I've stopped using Linked In, not because I want to cause trouble, not on a career networking site, but because I do not understand its posting policies, and I am, evidently, not the only participant who feels like I'm in the middle of a digital police state: one teacher posts that Catherine, in Wuthering Heights, is *bitch,* and I get flagged for possible lack of relevance. No idea who spearheaded that, but many Linked In users delete, constantly rephrasing. Not exactly sure this is beneficial to our evolutionary social hierarchy. But everything now automated, while the site muzzles with one hand, it woos engagement and paranoia on the other.
Why would a real estate developer from Atlanta look at my profile? Accident? Gentrification? Owns a stake in public housing? I have no idea. If it was up to me I'd detonate this damn building and dance on the rubble, and yet we cannot stop ourselves, can we? ISIS may be an outgrowth of Saudi extremism migrating outward, unique to a deprecated Sunni culture none of understand, but reaction doesn't spring out of a vacuum. We're all overwhelmed, our healthcare systems, the Secret Service-- Wapo's reporting has displeased me, as all human systems are fallible, and no national executive ever entirely immune from risk. Reagan was shot by a man living his own film version of his obsession in his head-- our inability to solve economic stratification.
What did I desire that has been so sorely lacking? Privacy, a place to write and flourish, not stacked like a pancake with a bunch of gibbering idiots and a bitter transvestite doctor living on 1/4 of his fucking brain with a lupus like condition preventing his sex change, an androgyny worse than the disease. Everyone in this building is a living corpse, except for the occasional accident of youthful disruption and sexual irresponsibility. I have no pleasurable sexual memories. My last husband was 1997, and I handled him and the liaison with very little poise. I did not love him but shouldn't have kept sleeping with him, as when he knew he had made me vulnerable, only then I received the time immemorial phrase of my adult life, "I don't feel anything."
Coupe de gras.
Tuesday, September 30, 2014
Monday, September 29, 2014
Disadvantage
Since the assistant manager took a promotion within the Presbyterian corporate office, Trudy Richardson has escalated pressure on me more than at any other time since Debra Schwab, the last Caucasian to manage Riverside, and Brenda Williams had her brief stint, and I am cracking not because I care about eviction, but because I have absolutely no options. Perhaps it is this way for some of you since the recession. I can't know, but I can no longer utilize my disability center, I do not know how to even get a paralegal intake to listen to me, despite however much I parse the duress and abuse I have sustained, and today, I had to be disrupted for over an hour by city inspectors. Whatever some of you may think about my attitude as reflected in my posts, Presbyterian Homes has been relentless, for 28 years of my life, treating me like a deranged animal, and I'd like to see how healthy ambulatory people would handle this, after a life of Philadelphia homes for cripples, years of surgical hospitalization, and on top of it getting ostracized by disabled neighbors I grew up with because Linda, whom I did not know during my suburban youth, made me a laughingstock in front of Louis, who I went to school with, and was her accountant for a few years. Putting aside the significance of my limited mobility, is this what your life is like? Compliance with home association contracts? Dining inspections?
Those of you who walk must have some better choices than what I have to sustain. I am 52, weakening, but stable, and what I have to look forward to is a fortress like Inglis House, the true bedlam of horror movies, and a homosexual from twitter, defending his friend because she stopped following me because I kicked up a little hay, suggests therapy. My neighbor from the third floor unwittingly puts me back in West Philadelphia's Project Share orbit, which I wouldn't do to anyone-- it is like a half way house, but the indigent are free to come and go. My sister and brother aren't going to lift a finger for me, neither will you, and my attitude is a downer? I suppose so.
Those of you who walk must have some better choices than what I have to sustain. I am 52, weakening, but stable, and what I have to look forward to is a fortress like Inglis House, the true bedlam of horror movies, and a homosexual from twitter, defending his friend because she stopped following me because I kicked up a little hay, suggests therapy. My neighbor from the third floor unwittingly puts me back in West Philadelphia's Project Share orbit, which I wouldn't do to anyone-- it is like a half way house, but the indigent are free to come and go. My sister and brother aren't going to lift a finger for me, neither will you, and my attitude is a downer? I suppose so.
Sunday, September 28, 2014
Indemnity Double Down
"She's made her face chalk white, with black circles under her eyes and red on her lips and cheeks."-- James M. Cain, Double Indemnity, page 114
Vivien Leigh was dying while engaged in her ensemble performance on Katherine Anne Porter's Ship of Fools. It is an excruciating scene to view, her climatic moment with Lee Marvin, a real life alcoholic, standing in for Olivier, in a prospective rape that reverses expectations. A woman has to be insane to survive the force of male need, in other words. The people who control Porter's copyright ought to make Ship of Fools available to digital technology. I want to read it, but I am not keen on buying it it as a heavy handed siren against the Fascism Europe would not see in front of its face. Katherine was ponderous as a writer, and while this is not a fatal detraction to her other strengths, I hesitate to rank her long complex allegory as a classic. The film is so thick with portents you need a butcher's saw to cut through it, and my time is squeezed between knowing free legal access is going to dance jack shit on my burial plot and buying an hour of Philadelphia Bar association time is going to get me the reprimand that I've seen too many legal students overzealous in battle in a Grisham movie script-- but legal students are overzealous-- one asked me if I wanted to sue my sister and I had to refrain from snorting.
I know I've delayed the game considerably. I am not that dense, but somehow I cannot die without striking back, and there has to be some exemption in PA state law-- something a well versed advocate can do. I may just give in to the possession is nine tenths catch phrase and buy a damn used copy. Or does it matter to me enough to take a drive to Vine Street?
@PhillyChitChat did a nice feature about billy penn. I could just tweet this to him, but Philadelphia's hard muscled depreciation of inadequacy because NYC is the top east coast target has never sat easily on my native digestion. I wake up knowing I'm probably going to die right here, and worse yet, if I cannot move hell, I'll die with molasses matron Debra Horne making her crabbed Mississippi sanction over my blood red contorted grimace. I do plan to pay a visit to Philadelphia Magazine. Can't wait. If anyone on their staff has viewed this account, I am toast, but I do intend to do it. Whatever my nightmares, I do not usually dream of earthquakes that aren't actually happening.
I did last week. Maybe it was just the memory of the plate aftershock a few years ago; maybe that and the damn train, but it is not a good sign.
Double Indemnity is a perfect example of where movies and texts fail each other, if I want to add an afterthought. Cain's ending in his novel is preposterous, yet significantly different in tenor from how MacMurray and Stanwyck doom each other.via the studio system.
Vivien Leigh was dying while engaged in her ensemble performance on Katherine Anne Porter's Ship of Fools. It is an excruciating scene to view, her climatic moment with Lee Marvin, a real life alcoholic, standing in for Olivier, in a prospective rape that reverses expectations. A woman has to be insane to survive the force of male need, in other words. The people who control Porter's copyright ought to make Ship of Fools available to digital technology. I want to read it, but I am not keen on buying it it as a heavy handed siren against the Fascism Europe would not see in front of its face. Katherine was ponderous as a writer, and while this is not a fatal detraction to her other strengths, I hesitate to rank her long complex allegory as a classic. The film is so thick with portents you need a butcher's saw to cut through it, and my time is squeezed between knowing free legal access is going to dance jack shit on my burial plot and buying an hour of Philadelphia Bar association time is going to get me the reprimand that I've seen too many legal students overzealous in battle in a Grisham movie script-- but legal students are overzealous-- one asked me if I wanted to sue my sister and I had to refrain from snorting.
I know I've delayed the game considerably. I am not that dense, but somehow I cannot die without striking back, and there has to be some exemption in PA state law-- something a well versed advocate can do. I may just give in to the possession is nine tenths catch phrase and buy a damn used copy. Or does it matter to me enough to take a drive to Vine Street?
@PhillyChitChat did a nice feature about billy penn. I could just tweet this to him, but Philadelphia's hard muscled depreciation of inadequacy because NYC is the top east coast target has never sat easily on my native digestion. I wake up knowing I'm probably going to die right here, and worse yet, if I cannot move hell, I'll die with molasses matron Debra Horne making her crabbed Mississippi sanction over my blood red contorted grimace. I do plan to pay a visit to Philadelphia Magazine. Can't wait. If anyone on their staff has viewed this account, I am toast, but I do intend to do it. Whatever my nightmares, I do not usually dream of earthquakes that aren't actually happening.
I did last week. Maybe it was just the memory of the plate aftershock a few years ago; maybe that and the damn train, but it is not a good sign.
Double Indemnity is a perfect example of where movies and texts fail each other, if I want to add an afterthought. Cain's ending in his novel is preposterous, yet significantly different in tenor from how MacMurray and Stanwyck doom each other.via the studio system.
Saturday, September 27, 2014
Senseless Prattle
I'd like to offer brief praise to Mike Levy, and Writersblock here sponsored by Beacon. Sometimes, not being able to run my mouth has fringe benefits, as I am literally torturing myself about keeping or removing my account with the Henry James list serv. This is all very nonsensical, I know, letting myself get familiar with a munchkin and divorcing myself from that, while carrying the mark of Cain on my forehead for my deplorable lack of tact, but it is slightly more than that. I once found the Jamesian community valuable, feel like I've contributed to a devaluation among its teaching colleagues who know each other, some of whom would find meeting me awkward and burdensome, so what use does the group still have for me?
If I want to write about James I can do it, suffer peer review, without the posting nonsense going on today. They used to actually talk about things that made me think-- but Mike have provided me with a useful tool, and I owe him the gratitude of never being unkind! He is a decent fellow!
If I want to write about James I can do it, suffer peer review, without the posting nonsense going on today. They used to actually talk about things that made me think-- but Mike have provided me with a useful tool, and I owe him the gratitude of never being unkind! He is a decent fellow!
Thursday, September 25, 2014
Shields of Sang Froid
"you know you could have been some honey." popular lyric of an era bursting at the seams
The question which Delon leaves open in his early decade Frank Riva saga is what type of dialectical conversation he is having with with Gene Hackman as the hero against Nixon era interconnected systems apparatus in the name of security. Delon is suggesting a slightly more sophisticated argument than the mere assertion that, "the past is never really the past," to channel Faulkner before Faulkner drank himself to the temporary numbness of inebriation. Security naturally engenders paranoia, as the Gonzalez incident conveys. The White House, at least before Booth assassinated Lincoln-- the greatest American racist who ever served his country, was open to the American public, more or less a sad commentary on the fact that weapons manufacturers, no more than any other business interest, cannot stop themselves-- yet there is a reverberating aftermath that is essentially the life blood of Nixon's active political years.
Delon suggests that no nation state ever truly decouples itself from it, implying, at least through France 2 television, that American innocence bleeds its own tyranny, not because it is analogous to a toddler having a tantrum (not entirely null and void, mind) but that European maturity avoids the worst of these psychic scars. Do we have international discussions about Napoleon's battlefield atrocities?
