Hillary Clinton, Benghazi Viceroy?

"David, you've killed me!" Donald Sutherland, protesting Nimoy's autonomic miasma.

The 78 remake is somewhat different in subtext from the original 56 Body Snatchers, whose classic delineation is preferable to the muddied liberalism which ushered in the disaster of the Carter presidency. Domesticated, pasteurized kindness, tabulated to Sutherland's empathy enabling, isn't going to achieve jive squat over the ruthless need of a more potent conqueror, hence George W. Bush'es response to Osama bin Laden failed because it was a transference. The actual *enemy* in the aftermath of 9/11 was the Saudi kingdom's buy off of hard line extremism, but the neo-conservatives who had taken over the West Wing, lacked the will to uproot a corrupt oligarchy, and so, 14 years after the fact, we're pea shooting in Afghanistan, which is an ungovernable failed state, destroyed the British Empire's nicely drawn territorial borders for the sake of world order in Iraq, Iran, and another piece of shit country called Yemen, and Obama's carefully controlled airstrikes in 2011 against Qaddafi has essentially destabilized North Africa, while NATO and Putin eyeball each other, pissing in the wind over Kiev, and hoping to avoid a third world war in Syria.

First: If Hillary Clinton is truly responsible for the death of Ambassador Stevens, she should suspend her campaign and leave her party to scramble. Second: the GOP needs to realize that if the US has essentially ceased deploying the army for ground force occupation for anything other than mass die offs in Haiti, then chaos ensues, shit happens, and Secretary Clinton was in treatment for a blood cot derived from a hematoma during the attack on the compound, and the fault, if it lies anywhere, lies at the doorstep of two failed Administrations who have lost the ability to define goals and execute accordingly, because they realize progressives have lost the will for body counts.

Do I have any salient solutions? No, but a good starting point might lie in the realization that the U.N. would survive losing 5 members from the General Assembly. Yemen and Syria and Iraq and Afghanistan and North Korea and Sudan and Somalia need to be dissolved. That's seven, but such niceties like a shared national identity and ethos have long fled the scene. Erdogan would not mind seeing the restoration of the Ottoman Empire's prestige. That's a start. India could reabsorb Pakistan and Bangladesh. Would there be blood? How much collateral damage have we seen already since ISIS has become a cause? This is the sentiment you get on defecating through a second week of a bronchitis flare up for which powerful decongestants like Mucinex have not yet been deployed. I will not elect Hillary Clinton, but if you do, my antipathy may not supersede my suffocation on my own phlegm, but I'll go down fighting, fanatic ablaze to destroy those by whom I've been thwarted.

Too Late Baby

The longer I remain at Riverside Presbyterian, the harder it becomes to hold myself together; if I give my notice the city will be forced to scrape me off the sidewalk unless I become dazzlingly clever, but the longer I stay the more difficult curbing my anger becomes. To stop living manufactured illegality and the intimidation of deliberate, or intentional bull dykes like Debra Horne remains difficult when fear and its past is omnipresent, but what I have been dancing around is responsibility for incitement when one's personal hell is the knowledge that ambition can no longer beat biology, and I'll probably die indigent, in more pain than I deserve, because social services is fucked, and nothing I can write, investigate, repairs this for me. Can't beat the clock, and the supervisor who hurts others remains secure, while I face incarceration because I'm furious enough for a jail cell on short time, at least before I'm forced on oxygen, should we get that far.

Yes, I know the drill, but Trudy Richardson has succeeded in pissing me off enough that the owners under Presby's corporate umbrella will soon make me someone else's problem. Do I blame myself for grinding the axe on my family? I do not know, but I'm defeated, whether or not I'm now criminally liable. No one would obey me because I'm pissed. I just wish I had understood the bullshit in the Waiver system sooner, did something, and I had hoped to control my ex to that end. Barring a miracle, I don't have a way out, even if I find a creative way to still have legal standing to sue Pennsylvania into perpetuity.

Stockholm Material, Prescient Palpitations

The notion that the future is hidden--that prediction is the realm of seers, necromancers, and other unsavory types--is part of our cultural heritage. NC Dalkey, Rand Corporation.

The fact that I referenced a Baltic residency in Stockholm this morning doesn't necessarily follow that traumatized subconsciousness had intimations of the sword wielder to which I woke on France24 news feed this evening, but duress usually recognizes itself in the snap of another's desperation. A UN undersecretary, also appearing on France24 three months ago, said the disabled are often lost in this debate, and there are reasons these voices are often so muffled. Standards of objective analysis.

Helpific, for instance, has nothing to do with the self-justification for Russia's military expansion, nor apologias for the assassination of Putin's most steadfast opposition, coming forth from the Kremlin. I am the one who collapsed one into the other, limiting the establishment's ability to take me seriously, since Estonians seem collectively endearing and should welcome NATO's protection, but why don't we see more reports about the disabled in Europe, in comparison to their American counterparts? Bedcause Angela Merkel uses supported employment factories as a form of silencing dissidence?

