I used my teetering teetering Clarity Media credentials to approach WPVI ABC to profile the man around a holiday event. Why not? Karen Friedman put me on the news for Liberty Resources years ago. Now, I have to take a few hours and decide how to write up a pitch for AXS that I can possibly deliver on deadline, as in, WTF am I kidding?
Why am I doing this for the starvation commission I receive? Why? Maybe he and I can do this on twitter? Ha.
Thursday, October 30, 2014
Shen Chuan Flexes
Despise China. Admire Japan. Perhaps simply a cold war mindset? A little more penetration would indicate a preference for Japanese adaptation of the western model over Mao's disastrous application of Marxism which the contemporary party has not truly repaired-- which is not to convey western democratic principles work for all of Asia. Democracy and personal liberty fail in large populations, which are governed primarily these days by statutory enforcement that Constitutional principles check or support as a last resort, but Japan, that ferociously zealous island of samurai, found the right balance after Truman nuked them. I argued vehemently with my foreign policy professor about the decision. It was wrong to radiate Hiroshima and Nagasaki. If we had allowed Japan to control Korea and to take the Chinese coastal region, today's Caucasian entrepreneurs wouldn't be pissing their pants every time the Chinese military rattles its sword about Pacific hegemony-- and this points to my disillusion with our national politicians. All of them. We could easily put Xi Jinping in his place, especially as conflict tends to ignite western economies in stagnation, but nary a peep from anyone, and why is that? Money to be made on a billion and a quarter, disposable citizens in the very eyes of the party officials who control them, boxed in stark flats like my own, walled off by an intranet to propagandize the security of those in control. I can afford my contempt, as I am nothing, teetering on the brink of homeless because I want to be left alone, but remain under no illusions. Certainly not about ideology. Atul Gawande, if he really listens to himself, sounds like a libertarian, perhaps mincingly, in his promotional interviews for Being Mortal.
There was an interesting news item on Wednesday about a young female chimpanzee who had a difficult birth and wound up with cerebral palsy. She is younger, more endearing than Knuckles, and being rehabilitated out of moral guilt. It would be better to euthanize the primate. She is already imprinting on her therapists, having been rejected by her mother-- and this is the truth about me. Dropping pretenses. Empathy sometimes produces worse outcomes than extermination, and I pity the full arc of life this baby girl will lead as an adult ape. Disability law doesn't filter down the five percent difference between us, our relatives.
There was an interesting news item on Wednesday about a young female chimpanzee who had a difficult birth and wound up with cerebral palsy. She is younger, more endearing than Knuckles, and being rehabilitated out of moral guilt. It would be better to euthanize the primate. She is already imprinting on her therapists, having been rejected by her mother-- and this is the truth about me. Dropping pretenses. Empathy sometimes produces worse outcomes than extermination, and I pity the full arc of life this baby girl will lead as an adult ape. Disability law doesn't filter down the five percent difference between us, our relatives.
Wednesday, October 29, 2014
Stooping to genre
In relation to my last paragraph in Hawn, the difficulties in actually finding, hiring, and maintaining one's own safety, in searching out contract killers, seem to be insurmountable unless you're in prison on hard time. It preoccupies as an intellectual problem as much as a victimization appeasement, and Allen's dialogue in the mouth of Wilkinson's equivocal mastery is more persuasively realist than most political thrillers with superstar precision at the helm. This excludes classic shudder films like Jackal, which was brilliantly directed, and at its heart, about a man who loved his work, the challenge, the willingness to die to surmount his obstacles. Do assassins outside of professional military snipers still exist? I don't know how to research this on my on tine without placing myself in real trouble, as I've skirted around the fact that I have motive.
(I am rational enough to understand the sentiment of moving on, but what my few regulars may not understand is after the fact that I was royally screwed came to its completion, I lost Paratransit in 02, suffered equipment failure, battled Presby's managers prior to the fecal decoy moves of Miss Richardson, and did not come out of this without sustaining significant damage-- and suspect no matter what I do with the last of my assets now no one will employ me with the support I need. You dig?)
(I am rational enough to understand the sentiment of moving on, but what my few regulars may not understand is after the fact that I was royally screwed came to its completion, I lost Paratransit in 02, suffered equipment failure, battled Presby's managers prior to the fecal decoy moves of Miss Richardson, and did not come out of this without sustaining significant damage-- and suspect no matter what I do with the last of my assets now no one will employ me with the support I need. You dig?)
Goldie Hawn's Train
"Our first instincts aren't always great."--Amy Poehler
It struck me in my linoleum furred kitchenette that I lost track of my Barry Unsworth Stone Virgin edition as allowed to preview on Google Books. I was rereading it for my own pleasure when I hired Karina K last spring, and now it has vanished, like so many of my possessions vanished when this damn corrupt company hired Trudy Richardson to traumatize the residents during the 2007 renovations. Not that she took it, my edition, but Karina fondled it like she wanted it, and now it is gone. Not in the closet, as far as I can tell. I looked everywhere. It angers me that, regardless of my experiments, I get trampled on, even with the best of intentions, and I telephoned the girl the night after this post and laid into her in much the same way I am defying the African Americans with their Presby salaries. When I told Trudy's voicemail "I had enough!" I meant it, even if this means, as a weakening woman, my security is in jeopardy
I had a submission process that served me very well once, with markers, typing paper, stamps, notebooks, clipped articles. My pitches were fewer, but I produced and published, and I have yet to recover that equilibrium, especially since 2007, and if I am going to be moving again, the weight on my chest against my desire to work feels like 20,000 tons of cubic pressure. We laugh at Goldie Hawn, the woman who carried blond cluelessness from the new age to the Clinton era, and I have grown fonder of Death Becomes Her as an idiotic farce over time-- Trudy is a toffee version of Hawn-- incredulous bulbous eyes with what she has to put up with in my unsanitary unit, but my hit list is, shall we say, tremulous with the anticipation of growth.
Unsworth's inspired period tale is one of my favorite modern Booker nominees. Reading it comforts me. and he gets his Italian mindset right. How I don't know, and I am not sure I could ever authenticate an authorial voice the way he does between past and present and a stone madonna that is something touched by history, but I loved this book.
Grinding my teeth. Buy it again. Never hire a Caucasian woman twenty years my junior because she reminded me of Maureen, my neighbor, or because she reminded me of happier university times, but these disruptions to my need for stability, to hold to my routine, to be able to create, might land me in prison if I cannot find a landlord who will leave me in peace. Beat the system and hire a damned assassin. During trial argue lack of discrimination as a point in my favor. But where I go from here, I have no idea. Medicaid Waiver services are no surety, even if Craigslist might kill you.
It struck me in my linoleum furred kitchenette that I lost track of my Barry Unsworth Stone Virgin edition as allowed to preview on Google Books. I was rereading it for my own pleasure when I hired Karina K last spring, and now it has vanished, like so many of my possessions vanished when this damn corrupt company hired Trudy Richardson to traumatize the residents during the 2007 renovations. Not that she took it, my edition, but Karina fondled it like she wanted it, and now it is gone. Not in the closet, as far as I can tell. I looked everywhere. It angers me that, regardless of my experiments, I get trampled on, even with the best of intentions, and I telephoned the girl the night after this post and laid into her in much the same way I am defying the African Americans with their Presby salaries. When I told Trudy's voicemail "I had enough!" I meant it, even if this means, as a weakening woman, my security is in jeopardy
I had a submission process that served me very well once, with markers, typing paper, stamps, notebooks, clipped articles. My pitches were fewer, but I produced and published, and I have yet to recover that equilibrium, especially since 2007, and if I am going to be moving again, the weight on my chest against my desire to work feels like 20,000 tons of cubic pressure. We laugh at Goldie Hawn, the woman who carried blond cluelessness from the new age to the Clinton era, and I have grown fonder of Death Becomes Her as an idiotic farce over time-- Trudy is a toffee version of Hawn-- incredulous bulbous eyes with what she has to put up with in my unsanitary unit, but my hit list is, shall we say, tremulous with the anticipation of growth.
Unsworth's inspired period tale is one of my favorite modern Booker nominees. Reading it comforts me. and he gets his Italian mindset right. How I don't know, and I am not sure I could ever authenticate an authorial voice the way he does between past and present and a stone madonna that is something touched by history, but I loved this book.
Grinding my teeth. Buy it again. Never hire a Caucasian woman twenty years my junior because she reminded me of Maureen, my neighbor, or because she reminded me of happier university times, but these disruptions to my need for stability, to hold to my routine, to be able to create, might land me in prison if I cannot find a landlord who will leave me in peace. Beat the system and hire a damned assassin. During trial argue lack of discrimination as a point in my favor. But where I go from here, I have no idea. Medicaid Waiver services are no surety, even if Craigslist might kill you.
Monday, October 27, 2014
Nature's Grave
"Then leave!"-- Trudy Richardson, in our adversarial tone deafness
Just go. This is what everyone except Erik, notorious fuckwit transvestite who could not complete its sex change, tells me here in this insidious section 202 community. Just go, even if I know that I'm fighting biology, fighting lifetime trauma that isn't quite as bad as wartime rape in the Congo, but feels that way, when I add it up. I saw so many dead blacks in North Philadelphia, in Diamond Park, that a graveyard in Liberia would not be much of a disparity: Mr. Morton dead in his doorway, his voodoo like wife letting herself die soon after, a schizophrenic grandmother splitting her granddaughter's face in the lobby, my face red with tears driving chair back to my one bedroom screaming on 911 for the cops, Levora dying from Huntington's, all of this, on top of my own domestic abuse, my own forays into horror shows like Inglis House, and my viewers, such as you are, wonder about my attitude. Riverside is tamer, but no less cruel, biting, cutting, and I have never felt safe here. Instead, poison at letting Presbyterian Homes hurt me so much. When Jerry admonished me not to transfer out my junior year, I had no idea I'd become a combat veteran, fermented into a fungal rot, but this is what I am. 52, dead soul, knowing full well even if I fight an ignorant bitch like Debra Horne off, there are hundreds more where she and Trudy come from, and my strength was tested from an early age. Even if I survive past 60, I will be forced to depend on bad caretakers.
Even that part of me which held fast, my love of writing, literature-- it too is dying now, because I cannot be like other writers, drug myself into a middle brow smile and do what needs to be done to live.
