Patristical Longitude: Gideon's Millstone

"Why should he not kill her?" -- Harold Frederic, digital location 4198

Did I mention paranoia? I cannot even mourn my friendship and admiration for Linda as it once sustained me, because it still relieves me 14 years onward, the thought of her skull fractured in a manner common to such rage induced by psychical injuries. In a coma, or transition to cadaver, she could never run the disability center! And what an investment of sound and fury this is, the popping champagne corks as I replay my last small happiness in the hope she meets an end appropriate to her ethical lapses. My subconscious warned me in a dream of Jewish demonology long before I ever did any research on Lilith, research for the sake of utilizing the film with cock a doodle Warren Beatty. Co workers had warned me years ago, don't idolize her. Chris Dorner, not definite this listing is him but no relation to the Navy Seal ash mummy poster child-- warned me even before I understood what a POP account was. Did I listen? I told Linda about the dream. I knew this was verge of desperation, chatter typing her about a Shirley Temple baby walking back and forth between us (representing infantilism). So much for work related friendship. My non-fiction editors aren't reading my account. Examiner.com doesn't care even if they are reading this account, since it will be long in the tooth before I see a commission reach PayPal. Red-rimmed eyes inflamed, killing myself for pennies.

Are such pennies better than nothing? We were friends, Linda and I; an assertion against Frank, the ex I did not want, who felt she wasn't really my friend. He is correct in that she was willing to make me expendable: I should not have been such a sycophant to her ego. It wasn't working, no matter how imminent my financial catastrophe, and with my disillusionment, she may have calculated she was doing me a painful favor. There was that bond, however, that neither of us acknowledged

I have to believe that; it wasn't simply her dominance at my expense, nor my genetic predisposition toward a volubility learned at mother's knee. What is still so vexing is the realization that she was my last, and I cannot even grieve for it, because I triggered it myself, imploded in rage and fear at the mere hint of sexual experimentation along those lines. Seven years, that is how long it took me to start writing poetry again, because I did not want to discover that I was obliquely troping the torture of lesbians so that militant LBGT activists could snicker at my repressed homo-eroticism. In certain veins this is farcical, that an eight month discussion in email set the stage to destroy the rest of my life. I would not have gotten undressed with the ugly cop bastard living below me if Linda had not made me feel so sexually insecure, and she used my creative writing to do it. Every time I tried to get back up and go back to work after that, the den mother bitches who want to run my life kept knocking me down.

In 2002 wheelchair users lost unlimited Paratransit; in 2006 I suffered abuse at the hands of choice aides, and was injured during the building renovations that the famous regional homosexuals forced on our shared parent company. One of the guards who witnessed an angry argument I had with Erik, *Miss Hanes*, as she calls herself, walks away from her post every time I roll into the lobby. I believe she has a child out of wedlock. I only spoke to her because I wanted to know if ecigs were worth the money.

"I still smoke." So much for bull dykes with batons, but Miss Hanes is one of those. Most of us have had exposure to black hard asses.

bolero entre aguila o mono

"Huh?+the collective gasp of Tyler Oakley's followers when playful instigators direct them to my Blogger url.

At times Thomas H. Earle earns my clinical, objective, commiseration. If I wasn't going to be engaged in a major legal battle against his interests fairly soon I'd have a bit of bemusement emasculating Mamma's good little boy molded into a compliant pedestrian who owes his current position to a rabid locally recognized, contemporaneous mummy transvestite who had a titanic struggle with a Jewish lesbian named Fern Markowitz and won what can only be a hollow victory, only to step into a pile of dog shit between a mafioso embittered Roman and my titanic battle against a Jewish bully in petticoats, whose center spiraled downward from suburban middlebrow to the inner city shell shock density of North Philadelphia. Everyone gets corrupted, but let's hold the thought. Other things on my schedule.  

