Mel Gibson, Henry Winkler, an Impostor's Break from Her Break

Like Stalin, Trujillo ruled by turning his rage without warning against his subordinates.-- Publisher's Weekly on Vargas Llosa's novel which pitted itself against the world, only to find that the United States is responsible for San Dominican industry keeping San Dominicans on San Dominican soil

Llosa's interviews on public television still give one pause, make a failed writer take a step back; as well written as The Feast of the Goat is, the assassins bookmarked to return to Urania's opening, her guilt ridden survival, all Llosa really does is confirm politics is a blood sport, a corrosion of any ideal about human governance. Dominicans and Haitians may no longer electrocute each other for amusement-- or is shock therapy only a dirty little secret in New Delhi?-- but the island of two weakling states which both have seats in Manhattan, a pretense toward sovereignty when both are still entirely colonial, illustrates basic geopolitical lies. If one examines things too closely, the notion of a patriotic national identity has fissures world over, and might still be cause for alarm in India, China, even Putin's imperial cult-- but there are strong states juxtaposed against mere contrivance, and this is why Lkosa pisses me off. He takes (a) reader through a historical xenophobic hell, for what exactly? Am I supposed to condemn Eisenhower and JFK for allowing Trujillo to repress socialist collectivism only to wind up with developing world paternalism, in 2010 and beyond, suckling on humane capitalism, patting Indians and descendants of the African diaspora on the head?

I am not envious. I cannot do everything, and Latin American literary gamesmanship I examine, with jaundice. Urania's anguish, the indignation of Trujillo's killers, this means little. I actually identify more with Trujillo's pain, in Llosa's conception of it, than with the humanists who have to carry the valise of his legacy for the rest of their lives. It is more Llosa's ego, and the doors it opened in Hollywood for his relatives to make rip off monster movies, much like Henry Winkler's dramatic irony in Vancouver merely confirms Mel became an entrenched victim of Jewish liberalism, that intellect which is so superior to the rest, and though Winkler is a league or two removed from my Jamesian associates, his satirical undercutting in The Imposter is the best episode of Dead Man's Gun, which can be overly strident-- but Winkler, as executive producer, is toying with our memory of Fonzie as the otherwise harmless variation of Italian bling. I was such a naive girl, not realizing Jewish men were aping Italiano to make fun of it, and also to hide themselves. God forbid people like Winkler or Falk or Nimoy display any orthodoxy after the cataclysms in Europe. This is the secular liberalism Gibson came up against, and took a beat down from the establishment. Far be it for spastic to judge, as a crippled Jewish princess did it to her too, but watching Winkler's peddler learn assertion, using his skills at reading to undercut machismo, represents a subtle, mostly victorious argument against virility, against the necessity for violence to achieve grace. Minority anarchists are doomed to the sidelines, suspecting we're right despite the price involved, and knowing it. There is a time when murder is righteous, even if effeminate behavior is clever enough to evade Satanical burrowing. My femininity was hurt by orthopedic surgery, already challenged before Steele cut into me as a girl. Pubic area was never tidy, well behaved and cupped nicely in the vaginal area, as is the median for such things.
Butch bitches would classify it as intersex, but fuck that. I'm mad I have to get old, to die, with so little to show for what walkers did to me. Oh, men. They fuck me, but wanting me is another matter. Unlike the dykes, who may correctly intuit my submissiveness without also reading my revulsion at enslaving myself to a regressive infantile nurturing. I have plotted these points, and rejected them, but it doesn't mean I'm not pissed, and know I'll be subjected to more advances, if I survive long enough. I hope I get lucky enough to really hurt the next woman. I want to send a message, let them be on the receiving end of surgical cuts that destroyed my esteem. Now I need to close my lost round with The Freeman and dust my ego. 

The Rise of Wisconsin

Knowledge is the only instrument of production whose value never diminishes. Kevin Spacey as Mel Profitt


Damn alcoholic floozy

I guess that is one potential source down the drain, after so many years. For those of you not following my drift, Joan Tarshis and I split up on twitter. Why? because I dared to opine about one of her links, then she critiqued my tweet grammar. Normally I'd follow suit, and take her off my feed, but-- let me be sore for a little while. What I've held back in previous posts, however, is that Miss Tarshis is bordering on Alzheimer's territory, and yes, I know this through email conversations.

I am not absolving Bill Cosby, merely pointing out that a preponderance of accusation is legally difficult to prosecute when some of his accusers are liberal flakes to begin with. To dole out my scant praise, when I offer it, Ponnuru delineates nicely the potential conflicts between Ryanism and Trumpian jagged edges, and, at same point, I am going to address a serious post to the Speaker, at least before Trump removes whatever safeguards that prevent section 202 landlord from evicting me. I may have to go through several tenets of liberalism to get where I'm going when I write the Speaker my open post, but we'll all labor through my (equally) aging tendrils together, shall we? One of the few things Ponnuru wrote which intrigues me is the small facet: Stephen Bannon wants to destroy the third most Constitutionally powerful elected official in the country. Why?

Age old national press corp burlesque.

