"For the first time ever, we have got proper references to good government, the rule of law and access to justice."-- David Cameron, 2015, essentially meaningless
Depp is barely six months younger than the dowager, and his eyes would get him past the gateway to a really good, hard, fuck on the carpet, the type of fucking which leaves fantasy bruises on underarms, and no, for this sentiment to be presumptuous would necessitate canceling out Depp's intuitive interpretation of marginalization. He gets it; his only role in which this is nearly invisible, to the point it might take a viewer 15 minutes to realize who Pacino was playing off of, (not paying attention to the credits) is the older Brasco, a great film which would have been impossible for Pacino to make without Coppola's genius proceeding it.
The killing of the grizzled dog in Secret Window is a tactless Stephen King cliche, one designed to move the needle on a presumably sympathetic protagonist, though again, one has to wonder about Hutton's mature casting choices as a supporting actor, aside from his need to make a living. It does, perhaps, effectively trigger shock when a superstar gets eliminated suddenly and quickly in a movie, as in City of Industry, but against Rainey's dissociative cunning, Ted is a throwaway character here, a more dominant alpha male who is out maneuvered in a sordid culmination of violence which no one believes. Depp is too cute, as the female postal actress exclaims for the fandom contingent. Designing a movie to be a send up of pretension doesn't work if the suspense is muted by an exposition which plays itself out like a box of chocolates. Cellophane is meant to be distracting. Putin also tries to have the same effect with images, and British satirists went after his picture calendar with pleasurable release. George F. Will needs to get real, however. The United States will not go to war with the Russian Federation over Estonia, however IIves may extol the virtues of autonomy. Even conceding that Russia is resurgent, nothing is ever quite the same as it used to be, and Vladimir cannot reassemble the Soviet Union, even if the sovereignty of Ukraine is also marginal, at best. The world has changed, as the downing of Metrojet 9268 proves. To the effect that countries are still countries, as opposed to cash cows for conglomerates, Putin controls a large landmass with a very sparse population density, which speaks as loudly as any open secret on doping. The US, and Europe, to a lesser extent, also undermines Russian pride, and in a carry over from Crimean conflicts in the 19th century, Slavic mannerisms are still aped by proper Caucasians for lampooning purposes. Don't get me wrong, I am not defending Putin's trollism, but my suffering as an American on the margins at the hands of descendants of Africans is verifiable; not that much has changed since the days of Ellison's tokenism, practices to which Africans still subject themselves to in contemporary Russian schools, whose architecture is subject to flammable hazards, making the oppressed as expendable, once removed, as they always were. To take a page from Zbigniew Brzezinski's mindset, all the Chinese have to do is apply pressure on the Slavs from the South, pushing upwards. Asians have the numbers to spare.
Countries need alliances, no question of that, but cutting through the thickets of Donald Trump's muzzle flashes, there is a relevant question to be had, namely, what the fuck is NATO good for? It hasn't resolved anything running around Afghanistan trying to exterminate corrupt primitives.
Sunday, July 31, 2016
Friday, July 29, 2016
Moral Dilemmas in Putrefaction
Even as recently as five years ago, when I in fact just started posting, not so inadvertently discovering affinities with spree killers, the thought that Jayne Anne was not my intellectual superior would have been unthinkable, and that, primarily, because this bastard was a personal deity, and while this may be categorically unfair to southern women writers who only mildly differentiate themselves from urban northeasters, Miss Phillips has systematically left me unimpressed, and I've contemplated removing her from my small mounties of rage on twitter, where she has neither responded, nor blocked me, my ambivalence neither here nor there toward our respective twilights, unlike Poets and Writers, which blocked me for writing stigmatize in capitals after they invited suburban mermaids to chorus with them at a poetry reading. I may have reacted and tweeted inappropriately about how conformist the organization has become since its early days, but they are the ones being intransigent now, not I.
I have not been rude to Miss Phillips, and retain yet a slight trance of deference in my responses to her normative academic liberalism, but what I read in her, even as a disabled woman who personalizes on the basis of an effervescent clinging, is a white Southern woman who's used up, running the standard leftist treadmill we all know. This is a great deal to masticate in what amounts to a simple binary choice in the complexity of computer binary code, or is it something else, like a disabled woman betrayed by cosmetics?
I have not been rude to Miss Phillips, and retain yet a slight trance of deference in my responses to her normative academic liberalism, but what I read in her, even as a disabled woman who personalizes on the basis of an effervescent clinging, is a white Southern woman who's used up, running the standard leftist treadmill we all know. This is a great deal to masticate in what amounts to a simple binary choice in the complexity of computer binary code, or is it something else, like a disabled woman betrayed by cosmetics?
Thursday, July 28, 2016
Thudding Indentation
I cannot actually discuss the column I am working on, even in these days of hyperlinks down to the essential beat reporter, but I twisted myself from the lede to the essential meat of my idea, despite what extreme poverty and physiological duress are doing to me. What I can say is this is a mainstream policy piece about which I care, and as I've written three times, I want to get it right; by the end of next week I hope to have a workable draft nearly ready-- and, if I am declined, be prepared to be a good soldier, as Leonard Nimoy and Peter Falk were, at least on the set.
I may overuse the idea of conduits, but Falk and Nimoy were both filters between Jewish intellectualism and popular culture, and when my battle with Presbyterian pretensions and contiguous minority abusive stigma subsides, at least to some degree, consider these two celebrity character actors a foot note in one of my squiggly segues towards both fusion and difference.
I may overuse the idea of conduits, but Falk and Nimoy were both filters between Jewish intellectualism and popular culture, and when my battle with Presbyterian pretensions and contiguous minority abusive stigma subsides, at least to some degree, consider these two celebrity character actors a foot note in one of my squiggly segues towards both fusion and difference.
Taking Aim at Corporate
Let me know if this is confusing; having transmitted it, with scant resources, my days are numbered, even as I wake stiff with cramps, crumbling like a chicken wing, I piss a quart of water and make myself rise, with little idea how I am enduring, at all:
Presbyterian Homes
Corporate Office
My name is Joanne Marinelli. I have been a section 811 202 tenant of Riverside since August 1994 as a transfer from Diamond Park, where I became an assault victim in 1993.
Since that transfer, I have been an exceedingly unhappy ADA client who was banned from your dining service in 2005 and still forced to pay for it under building manager Debra Schwab. I sought and received legal representation and was victorious over Presby's blatant institutional cruelty.
Up through 2006, let me cut through the chase, I was placed under psychological duress by a number of minority attendants while trying to be a compliant tenant. I was swindled by a Jehovah's Witness contracted out by Unlimited Staffing, then molested by another female from the same staffing service, again, under Presby's auspices.
You have allowed Trudy Richardson to aggressively intimidate me with assessment teams since 2007, one team under your own contract, and twice since then by Health and Human Services staffers who charged me at my bedside saying that they had been to Inglis House, what's wrong with it?
Let me put this in terms you hypocritical mother fuckers understand: Presby is in part liable for the trauma I experienced in Diamond Park in 1993. I let the corporation off as opposed to litigating it and doing what was best for my health. Not anymore. You can tell the Presbyterian attorneys who sit on your board that I intend to file a hate crimes complaint specifically against Riverside's owner, and the corporation's unwillingness to take any responsibility for the lack of security at the Diamond Units.
If you continue to allow Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne to play mind games with me until I manage to retain legal counsel, you have two options: have me placed under arrest, or begin eviction proceedings against me. I was within my legal rights to sue Presby in 1993 for the home invasion I survived. I didn't pursue the matter because I let Presby's then employee Terri Way talk me out of it, took her advice and came to Riverside. It is an inhumane paradigm for a young and intelligent disabled woman who only and ever wanted a career. I shall not rest until you take responsibility for your acts of bad faith, or I see you at trial. For the record, Senator Pat Toomey's staff has my federal letter of complaint on file.
Presbyterian Homes
Corporate Office
My name is Joanne Marinelli. I have been a section 811 202 tenant of Riverside since August 1994 as a transfer from Diamond Park, where I became an assault victim in 1993.
Since that transfer, I have been an exceedingly unhappy ADA client who was banned from your dining service in 2005 and still forced to pay for it under building manager Debra Schwab. I sought and received legal representation and was victorious over Presby's blatant institutional cruelty.
Up through 2006, let me cut through the chase, I was placed under psychological duress by a number of minority attendants while trying to be a compliant tenant. I was swindled by a Jehovah's Witness contracted out by Unlimited Staffing, then molested by another female from the same staffing service, again, under Presby's auspices.
You have allowed Trudy Richardson to aggressively intimidate me with assessment teams since 2007, one team under your own contract, and twice since then by Health and Human Services staffers who charged me at my bedside saying that they had been to Inglis House, what's wrong with it?
Let me put this in terms you hypocritical mother fuckers understand: Presby is in part liable for the trauma I experienced in Diamond Park in 1993. I let the corporation off as opposed to litigating it and doing what was best for my health. Not anymore. You can tell the Presbyterian attorneys who sit on your board that I intend to file a hate crimes complaint specifically against Riverside's owner, and the corporation's unwillingness to take any responsibility for the lack of security at the Diamond Units.
If you continue to allow Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne to play mind games with me until I manage to retain legal counsel, you have two options: have me placed under arrest, or begin eviction proceedings against me. I was within my legal rights to sue Presby in 1993 for the home invasion I survived. I didn't pursue the matter because I let Presby's then employee Terri Way talk me out of it, took her advice and came to Riverside. It is an inhumane paradigm for a young and intelligent disabled woman who only and ever wanted a career. I shall not rest until you take responsibility for your acts of bad faith, or I see you at trial. For the record, Senator Pat Toomey's staff has my federal letter of complaint on file.
