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.
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