"The various kinds of sovereignty do not necessarily covary."-- Stephen D. Krasner
Frankenheimer's direction in The Horsemen is not necessarily New Wave, but it could not have been what it is without David Lean coming beforehand, and now stands as a favorite of spastic's hothead youth, previously unknown but for nostalgia television. The cinematography is rich, splendid, in colors of beauty and brutality, its thematic aims not so clearly deciphered, not quite about man's destructive capacity with his livestock either. Who knew camels would kill each other at the behest of their trainers?
Frankenheimer seems to focus solely on man and beast in contention, without tipping the scales one way or the other. It is left for viewers to wonder why Omar's Uraz chooses to cripple himself instead of mending properly after breaking his leg, but it is similar to the way I may choose to bring this to an end and dump myself on the street. Obstinate individuals need the contest, and yet Uraz makes it extreme. After he has a concealed amputation and a victory ride on Jahil, the game trained warrior horse of his father, he rejects his village and goes off with a Taliban-like mountain herder who trains his goat to be a lethal killer at the bong of a drum roll. It is a weird quiet film that admires the defiance of natural anarchy as a way of life, something quietly eroded in progressive sensibility, and yet beneath the surface, the wealth of the developed world is under tremendous strain, analogous to the ephemeral doll like perfection of Leigh Taylor Young in Soylent Green. Given the actual state of civilization depicted on location, it is the actress as a trophy fuck who seems unreal, almost as if doctored for a commercial. Her upkeep must have cost a fortune, and her fate, left to its inferences as Charlton is carried away, wounded, mortally or not, protesting the horror of manufactured cannibalism. I'm not the first person to point out that liberalism unwilling to recognize limits invites catastrophe.
The conception of sovereignty is nonsensical, but some states are more sorereign than others. After 9/11, once I had all the facts, I actually would not have occupied Kabul. We should have wiped out Saudi Arabia, and the subsequent genealogy of events would have been different. Afghanistan, as a state, doesn't seem to function, and as with anything else, nation builders need to get out of the way.
Friday, July 31, 2015
Wednesday, July 29, 2015
Tribunes
"In recent years the star, suffering from Alzheimer's, revealed he was lonely."--Sara Malm
Policy analysts should respect foreign film releases as predicates, and The Horsemen is one of those which might have served as a bolt pistol extension to the brain of the 43rd president, not that our 44th is on much more hallowed ground.
One can understand Omar's vast plateau of superstardom as not contradictory to his loneliness. Who might have ameliorated that loneliness? Would primarily Caucasian westerners have braved the latter day Nubian people in their sciatic dissipation to comfort him? One of his earlier roles, little discussed, perhaps because the film was badly made, not willing to address its own implications, was as the Spanish priest in Behold A Pale Horse, about the residue of Franco's victory. Everything is over by this time-- the time of the film-- though Vietnam was still brewing in the kettle while this black and white docu-drama was assembled, and Omar's character escapes with his life. Peck's Republican partisan doesn't kill him, and the fascist forces are reluctant to antagonize the Catholic Church, giving Sharif a certain ambidextrous fluidity.
Someone in Bush'es cabinet, and why not Dr. Rice, should have consulted a humanist after the shock of 9/11 and played The Horsemen for The Decider. The .02 percent of his literate hemisphere might have listened to Omar's role as the obstinate rider. You do not invade Afghanistan if you pay attention to the coda herein, whether Russian or American. Tight lipped.
No obituary post the evening his death made the wire. He was already an acculturated mummy entombed, despite his last major role. Unlike Bacall, Sharif was finished as a bankable name after thrillers like Juggernaut came and went. It is the thickened beat in your arteries, the Arabic everyman who never got to be himself until he was far past the age where it might have mattered.
Policy analysts should respect foreign film releases as predicates, and The Horsemen is one of those which might have served as a bolt pistol extension to the brain of the 43rd president, not that our 44th is on much more hallowed ground.
One can understand Omar's vast plateau of superstardom as not contradictory to his loneliness. Who might have ameliorated that loneliness? Would primarily Caucasian westerners have braved the latter day Nubian people in their sciatic dissipation to comfort him? One of his earlier roles, little discussed, perhaps because the film was badly made, not willing to address its own implications, was as the Spanish priest in Behold A Pale Horse, about the residue of Franco's victory. Everything is over by this time-- the time of the film-- though Vietnam was still brewing in the kettle while this black and white docu-drama was assembled, and Omar's character escapes with his life. Peck's Republican partisan doesn't kill him, and the fascist forces are reluctant to antagonize the Catholic Church, giving Sharif a certain ambidextrous fluidity.
Someone in Bush'es cabinet, and why not Dr. Rice, should have consulted a humanist after the shock of 9/11 and played The Horsemen for The Decider. The .02 percent of his literate hemisphere might have listened to Omar's role as the obstinate rider. You do not invade Afghanistan if you pay attention to the coda herein, whether Russian or American. Tight lipped.
No obituary post the evening his death made the wire. He was already an acculturated mummy entombed, despite his last major role. Unlike Bacall, Sharif was finished as a bankable name after thrillers like Juggernaut came and went. It is the thickened beat in your arteries, the Arabic everyman who never got to be himself until he was far past the age where it might have mattered.
Cecil, Walter Palmer, and outrage
Liberals may think that a good deal of my anger comes from disillusionment more than the erosion of progressive sentiment, and on the apex predatory scale, that may not be entirely relevant. The private racism I've been privy to in my family used to trouble me, and no, I will not embarrass them, said relatives, with a who's who said what.
I'll vilify myself instead: My father wasn't a monster when his adolescent daughter had the black boyfriend temptation going. I now see African American soft socialism the way my Catholic family does, and bitterly regret what they were trying to tell me when I had leftist religion, because I see what being broken on the progressive spikes jutting out of Philadelphia like Nazi defenses on the beaches of Normandy does to the disadvantaged.
There. You're smart fanatic is condemned-- however, Walter Palmer will face criminal persecution if I have anything to say about it, and with crowd funding sources, I should not marginalize this power. I've conveyed there will be no more killing of apex felines. I meant it, and on this issue I side with the protesters. It is true Cecil was 13 and had to die sometime, but we are now responsible for these pet children. And I will not have it. I will not.
This man will surrender his hunting license and make restitution to the citizens of Zimbabwe. I'm going to see to that. Cecil was our child, and this shall not happen again on my watch. Dr. Palmer tortured an alpha male in a dirty and underhanded way, and I'm not letting this go. This man's recreational hunts are finished. Period. End of story.
On an editorial note, Google has been moving my twitter email in spam. Didn't realize it. I now comprehend loglines! Some of you are thus forgiven. Ominous smile.
I'll vilify myself instead: My father wasn't a monster when his adolescent daughter had the black boyfriend temptation going. I now see African American soft socialism the way my Catholic family does, and bitterly regret what they were trying to tell me when I had leftist religion, because I see what being broken on the progressive spikes jutting out of Philadelphia like Nazi defenses on the beaches of Normandy does to the disadvantaged.
There. You're smart fanatic is condemned-- however, Walter Palmer will face criminal persecution if I have anything to say about it, and with crowd funding sources, I should not marginalize this power. I've conveyed there will be no more killing of apex felines. I meant it, and on this issue I side with the protesters. It is true Cecil was 13 and had to die sometime, but we are now responsible for these pet children. And I will not have it. I will not.
This man will surrender his hunting license and make restitution to the citizens of Zimbabwe. I'm going to see to that. Cecil was our child, and this shall not happen again on my watch. Dr. Palmer tortured an alpha male in a dirty and underhanded way, and I'm not letting this go. This man's recreational hunts are finished. Period. End of story.
On an editorial note, Google has been moving my twitter email in spam. Didn't realize it. I now comprehend loglines! Some of you are thus forgiven. Ominous smile.
Monday, July 27, 2015
Poverty Reset
It is going to be a difficult week, ground down to starving my way through Monday. Blogger posted a caption about European Union cookie requirements which are beyond any consternation on my part. Why driving myself to force the city to arraign me is a solution for the depth of my pain resides in the hope it will spark something.
Miss Richardson has eased off her pressure tactics since I recertified in June, ripping out my fingernails in the process, but I've lost my civility at this point. It is drowning in my own bodily fluids, as I've begged my frigging family to help me leave for the last five years, and that is my family.
What my best instructors saw in me, and what I'm failing to carry. I just can't do this anymore, all my bad options like Cormac's pretty horses, rearing in fear.
Miss Richardson has eased off her pressure tactics since I recertified in June, ripping out my fingernails in the process, but I've lost my civility at this point. It is drowning in my own bodily fluids, as I've begged my frigging family to help me leave for the last five years, and that is my family.
What my best instructors saw in me, and what I'm failing to carry. I just can't do this anymore, all my bad options like Cormac's pretty horses, rearing in fear.
Disgraced Under the Torch
"I believe in genocide," Robert Downey Jr, not emulating Michael Gambon
James Gandolfini begins to be noticed in his supporting roles, in one of those mysterious processes of the sudden obituary for a performer one never knew, like the old friend in your back pocket; his support was small but pivotal in She's So Lovely.
How much the man is to be blamed for the muddle of The Last Castle is open to debate, but he hit the requisite notes as the resentful subordinate. In Fallen, (98), he is supposed to be the false feint to Denzel's righteous Hobbes, but Sigel's cinematography makes everyone look diabetic, and one wants to rush to give Goodman insulin rather than fear his conversion. If Hoblit is connotative about race, it is not implicit, and his unwitting template for the now tiresome bro series, The Supernatural, is not to the director's lasting credit.
The film strives for nuance, however, in a more ambitious fashion than the show. Azazel is a stand in for our inhumanity to ourselves. No obstinacy can eliminate it, just as strength of will cannot eliminate vulnerabilities that thick set matrons, their brains made of alligator stool blockage, will prey upon.
My manual wheelchair flip in 2007 was humiliating enough, lying for three, four hours latched onto a belt buckle which threatened my organs. How many days pass, Trudy, a well trained Oprah gibbon, launches her assessment team upon me, always on a day I have something to resolve, shamble-ass Debra Horne bellowing in the hallway "Do you want to hurt yourself?"
