Kapax

Never despair. -- Easy enough for the Argentine

In recent days, my skills languishing because I allowed technical collapse to get ahead of me, I cried out to the former slum bishop of Buenos Aires as if I really did believe him as Santo Padre, while I cursed my mother's sister on Facebook with a level of blaspheme I usually reserve for racial animus . Few, if any of you. truly understand the despair of helplessness, and turn away, unless you yourself are in its thick: It isn't just age, it's the relentless cruelty against helplessness itself. I have been assaulted, physically, emotionally, since nine years of age, and no one looking at me knows how to square this. I coped, not always well, but coped, because I knew I did not need to depend on others as long as the wheelchair and body functioned together. This is, temporarily or not, gone. So I will face more abuse, and laugh cruelly. My choice, fine fellows, languish, or the determination of despair, not that berating myself over my Kevin Spacey miscue helps either.

I was sexually attracted to the star in his heyday, and in my rare twitter moments of being a shallow American, like the rest of social media's deplorable idiots, I gushed at his account "I love you!" It was a way of sleeping with my father, once removed.(Daddy and I are not on good terms, in real time.) I'd never tweet to Woods in that manner, and then Voila, we're in fagland again. I stopped following Spacey because House of Cards isn't relevant to our concerns, and still feel like a naive duped and sickened jackass, almost brazen enough to tweet a hint about killing perverts, which may have put me in Stone's territory, but didn't do it, as it may not long matter. The Usual Suspects did, if we dwell therein long enough, carve Spacey into a male amphibian cast that could be read as a parallel to Foster's on screen chameleons, but other roles, including American Beauty, made me see a heterosexual who emulated Jack Lemmon, and I feel betrayed.

My demented father's sister is the only one who has faith I'll rebuild. I don't, but another reason I hate in the life advocacy is because it diminishes the stature Spacey rightly earned for his twilight years. They media falsely baited Cary Grant in the same vein, but I never believed it, and his survivors threatened the tattles with a lawsuit. 

Exit Stairs Only

an emergency has been reported

Hypothetically, Penn Medicine is papering my doughnut hole with temporary home health care, but for the fact that my carrier keeps dropping my return call to them, and given it is the weekend, what happens tomorrow remains unknown. EMS has dipped its hand in the lottery of aggressive abuse due to my equipment failure, and the wheelchair vendor and I are shooting off various libertarian sparks, as I have never used this model, and it limits my ability, if you wish to picture a sedan seat on a battery. I am not sure the man in charge would be amenable to an exchange, should it come down to that. It is not that I can’t handle being an object of hate by women medics, but what I was subjected to Thursday echoes childhood, echoes adolescence, echoes adulthood on nine years with Medicaid waiver paraprofessionals, so I am rolling out next week, abandoning my library, my contributor copies, everything. It remains unlikely I’ll be read on this platform or any other in the near term, and I weigh scuttling my service, if definitively leaving my keys and laser lock on the office. Cousin Richard posted a soppy zoological piece about an apathetic 59 year old chimpanzee refusing food who then livened up when a naturalist it had bonded to paid a visit, and in terms of anthropomorphic superiority, spastics are analogous to the tragic consequences of animal husbandry. The sickest aunt tells me to keep fighting, but for what? Traditional medical procedures aggravate my symptoms, rather than mitigate them. The home care nurse telephoned, and the vendor is on his way for more haggling, potential modification. Almost a lifetime of work is still locked up in Office 07, the same aforementioned cousin silent on the matter of success or failure in converting two documents I sent for compatibility to Office 365, and if all property owners are more important than non-property owners, section 202 contractors illustrate the playful frivolity of human rights. These do not exist if you are non-compliant, aberrant tendencies buoyed along in the undertow. Intellectual capacity, though useful in fighting ambulatory guardian maneuvers, isn’t going to solve bio-engineering issues forever. Justice imprisoned a perpetrator, never otherwise persecuted or vindicated on my behalf. Louis Gossett consoles Levar Burton in Roots after a mock up slavery whipping. He exclaims “There will be another day.” This isn’t possible for those of us forced into relegated status, and in this sense, community integration, locked into rationing, is a travesty.

