7.99 is not a bad price to be inundated with the state socialist model which controls most of the world. In my cable deprived free broadcast zone, WYBE runs Mhz feed, when not broadcasting the Russians in English, on 35.5, and I've no idea how this new streaming package will affect my droll allegiance to Mikael Persbrandt as the sole conservative in Sweden, or a parody of one, barring Johan Norberg, who has earned liberal critiquing rights, along with Niall Ferguson, with the seal of approval from the American left. But European procedurals bore me too now, and I really only watch to see how those corrupt souls who didn't emigrate manage themselves in the world, weighing in my mind Roman tolerances over my current non-compliance in Philadelphia's African shadow state. I do not know that it would necessarily be worse. Italians know my type, and deal with the abrasions of the social outcast with a thousand years of theatrical absurdity behind them.
This model is damaging my health, and that because of a Medicare bean counter. I give my notice in July, assuming I live that long, and take Septa to my proverbial stepmother's home and camp outside a block in Springfield. Enough to provoke an eighty year old padre over the edge?
What I fail to understand is why Presbyterian Homes doesn't evict me. I've all but labeled myself a reactionary racist, brimming with ferocity. I hate nearly all the tenants, and cannot think of many exceptions. I've satirized Trudy Richardson as a google-eyed fool, and Debra Horne is a Neanderthal dredged from the Mississippi River. Their parent employer all but treats me like a rabid zoological specimen, utilizing the carrot and stick approach. The interior of this studio is a deplorable statement on a nearly lifelong battle with indigence, and nothing moves, as I've stated in the past, until something does. By the time the motherfuckers who run this company decide to litigate my competency, I'll be out on the street, shifting the parameters. I made contact with one wheelchair company, one, and I simply don't have the time to play the single payer option system for a tilt chair design disaster. I let Magee do this to me, and I have no strings to pull.
If I thought it would do any good, I'd have myself arrested for assaulting Democrats.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Incurable Desires of a Romantic at Heart
Dear Orhan Pamuk,
My name is Joanne Marinelli. Before you appeared on the round table with Charlie Rose to promote Snow, I had no idea who you were, but your interview with the zealous and cosmopolitan talk show host stayed with me, and I purchased an electronic edition of your novel long after its rippling effects on the circuit had simmered down, and I gained not a few page views from Turkey when I compared my own militancy to the threat your poet Ka felt from Hande during the family gathering in Kars. I write a rather esoteric blog called Disability in Entertainment Arts, and Google doesn't always know what to do with my equally acerbic outbursts. Google Blogger was going to privatize my account and then reversed itself, so you aren't the only one who's voice is occasionally hindered by authority, even if my manners aren't as subtle as yours, within your clever narration techniques.
I am a long suffering poet with spastic cerebral palsy, native to Philadelphia, with a small collection of poetry called Like Fire. I do not yet have a second, and at the rate my life is going, my oeuvre may be left as unfinished as that of your sad protagonist. I had a brief rise as a poet, a longer stint as an ineffectual case manager within disability and mental health intake, then earned 3,000 USD as a journalist, like Ka.
I suppose I am writing to you, as opposed to doing what can only now be a retrospective appreciation of your novel, because I identify with the alienation of your analytical observers within the text, and I was betrayed by people I trusted in a rather heinous fashion, and for an American, my situation is presently untenable, though perhaps not as dire as your suicide girls. I am not being beaten by my ex-fiancé, but I am being terrorized by the state welfare system as Pennsylvania administers it, presently engaging in a passive resistance which isn't much of a solution: a homeless cripple by the end of July is in a far worse position in a majority African city than a defiant cripple who gives in to the cruelty of compliance models given her age, hence this small trail of epistolary outreach to career academics.
After all the Modernist tricks I've learned, and even after the streak of lightning that was David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, a construct which brought me to tears because no matter how hard I practice I'll never achieve anything like that, you are a very gifted novelist, possibly a great one, breaking through all the stereotypical images Hollywood offers about what being Turkish means. I'm half rabid with poverty, inches away from being crushed by merciless regimentation, and though I never studied under a foreign national like you, you made me care, made me struggle with my own conflicts with pluralism in secular governance. I'm never going to be happy, but I am undoubtedly afraid to give a life afflicted with so much pain up to fate.
My best wishes,
Joanne
My name is Joanne Marinelli. Before you appeared on the round table with Charlie Rose to promote Snow, I had no idea who you were, but your interview with the zealous and cosmopolitan talk show host stayed with me, and I purchased an electronic edition of your novel long after its rippling effects on the circuit had simmered down, and I gained not a few page views from Turkey when I compared my own militancy to the threat your poet Ka felt from Hande during the family gathering in Kars. I write a rather esoteric blog called Disability in Entertainment Arts, and Google doesn't always know what to do with my equally acerbic outbursts. Google Blogger was going to privatize my account and then reversed itself, so you aren't the only one who's voice is occasionally hindered by authority, even if my manners aren't as subtle as yours, within your clever narration techniques.
I am a long suffering poet with spastic cerebral palsy, native to Philadelphia, with a small collection of poetry called Like Fire. I do not yet have a second, and at the rate my life is going, my oeuvre may be left as unfinished as that of your sad protagonist. I had a brief rise as a poet, a longer stint as an ineffectual case manager within disability and mental health intake, then earned 3,000 USD as a journalist, like Ka.
I suppose I am writing to you, as opposed to doing what can only now be a retrospective appreciation of your novel, because I identify with the alienation of your analytical observers within the text, and I was betrayed by people I trusted in a rather heinous fashion, and for an American, my situation is presently untenable, though perhaps not as dire as your suicide girls. I am not being beaten by my ex-fiancé, but I am being terrorized by the state welfare system as Pennsylvania administers it, presently engaging in a passive resistance which isn't much of a solution: a homeless cripple by the end of July is in a far worse position in a majority African city than a defiant cripple who gives in to the cruelty of compliance models given her age, hence this small trail of epistolary outreach to career academics.
After all the Modernist tricks I've learned, and even after the streak of lightning that was David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, a construct which brought me to tears because no matter how hard I practice I'll never achieve anything like that, you are a very gifted novelist, possibly a great one, breaking through all the stereotypical images Hollywood offers about what being Turkish means. I'm half rabid with poverty, inches away from being crushed by merciless regimentation, and though I never studied under a foreign national like you, you made me care, made me struggle with my own conflicts with pluralism in secular governance. I'm never going to be happy, but I am undoubtedly afraid to give a life afflicted with so much pain up to fate.
My best wishes,
Joanne
Friday, April 24, 2015
Derelict in Transition
"I don't want any surprises."-- a Philadelphia police officer who ignored my request to be placed under arrest as he took my arm and I pivoted.
Or, when you're fucked, you're fucked, like Timothy Hutton as the troubled father on American Crime, a show experienced rather late, without the time for much back episode viewing, but Hutton, like so much in the perpetual motion of the generation gap, is a familiar figure, probably weary of the query I asked on his twitter account about Ordinary People; it is a frightening film, because the taut layer of repression is lethal, to his character and Mary Tyler Moore's, and perhaps for those of us with dead brothers.
Much like the previously referenced novelist, referenced with a mysterious undercurrent of umbrage?, Hutton was never able to quite close the deal with the following he had, and I was one among them, the silent follower who had a hidden reservoir of affection for the cuter, personable, everyman, who, like the stalwart Gene Hackman, could inhabit anything, soldier, con artist, a lost soul threatened by overwhelming guilt. And when the man is on, those undercurrents reach out.
My entire life has fallen apart, simply in shambles, with throbbing maniacal emotional scars off nicotine and doses of salmon oil, with fantasies of physical conflict my diabolical cunning cannot in fact engage over and above my biology, and I keep eating humiliation on top of humiliation and cannot move the needle in a suicide attempt because I am so crippled and so poor failure would simply make it worse, and yet, I'm still not doing the certification HUD requires, deliberately making it very very hard, tweeting to celebrities who comfort me like it's nothing, a casual exchange, and if I was younger perhaps I could cling to a hope of resurgence but I really can't.
Yes, I have the second chair, and I am in it, but the Quantum is not friendly to my independence, and the P-200 may not be worth saving and I can no longer buy a used machine. Too many plates on a stick, and that is assuredly old school variety gawking. I asked poppa to come over. He mistook my meaning. Nicky is always between us, as is his hatred for my mother, miscarrying a first born son, god punishing a bad Korean conflict era hook up with a disaster of a palsied daughter, then a dead imbecile, and his one little boy was a psychotic. Hail to our fathers.
Or, when you're fucked, you're fucked, like Timothy Hutton as the troubled father on American Crime, a show experienced rather late, without the time for much back episode viewing, but Hutton, like so much in the perpetual motion of the generation gap, is a familiar figure, probably weary of the query I asked on his twitter account about Ordinary People; it is a frightening film, because the taut layer of repression is lethal, to his character and Mary Tyler Moore's, and perhaps for those of us with dead brothers.
Much like the previously referenced novelist, referenced with a mysterious undercurrent of umbrage?, Hutton was never able to quite close the deal with the following he had, and I was one among them, the silent follower who had a hidden reservoir of affection for the cuter, personable, everyman, who, like the stalwart Gene Hackman, could inhabit anything, soldier, con artist, a lost soul threatened by overwhelming guilt. And when the man is on, those undercurrents reach out.
My entire life has fallen apart, simply in shambles, with throbbing maniacal emotional scars off nicotine and doses of salmon oil, with fantasies of physical conflict my diabolical cunning cannot in fact engage over and above my biology, and I keep eating humiliation on top of humiliation and cannot move the needle in a suicide attempt because I am so crippled and so poor failure would simply make it worse, and yet, I'm still not doing the certification HUD requires, deliberately making it very very hard, tweeting to celebrities who comfort me like it's nothing, a casual exchange, and if I was younger perhaps I could cling to a hope of resurgence but I really can't.
Yes, I have the second chair, and I am in it, but the Quantum is not friendly to my independence, and the P-200 may not be worth saving and I can no longer buy a used machine. Too many plates on a stick, and that is assuredly old school variety gawking. I asked poppa to come over. He mistook my meaning. Nicky is always between us, as is his hatred for my mother, miscarrying a first born son, god punishing a bad Korean conflict era hook up with a disaster of a palsied daughter, then a dead imbecile, and his one little boy was a psychotic. Hail to our fathers.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
The Spiritual Crisis of Climate Change
My second senator, son of the late, blithe, governor no one remembers, except in national memorial sentiment. I have avoided contacting the political scion of the western half of the state, which consists, in no particular order, of gun toting militia men, coal, hard line right wingers who'd pat me on the head, lasso me, and then stick me in the pig sty, asking me how I'd rate that environment over other forms of social constraint, and, of course, our infamous religious sects, the Mennonites and other dwindling Luddites, ah yes, the Amish, in my creative way around memory gap.
I only skimmed Casey's deft, polished, platform, left a comment on his Earth Day piece which probably puzzled whoever read it, but if I were to diagram, a town like Grantsville beats with Rick Santorum's heart. That it is now Casey's political base, while Toomey controls Philadelphia and the Southeast, is, well, skewered.
There is an inherent contradiction between the pressures of good environmental stewardship and radical egalitarian model for human rights, which capitalism takes care of through a social Darwinism once removed. Humanity cannot uphold the dignity of all and reverse its own climate change crisis at the same time. It isn't possible, which is why the left lies, religious authorities retain their cruelty through lack of competency, and aging individuals are hustled off with all the kindness in the world, and China will never micro-manage it all. Nor can I dissect a page view from UAE with any more speculation than the fact that I follow a blog from Morocco, just to keep an eye on things. Croatia, Ukraine, Turkey, 30 views from Turkey because I encapsulated Orhan's poet with a capture of understanding for doxology. I'm almost finished with Snow, and may just stop there, or not, but Bob junior apparently wants Al Gore's mantle, in less superlative fashion. I want an insurgency, an incompatible combination.
I only skimmed Casey's deft, polished, platform, left a comment on his Earth Day piece which probably puzzled whoever read it, but if I were to diagram, a town like Grantsville beats with Rick Santorum's heart. That it is now Casey's political base, while Toomey controls Philadelphia and the Southeast, is, well, skewered.
There is an inherent contradiction between the pressures of good environmental stewardship and radical egalitarian model for human rights, which capitalism takes care of through a social Darwinism once removed. Humanity cannot uphold the dignity of all and reverse its own climate change crisis at the same time. It isn't possible, which is why the left lies, religious authorities retain their cruelty through lack of competency, and aging individuals are hustled off with all the kindness in the world, and China will never micro-manage it all. Nor can I dissect a page view from UAE with any more speculation than the fact that I follow a blog from Morocco, just to keep an eye on things. Croatia, Ukraine, Turkey, 30 views from Turkey because I encapsulated Orhan's poet with a capture of understanding for doxology. I'm almost finished with Snow, and may just stop there, or not, but Bob junior apparently wants Al Gore's mantle, in less superlative fashion. I want an insurgency, an incompatible combination.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Mirage
"Life had finally caught up with me, and I was utterly overwhelmed."-- Peter Noble, Winning the War against Worry
Digital data processing doesn't make our lives easier; it merely concentrates it, and then we'll need applications to manage it all, forgetting key things crucial to what we do. Technology optimism is thus relative.
My lack of compliance, while not as aggressive as the slew of notable suicides in recent years, will enlarge my vulnerability as much as my intransigence is self protection, and beneath the surface, if I am homeless by the end of July, I do not care, whether I last hours, or weeks, before I'm transported, dumped, back to institutional paradigms of childhood and career, forced onto a catheter, but it isn't that I don't want to live, nor even that I do not want domestic assistance. I want to decide these things, not have an indomitable, stupid woman from Mississippi decide them for me. I never heard of Dr. Brandt, until his hanging became another titillating spectacle we need to cure depression tableau of the moment.
