My most energetic hours are now, assuming I've eaten. I'm easiest between 2 and 5 am, with the knowledge that things are relatively tranquil, but something always acts up. My digestive tract, or the felines rousing themselves in an outburst of havoc. I am still succinctly dubious of twitter. I understand it much better as spam, but it really isn't my interactive tool of choice, though I am on it and not Facebook, and I'll add, to my detriment, that I'm waiting to be banned, baffled that I haven't been, but a little too clueless to get myself banned, since in all my online history, I haven't done the newsworthy twitter banning items, and a person cannot argue on it. Snipe, yes. Snipe which is callow and bad for the mind, but convos are a tad swift for me.
Ev's Medium I've just tried, rushing my copy without links or gifs or things, but I am forgiven because the psychology of meeting a deadline sparks my battery, and if I fix it and keep running items of interest which I do not hold for sale maybe they will commission me on the slog. I like it better than Examiner.com, an outlet I grew to hate, because I don't like tabloid journalism, not for the return on the work submitted--I mean, writing for nothing, at my age, is less than writing for cent per page view, but Clarity was no good for me. Medium is better, with one caveat: I'm lost on graphics. My brother has that literacy. I do content. I do cerebral. I do thinking. I do getting constantly chastised for expressing ferocity. I cannot do graphics, video, and I'm no photographer. I lack the dexterity. Respond with limited aesthetic appreciation, yes, but produce it, no. Similar to annexing children. I never planned for pregnancy, which is why during my fertile years I panicked against the unsheathed penis (no longer relevant), but I dislike children, which may lend itself to why old schematic films like The Village of the Damned (1960) resonate. The stark definition of the enemy, in black and white, is consoling-- and yet the motif, evil within the innocence, cuts across cultures-- though Asians utilize it with more ambiguity due to the ambivalence of their deities, as in Dark Water, which I brought up earlier. The year of the post momentarily escapes me, but birth is a dangerous process, as was observed in the arc of The Kite Runner. We fear what is within the womb, though we may miss its comfort, forget in the ebb and flow of brutal life, which urbanism, somehow, makes more stark than the battering of living an agrarian life. Philadelphia may be a patchwork of sad residential row homes with more vibrant commerce vectors in the center and the Northeast, but Tokyo, in many ways, signifies a future devoid of the price we pay for being outsiders . It leads to even further examination of Inarritu's Japanese tween in Babel.
Saturday, February 28, 2015
Friday, February 27, 2015
The Song of Bernadette
"I had to forget, otherwise life would have been impossible."--Jose Semprin via The Paris Review
My mother took me off the bus in my smaller leg braces that only went up my shin, after school. "Your father has something to tell you." I pranced, excited in my early attachment to suburban animal husbandry. "Where's Squeally?" I queried, he was a big brown bastard about the size of a large Indian rat, similar to this, and kept the house up all night shrieking for a neighbor's female, white as a rat; whose idea this was, to let Squeally meet and scent the female, seemed to be a majority and vastly unwise consensus, because Squeally lived up to his fucking name. He shrieked after the neighbor took the female away and he wouldn't shut up. I loved Squeally. "Your father has something to tell you." And my father held a large brown paper bag, and there was Squeally in the bag with his wood chips, and beloved poppa held a funeral for Squeally for his Nanna, his poor Nanna for whom he hated his wife. It was an illegal and amusing Catholic service for our less intimidating rodent species, in our beautiful rancher with its half acre which is why I love my father, hate my mother, and would put progressives into labor camps. My only cherished moment in a bad marriage between a woman with Sophia Loren's beauty and a sick overwrought mind, shrewish tongue, and her Roman husband. My only good memory. Then I was abandoned, in a room with a bed. By the time I was released from this merciless regiment, purportedly for my own good, my mother was a divorced, hypersexualized slut who nearly killed and permanently damaged her children. She did kill my little brother, because he could not take the pain. Many American stories may be like this, but for me it never ceased, and this is why I cannot forget. Ray Bruno inserted himself in the middle of this. I don't know why, nor what he saw. My intellectual promise was enough? Not anymore, and it's why I hate the activists I came up with, why the cleanliness of dispensing with sick human bodies, those with no further redeeming value, is attractive, even pristine, as it relates to the shells of sapien humanity, like Erik von Schmetterling, the female who is more a Shakespearean horror figure than not, inexplicably linked to the sexual ambiguity of Macbeth's witches.
HUD believes in culling also. This is what the social safety net of liberal governance is about. Progressives want scarcity of resource to be concealed, and this is why I take the risks that I do. My tough little body may have another fifteen years, give or take; my independence does not. Shut me down if you wish. I intend to keep pushing. Nothing is perfect, but maybe as an end result we can start being more honest. The more complex administration of distribution becomes, the more flawed the regulatory enforcement is, and what I'm asking of my viewers is why I had to keep the medical model in business for all but perhaps a decade of my life if it is going to end the same way, in a room, with a bed, and a ventilator, maybe a catheter for end stage renal disease. We push empathy beyond the limits of where it should be, despite Hawking in his curious role of international shaman. I want real freedom in the little time I can still hold on my own, and to do that I need an Uber model, one willing to barter with poverty.
My mother took me off the bus in my smaller leg braces that only went up my shin, after school. "Your father has something to tell you." I pranced, excited in my early attachment to suburban animal husbandry. "Where's Squeally?" I queried, he was a big brown bastard about the size of a large Indian rat, similar to this, and kept the house up all night shrieking for a neighbor's female, white as a rat; whose idea this was, to let Squeally meet and scent the female, seemed to be a majority and vastly unwise consensus, because Squeally lived up to his fucking name. He shrieked after the neighbor took the female away and he wouldn't shut up. I loved Squeally. "Your father has something to tell you." And my father held a large brown paper bag, and there was Squeally in the bag with his wood chips, and beloved poppa held a funeral for Squeally for his Nanna, his poor Nanna for whom he hated his wife. It was an illegal and amusing Catholic service for our less intimidating rodent species, in our beautiful rancher with its half acre which is why I love my father, hate my mother, and would put progressives into labor camps. My only cherished moment in a bad marriage between a woman with Sophia Loren's beauty and a sick overwrought mind, shrewish tongue, and her Roman husband. My only good memory. Then I was abandoned, in a room with a bed. By the time I was released from this merciless regiment, purportedly for my own good, my mother was a divorced, hypersexualized slut who nearly killed and permanently damaged her children. She did kill my little brother, because he could not take the pain. Many American stories may be like this, but for me it never ceased, and this is why I cannot forget. Ray Bruno inserted himself in the middle of this. I don't know why, nor what he saw. My intellectual promise was enough? Not anymore, and it's why I hate the activists I came up with, why the cleanliness of dispensing with sick human bodies, those with no further redeeming value, is attractive, even pristine, as it relates to the shells of sapien humanity, like Erik von Schmetterling, the female who is more a Shakespearean horror figure than not, inexplicably linked to the sexual ambiguity of Macbeth's witches.
HUD believes in culling also. This is what the social safety net of liberal governance is about. Progressives want scarcity of resource to be concealed, and this is why I take the risks that I do. My tough little body may have another fifteen years, give or take; my independence does not. Shut me down if you wish. I intend to keep pushing. Nothing is perfect, but maybe as an end result we can start being more honest. The more complex administration of distribution becomes, the more flawed the regulatory enforcement is, and what I'm asking of my viewers is why I had to keep the medical model in business for all but perhaps a decade of my life if it is going to end the same way, in a room, with a bed, and a ventilator, maybe a catheter for end stage renal disease. We push empathy beyond the limits of where it should be, despite Hawking in his curious role of international shaman. I want real freedom in the little time I can still hold on my own, and to do that I need an Uber model, one willing to barter with poverty.
Thursday, February 26, 2015
Automation pacing
I signed up for trove.com and my brief struggle to understand has once again led to a critique about relevance. I quit.
I give up, and I'm throwing in the towel, because I don't even know what lack of relevance means when all I am doing is archiving articles. I'm going to surrender my rights next week, and let the state do what it wants with my wrenched frame. See you. (And no, I don't know if I'm sulking or serious, but canceled both my free trove account and my digital subscription to Wapo. I am a bit burned out and tired of the growing power of affirmative homosexuality, and whatever its divergence of viewpoints, Wapo's correspondents just gurgle with affirmative gay identity, which turns me purple because of my subordination to my former supervisor, so I have veered off of my push back against this tidal wave for the time being.)
I do not have healthy sexual fantasies anymore, but heavily redacted discussing this in detail because whatever the subversive nature of that lifelong masochism can be as droll as terrorism, which already has its own syntax in satirical diatribes.
I give up, and I'm throwing in the towel, because I don't even know what lack of relevance means when all I am doing is archiving articles. I'm going to surrender my rights next week, and let the state do what it wants with my wrenched frame. See you. (And no, I don't know if I'm sulking or serious, but canceled both my free trove account and my digital subscription to Wapo. I am a bit burned out and tired of the growing power of affirmative homosexuality, and whatever its divergence of viewpoints, Wapo's correspondents just gurgle with affirmative gay identity, which turns me purple because of my subordination to my former supervisor, so I have veered off of my push back against this tidal wave for the time being.)
I do not have healthy sexual fantasies anymore, but heavily redacted discussing this in detail because whatever the subversive nature of that lifelong masochism can be as droll as terrorism, which already has its own syntax in satirical diatribes.
Mimic
Blogger managed to frighten me, and I am still digesting it, as a prelude to the arc of my life ending exactly as it started, bodily functions constrained, wondering why viewers of my posts necessarily need to feel victorious in censoring a voice soon to fade regardless. Humanity knows it is in trouble, and power has shifted away from territorial governance to corporate control on a global scale, just as David Mitchell presaged it in Cloud Atlas, and just as the main catastrophe in the novel indicated, it won't really change that we're doomed to irrational repetition of conflicting interests, whether vengeance is refined through engineering efficiency or relegated to vulgarity, I am not certain I ever had a choice about my destiny, part failed scholar, part failed systems module, part semi-failed writer who cannot grasp everything, computer science being one topic of unfortunate illiteracy. Even if I desired comprehension, I could not grasp the complex aspects of circuitry and code, but understand the power it generates, and it scared me; I'm used to human censure, but not being wiped off search because I cause offense, or am considered irrelevant, or simply a provocateur.
Decorum would insist that I need not lift the curtains I do to prove a point, but I'm suggesting otherwise. We pay a price for sustaining people like me, especially when the judicial process cannot rectify the trauma which has to be necessarily absorbed. I am ignoring the health systems in place for that rather than seeking adequate treatment because mental health is a game of Russian roulette, and pharmaceuticals don't work. I learned this about intake long ago, just like prison, therapy is a cycle of recidivism by degree, and makes treating professionals themselves vulnerable, which liberal journalists ignore when they talk about crisis in services. There is no getting better for approximately a third of trauma clusters, only volume muting, and Google muted my volume, why?
The inferences? What I've insinuated about hate? Perhaps. I do not hate my ex-fiance in the traditional sense of domestic discord. I hate what he is, how the Bronx molded him, and hate how he lives, and how I live too. For my subjective intent, it isn't worth the price, which is why I engaged in an inappropriate social outreach and gave Tony Stiles my telephone number. His local notoriety doesn't mean anything to me personally except that it gives him a capacity I've lost in being vanquished so I took a chance, not really expecting that he'd oblige me with a reciprocal response as a knight in shining armor. I'm looking at a position for a health journalist, and I am not motivated, indecisive as to whether I should force myself to apply anyway. I'd rather become a dictator and overthrow a representative government, a brief and flaring bookend to my tortured legacy.
Decorum would insist that I need not lift the curtains I do to prove a point, but I'm suggesting otherwise. We pay a price for sustaining people like me, especially when the judicial process cannot rectify the trauma which has to be necessarily absorbed. I am ignoring the health systems in place for that rather than seeking adequate treatment because mental health is a game of Russian roulette, and pharmaceuticals don't work. I learned this about intake long ago, just like prison, therapy is a cycle of recidivism by degree, and makes treating professionals themselves vulnerable, which liberal journalists ignore when they talk about crisis in services. There is no getting better for approximately a third of trauma clusters, only volume muting, and Google muted my volume, why?
The inferences? What I've insinuated about hate? Perhaps. I do not hate my ex-fiance in the traditional sense of domestic discord. I hate what he is, how the Bronx molded him, and hate how he lives, and how I live too. For my subjective intent, it isn't worth the price, which is why I engaged in an inappropriate social outreach and gave Tony Stiles my telephone number. His local notoriety doesn't mean anything to me personally except that it gives him a capacity I've lost in being vanquished so I took a chance, not really expecting that he'd oblige me with a reciprocal response as a knight in shining armor. I'm looking at a position for a health journalist, and I am not motivated, indecisive as to whether I should force myself to apply anyway. I'd rather become a dictator and overthrow a representative government, a brief and flaring bookend to my tortured legacy.
Wednesday, February 25, 2015
When is it puree?
"They later reversed the policy." --Judy Woodruff on Facebook and beheading videos
Elonis v US brings together a number of tawdry elements which eventually leads to enlightenment in civil and criminal code, just as the Web is under no obligation to grant the indignation of my extensive disability and my forceful rhetoric tolerance: it is actually a reflection of my reality in the temporal world. I'm needy, and my oral stream is, can be, selfish absorption, but just as this is the case for me, so it is for Anthony Elonis-- but there are differences, and in the Elonis case, the difference is the real toll domestic violence, the possibility of it, inflicts on women, to a near universal degree, sans Janay Rice, versus Elonis need to act out with his impulse control issues (just as some of you may feel I simply derive pleasure from being malicious and have no redeeming value in my content, am far too eclectic, perhaps even nullifying, if you shouldn't be worried about my zealotry with age). Well, my hypothetical detractors have a point. Search is under no obligation to refer my content in the public domain if it is too negative. I can go back to my diary and publish a nihilist rant for kindle which would sell for nothing. Google, Poets & Writers, the literature forum, the NYT online book forum formerly with Mick Sussman which I really enjoyed and forget why I dared the emperor of American liberalism with a dirty ditty, starved as I am for fine discernment, all were within their rights, and Blogger has allowed me to throb, mostly, to its credit, because I've held at least a certain degree of puerile sentiment back, partly fear, partly the knowledge I have more ambition than that, and doing my best not to let my landlord roll me out in a straight jacket-- though it may eventually come to that.