DWTS in Obsolescence of Product

no one talks like that--a wheelchair mechanic

Death is the most carnivorous of any ecological process, particularly when it is embodied in John McCain’s overly long victory lap for a heroism plucked like a thorn out of a tenuous policing action, his emaciated skin all but fused to his now skeletal visage, his torture as a prisoner of Asians on the peninsula referenced as a secular hagiography but never discussed, unless it be by biographers able at one time to solicit the details. The dowager doesn’t know how his forearms were broken for the near term intelligence desired by the charlies of Ho Chi Minh’s collective nationalism, nor why the bones weren’t set properly. Nearly two decades ago, when his candidacy was a viable property, slight details of his personal grooming needs were mentioned in profiles, and Dick Polman’s skepticism of the Arizona Senator’s maverick label have certainly been refuted by the malignant glioma currently disrupting his brain function. While no one doubts McCain’s political skill, failed nominee or not he is a national figure, a patriot in the truest sense, willing to wear blinders for the sake of it, to strike at adversaries with inflammatory rhetoric, clever barbs which swayed the 08 electorate toward The Invisible Man, his speculative presidency, had the enthusiasm not gone to the paper doll of the Neutral zone, would not have engendered history. The man pulls on the reigns with far too much frequency, coaching and scolding from the bench, just another centrist, whereas I would have vanished into the wasteland of American indigence. Thursday, October 10^th, I packed my electronics, intending to depart my chaotic destitution, and as I was able to predict, my old Quantum shorted out. It is now in the hallway, Trudy Richardson’s chastisements forthcoming. With tremendous struggle, I purchased a bucket seat model on the blind, from an ever harried vendor. They are all the same, and I am still helpless, too weary to adapt to a swivel seat, calculating I’ll survive a failed transfer to my bed rather than the toilet, if I transfer at all. No more money to restore the independence I had with other models, barely able to get my ass on the vinyl with the foot stool upended. This is helplessness, my mind still intact, a 48 hour hospital stay indicating I am a healthy plow mare, one which spins our modern caste systems round and round, low skilled black technicians, cafeteria workers, social services, nurses, chaplains who I sent running with adept verbal fury. Physicians play very little part in this. The same can be proffered for rehabilitative medicine. McCain’s prominence is a constraint. His peers and admirers offer a modicum of delicacy to a dying man, one whom impatience might sweep off the stage: retire to a lucrative hospice suite already and allow your state’s legislature to fulfill its one constitutional function not abrogated by progressive amendments, and appoint your replacement, his heroism as much a construct as it is genuine. I really have to shit, thrown out with all lack of finesse. I may not survive attempting something different, as opposed to a lateral transfer, but medical model hierarchy isn’t as suave as what the industry serves as a daily aperitif. The cracks in the wall aren’t casually dismissed, and Shaun Murphy’s libertarian definition of himself echoes mine, but centralized institutionalism will take care of my dystopian vision of humanity. It won’t take too long. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is one of the origin territories, and it is strangling itself to death with its socialized governing structure. I weigh my will to survive on the minute, and I am going to do something which isn’t done: my address is 158 N 23^rd Street, Riverside. If anyone can stop by just for a few minutes, to stand by, no lifting, ring me. 267-207-5455. It is very temporary, and I prefer you not be black. I wouldn’t write this if my willpower wasn’t telling me to try to hang on.

