Galahad's Love

When a player got zero point, it’s called ‘love’. Although the theory is often heard that it represents the French word l'oeuf, meaning 'an egg' (from the resemblance between an egg and a zero) this seems unlikely. "Love" means zero. In tennis, the server's score is given first, so "love-fifteen" means the server has no points, the opponent has fifteen.--Quora

I am going to get into trouble here if the real time medical professionals who have waltzed in and out of my technological catastrophe since November chance upon this account and put two and two together, and I need no more grief than my life has already purchased, merci beaucoup, nevertheless, the care giver and his patient, within a week of dive bombing each other, came within a milometer of engaging in sexual intercourse on a hospital bed whose electronics might have been damaged in the process, and it certainly isn't the hottest contact I ever had, but riveting suits, and after he clocks out, I pace the studio like a caged jaguar for any length of time, then he takes over at 11 am, like a panther, and I fall in love with this gargantuan magnanimity of his a little further each day. We have battled. He has given me truths I thought I needed to hear: if I leave this agency then it's over, right? He nods, but then we're back on the trampoline. I've lashed myself like any worthwhile Catholic ascetic, swung my own metronome back and forth, lashed out in my posts here. It is pointless. I'm in love with him. He has ignored my requests to retreat when he's able to do so. I seriously do not know how long I can ignore my impulse to flee. I can do so without providing any reason in my request for a transfer. It would temporarily halt his paycheck but would otherwise leave him fit for duty.

I have been a very tough girl, all of my life, but not this tough. Were it not for the money, he'd take me, but says I'd never be able to hold him. I am doing a remarkable job, thus far, by taking the bits of his defenses which drop, but where am I going to be in six months, if, eight weeks in, I have cashed in every pressed rose petal at my command? We live together half the day as if we are husband and wife. I cannot not touch him, but then stop myself.afraid, really now, of taking him. We aren't school children, and I necessarily find myself consoled by Woody Allen's expiation of his own indulgences as an embittered old man. Cassandra's Dream and Match Point are excoriating narratives unraveling his own guilt at the scandal, and they fascinate for that reason, even as a hint of criminal incest has chased him since the storm broke. I am in nothing like that, but this lion heart, in his determination to filter out my bile, may find his zealotry penetrating my last broken heart, sizable arrowheads too well aimed.

Towelettes For Allergens

You had better apologize man!-- my fraudulent paramour on the subject of flaming my family on Facebook

Only writers and authors who are truly dedicated to their work can understand the inimical frustration of always losing ground to the chaos of limited mobility. How I got to Diamond Park from the aunt’s rowhome and the vaunted dormitories of the sprawling urban campuses which were unforgiving in the transverse, I mercifully cannot remember, but getting to Riverside from Diamond Park in 1994, that was buck a day with poppa, losing much more than manuscripts and textbooks. He left me in the middle of the floor, abandoned me and my 2005 deceased cat Oliver, cursing, a rickety bedframe left as it was, I had to sit in an armchair most of the night, lost a day of work, and not much has changed since, even though back then, the manager of this nut house was a white woman named Peggy, and she had nothing to do with the egalitarian games between me and the other manager, Terri Way. I can’t put those losses on Presbyterian Homes and its fraternal collusion with HUD, but everything else? Aside from an internet addiction and my asinine marital affairs, and whatever lie I’m engaged in now in my charming tug of war between a scurrilous spastic bigot and her minority ball and chain, yes, all my losses are directly attributable to Riverside, and it is a lie, with this caregiver, except for the incidental chemistry, an accident at best. I’ve let it go, though Galahad and I are still encoding, a freight car moving with inimitable rumblings. Only in the dowager’s wondrous solar eclipse can she play okay fuck the nigger nurse and still loathe everything about Ice Cube and Barber Shop and African American norms. I’m worn out, bored, and past the desire to assert myself on his body. We’re playacting a relationship, like Jonathan Rhys Meyers playacting the fortuitous husband who got away with killing his mistress in Allen’s stark post-Mia Farrow project, Match Point. African Americans could never make such a devastating film as this, one which exposes the underbelly of Caucasian privilege as hollow when we discover we cannot have it all, punishing my 56 year old body so I can post, make sure the work the technician salvaged will be safe, get my collections published, then honestly, I am done. My sister-in-law rebelled, the dowager is all gloom and doom while she is at the mall with her granddaughter. Well, I cannot go to the mall anymore, unless I plan it with the dark knight in question, and I can’t live like that, even if I care about him, despite my toxic psychology. I wept, on April 15^th, because I had never been so in a man’s arms as it might have once mattered, when I was young, in all that longing, I never had anything last long enough, and Frank? His disability regressed him, I never wanted him, and here, I asked a provider for a male aide. I never intended to feel a physical attraction for him, wind up having such a battle about sex over fifty. It is not enough, not if I cannot reclaim my level of independence and self-determination. It’s unlikely.

