"I have no money to give you." -- bluntly
I have my state in error in the Darren Wilson case mentioned in my most recent post, and in my own peculiar way of back drafting an old newspaper man like Kurtis, I need to do some research, but what pisses me off, capital case aside, is that defense lawyers behave as if they're ordained, and on a crusade to prevent extermination, refusing to look reality in the eye, and see dissembling manipulation for what it is.
This was an old case, early nineties, no new juice in it unless I find something, but the whole episode seems to predicate the true moral erosion of progressive justification: taking responsibility. It angers me. The attorney on one end of the sea saw battling mission creep, and an overgrown blunderbuss of a prisoner on the other, his demeanor oozing with "pity the poor home boy masking his own shame for being odious." It makes my skin crawl, not that my own errors in judgment are any more salient.
Karina telephoned, surprising me. Spastic presupposed she blocked my number. Spastic presupposed Karina read the blog, and took offense, even if the stereotypical hair net of the dim witted blonde fits. She is a stupid woman-girl, fishing for money I no longer have, hardly able to keep her own schedule, characteristic of the detritus hired by public welfare.
My own Cameron Diaz? Karina lacks the mastery of the actress for timing and cues, but I offered the woman the consumer model position, again. "I'm out in the country, looking for a place to live." She must be desperate, soliciting me after all these months. In a chastened civility, I asked after the mother, whose terminal cancer is now, evidently, "cured". Uh huh.
Tuesday, September 29, 2015
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Savant Density
As far as I can tell, in terms of Google Blogger services, I still have an inactive AdSense account, and would like to reactivate it, except I do not know how. Since my purchase of a domain against those who object to how I push with my reactive dips into psychic negation, I do not have an earnings tab, at least not that I can see in settings, and I'm not sure what Google customer service agents will tell me if I contact them next week to buy in again since my departure from LiveJournal.
I entertain the idea of asking my Libertarian adoptees for assistance, but that presumes Blogger will permit me to have ads despite my dim view of civilization. I suppose I'll have to telephone the company and see what's what. I could leave Blogger, but know I would not fare much better on other host services, though I only skirt the edges of blood, gore, radiation poisoning and plastique manufacture for explosive ordinance; of course I am not being serious, not in this post, about thriving in the violence of guerrilla warfare, unlike Michael Caine in The Quiet American, but I should know how to navigate through simple things like re-monetizing my damn account. Unlike Van Johnson in The End of the Affair, Michael Caine is suitably pathetic as Greene's callous journalist, Tom Fowler. Brendan Fraser, however, looks like a Clark Kent beefsteak. Perhaps he was supposed to, serving as a contrast to the wan Vietnamese amputated like fish sticks. Why do they always have to kill the loyal and loving dog? Directors do that, exposing the heartless developing world.
Should we kill the psychopaths of animal cruelty? Should Halle Berry's character in Losing Isaiah have been vindicated? I do not remember what Jackson did as the lawyer to persuade the court to overturn the adoption, but it was never made clear how it was discovered that Isaiah as a crack baby was Halle's dumpster guilt to begin with. Who the hell was supposed to know? My sympathies were for the conscientious Caucasians that Strathaim and Lange represented, the Hollywood version of the Clintonesque middle class which doesn't exist. Certainly not for Catholics.
If Almighty Google, which undoubtedly is now hardwired in every row home and apartment complex over one story, allows me to monetize again, I am not under any illusions that my ... what the fuck are you... viewers? My family having a heart attack every time fecal matter becomes a predominant motif? An audience? I'd doubt you'd click enough to provide much more of a supplement than what I earned at Examiner, but at least I could afford the yearly fee for the domain until the welfare state tortures me to my grave. Odds are it will, bad parenting and all. Government needs to get out of the business of child protection services, and progressive Innocence Project lawyers have their own blinders.
Too much trash television: I saw one of those American Justice episodes where three or four low IQ blacks gunned down a more stringent black couple who tried to foster boys who would go onto car jacking anyway, and all holy shit was raised over a platypus named Darren Wilson, who went with the guy with the low IQ and was implicated in the felony murder. The defense lawyer who took the appeal to get Wilson off death row said the blood on the shorts wasn't that of the deceased, and since Wilson was asleep in an alcoholic stupor during the killing, that he was innocent. Maybe this was Illinois, which is the Midwest.
Never have I seen liberalism go on such a crusade for such a sorry ass mother fucker as Darren, who took absolutely no responsibility for what the violently predisposed brother did to these black business owners. Moral culpability still applies, exactly the same as it would if anarchists bonded with me and knew I was up to something if I wanted to go after the pathological bigots who took such a toll on my economic security. If I had a crew that knew I had intent, in other words, they'd still be accessories even if they did not aid me in my vendetta. The more attention I give to criminal litigation, the less faith I have in it, even as I never went after my rental agent, nor a breach of contract settlement for myself.
It isn't that I am not *over* the immediate psychological damage perpetrated on me by the center between 99 and 07, but the blows have taken tolls which cannot be undone, and it is unlikely I'll find patrons to protect and get me out of Riverside, as I weaken steadily.
I entertain the idea of asking my Libertarian adoptees for assistance, but that presumes Blogger will permit me to have ads despite my dim view of civilization. I suppose I'll have to telephone the company and see what's what. I could leave Blogger, but know I would not fare much better on other host services, though I only skirt the edges of blood, gore, radiation poisoning and plastique manufacture for explosive ordinance; of course I am not being serious, not in this post, about thriving in the violence of guerrilla warfare, unlike Michael Caine in The Quiet American, but I should know how to navigate through simple things like re-monetizing my damn account. Unlike Van Johnson in The End of the Affair, Michael Caine is suitably pathetic as Greene's callous journalist, Tom Fowler. Brendan Fraser, however, looks like a Clark Kent beefsteak. Perhaps he was supposed to, serving as a contrast to the wan Vietnamese amputated like fish sticks. Why do they always have to kill the loyal and loving dog? Directors do that, exposing the heartless developing world.
Should we kill the psychopaths of animal cruelty? Should Halle Berry's character in Losing Isaiah have been vindicated? I do not remember what Jackson did as the lawyer to persuade the court to overturn the adoption, but it was never made clear how it was discovered that Isaiah as a crack baby was Halle's dumpster guilt to begin with. Who the hell was supposed to know? My sympathies were for the conscientious Caucasians that Strathaim and Lange represented, the Hollywood version of the Clintonesque middle class which doesn't exist. Certainly not for Catholics.
If Almighty Google, which undoubtedly is now hardwired in every row home and apartment complex over one story, allows me to monetize again, I am not under any illusions that my ... what the fuck are you... viewers? My family having a heart attack every time fecal matter becomes a predominant motif? An audience? I'd doubt you'd click enough to provide much more of a supplement than what I earned at Examiner, but at least I could afford the yearly fee for the domain until the welfare state tortures me to my grave. Odds are it will, bad parenting and all. Government needs to get out of the business of child protection services, and progressive Innocence Project lawyers have their own blinders.
Too much trash television: I saw one of those American Justice episodes where three or four low IQ blacks gunned down a more stringent black couple who tried to foster boys who would go onto car jacking anyway, and all holy shit was raised over a platypus named Darren Wilson, who went with the guy with the low IQ and was implicated in the felony murder. The defense lawyer who took the appeal to get Wilson off death row said the blood on the shorts wasn't that of the deceased, and since Wilson was asleep in an alcoholic stupor during the killing, that he was innocent. Maybe this was Illinois, which is the Midwest.
Never have I seen liberalism go on such a crusade for such a sorry ass mother fucker as Darren, who took absolutely no responsibility for what the violently predisposed brother did to these black business owners. Moral culpability still applies, exactly the same as it would if anarchists bonded with me and knew I was up to something if I wanted to go after the pathological bigots who took such a toll on my economic security. If I had a crew that knew I had intent, in other words, they'd still be accessories even if they did not aid me in my vendetta. The more attention I give to criminal litigation, the less faith I have in it, even as I never went after my rental agent, nor a breach of contract settlement for myself.
It isn't that I am not *over* the immediate psychological damage perpetrated on me by the center between 99 and 07, but the blows have taken tolls which cannot be undone, and it is unlikely I'll find patrons to protect and get me out of Riverside, as I weaken steadily.
Saturday, September 26, 2015
Adversary Across The Table
With a supreme act of will springing from the essence of his being, he turned away from his life and the long train of disastrous consequences that had flowed from it." --Richard Wright, Native Son, page 255, 1957 edition
I have held certain cards close to my chest about offering a responsible discussion on race, and after branching out into as many estuaries as there are going back into our seas, I've given up. Fewer black friends than gay ones, yes, but they existed, a blind couple. The wife who thought I was going to suicide over my breakdown at the capable mind games in the hands of my former spastic supervisor, her husband, my neighbor Roger Moore from long ago, sexually attractive paraplegic baller, not many more, leading into the question of why Dr. Ben Carson gained notoriety: because Americans who pay attention to network newscasts which assume a mature audience needn't be coddled like cutting edge medicine, because conjoined twins are still enough of an anomaly to hold our attention, because John Hopkins denotes prestige and Ted Koppel's God complex, and Carson was a minority neurosurgeon in this stratosphere, and yet something cut across the com links and the studio lighting in his emotive force about the Bjani sisters, a viewer could not forget the stress and anguish of "bathroom by committee," and it is that intense emotional investment by which one understands how Carson evolved into the dark horse surprise as 1 in 15.
