Lazarus’ Preclampsia Gorilla Channel Mitigation

His hands, palms upward at his sides, were covered in blood.-- JG Ballard, Crash, p3

I have to walk myself back, and admit to a correction: There are whites, at least those who work for Liberty Health, who are as moronic as Presbyterian Homes minority managerial staff like Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson, even if it befuddles me why the coffee light guard downstairs is fixated on my father’s rushed appearance during this too lengthy interregnum which will result in my spirit being crushed. I do not know what Liberty Health is, but their employees harassed me just as I was harassed in 14 by an earlier pair. The 2017 round was an older man named Tom, and one younger patronizing punk. I asked the younger if he knew any famous people with cerebral palsy. “No,” was my answer, and I should have kicked his ass, even from my filthy mattress. I did frighten them both, in October, as only women can, and they both jumped to help me eat when I hissed with scorn at “fucking regulations!” The kid was a kid, but this Tom is as much an ignorant racist as I admit to being, the forthright savant. I gave Tom more punishment over telephone, as the idiot’s contractual obligations are to shovel us like shit into nursing homes, but, the key is not my inconsolable misery, and the punishment my body is taking and will not recover from. It is what I asked the punk bastard kid, and how he responded. This signifies the failure of sixty years worth of activism and disability law, and that attitudes do not change. I never expected to literally adopt the mantle of Vassar Miller. Those odds are long, but there are not enough of us who can cross over into the mainstream. I once believed Linda Dezenski could do it, but I suppose I took care of that, not quite able to let it flow, like Dana Delaney and her cannabis dealer in “Hand of God.” The dealer is a lesbian nigger, and tells Diva Harris (Delaney) a back story that concluded, “That was the first time I made out with a woman and had an orgasm.” No big deal. Women smirk about sex just as men do, but the way my former supervisor did what she did triggered my emotional scars, and I did not think such a genteel poem as I sent her would have resulted in such a graphic suggestion. I needed to leave this building then, as I always have, my one constant, willing to be homeless outcry, and the counternarrative, looming so large, is to move in with my 94 year old grandmother.

Am I engaging in liberal outrage? Perhaps James Dorwart thinks so, assuming he has time to scan my occasionally esoteric posts—but what some of you may not understand is I am using big tent egalitarianism to illustrate that big tent egalitarianism is a crock of shit. Other wheelchair users understand better than my ambulatory followers, and I am sure James does too—maybe I’ll throw him a bone about art therapy empowerment, as I am alienated out of the shared experience of identity, ever mindful that he stayed in the ivory tower. I deflated out of it, as opposed to pole vaulted. No one’s fault that case management destroyed me in certain ways; teaching might have done so too, but I think it raises serious moral questions, that I have to be destroyed because I’ve been non-compliant—in that sort of quasi-ecumenical vein, where “Hand of God,” works as an implied Pentecostal parable, Blessid is an implied Catholic cheat sheet, and left me displeased, and even the reviewer undercuts his own enthusiasm for what Heske and Fitz do without any valid clues as to who, or what, Jedediah (Montgomery) is supposed to be. The hostile obsessed ex-lover, Ethan, attempts to murder the supernatural neighbor, and I gathered this alluded to the Crucifixion, but beyond that, the only clue offered was Edward’s mention of the neighbor’s black teeth, and that his knowledge of horticulture had something to do with his lengthy lifespan. Instead of actually redeeming “Sarah,” the story ends with the message that the Resurrection makes life precious, too awkward even for apocrypha. I pleaded for help on this account two months ago, inappropriately, and expected exactly what I received, smirking, but if I am forced beyond any choice—I suspect Sarah had other alternatives—toward involuntary medical commitment, I’d be far less anguished if I had a voluntary executor to safeguard my work, published and all. Please think about it. Despite my obstinacy, and the nuclear fallout of my idealism, I deserve better than senseless maintenance in an institution, and even deserve better than immigrant African care. I may not prevail all that much longer, unless Melania invites me over to watch the president’s wildlife footage.