A man with a reflective turn of mind, walking through an exhibition of this sort, will not be oppressed, I take it, by his own or other people's hilarity--Thackeray, location 11
I never really prefaced children, which any regular viewers I have know is both a lie and a truth. Once I wasn't exiting university with a husband of choice, I never prefaced the risks of pregnancy, and aborted the idea of motherhood for a career, and for writing. Little patience with little humans; it is not really a regret, as my maternal drives are more suited to terrorizing poachers and other instances of animal cruelty which is unintentionally caused by hoarders (some of those are female) and aggressive human males. People who butcher silverbacks should be put to death. Fossey's murdered spirit offers zealous support, sotto voce. People who kill kitties, ah; people who kill kitties are zoned off, breed apart, not much of a surprise that my Russian viewers have vanished.
Mother Russia still believes in empire, in an economy that hunts and gathers, to channel George Will. Did the lengthy pause for coffee prove disruptive to my train of thought? Families aren't a beneficial panacea when other system modalities fail. I do not think even Ed, my lone account follower, realizes that I badgered my mother with wroth tantrums to get me the fuck out of Riverside Presbyterian from my earliest days when the company shuttled me over from the Temple campus environs. Marie attempts to pacify me with the belief that her brother my padre, will provide deliverance. This fable from my earliest days of my father's responsibilities does more detriment to my health than not. My father is nearly 80. Before my mother left him he was almost a millionaire. The IRS decided to destroy him fifteen years ago. Deference only partially weighs in on my speak no evil stance. I do not know what he did or how he did it when it comes to tax code violations.
The state of Pennsylvania considers me a violation simply for being alive at this point. Trudy and I are supposed to discuss my transfer request. I do not want to discuss it. Presby has gnawed on my soul, in conjunction with Septa and my disability center, since I was 23 years old. I do not know where you are in your life, but think about that. A 23 year old university graduate spit out like gristle in a 20 block radius of a city founded by Quakers. Philadelphia might as well be run by Joseph Stalin.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Surreptitius rapere, Josh Barro
"I'm uncomfortable being on a soapbox," Gwen Ifill, after publishing her book about President Obama.
You look fairly personable and presentable to me Josh Barro, and I for one, do not have time to send hate mail, as a disabled woman who cannot eschew the obvious nature of her spastic-star-spangled banner flexed ligaments, which twist and contort in such interesting ways. Flambeaux I may be, but my social fears aren't so ingrained that I join in on mob assaults. I do not hate you, but a number of lesbians have earned my ire, and I'm weary of butch hits, and I have to stand against LBGT subversion of accepted methods of pair bonding, despite my education and significant voyeurism into indulgent sexual pleasures, relative to where those activities fit on affirmative and/or masochistic scales.
My parents allowed surgeons to butcher me at a young age, abandoned me, divorced, my mother moving in with her duplicitous lesbian neighbor who hit on her, my suffering mother. Whether this was before or after my womb carrier's third suicide attempt, can't say. All that would not have been so bad, but you see, for a cripple, it never stops. You think your orientation provides an impetus for terror, do you?
Guess again.
I do not feel like recounting the strenuous psychological wounds of my past in full. A little worn out hustling for my charming penny ante aggregate, having to work three times as hard as you for pot luck, since that is the draw, brother, between ambulatory function which you have, and quadriplegia predation and rejection, which I have to live.
I have known many homosexuals. Let me give you my list, aggregate it all here:
1. Kathy-- my bipolar mother's would be lover, who used to touch my crotch with an appetite in her ruddy face, before she decided to come out, in her merry widow weeds, co-opting a relative of her husband's; her daughter died of cancer, but they became estranged. I hate her for corrupting the sanctity of my already difficult childhood.
2. Alan from college-- he sought me out. I pulled on him, cried often in his company and he took it. I can't hate him quite, since I leaned on him out of cowardice, but homily people on both sides of the isle should know when to quit. Seeing each other naked and stoned was a sexual deterrent. My undying gratitude to drug induced lethargy.
3. My editor Alexandra, whose reticence was shield and sword. Let's categorize this peevish puritanical association an interesting exchange of mutual blindsiding that still managed to score me while she was dying of breast cancer.
4. Fern Markowitz, the Jewish lesbian boss of my Jewish supervisor. What they did to me consumes about 40 posts of partial detail. Ditto Erik von Schmettering, a crippled transvestite who is also a challenge to your groomed portrait. Ditto Jimmi Shrode, his fat partner. Ditto my former co-worker Jim, whose mild senility made him incompetent. His lover had full blown AIDS, and I hope someone had the sense to use the crematorium if they deceased.
This takes us to Josie Byzek, former editor who lashed out at my last male cyber interest.
What you do not discuss in your column about Robertson's supposedly vile intolerance, is the difference between Semitic moralism and modern Gnosticism-- where god as love is essentially meaningless.
And no one discusses the sneak attack of homosexual passes. Something I have had to tolerate repeatedly from disabled lesbians, mixed race nursing aides in the closet. Never mind repeated sexual and criminal assaults I've sustained. My tolerance meter, Josh, my struggle to survive, is well into negative numbers. You would not dare respond to me, but if you did, "I'm sorry for your situation," really wouldn't cut it. I was always part and parcel of corporate patronizing; tokenism, in fact.
Insidership? That's a treat tossed at me through the bars of my cage.
You look fairly personable and presentable to me Josh Barro, and I for one, do not have time to send hate mail, as a disabled woman who cannot eschew the obvious nature of her spastic-star-spangled banner flexed ligaments, which twist and contort in such interesting ways. Flambeaux I may be, but my social fears aren't so ingrained that I join in on mob assaults. I do not hate you, but a number of lesbians have earned my ire, and I'm weary of butch hits, and I have to stand against LBGT subversion of accepted methods of pair bonding, despite my education and significant voyeurism into indulgent sexual pleasures, relative to where those activities fit on affirmative and/or masochistic scales.
My parents allowed surgeons to butcher me at a young age, abandoned me, divorced, my mother moving in with her duplicitous lesbian neighbor who hit on her, my suffering mother. Whether this was before or after my womb carrier's third suicide attempt, can't say. All that would not have been so bad, but you see, for a cripple, it never stops. You think your orientation provides an impetus for terror, do you?
Guess again.
I do not feel like recounting the strenuous psychological wounds of my past in full. A little worn out hustling for my charming penny ante aggregate, having to work three times as hard as you for pot luck, since that is the draw, brother, between ambulatory function which you have, and quadriplegia predation and rejection, which I have to live.
I have known many homosexuals. Let me give you my list, aggregate it all here:
1. Kathy-- my bipolar mother's would be lover, who used to touch my crotch with an appetite in her ruddy face, before she decided to come out, in her merry widow weeds, co-opting a relative of her husband's; her daughter died of cancer, but they became estranged. I hate her for corrupting the sanctity of my already difficult childhood.
2. Alan from college-- he sought me out. I pulled on him, cried often in his company and he took it. I can't hate him quite, since I leaned on him out of cowardice, but homily people on both sides of the isle should know when to quit. Seeing each other naked and stoned was a sexual deterrent. My undying gratitude to drug induced lethargy.