Talcun

The Sunlight Aria: Diaper Rash and other irritants 11/28/16

                            (56)

It did not take me long to lose my battle with the last of my relatively fresh credit line from Capital One to upgrade to the Vuse Vibe tank, which comes as close to poisoning myself to death as can be imagined, in my masochistic kinks for cherry diddles, the poignancy of Ken Wahl's Reagan era physique aside, why him, why it hurt to view him in a show for which I never cared, why he responded, why I want to fuck him to prove my irregular clitoris can still respond to masculine intercourse? Intrinsically, what I've blogged is the truth, I do not desire a lesbian partnership, but climaxing past the raw sewage of my trauma, past ugly women deviation, this is increasing in difficulty, not that it matters with my urine sore cunt.
  Fifty three was my break year, no doubt there, no rejuvenation, I simply couldn't get myself out of here in time; I'm sinking, whatever my newly wounded friction with Joan Tarshis, not even entirely sure what happened, why I even sounded off in the first place, two old and broken women, destroyed progressives, one a rabid animal, the other keeping faith, both milkweed Caucasians, soured milk, after a fashion. The link between us, however tenuous through social media, mattered to me, whether or not Cosby was violating her when I was six, being internalized as a childhood hate crime. It is her fault, in part, that she wasn't wise enough to utilize a chaperone. This was the sixties, and celebrities of his stature had inflated egos, much as my obstinacy resulted in essentially surviving a muted genocide, with now so little to show for it. Pain, raw sewage, mitigating with liquid nicotine vapor. I don't know what her mechanisms are, other than classic liberal discernment, akin to my faux relationships, adopting Stiles as my little brother. If I scrounged up bus fare to seek him out in Nebraska the poor fellow would probably shit himself, as this indicates the degree of how much I in turn have absorbed affectation: Look at what I'm writing about, in the dead zone of my section 202 decline, the headaches from inhaling? From poor nutrition coffee diet, the weight of my fatigue, pushing myself to write through it and amazed I've gotten this far. 
I opened Jawbone, to take a break from the rest, for a bit. I don't know how long, maybe a week, maybe less. I have to really focus later and put the housing grievance against Presby together, however much more it is going to shrink the willpower I have left, but willpower for what?
I have nothing in my life, none of the things people live for, even the disabled, which is why Bryan Fuller's ideas about dead alive are so telling, in a strange way, though he keeps failing, but failing with a difference, since he understands a medium to which I'm inherently hostile, to say the least.

1:33 AM, Monday

Life in Pieces

Ah ha

Mr. Stiles was one of the first personalities, along with John Dunn (though the Traditionism advocate may not be a media personality in the American sense of the term), to follow my account on twitter. I hesitated for many a year to start a blog, fearful I'd get an FBI file, but even I did not realize how outraged I was, in the transition from LiveJournal to Blogger. It is a dangerous outrage, a lone wolf outrage, empathy worn clean to the bone. It made Trump president; it made me, in turn, a pariah who eventually moderated herself only by degrees, and the idea I have for Niume, so far, is just as esoteric. I want to examine objects, emotional investments to them, and that would last like what, five posts? I did not realize, when This TV first aired Dead Man's Gun, that this was a precursor to Mankell's Talisman, and the carefully crafted Colt in the show was passed on from hand to hand, like a woman down South. The studio system, whether in its droll Vancouver outlay, which in Europe is Sweden, equally droll, persists with these stories because we do tend to believe omens of our own construction, suspect the gods, in the back of our mind.

But I only have a rough composite of Tony. First, I believed he was a paranoid cowboy of about 45 years. Then in pictures I said "he's only a kid," with full bodied curls, then I saw the mohawk and the glasses. Held my tongue, and by degrees, came to realize he is what John Murphy, his CFO claims, a humanist.

I'm not, and it isn't merely theoretical, because if I decide to apply pressure points to Trudy Richardson, the minority building manager, I will be going to jail. Two can play back ending, and I'm sure it will alarm her if I strike back. I have a little plot, whether I preface it with a dossier to a firm like Gaylords, or not. But his seems to be of the Michael Clayton variety, custodial services for firm efficiency. Perhaps with the holiday lull I can discover through him if I have cause, as a special victim, to take a bite out of Presby's Inspired Life. I'm owed damages, as well as relocation, and even as I divest myself of my dad's generation, I've softened, trying to fill the gaps for my brother and sister, and Ben would like me to move near him in North Carolina. The power of that hope immediately reoriented my compass, and I might have been back in high school. But I could just as easily throw the keys in Trudy's face, and roll off, not to return without a lawyer. Will she, won't she? Does social media have safety nets?

I need to take some time on the dial and see if I can find Tony's broadcast. I do favor radio over video, but my boom box lost its aerial, and it is difficult to tune NPR.