Do I believe he will succeed Obama? No. Am I aware of the contradiction of respecting his forthrightness juxtaposed against my intolerance? Yes, and I do not intend to resolve it here; in much the same vein that liberal critics plaster Losing Isiah for tasting like tree bark, any critical observations genuinely threaten to veer off the asphalt. People like me give offense, and receive tin ears. We don't even know what having a frank discussion means anymore, except what we internalize when we're in it. Memory seeps like putty after a time, and I seem to recall Richard Corliss making grist about Jessica Lange twenty years ago, but that could not have been possible. The film still was the sociological fodder in its moment, and is, on a certain level, ludicrous. Halle might have been prepping for Cat Woman, and white adoption of black children often leads to depression and mental health disorders.
The film made an imprint, not over its quality, but over its construct and what it straddled, and then gets crucified by superior progressives like Kurchak and lambasted by those like spastic on a rightward drift, who has seen black parents engaged in aggravated assault against their children-- not to excuse my dead mother and her men, but there is still a difference.
Let me switch gears momentarily: I had a traumatic experience in email borne out of desperation and fear and told a former supervisor I thought I had fallen in love with her. On her end she was, or so I speculate, trying to save her marriage by sportscasting to me a little too much. Fifteen years later, I am debating letting a possible occlusion kill me and she wrote herself a demotional grant of some sort and still has a salary. I've put myself on trial, picked pieces apart, and I'll never be entirely repaired, even though I was in a bad space and can't put the onus entirely on her behavior-- but what it did was absolutely shut down LBGT tolerance. I will never knowingly associate with homosexuals again, not after what I put myself through.
I could, however, sit down with Dr. Carson. The gulf would be there, but both he and I know institutional paradigms to the bean, and I would not assign blame at his door for what happened to me within the community of his ethnicity. This does not mean I'd apologize for the very dark nature of my posts; it does mean I could engage, unless I err that he'd utilize the normal mechanism of recrimination.
I have held certain cards close to my chest about offering a responsible discussion on race, and after branching out into as many estuaries as there are going back into our seas, I've given up. Fewer black friends than gay ones, yes, but they existed, a blind couple. The wife who thought I was going to suicide over my breakdown at the capable mind games in the hands of my former spastic supervisor, her husband, my neighbor Roger Moore from long ago, sexually attractive paraplegic baller, not many more, leading into the question of why Dr. Ben Carson gained notoriety: because Americans who pay attention to network newscasts which assume a mature audience needn't be coddled like cutting edge medicine, because conjoined twins are still enough of an anomaly to hold our attention, because John Hopkins denotes prestige and Ted Koppel's God complex, and Carson was a minority neurosurgeon in this stratosphere, and yet something cut across the com links and the studio lighting in his emotive force about the Bjani sisters, a viewer could not forget the stress and anguish of "bathroom by committee," and it is that intense emotional investment by which one understands how Carson evolved into the dark horse surprise as 1 in 15.
Do I believe he will succeed Obama? No. Am I aware of the contradiction of respecting his forthrightness juxtaposed against my intolerance? Yes, and I do not intend to resolve it here; in much the same vein that liberal critics plaster Losing Isiah for tasting like tree bark, any critical observations genuinely threaten to veer off the asphalt. People like me give offense, and receive tin ears. We don't even know what having a frank discussion means anymore, except what we internalize when we're in it. Memory seeps like putty after a time, and I seem to recall Richard Corliss making grist about Jessica Lange twenty years ago, but that could not have been possible. The film still was the sociological fodder in its moment, and is, on a certain level, ludicrous. Halle might have been prepping for Cat Woman, and white adoption of black children often leads to depression and mental health disorders.
The film made an imprint, not over its quality, but over its construct and what it straddled, and then gets crucified by superior progressives like Kurchak and lambasted by those like spastic on a rightward drift, who has seen black parents engaged in aggravated assault against their children-- not to excuse my dead mother and her men, but there is still a difference.
Let me switch gears momentarily: I had a traumatic experience in email borne out of desperation and fear and told a former supervisor I thought I had fallen in love with her. On her end she was, or so I speculate, trying to save her marriage by sportscasting to me a little too much. Fifteen years later, I am debating letting a possible occlusion kill me and she wrote herself a demotional grant of some sort and still has a salary. I've put myself on trial, picked pieces apart, and I'll never be entirely repaired, even though I was in a bad space and can't put the onus entirely on her behavior-- but what it did was absolutely shut down LBGT tolerance. I will never knowingly associate with homosexuals again, not after what I put myself through.
I could, however, sit down with Dr. Carson. The gulf would be there, but both he and I know institutional paradigms to the bean, and I would not assign blame at his door for what happened to me within the community of his ethnicity. This does not mean I'd apologize for the very dark nature of my posts; it does mean I could engage, unless I err that he'd utilize the normal mechanism of recrimination.
Thursday, September 24, 2015
The Tyranny of Rayon Cossacks?
I've only ever read one Graham Greene story in the linear fashion, a first person sardonic account of White Liberal Writer in Haiti, and remain frustrated; his texts have not been readily digitized, and I am not keen on paying 10 to 30 dollars to get used texts as old as I was during my newborn combat with death in incubation. Deborah Kerr brought her gifts to bear in the 55 The End of the Affair, but Van Johnson is an unpleasant as a whiny and self-righteous author, and I'd rather at the novels themselves, without being able to analyze much about Greene's struggle with conscience and promiscuous satisfaction. Greene pits Catholicism in real world contexts without the special effects of the Madonna appearing as a strobe light effect to take persecuted saints to heaven, and climaxes his plots with credible sacrifices which do not in all circumstances bring grace.
Does it seem I am persuading myself back to my faith?
I am going to be gone soon, and merciless ignorantly cruel fecal bitches like Deborah Horne will win, and destroy my dignity,unless my acumen outwits such fiends, so no, I am simply a would be executioner looking at the moral struggles of a man whose realism about authority precluded the zealotry of Osama bin Laden. How's that for a brief checking in reflection? I'm about to engage in a mammoth struggle with the service sector in this city which I know so intimately, and I'll probably drop dead roaring at local bigwigs who aren't used to being cut down to size, but in between then, I can find Greene at my branch, after Francis returns to the Vatican. I am not sure whether I'm attending the service.
Does it seem I am persuading myself back to my faith?
I am going to be gone soon, and merciless ignorantly cruel fecal bitches like Deborah Horne will win, and destroy my dignity,unless my acumen outwits such fiends, so no, I am simply a would be executioner looking at the moral struggles of a man whose realism about authority precluded the zealotry of Osama bin Laden. How's that for a brief checking in reflection? I'm about to engage in a mammoth struggle with the service sector in this city which I know so intimately, and I'll probably drop dead roaring at local bigwigs who aren't used to being cut down to size, but in between then, I can find Greene at my branch, after Francis returns to the Vatican. I am not sure whether I'm attending the service.
Monday, September 21, 2015
Courtesy Note
Dolphin Mobility highlighted my Itinerary post, and I do not have enough of a British accent to transmute an Italian "grazie," into a proper British English thank you, even with a modicum of astonishment.
My recent posts have been rough around the edges, and this is not simply due to a well worn anger at being disenfranchised, since I am battling toxic stress with aging technology, and my ambivalence about Francis swinging the pendulum too far to the left is not beyond the penetration of those columnists still getting paid, but I can whittle a few more planks down to size:
As superlative as JP2's stature was during his tenure, neither he nor his administrators had a good answer for the sexual molesters in problem dioceses, and Benedict may have retired because he was caught between pastoral doctrine, re: predators are sinners and still human, and redress for the victims, and Francis'es election may have been passing the buck on the extension of JP2's administration.
Hence, Francis may feel his is a reactive papacy to placate the left, which wants a more progressive Vatican less prone to authoritarian crackdown. My response to this is counter-intuitive, in light of my attacks on disability empowerment models, but we need Roman Catholicism and its conservative moral stricture against apostasy, because progressives are on a suicide pact, and Roman Catholicism's firmament against that is a better alternative than ISIS, which is something Western liberalism inflicted on itself.
In much the same way that a substantial minority of those harmed by NCIL members face limits on what reforms can repair within the paradigm, sexual abuse victims cannot simply upend a faith that the Apostle Paul nearly willed into being single-handedly after his conversion. Certainly, the Church is a human institution, but it is an institution whose historical continuity is worth fighting for, and passionately defending.
To those at Dolphin however, I owe you. I feel less alone this morning. Big hug on this side of the pond.
