I do not have Russian cyber hacker savvy to know whether or not this link my favorite unreliable airhead sent to me will block you, but the Apple app has a thumbnail image of Karina, who is now probably on Haley's comet trajectory in relation to my unhappy occupation of this ten story welfare junket. She wants to be nice, my short term, short lived domestic, wants to keep in touch.
My lips purse in exasperation, all that money I guzzled in her gas tank. I know more about her now, but happily, I'm not that much of a violator. Her life isn't interesting, transitory as it earns my envy otherwise. Think she'll pick me up as my slow evacuation progresses? Bets on the militant cripple versus New Church heresy?
As a side note, I just tweeted to another crabbed has been about the cars Hill used in The Driver. If you can tell me the make and model of the key vehicles you get acknowledgement credits in my work. Pony up call for aficionados. Come on.
Wednesday, August 31, 2016
Tuesday, August 30, 2016
Hermine Mnemonic
"That was an act of mercy."-- Megan Ketch
The generation gap is pronounced enough, in the dowager's circumstance, to illuminate the archaeological aspects of comfort in following a program schedule, but ever since Hugh Laurie wrapped up House, yours truly has a deficit reduction. If she wants a cable show like Six Feet Under, it needs to be purchased and streamed, or scavenged on You Tube, not that binge watching is necessarily conducive to mitigating tinnitus and the agitation of stress piss. As weary as video is, the will to discipline crumples, easier to eat and view, as room for eating and reading is crimped. In that vein, American Gothic has the expected level of eccentric exaggeration enlarging upon complicity, in a tinsel level homage to the actual Hawthorne, who resonates yet with great power-- not that the dowager has been faithful to the series. The back story of Garrett's log cabin years sang to my soul up until the suffocation, even though I endorse euthanasia in my radicalized fashion. In trying to ease the strains of mio poppa, I suggested home hospice care for the pathological stepmother. The only reason I can place before me as to why my father is killing himself over this vile snake (mutual antipathy toward Louise unites the sister and I yet) is that he doesn't want to be alone. I made the mistake of informing the cancerous aunt, and enter in the pyrotechnics. How would I like it if someone put me in hospice? I started to argue that Presby has been trying to make me the state's problem for years, as Marie herself so recently threatened through Trudy Richardson's instigation, but she did not want to be reminded of our familial sparring match, indicating I could do with other alliances.
I love Marie, but she needs to prepare to die, as does Louise, my remaining paternal uncle, my father, as do I, for that matter, just not at Inglis House, hence stark options, as the storm dampens the end of summer, leaving me not too disheartened about skipping festivities, as the Rosenbach, so many years ago, was my last grasp toward revitalization. No regrets, but there is no longer much interest, even if I had the money. Hearing loss strains the populist lectures, and the quasi-academic atmosphere doesn't offer enough to meet my intellectual demands before my synapses fail, as they will if I can't get the fuck out from under this landlord, carping away.
I may vaguely recall the docu-drama on which Code Black is based, but the show is little more than a tapered version of ER, harsher, slightly messier in some respects, but still television, soft pedaling the truth about modern medicine, offering resolution, didactic salves, because people want gauze on reality, and my reality is my cynicism. I'd toss the Western medical paradigm straight down into our depleting fossil fuel reserves. Saying I don't believe in it is too simple. It is more about quality of care and difficulty of access simply to get the technology for non-terminal prognosis. Stable quadriplegics such as I should not have to jump through hoops to upgrade. Even for an individual with my acumen, at my poverty level the red tape is too much, and with me, even when I have a treatable instance, physicians cut corners, precisely because I'm a cripple. Why mince words? Next to Saving Hope, Code Black is a comparative Hamlet, as network discovered, since the former is now an ION retread in my area. The series tries to circumvent the generic pretty people syndrome by acknowledging a metaphysical realm of mystery in the movement toward entropy, with all our angst and hang ups, but even in reruns, there is no compelling reason to sacrifice my dwindling time constraints, though I'm watching it this evening, since the storm stonewalling its way up the coast applies itself to my bio-genic rhythms, managing my stool earlier, not that such fortunes will last. Another urinal stint, then bread and butter. Joyce Carol Oates, the fierce novelist whom I no longer read, imposed unremitting violence on her characters, in an exposition still posited in a civilization not threatened with imminent collapse, while the visual apocalypse has run its course, starting with Lost, culminating in The Walking Dead relocating to AMC. More than likely, civilization will blip a little here, a little there: like Philippine death squads, the continued erosion of superpower status across the board, the death clinics from Soylent Green come to life, this even though we ignore the inconvenient fact that they thrive at a lively pace, not quite on the free market terms that gave Milton Friedman a hard on.
The generation gap is pronounced enough, in the dowager's circumstance, to illuminate the archaeological aspects of comfort in following a program schedule, but ever since Hugh Laurie wrapped up House, yours truly has a deficit reduction. If she wants a cable show like Six Feet Under, it needs to be purchased and streamed, or scavenged on You Tube, not that binge watching is necessarily conducive to mitigating tinnitus and the agitation of stress piss. As weary as video is, the will to discipline crumples, easier to eat and view, as room for eating and reading is crimped. In that vein, American Gothic has the expected level of eccentric exaggeration enlarging upon complicity, in a tinsel level homage to the actual Hawthorne, who resonates yet with great power-- not that the dowager has been faithful to the series. The back story of Garrett's log cabin years sang to my soul up until the suffocation, even though I endorse euthanasia in my radicalized fashion. In trying to ease the strains of mio poppa, I suggested home hospice care for the pathological stepmother. The only reason I can place before me as to why my father is killing himself over this vile snake (mutual antipathy toward Louise unites the sister and I yet) is that he doesn't want to be alone. I made the mistake of informing the cancerous aunt, and enter in the pyrotechnics. How would I like it if someone put me in hospice? I started to argue that Presby has been trying to make me the state's problem for years, as Marie herself so recently threatened through Trudy Richardson's instigation, but she did not want to be reminded of our familial sparring match, indicating I could do with other alliances.
I love Marie, but she needs to prepare to die, as does Louise, my remaining paternal uncle, my father, as do I, for that matter, just not at Inglis House, hence stark options, as the storm dampens the end of summer, leaving me not too disheartened about skipping festivities, as the Rosenbach, so many years ago, was my last grasp toward revitalization. No regrets, but there is no longer much interest, even if I had the money. Hearing loss strains the populist lectures, and the quasi-academic atmosphere doesn't offer enough to meet my intellectual demands before my synapses fail, as they will if I can't get the fuck out from under this landlord, carping away.
I may vaguely recall the docu-drama on which Code Black is based, but the show is little more than a tapered version of ER, harsher, slightly messier in some respects, but still television, soft pedaling the truth about modern medicine, offering resolution, didactic salves, because people want gauze on reality, and my reality is my cynicism. I'd toss the Western medical paradigm straight down into our depleting fossil fuel reserves. Saying I don't believe in it is too simple. It is more about quality of care and difficulty of access simply to get the technology for non-terminal prognosis. Stable quadriplegics such as I should not have to jump through hoops to upgrade. Even for an individual with my acumen, at my poverty level the red tape is too much, and with me, even when I have a treatable instance, physicians cut corners, precisely because I'm a cripple. Why mince words? Next to Saving Hope, Code Black is a comparative Hamlet, as network discovered, since the former is now an ION retread in my area. The series tries to circumvent the generic pretty people syndrome by acknowledging a metaphysical realm of mystery in the movement toward entropy, with all our angst and hang ups, but even in reruns, there is no compelling reason to sacrifice my dwindling time constraints, though I'm watching it this evening, since the storm stonewalling its way up the coast applies itself to my bio-genic rhythms, managing my stool earlier, not that such fortunes will last. Another urinal stint, then bread and butter. Joyce Carol Oates, the fierce novelist whom I no longer read, imposed unremitting violence on her characters, in an exposition still posited in a civilization not threatened with imminent collapse, while the visual apocalypse has run its course, starting with Lost, culminating in The Walking Dead relocating to AMC. More than likely, civilization will blip a little here, a little there: like Philippine death squads, the continued erosion of superpower status across the board, the death clinics from Soylent Green come to life, this even though we ignore the inconvenient fact that they thrive at a lively pace, not quite on the free market terms that gave Milton Friedman a hard on.
Tight Buttock Bellbottoms
One major issue with black entertainment media is its failure to escape being cartoonish to the point of ridicule. One exception, on the basis of limited clips the dowager attended to, is The Wire, since HBO is under pressure to deliver, but nearly everything else, Spike Lee's angular paranoid defensiveness included, doesn't anticipate 21st century mature realism. Black exploitation is arguably a rather early form of comic book sequences adapted to film. The idiots who graphed Shaquille into the end of century Steel, with its loping shaggy production values, certainly understood this, and those same idiots did a mite better with Snipes as Blade, but not by much. The franchise, turning Dracula into a virtual demi-god, did not really know what to do with itself. Even Menace II Society, which had reviewers in major media outlets in the thrall of a major moral dilemma, rolled off my back when it was fresh from theater to cable syndication. It was stark, but equally an over exaggeration of urban self depreciation when the arguments come down to a drive by roil with semi-automatics. Eliot Ness would have been right at home. Nevertheless, Jim Brown and Fred Williamson were the cool cat upgrades of my tweenish post Sidney Poitier years. Suffice to say, they do not exist in the inner city, only in a casting director's transference from football to urban crime drama.
Black Caesar's torque ratio earns its three star rating in its last 40 minutes, but I've certainly never seen a capo of any ethnicity have such a vigorous death scene, constraining a gut shot to defeat a car chase, throttle his assassin, doom his geek brother to death, and kill the mickey who crippled him, only then to get bitch slapped by a wolf pack not dissimilar from the kids who jumped my window bars with taunts, "She's afraid! She's afraid!" My unwitting epitaph bestowed on my graduate twenty two year old head. Torque is no salve for banality, however, and Caesar lacks credence in every aspect, its graft, Williamson's ability to project menace, or command power, even using a disability very much not in evidence, to foster the title character's menace. Jim Brown mastered taciturn minimalism, at least, a necessary prerequisite for black males simmering with rage.
Black Caesar's torque ratio earns its three star rating in its last 40 minutes, but I've certainly never seen a capo of any ethnicity have such a vigorous death scene, constraining a gut shot to defeat a car chase, throttle his assassin, doom his geek brother to death, and kill the mickey who crippled him, only then to get bitch slapped by a wolf pack not dissimilar from the kids who jumped my window bars with taunts, "She's afraid! She's afraid!" My unwitting epitaph bestowed on my graduate twenty two year old head. Torque is no salve for banality, however, and Caesar lacks credence in every aspect, its graft, Williamson's ability to project menace, or command power, even using a disability very much not in evidence, to foster the title character's menace. Jim Brown mastered taciturn minimalism, at least, a necessary prerequisite for black males simmering with rage.
Monday, August 29, 2016
Model Metastasis
As I come online, look at The Freeman on American mental attitudes, consider Petula Dvorak's district byline a catastrophe, I may be in error about what my American viewers understand about the federal entitlement system, how pervasive it is, and how corrupt, whatever someone like Witter sustained. Unlike Dvorak's profile of hard bitten determination of a wronged beneficiary, most recipients getting SSDI, or SSI cheat. I am one exception, took my hits, and now I'm the bitch who needs to get piked by minorities who treat me like a rabid animal. I was going to write a lengthy post about this, and perhaps I still will, about classification, and gaming the system, all stemming from the fact Marie pissed me off. She doesn't know it and didn't mean it, but her "handy man" is a buzzard on SSI who cheats under the table, cleaning for cash. His sister is an aide on the system, and now, I want nothing to do with either. Your FICA taxes fund this shit hole of fraud, and looking the other way. It is doomed, and we're dooming ourselves with it, this welfare state, beneath the surface. It speaks to why I embrace Toomey, despite his disconnect, despite that his staff, in my limited contact with them, probably envision me much like Witter's service providers before she found an attorney willing to listen.
