Ron Livingston, a John the Baptist Replacement for Robert Ulrich

In this regard, he was a persistent critic of American Exceptionalism, the profoundly Protestant notion that America has been singled out by God as a uniquely virtuous nation.-- James L. Fredericks, American Innocence

In the pop culture sense, ABC always plays footsie with our American Innocence, and somehow gets it right. In comedy it might be Ugly Betty, overcoming Vanessa Williams, but in science fiction, the theme always seems to be The Hero who walks alone wants to understand God, and the alien is a stand in for the supernatural being we don't quite know how to trust. Nevertheless, Defying Gravity intrigued and it would be nice if someone in the studio system brought it back for the Grand Unification.

the whispers tries again, and like Halle Berry's Extant, it is a more sophisticated upgrade on  the collective threat in Village of the Damned, but the threat is not an ideology; it is the overwhelming complexity of systems. Whatever Drill is, however, it is not representative of Grand Unification, but rather the Grand Spanking. the whispers has moments, chilling connections we need to make between childhood lack of comprehension and unspeakable tragedy, but the screen writers guild is recycling a formula of ominous invader friend in disguise. Asimov took care of that over 40 years ago by merging space opera (The Foundation) and stripping AI of sentimentality (I, Robot). I cannot remember the entire plot of trilogy plus sequel, and fail to recall how the Mule utilized mind control and was ultimately vanquished-- but the end was cold. Protagonist discovers Robot essentially takes the role of Creator, and that is a very likely possibility for our future.

My favorite science fiction film is not the most technically sophisticated, and nor the most complex classic, but I like how Soylent Green works as a film, for it also bespeaks to real possibilities within our caste system where we cannibalize ourselves as it is. 

I pitched to Commonweal a few times, contradictory Atheist Catholic I.

Repetitions of Mhz

I have seen the trailer for The Half Brother so often that despite the swollen eye of the actor who plays Fred Neilson, despite the father's dapper yellow clothing and his Buick, I haven't the least interest in seeing the saga unfold.

I have a brief note to add about Linked In: Global Media has included me as a participant on health care and I most appreciate it but I'm also not posting anything until I am okay with the site's "lack of relevance" flag. I tend to feel hurt when I feel I'm behaving and then get muzzled, and know other Linked In users remain unsure of their posts, and Bravo, corporate Big Brother has a silent network of people afraid to even be who they are, and I am not talking about deliberate attempts to troll either, and so the spastic dowager will remain mute until I get a sense of the group's concerns.

Look people, I know how the game is played. I feel marginalized and in need of attention and support, (if not supported employment, which is beneath the cost of my education) and most pitches get ignored and I don't pitch often enough and OZY put me in its twitter dragnet last year as a marketing ploy and sent me a link. I clicked the link and saw a dark page and asked myself what I was supposed to do-- and what I want from these heirs to The Grapes of Wrath is a fucking answer. Why put me on a list without paying attention to my incendiary temptations? After putting me on this list why ignore me now? The internet makes it too easy to just click it away. The difference is I make an effort first. I've forgiven and talked with marginalized populations with far worse hyperbole than my own, and essentially, team OZY is a liar. Suburban morale might chastise me with "now spastic you cannot bully".

Watch me. Disabled individuals still capable of gainful activity get rubbed the wrong way being used for a brand that wants everyone to be happy with their own sickle and hammer dignity rationed out in careful parcels while the hierarchies are staring us right in the face, unacknowledged. The game theory I'm playing here isn't all feigned, in other words.

Breaking Down Barriers, Right?

"I had to find my half-brother." -- an actor playing Lars Saabye

Did I drive little Benny off twitter, or, like me, was he too busy to manage multiple social media accounts? He in fact bears little resemblance to Stallone and might go for a more suitable comparison, like DiCaprio or Matt Damon. This is a reflection of a writer's skill kid. I am not going to move in your basement with your family now. No one has the funds for renovations, but where you and my father are wrong Benjamin, is to make me feel like a burden about it due to a four limb affectation I never asked for in surviving a dramatic premature birth. Yours was less eventful. Mom had a C-section, had her tubes tied, and I won't embarrass you in public any further about real fathers and shape-shifters, but it would have been better for me to have settled in with you and Dawn and your boys as opposed to sinking where I'm sinking. I am happy to have discovered your account is still active, and that I erred with search. If I had not followed up on that I might have stepped in it further than this: No one wants to be reminded every day of a segregated intake paradigm that burned me in a trade off with illegal nepotism for an LBGTQ couple so disadvantaged that they've launched two state and federal investigations. True, the failed physician is senile after its strokes, and its partner cuts me with lumbering bully umbrage, and instead of eating this daily, with the rest of my baggage, I could have tutored my nephews, negotiated a truce with your wife over fried egg plant. Nothing's perfect, but I would have been with family in a state where people still retain the notion of hospitality. You keep your distance with convenience, and Carlos Watson will now give Jozannyme! a wide berth, never mind his power politics with Gwen Ifill.

One thing I am only so-so with as a journalist is my contacts, and as I mention in Bigfoot, if Nortorious Person X has an unlisted number, for obvious reasons, then how the fuck do I approach the NPX, send a letter? I needed down time last evening, eating the anxiety of absolute defeat, and I only formulated one interview question. The Washington Post is not likely to take the pitch from me due to internecine rivalry, but Carlos and OZY is another matter, and I am watching them with peevishly narrowed eyes, ready to pounce, and hurting. My own family leaves me like a Bush-Gore hanging chad, and I've been turning myself inside out on this account which Blogger wants me to privatize because I endorse insurrection, reductionism, looking for solutions, and I paid a resource site to look for a room mate only to discover how marginalized architecture for the disabled is, in reality, and people can't handle the load I carry here online. I can't go bike-riding in the park. Denny O'Brien's yoga classes might be difficult for me to manage, and all parties involved want me to be rational about an attendant care system that has traumatized me many times over. How fucking wonderful it is to be alive. Jimmi Shrode warned me more than 16 years ago about California liberalism. I've had my rebuff from Jersey's too, because the white child abuse survivor wanted to talk to me, until Courtney queried with, "You know this is a volunteer position?"

Why wouldn't I have known it when I contacted the human preservation foundation? Oh, Rhett spoke what, 15 words to me about a different direction. When the welfare system kills me, you'll care then, I suppose.