Wednesday, July 27, 2016
Colic is a more targeted noun
Therefore, and shut the door upon them twain,
And prayed unto the Lord and he went up
And lay upon the corpse, dead on the couch,
And put his mouth upon his mouth, his eyes
Upon his eyes, his hands upon his hands-- Robert Browning
Andrew Lincoln has only so much he can do with culture shock and mortal anguish, just as the rest of the ensemble recurs are challenged, the only real hook for the audience being who is next to get beaten to death before the next oasis comes along, or the next community where appearances are deceptive. The local syndication of The Walking Dead reboots at season five, so alas, other than rescanning some episodes here or there (what happened to the veterinarian?) or next month streaming what I cannot afford, I am now one of these early floaters-- and no, though the 100 had an early, somewhat merciless, intrigue, I do not wish to catch up with it; in its own way, it is too chic, too much of the generation of my nephews. The Alexandria episodes of WD are interesting because they turn the tables. It is the Grimes group which inadvertently leads to such significant losses for Sam Waterston's stronger female foils, where Rick's earlier samaritan Morgan reemerges, but I no longer have the economic resources to keep myself abreast in a cavalier binge fashion, even as a 66 year old drunk with chest nodules which need a biopsy bums me a cigarette which I should not have taken, barely able to understand her, Mary Ellen. Whether in sneakers, slippers, she doesn't walk, but staggers, one of the silents from whom no one hears so much as a peep in terms of an online foot print. How the fuck am I supposed to be positive with this glaring waste of human sewage on which I had to make my career? It has very little to do with boom and bust cycles. I once lived something better, and my younger princess sister still does, whatever her debt, foreclosure status.
I still can't stop a nigger boy from playing his fun and games behind my back. How do you think you would like it? Or be able to rise above it? Would my libertarian associates give him a fucking contusion for my sake? They would probably kick me out of the group sooner than intervene, and I'm as penniless as some of my editors, speaking of which, I've taken a tentative dip into Montaigne in translation. He was an undergraduate gloss. One of those things.
And prayed unto the Lord and he went up
And lay upon the corpse, dead on the couch,
And put his mouth upon his mouth, his eyes
Upon his eyes, his hands upon his hands-- Robert Browning
Andrew Lincoln has only so much he can do with culture shock and mortal anguish, just as the rest of the ensemble recurs are challenged, the only real hook for the audience being who is next to get beaten to death before the next oasis comes along, or the next community where appearances are deceptive. The local syndication of The Walking Dead reboots at season five, so alas, other than rescanning some episodes here or there (what happened to the veterinarian?) or next month streaming what I cannot afford, I am now one of these early floaters-- and no, though the 100 had an early, somewhat merciless, intrigue, I do not wish to catch up with it; in its own way, it is too chic, too much of the generation of my nephews. The Alexandria episodes of WD are interesting because they turn the tables. It is the Grimes group which inadvertently leads to such significant losses for Sam Waterston's stronger female foils, where Rick's earlier samaritan Morgan reemerges, but I no longer have the economic resources to keep myself abreast in a cavalier binge fashion, even as a 66 year old drunk with chest nodules which need a biopsy bums me a cigarette which I should not have taken, barely able to understand her, Mary Ellen. Whether in sneakers, slippers, she doesn't walk, but staggers, one of the silents from whom no one hears so much as a peep in terms of an online foot print. How the fuck am I supposed to be positive with this glaring waste of human sewage on which I had to make my career? It has very little to do with boom and bust cycles. I once lived something better, and my younger princess sister still does, whatever her debt, foreclosure status.
I still can't stop a nigger boy from playing his fun and games behind my back. How do you think you would like it? Or be able to rise above it? Would my libertarian associates give him a fucking contusion for my sake? They would probably kick me out of the group sooner than intervene, and I'm as penniless as some of my editors, speaking of which, I've taken a tentative dip into Montaigne in translation. He was an undergraduate gloss. One of those things.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
It Doesn't Stay in Beijing
Satoshi Uematsu's behavior is also, perhaps, a reflection of knife attacks on the mainland. CPC security services may admit to these instances of violence as a form of nostalgia for Maoist reducation camps, or as a tacit concession toward the consequences of imitating western liberalism (I've also been told there are knife gangs in Britain), but it is a conceptual victory for libertarians. Knife attackers can kill the unarmed, and any form of technology can be deployed toward a nefarious end; I am not sure where this Academy of Governance gets its numbers, but 180,000 instances of admitted civil disobedience in a country with such a significant population density doesn't bode well for traditional "crack downs" of the sort we're used to being fed by media sources. It may not be "five minutes to midnight" just yet, to use the catch phrase of Mark Shields, but to me it seems we're quarter past 11.
Workplace Grievance Assailants
"I almost stabbed the masseuse." -- LaPaglia, Australian usurper
Satoshi Uematsu is not such an anomaly as mothers with children would like to believe, which is why they should pay attention to the lessons Fuminori has to teach, but more than that; the mentally ill mirror the times around them, as LaPaglia himself may remember from one of his signature dialogues on schizophrenics.
Satoshi Uematsu is not such an anomaly as mothers with children would like to believe, which is why they should pay attention to the lessons Fuminori has to teach, but more than that; the mentally ill mirror the times around them, as LaPaglia himself may remember from one of his signature dialogues on schizophrenics.
The #knifeattack in Japan was at disability center no surprise: all hate us— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) July 25, 2016
Uematsu may be a rarity in terms of unrest on Japanese soil itself, but his aggression reflects what happens in institutional paradigms. Decentralized or not, ugly situations occur, cut across cultural differences, cut across ethnicity. Mammals seem basically programmed to take advantage of injury, illness, weakness, or other forms of distress. We accept it, even practice it, if the Danes are any indication, when we pretend to absent the human animal from land mass ecosystems, something almost impossible in the 21st century. When it comes to ourselves, that is another matter entirely. While a complex series like The Churchmen is not immune to conflicts of doctrine juxtaposed against material violence, within the seminary itself we do not see knife fights, but HMS as it existed in the 70's under Dr. Chance, who had his own deity complex issues despite his attempt to dissuade second generation Romans against aggressive surgeries, was home to violence with blades in recreation rooms. This writer lived with what the good orthopedist's business represented for three years, before Shriner's took over and destroyed my body for another surgeon's career. Only the records of Home of the Merciful Savior exist, but as bad as it was, next to this the home, with its dark granite facing, was club med. Chance had a private residence across the walk, and it was like his private fiefdom. LRI is in some ways fundamentally worse, as the collusion and fraud of Erik von Schmetterling, Cassie James, and Linda Anthony represent. I shouldn't have to live with it, harassed by a so called assistant whose uncouth behavior makes Joe Caesar's progenitor.
Monday, July 25, 2016
Shoulder Zippers
Given my stress, I took the luxury of viewing the very first episode of Space 1999 and if US producers would stop treating their viewing public like idiots we'd have fewer pyroclastic schizophrenic snaps like Cho. The production values allow us to overlook Landau's temper tantrum mien, and I did indeed ask Comet, perhaps in vain, to buy the broadcast rights. Star Gate made a nice, exotic movie, but the series pollinates Apollo with Egyptology as a stand in for an apologetic multicultural nod towards Africa's contributions in the advance of civilization. As a viewer, I am rarely, very rarely, drawn in, with a rare exception to Richard Dean Anderson's replacement having a back story with amputee scar tissue. I not only want to see Space 1999 aired in my area, I want it revived, and that's easy enough for you to consider, n'est pas? Television loyalties aren't difficult, unlike the blows toward extinction. I'm hungry; we'll pick this up again, another time.
Seepage Encroaches
"I've learned to fear the law," Sam Waterson
De Niro might have reasonably ended his acting career with City by the Sea, a film whose parallels are too contrived even if they are based on verifiable events. Why soften the story? Why not allow Joey LaMarca to be vicious and premeditated? Because Frances McDormand represents the tyranny of feminine insistence? William H Macy brought up something interesting on HuffPost Live, which will feature as many varieties of melanin triggered chocolate libertines with stiff dreadlock expressions as they will acutely ignore disabled voices-- but Macy brought up something which has interested me in my maturity as a writer, which is how those related to predators who engage in the unspeakable cope with it. Similar to my younger brother and I, only worse. Nicholas junior was your typical strung out ape who actually did have the police nearly kill him at gunpoint when they chased him into New Jersey, near Asbury Park, if its drug scene as depicted here still held true for the late Reagan era, but that my brother victimized his father by raping a tenant, and since my aggravated assault under this same rental corporation was similar this is why my antagonism with Richardson is so prevalent. I do hate Trudy Richardson because she is black, but I hate her more because she refuses to be accountable for Presby's negligence. The tenant my brother raped sued my father, and that legal action marked the beginning of the end for our family security. I never sued Presby, and I had a case, hence by any rational measure, I should not still be a tenant with them, even if they did spin off the Diamond Park units. I never sued my erstwhile independent living center either, and I had a case, more than a case, and yes, I am now willing to go to prison for something as abstract and intangible as never having truly received justice.
Whatever my deceased brother's pathology, it was run of the mill, however driven by insatiable brain chemistry. Franco makes it look chic, but in Little Nicky, a title only ever deployed by Adam Sandler's mediocre depreciation, the drug use was chillingly atavistic. Nicky ceased being human long before AIDS weakened him to the point that meningitis wasted him away, his mind mostly vanquished even years before; my mother walked him around like one of Michonne's collared rotters, though we're never quite informed why the walking dead she chained to herself didn't bite her into the zoophytic zone, but the answer isn't so perplexing. She's a lead. But what of the Tunisian attacker in Nice? Does he have a father, a mother, siblings? I am a capo at heart, and what he did, the Tunisian lorry driver, separates him, puts him apart, even from operatives like bin Laden; it was a low cowardice attack. If I strike my enemies, it might entail consequences, and yet be comprehensible. I trusted people like a second family. I let a huge senior rental corporation "off," and they humiliate me in a gift which keeps giving, re: Chris's ogling, but the Tunisian's actions were beyond any form of strategic comprehension; if we presume his family has a conscience, the story of how they live with it and cope certainly seems the new intrigue at hand.
Wheelchair cushion rinsed, about to be put back together, my true challenge not to fear another slip off. But I have to return to using it, as the base of the Jazzy is too hard. Shins and thighs suffer alike, and I'm going to trot around, attempting to sell some bits this week, during the convention, raising a little cash on pity, perhaps. If Erdogan's purges are indicative of what civil unrest might look like under a Trump administration, the worries of the left are too ominous. Entertainment may be increasingly politicized, but authoritarianism is increasingly Hollywood; by that metric, it isn't self sustaining. See what happens when I lose a background research piece?