Merely asking the question, is Vladimir Putin a war criminal? Fleet Street is courageously hitting this harder than mainstream media at home, but Obama and Cameron would sooner bake fecal bricks than unite with Erdogan in a  hawkish alliance against Putin's program, following the heels of Hitler's playbook, even if the battlefield is increasingly under the direction of Google Earth. How does the search giant get satellite access?

War is terrible, creating sometimes excruciating collateral damage, but it is also sometimes necessary, which is why the Defense Department should hire more civilian disabled contractors. We're willing, sometimes as ruthless as KGB clerks with maverick smiles.

Mussolini's Mistress

Mmm. Dis account just favored Cueball, which might have been shorter, or at least more cleverly entwined, and does favoring mean Shape Arts means to be encouraging or that I should indeed put a muzzle in it? 

Look, I've been cautious, but the disability community across the pond needs to understand that I hate the ADAPT members I came up with, and have posted so. People like Erik von Schmetterling and Cassie James Holdsworth may be symbiotic tokens of empowerment, and Linda Dezenski was groomed along the same lines, to be a representative spokeswoman, but they were also corrupt, and cannot or will not confront the fact that they hurt a lot of people, many now dead, some voiceless, as I could become at any time, and I'm sorry, but it's wrong, even if that not quite a real transsexual is in dementia and not quite what it was. This, along with African American bigotry, ignited the rage in me drawing me closer to red meat paranoid right wingers. Many of you in Canada and England may not know what to say, but I still live with the consequences. Linda did not just catch me off guard in private describing sexual satisfaction with her blind husband, assuming I had that experience in on the game, which I do not. I had bad sexual experiences and semi exciting affairs, but nothing like she hit me with, and she then played me in a crowd in front of old associates whom I told her I was interested in, I was humiliated, forced to compete with Erik's lover like a pawn, and all the city of Philadelphia can do is tell me to access the disability center. It is untenable, and Liberty doesn't actually do anything except pay case workers to access, and make assessments. It's crock. If you want to help me then help me find a way to get out. If Linda had truly apologized and made amends, I could forgive her, but I can't.

I trusted her and she made that feel like eating nails in a hair shirt. How could I have taken legal action if the events in question caused me a breakdown and I still have to live with Erik and his partner? You want me to drop the hyperbole about their sexuality? Okay, but they've hurt people for their own ends. And have a chip on their shoulders at least as thick as the Antarctic. I need to get the fuck out of this environment, or black women like Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne will create their own prophecy and launch a DOJ investigation over my cadaver. Residencies like these might help, but I'm hardly Stockholm material.

Cueball

There are intangible attributes which language struggles to break, and why Morris Chestnut is cast as the gatekeeper in every American speculative science fiction series or films is one of them, the black actor who oozes sensitivity, with charming Eurasian features, which make his lips thinner, less intimidating. Rosewood, however, is simply a demographic Quincy update which leaves me wading behind on Jack Klugman's adam apple, as if we should congratulate ourselves that Liberty City vomited long and hard, and voila, out comes a pathologist, a pretty lesbian sister and more convincing white partner. Spastic dowager is the foreign invader, viewing a series which is actually speculative, waiting for a tendril to pop off the set of V to snap the neck of the doomed caught between two worlds.

Bruce Hunt cheats in The Cave with cliches that are obvious, relying mostly on the spectacular location and extreme sport tenacity as opposed to a viable story. Chestnut is the Afro diversity stand in. Perhaps it's enough for glib satisfaction to carry his show in the present tense.

Just after six, fed, charging, I am supposed to do intake this afternoon and I can't bring myself to go through with it. I can't do it and I'm afraid, namely that I'll critically injure any future attendant out of fear for my life. I really cannot do this, and for now, passed the hat, what I went through in 97 no different than 2015; if I investigate and create an upheaval in the administration in Waiver services, what changes in the essentials? Caught between inextricable realities. I hate unskilled black labor, and should put an end to this project. Google would be happy, and I could go back in city, and find a crew, teach Philadelphia ADAPT a lesson, resume my training in archery.

I have murdered my former supervisor many times, ripping out her throat in fantastical payback, snapping her vertebra by rotating her chin 180 degrees, livid and tired, the list has grown to include others. Yes, channel it into a Kindle 5 cent thriller, with credible developmental maniac, basically violent at her core, making Trudy Richardson's tactics to intimidate me totally reasonable, but she only increased my hatred, and the beat goes on. I have to get back to real work, pitch more, and if I get a hit, stop posting. I downloaded the KDP tool, neither ready nor entirely sanguine about it. Maybe I'll thread some of Disability In Entertainment Arts into a smaller collection of essays while I'm threatened with service disruption.

Yes, imagination is one thing, and murder is actually taxing. Victims aren't easy to create. Strangulation takes strength. I used to be good with bows and arrows, like James Ellroy and his improbable LA corruption.

