"They are more afraid of assisted living than they are of dying." A liberal analyst
Liberals always ably diagnose problems of their own making, which invariably leads to retrenchment, the brawn of knocking a defined but slightly less ripped contract killer Jason Statham inhabits as himself. Statham is not a portrait actor. He doesn't inhabit. He performs as an action figure, in most of his films in affiliate circulation, but he seems to have a particular comprehension of his niche that is put together just well enough to be funny. I like Crank, which says something about me. Some of my regular readers know this already.
Having stipulated viewing pleasure, however, doesn't mean a trained eye doesn't see the narrative as fantastical. Gangsta may get off on breaking each other down, but surely Chev's employers knew he was dangerous, and if they wanted him to die hard, they would have further disabled him in the opening jump, mind games aside. Neveldine and Taylor make up for their preposterous plot devices, and Statham is in obvious sympathy with the notion that action achieves more than sensitivity training, but even here there is a beneath the surface subtext: Defiance is maintained through perseverance. Loopholes, like keeping yourself on uppers, can pay dividends, and being smart about not over-reaching can pull you out of a tight spot. How real world is Statham's urban jungle for the rest of us? Well, poverty is mostly accrued in increments of petty vandalism. Not that gun ownership isn't ubiquitous in black society, but city violence is by and large, banal, taking a toll on everyone.
My eye was running over my old files, and I still have Dana's email from Poets & Writers Speakeasy, banning me in 02 for personal attacks against other users, as if I was the Tantrum Special Needs student from The Slap, or Modern Parenting. I remember a few flares, and suppose, justifiably, users may have been frightened. Vitriol comes from unreachable pain-- but what I wanted, from P&W, from anyone, was out of the regimented hell of my domestic life. The poet Bob Zordani suggested going back into the MFA system (if you know of him he was pretty cool back in the day) and so forth. I wanted the fucking liberals and more moderate suburbanites to come rescue me, literally, and a part of me still does. We do not, in general, tend to do that for each other, but cripples do, without much hesitation. The new social media, to some extent, reigns me in, and there are only so many ways to reap revenge on a system, and a supervisor, who did their number, then their expulsion; family pushes back, even mio padre, however, on the arc of where I've been, where I'm going, honestly, children do not need to be saved if they cannot make their own decisions. I may start something in the morning, filing a police complaint against Presby. It may not be enough of a something that the officers will arrest me. I don't know, but I'm starting it anyway, hopefully with enough composure intact. I want to be able to vacate Riverside with a modicum of safety.
My instructors meant well, but my wounds go too deeply for ever a full recovery. "Hang on for a little while." Whisper in my ear. May be a bummer busy week.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Concentric Roulette
"I will always be a little more miserable than you." Charlie Sheen
Oh, I'm weak alright, because one thing consulting for Liberty Resources did to me was terrify me in relation to Inglis House, and the people who are maintained there aren't all dying, but the institutional paradigm takes a huge toll regardless of maintenance stratification. Wheelchair users aren't the only ones who suffer, which is why nursing human abuse is a litigation generator, and yet I can't fight my age, which isn't so much about my ass hitting the laminated pan in my shower stall: I fall periodically, but Trudy and the minions are now criminalizing it, and I am now exactly where I started in my twenties, thick, indigent, sitting in a stained T, my underlying desperation really akin to Dante's viciousness in The Inferno. I can only write without terror at Presby's power in small increments, and know when the time comes, I cannot live a virtually immobile life, like my ex, Frank, and with kudos to my sister, and to sympathizers like the fine biographer Sheldon Novick, who has a finesse and focus I'll never achieve, pills are not going to resolve this.
I have avoiding delving into suicide too deeply; it's passe really, but the mortality train is on my ass, and I apparently will never break away from cruel black matron enforcers on which my family consigned me and I later, subconsciously, consigned myself. If I had understood the weave of corruption in public housing before I over rode my parents on Diamond Park, I would have never have done it, and now it is all too late.
I'm going to put in a search for room mates and see what happens, I do not know. There are areas of the city that would destroy what cognizance I have left if officials punt me there for being stiff necked: Hunting Park, or Kensington, which is the equivalent of a West African shanty town, but economically is all I can now afford. I'd break there, break in Inglis, and two black woman here where I live are applying the institutional equivalent of blunt force trauma to lock me back into an abusive system.
I have the need to be, this morning, a memoirist in pique, which is much more indulgent than the focus a wonderful scholar like Sheldon applies, and need to find more time to spend with it, except not just now, because I have to apply such objective plaint as I have to give myself the space I need in the short window I have with my lateral transfer method. Take a look at Sheldon's work, his optimism tower's above the misfortune of brain lesions, bodily contortions, and the fear of healthier humans in reaction to it. The ADA hasn't really changed anything, at the core. Debra Horne, at bottom, fears me, and hence the truncheon applied against my biting contempt toward her, an adversarial relationship where she has all the chits to her advantage, and it is sad commentary on the welfare state.
Oh, I'm weak alright, because one thing consulting for Liberty Resources did to me was terrify me in relation to Inglis House, and the people who are maintained there aren't all dying, but the institutional paradigm takes a huge toll regardless of maintenance stratification. Wheelchair users aren't the only ones who suffer, which is why nursing human abuse is a litigation generator, and yet I can't fight my age, which isn't so much about my ass hitting the laminated pan in my shower stall: I fall periodically, but Trudy and the minions are now criminalizing it, and I am now exactly where I started in my twenties, thick, indigent, sitting in a stained T, my underlying desperation really akin to Dante's viciousness in The Inferno. I can only write without terror at Presby's power in small increments, and know when the time comes, I cannot live a virtually immobile life, like my ex, Frank, and with kudos to my sister, and to sympathizers like the fine biographer Sheldon Novick, who has a finesse and focus I'll never achieve, pills are not going to resolve this.
I have avoiding delving into suicide too deeply; it's passe really, but the mortality train is on my ass, and I apparently will never break away from cruel black matron enforcers on which my family consigned me and I later, subconsciously, consigned myself. If I had understood the weave of corruption in public housing before I over rode my parents on Diamond Park, I would have never have done it, and now it is all too late.
I'm going to put in a search for room mates and see what happens, I do not know. There are areas of the city that would destroy what cognizance I have left if officials punt me there for being stiff necked: Hunting Park, or Kensington, which is the equivalent of a West African shanty town, but economically is all I can now afford. I'd break there, break in Inglis, and two black woman here where I live are applying the institutional equivalent of blunt force trauma to lock me back into an abusive system.
I have the need to be, this morning, a memoirist in pique, which is much more indulgent than the focus a wonderful scholar like Sheldon applies, and need to find more time to spend with it, except not just now, because I have to apply such objective plaint as I have to give myself the space I need in the short window I have with my lateral transfer method. Take a look at Sheldon's work, his optimism tower's above the misfortune of brain lesions, bodily contortions, and the fear of healthier humans in reaction to it. The ADA hasn't really changed anything, at the core. Debra Horne, at bottom, fears me, and hence the truncheon applied against my biting contempt toward her, an adversarial relationship where she has all the chits to her advantage, and it is sad commentary on the welfare state.
Saturday, March 28, 2015
The Vanishing of Pato
"Time chases us." a grave digger
This diabolical comedy actually does much of what I am doing here, sending up the high, the low, leaving clever middle brows to tidy the mess in the end, with the appropriate cover up, which prides me on the fact that my innate instincts always return to Italy.
I had a bad day Friday, reluctantly telephoned my sister and apologized again for demeaning her in 2007. I'm ashamed of that episode. She feels nothing will change if I force the hand of Presby, and my dying aunt thinks I made a mistake talking to Sims, but Marie's mental constitution is closer to mine; I told my sister the story, and she doesn't necessarily think playing the distressed damsel to the homosexual legislator to whom I'm diametrically opposed was a mistake, but I recognized in the demeanor of Tim Keller, Sims communication coordinator, indifference. As both an adversary and a disabled woman who has become a skid row female, I'm not a relevant constituent. I don't know if Sims office knew what Trudy was going to do to me yesterday afternoon, but I have no ally of my own, not one to fight for me, and I doubt state or city officials will dally me a plug nickel.
However, I made the decision to keep fighting, and as a result, I may vanish, and the internet will stream right along without me, but I am putting my viewers on notice. Monday morning I'm filing a criminal complaint against Presby, Trudy Richardson, and Debra Horne, essentially taking Tim's advice during first contact with him two years ago. If officers take me seriously and come to the building, I will probably wind up being the one placed under arrest. With the stress I am under, this will not bode well for my health, and we can imagine what this will do to Marie's constitution.
Why am I doing this? Because I want justice, and seemingly the only way to do it is to make the system put me in jeopardy. Then a lawyer will pay attention and possibly file a suit on my behalf. Yes, I'm the one not being reasonable about Medicaid, and know my physical strength is waning, but I told Debra forcefully in October that I was tired of taking it, and if Philadelphia kills me, maybe The Daily News would examine my case, look at reforms. I am not Michelle Blair's eldest child. How a young woman lives with this scenario for the rest of her life is unfathomable, but ever since I came out swinging on LiveJournal, and Harvard Square became a follower, my vision of the arc of my life seems to me the same: People led me to believe I could live a normal life, and, even if we assume my judgment is impaired by emotional pain, Debra Horne had a priori facts at her disposal about my grievance with my disability center, and did nothing when her team gave me their card, and said "Call them." Given the hostile environments in my life, I consider this a hate crime, regardless of what the middle brow thinks of my posting behavior.
This diabolical comedy actually does much of what I am doing here, sending up the high, the low, leaving clever middle brows to tidy the mess in the end, with the appropriate cover up, which prides me on the fact that my innate instincts always return to Italy.
I had a bad day Friday, reluctantly telephoned my sister and apologized again for demeaning her in 2007. I'm ashamed of that episode. She feels nothing will change if I force the hand of Presby, and my dying aunt thinks I made a mistake talking to Sims, but Marie's mental constitution is closer to mine; I told my sister the story, and she doesn't necessarily think playing the distressed damsel to the homosexual legislator to whom I'm diametrically opposed was a mistake, but I recognized in the demeanor of Tim Keller, Sims communication coordinator, indifference. As both an adversary and a disabled woman who has become a skid row female, I'm not a relevant constituent. I don't know if Sims office knew what Trudy was going to do to me yesterday afternoon, but I have no ally of my own, not one to fight for me, and I doubt state or city officials will dally me a plug nickel.
However, I made the decision to keep fighting, and as a result, I may vanish, and the internet will stream right along without me, but I am putting my viewers on notice. Monday morning I'm filing a criminal complaint against Presby, Trudy Richardson, and Debra Horne, essentially taking Tim's advice during first contact with him two years ago. If officers take me seriously and come to the building, I will probably wind up being the one placed under arrest. With the stress I am under, this will not bode well for my health, and we can imagine what this will do to Marie's constitution.
Why am I doing this? Because I want justice, and seemingly the only way to do it is to make the system put me in jeopardy. Then a lawyer will pay attention and possibly file a suit on my behalf. Yes, I'm the one not being reasonable about Medicaid, and know my physical strength is waning, but I told Debra forcefully in October that I was tired of taking it, and if Philadelphia kills me, maybe The Daily News would examine my case, look at reforms. I am not Michelle Blair's eldest child. How a young woman lives with this scenario for the rest of her life is unfathomable, but ever since I came out swinging on LiveJournal, and Harvard Square became a follower, my vision of the arc of my life seems to me the same: People led me to believe I could live a normal life, and, even if we assume my judgment is impaired by emotional pain, Debra Horne had a priori facts at her disposal about my grievance with my disability center, and did nothing when her team gave me their card, and said "Call them." Given the hostile environments in my life, I consider this a hate crime, regardless of what the middle brow thinks of my posting behavior.
Friday, March 27, 2015
Tumescent Twilight
Trudy Richardson, erstwhile tootsie tooth and manager of Riverside, called out the big guns, a couple of kids from DHS younger than thirty, asking me in agitated voices, "I've been to Inglis House, what's wrong with it?" And I from my bedside, acting as my own attorney, told them about my aggravated assault, Debra Horne's prior conduct, challenging her competency, upon which child men asked her to leave, and then the child men left, I told the building secretary I was giving my notice, Trudy and I pulled our swords from our scabbards, and then I received my recertification packet under the door, which I am ignoring, and I have under August, actually, to blithely disregard HUD. Obviously some statutory nicety prevents Presby from filing for eviction. What that is lies beyond my acumen, and NBC already has situation comedies about modern tenement living. I personally find this all amusing in my sharp witted indigence, since to be kind they obviously do not wish to forcibly take Vinne from me. This is about the lowest point in my life, except for when my benefits were suspended after I was accepted into Diamond Park, or Brandon Philips with his hands around my neck, throttling me, and I did not die. Super human strength, super human obstinacy, beyond the salient details, I have nothing poignant to offer. The joke is like the goal line that extends around the world when the touchdown is on the post. The only person who cares is an equally unfortunate aunt battling her ailing body. I wonder what my followers would choose, if the merciless welfare state would be worth it to you.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Helsinki is an exotic state
The Finnish upgrade to Wybe's global media feed, Look of a Killer, however synthetic in its charm, has only furthered my conviction that Slavic Eurasians against Siberian backgrounds says something uniquely telling about the human condition, which the adaptations of Jussi Vares exposes with more precision than the more contemporary, jazzier series. We can't shake the traces of absurdest, abstract expressionism, just as I can't shake the fact that I am a cripple, a pig, with all the best of intentions, aging out of relevance. Why should millennials care, in other words, about the most destitute Americans glued to the dictatorship of social service paradigms? I just got off the phone with UCPA, searching for alternatives, to what though? I'm an old stubbly pear, personal aide, room mate, or cavern like Inglis House notwithstanding, only alive when I'm writing. Off the keyboard I'm a numb racist by virtue of having lived under the auspices of a Presbyterian syndicate for 30 years. I cannot change the end result of my downward escalation, the impassive masks of ambulatory persons to whom I appeal. "Cripple is a whole other country," I told the public policy guy with his affirmative sympathy. Commiseration doesn't alter that landscape, and though engaging in dialogue with an activist mentality may not be so bad, making connections one has, I no longer know how to sell myself optimism. Within a decade I'll be bed ridden. Ask yourself, in that context, what the relentless pressure Trudy Richardson imposes on me hopes to achieve other than making me someone else's problem. Being quadriplegic sucks. It hurts, and the positive attitude of empowerment is only a constraining measure, a conviction that this existence is better than nothing.