De Niro might have reasonably ended his acting career with City by the Sea, a film whose parallels are too contrived even if they are based on verifiable events. Why soften the story? Why not allow Joey LaMarca to be vicious and premeditated? Because Frances McDormand represents the tyranny of feminine insistence? William H Macy brought up something interesting on HuffPost Live, which will feature as many varieties of melanin triggered chocolate libertines with stiff dreadlock expressions as they will acutely ignore disabled voices-- but Macy brought up something which has interested me in my maturity as a writer, which is how those related to predators who engage in the unspeakable cope with it. Similar to my younger brother and I, only worse. Nicholas junior was your typical strung out ape who actually did have the police nearly kill him at gunpoint when they chased him into New Jersey, near Asbury Park, if its drug scene as depicted here still held true for the late Reagan era, but that my brother victimized his father by raping a tenant, and since my aggravated assault under this same rental corporation was similar this is why my antagonism with Richardson is so prevalent. I do hate Trudy Richardson because she is black, but I hate her more because she refuses to be accountable for Presby's negligence. The tenant my brother raped sued my father, and that legal action marked the beginning of the end for our family security. I never sued Presby, and I had a case, hence by any rational measure, I should not still be a tenant with them, even if they did spin off the Diamond Park units. I never sued my erstwhile independent living center either, and I had a case, more than a case, and yes, I am now willing to go to prison for something as abstract and intangible as never having truly received justice.
Whatever my deceased brother's pathology, it was run of the mill, however driven by insatiable brain chemistry. Franco makes it look chic, but in Little Nicky, a title only ever deployed by Adam Sandler's mediocre depreciation, the drug use was chillingly atavistic. Nicky ceased being human long before AIDS weakened him to the point that meningitis wasted him away, his mind mostly vanquished even years before; my mother walked him around like one of Michonne's collared rotters, though we're never quite informed why the walking dead she chained to herself didn't bite her into the zoophytic zone, but the answer isn't so perplexing. She's a lead. But what of the Tunisian attacker in Nice? Does he have a father, a mother, siblings? I am a capo at heart, and what he did, the Tunisian lorry driver, separates him, puts him apart, even from operatives like bin Laden; it was a low cowardice attack. If I strike my enemies, it might entail consequences, and yet be comprehensible. I trusted people like a second family. I let a huge senior rental corporation "off," and they humiliate me in a gift which keeps giving, re: Chris's ogling, but the Tunisian's actions were beyond any form of strategic comprehension; if we presume his family has a conscience, the story of how they live with it and cope certainly seems the new intrigue at hand.
Wheelchair cushion rinsed, about to be put back together, my true challenge not to fear another slip off. But I have to return to using it, as the base of the Jazzy is too hard. Shins and thighs suffer alike, and I'm going to trot around, attempting to sell some bits this week, during the convention, raising a little cash on pity, perhaps. If Erdogan's purges are indicative of what civil unrest might look like under a Trump administration, the worries of the left are too ominous. Entertainment may be increasingly politicized, but authoritarianism is increasingly Hollywood; by that metric, it isn't self sustaining. See what happens when I lose a background research piece?
Saturday, July 23, 2016
Idiopathic Lung Expansion
"It's like I keep losing people."-- Christopher Meloni
So Oz too has a wheelchair bound narrator. Even on an a la carte basis, I cannot afford an HBO subscription, but I'll try to remember this series might be worth viewing, unlike Orange Is The New Black; I read the reviews of the series, and I know as a Netflix exclusive it is a quality show, but, as I wrote years ago, the series has too much proximity with my life in the inner city; it is with studious deliberation that I do not want to get involved with it, even as a rerun, but since I miss Meloni, and he makes for a good conflicted Catholic, Oz might have the requisite distance for not too much wincing, even as I am still confused about what is going on with Philadelphia affiliate stations. With two movie channels lopped off my free broadcast signals, I'll be forced to stream more, which I cannot truly afford, even if I'm streaming free content. You may have a family mega data plan. I don't, and the FCC isn't going to level that playing field at the point of Napoleon's bayonet in the interim.
I am working, through some miracle and perhaps shakily, but working; it is not the morality of a tobacco company like RJ Reynolds which comes into question, but why addiction needs to be punished. It seems to come with the turf of higher mammalian function. I've caught on to how far they will go to subsidize my habit, so perhaps next month shall be just that much less brutal, but unless I find some type of employment suitable foe my decline, I might as well market my pubic hair as a new and improved micro mop head.
Though not by much, some family members are more empathetic shields than others. Billy is a cop, which perhaps cuts me some latitude, not that I flash it, or sew it onto my breast pocket, but this is sort of a greyish area between yours truly and more ideological libertarians--not that I am singling out my faux brother, but I am ambivalent about aggrandized police cover ups. Like me, way down here scraping my survival in America's true police state (the welfare system), cops know what they know, and they know eventually they have to put people like me down, barring a controlled alternative form of incarceration. That my cousin doesn't follow me doesn't perturb me, given that I've characterized his mother as a Philadelphia archetype, but he cares more about individual suffering than my sister, and certainly doesn't want to use his piece on anyone. Federal agents may or may not be a different story, but they don't have the resources to worry about me. I called the disability center, cursed them in the pain of my failing strength, nothing happened. I uttered "fuckwits" as an epithet, four times or so.
I am not particularly desirous of getting mauled in a prison cell, but learning how to manipulate others is a skill some deviants can learn. I've done it once in awhile, but when it comes to certain transsexuals, certain areas of learned Jewish prevarication, I am outmaneuvered. This ends my break, though I've been writing all afternoon.
So Oz too has a wheelchair bound narrator. Even on an a la carte basis, I cannot afford an HBO subscription, but I'll try to remember this series might be worth viewing, unlike Orange Is The New Black; I read the reviews of the series, and I know as a Netflix exclusive it is a quality show, but, as I wrote years ago, the series has too much proximity with my life in the inner city; it is with studious deliberation that I do not want to get involved with it, even as a rerun, but since I miss Meloni, and he makes for a good conflicted Catholic, Oz might have the requisite distance for not too much wincing, even as I am still confused about what is going on with Philadelphia affiliate stations. With two movie channels lopped off my free broadcast signals, I'll be forced to stream more, which I cannot truly afford, even if I'm streaming free content. You may have a family mega data plan. I don't, and the FCC isn't going to level that playing field at the point of Napoleon's bayonet in the interim.
I am working, through some miracle and perhaps shakily, but working; it is not the morality of a tobacco company like RJ Reynolds which comes into question, but why addiction needs to be punished. It seems to come with the turf of higher mammalian function. I've caught on to how far they will go to subsidize my habit, so perhaps next month shall be just that much less brutal, but unless I find some type of employment suitable foe my decline, I might as well market my pubic hair as a new and improved micro mop head.
Though not by much, some family members are more empathetic shields than others. Billy is a cop, which perhaps cuts me some latitude, not that I flash it, or sew it onto my breast pocket, but this is sort of a greyish area between yours truly and more ideological libertarians--not that I am singling out my faux brother, but I am ambivalent about aggrandized police cover ups. Like me, way down here scraping my survival in America's true police state (the welfare system), cops know what they know, and they know eventually they have to put people like me down, barring a controlled alternative form of incarceration. That my cousin doesn't follow me doesn't perturb me, given that I've characterized his mother as a Philadelphia archetype, but he cares more about individual suffering than my sister, and certainly doesn't want to use his piece on anyone. Federal agents may or may not be a different story, but they don't have the resources to worry about me. I called the disability center, cursed them in the pain of my failing strength, nothing happened. I uttered "fuckwits" as an epithet, four times or so.
I am not particularly desirous of getting mauled in a prison cell, but learning how to manipulate others is a skill some deviants can learn. I've done it once in awhile, but when it comes to certain transsexuals, certain areas of learned Jewish prevarication, I am outmaneuvered. This ends my break, though I've been writing all afternoon.
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Errant Praises
Yes, I am finally researching my damn article project on speculation and yes, I told the responding editor I had a transfer slide down and yes I've been writing it in my head, but to illustrate that my cataract rage can still appreciate the unflappable numbers guy, kudos to Timothy Taylor. I suggested his current post to him, and so you see I am proud to take a little credit, having no need to email him today. He is a good man. Coming from me, you need to evaluate what it takes to get that seal of approval, and why I'd conversely execute my building manager without the slightest twinge of conscience.
Yes, I know, fine people, only 53 is still pretty close to 55. They cannot take my mind. Adjust, fight. Listening to Trudy Richardson and I bitch slap each other is a thematic lesbian food fight once removed, and I am aware of it and need to get out of her orbit. Now I'm going back to bed.
Yes, I know, fine people, only 53 is still pretty close to 55. They cannot take my mind. Adjust, fight. Listening to Trudy Richardson and I bitch slap each other is a thematic lesbian food fight once removed, and I am aware of it and need to get out of her orbit. Now I'm going back to bed.
Rocks Certainly Give the Illusion of Stark, Brutal Surfaces
I did post yesterday that I was going to take a break, but I've returned to say that the system has pushed me to the point of criminal insanity. I reverted back to the recovery center of my adolescent youth, and amazingly, Moss still has me on file, living at my old Diamond Park address, and the best anyone can do for me, in pain, and at crisis point, is give me an appointment over 45 days away with an orthopedic doctor who will probably look at me, think "Inglis House" and say something circumspect.
I could, of course, try my legs again in the bathroom, but again, narcotic strength withdrawal tied to narcotic strength arthritis pain, in this bloody awful Jazzy, is pushing it, even as my rectum has gone berserk. Everyone says try again with an attendant, which in translation means "put up with nigger behavior," and it is an impossible situation, forced to continue to engage the assholes who can declare victory, as I'm pretty much now a mind in a carcass-- I think, to the extent that Mr Radio Personality Stiles understands me, his advice that my defiance can "withstand anything" only comes up to a point, as the majority of humans in the US don't live by extraordinary medical regime. I had to live everything I have written about on this blog, with a pathology dwarfed only by Tunisians in Nice, and now I have no freedom whatsoever. It is going to take me days to knock any number of bitches around like bowling pins before the dust settles, you did not hear Joan's reaction, the receptionist, "Don't do that! Let them help you!"
They've never helped me, whether I've treated them with intimidating belligerence or not. I'm coming to the end of what I can cope with, however much I know I'm still alive for the sake of my work. The moral issues surrounding our virtual imprints keep growing, but no one wants, nor knows what to do with me, the despairing destructor. I am just a really dark voice amid thousands and thousands of pedestrians, even as one has to wonder about Google's obligations. I'm near the end, and this is all that's left, a cripple who wanted to be normal and get a Jesus Christ superstar of her own. I quelled whatever paranoia I initially experienced at the discovery I lost broadcast access to Bounce and GetTV. I know it is one of these poverty things and not a ready news item, but I am puzzled as to what happened, why I lost these two stations.
