Last Day In April

Take me on. --a ha

I am not certain that I’d incur any significant losses by telling you I am researching bipolar disorder and pregnancy without yet having any potential query clear in my mind. Sourcing obstetricians and patients is, on the basis of contingency, a high wire act, thinking of my mother in her moribund jean jumpers, besieged fertility goddess of her time, blood running down her thick set thighs after she tripped outside a store. She straightened herself out without the use of a metronome during her pregnancy with Benjamin, her last child, only half-brother, rarely to dwell on her memory, slovenly sexual energy shared by eldest daughter with spears of pain in my shins, burdened more by sexual regret than anything, the game still on in his mind, and as my mewing 9:15 ache indicates, still in my mind too. The problem is I don’t have a clear read on what he wants. Why tell me he had an anal sex daydream with me if he wants me to behave? A good deal of the dowager’s arrogance was flattered by this admission, but the man’s passive aggressive baiting then swiping me down perplexes me. If it is mere lechery he could have had me by now, as my reactionary battalion of racial fear collapsed mid month. If these are his weapons, I’ve deployed my own somewhat subtle corral. It isn’t exactly nothing when daddy’s nonna puts poppa on the telephone to greet an African American male over 50 keeping her buttocks in fairly good hygiene, nor is it exactly nothing when this father’s sister decides to take him out to dinner. Marie’s largesse astonishes even me, but my family must appreciate the beatitude of my silence, a shotgun wedding with comedic exaggeration between us, he and I—in his mind, he fears my family will force a commitment on him if our already hairline intimacy billows away the scant coverage shielding the breasts of which he gets a good glimpse on a daily basis. No man or woman can ride this current forever, if it’s there. I’m old enough to remember M-TV’s initial launch on cable, the primitive social media of its day, making micro track musical narratives, all of which lumbered under Ken Wahl’s hairstyle. Though a-ha is an industry promoted boy band, You Tube was smart enough to take me back into time to the range of motion screaming in my soul on the refrain of its confidence. If he and I have such a hold on each other’s need, take on me, take me on, our smart phones are all but a cock ring and dildo apart, in theory, rebuilding the bridge I keep trying burn. There is nothing in my  damaged womanhood he doesn’t know. How did I stay on my knees in this fantasy? Let me correct myself: I have a secret or two left.

Chocolate on the Graham

I am going to open this softly and then take a hard pugilistic stance of the sort that drives my followers down, but not because I am raw, not this morning. If my tongue in cheek allusion to Reid implies that I've stepped in dog shit, part of my edginess  in relation to it is my magnified dependence. In September 17, I was still doing what I wanted when I wanted, like an ambulatory individual, and now I can't, which points to the gravity of my failure in approaching an ad hoc wheelchair vendor. I am entirely dependent on Shane, as I now brand him, and this magnifies the transgression due to erotic need, magnifies that I have less time for research, for getting my files unlocked, for writing, for getting out, and despite my privileged nepotism speeding the construction of my chair from Mainline, I may never be able to cut my attendant care again, transfer myself freely, and my dedicated aide isn't going to save me, regardless of his unwillingness to put me entirely in my place. He should. I told him some stark and ugly things about myself, and yesterday, finally, he pointed out one of my sentiments about the inner city was racist, and in my curious way, I was glad to get that rise, as I told him as early as digging out Debbie Reynolds that I was, and this is what made me laugh that particular morning: I really have embraced diametric contractions, and though I don't enjoy framing it in this fashion, my avatar for this account has merged to my personality. I have always believed that black men were easier to sleep with, I'm mainly right, and my dissonance broke the pain of my desire as I studied his face before he left Sunday, and yet it still felt like we we're exploring our prospects, which is insane. The gulf between us is too wide, and I'd never be able to cross it whether he is really considering it somewhere in the future or deflecting for the sake of keeping me gratified. Had I actually and forcefully kissed him that first evening after, that might have been the thunderbolt, but I seem to have caught myself, punctured the attraction. Next to one of his former girlfriends, I am moldy spam on a plate, reverting back to myself with a shock. The view of her looks flung me away and it hurt. I'm never that you know, sexy. He only revealed her as men and women reveal pasts, in exploration, but the blow was mortal, maybe, but what really went with it was salvation. The man may be keeping me afloat, doing a damn good job, but I cannot expand outward if I cannot lessen the bond between us, right now, impossible. There is nothing here for me to hope for. I see him as a man, care for him, and maybe do love him, but I reduce him, and myself to the lowest common denominator, a spaz on nigger waltz, and in the mouth of Nick Gillespie, Reason's editor at large, that's sad.
But so are the images Josh Groban grafts to his progressive tolerance. "Don't Give Up" is nothing less than a page lifted from Faulkner's Light In August. Joanna Burden's destructive moral guilt is fatal in her attempt to appropriate Joe Christmas.

Ischemic Stroke Pulses in Joy Reid’s Fan Club

"She apologized because she got caught." --James Woods

Basically, I have three choices. Call the case manager, a woman thirty odd years our junior, request he be exchanged for absolutely no good reason, as I came at this woman hard, and as a result, my caretaker and I were awarded special recognition. Regardless of what I’d say to his superiors, questions would be raised that would have consequences after singing his praises. I’d in essence relieve significant sexual tension between us to return to potluck picks even though his tactics worked. My breasts have flushed out, I feel like I’m ovulating again, his hands break out in a sweat at the touch of my skin, and although it was not the very brief French kiss I planted on him not many posts ago, he did kiss me on the lips Saturday. For someone fighting me so hard verbally still on one end, he is still compliant on the other, and I have to come to terms with the fact I’m in love with him: maybe it is entangled in the desperation of entrapment, gratitude. I’ve run the gamut and realize the disparity between us just as he does, nearly begging him to leave me even after saying to him please don’t leave my life. “I’m not going anywhere!” he exclaims. And yet, after being rolled and changed and clothed in dilatory routine I’ve been subjected to since October, I sat by the larger window on my left, vaping, and the dowager, in defiant resurrection, said wearily, this fine spring day, you have no idea how happy I’d be to get off this bed myself, how this insulation enveloping me is making me lose my fucking mind. That too, was my rebellious truth. Shall we pick a card? But we were on choices, were we not?

Second choice, as previously mentioned, force his hand. Make him sleep with me or forcibly reject me. Life is short, I’m 56, and to whatever degree I’m culpable, see whether we work as lovers or don’t, and accept how either pathway changes our respective roles. I’m not absolutely certain here, but he’d take me out of hunger if nothing else if I really seduced him into it, or else he would not have allowed my aggressive foreplay.

Third, leave it as it is, let him go, which I thought, on Friday, that I had, only to find myself in tears, once again, four or five hours past. These tears are rather familiar, in the need for adhesion to an able male protector who will give me sympathy, or commiseration, but never that which they do not feel, Jerry or John from my febrile youthful longing, a handful of others. This guy was, is, simply too generous, his heart nearly literally on its sleeve, I can see the very dark irony over killing myself on the sword of nigger pity, with perhaps a little desire mixed in. I have to allow myself some credit in his fear of his own lust. I see what it’s doing to him. Part of me cares not to have him suffer, even as my cousin, new found consigliere, tells me I cannot help what I feel, defender of Joy Reid’s revulsion, my very own. Do I have the right to force him into something not best for either our mutual long term interests? Georgy Girl took a satirical bite out of those hormones saddling James Mason to an otherwise oblivious Lynne Redgrave in the flush of conquest. We’re no longer in that era where women shifted the balance of power, this one saturated in urine twice over.

This, under his zealous guardianship, the shrinking cadaver in her final blows under optimal regulatory compliance.