My recent posts have been rough around the edges, and this is not simply due to a well worn anger at being disenfranchised, since I am battling toxic stress with aging technology, and my ambivalence about Francis swinging the pendulum too far to the left is not beyond the penetration of those columnists still getting paid, but I can whittle a few more planks down to size:
As superlative as JP2's stature was during his tenure, neither he nor his administrators had a good answer for the sexual molesters in problem dioceses, and Benedict may have retired because he was caught between pastoral doctrine, re: predators are sinners and still human, and redress for the victims, and Francis'es election may have been passing the buck on the extension of JP2's administration.
Hence, Francis may feel his is a reactive papacy to placate the left, which wants a more progressive Vatican less prone to authoritarian crackdown. My response to this is counter-intuitive, in light of my attacks on disability empowerment models, but we need Roman Catholicism and its conservative moral stricture against apostasy, because progressives are on a suicide pact, and Roman Catholicism's firmament against that is a better alternative than ISIS, which is something Western liberalism inflicted on itself.
In much the same way that a substantial minority of those harmed by NCIL members face limits on what reforms can repair within the paradigm, sexual abuse victims cannot simply upend a faith that the Apostle Paul nearly willed into being single-handedly after his conversion. Certainly, the Church is a human institution, but it is an institution whose historical continuity is worth fighting for, and passionately defending.
To those at Dolphin however, I owe you. I feel less alone this morning. Big hug on this side of the pond.
Sunday, September 20, 2015
The Itinerary of Eating Our Own
It is rightful and necessary for orthodox believers to pronounce judgment on the works of the pope.-- William of Ockham
There are two pieces of writing about the modern papacy which resonated, were astute, and leaving me cursing for not having made a copy. One was an NYT editorial about the loss of Italian popes, with the reign of John Paul II, signifying the last vestige of the Roman Empire had vanished, leaving me with tears in my eyes for its veracity. The writer, much as I, understood the Pontiff's role as more than just a thorn to Fascism, Communism, and the United States as the evil empire on any given day. The other was a Boston Globe's less immanent interpretation of John Paul II's popularity and the legacy of the Church in its wake.
In my far less sophisticated sensibility, the Vatican needs its temporal power restored so that fanatics can engage in the Crusades 2.0, but let us nuance the hyperbole to the restraint displayed in criticizing a wily Argentine who is not a passable emulator of Paul, John, or the swiftly deceased John Paul I. I felt that man's death with a visceral gut wrenching outcry, still in the suburbs, with the front cover of the empty red slippers.
One is diffident about Francis, and yet, maybe I should sacrifice the day and get in line to at least listen to l'utimo Santita under whom I'll still be alive. George Will wrote a provocative column Saturday, as is his job, critiquing Francis for being medieval, (though I've yet to read it) and much less controversial than his minimizing the sexual regrets of underclassmen, though he has a point. There is a difference between deflation, regret after we unwisely give in, and otherwise forcible rape. My sense of Francis is that his use of Naomi Klein as a technical advisor is nearly sickening to this blogger's nostalgia for congregation. Ms. Klein might as well be one of Putin's presidential foreign affairs ministers for the restoration of the Warsaw Pact.
The role of the Vicar of Christ is far larger and broader in scope than running around offering apologias for military juntas and the sexual predations of those using the collar as a shield. If I plan to attend the Mass, I'd best get downtown and update my ID, whether it is wise or no. I am still Catholic in this atheism; His Holiness is infallible, like Max von Sydow's fiery Calvinist.
There are two pieces of writing about the modern papacy which resonated, were astute, and leaving me cursing for not having made a copy. One was an NYT editorial about the loss of Italian popes, with the reign of John Paul II, signifying the last vestige of the Roman Empire had vanished, leaving me with tears in my eyes for its veracity. The writer, much as I, understood the Pontiff's role as more than just a thorn to Fascism, Communism, and the United States as the evil empire on any given day. The other was a Boston Globe's less immanent interpretation of John Paul II's popularity and the legacy of the Church in its wake.
In my far less sophisticated sensibility, the Vatican needs its temporal power restored so that fanatics can engage in the Crusades 2.0, but let us nuance the hyperbole to the restraint displayed in criticizing a wily Argentine who is not a passable emulator of Paul, John, or the swiftly deceased John Paul I. I felt that man's death with a visceral gut wrenching outcry, still in the suburbs, with the front cover of the empty red slippers.
One is diffident about Francis, and yet, maybe I should sacrifice the day and get in line to at least listen to l'utimo Santita under whom I'll still be alive. George Will wrote a provocative column Saturday, as is his job, critiquing Francis for being medieval, (though I've yet to read it) and much less controversial than his minimizing the sexual regrets of underclassmen, though he has a point. There is a difference between deflation, regret after we unwisely give in, and otherwise forcible rape. My sense of Francis is that his use of Naomi Klein as a technical advisor is nearly sickening to this blogger's nostalgia for congregation. Ms. Klein might as well be one of Putin's presidential foreign affairs ministers for the restoration of the Warsaw Pact.
The role of the Vicar of Christ is far larger and broader in scope than running around offering apologias for military juntas and the sexual predations of those using the collar as a shield. If I plan to attend the Mass, I'd best get downtown and update my ID, whether it is wise or no. I am still Catholic in this atheism; His Holiness is infallible, like Max von Sydow's fiery Calvinist.
Saturday, September 19, 2015
Corporate Accommodation, Early onset
....There are none so easily carried away as those who are without passion. Turgenev
My chair was taking too long to finish charging yesterday for me to drive to an AT&T outlet for assistance, but as I managed to actually fall asleep last evening, I may make it this afternoon, and if wealthy enough, I'd offer Ma Bell's customer service a buffet. How many spastic trolls are there who get away with venting their criminal imagination using their own victimization? My deeper point about Levora, is that the Catholic nun misread the situation. Why push a dying young woman to get an equivalency diploma without teaching her about responsible behavior?
Many women do sexually irresponsible things, and I've glided over some of my follies, for which I am now too weary, but one thing drilled into my Fallopian tubes was the command "Do not get pregnant!" And I never did. Cerebral palsy is not even degenerative, and yet my womb was forbidden to nourish a fertile embryo. Carriers, like Levora, who know they're carriers of horrific degenerative diseases should remain sterile. Too much trauma already afflicts us as it is. My anxiety may be a prelude to early senility. Marie [the aunt] reads it in me just as I've read it in her since my mother's passing, and I drink a pot of coffee approximately every twelve hours.
Why not continue to play Russian roulette with psychotropic medications?
Three reasons: I have observed how many mentally ill people nearly die on them, including my mother. A proscribing psychiatrist made her lithium dosage too high, and my mother had to be hospitalized for it a few years before she died. Ditto what I was exposed to at Matrix. Mental and physical illness are not distinct subsets, trust me there, and many seriously delusional patients get that way for physiological reasons, and not simply due to depression or traumatic stress.
Major third reason: Proscribing therapists do not know how to treat those of us with brain lesions. They get it wrong and we overdose into seizures. One of my consumers, Cheryl Ward, had cp about to the degree Linda Dezenski does, but her anxiety was much more pronounced than mine. She died here in the building at the sweet age of 24 because she took the wrong combination of script. In my estimation, non-terminal clinical euthanasia is preferable, even if ideation is occasionally an impetus behind it. Home of the Merciful Savior was bad enough as a childhood experience. Inglis House, however clean its linoleum floors are kept, has the overwhelming stench of human waste concentrated in it, so why do this to ourselves?
When I selected Rudin in my Turgenev collection, I had no idea it was the author's first novel. My sympathies, being Jamesian, are omnipresent; the titular character is a vain windbag, stuck in time.
I don't have the courage to email Jerry and apologize to him for mangling our three semesters with each other in my posts, nor is it necessary. I sacrificed my chill factor in 2007 to contact him for the sake of his legacy. More than that is treacherous, but in a concession to his intellectual superiority, it wasn't his duty to give me a reality check about life as a quadriplegic, in academia, or out of it, in the intermingling of obsession, and a little hatred in the affection. Chair is done. I'm off, perhaps to ask for a prototype Apple to smash as an outlet, grinning, in resignation.
I know I make things harder than they have to be; I know I'm losing, dwindling away out of time, but it remains equally true I've sat here in the carnage of my career too long, and failed to utilize my savings within the appropriate setting to get away from what the independent living movement did to me; I live with my past dying in front of my eyes, and at times it is unbearable.
My chair was taking too long to finish charging yesterday for me to drive to an AT&T outlet for assistance, but as I managed to actually fall asleep last evening, I may make it this afternoon, and if wealthy enough, I'd offer Ma Bell's customer service a buffet. How many spastic trolls are there who get away with venting their criminal imagination using their own victimization? My deeper point about Levora, is that the Catholic nun misread the situation. Why push a dying young woman to get an equivalency diploma without teaching her about responsible behavior?
Many women do sexually irresponsible things, and I've glided over some of my follies, for which I am now too weary, but one thing drilled into my Fallopian tubes was the command "Do not get pregnant!" And I never did. Cerebral palsy is not even degenerative, and yet my womb was forbidden to nourish a fertile embryo. Carriers, like Levora, who know they're carriers of horrific degenerative diseases should remain sterile. Too much trauma already afflicts us as it is. My anxiety may be a prelude to early senility. Marie [the aunt] reads it in me just as I've read it in her since my mother's passing, and I drink a pot of coffee approximately every twelve hours.