It seems to me, given what women such as I have to field, that he was a sissy, so I'd fall into Sarah Bernstein's caviler satirists category. The argument there being when the cruel joke is a way of coping as opposed to a hate crime (zzzz). He had money, a successful career, and I lost my savings being afraid of a tootsie roll like Trudy Richardson, afraid of her power to continually ostracize me, and she and Debra, their civil service enforcers, have been preeminently successful on that score, just as the seniors under Debra Schwab were, literally harassing me. I do not need it. A police officer using force against me for a deliberate, or developmental disruption, is more honest. Broken primates suck up money.
I'm not entirely unhappy either, which might surprise you, because whatever happens, I will always fight to be free, on my terms, with my awesome, ferocious mind, tired of being a passive anomaly for compassionate problem solvers like an old flame. Yes, I've made mistakes, and hired a nice floozy off Craigslist named Karina who was the beginning of the end of ambulatory treading on my personal dignity because she wanted to help, by throwing out all my documents and some personal effects, and Trudy wanted to know, "Why are you blaming me?"
Because my life has to be destroyed for some standard I could never meet in the first place.
Digital data processing doesn't make our lives easier; it merely concentrates it, and then we'll need applications to manage it all, forgetting key things crucial to what we do. Technology optimism is thus relative.
My lack of compliance, while not as aggressive as the slew of notable suicides in recent years, will enlarge my vulnerability as much as my intransigence is self protection, and beneath the surface, if I am homeless by the end of July, I do not care, whether I last hours, or weeks, before I'm transported, dumped, back to institutional paradigms of childhood and career, forced onto a catheter, but it isn't that I don't want to live, nor even that I do not want domestic assistance. I want to decide these things, not have an indomitable, stupid woman from Mississippi decide them for me. I never heard of Dr. Brandt, until his hanging became another titillating spectacle we need to cure depression tableau of the moment.
It seems to me, given what women such as I have to field, that he was a sissy, so I'd fall into Sarah Bernstein's caviler satirists category. The argument there being when the cruel joke is a way of coping as opposed to a hate crime (zzzz). He had money, a successful career, and I lost my savings being afraid of a tootsie roll like Trudy Richardson, afraid of her power to continually ostracize me, and she and Debra, their civil service enforcers, have been preeminently successful on that score, just as the seniors under Debra Schwab were, literally harassing me. I do not need it. A police officer using force against me for a deliberate, or developmental disruption, is more honest. Broken primates suck up money.
I'm not entirely unhappy either, which might surprise you, because whatever happens, I will always fight to be free, on my terms, with my awesome, ferocious mind, tired of being a passive anomaly for compassionate problem solvers like an old flame. Yes, I've made mistakes, and hired a nice floozy off Craigslist named Karina who was the beginning of the end of ambulatory treading on my personal dignity because she wanted to help, by throwing out all my documents and some personal effects, and Trudy wanted to know, "Why are you blaming me?"
Because my life has to be destroyed for some standard I could never meet in the first place.
Sleepy Hollow
I have absolutely nothing to post, and logged on to actually research Nigeria for my diary entry, savage desolation of which, unseen except by my hard drive, Blogger would not disrupt my account, but not the savage desolation of which you might imagine. Not that he would answer me, (oh geez, this is him now) but I'd quaff John by his ears, today, for spending so much time with me when we were underclassmen. I'd go back in time and lunge at him, beating his sinewy Italian chest, saying "why? why torment me if you didn't want me?" and he'd punch a mirror, drop acid perhaps. I don't even know what the idiom means, dropping acid, and my rental agent is using government agents to corral me in a cage, or black authoritarians, whatever, I'm Kundera's Stalinist joke, a one spastic circus, who hopped in the shower before the news, as usual, and nothing happened, and if I had not called the guard earlier in the month, and had lain there, waited, wriggled, experimented and with strenuous effort picked myself up, I would not now be in this most dynamic challenge, as an obstinate -- what? A Roseanne?
Tassoni. He still looks stoned in his Facebook photo, just as well, I suppose. I hope Gail regrets him with whatever derisive satisfaction this would offer me, but I never had the world into each other they had, and it isn't so much women over 50 couldn't get a golden blossom as it is I could never cherish it, express gratitude for it. I ream my ex on one end and berate him on the other, helpless blind egghead with a windowsill of script, swathed in medical equipment. He horrifies me, and whatever it cost me to break our engagement, the marriage would have been a domestic free for all, and this wasn't what I was going to post about Cameron Diaz, the effervescent quality of her focus. For a former model, her thematic choices have been interesting, but vivacious, still trying to interpret her monologue in Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her. The rest of her filmography aside, her work with Berg and Garcia offer intimations about beauty to challenge conventional wisdom about sexual appeal, open doors. Her character in Very Bad Things wants her magical moment in life, but the price of elimination leaves her overwhelmed, shackled by invisible leg irons as stagnating as Leland Orser aping the mannerisms of a true quadriplegic. She has the same characteristics as Uma Thurman, though with softer facial expression.
Tassoni. He still looks stoned in his Facebook photo, just as well, I suppose. I hope Gail regrets him with whatever derisive satisfaction this would offer me, but I never had the world into each other they had, and it isn't so much women over 50 couldn't get a golden blossom as it is I could never cherish it, express gratitude for it. I ream my ex on one end and berate him on the other, helpless blind egghead with a windowsill of script, swathed in medical equipment. He horrifies me, and whatever it cost me to break our engagement, the marriage would have been a domestic free for all, and this wasn't what I was going to post about Cameron Diaz, the effervescent quality of her focus. For a former model, her thematic choices have been interesting, but vivacious, still trying to interpret her monologue in Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her. The rest of her filmography aside, her work with Berg and Garcia offer intimations about beauty to challenge conventional wisdom about sexual appeal, open doors. Her character in Very Bad Things wants her magical moment in life, but the price of elimination leaves her overwhelmed, shackled by invisible leg irons as stagnating as Leland Orser aping the mannerisms of a true quadriplegic. She has the same characteristics as Uma Thurman, though with softer facial expression.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Feet On The Ground
Since he has a verified account symbol, Nate must have name recognition. Perhaps I've done the beatnik circuit with his relatives. A look at his capsule biography puts that to rest. At the same time, my mind flips through my involvement with Athol Fugard's work at the Wilma, remembering I used to orbit the anti-apartheid clique with perfectly self-righteous conviction, and now, in my old age, not so sure. I am thinking about tolerance, in conjunction with the way I've delineated Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, and most of North Philadelphia in public, and candidate Oliver, to his credit, reached across the aisle. Maybe he senses that my real issue is the sense I am being shilled by these women unfairly, given my history with the killing fields of Protestant do-goodism.
I do not have contemplation in hand to get into it this morning. I'm just letting my guard down: I'm scared.
Presby has no legal ability to shuttle me to Inglis, but they are doing to me, at a much younger age, what they've done to many others in my 21 years of observation, and I cannot stay much longer, whether I push back hard or meander and duck. I'm angry enough to get arrested at eight thirty, if necessary, but that only hastens Pennsylvania's crushing brutality against me, unforgiving of failure, and I have to find a space to camp. Then perhaps another.
But if Nate threw his hat in my ring, then I can whisper "Hang on..." and hold tight. Thank you Nate.
I do not have contemplation in hand to get into it this morning. I'm just letting my guard down: I'm scared.
Presby has no legal ability to shuttle me to Inglis, but they are doing to me, at a much younger age, what they've done to many others in my 21 years of observation, and I cannot stay much longer, whether I push back hard or meander and duck. I'm angry enough to get arrested at eight thirty, if necessary, but that only hastens Pennsylvania's crushing brutality against me, unforgiving of failure, and I have to find a space to camp. Then perhaps another.
But if Nate threw his hat in my ring, then I can whisper "Hang on..." and hold tight. Thank you Nate.
Sunday, April 19, 2015
La Stanza di Angelo
"Go ahead and cash it." Fathers with federal reserve notes
If quintessential American archetypes can be likened to grammatical correspondences, Peter Berg gets the declension right in his 98 dark comedy Very Bad Things, mostly due to Slater and Diaz pulling weight on the rest of the ensemble. There is a little bit of Fargo here in the mix, without the far north accent, but it is a good steal, leaving the narrative unharmed through its imitative exaggeration. Americans tend to be less methodical, more reactive, in yet another end of century send up flaunting emotionalism back at us, in a satirical expose with amusing veracity, kidding ourselves about a little negligent homicide and multiple murder sprees which follow, with Favreau just clueless enough to make the ending seem like a legitimate consequence.
Laughing at the consequence of crippling effects, piled on as an insurmountable internment, is just fine. The activists code it among themselves, a coping mechanism.
If quintessential American archetypes can be likened to grammatical correspondences, Peter Berg gets the declension right in his 98 dark comedy Very Bad Things, mostly due to Slater and Diaz pulling weight on the rest of the ensemble. There is a little bit of Fargo here in the mix, without the far north accent, but it is a good steal, leaving the narrative unharmed through its imitative exaggeration. Americans tend to be less methodical, more reactive, in yet another end of century send up flaunting emotionalism back at us, in a satirical expose with amusing veracity, kidding ourselves about a little negligent homicide and multiple murder sprees which follow, with Favreau just clueless enough to make the ending seem like a legitimate consequence.
Laughing at the consequence of crippling effects, piled on as an insurmountable internment, is just fine. The activists code it among themselves, a coping mechanism.
Predatory Sand Wasps
Temple University, whose access model the private university Widener copied, prior to accepting disabled students, first made me aware of Liberty, the disability center which has solved the problem of immortality. Its existence is federally mandated. I had no intrinsic awareness of the center in 1984, when it *incorporated* at a Pine Street location, but both Linda Dezenski and I joined the lowest common denominator of supports in an unwitting bondage. I in 89. She in 91, and as I continue on this downward slope, which ends when either power chair ceases operation, or a bad transfer forces me into Inglis House, or its equivalent, I simply cannot break away. Three locations, and because I ignored the platitudes of the ambulatory Linda Staroscik, who felt badly for me after my slash and burn divorce from Matrix, and said "you can always come back," without suggesting a position, and turned instead to the spastic supervisor whose bond I should have never horse traded, since I am now untrammeled shit, at war with myself, my dalliance with them, through their presidential suites, through their ugly sojourn on Delaware Avenue, where they warehoused in a dark brown dilapidated manufacturing center, to their current location, where I am dashing off tomorrow, and camping out, the objective being to mediate a cease fire with Riverside to insure I can vacate as safely as possible, and good luck with that. Off the top of my head, three employees from the CIL still know who I am, though I never worked with the front desk receptionist, Ann, or Anne Kline Schmit, Fran Fulton, a blind woman, Nancy, erstwhile den mother, whom I've mentioned, and Libby, an Asian Indian in tech with what I do not know, mild stroke handicap. That is four, discounting Gretchen Bell, who projects herself like Peggy Kessler, pancreatic cancer survivor, but Gretchen did not know me in the family, and treats me with case management self-consciousness, not that I fault her. On one level, the disability movement exists because of maternal sentiments, pity, unwillingness to abort.
Human suffering coalesces around three vectors: territorial location, the intrinsic value of their work activity, and the ability to move, or settle into an ideal home, whose equity accrues, while we exchange the idea of habitation for ownership. I am thinking a great deal about this, as defining ownership as the source of class conflict takes us into Marxist theory.
Human suffering coalesces around three vectors: territorial location, the intrinsic value of their work activity, and the ability to move, or settle into an ideal home, whose equity accrues, while we exchange the idea of habitation for ownership. I am thinking a great deal about this, as defining ownership as the source of class conflict takes us into Marxist theory.
Saturday, April 18, 2015
Shyster of Last Resort, sans Bulgakov
"You read a lot, don't you?"--Tony's disappointed Philadelphia contact
The one character trait that unites Philadelphia's dispersed Italian community is bullshit artistry. My grandfather, his children, my entire tribe, and I have taken my slops, in the agrarian lingo, and splattered the walls. Perhaps I should take a ride into Kensington and see how long it takes to wind up in hospital. I am really giving my notice, and it is not funny, and yet, I'm releasing myself from pretensions I hate, all this over assistance paid by Medicaid. Marie Varenas, who has no online presence whatsoever, except for me and my posts, conveyed, that, as a last resort, EMS could haul me back in to her kitchen, where I waited in my 20ish years on academic probation, because I hated Temple, for Diamond Park to be habitable, nagging Michael Washington, my retched conditions unseen, so long ago, but I really cannot do that again. My uncle who lives there now is functionally senile and circling the drain with his condition, aside from my aunt's.
I have not seen my father's sister since my mother's funeral. She looked like a Spanish version of a generic Joan Rivers on a bad Botox day, and her weight loss after losing her stomach would impact me noticeably, but, if I am able to visit her until I sort this out, she is there.
Individuals with political positions may feel sorry for my arc, but I could see, in that constituent interchange with Brian and his audience, that politics is primarily a game of appeasement, and I am increasingly treated like a woman who is told to know her place, and behave. I should have sought adjudication when the iron was hot, but I am intransigent, demanding it now, and it will lead to EMS or police carting me off, and after that happens? Yet this conflict is invigorating me. I can see some really hard policy pieces coming out of it, if I can snatch electrical outlets, in some context. I'm pissed, really mentally divorcing myself from Presbyterian Homes, and terrified of shelters, but this isn't simply about compliance. It is about choices. I toured this building with the last Caucasian assistant manager who worked the secondary position, Janice, after I became an Eppi crime victim, and turned her down.
