Nevertheless, America's "culture of celebrity" remains misunderstood, particularly when critics discuss its historical roots.--Charles L. Pounce de Leon
I cannot say I am intimidated so much as astonished. Miles O'Brien not only responded to an innocuous question of mine, straight out of disability culture---
but followed me back. I am not an uber fan of his CNN rapid fire delivery, but decided his reporting was occasionally useful to me, and then, with his unfortunate accident in 14, lifelong cripple decided to take pity. He never noticed me before, and I just telephoned my entire family within local range to express my jaw drop at this offer of credibility from a video professional with whom I could never compete. I certainly cannot chastise a recognized science journalist for not paying attention to what he was doing, and unless I delete significant portions of my caustic rancor from this account, and never tweet another post, it won't last. I violate every aspect of decorum this fellow's moral clause contract imposes upon him, regardless of whether or not it is a natural inclination of his personality, or learned behavior. I do not deserve what his follow signifies, but I will bask, momentarily. Perhaps it came about because he learned a thing or two in the club.
This is what I'm trying to protect myself from, and couldn't, despite mt IQ, my investigative work for New Mobility, Josie the pissing milch cow's bread and butter, or any lies and subterfuge I engaged in to stave off worse than a sexual pass from the most gluttonous mulatto I ever laid eyes on. It happens more frequently to the disabled than any outside of disability centers know, hence my support for morally cool unpleasantness like eugenics, euthanasia. In 1991-93 I had a true quadriplegic client named Don; his aide put him on the commode and cleaned out his apartment. Not sure how he managed his rescue. Could you forgive or get over that? This is why state Medicaid Waiver systems need to be stopped, and it has nothing to do with conservative astringent.
If you read the fine print of these federally "mandated" centers, and you comply with the paradigm, they have a "no liabilities" clause for pairing clients with fly by night providers like Unlimited Staffing, an agency against whom I had had the most cause to seek redress. That "no liability" clause is written into contracts because disability centers couldn't function otherwise, and still, like medical supply vendors, they unravel like a ball of yarn. Homemaker Services broke up its incorporation a number of years back. I first signed onto the waiver as a "federal employee" in 97, then the state treasury said I owed them taxes, because I was assigned a deaf case manager who was accused by the next one of bad faith procedure.
Centralized institutional care is hell, cushioned by money or not, but decentralization doesn't work, I am sorry. Very few people like me, without some kind of professional earnings valve, are freer within being constrained by services. Wapo's reporting illustrates this fact. All the state statues amount to nothing because of substantive victimization between client and paraprofessional, left to their own devices. Get rid of it. In the interim, I found an old housing list, by virtue of dumping and cat knocking and then straightening up; dated, but it is what I need, a list, and maybe I can kick box a summer transition.
[Yes, I wound up approving Cheryl, since we knew each other slightly twenty years ago, and no, I have not been rude, reducing her to her pigmentation and superficial biological characteristics, but I've ignored her, almost absolutely.]
I despise Facebook to the point that getting an account suspension means next to nothing, quite honestly. The social media giant only magnifies my contempt, which is held in check only when I care about a group, or topic. Do not listen to your brothers if they tell you to open a Facebook account. I am nearly a 360 degree rotation opposite from Ebert's species optimism for Facebook and its models. What I see is innovation going static, the beginning of our zombie apocalypse, as opposed to a world's end diverted.
One of my former co-workers from The Matrix Institute sent me a friend request, and I am leaning toward denial, even though at a holiday dinner she made a funny. It made me laugh. One of those had to be there moments. Richard Baron, our chief executive, was pontificating about being Jewish during Christmas, and Cheryl, rushing to defend her own pleasure, said "Christmas is universal," which stopped Richard in his tracks and earned her the stony stare opprobrium. I just found it amusing, and broke out with a guffaw. So this is why I remember who she is. We did not work together directly. She is black, but better educated than Harriet. I do not feel like picking the Harriet Fowler scab much further than I may have in 10. I have a great many conflicted feelings about Matrix. I helped destroy a liberal, overly permissive research facility that let me lie my way out of a few things. I was unhappy with the job (when am I not?) but I quit, really, because the battle to get around became the job.
I understand social media's rather scoping power, even if it creates tunnel vision: I myself waste no small energy asking "who blocked me?" and I have other things I need to do, and by now, I might have had at least 2k on twitter, if I wasn't me, and Cheryl is sort of like my aunt in that automated chat with photo and video do it for her, and I could almost hear what she thought, OMG it is Joanne. She has 508 connections. I have 8, and do not care for many more. The fact that I now openly wear racism, virulently at times, has little to do with my link to her, and I'd never use Zuckerberg's platform to do what I do on this domain. I bring it up solely because I do not feel any guilt looking at her account and shrinking back. I am supposed to feel remorse, and do not. This woman did nothing to me, never aggravated me, delighted in her life, and like the late Gwen Ifill, had a light bulb smile. Perhaps my humanity was always doomed in this fashion, but it is the fault of the black nanny terror I live with, as well. She and I barely knew each other then, so that she took the trouble is more or less a numbers game of seeking out the appearance of popularity. Not sure how conducive this is, whatever I decide.
I figure, if I am getting blocked without being able to pinpoint either the user or the rationale, it must be because I put too much heart in saying "look, here is the end of the road!" I have little to no idea how Carson will change section 202 policies by the beginning of April, but by any reasonable standard, I am non-complaint, and my interior is not orderly, nor clean. Eight year old carpet needs section replacement, etcetera, yet shame is the least of my concerns, as I sat here attempting a minor note of eloquence to Sheldon Novick, his a learned mind of wonderfully constructed explanations of our best achievements. Henry James as a collector of social culture. Legal theory that turned constitutional law into the progressive victory whose zenith culminated, and started its process of erosion, under Lyndon Johnson, and I, in my worst moments, the stoking troll with charcoal eyes whose rage, when she is really tired, really tired, is beyond reason in its destructive cruelty. His social media metrics are sterile, Sheldon's, though I alternate with my distance of address from him, one one formal, "Dr Novick," which feels pretentious. He is neither colleague nor instructor, we are not socially familiar, and my numbers, not huge by any margin, yet more dynamic than his, My private message failed because the Toshiba cursor bounces and I lost the window. Sheldon would not care and I'll try another day. He's been extremely generous with me, and I feel traces of guilt. How can I froth with genocidal pathology and appreciate his scholarly arguments in the same brain mind dualism? There are ways to defend libertarian freedom and deplore Donald Trump simultaneously. I'm getting there but I'm not superhuman, and if I give this building manager her victory, go out into a cruel world into an environment where many people my age are strapped, I at the very least, need a destination. At the same time, I am too overwrought. But I am not doing what I plan to because of libertarian theory. Last time I checked, we all live once, and I need to get the fuck out of here, and the wreckage of my past in the gait of Jimmi Shrode's indignation, his partner's virtually zombie dead body with catheter tubes. Erik is a literal figure out of Shakespeare's supernatural.