I could, of course, try my legs again in the bathroom, but again, narcotic strength withdrawal tied to narcotic strength arthritis pain, in this bloody awful Jazzy, is pushing it, even as my rectum has gone berserk. Everyone says try again with an attendant, which in translation means "put up with nigger behavior," and it is an impossible situation, forced to continue to engage the assholes who can declare victory, as I'm pretty much now a mind in a carcass-- I think, to the extent that Mr Radio Personality Stiles understands me, his advice that my defiance can "withstand anything" only comes up to a point, as the majority of humans in the US don't live by extraordinary medical regime. I had to live everything I have written about on this blog, with a pathology dwarfed only by Tunisians in Nice, and now I have no freedom whatsoever. It is going to take me days to knock any number of bitches around like bowling pins before the dust settles, you did not hear Joan's reaction, the receptionist, "Don't do that! Let them help you!"
They've never helped me, whether I've treated them with intimidating belligerence or not. I'm coming to the end of what I can cope with, however much I know I'm still alive for the sake of my work. The moral issues surrounding our virtual imprints keep growing, but no one wants, nor knows what to do with me, the despairing destructor. I am just a really dark voice amid thousands and thousands of pedestrians, even as one has to wonder about Google's obligations. I'm near the end, and this is all that's left, a cripple who wanted to be normal and get a Jesus Christ superstar of her own. I quelled whatever paranoia I initially experienced at the discovery I lost broadcast access to Bounce and GetTV. I know it is one of these poverty things and not a ready news item, but I am puzzled as to what happened, why I lost these two stations.
Wednesday, July 20, 2016
The Patrick Stewart Knack
I have serious psychological problems due to being a lifelong quadriplegic.
--I am sorry to hear that but have to keep going through this. Interlude amid aging processors unable to handle intake capacity.
Earlier, the dowager was going to post that she had to get a sampling of Space 1999, and was even going to rouse you to campaign Comet TV to purchase the re-broadcast rights to the show, to replace the worn out Outer Limits, but less than a 15 second view on You Tube brought about a dismal scoff. In Next Generation, Stewart certainly had his weaker takes inside Jean Luc, but I am not sure Landau had what it takes, and perhaps the producers should have listened to Sylvia Anderson and cast British actors, as she wished. I am not ready to sit here and stare at You Tube the rest of the afternoon, but I will stream some of the shares. The thought came to mind: Landau's adamant beakishness makes the celluloid Shatner seem Shakespearean, and Shatner and Nimoy always played for camp. Is this too harsh for a mind screaming for a vape?
Agony may lend itself to travesty, but in lieu of killing my father and threatening a race war, I have to work in micro increments. Up at 5 AM, two days from now, I'm physically exhausted, smacking my lips for what limited nicotine I can lick from the cartridge. As I truly have to work, my nerves aren't amused.
--I am sorry to hear that but have to keep going through this. Interlude amid aging processors unable to handle intake capacity.
Earlier, the dowager was going to post that she had to get a sampling of Space 1999, and was even going to rouse you to campaign Comet TV to purchase the re-broadcast rights to the show, to replace the worn out Outer Limits, but less than a 15 second view on You Tube brought about a dismal scoff. In Next Generation, Stewart certainly had his weaker takes inside Jean Luc, but I am not sure Landau had what it takes, and perhaps the producers should have listened to Sylvia Anderson and cast British actors, as she wished. I am not ready to sit here and stare at You Tube the rest of the afternoon, but I will stream some of the shares. The thought came to mind: Landau's adamant beakishness makes the celluloid Shatner seem Shakespearean, and Shatner and Nimoy always played for camp. Is this too harsh for a mind screaming for a vape?
Agony may lend itself to travesty, but in lieu of killing my father and threatening a race war, I have to work in micro increments. Up at 5 AM, two days from now, I'm physically exhausted, smacking my lips for what limited nicotine I can lick from the cartridge. As I truly have to work, my nerves aren't amused.
Unleashed (If you give me money I'll buy a Vuse)
"She is an active and friendly girl to whom destiny has not been bright."--Timo, whose commiseration is adept
We have discussed in some detail the angel and demon dichotomy of the invalid's general nature, and we have discussed, in less detail, the nature of shields. If my readers are mildly perplexed as to why I would utilize Andrea Camilleri's fictionalized Sicilian fringe types to preoccupy myself with Falk, with Nimoy, and their archetypes, those who care may thread the needle as we go along, trying in my own way, akin to Wittgenstein, to resist grand unified theories, and yet drawn to the need for something dazzling, at the same time.
The idea of shields is not germane to my own line of thinking. It comes from the superior Jewish intellect which predominates in queer theory, and since queer theory and disability very nearly coalesce, we can examine shields, across literature and teleplays, as we find them. Despite my red flags and red herrings over Psycho, my flags and herring is more about the deployment of aesthetics toward corrupting ends. Do I believe that Psycho represents Hitchcock at his best? No, but as I wrote in my earlier post, relying too, on my memory of Polman's piece in Obituary, the film represented a paradigm shift, one for which the price of civilization has no answer, and, although I envision the problems my old mentor raised when discussing ethics in fiction, as raised by John Gardner, for those asking "How did we get here?" The answer is in the pathways of moral relativism; I can see them even if I am not yet publishing a traditional dissertation on the issue, and I can see them in the simple stock formula twist of Blood Bargin-- never denying Hitchcock's brand of genius, tracing it through Gena Rowland's virtually vibrant naivety in "Playback," up through something as complex as Camilleri's "Equal Time". Do we know if the actor playing Biagio is a real spastic gimp? Perhaps not, but his evil lies in his helplessness and inability to change the course of events without a determined truth hunter like Salvo being blessed with the gift of fools.
And now, to sound like everyone else (ad nauseam) on social media, I am taking some time off from this account. I did not break any bones or tear a ligament, but I am having transfer trouble, and it is a bad time to be a poor wasted piece of shit in pain with no nicotine, whether or not this is partly psychosomatic. I am too young not to be able to dump a stool when I need to, and this is going to be a major headache-- yes, I know what ADAPT members would say, I know.
We have discussed in some detail the angel and demon dichotomy of the invalid's general nature, and we have discussed, in less detail, the nature of shields. If my readers are mildly perplexed as to why I would utilize Andrea Camilleri's fictionalized Sicilian fringe types to preoccupy myself with Falk, with Nimoy, and their archetypes, those who care may thread the needle as we go along, trying in my own way, akin to Wittgenstein, to resist grand unified theories, and yet drawn to the need for something dazzling, at the same time.
The idea of shields is not germane to my own line of thinking. It comes from the superior Jewish intellect which predominates in queer theory, and since queer theory and disability very nearly coalesce, we can examine shields, across literature and teleplays, as we find them. Despite my red flags and red herrings over Psycho, my flags and herring is more about the deployment of aesthetics toward corrupting ends. Do I believe that Psycho represents Hitchcock at his best? No, but as I wrote in my earlier post, relying too, on my memory of Polman's piece in Obituary, the film represented a paradigm shift, one for which the price of civilization has no answer, and, although I envision the problems my old mentor raised when discussing ethics in fiction, as raised by John Gardner, for those asking "How did we get here?" The answer is in the pathways of moral relativism; I can see them even if I am not yet publishing a traditional dissertation on the issue, and I can see them in the simple stock formula twist of Blood Bargin-- never denying Hitchcock's brand of genius, tracing it through Gena Rowland's virtually vibrant naivety in "Playback," up through something as complex as Camilleri's "Equal Time". Do we know if the actor playing Biagio is a real spastic gimp? Perhaps not, but his evil lies in his helplessness and inability to change the course of events without a determined truth hunter like Salvo being blessed with the gift of fools.
And now, to sound like everyone else (ad nauseam) on social media, I am taking some time off from this account. I did not break any bones or tear a ligament, but I am having transfer trouble, and it is a bad time to be a poor wasted piece of shit in pain with no nicotine, whether or not this is partly psychosomatic. I am too young not to be able to dump a stool when I need to, and this is going to be a major headache-- yes, I know what ADAPT members would say, I know.
Monday, July 18, 2016
Biagio Cocuzza
Wilder recruited the famous Texan transvestite Barbette as a consultant to Curtis and Lemmon. Barbette ... was now in retirement. He'd had a glittering circus career before it ended prematurely due to poor health.-- Aubrey Malone, The Defiant One, p 80
Columbo's "Forgotten Lady", as written by Bill Driskill, is the only one of the original episodes to veer off the conclusions viewers expected of the series-- and is also one of the few episodes that immediately locates me back home watching it as a kid, not then nuanced enough to realize the regal Janet Leigh was here taking a rough 75 minute opportunity to vainly attempt to refute what Hitchcock did to women in the creation of the slasher genre. While not to be taken as a promotion of censorship, I tend to agree with the old lion's hostility to Psycho, whose legacy can be traced straight through to rap lyric misogyny, that jump cut butcher knife and shower curtain of which we'll never be free. It is an amoral thrill, the master's tease with his audience's hostility to feminine withholding. This is how Leigh utilized her stardom. If Monroe dripped with with lascivious intercourse, Leigh was another cup of tea entirely, despite the fact that daughter Jamie not only exists but carried on, even cheapening mother's legacy. For Janet Leigh, sexual energy is restrained. The pageantry of gazing on her looks and social grace comes first. Her style was the cake, as opposed to the exercise of love in and of itself, and Hitchcock with real malicious portents said "I'll show you," and eviscerated the shields of womenhood so well we never fully came to terms with the consequences, despite the fact that her foil against Falk isn't so much her crime as mercy for it against an aging medical impairment of which her character was unaware. The aneurysm, from which the patriarchy which she removes attempts to protect her, might be taken as a very early warning sign for Alzheimer's, which would ultimately kill Falk, whose eye cancer never advanced beyond its singular ravage which gave him his quixotic facial expression, a humane persistence for the sake of moral sanction, and even prefigures Leigh's end of life battle with vasculitis, with both actors barely making it into this century with any relevance, Falk only because he was beloved, and our nostalgia for that granting permission for Columbo to carry us forward on the back of twentieth century icons sending us off to a new century still trying to find itself, discontent with the price of the modern civilized world much closer the IRA of Hennessy than the other doomsday scenarios that preoccupied us at the time, including "global warming". Both then, and now, the west looked on the Troubles as the localized problem of a dead empire, but those guerrillas of the hot thrillers of my era were more than successful instructors for the turbulent horrors of these last two decades, while those of us who make for the fading Grace Wheeler's, desperately clinging to tarnished capital, are told the best we can do is transfix to the past, with the same passive intensity with which we try to break it.
