Adhesive For A Cousin’s Mouth

The most remote inhabited island group in the world, Tristan de Cunha in the southern Atlantic Ocean, is so tiny its main island has no airstrip.


In the process of rebuilding the destruction of my life’s work, I wanted to begin retyping something low priority, like my graduate novel chapters, and this pick was the wrong thing for Thursday morning. I cannot locate The Novelists of Don Paydola (shortened later to simply Don Paydola), my idea of real world characters vanishing onto a fantasy island, already corrupted by Lost, if only by virtue of industry success resentment, and wonder why I do not abandon the project altogether, given that I’m basically a short form writer with other more urgent matters to attend to, but since my pace is currently on par with the slime of a laboring snail’s trail, I have to reactivate my rhythm with some sort of launch pad before the beginning, and this was indeed the title of my first chapter. Before The Beginning, before my $800 Toshiba failed, before my continued defiance against ever increasing constriction, before my cousin’s wife became my embattled consigliere over something like our mutual rare attendance at funerals, and yes, I unkindly begin to chafe even as I pursued Billy by telephone over worry for her optical health, given that I resist being insulated by domestic quandaries. Pam of course made inquiries about what I write, and so I sent her Safari on a search about my meeting with Adam Kokesh, published on Medium, and now cousin Pam is following me on Ev Williams brain child, little realizing what I do on Blogger. If she did she would be mad, and our bond, however heavily device supported, would perhaps rupture, and that may not be an entirely consequential demerit, as the monster of self-absorbed selfishness bores itself into the dowager’s shoulder blades. I wanted a confidante, and now I remain uncertain about the virtues of having one, those demands it places upon me, my limited time oozing in my hour glass like salt water taffy. The caregiver who threw himself into my need like a super absorbent smore, located the little of this complex linguistic trick I actually managed to complete before the age of 35, this same Thursday afternoon, and I simply seem incapable of moving fast enough. His 40 hours necessitate my drooling accommodation, in the revolving door to our chocolate melted marshmallow sparks, not fully able to answer the question if I’d trade fucking him for the rarified solitude I enjoyed in September. Terry O’Quinn does not make for an enthralling family annihilator in Stepfather. The pensive mask of his narrow blue eyes and the chiseled expression in his birdlike face were always suited to the enigma of John Locke. His movie, in contrast, had little suspense, rote and shrill, always resistant as I was to this notion of virtual penetration into our three dimensional space, I am now fully infected with potential consequences, though even here, cynicism prevails. On the outside of the Fourth Estate, Facebook is disdained by thirtysomethings. I suspect it’s real market value will fuel the next big short.

Class Reunion

what a glorious feeling I'm happy again-- the musical

My distraught cousin believes I am in bed. My antagonized attendant believes I should be in bed, and I was on the point of going to bed, but the upset apple cart might be likened to the evidence of a high school pep rally pecking order, one which I don’t really have time for, but nonetheless I offered provocation, not at Maxine's incitement level 20 minutes to check out and Galahad rebelled. Rightly so, as I do not let go easily. The consequences fell on my cousin’s head more than my own, as my raw aches cauterized by the end of May, but I had a 62 year old woman wailing she did nothing wrong, why was Galahad mad at her? This is not a feigned attachment. She truly believes my care worker is her friend, and it makes me skittish, how she clings to a working class man she only spoke to once. Even I’m not that attached, and without his attentiveness, even if I did transfer myself onto the chair in his absence, I would run into loss of independence hygiene maintenance, and I’m next to indifferent on the matter, still bound to the temporal order of the world because a deflated ego wishes to save my voice. Am I engaged in that recovery? Only in minor starts, overwhelmed. White collar professionals presumably have a better grip on emotional maturity, and if he knows he has his freedom, he erupts vigorously when I drop the occasional depth charge into it. Why bother? Fighting to reset the parameters of his intimate consolation, I respect that, obey the routine, but cannot pretend continuously that this situation is a cakewalk for me. Being bused some 40 minutes outside my district into Sun Valley in the ninth grade was equally not delectable, and the only utilitarian victory disability activism handed me on a platter was suing Ridley Township to install wheelchair ramps. It never mitigated the culture shock, something which took years, shedding the special education modifier. Bringing all my professional acumen to bear, I am functionally my cousin’s psychologist, singing pennies from heaven while Gene Kelly choreographs the special effects of water vapor. I miss making love, transforming him into a pugilist sparring partner.

Pithing Poultry & Backdraft Luncheons

While she celebrated this joyous moment for her daughter, Tisdale said Maya had a "long road of learning" ahead of her.--certainly not derivative of the dowager's parental evasive surgical outcome.