I have to ease up over the next few weeks, as if I'll actually hold myself to that.
I have to ease up over the next few weeks, as if I'll actually hold myself to that.
Calipers for Endoscopy
spastic_dowager: "I'm going to give you hell."
Brian Sims, state legislator: "I can take it."
Ah, cowardly troll. Puffy face will only get her so far anymore, the contravene of pasty plaque to the brazier definition of eloquence in Jeremy Irons. I did not think of that, but could see Sims doing Irons in a remake of Forster's Maurice. Who would not want to fuck Jeremy Irons in his prime, with that caviler elegance?
Tim Keller took 4 pics of me and his shoe leather boss, and I realized, this yesterday evening, that I no longer count among the human race; it hit me with a callow thud, in Trinity Center. The only people who count are those who pay property taxes. State wards like myself either get killed for non-compliance or remain subservient. I did retail handshakes, and the progressives in public policy didn't realize I wanted to rip his young squeaky cute face off for urging me to go back on Medicaid: "the waiver is gone now with the ADA." I made nice with the Haitian and his co-worker at Dunkin Donuts, since I look like welfare shit. The Haitian jilted me prior to my hire of Karina, but I took his number again-- just in case, and I need packers. My inner voice is screaming "Tony Stiles please save me!" and Tony, well, he is the real thing. I only get this stout palsied body extracted, until the next escalation, the next crisis, and Tony babe, I am giving my notice next week. Marie Varenas will be resurrected, miraculously, so she can come throttle her niece. My father telephones like a chastened penitent and I ignore him; I'm in my 53rd year, always the figurative train wreck, and I've convinced myself of my own rhetoric, utterly convinced I'll manage to survive, though perhaps I secretly relish combat with police brutality, and I truly throbbed for Jeremy Irons, the Merchant Ivy extraordinaire, a footnote in time. David Cronenberg, whose name is almost synonymous with human will extinguished by ravenous appetite which consumes itself, probing cavities. I have deliberately avoided posting about Dead Ringers. This film is one of the few exceptions where my aberrant voice, so marginal, merges with industry critics. Jeremy Irons is so deft, so subtle, you foam at the mouth with natural lubricant, but the actor in his time, in the zenith of his skill, is no more, a retrospective shadow, diffident, not sure why he picked acting. You want to fuck that hauteur. "Presby Homes has perpetrated hate crimes against me." Puffy face pouting red, body flexing eyes welling with tears. Sims is rather attractive and I was mildly aroused. I am going to survive this, right?
Perhaps not. He gave me permission to use the photo. I need a job. Dreamland. .
Brian Sims, state legislator: "I can take it."
Ah, cowardly troll. Puffy face will only get her so far anymore, the contravene of pasty plaque to the brazier definition of eloquence in Jeremy Irons. I did not think of that, but could see Sims doing Irons in a remake of Forster's Maurice. Who would not want to fuck Jeremy Irons in his prime, with that caviler elegance?
Tim Keller took 4 pics of me and his shoe leather boss, and I realized, this yesterday evening, that I no longer count among the human race; it hit me with a callow thud, in Trinity Center. The only people who count are those who pay property taxes. State wards like myself either get killed for non-compliance or remain subservient. I did retail handshakes, and the progressives in public policy didn't realize I wanted to rip his young squeaky cute face off for urging me to go back on Medicaid: "the waiver is gone now with the ADA." I made nice with the Haitian and his co-worker at Dunkin Donuts, since I look like welfare shit. The Haitian jilted me prior to my hire of Karina, but I took his number again-- just in case, and I need packers. My inner voice is screaming "Tony Stiles please save me!" and Tony, well, he is the real thing. I only get this stout palsied body extracted, until the next escalation, the next crisis, and Tony babe, I am giving my notice next week. Marie Varenas will be resurrected, miraculously, so she can come throttle her niece. My father telephones like a chastened penitent and I ignore him; I'm in my 53rd year, always the figurative train wreck, and I've convinced myself of my own rhetoric, utterly convinced I'll manage to survive, though perhaps I secretly relish combat with police brutality, and I truly throbbed for Jeremy Irons, the Merchant Ivy extraordinaire, a footnote in time. David Cronenberg, whose name is almost synonymous with human will extinguished by ravenous appetite which consumes itself, probing cavities. I have deliberately avoided posting about Dead Ringers. This film is one of the few exceptions where my aberrant voice, so marginal, merges with industry critics. Jeremy Irons is so deft, so subtle, you foam at the mouth with natural lubricant, but the actor in his time, in the zenith of his skill, is no more, a retrospective shadow, diffident, not sure why he picked acting. You want to fuck that hauteur. "Presby Homes has perpetrated hate crimes against me." Puffy face pouting red, body flexing eyes welling with tears. Sims is rather attractive and I was mildly aroused. I am going to survive this, right?
Perhaps not. He gave me permission to use the photo. I need a job. Dreamland. .
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
Local Clarion
Worthless exercise it may be, but I am looking for people willing to assist a quadriplegic pack within the sad cruddy environment of her interior. Much of what I have can be tossed, though I need to save some of my furnishings. Ms Richardson is going on the offensive again, because of my slip in the bathroom. It is like clockwork, the staff assures me they won't harass me, and then they turn on the screws. This time I intend to be forcibly arrested, if I must, and it will probably lead to injury. I have a lot of clothes I don't use, and need a new paint job, and so on, but I cannot continue with Presby's methodology. I'm starting to cry, and just want the fuck out. If you could at least pass the word that I need some volunteers, I'd appreciate it. I am not going to let Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, or HUD, to continue to treat me like a criminal. I just cannot go on with it. This is a local need, obviously; I do not expect the Palins to parachute in to my rescue. You can email me, should you be brave enough:
Jozanny@yahoo.com
Edit: I'm looking for storage units. I'm done
Jozanny@yahoo.com
Edit: I'm looking for storage units. I'm done
Monday, March 23, 2015
Taking a U turn
Mio padre, in in relation to my fall, wants me to go to hospital. Our conversation went something like this:
Aging patriarch: Why don't you go get checked out? I'll pay for it. If you want me to come over--
Translation: I don't think you're expendable.
Furious daughter: Come over? O please! You have Louise, and I have to get up to go to the store, and unlike you and Marie, I am making plans to go away, or to a home, because I am a realist while the two of you do nothing and sit there and suffer!
Translation: You don't love me and never did.
My father's sister is literally dying, and even allowing for the fact that no model can control everything, her suffering is driving me berserk. I'd email my cousins, or IM Richie at Linked In, but I know it is not my place to overstep my role as (overbearing) niece. Padre does not intervene, and I'm mad at everyone, familial and otherwise.
I am on the verge of giving my notice, with no plan, straining at the bit, even knowing that access to toiletry would be essential, and a problem, although I have a portable bedpan. It is all I can do not to lunge at Trudy and assault her tomorrow, and yes, this is beyond the bounds of decency, though I'd run out of usage attempting to detail the games these employees are directed to play, how many times I've complied and they simply do absolutely nothing. A Poets & Writers author wrote a book about an underclass woman who was gang raped and died of alcohol poisoning in the projects. I found the novel in Paley Library while I still lived near Temple. I forget the guy's name, I forget the title, but he wasn't writing fiction; he was writing about a police state which deliberately denigrates and defeats people who don't know what to do to stop it. Unlike the female character, and I'm not sure she was the lead, I never used fucking as an act to get what I craved, never tried to climb on my once well endowed cunt, though I did try very hard in my thirties and forties to get a protector. This is why I could not swallow my physical revulsion toward my ex; he was a misogynist bawling baby who wants to be pampered, and has no idea how to walk with me. Some men do have that idea. Married men, but I only ever made a direct effort to steal one. Tall order with the flimsiness of cyber dating in the early explosion of web growth.
I know giving my notice will kill my father and I know everyone who would want to console me would say this is how landlords are. I can't take it anymore. I don't drink, I don't whore myself, I gave up tobacco, and because niggers love to bitch slap as a method of matriculation, I'll be persecuted to my grave. I can't do it anymore.
Aging patriarch: Why don't you go get checked out? I'll pay for it. If you want me to come over--
Translation: I don't think you're expendable.
Furious daughter: Come over? O please! You have Louise, and I have to get up to go to the store, and unlike you and Marie, I am making plans to go away, or to a home, because I am a realist while the two of you do nothing and sit there and suffer!
Translation: You don't love me and never did.
My father's sister is literally dying, and even allowing for the fact that no model can control everything, her suffering is driving me berserk. I'd email my cousins, or IM Richie at Linked In, but I know it is not my place to overstep my role as (overbearing) niece. Padre does not intervene, and I'm mad at everyone, familial and otherwise.
I am on the verge of giving my notice, with no plan, straining at the bit, even knowing that access to toiletry would be essential, and a problem, although I have a portable bedpan. It is all I can do not to lunge at Trudy and assault her tomorrow, and yes, this is beyond the bounds of decency, though I'd run out of usage attempting to detail the games these employees are directed to play, how many times I've complied and they simply do absolutely nothing. A Poets & Writers author wrote a book about an underclass woman who was gang raped and died of alcohol poisoning in the projects. I found the novel in Paley Library while I still lived near Temple. I forget the guy's name, I forget the title, but he wasn't writing fiction; he was writing about a police state which deliberately denigrates and defeats people who don't know what to do to stop it. Unlike the female character, and I'm not sure she was the lead, I never used fucking as an act to get what I craved, never tried to climb on my once well endowed cunt, though I did try very hard in my thirties and forties to get a protector. This is why I could not swallow my physical revulsion toward my ex; he was a misogynist bawling baby who wants to be pampered, and has no idea how to walk with me. Some men do have that idea. Married men, but I only ever made a direct effort to steal one. Tall order with the flimsiness of cyber dating in the early explosion of web growth.
I know giving my notice will kill my father and I know everyone who would want to console me would say this is how landlords are. I can't take it anymore. I don't drink, I don't whore myself, I gave up tobacco, and because niggers love to bitch slap as a method of matriculation, I'll be persecuted to my grave. I can't do it anymore.
That it is biodegradable is no panecea
I slid off my bathing chair because I did not commit to my lateral pull on the way back to my poor old P200, which is more my husband than my limited number of unhappy suitors. I hate my ex; the normal type of hate that makes divorce a pathology industry, but I do not hate him with the manic rage bestowed on my former supervisor, sliding off the damn chair but not really sustaining any injury. The EMS team made me more uncomfortable dragging me out to the stretcher whereupon I declined a ride to hospital, not that I wasn't tempted, but changed my mind. How much longer will I be posting? I do not know. I wrote "I have nothing left," many months ago, and that stands as the outcry it pretty much entails, not that EMS isn't used to encounters with fecal matter, but from now on, when I am taunt, I'll just have to wash via the mop bucket, and this evening, pop the Aleve.
Before you shake your heads at the degree of embattlement I am sustaining, I was on attendant care, from 1997 to 2006, and have too many fiascoes, one after the next. I can no longer afford to purchase assistance, and perhaps my poppa was right, and we're better off aborted. I can not end my life being attended to by people who cannot handle the burden it entails. I won't. I've lived what you do not see when you put people away, and it is in part, analogous to genocide, in a concession to Cassie James.
Why did Oz add me to their lists? twitter is cataloging itself? Would any of you be willing to pay me volunteer visits on rotation? Ha.
Before you shake your heads at the degree of embattlement I am sustaining, I was on attendant care, from 1997 to 2006, and have too many fiascoes, one after the next. I can no longer afford to purchase assistance, and perhaps my poppa was right, and we're better off aborted. I can not end my life being attended to by people who cannot handle the burden it entails. I won't. I've lived what you do not see when you put people away, and it is in part, analogous to genocide, in a concession to Cassie James.
Why did Oz add me to their lists? twitter is cataloging itself? Would any of you be willing to pay me volunteer visits on rotation? Ha.
Maigret buys a fecal transplant
I did not realize the attack I had this fine Saturday afternoon was a distressed stool in transit of its own accord. I thought it was gas. Sometimes an attack forces itself and there is little I can do but wait if I want to transfer. Indigestion had me fooled, and my constricted budget isn't going to help any. I don't even have wipes, which I use up in three month increments, and as used to it as I am, I'm set back. The cats are distressed, I'm distressed, and simply writing in carpe diem fashion, not that I didn't know my savings were in depletion. I worked so hard teaching myself Examiner's automated uploading, for what? Why am I such a doofus?
Now I'm doing the same with Medium, for absolutely nothing, my own agenda, not even bothering to query the publications I signed with on Ev's platform, though I've now mastered the editing props, I'm like a Russian, always in dissent between Western cultivation and Slavic stricture, going to lie down for an hour hope I can transfer smoothly later, no longer having the luxury of food when I want it. I could search for a cheaper ISP, cut myself off, partially at least, as digital life never really did much for me except make me feel badly, and the new platforms wouldn't even allow me to lash out and lose my temper, not in a combative duel (not that this is a legitimate exercise, as repetitive murder as a form of conversation was used by Stephen Dobyns. For me, it is a --not exactly psychosis-- a pathology perhaps, which no longer has any rationale. Nothing I can do will undo the harm that has been done to me. It may fall under the rubric of that's life, but my identity is on the verge of annihilation. If I attempted to become a domestic terrorist, I'd lose, not entirely sure how a quadriplegic would go about it, the only passion left in my life is vengeance. It means nothing. Women will always save cripples, as everyone has to be someone's patsy.