The mere mention of Watergate, however, sends progressives flocking to their favorite adaptation of Macbeth, and this is Alain's curious ingenuity with Riva, in an otherwise droll take on American thrillers. Delon says however The French Connection singed old world fingertips, the American psyche never gets over itself, is either unwilling, or unable, to be the adult in the room, and this has created the ever widening geopolitcal vacuum that some model will eventually have to fill, if you want to consider this as a continuing salvo in my overstated rebuttal to Greg Zacharias on the nature of conspiracy, this is inclusive of how self interest plays into it. Not just me, or you, or Greg, for that matter.
He and I had a few exchanges after I beat my breast about the "silly thing to say" comments which upset me back when. I told him I was toxic, if the academics wanted me to leave. He claimed someone else reprimanded me on the thread and that it was not he. That was that. Honors professor goes back to his citadel, and I back to my disenfranchisement, and pet causes roll on, none of us really willing to pay attention, or even get burned, as I have multiple times by now.
For those of you able to understand the correspondence I making with the description I tagged to Lincoln-- the comparison I am making is to challenge progressive labeling, not my political genius to that of Abraham. If I had Lincoln's political skills, Donald would have offered me a suite at Trump plaza
The question which Delon leaves open in his early decade Frank Riva saga is what type of dialectical conversation he is having with with Gene Hackman as the hero against Nixon era interconnected systems apparatus in the name of security. Delon is suggesting a slightly more sophisticated argument than the mere assertion that, "the past is never really the past," to channel Faulkner before Faulkner drank himself to the temporary numbness of inebriation. Security naturally engenders paranoia, as the Gonzalez incident conveys. The White House, at least before Booth assassinated Lincoln-- the greatest American racist who ever served his country, was open to the American public, more or less a sad commentary on the fact that weapons manufacturers, no more than any other business interest, cannot stop themselves-- yet there is a reverberating aftermath that is essentially the life blood of Nixon's active political years.
Delon suggests that no nation state ever truly decouples itself from it, implying, at least through France 2 television, that American innocence bleeds its own tyranny, not because it is analogous to a toddler having a tantrum (not entirely null and void, mind) but that European maturity avoids the worst of these psychic scars. Do we have international discussions about Napoleon's battlefield atrocities?
The mere mention of Watergate, however, sends progressives flocking to their favorite adaptation of Macbeth, and this is Alain's curious ingenuity with Riva, in an otherwise droll take on American thrillers. Delon says however The French Connection singed old world fingertips, the American psyche never gets over itself, is either unwilling, or unable, to be the adult in the room, and this has created the ever widening geopolitcal vacuum that some model will eventually have to fill, if you want to consider this as a continuing salvo in my overstated rebuttal to Greg Zacharias on the nature of conspiracy, this is inclusive of how self interest plays into it. Not just me, or you, or Greg, for that matter.
He and I had a few exchanges after I beat my breast about the "silly thing to say" comments which upset me back when. I told him I was toxic, if the academics wanted me to leave. He claimed someone else reprimanded me on the thread and that it was not he. That was that. Honors professor goes back to his citadel, and I back to my disenfranchisement, and pet causes roll on, none of us really willing to pay attention, or even get burned, as I have multiple times by now.
For those of you able to understand the correspondence I making with the description I tagged to Lincoln-- the comparison I am making is to challenge progressive labeling, not my political genius to that of Abraham. If I had Lincoln's political skills, Donald would have offered me a suite at Trump plaza
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Eating my usage like no tomorrow
"I hoped the day would be a lot of highway," my favorite British sentimentalist
My occasional seizures of loneliness belie my underlying scorn. Monica Carr senses it, which is why she is afraid of me, and telephoned her police station as a justification for the fact that Medicaid set me up with its pathetic system, and while I was waiting through my power chair repairs, all but helpless in an 800 dollar twenty year old manual, she abandoned me in a commission of fraud against the state. I hate this woman more than anyone I know, and would take a great degree of pleasure in excoriating her toxic and morbidly obese flesh, but since I have ameliorated the worst of my caustic lashes, I'll see if I can snap her picture-- useful for a lawyer in an accumulated onslaught of what Riverside's outstanding social mores have paced me through. I was told, though I cannot confirm her version, that she institutionalized Nelson-- her Puerto Rican amputee, in his passive infantilism, for not taking his medication, and a resident named Candy, a woman who had the admirable moxie to high tail it out of here and go back South, had to get him out. Doesn't quite add up, but this is who she sleeps with, Nelson, and that is what she did to him. You figure it out.
I have a small list of people I'd like for friends, including the project director of the Rosenbach, but can't force these things.
Who am I to have such an exclusion zone?
I had every Elton John album, and never forgave my father for stripping me of my collection when he dumped me here--another reason why Karina drove me to a head. Trudy and her supervisors haven't locked horns with me just yet, but it is coming, and part of me has ceased to care, even if I have to go to court. Accessing attorneys is not an easy feat, is it? I need one who is not burnt out so much that they won't heed the cumulative effect of Presby's long term civil violations.
My occasional seizures of loneliness belie my underlying scorn. Monica Carr senses it, which is why she is afraid of me, and telephoned her police station as a justification for the fact that Medicaid set me up with its pathetic system, and while I was waiting through my power chair repairs, all but helpless in an 800 dollar twenty year old manual, she abandoned me in a commission of fraud against the state. I hate this woman more than anyone I know, and would take a great degree of pleasure in excoriating her toxic and morbidly obese flesh, but since I have ameliorated the worst of my caustic lashes, I'll see if I can snap her picture-- useful for a lawyer in an accumulated onslaught of what Riverside's outstanding social mores have paced me through. I was told, though I cannot confirm her version, that she institutionalized Nelson-- her Puerto Rican amputee, in his passive infantilism, for not taking his medication, and a resident named Candy, a woman who had the admirable moxie to high tail it out of here and go back South, had to get him out. Doesn't quite add up, but this is who she sleeps with, Nelson, and that is what she did to him. You figure it out.
I have a small list of people I'd like for friends, including the project director of the Rosenbach, but can't force these things.
Who am I to have such an exclusion zone?
I had every Elton John album, and never forgave my father for stripping me of my collection when he dumped me here--another reason why Karina drove me to a head. Trudy and her supervisors haven't locked horns with me just yet, but it is coming, and part of me has ceased to care, even if I have to go to court. Accessing attorneys is not an easy feat, is it? I need one who is not burnt out so much that they won't heed the cumulative effect of Presby's long term civil violations.
Gratitude for smartasses
It takes me a little effort to remember when I met my poet colleague Robert Thomas. 2006. I do not know how he and his wife tolerated the trip across country, but for me the early evening was cold, rainy, with the Jehovah's Witness from Unlimited Staffing traveling with me, with her misery and diabetes and cat with broken leg. Liana, my nigger hustling burden to whom I was overly generous. Caucasian patronage, guilt, the fact that her face was wan, anxious. Roll your eyes at me. I gave her a loan for the cat with the broken leg because I thought Liana and I would work out, but she got fired, and I still extend myself too much to help younger women, i.e., Karina, but I was determined to meet my last Poets & Writer's sympathizer, so Liana and I traveled to Ardmore, and Ardmore isn't that far from suburban youth in Ridley Township. Eight years ago, my last sojourn out of the city limits.
My city limit range is about as far as the Rosenbach Museum and back to my apartment on a full charge. 15 blocks. I did not get a renewal notice for my membership, which is just as well, I told their director I was broke last year, but when I get out of combat range with Trudy Richardson, my area of marginalization runs basically from 19th and Chestnut to 23rd and Race Street. Everyone is in a hurry, except a defiant stout weather beaten spastic woman in a shawl, gnawing an Italian hoagie from an Asian bodega. In an internal disjunction. No rational reason to love what I have left, to endure. Not a friend in the world who voluntarily wants to telephone me, offer me the comfort of familiarity, my personal interaction with Linda C. Dezenski wasn't like that when I still had it, my former supervisor who evokes such enmity that she has been a law and order corpse beyond my ability to estimate, no. I pulled, Linda responded and then humiliated me. Were we ever actually friends? Somewhere in there, I think so, but it could not survive the fact that I hated decentralization that had to lie about what it was in the dead rhetoric of the revolution, and Linda's enthusiastic, shallow, dominance. Most of you side with her, because I am becoming nothing more than-- I was going to use the phrase "white nigger trash"-- but let me write it another way-- I am becoming a disposable woman in pain who will not make it easy on herself by giving in. The Medicaid system is going to kill me one way or another, but I am about to tell five African Americans who have the juice to go fuck themselves, in a hard contained way, methodically, with what acumen remains, and then? Well, the crowd funding content model caught on, and someone spiked my page views. Grazie.
He is just a man, shoulders as shrunken as mine, and I don't have the clout to compel counter terrorism experts to respond, but this is what I wanted, right?
My city limit range is about as far as the Rosenbach Museum and back to my apartment on a full charge. 15 blocks. I did not get a renewal notice for my membership, which is just as well, I told their director I was broke last year, but when I get out of combat range with Trudy Richardson, my area of marginalization runs basically from 19th and Chestnut to 23rd and Race Street. Everyone is in a hurry, except a defiant stout weather beaten spastic woman in a shawl, gnawing an Italian hoagie from an Asian bodega. In an internal disjunction. No rational reason to love what I have left, to endure. Not a friend in the world who voluntarily wants to telephone me, offer me the comfort of familiarity, my personal interaction with Linda C. Dezenski wasn't like that when I still had it, my former supervisor who evokes such enmity that she has been a law and order corpse beyond my ability to estimate, no. I pulled, Linda responded and then humiliated me. Were we ever actually friends? Somewhere in there, I think so, but it could not survive the fact that I hated decentralization that had to lie about what it was in the dead rhetoric of the revolution, and Linda's enthusiastic, shallow, dominance. Most of you side with her, because I am becoming nothing more than-- I was going to use the phrase "white nigger trash"-- but let me write it another way-- I am becoming a disposable woman in pain who will not make it easy on herself by giving in. The Medicaid system is going to kill me one way or another, but I am about to tell five African Americans who have the juice to go fuck themselves, in a hard contained way, methodically, with what acumen remains, and then? Well, the crowd funding content model caught on, and someone spiked my page views. Grazie.
He is just a man, shoulders as shrunken as mine, and I don't have the clout to compel counter terrorism experts to respond, but this is what I wanted, right?
Tuesday, September 23, 2014
Cult Bunker
His comedic portrayal of a working-class bigot brought political and social issues into the popular dialogue of the time.--bio.com
Mother's sister and I too had a brief rapport, recollecting that I am not entirely stranded at the mercy of Presby's institutional cruelty. What you think of the depth of my emotional scarring is one thing, but my immediate family is another. As far as I know they do not have the time to read my posts: Billy is overwhelmed; Marie his mother is losing more body parts than Lindsay; my mother's sister is now an honorary bionic woman in her own right; my father is an exhausted octogenarian; my half brother is busy scrambling for his debt and family affluence, and my sister Stephanie is doing the rocky horror show as a reluctant nurse with four kids in a strained marriage.