Martin Amis talks about the strength of Holocaust victims, the very will they must have had for the sake of testament. Unlike these Jewish Zionists, or future Zionists, I have become a racist, mainly intolerant, burning on the embers of hate I hold in check, not a hate to exterminate so much as remove myself from, but removal to where? I am no longer part of the suburban middle class, exist here as a scourge on black hospitality, though Riverside has a daub of everything, sick Jews who get ostracized, the hated cripples, its corrupt and locally notorious gay couple from whom I need psychic space, now the Korean community on edge with the 30 year old Negro league which forms its core tenants, white trash, like me, and most of those classified according to the disease which landed them in here-- less of a Hispanic contingent.
But I cannot stay now. I've vomited my trauma as a brunt force cry for legal justice, and can't smother the feline in a granny sack, despite the fact that at heart I want nothing, absolutely nothing more to do with public housing, and this cannot be had. Poverty, strength, everything cratering in. I could simply surrender, languish in an institution, and that would be worse than my battle of wills with the lard ass from Mississippi. Does this explain why studio executives keep recycling these bait and switch stories?
Just go. This is what everyone except Erik, notorious fuckwit transvestite who could not complete its sex change, tells me here in this insidious section 202 community. Just go, even if I know that I'm fighting biology, fighting lifetime trauma that isn't quite as bad as wartime rape in the Congo, but feels that way, when I add it up. I saw so many dead blacks in North Philadelphia, in Diamond Park, that a graveyard in Liberia would not be much of a disparity: Mr. Morton dead in his doorway, his voodoo like wife letting herself die soon after, a schizophrenic grandmother splitting her granddaughter's face in the lobby, my face red with tears driving chair back to my one bedroom screaming on 911 for the cops, Levora dying from Huntington's, all of this, on top of my own domestic abuse, my own forays into horror shows like Inglis House, and my viewers, such as you are, wonder about my attitude. Riverside is tamer, but no less cruel, biting, cutting, and I have never felt safe here. Instead, poison at letting Presbyterian Homes hurt me so much. When Jerry admonished me not to transfer out my junior year, I had no idea I'd become a combat veteran, fermented into a fungal rot, but this is what I am. 52, dead soul, knowing full well even if I fight an ignorant bitch like Debra Horne off, there are hundreds more where she and Trudy come from, and my strength was tested from an early age. Even if I survive past 60, I will be forced to depend on bad caretakers.
Even that part of me which held fast, my love of writing, literature-- it too is dying now, because I cannot be like other writers, drug myself into a middle brow smile and do what needs to be done to live.
Martin Amis talks about the strength of Holocaust victims, the very will they must have had for the sake of testament. Unlike these Jewish Zionists, or future Zionists, I have become a racist, mainly intolerant, burning on the embers of hate I hold in check, not a hate to exterminate so much as remove myself from, but removal to where? I am no longer part of the suburban middle class, exist here as a scourge on black hospitality, though Riverside has a daub of everything, sick Jews who get ostracized, the hated cripples, its corrupt and locally notorious gay couple from whom I need psychic space, now the Korean community on edge with the 30 year old Negro league which forms its core tenants, white trash, like me, and most of those classified according to the disease which landed them in here-- less of a Hispanic contingent.
But I cannot stay now. I've vomited my trauma as a brunt force cry for legal justice, and can't smother the feline in a granny sack, despite the fact that at heart I want nothing, absolutely nothing more to do with public housing, and this cannot be had. Poverty, strength, everything cratering in. I could simply surrender, languish in an institution, and that would be worse than my battle of wills with the lard ass from Mississippi. Does this explain why studio executives keep recycling these bait and switch stories?
Sunday, October 26, 2014
Optimistic Warps
"I trained to be an English professor, and now I'm a sociopath," a spastic dowager line that made a black bible thumper, one whom spastic doesn't want to reengage, laugh.
I am not a real journalist, (though it can reasonably be argued I am in expert in disability journalism) just declining in recidivist fashion to 11th grade journalism studies to try to earn a little from my content, and 3000 USD is too diminutive, but it may surprise you to learn I disagree with Robert G. Kaiser about the outcome of the cratering legacy media. His essay is excellent; his essay is heart-breaking, and I wept over the last printed edition of The Bulletin, which employed mio padre-- and after the Philadelphia Inquirer's fiascoes, the Bulletin's exit was dignified. Kaiser's piece received 4 votes on Beacon Reader Writersblock, and 4 is something of a consensus in that quixotic community, but we need to remember that mass literacy is still a novelty in the annuals of human history. Had I been born in 1863 I doubt I would have been taught to read, let alone transform into a bitterly overeducated sewer rat-- but I think human thirst for news will survive the death of physical newspaper circulation and the diminished power of broadcast, even if most astute players see the beginning of a self-fulfilling human apocalypse just ahead of the curve. Technology seems to increment its own collapse, but the human animal invariably adapts, freedom and authority in continual tension. Facebook models, for instance. Everyone tells me to open an FB account and I won't do it, despite my small, sometimes incendiary, mostly incendiary, foot print on twitter-- but I do not test the limits of a twitter ban because I do not argue with individual account holders, at least I believe this is why my twitter account isn't flagged-- and secondly, I don't care about tweets and don't see them as valid news content-- though we all use them as such-- I take it or leave it, in other words, though my platform would suffer from a suspension or departure-- but I do not trust Mark Zuckerberg. I do not like his biographical footprint, and only barely understand the usefulness of Google Plus--harboring most of my family which is why I don't post my Blogger urls there, and Linked In makes me feel paranoid-- but this will also evolve, and change, and people like Mike Levy are conduits to new traditions via which the public will stay informed.
I am not a real journalist, (though it can reasonably be argued I am in expert in disability journalism) just declining in recidivist fashion to 11th grade journalism studies to try to earn a little from my content, and 3000 USD is too diminutive, but it may surprise you to learn I disagree with Robert G. Kaiser about the outcome of the cratering legacy media. His essay is excellent; his essay is heart-breaking, and I wept over the last printed edition of The Bulletin, which employed mio padre-- and after the Philadelphia Inquirer's fiascoes, the Bulletin's exit was dignified. Kaiser's piece received 4 votes on Beacon Reader Writersblock, and 4 is something of a consensus in that quixotic community, but we need to remember that mass literacy is still a novelty in the annuals of human history. Had I been born in 1863 I doubt I would have been taught to read, let alone transform into a bitterly overeducated sewer rat-- but I think human thirst for news will survive the death of physical newspaper circulation and the diminished power of broadcast, even if most astute players see the beginning of a self-fulfilling human apocalypse just ahead of the curve. Technology seems to increment its own collapse, but the human animal invariably adapts, freedom and authority in continual tension. Facebook models, for instance. Everyone tells me to open an FB account and I won't do it, despite my small, sometimes incendiary, mostly incendiary, foot print on twitter-- but I do not test the limits of a twitter ban because I do not argue with individual account holders, at least I believe this is why my twitter account isn't flagged-- and secondly, I don't care about tweets and don't see them as valid news content-- though we all use them as such-- I take it or leave it, in other words, though my platform would suffer from a suspension or departure-- but I do not trust Mark Zuckerberg. I do not like his biographical footprint, and only barely understand the usefulness of Google Plus--harboring most of my family which is why I don't post my Blogger urls there, and Linked In makes me feel paranoid-- but this will also evolve, and change, and people like Mike Levy are conduits to new traditions via which the public will stay informed.
Friday, October 24, 2014
Impact Before V Chips
Stanwyck and Lancaster unwittingly terrorized me as a young girl with Sorry, Wrong Number, the film I was struggling to remember in vain last winter when I vented on soft platinum. There is something simply masterful about the adaptation using flashback and anxiety riddled dialogue circling like a noose about Stanwyck's crippling, tyrannical vanity which is a classical noir allegory for the impending doom of helplessness in real world urban dynamics, and if any film had a crippling fatalism on my psyche, it was this black and white; the end still engages me, leaves me calling out to the flat screen's newsfeed, "We're all going to die!" chuckling with delight in my pleasure with the prospect of pestilence and self-destruction. Screw Martin Amis and his interior moral fences incapable of understanding how the Germans followed Hitler and our inability to understand how one man was capable of extermination on a grand scale. I am not taking aim at Martin's acclaim. I am sure he is as masterful, in his own way, as Orhan Pamuk, but his moral bafflement is a nice luxury of British denial, bit of a piss pot. Humans who survive enough hate, live a lifetime of graphic images and graphic memory, don't need to say the rise of Fascism in Europe was akin to a supernatural monstrosity. Domestication cannot prevail, in the end, unless self-interest learns how to balance against the net worth of the poor. Sociologists and Amis himself are correct. Civilization where it is today has mitigated violence, but not eliminated it, only sublimated it. We burrow ourselves, and learned a thing or two about Nazi efficacy through the brutal complexity of modern life. Everything is a process, checklist, statistic, 43,000 people die annually in automobile accidents. Economists explain the mystery of fiance none of us really understand, but at a bare minimum, debt is an exploitation, slavery without the shackle. I knew Gerson was going to hit the pandemic panic button on Ebola, but Ebola, like anything else, is a smokescreen for western hubris. Liberalism engenders 20 new problems for every victory it claims, and something new will come along, especially due to livestock industrialization, and if spastic is still about, she'll sit with self-righteous arms folded, smug as disaster envelops the next segment of our insufferable race. Stanwyck's character was condemned, in the post-war era, for an overt emasculation as a repression of an incestuous relationship with Ed Begley as the father, a moral for compliant teamwork, if anything ever was.
Thursday, October 23, 2014
Fear and Anger
Busy pitching, as if that is going to save me from the seismic stress I have placed on myself in battling such an entrenched corporate model. I may not survive this fight with Presby, and despite their continuous verbal and formal threats which have remained inert, under about 5 managers, I have forced the company into being fearful that I'll litigate, and it's killing me, whatever it does to my current minority wardens. I should have focused on leaving Riverside after my mother's death, but I was reluctant to return to Delaware County. It is a hard truth, but nonetheless true, that my immediate family does not care about me. Throwing money at me is not familial support, and they do not visit me here-- because they fear the city's African American community-- and after what I've lived, they are justified in it. Senator Toomey's people were polite, as I predicted, but ignored the grist of my letter, basically indicting city corruption. In Toomey's calculus, it stands to reason that going after an independent living center's utter ineffectually applied paradigm is too hot to handle; I am struggling with how much I'm going to press this, and haven't made up my mind, but his staff did telephone me in 2012, or thereabouts, and I do have a crusade--I want to make it better for the next generation after me. I can't do that if I have a stroke going after the vested Protestant interest in the business of poverty, one of the subtexts Melville toyed with in our Victorian era, one which still binds us to him.
