"The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He moved his head uncertainly."--James Joyce, Ulysses, p 165
Typical of cognitive brain density limitations, getting bluCigs down, the timing, charging, and usage, this is no easy feat, but I have the basics. It simulates real inhalation better when the battery and atomizer are fresh, but should not be held in the mouth like the simple Aero. I do not have the discretionary income to keep myself amply supplied with both, but freely confess I do not have the physiological strength to break dependence on nicotine's narcotic grip. When I cramp due to withdrawal, my mobility is further impaired, never mind my psyche, and stress. All that is an extension of my existence is my small personal library, my bylines and the detritus of my intellect striven against a poverty that flakes my emotions like brittle mica. That's it. Nothing else defines me. Dead felines die with me, and I have no idea what Google's policy is on memoriam accounts, as Google may freely do what it wishes with its services. I have never had my own place, or a husband, a family, a home, my own furnishings. Objects in the Jamesian sense, far and very few between. Is this what bothers you about my foray into difference, and its macabre insinuations?
I wonder. This studio is devoid. A tangle of wires and not enough outlets. Obsolescent electronic devices. Bins of dead letter bills entitlements, cheap cat toys, thick and outdated telephone directories used as antenna props. I should be reading for group, but the kindle is charging, and so I am here, in time honored Dickensonian fashion, I am going to work for mio padre, in a vain attempt to offset illustrious destitution while my seventy-eight year old progenitor still lives, pondering my antipathy to Joyce. It may have something to do with Jerry's driving energy for the destructive correspondences, and the Joycean gamesmanship, which I don't like even while appreciating, which is curious, since all modernists have some national pathos at play. That which James deploys turns my stomach, however. I haven't written much about the museum where I participate in these activities, as opposed to writing around it, due to my column, but it is not quite Upstairs Downstairs so much as brimming with dialectical tensions, and the black security guards who patrol in residence wear a look of perplexity:
"Are you Jewish?"
"No Italian."
And I am studying Irish literature, white welfare trash under the auspices of a sometimes intolerant black urban city state, watching those beholden to MLK's lack of content in character spin their wheels. Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
Exeunt With The Bear
I'm like a connoisseur of champagne cognac, the perfume nearly beats the taste. Pete Townsend, Empty Glass
I spent a very unproductive day chasing after these Tuesday, trapezing on Locust, which I rarely do, kicking myself over my imposing introduction to @PhillyTechGuy. Could have cut my crisis time in half. Possibly saved a few dollars. Getting laid momentarily crossed my mind; their pitch is accurate, however, and the store seems pleasant. Do I ever drop my pretense?
I was not as invested in Dorner's issues as my posts on the event he posed may seem to indicate, not in terms of taking him off the beat and assessing his impaired judgment, but had he escaped it would have been thrilling. The DC sniper scared the living shit out of the east coast. I was there, and like a substantial minority in the media, I thought the US faced the possibility of an insurrection. Muhammad's death was nearly sanctifying in light of that possibility. Dorner's? Idiotic. It seems apropos then that I came in a little late to The Following. Better production values than the CW's tacky rival. Bacon when he is on, solidly grounded. Emma is an elfin echo of Mia Farrow. Muhammad could have had an insurrection; he was methodical enough, cold enough, and this is what made the true aspect of humanity's universal tendency to close ranks behind authoritarianism rear its head against Dorner. He was one of the very few who could boast leverage; he succeeded in illustrating that but had no real contingency thought out so that the abused, the wronged, the angry, could have united behind him. I certainly would have, all things being equal, had he truly applied his intelligence as opposed to raving on FB. Many courageous historians point out, accurately, that the US is democratic in its rhetoric, and tyrannical in practice, re: the moment I committed to paper that I would be seeking legal action against my landlord, they started leaving me alone. After 28 years of dictation on how they want me to live, Presby and their regulators have gone mute, one, because they are fully aware that in their book, spastic has no civil liberties, and two, they are up to no good, so I really need a public housing attorney. Injuries may magnify, but sometimes they have legitimate cause, and my pain is in part a reaction against black bigotry, with their white managers pulling the strings. Presby suits are far more fearsome than Catholic molesters. Let Karen chaw a pithy tweet out of that contention.
I spent a very unproductive day chasing after these Tuesday, trapezing on Locust, which I rarely do, kicking myself over my imposing introduction to @PhillyTechGuy. Could have cut my crisis time in half. Possibly saved a few dollars. Getting laid momentarily crossed my mind; their pitch is accurate, however, and the store seems pleasant. Do I ever drop my pretense?
I was not as invested in Dorner's issues as my posts on the event he posed may seem to indicate, not in terms of taking him off the beat and assessing his impaired judgment, but had he escaped it would have been thrilling. The DC sniper scared the living shit out of the east coast. I was there, and like a substantial minority in the media, I thought the US faced the possibility of an insurrection. Muhammad's death was nearly sanctifying in light of that possibility. Dorner's? Idiotic. It seems apropos then that I came in a little late to The Following. Better production values than the CW's tacky rival. Bacon when he is on, solidly grounded. Emma is an elfin echo of Mia Farrow. Muhammad could have had an insurrection; he was methodical enough, cold enough, and this is what made the true aspect of humanity's universal tendency to close ranks behind authoritarianism rear its head against Dorner. He was one of the very few who could boast leverage; he succeeded in illustrating that but had no real contingency thought out so that the abused, the wronged, the angry, could have united behind him. I certainly would have, all things being equal, had he truly applied his intelligence as opposed to raving on FB. Many courageous historians point out, accurately, that the US is democratic in its rhetoric, and tyrannical in practice, re: the moment I committed to paper that I would be seeking legal action against my landlord, they started leaving me alone. After 28 years of dictation on how they want me to live, Presby and their regulators have gone mute, one, because they are fully aware that in their book, spastic has no civil liberties, and two, they are up to no good, so I really need a public housing attorney. Injuries may magnify, but sometimes they have legitimate cause, and my pain is in part a reaction against black bigotry, with their white managers pulling the strings. Presby suits are far more fearsome than Catholic molesters. Let Karen chaw a pithy tweet out of that contention.
Monday, February 25, 2013
Chased by a bear
Fiendish and caustic this afternoon to the point that Mekhi might consider strangulation too dignified for glittering bitterness, his stint as Othello the baller was outrageously too self-conscious, and the play is the least liked of the great tragedies. Nelson and Kaaya locked themselves in an inflationary reverence which is not served by the sinister pathos of the Elizabethan staged original. I should just stop here and go back to bed and finish charging there, as I have to make my first run to Walgreens later this evening to purchase a starter kit, and yet I persist here and not sure why I do so, as I surfed to my url on my kindle, a free view, why bother to pay Amazon to download? What is the value I offer? Am I going to do real time profiles and engage in an integrated dark genius? Will Google allow me to re install Ad Sense once I close my other account if I can figure out what the fuck I am doing? Not if I was ready to celebrate Dorner's anarchy if it had been better planned. I wanted the man to win, to beat the system, and instead he murdered a beautiful woman and her fiance for the emptiness of hollow taunts, allegedly. I thought Navy Seals were precision experts, technically lethal and able to achieve valid goals, and this event was nothing, modern spree madness, death by every law enforcement agency this country is able to utilize. Stupid bastard. We're all stupid bastards, and my excuse is diabolical pity in public housing radiator heat, bags of cat dung, Google keying me into Jerry's email. I should have never contacted him, but did anyway despite the femoral artery bleed. That is how I handle emotional investments.
I may have known about the Orangeburg Massacre before I saw the documentary time slot scheduled for this afternoon, but if I did I buried it. Race riots were one thing, Kent State another, and in a post-9/11 world, civil disobedience, social order and terrorism, these boundaries have been splintered into a social structure that is unnerving, unsure of itself, looking over its shoulder for the next serial player to defy models and ideology. Is it a problem with identity and community, shared experience?
Yes, but more than that, our systems are outstripping the ability of our biology to cope with it, and we lose perspective, thinking that human means more than it actually does, a highly evolved animal that is no more than that, highly evolved, and I plead guilty to being caught in the crux of that struggle: if we evade extinction in current geological time, I would be astonished, though my identity would long be recycled. Perhaps I was the last saber tooth, fallen to the extraordinary ability of the primate hand.
I may have known about the Orangeburg Massacre before I saw the documentary time slot scheduled for this afternoon, but if I did I buried it. Race riots were one thing, Kent State another, and in a post-9/11 world, civil disobedience, social order and terrorism, these boundaries have been splintered into a social structure that is unnerving, unsure of itself, looking over its shoulder for the next serial player to defy models and ideology. Is it a problem with identity and community, shared experience?
Yes, but more than that, our systems are outstripping the ability of our biology to cope with it, and we lose perspective, thinking that human means more than it actually does, a highly evolved animal that is no more than that, highly evolved, and I plead guilty to being caught in the crux of that struggle: if we evade extinction in current geological time, I would be astonished, though my identity would long be recycled. Perhaps I was the last saber tooth, fallen to the extraordinary ability of the primate hand.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Souffle
I am partial to digital mah jong puzzles for useful procrastination, always on the look out for more intricate formats. I must have done something wrong with my external drive, however. Medley cannot load because the .dll is missing. Wrestled over staying online to play my other Gamehouse concepts, but Toshi here seems to have tamed, and my lungs have coughed up enough mucus to get French pastry chefs to the 22nd century.
