In the Stockholm of Neuro diversity

"It's not a PC thing."-- Amy Harmon

Ms. Harmon's facial expression lends itself to superciliousness, and this is what centered my focus on her appearance at the end of a brief documentary about Rosie Glynn, her widowed mother, who teaches writing in the Pittsburgh area, and the younger Glynn sister, who is normal. Rosie is mentally retarded, and is herded like a livestock animal in a curtailed supported employment program, a very regulated form of slavery for aggressive imbeciles who are aggressive because they know their minds are a garbled bouillabaisse.

Amy, mind, has made her specialty out of the developmentally disabled autism spectrum. Case manager once removed, which is why her disingenuous expression is so easily read in her evasions, telegraphing itself loud and clear. The progressive expansion of radical equality isn't going to stop until our desiccated bones merge in ecological empathy for a blade of grass. Not that I don't understand. 

On the contrary, I weep for Rosie, pity her mother, and realize the younger sister will deploy the psychiatric profession at some point in her maturity in order to handle the emotional guilt. I comprehend why Rosie Glynn removes oxygen from the dining room, creating a vacuum which crushes the soul 20,000 leagues beneath the sea.

Five years ago I wrote that I wasn't going to deal with agenda films like this often, but now and again they have to be included, because Amy Harmon struggles with the brutality of forthrightness to the degree that she herself is more the monstrosity than an adolescent screaming at her mentally ill mother to have an abortion, getting whipped across the face for it, and with a bloodied eye, almost going into foster care. This is the vitriol for which the fortunate, if droll, poet, Amy Holman, rebuked me, a vitriol that would have turned my half brother into a fetal carcass, as so many women do with their pregnancies. It is all about the demeanor, how we get censored, how we conjoin Asian women with their abortion rate. Bill Kurtis is offering an expose. I use his story with an undercurrent of divisiveness that incites Indian women with indignation. What's my point?

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All I wanted to do is go out to dinner, enjoy the man's company, and fuck him, if applicable. I was healthy enough at the time to still engage in a romper room frolic, whether he needed Viagra or did not, and I still feel it. No matter how much I might humiliate my former editor, nothing will return the moment to me, the heightened magic of anticipation, that she destroyed lashing out at him over her keyboard, right in front of my eyes. Please. Don't tell me to buck up and keep trying. I lunged at nearly every possible opportunity I could since I was 36.

What man wants me at 52, with only the virtue of thinning pubic hair? I know women do this to each other, but what I did in my past life to wind up drawn and quartered by the ultimate third world den mother with multiple sclerosis must have been unimaginable. If I ever see her again, for all my physical vulnerability, she'll feel my scorn, the all consuming bitterness, like a phoenix reborn out of bone ash. I have to keep revising, keep pushing, now the blog, now the article, my only polish a glittering ferocity.