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.