Why not continue to play Russian roulette with psychotropic medications?
Three reasons: I have observed how many mentally ill people nearly die on them, including my mother. A proscribing psychiatrist made her lithium dosage too high, and my mother had to be hospitalized for it a few years before she died. Ditto what I was exposed to at Matrix. Mental and physical illness are not distinct subsets, trust me there, and many seriously delusional patients get that way for physiological reasons, and not simply due to depression or traumatic stress.
Major third reason: Proscribing therapists do not know how to treat those of us with brain lesions. They get it wrong and we overdose into seizures. One of my consumers, Cheryl Ward, had cp about to the degree Linda Dezenski does, but her anxiety was much more pronounced than mine. She died here in the building at the sweet age of 24 because she took the wrong combination of script. In my estimation, non-terminal clinical euthanasia is preferable, even if ideation is occasionally an impetus behind it. Home of the Merciful Savior was bad enough as a childhood experience. Inglis House, however clean its linoleum floors are kept, has the overwhelming stench of human waste concentrated in it, so why do this to ourselves?
When I selected Rudin in my Turgenev collection, I had no idea it was the author's first novel. My sympathies, being Jamesian, are omnipresent; the titular character is a vain windbag, stuck in time.
I don't have the courage to email Jerry and apologize to him for mangling our three semesters with each other in my posts, nor is it necessary. I sacrificed my chill factor in 2007 to contact him for the sake of his legacy. More than that is treacherous, but in a concession to his intellectual superiority, it wasn't his duty to give me a reality check about life as a quadriplegic, in academia, or out of it, in the intermingling of obsession, and a little hatred in the affection. Chair is done. I'm off, perhaps to ask for a prototype Apple to smash as an outlet, grinning, in resignation.
I know I make things harder than they have to be; I know I'm losing, dwindling away out of time, but it remains equally true I've sat here in the carnage of my career too long, and failed to utilize my savings within the appropriate setting to get away from what the independent living movement did to me; I live with my past dying in front of my eyes, and at times it is unbearable.
Friday, September 18, 2015
Pastoral Interference and the Limits of Compassion
"Does the country kid still have his soul?"-- Bernie Taupin, conversion man
Being an atheist Catholic is in part a contradiction in terms, just as going from a bleeding heart progressive because I was woefully besotted with an air force pilot turned post-modern Shakespearean to the angry anarchist speaks volumes, but one of my first cases which started to cauterize my empathy was that of my long ago neighbor, Levora. A Catholic nun who was socially active in visiting Diamond Park pressured me to pressure the girl to get her GED, and I understood the sister's argument; I befriended my neighbor (and hear my 3 or 4 or 5 minority followers say "Aw," or smile). However, the problem with the Sister's argument, who might have been a case manager, no habit, was Levora had Huntington's Disease, and I watched this young woman waste away before my eyes. Linda Dezenski, when I still worked for her, told me not to feel guilty as I watched Levora dying in my fabled nightmare, and we see how well I obey the dictums of spastic Jewish sociopaths. Before I met her entire afflicted family, Levora start crying during our tutoring sessions. "It's too hard," and with that, I left her alone, and watched her get pregnant and met her brother and her nieces and nephews, all carrying the gene, and while I was not cognitively in the space I am now as I enter the waning years of my independence, Levora's situation allowed me to realize why the far right and genocide exists. The hell of her physical existence and destitution has haunted me all these years, the brutality of evolution a visceral agony staring me in the face, a fortunate cripple some of you might pity in turn, and religious charity has no solution, no absolution to offer the demonizing pain the inner city scarred on me, and never shall.
She and her brother should have been prevented from procreating for the sake of public health, however this may go against a liberal society that doesn't police consensual sexual activity. That is what the Catholic nun should have worked on, sexual restraint in inner city economics.
As for Levora, she always had a smile, grateful for an ice chip, but watching her die made my case for voluntary euthanasia, the dignity of controlling the end of life over the brutal indignity of biology. The Catholic Church is wrong about the level of humility those in constant Third World conditions can absorb. Not that materialism shouldn't be critiqued, but striving for ambition, ownership, the dignity of work, these provide self-esteem. If the Curia wants my favoritism, it might support specially designated cities for the LBGT community, since we separate along those lines on a defacto basis.
Wouldn't it be fun with me in charge? Ha.
Being an atheist Catholic is in part a contradiction in terms, just as going from a bleeding heart progressive because I was woefully besotted with an air force pilot turned post-modern Shakespearean to the angry anarchist speaks volumes, but one of my first cases which started to cauterize my empathy was that of my long ago neighbor, Levora. A Catholic nun who was socially active in visiting Diamond Park pressured me to pressure the girl to get her GED, and I understood the sister's argument; I befriended my neighbor (and hear my 3 or 4 or 5 minority followers say "Aw," or smile). However, the problem with the Sister's argument, who might have been a case manager, no habit, was Levora had Huntington's Disease, and I watched this young woman waste away before my eyes. Linda Dezenski, when I still worked for her, told me not to feel guilty as I watched Levora dying in my fabled nightmare, and we see how well I obey the dictums of spastic Jewish sociopaths. Before I met her entire afflicted family, Levora start crying during our tutoring sessions. "It's too hard," and with that, I left her alone, and watched her get pregnant and met her brother and her nieces and nephews, all carrying the gene, and while I was not cognitively in the space I am now as I enter the waning years of my independence, Levora's situation allowed me to realize why the far right and genocide exists. The hell of her physical existence and destitution has haunted me all these years, the brutality of evolution a visceral agony staring me in the face, a fortunate cripple some of you might pity in turn, and religious charity has no solution, no absolution to offer the demonizing pain the inner city scarred on me, and never shall.
She and her brother should have been prevented from procreating for the sake of public health, however this may go against a liberal society that doesn't police consensual sexual activity. That is what the Catholic nun should have worked on, sexual restraint in inner city economics.
As for Levora, she always had a smile, grateful for an ice chip, but watching her die made my case for voluntary euthanasia, the dignity of controlling the end of life over the brutal indignity of biology. The Catholic Church is wrong about the level of humility those in constant Third World conditions can absorb. Not that materialism shouldn't be critiqued, but striving for ambition, ownership, the dignity of work, these provide self-esteem. If the Curia wants my favoritism, it might support specially designated cities for the LBGT community, since we separate along those lines on a defacto basis.
Wouldn't it be fun with me in charge? Ha.
Thursday, September 17, 2015
Imbecile
I figured out why I cannot activate the 5s iPhone replacement, and it may count toward the decline of my emotional well being that I am reluctant to joust my way downtown so that live AT&T agents can help me swap my SIM in the devices. The constant need to impose inconveniences my desire for self-reliance, but the online staff said it was fine, no extra charge; I now avowedly, avowedly hate iPhones. The 5c came back online, but apparently has schizophrenia, so I have to get the exchange wrapped up by tomorrow, and save my contacts, at least. The stress is poison and not in any way the fault of the old giant and I have no idea why I'm posting this, having not gone with my erstwhile libertarian associates to see the debate. I asked Carly's staff how she feels about the ADA. This Jazzy is still killing me, but that is my fault. I haven't been able to will myself to keep my appointment with the ambulatory practice and get in a boxing match with physical therapists who know jack shit about why I'd like to take Zhang Ziyi's example and slaughter them wholesale. Me and my oh so fine Roman temper, but I have at least somewhat snapped back past sheer toxic panic.
I'm not going to make it. What does it even mean anymore? Stop posting and work? Yes, with tinnitus, precipitous hearing decline, twenty dollars in my checking account, and my terse cadence with African Americans who keep reciting wonderful tales about case managers and attendants, still pitching in my head on technological upgrade anxiety and poverty, or telling Toomey's staff I make Trump a positive boy scout in comparison to my rage, but hey, here's my resume destroy the independent living center system and relocate me to Allentown, yeah?
I know my attitude would improve if I could leave Riverside, and dismantle Presbyterian hypocrisy.
Politics.
I'm not going to make it. What does it even mean anymore? Stop posting and work? Yes, with tinnitus, precipitous hearing decline, twenty dollars in my checking account, and my terse cadence with African Americans who keep reciting wonderful tales about case managers and attendants, still pitching in my head on technological upgrade anxiety and poverty, or telling Toomey's staff I make Trump a positive boy scout in comparison to my rage, but hey, here's my resume destroy the independent living center system and relocate me to Allentown, yeah?
I know my attitude would improve if I could leave Riverside, and dismantle Presbyterian hypocrisy.
Politics.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
Hava Niagila
there is always an exception to the rule
To reiterate, I wrote in one of my proceeding years that my focus on the community integration empowerment module which uses creativity as a therapeutic tool would be limited, thematically, though my many segues into my own disillusionment always touched base with the doctrine. Artistically, however, I have all but ignored the triumphant bugles written by authors like Joni. I read her autobiography in the hospital during my own manufactured butchery years and all I remember is her picture, intimations about her teeth. I can imagine her accusative: you can still move, yet you carry on as if becoming a member of the Gestapo would heal your damage.