Beneath the surface of both, liberal and libertarian exhaustion, The Washington Post seems to have gone into hysteria mode, and I am bemused, partly incredulous, but bemused, all the same. Jeff Bezos doesn't run the editorial staff, or so I imagine. This is not All The President's Men, just a wealthy New York shyster implementing a Gilded Age, the likes of which we've never seen, and yet, it seems Amazon's might and power have taken the reigns, trying to curb the living embodiment of a dismantling: the dignity of presidential sovereignty has melted in the span of a week, and I am in a mild case of hysteria myself, desisted from tweeting to Potus that his thumb and forefinger movements suggest he's over-skilled in the art of penile stimulation-- yet, libertarians aren't incorrect. How can I possibly say that when my life is in jeopardy? Because the entitlement system is a strangulation. I've lived it nearly all my life and all the sudden, the telescope sharpens focus, and I'm in my fifty fifth year of life, nearly insane with misery. A young Southerner graduate I met at LOTR last summer said he hoped Trump would bring down the government, and we seem to be already there, whether Article 25 is invoked or for some reason, Ryan is compelled to impeach. I do not see that happening, but my country feels doomed, and I'm going straight to hell with it. I never liked Trump, ever, never followed his damn show, yet we voted for an antithesis of liberty, not an actualization of it. We're finished, and the young woman I once was, who I used to be, has a broken heart. I'll come back at this later. I had a horrible two weeks. I am sick of being a welfare pigsty, and running, abandoning what little I have, will certainly shake a loose tooth out of my gums.
"I believe God wrapped himself up in that baby boy."-- Josie Byzek
One pitch last evening. Only one? When I reference the blank spaces in eschatology, I do no mean metaphysical definitions of the afterlife, and the metaphors we create around the notion of souls. Heaven is a postscript for serenity. Hell is a more dynamic narrative of unfinished business, degrees of intensity, passion, murder, vengeance, lust, avarice, treason. The worst sin is betrayal and what and whom we turn on, sort of like Donald Trump and Ted Cruz playing jacks with slay the bimbo. Rape, molestation of children, this is a betrayal to the species, and homosexuality, taken to the level western activists have taken it, basically is a materialist argument in evolutionary terms. Humans are like other mammals with sexual drives in need of being sated, so we divorce sexuality from its main purpose, and have industries devoted to cock rings, dildos, erotic films, smokers, rape fantasies, not that these aren't also heterosexual excesses. On one level, liberals glorify the liberating aspects of a great orgasm, and it is so closely tied to death, not only because vigorous intercourse can wind up killing people, usually males, but I imagine women too have bought it, in time honored fashion, with their shins clamped on a nice buttock, but because of the loss of control mimics physical escape; not that I'm saying a world of gender neutered eunuchs is preferable, but freedom aggrandizes bodily sensation to the point that it obscures other potentialities. No, what I mean about this void, is, what do we look upon in the face of decline? Family dynamic? I never had a good one, with the possible exception of baby half brother, love my father terribly, but our relationship is a cash register. My entire life might be summarized as doing everything to win my father, and failing. I learned and watched football to talk my father's language, and do him twice better as a Roman mafioso race baiting reactionary. He'd break my jaw if he knew what my posts convey. It is a method, many times removed, of how angry I am with him, how much I blame myself for Nicholas junior, his punk thuggery, suffering, the pain he caused so many people, his wasted AIDS skeletal frame in the coffin, cherry monoxide cheeks.
Do I believe in Jesus, like Josie Byzek? No, when push comes to shove, to give Catholicism a difficult time, if Christ actually existed, he is not what Saul, the original Christian killer, fed to Rome. Then why do I label myself a Catholic atheist, and believe the Office of the Inquisition should be restored and granted the death penalty? To which I'd be first in line? Grace is only achieved through martyrdom. I lived in hell for significant portions of these fifty plus years headed down the drain, what have I done in that time? Over invested like a pinball held aloft in a miracle game of Frenzy, giving myself first to devotion, yet always truculent with the collar. Then it was romance, never actualized, ever. I thought, a long time ago, maybe I could win a spastic New York therapist, went back to Rusk for work study, and his first words? "You got heavy, didn't you?" My parents would have been appalled at how hard I then tried to get laid, alone, sixteen, in Manhattan. I played up every virile male I could find, black, white, Italian, cop, disabled, Italian-Japanese, Hispanic-- Jesus, with the H morpheme. What do I have to show for it? 300 poems, a handful of bylines, controversy, giving everything the finger, no security, alone, afraid, with moth worn skirts, soiled clothes, survivor of medical practice that did absolutely nothing for me, in a prognosis of any sort. Had I snagged An Academic, might I have had more tranquil pleasures? I should have never allowed myself to relocate to Riverside. I perhaps should have gone back to my mother, but we would have harmed each other. She died alone. I'm gone, a boon a rang rang.
"You can't handle this." --Gabourey Sidibe
How little we actually have to say about eschatology at the end of the day. This always comes back to me, even as I can barely pull myself up on the dull sky blue mattress, as old as my anguish enveloping itself around me at Riverside, the beaten, rusted, Sears Roebuck mattress courtesy of my mother's judgment in buying me a metal daybed that rocked like a tin can. Grotesque little mattress, but I cannot just get another spring coil twin, or a piece of hospital bed foam whose width would collapse too low. It has to be right so that I can pivot on, then push up to pivot off, and this I can discuss, the barren aesthetics of government socialism, not that padre did any better, had I stayed in Ridley Park. He built steep wooden ramps, a plastic shower stall, had violent arguments with me over pubic hair on my washcloth, now he is nurse to his dead wife's nursing colleague, twenty times as sick as the puss gassing out of my colon, due to my respiratory issues, other secrets. I cannot keep up, but neither could an attendant; they'd walk, confronted with pudding, the stench of post-menopausal decline. Those of you who can walk might ask, if you dared, what the fuck do I want? You aren't functionally ambulatory. Everyone gets old. You got screwed, badly. You take too many things to heart.
