As quintessential to Texas as Lonestar Beer, barbecue, and Willie Nelson's Fourth of July picnic, swimming holes are vital to surviving the region's endless, sweltering summers. Carolyn Tracy and co-author preface.
Against better judgment, I fully charged this ailing bucket of a dirty chair, and got it down to 3 hours and a quarter, bemused by some journalist's deliberate poke about sharks not swimming in Houston, and no, I am not tweeting it. Houston is trending enough and the Guv Abbott will feed the coffers well into next year: gave him three exclamation points and decided to donate here. It shall not be much, offered with whimsy, perhaps. I'd land in Dallas and undoubtedly eat lead in the dark at the hands of the hardened sociopaths who can read the little snuff of my soul clinging to the wick, or maybe not. Remember Elton's parody on Caribou? Ai yi yippie yi ay, local color ever diminishing because Eric McCormack put his nose in for ASPCA rescue. There were a few moments in his face against Hirt's rejection of him right before Dove's S1 climax which were reminiscent, pulling the wire taut. Rejection makes life hard enough, but one little interstitial injury to brain plasticity, and life as a primate outcast, grasping rudimentary twigs. I don't know how Hawking copes, even though I do, he sublimates it to teaching us why particle covalence is such a difficult configuration outside of functional equations.
Thursday, August 31, 2017
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
Hypermanic Climax
"The bad news is I've just been suspended and don't give a fuck!-- libertarian authority pumping lead
Between the 83 84 semesters of my underclassmen years, I had a nursing student roommate named Lee. She was diagnosed with lymphoma and had to withdraw, and though my memory is malleable, I think her boyfriend, an engineering geek, told me she went through an unimaginable medical hell, and all I remember is the drip of her lassitude, curled up on the mattress, or dragging herself into the kitchen for tea. She and I actually got along, but even in my young adult years, trying to expand my melancholy wings, death may have not been ready for me, but was nevertheless an omnipresent force.
I am dubious as to whether she survived, but find it ironic that perhaps I've met her mortality on a grading curve, having such a difficult time with my bowel that a miniscule nosebleed hit my stomach. Rushing to look up lymphoma's symptoms, I have some of them, so it may not be COPD, after all, which finishes the job. If I am really sick, with something killable, then fighting Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne's civil liberty violating tactics are meaningless, in the context of going against medical advice, not that I have any. My nostrils are dry from vapor; it may be nothing or not, with no money to spare to find a practice in this city which I feel I can trust. Nick Gillespie may counsel against anarchy in his many frenetic uploads on Reason, but people in the early stages of dying, if they are as angry as I, might pose a threat to public safety. I am winded, afraid to consume the edibles I have, sufficient for a 48 hour period, sipping my coffee, saturated with old NSAIDS due to the damp changeability of the weather, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of going down for my own sense of lost cause. That I diced a few metaphysical chives and sent Nick an invitation to connect on Linked wasn't, as might be construed, a need for legitimacy. I was offering respect, and told him we'd disagree. I am not, as is he, as is Austen Petersen, a social liberal, and no people, I may not live long enough to olive branch that divide. I know, intellectually, that hate crimes in the name of intolerance only shifts the spectrum back around again, but as for me, personally, poverty and municipal corruption created my internal willingness to go postal. By corruption I do not mean a Pelican Brief conspiracy, but rather, like most things urban, ineptitude. I am feeling my oats this morning, tired of exterminator visits making me over-anxious, but a good deal of my trauma resides in public housing extermination: I was attacked in my wheelchair access unit on the day he was due, and the contractors at Riverside are the raison d'etre for my duress non-eviction threat of eviction if I tell Trudy to go fuck herself again I will be evicted. 33 years of playing ravaged boob slut to the creased malice of Vincent Price in medieval fashions. I am filing with the Human Relations Commission now, but what I am attempting to convey is ideology isn't a panacea, in the shell game of a libertarian who's who. I want to give my notice, and I want to give it, badly enough that I'm getting sick, and it's fundamentally unfair. I nearly died because this landlord was indifferent to who had access in the much smaller Diamond Park. I shouldn't have to threaten whatever time I've left by divorcing myself from location I have always hated. I never wanted Riverside. Never.
Between the 83 84 semesters of my underclassmen years, I had a nursing student roommate named Lee. She was diagnosed with lymphoma and had to withdraw, and though my memory is malleable, I think her boyfriend, an engineering geek, told me she went through an unimaginable medical hell, and all I remember is the drip of her lassitude, curled up on the mattress, or dragging herself into the kitchen for tea. She and I actually got along, but even in my young adult years, trying to expand my melancholy wings, death may have not been ready for me, but was nevertheless an omnipresent force.
not dying— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) August 30, 2017
I am dubious as to whether she survived, but find it ironic that perhaps I've met her mortality on a grading curve, having such a difficult time with my bowel that a miniscule nosebleed hit my stomach. Rushing to look up lymphoma's symptoms, I have some of them, so it may not be COPD, after all, which finishes the job. If I am really sick, with something killable, then fighting Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne's civil liberty violating tactics are meaningless, in the context of going against medical advice, not that I have any. My nostrils are dry from vapor; it may be nothing or not, with no money to spare to find a practice in this city which I feel I can trust. Nick Gillespie may counsel against anarchy in his many frenetic uploads on Reason, but people in the early stages of dying, if they are as angry as I, might pose a threat to public safety. I am winded, afraid to consume the edibles I have, sufficient for a 48 hour period, sipping my coffee, saturated with old NSAIDS due to the damp changeability of the weather, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of going down for my own sense of lost cause. That I diced a few metaphysical chives and sent Nick an invitation to connect on Linked wasn't, as might be construed, a need for legitimacy. I was offering respect, and told him we'd disagree. I am not, as is he, as is Austen Petersen, a social liberal, and no people, I may not live long enough to olive branch that divide. I know, intellectually, that hate crimes in the name of intolerance only shifts the spectrum back around again, but as for me, personally, poverty and municipal corruption created my internal willingness to go postal. By corruption I do not mean a Pelican Brief conspiracy, but rather, like most things urban, ineptitude. I am feeling my oats this morning, tired of exterminator visits making me over-anxious, but a good deal of my trauma resides in public housing extermination: I was attacked in my wheelchair access unit on the day he was due, and the contractors at Riverside are the raison d'etre for my duress non-eviction threat of eviction if I tell Trudy to go fuck herself again I will be evicted. 33 years of playing ravaged boob slut to the creased malice of Vincent Price in medieval fashions. I am filing with the Human Relations Commission now, but what I am attempting to convey is ideology isn't a panacea, in the shell game of a libertarian who's who. I want to give my notice, and I want to give it, badly enough that I'm getting sick, and it's fundamentally unfair. I nearly died because this landlord was indifferent to who had access in the much smaller Diamond Park. I shouldn't have to threaten whatever time I've left by divorcing myself from location I have always hated. I never wanted Riverside. Never.
Great Expectations
we're gonna keep comin at ya
I cannot write a post long enough to explain with what frequency case managers intertwined themselves in my life, whether vocationally, or mental health issues due to my mother, or in institutional rehabilitation, but Presbyterian Homes, from the time I moved into Riverside in 1994, virtually invented same sex marriage in relation to the frequency with which their managers and social workers disavowed my right to privacy, and I do not mean solely the current team. Debra Horne is, for lack of any other way to phrase it, a sad testament to the human condition when individuals with low IQ interbreed, and this is exactly why Presby hired her. Intimidating, high tan, Mississippi accent like bile in her throat I think she came here in a jean jumper in 05. Black. Bull. Dyke, just ahead of her tenants to wield her invisible baton. I did not know what I was setting myself up for with this shuffling minority matron, her hernia, lesbianistic overtones, nearly amalgam of the orderlies who abused me under Dr. Chance. After what I have been through in North Philadelphia, I carry no guilt about despising her, don't care a jot if mother's family is appalled, and this woman's cruel arrogance is a living rebuttal to whatever Jeffrey's treatise is on the right's collectivism. Minorities can be as morally corrosive as anyone else, and it used to be Debra I wanted to have punished, but that has since been upgraded. Debra's immediate superior has committed a criminal offense, and I'll see Trudy Richardson on the other side of a civil suit, or force Philadelphia's finest to mortally injure me, and one of you shall give my lifelong melancholy turned rogue a fine eulogy, I am sure. Mettle, spirit, and all that, even if there aren't people quite suited to human existence, people we'd be better off without.