Moby Dick is a preeminent masterpiece, and I shall brook no argument from lazy flash fiction advocates!
But I'm still frightened, and need new living quarters.
Moby Dick is a preeminent masterpiece, and I shall brook no argument from lazy flash fiction advocates!
But I'm still frightened, and need new living quarters.
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Viewers Exhaust
I did say Alain Delon was clever, if not a transcendent minimalist, did I not? Let me walk back an earlier assertion I wrote about not wanting disabled friends. This was not meant to convey I am enjoying social isolation mummified in plastic wrap, and buffs could offer me data I evidently lack from time to time. I need to view Le Samourai now, as I am formulating an article about the American adaption.
Perhaps some of my readers hesitate to offer suggestions, but I am not out to troll everyone and strip them naked on a constant basis people, sheesh not that my vitriol falls into this category. I barely understand why the trolling occurred.
If the Britons, however, have one form of dialectic with the country they founded, the French have another dialectic, somewhat based on intrigue, more elusive, quite flavored syntax, increasingly commercialized with its contemporary knock off models, like Spiral, and The Detectives.
Perhaps some of my readers hesitate to offer suggestions, but I am not out to troll everyone and strip them naked on a constant basis people, sheesh not that my vitriol falls into this category. I barely understand why the trolling occurred.
If the Britons, however, have one form of dialectic with the country they founded, the French have another dialectic, somewhat based on intrigue, more elusive, quite flavored syntax, increasingly commercialized with its contemporary knock off models, like Spiral, and The Detectives.
Profiles in ice cream
"Politics is the art of the possible."-- the usual American adage
I have no idea what the Pennsylvania state legislature does. I know how it operates, vaguely, all states are rough models of the federal branch, but Sims apparently mews, a well groomed kitten, as Babette Josephs before him saw herself as a granular caretaker, and if I give Sims a piece of my angry mind, which I feel like doing, apart from my convoluted grievance letter I, courageously, sent his chief of staff, then I am truly playing with fire. My verbal exchange with Tim Keller, the district coordinator, was farcical. Keller's response to me, to contract the city's police, is indicative of that-- a woman not to be taken seriously for the executive malfeasance against her on which the clock has long run out-- but this doesn't mean I haven't been disproportionately victimized either, no choice but to tango, or not, with an elected lawyer faggot, grisly spastic troll up against Democratic politicians who don't need her, or reaching out to conservatives who have:
a. no answer
b. pity for my situation
It is my fault for not having acted against Liberty in the appropriate time frame, and pragmatists would no doubt tell me I need to accept this. Limitations exist for a reason-- but the fallout, which I documented to Brian's chief as best I could, has been incremental, eroding my well being, destroying my rights as a citizen of this country. If Sims is so worried about hate crimes against homosexual activities and preferences, I myself am a living embodiment of genocide, once removed.
Wisely, I made no reference to Sims sexual practices, as I know nothing of them, but I have to look on a fruit's stature to hope to extricate myself from a cruel, pernicious decline, unless my federal senator surprises me and comes up with a solution that restores my dignity. I'd really like to go back to work, apart from destroying section 202 housing.
I consider it a hate crime that I've had to live my life under 202's regulatory stricture.
I have no idea what the Pennsylvania state legislature does. I know how it operates, vaguely, all states are rough models of the federal branch, but Sims apparently mews, a well groomed kitten, as Babette Josephs before him saw herself as a granular caretaker, and if I give Sims a piece of my angry mind, which I feel like doing, apart from my convoluted grievance letter I, courageously, sent his chief of staff, then I am truly playing with fire. My verbal exchange with Tim Keller, the district coordinator, was farcical. Keller's response to me, to contract the city's police, is indicative of that-- a woman not to be taken seriously for the executive malfeasance against her on which the clock has long run out-- but this doesn't mean I haven't been disproportionately victimized either, no choice but to tango, or not, with an elected lawyer faggot, grisly spastic troll up against Democratic politicians who don't need her, or reaching out to conservatives who have:
a. no answer
b. pity for my situation
It is my fault for not having acted against Liberty in the appropriate time frame, and pragmatists would no doubt tell me I need to accept this. Limitations exist for a reason-- but the fallout, which I documented to Brian's chief as best I could, has been incremental, eroding my well being, destroying my rights as a citizen of this country. If Sims is so worried about hate crimes against homosexual activities and preferences, I myself am a living embodiment of genocide, once removed.
Wisely, I made no reference to Sims sexual practices, as I know nothing of them, but I have to look on a fruit's stature to hope to extricate myself from a cruel, pernicious decline, unless my federal senator surprises me and comes up with a solution that restores my dignity. I'd really like to go back to work, apart from destroying section 202 housing.
I consider it a hate crime that I've had to live my life under 202's regulatory stricture.
Monday, October 20, 2014
Carter's Bell Curve
The interview O'Neal does with Smiley, which I highlighted in the spring of 2012, remains interesting because the normal studio promotion mesh falters, grinds to a halt, and the actor with his cancer, disabled son, and his tinsel worship of Farrah seems shallow and incongruous. Overlay this on a method film like The Driver, and an interesting language develops. Bruce Dern, always the prickly pear, has continued on in old age with strong supporting roles, but O'Neal is an echo of the smooth seventies lead, smooth, but intense in investment, nothing but a polite fiction of constraint, ushering in the modern age in which Carter himself is an animated mummy, religious in his humble ex-President striving to save all of West Africa, and though The Driver hasn't a word to say about politics it speaks volumes about Carter era liberalism fallen flat on its face. This was the period of my youth, when the car chase was the studio technological meme, speed rubber asphalt and cool, these the delineated weapons, the process had its own goals toward affluent living on the graft-- crack wasn't yet the new boogie man but the me decade was ripe for it, in their wing tips and thin suits-- all that sturm and drang with its polite codes-- today's police would laugh at Dern's honor system, and Ryan's character could have been arrested for intent even with the empty attache case which closes the film.
The brutality here isn't about much, other than a breach, which, nearly 35 years after the fact, is nearly laudable by contemporary standards. Everything digitized, with GPS, skills with an engine on wheels has been relegated. We watch people in space suits go very fast on tracks with sponsors, helmets, sometimes watching drivers die anyway, fully insured for the risks, the emptiness in excelling at something for nothing, bound by a nearly Victorian entrapment, if not the money, or the law itself, then, simply giving the finger, a gesture of defiance. Intriguing, what it does to people. O'Neal, quieter than others I've mentioned, was a shaper of my era, but if I met him, I'd be uncomfortable, having perceived a little too much about him, not caring for his aura of unpleasantness.
Recognition is strange and intangible in that way, because with a very few, and in my case it would be that, a few select, I'd behave like a fan-- but not with O'Neal. Odd. I may revisit this, not satisfied. but intuitive to a fact that I'm onto the scent of a thesis.
The brutality here isn't about much, other than a breach, which, nearly 35 years after the fact, is nearly laudable by contemporary standards. Everything digitized, with GPS, skills with an engine on wheels has been relegated. We watch people in space suits go very fast on tracks with sponsors, helmets, sometimes watching drivers die anyway, fully insured for the risks, the emptiness in excelling at something for nothing, bound by a nearly Victorian entrapment, if not the money, or the law itself, then, simply giving the finger, a gesture of defiance. Intriguing, what it does to people. O'Neal, quieter than others I've mentioned, was a shaper of my era, but if I met him, I'd be uncomfortable, having perceived a little too much about him, not caring for his aura of unpleasantness.
Recognition is strange and intangible in that way, because with a very few, and in my case it would be that, a few select, I'd behave like a fan-- but not with O'Neal. Odd. I may revisit this, not satisfied. but intuitive to a fact that I'm onto the scent of a thesis.
Thick Around The Middle
Nothing is ever so simple, at least until it has to be, in terms of survival outcomes, domestication may mitigate impairment and crippled limbs, but only to a degree, as maintenance drives everyone insane or to the subversion of parody, look at Hawking, for instance, the egg shell celebrity who grinds up managed care for breakfast, whose allegations of abuse surface in the ruthless Fleet Street maw and then burrow beneath the surface, I had forgotten that Claiborne, in its contextual unraveling, opens with an assisted suicide plea, and is the best adaptation of any work by Stephen King, because its heightened dramatic impact pulls few party tricks-- yet, I'm not partial to reliving the movement of the film, at least, not in any present tense, but Vera's death points to the ripple effect of suffering and ethics, which, in the universal scheme, is irrelevant. Perhaps bipedal species have come and gone before numerous times within space, and hard choices remain what they are. One can resign oneself to ejection from senior living facility into an institutional paradigm, like Inglis House, which I should be able to describe, but find it difficult to do so, like any nursing home, it is all linoleum, overwhelmed by tubes, urine caches, invalids in various stages of deterioration, or, like me, vulnerable to crisis but too stable and strong to die. It is worse than the home my father placed in, Inglis. Dead mother thought I'd be happy there, in this facility overrun by power chairs with worn tires, the odor of piss and bed pans overwhelming. I'd rather be dead, but in indigence, have little choice. As I decline, I can be maintained, bedridden, by welfare labor, go to Inglis to go raving mad, or be proactive like terminal citizens in Oregon, stop drinking coffee, stop worrying about my battle of wills with the officious black women who at present have so much control over my destiny, and make an effort to go food shopping. I have lived on the point of this sword since I was 34 years old, pissing myself with stress for a lower middle class income of roughly 25k a year until the pressure of my brother's death unraveled my ability to handle the fieldwork by bus, and then I made 3000 USD freelancing basically shit, and now I am a recalcitrant penny aggregater.
Your choices may be more optimal, or unexpected, as in I could die of hypertension in a matter of weeks due to my raving mania to flee my current environment, with absolutely no place to go. In a party trick of my own, I could visit the Italian consulate move a mountain, go across the the Atlantic, and die with Roman rats and sewage, mumbling a few native phrases, maybe running into some of our peasant family with our mariner surname. Would I be really any happier, naive in Old World dust, at the mercy of modern bravoes?
