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.