The True Pundit Ghoul Track

"Getting lost in your lover is your first mistake." -- Gordon Lightfoot

As a matter of prurient boredom with jackasses, (is that actually the case if the ignition isn't shutting off for a bleeding heart-- no I have no imagination towards Nick, he just fits the convenience of the definition) I have always, I mean always, disliked the word masterbation and horny. They are just ugly and stupid terms and wouldn't get me past Flynt's wing tips, finally having pissed, climaxed, wept for dead mothers, and it's not enough, dropping down into the echo chamber chasm. I was, then wasn't, going to poke at Woods in his incremental elevation as the replacement for Charlton Heston, and ask if he had read Jennifer Rubin's headline on poor Sarah Huckabee Sanders not knowing anything, as we debate the callous indelicacy of a hospice ready maverick who couldn't break out of a Viet Cong prison. What did I post at the beginning of my own interment last fall? But because I post as I do, and AccessLife, which was professionally run, went belly up, no one cares. Meghan, get your naval superdaddy off the soapbox already, please. People need to learn when to relinquish. Forget Trumpian new lows. Is it beneficial for the public to watch notable personalities dying on camera? Roger Ebert. Christopher Hitchens in a blurb spot on Rose made us appreciate "there but the grace of god" as his larynx turned him into a conehead, and now McCain suddenly has sensitivities despite his crapshoot debate with Obama in 2008. Oh, the health of the mother. His mannerisms and impatience handed the presidency over to our boy wonder Barack, always in search of, as I hate to get ugly, but grow weary of nigger love in its caramelized version. He keeps running a treadmill called make the spastic love herself. I thought that's what popping the cherry was for. All press secretaries spin the bottle.

Josh Groban's Growth Spurt

You don't know how to talk to people.--nothing the dowager hasn't heard before

My readers may appreciably take comfort in the fact that I have very little formal training in music, as cousin Pamela and I swap tunes as a form of moral support, to discover on my own that I know You Raise Me Up through exposure on commercial radio, and it is this Josh Groban, pitted unequivocally against Brian Greene, and by extension, Feynman:

"It doesn't seem to me that this fantastically marvelous universe...can merely be a stage so that God can watch human beings struggle for good and evil."--Richard Feynman, born 100 years ago today. pic.twitter.com/jBGq68ysWp

— Brian Greene (@bgreene) May 12, 2018

whose atheism Greene is highlighting, who wins the argument. No one can listen to Groban's trembling baritone and not be reminded of our transcendental merger with aspiration, regardless of your faith, or lack thereof. The singer might be a telescopic savant, little knowing that one of my tweets to him, for miserable Pamela's sake, was tongue in cheek, and the public face of popular physics may understand genius enough to distill it to rogues such as I, but listen to Josh, then listen to Greene, and a pathway may be found where neither personality is necessarily in dialectical opposition to the other. Musical compositions are as carefully coordinated as the Hubble telescope, in certain respects, so God may be absent and present just the same, whether in a spiritual or material worldview, as I stray further and further afield into this woman's land mines, with conscious alarm telling me to withdraw while I can, and don't, carrying this woman's pain atop of mine. I owe her mother-in-law as my father's sister, certain loyalties, while neither woman does much to give disability pride a good name, with their respective conditions forming a cesspool of self-pity, with brassy Philadelphia sparks as we wither. I, who am suicidally depressed but for my resilience against it, begin to fear my cousin's wife may kill herself, as she insulates her failing body in recrimination. I, who had a horrific medical life, see Pam's as worse, aside from the fact that sticking my nose in it, as Richard the elder would remind me, supporting Pam is just outside an immediate family concern, while for once, the paraprofessional holding himself off me, just, may find me nodding off in the machine, trying to find the space to work between his scent, and Pam's grip on me as a liferaft, to still work as a writer, taking too much of a toll. He took my hand yesterday, seized it, as no man has ever done, to indicate effect, possession? And I wonder what the hell we're doing, me, maybe 24 months off from returning to medical institutional fodder, and this former factory food processor. Oh, I've had relatively tepid sex with able-bodied men like him, wanted to see if he would be any different, and instead, we're torturing each other in this bizarre ritual where he sees me as woman enough, but it is a sad commentary that a woman of my age has to have grown so old to experience desire conjoined to such care, forging ourselves against each other. No mobile man ever seized my hand like that. It kicked me in the skull like a gulf ball, and in part led to this all nighter, while Pam and I bleached the skeleton in the closet, vibrating with such tenacious despair.