Dissolved in Water

A work in progress?-- Trudy Richardson, being diffident while Karina was being obstinate in 2014

You may laugh: I cannot find my fiction file with my hard drafts, and I have no idea where "Jawbone" is sitting. I remember the story, and as I've previously indicated, I have the first seven pages, but for all its weaknesses, which I wanted to revise, it was one of my favorite fictions. And I'm furious, with ambulatory persons not respecting that as a writer I horde articles and facts and drafts. Karina didn't respect it, nor my father's dead mother, nor any African American attendant (hissed). One of my younger aides, who works for a dentist, if social media is any indicator-- I-- ah, it came back, Lakisha Doe. I fired Kisha twice, not before before mother's mother took her to lunch-- but she bought me a huge heavy plastic storage bin. It may be there. It may be under the desk. I threw out the entire Cigna Medicare Part D prescription plan from welfare. I threw out half of the United States Postal Service, which Speaker Ryan may want to close, and my poor female, the one getting the short end of the stick, in my peevish old age, as yes, I am old, I mean this in a variety of ways, is all excited, lively, playing with wheelchair parts. Mom, what is going on?
My accumulations kimmy, things that mattered to me, have to be dictated by the government as forbidden, or discarded, and it just isn't enough, brain damage, a life of recoiled pain, people who walk have to dictate which markers even indicate that a quadriplegic once aspired and existed. The little girl is on my thigh, needy, alone, no babies to attend, as her litter was destroyed, and no more Vinnie to quarrel with; he was destroyed. She is a good girl, but I am no longer the good mother, I'm now too poor for that, a world away from the six thousand I still had when I fought my conscience, paid her adoption fees, donated to the shelter in Joey's name. I have to rest, work from memory but basically now rewriting, but I will assert this. Do not tell me not to hate. Writing, above all else, is the only thing I ever had transcending all else. Trudy can have the police break my wrists dragging me out of the building, but I swear to Christ, I'll take her job with me if I have to before anyone ever railroads my life again while I still breathe, while I yet cognate.

The Bullshit Artist

"What's your point?"-- Joan Tarshis

It may not be wise to post when I'm overtired, pausing in contemporary projects to pull up "Jawbone," my nineties story with its loose Biblical overtones of Samson, everyone's favorite Nazarene and Jewish bully. I drove around, unwisely plowing through my folders, looking for the hard copy, and should probably reconstruct it from memory. Pelecanos modern black face, with the gimmick of its masquerade, to which the man is entitled, made me dwell on it a bit. My narrator is a mafia accountant, probably in late eighties Philadelphia, even though I don't specify a date, and it concludes with a brutal pistol whipping death, in the hood. Seven pages of it on my drive. The original runs past twenty, and it's here, in the desk, or the bin, swallowed by my own disgust in my barren life. I'm able to type, numbingly, but the search for my drafts will have to wait. I wanted to reread any ostensible copy I had, tighten the convolutions. Unable to remember if I started it before or after Brandon Phillips hurt me, but I lived through sustained abuse before that. In Diamond Park, I had room. It was a series of joined cubes, built for wheelchairs, and that I miss, if not the cavalcade of the hustle on the pavement outside my window, black men with toddlers in diapers, begging me for bread at similar hours prior to sunrise. What is not to hate from one end of Philadelphia to this one? The black simpletons I live with here at Riverside, my neighbors, while I roll around, crotch on stained pillowcases over simple piece of foam cushion, rolling old socks over my flaky feet, difficult to wear a decent pair of shoes with this god awful chair. I lack the language of aerodynamics to explain, and the slippers I got from Amazon were a failure. I can wear them but they'd never stay on out in the open. Am I close to Henry Miller's nihilistic courage with the grotesque? It was nearly the same with my mother in Ridley Park. She had very little for vanity of appearance and I've less, with the greater impoverishment. Toward the end of her life, eleven years ago yesterday, I realized my mother was insane. I'm progressing along the same route, though I shun the MH consumer model with the same intransigence I display toward the welfare state.

Until she reached her early sixties, I was never sure about my mother, but now I am, and Pauline should have had her first born committed. Then I would not exist, under Google's wary admonishment and social media's accordion  Barring a miracle, I'll be forced into Inglis House, unless I pick an end date, and end my life. Public housing, more than anything else, even my hatred of Liberty Resources, destroyed it, this life where I fought so hard and built a career on the federal welfare system, entered the middle class, and wasn't strong enough. I destroyed The Matrix Research Institute, in part, and should have realized, behind the scenes, that the people who ran Liberty at the top knew Rick, and I shouldn't have trusted them in the first place, my supervisor's antics aside. Now a good day is where I keep control.


Mother did eventually redeem herself, settled down, alone, dying suddenly, though I've never forgiven her, nor Marie, my father's sister, probably bipolar herself, unable to see it in the woman who could not carry me safely to term. I booted my aunt off my contacts, as bad as all that, and explained it hastily to my arson investigator cousin. In my family, the elder Italians set you up to take a fall, and I'm tired, and intend to never speak to Marie Varenas again. Spastic is done, not that she hasn't pulled, and intimated things no one should intimate to old women with too many face lifts. I saw, in one of Tony Stiles tweets, a critique of a Muslim registry. He is right. It would be abused, and can be defeated. Perhaps there is a lesson to be drawn from Samson in that, whoever created his legend. He appropriated the enemy to destroy it.

