Blooper Pitch

"I am licensed to carry," my former weekend attendant of biracial extraction

Succumbing to able bodied rationalism, if we can call it that, I allowed the harried healthcare professionals to order a home hoya, so the home boy doesn't break his back, my hope of full recovery ever narrowing. How long he actually stays on with me is an open question, as he tells me stories about his family killing each other in Germantown, and I showed him my account but told him not to read it given my gleeful use of slurs when I am in the mood. On the downside, I am taking a chance, as he upped my FB friends by one-- so we can add a two minority count-- former co-worker Cheryl and Shawn the zodiac believer. Unfortunately, in my recent post respectfully pushing back against Nick, I was correct. "What's liberalism?" Shawn the hip cat asked, illustrating the upside. If he disregards my prohibition and reads my links, he'll never comprehend the full imprecation of my hostility. Then again, I could not sync for 24 months because I did not comprehend iPhone had to pop up on the wireless network. Does this even things out? Do I solicit your pity? Will I engage death by cop and earn a student march thereby?

As anticipated, reading the English subtitles for Zone Blanche on my wider laptop is far more comprehensible, and I reviewed the pilot (again), ecstatic that French writers don't play me for a fool. Brahaim's Major Weiss solves her murder, kidnapping, murder (brother, widow, best friend) around the elongated subplots in the more inexplicable back stories, with just the mere suggestion of more sinister and foreboding aspects yet left to be unraveled. Methinks the writers are asking is the evil which emanates from baser human motives a magnifier of evolutionary brutality, or do natural events not particularly favorable to survival make it easier for the shrinkage of compassion? If so, the episodes have far better balance than any American counterpart. I like Brahaim, frail but tenacious, the maimed warrior in pursuit of her objective; I like the allergic prosecutor and the finesse of his comic relief, yet capable of breaking a suspect. We have some worthwhile motifs to examine as I savor S1, keeping my fingers crossed that the entrails don't spill out with an obvious stench, plotting the points in my head to distance myself from Mr. Mocha when I need to work. I have been a long time picking up the pieces while he watches The Young and the Restless. I do not do soap half as well as domestic terrorism, much like Emmanuel himself. So handsome, so Kennedy, in the romance of Paris I'll never taste.

Permanent Lacunae

This is one of Trump's most underappreciated political achievements of the year: consolidation of power over a party to which he had scant personal or institutional ties. -- Matthew Yglesias, Vox

The reason I do not remember Titus Welliver as the "man in black" on Lost is because the dowager allowed her following of the show to lapse in the second season, which can be taken as a veiled critique of a complex mystery which made too many demands on its viewers, not that I am denying the show was a radical innovation; thinking about it over the last couple days, I was surprised by how much I had forgotten about it, the real time back stories and their tie ins to the unexplained occurrences. Excluding my ignorance over how good or bad Abrams work was on the lost youth of Star Trek. I ten to believe JJ cannibalized his own capital due to overreach. His writers deployed some of Lost's tactics in Revolution, and it felt anemic, and Once Upon A Time downgraded itself to a fourth grade series of correspondences. I've posted before that Lost's escapism from the impairments of biological reality was a coping mechanism pertinent, if not entirely beneficial, to the diseased and the lame, however quaint or charming you'd like to make it, while Jennifer Rubin claims Trump is destroying democracy and my friend Nick wonders, almost simultaneously, if Trump is killing the libertarian movement. Personally, I think Zuckerberg has destroyed history, freedom of thought, and that this lands on Facebook's desk, so Mark should be jailed, tried for crimes against humanity, and his dwindling assets, 30 billion in losses at last count, should be distributed to poor stricken scholars on the comparative basis of measuring IQ against limited resources.

Years ago, I promised you I would put a Lost reviewing on my to-do list, and I apologize that it has only made it to a watch list which might as well be the fountain of youth. It isn't simply a matter of paying Prime for what I once got for free. I balk at going back into the puzzle, because I know there were threads left unanswered, and tend to believe Abrams success is a reflection of a post traumatic terrorism flux  from which we cannot break free. I also told you, years ago, that I started a novel in 1989 strikingly similar to the idea of Lost, real world characters vanishing to an island plagued by never ending insurgency. I shortened the title to Don Paydola, a bit wonky. Gretchen Laskas read part of it and claimed I was a writer's writer, the parts of it I actually typed to hard drive still temporarily locked into an office 7 .wps extension. I overreached with the ambition of that concept too. We'll see if I ever finish it, and stop worrying about my resentment that a Jewish television producer got quixotic. I really don't understand why we exaggerate the forces at play. Everyone drops an egg because Facebook harnesses a sixth of the global population, while on an individual basis, none of us take it that seriously. Trump is a vulgar carnival barker, but he tapped into the little guy. The left thinks this is a suicide pact, and the right is rife with factionalism, but we'll live. John Bolton is a known element. 

