Mince Meat, Hytonia Convulsed The Hard Way

Blow me down with a holiday breeze: A PAYING EDITOR JUST SAID YES!
I should go berserk in agony more often, hey Ann? Specifically addressing Ann Tran as a colleague here. Let's discuss my particular conjecture as it pertains to homoerotic elevation.

I have made much in previous posts to my link with Ms Phillips. It both excites and arouses me that she and I share a byline. In my more obscure antipodes, I published a poem dedicated to her called "fortissimo" which is both sexually competitive and dangerously suggestive of foreplay, and not being afraid to challenge myself, I did so, not interested in her sexually, but envious, and perhaps we've been around this bend before, but exactly what am I envious of, other than her privilege of projecting a state of lithe? To be totally, unsparing and uncompromising, did I elevate Phillips because Jerry, whom I deified, recommended I read Black Tickets? It has been so long I only remember liking this early collection as a series of vignettes, and repurchased an e -copy however long ago, two years, despite her relative teaching security against my ironclad welfare death spiral, or does her skill merit my admiration, her accomplished, rural to urbane transference? Last I investigated, she had a stint at Princeton. I have no idea if she has received my ancient fan mail, but where does all this birthday cake icing come from? Machine Dreams lags. I never finished it. Fast Lanes, so what?

This means, to my shock, that the aesthetic sensibilities of dogged eared Shakespeareans isn't always absolutely on the mark. Why exactly then did I deify Jerry so blindly? To hide, not push myself, because I was afraid of giving in to the lesbians who have hit on me, with the mixed race cellulose inner city sow who couldn't keep her paws to herself being the most sordid? I did reject her, violently, and what she did not not arouse or liberate me. I survived. The Hollywood studio system may have long had a celluloid closet, which we'll mine later, as a documentary, but the Screen Writers Guild has yet to really apply itself to the homily woman, the Georgy Girl who snares the obviously appalled James Mason who realizes what he traded in order to be the brow beaten husband. There are no stories out there for us, not really. Occasional cop show. 

Almost Less Than 24 Hours

The last time I sought emergency mental health services was between 1999 and 2000, after Linda was finished playing politics on my economic desperation. I do not bring it up to keep reviewing the respective prisms through which my former supervisor and I saw our interaction. It simply all boils down to the same thing: the image of my brother looking desperate, rabid, while my immediate family commiserated with the juvenile psychiatrist. This crisis wasn't about me, my immobility, but my younger brother's cathartic violence. He died a rapist and a vandal, wasted by AIDS, and I write this for anyone who cares to click the flag to read: I was pissed, majorly, about being pulled from my midterms to talk about Nicholas, and yet I'm pretty much the same, absent the desire to commit sexual violence, as such. My parents were a bad cocktail, a stereotypical Roman male with that singular Italian fury, and a beautiful but suicidal manic who ate her way out of her looks, a couple who manufactured two cripples and a dead sociopath, with my so called normal sister and her fucked up family.

"You need help," my sister's refrain after the CIL got done doing to me what it does to nearly everyone. There are variations: Dr. David Ward trying to get me to accept that I was clinically depressed, before CILS had a legal mandate, or my history instructor before that, trying to intercede in my life so he could sail me off to Harvard. Until I grew up some and got hit with the Tassoni thunderbolt, I wanted to marry Mr. Bruno, smiling at the normal puppy things. 

I should not write this, but despite the fact I am not at the Jayne Anne Phillips level, particularly since I am not a novelist-- and might have a little more change to bring my entitlement up a couple thousand if I was-- be that as it may-- I am fucking tired of the literary submission scene, but I can also never rise to the level of lawyer journalists like Jennifer Rubin, along with the others in her class. My withdrawal is pounding on me, yes, and my lunging hate (my audience should be so glad I am a quadriplegic, as I seem to have inherited Julius Caesar's thirst for war, or I am the -- never mind-- I cannot make my psyche complimentary to spree killers, though I have already) boils like a Georgia peach zombie wresting with the next vulnerable cast member. Even if I give my notice, flee, setting myself up for an unknown sleaze bag house arrest, I've past the point of revitalization, despite the fact that just as Virginia Woolf, we can push an exclamation point on the ecstatic. My fans who used to send me letters said "we'd never try to make a living as a writer," and I certainly never intended to, but re-matriculation? The harder I try, the crueler it becomes. 

Vonnegut's Jump Cuts

"You didn't cut the vagus nerve ." Robert Mitchum

My coolness toward the media's love of combat with diagnosis is due to the fact that, much like Kurt Vonnegut, I want another way, an interstice, and Vonnegut found it through the merger of speculative conceits, like the time shifting in Slaughterhouse Five, his novel which uses Celine too as a template. Both Lyon and Atu Gawande might argue that they both upgrade the conventions of death porn, that we are slowly coming to the maturity of defining it back as part of a process which we already know, even if we're not digging around anatomy websites, but all of this classification invites weariness, as well as boredom, to those without any revitalization.

Vonnegut is just as dead as my grandfather. The two men were the same approximate age, but Vonnegut found a way to bring me into a peace accord with his swirling farce and dramatic tenor around Billy that the liberal story arc doesn't (Being Mortal, Iris)

Am I posting around my pain, like an epileptic card player on Yabberz? Certainly, but I am footnoting things for later on that are worth pursuing. I've read up a little Celine, and I am the most like him, of any known writer not quite in the top tier celebrity rack, and much like Celine, I do not reject the use of physicality in the argument.

Can I beat the shit out of Erik's attendant? Excessive force, applied against what he sees as a normal way to treat a woman, that he does understand; because he's a moron, he also provided me with fresh legal weapons.

Bearers of A Better Age

I finally slipped it on the proper finger, and of course it fit perfectly.-- Michael Grant

By the time we reach a certain age, stories of our mortal arcs become routine: you read one book about a wife watching the husband she lost to cancer lose his hair to chemotherapy, and the only difference a surgeon like Atu Gawande interjects, aside from sub-continent extraction, is the reminder that physicians are just as fallible as the patients they're killing. In this sense, Bill Lyon's arc of decline is something a half century of hearing it may buck. Alzheimer's is not Joanne Woodward's made for television movie. It is my mother's father yelling at me "You have to drive the van!" translating into you have to get ready for Paratransit.

But my grandfather was basically dead that evening. His son, Louis, my godfather, would have been better off shooting his dad in the backyard the day after the holiday. I emailed Mr. Lyon about this yesterday, telling him I couldn't comfort him and hoped it went easier on him than my grandfather. We can take his clinical shrinking and superimpose it into the loss of what being a newspaper man means. It means you searched for Lyon's columns, it means that he represented the working class voice of Philadelphia to a fine standard of excellence, and his example represents what I also reasonably hoped for.