Okay, but I never wanted this, in the sense that what limited fulfillment I might have had would have been from professional accomplishment, and now this is nearly beyond me, even if my poverty insists that I have to persevere. Fuck what Inglis House writes on its site. If I am legally forced into it than that is tantamount to the games the English aristocracy played, tossing any viable claimant to the throne in a dungeon like The Tower. The very minorities I so freely disparage have mental health breakdowns from working there, in significant numbers, and yet what can I say? Collegiate peers aren't kept. Most of my disabled peers aren't friends, and those who might have been remain faithful to the circumscribed segregated empowerment bullshit which is indeed bullshit when HUD is treated like the plague by private property owners. I can never knowingly trust another lesbian, and what Josie represents is an apostasy, unless religion is to become essentially meaningless. Maybe this is a bug, and it too shall pass, but my life was in no way lived with the compensations most whites expect. I'm destitute, with no people whom I even so much as like, or care to engage, around me, and the only way I can avoid the red death in the castle is to end it on my own terms.
For a dozen years or so he had been feeling as if the vital fluid, the faculty of existing, [...] were ebbing.--Lampedusa, The Leopard, p228
Me being me, my early life ebbing birthday present to myself was to stream Last Tango in Paris, and already knowing so much about it in advance, was more or less diminished by Bertolucci's Truffaut affect, the meta dramatic technique of film within a film. There was an obvious homage to the older French director in Leaud's staginess as an intrepid enthusiast of capture, but shock, awe? Hardly. By today's standards, Schneidner's nascent coyness, coupled with that baby doll face, and Brando's shrewd magnetism, suggested more interesting motifs than Marie's body served in a candy dish. Method acting had engraved itself onto Brando by this point, encasing his defenses, locking away anything raw, except for the impetuosity of his violence, and curious compassion for Girotti's Marcel. Other than that, his performance was a tease, as in so much of his later work. Perhaps he let himself go after the butter scene, because this took what was left, so he exchanged keeping himself in shape for the effortless sating through eating well and over nourishing. Never really my type, I can still see, however, why women like Jeanne would succumb to his domineering ferocity in lieu of true loving congruence. Youth desires penetration of invulnerable pretenses, even if pivotal monologues do not quite penetrate inflammatory deafness, the constant companion to ringing ears.
I still have time to run sections of the film again, review his weaving leg and what he was smirking to this poor girl, before he toyed with the small wind instrument, before this woman who decided to blame a simulated violation for the rest of her *ruined* life. Actors. What we put up with for aesthetics, inclusive of sudden democratic government totalitarianism for a hard look at power shifts between the sexes. As a woman myself, one whose contorted skeleton would be naked exploitation of a different texture, if substituted in the bathroom scene with Schneider's odd bush, with gradations like an inverted pyramid, I can attest that adventurism can lead to histrionic regret, but like so many doomed artists, even David Foster Wallace, my episodes of being chained to a spurious colon begins to give way to defeat: If I once believed myself matriculated, once made love to ambulatory men, now my grandfather's gastrointestinal turbulence is a psychological erosion of self worth. Rainy days are a bitch, elongated lung creping like a failed exercise in origami folding. Not a particularly good day person, I have been dragging since I woke. Maybe I'll rent it again later, or eat my usage last minute to recapture. Saturated as I am, near 60, with the best of the best, masterpieces, classics, believing I could have done better, myself, had I made better choices, I am glad of Bertolucci's tyranny in pursuit of this vision. Is Last Tango a great movie? I'd say intriguing, particularly with its interior strategies. We'd be a better species if we were this brave for the sake of creativity most of the time. Maybe I'll find a way to stop getting weaker and sicker, and get out, somehow, return to limited functionality; maybe I'll rationalize that atheists are wrong, that spirits retain identity, and that I can join Wallace in doomed ego limbo, or lose and die in Philadelphia's excuse for a wheelchair community. None of you know what to say. It is not one or two bad experiences which lead me to defy Medicaid Waiver services. Nine years have taught me that attendant care here at the bottom is legalized pimping; it does not change the fact my legs are going, my rectum is ready made greenhouse topsoil. After all the trauma I lived, my fail year has dawned, and I am, in all probability, telling Gail Sims, the newest assistant manager, that I'm not recertifying. I am also probably not going to find a pro bono champion between then and the initiation of eviction proceedings.
Scipio also evidently had a Wal Mart. It was Amber Moltke who suggested that they leave the artist to watch his Sunday Reds game in peace the way he liked to. [sic] The Suffering Channel, loc 4199
Purely in terms of linguistic intricacy, the bones of Wallace rank second to David Mitchell. Mitchell exists in his own universe, and the two writers are different, with the exception that neither can be read without full focus, both take an extraordinary labor, and backing down, going boob tube for some drift, has merit after a load on. The problem with Wallace is that his satirical agony is but a hair's breadth off the entirely unbearable, and though Infinite Jest was purchased, and just glimpsed at, intends to be read, to be able to do what this man did has an excess of heart, too much. Normal humans, his father, wife, those kind of people, the ones who feel Presbyterian Homes cannot put quadriplegics in straight jackets fast enough, blame his illness-- not simply for his death, but the manner of man he was, way he lived. The dowager is less categorical about the science. She can hear Krauthammer regrowing his spinal cord in protest, and in no way denies that depression has parameters, but, David Foster Wallace was, in his own right, a genius, and hung himself nine months in to Obama's revolt as a movement candidate toward the presidency, which ends today. Wallace knew psychiatry could continue to treat him, however variable therapeutic treatment is, and we can assume he loved his intelligence and his ability, and his wife and family. He certainly did not have to face what those with my chronic developmental damage have to face. He and I were contemporaries, only his suicide sparked a furious determination to reconstruct who, what he was, for which Literature Network, reluctantly, may be given credit. I've written about this before, perhaps more unevenly, hammering away. Quite honestly, my anger remains, remains because he understood sensory, physical, deprivation, was a midwestern progressive darling if ever one existed, and fine tunes the tradition, ignited by Joyce, made a ballad by Pynchon, thrown in our faces with raunchy glee by Miller, and nuanced with particular sophistication in "The Suffering Channel," for Wallace, a lighter story, about shit. The ultimate post modern reductionist sentiment is that we're all piss and shit in the end. Wallace couples this with what must be his loathing for marketing/ media aggrandizement, the last story in his last completed collection, about a hick who bakes and fossilizes human stools. The author then leaves another project unfinished, utilizing Asberger's, from what was gathered before Slate became wearisome, and then, the end.