In the Retrograde

Since I am, in whatever enfeebled manner, discussing politics, hanging on the implied assurances of Nick Gillespie's data, I do not take issue with Reason’s editor at large laying blame on Hillary’s 2017 campaign as being poorly managed, but having the former first lady from Arkansas take a mea culpa for having won the coasts and lost the center doesn’t solve our national ailments. Nick conveniently glosses over Hillary’s implicit appeal to national ethos in West Virginia in 2007. Both she and President Clinton were widely criticized for how they handled their opposition to Obama’s candidacy, but Nick seems to imply that if she was the wrong candidate against her former boss, she should have been the right one against Donald Trump. He never mentions Bernie Sanders, Anthony Weiner’s frolic with girls in middle school, the email server. These were self-inflicted wounds which could have easily been avoided had the Democratic Party a viable alternate to the Clinton brand. I can’t speak for those in Maga, for those who believe Trump will deliver to his base, but I didn’t want either candidate. I’ve written more than once why I made the choice I did, and part company with more rational conservatives like James Woods, who has made his own brand count on policy, when it comes to the border wall. I remain opposed, despite my recent experience with bona fide immigrants tending to my care. I don’t think these barriers work. All you have to do is examine Israel’s border with Syria, then ask yourself if this is what Zionists envisioned as the war years drew to a close. I also don’t like protectionism and the tariffs against China, and my life in the Commonwealth is the hell it’s always been, not to mention that prior to my drastic mechanical failures, I fought like a dog applying for jobs on Linked In, only to have recruiters vanish into   thin air after they approached me with letters of interest. It’s cruel and not fair that I can’t even get people like Jody Condi to so much as talk to me after all the hardships I’ve been through since fall, given my age and what I’m up against, and I am not even in the top tiers of the administration where generals and executives crash to the ground in rampant deforestation. My caretaker has been torturing himself all week about leaving Jewish Employment Vocational Services (JEVS), which has had its hand in the attendant care till for years, for a custodial job in the school system where he has been strung along since the Superbowl. I thought he was leaving, and now I wonder if my regret at his impending departure was an undue influence on his decision to stay. He said he was sick of submitting his prints to the FBI. Sign of the times—but it’s not Trump destroying democracy. His primary supporters did that by making him the frontrunner. That result is the GOP’s fault, which traditionally has an heir apparent, something the left could have done without in the waning dusk of Obama’s second term. I’ve made some progress with this black man who cares too much not to abandon me, like an overgrown little boy, the eight days I took to pass a large bowel movement not a particularly benevolent sign. Even if March For Our Lives wins some concessions on gun regulation, I still think Nick is barking up the wrong tree. It’s past the point for the Clintons to heal divisions and restore the center left, in my minuscule importance as one of the 177,000 who placed the country on this trajectory. This aide taught me how to sync via my hotspot, something Andreas from ATT couldn’t do for all his concerted efforts. I’m grateful, despite the iPhone unreliability. Guilt on my conscience is another matter.

Timber

The Michael Bennett indictment is interesting for several reasons: it involves the evolution of negligence in criminal law, and Michael McCann delineates these issues with expertise for Sports Illustrated, a publication I peruse but sparingly, and intersects at the midpoint of competing progressive values. Identity politics versus identity politics, black male self-righteousness, the intimidation, either necessary or perceived, in black athleticism, the inclusion of the disabled in society, among other things. Where I side with the skeptics is the length of time involved for the investigation going forward. 411 days for the police to gather evidence and the DA to indict? The situation begins to feel more like a personal injury case to be settled in civil court. The poor bastard now managing my daily living, would be on the side of Eugene Gu, if he had enough sense to know what liberalism was, and while I am not quite with Acevedo, I cannot  quite discount the narrative of the investigators on the case.