What would you say? That I should have recognized I couldn't handle the severity of my emotional pain, much like my former clients, without committing myself to a lifelong psychiatric battle? I need not remind you, even when I was Jerry's student, being denied her father figure copulation, I had university counselors trying to ease my morbidity by telling me it was "an existential funk". I was younger, more resilient, still able to repress the humiliation which had not yet reached the toxicity of North Philadelphia. The disability center, as it exists today, doesn't know which voice mail to transfer me to, and the fact that Erik's day guy makes me feel unsafe isn't a joke. I have no where else to go, the more functional seniors at Riverside never wanted me here. I never wanted to live here in the first place. Just because Chris isn't going to kill me, I should not be subjected to his belligerent, hostile behavior.

Ideology, too, goes flatline at this point.

Editor's Note

I have five days to go, and need to breathe, and work out a wheelchair fumigation, get the HP formatted and shut the fuck up before I really start a riot. I will never be able to cure myself from using tobacco, never, not that I am reverting back, but functioning without the vapor, being a good reporter, is hell, and I thought about approaching Denton to cover Rendell on Wednesday, but how can I? As strong as I am, smoking is the Achilles heel. It is so difficult, being already dead, dying to live a last few good years, package a small writing legacy, and WTF have I done but let disability kindergarten mentality destroy me?

Even the doo is telling

Perhaps because it aired so late in the series, "Make Me a Perfect Murder," with an actress who had no relevant staying power, (Van Devere), brings us a bit closer to the dawn of post-modern sensibilities making jagged edges. This is still Columbo, but Falk minimizes his Jewish working class doggedness, and our dimmed feminist anxieties, glass ceilings, are more important than disposing of the patriarchy, as represented by shooting the male with the script. For 50 minutes of airtime, I like Devere here. She's sharp, but on the curve. Her Firestone isn't yet the "Dynasty" bitch, but her voice modulation is still her weapon, maybe even me in a good body. 

It's something to regret, because what we love about Columbo is unraveling in 1978. We all know it, but let Falk reprise the character well into the first decade of y2k,  until senility encroaches. Everything else unraveled too. My hatred of Yabberz, and my urgency to wipe it out, is nonsensical, but there was too much pattern recognition; too much California dreamin' crashing smack into one of David Foster Wallace's automobile suicides, and I cannot get involved in interactive portals of that category anymore, and it is not about my aggression.

It is about my clock. The only way to beat my scar tissue is work, not that dancing aggregate crap. 

I hate it; I cannot engage like that, not ever again. I do not mean in policy details. Anyone can trip me up on detail. I cannot explain it yet, but I'd rather be thrown under wild horses than to utter the name Horton ever again. Donny Brasco, cf.

In Place of Scurrilous Venom

In reaction to any questionable statement or activity, social media users can create huge waves of outrage within just a few hours. These so-called online firestorms pose new challenges for marketing communications.

I signed up for twitter shortly after the intrepid Kathleen Parker syndicated one of her columns about signing up for it. There is no question as to its utility as an aggregate, no question as to its marketing value, nor its power for social agitation, though if I asked my followers to put an uncouth nigger aide who has been giving me my latest set of housing problems in his place, non-interference then suddenly becomes an issue of proactive removal: no, I'm not asking for that, I made a scene, and the misogynist ape filth wilted like a toddler. I'm still placing the finishing touches on putting his underclass balls in a very overclass vise, but this is where I'm at now, just under the half way mark to 60.

In the historical timeline, twitter governance seems to float on an uneasy median of contradiction, with special rules for obscenity, brands, proportionality of the ratio between following and followers, which, under some bizarre rationale, can be "bought". What is that, a status and prestige issue of some sort? Or tweets get promoted, for a fee. All this hardware, all this wireless technology, and all it comes down to is whose hustle supersedes, even if, for a time, this includes the unexpected combat between digital executives and a resurgent medieval code of conduct (ISIS), with both corrupted by liquidity.

As with much of the old guard giving way, even though I'm an unquestionably active presence on the micro blogger, landing ineffectual, sometimes excessive blows, I have no desire to follow 100k in accounts to get 75k in return, and remain diffident about platforms and coding tools: I just read what I read in people: Melissa is a less aggrandized version of Soon-yi and Woody Allen, her partner Mike nothing more than a baboon whose gravitations are led by his penis for Asian pussy, something which has been playing out between Caucasian men and Asian women since Japan was opened at a bayonet's receiving end. I may have curbed my acerbic starkness, parred it down, but at heart, I basically view Mr. Stiles' tweets on human trafficking as little more than a facade. I haven't been particularly supercilious about it due to his staying power, and of course, modern slavery isn't dungeons and dragons, but as African Americans in North Philadelphia answer their own sense of worth with either fatalism or brutality, like Erik's aide harassing me in public space (I wonder if my family would put up with living with corrupt homosexuals who destroyed careers, only to have to deal with this belligerence, no less), how can I give a fuck about social media's victim badges, when I cannot close the door on my own?

Sleeping With Nick Denton

"An erection is often an indicator of asphyxiation."-- Chris Meloni, no tattle here on gay marriage.

One learns not to make too much of anything, and of course the poor tattle site has its problems, but all my comments may only be viewed under pending approval while those who need to be Nixonian freely post fuck and bullshit. This a scrabble hardened woman doesn't quite comprehend. I am not a requisite Kantian saboteur just for the purpose of being one, although maybe this ties into Gawker contributors?

The balance, between that of strength and entropy is often astonishing, but I suppose this has much to do with the DNA of Southern European peasants who cannot quite break their station. Slowly, as I creep toward Friday, we may go on a ride about poets, writers, and the excessive power of ostracization. Before this city takes my carcass, I am going to war with graduate writing systems, but the air is seasonal, and I'm in great pain, even holding in the purple in the clench of my jar as father and sister lie about finding me a new "place,"; not sure how I can bring you in on why we hate the ambulatory world.

Free Ride

I do not have much for you this morning, other than a sense of being disgruntled, as I usually am, after parring viral communities down to size. I feel a certain weariness with blinding myself to the fact that I allow myself to be exploited, wobbling down the damn stepladder as opposed to holding my own. Ta-Nehisi, whose tag I now have to repair, was frank enough to tell readers the truth during the crescendo over Cosby: we don't make a great deal of money even under the brand name. This includes The New Republic prior to Chris Hughes, and okay, I struggled with an unsuitable community once again, get over it-- but LinkedIn hasn't been a five star venue either, exactly-- although I am taking another look. These platforms are indicating new ways hapless flat foots gain exposure, and I grasp the LinkedIn voice preference just enough, that with care, I can fake its light arcania sentiments, on some relevant issue I don't mind giving away.