Only Paris Charms

In retrospect, it was always unlikely that a regime that cherished conspicuous affluence, cut-throat trading, media celebrity and instant gratification would also foster distributive equity.-- Bill Jordan, Why the Third Way Failed

Michel Hazanivicius manipulates his audience within the soundtrack of The Artist in a parallel universe to M. Night Shyamalan's plot twist manipulations in The Sixth Sense. Hazanivicius's genre is a retro-fitted comedy which upends the usual dark side of celebrity, but he takes a technological advance we've taken for granted for a rough hundred years, the ability to record sound, and illustrates with surprising affect how debilitating sound waves can be as an innovation no one can argue isn't an advantage to cultural permanence.

Both Shyamalan's surprise shocker and Hazanivicius contemporary homage to classic show business tropes offer a tertiary pathway I've been striving to find with very limited success in recent years. Shyamalan knocks atheism flat on its miserable ass, a fusionist visionary toward salvation not necessarily proscriptive in its triumph, truly the last movie that ever made me feel alive, striving for hope, and Hazanivicius, truly with Parisian coquetry, reminds us that it isn't so bad for those who might be looking out for us. That damn dog earned a paw print on the walk of fame.

Weights And OZY

OZY's ability to utilize twitter's lists is marginally opaque,and this was a legitimate request for guidance on the model, ignored-- and more than anything else, this willingness to ward off-- this account is just an opportunistic reservoir for spammers if I am going down, in any case-- gets to me. I am an OZY 2014 intriguing journalist, but because I went to their website and didn't know what to do, now I'm persona non-grata, because I was frustrated rather than pleasant. I am opaque on Medium's structure too, but Ev never offered me any cosmetic support-- OZY did, and their team refuses now to respond to me.

Did the intern listing me actually read what I was writing? People tried to shut me down for my empathy for the late, ineffectual anarchist Christopher Dorner.  The only change between then, and now, I'm out of money, and a ten year old Quickie which suited me best, is down

The girl across the street, Jodi, lives by nursing home rules for the mentally retarded in a community model setting. Her case manager or welfare claims agent gives her 40 dollars a month as pocket change, and the state manages the rest of her entitlement. My ex, with his posterior multiple strokes mental processing, says "She isn't retarded, trust me." With umbrage indicative of a bad experience that, as his former lover, I am better off not knowing, but I know better than he that she is an MR client. Banned from this building for stealing.

She asked me for toilet paper over the intercom; in her mind, my slightly higher status obligated me to support her. Conservative principles kept me alive with 1963 neo-natal technology, and then tortured me in various institutional settings upon which liberal academia sort of lied to me--granting that I gave up hope in my 30's that a doctorate would necessarily do me any good (it would not now). 

Popular sentiment of working class talk back: the world doesn't owe me anything. And oh yes it damn well does, a lot more than Carlos narrating pasteurized prisoners on horses.

Tsunami Effect

"People who watch it know it isn't boring."-- Robert MacNeil

To stay with IIsoe's adaptation as a lede, for a bit, the Catholic Church is correct with its catechism that some diseases represent evil. We never see Veronika's homosexual husband Carl, but it is his desire to satisfy his need for sodomy which precipitates the latter day crises at Gronnegaard, and the cancer weakened Veronika only has the satisfaction, after lifelong sexual promiscuity, of being caviler with Singe, the youngest daughter who never knew. The elder woman perhaps knew she was dying, and reveals the truth to a clueless florist of 26 that appearances concealed the consequences of so much sexual liberalism. Was Veronika cruel to the girl who only a day earlier she was attempting to ingratiate? Is lack of reticence appalling? As when a mother confesses her former best friend made a pass at her, and then, oh, a year, six months, regrets, through her emotional disorder psychiatry insists on classifying, says "I wish I never told you that."

Veracity alters the landscape. I loved Kathy more than my own mother when I was 12, and wished fervently to trade places with the deceased daughter Colleen. Kathy came out before my mother's anecdote, showing up at my sister's tete a tete gatherings, and I met the partner, a relative of the dead husband. My gaze stayed overhead. No remarks, just two fat women well over 35. I attempted to rekindle former childhood attachment as pretense. Hugged former childhood attachment at funeral for the bipolar matriarch who isn't to be blamed for my 53 year old predicament, and would burn the enemy at the stake along with New Mobility's star lesbian. Do I realize the implications of my rhetoric? Grand standing? Inflammatory? 

The media is just as absorbed in generating Bobbi Kristina into. a saga as it elevated Terri Schiavo into a Shakespearean tour de force. Terri Schiavo, however, was emblematic, to all parties, whether it was the life affirming ecumenical advocates, or the death with dignity advocates who wanted a vegetable with minimal awareness and a shrunken brain to be released. Nothing could be proven against Michael Schiavo prior to 2005. Terri's presumed diet pill usage is not an a priori indicator of abuse. Bobbi Kristina is not emblematic, just the poor little rich girl who brought the hood into Paris, in essence, despite Houston's celebrity and daddy Brown's acumen, whatever that amounts to. The family has the money to emulate Caucasian anal retention standards, but black is black, skidding on its on depreciation and hair relaxers. And Bobbi's attempted suicide or abuse at the hands at adopted brother is fresh enough that if the conspiracy minded Caucasian public could not get Michael, they are damn well going to roast Nick Gordon in a public shaming.

The upstanding Fascist who hates the hood where she is now totally indigent gives him the benefit of the doubt, even if the girls are always the heavy. Public television newscasts are boring, and pink. Why am I picking on Ozy? They were nice to me, and all the sudden I've developed a papier mache indignation. Why? No one reading my content is willing to risk helping me re-engage first, worrying about the rest later. Safety and support outside the box. Work, a fresh change of environment where I can reach for a modicum of tranquility. I'm not ready to die. On the razor's edge, I'm still fighting. Give me a chance. The libertarians accepted me. More than I can say for the hideous cruelty and corruption in the progressive welfare state.