Rewriting Othello From Peas in a Tin

The French president can point to some benefits of his approach. Trump reserves most of his admiration for autocrats like Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping and Mohammed bin Salman. Macron is the only democratically elected head of state Trump seems to genuinely admire. --The Guardian

Emmanuel Macron is a rather gorgeous echo of JFK, though my aide couldn't see it when I pointed it out prior to our latest vacillations in familiarity, like Julie Andrews singing first this way and that way. Julie Andrews has a succinct clarity of voice, crisp as an apple orchard And in the same vein that the detractors of Trump slant it, the uncanny ability of the French to straddle the line is something even a borderline fanatic can admire, appreciate. Not everything has to revolve around a polar opposition, even if the podiatrist reminded me of the social set from which I drafted myself away. If things get serious, if they aren't quite already for a hapless spastic, this will be an issue. A quadriplegic may straddle white ranks, from trailer trash to mundane foot specialists, but a plow horse groomed into a thoroughbred? I'm not Rex Harrison, nor Leslie Howard, secret agent man, and only note it because the equestrian in question developed an interesting invisibility while I engaged the doctor, exchanging codas rather than accommodating both. I've read about it in black literature but never quite understood it until Friday, this intuitive displacement by caste by the lowest ranking member of the caste himself. The podiatrist, in his droll activity, didn't create this dynamic, nor did the dowager, but the lines just that suddenly reorganized. White to white co-valency cannot be penetrated by a minority laborer not of the professional class. These divisions I may have wanted to fracture when I was 23, but not now, even as I gain ground through reassurance, that what I presume to be rejection is only hesitation, growing bolder in assertion by virtue of my liberality, as I somehow have to trampoline off the socialist net once again. I applaud Austin's sentiment here

Yeah you can keep that socialized medicine right the hell away from the good old US of A.  https://t.co/ux7jqfJC8f

— Austin Petersen (@AP4Liberty) April 24, 2018

but it is a reactionary revolt against leftist distribution sowed into place by Lyndon Johnson. If I defy it too adamantly, exactly how do I survive? It isn't something I haven't focused on with daily concentration, as all I'm doing is softening into mundane blandishments I've resisted until reaching out to a cousin, who by example tries to teach me we reserve passion for vocalists like Jeff Buckley, so charmingly deceased that he transformed Leonard Cohen into his own cardiovascular system. Under Pentatonix, "Hallelujah" is a defiant triumph. Buckley makes it into a dirge worth bowing your head over. Despite new found ease with You Tube and texting, finally having caught up with the rest of you, overwhelmed by messaging, I do not readily find surcease in exchanging pop culture video like bit coin, even if now my own self censor is kicking in. It isn't that I've been beaten by the middlebrow, only vested interests, the knowledge that my cousin is a private person, our new found intimacy valued. She may not mind you knowing she's lame too, but would mind if I detailed her own tensions with my father's sister, not that you couldn't extrapolate what those entail from earlier posts-- but I will tell you her interests don't really mesh to mine. I love felines but don't fetishise it as she does her dog breeds, and may chuck all of this if certain elements come back together. Starved intimacy is a powerful thing, very, but I could just as easily text my brother about misplaced tortellini, in the run of the mill.

AT&T's vibrator exchange

you're too slow-- my plow horse pseudo-husband

My plow horse of an aide, in actuality no match for the dried bramble of my disillusionment, is simply too genteel a minority for my rancor over desire whetted on biological happenstance. He trotted me through my paces today, and at the end of this billing period, my old USB plug in will be discontinued, and I contracted a Galaxy S8 over 30 months, though when I can return to actually being a journalist? It isn't simply a matter of ignited loins; it is an issue of psychic separation. I've grown too close, too dependent, and if I want to dim my heart then I need to split him off and go do my thing. On the basis of my prior dim-wittedness, however, I will continue using my Apple for my hotspot. I'll know more next week about whether my considerable deficits can shoulder two lines. I am assuming, given his followers, that Russ Still is a minor celebrity and I should play the affable savant gratified that he followed me. If I do not misconstrue the matter, thank you for following me, Russ Still, but the dowager is a woman with many hard blows kneaded into her, the woman kicking her ribcage inside begging for one last passionate twirl, while the outer ligaments of her body grow increasingly reluctant to do anything except burrow through six feet of top soil for the rest in peace as a universal Kantian experience. Or in other words, my heart is broken because I have an almost intimate relationship with an African American paraprofessional who has my ass in a sling, but you country singers aren't afraid of cups of hemlock. How I am even writing this much on three hours of sleep Thursday?

The Fulfillment of Herve Villechaize

"hey boss," the beloved tattoo

In its summation of Hollywood’s dwarf suicides, Fox News fails to mention that Villechaize was an accomplished painter, which makes his suicide all the more poignant against Troyer’s undercurrent of lewdest denominators, $5000 sex tapes indeed to private collectors who vanish down the rabbit hole to Alice’s wonderland, snorting powder highs on a mirror, a frustration lunging to that old florid refrain, I just wanna make love to you, love to you, which somehow captures the rhythmic movements of a 69 in exploration of itself, knives and coitus ache in the nearly dried flower of an old woman’s cunt, and if I truly believe in what I stand for, either eliminate the problem or force the damn issue, little spears of saline running their course, no matter how magnanimous, he doesn’t want me, and this gives progressives a first down at the fifty yard line, when it comes to pursuit in the travesty of the pursuer whose lewd jibes and body contact are so cute, the color of skin doesn’t matter when the needs awakened against male virility won’t go away, in the cycle of a spastic life skirting the edge of a fetish as lost financial opportunity. As with anything, Dinklage is the standard of midget success, full rugged face echoes enough physically normal appearance, lends itself to the stardom of an all together man, married, and thus, an adept mimic. The pain of Villechaize, if otherwise unable to be entered, corresponds to the swollen feet of soon to be coming summer. “Leave me alone,” I told him in my minute down swell, and meant it, though his lion’s heart cannot stifle the impetus of consolation. He devastated by the Cosby verdict, me less so after an odd 36 months of reading  over the icon’s cratered avalanche, dealing with, and losing one of his accusers, Joan Tarshis, if I step back, as a traumatized woman in her own right, it isn’t about picking a victor so much as the inadequacy against years of silence. I may not know the truth, but I do know about the consequence of a woman foolhardy enough to be alone with a man in such a context, particularly in 1969, more about regret than love? I did not see a judicial process which secured justice in the Cosby trial, I saw a rubber stamp to placate women’s pain, and at the heart of the matter, the throb in the vibrating vein in my chest cage is simply riled because it cries, this is what it feels like when it’s right. I cannot change that as an absence I’ve had to bear through life even with the burden of Frank Versante on my back. I never had right, and had I been better focused in 16, I suppose I wouldn’t be juggling this now, would I? I told them I wanted a man, in unwitting folly, due to whatever trigger, I’ve fallen, moaning on my soul, as if I don’t have enough to reassemble, still over and above the turgid bellow of Mini-Me, a mere caricature of evil. The dowager flirted herself as the real thing, little realizing plow horses can slay dragons.

Stratus Babylon

"I got sunshine, on a cloudy day."-- The Temptations

I am overtired this evening, but the mere thought of crawling back into that miserable hospital bed, with its brown lamination, turns my stomach filled with his cooking and food preparation, as I wait there every morning vibrating with his sex in my nose, wanting to make love to him in the morning sunlight, like the blind wife of the chief of police in John Gardner’s Sunlight Dialogues, flashing back to the pleasurable intimacy of her worn out marriage. We’re both angry, he and I, and I’m learning a bit too much about what life would be with a black man of his caliber, and as I’ve already intimated, it isn’t a fine caliber, but rather that of a yoked plow horse, blotting out everything else in my enfeebled brain, my poor weary mind once perfectly happy to be a miserable angry spinster flirting with the language of incitement for my audience. I’m pissed enough at the moment to turn us both in, screwing myself at least five ways to Sunday, causing him a job loss he cannot afford, because I can’t take it, but even if I do this, I’m not getting over his explorations of my body anytime soon. I never said no, and he’s having a difficult time with the geyser steaming out of my fault lines, kissing him finally, although why he accepted it if I am getting carried away signals he is also vulnerable, but I did not swoon. Curiosity. “You used me,” he objected, but didn’t he do the same?