What do I gain from all this? He was my age in 08, a modest celebrity who successfully navigated the MFA puppy mill which put me out to pasture, and I am beginning to resemble a survivor of Auschwitz, and Europe has to snake the scope fairly deep to illustrate that black Africa eschews democracy with equivalent relish to the way American Marxists were once blacklisted. I do not think Wallace hung himself because his illness superseded him.
Let me switch hit and make an assertion that libertarians and liberals may be confused about which spectrum I'm on; that is reasonable. I am fucking furious that my life was destroyed, essentially, by Jewish liberal prevarication, and a small handful of homosexuals, that I moved into a wheelchair access one bedroom apartment at 23, and then come out like a squeegee tube at 54 in a predominantly black, predominantly hostile senior living facility with arrogant Adventists on one end, the closed circuit Koreans on the other, and a handful of broken whites, passive spastics, save one. Wallace saw this. Whatever other relief he sought, he knew. Humans are driving themselves off the cliff, no matter how education, innovation, resolve problems. King Kong beats his chest. Might makes right, and if it was truly any different, I would not be living in a high risk lifestyle with a debt which amounts to no more than Zuckerberg's or Thiel's, weekly travel expenses.
"Is it that bad?" Stephen Dixon
It would have been nice to crawl on the belly of Mr. Morales, taking a rare proactive step of inserting him in my shaggy wolverine public hair, breathing freely. He made a marked impression on me, with his romantic force of mind. Is he dead? Retired? If my sole literary colleague on the face of the earth is still among us, it may be reasonable to assume a pompous trade journalist with avuncular smile, dimpled cheeks, black rimmed glasses, might still linger, if not in DC, then somewhere. I evidently cannot find a fucking soul on Facebook, not in terms of people I actually once knew, which means my paranoia on utilizing FB is overblown. I have no damn idea how to use the site to my benefit, embittered writer, lonely woman, whichever bovine Pulcinella I rake in the mulch toward the blades of April.
Why is the poet Robert Thomas my friend? Me drooling dowager retart toldshim between us I would not stir this up, but it boils down to a few simple things: He does not attract me, no slight to his wife intended. I am, in point of fact, fond of the image I hold of Robert's spouse, and regret I actually couldn't adopt her as a new chick clique to chew the fat-- that is another issue. Secondly, my contemporary colleague wisely never bestowed to my phone his number. Even if he had, it is too expensive to behave like my mother in domineering twenty minute conversations between me/they in Oakland. Thirdly, though I've no idea what he may have said behind the scenes, if anything, I do not blame him for my ban from Speakeasy, and I doubt he would have tolerated me this long if he sided with the ban camp. Fourth, and most importantly, I respect his craft. It is fine. It is polished, worthy of American celebrity certainly not disposed on any of us.
Then stop running your mouth and work. Yes, of course. Well, I do, but I have a lot going on, and cannot sit back quietly let Presby destroy what's left of my spirit. I'm working too, a rebuttal on libertarian dark sides, if you will. As to Cecil, whatever happened to him, I did not mean for my adamant stance to make him feel threatened. That was the extent to which Josie Byzek wounded me. I never tried again, after what she did, to take a chance with ambulatory accommodation with who I am. I wish she was dead, Josie, but know that in itself, wouldn't change my scars, this infantile hit list of mine. I even know doing things to fuck up Josie's domestic tranquility wouldn't affect much, but feel it is a legitimate issue to stop her from adopting or fostering third world Asian children. After more research, I may press that.
When I am in the mood to give concessions to Vladimir Putin's true socialist allies, like Paul here, they might want to prick up their ears. The general consensus of the establishment, of which Krauthammer is a stalwart member, is the Obama presidency is a failure, and Trump is an omen, a burning wet dream infected by syphilis. This may be correct, but correct in varying degrees. Obama too was Poetus in late 2007, and we watched his president elect briefings biting our nails. What was going on in Philadelphia's poverty housing had not yet threatened my life. It is hard to sequence the Riverside Presbyterian renovations with the end of Bush and the dawn of Barack, but I believe those briefings took place before I had to spend over a month on the second floor and afterwards went through living hell to get this chair which I now sit in, battered, with a short in its wiring, and I still don't have the process in place for a new chair why because I had to switch from one set of indifferent residents to another set which I loathe more. See me working on this vital problem? I should just be able to bypass doctors and go to a vendor and fast track the issue, but oh no. Medicare's hoops have driven me berserk, and Krauthammer, being a true paraplegic, one with a medical license, probably gets his feces prepared by a pastry chef. I grant that Obama's Poetus briefings were processional, nothing like what Donald is doing, but Obama too eclipsed his predecessor, one whom we still dislike, and the financial crash wasn't his fault; perhaps it consumed most of his political capital, with Geithner at the helm. While I cannot argue over TARP, not having the expertise, I think credit goes where it is due, and Geithner, modest federal civil servant, probably saved the country from something worse. Perhaps my libertarian sympathizers, online or otherwise, might contest this notion, but Geithner wasn't a liberal. No one in the business of regulating capital is liberal. That said, I do not blame Obama for the subprime mortgage default credit swap meltdown which even today, has me living like a shelter resident, in the exact same building where I was, in 1995, part of the professional middle class, never never happy with where I resided, its environment, my neighbors, or the managerial class using me as an unpaid in kind support case manager, and some of you marvel at my present homicidal hostility. I have a visceral disdain for Paul Krugman. That may be a developmental flaw. He and I may have exchanged a few words, but we're not peers. I have little less affinity with Krauthammer. He is still pontificating as if his was a vital psychiatric practice. He believes in the military's ability to kill our way into nation building, even if this is an over-simplification of his hawkish policy stands, but his column yesterday jibes with my utter political weariness. My zenith under George W Bush and Bill Clinton's public erections were short lived, and my earnings writing about disability dribbled to piss stains under the out going Kenyan Messiah. Barack is an astute visionary, but not an equally astute executive. By the time Carson changes HUD's policy, probably giving Presbyterian Homes virtual police power, I may have already wound up a hate crime, if I can even manage to roll out when Riverside moves to evict over non-compliance. And yes, I voted for it. Let's see what happens.
