Wemple Dowager Roll

In response to Wemple's post on Buzz Feed's dismissal of Benny Johnson, I commented thus, and raise an interesting issue on ownership of what we voice to our favorite editorial staff, as I am re-appropriating my own content:

Erik, I have a question to which I do not expect an answer, and it is: Does excoriating Johnson serve any reader's interest, including a disability journalist on the skids? You feel rushed; I am rushed barely hanging on by my fingernails, and I am not sure, at the end of the day, what the point is. I've skimmed BuzzFeed, briefly thought of presenting myself as a humble fact checker, decided against, and the lack of trust the public feels in the fourth estate is only confirmed by the seismic upheaval of social media on the traditional beat reporter, who, by not being allowed to show bias, lies anyway. In my view, plagiarism is a manufactured form of criminal conduct except in extreme cases, but that's me. Aggregating content exhibits this tension, as it is summarily copying, then gets slammed by Google for thinness of content, and then the people doing it are encouraged to be real journalists for commissions worth peanuts. Your flag waving heartens me with the reassurance that Wapo stands firm making the trains run on time.

I think I have a few concerns here more or less over money and ethics as much as we all worry about the practice of bad attribution. Erik's column-- Wapo doesn't need to game a hipness its Graham family accouterments deny it by calling some of its staff bloggers and others opinion writers when it is simply an overdone bifurcation -- is aesthetically displeasing, one, and two, we demonize Johnson by keeping the issue afloat, raising the question as to whether media sensationalism is more ethical than Johnson's practices. I have used Wikipedia without attribution, but I have never cited an entry verbatim, and always considered Wiki open source, as any of us can, and have, edited entries. 

Erik did respond to my critique indirectly by publishing about digital plagiarism the next day. The actual impetus driving all of us batty is economic amoralism. Within my memorandums, I've written I want to end my career as an investigative journalist. This is not to convey bullshit for a paycheck doesn't rankle. I am not finished with this issue; it is beginning to annoy me.

Inundated Drives, on Brioche toast

I do not give a rat's ass in hell that I am eight years older than Jerome Robart. There is some intangible quality about French seduction and French fucking and with one little turn of the key, with a trophy love like this, I would have been a satisfied and happy woman, in love with life. Please, please, help me kneel like the actress who plays Sabine (or Satin), in one last false bloom, my spastic grip on his ass riding the rocking horse, I once had a reputation for dedicated oral sex and I would bury my face in his testes and gladly suffocate; no wonder poor Maupassant went insane with syphilis. What the fuck is it about European men? And you do not tell me about Nicolas Le Floch? Wicked viewers.

When I stop fervently straining to harvest the last of my nectar for the heaven of such a seduction, by the mother of Christ, Robart's subtly might inspire some rosette synapses to brilliance. Don't grow old bereft for such unions of masculine definition, if you heed nothing else from me, feel your passion and live it fiercely. Go after it, if I only had.
---------
There is a trollop at play, and an undercurrent of truth to the fact that Robart's role in a Enlightenment era procedural ignites frustration. My ex fiance tried, early on in our failed liaison, to ignite the same sparks one can find in a Paris boudoir, but I did not love the man, and he could not persuade me with such attributes as he had that others assumed made Frank and I a couple who were suited for each other: Everyone around the neighborhood called him my husband, when I could still get him out of his bed, and this says something about outward appearances over interior dissatisfaction, Jerome may not be picture perfect, which is a deterrent in George Clooney, but what he does with the bemused wrinkle of those almond eyes, Robart.

Fuck. I must go to Europe to die. It is imperative, even if difficulties are paramount.

Nausea

"It was myself that had been rejected, my experience that had been excluded." Jean Paul Sartre

Dying like a dog frightens me despite the fact that it will end the encroachment of abject poverty. The amusing thing about my occasional dizzy spells is they started when I was 36, typing my emails to Linda, my formerly lethal supervisor. The entire construct of my life has been an investment in phantoms, and I open my eyes, 52, on my sink hole mattress from Sears my father purchased what? Twelve, fifteen years ago? And the room starts spinning for many long seconds, and I'm lying down. Not sitting up. Fan on, storms have passed, and my interior sense of balance goes haywire. Marie told me before that this is sinus trouble, but I am queasy and fear if I eat anything, even brioche toast, I shall puke and collapse, similar to the day I shit myself outside of Matrix and its offices after a burger, writing my resignation, thinking of Linda on her knees in her office, I crumpled the resignation letter into a ball, and if I am dying now, what does my vehemence toward her image matter?

I let her matter far too much, because she lifted my self-esteem when I was 28 years to her 30. I never realized she was Jewish. Her ethnicity never occurred to me, and religion was a subject we never broached. All this trauma. Maybe I should just go knock on Tim's door and coax an embrace, literally collapse in a stranger's affable Protestant arms. Not that I know, but I do not think Tim, nor his older brother Jim, are Catholic. I'd rather not die like a fucking dog, alone, without solace, but what can I do? Imposing on Frank would be naught even if I wished. He is immobilized.