I am tired and in pain and comfortably starving so as not to aggravate aged patriarch with mummified third wife; and it could be worse. I've written strong pitches, weak pitches, fucked pitches with typographical errors and still, I pitch, and Yabberz users did, now and again, give me a new market. If I had stayed, I would have threatened to kill the entire body of California liberals, as a class unique unto themselves. 

There is something superficially inimical about those domicile to the golden state, not that I feel particularly generous to modal libertarians either. We need to learn how to bond in mutual support now and again, and if I roll out of public housing, I need someone to catch me, not just suck me dry as a consumer.  Exposing Melissa's limits was exactly that. I can write about the public housing system as a corrupt and quiet holocaust forever, but who, exactly, would intervene? Catholicism even agrees with Presby's lies treating the broken with dignity. It is for our own good, or it isn't that you don't care, but you're sinking in an underwater mortgage too. I hear you, but section 811 and 202 are Satan's sadistic pleasures brought to life, the corrosion of defeat caught between our teeth without a decent polish and floss. It needs to end, even for nonagenarian bones. Regardless of who we fucking speak to, what we fucking say, a public housing tenant is so much chattel, a classification, automatically relegated, and I will show up in New Wales soon to find Toomey's campaign, and I intend to raise the damn dead when I do, if I have to, to break HUDs power.

Human Services Injunction Chambers

"I am not sure what you are referring to. I was attempting to meet with you to go over all your questions," one of them, which would have amounted to a twelfth  interview in a two year time frame.

While I am very good at punishing myself for the obstinate choices of youth, and then inveighing about subsequent injustice at the hands of an urban, impoverished, and dubiously competent minority caste which overpopulate our cities, that same caste which places Kanye in his own inequality bracket (obviously a tolerated bracket), I suffer in obscurity over why I objected to the living complex my then still sanguine parents located for me in Woodlyn. I have no idea if the complex was operated Elwyn Institute, or Delaware County HUD, but it was white, seeded with peers whom I knew. Independent Living Centers weren’t yet quite incorporated in Pennsylvania at the time, which is why activist groups still had the muscle to have tort. Perhaps I would have had a little job in the town library, remained a technical virgin. I really can’t say. The visit was pre-college, meaning that my whirlwind of hormones had not yet made me even more unreasonable with presentation of the men I wouldn’t be able to lasso. I’ve also posted before that I searched for this Woodlyn unit on various housing databases prior to my 2017 crisis in October, to no avail. The only thing I vaguely recall is an unwillingness to be concentrated among other wheelchair users, like pole vaulting into North Philadelphia was going to resolve that issue.

Service coordinators, against whom I invariably rebelled in the early eighties, and whom I invariably terminated in 2007, replacing with continual persecution by the women’s negro league who tried to incarcerate me, and who now frighten me with phrases like “protection from abuse,” do absolutely nothing but make assessments. I was one, and I too, was powerless for clients, so I am uncertain why their salaries are justified. At best, they make suggestions, and are often subtle projections of bias and stigma themselves, shielded and difficult to come up against in fidelity to process.

Nicotine Hytonia

"Do you know what happens to cops who get ten million dollars? They eat their service revolvers."-- a still robust Samuel L. Jackson

I am trying not to panic about the Toshiba. The monitoring system is warning me I need a new battery once again and I simply do not have it. They run about 130 USD not including shipping costs, and that is basically it. I do not eat, and kimmy will be lucky to get fresh litter. I'll have to transfer myself back to my more expensive, older, HP, which will run on the adapter even when the battery fails, but it will still result in an episodic migraine. I almost certainly indicated to my audience, and most definitively indicated to Yabberz before I deactivated myself, blocked Melissa Nguyen Horton from following my feed on twitter, that my poverty is the most effective weapon against  me,  pushing back against her, politely mind you, as she did nothing wrong in the matter of my ambivalent user activity-- I also cannot stand BridgeToursJade, the card player she is elevating this evening to her pundit class (I have been online almost over twenty years and Jade has the dubious distinction of being able to obsessively out-post me into the nether regions of Sheol.)

My regret, if you like, is my exasperation for wasting my time when I already know better; in the context of a libertarian battle cry of "Remember the Alamo!" I also remember earlier virtual investments. and some of you may recall my pained mostly capital response, yesterday:

@poetswritersinc all those years of my tireless support and U STIGMATIZE The Disabled! Hypocrites!

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) June 22, 2016

I do not suppose any of you care to know, outside of my taut, stricken nerves, why I was so impolitic to a probable student intern who is entirely ignorant about how far back I go with this organization, how strong my fealty was to Poets & Writers as a way of life: The climax of Under Suspicion, is, as NYT accurately observes, a clash of dramaturgic titans making an attempt at claustrophobic French imitation. Don't ask if Hackman was attempting homage, but he bravely pushes his dick where even I would fain to stray; it is a conflagration most of us deny in even the process of accepting the utterly plausible flashbacks of craven desire clinging to the lust, sheer lust, for existence.

My Email to Melissa Nguyen Horton, if not for Posterity, then for the price of my damn domain

Most of my readers know this story already, but, outside of the  glaring evidentiary abuses I've been subject to which cry out for a public housing attorney, this is another form of summarizing my helplessness, as spurring Presby to transfer me may make things worse than they are:

Melissa,

I have a few things to convey, then I am finished.

1. Presbyterian Homes Inc is a large, northeast based, elderly housing Protestant corporation, and they have been my landlord, under HUD section 811 202 since I was 23 years old, in two public housing units 15 minutes apart. The first location was Diamond Park, which, on a bad day, might be comparable to the Watts riots. I endured 8 years of this, systemic, prolonged inner city violence.

2. The day before I was to leave my case management consulting under my former Jewish supervisor whom I elevated into superwoman, and unwisely attempted to become, I was attacked by an African American grandson who looked like King Kong on angel dust. This happened because the exterminator was due any minute, and the gorilla addict said he was with the water department.

a. I have a difficult time writing about, or discussing this without having a traumatic response, and while I did not actually apply to law school, I feel I have a case against Presbyterian Homes for negligence. My relationship with their staff, their elderly tenants, has been one of hostile, constant tension. The current manager threatened me, through circumscribed procedure, with the threat of legal proceedings to commit me to a home, and eventually, Presbyterian Homes will probably win this battle.