Nam Gloriam

Officers and common solders gloried in single combat, taking heads and despoiling their enemies.--For the Glory of Rome, caption snippet, Ross Cowan

The Walking Dead reminds us how easy we actually have it in our modern cities: filtrated water, processed food increasingly depleted into mono-staples like corn, potatoes, but nonetheless plentiful, relative ease of travel where we kill ourselves off in macro-evolutionary fashion through vehicular homicide, but most progressives are astute enough not to call for bans on automobiles, only keeping an eye out for regulating Uber. Within the substructure of its serial wanderers punctuated by periodic post-apocalyptic community integration, Britannia's David Morrissey gives a decent approximation of a mendacious and intense tyrant as the governor, whose climatic moment culminated in the termination of Michael Rooker's character arc. He brings the same set of skills to Aulus Plautius under Claudian rule of the Empire, which, if we wish to quibble with Amazon, relies a little too much on the modern style of situation comedy for its interludes of domestic levity. In Ben Hur, Roman rule juxtaposed against the zealousness of faith is actually a code for the rise of the United States as it was viewed under Eisenhower: federated civilian supremacy imposing egalitarianism on all its subjects at the point of a bayonet-- the bayonet being the mightiest legion in the world. The English, being the irritable Victorians that they are, chime in with not so fast. The legionnaires could be out-maneuvered through the indigenous manipulation of the Druids. The writers take this manifest future superiority of Anglican globalism too seriously. The Roman Empire, under Augustan lineage and beyond, wasn't the first super power of its kind out of happenstance. When Morrissey bellows to his troops beset with the rainy weather of the British Isles, "We are Roman!" It is this to which civilization owns its homage, stirring the fervor in my own Roman blood, what articulated itself when I struggled with the door while none of the students came to my aid, and a naive little spastic set eyes on a Tassoni in army fatigues and heavy black boots, Sylvester Stalllone gloves on his hands, me and my doomed, precocious, invalid heart. I undoubtedly fell for the man instantly, merely to be otherwise signed and sealed and delivered when he wrapped his arms around me in the dormitory hallway. Though reconnected to me due to an overenthusiastic care giver, this same man, perhaps wisely, did not respond to my tentative thank you on Messenger, and do those wounds of my first true desire still have that much of a hold, more properly suffered in silence? If it matters that much, remove his account? You may laugh, and deride it. Intelligent the dowager may be, adept, mature for 56, may be adjudicated on the merits of whatsoever was wrong with being his friend? He was innocent of anything but living his life choice in 2002 when I tracked him down; he is innocent now, while I ride this metaphysical plane of passionate restoration, for the glory that was Rome. We are beholden to it in a fundamental diachronic tie much more so than Xi's presidency can be transliterated back to the formation of the Middle Kingdom, or the implied contract between the US and its lone true satellite in the East, modern Israel. This is why I had to reluctantly vacillate about removal of Hallel from my feed. I do not believe in the legitimacy of Resolution 181, and wrestle the Zionist imperative which authenticates Israel as a divine right.
What is glory in the modern world? How do we take its measure? Would my life had been different had love been reciprocated, truly?