Fidgets

"It's hard to find much of a pulse."-- Drew Taylor

For a high functioning quadriplegic, reliable power chairs are the difference between life and death. Even with two models though, snow storms strain already vulnerable survival skills. Getting to Trader Joe's tomorrow or not with which chair is an issue, and I've been gently starving on tuna and eggs a bit of fish, for over a week. During the blizzard of 96 I cracked a castor on dry ice and went through hell with a black woman who sat at my table and played solitaire and walked me in my manual to my closest Dunkin Donuts franchise so I would stop discussing my failed engagement. I detached myself from any further working relationship with her for no real valid reason, and she moved on to an ancient crone of her own ethnicity. "Do you clean up dog shit?" her soul sister asked her. This was before the renovations, and my studio reeked of fecal tobacco and urine, and in 2014 the pungency may not be the same, but years of Tim the Mule and the failed cleaning service hasn't changed much about lived poverty in a studio with six year old carpet, dander, fur, flaking ceiling, stained drop ceiling over toilet because David, the toffee gang banger casualty, cannot cease and desist from dislodging his toilet from the flush system. Is it this level of powerlessness that breeds spree killers like maggots? We need to stop this, despite Aaron Eckhart's persuasive argument about technologies and trade offs, even if I cannot speak to Taylor's lampooning glee over Mary Shelley's original zombie. Even my rage is now passe, transmuted, it seems, into an argument about modern capitalism and confusion over rights and entitlements.

Guns basically have one design function, and in the best of all possible utopias, the technology which have given us this kill candy isn't going away, but I have to break with conservatives on treating the Second Amendment like any other form of retail. It has to stop, despite the sociological undercurrent of the American reality. Like Islamists, our disenfranchised utilize violence to settle disputes, and even as a form of conversation, a dialogue that uniquely ends in cessation and anti-climatic death tolls. The kill rate isn't really a good evolutionary check on the population, as it is not an efficient predatory cull. Wielding weaponry, through most of human history has been a privilege, not a form of radical equality, one on which the NRA seems to insist.

The Dead Father

Why is it always the Canadians? A Time Magazine article from my era gave readers who love their contributors' whimsical irony a gift, highlighting Quebec separatists with mocking affection in a news item, and nearly an odd 40 years later, their 35 millions paying lip service to an out-moded Commonwealth facing extinction, the logger patsies are serving their revenge cold. Why Justin Bieber is a phenomenon makes me reconsider Niall Ferguson's admiration of the Protestant work ethic. Nevertheless, a comparison of Kathryn Grant from Anatomy, and Rohl's admirable performance as Abigail Hobbs illustrates what a paradigm shift has occurred, almost revolutionary. Mary Pliant is almost more of a victim in the historic black and white than Lee Remick, while Abigail is complicit. Anatomy handles the blow against this enigmatic stenciled in daughter the way things were handled in Eisenhower's age, with Stewart's pragmatism resolving what he could for the girl. The boundaries were then still in place. In Fuller's world, those boundaries still exist, but the coping mechanisms are more subtle, a blood and guts of poise and fine dining. We still lack the capacity to cope with the terror we're capable of inflicting on ourselves.

Padre had a rather lightning fast departure from Myrtle Beach to South Philadelphia and back again, so fast, and of such contradictory impetus, it makes my emotional stability seem positively advanced; it reunited the siblings, however, so I am reset back into place as the eldest with such fanciful and hard-edged wounds. The ailing patriarch may collapse with the strain of all this jet setting, but I am back in command, for all the good that will do. Hmm. Google took all that data on me and indicated it is my friend, giving me a birthday doodle. Of course, if the tech giant was really my friend, it would give me a unique methodology toward the restoration of self-support. If I was sleeping with this my incisors would be pearly, my breasts nimble with implants, my buttocks apple hot, a Stepford wife? No money for vanity. Dental insurance might as well be a Lexus Infiniti. Deport the fucking turnip. If he was Mexican he'd be in a holding cell by now.

Novel Outlines

"Is is is she okay?"-- a daughter whose nerves falter at the prospect of second degree murder.

Well, if loons and lesbians read my posts and see prime rib dollar signs, then I have to work harder. I don't have anything against those designated mentally ill in and of themselves. I don't even have much of an objection against those who think I'd be better off if I went back to therapy and played the pharmaceutical cocktail game in order to grin and bear it so sensitive minorities stop directing my url to hate crime notification units. I am doing what I am doing as a critique of identity politics and labels and fences, and the end result, as an informal tabulation, is a fellow resident unwittingly links me up with a Project Share user, my half brother and former university jilter insinuate that I am bipolar like my mother, the dyke cripples think I am dying to explore bi-nervous issues because letting my guard down with a former supervisor sent me along that prickly path. An indicator of what revelation amounts to at the end of the day.