3. Many reasonable people ask why I am not in intensive therapy with a pharmaceutical cocktail:
a). I tried.
b) Psychiatrists do not know enough about brain lesions and SSRI interaction, and I have witnessed former clients with cerebral palsy die from anti-anxiety dosages; my stress now is undoubtedly doing the same for me.

Why am I telling you this? I sort of get that you and Mike see yourself as incubators for those of us who see aggressive responses as justified for lifelong regimentation and unhappiness. In my case, also periods of acute and intensive suffering. I read part of Sunshine's post about her battle to cure herself, and I am presuming her block, after her attempt to defend Mark, and my rhetorical anger in relation to his testicles, was her way of saying "getting well takes work."

I cannot get well. No quadriplegic who has lived the stigma, terror, abuse, medical model brutality can, as I have -- but what I can do is mitigate the fact that my response to my pain is primarily illegal. Yabberz has already sucked  me in to personal frictions I don't need, and I also don't want to feel hurt about bans, aside from which, you didn't have any crip voices out there but mine, and cancerous epileptics are only a subset.

I am not an entirely blameless martyr, and should have thrown my energies into an appropriate relocation after 05 while I still had my money market. I did try, but not hard enough, and now it is all but pointless. The method to your madness doesn't work for us all, and it will not work for me. I blocked Yabberz about an hour ago, nothing personal. I don't need an Asian American den mother whose reticence leads by example. As you chicks like to say, however, "Namaste."
---------
This doesn't mean I don't admire the equanimity of a travel journalist and Forbes writer like  Ann Tran, who manages half a million followers, myself among them, at last count.

Pretentious Liberal Motherfuckers

"You sure?"-- Lawrence Gilliard, coming back from the dead to cross us over

The Hortons did not do anything overtly illegal in their solicitation. This was not a case of the state police tracking my brother down like an animal, a script straight of a seventies exploitation film, which is what my indelible memory of his face in that detention facility compares it to, an episode of The Fugitive. All the Hortons did was find my twitter account;  perhaps in the belief that a raging bull with tits would help their traffic ratio; I said to myself what the fuck is this?  And made successive errors in judgment,  for which I am now shamelessly trolling the couple and their community regulars.

Just like Mark Johnson, I can strike below the belt, and I was going to tell Karen Lee Bartlett her husband was an annoying voluble ass, just to be cruel. She was probably checking me out, because her motor moving epileptic spouse gave me what I thought I needed: chatter. If she was worried, she needn't have been. I would have abused BridgeToursJade with far more ease than try to steal him. The level of damage we can cope with in our partners is in the eye of the beholder-- but this is why I knew I had to get the fuck out of there and erase myself, because I was going to hurt an innocent party, due to the fact that other site users hurt, or were provoking me beyond what I can stand these days.


Yet my loneliness is still overweening. An online "regular" is better than the sheen of oils on my brother's psychotic adolescent bewilderment, cutting him off from normal human discourse forever. It would never be the same after that.  He was a hardcore drug user. If this is what my attitude is like starving for nicotine, then my brother off PCP should have been shot dead, then and there, as a fugitive on the run, spaced out, in the shame he brought to our family name, his face riddled with tweaker acne. He did not simply rape an anonymous party, but one of my father's tenants: If I rebelled against doing penny articles for Clarity Media, I was not going to give them to the nanny state mentality of Mike and Melissa for nothing, and was cruelly harsh with her, telling her Mike was a bozo fuck. That's mean, but I shall never, ever make the Yabberz News mistake again.

Deficit Apotheosis

"What do you think this place is?"-- Noah Emmerich as Dr. Jenner of the CDC

Since fear of Alzheimer's is basically wasted energy, and Camillieri was spared the worst of slowing brain processes as he hit his eighties, I know there isn't much I can do about it, given my own family history, my bellicose maternal grandfather breaking down from the ravages of senility, my late mother's lapses prior to her sudden collapse, but the close of fifty four years of unhappy regimentation sends me a warning flag about coping with anxiety: Rule number one: If I need to sit on a draft without a mandatory deadline, then sit on it. Remind me of this now and again, in your silence. I cannot discuss the specifics of what I was working on at the end of July through August of 2016, and like any freelancer, after a brief pucker over a bruise, jumping back in, repeating all is not lost, I have a source and did a ton of research. 

I have a draft, in the cloud, transitioned my Word 7 clumsiness to Google's effortless Chrome, but I drew a blank Friday morning om my concluding paragraph; I forced the issue due to severe extremes to which most women with cerebral palsy wouldn't push themselves, and I knew it. The publisher wouldn't have cared if I waited, stalled, procrastinated another 72 hours, even another week. All I would have gotten was a policy byline in a publication I curiously enjoy, and that is all I've lost, knowing better than to query Marie Varenas about whether or not she thought I was demented. Asking a terminally ill woman on Prozac, riding a snicker of exasperation. I linked back to Yabberz Friday afternoon by accident, intending to go to my Yahoo account, and a quick glance assured me I wasn't missing anything. Part of the problem with the Yabberz model is structural: 40 followers often share the same links, and for me it triggered  an adverse onslaught, one from which I am glad to be gone. Twitter is what it is, all of us vying and promoting and being pithy in 160 characters, but we can ignore it when we wish to, turn off notifications. The Hortons adapted their software to this approach, but for me, it did not work, led to unpleasant agitation, much like the Grimes family at their wits end to escape annihilation in episode six.

The destruction of the CDC in "The Walking Dead" was a spectacle condensed, in the ever wobbly line between big screen and flat screen, but it was also a 21st century reminder that technical optimism is also a faith misplaced in the face of catastrophe. If I have now become sympathetic to the ideas the Confederacy thought it had to defend, well, even I'm astonished-- but it was a message. Faith in government is a complacency that can prove to be quite costly.  

My sister is in therapy

And I am not. My mind, despite itself, refuses to stop working, and I may have to roll back my flight date, as of 8/24, while I'm looking for my sources and services papers; still with information on hardcopy that I need. Many sources have suggested that Thiel's capital injection into Bollea's suit wasn't illegal. As it pertains solely to the jury verdict, perhaps not.
I may be a journalist whose circumstances would have caused 10 ambulatory suicides by now, but my right to claim my place in the fourth estate stands, even if I am going to be destroyed by urban liberalism. However, I understand people fear being pilloried. Look at what I did to Linda Dezenski's reputation, or Erik's, and since the gollem of von Schmetterling's living carcass cannot respond to what I write, yes, I may be taking unfair advantage of a biologically confused female who took a male child as a partner, and can be judged accordingly. But both the Lina and Erik I knew were master prevaricators who hurt many in highly unethical, if not illegal fashion, and I took these platform tools, dispensed with propriety-- and something shook out, though I may be just another blogger, and not really much improved 17 years after so much turbulence-- hence, I am not quite sure that Thiel's ability to buy contiguous litigation is altogether above board. Denton certainly raised the issue of tortuous interference.