Although the dowager did not offer it rapt attention beyond the first twenty minutes, the B grade revenge fantasy Steel and Lace has a few interesting twists to its credit beyond the standard autonomic predator motif. It offers a sympathetic backstory for Claire Wren as the victim overwhelmed by the collusion of masculine privilege, and combines a procedural pursuit against its marginal futurist construct, then ends on the same tragic note as it opened, perhaps to convey that vigilantism leads us to the same empty, mind-numbing place, even if Bruce Davison, with his more subdued command of telegenic capture than Ed Begley Jr, who he resembles, had a take which may have opened the door for his casting into his X-Men role. This is not to applaud the movie for its cartoonish aspects. Michael Cerveris and his cohorts, although it implied otherwise, do not deserve their horrific deaths at the hands of yet another play on black widow mating aspects due to a stigmatizing sexual violation. This is what the Colorado baker's refusal to service a a gay couple, and Wilkinson's request for Sanders to leave the Red Hen amount to, the application of stigma, and our tolerances to be put on the spot. I agree that Sarah Wilkinson had the right to refuse Sanders service, but her rationale for doing so is tenuous at best. Press Secretaries do not make White House policy, they explain or justify to the press corp, regardless of ideological stripes, and I was angry about the fiasco for this reason. The woman is a federal office holder, and yet the discomfort of bus boys and waiters is of a sudden preeminent because this particular president is trying to ease pressure on our southern border with a more exposed, authoritarian gesture. Freedom of mobility is important, and if the indigenous peoples conquered by colonialism want to destroy the best aspects of Western civilization, maybe now well past its zenith, they may be victorious against imperial sins out of moral guilt latticed into egalitarian fictions, but any number of people may still die needlessly, if developing world standards are a new found metric.

It takes our now embattled , but still robust meritocracy, as embodied in Georgetown's Randy Barnett, that we haven't quite revamped the legal dueling as a method to settle the argument between federalism and the masses. As Trump has ratcheted up his peevishness, I have toned down my excoriating expletives, mostly due to the extraordinary exertions of bowel maintenance, but I haven't retreated. If Maga and the left wants a blood feud, bring it on. My life is as gestapo hardened as Allison's real life will to survive against such savagery against her body. Proportionality may fail us even in the most heartfelt circumstances, but we always have new medians. The age of the savant has caught on.

Toxins in the Feminine Figure Beneath the Appeasement of Tovah Feldshuh's Command

"They have the right to live," Axel Steier, a Mission Lifeline founder, said of the migrants.

Do they now? There is not a high profile government official on the face of the earth, not even Kim Jong Un, who denies basic human rights, with the colorful Duterte being a quickly superimposed afterthought, in terms of being a (refreshing) exception. The dowager might not be so bemused if she had to live under Rodrigo's charming apologia for brutality, but pauses to reflect that Philadelphia's regime has no discernible difference against Filipino distributive poverty median. If life turns pretty cheaply for the vast majority of the world's estimated 4.5 billion Asians, it is merely a reflection of our evolutionary bottleneck crisis still at play, the mayoralty of this city like so much shuffleboard, at least since the Rizzo family relinquished power. The key center city districts, like my ward, 187, have the concentrated opulence of high finance and gentrification via condominiums. The residential neighborhoods are territoriality marked by fried chicken franchises, regardless of the name we draw in the raffle: Wilson Goode, John Street, Ed Rendell, once the potential scourge of gun manufacturers, Michael Nutter, and even Jim Kenney, his soda tax jeopardizing retail establishments in an already poor city, doesn't change this dynamic. The evolution of money, the concentration of wealth like spokes on a wheel surrounding city hall, by implication, are far more important than dying city residents transported to dialysis treatment at 7 am. Or a woman with cerebral palsy being beaten to a pulp by systemic corruption, all the sudden, and necessarily, bending over backward for a care worker to whom she was, however briefly, more erotically inclined than she was to Tim Artis, her other long standing passive minority who was paid out of pocket. Just because the game of an interpersonal relationship is a lie without legs beyond her acquiescence to Medicaid's contract doesn't mean she cannot be hurt. She was Monday, another indefatigable blow, even if counseled not to compare her quadriplegic physique to an able-bodied woman walking her dog. Well defined buttocks win every time over the buddy girl aroused, then burnt back down to carbon, and this cycle will repeat, indefinitely, unless I bolt, for more of the same, endless misery, and I don't have the stamina to hire, fire, another 50 people I do not even want in my personal space.
My cousin thinks he cares about me enough that this is  "real". But I knew from our fight at the end of April what I forced him to tell me was the brute honesty: I am only tempting enough for him to struggle not to sleep with me, and I do not have the ability to transcend what the malformations of this city have scarred on me not to relegate him, despite, despite the woman in me who keeps sounding if he really cares. Not enough not to smote me where it counts. Fine, but all of this is draining me, a mere shell of my former self, hardly in the grip of Locklear's crisis, as much fading relevance as her loss of control due to substance abuse?