Sterile Saturation

"And still somehow, it's life's illusions I recall..."-- folk lyric

While bedridden, and technically this is still my condition, I changed my AT&T plan so I could stream on my poor old phone, and believed the 22G Unlimited would be enough per billing period. Before the October blow to my fortunes it would have been, but I ate a great deal of data whetting my appetite with sometimes dubious ventures. I do not know what to make of USA’s Mr. Robot. Though its points are obvious, some of the threads seem tenuous, some scenes too brittle, too tense, and why writers had to harken back to Alf to remind us of the material world which we once knew before the digital age seems flimsy; this flimsiness is comparable, while my bad leg flexes in taut discomfort, to the obscure intent of The Lobster. My initial reaction to the movie, viewed in the pre-dawn dusk, very similar to my current hour, was confusion, and a sense the direction was belabored, forced. I caught the fabulism on my own, and might have realized this effort was from the European left. Had I known anything about Yorgos Lanthimos I might have been better prepared for what to expect. Tasha’s review, obviously sympathetic, was helpful, Brody's less so. Why does everything have to fall under the category of agitprop for New Yorker critics? Exclaiming to myself, “I had my trash quotient for the day,” I closed my Prime app and moved on, but now find myself unsettled, and may try the film again at a later time with my ear plugs less used than my others. Lanthimos’ opening scene exposes us to a woman driving intently in the rain. She stops in a pasture in the middle of nowhere, leaves her car, shoots a horse with what appears to be a Colt 45 revolver, and then we jump to David in his apartment, with his dog/brother. Was the opening the ex-wife, executing chivalry? The atmosphere of this film is deliberately heavy, as if the very oxygen we breathe was shackled, and everyone’s diction, but for David’s cadence, on occasion, is over accentuated and cutting, as if to drag Ovid into Orwell’s world, merging the totem aspect of Metamorphosis with a regulatory authority dictating your every move, relaxed only in bondage to the opposite sex so that you can gouge your own eyeballs out with a generic steak knife, or at least make the effort to do so, in order to be complimentary to an equally terse, stilted partner. This is the denouement, where David and Short Sighted Woman evade the Hotel and authority altogether, and find themselves in a restaurant which smacks of a fleeting 2016 realism, open ended, disturbing. Weisz’s abstract character, deceived into compliance, was blinded by the rebel leader during a city visit to a chamber orchestra where the couple, with glaring incaution, make no effort to hide the fact that they’re on their way to third base. The Leader not only broke the heavy petting kiss with a scolding, but exacted an irreversible penalty. Farrell, in the eatery’s bathroom, transforms himself into the invertebrate he suggested to the Manager, and Weisz no longer has the ability to discern this as a waiter fills her glass with water: this is how we always see lobsters when we dine, in a small tank, claws taped. Part of my reconsideration for Lanthimos’ intentions is a certain quixotic preoccupation with imperfection which still manages to permeate in some way, part of it is about modern isolation, and how digital interaction binds and wards us off at the same time. (This does not mean to imply I read it the same way as Robinson with “Facebook relationship status messages,” but I can see where she gets the interpolation.)

There are few pleasures I can point to in this hard life where I have defied or evaded death so often: my work in DC, my somewhat incendiary affairs with married men, on which I shall not dwell, my poetry reading in Pittsburgh, less for the poets, tepid aging beatniks, some dead, more for the fact I did it all by myself, this 87 adventure from eastern to western inner city; my cats, some of my bylines. But this is it, I don’t have people so much as passive indignation towards mamma’s family on Facebook, all being usurped, inflamed tendons furling Great Expectations into ash. Whatever the error of my choices, fomented by lack of fulfillment, I was never quite dispassionate enough to extract myself from them, and even today, on occasion, I recast my own version of Cinderella, with a gallant to sweep me off my feet—not quite so harmless an escape.

Modular Four Legged Application

When I first interviewed with Riverside, after my attack, I turned in down, in 1993, under what must have been the original managers. I returned to Diamond Park. That evening, a cabbie was left for dead a foot or two from my bedroom window, and I am not certain what led me to plead with Terri weeks later, to get me out of what her supervisor extracted her from. I do not like the perpetual motion of litigation any more than anyone else, but at the time, it was a choice between two evils: the hyper dictation of Riverside, which, no more than anything, did not truly protect me from more victimology, or the incessant vandalism to violence spectrum of the accessible Diamond Park units. I did not fully understand 202 housing. I was still traumatized, and it was not my place to purloin Richard Baron or Daniel Raudenbush into my personal advocates. They were directors, not the justice league, and it’s moot, twenty years afterward, as they have little love for the fact that I talked to Pew after my resignation, and, while I am still resolved, assuming the chair doesn’t short out for good, a distinct possibility, on rolling out, I am ambivalent about my unit key—not so much that Trudy cannot lock me out—lupus lady can do as she pleases from her caramelized perspective—but what do I owe the feline? I have no one to take her temporarily.