Presby, if it really bases its theology in good works, should have down the right thing and found me another rental agent after my attack. I was working, I had a salary of 23,000 a year, and what eroded my health was my hatred of how this community treated me, a life long hazing and initiation through the facade of social cruelty. Yes, there is no landlord tenant nirvana, but I have been crucified in a community I never selected, nor desired, and my ticket to that drain is on the horizon. I am really breaking some eggs, throwing all my energies into a new plate. It may not be enough.
The one character trait that unites Philadelphia's dispersed Italian community is bullshit artistry. My grandfather, his children, my entire tribe, and I have taken my slops, in the agrarian lingo, and splattered the walls. Perhaps I should take a ride into Kensington and see how long it takes to wind up in hospital. I am really giving my notice, and it is not funny, and yet, I'm releasing myself from pretensions I hate, all this over assistance paid by Medicaid. Marie Varenas, who has no online presence whatsoever, except for me and my posts, conveyed, that, as a last resort, EMS could haul me back in to her kitchen, where I waited in my 20ish years on academic probation, because I hated Temple, for Diamond Park to be habitable, nagging Michael Washington, my retched conditions unseen, so long ago, but I really cannot do that again. My uncle who lives there now is functionally senile and circling the drain with his condition, aside from my aunt's.
I have not seen my father's sister since my mother's funeral. She looked like a Spanish version of a generic Joan Rivers on a bad Botox day, and her weight loss after losing her stomach would impact me noticeably, but, if I am able to visit her until I sort this out, she is there.
Individuals with political positions may feel sorry for my arc, but I could see, in that constituent interchange with Brian and his audience, that politics is primarily a game of appeasement, and I am increasingly treated like a woman who is told to know her place, and behave. I should have sought adjudication when the iron was hot, but I am intransigent, demanding it now, and it will lead to EMS or police carting me off, and after that happens? Yet this conflict is invigorating me. I can see some really hard policy pieces coming out of it, if I can snatch electrical outlets, in some context. I'm pissed, really mentally divorcing myself from Presbyterian Homes, and terrified of shelters, but this isn't simply about compliance. It is about choices. I toured this building with the last Caucasian assistant manager who worked the secondary position, Janice, after I became an Eppi crime victim, and turned her down.
Presby, if it really bases its theology in good works, should have down the right thing and found me another rental agent after my attack. I was working, I had a salary of 23,000 a year, and what eroded my health was my hatred of how this community treated me, a life long hazing and initiation through the facade of social cruelty. Yes, there is no landlord tenant nirvana, but I have been crucified in a community I never selected, nor desired, and my ticket to that drain is on the horizon. I am really breaking some eggs, throwing all my energies into a new plate. It may not be enough.
Triumph of the meek?
"Libertarians believe fewer people should vote."-- John Streck
Despite my skills, not everything is in my immediate grasp, and this pertains to Bulgakov. I do not dislike his classic contribution to the Menippean form, but I bookmarked my e-text in place and started over with The Master and Margarita. Dissident voices have reasons why they need to be decoded-- something that the episode Schotty's Struggle points to in dealing with Germany's legacy. The moral lesson here is more complex than it seems, and skirts the edge of our human abyss with as much guts and more subtly than some of my tirades-- but it also points to why I rebelled against Martin Amis in his promotional tour for his Holocaust novel. We make Hitler's rise, and to a lesser extent, Mussolini's, a man who sometimes looked the other way, an exceptional thing, enshrined, as 9/11, in more sybaritic fashion, is memorialized in the US, but fascist extermination only seems to exceed the human capacity for destruction due to the sheer size of its genocide and its mechanization.
And Hitler is nearly a metaphysical intrigue for authors like Amis, and Norman Mailer-- which is really just feeding the machine. If Adolf was a paranoid schizophrenic, this does not explain his Nietzschean will to power, nor the ability to control his brown shirts. He cannot be dissected that way. Leaders and events converge, and there will always be hate crimes. Pause to consider the developmental spectrum, and the extremist anger of my once activist colleagues; even Stephen Hawking wasn't always shielded from the natural inclination for omnivores to exploit the sick. Omnivores are intelligent opportunists.
Bulgakov is a bit of a puzzle. I do not see orthodoxy in his wonderful subversiveness. He trained as a physician, and it shows in his humor and descriptive ease with cadavers. He too understood materialism and was uneasy with it, and seemed to prefer the aspiration toward salvation that hope embodies. My mistake has been my lengthy pauses. I forget the keynote to the disruptions that create the comic tensions in his dissent. Dangerous in some ways. If this is the profile of the Streck I once knew, he might be gratified. I am not in denial about my age, nor physical vulnerability: What I'm fighting is the welfare system. It's hurt me, and I want these viable months I have to myself, until I decide otherwise, not the Department of Public Welfare-- who essentially wants me to assert a declination of services so that my rental agent can then proceed with its next step, which is nonsensical. In six months I might change my mind.
Medicaid, HMO, I assure you, to doctors I am merely a specimen, their protests to the contrary notwithstanding. They stopped me from dying, treated my lungs, signed paperwork. My quality of life? Polite fictions.
Despite my skills, not everything is in my immediate grasp, and this pertains to Bulgakov. I do not dislike his classic contribution to the Menippean form, but I bookmarked my e-text in place and started over with The Master and Margarita. Dissident voices have reasons why they need to be decoded-- something that the episode Schotty's Struggle points to in dealing with Germany's legacy. The moral lesson here is more complex than it seems, and skirts the edge of our human abyss with as much guts and more subtly than some of my tirades-- but it also points to why I rebelled against Martin Amis in his promotional tour for his Holocaust novel. We make Hitler's rise, and to a lesser extent, Mussolini's, a man who sometimes looked the other way, an exceptional thing, enshrined, as 9/11, in more sybaritic fashion, is memorialized in the US, but fascist extermination only seems to exceed the human capacity for destruction due to the sheer size of its genocide and its mechanization.
And Hitler is nearly a metaphysical intrigue for authors like Amis, and Norman Mailer-- which is really just feeding the machine. If Adolf was a paranoid schizophrenic, this does not explain his Nietzschean will to power, nor the ability to control his brown shirts. He cannot be dissected that way. Leaders and events converge, and there will always be hate crimes. Pause to consider the developmental spectrum, and the extremist anger of my once activist colleagues; even Stephen Hawking wasn't always shielded from the natural inclination for omnivores to exploit the sick. Omnivores are intelligent opportunists.
Bulgakov is a bit of a puzzle. I do not see orthodoxy in his wonderful subversiveness. He trained as a physician, and it shows in his humor and descriptive ease with cadavers. He too understood materialism and was uneasy with it, and seemed to prefer the aspiration toward salvation that hope embodies. My mistake has been my lengthy pauses. I forget the keynote to the disruptions that create the comic tensions in his dissent. Dangerous in some ways. If this is the profile of the Streck I once knew, he might be gratified. I am not in denial about my age, nor physical vulnerability: What I'm fighting is the welfare system. It's hurt me, and I want these viable months I have to myself, until I decide otherwise, not the Department of Public Welfare-- who essentially wants me to assert a declination of services so that my rental agent can then proceed with its next step, which is nonsensical. In six months I might change my mind.
Medicaid, HMO, I assure you, to doctors I am merely a specimen, their protests to the contrary notwithstanding. They stopped me from dying, treated my lungs, signed paperwork. My quality of life? Polite fictions.
Friday, April 17, 2015
Fiberglass Insulation
By implication, older people who use personal social services have been subjected to bureaucratic procedures and assessments that have increasingly focused on what they cannot do or achieve in order to identify their eligibility for services. These kinds of assessment procedures have contributed to the construction of older people using services in a language of dysfunction and problem states [....] Opportunities for narrative approaches have declined, Baars and co-authors, page 143, Aging, meaning, and social structure
My poor aunt gets combative with me when I verbally point to affinities, aggressive without understanding I am referring to acceptance. I have to find other supports than a cancer stricken 75 year old half out of her mind, and if cousin Richard is occasionally perusing mio postio, my advice to my cousin is to start spending it down. It isn't easy Richie, never is. Stephanie and I have poppa, and I'm 3/4ths in the sewer. Apply pressure before she spirals into hospice. "Yeah, and you?"
The difference between me and tu mere, my cousin, is I haven't been diagnosed with additional disease other than molar cavies, already tied to cerebral palsy as a symptom. I'm pugilist, and show obvious wear and tear no employer would look past to give me a chance-- except as a radical author, but that is still a niche doorway; I'm otherwise stable except for Ken Cantrell's compassionate malevolence putting an end to a miserably secure environment (sigh). Now I'll face bowel movements and disturbing the peace, and other flags. The police operator who took my call Thursday morning was courteous. The emotional armor of a seasoned practitioner in play in our Orwellian U-verse, she was even, sonorous, like Peter Haber, the Swedish variation on Ian Flemming.
Sjowell, like Dick Wolf's screen writers, gets the conflation right in "Boy in the Glass Bowl", illustrating how crime and abuse ripple in concentric circles around impairment until they fall back inward. An autistic boy who cannot articulate is easy prey for a sodomite who then makes him an orphan. Sjowell emphasizes solving the puzzle is its own reward, and Beck's team can return to the rewards allotted to camaraderie among those close to Arctic climates. Only with Vincent D'onofrio of yore are viewers taxed a bit more. The Terri Schiavo episode was searing, so dark and cruel in conclusion that I winced; the husband's capture was more horrible than the brain death he caused, Goren almost functioning as a yawl, raking rivulets of exposure in a triumph of materialism. Wait until I confront Trudy's boss. He is the real prick, the tour de force toward whom a tongue lashing would be a pleasurable offense. Trudy is deft, and evasive, but displays her weakness, Louis Armstrong eyes with their genetic inclination to dissemble. I want her supervisor. Ken Cantrell, the thick ape, just vibrating for castration. 30 years ago such hate would have never been a pleasure.
My poor aunt gets combative with me when I verbally point to affinities, aggressive without understanding I am referring to acceptance. I have to find other supports than a cancer stricken 75 year old half out of her mind, and if cousin Richard is occasionally perusing mio postio, my advice to my cousin is to start spending it down. It isn't easy Richie, never is. Stephanie and I have poppa, and I'm 3/4ths in the sewer. Apply pressure before she spirals into hospice. "Yeah, and you?"
The difference between me and tu mere, my cousin, is I haven't been diagnosed with additional disease other than molar cavies, already tied to cerebral palsy as a symptom. I'm pugilist, and show obvious wear and tear no employer would look past to give me a chance-- except as a radical author, but that is still a niche doorway; I'm otherwise stable except for Ken Cantrell's compassionate malevolence putting an end to a miserably secure environment (sigh). Now I'll face bowel movements and disturbing the peace, and other flags. The police operator who took my call Thursday morning was courteous. The emotional armor of a seasoned practitioner in play in our Orwellian U-verse, she was even, sonorous, like Peter Haber, the Swedish variation on Ian Flemming.
Sjowell, like Dick Wolf's screen writers, gets the conflation right in "Boy in the Glass Bowl", illustrating how crime and abuse ripple in concentric circles around impairment until they fall back inward. An autistic boy who cannot articulate is easy prey for a sodomite who then makes him an orphan. Sjowell emphasizes solving the puzzle is its own reward, and Beck's team can return to the rewards allotted to camaraderie among those close to Arctic climates. Only with Vincent D'onofrio of yore are viewers taxed a bit more. The Terri Schiavo episode was searing, so dark and cruel in conclusion that I winced; the husband's capture was more horrible than the brain death he caused, Goren almost functioning as a yawl, raking rivulets of exposure in a triumph of materialism. Wait until I confront Trudy's boss. He is the real prick, the tour de force toward whom a tongue lashing would be a pleasurable offense. Trudy is deft, and evasive, but displays her weakness, Louis Armstrong eyes with their genetic inclination to dissemble. I want her supervisor. Ken Cantrell, the thick ape, just vibrating for castration. 30 years ago such hate would have never been a pleasure.
Thursday, April 16, 2015
The Denny Missive
Dear Councilman Dennis O'Brien,
I am not quite sure why you followed me on twitter despite my risqué, sometimes virulent voice on Blogger as spastic_dowager, a virulence which had, or has, dulled my civic humanity, if I ever had it to begin with. I was a virulent child as well, in and out of Home of the Merciful Savior, run by the notorious Dr. Chance; I had episodes with my mother in Shriner's too, never a passive spastic, which perhaps I should not admit to, with everything going on at the moment, but I am writing you an edited version of a sequence of events I sent to Mason Lane, Brian Sims Chief of Staff, and perhaps all I'll get from you, as well, is silent chagrin I'll never get to see. I do not know what Sims and staff did with the information, but I do know my former supervisor Linda Dezenski left Liberty Resources, the IL center on 714 Market Street, and I also know Riverside Presbyterian has escalated pressure on me beyond what I'm willing to endure, and I'm giving notice soon, in some ways a form of my own epitaph, but I am writing you as I'd speak, a defiant woman who got a dose for defying her father and reversing urban flight. I've been punished for that.
In 86 to 88 I moved into Diamond Park, on Page St, making the worst mistake of my life. I was exposed to endemic minority violence, a knifing due to drugs, abuse, beatings, vandalism in various creative forms of destruction, child abuse: a schizophrenic grandmother fractured her daughter's face, and I drove into my unit screaming for the police. In 93 it was my turn. Aggravated assault, relative of a tenant, Brandon Phillips, knocked on my door. I thought I was dead, I really did, but he got frightened, and like most petty addicts not quite wasted of conscience, my desperate screams for life ran him off. Presbyterian Homes was negligent. There was no security at the building. No sign in sheet. I wanted to sue, and allowed then manager Terri Way to talk me out of it, because I'm a dunce, and thought the chic black girl was my friend. With great resistance, I followed her to Riverside in 94. I felt I had no choice, and living here, in its own way, has been toxic ever since, especially since Ellen Hovey retired. Under one manager, Schwab, I was attacked by the seniors, and Steve Gold, a disability lawyer, mediated me out of that.