3. My editor Alexandra, whose reticence was shield and sword. Let's categorize this peevish puritanical association an interesting exchange of mutual blindsiding that still managed to score me while she was dying of breast cancer.
4. Fern Markowitz, the Jewish lesbian boss of my Jewish supervisor. What they did to me consumes about 40 posts of partial detail. Ditto Erik von Schmettering, a crippled transvestite who is also a challenge to your groomed portrait. Ditto Jimmi Shrode, his fat partner. Ditto my former co-worker Jim, whose mild senility made him incompetent. His lover had full blown AIDS, and I hope someone had the sense to use the crematorium if they deceased.
This takes us to Josie Byzek, former editor who lashed out at my last male cyber interest.
What you do not discuss in your column about Robertson's supposedly vile intolerance, is the difference between Semitic moralism and modern Gnosticism-- where god as love is essentially meaningless.
And no one discusses the sneak attack of homosexual passes. Something I have had to tolerate repeatedly from disabled lesbians, mixed race nursing aides in the closet. Never mind repeated sexual and criminal assaults I've sustained. My tolerance meter, Josh, my struggle to survive, is well into negative numbers. You would not dare respond to me, but if you did, "I'm sorry for your situation," really wouldn't cut it. I was always part and parcel of corporate patronizing; tokenism, in fact.
Insidership? That's a treat tossed at me through the bars of my cage.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Flat Screen Deficents
"Try to go over to Stephanie's," Nicholas senior, Zeus brandishing tinfoil
Aren't we all subject to exhausted spectacle, as Abrams' production company keeps trying to recreate Lost and keeps failing. What The Fringe was beneath the surface remains somewhat baffling. Four, five episodes wasn't enough to trigger anxiety about Google Glass, the marriage of your biology to enhancements. I quit Revolution after the season finale with the tower, more or less.
Almost Human is a crime of the lowest common denominator. I do not know what I hoped for, but 40 minutes of yet another procedural with wires being stomach implants was enough to hear alarm bells, invoking panic that Seneca in his age represented the stagnation of Latin as a lingua franca.
Canada once again comes to the rescue with a concept which is at least edible.
It isn't that I cannot access headier content through Prime and other outlets. It isn't simply a matter of my budget constraints either. Most of my manuscripts are written through utilizing search even if I am not posting online initially, so I still in the main have to sift through broadcast so as to mind my usage. I was in the Lost newsgroup for the first two seasons, before Google ate Usenet, and there was oftentimes much discussion how difficult the series was to produce. Perhaps it made Abrams wimp out, like Mexican American disability lawyers who are Marxists lacking accountability. JJ and Tom have a remarkable physical resemblance.
Should I inform you here that I have completed the beginning of my legal grievance against the center he runs? 2014 may be an interesting year.
Aren't we all subject to exhausted spectacle, as Abrams' production company keeps trying to recreate Lost and keeps failing. What The Fringe was beneath the surface remains somewhat baffling. Four, five episodes wasn't enough to trigger anxiety about Google Glass, the marriage of your biology to enhancements. I quit Revolution after the season finale with the tower, more or less.
Almost Human is a crime of the lowest common denominator. I do not know what I hoped for, but 40 minutes of yet another procedural with wires being stomach implants was enough to hear alarm bells, invoking panic that Seneca in his age represented the stagnation of Latin as a lingua franca.
Canada once again comes to the rescue with a concept which is at least edible.
It isn't that I cannot access headier content through Prime and other outlets. It isn't simply a matter of my budget constraints either. Most of my manuscripts are written through utilizing search even if I am not posting online initially, so I still in the main have to sift through broadcast so as to mind my usage. I was in the Lost newsgroup for the first two seasons, before Google ate Usenet, and there was oftentimes much discussion how difficult the series was to produce. Perhaps it made Abrams wimp out, like Mexican American disability lawyers who are Marxists lacking accountability. JJ and Tom have a remarkable physical resemblance.
Should I inform you here that I have completed the beginning of my legal grievance against the center he runs? 2014 may be an interesting year.
Friday, December 27, 2013
Mayonnaise treatments, Josh Barro finesse
It is a mild winter afternoon for a Christmas week Friday, small pleasure denied, spontaneous desire to join the joggers on the Schuykill River path. Neither chair is charged enough for my shimmy hour plus half dressing to go nowhere, lacking destination. The lack of spontaneity is the downer of mobility impairment, to on top of that have to deal with people like Debra Horne, a life long battle with vocational rehabilitation case management. VR is the repository of the most hated modality wheelchair users have to negotiate, and Jimmy Devane was nearly Debra Horne's replica during my very early post-high school years. I do not just hate her, with the woolly mammoth mindset for which PresbyHomes no doubt hired her. The antagonism, which puts it mildly, has a long memory.
Devane did receive the petite version of the 03 Hulk. Stricture, implosion, pretending that I am pushing back against Barro, not necessarily due to the pain and mechanics of anal sex. Most aspects of sexual activity have a certain incongruity, more often than not comic, like the urgency of Theron's ardor turned on to Ricci during the skating courtship; perhaps this was Jenkins' strategy, to display these hard women fondling moments as laughable, reductive as opposed to binding.
No Josh, I may not always do my best to penetrate collective projection in my criticism of various contra-indicators, but, just as an effeminate mimetic may be an evolutionary mechanism to curb aggression, the triggers that provoke hostility to it may equally be related to the perception of self-preservation. I'm sympathetic to Robertson only to the degree that progressives like yourself want to erase history, which conversely paves the way for worse extremes. I know.
Much of what I am posting with Blogger's adult flag banner cannot be written this way in any media, even aggregates, and though I am not paying a price now to own it, I may in the future-- the only caveat to that being I am too weak now, on average, to return to a 40, 45k salary, which is where I reasonably saw myself by now, with an IRA.
I am leaving my country one hell of a finger, opening those seams where the larvae wriggle, ghostly plump protein bodies. Happy New Year
Devane did receive the petite version of the 03 Hulk. Stricture, implosion, pretending that I am pushing back against Barro, not necessarily due to the pain and mechanics of anal sex. Most aspects of sexual activity have a certain incongruity, more often than not comic, like the urgency of Theron's ardor turned on to Ricci during the skating courtship; perhaps this was Jenkins' strategy, to display these hard women fondling moments as laughable, reductive as opposed to binding.
No Josh, I may not always do my best to penetrate collective projection in my criticism of various contra-indicators, but, just as an effeminate mimetic may be an evolutionary mechanism to curb aggression, the triggers that provoke hostility to it may equally be related to the perception of self-preservation. I'm sympathetic to Robertson only to the degree that progressives like yourself want to erase history, which conversely paves the way for worse extremes. I know.
Much of what I am posting with Blogger's adult flag banner cannot be written this way in any media, even aggregates, and though I am not paying a price now to own it, I may in the future-- the only caveat to that being I am too weak now, on average, to return to a 40, 45k salary, which is where I reasonably saw myself by now, with an IRA.