Your choices may be more optimal, or unexpected, as in I could die of hypertension in a matter of weeks due to my raving mania to flee my current environment, with absolutely no place to go. In a party trick of my own, I could visit the Italian consulate move a mountain, go across the the Atlantic, and die with Roman rats and sewage, mumbling a few native phrases, maybe running into some of our peasant family with our mariner surname. Would I be really any happier, naive in Old World dust, at the mercy of modern bravoes?
Sunday, October 19, 2014
Optimal Triggers
Sometimes, aggregate data leads to worrisome trends for minds that like to look at the larger picture. Even if Ebola wipes out a few million, and given my poverty, age, proximity to West Africans, I do not count myself invulnerable to the hemorrhagic fever out of the disappearing bush, granted, it will not wipe out civilization, but it is putting pressure on objects developed for travel, and airline industry stocks have dropped, cruise vessels are being turned away from ports, cars in Texas have to be sterilized according to guidelines developed by science fiction control freaks, but look beneath the surface at AP wire service items of late: since the announcement of Sarah Goldberg's earlier this month, a troubling cluster seems to have bobbled up in the pond. After Sarah came Jan Hook at 57, Elizabeth Pena at 55, then Misty Upham's suicide, and although she is not deceased, Amanda Bynes had her major depressive episode on twitter, and now an American Idol star dies from cancer at 32, not to mention Brittany Maynard is killing herself, at the age of 29, due to a brain tumor. She has my blessing, and something of my envy, because a woman as disabled as I, still relatively stable, affirms that a basic life of torture for my greater good hasn't been worth it. I've had many enforcers like Trudy Richardson controlling my life and limb-- not worth the fear and social anxiety they inspire, despite the fact that I do want to live, but on my terms, not those of barbaric state medical models. But look at the curve here, which as of 10/25 includes the anchor Terry Keenan.
Joan Rivers death was sad, perhaps (I never really found her improvisation revolutionary, for me Roseanne Barr had more of an impact) but it was equally due to her stupid vanity. She was 81, enough with the surgeries already. Her age fit the longevity curve that is bankrupting the social security system, however, as opposed to the cluster which seems to have bumped up obituary writing.
Our systems, however complex they are, appear to be in crisis on a global scale. Bio diversity is at its most basic level, in the hands of any lunatic zoologists you might care to name, and so on. Without viable ecosystems, how will any of us survive at peak performance? The only way to reverse it before it is too late, if it isn't already, is what I've advocated all along, a global rational euthanasia policy.
Yes, it is difficult, smacks of eugenics, may lead to corruption and certainly abuse by the wealthy, except for billionaire liberals like Warren Buffett, as he is too old, too ill, for his dynastic wealth to matter, at this point-- but we have to start finding wise methods to minimize procreation and really, begin to let people die. Once we hit 9 billion, I certainly don't know where I'll be, but human husbandry will begin to be seriously examined; I am not an advocate for China's one child policy and never was. That type of state control will eventually destroy the country-- but evolution seems to be indicating human pressure is reaching limits beyond which lies disastrous consequences in the wings. We have to start applying ourselves to a healthy population cull, even in purely conservationist terms.
I did a bad thing I am not going to discuss just yet, but it signifies the depth of my hatred for state model ineptitude which imposes itself on my existence.
Joan Rivers death was sad, perhaps (I never really found her improvisation revolutionary, for me Roseanne Barr had more of an impact) but it was equally due to her stupid vanity. She was 81, enough with the surgeries already. Her age fit the longevity curve that is bankrupting the social security system, however, as opposed to the cluster which seems to have bumped up obituary writing.
Our systems, however complex they are, appear to be in crisis on a global scale. Bio diversity is at its most basic level, in the hands of any lunatic zoologists you might care to name, and so on. Without viable ecosystems, how will any of us survive at peak performance? The only way to reverse it before it is too late, if it isn't already, is what I've advocated all along, a global rational euthanasia policy.
Yes, it is difficult, smacks of eugenics, may lead to corruption and certainly abuse by the wealthy, except for billionaire liberals like Warren Buffett, as he is too old, too ill, for his dynastic wealth to matter, at this point-- but we have to start finding wise methods to minimize procreation and really, begin to let people die. Once we hit 9 billion, I certainly don't know where I'll be, but human husbandry will begin to be seriously examined; I am not an advocate for China's one child policy and never was. That type of state control will eventually destroy the country-- but evolution seems to be indicating human pressure is reaching limits beyond which lies disastrous consequences in the wings. We have to start applying ourselves to a healthy population cull, even in purely conservationist terms.
I did a bad thing I am not going to discuss just yet, but it signifies the depth of my hatred for state model ineptitude which imposes itself on my existence.
Saturday, October 18, 2014
Days of Papal Infallibility
"Because I have pressure sores"-- Christopher Walken
Al Pacino is a transformation performer. Within the apex of his talent, he changed American cinema, worrying about the maturity of applied technique much later in his career. Andy Garcia has moments of only fleeting authenticity, aping the great man with whom he appeared in Coppola's trilogy summation, which should not have been made, just as much of Garcia's work should not have been made, except when he gets interesting with self-referential irony about the art of melodrama itself. as in the 09 City Island, which makes a middling attempt at creating a language around the business of cinematic creation within a movie itself, pushed even further, and sharper, on cable, as when De Niro played a producer and Bruce Willis plays himself, having a bit of a Homeric temper tantrum in a clip on yet another Charlie Rose promotional segment. Is this language of sophistication synchronic over time?
The Roman Catholic Church is already a dead entity, despite militant fossils like myself who do not believe in pastoral tolerance for homosexual indulgence, throwing my moral weight with the synod over Francis, then caught myself. Church authority began to die from the dawn of mass literacy, let alone the dawn of Protestant reformation and the Vatican 2.0 under John, and the fact that the Argentine is playing politics as opposed to being a spiritual leader means doctrinal infallibility is a de facto anachronism. If a speck of spastic dirt on the wall under increasing intestinal stress feels disheartened by apostasy as a democratic forum, then all is finished.
Declare defeat, go home, and perhaps preserve my form as a calcified figure on which the grandchildren of millennials can gawk, a pseudo-historical trope. What is the big deal? Fisting in secret, fisting in the open, I myself have posted about Frank and his fingers within my rectrum as a mock-up of vigor, virility. Believers might say I'm lying to myself, that I really do believe in Christ as equal parts human divine, laughing at the rigorous objections of Dawkins to words like transubstanation, and yes, well, I was raised in Catholicism, and in middle adolescence, threw my emotions into testament-- but even before university, I challenged priests and Jewish counselors alike, questing, on fire, offensive, even as a young woman, had anyone cared, I would have been excommunicated, which invites laughter, which in Eco, spells the death of metaphysical need for answers.
Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead strives to be larger than itself, and yes, Walken exposes, successfully, the narcissism with which we surround broken bodies, but as a comedy about brutality, boast, and repressive tolerances, lines not to be crossed, it bounces a bit much, like an IKEA catalog glorifying plastique fabrication even as its laminated pages curl and burn in the stink of a propane fire, the fatigue before the actual dying commences, not living long enough to polish every post, which justifies some literary critical assertion that post-modern subversion has fallen to the wayside of the NASDAQ index.
All I ever desired was a decent husband, like the fictional Maigret who actually seems to have more corporeal embodiment than Bruno Cremer, the actor who best fleshed out the detective among so many famous creations which have no real life counterpart; a decent husband, one who would have supported my ambition, a pleasant hamlet, my own space, decent literary friends. Instead, I am ugly, a trauma who draws out lesbianistic tendencies in even more marginal ugly inner city minorities who make pest control seem heroic. And yes, after the traumatic episodes that challenged my life itself, I asked, queried my internal self, did I want those games with another female, and such fleeting hormonal sensations which come with masturbatory aggression, that level of pornography itself whose exploitation is still policed, regardless of the progressive scorched earth policy for tolerance.
My answer: a resounding no, is like a flake of dandruff in a libertine world, healthy pink flesh too often pasty, soft, anemic, or brown and exaggerated. Thick buttocks, breasts so large they veer toward eccentricity. I think fecal face was a clever slang term, pointing toward epistemological values even in second rate ensembles.
Al Pacino is a transformation performer. Within the apex of his talent, he changed American cinema, worrying about the maturity of applied technique much later in his career. Andy Garcia has moments of only fleeting authenticity, aping the great man with whom he appeared in Coppola's trilogy summation, which should not have been made, just as much of Garcia's work should not have been made, except when he gets interesting with self-referential irony about the art of melodrama itself. as in the 09 City Island, which makes a middling attempt at creating a language around the business of cinematic creation within a movie itself, pushed even further, and sharper, on cable, as when De Niro played a producer and Bruce Willis plays himself, having a bit of a Homeric temper tantrum in a clip on yet another Charlie Rose promotional segment. Is this language of sophistication synchronic over time?
The Roman Catholic Church is already a dead entity, despite militant fossils like myself who do not believe in pastoral tolerance for homosexual indulgence, throwing my moral weight with the synod over Francis, then caught myself. Church authority began to die from the dawn of mass literacy, let alone the dawn of Protestant reformation and the Vatican 2.0 under John, and the fact that the Argentine is playing politics as opposed to being a spiritual leader means doctrinal infallibility is a de facto anachronism. If a speck of spastic dirt on the wall under increasing intestinal stress feels disheartened by apostasy as a democratic forum, then all is finished.
Declare defeat, go home, and perhaps preserve my form as a calcified figure on which the grandchildren of millennials can gawk, a pseudo-historical trope. What is the big deal? Fisting in secret, fisting in the open, I myself have posted about Frank and his fingers within my rectrum as a mock-up of vigor, virility. Believers might say I'm lying to myself, that I really do believe in Christ as equal parts human divine, laughing at the rigorous objections of Dawkins to words like transubstanation, and yes, well, I was raised in Catholicism, and in middle adolescence, threw my emotions into testament-- but even before university, I challenged priests and Jewish counselors alike, questing, on fire, offensive, even as a young woman, had anyone cared, I would have been excommunicated, which invites laughter, which in Eco, spells the death of metaphysical need for answers.
Things to Do in Denver When You're Dead strives to be larger than itself, and yes, Walken exposes, successfully, the narcissism with which we surround broken bodies, but as a comedy about brutality, boast, and repressive tolerances, lines not to be crossed, it bounces a bit much, like an IKEA catalog glorifying plastique fabrication even as its laminated pages curl and burn in the stink of a propane fire, the fatigue before the actual dying commences, not living long enough to polish every post, which justifies some literary critical assertion that post-modern subversion has fallen to the wayside of the NASDAQ index.
