Urinary Tract

After consultation, middle child sister suggested I may have a urinary tract issue instead of hypoglycemia. Possibly, but I am feeling alarmingly unsteady, and wish to apologize for failing. I could just delete the blog and aim for more polish--not that I ever wanted to be a bland pedestrian, but even I did not realize how much, as a survivor, I seethe. And many out there have had it worse with disability and violence; many out there have had a few turns of the screw with activist groups, lawyers and litigators. If my medical catastrophe is coming homeward bound, I suddenly find blanks being loaded into the chamber, my soul trying to gnaw through my stationary despair, a desire for departure without so much as a farthing of hope for renewal, my mind is still fighting, striving for justification without knowing, if tolerance has stepped beyond my boundary, which it has, what in the name of nihilism I hope to achieve. Nothing, perhaps, but yes, I have forgiven the stupid black junkie who tried to subdue me, without being able to forgive inner city black culture: I've observed, seen too much, and don't seem to have a water hole available to come up for air, amid the pocket of urban destitution I've lived, the failed compatibility with my homosexual friends, my dissonance with Jewish lesbian ferocity.

Contextualize it as I might, even running to Italy would leave me at odds with the socialists in my country of ethnic origin; Italy has its own problems with migrants, space, resigned to a collapse from within, even here, I have a certain level of contempt for Palermo, tourist destination as it may be. Sicilians, staggering snort with commedia dell'arte, always dislocated from the true sense of place I've always felt I needed. I never saw the Pope in an overcoat, only to see Francis buttonholed in white in his visit with the Turkish pasha. Disconcerting, his body bundled like an angelic gangster.

I've not yet keeled. Buongiorno, on me.