Next time I reformat-upgrade, I need triple word processing back up. If other writers put content in the cloud, do they get ripped off? I know Azmo uses cloud services for kindle, so I will find out if I transmit my files to either device.
Next time I reformat-upgrade, I need triple word processing back up. If other writers put content in the cloud, do they get ripped off? I know Azmo uses cloud services for kindle, so I will find out if I transmit my files to either device.
Florida In The Da Vinci Code
"We will work with you."-- Contemporary case management vogue
As is known to industry watchers, Mark Romanek disavows his 1985 film Static as being immature. It's real problem is Keith Gordon is too intelligent to convince us of his zealousness, thus, the juxtaposition between western "quirkiness" and the violence of the climax doesn't work. Even sympathizers of the story know something spectacular is foreshadowed by Eric's fantasies of grandiloquent acclaim for inventing a machine which transcribes heaven for us. Amanda Plummer carries a mysterious supporting role which doesn't fly, her conspiratorial smiles with the camera notwithstanding, after Gordon's Eric is incinerated. Bob Gunton is such an expected caricature of a right wing evangelical survivalist, why bother? Only Heyman, as the sheriff, strikes an appropriate balance-- and yet, the scene interiors offer us something about Romanek's vision, where it might have gone if it was a less rushed story within now clinched independent film parameters. There is an element of neo-Gothic, neo-Catholic sensibilities to this film which is worth studying a little, even if the stolen crucifixes are an obvious affect. Shyamalan might have done something here before he lost his balance, and there are elements in Static which has a family relation to One Hour Photo, but if this miserable blogger wants to get out of Dodge (Philadelphia), the sense of barren space in Arizona doesn't seem to be any more promising. Boredom, evidently, has an effectual encroachment across the country, to all appearances, not that I can afford the travel: my father, too, tried to save his son by taking the boy to Phoenix, outside the arm of Pennsylvania law, which explains why I lived with Marie Varenas before my tenacity doomed me to the inner city. Memory fails as to where the now deceased mother was, why not in the picture for me in 87, what the rift was, amid the endless games of card solitaires I could play at the table. Her voluntary commitment to a psychiatric hospital came earlier. Unsure why this period of time remains blank.
As of July 16, this long beleaguered sister of padre and dead brothers and dead nephews is succumbing to her cancers, so your crippled, theoretical spastic terrorist valiantly curbs the telephone tongue inherited from suicidal mother. For a droll and cruel and dry martini of an invalid, my inevitable erosion to reptilian id hasn't been that swift, even if the FBI -- oh, screw Liberty Resources and their attorney warning letter. Yes, I wrote an inciting phrase-- because it never stops on the margin, does it? You only have my word for it, but the minority who tends the senile biological female, failed physician, was provoking me, every time he was outside by himself, and I was there, he wouldn't take his eyes off me. He fits the body type of my assaulter; what am I supposed to do, call the police? I only contacted the fabled IL center to find out which provider had Erik's case manager. Now I have to go through welfare. I am pursuing it because I have limits. I did nothing to ghetto boy blue. I took his photo too. I told the office. I am not going through this with male caregivers of other residents. I shouldn't have to go through it, and if the shoe was on the other foot, and it was my aide, I'd fire him. Witnesses have observed him and informed me he lashes out at other women. It is the case managers who can discipline him. I want to leave the cops out of it.
I let myself go soft over the holiday, and shouldn't have. I do not like failing my own article proposals, and have to find my key focus points, wondering if every time I score work, why it has to coincide with Trudy Richardson's inspections, but I don't have a heaven room in blue strobe foreshadowing martyrdom. I hide in the bathroom in the dark, as close to a sixth dimension as can be managed.
I'm consumed with being irrational, giving my notice, figuring out what to do next. I know it isn't the way to do it, and should do my work. I know, but my flight response is the closest thing I have to conjugal visitation.
As is known to industry watchers, Mark Romanek disavows his 1985 film Static as being immature. It's real problem is Keith Gordon is too intelligent to convince us of his zealousness, thus, the juxtaposition between western "quirkiness" and the violence of the climax doesn't work. Even sympathizers of the story know something spectacular is foreshadowed by Eric's fantasies of grandiloquent acclaim for inventing a machine which transcribes heaven for us. Amanda Plummer carries a mysterious supporting role which doesn't fly, her conspiratorial smiles with the camera notwithstanding, after Gordon's Eric is incinerated. Bob Gunton is such an expected caricature of a right wing evangelical survivalist, why bother? Only Heyman, as the sheriff, strikes an appropriate balance-- and yet, the scene interiors offer us something about Romanek's vision, where it might have gone if it was a less rushed story within now clinched independent film parameters. There is an element of neo-Gothic, neo-Catholic sensibilities to this film which is worth studying a little, even if the stolen crucifixes are an obvious affect. Shyamalan might have done something here before he lost his balance, and there are elements in Static which has a family relation to One Hour Photo, but if this miserable blogger wants to get out of Dodge (Philadelphia), the sense of barren space in Arizona doesn't seem to be any more promising. Boredom, evidently, has an effectual encroachment across the country, to all appearances, not that I can afford the travel: my father, too, tried to save his son by taking the boy to Phoenix, outside the arm of Pennsylvania law, which explains why I lived with Marie Varenas before my tenacity doomed me to the inner city. Memory fails as to where the now deceased mother was, why not in the picture for me in 87, what the rift was, amid the endless games of card solitaires I could play at the table. Her voluntary commitment to a psychiatric hospital came earlier. Unsure why this period of time remains blank.
As of July 16, this long beleaguered sister of padre and dead brothers and dead nephews is succumbing to her cancers, so your crippled, theoretical spastic terrorist valiantly curbs the telephone tongue inherited from suicidal mother. For a droll and cruel and dry martini of an invalid, my inevitable erosion to reptilian id hasn't been that swift, even if the FBI -- oh, screw Liberty Resources and their attorney warning letter. Yes, I wrote an inciting phrase-- because it never stops on the margin, does it? You only have my word for it, but the minority who tends the senile biological female, failed physician, was provoking me, every time he was outside by himself, and I was there, he wouldn't take his eyes off me. He fits the body type of my assaulter; what am I supposed to do, call the police? I only contacted the fabled IL center to find out which provider had Erik's case manager. Now I have to go through welfare. I am pursuing it because I have limits. I did nothing to ghetto boy blue. I took his photo too. I told the office. I am not going through this with male caregivers of other residents. I shouldn't have to go through it, and if the shoe was on the other foot, and it was my aide, I'd fire him. Witnesses have observed him and informed me he lashes out at other women. It is the case managers who can discipline him. I want to leave the cops out of it.
I let myself go soft over the holiday, and shouldn't have. I do not like failing my own article proposals, and have to find my key focus points, wondering if every time I score work, why it has to coincide with Trudy Richardson's inspections, but I don't have a heaven room in blue strobe foreshadowing martyrdom. I hide in the bathroom in the dark, as close to a sixth dimension as can be managed.
I'm consumed with being irrational, giving my notice, figuring out what to do next. I know it isn't the way to do it, and should do my work. I know, but my flight response is the closest thing I have to conjugal visitation.
Saturday, February 23, 2013
Small Catholic Sympathies
"I don't like lesbians. They are so heavy and humorless." -- the still young Goldie Hawn
I can imagine, in a faux empathy with the pedestrian Sally Quinn, feeling badly that the Vatican turned me away because I was a homily bulk of phlegm in a corroded power chair, and I suspect her reasoning on Benedict's resignation is something most observers of intrigue within the Holy See believe. The rigid German was JP2's second in command, after all, and under the anti-Warsaw Pact Vicar, pedophilia was a great sin to be forgiven, and this is where Sally drops the ball on Old World asceticism. Even in today's world, we need the attraction of pure orthodoxy, and conservative obstinacy in the Roman Catholic Church. The theology is nonsense, but so is the idea of a multiverse where the stuff in it is no more than a hologram of a two dimensional strip of data that is the same inside a black hole's gravitational field as well as outside of it. Even men like Denzel's Creasy can cling to hope in a saint's medallion, so how much less should be granted men of the collar who need to ejaculate and aim for covert intimacy? The monsters we create are no less human than you are yourselves, as much as you believe otherwise, and forgiveness is also part of that Roman authoritarian hierarchy.
Indeed, via this reasoning I should forgive the zealous fruitcake and freaky failed intern who identifies as male, fucking a half wit fat homosexual as fat and pallid as a giant mollusk, and I might have been able to do that had not they, and their culture of corruption, and self-hatred, contributed so much to the trauma I have battled. The side of my conscience that remembers the loving idealist I was might say I lacked compassion in letting a sick transvestite "have it," just short of his caretaker or the guard interfering, but I am weary of Erik taking my temperature in the cosmopolitan sense of acknowledging me; it has ceased any meaning short of being a sick joke, and I tire of watching this female man linger in useless waste. I need to leave it behind and contain it, respectively, try as I might to stop it from destroying others with the promise of future matriculation.