I am leaving my country one hell of a finger, opening those seams where the larvae wriggle, ghostly plump protein bodies. Happy New Year
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Burning Mississippi
Don't understand the live cams url ph listed as a traffic source, quite frankly. I am not stooping to Governor Palin's language when discussing ethnic tensions, but I often tend to forget that the Internet is not trafficked entirely by the meritocracy under pressure, and post Y2K adults were not alive during the JFK assassination. Nothing lasts, and those I may have incensed, those who may have skimmed and said "Huh?", like the third of the half of the wrong numbers on the east coast texting me to my caustic and repressed caustic rebuffs, I'll be gone soon, swallowed back into something like Rusk or like Moss or Magee. There is a significant disconnect between Philadelphia's virtual websites and the reality of its actual outdated facilities, the architecture of which is still faithful to mid-20th century industrial models. This fucking city, the vomit of its-- no, if I scald with scorn what would the point be. Staff and scrip would not just waltz to the rescue to find me a similar hovel across the pond. You don't know what you don't know until you've lived it, and the inner city/homosexual mindset is a disease. I have been intimate with it in ways my aunts and sister have not; it is not a case of hello how you doing in restrained social gatherings. I have seen too much on the inside, been made too vulnerable to it in my person. I need a respite, in much the way the Obamas can visit Hawaii when they wish.
*I am only a Magee outpatient. In the annals of rehabilitative medicine however, there is no difference in the three facilities other than time length. Rusk Institute started out tackling our massive war collateral.
*I am only a Magee outpatient. In the annals of rehabilitative medicine however, there is no difference in the three facilities other than time length. Rusk Institute started out tackling our massive war collateral.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
J. L. Morin's City Sidewalks
"Of course this year there were no coconuts because there was a war on."-- Graham Greene
If this young and presumably promising novelist is still following me, (or even if she isn't though I would understand on both counts) what cannot be recaptured are the episodes of marvel and wonder. Even in delicately phrased special needs schools there were Christmas pageants, and while no vocal talent beheld the child in leg irons, whose creative rivulets were not geared toward pantomime, like. a nine year old oxen tilling diligently she Knew All The Words, and where the other young deformed personages stumbled, spastic, the nascent blockhead, shouldered on. Mother, father watching, the child determinedly loved this particular carol. The affection carried and the teachers ran up afterward grateful. "You saved the entire show." (I believe I was slated for transfer to Normal School as the evening concluded.)
Marvel, wonder, transcendence. City sidewalks busy sidewalks dressed in holiday style, nothing more than an urbane variation, the lack of ubiquity human nature invests in the solstice. Wide eyed nieces and nephews cannot restore it, triumph the nihilism. Destination Media is just another labor in the censored fracking of my sister Stephanie's marriage, her father absent against her Insistence that he be a grandfather to his only grandchildren. She hates Louise, archetypal stepmother, more than I, the mechanism for transference. We'd probably both like to murder our father. I do not go, as how am I to get in the house these days, warrior colon the one constant, the carryover skid marks of fecal stains on the leg brace leather, desperately trying to avoid mother haunting memory, aggregates suck.
If this young and presumably promising novelist is still following me, (or even if she isn't though I would understand on both counts) what cannot be recaptured are the episodes of marvel and wonder. Even in delicately phrased special needs schools there were Christmas pageants, and while no vocal talent beheld the child in leg irons, whose creative rivulets were not geared toward pantomime, like. a nine year old oxen tilling diligently she Knew All The Words, and where the other young deformed personages stumbled, spastic, the nascent blockhead, shouldered on. Mother, father watching, the child determinedly loved this particular carol. The affection carried and the teachers ran up afterward grateful. "You saved the entire show." (I believe I was slated for transfer to Normal School as the evening concluded.)
Marvel, wonder, transcendence. City sidewalks busy sidewalks dressed in holiday style, nothing more than an urbane variation, the lack of ubiquity human nature invests in the solstice. Wide eyed nieces and nephews cannot restore it, triumph the nihilism. Destination Media is just another labor in the censored fracking of my sister Stephanie's marriage, her father absent against her Insistence that he be a grandfather to his only grandchildren. She hates Louise, archetypal stepmother, more than I, the mechanism for transference. We'd probably both like to murder our father. I do not go, as how am I to get in the house these days, warrior colon the one constant, the carryover skid marks of fecal stains on the leg brace leather, desperately trying to avoid mother haunting memory, aggregates suck.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Immanent Apostasy
"So that if there was no Change in Bodies, no Variety in Matter, and no Vicissitude in Beings, there would be nothing agreeable, nothing good, or nothing pleasant.-- Giordano Bruno, Spaccio
Making judgments is in part how we evolved as a species. Now we destroy each other in mass aggregates of group thinking. My brother Nicholas was white, contracted AIDS off a contaminated needle, died in excruciating fashion, and yet I cannot take offense at Justine Sacco and her viral-deleted tweet. Even Caucasians of Boer descent should be allowed to be cavalier without such severe penalty as to be deprived of livelihood.
I revert to utter lack of optimism about our species. You will wipe yourselves out in 500 years or less, elevating Oakies for bread and circuses, only to fell them on urbane castigation of media arbitration. I did not read the article GQ, but since my limited mobility makes me humanoid thrice removed, toppling Sacco and Robertson is easier than faggot-defamation stalking a cripple mortally wounded by American Stalinist micro police tendencies.
I was polite to Jeff Bonforte during the yahoo mail outage, and then I had feedback from twitter resisting my courtesy. Corporations are granted anthropomorphic status for legal purposes, but the idea that they have persona elevates jackasses to post-apocalyptic status. Doesn't mean they aren't still operated by people, however, this despite liberal attempts to brandish them with genocidal intent. Big Oil, big tobacco. Humans are replaceable, but creating the Bill & Linda Gates Foundation, that is a centennial generated event, contracted through the acceleration of efficiency and data processing.
Bruno had his tongue pierced while he roasted; More was beheaded for staunch loyalty. The Inquisition is superbly modern in reverberation. Not that I'm perfect; at times the construct is left in the air, perfectly capable of being polite to Claudie when I visit Dunkin Donuts. Haiti and its unfortunate citizens, a defacto 52 state of the last western empire, fascinates me, as it did Graham Greene, screaming to Amazon that a Graham Greene quality kindle edition is an absolute necessity.
We're all martyrs for all seasons. Should I really go to Elk Forge?
Making judgments is in part how we evolved as a species. Now we destroy each other in mass aggregates of group thinking. My brother Nicholas was white, contracted AIDS off a contaminated needle, died in excruciating fashion, and yet I cannot take offense at Justine Sacco and her viral-deleted tweet. Even Caucasians of Boer descent should be allowed to be cavalier without such severe penalty as to be deprived of livelihood.
I revert to utter lack of optimism about our species. You will wipe yourselves out in 500 years or less, elevating Oakies for bread and circuses, only to fell them on urbane castigation of media arbitration. I did not read the article GQ, but since my limited mobility makes me humanoid thrice removed, toppling Sacco and Robertson is easier than faggot-defamation stalking a cripple mortally wounded by American Stalinist micro police tendencies.
