It
is not that I cannot work, I am recalcitrant about starting something new when
I was in the middle of other things, but I suppose I can marshal my forces,
weakened as they are, evaluate whether or not I need to interview Woods, and
then form my questions. One thing I am not interested in, and this goes for O’Neal
as well, whose publicist chose not to respond to my inquiry, though I intend to
persist, is prurient “gotcha” profiles. O’Neal was too candid with Tavis Smiley
in 2012. The interview was memorable, by media standards a successful expose,
one in which Ryan may not have meant to reveal he was a bit bitchy, but it didn’t
serve his legacy, and I prefer to learn more about craft, sans Al Pacino, who
has taught his fans, fantasy fuck melt girl here included, about the art. If I
do approach James, this is what I want, not his sex life, or his scorecard
political bites. I want the work, some intangible insight into his magnetism, and
if I’ve fallen in love just a little, from a distance, I can afford it. It may
even smooth out my ability to finesse over and above letting the world know I’m
owed for my own continuously browbeat ability: Dana got me on the toilet, and I
am weak, but not quite that weak, and perhaps should sue Mike. The code, in
disability culture, is wheelchair mechanics are supposed to get it, and I feel
betrayed, because Mike’s sensibility is I’m supposed to know how to build my
own chair. That is his job, even if his wife is sick, I don’t know how it assuages his
personal life to drag me down the drain with him. What I do may not matter if
what I do is too late, and he places demands on me I can’t meet, Trudy Richardson
wants what’s best for me? How is pressure sores on a bad machine good for me,
not even able to go to the bathroom without a thirty year old woman pole
vaulting my body because I can’t help her on a scooter device which impedes me?
And the answer to this is to have a rookie cop haul me off for psychiatric care?
Penn Medicine bounced me back to Riverside in record speed, the police having washed
their hands, and Trudy says “well you don’t
have to be so aggressive.”
Yes
I do. I would not have survived independent living collusion if I hadn’t been
so aggressive, if I had not made an effort to put dirty laundry front and
center, and then there’s Mike, like a damn body slam, toss the product and then
reel the hook, so long, and good luck, an old man with a sick wife burying me
along side him, this is why I believe violence needs to create upheaval. Trauma
teaches the complacent a lesson.
Not
Paddock’s way, no. McVeigh was closer, and he and Nichols posed a threat to the
state. This is what disability activism needs, a leader smart enough to
threaten the compliance models represented by the Richardson’s and the Nancy
Lotz’s of the world. But whether it is cousins, or private hires, or state aides,
housekeeping takes precedence over what small contentment I held to. “The
apartment looks cleaner,” a false
positive, signifying nothing, other than I am right, and have been right all
along. I need to be sacrificed for the sake of sanitation, and if that’s the
case, why not let me go to sleep? Because the Pope says all life is precious,
to the last. If we really believe that, Presbyterian Homes and Liberty Resources
would have admitted negligence long ago, but we deny, then reveal too much, and
burrow, the damn human race. I claim the right to pave the way for a new age militancy, as good as my word, researching Krugman on trade, a militant that will follow in my wake, since I am not diabolical nor quite
ruthless enough, not gouging out the eyes of my CO, like Alvarez, in his
senseless, senseless cage. Tom Brady critically injured on the field? That would be a start. A call to arms!
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