A Conflagration of Enemies, Fallen

 Her absence is like the day, spread over everything.-- CS Lewis

It is very difficult not to write about the end of my life, circling it as I have been since September 2017, fleeing this building in a battered power chair on its last legs, when Donald Trump simply completed his own remarkable subversion of conservation to become the nominee under the party of Abraham Lincoln, then winning, now embattled for reelection, that day I stalled dead in the PECO parking lot, an officer strolling his patrol car next to me as I limped the Magee ordered Jazzy back to Riverside. I have almost willed myself to die since, giving into what the minority administrative class of Presbyterian Homes wants, to move portfolio dividends from nursing home investments into capital gains on the basis of biological entropy. Is this a healthy form of capitalism? I couldn’t say. I still have a self-styled hillbilly, circa 2020, prattling her plague induced anxiety in my head, having committed the cardinal sin against followers, departing from her feed with public distain, reminding myself that using irritants as a trigger to work is an invidious spark, at best.  I am folding laundry and looking at Twitter. This is my life now. These are the type of tweets she posts daily, fifteen or twenty a day, certainly prone to identification. I used to do my own laundry on Riverside’s first floor above the ground floor vestibule, not my favorite activity. It is now left to the bandy ass caregiver who reminds me I have nothing good to say about anybody, nothing good to say about people anymore, unless I choose to elevate a certain trait. There is another woman, similar to Wilder, who is also a follower, to whom I am benevolent. Her observations are more grounded, less addled. So why did I chastise the 35 year old chasing in vitro fertilization with her husband, as opposed to maintaining the implied contract with the other? Because I think Wilder Larkin needs to find some other outlet for mental health, so I hurt her feelings, and god as my witness, I never want to hear from her again. Certainly other people never want to hear from me, like Virus Empathy out there in Denmark. She was Mike’s friend. Who’s Mike? A credo libertarian who led me by the nose, local to me. I don’t know if his name is really Mike, and I wondered if he and I might become real life friends. The answer to that is no, but I wasn’t looking primarily for a lover in him, my physiology being too exhausted for sexual intimacy, my rectum like sandpaper. Mike is a broken litmus test, a lumbering puppy who spends too much time in the operating theater. He still sounds lonely, and we live close enough together in this city that an accidental meeting is entirely possible, if I do not join the cluster. This includes Monica Carr, who joined the ranks of SARS casualties in Pennsylvania by virtue of her underlying obesity, lupus, a prior cardiac arrest which cost her a front tooth—Covid 19 was merely icing the pastry chef laboriously applied to her broken leg. She and her two aunts died nearly simultaneously, then came Erik von Schmetterling. This post was supposed to be about Erik, about the invidious influence of this rabid woman’s presence on my career, my life, but the sultry advance of the tropical storm air is too much for me. I wanted this transsexual dead, and the failed torrential physician who only completed an internship obliged, ten years my senior, with only marginal help from my voice applied lash, slightly larger than the Higgs boson. She died some time in the last days of Wolf’s lockdown, so I owe the governor something despite my hatred of the Keystone State’s political osmosis, although what helped Erik along was a smoking addiction impossible to shake. I hated Monica in a superficial barred fangs posture. I do not know about death. Abusive attendants come a dime a dozen. She traumatized many of our lives, however, was a key figure in the dissolution of Homemaker Services, which is nothing. Waiver services consort and dissolve like baby black holes outside of our galactic spiral. These are the reverberations of an antagonistic space, one that no longer endears me to the collective Twitter cacophony. 

I am not a liberal

Do not think that because I hate my landlord that I'm a liberal. Presby's power comes as a direct result of congressional classification, and while I am sure this Councilman-At-Large, the go to gentleman for special needs, is a sweetheart, I remember this bastard, his wife, rumors of the black mafia and the corruption swirling around city government under John Street, whom I met, and the look in the mayor's eye said "be nice to the retard," which I did not countermand. I had a craving for a burger and threw on a threadbare skirt and one of Monica Carr's blouses absent the reserve of a brassiere, and when I saw Street in the parking lot, I posed an incredulous interrogative, "Is that the Mayor?" then rushed home seized with fervor to crucify the bastard with the voice of New Republic finesse, and my confidence cratered, unfortunately.

Not that I had not achieved my goal at fusion before, with my appearance in the Inquirer's metro section, but a TNR byline would have sustained it, and now achieving that is problematic. Marty Peretz, whatever his flaws, was acute, sharp, penetrating in the selection of his contributors, which at times aroused my zeal. This is not TNR under Hughes as a privileged candy man.