I left case management in 96, and did not realize I effectively destroyed my career. Liberty assured me for 4 years that I could return to their employ, and they did what they always do, set me up, humiliated me, and because Linda and I got too personal, and I was under pressure, I broke down. You cannot help me with this part of it, so I'll skim, but her board members live here, the consumers I came up with do as well, and it's toxic for me.
I was abused by a number of paraprofessionals, two from Unlimited Staffing, and with great difficulty got Liberty to report molestation and robbery to the state in 06. You cannot recommend a lawyer, I know, you are a politician, and probably think that Riverside's current staff putting the screws in me is their prerogative, but I am begging you to get them off my back, please, simply due to the fact that they are a cut rate company using pluralism as an excuse. The constant unannounced harassment at my door is disrupting my ability to achieve my own goals, please. If my citizenship means nothing because I'm disabled and don't want to comply without getting justice in return, what's the point? I do not want a minority aide. End of story. I spent down assets I no longer have on cleanings. Let Ken Cantrell and the owners he shields move to evict if they wish, but I will not accept constant ominous missives under my door and constant visits. As a Christian company, they could show some humility and admit some liability against my well being. I will call your office next week. My evacuation needs support. Thanks for following me.
I am not quite sure why you followed me on twitter despite my risqué, sometimes virulent voice on Blogger as spastic_dowager, a virulence which had, or has, dulled my civic humanity, if I ever had it to begin with. I was a virulent child as well, in and out of Home of the Merciful Savior, run by the notorious Dr. Chance; I had episodes with my mother in Shriner's too, never a passive spastic, which perhaps I should not admit to, with everything going on at the moment, but I am writing you an edited version of a sequence of events I sent to Mason Lane, Brian Sims Chief of Staff, and perhaps all I'll get from you, as well, is silent chagrin I'll never get to see. I do not know what Sims and staff did with the information, but I do know my former supervisor Linda Dezenski left Liberty Resources, the IL center on 714 Market Street, and I also know Riverside Presbyterian has escalated pressure on me beyond what I'm willing to endure, and I'm giving notice soon, in some ways a form of my own epitaph, but I am writing you as I'd speak, a defiant woman who got a dose for defying her father and reversing urban flight. I've been punished for that.
In 86 to 88 I moved into Diamond Park, on Page St, making the worst mistake of my life. I was exposed to endemic minority violence, a knifing due to drugs, abuse, beatings, vandalism in various creative forms of destruction, child abuse: a schizophrenic grandmother fractured her daughter's face, and I drove into my unit screaming for the police. In 93 it was my turn. Aggravated assault, relative of a tenant, Brandon Phillips, knocked on my door. I thought I was dead, I really did, but he got frightened, and like most petty addicts not quite wasted of conscience, my desperate screams for life ran him off. Presbyterian Homes was negligent. There was no security at the building. No sign in sheet. I wanted to sue, and allowed then manager Terri Way to talk me out of it, because I'm a dunce, and thought the chic black girl was my friend. With great resistance, I followed her to Riverside in 94. I felt I had no choice, and living here, in its own way, has been toxic ever since, especially since Ellen Hovey retired. Under one manager, Schwab, I was attacked by the seniors, and Steve Gold, a disability lawyer, mediated me out of that.
I left case management in 96, and did not realize I effectively destroyed my career. Liberty assured me for 4 years that I could return to their employ, and they did what they always do, set me up, humiliated me, and because Linda and I got too personal, and I was under pressure, I broke down. You cannot help me with this part of it, so I'll skim, but her board members live here, the consumers I came up with do as well, and it's toxic for me.
I was abused by a number of paraprofessionals, two from Unlimited Staffing, and with great difficulty got Liberty to report molestation and robbery to the state in 06. You cannot recommend a lawyer, I know, you are a politician, and probably think that Riverside's current staff putting the screws in me is their prerogative, but I am begging you to get them off my back, please, simply due to the fact that they are a cut rate company using pluralism as an excuse. The constant unannounced harassment at my door is disrupting my ability to achieve my own goals, please. If my citizenship means nothing because I'm disabled and don't want to comply without getting justice in return, what's the point? I do not want a minority aide. End of story. I spent down assets I no longer have on cleanings. Let Ken Cantrell and the owners he shields move to evict if they wish, but I will not accept constant ominous missives under my door and constant visits. As a Christian company, they could show some humility and admit some liability against my well being. I will call your office next week. My evacuation needs support. Thanks for following me.
Wednesday, April 15, 2015
Decisions Once Made
I cannot survive on the street, a mere biological fact, but I have made my decision. No television, no cell either without a solar charger. Entitlement disruption down the road. I've queried over 20 potential room shares and made polite contact with two. The woman I like, but she will probably pass. I have stressed my ailing immediate family, who are screaming at me about reality, one of whom cannot face their own. No, daddy and horrid stepmother too. Louise doesn't want a nigger washing her ass, and yes, I hesitated, but you see the contradictions. I have to have to have evil slur washing my ass and I don't want African caretakers. Will I die as a direct result of all this drama? Who knows. Not I, but I'm illustrating reality for you. Accessibility laws mean jack shit. I've never had equal standing with ambulatory individuals, and none of you want the Burden. You see? I may drag my heels, at least until 5/1, but what the state has imposed on me in more pressurized gradients as time goes by is the equivalent of Fascist strong arming. I want my parent rental agent to own up to its liabilities, and the DHS guy shrugged and said, in essence, "nothing doing". I was inflicted upon, with lethal violence, systemic if more tacit abuse, EEOC violations. Nothing can be done about it, and if this begins my long goodbye, there you have it, my wonderful people. I'll BBL
Without Place
I am giving my notice on Friday, and as of a 4/21 edit, I have not yet, .dragging it out simply through my biological inertia. I telephoned all there is to telephone for the moment, but if anyone can spare me a space, a blanket, temporary lodging-- I doubt I'll beat the clock. I doubt I'll survive, but I simply cannot continue with the duress the system insists on imposing on me as a condition of my upkeep. Dennis O'Brien is undoubtedly busy. Perhaps I'll call his office tomorrow.
I need to go. If you can help, let me know. This BDT site is where the policy coordinator I met at Sims meeting works. His name was Graham and he had a nice car, dialed his mother by accident on his OS, and I sat there in stained clothing with a noticeably bad occlusion to my underbite, my obviously traumatized demeanor an unspoken crime, in and of itself. No one sees my before and after, only the end result, and I cannot live in this building anymore, Inglis House as an alternative is tantamount to prolonged euthanasia, and this represents my life after 50.
The welfare state is what it is, until it stagnates and collapses under pressure.
I need to go. If you can help, let me know. This BDT site is where the policy coordinator I met at Sims meeting works. His name was Graham and he had a nice car, dialed his mother by accident on his OS, and I sat there in stained clothing with a noticeably bad occlusion to my underbite, my obviously traumatized demeanor an unspoken crime, in and of itself. No one sees my before and after, only the end result, and I cannot live in this building anymore, Inglis House as an alternative is tantamount to prolonged euthanasia, and this represents my life after 50.
The welfare state is what it is, until it stagnates and collapses under pressure.
Denis Diderot enjoys Irish bag pipes
A small group of working class dilettantes, show horses, basically, the Asian Steven familiar without recognition, explained by his connection with First Presbyterian. I made eyes at Ray without intent, and Kate, his woman, marked her territory with a smile, and we made nice. I am too weather beaten to steal a sturdy part Scottish buck of that caliber, but it has been a very long time since real man cackled my air, and Ray was a protector, and knew that was how this weather beaten woman saw him. Show horses. Nothing to do with real power, and what is that? While I am beating my mortality on a laundry line: What I am doing, if I am doing it, this puerile defiance of Philadelphia socialism, has real consequences against my survival, and I am thus insane. I am not Stendhal, whose Julien learns to rise through hypocrisy. Then there was John (I think), who has spoken to Tony, and is disappointed the noted Mr. Stiles bypassed Pennsylvania's notorious urban welfare enclave, the city that birthed a nation. I can imagine Thomas Paine, roaring in quantum memory, with the anguish of a colonist rebel: "A welfare state wasn't what my pamphlets sought to invoke!" I am dying like he did, penniless pauper, but at least momentarily glad I showed up, and the Irish made a job of it, getting me in The Cafe, still a show horse myself. I know how to play white guilt, and code racism in my clever pout and tyrant manner, creating false hope in a cruel spring to recapture collegiate immortality.
My emotional scars beat like molten quartz in my chest, thirsting to lap up power in the streets, like Lenin, like Adolph, like Mussolini, Il Duce, hung like a dog, sitting at tables with dilettantes, John and Chaim were the weirdest, the hint of the druggist suggested in their frames. Or AIDS, like what afflicted the psychopathy in my brother's life, a streak of Vulcan ferrous in the sky at dusk. Time to rest, make up my mind, if I am not really ready to fight the African American matrons beating me down ceaselessly for eight years, then, perhaps I bristle, perhaps comply, and imagine skulls, analogous to melons, their rinds split when cleaved, the masters those who have ownership. I own a small collection of Denis Dierot's essay fancies. Too abstract, absurd, for my taste.
My emotional scars beat like molten quartz in my chest, thirsting to lap up power in the streets, like Lenin, like Adolph, like Mussolini, Il Duce, hung like a dog, sitting at tables with dilettantes, John and Chaim were the weirdest, the hint of the druggist suggested in their frames. Or AIDS, like what afflicted the psychopathy in my brother's life, a streak of Vulcan ferrous in the sky at dusk. Time to rest, make up my mind, if I am not really ready to fight the African American matrons beating me down ceaselessly for eight years, then, perhaps I bristle, perhaps comply, and imagine skulls, analogous to melons, their rinds split when cleaved, the masters those who have ownership. I own a small collection of Denis Dierot's essay fancies. Too abstract, absurd, for my taste.
Sunday, April 12, 2015
Brubaker's Valkerie
"My colleagues have a lasting vocation, that is to say, they see in the ecclesiastical calling a long continuance of dining well and having a warm suit." Stendal, p144
I stopped to watch The Last Castle this afternoon, as opposed to remaining steadfast to Georges Simenon recycles. I was never particularly huge over Redford, but he too is an ailing link to my vanishing boomer lexicon, a language where one of the last real boomer superstars knows what its like not to have Paul Newman, and so I made a reluctant choice, not sorry to see the late Gandolfini in action up against the straight arrow icon.
The story wants to be a real world metaphor, like the late 80's Big Night, Tucci's critically acclaimed love child, but seemingly doesn't make a great deal of sense. I certainly couldn't figure it out as anything more than a pissing contest where your crime doesn't define you until it does? Irwin's piece de resistance appeals to me, of course, and like the damaged Aquilar, Redford as Irwin sacrifices his superlative status as the last American superstar, for an idea about fundamental fairness, or something, I am not entirely sure, the point taken that Colonel Winter, like Aquilar, loses self control in just that moment it takes to violate military code, to prevent Irwin's last act of defiance.
I've been thinking about my personal course of action, as forcing police officers to arrest me, the stress of that would finish me, even if the last thing a cop cares about is making an angry quadriplegic angrier still, and why can't she accept that she needs an attendant? Housekeeping help? I never did not accept it; that isn't the point. I have taken a series of blows from which recovery has been difficult, and this Christian landlord of mine, whatever my slavering hatred, has liabilities, aside from Ms. Richardson's ability to terrorize me, and I'm too angry to stand down, stopping just on the verge of letting her goad me into insulting her last fall. I cannot keep standing down on these matters, and if I have to earn myself a jacket, then the state has another notch in its belt.
Monica Carr was one of my first so called aides, during an early episode without a power chair. Welfare assigned her to me for 12 hours a week. I actually needed the help, and she could not do it, reported me to her police district for harassment. There was no Trudy google-girl then, and Debra Horne was conspicuously absent when another woman named Star, from Homemaker Services, tried to steal my commission as a contract journalist for HTP. Can I trust discussing this with O'Brien? I'll try; then I'm calling the cops, filling a complaint, and appealing to AG Harris, who is supposed to be aggressive.
I stopped to watch The Last Castle this afternoon, as opposed to remaining steadfast to Georges Simenon recycles. I was never particularly huge over Redford, but he too is an ailing link to my vanishing boomer lexicon, a language where one of the last real boomer superstars knows what its like not to have Paul Newman, and so I made a reluctant choice, not sorry to see the late Gandolfini in action up against the straight arrow icon.
The story wants to be a real world metaphor, like the late 80's Big Night, Tucci's critically acclaimed love child, but seemingly doesn't make a great deal of sense. I certainly couldn't figure it out as anything more than a pissing contest where your crime doesn't define you until it does? Irwin's piece de resistance appeals to me, of course, and like the damaged Aquilar, Redford as Irwin sacrifices his superlative status as the last American superstar, for an idea about fundamental fairness, or something, I am not entirely sure, the point taken that Colonel Winter, like Aquilar, loses self control in just that moment it takes to violate military code, to prevent Irwin's last act of defiance.