A former vocational counselor from Mississippi's civil service, and then they call out the big guns in April of this year, Department of Health and Human Service assessors. Do they inspect the work the rental agent hasn't done? No. Do they care how many of these aides violated my personal dignity? No, they use their ability to walk to intimidate me, rushing my bedside, before I held their utter impotency at bay on second visit at my door. I've had enough. I am not going to forget, and I'll break the law, if necessary, to punish this cruelty. This is your energy for the vengeance fueling hell. I forced my disability center to file a grieve with DHS, nothing happened, but this same department jumps through hoops for minorities scoping my back as a target, making themselves fools in the process. The state may not fall anytime soon, but bureaucratic procedures at this pro forma level are a travesty. I am prosecuted for my debt on one end and my disability on the other. Why not simply restore me to employment and relocate me? No, my failure means my body will be used now in PA for slave labor.
James Gandolfini begins to be noticed in his supporting roles, in one of those mysterious processes of the sudden obituary for a performer one never knew, like the old friend in your back pocket; his support was small but pivotal in She's So Lovely.
How much the man is to be blamed for the muddle of The Last Castle is open to debate, but he hit the requisite notes as the resentful subordinate. In Fallen, (98), he is supposed to be the false feint to Denzel's righteous Hobbes, but Sigel's cinematography makes everyone look diabetic, and one wants to rush to give Goodman insulin rather than fear his conversion. If Hoblit is connotative about race, it is not implicit, and his unwitting template for the now tiresome bro series, The Supernatural, is not to the director's lasting credit.
The film strives for nuance, however, in a more ambitious fashion than the show. Azazel is a stand in for our inhumanity to ourselves. No obstinacy can eliminate it, just as strength of will cannot eliminate vulnerabilities that thick set matrons, their brains made of alligator stool blockage, will prey upon.
My manual wheelchair flip in 2007 was humiliating enough, lying for three, four hours latched onto a belt buckle which threatened my organs. How many days pass, Trudy, a well trained Oprah gibbon, launches her assessment team upon me, always on a day I have something to resolve, shamble-ass Debra Horne bellowing in the hallway "Do you want to hurt yourself?"
A former vocational counselor from Mississippi's civil service, and then they call out the big guns in April of this year, Department of Health and Human Service assessors. Do they inspect the work the rental agent hasn't done? No. Do they care how many of these aides violated my personal dignity? No, they use their ability to walk to intimidate me, rushing my bedside, before I held their utter impotency at bay on second visit at my door. I've had enough. I am not going to forget, and I'll break the law, if necessary, to punish this cruelty. This is your energy for the vengeance fueling hell. I forced my disability center to file a grieve with DHS, nothing happened, but this same department jumps through hoops for minorities scoping my back as a target, making themselves fools in the process. The state may not fall anytime soon, but bureaucratic procedures at this pro forma level are a travesty. I am prosecuted for my debt on one end and my disability on the other. Why not simply restore me to employment and relocate me? No, my failure means my body will be used now in PA for slave labor.
Carbon Residue
For every degree of ignorance in the universe, there are a trillion bosons to replace what we eliminate. I aggrandize my animosity towards Trudy Richardson, manager in distress at my non-compliance, and Debra Horne knows when I've roared like the thunder lizard about my duress, this doesn't mean we're going out for ice cream in a bully matron competition. To take all that effort to fight methods that were superseded by law so long ago.
I found a job I actually want, and envision a dead standstill due to the fact I expressed anything so positive as desire. I am here and not there, but while preoccupation meshes trepidation, what's on my mind is why Fallen fails. Sutherland has that bouffant with which grandees coast. Goodman is the disruptively hidden force; Gandolfini is the foil not in on the secret, and Davidtz is the distressed damsel who is at best a mediocre guide. Hoblit's pacing is plodding, but this was meant to be a film that pit Hobbes against inexorable forces, and ends on a trick in such a way as to feel sold, even if a sordid atmosphere was meant to be complicit with the sensibility of the brooding horrific. Had it been tighter, the natural approach might have worked.
I have to put the condition of this efficiency out of my mind. I don't have my tools, my monetary affluence has depreciated and been absorbed back into making my defiant body the improvished stepping stone, and I'm rolling in a wheelbarrow and I'm leaving and filing a hate crime complaint. I have to write my cover letter.
I found a job I actually want, and envision a dead standstill due to the fact I expressed anything so positive as desire. I am here and not there, but while preoccupation meshes trepidation, what's on my mind is why Fallen fails. Sutherland has that bouffant with which grandees coast. Goodman is the disruptively hidden force; Gandolfini is the foil not in on the secret, and Davidtz is the distressed damsel who is at best a mediocre guide. Hoblit's pacing is plodding, but this was meant to be a film that pit Hobbes against inexorable forces, and ends on a trick in such a way as to feel sold, even if a sordid atmosphere was meant to be complicit with the sensibility of the brooding horrific. Had it been tighter, the natural approach might have worked.
I have to put the condition of this efficiency out of my mind. I don't have my tools, my monetary affluence has depreciated and been absorbed back into making my defiant body the improvished stepping stone, and I'm rolling in a wheelbarrow and I'm leaving and filing a hate crime complaint. I have to write my cover letter.
Friday, July 24, 2015
Tall Pyramids
Joseph Hayes The Desperate Hours is like a harpoon piercing the heart of the Eisenhower era, but what caused it to tap into the anxiety of its audience? Post-war GI PTSD? I grew up with Bogart as the desperado with a conscience as a kid, and the lines of the threat in the film were not yet ready to lift the sheath behind the real psychic wounds of violation. Escaped convicts made headlines sixty years ago, then were carefully stage managed. In contemporary mindsets, escaped convicts are almost the charming amicable anti-heroes while we chew the fat over spree shootings and family annihilators, with American gun ownership out of control.
We might comprehend the libertarian argument for the individual right to bear arms, but with gun ownership comes a weighty responsibility. As a nation, we fail in this responsibility, and I'll shock my mythical homosexual adversaries with the assertion that weapons and their owners need regulation. When a driver can no longer operate a vehicle their license is revoked. Same principle should apply to police, soldiers, and every Okie spooner north of Ohio.
My rare lighter side procrastinates with Majong puzzles, and I'd like to cold cock Microsoft. On the verge of winning a format not the most complex, but rarely beaten, automatic updates slipped my mind and shut Toshi down, which, again, is the only reason this post is here. The save prompt did not take, and now I'm pouting, but should be working anyway. In Diamond Park, amid the vandalism, and domestic travail, gimp dealers stabbing their bitches who screamed and ran dripping blood down the hall, I worked. I did not win contests or get paid until I obtained online access, but I worked. It runs deeper than my resistance to the den mother mindset of the nanny state. I've stopped believing in myself. I knew my savings would disappear from my early days on LiveJournal, and my preposterous solution to that were penny articles for Examiner. Sigh. I believe I'm still employable, but I need the right habitat, unless I want to give myself a reason to go on parole.
I haven't engaged the police, just yet. It feels like a satire. Hannibal against the Roman Republic, post menopausal tits added, like Artemis and Sheeba. Bogart always has that underlying vulnerability to his machismo, the bobble head before the actual toy invaded pop culture.
We might comprehend the libertarian argument for the individual right to bear arms, but with gun ownership comes a weighty responsibility. As a nation, we fail in this responsibility, and I'll shock my mythical homosexual adversaries with the assertion that weapons and their owners need regulation. When a driver can no longer operate a vehicle their license is revoked. Same principle should apply to police, soldiers, and every Okie spooner north of Ohio.
My rare lighter side procrastinates with Majong puzzles, and I'd like to cold cock Microsoft. On the verge of winning a format not the most complex, but rarely beaten, automatic updates slipped my mind and shut Toshi down, which, again, is the only reason this post is here. The save prompt did not take, and now I'm pouting, but should be working anyway. In Diamond Park, amid the vandalism, and domestic travail, gimp dealers stabbing their bitches who screamed and ran dripping blood down the hall, I worked. I did not win contests or get paid until I obtained online access, but I worked. It runs deeper than my resistance to the den mother mindset of the nanny state. I've stopped believing in myself. I knew my savings would disappear from my early days on LiveJournal, and my preposterous solution to that were penny articles for Examiner. Sigh. I believe I'm still employable, but I need the right habitat, unless I want to give myself a reason to go on parole.
I haven't engaged the police, just yet. It feels like a satire. Hannibal against the Roman Republic, post menopausal tits added, like Artemis and Sheeba. Bogart always has that underlying vulnerability to his machismo, the bobble head before the actual toy invaded pop culture.
Thursday, July 23, 2015
In the velvet
This reflection restored all his self possession. -- Stendhal
What I enjoy about Zoo, despite the fact that James Patterson is an old school hack of the sort to which I do not stoop, is precisely the fact that it is stupid entertainment none of us need take seriously. I want to follow it and have seen only the second episode, alas, mainly to be blamed on apathy, running the gamut of negativity, the rage to strike back juxtaposed against every transfer now a risk of focused poise. I really do hate Debra Horne, Riverside's cut rate shamble ass enforcer, and I would not necessarily stop hating her or Trudy Richardson if I ever get the fuck away from the Presbyterian modal before it is too late. I do not know how far I'd go mentally over the injustices perpetrated on me, as imaginary infliction of violence is one thing, and what I lived on the razor edge of the badlands off North Broad Street is another. Brandon Phillips was a coward, which is, in essence, why I'm still alive. He was also stupid, as, in the time he was taking to subdue me, the exterminator may have gained access to my unit, and Brandon would have gotten caught, in the act. Debra Horne, in her intimidation tactics, perpetuates the cruelty of her race, which I only knew by default, in Home of the Merciful Savior, although, to my memory, there were not many African Americans who worked the wards in Shriners where mio padre had me butchered, latter day.
Poise is important to Europeans. The French make it a raison d'etre, but it runs the gamut of Western Europe with the exception of my ethnic group, the Romans. I am 45 pages in to Cormac's other notorious book, Blood Meridian, and realized I could care less. McCarthy is a master tactician who runs hula hoops around James Patterson's commercial emphasis, and yet it is Patterson's revenge fantasy which consoles me. All I have to do is touch foreheads with the king of beasts, and the lion king would turn my enemies into viable cadavers for honeycombs, but of course, that is play acting. Actual retribution has a price, and leaves its mark, ever to be done effectively as a form of argument, this is a fine thread in the needle's eye, the main thesis of Cormac's argument. It isn't his skill I reject necessarily, but I still balk, at what, precisely, I think, is the lack of the toll on his protagonists, even when they take their punishment, they move from point A to Z unchanged. This is not how it scores itself on personal experience.