Elonis, however, is simply puerile. But why does he need to do this on Mark Zuckerberg's digital interactive yearbook which has everyone's CV barring mine? He could write a private blog and invite other men to fantasy with semi-automatics. My outrage is due to the knowledge of my legal passivity: I was afraid to fight, one, and that a litigator would not help me, and secondly, I wasn't just screwed, I was royally so and everything in my present environment recollects it: Blogger let me find the courage to have a small effect, but what do we do when people who can take it in to their head to act if they are incited to do so? Mrs. Elonis has the right to her personal security, and bad systems that become intrenched, if targeted by violence, not only escalates tragedy, but escalates the fact that we need to teach each other about over reach. Progressives bear the brunt of my anger. They told me I could succeed and it is through hard won insight discovered that they are lying Stalinists, but the right gets some too. Property ownership is still more important than anything else-- we'll come back to this. People have the right to their rage, and to their intolerances even, and fantasies, but writing as therapy, on the merits, need not have absolute access to all platforms. I'd never write a project like this in an online yearbook-- and you don't have to read my posts when I feel a ventilation, not that I know what your kids think, though I can guess. I couldn't help laughing at Judy's language that evening. ISIS in the modern world is horrific, and ghoulishly macabre. It isn't the kind of diet we really need, however. We have the movies, and the right to bear arms.
Elonis v US brings together a number of tawdry elements which eventually leads to enlightenment in civil and criminal code, just as the Web is under no obligation to grant the indignation of my extensive disability and my forceful rhetoric tolerance: it is actually a reflection of my reality in the temporal world. I'm needy, and my oral stream is, can be, selfish absorption, but just as this is the case for me, so it is for Anthony Elonis-- but there are differences, and in the Elonis case, the difference is the real toll domestic violence, the possibility of it, inflicts on women, to a near universal degree, sans Janay Rice, versus Elonis need to act out with his impulse control issues (just as some of you may feel I simply derive pleasure from being malicious and have no redeeming value in my content, am far too eclectic, perhaps even nullifying, if you shouldn't be worried about my zealotry with age). Well, my hypothetical detractors have a point. Search is under no obligation to refer my content in the public domain if it is too negative. I can go back to my diary and publish a nihilist rant for kindle which would sell for nothing. Google, Poets & Writers, the literature forum, the NYT online book forum formerly with Mick Sussman which I really enjoyed and forget why I dared the emperor of American liberalism with a dirty ditty, starved as I am for fine discernment, all were within their rights, and Blogger has allowed me to throb, mostly, to its credit, because I've held at least a certain degree of puerile sentiment back, partly fear, partly the knowledge I have more ambition than that, and doing my best not to let my landlord roll me out in a straight jacket-- though it may eventually come to that.
Elonis, however, is simply puerile. But why does he need to do this on Mark Zuckerberg's digital interactive yearbook which has everyone's CV barring mine? He could write a private blog and invite other men to fantasy with semi-automatics. My outrage is due to the knowledge of my legal passivity: I was afraid to fight, one, and that a litigator would not help me, and secondly, I wasn't just screwed, I was royally so and everything in my present environment recollects it: Blogger let me find the courage to have a small effect, but what do we do when people who can take it in to their head to act if they are incited to do so? Mrs. Elonis has the right to her personal security, and bad systems that become intrenched, if targeted by violence, not only escalates tragedy, but escalates the fact that we need to teach each other about over reach. Progressives bear the brunt of my anger. They told me I could succeed and it is through hard won insight discovered that they are lying Stalinists, but the right gets some too. Property ownership is still more important than anything else-- we'll come back to this. People have the right to their rage, and to their intolerances even, and fantasies, but writing as therapy, on the merits, need not have absolute access to all platforms. I'd never write a project like this in an online yearbook-- and you don't have to read my posts when I feel a ventilation, not that I know what your kids think, though I can guess. I couldn't help laughing at Judy's language that evening. ISIS in the modern world is horrific, and ghoulishly macabre. It isn't the kind of diet we really need, however. We have the movies, and the right to bear arms.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Exodus Shambhala
Naturalists who want sentimentalists to wise up to the fact that lions and tigers and leopards are not house pets tend to make analogies to human psychiatry. Big cats are psychopaths, will kill you and think nothing of it, and it is old women divested of children who will rampage to see these creatures gunned down through a scope, but this anthropomorphic realism is as erroneous as the grafting of felines into our maternal drives as the non-human child, once removed: Mammals evolved to hunt are not psychopaths, even if the lion will groom you in affection at 9:02 AM and lacerate your jugular at 9:06 AM. Their brains are not configured like apes, but they are capable of attachment, and not as predictable as what wildlife footage teaches us, but I am giving up the pet children I've reared since I was in eighth grade.
I am on self-destruct through divestment, and it is all I can do not to give my notice to the office this morning. Contacted vet recommended by ailing Casse so long ago. I'm leaving, because I'm sick of idling train engines. Will I get very far? Not likely. Will I survive?
I do not know, but even technically releasing myself from captivity lightens me just enough to memoir the plenitude of joy I felt, a long time ago, giving spirit up to the divine, always in a bargain or negotiation, despite prohibitions against that. I blamed God, and if I was going to do that, it was best to relegate deity to the comic strip. I have to leave. I know it's worse in thousands of areas and I will probably wind up in a holding cell, infected by my own fecal matter, but I want the ability to make my own choices restored to me, and moving to Riverside was not a choice I made voluntarily. Diamond Park was a choice, a choice that imprinted me with toxic stress, but going from a dungeon to a jailer once removed is not living. Maybe the web will help, maybe it won't, but one way or another, I'm departing.
I am on self-destruct through divestment, and it is all I can do not to give my notice to the office this morning. Contacted vet recommended by ailing Casse so long ago. I'm leaving, because I'm sick of idling train engines. Will I get very far? Not likely. Will I survive?
I do not know, but even technically releasing myself from captivity lightens me just enough to memoir the plenitude of joy I felt, a long time ago, giving spirit up to the divine, always in a bargain or negotiation, despite prohibitions against that. I blamed God, and if I was going to do that, it was best to relegate deity to the comic strip. I have to leave. I know it's worse in thousands of areas and I will probably wind up in a holding cell, infected by my own fecal matter, but I want the ability to make my own choices restored to me, and moving to Riverside was not a choice I made voluntarily. Diamond Park was a choice, a choice that imprinted me with toxic stress, but going from a dungeon to a jailer once removed is not living. Maybe the web will help, maybe it won't, but one way or another, I'm departing.
Monday, February 23, 2015
The voice of old aunts
Everything is my fault. Marie's brittle contralto in my head, my frustration glancing her brittle skeleton, for lack of any other supports, including Karina's disappearance, the younger urban variation on my Ridley Park neighbors. What I had hoped, despite my intuitive sense of her capriciousness, and my displeasure with her inability to check with me first, was that she'd help me get out, despite the fact that I dismissed her. And our last conversation was about her schedule overwhelming her, my silent impactiom symptoms overwhelming me, and our haphazard rapprochement then snapped, with whatever trek she was doing, and then Frank, who cannot help me. I do not consider my follower Ed a friend, although he might have been had I been part of a couple; still, I want nothing more than to bring my sojourn with Presbyterian Homes to an end, and let the underclass finish me off, if I'm weak enough to be finished off, as opposed to setting off a chain of events, like Peter Gallagher in the Underneath.
He isn't afraid to take chances with a crippling ineptitude with that distinctive face, Gallagher, with the breadth of those eyebrows and mouth, everyone caught in the lattice of betrayal his emotionally warped character initiates, in a switch and bait plot. An old geezer from Sidney Hill, a building worse than this, asked me the salient question, "What about a job/"
Not unreasonable. If I want a fresh environment, go through another 40 interviews-- but I'm not the woman Daniel Raudenbush hired away from Liberty Resources; I'd have to scramble for references, and another failure, if I was accepted somewhere, would cause me more grief with Social Security, my bouncing on and off their rolls like a wildly oscillating EKG with a long flatline. I'm stuck in a bad place, and only have worse, and this isn't what I want; I've done nothing to deserve to be here, nothing, except to believe I could handle the ferrous iron rust of American indigence. If I give up, Google won't have anything to worry about in the jagged edges of dowager's voice. People in nursing homes don't get blog accounts.
He isn't afraid to take chances with a crippling ineptitude with that distinctive face, Gallagher, with the breadth of those eyebrows and mouth, everyone caught in the lattice of betrayal his emotionally warped character initiates, in a switch and bait plot. An old geezer from Sidney Hill, a building worse than this, asked me the salient question, "What about a job/"
Not unreasonable. If I want a fresh environment, go through another 40 interviews-- but I'm not the woman Daniel Raudenbush hired away from Liberty Resources; I'd have to scramble for references, and another failure, if I was accepted somewhere, would cause me more grief with Social Security, my bouncing on and off their rolls like a wildly oscillating EKG with a long flatline. I'm stuck in a bad place, and only have worse, and this isn't what I want; I've done nothing to deserve to be here, nothing, except to believe I could handle the ferrous iron rust of American indigence. If I give up, Google won't have anything to worry about in the jagged edges of dowager's voice. People in nursing homes don't get blog accounts.
From the beginning
When I transferred from LiveJournal to Blogger in 2009, I stated, implicitly, that I would not link to any graphic pornography, and I have been faithful to that assertion, however many suburban families I may have offended. I have been explicit in the content of my posts, discuss psychopathy, but I do not link to anything graphic. My warning fag may not be enough, however, and Blogger seems intent on taking my voice, as it is, out of the public domain. I can't fight Google, especially as direct contact with the company is difficult. I telephoned CS a few times about AdSense when I still had the money to invest, and still couldn't reach anyone.
In essence, the inequality I am living as a resident of Philadelphia is beginning to reflect itself in online paywalls which I do not have the funds to penetrate, and if Blogger forces my posts to go private, what is the point? I am not quite sure how the new policy will affect this domain, just yet, but this is six years os my life, the depletion of my savings, the twilight of a disabled woman's not really so matriculated integration into the full fabric of American society. and buying my domain no doubt wouldn't resolve the issue. I have looked into other sites which all pretty much say the same thing. Freedom of expression is fine as long as it doesn't incite, express hate, advocate violence, and we're not responsible for anyone's content.
Yet, when Dorner was still alive and I expressed my psychological alliance, my content was reported, and Blogger left things alone, although I have been frank about my disillusion with a legal framework that cannot repair the considerable damage done to me as a quadriplegic who wanted to make good. I'm not sure where this leaves things.
Like anyone, my ability to be independent is contingent, and I have focused intently on Liberty Resources and public housing, between the lines, because the system has a chronic illness, which will go terminal if people stop paying attention; nevertheless, it's closing in on me, and it isn't fair, and I refuse to submit.
In essence, the inequality I am living as a resident of Philadelphia is beginning to reflect itself in online paywalls which I do not have the funds to penetrate, and if Blogger forces my posts to go private, what is the point? I am not quite sure how the new policy will affect this domain, just yet, but this is six years os my life, the depletion of my savings, the twilight of a disabled woman's not really so matriculated integration into the full fabric of American society. and buying my domain no doubt wouldn't resolve the issue. I have looked into other sites which all pretty much say the same thing. Freedom of expression is fine as long as it doesn't incite, express hate, advocate violence, and we're not responsible for anyone's content.
Yet, when Dorner was still alive and I expressed my psychological alliance, my content was reported, and Blogger left things alone, although I have been frank about my disillusion with a legal framework that cannot repair the considerable damage done to me as a quadriplegic who wanted to make good. I'm not sure where this leaves things.
Like anyone, my ability to be independent is contingent, and I have focused intently on Liberty Resources and public housing, between the lines, because the system has a chronic illness, which will go terminal if people stop paying attention; nevertheless, it's closing in on me, and it isn't fair, and I refuse to submit.
Sunday, February 22, 2015
Hippocampus Bridge To Janus
"But the real fierceness of desire, the real heat of a passion long continued and withering up the soul of a man is the craving for identity with the woman that he loves. He desires to see with the same eyes, to touch with the same sense of touch, to hear with the same ears." -- The Good Solder, loc. 1411
Well, okay. This is the website of Bianca Spriggs, and you never know why an editor will or won't take something. Allison Joseph and her team pay 25 dollars a page for non-fiction, over at Crab Orchard, and they struggled with "Crime Fighter Feline". Whereas Bianca *saw* my thematic intent toward expendable classes. I respect the fact she gave me the space, but exposure means jack shit unless you can capitalize and lock into a career, and I'm jammed on the issue of accreditation, although I could stretch the truth enough to get my foot in to a paying editorial position. Ms. Spriggs may have thought my curious memoir essay was a disillusioned riff on the mild side of Henry Miller; perhaps it was, but in another vein it could just have easily been about the evolution of a hard liner. She decided to publish it, and I decided not to look at myself too closely in the mirror, as it represented my first byline since 08. It could also represent adversaries keeping an open dialogue, as I'm nearly positive Bianca is a champion for progressive victory, as much as I've swung my stern to port on the Rhine-- but consider this an opening salvo for me to clarify messy reactionism surrounding ethnicity. Allison Joseph is, after all, an African American studies specialist in the vein of Sonia Sanchez, who I know slightly, enough to greet her on campus with smiles like flavored icicles, and maybe Allison's detection meter was discomfited by my ambiguity. Who knows? But Crab's byline would have had better market value, so you see, I'm trying to convey something about how we look at each other across the table.
