Gene's Buffet

"Macbeth falls for his horoscope." -- Kenneth Branagh, indefatigable

The writer Dorothea Stillman had an urban legend about Gene Roddenberry stopping her car to ask directions to a party, reinforcing his image as a horse's ass who always needed to hypersexualize babettes to shore up  insecure virility, causing me to stop and think how many of us have Famous Contact tales, myself included, and I'd trade everything at this moment, including Shakespearean English professors who rejected my father's studio apartment while igniting my emotional investment, for the fuck of the century with Stewart in his prime (I promised myself no slut and drool buffoonery in writing this post, but alas). Patrick Stewart must have been the absolute lay in his day. I envy the real wife, whatever the reason for the dissolution of her marriage to his once magnetic masculinity, good god.

But the man falters in Nemesis. The strongest post Trek films I've seen, before Abrams did prequels, are Undiscovered Country and the dark Picard post recovery in his battle with the borg queen. The rest are a bit thin, and Stewart himself seems wooden up against his fanatic alter-ego. Data's death blowing up the radiation ship contradicts other suggestions about his future life off the Enterprise-- and yet, Next Generation has a wondrous magnitude about it, one that countermands cauldrons. What angers me so much about Josie's meddling into my fresh water date fishing is I feel it was calculated.

"Woo he's got a thing for you!" She emailed this to me after reading one of Cecil's posts on my dead letter Yahoo Group, and then almost immediately afterward lashed out at him, and she knew beforehand how much pain I was in about my career, what had been done to me: Yes, she published me me in a PA state chapbook which she did not edit, and is a piece of shit, despite my essay about Matrix and fieldwork; yes, she expressed remorse, and briefly teamed with me on New Mobility, and to make up for what she did, broke a meal with me, but it is difficult for me not to get rejected by ambulatory men, even if the Argentine would have went there on his own. She interfered with my prospective pleasure, and I relish the prospect of setting eyes on her in the future. She will need the host of angels Jesus could have sought from the Father. I'll make her MS symptoms seem like a picnic.

I know: If I want another another shot, then dust off my knee pads, but how many walking men would give me a chance, being decent to boot? 

Pugilist Transformations

"In the ensuing war, particles of divine light-substance are imprisoned in the darkness."-- John Kevin Coyle, Manichaeism and Its Legacy

Examiner.com put out one of its mass memos last week about Google News crackdown on thinness of content, which points to the problem of hyper-linking. I consider myself an ethical writer regardless of my proclivity toward lack of reticence, but even my head is spinning at this point about original sources, and I have no direct contact with Examiner's editing staff, this in order to learn what they would like me to change.

Boxing is yet another metaphor for the industry's delight with its cannibalistic dark side, which is why we have so many films about the sport and liberal outrage about who, and what, it spits out. Raging Bull takes a slightly different timbre on this, as it is more about the awe and artistry in Marciano's fury, darker than Stallone and his perpetual hound dog lovable pull the girl in. Di Niro's variation on Marciano forces us to pose questions about rage, self-destruction, homicidal intent, without benefit of easy answers. Scorsese has his elevations, and the hard schematics from Humphrey Bogart's final years on which to draw, or Anthony Quinn's pustule diction in Requiem. The Harder They Fall (1956) picks its bones in a few easy places, and is an early indictment of sports media collusion with graft, but the real issue is Bogart's character, trying to square his conscience 30 odd years before Spike Lee hopscotched out of Brooklyn with a chip on his shoulder. There are subtexts within subtexts, as Bogart, I think, is also saying something about his status in the industry, the syndrome he and Lauren  virtually manufactured with single-handed charisma, and who really holds the reigns of capital in the studio system.

Yesterday I mentioned the senior advocate over me after John spiraled at my former place of employ, and, if I were still talking to Dan, my issue wasn't, and still isn't, matriculating the black welfare class upward. My issue was that I took a job where a black girl from the hood had supervisory authority over me to the point that we all reached a limit. I'm not Hillary Clinton, but I had graduate credits which I had hoped to complete when I was at Matrix, and had to toddle about like a goose in leg irons with a senile queer and a black girl who had no desire to matriculate herself further; I did-- hence my hydrochloric acid toward attempting to trust Philadelphia ADAPT later. My civil liberties have been violated repeatedly; my trust betrayed, repeatedly. Acceptance is one thing, but outrage isn't born in a vacuum.

A small Tuscan town

"That's a trochee in the second beat."-- Anna Deavere Smith

The furthermost I went on Tuesday to producing for Examiner was a shell shocked surfing of beat bylines on reliable Liberty City. I need a break from aggregating, despite Examiner's automated protests, and despite what I've posted in the past about how I desire to finish out my final productive years as an investigative journalist. Perhaps I have caused too much offense in some of my posts, but I have become a racist, however mortified, in enacting my university transfer as a mere form of protest, but deciding to be a good progressive while I was at it. Ten years of forced co-habitation with minority paraprofessionals, over 26 years of inner city housing, and I'm now a somewhat appreciative admirer of Abu Bakr al Bagdadi.