What I am trying to get at in the controversy over Shakespeare's genius does not relate to factual accuracy. Just as I'm not quite a Jamesian, I am certainly no expert on the English Renaissance, though Kermode and Jerry lifted fascinating curtains. If William served as a shield for the provocateur of a man who was an Earl and had the inside skinny on Elizabeth's insecurities, then that shield being so successful cannot be discredited, and must be seen as an essential component of the times, regardless of which camp has the evidence on its side, but there was controversy surrounding attribution of Alexandre Dumas' authorship, namely in the name of race baiting. If we use Dumas' characterizations of royalty as a model, there is no reason a man named Shakespar could not have created R2, R3, H4 and 5. The lack of a personal library after his death is not evidence that he did not have access to Hollinshed. And getting lost in trying to prove this theory over that one is a problem of tunnel vision, a cautionary tale in its own right about levels of investment.
What I enjoy about Zoo, despite the fact that James Patterson is an old school hack of the sort to which I do not stoop, is precisely the fact that it is stupid entertainment none of us need take seriously. I want to follow it and have seen only the second episode, alas, mainly to be blamed on apathy, running the gamut of negativity, the rage to strike back juxtaposed against every transfer now a risk of focused poise. I really do hate Debra Horne, Riverside's cut rate shamble ass enforcer, and I would not necessarily stop hating her or Trudy Richardson if I ever get the fuck away from the Presbyterian modal before it is too late. I do not know how far I'd go mentally over the injustices perpetrated on me, as imaginary infliction of violence is one thing, and what I lived on the razor edge of the badlands off North Broad Street is another. Brandon Phillips was a coward, which is, in essence, why I'm still alive. He was also stupid, as, in the time he was taking to subdue me, the exterminator may have gained access to my unit, and Brandon would have gotten caught, in the act. Debra Horne, in her intimidation tactics, perpetuates the cruelty of her race, which I only knew by default, in Home of the Merciful Savior, although, to my memory, there were not many African Americans who worked the wards in Shriners where mio padre had me butchered, latter day.
Poise is important to Europeans. The French make it a raison d'etre, but it runs the gamut of Western Europe with the exception of my ethnic group, the Romans. I am 45 pages in to Cormac's other notorious book, Blood Meridian, and realized I could care less. McCarthy is a master tactician who runs hula hoops around James Patterson's commercial emphasis, and yet it is Patterson's revenge fantasy which consoles me. All I have to do is touch foreheads with the king of beasts, and the lion king would turn my enemies into viable cadavers for honeycombs, but of course, that is play acting. Actual retribution has a price, and leaves its mark, ever to be done effectively as a form of argument, this is a fine thread in the needle's eye, the main thesis of Cormac's argument. It isn't his skill I reject necessarily, but I still balk, at what, precisely, I think, is the lack of the toll on his protagonists, even when they take their punishment, they move from point A to Z unchanged. This is not how it scores itself on personal experience.
What I am trying to get at in the controversy over Shakespeare's genius does not relate to factual accuracy. Just as I'm not quite a Jamesian, I am certainly no expert on the English Renaissance, though Kermode and Jerry lifted fascinating curtains. If William served as a shield for the provocateur of a man who was an Earl and had the inside skinny on Elizabeth's insecurities, then that shield being so successful cannot be discredited, and must be seen as an essential component of the times, regardless of which camp has the evidence on its side, but there was controversy surrounding attribution of Alexandre Dumas' authorship, namely in the name of race baiting. If we use Dumas' characterizations of royalty as a model, there is no reason a man named Shakespar could not have created R2, R3, H4 and 5. The lack of a personal library after his death is not evidence that he did not have access to Hollinshed. And getting lost in trying to prove this theory over that one is a problem of tunnel vision, a cautionary tale in its own right about levels of investment.
Tuesday, July 21, 2015
Arrest Worthiness Metrics
"Do you think I'm over-reacting?"-- Patrick Stewart as Loomis
The beginning of the end of sedate misery, not yet transmitted, barreled through to simmer, a day, two, no more:
To the ninth district:
I am writing to file a discrimination complaint against Presbyterian Homes, their present supervisory agent Ken Cantrell, current manager Trudy Richardson, and long time former vocational employee Debra Horne.
In 1993, under the duress at my former location, the Diamond Park Apartment complex on 1500 West Page Street, I was a victim of an aggravated assault by the grandson of a tenant. Presby's owners had some liability for that home invasion. The grandson, whose name was Brandon Phillips, had free access to the building. The grandmother either could not or did not escort her relative out after his visits, and I bore the brunt of this by being staked out by a minority, without even so much as a hint of security at these dual complexes, on a day when I had taken off from work. There was no eye level peep hole for me to look out of when the Phillips boy knocked, and perhaps, had I not been worried about clearing my cabinets for the exterminator, had not rushed to open the door, Brandon might have gotten lucky and actually killed me later on, and I wouldn't be sitting here 15 minutes away from the area, virtually penniless, and still traumatized.
The detective who investigated the case closed it rapidly and the perpetrator served his time. My issue is Preby's culpability. I wanted to pursue litigation against this huge rental corporation, so much more powerful than I, and allowed their manager, Terri Way, to talk me out of it. I know there is nothing any officer can do about that. It was many years ago, and reluctantly, I followed Ms. Way to Riverside, with great resistance. The supervisory agent then, Ellen Hovey, knew she dodged a bullet, knew how traumatic becoming a crime victim was for me, and under her manager, Michael Howard, I was treated with deference until he left.
Since he was replaced by Debra Schwab in 2005, I have been under repeated duress. I was banned from the dining service during that time, harassed by the tenants knocking on my door and pelting me was bars of soap. An attorney named Steven Gold assisted me with that, and undoubtedly as officers you might suggest it is over and done with. Of course, but then I was molested and robbed by two personal care attendants from Unlimited Staffing in 2006, at which time I ceased getting aides on the Medicaid Waiver, out of fear. At least one in three of these woman attempted to exploit me, and I've let it go and let it go, and can't anymore.
Up until last year, I used my personal monies for housekeeping help, and that is now gone. I am unemployed with the exception of sparse freelance commissions. Trudy Richardson, her boss, and Debra Horne have repeatedly threatened me and excoriated me at every opportunity, and if I had stood up to Ms. Way in 1993, I could have litigated the Diamond Park owner's negligence and returned back to Delaware County near my immediate family. I want an admission of liability from Diamond Park's owner, and given what I've been through, if Presby is a so called Christian company, let them pay for unit cleanings. I am strangled in debt, trying to go back to work, and if Ms. Horne is so concerned about my mental affect, she and I had a meeting about the fact that my former supervisor at the local disability center had created a toxic environment for me, but in 2007, with an assessment team corralling me in the doorway, they insisted that I return to the disability center for services while my supervisor was Vice President and chief officer.
Every white professional I've spoken to about what happened to me due to my interaction with Linda at the center understands I cannot return there with their coordinators, but not Debra Horne. Her role here at Presby is to attack every vulnerability, and treat wheelchair users like zoological specimens who need to be caged. I refuse to go down this way after years of fighting for viable matriculation. If this company wants to evict me, that is an option freely available to them. If your officers think I am now falling into the troublemaker category and want to remove me from the building environs for not being able to measure up to ambulatory standards, then do that. I do not do drugs. I don't drink, but I'm going to put your motto to protect and serve to the test. This company violates my rights, and I consider the fact that I've lived in a senior living facility since I was 23 tantamount to a hate crime. I want out, and I want this company's conduct toward the disabled investigated. Copies of this complaint will be going to the ACLU, state attorney's offices, and the Human Relations Commission.
I realize you have much more traumatic domestic issues to deal with, but I am not going to die like Danieal Kelly begging for water while this city's governing competency continues to generate national embarrassment. I apologize for the two or three minutes of your time this took to read.
The beginning of the end of sedate misery, not yet transmitted, barreled through to simmer, a day, two, no more:
To the ninth district:
I am writing to file a discrimination complaint against Presbyterian Homes, their present supervisory agent Ken Cantrell, current manager Trudy Richardson, and long time former vocational employee Debra Horne.
In 1993, under the duress at my former location, the Diamond Park Apartment complex on 1500 West Page Street, I was a victim of an aggravated assault by the grandson of a tenant. Presby's owners had some liability for that home invasion. The grandson, whose name was Brandon Phillips, had free access to the building. The grandmother either could not or did not escort her relative out after his visits, and I bore the brunt of this by being staked out by a minority, without even so much as a hint of security at these dual complexes, on a day when I had taken off from work. There was no eye level peep hole for me to look out of when the Phillips boy knocked, and perhaps, had I not been worried about clearing my cabinets for the exterminator, had not rushed to open the door, Brandon might have gotten lucky and actually killed me later on, and I wouldn't be sitting here 15 minutes away from the area, virtually penniless, and still traumatized.
The detective who investigated the case closed it rapidly and the perpetrator served his time. My issue is Preby's culpability. I wanted to pursue litigation against this huge rental corporation, so much more powerful than I, and allowed their manager, Terri Way, to talk me out of it. I know there is nothing any officer can do about that. It was many years ago, and reluctantly, I followed Ms. Way to Riverside, with great resistance. The supervisory agent then, Ellen Hovey, knew she dodged a bullet, knew how traumatic becoming a crime victim was for me, and under her manager, Michael Howard, I was treated with deference until he left.
Since he was replaced by Debra Schwab in 2005, I have been under repeated duress. I was banned from the dining service during that time, harassed by the tenants knocking on my door and pelting me was bars of soap. An attorney named Steven Gold assisted me with that, and undoubtedly as officers you might suggest it is over and done with. Of course, but then I was molested and robbed by two personal care attendants from Unlimited Staffing in 2006, at which time I ceased getting aides on the Medicaid Waiver, out of fear. At least one in three of these woman attempted to exploit me, and I've let it go and let it go, and can't anymore.