My damage cannot be underdone, sadly, but what I am dealing with here is black power within the system: Why listen to someone like me if I deliberately skirt the cliff face of American segregation with provocative overtones?
Not that it is a question I'm prepared to answer this morning, though Dr. Sanchez cemented Cosby's stellar monarchy when he gave her a segment to read on The Cosby Show.
...
I need to find a place to stay, temporarily, within 6 weeks. This is me. If I do not leave Riverside Presbyterian, there will be hell to pay, and in essence, I am fucked, since I need people to help me pack, have to find them, get a storage unit, and beg a Mormon for mercy or what. I've read they will take a chance and help the fallen, but I am rabid and agree with Hitch that Joseph Smith was the wrong kind of anarchist and deserves to be pilloried. I have to get out of this building, and have to do it now.
Well, okay. This is the website of Bianca Spriggs, and you never know why an editor will or won't take something. Allison Joseph and her team pay 25 dollars a page for non-fiction, over at Crab Orchard, and they struggled with "Crime Fighter Feline". Whereas Bianca *saw* my thematic intent toward expendable classes. I respect the fact she gave me the space, but exposure means jack shit unless you can capitalize and lock into a career, and I'm jammed on the issue of accreditation, although I could stretch the truth enough to get my foot in to a paying editorial position. Ms. Spriggs may have thought my curious memoir essay was a disillusioned riff on the mild side of Henry Miller; perhaps it was, but in another vein it could just have easily been about the evolution of a hard liner. She decided to publish it, and I decided not to look at myself too closely in the mirror, as it represented my first byline since 08. It could also represent adversaries keeping an open dialogue, as I'm nearly positive Bianca is a champion for progressive victory, as much as I've swung my stern to port on the Rhine-- but consider this an opening salvo for me to clarify messy reactionism surrounding ethnicity. Allison Joseph is, after all, an African American studies specialist in the vein of Sonia Sanchez, who I know slightly, enough to greet her on campus with smiles like flavored icicles, and maybe Allison's detection meter was discomfited by my ambiguity. Who knows? But Crab's byline would have had better market value, so you see, I'm trying to convey something about how we look at each other across the table.
My damage cannot be underdone, sadly, but what I am dealing with here is black power within the system: Why listen to someone like me if I deliberately skirt the cliff face of American segregation with provocative overtones?
Not that it is a question I'm prepared to answer this morning, though Dr. Sanchez cemented Cosby's stellar monarchy when he gave her a segment to read on The Cosby Show.
...
I need to find a place to stay, temporarily, within 6 weeks. This is me. If I do not leave Riverside Presbyterian, there will be hell to pay, and in essence, I am fucked, since I need people to help me pack, have to find them, get a storage unit, and beg a Mormon for mercy or what. I've read they will take a chance and help the fallen, but I am rabid and agree with Hitch that Joseph Smith was the wrong kind of anarchist and deserves to be pilloried. I have to get out of this building, and have to do it now.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Guillero del Toro knows better than a cousin
del Toro's 1997 Mimic isn't worth a great deal of time to spend on, and the studio system realized this by producing the sequels direct to DVD, but it is worth mentioning in terms of how American social anxieties evolve. Just as in The Exorcist, del Toro holds the audience with a minister being consumed, and while it might be a demon doing the killing, it is instead a super insect genetically engineered by an entomologist trying to combat a pathogen taking out your children, your blessed future.
Here, as in every New York City film, Dutton is the good tough love cop, whose class tensions with white over-educated liberals are resolved due to united combat against a human manufactured threat,
Giancarlo Giannini developing an interesting if fleeting niche as the world weary European slated for elimination, since he does this against Hopkins playing Hannibal as well, but the problem with the movie is del Toro is stuck with his fly open between convention and taking himself seriously, and can't pull it off. The special child only recognizes that giant insects are inhabiting dangerous abandoned places, and is not killed by the females for reasons we cannot fathom, other than the graphic murder of children is a last wavering line imagists aren't allowed to cross. It always occurs off camera, and if you look at old formula westerns, they did not lack for viciousness despite the two dimensional nature of the scripts. The villain took the Colt prop and killed a wailing baby, if necessary. All the strange child offers in Mimic is the driven sense of urgency. Guillero tapped the right vein; the elements brought to bear on it weren't cohesive enough.
Here, as in every New York City film, Dutton is the good tough love cop, whose class tensions with white over-educated liberals are resolved due to united combat against a human manufactured threat,
Giancarlo Giannini developing an interesting if fleeting niche as the world weary European slated for elimination, since he does this against Hopkins playing Hannibal as well, but the problem with the movie is del Toro is stuck with his fly open between convention and taking himself seriously, and can't pull it off. The special child only recognizes that giant insects are inhabiting dangerous abandoned places, and is not killed by the females for reasons we cannot fathom, other than the graphic murder of children is a last wavering line imagists aren't allowed to cross. It always occurs off camera, and if you look at old formula westerns, they did not lack for viciousness despite the two dimensional nature of the scripts. The villain took the Colt prop and killed a wailing baby, if necessary. All the strange child offers in Mimic is the driven sense of urgency. Guillero tapped the right vein; the elements brought to bear on it weren't cohesive enough.
Comfort in the Alignment of the Fifth Column
"I lost interest around the age of 84."--Vladimir Sokoloff, seamless cultural appropriation at the height of international tensions.
The Magnificent Seven utilizes a fairly structuralist approach to deconstruct libertarian individualism against the unsung glories of collective necessity. Sturges was a product of his times, and movie stars on a set could safely educate a young aspirant, embodied in the hot-blooded youth of Chico, that the number of bodies on your gun (read celebrity) carries a price which layers compassion in tanned leather. Why four of the gunmen die while the initial heroes who braved irrational prejudices simply to give a man a decent burial isn't all that difficult for the viewer to grasp. Yul Brynner and Steve McQueen do not buckle, conveniently dying of cancer before they could be pillaged by over-hyped social media tools. Colburn, Bronson, Dexter, and Vaughn had to convey intrinsic character flaws, and their death scenes complete their arc. Vaughn's stagy projection of battle fatigue is not performed without exaggeration, though perhaps a critic cannot be too harsh against the demands of the indigenous for succor if the privileged product of neo-imperialism ramps up his dramatic stresses. Vaughn does a better job with existential absurdity in The Bridge at Remagen, which the dowager reviewed at Niume, which appears to be cached under Medium's paywall umbrella. When Medium made it's initial launch, one of its contributors suggested that publishing companies were "afraid" of it, but Ev's brainchild has had to fall back on a centuries old idea: subscription. I certainly cannot afford it, though I still have an active account.
In Remagen, Vaughn is trying to rescue Germany from the left's extremes, and the disabled citizens under his command are all but ghosts as the Allies advance. How much better then, to have one last swan song under the tried and true verities of Dick Wolf's formula. Vaughn would be dead within a year of filming his part in December Solstice, from acute leukemia, much like Roy Scheider's better contrived end game in Criminal Intent. The legality surrounding December Solstice is silly. Vaughn last appearance in an online video would have stopped any real life ADA from proceeding to trial against an aging literary "figure" and his trophy wife, echoing Morrie Schwartz in near perfect imitation in regard to nurses wiping our ass. Peter Scanavino, as Carisi, is handed the coda, the tributary laurel of an admirer, paying homage to an era that closed with Sturges's seminal classic. Scripture says rather fabulously that the meek shall inherit the earth. This means, in actuality, overwhelming it against its strivers that made civilization possible for a burgeoning population.
The Magnificent Seven utilizes a fairly structuralist approach to deconstruct libertarian individualism against the unsung glories of collective necessity. Sturges was a product of his times, and movie stars on a set could safely educate a young aspirant, embodied in the hot-blooded youth of Chico, that the number of bodies on your gun (read celebrity) carries a price which layers compassion in tanned leather. Why four of the gunmen die while the initial heroes who braved irrational prejudices simply to give a man a decent burial isn't all that difficult for the viewer to grasp. Yul Brynner and Steve McQueen do not buckle, conveniently dying of cancer before they could be pillaged by over-hyped social media tools. Colburn, Bronson, Dexter, and Vaughn had to convey intrinsic character flaws, and their death scenes complete their arc. Vaughn's stagy projection of battle fatigue is not performed without exaggeration, though perhaps a critic cannot be too harsh against the demands of the indigenous for succor if the privileged product of neo-imperialism ramps up his dramatic stresses. Vaughn does a better job with existential absurdity in The Bridge at Remagen, which the dowager reviewed at Niume, which appears to be cached under Medium's paywall umbrella. When Medium made it's initial launch, one of its contributors suggested that publishing companies were "afraid" of it, but Ev's brainchild has had to fall back on a centuries old idea: subscription. I certainly cannot afford it, though I still have an active account.
Cirrhosis From The Crypt
"You never know how much of the journey you will travel alone."-- Marthe Keller as Anushka
“Yes,” it was noted while watching “A Woman Under The Influence,” the corresponding lack of judgement embedded in Cassavetes’s directorial captures is to some degree echoed by John McNaughton in Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, which was released for distribution scarcely sixteen years after this very seventies expose about a blue collar family under duress, essentially excavated for the sympathetic viewer, and only one year after Rowlands buried her iconoclastic other half, curiously enough. There is a correspondence in the focus of the camera between how Rowlands unravels for her directorial partner, and how McNaughton focuses on Michael Rooker as a feral, predatory apex male who makes torture an aesthetic dialogue, although the actual Henry Lee Lucas wasn’t so grandiose or magnetic; the authentic convict, one suspects, was a dungaree rugged bullshit artist. There is another biopic about Lucas entitled Drifter, a rare catch on an adjunct channel called Through The Decades, more traditional in its approach than McNaughton’s effort to offer us up a seminal perspective, where the actor portraying Lucas was more or less a grease monkey giving the Rangers who apprehended him a run for the taxpayer’s money, and this Henry is perhaps more accurately drawn than Rooker’s. Less art for the sake of more factual realism, but Michael Rooker’s Henry functions more like a draught horse sadist, offering up just as much conversation with Otis and Becky as necessary. The salaried critical class is also correct in its consensus that McNaughton’s overall exposure of bottom barrel sordidness is uneven. At times he offers up a compelling look at torture as expressionistic, then veering into the camp of a typical horror film. The death of Otis almost knocks the viewer off script, as such. Cassavetes is more disciplined with his composite of Mabel in 1974, and although both films are treating different subject matter, the lead characters are similarly alienated, lousy in their judgement calls, and the world built upon their templates is a liberal world in paralysis. I am also much less sympathetic to Rowlands in her interpretation of Mabel than the Widescreenings examination which focuses on “Influence” within its generational mode, as it should be. We need appreciation of signature independence, but let’s cut to the chase: Rowlands, in spite of her Welsh background, is playing a Jewish princess against Falk, in his ethnic convolutions to sustain his premiere status, as the hyperbolic husband, and furls around in slightly too kittenish fashion, in a type of prelude to One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. Cassavetes certainly has trace elements of anticipation for the much more powerful Nicholson movie, but he abstracts and collapses Mabel’s sufferance because his story is about the family and community in a concentric circle around that emotional pain. What do we expect of this dramaturgy, when all is said and done?
I have always treated Cassavetes with the same degree of reverential shellac which is comparable to what Ingmar Bergman receives from Sweden, but the old man who gets his insatiable repressions burst by Amy Irving in The Fury is little different than the parodied cripple in Rosemary's Baby of yesteryear. Wry and florid bemusement has little place in the endemic civilization the Carter administration left behind, even when there's nothing we can do.
Of relating to secretion
"No human being has the right to own another."-- John Phillip Law, a progressive magical realist
What does a film like The Fury bring to the table? It puts the restraint of caste on the working class hysteria which Stephen King wrought fairly well in Carrie. In the "me" decade, liberalism was in a virtual stampede toward all the ills that made the US into "the Great Satan" and movies tapped into that underlying anxiety of forsaking god and hierarchy. The Exorcist had a subterranean dimmer effect on the liberated woman, just as the Omen suggested Kennedy's assassination may have been the beginning of the end. Carrie exposed misogyny as a corrosive disaster, and De Palma upgraded it just a bit, gave ESP a certain hauteur, allowing the audience to snigger at the military industrial complex, the Saudi family no more than obliquely referenced. People gave credence to extra sensory perception. Rod Serling used it as a scientific method to try to keep Night Gallery alive, my diet of ad hoc camp, which upon reflection is simply the stuff of silly. De Palma did not need Christianity as an apologia, like those which came before it, and dispenses with it in Durning's litany of awe for telekinesis. Who needs the supernatural when being human is enough of an inexplicable frustration? Andrew Stevens Robin has a petulance which is off key in comparison to Douglas and Cassavetes' playful bouncing ball as industry elders, one to die in his cirrhosis mystique, the other regressing into his amazing second childhood. Kirk's life nearly spans the history of cinema itself, and the definitions he carried with such a razor's edge in his post war films, by 78, are ridiculed, even impotent; there is a subtext in The Fury that masculine definition is under significant threat, but excusing Stevens not offering more subtly to his tantrum, we were worried about turning ourselves into weapons of mass destruction, something Sacks attempted to mitigate, going into neurology. I do not know how many of you may have read Christopher Hitchens series in Vanity Fair on dying. Hitchens pieces carry an undercurrent of a smoker's corrosive guilt. Sacks is sanguine, and as is typical, concentric in the focus of his fortune life, putting himself at the service of the damned.
If there is a perspective on terminal illness and mortality I have not read in over forty years of literacy, perhaps it is in Sanskrit.