I've been thinking about my personal course of action, as forcing police officers to arrest me, the stress of that would finish me, even if the last thing a cop cares about is making an angry quadriplegic angrier still, and why can't she accept that she needs an attendant? Housekeeping help? I never did not accept it; that isn't the point. I have taken a series of blows from which recovery has been difficult, and this Christian landlord of mine, whatever my slavering hatred, has liabilities, aside from Ms. Richardson's ability to terrorize me, and I'm too angry to stand down, stopping just on the verge of letting her goad me into insulting her last fall. I cannot keep standing down on these matters, and if I have to earn myself a jacket, then the state has another notch in its belt.
Monica Carr was one of my first so called aides, during an early episode without a power chair. Welfare assigned her to me for 12 hours a week. I actually needed the help, and she could not do it, reported me to her police district for harassment. There was no Trudy google-girl then, and Debra Horne was conspicuously absent when another woman named Star, from Homemaker Services, tried to steal my commission as a contract journalist for HTP. Can I trust discussing this with O'Brien? I'll try; then I'm calling the cops, filling a complaint, and appealing to AG Harris, who is supposed to be aggressive.
Saturday, April 11, 2015
In the abstract
The live in partner is not a bad idea for a woman of my age, but the matches are exhausting me, illustrating how fucking useless the activist cacophony of celebration around the ADA is. I telephoned one or two listings from the resource site, responded to perhaps 5 email addresses on my own before I scrolled down far enough to see the automated response instructions, deleted some 50 odd emails on my own, and the staying meme for those of my generation is that we're already dead. I certainly feel that way, and yet, if I call the 9th ward police division to file a criminal complaint against my building manager Trudy Richardson and her social worker Debra Horne, am I hastening my demise or will special victims take me seriously?
I've sustained overwhelming, systemic abuse on attendant care, and no one seems to give a flying fuck that I lack the endurance to keep taking it. I am in a very bad mood, everything hurts, and I am trying to calculate if I can get myself up if I slip in the shower stall a second time.
I've sustained overwhelming, systemic abuse on attendant care, and no one seems to give a flying fuck that I lack the endurance to keep taking it. I am in a very bad mood, everything hurts, and I am trying to calculate if I can get myself up if I slip in the shower stall a second time.
Emma's Pantaloons?
Despite the fact that the biopic based on the Modernist(?) painter Dora Carrington is fine, with a Merchant Ivy languidness to it, despite Emma Thompson's borderline slapstick sincerity, the poignant tragedy Christopher Hampton attempts to decant with such care in this drawling movie is beyond my pay grade: a bisexual painter and a homosexual biographer who was a founding member of Bloomsbury form an inseparable attachment? Shielding each other? I have viewed this drama off and on since WPHL joined This TV syndication, and my attention always, invariably strays.
A wise deconstruction of an old queen (which he certainly was) like Henry James can tell us a lot about the complexity of human shields utilized for cover, but does romance spare us from our own self-deception? What I pick up from Pryce as Lytton Strachey is a pathetic sense of debauchery, redeemed by the fact that Dora was most comfortable in the role of his disciple, but to commit suicide over her loss? It doesn't pass the smell test. I certainly have doubts as to whether or not Thompson believed in the role.
Wiki says Strachey purportedly had a relationship with Keynes, and Niall Ferguson caused an uproar in asserting certain dismal views by Keynes in relation to recession and stimulus, i.e., "we're all dead in the end" were due to his homosexuality, which earned the energetic Scott excoriating censure, leading to a public apology, which ignited my irrelevant indignation. I scolded Dr. Ferguson quite forcefully in his comment window for not standing his ground, which in no way indicates I've solved any puzzles on radicalized aberrations.
A wise deconstruction of an old queen (which he certainly was) like Henry James can tell us a lot about the complexity of human shields utilized for cover, but does romance spare us from our own self-deception? What I pick up from Pryce as Lytton Strachey is a pathetic sense of debauchery, redeemed by the fact that Dora was most comfortable in the role of his disciple, but to commit suicide over her loss? It doesn't pass the smell test. I certainly have doubts as to whether or not Thompson believed in the role.
Wiki says Strachey purportedly had a relationship with Keynes, and Niall Ferguson caused an uproar in asserting certain dismal views by Keynes in relation to recession and stimulus, i.e., "we're all dead in the end" were due to his homosexuality, which earned the energetic Scott excoriating censure, leading to a public apology, which ignited my irrelevant indignation. I scolded Dr. Ferguson quite forcefully in his comment window for not standing his ground, which in no way indicates I've solved any puzzles on radicalized aberrations.
Friday, April 10, 2015
The Strange Psychology of Admiration
I just did Ms. Phillips a favor in microcosm and purchased her debut collection, which I read, in Wolfgram Memorial Library, some odd thirty three years ago, in 1982. Read yes, but cannot remember the slightest thing about it, because of my young vibrating brain fumes. Of all Phillips work, I believe I responded to Black Tickets best, but if I can be unkind about my brain damage and overzealous emotional longing, I can stick a few pins in feminine literary endeavor which has its moment in the sun and then becomes more of a routine expectation. Much like Lorrie Moore, with whom I only have passing familiarity as a reader, Jayne Anne never quite sealed the deal with her modern overlay on the South's agrarian argument with the cosmopolitan North, and I harbor the vague idea that I was referred to her work because of the effective shock value of her plot points about body betrayal-- one of her stories where this is accessible and easy to grasp is "Home", an anthologized piece about a dying grandmother and the battle with "smell". The bonny instructor is less confrontational about fecal matter than I am in my posts, but "Home" is brave, honest, nicely balanced between burgeoning youth and the struggle with age over death.
Why the bottom fell out for Phillips after that is anyone's guess. Writing is a lousy way to make a living. Machine Dreams, her novel, has some interesting tropes, but those figures of speech weren't enough to sustain the book, and like many short story authors, she falters in long form, and Fast Lanes, which I now read at Paley, alone and unhappy, did not seem to sharpen the perspectives of her voice. Why then I cut her portrait photo out of P&W, taping it on my door in Diamond Park, and wrote her publisher a frothy enthusiastic letter, and then my more dangerous poem, "fortissimo" published in Metis, a tribute, yes, but it was also something else, a form of sexual imitation so that I could get laid the way I imagined Jayne Anne herself presenting her body to men as something to be feasted. Heady stuff, eh?
Yes, but both Jayne Anne and I will soon be passing the torch, and to those who will listen, although you'll have to learn this for yourselves: it is okay to get "blown away," by a writer who touches on your affinity, but this doesn't mean they aren't ambivalent about hero worship, that they aren't flawed people too who have to have practiced shields with students, and they will not necessarily offer you the friendship you think you don't have.
I don't think I asked her if she ever got the letter. It was foolish in any case; the poem, however, will be in my book, with her work more evenly adjudicated.
Why the bottom fell out for Phillips after that is anyone's guess. Writing is a lousy way to make a living. Machine Dreams, her novel, has some interesting tropes, but those figures of speech weren't enough to sustain the book, and like many short story authors, she falters in long form, and Fast Lanes, which I now read at Paley, alone and unhappy, did not seem to sharpen the perspectives of her voice. Why then I cut her portrait photo out of P&W, taping it on my door in Diamond Park, and wrote her publisher a frothy enthusiastic letter, and then my more dangerous poem, "fortissimo" published in Metis, a tribute, yes, but it was also something else, a form of sexual imitation so that I could get laid the way I imagined Jayne Anne herself presenting her body to men as something to be feasted. Heady stuff, eh?
Yes, but both Jayne Anne and I will soon be passing the torch, and to those who will listen, although you'll have to learn this for yourselves: it is okay to get "blown away," by a writer who touches on your affinity, but this doesn't mean they aren't ambivalent about hero worship, that they aren't flawed people too who have to have practiced shields with students, and they will not necessarily offer you the friendship you think you don't have.
I don't think I asked her if she ever got the letter. It was foolish in any case; the poem, however, will be in my book, with her work more evenly adjudicated.
Murphy Analgesic
>No, two African American candidates brought race squarely into the campaign on live television during a debate Monday night, squabbling over what it means to be black.
The memory of Chakra Fattah doing the acoustic equivalent of drawing blood on Michael Nutter in a desperate bid for the mayoralty of this city is a vivid historical paean in the burial of dirty laundry which subsequently failed to make much difference. Both men share the same political base, about as old school as it gets, and I have thus far avoided contact with the Congressman about my problems, which are mainly state and municipal related, and, similar to Senator Toomey, Fattah is one of a very select number of 535-- but there are additional reasons. I do not take onus with Senator Toomey and in my contacts I hope I was deferential. Fattah might be another story, partly because I have a little extra education on the underside of identity politics, and Fattah and his wife are wealthy and economically secure beyond what my family could sustain, so there might be some class resentment at play, and so, when my representative included my twitter handle in a short sweet thread on Huntington's, I felt self-conscious, not about the thread, but about my lack of fluidity in progressive sentiment.
I could engage in a lack of civility which is not fair to my federal representative. His affluence has nothing to do with my lights "going out one by one" to quote Isabel Archer on her husband. Damn it to hell that Henry James has a fantastic immortality, and then again, if I "got real" with one of Fattah's staff, a frank exchange might clear the air, but his affluence does speak volumes about the fact that we do not have political equity in the US, and have not had it since Jackson's presidency, and Jackson was an unbowed proponent of defeating native Americans, in the naughty sentiment of manifest destiny. I am still fairly close to bolting-- and if I do is it because I want Pennsylvania authorities to apply force to my person? Is this what I seek simply to make political points about my traumatized and always precarious social welfare? Do I want the police to stun me or apply restraint to risk a seizure, or, do I really believe I can run, evade the worst, force a change? Psychiatry is not simply about the mind, as if emotional disturbance is a disembodied state. I experienced significant indignity over the course of a lifetime, and like a dolt, case managed equal parts suffering and indignity in others, and Candice has the arc of her late husband's illness, the arc of her looks, her father, her famous series, and she seems blase about it and covering an aura of malcontent. "People stepped up to the plate," she said. I no longer have anyone able to do that for me, and yet even though I listened to the diffident comedienne explore her past forthrightly, as a viewer, I might as well have been standing on a rock pile in a Yemenis village. Murphy Brown, in the retrospective sense, had as much to do with timing as with who Candice Bergen is.
The memory of Chakra Fattah doing the acoustic equivalent of drawing blood on Michael Nutter in a desperate bid for the mayoralty of this city is a vivid historical paean in the burial of dirty laundry which subsequently failed to make much difference. Both men share the same political base, about as old school as it gets, and I have thus far avoided contact with the Congressman about my problems, which are mainly state and municipal related, and, similar to Senator Toomey, Fattah is one of a very select number of 535-- but there are additional reasons. I do not take onus with Senator Toomey and in my contacts I hope I was deferential. Fattah might be another story, partly because I have a little extra education on the underside of identity politics, and Fattah and his wife are wealthy and economically secure beyond what my family could sustain, so there might be some class resentment at play, and so, when my representative included my twitter handle in a short sweet thread on Huntington's, I felt self-conscious, not about the thread, but about my lack of fluidity in progressive sentiment.
I could engage in a lack of civility which is not fair to my federal representative. His affluence has nothing to do with my lights "going out one by one" to quote Isabel Archer on her husband. Damn it to hell that Henry James has a fantastic immortality, and then again, if I "got real" with one of Fattah's staff, a frank exchange might clear the air, but his affluence does speak volumes about the fact that we do not have political equity in the US, and have not had it since Jackson's presidency, and Jackson was an unbowed proponent of defeating native Americans, in the naughty sentiment of manifest destiny. I am still fairly close to bolting-- and if I do is it because I want Pennsylvania authorities to apply force to my person? Is this what I seek simply to make political points about my traumatized and always precarious social welfare? Do I want the police to stun me or apply restraint to risk a seizure, or, do I really believe I can run, evade the worst, force a change? Psychiatry is not simply about the mind, as if emotional disturbance is a disembodied state. I experienced significant indignity over the course of a lifetime, and like a dolt, case managed equal parts suffering and indignity in others, and Candice has the arc of her late husband's illness, the arc of her looks, her father, her famous series, and she seems blase about it and covering an aura of malcontent. "People stepped up to the plate," she said. I no longer have anyone able to do that for me, and yet even though I listened to the diffident comedienne explore her past forthrightly, as a viewer, I might as well have been standing on a rock pile in a Yemenis village. Murphy Brown, in the retrospective sense, had as much to do with timing as with who Candice Bergen is.
Thursday, April 9, 2015
The Complexity of Alain Delon's Syntax
We need to rise up and defend Paris from the barbarians so that I can finish my thesis before I stroke out. I have absolutely no inclination to connect to Alain Delon in any fashion whatsoever, but his work as the suave European mediating between colonial outgrowth and native autonomy, or as a French resistance fighter during the studio controlled footage in the postwar years, and Riva's correspondences to Gene Hackman in the aftermath of the Nixon administration is almost enough to drive me crazy, but yes, it is relevant, my brain throbbing like Leonardo's, so, in carpe diem fashion I'll forgive the dead pan line readings of the cast, with the exception of Perrin, who understands Xavier's psychology, for the sake of the trope. On one level the series simply toys with Faulkner's oft quoted adage, "The past is never the past." But there is more to it, consciously or otherwise. Regardless of national identity and regardless of ethnicity and impairment, time does chase us all. We can cheat it, like Armin Mueller-Stahl, who can be an alluring character actor, appealing to a woman's fulfillment quotient in his well preserved age, but the very rigor he displays as an old man is a reminder of rigor mortis. Delon's Riva is conscious of this as well. The characters that people this world are shades in a new mechanized paramilitary age, which is just as complicit as the Mafia (the Loggia's) might have been with Fascist Europe of yore. Maxime, as the heir to criminal spoils, is correct when he dresses down Riva about the new conglomerate world order. The rackets have shifted gears, with legalese, high interest rates, term insurance, floating mortgages bundled for Korean investors, but the guy in Florida getting foreclosed on can still utilize weapons technology. Unfortunately, the video of Slager doesn't outrage me, but I've stipulated why often enough, and will choose to minimize any abuse host reportings for the interval, and in fact may never bring it up again, but even if the left defangs ineffective policing, it will never entirely unravel the contradictions between individual self-worth and the analytics that go into aggregate life expectancy and the legal worth of any one human body, which varies according to tort, nationality, region, country, profession, caste; I'll concede cowardice, but bad actors abound, including this one.