Aunt Mary, Catholic Principal cyborg grandmother extraordinaire, wants to support me by subscribing to my Examiner page while she assures me she is looking for a way for me to return home.
I have conceded defeat in my hatred of minority home rule and will do anything she wants to get the fuck away from Presby, but even if cowardice leads me to change my examiner profile, eliminating my blogger url, I think it is best I not send her the link-- meaning there are limits on what Mary should see about my hardness as a writer.
Norman Lear created Archie Bunker in order to savage white reactionism, but the character became a celebrated cult hero, uniting me and grandmother Pauline and Big Lou with bowls of mint chocolate chip. I asked Mary to forgive me for being a "rotten kid,". She said I wasn't and wished she had been more engaged. She was a great aunt, sparing her two nieces and nephew the worst of her older sister's narcissistic instability. I want to go home. I'll chafe, but cannot take it here anymore with what has been done to me.
Mother's sister and I too had a brief rapport, recollecting that I am not entirely stranded at the mercy of Presby's institutional cruelty. What you think of the depth of my emotional scarring is one thing, but my immediate family is another. As far as I know they do not have the time to read my posts: Billy is overwhelmed; Marie his mother is losing more body parts than Lindsay; my mother's sister is now an honorary bionic woman in her own right; my father is an exhausted octogenarian; my half brother is busy scrambling for his debt and family affluence, and my sister Stephanie is doing the rocky horror show as a reluctant nurse with four kids in a strained marriage.
Aunt Mary, Catholic Principal cyborg grandmother extraordinaire, wants to support me by subscribing to my Examiner page while she assures me she is looking for a way for me to return home.
I have conceded defeat in my hatred of minority home rule and will do anything she wants to get the fuck away from Presby, but even if cowardice leads me to change my examiner profile, eliminating my blogger url, I think it is best I not send her the link-- meaning there are limits on what Mary should see about my hardness as a writer.
Norman Lear created Archie Bunker in order to savage white reactionism, but the character became a celebrated cult hero, uniting me and grandmother Pauline and Big Lou with bowls of mint chocolate chip. I asked Mary to forgive me for being a "rotten kid,". She said I wasn't and wished she had been more engaged. She was a great aunt, sparing her two nieces and nephew the worst of her older sister's narcissistic instability. I want to go home. I'll chafe, but cannot take it here anymore with what has been done to me.
Monday, September 22, 2014
Progress?
I had the bar association buried in both my email accounts, one from Kitt Abad of the ACLU NYC chapter. I told him I was a fascist and his reaction astonished me, but there you go. I am waging this battle by myself, and it is frightening. A corrupt disability center with lowest common denominator dependency and my Jewish supervisor whose idea of friendship amounts to a frank assessment of your expendability and "my sex is better than yours" is one thing. Taking on urban socialism and its corruption is another, and even if I made a serious effort to trust a stranger online to give me an arrangement as a renter I could live with as opposed to creating a home imprisonment situation, Craigslist creates stressors difficult for both parties. Jesse Staub wore affable homosexual male face and then pulled the oldest trick in the book on me about his mother, and Frank was probably right about Katrina's tripping. I did not pay attention, due to my urgency to find assistance on my terms. The Presbyterians are a huge juggernaut, and my defiance is all very nice, but they have already declined my rental payment for September, (I actually can't remember what happened this month, once or twice I overpaid the subsidy for wear and tear) 28 years of trying to send me back to a home, because if you don't think I should have been an abortion, a nursing home orderly's salary is another matter.
Sunday, September 21, 2014
What possible objection could I have?
"In the old days I would have worn a pink ribbon!"--Georges Simenon on the myriad variations of French tolerance for lewd behavior.
There is a reason why journalists like Monica Hesse succeed in publishing features like these, one in which Wapo wisely cut off the comment section. Sex sells. It drives everything we do barring post-menopausal low libido. Never mind my opposition to radical sexual equality for the moment on the basis of risky behavior. Kelsey's gender identification plight is merely cosmetic, a form of slacktivism, especially this plea toward the anonymity of personhood. It sounds more like a cry for relief which the medical model isn't able to provide short of aggressive and outmoded procedures, if I too want to maintain currency on the basis of my research. Is Kelsey's plight unfortunate? Perhaps, but it only stands in Kelsey's way because she, as a biological female, allows it. It doesn't prevent her from taking a piss. When I have to piss, I need back up plans. It doesn't prevent her from driving a car, getting an education. If I had even attempted to make motor vehicle adaptations, I might have been dead by now due to aggressive driving, like Blair Underwood in his last episode. If Kelsey wants to fuck, the vast majority of humans available for that purpose do identify as male or female, even if they have transgendered. Hermaphroditic tendencies are invertebrate and pre-mammalian, if you need to see reversion as an evolutionary advance, I doubt it bodes well for transhuman adaptation.
Rejecting gender all together is not a cause, not a mission. Maybe a fashion statement, but Henry James produced more than one bad novel on that basis.
There is a reason why journalists like Monica Hesse succeed in publishing features like these, one in which Wapo wisely cut off the comment section. Sex sells. It drives everything we do barring post-menopausal low libido. Never mind my opposition to radical sexual equality for the moment on the basis of risky behavior. Kelsey's gender identification plight is merely cosmetic, a form of slacktivism, especially this plea toward the anonymity of personhood. It sounds more like a cry for relief which the medical model isn't able to provide short of aggressive and outmoded procedures, if I too want to maintain currency on the basis of my research. Is Kelsey's plight unfortunate? Perhaps, but it only stands in Kelsey's way because she, as a biological female, allows it. It doesn't prevent her from taking a piss. When I have to piss, I need back up plans. It doesn't prevent her from driving a car, getting an education. If I had even attempted to make motor vehicle adaptations, I might have been dead by now due to aggressive driving, like Blair Underwood in his last episode. If Kelsey wants to fuck, the vast majority of humans available for that purpose do identify as male or female, even if they have transgendered. Hermaphroditic tendencies are invertebrate and pre-mammalian, if you need to see reversion as an evolutionary advance, I doubt it bodes well for transhuman adaptation.
Rejecting gender all together is not a cause, not a mission. Maybe a fashion statement, but Henry James produced more than one bad novel on that basis.
Decent Breakfast
The plot twists in this Vares episode were as obvious as any equivalent American procedural. It was the actors who were unsettling: the wounded doctor in gauze shaking like a coward while his patient with stymied suicidal impulses kills his wife, and the Finnish Godfather, whatever he should be called. It is perturbing that Eastern Europeans look like a society under post traumatic stress, never mind the narrative. The men look blasted by famine, the women malnourished,, weary and gaunt if attractive, pallid and pasty like stale dumplings if homily and obese. This is Vladimir Putin's claim toward a resurgent Russian dominance?,
This is what the U.S. has to look forward to while progressives keep surging relentlessly? In all this time I've been raising my voice, I've raised it because the system invested in me up to a point after my life long paces in a strenuous institutional model that make Angstrom's reopening of the gulag, this time for corruption rather than dictatorship, seem like a weekend holiday. I do not need to keep revisiting what I've told you about, trying to be a competitive employee in power chairs on buses, Septa's Paratransit curtailment using a bidding contract with this venerable institution to do it. I was a patient at Moss briefly, hoping they could undo some of Shriner's aggressive surgical damage to my feet, but the doctors were concerned about the already significant loss to my educational calendar, so all bets rested on my astute and clever acumen, and we've seen how that has fared in my greater Delaware Valley journey.
.
Such a bleak assessment of the human condition. Finland, of all places. The Swedes? They lie just to cash in on crime drama television, but what Majek dredges up to imitate hard boiled noir feels like an authentic disparity indeed. The loss of all hope crushes the spirit, and I've taken this blow (childhood institutionalization) by blow, (family mental illness and death of siblings) by blow (domestic abuse) by blow (city governance corruption) and my foreign viewers must be amazed that I'm a disabled American who is still vested in the exceptionalism of the United States. Philadelphia has its own subjugation tactics in relation to mental heath and chronic conditions. It is a wonder I just don't fold up the damn tent. I've never had a vacation, not of my own making. Padre took me to the Poconos as a kid and it was a disaster. I had stress incontinence without having the classification for it back then, my sister Stephanie screamed when our father left the room, as she often did back then, my dead brother Nicky stole the waitresses tips, and now I'm telling my HUD contracted landlord with their hypocritical Protestant exploitation ethics that they are going to compensate me for years of duress. How deep does the damn sinkhole go.
This is what the U.S. has to look forward to while progressives keep surging relentlessly? In all this time I've been raising my voice, I've raised it because the system invested in me up to a point after my life long paces in a strenuous institutional model that make Angstrom's reopening of the gulag, this time for corruption rather than dictatorship, seem like a weekend holiday. I do not need to keep revisiting what I've told you about, trying to be a competitive employee in power chairs on buses, Septa's Paratransit curtailment using a bidding contract with this venerable institution to do it. I was a patient at Moss briefly, hoping they could undo some of Shriner's aggressive surgical damage to my feet, but the doctors were concerned about the already significant loss to my educational calendar, so all bets rested on my astute and clever acumen, and we've seen how that has fared in my greater Delaware Valley journey.
.
Such a bleak assessment of the human condition. Finland, of all places. The Swedes? They lie just to cash in on crime drama television, but what Majek dredges up to imitate hard boiled noir feels like an authentic disparity indeed. The loss of all hope crushes the spirit, and I've taken this blow (childhood institutionalization) by blow, (family mental illness and death of siblings) by blow (domestic abuse) by blow (city governance corruption) and my foreign viewers must be amazed that I'm a disabled American who is still vested in the exceptionalism of the United States. Philadelphia has its own subjugation tactics in relation to mental heath and chronic conditions. It is a wonder I just don't fold up the damn tent. I've never had a vacation, not of my own making. Padre took me to the Poconos as a kid and it was a disaster. I had stress incontinence without having the classification for it back then, my sister Stephanie screamed when our father left the room, as she often did back then, my dead brother Nicky stole the waitresses tips, and now I'm telling my HUD contracted landlord with their hypocritical Protestant exploitation ethics that they are going to compensate me for years of duress. How deep does the damn sinkhole go.
Cluck tut tut, Finlandization
Now you're turning me into a viral mother hen. Happy? I want to post a stupid adage, like "don't get old," but behind every nonsensical imperative is a protest, like the pinched faces of the Finnish whose government regulates every aspect of their lives. I cannot speak for the books, but the television adaptation of Jussi Vares says we're far beyond Orwellian. Philadelphia is no more or less than a Soviet regional province, with all its boasts about being the birthplace of American Independence in tow. I was born in this city, and now I'm the new Minute Man, one-armed, ganged on with my fierce, intimidating Roman temper
Saturday, September 20, 2014
Scourge
"Old age is sordid."-- Georges Simenon
Leave it to me to hire a hypothetical methamphetamine user in Karina in order to ameliorate my justified social fear of revictimization, only to wind up deep fried in turmoil due to her inexperience. The fun never stops. I nearly went into scorn mode and almost lashed out at her, you stupid bitch.