Fighting With Silent Leftists, Whether Die Swiftly or Linger in Traumatic Entrails

Arm chair positivists. What I haven't had for years is someone picking up the phone and hey Joanne, how you doing? Don't get discouraged. Want to come work for us? How can I pick apart what OZY indices on twitter means, why their members are members? Why they put me on an intriguing journalist list-- 2014 was undoubtedly my last active year, despite the tremulous energy I've thrown into my posts. Bobbi Kristina has ceased to be a flap jack. Maybe. Her case differs from Terri Schiavo in our arguments about value, efficacy. Schiavo became an irrational cause celebre with insinuations of spousal indifference. None of us can know the inside of the Schiavo marriage, just as none of us know if Nick Gordon is guilty, but if Schiavo was a cause, Bobbi is an unspoken casualty of racial celebrity unable to adjust to life in the bubble. Real fame is a curse, making black celebrity more of a tightrope, unless you were Diana Ross, but the vegetative body, it troubles everyone, the dead alive. Venezuela might have become a beat if Hugo Chavez, like the fictional Veronika Gronnegaard, lingered in a coma. Veronika doesn't linger long, and essentially dies for a daughter emotionally oblivious to the impact, however debilitating. Frederick, the eldest son, virtually goes into major depression. Gro loses everything. Sunshine/Singe loses her innocence and splits her family.

My mother's death, swift, pulled the lynch pin out of my family, and barring a miracle I die alone in upscale minority projects. I will probably never fully recover my health for a simple reason. I did not leave Riverside in 2006, which is when I should have, and my ability to endure this community is failing. That simple. I am dying because I cannot change my hostile environment, because I'd have to fight the disability center tooth claw and nail for absolutely nothing. I rip $450 out of their petty change budget, let's say. Nothing. The disparate poverty of their current client base is loathsome, and their information and referral staff still type narrative notes, poising the same questions, destroying my self-same determination they claim to uphold. Faust got to see the world for his deal with the devil.

My choice is stay, give in, take incarceration, or go back North, fifteen minutes uptown, so I can fall into spastic bitch trash slot. All because I'm not an anti-anxiety medications trying to control a classroom.

I believed in a dynamic life. This is simply going through the motions of American catacombs. No one wants an uncouth bitter bellicose happy anarchist fantasizing inglorious paybacks, skull fractures on a makeshift alarm clock as a weapon. There I have ideas, those reverberations of unwitting consequences. Even revenge comes cold.

Conquest of the Planet of the Apes

I've been online much longer than I intended today, wondering how much I should lie to get back in somewhere. Rick, as my former executive director, would have no reason to be sympathetic. I caused Mr. Baron some problems with Pew, basically over peanuts, and then Fern Markowitz, the patron saint of progressive Jewish lesbianism, and Linda C. Dezenski, her emulator, taught me a thing or two about homosexuality, corruption, and using federal mandates as a personal chop shop back at Liberty.

Payback's a bitch. Where am I going to get fresh references? Dan was polite to me when I found his profile on Linked In, but Matrix is no more, and whether I raised valid objections with their grantors or not, it was ungracious... Sigh.

I hate liberalism, hate it. Even if I pull on New Mobility, the publication of my favorite pretentious lesbian gimp, it has been years since Tim Gilmer and I exchanged emails. It matters to my sense of personal integrity, but there isn't much I can do about it on a pragmatic level.

Medium is eye fetching and uneven, and, however uncouth my devolving bar keep diction, I have been careful not to get into tweet battles with X, careful not to argue with Medium's writers-- not that this is a conscious effort. I've been there with online recriminations and Medium is too vast. If I wish to keep quiet, then I do-- but the fact that I communicated with them directly yesterday made me think, and think with alarm that perhaps I am past the point of adaptation? This frightens me, especially if I survive another 20 years.

Fumes from the Exhaust

"Those grown old, who have had the youth bled from them by the jagged edged winds of winter, know sorrowfully that Indian summer is a sham to be met with hard-eyed cynicism."-- Grace Metalious, Peyton Place

Even those lacking a certain artworld diction might find the works of Veronika Gronnegaard trivial in an otherwise engaging drama from Maya IIsoe, who, whether she intended it or not,shows the progressive spectrum is exhausted. Veronika did what she wanted sexually, whether or not she could tell that her first husband was a dangerous sexual libertine, and then the spears thrust outward.

Another flag: Frederick's wife sleeps with her brother-in-law. Credible, but even for Scandinavian tendencies to repress, how could anyone's marriage survive such an indiscretion? In the difference between my leonine ideals of a good man, and my ex, the imbecile half-wit Frank, I suspect love is closer to the constant fighting in which Frank and I engage, but if he fucked my sister, I write this dead pan-- the man would be dead, and I mean that. [He is safe, as Stephanie has her own problems.] So, while the exchange between the actors as husband and wife seems consistently Protestant, and buried below the surface, Sliveg's [sic] declaration that what she did was unforgivable usually proceeds a death knell of some sort.

Just a note about my ex: I am not fair to him, and only continue the volley because I have absolutely no support other than a misogynist moron. I am basically dead to the man, yet we still fight like Raymond's parents, on the sitcom, and it does make me laugh, that whatever I dish to the Bronx bastard, he throws it right back. 

I'm a writer.
That's no excuse.

He has no idea.

Heat Advisory

Even in the worst of circumstances, writers write in their minds, only to draw blanks on all the vivacious verbiage in their heads once in front of the damn keyboard, and the only thing roaring at me now is "I can't go through this again," except I have to go through it again. I can't thrive in this world of applications and computer science. I can't surrender without that surrender translating into a certified nursing assistant's paycheck, or some other facsimile of an aide. The welfare state and its fucking solutions. Aides. Aides like Monica Carr. I've posted about her, her lupus, her morbid obesity worse than my mother's.

She's on the third floor in her client's studio because she can't breathe, and I am like one of the furies waiting to tap dance while she enters Hades. 

A post is not a community, and Blogger will be relieved, no doubt, if I go, kicking and screaming, as the reality of my age forces me back into either a centralized facility, or I stay here in the forced diversity under contract with the Department of Housing and Urban Development. If the oligarchs in Putin's vast tundra want a bone, HUD is the most corrupt federal department in the United States, and that seems contingent regardless of ideology. Real estate equals corruption leading to bribery.

Yes, I have fonts of material yet, yes, I need to be realistic about the fact that I'm 53 and psychotherapy would saturate my fucking bloodstream with an anti-anxiety agent, and thereby I go from battered wife syndrome to a drone on a gurney while my mood is regulated while the aide changes my diaper, but I'm worn out. No, Philly isn't all that bad away from minority residential areas, and yes, I have a lousy attitude. I hate the vernacular "have a blessed day," and I'd be over joyed if I never hear it uttered out of another African American mouth, and even if I could relocate, I'm too old to ever be safe.