For the most part, we neglect relatives of spree murders like Dorner. We more easily empathize with individuals like his captain, whose daughter Dorner killed to spread the suffering around. This isn't equivalent to the collateral damage of an insurgency, which is the distinction I was trying to make at one point, although many of you didn't like the fact that a self-proclaimed bigot could identify with a black Navy Seal who broke ranks with police collusion in a choice display of suicide by cop. A bit too dark, even if I am so severely jaded by ADAPT politics in turn. I am not Dorner to this extent: going after the relatives of those who screwed you over triggers the wrong calculus, and I prefer to bust the system by which we do this to ourselves, not engage in target practice on the pretty and happily oblivious.

I love my father, but happily avoided the fact of his serial domestic abuse. It was easy to blame my mother for her unceasing provocation, and to hate Louise for being the worst invalid of a stepmother imaginable. A visualized best seller in the over extended frantic need for money, but it is never so easy to get from your conceptual starting point to marketable product, absorbing it because we have to. All I ever wanted was my father to be Bill Bixby and love me, a prince among men, but how far do we go to save people from themselves? I am analogous to my mother's sister in this regard, sparing nothing to keep my ninety year old grandmother alive. Neither I nor my sister can stop the spigot of my father's rage, however, all but a sterile inheritance. Pause for the dynamic BBC upgrade of Sherlock, the most witty program about at the moment.

Parallel Severity

The BBC knows how to do fantastic summary articles, and this rather deadening take on Christopher's decline after his body was incinerated nicely pieces the narrative together, even if we do not know why those of African descent are more severely crippled by mental illness than other ethnic groups, proportionally, and no, my prejudices are not skewing the data. All humans, if they go into psychosis, tend to devolve, and remain sick the rest of their lives, but when African Americans exhibit schizo or bipolar affect, there is a greater tendency toward gruesome violence, and if my hostility toward Trudy Richardson seems to manifest along these lines, let me back you up a bit: Ellen Hovey was Presbyterian Homes supervisory agent from 87 to 05. I was assaulted under her direct supervision, and since she knew her then protegee Terri played me for a fool, her managers tread lightly. Until her last hire was fired in 05. I was then again molested and robbed, and had to fend off attempted embezzlement. When Debra Schwab was hired-- she barely lasted a year, war broke out between me and Presby's Inspired Life, and the tenants council. I was *banned* and then made subject to extortion. In this instance, I did have the assistance of a Jewish "Philadelphia lawyer;" it is a long and convoluted story, but I had at least two or three letters under my door a month, and was put on biweekly inspections. I finally said no, and Trudy has done everything short of arrest me. Maybe now you see why eviction seems like relief of undue duress. I know if I do not leave here, a regrettable tragedy will be the end result. The woman is nothing to me, trust me; perhaps a weasel preying on her own, and the weakest, sickest. This is what these Protestant hypocrites do, and I've been fairly decent to survive 30 years of it. You read my dismal attitude, but you don't see, or hear, what this corporation does to wheelchair users. 30 years of my life. I personally feel I have tort against Miss Richardson, but that too, is lengthy. Even if I do downgrade to Dorner's breakpoint though, women aren't generally proficient armed forces killers. I might do X, or Y. Assassinating her parents is beyond the scope of the denigration she subjects me to. The layout of Los Angeles offers comprehension when it comes to why libertarians hate big city police departments. Out there, they do kill you, and whoever built LA must have been insane themselves. The residential districts look like fast food happy meals. I am researching, and this time, taking my time, speed writing and failing isn't any better than staying inside my lard ass comfort zone, but this piece isn't for The Freeman.

Bell Bottoms Template

The flowers were indeed very very fresh: small autumn roses that were or had run wild. Joachim Neugroschel's translation, page 82.

Herve Villechaize had a vocation as a painter. The black and white photo spread of the once impoverished dwarf kneeling on the floor with his paint brushes may have appeared in Life Magazine; it may also have appeared in People. It was definitely not his newspaper obituary, but this is what immediately came from memory when Fantasy Island hit poor greaseball spastic trash recycled broadcast, aside from how tacky the show actually was. Look at the episodes now and wince, though Montalban is finally dead too, after braving his vanity by baring diseased shins on Chicago Hope. It breaks the heart, the eagerness and anticipation every week for quite stupid fantastical television which may have been the seed for my novel about characters disappearing to an island and made Abrams rich instead.

Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease is strange, at least within the damage matrix of cerebral palsy. Every time I am ready to dial emergency hospice the lung phlegm seeps down into my spastic colon and fecal discharge has a field day. Two or three days of shit pus, and then it starts all over and barring an unexpected traffic accident or otherwise violent death in Black Urban Landscapes, this is how I am going to die. This is how I am going to die unless unless I live long enough to get digitized, Jesus Fucking Christ in the most exasperated expression of real life horror I can utter. Comparatively it isn't enough, how lucky I am compared to native Koreans or Africans. If I was in their particular geography I could not compare myself to America's public housing police state for losers. Just as the industry wasn't enough for Villechaize. He probably regretted the gun shot and the triage if he was conscious after his injury at the utter lack of dignity involved in the attempt to keep him alive. Sutures, IV. Clinical applications are more dehumanizing than any comic routine in white suits with Mexicans he did not like.

There is a blog contest at some press, and if I entered it the entire literary community would no doubt read me the riot act, and then some. I'd lose on design outright because I have no idea how to design and none of you have written a dam word since I opened this account. In a brief email exchange with a literary editor, I tried to hint nicely that I needed subscribers to my Examiner page and she hinted nicely she needed financial support. I bit my lip. My desire to support journals through subscription is dead on arrival, this artistry on which I staked my muted east coast life. Poor Herve, whether or not he picked the better of two lousy choices for unhappy people within broken bodies. I never properly knew any midgets, just those with brittle bones, and one of those was a participant in the ugly incident my spastic supervisor thrust upon me.

Shins on Jason Beghe's Shoulders

"I don't know what to tell you." -- the common toxic phrase of those without brain damage

On a lark I looked up my old history teacher. His telephone number is exactly the same, it seems, as when I was drifting away from his guidance way back in the city of Chester. He is not Jerry, which is obviously an arcane thing to write. My puppy love and melodramatic adolescent manipulation of the man is long dead, but not when it comes to Jerry. My subconscious keeps using the itinerant Shakespearean to torture me, and I know why and even realize what it's doing, but I cannot beat my breasts and flay myself alive either. He was Italian, the history teacher, and I'm guilty of having pulled on him too hard, just as the absence of presence of Christopher and Dana Reeve haunts me for no good reason on the face of the Earth. It may have something to do with how quickly the couple died.

Don't have little brothers. Don't drop your mask, split your heart fifty times over more than anyone deserves. Mine has particular reasons why he scuttles behind the credenza, hiding like any vulnerable mammal. I've never used it against him, the circumstances of his birth, and thus never imagined we'd be here. He lurks around my online profile and won't return my phone calls, rescinded his invitation to pay a visit. I would have enjoyed being a proactive aunt; I won't rumble to the extent of thundering fuck the little bastard, but will slam something with our tried and true idiomatic sealant.

Fuck it. Find someone like Beghe, a man whose maturity seems well preserved and therefore sexually interesting, spreading your legs over his shoulder blades to stop spasmodic jack knives of pain when on the receiving end. He plays his conniving cop with the orchestrated poise of a Capuchin. I'd like one but would have to let the cats go, in fun and games with a preposterous movie. Then again, what would I do with a primate trained to flick switches and pick things up. At some point it would bite me.

Ahead in The Game

Every beat of every television procedural is the same. Slate Magazine critics who are at least getting paid something to stay ahead of their readers are right about that. Intelligence is the same as Almost Human is the same as Killer Women is the same as the Assets, even though I was intrigued by the pilot of Sandy Grimes true to life spy craft before I knew it was about the First Big Mole.

I vaguely remember Aldrich Ames, without utilizing search to aid my memory; this may indicate none of us care about traitors or their psychology, though I reluctantly feel Snowden is one. Grimes did not write her book to look at national security and debilitation, but she captures it as a sub-motif much as does Le Carre.

