose production has slowed, because I must do less

Review Sidenotes

Perhaps American movie critics think the Intouchables is racist because the majority of white Americans do not want to deal with the fact that disabled individuals like myself are forced into intimate relationships with minorities from the lower economic strata, and the reason I took what little heat I received from my twitter critics because the holy grail of diversity has been shoved down my throat, and I have been protesting about it ever since.

Brain Fog Blue

I am not as entirely polished with blogging as are established media hands, nor those writers with established artistry; even after two years, it is a roughshod process trying to get in the zone, or forcing myself into it, and I am positively stone age when it comes to apps, but I should have left LiveJournal a long time ago, and I am depressed and discouraged about it. If this site, as a service provider, is any reflection of how Microsoft potty trains programmers, I'd speculate this once dynamic company has serious problems, much as I do, a freelance writer seeing herself fossilize. More setback, more work, revising two years of posts I cannot export under my own intellectual power, but it is just as well. I will be revising everything that I keep from LiveJournal, and if I still do not know how to put this Google Blogger code into my Adsense account, maybe it will be easier to learn now that LiveJournal has been dropped as a third party client. I still need assistance, or a tutorial for those of us who are illiterate when it comes to code, but I will desist from asking for help in Blogger itself, though I may keep you advised of my progress, assuming that the small following I have picked up carries over. It is of concern. I used to read Dick Polman regularly, Andrew Sullivan as well, and these men are mighty mice next to yours truly, but when Dick moved to WHYY Newsworks, I dropped him, and Andy, through no fault of his own, I have adopted as a cultural enemy, and no longer read him as often. Tracked him over the years, however, but no longer have the time to scroll him daily, so who will have time for me, as I struggle, dense and befuddled, to transition, to remonetize while I still have the resources to stay monetized?

My half brother Benjamin went to school for this, but knows Mac better than pcs. We are currently not on speaking terms, as you will read in my archives, but if AdSense support winds up confusing me more than my first click of surfing through it, if I can get him to speak to me, perhaps he can tell me in plain English how to handle authentication code. I know Google values efficiency, but I am a depressed old spastic who is not teaching literature to eleventh grade juniors, and who dramatically flamed out of social services, and when the evidence is analysed, becoming more marginalized by the hour. Technical giants don't always consider people like me. I need to be shown what to do, and sometimes more than once. Stubborn obstinancy, however, that I have in spades, and will plow on, provided Google doesn't boot me when I become inflammatory. I read the terms of service as I always read the terms of service, but to the extent that this is taking place in a viral corporate universe, being impolitic and deliberately violating table manners is always a risk in public, even with content warnings. Whether to its credit or not, I am more paranoid about Google than Microsoft, so it may be an interesting contest between fear and assertion. Time will tell, not that I am a hack who wants to expressed bigoted rants merely to throw a tantrum. If attempting to live as a naive progressive has transformed me, my fascism is tempered in arsenic.

Creative Destruction

I am angry at the authentic pain of my grief, even though I'm as human as any other pet owner. My anger is due to lack of time for mourning, for the emotional investment I had, and like my investment in trying to change Frank, who is like Clifford Chatterley, for those of you who know your Lawrence, regressive without the veneer of much social polish , that investment will now have a decorative ash container for a focal point. You can envision me holding Joey's ashes in my lap, rocking back and forth, the inflamed blood pressure in my face about to burst, a fucking piteous hag whose attachment to this creature cost me over three thousand dollars. Considering that I have been unemployed more or less since AccessLife ended in 2001, we are not talking poultry feed, and I am angry at Marie, angry at my inability to say no to her. She nests everyone with a creature. Most Southern European families have these Dolittle characters, saddling everyone with a puppy or a kitten barely weaned.

All of this enters into the writing, but as I have complained, there has been very little joy for me, even when I tried to configure hope within Catholicism. My negotiations with the divine were more like Marxist unionists engaging in riots. Sex was never much, and only turned me on when it was liberating within the betrayal of borrowing husbands.

Not a huge Jim Carrey fan, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is nevertheless on the agenda, and it is nice to know it is a free stream, because the issue of losing memory interests me, given that trauma has the upper hand in having shaped who, and what I am. I know. Gnostic Christians would say I had six years with a silky grey cat with a sweet and spoiled temperament, and Oliver before that survived nearly twenty years despite the fact that most of that was hand to mouth, and for now, I still have the little one.