Billy Varenas is my favorite cousin, and in fact, is probably my one family member I like most, but his mother's long kiss of death to cancer, and his uncle's long kiss of death to infections and developmental ailments represent an astronomical burden, as does my stepmother. They take from aging people like me who still cling to restoring gainful activity, and it points to why I take such a dismal view of the human animal, of the mental health consumer model, in particular, and the utter fucking travesty at the bottom, the entitlement dependency so entrenched any rollback will result in cataclysms which would make the 08 crisis look like a mild market correction. I too made my living off this. Some of you know that. Grants to try to curtail the welfare burden of the mentally ill we now incentivize to cripple themselves as much as I defy the limits people want to impose on my quadriplegia, and I'm still fucking full of myself to think I can revolt, roll out of section 202 housing, and survive it?
I sent Moss a despondent contact submittal, forced to miss my appointment this afternoon. The sixteen year old post surgical patient I was in their beds, missing out on normal teenage high school preoccupations, that poor girl never got very far. I have no idea why I'm bothering. I should just throw my fucking keys in the office and get an accessible bus ride out of state, find a sewer and wedge my ass in it.
Billy Varenas is my favorite cousin, and in fact, is probably my one family member I like most, but his mother's long kiss of death to cancer, and his uncle's long kiss of death to infections and developmental ailments represent an astronomical burden, as does my stepmother. They take from aging people like me who still cling to restoring gainful activity, and it points to why I take such a dismal view of the human animal, of the mental health consumer model, in particular, and the utter fucking travesty at the bottom, the entitlement dependency so entrenched any rollback will result in cataclysms which would make the 08 crisis look like a mild market correction. I too made my living off this. Some of you know that. Grants to try to curtail the welfare burden of the mentally ill we now incentivize to cripple themselves as much as I defy the limits people want to impose on my quadriplegia, and I'm still fucking full of myself to think I can revolt, roll out of section 202 housing, and survive it?
I sent Moss a despondent contact submittal, forced to miss my appointment this afternoon. The sixteen year old post surgical patient I was in their beds, missing out on normal teenage high school preoccupations, that poor girl never got very far. I have no idea why I'm bothering. I should just throw my fucking keys in the office and get an accessible bus ride out of state, find a sewer and wedge my ass in it.
Sunday, August 28, 2016
Leslie Howard's Sacrificial Graft
once, as I went past, I drew a sign at a point in space, just so I could find it again two hundred million years later," -- Italo Calvino, A SIGN IN SPACE
49th Parallel, in a nearly exact correlation to Lars and the Real Girl, a film roughly seventy years older, more fluid, less schematic, and even a different genre, is not an intrinsically Canadian film. Canadian films for and about Canadians may exist, and Canadian literary writers love to assume, through the chic ferocity of Margaret Atwood, that a distinctive Canadian identity exists, embodied in the graphic hero of Wolverine, perhaps, but much like X-Men is an overblown extended metaphor about difference and restraint, Canada never truly evolved as a nation, and it had the luxury of not doing so thanks to the fact that Britain Germany and France hate each other. 49th Parallel is actually a dialectical argument about neo-imperialism of two types: romantic absolutism (German Nazism, which for our purposes, for the time being, shall remain disparate from Italy's half-assed delusions of grandeur) and the UK's torturous evolution of virtuous monarchy, itself a national psychosis which is in no way unique to British sensibilities, although every empire has a unique and singular application.
Britain's unique mindset falls under this rubric:We defeated Spain and at least drew a stalemate with France at the end of the Renaissance through the Enlightenment, were therefore the truest heirs of Rome, and we get to tell the rest of the world how to live, play nice, and respect each other's autonomy, according to our rules and laws, because we killed enough indigenous natives, including Frenchmen, to have earned that right.
The Germans came along a little late and said not so fast, and the frightening thing is, the Germans almost won, despite their significant disadvantages, despite Leslie Howard's moral outrage, despite Powell's and Pressburger's near religious fidelity to the justice of liberal democracy, and Olivier's canonization by Pope Pius in the opening scene after the crash. How was the German vision different, setting aside their mechanized methods of sanitizing human civilization? The difficulty lies in the fact that Hitler as Fuhrer obscures why the German establishment rallied to eugenics, and that one ethnicity which had set itself apart for millennia became the handmaiden of the mother of all genocides -- one from which the disabled were not excluded-- but even Nazi's knew when to back off, and in the early days of Hitler's consolidation of power, German families rose up to protect their disabled loved ones, and officers stopped rounding up disabled German citizens to inter them-- setting these issues apart, what did the National Socialists want, or desire to achieve, and was it even possible to alter evolutionary science in such a radical fashion? It isn't an easy question to pose, but in essence, the Fascists, too, had such a radical notion of egalitarian purity that it might have wiped itself out in a mono-biological disaster of a human efficiency model, one which threatens to return with the merger, at least, between human and machine, perhaps in a few hundred years. Life is messy. Hitler's Fascists, unlike Britons, were invested in superior efficiency models as a notion of great civilization.
It was humanity's greatest quarrel to date. The United Kingdom won at such a great price that the lines of the equally messy Islamic insurgency can be traced through it, though this seems to have hit its watermark, whatever else these soldiers for Allah have up their sleeve.
In the same vein, Lars isn't a Canadian film either, but a North Hollywood softball a nod to US selfish shallowness about what community adaptation actually means, with Patricia Clarkson as the lynchpin for accommodating a necessary delusional mechanism, with a conclusion that sails in like a beatitude on a featherbed, but that's a luxury which North Hollywood can concoct only because the British bayonet and Yankee military success at consolidating territory created it.
In these troubled times, the sense of jeremiad in the US is overblown, even if Trump pulls an upset and has a bad term in office, but it is also true that US hegemony will never again quite be what it was, and without it, the Canadian comfort zone, and its presumed benevolence, will cease to exist. Man eating lions are a succinct minority doomed to extinction, but even the dowager has her pet causes.
49th Parallel, in a nearly exact correlation to Lars and the Real Girl, a film roughly seventy years older, more fluid, less schematic, and even a different genre, is not an intrinsically Canadian film. Canadian films for and about Canadians may exist, and Canadian literary writers love to assume, through the chic ferocity of Margaret Atwood, that a distinctive Canadian identity exists, embodied in the graphic hero of Wolverine, perhaps, but much like X-Men is an overblown extended metaphor about difference and restraint, Canada never truly evolved as a nation, and it had the luxury of not doing so thanks to the fact that Britain Germany and France hate each other. 49th Parallel is actually a dialectical argument about neo-imperialism of two types: romantic absolutism (German Nazism, which for our purposes, for the time being, shall remain disparate from Italy's half-assed delusions of grandeur) and the UK's torturous evolution of virtuous monarchy, itself a national psychosis which is in no way unique to British sensibilities, although every empire has a unique and singular application.
Britain's unique mindset falls under this rubric:We defeated Spain and at least drew a stalemate with France at the end of the Renaissance through the Enlightenment, were therefore the truest heirs of Rome, and we get to tell the rest of the world how to live, play nice, and respect each other's autonomy, according to our rules and laws, because we killed enough indigenous natives, including Frenchmen, to have earned that right.
The Germans came along a little late and said not so fast, and the frightening thing is, the Germans almost won, despite their significant disadvantages, despite Leslie Howard's moral outrage, despite Powell's and Pressburger's near religious fidelity to the justice of liberal democracy, and Olivier's canonization by Pope Pius in the opening scene after the crash. How was the German vision different, setting aside their mechanized methods of sanitizing human civilization? The difficulty lies in the fact that Hitler as Fuhrer obscures why the German establishment rallied to eugenics, and that one ethnicity which had set itself apart for millennia became the handmaiden of the mother of all genocides -- one from which the disabled were not excluded-- but even Nazi's knew when to back off, and in the early days of Hitler's consolidation of power, German families rose up to protect their disabled loved ones, and officers stopped rounding up disabled German citizens to inter them-- setting these issues apart, what did the National Socialists want, or desire to achieve, and was it even possible to alter evolutionary science in such a radical fashion? It isn't an easy question to pose, but in essence, the Fascists, too, had such a radical notion of egalitarian purity that it might have wiped itself out in a mono-biological disaster of a human efficiency model, one which threatens to return with the merger, at least, between human and machine, perhaps in a few hundred years. Life is messy. Hitler's Fascists, unlike Britons, were invested in superior efficiency models as a notion of great civilization.
It was humanity's greatest quarrel to date. The United Kingdom won at such a great price that the lines of the equally messy Islamic insurgency can be traced through it, though this seems to have hit its watermark, whatever else these soldiers for Allah have up their sleeve.
In the same vein, Lars isn't a Canadian film either, but a North Hollywood softball a nod to US selfish shallowness about what community adaptation actually means, with Patricia Clarkson as the lynchpin for accommodating a necessary delusional mechanism, with a conclusion that sails in like a beatitude on a featherbed, but that's a luxury which North Hollywood can concoct only because the British bayonet and Yankee military success at consolidating territory created it.
In these troubled times, the sense of jeremiad in the US is overblown, even if Trump pulls an upset and has a bad term in office, but it is also true that US hegemony will never again quite be what it was, and without it, the Canadian comfort zone, and its presumed benevolence, will cease to exist. Man eating lions are a succinct minority doomed to extinction, but even the dowager has her pet causes.
Thursday, August 25, 2016
Inveterate Malice
If I was as ruthless as Peter Thiel, I'd give blogger up. I cannot restart my adsense account because I don't know how to reopen it and don't know either how to utilize Google Forums to get where I need to be, don't see many bloggers who are self funding in these particular domains, I wield my tongue like a volcanic lash, and defied terms of service guidelines to be illegal, and did not tone it down because of a law firm threat, but because I probably am not going to see sunrise at 60. Yet I'm here every day, starving, trying to keep father's resources at bay, but the way to do that is to cease talking to the Aunt. She forces the drifting family patriarch who made me his executor to assist me; it isn't right. Padre has a right to some peace. I found my way back to Beacon through the Levy's Writer's Block none of us use, going to try Beacon again, but I am far too tired to post, even as I realize, to my amazement, that I am giving the building manager the solution she seeks. Fear for my survival is not enough to keep me here in Riverside Presbyterian. There is no respect for the authority of Trudy Richardson, and I treat her in inveterate fashion, living here with so many episodic crises, I need to at least make the attempt to leave, even if social media isn't fully attuned to my subtext.
It may surprise you to learn I am civil to a few of the younger minorities, like Amneshia, a collegiate age guard. She said to me "I would do it (give your notice)," as I've been unhappy a very long time; from what she knows of my story, even she feels corporate should give me the damn transfer. My readers who have read enough to know the gist could telephone Spring Mills and say give the poor spastic what she needs. What is a telephone call?
610-834-1001
I go over Richardson's head now, taunting the dezins of the domestic in Montgomery County, my rancor very much equal opportunity. I hissed into a Vice-President's voicemail fearlessly, threatening institutional duress. For one of such slender means I really buy into my role as the mafia don with cojones on the cunt. I just wrote cunt and made myself an imagined hermaphrodite, which is why Google corporate washes its hands, in part.
I am really angry at Petter Thiel, for the thing itself, but also have much thinking to do. Have a good morning. I have to pack in a bit early.
It may surprise you to learn I am civil to a few of the younger minorities, like Amneshia, a collegiate age guard. She said to me "I would do it (give your notice)," as I've been unhappy a very long time; from what she knows of my story, even she feels corporate should give me the damn transfer. My readers who have read enough to know the gist could telephone Spring Mills and say give the poor spastic what she needs. What is a telephone call?
610-834-1001
I go over Richardson's head now, taunting the dezins of the domestic in Montgomery County, my rancor very much equal opportunity. I hissed into a Vice-President's voicemail fearlessly, threatening institutional duress. For one of such slender means I really buy into my role as the mafia don with cojones on the cunt. I just wrote cunt and made myself an imagined hermaphrodite, which is why Google corporate washes its hands, in part.