Nostalgia Continuums

"But I'm mean."-- Scarlett Johansson

How often has Ron Howard been asked what it was like to work with Wayne on that last film. I do not think The Shootist is particularly good. The script is timed to Wayne's gravelly cadence, orchestrated, rather, as if we're getting a Pilgrim's Progress lecture, but it's tolerable because we all know the dynamic of what is going on beneath the surface, the inside irony of the American archetype which was wormwood from the beginning, even the no nonsense approach to profiteering on dead celebrity. There is a certain laziness in consistency as well, as the tension in the movie hinges on the obligation to the terminally ill that did not have to exist between a widow of good standing and a self-justified killer who wants his death to be his own while capitalizing on its occurrence as a spectacle, though granted Wayne was offering up his own approach to a stardom unlike any other. One we'll never see again. It is almost more triptych than motion picture, with Stewart, Bacall, Howard framing the three panels to be spoon fed as an allegory.

I am tired of my life as a quadriplegic. I really am, timing my vulnerability to stultifying fecal discharges and low grade fevers. I know I do not have a great deal of quality time in the remainder, and that my anger at what I've been inflicted with, passively taking it without any pleasurable experiences in the breach to balance, has kept me going, but even if I land a few scores, I will never be strong enough for anything other than an itinerant caretaker's wage. It isn't fair. 

Polar Vortex

All the texts I really want access to cost a great deal of money. Google Books and other scan technologies may be pressuring copyright law, but it does not answer the issues related to epistemology and equity, this she says researching a commodities article idea only vaguely formed in the direction of "do something on coconuts," borrowing from Time correspondents, in other words, sort of but not really. How would you define fair trade?

Farmers in the golden triangle should be able to prosper, but I think I want to examine or ridicule retail rather than scurry out to Asia to help life long sexual abuse victims. My old mentor, you remember him, right? Before I contacted him in 07, not wanting to because I knew I'd get emotional, I found a page of his poetry similar to what he used to workshop, fragmenting the battered female. I liked those pieces better than I like Vulgar Exhibitions. Sorry Jerry. Compassion, shame, it is all out the window at this point, and more than likely I did not want to sleep with you, but transferred my stepfather's abuse onto you. Ah ha. Key in the lock and it doesn't matter, does it?

We're all dead, I consider myself a bloody failure, you settled in a Louisiana swamp. I am one of those women in your stanzas, however, slumped over the toilet seat, not tripping only by virtue of the fact I am not street wise in these fevered cycles. A man of great foresight you were. I cannot tell you to go fuck yourself, as you advised me not to run back to the city, and it was never entirely rational, what I thought I needed from you, or my suave history teacher whom I never named. If I had married a fellow like either of you, would I have been happy? Remember what you did not want to say when I wrote the anagram poem of my name by mistake, flushing my identity down the sewer? 

"It's it's--" his hyper Irish voice trailed off, unable to look too closely at my vision of my own self-image. 

Pugilistic stances, bread crumbs channeling Celine

"... and full of melancholy, like those Chekhov characters so laden with virtues that they never know success in life." --Orhan Pamuk, tracer modernist

I am consoled, at least to some degree, that I turned back to Pamuk last evening after I finished the usual take out fish platter I stopped ordering but used to order frequently after Trader Joes opened. Sometimes I can still find myself in the manipulative narrator that offers up a poet journalist like Ka (hello). PBS gave me a crueler and more ridiculing view of the Ottoman state shrinkage, though the intent of the documentary was to instill hope and repair the damage. If you haven't seen it I would not recommend that you do, unless flouting Turkish law to disparage its citizenry is one of your particular scatological pleasures; Pamuk can make you forget unpleasant sensibilities about long wide noses characteristic of the Mamluk golden age, fleeting as that episode in eastern history proved to be. I transformed into a variation of Louis Ferdinand Celine simply by the virtue of Vonnegut channeling the horrified physician in the too clever by far opening of Slaughterhouse Five: "Make it stop! Make it stop!"

Meaning if I could get what I believe it is that I need in a change of scene it would not necessarily change the reality of my ground game. Already afternoon, smirking at the typical bourgeoisie antipodes of my more affluent aunt, her friends, their catastrophic medical vulnerability. Were it up to my uncle, he would taser me into compliance with a straight jacket, if I watch the broadcast choices at all, the highbrow multi-cultural Bend It Like Beckham. I can do that script in my head-- or this bit of junk food, trying to calculate my COPD scale mortality rate. A commentator on WaPo asked me the nationality of my section 202 housing location, and even if I had wanted to pick up the gauntlet, the barb made no sense.