But in 1986, I tried hard to be a good compliant tenant, nearly slept with the son of a reverend, and discovered identity politics, a righteous cause, in Jonathan Capehart's voice, to be nothing more than moral poison. I have always more or less enveloped myself in despondency. Some quadriplegics do better, some worse, and my intelligence, applied to my pain, makes me an existential threat-- my Senator's tolerance doesn't want to peer too deeply into my militancy which applauds him most of the time, and I'd stop Casey junior cold, not having anything to lose in the darkness of the unsaid, only made worse because, I know, intrinsically, my hourglass doesn't have too much quality sand left before the upper chamber metes out my allotment. Look at all this has taken out of me, the economics of appeasing "a fraternal contractor," who your taxes subsidizes to intentionally break *us* down. Some bloody system. I spent my savings cleaning this apartment. Not all of it, but a great deal went into Tim's pocket, or a cleaning service, then Karina. Now it has evaporated, and I have since been under constant threat because I don't want to be whored off again under welfare's sterling subcontractors. I've yet to hear any libertarian stampede, however, to run my vacuum, throw in a load of laundry. They've all got hard ons for block chain code.
I cannot write a post long enough to explain with what frequency case managers intertwined themselves in my life, whether vocationally, or mental health issues due to my mother, or in institutional rehabilitation, but Presbyterian Homes, from the time I moved into Riverside in 1994, virtually invented same sex marriage in relation to the frequency with which their managers and social workers disavowed my right to privacy, and I do not mean solely the current team. Debra Horne is, for lack of any other way to phrase it, a sad testament to the human condition when individuals with low IQ interbreed, and this is exactly why Presby hired her. Intimidating, high tan, Mississippi accent like bile in her throat I think she came here in a jean jumper in 05. Black. Bull. Dyke, just ahead of her tenants to wield her invisible baton. I did not know what I was setting myself up for with this shuffling minority matron, her hernia, lesbianistic overtones, nearly amalgam of the orderlies who abused me under Dr. Chance. After what I have been through in North Philadelphia, I carry no guilt about despising her, don't care a jot if mother's family is appalled, and this woman's cruel arrogance is a living rebuttal to whatever Jeffrey's treatise is on the right's collectivism. Minorities can be as morally corrosive as anyone else, and it used to be Debra I wanted to have punished, but that has since been upgraded. Debra's immediate superior has committed a criminal offense, and I'll see Trudy Richardson on the other side of a civil suit, or force Philadelphia's finest to mortally injure me, and one of you shall give my lifelong melancholy turned rogue a fine eulogy, I am sure. Mettle, spirit, and all that, even if there aren't people quite suited to human existence, people we'd be better off without.
But in 1986, I tried hard to be a good compliant tenant, nearly slept with the son of a reverend, and discovered identity politics, a righteous cause, in Jonathan Capehart's voice, to be nothing more than moral poison. I have always more or less enveloped myself in despondency. Some quadriplegics do better, some worse, and my intelligence, applied to my pain, makes me an existential threat-- my Senator's tolerance doesn't want to peer too deeply into my militancy which applauds him most of the time, and I'd stop Casey junior cold, not having anything to lose in the darkness of the unsaid, only made worse because, I know, intrinsically, my hourglass doesn't have too much quality sand left before the upper chamber metes out my allotment. Look at all this has taken out of me, the economics of appeasing "a fraternal contractor," who your taxes subsidizes to intentionally break *us* down. Some bloody system. I spent my savings cleaning this apartment. Not all of it, but a great deal went into Tim's pocket, or a cleaning service, then Karina. Now it has evaporated, and I have since been under constant threat because I don't want to be whored off again under welfare's sterling subcontractors. I've yet to hear any libertarian stampede, however, to run my vacuum, throw in a load of laundry. They've all got hard ons for block chain code.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Ghosts of George Kennan
Vaya con Dios-- a pachi making up his mind
To the extent that the Korean War was a precursor to the somewhat over-simplified policy of "the domino effect," it still seems preferable that Truman would have allowed MacArthur his aggression during the dubious ignition of the original conflict; it would have had a less devastating global impact. The US military can wage any battle it puts its mind to, until the political reality of occupying foreign territory sinks in. With the possible exception of our charming war with Mexico in 1850, we don't know what to do when we win, except when it comes to Europe. The republican heir of imperialism threw its wealth back at its parent, and NATO is an anomaly in a majority populace of doves, understandably so. In this account, I am mostly either outraged that I pissed my life away in the city of my birth because of an attachment I would have never been able to maintain anyway, (discounting all the abuses my illustrious state has offered up), illegal, specious, or full of longing I cannot fulfill, but I am not attempting to be facetious this morning, and realize that throughout the course of its civilized formation, the majority of Asians suffered horribly, under their own fanaticism, or our own mercantile avarice, and North Korea has long had the stench of an outhouse attached to it. The secret footage smuggled out of Pyongyang illustrates some of the bleakest conditions of human existence outside of concentration camps, and I've seen a good diet of bleak footage. Yemen is positively lively next to the average starving North Korean female, and thus, no citizen in the North deserves a return to the desolation after the cease fire was signed in 53.
This said, it seems Kim is pushing an envelope, one in which the question isn't defeating him, but rather turns into, can Xi Jinping be cowed into submission, or do we risk a third world war with a New York real estate celebrity entrepreneur at the helm? Major economies would be disrupted, and the very thought of NATO occupying the border of the world's most populous nuclear power?
The despotic personality cult of the upper peninsula has plagued three previous administrations. The longer this drags on, the more lethal the impending consequences. The only reasonable solution the dowager can contrive: induce the Chinese military to defang the puppet state over which it has suzerainty, however tumultuous that muscle is, at present. I've written this before. I'll write it again: I voted for Donald Trump, reluctantly. If there was ever an election to sit out, in decent libertarian felicity, it was 2016, and though I could route my diction otherwise, as I am posting this with some gravity, a mild alarm-- on election day, I made a choice, without being blind. I am fully aware conservatives have problems: but I can never return to the progressive sensibility of a triumphant egalitarian field, and so, my minority vote said "fuck you," despite the small fortune I have cost the welfare state, I am a pauper, broken by activists as much as any residual austerity, and Trump's impropriety has amused me, but we do not need to reignite the ghosts of opposition to Vietnam, which was a travesty on the heels of Truman's escapades.
To the extent that the Korean War was a precursor to the somewhat over-simplified policy of "the domino effect," it still seems preferable that Truman would have allowed MacArthur his aggression during the dubious ignition of the original conflict; it would have had a less devastating global impact. The US military can wage any battle it puts its mind to, until the political reality of occupying foreign territory sinks in. With the possible exception of our charming war with Mexico in 1850, we don't know what to do when we win, except when it comes to Europe. The republican heir of imperialism threw its wealth back at its parent, and NATO is an anomaly in a majority populace of doves, understandably so. In this account, I am mostly either outraged that I pissed my life away in the city of my birth because of an attachment I would have never been able to maintain anyway, (discounting all the abuses my illustrious state has offered up), illegal, specious, or full of longing I cannot fulfill, but I am not attempting to be facetious this morning, and realize that throughout the course of its civilized formation, the majority of Asians suffered horribly, under their own fanaticism, or our own mercantile avarice, and North Korea has long had the stench of an outhouse attached to it. The secret footage smuggled out of Pyongyang illustrates some of the bleakest conditions of human existence outside of concentration camps, and I've seen a good diet of bleak footage. Yemen is positively lively next to the average starving North Korean female, and thus, no citizen in the North deserves a return to the desolation after the cease fire was signed in 53.