What am I, in the political sense of the term? An annihilator with libertarian sympathies, close to making myself expendable because women in case management have absolutely no fucking idea what they're doing, and Presby's owners aren't about the good works of their doctrine. Persecuting my non-compliance is a business model to them. Bad things happen to good people? Let it go? How many bad things? If my sister lost one of her children, I doubt she'd continue with the pragmatic conduit role of reigning me in. My mother is dead because she miscarried, birthed two cripples, one who should have been euthanized, and lost a son. My stepmother is her friend from nursing school my father married to survive, and she is an invalid on her last legs. If I was Louise I would not hesitate to bake arsenic in almond cookies and consume them. She hates my sister, Benjamin and I, which is probably transference. My father is a misogynist and doesn't love her.

I have serious doubts about whether or not I would have been better off if the 1963 neo-natal unit had shut off my oxygen. I am not exactly sure by what magic I had prevailed, but what is in store for me? Bed ridden dependence on the descendants of Jim Crow or Hispanic drug mules, and I'll be damned if I'm going through that, mark my words.

It might be too much icing to assert Dr. Carson has my admiration, but I do respect his honesty despite my racism, and it may be a tempered racism, as I do not want to engage in slaughter due to ethnicity. My virulence comes from forced diversity, my intolerance based on the fact that I cannot define my own boundaries because the system says I cannot discriminate. The question remains, however, if a mixed race constitutional scholar disillusioned our expectations, why we expect any better from a conservative neurosurgeon. I'm thinking about doing a piece on Carson.

Discrimination will always be part and parcel of the human dynamic, hence, Imperial Companions comes a bit late to my table. I ain't working for you, but I should never have had to be defeated by inner city violence and the polemic of HUD's lies when it comes to housing low income tenants. It might be hard for me to die like a militant, but that is my preference, if it comes to that.

I bought more cashews. They make me happy, but just a handful now and then.

Radiator Vapor

Every year, Michael Pera, Riverside's custodial henchman horse's ass (and this isn't an exaggeration, he is a rube typical of the type Presbyterian Homes hires to save money) makes me sick when he turns on the heat. This year was worse than usual, and though I made an effort, I had to sleep, and missed my third attempt, partly resistance to clinical examination, to be evaluated for an alternative model chair.

Not sure what I'm going to do now, as I can not expect a walk in on a stronger day would lead to an accommodation from rehabilitation specialists who do not see themselves as sycophants. I make things very hard, and if I'm still on the verge of giving notice, so as to release my threatening, mostly impotent virulence on the heads of this rental corporation, I not only threaten my survival for the sake of political protest. The homeless would make short work of me if I joined them in this generic contraption designed to save money. I've already transformed into a mostly feral defiance that women like Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson and the morbidly obese Monica Carr created, as a matter of intimation.

If I give up on myself, there's no further point.

Diabolical Frames

Helpific began to follow me on twitter, the micro-blogger wanna be conglomerate, and as usual, I plodded out a profile on the site without formally translating the requests for help nor entering one of my own, befuddled as to what Estonians or Russians would believe themselves capable of doing for an embittered American on the other side of the world, then pomdered the rise of Putin cronyism, tickled my fancy with the notion of soliciting a contract in code, then thought of the FSB alerting the FBI to my account, considered the irony of that. Yet there are provocateurs who waste Putin's opposition for the sake of a unified Russian federation, and Armin Mueller-Stahl has to reflect with some accuracy how the Slavic triad works, an extended association of family and connections.

Zsolt Bugarszki invited me to post on Helpific, but I'm not sure a criminal solicitation was what he had in mind, nor am I partial to Baltic collectivism, the bear lurking on the eastern front, as another one bites the dust. I have to make coffee and set my alarm, get to bed earlier this morning, having rescheduled my evaluation for another power chair which your taxes shouldn't have to foot, but even my desire for illegal retribution to balance the scales hits the blank slate of not knowing whom to trust to attempt a quid pro quo.  I'd have to risk something myself in return, in lieu of  offering federal reserve notes.

Zsolt told me the site is in Beta, probably not a bad idea, in the long run, and since we're on the subject, this local meet up raises the usual material versus intractable ethical conflict. I may follow Richard Dawkins. I may learn from him and may even agree with him that Catholicism has a mild polytheistic doctrine, but we'll destroy ourselves if we believe we'll eliminate anti-social behavior through neuroscience. I'm really happy that I am not going to be around to witness how we convert the human animal into porridge, our species knocking itself off without the benefit of an asteroid.

Flora, Fauna, Cashew butter

"But we like suffering."-- Sebastiano Somma

The Woods, being an 06 release, doesn't lack for atmosphere, but as an allegory for the destruction of Camelot, I am still trying to put the thread through the needle. In this instance, the plot summaries do not fill in the gap. Absentee fathers who make promises they cannot keep, those are long realized, but the wardrobe, the hairstyles are too Kennedyesque not to suggest the worst of the ecosystem against the urbane liberalism built on the corruption of bootlegging during Prohibition. Beyond the implication, however, the feminine anguish loses me. Patricia Clarkson is getting on my nerves, and even when it goes to syndication, I'm skipping Learning to Drive on purpose. 