How quaintly I'm behind the curve, even with drug slang. Weev without teeth, or Weev with too much guilt. Do you work when you are sick? Can you?

Lenny Bruce in candor

This morning at my best hour I was alert and energized and desirous of working and instead of plunging ahead, made myself go to sleep in order to throw my money away on Karina, my 21st century Shirley Booth, except Karina's mother is dying from a melanoma and so once again we play the bitches wiggle out game, and I am tired, gassy, impacted, wondering why I wasted my fucking time on Tarantino's expensive cartoon. Carradine does a beautiful take on reminiscing, but there is absolutely no point to this damn project, while I'm running around pretending my indictment of the country matters. I could just put my foot down Wednesday and defy the exterminator's 30 second incursion. I've done it before. I'm not mad at the girl, though it is probably best if I let her go; I am not being helped by her inability to keep a schedule, terminally ill parent non withstanding. Exasperated, my entire life doomed via reneging and an utter lack of Google's vaunted efficacy.

Subtext

I might have met Theresa Hunt in passing; I cannot say for sure one way or the other, but as I keep hammering home, case management is not a panacea for competency, and Richard Plotts outburst doesn't surprise me. He had a jacket littered with violence, and I have absolutely no record, but the women who run Presbyterian Homes treat me as if I were a Richard Plotts simply because I have been victimized, or I've fallen-- whereas Plotts himself wasn't secured with appropriate precautions despite his antagonism toward protocol and the people behind the protocol. How he got the weapon will be investigated, but the issue of security at psychiatric facilities is ongoing, because ambulatory felons are less suspect than cripples. Bellevue Hospital had a researcher killed by a violent patient in the 90's, one of the few civilian cases which held me riveted during my last months with Greater Media Cable. The woman's family lost what I felt was a winnable case. If I had actually engaged in self-inflicted violence, or struck out at Presby staff and needed Richard's level of treatment, then I could understand how and why I've been browbeat repeatedly-- but evidently, cerebral palsy in and of itself inspires more fear than a man with Plotts' history.

il Perfetto di Ferro

You might be gladdened that I do not have real power; you might also worry that I am thinking seriously about acquiring it, not that I know who Rai TV thinks its kidding, maybe itself. Padre threw a fit when his zoppetto asked in the car if we were Sicilian, to his scorn, as Sicily is a whole other country, in comparison to pressing my lips to Roman soil. You'd be surprised, you would, what little Benito with her flaccid teats would do, but her grandiosity needs its rest this evening. 

I'm thinking. Not just on the fuck worthiness of Vincent Perez either.

As goes the District

"I am confident section 202 housing can fly again to serve the low income elderly and the handicapped."-- a pontificating Senator

Black journalists like Jonetta Rose Barras always do this. As long as its a member of the minority media doling moral sanction and speaking to the corruption of minority politicians, then progressives of all stripes can relax. Poverty and negative behavior like destruction of property is indicted, and CBS engages in grand larceny against intelligence marketing "Big Brother" as gen x reality television. If it is the likes of Eric Edwards I am trying to reach, I have been partially successful, but only that, as I tersely told the actual humorist of his little non-fiction pamphlet and local celebrity status in San Diego to go stuff it, after indicating a willingness to be kind to his work. I managed the first paragraph of his introduction, and felt myself akin to Nathanael West in his Mardi Gras guise counseling suicide to his victims of Prohibition era misogyny, in yet another iteration. I might have lied, and wrote something pithy, handed him our convenient two or three star rating, Clarity Media would have pitched me a few more pennies in my wallet, and on we go, not deigning to interfere. Nathanael West is actually an amazing predictor of the future, for Examiner.com does not have to fire me. I am not staff, keep my content parenthetically innocuous, and we're on our merry way. Offering me what I want towards the end of my viable productivity might be a nightmare after all, so I should consider myself lucky to have survived the modern black police state, fossil that I am beneath the harmony of the Pro Publica strivers, busy fighting for capital offenders in Muncy and other pristine terror wards, or a misjudgment might leave me at the mercy of a less gruesome Ariel Castro. Such a house arrest is a plausible scenario of my desperate desire for change, as what is unsaid in my actual quest for an attorney to litigate my freedom with the least possible negative consequence is my own indictment of African American bigotry, the indifference and unwillingness of my own class to support me toward my own esteem of what I believed my empirical value to be. Gwen Ifill, like me, is from an era where submersion was the price one paid to climb professionally, only tacitly acknowledging the brotherhood which paid in blood for her to become a top national anchor. Gwen no longer has Jonetta's space to spearhead the issue of real estate and our diseased socialist model so succinctly, but her platform doesn't offer anything innovative, as chastisement has been with us since Clan of the Cave Bear.