Michael Bennett is being politically persecuted for taking the knee. These felony charges for pushing past someone are way over the top and make it seem like he is the Austin bomber. Oh wait, the Austin bomber was “smart and kind.” pic.twitter.com/zcH0FAi6ZR

— Eugene Gu, MD (@eugenegu) March 23, 2018

Eugene Gu's rather inflammatory comparison of Conditt with Bennett, a man whom one supposes Gu considers an American dissent, troubles me far more than the Texas cow chips flinging themselves about like buckshot. The preponderance of the evidence suggests Mark Conditt is the serial bomber who so recently terrorized Austin, but we need to remember this young man will never be tried, never convicted, and for a surgeon like Gu to even compare the Conditt's familial shock to Bennett's alleged poor conduct is an outrage. I am a self proclaimed racist and even I have significant questions about why the DA went forward. I am, however, a quadriplegic victim of urban corruption many many times over, and I feel like the district attorney is standing up for me, once removed. You want to see pity for Conditt's family as a double standard when looking at authority's speculative vindictiveness against Bennett? It really isn't that simple; it isn't the way statutory law works, and as a medical professional, Gu, a child of the radical Asian left, perhaps? is being irresponsible. He's a doctor, and should know something about inner emotional pain. After 9/11, the shocked Sunni's in the Middle East said "Run Osama, run!" Remember? I was slightly, ever so slightly tempted, to give the then anonymous bomber a lecture about not getting caught. I would have gotten into trouble, and because the situation made no sense, hung my fire. I'm glad, as this poor boy would have made me appear idiotic.

Family Feud Embellishment

Torture is not who we are as a people. America has always been that shining hope of liberty. People around the world look to America want freedom from torture NOT freedom to torture.

— Senator Rand Paul (@RandPaul) March 18, 2018

I am off to bed momentarily, anxious about my travel plans, partnered with a tall gargantuan of a lanky fellow named Shawn, both of us in a situation where we have to make it work, I do not have enough money for the taxi, nor enough change to take the buses back to the city, so I may literally be stranded when I get to Saint Kevin, if I get there, taking longer and longer to orient myself for even a pretense of work, the conventional wisdom in the media is the GOP is in trouble for the midterms due to Trumpian cannibalism of its core values, particularly after Conor's razor thin victory. The dowager leans toward a certain Puritanical cruelty lobbed at Murphy, which she is not exactly positive is a benefit for any district's constituents. I do not know how to evaluate Murphy's experience as a representative, but my argument, one which cuts across ideology, is that Americans seem to equate bad personal conduct with bad governance. This may be accurate when Trump's rhetoric corresponds to questionable policy positions, but I am not so sure who gets laid where matters when it comes to static public unions versus right to work. 

Twitter can also be a non-statistical weather vane, and that Rand is reigniting Abu Ghraib is a more pertinent sign of troubled waters, whether or not we're gearing for war with Iran, in lieu of a third world war pivoting on North Korea. Rand's adamant iteration is a fall back position, not entirely true, whether we look at DOD policy or domestic. Americans combine a certain degree of linear simplicity (thinking of Bosch), with an undercurrent of brutishness. I asked the Senator from Kentucky where this histrionic Bush era replay was coming from, didn't expect a response, but landed an interesting debate, even in the face of jet lag, given that our ideological militancy with Islamic factionalism has run its course. The hits France took from Allah's partisans was the lunge of a dying beast. Persia is a different cup of tea, and libertarians have to do better than wave the flag of an innate manifest destiny. That died with the invasion of a country which had nothing to do with 9/11, and Katrina. Good night, as we see what tomorrow brings in its enfeebled journey, if it even gets off the ground, still able to press myself, nevertheless, I'm never to be the same, ever again.

Tertiary Clusters

"I am a living ghost."-- Constantin Reliu

To be reduced to thinking wedging a ten dollar plastic feminine urinal around fancily sewn napkin paper with wadding is an accomplishment is already a significant spiral downward, and the dowager is up very late because her distressed colon will be the death of her, as an hour after the temporary Jevs attendant left, things went to town, even as I buy her food I cannot afford. Why? Given what you read, it must seem strange, but these people get slave wages, finally having my hair washed, and I have no other responsibilities. I may be hostile to urban black humility and low self-esteem, but these people have nothing, most of them, trash television, much the same way franchise authors and screen writers sell junk bonds on quantum theory. Third Contact does not fall into my category of “flawed but intriguing”. It is the worst tripe I’ve ever seen produced in Britain, and it goes as follows: a suicidal psychiatrist begins losing his patients to suicide, then discovers they pick some kind of alternate memory and a scientist sends them to this particular quantum field of happily ever after. The conflicts in the plot involve his disbelief, and then he joins them, in a garden with his wife, who in this world, sustained a trauma which is ambiguous, perhaps a miscarriage. Brian Greene consoles us on television, poking fun at himself with alternate universe theories, because the laws of nature tend to repeat themselves, but this is tantamount to asserting that the particle accelerator and Vatican canonical law are neck and neck in the same rat race, the same quest for immortality.