Clarkson has a range similar to Jane Alexander, pensive Protestant females with good breeding who encompass the disjunctive as best they can within the fine tuned chiseled features: thin lips, kept figure, a nurturing conduit of more mothering than sensual definition. I have had the runs for three days, incommoded with sickly sweet stench, washing the mattress of my damnation, today it is the power chair cushion, and this is happening because I've ceased transferring to my shower stool, in order not to corrode the Jazzy engines, since I shall have to make due with this model at least another year.

I do not mind that I'm sloppy, but losing to a filthy downgrade is another matter, and attendants are not going to tolerate this level of battle fatigue. I give up, resign my fate, go insane in an institution. Commiseration will not alter this reality.

I did construct a plan. I finally settled on one, and hope it will not cause an extreme internal struggle, not that I'm ready for it, fortuitous or otherwise, I cannot seem to go down, not quietly. Is this necessarily beneficial? Time to clean the soil, once again. 

Comfort Foods and Better Place

The cashews are tucked away, craving sated, despite the seasonal consequences, but cashews rival the richness of pistachio, which mitigate sexual frustration better than testes when we want to put the anxiety of subordination aside and relax. Walnuts and hazel do better in cake mixes, peanuts with hops, brazil nuts tolerable with fruit. I cannot answer for chestnuts, usually having them in stewed greens and onions. Almonds fall up and down according to caprice, but there isn't a butter yet I haven't fallen in love with at some time or other.

Simply showing you I can enter into middle brow nutritional enthusiasm too. My lungs do work better after sustained nut consumption and I've no idea why if my particular pulmonary decline is irreversible.

Brief Retrench

The web rushes me too, and I am not trying to be overly critical of what it does to other online journalists, but I think we all lose, regardless of where we fall on the ideological spectrum, when an agenda like homosexual partners and resources is driven by this lie of equal treatment. On the percentage, homo sapiens is still by and large an omnivorous primate with alpha males and females. Michael Nutter shut the entire city down for Pope Francis, once a seminarian bouncer in Argentina, now cordoned off from people like me for whom his church is so vocal. On the day of his visit I folded after perhaps a 30 second effort to hear the man give mass, and though I made an enormous effort to be unobtrusive, the police yelled at me and a security officer eyeballed me while I zig-zagged to do a little grocery; hairs stood on the back of my neck while SWAT followed a black man to the parking lot adjacent to River's Edge, a condo right next to my public housing unit. Only in America, as the cliche goes.

Now, I am not complaining. If I really wanted access to the Pontiff, I had advance notice and could have engaged in extraordinary rendition, and am fully cognizant of the fact that the poor fellow is trapezing on one lung, but his status is extraordinary, if now as decorative as any type of fame.

I haven't seen Freeheld; do not find in particularly fortuitous that Angela Watercutter's editor ran her article in Wired as is, but I'll assert this: Stacie Andree is ambulatory, correct? Lesbian or not, able to work? What about police officers disabled on the job, or a cop's widowed family strained for resources themselves? I can hear LBGT activists for the wolverines they are, but your disadvantages due to stigma over your sexual preferences is and remains largely cosmetic, and there are larger problems in the world than the lie of equal treatment regardless of sexual orientation.

THE STATE, and let's pause in a moment of respect for my libertarian sympathizers' groan of dismay, still enforces codes of conduct in relation to high risk sexual practices. Ask Fauci if sodomy isn't designated as a high risk sexual practice detrimental to the public health at large. Detective Hester's advocates might say it is just a pension rightfully earned under the terms of her contract with the FOP, and she wanted to provide Andree with a modicum of a security guarantee, but there are more invisible voices on the food chain in the garden state, and if Andree could walk, she could work, and what limited resources Hester did not absorb through hospice, these should have gone elsewhere.

Tunnel vision has its blinders even in the righteousness of progressive empathy.

Padding

Who did Wired write this article for? My nephew, Nicholas must be between thirteen and fifteen now; I cannot recall his birthday, but what Angela Watercutter does is remind me, equally, that some of you don't know what intake centers like Liberty represent, and my audience doesn't realize that my emotional pain resides in three dimensional space, a segregated space, one that in fact doesn't offer resources according to the definition of the term.

Am I sorry that Laurel Hester died in such piteously graphic detail? Yes, in the sense that hospitals are sad, rigidly controlled environments. Should the partner have received the pension? If we take the larger view, these estate issues become problematic, at least in terms of state civil services. I get shit from no one, essentially, and even if I could lasso a media flagship contract, the big brands are in trouble. You see Time Warner touting a contract in my direction?

This is where the disability center left me, and they should be shuttered because of it, and putting all my energy into it will not change a thing about state public welfare systems being the real big short, and so, in terms of homosexual estate benefits, it is an issue, especially as the more indigent I become, and more suicidal due to it (not quite precise,as it is more an overwhelming despondency: aging, drowning under water) the more it costs those paying into the public maintenance budget. If Hester's pension was corporate, that is private sector, but police benefits are civil. I do not believe the Scotus decision puts this issue to rest, but the movie being adapted from the documentary is too narrow cast. We're not talking about the tragic panorama of Anthony and Cleopatra, with sweeping breadth and scope. Just two lesbians, one sick, one not, in a soft tech agenda article that feels gutted, essentially nothing but a pat on the back for the killing fields of progressive majorities.