I still want a piece of this story, in other words. I think Thiel needs to be taken out before he fucks up something which has more direct repercussions. 

The Love of Theoretical Constructs

stop cursing everybody-- unattributed

I worry a great deal about Palantir. Peter Thiel commands in his online captions "let's change the world," but this facial recognition software and complex data analytics contravenes the very notion of personal liberty, and seems less innovative than simply more of the same. Asimov predicted, rather uncannily, where global conglomeration is taking us, long before David Mitchell earned a tsunami of critical acclaim with Cloud Atlas, as early as 1952, with Foundation and Empire. The protagonist, whose name is beyond recollection, discovers at the close of the novel that robots--for all intents and proposes androids, have programmed absolute control of human destiny, an ending more chilling than Mitchell's grim predicate of our decline and fall as a species, and here we are with these massive monopolies to which we've already ceded our lives, today nearly a prerequisite for existence, barring a reversion to a nomadic existence. Examining Thiel's media hostility under another lens, however, Thiel's destruction of Nick Denton's business is eerily similar to what Ayn Rand's mogul publisher Gail Wynand does by silencing a columnist who has co-opted his paper. Wynand cannot stop the man from preaching to his readers, so with an improbable ruthlessness, Wynand simply shuts down his presses, giving The Fountainhead a spiritual stridency for which Rand is often criticized. The Fountainhead is Rand's best polemical writing, undoubtedly, but she eschews the media because journalists, by definition, are shepherds, trying to penetrate, reform as much as inform upon its audience. It points to an old fashioned conceit about gay men and lesbians as a class, a retentive prudery.

On the record

I think I am going to abandon Yabberz News. It depresses me. Gawker does not depress me. I know I'm boring you, but not trying to, as I wish to find interactive sites I enjoy, and I let myself fall into the Horton sandpit, my belief persisting that I was there years ago and wisely left. I am really not sure what drives me away. I am mean, and without nicotine, threatening violence is the natural proclivity of intense pain. The word fuck is simply a monotone of saltiness. Yabberz is mean, but I only rarely see my bad day virulence on it and really dislike it. A European emigre, American born black, decided to follow me on the site, and in shaded euphemism I tried to tell her I was racist, but it would have hurt her unnecessarily. I'll sleep on it, but dislike the fact of its tendency toward binary opposition-- but this expatriate, Mickey, who seems to have her own triggers, disliking Mark Johnson as intensely as I do, happily, said Yabberz is

• Low traffic, which seems obvious
• crude
• mean, like twitter

The empath minority girl is right and I rather admire her spirit, because she sees, I believe, what lies behind the bubbles of of bigoted reducive tendencies. I followed her back, but again, this community portal isn't conducive for me. There are a number of smart users far more erudite on policy than I can be at one time, but I hate it, and begin to feel California has a conflicted identity crisis, one that makes Jerry Brown diminutive. I'm open to other ideas, though I hesitate about returning to the NYT book forum. Enough posts for one morning.

The Nine Tenths Aspect, Dowager Version

In light of Gawker's battle over the Terry Bollea sex video, I did some research on Thiel. Some. I did not scour every link, nor do I know the entire story of the trial Gawker Media's lawyers lost to the powerful venture capitalist's investment in painting a man like Bollea as a victim, but here is a surprise for you: I like Gawker. This comes late, admittedly, and I wish I could make corrections to their platform editor after I hit publish, but anyone who can run a headline asserting Zuckerberg is a paranoid fuck has my admiration. If I make threats against my disabled community, I come under intense pressure from Blogger and twitter, but Zuckerberg has a high bar to meet as a public figure to go after Denton. I also followed Thiel's ominously quiet twitter account and used "faggot" like a whiplash noun, so is this not suspiciously against my libertarian vibrations? 

Even Reason Magazine might hesitate to applaud Thiel's wealth as weapon against journalism. I'm a writer; it is what I damn well do for Christ's sake, and if Peter Thiel doesn't want to be outed as a stool softener, he should not be a public figure, but that ship has definitively sailed due to Ebay, Paypal, which I use, reluctantly, and had to use for Examiner's chump change, however many years it's been now. I am too ashamed of the fact that I bowed to Examiner's cut rate foreskin content aggregation to include it on my resume, but it consumed nine months of my life and added up to fifteen dollars. Whatever depression may have done to my Harvard acumen, I am still better than that.

Gawker is too, and I like it's meanness, Fleet Street bite. Thiel sets a dangerous precedent. I'm an individualist. I hate the New York Times, but if I had Thiel's money liberals would set me up for target practice if I sued Carlos Slin to decouple him from one of the most powerful newspapers in the US. I also shouldn't be paying Blogger for this domain name, assiduously applying myself, three bucks in a dead Adsense account, money which I actually need, as my budget is that bad, but I'm aging, frightened of that, and bitterly wronged.

Is media as an enterprise deplorable? Yes, and even Woodward and Bernstein should be challenged and deconstructed, but without narratives, we'd be murdering each other in crocodilian riverbeds. 