All I ever desired was a decent husband, like the fictional Maigret who actually seems to have more corporeal embodiment than Bruno Cremer, the actor who best fleshed out the detective among so many famous creations which have no real life counterpart; a decent husband, one who would have supported my ambition, a pleasant hamlet, my own space, decent literary friends. Instead, I am ugly, a trauma who draws out lesbianistic tendencies in even more marginal ugly inner city minorities who make pest control seem heroic. And yes, after the traumatic episodes that challenged my life itself, I asked, queried my internal self, did I want those games with another female, and such fleeting hormonal sensations which come with masturbatory aggression, that level of pornography itself whose exploitation is still policed, regardless of the progressive scorched earth policy for tolerance.
My answer: a resounding no, is like a flake of dandruff in a libertine world, healthy pink flesh too often pasty, soft, anemic, or brown and exaggerated. Thick buttocks, breasts so large they veer toward eccentricity. I think fecal face was a clever slang term, pointing toward epistemological values even in second rate ensembles.
Friday, October 17, 2014
Moments Tranquil
Defecating bloody fecal discharge, as excruciating as it is, doesn't mitigate a sense of liberation that the onset of Ebola would provide, so in that sense I'll walk myself back from the fear expressed in my post that made it on TinderNews. Investigating the website yielded no answers as to what kind of media outlet Tinder is, frustrating, as I'm always on the lookout for jobbers I can handle. Hygiene for a population of 7 billion fairly large hairless primates is evidently cracking, as superbacteria invade institutional environments. Exposure to pathogens builds immunity, and that should lead to reconsideration of getting dirty in natural environments once in awhile. I think humans are doomed, too vulnerable, with our optimism and faith misplaced, regardless of hand sanitizer.
In the months before AIDS felled my little brother Nicholas, dead mother brought him to my inner city apartment. "Kiss him," she said, preparing for departure. The poor lad was out of his mind, wan, with our brown Italian eyes, glazed with the passion of death and the void of toxic decomposition. It would be the last time I set eyes on a family psychopath everyone loved and shielded from the amoral consequences of his brutality. I backed away in fear. Given what was in store, I should have swung a punch, split his lip, and took the hardy and clever virus in. Midas magic one way or the other, but does everyone's luck against the clock run out? Hard to say.
In the months before AIDS felled my little brother Nicholas, dead mother brought him to my inner city apartment. "Kiss him," she said, preparing for departure. The poor lad was out of his mind, wan, with our brown Italian eyes, glazed with the passion of death and the void of toxic decomposition. It would be the last time I set eyes on a family psychopath everyone loved and shielded from the amoral consequences of his brutality. I backed away in fear. Given what was in store, I should have swung a punch, split his lip, and took the hardy and clever virus in. Midas magic one way or the other, but does everyone's luck against the clock run out? Hard to say.
Wednesday, October 15, 2014
Persuasion towards Byatt's point
Part of my problem with moving on is that I have such a concentration of negative effects in one place, and those effects have taken their toll to the point that I no longer feel presentable to an employer; indeed, I no longer feel presentable at the Rosenbach, and people disadvantaged as myself mingle there with the Jewish upper crust, such remains of a crust as Philadelphia has, all the time during the museum's business hours-- and if I feel like a piece of shit in a bookseller's house, one that no longer has any stimulus for me-- well, I feel, already, not simply poor, but basically unsalvageable, it is because I keep taking it. Monica Carr did her number on me too when I actually needed a personal attendant's support, and she is still Riverside's extraordinary visitor with her relative here in the building, and her amputee. I have to deal with her, with a dying transvestite and his lover with whom I was once more familiar-- now, wait-- I know I've impacted them and that they're human, just as I've impacted Ed, who still follows this blog, but I am the one eating my feelings, carrying this baggage, and yes, it overwhelms me-- and therein lies your answer. For me, 28 years of this company, and section 202 housing, has been toxic-- and despite the fact that I got blown away yesterday by the Pope's personal assistant favoring one of my tweets, and would have thrown myself out of the wheelchair to clasp the hem of his vestments, why? For faith? No, for the memory of it, the memory of the comfort of belief, the fact remains that all this is a corrosive element of American pluralism. Secularism requires better standards. But by the same token, low income housing is a travesty in this country. Beneath all the regulations and procedures, nothing has truly changed. Taxes subsidize a sterile environment, nothing better than warehouses barely able to wall out low income dysfunction. It has truly destroyed my emotional health and well being, and I do not have any idea what to do about it, even if whatever measly legal protections spare me from the police scraping off the sidewalk into some rehabilitation environment, and progressives cannot repair it when compliance becomes a kind of stranglehold, not even if we satirize writing as therapy.
Tuesday, October 14, 2014
Humility, the Vatican Valet no less!
E 'difficile da visualizzare reverenza online il tuo eminenza, ma nel nome del Padre, il tuo semplice gesto di favorire un po novità offerte povera anima mia speranza, prostrato in quanto è prima, grazie.
Monday, October 13, 2014
Curtsey
Despite my usage bill and my need to file my legal griefs, as if this is going to protect me from finishing my life as a hate crime, I am honored to have the European views that I do, and will not ask the Europeans why, or expect affirmation or its opposite. My ISP has been kinder to me than any humans of late, despite its settlement with consumer advocates over things it never did to me, at least as far as I know. If I cannot die with my lips kissing sampietrini, becoming a collusionist in Rouen might be my second choice.
I bow, grasp your shoulders, fluent kiss on each cheek. I'd also raise Mussolini back from the dead faster than RAI could recycle Inspector Luca. Unlike Jennifer Rubin, and this is one area where she and I differ as conservative women, I cannot consider myself a patriot when I have been at the mercy of extermination, life long.
I bow, grasp your shoulders, fluent kiss on each cheek. I'd also raise Mussolini back from the dead faster than RAI could recycle Inspector Luca. Unlike Jennifer Rubin, and this is one area where she and I differ as conservative women, I cannot consider myself a patriot when I have been at the mercy of extermination, life long.
Inside Jokes On a Splinter
Within a matter of days, really, I will lose all facsimile of personal security, my only intimacies, those with a monster pig of a man from the Bronx whom I rejected, and with a transsexual I've come to hate with such glittering abandon that there must be more to it, as of course there is. I believed the transsexual's advocacy was once just, however diffident my revulsion of his androgyny. In a Shakespearean comedy, the androgyny is a linguistic tension toward liberation, but in the flesh, despite cellular indifference to personal values, the concrete reality of androgyny is something else, leading for the desire of better disposal of bipedal forms with their own hideousness, affirming in my memory that I probably did finish Gardner's The Sunlight Dialogues under the tutelage of Professor Jerry McGuire, and finished it this early Monday once again, annoyed, past the Post-Moderns.
As different as Pynchon and Gardner are, John more driven toward an intrinsic moral veracity, the fireworks in either man's opus fall like tinder in the present era. Gardner couldn't have lived to see the Muslim intransigence he eerily predicted in the mouth of Taggert Hodge's wounded ravings sustained for over 600 pages of human failings. No one, not even Franzen, writes the kind of novel today which Gardner could afford to write as the 20th century would lurch into 9/11 and a black presidency whose initial ebullience invariably gave way to a sense of lack, and all I have as a disabled woman who hasn't achieved much of anything except warfare with statutory demands, is desperation for a different environment which my economic status denies. I speak of hatreds as a kind of shorthand, making it worse than it is, at the bottom, an overwhelming, now self-damning and potentially destructive desire for change, and yet at the end of the day, I am a cripple, basically inert, gainsaid for years by minority abuse, minority insistence, and white indifference, that indifference now capped by family mortality, and an inability to offer support, with an ulcer possibly gnawing my stomach, touch of blood seeping out of my eye, I do actually fear I could get Ebola if I am forced to deal with more African American paraprofessionals, but assume the touch of blood in my watering eye bulb is capillary irritation.
I do not give two shits about my apartment manager Trudy Richardson and her swamp thing from Mississippi Debra Horne. The hate I speak of comes from the psychological toll their constraint places on the most vulnerable and most powerless, and yet this is all Pennsylvania shoves down my throat my entire life, vocational rehabilitation and 500 different black women to keep up the laundry pile, and I thought, in most of my aspirations, that a literary life would offer a kind of triumph, much as Lindsay Lohan makes a cheap bid to toy with her media reputation in the 2007 I Know Who Killed Me. Gaming her audience. Cuttings as an outcry. Prosthetics as a kind of exploit. Stained glass as a more metaphysical threat than a chain saw, tooling religious histrionics. If Gardner wasn't an optimist, Lohan's abrasive edges and dialogue by the numbers certainly evinces the brittleness of the American psyche, white feminine anger for freedom, disarticulated over sexual flaunting, preying on our deepest fears, being clipped by inexorable pressures to succeed instead of getting high or opting out, womanhood itself always hobbled, inextricably damaged.
Erik, in some of the last words we'll ever speak to each other, in lieu of snapping his neck like a twig, asked me who I was to judge him? My answer to you about that is: an honest woman who doesn't destroy the careers of others for the accrual of power. I may sound like a forceful activist in denial, but right there is why I am not. Leaders in the disability movement, want control of the reigns for themselves, until forced to cede to fresher players.
As different as Pynchon and Gardner are, John more driven toward an intrinsic moral veracity, the fireworks in either man's opus fall like tinder in the present era. Gardner couldn't have lived to see the Muslim intransigence he eerily predicted in the mouth of Taggert Hodge's wounded ravings sustained for over 600 pages of human failings. No one, not even Franzen, writes the kind of novel today which Gardner could afford to write as the 20th century would lurch into 9/11 and a black presidency whose initial ebullience invariably gave way to a sense of lack, and all I have as a disabled woman who hasn't achieved much of anything except warfare with statutory demands, is desperation for a different environment which my economic status denies. I speak of hatreds as a kind of shorthand, making it worse than it is, at the bottom, an overwhelming, now self-damning and potentially destructive desire for change, and yet at the end of the day, I am a cripple, basically inert, gainsaid for years by minority abuse, minority insistence, and white indifference, that indifference now capped by family mortality, and an inability to offer support, with an ulcer possibly gnawing my stomach, touch of blood seeping out of my eye, I do actually fear I could get Ebola if I am forced to deal with more African American paraprofessionals, but assume the touch of blood in my watering eye bulb is capillary irritation.