I have failed career, relationships, and quality friendships, and my freelancing is stalled, perhaps beyond bereavement, though my slow down can in part be blamed on my nicotine battles. Is it so much to ask, as a disabled woman, for a revamp, before I need beta blockers and oxygen to linger on in chronic stasis?

　

　

　

The Ivy League

I ama food agnostic today. Considered an omelet, but it would trigger my emotions, because Joey was always in my face when I made eggs. Settled on Danish pancakes and coffee, topped by a small salami on cracker. I'll make my omelet after dark, (which I haven’t yet) having to accept that I will cry, off and on, for some time. Vinne mews, going to Joey's spots, looking up at me, "Mom, where is he?"

Misty Bojangles

Vinne, however, doesn't get sick, as I sit here vacillating over adopting him a new companion. The ashes will be in next week, and everyone wants me to get another cat, in a Kantian universal that unites my black handlers and my white family. I have the little one to consider, whether or not it is fair to him not to have another roommate, Fuck. If, and this is a big if, I bid to adopt another, no kitten. I'd rather rescue an older animal at risk.

I spent a small fortune on Dr. Eigner's practice  we all do on the sliding scale of limited resources. Cassie recommended her to me, and I am not complaining. Eigner kept Oliver alive until I moved ten minutes away from her offices, and then he lived too long, and had to suffer for my sake, and now Joey is dead, and only work of some sort will restore the flaming hole in my savings; I also do not have to keep manufacturing these artifices of absence. My goodbye to Joey was my butchered fused foot pressing on his rigor stiff thigh. He passed in such a way that I could not move him myself, not safely, and only the tech pressing his body in the carrier, like packing a toy, broke through my shock.

When Oliver died, the vase of ash was the stuff of literary satire. Keeping Joey's is a self-imposed sentence, but also an acknowledgement. I loved Joey best, but was too stingy to be wrong a third time in a row.

House Wrap was in keeping with the spirit of the show, even if it did not entirely subvert expectations. I am trying to stream the Wilson prognosis episode, and for our purposes was successful, but I am not sure when I will return to our deconstruction of this much touted series. So much to mourn.

Pedestrian Stages

Niall is doing his thing about the fall of western civilization and the rise of the east on American television, and my sympathy for his five minutes to midnight approach on this topic is a wan shrug. I really do not care if what remains of the Peoples' Republic Communist Party takes over. I have tracked modern China since Mao's widow was still alive and made power intrigues; I am no more impressed today, but I am watching, taking baby steps back. The reason I am agnostic about Niall's thesis, which, as any good scholar does, relates to his others, can be put in his own words: in the modern era, the concept of empire is over.

With that as a given, China's hybrid Deng reform model has rolled back Mao's excesses, without a doubt, but I am highly skeptical that I'll live to see Asian hegemony offer me any solutions for my old age. If the imperial age is over, perhaps the age of the superpower is also finished. I would have gotten Joey in if I had been sure it was a block, just so you know. I was not positive it was not allergies, and his health issues more than likely would have continued to drag out. I need to weigh guilt in that light; he had a chronic condition and I have limits. I upped my salmon oil dosage liberally, nearly 4000 ml. I have to go get more tomorrow. Joe's was out, and I need cat food, of course; the weather remains highly volatile, and this is an issue, regardless of my personal upkeep.

If I flee Philadelphia I am not sure what will happen, but I am very close. Spastic's soul says run. I am serious, and I am not sure if this is a psyche's attempt to stay alive as opposed to creative destruction. I'd only know through playing the card. This is my deceased brother's birthday, and I have discussed him before in slight detail with my audience. Straight face, I am not sure about his level of psychopathy, or if a professional would have considered his problem closer to a personality disorder, but he is guilty of things that my anger, however corrosive it may be to my contemporary health, could never contemplate. It is common, in disability culture, for rage to overtake our helplessness, and whatever my intelligence, I am not above being overtaken by it. I hope I can reach some of you, for conscience and educational awareness, before that aggression devolves me, if it does. Odds are that it shall, since I have little time left before I will be forced, or have to give in to a broken body past the half century mark.