Twitter Has Bookmarks Now, imagine

He, stroking my hair: You don't know that you can't be independent. You've got a new chair, can't you be happy?
The dowager, "No," stifling a petulant tear.

He wants me to be happy, presumably Samsung and ATT do too, finding some intrinsic relevance to tackle my pain in a phone of which I grasp about a tenth of its function, and rather than dwell on my inability to be at my ease with my own self-worth, I put Mainline Medical’s tilt chair on full speed and smashed into the plaster paris covering the wall in the hallway, the therapist throwing a wobbly, and my attendant of too much gargantuan heart blaming the dictator, as we call the therapist. The man, as a sexual distraction, is over for me, and has reverted to just being an asshole in the black male category, the favorite denigration of powers that be in Los Angeles, if Bosch is any indicator, so I’m still basically libertarian by instinct, if nothing else, as the jaws of life wait to disarticulate my rotary cuff, tendons and fat leaking bloodily from my shoulder. This has taken me six weeks to realize there isn’t a male on the face of the earth whom I’d desire openly who’d in turn want me, but can I fucking work anyway? No, unless I start from scratch, all over again, and you’ve heard this all before but I get angry anyway because he refuses to let me say it’s over or it isn’t because his cure for my depression is contact with him, after a now muted and petty fashion, and this will go on every fucking day, our shit in each other’s noses, contingent on his lousy eating habits and my impaction. The chair keeps me a foot off the ground, if not more. I’ve already written my death warrant, despite cousin Pam’s consolation. I’ve utilized her for solace, and she doesn’t understand his tambourine jiggles anymore than I do, up one day and down the next, and oh yes, he cares, no doubt of that, with my five wheelchairs in this fuck-ass studio, on a roll here, aren’t I? He cares about the thousand dollar Samsung, the wheelchair, but making love? The flavor of this turgid Monday: that’s too easy. I already told him, after that memorable April 15^th, that I’d hate myself for winding up a nigger’s lover, more recently sent him my diary page telling him to go fuck himself, nothing sticks, nothing makes him reorient, and yes, if he yields and I knead my knees into him and pull him down, he’s going in, and that, conversely doesn’t make any sense to me as the slatterly lass shooting up flares with him every afternoon, with his untutored but overzealous dedication to my welfare. I’d be grateful for it if I could work, if I had a reason to live beyond the fact that he grasps my shins, slides me down the deplorable mattress, slides my buttocks on the cushion, sits me up, then spins my legs, after I wash my pubic hair. We’re a literal horse and buggy. Oh, the disabled community would wave me back in, hello there, what did you expect? Not that I would let myself be so far subsumed, that hole I blasted in the hallway as much an omen as accidental. I don’t call this living. Would any of you?

Simian Mists Application

Oah oooh, oah ooooooh, Elton John, Curtains

The dowager’s ire, if she is to engage in a certain degree of veracity with her audience, stems from an unexpected reawakening which cannot be satisfied except through an incidence which might seem as exploitive as what she explored in her controversial New Mobility Magazine feature in 2004. Slant it one way, and yes, she can see it through the periscope of an alarmist, regulatory left, and conservative constraint both. I have already given ample indication that I’ve been on the inside of a conflict resolution giving me double vision on the matter of a simulation of an authentic interpersonal relationship borne out of economic and decentralized necessity. But there is this undertow aspect, the full-blooded woman rising to the surface even so close to biological twilight, caught in abeyance, with few outlets other than to restore her functional ability as a writer. What can she do, as a practical matter, to allow reinvigoration to lead where it may? She is too old for neon signs on her chest, rather risk adverse to trading cash for a hustler, and this isn’t really a Fay Wray subliminally lewd moment where the marionette finger of an outraged gorilla is poking her breasts, although the 1933 film popularizes stereotypical fears dramatized by The Birth of a Nation, unless we kill the smart phones utilized in research for galivanting off with a mind of their own while we try to conserve those expensive gigabytes.

