"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.
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