That might apply to me as well, as I apply it to every person associated with Riverside Presbyterian. I liked Ed Berkowitz once, liked him and Suzanne, pitied her epilepsy and used him, Ed, as an example of an "acceptable man," if one like him was available-- and these niceties of social manner evaporated because he tried to hook me up with a nutcase who gives lectures about disparaged Jungian correspondences, subconscious, and disease, and I became illuminated to the fact that Ed Berkowitz was not a knock off of my Jewish side of the family, only a mental health consumer leading the less functional along, and I am pissed.
Pissed that I reached out to a tenant who likes what he has in the Presbyterian management; pissed that I saw his mental heath issues in his countenance simply out of an innocent meeting with him on the tenth floor for coffee, pissed that I feel duped into have dislodged Zach Tollen's comfort zone, pissed that Karina pissed me off so much that I am willing to disrupt the status quo, putting blacks in their place by fighting back because now the white girl distressed me as well as the fat and thickened black matriarchs, who would have never done what Karina did anyway because they are black. I am the one who gave Karina the rope. I'm the one who has to get over it, even as I initiated my end game with this company.
I am going to give Nakea Fuller the finger too, PHA's *accessibility coordinator," which in translation means a black woman with a better pay grade than Debra Horne, with comparable competency issues.
I never did win any popularity contests, laughing. I am going to be gone soon, and my masterwork? How Philadelphia engenders bigotry and class conflict, reflecting the meanwhile on Scandinavia, placid and static, the palest Caucasians, sterile, polite, with their idea of dramatic conflict to wear dour pouts, get their socialized medical treatments, return to their service vectors with smiling "jas". They would encircle me as if to protect their clime from a foreign invader, threatening to sour the milkweed.
I applied to be a Beacon Writer, after a stumble and fumble, with my best pet peeve: the crony capitalism of real estate. If my father knew that I've thrown down the gauntlet with Presby he'd kill me if he did not have one foot in the grave, but I have to fight.
Leave it to me to hire a hypothetical methamphetamine user in Karina in order to ameliorate my justified social fear of revictimization, only to wind up deep fried in turmoil due to her inexperience. The fun never stops. I nearly went into scorn mode and almost lashed out at her, you stupid bitch.
That might apply to me as well, as I apply it to every person associated with Riverside Presbyterian. I liked Ed Berkowitz once, liked him and Suzanne, pitied her epilepsy and used him, Ed, as an example of an "acceptable man," if one like him was available-- and these niceties of social manner evaporated because he tried to hook me up with a nutcase who gives lectures about disparaged Jungian correspondences, subconscious, and disease, and I became illuminated to the fact that Ed Berkowitz was not a knock off of my Jewish side of the family, only a mental health consumer leading the less functional along, and I am pissed.
Pissed that I reached out to a tenant who likes what he has in the Presbyterian management; pissed that I saw his mental heath issues in his countenance simply out of an innocent meeting with him on the tenth floor for coffee, pissed that I feel duped into have dislodged Zach Tollen's comfort zone, pissed that Karina pissed me off so much that I am willing to disrupt the status quo, putting blacks in their place by fighting back because now the white girl distressed me as well as the fat and thickened black matriarchs, who would have never done what Karina did anyway because they are black. I am the one who gave Karina the rope. I'm the one who has to get over it, even as I initiated my end game with this company.
I am going to give Nakea Fuller the finger too, PHA's *accessibility coordinator," which in translation means a black woman with a better pay grade than Debra Horne, with comparable competency issues.
I never did win any popularity contests, laughing. I am going to be gone soon, and my masterwork? How Philadelphia engenders bigotry and class conflict, reflecting the meanwhile on Scandinavia, placid and static, the palest Caucasians, sterile, polite, with their idea of dramatic conflict to wear dour pouts, get their socialized medical treatments, return to their service vectors with smiling "jas". They would encircle me as if to protect their clime from a foreign invader, threatening to sour the milkweed.
I applied to be a Beacon Writer, after a stumble and fumble, with my best pet peeve: the crony capitalism of real estate. If my father knew that I've thrown down the gauntlet with Presby he'd kill me if he did not have one foot in the grave, but I have to fight.
Friday, September 19, 2014
Taiwanese Mushrooms
Interesting, is it not? Chiang Kai-shek casts a long shadow, buried so deeply that he is finessed into the violence of the culinary arts, but Taiwanese and mainland China's social norms aren't all that different. The island may be more fluid, speculatively less corrupt than the lying hatchet men in Beijing, but it boils down to the same thing: Homogeneity and repression under male dominion for the greater good, and though it is an entirely different subject, it may be why Japanese pornography is so outlandish, riddled with abuse of prescription drugs: Western promiscuity and permissiveness is an indigestible element, so Asians go at it when it comes to sexual stimulus. If Europeans vanished tomorrow no one would notice. China and Japan and the Vietnamese would pick up where they left off, easily able to absorb millions more in atrocities, and we can root for the Emperor from the owner's box at the right hand of heaven.
Eat Drink Man Woman was viewed intimately a very long time ago, illutrative of the fact that Ang Lee is a loving optimist who finds good karma possible for all. Seeing it again wasn't needed, but did remind a terrorist that aesthetic excellence is redeemable, worth striving for, and can even halt the decline of sensory deprivation from grief. Like Tampopo, it gives misanthropic energies a place to rest, even if no armistice was ever signed after the Communist takeover. The Republic of Taiwan should exist. It does not because the United States simply doesn't want the fight, as it slowly declines into not being able to wage a serious conflict with the PRC, and the Politburo plays a clever waiting game.
If China becomes the dominant global power toward mid-century, then it becomes a game of Waterworld, and Jinpings's successors will resort to tea worker exports, a last resort, collectivism defeated against a dead ecosystem.
Eat Drink Man Woman was viewed intimately a very long time ago, illutrative of the fact that Ang Lee is a loving optimist who finds good karma possible for all. Seeing it again wasn't needed, but did remind a terrorist that aesthetic excellence is redeemable, worth striving for, and can even halt the decline of sensory deprivation from grief. Like Tampopo, it gives misanthropic energies a place to rest, even if no armistice was ever signed after the Communist takeover. The Republic of Taiwan should exist. It does not because the United States simply doesn't want the fight, as it slowly declines into not being able to wage a serious conflict with the PRC, and the Politburo plays a clever waiting game.
If China becomes the dominant global power toward mid-century, then it becomes a game of Waterworld, and Jinpings's successors will resort to tea worker exports, a last resort, collectivism defeated against a dead ecosystem.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Jane Alexander is no longer applicable for the rest of us
"I guess I have to learn how to work with someone in a wheelchair."-- Karina K, who didn't.
The ability to absorb leaves you numb once the half century mark is passed, relative to how much of the human condition one can stand. When I was at the basilica last week at the behest of my dying aunt, whom I pulled on unforgivably after my mother dropped, no one left to pull on now, since, should Marie beat her odds and stabilize, she is now hospice flesh, give or take how many weeks, the voice of adolescence wriggled. Go back to church, but then there was a slated cellphone contact. Catholic Social Services, the front line for urban destitution. The worm turned into a detonation device in my stressed colon, realizing I cannot just nicely gloss things over with American Catholicism, the Jane Alexander I grew up with quietly exiting stage left, knowing wisely not to expend her waning capital, a Waspish supporter of divas, never an A list herself, the woman on the median between Hoffman and Streep in Kramer versus Kramer, a film that in contemporary terms illustrates the failure of feminist theory to achieve anything worthwhile, other than to deploy females as case managers, Merkel epitomizing this, the most powerful case manager in Europe. Even in a made for television apocalypse like Testament, Jane is just a dutiful conduit, as opposed to inhabiting a character, dystopian rather than empowered, keeping a clean house in the mist of the American holocaust which arrived, bombarded us for weeks 18 years later, and then left, or transmuted into military action which killed untold thousands. The film is now 31 years old, nothing is resolved, survivalist series are a bummer, and there is no such thing as an appetizing post nuclear world in Hollywood because Orson Welles could not apply his directorial genius in Hiroshima.
If Testament lacks realism of a certain kind, ending on an appeal to memory of the human race, The Day After suffers from the same affect, however more clinical. How do we know we'd educate our surviving children using the skeletal remains of cats?
Yet Testament has its own radicalism: the Asian mentally retarded boy is always happy, even with Western civilization coming to an end. Perhaps this is a rebuttal in itself to Dawkins in his fight with Christianity about compassion for the disenfranchised. The bishops are liars too, however, since no one expends affluence on those with Downs Syndrome who aren't aborted. It becomes too much to carry without a change of pace. What I'm referring to here is a tweet by Bishop Kramer, rebutting the famous biologist for his controversial statement, which smacks of eugenics, but both men are guilty of sound bite polarization.
Abortion is an aggressive medical assault on femininity, with sometimes devastating impact on a woman's health, and the bishop doesn't address the economic expenditure involved in treating our most vulnerable human beings with dignity.
I hate writing for Examiner. I want to stop doing it, but as previously indicated, feel trapped.
The ability to absorb leaves you numb once the half century mark is passed, relative to how much of the human condition one can stand. When I was at the basilica last week at the behest of my dying aunt, whom I pulled on unforgivably after my mother dropped, no one left to pull on now, since, should Marie beat her odds and stabilize, she is now hospice flesh, give or take how many weeks, the voice of adolescence wriggled. Go back to church, but then there was a slated cellphone contact. Catholic Social Services, the front line for urban destitution. The worm turned into a detonation device in my stressed colon, realizing I cannot just nicely gloss things over with American Catholicism, the Jane Alexander I grew up with quietly exiting stage left, knowing wisely not to expend her waning capital, a Waspish supporter of divas, never an A list herself, the woman on the median between Hoffman and Streep in Kramer versus Kramer, a film that in contemporary terms illustrates the failure of feminist theory to achieve anything worthwhile, other than to deploy females as case managers, Merkel epitomizing this, the most powerful case manager in Europe. Even in a made for television apocalypse like Testament, Jane is just a dutiful conduit, as opposed to inhabiting a character, dystopian rather than empowered, keeping a clean house in the mist of the American holocaust which arrived, bombarded us for weeks 18 years later, and then left, or transmuted into military action which killed untold thousands. The film is now 31 years old, nothing is resolved, survivalist series are a bummer, and there is no such thing as an appetizing post nuclear world in Hollywood because Orson Welles could not apply his directorial genius in Hiroshima.
If Testament lacks realism of a certain kind, ending on an appeal to memory of the human race, The Day After suffers from the same affect, however more clinical. How do we know we'd educate our surviving children using the skeletal remains of cats?
Yet Testament has its own radicalism: the Asian mentally retarded boy is always happy, even with Western civilization coming to an end. Perhaps this is a rebuttal in itself to Dawkins in his fight with Christianity about compassion for the disenfranchised. The bishops are liars too, however, since no one expends affluence on those with Downs Syndrome who aren't aborted. It becomes too much to carry without a change of pace. What I'm referring to here is a tweet by Bishop Kramer, rebutting the famous biologist for his controversial statement, which smacks of eugenics, but both men are guilty of sound bite polarization.