I am really angry at Petter Thiel, for the thing itself, but also have much thinking to do. Have a good morning. I have to pack in a bit early.
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Celebrity Modules
"I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another in what you say and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be perfectly united in mind and thought-- 1 Corinthians 1:10
I wish I could be content sometimes, but even in a social context as casual as an LOTR eat and greet, or the Rosenbach, to which I shall not return in the near term, I rarely am out of myself and off my guard; when I try to relax I feel every inch the spastic savant. It may have been the same on campus as a student, but in my early twenties I had episodes of comfort, episodes now rare, as I'm always wound up like a cork being popped.
Though both kindle devices are old, and I would, in fact, send the 2G in for a trade if nerves were not wrought and I wasn't preoccupied with a bounce: If my viewers want to know what I want, out of curiosity, all that amounts to is temporary lodgings into which I can roll the Quantum. I'm not looking for an Ariel Castro, despite my luck. If I did run into one my wits would be bested simply via physical and emotional exhaustion. but just a place I might get into, use facilities, in this low life world wide web we inhabit, and then sterilize, through terms of service guidelines so confusing Socrates would have few sophist points to turn.
Mariska, in her first life as a successful series actor, told Ms. Gross, on air, that she created a web montage for special victims who contacted her. People can see it as a powerful rivulet around psychiatric classifications, therapeutic treatments. A little girl inside me would eat that up, to have Mariska Hargitay give me a hug and let me have a good cry-- which is precisely why I cannot become one of her followers, or offer libations to an aging woman in her last cycle as the weaker sergeant in charge. The bald Florek, who first gained prominence as the LA Law junk bond king, had more definition than Olivia as the authority figure who held the line and bent it, as necessary.
I penetrate the digital New American Bible slowly, thus far only bookmarking the table of contents in the order most Catholic know, whether or not those are nominal Catholics, or still practicing. My faith shall never return. It is not possible, after what I've been through, for more of the same. My poor old aunt, who watched her husband, and then her mother, her elder brother, slowly shrivel and die, hangs on. She believes if I give my notice I'll be put away. I have roughly 30 days to discover otherwise, as management will get my notice tomorrow, Friday, there about. I let an incorporated section 202 facility, designed primarily for the senior working class, destroy my life. Once in a blue moon they snatch a white collar. It has been so long since I cited a biblical verse I had to look up the instructions.
I wish I could be content sometimes, but even in a social context as casual as an LOTR eat and greet, or the Rosenbach, to which I shall not return in the near term, I rarely am out of myself and off my guard; when I try to relax I feel every inch the spastic savant. It may have been the same on campus as a student, but in my early twenties I had episodes of comfort, episodes now rare, as I'm always wound up like a cork being popped.
Though both kindle devices are old, and I would, in fact, send the 2G in for a trade if nerves were not wrought and I wasn't preoccupied with a bounce: If my viewers want to know what I want, out of curiosity, all that amounts to is temporary lodgings into which I can roll the Quantum. I'm not looking for an Ariel Castro, despite my luck. If I did run into one my wits would be bested simply via physical and emotional exhaustion. but just a place I might get into, use facilities, in this low life world wide web we inhabit, and then sterilize, through terms of service guidelines so confusing Socrates would have few sophist points to turn.
Mariska, in her first life as a successful series actor, told Ms. Gross, on air, that she created a web montage for special victims who contacted her. People can see it as a powerful rivulet around psychiatric classifications, therapeutic treatments. A little girl inside me would eat that up, to have Mariska Hargitay give me a hug and let me have a good cry-- which is precisely why I cannot become one of her followers, or offer libations to an aging woman in her last cycle as the weaker sergeant in charge. The bald Florek, who first gained prominence as the LA Law junk bond king, had more definition than Olivia as the authority figure who held the line and bent it, as necessary.
I penetrate the digital New American Bible slowly, thus far only bookmarking the table of contents in the order most Catholic know, whether or not those are nominal Catholics, or still practicing. My faith shall never return. It is not possible, after what I've been through, for more of the same. My poor old aunt, who watched her husband, and then her mother, her elder brother, slowly shrivel and die, hangs on. She believes if I give my notice I'll be put away. I have roughly 30 days to discover otherwise, as management will get my notice tomorrow, Friday, there about. I let an incorporated section 202 facility, designed primarily for the senior working class, destroy my life. Once in a blue moon they snatch a white collar. It has been so long since I cited a biblical verse I had to look up the instructions.
Monday, August 22, 2016
Denton's Grail
Why I cannot get to heraldica at night, my eastern standard time, is probably related to the fact I no longer purchase virus protection, and if you're going to ask me why I don't just kill part of my online service, that issue will be rearing its head, soon. I did, however, succeed earning partial supplements through 08. So I'm breaking my back, literally, trying to hold on, ignoring all the rules about blogging, but let me assure you, that if I had done the right fucking thing and left Riverside in 05 after I broke up with Frank and mama collapsed and died, you would not read such a dismal tone. My chairs broke around 06, and building manager's trench war with me started 07, and I spent down, with no money coming in, from that time, perhaps no longer a target employee for one of those wedge businesses. Gawker is dead, and if I was a very good blogger I'd know how they acquired the Bollea tape which led to Thiel's litigation. I know what Gawker did with the tape, wrote about it in my vanished Yabberz profile footprint. I know Gawker's former editor testified. I know Thiel is pissed about something which doesn't matter; I'm anti-gay and even so, it doesn't matter, and I've worn a lot worse than a tweet using the word faggot to scold.
Yes, libertarians would say Thiel read The Fountainhead and played it out, and fuck that. Gawker uses fuck; for them it was sartorial; for me it is menacing; this is what 22 years of screaming at my family to get me the fuck out of Riverside adds up to. The scar runs deep, a virtual gouge. Is Thiel going to help me? Ease my pain? Let me have my freedom? Doubt it. I'm ruined, because I let Protestants and minorities scam me like an EBT magnetic strip-- though I am on Nick Denton's side, however, the rancor is starting to grate, one note of chopsticks, leaving us to wince. I don't know what is going to happen to me. I'm got going back to a home though. I'll die in Houston raped by a gun muzzle sooner, and some of you know I no doubt mean it.
I will have more to say later. I may not have a contract, but my nose knew the Bollea victory would ripple. I just do not want to do extensive edits now.
Yes, libertarians would say Thiel read The Fountainhead and played it out, and fuck that. Gawker uses fuck; for them it was sartorial; for me it is menacing; this is what 22 years of screaming at my family to get me the fuck out of Riverside adds up to. The scar runs deep, a virtual gouge. Is Thiel going to help me? Ease my pain? Let me have my freedom? Doubt it. I'm ruined, because I let Protestants and minorities scam me like an EBT magnetic strip-- though I am on Nick Denton's side, however, the rancor is starting to grate, one note of chopsticks, leaving us to wince. I don't know what is going to happen to me. I'm got going back to a home though. I'll die in Houston raped by a gun muzzle sooner, and some of you know I no doubt mean it.
I will have more to say later. I may not have a contract, but my nose knew the Bollea victory would ripple. I just do not want to do extensive edits now.
Flight
I tweeted earlier I was watching a more seasoned O'Neal do an early version of fantasy football, but I am only half there. I'm looking up bus tickets, realizing most of my book library will perish; be donated. Running isn't going to rescue me. More likely put me in a great deal of hot water. I'm bolting, nevertheless. The last time I traveled must have been 1995, and that was instate, to Grantsville. I wrote Miss Richardson a terse but appropriately mannered note stipulating a lawsuit, slid it under the office door, escalating up, and by Thursday I'll probably be surrounded by HUD truancy officers, if I sleep in.
I got up early this morning. I'll be up early tomorrow, still waiting for chivalry's shield and protection. Mentally I've always plotted my points that way. A version of Jean Luc Picard would materialize and give me some peace.
I got up early this morning. I'll be up early tomorrow, still waiting for chivalry's shield and protection. Mentally I've always plotted my points that way. A version of Jean Luc Picard would materialize and give me some peace.
Warning Signs of Indigestion
Ashlock told me many a tale of the Indian wars then in progress. -- William T. Sherman, Memoirs, page 18
I understand the arbitrary nature of social media, and had more than a few bouts of distemper on twitter, most of which aren't any fun, but to my recollection I haven't harassed or harangued any followers recent or long term. I may have mentioned a few of them, but certainly have not aimed any missiles, hence my puzzlement over a recent September 9 block, as I cannot fathom why it occurred; if anyone knows something for which I might consider an apology in order then I'll consider it, as I prefer to claim ownership of the sin: it is not the loss of a follower, but the block. The block in and of itself I find mystifying. I am what I've become, and if this summer and my COPD are any indicator, I am going to drown to death in my own phlegm soon enough, or head into congestive heart failure, and shall not apologize for what Southeastern Pennsylvania living has done to me, nor my frustrated and forceful assertion as its outcome.
Gary Johnson's honest ignorance in relation to the city of Aleppo is actually classic libertarian indifference to nation-state viability, while Thiel's war with Gawker is not really a traditional libertarian response. I was going to go on about this for at least a few paragraphs, that Thiel's purchase of civil tort hurt peoples' livelihood, until I looked up some biographical facts on Nick Denton, saw pictures of him and Derrence Washington, and my reactionary synapses said okay this is a homosexual war of thermonuclear proportions.
I have been caught in such cross fires of men with such emotionally regressive traits, and blocking it all out is only delayed prevention, in essence, as this unfortunate quadriplegic does not have the strength, this evening, to bring down the wrath of a little pig bitch like Jimmi Shrode and his allies. Just as we cannot kill our way out of disability, we cannot kill our way out of homosexuality, but the LBGT activism and its growing power is cause for concern, as there are numerous examples of others becoming victims, and I am not writing this in merely to be a provocateur, but as a victim of progressive egalitarianism at its finest. The dowager understands why liberals feel they're on the right side of history. I was in a great deal of pain when I boomeranged from the Chester-Ridley Park axis to unwittingly burrow myself in Philadelphia's Third World destitution, but I had the liberal cause burning like the spastic orgasms over which my former supervisor liked to gloat, and I was dead center wrong about what I believed could be accomplished, and now I have to perish with all my actual potential squandered.
If I had listened to everyone and had not moved into Diamond Park, I'm not sure what my counterfactual would have been, as life in the rowhomes of my aunts was little prettier, at the end of the day, but I'm no longer young enough to turn the stern and get myself out from under, even with all those wonderful behavior modifications of the health police. Like Ellen Muth's character in Dead Like Me, I cannot go back, and my bronchial flares are worsening, though I've contained them. Loss of control hasn't gone too badly this season, but it's over. I'll never recover the exuberant life which I believed possible, and the culture wars had a great deal to do with it.
I understand the arbitrary nature of social media, and had more than a few bouts of distemper on twitter, most of which aren't any fun, but to my recollection I haven't harassed or harangued any followers recent or long term. I may have mentioned a few of them, but certainly have not aimed any missiles, hence my puzzlement over a recent September 9 block, as I cannot fathom why it occurred; if anyone knows something for which I might consider an apology in order then I'll consider it, as I prefer to claim ownership of the sin: it is not the loss of a follower, but the block. The block in and of itself I find mystifying. I am what I've become, and if this summer and my COPD are any indicator, I am going to drown to death in my own phlegm soon enough, or head into congestive heart failure, and shall not apologize for what Southeastern Pennsylvania living has done to me, nor my frustrated and forceful assertion as its outcome.
Gary Johnson's honest ignorance in relation to the city of Aleppo is actually classic libertarian indifference to nation-state viability, while Thiel's war with Gawker is not really a traditional libertarian response. I was going to go on about this for at least a few paragraphs, that Thiel's purchase of civil tort hurt peoples' livelihood, until I looked up some biographical facts on Nick Denton, saw pictures of him and Derrence Washington, and my reactionary synapses said okay this is a homosexual war of thermonuclear proportions.