1.       I never wanted to live at Riverside, and everyone is tone deaf to this, Trudy in particular, Debra, the Health & Human Services civil servants who either glare or bleat at me.

2.       Presby’s Diamond Park owners, and Riverside’s, were negligent in the assaults, molestation, and robberies I suffered.

3.       The Liberty Resources homosexuals with whom I am forced to reside, whom I once thought I could trust until I learned of their illegal activities, spiraling into a DOJ investigation, is not helping me.

And I am now the bad guy, will wind up paying some sort of further criminal, legal, inhumane penalty, because I say the unsaid, and refuse to comply until I say so, and will never allow another minority paraprofessional to touch me again, not willingly, and I’m worried about what I owe a shelter animal who also suffered. I am not sure who to call. I am sure most of you say give an inch. No one has given one to me. My fear of Trudy’s power, not exaggerated, her constant lashing out at me to give my notice, isn’t enough. I gave it after they attempted to remove me, and she is still threatening me. This is not the United States in which I once believed, not the country where no one would come to my side, give me physical support, not just that of virtual reality. My mother’s sister is a good woman, kept her sister’s children out of foster care, emptied my commode. She cannot do it again, but my father’s indifference, in my adolescent bitterness, is still the inevitable conclusion of my life: I’ll die as hard as I’ve lived. Many do, silently. I did, by the way, receive a job offer Friday and wish I could take pleasure in it. Perhaps next week.

Speed of light

See how fast I am moving? I put Septa in my phone, despite the fact it would be easier to take wheelchair taxi. Victims learn the hard way about the difference between rule of law and justice, and I know I am never going to get a lawyer to care about the fact that Terri Way, once my contemporary equal, talked me out of a lawsuit against Presby, but I am unreasonable, menacing, in exact proportion to cause I have against this religious based socialist plague on the body politic. The rise of the feminine collective easily enough besmirches male stature, whether it's Cosby or Harvey Weinstein, but the spokes barely turn for me, a nine year old girl vaginally penetrated by two African Americans in a home for children, medically brutalized thereafter, pursued sexually by her mother's addicts, an aggravated assault victim under the management of Presby, and Presby's answer is to threaten me with regimentation, and disability activism, whatever its former shielding, has swept me aside, because abuses continued with paraprofessionals, and I no longer want to play, no, under rule of law, Trudy Richardson can terrorize, browbeat, accentuate my anxiety at whim. Marie, my long time dying aunt, says I have to do it myself. Find a new habitat, persuade the oversaturated legal market to help me on my own, although I know all about impatient law firm brutality in the name of billing hours, though Silver & Silver was polite, and that, I appreciate. You're not living here at Riverside.
I am not going to go back and forth with you. 
Lahnisha call the police.
We're done.

This is ten years of a nigger nanny battering ram. Ten years, except it's never done, because the Commonwealth, you, everyone, wants Medicare care money by methodically torturing me into my grave. Cousin Richard may be annoyed with me for saying this, but neither he nor Billy would subject their mother, Marie, to what I've had to endure, simply to survive, and no one will, or can, lift a finger. Toomey wouldn't dare reexamine section 202 abuses, and liberals, hell, this is fascist heaven. Wonderful humanity.