Maggot Larvae

Where I first heard of David Frum? Perhaps Charlie Rose. Moderate conservatives like him always reign in Libertarian militancy toward the two party system with statements such as these. Once you get past a certain age, Brian's dictum evinces itself through politics. The laws of nature tend to repeat themselves. Frum is Douthat is Johan Norberg, is Niall Ferguson, and I happen to be an enthusiast of Ferguson's ideas.

Frum's chastisement presupposes that NSA and the Defense Department are powerful enough to keep rare specimens like myself in check. For a while, but I have serious doubts about what comes after the post-Obama era. I make the assumption that most of my viewers on the outside don't understand Medicaid Waiver services, what a lifetime of entitlement is like against ecumenical insistence on the inherent value of human life juxtaposed against medical warehouses like Inglis House, which belie such pluralistic niceties. Most of us don't dwell on beneath the surface insecurity all the time, not even I.

But I've lived it most of my life, and at 53, it threatens to suck me down the drain; this is the kind of rage which permeates revolutions, velvet, or otherwise. Remember Philip K. Dick's short story about android political candidates? Remember what it signified? But there was also what Dick didn't say about electing representatives, about the limits of political processes.

I'm living off my father's guilt at the moment, and don't like it, having come full circle, little spastic slum dog, repeating the same thing over again, like one of Patricia Highsmith's lesser known protagonists.

I'm never going to vaunt past the sterility of the welfare state, simply because I could not stay inside it to earn a living, and allowed you to read what a vicious maniac its scar tissue has maimed within me, to the tune of Google's reluctant unease. What do I have left to aspire to? Beneath the surface, the entitlement system is like a lava slide. Slow, molten, deceptively destructive. Heavy enough to make the West Wing's security apparatus as thin as a thimble.

Peachy Keen

It is difficult to hold within our grasp that not all historical undercurrents have closure. Tuberculosis was a fungal epidemic effectively beaten back in the 1950's with derivatives of the breakthrough antibiotic of the 20th century, and hygiene campaigns which followed in its wake, but AIDS saw the condition make a comeback. As a terminal illness, it manufactured at least one serial killer in Doc Holliday. Stacy Keach portrays the gambler as an embittered existentialist against Faye Dunaway, in yet another revisionist Western. As a bio pic, in this part, Keach manages to transcend his composite swash buckler who pretends. It might have something to do with necessarily being as large as an embittered legend, liberated in having nothing to lose. Why Dunaway challenges her glamorous hauteur by enveloping herself in a wardrobe of slutty trash remains an unconvincing perplexity, but her Katie Elder is suitable playing off of Keach's manic undercurrent, bumbling their way about the set like paper cut outs, doomed by corruption and conspiracy. The Doc Keach adorns is naive in small ways, able to be taken in by the Mexican inn keeper for a pricey sum, or sold a house incautiously, and yet remains a man of leonine ruthlessness, calling a bluff, or aiming to kill.

To wit, though I am patently indifferent to national politics as having any bearing on Philadelphia as a cesspool of incompetent depreciation, I may rally around Ben Carson. Not to make too much of the contradiction in terms. Certain kinds of experience cuts across identity, and I comprehend, as a life long recipient of institutional stricture, why a black neurosurgeon would become a reactionary defining zones of exclusion. Can he win the nomination? Can he beat Hillary? What the fuck do I know?

But the possibility of igniting a third world war is exciting, so I'll wait in the wings with the fiery torches glaring from my pupils. Maybe I'll send his campaign a few dollars, Joan d'Arc in search of a sword and zeal, the thirst for cleansing purity. I had a difficult Wednesday on 10/14.

Closer Look at the Fault Lines

In this great tradition of the eminence of detail, all the minutiae of Christian education, of scholastic or military pedagogy, all forms of  'training' found their place easily enough.-- Michel Foucault. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, p 140

It is difficult to remember how frightened we all were in the year after 9/11, and most analysts believed, at least before the timeline became cogent, that Muhammad and his protege signaled the dawn of a new era. As far as mass murders go, Muhammad was atypical, not an impulse spree killer like the Aura shooter. The discipline he displayed was true anarchy against the state, at least initially, and biography is a bit disingenuous with its quick facts. Muhammad was a solder first and foremost, and then a domestic terrorist in the last months of his life, and probably has more affinity with Lee Harvey Oswald than we would care to credit. Both men were molded for the sake of the national defense, and both the assassin and the serial sniper had a degree of temerity rare when it comes to treasonous behavior, if one accepts that Oswald was a lone actor.