Columbo's "Forgotten Lady", as written by Bill Driskill, is the only one of the original episodes to veer off the conclusions viewers expected of the series-- and is also one of the few episodes that immediately locates me back home watching it as a kid, not then nuanced enough to realize the regal Janet Leigh was here taking a rough 75 minute opportunity to vainly attempt to refute what Hitchcock did to women in the creation of the slasher genre. While not to be taken as a promotion of censorship, I tend to agree with the old lion's hostility to Psycho, whose legacy can be traced straight through to rap lyric misogyny, that jump cut butcher knife and shower curtain of which we'll never be free. It is an amoral thrill, the master's tease with his audience's hostility to feminine withholding. This is how Leigh utilized her stardom. If Monroe dripped with with lascivious intercourse, Leigh was another cup of tea entirely, despite the fact that daughter Jamie not only exists but carried on, even cheapening mother's legacy. For Janet Leigh, sexual energy is restrained. The pageantry of gazing on her looks and social grace comes first. Her style was the cake, as opposed to the exercise of love in and of itself, and Hitchcock with real malicious portents said "I'll show you," and eviscerated the shields of womenhood so well we never fully came to terms with the consequences, despite the fact that her foil against Falk isn't so much her crime as mercy for it against an aging medical impairment of which her character was unaware. The aneurysm, from which the patriarchy which she removes attempts to protect her, might be taken as a very early warning sign for Alzheimer's, which would ultimately kill Falk, whose eye cancer never advanced beyond its singular ravage which gave him his quixotic facial expression, a humane persistence for the sake of moral sanction, and even prefigures Leigh's end of life battle with vasculitis, with both actors barely making it into this century with any relevance, Falk only because he was beloved, and our nostalgia for that granting permission for Columbo to carry us forward on the back of twentieth century icons sending us off to a new century still trying to find itself, discontent with the price of the modern civilized world much closer the IRA of Hennessy than the other doomsday scenarios that preoccupied us at the time, including "global warming". Both then, and now, the west looked on the Troubles as the localized problem of a dead empire, but those guerrillas of the hot thrillers of my era were more than successful instructors for the turbulent horrors of these last two decades, while those of us who make for the fading Grace Wheeler's, desperately clinging to tarnished capital, are told the best we can do is transfix to the past, with the same passive intensity with which we try to break it.
Friday, July 15, 2016
Feeble Evocations
"The best advice I can give you is to stay out of hospitals Lieutenant." -- Leonard Nimoy
For the few of you who may have noticed, I emoted to Secretary Kerry's account that "we had to help France!" But I am in tandem with the analysts who say we cannot prepare for that level of contingency which led to the massacre at Nice. The images did indeed feel just like a joint Francais American thriller, or even the one novel by Harris not about Hannibal, inundation and emotion struggling hand in hand with each other. I want to help, really. I want to drop everything, apply for an impoverished Visa and meaninglessly shed my blood for the neo imperial nation which did so much to launch the United States, but I'd only be a hindrance, despite the dark irony of my intuitive understanding how public housing enabled this man to lose his conscience. This has been a sometimes blaring subtext of my Blogger account for exactly this reason. This so called social safety net should never be a lifetime injunction. I don't even have a criminal record, but can understand if it was despair which drove this Tunisian, how that despair flowered, because his age is precisely how long I've lived under this regime, nearly my entire life, and my family would say I don't want to accept reality-- but Reeve was injured far worse than I, and Dana never abandoned or dumped him, not in the way so many of us are left to hang, and yet, at the same time, this senseless idiot has merely paved the way for more bloodshed which is coming, because he had absolutely no objective other than to sow destruction which will ultimately unite NATO, even if the alliance ends up targeting certain geographical areas of the Arab spring with limited warhead strikes. This degree of carnage simply cannot continue, and we all know it. To fall back on the post modern conceit of one person's terror is another's freedom, that holds true if the objective can be traced to an oppression which has lifelong consequences, as in the case of the Holocaust era Zionist, or a Chinese Maoist radicalizing against destitute starvation, or a disability activist imposing a tyrannical strike on ambulatory norms, but the Nice attack was an exercise in futile carelessness. It would not have been draconian on the part of Nice traffic authorities to check the damn vehicle, from the back stories I hear coming in. Everything is a weapon now. Digital technologies, 20th century industrial technologies, and the worst things I could never imagine are no longer left to the imagination. God help us all.
For the few of you who may have noticed, I emoted to Secretary Kerry's account that "we had to help France!" But I am in tandem with the analysts who say we cannot prepare for that level of contingency which led to the massacre at Nice. The images did indeed feel just like a joint Francais American thriller, or even the one novel by Harris not about Hannibal, inundation and emotion struggling hand in hand with each other. I want to help, really. I want to drop everything, apply for an impoverished Visa and meaninglessly shed my blood for the neo imperial nation which did so much to launch the United States, but I'd only be a hindrance, despite the dark irony of my intuitive understanding how public housing enabled this man to lose his conscience. This has been a sometimes blaring subtext of my Blogger account for exactly this reason. This so called social safety net should never be a lifetime injunction. I don't even have a criminal record, but can understand if it was despair which drove this Tunisian, how that despair flowered, because his age is precisely how long I've lived under this regime, nearly my entire life, and my family would say I don't want to accept reality-- but Reeve was injured far worse than I, and Dana never abandoned or dumped him, not in the way so many of us are left to hang, and yet, at the same time, this senseless idiot has merely paved the way for more bloodshed which is coming, because he had absolutely no objective other than to sow destruction which will ultimately unite NATO, even if the alliance ends up targeting certain geographical areas of the Arab spring with limited warhead strikes. This degree of carnage simply cannot continue, and we all know it. To fall back on the post modern conceit of one person's terror is another's freedom, that holds true if the objective can be traced to an oppression which has lifelong consequences, as in the case of the Holocaust era Zionist, or a Chinese Maoist radicalizing against destitute starvation, or a disability activist imposing a tyrannical strike on ambulatory norms, but the Nice attack was an exercise in futile carelessness. It would not have been draconian on the part of Nice traffic authorities to check the damn vehicle, from the back stories I hear coming in. Everything is a weapon now. Digital technologies, 20th century industrial technologies, and the worst things I could never imagine are no longer left to the imagination. God help us all.
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Nanny Goat
"Don't come out. It's too hot."-- Nicholas Marinelli
Despite the storm, and the fact that I knew I was off when I launched from toilet back to cushion Saturday, an attendant would not have solved the problem that I lost my balance after 10 pm. I did not actually fall, just squished, an actual Kafka vermin, and I deposited large, shall we say. Cerebral palsy is like that; wheelchair sitting augments the problem, and when my stool is hefty I get winded and knew I should have waited and repositioned; nevertheless, the episode is a harbinger that my lateral transfers are weakening. Evicting myself from Niggerland and nigger bitches and beetle boys shall not restore my strength, but I warned mio padre of my scheme and he said okay without realizing I'm rolling out of Riverside for good. Depositing that stool in a diaper would have amounted to a health hazard, and I may not have a solution, but I'm going home, divided as to whether I should put myself in rehab for a few days, not optimistic about that, and transfer boards never worked for me.
I know this is going to cost me, and I may lose my phone and even most of my possessions, unless I threaten the corporate office, but I'm leaving, even at the price of falling silent, maybe not forever-- or it could be that I have reached an end point, so if the authorities have coerced ATT into monitoring me they aren't going to find the radicalization they look for in the traditional sense. (I don't know, all I intimated to my favorite independent living center was one day they will face an Omar Mateen if they keep prevaricating as they do with quadriplegics, but it isn't just us, they hire and boot the blind and epileptics with equally perspicacious dispensing of employees who need unreasonable accommodating). I'm still evil, still angry enough to go to prison, but age trumps even the vicious, and I need to get this done before the man dies, while I wrestle the moral dilemma of bed ridden dependency. I cannot do it. I just can't. I know what I face, even if it's an open question how long I survive it. I want to go home, and my father is where that resides in my heart. I talked to him about a steel temp building of some sort. He is going to kill me, and I'm stressed beyond what I need, but there we have it.
Despite the storm, and the fact that I knew I was off when I launched from toilet back to cushion Saturday, an attendant would not have solved the problem that I lost my balance after 10 pm. I did not actually fall, just squished, an actual Kafka vermin, and I deposited large, shall we say. Cerebral palsy is like that; wheelchair sitting augments the problem, and when my stool is hefty I get winded and knew I should have waited and repositioned; nevertheless, the episode is a harbinger that my lateral transfers are weakening. Evicting myself from Niggerland and nigger bitches and beetle boys shall not restore my strength, but I warned mio padre of my scheme and he said okay without realizing I'm rolling out of Riverside for good. Depositing that stool in a diaper would have amounted to a health hazard, and I may not have a solution, but I'm going home, divided as to whether I should put myself in rehab for a few days, not optimistic about that, and transfer boards never worked for me.
I know this is going to cost me, and I may lose my phone and even most of my possessions, unless I threaten the corporate office, but I'm leaving, even at the price of falling silent, maybe not forever-- or it could be that I have reached an end point, so if the authorities have coerced ATT into monitoring me they aren't going to find the radicalization they look for in the traditional sense. (I don't know, all I intimated to my favorite independent living center was one day they will face an Omar Mateen if they keep prevaricating as they do with quadriplegics, but it isn't just us, they hire and boot the blind and epileptics with equally perspicacious dispensing of employees who need unreasonable accommodating). I'm still evil, still angry enough to go to prison, but age trumps even the vicious, and I need to get this done before the man dies, while I wrestle the moral dilemma of bed ridden dependency. I cannot do it. I just can't. I know what I face, even if it's an open question how long I survive it. I want to go home, and my father is where that resides in my heart. I talked to him about a steel temp building of some sort. He is going to kill me, and I'm stressed beyond what I need, but there we have it.
Sunday, July 10, 2016
What's in a Resource?