Now I'm doing the same with Medium, for absolutely nothing, my own agenda, not even bothering to query the publications I signed with on Ev's platform, though I've now mastered the editing props, I'm like a Russian, always in dissent between Western cultivation and Slavic stricture, going to lie down for an hour hope I can transfer smoothly later, no longer having the luxury of food when I want it. I could search for a cheaper ISP, cut myself off, partially at least, as digital life never really did much for me except make me feel badly, and the new platforms wouldn't even allow me to lash out and lose my temper, not in a combative duel (not that this is a legitimate exercise, as repetitive murder as a form of conversation was used by Stephen Dobyns. For me, it is a --not exactly psychosis-- a pathology perhaps, which no longer has any rationale. Nothing I can do will undo the harm that has been done to me. It may fall under the rubric of that's life, but my identity is on the verge of annihilation. If I attempted to become a domestic terrorist, I'd lose, not entirely sure how a quadriplegic would go about it, the only passion left in my life is vengeance. It means nothing. Women will always save cripples, as everyone has to be someone's patsy.
Saturday, March 21, 2015
All precocious invalids have champions
"The mess has become an old friend."-- a French actress protecting her champion
It is uncanny, when biological rhythms themselves attune to conscious attachment, wake the body without the convenience of the alarm on the device, wakes you in time, despite the familiar eruption of a shameful rectal attack, which is oddly a relief, the battle with control, which is, however, transitioning into what will eventually kill, malady unknown, a sense of vertigo, starting way back at 36, getting significantly worse in the movement past your half century. Through the lens of Simenon, the animosity between the British and the French is utterly comprehensible, because the Franks have this insufferable sensibility of discretion, which would wisely serve us all ably if anyone paid the slightest attention. I don't, having dispensed with it all, but it is spring, I am sick, as usual, having warned myself about the container of almond butter, consumed not from greed. Desire for protein.
Just as Simenon manufactures a homosexual jurist in a dim interior, Maigret rents a room manufactures a faded damsel with broken wings, who thrives only when her spatial relation is rotated away from our fortunately stable sun, and has a love triangle which nearly results in a cop killing. I always try to give Maigret my rapt attention, but why Martinaud had to die for Mrs. Boris--- well being remains slightly puzzling. He was a loan shark of some sort, and the husband, soon to be a pensioner, was no guarantee. She fought Jules past fighting to save the man who valued her honor.
Affairs, much like homosexual secrets, often lead to mayhem as exemplified by the Fletcher case. To an American sensibility, Susan Chrzanowski was a culpable instigator in this locally sensational tragedy, and she paid a price. I could compare Susan to myself, but it is different. A sexually frustrated poet starved for passionate foreplay, setting herself up most of the time, is not the same thing as a presiding judge getting hot and heavy with a malcontent like Michael, who probably did shoot his wife. I base this on the fact that the parents noted Leann hated guns, and I'd never touch one myself, not even for an alpha male too good to be true. (This does not mean I am not joining the Libertarian Party. I am, but guns are dangerous in the immediate process of their utility, and I'm spastic; I'd never touch them.)
Yet we need love affairs. Need them to expose them. I support illicit sexual activity, in other words, without franchising equal treatment for homosexual orientation under the equal protection clause, making my principles rather difficult to defend, but I am going to be dead soon. I've never addressed whether or not I think a lesbian experiment on my part would have led to better sexual satisfaction. I have my reaction to feeling threatened on the one hand, and the passes, Eddie's molestation on the other, and not that it is entirely relevant, but I think not. I am not aroused by breasts, not particularly interested in deltas even of a better class act than mine (my anatomy is non standard) so no, I do not think a domestic arrangement similar to New Mobility's Josie Bysek is something I really desire and am fiercely repressing, despite my latch keys. I cannot stop other women from touching me inappropriately. It angers me, and I understand why those who engage in these sneak attacks are sometimes killed. We'll let Google measure that yardstick of an account in good standing, rolling my eyes.
To clear up any confusion, the company offered me an url for my Google plus account, and indicated I had *good standing". This company wearies, a little.
It is uncanny, when biological rhythms themselves attune to conscious attachment, wake the body without the convenience of the alarm on the device, wakes you in time, despite the familiar eruption of a shameful rectal attack, which is oddly a relief, the battle with control, which is, however, transitioning into what will eventually kill, malady unknown, a sense of vertigo, starting way back at 36, getting significantly worse in the movement past your half century. Through the lens of Simenon, the animosity between the British and the French is utterly comprehensible, because the Franks have this insufferable sensibility of discretion, which would wisely serve us all ably if anyone paid the slightest attention. I don't, having dispensed with it all, but it is spring, I am sick, as usual, having warned myself about the container of almond butter, consumed not from greed. Desire for protein.
Just as Simenon manufactures a homosexual jurist in a dim interior, Maigret rents a room manufactures a faded damsel with broken wings, who thrives only when her spatial relation is rotated away from our fortunately stable sun, and has a love triangle which nearly results in a cop killing. I always try to give Maigret my rapt attention, but why Martinaud had to die for Mrs. Boris--- well being remains slightly puzzling. He was a loan shark of some sort, and the husband, soon to be a pensioner, was no guarantee. She fought Jules past fighting to save the man who valued her honor.
Affairs, much like homosexual secrets, often lead to mayhem as exemplified by the Fletcher case. To an American sensibility, Susan Chrzanowski was a culpable instigator in this locally sensational tragedy, and she paid a price. I could compare Susan to myself, but it is different. A sexually frustrated poet starved for passionate foreplay, setting herself up most of the time, is not the same thing as a presiding judge getting hot and heavy with a malcontent like Michael, who probably did shoot his wife. I base this on the fact that the parents noted Leann hated guns, and I'd never touch one myself, not even for an alpha male too good to be true. (This does not mean I am not joining the Libertarian Party. I am, but guns are dangerous in the immediate process of their utility, and I'm spastic; I'd never touch them.)
Yet we need love affairs. Need them to expose them. I support illicit sexual activity, in other words, without franchising equal treatment for homosexual orientation under the equal protection clause, making my principles rather difficult to defend, but I am going to be dead soon. I've never addressed whether or not I think a lesbian experiment on my part would have led to better sexual satisfaction. I have my reaction to feeling threatened on the one hand, and the passes, Eddie's molestation on the other, and not that it is entirely relevant, but I think not. I am not aroused by breasts, not particularly interested in deltas even of a better class act than mine (my anatomy is non standard) so no, I do not think a domestic arrangement similar to New Mobility's Josie Bysek is something I really desire and am fiercely repressing, despite my latch keys. I cannot stop other women from touching me inappropriately. It angers me, and I understand why those who engage in these sneak attacks are sometimes killed. We'll let Google measure that yardstick of an account in good standing, rolling my eyes.
To clear up any confusion, the company offered me an url for my Google plus account, and indicated I had *good standing". This company wearies, a little.
Friday, March 20, 2015
Weaves
The Slap is an interesting illustration of what creative writers have been doing for years; a closure on a nearly thirty year gap. I only caught last evening's episode by remote flicking accident, a rarity, but I'll have to catch up, with bodies not so perfect, children not so cardboard. We've come a long way, but of course, what makes it intelligent, like the Germanic Crime Scene Cleaner, is we're beginning to learn veracity is complex, not so one dimensional, and that there is virtually no difference between Grecian and Roman methodology, except in stratification by social status, and well, Italians have the charmed corruption of the worst inferiority complex 1000 years of history can bench press on an ethnicity.
I have to rouse myself now, reluctantly, eat, wash, spend my entire damn day hauling my pet supplies; it is the price of stiff necked obstinancy which will eventually crash on my warped skull. Sulk.
I have to rouse myself now, reluctantly, eat, wash, spend my entire damn day hauling my pet supplies; it is the price of stiff necked obstinancy which will eventually crash on my warped skull. Sulk.
Jason Statham's Inspiring Disenbodiment
"Mental health will drive you mad." Quiet Riot
Liberals like Paul Krugman would argue, not without some justification, that public housing affords a person of my physical vulnerability more protection than would a private rental, and indeed, when I toured the Presidential Suites between 1992-93, Linda Dezenski referred me to her private contractor for unit modification. He wanted 5k, which for me, or my father, my mother, would have been astronomical at the time, on top of the rent, and if I or the landlord terminated the lease, I would have had to restore the apartment, and although this may sound accusative, I have no idea where Linda thought I could come up with that kind of expenditure. Her department and Staroscik's department were paying me seven dollars an hour as a consultant. My entry level salary at Matrix was an improvement, but I would have needed at least an annual salary of 50,000 to maintain the lifestyle my father provided me as an adolescent, and I would have also needed tenure, which, even if I listened to all the middle class advice, put myself on an autonomic pharmaceutical regimen, would not have been guaranteed. The field was already becoming saturated, and the humanities is soft. Even a successful founding country import like Niall Ferguson buttressed himself as a historian by creating an interesting specialty as it relates to economic policy and development. I could have never hoped for that kind of intellectual magnetism, not easily afforded to women as it is.
But my intelligence still deserves better than this sterile, fatalistic paralysis, the regulatory paradigm designed deliberately not to allow me to keep my assets. I do not want to do my recertification, which will be scheduled soon, not making it easy on myself. I would have approximately six weeks to find persons unknown willing to help me pack, in exchange for what, a tutorial? Six weeks, a storage facility, deciding what to do with the feline children, what temporary shelter I could find, destroying my comfort to decouple myself from the burgeoning industry of plurality poverty in this country. The recession hit many people hard, maybe even those reading this, but my upward mobility ended because I did not have the emotional armor necessary for case management after my accumulation of inner city and suburban poverty progressed against my well being like brain plague and rabies. For such a large country to lose the dynamism of aspiration signals deeper structural flaws, and with my age, I have to trend my expectations downward, but even if Presby staff and PCA deescalate the institutional bias against me, on top of the overt discrimination and abuse, I simply cannot continue in this environment, with Jimmi Shrode's indignation a silent slap in the face with every encounter between us. I no longer know how active his near zombie partner is on Liberty's board of directors, but the two of them, as homosexual militants, like mafia bosses, have pull, and my level of critical dissent against the so called activists, it simply isn't tolerated. Aside from which, I simply cannot return to 714 Market Street. That my conflict with disability intake is so public is, of course, in the present tense, my responsibility, but when I was being humiliated by them, this was not due entirely to my breakdown. Linda put me through my paces with former colleagues, former suburban school mates and neighbors. It is very difficult to live with, and Riverside's tentacles are very much entwined with it. Henry Miller, so slowly digested, has been a bad influence, evidently, as if I could waltz, penniless, from predicament to predicament, without legs to stand on-- though there are sexual fetishes out there which could garner me traffic in the red light district.
Liberals like Paul Krugman would argue, not without some justification, that public housing affords a person of my physical vulnerability more protection than would a private rental, and indeed, when I toured the Presidential Suites between 1992-93, Linda Dezenski referred me to her private contractor for unit modification. He wanted 5k, which for me, or my father, my mother, would have been astronomical at the time, on top of the rent, and if I or the landlord terminated the lease, I would have had to restore the apartment, and although this may sound accusative, I have no idea where Linda thought I could come up with that kind of expenditure. Her department and Staroscik's department were paying me seven dollars an hour as a consultant. My entry level salary at Matrix was an improvement, but I would have needed at least an annual salary of 50,000 to maintain the lifestyle my father provided me as an adolescent, and I would have also needed tenure, which, even if I listened to all the middle class advice, put myself on an autonomic pharmaceutical regimen, would not have been guaranteed. The field was already becoming saturated, and the humanities is soft. Even a successful founding country import like Niall Ferguson buttressed himself as a historian by creating an interesting specialty as it relates to economic policy and development. I could have never hoped for that kind of intellectual magnetism, not easily afforded to women as it is.
But my intelligence still deserves better than this sterile, fatalistic paralysis, the regulatory paradigm designed deliberately not to allow me to keep my assets. I do not want to do my recertification, which will be scheduled soon, not making it easy on myself. I would have approximately six weeks to find persons unknown willing to help me pack, in exchange for what, a tutorial? Six weeks, a storage facility, deciding what to do with the feline children, what temporary shelter I could find, destroying my comfort to decouple myself from the burgeoning industry of plurality poverty in this country. The recession hit many people hard, maybe even those reading this, but my upward mobility ended because I did not have the emotional armor necessary for case management after my accumulation of inner city and suburban poverty progressed against my well being like brain plague and rabies. For such a large country to lose the dynamism of aspiration signals deeper structural flaws, and with my age, I have to trend my expectations downward, but even if Presby staff and PCA deescalate the institutional bias against me, on top of the overt discrimination and abuse, I simply cannot continue in this environment, with Jimmi Shrode's indignation a silent slap in the face with every encounter between us. I no longer know how active his near zombie partner is on Liberty's board of directors, but the two of them, as homosexual militants, like mafia bosses, have pull, and my level of critical dissent against the so called activists, it simply isn't tolerated. Aside from which, I simply cannot return to 714 Market Street. That my conflict with disability intake is so public is, of course, in the present tense, my responsibility, but when I was being humiliated by them, this was not due entirely to my breakdown. Linda put me through my paces with former colleagues, former suburban school mates and neighbors. It is very difficult to live with, and Riverside's tentacles are very much entwined with it. Henry Miller, so slowly digested, has been a bad influence, evidently, as if I could waltz, penniless, from predicament to predicament, without legs to stand on-- though there are sexual fetishes out there which could garner me traffic in the red light district.
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Votive Voces for the Dead
I paid Google twelve dollars, almost everything I earned aggregating (huzzah, to echo a Harvard instructor), for a domain to protect all my writhing processes, and now I want to hit delete. Poof. Boom. Exhausted tinder, wipe it out and start over, rescind my swearing on a certain Shakespearean head, slay my malevolence and aim for love me I'm an invalid endearments, but it would not work. I'd find my way back to the wrong side of the culture wars, and even my relatives in Rome, of whom I have only faint hints, would be tempted to gag me and rummage for a hair shirt and a switch. We rarely see in film that the dying too can be tyrannical, the longer they linger, and Marie the Italian aunt is furious with me, over trifles, but she wins, I scurry, whose lungs the worse for wear? (Mine)
She needs hospice, while I, more ruthless, prepare my funeral train. I may have read former follower Clark wrong; twitter disconcerts us all, and the inferences I sewed together may be off base. It is difficult to engage each other through devices with so many loopholes and IP addresses, but after I wished her farewell, I began my rather fated outreach, and Marie's farewell to me, in so many words, is an old, precious photograph of Lillian walking me, in little white braces, with my cousin Thomas, who, much like my father's son, overdosed himself to death. I never knew what Lillian suffered through all this: diseased husband, divorced sons with menacing tempers, half bred daughters in law, one of them a loon. My mother.