Kick Start Ignitition

The racial conversation we're having today is tribalistic--  JD Vance

Why do individuals do things detrimental to their own welfare? Because in asking a new security guard, sleeping in the lobby, for help, a tuft of fur gets pulled out of the castor, and the annihilator within feels guilty? There is a black guy with a flexed spastic arm, Charles. Typical inner city low life with whom invalids strike up angry conversations about black viciousness, remembering his name. Spastic purchased a cup of coffee for him, and will receive nothing in return for doing so. Charles looked stoned, beat, held the door, came in behind the Jazzy, eyed with suspicion by the Pakistanis who work the franchise. He had to be vouched for, even as those same Pakistanis are solicitous of the invalid. She pays her bill, offers to call the police when minority swill start making trouble, and in her density and genius, bought VUSE vibe cartridges without realizing a different battery will be needed for them. A screw in, maybe next month, not that retailers, whether Asian or Pakistan, know their own products, and I'll have to haggle but desire to try it. RJ Reynolds will, ultimately, be the death of me.

I did not feel altruistic being nice to Charles, anymore than I was awarded being nice to Rick, the jagged ass in 1015, especially when I am a foot and half in the gutter, ready to be broken by (ineffectual?) murderous aggression towards those of Charles' ethnicity who have humiliated me with impunity. You do not see the savage vitriol of my interior rhetoric, and no, it doesn't have to be spelled out, though the detail has been flirted with, etched in hydrochloric acid more likely to debilitate a life long rabid palsy further than achieve any scarring for life on the perpetrator. Did I get the idea from an SVU rape victim? Not that I can recall, but images from serials cannot be discounted, particularly a brutal M-5 story out of Britain which may be a PBS distribution, come and gone.

So desperate to beat the system, to climb back, to go where Jeffrey Brown would fear to tread. Is his equanimity still admired? His eulogy to his dead colleague, her endometrial battle, was low key, more honest than the rest, the insufferable tributes. A symbiotic parasite, recognized, still, a quadriplegic who would wipe out a significant portion of humanity, was kind; it certainly wasn't the Catholic in me, and in real time, Joan Tarshis and I are having a quibble, or not, about an Andrew Sullivan metric I'm not going to bother to read. It is too obvious. She objects to my use of numerals in a tweet. Which one of us is likely to die first? The woman raped by a nigger with failing eyesight? The quadriplegic assaulted by a nigger who did a two year prison term?

Piggyback

I just applied for a temporary position with the speed of lightning, amazed at how irrelevant a CV can be these days. My LinkedIn profile, though upgraded, doesn't have everything, and my picture is terrible, the one with the imposed upon Sims is marginally better. And I'll switch to that later, test that was of progressive tolerance, that town hall meeting at Trinity. My flesh is gravel despite recent updrafts, needing to do less, better.

My point, riding Jeffrey's column, is that subsidies do not lead to optimal outcomes, and I am borderline, skirting the edge of total downfall. My mind is still here, and though my father's sister would kill me for this, and nearly has, we have to make judgments. She and my youngest surviving paternal uncle are autonomic (virtually) biohazards, and sustained medical treatment should be suspended. Keep them comfortable, but let them go. Ditto my father, ditto his wife. It takes away from others who aren't that sick, and need things to stay in society. I am living like a ragpicker precisely because the most expensive clients, like my grandmother, to whom Mary was quite close, is a nurse's meal ticket. I love Pauline, mind you, but she is one of our last links from the nineteenth to the 21st century, and she's suffering, having lost herself. Like Peter Thiel, but with a much different advocacy promoting it, it is not going to happen to me. Sure, people still die from poor medical outcomes at my age, or Gwen Ifill's, but the do everything approach is far too successful in developed economies.
Yes, euthanasia has problems, and Francis would zap me in a blinding mist for a callow lack of mercy, but we need to start thinking about limiting medical resources. Pure Genius is bullshit, in that regard. If Uncle Joseph could still contribute, had a utility, that would be different, but he is senile, with autistic anti-social behavior, and a carrier of deadly infection, nearly bedridden. We need to start thinking like Nazi doctors now. We do already, but in the wrong way. Within certain stages, people need to let go. Marie has been treated for cancer since her sixties and still smokes. I fought, but gave in to vaping to spare myself what little pain I can, and if I have a metastasis, that is on me. I'll take the morphine. Chemo can kiss my ass.

Cheese, Crackers, Blank Slate

Dagger of the Mind is not in the memory bank, and it was on this morning, but this was one of those days I needed extra rest. My physiology is like that, and spastic believes it is a natural adjustment. Sometimes I need extra sleep, and if I stream it I'm going to feel mortified, given that I undoubtedly know the story and simply cannot remember that I do, as it is not the later mystery movies, which tried to be more involved, yet one I saw recently, "Prognosis Murder" felt stale, as if Falk was diffident despite his character's cash cow. I only vaguely remember his turn of the century stint inside his celebrated constable. This is merely a lede for some continuing thought processes. 

The syndicate from Delaware will run it again, but I am not sure if I want to wait, and now want my coffee. whatever else I'm eating.