I am not guilty of any of the problems associated with the public housing tenant save one, and in this vein of reigning in, none of my early instructors did me any favors through the recognition of my own promise-- and in point of fact, Sheldon's later encouragement is equally null, equally void, not because I am unable to write a biography of Alice James and her pitiful succor on the breast of the woman in service to care for her, but because such a despicable exercise is no bulwark.

Planet Dawn

It begins, the egregious piss and moaning of the vulnerable tyrant to get what she wants, one last time, without making things worse, although I'm not sure what is worse than being disabled in Philadelphia, caught between its Quaker roots and its dysfunctional African nanny-state mentality, unless it is to be a Palestinian casualty of Hamas and Israeli intransigence. Four adolescents, in what should have been the ferment of young adulthood, now a cause celebre for more collateral damage. I saw so many clips of Caesar from The Rise of the Planet of the Apes on Charlie Rose that I was dissuaded from downloading it, but of course the reboot fits my paradigm here.

One of my points, in the revelation of my virulent domestic past, is that human worth is incompatible with our capacity for destruction. Yes, it is a risk to juxtapose these issues, and some ambulatory readers are likely to side with the building manager. Like Caesar, I am a construct who threatens to shatter the glass, and these poor inner city black women have their work cut out for them. Public housing governance is in reality a low key Stalinist state, which may mean I begin to agree with this guy. 

Timeline qualification

Let me try to reference my neighbor's shorthand to qualify a few things for my viewers.

1. My parents institutionalized me when I was 9. This lasted until I was 16, upon which I had to matriculate under major access obstacles.

2. I disrupted my educational trajectory, know I am not the only one, but when I went to work between 89-92 VR put me in dead letter positions until I elbowed my way into my disability center on my own.

3. My conflicts with Presbyterian Homes started in Diamond Park in 86. I was exposed to endemic crime and domestic violence for 8 years, and trust my intelligence to know the company is liable for the unit invasion and threat to life I suffered. Their staff dissuaded me from litigation and accepted me at Riverside in 1994. Management harassment was ceaseless, regardless of the staff in place, from 94, through Trudy Richardson's hire in 06, with the exception of one man, Michael Howard. He treated me decently. Presby terminated his employ.

4. So when Tim conditionalizes my fear, what am I afraid of? Not eviction, but Presby's deliberate, calculated power to undermine self-determination. That is my fear, and what finally united my aging father and his sister is Trudy's attempt to pry into my personal affairs, which this company has absolutely no business doing. I've had enough, and I hope a good lawyer will listen and find the right loophole so I do not  have to return to high crime residential areas.

My dad really doesn't care, and I know deep down he views me as expendable, and that I was my mother's fault. The entire family chorus is accusatory: You wanted your own career in the city. True, but not in a senior living facility, and I have pleaded myself raw with my mother and everyone else to help me relocate from my first year at Riverside. In this sense, I don't have any rights. I've simply absorbed being treated as if I was rabid because I did not have level playing field options. I'm responsible for being obstinate, but not that responsible, unlike those of you who drive, have more mobility options.

---
What solution might be palliative to my disillusionment with state models and how we engage with each other in practice? I have passed the age of resilience; Chinese squads may not be engaged in altercations with me as they have been with dissident Ai Weiwei, but it amounts to the same thing. A few wrong choices are fatal to conditions of existence.

Tom Hanks Past Heyday Romance

I deleted so many emails off my Yahoo account the mail daemon booted me out of the system Monday morning. Today I kept going and have less in Yahoo than Gmail, able to envision how we are devolving on the environmental scale rather than advancing. I do not put Allison Joseph's transmissions in digest, and between her writing opportunity posts, Linked In, Examiner's editorial team, my Blogger account, twitter's desire for more enthusiastic participation, my cellular organization is mutating to fractal formulas, snacking tepidly on goat cheese and crackers. With age, all the symptoms with cerebral palsy that made me glance with some befuddlement at my physical therapist are now grilling with the sizzle of pork skin crisp, food regurgitation, tremors, my dislocated hip which Dr. Steele did not cut jack knifing, always interfering with my sexual comfort.

I am not puking up my meals just yet. Loss of appetite, gradual, so fascist that my enthusiasm to sample the deceased Nadine deflated, with a reminder on why she won the Pulitzer, or the Nobel ,rather. Not that apartheid works, but neither does American egalitarianism. I want my own quiet studio on the largesse of family or other charitable person of affluence; somewhat attracted to my neighbor Tim down the hall I made a mistake, told him "I hate living here Tim; I come from an affluent family." Knock on my door if you're afraid, or ever need to talk.