Catholicism, however, is a religion, and giving predatory priests up to secular imprisonment damages what the faith stands for. You do not see lawyers reading my blog rushing out to examine my case and extracting justice, do you? My independent living center burrows over its breach of conduct; excoriating pastors isn't going to change our universal tendency to paper over the corrosive nature of power.
I can imagine, in a faux empathy with the pedestrian Sally Quinn, feeling badly that the Vatican turned me away because I was a homily bulk of phlegm in a corroded power chair, and I suspect her reasoning on Benedict's resignation is something most observers of intrigue within the Holy See believe. The rigid German was JP2's second in command, after all, and under the anti-Warsaw Pact Vicar, pedophilia was a great sin to be forgiven, and this is where Sally drops the ball on Old World asceticism. Even in today's world, we need the attraction of pure orthodoxy, and conservative obstinacy in the Roman Catholic Church. The theology is nonsense, but so is the idea of a multiverse where the stuff in it is no more than a hologram of a two dimensional strip of data that is the same inside a black hole's gravitational field as well as outside of it. Even men like Denzel's Creasy can cling to hope in a saint's medallion, so how much less should be granted men of the collar who need to ejaculate and aim for covert intimacy? The monsters we create are no less human than you are yourselves, as much as you believe otherwise, and forgiveness is also part of that Roman authoritarian hierarchy.
Indeed, via this reasoning I should forgive the zealous fruitcake and freaky failed intern who identifies as male, fucking a half wit fat homosexual as fat and pallid as a giant mollusk, and I might have been able to do that had not they, and their culture of corruption, and self-hatred, contributed so much to the trauma I have battled. The side of my conscience that remembers the loving idealist I was might say I lacked compassion in letting a sick transvestite "have it," just short of his caretaker or the guard interfering, but I am weary of Erik taking my temperature in the cosmopolitan sense of acknowledging me; it has ceased any meaning short of being a sick joke, and I tire of watching this female man linger in useless waste. I need to leave it behind and contain it, respectively, try as I might to stop it from destroying others with the promise of future matriculation.
Catholicism, however, is a religion, and giving predatory priests up to secular imprisonment damages what the faith stands for. You do not see lawyers reading my blog rushing out to examine my case and extracting justice, do you? My independent living center burrows over its breach of conduct; excoriating pastors isn't going to change our universal tendency to paper over the corrosive nature of power.
All in the Family
"We could just keep quiet about it."--the Attenborough version
I do not know if Google would remove my account if I was exceedingly blunt, or honestly cut to the chase, as quadriplegia does not excuse illegal incitement, but I am worn out with swallowing what I have allowed myself to swallow, taking it year after year, from one form of institutional horror to another, to Medicare dictating the terms of my quality of life when I was younger and stronger, my acumen and intelligence deserving better. It is a rare investigative journalist indeed who examines Medicare and Medicaid in terms of allocation and delivery of service; our old world cultural bastion deserves credit for its in depth look at dialysis, but I can't remember the last time Paul Krugman turned his radical liberalism to the heart breaking reality of the limitations imposed by socialized medicine, not within the scope of his intellectual pretensions; he may be the smartest New York Times economist on campus, but that would change considerably if a stroke paralyzed him and he was traumatized by minority paraprofessionals, perhaps even humiliated by his peers, academics in whom he trusted.
I am not the first person to wish ill on a former superior, and I won't be the last, but my anger primarily stems from the knowledge that disability centers are segregated obscenities, and Linda Dezenski, involved in one law suit after another, remains there as a titular second in command. In a real corporate climate she would have been forced out of power, and there lies my anger. She created a hostile environment for me which compromised the supports I needed. Statue of limitations long gone. Sorry. Mixed race aide wants to make love to me, another swindles me and their supervisors say don't press charges, we'll repair it, and I just wind up being another profit margin, while the minorities who manage my building for the company want to put me away, shift the burden. There has to be a smart attorney out there who can see my adult life has been a living land mine and can adjudicate justice for it. Linda would tell you her side, that she did not mean it, that I displayed considerable anxiety; I was emotional. She acted without thinking and attempted to reflect my concerns, but she broke the law, needs to be removed, and my suffering needs to be acknowledged, served as an illustration that compliance paradigms can do more harm than good. When people lose faith in the system, crime statistics rise. She may have removed her digital footprint, but I'll refrain from speculation.
I am virtually helpless, but if I have to die with all this swept aside because I am inconsequential, then our civilization doesn't really amount to anything.
Linda Ronstadt's Parkinson's was the luck of the draw, ended the normative comeback cycles for recording artists on the downward curve of the apex. I treated her as an afterthought, not realizing she is still out there, stoic and less of a point man than Michael, not as flamboyant; I am considering purchasing her memoir out of commiseration, because she is of my time and I understand the period in which she gained recognition, but I do not actually care about her duet with Smokey Robinson.
The nihilist sniggers, wondering if I should teach you how to steal without getting yourself sued for plagiarism I am considering it myself, taking an idea from an author never read, and writing a horrific tale of graphic precision, daring to get it published, as I am doing with my inner city attacker. Producing from the heart of a searing and authentic vision is difficult, the difference that divides canonical authors from the mediocre and the offering of platitudes.
I do not know if Google would remove my account if I was exceedingly blunt, or honestly cut to the chase, as quadriplegia does not excuse illegal incitement, but I am worn out with swallowing what I have allowed myself to swallow, taking it year after year, from one form of institutional horror to another, to Medicare dictating the terms of my quality of life when I was younger and stronger, my acumen and intelligence deserving better. It is a rare investigative journalist indeed who examines Medicare and Medicaid in terms of allocation and delivery of service; our old world cultural bastion deserves credit for its in depth look at dialysis, but I can't remember the last time Paul Krugman turned his radical liberalism to the heart breaking reality of the limitations imposed by socialized medicine, not within the scope of his intellectual pretensions; he may be the smartest New York Times economist on campus, but that would change considerably if a stroke paralyzed him and he was traumatized by minority paraprofessionals, perhaps even humiliated by his peers, academics in whom he trusted.
I am not the first person to wish ill on a former superior, and I won't be the last, but my anger primarily stems from the knowledge that disability centers are segregated obscenities, and Linda Dezenski, involved in one law suit after another, remains there as a titular second in command. In a real corporate climate she would have been forced out of power, and there lies my anger. She created a hostile environment for me which compromised the supports I needed. Statue of limitations long gone. Sorry. Mixed race aide wants to make love to me, another swindles me and their supervisors say don't press charges, we'll repair it, and I just wind up being another profit margin, while the minorities who manage my building for the company want to put me away, shift the burden. There has to be a smart attorney out there who can see my adult life has been a living land mine and can adjudicate justice for it. Linda would tell you her side, that she did not mean it, that I displayed considerable anxiety; I was emotional. She acted without thinking and attempted to reflect my concerns, but she broke the law, needs to be removed, and my suffering needs to be acknowledged, served as an illustration that compliance paradigms can do more harm than good. When people lose faith in the system, crime statistics rise. She may have removed her digital footprint, but I'll refrain from speculation.
I am virtually helpless, but if I have to die with all this swept aside because I am inconsequential, then our civilization doesn't really amount to anything.
Linda Ronstadt's Parkinson's was the luck of the draw, ended the normative comeback cycles for recording artists on the downward curve of the apex. I treated her as an afterthought, not realizing she is still out there, stoic and less of a point man than Michael, not as flamboyant; I am considering purchasing her memoir out of commiseration, because she is of my time and I understand the period in which she gained recognition, but I do not actually care about her duet with Smokey Robinson.
The nihilist sniggers, wondering if I should teach you how to steal without getting yourself sued for plagiarism I am considering it myself, taking an idea from an author never read, and writing a horrific tale of graphic precision, daring to get it published, as I am doing with my inner city attacker. Producing from the heart of a searing and authentic vision is difficult, the difference that divides canonical authors from the mediocre and the offering of platitudes.
Ronstadt Data Lacerations
Astute enough to save my documents and revisions to my external drive, that much I believed I could do, and do not know what was lost in translation. For those not published, this is a visceral pain that creates ulcers for writers. My fantasy story was taking shape, soon to be finished at about 7,500mm. It and other newer word documents may still be on the HP and I am going to wait for transfer cable, or track down a real Creasy and stick enough C4 up the monied rectum of Bill Gates for my own creative destruction. I still really like Man on Fire and Denzel in it with Scott's soft catholic sympathy, and we're still turning this empathy of my own for imperfect vehicles whose flaws provide a pathway toward metaphysical consolation. If my old Dell was a well behaved boy, and the HP a bit of a bitch, this Toshiba is Dexter on an indiscriminate rampage. If I boot the HP now my sanity would be in jeopardy, and so I am holding off, sure I mismanaged Office 07 in some way. This lady may be a toffee Starbucks version of Madonna, but she has nothing on Ronstadt's range.
Wednesday, February 20, 2013
Lush Modes
"Our bodies break down. Sometimes when we're ninety, sometimes before we're even born. But it always happens. And there's never any dignity in it."-- Hugh Laurie in his pilot episode
But for my printer, which I am vainly trying to plug in now and finally succeeded: In vain I am hoping Dell will find the service tag and have a driver for Windows 7, and the good Ashley was correct. Another lump sum dump for a new HP LaserJet which I hope shall be enough, a harangue to my mother's side about my recycling needs, with a reminder that my mother's side is as hyper as I am. Still at the newer Toshiba, learning it and almost done even if I cannot print hard copies, most of this upgrading is hard on low income individuals. What did I do, with my poor stress coping mechanisms, while I waited for the in residence assistance?