The Code Black episode which ran last evening seemed to intentionally reference the Spanish Catholic motif that the unpleasantness of life is a dream from which we invariably wake, with varying degrees of courage or fortitude to follow suit, whether it's Dona Luz coping with a deceitful lover and becoming content to be a virtuous single mother thereafter, or the futuristic sensibility of Vanilla Sky rather unevenly adapted for Americana. It was an irritating cheap trick, whether or not there is a certain degree of commiseration for William Young as the compassionate patriarch who knows when to give in to the disruptions of the urban disenfranchised. Spastic has no particular affinity for current medical serials, however more sophisticated scripts, but Raza was at least a curiosity, whereas Rob Lowe is the manufactured, if seasoned veteran, who delivers line readings with new found square jawed machismo. To go from that to the silicon metrosexual tweaks of Pure Genius is insufferable. The public airways may be frambrosia next to what retarded and fed baby boomer narcissism, but it makes taking a backward glance at Cary Grant beat one's chest for glamour, and bourgeoisie style held in place by gleaming hair gel and aerosol.
Grant was already a mausoleum plague in the Columbo era, but what appealed to our mothers, that vaudeville charm, holds the same magnetism now as then, whether tightly wound in Hitchcock, or more subversively timed in his comedies, which can be decoded along the same lines as Rock Hudson, if with more heartbreaking effect. To scroll a tawdry digital gallery and read that Grant was gay simply because he lived with another male friend was indeed shocking. We may not be able to read orientation on a whim, but Grant? It drew tears, when a more cautious intellect might have challenged the veracity of such claims. As a journalist, rebelling in despair at an encroaching twilight, blows having already broken her back, delving into this particular undercurrent would be akin to chasing Loch Ness: His grandchildren would disavow it, and there is no proof which can be confirmed. The reasons these rumors dog the star stem from the very things that made him one of the greatest celebrities. He toys with sexual secrets to keep his female admirers on the bait, even if we don't give much of a thought to poor Ingrid Bergman, the *gay bachelor's* patsy, as she was against Anthony Perkins in :Goodbye Again (though I would have fucked Perkins in that movie, and again in On The Beach). Bergman is not particularly sexual. She is a gracious elegance of poised need. And the idiot who cast her against Matheau in later years should have lost his job. It did not work. If you see her as the wife of Sartre, sacrificing all for such a great ego, that works. That is how women of her era derived standing, but there is culpability in that social form that shields the deviations of dandies which Proust exposes like a montage in the tide. Spastic cannot read it in Grant, however, the inclination toward sodomy. He might have been an empty vessel mimicking the upper echelon whose ranks he joined by virtue of his talent, but risking that for more roughshod homoerotic experimentation seems beyond where his attention to personal detail would take him.
"A man's lowest ebb may be his finest hour."-- Kris Kristofferson
I made something of an error which led to a false reaction with ever fortunate players of capital injection, and I'm owning up, which is why I keep most of my twitter email for lengthy periods: Ronald Chernesky merely liked a technical news tweet of mine on Amazon Echo not many mornings back, and I looked at his account in Philadelphia's lousy holiday pre-dawn light, not very hard, or studiously, and followed him. I erred, therefore, in making the assumption that he was trying to pick up my account, and may be held accountable for confusing him with my mild objection about what he was doing on my feed-- but my aging nose smells something, nevertheless, like the odor of smoked mackerel, and I have filed "future article with bewildered hostile source," away for future reference-- not immediately. Let the mild turbulence expend its energy, then move to balmy. I was, however, in the wrong, and will lower my tire speed on twitter in the future. Scouts' honor (predatory grin). When I want to be acknowledged by the security of his world, I do mean it.
In the interim, my body wants jelled candy. I was nearly ready to blow a wad on Amazon.
In reading about Pharmo Bro and Duca, without tweeting about it, I in my turn haven't been obstinate enough to harass my enemies in public. The last thing I ever emailed to Josie was I will never be civil to you, then booted her off my group. I know what she would say. What she did by lashing out at a trade journalist before whom I dangled myself, deliberately-- (in contrast, I would not dare breach my interaction with Jeffrey Tucker by complaining about vaginal yeast) was wrong, she apologized, and I do not help myself by letting rabid lesbianism stick in my craw. She's moved on and I am on the verge of death spiral homelessness. I am, however, the spastic quadriplegic all by her lonesome, even with data available which illustrate most cyber flings fail.
That I will never be civil to you was an incoded murderous rage, which my intellect knows isn't worth the trouble. Cecil Morales may have had a passing interest in my puerile extroverting, but he thought I wanted a husband, and his bite was as vicious as my own, worse. He had a failed marriage, and my ghost of a dead spic came later. Killing the den mother of New Mobility won't give me back any opportunity for golden years comfort with the right fellow. Shrekli and Duca have debarked the gen X trail, the shadow of the sixties like an ancient taxidermy model ready to collapse at the slightest motion, an open door. I did no work. After I logged off yesterday I went to the store, yes, sick, for soup, a little fruit, watched most of O'Neal in The Driver again, this time memorizing Adjani's sympathy toward the protagonist, then knocked over a large slate milk crate which serves as an ad hoc vanity table, stacked with tomes. I am, oddly enough, desperate to get in O'Neal's head about this film, and have to move. I want O'Neal. Walter Hill is self-explanatory. But Ryan O'Neal, at least live, with the mask off, seems petty, vain. He had a good run, next to most of us, but not, however, as zealous lone wolf willing to live a monastic existence solely to be the best.
"Do you trust me Louis?"-- Augustus Brew, silicon archetype
The abbreviated version of my limited interactions with Cecil Morales can be summarized as follows: I joined his Catholic discussion group on Yahoo, and he then returned the favor by joining Disability Arts, which still hangs like a thumbnail, and then we went to email. I have no reason to believe he wasn't who he claimed to be, that pictures of him rough housing his son weren't a father with his boy, or that he wasn't Argentinean. We talked on telephone. I dangled my cunt like a trollop, and Josie Byzek, as I've written with past scathing bitterness, lashed out at him publicly, for motives I have already surmised: Give me an inch and I talk the length of the turf, I pull on people, and give little thought to telling lesbians wrapped up in the belief in Jesus Christ that they're going to hell. Did I email her that? No, but her insistence on her right to religious communion is blasphemy, and this may have gnawed on her subconscious.