I was going to assert that I quit, but I cannot say I will not return tomorrow after a bowl of plain angel hair-- but this is the beginning of my goodbye. I can't be too unforgiving toward my best instructors. Maybe I was bipolar then and simply wasn't diagnosed. I bothered my academic advisor as often as I was pining about God-Shakespearean (wry self-pity), but in any event, I've had enough, and now, having sat in this god awful power chair far too long, I am afraid to leave the Toshiba on. It is now making strange sounds, like a smoke detector, and my Hewlett Packard, though pricier, is older still. Sniff.  

Going Back To My Lair

Before I log off to try to really work the way I used to work before I equalized religious pluralism with Nazi Germany, I want you to keep something in mind: I left my student apartment in Chester when I was approximately 21, to go to a dorm in Temple University, to bounce to the home of my now dying aunt. In that home I had to dump my own stool in plastic bags, which is in part why I leapt at Diamond Park, without realizing what I was getting into with urban violence and section 811 housing, which differs from section 202 housing only by virtue of age as a classification. You have to be 62 to live in section 202. I was 34. The rental agents, then, in 1994, used me, without in any way contributing to the Pew Grant which funded my position, to case manage the other tenants here, then castigating me when I got home. It was a conflict of interest Richard Baron rightly objected to-- but my point is public housing is a merciless system, with the people in charge equivalent to prison security guards. If I have no further prospect of anything better than to decline in an equally brutal medical regime like Inglis House, I claim the right to pull the plug.

I wanted something more, some place less sterile, and it is virtually too late at my age, but I sent Medium my resume. Just to do it, dinosaur or no.

Radicalized Euthanasia

Where the editorial board treads cautiously, I do not: those with incurable chronic conditions who have faced life long degradation and see no alternative, should be allowed to end their lives in much the same way animal shelters euthanize dogs, cats, the odd turtle, and professional animal husbandry slaughters livestock. I do not have the time, in this moment, to build a devastating case, but the pain I've detailed repeatedly, recycling various items, is in itself case enough, if not the discarded bodies in nursing homes do not pile it on. Humanity may be more than other mammalian species in many respects, but we're still, primarily, a primate who by accident came up as a bipedal feat of engineering in an extraordinarily fragile fashion, and with all due respect to the Holy Father and the Eminences of the Church, my poppa allowed me to birth in order to "be a good Catholic" and put me in a Catholic home for children. I was nine years old, and my abuse at the hands of unwitting minority orderlies who were in all respects a template of Riverside's Debra Horne, began there, never ended.

Now, whether people who actually know me read this, or strangers, what could I have possibly be guilty of at nine years to have borne what I did?

Victims have extraordinary strength, but for quadriplegics, it becomes a serial way of life which at a certain point becomes analogous to a terminal illness. Let ADAPT advocates break their teeth on that. 

Easing the Pedal

This interests me as branch off research, as I'd like to be nice to my ISP. If anyone can muzzle me with a "sorry sister," it would be a provider, but Ma Bell has put up with yours truly dashing about for years, wrenching my hair with dial up. I almost left the old telecom in 98 or 99 but stayed because I was confused about downloading a new service, and then never left. Why?

I'm stodgy, never quite agreed with the government breakup of the utility in the first place, and don't remain convinced that Verizon is a rival-- though Verizon Infinity beat Comcast and made a deal with this Presby owner to wire the building. I am not sure this is capitalism at work either, as opposed to inert municipal socialism (sputtering),

But in fairness to AT&T, we cannot all be online at the same time, and slowdowns are bound to happen. Comcast has been known to boot customers for overages, but AT&T has pretty much always accommodated me. True, I pay a little more than my neighbors, but I've never had much of a problem, and stay offline between 12 and 4 EST if I can help it, and imagine, if I need to parse on cell minutes, customer service will work with me. Is 5G plus the phone enough? No, but I cannot afford going up to 7 or 8, and so behave or once in awhile pay for another gigabyte. I may be mean, but I'm soft on Big Corporate, which may be why I never got fed to Jaws.

[Wry grin fade out.]

Scatological Morass

"Remarque demonstrates how wars reduce human beings to the level of animals and finally to excrement."-- Dieter Rollfinke, page 99

The reason viewers protested The Singing Detective in 1986 wasn't due to Potter's lechery, as such, so much as that his dramaturgic skill with repression and loss of control hit too close to home. If you really want to see one of the most original musicals on the face of the earth, ignore the Robert Downey Jr film of the same title from 2003. This is radical, and accessible. Dennis has no elitist pretensions whatsoever, and his protagonist, as a child, lets his school know exactly what it can do with the rote drilling of a British working class education.

Whyy showed true courage during its encore airing of the series, and then, in time honored fashion, whisked it away with nary a peep since. Gambon trying to fight off an erection and climax is priceless, and Potter gets to the heart of the underside of medical institutionalization, which is the same world over. Sick and sex are very closely entwined, and Potter's pop culture pizzazz did as much to inspire some overly ambitious narrative long poems of mine as any workshop. 

It takes extraordinary courage to admit we're all guilty pigs, curious about what cum tastes like, or fascinated by the coarse rectal hair exposed when we catch mommy having a five pound fuck in the dale. I don't know what I feel about Potter's work critically, strange as that may seem in a post, but the reason for this boils down to logistics. This was a tough subject matter for me in 86, since, having spent most of adolescence on the ward, The Singing Detective packed too hard a punch. Sentiment had to roll with it, as opposed to analyzing, evaluating it-- but one thing it achieves, and perhaps led to the weakening of arts and sciences colleges thereby, is merging of commercial fiction with mature drama, creating something resistant to classification.

I got lazy as an undergraduate and cited James Mitchner in a paper, and the professor in Jerry McGuire gave me an A- and a mild reprimand, and he was absolutely correct within his paradigm as a radical liberal to do so. By the same token, I was not entirely *off*. James Mitchner was a commercial novelist, and popular-- but his sagas were well researched, descriptive, and interested me in very odd things-- the evolution of Yahweh, for instance, within Jewish theology.

I do not know if I am returning to Liberty on the Rocks in July. The usual reasons. My poverty is writing my appearance. I am afraid to break the Jazzy getting into the eatery, but the cripple is pouting she wants a new family and since I've tried everyone else, maybe the anarchists will treat me decently (oh, yes?), but our group leader, who accused me of using his name in print, so his pseudonym is now Black Adder, said that telling Trudy Richardson, as rental agent, that I hated her, was a powerful statement.

In my mind, it isn't. We'll return to that later as this post is long enough for the moment-- but if I am too heavy in my philosophy for the boyz live at the table, I'll knock it out of the park here too. Is my honesty about my betrayal in the fine hands of disability activism, my honesty about my laundry list of hating my fake friends like Josie, bear responsibility for Roof?