The ACA Is Complex, That Much We Know

When I was an undergraduate on the vaunted Medicaid, all I did was call Delcrest for power chair issues. It is much worse now, and I made a terrible mistake leaving Hahnemann Internal for the Ambulatory Practice. Hahnemann was indifferent, but mostly got me through the red tape, barring the extraordinary disaster of 2007. No chair, no attendant, as my molestation the year prior triggered a relapse, and this was when Trudy first had her team attack me, after my injuries sustained during the renovations. After going through hell, she humiliated me, and it was only because I had the money to pay my uncle's mechanics to refurbish the P-200 that I'm still here. The Jazzy is off warranty, and Jefferson treats me as if I was an Alzheimer's patient, as opposed to a quadriplegic; I have neither resources nor stamina to travel the length of the city to get past the gateway to get to the rehab personnel who might or might not keep me aloft. If you want to discuss thin ice, and the fact that I sound exactly like an activist exile, point conceded, but the activists in Philadelphia were the proximate cause of the problems I've faced. Jimmi Shrode whines like a gargantuan toddler that he'll fight all his life for wards in Inglis, those who remain passive, but that his lover's aide harassed me, or that after the violence of Diamond Park, a significant minority of attendants abused me at Riverside, or that this has been a hostile environment since 1994, never mind. I am the bitch, Jimmi is an aging pig bastard who thinks green eye shadow is still a homoerotic subversion. The Bern's charming Pol Pot paradise cleverly evaded my health insurance. I was a full time consultant. Matrix gave me a standard HMO, and now? Cancelling my Medicare may seem like a horrible idea, but what service am I getting? A resident charged me 90 dollars to tell me I wasn't diabetic. I'm hanging by a rather tenuous thread.

In transition

"They said 'nigger go home!'"-- Charlayne Hunter Gault, challenging on air composure.

It was just coincidence that my local affiliate aired the Dead Like Me VIP episode an odd 26 hours after Gwen passed away. What that last tweet refers to is unknown, and what twitter does with dead letter accounts such as these is curious, like Nimoy. The dowager used his COPD for a penny article and felt horrible. It was just a penny article. The man had universal recognition, and it was not as if the dowager landed a scoop to kill the fellow, or her cultural resentment had anything to do with Ifill's stricken state. 

She was not a very penetrating anchor. Personable. Charming, more weight to her thought processes within that "happy black" demeanor than Oprah, but on air she folded to easily when challenging sources. The knowledge that MacNeil/Lehrer productions would make her chief co anchor was a given, but could not shield the lowly from astonishment of such a reversal. (I would have gladly sacrificed Trudy Richardson in her place, however.) She had power, and while not uber wealthy, she had economic security, and yet could not do anything but confirm that minorities have poor health outcomes. Spastic is too old for shock, but having her resentment challenged, that has almost a youthful vigor to it. Sometimes we zig, following the crowd, truly disconcerted, even as she was mocked, mostly in silence. Gault and spastic would understand each other as enemies more readily, in the traditional sense. Uppity black liberation liberal versus angry cripple who needs to relearn some manner. Gault, however, is granted a concession. She went back to, and reports on Africa. That is proper, and spastic wants nothing to do with it, with exceptions made for Egyptians. Gwen would have simply been hurt or saddened by my hostility, though I was of course perfectly civil to her online. She would not have remembered.

Yet, as Ellen Muth's Georgia narrates in conspiratorial overtones, mourning celebrity is a unique American byproduct, especially if we're in the dark about terminal conditions. I did not know Miss Ifill got it through the uterus. Being in this age group, I get nervous. If the system failed her, assisted euthanasia seems humane to poverty constricture. This is not aggrandizing, or trying to make it seem romantic. Charlayne sees racial epithets as dehumanizing, and what she may have seen in Liberian slums may top anything I'd suffer, even if I put myself on the street to avoid taking Trudy apart with my bare hands, as she isn't worth institutional imprisonment, but Gault cannot enter into disability in real world terms. In the Congo, we're still demons, and West African superstition is alive and very well in the inner city. Dehumanizing slurs are nothing Charlayne. Dismissed. Generationally, Koppel was the best anchor on air. Not particularly kind, he pushed his sources, and we're beginning to lose that. I will push some strands from this a little further later. And if you really want to help Haitians, then repatriate them and give their half of a barely livable island back to the Dominican Republic. Think a little larger.

Echoes of Daniel

"I've done thousands of interviews!", the little big man, on my provocation

Somehow, I knew The Washington Post would produce this column on Angela Merkel, even if I lacked the requisite knowledge of Stelzenmuller and Brookings Institution Senior Fellows. Progressives, mothers, women, need assurance even while their worries are stoked, and I've written posts in the past that Merkel has, essentially, reconstituted German imperial ambitions which the Third Reich strove for, and had Hitler defeated the British, we might be in exactly the same place. 

If you'd like evidence that lithium might have a beneficial, mitigating effect on my dead brain tissue, my quarrel with Schneider in or around 2009 might offer proof I am in denial: when I cut myself off from his Cosmoetica site I thought I basically destroyed my career, and literally hid in the kitchenette, literally, cowering as if Dan and his wife were brain bugs about to suck my bodily fluids into a husk, and telephoned Marie in tears. The laity doesn't do what I did, even to B personalities, and here we are, perhaps my journalism days comparatively over. I don't know, not for sure, though it is harder to get paid, harder still to get prominent, and it isn't that Schneider is stupid, or doesn't have a point or two. I simply hated him, and didn't have the deviance to finesse it, play the facile invalid, take what opportunities I could. 