What the fuck am I? The scathing, if manufactured, sociopath? I was a horrible child, my other aunt's assurances aside. Mother hate, and rebellion against the matriarchs, and yet Lillian, who ruled like the queen mother in her family, is the voice of my dead, the voice of a small Mediterranean country that created the world as we know it, and collapsed into a tourist location for mystery writers. My grandmother is here, with her taciturn disapproval reigning me in, with her stern peasant strength and pride that made her beautiful. Voglio vedere la sua Roma, mentre lei lo sapeva, ed esprimere un desiderio. I'll check it against my dictionary later, in my bad habit of having nothing to say. But I'm a writer. I boil the water, out comes the angel hair, al dente, or softer still. I am not sore at Marie. She's dying, and scared, not that my mortality isn't looming with terror, but I may have slightly more time, whether Jerry forgives me or not. He was the most extraordinary instructor I ever knew, bar none, and coming from a teething bitch, fighting to the last breath, that is the best gift I can ever return, even if he was Irish. Italians look down their noses, you know.
She needs hospice, while I, more ruthless, prepare my funeral train. I may have read former follower Clark wrong; twitter disconcerts us all, and the inferences I sewed together may be off base. It is difficult to engage each other through devices with so many loopholes and IP addresses, but after I wished her farewell, I began my rather fated outreach, and Marie's farewell to me, in so many words, is an old, precious photograph of Lillian walking me, in little white braces, with my cousin Thomas, who, much like my father's son, overdosed himself to death. I never knew what Lillian suffered through all this: diseased husband, divorced sons with menacing tempers, half bred daughters in law, one of them a loon. My mother.
What the fuck am I? The scathing, if manufactured, sociopath? I was a horrible child, my other aunt's assurances aside. Mother hate, and rebellion against the matriarchs, and yet Lillian, who ruled like the queen mother in her family, is the voice of my dead, the voice of a small Mediterranean country that created the world as we know it, and collapsed into a tourist location for mystery writers. My grandmother is here, with her taciturn disapproval reigning me in, with her stern peasant strength and pride that made her beautiful. Voglio vedere la sua Roma, mentre lei lo sapeva, ed esprimere un desiderio. I'll check it against my dictionary later, in my bad habit of having nothing to say. But I'm a writer. I boil the water, out comes the angel hair, al dente, or softer still. I am not sore at Marie. She's dying, and scared, not that my mortality isn't looming with terror, but I may have slightly more time, whether Jerry forgives me or not. He was the most extraordinary instructor I ever knew, bar none, and coming from a teething bitch, fighting to the last breath, that is the best gift I can ever return, even if he was Irish. Italians look down their noses, you know.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Extinction to the 10
"I turned to the person next to me and said if this was risk analysis, I would rather drill my eye out with a hand augur." Thomas Peltier
Cindy Boren, despite brand headline dramatization, may be right about the demise of the NFL, and if she is right, I may just save the Blogger technocrats some stress, archive my account, and have myself arrested for intent to commit a hate crime. The prison system could not afford the expenditure, but it amounts to the same thing.
Domestication, coupled with luck of evolutionary design, allowed homo sapiens to succeed to the point of exterminating our own sub species, despite the fact that species alternates make life more interesting, but the death of American football, like the death of Roman Catholicism, like the replacement of a sovereign head of state with an autonomic statutory procedure, spells the beginning of the end-- this is why I am against giving homosexuality equal treatment (I've lost this battle, concede the fact, but plow on, unable to feat a transplant to Uganda.)
Our own pacification means we lose our adaptive advantage, and don't tell me athletes don't know that performance doesn't take a toll. Everyone knew, even without giving the term "punch drunk" a medical tag replacement like CTE. Love of the game, like anything, is about doing, creating something greater than ourselves, but no, mothers (if she was a mother) like Kelly Clark want to transform humanity into mole rat colonies.
I am going to take a risk, as a socially inappropriate minority, and make a discomfiting assertion. Those of us with developmental issues over-personalize: I still live with my umbilical cord psychic attachment to Jerry McGuire, best damn Shakespearean on the East Coast; I'll never get over the fact that Gail was a better match for the John P. Tassoni who broke my heart, and I will never be able to trust disability activism in the same way because of what Linda Dezenski and Josie Byzek did to me. I'd let it go if either had the courage to publicly address the fact that they crossed the line, but they won't, but there you have it. I speak the language of personal absence, and did not know Kelly Clark was trying to get DIA out of the public domain, at least on the basis of my twitter feed. That said, I was trying to be nice, to take a cue, or two, from her tweets, and expand on them, and yes, feel a trifle, just a trifle, hurt that she either blocked me or closed her account. I was attempting to engage with her, not adopt her; if she was a kid, well, I am not writing to a target YA audience..
This is how we think, people with brain damage. Dispassionate processes are not how we make our approach, and with that said, I wish Kelly the best. If she was a dyke I had no way of knowing, and she did not have to read my links if they violated her sense of propriety.
Cindy Boren, despite brand headline dramatization, may be right about the demise of the NFL, and if she is right, I may just save the Blogger technocrats some stress, archive my account, and have myself arrested for intent to commit a hate crime. The prison system could not afford the expenditure, but it amounts to the same thing.
Domestication, coupled with luck of evolutionary design, allowed homo sapiens to succeed to the point of exterminating our own sub species, despite the fact that species alternates make life more interesting, but the death of American football, like the death of Roman Catholicism, like the replacement of a sovereign head of state with an autonomic statutory procedure, spells the beginning of the end-- this is why I am against giving homosexuality equal treatment (I've lost this battle, concede the fact, but plow on, unable to feat a transplant to Uganda.)
Our own pacification means we lose our adaptive advantage, and don't tell me athletes don't know that performance doesn't take a toll. Everyone knew, even without giving the term "punch drunk" a medical tag replacement like CTE. Love of the game, like anything, is about doing, creating something greater than ourselves, but no, mothers (if she was a mother) like Kelly Clark want to transform humanity into mole rat colonies.
I am going to take a risk, as a socially inappropriate minority, and make a discomfiting assertion. Those of us with developmental issues over-personalize: I still live with my umbilical cord psychic attachment to Jerry McGuire, best damn Shakespearean on the East Coast; I'll never get over the fact that Gail was a better match for the John P. Tassoni who broke my heart, and I will never be able to trust disability activism in the same way because of what Linda Dezenski and Josie Byzek did to me. I'd let it go if either had the courage to publicly address the fact that they crossed the line, but they won't, but there you have it. I speak the language of personal absence, and did not know Kelly Clark was trying to get DIA out of the public domain, at least on the basis of my twitter feed. That said, I was trying to be nice, to take a cue, or two, from her tweets, and expand on them, and yes, feel a trifle, just a trifle, hurt that she either blocked me or closed her account. I was attempting to engage with her, not adopt her; if she was a kid, well, I am not writing to a target YA audience..
This is how we think, people with brain damage. Dispassionate processes are not how we make our approach, and with that said, I wish Kelly the best. If she was a dyke I had no way of knowing, and she did not have to read my links if they violated her sense of propriety.
Dangers of Black Ice
My vague admiration for Georges Simenon is unsatisfactory-- but this is due to a sensibility of not being able to judge him on the basis of Dirty Snow alone, which, excepting for my skid marks over Ellroy, was my favorite genre exposure through Jay Gertzman. I should be awarded my doctorate on the basis of just how many English professors I've waltzed with, how extraordinarily well read I am, even if Derrida may defeat me. I've earned professorial status, but cannot judge Simenon's legacy with the study I've thus far made.
He is unquestionably vulgar, Simenon (hint hint) and the ferocity of his title character signing his own death warrant in this short and sharp little novel made an indelible impact-- and I'm uncertain as to whether Orhan was being a tad too clever with his novel Snow. I'm only speculating. The French Belgian is different in style and tone from the self-effacing Turk with his penchant for Chekhovian mimicry, but both novels offer death knells in a Siberian like atmosphere.
Pamuk, for those initiated in literary traditions, has forced me to care about Turkey as a character in a geopolitical amphitheater, and I resent him for it. Is this a victory for the power of art? Overlaid with the Turkish actor who plays Cenu in Tatort, overlaid with Grecian Turkish name calling over Cyprus, and this family, which sparked so much controversy and clash of values (the Ottomans in this instance had the upper hand and should have sent the physio-behaviorists packing), or the many easterners on Netgammon I played and sometimes outwitted. It baffles me how good I am at backgammon and chess not so much. Mediterranean blood-- but there are limits, even to the poignancy of identification with the special subset of alienated writers. Multi-culturalism is a voyeuristic activity, but in practice it gets people killed as often as not.
He is unquestionably vulgar, Simenon (hint hint) and the ferocity of his title character signing his own death warrant in this short and sharp little novel made an indelible impact-- and I'm uncertain as to whether Orhan was being a tad too clever with his novel Snow. I'm only speculating. The French Belgian is different in style and tone from the self-effacing Turk with his penchant for Chekhovian mimicry, but both novels offer death knells in a Siberian like atmosphere.
Pamuk, for those initiated in literary traditions, has forced me to care about Turkey as a character in a geopolitical amphitheater, and I resent him for it. Is this a victory for the power of art? Overlaid with the Turkish actor who plays Cenu in Tatort, overlaid with Grecian Turkish name calling over Cyprus, and this family, which sparked so much controversy and clash of values (the Ottomans in this instance had the upper hand and should have sent the physio-behaviorists packing), or the many easterners on Netgammon I played and sometimes outwitted. It baffles me how good I am at backgammon and chess not so much. Mediterranean blood-- but there are limits, even to the poignancy of identification with the special subset of alienated writers. Multi-culturalism is a voyeuristic activity, but in practice it gets people killed as often as not.
Monday, March 16, 2015
Stifle of Schuykill Air
I myself have nothing to add to the death meme other than a lust for wanton destruction, which corporate bodies wouldn't let me get away with, even if I could circumvent my shrinking flesh, leaving the window open all day, preferring the hard March air to the radiator while I bury myself every five minutes, but know I cannot go on with my landlord much longer, despite my asset spend down and my helplessness, despite everything I know about homelessness, and menacingly ill wheelchair users who appear on the curbs of Market or Chestnut Streets and vanish. Save for my erudition, I am one of them now, consumed by this country's mercilessness for strays. I'm finished, and yet Nathan Gibbs, nice enough looking fellow, was kind enough to let me join his journo team, and I begin to have a glimmer of understanding about Ev Williams model for Medium. Medium is Space, and within Space, there are Publications which are an interlocked multi-verse. I like the concept better than much of the material, but now, how to I earn some money?
We'll see. I have to laugh at twitter, how my followers ratchet up one minute and then nose dive, my airing out of so many demons, intensity, this bothers the shallow pastry mindset, does it, or is it lack of interest? I really can't keep up, but if I have a few constant regulars, I know I need to keep searching and dialing the phone, but I will need a place to roll into by June. I can't last here another year. I can give you some general parameters: I want nothing to do with California, and NYC is Philly, simply worse. I am attracted to New England, Texas, Oregon, Seattle, maybe South or North Carolina near my brother, despite the fact he finds me too hot to handle; he is still my kid brother, and I remain fond of him, caught as he is between Stephanie, myself, and sister animosity. I am going back on Craigslist in short order to appeal for room mates for a broken spaz in her early fifties. Perhaps I'll meet an addict in a halfway house, fall in love, wait for that short window to open when I remember I still believe intercourse has possibilities. I cannot clench with my legs. That was always a tactical issue. Perhaps a bottle of Aleve would assist. I fight not to take too many.
We'll see. I have to laugh at twitter, how my followers ratchet up one minute and then nose dive, my airing out of so many demons, intensity, this bothers the shallow pastry mindset, does it, or is it lack of interest? I really can't keep up, but if I have a few constant regulars, I know I need to keep searching and dialing the phone, but I will need a place to roll into by June. I can't last here another year. I can give you some general parameters: I want nothing to do with California, and NYC is Philly, simply worse. I am attracted to New England, Texas, Oregon, Seattle, maybe South or North Carolina near my brother, despite the fact he finds me too hot to handle; he is still my kid brother, and I remain fond of him, caught as he is between Stephanie, myself, and sister animosity. I am going back on Craigslist in short order to appeal for room mates for a broken spaz in her early fifties. Perhaps I'll meet an addict in a halfway house, fall in love, wait for that short window to open when I remember I still believe intercourse has possibilities. I cannot clench with my legs. That was always a tactical issue. Perhaps a bottle of Aleve would assist. I fight not to take too many.
Sunday, March 15, 2015
Pepper Spray
I had forgotten about the US House of Representatives on my twitter feed. They are still following me, which, oddly, doesn't trouble me. They legislate federal public housing, and I was a year into section 202 housing travail when I showed up, like a wayward spark, on the Senate Committee for Social Security. At the time I received a few expressions which suggested that I was a fool suffered gladly, primarily from a bald Hawkings-like figure who was a doctor of public policy, diseased power chair user whose only commonality with myself was our medical equipment. I forget what I asserted to earn such implied censure, but I understood him. Matriculated intellect challenged, disrupted, by a petite spastic savant, forgetting why Richard Baron sent me there at all, other than it was part of my job to cajole people like myself away from entitlement dependency. We had two meetings about a bill, the first meeting hastily scheduled because I was already on Amtrak and could not be called back, so I committed the sin of inefficiency under the Clinton's watch too! I should put this back on my resume.
No one in the Executive Branch knew I breathed, and Toomey was still a private citizen then, but I learned that politicians are figureheads, and power is vested in the aides. If we recognized this I think we'd have fewer problems, because politics boils down to appropriations, and appropriations would find it prohibitive to customize architecture and programs toward optimal outcomes.
