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.
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