Studied, and I look like a troll,, engendering her own failure. When I can get a nice screen shot of Vinnie or Kimmy or both I will show you my runt with his inadequacy complex. Joey is dead but I can freeze a screen ghoulish shot of his paw prints, his ash box, if I wish to retrieve it from the cabinet. Butterflies Are Free owes much in the generic sense to William Gibson, and ties in to my lack of sympathy for the undercurrent in Madame X that is more or less Turner's deconstruction of her own heyday of A list stardom. The harder I struggle the more it seems I am simply treading water, rabid and totally free of the disease. After a rest, we'll pick it up from here.
But for my printer, which I am vainly trying to plug in now and finally succeeded: In vain I am hoping Dell will find the service tag and have a driver for Windows 7, and the good Ashley was correct. Another lump sum dump for a new HP LaserJet which I hope shall be enough, a harangue to my mother's side about my recycling needs, with a reminder that my mother's side is as hyper as I am. Still at the newer Toshiba, learning it and almost done even if I cannot print hard copies, most of this upgrading is hard on low income individuals. What did I do, with my poor stress coping mechanisms, while I waited for the in residence assistance?
Studied, and I look like a troll,, engendering her own failure. When I can get a nice screen shot of Vinnie or Kimmy or both I will show you my runt with his inadequacy complex. Joey is dead but I can freeze a screen ghoulish shot of his paw prints, his ash box, if I wish to retrieve it from the cabinet. Butterflies Are Free owes much in the generic sense to William Gibson, and ties in to my lack of sympathy for the undercurrent in Madame X that is more or less Turner's deconstruction of her own heyday of A list stardom. The harder I struggle the more it seems I am simply treading water, rabid and totally free of the disease. After a rest, we'll pick it up from here.
Tuesday, February 19, 2013
Long Withdrawal
I am at least temporarily restored, and not sure this will reach twitter but I am, reluctantly, one of the twits. My life is hell and I may need a new printer. If I was 20 years younger I'd marry Ashley from the geeks. On my Toshiba pc and I am displeased. If things stay functional I shall return this evening. My life is hell, come hug me. (How can one be needy and a misanthrope at the same time?)
I had a manufactured clash with my favorite enemy transvestite Monday afternoon in the lobby before dear Ashley had to tolerate my latent post menopausal hysteria yesterday, and I came very close to telling Erik that dancing on his grave would be one of my last exuberant sensibilities: interaction with s/him freak is a bitter reminder of my career destruction, and though Erik is three fourths closer to cessation, compared to my one fourth, the least we can do is ignore each other, a salve to my bitterness.
I had a manufactured clash with my favorite enemy transvestite Monday afternoon in the lobby before dear Ashley had to tolerate my latent post menopausal hysteria yesterday, and I came very close to telling Erik that dancing on his grave would be one of my last exuberant sensibilities: interaction with s/him freak is a bitter reminder of my career destruction, and though Erik is three fourths closer to cessation, compared to my one fourth, the least we can do is ignore each other, a salve to my bitterness.
Monday, February 11, 2013
Psychic Space
I suppose I should be responsible for my computer maintenance and start my upgrade this evening, if my disc drive will in fact run. If it will not, I will have to hope I can reverse course, come back online, download W7, or hope my Amazon Toshiba is still healthy and that kimmy, my miniature jaguar, did not damage its charger. In terms of hardware I'm primitive, and software less so but still illiterate, and really just want to work, but suppose I will need to lose 48 hours, perhaps more. I do not know. If I delay a little longer it may be until after Midnight Lace, but would prefer the above.
I have seen them both before, and that I am not on for extrapolation now does not mean something would not occur to me later, like why putting sexually high status blonds in danger seems a kind of trace residue from the dark side of Hellenistic culture. I have my own caste resentment of blondes, whether organic or bottle, and have been entertaining an essay about that for awhile, because I got into a snipe with a contributing editor who was in fact a blond, with a kidney transplant concern, and though it has no actual impact on my career (what career?) I can take my impolitic aspects and make some hay.
I am a misogamist at least some of the time. Masturbation is no longer pleasurable, and vibrators probably not much of an option, too much arthritis, and who knows what else, but I have procrastinated long enough. Perhaps this will be less excruciating than I believe. What does peace feel like? As if any fool would be brave enough to interact with me over that question.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Bolingbroke, Deep Purple
"Oh come on Joanne, we all know that spastic contraction increases the intensity of the convulsions, and I know what the power of the truth is!" -- Linda C. Dezenski, at the beginning of the end of everything good I clung to about the American left.
Any individual on the inside of the independent living dynamic would liken the above email exchange to a standard disability sex seminar, nothing graphic, no implicit intent here to humiliate, or even threaten. I had solicited the woman's advice on vaginal dryness, and I am the one who went beserk in the end stage, and only hurt myself more by cascading into a rage and its subsequent emotional fracturing that I never want to experience again, and only by degrees, and an iron will, survived what this above morally corrupt executive is capable of doing to others for the sake of power, really on the interior of Shakespearean examination of what drives the human will to command, govern, ascend, accrue wealth. I understand Dorner, and given the edification of Ellroy's crime noir, I am not quite ready to concede that the Los Angeles police department is preeminently righteous in this matter, even after the death of Rodney King. The tragedy of Christopher Dorner, however, is that it took him four years to embody living death, to decide to strike, knowing that in doing so he has given up on his humanity, falling into the age old fallacy that his skills put him above human empathy. It is up to me, if not as a commissioned journalist (and no, I cannot cover a deadly and fast moving event like this) then as a writer of literary skill, to negotiate men like Christopher.
Linda is not causing me pain now, and most of the staff around her, and my old friends who contributed, are dead, or left the independent living center, but that culture gave me blow after blow after blow for nine years after this eight month cyber exchange led to my rift with her and my subsequent denigration, to which my landlord and economic contraction contributed mightily, and now my life depends on my ability to make money through writing almost by necessity. And the ablest response? Take drugs, get therapy. You need help, tuning us out, not listening, banning us off social networks, (in my case sometimes unfairly, I was myself on TLN but never went on the attack against their considerable moronic personas, the owner simply would not pay me for the one chapter I did, hello life long ban, after four years, I cannot keep going through this, letting my guard down and then getting exiled). This is what progressives inflict upon themselves, even Jesse, ever the oportunist to stay in play. Then the professionals go on the air to discuss the psyche and its aberrations. What has created this new playbook after 9/11? The DC sniper, VTech, Aurora, Newtown, and now the latest alienated paramilitary man. This is not attributable simply to guns as a glittering commodity, dicing mental health diagnoses. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, while I calculate even a mild disruption by Nemo. It will not be pretty, never is in our modern welfare state.
Any individual on the inside of the independent living dynamic would liken the above email exchange to a standard disability sex seminar, nothing graphic, no implicit intent here to humiliate, or even threaten. I had solicited the woman's advice on vaginal dryness, and I am the one who went beserk in the end stage, and only hurt myself more by cascading into a rage and its subsequent emotional fracturing that I never want to experience again, and only by degrees, and an iron will, survived what this above morally corrupt executive is capable of doing to others for the sake of power, really on the interior of Shakespearean examination of what drives the human will to command, govern, ascend, accrue wealth. I understand Dorner, and given the edification of Ellroy's crime noir, I am not quite ready to concede that the Los Angeles police department is preeminently righteous in this matter, even after the death of Rodney King. The tragedy of Christopher Dorner, however, is that it took him four years to embody living death, to decide to strike, knowing that in doing so he has given up on his humanity, falling into the age old fallacy that his skills put him above human empathy. It is up to me, if not as a commissioned journalist (and no, I cannot cover a deadly and fast moving event like this) then as a writer of literary skill, to negotiate men like Christopher.
Linda is not causing me pain now, and most of the staff around her, and my old friends who contributed, are dead, or left the independent living center, but that culture gave me blow after blow after blow for nine years after this eight month cyber exchange led to my rift with her and my subsequent denigration, to which my landlord and economic contraction contributed mightily, and now my life depends on my ability to make money through writing almost by necessity. And the ablest response? Take drugs, get therapy. You need help, tuning us out, not listening, banning us off social networks, (in my case sometimes unfairly, I was myself on TLN but never went on the attack against their considerable moronic personas, the owner simply would not pay me for the one chapter I did, hello life long ban, after four years, I cannot keep going through this, letting my guard down and then getting exiled). This is what progressives inflict upon themselves, even Jesse, ever the oportunist to stay in play. Then the professionals go on the air to discuss the psyche and its aberrations. What has created this new playbook after 9/11? The DC sniper, VTech, Aurora, Newtown, and now the latest alienated paramilitary man. This is not attributable simply to guns as a glittering commodity, dicing mental health diagnoses. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, while I calculate even a mild disruption by Nemo. It will not be pretty, never is in our modern welfare state.
Like An Eagle?