I was paid in full. His insensitivity troubled her, but not I, and what he had wasn't looks. It was intellect, and this is what Miss Byzek disrupted: I could, at one time, talk to Cecil about ideas. I wanted that more than any worries over dangling and impotent cartilage, but what, now, can I do? I look haggard. I'm mentally beaten, struggling with my grandfather's bowel issues, anxiety, agitation, subsistence, and Frank Versante? Frank and I looked the part, but we had no real connection other than prurient groping, which ceased long before his death, almost a year ago. We were always disconnected, never into each other, despite his claims he loved me. That wasn't the case. He was just a dirty old bastard. I punished him, and pushed him. Made him do things, refused to accept that he wanted his helplessness, wanted his infantile indulgence. Now I'm alone, in the middle of the January thaw, fighting panic. I can cave in again, recertify this April, barring any catastrophic changes to HUD's policies, but it is not the unknown elements of the Trump Administration feeding my fear. It is rather the knowledge that I am not going to last another year in this building, and I'm at a loss. Psychiatry will, if it comes to that, merely invalidate me, nothing more. It will not fundamentally alter the livid hatred with which I'm struggling, the consequent difficulty of putting all this aside, focusing on work. I've nothing to offer an attorney, or an attorney's firm, beyond contingency; I cannot expect anything from my family, and even less from digital networks. I can wade my way through welfare intake, just make the call, but I'd drive away another fifty attendants, no matter how hard I try. Some of them may victimize me again, and I already know how much worse it can get. If I wrote these two paragraphs though, I suppose more can be coaxed. The sin, the grave sin in the back of my mind, that charming plan, I fear the suffering it would cause me, so much more suffering for such deplorable acts of impulse which put me in niggerland, which made me a poor old quad the President elect would satirize, a public spectacle of diminution. Pure Genius gets a small bump for giving an ALS sufferer an arc, without examining the moral issues of personal dignity in the face of such debilitation.
The Prague Spring had risen up from below, from the people themselves.-- Oleg Kalugin, Spymaster, p119
I do sometimes wonder why Twitter administrators haven't banned me. I've upset the kids, unwittingly, the teens yelling at me: "Chill Out!" and I've radicalized myself along libertarian sentiment enough to go to jail, just like Erik used to do. My favorite transsexual has a jacket, a sheet. Whatever your preferred usage-- but my willingness to act on my anger illegally springs from non-compliance. The mostly dead Erik acts from the radical left. Me? I want to destroy the entire system, from disability intakes, which are ineffectual outsource models, to HUD. If young libertarians like Craig have little love for the Federal Reserve, my hatred for the Department of Housing and Urban Development is as pristine as Ebsen's follies with Texan crude-- but not now. I'm sick, and it will take me two weeks to clear, give or take, with my stores of Mucinex, and, while I am unsure about my battle with Blogger, had I not purchased the domain, I sort of can pity the gatekeepers
Zuckerberg is a kid. I feel perfectly entitled to kick his meta-swindling billionaire ass, because, he, like you, refuses to look at the near genocidal price of the American welfare state, and I remember the twitter kids interviewing on public television. They aren't my censors, got that, but twitter's top brass have wedgies up their crotch. And I myself have gone a little off on the "follow and drop." When I was new to micro aggregate in 09 I had to learn, didn't quite get it, and got sore at a crime aggregator. I let it go, but really got mad, and swing expletives with Nixonion relish, and still feel sad for certain liberals who mattered to me; losing Nate was my fault, however. The flippancy of the ambulatory world just got to me when I looked at the other South African post graduate's blithe poise. Suck it up people, meet limited travesties like Gladhandler, trolls like me. Take us out to ball games, stop leaving us at the mercy of niggers who have no other choice. Stop running away from us. But now I have to work. Jeffrey gave me an idea. He can reject me 20 times, but I am determined, before I pass, to play in his league, and so I shall. All my other tabs are closed. Clean coffee pot, then hit boiler room. Some of you know the term.
darkness darkness, be my friend
Your favorite dowager never cared much for the British invasion, outside of Elton. I still love the music and lyrics of the pianist and Taupin. That cannot be excised. And I personally believe that Captain Fantastic is a masterpiece equal to any other musical genre, but regrettably, I have to close the valve on EJ's seductive fluidity. It is not so much the politics of culture wars. I knew the entertainer was homosexual when I was 13, on the ward, clinging to my sole pop idol. Today, at 54, I'm psychologically too brittle for the pathos of the duo's best work: "I used to know this old scarecrow," as an obese New Yorker I hung with, intermittently, remarked, is a ballad to determine movement toward cessation as well as catharsis. I can no longer let myself go, for the chords or the falsetto the geek "can no longer do." And I have to keep my distance not to get abusive with old faggy. Just the way it is. But The Stones? People who idolize Mick and Keith are sorry, shriveled souls. Scorsese and I would grimace at each other across our egos, if I had access to him. We'd quarrel, Martin and I, which I acknowledge is idiosyncratic, given the shared heritage. He is a great artist, Martin, but I'd eviscerate him with pleasure. The Rolling Stones aren't even worth the effort of fending off my narcissism, my terror of losing control of my life. I took a NSAID, to clear some hay fever, and feel easier, avoiding my hard work despite looming deadlines.
I will not, under any circumstances, go back to a home for cripples. I will use violence, and intense suffering, to avoid it, even if conservatives like Toomey feel that my intelligence will need to accept it, eventually, I will not, and instead force my death, whatever my sin against Catholicism in so doing. or even as a secular breach. Suicide is tough, difficult. Not even depression truly strives for it, within eroding positive love of life, but there are worse things, and institutions like Inglis House are vestiges of fascism we accept as medically necessary. However brutal. I do not truly know if such homes are legitimate forms of capitalism as Adam Smith envisioned the economic system, but it is one area where I reject it, ruthlessly. People are better off dead, whether or not they feel clinging to life under such regimented circumstances is their choice. Euthanasia can be equally as profitable, and though I mock bowl headed junkets like Brian Jones, illustrating my conservative streak against addiction's gleeful destruction, an overdose is a bright and shiny little glory against such suffering I case managed and lived as a little girl. If I have to incite a criminal act against certain cruel minorities lobbing hate crimes with impunity, so be it. I will not go back, and will die on my feet. I don't understand your bipedal rhythm, and cannot convey that lack to you: my dream persona races wind and leaves on wheels, or always looks up at her father, dead grandmother, fat slut of a mother's tortured soul. Intellectually, I get the mechanics, one foot in front of the other, the efficiency of two legs, but even on crutches, walking into class hoping that Jerry would note the distinction, walking is not part of my innate wiring. Perhaps that makes me diabolically clever, clever enough to be stunning, and within this, lies an embedded rationale for eugenics. Another day.