The community integration model has traumatized me into a superlative reactionary, and I do not know if this is what my undergraduate instructor saw in me when he advised me "not to do it." Americans of a certain socio-economic status put a premium on gnostic self love that is in continuous conflict with the worth of any individual human life, like that of Miss Eddie, the expendable bi-racial sloth who triggered within me a brief exercise toward self-immolation until I halted the attempt and wept. I could not reach the supervisor of the agency who sent her and nearly terrorized the woman out of my unit the following day. She had a real expression of fear in her face, and the following day after that I would not let her in. Trudy Richardson was hired some months after this, sent her equality charming minority assessment team up to my door. "I have a job to do now; people I have to answer to." I wonder how she would have felt had my father molested her and I surrounded her with klan members because she was reacting to trauma triggered by slovenly indiscretion.

The larger issue for me isn't Eddie's lack of restraint. The larger issue is the social exploitation of vulnerable people which virtually turns attendant care into a prostitution ring, buried in my 2004 back issue. There are things which need to be said which we never do. The community integration model breaks down when the recipient needs virtual constant care. That is better served in a centralized location.

I came as close as I could on Tuesday to giving Daniel Raudenbush an apology for my resignation and disillusionment with the work incentive project for which he hired me, but the fact remains, that, had John Spots spiraled into his suicidal crisis a month earlier, leaving the good psychologist to interview me with Harriet Fowler, I would have declined the position, and stayed at Liberty Resources until the center would have turned on me in a more timely fashion.

Paneer Tunneling

"And just as he was about to faint and gain at last one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle instead against the pressure on his throat." Where Angels Fear To Tread, page 118

My repugnance toward my former fiance must have stimulated the last of my energies, but I regret allowing him to penetrate me anally with the fingers of his one remaining hand. Either I dislike anal sex or realized I had more esteem at the time than annihilation would warrant, and have forgiven him in his child-like misogyny. Frank is an imbecile, but one of the rewards of fucking imbeciles is applying pressure. Glutton guilt does the rest.

I can write this, write the post I wrote yesterday with its searing brush burns of emotional scar tissue, and yet seriously question the morality of Forster's sadomasochistic enthusiasm, fully aware my battle is over before I sound the bugle. The very act of signing, to couch it in Calvino's referential playfulness, is subversive, and sparks anticipation-- yet Forster is an early 20th century black marketeer. He makes the pain of sodomy seem like a lucrative enjoyment. (I can hear Salon's sexually active contributors laughing at me. I am also considering submitting a column to them about the hostile environment I experienced at both disability center locations), draws his readers in better than any pornographic centerfold, and was one of the first modern homosexuals to promote colonial to native homoerotic courtships. E.M. Forster was "aggressively" gay, to echo Chuck Hagel. Aggressively gay before apes through HIV transmission created *unsafe sex* practices.

Sue Davison had a theory about homosexuality. "The whole world will turn homosexual eventually," this offered up nonchalantly while she glammed me up in the kitchen one day, before college. I do not know, recalling the memory, if she was sounding me out or just being a dumb bitch, but she always tried to help me build my esteem. The make up, objecting to my body hatred of my legs and buttocks. The only person who ever truly succeeded in helping me to take pride in myself, that I'll leave as the obvious and unstated.

What Forgiveness Does for Me

Let's see:

Two of my mother's lovers sexually assaulted me. One was Beaky, who decided to rape me after I came home from a party with John. 

Hats off Tassoni. I hand it to you with admirable sarcasm, and some knowledge of your misogyny. You made it. A department head, only a year and a half my senior, needed to reach for a safety valve when I pitched an error by writing to you in 2002, always looking back over my shoulder. Shake me off by finding a classification with which to label me, and  never knowing. I could not tell you. Never did. How could I, when I at least wanted to be your lover. How could I tell you. I did not. Beaky, and then my much more dangerous stepfather.

Linda did not know, and I could not tell you about her either. Somehow there is a disconnect between Chester and Philadelphia, more related to survival perhaps, that education would protect me, desire for you, worship for Jerry. Safe harbor with Michael, while a heroin addict named Stuart tried to torture my family to death. Independent living off side Temple's campus just more of the same molestation I used to receive at home. I want the nigger woman dead more than the addict grandson who assaulted me before her. He was simply going to kill me to get high. Miss Eddie hit on me, and I have to live with this John, that I no longer have compassion enough to see her as anything more than a non-viable deviant with minimal human characteristics; I picture her with a bloodied scalp. I'd enjoy seeing her hurt, and cannot forgive the world John, for creating lesbianistic abusers whom by necessity make me regurgitate, corrosive and monstrous in return. Forgive her for being a pig with the inability to control her lewd touching. Forgive Linda and Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Cassie for a zealotry which cannot acknowledge how many lives it destroys in tandem with a case management system designed to imply I am less human than you.

Forgive you for how you negotiated your interaction with me. Forgive Josie for rupturing a hope, an anticipation of a seasoned romance. Peevish clit sucking Christian published my departure from the fine world of mental health integration. She then let me be on team Mobility for five minutes. A heterosexual flirtation was too much to witness, however.

Never mind. Vituperation has turned me sour, right? I'm appalling, you never felt that way, and I can never hope to feel with another Linda's bravaccio with her divorced, Jewish husband. My neighbors and classmates from Folsom, before you knew me, and from Ridley Park, where yes, you visited, my father none too happy about that, these suburbanites disparaging me, at a disability center where a blind Mexican American cannot cajole state politicians to engage. This is social services intake in the city of brotherly love.