But I am going to say something: I did not move into a section 811 building like Diamond Park simply due to an English professor whose mouth, like mine, was his weapon. I moved into Diamond Park because my private living arrangements with Marie were horrific, not due to any fault of my aunt. My family never invested in best accessibility practices. I suffered for it, and Diamond Park eased that, absent medical technology, but my bid to live independently was a failure because the violence I was party to was endemic.
My transfer to Riverside was also a failure, and I consider it inhumane to forcibly lump the disabled and low income seniors together. My first years here were hell, Babette Josephs notwithstanding, I was terrorized by the seniors, literally, then gradually by management, years before Trudy Richardson took over. I've individualized her and Debra Horne, but that too is irrelevant when the landlord's goal is marginalization for the sake of the regime.
One solution is to reconsider segregation: I would have been happier in a smaller community of peers with CP and MS who had the ability to remain autonomous outside of monstrosities like Inglis House, but to mediate such infrastructure issues costs a significant domestic investment. It is all about money, just as Sturgess realizes, to his character's dismay, in 21. For all the government mandates that integrated me, the government still failed, abominably, because it cannot regulate the reality of my vulnerability: I'm expendable.
No one in the Executive Branch knew I breathed, and Toomey was still a private citizen then, but I learned that politicians are figureheads, and power is vested in the aides. If we recognized this I think we'd have fewer problems, because politics boils down to appropriations, and appropriations would find it prohibitive to customize architecture and programs toward optimal outcomes.
But I am going to say something: I did not move into a section 811 building like Diamond Park simply due to an English professor whose mouth, like mine, was his weapon. I moved into Diamond Park because my private living arrangements with Marie were horrific, not due to any fault of my aunt. My family never invested in best accessibility practices. I suffered for it, and Diamond Park eased that, absent medical technology, but my bid to live independently was a failure because the violence I was party to was endemic.
My transfer to Riverside was also a failure, and I consider it inhumane to forcibly lump the disabled and low income seniors together. My first years here were hell, Babette Josephs notwithstanding, I was terrorized by the seniors, literally, then gradually by management, years before Trudy Richardson took over. I've individualized her and Debra Horne, but that too is irrelevant when the landlord's goal is marginalization for the sake of the regime.
One solution is to reconsider segregation: I would have been happier in a smaller community of peers with CP and MS who had the ability to remain autonomous outside of monstrosities like Inglis House, but to mediate such infrastructure issues costs a significant domestic investment. It is all about money, just as Sturgess realizes, to his character's dismay, in 21. For all the government mandates that integrated me, the government still failed, abominably, because it cannot regulate the reality of my vulnerability: I'm expendable.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Lesson Plan
"Voglio costruire qualosa."-- Simone Montedoro
Let me link you to my Dimmer Beacons essay imported to Medium from Breath and Shadow, not because I want attention, but because Medium has a better font, and the piece serves as an example of a cop out failure for which Ability Maine gave me a $25 dollar honorarium, Chris Kuell deeming it good enough, which it isn't.
I was trying to say something about failure, both in a micro and macro context, intent on enlarging on a deeper existential threat, and instead, I consciously stalled, perhaps unwilling to address that there was a homoerotic element of danger in both my admiration of my supervisor's ability to wield power as a disabled woman, and her inability to retain any personal loyalty she would project to subordinates prior to turning on them (I am not the only one who is triggered to upset at the mention of her name; like anything, IL has its particular subculture for the initiated.). I was also trying to examine the elusive metric of success, which I failed by virtue of feeling over discipline. The failed scholar in me has regrets, but tenacity in research takes time, and health--or at least enough energy to complete the task.
Now, it is my work, and I can take certain components and remix them, but I think I was dredging a bit up on what it is to live a life fully instead of vaulting into safety valves, which is a personal flaw, rarely doused with cold water, and those I can count on my fingers: the cruelty of the first time I had sex with Scott, my affairs with married men, perhaps looking for a death via Medea, because when you get caught as the "other woman" the fury that Euripides brings to life doesn't feel quite so legendary in the fog of antiquity, and then life with Frank.
My ambitions, however, were essentially destroyed by a K-12 paradigm because I wearied of graduate studies. My aunt didn't. She has her PhD, negotiating that with being faithful to the Catholic Church-- though I cannot see that she has derived any real economic security as an educational administrator.
And the question remains. I signed into Medium and published myself, but I am not sure what that means. It is a platform, catering heavily to communication and computer tech, and the seismic new world order. I only partially speak that language, especially as the train left the station in my mid-30's, and I didn't bounce back.
And whatever my way forward, I won't bounce back into home ownership, having a car; perhaps not even a passage to Italy, though I still hold out hope to close my aging eyes on Rome. In the meanwhile, former follower Kelly Clark seems to have vanished-- not that I'm troubled. Normally I would not have followed a celebrity blitz feed as was her content, but I indicated my willingness to accommodate cute.
What couldn't she handle? My bad attitude? I'll never know, but I don't think I'll change. My earth was scorched; entropy now cometh... I may tire out, but I suspect happiness is a polite fiction-- not that there aren't genuinely happy folk who don't need Prozac. Or all we all on something?
* I am past the point of anti-depressant utility; being made to look placid isn't a substitution for an actual repair, and regeneration past the half century mark becomes tricky.
Let me link you to my Dimmer Beacons essay imported to Medium from Breath and Shadow, not because I want attention, but because Medium has a better font, and the piece serves as an example of a cop out failure for which Ability Maine gave me a $25 dollar honorarium, Chris Kuell deeming it good enough, which it isn't.
I was trying to say something about failure, both in a micro and macro context, intent on enlarging on a deeper existential threat, and instead, I consciously stalled, perhaps unwilling to address that there was a homoerotic element of danger in both my admiration of my supervisor's ability to wield power as a disabled woman, and her inability to retain any personal loyalty she would project to subordinates prior to turning on them (I am not the only one who is triggered to upset at the mention of her name; like anything, IL has its particular subculture for the initiated.). I was also trying to examine the elusive metric of success, which I failed by virtue of feeling over discipline. The failed scholar in me has regrets, but tenacity in research takes time, and health--or at least enough energy to complete the task.
Now, it is my work, and I can take certain components and remix them, but I think I was dredging a bit up on what it is to live a life fully instead of vaulting into safety valves, which is a personal flaw, rarely doused with cold water, and those I can count on my fingers: the cruelty of the first time I had sex with Scott, my affairs with married men, perhaps looking for a death via Medea, because when you get caught as the "other woman" the fury that Euripides brings to life doesn't feel quite so legendary in the fog of antiquity, and then life with Frank.
My ambitions, however, were essentially destroyed by a K-12 paradigm because I wearied of graduate studies. My aunt didn't. She has her PhD, negotiating that with being faithful to the Catholic Church-- though I cannot see that she has derived any real economic security as an educational administrator.
And the question remains. I signed into Medium and published myself, but I am not sure what that means. It is a platform, catering heavily to communication and computer tech, and the seismic new world order. I only partially speak that language, especially as the train left the station in my mid-30's, and I didn't bounce back.
And whatever my way forward, I won't bounce back into home ownership, having a car; perhaps not even a passage to Italy, though I still hold out hope to close my aging eyes on Rome. In the meanwhile, former follower Kelly Clark seems to have vanished-- not that I'm troubled. Normally I would not have followed a celebrity blitz feed as was her content, but I indicated my willingness to accommodate cute.
What couldn't she handle? My bad attitude? I'll never know, but I don't think I'll change. My earth was scorched; entropy now cometh... I may tire out, but I suspect happiness is a polite fiction-- not that there aren't genuinely happy folk who don't need Prozac. Or all we all on something?
* I am past the point of anti-depressant utility; being made to look placid isn't a substitution for an actual repair, and regeneration past the half century mark becomes tricky.
Envy as a nauseous prelude
The care the Belgians took in their production of Maigret was remarkable, when one looks at the copyright. This is a 21st century series that virtually transports the viewer back into the Fifth Republic, a bygone, magisterial age, to steal an excellent adjective from Dana Stevens, who gets paid to turn the lights on when the late Mr. Hoffman juiced himself into the send up of L Ron Hubbard. Ms Stevens found the right word for the era, magisterial-- in the US, it lasted from 52 to 65.
Georges Simenon may be as slithery as an eel to pin down, worth pursuing in his original language, but Bruno Cremer was the best Maigret, and Maigret is the best detection procedural on the face of the earth as adapted for a teleplay. The British can do conspiracy to make the roots of your hair stand on end, with riveting plots, but France simply crucifies when it comes to fidelity, understanding that excellence is derived through attention to detail, the definition of poise to the point of actually being duped into time travel. Maigret is at once an antithesis to the disruptions caused by crippling the body, and at the same time, nearly a brilliant ornamentation of the fusionary aspects between bipedal afterthought and the psychosis of damage hidden in the dark, whether I can chisel an article out of this raw and cooked striving or not, for all his reticence about treating his Parkinson's, Michael Kinsley has vanished from the scene. Whimsy, which carries the voice of his few columns I've seen since he appeared on Charlie Rose trying to control his involuntary spasms, doesn't compensate for his loss of prestige, but he goes down quietly, a gentleman, recognized as a celebrity writer better than most, an astute, perceptive analyst at his peak, none of us dwell on his circumstances, except as a footnote. Slate is a loose jointed progeny, not of Wapo, actually, but of the Time Magazine essayist, which cannot be reproduced on a web page.
Georges Simenon may be as slithery as an eel to pin down, worth pursuing in his original language, but Bruno Cremer was the best Maigret, and Maigret is the best detection procedural on the face of the earth as adapted for a teleplay. The British can do conspiracy to make the roots of your hair stand on end, with riveting plots, but France simply crucifies when it comes to fidelity, understanding that excellence is derived through attention to detail, the definition of poise to the point of actually being duped into time travel. Maigret is at once an antithesis to the disruptions caused by crippling the body, and at the same time, nearly a brilliant ornamentation of the fusionary aspects between bipedal afterthought and the psychosis of damage hidden in the dark, whether I can chisel an article out of this raw and cooked striving or not, for all his reticence about treating his Parkinson's, Michael Kinsley has vanished from the scene. Whimsy, which carries the voice of his few columns I've seen since he appeared on Charlie Rose trying to control his involuntary spasms, doesn't compensate for his loss of prestige, but he goes down quietly, a gentleman, recognized as a celebrity writer better than most, an astute, perceptive analyst at his peak, none of us dwell on his circumstances, except as a footnote. Slate is a loose jointed progeny, not of Wapo, actually, but of the Time Magazine essayist, which cannot be reproduced on a web page.
Friday, March 13, 2015
A Piss Off, in essence
The sardonic in me, the competing desires which cancel each other out, these say I want to go home, but the IRS forced my father to divest himself of the home I might have inherited, and at the same time, I want nothing more to do with my family. I'm too far in the gutter as it is, never imagining myself here at Riverside. Before I moved in, it must have been around spring 92, Paratransit picked me up, and the driver locked me down behind Linda, to my astonishment, still committed to her first marriage, and we passed the building riding into Liberty, observed Joe, always running his mouth, and Linda remarked, "We've had a lot of problems with them." Presby's management.
I did not make it clear to her, after having divested myself of Matrix, those seven years later, that it was Presby's management fueling my desperation, as opposed to the not so interesting sexual rivalry I unwittingly triggered with the woman, and here I am, beaten, since Mike Howard left, by each subsequent manager after him, attack after attack, threat after threat, freely administered by the Department of Housing and Urban Development, lunging and retreating like the cowardly lion, why not just begin eviction proceedings? My savings now spent on medical bills and buying janitors, slaving away at penny articles, and I'm supposed not to be depressed, keep a positive attitude, reign it in before the police drag me out and dump me somewhere, a building where I'll be drugged, held in a hospital bed in restraints, if I'm so fortunate.
This is the great United States, democratic power extraordinaire, unless you screw with the tax code, have your soul corroded by statutory mandates, and do not wish to comply with African Americans having constant access to your financials in order that the government can protect itself from any fraudulent activity on your part. The disability center, relying on my tacit passivity, sent me a flyer for a job fair at their Academy, which is some sort of vocational horseshit training consumers to use computers. Well, I have something to say to Liberty Resources: Go fuck yourselves. You're nothing more than a segregated prostitution ring run by den mothers who think they're preschool teachers once removed, offering quadriplegics like me assurance after assurance, until you violate state employee guidelines, or assume no liability if a disabled consumer gets abused, refuse to return phone calls when a disabled worker needs technical support, engage in denial about hostile environments, cannot restrain yourselves from the corruption of association. I wore myself out, food shopping, then a small load of laundry, in my stubborn, rage driven reliance, too worn out to work.
I did not make it clear to her, after having divested myself of Matrix, those seven years later, that it was Presby's management fueling my desperation, as opposed to the not so interesting sexual rivalry I unwittingly triggered with the woman, and here I am, beaten, since Mike Howard left, by each subsequent manager after him, attack after attack, threat after threat, freely administered by the Department of Housing and Urban Development, lunging and retreating like the cowardly lion, why not just begin eviction proceedings? My savings now spent on medical bills and buying janitors, slaving away at penny articles, and I'm supposed not to be depressed, keep a positive attitude, reign it in before the police drag me out and dump me somewhere, a building where I'll be drugged, held in a hospital bed in restraints, if I'm so fortunate.
This is the great United States, democratic power extraordinaire, unless you screw with the tax code, have your soul corroded by statutory mandates, and do not wish to comply with African Americans having constant access to your financials in order that the government can protect itself from any fraudulent activity on your part. The disability center, relying on my tacit passivity, sent me a flyer for a job fair at their Academy, which is some sort of vocational horseshit training consumers to use computers. Well, I have something to say to Liberty Resources: Go fuck yourselves. You're nothing more than a segregated prostitution ring run by den mothers who think they're preschool teachers once removed, offering quadriplegics like me assurance after assurance, until you violate state employee guidelines, or assume no liability if a disabled consumer gets abused, refuse to return phone calls when a disabled worker needs technical support, engage in denial about hostile environments, cannot restrain yourselves from the corruption of association. I wore myself out, food shopping, then a small load of laundry, in my stubborn, rage driven reliance, too worn out to work.