I have referred to this before on Blogger, but the sole happy moment in my life was when John Tassoni snuck up on me in the dormitory hall with his freezing hands wrapping me in a bear hug, his intent being merely to startle me, add me into his cache of flirtations because the little boy inside the boxer wants to be loved. He had no idea I had fallen in love with him, not then, not there, and had I kept my stupid mouth shut, perhaps I would have never found myself on Race Street with a load of shit in my pubic hair. I do not believe, for the tenth of a second that the God particle may exist, that in an alternate universe he and I married and made an intellect tag team while I’m the radiant mother of his children. For all the complexities of the technology and the functional equations, the human super monkey always needs a venue for hope springs eternal, while my sister, middle child princess, walls herself in her home of denial, never making more than pro forma gestures of sympathy, and I, the invalid of his issue, perhaps the fault of my mother’s turbulent body, ripping out of her birth canal, disgusted and as weary as he, commit to doing the whole funeral in hostile territory. Maybe it is the stress, the probiotic, but if I cannot regain some of the function I still had in September, I am done. My stepmother died a horrible death, trapped in a terrible, if not horrifying marriage, to a father I’ve loved so strongly because he’s incapable of being emotionally supportive. He throws money at the issue, I throw money at impoverished minorities with whom I want nothing to do, taking small victories in having vanquished the Muslim’s prostrate ass in my face, and now I have to go make a mess. Can’t lie in it; not going to get much sleep.

Drainage Slats, authorized version

As I dug up my mother, minus her best photographic image, after I started this blog, in 2010, slightly too languorous to link the sites together, this was her invidious late life college student nursing peer who turned around and married her friend's husband.

Don't date Nick, mother said, disputing my memory of her advice. She told me she did not tell Louise not to date my father, but you can weigh an eldest daughter's daggers against an ambivalent divorcee, and Louise turned around and dated Nick, their age disparity similar to mine and Frank's, with reverse polarity. Frank allowed himself to die as my punishment, aged 69, whereas my father married an insatiable vampire, gnarled and inflamed knuckles only adding to her unhappy materialist avarice.

Don't speak ill? O, younger sister and I could go much further...

But the irony remains that this woman saw me with "Bedlam" blinking out of her eyes, and I remained independent for as nearly long as she transformed herself into a nursing home mattress. High school psycho-dramatist Victoria knows absolutely nothing about the facade behind the grimace of her charge. It aiin't over yet.

"It's like the Hatfield's and McCoy's," Stephanie typed. I laughed in cliched confirmation. 

Every Unhappy Family Rolls Anna Karina Under the Train

I am not going to catch hell from pulling an all nighter today. TLC has dropped my case, and the JEVS case manager, of course, wasn’t informed that I’m quadriplegic. I informed her yesterday at the last moment, 3:30, then the West African nearly took my foot off, and this is public assistance at its finest. Just finished an inconclusive message exchange with Victoria, a woman whom I previously stated I wasn’t going to characterize, a woman whose employment caring for my dead stepmother was terminated shortly before this latest death watch, and nothing ever happens at the right time for me, except that another Caucasian all-American flake with television wide blue eyes texts me in the middle of the night as if she and I were in high school. She is sweet, thinks Louise was sweet, and I’ve spent far too much time trying to utilize her now inability to assist me, could unfriend her, but where else am I going to get material? I wasn’t okay for a little while. I may never again masquerade the perception of imperturbability  again, with my antagonism toward Louise miscued as Victoria refused to read the sharpness in my query about her condolences. I don’t hate Louise, didn’t know her well enough for that, as the bottom drops out from under my solar plexus, all of her suffering, the duress, my 82 year old father’s emptiness, no one left to boomerang on his anger over his dead son, my sense of displacement over Hawking’s demise surreal, as otherworldly as his deadpan explanations of the cosmos. I am not going to get past the physical punishment I am taking, and it is on me for leaving Hahnemann internal medicine prior to 2016, on me for my subsequent collapse, my failure with Jefferson, not changing where I am in the present, none of Hawking’s reserve and humor, elusive referencing. The difference between his lampooned round the clock care and my father’s wife is one of utility, of function. Louise either desired or was made to combat her rheumatoid arthritis and its blood infections too hard; it was too hard on mio padre, and didn’t help me from a distance, but Hawking was a public spectacle, footage of his emaciated frame in a tarp on TMZ, I truly regret his passing, as much as I sometimes regret investigative journalism.