I don't want to die like this Tassoni. I wanted to bear your children, earn some degree of acclaim in my own right, and I cannot even hope to relocate without miraculous intervention. This is what forgiveness does for me.

Forest Gump

When anyone asked Beaver why he stayed there instead of setting up on his own, he sometimes said he thought his mother liked having him there (in spite of her business she was lonely); sometimes that it saved him at least five pounds a week. => His total income varied around six pounds a week, so this was an important saving.-- Evelyn Waugh, A Handful of Dust

Sensible people need to cease offering me sensible advice, like the office receptionist telling me I should be grateful for having a place to live, or a Linked In teacher going on in IM with beatitudes. Don't insult people. I mocked him by insinuating that I'm more sinister than I am. He did not get it and suggested I write a poem. Linked In earned my nearly instantaneous derision for this, and its threads. Fuck Lyneshia and her gratitude. Fuck people telling me to let the cruelty of Liberty go, or to stay positive. People who tell me this have traveled, had their careers.

What I face, with a near inability to reverse it, is statutory punishment for failure, on the basis of having done nothing wrong except fleeing Widener University and trying to succeed on my own terms. I've watched Erik the unethical transvestite transform from a facetious shyster into a living mummy, literally, one who thinks he's helping me after he skirted embezzlement charges and put his homosexual arrested development lover ahead in the game because the two of them are so low on the totem pole they're entitled to elbow straight arrows like me into a sewer.

I am tired of hearing it. Forgiveness. Do you know what happens to people like me without any financial security? A nigger on the down low pawing at me eight years ago is just the tip of the ice berg in comparison to what bed ridden dependence has in store when I am over sixty. I really don't see why I shouldn't utilize some criminality for some justice on my own. Robert Durst seems to have escaped with coveted privilege into a rabbit hole. All Good Things is a well made suspense tale, but what it leaves behind is bafflement. Why was all of this necessary? What triggered so much distress? 

Famous Anecdotes

There is a vestigial aspect to the 1977 Julia which makes it an interesting study, and fleshes out Lillian Hellman's play a little more. The Children's Hour always confused me, at least as an attack on innuendo, but thrown against the titanic clashes of 20th century Europe perhaps one can wear Lillian's lenses, even about absence-- for absence of presence is something I understand. Of all my name dropping on this account, one thing ties into my waggling: Lack of intimacy. I do not know Jerry all that well, nor Linda, my favorite spastic sociopath. I do know my ex fiance with an exposed familiarity of the uncouth, and thus understand Hellman's inability to let go of the impression made to her heart, but as a bio epic the film doesn't work, and is more reminiscent of overdrawn aristocrats writing each other love notes for lack of any other relief from their body lice. 

Julia was one of the few Jane Fonda vehicles which ever intrigued me. I thought Redgrave might do something interesting against the life long movie star chameleon whose frantic undercurrents drive me up the wall. Jane tries very hard here to use herself as an icon to play a theatrical icon, one who is now basically a footnote-- but it doesn't work, and Vanessa has little to do with the title character except to make her a blue blood willing to sacrifice body parts and personal security for radical egalitarianism-- the very thing I'm now using my pen to fight.

I loved my best friend Susan the way Hellman expresses her love for her early Nazi casualty, not my supervisor. I identified with Linda. If I had to be a woman with spastic cerebral palsy I wanted to make myself over in the image of a prevaricating Jewish fuck who reclines back into herself, a mortally wounded ferret-- but my depressive episode brought about by her betrayal wasn't gay panic. I believed for a long time that this was the case. I did not want to sleep with her then, and don't now, these many years past her divorce--but I did let her cause me a tremendous amount of suffering in my branded, platonic attachments, and this is one of Hellman's motifs-- personal and platonic investments beneath restraint, not so much forcibly repressed, but expected.

At one time, I loved Sue, my ambulatory best friend who had her own ambivalence about her sexual freedom. I kissed her hand too like a devoted litter whelp, when she came back from Alaska with Steve, but there was no sexual arousal involved in my attachment. I contrast this with my present state of being. My only interpersonal intimacy is with my second worst enemy: a broken female physician transvestite who can barely remember its own name while I wait to dance on its grave. Erik lacks the mental capacity to understand that I believe his extermination would be beneficial for the species, and that discussing the hostile environment Linda created for me 13 years ago is no panacea.

Transference, a Response to Charles Krauthammer

I remember certain things about the Bush Administration's response in the immediate aftermath of 9/11. Any administration would deserve some slack in the face of such chaos, but should it remain buried as a neo-conservative footnote that administration officials loaded bin Laden's Saudi relatives onto a plane without so much as even a brief interview on what they knew about Osama and his whereabouts?

We're busy relitigating the Iraqi War, flinging mud at the administration which started it, blaming the administration which ended combat operations, while Frontline's investigation into the Saudi royal family and its attempt to export its Sunni extremists is conveniently overlooked, because consumption of fossil fuel drives foreign policy. No established media outlet, to my recollection, ever investigated why the Bush foreign policy team was so closely aligned with the Saudi foreign ministry once the invasion of Iraq commenced.