I do not give two shits about my apartment manager Trudy Richardson and her swamp thing from Mississippi Debra Horne. The hate I speak of comes from the psychological toll their constraint places on the most vulnerable and most powerless, and yet this is all Pennsylvania shoves down my throat my entire life, vocational rehabilitation and 500 different black women to keep up the laundry pile, and I thought, in most of my aspirations, that a literary life would offer a kind of triumph, much as Lindsay Lohan makes a cheap bid to toy with her media reputation in the 2007 I Know Who Killed Me. Gaming her audience. Cuttings as an outcry. Prosthetics as a kind of exploit. Stained glass as a more metaphysical threat than a chain saw, tooling religious histrionics. If Gardner wasn't an optimist, Lohan's abrasive edges and dialogue by the numbers certainly evinces the brittleness of the American psyche, white feminine anger for freedom, disarticulated over sexual flaunting, preying on our deepest fears, being clipped by inexorable pressures to succeed instead of getting high or opting out, womanhood itself always hobbled, inextricably damaged.
Erik, in some of the last words we'll ever speak to each other, in lieu of snapping his neck like a twig, asked me who I was to judge him? My answer to you about that is: an honest woman who doesn't destroy the careers of others for the accrual of power. I may sound like a forceful activist in denial, but right there is why I am not. Leaders in the disability movement, want control of the reigns for themselves, until forced to cede to fresher players.
Friday, October 10, 2014
Waltz in the Right Wing
Ah, disaffection! Back in the day when Warren Commission "single bullet theory" Arlen was alive, missing his memory, this guy was American brand right wing. Toomey doesn't know the spastic dowager blog, of course not. Too busy with his stature, but I make Toomey look like Eisenhower. Stark and bitter laugh Jim Brady would not find *classy,* to channel Judy Woodruff. I pasted everything Toomey's staff considers sniveling grievance in his content window to save time, knowing as a federal legislator there isn't much, as a former businessman, Toomey can do for my urban spiritual malaise, but change of habitat urgency breeds strange bedfellows, even if a fascist takeover of the US government has been done. It is already here.
I fantasize about becoming a political operative for our seductive libertarians like Rand Paul. The Fourth Estate is hotter and heavier in its fascination with libertarian streaks than the average citizen, (only the faintest familiarity with Burke's political philosophy) I suspect. Political journalists hold their breath, waiting for an ideological schism within the nominating ranks every election cycle, and every election cycle to my less than engaged political conscience, libertarians fold. No drama, no surge of excitement about hard liners who will make the trains run on time. It gives me a nearly youthful nearly orgasmic rush, despotism! Women never admit this is our true path to power, through the penises to which they lay claim.
Last time, I was flattered, astonished, tickled, when a Toomey staffer telephoned me. It led to Tim's departure, the nearly 70 year old dope fiend who initiated all of this stress and more games with homosexual psychosis, reigniting my death to blondes sentiments. This time I'll probably receive a form letter telling me to comply with HUD regulations.
I fantasize about becoming a political operative for our seductive libertarians like Rand Paul. The Fourth Estate is hotter and heavier in its fascination with libertarian streaks than the average citizen, (only the faintest familiarity with Burke's political philosophy) I suspect. Political journalists hold their breath, waiting for an ideological schism within the nominating ranks every election cycle, and every election cycle to my less than engaged political conscience, libertarians fold. No drama, no surge of excitement about hard liners who will make the trains run on time. It gives me a nearly youthful nearly orgasmic rush, despotism! Women never admit this is our true path to power, through the penises to which they lay claim.
Last time, I was flattered, astonished, tickled, when a Toomey staffer telephoned me. It led to Tim's departure, the nearly 70 year old dope fiend who initiated all of this stress and more games with homosexual psychosis, reigniting my death to blondes sentiments. This time I'll probably receive a form letter telling me to comply with HUD regulations.
Weights and Measures
Ian Hacking has brilliantly shown how the diagnosis of fugue as a medical entity was linked in France to social concern over vagrancy.'--Pathologies of Travel, page 266
Intimations of homelessness, rolling into a crowd of young minority adolescents asking if they had seen a manila envelope I dropped to my avowed homosexual state legislator Brian K Sims and his team, after my conversation with his communications coordinator Tim, some seasons ago, who suggested that I call the police. I stopped following Sims on twitter, rarely voting on state political matters. Next my state senator, and so on. Even if I manage to leave Riverside Presbyterian intact, the way Philadelphia and its services network function, the fine and out standing professionalism of Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Liberty Resources, Septa, these have reduced me to pulp at the bottom of a Nutribullet, and as I have already been to CPS off Broad and Chestnut, I have little faith in their intake. I'm beaten, slaving away at some two bit tabloid website, a pallet bed in a West Philadelphia shelter doesn't seem all that bad at the moment, though the system, as it is, would sue each other about me, and I'll wind up in a place like Inglis, if not Inglis itself, the web now a huge spam cart, and beneath this beaten disabled woman is a streak of fantastic brutality so vile Blogger would shut down my account if I engaged in specificity. I know I actually of some of this cruelty in me. Not uncommon with brain damage, nor aging. I told a black woman who manages subsidized housing that I hated her, to her face, and came exceedingly close to excoriating her for her race, not caring if I did, but she played her race card on me too, trust as you may, despite the feminine pain I carry, and in this light I can tell you I am both envious and disturbed by Jean-Pierre Alaux Blood of the vine series. Like Nicolas le Floch, the adaptations of the books is well done, and we get a view of the insular world of enology, which has intrigued me for years. The French have both a bizarre and realistic take on justice and moral culpability. Much more intriguing than British didactic teachings to its wounded superpower child, yet Alaux is illustrating through his procedural what I am illustrating when I use revelation in the way I do: Sin manufactures monsters out of the innocent. An old European Jew figures out that collaborators of the Petain regime slaughtered his family during the war, and so he executes them, one by one, until a French police squad guns the fellow down, but only after Arditi, himself an odds and ends misfit who isn't quite the straight arrow, solves the puzzle, with its disturbing implications.
Europe, and undoubtedly the United States is falling down this slope as well, will never revert to colonial outgrowth. And, despite Putin, despite a surging China too, though Jinping is as much a ripe for mockery jackass as is our American Harvard Law professor (I think it is time to diminish the influence of Harvard University on national policy, seriously) the age of imperialism is over, the end of nationhood itself is, all things being relative, upon us, not in my lifetime, and maybe not quite in the lifetime of my eldest niece, but it is here, nevertheless-- yet we lose something if the post-Google global conglomerate doesn't pay attention to history, especially Old World history. Savant neighbor Robert, the spastic tart who lives in Riverside with me, told me today to believe in myself, tried and true axiom, and yet, believing in myself, the principles of personal liberty which I cherish, means I am placing my personal security in peril. I nearly took Debra Horne's head off when I talked to her yesterday, literally telling her I was tired of taking it, and meaning it. Yes, Debra is, in progressive terms, a disadvantaged minority from the South, but her matriarchal ignorance doesn't make her any less bigoted because her job is to enforce compliance. Riverside's owner, whoever this person is, isn't a slumlord, but he, she, or they, are still extortionists-- which again doesn't mean I am against property owners, just their lack of accountability, and the brutal double standards foisted on me all my life.
Intimations of homelessness, rolling into a crowd of young minority adolescents asking if they had seen a manila envelope I dropped to my avowed homosexual state legislator Brian K Sims and his team, after my conversation with his communications coordinator Tim, some seasons ago, who suggested that I call the police. I stopped following Sims on twitter, rarely voting on state political matters. Next my state senator, and so on. Even if I manage to leave Riverside Presbyterian intact, the way Philadelphia and its services network function, the fine and out standing professionalism of Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Liberty Resources, Septa, these have reduced me to pulp at the bottom of a Nutribullet, and as I have already been to CPS off Broad and Chestnut, I have little faith in their intake. I'm beaten, slaving away at some two bit tabloid website, a pallet bed in a West Philadelphia shelter doesn't seem all that bad at the moment, though the system, as it is, would sue each other about me, and I'll wind up in a place like Inglis, if not Inglis itself, the web now a huge spam cart, and beneath this beaten disabled woman is a streak of fantastic brutality so vile Blogger would shut down my account if I engaged in specificity. I know I actually of some of this cruelty in me. Not uncommon with brain damage, nor aging. I told a black woman who manages subsidized housing that I hated her, to her face, and came exceedingly close to excoriating her for her race, not caring if I did, but she played her race card on me too, trust as you may, despite the feminine pain I carry, and in this light I can tell you I am both envious and disturbed by Jean-Pierre Alaux Blood of the vine series. Like Nicolas le Floch, the adaptations of the books is well done, and we get a view of the insular world of enology, which has intrigued me for years. The French have both a bizarre and realistic take on justice and moral culpability. Much more intriguing than British didactic teachings to its wounded superpower child, yet Alaux is illustrating through his procedural what I am illustrating when I use revelation in the way I do: Sin manufactures monsters out of the innocent. An old European Jew figures out that collaborators of the Petain regime slaughtered his family during the war, and so he executes them, one by one, until a French police squad guns the fellow down, but only after Arditi, himself an odds and ends misfit who isn't quite the straight arrow, solves the puzzle, with its disturbing implications.
Europe, and undoubtedly the United States is falling down this slope as well, will never revert to colonial outgrowth. And, despite Putin, despite a surging China too, though Jinping is as much a ripe for mockery jackass as is our American Harvard Law professor (I think it is time to diminish the influence of Harvard University on national policy, seriously) the age of imperialism is over, the end of nationhood itself is, all things being relative, upon us, not in my lifetime, and maybe not quite in the lifetime of my eldest niece, but it is here, nevertheless-- yet we lose something if the post-Google global conglomerate doesn't pay attention to history, especially Old World history. Savant neighbor Robert, the spastic tart who lives in Riverside with me, told me today to believe in myself, tried and true axiom, and yet, believing in myself, the principles of personal liberty which I cherish, means I am placing my personal security in peril. I nearly took Debra Horne's head off when I talked to her yesterday, literally telling her I was tired of taking it, and meaning it. Yes, Debra is, in progressive terms, a disadvantaged minority from the South, but her matriarchal ignorance doesn't make her any less bigoted because her job is to enforce compliance. Riverside's owner, whoever this person is, isn't a slumlord, but he, she, or they, are still extortionists-- which again doesn't mean I am against property owners, just their lack of accountability, and the brutal double standards foisted on me all my life.