Transferred badly to shower like a large pudding plop, and transferred out, weary of my domestic struggles, ate lobster cakes, have to clean my dutiful Krups, but wanted to watch my news, and only now finding out about the LA rogue, but this is the American brand. As angry as I am about the illegal acts against me, and the ostracization, and my weakened fading from the scene, and the fact that these scars live in me, and Josie and Linda don't care and waltz on, no, the most either of these women would receive from me is scorn, perhaps a cat fight. Dorner is a danger that goes beyond the problem of why American gun ownership is a right, and if it should remain so. I shut off PBS, a rare action on my part, and lied to Marie earlier today about how I was doing. I tire of my father's sister, and wish she'd cut this shit out about my birthday, quite frankly. Yes, I need the damn monetary gifts, which is exactly why I curse them. Marie, my father, even Mary, they will be gone soon, and I prefer that they shove their Social Security up their asses, and no, I don't speak to them that way, except for my father, more in a shouting match with the matriarchal sentiment than not, that he is not responsible for my welfare. He stopped loving his children when my mother divorced him, and of course it is not that simple. He struggled against the death of his son, my brother, and it is through the eyes of my father that I live in how Nicholas wasted away from AIDS.
Would you like me to apologize for my revulsion toward homosexual equality despite the fact that I have been a voyeur since the days of childhood tantrums against my mother when I was offended by her Rod McKuen poetry, and watched more Japanese pornography than you care to know, and was curious but never cared to indulge? Do you want to know what I saw when I watched Miss Eddy watching Geri the building custodian, Miss Eddy being the attendant who molested me? I saw a woman who was nearly insensate with slovenly lack of control, and despite the fact that I have been a lifelong trollop for a great sex life with men that never was, Miss Eddy, her very expression, was like an animal with rabies, revolting-- my former disabled alliances not so far removed from that. Peel away the skin, get an ape that likes to play with itself. No wonder why Christianity involved so much repression of appetite. No apology forthcoming. I tried to be a good true blue liberal, really, embraced the science, and concede there is no legal reasoning you could not marry your pet macaw if that is your thing, but Nicholas Kristof curiously never breaks out his tabernacle for the blessings of inner city sexual behavior.
BSA is archaic, and that is its real problem. I quite frankly don't give a fig that its leadership has a convulsive response equivalent to strychnine poisoning, and congratulate the Marxists. Total global conquest. One day it will blow right back in your faces. Have a good morning.
Would you like me to apologize for my revulsion toward homosexual equality despite the fact that I have been a voyeur since the days of childhood tantrums against my mother when I was offended by her Rod McKuen poetry, and watched more Japanese pornography than you care to know, and was curious but never cared to indulge? Do you want to know what I saw when I watched Miss Eddy watching Geri the building custodian, Miss Eddy being the attendant who molested me? I saw a woman who was nearly insensate with slovenly lack of control, and despite the fact that I have been a lifelong trollop for a great sex life with men that never was, Miss Eddy, her very expression, was like an animal with rabies, revolting-- my former disabled alliances not so far removed from that. Peel away the skin, get an ape that likes to play with itself. No wonder why Christianity involved so much repression of appetite. No apology forthcoming. I tried to be a good true blue liberal, really, embraced the science, and concede there is no legal reasoning you could not marry your pet macaw if that is your thing, but Nicholas Kristof curiously never breaks out his tabernacle for the blessings of inner city sexual behavior.
BSA is archaic, and that is its real problem. I quite frankly don't give a fig that its leadership has a convulsive response equivalent to strychnine poisoning, and congratulate the Marxists. Total global conquest. One day it will blow right back in your faces. Have a good morning.
Thursday, February 7, 2013
Key West, in Penury
"I'm not touching it." Jerry McGuire's motto against my varied efforts to penetrate and burrow.
Wherever this post is going, I am writing it 2/3's brain dead, but for the pedestrian in you, I enjoyed myself in group last evening, and if I was 28 years younger, would have lept off my chair, kissed Lance, kissed the archive librarian who I troubled with my arcane preoccupations, and the old man from from the Saturday half who said hello to me kindly, and the Camden group mate, though I would have left out the blonde. Call it the bitch radar. And there! This is what you say, was that so hard? Grasp these small pleasures. What is vengeance and a Valentine's Day massacre in comparison? It is vile, poor spastic, what you force yourself to carry, and your curiosity about Herlihy's demise is a case in point.
Allow me to qualify that all I am after is facts in evidence. In 93 I was in fact thirty and had no idea who Herlihy was, barely knew that Midnight Cowboy was Voight's signature vehicle, and I am cognizant that no one truly understands what motivates life taking, whether they involve Capone's pecuniary interests, or an aging homosexual who could not recapture the vitality of the Keys, and that even under the guise of Wallace's selfishness, and my anger over it, cognizant that his suffering was a piss in the wind, and he had everything I feel that I secretly deserved (and what is that adverb dear, secretly, when you bray loud and clear?), that these things are mysterious, and the intrepid academic has been there and back, enough already, all you have is indignation. True, but I am stubborn, and plow on with my own dialogical efforts. In David's case, the pedestrian can only point to the medical model, and that his clinical depression went off the rails, and yours has not, stronger in failure. In Herlihy's case I think there is more damning evidence, and that is what I seek.
Regardless of my militant stance, I pity the BSA, and while not sure I have fully digested Lillian's analysis, she is right that dodging is not a solution. Democracy may not be easy, to quote Obama, but when faced with the possibility that now something as pedestrian as your local scout troop will be hit with a gay rage scandal, this basically leaves innocence with no safe havens. Intolerable to idealism and honor that goes with it.
Wherever this post is going, I am writing it 2/3's brain dead, but for the pedestrian in you, I enjoyed myself in group last evening, and if I was 28 years younger, would have lept off my chair, kissed Lance, kissed the archive librarian who I troubled with my arcane preoccupations, and the old man from from the Saturday half who said hello to me kindly, and the Camden group mate, though I would have left out the blonde. Call it the bitch radar. And there! This is what you say, was that so hard? Grasp these small pleasures. What is vengeance and a Valentine's Day massacre in comparison? It is vile, poor spastic, what you force yourself to carry, and your curiosity about Herlihy's demise is a case in point.
Allow me to qualify that all I am after is facts in evidence. In 93 I was in fact thirty and had no idea who Herlihy was, barely knew that Midnight Cowboy was Voight's signature vehicle, and I am cognizant that no one truly understands what motivates life taking, whether they involve Capone's pecuniary interests, or an aging homosexual who could not recapture the vitality of the Keys, and that even under the guise of Wallace's selfishness, and my anger over it, cognizant that his suffering was a piss in the wind, and he had everything I feel that I secretly deserved (and what is that adverb dear, secretly, when you bray loud and clear?), that these things are mysterious, and the intrepid academic has been there and back, enough already, all you have is indignation. True, but I am stubborn, and plow on with my own dialogical efforts. In David's case, the pedestrian can only point to the medical model, and that his clinical depression went off the rails, and yours has not, stronger in failure. In Herlihy's case I think there is more damning evidence, and that is what I seek.
Regardless of my militant stance, I pity the BSA, and while not sure I have fully digested Lillian's analysis, she is right that dodging is not a solution. Democracy may not be easy, to quote Obama, but when faced with the possibility that now something as pedestrian as your local scout troop will be hit with a gay rage scandal, this basically leaves innocence with no safe havens. Intolerable to idealism and honor that goes with it.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Convex, Concave
"Our friendship is an ethical responsibility."-- Robert Sean Leonard
The confluence of spiritual beliefs is handled with the appropriate level of reverence in the Dreamer episode of The Collector, and the high camp gives way to a more authentic sincerity, at least momentarily. For all the differences between American and Canadian mien, however, Cooksey is at once more honest and more subversive than his muscled friend to the south. The indigenous natives were notoriously screwed by European conquest in the northern hemisphere, which recalls to me the interesting demands by the British Empire for the creation of an Indian Free State during treaty negotiations as the war of 1812 came to a close, the victor inconclusive. Clever ploy by the mother country to slow the expansion of American land consolidation, that was pissed away in a murky conflict that seemingly had no raison d'etre. Not that my favorite Scott would give me a hand here, but I'll take a clever grad student, as I am interested in expanding my history studies. Not an encyclopedia like David Foster Wallace, I'm afraid.
Cooksey's subversion is the twist that makes the Chief a near megalomaniac who needs to retain his power at any cost, to the point of killing unborn fetuses, and this is so close to the real nature of the modern banality of human evil that the satiric goading of the Satan is left out in the denouement, although this is the standard the directors employ when Pym is victorious. Cooksey is much better at troping the classical God versus Lucifer struggle to contemporary significance than these guys.
I may expand on this later, but my lung is struggling this morning; I'm weak.
The confluence of spiritual beliefs is handled with the appropriate level of reverence in the Dreamer episode of The Collector, and the high camp gives way to a more authentic sincerity, at least momentarily. For all the differences between American and Canadian mien, however, Cooksey is at once more honest and more subversive than his muscled friend to the south. The indigenous natives were notoriously screwed by European conquest in the northern hemisphere, which recalls to me the interesting demands by the British Empire for the creation of an Indian Free State during treaty negotiations as the war of 1812 came to a close, the victor inconclusive. Clever ploy by the mother country to slow the expansion of American land consolidation, that was pissed away in a murky conflict that seemingly had no raison d'etre. Not that my favorite Scott would give me a hand here, but I'll take a clever grad student, as I am interested in expanding my history studies. Not an encyclopedia like David Foster Wallace, I'm afraid.