Up until last year, I used my personal monies for housekeeping help, and that is now gone. I am unemployed with the exception of sparse freelance commissions. Trudy Richardson, her boss, and Debra Horne have repeatedly threatened me and excoriated me at every opportunity, and if I had stood up to Ms. Way in 1993, I could have litigated the Diamond Park owner's negligence and returned back to Delaware County near my immediate family. I want an admission of liability from Diamond Park's owner, and given what I've been through, if Presby is a so called Christian company, let them pay for unit cleanings. I am strangled in debt, trying to go back to work, and if Ms. Horne is so concerned about my mental affect, she and I had a meeting about the fact that my former supervisor at the local disability center had created a toxic environment for me, but in 2007, with an assessment team corralling me in the doorway, they insisted that I return to the disability center for services while my supervisor was Vice President and chief officer.
Every white professional I've spoken to about what happened to me due to my interaction with Linda at the center understands I cannot return there with their coordinators, but not Debra Horne. Her role here at Presby is to attack every vulnerability, and treat wheelchair users like zoological specimens who need to be caged. I refuse to go down this way after years of fighting for viable matriculation. If this company wants to evict me, that is an option freely available to them. If your officers think I am now falling into the troublemaker category and want to remove me from the building environs for not being able to measure up to ambulatory standards, then do that. I do not do drugs. I don't drink, but I'm going to put your motto to protect and serve to the test. This company violates my rights, and I consider the fact that I've lived in a senior living facility since I was 23 tantamount to a hate crime. I want out, and I want this company's conduct toward the disabled investigated. Copies of this complaint will be going to the ACLU, state attorney's offices, and the Human Relations Commission.
I realize you have much more traumatic domestic issues to deal with, but I am not going to die like Danieal Kelly begging for water while this city's governing competency continues to generate national embarrassment. I apologize for the two or three minutes of your time this took to read.
Sunday, July 19, 2015
Crippling Assimilation, Twice Timed
As I indicated nearly two years ago, I found O somewhat too self-conscious in its fidelity, not to fault the actors implicitly, though I remain indecisive about Mekhi's performance. I will have to grumble, curse my own obstinacy, revise some of my older posts, haul Riverside Shakespeare out of my bookcase, review the play and see the damn film again, as I do not agree with Ebert's thought processes on this particular adaptation. Axing part of my seminal biography mode is not difficult, but it is tricky. I poured heart and soul into this account, and while I concede to critics that my elisions lack clarity-- even my intent on any particular day leads to an internal query as to why I went in a particular direction and mashed potatoes-- I have to revise cautiously.
These posts are my markers, whether I fade or actually vindicate my scorched disillusionment. I studied Othello with another professor, not Jerry McGuire, and whether that has any bearing on my disenchantment I'll leave unanswered, but Othello is a problematic drama beneath its notorious conflagrations. Multiculturalism is the strife of humanity, and what Shakespeare is doing with his Moor and the slaughter of lambs is one thing, what O does is condemn Eurocentrism for putting Africans in their present predicament in ways which go beyond enslavement as an industry, which of course was wrong, but the film is provocative within its integral framework, beyond the issue of gun violence and the varied legacy of American mass shootings.
These posts are my markers, whether I fade or actually vindicate my scorched disillusionment. I studied Othello with another professor, not Jerry McGuire, and whether that has any bearing on my disenchantment I'll leave unanswered, but Othello is a problematic drama beneath its notorious conflagrations. Multiculturalism is the strife of humanity, and what Shakespeare is doing with his Moor and the slaughter of lambs is one thing, what O does is condemn Eurocentrism for putting Africans in their present predicament in ways which go beyond enslavement as an industry, which of course was wrong, but the film is provocative within its integral framework, beyond the issue of gun violence and the varied legacy of American mass shootings.
Saturday, July 18, 2015
A break from the break of a sax serendipidity
You purchase Pain with all that Joy can give,/
And die of nothing but a Rage to live.--the last enlightened hunchback
The 1961 Goodbye Again is a masterpiece of my era, still a vibrant, living film. All Night Long, despite its fidelity to Stratford, cleverly embedded in a beatnik improvisation, fails the litmus test of its underlying anxiety, unsure of its own liberalism. Paul Harris does a good job of reversing expectations as the naturally regal chieftain, and McGoohan does as well as my managerial agent Trudy Richardson exaggerating the cowardliness of dissembling, but much like the problem of Othello itself, McGoohan loses hold of Johnny's core, and there is no accountability here for anyone. Des is not in forensics with ligature marks. Cas doesn't press charges, Rex abandons his band with Oedipal guilt, his wife chasing after him submissively, perhaps as an albatross of uncertain omen, and Patrick bangs his drum in insolence. Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?, five years older and nearly as evasive, is nearly down by comparison.
O comes nearly 40 years later, transliterating to the jazz on the court, is more provocative, but at least has a rationale? If Cosby wants the opportunity of a comeback, one way he might do it is by challenging the meandering estuaries of Obama's legacy. We have the 44th president of the US excoriating a comedian who could be his father on the basis of civil court transcripts-- this says as much about our national uncertainty as the controversy over Iran's entry into the nuclear family. We cannot define Bill Cosby as a monster and simply ask Congress to revoke his medal. My attacker was a black addict. I've forgiven him.
I have interacted with Joan Tarshis and could have easily lied to the woman. She thought I was in the Cosby press corp and I gently corrected her, but it was within that interaction that I came to sympathize with Eugene Robinson's dissonance over Cosby's serial accusers. Social shaming has its place, but can rapidly capsize too far leeward.
And die of nothing but a Rage to live.--the last enlightened hunchback
The 1961 Goodbye Again is a masterpiece of my era, still a vibrant, living film. All Night Long, despite its fidelity to Stratford, cleverly embedded in a beatnik improvisation, fails the litmus test of its underlying anxiety, unsure of its own liberalism. Paul Harris does a good job of reversing expectations as the naturally regal chieftain, and McGoohan does as well as my managerial agent Trudy Richardson exaggerating the cowardliness of dissembling, but much like the problem of Othello itself, McGoohan loses hold of Johnny's core, and there is no accountability here for anyone. Des is not in forensics with ligature marks. Cas doesn't press charges, Rex abandons his band with Oedipal guilt, his wife chasing after him submissively, perhaps as an albatross of uncertain omen, and Patrick bangs his drum in insolence. Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?, five years older and nearly as evasive, is nearly down by comparison.
O comes nearly 40 years later, transliterating to the jazz on the court, is more provocative, but at least has a rationale? If Cosby wants the opportunity of a comeback, one way he might do it is by challenging the meandering estuaries of Obama's legacy. We have the 44th president of the US excoriating a comedian who could be his father on the basis of civil court transcripts-- this says as much about our national uncertainty as the controversy over Iran's entry into the nuclear family. We cannot define Bill Cosby as a monster and simply ask Congress to revoke his medal. My attacker was a black addict. I've forgiven him.
I have interacted with Joan Tarshis and could have easily lied to the woman. She thought I was in the Cosby press corp and I gently corrected her, but it was within that interaction that I came to sympathize with Eugene Robinson's dissonance over Cosby's serial accusers. Social shaming has its place, but can rapidly capsize too far leeward.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Behind The Bars Schematic, With Sharp Hazel Glint
I never knew Patrick McGoohan was American born. I thought he was British, and his image was carefully crafted as such, that precursor to James Woods' hypermania. Perhaps I could go desecrate his grave and go out on a weird news item. I got up late and watched the tiresome Danes of Unit One despite myself and inadvertently went down memory lane with All Night Long, ate a little and managed no further misadventures on the toilet, and honestly do not know if I am dying due to my cop down to nicotine vapor, or if it is just the stress of generically bad medical equipment and that I need a shower and a better mattress. Acceptance. Seven stages of death, or aggrandizement of allergies, and I'm still in the process of sniveling to the Philadelphia police force. Can't get a lawyer? Whine to the enforcers and all the sudden you can die in Kafka's comic moral guilt. My fall in oh 2007 was actually serious. I was in my badly fitted manual Quickie I purchased for 810 on my own dime, and flipped accidentally wedging my left breast on the feline carrier. I thought I was going to die, and to make a long story short a rendezous with Geek Squad led the guard to my door but the stitch under my armpit is constant and if it is cancer it certainly isn't being aggressive.
I did actually see most of The Prisoner on PBS, and unfortunately cannot refresh my memory either through Amazon's avarice or AT&T's lassitude with their garrulous disabled customer, but the series is certainly a cult status farce with deep seated roots in the satirical tradition, and I'm interested in expanding its allegorical bent; for that reviewing is necessary. What McGoohan did well as a performer was offer the reassurance of definition and then fracture it. But let me go for now. I am trying to stay comfortable enough to work and shut off my "I cannot go on" outcry and work and remain upset that I managed nothing and had to log on because of the omnipresent automatic updates. I'm studying what I watch for a blog which really pleases my own interests, when I started what ten years ago was new fangled, all the rage, blogging, and it's already dead. Damned if I understand online ebbs and trends, but I cannot work and study every fucking video under my nose and make myself homeless to really shorten my death by COPD. Hopefully, I'll be back in a few days.
I did actually see most of The Prisoner on PBS, and unfortunately cannot refresh my memory either through Amazon's avarice or AT&T's lassitude with their garrulous disabled customer, but the series is certainly a cult status farce with deep seated roots in the satirical tradition, and I'm interested in expanding its allegorical bent; for that reviewing is necessary. What McGoohan did well as a performer was offer the reassurance of definition and then fracture it. But let me go for now. I am trying to stay comfortable enough to work and shut off my "I cannot go on" outcry and work and remain upset that I managed nothing and had to log on because of the omnipresent automatic updates. I'm studying what I watch for a blog which really pleases my own interests, when I started what ten years ago was new fangled, all the rage, blogging, and it's already dead. Damned if I understand online ebbs and trends, but I cannot work and study every fucking video under my nose and make myself homeless to really shorten my death by COPD. Hopefully, I'll be back in a few days.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Disaster, but the moths are tenacious
I set the phone alarm and heard it buzzing, but I sat up at six and took a pass on The Cafe and the computer programmers and working class brawn, missed Patterson Inc because I did not wait and when I stood at the bar the pain was unbearable, all from standard summer humidity, and I spent little over an hour slipping but miraculously not landing on the tile in my own waste, and in desperation drove under the shower head, in this horrible power chair, and neither CBS nor anyone else airs "The Silence of the Cicadas" as a free viewing, and I mope, still cleaning up in the bathroom, not knowing where to turn. Surrender?