Tactically, he was a moron, misapplying violence for an unachievable goal. But the hate crime statue equally reveals itself as nonsensical by progressives attempting to categorize it as an extracurricular exception. Adjudicating a spree killer as a domestic terrorist puts American jurisprudence on par with Vladimir Putin's playing board. My pain as a hate crime victim tearing up in front of my unfortunately homosexual state legislator was legitimate. I consider my negativity generated thereby as balancing the scales.

Vegetative Demons

"We shouldn't have got involved."-- Josie Byzek

My aunt hung up on me last night. Age, cancer, yelling at me to let my anger go, not to file a complaint against my building manager and her tactics. With all deference to Tony Stiles, for whom I need to make time to engage, I never had a problem with the police. Some officers have been more diffident than others, some more sympathetic, or less, but I downloaded an email for my district, and if I start this, ignite this spark, they may not arrest me, but conceivably could escort me from the premises, and then twitter, in a fantastical show of force, will have to come rescue me, with a small gobbling chuckle in the back of my throat.

If I file a complaint against Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Presbyterian Homes, Ken Cantrell, I then undoubtedly raise a flag with the police. I am weighing this, in my small status among seven billion.

Terri Schiavo's brain stem function and Bobbi Kristina's are complimentary in some ways. The disability movement may be silent in Bobbi's case because the famed sire of Houston may have attempted suicide, one. Two, the family is not ending her medical care, though entertainment media seems buoyed on the issue, even if it has been less than six months since the poor little love child became non-responsive. Does her brain deserve more time toward a possible recovery?

Terri, as I understand it, aggravated her heart with dietary supplements, and disability activists made certain insinuations against Michael, the husband, in reference to the marriage, and that after 15 years of institutional care, his wife wasn't improving, so he wanted her out of the way. Josie's argument to me, at the Asian restaurant I could not afford, was that Terri Schiavo, whether she had minimal awareness or not, mimicked those who were non-verbal with mental retardation, hence, removing the feeding tube and letting the autonomic, if absent, woman, starve, gave the American public the wrong idea. How many of us would trade places with Bobbi, or Terri, if given their condition as a choice over and above dying? This was my luncheon with two lesbian Christian case managers, the dumbbell in my head going "This woman is my friend, right?"

Cecil Morales, despite the power of his verbal acuity and penetration, probably would not have worked for me as a romantic interest, and if he is still around, (I am not searching), I apologize to him for bristling and losing my cool. I was trapped, trying to hold onto my belief in people like Ms. Byzek, and my need for someone interesting to trust and sleep with, but I'd give my right arm to have had an anecdote to tell you about the dinner date I never had with a very penetrating Argentine trade journalist who was such a piercing Catholic theologian. She took that from me. Josie.

Her and Ginny. Peevish den mothers. What other kind is there? Forgiveness. Yep. I know, and a novel about it wouldn't lead to a movie deal as it did for Nora Ephron. Learn how to be less passive when people who think they know best screw your anticipations. Now I'll debate going back to work offline, or lying down. I take my time being indecisive about following back. Nothing personal; people don't like it when I let my neural net behave with that peculiar lack of compassion with which savants can be gifted.

Golden Bonds

'I don't know about her features,' a very discerning observer had answered, 'but she carries her head like a pretty woman!'-- Henry James, the beginning of The Europeans

  

The Anthony Head Sharon Maughan commercials for Taster’s Choice arguably embodied something more than cosmopolitan chemistry making generic coffee seem upscale and understated with chic. The subtle romance was also about a culture imbued with the optimism of second chances, a cultural mode still able to believe in itself, capable of offering a rewarding life for those who took chances and still strove. We need that sense of the enchanting in delayed anticipation, quite a stark contrast from the David Whele of the boldly crass Syfy’s Dominion, believing in his own entitlement because he survived a savage destruction of the Las Vegas he knew as a televangelist. Although I am not a consumer of romances in the generic sense of the term, I followed the serialized story with the same delight as the audiences who watched commercial television, and it is a rare moment indeed where I would find consummation between elegant people to be beautiful. One might have believed it here. Pubic hairs dyed wheat blond, nails lacquered to reflect a casual and intimate dinner; whatever the tensions reflected in 21^st century dystopias, even someone such as I can mourn the loss of the magical embedded in our senses. Everyone’s busy pontificating. Pleasure in the world around us seems to have gone the way of Reagan’s state funeral, with Nancy’s privileges sorely tested by Joe Plumber’s unwillingness to offer her the appropriate deference due to a former first lady. Should our fairytales be so grim?

Who can I sue because I want to be normal?

It crossed my mind this morning, while I got up to a pivot the time honored lateral transfer to wage a five hour battle with my felines over toiletry rights and brewing coffee, that perhaps Sean followed me in rebuttal to my critique, which might be, arguably, as fossilized as Jonathan Capehart's adherence to the civil rights movement. We've all been down these paths before, with few exceptions, and not everything can be solved as a matter of personal autonomy, not even for those with gender dysphoria.

For those of you offering me free kindle material, I am not worried about restrictions on my book purchases right now. I have a back log of light and heavy reading-- and from my scan of Derrida in translation, I may have jumped in over my head, if his translator says Jacques is *unreadable*, but I know where to find you, and I am working on, debating, two collections for digital, so I'll be in the fray soon, if my rental agent isn't going to take me to court to re-institutionalize me before I can divorce the so called Presbyterian agent. Drag queens aren't new people. It may not have been Christine I read about years and years ago, but the faulty wiring issue has been around as a sacrosanct biological truth for some time. It may seem nice and reasonably drawn: we're a complex species with complex switches, and we fix the blown fuses-- at least until we short out the entire organism. 

Michael Jackson's Body Make-Up

The truth was that only far from home could a citizen of England, Germany, or France be nothing but an Englishman or German or Frenchman.-- Rodney Bruce Hall, National Collective Identity, page 214

The media loves the exposure of hypocrisy, and Capehart is in his element of righteous indignation over Rachel Dolezal's ethnicity. What no columnist has written outright, treading lightly on matters of defamation, is that Dolezal seems to be a clever and fraudulent opportunist with narcissistic character traits similar to the faded, occasionally recycled, Stephen Glass. In his earlier column on Ms. Dolezal's mendacity, Jonathan uses the code "furthering the cause". Red meat for black entitlement I've apparently impinged on every day of my life since I was 23. I'll leave Wapo's voice of black pride off the hook for my aggravated assault in North Philly. I was being the good progressive, and predatory addicts come in all shapes, all sizes, including opium pipes for an Afghani pasha with nothing else but a fix. I'll even leave him off for Ms. Eddy from Unlimited Staffing doing her version of the mixed race fuck bunny pass for my benefit. The woman falls into the nigger fringe ugly lesbian rejected within the culture of black liberation-- but there was the Germantown voodoo priestess hitting me up for money after my mother died in 05. For two days this woman barraged me, illegally opening my mail. Did a case manager help me? My bankruptcy lawyer? Guess again.