I have been caught in such cross fires of men with such emotionally regressive traits, and blocking it all out is only delayed prevention, in essence, as this unfortunate quadriplegic does not have the strength, this evening, to bring down the wrath of a little pig bitch like Jimmi Shrode and his allies. Just as we cannot kill our way out of disability, we cannot kill our way out of homosexuality, but the LBGT activism and its growing power is cause for concern, as there are numerous examples of others becoming victims, and I am not writing this in merely to be a provocateur, but as a victim of progressive egalitarianism at its finest. The dowager understands why liberals feel they're on the right side of history. I was in a great deal of pain when I boomeranged from the Chester-Ridley Park axis to unwittingly burrow myself in Philadelphia's Third World destitution, but I had the liberal cause burning like the spastic orgasms over which my former supervisor liked to gloat, and I was dead center wrong about what I believed could be accomplished, and now I have to perish with all my actual potential squandered.
If I had listened to everyone and had not moved into Diamond Park, I'm not sure what my counterfactual would have been, as life in the rowhomes of my aunts was little prettier, at the end of the day, but I'm no longer young enough to turn the stern and get myself out from under, even with all those wonderful behavior modifications of the health police. Like Ellen Muth's character in Dead Like Me, I cannot go back, and my bronchial flares are worsening, though I've contained them. Loss of control hasn't gone too badly this season, but it's over. I'll never recover the exuberant life which I believed possible, and the culture wars had a great deal to do with it.
Moon Shine in the Tombs
"Half the country are on them."-- Hugh Laurie. the last biting Englishman who had my undivided attention
Perhaps Fee did me a small favor, the publisher's two lines of severance made me sit straight and take stock, as my pitch wasn't just work, I wanted to do it, and wound up setting myself up; in concession to the gentleman in charge, I wasn't sure I understood myself either, and cannot discuss it in further detail until I abandon the idea or repair it. Sigh. The more I have to rely on my verbal skills, the fewer options I see.
Three years ago, I was venting because neighbor Ed Berkowitz connected me to mental health consumer Zach Tollen, and Liberty on The Rocks, providing connective sinews as it does, connected Mr. Tollen and the spastic dowager's indignation without the assistance of an equally broken Jewish facilitator, and I put a label on Zach for some of the young Turks in computing who show up on occasion with the rest of the crew. One such Turk, who, (surprise) gave me his telephone number, which was kind, told the Black Adder, my pathetic pseudonym for John, the local in charge, that libertarians tend to be on the autistic spectrum. I found the observation pertinent, and thus correct myself that the energy of young minds have nothing to teach me.
I did overreact for losing my temper with Mr. Berkowitz over attempting to hook Zack and I together, but wasn't wrong about how utterly inconsequential it was. Zach is an impotent mouse hesitant to put one foot in front of the other; I am belligerent, depressed, and vacating such tenuous security I have under Riverside's constant duress. I also confused Melissa Horton with my anger at her and Mike for sucking me into the Yabberz vortex, but I recognized the pathology of my former mental health consumers in harleyboy66, and his Canadian residence wasn't far enough away. Not for me. He had a need for adhesion, one which might have been alarming.
I am also placing extraordinary demands on myself, and probably cannot keep it up much longer. There are legitimate concerns, however, in mixing SSRI's and anti-anxiety medication, with brains damaged by cerebral palsy lesions. Wellbutrin made my mother's sister comfortable, but I did not respond to it well, and I've had to reduce my spending on fish, whose regular dosage in caplets and fillets did work better. It isn't really possible for medical model panaceas to restore me to the professional class via which I earned a living, but if I am going to go Julianne garbled, then it is over. I debate following Mariska Hargitay as if it was as momentous as losing my current address. The reason for this silliness is an interview she did with Terry Gross, years ago. The actress was bewildered by the fact that instead of the usual fan mail, she was contacted by special victims such as I.
I identified with Mariska's bewilderment, with the vulnerability in her voice, and feel the exact same need to reach out to her in relation to the assaults about which I've posted. It makes no sense, that people tend to believe actors, and even writers, have "the solution," in sniper lingo. I've gotten fan mail, in as dire straights as I am today, in the barren impoverishment of young adulthood.
Perhaps Fee did me a small favor, the publisher's two lines of severance made me sit straight and take stock, as my pitch wasn't just work, I wanted to do it, and wound up setting myself up; in concession to the gentleman in charge, I wasn't sure I understood myself either, and cannot discuss it in further detail until I abandon the idea or repair it. Sigh. The more I have to rely on my verbal skills, the fewer options I see.
Three years ago, I was venting because neighbor Ed Berkowitz connected me to mental health consumer Zach Tollen, and Liberty on The Rocks, providing connective sinews as it does, connected Mr. Tollen and the spastic dowager's indignation without the assistance of an equally broken Jewish facilitator, and I put a label on Zach for some of the young Turks in computing who show up on occasion with the rest of the crew. One such Turk, who, (surprise) gave me his telephone number, which was kind, told the Black Adder, my pathetic pseudonym for John, the local in charge, that libertarians tend to be on the autistic spectrum. I found the observation pertinent, and thus correct myself that the energy of young minds have nothing to teach me.
I did overreact for losing my temper with Mr. Berkowitz over attempting to hook Zack and I together, but wasn't wrong about how utterly inconsequential it was. Zach is an impotent mouse hesitant to put one foot in front of the other; I am belligerent, depressed, and vacating such tenuous security I have under Riverside's constant duress. I also confused Melissa Horton with my anger at her and Mike for sucking me into the Yabberz vortex, but I recognized the pathology of my former mental health consumers in harleyboy66, and his Canadian residence wasn't far enough away. Not for me. He had a need for adhesion, one which might have been alarming.
I am also placing extraordinary demands on myself, and probably cannot keep it up much longer. There are legitimate concerns, however, in mixing SSRI's and anti-anxiety medication, with brains damaged by cerebral palsy lesions. Wellbutrin made my mother's sister comfortable, but I did not respond to it well, and I've had to reduce my spending on fish, whose regular dosage in caplets and fillets did work better. It isn't really possible for medical model panaceas to restore me to the professional class via which I earned a living, but if I am going to go Julianne garbled, then it is over. I debate following Mariska Hargitay as if it was as momentous as losing my current address. The reason for this silliness is an interview she did with Terry Gross, years ago. The actress was bewildered by the fact that instead of the usual fan mail, she was contacted by special victims such as I.
I identified with Mariska's bewilderment, with the vulnerability in her voice, and feel the exact same need to reach out to her in relation to the assaults about which I've posted. It makes no sense, that people tend to believe actors, and even writers, have "the solution," in sniper lingo. I've gotten fan mail, in as dire straights as I am today, in the barren impoverishment of young adulthood.
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Muffled Down
Capitalism's need for productive and consuming bodies means that it works with Baconian medicine to repair, segregate, or eliminate those embodiments that prevent the free flow of capital.-- Jason Reiner Greig, Reconsidering Intellectual Disability, p 83
It could reasonably be argued, in 2007, when the parents of Ashley X ignited their high profile ethical controversy, I still considered myself part of the activist family, mortally wounded as I may have felt. I did not get involved in the protests surrounding the aggressive sterilization of this child, but I did not lend my voice in opposition to the protests, in part because I shared the activists repugnant recoil over the surgical repression of Ashley's womanhood. I've gone further since, as some of my readers know, simplifying things, like King Herod, but before we wade back into that, parents, particularly mothers, are in the wrong here, to do everything you can to keep minimally sentient humans alive, only to turn them into exceptional medical experiments in the service of scientists. It may be excruciating to let such children die. Hargitay's writers were clever in the one midterm SVU episode, where Olivia was given power of attorney over a premie who even beat me by a number of weeks, and the audience is left hanging, not knowing whether Wolf's battle scarred diva opts for brain surgery or letting the child pass away. It was a nice touch, the writers not resolving the crisis, though granted, irresolution may have been an escape valve, as these powerful unions did not want to take a position to ignite further piss offs, in Jason Statham lingo.
Just as in real time, popular procedurals are greatly ambivalent about disability and crime, the pathology and implications involved. It runs the gamut, from paralyzed cops, traumatic brain injured ball players whose damaged lobe aggression poses legitimate danger, to autistics being used as a diversionary blame, to impaired witnesses being implicated, but crucial to the case. The latter day Linus Roache episode, Falling, rather shamefully gives Not Dead Yet the wish fulfillment it did not achieve in real time protests, while looking at the implications less starkly than Criminal Intent.
Oh, the duress of the parents comes out here, but the mother ship is more concerned with societal consequences, as opposed to Goren's internalized psychological battles. In this sense, it can be argued that the US very successfully uses Hollywood to anesthetize militancy in the bud. At least until Trump destroyed established conservative models.
Now, as to what I believe, even if it offends the laity, is that the Spartans had it right, not that we any longer dash fetal flesh in rock quarries, but the better part of valor is to let children with severe developmental defects be recycled, as natural processes intended for those who cannot achieve their own dignity of person. Pillow Angels are morally reprehensible, as much a material product as the mega shopping malls John Paul II inveighed against in his last encyclicals.
Meanwhile, I woke desperately trying to save my work, knowing The Guardian isn't an option. I've used the work of their journalists as background, and I'd have to seriously revamp. I also need to relax. "Crime Fighter Feline" was an outgrowth of an essay started in the mid-90's about how terrible living in Philadelphia is, though it is true I no longer have the luxury to incubate successfully accepted pieces over that length of time.
It could reasonably be argued, in 2007, when the parents of Ashley X ignited their high profile ethical controversy, I still considered myself part of the activist family, mortally wounded as I may have felt. I did not get involved in the protests surrounding the aggressive sterilization of this child, but I did not lend my voice in opposition to the protests, in part because I shared the activists repugnant recoil over the surgical repression of Ashley's womanhood. I've gone further since, as some of my readers know, simplifying things, like King Herod, but before we wade back into that, parents, particularly mothers, are in the wrong here, to do everything you can to keep minimally sentient humans alive, only to turn them into exceptional medical experiments in the service of scientists. It may be excruciating to let such children die. Hargitay's writers were clever in the one midterm SVU episode, where Olivia was given power of attorney over a premie who even beat me by a number of weeks, and the audience is left hanging, not knowing whether Wolf's battle scarred diva opts for brain surgery or letting the child pass away. It was a nice touch, the writers not resolving the crisis, though granted, irresolution may have been an escape valve, as these powerful unions did not want to take a position to ignite further piss offs, in Jason Statham lingo.
Just as in real time, popular procedurals are greatly ambivalent about disability and crime, the pathology and implications involved. It runs the gamut, from paralyzed cops, traumatic brain injured ball players whose damaged lobe aggression poses legitimate danger, to autistics being used as a diversionary blame, to impaired witnesses being implicated, but crucial to the case. The latter day Linus Roache episode, Falling, rather shamefully gives Not Dead Yet the wish fulfillment it did not achieve in real time protests, while looking at the implications less starkly than Criminal Intent.
Oh, the duress of the parents comes out here, but the mother ship is more concerned with societal consequences, as opposed to Goren's internalized psychological battles. In this sense, it can be argued that the US very successfully uses Hollywood to anesthetize militancy in the bud. At least until Trump destroyed established conservative models.
Now, as to what I believe, even if it offends the laity, is that the Spartans had it right, not that we any longer dash fetal flesh in rock quarries, but the better part of valor is to let children with severe developmental defects be recycled, as natural processes intended for those who cannot achieve their own dignity of person. Pillow Angels are morally reprehensible, as much a material product as the mega shopping malls John Paul II inveighed against in his last encyclicals.
Meanwhile, I woke desperately trying to save my work, knowing The Guardian isn't an option. I've used the work of their journalists as background, and I'd have to seriously revamp. I also need to relax. "Crime Fighter Feline" was an outgrowth of an essay started in the mid-90's about how terrible living in Philadelphia is, though it is true I no longer have the luxury to incubate successfully accepted pieces over that length of time.