If I could kick him out on his fucking ass I’d be fine, but if I continue to repress, and if he continues to stay, I am already half gone, mostly gone, while he reads me through his planet cycles of astrological forces in a language I don’t comprehend. You’re nasty. Who would want that? Ah. This, dear readers, I understand, my nasty selfish temperament, almost echoing that of Trudy Richardson, building manager nemesis to whom he was introduced. What a success of cultural appropriation, as I am drawn in small mincing efforts to compare the vacant departure of my stepmother to Death at a Funeral, which I believe is burrowed in my archives, a comedy actually filling in the lines of life. This was not the case for my father's third wife. All her son did was pop champagne. "She was a nice person," this nasty boy said, only here once to upgrade an old Sony large monitor computer. At the very least, mine and my father's ambivalent antagonism fleshed out another embittered invalid who suffered an excruciating death; in any case, I'm otherwise shut down, wondering how desperate I am to find satiation. Even if he winds up turning another leaf, I am horridly taut, worn out with it. Sad, I suppose, fallen so far down the ladder that a black man without his girl can't finish what he started, sadder still I'm better off but could care fucking less, me and my matches not in heaven.

Cumulus Babylon

"Now I know, that rose trees never grow in New York City."-- Elton John

And now, of a sudden, I’ve found my way back into Captain Fantastic, the greatest English speaking musical album of all the world, which might not have come into existence if the dowager had been the enforcer of Britain’s anti-homosexual laws. They would have had been enforced. Reginald Dwight might have received an ad hoc rupture of the Vas Deferens from the testicles in the necessary imperial need for order, not that this would have cured where his desires led, nor it is as false a dichotomy as you might believe, in my willingness not to fear locking horns over decency and the progressive expansion of artistic force. American rock was a relatively innocent flirtation riding on Elvis Presley’s corn fed hips before the British invasion occurred. The foment of my youth, however, can no longer rise to the sheer delphinic epiphany of “Curtains,” and lesbians in Lancaster, those whom I used to know, might be in danger of my ire in less than a hyperbolic fashion if their circumference shrinks to within striking distance. Last week, a brief wildfire erupted, but even then I knew, as old a conflict as Mann’s Death In Venice, an ironic, if well studied choice, that one cannot defy biology, unless, as in The Ambassadors, where queer genius is obfuscated into the concealed repression of an illicit, if straight, extramarital affair, or The Tempest, which is Shakespeare’s mastery proclaiming the aged wisdom to be paramount, that mature partnerships can only reinvigorate up to a point.

This is not to say conservative reactionaries do not have needs. We’re not monks, but my New Mobility feature, in 04, exposed and attacked this very thicket within attendant care, in which I am now both, conquered by, then turned conqueror of, a sexual attraction inside of it, depending on how I wish to interpret the matter, resolved to turn off the tap as I was, truly believing he was being kind out of pity. He today assures me this isn’t the case, and the lioness in my gonads has stopped lashing about like a wildcat, and remains merely alert in her den, observant, tender, and yes, mildly happy, but it doesn’t change me, nor the way I might see the possible fruition in a father's eyes. 

If I want to go deeper into Elton’s supremacy, however—for me, a specialized supremacy—meaning he is the best among British talents of my era, I will only go deep enough to say that his gifts wouldn’t exist had his homosexuality been accepted as a mainstream biological imperative, as opposed to tolerated, in the late 60’s, and I in turn wouldn’t have been corrupted by his preeminent subversiveness, joined to Taupin’s scathing lyrical narratives. “Alice,” from Yellow Brick Road, still pierces with hypocritical poignancy when it comes to sexual secrets, but that doesn’t mean Bernie’s progressive sympathies have been victorious, nor that I’m the bad guy. I know we can’t put the genie back in the bottle, but there are limits, even things Shawn and I couldn’t share down the road. We’ve already lived a half century in different worlds. My mention of Loving made no dent in our conversations, and since I'm barren, I would not be able to wed, should it come to that, in my faith, but I have to look into that.

2.1a Babylon

Having defended Manchester by the Sea from prosecutorial castigation such as those pontificated by DA Joseph McBride, I admittedly come close to doing the same thing to Bernie Taupin, Elton's master mechanic, and I am dissatisfied with myself, but in the essential elements, Bernie's flirtation with violence and homo-erotica during  jowly Reginald's peak output, in my amateur connoisseur mode, let's say that's from 72 to 81, as after that Elton falls into diluted self-imitation, lends itself to the extremes of punk, heavy metal, and hip hop, genres into which the dowager rarely treads, and so yes, I am posing a scenario where my hypothetical authority to restrain or even prevent Elton's lifestyle merits the loss of great emotive artistry to prevent this, among other things, and that I actually don't find irrelevant. Reginald's most powerful output may, emphasis on may, have prevented spastic from ending her life as a distraught disabled teenager, but he also fueled my rage, cynicism, and nearly superlative need for heroic passion. The only reason I wasn't a zealot stalking him concert to concert came down to poverty and the regimented life of rehabilitation. The industry now lays laurels at his feet, papering over the price he paid through drugs and a high risk lifestyle, but does it always have to be this way, in order to grasp the brass ring, to paraphrase Eastwood? Why should libertarian acceptance of self-destructive behavior merit concern over such admittedly moral issues?

Recovery Option

L'esser poeti, non e un vanto-- Eugenio Montale

It is odd to seek appeasement from titanic rupturing in an era of nuclear family idealism that Reynolds represents before JFK's ascendancy. The dowager had yet been born, but this doesn't stop "Tammy" from resonating as a corrupted Romantic/Naturalist melody which at first glance is a simple tune of first love and longing for consummation, the.anticipation of which is a more exalted expectation than any actual climax, no matter how pleasurable. Neither Reynolds's role as a vivacious brown sugared sweetheart in dungarees and braids, nor Livingston and Evans skill as lyricists is simple. This is actually a tightly structured and successful commercial product in the hands of professionals, from Reynolds as an eminently talented vocalist all but tearing at the reins to become the submissive housewife, to the orchestra accompanying her voice, to Livingston's and Evans' clever use of fecund imagery and diachronic crescendo in two stanzas. Cottonwoods whisper, the "hooty" owl is a predatory menace to the dove it calls, causing a joyful heart, singing like a violin, contained within equally structured pastoral frames. Let me have my moment in the 1950's where you and I don't exist. This is my coping mechanism. And I broke out laughing, finding it inexorably funny that the man I was hoping to woo into port had to be necessarily juxtaposed against what I am as such a hard bitten woman-- not that I can extend the metaphor of what Reynolds lost in her humiliation at the hands of Elizabeth Taylor, who simply oozed a beauty and sexuality rivaled only partly by Marilyn. Taylor cannot stand in as an incomparable before whom I was felled, as was the case with her more recently departed rival. No, I aimed too high without being able to specify what I hoped to find on Mount Olympus, but it certainly entailed property ownership, economic sufficiency and career which is all but lost, and now I cannot even out hustle the hustle in a brawny nerdy minority who is my best shot a mobility recapture (and why he "liked" my first hard hitting post about our first contact is an issue I should let lie today, if I'm wise enough; he should push back, be offended, tell me I'm wrong...) Nevertheless, he reads my sentiment that I'll go down fighting, even if I could not assist him in a late afternoon toilet transfer. I cannot accept these looming limitations of my loss of strength either, except by waiting, the hope to regain wiping myself with toilet paper, for instance.
What he and I really feel, who the fuck knows anymore. I am aware of how gratitude can masquerade itself, how much I relish feeling his strength as my protector, and neither of us would strum the stringed instruments if we didn't enjoy it, that too, in holding patterns not enough for my thwarted ambitions in this game of Brawn versus brain, boy-man versus Italian lava, deescalating, re-managing, back in my analytical head, able to proceed, barring the unforeseen, he will be back in ten hours, on the swing set of Reactionary Liberal Fatal Attraction. Where is Glenn Close when you need her to jab someone with a fork?