What does a film like The Fury bring to the table? It puts the restraint of caste on the working class hysteria which Stephen King wrought fairly well in Carrie. In the "me" decade, liberalism was in a virtual stampede toward all the ills that made the US into "the Great Satan" and movies tapped into that underlying anxiety of forsaking god and hierarchy. The Exorcist had a subterranean dimmer effect on the liberated woman, just as the Omen suggested Kennedy's assassination may have been the beginning of the end. Carrie exposed misogyny as a corrosive disaster, and De Palma upgraded it just a bit, gave ESP a certain hauteur, allowing the audience to snigger at the military industrial complex, the Saudi family no more than obliquely referenced. People gave credence to extra sensory perception. Rod Serling used it as a scientific method to try to keep Night Gallery alive, my diet of ad hoc camp, which upon reflection is simply the stuff of silly. De Palma did not need Christianity as an apologia, like those which came before it, and dispenses with it in Durning's litany of awe for telekinesis. Who needs the supernatural when being human is enough of an inexplicable frustration? Andrew Stevens Robin has a petulance which is off key in comparison to Douglas and Cassavetes' playful bouncing ball as industry elders, one to die in his cirrhosis mystique, the other regressing into his amazing second childhood. Kirk's life nearly spans the history of cinema itself, and the definitions he carried with such a razor's edge in his post war films, by 78, are ridiculed, even impotent; there is a subtext in The Fury that masculine definition is under significant threat, but excusing Stevens not offering more subtly to his tantrum, we were worried about turning ourselves into weapons of mass destruction, something Sacks attempted to mitigate, going into neurology. I do not know how many of you may have read Christopher Hitchens series in Vanity Fair on dying. Hitchens pieces carry an undercurrent of a smoker's corrosive guilt. Sacks is sanguine, and as is typical, concentric in the focus of his fortune life, putting himself at the service of the damned.
If there is a perspective on terminal illness and mortality I have not read in over forty years of literacy, perhaps it is in Sanskrit.
Free Kiev
But tonight I would like to address my remarks particularly to this city and particularly to the Ukraine--a city and a republic that has meant so much to the Soviet Union and so much to the world, Richard Nixon.
Diffidence. The sole follower of my blog and I accidentally bumped into each other at the mail slots, and said the normal random things people say, my primary worry driving out in the frigid cold, and my ex, poor Frank, modern serf if there ever was, informed me his incestuous issue had a heart attack, and I'm guilty of glib indifference, and thus, if I can be so self-aware of how cold I am, how can I expect anyone on social media to lend me a hand? Whatever you read of the intelligence, the retrenched white hot anger, you'd look at me, see emotional wounds in my eyes, straggly hair, need for better grooming, look away, feel pity, dehumanize, wonder how my teeth became so damaged, and then, we have the massive liberal wailing over Rudy's jingoism. Some of us understand what Guiliani was saying, in translation: Barack Obama is thoroughly infused with a multiculturalism which is ill suited for the sovereign head of the United States, but he did it in a reactionary way that isn't being nice to those of mixed race socialist heritage. I don't think anyone would disagree that Obama's mother made herself an outcast, and by some miracle her boy navigated this without turning into inner city refuse. I'm the one who managed that, so accept my lot and shut the fuck up already.
Let me save some of you some time: I am no longer a patriot, and within reason, I am allowed to express this. I think our two party system has finished its course and no longer truly amounts to anything. We nominate centrists and essentially choose which moderate we like best on center right or center left. And I only have one image of Hillary Clinton when she was the first lady of Arkansas. Her hair was shoulder length, held in place by a black headband, while she was assuring a national interviewer that Jennifer Flowers "was just a friend."
I can know nothing else about the Clintons, but know that this duplicity speaks volumes about the limits of political representation, and I am that very rare thing: a violent brain damaged female who frightens patrician sensibilities, driven off from a number of online communities, not an easy thing, because I should be medicated. A helpless anarchist, but an anarchist none the less. I don't believe raping women is an effective intimidation tactic, and therein lies the difference between an Isis recruit and myself.
Am I really that hard? I am not the only disabled American who has been disenfranchised, not the only victim of crime and abuse, but with my enemies, probably. I've reached a place where I'd like them to feel what it is like, to be trapped in a senior living home because of one defiant choice when you were 23, stabbed in the back by activists you thought you could trust, and a Puerto Rican Italian man who should be dead, who is a living symbol of how health care is bankrupting the fucking country and dragging me down because there are no resources to spare to give me a better outcome, all I can feel about his son's insatiable ability to impregnate his idiot genes into women is that his heart attack serves him right. Therein is exactly what happened to my humanity.
Diffidence. The sole follower of my blog and I accidentally bumped into each other at the mail slots, and said the normal random things people say, my primary worry driving out in the frigid cold, and my ex, poor Frank, modern serf if there ever was, informed me his incestuous issue had a heart attack, and I'm guilty of glib indifference, and thus, if I can be so self-aware of how cold I am, how can I expect anyone on social media to lend me a hand? Whatever you read of the intelligence, the retrenched white hot anger, you'd look at me, see emotional wounds in my eyes, straggly hair, need for better grooming, look away, feel pity, dehumanize, wonder how my teeth became so damaged, and then, we have the massive liberal wailing over Rudy's jingoism. Some of us understand what Guiliani was saying, in translation: Barack Obama is thoroughly infused with a multiculturalism which is ill suited for the sovereign head of the United States, but he did it in a reactionary way that isn't being nice to those of mixed race socialist heritage. I don't think anyone would disagree that Obama's mother made herself an outcast, and by some miracle her boy navigated this without turning into inner city refuse. I'm the one who managed that, so accept my lot and shut the fuck up already.
Let me save some of you some time: I am no longer a patriot, and within reason, I am allowed to express this. I think our two party system has finished its course and no longer truly amounts to anything. We nominate centrists and essentially choose which moderate we like best on center right or center left. And I only have one image of Hillary Clinton when she was the first lady of Arkansas. Her hair was shoulder length, held in place by a black headband, while she was assuring a national interviewer that Jennifer Flowers "was just a friend."
I can know nothing else about the Clintons, but know that this duplicity speaks volumes about the limits of political representation, and I am that very rare thing: a violent brain damaged female who frightens patrician sensibilities, driven off from a number of online communities, not an easy thing, because I should be medicated. A helpless anarchist, but an anarchist none the less. I don't believe raping women is an effective intimidation tactic, and therein lies the difference between an Isis recruit and myself.
Am I really that hard? I am not the only disabled American who has been disenfranchised, not the only victim of crime and abuse, but with my enemies, probably. I've reached a place where I'd like them to feel what it is like, to be trapped in a senior living home because of one defiant choice when you were 23, stabbed in the back by activists you thought you could trust, and a Puerto Rican Italian man who should be dead, who is a living symbol of how health care is bankrupting the fucking country and dragging me down because there are no resources to spare to give me a better outcome, all I can feel about his son's insatiable ability to impregnate his idiot genes into women is that his heart attack serves him right. Therein is exactly what happened to my humanity.
Thursday, February 19, 2015
Candied Camera
"My experience as a lawyer and a judge is that you listen to all the testimony and then you try to determine the motivation for the one that is not telling the truth." Senator Heflin via Anita Hill.
Scandal seems to be necessary if only due to the fact that we're half-assed primates who believe we control the universe but conveniently ignore that fact that it remains a challenge for seven billion people to shit on decent toilet bowls, so when I ask myself if I am being disingenuous in following Bobbi Kristina's potential expiration, the answer is yes, but no more so than the reporter who cobbled together the piece: I'm two faced, but I also exist on this earth because my surviving grandmother did not institutionalize the woman who bore me, who hooked up with my father, according to Aunt Mary, to avoid matricide, and the end result was my mother institutionalized two children in her stead. Whitney Houston, husband, daughter, cable reality show, recall the unseemliness of Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas, in my misfortune to have watched those hearings. Joseph Biden bellowed like a bull elephant, perhaps unable to convey without destroying his political career, that hearsay is not a disqualification for conservative minorities.
I am not sure how I survived the psychic familial scars. Maybe I did not suicide because I could not; maybe my sexual drives went into latching onto teachers, but as you grow older, do not have a sustaining social structure, it grows harder. Houston and then Bobbi may not have cared to reach out, mentor, the way primates of status usually do, but that was the route I took, burning myself to a crisp. And as I physically weaken, I am not sure how much I can continue to absorb.
I had a history teacher, the one whose name I haven't yet typed, Raymond Bruno. He was suave, 180 degrees a conservative to the latter day Jerry McGuire's liberalism, and I did something bad to Ray, as his student, and threatened something in one of my teeming epistles. I cannot remember what, but remember that he was furious with me, because he cared. My crush on him finally ending when I found the new obsessions, I wanted to marry Ray Bruno too; wish I had. At one point he suggested I had an Electra Complex. An accurate foretaste of my future. Our narcissism of suffering, black or white, needs re-examination.
Scandal seems to be necessary if only due to the fact that we're half-assed primates who believe we control the universe but conveniently ignore that fact that it remains a challenge for seven billion people to shit on decent toilet bowls, so when I ask myself if I am being disingenuous in following Bobbi Kristina's potential expiration, the answer is yes, but no more so than the reporter who cobbled together the piece: I'm two faced, but I also exist on this earth because my surviving grandmother did not institutionalize the woman who bore me, who hooked up with my father, according to Aunt Mary, to avoid matricide, and the end result was my mother institutionalized two children in her stead. Whitney Houston, husband, daughter, cable reality show, recall the unseemliness of Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas, in my misfortune to have watched those hearings. Joseph Biden bellowed like a bull elephant, perhaps unable to convey without destroying his political career, that hearsay is not a disqualification for conservative minorities.
I am not sure how I survived the psychic familial scars. Maybe I did not suicide because I could not; maybe my sexual drives went into latching onto teachers, but as you grow older, do not have a sustaining social structure, it grows harder. Houston and then Bobbi may not have cared to reach out, mentor, the way primates of status usually do, but that was the route I took, burning myself to a crisp. And as I physically weaken, I am not sure how much I can continue to absorb.
I had a history teacher, the one whose name I haven't yet typed, Raymond Bruno. He was suave, 180 degrees a conservative to the latter day Jerry McGuire's liberalism, and I did something bad to Ray, as his student, and threatened something in one of my teeming epistles. I cannot remember what, but remember that he was furious with me, because he cared. My crush on him finally ending when I found the new obsessions, I wanted to marry Ray Bruno too; wish I had. At one point he suggested I had an Electra Complex. An accurate foretaste of my future. Our narcissism of suffering, black or white, needs re-examination.
Monday, February 16, 2015
Vanities
I have not self-published a manuscript to kindle yet. I do not feel quite confident enough to do so, and do not know if I should, nor what I'm even worth, be it as a poet or columnist. I am also not sure how to ask advice of anyone who has self-published through Amazon's distribution model. I've read complaints on the Good Reads site about delayed commissions, but I only ever had a problem with one Amazon seller, long ago, before I understood how the retail giant is an Intranet unto itself, partnering with other businesses. I have always received payments promptly, however.
I have, this after 34 years as creative writer later journalist, one, mind you, one poetry manuscript of strongest work about ready to go, and I will not tell you how much money I've lost on contest fees and contributor copy support, I who cannot afford to enter all that many to begin with, over the years, with this one manuscript always ready to go, but I've now slowly developed a rhythm for electronic submissions, finally found formula, as it were, even if, my sorry slaving for Examiner aside, my most powerful essay on urban poverty I gave away to a woman named Bianca for her Appalachian area journal which I haven't yet added to my CV because yours truly doesn't know what Karina K did with my contributor copy, and I cannot get this Karina K back on the phone, and the one editor who liked my deaf pitch before that, I failed. And this is the stuff who opines for legacy media, with a select hit list for disabled members of the Philadelphia activist community, except for the fact that I've been published in established media, but not lately, since I am Anthony Elonis with a sometimes more insidious, or entertaining menace, not quite so puerile.
No husband to murder, and my scar tissue has throbbed on past my long ago supervisor's departure, c'est pas? I haven't read Elonis's posts. I suppose he reads like ISIS in an inflammatory state, but if he was writing his *puerile* invective against wife in a journal on paper, would we be here? I am as savage as he is on my bad days, teetering precariously toward brutal, and I mean brutal, institutional indigence. Barring a miracle, I know exactly how much control a nursing home will impose on me if I go from section 202 housing into a Medicaid home. I've lived it and earned a living from it. Established journalists even publish about it these days, and we take out the violins. I very seriously do not want my remaining years to linger in such a circumscribed fashion, and I'm back to submitting poems again, after all this time. I am a fool people, to let a resource center which was never very good to begin with, cause me so much damage, not as if the system offers disability entitlement recipients all that many options.
I have, this after 34 years as creative writer later journalist, one, mind you, one poetry manuscript of strongest work about ready to go, and I will not tell you how much money I've lost on contest fees and contributor copy support, I who cannot afford to enter all that many to begin with, over the years, with this one manuscript always ready to go, but I've now slowly developed a rhythm for electronic submissions, finally found formula, as it were, even if, my sorry slaving for Examiner aside, my most powerful essay on urban poverty I gave away to a woman named Bianca for her Appalachian area journal which I haven't yet added to my CV because yours truly doesn't know what Karina K did with my contributor copy, and I cannot get this Karina K back on the phone, and the one editor who liked my deaf pitch before that, I failed. And this is the stuff who opines for legacy media, with a select hit list for disabled members of the Philadelphia activist community, except for the fact that I've been published in established media, but not lately, since I am Anthony Elonis with a sometimes more insidious, or entertaining menace, not quite so puerile.
No husband to murder, and my scar tissue has throbbed on past my long ago supervisor's departure, c'est pas? I haven't read Elonis's posts. I suppose he reads like ISIS in an inflammatory state, but if he was writing his *puerile* invective against wife in a journal on paper, would we be here? I am as savage as he is on my bad days, teetering precariously toward brutal, and I mean brutal, institutional indigence. Barring a miracle, I know exactly how much control a nursing home will impose on me if I go from section 202 housing into a Medicaid home. I've lived it and earned a living from it. Established journalists even publish about it these days, and we take out the violins. I very seriously do not want my remaining years to linger in such a circumscribed fashion, and I'm back to submitting poems again, after all this time. I am a fool people, to let a resource center which was never very good to begin with, cause me so much damage, not as if the system offers disability entitlement recipients all that many options.