The Concept of Nothing

In section 202 housing, giving notice is apparently irrelevant for someone in my condition, so I got up to look for a hotel, found one, not that I know if this establishment has a vacancy. I'll find out this morning, I'll pack a few things, and then I am not coming back to this building, if ever, until I have an attorney, in succinct summation, reminiscent of seeing Brazil in university theater, still part communal experience, in the late 80's. No streaming, imagine. That was reserved for Zero Theorem, the last film in Gilliam's ostensible trilogy. Gilliam's style of ostentation, now out of fashion, never sat particularly well with me, even though the absurdist disruptions in all three films can be interpreted as distractions to prevent  the characters, the audience, from actualizing the Orwellian state in which they (we) inhabit: the only reason I was ever able to feel the tide on my legs, as a young girl, was because my grandfather dragged my wheelchair from the planked walkway which led out to the beach at Wildwood all the way to the damn Atlantic ocean, and I've carried the guilt of his labor ever since, a good twenty minutes, like a pack horse, and my chair, not being titanium, but the older mid-20th century stainless steel models, rusted through at the axle, embedded in one of my most ironclad memories, my only experience of the ocean meeting the shore, never imagining forcing sunset in a virtual horizon, manipulating it like a beach ball, even if the real Orwellian modular affect of human society is grimmer than Gilliam's ornate constructs allows for, despite certain poignant cessations, which doesn't quite occur in this last take on his exaggerated antics. Still, as aware as we are of what we're doing to ourselves, we hurdle along, due to mostly mindless group dynamics. I am going to dress, go grab a cold wrap, eat, and where I land by week's end may come down to commiseration, or general lack of forgiveness for failure, unless I go back to rest my fatigue another few hours, too old for all of this, fight and flight.

ADHD Wasted Space

That's the problem with being the man, you never know what you left behind.-- Ice T

I barely know Adam. I did not give him a donation for his self-styled polemic on Freedom, and under my various forms of classification, sticking the cornbread veteran in a room with Debra Horne keeps the estuaries of the Mississippi slithering along. The half witted caramel brick bat and the ex-soldier may not be from the same swamp where Okies use catfish as sexual enhancement accessories, but they both speak the same language, and in trying to flee the holocaust of my life under oh so lovely creatures as these minorities, so illustrious in the fine examples they are on the evils of inbreeding, I am appealing to yet another variation of Southern rube, whose libertarian beliefs are more ecumenical than is decent for anyone's taste. In desperation, I asked the man who waltzed off with an Alford plea if he had any space in that compound of his, and do not expect a response, but I asked, and he and I spoke all of what? 30 seconds? I made no money on my column about his speaking engagement I posted on Medium, but it may be one of the last vestiges of professional writing I have to display, and, to be honest, I have softened my attitude, share some kindred spirit with his raw defiance, and here we are. Black women have the power to threaten me with a straight jacket for bellowing in fury after what I've had to eat and absorb under their employer's management for 33 years, and I am bucking on the Internet, which will blithely ignore me, regardless of how the ball bounces: Tuesday I may have no power; Wednesday, I may be locked out, and the receptionist, Lahnisha-- something like that-- black women have this peculiar suffix fixation-- has been retaliating against me since 2015, jeopardizing my safety, long before I let anyone have it, but consider: she is terrified of me and yet Friday, I inadvertently opened the door to spot shop, and she handed me the burning bridge rebuttal notices. If I'm lucky, maybe polyps will block up my hole with speed sufficient enough to make moral scruples irrelevant. Yes, even sympathizers who would like to help cannot, or else you're a potential kidnapper waiting to prey on my nativity, and be thankful I am not just another overkill murder in Oakland California.

Jesus fucking Christ. I got lucky, that, in the season finale, Salvation's tech company giant, of Tanz Industries, the ever wiry Cabrera, disclosed he had Huntington's. So my instincts were on the money to play with the series components, even as the plot grows multi-layered, and I was scooped by Danielle's survival. It is interesting to note, as well, that Iwan Rheon, Inhumans's Maximus, is disabled because he deteriorated into being a mere human being, one who had only his mind to manipulate the coup that he did. This is a kid's show, playing dress up for prime time, but it is light enough, with themes that matter on the level of a liberetto, to enjoy without having to study too hard. Television is growing up, nonetheless, Kira Sedgwick's valley tangles, mature as they are, fail to persuade me, since I am a driveby shooting, once removed.

Progenitor Smoke Signals

"Your client works for one of the toniest law firms in this city."-- a Dick Wolf episode with the Munsters

I rarely have any complimentary sentiments to offer my hypothetical colleagues still running the media rat race, but what I tweeted to Politico at 3 AM was a rare stint at admiration, even as I'm sinking in stress, without much of a lifeline. The rib taken from The Washington Post is tonier than the mother ship, even if they earned Carson's ire during the primary, and their reporting on Secretary Price's jet setting was good work. Should it have cost the man his power? I cannot really adjudicate that, given my tap dance with Health & Human Services civilians since 14. Tom Price was a conservative medical politician, and this interested me, even if his estimate inside the Beltway was mixed;. unlike Gaulstan, one of my few surviving followers from the foreign coastal-scape of poet friend Robert Thomas. I showed Mark's account to one of the laid back guards at the front desk, whose Muslim African name can't get past my tinnitus. The residents call this guard "Anthony," for convenience, good looking but slow on the uptake, and I am showing him the account of a psychiatric professional who applies himself to broad sociological political dynamics. 