Abortion is an aggressive medical assault on femininity, with sometimes devastating impact on a woman's health, and the bishop doesn't address the economic expenditure involved in treating our most vulnerable human beings with dignity.
I hate writing for Examiner. I want to stop doing it, but as previously indicated, feel trapped.
Degrés de barbarie
Timothy Taylor does not address the empirical quagmire of what actually constitutes poverty on the basis of geography. In my fight with Presby, for instance, I may achieve the unthinkable and make myself homeless, and if that happens, then what happens to me is not a cardboard box in Fairmount Park-- I am physically incapable of surviving on the street. What happens is I shift into the margins where I lose what I'm fighting for by fighting the system in the first place: my self-determination in my last few viable years. Yet, even hurling myself into the bottom of the abyss in Eastern Pennsylvania, I cannot enter into the unimaginable bestial behavior of Lisa Coleman and her former partner, impatient as I may be with children. Murdering enemies is one thing. We all understand revenge motives, but the relentless torture of other human beings, sans Ariel Castro, or other gruesome domestic instances, is beyond me, even if the social safety net has done a significant degree of damage to my well being. Yet it happens in this country over and over again, the sordid shame on the social fringes: the scandal of Danieal that made Philadelphia a confirmed national stigma.
Fences have eroded. After 9/11, I had rather diminutive views of the sterility within the Arabic world of what led to the creation of Isis, but not anymore, not for all the vigor in the united alliance between Obama and Cameron, Isis beheadings of hostages is a form of extreme bombastic hyperbole, one beneath contempt, from the same old playbook, regardless of Ali's ruthless battle prowess, but it is, nonetheless, an argument against liberalism, a facade of contraction, which, even if victorious in some of its aims, is as corrupted by material greed as any other ethnic adhesion.
Coleman's brutality, however, is not. It is not even innate to primate aggression. Great apes occasionally engage in infanticide for evolutionary reasons, but they lack our cognitive capacity for such an extraordinary ability to degrade our own kind in such a fashion. It is beyond disgust.
Fences have eroded. After 9/11, I had rather diminutive views of the sterility within the Arabic world of what led to the creation of Isis, but not anymore, not for all the vigor in the united alliance between Obama and Cameron, Isis beheadings of hostages is a form of extreme bombastic hyperbole, one beneath contempt, from the same old playbook, regardless of Ali's ruthless battle prowess, but it is, nonetheless, an argument against liberalism, a facade of contraction, which, even if victorious in some of its aims, is as corrupted by material greed as any other ethnic adhesion.
Coleman's brutality, however, is not. It is not even innate to primate aggression. Great apes occasionally engage in infanticide for evolutionary reasons, but they lack our cognitive capacity for such an extraordinary ability to degrade our own kind in such a fashion. It is beyond disgust.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Malicious
My ex-fiance, for those of you not following along, is a bed ridden 5'6" King Kong, maybe 450 lb when he moved in and was more hopeful then of some physical recovery. He fell once, only once, in my bathroom, due to singular distinctions for which I am seemingly fated. Why I initially agreed to marry him? I thought my control would be reward enough. I was wrong, and hurt big ugly burly baby spic/dago from the Bronx whose intelligence is keener than my own on certain things. He was a Bronx cop, coke addict and he thinks Karina falls under the same rubric, and he may be right. My instincts about the woman were that I was being played, not that she hurt me, not yet.
She somehow was let in the building yesterday and came pounding on my door, like so many menacing drug users of my past, and telephoned twice, looking for a reference, which, perhaps to you may seem petty, but I refused her. This isn't simply about my personal correspondence. She may have discarded official documentation which may cause me undue hardship down the road. I'm worried now, and I hired her, using Craigslist on the advice of my veterinary technician. This is why I've kept myself off the Medicaid system, to stay away from this.
She somehow was let in the building yesterday and came pounding on my door, like so many menacing drug users of my past, and telephoned twice, looking for a reference, which, perhaps to you may seem petty, but I refused her. This isn't simply about my personal correspondence. She may have discarded official documentation which may cause me undue hardship down the road. I'm worried now, and I hired her, using Craigslist on the advice of my veterinary technician. This is why I've kept myself off the Medicaid system, to stay away from this.
Stasis
"drizzle the arugula with the oil"
I keep telling myself go to bed, but having ruined my dinner, I'm wrestling the demonic struggle of my next pithy citizen's review in my head, selling out, as always, toward anything triumphantly mine above standard. I always have John's voice in my head, having read his work above and beyond my studies with Jerry, and if John was a liberal, which I suppose he was, his anger is the common thread that sears his work like a phosphorous flesh wound, let alone the scars of Taggert Hodge's repulsive upper quadrant. Gardner and I share a profligate anger such as dims even the impetus of kindness. I introduced Robert to a local Bay area novelist who shall remain unnamed, anonymous because she visited my dowager account rather than my Examiner page and I believe, reading between the lines, my Blogger posts caused her a mild choking sensation, and then she mailed me her book, which I did not want her to do--please stop giving me books, for the love of Christ enough already, really, but I introduced her to Robert, and was not generous in doing so, but a bit terse actually, as if to say, "See, I am an alien even on the gracious tolerance of San Francisco creative writers and their spouses, so allow me to present you to each other in an undercurrent of snide write off." Wondering why I am so unkind to Caucasian affluence to which I once belonged, so briefly as all that, in a dago leather imitation, at any rate.
Gardner died in such a way as to freeze dry his novels beyond their relevance, not entirely sure what I mean, but close to the sense that he is tragically anachronistic, wielding the Vietnam War like a plug to stretch out the anatomical asshole, and as I've already conveyed, I should quietly close the Toshiba, take my half wrecked P-200 off the charger, make my haphazard transfer to my dirty bedspread with my horrid mattress, and try vainly to go back to sleep, allow my body to adjust to the coming fall, take a break from this account, spend the week finding a fucking lawyer and then take another week to convince the fucking lawyer to sue the fucking state of Pennsylvania to which I am domicile, and good luck with that.
Obviously, I will give compliance with mortality a run for its money, along with everything else. I hope my obstinate aunt expires in ICU, if you'd like the truth, which you do not, oh, the things my rage would make you wonder about whether you should fear me, but then again, testing Google, you know, after pouring my blood into this, if not always due diligence. Yes, Gardner's legacy informs my bitterness, perhaps predicts it; if you'd like me to sound almost like a former middle class Catholic under pressure, this latest family deathwatch has realigned my relations with my paternal, married cousins, and this is not necessarily bad. I am not entirely without alliance, of some sort, not that they can mitigate my invidious hatred of section 202 housing.
I keep telling myself go to bed, but having ruined my dinner, I'm wrestling the demonic struggle of my next pithy citizen's review in my head, selling out, as always, toward anything triumphantly mine above standard. I always have John's voice in my head, having read his work above and beyond my studies with Jerry, and if John was a liberal, which I suppose he was, his anger is the common thread that sears his work like a phosphorous flesh wound, let alone the scars of Taggert Hodge's repulsive upper quadrant. Gardner and I share a profligate anger such as dims even the impetus of kindness. I introduced Robert to a local Bay area novelist who shall remain unnamed, anonymous because she visited my dowager account rather than my Examiner page and I believe, reading between the lines, my Blogger posts caused her a mild choking sensation, and then she mailed me her book, which I did not want her to do--please stop giving me books, for the love of Christ enough already, really, but I introduced her to Robert, and was not generous in doing so, but a bit terse actually, as if to say, "See, I am an alien even on the gracious tolerance of San Francisco creative writers and their spouses, so allow me to present you to each other in an undercurrent of snide write off." Wondering why I am so unkind to Caucasian affluence to which I once belonged, so briefly as all that, in a dago leather imitation, at any rate.
Gardner died in such a way as to freeze dry his novels beyond their relevance, not entirely sure what I mean, but close to the sense that he is tragically anachronistic, wielding the Vietnam War like a plug to stretch out the anatomical asshole, and as I've already conveyed, I should quietly close the Toshiba, take my half wrecked P-200 off the charger, make my haphazard transfer to my dirty bedspread with my horrid mattress, and try vainly to go back to sleep, allow my body to adjust to the coming fall, take a break from this account, spend the week finding a fucking lawyer and then take another week to convince the fucking lawyer to sue the fucking state of Pennsylvania to which I am domicile, and good luck with that.
Obviously, I will give compliance with mortality a run for its money, along with everything else. I hope my obstinate aunt expires in ICU, if you'd like the truth, which you do not, oh, the things my rage would make you wonder about whether you should fear me, but then again, testing Google, you know, after pouring my blood into this, if not always due diligence. Yes, Gardner's legacy informs my bitterness, perhaps predicts it; if you'd like me to sound almost like a former middle class Catholic under pressure, this latest family deathwatch has realigned my relations with my paternal, married cousins, and this is not necessarily bad. I am not entirely without alliance, of some sort, not that they can mitigate my invidious hatred of section 202 housing.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Reduced to earning a dollar on assignment like a blood letting
Why do I not submit one of those wonderful tickets to Clarity Media and tell them with sweetly drooling daggers to kiss my bloody spastic ass? Why? Because I'll never be a fucking syndicated columnist even worthy of an ISIL/ISIS beheading, because I am not sure I can apply to be a part time or full time editor journalist writer without getting fired if I cannot make a deadline due to an incontinence or COPD attack, my stool invariably ruining rayon, cotton, or other synthetic knits. The low income Protestant corporate office who encompasses the building owners I have lived under is a big business, and the Philadelphia Housing Authority is an embedded syndicate. I might as well be Chen Guangcheng attempting to evade secret police beatings even as I snicker at Xi Jinping giving speeches to Brazilian politicians about historical Chinese tea workers in South America.
China. The new old global aspirant. Yes, whether or not the new 2016 President of the US finds a way to reverse our new found anxiety about both, our domestic and foreign competency, the United States will eventually begin to dovetail, if we haven't already, but China's muscle is no panacea -- or does Google's immorality rate an equivalency marker with third world state models? Fear of forcing your own eviction might be a wonderful way to insert a huge block of granite into a life long love of writing which ultimately, the majority of us fail to transmute into gold, but getting stymied over puff pieces of trivial pursuit? Ah.
To my regular viewers: I do not know what Presby is going to do to me. They have done enough over the years: Peggy asking me to case manage tenants while I worked for Matrix, typical Greater Delaware Valley collusion. Debra Schwab barging in over my deplorable conditions in the studio, granted, at the time I urinated and smoked my way into destructive tenant classification. Frank thought of the urinal. Less accurate stream aim with a clitoris, but it mitigates the loss of control. I never thought of the urinal, so give my bastard ex pig of a fiance some credit. After all the nursing aides on the Medicaid Waiver, after blowing thousands of dollars of my own money, after even the costs of Presby's renovations, this stark, sterile studio with its cheap dry wall, cheap non glossy white paint, stained drop ceilings in the bathroom from the crippled gang banger above me who is a fucking bombastic drunk with no teeth, it is pretty much in the same condition its been in since after my first three years of residency.