Sunday, February 15, 2015
Watering Hole
"Let me apologize for this barbarian."-- Arthur O'Connell
Pessimism,gushing forth in spades: The only update I had on Michael Washington after he ceased being the manager of Diamond Park, was an obituary notice for the death of his father, Reverend Paul Washington, who gave the commencement speech to my indifferent departure from Temple. I would have slept with his son without question, and was so hot for the man that a woofie in my drink would have only knocked my body temperature back to normal. Would it have been good sex? Would I have gotten pregnant? Converted to black? My narrative of my lava emotes destroying my potential prevented that, and the last time I saw him he was wasted, still the most beautiful black man I ever laid eyes on, but wasted.
Not sleeping with him did not prevent the inner city from scarring me toward my gradual right wing compass correction, but it did stop me from turning ho-- had he been Muslim instead of some obscure Adventist denomination, perhaps I would have successfully drugged my brain lesions and reverted back to a shallow Catholic suburban mode, and all this raw fury would have followed my mother's pattern of breakdowns. Unlike Kayla, I'd never go near a Muslim. Black, white, Arabic, nope.
I had dinner with one, in a strange experience, an Iranian who invited Tom Reid (I think) after I transferred. Tom stayed with me for awhile, and my mother told me to snatch him while the going was good, but I never really attempted to breach our aesthetic congeniality. Out of all the players in my best university past, I miss Tom the most. Why? He could keep up with me intellectually, and you cannot imagine my loneliness, starvation, for a man with Tom's discernment; it would not hurt to see him again; it might be disorienting, awkward, and we'd be changed, but he was a good fellow, and I'd be delighted to have coffee with him. What the Iranian wanted from him I am not sure; it was the most jittery dinner I ever had with a foreigner. Whether he was a repressed homosexual and wanted me out of the way is moot, but certainly the whole thing was weird.
Kayla apparently wanted to be a chameleon, and it evidently killed her, so her third world adventurism gets no pity from me. Syria may need serious intervention, but Peace Corp progressive mentality is irrational when it comes to the Middle East. That level of altruism may actually hint at mental illness, and if I wanted to know why she is dead, my answer lies in the fact she was trying to hard to erase her national identity. Isis may be what it is, and her attachment to the pasteurized Omar may have been what it was, but she was a fool, more than that
Marilyn Monroe actually looks repulsive in Bus Stop, beneath the surface it is rather cynical about sexual relations in America Our fifties answer to domestic violence. She really looks like a battered drug addict through most of the film; it has the panoramic sweep common to the color technology of the time, but the textures that come out on screen are simply ghastly. Why was this a popular play? Taming of the shrew for apes? Watered down as it is, the much upgraded Urban Cowboy seems to get some of its cues from the hucksterism of this not to be believed gumball story.
Pessimism,gushing forth in spades: The only update I had on Michael Washington after he ceased being the manager of Diamond Park, was an obituary notice for the death of his father, Reverend Paul Washington, who gave the commencement speech to my indifferent departure from Temple. I would have slept with his son without question, and was so hot for the man that a woofie in my drink would have only knocked my body temperature back to normal. Would it have been good sex? Would I have gotten pregnant? Converted to black? My narrative of my lava emotes destroying my potential prevented that, and the last time I saw him he was wasted, still the most beautiful black man I ever laid eyes on, but wasted.
Not sleeping with him did not prevent the inner city from scarring me toward my gradual right wing compass correction, but it did stop me from turning ho-- had he been Muslim instead of some obscure Adventist denomination, perhaps I would have successfully drugged my brain lesions and reverted back to a shallow Catholic suburban mode, and all this raw fury would have followed my mother's pattern of breakdowns. Unlike Kayla, I'd never go near a Muslim. Black, white, Arabic, nope.
I had dinner with one, in a strange experience, an Iranian who invited Tom Reid (I think) after I transferred. Tom stayed with me for awhile, and my mother told me to snatch him while the going was good, but I never really attempted to breach our aesthetic congeniality. Out of all the players in my best university past, I miss Tom the most. Why? He could keep up with me intellectually, and you cannot imagine my loneliness, starvation, for a man with Tom's discernment; it would not hurt to see him again; it might be disorienting, awkward, and we'd be changed, but he was a good fellow, and I'd be delighted to have coffee with him. What the Iranian wanted from him I am not sure; it was the most jittery dinner I ever had with a foreigner. Whether he was a repressed homosexual and wanted me out of the way is moot, but certainly the whole thing was weird.
Kayla apparently wanted to be a chameleon, and it evidently killed her, so her third world adventurism gets no pity from me. Syria may need serious intervention, but Peace Corp progressive mentality is irrational when it comes to the Middle East. That level of altruism may actually hint at mental illness, and if I wanted to know why she is dead, my answer lies in the fact she was trying to hard to erase her national identity. Isis may be what it is, and her attachment to the pasteurized Omar may have been what it was, but she was a fool, more than that
Marilyn Monroe actually looks repulsive in Bus Stop, beneath the surface it is rather cynical about sexual relations in America Our fifties answer to domestic violence. She really looks like a battered drug addict through most of the film; it has the panoramic sweep common to the color technology of the time, but the textures that come out on screen are simply ghastly. Why was this a popular play? Taming of the shrew for apes? Watered down as it is, the much upgraded Urban Cowboy seems to get some of its cues from the hucksterism of this not to be believed gumball story.
Friday, February 13, 2015
Slay your own Jewish princess
"They weren't really your friends," my ex, who wasn't either.
I held my nose, and offered Alyssa a compliment in the comments thread for her column on streaming distributors and damaged old men who assimilated the upheavals of the sixties. Alyssa even looks the self-depreciating brunette I was in high school, if you take away the cerebral palsy. I try not to read her columns that often. Sometimes I missed the point; sometimes I didn't care, but even she realized that progressive furor should not have felled Amy Pascal. The difference, between Ms Rosenberg's soft-pedaling on the reigns, and my objections?
I do not see where Pascal's exchanges with her co-ceo were insensitive. I did not read the original hacked accounts, but on the basis of media comments, don't see the supposed insensitivity. What I read was a powerful corporate female letting off steam, just like the jokes Linda, as a locally powerful executive, used to send me-- about being a psycho killer. I knew they were jokes, I knew she was letting off steam, and that they were her way of being my friend, much like her confidences about why she was throwing me over, and I asked her to stop sending me these transmissions even though they were popular snark into which she submerged for an outlet. I should have ended this communication long before her bemusement at my expense led to the knife in my back.
But Amy Pascal wasn't betraying anyone, and asserted herself to get where she was, and as citizens, we should be ashamed for ending her career on such a note. I could have put some weight on it, rolled up my sleeves and tried to halt the train, defending her before she resigned.
I'm also willing to tell progressives they are insane motherfuckers, and its perfectly understandable that they get murdered in gay panic scenarios-- the unprintable aggressions (I am fully aware that "motherfucker" is still forbidden in mainstream typeset), and it is this which sets me off against ADAPT demonstrators like Jimmi Shrode. I pulled on him, and I pulled on his transsexual partner. Why did I do that? Because I knew if I stayed at Riverside it would cost me terribly, envelop me, take me out of the mainstream, and I've been right about that, even while admitting that I should have held my pain in, upon realizing the full extent of Linda's treachery. I did not, and let both Jimmi and Erik have it. They're corrupt, and that corruption hurts innocent people, and it is this silence of liberal disabled LBGT activists which throws me into a frenzy: Your utter inability to be accountable. Jimmi is still cognizant enough to know that he broke the law to accept that job at the disability center, and refuses to even concede that states have non-profit guidelines for a reason; his activism has no room for my non-compliance; I am cut out, like a cancer, ignored, even to the degree that other wheelchair users talking to me, upon greeting him, get ignored, and this too, is insane, not advocacy.
The good gay doctor of The Constant Gardner may not have deserved to have his balls shoved down his throat with such gruesome revelation, but this is the kind of reactions humans have when compliance models insist that discrimination is meaningless. It is nearly midnight. I am strolling out to the 7-11.
I held my nose, and offered Alyssa a compliment in the comments thread for her column on streaming distributors and damaged old men who assimilated the upheavals of the sixties. Alyssa even looks the self-depreciating brunette I was in high school, if you take away the cerebral palsy. I try not to read her columns that often. Sometimes I missed the point; sometimes I didn't care, but even she realized that progressive furor should not have felled Amy Pascal. The difference, between Ms Rosenberg's soft-pedaling on the reigns, and my objections?
I do not see where Pascal's exchanges with her co-ceo were insensitive. I did not read the original hacked accounts, but on the basis of media comments, don't see the supposed insensitivity. What I read was a powerful corporate female letting off steam, just like the jokes Linda, as a locally powerful executive, used to send me-- about being a psycho killer. I knew they were jokes, I knew she was letting off steam, and that they were her way of being my friend, much like her confidences about why she was throwing me over, and I asked her to stop sending me these transmissions even though they were popular snark into which she submerged for an outlet. I should have ended this communication long before her bemusement at my expense led to the knife in my back.
But Amy Pascal wasn't betraying anyone, and asserted herself to get where she was, and as citizens, we should be ashamed for ending her career on such a note. I could have put some weight on it, rolled up my sleeves and tried to halt the train, defending her before she resigned.
I'm also willing to tell progressives they are insane motherfuckers, and its perfectly understandable that they get murdered in gay panic scenarios-- the unprintable aggressions (I am fully aware that "motherfucker" is still forbidden in mainstream typeset), and it is this which sets me off against ADAPT demonstrators like Jimmi Shrode. I pulled on him, and I pulled on his transsexual partner. Why did I do that? Because I knew if I stayed at Riverside it would cost me terribly, envelop me, take me out of the mainstream, and I've been right about that, even while admitting that I should have held my pain in, upon realizing the full extent of Linda's treachery. I did not, and let both Jimmi and Erik have it. They're corrupt, and that corruption hurts innocent people, and it is this silence of liberal disabled LBGT activists which throws me into a frenzy: Your utter inability to be accountable. Jimmi is still cognizant enough to know that he broke the law to accept that job at the disability center, and refuses to even concede that states have non-profit guidelines for a reason; his activism has no room for my non-compliance; I am cut out, like a cancer, ignored, even to the degree that other wheelchair users talking to me, upon greeting him, get ignored, and this too, is insane, not advocacy.
The good gay doctor of The Constant Gardner may not have deserved to have his balls shoved down his throat with such gruesome revelation, but this is the kind of reactions humans have when compliance models insist that discrimination is meaningless. It is nearly midnight. I am strolling out to the 7-11.
Anointing Hillary and Jeb without the bother of retail handshakes
"Is my sex too straight?" Diane Keaton
Brian De Palma is in many ways a shameless hack. Kirk Douglas certainly enjoys himself, realizing, that his lead billing days were fading. John Cassavetes offends sensibility as Childress, and Amy Irving has "fuck me I'm new babette" stamped on her brow, but given all this, I have an attachment to the implosive repressions at play in The Fury (78). People actually were that new age, and the sixties had been that corrupted by Saccharine, making the viewer squint with bemusement. Preposterous, a cheap commercialization that anticipates ISIS aping Arabic stereotypes. To illustrate to my audience that I am capable of mortification, ISIS has gone too far in how it killed the Jordanian. There is absolutely no honor in that excessive overkill toward a fraternal adversary, and Abu Bakr is disrupting my desire to die on European soil, I'm no longer amused.
Even as I'm seriously considering sending Toomey my resume without deleting this blog or the tweets linking to it, but if Toomey's people were willing to consider deploying me as a consultant, then I'd have a pickle. I don't like online shaming, which is why I stand by my belligerent rivulets. It has not yet truly affected my pitching, my attitude, to my knowledge, but it could, and if Toomey's people said "okay she has a point, let's use her mandate attack", then outlets like Daily Beast would look at my posts, privately asking wtf is the Thorzine?
True, I shamed a former supervisor into a demotion, but that is not the same thing as lynching people for sensitivity into extreme life altering circumstances, and I do not like what was done to Sacco, nor did I like the routing of Amy Pascal. I never felt her remarks about Obama's viewing habits were insensitive; they were white, and sardonic, but should never have cost her her executive position, and I hold this take on Jeb Bush'es advisor Ethan Czahor. The left cannot wish utopia into being by wiping out human prejudice. The species would not be human anymore. (I just wrote a radical beatnik type, of the kind with whom I used to associate, sent her some samples and wrote I was against lesbianism. If she gets back to me and I go up before her audience, I might have a routing of my own.)
Brian De Palma is in many ways a shameless hack. Kirk Douglas certainly enjoys himself, realizing, that his lead billing days were fading. John Cassavetes offends sensibility as Childress, and Amy Irving has "fuck me I'm new babette" stamped on her brow, but given all this, I have an attachment to the implosive repressions at play in The Fury (78). People actually were that new age, and the sixties had been that corrupted by Saccharine, making the viewer squint with bemusement. Preposterous, a cheap commercialization that anticipates ISIS aping Arabic stereotypes. To illustrate to my audience that I am capable of mortification, ISIS has gone too far in how it killed the Jordanian. There is absolutely no honor in that excessive overkill toward a fraternal adversary, and Abu Bakr is disrupting my desire to die on European soil, I'm no longer amused.
Even as I'm seriously considering sending Toomey my resume without deleting this blog or the tweets linking to it, but if Toomey's people were willing to consider deploying me as a consultant, then I'd have a pickle. I don't like online shaming, which is why I stand by my belligerent rivulets. It has not yet truly affected my pitching, my attitude, to my knowledge, but it could, and if Toomey's people said "okay she has a point, let's use her mandate attack", then outlets like Daily Beast would look at my posts, privately asking wtf is the Thorzine?