Cooksey's subversion is the twist that makes the Chief a near megalomaniac who needs to retain his power at any cost, to the point of killing unborn fetuses, and this is so close to the real nature of the modern banality of human evil that the satiric goading of the Satan is left out in the denouement, although this is the standard the directors employ when Pym is victorious. Cooksey is much better at troping the classical God versus Lucifer struggle to contemporary significance than these guys.
I may expand on this later, but my lung is struggling this morning; I'm weak.
Tuesday, February 5, 2013
Cessation's Daughter
Maudlin aspects have tendencies toward exaggeration, and skimmers may wonder if I am jerking their chain about my health. Bladder cancer is unlikely, but my reality is I am headed for a systems break if I cannot change my environment and find some way back to an ascendant arc. Regardless of what is treatable, and what is the accretion of age, I need something else, and I know I do not have much biological time left before my flesh increments more salaries, except mine. These hours are my favorite hours to work, and I might as well be in a vegetative state.
I have not mentioned the elephant that usually trails in the wake of an individual of such intensity and impulse, but this too is a conceit, the self indulgent depressed narcissism of disability and suffering, which I have done my best to resist while not shying from its many avenues of manufacture, but I could just cave, and go back to the regiment of institutionalization, and if I did I'd probably attempt to goad the paraprofessionals into physically abusing me, to shorten the duration. In more droll and immediate fashion, grabbing a bite, and off to sleep.
If I am fortunate enough not to stroke out in the process, I am focusing on three relocation areas to investigate:
1) Going home. Beppe makes me dread what a reality check of landing on Tuscan soil would amount to, but dying on Italian soil is my last remaing desire, and as soon as I can manage the weather I am scheduling a consulate visit, perhaps with the Toshiba in tow for a real time post.
2) Going to Massillon, having researched so much of Ohio for a political fantasy now passe.
3) Texas, but that would be a huge paradigm shift.
I have not mentioned the elephant that usually trails in the wake of an individual of such intensity and impulse, but this too is a conceit, the self indulgent depressed narcissism of disability and suffering, which I have done my best to resist while not shying from its many avenues of manufacture, but I could just cave, and go back to the regiment of institutionalization, and if I did I'd probably attempt to goad the paraprofessionals into physically abusing me, to shorten the duration. In more droll and immediate fashion, grabbing a bite, and off to sleep.
If I am fortunate enough not to stroke out in the process, I am focusing on three relocation areas to investigate:
1) Going home. Beppe makes me dread what a reality check of landing on Tuscan soil would amount to, but dying on Italian soil is my last remaing desire, and as soon as I can manage the weather I am scheduling a consulate visit, perhaps with the Toshiba in tow for a real time post.
2) Going to Massillon, having researched so much of Ohio for a political fantasy now passe.
3) Texas, but that would be a huge paradigm shift.
Monday, February 4, 2013
Sterilized Needles
"You are asking people to admit to illegal activity." a New Mobility regular named Barry, I think.
And that is what a good investigative journalist does, educate. There is an undercurrent in American culture, a belief that in the popular lexicon, we suffer from arrested development, emotionally anchored in high school, even as we perform the most complex surgeries, litigate the most arcane points of law. It is what keeps a network like ABC afloat, and in a simple sense, made Six Feet Under worthy of macabre acclaim. Do we have to mature, sober up, in the face of mortal demise? Accept the paternalism of genetically wiser tribal elders?
Disability culture is not quite as static as Goodall's discovery of chimp tool use, but it comes pretty close. Consumer model attendant care is a highly inefficient system that leads to regressive and sometimes abusive role reversal, and all the activists can do, for more than over 50 years of my lifespan, is say community integration is better, even while matriculation erosion basically amounts to institutional parity. I am suffering just as much with Presby as my landlord as I did as an abandoned child in Home of the Merciful Savior. Charles never addresses this, I suppose due to his disavowal of identity issues. John weighs back in now and again, but he is one of the very few disabled public figures who is as successfully matriculated as a media professional with paralysis can be without overstating the obvious. But it is when individuals like my former supervisor, who causes so much unnecessary psychic and economic harm when she has the cognitive ability not to engage in such behavior, and individuals like me, who most often get left out.
Hockenberry, like thousands of disabled veterans, was once able-bodied. Those of us born with chronic impairments are the most expendable untouchables.
And that is what a good investigative journalist does, educate. There is an undercurrent in American culture, a belief that in the popular lexicon, we suffer from arrested development, emotionally anchored in high school, even as we perform the most complex surgeries, litigate the most arcane points of law. It is what keeps a network like ABC afloat, and in a simple sense, made Six Feet Under worthy of macabre acclaim. Do we have to mature, sober up, in the face of mortal demise? Accept the paternalism of genetically wiser tribal elders?
Disability culture is not quite as static as Goodall's discovery of chimp tool use, but it comes pretty close. Consumer model attendant care is a highly inefficient system that leads to regressive and sometimes abusive role reversal, and all the activists can do, for more than over 50 years of my lifespan, is say community integration is better, even while matriculation erosion basically amounts to institutional parity. I am suffering just as much with Presby as my landlord as I did as an abandoned child in Home of the Merciful Savior. Charles never addresses this, I suppose due to his disavowal of identity issues. John weighs back in now and again, but he is one of the very few disabled public figures who is as successfully matriculated as a media professional with paralysis can be without overstating the obvious. But it is when individuals like my former supervisor, who causes so much unnecessary psychic and economic harm when she has the cognitive ability not to engage in such behavior, and individuals like me, who most often get left out.
Hockenberry, like thousands of disabled veterans, was once able-bodied. Those of us born with chronic impairments are the most expendable untouchables.
Vancouver's Concession to Brooklyn's Gentrification
"Otho's head is quite tiny, and it's owner's legs loutishly unclean," Catullus, pig of pidgin Latin
Stephen J Cannell reigned supreme over the television airways longer than JJ Abrams due to the fact that the studio system, during Cannell's prime, was in its turn of the century generic mode, not yet imploded in the Reagan era by digital technology turning us all into libertarian rebels; thus Wiseguy was Francis Ford Coppolla and Martin Scorsese on the cheap. By the time Abrams made good on the mystery island island motif to make Lost a sensation, the end of Clintonion global hegemony was already at hand. Abrams may have hit a vein of gold with his spectacular drama, but the expectations created by his plane crash could not possibly be fulfilled, certainly not by ABC, and Abrams managed to dissolve himself, through the radical assertion that none of us are accountable to either circumstance or environment. Cannell's disillusionment with the American empire, however, cannot be dismissed, however made for television his underlying cynicism was, it manifested itself as the gateway to the post-9/11 world we currently inhabit. Neither is Ken Wahl as gut wrenching as Donnie Brasco,. Pretty boy in North Hollywood may leave lonely women slavering for a high quality, more masculine definition of John Travolta, but Terranova's collusion, ethical erosion, is a sequential novella, to Depp's comparative existential insight, and Jim Bynes' "Lifeguard" was already a cliche by the time the character aired and formed, the primitive cyborg, empowered by early metadata and telecommunication advances, even if the perfect starlet fantasy hearkens back to every Southern European girl's brass ring. Ken Wahl was the epitome of working class transcendence for many, especially in the world of Kevin Spacey's Mel Profitt. Cannell might have had the courage to let Spacey's genius go where Spacey's genius took us with the later Usual Suspects, instead of Tucci as Pizzolo, but this might have been too radical for viewers: the self-hating, magnetic, corrupting influence of real power, of which money is merely an instrument, so Profitt was given a fatal flaw, not entirely without insidious capacity, however, in after-effect. It is the men like Spacey's villains who actually run the world, and we know it, even without a Carter administration white paper on sibling jackasses who create international scandals. Chelsea is a more adept Machiavelli, but look at the kind of parents she had to fuck her up.
Stephen J Cannell reigned supreme over the television airways longer than JJ Abrams due to the fact that the studio system, during Cannell's prime, was in its turn of the century generic mode, not yet imploded in the Reagan era by digital technology turning us all into libertarian rebels; thus Wiseguy was Francis Ford Coppolla and Martin Scorsese on the cheap. By the time Abrams made good on the mystery island island motif to make Lost a sensation, the end of Clintonion global hegemony was already at hand. Abrams may have hit a vein of gold with his spectacular drama, but the expectations created by his plane crash could not possibly be fulfilled, certainly not by ABC, and Abrams managed to dissolve himself, through the radical assertion that none of us are accountable to either circumstance or environment. Cannell's disillusionment with the American empire, however, cannot be dismissed, however made for television his underlying cynicism was, it manifested itself as the gateway to the post-9/11 world we currently inhabit. Neither is Ken Wahl as gut wrenching as Donnie Brasco,. Pretty boy in North Hollywood may leave lonely women slavering for a high quality, more masculine definition of John Travolta, but Terranova's collusion, ethical erosion, is a sequential novella, to Depp's comparative existential insight, and Jim Bynes' "Lifeguard" was already a cliche by the time the character aired and formed, the primitive cyborg, empowered by early metadata and telecommunication advances, even if the perfect starlet fantasy hearkens back to every Southern European girl's brass ring. Ken Wahl was the epitome of working class transcendence for many, especially in the world of Kevin Spacey's Mel Profitt. Cannell might have had the courage to let Spacey's genius go where Spacey's genius took us with the later Usual Suspects, instead of Tucci as Pizzolo, but this might have been too radical for viewers: the self-hating, magnetic, corrupting influence of real power, of which money is merely an instrument, so Profitt was given a fatal flaw, not entirely without insidious capacity, however, in after-effect. It is the men like Spacey's villains who actually run the world, and we know it, even without a Carter administration white paper on sibling jackasses who create international scandals. Chelsea is a more adept Machiavelli, but look at the kind of parents she had to fuck her up.