The lethal conjunction of poverty and disability is about more than mere lack of money. It is about the erosion of esteem, devaluation, an inability to take pride in habitation, in interior design, your own appearance. After so many years without employment, with a collegiate debt going to crush you unless you re-institutionalize yourself, you begin to stop caring.
China. The new old global aspirant. Yes, whether or not the new 2016 President of the US finds a way to reverse our new found anxiety about both, our domestic and foreign competency, the United States will eventually begin to dovetail, if we haven't already, but China's muscle is no panacea -- or does Google's immorality rate an equivalency marker with third world state models? Fear of forcing your own eviction might be a wonderful way to insert a huge block of granite into a life long love of writing which ultimately, the majority of us fail to transmute into gold, but getting stymied over puff pieces of trivial pursuit? Ah.
To my regular viewers: I do not know what Presby is going to do to me. They have done enough over the years: Peggy asking me to case manage tenants while I worked for Matrix, typical Greater Delaware Valley collusion. Debra Schwab barging in over my deplorable conditions in the studio, granted, at the time I urinated and smoked my way into destructive tenant classification. Frank thought of the urinal. Less accurate stream aim with a clitoris, but it mitigates the loss of control. I never thought of the urinal, so give my bastard ex pig of a fiance some credit. After all the nursing aides on the Medicaid Waiver, after blowing thousands of dollars of my own money, after even the costs of Presby's renovations, this stark, sterile studio with its cheap dry wall, cheap non glossy white paint, stained drop ceilings in the bathroom from the crippled gang banger above me who is a fucking bombastic drunk with no teeth, it is pretty much in the same condition its been in since after my first three years of residency.
The lethal conjunction of poverty and disability is about more than mere lack of money. It is about the erosion of esteem, devaluation, an inability to take pride in habitation, in interior design, your own appearance. After so many years without employment, with a collegiate debt going to crush you unless you re-institutionalize yourself, you begin to stop caring.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Inundation
Under a great deal of stress, of course, as it relates to Relocation Manual. Google and Amazon will ride in to my rescue, certainly, with my battered psyche, internal giggle of bemusement, throwing my spears at the managerial weary minority Trudy because my white chick pick Karina didn't work out. I know you do not care, but it hurts that this unwitting Jesus two shoes bitch destroyed part of my independent press record, in essence triggering my final war against Presby that I will not truly win, even if I litigate it out. Philadelphia has essentially three tiers:
1. The nigger hustle, inclusive of white trash, that eats itself expendable;
2. The white moderately liberal professional class who work the center district and then return to rural New Jersey or Chestnut Hill;
3. The Jewish Italian remnant that tacitly smiles at the ghetto majority in order not to be targeted by it. Unlike me. My downward spiral is so evidentiary that "hello" on the Parkway from a hoodie in sunglasses is a fishing expedition for a welfare bitch, but it will never happen. I'll never be an addict ho, which isn't to say they will not assault again. They may. I'm weakening, probably never truly to resurrect a vindicated matriculation. Future hate crime on an axel, but be thankful we're not as sterile as the Finnish street scene. Talk about a static culture-- of all the European procedurals that have glazed me over since I rediscovered where Mindview has been hiding on WYBE, Jussi Vares seems the most authentically true to itself in its own social mores, not necessarily imitating or competing with American models.
The French get it right when they care to; the Swedes, not in any way detracting from Mankell, are so impotent they send me running back to Dick Wolf, and Italiano? The only argument Rome has left is to acknowledge that corrosion and incompetence have an incestuous compatibility, and yet, this is the genetic make up calling me home to 10,000 years of dust I'd never survive. How could I? With those ancient, narrow causeways? But I intend to die in Tuscany. WYBE has so successfully indoctrinated me I may end up trying my hand-- two unfinished novels why not a third where a devoted daughter suspects the worst of amato padre, si?
1. The nigger hustle, inclusive of white trash, that eats itself expendable;
2. The white moderately liberal professional class who work the center district and then return to rural New Jersey or Chestnut Hill;
3. The Jewish Italian remnant that tacitly smiles at the ghetto majority in order not to be targeted by it. Unlike me. My downward spiral is so evidentiary that "hello" on the Parkway from a hoodie in sunglasses is a fishing expedition for a welfare bitch, but it will never happen. I'll never be an addict ho, which isn't to say they will not assault again. They may. I'm weakening, probably never truly to resurrect a vindicated matriculation. Future hate crime on an axel, but be thankful we're not as sterile as the Finnish street scene. Talk about a static culture-- of all the European procedurals that have glazed me over since I rediscovered where Mindview has been hiding on WYBE, Jussi Vares seems the most authentically true to itself in its own social mores, not necessarily imitating or competing with American models.
The French get it right when they care to; the Swedes, not in any way detracting from Mankell, are so impotent they send me running back to Dick Wolf, and Italiano? The only argument Rome has left is to acknowledge that corrosion and incompetence have an incestuous compatibility, and yet, this is the genetic make up calling me home to 10,000 years of dust I'd never survive. How could I? With those ancient, narrow causeways? But I intend to die in Tuscany. WYBE has so successfully indoctrinated me I may end up trying my hand-- two unfinished novels why not a third where a devoted daughter suspects the worst of amato padre, si?
Thursday, September 11, 2014
Relocation Manual
Notice of grievance with intent to withhold rental subsidy, for now date unspecified:
Item 1: In February 1993 I was the victim of a home invasion in the second Diamond Park Apartment unit under Presby Senior's management, staff member Terri Way, at 1500 W Page Street. A grandson of a tenant, Brandon Philips, knocked on the door of my central one bedroom unit, claiming to be with the Water Department. The exterminator was due to arrive, and I had taken the off from the disability center in order to transition to the Matrix Research Institute. I telephoned the office to see if the Water Department was scheduled in tandem with the mandatory extermination, left a message and proceeded, unable to utilize the peep hole, to unlock my door, asked for ID. Brandon clamped his hand over my mouth, dragged my wheelchair to the bedroom, threatened me with expletives, attempted to strangle me. I fought back, survived, this on top of being exposed to eight years of systemic black on black violence.
Ms. Way used undue influence to dissuade me from litigation, and after turning a Riverside unit down once, I reluctantly moved in under Peggy Smith, who was released, engaged in again systemic conflict over the mandatory food program.
Item 2: Under Debra Schwab I was banned from the dining service due to harassment of the senior tenants, forced to pay for a service I did not want, and had to get Steven Gold's intervention on this matter shortly before I resigned from case management.
Item 3: I was continually harassed by senior tenants knocking on my door and calling me dirty cripple.
Item 4: I was swindled and molested by two minority paraprofessionals from Unlimited Staffing. Ms Eddy, in particular, engaging in sexual touches to my person, after undergoing other choice negative behaviors from some personal attendants. This occurred in 2006 after I had received a letter from then manager Brenda Williams about non compliance with the lease.
Item 5: Trudy Richard intimidated me with an assessment team after my refusal to accept biweekly inspections shortly after she was hired as senior manager. She provides different rationales for this action depending on the parties, inclusive of my family, who have interceded on my behalf. I will leave it to deposition for Ms. Richardson to decide which rationale she wants to stick with in her evasive maneuvers to keep Presby free of liability in its continuous violations of my rights under the equal protection clause of the 14th Amendment to the Constitution, let alone the ADA.
Item 6: I was injured during the building renovations while I was being dropped from Keystone Mercy and could not obtain my medical equipment for a significant period of time.
Item 7: I have refused to give Ms. Richardson a letter about spend down of my personal assets. She has been fully aware that I received a death benefit in 2005 and refuses to give me a legal reason for this letter despite previous compliance with 28 years of recertification adjustments to my subsidy monthly rental amount.
I am going to demand both punitive damages and that Presby will assist in my transfer and accessibility needs under another landlord, and hereby stipulate my compliance with Riverside Senior shall cease without access and protection of legal counsel. I am forwarding this to the Mayor's Commission on Disability, Nakea Fuller, accessibility coordinator with PHA, and will include it in my complainant letter to my political representatives.
Unit 514
Item 1: In February 1993 I was the victim of a home invasion in the second Diamond Park Apartment unit under Presby Senior's management, staff member Terri Way, at 1500 W Page Street. A grandson of a tenant, Brandon Philips, knocked on the door of my central one bedroom unit, claiming to be with the Water Department. The exterminator was due to arrive, and I had taken the off from the disability center in order to transition to the Matrix Research Institute. I telephoned the office to see if the Water Department was scheduled in tandem with the mandatory extermination, left a message and proceeded, unable to utilize the peep hole, to unlock my door, asked for ID. Brandon clamped his hand over my mouth, dragged my wheelchair to the bedroom, threatened me with expletives, attempted to strangle me. I fought back, survived, this on top of being exposed to eight years of systemic black on black violence.
Ms. Way used undue influence to dissuade me from litigation, and after turning a Riverside unit down once, I reluctantly moved in under Peggy Smith, who was released, engaged in again systemic conflict over the mandatory food program.
Item 2: Under Debra Schwab I was banned from the dining service due to harassment of the senior tenants, forced to pay for a service I did not want, and had to get Steven Gold's intervention on this matter shortly before I resigned from case management.
Item 3: I was continually harassed by senior tenants knocking on my door and calling me dirty cripple.
Item 4: I was swindled and molested by two minority paraprofessionals from Unlimited Staffing. Ms Eddy, in particular, engaging in sexual touches to my person, after undergoing other choice negative behaviors from some personal attendants. This occurred in 2006 after I had received a letter from then manager Brenda Williams about non compliance with the lease.
Item 5: Trudy Richard intimidated me with an assessment team after my refusal to accept biweekly inspections shortly after she was hired as senior manager. She provides different rationales for this action depending on the parties, inclusive of my family, who have interceded on my behalf. I will leave it to deposition for Ms. Richardson to decide which rationale she wants to stick with in her evasive maneuvers to keep Presby free of liability in its continuous violations of my rights under the equal protection clause of the 14th Amendment to the Constitution, let alone the ADA.
Item 6: I was injured during the building renovations while I was being dropped from Keystone Mercy and could not obtain my medical equipment for a significant period of time.
Item 7: I have refused to give Ms. Richardson a letter about spend down of my personal assets. She has been fully aware that I received a death benefit in 2005 and refuses to give me a legal reason for this letter despite previous compliance with 28 years of recertification adjustments to my subsidy monthly rental amount.
I am going to demand both punitive damages and that Presby will assist in my transfer and accessibility needs under another landlord, and hereby stipulate my compliance with Riverside Senior shall cease without access and protection of legal counsel. I am forwarding this to the Mayor's Commission on Disability, Nakea Fuller, accessibility coordinator with PHA, and will include it in my complainant letter to my political representatives.
Unit 514
*********
This is why I'm so unhappy. The system is in dire need of reform.
Wednesday, September 10, 2014
Any given Sunday
"The last five essays of writing and difference might be incomprehensible." -- Alan Bass
Me: "She might have been killed.