The Saudi's get scolded by liberals, ignored by the right, while only one non-profit media outlet dares to connect the dots on the igniting sparks of Sunni radicalism. I am not attempting to insinuate that a declaration of war against an insecure monarchy with which we've had a long alliance, touted up by correspondents with weapons deals long before my university enrollment, would have been better than up routing Baathist Iraq, or destroying Muammar's grip on power in Libya; I will also concede Krauthammer has a point about the current administration's soft underbelly, but is the global oil conglomerate so powerful that it is worth the hundreds of thousands of Muslims dead, the reverberating psychic trauma to Americans and Europeans? Removing or reinforcing the al-Maliki regime is moot if the executive branch has been barking up the wrong tree for over a decade.

Chameleons

"What _Call It Sleep_ has in common with these lasting works is a determined sense of art sustaining itself in a fallen world, a time of endless troubles, of political and social fright."-- Alfred Kazin

What Kirk Douglas and Paul Newman share in common is the secular submersion of their identity for commercialization, and this despite the fact that Kirk, surviving his new age counterpart, was better at playing the traumatized Zionist who finally gives in to psychiatric methodology. There is something off in Newman's performance in Exodus, something that is not missing in Hud or The Hustler, those devastating new wave heavies-- and what might be allegorical in Cool Hand Luke, not that I'd be able to ascertain if the southern penal system in the 60's would kill a white man, whose assimilated ethnicity was invisible, over vandalism which signified a personal insurgency. I am wondering if this is why Jewish liberalism is almost invariably an unwritten codicil to American Constitutional protections, not that Nazism won't remain as a faux specter, at least until my sister's great grandchildren begin to procreate.

Hud actually reminds me of one of Balzac's grandiose misers, which might be giving Newman too much credit for his uncompromising western brutalist. 

All Trolls in a Bottle

Mmm. So now it is called digital courage? By the time volatile bloggers make it into Wapo ledes it is old, stale. I emailed one of my gang of five this morning, in fact, after I realized I let her list membership hang on my old, stale, and relatively inactive Yahoo Group.

Let me explain to you one unique difference between Elonis and myself:

1. My disability center is 15 minutes downtown from where I write you. The environment the center provided was, in Linda's words, "like a second family." No disagreement there. This family is gone for me now, regardless of whether or not my former supervisor still believes I was courting her sexually. It is gone. She could retire tomorrow; it doesn't matter. The entire environment of Liberty is traumatic for me, like seeing the shock on the face of Michelle McCandless, a consumer employee, when she recognizes me but doesn't speak.

2. I still live in the building with the transvestite and prat boy partner who rotate on the board of the directors for Liberty, and still see daily my former consumers whom I've case managed.

3. I have no alternative to this federally mandated center. Once they hang you out to dry, without the resources to move on, you're hung. Do you understand? There are other providers of medical services which mimic the center model, but no competitive alternative to the center itself

I am not blameless for the situation being what it is, but my family should have heeded my plea and helped me to move on before my stress and decomposition into corrosive emotional pain became what it is now. I've told you about the attendant abuse and landlord harassment, swirling about like a tornado funnel whose sheer force pummels a human body to its death. An external framework that criminalizes indigence.

Out In The Cold

Oh ISIS, this disappoints me. More patrilinear castration. Genocidal carnage is always inefficient. If I wanted a win it was through precision, tactics, not taking the life blood of your own while I recall the face of the Kurdish girl on the Time Magazine cover after a chemical attack during the Iraqi-Iranian war around 1979 when Saddam Hussein entered consciousness as a public figure. My enthusiasm shrivels.

Aggregating Efficacy

Aggregation involves the formation of assemblies of particles brought together by collisions, held in contact by surface forces. From a mechanistic point of view, deposition onto a macroscopic surface can be considered to be a limiting case of particle-particle aggregation in which one of the particles has an infinite dimension. Elimelech and co-authors

To state it another way, Jim Gardner was once quoted in Time Magazine asserting "We're not phonies," maybe not, but there is a huge difference between anchoring a broadcast and covering a story, or even pitching an idea. Media oriented journalists like Erik Wemple leave me discomfited at times, despite the fact that I have used my support of old grand Wapo to dissect its crop of contributors, but with the Brian Williams story, I concede Erik has cleared up my contextual bafflement. Perhaps there is a sense here that broadcasters want to be more than show horses, and Williams convinced himself that he was in the thick of it, just as Hillary did years ago. One might call it mannequin legitimacy, in much the same way that the welfare caste loses visibility and credibility, its poverty criminalized.

Three times, once in responding to a support ticket in a foul manner of emotional disappointment, I told Examiner.com I quit and decoupled myself from its Pinterest spam market, ashamed that I aggregated so much content for nine months. Yet this is not relevant. It's sister site, AXS, still regularly appears in my inbox, asking me for work, and I don't get it, replying as nicely as I did to Nikki Lloyd last evening, that I was no longer writing for Examiner, having closed my accounts in November 2014.

I am no longer sure I can be a practicing journalist. Not due to mistakes. I've made them in good conscience, rushing paragraphs. This is what copy editing is for. Not due to failure either. Sometimes ideas jell and an article emerges, sometimes not, and I have never lied about sources, but I am simply not sure how to stay in the saddle. I do not wish to work for New Mobility anymore, although I am going to write them an editorial about ADAPT Josie Byzek LBGT backlash, dare them to publish it, which they won't, and aggregating past content for different levels of emphasis can trip up the most conscientious, however driven we are toward veracity. My sense is we're all becoming overwhelmed with information, forgetting how to think it through, and this may not behoove us well at the end of the day.