I was polite to Jeff Bonforte during the yahoo mail outage, and then I had feedback from twitter resisting my courtesy. Corporations are granted anthropomorphic status for legal purposes, but the idea that they have persona elevates jackasses to post-apocalyptic status. Doesn't mean they aren't still operated by people, however, this despite liberal attempts to brandish them with genocidal intent. Big Oil, big tobacco. Humans are replaceable, but creating the Bill & Linda Gates Foundation, that is a centennial generated event, contracted through the acceleration of efficiency and data processing.
Bruno had his tongue pierced while he roasted; More was beheaded for staunch loyalty. The Inquisition is superbly modern in reverberation. Not that I'm perfect; at times the construct is left in the air, perfectly capable of being polite to Claudie when I visit Dunkin Donuts. Haiti and its unfortunate citizens, a defacto 52 state of the last western empire, fascinates me, as it did Graham Greene, screaming to Amazon that a Graham Greene quality kindle edition is an absolute necessity.
We're all martyrs for all seasons. Should I really go to Elk Forge?
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Squibs
The Dickensian Christmas, with its cozy homes, hearty dinners, and festive pleasures, is the embodiment of the Victorian Christmas.-- Tom Pold
Why the mostly antithetical relationship to the voice of Dickens? It goes back early, to the guilty imposition of presence on my academic adviser. Michael had a soft spot for Dickensian caricature, exaggerations of type. I had not yet read Casamassima, not between 82 to 85, but the Jamesian attack in this flagging middle years novel embodies some of my hostility to Dickens and type. Do you believe the modern world is any less brutal than what Oliver Twist conveys about the welfare state in the Victorian era?
My appreciation of Polanski's distinctions as an auteur come late. I did not know before 2009 that I would be setting up this topic, failing, remaining stubborn, but his interpretation of the famous tale seems uneasy. Jump cut to pastoral abstraction. By a certain hour, my temperature belies my artistry and legacy and though I hope NBC or another network runs the film again to save me the trouble, I stopped viewing after the caning. Perhaps a reflection of my intolerance for the genius of Dickens himself. I have ground to a halt in the opening chapters of Our Mutual Friend. It is the giant's voice slightly muted. I started it for a reading group thread on TLN, before the owner banned me for life (isn't this shit silly?), and trying to get through it is analogous to slicing lethargy for lard substitution. The decline of Christmas itself may be tied to the waning influence of Dickensian sentimentality. his over the top melodrama for the death of figurines like Dora, his horrific grief for prostitutes. Defenders would argue he did clear the brambles for progressive social justice.
One could also look at the family tree of influences and turn away, dismayed.
Why the mostly antithetical relationship to the voice of Dickens? It goes back early, to the guilty imposition of presence on my academic adviser. Michael had a soft spot for Dickensian caricature, exaggerations of type. I had not yet read Casamassima, not between 82 to 85, but the Jamesian attack in this flagging middle years novel embodies some of my hostility to Dickens and type. Do you believe the modern world is any less brutal than what Oliver Twist conveys about the welfare state in the Victorian era?
My appreciation of Polanski's distinctions as an auteur come late. I did not know before 2009 that I would be setting up this topic, failing, remaining stubborn, but his interpretation of the famous tale seems uneasy. Jump cut to pastoral abstraction. By a certain hour, my temperature belies my artistry and legacy and though I hope NBC or another network runs the film again to save me the trouble, I stopped viewing after the caning. Perhaps a reflection of my intolerance for the genius of Dickens himself. I have ground to a halt in the opening chapters of Our Mutual Friend. It is the giant's voice slightly muted. I started it for a reading group thread on TLN, before the owner banned me for life (isn't this shit silly?), and trying to get through it is analogous to slicing lethargy for lard substitution. The decline of Christmas itself may be tied to the waning influence of Dickensian sentimentality. his over the top melodrama for the death of figurines like Dora, his horrific grief for prostitutes. Defenders would argue he did clear the brambles for progressive social justice.
One could also look at the family tree of influences and turn away, dismayed.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Sponge Cake
Roger Greenspun pinpoints the leaky unraveling in Angel Levine as a film. The basic real time plot is Mostel witnesses a bodega theft, protests while the thief dies in a hit and run, reappears as Belafonte. From that point on we are asked by Kadar to consider the strike at hubris in the parable of Babel, and this is what I meant about lack of coherence, rather than an ambiguity of doubt. I wasn't in the frame of mind on the seventeenth to stay awake and examine the cinematography once more past the swirling kaleidoscope of fragmented effect.
Now I know where I am relocating once I charge Presby with a hate crime, civil rights violations, and a Chief Justice Roberts favorite, reverse discrimination. The secrets of exploiting the disadvantaged like slaughter house cattle are buried here, which makes my diabolical intelligence a threat to the system. Before I hired the swindling cleaning service T2S, I verbally offered Trudy a deal in return for an affidavit (not that I used the word affidavit--Trudy is a good imitation of an educated woman, but my IQ would put all three of the downstairs sisters on the defensive, and has, partly why I've survived to type this post). But fuck the deal.
Despite my lifelong education in black manner, I left the cleaning technician from Wilmington alone. I gave her space, and ninety dollars. I still lost, and I am tired of letting Protestant hypocrisy whiplash me. The fight goes on. Hopefully Dru man won't regret it if I trot on up for a visit. We'll see. Lovely holiday gift, I would think.
Now I know where I am relocating once I charge Presby with a hate crime, civil rights violations, and a Chief Justice Roberts favorite, reverse discrimination. The secrets of exploiting the disadvantaged like slaughter house cattle are buried here, which makes my diabolical intelligence a threat to the system. Before I hired the swindling cleaning service T2S, I verbally offered Trudy a deal in return for an affidavit (not that I used the word affidavit--Trudy is a good imitation of an educated woman, but my IQ would put all three of the downstairs sisters on the defensive, and has, partly why I've survived to type this post). But fuck the deal.
Despite my lifelong education in black manner, I left the cleaning technician from Wilmington alone. I gave her space, and ninety dollars. I still lost, and I am tired of letting Protestant hypocrisy whiplash me. The fight goes on. Hopefully Dru man won't regret it if I trot on up for a visit. We'll see. Lovely holiday gift, I would think.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Black listed
And the wrought-iron maze he had explored in the kitchen like a gold miner pawing through pay dirt was in fact a revolting clump of scars. Not a tree, as she said. Maybe shaped like one, but nothing like any tree he knew because trees were inviting. -- Toni Morrison, Beloved, p. 30
Too worn out from viral inflammation which has been a constant since the moronic custodial staff put the heat on in October, I need a gynecologist. I need to be embarrassed by an already speculative infection, dirty cripple spatially trailing in a twenty second dimension above the shoulder, except it is not that simple, not to be clever enough. It is not that difficult to extrapolate the challenge of bodies and hygiene; the stereotype has some truth. Without any true diagnostic training, however, going into blind alleys are unnecessary detriments.