Wednesday, October 8, 2014
Tyler suggested I apologize to Trudy Richardson
And who is Tyler? A name tag of a Trader Joe's associate, with smooth and easy youthful toffee complexion. But I am beyond apology, with the corporate office, with HUD. You've viewed this all before, but not that I complimented Tyler on being a nice young man. What am I then? A pretentious bigot, or merely alienated? Both? For the sake of even handedness, white Presbyterian managers were little better than their minority counterparts, and the beat goes on, shellshocked, my decency tainted beyond recovery. I can fit the woman I am now like a sleeve over her past in her junior year, crashing then, looking out of the window of university apartment alone, no more nursing students, no more Lee from the South suffering from Hodgkin's lymphoma. I only have the barest trace memory of what happened to Lee, and could not understand at the time why she did not withdraw from school, given how stricken she was. She did withdraw and I received a summary end conversation of her fate but cannot quite recall it, though her devoted sweetheart Bob stays with me, why, I don't know. Geek. Beatles hair, owl rim glasses, engineer, Jerry had been fired and I crashed, and transferring in no way unraveled that, but beneath the surface, for all my wasted and now ashen investment in the Old Cricket, the turbulence was something else. Self-hatred, a deeper knowledge that I would not succeed, wouldn't be happy, wouldn't live for a husband, wouldn't ever conquer my slovenly peasant genetic make up, regardless of what Irish wizardry I thought I'd bought into, but on thinking about it, beneath the surface of my spastic body positively longing for hard and dangerous sex, I was never really liberal, just an exterminator held in abeyance.
One thing that never plagued me back then, however, despite the riff of domestic violence with my vamping mother, was battle fatigue, and other than my breaking heart for my cats, this is what I own now. Emotional exhaustion, a commonality with my father, from a well spring of different sources. Pass a certain point, whatever that point is, nothing quite ever repairs it, even a sales clerk with the admonishment not to beat myself up, not that I've been entirely inert today, but my education? My intelligence? Pointless at this point, resources exhausted. Move on to what exactly?
One thing that never plagued me back then, however, despite the riff of domestic violence with my vamping mother, was battle fatigue, and other than my breaking heart for my cats, this is what I own now. Emotional exhaustion, a commonality with my father, from a well spring of different sources. Pass a certain point, whatever that point is, nothing quite ever repairs it, even a sales clerk with the admonishment not to beat myself up, not that I've been entirely inert today, but my education? My intelligence? Pointless at this point, resources exhausted. Move on to what exactly?
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Roads that should not be
"He got up and went across the room, hands outstretched to the bus driver." Jack Kerouac
I would not survive in a city shelter. I cannot survive with any of my relatives, and Inglis House is the stark phantasmagorical hell only documentaries have the courage to illustrate. Sometimes I look away, as you do, from the tracheotomies, the traumatic brain injuries that crumple our homo sapien signature in an instant. Marie fought with me two years ago. "You belong on the street!" And I've seen those as well. Wheelchair users on Philadelphia curb corners, white and black, emaciated and out of their minds, silent when they speak, and I am placing my body under this steam roller earlier than need be because I do not want to comply with Medicaid, with the state welfare system, because even Linda, to my astonishment, has moved on, and I am still here, with my non-compliance, sinking back into a world I might have been spared in the first place, and social media suggests I buy followers. I don't mind hospice. People have to die somewhere, but nonetheless, institutional paradigms will crush us under our own weight.
I have contemplated the scourge of every dark blogging account, but it would make everything I've endured meaningless, and yet, I need this to stop, HUD regulations, Riverside's Bible study groups and infantile activities. Robert, one of the more challenged residents with cerebral palsy who is close to my age, told me last night his sister took care of me in Shriner's Hospital, when we were children being tortured, and I remember plenty from the ward I wish to forget, but had no idea Robert's circumference was so close to mine, nor recall his sister. "You're happy about it aren't you?" Grinning like the devil. He is mentally retarded, yet this is the language of identity we speak, while I am in contention with a handful of authoritarian niggers upon whom I am forcing no choice but to legally remove me from their premises, such an epic failure for such a mind, penniless, powerless, channeling Kerouac's zeitgeist without the ability to flow with his counter culture mobility. I'm scared out of my wits.
I would not survive in a city shelter. I cannot survive with any of my relatives, and Inglis House is the stark phantasmagorical hell only documentaries have the courage to illustrate. Sometimes I look away, as you do, from the tracheotomies, the traumatic brain injuries that crumple our homo sapien signature in an instant. Marie fought with me two years ago. "You belong on the street!" And I've seen those as well. Wheelchair users on Philadelphia curb corners, white and black, emaciated and out of their minds, silent when they speak, and I am placing my body under this steam roller earlier than need be because I do not want to comply with Medicaid, with the state welfare system, because even Linda, to my astonishment, has moved on, and I am still here, with my non-compliance, sinking back into a world I might have been spared in the first place, and social media suggests I buy followers. I don't mind hospice. People have to die somewhere, but nonetheless, institutional paradigms will crush us under our own weight.
I have contemplated the scourge of every dark blogging account, but it would make everything I've endured meaningless, and yet, I need this to stop, HUD regulations, Riverside's Bible study groups and infantile activities. Robert, one of the more challenged residents with cerebral palsy who is close to my age, told me last night his sister took care of me in Shriner's Hospital, when we were children being tortured, and I remember plenty from the ward I wish to forget, but had no idea Robert's circumference was so close to mine, nor recall his sister. "You're happy about it aren't you?" Grinning like the devil. He is mentally retarded, yet this is the language of identity we speak, while I am in contention with a handful of authoritarian niggers upon whom I am forcing no choice but to legally remove me from their premises, such an epic failure for such a mind, penniless, powerless, channeling Kerouac's zeitgeist without the ability to flow with his counter culture mobility. I'm scared out of my wits.
Austrian Evolution
"You're nasty!" Trudy Richardson, often accurate in the vernacular
One doesn't mind the original Predator, as the 1987 make was suspenseful. Did it add anything to the process of elimination narrative contingent to horror genres? Only that it was well done, kept your eye on the ball, made you reconsider Schwarzenegger's psych-out warfare with Lou Ferrigno when they were competitive, and on a primal level, offered a certain degree of faith in brawn juxtaposed against unknown lethal menace. Nice camp, crass sequels that did not know what to do with a culture based on killing as a form of conversation, which leads me to the question of price tags for junk food.
Star Trek, in the canonical sense, give the Klingons exaggerated moral values via and through which we reconsider human nature. The Predator franchise has one basic keynote which doesn't quite hold its rationale: that sentient species can evolve simply to kill in sophisticated manners that can leave them vulnerable to extraordinary effort in one on one battles. Predator versus Alien, Predator versus the unknown species that could wipe out a Borg cube, Predator versus Vladimir Putin, mixing their phosphorus blood with vodka, but how can an advanced species so hell bent on a Gothic spooky carnage have advanced using infrared technology without having the acuity to flag someone like Fareed Zakaria for using a very quick sleight of hand in his parentheses, that totalitarian state model transitions do not apply to oil rich states?
To some degree we're all analysts, excluding those with brain lesions, who need not insist on a place at the table, but foreign policy always makes certain assumptions about the stability of national identity, when beneath the surface there are always tensions, and greater or lesser degrees of sovereignty, perhaps not strictly applicable to islands at the mercy of the Pacific Ocean, but the analyst, like the clergy, seeks to help us understand what the issue is and what the solution entails, often missing the surprise, entirely. "Oh the Arab Spring is a good thing..." Most of them missed that Bashar al-Assad would move along the spectrum from westernized despot being wooed toward secular moderation to a pariah as the Syrian civil war emerged, now being compared, with ominous parallels, to Franco's consolidation of power in Spain as a preamble.
We don't know what we don't know: Ebola could gain a foothold in China, escalating tensions on the Russian border, or Hindu nationalism under Modi could spark an unanticipated ignition, or a real alien could infect us with their version of the measles. I don't bank on guarantees.
One doesn't mind the original Predator, as the 1987 make was suspenseful. Did it add anything to the process of elimination narrative contingent to horror genres? Only that it was well done, kept your eye on the ball, made you reconsider Schwarzenegger's psych-out warfare with Lou Ferrigno when they were competitive, and on a primal level, offered a certain degree of faith in brawn juxtaposed against unknown lethal menace. Nice camp, crass sequels that did not know what to do with a culture based on killing as a form of conversation, which leads me to the question of price tags for junk food.
Star Trek, in the canonical sense, give the Klingons exaggerated moral values via and through which we reconsider human nature. The Predator franchise has one basic keynote which doesn't quite hold its rationale: that sentient species can evolve simply to kill in sophisticated manners that can leave them vulnerable to extraordinary effort in one on one battles. Predator versus Alien, Predator versus the unknown species that could wipe out a Borg cube, Predator versus Vladimir Putin, mixing their phosphorus blood with vodka, but how can an advanced species so hell bent on a Gothic spooky carnage have advanced using infrared technology without having the acuity to flag someone like Fareed Zakaria for using a very quick sleight of hand in his parentheses, that totalitarian state model transitions do not apply to oil rich states?
To some degree we're all analysts, excluding those with brain lesions, who need not insist on a place at the table, but foreign policy always makes certain assumptions about the stability of national identity, when beneath the surface there are always tensions, and greater or lesser degrees of sovereignty, perhaps not strictly applicable to islands at the mercy of the Pacific Ocean, but the analyst, like the clergy, seeks to help us understand what the issue is and what the solution entails, often missing the surprise, entirely. "Oh the Arab Spring is a good thing..." Most of them missed that Bashar al-Assad would move along the spectrum from westernized despot being wooed toward secular moderation to a pariah as the Syrian civil war emerged, now being compared, with ominous parallels, to Franco's consolidation of power in Spain as a preamble.
We don't know what we don't know: Ebola could gain a foothold in China, escalating tensions on the Russian border, or Hindu nationalism under Modi could spark an unanticipated ignition, or a real alien could infect us with their version of the measles. I don't bank on guarantees.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Darren Wilson. Am I?