Can you contemplate what moving to Inglis House entails at my age? What they will force upon me? I've dealt with the brutality of institutional regimes since I was five years old, and now I have to go back? I would not survive the constraints the system would force upon me, whether or not my dead mother's voice insists I'd enjoy "concerts". In small groups I'm fine. Concerts? Human animals flocking together for song or sports leads to altercations.
Driving under the shower worked, in small increments. I need a live in companion, but not here, and have to decide whether I fight the exterminator in the morning or try the pity violin. Libertarian philosophy presupposes the actual ability to resist, but what the hell am I going to do if Presbyterian Homes seeks state authorization to put me away? Sure, I give my notice, but then access to the power grid goes primal, and an accessible bathroom becomes a four star hotel. I haven't given up on Liberty on the Rocks. I like them, for the sheer incongruity of the group. The brawn mingling with the yuppies, the soft with the hard, but finding friends to give me a hug and support outside of the merciless autocracy destroying us all? That takes doing, evidently.
Can you contemplate what moving to Inglis House entails at my age? What they will force upon me? I've dealt with the brutality of institutional regimes since I was five years old, and now I have to go back? I would not survive the constraints the system would force upon me, whether or not my dead mother's voice insists I'd enjoy "concerts". In small groups I'm fine. Concerts? Human animals flocking together for song or sports leads to altercations.
Driving under the shower worked, in small increments. I need a live in companion, but not here, and have to decide whether I fight the exterminator in the morning or try the pity violin. Libertarian philosophy presupposes the actual ability to resist, but what the hell am I going to do if Presbyterian Homes seeks state authorization to put me away? Sure, I give my notice, but then access to the power grid goes primal, and an accessible bathroom becomes a four star hotel. I haven't given up on Liberty on the Rocks. I like them, for the sheer incongruity of the group. The brawn mingling with the yuppies, the soft with the hard, but finding friends to give me a hug and support outside of the merciless autocracy destroying us all? That takes doing, evidently.
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
The Mercy of Adam Kokesh
In many countries, lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people are persecuted, attacked and killed.-- Fred Hiatt, an admirable opinion writer otherwise.
If I attempted to throw myself on the mercy of the Libertarians, just as with the the leftists, it would be to little avail. Some of you may or may not know I tweeted the indomitable Tony Stiles a direct message asking him if he could help me leave Philly to let me know, and I did not expect his largess to follow through and leap to my rescue in the shadow nation we'll call Nigerland, as I'm not sure I'm ready to risk total banishment in digital space just yet if I allow myself my true nasty colors-- for which Poets & Writers did ban me, but in my four years of running my mouth on Speakeasy, my vitriol had not coalesced into extremism in this unfortunate spastic frame. I list to my right, my right arm flexes in, and I'm peasant trash who really believed she could be a matriculated establishment player, after years of fighting the welfare state, I'm right back where I started leaving a large impersonal city campus without enough money to wash the piss out of my laundry. I became distraught with every resignation from every job I hated, and leaving the Matrix Research Institute was no exception, but the difference then, in 1996, was I knew I was fucking finished. Circumstances merely dragged things out. I started to write for money after dear lesbian bitch dead in my own heart published Leaving The Matrix Institute in a PA council on disability chapbook, and I managed to get lucky, and then surprised when mommy dropped and her insurance carrier left her children money. My younger sister wanted my cut and I said no. She and Ben joked about how long I held onto that nest egg, and now it's over. I'm on the verge of irrational flight out of one of the better 202 housing units in center city, mostly due to shame over my creativity with skid marks, my inability to get along with the wastrels in this community, the wastrels who make up the majority in this country, broken by the Roosevelt's culture of dependency. You want to come clean my apartment as an act of charity before the exterminator shows up tomorrow and my war with Trudy Richardson begins again?
No? I thought not. This fucking Jazzy is hurting me, and all I want is to run, and pray for luck, when I actually logged on to research Medicaid's health care plans. If I could I'd slide into a hole and starve to death while the beat goes on, and as yet, I endure, but probably not much longer. I wonder what Hiatt would have to say about gay activist corruption that had such a disparate impact on my well being. He'd parse it no doubt by differentiating bad acts from equal treatment. And my response?
Fuck that.
If I attempted to throw myself on the mercy of the Libertarians, just as with the the leftists, it would be to little avail. Some of you may or may not know I tweeted the indomitable Tony Stiles a direct message asking him if he could help me leave Philly to let me know, and I did not expect his largess to follow through and leap to my rescue in the shadow nation we'll call Nigerland, as I'm not sure I'm ready to risk total banishment in digital space just yet if I allow myself my true nasty colors-- for which Poets & Writers did ban me, but in my four years of running my mouth on Speakeasy, my vitriol had not coalesced into extremism in this unfortunate spastic frame. I list to my right, my right arm flexes in, and I'm peasant trash who really believed she could be a matriculated establishment player, after years of fighting the welfare state, I'm right back where I started leaving a large impersonal city campus without enough money to wash the piss out of my laundry. I became distraught with every resignation from every job I hated, and leaving the Matrix Research Institute was no exception, but the difference then, in 1996, was I knew I was fucking finished. Circumstances merely dragged things out. I started to write for money after dear lesbian bitch dead in my own heart published Leaving The Matrix Institute in a PA council on disability chapbook, and I managed to get lucky, and then surprised when mommy dropped and her insurance carrier left her children money. My younger sister wanted my cut and I said no. She and Ben joked about how long I held onto that nest egg, and now it's over. I'm on the verge of irrational flight out of one of the better 202 housing units in center city, mostly due to shame over my creativity with skid marks, my inability to get along with the wastrels in this community, the wastrels who make up the majority in this country, broken by the Roosevelt's culture of dependency. You want to come clean my apartment as an act of charity before the exterminator shows up tomorrow and my war with Trudy Richardson begins again?
No? I thought not. This fucking Jazzy is hurting me, and all I want is to run, and pray for luck, when I actually logged on to research Medicaid's health care plans. If I could I'd slide into a hole and starve to death while the beat goes on, and as yet, I endure, but probably not much longer. I wonder what Hiatt would have to say about gay activist corruption that had such a disparate impact on my well being. He'd parse it no doubt by differentiating bad acts from equal treatment. And my response?
Fuck that.
Sunday, July 12, 2015
Powder Charge Hypocrisy Clearance
Hard as it is for me to believe, I've lived without a cable television subscription since 1997, although I've managed to cling to my ISP, perhaps not with the most effective diligence. My lack of focus on cable series is mostly about time management as opposed to poverty. I have 600 texts to read, trying to move without a job and an evil colon, loss of body mass and other plagues, but the other issue is I am not really interested in Orange Is The New Black or House of Cards. They are fine series, but my spirit has been imprisoned since I did the wrong thing by slamming my damn skull against North Philadelphia. I do not need to watch white chicks who actually broke the law join the fuck up world of minority loose ends trying to hold it together simply because I was obstinate. I'm still interested in Six Feet Under, as long as Michael Hall and Mathew St Patrick do not become overly graphic, and may purchase the seasons in chunks, but other than a little research into Orphan Black, I do not know what the big league subscription dependent channels have that I might wish to mine. Walking Dead is available and I'm not religious about it. It took me a little time to find Bounce, and I booted ION off my favorites to replace it with the black channel.
Spastic bigot struggles with futility to rend her cheap knit and beat her breast: I'm only there for the material, and there is plenty to be had, like this weird bit of grisly delusion. Legacy has issues as a dramatic vehicle, even if Thomas Ikimi is using *blackness* to serve up deep seated conspiracy theories. Is it indirectly about Obama's and white governance? Is Eamonn believable as a senator waiting in the wings to finally dispense with the democratic process? As a supporting actor he is as solid as a Zulu, and British. Just turning my stones. Arch smile.
Spastic bigot struggles with futility to rend her cheap knit and beat her breast: I'm only there for the material, and there is plenty to be had, like this weird bit of grisly delusion. Legacy has issues as a dramatic vehicle, even if Thomas Ikimi is using *blackness* to serve up deep seated conspiracy theories. Is it indirectly about Obama's and white governance? Is Eamonn believable as a senator waiting in the wings to finally dispense with the democratic process? As a supporting actor he is as solid as a Zulu, and British. Just turning my stones. Arch smile.
Life Imitations Leaves Scar Tissue
"Things are pretty much the same everywhere."-- Timothy Hallinan's Thai cop sidekick
This trial in Thailand seems to echo Western perceptions of vacuous Asian ethics, in a border country seemingly caught in an intersection. I have the actual AP feed bookmarked on my phone, and may refer back to it, but this seems a bit spooky, superimposed from our narrative entertainments in exotic locales. A Nail Through The Heart makes the Scandinavian television series, The Legacy, look like a picnic, and The Beach, as a film, dilutes itself with a poorly referenced plot, but why Thailand? A constitutional monarchy surrounded by a history of leftist extremes, with a big lying socialist bully up north, suffering and pleasuring civilization and savagery collide in an interesting dynamic. Hallinan's novel was so powerful it made me lie for hours in the dark, superimposing many things of my own. Timothy's American optimism perseveres through his travel detective, despite a tidal wave of genocidal deception, and mine cannot, even though he thanked me for my review when I was still with Examiner.
I have been thinking about proportionality for some time, and this case raises it in spades, whether the migrants are guilty or being set up, what possible justice is there for such a brutal attack? The British families will be haunted the rest of their lives, and what motives Zaw and Win may have had seems puzzling, as the evidence indicates there was a degree of rage to these killings. The case also is an exception to sociological studies about class and crime. The indignant do not kill the privileged, except when they do, apparently to sate some driving impulse.
I part company with conservatives like George Will about the death penalty in the US. Will acknowledges the reality of its erosion, and it is a state sanctioned cessation of life in which a percentage of innocent individuals were unjustly electrocuted, hanged, or injected, but I do not think it should be abolished. Some humans are heinous beyond incarceration, but anyway you choose to parse it, justice for these two Britons doesn't seem attainable through standard judicial procedure.