This said, it seems Kim is pushing an envelope, one in which the question isn't defeating him, but rather turns into, can Xi Jinping be cowed into submission, or do we risk a third world war with a New York real estate celebrity entrepreneur at the helm? Major economies would be disrupted, and the very thought of NATO occupying the border of the world's most populous nuclear power?
The despotic personality cult of the upper peninsula has plagued three previous administrations. The longer this drags on, the more lethal the impending consequences. The only reasonable solution the dowager can contrive: induce the Chinese military to defang the puppet state over which it has suzerainty, however tumultuous that muscle is, at present. I've written this before. I'll write it again: I voted for Donald Trump, reluctantly. If there was ever an election to sit out, in decent libertarian felicity, it was 2016, and though I could route my diction otherwise, as I am posting this with some gravity, a mild alarm-- on election day, I made a choice, without being blind. I am fully aware conservatives have problems: but I can never return to the progressive sensibility of a triumphant egalitarian field, and so, my minority vote said "fuck you," despite the small fortune I have cost the welfare state, I am a pauper, broken by activists as much as any residual austerity, and Trump's impropriety has amused me, but we do not need to reignite the ghosts of opposition to Vietnam, which was a travesty on the heels of Truman's escapades.
Sunday, August 27, 2017
Theories of Talking Up
I have applied for so many writing positions I fear my objectives lagged in an instance or two, and my world weariness is age and spirit both. If you want to ask why I did not get up again after Cecil gave me the usual cyber lecture about my deliberately inappropriate vaginal lewd observation to get his attention, I had taken it to heart, being violated by a lesbian with whom I had allowed familiarity, whether I liked her or not, then Frank came along, but would not drive to the restaurant when Josie made an effort to make amends. I liked neither her nor Virginia, and would have preferred dissecting modern Catholicism with Cecil. By 05, I was no longer after sexual encounters for themselves. I just wanted a man to talk to, and still do, but I'm broken, like a marginalized figure in Dickens, the woman out of Bleak House maybe, a volatile eccentric. I know Josie knows she did something that crossed the line, and felt remorse, but she left a vacuum filled by minority dysfunction I can no longer carry, including a Verizon technician who kissed me, fixing my line. I no longer have much to spare for these minority filler games, too tired to go to the store, but what of it. I've considered A Libertarian-- note the caps-- and no, not Jeffrey Tucker either, as even if he was free, we both have a month, don't like to yield, and I am not keen on domestic violence killings. Scandalous, but idiotic, too many traces, even if contracted out, that sort of thing. At 55 narratives are usually decoded in accurate assessment. The locals are too young, too technical, and the few reactionaries my age have back injuries. The only thing keeping me alive is hate, that I want to dance their graves, but, if I went after Linda, truly played that card, I'd face Israeli wrath, and using my condition as an excuse to destroy perversion will not alter the landscape when it comes to dykes and mind games. The easiest enemy, Trudy, is a sorry excuse for a black female. I just want her and Presby out of my life, watching her age from a girl who laughed into an obstinate figurine of fecal brawn. I do, literally, hate what she is and can probably have her transferred, if not removed, but Joanne has little hope for Joanne, herself, even if she prints her notice and calls Uber. I cannot count on a lucky break, someone who sees me and can offer a haven, but it is a fine Sunday.
Name Your Assailant
I have little idea why my brother took me off his Facebook account, as in, here we go, again, but I know, in part, he is insecure about the usual family stuff, to paraphrase Ice Tea, about having been born a bastard, and I was also, for me, mildly subversive about maternal aggrandizement on Gretchen's posts: I am not particularly enthralled that my eldest nephew also sprang a leak and had an unplanned pregnancy; nor am I best friends with my sister in law. I am not even certain that the social media giant has been particularly conducive. I got kicked off a Dubai based fuckwit's freelance group without even trying, left another voluntarily. What use is all of this to me? It is a tool, like Twitter, but for me, two tools which do the same thing where the larger is counterproductive isn't necessarily beneficial. In the strange ways of virtual communication, I used a hard nosed analyst's well deserved jab at Manning to talk myself down.
Let me return to Tom Earle. He had no idea what the internal politics of the disability center were like under Fern Markowitz and Linda Dezenski, and I'm not in the mood to keep reiterating what was going on. If you take LBGT extremists and put them in a room, Jewish princess addendum or not, chaos is the end result. I told you before, these individuals had little love lost between them, and the homosexuals replaced Fern, one of their own, with a soft, blind Latino who delights in toddlers. I realize he was beholden to the board who put him in place. I embarrassed him with a toxic issue which in essence, destroyed my support system, and I'm culpable. I did not do what most women do in these situations and legal up until years later, I stopped caring, went through another homosexual politician, broke down, emailed Toomey, and then the axis shifted. Toomey's doing? I do not know, but support the Senator, nonetheless, and went through this again with Josie on a lesser scale in her little isle at United Spinal Association, all of this within recurring Pennsylvania welfare abuses and rental agent contiguous, and I stress, contiguous, harassment, until I proclaimed myself a racist, fought like one, and damaged quadriplegic remains in a stalemate with authority. Tom, however, did not have to leave the streamers flutter in the vent. He could have investigated, dismissed Linda then, and as a decent man, offered me something, like a fucking transfer. This is why I am angry with him. He's a fucking civil rights attorney, but never mind. Burrow, then threaten me. This is how Nancy Pelosi's "rule of law" works for those who cannot buy tort and didn't meet the deadlines due to the extent of the pain, and I just cannot dig myself out. Maybe, just maybe, I'll find a housing lawyer, but it's a little late for me to recover. I am, after all, one mortal against a cruel institutional paradigm, still attempting to encompass opera, not quite managing, except for Verdi. La Traviata, upon discovery, has an effervescent quality nearly impossible to capture, and Violetta, with the right soprano, is enough to cling to, now and again, were it only I who might have been pursued with passion for who I was, consumption might have freely enveloped me in its inflammatory excretions. This gives concessions to Dumas in his masculine anxiety. So be it.
Let me return to Tom Earle. He had no idea what the internal politics of the disability center were like under Fern Markowitz and Linda Dezenski, and I'm not in the mood to keep reiterating what was going on. If you take LBGT extremists and put them in a room, Jewish princess addendum or not, chaos is the end result. I told you before, these individuals had little love lost between them, and the homosexuals replaced Fern, one of their own, with a soft, blind Latino who delights in toddlers. I realize he was beholden to the board who put him in place. I embarrassed him with a toxic issue which in essence, destroyed my support system, and I'm culpable. I did not do what most women do in these situations and legal up until years later, I stopped caring, went through another homosexual politician, broke down, emailed Toomey, and then the axis shifted. Toomey's doing? I do not know, but support the Senator, nonetheless, and went through this again with Josie on a lesser scale in her little isle at United Spinal Association, all of this within recurring Pennsylvania welfare abuses and rental agent contiguous, and I stress, contiguous, harassment, until I proclaimed myself a racist, fought like one, and damaged quadriplegic remains in a stalemate with authority. Tom, however, did not have to leave the streamers flutter in the vent. He could have investigated, dismissed Linda then, and as a decent man, offered me something, like a fucking transfer. This is why I am angry with him. He's a fucking civil rights attorney, but never mind. Burrow, then threaten me. This is how Nancy Pelosi's "rule of law" works for those who cannot buy tort and didn't meet the deadlines due to the extent of the pain, and I just cannot dig myself out. Maybe, just maybe, I'll find a housing lawyer, but it's a little late for me to recover. I am, after all, one mortal against a cruel institutional paradigm, still attempting to encompass opera, not quite managing, except for Verdi. La Traviata, upon discovery, has an effervescent quality nearly impossible to capture, and Violetta, with the right soprano, is enough to cling to, now and again, were it only I who might have been pursued with passion for who I was, consumption might have freely enveloped me in its inflammatory excretions. This gives concessions to Dumas in his masculine anxiety. So be it.