This is the price we pay for being the sole animal able to manipulate biology and body to the aerodynamic extent that we do, as Foucault's analysis explores, a homosexual so fascinated with control and assembly, ironically to pay an exorbitant price, perhaps unwittingly, for his own sexual desire.

The digital age has made us aware, conversely, of how rapidly we're superseding our own bipedal engineering, toppled in hubris by complex financial instruments and proxy conflicts which could trigger global aggression of some sort, especially as Turkish destabilization is not a headache NATO needs on its plate. Not that anyone cares what an impoverished spastic thinks, but it might be time for NATO to close ranks against Putin's recidivist incursions. Russia is hardly in a position to re-establish its Soviet empire, and could be stopped with a firm display of unity and muscle. Let Isis have what it wants. The US made Iraq ungovernable in an ideological argument with extremism that it failed to win, hence, let the new Islamists create their modern caliphate. They'll evolve. Everything does.

Lacan Theory

I am basically an adherent of Slavoj Zizek without having the benefit of studying the controversial philosopher's theory. Where the former Yugoslavian and I differ is on the willingness to use violence when the paradigm is otherwise too firmly entrenched for adjudication. Granted, every example I have cherry picked on this DIA account has been flawed, inclusive of the Oregon shooter, which, unlike Cohn, I almost did not want to reflect upon in any manner, but like Zizek, I believe liberalism's egalitarianism makes things worse and leads to genocidal outcomes.

However, after watching yet another punk academic, which Zizek is, being interviewed by Smiley, of whom, as you know, I'm not the greatest fan, I have to say that Kirsch's essay in The New Republic calling Zizek anti-Semitic was nothing short of libel, testament to Marty's dwindling zealotry for the state of Israel at the expense of anything else, including a man's reputation. The days when a TNR intern made me shit myself by telling me how to get a diarist column in the stodgy old periodical are over, but I would feel like a hypocrite sending them content with Chris Hughes at the helm, and this is utterly nonsensical for a woman of my intellect, however much she frittered away that potential on the slow envelop of emotional anguish, but I am actually against homosexuals themselves-- not-- mostly not-- to the point of interring them-- but enough that I cannot swallow my conviction to send TNR work, to their standards. I mourn this, because I fell in love with TNR under Marty, my fake adversary.

Before I break down in tears, the American rogue who comes closest to deploying violence for methodical agenda is the DC sniper. John Allen was certainly driven by his own internal dynamic, but for those of us with an insurrectionist bent, his tactics were admirable, and if he had been more like the ISIS leader, developing an agenda, a counter argument to the American Way might have given us more of the South American dynamic.

That the US doesn't have its own Shining Path is attributable to the Civil War, and making guerrillas like Jesse James into celebrities.  

Rat Poison in Gaza

We need innovative ways of thinking about architecture and land ownership which go beyond Marxist ideology and how capital intersects with land management. I have been pounding my skull about this for some time, and may nag Beacon again to let me crowd fund articles that look beyond housing authorities and regulation. I mean, okay, I am more fortunate getting brow beaten by a Presbyterian Corporation for being a destructive housekeeper than a Palestinian who sees Gaza as little more than an internment camp, absent getting gassed to death, but this doesn't change the collective unhappiness, and in my case, as well as Muammar's, misery at living in a space I did not choose. I felt compelled to exchange Diamond Park for Riverside, and do not envision it as a choice. Conservatives may say I could have stayed on Page Street, and yes, I could have, but might have been deranged by now. Only Darby Loop felt more dangerous than Page Street when I was still gainfully employed, and Darby, Upper Darby, have been taken over by the violence of Philly's inner city. Ditto Willmington, Delaware's hot spot, Newark, Chester, the District. 

Transplanting ISIS to American Ghetto, that would be a carnival of blood spurting, and indeed, as a reality on the ground, not so far fetched, but I'd give Muammar my studio at the same rental subsidy I pay in exchange for a more appropriate environment for a non-accredited writer, implode the regulatory paradigm through ignoring it, and that would alter the economics. See what I'm driving at? Looking beyond self-interest and familial obligation, if we restored the Renaissance mechanism of patronage, we open up another dynamic. If I do not get out of this studio within the next 18 months, I'm finished. My mental health has taken too many blows with this landlord.

Giving my notice is a day to day thing, hour by hour, despite the reality that would entail. I really can't take it much longer, and I'm seriously considering a battered woman's shelter.

Even when it comes to zoning laws, we could put the homeless in offices overnight, in our empty skyscrapers.

Juice

Asserting that JT Villalobos is courageous is not an endorsement of progressive exposure so much as approval for illustrating reality, and what children can and do tolerate for the parent of preference. Looking at the young actress who makes Navy's bond with her mother so convincing, we see the problem of claiming the US as a casteless society. Barack went through something of this underbelly and became an improbable candidate in 2008, yes, and liberals inveigh that merit has replaced privilege. Not quite. My father wanted to mirror Protestant affluence and crashed, and I at the bottom wanted to defy my condition and essentially win my father by becoming my dad, and allowed a disability center K-12 mentality to shovel a shitload on that, and here we are.