He isn't wrong about creative writing complacency, that it is coprocephalic. I came up in it's culture as an indigent poet starving to death offside Temple's campus, and going down in it through the firewall of Submittable fees, and don't have time to read it all, even if I wanted to put on liberal costumes to get laid. The journals aren't commercial products because heaven forbid students learn how to sell a marketable product. Would it have helped me in the eighties? No. Jerry was the Irish atheist Christ, and Professor Clark was beloved Apostle Thomas, and I was Janis, flaming out on angel dust for all that I truly thought about the future, and now I am megalomaniac enough to believe I can penetrate access to Bannon for vengeance, burying my hatchet in the rabbit hole that I voted for Trump the motherfucker over more of the same subsistence under the left. As much trauma as Diamond Park's location inflicted on me, I was still young, resilient, believed I could succeed, did, until I let the walls come tumbling, and never truly resurfaced. I'm hanging by my fingernails, actually pleading in my soul to threaten Riverside's manager in my notice, storming off, dead of winter in the bend, only my hellish intestines keeping me on the bit. Anything I can do to constrict CILS even further, like an anaconda, I'm going to do. The snake kills that way by design, atavistic. Revenge, that denotes a great deal of emotional involvement. 

Essence of a Pornographic Interlude

I've always been something of a political animal in my work, and surmise now that this should have led me towards a journalistic concentration earlier than it did, but this was the fault of my iconic sensual needs focusing on instructors, culminating in my cleaving to rock star professor, which Jerry would have had directed elsewhere for a considerable sum. It isn't just that I nearly hate the old man now for hormonal intellectual overkill for which I was at fault. He warned me more than once, and I rankle over that as well, that he was astute enough to read my future anguish in the making. We'll never see each other again, he and I, but if we did, even if our aging appearance shocked each other, I'd have to struggle with a violent impulse to rage at him furiously, then to fall at his feet in florid pink stricken grief. He and John Tassoni, I have to admit, have the ability to trigger me to that level of provocation.

I've fought it all my life, and in biological dissolution that intensity may lift to expose my vanquished identity, the ultimate facade, as it were, but there it is. Conversely, if McGuire had slept with me, he would have been diminished, perhaps even relegated to stepfather pond scum. This relates to picking up my battlements and returning to pitching. My failure with Jeffrey Tucker's baby led to a small retreat: I did not procrastinate. I researched, and I still fell splat on my face, motivated but bit by digression, unwittingly arguing with Niall. If I had communicated this problem to Jeffrey beforehand I'm not sure my topic could have been saved, but I'm still sulking. I know I've been better than that, but my confidence took a hit; perhaps I'll never recalibrate.

I've picked myself up, but cannot fail the next time I get a green light, emerging, but busying myself with literary journal culture which I now find wearisome. Liberals think I'm still with the left when they access my creative output. Hardliners like Toomey mistrust me, and Tony's CFO jumped ship after telling me what a great humanist his boss is, but I do not take Murphy's bailout personally. On the commercial level, I am one of Puzo's soldiers, who will die for her Don, and most women of child rearing age rightly see this as a threat to domestic tranquility. In the right conditions, going down like a good soldier fulfills me because I couldn't find the thunder in the other to live for, and told Erik's passive caretaker, during Indian summer, that I'd break her transsexual's neck, after giving Erik the finger. His nanny was terribly pained; I have not seen Erik or Jimmi or their servile lout Chris since, more overjoyed than remorseful. Resolved to enter a poetry contest at the last minute even though I cannot afford it, then I have to get back on the circuit, and fight to rematriculate. I was not engaging in hyperbole when I tweeted to the President Elect I wanted an appointment to the National Council on Disability. Some of you get payback.

Let me add one thing about Tony Stiles. He may or may not understand me, and he and I may not always agree with each other, but my loyalty to the man is unswerving, because he found me and linked to me of his own accord. I prefer radio as my medium, and need a new system, and then would love to hear his show, promote him when he's right. That is as close as I get to fundamental ideology.

And if I'm having bodily wound sex with Ken Wahl in my head, to resurrect my full throttle, as long as it doesn't take water in the bow, hey.

Hard Analysis Halt

"Stendhal and Sartre, curious choice,"-- Simenon's dialogue

Blogger never conveyed to me in explicit terms that I could no longer monetize this account through reactivation of AdSense. When I did post to the forums, my quandary apparently wasn't clear to computer literate users. They asked if I had an account. Yes. Inactive, because I was a doofus in initially experimenting with LiveJournal, which ended its partnership with Google's services. I earned a whopping 3.49 cents, and there it sits. I have tried repeated to figure out how to reactivate AdSense with this domain-- though not recently.