Friday, August 25, 2017
Rogues
I can be lazy every so often and be entirely unremarkable, even though my father is still alive at 81, and my maternal grandmother bridge spans three centuries, her age lost to me if not her birthday, 12/18-- my mother collapsed at 62, so of course, my 56th year, scrawny, dry, soiled, and even slightly gnarled, quietly out of sight, makes me nervous. Death will relieve me of mortal psychological anguish, and I'll die alone, no Schiavo with a second wife to be caressing me while I starve and growl like staggering motorcycle pistons, god have mercy and give me save haven from bulge eyed niggers who talk chewing feces, god have mercy. I pray this daily and constantly and don't hear Richard Spencer leading a stampede, but Thomas's death, at 69, is interesting in the context of his late roles. He was the husky bookseller facilitating whatever elements of the actual resistance is in High Castle, and though A Strange Affair is an insipid watercolor, Thomas at least has the more significant energy as a traitor any besieged wife might desire to concussion and get off despite doing it. How William Russ gets any work at all points to the tenacity of cliche, as in greeting card verse.
Sixty nine; bit young for a wiry Texan.
.
you have a rotten mouth yes I do grandmom Pauline, in the blackguard of my tantrums, the likes of which I shall not punish myself with merciless detail, but I love this woman; her youngest daughter, now too in the era of ailments, hives, replacement joints, is almost 70. I am setting myself up, quietly, plotting. I have nothing to lose.
Sixty nine; bit young for a wiry Texan.
My sole surviving Austrian grandmother courtesy of my cousin before she was placed, demented pic.twitter.com/rPoAwc0MjV— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) July 12, 2017
.
you have a rotten mouth yes I do grandmom Pauline, in the blackguard of my tantrums, the likes of which I shall not punish myself with merciless detail, but I love this woman; her youngest daughter, now too in the era of ailments, hives, replacement joints, is almost 70. I am setting myself up, quietly, plotting. I have nothing to lose.
Thursday, August 24, 2017
Stranger Than Paradise
I do not need Niall Ferguson to remind me how often these cataclysms human civilizations occur, usually through succession of newer-ending authority upon the old, Pharaohs or Emperors defacing sculptures or frescoes they do not like, riots or reactionaries destroying art, burning manuscripts. I thought by now Americans would know better, and even if I got as ugly as I pleased, and forced Google to suspend my platform services, or brought the administrators in my network to suspend me on Twitter, it would not do much good. I am a woman four years from sixty, with a passionate love for life, beaten down by minority arrogance most whites, barring extremists, or former Governor Sarah Palin, being dismissive with phraseology, like "shucking and jiving," though the behavior does exist, would find too radioactive to touch, but I just have to ask those on the ideological left, who the fuck do you think you are? Saints, incapable of cruelty in your own right? This isn't simply about the Civil War, which has as many elements of white trash as segregation once had the force of legal authority. It is more than that. You're trying to eradicate the very basics of human nature. It can't be done, and Africans can be bad: Louis Farrakhan once openly asked "what is a Jew?" on tabloid television, and Al Sharpton is as reactive as Donald Trump. He's certainly not Barack Obama, with that soaring audacity, and the occasional willingness to speak truth to power, despite the fact that his movement didn't move the barometer that much. We are just sorry, sad creatures, and I wash my hands of it. The superficiality of modern day constructs, like Bachelor in Paradise, doesn't help. Producers throw a bunch of 20 somethings together, and I have absolutely no idea where Corinne got her notions of sexual assault. I know what abuse is, the alcoholism and addictions tied into it. One of my mothers lovers, street name Beaky, tried to sleep with me when I still had a throb for John Tassoni. I have had to eat so much humiliation, but what buzzes is candied people on network getting into it beyond what ABC bargained for in playing up diversity and romantic tension. No one dares to say that perhaps Corinne was afraid of DeMario because he was black, though it sits right in front of us, social fears, reality on the ground, and sex makes us vulnerable. It is not always loving, has as many triggers as pleasures, and maybe shouldn't be played up for the camera in the course of normal courtship rituals. You're all beyond me today.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
Blood Guilt Gentility
Even now, I can hardly bear to tell the tale. --McMurtry, in every author's heyday
Despite the time and effort I have put into taxing Safari (outdated) and Chrome, my memory of the mid-nineties, when I was immortal, and actually had a white collar career, suggests that Lonesome Dove had a vibrant currency, but it may not have been the series out of Alberta, where Christianne Hirt, as Hannah Call, is too good to be true. Canadians, being the winsome sops that they are, tried to reference this in the climax to Season One, prior to Baristow developing his bitter streak in the "outlaw years". I only caught a glimpse of Robert Ulrich, in the other variation on the now faded Larry McMurtry franchise of poignant Texan tales, when I had not passed the ladder rung of 35. The show never caught on, though it may have simply been a scheduling conflict. I have been studying the drama only this year, along with Comanche Moon, and admit that the Canadian production is of greater depth and quality than Henry Winkler's partnership with Showtime and Dead Man's Gun, but it still has an undercurrent of being somewhat too holistic, perhaps as a paean to the mythos of American innocence. With this complaint duly noted, however, Eric McCormack more than aptly captures my growing sympathy for the Confederate ideal with his depiction of Francis Mosby. To throw in the usual dowager tire iron, I could almost hate the man for then taking on the part of Will, in that superficial, flinty, metrosexual comedy, evidence it might be conducive for me to time out the virtual world and fight the barren parameters of my real world existence, but I'll editorialize the white out developed for typing paper on this particular caveat.
Granted, this is a studio presentation of pretty people groomed on the set, costumed to Victorian era corsets, but the voices of Grant, Lee, and General Sherman, can be overlaid on the actor's presentation with some degree of admiration. When it is done right, the power of the aristocratic mien we've lost to industrialization, commercialization, liberalism, is something to be regretted, and Mosby has trace elements of something already entombed in the catacombs during the active years in which the frontier was being subsumed into a superpower that would last approximately 57 years. I date the rise of the United States as starting in 1939, and beginning to crater around the time of the Monica Lewinsky scandal. Armchair scholars may take any issue with this as they please, as we can say, as well, that American power was predestined in the wealth of the Gilded Age, but I tend to feel the Second World War cemented certainty out of what was before then a likely possibility. I also don't single out the Lewinsky phenomenon to lay blame with the Clintons. The Reagan era ended abruptly with the ouster of Bush 41. Bill and Hillary were only representative of a liberalism that no longer recognized itself, made a feint, and then blindsided neo-conservativism into a grave mishandling of an ideological disaster. I don't think we'll recover, regardless of whether or not Trump is shown the door. I am not attempting to suggest American decline has a genealogy marker, and I haven't read Dr. Ferguson's rise and decline summation of the American Empire. But the Iraq War as solution to September 11th, 2001, opened up a cascade, like a broken vending machine, and the western hemisphere has a yellow underbelly, and my skepticism about China picking up the slack is unchanged. What exactly did the Middle Kingdom do prior to the 17th century other than coalesce the territorial landmass of Asia we currently recognize? I am not talking about gunpowder, or other appropriated technologies. I am asking what the Emperors and mandarins did before the European tea trade at the point of a bayonet? An insulated history, in which non-Han Chinese were "barbarian," still informs what global Chinese leadership could look like fifty years from now. I am not particularly heartened by the picture: it is China which will not allow the Korean peninsula to unify, grow up, develop better living standards. Hong Kong is a game of cat and mouse. I don't know where else to look for a better outcome than to a more realistic stratification of the past, with recognition of the reality of caste. Mammalian primate hierarchy isn't a polite fiction. It is an ecological reality for complex living organisms, hence the character of Francis Mosby, and nobelesse oblige, the uniting force of that within group dynamics to which we unfortunate, and remarkable finely tuned apes always turn: I've written enough in my embittered online voice for today.