Thursday, March 12, 2015
Vesla's Diary
"Belligerence" and "contempt" are two of these codes. "Belligerence" refers to taunting, challenging remarks designed to provoke another person.-- When Men Batter Women:
Both the dichotomy and the correlation between helplessness and violence is interesting, and in the now wearying inundation of the European procedural, Unni Lindell exposes a standard conceit in the mystery narrative: the disturbed imbecile whom most people would suspect committed the crime, but whose secret, once released, offers up the truth.
In Unni's story, The Mourning Cloak (I cannot read Norwegian) a distinct minority may not see the actions of the antagonist as villainous. The system failed her, and she was unable to shed the baggage of her tormented injury-- yet by the same token, Esther's death was grotesque, the opening murder on whom Vesla's vengeance was enacted. What is deserving here? You have a rape, and an assertion of bulling dominance which destroyed something fundamental, and then you have the repercussions of what Vesla's pain did to the boy Markus whose mother she killed, married and separated from the rapist whose emotional fragmentation would always be with him. Drugs and counseling would not necessarily heal it, and Steiner's fidelity to Vesla is sinister in its simplicity, the helpless waif who couldn't support himself without the aging father. The savant, shorn of the social corrections applied in a sweet and poignant arc in Nancy Oliver's Lars and the Real Girl, frightens people. Because the impairments are so elemental, our willingness to dispense with consideration of others so frank, that even in constraint, buffeted to one small domain, wives and mothers want us to go away, and the Canadian left scolds aggressive wheelchair users: "Issuing threats with medical equipment isn't the way to channel anger." One of my member's stories from my group, Disability Arts, who didn't understand why we were all arguing with each other, who didn't understand that I was chasing after an esoteric and ambitious thesis, because once upon a time, coincidence led a leftist Shakespearean to investigate the rather storied studio apartments renovated by a Roman invalid's father, and the invalid wasn't cognizant enough to realize she'd never get over that event, the following chance conservation, her fucking naive attachment to him she fought not so valiantly, tears flowing as if to nourish the miraculous springs of Lourdes?
What can you offer in comparative self-hating tendencies, hmm?
Both the dichotomy and the correlation between helplessness and violence is interesting, and in the now wearying inundation of the European procedural, Unni Lindell exposes a standard conceit in the mystery narrative: the disturbed imbecile whom most people would suspect committed the crime, but whose secret, once released, offers up the truth.
In Unni's story, The Mourning Cloak (I cannot read Norwegian) a distinct minority may not see the actions of the antagonist as villainous. The system failed her, and she was unable to shed the baggage of her tormented injury-- yet by the same token, Esther's death was grotesque, the opening murder on whom Vesla's vengeance was enacted. What is deserving here? You have a rape, and an assertion of bulling dominance which destroyed something fundamental, and then you have the repercussions of what Vesla's pain did to the boy Markus whose mother she killed, married and separated from the rapist whose emotional fragmentation would always be with him. Drugs and counseling would not necessarily heal it, and Steiner's fidelity to Vesla is sinister in its simplicity, the helpless waif who couldn't support himself without the aging father. The savant, shorn of the social corrections applied in a sweet and poignant arc in Nancy Oliver's Lars and the Real Girl, frightens people. Because the impairments are so elemental, our willingness to dispense with consideration of others so frank, that even in constraint, buffeted to one small domain, wives and mothers want us to go away, and the Canadian left scolds aggressive wheelchair users: "Issuing threats with medical equipment isn't the way to channel anger." One of my member's stories from my group, Disability Arts, who didn't understand why we were all arguing with each other, who didn't understand that I was chasing after an esoteric and ambitious thesis, because once upon a time, coincidence led a leftist Shakespearean to investigate the rather storied studio apartments renovated by a Roman invalid's father, and the invalid wasn't cognizant enough to realize she'd never get over that event, the following chance conservation, her fucking naive attachment to him she fought not so valiantly, tears flowing as if to nourish the miraculous springs of Lourdes?
What can you offer in comparative self-hating tendencies, hmm?
Deficit Reduction
"Women shouldn't be doctors or cops. They're too weak and stupid!" -- Christopher Meloni, goading with expectant relish
One thing truly innovative about Attanasio's Homicide:: Life on the Streets, was Kyle Secor's inability to solve the case of the dead black child Wanda. The very irresolution of the murder generated its dramatic tension and character development, from which cable series like The Wire drew on later; spastic only skimmed the headlines shilling for creator David Simon, conjoined to a clip about the death of the protagonist in the wild west of the ghetto. When you actually live the life as a disabled woman invariably damaged by a defiant obstinacy thicker than a three layered wedding cake, as a viewer, you're not missing out by in inability to afford a dose of this particular black neo-realism, which in an LA film like Menace II Society becomes cartoonish. Nevertheless, the interplay between Secor and Kotto during the first season was taut, and brave for its time. If we have to be inundated by procedurals in such a manner, directors and the SWG could take more chances with the truism that we don't always get the pieces of the puzzle, resetting our social structure according to the conventions we expect.
All serials weaken to some degree, over time, or we come to assume certain things about them, and Homicide developed a made for television feel as it went on, with the exception of its highbrow close, the dead in perpetual motion, playing existential poker, Wanda jumping rope, a perpetual bauble of innocence in an urban environment of sloping asphalt and concrete. If the latter day American Crime ends its story lines, and its theatrical musical chairs in the same fashion, leaving us unsatisfied, this blogger doesn't actually know, but it's more to the good.
One thing truly innovative about Attanasio's Homicide:: Life on the Streets, was Kyle Secor's inability to solve the case of the dead black child Wanda. The very irresolution of the murder generated its dramatic tension and character development, from which cable series like The Wire drew on later; spastic only skimmed the headlines shilling for creator David Simon, conjoined to a clip about the death of the protagonist in the wild west of the ghetto. When you actually live the life as a disabled woman invariably damaged by a defiant obstinacy thicker than a three layered wedding cake, as a viewer, you're not missing out by in inability to afford a dose of this particular black neo-realism, which in an LA film like Menace II Society becomes cartoonish. Nevertheless, the interplay between Secor and Kotto during the first season was taut, and brave for its time. If we have to be inundated by procedurals in such a manner, directors and the SWG could take more chances with the truism that we don't always get the pieces of the puzzle, resetting our social structure according to the conventions we expect.
All serials weaken to some degree, over time, or we come to assume certain things about them, and Homicide developed a made for television feel as it went on, with the exception of its highbrow close, the dead in perpetual motion, playing existential poker, Wanda jumping rope, a perpetual bauble of innocence in an urban environment of sloping asphalt and concrete. If the latter day American Crime ends its story lines, and its theatrical musical chairs in the same fashion, leaving us unsatisfied, this blogger doesn't actually know, but it's more to the good.
Monday, March 9, 2015
Zeynep Tufekci and opinion writing as trivial pursuit
Okay, out of sheer boredom, an unwillingness to shift my pressure sore, coupled with an unwillingness to lie down and continue to be driven out of my zealous mind, I reread the prompts for Medium, made small edits to my two pieces (I can now embed links, as if this isn't a universal application!) and did not curse Ev Williams once, which I'm sure the mainstream finds gratifying, but I need to compound a reaction to Zeynep's spirited defense of Lisa Adams for continuing to treat a terminal metastasis as the result of breast cancer.
All Miss Tukekci is saying, in a nutshell, is that Lisa Adams was a spirited woman of good middle class temperament, an optimist who faced adversity with courage and realism, and her detractors should not have begrudged the woman decent palliative care in her last months with her family. I wrote this in three sentences, and it in no way adjudicates the crisis in medical model rationing, nor does it offer any real insight on the rising cost of aggressive therapies for aggressive diseases
.Zeynep lost a friend in whom she was obviously invested, just as I've addressed those in whom I invested, with darker residual effects, obscuring more salient issues. Aggressive cancers are one subset of medical rationing, and surgeons like Gawande and his colleagues treat them as best they can, but cancers aren't chronic conditions, and don't address how much of our health care dollars go into keeping people like my ex Frank alive, and my uncle Joseph, neither of whom are functional. Joseph has mild dementia, some kind of anti-social disorder, and it is on his body, clogged with the effects of European susceptibility to heart disease, and thousands like him, like the late Terri Schiavo, on whom we waste precious resources, resources which could have gone toward keeping me employed, giving me a fucking decent set of technologies to substantially reduce dependence on more functionally able individuals.
I have no problem with cancer patients who want to fight, or receive humane easing of pain from tumors. I do have a problem with seeing wasted shells afflicted with a progressive condition like Huntington's being forcibly integrated when their condition is obviously killing them. We cannot seem to ration rationally, and yes, despite horrific abuse due to my mother's bipolar disorder, and the medical model system, I stayed stable, physically, despite the disability center, despite an ecumenical corporation like Presby, but the price I've paid is essentially a knock out punch, decoupling me from the only thing I really had that mattered: the career. Miss Tufekci is being a good cheerleader, but she isn't looking below the tip of the iceberg.
All Miss Tukekci is saying, in a nutshell, is that Lisa Adams was a spirited woman of good middle class temperament, an optimist who faced adversity with courage and realism, and her detractors should not have begrudged the woman decent palliative care in her last months with her family. I wrote this in three sentences, and it in no way adjudicates the crisis in medical model rationing, nor does it offer any real insight on the rising cost of aggressive therapies for aggressive diseases
.Zeynep lost a friend in whom she was obviously invested, just as I've addressed those in whom I invested, with darker residual effects, obscuring more salient issues. Aggressive cancers are one subset of medical rationing, and surgeons like Gawande and his colleagues treat them as best they can, but cancers aren't chronic conditions, and don't address how much of our health care dollars go into keeping people like my ex Frank alive, and my uncle Joseph, neither of whom are functional. Joseph has mild dementia, some kind of anti-social disorder, and it is on his body, clogged with the effects of European susceptibility to heart disease, and thousands like him, like the late Terri Schiavo, on whom we waste precious resources, resources which could have gone toward keeping me employed, giving me a fucking decent set of technologies to substantially reduce dependence on more functionally able individuals.
I have no problem with cancer patients who want to fight, or receive humane easing of pain from tumors. I do have a problem with seeing wasted shells afflicted with a progressive condition like Huntington's being forcibly integrated when their condition is obviously killing them. We cannot seem to ration rationally, and yes, despite horrific abuse due to my mother's bipolar disorder, and the medical model system, I stayed stable, physically, despite the disability center, despite an ecumenical corporation like Presby, but the price I've paid is essentially a knock out punch, decoupling me from the only thing I really had that mattered: the career. Miss Tufekci is being a good cheerleader, but she isn't looking below the tip of the iceberg.
Lethal Injection for Horses
"What?"-- Jason Statham
It is difficult to evaluate Jim Webb as an alternative to Hillary on the basis of his one recent interview with Judy Woodruff. He hasn't been exactly visible, but is a potential candidate who used to have a gravitational pull for me, and he seems to recognize progressives are free-falling out of a helicopter in an ironic, fantastical, denouement. If Mrs. Clinton doesn't run, or in some context loses the primaries in a bloody fight with a dark horse like Webb, the problem becomes obvious, in that, all things being equal, Webb would lose to the Republican nominee, barring something extraordinary, like a Rand Paul Ben Carson ticket, and by Christ wouldn't that be fun!
Pleased to recapture a cultural reference, I remember Carson doing an interview on his advisory role on the Bijani twins, and he cut an impressive figure. I was going to do a very long apologia for him on his views of homosexuality, and we may return there, to my delicate gay bashing with its hideous implications-- but not today, since I can't handle a battle with the German left and moral umbrage of my minority wardens combined, at least not without becoming a full fledged Libertarian first-- I've flirted, spiritually, with Libertarian philosophy for a long time, and telephoned the party from the ghetto, years back, and argued with the gentleman who answered my call about my terror over guns-- however, if one has to pick a side, I'm leaning heavily, today, towards becoming an operative, without any reason, thus far, to like Carson-- remembering the eclipse of Herman Cain. Even at the price of losing ground, Carson should have explicated his anti-homosexual bluntness, not backpedaled.
The right needs more courage to remain unpleasant; if a neurosurgeon of such skill and compassion can see homosexual activity in a vein so similar to mine, journalists with a platform might want to ask more questions before dismissing us as bizarre.
Jason Statham has the bizarre action thriller humor all to himself, and Crank nearly had me pissing myself with its humorous subversions, including its homage to Jon Voight and Midnight Cowboy. My thought processes need fermentation, however, in my balance between rough draft and polish.
It is difficult to evaluate Jim Webb as an alternative to Hillary on the basis of his one recent interview with Judy Woodruff. He hasn't been exactly visible, but is a potential candidate who used to have a gravitational pull for me, and he seems to recognize progressives are free-falling out of a helicopter in an ironic, fantastical, denouement. If Mrs. Clinton doesn't run, or in some context loses the primaries in a bloody fight with a dark horse like Webb, the problem becomes obvious, in that, all things being equal, Webb would lose to the Republican nominee, barring something extraordinary, like a Rand Paul Ben Carson ticket, and by Christ wouldn't that be fun!
Pleased to recapture a cultural reference, I remember Carson doing an interview on his advisory role on the Bijani twins, and he cut an impressive figure. I was going to do a very long apologia for him on his views of homosexuality, and we may return there, to my delicate gay bashing with its hideous implications-- but not today, since I can't handle a battle with the German left and moral umbrage of my minority wardens combined, at least not without becoming a full fledged Libertarian first-- I've flirted, spiritually, with Libertarian philosophy for a long time, and telephoned the party from the ghetto, years back, and argued with the gentleman who answered my call about my terror over guns-- however, if one has to pick a side, I'm leaning heavily, today, towards becoming an operative, without any reason, thus far, to like Carson-- remembering the eclipse of Herman Cain. Even at the price of losing ground, Carson should have explicated his anti-homosexual bluntness, not backpedaled.
The right needs more courage to remain unpleasant; if a neurosurgeon of such skill and compassion can see homosexual activity in a vein so similar to mine, journalists with a platform might want to ask more questions before dismissing us as bizarre.