"Do you know what you're hoping for?"-- Diana Ross, crossing over
While I am waiting for the overdose of my aging Nsaids to kick in so I can try to lie down without duly landing on the carpet, which I'm vacating shortly, let me post a little more about Liberty. All I ever did there, before I went to Irv's deceased research institute, was take a nursing home resident in a body brace to a luncheon I was directed to organize. That is about it. The woman died shortly thereafter, and the rest of the time, I visited nursing home residents, or subjected minority public housing cripples to the same level of objectification Liberty's coordinators inflicted on me between 99 and 08, aside from the charming psychic warfare going on between Linda and I. The center is always writing grants, empowerment projects, but their staff has little to no enforcement power. At its essence, independent living centers are rehabilitation and mobility medicine at cut rate prices, micro managed by either optimistic or cynical lieutenants like myself. My former peer counselor, Laverne King, was terminated for being a power wheelchair user placed in exactly the same predicament Linda tried to place me: She lied about an onsite visit to a consumer who's residence was inaccessible. She should not have lied, but I am now uncertain about Bob Michael's rather swift termination of her livelihood. The more sentient Erik von Schmettering, the once upon a time dubious ally from whom I sought relief, in much the same way as Celine screamed for relief in his work, would say the CIL I knew in 89 has *changed,* but that isn't really the truth. They just encroached upon state vocational services. Aside from what happened to me, why am I so angry then, why am I still so emotionally vested in the institutional cruelty the paradigm represents? I've already discussed their utter lack of accountability. Indeed, even in my recent conflict with Erik's squat and pudgy attendant, Erik whimpered "Chris didn't do anything to you," even though Chris was doing something, objectifying me down to tits and puss.
I'm angry because I know they need to be stopped, before they actually do drive a quadriplegic with my potential to suicide. In my story with the center, lies the reflection of hundreds of failures, cripples burned across the country, with morally superior case managers hiding behind the shields of their processes. I am not the only victim, though allowing my over-identification with psychopathology supervisor has its own unique signature. If either Linda, the CSPPPD aunt, or the community advocate, had truly respected me, they would not have played mind games with me. Both of them. They could have spared me a conference, asked me where I wanted to go after I washed out under Richard Baron. I know the eggs in one basket approach leads to ooze and broken cartons, but it isn't as if a 37 year old who was under a misapprehension about teaching could suddenly wait tables, or go into ballet, and as I've written before, the Painted Bride theatrical performer and I didn't mesh. I satirize art therapy with as much irony as AS Byatt, who does do things differently.
None of you want the burden we represent once we lose the shelter of family, in my case, never that healthy to begin with, and yet, we're supposed to grin, bear it, in a happy bauble of subsistence. I truly say, echoing my brutal poppa's drunken reflections on the tragedy of his children, that you should let us die in selective reduction, or at birth. Far less cruel, more merciful than life by statutory regulation, all but meaningless. I never wanted to live like this. I wanted the same freedom I think you have, on the other side of the glass. I still didn't stay down Saturday evening, true, but what moved the needle was knowledge. It would have been an excessive way to expire.
While I am waiting for the overdose of my aging Nsaids to kick in so I can try to lie down without duly landing on the carpet, which I'm vacating shortly, let me post a little more about Liberty. All I ever did there, before I went to Irv's deceased research institute, was take a nursing home resident in a body brace to a luncheon I was directed to organize. That is about it. The woman died shortly thereafter, and the rest of the time, I visited nursing home residents, or subjected minority public housing cripples to the same level of objectification Liberty's coordinators inflicted on me between 99 and 08, aside from the charming psychic warfare going on between Linda and I. The center is always writing grants, empowerment projects, but their staff has little to no enforcement power. At its essence, independent living centers are rehabilitation and mobility medicine at cut rate prices, micro managed by either optimistic or cynical lieutenants like myself. My former peer counselor, Laverne King, was terminated for being a power wheelchair user placed in exactly the same predicament Linda tried to place me: She lied about an onsite visit to a consumer who's residence was inaccessible. She should not have lied, but I am now uncertain about Bob Michael's rather swift termination of her livelihood. The more sentient Erik von Schmettering, the once upon a time dubious ally from whom I sought relief, in much the same way as Celine screamed for relief in his work, would say the CIL I knew in 89 has *changed,* but that isn't really the truth. They just encroached upon state vocational services. Aside from what happened to me, why am I so angry then, why am I still so emotionally vested in the institutional cruelty the paradigm represents? I've already discussed their utter lack of accountability. Indeed, even in my recent conflict with Erik's squat and pudgy attendant, Erik whimpered "Chris didn't do anything to you," even though Chris was doing something, objectifying me down to tits and puss.
I'm angry because I know they need to be stopped, before they actually do drive a quadriplegic with my potential to suicide. In my story with the center, lies the reflection of hundreds of failures, cripples burned across the country, with morally superior case managers hiding behind the shields of their processes. I am not the only victim, though allowing my over-identification with psychopathology supervisor has its own unique signature. If either Linda, the CSPPPD aunt, or the community advocate, had truly respected me, they would not have played mind games with me. Both of them. They could have spared me a conference, asked me where I wanted to go after I washed out under Richard Baron. I know the eggs in one basket approach leads to ooze and broken cartons, but it isn't as if a 37 year old who was under a misapprehension about teaching could suddenly wait tables, or go into ballet, and as I've written before, the Painted Bride theatrical performer and I didn't mesh. I satirize art therapy with as much irony as AS Byatt, who does do things differently.
None of you want the burden we represent once we lose the shelter of family, in my case, never that healthy to begin with, and yet, we're supposed to grin, bear it, in a happy bauble of subsistence. I truly say, echoing my brutal poppa's drunken reflections on the tragedy of his children, that you should let us die in selective reduction, or at birth. Far less cruel, more merciful than life by statutory regulation, all but meaningless. I never wanted to live like this. I wanted the same freedom I think you have, on the other side of the glass. I still didn't stay down Saturday evening, true, but what moved the needle was knowledge. It would have been an excessive way to expire.
Sublimating Malcontent
I want to parse my sentiments about Ms. Weiner a little further. I do not resent that a female author who answers for my younger sister's middle brow frustrations found her niche. I emailed her, in light of her public television essay to tell her to take pride in what she achieved and stop ducking, among a few other things. Good in Bed wasn't a bad novel, and I could see why little Stephanie found some resonating quality in Weiner's voice. If I had been able bodied, still battling the family predisposition toward obesity, maybe I would have finished the book, and reconciled with the heroine as she found a stable relationship, but this seems all that American women are able to do, within the confines of the MFA paradigm, and it holds little interest for me. The only difference between Ann Beattie and Jennifer Weiner is a) mechanics-- Weiner is more frank about finger fucking without veering off into an erotic subgenre, whereas I've never read Beattie making the same observations b) urbanity-- Beattie needs Manhattan the way Woody Allen needs jazz and Farrow's adopted daughter; Weiner is more homespun, behind the windowpane c) self-assurance-- which Weiner lacks. This is the only real reason I wrote her, perhaps intimidating her a touch when I told her I had been "reported to the FBI," and as I assumed, my psyche punished me for my independent living center hatreds as black as ocher.
Shins buckled on a bad pivot, shins the surgeons carved so that if they touched the back of my thigh, my ligaments would flare with excruciating pain, asking myself if I wanted to lie there, dehydrate until Thursday and see what would happen and instead I copped and telephoned EMS after a wriggle bout. I landed oddly, and you may trust, when Grimes tells his son "you're never safe," had I waited and not exerted myself to sit up-- Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Presby, all this seemed relatively unimportant-- giving my notice seems neither here, nor there, and I am probably taking the plunge. Not that my father is obligated, and it is his demented wife's property, not his, but I can afford to return to Springfield, and perhaps not everyone is a secret Ariel Castro. [ I am not by the way-- my heinous darkness leans toward quick kills; torture is boring, and my body simply absorbs the pain.]
What I mean is that lack of appreciation is a come down, and I'm utterly indifferent to Jennifer Weiner's own subversive tactics, and wish women would try something else now and then, not only along the lines of Muriel Spark's wicked social intelligence-- it is this which pierces insularity, that matters of taste make our hard work a bucket of polluted water, saturated with cleaning agents.
Shins buckled on a bad pivot, shins the surgeons carved so that if they touched the back of my thigh, my ligaments would flare with excruciating pain, asking myself if I wanted to lie there, dehydrate until Thursday and see what would happen and instead I copped and telephoned EMS after a wriggle bout. I landed oddly, and you may trust, when Grimes tells his son "you're never safe," had I waited and not exerted myself to sit up-- Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Presby, all this seemed relatively unimportant-- giving my notice seems neither here, nor there, and I am probably taking the plunge. Not that my father is obligated, and it is his demented wife's property, not his, but I can afford to return to Springfield, and perhaps not everyone is a secret Ariel Castro. [ I am not by the way-- my heinous darkness leans toward quick kills; torture is boring, and my body simply absorbs the pain.]
What I mean is that lack of appreciation is a come down, and I'm utterly indifferent to Jennifer Weiner's own subversive tactics, and wish women would try something else now and then, not only along the lines of Muriel Spark's wicked social intelligence-- it is this which pierces insularity, that matters of taste make our hard work a bucket of polluted water, saturated with cleaning agents.
Friday, July 8, 2016
Sang Froid of Death by Cop
In the Martin Beck adaptations, the actor who facilitates Haber's comic relief does it in a naturalistic way which seems to accurately depict Swedish eccentricity far better than other dramas in the same mold, always in his neck brace, a bit faggotty within the confines of the Hollywood sissy; in The Weak Link, one of the later movies in the series, he upgrades his interesting fashion statement to a lighter blue teflon type material, and voila, the pieces to the puzzle fall into place for Haber's dilatory concern, and Sweden's wolf pack rape problem, an issue seemingly integral to Scandinavian immigration issues, is mitigated by mystery novelists, the pair of whom should obviously be governing the European Union.
Sometimes too much realism does have an undue impact; even though we know it's television, and see the interplay between Haber and Persbrandt as something familiar, even comforting, there are evenings when the immensely complicated mechanics of broadcast signals and film frames seem repellent, necessary to unplug, as urban life is strenuous enough, and though The Weak Link seems to be one of the later Beck's I missed, I'm sorry for the experience; it seems we all become discontent in our village, after so many years, by choice, or not, and if we cannot find some way to relieve the frustration of letting go, we become monsters. Not every person who lives under this corporate Presbyterian umbrella is mentally ill. Most of the residents are old, black, poor, an occasional veteran and sick whites physically on their way to hospice, but there is, as well, the mental health contingent, and I know of a few suicide attempts here at Riverside, and cannot tell you why public housing is like this in America.