Feline Memoriam

Biology in a modern urban environment both eliminated and added to my stress: Joey died sometime this morning, and my lack of due diligence is in part responsible. I would say I am on hiatus, but I am never all that diligent on not reversing myself .His ashes will cost me slightly over two hundred dollars, but my sweet little fur ball loved me more than any human being ever did. Vinne is busy looking for his brother, and that is making me cry. First time death hit me up close, and it is, as observers have said, mundane. Rigor has comic aspects. Could someone take me out for a drink if they will be in center city next week?



The question was tossed out in the original post in futility, in the need for the kind of companionship we get in university when we become temporary alcoholics in a socialized pressure cooker.

Mr. Bojangles

I am in no condition for professional distance. My small following online will have to be patient for my aging mind to resume burrowing towards my theses and recounting the resumption of some sort of living as mine nears its end, and yes, I am as morbid as you like, but also an astute observer, and suspect my mortality will match my mother's in longevity if not suddenness: bad vascular circulation in my legs, decrease in breathing function, broken heart, and in some ways just as ignorant as I find most others to be. Perhaps Jerry treated me as normal when I was 19 because he himself had mildly manic qualities so that we clicked on the teacher/student paradigm, and I could manipulate him, but that only up to a point. I am angry at him too, but not for rejecting my confessional mind games; cognizant of the fact that this anger is unfair to the man. The grown up spastic looking back knows he treated me better than my own family does, did the best he could for me, and it is not his fault that my own intellectual discipline failed to conquer my self-pity, which I dole out and dish up in spades.

I do not want to be this spinster, a quintessential Aileen Wuornos in my own right, with dead animal trophies, mourning carnivorous personalities. It is a character type often and easily ridiculed, even while I realize I killed my proxy child through lack of vigilance. A hard truth for a quadriplegic in my situation, but a basic one. Joey nagged me incessantly for treats, and I gave in, buying the available rather than coaxing him to accept the medical diet, and in trying to curb my anxiety over his straining, trying to constrain my reactions and budget, I killed him, my baby boy, the sweetest cat in the world, a maudlin biddy telling The Cat Doctor staff "I'm sorry," as if I expect their absolution.

I'd rather be the Diane Lane in Unfaithful, conflicted even in the liberation of sexual betrayal, but I was actually the Paul Martinez figure. The reason I do not discuss this is fear of the wives. I got caught, once, and it was pretty horrible. A dead cat is pedestrian by comparison to a courtesan's criminality.

And An Adjunct

Monster is not a film about environments that ferment disabling conditions so much as disabling rationalizations that fall apart for Aileen Wuornos as soon as she creates them. It is interesting to note, however, that Jenkins' framed the prostitute's remorse over the killing of the retired officer with the jump cut of Theron holding his wallet and realizing his wife was most likely paraplegic, exciting Aileen's pity, to the extent that her girlfriend's narrative is factual.

Aileen's Arc

I have not researched Aileen Wuornos much beyond scans to see if I would enjoy the Patty Jenkins' film, and I am not sure what it would do for me as a writer to engage in such research. Patty already took this up as a cause celebre and made her critical impact, not to detract from the performances of Theron and Ricci, but the film unsettled me. I know it is not due to the execution, nor the rather soft lesbianism, (I did not feel threated by it, in other words, and my archives will have the low down on this) and my welfare life with my mother was not that close to the narrative, merely almost as bad. Losers pay a brutal price in this country, maybe that is it, but I have tried all my life to do the right things to succeed, and my life nearly amounts to an ugly hooker's table turning rage. I know I am disabled, but I shouldn't have to settle for this near inability to experience anything else except a poverty paradigm for the defeated. Yes, Monster shows that Aileen tried to go straight after she killed the pathological misogynist, but Patty Jenkins had an agenda, whatever her fidelity to the truth, that truth seems still murky to me.