This trial in Thailand seems to echo Western perceptions of vacuous Asian ethics, in a border country seemingly caught in an intersection. I have the actual AP feed bookmarked on my phone, and may refer back to it, but this seems a bit spooky, superimposed from our narrative entertainments in exotic locales. A Nail Through The Heart makes the Scandinavian television series, The Legacy, look like a picnic, and The Beach, as a film, dilutes itself with a poorly referenced plot, but why Thailand? A constitutional monarchy surrounded by a history of leftist extremes, with a big lying socialist bully up north, suffering and pleasuring civilization and savagery collide in an interesting dynamic. Hallinan's novel was so powerful it made me lie for hours in the dark, superimposing many things of my own. Timothy's American optimism perseveres through his travel detective, despite a tidal wave of genocidal deception, and mine cannot, even though he thanked me for my review when I was still with Examiner.
I have been thinking about proportionality for some time, and this case raises it in spades, whether the migrants are guilty or being set up, what possible justice is there for such a brutal attack? The British families will be haunted the rest of their lives, and what motives Zaw and Win may have had seems puzzling, as the evidence indicates there was a degree of rage to these killings. The case also is an exception to sociological studies about class and crime. The indignant do not kill the privileged, except when they do, apparently to sate some driving impulse.
I part company with conservatives like George Will about the death penalty in the US. Will acknowledges the reality of its erosion, and it is a state sanctioned cessation of life in which a percentage of innocent individuals were unjustly electrocuted, hanged, or injected, but I do not think it should be abolished. Some humans are heinous beyond incarceration, but anyway you choose to parse it, justice for these two Britons doesn't seem attainable through standard judicial procedure.
Friday, July 10, 2015
Humidity, Organic Plummer
Last week, Ms. Rubin castigated the GOP, presumably due to Trump's rise into the second tier, and I believe this is the link to her commentary:
I have little to opine on Trump's comments, even if the murder in San Francisco fueled them. Perhaps Twinkie city might want to rethink how it cooperates with our federale keystone cops in the future. With this concession in mind, Donald Trump is a shyster and a con artist, and militarizing the border with Mexico by aping Israel's concrete bunker mentality is not a solution to Latino population pressure to retake the Americas that those of European descent took with the horse and bayonet. But where I part company with Jennifer is on her chastisement toward moderation in conservative alarm. If Trump is successfully tapping in to Caucasian unease, it is precisely Caucasian unease for which I've taken my lumps on this account, and, while I cannot say that jingoism will destroy the GOP of Senator Toomey and John Boehner, the American left is out of its mind, and we'll see far worse than Trump in the future if progressives truly believe that erasure is going to create a Frank Capra utopia. The only reason I haven't signed up to join a movement like ISIL is because of the moderate severity of my symptoms due to the extent of my cerebral palsy, but this is no indicator of my lack of willingness to engage in insurrection against the US if I had the physical skill and ability to do so. This is how deep my anger runs, but I lack the requisite skills, and for all of his methodical ability, the DC sniper, who had the requisite skills, allowed himself to get caught rather than build a following.
Jennifer referenced conservative hysteria over the gay marriage ruling. I have no hysteria. We all knew that once states began recognizing same sex unions, those states that resisted would fall due to interstate commerce clauses. I am not against gay marriage. I am against homosexual practices being given equality with heterosexual intercourse and its ability to propagate the species. Forcibly erasing the genealogy of the past, to reference Foucault, whose sexual practices made him one of the earliest French sacrifices to AIDS, is worse than any reactionary crimes perpetuated in its name. As my digestive system is stressing, and I need to solve my bathing mobility over the weekend, we'll leave it there, but rest assured, I've been turning over stones in my wearied mind frame. Pansies are no doubt celebratory that I'm weakened to such an extent.
If the GOP does not want to be the Doesn’t Get It party, it better start acting like it respects all Americans. http://t.co/IjoZCYj5O4
— Jennifer Rubin (@JRubinBlogger) July 9, 2015
I have little to opine on Trump's comments, even if the murder in San Francisco fueled them. Perhaps Twinkie city might want to rethink how it cooperates with our federale keystone cops in the future. With this concession in mind, Donald Trump is a shyster and a con artist, and militarizing the border with Mexico by aping Israel's concrete bunker mentality is not a solution to Latino population pressure to retake the Americas that those of European descent took with the horse and bayonet. But where I part company with Jennifer is on her chastisement toward moderation in conservative alarm. If Trump is successfully tapping in to Caucasian unease, it is precisely Caucasian unease for which I've taken my lumps on this account, and, while I cannot say that jingoism will destroy the GOP of Senator Toomey and John Boehner, the American left is out of its mind, and we'll see far worse than Trump in the future if progressives truly believe that erasure is going to create a Frank Capra utopia. The only reason I haven't signed up to join a movement like ISIL is because of the moderate severity of my symptoms due to the extent of my cerebral palsy, but this is no indicator of my lack of willingness to engage in insurrection against the US if I had the physical skill and ability to do so. This is how deep my anger runs, but I lack the requisite skills, and for all of his methodical ability, the DC sniper, who had the requisite skills, allowed himself to get caught rather than build a following.
Jennifer referenced conservative hysteria over the gay marriage ruling. I have no hysteria. We all knew that once states began recognizing same sex unions, those states that resisted would fall due to interstate commerce clauses. I am not against gay marriage. I am against homosexual practices being given equality with heterosexual intercourse and its ability to propagate the species. Forcibly erasing the genealogy of the past, to reference Foucault, whose sexual practices made him one of the earliest French sacrifices to AIDS, is worse than any reactionary crimes perpetuated in its name. As my digestive system is stressing, and I need to solve my bathing mobility over the weekend, we'll leave it there, but rest assured, I've been turning over stones in my wearied mind frame. Pansies are no doubt celebratory that I'm weakened to such an extent.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
la vendetta del vecchio temporizzatore!
Finally! Network comes up with a dramatic series I desire to follow, crock of malarkey back draft echo of Day of the Animals it may be! I have no chastisement to offer Bryan Fuller about the subversive artistry of his Hannibal. I enjoyed it, and the show's contractual problems are unfortunate, but armchair anarchists do not need to view, on a daily basis, the tightly controlled frissons out of the multi-millions bankrolled on the notorious anti-hero of Thomas Harris. Hannibal's mindset is analogous to Google's efficiency model: the surgeon psychiatrist kills for the ephemeral pleasures of culinary aesthetics, and the murderers whose language Lecter understands, these kill for quests on the dark side of Slade's challenge to us that violence has its own beauty in the hands of the artist. Real urban crime simply ripples into a diffusion of responsibility, and I would have attempted to save Sutherland's life. I did act, in North Philadelphia, despite the constant violence which created my controversial posts-- not that I haven't been paralyzed by fear-- but I would have forced the commuters on that car to jump the suspect.
Whoever is writing The Zoo scripts, I have a season cliff hanger to suggest: have two, three pods of orca wipe out California. Give Jerry Brown a cameo and let him stick his head in the jaws of a Seaworld whale we wonderful humans hold captive for our entertainment, and on a mild note to CBS: if your line producers hurt one kitty, then I'm coming to New York and I'll kick your damn asses, kabeesh?
Whoever is writing The Zoo scripts, I have a season cliff hanger to suggest: have two, three pods of orca wipe out California. Give Jerry Brown a cameo and let him stick his head in the jaws of a Seaworld whale we wonderful humans hold captive for our entertainment, and on a mild note to CBS: if your line producers hurt one kitty, then I'm coming to New York and I'll kick your damn asses, kabeesh?
Tuesday, July 7, 2015
Strike The Dragon
It's a crusade the WWF refers to in the hardened terms of war.--the Warren and Baker expose of an ethical dilemma long predicted here by the spastic dowager
We often put up with the wooden acting of Jet Li, prevalent even in his Chinese biopics, for the improbable calisthenics of his martial arts training. No one human being, whether Lee or Li, can truly prevail against such a fusillade of forces arrayed against against him, but the fantastical exploits so carefully choreographed, offer the human imagination a transcendent appeasement. Kiss of the Dragon (2001) 14 years young, is actually not a bad mesh of sub-genres. Martial arts meets softened variation of the French thriller as an exported imitation of the American formula. Virtuous and focused Asian cop goes up against diabolical French enforcer of corruption, and Bridget Fonda offers the mew of tarnished American innocence offered the requisite redemption via application of Oriental virtue, the Hollywood seal of approval for why Chinamerica is, after all, a beneficial mirage for both Asia and the northern hemisphere. Chris Nahon may also have unwittingly or deliberately directed what is essentially a revenge fantasy for the Yangtze Agreement to which the European powers gave consensus in the first year of the 20th century in the aftermath of a naval power's rather unpopular victory in the Opium Wars. What does Karyo's character do? Kills an Asian dealer for self-preservation? What did the British armada achieve in gaining access to China's coastal region? Profits. The entire plot of this film contravenes the reality of Mao's cultural revolution, while Xi, who is Maoist 2.0, with Google's acquiescence, is going to solve the problem of poverty as a moral failing, which senior fellow Niall Ferguson says cannot be solved, through the implied process of extermination. For my part, I'll side with neo-imperialism, however irrelevant our actions appear to be anymore. What a bummer.
We often put up with the wooden acting of Jet Li, prevalent even in his Chinese biopics, for the improbable calisthenics of his martial arts training. No one human being, whether Lee or Li, can truly prevail against such a fusillade of forces arrayed against against him, but the fantastical exploits so carefully choreographed, offer the human imagination a transcendent appeasement. Kiss of the Dragon (2001) 14 years young, is actually not a bad mesh of sub-genres. Martial arts meets softened variation of the French thriller as an exported imitation of the American formula. Virtuous and focused Asian cop goes up against diabolical French enforcer of corruption, and Bridget Fonda offers the mew of tarnished American innocence offered the requisite redemption via application of Oriental virtue, the Hollywood seal of approval for why Chinamerica is, after all, a beneficial mirage for both Asia and the northern hemisphere. Chris Nahon may also have unwittingly or deliberately directed what is essentially a revenge fantasy for the Yangtze Agreement to which the European powers gave consensus in the first year of the 20th century in the aftermath of a naval power's rather unpopular victory in the Opium Wars. What does Karyo's character do? Kills an Asian dealer for self-preservation? What did the British armada achieve in gaining access to China's coastal region? Profits. The entire plot of this film contravenes the reality of Mao's cultural revolution, while Xi, who is Maoist 2.0, with Google's acquiescence, is going to solve the problem of poverty as a moral failing, which senior fellow Niall Ferguson says cannot be solved, through the implied process of extermination. For my part, I'll side with neo-imperialism, however irrelevant our actions appear to be anymore. What a bummer.