"Well we could go out for coffee but I have the ex fiance below you know," grinning sheepishly. Never shall I impose myself on him here on the floor. Learned that lesson long ago. He always mentions that we have the same birthday, tickled by it. I get impatient with the mannerism, simple coincidence, but for white trash he'd be acceptable, walks, is more magnetic than the ailing brother, a man sharper and more flinty, perhaps gay. This is a mistake since I decided to find a tenant lawyer and litigate myself out. Still, could he as an able bodied male find me attractive? Does he? Unsure. He's been nice, bought kimmy presents. Acceptable, given how environment has malformed me, as opposed to polished, and if I sue myself out within 15 months, such speculative interest would undoubtedly extinguish with that minor episode in a failed disabled writer's minuscule travesty toward her own decomposition. One does not make love with other housing tenants. Bad karma.

Interstitial Eardrums of Jason Robards

"Man has a tropism for order."-- Miss Lonelyhearts, p. 30

There is a subtextual chill in the opening to the turn of the century Cast Away (2000). Tom Hanks is at the peak of his power as Chuck Noland, and Hollywood decided to do something useful by appropriating Federal Express to make us worry about the future behemoths, like Google and Amazon. Precision and exact empirical measurement toward the best efficiency model is no protection against the fact that humanity spins on a large egg shell in the 93 million mile sweet spot from our star for no reason except one: Process will always find a way if there is a way. Process simply is what it is, and phenomenology may be able to offer some observations about intentionality and the directional nature of self-awareness, but consciousness is a process, not an object. Sartre claims we have to objectify it in order to exposit it but not in the motifs that made Hanks one of the last great American superstars. This discounts Cloud Atlas, which should not have been filmed, though any writer understands Mitchell's impetus to do what any other writer does with the capital on acclaim. For Hanks, it is about faith in the trajectory. It may kill you, as it does in Road to Perdition (2002), and it may be mawkish and badly written in made for television format, as is the case with the young Philadelphia, which needed a better focus and a less multitudinous  outlay: Robards as the happy hating partner in the firm is the only cast member who brings any life to this staid legal drama which only barely wrestles with the reality of infectious diseases to expose civil liberties for pleasant cream puffs.

Why did Robards excel towards the end of his life with the ferocity of emaciation? It is there in the social uptake of the 1980 Melvin and Howard, but what is the gravity Jason uses? He understands the nature of pain, even anguish, that unalterably takes Hanks out of the world in his great treasure island movie. Hollywood, being Hollywood, is not going to be explicit about the price tag of Noland's survival once he gets back home and urged to "sign for" anything he needs, but damage changes who and what we are, even in the quieter possibilities of a more nuanced relationship after battle.

Mordantly Fecund

"I need time to grieve."-- Allison Joseph

Not all New Wave cinema is necessarily an accurate representation, and Liza Minnelli's video worn recycle The Sterile Cuckoo  is a dated antiquity, which, memories of Garland's biography like episodic flash cards in the comparison, led me to look on Minnelli's performance as an exploration of mother's emotional pain, with a light hearted side. Liza is not her mother-- though her capital comes from Judy's passion, a heart which transcends the avant garde which surrounds Judy's overdose and death. That Pokey is hostile to homosexual codex would lead mortally wounded souls to wonder that gay pride activists don't get the sturdy network vehicle taken off the air.

When I saw Allison's picture, realized she might have read my powerful essay about the scars of inner city living, and my sparse, but nevertheless substantial communiques with her over the years, my rage against diversity being forced down my throat, I shriveled with an OMG moment, having made apparently erroneous assumptions about her ethnicity. Usually, when she communicates to the list en masse, I normally join in with perfuse accolades and praise, which are sincere despite my class conflicts here in the dungeon, but when she announced a death in the family, I quelled the urge to join in with digital comfort, because all I've ever had with her are one-sided conversations. What we generate in epistomological contexts simply through research--not that I am able to judge whether I've caused her offense. I used to assert I was biased, at first, and I've since graduated-- but my reasons for this are simple. Integration, in principle, has an abstract, noble liberal sentiment. Reality is something else, and I applaud the courage of Nicholas Wade, though of course, he would shun me for being deliberately rude, sometimes hotly vitriolic-- the fact remains, however, that Allison has the luxury of her reticence and commitment to helping writers. I live with the fear of being exterminated by women like Trudy Richardson on the one hand, and inner city women who need to indulge their own comfort in exploiting me, or going through more trauma through urban crime. 

Allison could say she is vulnerable as well. Being a minority academic is no guarantee of indemnity--, but she has a salary, the security of tenure, and I bust my hump for peanuts.

Centennial Autumns

"No one is going to put you away!" -- a beloved and weary padre.