There was Ingrid, wearing her dead newborn on a decal, as if I needed to stare at that daily, who slept with a schizophrenic security guard who came banging on my door after her, impregnating herself again and embarrassing me-- not a crime, but it scandalized the building, not to mention the Jehovah's Witness who swindled me out of 300 dollars-- Mr. Capehart wouldn't dare address a rather livid disabled woman's victimization at the hands of black dysfunction on a contiguous basis, not to mention black arrogance, limited intellectual capacity I deal with regularly. I do not have a place at this table, as an established outlet would not let me critique black social norms using my personal experience and exposure to it-- but Rachel certainly exposes the brittle planks of Capehart's identity bible. Playing the role of a black abuse victim gave her a hedge with the tenure committee, not a bad way to go, as Europeans generally face tougher standards. 

The Brain That Wouldn't Die?

I am a bit cynical.

Journalists need to make money, and Doug Saunders of G and M is no exception, but blaming Mallory for the crisis in Tibet which opened the door for the Chinese to take control of the country seems like a bit of a stretch. I am fairly certain indigenous peoples too need climbing skills for more reasons than the desire to "do it," and there is nothing wrong with humans climbing mountains. Climbers who fall and break their backs join my club, which is a lifelong adventure in its own right, if the demonstrations over Terri Schiavo were any indication. The average cost of nursing home care is roughly 6,500 a month, and both my father's wife and my father's sister are pretty much bankrupt due to recurring cancer (the aunt, who is one of my characters herein that made Blogger hiccup), and rheumatoid arthritis with a possible blood myeloma for the wife, and those of you reading this who pay taxes are subsidizing my many battles and failures with matriculation, and this shitty sterile and boring studio where I am now back to total subsistence. I supported Michael Schiavo, in opposition to Josie Byzek and her troubadours over removal of Terri's feeding tube, even if the brain death proponents were wrong, due to the quality of life issues involved with persistent vegetative states. I picked up 36 page views once discussing my stepmother's death with seeming anticipatory avarice, but the woman is suffering, and whatever his sins, my despair and Louise's caustic bitterness combined with her physical suffering, which make my bad power chair posture seem quaint, is taking its toll on mio padre. Add this up with your family members on ventilators-- and Globe and Mail worries itself over an advanced primate that gets a hard on for mountain summits.

If the Communists in Beijing want me to take a page from Collectivism for the greater good, people with life threatening illness need to look at the greater good, and bring the super drugs and surgeries to a stop, and this includes the fabulous, like Bobbi Brown. Those dollars sucking in to battle our horrific diseases could be going to advancing infrastructure, making our mobility technologies safer and easier, and yet Italians now want to play with decapitation for some poor bastard whose limbs look like a broiled canary delicacy. I could not hear the whole video without my ear plugs, but 15 million dollars to bring deliciously bad camp to life? What in the fucking hell does the medical establishment think its doing? How would the distinct spinal cords merge? What kind of bodily control would the man acquire? The state of Pennsylvania wants me to hire criminal labor instead of giving me adaptive technologies. I let a cut rate medical vendor fit me to a cut rate Jazzy chair with plastic castors that drives like a cart about to get crushed in an earthquake when I was 45 years old because I was in a hurry to try to get my life back on track, and some patient in Italy is purportedly risking his life with someone else's brain death. I reapplied for Medicaid, and I'm pissed off and quite ready to go to jail.

Humbling Appropriation of Jewish Satire

"He had elements in him that allowed him to do what he did. -- Al Pacino

I would have endured vaginal castration to have had the thunderbolt with the Al Pacino who brought Puzo's Michael Corleone to life. What woman doesn't want that dark and daring menace willing to use massacre as a conversation? Dropped everything to listen to Rose draw him out in his March 2015 interview, which cost me time-- noting that Pacino can be distempered and say fuck you to an assistant, get away with it and get away with telling it, in context, but Christ forbid a disabled writer display the same passion, deflecting intense racial enmity into an admission of hate, substituting asshole for a more denigrating scorn. But there were certain absences. Most obviously no mention of G3, the stereotyping in Scarface, or a relevant discussion of what right Pacino had to inhabit Simon Axler in Roth's controversial and cold novel.

Pacino isn't right for the part. Pacino is just shy of decimated aging that tears my heart. Pacino is my movie idol exception and drives me fucking crazy in the this is why actors have body guards way. His fingernails aren't in the best shape, and why do I want to run and email celebrities of a certain period? What whim am I catering to? What could I possibly say to a legend who became diffuse? Why didn't Charlie press him on playing Wortzik? Dog Day was and remains weird, whether you are a pro-sodomy advocate or fake it so as to not be a target of gay rage (believing in hate crime). One can truly see the faggot in Al here, which is why between the lines, he was difficult on the set, booze or no booze, this little boy having the drama queen moment. The movie chilled me in the sense none of us beat the system, more than that, the seventies brought the docu-drama into its own, and Dog Day Afternoon has that effect of urban realism, grit, texture. Anyone who truly threatens power is taken out, despite Coppola's wet dream.

When I stop and remember my failed potential I feel badly about doing my own variation of Alexander Pope's satirical attacks on my past, almost too self-conscious, but then again, my online audience is small, my ferocity appalling. If the Old Cricket made a hypothetical entrance to scold me, I'd hide under the fucking bed and roll out to have a raging argument with him at the same time. Not about learning how hard it is to write for a living-- but about my matriculation as a normal once top tiered student-- before it was too late it would have been nice had someone put it in context that I couldn't have a normal career, but the man is human, so am I, and I put our memories into a Euripides' over the top mass death by Mount Olympus. The above linked piece is more reminiscent of what he taught me, though it doesn't matter. 