Can we withstand anything, in the libertarian parlance of Tony Stiles, and in the dialogue of Mulberry's progeny? Interesting film, needs a run or two again on inflamed eardrum, as Escape doesn't deploy captioning. When one dissects Texan coda, the sensibility is intriguing, and not as crazy as liberals paint it. Transplanting my 53 year old ground up carcass into its culture isn't realistic.

I've made up my mind to pity my way to Rome to die, despite the Italian government and the Syrians. I'll give the migrants my unit in exchange. Right back where we started.

Bleeding Ego

"It deserves its own taxonomy of suckitude." Julia Scott, more cutesie than a grandiose spastic

If you put this online you'll regret it immediately, interior conscious intoned. Interior conscious voice was absolutely correct, and the piece isn't kept for it virtual jazz with a composite of a man whose intellectual energy was all but fatal to a precocious disposition embedded in quadriplegia; it isn't kept for the sake of the fact that it serves as a bad apologia for not doing the work toward dissertation, nor for self-pity.

Given that, writers need to know when to throw something out, move on: my animosity toward my philosophy professor was unconscious when I was 21, but age has seasoned an intense dislike: he did sleep with a student, did hurt her, and I did get angry, and it did have repercussions I shall  leave unstated. Some wounds are worth picking; some aren't, and naked bodies horrify me when I am not ready, and when I am, make me laugh callously. Penises seem to convey evolution has a sense of humor (can I hear Richard Dawkins scoff? see how Catholic atheists and Anglican atheists get on? Dawkins and I would come to blows in roughly five minutes on the talk circuit). I keep Discard because I am trying to get at something, and may keep some elements of the meta-autobiography.

There are interesting imperfections and, more simply, just imperfections, and knowing the difference takes seasoning.

The spastic in the story was present in the narrative before my (ahem) nervous breakdown, and I asked myself if I was a latent lesbian like Fern, the Jewish Trotsky who case managed with an iron fist and was driven out by my favorite transsexual. I have known too many faggots for my own good, after all, and I've created bisexual women for my own subversive intentions, so that must mean something, but masochism isn't the same thing as gravitation: breast nipples and and the modesty of the labia do not arouse me. 

However, my now nefarious supervisor was causing me pain, and I kept talking. Real fucking smart solution, and 14 years to even begin to ease my trauma, being disparaged by colleagues, classmates, because two women with cerebral palsy, slighting-touched by it more than some, inflicted so much damage on each other. I miss Linda Dezenski. She was the peer I never had growing up, and needed, and while she and I were screaming at each other on the phone, 14ish years back, "What do you want from me?" She wailed. Enough respect, for a start, for her to admit her liability, make amends for it. If people like her are true believers, that is what you do.

How is this a tutorial on revising and discarding, again? 

As if one cannot have too much redunancy

"Instead of running away from this monster, I made the decision I should try to confront it."--Jason Moss

My viewers will be positively ecstatic to learn I have had three works of fiction accepted for publication, two of which have appeared in print. Discard is not one of them, and I remain befuddled as to why I have not thrown this away, a love story for a man deified, not loved, tossed to notorious, now noxious,supervisor in email after she caught me off guard. Unwise, and she did not know how to respond, not at that point. 

Other manuscripts have been tossed, and I stopped submitting this work long ago, back when it was eight pages and a tabloid called Clinton Street Quarterly, I believe, actually mailed me a rejection letter of more than one paragraph. I may even still have it, astonished then, and still perplexed now. Why I've thrown it up on Medium is because I can, because fear is pervasive, because Jerry looks like a nephilim cricket right out of Men In Black, and I'm a sow with flaccid breasts and an occlusion indicative of congestive heart failure, and perhaps I'm curious, within my burgeoning discontent of not tearing the thing to shreds and coming in harder, what my other not financially successful peers think, and Blogger needs to learn my dark side has always been under the umbrella of the Inferno.

Much like Cameron Diaz in Garcia's sympathy fettered lens, a disabled woman can extrapolate why Jason Moss committed suicide: because Gacy was as human as the rest of us, because intimacy with the heinous isn't a salve if one cannot cease being preoccupied with it, and he no longer knew how to come up for air. Choosing to be a euthanasia advocate is not the same thing as desiring to take Moss'es route: I've been under the thumb of one sleaze bag corporate-shielded landlord for 30 years, fighting Philadelphia's underclass depreciation for most of that time, desperate to experience something else, knowing the specter of less functional constraint is closing in, and I'm failing to find that leverage to get the fuck up the river bank. Both my former boss Dan and former? helper Karina told me I'd be happier in Denver and Oregon, respectively. I'd take one of these nut cases on, die a heroine. DARK KNIGHT FEMALE TAKES SPREE SHOOTER DOWN: Woman had a history of trolling, impulse control issues.