I do not know why I hang on to spastic dowager as an avatar. Google wants me to integrate. Examiner wants me to integrate. AT&T pities me with motherly stern reminders. An Examiner film critic on conference called the handle clever; it is.
Presby has to be dismantled, because the classification engenders schema of further exploitation. Rise up. I implore you. Now that I've incited, I have to lie down with my irritated drying skin. I may have mentioned I have soured on Hahnemann. Temple University hospital is acceptable--not necessarily better than my former nearly bankrupt caretaker, but acceptable. I hate Temple University, something I avoided discussing previously because Jerry told me not to transfer and I did anyway. Why did I get so fucked up over this angry beatnik? I will die with this fucked up entangled scar tissue for a dynamic instructor whose star has dimmed. I'd ask you to shoot me, but I'm too tired to be taken seriously.
Did I mention I worry about getting black balled? I do.
I have pushed the envelope, perhaps sorry probtheme no longer burns in my urethra, (am I?) but I haven't really really pushed. Hmm. Does my savagery shame my conceit? I have to lie down and then find a gyn, caught in the ridicule of examining pubic hair on a daily basis, battling crabs, yeast, discharges, hemorrhages. This manufactures the nihilist.
Too worn out from viral inflammation which has been a constant since the moronic custodial staff put the heat on in October, I need a gynecologist. I need to be embarrassed by an already speculative infection, dirty cripple spatially trailing in a twenty second dimension above the shoulder, except it is not that simple, not to be clever enough. It is not that difficult to extrapolate the challenge of bodies and hygiene; the stereotype has some truth. Without any true diagnostic training, however, going into blind alleys are unnecessary detriments.
I do not know why I hang on to spastic dowager as an avatar. Google wants me to integrate. Examiner wants me to integrate. AT&T pities me with motherly stern reminders. An Examiner film critic on conference called the handle clever; it is.
Presby has to be dismantled, because the classification engenders schema of further exploitation. Rise up. I implore you. Now that I've incited, I have to lie down with my irritated drying skin. I may have mentioned I have soured on Hahnemann. Temple University hospital is acceptable--not necessarily better than my former nearly bankrupt caretaker, but acceptable. I hate Temple University, something I avoided discussing previously because Jerry told me not to transfer and I did anyway. Why did I get so fucked up over this angry beatnik? I will die with this fucked up entangled scar tissue for a dynamic instructor whose star has dimmed. I'd ask you to shoot me, but I'm too tired to be taken seriously.
Did I mention I worry about getting black balled? I do.
I have pushed the envelope, perhaps sorry probtheme no longer burns in my urethra, (am I?) but I haven't really really pushed. Hmm. Does my savagery shame my conceit? I have to lie down and then find a gyn, caught in the ridicule of examining pubic hair on a daily basis, battling crabs, yeast, discharges, hemorrhages. This manufactures the nihilist.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Half Past Dead
"If it offends people you don't do it." -- an Independent Lens participant in the Liberation theology tradition.
What I really wanted Monday evening was to take my typical sitting shower. Instead I checked my enfeebled bank account, dressed, fought with the cats to let me get done, made it to Joe's, fought with the cats to return to the studio, ate a cold wrap, ate more English toffee than I should have, but stopped myself on the edge of over-indulgence, tin in the fridge. Is food shopping a twelve hour affair for you?
If I give up the pets I effectively give Little Vinnie a death sentence, but I am going to do two things this week. Battle Presby head on to transfer me out of the company within 24 months, and threaten my father with the fact that there will be consequences if I do not get an appropriate change of environment. Nothing will change about my vulnerability, but for my regular readers, would you want to stay with a landlord that gave you so much blood in the water?
Is it my impaired judgment that sees an egregious breach of ethics when under a manager named Debra Schwab, I was banned from the meal program but forced to pay for the service? This is what these companies do; it is how they operate, and they will strike at me again if I stay, in a circumstance where I might not be able to access a tenant attorney in time. Bernard Malamud was aware in the prepubescent decade of my youth how merciless and alienating big city life is; he was a fabulist in an era when Doris Lessing was only fomenting her memoirs-- but his work escaped my familiarity-- unfortunate, as The Angel Levine represents the type of fiction on which I was educated. The film is running once again this morning; it does not come together with coherence, not for me. I have attempted to be humorous about encroaching senility, but I am frightened, alone, and marvelously contemptuous of my jar of instant coffee, soluble in hot water, while ground beans are not.
Trivial things like that generate epistemological material?
What I really wanted Monday evening was to take my typical sitting shower. Instead I checked my enfeebled bank account, dressed, fought with the cats to let me get done, made it to Joe's, fought with the cats to return to the studio, ate a cold wrap, ate more English toffee than I should have, but stopped myself on the edge of over-indulgence, tin in the fridge. Is food shopping a twelve hour affair for you?
If I give up the pets I effectively give Little Vinnie a death sentence, but I am going to do two things this week. Battle Presby head on to transfer me out of the company within 24 months, and threaten my father with the fact that there will be consequences if I do not get an appropriate change of environment. Nothing will change about my vulnerability, but for my regular readers, would you want to stay with a landlord that gave you so much blood in the water?
Is it my impaired judgment that sees an egregious breach of ethics when under a manager named Debra Schwab, I was banned from the meal program but forced to pay for the service? This is what these companies do; it is how they operate, and they will strike at me again if I stay, in a circumstance where I might not be able to access a tenant attorney in time. Bernard Malamud was aware in the prepubescent decade of my youth how merciless and alienating big city life is; he was a fabulist in an era when Doris Lessing was only fomenting her memoirs-- but his work escaped my familiarity-- unfortunate, as The Angel Levine represents the type of fiction on which I was educated. The film is running once again this morning; it does not come together with coherence, not for me. I have attempted to be humorous about encroaching senility, but I am frightened, alone, and marvelously contemptuous of my jar of instant coffee, soluble in hot water, while ground beans are not.
Trivial things like that generate epistemological material?
Friday, December 13, 2013
The Faberge Egg of Ponzi Schemes
"They defended a stubbornly held view of themselves, which was that they were ordinary and in the right of it."-- Doris Lessing, kindle loc 27
Dick Polman utilizes the rule of thumb that when mainstream media zigs, you should zag in the other direction, but Jantjie is an irresistible confirmation, a nefarious joke of first order rebellion against saturated accolades of a top heavy liberal era doddering under so many finely attenuated victories. I can only imagine the swarm of stringers and interns who have contributed to the fall out, the back story juice. One flagship outlet blames Afrikaner subjugation, and I don't doubt it. I remember the townships. I also remember Winnie's gang, politely swept under the carpet for the soaring oratory. Many analogies made between apartheid and American segregation, but the Dutch settlement of Cape Town and the European bloodbath which created the United States are not quite identical. White Americans stigmatized a diverse ethnic group, including themselves, and came out of it with an uneasy plurality and an archaic bureau which yelps in decimated cycles, reminding the citizen uneasily of nineteenth century pacification.
So I pick at scabs. To what end? We could speculate that perhaps forced co-existence of diversity, such as within the absurd theocracy of public housing, doesn't work any better than the refugee camps of my favorite Afrikaner film. What District 9 says about racial hatred is not quite easy to parse, as the native Africans are and aren't integrated, and both black and Afrikaners hate the prawns.