The very existence of Presbyterian Homes is predicated upon fungible exploitation of medically dependent people. Trudy Richardson's salary and her hire, as well as Debra Horne's, is predicated upon cut rate assessments, and my own rise and fall through Liberty Resources past the Matrix Research Institute, through the crash of AccessLife, was based on the same premise: use the marginalized themselves to shepherd the flock. My father putting me away under lock and key was no different. Minority women abused me in a centralized institution then, and now everything Trudy does is designed toward containment of my autonomy. She is not merely a rental agent authority, but a collusionist on the cheap, without the requisite training for it, pushes the line daily. In a Toni Morrison novel, a woman like Trudy would be anchored to something psychologically firm through this line of work, as Morrison construes it in Song of Solomon. In my eyes, this is nothing but a travesty. Four black bitches holding the whip through their sense of entitlement, doing a two step on my better diction and resistance to the collective. What is a civil liberty when we grant huge federal exemptions to it in the ownership and maintenance of property?

I once saw section 811/202 housing as a pit stop toward a presumably successful teaching and publishing career. Ha. Instructors themselves are in crisis, whether in secondary or collegiate ranks, and publishing for money is still adjusting to digital conglomeration, and now the cruelty of America's not so secret socialist paradigm is a way of life-- my failure, yes, I boomeranged myself back to the city, turbulent for reasons written in past posts-- but what I was really doing was trying to imitate how my father abandoned me as a nine year old by abandoning myself in an alienating and regressive black culture that over reaches like a high tide and recedes when white anger barks. Without realizing it, I decided to make myself expendable to the permanent welfare class because I wasn't able to pair bond with the appropriately humanist male of a certain type. I cannot undo the extraordinary level of damage to which I've been subjected.

Most likely I can litigate myself out of this insane classification in exchange for another, but we have to change how we regulate public housing. We're destroying ourselves through it. Tenants and warders alike. Trudy has puffed out like a balloon in yellow chiffon, a tell tale symptom one can find in any of Morrison's Southern racists who use rape as a source of amusement.

Wuxia Thumbnails

With a cold vacant stare of undue concern he said "nine"--Bernie Taupin

Zhang Ziyi offers Asian women all the right signals through Zhang Yimou's polemical textures, although the director cleverly undercuts her individualism with both fantastic and tragic gestures, which is the problem with fairytales and cinematic entertainment as a whole, and leaves a viewer dissuaded. Flying Daggers is undoubtedly pretty, but juxtaposed against the compact of humanity wedged in apparent hall closets in Beijing, Yimou is serving up his audience comfort food of minimal nutritional value, not that the American system doesn't do the same. In Crouching Tiger Zhang flies off in the ether like a lithe spiritual ancestor, and in Daggers, after all this purported intrigue, she dies for making a personal choice (aside from love, for the waning dynasty?)

I cannot pretend to be a Sinologist, though I researched tirelessly for my JJ Abrams beat me to it novel, in which viewing Yimou might have spared my imagination, but I remain skeptical. Asian women undoubtedly keep the Party afloat, and derive their power through their corrupt lovers, but Gu Kaliai isn't an exemplar of Maoist triumph in comparison to Western liberalism; yet we all buy into it, this notion of feminine mystique and victory over patriarchal dominance, especially with sensory deprivation being offered the compensation of extraordinary prowess. The passionate groping exhibited between Mei and Leo doesn't measure up to the descriptive build up in the Bronte sisters, or even the exaggerated outcry in Orlando.

An Algerian Conspiracy

Somethin' in the wind has learned my name
And it's tellin' me that things are not the same--Karen Carpenter

In a vein similar to David Slade's Hard Candy, Mathieu Kassovitz's Gothika toys with its audience in a fairly cheap fashion, Dark Castle Entertainment not daring to make a mature snuff film, David Slade himself might provide us with a rationale for why studio executives welsh on the rigors of testing our mettle; Hard Candy is haunting, dangerous. I've written a revenge fantasy similar to it which was accepted for publication and then killed, and Slade somehow manages to push boundaries which keep those open sores bleeding.

Kassovitz doesn't have Slade's taut discipline, but he trades on inferences: Pretty people sex, (Downey, Berry), i.e., "Were we going to have an affair?", drives homily rubes (Dutton, Lynch) to insanity for not being pretty people too, caters to our hatred of psychiatric proscriptions, and offers adoring wives, say hello Camille Cosby, compensations for killing the oafs who will not be tamed. The ghost story embedded within the culpability of Halle's confused character, as most biracial offspring get psychologically confused due to ethnic rejection or displacement, is as much escapism as Zhang Ziyi's flight out of reality in the end of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon conveys a dream sequence. Asians have flights of fancy over their physical discipline as much as Americans do with their Hollywood ornaments. Americans simply use high grade trash to sublimate base instincts, and Cruz takes on the role of the typical disenfranchised victim, fixated and dismissed, not for telling the truth, but for lack of adaptable outgrowth to move beyond the entrapment.

Yesha Callahan's aggregate hurried article on the family court battle between Halle and Aubry is as muddled as Berry's psyche, evidently. We understand that Halle is angry, throwing out 'the one drop theory' to shame bigots, but why is race such an elemental factor here? Aubry certainly knew Berry was mixed race, and Berry certainly knew Aubry was European when they married. The marriage failed, and I am sure we all have crocodile tears from losing our peeping tom rights on that beautiful people copulation, but that is par for the course. Halle and Yesha both engage in a disservice in the rarefied privilege of liberalism: stooping. Vilifying Aubry without allowing his side of the argument on the record is the equivalent of African magical thinking. The latest take on Ebosse's death is a severe post game beating. 