I was nearly a victim of date rape, and I bear some blame for it, for moving to the inner city to prove a point, maybe for letting my emotions get the better of me, but I never sank the way this prostitute allowed herself to sink, and here I am at the half century mark, nearly short of cracking because I want better options than passive compliance. One of Liberty's now retired coordinators, who knew me when I was still active at Liberty, said during my spiral down the drain to where I am now, that "You shouldn't have to work," in that usual condescending fashion these case managers have, but everyone should be respected for wanting to be of use as long as we can. Many CIL consumers make excuses, and you've read me falling into that, in relation to bus routes, Paratransit, and while I do not mind doing grunt work in this studio for an hourly sum, I do not want to set myself up for more failure. I am not a good receptionist, and lousy at typing, and trying to compete for those positions isn't in my best interest at my age. I'd rather modify my writing skills in between freelancing jobbers. And if I can't?

The film eclipses how hard Aileen actually tried, and maybe that is what's nagging me about the gaps in her biography. She looks a little like my mother's lesbian welfare comrade Kmac. Not exactly, but there is an echo of resemblance in the smirk, the flush of the skin in the shot, at least in this Wiki photo. My mother regretted telling me that Kmac courted her, as I wrote in some earlier posts, and I regret knowing, not simply out of revulsion, but because this woman made the few safe havens of my childhood a lie, and yes, I had an attachment to her as the more stable figure then, between the two of them, my mother and her butch buddy. There were issues between this woman and her deceased daughter, whose obituary I also posted when I was still active on the now fabled literature network forums.

You know what? I actually do want to enjoy a bit of life in the little time I have left before I get locked back in some real cage under another name. I don't have much in the quality quiver before I physically weaken into that reality, and yet in a very real sense, I have been punished much like Wuornos, battling with some of the same negatives that led her onto her desperate bid.

Paper Moon

It is a contradiction in terms, to complain about LiveJournal, and yet continue to post the deplorable sentiments on the darker side of difference, but this is due to the fact that I am utterly ignorant about handling Google's applications to fully move over to Blogger. I know it is simply a matter of transferring code, but I do not understand how to do it. No mind here for computer science, but I will soon have to clear my slate for three or four days, and resolve these issues, including cleaning up and/or reformatting my laptop, as I have lost my ads so the sympathetic among you can pitch me pennies, and there is absolutely no reason to stay if something is wrong with the Ad Sense application.

Mind, I do not have any intense feelings about LJ--I just have not found any writers here who click, who are on my same wave length, or even smarter. Other than certain communities, most other member journalists don't engage me as a reader, although I am obviously supportive of the disabled community that exists, but they cannot help me, insofar as I know, and I cannot help them. Not really, not anymore. I am tapped out, first and foremost, in part, sinking, though I do try to resist indulging the fact that I am in pain, at least directly, and political ideology does not seem to have any solutions for me. I disagree with the ACLU, for instance, on certain key points, like gender equality, and their protection of the far left, specifics of which will be left for another day, but vainly hope to deploy them, simply due to the fact that I am too poor to relocate myself out of Riverside on my own accord.

I scanned Yahoo Trending about the suicide of Robert Kennedy Jr's ex-wife, and I have more reasons in the field than Spalding, or David, and Mary too, to consider early termination, but I am too angry to imagine those who know me saying "how sad," and a certain defiance, as well as a co-mingling of lethargy, and my still mewing desire to salvage some kind of achievement, this has held me back, but by the same token, I need to bring some kind of change to the fore, because my strength is not superhuman.

Ryan O'Neal discussed Tatum's antipathy to his relationship with Farrah , and I see this as something quite normal in relation to father daughter dynamics in a broken home. With a name made actor like O'Neal these typical bourgeoisie issues are somewhat inflated by Tinseltown glitter. My relationship with my father's other women, especially my stepmother, was fraught with conflict when not absolutely ice cold, and this is very middlebrow, pedestrian, not quite high enough for A-list scandal status, such as swirled around Tiger Woods, and the dent that his marital splintering had on the fact that others depend on his image for their livelihood.