Why was it important for me to prove myself to a vacant minority whose looks should have gotten him better employment? If, and it is a conditional if, I flee in spastic fashion to my father's driveway tomorrow, refusing to return until I have legal representation, this solves nothing. My father, one, never gave me affirmation, and as his executor, I am the one he should be leaning on, both of us physically worse for wear, but my need for psychic distance from Riverside is nearly insurmountable. Most of my family believes I should be "placed," so they share at least one cultural attribute with the Debra Horne's of this world. 

The family isn't going to say this, because they already have, and they don't want to see me cascade down the escarpment. What do I think? I think if I lived with someone, I'd hang on. There are programs for this, but only as it applies to property owners, and if I am going to upset the apple cart, I have to call it an early evening. I made a mistake, this level of toxic stress, but I should have ended my relationship as a Presbyterian lessee in 1994. It doesn't mean I would not have been a bannable entity, but I would not be in my present situation. As to the fall of Price, I am not quite sure most of us care about the conscious frugality of a Principal. We all know aerodynamic technology is not a cheap proposition. Classically free market? I'd argue not. 

Now I have to find a staple gun, and figure out my fucking plan B. Governmental crisis lines never answer the phone. I knew this, of course. Any one of you brazen enough to reach out and give a fearful spastic a hand?

Angry Savant

I recovered one of my newer non fiction revisions from Submittable, and if I'm able to do that, I must be doing something obviously dense with the files Tom took off my hard drive. Now, particularly, I do not have the funds to spare to show up my illiteracy with code. Maybe if I struggle with conversion online this will solve the problem. Yes, I am terrified. Technically, as a legal matter, I can be homeless, but not functionally, and last week, I nearly had a stroke, close to following Petty, whose hoarse baritone recalls itself, but the writer in me has risen back up, because what and how Debra Horne is threatening me with is ridiculous. I want to be clear, a landlord has the right to kick me out for bad hygiene. But they do not. They want to put me away for saying no, for being angry, crucified by the liberal left. I have to die like anyone, except Peter Thiel, he man faggot, but I will decide what those terms are, not HHS or some half witted crisis manager from the corporate office in Montgomery County. We have to stop doing this. Please. Heed me.

Cardiac Trauma in Folie Et deux

I have, as yet, bunkered down, and even giving my notice to Riverside hasn’t stopped the merry carnival at my expense, though I, in ailing fashion, continue to beat back authority: I have no track marks, no weapons cache, yet the march of the indomitable Commonwealth continues, as I am no longer a person worthy of encouragement, only a mortal quantity whose grave is being dug by a corrupt system embedding poverty to keep the civil service afloat. If I am a self-righteous prig going down in defiance, Winter’s Bone (2010) is one of those rare films muting industry stock reel conventions to embody the Ozarks regional sensibilities in its own competition with the characters Debra Granik unapologetically plants onto the camera lens, in a real embodiment of what makes American resilience so particular unto itself, a resilience gradually being lost to European state models. Tim Dillahunt is the only recognizable sit com star Granik uses for bankability, as the fleeced straight arrow sheriff, and this may be excused, being offered as comfortable terrain. Does he fit as the conscientious humanitarian with the force of authority to consider? Every community not truly broken has figures like him. Best groomed, resisted or embraced, or met half way, and this community may not have the Obama era dynamic of Hawaii, nor is it quite dead-alive. It is stark, no nonsense, willing to be honest about the greater strength, and what tenacity achieves. What I liked, in particular, was how Ree’s uncle came alive toward the climax, with that sharp, pensive face. We’re left with an implied sentiment that he goes off to avenge his brother’s murder; given what Ree has already peeled away with her own tenacity, we may interpret her uncle as a doomed warrior, risking death for honor. If I might have become a screen writer (a bit late for that now, with the lampoon of the million dollar slush pile in LA) accomplishing narratives such as Granik does here, this would have given me pride in an equal compliment.