My desire to flee is so strong I may just obey, take the bus to my stepmother's, say a prayer I don't kill my father, and camp out on the fucking lawn while it's still summer, and just go. I could apply to writer's retreats, but they are exhaustively competitive, and primarily serve graduates who still have the energy and longevity, even the assumed placid temperament. If I voluntarily roll myself out of Riverside Presbyterian, I am probably too old to play roulette once more with another section 811 landlord, but it is the leaving, just walking the fuck away, that makes me stop hurting. It is just a fucking beige ten story slab, a leaning tower cheaply painted and cheaply maintenanced with bad plumbing, whether or not this is fair to do to an old man who institutionalized me for 16 years. I threw in a few months of my own, back in the day, for good measure, and forthwith swear off Swedish programming for the next six months, even though this particular episode had a studious lesson to teach about the domino effect, castigating aggression, Persbrandt's Gunvald was still Gunvald, plowing through with the force for coup de grace.
If you need to become a writer, don't do it the way I did. I often wonder if I had to be one because being a quadriplegic would have been otherwise intolerable, but I never truly thought the damn thing out, and equated it early in youthful exuberance with the prophetic. I decided to make it my life, with nonchalant assurance things would fall into place, within my own obstinate bovine traces: think of other vocations of interest, and make a plan. My IQ may be very high, but in many ways, I'm also a fucking moron beneath my own contempt, and don't know how to repair the damage, with what I allowed Pennsylvania to inflict on me, just taking it. The novelist Jennifer Weiner set me thinking on this. She's produced, made her splash, certainly resonates with my sister, and held my interest about 30 seconds. I staked my life on my talent, and I'm all but a pretentious sociopath. Weiner makes fun of her social status and her sex life, and has enough recognition to play on video. No matter how much we stake, not finding a sustaining audience by the age of 40 is a pretty good gauge of how far to throw in the towel.
Sometimes too much realism does have an undue impact; even though we know it's television, and see the interplay between Haber and Persbrandt as something familiar, even comforting, there are evenings when the immensely complicated mechanics of broadcast signals and film frames seem repellent, necessary to unplug, as urban life is strenuous enough, and though The Weak Link seems to be one of the later Beck's I missed, I'm sorry for the experience; it seems we all become discontent in our village, after so many years, by choice, or not, and if we cannot find some way to relieve the frustration of letting go, we become monsters. Not every person who lives under this corporate Presbyterian umbrella is mentally ill. Most of the residents are old, black, poor, an occasional veteran and sick whites physically on their way to hospice, but there is, as well, the mental health contingent, and I know of a few suicide attempts here at Riverside, and cannot tell you why public housing is like this in America.
My desire to flee is so strong I may just obey, take the bus to my stepmother's, say a prayer I don't kill my father, and camp out on the fucking lawn while it's still summer, and just go. I could apply to writer's retreats, but they are exhaustively competitive, and primarily serve graduates who still have the energy and longevity, even the assumed placid temperament. If I voluntarily roll myself out of Riverside Presbyterian, I am probably too old to play roulette once more with another section 811 landlord, but it is the leaving, just walking the fuck away, that makes me stop hurting. It is just a fucking beige ten story slab, a leaning tower cheaply painted and cheaply maintenanced with bad plumbing, whether or not this is fair to do to an old man who institutionalized me for 16 years. I threw in a few months of my own, back in the day, for good measure, and forthwith swear off Swedish programming for the next six months, even though this particular episode had a studious lesson to teach about the domino effect, castigating aggression, Persbrandt's Gunvald was still Gunvald, plowing through with the force for coup de grace.
If you need to become a writer, don't do it the way I did. I often wonder if I had to be one because being a quadriplegic would have been otherwise intolerable, but I never truly thought the damn thing out, and equated it early in youthful exuberance with the prophetic. I decided to make it my life, with nonchalant assurance things would fall into place, within my own obstinate bovine traces: think of other vocations of interest, and make a plan. My IQ may be very high, but in many ways, I'm also a fucking moron beneath my own contempt, and don't know how to repair the damage, with what I allowed Pennsylvania to inflict on me, just taking it. The novelist Jennifer Weiner set me thinking on this. She's produced, made her splash, certainly resonates with my sister, and held my interest about 30 seconds. I staked my life on my talent, and I'm all but a pretentious sociopath. Weiner makes fun of her social status and her sex life, and has enough recognition to play on video. No matter how much we stake, not finding a sustaining audience by the age of 40 is a pretty good gauge of how far to throw in the towel.
Thursday, July 7, 2016
Tubular Enemy
Famine (Irish: an Gorta Mór, [anˠ ˈgɔɾˠt̪ˠa mˠoːɾˠ]) or the Great Hunger was a period of mass starvation, disease, and emigration in Ireland between 1845 and 1852.
Do you ever expend useless capital on a frivolous enterprise? I was examining my LinkedIn Pulse transmissions, wondering why I want to write a LinkedIn post in the first place. I've been out of the game a very long time due to Philadelphia's periodic contractions of services leading up to the Great Recession; by 2010, despite cyclic familial monetary gifts, my money market account was wiped out, and I am exactly back where I was at the age of 23, except for the apartment, this one less functional than that on 1500 West Page Street. Out of curiosity I plugged my old zip code in search 19121, and came up with numerous dead articles and defeated HUD promises about humane, aesthetic, disability housing, wondering if this is an alternate Google verse. Why is writing a relatively generic and nondescript LinkedIn post important to me? To prove I'm still capable, not white trash, not so broken I cannot speak business? The writer Mark Johnson actually is listed as a Leftist Review contributor, hence I found him outside of Yabberz, to hypothetically tell his bosses he is an uncouth bastard, something I could never get away with on LinkedIn Pulse, on which I'd hardly be featured. I cannot afford to support LinkedIn, even if I had not been defeated by governmental insistence on spend down of my resources; regardless, without some form of steady commissions, I would have been wiped out anyway. What do I still believe I am able to do? In terms of my age and all the rest?
I can hardly answer. It is akin to the differential between an agnostic and a Roman Catholic atheist who should lie down. My drive, curiously, went splat for a bit after I got a yes on my pitch. I am procrastinating again, no set deadline, but not ready to blow two gigabytes frying my brain on comparative data and need to relax, keep pitching, stay aware of the fact I'm no longer 35, get some rest, and trust in the fact that if I am not going to Inglis House, then be assured of my own strength and let the state know it will have to kill me first. There are publications I wouldn't submit to. Not that Mark's is one of them, but he'd probably have me black balled if he put my avatars together. Dog days coming in. I think I could move to Ohio without much culture shock, if I could stay out of the hood.
PS: twitter assisted me with my research without so much as a blink, and that is something.
Do you ever expend useless capital on a frivolous enterprise? I was examining my LinkedIn Pulse transmissions, wondering why I want to write a LinkedIn post in the first place. I've been out of the game a very long time due to Philadelphia's periodic contractions of services leading up to the Great Recession; by 2010, despite cyclic familial monetary gifts, my money market account was wiped out, and I am exactly back where I was at the age of 23, except for the apartment, this one less functional than that on 1500 West Page Street. Out of curiosity I plugged my old zip code in search 19121, and came up with numerous dead articles and defeated HUD promises about humane, aesthetic, disability housing, wondering if this is an alternate Google verse. Why is writing a relatively generic and nondescript LinkedIn post important to me? To prove I'm still capable, not white trash, not so broken I cannot speak business? The writer Mark Johnson actually is listed as a Leftist Review contributor, hence I found him outside of Yabberz, to hypothetically tell his bosses he is an uncouth bastard, something I could never get away with on LinkedIn Pulse, on which I'd hardly be featured. I cannot afford to support LinkedIn, even if I had not been defeated by governmental insistence on spend down of my resources; regardless, without some form of steady commissions, I would have been wiped out anyway. What do I still believe I am able to do? In terms of my age and all the rest?
I can hardly answer. It is akin to the differential between an agnostic and a Roman Catholic atheist who should lie down. My drive, curiously, went splat for a bit after I got a yes on my pitch. I am procrastinating again, no set deadline, but not ready to blow two gigabytes frying my brain on comparative data and need to relax, keep pitching, stay aware of the fact I'm no longer 35, get some rest, and trust in the fact that if I am not going to Inglis House, then be assured of my own strength and let the state know it will have to kill me first. There are publications I wouldn't submit to. Not that Mark's is one of them, but he'd probably have me black balled if he put my avatars together. Dog days coming in. I think I could move to Ohio without much culture shock, if I could stay out of the hood.
PS: twitter assisted me with my research without so much as a blink, and that is something.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
The Death of Merle
"All fault tolerance techniques must be built upon a failure hypothesis."-- Concurrency in Ada, p366
The actual online disabled community must feel cheated by me, as they probably should, with the exception being my embrace of emergent aggression in my pre-sixty years, though I can confirm I already know the literature on aging and violence, I do my own thing, and some actual wheelchair users who surf in may scratch a dandruff flake wondering what Romanek's troubled Reagan era parable, such that Static is, has to do with the terrible toll of human helplessness, and the risks I take, eschewing attendant care in a battered, now protesting Jazzy, without a vendor to service it no less, though Moss at 2400 gave me a vendor to try in an emergency, I am, essentially, at the mercy of chance, my jugular exposed. I can make a correlation, of course, between Keith Gordon's fatal aspirations as Eric, and the disabled community's fatal Orwellian prognostications, but why should normal Americans be forced to think; it runs counter to the American way. More importantly, the Farrelly brothers fail. Shallow Hal comes thumb and forefinger close to fusing deformity and Hollywood into a true aesthetic viewing experience but they cannot pull it off. The jump shots to the guy with his obvious brace diaper padded spina bifida, and the woman with the skeletal arms-- my neighbor down the hall has the same condition-- jar the comedy, taking the viewer out of context on discordant notes, despite the beat written into the script. Even as a high farce, letting birth deformity be what it is mars any genre back to earth, which is why I doubt disability will ever truly make great art, cupping my ear to the carpet for the roar of thunder to follow. True, Christopher Reeve, whom I chastised while he was still among the living, was given a cameo on Smallville, and it worked, but Reeve was a trained actor, and ran his larynx tortured invalid cyborg skit before yielding to a lowly pressure sore, something to which I too am at risk, dying in mid-sentence. The Walking Dead now appeals to me, not that it fools me. The intense declarative sentences lend themselves to some nihilistic bemusement, yet its stark survivalism has caught up with those of us always a tripwire away from the worst at the bottom of the barrel. I feel like waving at the production crew and blowing a kiss, even if I'm necessarily a few seasons behind and don't know how close to season 8 WPHL can bring those without a cable subscription. The gay couple bringing Grimes and the troupe to Alexandria make me sick; that goes without saying, but we understand the South conceded feudalism on the ruthless calculus of General William T Sherman, whose memoirs I've scantily penetrated in the 20 (?) years I've owned my LOA edition, starting them again, and Georgia minds its p's and q's with only the softest hint of subterfuge. I knew Rooker was Merle without acknowledging that this is where the serial killer inside went, into a mean mother of a bastard the Governor's system had to destroy. As naturally born anarchists with claws cannot be trusted, they are exterminated by liberalism and tyranny alike.