I could scrub out my biting temperament and remove the adult content flag. As most of you know, I am more stodgy than explicitly graphic, and even if I wanted to incite in a direct one on one ratio, I'd more than likely just get my ass kicked. The unfortunate bastard elect, who rode the gravy train of my vitriol, can get away with it. I can't, for obvious reasons, as advocating violence pushes boundary lines, and my intellectual pride, most of the time, says invective is beneath me, and even if I pushed and got away with it, I'd have to live with the results, which Donald Trump seems unwilling to do, or is perhaps incapable of doing, taking responsibility for his gut reactions. I'm not quite positive, if I suggest X, and Y followed, that I would not bring Satan into being, but by the same token, I am naturally inclined toward anarchy as something worth experiencing, life on full throttle.

Just not all of the time. Leading me to the perplexity of being always over-extended. If I go to Niume News, I'd get even slower, unless I break up with Blogger, and archive this eclectic thesis for something more topical, policy oriented, at least in an imitation of decency, though I'm already subversively thinking about calling it "The Dump," punning on old age obsession with shitting successfully. [Who really cares if I triumph over anxiety and entropy with commode discharges which avert disaster?]

I am a bit pissed, that in my effort to distangle disability center trauma, I have no choice but to cope with the reality of what is now true physical decline, and no, it simply is not fair. I not only have to live with a criminally negligent landlord and disability "activists" with no ethics, but now the unalterable ravage of the flesh. 32 years of my failure to change this environment and circumstance has taken its toll. I do not, at least technically, have to abandon Disability Arts, but I'd be forced to let it slumber to attempt other interests, even if changing my spots might have a dubious outcome. Simenon seems to imply that Stendhal and Sartre are incompatible, or had a precognitive insight into the spastic dowager's creation. It is perfectly legitimate to see Stendhal as a synchronic gateway to phenomenology.

Resurrection's Security Detail

"Kate Simon reveals the special charms of the Umbrian hill towns, the enchantments of the Etruscan tomb paintings." Jacket blurb, The Places In Between

The injury which Ken Wahl sustained on the set of Wiseguy during the Tucci Pizzolo segment was mere happenstance, luck of the draw, much as his neck injury was bipedal carelessness, something which fame may aggrandize, and yet, if Umberto Eco wrote a pendulous attack on hermeneutics with his convoluted novel  Foucault's Pendulum (read more than twice), it is not so easy for humans to dismiss pattern recognition. We're configured for it, and the familiar things of more vigorous adulthood are sometimes recognized with shock, recollected schematics much easier to grasp in scope: As an actor, Ken Wahl wore his emotions and his retro-eighties shag doo hairstyle on his sleeve, for me, back then, just more disco culture transplanted onto an organized crime drama which was already part of a bygone era, an era which Mario Puzo captured and magnified for studio players to glorify. Michael Corleone's power, in other words, went the way of the Kennedy brothers as martyrs. We either bury the JFK, RFK assassinations, and move on, knowing the Warren Commission never answered the public unease, or drive ourselves crazy.
Cannell's show was window dressing the moral ambiguities of the 20th century coning to a close, which Kevin Spacey capitalized on to become one of the greatest actors of his time, great acting for which we nearly lack a syntax. Where Wahl is an open book, easily read, even if personally unknown, Spacey is a manipulative master of a humane but ruthless center, even in lesser films, he has the uncanny ability to keep his audience suspended on the wire, until delivery of the dénouement where he triumphs, whether or not Wahl's face was in the mix. Enter contemporary surrealism of 2016, since we're all on twitter with its massive micro data aggregation. I'm there, Wahl's there, and my cancerous aunt, the few thousand like her who find social media alienating aren't, but they, with the dowager and Ken Wahl only two decades behind them, are dying, in their last years, tick tock. A disabled woman makes an attempt to be heartfelt in her usual birdshot method, to a heartthrob of yesteryear who inadvertently took the punishments to his physique that his character sustained for dramatic continuance, followed him and retweeted his adoptive cause and he returned the favor, and to discover that at 2am, just transferring, sent a shot of adrenaline right through her heart, as if she could roll straight back to her hormone raging thirties.
I felt vulnerable, and emailed my sister like a squealing teen, as if tomorrow my knight will finally appear to ride me out of this corrupt African majority city because an actor was conciliatory, if cautiously so, as I also wasn't raunchy in my outreach, also careful, because his past brought me back to a collegiate womanhood before the worst wounds became an inhumane pin cushion, because he made me feel like an Italian American who would have her man, as was once hoped, instead of portents in busted legs getting injured by cameramen, signifying lack of heed for omens, for civilization under strain, the weight of lethargy a valve into which old age invariably gets bottled. I am not conciliatory. I did not vote for Trump because I think conservatives will give me vindication before I buckle under my own weight. I'm not one of the mogul's supporters. I simply understand his insensitivity, and since I wanted to make a choice, afraid of dying, I picked the lack of empathy I myself have learned and roared and got reported for numerous times already, knowing the Clinton mendacity would be worse than a dickhead from New York. As the national voice of Jewish motherhood, Marcus is already in histrionics, but fair is fair.  My notes, too, however, are ossifying on a familiar scale, because all I have are the search for signs, the hope for magical evasions of burgeoning helplessness. You might ask what's wrong that a fleeting connection made me feel flush? Nothing, but it is the vain strength of days bygone, since every defecation, every move I make, is a balance on a tightrope whose safety net is effervescent.