Simple Rebuttals

I culled this post from my FB feed without actually paying attention to it, Tell Us Why waving a hopeful and embattled patient named Jessica asking for birthday greetings; it was only when James Woods swooped in with his now familiar offerings of fellowship for the seriously afflicted that I noticed my instincts had steered me correctly into joining a poignant viral moment that I then joined the flock, sharing your empathy and largess, adding "vivacious" to my birthday greeting tweet to this woman with blood cancer grateful for her life

We share this birthday today. Having read your post, my birthday wish is that I could do anything on earth to help you through this. Let’s start with a simple and loving #HappyBirthdayJessica https://t.co/is7lqLtpGu

— James Woods (@RealJamesWoods) April 19, 2018

I then tagged Woods with a TY, fully realizing I'd be more popular if I colored in the lines like this instead of turning ground beef into puree.

I should be grateful, for public welfare, its corruption, that I survived my mother's mental illness and trailer trash life, focus positively on what I achieved and that, at least so far, a good careworker keeps coming back. On second thought, I should have been more level headed and encouraged him to take the custodial position outsourced by the city's school district, but then I would have landed a woman like Patricia Wheeler, who abandoned me in about 30 seconds. Should I start writing for soaps, I wonder?

The arc of Vegetable States

"I couldn't help but feel sorry for him."-- Teddy Bear, Zone Blanche

Though I have not been overly persistent on the matter, once a year I text message Thomas Paine of True Pundit about working for him, and have a sustained interest in learning his true identity. Speculation that he is a former federal agent or DOJ official may spring from how he tweets to Eric Holder and the FBI, and makes sense except for the tagline on his account, which contravenes the notion of authority figure, despite the fact award winning journalists necessarily have good investigative skills. Given the unraveling of the Bureau under Trump, and Mueller's rather serious blow in revenge, raiding Cohen's offices, my interest has intensified, and my approach may be blockheaded, given that he is a Patreon content creator. I may simply not understand how to join True Pundit, or other aggregators of their type. Beneath the surface of everything I have been writing about, being steamrolled and hamstrung by welfare, the freeze of my most important content in Office 7 wps files, and eclipsing my independence by submitting myself to a nursing aide from whom I am deriving sexual comfort--trust me when I say this is never where I wanted to be, and I had something of a serious argument with the man this afternoon, which resolved little, other than the knowledge that I'm falling in love with an intellectual inferior for the reason these things always occur within the subculture of broken bodies. It has ensnared me too finally, this regression to a caregiver, though to some degree, it always has, as I am panicked about the restoration of some professional function. The sheer intensity of how aroused I've been within this last week hasn't helped in my progression towards troubleshooting my issues.

This is what has been drawing me back to persistent vegetative states. The Criminal Intent episode Conscience is comparable to the Zone Blanche pilot, in which viewers are tricked into corresponding shots of the forest and the evidence on the boy's body as being supernaturally linked. Then the reality is exposed. A mother cannot accept that her son's condition came about as the result of being falsely accused of rape, and drags him through the soil on a nightly basis in an attempt to reverse his all but successful suicide. Shawn doesn't want me to wind up the same way, and though my family might not share this perspective, his strategism to help me see I'm still a living woman both worked and backfired, and now we're in a gray zone of almost lovers, though I've said some terrible things about my attitude on interracial fondling of this sort. I wanted him to see what I'd made myself. He asked if I truly reduced him to these racial terms, and when I'm in his arms I don't, but those arms are not the real world with its social stratification. Paine believes the raid on Cohen is deep state at its worst, an attempt by the meritocracy to disassemble Trumpian populism, and the skeptic within me has concurred in silence. Shattering lawyer client privilege due to speculative hush money is a big deal, as we of a certain generation wade toward minimal awareness. I published one scoop in my lifetime, and now I have to consider it a privilege that I'm limited to merely writing a post a night, as opposed to pitching. If I truly want a psychic separation between me and my nurse, I can do it without firing him, merely by treating him like a servant, and dimming the dial on the scent of his testosterone, politely asking him to respect my space, fading into a routine which in and of itself has the beat of a respirator in an atmosphere deliberately created to stoke our paranoid fantasies.

Nail Clippings

 If I actually attempt to tongue, and he responds, that is a change, a risk. -- quoting myself

This almost occurred today, in the esoteric sense of writing your own script, and I am not entirely certain he was play acting. I also learned in my early 30's, I am not as invulnerable to letting physical attraction take its own course as I may put forward, but other than that, I am going to divert your eyes from any further details except to convey this is a simulation of a dried twig trying to be a mature bloom. This positive attitude, from him, the therapists, from Dana, his predecessor who has a serious enthusiasm for Stromae, who lost his father to the Rwandan genocide and used it to energize his music, I cannot maintain it as the majority of you do.

I have an intrinsic awareness that I am in the latter stages of my quality time, and being treated like a piece of red tape for over 24 weeks, white coats bopping to sign forms, takes its toll; beneath the surface, after I save my non-cloud loaded files, I want to fold, despite Shane's (let's call him that) compassionate excellence at my care. One or two members on my family branch like him a great deal, glad he makes me happy, but his masculinity is like the USS Enterprise lowering its shields against a Borg cube: after 33 years of my hardened routes, hard won achievements, maybe I bang a minority, or come close. So what? Regardless of the post-Obama era, in my family structure, he'd represent the otherness Joanne brings to the table, whether or not he remains virginal. I want the damn welfare circus to cease rotating its slats for each of my body parts. Again, I have no latent condition which requires that only a podiatrist clips my toenails, no infection, or diabetes, and if someone just put my heels on one of my sitting chairs and leaned me forward, I'd do it myself, just as most of you would, instead of being vacuum packed poultry parts.. Theoretically, I could shut all this down-- but if I did, and drove my chair as far as the park, scuttled under a bench, eventually first responders would place me in a medical facility commensurate with my growing fear of being imprisoned in them sooner or later. Good evening-- that is as up beat as I go. Off to bed, still willing to allow 4 the process.

