Mannequin

My pressure sore is likely to now become one of my recurring motifs, as it has been bothering me, fully cognizant of the fact that it can take me as suddenly as it took Christopher Reeve, the engaging and affable ham who used his paralysis for all the tokenism it was worth. I worked with his wife Dana more directly than I did he, her death from lung cancer mysterious, and still a startling surprise. I was somewhat strident in my contention with the actor, as you might expect, and then his buttock pressure went poof! Not a bad way to go, but no, I am not that much of a masochist, and have seen what really lethal pressure sores can do. I have to stop minding Tim and his under class peevish tongue and remember that if I need more down time, then I have to take it. My partnership with this 60 year old buzzard is fraying, and finding new help, with everything else on my plate, leaves me amazed my skin viscosity has left me in peace as long as it has. I intend to discuss Tim somewhat further into my archive mesh, but we'll pan back to the left, and toast some starched white bread in the search for nuance. Whatever the talents of Dermot Mulroney, they are not able to overcome his plastique qualities; it is this that damages Bright Angel with a weight of forced consciousness that none of the players quite control, but the film suggests something about the dark side of manifest destiny, that aggression, being on the edge, is a necessary price, costly, and evasive around domesticating forces, be that feminine pair bonding, or the law. The opening cues you in on that, with Sam Shepard, the belabored father, poaching mallards. Bratt's hostility speaks for itself, but Lindo's role, as the paralyzed veteran Harley, touches on the truth of the darkness of crippled tyranny, even as it enforces misapplied prejudices against angry quadriplegics like myself. The depth of our anger is difficult to take, and around a damaged soldier, wariness might be warranted. Lindo pushes with the same theatricality as the rest of the cast, but his character is the plague that undermines the noblesse oblige that pervades liberal sentiments toward the cracker jack bullshit falling out of the mouths of disability lawyers like Thomas Earle, listed sixth from the top. I do not know him as well as my former friends, but if he stands for what he says he does, he did not care about warding me off, about being a fair arbiter, nor that his staff after 01 had a hand in nearly killing me because that staff did not have the requisite training, nor resources, to guard against what happened to me. Notice how well connected he is, what I am up against in balancing the scales of justice. Philadelphia is a liberal city, remember.

His titles, connections, are why I believe in the conspiracy of unintended consequences. Even if I get an audience with the regulators who control Tom's administration, making them listen to me will be a nearly insurmountable task. Tom is legally blind, but he can pass as one of you, an Obama boy. When people look at me, conversely, they do not see me. They see my power chair, and assume I am a retarded invalid, but by everything I hold sacred, I am not letting the cruelty and injustice that is a daily fact of life at these disability centers go unmolested.

@Ann Tran, if you are not a whale, perhaps you are a mini porpoise. I can bow, figuratively. "Namaste." Now that wasn't so bad, was it? Wink.