True, I shamed a former supervisor into a demotion, but that is not the same thing as lynching people for sensitivity into extreme life altering circumstances, and I do not like what was done to Sacco, nor did I like the routing of Amy Pascal. I never felt her remarks about Obama's viewing habits were insensitive; they were white, and sardonic, but should never have cost her her executive position, and I hold this take on Jeb Bush'es advisor Ethan Czahor. The left cannot wish utopia into being by wiping out human prejudice. The species would not be human anymore. (I just wrote a radical beatnik type, of the kind with whom I used to associate, sent her some samples and wrote I was against lesbianism. If she gets back to me and I go up before her audience, I might have a routing of my own.)
Thursday, February 12, 2015
A box of raspberry sugar, blood thinning
The only time viewers see pitless indigence on PBS is in still photographs of how poverty and public health used to intersect, at least in the west. In every documentary on death and dying, however, and my earliest was the Bill Moyers video narrative I honestly should have skipped, because I never forgot the sheer anguish of the veterinarian with ALS, his raw suffering, telling his physician he was going to inject himself with horse tranquilizer, sitting in a power chair seemingly equipped to tackle any civil war the Russian army might see fit to foster, very close to the end, begging his wife not to revive him again. She had him dressed in a polo shirt, rubbing his chest, regressively. I've seen countless of people dying, live and once removed by the camera holder who must record it all, and the midwestern animal doctor, expiring finally as Moyers went into post-production, penetrated, stayed, but there are limits. Nursing home residents get 30 second feeds. Anything else, whether the early Moyers, the various battles with cancer ending in defeat or remission, the muscular dsytrophy deterioration, which seems to be a favorite in the annals of clinical travail, have devoted loved ones tending to the demise of the stricken. This holds true for Atul's upgrade on Being Mortal. We don't get the demented dying alone in a ward, not unless it is a bad melodrama on the Spanish Civil War with Gregory Peck. I'm not faulting Atul on this. To coax viewers along directors need to soften our dissolution with thick sweet loving empathy, and there is real anguish within middle class affluence.
But barring extraordinary luck, most disabled people die in a war zone, not in hospital rooms with palliative care physicians. Literary eras seem to exhaust themselves in the same way, Henry James not immune to this flaw: "The Lessons of the Master," whatever its aim at Victorian marriage, is an over-sweetened pastry, certainly not a masterpiece, sans Portrait with the immortally vibrant Isabel.
With the death of James and Flaubert, as Eliot later stipulated, the novel of manners entered a curious phase of life support, slowly gasping to death, holding onto Victorian conceits in a more droll one-dimensional fashion, at a loss, ripe for the ravishes of Modernism to come: The Good Solder epitomizes this exhaustion with form. Ford creates types, not least among them the English Catholic, so important to Evelyn Waugh in his heyday and then to Jeremy Irons doing a magnificent rendition of Brideshead. In James, a gentleman of leisure is circumspect, engages in mysterious financial speculation. Ford, while still keeping the conventions of the caste, savages it. John Dowell is almost fatally bored with the recriminations of his class, and yet the two dimensional aspects of Ford's voice couched in his fortunately affluent American is what lends this narrative its humor: Florence the weak heart invalid duping her utterly dense husband. It is free public domain reading, Edwardian enriched sarcasm light enough for defeated savants, only able to struggle with Joaathan Weiner's difficult narrative shape for a few pages at a time.
Reviewers did not like Long For This World-- but as I search for interesting imperfections, I'm sympathetic, if overwhelmed at times, by Weiner's bizarre futuristic stretch. I look at Gawnde, the bubbly Asian Indian who wants to ease the writhing of our departure, while I have Weiner's complex and faulty narrative in my head. Do these agendas ever meet and coalesce in some fathomable dialogue?
Though I am not in immediate end stage, I'm dying, frightened, pissed off, Medical students have no idea how to optimize my outcomes. I stopped seeing them in 2007. I don't want to get locked in syndrome, lingering like a fucking android, barking like a rabid dog at minstrel niceties of urban ineptitude. This was my plan for joining our newly vaunted shared economy, my guerrilla warfare despite the successful prosecution of the group in Georgia for not doing a double take with a real nut case. Can I persuade them to come get me? If you watch Gawande's docu-drama, observe his neuro-oncologist colleague closely and you can see why doctors themselves snap out, not to be trusted. Someone has to do the brain cancer, but the women's face earned my pity.
But barring extraordinary luck, most disabled people die in a war zone, not in hospital rooms with palliative care physicians. Literary eras seem to exhaust themselves in the same way, Henry James not immune to this flaw: "The Lessons of the Master," whatever its aim at Victorian marriage, is an over-sweetened pastry, certainly not a masterpiece, sans Portrait with the immortally vibrant Isabel.
With the death of James and Flaubert, as Eliot later stipulated, the novel of manners entered a curious phase of life support, slowly gasping to death, holding onto Victorian conceits in a more droll one-dimensional fashion, at a loss, ripe for the ravishes of Modernism to come: The Good Solder epitomizes this exhaustion with form. Ford creates types, not least among them the English Catholic, so important to Evelyn Waugh in his heyday and then to Jeremy Irons doing a magnificent rendition of Brideshead. In James, a gentleman of leisure is circumspect, engages in mysterious financial speculation. Ford, while still keeping the conventions of the caste, savages it. John Dowell is almost fatally bored with the recriminations of his class, and yet the two dimensional aspects of Ford's voice couched in his fortunately affluent American is what lends this narrative its humor: Florence the weak heart invalid duping her utterly dense husband. It is free public domain reading, Edwardian enriched sarcasm light enough for defeated savants, only able to struggle with Joaathan Weiner's difficult narrative shape for a few pages at a time.
Reviewers did not like Long For This World-- but as I search for interesting imperfections, I'm sympathetic, if overwhelmed at times, by Weiner's bizarre futuristic stretch. I look at Gawnde, the bubbly Asian Indian who wants to ease the writhing of our departure, while I have Weiner's complex and faulty narrative in my head. Do these agendas ever meet and coalesce in some fathomable dialogue?
Though I am not in immediate end stage, I'm dying, frightened, pissed off, Medical students have no idea how to optimize my outcomes. I stopped seeing them in 2007. I don't want to get locked in syndrome, lingering like a fucking android, barking like a rabid dog at minstrel niceties of urban ineptitude. This was my plan for joining our newly vaunted shared economy, my guerrilla warfare despite the successful prosecution of the group in Georgia for not doing a double take with a real nut case. Can I persuade them to come get me? If you watch Gawande's docu-drama, observe his neuro-oncologist colleague closely and you can see why doctors themselves snap out, not to be trusted. Someone has to do the brain cancer, but the women's face earned my pity.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Epistolary Arts of Fading Elders
"I cried," Atul Gawande, before traveling to the Ganges with dad's ashes
Debra Horne
Riverside Social Worker, nominally
158 N 23rd St, Office
Phila., PA 19103
Debra:
Let's presuppose, for the moment, that I take the pedestrian point of view, and I concede that my outlook is distorted from years of familial dysfunction, medical model institutional abuse, and parental genetics ingrown years before Presby and I engaged in what, unwittingly, has become a lifelong battle of Stratego.
Everyone, except you and the assessment team Trudy deployed in 2007, has understood that I cannot continue to utilize my former disability center. Charles Horton, on the Mayor's Commission, an African American just as you, grasped my problem without even needing to hear my narrative, which I spared him, and asked if I contacted UCPA; Tim Keller, who is Brian Sims communications director, exclaimed "You can't go back there!"
Two men grasped my dilemma, but you? Let's see:
1. Because Trudy "had to do something," when I had my power chair break down which lasted nearly a year, you, a woman with a consumer model compulsion disorder, two of your brothers from god knows where, treat me like an animal, surrounding my doorway after my uncle restored my chair at cost, arguing in public about my mental health because I wept in front of you and other erstwhile Occupational managers in the past, or lost my temper, understandably, having my life so severely disrupted for weeks on end, so many significant portions of my life spent teaching myself complex solitaire games while defecating on portable commodes, and you want what, a rosy and compliant imbecile overjoyed to have my career imploded by the time I was all of 37, in a senior living facility like this one.
Linda C Dezenski did more than dominate me in graphic terms in an unwise exchange of confidences Debra. She pitted me in a political battle within the center which violated the state's statutory guidelines and its federal mandate, and my pain over this made me "the Other," destroying alliances, the coordinators assigned to me subsequently disparaging of my concerns: I was abused by more than one paraprofessional, Debra, since I became ineligible for Medicaid--at least until I conveniently distributed my assets in supporting Tim Artis's habit-- which doesn't mean he didn't deserve his pay.
2. But the fact that I let Presby off the hook for its liability in my assault in Diamond Park, the social ostracism I have received here at Riverside, the fact that my rematrication, my attempts to reassert myself have been beaten back by your ideas of relegating my humanity, even while you were coaching Lucille Vaugn for her promotion, the destruction, nearly continuous, of my personal property, none of this matters. In your book, I should be grateful for being a life long living wage for unskilled labor.
I'm done, and on the basis of everything I have been through, I am going to the state attorney general, and whatever happens, whether I set myself up for even more abuse in a shelter, or break down in a home, I am never going to forget the cruelty you, your superiors, the other residents, and privileged individuals like Monica Carr, have imposed on me. Never. Hide behind as many meetings with Ken Cantrell as you please.
Joanne M. Marinelli
Debra Horne
Riverside Social Worker, nominally
158 N 23rd St, Office
Phila., PA 19103
Debra:
Let's presuppose, for the moment, that I take the pedestrian point of view, and I concede that my outlook is distorted from years of familial dysfunction, medical model institutional abuse, and parental genetics ingrown years before Presby and I engaged in what, unwittingly, has become a lifelong battle of Stratego.
Everyone, except you and the assessment team Trudy deployed in 2007, has understood that I cannot continue to utilize my former disability center. Charles Horton, on the Mayor's Commission, an African American just as you, grasped my problem without even needing to hear my narrative, which I spared him, and asked if I contacted UCPA; Tim Keller, who is Brian Sims communications director, exclaimed "You can't go back there!"
Two men grasped my dilemma, but you? Let's see:
1. Because Trudy "had to do something," when I had my power chair break down which lasted nearly a year, you, a woman with a consumer model compulsion disorder, two of your brothers from god knows where, treat me like an animal, surrounding my doorway after my uncle restored my chair at cost, arguing in public about my mental health because I wept in front of you and other erstwhile Occupational managers in the past, or lost my temper, understandably, having my life so severely disrupted for weeks on end, so many significant portions of my life spent teaching myself complex solitaire games while defecating on portable commodes, and you want what, a rosy and compliant imbecile overjoyed to have my career imploded by the time I was all of 37, in a senior living facility like this one.
Linda C Dezenski did more than dominate me in graphic terms in an unwise exchange of confidences Debra. She pitted me in a political battle within the center which violated the state's statutory guidelines and its federal mandate, and my pain over this made me "the Other," destroying alliances, the coordinators assigned to me subsequently disparaging of my concerns: I was abused by more than one paraprofessional, Debra, since I became ineligible for Medicaid--at least until I conveniently distributed my assets in supporting Tim Artis's habit-- which doesn't mean he didn't deserve his pay.
2. But the fact that I let Presby off the hook for its liability in my assault in Diamond Park, the social ostracism I have received here at Riverside, the fact that my rematrication, my attempts to reassert myself have been beaten back by your ideas of relegating my humanity, even while you were coaching Lucille Vaugn for her promotion, the destruction, nearly continuous, of my personal property, none of this matters. In your book, I should be grateful for being a life long living wage for unskilled labor.
I'm done, and on the basis of everything I have been through, I am going to the state attorney general, and whatever happens, whether I set myself up for even more abuse in a shelter, or break down in a home, I am never going to forget the cruelty you, your superiors, the other residents, and privileged individuals like Monica Carr, have imposed on me. Never. Hide behind as many meetings with Ken Cantrell as you please.
Joanne M. Marinelli
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
The Mucinex Capsules Slipped My Mind
Yael Grauer is right about one thing: Choices we make intersect with how life experience molds our outlook. Emotional over-investment can impede success, as much as alienation can enhance it, but in reading her post about her depressed friend, the dividing line comes into play: why ambulatory people who have work they care about would commit suicide is beyond me, and her work smacks of an insular narcissism typical of all Americans. Who among us would want to be in Jason Rezaian's predicament, whatever our problems? An Iranian interment might change my mind about bronchodilators, perhaps with lightning speed, although it would be something for the imagination, wouldn't it? Pitting caustic spastic intelligence against the Persian Revolutionary Guard. Acute blunt force trauma, and voila, one bravely deformed skeleton is a minute addition to anthropology. Where was I?
Suicide, or my fascination with Burry's speculative success, his willingness to trust Michael Lewis with such an intimate portrait in The Big Short, which I'm reading on loan. If I tried to invest the little I have left in any sort of speculative fiance I'd run afoul of HUD. Libertarians may hate the Internal Revenue Service, but if they had the clout to dismantle HUD I'd be able to move toward decomposition with some residue of pleasure. Every public housing unit in this country and not a few university apartments, look exactly the same, perhaps built up with Chinese drywall.
Before I graduated to COPD, I had chronic bronchitis, which Rick might remember, and expectorants used to clear me up, with a great deal of fluid, and I've cheated myself this way for many years, like a leper in a Philippine sanatorium, yet another de facto colony of the United States. Why do Asians inhabit these islands? Like many disparate regions in Africa, things haven't changed outside of Manila, beyond Imelda Marcos absences for a lampooning article in Time, and never forgotten from my history lessons was McKinley and his deplorable governance of the islands at the turn of the century. Of course in 110 it has metamorphosed into progressive determinism, with typhoons and cluster villages ravaged by flooding.