Saturday, August 20, 2016
Dark Night
"The United States did not ratify the the treaty after the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan in December 1979." -- a nice, staid archive consulted for strange, forced cohesions
It is interesting to note what glimpses of ruthless brutality Ronald Donaldson chooses to offer viewers in his 2007 expose, The Bank Job. We're allowed to see Jason Stratham's supporting crew member Eddie get tortured with a blow torch by a cop on the take, but we are spared seeing the henchmen of hustler pimp "Michael X" slit the throat of Gale Benson, the MI5 operative, perhaps in order to staunch racial backlash, which certainly hasn't stopped the spastic dowager from coming into creation, or emerging into her unpleasant incarnation, which is about to cost her a great deal, though she is paying greatly already.
American directors are certainly capable of ruthless, merciless films which show violence in its own linguistic context. When I still had cable, I saw an independent, the name I cannot remember, about a black cutter who got off on stabbing his victims to death. He too wiped out a family, with the plastic bags over the head, sealed with duct tape technique, and at brutal cost, the white cop, who had a biracial boy, took these ruthless psychopaths out. Ebert, still able to speak, liked it. I did not, and obviously its unsparing malevolence still ignites my dread. Unless some brave soul comes to my rescue, one day I'll battle search and find Ebert's review. Despite my recoil, both the directors and the actors were courageous to make the film, because it exposes harsh realities which our British progenitors do not fear to reveal. I'm not indicating The Bank Job corresponds to the earlier American film, even though they both involve violent crime, and Donaldson made me think of the other. I'm only acknowledging exceptions to the rule. Britons, Europeans at large, tend to be more unsparing than the colonists they left behind to form the last major powers, though truth be told, Canada seems just to be lucky, and I know sum total of zilch about its defense capacity, nor if its benevolent neighbor down South has given it access to warheads. It is not listed as one of the nuclear eight, but with such a vast land mass, second only to Russia, I can certainly entertain a Boys from Brazil intrigue, especially in the event that Syria and Israel decide to end civilization as we know it. I don't mean that the CIA is conspiring to clone German fascists with Canadian Intelligence, but that there are fail safes of the sort that would leave James Gardner exasperated, in his tough detective jacket. If it is true that people died needlessly because Princess Margaret couldn't be embarrassed, what right do I have to say I'm not expendable to a black urban majority which destroyed my health and social conscience? In the years Joan Tarshis claimed Bill Cosby raped her, I was being denigrated in a whirlpool bath by a minority orderly who actually believed her abuse of a nine year old girl abandoned by a shamed father was "God's work". The woman probably many years since passed away, given her weight, her age then, mine now. I couldn't prosecute, and I am not certain that scapegoating Cosby does anything, for Miss Tarshis or anyone else. The comedian is too old to functionally survive prison, but whether he was married or not, I would have never put myself in the position of a naive progressive willing to be alone with a stage personality, though I was naive enough to go into the hood and emerge like this, willing to sacrifice shelter to staunch such emotional scars as I've sustained. I am nearly in the space Joan herself seems to inhabit, uncertain veracity against injustices beyond the ability of the law to rectify, sorely in need of difference.
It is interesting to note what glimpses of ruthless brutality Ronald Donaldson chooses to offer viewers in his 2007 expose, The Bank Job. We're allowed to see Jason Stratham's supporting crew member Eddie get tortured with a blow torch by a cop on the take, but we are spared seeing the henchmen of hustler pimp "Michael X" slit the throat of Gale Benson, the MI5 operative, perhaps in order to staunch racial backlash, which certainly hasn't stopped the spastic dowager from coming into creation, or emerging into her unpleasant incarnation, which is about to cost her a great deal, though she is paying greatly already.
American directors are certainly capable of ruthless, merciless films which show violence in its own linguistic context. When I still had cable, I saw an independent, the name I cannot remember, about a black cutter who got off on stabbing his victims to death. He too wiped out a family, with the plastic bags over the head, sealed with duct tape technique, and at brutal cost, the white cop, who had a biracial boy, took these ruthless psychopaths out. Ebert, still able to speak, liked it. I did not, and obviously its unsparing malevolence still ignites my dread. Unless some brave soul comes to my rescue, one day I'll battle search and find Ebert's review. Despite my recoil, both the directors and the actors were courageous to make the film, because it exposes harsh realities which our British progenitors do not fear to reveal. I'm not indicating The Bank Job corresponds to the earlier American film, even though they both involve violent crime, and Donaldson made me think of the other. I'm only acknowledging exceptions to the rule. Britons, Europeans at large, tend to be more unsparing than the colonists they left behind to form the last major powers, though truth be told, Canada seems just to be lucky, and I know sum total of zilch about its defense capacity, nor if its benevolent neighbor down South has given it access to warheads. It is not listed as one of the nuclear eight, but with such a vast land mass, second only to Russia, I can certainly entertain a Boys from Brazil intrigue, especially in the event that Syria and Israel decide to end civilization as we know it. I don't mean that the CIA is conspiring to clone German fascists with Canadian Intelligence, but that there are fail safes of the sort that would leave James Gardner exasperated, in his tough detective jacket. If it is true that people died needlessly because Princess Margaret couldn't be embarrassed, what right do I have to say I'm not expendable to a black urban majority which destroyed my health and social conscience? In the years Joan Tarshis claimed Bill Cosby raped her, I was being denigrated in a whirlpool bath by a minority orderly who actually believed her abuse of a nine year old girl abandoned by a shamed father was "God's work". The woman probably many years since passed away, given her weight, her age then, mine now. I couldn't prosecute, and I am not certain that scapegoating Cosby does anything, for Miss Tarshis or anyone else. The comedian is too old to functionally survive prison, but whether he was married or not, I would have never put myself in the position of a naive progressive willing to be alone with a stage personality, though I was naive enough to go into the hood and emerge like this, willing to sacrifice shelter to staunch such emotional scars as I've sustained. I am nearly in the space Joan herself seems to inhabit, uncertain veracity against injustices beyond the ability of the law to rectify, sorely in need of difference.
Friday, August 19, 2016
In Bare Minutes
The editor didn't understand what I was saying, and I suppose that's most of you. I spent weeks researching this piece, weeks, and just taught myself how to use Google Docs, and this is what the price of doing business comes to, the price of not having a friend in the world to call and say I was just crushed. The score, for my pieces, is two rejections and one acceptance since my 2010 piece "Crime Fighter Feline".
Fuck
Fuck
Armageddon Advent
I feel the unholy need to write in a string of prose poem expletives, undoubtedly losing half of my twitter followers if I bellow "Jesus Fucking Christ" over and over like Quasimodo in the breach. I finished my fucking article and hate spec, flagging the idea that carbon monoxide may take care of my problems for me, I'm leaving Race Street in five weeks, see me running? I laid myself down at five, transferring with no fear on that strange energy of age and death, how can one evening it amounts to nothing, my old self in place, and the next, anxiety? I cannot depend on a welfare aide 24/7, but my heart raced, and up I came again; finish the piece, my shins strangely flush, and I'm off the leash. It is done, but I have many things to do, as if I really think the GOP is going to save me in my one-sided email transmissions to Kathleen Parker. Why do I type to Kathleen Parker when my idea is only yeast and soda? She is a moderate conservative keeping her opines on tempo, and I am a banshee of Italian melodrama mewing to Wapo people. Everyone fills the space. Now I need sleep.
On a side note, Fox movies finally ran The Driver again and I watched it very carefully for another spec piece I haven't breathed about to anyone, begging God to help me stay true to myself. What has fresh air felt like these last two weeks?
On a side note, Fox movies finally ran The Driver again and I watched it very carefully for another spec piece I haven't breathed about to anyone, begging God to help me stay true to myself. What has fresh air felt like these last two weeks?
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Brute Cojones
Anthony Quinn had been an overly familiar figure for a long time by the time I came to know his face, and it is an insult that he was cast for Zorba the Greek, whatever argument you want to feed me about bankability, or whether or not he passes for Mediterranean, with Spanish blood running in his veins. Man from Del Rio translates as follows: peasants want the good life just like anyone else. It is an early version of his mentally disabled boxer in Requiem, except that in Rio he is allowed his heritage, and sexually kept in his caste, learning lessons about the battle scars of dueling contests. The dowager is not quite sold on Quinn who taught himself how to be a gunfighter who escapes the vortex of destruction, but when you look at his casting, it may make you wonder: he played a founding Arabic tribal leader (against O'Toole), a fascist, a CIA administrator, various godfathers, the scapegoat Colonel in Lost Command, and exactly who-the fuck buys Quinn as a hardened French officer who prevailed over the Vietnamese?
It is a business, I know, but it doesn't mean I am to be denied the pleasure of a certain degree of annoyance. I also hated him as the mayor of Axis collapsed Italy after Mussolini, not that he didn't fit the role. Zingaretti might have given Quinn a blood transfusion during the older actor's end of life respiratory failure. Where is the substance in celebrity? Why is the Screen Actors and Screen Writers Guild so powerful? And why do I enjoy an abstract straight to syndication thriller like The Marseille Contract of 74? I like this transitional movie for its veracity in the realization that scores need to be settled outside of legal frameworks. Quinn and Caine are intermediary figures here, certainly not the black irony of Hannibal Lector, for this is Jeffrey Dahmer territory, now an inside joke on HuffPost Live, our relationship to the worst aspects of our own predation (why not feed people like Dahmer to lions?)
The Marseille Contract is mostly chic brutality-- not entirely-- Quinn is now the old man who is supposed to diddle his dick under a desk--and there is actually a transference. The star on the rise, as represented by Michael Caine, nothing special in his Cockney blood, but Hollywood now controls who exactly is a pedigree, transfers to Quinn's Old Bull a sense of how to be cool, with the requisite distance to drop James Mason like a rack of seasoned ribs to be smoked. Violence is an argument, despite my predicament, my scars inflicted from it, and my likely probability of collapsing under pressure to it, in its fatalistic, reverberating consequences. How Presby has treated me is also a force of argument. A simple eviction notice is more straightforward, hence what do these HUD protections amount to? Look at how fearful I am of their next move, how much pressure I'm putting on myself to say I want no more.
This isn't about housekeeping. I never denied I need assistance, but a Medicaid paraprofessional and a good domestic aren't one and the same. There may be more about Del Rio later. It is a marque role for a player already seasoned by 58.
It is a business, I know, but it doesn't mean I am to be denied the pleasure of a certain degree of annoyance. I also hated him as the mayor of Axis collapsed Italy after Mussolini, not that he didn't fit the role. Zingaretti might have given Quinn a blood transfusion during the older actor's end of life respiratory failure. Where is the substance in celebrity? Why is the Screen Actors and Screen Writers Guild so powerful? And why do I enjoy an abstract straight to syndication thriller like The Marseille Contract of 74? I like this transitional movie for its veracity in the realization that scores need to be settled outside of legal frameworks. Quinn and Caine are intermediary figures here, certainly not the black irony of Hannibal Lector, for this is Jeffrey Dahmer territory, now an inside joke on HuffPost Live, our relationship to the worst aspects of our own predation (why not feed people like Dahmer to lions?)
The Marseille Contract is mostly chic brutality-- not entirely-- Quinn is now the old man who is supposed to diddle his dick under a desk--and there is actually a transference. The star on the rise, as represented by Michael Caine, nothing special in his Cockney blood, but Hollywood now controls who exactly is a pedigree, transfers to Quinn's Old Bull a sense of how to be cool, with the requisite distance to drop James Mason like a rack of seasoned ribs to be smoked. Violence is an argument, despite my predicament, my scars inflicted from it, and my likely probability of collapsing under pressure to it, in its fatalistic, reverberating consequences. How Presby has treated me is also a force of argument. A simple eviction notice is more straightforward, hence what do these HUD protections amount to? Look at how fearful I am of their next move, how much pressure I'm putting on myself to say I want no more.