A significant minority on social media doesn't understand my anger with sink and hook tactics, mindless links in which both parties don't pay attention. I am, first and foremost, of little use as a follower for investment strategists, especially when I'm forced to live on little over 200 dollars a month after I pay my charming rental subsidy and communications bill. I take a chance, and give the ambulatory world a glimpse into the sterile lives of urban impoverishment, and then, no one can handle it, getting a peek past my cerebral arguments, but so many of you expect me to read the same blandishments over and over again about social market models, and for now, I'm done. I am never going to restore what Philadelphia liberalism took away from me.
While my intuitive sense is I'm unfortunately too sturdy to die peacefully or suddenly or quickly, my ability to truly remain independent is nearly at its close. I can attempt suicide, hope I don't fail, or endure getting sucked back into a home, and more than half of you who follow me can't even remember that you followed an ailing disability journalist with her belching lava eruptions in the first place. The winter chills will undoubtedly pass. The first seasonal attack has already eased, without much more than coffee and Danish, but I am alone, tired, with battered equipment, and don't have the stamina for the next snap in the welfare net in my cruddy public housing studio.
I am done with you, with all of it, and yet, as vulnerable and weak and challenged as I am, for the last eight years of her tenure as nigger welfare queen, Trudy Richardson says, "then leave," and this spring, that is exactly what I'm doing, letting myself get sucked away, perhaps to be gang tortured like the boy in Chicago's video feed. So long people.
If anything killed my appreciation of the digital medium, it's Facebook. Much like Yabberz, I don't like it, though most of my feed is my family behaving like the American Catholic class. I understand it is like anything else, account links and feed, but it's rather killed the internet for me, all tacky, flashy, bread and circuses. I prefer Twitter, though we all have to resist that to some degree. Yet I am uneasy, because there is spillover, and not just the Chicago attack. People do horrendous things, thinking what, that they'll get a following for engaging in victimization?
Craig Brittain and I make an unlikely alliance. I followed him first, primarily because Uber models intrigue me, and anything I might apply to make independent living less static is worth paying attention to. He complained this afternoon about leftist troll accounts, and I waded in without need of reference, without backing down either, and he kindly gave me permission to explore opportunities with him, so I sent him a LinkedIn connection request. I'm not partial to LinkedIn either, but it is necessary for me to maintain a presence there, even if I find work-- but I am unsure indicting Twitter's administrators to crack down on bogus accounts solves our freewheeling problems with the online wild west. I myself am getting slightly over my head with libertarian factionalism, addressing Adam in the familiar as though he's remember the hard bitten wheelchair woman in her skirts, but that's neither here nor there. He proselytizes well for those who adore him; my alienated dissonance is of another timbre, however. Disaffection probably means I need some breathing space.
"Is it starve a cold or feed a fever?"-- Johnny Carson
Sinuses run amok may be a relief next to end stage renal disease, or a suspect non aggressive lung mass which is felt during an eruption, but upon waking I was near suffocation, nearly ready to vomit, damning these Southern European cavities. The Wild Wild West fascinated spastic as une jeanne fille. Even without training, it was different, and is related to absurdist aspects of Commedia del Arte. Just as every American action film is a western in disguise, I am learning that most westerns, as a genre, are something else. A young Wayne slaughtering a Mongolian ? stand in for an Apache was manifest destiny. It may have been Stagecoach, or a recycled version of the star emblem's success: brutal righteousness, though progressive sympathy is also come along early in these films, by the forties. Unless Decades does me a favor, I am going to stream the Conrad serial. Clear now but off to ache in Niggerland psychopathy. Poor quad may never heal.
"Your mouth is your weapon," a Jamaican named Esmin, long gone
The progressive left does have its own economic mechanism, one of equally limited resource distribution. It is called the grant proposal; this philanthropy is the driving engine of academic studies, and it is also an important part of why Liberty Resources inducts the disabled, and then gets sued and hated by them, people like me, but to broaden the scope, NCIL, of which Liberty is a member, would not exist without two things: Medicaid Waiver resource allocation, and grants awarded by Foundations, or trusts like Pew, which funded me at Matrix, until I turned off the tap. (Yes, I resigned and caused the disenfranchised to lose their income, talk about tough love.) I have written more than dozens of posts about why NCIL's "centers" are a fucked, static little bubbles, destroying as many disabled lives as they empower, but even outside of community integration models, disabled individuals who are matriculated, because they want to help, make promises on which they cannot deliver. Disability In Arts, which now hangs quietly on Yahoo Groups, a fucking disaster, because the real crips could not understand I was after an aesthetic inquiry, and lezzie bitch did her thing, as I've posted in the past, but look at her flatulent happy face, whereas I hide behind a baby picture, because, offered me additional sorry experiences. Another lesbian, who looked like Meat Loaf, worked at a technical school in Maryland, and offered me a class on this very topic, utilizing pop culture, like Star Trek. then she vanished, after I duly printed the syllabus. After pressing her, I discovered her department did not have the money to bankroll the course. Why did she offer it to me then? I cannot pay my bills with a slap on the back to console my intelligence. I went through a similar experience with a PhD in San Francisco with polio. I was going to edit and mentor challenged journalism students. Her grant fell through, but as she had not blindsided me, I stayed with her voluntarily. I inadvertently became terse-- I do not mean uncouth and belligerent, as I am here, just testy, about something, and she, being a Bay area liberal, cut me loose. That was that. She was just "trying to help," and I knew that. I wasn't trying to break up, but I was indigent then, very badly so. It is a travesty that my mother would have to die with an unexpected insurance payout five years or so later, and I utterly failed to get myself out from under this building-- but I can't dwell on that. It wasn't enough of an asset for a commercial lease. I would think, that even though wheelchair users have the shared experience empathy, we could try a little better to stop setting ourselves up for failures like these. Dale doesn't quite fit into this promises promises, as he and I don't know each other, but it came to the same thing, cross purposes. He IM'd about his grant, I IM'd back I'd be willing to explore a job proposal, and if it walks like a duck, it may actually be arsenic destroying Puget Sound's ecosystem. I need work, not giving him a free plug. It is true I've used Australian sources for my past features blowing up attendant care, but that can only be taken so far. My sense is that the Australian IL net is more pervasive than the stateside system in the US, more laissez faire, as is intimated in Muriel's Wedding, but I have little inclination to relocate to England's penal colony, and have little idea what Dale and his peers are complaining about, in terms of quality controls, as it seems.