Despite the time and effort I have put into taxing Safari (outdated) and Chrome, my memory of the mid-nineties, when I was immortal, and actually had a white collar career, suggests that Lonesome Dove had a vibrant currency, but it may not have been the series out of Alberta, where Christianne Hirt, as Hannah Call, is too good to be true. Canadians, being the winsome sops that they are, tried to reference this in the climax to Season One, prior to Baristow developing his bitter streak in the "outlaw years". I only caught a glimpse of Robert Ulrich, in the other variation on the now faded Larry McMurtry franchise of poignant Texan tales, when I had not passed the ladder rung of 35. The show never caught on, though it may have simply been a scheduling conflict. I have been studying the drama only this year, along with Comanche Moon, and admit that the Canadian production is of greater depth and quality than Henry Winkler's partnership with Showtime and Dead Man's Gun, but it still has an undercurrent of being somewhat too holistic, perhaps as a paean to the mythos of American innocence. With this complaint duly noted, however, Eric McCormack more than aptly captures my growing sympathy for the Confederate ideal with his depiction of Francis Mosby. To throw in the usual dowager tire iron, I could almost hate the man for then taking on the part of Will, in that superficial, flinty, metrosexual comedy, evidence it might be conducive for me to time out the virtual world and fight the barren parameters of my real world existence, but I'll editorialize the white out developed for typing paper on this particular caveat.
Granted, this is a studio presentation of pretty people groomed on the set, costumed to Victorian era corsets, but the voices of Grant, Lee, and General Sherman, can be overlaid on the actor's presentation with some degree of admiration. When it is done right, the power of the aristocratic mien we've lost to industrialization, commercialization, liberalism, is something to be regretted, and Mosby has trace elements of something already entombed in the catacombs during the active years in which the frontier was being subsumed into a superpower that would last approximately 57 years. I date the rise of the United States as starting in 1939, and beginning to crater around the time of the Monica Lewinsky scandal. Armchair scholars may take any issue with this as they please, as we can say, as well, that American power was predestined in the wealth of the Gilded Age, but I tend to feel the Second World War cemented certainty out of what was before then a likely possibility. I also don't single out the Lewinsky phenomenon to lay blame with the Clintons. The Reagan era ended abruptly with the ouster of Bush 41. Bill and Hillary were only representative of a liberalism that no longer recognized itself, made a feint, and then blindsided neo-conservativism into a grave mishandling of an ideological disaster. I don't think we'll recover, regardless of whether or not Trump is shown the door. I am not attempting to suggest American decline has a genealogy marker, and I haven't read Dr. Ferguson's rise and decline summation of the American Empire. But the Iraq War as solution to September 11th, 2001, opened up a cascade, like a broken vending machine, and the western hemisphere has a yellow underbelly, and my skepticism about China picking up the slack is unchanged. What exactly did the Middle Kingdom do prior to the 17th century other than coalesce the territorial landmass of Asia we currently recognize? I am not talking about gunpowder, or other appropriated technologies. I am asking what the Emperors and mandarins did before the European tea trade at the point of a bayonet? An insulated history, in which non-Han Chinese were "barbarian," still informs what global Chinese leadership could look like fifty years from now. I am not particularly heartened by the picture: it is China which will not allow the Korean peninsula to unify, grow up, develop better living standards. Hong Kong is a game of cat and mouse. I don't know where else to look for a better outcome than to a more realistic stratification of the past, with recognition of the reality of caste. Mammalian primate hierarchy isn't a polite fiction. It is an ecological reality for complex living organisms, hence the character of Francis Mosby, and nobelesse oblige, the uniting force of that within group dynamics to which we unfortunate, and remarkable finely tuned apes always turn: I've written enough in my embittered online voice for today.
Monday, August 21, 2017
Applicable Meaning
"After nearly sixteen years since 9/11, Americans are weary of war without victory." --Donald Trump, dissembling in chief
One of my list files on twitter, which the administrators briefly interfered with, until they were assured the dowager wasn't going to engage in mortal combat with Ciccariello-Maher, a visiting professor at Drexel who should be stripped of his doctorate, not for his speech but for foolhardiness, is Adversaries, and a former NASA astronaut like Mark Kelly doesn't quite belong there, in a queasy tinge, but I am not quite sure what to do with him. If I had an equivalent political partner who was shot in the head, one who will spend the rest of her life in special needs, I too might develop mission fervor with a political action committee. One thing both NRA loyalists and libertarians should acknowledge is that guns are dangerous, as do other mortals, including Senator Toomey, and I appreciate his courage to stand with the Sandy Hook families, as no right is inalienable. I am not even sure I believe in human rights, but that contention is too broad, at least for this morning. It is equally true that I have distaste for Kelly's Responsible Solutions PAC, and blocked them. The rhetoric is holier than thou, and no one has a perfect pitch on perspective. Ciccariello-Maher survived his senseless provocation-- and yes, his tweets backfired because all they did was arouse, and that doesn't help. I might not either, but at least I have my context, and rather serious grievances behind that context, but I am not sure what makes Maher's raconteur tendencies any different than Durden's. I tweeted, and stand by, the sense that Carlson was slightly too self-righteous. Bigoted as I may be, I live in a black city, and being black in Philadelphia, in 3 out of 4 instances, translates into agrarian limitations obvious to anyone in the professional class. Let me state, emphatically, that I am not Durden's ally, and she isn't about to sympathize with my excoriating attacks on black arrogance. I'm posting, merely, that she paid a heavy price for that interview, which was really nothing more than her advocacy for blacks speaking for themselves. The disabled do this all the time. No one calls savants racists for self-congregating. It isn't like she was advocating a black militia movement.
Storey's tweets, on the other hand, were indicative of something else. Between the lines, he was weary of teaching, and shot his barbs into a real time event which has caused loss of life, and he might have held back, written a satirical opinion. The Republican Party isn't a monster simply because of Trump's alt.right revolt, and as Phillips source says, people don't do things like that, in the middle of a tragedy, in real time feed. Yet Palin's case against the Times was dismissed. I have not studied this. I don't have the time to back track every factual point, read the briefs, but from what established media has presented, in its examination, persuaded me Governor Palin had a case. I agreed with Wemple that there may have been an actual malice standard. Rakoff's ruling catches me by surprise.
Early on between 10 and 12, I voiced some criticism of Palin on twitter. The Atlantic's profile of her governorship spiraled into a damaged show horse nominee the media virtually pillaged, perhaps deservedly. Recently, I swung my battleship, and I'm following her, probably going to write a post, send it to her site, or a contact submittal, and see what happens. Maybe nothing, but Palin's sensibility as an independent wife and mother resonate more sympathetically, after my tribulations. My point, however, is, the First Amendment is, in essence, meaningless, at least, if we examine these examples.