Jason Statham has the bizarre action thriller humor all to himself, and Crank nearly had me pissing myself with its humorous subversions, including its homage to Jon Voight and Midnight Cowboy. My thought processes need fermentation, however, in my balance between rough draft and polish.
Sunday, March 8, 2015
Present at the Creation
Her life with hateful snares pursue,/You swore to love and cherish.
The recollection of Dean Acheson's voice was that of encyclopedic reassurance. He and Franklin were in charge, and the lend lease program would buttress Winston's tenacity to survive the crippling blows of Hitler's aggression, but in the late eighties, stifling boredom, raising the hew and cry of "I am not a historian," the events of the second world war were best left to Ronald Reagan's senility and his Vice President's competence in the Oval Office. We're a stupid people, Americans, letting a third party candidate like Ross Perot split the seams, handing over the reigns to the Clintons, who could not imitate JFK's protective smokescreen, and then lurching, badly, on the basis of our vaunted electoral college, to the Texan branded son of the more astute father, who was so incompetent we anointed a mixed race messiah who, instead of actually being a movement president, relegated himself downward. Barack became the [black] president who engendered [white] buyer's remorse, but we are forbidden to phrase it that way, and Clinton fatigue transmuted into Sex and the City marketing. The *historic* vote should have crowned a woman before a half-Kenyan. Indeed. Hillary is virtually a default empress in anticipation-- of what?
We've been here before. However much contempt I have for our primary two party system, and the centrist, self-absorbed bubba liberals that the Clintons are, the breach of protocol over her email account should serve as a dire warning about how Orwellian we've already become. It is a breach of ethics that the most important member of the cabinet used a private server in her diplomatic correspondence? Classified information, however juicy, shocking, sobering, brutal, or realpolitik, is still data. That is all it is. Threat assessments, secrets about deliberate poisonings, conspiracies, plots. That's it. Whatever Madame Secretary wanted to conceal, she did so for the reasons government officials world over dread transparency. It is nothing new, regardless of ideology. We do not look too closely at how things are run outside of our own spheres of knowledge. The majority of us with our enfeebled souls sublimate it. We write books, distract ourselves with theater, culinary arts. If we were all involved, the world would come to a standstill, much like parliamentary debate in the Oireachtas. IRA guerrillas killed British soldiers so that Ireland's legislators could argue with delicious impotence over the empowerment community integration offers hospital patients who clog facilities for lack of home health care packages.
Are we electing Hillary to a third Obama Clinton term? Or is it the Washington press corp?
The recollection of Dean Acheson's voice was that of encyclopedic reassurance. He and Franklin were in charge, and the lend lease program would buttress Winston's tenacity to survive the crippling blows of Hitler's aggression, but in the late eighties, stifling boredom, raising the hew and cry of "I am not a historian," the events of the second world war were best left to Ronald Reagan's senility and his Vice President's competence in the Oval Office. We're a stupid people, Americans, letting a third party candidate like Ross Perot split the seams, handing over the reigns to the Clintons, who could not imitate JFK's protective smokescreen, and then lurching, badly, on the basis of our vaunted electoral college, to the Texan branded son of the more astute father, who was so incompetent we anointed a mixed race messiah who, instead of actually being a movement president, relegated himself downward. Barack became the [black] president who engendered [white] buyer's remorse, but we are forbidden to phrase it that way, and Clinton fatigue transmuted into Sex and the City marketing. The *historic* vote should have crowned a woman before a half-Kenyan. Indeed. Hillary is virtually a default empress in anticipation-- of what?
We've been here before. However much contempt I have for our primary two party system, and the centrist, self-absorbed bubba liberals that the Clintons are, the breach of protocol over her email account should serve as a dire warning about how Orwellian we've already become. It is a breach of ethics that the most important member of the cabinet used a private server in her diplomatic correspondence? Classified information, however juicy, shocking, sobering, brutal, or realpolitik, is still data. That is all it is. Threat assessments, secrets about deliberate poisonings, conspiracies, plots. That's it. Whatever Madame Secretary wanted to conceal, she did so for the reasons government officials world over dread transparency. It is nothing new, regardless of ideology. We do not look too closely at how things are run outside of our own spheres of knowledge. The majority of us with our enfeebled souls sublimate it. We write books, distract ourselves with theater, culinary arts. If we were all involved, the world would come to a standstill, much like parliamentary debate in the Oireachtas. IRA guerrillas killed British soldiers so that Ireland's legislators could argue with delicious impotence over the empowerment community integration offers hospital patients who clog facilities for lack of home health care packages.
Are we electing Hillary to a third Obama Clinton term? Or is it the Washington press corp?
Friday, March 6, 2015
Concomitant Affinity with flavored ices
"They have concerts there." Joanne Cristinziani
Did Patricia Arquette stop to consider the plight of Amy Pascal before giving her Oscar speech? Probably not, but it points to the inherent implosion of the ever expanding egalitarian tent. Amy Pascal certainly had a salary that offered her security and self sufficiency, and yet, Sony Entertainment allowed one of the worst extremist states in Asia to dictate the terms of Ms Pascal's departure. How does this happen in the most powerful republican democracy left on the planet? The President of the United States lost face to Kim Jong Un. Truman fought a war over this peninsula, a real war with real consequences, and technological interface turns us all into a laughingstock.
Arquette is a slightly older, better branded, variation on Kathryn Morris: the ice blonde with a cellophane glamour who can be the predator and carnage target simultaneously, obviously to keep viewers in suspense. Morris, intuitively closer to the ground, has not fully mastered the leitmotif as Arquette managed to do after leaving her first horror franchise. By the time she landed Medium as a signature role, industry critics conveyed that Medium respected its audience. That is true, but if it enabled morons to take psychics seriously, it raises interesting questions about morality and artistic license, which Jerry McGuire, as an instructor, would have been cool to. (Yes, I remember everything.) The series gave the predictive qualities of its title character a natural realism, at least initially, without the need of grandiose spectacle.
I have a word both about Chris Peak's reprint from Gawker and to the author himself: Some forms of suffering are worse than existence. That is just the way it is. I fell into mental health to earn a living, and between that experience, my life, and a corrupt unethical Protestant corporation intent on being a skin flint, living in one of the poorest cities on the east coast, I never fully recovered. Part of my solution, is to deactivate the grid. We are the animals that created it, and can still cut across it, but don't get too involved with the emotional pain of others. I could write fifty posts in a week, and no one can understand the fact I am in my last functional years, and yes, despite every TOS governing every online portal, my strongest years of sufficiency were taken from me, illegally. No adjudication can turn back that clock, hence my options are unpleasant. Those who can evade such stark choices are blessed. Yesterday's storm offered the type of snowfall which lends itself to metaphysical inquiry, and I had logged in to actually telephone Inglis House-- the idea being vaguely, to force their intake to kill me; yet I stopped, wrote a post instead.
I don't suppose my fine European viewers in Germany will give me any indication of what their 30 page views mean, of course not. Hitler's grave will degrade and re-enter the evolutionary food chain before I'm offered any legitimacy..
Did Patricia Arquette stop to consider the plight of Amy Pascal before giving her Oscar speech? Probably not, but it points to the inherent implosion of the ever expanding egalitarian tent. Amy Pascal certainly had a salary that offered her security and self sufficiency, and yet, Sony Entertainment allowed one of the worst extremist states in Asia to dictate the terms of Ms Pascal's departure. How does this happen in the most powerful republican democracy left on the planet? The President of the United States lost face to Kim Jong Un. Truman fought a war over this peninsula, a real war with real consequences, and technological interface turns us all into a laughingstock.
Arquette is a slightly older, better branded, variation on Kathryn Morris: the ice blonde with a cellophane glamour who can be the predator and carnage target simultaneously, obviously to keep viewers in suspense. Morris, intuitively closer to the ground, has not fully mastered the leitmotif as Arquette managed to do after leaving her first horror franchise. By the time she landed Medium as a signature role, industry critics conveyed that Medium respected its audience. That is true, but if it enabled morons to take psychics seriously, it raises interesting questions about morality and artistic license, which Jerry McGuire, as an instructor, would have been cool to. (Yes, I remember everything.) The series gave the predictive qualities of its title character a natural realism, at least initially, without the need of grandiose spectacle.
I have a word both about Chris Peak's reprint from Gawker and to the author himself: Some forms of suffering are worse than existence. That is just the way it is. I fell into mental health to earn a living, and between that experience, my life, and a corrupt unethical Protestant corporation intent on being a skin flint, living in one of the poorest cities on the east coast, I never fully recovered. Part of my solution, is to deactivate the grid. We are the animals that created it, and can still cut across it, but don't get too involved with the emotional pain of others. I could write fifty posts in a week, and no one can understand the fact I am in my last functional years, and yes, despite every TOS governing every online portal, my strongest years of sufficiency were taken from me, illegally. No adjudication can turn back that clock, hence my options are unpleasant. Those who can evade such stark choices are blessed. Yesterday's storm offered the type of snowfall which lends itself to metaphysical inquiry, and I had logged in to actually telephone Inglis House-- the idea being vaguely, to force their intake to kill me; yet I stopped, wrote a post instead.
I don't suppose my fine European viewers in Germany will give me any indication of what their 30 page views mean, of course not. Hitler's grave will degrade and re-enter the evolutionary food chain before I'm offered any legitimacy..
Thursday, March 5, 2015
Belmont Options
As goes Facebook, Blogger just reversed itself on its adult content policy, and I'm snickering in derision, supposing this means I can stoop to my corrosive vulgarity as needed, but that corrosive vulgarity didn't land me any champions willing to ride in and scoop me up: I have been, with a degree of difficulty, explicit about physical denigration to my person, even to the point of destructive stimulating attempts which failed after the aide Miss Eddy (I can't really remember this woman's name, but God must hate me to have put me front and center with such abominating indulgence she engaged in such a furtive fashion) left her suggestive touches lingering and she luckily escaped with her life the next day. I could not reach Unlimited Staffing to prevent her return at the time, and the police owe me a debt for sparing them such a sordid business. I never call the police, which is probably why I've managed to evade Inglis so long, despite Presby's heavy hand, but I do not link to pornographic material. I may embarrass my family, and my cousins may have a bone to pick with me about my imposition on their mother, and I concede my tyranny without argument; I have little praise to offer various individuals but for when admiration overrides contempt-- that said, I'm not entirely gratuitous, and believe even my damaged intellect deserves better. I wish these digital giants would make up their damn minds, however. I'm nothing. Poets & Writers banned me and I never got over it, and so on, but I'd never fight Google. I'm too old now, too weak, and Google is powerful. I am just a crippled ward who never broke free through use of her expertise on the welfare state, and the last thing that ignites me is insurrection, which even reactionaries of like mind disregard because they do not want to take on my maintenance. Case closed.
My options:
1. Stay with Presby and let my years of stigma go. I can't.
2. Make myself homeless and see how long it takes to make the federal contract with pluralism seem like Candyland.
3. Go to Inglis, which is a form of annihilation, pictures of their grounds notwithstanding, I know I cannot endure what I've seen there of rubber tubes and emaciation of impending death.
4. Find a roommate.
5. Euthanasia
6. Make another plan.
What is it exactly that I want?
To stop being intimidated by property owners and return to some form of matriculation while I am able to do so, and get an age appropriate bloke to lean on with more compatibility than I had with Hispanic Frank-- which means no more Hispanics.
The shot of little kimmy I took on the blouse I took exposed a bit of spastic thigh, and a touch of my sash belt. That much skin was inadvertent. I am not a photographer; it's banished.
My options:
1. Stay with Presby and let my years of stigma go. I can't.
2. Make myself homeless and see how long it takes to make the federal contract with pluralism seem like Candyland.
3. Go to Inglis, which is a form of annihilation, pictures of their grounds notwithstanding, I know I cannot endure what I've seen there of rubber tubes and emaciation of impending death.
4. Find a roommate.
5. Euthanasia
6. Make another plan.
What is it exactly that I want?
To stop being intimidated by property owners and return to some form of matriculation while I am able to do so, and get an age appropriate bloke to lean on with more compatibility than I had with Hispanic Frank-- which means no more Hispanics.
The shot of little kimmy I took on the blouse I took exposed a bit of spastic thigh, and a touch of my sash belt. That much skin was inadvertent. I am not a photographer; it's banished.
Wednesday, March 4, 2015
Adopting a guardian mentality, no.1
Kelly Clark, who has a more lively twitter feed than I'll ever aspire to, posted something cute about books remaining mysteries if they're never finished, which led to my recollection of a short thread in Speakeasy led by a journalist named Lynn, the typical suburban writer who probably believed my posting activity justified institutionalization, about abandoning a book. With maturity we learn not to feel guilty about it. I certainly do not when it comes to badly plotted commercial texts of the sort which made Jeff Bezos a modern oligarch (worrisome in my view).
I could name a slew of kindle franchise authors who make me puke, who deserve abandon just as readily as the poison of too much fructose in processed food diets, leading to the diabetic industry, which will be a growth industry for decades to come, but then there are troubling texts, sometimes post-modern, or classics not easy to classify, particularly philosophical novels, a term I do not like, but there are writers who use fiction loosely to explore things like hedonism.
My nominee for potential abandon by shallow American idiots is A Rebours by Joris-Karl Huysmans. Huysmans was an important figure in the blossoming of Decadence as it culminated in the work of Oscar Wilde, the British Empire's most cultivated pederast, but to downplay Jois-Karl's interior examination of Esseintes' mind, the novel is little more than sensual indulgence-- and even Wilde tempered this by giving ...Dorian Gray a plot.
I do not know if, in fidelity to the text, Huysmans' chapter where Esseintes' tries to drive a man to commit murder was restored in the original French, but in the free kindle translation I read, I doubt it would have invigorated the story all that much, and in fact, Huysmans might have done better to write a treatise on hermiticism and pleasure. I finished the edition I have, as I must-- but living for the senses isn't as radicalized as it might have seemed back then, in all the contradictions under Victoria's long reign.