Toe nails on ailing left foot clipped successfully, I am absolutely ecstatic that I now understand how an aggregate works, having forgotten that I posted my Blogger address in my profile statement, my poor brain dancing with pieces in my life already over-extended, and alas, now I have to troll for subscribers, but we're all in a spam lot, just like Gorden Gekko is a parody of a pissing army ant. Why Oliver Stone had to make the 2010 sequel is a bit of a dribble, not that the drool of the story line rests entirely on Douglas's shoulders. I'm beaten people, beaten even if I get the fuck out of this building, even if I feed my former supervisor her head on platter. The aesthetic vanity of a grand dame in dignified old age is beyond and away, dead alive rolling through the motions. I will stay with Examiner.com for a time, however. Sedentary lifestyle-- with patience maybe I can join the editorial team, if I can keep my thinking cap.
Dick Polman utilizes the rule of thumb that when mainstream media zigs, you should zag in the other direction, but Jantjie is an irresistible confirmation, a nefarious joke of first order rebellion against saturated accolades of a top heavy liberal era doddering under so many finely attenuated victories. I can only imagine the swarm of stringers and interns who have contributed to the fall out, the back story juice. One flagship outlet blames Afrikaner subjugation, and I don't doubt it. I remember the townships. I also remember Winnie's gang, politely swept under the carpet for the soaring oratory. Many analogies made between apartheid and American segregation, but the Dutch settlement of Cape Town and the European bloodbath which created the United States are not quite identical. White Americans stigmatized a diverse ethnic group, including themselves, and came out of it with an uneasy plurality and an archaic bureau which yelps in decimated cycles, reminding the citizen uneasily of nineteenth century pacification.
So I pick at scabs. To what end? We could speculate that perhaps forced co-existence of diversity, such as within the absurd theocracy of public housing, doesn't work any better than the refugee camps of my favorite Afrikaner film. What District 9 says about racial hatred is not quite easy to parse, as the native Africans are and aren't integrated, and both black and Afrikaners hate the prawns.
Toe nails on ailing left foot clipped successfully, I am absolutely ecstatic that I now understand how an aggregate works, having forgotten that I posted my Blogger address in my profile statement, my poor brain dancing with pieces in my life already over-extended, and alas, now I have to troll for subscribers, but we're all in a spam lot, just like Gorden Gekko is a parody of a pissing army ant. Why Oliver Stone had to make the 2010 sequel is a bit of a dribble, not that the drool of the story line rests entirely on Douglas's shoulders. I'm beaten people, beaten even if I get the fuck out of this building, even if I feed my former supervisor her head on platter. The aesthetic vanity of a grand dame in dignified old age is beyond and away, dead alive rolling through the motions. I will stay with Examiner.com for a time, however. Sedentary lifestyle-- with patience maybe I can join the editorial team, if I can keep my thinking cap.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Feline Separation Rift
I raised my voice to my orphan because I was in the middle of writing digital fish wrapping [I AM NOT A PHOTOGRAPHER] and I have to laugh. My boys, living and deceased alike, scuttle under the bed when I really lose my temper because I am not a saint in this confined space. Girls are different. Kimmy rolled in my sweater on the floor and said mom you know I'm adorable.
It worked. She is adorable. I am going to attempt a cell phone conference with Examiners Clarity owners on Tuesday. Attempt, one PM my time. Why? To get myself banned? (Not that they care what I do or say detach or stay with them one way or another...) but right now they are all I have. Ahem. Going to try a straight news piece soon, as they seem to like it so short I can cull a secondary back piece even if I cannot rattle a fresh source quote quickly, so perhaps it would be useful to reign in a fusillade (ahem).
This is not the kind of journalist I am. I know it's a business, and that Fox kills people for the sake of covert practices, and I am a fiery bitch on Google's largesse, but I'm troubled, all the same. Spam in the can.
It worked. She is adorable. I am going to attempt a cell phone conference with Examiners Clarity owners on Tuesday. Attempt, one PM my time. Why? To get myself banned? (Not that they care what I do or say detach or stay with them one way or another...) but right now they are all I have. Ahem. Going to try a straight news piece soon, as they seem to like it so short I can cull a secondary back piece even if I cannot rattle a fresh source quote quickly, so perhaps it would be useful to reign in a fusillade (ahem).
This is not the kind of journalist I am. I know it's a business, and that Fox kills people for the sake of covert practices, and I am a fiery bitch on Google's largesse, but I'm troubled, all the same. Spam in the can.
Constrained in Sequins
"I don't know why I want to write you
now."-- Robert Thomas, translating heritage.
Anyone who remembers the golden age of Eisenhower matinee as an adult is dead, thus this is a qualification to the inexplicable mystery of why men found Lana Turner a worthwhile trophy hard on. It is baffling. Marilyn Monroe is self-explanatory, like her latter day counterpart, Goldie Hawn, who may have upgraded the motif, but followed in its tradition with sterling lack of deviation. Grace Kelly was upper echelon. Doris Day was barefoot and pregnant, the girl scout type. But Lana Turner? Golden heart ho?
Loretta Young wasn't marketed to men. On the contrary, her capital as a Hollywood diva was her appeal to my mother. The nuclear family tensions beneath the surface, the cover up of the crime worse than the crime itself. Despite obstacles, if you do not violate the theatrical laws of time and scene your sacrifice shall be duly noted, rewarded in the end. The model has been deconstructed a thousand times over in feminist literary theory. I am not interested in defending it so much as interested in the anxiety which threatens Young's constraint through the course of her career, caught in a high wire act between obedience, independence within her own movement, sacrifice to the pressures of the patriarchy with the implicit acknowledgment that she will be granted a degree of autonomy if she behaves, a more talented and palatable Joan Crawford. Crawford was often histrionic because she scared the living shit out of you, and probably saved a few men the trouble of a vasectomy. Loretta was a more honeyed variation, not immune to the sensibility of threat.
now."-- Robert Thomas, translating heritage.
Anyone who remembers the golden age of Eisenhower matinee as an adult is dead, thus this is a qualification to the inexplicable mystery of why men found Lana Turner a worthwhile trophy hard on. It is baffling. Marilyn Monroe is self-explanatory, like her latter day counterpart, Goldie Hawn, who may have upgraded the motif, but followed in its tradition with sterling lack of deviation. Grace Kelly was upper echelon. Doris Day was barefoot and pregnant, the girl scout type. But Lana Turner? Golden heart ho?
Loretta Young wasn't marketed to men. On the contrary, her capital as a Hollywood diva was her appeal to my mother. The nuclear family tensions beneath the surface, the cover up of the crime worse than the crime itself. Despite obstacles, if you do not violate the theatrical laws of time and scene your sacrifice shall be duly noted, rewarded in the end. The model has been deconstructed a thousand times over in feminist literary theory. I am not interested in defending it so much as interested in the anxiety which threatens Young's constraint through the course of her career, caught in a high wire act between obedience, independence within her own movement, sacrifice to the pressures of the patriarchy with the implicit acknowledgment that she will be granted a degree of autonomy if she behaves, a more talented and palatable Joan Crawford. Crawford was often histrionic because she scared the living shit out of you, and probably saved a few men the trouble of a vasectomy. Loretta was a more honeyed variation, not immune to the sensibility of threat.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Up for air
"The soup that eats like a meal," a copywriter's cashier check.