One of my list files on twitter, which the administrators briefly interfered with, until they were assured the dowager wasn't going to engage in mortal combat with Ciccariello-Maher, a visiting professor at Drexel who should be stripped of his doctorate, not for his speech but for foolhardiness, is Adversaries, and a former NASA astronaut like Mark Kelly doesn't quite belong there, in a queasy tinge, but I am not quite sure what to do with him. If I had an equivalent political partner who was shot in the head, one who will spend the rest of her life in special needs, I too might develop mission fervor with a political action committee. One thing both NRA loyalists and libertarians should acknowledge is that guns are dangerous, as do other mortals, including Senator Toomey, and I appreciate his courage to stand with the Sandy Hook families, as no right is inalienable. I am not even sure I believe in human rights, but that contention is too broad, at least for this morning. It is equally true that I have distaste for Kelly's Responsible Solutions PAC, and blocked them. The rhetoric is holier than thou, and no one has a perfect pitch on perspective. Ciccariello-Maher survived his senseless provocation-- and yes, his tweets backfired because all they did was arouse, and that doesn't help. I might not either, but at least I have my context, and rather serious grievances behind that context, but I am not sure what makes Maher's raconteur tendencies any different than Durden's. I tweeted, and stand by, the sense that Carlson was slightly too self-righteous. Bigoted as I may be, I live in a black city, and being black in Philadelphia, in 3 out of 4 instances, translates into agrarian limitations obvious to anyone in the professional class. Let me state, emphatically, that I am not Durden's ally, and she isn't about to sympathize with my excoriating attacks on black arrogance. I'm posting, merely, that she paid a heavy price for that interview, which was really nothing more than her advocacy for blacks speaking for themselves. The disabled do this all the time. No one calls savants racists for self-congregating. It isn't like she was advocating a black militia movement.
Storey's tweets, on the other hand, were indicative of something else. Between the lines, he was weary of teaching, and shot his barbs into a real time event which has caused loss of life, and he might have held back, written a satirical opinion. The Republican Party isn't a monster simply because of Trump's alt.right revolt, and as Phillips source says, people don't do things like that, in the middle of a tragedy, in real time feed. Yet Palin's case against the Times was dismissed. I have not studied this. I don't have the time to back track every factual point, read the briefs, but from what established media has presented, in its examination, persuaded me Governor Palin had a case. I agreed with Wemple that there may have been an actual malice standard. Rakoff's ruling catches me by surprise.
Early on between 10 and 12, I voiced some criticism of Palin on twitter. The Atlantic's profile of her governorship spiraled into a damaged show horse nominee the media virtually pillaged, perhaps deservedly. Recently, I swung my battleship, and I'm following her, probably going to write a post, send it to her site, or a contact submittal, and see what happens. Maybe nothing, but Palin's sensibility as an independent wife and mother resonate more sympathetically, after my tribulations. My point, however, is, the First Amendment is, in essence, meaningless, at least, if we examine these examples.
Walking Back
My conclusion in Applicable is too broad. Neither my ISP nor Google have to tolerate that my anger veers toward being nothing more than threat rhetoric, of course, however much I pull it back for the sake of what else I'm doing aesthetically, but I suppose, if no incorporated entity is beholden to constitutionally protected speech, and social media companies fall into that category, then I'm questioning what the First Amendment actually protects, as it has no power to rectify, in and of itself, loss of economic freedom. We'll continue to chip at it, categorically.
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Spaghetti Spin Offs
This thing needs to be destroyed.-- John Huston's Cronkrite as bastard
I unloaded some of my ever bridled fury at Niume's official twitter account Friday evening, for those of you paying attention to the needy outlets embedded in developmental damage, and of course it wasn't fair of me, for those of us old enough to remember what life was like writing penny articles before the bloated carcass otherwise known as the Department of Defense bequeathed us with the Internet, barely relevant as the noun is at present. Indulging my neurotic tendencies in the blogosphere may still be a writing exercise, but most of us no longer get paid, unless we're predicting stock market crashes, unraveling diverse financial instruments. Andrew Sullivan, late of the Daily Dish, whose sole dialogue with me, before I became a nasty Richard Spencer empath, was to send me a screen shot of my Amtrak building, was a master of the web log format, briefly became the go to institutional voice, similar to how Cato darlings emerge out of policy analysis onto the documentary video, spend their currency but maintain their admirers (Niall Ferguson?), and he still failed. I never succeeded, merely lit a precursor spark of nihilist rage, keeping illegal details against real persons mainly to myself, sometimes with heavy insinuation, survived Google's threat of suspension, which reminds me, the collective voice of the playful Silicon Ewe, on whom the fate of the world depends, sent me an email about resetting AdSense, which may be interpreted as permission to use despite my mafiaoso tendencies to derive satisfaction out of being a hate crime, but I haven't yet expended three or four gigabytes trying to unravel and regain access to my 3 dollars and change. Add in Niume's suspended revenue, that makes four, and I am, pretty much, into my last cognitive quality years, while James Bennet gets to play a tort pissant against everyone's favorite Alaskan female. Not that I haven't made errors, like misspelling a lawyers name, having for pay topics fall apart, but poor, sympathetic James, who tweeted to me not to feel "guilty," made a game changing falsity. Who am I kidding? Whatever their political differences, Tim Gilmer and Charles Krauthammer are men with their respective province who broke their backs, able to emulate the memory of the ambulatory world they lost. Savants, spastics, such as I, merely conceptualize what we never were. Some of us actually can walk. Gimpy, pigeon toed, but none of us are important, and I've long blown my Inquirer capital. Twitter, thus far, allows my outages to glide, even if Niume's model illustrates what we cannot resolve: everyone can blog, but follower economics? Tenuous at best. My intellectual ally, Mark Antro, has an uphill battle, if Niume's failure to actually improve revenue generation is any indicator. Less collaboration, more accreditation, might work better, in collective venues. I am not sure, or uncertain, and I did not ventilate on Virily because they will be lucky if I post once in an eclipse. I should stop doing this altogether if I need revenue, in other words.
Struggling with my memory, I may have read portions of The Man in the High Castle. I certainly read plenty of poor Dick, spared my wrath, much like Ben Gleib, whom I may have reduced unintentionally. I was attempting to be funny, and may change my mind and bring him back, despite my lack of context for his on camera role. I can say a few things about the series: the title theme song is ingenious. Only recently recognized Ridley Scott. Some actors are known qualities, and the stark brutality comforts me. Take that anyway you like. I will move the plunger along, but not this morning. I had a grave attack, one that tells me if I have to flee the Presbyterians, I had better ratchet up. My only relatively droll news is I got the battery to behave.
Struggling with my memory, I may have read portions of The Man in the High Castle. I certainly read plenty of poor Dick, spared my wrath, much like Ben Gleib, whom I may have reduced unintentionally. I was attempting to be funny, and may change my mind and bring him back, despite my lack of context for his on camera role. I can say a few things about the series: the title theme song is ingenious. Only recently recognized Ridley Scott. Some actors are known qualities, and the stark brutality comforts me. Take that anyway you like. I will move the plunger along, but not this morning. I had a grave attack, one that tells me if I have to flee the Presbyterians, I had better ratchet up. My only relatively droll news is I got the battery to behave.
Verdi's delicate precision instruments
Libiamo, ne' lietti calici
che la bellezza infiora,
e la fuggevol ora
s''inebrii a volutta.-- the libretto
Collaborative state model systems like niume earn the ire of the damned because they aren't very well thought out. Thousands of users, all vying for attention, none particularly discriminating when it comes to pixel image resolution, and the dowager is, herein, also at fault in this, unable to upgrade at an affluent pace, hence, the British based platform's advertising rate hikes hurt many people, pensioners, homeless individuals, not simply those limited by conditions, and the staff should have anticipated this beforehand, considered previous ailing models, like Yabberz, Examiner, and looked at what Medium is doing, especially since Niume utilizes the proprietary software of Medium's model. Considering the physical labor of blogging, 89 percent of it not revenue generating, how have these efficiency models optimized anything for those without the capacity to grasp computing technology? It demonstrates capitalist vulnerability, like a carnivore. Powerful, lethal at first glance, transformed into an atrocity by simple technical constructs, like spears, and then socialists like the disability attorney Tom Earle commiserate while they make sure mortuary services are in their investment portfolios. I give Virily something of a pass on this because they are Marxist heirs, not quite classical communists as such, but emulators, kissing cousins to western European compassion, even while that compassion crashes on its face.