If an NPR Georgetown University critic lamented to her listeners that vampirism is the most overused conceit in literature, creature flicks aren’t far behind, though concessions must be granted, and one of them is the original Kong is a classic, with little of that diluting empathy of the later films humanizing the embattled silverbacks and their close lowland mountain relative. All the sudden, we’re responsible for their welfare, even as we utilize Caesar as an implausible didactic warning about taking pharmaceutical miracles too far. Planet of the Apes, whichever versions we prefer, takes the antagonist victory to its fantastical extreme: the monster wins, regardless of human ingenuity attempting to outwit it—but setting that aside for Kong’s magnified context, if the gorilla as we know it wins, then what? What alternate pathway can be reasonably construed? I certainly don’t have one for our slower relatives analogous to our own species afflicted with Downs Syndrome. Unsympathetic as it may seem, I take issue with conservative pricks to our conscience when it revolves around mental retardation. The dowager doesn't exactly put Kasich in the wrong, exiting the stage on a high plateau, or dispute Thiessen's heroic clarion call, which bravely pushes back against presumption. The issue is about destitution. If I, as a near spastic genius, am falling into poverty inverse pyramid trap, due to avoidance and obstinacy in part, those necessarily limited by brain damage only have so many niches.

For every moment of Penn's brilliant dramaturgic portrayal of a mentally challenged man cleaning up after prejudices against him barely registered, giving his audience the near fairy tale resolution which makes Americans feel good about our basic decency, there are three tragedies like Ethan's, toppling from the Empire State, because you either want us dead, or constrained into norms with which you're comfortable. I posted a really hard spiral into the abuse I suffered via Unlimited Staffing, nearly too hard even for me to defeat its masochistic destruction. The woman was a predator, but the difference, between that, and the crack of the walnut shells you've read on this account, is two lonely people fumbling about, trying to fill each other's spaces; it shouldn't be a crime, and as a technical matter, it's not, except the client has to dictate her terms, and the care giver has to meet them, while the man, and the woman dance the slimmest tightrope, waiting to see what drops, and when.

Depreciation

The Queen of the house represents the Christian virtue of mercy, which is different from the equitable justice allegorized in Britomart. Whereas equity returns to philosophical principles in order to ensure the defendant receives his proper due, mercy offers freely to redeem offenders who sincerely repeat their crimes.-- Poetry Foundation's rehabilitative sympathy for The Faerie Queene

My sister-in-law cannot convert my Office 7 files not in the cloud, and I droop. The only way I know how to defeat this on my own is to find my Office 7 CD, which is hopefully somewhere, hack my product key, install, then open said files in Office 365, and the only human being who probably desires to help me solve this with all his heart is a paraprofessional with whom my lifespan is alarmingly eclipsed, so hurry, get it all in, and there are worse things in life than misdirected denial, but a decent way to leash a man, to my surprise, is a thousand dollar piece of technical hardware. It is nothing new to wake up and feel rebellion with biology. Robert, in messenger: "I can't believe I'm 67!" "Forever young!" The dowager retorted in equal vein, as I go stomping around with I'm 56. But I am 56, and whether certain lines are blurred between regressive care, I was onto that as early as his first Wednesday with me, and something more, I remain restless, my retrenchment not least among the reasons for that, to be polite about what I mean, but you should know already. I mean, this man took a risk, because I wept, he wanted to console me, just as I've taken risks of late, running through every rationale while he takes me to school on the court. I do not want to be sexually manipulated because of depression and cynicism simply out of a misplaced fiduciary duty on his part, and yet we've been so close to taking each other that I am not simply frustrated, more than that, perplexed. He trusts me thus far not to can his ass and says he is in heat for various areas where we all know our erogenous zones live, and I'm his fucking job at the same time. He's guardian, family, brother, and yes, a man in my life who outlasted my particular talent for being unforgiving. And this, despite the fact I cannot cut him down. There are 1001 pathways to that but his zeal is a bit forcibly sealing my jaws and silencing my tongue-- not about the heavy petting-- but him, because he's the rare embodiment of a good man. I've always wanted that, but not due to his economic necessity. My cousin, equally scarred, asked why am I afraid if I believe I'm in love with him. I'd think the answer would be obvious. If and when he's ready to move on, who gets screwed, whether or not that literally happens? But as of yet, I am not sure I've grafted my own hybrid of apples and oranges. 
I'm 56, losing ground to technical folly and not a few unexpected ground balls. Do I wrest out some kind of commitment from an inner city minority that will make me self-conscious for the rest of my life? The anarchist in me isn't dead, trust me there. 