I received, and accepted, an invitation to The Cafe, and if I make it, in modestly presentable fashion, I will be, literally, an outsider. Perhaps a compassionate male will offer to lift whichever power chair I take over the stoop, assuming I can navigate the interior. I doubt it, but just as with the Rosenbach in 2013, I am engaging in misplaced faith of association as a possible solution in winter's discontent. We'll see what happens.
I received, and accepted, an invitation to The Cafe, and if I make it, in modestly presentable fashion, I will be, literally, an outsider. Perhaps a compassionate male will offer to lift whichever power chair I take over the stoop, assuming I can navigate the interior. I doubt it, but just as with the Rosenbach in 2013, I am engaging in misplaced faith of association as a possible solution in winter's discontent. We'll see what happens.
Wednesday, April 8, 2015
Experimentation
"You are not afraid to confront yourself."-- Monica Carr, living blimp
I may write to Mariel, though with a change in parameters. Personal Best does stand out as a worthwhile examination of feminine assertion, and maybe the woman need not have a transliteration of the toll African American inner city poverty has taken on me. If Blogger wants to chastise developmental aggression, what I lived in North Philadelphia was unimaginable to me. No film, no Langston Hughes poem, no Ellison Invisible Man and his preface scold about legal dollars could have braced me, and in essence, my phantom flight from an instructor I wanted to become and could not, has scarred me. North Philadelphia is marginally safer than Syria, but only on the margins, and that it exists as it does leads to my personal condemnation, knocking politicians by their damn skulls. The most powerful country on earth, with enough urban landfill to wipe out koala bears Australians haven't already endangered
Even if I yield, unlikely without a fight, and dose myself with legal script, I will never entirely filter out horrific memories of which I've only scratched the surface, despite my posts, of which I've written too many. Perhaps Mariel has seen some things similar, but my tendency to be a forceful writer creates barricades as much as open doors. We're the same age, I iterate with my inner voice, as if for a reason this matters. Well, if it does then spare the time. Years ago, via typewriter, I made a fool of myself writing to this once talented writer, and there are instances where I do not need to admonish my own conscience about being a jackass, but, in tribute to Jerry's legacy, I am proud that Ms Phillips and I appear in the same publication. Being an instructor is her surety, but those shared bylines prove something, in addition to the fact that drafting it right is a matter of importance.
I may write to Mariel, though with a change in parameters. Personal Best does stand out as a worthwhile examination of feminine assertion, and maybe the woman need not have a transliteration of the toll African American inner city poverty has taken on me. If Blogger wants to chastise developmental aggression, what I lived in North Philadelphia was unimaginable to me. No film, no Langston Hughes poem, no Ellison Invisible Man and his preface scold about legal dollars could have braced me, and in essence, my phantom flight from an instructor I wanted to become and could not, has scarred me. North Philadelphia is marginally safer than Syria, but only on the margins, and that it exists as it does leads to my personal condemnation, knocking politicians by their damn skulls. The most powerful country on earth, with enough urban landfill to wipe out koala bears Australians haven't already endangered
Even if I yield, unlikely without a fight, and dose myself with legal script, I will never entirely filter out horrific memories of which I've only scratched the surface, despite my posts, of which I've written too many. Perhaps Mariel has seen some things similar, but my tendency to be a forceful writer creates barricades as much as open doors. We're the same age, I iterate with my inner voice, as if for a reason this matters. Well, if it does then spare the time. Years ago, via typewriter, I made a fool of myself writing to this once talented writer, and there are instances where I do not need to admonish my own conscience about being a jackass, but, in tribute to Jerry's legacy, I am proud that Ms Phillips and I appear in the same publication. Being an instructor is her surety, but those shared bylines prove something, in addition to the fact that drafting it right is a matter of importance.
Carried, Seize, Outreach
Media promotions aren't always trivial, and on the basis of the fact that she is touting yet another celebrity memoir, the fancy has seized me to pour out some of my anguish in reserved fashion to Mariel Hemingway, a contemporary, eclipsed in the fog of losing my poverty stricken battle in a majority black city. Then the entertainment articles triggered my envious memories of Mariel's beauty, not plastique in the least. Memory: watching Personal Best waiting for something subversive and passionate and never getting a graphic scene. Perhaps it was edited for television, but it was this film which drew my curiosity to homoeroticism, around the same year that Henry James's super-attenuation came to my attention, became a life long fascination, until the nursing aide and her obscene invitation to bring me "in the life." In the life-- that is code, cliched by now, in LBGT speak for the quest for pleasure, but let me not go tearing up the cushions on the divan too deeply just yet. Queer theory draws prurient attention like carrion draws maggots, and my trenchant retraction of equal treatment for sexual orientation is invariably the comfort food of liberal mockery-- but also, I am not satisfied with my plank. I'm not an evangelical, as such, and why should I care what gays do?
I don't, really, and don't focus much on the physical intimacy between my ex-friends. Jimmi is fat and pallid and Erik is a fleshed out version of Dr. Seuss in the morgue. Excellent aversion therapy, let alone me and my lovers, but I send Mariel's publicist a pity-the-cripple email. I know not to expect response and assume I would not receive one, but what if I did? She'd probably post, much as Niall Ferguson did, "I am sorry for your situation," and offer me the usual self-help pep talk, but why the urge to penetrate at all?
Because she and I are the same age, and why not share the misery with a celebrity I came up with, whose impact was more subtle than Jodi Foster's? Still, these compulsions of sentiment annoy me. She's just an actress, made famous in a particular point and time, in a particular way, with an interesting pedigree to an American writer who's oeuvre is basically full of shit. Ernest is a god damn con artist, a melodramatic spin doctor, over the top even in his Fascist Spanish Civil War era. Huff. I'm over a mild panic attack, hoorah.
I don't, really, and don't focus much on the physical intimacy between my ex-friends. Jimmi is fat and pallid and Erik is a fleshed out version of Dr. Seuss in the morgue. Excellent aversion therapy, let alone me and my lovers, but I send Mariel's publicist a pity-the-cripple email. I know not to expect response and assume I would not receive one, but what if I did? She'd probably post, much as Niall Ferguson did, "I am sorry for your situation," and offer me the usual self-help pep talk, but why the urge to penetrate at all?
Because she and I are the same age, and why not share the misery with a celebrity I came up with, whose impact was more subtle than Jodi Foster's? Still, these compulsions of sentiment annoy me. She's just an actress, made famous in a particular point and time, in a particular way, with an interesting pedigree to an American writer who's oeuvre is basically full of shit. Ernest is a god damn con artist, a melodramatic spin doctor, over the top even in his Fascist Spanish Civil War era. Huff. I'm over a mild panic attack, hoorah.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
What Does Larry Summers want?
Ah, Business Insider clarified the ever fawning economic advisor. Summers gets plenty of op ed space from Wapo, as all formerly prominent policy makers do, and I am rather skeptical still, not of China's rise on the global stage, but as to whether it matters. Sure, the People's Republic obfuscates in a manner that the Western Hemisphere doesn't, but what of it? To a degree we're all in a microcosmic police state, and if the heirs to Maoist apparatchick take over, the denial of propaganda isn't going to save us any more than freedom of expression, as liberty is eclipsed by statutory guidelines. Social Security is not administered according to civil liberties of the people, neither is our byzantine tax code, certainly not housing authorities, and this cuts across the board, from Home Owner's Associations to public housing police states, let alone medical model stricture.
I tried to lie down for my appt this afternoon, and had to force myself up, as my Achilles's heel always rides the forefront: dorm rooms, rehabs, hospital beds, apartment dwellings exactly the same, barring size: Dixon Hall, Diamond Park, this studio, off white and cheap as Chinese drywall. I never had, never will, a stake in ownership, as my father and family did once. I have to forgive my father, because of our home in Folsom. It was a home, a rancher with an individualized presence, like our house in Ridley.
All I have now are laminated floors, imposing cinder block hospital halls, or transfers to sterile environments much the same as this. Did Alain Delon whine as Frank Riva when Xavier dusted him off and gave him a little flat with adorable cat sequences as only the French can do? I'm going back to bed. Fuck Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell. I will find a way to sue Presby for negligence, compliance be damned, however quizzical it seems that Blogger referring urls link back to the Henry James list serv.
As a virtual academic community, it deserves praise as a continuing tributary, but as my matriculation continues to take a pounding, the space to organize the shavings of biographical detail is no longer a kind of monastic security, and the inadequacy of intellectual discipline keeps me away. I doubt I'll ever return-- which is not to convey if my life stabilizes I will not resume researching a proposal.
I tried to lie down for my appt this afternoon, and had to force myself up, as my Achilles's heel always rides the forefront: dorm rooms, rehabs, hospital beds, apartment dwellings exactly the same, barring size: Dixon Hall, Diamond Park, this studio, off white and cheap as Chinese drywall. I never had, never will, a stake in ownership, as my father and family did once. I have to forgive my father, because of our home in Folsom. It was a home, a rancher with an individualized presence, like our house in Ridley.
All I have now are laminated floors, imposing cinder block hospital halls, or transfers to sterile environments much the same as this. Did Alain Delon whine as Frank Riva when Xavier dusted him off and gave him a little flat with adorable cat sequences as only the French can do? I'm going back to bed. Fuck Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell. I will find a way to sue Presby for negligence, compliance be damned, however quizzical it seems that Blogger referring urls link back to the Henry James list serv.
As a virtual academic community, it deserves praise as a continuing tributary, but as my matriculation continues to take a pounding, the space to organize the shavings of biographical detail is no longer a kind of monastic security, and the inadequacy of intellectual discipline keeps me away. I doubt I'll ever return-- which is not to convey if my life stabilizes I will not resume researching a proposal.
Presumptive Rebuttal
"The middle class counts the most," Larry Summers
I feel in the back of my mind that at least part of Medium's Daily Digest feed is a rebuttal to my inflammatory Blogger stance. It is undoubtedly not the case, but I never claimed not to be flawed, and as a flawed imp, I am always arguing, need to be argued back to. Altucher's piece is nicely self-effacing without being an unforgiving turn off, but if I applied his logic to my current plight, I go back to LIFE WITH NURSING AIDE FOLLIES (I could write a fucking book, and half my twitter kindle promotionists say "that's the ticket!") But how can I work when my charming minority warders assault me with one after another civil servant? In 2007, when Debra Horne surrounded me with the assessment team utilized by Presbyterian Homes, my uncle had just returned my battered P-200 I am sitting in now. I offered to give up the cats, but fresh from Eddy's gluttony, there was no way in hell I was about to go through another 50 browbeaten women.
"We don't want you to give up the cats." That is a racist response, and in the back of her mind, Debra Horne knows it. If Riverside Presbyterian has made me venomous, it has also changed Debra Horne from her first days here in a denim smock with matching pumps. Back then, she looked like she had fallen off something, and was uncertain. We've watched each other, two ugly women, alter within our respective casements, not for the better. She wears a hard, astonished look, with that vomiting orange hair dye women of her type don, because we still share the neural responses to a decorative bird's nest. And I, in turn, have been engraved with stress, and damaged my already damaged jaw line accordingly. Last week, she stood behind the kids from Department of Health and Human Services taking notes while I challenged her about my 22 years here. The boys were bigots too, but kids. What's wrong with a Bedlam like Inglis House, indeed. How any sane person can ask that is beyond me. It is not so much a victory or vindication against Presby. It is a corporate motherfucker and the right wing with whom I have ideologically aligned probably own stock, if reading me assume to themselves I'll have to give it up sooner than later-- this is what Altucher's least resistance, applied to me, would mean, and it will be over my dead body.
Hence my species pessimism.
I feel in the back of my mind that at least part of Medium's Daily Digest feed is a rebuttal to my inflammatory Blogger stance. It is undoubtedly not the case, but I never claimed not to be flawed, and as a flawed imp, I am always arguing, need to be argued back to. Altucher's piece is nicely self-effacing without being an unforgiving turn off, but if I applied his logic to my current plight, I go back to LIFE WITH NURSING AIDE FOLLIES (I could write a fucking book, and half my twitter kindle promotionists say "that's the ticket!") But how can I work when my charming minority warders assault me with one after another civil servant? In 2007, when Debra Horne surrounded me with the assessment team utilized by Presbyterian Homes, my uncle had just returned my battered P-200 I am sitting in now. I offered to give up the cats, but fresh from Eddy's gluttony, there was no way in hell I was about to go through another 50 browbeaten women.
"We don't want you to give up the cats." That is a racist response, and in the back of her mind, Debra Horne knows it. If Riverside Presbyterian has made me venomous, it has also changed Debra Horne from her first days here in a denim smock with matching pumps. Back then, she looked like she had fallen off something, and was uncertain. We've watched each other, two ugly women, alter within our respective casements, not for the better. She wears a hard, astonished look, with that vomiting orange hair dye women of her type don, because we still share the neural responses to a decorative bird's nest. And I, in turn, have been engraved with stress, and damaged my already damaged jaw line accordingly. Last week, she stood behind the kids from Department of Health and Human Services taking notes while I challenged her about my 22 years here. The boys were bigots too, but kids. What's wrong with a Bedlam like Inglis House, indeed. How any sane person can ask that is beyond me. It is not so much a victory or vindication against Presby. It is a corporate motherfucker and the right wing with whom I have ideologically aligned probably own stock, if reading me assume to themselves I'll have to give it up sooner than later-- this is what Altucher's least resistance, applied to me, would mean, and it will be over my dead body.