The Lone Ranger Evokes Brexit

"Life clung to me like a disease."-- Javier Barden

One of the Sjowall and Wahloo Beck novels which resonates our universality to a slightly more authentic degree is The Scorpion, which puts two cases of domestic violence on parallel tracks, one working class, the victim of the first case a woman abused by an evidently suicidal cop, the other, drawing heavily on Mikael Persbrandt, letting Peter Haber recede into the background, the top billed actor giving way to his scene stealing sidekick, involves Gunvald's sister and her troubled husband, who hangs himself before his tough love brother in law can shrink his prostate gland with a crowbar. Persbrandt has a limited range, but like many talented actors whose gifts align with the correct habitation, viewers bond to his invitation to join him in ironic complicity. 
Swedish actors are not my type, but Persbrandt cuts to the heart of my vulnerability. He represents what I've always wanted as a lone disabled woman: the protector, the one who will make it stop hurting, and the screenwriters for the Beck series play with this conceit, and upend it powerfully in this adaptation. The white knight can't always stop the pain, even though he risks life and limb, takes a bullet, trench coat billowing outward. Here comes superman, or the Pinkertons. Granted, this is still televised entertainment, and not all males provoked who slap women around opt for violent incremental, or sudden suicide. My father is a case in point, though before Shriners Hospital butchered me, maybe when I was eleven, I thought he was going to kill us all. My mother would not stop; let's face the fact that in episodes of discord women are verbal aggressors, and my mother wouldn't stop. She was like oil on fire, and I thought my fireman father, my hero, was going to kill his entire family. His rage and broken arm imprinted itself.
We survived. My mother moved on to worse men, really dangerous sick men, and my father married Louise, my mother's friend from college, who my father is keeping alive through extraordinary rendition, which I suppose isn't so remarkable, as love doesn't keep me tethered to Frank, but guilt refuses me the courtesy of obliteration to his ghost, much as the 2012 Skyfall is an endearing tribute to Ian Fleming, though we may roll eyes at the formula. This modernized installment on the franchise gets a great deal right about why we need melodrama and Judy Dench as the defender of the Union Jack. "No no, don't kill off mother!" We cry out, but what makes Craig absolutely the right man in the right casting for the reboot after Brosnan and Roger Moore, made him wrong for Enduring Love. McEwan's story is distasteful to me, but putting this in context, Craig was miscast. What makes him right for a super spy bordering on disbelief and immortality makes him wrong for a slice of life personality disorder stalker. But Javier's face, isolated in his glass pentagon, offers those of us systemically brutalized the same self-recognition The torture he took, which turned him, is representative of what hides behind this smiling face, the price she made loyalists pay. I don't live it anymore, not like I did, and taking her out when I myself am near the end would only reverberate within the culture for a brief period. Analysts would say tunnel vision prevented me from my own reconciliation, that this is the price of the game, as we call it. Yet that damage also liberates us, calculating the price.

An Old Fashioned

I tend to forget, even with my skewered data plan, skewered and entirely my fault, not ATT's, that we're always carrying each other's accounts around, technically always in each other's company, even when we're literally in each other's company, yet it isn't the same as dialing up a friend to chew the cud, which I can barely do with my familiaris these days. To my sister I'm a non entity, and my mother's sister, a generation older than I, steers clear of twitter for the most part (I mainly don't care, they ban me then they ban me, not that this should be an issue with this post) and I can't telephone my father to say happy father's day without it becoming a greenback guilt trip of mutual anxiety over parental and sibling mortality: but daddy may outlive me, and then there are hold outs like Yabberz, the last of the wild west.

I cannot put it to you succinctly why I dislike Yabberz so much. The same sense of egotistical outcast has followed me there, as it got me booted from other online communities, and my usage has taken a precipitous drop; nor am I sure I'm supporting the portal as a sustaining member next cycle, but I can give you one example: a valley girl type who calls herself Jacklyn followed me early in my account creation, and she quotes the Hobbit on her profile page. I grimaced, followed her back, stopped following her within 24 hours, and the bovine skull bitch then blocked me roughly a week ago, as if this was going to make me feel bad, because I cited Charles Krauthammer in response to which laws Obama broke. I never wanted a moronic bubble gum chewer linked to me in the first place, yet she blocked me for answering her fucking question, as opposed to me telling her she was a stupid bitch: it isn't her block which bothers me as much as her own hypocrisy. She claimed she wanted to follow me for "the give and take," and despite my aggravation with her responses to me I tolerated her, and thought that was the point. She could have simply stopped following me, but blocked me for citing a conservative paraplegic. The behavior of simpletons can infuriate.

Liberals are simply out of control on the Horton portal. "So stop using it," and yes, this is what it is coming down to, but having a discussion forum for what I like, once in awhile, shouldn't be such a marathon with tortuous interference.

[I had to rush check a paying MFA generated journal, and don't know where they get the money, but I'll pick that thread up another day.]

Hollow Point

"Although we may be frail and helpless,"-- Stephen Hawking

The Churchmen has a deliberate subtext. We're frail and vain and cruel creatures formed of the dust, and thus to dust we shall return, even if hit men acting to avenge a Russian criminal fail to give the actor Samuel Jouy a kill shot for the sake of series continuity. I'm much like his Jose, with a fervor worthy of destruction, a poor atheist and lousy Catholic both, I'm of course overjoyed the European studio system made him a paraplegic who is allowed to return to being a seminarian, and the Modern Catholic might be equally gratified by the admission, that, if I open my heart, I'm right back in Sunday school with the choir and a few hosanna's of my own, except it would be of little use. If I returned and did penance, I'd soon defy Francis and face excommunication. I don't like this Pope, and it's wrong to feel this way about a third world bishop playing the Vicar victims advocate on one lung. My decency is too tarnished for anything useful, still, Hawking set me thinking about why there necessarily need be particle motion and forces  in  the vastness of space. I can't think of any plausible reason why a void simply cannot remain a void, why gases have to react, why elements have distinct features. We can explain it, make analogies, but nothing about matter or our language for its laws is necessarily rational without God than with one, insofar as I can see. Our relatively stable star will one day nova, perhaps after humans go extinct, and what then? Awareness is almost unnecessary, and our minds will never fully understand physics, but take the observer out of the picture, and neither material processes nor supernatural ones have much validity. Neil De Grasse's question about what the purpose of a divine being would be may be valid, but so is the question of why electrons orbit a nucleus, why energy even exists, why I don't go to bed, with my swollen feet. 

Heather Donahue Does an Isothermal

Jean-Luc Bideau dissuades me from enjoying The Churchmen too much. I am sure there are priests like Fromenger, but this particular actor leaves me unconvinced, among other issues, but this admission in no way detracts from the fact that the series has more to it than Samuel Jouy's intensive, persuasive, sexually attractive fervor so ironically crippled in the second season. The series, taking into account the actual production, is not quite ten years old, and one might suppose it alludes to The Blair Witch Project to maintain a complimentary parallel to the metric system.

Along with the Matthew Broderick Godzilla, AI, The Sixth Sense, Blair Witch was one of the last films I saw at the shuttered Chestnut Street Cinema, and it flew over my head as the beginning of the generation gap between myself and those who came of age at the close of the Clinton era. I do not mean this in an aesthetic sense, though I believe the film fails, and Donahue's hyper holding it together and peeling apart like fried string cheese wasn't enough to carry a movie that was deliberately an imitation of rough captured home video. I recall the rapid monologue in dappled sunlight, the weirding out in the closed in motel, and a climax which might have been a bad case of menstrual cramps, and it made such slight impression because there was little that I could grasp in terms of cultural cues. 