Hand a baby a grenade and sit riveted by Hollywood's version of Western liberalism meets the Khmer Rouge in the guise of Jolie's sculpted cheek bones in her mission statement with Clive Owen in Beyond Borders, in his giddy up version of egalitarian rage. A saga juxtaposed over the truth doesn't get us any closer to the facts about cellular organisms, because humans exposed to continuous devaluation of our lives grow hard. Even on small scale variations, numbness sets in. Not so much that we disbelieve the NIH, but anyone with a decent education can research viruses, feel uneasy about how closely they mirror independent and autonomous cell structures: Philadelphia has a significant West African contingent. Children with asthma are being stricken by a new endo virus more deadly than a cold. This may not be proverbial writing on the wall, but it might be a gross glob of snot such that inspired Balzac to write his Faustian tale about a man granted all his wishes by an ancient cloth, which, as it shrinks, damns his soul with it, and from there we start writing, perhaps not on a wall, perhaps on our myriad pixels and code, reconsidering the solicitude we place in technology and lab cultures. Closing off the West African border may not be a very good idea. Ebola doesn't need a border.
A non academic member of the James list was confused about my private reasons for my departure from my longest, if sometimes, fractious e-list association. What did my virtual abandon of a younger woman with osteogenesis imperfecta have to do with the Jamesians? Valid question, one which I did not answer succinctly. Louise lurked on the list. I coaxed her out of her shell and then bucked, as I've written in other posts. I did not buck hard, did not engage in a tirade, but none the less, I bucked and it was a selfish act, aside from the fact, as I iterated a day or so ago, that the community is, by and large, no longer serving my hope of independent scholarship while I am busy digging my grave in the best of the projects. Certain things stay with you though. Baby pulling the pin of a grenade. The Borg are humane by virtue of comparison. Perhaps I am over-dramatizing. The managers of Riverside, the managers of Diamond Park, have been threatening me with dire consequences for 28 years. The difference, within the past year, is that I've threatened them, in writing, the baby with the grenade, liquefying my own internal organs. They call this the white butterfly in triage.
A non academic member of the James list was confused about my private reasons for my departure from my longest, if sometimes, fractious e-list association. What did my virtual abandon of a younger woman with osteogenesis imperfecta have to do with the Jamesians? Valid question, one which I did not answer succinctly. Louise lurked on the list. I coaxed her out of her shell and then bucked, as I've written in other posts. I did not buck hard, did not engage in a tirade, but none the less, I bucked and it was a selfish act, aside from the fact, as I iterated a day or so ago, that the community is, by and large, no longer serving my hope of independent scholarship while I am busy digging my grave in the best of the projects. Certain things stay with you though. Baby pulling the pin of a grenade. The Borg are humane by virtue of comparison. Perhaps I am over-dramatizing. The managers of Riverside, the managers of Diamond Park, have been threatening me with dire consequences for 28 years. The difference, within the past year, is that I've threatened them, in writing, the baby with the grenade, liquefying my own internal organs. They call this the white butterfly in triage.
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Channeling Robert
"What do we do now?"--Redford in his handsome square jawed Senate movie
I'm bushed. Ought to get on the ball, but I'm bushed, not eating from stress, guess I am now falling into Project Share's indigence category,. Epitaph? Spastic dowager disgraced and fallen by poor domestic management, uniting women of all ethnicities against her now willful indifference to good housekeeping, impaction idling while she charges, writes pithy trinkets, needs some coffee, probably going to be arrested, incarcerated, for refusal to comply with Presby's corporate office.
All her life, the good little soldier, now look at her. Another landlord has no reason to accept me, even if they too are under 811 or 202 contract. Credit rating long sunk by default.Trudy Richardson, doing the time honored classic minority shuffle while I quarreled, attempted to imply I did not realize the extent of my mental health problems. Psychiatry is the field it is today largely on the basis of socio-economic status. That holds true even in a rising third world power like India, and I have no idea where I'm going to land, forcing myself here?, but my indifference outweighs Protestant profiteering at the expense of my suffering. I may not be enthralled by Henry Miller's risque rawness in his Tropic memoirs, but he has a point. Being able to live in peace. It must be wonderful.
Nicholson, Redford, Eastwood, Morgan Freemen when they die they represent the last significant A list stars who made up my tabloid lexicon. I really don't know yours.
I'm bushed. Ought to get on the ball, but I'm bushed, not eating from stress, guess I am now falling into Project Share's indigence category,. Epitaph? Spastic dowager disgraced and fallen by poor domestic management, uniting women of all ethnicities against her now willful indifference to good housekeeping, impaction idling while she charges, writes pithy trinkets, needs some coffee, probably going to be arrested, incarcerated, for refusal to comply with Presby's corporate office.
All her life, the good little soldier, now look at her. Another landlord has no reason to accept me, even if they too are under 811 or 202 contract. Credit rating long sunk by default.Trudy Richardson, doing the time honored classic minority shuffle while I quarreled, attempted to imply I did not realize the extent of my mental health problems. Psychiatry is the field it is today largely on the basis of socio-economic status. That holds true even in a rising third world power like India, and I have no idea where I'm going to land, forcing myself here?, but my indifference outweighs Protestant profiteering at the expense of my suffering. I may not be enthralled by Henry Miller's risque rawness in his Tropic memoirs, but he has a point. Being able to live in peace. It must be wonderful.
Nicholson, Redford, Eastwood, Morgan Freemen when they die they represent the last significant A list stars who made up my tabloid lexicon. I really don't know yours.
Wednesday, October 1, 2014
HUD referendum
Some of you may critique me, correctly, that beneath an otherwise thin veneer I have used this account as a radicalized political agenda, and I'll accept a guilty plea, but things are escalating with PresbyHomes, and oddly, I have stopped being eaten alive by fear and feel liberated. I told Trudy Richardson I hated her and did not care, because I do hate her in her underpaid cut rate nanny state mentality. I hate Debra Horne slightly more, that for another day. But I need a place to stay.
I know asking for help, particularly from Philadelphia tweeters, is probably futile, and doubtlessly many of you don't like my attitude, and suspect I am a softer version of my mother, should do the script combo dance and won't because I quadriplegic enough, but if any of you can think of temporary lodgings I might utilize from center city outward toward Media, I'd be grateful. I do not care about amenities, I just want to stay out of city shelters.
It would be brief, until my mother's sister, hapless father and or little sister and myself can reach consensus. I'll listen to the pins drop.
I only found out my former supervisor left my disability center after her demotion earlier today. My case against her factored into that, likely. Should I express remorse? It doesn't change the fact that Philadelphia destroys its most vulnerable residents, not always with conscious malice, but certainly through its compliance models.
I'd be overjoyed, really, for a comment, or suggestion.
I know asking for help, particularly from Philadelphia tweeters, is probably futile, and doubtlessly many of you don't like my attitude, and suspect I am a softer version of my mother, should do the script combo dance and won't because I quadriplegic enough, but if any of you can think of temporary lodgings I might utilize from center city outward toward Media, I'd be grateful. I do not care about amenities, I just want to stay out of city shelters.
It would be brief, until my mother's sister, hapless father and or little sister and myself can reach consensus. I'll listen to the pins drop.
I only found out my former supervisor left my disability center after her demotion earlier today. My case against her factored into that, likely. Should I express remorse? It doesn't change the fact that Philadelphia destroys its most vulnerable residents, not always with conscious malice, but certainly through its compliance models.
I'd be overjoyed, really, for a comment, or suggestion.
Excessive Force
Let us consider: Liberal academics claimed, shortly after the tragedy of Miriam Carey's death in October of 13, that deescalation might have saved her if the Capitol police had received the training to be able to distinguish non threatening mental illness from lethal intent. Carey was a dental hygienist. Omar Jose Gonzalez was, as if I need to reiterate it, an Iraqi veteran broken by his tour of duty, coupled with economic stress. Both had a fixation with our now unpopular President, a president who nevertheless, as all national politicians do, uses cultist adulation on his Obama for America website in order to inspire partisan loyalty. Gonzalez was not killed. Miriam was, but the preponderance of the evidence suggests that this woman with the baby in her car did not pose a serious threat to Barack Obama.
One of the House panel members who grilled Julia Pierson, which one I cannot confirm via transcript, as I'm pressed for time, essentially suggested to Pierson that Gonzalez should have been gunned down, just as Carey was.
We cannot have citizens in various stages of derangement threatening the functions of the federal government. Regardless of ideology we need some sort of system in place. I am not suggesting otherwise, but what I am asking us to examine is how quickly, with lightning speed, expendable classes of people are made. Did Gonzalez think threatening or killing the man who was elected to office opposing the war would ease his trauma? What was going on with Carey that her mind, stressed as a young minority with a baby to rear, needed access to the new hope of 2008 who turned out to be not so miraculous after all? Carey was just one of us, nameless, troubled, stressed. I have remained perturbed about her death without faulting the officers who enacted it-- but Gonzalez was created by the armed forces, was expended, and fell into the very small percentile of soldiers who go berserk.
Fixation is a nice word, but we have one black woman dead, forgotten, one veteran, presumably Latino, whose life is now over. Authorities will never allow him parole, in this new age where medieval savagery has reentered the lexicon, its shock value overplayed by Muslims, and a good man destroyed because civil libertarians insist on obfuscating self-defense into victimization, fifty years after Johnson enacted the civil rights act.
One of the House panel members who grilled Julia Pierson, which one I cannot confirm via transcript, as I'm pressed for time, essentially suggested to Pierson that Gonzalez should have been gunned down, just as Carey was.
We cannot have citizens in various stages of derangement threatening the functions of the federal government. Regardless of ideology we need some sort of system in place. I am not suggesting otherwise, but what I am asking us to examine is how quickly, with lightning speed, expendable classes of people are made. Did Gonzalez think threatening or killing the man who was elected to office opposing the war would ease his trauma? What was going on with Carey that her mind, stressed as a young minority with a baby to rear, needed access to the new hope of 2008 who turned out to be not so miraculous after all? Carey was just one of us, nameless, troubled, stressed. I have remained perturbed about her death without faulting the officers who enacted it-- but Gonzalez was created by the armed forces, was expended, and fell into the very small percentile of soldiers who go berserk.
Fixation is a nice word, but we have one black woman dead, forgotten, one veteran, presumably Latino, whose life is now over. Authorities will never allow him parole, in this new age where medieval savagery has reentered the lexicon, its shock value overplayed by Muslims, and a good man destroyed because civil libertarians insist on obfuscating self-defense into victimization, fifty years after Johnson enacted the civil rights act.
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