Frank: "So what?" in reference to Janay Rice, in an afternoon four way argument between me, my dying aunt and her internal adenocarcinoma rotting, and Karina! who telephoned me after being out of town.
Like any failed little boy, Frank defends Ray Rice, and like any fully unrealized woman, I indict Janay for her complicity, and meanwhile, I'll never be able to enjoy football again as a way to communicate with my father. Trouble, these days, trying not to hate my 80 year old parent for my brutalized childhood, but Janay's voice, in this latest national argument we're having about being black, being barbaric, can only be heard once removed: She apologized for her part in an argument where she wound up very much like the canine victims of the Shining Path. She then married her fiance despite the fact that he was charged with aggravated assault, and is now defended by minority proxies on twitter who plead with us about how hard it is to leave abusers. My problem with this is Janay had more privilege than most to decouple herself from her baller. You might ask, given that I'm losing my battle against near absolute indigence within the inexorable grind of the welfare state, if I would have walked out on the rare commodity of the professional athlete, and my answer is yes. I've been incarcerated most of my life, charged with no crime, brutalized by now obsolete orthopedic procedures, sexually assaulted at least four times, also a victim of an aggravated assault, distressed because all ableism now feels like an aggravated assault, and TMZ advocates for the brutalized female far more effectively through the acquisition of security feed better than I can ask anyone reading me to lend me a hand in my last productive years. Yet I keep talking to my ex, who would have strangled his first wife to death, because I don't have a girlfriend to speak to anymore, barring Karina, the dense nice New Church woman. She loves me, she said the last time we parted, prostituting herself for nearly 300 dollars she was neither worth, nor I able to afford, and I am not even in the lesbian slot that oral sex on pussy "feels right" to pull the vapid dialogue from Chasing Amy. Poor Marie now wants to play the pimp for her hospice care.
Me: "She might have been killed.
Frank: "So what?" in reference to Janay Rice, in an afternoon four way argument between me, my dying aunt and her internal adenocarcinoma rotting, and Karina! who telephoned me after being out of town.
Like any failed little boy, Frank defends Ray Rice, and like any fully unrealized woman, I indict Janay for her complicity, and meanwhile, I'll never be able to enjoy football again as a way to communicate with my father. Trouble, these days, trying not to hate my 80 year old parent for my brutalized childhood, but Janay's voice, in this latest national argument we're having about being black, being barbaric, can only be heard once removed: She apologized for her part in an argument where she wound up very much like the canine victims of the Shining Path. She then married her fiance despite the fact that he was charged with aggravated assault, and is now defended by minority proxies on twitter who plead with us about how hard it is to leave abusers. My problem with this is Janay had more privilege than most to decouple herself from her baller. You might ask, given that I'm losing my battle against near absolute indigence within the inexorable grind of the welfare state, if I would have walked out on the rare commodity of the professional athlete, and my answer is yes. I've been incarcerated most of my life, charged with no crime, brutalized by now obsolete orthopedic procedures, sexually assaulted at least four times, also a victim of an aggravated assault, distressed because all ableism now feels like an aggravated assault, and TMZ advocates for the brutalized female far more effectively through the acquisition of security feed better than I can ask anyone reading me to lend me a hand in my last productive years. Yet I keep talking to my ex, who would have strangled his first wife to death, because I don't have a girlfriend to speak to anymore, barring Karina, the dense nice New Church woman. She loves me, she said the last time we parted, prostituting herself for nearly 300 dollars she was neither worth, nor I able to afford, and I am not even in the lesbian slot that oral sex on pussy "feels right" to pull the vapid dialogue from Chasing Amy. Poor Marie now wants to play the pimp for her hospice care.
Monday, September 8, 2014
Robert Wagner, in Escro
"The life in me abolished the death of things."-- The Ring and The Book
Yes, I sometimes forget just to whom I am posting, certainly not to Oliveira. People follows a time honored tradition older than journalism itself: The need to be amazed by a freak show conjoined to the distortions of glamour, but in the case of Natalie Wood, her theatrical depth always on the verge of overwhelming pathos, her performances remain a specter for which I have no cognizant explanation, except for the fact that her death was a senior year headline. What Redford's character does to her emotionally in Tennessee's carefully contrived melodrama opens some raw wounds, Sundance liberal be damned. She was drinking and fell off a boat. She was on a boat, drinking, she and Robert had a fight, and merry widow tossed her overboard, not that there is any evidence to hover over Wagner's old age. Her character Alva was pressured into sex trafficking and is destroyed by her own desperation for magical innocence, in the covert hovering of homosexual penetrations into familial viciousness, and died in such a fashion it reverberates. We believe things have changed since those times, that fresh meat is not a commodity, but have they? What Rampell delineates at the bottom of the economic workforce barely scratches the surface, but we're demonizing what we enjoy about the convenience of processed food. I patronize McDonald's once in a blue moon-- but escape this juggernaut no less than anyone else who frequent short order establisshments. Golden Lake, Dunkin Donuts, something more upscale when I head to Delancy Plaza, even grocery chains have converted to prepackaged meals.
What I am suggesting is we do not often enough step back to see what polarizes us into idiotic points of advocacy. Restaurant franchises operate on the caveat of instant gratification, not decent hands on customer service. What isn't microwaved is short grilled, in the past, crewed by adolescents never intending such labor becoming a living wage, not in the developed world. Those who remain on the front lines, the farmers who harvest crops, manage livestock, can only push manufacturing technologies so far; the rest of us are basically obsolete, even the CEO five times up the food chain. Alva is a passive anachronism, but in another sense she returns to the future, the last exploitable resource, our terminal diseases.
Yes, I sometimes forget just to whom I am posting, certainly not to Oliveira. People follows a time honored tradition older than journalism itself: The need to be amazed by a freak show conjoined to the distortions of glamour, but in the case of Natalie Wood, her theatrical depth always on the verge of overwhelming pathos, her performances remain a specter for which I have no cognizant explanation, except for the fact that her death was a senior year headline. What Redford's character does to her emotionally in Tennessee's carefully contrived melodrama opens some raw wounds, Sundance liberal be damned. She was drinking and fell off a boat. She was on a boat, drinking, she and Robert had a fight, and merry widow tossed her overboard, not that there is any evidence to hover over Wagner's old age. Her character Alva was pressured into sex trafficking and is destroyed by her own desperation for magical innocence, in the covert hovering of homosexual penetrations into familial viciousness, and died in such a fashion it reverberates. We believe things have changed since those times, that fresh meat is not a commodity, but have they? What Rampell delineates at the bottom of the economic workforce barely scratches the surface, but we're demonizing what we enjoy about the convenience of processed food. I patronize McDonald's once in a blue moon-- but escape this juggernaut no less than anyone else who frequent short order establisshments. Golden Lake, Dunkin Donuts, something more upscale when I head to Delancy Plaza, even grocery chains have converted to prepackaged meals.
What I am suggesting is we do not often enough step back to see what polarizes us into idiotic points of advocacy. Restaurant franchises operate on the caveat of instant gratification, not decent hands on customer service. What isn't microwaved is short grilled, in the past, crewed by adolescents never intending such labor becoming a living wage, not in the developed world. Those who remain on the front lines, the farmers who harvest crops, manage livestock, can only push manufacturing technologies so far; the rest of us are basically obsolete, even the CEO five times up the food chain. Alva is a passive anachronism, but in another sense she returns to the future, the last exploitable resource, our terminal diseases.
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Proper Totem
Halle Berry's carefully preserved physique is another reason I avoid her new series. Her beauty, like any real beauty, was once a passport into a realm of privilege no homily woman could attain without some form of extraordinary circumstance, one of the subtexts of Catwoman, one of the worst comic book revivals on record. In Gothika, too -- a movie I meant to apply to but forget why (it is coming back but we'll leave it for a momentary resilience) but in Extant she exhibits the braggadocio of surgical vanity, the curse of the nascent has been, no longer the red swimsuit sensation in a witty homage to the high tech Fleming fantasy which seems as far removed from our times as we are to Nicolas le Floch.
Perhaps her father was a lust fuck for the mother. I could go right back in my 22 year old body, despite everything, even my softly hardening racial prejudice, and fuck Michael Washington, my first apartment manager, til the cats yowled. His sexual heat radiated with such force that he could have swooned any woman alive, and those busy covalent bonds undoubtedly made Halle that rare female who parts the sea, not that she is necessarily conscious of this, but for all its conspiratorial overtones, in Extant she is parting with her fecund exceptionalism, that, similar to Obama, frees her from black identity. She may tell herself psychologically that she's black, but this isn't really the case. Oprah is black.
Halle is neither one race nor the other, and many of her films presage this, including Catwoman, but the series cannot revitalize her former dazzling, rarefied radiance. My eyes need to look away.
Perhaps her father was a lust fuck for the mother. I could go right back in my 22 year old body, despite everything, even my softly hardening racial prejudice, and fuck Michael Washington, my first apartment manager, til the cats yowled. His sexual heat radiated with such force that he could have swooned any woman alive, and those busy covalent bonds undoubtedly made Halle that rare female who parts the sea, not that she is necessarily conscious of this, but for all its conspiratorial overtones, in Extant she is parting with her fecund exceptionalism, that, similar to Obama, frees her from black identity. She may tell herself psychologically that she's black, but this isn't really the case. Oprah is black.
Halle is neither one race nor the other, and many of her films presage this, including Catwoman, but the series cannot revitalize her former dazzling, rarefied radiance. My eyes need to look away.
Friday, September 5, 2014
Flames of Osteoporosis
"There are enough detonators here to blow up half of Algiers!"-- an ethnic bit player.
Frank Riva is at best an insipid police drama, such that some captions and sequences were left to my tinnitus encroached deafness to do what it could with five years of French lab, but Delon is a clever bastard, gnawing away at Watergate era paranoia despite a fairly tepid story of shared generational guilt that lives on past the Nixon years.
Alain may not have worked with Gene, but as I suspected, he came up the same time as Hackman did, and in Lost Command, he inhabits the same aloof persona as in Riva, the man in the middle, neither a proponent for European hegemony, nor the freedom fighter, becomes imperiled but escapes, much like Edmund Dantes. Hence, Riva needs to be examined against two of Hackman's signature performances, Popeye Doyle in The French Connection and Harry Caul in The Conversation.
Riva is a kind of double take against the worst perceived threat to liberalism in American history. Every twist in Riva is about the underside of justice-- that justice itself draws the blood of the righteous, that no process isn't rife with corruption, and is doomed to repeat itself. The Loggias are fossils, much like GF 1 and 2 are museum films, but those fossils leave their imprint, not only on Maxime, but on Riva's unrealized daughter and the child she carries, a baby passed around like so many croissants to dip in the coffee bowl-- we'll pick this up after I do some sweating. I need to drop off the rent and go food shopping, and manage my fear. I told Trudy Richardson I was done with Presby, with compliance that deliberately attacks my dignity, and I meant it, but I am scared I am going to get myself killed. Forcing my own eviction leaves me prey to human predators who aren't going to care if they rape me or what.