Before I Revert Back To Form

What happened to this America? I can only remember the refrain, the one line with the popular beat skillfully elongated unstressed to stressed syllable in Reynolds' long, illustrious fade away. It is far too simple to say this was my vision into masculine surety, but surely every girl at one time felt some part of this, wanted to believe in musically balanced scales:

Bowel Charts With Debbie Reynolds

"Tammy, Tammy, Tammy's in love."-- Debbie Reynolds, before the Fisher shiv

The answer to my sexually stressed question of Tuesday morning is a probable no. We reigned it in, and as we are a bond, after a fashion, I am leaving him his space to the degree I can beyond his responsibilities, although he still uses the terminology of personal relationships. I doubt it is to mislead, just his way of being a happy minstrel doing his black machismo parody, and I am feeling let down because I’m chasing skank which doesn’t want to be fetched, or so I believe, I, who believes where abstinence is necessary then it’s possible, my own chuckle as scathing as a blade. That has certainly been put to the test, and Christ knows what effect my discovery of electricity is having on him, remembering whatever crest I feel now, I want to recover, he wants to get me there, at least one thing in common within our appropriation tolerance, our hearts absorbing too much without enough armor. I’m not angry with the game, for I lowered my guard, as always, and any man would feel sorry over admissions which lead to cactus fields. I’m simply too old to feel horny all the time over a decent welfare health care provider, and this is another monkey wrench. I keep moving too slowly to return to a prior point of self-reliance, and that to rectify it I may have to stay up in the chair to do business in the morning before he clocks in, which might slow his time, make him watch television further away. There is nothing wrong with “a little fun,” in the lingo of his sisters, but what goes for sustained erections in men is comparable to what happens when women arouse vaginally, not so easy to stand down in an endless pair of Depends, and the music serving as my balm is that of Reynolds. Andrew Sullivan has his definition of true conservativism, one which I vaguely remember. Mine might include the moral decision to put a stop to this by replacing him, but then I lose the better part of the bargain, given all these hard and incessant details about lesbian predation, thieves, and other niceties peppering my posts, and as you can see, as my cousin counsels me like chick talk would, better friend to me than my actual sister, yes, he’s softened me, the reducible nigger enlarged upon. If I actually attempt to tongue, and he responds, that is a change, a risk. I’m not ready for a full throttle, and know that would be a change too much, and it succumbs, of course, to what I’d swore to myself would never be, assuming he wouldn’t forcibly grip my wrists, preventing me. There is that. I don’t have Governor Greitens' physical strength to actually coercive a man twice my size to enter and satisfy me, with the building twittering that the dowager’s flushed face means some weight has been lifted. Although Greitens' problems aren't helping Republicans, whose loss of Ryan is an admission of tactical failure, I think we need to start viewing these scandals through a different lens, regardless of whether or not coercion is proven. (Why wasn't it rape?)  I have to think, on my own terms, about what true conservativism means, and Woods' public tweets may help me without the need of contact, wishing I knew what it was like to be the one pursued. It's too late for that.

Enter The Dragon's Dry Heat

letters are written, never meaning to send-- The Moody Blues

Under normal circumstances, a black man’s hands are too puffy; the dowager prefers an Italian’s better delineated masculine definition over that of a former factory, retail worker, and my caretaker’s hands look the part of a socialist labor poster. All fine and dandy, his rough fingertips, scarred fingernails which tint like fish scales etched in keratin. It is what he’s doing to me with them which leaves me unable to sleep. I already wrote Monday after midnight that I was too old to feel constantly jacked up, and in his logic, doing just that, jacking me up, will re-energize me, making me taut will break the blues, and I am not sure how long either of us can sustain getting a rise out of each other. Again, I’d berate myself for letting the script etch itself in my face, it is my normal maneuver, off or online, but, at the moment, I’m a little beyond self-castigation, out of reach for a cold shower, sort of. I know how to do it even in this machine, but the time involved means I have very little of it so that he wouldn’t find me in a compromising position by the time he clocks back in, and that’s too much brinkmanship. My primary goal here is to recover as much function as I can before and after the new power chair. He is doing that better than anyone else on this suddenly careening train wreck. I don’t think he desires me, but he’s enjoying himself making me spark, and whatever I posted about winding this down has gone out the window in complete lunacy with a man who doesn’t understand the divisions between conservative and liberal with a quadriplegic gone racist long ago. I probably always was one even before the city; perhaps this is the lightning bolt, the charge in breaking my own rules, knowing I am not going to change inside despite gratitude for his care. I imagine you’re glad your not inside my head, while he and I trade endearments and I expose myself in past stories he considers it his mission to heal, but this is in my past too, being the libertine who ends up paying some pretty shiny pennies, much as Paul Ryan paid with diminished legacy over the AHCA. Ryanism, which I once respected under John Boehner, has been vanquished, like a spayed cat on a hot tin roof. Are he and I going to sleep with each other? At this point it’s in divine hands, and to those we cede miraculous instances, and this is his power over me, while he's sleeping after a glass of wine.

Nights in White Satin

You have a tough situation. -- Nancy Lotz

I no longer have the resilience not to drag myself onto the hospital bed within a certain time frame and wish I did, reading myself like a parallel engraving. I am too old to use the glow of sexual energies past to restore my determination to transfer myself; it isn't the same as the intellectual fire I'm losing, and need to wind this down; I am not a girl any longer and cannot sustain intercourse as I used to, even--stopping to note my sister would kill me if she knew the lane I'm driving on after what I told her--even--even-- what is it I'm trying not to convey? That I'm exactly that type of woman whom Atticus Finch exposed in a vain and stark attempt to save a rural minority? I've been that callow and not that callow; he kissed my cheek, and in 93 a brother of his many degrees removed nearly strangled me to death. I went through similar things with white males in various degrees of disturbance and instability. I've sustained more than many a suicide before me, and I still cannot move that needle, remarkably, anyway, I am sorry, but I will finish what I have to go through and come out at some end, we'll see. Perhaps he will recover enough pieces-- no-- resurrect enough of me that I will recover some strength; I honestly never expected to desire an ambulatory male again, and I'm saying oh fuck, oh fuck, a woodpecker tending her chicks, dicey as that is, in the bore of a tree. 

Galley Tear Sheets

"Marriage does not complete you."-- my former glaucoma blind neighbor

 I had the poor bastard on his knees trying to console my inconsolable stream of tears for a domestic life I’ll never have.  (Though this more nuanced Molina love portrait will remain only a synopsis via second hand.) I did not intend to do that and did not turn and play aggressor in the process of his knee on my behalf, with a shrug, as I by mere happenstance remember this post, without enough context in it to recall the necessity of citing Alberto Moravia. Poor Shawn is out of his depth, and out of curiosity I said he could read my posts. And as you can read, he commented with a vernacular appreciation, and I do not care what he says, Joanne you’re not dead! Nor do I care what the crones of Visiting Nurses say about bringing me back. Frank was a living embodiment of what former neighbor Tom advised me in my mid-twenties. Frank was a lack of completion, more than that, an alienation. Shawn is not a completion either but for reasons unknown to me, our simulated intimacy whispers in my ear: this is what it means to be held, this is comfort in another’s strength, and he has to give me time to have my little whirlwind. I have had larger whirlwinds, even derived satisfaction from utilizing pity to manipulate men of more piercing temperament than he, but now I only feel chagrin at my power to bring a softer Hulk to marriage proposal position within the blink of an eye, a boy man who thinks my acquired culinary tastes are akin to sinking in quicksand, and makes me laugh, exclaiming, “I cannot eat this,” despite the fact that I thought seaweed snacks were a popular vogue. My past and present make rather strange bookends: Brandon was one Negro stereotype out of The Birth of A Nation, the aggressor whose lewd violence threatened white purity, and my life itself, and now I am distressing my caretaker of sweeter cocoa hue because I never made a good marriage. Without actually being able to petulantly stomp my foot and fracture solid concrete, my grief nevertheless stands in as a recipe substitution doing exactly that. Don’t I think other people suffer? Sure I do. Stephen Hawking bore his 24 hour maintenance with gentility, and Megan Crowley deserves President Trump’s attention, though I believe her father’s zealous determination to be misguided, which immediately places our relation to each other, corresponding points of impairments, in opposition with my arguments, but I’ll never have Gretchen’s pleasure, probable joy, in the sanctity of her union with Karl. I never wanted children, but the way Gretchen brings her little girl to life has its charm, and I will enjoy one day meeting her daughter, though my budget is momentarily too strained to return to the Virginias—but my point is, I begin to see why wives of such caliber celebrate family, and fear the lash upon lash which has fed a fury such as mine, defying online rules of engagement. I see what it is. When you lose the ability to utilize your toilet on demand because of a predatory mechanic you desperately begged for help, then get back to me, in my past sterile godsend that was September 2017.