The Dreiser estate should have sued Paramount posthumously for the hatchet job that is A Place in the Sun (1951). Whatever one feels about the great American movement authors in their milieu, the farther away we move from them, An American Tragedy is a nuanced labor that deserves the sweat of a reader's commitment and a scriptwriter's respect. Clift manages somehow to project the clueless demeanor that reasonably captures Clyde Griffiths wishful fast track waltz, but only just. I spent a great deal of time self-teaching the novel to myself before the kindle Paperwhite was born and my 2nd generation model was hot stuff, and it is a depressing book, one that upends American culture through deployment of the nuclear option, far greater in literary impact than Majority Leader Harry Reid's institutional scuttle of the filibuster. I'll freely admit I am not prepared to open the fuchsia casing that holds my most charming Amazon device and give you my notes and points this morning.
I rather hit a brick wall after I hired that cleaning company for nothing. A real wall, deeper than the reality of my bigotry. I'm tired, and almost ready to just pay the ultimate penalty, roll myself down to the office and tell my female minority wardens who I would slur but that would be a cheap shot, that they win, and they may inform their superiors that I will fold, and be placed in a hell like Inglis House. If I do that, I only increase a likelihood that a renewed major depression will finish me off, strapped and bound, an intravenous of joy juice burying me in Tarkovsky's voided afterlife. The Russian version is better than the Clooney Solaris upgrade, more in keeping with Lem's genius and mastery of genre that transcends collectivism.
I cannot suicide, but I can no longer truly hope to vindicate myself either and I know it. I can fight vigorously and transfer out of Presby, and that may happen. My sister and I are now in a marginal truce, and my mother's sister wants me back in middle brow Catholic suburbia, trading in little Italy nigger city once again for Caucasian gated sublet life I left behind because of my graduate student obsession, a sounding fury masquerade.
I was a stupid girl and I regret it but I've said that before, but the price has--I can no longer do what it takes to hope for a reasonable level of affluence as I head to my mid fifties. On that note, let me welcome Staff and Scrip. Finally a European who knows how to put on a fiery argument!
The Dreiser estate should have sued Paramount posthumously for the hatchet job that is A Place in the Sun (1951). Whatever one feels about the great American movement authors in their milieu, the farther away we move from them, An American Tragedy is a nuanced labor that deserves the sweat of a reader's commitment and a scriptwriter's respect. Clift manages somehow to project the clueless demeanor that reasonably captures Clyde Griffiths wishful fast track waltz, but only just. I spent a great deal of time self-teaching the novel to myself before the kindle Paperwhite was born and my 2nd generation model was hot stuff, and it is a depressing book, one that upends American culture through deployment of the nuclear option, far greater in literary impact than Majority Leader Harry Reid's institutional scuttle of the filibuster. I'll freely admit I am not prepared to open the fuchsia casing that holds my most charming Amazon device and give you my notes and points this morning.
I rather hit a brick wall after I hired that cleaning company for nothing. A real wall, deeper than the reality of my bigotry. I'm tired, and almost ready to just pay the ultimate penalty, roll myself down to the office and tell my female minority wardens who I would slur but that would be a cheap shot, that they win, and they may inform their superiors that I will fold, and be placed in a hell like Inglis House. If I do that, I only increase a likelihood that a renewed major depression will finish me off, strapped and bound, an intravenous of joy juice burying me in Tarkovsky's voided afterlife. The Russian version is better than the Clooney Solaris upgrade, more in keeping with Lem's genius and mastery of genre that transcends collectivism.
I cannot suicide, but I can no longer truly hope to vindicate myself either and I know it. I can fight vigorously and transfer out of Presby, and that may happen. My sister and I are now in a marginal truce, and my mother's sister wants me back in middle brow Catholic suburbia, trading in little Italy nigger city once again for Caucasian gated sublet life I left behind because of my graduate student obsession, a sounding fury masquerade.
I was a stupid girl and I regret it but I've said that before, but the price has--I can no longer do what it takes to hope for a reasonable level of affluence as I head to my mid fifties. On that note, let me welcome Staff and Scrip. Finally a European who knows how to put on a fiery argument!
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Kurdstantinople
and for the next I think about three days, the president will lie in -- the former president will lie in state.-- Charlayne Hunter-Gault
I do not mean to suggest, in my Ifill post, that prominent African Americans are responsible for the fact that I get it from all sides. Henry Louis Gates did not create North Philadelphia's destitution any more than I manufactured Glenn Beck, but there is an essential disconnect between Dr. Gates, his historical admonishments, his genetic challenges to the very identity he embraces, and the reality of life on the ground in urban corridors, whether those corridors are west coast, the LA-Compton track, or east coast, which extends from the DC metro grid and hits a speed bump roughly at Hartford's city line in CT (when she wishes spastic is an amateur demographics expert).
Bill Cosby shares my traditionalism in this regard, and I respect the comedian for his early first decade efforts to speak the truth to northeast urban black communities (and Cosby's middle aged bigot he created for K-12 sociology instruction is also a mimetic simulation of the angry retractive jackass into which my civic duty has contorted). But, and this is what I keep driving at-- Cosby's honesty lacks the spearheaded pretensions of Gates and his indignation with white privilege. The only effect my father's denigrating attitude about blacks had on blacks themselves was his exodus from the city and the tax revenue that went with it. At the end of the day, I detached myself from every minority paraprofessional: partly discomfort, partly contempt, but in a number of instances, also an instinctual need for self-preservation.
The time to shine technician did not hurt me; maybe she did not take my dates, knowingly throw out my wheelchair tools, or pay attention to my dress skirt on the bar I purchased to interview locally on my grid, but she is the last blue collar minority I will allow within five feet of my personal space, excepting police or EMS. Yes, I am a quadriplegic, but I'm done, however I have to square that reality.
I do not mean to suggest, in my Ifill post, that prominent African Americans are responsible for the fact that I get it from all sides. Henry Louis Gates did not create North Philadelphia's destitution any more than I manufactured Glenn Beck, but there is an essential disconnect between Dr. Gates, his historical admonishments, his genetic challenges to the very identity he embraces, and the reality of life on the ground in urban corridors, whether those corridors are west coast, the LA-Compton track, or east coast, which extends from the DC metro grid and hits a speed bump roughly at Hartford's city line in CT (when she wishes spastic is an amateur demographics expert).