Hence my species pessimism.
Monday, April 6, 2015
The Fullness of Life
"It will never work."-- Marie Varenas
One thing that stands out in the Talhotblond docudrama is everyone's thick setness, even Jessi Shieler. Certainly attractive, but no anorexia waif. Her mother is portly, her father looks built, and even Brian Barrett looks like a sausage beer belly in the making. Only Tom Montgomery wasted himself away to a gauntness commensurate with the travesty of his actions. I was going to be my usual incendiary self, and inveigh that I wish I had a character like marinesniper in my back pocket to manipulate, but honestly, I feel badly for the fellow. He is still human, and Schroedor illustrates this in a compelling fashion. A disabled woman, never loved, can read the hell in this man's eyes, red hot pokers that have creased mine with an opaque lack of clarity.
Was he insane in the commission of the crime? On the basis of the fact that this was an online chat relationship, I would imagine so, but who is rational in the belief that a device like a computer can transform our droll lives inundated with saturated fat? Next to Mary Shieler's pathological transference onto her daughter, I am not only sane, but too intelligent for my own good, but there is nothing here in this story to respect. Mary Shieler wanted to be her daughter, got off on jerking men around, and Tom Montgomery had unreachable pain, pain which should bar him from any release back into society.
I started out my online life on Yahoo chat, and had enough cyber sex to warrant vaginal replacement, not a few questionable phone contacts, took it all too seriously, made myself stop, and my societal status is such I would not be caught dead on Match.com. I am what I am, an unremarkable homily cripple who lets herself get fucked over and sometimes can't help but face the oncoming train, and lo and behold, thousands are like me, at least in certain respects. What is it about the technology that does this to so many people? In part, devices are shields; in part, role playing is a vicarious coping mechanism, but there is more to it, a break down in semantic relevance. One thing I share with the poor, despite my overly long academic history, is a belief that killing has a place in our conversion, as Cormac McCarthy argues in his fiction. I believe it because every opportunity I had to litigate against what happened to me in the city of my birth, I never took, and like Joan Tarshis, one of Cosby's alleged early victims, I have to live with it, and keep eating it, or devolve in my rhetoric, which I have, oh yes, verily, but there is no justified linguistic texture for Tom or Mary here. I cannot even get angry, as I normally would.
I can say Americans are incredibly stupid, but my vulnerability, this morning, cannot slither back into contempt, sitting on its laurels. That poor young woman Jessi has to live with her mother's bizarre, almost homicidal envy. The Barrett's lost their kid because of middle age regressions chasing after the fountain of youth, and I am a desperately failed writer clinging by my fingernails while the merciless clinical jaws of poverty close in on me. My aunt annoys me because she shoots down these present bids I make for senior year adaptation, but I do not see the harm in a bid for relocation with a live in companion. I know my own narrative.
One thing that stands out in the Talhotblond docudrama is everyone's thick setness, even Jessi Shieler. Certainly attractive, but no anorexia waif. Her mother is portly, her father looks built, and even Brian Barrett looks like a sausage beer belly in the making. Only Tom Montgomery wasted himself away to a gauntness commensurate with the travesty of his actions. I was going to be my usual incendiary self, and inveigh that I wish I had a character like marinesniper in my back pocket to manipulate, but honestly, I feel badly for the fellow. He is still human, and Schroedor illustrates this in a compelling fashion. A disabled woman, never loved, can read the hell in this man's eyes, red hot pokers that have creased mine with an opaque lack of clarity.
Was he insane in the commission of the crime? On the basis of the fact that this was an online chat relationship, I would imagine so, but who is rational in the belief that a device like a computer can transform our droll lives inundated with saturated fat? Next to Mary Shieler's pathological transference onto her daughter, I am not only sane, but too intelligent for my own good, but there is nothing here in this story to respect. Mary Shieler wanted to be her daughter, got off on jerking men around, and Tom Montgomery had unreachable pain, pain which should bar him from any release back into society.
I started out my online life on Yahoo chat, and had enough cyber sex to warrant vaginal replacement, not a few questionable phone contacts, took it all too seriously, made myself stop, and my societal status is such I would not be caught dead on Match.com. I am what I am, an unremarkable homily cripple who lets herself get fucked over and sometimes can't help but face the oncoming train, and lo and behold, thousands are like me, at least in certain respects. What is it about the technology that does this to so many people? In part, devices are shields; in part, role playing is a vicarious coping mechanism, but there is more to it, a break down in semantic relevance. One thing I share with the poor, despite my overly long academic history, is a belief that killing has a place in our conversion, as Cormac McCarthy argues in his fiction. I believe it because every opportunity I had to litigate against what happened to me in the city of my birth, I never took, and like Joan Tarshis, one of Cosby's alleged early victims, I have to live with it, and keep eating it, or devolve in my rhetoric, which I have, oh yes, verily, but there is no justified linguistic texture for Tom or Mary here. I cannot even get angry, as I normally would.
I can say Americans are incredibly stupid, but my vulnerability, this morning, cannot slither back into contempt, sitting on its laurels. That poor young woman Jessi has to live with her mother's bizarre, almost homicidal envy. The Barrett's lost their kid because of middle age regressions chasing after the fountain of youth, and I am a desperately failed writer clinging by my fingernails while the merciless clinical jaws of poverty close in on me. My aunt annoys me because she shoots down these present bids I make for senior year adaptation, but I do not see the harm in a bid for relocation with a live in companion. I know my own narrative.
Saturday, April 4, 2015
Sherwood Forest
Patrick Stewart makes the resolution of class conflict something of a utopian uptick in Next Generation. "Humanity solved its economic problems," he tells one of the series varied and populous humanoid inhabitants, swept under the rug for the kids, in order to glide over real world pain and make it easy, like Philadelphia's nonchalant and urbane progressives, but 31 million Medicaid recipients in the US is not exactly something to rejoice over. Single payer systems, be they federalized benefits, Medicare, VA benefits, criss crossed under the imperiled ACA, is not only bankrupting the US, it is destroying American initiative, and every member of my family, barring my father, thinks Pennsylvania's social service system is a candy dispenser, while my landlord is using a rear guard action against me, a blunt force trauma that is akin to warding me off like a zoological aberration, because I am attempting to curtail costs by declining what is an abusive system by default, and they'll win, because I'm too tired, Presbyterian's management is deliberately exacerbating my social anxiety, my sense of vulnerability, to lock me into a paradigm which will only add to duress, as opposed to gratitude. Even behaviors from paraprofessionals, or idiots like Karina, which cannot be classified as abuse, still lead to bad outcomes. I've detailed as much in past posts,
So I took council with my father, paid the room mate finder the not exorbitant fee they asked, left my link on Craigslist, and good luck with that. The public policy guy I spoke to after Sims charming town hall bit, I told him I was so unhappy where I was that just giving my notice would make me happy, and it would, in the vein of Alan Greenspan's "irrational exuberance," and I myself acknowledged the desire wasn't rational. "No, but it is an argument," the young man said, and he was correct. I'm being treated like a prisoner by a Protestant corporate entity whose very negligence contributed in significant part to my stress disorder. Oh, Trudy and Debra and custodial staff will say what Miss Eddy did in terms of her conduct was "wrong," and beneath the surface, the tenants who remain and survived the intra-building renovations can count their blessings, but the building, the property, supersede the value and the dignity of the lives they house. The company once had an on-call tenant housekeeper whose position was eliminated with her retirement, hence the burden of securing reliable assistance falls to the tenant, and even when I purchased Tim's labor, or bought another company, nothing they did changed much, and a CNA isn't going to really care. They deal with nursing home eligible bodies day in and day out, changing diapers and bedpans, and like police officers, need emotional armor.
Eventually, this is all going to come crashing down on the generations ahead of me, and if I am in pain and want to stop having my body constrained in brutal institutional fashion, I do not see this as unreasonable. Disability activists may, but the only choice I have is centralized regiments or decentralized regiments with the same "N.H.I.," factor, to ferret out a Cold Case catch phrase. I'd be delighted to stay on with robotic intervention as opposed to the human kind. A programmed device doesn't have opportunistic needs to exploit, doesn't make judgments over hygiene or poverty. I am sure Japanese intel will be right over to donate an I, Robot to alleviate my justified fear of more of the same.
Paradigm failures like mine cost far too much money.
So I took council with my father, paid the room mate finder the not exorbitant fee they asked, left my link on Craigslist, and good luck with that. The public policy guy I spoke to after Sims charming town hall bit, I told him I was so unhappy where I was that just giving my notice would make me happy, and it would, in the vein of Alan Greenspan's "irrational exuberance," and I myself acknowledged the desire wasn't rational. "No, but it is an argument," the young man said, and he was correct. I'm being treated like a prisoner by a Protestant corporate entity whose very negligence contributed in significant part to my stress disorder. Oh, Trudy and Debra and custodial staff will say what Miss Eddy did in terms of her conduct was "wrong," and beneath the surface, the tenants who remain and survived the intra-building renovations can count their blessings, but the building, the property, supersede the value and the dignity of the lives they house. The company once had an on-call tenant housekeeper whose position was eliminated with her retirement, hence the burden of securing reliable assistance falls to the tenant, and even when I purchased Tim's labor, or bought another company, nothing they did changed much, and a CNA isn't going to really care. They deal with nursing home eligible bodies day in and day out, changing diapers and bedpans, and like police officers, need emotional armor.
Eventually, this is all going to come crashing down on the generations ahead of me, and if I am in pain and want to stop having my body constrained in brutal institutional fashion, I do not see this as unreasonable. Disability activists may, but the only choice I have is centralized regiments or decentralized regiments with the same "N.H.I.," factor, to ferret out a Cold Case catch phrase. I'd be delighted to stay on with robotic intervention as opposed to the human kind. A programmed device doesn't have opportunistic needs to exploit, doesn't make judgments over hygiene or poverty. I am sure Japanese intel will be right over to donate an I, Robot to alleviate my justified fear of more of the same.
Paradigm failures like mine cost far too much money.
Friday, April 3, 2015
A Good Rule of Thumb is not an Endorsement
Stop posting during burn out seems to be fairly wise, especially if lack of polish is a dilution, but Park Towne will not be able to meet my urgency to vacate current premises, and I have a Tuesday early evening appointment to visit, but inertia is a huge underclass problem. Presby either will not or cannot move for eviction, and I am unable to remove myself without making my body a significant shift in burden to Philadelphia as a municipality. Even a woman's shelter is all but virtually moot if my transfer method is weakening, which it is, and so I am going the route of every other disabled individual over 50. Total dependence on minimal minority labor, or else. I am considering asking the ACLU to sue to allow me humane euthanasia, which will fall on deaf ears.
I admire Final Exit, they understood I am my father's daughter and wanted a quid pro quo arrangement, and no can do, but they made me smile, and when I sat up, I thought twitter's notification about Oliver was a news outlet, at first, not a candidate, but I'll let things stand, wondering what a next generation minority power player wants with a biased and bitter little girl in her overly battered body. I know nothing about Oliver.
This is all there is-- yes, I know, but as useful as it is to learn from how documentary film maker Ken Burns uses narrative structure in his video, again, liberals expose their own problems: success against carcinogenesis creates intractable dilemmas not so easily overcome despite the self interest of survival, and my insight into this epistomelogical plank has been one of my driving themes, despite the acknowledged hierarchy of ocogenes over and above developmental and chronic damage. What happened to me as a child would not necessarily happen today, in the same vein that radical mastectomy has fallen by the wayside, but because one, just one centralized disability center engaged in EEOC violations, and because one, just one rental agent using its powerful religious sect as a shield, evaded negligent liability, and is free to make their property a toxic environment for me, well, here I am, a piece of hide for all ideological parties concerned.
I admire Final Exit, they understood I am my father's daughter and wanted a quid pro quo arrangement, and no can do, but they made me smile, and when I sat up, I thought twitter's notification about Oliver was a news outlet, at first, not a candidate, but I'll let things stand, wondering what a next generation minority power player wants with a biased and bitter little girl in her overly battered body. I know nothing about Oliver.
This is all there is-- yes, I know, but as useful as it is to learn from how documentary film maker Ken Burns uses narrative structure in his video, again, liberals expose their own problems: success against carcinogenesis creates intractable dilemmas not so easily overcome despite the self interest of survival, and my insight into this epistomelogical plank has been one of my driving themes, despite the acknowledged hierarchy of ocogenes over and above developmental and chronic damage. What happened to me as a child would not necessarily happen today, in the same vein that radical mastectomy has fallen by the wayside, but because one, just one centralized disability center engaged in EEOC violations, and because one, just one rental agent using its powerful religious sect as a shield, evaded negligent liability, and is free to make their property a toxic environment for me, well, here I am, a piece of hide for all ideological parties concerned.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Andreas Lubitz Makes Depression Look Like What It Isn't
When presented with an infrared spectrum, it is easy to become confused by the peaks present. Brian C Smith, Infrared Spectral Interpretation, A Systematic Approach, p.27
The Sony Bravia flat screen from Dell cost somewhere between $650 to $699 or so, still flush from parental demise, one of the last times your queen mother had a universal circus going at the expense of the center city personnel running this building, making the ex bull doze himself a drive to Radio Shack for digital antenna, cajoling Timothy to screw it altogether. "Yours is better than mine," Frank observed, cryptically. I have no real way to evaluate electronic appliances, but even after years of abandoning the old concave analog sets, I have a more stable picture, barring cellular interference, and so what?