I needed to be good enough, tough enough as a writer, to rescue myself, and thus far, I'm not, despite an old man's limpid eyes, still able to mesmerize. Pacino was my fucking cunt slinky, and he's crafty too, given half a chance. Squandered a great deal, he's ridiculous in his present posture, verging on decrepit odiousness. He taught me a great deal about his craft in 50 minutes. Nostalgia's ability to wound is sharper than an arrow's pierce.

Why have the African Americans who run Presby made me racist? Because they do not strive to make themselves better, because you cannot see that Trudy Richardson does her damnest making me feel alienated and even more marginalized. I have no problem with my hostility toward a nigger bitch like that persecuting me relentlessly. My family is not on intimate terms with minorities in the manner forced upon me because I have no choice. It's killing me. And I'll never be a normal suburban girl again.

Explosive Postures in the Arc of Compassionate Praise

But it is precisely here that a disastrous limitation in his position shows itself. --Martin Heidegger on Hermeneutics and Facticity

Ian McEwan is very good at illustrating corrosive anxiety which eats away at British definition for lack of an answer. As a novelist illuminating Western liberalism which is overwhelmed, Ian keeps it right on the edge; neither Daniel Craig nor director Roger Mitchell can master this in Enduring Love. The opening sequence is spectacular, and for that reason contrived, and Mitchell might have done better to consider a montage, some other form of adaptation. Ifans does a good job at being sick, using Gnosticism to implode toward annihilation, but Craig simply grows vicious and angry to the point that Ifans' mania seems mewing against it.

If you're going to use a hot air balloon as an allegory for humanity's precarious suspension between heaven and hell, in other words, going psycho-thriller on the time tested motif lends itself to being a cheap plot twist. Language is interdependent with visual acuity, so the motion picture is necessarily linked to language, and its proto-scientific discipline, linguistics, but narrative and film are also two different beasts, and fidelity to the text can be an Achilles's heel.

What Jerry does really well on occasion is getting his morphemes in just the right combination of synecdoche. "the whizzer" is evocative of blood spurting up out of a slit vein. Me? I simply pummel my stanzas, hating the definite article with a vengeance. I do not pun. I compact, and close with a thud, taking on even speculative traumatic conversion with defiance. Without necessarily having cured myself, since I have to deal with the residue of a senile transsexual who cannot register that I hate s/him and want nothing to do with its living carcass, I've managed, nonetheless, to close the door.

What I cannot do is restore my sensual self-esteem. That would take money my vanity as a broiled prawn doesn't have, though I'm sexually attracted to two of the men from Libertarian meet-up. Would I dare to do anything about that? Ah.

Tim Kenneally has done some decent reporting for the Wrap on Bobbi's health care, and I wish I could take my piece of this as a disability journalist: none of us are immune from the fact that the costs of long term care will bankrupt the global economy, but what journalists on Bobbi's beat cannot answer is why Brown's physicians cannot counteract whatever it was she ingested. People as young as Bobbi can come out of persistent vegetative states, but it takes extraordinary commitment to capture that spark of spirit as opposed to mere brain stem activity. We need to start letting go. I still have my faculties and want to return to employment, but the death industry takes precedence, while I starve on my pride.

Anti-Theist Scales in the Merger feeling its way

"The only thing more embarrassing than yanking the tour might have been the pictures of empty seats."-- Soraya Nadia McDonald

The moral manuals existed well into the first 60 years of the twentieth century. --James F Keenan

Copying Beethoven is ever too slightly contrived, like an Isben play updated for our modern ears to illustrate 19th century fluidity between the seams, or evoking the Lippizzaner Stallions, a fascinating regiment in its own right, but the film displays that Ed Harris had his decade in the zone. He manages to bring the maestro alive, illustrating that certain cruelty of genius, the disruption and indifference of chronic conditions, the urgency which is dismissive of hygiene, but Diane Kruger is less confident as the implanted amanuensis who never actually existed. Holland is a careful director beneath the stricture of her staged scenes to implant the necessary progressive schema, which arguably weakens the movie. Yet Harris remains a great Beethoven, a man splitting the difference between devotion and rebellion against the divine, a rebellion which is still romantic, attempting to cling to something beyond the grim materialism of biology as a mechanism we want to comprehend.

The raw emoting toward The Hours was in fact due mainly to Harris' ability to hit the touchstone of lives lived in anguish. Streep was off her game here, not a believable lesbian in the least, and two years have cooled down the sense that Cunningham truly broke boundaries merging aspects of Woolf's inability to persevere with the contemporary devastation AIDS wrought on sexual liberalism. Will I get a chance to read the novel? I cannot say. The power chair is hurting me, regardless of whatever tricks I've learned to write at the keyboard with, and my lack of decent medical equipment says it all, in a way, but Cunningham, at least through what the screen adaptation offers, was attempting to recover the novel of manners for its once predominant audience, while making homosexual repression and even gay unhappiness a centralized theme. His translucence might have overreached. 

No third way for mortal coils?

"I owe the woman something, she kept me alive."-- Ed Harris

Disintegration. I have limited knowledge about abstract expressionism. One of my former Yahoo group members who understood what I was after, a disabled teacher from Britain, introduced me to the issue of de Kooning's work in conjunction with his end of life Alzheimer's, and then unsubscribed, in the story of my life. de Kooning lived a long time, and Pollock went in tyrannical fashion. I come on to piss and moan, nearly falling off the Jazzy getting off my deplorable bedding, transferred back to sunken lumpy mattress after rare accident, half-shit myself, got transfer right on the second round, logged on instead of cleaning what I can and going to get a little food, discover Anthony Riley has earned my envy, a rather selfish observation to offer, pondering these issues. I know why Ed Harris excels at portraiture, but remain diffident about Jackson Pollock's place among his contemporaries. Why couldn't he die alone? The film is a remarkable piece of biography, but the story is more or less sordid. What legacy does Namuth capture? Why did Lee Krasner sacrifice herself? What is it to break past Picasso? Why does the biography lead to cynicism even as the film itself is transcendent?

It leads me back to David Foster Wallace, my anger with him, because he had the skill to give me a place at the table, and doubtlessly would have understood me, and the bastard caved in, and I understand why, rejecting the medical model solace utilized by his wife, his father. What some established columnists felt about Phillip Seymour Hoffman's relapse and last trip on his dose over the rainbow, I felt about Wallace. I don't have to have known David to know we would have made sparks, engaging with each other, and yet I persist, obstinate blockhead, Harris' extraordinary abilities sneaking up on me. I should go, but let me let you know, I am giving my notice soon, told myself to give it a week or two, but I'll need a crash site, kabeesh?