It may be a post modern aspect, sympathizing with bad actors, and this horse has long bolted out of the barn despite my mild censure, but exactly who did the Pittsburgh Post Gazette help in its expose of Tim Murphy’s texts? The woman he slept with, us? We tend to see his private interactions with his mistress as hypocritical, but a man’s life was destroyed because he yielded to temptation. One of my lovers also offered to pay for a d & c, as it’s called, a uterine scrape, but then I calmed down. Fortunately, my life wasn’t further complicated by an unwanted pregnancy with a married man, but I am beginning to wonder about which shark is worse, the aphrodisiac of power, or the lunge to take it down. We have lost faith in institutions, in legislative processes, each other, and then hand the baton to the next fresh face. Do you ever stop to consider the devastation we’ve wrought?

Orthographical Scraping

Not their technology, our technology!-- Jason Cope

I freely confess that my page views from Russia perplex me. They surge in my darkest moments, engaging in confirmation bias or astonishment, even ridicule, perhaps exploitation, then recede when I have a valid critique, or perhaps to them, I am a unique specimen, the now wavering invalid who defied Google, the Philadelphia police, University of Pennsylvania’s psychiatric procedures, and my rental agent, only to fall to family and a shyster excuse for a wheelchair technician. Such largesse would not be granted to me in the post-Soviet Putin era, not being an apt love interest for the traitorous Edward Snowden, but whatever is going in the globe’s largest, but sparsely populated nation, which could be quite easily defeated by the Chinese military, something which I am sure our intelligence agencies know better than I on the sheer strength of numbers alone, I was not manipulated by Russian propaganda during the election cycle. Like many in the right wing, Trump was not my first choice during the primaries, but I was then an independent, and do not engage in backing a particular political horse, state or nation-wide, all that often. Trump prevailed, and I was actually going to throw my vote to the libertarians. Instead, I took pity on my aunt. I concede, during my unhappy engagement with Yabberz, that some of the spin on the Clinton Foundation may have been doctored, but this was not an influence on my vote. That goes to Monica Lewinsky and the Starr Report, because it is just possible that we would have been just that more vigilant about the rise of Al Qada and Osama bin Laden had we the people not been in an uproar about impeachment and sexual impropriety during President Clinton’s second term.

Now, the dowager defended Bill in her communities, as the Senate voted down the House articles, but in the aftermath of two decades of terrorism and failed neo-conservative warfare, I put the onus for this on the Clintons. Had the Clinton administration heeded the rising temperature of Islamic radicalism, GW would not have had a rationale for Iraq 2.0, in our failed game of chicken with Baathist prawns. This is how my pyramid is built, and continuously disappointed, my gravitation toward anarchy no better or worse than what has gone before. District 9 remains my favorite niche film in the science fiction genre, and I’d argue that it isn’t quite as ironclad for progressive tolerance as meets the eye, though it never references apartheid overtly, because native black South Africans inhabit an anomalous place in the energy of the documentary narrative. Regardless of Blomkamp’s intent, we come away uniquely challenged by his unique little gem: first contact might neither be as transcendent or malicious as the industry often feeds it to us. Arrival tilts its axis on the same pole, and opts for the benevolence of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, or Starman, never quite considering Blomkamp’s striking thought that we’d wind up with Serbian camp conditions instead. Having been around since Khrushchev and the fabled shoe tactic, I have no love lost for collective state models, nor modern leftist cult style corruption which results in the death of Putin's opposition. I have been disenfranchised by corruption on the American left, and while I may not be the enemy of Slavic mindsets, don’t presume I am your appeaser either. Implosive anger such as mine often leads to attacks on the social altruism towards which we naturally incline, such as those striking Austin. I’m quite aware of that, though in this case, if law enforcement is correct that this involves music industry figures, that adds up to quite a bit of specious hemlock. So we wait and see, wondering if Greg Abbott will have a political life after his tenure.

That Nick Gillespie liked two of my tweets since I started supporting Reason isn't a job contract, and it doen't mean Brian will green light my next pitch. The magazine is just this side of too California for my tastes, but since I desire to keep exploring libertarian themes, it is nonetheless a small hope against alarm at the occasional spastic tremor.