Earlier this summer, though I demurred rather than continue, I almost got into a serious battle on social media with mother's sister, her family, about a certain level of inattentiveness to my plight, and of all people, (soft snort of deflected affection), Sheldon Novick jumped in, attempting to offer reassurance "we love you." And then he went silent. Had this been one of Mrs. Ramsey's dinner parties, I might have looked at him edgewise-- not so much for the interjection, as I've been equally inappropriate with the good legal scholar-- but I was raising my voice about the blinders of family self-interest. As an academic sympatico, he's blameless. During this episode, I committed a serious cognitive error, not recognizing another woman with cerebral palsy who I knew slightly from the intake center. When she friended me, I did not enlarge her photo image. I thought she was one of my aunts contacts, a case manager, possibly setting me up to fall on my sword, and the whole time, she was just Maria, a woman who knows I'm aggrieved, but not much else. This level of paranoia illustrates the disease of Philadelphia's static social model, making most of us sicker, not keeping us healthy. Tom posted to Maria on Friday in the last days of August, like an amicable simpleton, and it took me some doing, stifling the trigger for a condescending legally blind taco soft Mexican, tolerant of everything except for legal accountability, admitting fault, actually making amends. It seems nearly impossible for them, and the shock I put on his face sixteen years ago was like a land mine he had inadvertently triggered, then he clamped his jaw. Even the poorest lawyers have innate discipline for instinctively going non-responsive. This may be worthy to applaud, but he is one of two attorneys who specialize in rehabilitation law, and he's an enemy. It makes me wonder, how little social order would hold if Wall Street and similar finance centers, truly fell, no whipping boys to prop up so many dependent hordes. We'll never know, not in my lifetime, unless I assume too much.
Every cognizant wheelchair user knows what Tammy Duckworth has achieved, and on Thursday, I pushed back, politely, against her egalitarian altruism by illustrating how its opposite only confirmed my basic conservative convictions. I argued with her tweets as one disabled woman to another, not nameless writer to new branded political liberal. I believe she understood this, and neither of us had the upper hand on the better part of valor. It is a curious thing, little eddies amid the Trumpian wars.
che la bellezza infiora,
e la fuggevol ora
s''inebrii a volutta.-- the libretto
Collaborative state model systems like niume earn the ire of the damned because they aren't very well thought out. Thousands of users, all vying for attention, none particularly discriminating when it comes to pixel image resolution, and the dowager is, herein, also at fault in this, unable to upgrade at an affluent pace, hence, the British based platform's advertising rate hikes hurt many people, pensioners, homeless individuals, not simply those limited by conditions, and the staff should have anticipated this beforehand, considered previous ailing models, like Yabberz, Examiner, and looked at what Medium is doing, especially since Niume utilizes the proprietary software of Medium's model. Considering the physical labor of blogging, 89 percent of it not revenue generating, how have these efficiency models optimized anything for those without the capacity to grasp computing technology? It demonstrates capitalist vulnerability, like a carnivore. Powerful, lethal at first glance, transformed into an atrocity by simple technical constructs, like spears, and then socialists like the disability attorney Tom Earle commiserate while they make sure mortuary services are in their investment portfolios. I give Virily something of a pass on this because they are Marxist heirs, not quite classical communists as such, but emulators, kissing cousins to western European compassion, even while that compassion crashes on its face.
Earlier this summer, though I demurred rather than continue, I almost got into a serious battle on social media with mother's sister, her family, about a certain level of inattentiveness to my plight, and of all people, (soft snort of deflected affection), Sheldon Novick jumped in, attempting to offer reassurance "we love you." And then he went silent. Had this been one of Mrs. Ramsey's dinner parties, I might have looked at him edgewise-- not so much for the interjection, as I've been equally inappropriate with the good legal scholar-- but I was raising my voice about the blinders of family self-interest. As an academic sympatico, he's blameless. During this episode, I committed a serious cognitive error, not recognizing another woman with cerebral palsy who I knew slightly from the intake center. When she friended me, I did not enlarge her photo image. I thought she was one of my aunts contacts, a case manager, possibly setting me up to fall on my sword, and the whole time, she was just Maria, a woman who knows I'm aggrieved, but not much else. This level of paranoia illustrates the disease of Philadelphia's static social model, making most of us sicker, not keeping us healthy. Tom posted to Maria on Friday in the last days of August, like an amicable simpleton, and it took me some doing, stifling the trigger for a condescending legally blind taco soft Mexican, tolerant of everything except for legal accountability, admitting fault, actually making amends. It seems nearly impossible for them, and the shock I put on his face sixteen years ago was like a land mine he had inadvertently triggered, then he clamped his jaw. Even the poorest lawyers have innate discipline for instinctively going non-responsive. This may be worthy to applaud, but he is one of two attorneys who specialize in rehabilitation law, and he's an enemy. It makes me wonder, how little social order would hold if Wall Street and similar finance centers, truly fell, no whipping boys to prop up so many dependent hordes. We'll never know, not in my lifetime, unless I assume too much.
Every cognizant wheelchair user knows what Tammy Duckworth has achieved, and on Thursday, I pushed back, politely, against her egalitarian altruism by illustrating how its opposite only confirmed my basic conservative convictions. I argued with her tweets as one disabled woman to another, not nameless writer to new branded political liberal. I believe she understood this, and neither of us had the upper hand on the better part of valor. It is a curious thing, little eddies amid the Trumpian wars.
Friday, August 11, 2017
Yul Brynner Rides The Hearse
We know it hurts.-- Subprimal's editors
No, rejections from non-paying markets doesn't hurt. What hurts is my loss of ability to make money because I no longer seek succor at the rancid nursery of Josie Byzek's regressive breast. I have been wasting some usage arguing on New Mobility's contact submittal form about the past, and while my observation to Josie that I don't know her well enough to hate her may be accurate, it is not quite true. I would love to go to Lancaster County and whip her across her ugly shrugging self-effacing face, all over an Argentine who cut me off, a Catholic abandoned by his wife, pompous, kindly, hefty fellow with a high voice. I threw out his telephone number. No one can undo Josie's lack of impulse control, anymore than I can undo mine, so what do I want? She has her own self esteem issues, and hides under her tortoise shell. I may conveniently overlook that she published an essay in my collection about "leaving Matrix," and that led me to my pithy 3000 USD, but any number of outlets might have published it, and I had other pieces. No, Tim left me on the shoals in 2005. Journalists know how dirty our business is, the price of gaining access; but what I am talking about is how activists belie their own rhetoric about inclusion. In the span of 24 hours, after I did my personal relationships feature, I was on Tim's list of writers, then not. I took this personally. It hurt my feelings, and it is safe to say no one else ever treated me this way. No editor, no publisher. Even Jeffrey's "I'll pass," on my Brexit efforts didn't sting that much. The failure only motivated me. The problem with me and the Freeman, however, is I like a fight, a brawl, naming names. Jeffrey prefers generalities, and so I am biding my time. We'll see. He may have been confused when I sent him my niume link to District 9, but this film is a splendid three course meal for the politicization of entertainment. Before anything else, I am a ferocious reactionary. Not this ferocious, but Doris Lessing predicted our regressive tendencies in her Memoirs. Did we pay attention? And is this relevant to the virtues of automation?
If minorities can do this to each other, doesn't this give you a better sense of why I so urgently and incessantly want to get the holy fuck out from under Trudy Richardson's power to threaten, humiliate me? She's black, superficially authoritarian, but she is stupid, and a nigger nanny. The species still exists. However much you disapprove of my diction. My family cannot handle it, neither can you, what it takes for the majority of functionally dependent wheelchair users to survive, and while I was going to go with the reasonable equanimity of NPR to discuss the explosive, and corrosive growth, of entitlements, worldwide, Breitbart's bristling is not entirely a fabrication. Dependency, simply in and of itself, corrupts the human spirit. The piece answered my question about corrective surgery, though that also has risks.