Forget my conflicts with my building managers, work, take it easy, and bolt, one last time, die hard, die well, write a better post in forty-eight hours. Forgive myself for being an asshole, something I find rather difficult to do.
Suicide, or my fascination with Burry's speculative success, his willingness to trust Michael Lewis with such an intimate portrait in The Big Short, which I'm reading on loan. If I tried to invest the little I have left in any sort of speculative fiance I'd run afoul of HUD. Libertarians may hate the Internal Revenue Service, but if they had the clout to dismantle HUD I'd be able to move toward decomposition with some residue of pleasure. Every public housing unit in this country and not a few university apartments, look exactly the same, perhaps built up with Chinese drywall.
Before I graduated to COPD, I had chronic bronchitis, which Rick might remember, and expectorants used to clear me up, with a great deal of fluid, and I've cheated myself this way for many years, like a leper in a Philippine sanatorium, yet another de facto colony of the United States. Why do Asians inhabit these islands? Like many disparate regions in Africa, things haven't changed outside of Manila, beyond Imelda Marcos absences for a lampooning article in Time, and never forgotten from my history lessons was McKinley and his deplorable governance of the islands at the turn of the century. Of course in 110 it has metamorphosed into progressive determinism, with typhoons and cluster villages ravaged by flooding.
Forget my conflicts with my building managers, work, take it easy, and bolt, one last time, die hard, die well, write a better post in forty-eight hours. Forgive myself for being an asshole, something I find rather difficult to do.
Sunday, February 8, 2015
Dragon's Hundred
It's always the eyewitnesses to an event that can provide the most powerful testimony--Indoctrination
Hundred Days aired seven months to the day I was born, and of all the Outer Limits episodes in its initial tacky two year run, this tap into America's Maoist hangover made its indelible impression, cheap play on the Manchurian Candidate it may be, I believed the Communists were capable of such parasitic infiltration, haunted by the death masks and skin molded like putty, as laughable as it is, Pine shutting down a Washington engagement with a minimalism that would make Vice President Biden blush, and Sidney Blackmer using mincing eye movements as a substitute for Pavlovian stimulus. Childhood naivety superimposes itself on mature depreciation of camp. "Dragon," "The Mutant," and "Feasibility Study," these provoke powerful emotions still when they run at four am, whatever the popularity of Zanti Misfits as best in concept, lying to first professor. "What did you read coming up? Science fiction?" Yes I did but down played it with false pretensions, the only time, I believe. I read copious tomes of science fiction, filled my fucking bloody head with it, and God-genius divined that with one look at me. I wasn't about to give in, you see. Is it his memory I hate or my asinine, totally asinine worship-- if the man had told me Ho Chi Minh was a savoir, I would have went home to my father saying Korean servicemen were pigs and padre would have thrown me in the basement. Yes, I know, some students even fuck them, teachers, marry them, even in South Korea, wind up utterly disillusioned. Jerry was the only good thing that ever happened to me (or not). He was not Linda Dezenski, abusive manager, did not take advantage of me, encouraged whatever the fuck it was I possessed, and I'm throwing magnificent literary tantrums, my father cursing my every accomplishment, his dying guilt superimposed on my failing airways. "No one is going to put you away."
Dad has himself been putting me away, aged 9. Then 13, 16, my high school graduation. Consigning myself to a certain shorter lifespan, I had resolved to give notice on my lease this week, releasing myself to vehement castigation of Trudy Richardson, but one or two things dampen the pulse, Karina either being offline or blocked me, which I might reasonably expect, though she said she'd help me pack, nightmares of the Taipei crash play like a mechanized Seaworld kill. No one believes political ideology with such stark lines of demarcation, but this doesn't mean the heirs to Amazon and Google won't have a hard on for microchips, their implantation, stimulus, response.
Hundred Days aired seven months to the day I was born, and of all the Outer Limits episodes in its initial tacky two year run, this tap into America's Maoist hangover made its indelible impression, cheap play on the Manchurian Candidate it may be, I believed the Communists were capable of such parasitic infiltration, haunted by the death masks and skin molded like putty, as laughable as it is, Pine shutting down a Washington engagement with a minimalism that would make Vice President Biden blush, and Sidney Blackmer using mincing eye movements as a substitute for Pavlovian stimulus. Childhood naivety superimposes itself on mature depreciation of camp. "Dragon," "The Mutant," and "Feasibility Study," these provoke powerful emotions still when they run at four am, whatever the popularity of Zanti Misfits as best in concept, lying to first professor. "What did you read coming up? Science fiction?" Yes I did but down played it with false pretensions, the only time, I believe. I read copious tomes of science fiction, filled my fucking bloody head with it, and God-genius divined that with one look at me. I wasn't about to give in, you see. Is it his memory I hate or my asinine, totally asinine worship-- if the man had told me Ho Chi Minh was a savoir, I would have went home to my father saying Korean servicemen were pigs and padre would have thrown me in the basement. Yes, I know, some students even fuck them, teachers, marry them, even in South Korea, wind up utterly disillusioned. Jerry was the only good thing that ever happened to me (or not). He was not Linda Dezenski, abusive manager, did not take advantage of me, encouraged whatever the fuck it was I possessed, and I'm throwing magnificent literary tantrums, my father cursing my every accomplishment, his dying guilt superimposed on my failing airways. "No one is going to put you away."
Dad has himself been putting me away, aged 9. Then 13, 16, my high school graduation. Consigning myself to a certain shorter lifespan, I had resolved to give notice on my lease this week, releasing myself to vehement castigation of Trudy Richardson, but one or two things dampen the pulse, Karina either being offline or blocked me, which I might reasonably expect, though she said she'd help me pack, nightmares of the Taipei crash play like a mechanized Seaworld kill. No one believes political ideology with such stark lines of demarcation, but this doesn't mean the heirs to Amazon and Google won't have a hard on for microchips, their implantation, stimulus, response.
Shrewd Baby Blue Eyes, the Annoyance Recur
"Maybe, but if I win I can buy any doctor I want."-- Stephen Lang taunting the case for megalomania in Dead Man's Gun
Though Vancouver's take on America's mythology of its historical brutality leaves viewers frustrated with the case for domestic tranquility, Temptests makes the strongest argument North Hollywood can bring to bear. Does Hanson allude to Shakespeare's final and defiant play? I cannot snap my fingers with found correspondences for your edification, but the teleplay nicely turns on the dime with the argument that neither reality the lead actor doubts and believes is the correct reality, and we humans, sophisticated primates, believing we'll conquer space time, are conquered by alien arthropods the size of a forearm. Let that be a lesson to you. Nicely done bit of bemusement. Stephen Lang is not quite as strong as an archetype of compromised moral decency. The mad scientist who wrongly rouses a cadaver, then kills his murderer, his corpse, (surprise!) still fresh enough to regenerate, the lessons of conscience bringing him back to humility, scorched away from the violence of divine aspiration. He does the same thing for Showtime's rendering of the latter day American west, playing a gambler who needs to eliminate his principled pursuers, once again redeemed to find his way back to simpler pleasures with the right companion. The signature of not having a life is in the burgeoning recognition of the players. Shouldn't Blu Mankama make hard liners ashamed? Here he is the studio bar keep, no mention of free towns brought to bear, and there, six years later, he is Muth's reaper, the appropriator of pasteurized urbanity. It isn't so simple in the reverse, despite Kathleen Parker's hash over Comey's letter and what if it was Trump instead?
Well, in the Post's coverage of Trump as front-runner, Donald was the target, so incessant, so constant, that my vote for the fuck witted bastard was part spite. Russian hackers have nothing to do with my nausea toward the Clintons and their cosmetic pretenses. A Reason Magazine contributor, when journalists were granted access to the nefarious paragraph, analysed that the director was covering his ass. It is a rather plausible motive, as why someone like Comey would prefer a paranoid mogul to a paranoid Yale domicile matron who skews her loyalists is also a reasonable inquiry. At some point, perhaps Pence takes over the reigns, and we find ourselves waking up to the occupation of Taiwan.
Though Vancouver's take on America's mythology of its historical brutality leaves viewers frustrated with the case for domestic tranquility, Temptests makes the strongest argument North Hollywood can bring to bear. Does Hanson allude to Shakespeare's final and defiant play? I cannot snap my fingers with found correspondences for your edification, but the teleplay nicely turns on the dime with the argument that neither reality the lead actor doubts and believes is the correct reality, and we humans, sophisticated primates, believing we'll conquer space time, are conquered by alien arthropods the size of a forearm. Let that be a lesson to you. Nicely done bit of bemusement. Stephen Lang is not quite as strong as an archetype of compromised moral decency. The mad scientist who wrongly rouses a cadaver, then kills his murderer, his corpse, (surprise!) still fresh enough to regenerate, the lessons of conscience bringing him back to humility, scorched away from the violence of divine aspiration. He does the same thing for Showtime's rendering of the latter day American west, playing a gambler who needs to eliminate his principled pursuers, once again redeemed to find his way back to simpler pleasures with the right companion. The signature of not having a life is in the burgeoning recognition of the players. Shouldn't Blu Mankama make hard liners ashamed? Here he is the studio bar keep, no mention of free towns brought to bear, and there, six years later, he is Muth's reaper, the appropriator of pasteurized urbanity. It isn't so simple in the reverse, despite Kathleen Parker's hash over Comey's letter and what if it was Trump instead?
Well, in the Post's coverage of Trump as front-runner, Donald was the target, so incessant, so constant, that my vote for the fuck witted bastard was part spite. Russian hackers have nothing to do with my nausea toward the Clintons and their cosmetic pretenses. A Reason Magazine contributor, when journalists were granted access to the nefarious paragraph, analysed that the director was covering his ass. It is a rather plausible motive, as why someone like Comey would prefer a paranoid mogul to a paranoid Yale domicile matron who skews her loyalists is also a reasonable inquiry. At some point, perhaps Pence takes over the reigns, and we find ourselves waking up to the occupation of Taiwan.
Traces of Martin Landau
"People say it's failed. My attitude it that it didn't."-- Anthony LaPaglia
The Bellero Shield is transcendental despite itself, and always haunted the dowager, setting aside that it assuages Seti Institute vanity like a wet dream, Landau now the tortured son of an overbearing father who wants his own version of domination. Searching for aliens and hello, a humanoid in a glitter suit pops in speaking English like a Buddhist monk and gets murdered by an avarice driven wife ironically imprisoned by her own overreach. A retired science teacher wrote an excellent post, which he should publish, on Yabberz, about why alien life forms on hospitable planets will never find each other, and I should have copied it-- not to be unethical, but because it was the best rebuttal I have ever read about why this human quest is doomed to failure-- a grand opera version of quantum mechanics, but beneath the surface of this high camp, with catty lesbianistic overtones, is an undercurrent about justice and mercy complicated by megalomania, which, again, despite itself, imprinted and stayed, despite lack of recollection about the humanoid's disappearance, a film splice of a martyr, do his "people" save him, does the blond with diluted white out on her palm die, go insane? Do we pity Landau for his work in these serials, with his hawkish countenance, recycled in Without A Trace, where he provides a more evincing performance as LaPaglia's dying father afflicted with end stage renal disease, not discounting on Columbo he gets to play his twin, which Falk invariably foils? Unfortunately, I never saw Space 1999, and cannot afford to put the series on my video library, but such are the intangible qualities which lead actors into video science fiction.
The Bellero Shield is transcendental despite itself, and always haunted the dowager, setting aside that it assuages Seti Institute vanity like a wet dream, Landau now the tortured son of an overbearing father who wants his own version of domination. Searching for aliens and hello, a humanoid in a glitter suit pops in speaking English like a Buddhist monk and gets murdered by an avarice driven wife ironically imprisoned by her own overreach. A retired science teacher wrote an excellent post, which he should publish, on Yabberz, about why alien life forms on hospitable planets will never find each other, and I should have copied it-- not to be unethical, but because it was the best rebuttal I have ever read about why this human quest is doomed to failure-- a grand opera version of quantum mechanics, but beneath the surface of this high camp, with catty lesbianistic overtones, is an undercurrent about justice and mercy complicated by megalomania, which, again, despite itself, imprinted and stayed, despite lack of recollection about the humanoid's disappearance, a film splice of a martyr, do his "people" save him, does the blond with diluted white out on her palm die, go insane? Do we pity Landau for his work in these serials, with his hawkish countenance, recycled in Without A Trace, where he provides a more evincing performance as LaPaglia's dying father afflicted with end stage renal disease, not discounting on Columbo he gets to play his twin, which Falk invariably foils? Unfortunately, I never saw Space 1999, and cannot afford to put the series on my video library, but such are the intangible qualities which lead actors into video science fiction.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Overly Involved
I am just an aging disabled woman on her way out, but what I do differently than the angry trolls on New Mobility chat boards, which New Mobility may have ceased to maintain, given Facebook's monopoly, is that I sublimate it into a justified critique of progressive overreach, while the left shifts uncomfortably with the implications, like the cremation of the Russian traitor in the new fast paced Allegiance on CBS. Very few people can handle that degree of ruthlessness. My medical model life has been an incremental equivalency of that ruthlessness, just as the ISIS burning death of a member of the Jordanian air force moves beyond the nature of any argument. The pedestrian nicety holds that Muslims don't kill other Muslims. Zarqawi's legacy closed the door on that polite fiction, but by the same token, graphic excess is not a triumph in fear.
Joshua was initially responsive toward my appreciation of Chaim Potok, and there it ended, and I just blocked a young woman named Natalia Lomala without knowing anything except that she doesn't tweet. Why should I care if my non-compliance is on the verge of more ruthless control? I'm on the verge of being finished, evacuating myself. I'll be placed somewhere, and social media won't do a damn thing for me.