A Civet’s Perineal Gland

The civet produces a musk highly valued as a fragrance -- a Wiki entry

Would viewer’s like this implosive and still not master of the blogger format to walk it back, offer an expression of remorse against tantalizing aspects of destructive impulses? Let’s listen to the planks creak under a plodding tread and see where we wind up this Monday morning. I was going to try to explain some of this to the caretaker, with the pressures she’s under, colliding with mine, leading to another failed outreach, in my continuing attempt to rebuild a support system. I don’t wish to diagram her as I have Karina, (and even here, my diagram of white post-beatnik flakes is meant to illustrate that trying to circumvent regulated paradigms has failed me, more than once in recent months) but for women in their 30’s, they seem to share certain attributes of fragility in common beyond grieving for their mothers. We all grieve for mothers if we live long enough, although in Arrival we have an inverse loss of a mother losing a daughter to a terminal illness. I tend to agree with Renner’s physicist that Amy Adams, in character, made the wrong choice. Vileneuve created an excellent film, made me interested in Chaing’s novella, but I have to reject the transcendental consolations of the director’s vision. It is bad enough having cerebral palsy, but I’ve had so much cut out of my life that so many of you in my class have had, and a studio in which I am sick of living looks more like a storage locker in a bus depot. It makes Dinklage seem nearly art deco chic in The Station Agent What my father is doing to his third wife is exactly what he did to me as a child, and the incessant drama of this woman’s hammock swing between life and death, for the last ten years, wears on me, wears on my sister, it’s wrong, and I vow not to prolong my pain on that road, even though I am in a dreadfully vulnerable tumult at the moment.

Medicare, which Krugman announced as an event on his eligibility day, cannot go on like this indefinitely. If I balk at my freefall, look at my stepmother’s. She is bedridden, barely cogent on a good day, in constant pain and in need of round the clock care, for ten years, a virtual trade deficit in her own right. All I’ve ever really been in need of was a decent power chair, good technology, an efficient transport and my career back. Regardless of your politics, I never intended, regardless of my belief that an urban grid would be easier, to have the clock stopped because the Commonwealth’s rehabilitation governance is a joke everyone knows. I get mad because it is up to us, the people, to change it, but we don’t, certainly not in Pennsylvania. Aging, the end of life, it is neither easy, nor efficient, but we could do better, unlike the Visiting Nurses Association. They have no authority to get Mike from Mr. Wheelchair to undo the damage he’s done; they shoved an unsafe generic hospital bed down my throat, and then Nancy Lotz says “oh, sorry, call your father, put your bed back together.” It isn’t that simple, and I’d have to pay people for their time, non-linear or not, and the VNA bills Medicare—for taking my temperature. That’s fraud. So was my week in the hospital. I wasn’t sick, I’m simply being killed by a scooter a shady jackass foisted on me, and I need to pick a day to stay up until morning to find a lawyer. I’d have an easier time sleeping with Peter Thiel.

Auto Immune Flares

love lies bleeding in my hands-- the other British faggot of whom I've time honored conflicted ambivalence

I can barely remember H.G. Wells’ The Invisible Man. Read long ago as a teen not so specious then as to transpose it with Ellison’s Invisible Man, yet specious enough now to tell you they interlock, the concrete superficial suspense tale the film industry cannot resist revising on a continuous basis, and the powerful novel by Ellison which abrogates racial identity. A recent rendition written by Henderson attempts to elevate Wells’ science fiction with some of Ellison’s stark eloquence of erasure, perhaps asking us to reconsider scientific endeavor and zealous overkill. Henderson manages canonical faith to the original character in his upgrade, giving Griffith a dead son whom the doomed scientist believes was butchered by a former student, and we are given Griffith’s flashback of what he believes occurred with only circumstantial evidence, as he drinks his formula, acquires Hodgkin’s disease, descends into madness. I am not sure why the remake was made, as I respect my stepmother’s caretaker enough to tell her Louise may have purchased her last medical drama, curious thing, social media. I liked this woman when she disposed of my filthy mattress, and Facebook has given me hints about her emotional instability. I like her less, and way way back in archives, before Google dangled a suspension threat, I drew more than 30 page views in my matter of fact caustic bite. If she dies things will change. Social intelligence gawked at the circumspect nature of my developmental mindset. The caretaker doesn’t realize there is little love lost between me and Louise, with her deadly rheumatoid arthritis and her caustic mouth, complaining to me about my father’s impotence, stigmatizing my brother, saying I should be put away. Her son’s willingness to slash her tires, while an intimidating expression of rage, is an act I comprehend, but what pisses me off is my father subsumes his life like a dog for a sick and florid catty woman, always unpleasant and miserable, who should have been allowed to die three years ago, at least, while I hang like a chad, a consequence of my own obstinance. I did this to me, moving to bad neighborhoods in a sterile city, and now my mother’s nursing school colleague sleeps in hospice, younger sister and I in a truce of purveyed necessities, making a pun only I understand from one of Jerry’s workshop pieces. Think plague. Stephanie and I worry about Dad, the toll on poppa, poor poppa, and I have maybe a day or so left with the Muslim who is wiping my ass. How can I empathize Ellison and label myself his antithesis? A racist is as much reduced as those she stereotypes. You can all go fuck yourselves, because I am still well enough to live instead of urinating Depends, weary of the eschatology dynamic. Yes, death is a part of life, unless you’re a ghoul like Peter Thiel, pulverizing Nick Denton, British nigger lover who’d remove my malicious rhetoric.