Blue Patches With Rubber Tips, Bearing the Crutch

"It doesn't have to be a death sentence," --Megan Crowley

It is difficult to adjudicate A Patch of Blue against contemporary standards without viewing it as a public service announcement to maintain silence in the face of differences between ethnic groups not altogether superficial. I must have seen the film a half dozen times, find the echo of my own reactionary fear in Shelley Winters and her recriminating castigation, calling Poitier your black buck, play acting the white trash of which I am a little embodied, or Poitier’s containment of the blind girl’s unintentional disruption, when she nearly topples the fruit pyramid in the supermarket, and yet the movie filters through me like a light urine stream right before a major stool struggle, the arc of the narrative dissipates, leaving behind the poignancy of a connection between a disabled woman and a black man essentially teaching her how to adapt, never actualized, because Poitier’s character realizes the girl’s feelings are based in part on a sheltered dependency. In North Philadelphia, there was, in fact, a blind woman beaten daily and traumatically by a black husband. The dowager was the unfortunate observer of her caramelized face browbeat by crisis counselors and patrol officers, and she disappeared before I relocated to Race Street, a most likely death sentence to an inevitable probable cause, lest you continue to marvel about the scars of the lioness breathing more shallowly beneath my ribs, and so we come full circle, back to my initial rebellion, planting myself in the inner city solely on the basis of a lust to live. To my sensibilities of enduring interior conflict, Shane, (ahem) the paraprofessional tending my shriveled wings, is sexually attractive, and makes me realize what happiness I might have had with such strength as his, and it is rather unfair to discover this, tottering on the brink of  a final weakness towards helplessness I cannot defeat, that the right degree of masculinity ignites my passion, the very will to live, after years of absorbing everything of the emotional pain I’ve written about to my audience. Part of me says to hell with the stigma, and wants to win him despite what I am, despite what he sees every day, and consume him. But I am playing tic tac toe with an aging woman’s embers. He is not the true target, simply a man I like using his strong shoulders as a bulwark for a spastic quadriplegic who was never loved as she wished, with her reactionary anarchist already looking down her nose at having fun with such tensions. It would never work between us, and I know it already because it isn’t a last act of love, merely defiance, fooling yourself the hormones still work in secret. We could not succeed as a couple, as equals in the dynamic of society’s fabric, in any sense. I cannot embrace his world, having sustained such damage in it, any more than he could embrace mine—the world from which I fled, deluding myself in relation to liberal sanctity. Yet I do like him, his energetic man child smile, clinging to him more than a little, like Amy Adams defying narrative frameworks with mystical orthography that eddies linear time. Like the actress, I too ply her thematic imperative, of calling out, “Come back to me,” the life I see as so fulfilling, married to a kindred heart. What sort of love letter is this? One that knows Miss Crowley is in need of a market correction.

Decline and Fall

"Christianity is a sickness."-- my paraprofessional

That I am actually reading Gibbon in tandem with Niall Ferguson's now familiar analogy and rhythm is a coincidence, and that he does touch on healthcare as a staggering edifice of a troubled welfare system is certainly not attributable to me. I worry more, in fact, that pitching to Vanity Fair is a nearly insurmountable task for a non-staffer, as opposed to the bon professor's ready access. I'd have to send a resume to Comnsate Publications, last time I researched the issue. I have to work my way back in on a smaller scale. My bowel is hurting, the adult diapers, as I knew they would years ago, are destroying my buttock epidermis, and I'm having tremors. I was warned about all of this, only now collapsing at 56 plus a testament to thick Italian skulls, well back into the past, and I cannot delude myself that I'm redeemable as a woman with cerebral palsy who refused to apply to Harvard on the fear of social stigma. I'm dying, and I'm dying of nothing but the poverty of technical medical disaster, and I die unrepentant, unable to tweet a compliment to Pat Toomey without getting inexplicably attacked by this account. I did not have to respond to Memes, and it was undoubtedly worth my while not to do so, but I am in pain, and Memes, like a social media jackass, tells me I am privileged because I contacted Pat Toomey about illegal collusion at Philadelphia's farcical disability center. I have no idea what Memes wants from me, and consider his, or her, conduct, no more than harassment. I am not special to Toomey, or his staff, I just agree with him after facing a lifetime of antipodal destruction under Philadelphia Housing authority auspices, and stand by my tweet, which I shall not embed, that Toomey is righteous. Others are free to make their own decisions. I only repent the precipitous decline in my health because single payer option rationing is its proximate cause, and I do not blame the GOP. I worried, briefly, that I'd really destroy my mental welfare by developing a bond with the male paraprofessional on whom I now depend, but then I realize he says uneducated and outlandish conspiratorial sentiments, and it will not happen, hopefully. I have heard such stories of racial remorse conscientiousness before, and I cannot. Because I still harbor that unpleasant internal condensation. He and I "friended" each other, so this evening, I will not push the envelope any further, nonetheless, we're both single, lonely, and if he is going to nurse me for an indefinite period, men are men, women are women, and I need be cautious, or find him better economic security, and return to antagonistic tensions with predominately minority women. This has no correlation to my defense of Niall Ferguson against Pankaj Mishra's charges of neo-imperialism, not at first glance, but throughout history, state welfare systems erode the vibrancy of civilization. I crushed myself with high expectations. Gibbon, as you may or may not know, worked in episodic poverty, and suffered from scoliosis, but he was an important transitional historian, a bridge between hagiography of the Enlightenment, and evidence based means testing and aggregate data of the modern discipline which Niall engages with astute methodology, and his critics miss his main points about authority, central state systems, and the evolution of modern economy and financial innovation. I would not deign to call Niall righteous. It is not the right descriptive for an accessible scholar and analyst, but he's a realist who recognizes boundary markers, concedes progressive victories against differences oppressed by social caste, and his critics are simply off base. He taught me about the evolution of money in a manner I was never challenged to consider, and if that isn't a scholar doing his job, pray tell, what is?

Coin or Pea in The Shell

"I believe in a world where gay married couples are free to protect their marijuana fields with fully automatic machine guns."-- Austin Petersen, slogan maker extradinaire

And I do not believe in this world of a libertarian political hopeful on whom I've kept eyes for some time; if I find a better outlet than Reason to give him a serious expose, I will coax my friend to lose the above quote, try to give my readers a sharper definition of why he is the right Senator for Missouri, and for that propose, the moral relativism needs to be dialed down, this coming from a woman who, in 97, saw gay marriage as an inevitable legal victory, supported it, and in the intervening 19 years, I am not entirely unsympathetic to Roy Moore's hardline extremism on homosexuality. That is quite a shift simply because I felt threatened and survived trauma which for me was too much to bear. I know I'm on the losing end of this argument, and that progressives outnumber the right, and that my hostility has little intellectual standing other than medical model stricture, but I have been too close to too many men and women "in the life," some of whom I have written in here more than others, like Alan Gordon. Alan was privy to the intensity of my unhappiness for a long time. He and I kept our connection with each other through the deaths of our mothers in 2005, online and otherwise, and he knows me intimately. I cannot say he reads Disability In Entertainment Arts, but if he has, he must be appalled, and tried hard once to pull me back from the sheer extent of my hatred for what I allowed this center to do to me. Much has changed, and Liberty has been significantly downgraded due to Harrisburg's centralized horror of a shell game with Maximus, and I'd no longer recognize the chaotic empowerment tactics therein of my day. The chapters of past and present are no longer parallel, and this brings me to Craig Brittain's second suspension from Twitter, with a weary sigh.
A first amendment lawyer I chatted with briefly told me Craig was a fraud, and that he had to be directed by the SEC to stop representing himself as an attorney, but he was one of the first of my followers to accept me for as I present myself. I don't know what he did this time, but he takes Twitter's banned or suspended accounts like the holy grail. I do not, and have yet to see the evidence of Milo's genius. But I do have to say that Terms of Service policies have always had an air of uncertainty about them. Spam is speech. Twitter wants to be profitable, yet law firms cannot solicit clients. Account holders cannot ask other account holders for money, but we can promote, and even there, up to a point. We cannot harass other users, but I've trolled my share. Peter Thiel, though inactive on social media, probably could have had me banned for my brief outburst at him. Don't know. Nick Denton isn't exactly an exception to the dowager's coda, but I was nonetheless angry over Gawker's downfall. Once fraudulent parties are excised, we do not consider what happens to them unless they are recycled as an event worth telling: Stephen Glass denied at the state bar. Jayson Blair's plagiarism recast as an interracial motive for murder on Criminal Intent. They become life long outcasts, crippled in some fundamental way. I was going to profile Craig too with some libertarian window dressing, but in the third largest political party full of outliers, even felons, Craig is an outlier. He makes Austin seem nearly as established as Rand Paul.
In my shameless and weary dithering, I am working on a legal outline against Mr. Wheelchair. Vendors such as these dissolve with incremental regularity, but I cannot endure this machine. Pyrrhic victory at this point?