This isn't about housekeeping. I never denied I need assistance, but a Medicaid paraprofessional and a good domestic aren't one and the same. There may be more about Del Rio later. It is a marque role for a player already seasoned by 58.
Monday, August 15, 2016
Poor Signals Binge
"In Rome everything is the color of flesh," -- Diana Dors, another brass platinum defying the patriarchy
Individuals who are as disabled as I don't evict themselves from public housing without a game plan, without even much ability to pack the daybed, the one instance where dead Frank made himself useful, finding a wood frame I liked, with poles I grip after my palsied lateral twist balances my buttock on the sorry twin mattress, a holdover from the unsafe metal bed my mother purchased, the women charging in when I was new, assembling me back together, and yet I've made up my mind that by the end of September I'm rolling out, on a bus, swaddled in a diaper if I can wear the one box of diapers Timothy Artis dropped off when he was still active, in his servile request for rides from the women with cars, myself perhaps only hurrying along Presby's Inspired life in its forgone conclusion, putting myself out on the street to get scuttled in a time of political uncertainty, as I am presuming the election will be a coronation for the Clintons, both of whom look like wax museum figurines, while I wage a titanic mortal struggle within, unseemly at that, checking off the list of lost habits, no Vuse, no pot of coffee on demand, my little plan rolled up in my back pocket, I have to pull myself together and research shelter accommodations, discipline, in this summer torpor, too humid to sleep and nearly too humid to work.
I was always circumspect about Samuel Clemens as a local colorist, meaning I give obeisance to the canon of classification: Great American 19th century author, without caring. Shocking, though of course African American scholars have sabotaged Huckleberry Finn; Clemens too struggled with self-subterfuge, talking himself out of a suicide attempt. He was a successful grandee of American letters. No question of that, but he never anchored himself securely in economic terms, and made a number of bad investments, from which he never truly rebounded, which illustrates creativity in its self destructive tendencies.
For those of you whom I may confuse: I am vacating myself from 22 years of duress from an ineffectual, hypocritical, superficial Protestant dictatorship which exploits damaged humans along the same lines of modern animal husbandry, which is obscene, and a topic which once made Peter Singer the epicenter of activist outrage, along with those grievances, iterated previously, ambulatory individuals would only endure in a schematic and rigid tragedy like Ethan Frome, which is Wharton's homage to marginalized invalids, the likes of whom are, in contemporary terms, only found in Siberia, or Syria, Libya, maybe New Guinea.
The struggle to destroy Little Vinnie in April turned my one small vinyl suitcase into garbage. to be placed in the trash room before I run around center city demanding an advocate and legal help at the point of a bayonet, as I can. For a dago who used to be able to consume poultry and pork like a pig, I'm eating only in small spoonfuls of stress. You having a decent Monday morning? Time to really work a little and stop panicking, even in the knowledge I am not solving a thing letting blacks continue to make me the heavy, treating me like prey, or bludgeoning me with threats.
Individuals who are as disabled as I don't evict themselves from public housing without a game plan, without even much ability to pack the daybed, the one instance where dead Frank made himself useful, finding a wood frame I liked, with poles I grip after my palsied lateral twist balances my buttock on the sorry twin mattress, a holdover from the unsafe metal bed my mother purchased, the women charging in when I was new, assembling me back together, and yet I've made up my mind that by the end of September I'm rolling out, on a bus, swaddled in a diaper if I can wear the one box of diapers Timothy Artis dropped off when he was still active, in his servile request for rides from the women with cars, myself perhaps only hurrying along Presby's Inspired life in its forgone conclusion, putting myself out on the street to get scuttled in a time of political uncertainty, as I am presuming the election will be a coronation for the Clintons, both of whom look like wax museum figurines, while I wage a titanic mortal struggle within, unseemly at that, checking off the list of lost habits, no Vuse, no pot of coffee on demand, my little plan rolled up in my back pocket, I have to pull myself together and research shelter accommodations, discipline, in this summer torpor, too humid to sleep and nearly too humid to work.
I was always circumspect about Samuel Clemens as a local colorist, meaning I give obeisance to the canon of classification: Great American 19th century author, without caring. Shocking, though of course African American scholars have sabotaged Huckleberry Finn; Clemens too struggled with self-subterfuge, talking himself out of a suicide attempt. He was a successful grandee of American letters. No question of that, but he never anchored himself securely in economic terms, and made a number of bad investments, from which he never truly rebounded, which illustrates creativity in its self destructive tendencies.
For those of you whom I may confuse: I am vacating myself from 22 years of duress from an ineffectual, hypocritical, superficial Protestant dictatorship which exploits damaged humans along the same lines of modern animal husbandry, which is obscene, and a topic which once made Peter Singer the epicenter of activist outrage, along with those grievances, iterated previously, ambulatory individuals would only endure in a schematic and rigid tragedy like Ethan Frome, which is Wharton's homage to marginalized invalids, the likes of whom are, in contemporary terms, only found in Siberia, or Syria, Libya, maybe New Guinea.
The struggle to destroy Little Vinnie in April turned my one small vinyl suitcase into garbage. to be placed in the trash room before I run around center city demanding an advocate and legal help at the point of a bayonet, as I can. For a dago who used to be able to consume poultry and pork like a pig, I'm eating only in small spoonfuls of stress. You having a decent Monday morning? Time to really work a little and stop panicking, even in the knowledge I am not solving a thing letting blacks continue to make me the heavy, treating me like prey, or bludgeoning me with threats.
Sunday, August 14, 2016
Comparative Hypocracy
At that time, in March 2003, was that the right decision? And now, as we look back on it 13 years later, would it have been better if we’d taken the opposite decision and what would have been the consequences of that opposite decision? If you can’t answer that question, then you’re a commentator and not a decision maker.--a former superficial narcissist now only respected in the Northern Hemisphere
Although the dowager shuns flash fiction, while she sinks in dread of her fate in her damaged Quantum, brevity can sometimes have great power, especially when a secular Jewish actor so successfully submerges his ethnic identity that fans not salient on the biography tended to believe he actually was Italian, yes, you may make fun of a bitter and nasty savant lashing out in real life at minority wardens last week to the point of no return, really pissed, burning bridges not to be rebuilt with apologies, Peter Falk's very early and forceful portrayal of a religious fanatic on the Alfred Hitchcock Hour's "Bonfire" episode rival's that of Robert Mitchum's psychopath in Night of the Hunter. One might even speculate Falk at least examined Mitchum's film performance, which, if the more youthful Shelley Winter wasn't always a fatalist easy lay who passively shrouds acceptance of misogynist terminal violence, might have even been more forceful. Not that the Hitchcock teleplays don't play the same conceits, but Bonfire is far more insidious because of Falk's ability to project conviction. It is an amazing performance prefiguring Columbo's tenacity; whereas Mitchum oozes fraudulence which crests to a breaking point. In Cape Fear, he essentially inhabits the same role which triggers threat anxiety in a truly illicit fashion. But Falk's character believes his own psychosis wrapped in Pentecostal fervor-- not to say his preacher was aping this Oklahoma groundswell of sectarian hokum. He kills the old woman in the opening as deftly as any modern nursing home angels of mercy never discovered due to the shortage of forensic pathologists. It is a real to life parallel rarely tackled in the sixties, with the exception of the British film I mentioned years ago-- no energy to spend fifteen minutes digging it up. Later, if I have any serene moments left dashing around trying to shake out a safe landing, but still, Falk's submersion, much like Nimoy's in primitive science fiction, and even Kirk Douglas, to a lesser extent, intrigues, perhaps because of the dowager's tendency toward voluble revelation, she is fascinated by the unsaid, the burrowing of identity in the closet.
Real crips would say I am peddling calcified cow chips to justify my own aesthetic inquiry, but in a non linear fashion, Falk is succinct towards the fusion of subsets, and also an argument against me, and my ferocious scorn. The Modern Catholic might be pleased to know that I feel bad about what I did Friday, but let me cue some people in: my dying aunt has been the only one there for me in recent years, tried to support me, and one covert round with these black women who run this building, and she folds, all eliciting my contempt, now irreconcilable, though I love my aunt. They stressed her out, preyed on her own insecurity about how she's going to die, and interfered in the small amount of familial support I had. I cannot continue on in such an environment; it isn't Christian to me, and in point of fact, my aunt found a custodial person she was going to send over. That's gone. One thing I realized though. The Libertarians are right. Stupid hicks with power can do all sorts of things, and engaging in such petty cruelty as they have, calling my emergency contact behind my back, only confirms my lack of species optimism. I may be afraid of my vulnerability; only natural, but these bitches are nothing, not anymore.
Although the dowager shuns flash fiction, while she sinks in dread of her fate in her damaged Quantum, brevity can sometimes have great power, especially when a secular Jewish actor so successfully submerges his ethnic identity that fans not salient on the biography tended to believe he actually was Italian, yes, you may make fun of a bitter and nasty savant lashing out in real life at minority wardens last week to the point of no return, really pissed, burning bridges not to be rebuilt with apologies, Peter Falk's very early and forceful portrayal of a religious fanatic on the Alfred Hitchcock Hour's "Bonfire" episode rival's that of Robert Mitchum's psychopath in Night of the Hunter. One might even speculate Falk at least examined Mitchum's film performance, which, if the more youthful Shelley Winter wasn't always a fatalist easy lay who passively shrouds acceptance of misogynist terminal violence, might have even been more forceful. Not that the Hitchcock teleplays don't play the same conceits, but Bonfire is far more insidious because of Falk's ability to project conviction. It is an amazing performance prefiguring Columbo's tenacity; whereas Mitchum oozes fraudulence which crests to a breaking point. In Cape Fear, he essentially inhabits the same role which triggers threat anxiety in a truly illicit fashion. But Falk's character believes his own psychosis wrapped in Pentecostal fervor-- not to say his preacher was aping this Oklahoma groundswell of sectarian hokum. He kills the old woman in the opening as deftly as any modern nursing home angels of mercy never discovered due to the shortage of forensic pathologists. It is a real to life parallel rarely tackled in the sixties, with the exception of the British film I mentioned years ago-- no energy to spend fifteen minutes digging it up. Later, if I have any serene moments left dashing around trying to shake out a safe landing, but still, Falk's submersion, much like Nimoy's in primitive science fiction, and even Kirk Douglas, to a lesser extent, intrigues, perhaps because of the dowager's tendency toward voluble revelation, she is fascinated by the unsaid, the burrowing of identity in the closet.
Real crips would say I am peddling calcified cow chips to justify my own aesthetic inquiry, but in a non linear fashion, Falk is succinct towards the fusion of subsets, and also an argument against me, and my ferocious scorn. The Modern Catholic might be pleased to know that I feel bad about what I did Friday, but let me cue some people in: my dying aunt has been the only one there for me in recent years, tried to support me, and one covert round with these black women who run this building, and she folds, all eliciting my contempt, now irreconcilable, though I love my aunt. They stressed her out, preyed on her own insecurity about how she's going to die, and interfered in the small amount of familial support I had. I cannot continue on in such an environment; it isn't Christian to me, and in point of fact, my aunt found a custodial person she was going to send over. That's gone. One thing I realized though. The Libertarians are right. Stupid hicks with power can do all sorts of things, and engaging in such petty cruelty as they have, calling my emergency contact behind my back, only confirms my lack of species optimism. I may be afraid of my vulnerability; only natural, but these bitches are nothing, not anymore.
Friday, August 12, 2016
Wary Paradigms
The dowager has written before about displeasure with the Criminal Minds format. "Suspect Behavior," was slightly more of a nonplus intrigue, due to the fact that Forest Whitaker knows how to make minority dysfunction palatable, even cuddly, as in his contingent opening of The Crying Game, but she doubts the original mother ship of predictability will survive the dismissal of Gibson. Shows like this, long running, bordering on nearly speculative absurdist theater, in weaker plots, depend on anchor portrayals along the lines of the Gibson Hotchner model. One suspects there are facts on the ground readers aren't being told: Consider how often a lead series star is fired due to a writer. The SWG is invisible, a running credit under the creator.