Frank Riva is at best an insipid police drama, such that some captions and sequences were left to my tinnitus encroached deafness to do what it could with five years of French lab, but Delon is a clever bastard, gnawing away at Watergate era paranoia despite a fairly tepid story of shared generational guilt that lives on past the Nixon years.
Alain may not have worked with Gene, but as I suspected, he came up the same time as Hackman did, and in Lost Command, he inhabits the same aloof persona as in Riva, the man in the middle, neither a proponent for European hegemony, nor the freedom fighter, becomes imperiled but escapes, much like Edmund Dantes. Hence, Riva needs to be examined against two of Hackman's signature performances, Popeye Doyle in The French Connection and Harry Caul in The Conversation.
Riva is a kind of double take against the worst perceived threat to liberalism in American history. Every twist in Riva is about the underside of justice-- that justice itself draws the blood of the righteous, that no process isn't rife with corruption, and is doomed to repeat itself. The Loggias are fossils, much like GF 1 and 2 are museum films, but those fossils leave their imprint, not only on Maxime, but on Riva's unrealized daughter and the child she carries, a baby passed around like so many croissants to dip in the coffee bowl-- we'll pick this up after I do some sweating. I need to drop off the rent and go food shopping, and manage my fear. I told Trudy Richardson I was done with Presby, with compliance that deliberately attacks my dignity, and I meant it, but I am scared I am going to get myself killed. Forcing my own eviction leaves me prey to human predators who aren't going to care if they rape me or what.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Gateway finesse
"There is something wrong with you," -- a Turkish liberator in New Jersey masquerading as a backgammon player during failed phone sex
Not to get too self-referential about this account, (who cares?) but my page view data sometimes amazes me. Why do the former Warsaw Pact Poles read my posts? I've written absolutely nothing about Lech Walesa as a precursor to the fall of Soviet hegemony. Yet my muted appreciation of Orhan Pamuk's ability to dissect the tension between fundamentalism and secularization draws 30 page views from the fine, if beleaguered, citizens of Turkey. I am quite free to break the Turkish law on the books about mocking Turkish citizens if I please, but such a law was evidently written to be mocked for its very existence. It is a silly law, telegraphing to Muslims and Christians alike an inferiority complex.
I am interested, if a Turkish viewer cares to respond, in what has drawn these 30 views? Pamuk is a fine writer; that unfortunate Turkish family with its hand walking children speaks to the global problems of outcasts among outcasts, and Erdogan, whatever his aspirations, and political corruption, will not reconstitute the Ottoman Empire-- but beyond this there are limits to what (Westernized) multi-culturalism can hope to achieve. Turkey is in a highbrow third world status? How does this earn my commiseration when I have been a lifelong American untouchable whose educators led her to believe she could achieve self-sufficiency? Is it the policing of chronic conditions and poverty as a criminal act which interests you? Snow is a rich novel, full of taupe-skinned romanticism, inadequacy, with a poignant dose of irony and Chekhovian tendencies to exaggerate foibles. I will finish it with pleasure, and remain delighted that I was able to actually pay attention to a foreigner on Charlie Rose, but I wouldn't be caught dead in Istanbul. Midnight Express still informs the popular culture about Turkish predilections for rough play. More than one can insinuate gently.
Or maybe its ISIS? Not to worry. Certain levels of militancy are still of American manufacture, super-sized.
Not to get too self-referential about this account, (who cares?) but my page view data sometimes amazes me. Why do the former Warsaw Pact Poles read my posts? I've written absolutely nothing about Lech Walesa as a precursor to the fall of Soviet hegemony. Yet my muted appreciation of Orhan Pamuk's ability to dissect the tension between fundamentalism and secularization draws 30 page views from the fine, if beleaguered, citizens of Turkey. I am quite free to break the Turkish law on the books about mocking Turkish citizens if I please, but such a law was evidently written to be mocked for its very existence. It is a silly law, telegraphing to Muslims and Christians alike an inferiority complex.
I am interested, if a Turkish viewer cares to respond, in what has drawn these 30 views? Pamuk is a fine writer; that unfortunate Turkish family with its hand walking children speaks to the global problems of outcasts among outcasts, and Erdogan, whatever his aspirations, and political corruption, will not reconstitute the Ottoman Empire-- but beyond this there are limits to what (Westernized) multi-culturalism can hope to achieve. Turkey is in a highbrow third world status? How does this earn my commiseration when I have been a lifelong American untouchable whose educators led her to believe she could achieve self-sufficiency? Is it the policing of chronic conditions and poverty as a criminal act which interests you? Snow is a rich novel, full of taupe-skinned romanticism, inadequacy, with a poignant dose of irony and Chekhovian tendencies to exaggerate foibles. I will finish it with pleasure, and remain delighted that I was able to actually pay attention to a foreigner on Charlie Rose, but I wouldn't be caught dead in Istanbul. Midnight Express still informs the popular culture about Turkish predilections for rough play. More than one can insinuate gently.
Or maybe its ISIS? Not to worry. Certain levels of militancy are still of American manufacture, super-sized.
Simply Put
Fiction writers use compulsory homicidal impulses to create modern fragmentary arts, murdering the same character over and over again, and this is what I do to Linda on bad days, in episodes stolen from Richard Roundtree, I snap her vertebrae. My favorite is fracturing her skull with my laptop, but despair has mitigated much of this into ridicule, being so damaged and unable to leave the epicenter of it, on top of a simple normal desire for change.
I am not looking for a condominium beyond my means: I'll sleep in a garage as long as its wired and street level. All I want is to stay out of North and West Philadelphia, with enough space for two wheelchairs, my desk, bed, and toilet facilities I can use, and no housing authority interference.
Liberty Resources and Presby and Septa, in combination, have railroaded me into oblivion. My family cannot help me return near them to Delaware County, can you? Isn't there something, someone, some resource out there which can offer me a new berth, for the love of god I deserve better than what Presby has done to me.
I am not looking for a condominium beyond my means: I'll sleep in a garage as long as its wired and street level. All I want is to stay out of North and West Philadelphia, with enough space for two wheelchairs, my desk, bed, and toilet facilities I can use, and no housing authority interference.
Liberty Resources and Presby and Septa, in combination, have railroaded me into oblivion. My family cannot help me return near them to Delaware County, can you? Isn't there something, someone, some resource out there which can offer me a new berth, for the love of god I deserve better than what Presby has done to me.
Hopelessness
"I didn't even know you existed."-- Alain Delon
Hmm. I am not an old woman in a South Korean village being cajoled to eat yogurt by a teacher turned produce distributor. I am not a Mali soldier with a boom box in a sandstone hut. I am an American disabled woman who has been destroyed by public housing because I thought "running away" when I was 22 would resolve feelings of abandonment and rejection by men on whom I had no claim. The despondency of the Korean grandmothers doesn't make me count my blessings, and in fact I fired Karina again because I was wrong. Seeking out a somewhat vacant white girl to do the chores of countless CNA's before her only leaves me uncertain how much of my personal correspondence she threw away.
I am not hip, not funny, riled up a few people through my affinity with a berserk Navy Seal's emotional pain, walked that back with my disapproval for his killing of his boss'es daughter--genuine at that as it was a bad insurrectional strategy--dead broke and dead alive--and social media on occasion lands me itinerant wanderers. How nice. I threatened my father about leaving Riverside Presbyterian or else, poor eighty year old papa with his dying wife, but leaving Presbyterian Homes or else is a kind of futile gesture, won't change anything, and but for its size, this studio is not much different from my apartment at Dixon Hall where Jerry bravely sauntered in from time to time, his physique at forty nine engraved on my asinine fucking brain.
Compliance? Oh yes. One day I will no longer be able to transfer. It will be an inevitable defeat after a life long struggle to be redeemed in an incisive imitation of what I thought was his analytical penetration. My mother and sister both, in their way, ask me why I can't just live my life. What that was. Counseling the disabled and the mentally ill and finding case management a sterile grievance, always waiting for Prince Charming in this contorted pear body, one that wound up with a Hispanic buffoon who elicits pity from all. If I'm as conservative as I claim, I should just give up and go back where my father put me, where all the abuse started, in a home. Nine years old, tears running down my face, listening to WMGK magic music. They went off air when I was in the inner city proper. I protested, stupidly. Easy listening abounds on FM. Karina must be upset, as it is well after midnight. She pinged. I give her credit, struggling with her disgust. She needed my money, but I cannot go on with this woman.
It is a matter of common sense to me which doesn't seem to apply to the ambulatory: Not to make assumptions about what may or may not be discarded; what may or may not be relocated. My fan letters, Michael's references, these things mattered to me, but it isn't that Karina might have thrown them away without thinking. Everyone treats me this way, in my desire and necessity to keep a paper trail.
Hmm. I am not an old woman in a South Korean village being cajoled to eat yogurt by a teacher turned produce distributor. I am not a Mali soldier with a boom box in a sandstone hut. I am an American disabled woman who has been destroyed by public housing because I thought "running away" when I was 22 would resolve feelings of abandonment and rejection by men on whom I had no claim. The despondency of the Korean grandmothers doesn't make me count my blessings, and in fact I fired Karina again because I was wrong. Seeking out a somewhat vacant white girl to do the chores of countless CNA's before her only leaves me uncertain how much of my personal correspondence she threw away.
I am not hip, not funny, riled up a few people through my affinity with a berserk Navy Seal's emotional pain, walked that back with my disapproval for his killing of his boss'es daughter--genuine at that as it was a bad insurrectional strategy--dead broke and dead alive--and social media on occasion lands me itinerant wanderers. How nice. I threatened my father about leaving Riverside Presbyterian or else, poor eighty year old papa with his dying wife, but leaving Presbyterian Homes or else is a kind of futile gesture, won't change anything, and but for its size, this studio is not much different from my apartment at Dixon Hall where Jerry bravely sauntered in from time to time, his physique at forty nine engraved on my asinine fucking brain.
Compliance? Oh yes. One day I will no longer be able to transfer. It will be an inevitable defeat after a life long struggle to be redeemed in an incisive imitation of what I thought was his analytical penetration. My mother and sister both, in their way, ask me why I can't just live my life. What that was. Counseling the disabled and the mentally ill and finding case management a sterile grievance, always waiting for Prince Charming in this contorted pear body, one that wound up with a Hispanic buffoon who elicits pity from all. If I'm as conservative as I claim, I should just give up and go back where my father put me, where all the abuse started, in a home. Nine years old, tears running down my face, listening to WMGK magic music. They went off air when I was in the inner city proper. I protested, stupidly. Easy listening abounds on FM. Karina must be upset, as it is well after midnight. She pinged. I give her credit, struggling with her disgust. She needed my money, but I cannot go on with this woman.
It is a matter of common sense to me which doesn't seem to apply to the ambulatory: Not to make assumptions about what may or may not be discarded; what may or may not be relocated. My fan letters, Michael's references, these things mattered to me, but it isn't that Karina might have thrown them away without thinking. Everyone treats me this way, in my desire and necessity to keep a paper trail.
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