I never intended to exclude ADAPT culture entirely. It simply displeases my aesthetic sensibility. Brain damage reverts humanity back to primal absurdity, even in the case of Barbara McWilliams, who wasn't born with a developmental condition. Liberal journalists paint her death in the face of disaster as a paradigm failure, but if the associated press feed covering the California crisis is accurate, then McWilliams ability to assess the situation played a part in her death, and I doubt her attendant should fault state services, already in crisis. Social Darwinism is a convenient lint for nose pickers, but biological frailty overwhelms human capacity. I too might have died over the weekend if I had not relaxed my bad arm enough to push up, as I had been trained, but if surgeons at Shriner's had not put me on an assembly line treatment I DID NOT NEED as a child, I could probably still get on the floor and get back up. I had the ability to do this, and later, if I had a firm chair with desk arms, I could get on my knees and transfer up. I no longer have the right furniture, and my pulmonary function is a factor, but doctors weakened me, and in that sense, don't amount to much, the wise treat them with contempt. Better that we glorify the Tango, a charming meta-dramaturgic effort by Carlos Saura, whetting our fascination with the violent eroticism which is a signature in Argentine politics, a dynamic fusion of rigorous passion and oppression, perhaps a possible influence on Duvall.
Tango is more sex than the actual act of intercourse itself, as Sola is well aware as the crippled choreographer, an irony too overstated to miss in his role as the seducer. Whatever is left of classical appreciation, tango, as a national obsession, is invigorating, an evolution, one day to supersede its antecedents.
I was born in the wrong fucking country.
To reiterate, I wrote in one of my proceeding years that my focus on the community integration empowerment module which uses creativity as a therapeutic tool would be limited, thematically, though my many segues into my own disillusionment always touched base with the doctrine. Artistically, however, I have all but ignored the triumphant bugles written by authors like Joni. I read her autobiography in the hospital during my own manufactured butchery years and all I remember is her picture, intimations about her teeth. I can imagine her accusative: you can still move, yet you carry on as if becoming a member of the Gestapo would heal your damage.
I never intended to exclude ADAPT culture entirely. It simply displeases my aesthetic sensibility. Brain damage reverts humanity back to primal absurdity, even in the case of Barbara McWilliams, who wasn't born with a developmental condition. Liberal journalists paint her death in the face of disaster as a paradigm failure, but if the associated press feed covering the California crisis is accurate, then McWilliams ability to assess the situation played a part in her death, and I doubt her attendant should fault state services, already in crisis. Social Darwinism is a convenient lint for nose pickers, but biological frailty overwhelms human capacity. I too might have died over the weekend if I had not relaxed my bad arm enough to push up, as I had been trained, but if surgeons at Shriner's had not put me on an assembly line treatment I DID NOT NEED as a child, I could probably still get on the floor and get back up. I had the ability to do this, and later, if I had a firm chair with desk arms, I could get on my knees and transfer up. I no longer have the right furniture, and my pulmonary function is a factor, but doctors weakened me, and in that sense, don't amount to much, the wise treat them with contempt. Better that we glorify the Tango, a charming meta-dramaturgic effort by Carlos Saura, whetting our fascination with the violent eroticism which is a signature in Argentine politics, a dynamic fusion of rigorous passion and oppression, perhaps a possible influence on Duvall.
Tango is more sex than the actual act of intercourse itself, as Sola is well aware as the crippled choreographer, an irony too overstated to miss in his role as the seducer. Whatever is left of classical appreciation, tango, as a national obsession, is invigorating, an evolution, one day to supersede its antecedents.
I was born in the wrong fucking country.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Drop An Egg from the Armpit
Thursday evening I bent over to tend the feeding bowl and felt the cardiovascular tumorous cancer shift all those of Southern European heritage know, and spent 12 hours Friday evening into Saturday morning unable to sit up as I've always done. 18 years online sinking into oblivion and the slacker entitlement pass for competency of the black working class, making the assumption that osteo-arthritis is closing in; I hate the cadence of the black vernacular, that which linguists merely deconstruct, making a mental note that Trudy Richardson, dispatching her nigger nanny status of forces deployment, will launch more attacks next week. She'll win. My family is too incapacitated and no one else gives a shit. I despise Philadelphia's sludge dialectic, allowed myself to be destroyed by it, my material destitution a sad testament. I really don't understand how to join a wifi network to open my phone, and I need someone to walk me through it before my impending stroke. Today I was fine, drugs, reduced psychosomatic stress.
Acceptance is what it must be, but corruption has beat me down like a dog. I don't really know how hard I am. Hard enough to get arrested for being vile to black women, probably in the affirmative. Little Mussolini playing spin the bottle with her piss. People kept holding umbrellas over me Thursday. I ignored them (black men) or lost them (white men) until I had a chat with a nice cop under one of our many commercial district vestibules, growing weaker and weaker, ready to give notice in a spur, surely the sign of impaired affect.
Acceptance is what it must be, but corruption has beat me down like a dog. I don't really know how hard I am. Hard enough to get arrested for being vile to black women, probably in the affirmative. Little Mussolini playing spin the bottle with her piss. People kept holding umbrellas over me Thursday. I ignored them (black men) or lost them (white men) until I had a chat with a nice cop under one of our many commercial district vestibules, growing weaker and weaker, ready to give notice in a spur, surely the sign of impaired affect.
Friday, September 11, 2015
Epithets of the Ruling Elite
Over two million Russians went into exile after 1917 to escape persecution under Bolshevik rule. -- Anna Horsbrugh-Porter, Memories of Revolution
Lenin no doubt wouldn't have dared to forbid Maria Alekseyevna Ouspenskaya from remaining in New York once she landed on US soil. Her role as the little grandmother to Charles Boyer's dandy in the original 1939 Love Affair withstands a century of scrutiny as a revelation of what Europe lost through the destruction of class hierarchy. Such a grandiloquent magnificent woman whose noblesse oblige would never be stripped away by Philadelphia Corporation for the Aging, which, when all is said and done, is a peasant and slave lineage lawn mower. The film is an artificially sweetened romance bracketing Irene Dunne's glamour disrupted by the sudden shadow of mortality, but those episodes with Maria, like Proust's diplomat, whose name I am not going to chase, reinstates the arguments for peerage, irrevocably lost to the world. This is not to indicate that Boyer's cosmopolitan appeal no longer exists, only that the grace of pedigree is basically an historical heirloom of no consequence.
At its best, caste systems left functioning societies in their wake, and the subtle passage of the baton between Maria as a woman who embodied her station, to Irene Dunne, as a theatric diva, is the beginning of all modern evil.
Lenin no doubt wouldn't have dared to forbid Maria Alekseyevna Ouspenskaya from remaining in New York once she landed on US soil. Her role as the little grandmother to Charles Boyer's dandy in the original 1939 Love Affair withstands a century of scrutiny as a revelation of what Europe lost through the destruction of class hierarchy. Such a grandiloquent magnificent woman whose noblesse oblige would never be stripped away by Philadelphia Corporation for the Aging, which, when all is said and done, is a peasant and slave lineage lawn mower. The film is an artificially sweetened romance bracketing Irene Dunne's glamour disrupted by the sudden shadow of mortality, but those episodes with Maria, like Proust's diplomat, whose name I am not going to chase, reinstates the arguments for peerage, irrevocably lost to the world. This is not to indicate that Boyer's cosmopolitan appeal no longer exists, only that the grace of pedigree is basically an historical heirloom of no consequence.
At its best, caste systems left functioning societies in their wake, and the subtle passage of the baton between Maria as a woman who embodied her station, to Irene Dunne, as a theatric diva, is the beginning of all modern evil.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
No Phone, Next Crisis
My battery on the Apple 5c went fritz. It never stops, does it? I think my time with Liberty on the Rocks is done, not that a beer doesn't ease my ligament pain temporarily, but the wind gets sucked out of me, and if I surrender, this is what will happen: I will get inducted into Inglis House, surrender my bodily functions to minority certified nursing assistants, forced on catheters with plastic pantie underliners, have most of my every hour regulated, drugged eventually if not immediately for aggression. Whatever the renovations to the fortress on Belmont, the sterility of the little grey rooms haven't changed, the helplessly sick just staring at mounted television sets, and this is my indigent aging alternative, since the law forbids that I can put myself to sleep. What would you tell me, stop thinking about it and soldier on, shrinking and feeling discouraged?
My recent exchange with Swarthmore made me feel trivial, insubstantial, despite the fact that the position was something I once did. What could I have submitted without even so much as a passing familiarity with The Bulletin? I have my mildly political topical op ed, a handful of medical bylines, conceded deflation in my cover letter, and had absolutely no response to guide me on samples, soldier on. I bothered Swarthmore's Human Resources department, and they've flagged me because I want to visit the campus, make contact, create another opportunity, and right now, it's impossible to do, even with a tone deaf refusal to take no for an answer.