Doing films on Chestnut was one of the few things I could do alone without a tortured sense of alienation, and I miss it for this reason. Unlike Liberty On The Rocks, which rankles me as much as I care about it as a sort of wry conceit on political bullshit, in the movie theater I could bond with others, and threw a distraught scene on the sidewalk too, despair surging forth in the stark realization of my doom, interior knowledge attuned to the fact that Cinderella will not be rescued by the perfectly abandoned slipper, much like the sage patrician sensibility of The Modern Catholic isn't quite what I envisioned when contemplating a contribution, and shall have to adjust my parameters if I make an effort. Catechism is long buried in spot memories of Mary Anne; I think she was Mary Anne, who got involved as a stabilizing force in my prepubescent years. She walked me on crutches with the classic cripple's leather helmet, locked me in standing tables, prepared me for communion, let me sleep over. She might have taken me from my mother, and I contemplate in amazement the absence of scars in the care of a decent physical therapy aide. My viewers inadvertently remind me some of my rage-trigger posts about independent living need a polish. Time constraints merit patience.

The Ellsberg Anarchism

"Crimson and Clover"-- The Shondells

Normally, I automatically delete the majority of chapbook contests Allison Joseph transmits, but Brain Mill caught my eye, despite that it apparently overflows with generational neo-liberalism. I logged on to check the site for fees and to look for its open poetry series for the month of June, only there seems to be a contradiction between what the email instructs and the links on the site. My lack of sympathy for the five zillion MFA programs within the college of arts academies may be construed as my lack of success within it, but only in part. I am increasingly conservative, with more than trace elements of libertarian sentiment (despite free press antagonism to Peter Thiel) and most writing programs have wallflower multicultural codes already implanted within them-- not that they don't produce good writers, but, with varying exceptions, like David Mitchell, they're all the same, variations in style, technique, notwithstanding.

I have not had a good Monday, and left my key rope on the table because I became distracted, got back to Riverside, plowshared the office like an enemy combatant, exhaustively plopped on mattress sinkhole, today succeeded with my odd trick of getting up exactly on time for a program, and casually measured my emotional pain as self-mutilating, easing, mildly, with chili, burrowing in on the last of my usage before an overage.

It is not a good time to be me, the angry, race baiting militant. You might ask me what I want, within my episodic battles with the Presbyterian modus operandi I now mostly have what I want, being left alone, cleaning up after my dead Vinnie, battling kimmy's stubborn temperament, all apartment dwellings have tenant frictions, and before I inducted myself in Presby's sandpit, I was in Marie's row home, dirty and straggling as reverted to form in my fifties, dumping my commode stool in her back alley. The chip on my shoulder is over my lack of choice. I was this close to getting my own mortgage in 1994, and now, my only options are grin, bear it, or give my notice, then ask myself how I'm supposed to defecate when push comes to shove, if I turn myself out, hence Brain Mill's "Love & Mercy" theme caught my eye, in the turmoil of my own scourge:

I am going to write this, twitter and Google be damned: FBI director James Comey, the swarming liberal apologia for law enforcement's lack of willingness to behave like a police state with Mateen, can go fuck itself, royally. It behaves like a police state with me. I cannot move, and I've been stuck here thirty years, with a near insurmountable ability to restore my economic freedom. 

If The Pentagon Papers changed public perception to the extent Ellsberg's vindication would have it, we would have never fought the Iraq War.

Jack Cassidy's Covert Collaboration

"Get on and get up over your hill,"-- a poignant track to Stargate Universe, never viewed

The poet Laurel Speer and I had a brief correspondence of the old fashioned sort, type written, envelope and stamps, the last missive received, one of her essays, in which she conveyed the writer's worst enemy: the loss of words. I certainly never anticipated the spectre of weariness would begin to threaten the only thing I have keeping me on the ground and alive, my work, as a very minuscule author, if you like, as well as a journalist poet with a string of bylines a mile long.

Who am I to push back against Peter Thiel's power, or be distressed about where my next pitch is coming from, or going to? Assuming that Mateen had an objective to achieve something against homosexual liberation, tactically, yes, it was a strategic mistake, precisely because it was a spectacle, one which will ultimately give sexual permissiveness more power, not less, consuming the  media for an extra period of time, however long it may be. Reactionaries need necessarily be shrewder in the methods they deploy, the exception being with Muslims, regardless of who they are, where they come from. They need to be extracted, deported, from Europe, the US, Canada, and any other civilized society. They need to be fought, and defeated, and only then can the rest of us contemplate mercy. The struggle with evil can be an intellectual contest, reflecting both sides of the coin, but it can also be simplified, and I refuse, regardless, to have any sympathy for individuals who insist on applying a Mosaic mindset to the modern world, even as we continually unravel our boundaries, which if you'd bother to apply yourselves, you'd realize we all need.

I am conflicted, when it comes to the Cassidy family, whether I'm more enthralled by the debonair father or the inauthentic son, with his squeaky clean shag and ineffectual strum on his amps.

Almost Falling

"The stain!"-- Llosa's cry of mortal failing

Even in my most conscientious efforts, in the humidity, my ass leaks, not that Llosa would want to bother holding me up in effigy as he does Trujillo. I stopped in the middle of The Feast of the Goat. Llosa is taut and angry, his female who opens the book well developed, as is the assassin waiting to kill the paranoid and angry old man. I did not put my e-text in archive, I just don't see how the colonies of the Dominican Republic and Haiti fall as an indictment on my doorstep, nor how Llosa thinks he is changing the world with his fictional history, as I struggle with liquefied waste, a throbbing jaw and a tilt, this afternoon, from which I had to pull myself back, not willing to attempt a second lateral move, something I do every day, and have to do now, after I put my food away, not even able to grieve that I had to wind up with my grandfather's comically active bowel. If you think a West African immigrant is going to ably care for me, it's because you cannot see, nor peer too closely, just as Urania Cabral's husk of a father is detailed by Llosa as a clever episode of denigration. 

Yet in the mist of venerating despair, which has denigrated my flesh life long, Christ take your pick, including Erik von Schmettering's squat and thick little niger man, whose lips are wide, elongated with ignorance of manner, I sit here insisting revise your damn posts; you're running out of time, do better. We all have bad days, but where are my good to counter the terror I face? How could my mother, my flesh and bone, believe I could survive in Inglis House. Battered wheelchairs and gurneys clutter the halls, the odors of cache bags inescapable. I've suffered this my entire life, and I'm not even there.

Sycophancy in Japanese Homoeroticism

"First comes dealing with the pain and loss,"-- the Josie Byzek I barely knew

If Blogger itself hasn't succeeded in subduing me, (not entirely), the fact that my twitter following slowly and ever so persistently grows might, despite the fact that every once in awhile I need to go off, mindful of the fact I have new eyes watching but I just spent well over two hours formatting and revising, with the alliance in charge perhaps having little to absolutely no idea how badly I need money in my proclivity toward cavies, falling on my knees in my subconscious saying please like me pay me.