I was a twenty three year old woman when I entered into the PresbyHomes-PCA nexus. My treatment under this model was a sustained and inhumane cruelty, and, as previously indicated, if *citing* my posts on livecams ph is some sort of account suspension tactic-- what is it I have caused, or done, exactly, in your book, after a lifetime of post-academic grief? Not to put so much onus on traffic sources.

Ishiguro's Metabolic Fusion

"People let me tell you about my best friend."-- Harry Nilsson

Clifton Collins is a one armed man in the 09 Sunshine Cleaning because he is supposed to stand out as an expert in the peculiar waste management niche Amy Adams' character Rose finds herself, a kind of modern Virgil and ambiguous scarecrow rolled into one, the Winston of empathy and expertise whose knowledge isn't enough to blunt the folly of American dysfunctional narcissism, as it is embodied in Emily Blunt's Norah. As divergent as they are in their respective use of formats, however, scriptwriter and brilliant novelist, Megan Holley and Kazuo Ishiguro are both saying something about the demands of expertise, efficiency, and the negotiation of personal interaction. The 93 adaptation of The Remains of the Day has a komikaze subtextual ruthlessness, absorbed at a cost difficult to take, that the Anthony Hopkins we see twenty years before in Stevens is shallow, somewhat vapid, salvaged by the colonial mercy of gilded age power embodied by Christopher Reeve.

"And I slammed him, this most famous American in his reverberating helplessness."

We all tend to have innocuous thoughts like these running in our minds, even while reflecting on the aesthetic importance of casting. This supporting role as Congressman Lewis was the best acting Reeve ever did, even if Christine Jeffs as a director leads us to fend for ourselves over why the modern moneyed class would preserve an anachronism like a first rate butler.

My body is not as immobile as Reeve's became, and of course I cannot know how he coped internally with the fact that his body was lifeless. All he had left was the salvage of his mind, for a time. He did not have the luxury of my anonymity to be livid, and used the hope of scientific advance as an escape valve. Ambulation was a loss. Other minds simply cannot conceive bipedal locomotion, and those are the cautionary tales.

Human Singularity

Other futurists have long argued that we are heading instead towards a global economic and ecological collapse.-- Eden, Steinhart, Pearce, Moor, Singularity Hypotheses, p2

Bill Bixby was no doubt resented by countless fathers during the run of this quiet and unassuming series. I certainly saw padre in the projection of the actor as the suave cosmopolitan patriarch who had to negotiate the cracked terrain of the me decade. I had no idea he succumbed to prostate cancer after doing the earlier switcheroo version with Ferrigno, and the only clever thing about the 03 Hulk was giving the body builder the cameo in the opening. The film wants to be liked, wants relevance, and in the ghost of Ebert's tumorous glands, bollo uncle Roger focuses on Elliot's graphic performance as a worthy conformity to the genre. Yes. Connelly and Elliot redo Beautiful Mind with more exaggerated gravity, but Hulk is not terribly interesting. Schwarzenegger trying to psyche Ferrigno out in their early competitive days is more so, in terms of the psychology of bullshit and bravado. Should I bother comparing 08 and 12?

Wait for pins to drop? The 12 variation looks more like Lou. To summarize: the 03 version is the weakest of the resurgent Marvel films. Enjoyed less with each viewing. The continuity rolls like a rushed three penny opera, and the best I can say about Nolte is he seems to be channeling Katherine Hepburn; it does not absorb into the character.

I have to stroll out in a bit. The female throws house cat tantrums when her dry food vanishes, so hopefully CVS is open and I will be able to get into my branch. This year I am not looking to gather with exuberant students of my defeated hopes. I can only speculate that some of you aren't that stupid and do not like the implications of my festering temper, but people like Fern Markowitz, within her secular indulgences, and narrow minded bitch slappers like Debra Horne, manufacture the kind of aggression driving against liberal eradication. Debra has threatened me, more than once, and I do not like shallow paint by numbers organizers with that kind of power. 28 years is enough, even if compassionate capitalism might turn out to leave me worse for wear.

What do we do with poignancy for fallen father figure archetypes?