I filed a damaged phone claim, have an appointment tomorrow, checked Google, powerless despite the fact I've remained passive with the old telecommunications giant. I suppose we'll see what happens. Cheaper device, cheaper plan. I'm worn out, simply worn out, and know I'm not the only one in a perpetual credit crisis.
My recent exchange with Swarthmore made me feel trivial, insubstantial, despite the fact that the position was something I once did. What could I have submitted without even so much as a passing familiarity with The Bulletin? I have my mildly political topical op ed, a handful of medical bylines, conceded deflation in my cover letter, and had absolutely no response to guide me on samples, soldier on. I bothered Swarthmore's Human Resources department, and they've flagged me because I want to visit the campus, make contact, create another opportunity, and right now, it's impossible to do, even with a tone deaf refusal to take no for an answer.
I filed a damaged phone claim, have an appointment tomorrow, checked Google, powerless despite the fact I've remained passive with the old telecommunications giant. I suppose we'll see what happens. Cheaper device, cheaper plan. I'm worn out, simply worn out, and know I'm not the only one in a perpetual credit crisis.
Little Big Man
"If you don't agree with them, they turn on you." -- an associate reading my anti-homosexual posture
At my age, attraction to the opposite sex is another ball game, particularly when feminine hygiene is complicated by indigence, symptoms, and the only contours available on your palette range from caustic cynicism to moral outrage: Whenever Black Adder and I are alone before the anarchists show up, I am uncertain as to whether the Libertarian group leader and I are engaged in mortal combat over progressive disillusionment or conservative fealty. But we had a bead on each other Tuesday evening, as I told him about a denigrating incident with a black security guard over the holiday, and heard myself with a small degree of shock using a slur on a public sidewalk, uttered full of hurt, and Adder objecting, "Go after what they do, not who they are!" And I was ready to eat the kid for lunch with the retort that what we are often informs upon what we do. Then we let it pass.
I am not sure how I've become this person, but what contributed to it is the greater crime of Brian Coleman's platitudes in 2007 during Riverside's horrible renovations. I nearly went berserk during the whole affair, and wound up physically injured. The only *help,* I received was my father driving over, looking at me sitting with Erik, the pink mafia transsexual with its failed internship past, and buying me a tasteless sandwich. It isn't that I do not have the acuity to understand that Coleman was a fucking fool who wanted to support me. I worked for Liberty Resources too, but I was surrounded by Trudy Richardson, in her beauty queen phase, Tarmara, Trudy's second who moved up, Brian, and my so called coordinator, Jenelle. I was weeping bitterly, wishing I could torture my former supervisor, and her invisible abandonment, and I have a black guy raining promises like Skittles, and no one, not I, or any of the other females, shutting him down, in addition to the fact that Presby just keeps treating me like a zoological freak. Erik, the mighty advocate, can't get involved; his dementia is advanced, in any case, and if anyone put the brakes on it for me it was possibly Councilman Denny O'Brien, mere speculation, until the next round.
Coleman should have been accountable enough for his behavior to get me the help I needed; he wasn't, as is typical of the disability center. This is how Philadelphia, and most American inner cities, kill people with negligence, and I do not even have a criminal record.
At my age, attraction to the opposite sex is another ball game, particularly when feminine hygiene is complicated by indigence, symptoms, and the only contours available on your palette range from caustic cynicism to moral outrage: Whenever Black Adder and I are alone before the anarchists show up, I am uncertain as to whether the Libertarian group leader and I are engaged in mortal combat over progressive disillusionment or conservative fealty. But we had a bead on each other Tuesday evening, as I told him about a denigrating incident with a black security guard over the holiday, and heard myself with a small degree of shock using a slur on a public sidewalk, uttered full of hurt, and Adder objecting, "Go after what they do, not who they are!" And I was ready to eat the kid for lunch with the retort that what we are often informs upon what we do. Then we let it pass.
I am not sure how I've become this person, but what contributed to it is the greater crime of Brian Coleman's platitudes in 2007 during Riverside's horrible renovations. I nearly went berserk during the whole affair, and wound up physically injured. The only *help,* I received was my father driving over, looking at me sitting with Erik, the pink mafia transsexual with its failed internship past, and buying me a tasteless sandwich. It isn't that I do not have the acuity to understand that Coleman was a fucking fool who wanted to support me. I worked for Liberty Resources too, but I was surrounded by Trudy Richardson, in her beauty queen phase, Tarmara, Trudy's second who moved up, Brian, and my so called coordinator, Jenelle. I was weeping bitterly, wishing I could torture my former supervisor, and her invisible abandonment, and I have a black guy raining promises like Skittles, and no one, not I, or any of the other females, shutting him down, in addition to the fact that Presby just keeps treating me like a zoological freak. Erik, the mighty advocate, can't get involved; his dementia is advanced, in any case, and if anyone put the brakes on it for me it was possibly Councilman Denny O'Brien, mere speculation, until the next round.
Coleman should have been accountable enough for his behavior to get me the help I needed; he wasn't, as is typical of the disability center. This is how Philadelphia, and most American inner cities, kill people with negligence, and I do not even have a criminal record.
Monday, September 7, 2015
Immersion to the Abdomen
"Where are the important families?" -- Michele Placido
The destruction of antiquities was not anticipated when ISIS and its leader gleamed like a new toy, and if an aging woman needs to draw the attention of law enforcement, the Islamic State did gleam like an alternative gemstone to be manipulated. The obstacles were considerable, inclusive of atheistic hedonism, as well as lack of ethnic cohesion. Formidable deterrents, in addition to lack of funds for the dangers of a flight to Iraq or Syria, courting death in geopolitical vacuums, nevertheless, Islamic State could slaughter as many Muslims and unique minority sects as it wished and remain admirable for a fanaticism roiling like a tidal wave through human civilization, until distaste invariably set in, the burning of the Jordanian pilot, and other typical corrosions of mission creep. The destruction of the Roman temple in Palmyra echoes the Catholic backlash against the Italian Renaissance, to some degree. Sculptures and artworks which would be priceless today were torched-- partly against the sexual promiscuity going on behind the scenes in the likes Leonardo da Vinci's studios. It would have been kinder to hang the old man for lechery, leaving the objects, even the architecture, for posterity.
And yet there is no justice which can be meted out, at the behest of Unesco or other world governing body, for the incalculable loss of the Palmyra ruins, even if Obama did something uncharacteristically reactive and launched warheads at Damascus, or put ground troops near the Turkish border. Destroying humanity's cultural memory basically nullifies our 100,000 mastery over our environment due to self recognition, and my bitterness at having been broken by the welfare state in Pennsylvania is in part responsible. I do not mean this in an aggrandized sense. I'm an anguished disabled woman spiraling down the drain at the top of her lungs. ISIS would take the top of those ailing organs and spout a gusher out of my chest, leaving my cadaver for whatever scavengers remain thriving in their region, but my pain at the hands of injustice has contributed to the explosive levels of intransigence grinding away at each other, in our day and age, so I take full responsibility for my insouciant flippancy, particularly in view of the fact that ascetics have difficulty remaining untainted on You Tube.
Guilty as charged, even though hitting my deceased cat with my back castor wheel when he was two was an accident, flaying my soul, guilt is the hydrochloric acid of my hate, flung off in radiating waves. Jesse Helms may have been correct about the emaciation of appreciating Robert Mapplethrope as an artist, but burning his oeuvre for the sake of grace is as bad as erasing the brutality of our historical past for futurist possibilities of more far ranging consequence, off to the store, deserted center city streets, there is always going against medical advice for what is likely prevalent. Stupid Italian Americans. My father's sister, blind to the suicidal anguish of the then manic depressive to whom she matched with her eldest wife beating brother. I hate my aunt this morning, or, more accurately, remain unforgiving. The entire tragedy of my family is her fault for being a JFK era busy body. Starting with the basic premise that we're all morons, our explosive planetary dominance is incredulous.
The destruction of antiquities was not anticipated when ISIS and its leader gleamed like a new toy, and if an aging woman needs to draw the attention of law enforcement, the Islamic State did gleam like an alternative gemstone to be manipulated. The obstacles were considerable, inclusive of atheistic hedonism, as well as lack of ethnic cohesion. Formidable deterrents, in addition to lack of funds for the dangers of a flight to Iraq or Syria, courting death in geopolitical vacuums, nevertheless, Islamic State could slaughter as many Muslims and unique minority sects as it wished and remain admirable for a fanaticism roiling like a tidal wave through human civilization, until distaste invariably set in, the burning of the Jordanian pilot, and other typical corrosions of mission creep. The destruction of the Roman temple in Palmyra echoes the Catholic backlash against the Italian Renaissance, to some degree. Sculptures and artworks which would be priceless today were torched-- partly against the sexual promiscuity going on behind the scenes in the likes Leonardo da Vinci's studios. It would have been kinder to hang the old man for lechery, leaving the objects, even the architecture, for posterity.