Ryan's Ubiquitious Crab

I have to give Ryan O'Neal credit. His interview with Tavis Smiley to promote the new book about life with Farrah Fawcett is the worst thing I've seen since the modern format was generated. There is a subtext here relating to the resentment of adulation, which I have previously discussed, and which makes it interesting, despite O'Neal's own disenchanted ennui. Fame is a burden, especially when it leaves you behind, its capital exhausted, and the only thing left is the salacious twitter that you're the guy who hooked up with the bionic man's wife, and Tatum did not make a successful transition like Jodie Foster. Tatum ceased being America's darling a long time ago, with just enough clout for bit parts on Criminal Intent, though Wolf's franchise has also exhausted its relevance. Ryan finally remembers to turn on his persona for the last ten minutes, but still says stupid things, without admitting the obvious, which is that he wrote the book to piggyback on his deceased wife's currency, needing the money, though of course Farrah's death from cancer is not Eric Segal's sappy Love Story, which has its own subtext of America's Wasp elite crumbling before neo-liberalism's expression of personal autonomy. In 2012 this is nearly what the Victorian Era represented to the absolute ideological thrust of the 20th century, culminating in the seizure of world wars, end result being that boundaries have all but been eradicated. As much as I'd like to offer O'Neal my commiseration, his resentments seem somewhat flimsy. The entertainment industry is what it is in the United States due to the triumph of material glamour, and I myself cannot exhaust too much capital on the fact that a Barbie Doll modality was one of the many burdens he and Fawcett had to carry, while she fought hard in her maturity before that camera to be an Authentic Woman. Real humanity is still invisible in this context, the reality of bodily vunerability being left to progressive documentaries about human disease and denial of mortality.

Ennui's Last Omelette

The sad thing is any American woman could wind up becoming Aileen Wuornos. My mother came closer than I did to this type of existential tragedy, but her pregnancy with Benjamin, for those of you keeping score, my half brother who now like my sister has ceased talking to me, screwed her brain back on temporarily, and she pulled up just enough, at least just enough to see my other brother to his death, then her father, and she survived just barely long enough to see me end the Italian wedding gala to Frank. Part of me wonders if I killed her because I did not marry the poor ugly  bastard, and my sister feels the same way, guilty, because granny had to give her money for the brood. That is how my mother's life ended, with Stephanie's dependency. My sister is a weak and shallow mother, expecting hand outs, and the last time she and I spoke, she screamed at me that I hated her, and no, that isn't quite the case, but I don't like her very much, and don't miss her angst and its primacy, honestly, even though I myself have lost every social extension except for my online relatively impolitic interactions, or meeting new editors in email and then failing them. With a sniggered gut curdle, I am not sure this counts, not that I am actively going to make a proactive save attempt today. Maybe a passive one, due to the weather.

I streamed Monster on a whim, and my initial reaction is that I did not need another welfare white trash story on top of all the others that have pissed on my life. I am not faulting Charlize Theron. She pulls out a master habitation with her B-grade actress larger than life bravado. The reviewers are right, and Patty Jenkins indicts this country more than Aileen Wuornos herself. The story just hits too close to home, too close to my own sense of desperate strain against the feeling of the noose around my neck, and I have no desire to pump bullets into tricks, good bad or sick, and know it is late in the day for justice to ease my circumstance, and my education is no longer enough, perhaps, against encroaching physical vulnerability. I am going to rest now before the second to last episode of my favorite network show airs this evening. I was going to post a LiveJournal poll asking if anyone wanted to party during the last episode next week, but did not want to put myself in the position of not getting any responses.

More Arteriosclerosis

nTaking a break from my need to do activities, I just finished balancing my checking account to the nearest estimate, and listened once again to the pleasures of Swimming to Cambodia. Spalding Gray had a vivacious wit, and an apparently vibrant life, and yet his doom was encoded within his abilities, and his presumed suicide posits relief as opposed to the outrage I have had to tunnel through regarding David Foster Wallace. I suppose that is odd, but Spalding's suffering was of a different timbre, and had qualities of manic saintliness, more along the lines of an affectuoso. The thought occurred to me, in the back of my mind, that Greg Zacharias responded to my post to the James list the way that he did because he thought my phrase "a collusion of peers" had a whiff of the anti-Semitic about it.

That was not my intent, however, and he did not respond to my email. Though normally I would make a caviler comment at this point, I do not like being on the wrong side of terminal degree scholars whose connections could be of use, assuming I do not kick the bucket from my deterioration, though I feel slightly indignant, as I am not his student, and wasn't disrupting a lecture. My assumptions about the Jamesians have backfired on more than one occasion, but the reason this latest round of cattiness troubles me is because Greg recently surprised me by passing my proposed thesis along the pipeline, and this led me to speculate that perhaps I had erred in seeing myself as an incongruent fit. Like James himself, I chaw on slim pickings, and for all I know at this point, maybe the entire community of lively intelligent invalids lurks on the James list so that we don't, to steal from Rosy's exit in The Princess Casamassima , "blow our brains out." James was fond of that phrase in his middle period, when he wrote the novels no one particularly likes.