History informs us that Woodward, Bernstein, numerous others, did not know what they had with the Watergate break in, and I still don't know what they had. Illegal activity and covert movement against the left in the aftershock of the Cold War, but Nixon's motives? Those seem impervious, however more attuned I was to Gerald Ford's pardon. I remember that vividly.

Moderated For Relevancy

I have no desire to use Linked In and its network to be subversive, push the envelope, be malicious, or to shred the reputation of my former supervisor into pork patties. I would not get away with it, and like most who use the service, I am there to network. I also give Richard Gent's "English Language & Literature" credit for reminding me that deconstruction can be light hearted. Instructors hold keys to the profound no more than anyone else. As one or two of the blunt Britons on the James list told me years ago, "Do your own research." It is not their fault that I have logistical impediments.

But if Linked In is representative of the Facebook model, the First Amendment is dead on arrival, and Blogger only tolerates my posts because I am not urging my viewers or my audience, or the few readers I may have who attempt to sort out my damaged brain chemistry, to kill my enemies for me. What would be in it for them would only be the quid pro quo of my traumatized mind, and there are no guarantees an obligation like that would pay off.

What corporations allow as written speech and do not allow, however, is eminently frustrating. The context of how I mention Examiner.com makes me a spammer even if the intent of my post was to discuss fair use. Or did Jay take exception to the fact that I mentioned his name? I literally do not know if I should use Linked In Groups or not, and was assertive with a group manager, moderator, and LI's customer service. Used the censure of removing myself to make a point of *disadvantaged status* without invoking the ADA, and the moderation flag then vanished.

But this is how we talk today, and I'm trying to salvage a modest level of respectability as I spangle into the recesses of the matronly with only the bittersweet left in turbulence, and Linked In has many writing communities. Connections with sympathetic editors are valuable, someone out there may be able to customize a work model for me that would at least keep me above indigence. Backing away entirely is not in my best interest, ludicrous as the model appears to be in actions and traffic.

The addition of the moderation process is not an assessment of your posting quality. Rather, it's designed to equip all group managers to screen content from members who've been blocked from other groups. "

How and why was I blocked from other groups? 

Stigmatized

I thought I was doing okay on Linked In groups, but no. My posts have been "flagged as irrelevant or spam" though I cannot say anything about who my plaintiffs are. This is depressing me very badly because I have tried to keep an even keel, and now feel unfairly treated by a mass aggregate.

I am excited by ISIS. I am not Sunni, and apparently not even a disabled female worth the benefit of the doubt, but I hope they win. Fanaticism at least gives its adherents something to believe in.

Conversional Masochism

"You want to be Pope!"-- a Gene Robinson heckler

The retired archbishop isn't quite homosexual enough it seems. His sanctimonious self righteousness is preposterous, an appropriate target for scorn. Obviously, impulse control lies at the root of some of my issues, after molestation by men, and more sneakily by women, so yes, I have the capacity for bisexual stimulation, but do I torment myself over it? No, except I know as sure as the day I was born that I remain a target whom unscrupulous attendants will attempt to exploit. Environment has placed them in time like coprolites, something that Hillary Clinton has observed in her travels, conditions which make me look fairly rich when I lose control of molten diarrhea leaking spastic rectum.

What she has observed as a taciturn figurehead is one thing. What Philadelphia has inflicted on my belief in my own matriculation is another. Sliding down the scale toward the end, posting to any of you hasn't done much good toward a base of supporters, unless the Russians and the Chinese are weighing my inflammatory use.

In more pragmatic terms, had I not lashed out at Linda when I bellowed in email that I thought I had fallen in love with her, stayed quiet, faxed her orgasm emails to Philadelphia Human Relations Commission, she would have been out of a job, the three stooges  would have given me a settlement, and I might have relocated then before my mother's fatal attack. Instead I had a massive depressive episode, in so much pain I simply had to swallow the seismic events which followed, destroying any hope then of snapping back into place, surviving, but at what price? I'm weakening.

Can I say I would have thrown myself under a Swedish train car like Bendjelloul? He engaged in an ambulatory destructive exercise. Yahoo's feature article on his death, though commendable for length, dragged on, and might have been edited toward shorter and tighter impact. I stress the ambulatory function because I have never intuitively understood bipedal motion. True paraplegics know what they've lost. When I observe Episcopalians struggling with Robinson's radical egalitarian insistence on simply ignoring the Torah, turning the Trinity into a Tribbles episode, what goes on beneath the surface is obstinate tyranny toward apostasy. This doesn't mean I want to rejoin the devotees to Jesus, nor does it mean doctrine is inviolate, but homosexual activism is destroying something which will transform humanity, to its detriment. The biker who took Robinson on in front of the congregation saw this, despite lack of manner and elocution. Archbishop Robinson is not a Christian, only an egotist, breaking down restraints which have served our species for years. Eradication of the human animal would benefit felines. They are better creatures despite evolutionary stop gaps. I am not quite sympathetic to Isis, and its anticipated takeover of Baghdad, but futurists, anxious over the destruction of collective intelligence, aren't engaged with the new Al Qaeda model.