By The Untenable Sword

"That was hard enough to figure out in the seventies."-- Andrew Sullivan

I cannot deny my friend Alan his humanity, for he was my friend for over three decades, if I can, at the very least, extol him for constancy. Some aspects of our relationship weren’t particularly healthy, like our stoned failure to engage in coitus before he sorted out his orientation issues. (There must be a happy queer somewhere who enjoyed fat ugly boy’s well-endowed penis, and I have to assert, had the weed not been so potent, my long time collegiate loser buddy by default might have given the dowager a fulfilling climax despite zero chemistry between us, human sexuality being the morass that it is.)

What I’m attempting to clarify is I cannot excise Alan as I have had to excise Josie and the failed transhissexual on the eighth floor with his insufferable partner, and this is a crucible in my rejection of Sullivan’s culture. I have the rather erroneous temptation to justify my hostility in philosophical thesis form, as if a right-wing paper creates a solution to the amorphous totality of the culture wars. This isn’t how it works. Alan certainly isn’t going to care if I classify his illicit adventures feeding his anxiety about contracting AIDS on the scold worthy shelf about personal responsibility and not engaging in high risk trysts in the parks he frequented for a wanker; neither does Karl Schmid, the local ABC video journalist. Various media outlets reported Schmid received an outpouring of support when he announced his 10 year HIV positive status. I am not readily trampling on the left to moderate gravitation towards feel the love when the LBGT community asserts this identity pride in the face of such a lethal virus, but ye doves are apparently cooing over high risk sexual practices which led to AIDS trans-spotting from the African bush outward. The only "outpouring" my little brother Nicholas received as a troubled addict dying from AIDS in 1995 came from his parents, and my brother's memory, too, deserves opprobrium for knowingly passing the disease onto his girl, hence, I concede troubled heterosexuals can be just as culpable as a purportedly smart man like Andy, not smart enough to constrain his behavior which led to his contraction. You might argue that Sullivan, being of my generation, had medical ignorance as an excuse. The son of my father didn't (and yes, that is mio padre). Neither does Schmid, so what exactly are you supporting him for? Owning up? I doubt any of us will be cleaning his rectum if or when the virus beats his anti-viral cocktail.

If you suspect what's really eating me is the betrayal I received for my tolerance, I will not deny that is part and parcel of the package, and I too, made risky sexual judgments, but not as risky as those in parts of the homosexual community. I do not know if Alan evaded HIV. For his sake I hope so, as dealing with my depressed virulence cost him emotionally, but it certainly seems to me he didn't care enough about health and well being to stop. "The body has some resistance," he told me, still telephone active. This guy tried an Episcopalian seminary after embroiling neighbor state New Jersey in a shameful disgrace far less entertaining than Sandford's. Yes, rolling back sexual liberty might help us live longer, despite libertarian allowances for self-destructive behavior. Gender fluidly doesn't have to result in a grand devil's bargain.

.

Follow The Zig

What elevates The Singing Detective is the way in which these threads gradually intersect: individuals from Marlow's childhood memories appear in his pulp detective fantasy; characters from the detective fantasy emerge in the 'real' hospital ward.-- John Cook

Without being able to fathom how digitizing a video feed works, I realize shooting video through a cell phone is incredibly easy, so just as ATT's proprietary secrets from the eighties spawned the troubled tech giants we have today, once the Defense Department relinquished Internet technology for civilian use, images vanished from three dimensional space, even vanishing on the two dimensional surfaces on which they were printed, though I imagine digital films can be converted to celluloid reels suitable to run on older projection technology, and I may look into it for a future feature, because the fact that things have gotten too easy may be contributing to the violence inflicting itself on the collective crowd. YouTube and other systems like it offer the lowliest voices a place at the table. By the same token, we are all lost in the sheer volume. During the #deleteFacebook trend, I responded to a nice twitter user by tweeting the now 18 accounts linked to my FB stream do not read my posts tagged to a specific relative. I take it in good humor, but lone wolves seem to increasingly find it desirable to take it out in ways that have never been done before. However we classify it, the end result is the same, with varying ripple effects. Sandy Hook shook me terribly, but it wasn't Columbine. Orlando left me ambivalent, and had me reported to the authorities in a ridiculous case of grandstanding that unraveled into the physical anguish I currently endure daily. Paddock's goldfish bowl tactics sickened me, and with the Florida high school shooter, I rather gave the viewers who find their way here the finger-- granted this was a dubious rhetorical strategism, but going postal in the corporate headquarters of a video uploading service  constantly at war with itself over what is and isn't accessible seems a quintessentially American act, whether over a rationalization particular to the aggrieved, or a domestic violence end game, as authorities now speculate that it was.

If you are on the left, and want to rewrite the Second Amendment, then you wind up with innocent citizens like Andrew Finch being killed by military police, or, even in my case, if you want Google's Alphabet services to suspend this account because layers of injustice fuel an impotent anger, would I be determined enough to teach myself code and defend a domain like a hacker? Is it worth it because I allow myself to engage in shock jock syndrome? Do I deserve to be tortured with the best of intentions in a state run nursing home because my definitions are so bold, so formerly defiant? If I published franchised pamphlets instead of posts in the immediate aftermath, would that be different, or just another variation of Richard Spencer's fraudulent mystique, the "crazy racist" in the Daily Beast catalog? He can engage social media civilly when he wishes, but twitter's de-verification of his account illustrates the symptomatic stomach virus of liberalism. Verification is merely supposed to indicate to the follower that personality x is personality x. It isn't going to change Richard's thought crimes gymnastics. He doesn't impress me, but neither does Twitter's sanction. Either ban the man or let him retain the cult following. I can do a scatological and daring musical from a hospital bed gasping for breath on incidental orgasms too, shedding snake skins. That is what we're processing in the not but almost post-conglomerate Facebook era. My public television affiliate took its dose of mock courage to air Dennis Potter's daring foray into how creative non-linear thinkers process coping mechanisms. The regional backlash was so fierce that WHYY never aired a seminal work of such melodramatic English playfulness again, in a decade where both Potter and the dowager were relevant concerns.