Twilight Swans, Mountain's Midnight Slope
"Do you know what they do to people who can't walk?"
--Dustin Hoffman
While I still have the ability to tell you about absence, one arm naturalized into a broken wing position, held in against the chest, spine tilting my larger breast to the right when I do not consciously fight my posture, my pelvic ligaments sliced by this American Baghdad butcher, who did for invasive orthopedic surgery what Henry Ford did for automobile assembly, so that my legs which I once long ago could command to motion, control through my own methods, on my knees, grabbing arms, standing, then pivoting carefully, hoisting myself, now dangle in useless, delicate constrictions of pain, echoes of foot fusions I should have fought, made my father annihilate me, as he no doubt wished, as sinister in the height of his strength as Kevin Spacey, when Kevin still had the intangible qualities of a box office draw, a zenith created by what? Talent? A slow dance with Helen Hunt, perhaps, in the usual mawkish morality tale?
In American Beauty, Spacey might have been an impersonation of my father, a slightly better constructed version, and thus worthy of my arms around his neck, inside the bubble of our own slow dance, lost into the unity and vulnerability of the other, the silent dialogic I wanted with this man, circumstances not sparing me from the observation of the fact that he had it with Gail, and you did too, as well, at your senior prom? Or at a wedding buffet? His arms encircled around your waist, in rhythmic accord. When I tried to believe, I bargained with your despicable icon to allow me to know this fullness of womanhood, as is proper, and if he does exist, I'd kill him, for he denied me this, but once, when John snuck up behind me in his winter jacket so I could feel how cold his hands were, but all I knew was the blood pounding in my temples, the knowledge in my soul that such a love with his arms around me, his children in utero, was the fulfillment, completion, and the loss that now defines the end of my life, tears still welling in my eyes, never to be held by the right one, the man who could see and read me, wrap his arms around me, insist we have a proper lunch as husband, as wife, dancing to the marvelous climax of the falsetto in the transition of Taupin's expression of passion from "we all fall in love, sometimes" to the somber melancholy of Curtains, I cannot even construct a false memory, never knowing your binary freedom, the right lover's hand cupping my face. There is no pill for this empty space, never shall be.
--Dustin Hoffman
While I still have the ability to tell you about absence, one arm naturalized into a broken wing position, held in against the chest, spine tilting my larger breast to the right when I do not consciously fight my posture, my pelvic ligaments sliced by this American Baghdad butcher, who did for invasive orthopedic surgery what Henry Ford did for automobile assembly, so that my legs which I once long ago could command to motion, control through my own methods, on my knees, grabbing arms, standing, then pivoting carefully, hoisting myself, now dangle in useless, delicate constrictions of pain, echoes of foot fusions I should have fought, made my father annihilate me, as he no doubt wished, as sinister in the height of his strength as Kevin Spacey, when Kevin still had the intangible qualities of a box office draw, a zenith created by what? Talent? A slow dance with Helen Hunt, perhaps, in the usual mawkish morality tale?
In American Beauty, Spacey might have been an impersonation of my father, a slightly better constructed version, and thus worthy of my arms around his neck, inside the bubble of our own slow dance, lost into the unity and vulnerability of the other, the silent dialogic I wanted with this man, circumstances not sparing me from the observation of the fact that he had it with Gail, and you did too, as well, at your senior prom? Or at a wedding buffet? His arms encircled around your waist, in rhythmic accord. When I tried to believe, I bargained with your despicable icon to allow me to know this fullness of womanhood, as is proper, and if he does exist, I'd kill him, for he denied me this, but once, when John snuck up behind me in his winter jacket so I could feel how cold his hands were, but all I knew was the blood pounding in my temples, the knowledge in my soul that such a love with his arms around me, his children in utero, was the fulfillment, completion, and the loss that now defines the end of my life, tears still welling in my eyes, never to be held by the right one, the man who could see and read me, wrap his arms around me, insist we have a proper lunch as husband, as wife, dancing to the marvelous climax of the falsetto in the transition of Taupin's expression of passion from "we all fall in love, sometimes" to the somber melancholy of Curtains, I cannot even construct a false memory, never knowing your binary freedom, the right lover's hand cupping my face. There is no pill for this empty space, never shall be.
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Claudius Collaborator
One reason I do not support New Mobility through subscription is their lack of innovation, lack of willingness to push, write better articles, get scoops that matter. In this sense, disability and LBGT activism, the radical equality thereof, is monochromatic, and it becomes routine. Now I can hear detractors point out to me that I am well aware that homosexuals make extraordinary contributions to arts and sciences. I grew up on Elton and Taupin, and they pushed pop rock in interesting ways. I love Proust, cannot live without my loving frustration of Henry James and his radical ambiguity, and I embrace this difficulty, not shy from it, but still hold that radical equality is destroying our ability to discriminate, to create fences, allowing the auburn women in the Joyce group to make me feel unwelcome by expressive censure, even if I am hurt by it, and even if I wrote an unkind about the woman from Camden and described to you my brief stroll and rejection of her as suitable-- there is no real reason for this. I connect better to the young professor but feel the need to leave him in peace. My pain and failure to have been as he, this is not his problem; progressives are still wrong, and wiping out the cruelty of the human ape makes things worse, in the long run. I stayed away today because of my fading strength, however, not that the auburns may or may not be dismayed with me. My concerns differ from theirs, and charming Lance wants to teach the book, get us through, and on my deathbed, I will tell him thumbs up, and wink.
Shakespeare's authorship is a non sequitur in terms of relevant academic contention, by the way, and I think Jacobi is merely being a coy devil, his camp of the Claudian line a riot, and relevant to our concerns. The idea of authorship was obviously fluid from the time of Homer to William's era, and it was only in the 19th century that content started to evolve into our modern concept of commodity, intellectual property, and the like. Who actually wrote Shakespeare's plays doesn't matter, just as the authorship of the Greek plays doesn't matter, and the same indifference applies to Homer, his actuality and his legend. I cannot compete with Shakespeareans, but with this qualification, I tend to believe he was the master of his domain.
But as to disabled identity, I am a writer and failed scholar first, and that the activists cannot answer for what their politics have done to me, ultimately, their rhetoric, juxtaposed against the reality of my lifelong alienation, struggle against victimization, is doomed to failure. The New Mobility community, at the micro level, cut me loose, rather than offer me continued support, even if I lost my cool in their online zoological excuse for an interactive community. I have listened to sexuality on our sleeves, we need empowerment, for thirty years. It is as exciting as hospice gruel.
Shakespeare's authorship is a non sequitur in terms of relevant academic contention, by the way, and I think Jacobi is merely being a coy devil, his camp of the Claudian line a riot, and relevant to our concerns. The idea of authorship was obviously fluid from the time of Homer to William's era, and it was only in the 19th century that content started to evolve into our modern concept of commodity, intellectual property, and the like. Who actually wrote Shakespeare's plays doesn't matter, just as the authorship of the Greek plays doesn't matter, and the same indifference applies to Homer, his actuality and his legend. I cannot compete with Shakespeareans, but with this qualification, I tend to believe he was the master of his domain.
But as to disabled identity, I am a writer and failed scholar first, and that the activists cannot answer for what their politics have done to me, ultimately, their rhetoric, juxtaposed against the reality of my lifelong alienation, struggle against victimization, is doomed to failure. The New Mobility community, at the micro level, cut me loose, rather than offer me continued support, even if I lost my cool in their online zoological excuse for an interactive community. I have listened to sexuality on our sleeves, we need empowerment, for thirty years. It is as exciting as hospice gruel.
Tuning Forks in Urine
LUCIO. If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors; and yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. --Measure for Measure
I first became aware of the controversy over Shakespearean authorship in high school, and initially felt sympathetic to the Stratfordian charge against the Earl of Oxford proponents, namely, claiming that Shakespeare could not have written his plays was *elitist,* but the debate itself is basically what I like to call a false dichotomy, Derek Jacobi's quite sensual stature as a grand thespian notwithstanding. Active research scholars point to the lack of evidence that William was a writer, and that the Earl had an extensive humanist training, knew the theater, and the Globe burnt down, taking its evidence with it. However, an examination of the plays themselves illustrate that whoever wrote them had a scatological range surpassing Chaucer's, and some are difficult to produce onstage. Characters like Lucio populate nearly all of Shakespeare's stories, a rambunctious threat to the not so very established order under the monarchies of Europe. A clever opportunist, if William was that, a bourgeoisie with a streak of ruthlessness, could have certainly written these works. The evidence is in the thriving discontent, in Shylock's mercantile parsimony, in the dynamic gouging out of Glouchester's eyes as Lear wails across the stage. The 17th Earl of Oxford may have had the culture, but he was a courtier of privilege.