And yet there is no justice which can be meted out, at the behest of Unesco or other world governing body, for the incalculable loss of the Palmyra ruins, even if Obama did something uncharacteristically reactive and launched warheads at Damascus, or put ground troops near the Turkish border. Destroying humanity's cultural memory basically nullifies our 100,000 mastery over our environment due to self recognition, and my bitterness at having been broken by the welfare state in Pennsylvania is in part responsible. I do not mean this in an aggrandized sense. I'm an anguished disabled woman spiraling down the drain at the top of her lungs. ISIS would take the top of those ailing organs and spout a gusher out of my chest, leaving my cadaver for whatever scavengers remain thriving in their region, but my pain at the hands of injustice has contributed to the explosive levels of intransigence grinding away at each other, in our day and age, so I take full responsibility for my insouciant flippancy, particularly in view of the fact that ascetics have difficulty remaining untainted on You Tube.
Guilty as charged, even though hitting my deceased cat with my back castor wheel when he was two was an accident, flaying my soul, guilt is the hydrochloric acid of my hate, flung off in radiating waves. Jesse Helms may have been correct about the emaciation of appreciating Robert Mapplethrope as an artist, but burning his oeuvre for the sake of grace is as bad as erasing the brutality of our historical past for futurist possibilities of more far ranging consequence, off to the store, deserted center city streets, there is always going against medical advice for what is likely prevalent. Stupid Italian Americans. My father's sister, blind to the suicidal anguish of the then manic depressive to whom she matched with her eldest wife beating brother. I hate my aunt this morning, or, more accurately, remain unforgiving. The entire tragedy of my family is her fault for being a JFK era busy body. Starting with the basic premise that we're all morons, our explosive planetary dominance is incredulous.
Saturday, September 5, 2015
Sister Trolling
Medium keeps its contributors informed about page views, and I suppose, because I was posting off the cuff, my comment on the Ask Ethan post about black hole theory correction picked up over a hundred views. I took some physics at Temple University and nearly flunked out, but this doesn't mean I despise the study of space. Most of it is counter intuitive even for the mathematical minds which grasp it, but what I meant, without entirely understanding extraordinary mass condensation, is: If we presuppose universes repeat themselves due to impaction, consciousness doesn't seem to repeat with it. I do not feel loss of identity when my cellular waste builds in my colon and discharges. We do not remember the squeal of pigs being electrocuted for their succulent flesh once we ingest pork, so information is in fact lost on a biological level. Information is lost on a cultural level as well, and we'll never learn as much as we need to to defeat destructive capacities of entropy. We're apes. Smart apes, the most dangerous species yet encountered, but apes, slightly better engineered, and while the equations may have been proven through induction, language itself imposes its own limitations.
Whatever the viability of theories on black holes and strings, motion and matter does not think about itself in those terms. Holes, strings. Simple implements of mammal amusements. Are physicists going to argue that energy is a living element? Stars are a chemical process, partial oxidation, partial hydrogen bomb. They aren't conscious, they aren't minds with directional intent. We'll never comprehend why particles and waves exist, why they create chemicals, nor why chemicals under the right conditions ingest themselves and reproduce, nor even define thinking. Thoughts have no mass. They evolved with the basic plankton brain, but do not exist. The only evidence we have for thought are the images of brain activity, but brain activity is not itself evidence of directional imperative. For that we have DVD teleplays.
Beneath opens with an interesting premise, seems to have a touch of after.life to it, which I admire intellectually, and then decelerates into a creature elimination film whose denouement shrivels on the vine. What is mildly intriguing about the script is survival guilt conjoined to the moral lesson of medical model brutality, not something burn victims with chronic irritation need to view when they feel their life slipping away, toying with the fact that familial bonds are the best humans can do, but with denial being necessary. Beneath the surface, sisters hate each other, whatever tender moments between them. My sister and I have a multitude of stakes within our defense mechanisms: shared abuse, a sister who should never have lived.
The disabled community makes excuses for those with minimal awareness, but I am going to be cruel. People like my sister Michelle should be put down. She lived 22 years in hell, even if she did not know it. Toward the end she struggled with constant lung fluid, and my parents did the right thing, but were wrong to let her live at all, and I'm making this assertion with my mother's sister free to read my link. I love my aunt, mind, but Disability In Arts is in part a last will and testament by a woman in a precarious position who allowed her life to be destroyed by intensely disappointed emotional investments in people and indoctrinations, a woman more than likely to be defeated by the metastasis of dubious African American competency, which has infested Western standards beyond repair, although it is true the citizens of Rome waited Hannibal out, and whatever the tactics of the general on his elephant, went on to rule the world. The European Union should fly the Syrian refugees to Russia.
If Putin is supporting Alawite ruthlessness with material, then let the leader of the Russian Federation handle the consequences.
Whatever the viability of theories on black holes and strings, motion and matter does not think about itself in those terms. Holes, strings. Simple implements of mammal amusements. Are physicists going to argue that energy is a living element? Stars are a chemical process, partial oxidation, partial hydrogen bomb. They aren't conscious, they aren't minds with directional intent. We'll never comprehend why particles and waves exist, why they create chemicals, nor why chemicals under the right conditions ingest themselves and reproduce, nor even define thinking. Thoughts have no mass. They evolved with the basic plankton brain, but do not exist. The only evidence we have for thought are the images of brain activity, but brain activity is not itself evidence of directional imperative. For that we have DVD teleplays.
Beneath opens with an interesting premise, seems to have a touch of after.life to it, which I admire intellectually, and then decelerates into a creature elimination film whose denouement shrivels on the vine. What is mildly intriguing about the script is survival guilt conjoined to the moral lesson of medical model brutality, not something burn victims with chronic irritation need to view when they feel their life slipping away, toying with the fact that familial bonds are the best humans can do, but with denial being necessary. Beneath the surface, sisters hate each other, whatever tender moments between them. My sister and I have a multitude of stakes within our defense mechanisms: shared abuse, a sister who should never have lived.
The disabled community makes excuses for those with minimal awareness, but I am going to be cruel. People like my sister Michelle should be put down. She lived 22 years in hell, even if she did not know it. Toward the end she struggled with constant lung fluid, and my parents did the right thing, but were wrong to let her live at all, and I'm making this assertion with my mother's sister free to read my link. I love my aunt, mind, but Disability In Arts is in part a last will and testament by a woman in a precarious position who allowed her life to be destroyed by intensely disappointed emotional investments in people and indoctrinations, a woman more than likely to be defeated by the metastasis of dubious African American competency, which has infested Western standards beyond repair, although it is true the citizens of Rome waited Hannibal out, and whatever the tactics of the general on his elephant, went on to rule the world. The European Union should fly the Syrian refugees to Russia.
If Putin is supporting Alawite ruthlessness with material, then let the leader of the Russian Federation handle the consequences.
Thursday, September 3, 2015
Evening of Your Holiday Weekend
I followed the Huffington Post writer Chris Peaks briefly, and if I had a dialogue with him about being on the street, putting up with Presby's management and pressure tactics is trivial, but through most of my working career, I've seen the price of indigence, whether for paraplegics, those with clinical depression, those whose delusions were so bad they were basically potted plants. If I give in and make the best of it, biting my lips until they bleed, it's not going to help. As a company, Presby has intimidated me so badly, in another 24 months I'll turn into one of my mental health clients in outer space.
I have spent huge swaths of time literally imprisoned in my unit due to broken medical equipment, at which point management attacks. Not assists. Attacks. I am helpless in an ill fitting manual wheelchair, stressed after yet another minority solicits me for sex, and Debra Horne shows up with reinforcements, due to the fact that I pose an existential threat. I cannot stay here and keep going through this people. I'll break, and given what I've been through attempting to reenter the labor force, I'm no longer a desirable gambit.
Not that I've sent out 50 resumes, but I'm at a significant disadvantage, stigmatized through the veneer of supposed neutrality.
Debra Horne is a criminal and belongs in prison, the civil method of asserting what should be done with minority Nazi's. I am not trying to be amusing here. Alzheimer's is one thing; what Presby has done to me as a disabled woman is another, and I cannot simply rebound after 30 years of blistering *pluralist* shields for corruption. Trudy and Debra have harassed and attempted to intimate me once too often, and I am filing charges.
I have spent huge swaths of time literally imprisoned in my unit due to broken medical equipment, at which point management attacks. Not assists. Attacks. I am helpless in an ill fitting manual wheelchair, stressed after yet another minority solicits me for sex, and Debra Horne shows up with reinforcements, due to the fact that I pose an existential threat. I cannot stay here and keep going through this people. I'll break, and given what I've been through attempting to reenter the labor force, I'm no longer a desirable gambit.
Not that I've sent out 50 resumes, but I'm at a significant disadvantage, stigmatized through the veneer of supposed neutrality.
Debra Horne is a criminal and belongs in prison, the civil method of asserting what should be done with minority Nazi's. I am not trying to be amusing here. Alzheimer's is one thing; what Presby has done to me as a disabled woman is another, and I cannot simply rebound after 30 years of blistering *pluralist* shields for corruption. Trudy and Debra have harassed and attempted to intimate me once too often, and I am filing charges.
