Brothers and Sisters

Hanno continuato inventandosi una mia contrapposizione con Beppe Grillo che è inesistente ed è quanto di più lontano dalla verità ci possa essere .-- David Casaleggio

Yes, it would be delightful to get out of my own head once in awhile, take a cessation from electronic gadgets, the grid, satellite signals, shed my contorted muscular skeletal distress for a lithe ability to jog in spandex with a breeze toning down my furious theorizing, driven by my own sense of disembodiment with all I've lost since my great personal rupture -- difficult for me to remember the exact date, but near to Thanksgiving 1999. I cannot really call my actions a legitimate suicide attempt, rolling in to the kitchen, grabbing a flimsy supermart steak knife, breaking down in inane laughter, florid tears. I should have been tougher, thus I tell myself, and I did fight for some semblance of recovery, but as I've detailed many times, so many hands were extended, mostly in impotence, much like Yabberz and Niume, more contemporaneously. AccessLife breaking apart was my most unfortunate circumstance. I liked them, wanted to take Linda's advice, work for them full time, in the burgeoning dynamic of digital birth pangs, and I am trapped in Presby, in addition, the epicenter of so many applied scars. People have suggested I write the fucking novel about life under Presby's management, but I'd doubt it sell. Who'd want to read a life of terror and then the duress of guardian threats always surrounding me because I defy minorities in learned hatred and paranoia? I follow Beppe patiently, in attesa di vedere, but can he govern? The government in Roma can be likened to City Council, or more analogous yet to American public housing "authorities"-- most of you perhaps think I'm lucky to have so many protections against eviction despite an invalid's squalor. "I can smell," Luca Zingaretti rebukes his sidekick, during the Montalbano paint by numbers nod towards the wasted space of spastic servitude of ableism. Our odors create new victims, as Dubus wrote in one of his tactful essays about life in wheelchairs and turbulent colons. I presume, if my life in Philadelphia became a game of The Man in The Iron Mask, with my naivete  coasting me through until I realized the enormity of my lack of expanse, my shackles, that life in Tuscany would have been more banded still, life on a balcony, watching the remnants of the mafia settle their scores. This post was supposed to be a critique of Sanders and his radical left pipe dreams. He is not responsible for Hodgkinson's actions, though I will also assert Trump brazenly opened this door during the general campaign. What if a supporter had put a bead on Hillary? I voted for him anyway, and maybe even because he incited and we winked at it-- but Sanders is responsible for a militant, dangerous conviction. He is not a classical Marxist, but just take a look at Venezuela across the isthmus. Is this the chaos we're bringing to civilized society for the next ten, fifteen years?
Sadly, I am not strong enough: I am never going to quite "get better" from opening up to my former Jewish supervisor Linda, apparently handling her newer frailties with a healthier and still self confident humor. Face to face, what we did to each other in virtual space would never have happened, but I cannot reinvent myself, and getting fucked over by disability activist collusion creates the same impetus for dissidents who used to be heralded in the anti-Soviet era. We've lost so many definitions, but cripple isn't one of them, no matter we we say.