Pop the Balloon
Jonathan Weiner's non-fiction enterprise was of interest precisely due to his reviewer's diffidence, precisely due to the author's lack of diligence. Initially, I was sympathetic to Weiner's fusion of European culture with the complex science of microbiology. Aubrey Jasper de Grey, featured prominently in Weiner's approach to the science of immortality, is a composite of the British eccentric, and learning about how Aubrey became obsessed with cellular biology is entertaining, but Weiner's attempt to behave like a Renaissance humanist falls apart in this book. He glosses over Francis Bacon and he glosses over Montaigne, and by the opening of part three, who cares about Aubrey's near ascetic compulsion to see humanity defeat death? Many of my readers may wonder if I am play acting at times, since, how can a disabled writer be against homosexuality in and of itself? It is an absurd position, and if the disabled writer wasn't so dissolute and poor, it is at least speculatively a dangerous position to have, and that same disabled writer's racism is unconscionable if she is as clever as she professes to be, but Jonathan's scattered bird pellet approach to his thesis makes the terror of the Inquisition seem almost a rational authoritarian stricture next to the hubris of our 21st century ambitions. We're going to defeat death itself. We're going to enter the transhumanist age of Singularity, and yet we cannot solve the basic economic problems of liquidity for everyone. We all claim we're universally tolerant and cannot mitigate geographical reality, whether it's American inner cities or the fall of Middle Eastern deserts to fanaticism, or the fact that West Africans are about as brutal governing themselves as Imperial Europeans were in governing them in the colonial age.
In part three of his book, Weiner focuses on how death is a Kantian concern throughout the course of human civilization, as of course, it would be-- but let us say, for the sake of argument, that Weiner and Aubrey are right and within two or three lifetimes, we solve the problem of DNA entropy and the metaphysics of ontology is solved for complex organisms. It would seem to put the very process of living in stasis, which is not how evolution works. We may not be able to answer why life is what it is, which is about surviving to make successful copies of itself, but there is only so much matter to go around, and death recycles finite sources of material, especially water.
There is also the issue of progression. We invented the wheel. We maximized food sources through agriculture and animal husbandry. Created propulsion and artificial wings and learned how to aggregate data through circuitry, pushing the limits of what is manageable even with the extraordinary capacity of the human mind. I'm 53 and I'm rather bored with the fictions of convenience as a shield against calamity. Let's take physics, which says that galaxies behave in predictable ways, and stars burn in predictable increments of time, but what if that predictability was disrupted? What if the Sun stopped behaving as a well heeled middle aged star and something went wrong? The Internet wouldn't amount to much if a massive solar flare stripped away the Earth's magnetic field, hence we shouldn't presume we can exist as a species to witness the end of time itself. Infinity and immortality aren't verifiable concepts, as such. A few million years ago, our primate ancestors were creating the big toe and wrist ligaments that branched us off from gorillas and chimpanzees, and now we spend our time playing God when we aren't otherwise insufferably shallow, and if Weiner even knew my warped skeletal frame was typing this post, he'd probably say "Geez, I really ticked her off." And yes, he has.
Despite a life of regimented unhappiness, I fear death, which is an illogical emotional investment within my suffering, destructive impulses. I'll be gone soon just as Montaigne was at 59, even if I will not be quite sure how, through stresses to my heart, or COPD, but to extrapolate being the child of the postwar generation, and to add what? Two hundred years to that? A thousand? I agree with my father. Once you reach a certain age, you get tired. I do not share the digital optimism of people like Ev Williams, and the reason is simple. Despite all the marvels of human innovation, marvels which at least precipitated my survival, I cannot even satisfy the simple wish to relocate and return to the suburban modality of my youth. It isn't as if I'm aspiring towards the software moguls that populate Silicon Valley, like Bill Gates.
In part three of his book, Weiner focuses on how death is a Kantian concern throughout the course of human civilization, as of course, it would be-- but let us say, for the sake of argument, that Weiner and Aubrey are right and within two or three lifetimes, we solve the problem of DNA entropy and the metaphysics of ontology is solved for complex organisms. It would seem to put the very process of living in stasis, which is not how evolution works. We may not be able to answer why life is what it is, which is about surviving to make successful copies of itself, but there is only so much matter to go around, and death recycles finite sources of material, especially water.
There is also the issue of progression. We invented the wheel. We maximized food sources through agriculture and animal husbandry. Created propulsion and artificial wings and learned how to aggregate data through circuitry, pushing the limits of what is manageable even with the extraordinary capacity of the human mind. I'm 53 and I'm rather bored with the fictions of convenience as a shield against calamity. Let's take physics, which says that galaxies behave in predictable ways, and stars burn in predictable increments of time, but what if that predictability was disrupted? What if the Sun stopped behaving as a well heeled middle aged star and something went wrong? The Internet wouldn't amount to much if a massive solar flare stripped away the Earth's magnetic field, hence we shouldn't presume we can exist as a species to witness the end of time itself. Infinity and immortality aren't verifiable concepts, as such. A few million years ago, our primate ancestors were creating the big toe and wrist ligaments that branched us off from gorillas and chimpanzees, and now we spend our time playing God when we aren't otherwise insufferably shallow, and if Weiner even knew my warped skeletal frame was typing this post, he'd probably say "Geez, I really ticked her off." And yes, he has.
Despite a life of regimented unhappiness, I fear death, which is an illogical emotional investment within my suffering, destructive impulses. I'll be gone soon just as Montaigne was at 59, even if I will not be quite sure how, through stresses to my heart, or COPD, but to extrapolate being the child of the postwar generation, and to add what? Two hundred years to that? A thousand? I agree with my father. Once you reach a certain age, you get tired. I do not share the digital optimism of people like Ev Williams, and the reason is simple. Despite all the marvels of human innovation, marvels which at least precipitated my survival, I cannot even satisfy the simple wish to relocate and return to the suburban modality of my youth. It isn't as if I'm aspiring towards the software moguls that populate Silicon Valley, like Bill Gates.
Sunday, July 5, 2015
The Toll of Armor
The persona Donna Leon projects on her one television interview I've seen is an insouciant fastidious reminiscent of Henry James's dinner gossip, a catty brittle old woman with a hint of viciousness, and as such, I do not care for her interpretation of Venetian cronyism that her stalwart Brunetti untangles, not that I fail to comprehend her dialectic within the procedural formula: Brunetti is a home boy, schooled, potty trained, righteous to the point of stepping on toes, but she seems more interested in acclimating Victorian values in a modern Italy which only suffocates on its history.
I like Ornen even less, in my objection to Scandinavian social mores, and I am so fed up with Danish and Norwegian and Swedish police methods that the television will stay off any further study of soft-pedaling Russian crooks, but I've seen enough of The Eagle to grasp that Halgrim's writers suggest that the shields we develop take physiological tolls: Divorced twice, absent from mother's demise, estranged from his father, Halgrim, the Danish Icelander (and what is that?) is physical vulnerable as the action hero. He has a heart attack, dies on the table after a stabbing, and much like a super predator, is a fragile hero in pursuit of justice.
I have been tempted for weeks to scold the Georgians for killing their escaped zoo animals, and we all have favorites that ignite our outrage: wolves, bears, dogs, the giraffe. For me, its felines, and in truth, it breaks my damn heart. We're 7 billion, and whatever our innate fears of our hunters as we became human, driving the big cats extinct is a crime which merits our own disappearance from the earth. I would have taken the bullet for the tiger, would it have been spared as a result. Hannibal seems to have run its course, and last week's episode seemed soft in terms of Red Dragon's adaptations. There is very little in Unit One, however, to suggest how Mads goes from emulating Persbrandt's tough love cop to the irony of Harris's superlative cannibal.
I like Ornen even less, in my objection to Scandinavian social mores, and I am so fed up with Danish and Norwegian and Swedish police methods that the television will stay off any further study of soft-pedaling Russian crooks, but I've seen enough of The Eagle to grasp that Halgrim's writers suggest that the shields we develop take physiological tolls: Divorced twice, absent from mother's demise, estranged from his father, Halgrim, the Danish Icelander (and what is that?) is physical vulnerable as the action hero. He has a heart attack, dies on the table after a stabbing, and much like a super predator, is a fragile hero in pursuit of justice.
I have been tempted for weeks to scold the Georgians for killing their escaped zoo animals, and we all have favorites that ignite our outrage: wolves, bears, dogs, the giraffe. For me, its felines, and in truth, it breaks my damn heart. We're 7 billion, and whatever our innate fears of our hunters as we became human, driving the big cats extinct is a crime which merits our own disappearance from the earth. I would have taken the bullet for the tiger, would it have been spared as a result. Hannibal seems to have run its course, and last week's episode seemed soft in terms of Red Dragon's adaptations. There is very little in Unit One, however, to suggest how Mads goes from emulating Persbrandt's tough love cop to the irony of Harris's superlative cannibal.
Thursday, July 2, 2015
Waking Wound
I still have a dialogue going with the man from India who will be in the US next week, but I doubt this is a partnership that will succeed, because I am not sufficiently agile, and I'd have to drop everything and absorb the consequences, namely, that I could never return to Riverside. Whatever the spiritual bliss of that, I still need a landing, in essence. I learned from foreign correspondents that Asian Indians are more likely to interact with vulnerable groups, and herein lies my proof.
California liberalism on the socialist side of the spectrum will paternalize me, and that plays out like a Jimmy Dean commercial, but the disabled woman dares have a valid counterpoint, and oh, her email goes to junk, but the Asian programmer deigns to interact with me. It was pleasant, however futile, or nearly futile (I am determined that team OZY and I will have a real conversation. Do I expect this conversation to provide me employment? Further my career? No, but if I can contribute a nano liter to putting OZY out of business, it would be good fodder for his program).