It doesn't work like that, and those of us in the business know it. I'm only partially baffled that I broke ranks by getting into The Philadelphia Inquirer metro section in 05 on my second try and cannot, or could not, break ranks into the City Paper daily. It was not personal. I know that. I'd telephone and say how bout this? It was always "no, I don't think so," Patrick Rapa, primarily. I am sad they have been bowed over due to online advertising, but how much of an alternate voice they were remains unclear. A really old turn of the century piece about those suffering gender identity issues, cutting off their testicles in a bathtub, was Gawker type material, but how much did it serve the city's need to know? I had no idea the daily went down nearly nine months back.

Now I'll never get in it, which may be why I do not want to get on Melissa Nguyen Horton's bad side, with this being one of her thumbnail photos. In one of my puzzled moment episodes, she followed me on her little darling of a news community. What was I supposed to do, block the site owner where an unhappy quadriplegic complains? I followed her back, pondering Mario Puzo's sexual fascination with Asian lesbianism, or the snapshot I use of the saintly whore going off in an unholy triage of power cock with executives and madame, and our mainly one sided discussions in email. Melissa doesn't need to assert her Asian (new age?) identity, but she'll collect damaged strays like me, keep an eye on us. Maybe she just followed me on her portal to say "I'm human too, as fallible as you are, Joanne," but the truth is, I do not really have to time to break a sweat and produce professional quality reads on Yabberz, aside from hating Mark Johnson. I urgently need dental surgery, and it might kill me if I don't work on a solution. Medicaid isn't going to pick up a tab which could run in the thousands, and I am not sure where to go. The Temple dental clinic tortured me in my late 20's, private practices cannot help me, and I cannot get into the operating theater. All an abscess has to do is travel to my brain, and then I will not have to wrestle the moral issues any longer. 

Simenon's Shrews

"I don't know who Donald Trump represents, other than himself."-- Gwen Ifill

I came on to research Thiel's battle with Gawker, and had previously supposed the outing issue had died a quiet death with Law and Order serials, and tend to believe there is more to it than that, even if a California leftist asshole like Mark Johnson doesn't make for much of an enemy does he, with sop driveling posts like this, linked twice for your edification. He's not much, in terms of an intellectual challenge, and attacked me personally because I gave him access to my work. I can assure you that the cliche about angry liberals having a terrifying mien holds true when it comes to this deadbeat want to be Beverly Hills shuttle cock, a lightweight not even worth the pleasure of a snapped vertebra, so linear and literal minded.

A broken bone must not make for much of a sound effect. Other than radicalized surgeries, I dislocated a knuckle and popped it back in on my own. I am not interested in writing about Thiel and Gawker. I'm not even positive I'd be the type of tattle writer who could offer Gawker any relative value, as I can't pitch my way into City Paper, and I live here, but billionaires having absolute media control troubles me, none the less, much more so than tabloid tactics toward content generation, so, if I have picked a side, learning that writing with passion, from the heart, earns the disenfranchised the wrath of giants, seems to me a cause for concern, even if I'm a hate crime in waiting not exploiting the sick and the deaf, using ALS and spina bifida and the autistic and addicts as shields. It runs through the blood of every procedural, from Poe to Simenon, Dick Wolf, Mankell, Beck. Codename Hunter, of course, puts an Ironside spin on paraplegia, but I'm not into it, just as Maigret and the Old Lady illustrates the great Belgian chaffing under his own formula, as its little more than an old woman's vanity above her station wreaking havoc on the class from which she climbed. I am caught in the middle, not knowing how to play powerful interests to end my life with the quality of peace I feel I deserve, but despising the radical left Johnson professes to espouse while revealing in misogyny toward me because I'm neither pretty, nor placid  Ideologues are rarely what they appear to be.

Terminus, foie gras

"I saw a bunch of scared actors afraid of losing their jobs."-- John Corbett, who manages to make me curl, pleasantly

It was gratifying to see the late Patty Duke Astin in the instantly forgettable 05 Bigger Than The Sky, its two hour run time consuming my salmon pate preparation, a steady diet of which usually revives my energy, but not today, not even with a thousand milligram caplet swallowed beneath it. The amount of caffeine I have absorbed, the real shift in humidity as the summer season shifts into full gear, this accentuates my plaque build up, my arthritis, and the strange irritation in my rectum which has been and remains not part of my normal biological narrative since I allowed the late Frank access to it. A former aide named Kisha assured me that Frank's enthusiastic anal experimentation would not have done anything harmful to me. She is probably correct, as my intimacy with him ended within the first year and six months of our relationship, and any infection from his hazardous body would have done more to me by now; it is, nonetheless, a basic truism, before 2006 my colon in and of itself wasn't raising the potential of malignancy. The tendency towards polyps runs in the family, as well

In mid 2016, I understand the situational irony of actually being dead alive, almost as well as Duke comprehends, in either her maudlin or satirical modes, her emotional pendulum swings-- my mind and its acuity still relatively intact, but knowing the end is in sight, giving into it despite my libertarian exhilaration. Just getting through the day, making myself a meal, grinding what remains of my occlusion to get through my ligaments, breathing shallow, let alone driving this battered vehicle about my limited range, or throwing a load of colors in the wash, is doing me in, much like the labor of the Comtrex freight, protesting its heavy metal elements on the rails.

I was rather stupid to allow myself to get drawn in to the Yabberz community, and I'm extracting myself from it, reluctantly, true, like a puss-faced toddler. There are some sharp witted users who habituate the virtual dynamic of Golden State liberal hypocrisy, but the best of them visit infrequently; not all of them may have mental health issues, but one of the return users, harleyboy66, is an exact replica of the clientele I used to case manage, possibly dangerous under the right provocation. I can tell because of his lack of coherence. He was the wrong person to be having an online discussion with about quadriplegia and ideation. I am not quite certain what I'm going to *do* with Mike and Melissa's volatile maven. I agree with a Romanian critic that Yabberz has an unpleasant political miasma to it, but on the other hand, as a blogging platform, it does have its uses, and as I'm not under commission, I can still keep my account active enough to experiment with ideas, if I can keep a lid on threatening the faux liberals, as well as the true left, with total annihilation. If anything, Yabberz has contributed to my own polarization, and I am still not particularly fond of peripheral views to which a Cyclops is limited. And since I have forgotten my fatigue, obviously I need to be true to myself, and work, in the time I have, work.

I also want to scream at Tony Stiles to steal a hydraulic van and come rescue me from an African American punk majority, if only as a charitable contribution. Perhaps I should contact the Koch brothers.