Health Care Crisis

Perhaps Google earns money off my raw content, and since I am not earning money off my raw content, then why am I investing so much of my time, breaking so many eggs, shredding my wounds? A Blogger account is not much, in terms of a legacy, if it can even be counted as one. Let me return to the poor vaunted Louise Norlie, secretly telephoning me from her backyard in New Jersey. "Most people go with their aide," she said, with an implied perplexity at my lack of having one. But in the ten years plus of having one, then using my own money to borrow Tim, I was abused, for the most part, by the African Americans taking the job. Not all of them, but a significant percentage. Every "aide" I had except for the new one, whom I have only used once, has discomfited me, if not abused me with micro-behaviors, and this is all I have to look forward to. Dealing with low income stressed strangers who have their own triggers. I did not go through six fucking years of university to make getting a diaper change my life time award, but my age is pushing the turning point where I'll have no choice but to depend on ignorant women with bad teeth for my care.

My last advice to Louise, by the way, is to assert herself for herself. Stop looking for apron strings, or for someone like me to draw you out on a specialized list serv, or for someone like me to engage with you because we both have other aesthetic needs beyond medical model maintenance. Go out, take a risk, meet a boy. Have sex. Do something rather than sneak telephone calls to wounded warriors.

Marie and I haven't spoken in over a week. A record for me, but father's sister and I have worn each other out. She doesn't want the same services offered by PCA that I also refuse at my peril, but it was her choice not to have hospice care for Lillian, my favorite grandmother, or my uncle, her husband, who died of lung cancer while she still smokes three packs a day. Nor is my father getting care for my stepmother Louise, with her RA. Did he marry her to punish himself for me, his dead son? I don't know, but he is eighty and cannot give his wife nursing care.

Louise hates us, my sister says. I don't doubt it. Maybe that is guilt over my mother, or that my physical vulnerability reminds her of her own, but let's extrapolate, even though I am not Timothy Taylor: You probably have an uncle Joseph with cognitive limitations signifying mild dementia, or an aunt with a broken wrist who can no longer climb stairs, with MRSA exposure and infection. If a mostly stable quadriplegic like me can fall out of production due to transit restrictions and major fallout with compliance, with the parental generation of her family now falling into "nursing home eligibility" (I welcomed padre into the club not many weeks back when Marie and I discussed the Louise crisis). My stepmother always is a crisis-- how are we going to afford the direction in which we're heading? You may think my euthanasia advocacy cruel, but demographics estimate global population will reach 11 billion by 2100. We're crushing ourselves.

Shame, Aggression, False Pretenses

When I first joined Examiner over the winter, their advice to me, however removed in locale and my internal time sensing mechanism, was "not to hide." But any raise in profile carries risks, and I sometimes wonder why Blogger tolerates my sometimes rampaging content, not all of it an act, because posts are regulated for behavior, and not given full free speech latitude, but this points to how social networking stokes paranoia. I am afraid of Linked In's controls, and the hassle of having everything I write in a group like the Professional Women's Network "subject to review". It is a large group, and I don't want to presume too much, but subjecting to review is neither a guarantee of containment, nor definitive indicator of future acts. My grudges have poisoned my emotional well being, certainly, but when I broke my wedding engagement with Frank, my family should have helped me relocate. They did not, and I am stuck in exactly the same place I have been in against my will since 1994. The former supervisor who hurt me has probably paid off her mortgage. My apartment manager Trudy Richardson, who was a cheaper investment for Pennsylvania than I, gets paid to harass me for being non compliant, and Jimmi and Erik, Christ knows what they think they've actually achieved. Disability activism presumes that transitioning from an institutional environment to a housing environment where behavior is proscribed to the 10th power is the definition of success. For me this rings hollow without rewarding matriculation-- and I have been without that since 2005. Being in section 811/202 housing from the beginning of a career that keeps breaking me hasn't been the easiest thing to withstand, but we seem to insist on regulating ourselves down to the bland banality of oatmeal. I wanted a real independence in my life, not 50 memos about inspections and tenant meetings and who gets ostracized for not being a black baptist. I wanted to travel, not demonstrate with other wheelchair users for empowerment. It is a flawed and forced form of inclusion that has its own sterility. I wanted an income for vanity, my own furniture, decent clothes, not struggling with disability payments, alone, with no friends of my own choosing.

I have interacted with a woman named Mary Bryant on the network, and if I am guessing correctly she's a better Catholic than I ever was, even in the fervor of my religious years. I opened up, just enough, to tell her I don't recommend Linked In members read my blog-- if the post goes through-- but if she did she'd probably wonder why I'm not on my dead mother's lithium dosage, getting *help*. It would certainly be a way for the social cruelty I've experienced life long to be buried, in tandem with the fact that I've dished some of that back, particularly on suburban female author hopefuls with caustic ferocity born out of despair. I may have wised up, but social fear is not an unwise prerequisite when utilizing social sites. I've had a horrible life. It pisses me off, and the people who've wronged me got away with it. Every time. 

Before I Go

"Take my whole life too." --Elvis

I liked what a teacher wrote on Linked In about Flannery O'Connor's output signifying that violence is sometimes necessary to achieve grace. Within my insularity of a life so poorly lived, I think I believe that. Violence is necessary for catharsis, at least conjoined to the possibility that human dignity is a fiction, a concept born out of rapid evolutionary success.