Ah well. If you were a man so inclined I'd hide a knowing smile in a sprig of violets, but this is what it comes to for potato pouch unhappy women, worrying about internecine back bites.

Now Steve's Elastic

I am by no means an aficionado of Steve Martin's rise to recognition. There were the glaring white suits, which only someone like Martin could wear; there was the King Tut bit, his appearances on variety shows, about which I can no longer be definitive. Those who knew who he was before these breaks are on the inside of the comedy circuit, much as I was once on the inside of the Rust Belt's literary matrix, but I was never particularly enthusiastic about his satire, which falls under the heading of not knowing why certain people stay famous, but Leap of Faith, like his later film, Shopgirl (2005), is n outlier, despite the fact that Pearce gives way at the end to populist sentiment, as I wrote here, in a revised "Ecclesiastical Concerns".

Not so faithful in my viewing of the film that I can recall the script and dialogue with exacting nuance, I can still make certain observations about Pearce's modality within his Midwestern contextual globe that these actors inhabit convincingly: Martin's hair on the bus in the opening shot, when they are on the road just before they break down in Hick Town USA, has an exaggerated drag queen aspect to it which I find off putting, which is part of my problem with liking Steve Martin in the first place. His "jerk" character seems to have an authentic reality somewhere inside of his crazy guy act, although in recent years, now that we're in sobering mode, the last time I paid any attention to him was when he was on a program proclaiming the virtues of the banjo. We'll return after I take my usual sore buttock pressure sore break. Hopefully I will not overshoot my mark for later this afternoon.

Elastic Smokescreens

Bad couple of survival days following my May 9th post, but I feel better now, discounting indigestion from the largest dose of Aleve that I am willing to take, which is brand name naproxen rather than ibuprofen, all the while tapping a pencil against the cranium, how am I going to save my article, but I'll ride out trying certain sources until next week. Perhaps my age is not going to allow me any redemption of misery, I can only speculate, especially when it takes me over an hour to do lateral transfers and dress, and then have another half hour of difficulty engaging in the reverse from joint pain, and overtiring. Back when I spayed my anger at the pedestrian suburbanites in the P&W Speakeasy, at least I still had the strength to fuel the outcry, and my willingness to fight. Of course I'm weakening, what else can I expect? But if I am unsafe doing transfers and hand grips that are second nature, then I made those pedestrian emerging writers and authors fear or ostracize or engage in contention with me for naught, and between 98 and 02 and now, I still want the same things, to salvage a career, better quality of autonomy, and to cite Carole King, recording artist of my youth, whose Tapestry I once knew by heart, but it's too late baby now, it's too late, aside from the fact that Obama has sunk another notch in my wilting support for him, and yes, you knew I would write that, just as if I could get past the fact that Romney sickens me, his preparatory school behavior actually has moved him up the ladder. Why? Honesty, just like Martin Peretz and his difficult attitude with Muslims. We're all bigots, and while table manners are what makes social group dynamics interesting, I do believe that prevarication has taken progressives too far, and there will be backlash, maybe not in my lifetime, but it will occur, I am nearly certain.

The issue, however, is not marriage equality, but Obama's prevarication; he is getting as bad, nearly, as Fern Markowitz, my favorite Jewish lesbian. Obama knows full well that federal supremacy goes back to Chief Justice John Marshall, and a patchwork of states not honoring the marriage licenses issued by other states isn't sustainable, and I doubt the current Chief Justice, Roberts, is going to rupture the edifice by which Marshall made SCOTUS a co-equal branch of government.

Because I do believe in a citizen's civic responsibility, I am conflicted about my vote this November. Abstaining is a cop out, but we don't seem to have many other options. I am debating a write-in.

Totem Heroes

Linda Lee Cadwell is an American princess tragedy if there ever was one. White to Asian liaisons may not have the same level of stigma attached to them that white to African pairings used to, but in 1964 this must have raised a few eyebrows, Linda's marriage to Bruce Lee, who I suppose ushered in the studio system's exploitation of martial arts as graphic mythology, one that has evolved, with the Chinese and Japanese engaged in gaming theory authencity at times, though today's contemporary academy darlings can of course homage their existence to Akira Kurosawa.