Wavering in Richard Spencer's Mirage

Let us separate a few apples, oranges, and maybe a chocolate almond pastry.

• The 1983 attack on the Marine barracks in Lebanon is not comparable to the 2012 attack on the Benghazi compound which killed Ambassador Stevens, regardless of what Madame pontificates. I actually lived through the former event, and do not recall the Reagan administration getting a free pass during the civil war. As a politician, Hillary is mixing her metaphors. The attack in Lebanon wasn't foreseeable in the same way that Benghazi should have been to anyone with a moderate security clearance. In 83, the Marines and the French were in a military installation, and the Reagan administration was never accused of skin fliniting security detail. These things were up to the commanders on the ground, and these commanders were flummoxed, successfully, with tragic results and significantly more causalities than occurred in Libya. Hillary was directly responsible for the situation Ambassador Stevens was in, and Susan Rice then tried to cover it up. If it was up to me Susan Rice would have been booted to Manila a long time ago, and Duterte might have been a useful lapdog in his ascent to the helm of America's 56th state, give or take, as the heirs to the Spanish empire, which exasperates me.
•  Under Constitutional law, Trump is qualified for the presidency. He may not be suitable for the presidency, but he is qualified, and analysts should have found a better way to splice this.

I'm glad we've cleared this up, in my missed calling as the first female fascist dictator. Meanwhile, I am most likely resigned to buying a new Toshiba battery. I paid well over 2000k for both these laptops, and my HP is more stable, larger, and doesn't give me so many problems, I just haven't booted it up since PhillyTechGuy's staff worked on it because the dowager forgets if she had a password on the older machine. This doesn't mean I cannot try to boot it up and reinstall everything, but I do not know what to do if I can't get the HP to unlock. Guy moved, and did not consult the dowager before doing so, and she is a trifle piqued, as local networking still matters. If anyone on social media might advise me about HP when I am ready I'd much appreciate it. I do not believe, when I used the lady regularly, that I required the password prompt, which is why I've forgotten it, and cannot remember how Guy's nascent young adults bypassed the issue; young Gina long moved on, from what Guy told me. Two thousand dollars plus is a great deal of money for me to come to nothing. I don't know. I've gone through two desktops, and my laptops are old. Sigh, but poverty and technological interface are relevant issues.

Niume invited me to join them; if I do I suppose I cannot delve into genocide with my usual relish. For now I'm indecisive, as my frightening fury hasn't changed, trust me. I've simply given Blogger a break. You too, though I have my Trumpian moments

Abject Failure

The last time my computer battery went south, the Toshiba stopped running, despite the external charger. PhillyTechGuy said it shouldn't do that, but that is in fact what it did, and I am broke, and dirty, with renegade pests run amok, the power chair falling apart, lacking the funds to throw my laundry in the wash, even if I fold, and telephone welfare, the attendant I'd land would be someone as desperate as I am; it would not hold. SSI would give me about forty dollars, and it is stringent. Sell an article and I'm in overpayment territory, and when this becomes your entire life because your brain damage was just bad enough, what is the point? Where am I to find the resilience? Maintain my sanity? I am this close to cancelling my Medicare premium, rolling myself out the door, attempting to manufacture a fatal collision with a truck, which I do not deserve. My father's bypass surgery has put him on notice that it too is ready to fly south, and I am having headaches and seeing spots in front of my eyes; his sister, like my sister, is nearly out of her mind, and she thinks I have solutions to spend down. Throwing in the towel merely trebles anguish, and pathos is out of fashion these days. I would not wake to discover that Inglis House would gratify me. Regardless of what the state spent to refurbish the "wheelchair community," it was built not to be seen. It is a castle where human detritus is hidden away, drugged, mumbling incoherently on gurneys-- how am I to live like that, as opposed to an alternative marginally more palatable? Here lies spastic dowager, done in by bad intestines and deplorable domestic conditions, saying livid vicious things to bingo eyes and buck teeth in the sultry air of an unpleasant autumn. If this Jazzy in which I sit kicks, it becomes relatively moot, believing I can climb the fuck back out. I'd have to go away. I cannot fight medical rationing in an unsafe manual wheelchair for another 9 to 12 months because I cannot get past primary care physicians to get at the damn technology upgrades I need. Terms of service policies frown on "glorifying" negative behaviors invariably grinding down to the inevitable conclusion, but I do not see the dignity of enduring lifelong institutional nightmares, drugged into oblivion for the sake of unskilled labor. They left my right hip dislocated, the fucking crippled children surgeons, after destroying what control I had, cutting hamstrings, fusing feet bones, only to hit middle age arthritis just as ambulatory individuals do; barring a miracle, I can't hold the line that much longer, and I'd rather go down much as General Gordon did in his beloved Sudan, doomed in my own Alamo, because I fled to this city, obstinate ass wipe, cratered by her own expectations. The roulette wheel of our elected officials changes nothing of the obscenity of the welfare state, breaking me, breaking your back as well. Parents never see these consequences. 

Why I am not a liberal

Sometimes we have to take shortcuts. Billy



makes an excellent keystroke. My hip and right leg are killing me, as if spurs were in my pelvic socket, so I'm slowing down a bit.