The Potty Trapeze

Except ourselves, we have no other prayer--Vassar Miller, a cross over sleight of hand

Why I resist the violence necessary for divine grace relates to a failed devotional youth. I do not “praise the Lord” in the fashion of Pentatonix and their aspirational chorus, though their appearance under Steve Harvey’s televised presentation possibly initiated congestive heart failure, whatever Shawn’s concerted efforts on my behalf toward restoration. My armor crumbled against that transcendent lyricism, and yet resistance remains in the shards of equanimity: I cannot restore the faith that Mary, my mother’s sister, never left, not that she expresses her devout sensibilities on the edge, as I would if I tried again. We are quite past the war with God that we would find in the anti-clerical rebellion of Maldoror, and I spent a good portion of my young alienated heart throbs, their wall of separation, being apart from unity with an anthropomorphic creator. The rest of my lifespan is too short, yet this child Kaylee's convinced optimism and passionate invocation is enough to invite the will to perish. I never had that victory in the struggle for or against belief. As far as my circumstances are concerned, I have to work in very small increments until I can create the psychic wall between my necessary intimacy with this care giver, and the isolation a writer needs; and I can’t rebel. He stayed on rather than chancing a better position because I pouted, knowing what I could more easily manipulate to have my own way than not. Yet I do not have the mortal time left to “give it time,” in the common vernacular. You can count the five months as well as I, still in need of file conversion, particularly as I lost my link to Sean. He told me he would help me prior to Victoria’s ill repute gaining ground. Regardless of whether or not I manage to stay out of Inglis—no small miracle—my wick is at low burn. I’m certainly not going to tolerate tubular insertion into my digestive tract, as did my dialectical predecessor, Vassar Miller, who had a normal spastic lifespan.

The light touch I take with poetics is partly due to the vast aesthetics involved. There are too many poets, too many branches, and I am not known for the sterling discipline of a syllabus, but if I had enough access to her output, I'd clear the table for the critical analysis Vassar more than richly deserves. Her own hymnals embedded in her stanzas are as weighty as mine. I may reject the notion that a superhuman being posits humanity as its primary concern, but I take the ecumenical battle with the autonomic materialism of observable phenomena very seriously, as much as did Steven Sontag's mother. Like Jacob, I will not release the angel from my grip. My hip was dislocated long before the wrestling match ensued. That's Catholic atheism, as opposed to an agnostic cop out.

Wireless in a Snow Shower

I'd heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well, it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah--Pentonix

I suppose, presuming I have regular viewers, like the dwindling audience for daytime soaps, that you would rebut me by pointing out that a minority paraprofessional from the hood cares for my welfare should make me feel guilty, as my conscience doesn’t give a flying fig, not that I do not think said paraprofessional isn’t a nice guy, of course he is. I simulate the ingrained Italian generosity learned from my family on my childhood knee, and he contributes in return, in this charming interstice of the village of the damned, but it is an act I am within relative parameters, able to keep up behind my otherwise world-weary sinuses. Earlier last week, in grieving for his previous patient, he gripped my right thigh, covered by solid gray sheeting, to emphasize the man’s edema, and I felt sexually aroused. That happens, as old as Lady Chatterly’s Lover, the nurse sexualizing the regressive grooming of the crippled husband (when I read Lawrence I resist the vulnerability his cadence demands, not my favorite canonical author) and as recent as the marginal industry effort, me before you, a genuine triumph in cripland film I should feel obligated to view for this account. Perhaps I’ll invite Dr. Dorwart to write a guest review instead, to rest these world weary Italian eyes: I am not going to fuck the nigger five years my junior. It was the mere incidental grip on my thigh. We’re supposed to go to Dunkin Donuts this morning to update the OS for my forlorn second generation Apple 5s, pondering my reluctance to allow ATT to turn off my plug in, adding the expense of a new phone, but if I cannot trust the hotspot to ping?

Victoria Wharton is actually causing me more grief than the kind-hearted African I callously denigrate, but this is as much padre’s fault as my own. He sent her to me. Without Facebook I would not have suspected her mental instability, and was reluctant to reconnect her to daddy, but did so she would stop texting me. My sister informed me Sunday evening that Victoria is a threat to my father’s welfare (drug swiping, etc) and the dowager’s lioness roared. I let the woman have it and threatened her with arrest, due to slipping on my own gullibility, my father’s as well. 

He hired Victoria. Eldest daughter presumed Victoria was reliable, steady, but instead, is another episode of white trash feigning a low middle class. Exactly what fantasy of personal grace and demeanor do I reside in? My heart always breaking on my father’s rat pack stylized imitation, ladies’ man to the end, twisting my love on the rack, the daughter he abandoned, submitted to medical repair, again, and again, and again. First love of my life, he represses what a bloody disappointment I am, first born, fitting virtual reality is no longer removed from the lives we live.

Learning By Obituary

'and love is not a victory march"--Leonard Cohen

Let me give erstwhile Britonian Andrew Sullivan his due: When he was still blogging The Dish, he defended Brendan Eich and his donation on Proposition 8, and that was courageous, and the right thing to do, as people need the right to be wrong, and at the time, I concurred with Sullivan's reasoning. Eich did not publicize his views, did not create hostile environments for homosexuals, and leftist hysteria, as it has been embodied in the criticism of #MeToo, apparently wants us all to blossom into pretty pastels and cat pics rivaling India's population, and Voila, Mary had a little lamb, we all live happily ever after in a glass globe pastoral; being a more sincere apostate in his Catholic faith than I, he also introduced me to Gerard Manley Hopkins, when he was having a bad week with his lungs, led me further afield on David Foster Wallace's painful suicide, and on the preponderance of that alone, aside from his playful screen shot of Amtrak which wasn't meant to marginalize, my antagonism is deplorable. I lost a voice I ceased to respect, no real reason other than anathema for speculative anal penetration, and his destruction of marriage as a sacrament. This is the crux of queer genius. What Proust did for literature, what James did for the novel, what Foucault brought to the table about state control of physical bodies, are invaluable contributions. I know all this, but progressives, by the same token, are actually destroying personal liberty, not expanding it. What's happening on campuses today makes the destruction of Huckleberry Finn look like a table ornament, never mind that Twain worked seven years to perfect his Mississippi dialect, that an African slave is the moral center of the book. We've turned a mere word, nigger, into a form of capital punishment. And I refuse to feel guilty. The black women who run this building deserved what I did to denigrate them, as I have never been allowed, that's right, to be a fully fledged woman who could fulfill her potential. I tried devotion, and all I did in full throttle melancholy youth prior to meeting Jerry was negotiate with Christ, this manifestation of the Father, negotiate and accuse. Why did you allow this to happen to me? Give me a man. Like I want to return to that, playing fiddlesticks, touching among an interior ferocity to be a warrior for God. Priests excommunicate what I represent, even the Argentine, with his gaffes befuddling the flock. I treat His Holiness with respect on twitter, but personally feel he does Catholicism no favors. Of course hell exists, even for atheists who rebel in an unreasoned emotional intensity. Faith carries too high a price, for me, too much sacrifice, and yet, my indifference to homosexual advocacy for itself has been vanquished against the realization that humanity is inexorably unraveling what humanity means. Milo says, if we want to upgrade his rhetoric a notch, that we need new shields, after a fashion. We'll probably get them, as the sanctity of what marriage means, spiritually, is analogous to turning Leonard Cohen's classical lyric into a televised spectacle, sugar coated by a little girl so carefully imitating adult maturity.

I did my research, after the fact. Cohen, as an incongruous Canadian, employing American tropes in modulated Canadian fashion, only came to light for me after his death in 2016. I had no idea Hallelujah was a celebrated classic, a challenge grasped by many vocalists. I wouldn't have thought he could put the challenge of faith in such bold, clever terms, even as I near the end of my life. I am no longer a good human being, not beneath, whatever I fail to read in the crystal of my imagination, I thoroughly believe in limits, and in that for which the Inquisition stood. Sullivan, I doubt, will never realize the backlash of his legacy, and damned himself without anyone's help, but he has sinned in a quite febrile sense, against transcendent majesty of grace. My sin is knowing what I'd do to him for that, if you care to pray for any scalded soul.