Since I am pushing the envelope, let me push it further: I know that any prospect of taking out a handful of damaged humanoids is yet another spree travesty for crime media, and that if some individuals reading my posts think I am one of the few women around with Columbine warning signs on my head, it is an indicator of powerlessness, hatred of ugly imperfection. The compliments of an acolyte like Louise from an obtuse list serv about about a Victorian era queer were gratifying only until I learned she had osteogensis imperfecta. Once she became just another insulated disabled woman whose success was contingent upon being a federal employee, I then wanted nothing to do with her, and hate what that instance imposed upon me.

I hate what I am, despite having been strong enough to survive, willful enough to fuck more than one ambulatory white male, to laugh at bad sex with addicts and impotent husbands, I do not want to die like an indigent O'Connor character, and my window to put brakes on that train is fast closing. 

I am not ready to break the law, not yet, but if a time comes where I do, then I'm out of the human community, and that is all too amusing given logistical disadvantages, and everything else the dynamics of my past have imposed.

Call It Sleep

Susan Hayward would die from a brain tumor twelve years after doing Stolen Hours, a remake that contributes very little to the conversation between the melodrama of mortality and the banality of turning cadaver. Party girl more than actress, yet one projection Hayward carries through is the vivacious defiance of will in the face of the insurmountable, never inhabiting her characters so much as flinging her impertinence at her audience, the 63 film is a cheap sham, a meager Kennedyesque decollage that follows the Davis model with unnecessary religiosity, indicative of the fact that we're impatient with video of medical model treatment and remission, cleaning up after chemotherapy vomit, or knowing everything, like Lance Armstrong, the disgraced paragon, or knowing nothing, or knowing what physicians think the pathology indicates.

We all decline, a word I got from my follower, Edward, when I met him in the community room for coffee. He was casual about the fact that Trudy Richardson sent up an assessment team to my unit at a most vulnerable moment, with Debra Horne and I threatening each other, the entire building knowing about it within minutes. I was not *declining* in 2007. The entire system imploded over my head. Keystone Mercy had dropped me as a carrier because I was Medicaid ineligible. The Liberty Resources case manager cannot handle anything not compliant with Medicaid spend down. The only resource I had was my mother's brother, an executive at a medical equipment carrier, but I had to pay him.

The renovations that Erik von Schmettering and Jimmi Shrode, as a piteous LBGT couple and zealous advocates, foisted upon Presbyterian Homes, traumatized me, as did the mixed race nursing aid who hit on me two years earlier. She would have probably told the police she was just attempting to console me rather than putting me in an episode of Orange is the New Black, but I am cognizant of what a lesbian move is, tried to force myself to an orgasm after the sense of violation, couldn't climax, and let a trigger move me to my always incessant tears, periodic and overwhelming. I rarely masturbate on any masochistic submission fantasy anymore. A healthy sexual relationship is a bad romance-- or Hayward's mature coitus with her strong men imagined off screen. She never transforms, Hayward, whatever her role, or her age, she is the noble pioneer female, taking a punch like a brass tack, dying hard, sometimes with irony.

Now I am declining, but what I cannot accept is that I've been forced to eat rust my entire life, brutal youthful surgeries which improved nothing and maybe I did not need, and that one other strong woman with cerebral palsy humiliated me beyond my ability to recover, after lifelong threats to my survival, the erosion of my dignity. I want them dead, the prominent members of ADAPT I came up with, because the paradigm needs to change, and no one is lifting a finger. Jimmi talks on his cell in his thick footed sandals and ignores me, this fearsome advocate who is as progressive for broken bodies as the holy grail, but sniggers at everyone, with Erik, behind their backs. A transvestite and his fat homosexual partner know the truth, and individuals like me, those who thought we could make a rewarding life, career, are fools. This is what their advocacy and activism, willingness to engage in fraud, amount to, and it is why gay marriage advocates, and more prominent progressives, are fooling themselves with the persuasive arguments posited under the equal protection clause.

Mainstream conservatives have given this up, and even I see it is inevitable, but what stems forth from it will invariably lead to more complications, and I'll be declining, dribbling with incontinence, getting a pressure sore dressed. I'd rather be a terrorist, even a suicide tourist, going blind in my last moments, fade to black.

Tony Todd Beneath A Pyre

"My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man." Dan Fogelberg

Old women. Old unhappy women, wretched like an Olivia Newton John pop song plea. As faulty as our memories may be, the day Elivis died my mother was in my bedroom on my mattress watching the news of it, weeping and I, perplexed, either in wheelchair or kneeling on the floor, with stridency, asked "Mom why are you crying?"

"He was a big singer once, when your father and I were young," weeping in her unhappy indolence of fat, shrewish pale blue eyes, before I was born my mother was a knockout, a near perfect imitation of Sophia Loren. No one used classifications like bipolar disorder, and a trigger was a mechanism for gunpowder ignition. I was born because my mother was friendly with Marie Marinelli, my long suffering aunt, and Marie hooked my mother, my mother in near matricide with her mother, hooked her up with my father, and I was born because my mother miscarried a firstborn son, this attractive Italian couple who knew Fabian, and grew up in the first dawn of conglomeration of superstardom such that Elvis spawned. I was never a fan but I heard the soundtrack of "Falling In Love With You," female rendition, and couldn't work, the baritone of Presley's voice like a tidal wave over the bandwidth of reminiscence, carrying that ballad with the longing of vulnerability, swallowed into the contradictory passion of unity. It is never like that, our desire to envelop in the face of God, yet a corn bred bubba had the voice with the pull of such gravitas.