You'd like simplicity? I hate the television. I hate watching it. And despite the miracle of the micro ink and touch interface, I hate kindle, I hate my smartphone, and the diaphanous platform chattering Ev William's Medium represents. Oh, it is pretty, marvelously pleasing to the eye, but we have destroyed something essential about pre-digital culture, all of us. We've cheapened something about learning through each other, even while I fight the welfare system closing its industrial age manacles on my intransigence.
Speaking hypothetically, I do not think Presbyterian Homes has the wherewithal to take me to court to force my institutionalization, as it is simply a matter of my age, my lack of affluence to buy myself time, and I don't think anyone paying attention to me on social media feels they have the ability to prevent it, whether or not they care. If the situation were reversed, and it was one of you, and I was a Levy brother, for example, would I sacrifice time, money, to be your shield? It is a counterfactual speculation.
But as much as blunt force trauma is also a simplified argument, like rolls of coins in a sock to create a cat o nine, the actions of Lubitz are simply unfathomable. Depression doesn't entirely impede empathy, and I would not destroy the lives of innocents in a bid for relief from entrapment between rust iron bully dykes like Debra Horne and abusive or otherwise indifferent caretakers. As I keep hammering it home, I am, like many thousands, a quadriplegic under the medical restraint of Prometheus Unbound. Vengeance might seem applicable in that context of a life with such a degree of cruelty, even if positivism might suggest alternatives, but not so randomly applied without any cause whatsoever.
An intuitive sensibility only, but nevertheless, I don't think Lubitz could have been possible before Microsoft made personal computing what it is, just as my further ostracism wouldn't have been possible if I would have been more objective, careful of my temper, frustrated with the bizarre remote which, as a cheap plastic implement, has a mind of its own, insisting the channel change bounce its signal sideways, and taking at least five minutes to obey the press of my fingertips. Smashing the damn thing would be an appeasement. My mind is on a controversial piece. I best get pitching.
The Sony Bravia flat screen from Dell cost somewhere between $650 to $699 or so, still flush from parental demise, one of the last times your queen mother had a universal circus going at the expense of the center city personnel running this building, making the ex bull doze himself a drive to Radio Shack for digital antenna, cajoling Timothy to screw it altogether. "Yours is better than mine," Frank observed, cryptically. I have no real way to evaluate electronic appliances, but even after years of abandoning the old concave analog sets, I have a more stable picture, barring cellular interference, and so what?
You'd like simplicity? I hate the television. I hate watching it. And despite the miracle of the micro ink and touch interface, I hate kindle, I hate my smartphone, and the diaphanous platform chattering Ev William's Medium represents. Oh, it is pretty, marvelously pleasing to the eye, but we have destroyed something essential about pre-digital culture, all of us. We've cheapened something about learning through each other, even while I fight the welfare system closing its industrial age manacles on my intransigence.
Speaking hypothetically, I do not think Presbyterian Homes has the wherewithal to take me to court to force my institutionalization, as it is simply a matter of my age, my lack of affluence to buy myself time, and I don't think anyone paying attention to me on social media feels they have the ability to prevent it, whether or not they care. If the situation were reversed, and it was one of you, and I was a Levy brother, for example, would I sacrifice time, money, to be your shield? It is a counterfactual speculation.
But as much as blunt force trauma is also a simplified argument, like rolls of coins in a sock to create a cat o nine, the actions of Lubitz are simply unfathomable. Depression doesn't entirely impede empathy, and I would not destroy the lives of innocents in a bid for relief from entrapment between rust iron bully dykes like Debra Horne and abusive or otherwise indifferent caretakers. As I keep hammering it home, I am, like many thousands, a quadriplegic under the medical restraint of Prometheus Unbound. Vengeance might seem applicable in that context of a life with such a degree of cruelty, even if positivism might suggest alternatives, but not so randomly applied without any cause whatsoever.
An intuitive sensibility only, but nevertheless, I don't think Lubitz could have been possible before Microsoft made personal computing what it is, just as my further ostracism wouldn't have been possible if I would have been more objective, careful of my temper, frustrated with the bizarre remote which, as a cheap plastic implement, has a mind of its own, insisting the channel change bounce its signal sideways, and taking at least five minutes to obey the press of my fingertips. Smashing the damn thing would be an appeasement. My mind is on a controversial piece. I best get pitching.
Never mind
Forget it. I deleted the Latino gentleman's thread and if he telephones I won't return it, a little too eager as I am, I could not share space with a guy that dark who looks like a player, and the only way I can evade the state welfare system insisting that it will control my body and how I live with it is to flee, land somewhere, find associates, or attempt to find my way to a Japanese paper house with a power outlet, a tinfoil shelter in Manila, migrating on vapor. I could just hand in my notice, and Presby's negligent hate crimes toward disability non-compliance go unchallenged, protected by limitation of duration, the minority wardens successfully protect the corporation which has a vested interest in the sheer force of the welfare state, and onward. I'm an anachronism, after all, and third world migrants would be happy to trade places with me and keep this sterile studio bleached, wiped down, with an internal daily planner for the laundry.
I am not looking for a live in male to sleep with. My strategy is an attempt to hold out a little longer by depending on a guy in relative health to help me out, and split cleaning service fees, but it probably wouldn't work; nothing works except the forced imposition on my palsied frame, and yet I'm still fighting, unwilling to go down although I am thinking about it. No one wants to be this destitute, this controlled, and there are only two ways really, out of that:
1. Play the system until you acquire the power to change it through your influence, or become a Libertarian for money. That is what defines freedom, the actual power to wield it.
I've written in the past about the intimidation disability activists pose, and I've iterated my rage mirrors theirs and able bodied individuals and some more matriculated people are appalled. My mother's sister, who I've contacted since these events, says I'm not a rotten niece, but she has no idea the level of fury individuals like Debra Horne have engendered in me. I am a rotten niece, and Mary doesn't understand assisted living is for seniors who have assets which the state then reabsorbs. With the exception of a brief nine months or so when Richard Baron's precious Matrix Research Institute briefly put me in the middle class, I've been a ward of the state as an adult when my mother put me on SSI. My whole life is someone else's schematic. I quit smoking tobacco for the sake of the other residents on the floor. I've done X. I've done Y. Nothing is good enough for the minority police state which rules this city with an iron fist, consuming itself. I am beat, and unlike ISIS, I'm physically incapable of killing my way out of it.
I am not looking for a live in male to sleep with. My strategy is an attempt to hold out a little longer by depending on a guy in relative health to help me out, and split cleaning service fees, but it probably wouldn't work; nothing works except the forced imposition on my palsied frame, and yet I'm still fighting, unwilling to go down although I am thinking about it. No one wants to be this destitute, this controlled, and there are only two ways really, out of that:
1. Play the system until you acquire the power to change it through your influence, or become a Libertarian for money. That is what defines freedom, the actual power to wield it.
I've written in the past about the intimidation disability activists pose, and I've iterated my rage mirrors theirs and able bodied individuals and some more matriculated people are appalled. My mother's sister, who I've contacted since these events, says I'm not a rotten niece, but she has no idea the level of fury individuals like Debra Horne have engendered in me. I am a rotten niece, and Mary doesn't understand assisted living is for seniors who have assets which the state then reabsorbs. With the exception of a brief nine months or so when Richard Baron's precious Matrix Research Institute briefly put me in the middle class, I've been a ward of the state as an adult when my mother put me on SSI. My whole life is someone else's schematic. I quit smoking tobacco for the sake of the other residents on the floor. I've done X. I've done Y. Nothing is good enough for the minority police state which rules this city with an iron fist, consuming itself. I am beat, and unlike ISIS, I'm physically incapable of killing my way out of it.
A Beaten Stray Bitch
I look positively grotesque, and no doubt should fly to Beijing and reinvent myself as an albino demon. I'm reflecting on this because I got a hit on a potential male room mate, and only now really looked at his picture, and only now have my doubts. My soul is lost people, utterly lost, real mental anguish at the thought of myself at Inglis and its circumscribed regime, a little grey room with a stainless steel night stand, a few books, my power chair crowding the hallway in a traffic jam of medical chaos, or variations on my lifelong public housing torpor, and here I am welling eyes with a dandled politico. For a homosexual male Sims is too pretty for me to launch into my daring will Blogger disrupt my account tirades, but sometimes I wonder, all the same. Science, phases. I miss sex, but intercourse never-- if Pat had had more time that evening in 1997, perhaps, but kindness and longing isn't quite enough.
He did not love me, my borrowed husband--nor I him, but he won, and he won because our naked middle aged bodies fumbling and my "I have to pee" injection made me laugh, and he was going to show me, and kept seeing me until that happened, and I engaged in a now embarrassing whirlwind after it ended, a water bearer to the T.
Maybe the roomie will bail, or maybe I will, as he claims to be Puerto Rican. Nice enough in demeanor but possibly not a co-caretaker who would be right for a barren queen mother. Could someone please just help me leave Riverside Presbyterian? Please?
Wednesday, April 1, 2015
Grace Quigley's Cheekbones
"People don't make any sense."-- Dennis Quaid, mise en scene with emotionally disheartened second wife.
Steve Kloves creates a few mystifying scenes in Flesh and Bone, a last decade vehicle that, off the top of my head, has a reminiscent affinity to Arthur Miller's ruthlessness in The Misfits. The boy with the scalp contusion who opens the film is complaisant, and it is possibly arguable he did not have to be so pliant before Caan sucks the air out of the void with grim annihilation. Caan's later admission, that he forgot about the screaming baby, in order to sustain the plot, veers close to being a mere device, and when we then see the adult Quaid as a relatively decent cow poke with a quixotic vending trade, there is little to avail oneself as to why the boy stayed decent under the influence of a malicious sociopathy. And then, towards the movie climax, we have Meg Ryan and the symbolism of wading through the grass with Gywneth Paltrow. Say what?
Yet the narrative resonates, much as does the menace in Caan's eyes, the superstar Sony Corleone of my childhood. Some younger viewers may not realize The Godfather trilogy was like a modern American Wagner in the 1970's. I was convinced, thoroughly, after seeing the saga, that my father knew real Don Angelo Bruno and was a capotone, and if he knew I was making this admission public, he would disown me, though he's disowned me countless of times.
Quaid appeals. Generic all American, John Wayne with a more meritocratic range, teaching us about how to shoulder horrific burdens of any consequence. He does shoulder it within an American frontier that still seems barren, vast, free, turning ape men into methodical predators willing to cut to the chase. Cope with the cost. No nonsense, thick skulls. This is where The Misfits enters into Kloves design, at least stylistically. Not to put too fine a point on it. Miller was being stark and bleak with his black and white film of damned aspiration and notorious portents. Kloves is stark, but offers the possibility of redemption, but for whom is left ambiguously open. Caan's Sweeney is shunned, feared, manipulative with blame-- and yet is accepted, tolerated as he games basic decency, slowly losing his grip, tended to out of familial duty, and killed with a great deal of courage by a man who would never possibly be able to offer an innocent, but instinctively attuned, survivor anything for the loss of her full potential due to the death of her family. Quaid's Arlis stays sealed in what is an affecting conclusion that hits its mark. Does he deserve being a swindled scapegoat? Could he have done more as a moral, ethical matter? The dog smelled and recognized the child's damnation. Our own manipulation of evolutionary trait functioning as our moral arbiters.
Steve Kloves creates a few mystifying scenes in Flesh and Bone, a last decade vehicle that, off the top of my head, has a reminiscent affinity to Arthur Miller's ruthlessness in The Misfits. The boy with the scalp contusion who opens the film is complaisant, and it is possibly arguable he did not have to be so pliant before Caan sucks the air out of the void with grim annihilation. Caan's later admission, that he forgot about the screaming baby, in order to sustain the plot, veers close to being a mere device, and when we then see the adult Quaid as a relatively decent cow poke with a quixotic vending trade, there is little to avail oneself as to why the boy stayed decent under the influence of a malicious sociopathy. And then, towards the movie climax, we have Meg Ryan and the symbolism of wading through the grass with Gywneth Paltrow. Say what?
Yet the narrative resonates, much as does the menace in Caan's eyes, the superstar Sony Corleone of my childhood. Some younger viewers may not realize The Godfather trilogy was like a modern American Wagner in the 1970's. I was convinced, thoroughly, after seeing the saga, that my father knew real Don Angelo Bruno and was a capotone, and if he knew I was making this admission public, he would disown me, though he's disowned me countless of times.
Quaid appeals. Generic all American, John Wayne with a more meritocratic range, teaching us about how to shoulder horrific burdens of any consequence. He does shoulder it within an American frontier that still seems barren, vast, free, turning ape men into methodical predators willing to cut to the chase. Cope with the cost. No nonsense, thick skulls. This is where The Misfits enters into Kloves design, at least stylistically. Not to put too fine a point on it. Miller was being stark and bleak with his black and white film of damned aspiration and notorious portents. Kloves is stark, but offers the possibility of redemption, but for whom is left ambiguously open. Caan's Sweeney is shunned, feared, manipulative with blame-- and yet is accepted, tolerated as he games basic decency, slowly losing his grip, tended to out of familial duty, and killed with a great deal of courage by a man who would never possibly be able to offer an innocent, but instinctively attuned, survivor anything for the loss of her full potential due to the death of her family. Quaid's Arlis stays sealed in what is an affecting conclusion that hits its mark. Does he deserve being a swindled scapegoat? Could he have done more as a moral, ethical matter? The dog smelled and recognized the child's damnation. Our own manipulation of evolutionary trait functioning as our moral arbiters.
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