Annexing the Crimea

I ain't really here tonight, thus Blogger can sigh with relief that I am too tired for targeted insinuations, as my formerly transgendered intimate who is only of local ADAPT notoriety, is a living corpse, and not worth the trouble. I wasn't going to discuss Bruce's transition, precisely for the reasons Kathleen chooses to elucidate. If a resident with terminal cancer thinks I am a pretentious drama queen, but doesn't have the wit to make that zing, I think an aging athlete needs money, and I think this because the evidence suggests that biological males and females who see themselves as members of the opposite sex know this at an early age, and I grew up with Bruce Jenner's ass in his jockey shorts, and never heard a peep out of him that he really wanted breasts and his penis removed, not until reality television; this type of sensationalism leaves a bad taste in my mouth, the shallow strobes of bread and circuses from which the peasants never quite divorce themselves, the need for titillation. I am loathe to add to it, regardless of my peevish arteries which now hold these individual needs, self-interest, in circumspect reserve. Caitlyn certainly had no problem with her male identity when it came to the decathlon; Erik von Schmettering is much less glamorous, and is shied away from, welts on its arms, the persona all but vacated, neither quite male nor female, inciting a piteous revulsion. My ex is right that I waste my reserves letting this eat me to death, but I am merely reverting to form: in 94 I utilized Erik for emotional solace, and it was a mistake, and my pain no longer has access to comfort, sucking it out of the atmosphere. I'm pondering the magnificent energies of Ed Harris.

His talent to be Beethoven, his ability to become Jackson Pollack, or a bisexual novelist with AIDS in Cunningham's already backdated novel, is nothing short of extraordinary, and I'd like to fuck the man in appreciation, which doesn't mean he in turn would oblige, but my finesse meter is squandered this fine Sunday morning, wasting what little I have in my all consuming need for change. What's it getting me?

The protest of Salmonella's delicacy

One of those wincing days, getting up to comply with the public housing requirements as I've done with the same exact rental agent for 29 years at a frenetic pace, even though I know I'm leaving, trying to remind myself my little brother is following me and can read this, lest I revert to the stark corrosion which led to staff and scrip's support, but it is public housing which has bred my hatred, what my eye sees in the withered skin of these descendants of civil rights and slavery. If I stay I'm dead, and giving my notice merely expedites the matter. I went to a luncheon for the sake of a slice of pizza to listen to a next generation black professional talk about life insurance, and he was quite good at presenting, eliciting my elocution from my haggard frame, and if my mouth was a sword, I would have then committed mass murder: I snapped back at the older minorities who run the tenant's council, then debated Dominic in the lobby, a blustery white guy subsumed by his terminal cancer. You would not know he is dying, and I was as blunt with him as I am with anyone. Upon using the word "egalitarian" he said I was bullshit, that I use my acumen to camouflage my handicap. I sniggered. Wished him well, and here I am, expediting my death at the hands of Protestant positrons.

I'm really leaving, destitute as much through exterior ambiance as in emotional ravage, the film Winged Creatures strives, and fails, to authenticate sudden violence, depending heavily on the performance of Dakota Manning to hold the centrifugal force of the narrative, but as much as one may disdain agreement with NYT, the indie arcs here never meld, despite the cast, and Whitaker's character, diagnosed with his own metastasis, mopes his way through frailty. What concerns me is not that Woods attempts sincerity and unravels, but that writers should be wary of adaptive translation. As usual, the traumas resolve in holistic fashion, save for the diphthong of Beckinsale's far too nuanced denial of childhood neglect. It dims the desire to read an author like Roy Frieirich. His prose may be better, or worse, than his script, but both Frierich and Woods strive for an extended metaphor and wind up with the ubiquity of a Big Mac ground out of fillet, in summation of an unfortunate viewing experience-- it was one of my first films seen on the new Escape.

I cannot run from my limitations. I know that. I'm the textbook dirty cripple who challenges ambulatory endurance, but a battered women's shelter, in comparison to Presby's dominant minority management, feels like a fucking vacation. I have to let this location go. I know the state will win, eventually, but I'm still running; this is my response to what I knew would happen if I couldn't step it up. When I started blogging in 2009, I had 10,000 dollars left, transformed to ground carrion in six years. Poof.

PS: Personal loyalty means a great deal to me. 

Hepatic Cirrhosis

"There is this sense of urgency."-- Charlie Rose

It is not enough for me that Sally Mann is the cipher and the filter for her stricken husband, Larry. It may be enough for him. It may be enough for Sally, who, obviously, is insecure with the recognition her photography provoked, and needs discretion as a shield despite the impact of her aesthetic revelations, and it may be enough for an intrepid interviewer like Rose, but a much more difficult video for Charlie's audience to digest would have been to interview Larry Mann about what it is like dying from muscular dystrophy after giving his life for his wife's pursuit of interpreting the world through a camera lens. That's tougher than for what mercy allows, and it would have created controversy for a tired old man whose heart did not kill him, and made Sally herself more of a lightning rod.

In fact, I am going to throw down the gauntlet: Before Charlie retires, I am challenging him to interview nobody. I'd like to see what he would do with an individual with a developmental disability who strove and failed. I want him to cut across the insularity of success and sit at that table with a cripple scorched by poverty, a squandered genius, and see what happens, because I've grown cynical about aesthetic bubbles, and the priesthood surrounding altered perspectives. It isn't that images cannot change the world, merely that we're all inundated to their previous power to move us. In the world of color rods in the cone of the iris, Sally's dead greyhound with it's head lolling on a fence, elongated body like the slash of an angel, is a dead dog. If it had been a crushed insect, we would have had a different reaction.

I'm dying. Before you tell me to go to the doctor, I've been to one, another young Asian resident who knows absolutely nothing except the pathology of various rote causations. My identity is beginning to submerge into my autonomous bodily functions. In part you can thank these motherfuckers with their subtle avarice, death panel profiteering at my expense; in part it is my social fear, but if I'm broken, I haven't been broken the way Trudy Richardson may believe: I did the recertification to stay on in 202 housing at the last possible second, but am ready to give my notice, abandon everything but my computer briefcase, shed my library, and roll, with nothing but a farthing, with the realization that with every sleep, I drift off into the end result, into an occlusion of my cardiovascular system, shrinking away. I've burrowed down very far, so far away there is no room for the recrimination of human social structures falling apart at the seams. I cannot sustain encroaching uselessness, and that is breaking me of its own accord.