Cell 2455

The difficulty represented by films like The Hunted (2003), however unfair to its real life tracker Tom Brown, is we've seen the American lone wolf engage in countless expiations of this sort. Tommy Lee Jones channels Clint Eastwood, hounded by, hounding rogues. None of these films ever go far enough in implicating the American circumvention of its Enlightenment ideal. They indemnify themselves with the deceleration of the contest. The real secret service agents who lost JFK commit suicide. Clint Eastwood and John Malkovich simply replay Homer's Iliad. Yet the inferences to draw from Friedkin's direction are a little more subtle. What isn't indicted in the script is implied in the combat, the sheer brutality of Benicio del Toro, the wilderness in which Jones isolates himself, speak volumes about intervention over our current retrenchment of engagement-- in this sense, the synthesis of our visual entertainments replaying the same themes over and over is unfortunate. I do not need to be rich enough for cable to know that our serials beat to the same rhythms. Halle Berry is reclaiming ABC's failures to commit to near term space opera fictions with Ron Livingston. Alien Terra-forming of the human animal is representative only of our doubts about our own unraveling.  

Catherine Deneuve

I could not meet the demands of working at The Washington Post, whatever standards remain, but I study the special bylines, the one timers-- that I hope to break; if I can do it with the Inquirer I can do it with Wapo, one day, but if I am going to bounce, cancel my digital access and move on, I am ambivalent, reluctant, and familiar with contempt. I've not made up my mind, and cancellation would not be a total blackout-- and yet, elongating  hyper sigh, I like my comfort zone of being part of its community, as long as I keep a check on running the comments (the moderators, those almighty arbiters of online speech, did not grant me a comment badge; sniff, but then again, I am a guppy competitor, and a sociopathic blogger who hasn't quite quite truly lain it out on the mat since then again I am a quite vulnerable sociopath, and vengeance killings have been done by better lesbians than I am ever going to be-- does a sardonic jibe diminish my serious hostility to the gay community?) I've held my fire, and we'll see what happens when I go to target practice. I will be honest, however. I know I cannot roll back the social acceptance-- but what I am going to do is leave a warning for the future-- and when ape men cloning leads to recombinant disaster a futurist will pull me out of archive with smug reverberation. Highsmith aged quite awfully. She is an unsettled factor in my personal canon. I did one novel in group, the rest, well, of course-- through the studio filter. I just had an unpleasant picture, a vomit lurch, of Highsmith meeting Josie Byzek, pushing my limit on nauseating visuals and digestion. A tired superego, well. I know. What revolts, this is entirely irrelevant in the progressive pantheon. I regret not having studied Roman Polanski with an expert. What the motifs are beneath the surface of his claustrophobic spaces. Repulsion doesn't  have the ruthless upper cut of Rosemary's Baby, but I've now seen the trilogy. Hopefully I'll find the language I'm looking for, beyond his brilliance with repression. Is an auteur's signature merely a matter of style? Should women always expect to be pin cushions, fatuous with hatreds?

Men still make me happier, on the whole, despite the fact that I was a bloody fool. I almost wish Jerry had struck me across the face, shook me violently, though he did, as such, kick my ass in the process of his migratory journey and final placement.

Evacuation on the wind

"To most observers, my grandfather had been as elated to hear of Japan's decision to surrender as had the next man." John McCain's Faith of My Fathers

Mmm. Reiteration of the fact that I do not submit a great deal of my work to small press journals anymore. I have three pages of contributor copies of small press journals, mostly stashed in my closet shelf with the other journals in which I do not appear. From the time I began my post renovation recovery in 2008, through today, I have written nearly a thousand blog posts, had one non fiction essay accepted in a special Appalachian issue which I need to dig out of kitchen drawer, and fewer friendly rejections than I used to receive. People who do litzines are basically leftists who make fun of creative inanity for the most part. Intimate with the culture, I'm nonetheless no longer a fresh voice,

Like Charles Krauthammer. It may surprise you to learn I do not often agree with political conservatives on much of what they espouse. Homosexuality is more of a moral issue on which I've soured because of my past intimacy with homosexuals and my own insecurity about women who indulge in lewd pleasuring making passes at me. If this ever happens to me again I will attempt to kill the woman who does it, and I'll stand trial claiming self defense-- but I will engage the liberal censure of auto erotic threat postures another day. Trauma doesn't make these issues less complex-- and I cannot deny a voyeuristic examination of gay sexuality. Recovered enough that I can separate curiosity from what would make me happy-- and a happy embattled spastic flea bitten poet-- that is a tall order.