Rashomon the Crow franchise is not, but it is fascinating to see how, almost like a hyper-alloy, B-grade superlative ability merges into personal tragedy, legacy cut short twice over. Bruce dies a sudden medical death from cerebral edema, which any writer could relish for not being hackneyed (although maybe it is, or would be in print, or would need a rather deft touch to have an impact) and then the son of the father gets killed by a prop in a hybrid flick, costing the princess who took a risk another shattered octave.

I stayed up Sunday morning to see if Wicked Prayer stood out any better, and the answer is yes and no. David Boreanaz plays villains with a satirical B flat strum that reminds me of his father's personable weather forecast delivery-- probably a reason why his Angel always disappointed me-- and Dennis Hopper sadly needed the money for his cancer treatment, but this third installment was more interesting, in its own way, a hybrid-hybrid variation whose hackneyed brutality is still wince worthy.

If Lance Mungia had played this movie just a bit straighter, it might have actually been frightening, and it also might have had a lesson to offer about how the history of oppression has its own gaming theory consequences, because the tribes are still trampled, even if casinos on the reservation can be arguably deemed a payback. Every ethnic group is using material high jinks that European culture superimposed, and though I may be weary of entitlement chips on the shoulder, a la Martin Luther King, the overlay of materialism on historic and cultural heritage may not bode well for the species.

The Crow saga is onto something with the vulnerable avenger troping. We see it in films like Hancock, or Steig Larsson's autonomic heroine. Brandon Lee had a decent romantic flair, in his own sudden death forever lost potential. Poor princess Linda, and her quieter tragic cult.

Transient Ventricles

Settled down, I am a bit winded, in my sister's faded navy blue maternity jumper, with the belly hole. I rarely wear it in public, and in fact, most of my clothes are worn out recycle items, ruined, stained, never mind fashionable.  Much doing needs to be done this week, both due to and in spite of my troubled article, and cannot afford to be winded by phlegm build up, haunted as I am by this wee small implosion. It is not the editor and has nothing to do with her. She is a judicious diplomat and praised me where merited, no, this is an issue of my own weakness, morally, or medically, if one needs to see it that way: if I cannot meet the demands of magazine publishing cycles, I'm sunk, and this has hit me in the past week to my inner core, beyond Linda as a pained figurine in my psyche, not that this woman is not a genuine source of pain, she is, but writing is what I am, and I fell down on a perfect opportunity. This hits the real me, not the disabled identity that I am sick of, quite frankly, and it is a problem I will have to handle with more deft caution in the future, that is, if I ever make another sale in my life, after openly discussing this failure. And openly discussing it is more risky, professionally, than any personal details, or gossip that I''ve posted.

I missed a film that might have been applicable for our purposes,  but no matter in the moment, as I am winded.

*
As I tend to regenerate a little energy in the pre-dawn hours before my rest, I will add that I have to own a bit of humble pie in relation to the new Jamesian I mention in Ochre; he is seasoned, pleasantly, in relation to my worsted tentacles, and I erred in believing my few words made me seem like a squawking sea gull. He is of my own generation, and I confess this is pleasing, a man of my age with whom to interact on a mutually shared esoteric taste. It will keep in my pocket as a momento, though of course I have not received any further communique from the man since I directed him toward my posts, "pleading the fifth". Maybe this is nothing and he did not take the time to read anything further, or perhaps he retreated, counting his blessings, but the exchange did please me, symbolic of what I have always wanted, a real matriculated life without enforced segregation.

Ochre Colors

When I get disappointed by a writing failure I sometimes stop writing altogether, a character flaw solely attributive to buying into the subtext of desuetude. It would not serve me to get into specifics, but perhaps I need to set this piece aside, work on it as I can, and stop punishing myself. The belt buckle is raising welts on my already desultory worldview because I needed the money, and I doubt the woman will pay me now, despite using my bragging rights, even if I manage to deliver at a later date. An obscure disabled freelancer cannot afford a failure such as this, and my confidence in my verbal acuity has been badly shaken, given that I have experience working under pressure.