I wanted Afghanistan wiped off the face of the earth after 9/11. Then after 13 years of war we calmed down, tired of it all, but the Bergdahl swap is an unseemly and sordid business, especially if the lives of soldiers were lost in the attempt to recover their comrade. Kathleen makes a salient argument. That is how she makes a living, without room for now militant reactionaries like me, always diffident about President Obama even when I voted for him, but in this instance, I disagree with the swap. Suspending judgment on the issue of desertion, that I have to do, as how does an American desert in a wasteland where men are patriarchal savages? Men who live on medieval prescripts, addicted to heroin, like dogs, and no better than rheumy eyed dogs? 

I met an Afghan girl in high school, a refugee salvaged by Carter. To her, overwhelmed as she probably was, I wonder if I was even doubtlessly human, how I registered in her mind, or what the word cripple amounts to in Farsi. She registered to me, barely, as a foreigner. Too young for the implications, my parents, Nicholas and Joanne, were a stunning couple. Sequins and tuxedo, Sophia Loren and a sharp Kevin Spacey. In his prime, mio padre was more the handsome than Spacey. I do not want to lose my father, falling in love with you. A white man who could sing like nigger, with all the conviction of it, for. I. Can't help. Falling in love with you. Never in my life has this happened, not like it happened for Presley, whose daughter must have had an interesting time of it in the bedroom. Her father dying in a pool of his own vomit, a man who was an international headline in an army uniform, melting in my dead mother's breast, my eyes burn, my histrionic fists beating on Jerry's chest, while he wrote me factual letters from Romania.

Why are you crying, these mine spastic burning eyes?  

Tony Todd's Pacification, Gently

Well, my new hire just triggered my ringtone, but I did not swipe to take the call. I'm broke, and can care less. Maybe she is wondering if I fired her. That doesn't matter, but I just disconnected with her anyway, in droll and dilatory fashion, disgruntled with my inanity and self pity, not that I'm incapable of taking the scarred humanity of my own ego out of the picture, or discussing the masturbation on a piece of liver, which was, in its time, an original evasion from the threat of being rendered pornographic, debating whether or not to make that easy for you, to what I allude. If emancipation is one of the salutary values of story telling, then the man from earth is a brazen exhibition in that vein, proving that much can be done with simple monastic values of good dialogue, one in which Tony Todd juxtaposes urban horror and demonic vengeance in the face of torture with that of testosterone mitigation in the ensemble surrounding David Lee Smith. It was an interesting role, a contention that black men have softer sentiments, streaking their faces just like the rest of us, specious and overwhelmed, dried saline sticky on the outermost layer of our epidermis. Jerome Bixby had an integral authenticity in his art. And this is how it should be, triumphant and transcendent. One way or another, I am determined to achieve vindication.

I Wake Up Screaming

"I wanted to be like the Europeans."--Orhan Pamuk, location 1856

Seasonal allergies and my father's sinuses is also a contingency not planned for, the grease ball's throbbing head with my mother's nerves, her father's intestinal issues rolled into a palsied post 50 flesh, waking itself at 4 in the morning to watch Grable and Mature conduct their insider studio celebrity jokes with perv kisses and stocking feet, titillating beef shots, watching Laird Cregar (who I never heard of) do a formulaic twist as a stalker, obsessive worshiper.

Hovering between my tormented genius, over-educated competency and decomposition, even online, the mental health consumer, for those of you with a Linked In account, laser in on me. They know it would not take much to leave me adrift and stranded as they are themselves, or have an intuitive antenna attuned to vulnerability, as Sheldon Novick knows, and Sarah too, the graduate intern of years past, I harbor a degree of guilt over certain cases of undeserved outbursts, not meant in all cases to intimidate. (I never truly had an axe to grind with Henry James aficionados, which isn't to allege that I am not in *Hallmark Mandy's* sandpit, that of recrimination in being argumentative.)

He is literally incomprehensible, however, worth dropping or making fun of, another argument against radical equality, even as I adopt a new online mentee whose skills are sharp, who probably doesn't realize he should tell me to go fuck myself and report me to the NAACP. My smile is bemused, my psyche not necessarily seeking reconciliation with the hatreds  of learned experience and an affection for the energy, empathy, of the young and up and coming. Even though he wasn't the primary actor in the illegality of Liberty Resources against me, I truly hate Jimmi Shrode, his sissy and shrill voice of disdain, his ugly and gluttonous homosexuality, the black lacquer on his hand bitten fingernails, his occasional use of green eye shadow even more repugnant, the depth of a hatred that is such that it goes too far and would abate if I could leave Riverside. Other than closing my disability center down because of its corruption and institutional bias, the very last thing I want in my life is to vacate these premises without making my predicament more the worse, and I'm at a loss even though I have threatened the parent company.

Legal action against Presby is no guarantee that I can preserve my last years with dignity.