Tireless Mantra
I want my viewers to understand something about my animus over Riverside Presbyterian, even before Trudy Richardson was hired to continue where her predecessor Brenda Williams left off: I never wanted to live here. That simple. Terri Way, who was employed by Presby for Diamond Park in 1993, dissuaded me from suing her employer for negligence after I was attacked by Brandon Phillips. I shudder writing his name, but his grandmother lived on the third floor, and when he couldn't steal from her one fine morning, he knocked on my door. Count that as twice in my life I survived what I wasn't supposed to. Him, and my premature breech birth.
The lawyers among you would say okay, Terri Way played me, I gave in and and followed her here, get over it, as everyone says, it is one of the more torpid section 202 units around, in a near center city location; but let's review:
1. A homosexual advocate couple, so called, engaged in collusion which ended my career and forced me into federal default. I have to see them daily in addition to their aide's uncouth and recent toxic behavior.
2. Trudy Richardson has objectified me three times, once in 2007, and then with Ken Cantrell and Health and Human Services, after I have been systemically abused by minority attendants-- I cannot keep suppressing I let the corporation off in 1993 and allowed the first Riverside manager I moved in under to exploit me as a case manager. Disabled or ambulatory, it may read like David Bowie's Soho during a restless post-war period, but wouldn't you find this level of duress a bit much? 32 years with one rental agent because I wanted to be independent, in a fatal mistake of exposure to catastrophic effects of urban violence. Look at what I have to reduce myself to now to get out from under. Perhaps an opening swan dirge.
The lawyers among you would say okay, Terri Way played me, I gave in and and followed her here, get over it, as everyone says, it is one of the more torpid section 202 units around, in a near center city location; but let's review:
1. A homosexual advocate couple, so called, engaged in collusion which ended my career and forced me into federal default. I have to see them daily in addition to their aide's uncouth and recent toxic behavior.
2. Trudy Richardson has objectified me three times, once in 2007, and then with Ken Cantrell and Health and Human Services, after I have been systemically abused by minority attendants-- I cannot keep suppressing I let the corporation off in 1993 and allowed the first Riverside manager I moved in under to exploit me as a case manager. Disabled or ambulatory, it may read like David Bowie's Soho during a restless post-war period, but wouldn't you find this level of duress a bit much? 32 years with one rental agent because I wanted to be independent, in a fatal mistake of exposure to catastrophic effects of urban violence. Look at what I have to reduce myself to now to get out from under. Perhaps an opening swan dirge.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
It Isn't Simply Trudy Richardson's Dissembling Threats
As a practical matter, I have little idea how to avoid Inglis House and all the implications such regimentation entails. People lose more than freedom in a wheelchair community like it. They lose the right to say no, the right to decline medical torture, like forcible cathereterization, which I'd decline, regardless of chronic incontinence. It takes wealth to avoid such a fate, a huge degree of resources. Few have it, and if Presby starts legal proceedings against me for non-compliance with waiver services, I may be able to give notice and vacate myself, but I'm not going to get very far without sympathizers who have the willingness to buck the system and let me age on my own terms. In this day and age, that's pie in the sky.
No one likes nursing homes, but Inglis is a mad house reminiscent of Anne Sullivan's descriptions to Helen Keller's father, even if the rats are few and far between. The odor of diseased human waste overwhelms visitors, which is why few families stay involved with Inglis's wards, and rely on torturing peers like me to roll the front lines, when there is space enough between the gurneys in the hallways, the maddening number of power chairs outside patient rooms. Mechanics I knew from my own service needs could barely walk through the clutter, and as prejudiced as I claim to be, you certainly cannot care to contemplate what this does to the black paraprofessionals who have to maintain these bodies, day in, day out. They quit, try to deal with bitches like me, or more passive savants on the attendant care model, or use their salaries to go through nursing school to keep eating it, many of them not particularly good at their jobs, indifferent, much like my sister. My family would say I'm terrorized by the prospect. Yes, but this is due to Presby's methods, especially under Trudy's jurisdiction. She has been threatening me since she was a new hire, and her latest tactic was to stress fuck my dying aunt. I'm supposed to just let this roll off me and give it the finger? This is why I'm leaving. Going from point A to point B, with scant pennies.
What happens after that, I cannot say, but my literary tricks, allowing for satirical disruption, sans Bulgakov, are few. Far between.
No one likes nursing homes, but Inglis is a mad house reminiscent of Anne Sullivan's descriptions to Helen Keller's father, even if the rats are few and far between. The odor of diseased human waste overwhelms visitors, which is why few families stay involved with Inglis's wards, and rely on torturing peers like me to roll the front lines, when there is space enough between the gurneys in the hallways, the maddening number of power chairs outside patient rooms. Mechanics I knew from my own service needs could barely walk through the clutter, and as prejudiced as I claim to be, you certainly cannot care to contemplate what this does to the black paraprofessionals who have to maintain these bodies, day in, day out. They quit, try to deal with bitches like me, or more passive savants on the attendant care model, or use their salaries to go through nursing school to keep eating it, many of them not particularly good at their jobs, indifferent, much like my sister. My family would say I'm terrorized by the prospect. Yes, but this is due to Presby's methods, especially under Trudy's jurisdiction. She has been threatening me since she was a new hire, and her latest tactic was to stress fuck my dying aunt. I'm supposed to just let this roll off me and give it the finger? This is why I'm leaving. Going from point A to point B, with scant pennies.
What happens after that, I cannot say, but my literary tricks, allowing for satirical disruption, sans Bulgakov, are few. Far between.
Back Again Itinery
I had to reboot over the audio, and have nothing to post really, my legs thick, losing water weight at the end of summer, pondering my fate as I close my fifty fourth year. My father's house cleaner is due to visit to "assess" my unit, and if you want the truth, fuck that, though she sounds totally harmless. I want to leave where I live, despite everything, even the probability that I'm signing my death warrant, and I'm going to ask this woman if she'll help me pack, whatever she assesses, with my aunt and her shrieking ugliness. I'm so sick of people, spinning like weather vanes. My entire family knows full well they hate public housing, but because I'm a cripple, oh, it's good enough for me. I'm tired of Marie. I'm tired of my dead mother's voice, telling me to be reasonable, that I'd love it here, that they give concerts. I'm tired of rationales, trying to defy my own biology, even my lack of social media popularity. I'm infected, indeed, placate twitter with sugared civility, sis a seethe, not that the connections are useless, and some of the disability account holders, perhaps they feel sorry, maybe believing I'd be happier in Sydney, or Estonia. Helpific, last I checked, follows me, but again, what would I do as an emigre in the Baltic states? I logged onto their website, typed a profile, and with no prompts required, feel like a damn fool. I like them though, would undoubtedly be happier with no Africans in sight-- aren't I awful, simply incorrigible? What would they call me? väike fašistlik? How would I get there, with what, especially with Putin's eminent domain issues? Slavs. Damn me if I comprehend their mindset, personality cults, collective dissidents, as it were. I may not get the Menippean aspects of Bulgakov entirely. He is a bit of a puzzle, but even the good doctor knew, how and where we live is rooted in a great deal of vanity and cruelty, and I'd raze every damn government housing authority to rubble if I had the power, which begs the question of what I'd do next, even if I did not create this account to dismantle policies, or even to write about remaining bedridden for the remainder of my life in this tough Southern European body as opposed to deciding it's time. I've scaled back on that discussion, despite recent events. I don't believe in it, never did, but the alternatives in my case are fairly dire, unless, and the unless is what's lacking. People I actually like who would dare not to leave me at the mercy of punishing indigence, and I know it's a lot to ask of those appropriate to my station.
Tuesday, August 9, 2016
Living Pncers
Presbyterian Homes, in its commitment to good works, stressed out Marie Varenas, to threaten me indirectly through her about taking me to court to put me away, and I don't see how this is in any form a merciful Christianity. I myself am nearly beyond the point of caring, the ugly words of a dying woman almost out of her mind in her own right. She agrees with me about the attendants, that they are to be feared, but today it was "Who the hell are you? You don't have any rights." I held off, as she is near the end of her life, as I'm near the end of having access to a platform, without believing I'll get lucky. I am not angry with a father's sister in severe decline, but rather the corporate office adding to her stress, and I plowed through their Spring Mills numbers until I found the right one, at 4:50 pm Tuesday, 610-834-1001, and intend to get further combative with them tomorrow. I made hints with Liberty on the Rocks, knowing better but hinting anyway, that I'd have to go underground if I'm to survive at all, but I'm not particularly intimate with their rotational culture, whether their new to the conversation, or regulars, and I'm certainly not in a position to earn money in computer sciences, though I suppose I do okay with the limited level of literacy I have.
Walking out of section 202, to turn an idiom, will impact my disability insurance, barring I find a temporary mailing address. I told Trudy Richardson to shut her damn mouth, always talking over me, with that innate minority minstrel sensibility bred into the descendants of sharecroppers. "Why do I have to do it?" She'd rather I give my notice, since their notice of eviction will be a lengthier process. You obviously don't read her, nor observe the reasons for my antagonism toward a google-eyed jackass with her gapped front teeth. If I could, I'd critically injure her, though literally hordes could be tapped to replace her. Perhaps her question was "Why make me do it?" But we hung up on each other, me with my torch for competency and justice, and her-- well, this is how Presby makes their money, ruthless, battering, what has my obstinacy achieved? Padre: don't get bent out of shape, but it is a bit late for that, as I'm fighting my way to the sewer, evidently. I, with all this intelligence, all this promise, not knowing if O'Brien lost a local election. Something. His website is inactive.
Walking out of section 202, to turn an idiom, will impact my disability insurance, barring I find a temporary mailing address. I told Trudy Richardson to shut her damn mouth, always talking over me, with that innate minority minstrel sensibility bred into the descendants of sharecroppers. "Why do I have to do it?" She'd rather I give my notice, since their notice of eviction will be a lengthier process. You obviously don't read her, nor observe the reasons for my antagonism toward a google-eyed jackass with her gapped front teeth. If I could, I'd critically injure her, though literally hordes could be tapped to replace her. Perhaps her question was "Why make me do it?" But we hung up on each other, me with my torch for competency and justice, and her-- well, this is how Presby makes their money, ruthless, battering, what has my obstinacy achieved? Padre: don't get bent out of shape, but it is a bit late for that, as I'm fighting my way to the sewer, evidently. I, with all this intelligence, all this promise, not knowing if O'Brien lost a local election. Something. His website is inactive.
Monday, August 8, 2016
Camilleri Flats
The British government had become the prime European support of the khedive of Egypt, but sought to remain aloof from the affairs of the Egyptian-ruled Sudan. -- Britannica's encapsulation of slaughter
I took the risk and drove this aged, dimpled, battered and shorting Quantum under the showerhead to hose down, for no more than a few minutes, wrapped in baggies. The bath chair is still functional despite my slide down in 2015, if it occurred in the spring of 2015. Even on sturdier days, the shower stall is a risk transfer, always was, and the Quantum's design ups the notch, as opposed to the easier sling of the P-200, and even with pain killers, and remembering to ease my shimmy off the porcelain throne, I am not ready to play the piper leaving the chair's motors parked close to a good dose of steam, so it is a micro cheat in a necessary living extension of my body. Andrea Camilleri uses power chairs as accouterments in his annoying Sicilian detective series. On my last count, one power chair was the shroud for a clever suicide electrocution, and one was used as a lesson about corruption. If Andrea doesn't like Sicilians, the dowager despises the shame Sicily brought down on Roman glory, even if their old world provincialism seeps into our circulation system like venom. Camilleri is Don in his own right, but he is also a bullshit artist for pathos.