From Here to The Eternal Plague

Alessandro Manzoni’s seminal work is on my mind because of Renzo’s forced migratory path in Milan. My history with The Betrothed is somewhat quixotic: I started reading the text at a free access site, perhaps Harvard classics, or John Hopkins. I then paid ten dollars and change for a kindle academic edition, started the novel once again, and left Manzoni’s besieged youth at the inn, slightly imbibed. I also purchased an academic study of Manzoni which I had also just started, it was expensive, and I engaged briefly with the Italian literature instructor about it, and it is hopefully undamaged in one of my boxes, but maybe this gives my audience another perspective on my vehemence about public housing. It refuses to cease disrupting my ambition, and it I really do go down in a criminal flare of rage, don’t be surprised. I have barely been able to live a semblance of my former life since October, one that was already too constricted, and the VNA keeps saying they will “bring me back.” They have made this assertion since November while I am struggling in Mike’s power chair with no desk arms on a two inch cushion which leaves me dangling. I am no stranger to temporary loan chairs, but this thing, for me, is a health hazard. I keep trying to divorce VNA, and the Jewish crones want to continue on with this love fest of ineptitude. They will not continue on for long, because I have to bring myself back, and I am starting to rebel. As soon as the Muslim is exchanged for another brow beaten fatalist of the underclass, I’ll push back more, though I considered dousing my scalp tonight, and shelved it, despite my knowledge that I’d feel better if I did, Saran’s ever constant accented protests ringing in my ear.

I have little idea why she was allowed to emigrate to the US, under the Clinton Administration. She is 53, certainly not moving on up, in the lingo of Norman Lear’s aspiration when The Jeffersons had cultural relevance. She misses Africa, her religious absolutions interfere with things I need to do, and though I have been through worse, her prayer activity is unprofessional. No one confronts her, not the health care Jewish league I’m arm wrestling, not the intake coordinators, nor I. If I get too confrontational before my switch, she could drop me, and yes, she stays where others would have quit, until I solve the toiletry issue, or I don’t, well aware I could die from this. I may not be comfortable with her, but I feel horrible about what she does for me. It is too much, for me, her, anyone, but like Renzo, miraculously untouched by buboes as he walks the length of Italy under Austrian rule, a journey of displacement, nevertheless one I envy so much. I am not entirely untraveled, but remain impressed that Jason Dorwart has transversed the heartland, while I remain in stasis, weakening in the city of my birth. I had a small exchange with Jason about his material needs, and do not know how to accommodate him at this time.

In my archives, I have written before I am diffident about performance and empowerment in disability culture, but I also do not have much access to it, so this is problematic, especially as not all of us have Dinkage’s cross over appeal, so recently off the lone hip Superbowl commercial. Doing an analysis from a YouTube viewing, even if it was pertinent to his theatrical periodical, might not be entirely fair to the troupe, but yes, I am glad he found me, peer to peer. One can’t always get away from identity politics, or autocratic injustice. Manzoni ranks highly with me, however, nearly Stendhal’s equal at psychological penetration. Will I live long enough to read him in dialect? I’d like to.

The Thieves of Lake Cumo

The European woman who I reference here, with my minimal Italian catch phrases, and here, in my otherwise harmless effort at ingratiating camaraderie, blocked me for my attempt at middlebrow kindness, and yes, I have been sling-backing twitter long enough to distance myself from over-heating, but still, I meant no harm and was trying to be a kindred spirit.