Dreams about my felines invariably mean something else, driving on a nearly pitch black road with little kimmy on my lap. She jumps off behind a car and I am panicking she will be killed and ask for directions at a crossroad, needing to pick which direction I want. These intra species bonds are invariably selfish, whatever I'm in the process of losing.
California liberalism on the socialist side of the spectrum will paternalize me, and that plays out like a Jimmy Dean commercial, but the disabled woman dares have a valid counterpoint, and oh, her email goes to junk, but the Asian programmer deigns to interact with me. It was pleasant, however futile, or nearly futile (I am determined that team OZY and I will have a real conversation. Do I expect this conversation to provide me employment? Further my career? No, but if I can contribute a nano liter to putting OZY out of business, it would be good fodder for his program).
Dreams about my felines invariably mean something else, driving on a nearly pitch black road with little kimmy on my lap. She jumps off behind a car and I am panicking she will be killed and ask for directions at a crossroad, needing to pick which direction I want. These intra species bonds are invariably selfish, whatever I'm in the process of losing.
Society of Friends
One wonders how a colony founded by Quakers became such a corrupt iron rust state, and I certainly cannot connect all the dots, but suspect that Irish 19th century immigration was partly to blame, with the Cosa Nostra running a close second in WW2. By the time the Italians seceded the government of Philadelphia to the blacks, it was a foregone inevitable collapse of ineptitude.
The current manager of Riverside, the last time I looked, Trudy Richardson, admonished me with her bullshit-chirpy Oprah act "I treat you how I'd want to be treated!"
Really? Presby Homes simply escalates tensions after a manager who knew their liability in relation to my trauma, Ellen Hovey, retires?
Since the hire and dismissal of Debra Schwab, who falls into the jackass blond category where I've slated Karina, my Craigslist hire, Riverside has done nothing but harass me. Nigger lesbian wants to fuck me? Oh that was wrong. Nigger Jehovah's Witness fuckwit swindles me? Oh that was wrong.
My language is deplorable? I really don't care right now. Complain, let Blogger disrupt my services. It is perfectly all right for Ozy.com to use me for its market brand and then ignore my outcry for support. That isn't defamatory behavior, simply a fact of life that I get it from all sides and I am supposed to put myself on joy juice, be happy. Make the best of it, keep trying to track down phone numbers to actually talk to people. Why is it so hard to find directory listings? Perhaps that is a small article. A Linked In piece?
The current manager of Riverside, the last time I looked, Trudy Richardson, admonished me with her bullshit-chirpy Oprah act "I treat you how I'd want to be treated!"
Really? Presby Homes simply escalates tensions after a manager who knew their liability in relation to my trauma, Ellen Hovey, retires?
Since the hire and dismissal of Debra Schwab, who falls into the jackass blond category where I've slated Karina, my Craigslist hire, Riverside has done nothing but harass me. Nigger lesbian wants to fuck me? Oh that was wrong. Nigger Jehovah's Witness fuckwit swindles me? Oh that was wrong.
My language is deplorable? I really don't care right now. Complain, let Blogger disrupt my services. It is perfectly all right for Ozy.com to use me for its market brand and then ignore my outcry for support. That isn't defamatory behavior, simply a fact of life that I get it from all sides and I am supposed to put myself on joy juice, be happy. Make the best of it, keep trying to track down phone numbers to actually talk to people. Why is it so hard to find directory listings? Perhaps that is a small article. A Linked In piece?
The Fourth World
Physicians, aside from parental fallacies, have been the cause of most of my misery. Orthopedic specialists did nothing but rape my childhood. I do not care that my surgical butchery was *necessary*. I remember my history, and simple shin braces might have sufficed. What Shriner's Hospital did to me and countless others was reprehensible. Case closed. I was spared what they did to my acquaintances with spina bifida, beating them with poles while they were suspended in mid-air
Therapists? Psychologists couldn't save my brother, my mother, and I certainly cannot say what counseling achieved for me. Nancy Rubel, to her credit, found me a corrective course from the calamity that Temple University became, but she was one counseling psychologist out of many handfuls, and during our last session, she told me she was divorced. This was to allow me to absorb that no one is perfect.
During my accidental infliction of my first degree burns in 2005, the paramedics wanted to know what I was using. Rather than having a tear burst over my lack of control, I should have simply told them nicotine. When I was finally released back to Riverside, incapable of doing anything, and on attendant care, I might add, my coordinator at Liberty was impossible to reach. Ann was deaf, weary, and near retirement, and when she saw me she yelled "Oh my God!" and spent an hour on the phone when I had previously tried to reach her for over two weeks.
How am I doing? Making threats is illegal, yes, but the disability center is, in a word, criminally incompetent. Everyone knows this about Liberty Resources, and nothing happens, whether you survive getting ousted or spend your entire career there or something in between. The attendant Ann got me was a security guard who could not handle the care I needed before I was able to transfer again. I fired her on a pretext-- excessive cell phone conversations-- and as she once told me a story about a chauffeur who turned out to be a racist-- if she has online access and connected the dots, she probably wonders what she did, since my bona fides to join the club no one chooses to be in are burnished brass at this point. I replaced her with Marie, who was too disabled herself to stay on the job, eight years before her cancer returned. The powerful narcotics did two things at the time: ignite the desire to turn myself into a vegetable, and keep lighting up.
My bouts with withdrawal eclipse my abilities to focus, except for raw jagged entries like this. A guy from India actually wrote back to me, unfazed, about becoming room mates, and I knew that he would and knew that it would whet my anger against my fine fellow citizens. A day to go before my starving mind can afford vapor cartridges, but I am used to this too. Now I need to log off and fight like hell to work or try to sleep; doubt I can.
Therapists? Psychologists couldn't save my brother, my mother, and I certainly cannot say what counseling achieved for me. Nancy Rubel, to her credit, found me a corrective course from the calamity that Temple University became, but she was one counseling psychologist out of many handfuls, and during our last session, she told me she was divorced. This was to allow me to absorb that no one is perfect.
During my accidental infliction of my first degree burns in 2005, the paramedics wanted to know what I was using. Rather than having a tear burst over my lack of control, I should have simply told them nicotine. When I was finally released back to Riverside, incapable of doing anything, and on attendant care, I might add, my coordinator at Liberty was impossible to reach. Ann was deaf, weary, and near retirement, and when she saw me she yelled "Oh my God!" and spent an hour on the phone when I had previously tried to reach her for over two weeks.
How am I doing? Making threats is illegal, yes, but the disability center is, in a word, criminally incompetent. Everyone knows this about Liberty Resources, and nothing happens, whether you survive getting ousted or spend your entire career there or something in between. The attendant Ann got me was a security guard who could not handle the care I needed before I was able to transfer again. I fired her on a pretext-- excessive cell phone conversations-- and as she once told me a story about a chauffeur who turned out to be a racist-- if she has online access and connected the dots, she probably wonders what she did, since my bona fides to join the club no one chooses to be in are burnished brass at this point. I replaced her with Marie, who was too disabled herself to stay on the job, eight years before her cancer returned. The powerful narcotics did two things at the time: ignite the desire to turn myself into a vegetable, and keep lighting up.
My bouts with withdrawal eclipse my abilities to focus, except for raw jagged entries like this. A guy from India actually wrote back to me, unfazed, about becoming room mates, and I knew that he would and knew that it would whet my anger against my fine fellow citizens. A day to go before my starving mind can afford vapor cartridges, but I am used to this too. Now I need to log off and fight like hell to work or try to sleep; doubt I can.
Wednesday, July 1, 2015
Think Positive!
Unlike Charles, or Michael Burry, who is both a writer's non-fiction construct and a real life investor with a medical degree, I failed though lack of application once too often. Case managing at my disability center was a mistake, not simply due to a pathological cat fight between me and a Jewish spastic, but because the human suffering I've seen is tearing me apart as much as the human suffering I've lived, and that includes what I had to absorb under Rick.
I do not blame the man. On the contrary, I remember his teaching lessons as if I was Elijah fed by ravens. I could see both Daniel and Rick clearly, having no desire for them, other than regret for my job. I had to be strong enough to live by institutional parameters, then absorb much worse for the sake of an appalling salary, and now minorities treat me like an imbecile, not deliberately, but because on top of all this fucking shit after being attacked by vicious dogs in their 70's for years, I should stay in this facility because I'm 52.
I'd rather become homeless and die through a seizure delivered by a taser. I'm not trying to nit pick every slight, but we've lost the ability to understand each other. Whether I go down to the telephone store this week or wait, the customer service agent couldn't grasp I log online through a USB broad brand plug in.
I still do not agree with Charles Krauthammer all the time, but I commend him for this series. Here, he tacitly admits what I more brazenly rage over. The health system is insane. I should not have to get a primary physician's script every time I need rehabilitative support, and if nothing else sparks an insurrection, the American health care models will do the trick.
**
I was, once, a powerful poet, whatever I sacrificed in technique, but alas, I didn't go into banking like TS Eliot.
I do not blame the man. On the contrary, I remember his teaching lessons as if I was Elijah fed by ravens. I could see both Daniel and Rick clearly, having no desire for them, other than regret for my job. I had to be strong enough to live by institutional parameters, then absorb much worse for the sake of an appalling salary, and now minorities treat me like an imbecile, not deliberately, but because on top of all this fucking shit after being attacked by vicious dogs in their 70's for years, I should stay in this facility because I'm 52.
I'd rather become homeless and die through a seizure delivered by a taser. I'm not trying to nit pick every slight, but we've lost the ability to understand each other. Whether I go down to the telephone store this week or wait, the customer service agent couldn't grasp I log online through a USB broad brand plug in.
I still do not agree with Charles Krauthammer all the time, but I commend him for this series. Here, he tacitly admits what I more brazenly rage over. The health system is insane. I should not have to get a primary physician's script every time I need rehabilitative support, and if nothing else sparks an insurrection, the American health care models will do the trick.
**
I was, once, a powerful poet, whatever I sacrificed in technique, but alas, I didn't go into banking like TS Eliot.
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