Bill Cosby shares my traditionalism in this regard, and I respect the comedian for his early first decade efforts to speak the truth to northeast urban black communities (and Cosby's middle aged bigot he created for K-12 sociology instruction is also a mimetic simulation of the angry retractive jackass into which my civic duty has contorted). But, and this is what I keep driving at-- Cosby's honesty lacks the spearheaded pretensions of Gates and his indignation with white privilege. The only effect my father's denigrating attitude about blacks had on blacks themselves was his exodus from the city and the tax revenue that went with it. At the end of the day, I detached myself from every minority paraprofessional: partly discomfort, partly contempt, but in a number of instances, also an instinctual need for self-preservation.
The time to shine technician did not hurt me; maybe she did not take my dates, knowingly throw out my wheelchair tools, or pay attention to my dress skirt on the bar I purchased to interview locally on my grid, but she is the last blue collar minority I will allow within five feet of my personal space, excepting police or EMS. Yes, I am a quadriplegic, but I'm done, however I have to square that reality.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Gwen Ifill, Postpartum Rinses
I may email Dr. Gates, because this is how my mind works. Engage with enemies who were unfairly arrested after I have unfairly been scarred living in terror, in Philadelphia's Beirut war-zone mock up of an inner city, across the street from a state campus from my 23rd year. The entitlement which radiates from Henry Louis Gates is refined with restrained ebullience, but the difference between pride and conceit has its own continuum. The man projects pompous inflation, and if I have shut myself off from the history of the African diaspora, what would I expect of a response?
Not that there would be one--but I'd ask for an accounting. Filching may be a time honored tradition in custodial work, and I do not mean to take fiascoes with cleaning companies all that seriously, but I returned to Philly as a young woman to succeed, not to have to struggle an entire lifetime against nearly unremitting threat and relentless superhuman effort for my place at the table.
Gwen Ifill and I had a moderated 30 second exchange on WaPo's website. Do not ask me about what. Like a diligent anchor, she wrote I could download the Newshour for my iPad as well! Is information and education necessarily tied to markets in this way necessarily the best we can do? Is this beneficial to the human mindset, regionally? Globally? I recall Ford's lawyering up on Gwen when she only mildly pressed the politician during his primary run about family corruption. Politico might have kept on it-- but my point is more about social burrowing and the value or lack thereof of exposure.
I have barely eaten all day, and wish I could laugh about it, but I rode this grim route in my twenties; I'd rather be dead than repeat the experience.
Not that there would be one--but I'd ask for an accounting. Filching may be a time honored tradition in custodial work, and I do not mean to take fiascoes with cleaning companies all that seriously, but I returned to Philly as a young woman to succeed, not to have to struggle an entire lifetime against nearly unremitting threat and relentless superhuman effort for my place at the table.
Gwen Ifill and I had a moderated 30 second exchange on WaPo's website. Do not ask me about what. Like a diligent anchor, she wrote I could download the Newshour for my iPad as well! Is information and education necessarily tied to markets in this way necessarily the best we can do? Is this beneficial to the human mindset, regionally? Globally? I recall Ford's lawyering up on Gwen when she only mildly pressed the politician during his primary run about family corruption. Politico might have kept on it-- but my point is more about social burrowing and the value or lack thereof of exposure.
I have barely eaten all day, and wish I could laugh about it, but I rode this grim route in my twenties; I'd rather be dead than repeat the experience.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Easter Parade, Severely
"It is a street where poverty meets ambition." -- John Steinbeck hosting O'Henry adaptations
When I was in 11th grade Steinbeck was a deity. Grapes of Wrath was a masterpiece I never yet repurchased and remember my lessons about the text with some clarity. Seeing Steinbeck projected on digital flat screen narrating O'Henry's sentimental vignettes humanizes him, Dust Bowl reporter extraordinaire, an old man even prior to writing Travels With Charlie. Small microcosms like that, the little episodic revelations, make my thankless task here worth it, not writing to please you, but myself. Steinbeck would smash the ten commandments over my skull due to my learned intolerance. My sister chastised me through her torrential tears. All blacks are not the same, this between bouts of anguish. Her boozer husband had an alleged affair and my eldest niece has MS, and this is why I feel living in the sterile vanguard of Richard Yates, and don't care, but she is still my little sister, with all her sins, terminations. She does not have to deal with the black working class the way I do, Stephanie, my valley girl younger sister who siphons narcissism out of the room, finally settled on being a nurse, the 1400 she owes me gone, but this is sisters. Do I hate her?
No, not akin to how I hate certain classes of activists, but our relationship will henceforth be wary.
Capitalism did not solve my problem with minority exploitation of my disability. Cleaning lady damaged my new interview skirt, tossed some personal effects, and may have filched my food. I am going to take this out on the building manager, Trudy Richardson, also black, whose career seems to benefit from my economic duress in these circumstances. You, no doubt, see my causal links as unfair, (and they are, as Caucasian managers equally benefit from my containment) but I frankly remain indifferent. Black women of certain caste and type victimize me. I've put up with this for a very long time, and fail to envision requisite solutions. If not the custodial staff of this company it will be a future aide on some model via Medicare or Caid. My sister does not have African Americans in her home, rushing about trashing things without asking because their labor is high pressure stress. Furious internal struggle about keeping verbal agreement for second paid visit or not. I fall behind, best of intentions notwithstanding. Complaining to the hustler in charge won't do any good; kicking my landlord's ass keeps me flagged. What a wonderful life.
When I was in 11th grade Steinbeck was a deity. Grapes of Wrath was a masterpiece I never yet repurchased and remember my lessons about the text with some clarity. Seeing Steinbeck projected on digital flat screen narrating O'Henry's sentimental vignettes humanizes him, Dust Bowl reporter extraordinaire, an old man even prior to writing Travels With Charlie. Small microcosms like that, the little episodic revelations, make my thankless task here worth it, not writing to please you, but myself. Steinbeck would smash the ten commandments over my skull due to my learned intolerance. My sister chastised me through her torrential tears. All blacks are not the same, this between bouts of anguish. Her boozer husband had an alleged affair and my eldest niece has MS, and this is why I feel living in the sterile vanguard of Richard Yates, and don't care, but she is still my little sister, with all her sins, terminations. She does not have to deal with the black working class the way I do, Stephanie, my valley girl younger sister who siphons narcissism out of the room, finally settled on being a nurse, the 1400 she owes me gone, but this is sisters. Do I hate her?
No, not akin to how I hate certain classes of activists, but our relationship will henceforth be wary.
Capitalism did not solve my problem with minority exploitation of my disability. Cleaning lady damaged my new interview skirt, tossed some personal effects, and may have filched my food. I am going to take this out on the building manager, Trudy Richardson, also black, whose career seems to benefit from my economic duress in these circumstances. You, no doubt, see my causal links as unfair, (and they are, as Caucasian managers equally benefit from my containment) but I frankly remain indifferent. Black women of certain caste and type victimize me. I've put up with this for a very long time, and fail to envision requisite solutions. If not the custodial staff of this company it will be a future aide on some model via Medicare or Caid. My sister does not have African Americans in her home, rushing about trashing things without asking because their labor is high pressure stress. Furious internal struggle about keeping verbal agreement for second paid visit or not. I fall behind, best of intentions notwithstanding. Complaining to the hustler in charge won't do any good; kicking my landlord's ass keeps me flagged. What a wonderful life.
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