In light of this, the Chicago attack, which went viral long before I paused to see the news clip in the traditional way, illustrates that the law is often as cock and bull as these failed empowerment attempts. If it had been me, I would have forced that lovely Windy City crew to mortally injure me. To echo Michelle Cottle, out of the old New Republic, before candy ass Hughes bought it, all hate crime statues do is overburden a judiciary that is already overtaxed with addicts eating their own feces.
It used to seem to me
That my life went by too fast-- Steve Wynwood
The most effective censors aren't necessarily powerful boys who allegedly parade their victories wearing Hulk Hogan costumes. My mother's side of the family has corralled me on Facebook, my eldest niece only a partial, if tender, anodyne, and I have even less love today for social media, my chest pounding at three am, I was ready to tweet "fuck you" or "fuck off" to some new franchise authors, which would have gone over splendidly. It is not their fault I am more piecemeal, less sustained, than a novelist, and they are only doing what market forces compel them to do, and if I am solicited to read and review, well, I've been able to do that, whether or not I wish to continue in that vein. I spoiled my New Years take out, dropping part of it, so even with small disruptions, I pay the price, and perhaps it was for the best, as I am slowly cleaning up under the table. Let it go.
I know, but only desired to enjoy my meal, over a tolerable broadcast channel. Found out just this afternoon I sold a poem. Or, had one accepted, for a byline, and it would possibly be detrimental, or unwise, to convey more than that, but this is a piece with history, taken to a public library workshop, where the facilitator pressed me a little harder than the rest of her group: my skill level was too advanced; I snubbed them, rolled out, "I am not coming back," I emailed her, and revised, and revised, over time, on my own, forgetting what her issue was, no, vaguely remember, the juxtaposition of classical with urban, and here we are. I have published enough work for at least three books by now, and what have I been doing? Sparring with nigger nannies in life or death battles.
I cannot retreat back to literary zine culture and sit there licking my wounds while my artery plague tortures me. If I wanted to pass muster to join Jeffrey Tucker's cache of freedom thinkers and failed because I did not allow myself to percolate, it was a lesson learned. He cannot pay anyway, not now, and as I respect Freeman, I do what I can for it. Get up and skin my damn knees and keep taking the egg. I persist in the belief in my own acumen, even if it makes me loathe, well people, yes, but communal sensibility, and on excruciating days, low pressure isotherms sucking in your ankle fluids, telling you sister was right about heart disease, then let the day be bad. Let it go.
What my underlying argument with Marie's preservation instinct comes down to is a debate about mercy. I buy Clint Eastwood's argument about kill shots, as opposed to what both Marie and my father are doing, for brother and spouse, respectively. My Uncle Joe is suffering. He has dementia, a deadly bacterial infection, and now, diabetes is taking his vision. If that was my situation, I'd put a Glock in the hands of Adam Kokesh, and say "pull the damn trigger you Southern fried poke!" I would not mind a grave in a magic mushroom compound, and what disability activists would never tell you is this: Quadriplegia is suffering. We cannot go jogging, clear our heads, or ride a bike, and too many of you rely on the state to solve our problems. Back to my straightening up, letting the day be bad.
"Talo tayo dito."-- Rodrigo Duterte
How men like Clint Eastwood and Jack Nicholson are behind the scenes, with the tap off, is difficult to ascertain. There are moments, glimpses, and despite his ineffectual political jabs, Clint Eastwood is an admirable force. Nicholson, comparatively, is a lecherous pig, but the two of them are some of the very last supernovas of "the industry ". Their leonine coda is comprehensible and informed on my world, and I declare the right to mourn. I may grasp Dita's angle, but millennial celebrity, crowd funded as it appears to be, leaves me chasing after its linguistic relevance; Ben Landis is another example. I respect his metrics-- and that comes with qualifier, namely, that a million plus followers may not be as relevant as media shorthand makes it out to be, but as I tweeted to Ben, he is a more glamorous version of my brother. To me he is just people. Observant, yes, good debater, but still people. I cannot puff chest feathers over the fact that he was gracious to me, though I appreciate it. Put Clint in his place and spastic would turn to stone. She would go "ga" and the stardom of an actor near the twilight of his life would instantly achieve what a corrupt Protestant housing agent has thus far failed to do: create a passive savant. In As Good As it Gets, that would be the dog, "Boo".
I wanted to see this movie, and agree with Ebert's cadaver on nearly every point of his review. Does this mean a short post? Yes, no, perhaps. I'd augment the bolo critic who became a freak only to this extent: Brooks and Andrus were hoping situational irony would override the lack of credulous sexual tension between Jack and Helen Hunt. Hunt works with Spacey, but her shared wounds with Nicholson did indeed deserve more subtly, and perhaps darker torsion. And for a guy trying out homosexual regression, Greg Kinnear might have been vying for an executive position at Cosmopolitan. Skeet Ulrich was a much more energetic truism, his strip scene wonderful in its sheer predatory aspects, but as I once said in a poetry workshop, this movie was a cop out. The pooch, however, almost made me reconsider dislike of terriers. Boo had marvelous comic timing. Language cannot create that kind of dramatic disbelief that Brooks asks of us to get what we want out of our most famous bastards, but literature has a parallel mechanism that films, in their turn, cannot quite achieve. In the same way the receptionist at the desk was felled by Nicholson's genre technique, Orhan humanized the Turkish dilemma for me, made me care, with Chekhovian pathos, against a turbulent genealogy unlike any inverted verbals I grew up with out of Luce's signature periodicals. I am struggling a great deal with multicultural conscience these days, and don't have any easy answers. Snow prepared me for Mevlut Mert, and the swift judicial ban issued on the case. Whether it's Erdogan or a military coup, however, if Turkey falls, then my advancing age may see the advent of a third world war. Writers always know ahead of time, but how often do we stop the inevitable?