Normally, when I am quiet, my twitter stock rises before the invariable drop. The only mechanism I know to handle the mind breaking stress I inflicted on myself, in lieu of attempted homicide, is to tunnel inward and become monolithic, which is what I have done. It would be a lot easier if I had a best friend, one who would not leave me at Pennsylvania’s mercy, but I have no one like that, and my small accrual of followers fades away. I honestly don’t have the luxury to sit and worry about it, trying to ween myself from the addictive strength of automated psyche penetration. Not for the time being. I am not entirely positive Presbyterian Homes will receive a last rental check from me. What would Toomey tell me, as the revamped Irish conservator, if I had access to him directly? What would he think, that the invalid is lucky niggerland hasn’t caved her skull in already?

The Pooch, with a twist

Are we willing to wash the feet of our neighbors?--holy Thursday


I tweeted that I was lying back down at three am, and did, but got up again immediately, embarrassed that I was caught by such a powerful stressor that I barely had time to pivot. It is not that I do not care about my intestinal battles; my esteem is tied into a good transfer, but I flaunt incontinence as a rebuff, the consequence of my survival. I am trying to challenge you all about this. My official statement to the bull bitches downstairs asserted I would vacate the premises tomorrow but given my quadriplegia, would need time to extract my possessions. Once I roll out, I am not entirely certain I am getting back in. I cannot afford it but may need a motel for a night, and thus far, bathed my feet, dialed the usual network of eliminations, all I could, for this morning. I read Ross's opine on Hefner's overstayed decline, and I am not sure where my recently acquired shrugs of depreciation come from, but was Playboy that big a deal? And my father's girlie mags of three decades back made the Trumpism of today possible? Ross is doing what we all do with this curious tool of the sign, the hieroglyphs we all recognize according to the geography of linguistic development, but the Harvard veneer gives it too fine a twist.

Active shooter in Las Vegas was at Mandalay Bay. Unsure about other resorts yet. My son and I both work at Luxor and Excalibur. Thankfully neither of us working now. Friend just saw tank and military vehicles heading to area. Pray for our city, please. #PrayForLasVegas

— M A Nöthem (@mikandynothem) October 2, 2017

Nothern's straight forward outcry in the face of our repetitive cataclysms is my preferred arrhythmia, and no, I do not have a serial killer collection, but it was mere coincidence, in real time, while the Vegas massacre was happening, that I was watching footage of beautiful Norway caught in Breivik's grip, and the backstory is puzzling. If he displayed psychopathy at three years of age, why was he left with mother? And if the EU is so restrictive with firearms, how could Breivik acquire them? His attack on his own countrymen makes no sense, neo-Nazi or not, as I am probably not long for the world, without any friends, sustainable supports. This has a great deal to do with what section 202 eroded in my life. I have nothing, no contacts, not so much as an old college buddy. Social media, twitter, at least, may give me contours, a certain familiar pattern. Nothing else.