Beyond this, the issue is a hopeless distraction. If Shakespeare wasn't his own author, someone must have known the truth, and those persons never made any testament, one way or the other. Jacobi and the Oxfordians are in love with a theory, perhaps buttressed by metadata, perhaps not, but Shakespeare by necessity must have been a man akin to the fictional Nicholas le Floch, a chameleon with the ability to navigate diverse social strata. Would that be an Earl, or a managerial businessman who had a mean streak? Who would be more likely to create a commercial success, rescued later under the auspices of the Romantic movement authors?
Writing, researching, these are indeed more isolating activities than producing a play, or films based on a play, but once a writer creates a work, ownership instantly becomes diffuse, no matter how arcane copyright laws are. I opt for William Shakespeare. Why? Because I'm the great granddaughter of a Roman cobber with just enough education, just enough mingling between the middle class and the indigent-- if indeed we aren't all headed for an economic meltdown that will quake like magenta-- to harbor bitter pretensions toward grandeur, beholden to developers like Ev Williams on the one hand, for my power did indeed ripple outward, but also marginalized by their science, on the other. I hate being cut by outlets like OZY simply because I did not act in the appropriate time frame. One in their number put me on an intriguing journalist list in 2014, but is this truly supporting me as a peer? I reference this same cut by New Mobility after I worked so hard for them to challenge the orthodoxy, and I was, in 2004, still vainly trying to hold onto a sense of family in the disabled community. I had not raised my voice about any sort of betrayal, but the editor, Tim Gilmer, couldn't take the time to send me an email before he cut me off from his contributor list? It hurts. I do not know how to trust any process anymore.
I first became aware of the controversy over Shakespearean authorship in high school, and initially felt sympathetic to the Stratfordian charge against the Earl of Oxford proponents, namely, claiming that Shakespeare could not have written his plays was *elitist,* but the debate itself is basically what I like to call a false dichotomy, Derek Jacobi's quite sensual stature as a grand thespian notwithstanding. Active research scholars point to the lack of evidence that William was a writer, and that the Earl had an extensive humanist training, knew the theater, and the Globe burnt down, taking its evidence with it. However, an examination of the plays themselves illustrate that whoever wrote them had a scatological range surpassing Chaucer's, and some are difficult to produce onstage. Characters like Lucio populate nearly all of Shakespeare's stories, a rambunctious threat to the not so very established order under the monarchies of Europe. A clever opportunist, if William was that, a bourgeoisie with a streak of ruthlessness, could have certainly written these works. The evidence is in the thriving discontent, in Shylock's mercantile parsimony, in the dynamic gouging out of Glouchester's eyes as Lear wails across the stage. The 17th Earl of Oxford may have had the culture, but he was a courtier of privilege.
Beyond this, the issue is a hopeless distraction. If Shakespeare wasn't his own author, someone must have known the truth, and those persons never made any testament, one way or the other. Jacobi and the Oxfordians are in love with a theory, perhaps buttressed by metadata, perhaps not, but Shakespeare by necessity must have been a man akin to the fictional Nicholas le Floch, a chameleon with the ability to navigate diverse social strata. Would that be an Earl, or a managerial businessman who had a mean streak? Who would be more likely to create a commercial success, rescued later under the auspices of the Romantic movement authors?
Writing, researching, these are indeed more isolating activities than producing a play, or films based on a play, but once a writer creates a work, ownership instantly becomes diffuse, no matter how arcane copyright laws are. I opt for William Shakespeare. Why? Because I'm the great granddaughter of a Roman cobber with just enough education, just enough mingling between the middle class and the indigent-- if indeed we aren't all headed for an economic meltdown that will quake like magenta-- to harbor bitter pretensions toward grandeur, beholden to developers like Ev Williams on the one hand, for my power did indeed ripple outward, but also marginalized by their science, on the other. I hate being cut by outlets like OZY simply because I did not act in the appropriate time frame. One in their number put me on an intriguing journalist list in 2014, but is this truly supporting me as a peer? I reference this same cut by New Mobility after I worked so hard for them to challenge the orthodoxy, and I was, in 2004, still vainly trying to hold onto a sense of family in the disabled community. I had not raised my voice about any sort of betrayal, but the editor, Tim Gilmer, couldn't take the time to send me an email before he cut me off from his contributor list? It hurts. I do not know how to trust any process anymore.
7 Stages
"What about the coldness of the narrator?"-- one of my astute online critical evaluators.
I could envision that my voice raises concerns for the young cyber turks who manage to keep twitter running smoothly. "We try not to interfere," does not mean they are not skittish about anything that may hint at incitement, and I have done more than hint-- but tweets are the brick wall of my digital age adaptation. I do not like cell phone micro-blogs, and it slipped my mind that adolescents who may have gone from my tweets to my posts here may have shit a few bricks-- in essence I hit the tweet button without contemplating twitter culture, how it flares and ends careers that fast, but my career, as such, ended with this merry enclave in 2004, unfortunately. I do not particularly disdain New Mobility for being what it is, a hybrid of Cosmo, my relation to Josie aside. I am mildly piqued at Tim Gilmer for dropping me off his team of contributors after I did my feature, and I have toyed with confronting him about it, but he probably wouldn't offer me an explanation. I visited their online board and shouldn't have (it is not important to detail, but if Poets & Writers banned me for public arguments, on NM's board a quad in Florida posted that I needed to be raped and have my throat cut, and I pasted it in, and reported). That was the only time I played cop, but then got the cold shoulder on any further access as a contributor.
Add two and two together with Josie's need to control her own territory.
However, New Mobility has one or two key notes and repeats these scales, emulating most periodical impulse content, and twitter is not viable for giving me social anchorage. I understand it but intellectually look on it as a virus, and the viral snub by Susanna Daniel effectively eliminated twitter as an interactive community for me. Like Strether, and yes, I may edit that stub, it is clumsy, I feel snubs like spears. I am still conflicted about the magazine, as a second clip would not hurt, but that would take moxie at this point.
Josie and Tim do not read my blog, I am sure. They do what they need to to keep the publication which employs them alive, but this doesn't discount the ripple effect. I could also turn this on its head, submit a piece about being an alienated one time contributor, and why. It would take guts, me to submit it, NM to dare publish it, and Josie to stomach it-- which is not the same thing as becoming her public adversary.
Until his PBS run this evening, I never considered Derek Jacobi sexually attractive. Odd times, but his apostasy, like that of most deniers who relish the implausible, does not make much sense. The Earl was an aristocrat, and just as easily as Essex might have been hanged or beheaded for anarchy, or subverting the security of the state. Not sure I am going to group today. Time to rest, however.
I could envision that my voice raises concerns for the young cyber turks who manage to keep twitter running smoothly. "We try not to interfere," does not mean they are not skittish about anything that may hint at incitement, and I have done more than hint-- but tweets are the brick wall of my digital age adaptation. I do not like cell phone micro-blogs, and it slipped my mind that adolescents who may have gone from my tweets to my posts here may have shit a few bricks-- in essence I hit the tweet button without contemplating twitter culture, how it flares and ends careers that fast, but my career, as such, ended with this merry enclave in 2004, unfortunately. I do not particularly disdain New Mobility for being what it is, a hybrid of Cosmo, my relation to Josie aside. I am mildly piqued at Tim Gilmer for dropping me off his team of contributors after I did my feature, and I have toyed with confronting him about it, but he probably wouldn't offer me an explanation. I visited their online board and shouldn't have (it is not important to detail, but if Poets & Writers banned me for public arguments, on NM's board a quad in Florida posted that I needed to be raped and have my throat cut, and I pasted it in, and reported). That was the only time I played cop, but then got the cold shoulder on any further access as a contributor.
Add two and two together with Josie's need to control her own territory.
However, New Mobility has one or two key notes and repeats these scales, emulating most periodical impulse content, and twitter is not viable for giving me social anchorage. I understand it but intellectually look on it as a virus, and the viral snub by Susanna Daniel effectively eliminated twitter as an interactive community for me. Like Strether, and yes, I may edit that stub, it is clumsy, I feel snubs like spears. I am still conflicted about the magazine, as a second clip would not hurt, but that would take moxie at this point.
Josie and Tim do not read my blog, I am sure. They do what they need to to keep the publication which employs them alive, but this doesn't discount the ripple effect. I could also turn this on its head, submit a piece about being an alienated one time contributor, and why. It would take guts, me to submit it, NM to dare publish it, and Josie to stomach it-- which is not the same thing as becoming her public adversary.
Until his PBS run this evening, I never considered Derek Jacobi sexually attractive. Odd times, but his apostasy, like that of most deniers who relish the implausible, does not make much sense. The Earl was an aristocrat, and just as easily as Essex might have been hanged or beheaded for anarchy, or subverting the security of the state. Not sure I am going to group today. Time to rest, however.
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