Basketball & Rules on a Sim Card Transfer

There's always some reason to feel not good enough, and it's hard at the end of the day. --Sara McLachlan

Let me open this post by saying that Samson and David are rather favored exemplars of what it takes to be steadfastly devout until the frailty of human need breaks the most heroic aspects of our nature, even in being a warrior for the certitude of exceptionalism. In our otherwise silent alliance in the many months the editor of Modern Catholic has remained my follower, Rebecca Angell may grasp this and admonish me with the inquiry, "You understand the radicalism Christ brought to the Hebrews, don't you?" Yes, but it's easier when Yahweh let's you slaughter a thousand Philistine's with the jawbone of a jackass. I have a novella trapped in WordPerfect 7 which I've almost sold tied around this very principle of martyrdom's Old Testament militancy, and I am more inclined to believe in Samson as a Nazarene than I am in Jesus as the feminine handmaiden to the Father. Blaspheme? Not quite, merely a stipulation that I need Samson as a Herculean figure, David as the King of Kings, before I can swallow the petulance of the Incarnate with his demands toward selflessness, and maybe, in my attempt to find a new trustworthy intimacy with women in my peer range, I need this new found submergence, new to me, sucked into a cousin's pain worse than mine. It interests me that a woman can be married, have at least one granddaughter, more dogs than I have cats, and be in such profound pain because her husband, my cousin by blood, is an impotent prick. "I can only imagine the things you write about me." Billy said this to me years ago, not realizing I find him rather colorless, emasculated as he is by his dying mother, and I now serve as a buoy to his wife while mutant fissures pulsate my body in ways never anticipated before the 15th of last month. Pam values her privacy, and I've already written enough, in both alarm and irritation, to disservice what her trust expects, as she too curls like a vine reaching out to my nursing aide.

On the basis of what this quixotic fellow has tossed at me, I'm assuming, brusquely, if I want him, then I can take him: he refuses to fully kiss me because then he'll have to take me, so he claims, while I look at my oblong face, incredulous-- but this isn't my point. I'm engaged in a serious battle with myself about winning him, as he claims I have, merely asking me to wait, or fearful my attachment will become irrevocable-- (I am already there, thank you)-- but is this what I really want, an untutored lion, for who's sake I'm studying the rules of the court? I had him literally on top of me Tuesday. It wouldn't have taken much, and yet, I released him, every day, another flavor, another stroke of his fingers, nearly intolerable, unable to engage in the usual stimulus to ease these frustrations, I'd rather he not use foreplay merely to ease my suffering, find him too sweet to remain infuriated, while the game goes on despite my bobby pins, ready to anesthetize the fluttering wings of the moths. I want to know that it's real, not Memorex, hoping I won't have to kill him with a strangulation of silk before he sorts it out himself.

Mayday

It's four o'clock in the morning, damn it.-- Bernie Taupin

I have a post in draft I wish to finish about Leonard Cohen's signature lyric, but I am juggling so many issues, along with events tied to them, that I merely stopped by to make a pout, wishing my twitter accounts could ideally stay stable more than a week, with yet another block for reasons unknown. The fact that I drive a very hard bargain, not all the time, but when I do, doesn't mean I am always right to do so, but it also doesn't mean I can change my spots simply because I've never been happy before and now I am happy because someone I desire desires me. I never had that people, odd as it may seem, and as I reiterate constantly, I'm near the end of my life and would say I don't appreciate divine humor on that score-- I know too, that being wanted doesn't change I have a lot of shit thrown at me and a lot of shit to repair, which doesn't make sense if read literally. My fiances are now even more strained, and after Monday, the seventh, I have to rebuild a resume, make a do or die effort to unlock crucial Office 7 files into my Word upgrade, and get back to work, however clumsy my pitching may be. I do not have a relationship with my mother's brother, my godfather, but he rushed my new power chair, and maybe extended me some further small wedge of freedom. We can never quite discount personal connections, or loyalties which we value, but scouts honor I'll get the fuck off my non- existent but anticipated resumption of my sex life, sucking all the oxygen out of my discipline and energy. Bad girl, and it's nearly three am.