What's she getting at?
The actual online disabled community must feel cheated by me, as they probably should, with the exception being my embrace of emergent aggression in my pre-sixty years, though I can confirm I already know the literature on aging and violence, I do my own thing, and some actual wheelchair users who surf in may scratch a dandruff flake wondering what Romanek's troubled Reagan era parable, such that Static is, has to do with the terrible toll of human helplessness, and the risks I take, eschewing attendant care in a battered, now protesting Jazzy, without a vendor to service it no less, though Moss at 2400 gave me a vendor to try in an emergency, I am, essentially, at the mercy of chance, my jugular exposed. I can make a correlation, of course, between Keith Gordon's fatal aspirations as Eric, and the disabled community's fatal Orwellian prognostications, but why should normal Americans be forced to think; it runs counter to the American way. More importantly, the Farrelly brothers fail. Shallow Hal comes thumb and forefinger close to fusing deformity and Hollywood into a true aesthetic viewing experience but they cannot pull it off. The jump shots to the guy with his obvious brace diaper padded spina bifida, and the woman with the skeletal arms-- my neighbor down the hall has the same condition-- jar the comedy, taking the viewer out of context on discordant notes, despite the beat written into the script. Even as a high farce, letting birth deformity be what it is mars any genre back to earth, which is why I doubt disability will ever truly make great art, cupping my ear to the carpet for the roar of thunder to follow. True, Christopher Reeve, whom I chastised while he was still among the living, was given a cameo on Smallville, and it worked, but Reeve was a trained actor, and ran his larynx tortured invalid cyborg skit before yielding to a lowly pressure sore, something to which I too am at risk, dying in mid-sentence. The Walking Dead now appeals to me, not that it fools me. The intense declarative sentences lend themselves to some nihilistic bemusement, yet its stark survivalism has caught up with those of us always a tripwire away from the worst at the bottom of the barrel. I feel like waving at the production crew and blowing a kiss, even if I'm necessarily a few seasons behind and don't know how close to season 8 WPHL can bring those without a cable subscription. The gay couple bringing Grimes and the troupe to Alexandria make me sick; that goes without saying, but we understand the South conceded feudalism on the ruthless calculus of General William T Sherman, whose memoirs I've scantily penetrated in the 20 (?) years I've owned my LOA edition, starting them again, and Georgia minds its p's and q's with only the softest hint of subterfuge. I knew Rooker was Merle without acknowledging that this is where the serial killer inside went, into a mean mother of a bastard the Governor's system had to destroy. As naturally born anarchists with claws cannot be trusted, they are exterminated by liberalism and tyranny alike.
What's she getting at?
Sunday, July 3, 2016
Karma Buried in Nepal
"This is how the legal system works, so you work within it."-- Marlo Thomas
"We have a few steps."-- Good Karma Cafe
Now that I can join Nick Denton in the legal threats department for the deliberate use of an appalling analogy, and possibly join a Temple University professor with whom I studied Faulkner in earning an FBI file, but what can they threaten me with when my landlord utilized the Department of Health and Human services to suggest Inglis House? Regardless of how pretty the Inglis site looks to the eye, it is comparable to a minimum security prison: I may not have been a troubleshooter there for the better part of two decades, but the facility is the equivalent of an equally minimum security insane asylum, and whatever the sin of spiraling hell, I'm not going, and thus have a constant fingertip on my pulse, but even in small things, my engagement with the literary community has been a whirlwind of bravado as heady as crash landing in Tibet: hauling two flights of stairs in Robin's Book Store to read for the enigmatic Grecian lesbian who was Alexandra Grilikhes. Our association, never fully contextualized, was predicated on a degree of willful blindness. I pretended not to heed the homosexual sirens flashing in my Freudian id, and she pretended I wasn't a disruptive jackass who fit right in with University of Pennsylvania's ratified Ivy League sentiments. There was also my brazen five hour train ride to Pittsburgh, in my wee little manual chair. Immortal words to Harry Calhoun when the car opened at the station, "I have to pee!" He has a small penis, such kind observations after a 72 hour holiday of insanity, inclusive of the lovable loathsome Louis McKee. We talked all the time, Lou and I, me turning green after he won a grant.
Now I have to make do with the minute slights of parking my chafed tail bone outside of ad hoc neo-beatnik locales. What I am trying to say is I'm totally with the psychology of moving on; I'm doing my damnest, but the cyanide capsule of the ADAPT pathology which is Riverside Presbyterian's unique variation of human trafficking is the Battle of Somme on my soul. Erik von Schmetterling's day attendant did not engage in toxic behavior toward me once, or twice, it was persistent, continual, for nearly 8 months; then I challenged him and he threatened, denigrated me, and yes, after everything I've written here about victimization clinging to my flesh like a Zika infection, I am throwing down the gauntlet, unable, like you, to casually barhop in the best areas. If I could stick a pin in a map, if I could get there, I'd be gone by the end of next week, hitching my battery charger to Nebraska if I thought I had the wherewithal.
"We have a few steps."-- Good Karma Cafe
Now that I can join Nick Denton in the legal threats department for the deliberate use of an appalling analogy, and possibly join a Temple University professor with whom I studied Faulkner in earning an FBI file, but what can they threaten me with when my landlord utilized the Department of Health and Human services to suggest Inglis House? Regardless of how pretty the Inglis site looks to the eye, it is comparable to a minimum security prison: I may not have been a troubleshooter there for the better part of two decades, but the facility is the equivalent of an equally minimum security insane asylum, and whatever the sin of spiraling hell, I'm not going, and thus have a constant fingertip on my pulse, but even in small things, my engagement with the literary community has been a whirlwind of bravado as heady as crash landing in Tibet: hauling two flights of stairs in Robin's Book Store to read for the enigmatic Grecian lesbian who was Alexandra Grilikhes. Our association, never fully contextualized, was predicated on a degree of willful blindness. I pretended not to heed the homosexual sirens flashing in my Freudian id, and she pretended I wasn't a disruptive jackass who fit right in with University of Pennsylvania's ratified Ivy League sentiments. There was also my brazen five hour train ride to Pittsburgh, in my wee little manual chair. Immortal words to Harry Calhoun when the car opened at the station, "I have to pee!" He has a small penis, such kind observations after a 72 hour holiday of insanity, inclusive of the lovable loathsome Louis McKee. We talked all the time, Lou and I, me turning green after he won a grant.
Now I have to make do with the minute slights of parking my chafed tail bone outside of ad hoc neo-beatnik locales. What I am trying to say is I'm totally with the psychology of moving on; I'm doing my damnest, but the cyanide capsule of the ADAPT pathology which is Riverside Presbyterian's unique variation of human trafficking is the Battle of Somme on my soul. Erik von Schmetterling's day attendant did not engage in toxic behavior toward me once, or twice, it was persistent, continual, for nearly 8 months; then I challenged him and he threatened, denigrated me, and yes, after everything I've written here about victimization clinging to my flesh like a Zika infection, I am throwing down the gauntlet, unable, like you, to casually barhop in the best areas. If I could stick a pin in a map, if I could get there, I'd be gone by the end of next week, hitching my battery charger to Nebraska if I thought I had the wherewithal.
Friday, July 1, 2016
Gonzo, sans Hunter
I could be running the rent downstairs in my bare feet and my stained beige skirt, in violation of the dress code. I could be going to bed, having sucked two Vuse cartridges back into my system, and instead, I am just the dago who keeps getting kicked. Liberty Resources wasted no time soliciting a law firm to threaten me, this after years of institutional abuse, breach of contract, toxic environment at their hands, and I? What am I going to do? Probably get arrested after the holiday, going to jail to experience even worse instances of being the prime mud crab in the dish. Oh, no one cares, when it's me, what I've been through, no one, not that I haven't tried a wee little, politicians notwithstanding, legal aid, ACLU. The only thing anyone sees is how angry I am, and so they get the Presbyterian Corporation, with its financial collusion with the Department of Housing and Urban Development, to back down, as I weaken, and weaken, urinating with increasingly diffident aim into a broken disposable urinal, even without the attendant, still getting abused by an attendant, and so this is what I do, martyr myself on an obstinacy only as obdurate as blood pressure allows in a 53 year old woman with strange accretions of psoriasis under her thighs, but hey, this is the oxygen of social media, and a great piece of trash for Nick if he wants it, perhaps an item for Tony Stiles to air as well.
There is a little thrill all the same, one defiant spastic greasy and weirdly drying matron, spiraling down against the system which invariably crushes us all. There is no Grisham crusader here willing to sit and take my whole story, point by point, just the blood in my face, the social fear at my rage, absent the reconciliation barbecue with the vindicated client, wounded, but at peace. I have no idea what that is, as it involves going through more than you care to stand. I told the lawyer I'd use the press. And so I shall. Let it play.
There is a little thrill all the same, one defiant spastic greasy and weirdly drying matron, spiraling down against the system which invariably crushes us all. There is no Grisham crusader here willing to sit and take my whole story, point by point, just the blood in my face, the social fear at my rage, absent the reconciliation barbecue with the vindicated client, wounded, but at peace. I have no idea what that is, as it involves going through more than you care to stand. I told the lawyer I'd use the press. And so I shall. Let it play.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)