There was a lesbian children's author on my endless stream of PBS fodder on Steve Adubato's show, not that I give two fucks about New Jersey, except for the fact that it is where most Philadelphia commercial employees live, and it might surprise you to learn that I agree with what she said about the over classification of identity, which is my main objection to progressive advocacy and activism, although I disagree with her that homosexuality should not matter, and yes, I can write this as a straight sentence without mockery, but treating my objection as a serious thesis, as I've written, is a difficult proposition, and does involve something of of a roll back on sexual liberalism, and doing so without becoming a Rick Santorum acolyte; not an easy thing to do while respecting evolutionary theory, and I do respect it.

To swing back to my insight into how hatreds and extremism develop in a psyche, in relation to Tarek Mehanna, I realize the cost of what I write in being frank that I can boil with the capacity of a fanatic in my loser's bid with matriculation and western materialism, but it isn't because I have cerebral palsy; it is because a series of impulsive decisions as a young woman left me stranded here, and I don't see a way out, even if the ACLU and the politicians are sympathetic. I know myself well enough to know that my emotional well being would improve if I could leave public housing, and find a change of venue. Too much baggage here, as louise, my would be acolyte, observed in a conversation, "Frank lives with you?"

Yes. I thought that was a given; he moved into the building in 04, and I broke our engagement in 05 three weeks before our wedding, then I published in the metro, and now he is dying while I struggle not to become a prime candidate for the silly Species franchise  Our conception of alien contact is too stereotypical in video.

"That was a silly thing to say," keeps replaying in my mind, because I was actually attempting to be fondly facetious, nothing more, and afterwards recoiled under the bedsheets, sulking, and have pushed the young ones from the James list serv away, sometimes deliberately, sometimes conflictedly, and shut down a conservation with a new fellow from Rhode Island. Why?

I don't really know. I understand rubbing shoulders with mummified academics can be intimidating, as I've iterated, and I understand newbies, or those lacking in self-assertion, look for softies like me: I love James and literary theory and all that, but the arcane details can shrivel the gonads, and so the non-mummified find me approachable, unless I breach, or drop an egg, but I'll grasp at straws on flimsy pretexts, as I did here, with ten words of personal expression about my need for a change of locale. That ceased the rapport, except it did not, and I own a mea culpa.  There are dangers of reeling too much in, especially on my own bumbling.

Ecclesiastical Concerns

Fortuitous it may be, but I can empathize with Tarek Mehanna, although the Islamic faith is equivalent on my dung list along with the Church of Latter Day Saints. My disdain doesn't preclude an understanding of how a psyche can be drawn to radicalization and zealotry. If I woke up tomorrow cured of cerebral palsy, I'd leave the United States as a sheer act of equal opportunity hatred. And I mean clean, clear unbridled hate for it all, the millions trapped in public housing vectors, as I am, the elitism and disconnect of Romney, the pussy willow progressivism of Obama, with his bipolar inability to lower the temperature of Bush era paranoia, disability/LBGT activism and the African American seeming inability to see the end of history with the civil rights movement. Yet, terrorist acts, even when successful, or just, according to the beholder, simply carry too many costs, and I suspect this is the case even for Al Qaida jihadists at the end of the day. The scars of mass murder become unspeakable.

I may yet lose my mind, I don't know. I visualize my fault lines which may ultimately decelerate me into an old woman's delusional vat of aggression, forcibly constrained, but if it happens, its causation is a life of too much trauma and victimizing in the first place, leaving me in a rut of circumstances closing in on me, and from this vantage point, fanaticism's entry points are not strange, or alien. Violence is not kindled in vacuums.

Films like Bringing Out the Dead do not reinforce my conviction for an anthropomorphic god. I part company with Martin in terms of faith and belief, http://tinyurl.com/7r24z75, but rather, what he does here that works is the retention of elemental mystery about the human animal's self-awareness, the very process of an ontology. Steve Martin's 1992 Leap of Faith does the same thing in a less ambiguous fashion, suggesting that hucksterism can achieve positive social cohesion and resolution. It might have been a more complex testament if its climax did not lower its expectations to cater to Midwestern self-reliance, but it still represents an interesting examination of religious cynicism. More details may come in later posts.