@Svetulja15 Ciao! Jozanny <___mio mal

😎

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) February 26, 2018

 My archeological dip shits on this account have nothing to do with her, or forming an attempted rapport with those still residing in my generational homeland, and I wish her well, but we cannot always remain immune from such slams. I am not really into Vincent D’Onofrio’s fireside chats with his followers, to utilize him as an example. He seemed a little too into it somehow, with his tweets, and got burned. As a consequence of being made a fool, he turned his social media account over to a manager, and I rather silently went poof: I can conceivably see a day where I can write an essay about Goren and the law’s relationship to disability and crime, but editors were created to give their writers press passes, if I ever get myself out from under this dip shit, piling as it does. D’Onofrio didn’t seem able to manufacture the requisite coolness, whereas I’m in the middle. I can simply be analytical, but still let my hair down now and then, however the “numbers game” of social media twists our heads. I am not the only writer of such unfortunate circumstances. Alessandro Manzoni wound up suffering from a nervous condition after The Betrothed gave us the modern historical novel. Bulgakov is known for one work, and he burned The Master and Margarita, then rewrote it from memory, (I can do no such thing with my works, which Riverside has repeatedly placed at risk.) We cannot all plot a book a year, as Oates does, though I think she has taken “publish or perish” so literally as to have diluted her power, and I simply hate Stephen King, to let the cripple in me be true to herself. King is not the worst fantasist, by far, but most of his output is dreck, and even at his best, his motifs are infantile. The Stand, for a nearly hysterical work about the collapse of civilization in the US, turns out just to be a retelling of the Resurrection through King’s sympathies for white trash working class. I prefer puking to treating him with respect, as I’ve had my fill of white trash mentality of late. Rather than pivot it in on the screw, giving you a two page post, my broken spirit worms its way to bed. We’ll pick up.

Back Up Parentis with Titus

Do you ever have anything positive to say?-- my better weekend aide

The only thing Bosch brings to the table as a procedural, in my estimation, is hard luck forming its central character as a stickler with his own honor code, (something with which I identify) but the second season opened with something which threads through the history of civilization: using human frailty as a form of masking. The first thing this wizened detective does after a six month suspension for flipping a pissant captain, fraudulent as that felt, is expose a suspect as not his father with emphysema in a wheelchair on oxygen. Chair gets violently thrown, (not that this doesn't happen to actual users) suspect flees, and our star of course lassos him in. Hugo makes the same distinctions in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, when the unfortunate poet Pierre Gringoire gets corralled by beggars of a 15^th(?) century Paris in upheaval. They only pretend to be lame and crippled. The gruesome operatives of Slumdog Millionaire, if you recall, take no chances with such fakery, and blind destitute street kids to beg for what must be an unstable currency. Although I can feel Jason Dorwart’s raised eyebrows behind me, nothing has truly changed in the world. Why do I assert this? Because Erik von Schmetterling, for all his transsexual ADAPT zealotry of yesteryear, is senile, his troops dying in Riverside Presbyterian’s lobby, while I’m literally quaking myself to death in an incompetent mechanic’s contraption because I can no longer pivot to take a damn dump in the toilet and the medical professionals around me are going berserk bilking Medicare without doing a damn thing to restore my function, and a west African minority has me running around doing her job because she’s too tired. So I have to criss cross center city buying supplies I cannot afford. I can, conceivably, explore suing Mr Wheelchair for product liability, but by the time that needle moves a stroke will have probably hit me, my body actually fighting the disposable adult wear for hours until discharge necessarily takes place, in pain regardless of her masks and gloves and her physically brutal ignorance. I allowed Dana to see too much of this, my racial hostility. It preys a little because she is morally decent, but her provider, TLC, is “cheap immigrant labor,” once removed. Karina is little better, white as she may be. I wasn’t planning on a yodel about entitlement metastasis this morning, however, but since I’m here, from what I am able to observe, millennials and the adolescents coming up behind them may well end up living in much more poorer standards than those I’ve had; I just have to find the right entryway to broach the topic without causing undo friction to my family in their hardships, but it does alarm me. Karina is 38 and she has an adrift life. At that age, I was earning between 250 and 400 on commissioned articles, working, in other words. Nevertheless, let me uplift my percussion with an upbeat rhythm, as transitory as social media can be, I was heartened by Svetlana's discovery of my account, dare I consider her a spiritual sister in arms!