Perhaps it isn't dying, yet. A simple bronchial flare which has subsided, but when did I ever have a moment of fulfillment outside of case management processes? During my inept sexual congress with Scott Bryan, recovering coke addict? My slightly less inept fling with Pat Dillon, the Irish version of my father, over-dramatizing my emotional vulnerability during our break-up? I drove out in a rain storm to a food vendor, crying. My sister screamed at me that he was married, what did I expect? And I forget what Edith, the assistant manager on Presby's typical minority promotional track, did at the time to console me. I was only a resident for three years, and rolled to the office to be consoled, Debra Horne not yet on tap as the bully matron.
"But you're a quadriplegic, what do you want?"
Too poor even for the salve a clean slate might offer, this is all I long for, the last desire, scarcity of resource will dictate how terrible this will be for me.
Joshua was initially responsive toward my appreciation of Chaim Potok, and there it ended, and I just blocked a young woman named Natalia Lomala without knowing anything except that she doesn't tweet. Why should I care if my non-compliance is on the verge of more ruthless control? I'm on the verge of being finished, evacuating myself. I'll be placed somewhere, and social media won't do a damn thing for me.
Perhaps it isn't dying, yet. A simple bronchial flare which has subsided, but when did I ever have a moment of fulfillment outside of case management processes? During my inept sexual congress with Scott Bryan, recovering coke addict? My slightly less inept fling with Pat Dillon, the Irish version of my father, over-dramatizing my emotional vulnerability during our break-up? I drove out in a rain storm to a food vendor, crying. My sister screamed at me that he was married, what did I expect? And I forget what Edith, the assistant manager on Presby's typical minority promotional track, did at the time to console me. I was only a resident for three years, and rolled to the office to be consoled, Debra Horne not yet on tap as the bully matron.
"But you're a quadriplegic, what do you want?"
Too poor even for the salve a clean slate might offer, this is all I long for, the last desire, scarcity of resource will dictate how terrible this will be for me.
Friday, February 6, 2015
Tapestry Tracks
"The whole room trembles, expands, contracts, moves a few centimeters to the right or left, up or down, all the while keeping its cubical shape."-- Danilo Kis, Hourglass
I am a bit too dim-witted to understand just whom I am pissing off in the Google/twitter verse to have no referring urls on Blogger for a week. I have taken far more incendiary attitudes in the past than I have of late, though Bibi might find my attitude toward Israel perplexing, and I haven't addressed whether or not my disenfranchisement at the hands of the Jewish princess theme has made me Antisemitic-- though I may have lost a Jewish graduate student on twitter's back end. Even if I wanted to keep track of all that, however, twitter moves too fast. But the answer is no, with qualification, and that being, Jewish liberalism is also a flawed, human institution, This liberalism exists on the plane of Jonathan Swift's satirical bite evinced in Gulliver's Travels, and it is jaundice, but a jaundice with paucity. My Jewish cousins are my most favored family members, and if I could I'd move in with Robin instantaneously. Childhood affections, and she has style, a good metabolism, kept her figure, unspoken griefs shared at my brother's funeral. This is my remaining brother's twitter account, and you see his footprint; he dodges me, his bitter oldest sister. As good as his word, he will shut out my demise in an institutional environment, poor little Benny. Carries mother's maiden name, I don't really blame him. I may eat libertarian ideas as rapaciously as I gasp on fetid indoor radiated air, but Prince Charming isn't going to gallop over to Riverside from social media to rescue me from my remorseful imposition on African American society. If Benjamin cannot handle it, nor my sister, how much more the power males who admire my balls?
Yes, I have them, but only due to the fact I have no vested interest in not calling spades for what they are as I've experienced them, and in transit from Trader Joe's last evening, to the 7-11, I carelessly lost my sock assist, after years of caution, in the usual analogy of density and precocious wit. A simple piece of wood with rubber sealed wire, my entire life has been on the inside of the concentration camp, only flirting with the illusion of freedom in the flickering candle of liberal police states. I can't tell you what it is about the translucent finesse of Danilo's moral guilt that is worth revisiting as my exacerbations thicken with sputum, rereading too much at once, unwilling to fight, but equally not ready to go. I just started The Onion Field. The film made me realize Wambaugh's book would be better, because it isn't simply about a cop killing, but reverberation.
I concede, reluctantly, that small as my account may be, I am part of twitter verse, at least until I get myself banned. Why ever would a smart gal like me do that?
I am a bit too dim-witted to understand just whom I am pissing off in the Google/twitter verse to have no referring urls on Blogger for a week. I have taken far more incendiary attitudes in the past than I have of late, though Bibi might find my attitude toward Israel perplexing, and I haven't addressed whether or not my disenfranchisement at the hands of the Jewish princess theme has made me Antisemitic-- though I may have lost a Jewish graduate student on twitter's back end. Even if I wanted to keep track of all that, however, twitter moves too fast. But the answer is no, with qualification, and that being, Jewish liberalism is also a flawed, human institution, This liberalism exists on the plane of Jonathan Swift's satirical bite evinced in Gulliver's Travels, and it is jaundice, but a jaundice with paucity. My Jewish cousins are my most favored family members, and if I could I'd move in with Robin instantaneously. Childhood affections, and she has style, a good metabolism, kept her figure, unspoken griefs shared at my brother's funeral. This is my remaining brother's twitter account, and you see his footprint; he dodges me, his bitter oldest sister. As good as his word, he will shut out my demise in an institutional environment, poor little Benny. Carries mother's maiden name, I don't really blame him. I may eat libertarian ideas as rapaciously as I gasp on fetid indoor radiated air, but Prince Charming isn't going to gallop over to Riverside from social media to rescue me from my remorseful imposition on African American society. If Benjamin cannot handle it, nor my sister, how much more the power males who admire my balls?
Yes, I have them, but only due to the fact I have no vested interest in not calling spades for what they are as I've experienced them, and in transit from Trader Joe's last evening, to the 7-11, I carelessly lost my sock assist, after years of caution, in the usual analogy of density and precocious wit. A simple piece of wood with rubber sealed wire, my entire life has been on the inside of the concentration camp, only flirting with the illusion of freedom in the flickering candle of liberal police states. I can't tell you what it is about the translucent finesse of Danilo's moral guilt that is worth revisiting as my exacerbations thicken with sputum, rereading too much at once, unwilling to fight, but equally not ready to go. I just started The Onion Field. The film made me realize Wambaugh's book would be better, because it isn't simply about a cop killing, but reverberation.
I concede, reluctantly, that small as my account may be, I am part of twitter verse, at least until I get myself banned. Why ever would a smart gal like me do that?
Wednesday, February 4, 2015
Senior moments
I thought this Taipei crash video was a game, or the movie based on the game, not for very long, but few a few split seconds I believed it because I have never seen anything like it. Sneaky whisper in the back of my mind asking what the Chinese are up to? Still building the Great Wall after what? 2000 years now they're still worried about barbarians. Not to suggest that China has the technical know how to make MH370 vanish and then cause another trans Asia sea crash and now this, but CCTV is much more cleverer than its Russian counterpart, and the West mews. The West wants to make money in China, so what is a few hundred thousand lives or more, who cares about Party indoctrination? These are all small things, but these small things are looming large. Whether authoritarian or our precious free society, we're losing control of the mechanized complexities we think we have mastered. I really ought to give my fucking notice and head to Texas, even if I'm dead in a week.
All of my five emails to Pennsylvania's political establishment
I clicked on Sheila Huff's account from my now well used Apple iPhone without thinking, and was prepared for the doctored breasts which meet your eye if you click her tweet. PhillyTechGuy may get another visit from me if Huff's site gave me a virus, but I cannot role play it that way. It is gratuitous. I'm not offended, I do not protest smut, and Miss Huff may use her riders as she pleases, but a woman of 53 is not 35, driven by those needs for an embryo hormones. Menstrual cycle stoppage triggers subtle changes.
I read Craig Whitlock's summary feature carefully, and do not have an issue with his inability to offer his readers a salient exposure (after all, I cannot get case managers to admit highly discriminatory behavior toward me, not on the record). We used to be able to say men are men and women are women, and apparently the Pentagon got its zipper caught between Paula Broadwell's antagonism toward a social climber when Paula herself was the one doing the serving Jill Kelley's voluminous email exchanges with a Marine like Allen make my turn of the century chattiness seem tame. The small short story I mailed to Brian Sims may be considered private mail, but emails don't work that way. We all know it and forget it, unless we use a firewall encrypted by Captcha, which is what I used yesterday to solicit Sims again, daring my terse attitude to refer to his orientation with a sensibility of watered down aspersion. Perhaps Sims and Toomey know what I am trying to say in more uncouth terms, but these are very busy men, and Sims might ask me, in critique, if Republican austerity measures helped me out.
No. Losing Paratransit only accentuates my isolation, but that the service is now heavily restricted is partly the fault of militant activist victories, as per Cassie James Holdsworth, and Erik. The right wing is basically correct. Septa's buses are functionally accessible, unless too crowded to displace seated riders for wheelchair users, but my mobility isn't any easier. I wanted to own my own home, with a lawn, but apparently all realtors have some sort of federal contract with HUD. Part of a disabled mindset involves a trusting nativity. I'd ask someone like Joan Tarshis if she'd like a roommate if my intellect did not already know we don't do things like that-- although I did quite openly feel a surge of gusto with this guy, and had to struggle not to ask Mr. Stiles to come get me the fuck out of here, please. That would be putting a lot on libertarian self-reliance.
I read Craig Whitlock's summary feature carefully, and do not have an issue with his inability to offer his readers a salient exposure (after all, I cannot get case managers to admit highly discriminatory behavior toward me, not on the record). We used to be able to say men are men and women are women, and apparently the Pentagon got its zipper caught between Paula Broadwell's antagonism toward a social climber when Paula herself was the one doing the serving Jill Kelley's voluminous email exchanges with a Marine like Allen make my turn of the century chattiness seem tame. The small short story I mailed to Brian Sims may be considered private mail, but emails don't work that way. We all know it and forget it, unless we use a firewall encrypted by Captcha, which is what I used yesterday to solicit Sims again, daring my terse attitude to refer to his orientation with a sensibility of watered down aspersion. Perhaps Sims and Toomey know what I am trying to say in more uncouth terms, but these are very busy men, and Sims might ask me, in critique, if Republican austerity measures helped me out.
No. Losing Paratransit only accentuates my isolation, but that the service is now heavily restricted is partly the fault of militant activist victories, as per Cassie James Holdsworth, and Erik. The right wing is basically correct. Septa's buses are functionally accessible, unless too crowded to displace seated riders for wheelchair users, but my mobility isn't any easier. I wanted to own my own home, with a lawn, but apparently all realtors have some sort of federal contract with HUD. Part of a disabled mindset involves a trusting nativity. I'd ask someone like Joan Tarshis if she'd like a roommate if my intellect did not already know we don't do things like that-- although I did quite openly feel a surge of gusto with this guy, and had to struggle not to ask Mr. Stiles to come get me the fuck out of here, please. That would be putting a lot on libertarian self-reliance.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Suge Knight may not know my neighbors
Not sure why Acquired Deficiency received as many views as it did. Beneath the surface I miss my blunt idealism, and, at least when he wasn't posting about his co-habitation conflicts (noting that I have not been honorably reticent toward my ex Frank either) I was moved by Andrew Sullivan's sincerity. What the fuck else to deem it of course he cannot possibly engage in high risk sexual activity with his partner but how can they be celibate?
Terribly prurient on my part while I busied myself nagging this homosexual again, politely, because I wish to now get involved in state politics. What is troubling me is that my callous indifference is no longer a game of pretend: I cannot read Andrew Sullivan's posts about his dead dogs without a sniff of recoiling malaise, imagining Sponge Bob, and taking a tip from Charles Lane on the urethra and orgasm, holding a little urine helps me remember engorged penises are wondrous. Charles Lane is a television critic. I know nothing about the book. I'm being manipulative. I am also not really me anymore, cherishing next to nothing about the life I've lived, and I'll never get it back, the belief that I have a future, that I'm relevant, that love is a splendid thing, that the love of my life exists, that I can be made love with and enjoy it. Jude Law is what the evolutionary gay dandy was probably designed to be, the girl boy who could tap dance to vaginal victory before those with more masculine definition. My femininity, feminine confidence, started to collapse when I was 42, when I saw Frank naked. You have no idea what lengths revulsion takes you to when a more attractive supervisor demolishes your ego.
Getting better involved getting out, and I may possibly be too scarred emotionally and mentally at this point.
Correction: Why I substituted Charles Lane for Hank Stuever might pose a challenge to even the most stalwart psychoanalyst. Perchance a preference .for Lane's strident masculine concerns over Stuever's analysis of women and their interests, but let the gaffes be fruitful.
Terribly prurient on my part while I busied myself nagging this homosexual again, politely, because I wish to now get involved in state politics. What is troubling me is that my callous indifference is no longer a game of pretend: I cannot read Andrew Sullivan's posts about his dead dogs without a sniff of recoiling malaise, imagining Sponge Bob, and taking a tip from Charles Lane on the urethra and orgasm, holding a little urine helps me remember engorged penises are wondrous. Charles Lane is a television critic. I know nothing about the book. I'm being manipulative. I am also not really me anymore, cherishing next to nothing about the life I've lived, and I'll never get it back, the belief that I have a future, that I'm relevant, that love is a splendid thing, that the love of my life exists, that I can be made love with and enjoy it. Jude Law is what the evolutionary gay dandy was probably designed to be, the girl boy who could tap dance to vaginal victory before those with more masculine definition. My femininity, feminine confidence, started to collapse when I was 42, when I saw Frank naked. You have no idea what lengths revulsion takes you to when a more attractive supervisor demolishes your ego.
Getting better involved getting out, and I may possibly be too scarred emotionally and mentally at this point.
Correction: Why I substituted Charles Lane for Hank Stuever might pose a challenge to even the most stalwart psychoanalyst. Perchance a preference .for Lane's strident masculine concerns over Stuever's analysis of women and their interests, but let the gaffes be fruitful.
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