I could name a slew of kindle franchise authors who make me puke, who deserve abandon just as readily as the poison of too much fructose in processed food diets, leading to the diabetic industry, which will be a growth industry for decades to come, but then there are troubling texts, sometimes post-modern, or classics not easy to classify, particularly philosophical novels, a term I do not like, but there are writers who use fiction loosely to explore things like hedonism.
My nominee for potential abandon by shallow American idiots is A Rebours by Joris-Karl Huysmans. Huysmans was an important figure in the blossoming of Decadence as it culminated in the work of Oscar Wilde, the British Empire's most cultivated pederast, but to downplay Jois-Karl's interior examination of Esseintes' mind, the novel is little more than sensual indulgence-- and even Wilde tempered this by giving ...Dorian Gray a plot.
I do not know if, in fidelity to the text, Huysmans' chapter where Esseintes' tries to drive a man to commit murder was restored in the original French, but in the free kindle translation I read, I doubt it would have invigorated the story all that much, and in fact, Huysmans might have done better to write a treatise on hermiticism and pleasure. I finished the edition I have, as I must-- but living for the senses isn't as radicalized as it might have seemed back then, in all the contradictions under Victoria's long reign.
Tuesday, March 3, 2015
The Guise of Moliere's Couplet
"Leave me I say; take yourself out of sight."-- Alceste
I simply don't like people all that much, especially not in innocuous aggregates of pithy pleasantries and photographs, and social media makes my distaste more pronounced, with exceptions. Mike Levy invited me to BeaconReader's Writersblock with nothing to gain, so he has my allegiance; and I would not mind helping Tony Stiles become a powerful libertarian, being his aging operative and staying out of the limelight, but platforms like twitter and Linked-In? Mindless sentimentality.
I don't need it.
I simply don't like people all that much, especially not in innocuous aggregates of pithy pleasantries and photographs, and social media makes my distaste more pronounced, with exceptions. Mike Levy invited me to BeaconReader's Writersblock with nothing to gain, so he has my allegiance; and I would not mind helping Tony Stiles become a powerful libertarian, being his aging operative and staying out of the limelight, but platforms like twitter and Linked-In? Mindless sentimentality.
I don't need it.
Monday, March 2, 2015
Disaffection
"thank you for following me" a direct message
Mr. Harris may have forgotten that he was following a nasty a bituminous troll, because he sent yours truly a direct message which asserted that he'd "return the favor," when I decided to let his feed on my stream, an indicator that he may have ignored my links. My synaptic connections aren't what they used to be either; I too struggle with fine print, but I try to visit my twitter page and trim the branches.
I may stop linking my DIA posts so often, however, if the moral majority is going to pressure Blogger to silence me. Where that pressure came from might be nice to know, but I am not going to let it stop me, not that I can fight Google, I know that. This software belongs to the company, and the First Amendment applies to the public square-- but Blogger succeeded in making me angrier, inadvertently, perhaps.
I am, on occasion, chastised by the establishment for lack of relevance, which annoys the holy shit out of me when it comes to social media. I wanted to talk about texts, on Linked In, with those who taught them, but down came the muzzle, "lack of relevance," without me breathing a word about my personal situation. I could not fight back, Linked In couldn't tell me anything, and yet I had to be mortified.
This isn't virtual stigma following real life prejudice? We do not have to thank followers in thousands of automated emails. Think about it. I'll leave my account. I like Medium, and think it's better for us than thousands of writer authors tweeting what we won't read. I like BeaconReader too, and for that I need twitter.
I'm mean, hurtful, and occasionally vile, but I am also challenging and divergent, and you really need to stop and think about the price people like me are asked to pay. I am in exactly the same room I was when I was punted off Poets & Writers. How many of those authors have moved on, been able to change? I am in exactly the same studio where Linda squealed to me like a pig about her orgasms, and she may have left the disability center, but I am sure the bitch has her mortgage paid off. I know she, and Josie Byzek, whom I've also offered choice words, have online access. Jimmi Shrode, who is afraid of me, may too. Jimmi is afraid of me, instinctively, and he should be, but he can walk, and has what he wants, at least until Erik dies. I'm alone; I'm in pain, and I live in an environment I never wanted to be, and all you fine players can't handle it.
Mr. Harris may have forgotten that he was following a nasty a bituminous troll, because he sent yours truly a direct message which asserted that he'd "return the favor," when I decided to let his feed on my stream, an indicator that he may have ignored my links. My synaptic connections aren't what they used to be either; I too struggle with fine print, but I try to visit my twitter page and trim the branches.
I may stop linking my DIA posts so often, however, if the moral majority is going to pressure Blogger to silence me. Where that pressure came from might be nice to know, but I am not going to let it stop me, not that I can fight Google, I know that. This software belongs to the company, and the First Amendment applies to the public square-- but Blogger succeeded in making me angrier, inadvertently, perhaps.
I am, on occasion, chastised by the establishment for lack of relevance, which annoys the holy shit out of me when it comes to social media. I wanted to talk about texts, on Linked In, with those who taught them, but down came the muzzle, "lack of relevance," without me breathing a word about my personal situation. I could not fight back, Linked In couldn't tell me anything, and yet I had to be mortified.
This isn't virtual stigma following real life prejudice? We do not have to thank followers in thousands of automated emails. Think about it. I'll leave my account. I like Medium, and think it's better for us than thousands of writer authors tweeting what we won't read. I like BeaconReader too, and for that I need twitter.
I'm mean, hurtful, and occasionally vile, but I am also challenging and divergent, and you really need to stop and think about the price people like me are asked to pay. I am in exactly the same room I was when I was punted off Poets & Writers. How many of those authors have moved on, been able to change? I am in exactly the same studio where Linda squealed to me like a pig about her orgasms, and she may have left the disability center, but I am sure the bitch has her mortgage paid off. I know she, and Josie Byzek, whom I've also offered choice words, have online access. Jimmi Shrode, who is afraid of me, may too. Jimmi is afraid of me, instinctively, and he should be, but he can walk, and has what he wants, at least until Erik dies. I'm alone; I'm in pain, and I live in an environment I never wanted to be, and all you fine players can't handle it.
Exchanging Pennsylvania for New Jersey isn't what I had in mind
"There is no use talking about some things They're better left unsaid."-- Dennis Quaid
I am still sulking. Google, the mother of all monopolistic counter culture enterprises, accusing me in an automated warning of graphic video links. I've never done that, and whoever my regular viewers were, they know it. No, what it all comes down to is lack of manner. Blogger wants me to stop nose-diving despair, because we're lemmings at heart, capable of a mass consequence. I could surf around and find someone who could teach me how to make a blog platform and relocate, but that wouldn't stop corporate censorship, and it's wrong, even if the consequences of virulence lead to bad outcomes, that is a price, because we aren't free if it's freedom with restriction because we have to live with people and entities who do bad things and get away with them, and I've put my heart into this, six years, eventually to be cached into a screen shot. Unless I revise, and revise, cough up something really of hell fire.
I sent out my first resume in years, to a foundation across the border which calls itself *Humanity Preservation*. And pedestrians who have little use for vehemence might say that is what I should be doing, with an affirmative nod of the head, but if you have a son, daughter, grandchild, niece, cousin, with my disabled intelligence, would you want them to go through what Liberty, what Presby have done to me? Is this the system you want? Presby is a syndicate, and a dangerous one at the end of the day, as bad as those corporate models which inspire mistrust. Actual people who knew me once, like Jerry, whom I've no doubt antagonized (something of my outcry must have gotten back to him, because his alma mater contacted me and earned my displeasure) and my executive director Richard knew me later.
Neither of them would be able to handle what Philadelphia's inexorable and inept welfare state has done to me, and society wags "you're a bad girl spastic, no one has the right to say that murder is justified because you've been broken".
Those who aren't afraid to examine the evidence can see we're driving ourselves off the fucking cliff, but never mind. My voice, caustic as a paper cut, is bad for the bottom dollar. We'll see. I'm going to investigate Presby. We'll see if I stay well enough to sizzle the butter.
I am still sulking. Google, the mother of all monopolistic counter culture enterprises, accusing me in an automated warning of graphic video links. I've never done that, and whoever my regular viewers were, they know it. No, what it all comes down to is lack of manner. Blogger wants me to stop nose-diving despair, because we're lemmings at heart, capable of a mass consequence. I could surf around and find someone who could teach me how to make a blog platform and relocate, but that wouldn't stop corporate censorship, and it's wrong, even if the consequences of virulence lead to bad outcomes, that is a price, because we aren't free if it's freedom with restriction because we have to live with people and entities who do bad things and get away with them, and I've put my heart into this, six years, eventually to be cached into a screen shot. Unless I revise, and revise, cough up something really of hell fire.
I sent out my first resume in years, to a foundation across the border which calls itself *Humanity Preservation*. And pedestrians who have little use for vehemence might say that is what I should be doing, with an affirmative nod of the head, but if you have a son, daughter, grandchild, niece, cousin, with my disabled intelligence, would you want them to go through what Liberty, what Presby have done to me? Is this the system you want? Presby is a syndicate, and a dangerous one at the end of the day, as bad as those corporate models which inspire mistrust. Actual people who knew me once, like Jerry, whom I've no doubt antagonized (something of my outcry must have gotten back to him, because his alma mater contacted me and earned my displeasure) and my executive director Richard knew me later.
Neither of them would be able to handle what Philadelphia's inexorable and inept welfare state has done to me, and society wags "you're a bad girl spastic, no one has the right to say that murder is justified because you've been broken".
Those who aren't afraid to examine the evidence can see we're driving ourselves off the fucking cliff, but never mind. My voice, caustic as a paper cut, is bad for the bottom dollar. We'll see. I'm going to investigate Presby. We'll see if I stay well enough to sizzle the butter.
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Mastering Medium
I may be too old, or too garrulous, for Ev Williams to consider hiring me to work at Medium. My feed may as yet be shooting myself in the foot, but I like the concept and would like to try to be able to meet his requirements, so I am telling myself to be patient with the formatting prompts. I'll get it. This is part of our future. "Breathe," I say, "don't overwhelm your synapses."
I'll get it, and I may be a bitch in a bull moose, but I'm a hard worker and I take responsibility, even for being incivil to Examiner. Ev gets the format right. Clarity Media doesn't. I have a CV in the small presses three pages long, and it doesn't matter in the slightest.
We Italians are devolving.
I'll get it, and I may be a bitch in a bull moose, but I'm a hard worker and I take responsibility, even for being incivil to Examiner. Ev gets the format right. Clarity Media doesn't. I have a CV in the small presses three pages long, and it doesn't matter in the slightest.
We Italians are devolving.
An Alibi for Boris Nemtsov
"The man in the hut can hurt you."-- Bill Maher
If I approached the FSB and attempted to negotiate with them, I still face the same difficulty I would if I approached a gang affiliate. I work on the assumption that every African American has closer ties to someone willing to shoot, and someone able to shoot, than I do, but with that as a given, I simply lack the knowledge as to where to find ruthless people, not that those who've humiliated and abused me are substantial. Eight years on Page and Norris Streets, and all I have is a Paratransit driver who one day showed me where he used to deal drugs. I would not recognize him if I saw him again, and he has moved on, if he did not get murdered himself.
Then you have to consider the contractor, the stresses you'd bring to bear on the individual, how you could be sure they would not kill you even if they took out your target, or didn't take out your target, the pieces grow exponentially.
And what would FSB agents do once they found out what I wanted, handle me or refer any effort on my part to the FBI, and then the Philadelphia police would laugh, because the cops know how often they've restored me to a wheelchair in 20 odd years, not that police themselves cannot be bought, but my leverage is small potatoes. People tend to leave spinsters alone. We're unpleasant, but that wouldn't necessarily make me an asset
If I had the ability to tell Vladimir Putin anything, I'd tell him you cannot gun down opponents indefinitely. It makes Russia look as backward as the political cartoons depicted at the end of the Victorian era, right at the outset of the great war. No one will ever know the truth about Nemtsov's killing. Putin's protestations may be genuine, or they may be plausible deniability. Either way, the man is as inept as the cronies holding him aloft.
But I'm still turning it over. To echo a former supervisor's question: What would I have to gain? If my body is in the preliminary end stage of a chronic condition, not much personally, but NSCIL, which like everything in the US, is the national independent living center association, knows full well that corruption runs rampant in IL. The federal mandate acquired leads to complacency, and sometimes, if you want an omelet, you need to break some eggs.
If I approached the FSB and attempted to negotiate with them, I still face the same difficulty I would if I approached a gang affiliate. I work on the assumption that every African American has closer ties to someone willing to shoot, and someone able to shoot, than I do, but with that as a given, I simply lack the knowledge as to where to find ruthless people, not that those who've humiliated and abused me are substantial. Eight years on Page and Norris Streets, and all I have is a Paratransit driver who one day showed me where he used to deal drugs. I would not recognize him if I saw him again, and he has moved on, if he did not get murdered himself.
Then you have to consider the contractor, the stresses you'd bring to bear on the individual, how you could be sure they would not kill you even if they took out your target, or didn't take out your target, the pieces grow exponentially.
And what would FSB agents do once they found out what I wanted, handle me or refer any effort on my part to the FBI, and then the Philadelphia police would laugh, because the cops know how often they've restored me to a wheelchair in 20 odd years, not that police themselves cannot be bought, but my leverage is small potatoes. People tend to leave spinsters alone. We're unpleasant, but that wouldn't necessarily make me an asset
If I had the ability to tell Vladimir Putin anything, I'd tell him you cannot gun down opponents indefinitely. It makes Russia look as backward as the political cartoons depicted at the end of the Victorian era, right at the outset of the great war. No one will ever know the truth about Nemtsov's killing. Putin's protestations may be genuine, or they may be plausible deniability. Either way, the man is as inept as the cronies holding him aloft.
But I'm still turning it over. To echo a former supervisor's question: What would I have to gain? If my body is in the preliminary end stage of a chronic condition, not much personally, but NSCIL, which like everything in the US, is the national independent living center association, knows full well that corruption runs rampant in IL. The federal mandate acquired leads to complacency, and sometimes, if you want an omelet, you need to break some eggs.
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