Lithium
"There's nowhere to go." Anthony Edwards, in non-submersible LA, nuked
Me and my damn crusades (scowling). I never told you, whoever you are, how much my volubility boomeranged off of Joe, and if this isn't my neighbor, the account is close enough, but even engaging Riverside's building gossip has me sick at heart. He looks exactly the same today as he did in 1991 when I met him in Linda's office, and he does exactly the same thing today as he did when I pitied him while busing by to work, and I know, if I can't disperse conifer seedlings toward some change soon, I am going to hit a brick wall, give my notice in about eight weeks, crawl into a hole, and cross my fingers that I can reach an endpoint before I turn into a hate crime on the Inquirer's metro page. And how can I possibly hate this Presbyterian community so much? Easy. Diamond Park apartments was the worst mistake I ever made. Riverside was a contingency which turned into a prosecution. Until 2007 I was simply defiant; this has changed into a megalomania for a payback well past amortization, and every subsidized housing studio looks and remains exactly the same, except for the exceptionally impoverished, radiating like Stewart's forceful interview to grasp Macbeth's motivation. I must miss sex a great deal if the Patrick Stewart of 55 reverberates with sheer awe for the women who could have held such a man. He would have annihilated my homeliness like a blow up doll, if we're discussing leagues.
Yet even in Stewart's meme, (hated word!) the drive to win feminine approval radiates his definition, not as he is today at 75, but on Trek? I'd freeze time itself to do anything for that man, to be desired by that man, not so much extraordinarily handsome as someone who commands, with certainty, sighing for antithetical ghosts.
Me and my damn crusades (scowling). I never told you, whoever you are, how much my volubility boomeranged off of Joe, and if this isn't my neighbor, the account is close enough, but even engaging Riverside's building gossip has me sick at heart. He looks exactly the same today as he did in 1991 when I met him in Linda's office, and he does exactly the same thing today as he did when I pitied him while busing by to work, and I know, if I can't disperse conifer seedlings toward some change soon, I am going to hit a brick wall, give my notice in about eight weeks, crawl into a hole, and cross my fingers that I can reach an endpoint before I turn into a hate crime on the Inquirer's metro page. And how can I possibly hate this Presbyterian community so much? Easy. Diamond Park apartments was the worst mistake I ever made. Riverside was a contingency which turned into a prosecution. Until 2007 I was simply defiant; this has changed into a megalomania for a payback well past amortization, and every subsidized housing studio looks and remains exactly the same, except for the exceptionally impoverished, radiating like Stewart's forceful interview to grasp Macbeth's motivation. I must miss sex a great deal if the Patrick Stewart of 55 reverberates with sheer awe for the women who could have held such a man. He would have annihilated my homeliness like a blow up doll, if we're discussing leagues.
Yet even in Stewart's meme, (hated word!) the drive to win feminine approval radiates his definition, not as he is today at 75, but on Trek? I'd freeze time itself to do anything for that man, to be desired by that man, not so much extraordinarily handsome as someone who commands, with certainty, sighing for antithetical ghosts.
Closing Scene
Hateful and spineless, raped and robbed, mangled and witless, they were as good as we are, you can say that again!-- Celine
When we see Jessica Tandy's aggressive pace on her walker as Dan Aykroyd and Morgan Freeman flank her, attempting forcible engagement, it is realistic enough, for the time in which Driving Miss Daisy was made and satirized since, but where camera lenses trick viewers is within frames of skillful artifice we barely notice-- not in Tandy's rebuff of Aykroyd, but in the depopulated background around Tandy while Freeman feeds her. Life does offer these candy cane holistic moments of redemption in decline. Nursing homes and hospices are chaotic, crowded places over run with Foley catheters and urine capture bags. None of us should have to die this way, in essence pointing to nature's mercy with the Syrian toddler.
The ocean wiped out horrific possibilities.
When we see Jessica Tandy's aggressive pace on her walker as Dan Aykroyd and Morgan Freeman flank her, attempting forcible engagement, it is realistic enough, for the time in which Driving Miss Daisy was made and satirized since, but where camera lenses trick viewers is within frames of skillful artifice we barely notice-- not in Tandy's rebuff of Aykroyd, but in the depopulated background around Tandy while Freeman feeds her. Life does offer these candy cane holistic moments of redemption in decline. Nursing homes and hospices are chaotic, crowded places over run with Foley catheters and urine capture bags. None of us should have to die this way, in essence pointing to nature's mercy with the Syrian toddler.
The ocean wiped out horrific possibilities.
Wednesday, September 2, 2015
Fuminori Nakamura and the vigor of Asian noir
"I tried to remember when I first realized that I was virtually ambidextrous," -- The Thief
When Ali Spagnola started to follow my twitter account, I embedded a certain degree of astonishment in Guardian. Before that, I telephoned the cancerous Italian aunt, and said "Marie, I have a huge pop star following me on twitter and she doesn't need me in the slightest." I also cannot explain twitter to cancerous aunt, but then I said "Oh, wait!" and figured out a little puzzle. A woman known to Ali wrote a post of the sort many suburbanites relate to, and I made a comment to the effect that disabled individuals still, by and large, view this world through glass houses, mildly petulant. Is it a contradictory following?
Ali has that heart-shaped svelte energy. My body, no matter what I do, even starving on pride, is indolent. I am small enough in stature to weigh her size, at 5 ft 2 in, but obesity trends in my family, and I'm probably 240, or hovering there, as I've not been eating much. I'm also 20+ her senior. But, I used to drink, wanted to fuck every beatnik of a certain type in sight, and had I not ended up so victimized? The possibilities of ambidextrous exuberance were there.
In all honesty, I haven't had the time to know what Ali's musical recognition offers me. I know what my rewards are from a few, select followers, but I am the old lady defeated by a majority nigger city (and yes, this morning I've posted it) and I'm dog paddling, my breathing tube breaking the surface, sinking back, and inexplicably emerging once more. Amazed, wondering where this strength, even with the dry skin, post-menopausal vagina. I am Nakamura's addict pickpocket lover held in abeyance only because I'm designated as a special class, with dubious federal protections, but let me make a comparison.
Patrick Stewart wouldn't respond to me as a person for whatever tea is left in Tianjin, because I flout decency and good manners, but, if he did, I'd have a reaction; perhaps log off, cry for a week, delete this account for shame, for failure, but not with Ali Spagnola. Her outreach took me back, yes, and the feisty artist she undoubtedly is has earned my gratitude, but she might as well be a stepdaughter I'm mentoring, and this is basically ditto for most of my verified users. You're blank slates, with the exception of those who I came to first.
Ignorance precludes intimidation. As for endorsements, Fuminori Nakamura is the greatest Asian noir author to walk on Japanese soil. A developmentally damaged mind would need to live very long to equal a novel of the underside with such skill as he exhibits. He got me through an extremely difficult week.
When Ali Spagnola started to follow my twitter account, I embedded a certain degree of astonishment in Guardian. Before that, I telephoned the cancerous Italian aunt, and said "Marie, I have a huge pop star following me on twitter and she doesn't need me in the slightest." I also cannot explain twitter to cancerous aunt, but then I said "Oh, wait!" and figured out a little puzzle. A woman known to Ali wrote a post of the sort many suburbanites relate to, and I made a comment to the effect that disabled individuals still, by and large, view this world through glass houses, mildly petulant. Is it a contradictory following?
Ali has that heart-shaped svelte energy. My body, no matter what I do, even starving on pride, is indolent. I am small enough in stature to weigh her size, at 5 ft 2 in, but obesity trends in my family, and I'm probably 240, or hovering there, as I've not been eating much. I'm also 20+ her senior. But, I used to drink, wanted to fuck every beatnik of a certain type in sight, and had I not ended up so victimized? The possibilities of ambidextrous exuberance were there.
In all honesty, I haven't had the time to know what Ali's musical recognition offers me. I know what my rewards are from a few, select followers, but I am the old lady defeated by a majority nigger city (and yes, this morning I've posted it) and I'm dog paddling, my breathing tube breaking the surface, sinking back, and inexplicably emerging once more. Amazed, wondering where this strength, even with the dry skin, post-menopausal vagina. I am Nakamura's addict pickpocket lover held in abeyance only because I'm designated as a special class, with dubious federal protections, but let me make a comparison.
Patrick Stewart wouldn't respond to me as a person for whatever tea is left in Tianjin, because I flout decency and good manners, but, if he did, I'd have a reaction; perhaps log off, cry for a week, delete this account for shame, for failure, but not with Ali Spagnola. Her outreach took me back, yes, and the feisty artist she undoubtedly is has earned my gratitude, but she might as well be a stepdaughter I'm mentoring, and this is basically ditto for most of my verified users. You're blank slates, with the exception of those who I came to first.
Ignorance precludes intimidation. As for endorsements, Fuminori Nakamura is the greatest Asian noir author to walk on Japanese soil. A developmentally damaged mind would need to live very long to equal a novel of the underside with such skill as he exhibits. He got me through an extremely difficult week.
A more salient homage to mastery
This user review to Nakamura, as opposed to an appreciation of contemporary scenes, represented by Ali Spagnola and her ilk, who shall supersede my fading despair, disappointed life, only scratches the surface, but we aren't finished with Asian imitative marvels.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)