Quakertown Brass

Caesar is home.-- the guttural utterance

“My chair shorted out,” I posted mainly to my family on Facebook this day on the asphalt across from PECO central. Cops can’t do a bloody thing except watch you hopelessly reboot, but does cousin Tommy remind me to call my uncle?  No! I struggle back to building. Do I remember to telephone my bloody uncle? No! Does my sister recall that my godfather runs a bloody DMV(Designated Medical Vendor)?  No! I manage to race up to tenth floor of this bloody zoological senior parody of Planet of the Apes. You heard me. I am as guilty as Hamblin when it comes to disparaging senior goon squads. Some of the people who populate Riverside might be lifted straight out of Annie Proulx for subconscious routing routines. Ah, but the dowager’s contempt is momentarily bounding with self-flagellations, as I intently asked Maria for Mr. Wheelchair’s number and desperately begged Michael for a speedy purchase, and like a fuckwit, I bought a model I knew was bad for me because I managed to haul my soiled buttocks onto a car seat. This is what syphoned out a week’s worth of hospital costs depleting the Medicare Trust Fund, a gift I’m still giving. 10 fucking G’s and a ding because I never met a vendor like Mike, who, when he queried me about being done after one modification, wasn’t joking, and no one remembered, myself particular, that my godfather runs a respected company I’ve worked with before, all this Italian Catholic noise, my father and I ready to draw blood over a hospital bed, letting cheap conniving minorities bilk him over the assistance Presbyterian Homes offers indigent tenants daily for housekeeping: my last paid commission for my work floated in around 2010. If the linguistic cash register that sublimates the bond between fathers and daughters wasn’t a life jacket, Trudy and Debra, and their Mississippi fecal twang vocals, would have pulverized me in a juicer by now. I don’t blame Maria for any of this, but it’s evident I am still infected by the conspiratorial tensions of us versus them in disability culture, as my only life-threatening prognosis is ableism and niggardly incompetence which spearheads Pennsylvania like a persistent lymphoma. I may not have anything seriously wrong with me twelve weeks into the end of January, but damage? Yes, the type of damage which leads to “down the drain” gallows humor, because a pathological technician tells me he’ll fix the problem, but just blows me off, from before Thanksgiving through 1/19/18, a perfect way to reference in rogue elements which forms part of Austin Petersen’s experience. In his case, it was polluted cancer drugs. I do not eschew free market models due to this. Like Austin, I can separate bad apples from the model, and Mike’s callousness is born out of rationing and single payer options, but I do curse the fact quite bitterly that I tend to trust wheelchair providers, and see my family as somewhat apart. My uncle is invisible in my life, and I plum forgot him. He’s on it now, but the quality time I was struggling to cling to? I still cannot convert my files in the wake of my Toshiba failure, and don’t want to antagonize certain parties in my circle to help me circumvent Home Advisor’s prices, but it is a fact of life if I want to earn money again, I need access to my documents. We can all debate the models, regulated and otherwise, but streamlining customized needs is far easier in a director’s cut than it is in handling individual adaptation, within or outside of a chronic condition.

Cognitive Dissonence

I had an appointment with another troubleshooting repair business from fast acting Home Advisor, but canceled, for the time being, as Office conversion and recovery is the least of my problems, as kid brother reminds me, my spastic life is an embarrassment of riches, not that I have translated it as well as manu. I did like his trek economics approach in his interview with Thiel, and as a dead cat owner thrice over, I understood how his dying cat Cosmo was a stresssor, me and a number of other account holders, but his tweets are as flaky as mine are flushable, and I just removed him. Not that this matters terribly either, if I will have to put my accounts in abeyance for the time being. His pop tech approach was developed for me to teach, at the turn of the century, but I could not pivot of the mattress without a radiator gut protest alert, so my notice, unfortunately, will drag on a bit, at the discretion of Trudy's use of force against my so so viral animus, which drove off the ACLU black guy in the MA area, I believe.

Am I suicidal, under the circumstances? Should I be? I am laughing a bit, the mighty warrior, losing the round she always does in radiated vapor, my fourth feline, and she, being the least of them, not helping, as she soiled some paper, which will be bagged, shortly. Search found me a contact location I can drive to on my own. I realize there are waiting lists, but I hope they will let me use my urinal in their shelter bathroom while I sort out the destination dance, whether it be the end of the road, or a last effort to freedom from fear. I do not like African American contra indicator culture very much, aside from their urban brutality, and still feel, as liberal educational programming has pointed out in relation to indigenous populations of the Northern hemisphere, that the original African, the first among us, are being evolved out, even if never vanished, entirely. I know it doesn't work that way, but their skins are lighter. Ice Tea is certainly not fresh out of the Congo, for instance, just as I know I am gunning for time I do not have, but lets dwell on it a moment: just because black collectivism, with its stoic humility, makes me turn up my nose, I would not pick an ADA client, or a Caucasian, for a job, just because my racial prejudice is now intensified: I just never want a black person to come within ten feet of my personal care. That is the way it is, in my lovely deployment of social Darwinism.