No, rejections from non-paying markets doesn't hurt. What hurts is my loss of ability to make money because I no longer seek succor at the rancid nursery of Josie Byzek's regressive breast. I have been wasting some usage arguing on New Mobility's contact submittal form about the past, and while my observation to Josie that I don't know her well enough to hate her may be accurate, it is not quite true. I would love to go to Lancaster County and whip her across her ugly shrugging self-effacing face, all over an Argentine who cut me off, a Catholic abandoned by his wife, pompous, kindly, hefty fellow with a high voice. I threw out his telephone number. No one can undo Josie's lack of impulse control, anymore than I can undo mine, so what do I want? She has her own self esteem issues, and hides under her tortoise shell. I may conveniently overlook that she published an essay in my collection about "leaving Matrix," and that led me to my pithy 3000 USD, but any number of outlets might have published it, and I had other pieces. No, Tim left me on the shoals in 2005. Journalists know how dirty our business is, the price of gaining access; but what I am talking about is how activists belie their own rhetoric about inclusion. In the span of 24 hours, after I did my personal relationships feature, I was on Tim's list of writers, then not. I took this personally. It hurt my feelings, and it is safe to say no one else ever treated me this way. No editor, no publisher. Even Jeffrey's "I'll pass," on my Brexit efforts didn't sting that much. The failure only motivated me. The problem with me and the Freeman, however, is I like a fight, a brawl, naming names. Jeffrey prefers generalities, and so I am biding my time. We'll see. He may have been confused when I sent him my niume link to District 9, but this film is a splendid three course meal for the politicization of entertainment. Before anything else, I am a ferocious reactionary. Not this ferocious, but Doris Lessing predicted our regressive tendencies in her Memoirs. Did we pay attention? And is this relevant to the virtues of automation?
If minorities can do this to each other, doesn't this give you a better sense of why I so urgently and incessantly want to get the holy fuck out from under Trudy Richardson's power to threaten, humiliate me? She's black, superficially authoritarian, but she is stupid, and a nigger nanny. The species still exists. However much you disapprove of my diction. My family cannot handle it, neither can you, what it takes for the majority of functionally dependent wheelchair users to survive, and while I was going to go with the reasonable equanimity of NPR to discuss the explosive, and corrosive growth, of entitlements, worldwide, Breitbart's bristling is not entirely a fabrication. Dependency, simply in and of itself, corrupts the human spirit. The piece answered my question about corrective surgery, though that also has risks.
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
James Damore, Cause Celebre?
"Knowledge has replaced faith." --Kathy Baker, holding the fort
Having taken a look at Patreon, it is not a suitable venue for me. If they think a Canadian like Southern will get people killed, my beliefs about violence as an argument would shock them. Yes, I played nice, on the main, however stark some of my sentiments, on Niume, and the English left allowed me to vent, mildly, but Niume's staff seem to eat pastoral ecology like smores. However decorative its web interface, it genuinely isn't a collective for me, and Virily isn't a community for angry disabled Americans with anarchist streaks. I haven't given up on Virily, and they seem a little sharper than Niume, but my writing for Baltic states mimicking the west, methinks, must necessarily be limited. I was also mistaken about Due, and while not judging them, I am not entirely sure what they believe they can do for me.
Note to Due: I live on a very limited disability entitlement, like many in Japan, most of the Southern Hemisphere, etcetera, and wading through LinkedIn millennials trying to find some work I can do again in limited fashion has proven futile. You seem to be a consumer award venue of some kind of which I am not entirely clear, but I'll give it time.
What this means is I don't know how to divorce myself from Blogger. Wordpress would boot me in record time, from what I've gathered over the years, and I'm not quite hyperbolic enough, in IS fashion, for the dark net, even if the dark net twitter account -- the one I'm thinking of, could teach me how to do all those server bounces, and this would be the case even on days of stressed expletives. This said, if Southern and I had a hypothetical fight, I'd plow her in on the inside of five minutes, so I cannot see why Patreon had a panic attack. I am not trying to personalize anything, just to caution readers. I never heard of her before Scoop, and she seems a possible ally; nor was I spurious about riding her comet tail for a profile, I am only saying I can knock the ambulatory world on its myopic ass with neither regrets nor second thoughts. The Damore saga has whet my interest, intensely, but I cannot capitalize on it just yet. The so called "screed" obtained by Gizmodo seemed a relatively innocuous, drippy skim. I think we need to sit down and reconsider what we're doing with computer technologies.
Having taken a look at Patreon, it is not a suitable venue for me. If they think a Canadian like Southern will get people killed, my beliefs about violence as an argument would shock them. Yes, I played nice, on the main, however stark some of my sentiments, on Niume, and the English left allowed me to vent, mildly, but Niume's staff seem to eat pastoral ecology like smores. However decorative its web interface, it genuinely isn't a collective for me, and Virily isn't a community for angry disabled Americans with anarchist streaks. I haven't given up on Virily, and they seem a little sharper than Niume, but my writing for Baltic states mimicking the west, methinks, must necessarily be limited. I was also mistaken about Due, and while not judging them, I am not entirely sure what they believe they can do for me.
Note to Due: I live on a very limited disability entitlement, like many in Japan, most of the Southern Hemisphere, etcetera, and wading through LinkedIn millennials trying to find some work I can do again in limited fashion has proven futile. You seem to be a consumer award venue of some kind of which I am not entirely clear, but I'll give it time.
What this means is I don't know how to divorce myself from Blogger. Wordpress would boot me in record time, from what I've gathered over the years, and I'm not quite hyperbolic enough, in IS fashion, for the dark net, even if the dark net twitter account -- the one I'm thinking of, could teach me how to do all those server bounces, and this would be the case even on days of stressed expletives. This said, if Southern and I had a hypothetical fight, I'd plow her in on the inside of five minutes, so I cannot see why Patreon had a panic attack. I am not trying to personalize anything, just to caution readers. I never heard of her before Scoop, and she seems a possible ally; nor was I spurious about riding her comet tail for a profile, I am only saying I can knock the ambulatory world on its myopic ass with neither regrets nor second thoughts. The Damore saga has whet my interest, intensely, but I cannot capitalize on it just yet. The so called "screed" obtained by Gizmodo seemed a relatively innocuous, drippy skim. I think we need to sit down and reconsider what we're doing with computer technologies.
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
Begrudging Victory
Hugo (2011) is a great 21st century film primarily due to its visual structure, and the effect of being shot in 3D. If I can acknowledge Scorsese's motifs and still find reasons to contend with them, he beats me here, hands down. This is what I get for believing he only shot in New York. The Paris we visualize in the opening has a fairy tale quality, the opening set up isn't afraid of leaving you utterly baffled, and the script offers us a dazzling feedback loop which only cinema can do, in all its magnificence. If I wasn't in such a crisis of age, I might have wept over the saga of Hugo Cabret and all his secret passages. Oh, the A-list team did its part, not Kingsley so much-- this type of role, an ambiguous character with secrets, is part of his terrain, but Lee as the stony, ominous librarian? Law as the myopic father who might have been nominated for sainthood? This might be a good place to quit Blogger. Beneath the surface of every liberal is the hypocrisy. The Internet did help me, but this was before social media had its shit fest, between 99 and 04. Since, I've been scrambling for pennies on my labor. All my words have changed nothing: Trudy Richardson is still a southern nigger transplant with bran for brains who has put me under nearly impossible levels of duress. Just because we do not speak it doesn't mean it isn't true. Lisa Durden understands this, so did Google's engineer. Both have suffered economically for it. Where is the virtue of freedom of speech if, in corporate culture, it is financially punitive? The abuses I die with are a deck of cards with their own range of flavors, and as I've never been loved, I am too old to be capable now. I am not having the best week, but I will not go too far afield.
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