I'm working on my article, very slowly. It is not about rejection, nor commission. As a policy piece, I want it to pass ableism standards. This matters to me, and if it is declined I'll live but you better bet your sweet ass if Editor A doesn't accept it I'll burn through 25,000 journalists if I have to to get it branded. Hence my inactivity of late.
Today, this evening, maybe things aren't so bad. I need to be slightly less pecuniary with pain medication despite daily doses of fish oil, and become more clever with bathing techniques if the pivot cannot be reverted to immediately with confidence, but if you had to choose between end of live indigence in a state bastion like Inglis House, or going out relatively intact, with your dignity behind you, which do you think you'd pick? Camilleri can afford the luxury of a godfather's flesh, etched and contained in codes of honor. Some things never change, and the Sudan is still the Sudan, despite the contest between the superstars, Heston and Laurence Olivier, in a deplorable pantomime of a Muslim nationalist.
I took the risk and drove this aged, dimpled, battered and shorting Quantum under the showerhead to hose down, for no more than a few minutes, wrapped in baggies. The bath chair is still functional despite my slide down in 2015, if it occurred in the spring of 2015. Even on sturdier days, the shower stall is a risk transfer, always was, and the Quantum's design ups the notch, as opposed to the easier sling of the P-200, and even with pain killers, and remembering to ease my shimmy off the porcelain throne, I am not ready to play the piper leaving the chair's motors parked close to a good dose of steam, so it is a micro cheat in a necessary living extension of my body. Andrea Camilleri uses power chairs as accouterments in his annoying Sicilian detective series. On my last count, one power chair was the shroud for a clever suicide electrocution, and one was used as a lesson about corruption. If Andrea doesn't like Sicilians, the dowager despises the shame Sicily brought down on Roman glory, even if their old world provincialism seeps into our circulation system like venom. Camilleri is Don in his own right, but he is also a bullshit artist for pathos.
I'm working on my article, very slowly. It is not about rejection, nor commission. As a policy piece, I want it to pass ableism standards. This matters to me, and if it is declined I'll live but you better bet your sweet ass if Editor A doesn't accept it I'll burn through 25,000 journalists if I have to to get it branded. Hence my inactivity of late.
Today, this evening, maybe things aren't so bad. I need to be slightly less pecuniary with pain medication despite daily doses of fish oil, and become more clever with bathing techniques if the pivot cannot be reverted to immediately with confidence, but if you had to choose between end of live indigence in a state bastion like Inglis House, or going out relatively intact, with your dignity behind you, which do you think you'd pick? Camilleri can afford the luxury of a godfather's flesh, etched and contained in codes of honor. Some things never change, and the Sudan is still the Sudan, despite the contest between the superstars, Heston and Laurence Olivier, in a deplorable pantomime of a Muslim nationalist.
Wednesday, August 3, 2016
Ironside Enumerations
Again he thought how processional Venice was, -- Barry Unsworth, Stone Virgin, p 50
I cling to Stone Virgin, a Booker Prize text, as if it was on its way to becoming sepulchral, if not scriptural; what Unsworth achieves in his work, something I could never do, no mattter how much I researched, or fight to travel, is to transition the character type of Henry James, into modern fin de siecle figures. He collapses figurines into modernism without resorting to linguistic tricks. David Mitchell may have made me weep, with the fatal imprint of Cloud Atlas, but Unsworth gave me a religious revival, and may have had an indirect impact on what I was attempting to achieve in Dimmer Beacons, and failed, despite that the essay is in its third printing, and as with every risk of revision, a rewriting of the text for my too slowly compiled non-fiction collection may lead to something lesser, if I really get ugly about Linda, and whatever kudos to the culture of victimhood, Linda was my fault. I talk. I talk to total strangers about the haggard bitch of articles. I call Tony Stiles my little brother to feel better, and I'm killing myself into a principled libertarian death spiral so that nigger nannies can make their car payments, fraying my rage between homicidal transcendence and suicidal anchor stones to keep my corpse floating beneath the riverbed, after a week of extraordinary duress on bouillon cubes and basil, the last of my kind, in actuality. Many writers up through World War 2 went insane, or needed torpor, and died, like James l Herlihy, and I am my old self until I return to Presbyterian Homes, which I am going to leave, despite the week of bouillon cubes. All very well, but I cannot dismantle a sports chair like Bruno Debrandt more successfully rendering a modern, paraplegic cop in the WYBE feed, Cain. Cain succeeds where Underwood failed because it doesn't utilize black guilt. I know Debrandt from more than the convoluted Spiral, a series only viewed sporadically, but cannot place his role which imprinted him, and I was going to inveigh that his functionality was outside of my worldview, but that isn't true. I lived date rapes and fucks and spasmodic heavy petting.
Part of this is panic over my dad. He is old and I want to go to him, to stop being a guilty financial transaction, to forgive him for doing to me then what Trudy Richardson does to me now, and I hate this woman so much it frightens me. I hate Trudy Richardson more than I hate Linda Dezenski, because this is what I wanted from Linda, to spare me the Presbyterian Moby Dick avarice. What the Presbyterian Homes model represents is human dystopia at its worst, and we need to stop it, just as we need to stop our obscenities with exotic game like Harambe. Only we cannot stop what we're doing, can we?
I cling to Stone Virgin, a Booker Prize text, as if it was on its way to becoming sepulchral, if not scriptural; what Unsworth achieves in his work, something I could never do, no mattter how much I researched, or fight to travel, is to transition the character type of Henry James, into modern fin de siecle figures. He collapses figurines into modernism without resorting to linguistic tricks. David Mitchell may have made me weep, with the fatal imprint of Cloud Atlas, but Unsworth gave me a religious revival, and may have had an indirect impact on what I was attempting to achieve in Dimmer Beacons, and failed, despite that the essay is in its third printing, and as with every risk of revision, a rewriting of the text for my too slowly compiled non-fiction collection may lead to something lesser, if I really get ugly about Linda, and whatever kudos to the culture of victimhood, Linda was my fault. I talk. I talk to total strangers about the haggard bitch of articles. I call Tony Stiles my little brother to feel better, and I'm killing myself into a principled libertarian death spiral so that nigger nannies can make their car payments, fraying my rage between homicidal transcendence and suicidal anchor stones to keep my corpse floating beneath the riverbed, after a week of extraordinary duress on bouillon cubes and basil, the last of my kind, in actuality. Many writers up through World War 2 went insane, or needed torpor, and died, like James l Herlihy, and I am my old self until I return to Presbyterian Homes, which I am going to leave, despite the week of bouillon cubes. All very well, but I cannot dismantle a sports chair like Bruno Debrandt more successfully rendering a modern, paraplegic cop in the WYBE feed, Cain. Cain succeeds where Underwood failed because it doesn't utilize black guilt. I know Debrandt from more than the convoluted Spiral, a series only viewed sporadically, but cannot place his role which imprinted him, and I was going to inveigh that his functionality was outside of my worldview, but that isn't true. I lived date rapes and fucks and spasmodic heavy petting.
Part of this is panic over my dad. He is old and I want to go to him, to stop being a guilty financial transaction, to forgive him for doing to me then what Trudy Richardson does to me now, and I hate this woman so much it frightens me. I hate Trudy Richardson more than I hate Linda Dezenski, because this is what I wanted from Linda, to spare me the Presbyterian Moby Dick avarice. What the Presbyterian Homes model represents is human dystopia at its worst, and we need to stop it, just as we need to stop our obscenities with exotic game like Harambe. Only we cannot stop what we're doing, can we?
Tuesday, August 2, 2016
Grieving for Harambe
"I think it's about finding a place to live," Michael C. Clark, my dead academic advisor running a more harried composition course
Beating someone to death is something, an action, in the abstract, of which I believe I'm capable, whether or not I share Depp's cunning at being able to overcome lesser strength and other limitations. I have little to no idea why Depp is on my mind. It is not Secret Window, which I did not like anymore the second time than I did the first. It may be Donnie Brasco, and his latter day Victorian detective in the Hughes brothers From Hell, certainly one of my favorite derivatives. I like things that show me how far I could never go, or believe I could never go, but I never entered into Johnny as a sex idol. For me that was Elton John, the most notorious British fag, and I no longer enter into his piano and Taupin's lyrics with the same sense of masochistic inducement. My grade school teacher Neil Montgomery hooked me onto Elton John, and I queasily regret it, having to peer into revelations not necessarily easy to confront. 21 Jump Street had status, that I know via reputation, but Depp came to me through Tim Burton, as opposed to music, or an aura of a cult icon. Where Ben Landis is on that scale his fans know better than I.
I tweet to Ben and to some degree Nate and Ali like regular people not to show how cool I am, but because how am I supposed to feign being fazed? If I was 15 years younger Nate Maingard might have needed to flee me with an ANC bribe, not to scare the rainbow candy musician, as we know age and youthful beauty rarely collide in triumph, but Landis, to his credit, has me thinking about personalization, in light of his recent queries about abuse. My three recent tweets to Will about Trump and the Russia hack, to my mind, weren't indicative of personal feeling, which cannot be said for Poets & Writers.
I telephoned them, late, after I hesitated to transfer and then beat the anxiety to transfer, and barely heard the editor's name. I left my number with a bit of kimmy's bristling and bushy tail, intending to duke it out. Just as I asked on Gawker, why does this matter? To the extent I have a reputation at all, and I did, it is in spite of PW, not because of them. Yet I supported them for years, and cannot explain to those of you who don't know it what it is like for a majority of people from your own class to turn on you, get you booted, but the circulation department still wants your fucking subscription. What happened to me on Speakeasy is a reflection of what ambulatory society does to quadriplegics and those with Downs, with MR. Poets & Writers was a predominate voice in my life before they were Poets & Writers. Before I collapse in the exhaustion of age, there will be a score to settle.
Beating someone to death is something, an action, in the abstract, of which I believe I'm capable, whether or not I share Depp's cunning at being able to overcome lesser strength and other limitations. I have little to no idea why Depp is on my mind. It is not Secret Window, which I did not like anymore the second time than I did the first. It may be Donnie Brasco, and his latter day Victorian detective in the Hughes brothers From Hell, certainly one of my favorite derivatives. I like things that show me how far I could never go, or believe I could never go, but I never entered into Johnny as a sex idol. For me that was Elton John, the most notorious British fag, and I no longer enter into his piano and Taupin's lyrics with the same sense of masochistic inducement. My grade school teacher Neil Montgomery hooked me onto Elton John, and I queasily regret it, having to peer into revelations not necessarily easy to confront. 21 Jump Street had status, that I know via reputation, but Depp came to me through Tim Burton, as opposed to music, or an aura of a cult icon. Where Ben Landis is on that scale his fans know better than I.
I tweet to Ben and to some degree Nate and Ali like regular people not to show how cool I am, but because how am I supposed to feign being fazed? If I was 15 years younger Nate Maingard might have needed to flee me with an ANC bribe, not to scare the rainbow candy musician, as we know age and youthful beauty rarely collide in triumph, but Landis, to his credit, has me thinking about personalization, in light of his recent queries about abuse. My three recent tweets to Will about Trump and the Russia hack, to my mind, weren't indicative of personal feeling, which cannot be said for Poets & Writers.
I telephoned them, late, after I hesitated to transfer and then beat the anxiety to transfer, and barely heard the editor's name. I left my number with a bit of kimmy's bristling and bushy tail, intending to duke it out. Just as I asked on Gawker, why does this matter? To the extent I have a reputation at all, and I did, it is in spite of PW, not because of them. Yet I supported them for years, and cannot explain to those of you who don't know it what it is like for a majority of people from your own class to turn on you, get you booted, but the circulation department still wants your fucking subscription. What happened to me on Speakeasy is a reflection of what ambulatory society does to quadriplegics and those with Downs, with MR. Poets & Writers was a predominate voice in my life before they were Poets & Writers. Before I collapse in the exhaustion of age, there will be a score to settle.
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