What interests me about the aging, uptight psychiatrist, and the fresher Texan AG is their successful refusal to allow paraplegia to define them. I am interested in the silences, as it is obvious to my viewers that cerebral palsy is still a badge which I assert, though I could be fraudulent. None of you know for sure. The poet Robert Thomas, his wife Cheryl, whom I have psychologically adopted as the female friend I might have had if I did not have to flee for the bus with a thieving Jehovah's Witness who only furthered my convictions about race and black theology, they know. It is interesting that two white moderately progressive writers met me at read promotions, and with knowledge of my intemperate sins between them, one cut me. The other sends me his collections. I occasionally do the same, but, god forbid if I had their telephone number. Cheryl might then buy my former supervisor a decent civilian attorney. I could talk God out of Judgement Day given half the chance. Griot as an insulating shield. Griot as an outcry, a need. 

Perhaps Kathleen Parker's name recognition would not heighten my profile as much as Jennifer Rubin's would, but Jennifer is not yet quite Parker. She's savvier and actually the type of conservative female a better metamorphosis might have molded me into; when Rubin is on she is as sharp as a tack. My foreign policy is more ruthless, more frightening, hopefully not sentiments that would gain Mossad's attention. The state of Israel is a failure and its eventual dissolution is inevitable. More stable powers need to declare certain territories as ungovernable and turn them into protectorates until issues of autonomy can be resolved. This includes Pakistan, North Korea, Israel, Iraq, Yemen, Somalia, Sudan (why does South and North Sudan exist?) Libya, Chad, Haiti, the San Dominican Republic, Syria, unfortunately. We all have lists. 

Ciao, the mark of Hood

"The world is broken."-- David Tennant

I haven't had much to say about immigration, partly due to historical knowledge of what the United States has done in South America, the consequences of which is being outdone by feet on the ground, or over run, and I have mixed sentiments about lack of mobility, given that conflicted collegiate  emotions essentially resulted in a form of imprisonment I never intended, but this uptick of Guatemalan children has ended what I was considering as a serious fugue flight to the Lone Star state. I was going to email Greg Abbott. Expecting what? I'll never find out now. I am miserable, and have very little respect for Philadelphia as a modern African outpost, not quite as badly governed as Nigeria, but these are the devils I know, and I doubtlessly will not lose my head to a machete even if I may have to defend myself, and die, fighting off more inner city behaviors in the future-- this means I am not confident of my long term commitment with Karina, earning enough to be able to keep her, but at a significant arms length.

Why I really did this to myself, beneath my youthful turbulence, must amount to an astonishing level of self-hatred. My ex, in his way, offered the supposition that my heart was broken, and youthful obstinacy over rode rational objection in my short but adamant return to city of domicile, but it was a violent disruption I've obviously regretted. I can't really say that staying in Delaware County would have enabled a full recovery from previous domestic trauma, however. If I do manage a last relocation, this time I had better get it right.

I did not test the company on access to my financials, not yet. Hopelessness, because even if I agitate and win a victory or two, I still lose, just as I do laboring for Examiner. I am not angry at Clarity Media. I knew it was a spam market when I linked them to my online writing sample, but no matter what I do, I can't climb out of the hole to hell I've dug.

Anthony of Padua

"I stayed with a murderer, so what friends can I have?" -- a cast member of Leo Gaut, part of the Johan Falk series

I was going to tell you, earlier Saturday evening, as a matter of technicality, that I never dated, but an electronic technician named Rick, who got my number because he was white in the deep chocolate off campus ghetto sea, walked me to a McGonigle Hall game, and had one thing on his mind. Paced like something rabid with the one thing on his mind, what year? 89 maybe, and I rejected him because all he wanted was the one thing. Cripples fuck like bunnies, but his roving and unpleasant pale blue eyes, orbs just as easily my mothers, never even looked at me, to the game, from it, I talked him out the door as ably as Liza Minnelli. Two thirds closed he coughed piteously. You want a cup of tea? I relented in fine sleep with him and get it over with sentiments-- fuck him so he leaves, but the stern veered to starboard because I had no rubbers. He had no rubbers and it was my third sexual assault with reluctantly coerced consent, and I won against an unremarkable penis, small from steroids, drugs. He left. So much for dating. I wept like a splinter, punished for staying Caucasian. More remarkable still, he chased after me on the telephone. I flared like a wolverine, and that was the end of Rick, if not public housing men altogether. I should learn from the finesse of European women, their beauty more deeply ingrained than their American counterparts. Sophia Loren cheapened this when she transitioned to Hollywood: I cannot imagine that New Mobility Magazine staffers earn much of a salary. They paid me 400 for my feature, and before that I earned 50 cents a word, while Clarity Media has seemingly become, with stark laughter, my supported employment, my no fault slavery I can opt out of anytime I please. Pro or con.

If I fall into indigence of absolute zero come winter 2015, I shall not stand it, not 30 plus anymore, my nerve for field travel vanquished by the long defunct Institute with whom I came to grief. What can you say? 

Nothing, but the resilience of old bones loses its spring-- this is the consequence of belief and investment in intake centers-- the damage of their indoctrination and subsequent expulsion, regardless of how diminished they've become. Fifteen years of looking for a life raft and new definition, splinters like fangs beneath my fingernails throbbing, urgent. 

lo scannacristiani

"What about my needs?"-- a raspy Patrick Stewart

Rick Berman and Brent Spimer stay within the traditional confines of Trek didacticism with Nemesis, the NG film which seems rather lackluster. We have to teach the kiddies about insurgency, after all, so lets have the ever conspiratorial female in the guise of Senator Tarl'uara just wipe out the entire Romulan Senate for an overt sexual attraction to Shinzon, but upon rejection say oh sorry, I'll develop a conscience now and fight him to save the Federation. This is Trek, with all its sleights of hand, some to be forgiven in stronger scripts with better analogies. We get it. Picard/Shinzon. Data/B4. There but for the grace of god, and al-Baghdadi might now be slitting my throat with a scimitar for a less peevish feminine replacement-- but the gaps are nonetheless irritating. If I am a Romulan aborting an elaborate espionage, why not just give my humanoid clone boy a lethal injection? Why is the doppleganger bent on destroying earth? The Borg needs bodies and so the Borg conquer, but Shinzon is supposed to be representative of a rebellious Napoleon, one who wastes his dying breath seeking revenge on a benign republic (us) who had nothing to do with his creation or the hell of the environment to which he was consigned. How many of you pick apart these scripts for loose ends when not contemplating the use of a woofie to have your way with male or female victim of your choice?

I had a one sided dialogue with Richard Morgan, yet another liberal homosexual bent on world dominion, about his sodomy driven rapist, which he has now fabulously published on the digital front page of The Washington Post. I am not envious of the byline, as such. If I ever get in Wapo I have to vanish from its community for a time, and the trope of disability and sexual abuse is too well known. No one cares about the battles I waged with a Jewish woman of my own condition either, except for sewing my posts together for a book about the chimera of activism. I wrote Morgan because his rape story is symptomatic of our narcissism, and what I'd convey to him further is this: he insisted in his column that he did not want to file charges against his rapist, but is he looking at the larger picture? I almost killed myself because I let a former supervisor toy with me for her own amusement. I did nothing about it to stand up for less cruel and chronically inept centers, except managing to get the woman demoted over the threat of a battle which, if it comes, is going to exhaust me for little more than welcoming the new mafia out of the old. We're cripples first, then people. So what if Richard, through his silence, aborting his responsibility to others, discovers later that his rape date does drive someone to suicide, humiliating them more than Morgan could stand with his count of 17 penetrations? He was courageous to put this out in public to counter George Will, but is he thinking of others, people who may not even be in the formerly encoded language of in the life? I am driving at a pattern here of what's wrong with the entire progressive worldview: me first, this emergence is more important than the collective civic good.

I've never been drugged into sexual complicity by either sex; it isn't necessary, as I'm basically defenseless, but we don't get anywhere always ducking our heads.

Cecil Morales and strong impressions

None of Josie's online images look like the woman I've met in her various incarnations, but this image of her is the most unflattering ugly woman gone dyke lotus I could find. This is the mother earth udder who burned me over a trade journalist widower who was such a charming bigot. I am not often kind to myself, but I am more attractive than Josie, and I will not be charged under federal hate crime statues in the event of her death. I'd like to kill her, in my idiomatic class conscious roots, but one lesbian knife in the back isn't worth a contract hit. Nor was Cecil the love of my life. I joined his Catholic group and emailed him later with the thought that I had a yeast infection.

Got his attention, exchange of pictures, numbers. Pragmatic suburbanites to whom I complained about lesbian high crimes said I should have kept the man off my group. Housewives aren't always lacking in wisdom. What Josie disrupted beneath my feet was the shared interests Cecil and I could discuss, that I am starved for, and don't have the courage to keep getting knocked down online in searching for it.

I cannot talk to Frank, but Cecil read me; he was astute, a romantic Argentine who overcame his looks. Josie took this from me, just blew it away, and my hatred, therefore, toward LGBT norms doesn't come unsanctioned. I'm lonely. Burned to the tenth power, and now I'm 52. I don't have many concealed cards left to turn, and when I told Cecil I'd take the train to DC so he could see I was telling the truth, I received the standard internet alarm: he'd call the authorities. I don't want another chance specifically with him. Two caustic tongues in the same room doesn't regenerate moisture, but this is where progressive tolerances have left me, rolling from Jew bitch to dyke, while everyone has a piece in the Mexican's ass. 

Ambulatory men have done bad things to me, but decent ones exist. The husband's I stole taught me that. I've always wanted one for myself; my life will be over soon.