I am less diffident about Salvation now that it is back on air, relieved to have a show to follow with a degree of eagerness. The series was put into production too early to forecast Trumpian politics. Indeed, Tovah's evergreen character actor carry over, from Danielle Melnick the crusader, to Danielle Melnick holding the strands at the end of the world, may have anticipated a Clinton administration in error, with Sasha Ruiz merely the usurper who has to be defeated, a Trumpian villain whose path to the presidency can be blamed on Hugh Hefner, Charles Krauthammer, and Bill Clinton, depending on which columnist's byline is in stroke recovery, but Salvation, nevertheless, feels like the industry is throwing a bone to the cops: be a good electorate now, we put a woman in charge handling the asteroid, the Russians, and cyberterrorists! And we gave her a Libertarian (Tanz) to elevate to the Vice Presidency! My right to life, meanwhile, lurches on mission creep. 

Alford Plea, with Skid

We had a good laugh at that one. --David Foster Wallace

Deadbeats. This is what I am thinking of, spinning my wheels for 15 hours in exasperated anger that a nurse practitioner named Dana Rigley, who doesn’t have a license to treat me, insists on her one month daily visit for 10 minutes despite her very own acknowledgement that her function is non-essential for me as a quadriplegic. Socialized medicine at its finest. I would be delighted to challenge the traditional liberal as to what this labor and expenditure on her part amounts to, and wouldn’t receive an answer as to the hidden lack of efficacy and fraud within single payer options as I terminated her visits and waltzed her out of the door in tears, and I thought I lacked the requisite emotional armor, pushing back against Mia’s stridency, politely, but pushing against her now carnivorous, delicate, boney frame. I will not make so much as a dent against her convictions, as the sitting Pope reminds me of my hardened heart and I reminded his warders of a once warrior driven faith. Deadbeats, where do they come in? Ah, my cousin by marriage, with whom I was not many futurist hours past this post terse and unkind, has a broken younger ambulatory ex-Marine brother who reminds me of my dead fiancée of course, and he has a crush on me. I want nothing to do with it, and assumed Pam would be angry with me for openly deeming him a half-wit, but Pam rolls right along with her indolence and her dogs, as the fine citizens od this country elbow each other to expiate their pain on trash TV. My attendant’s exquisite tastes: Dr. Phil’s prostitutes, Dr. Phil’s anorexic emergencies, Dr. Phil’s molested stepdaughters. This is the corrosive acid eating us away, the self-absorption of Dr. Phil’s megalomaniacs who have lost touch with reality and because they appear on Dr. Phil, receive a cushy voluntary commitment environment. Civic conscience and duty, these now fall on famous athletes, on Hollywood celebrity. We hide behind them, those with whom we align. Mia’s followers defend her against non-trolling critiques such as mine. James gets defended by his salient multitude, and television so carefully matures with Emily Tyra, an actual dancer, receives a punitive back story, starving herself into sterility. Code Black is so cleverly an industry send up, a playful coyness to it, the opening season a fantasy musical dance number reminiscent of Glee, a tolerable viewing  bracket. Little more than that, barely making a dent in the rebuilding I need to do with, for, my work. Exactly what assistance do I desire from you? A visit from Mikaela Hunt, with her middle brow womens’ interest questions I occasionally attend to with dilatory respect (entering into her modality when I please)? I am in love with an African American nerd whose sex drive is skewered into the wiring of nurture, regardless of all these years I have avoided this situation and attacked the regressive dependency paradigm which feeds the business of poverty and chronic condition, and believe its state regulated enforcement is evil and despite my unapologetic rancor with black counterculture, I want to authenticate an interpersonal relationship here, worn and threadbare daisy. I tempt him. The next day hope scuttles, and on we go, not listening to him to try to shit this morning on demand. One day, I’ll hit the fuck this pedal past my error of believing my work was secure. Such slim incentives not to follow David Foster Wallace on the other side, past the photosphere.

Niles & Daphne

You're not Jewish are you?-- a widow's response to Kelsey Grammer being out of his element at her husband's funeral

I never quite got that joke on Frasier, and I knew I was supposed to, the laugh track creating a brief caesura, even my executive director Richard Baron mentioning it at work the next day, repeating the actresses question with a bemused guffaw the dowager did not have the courage to interrupt for purposes of enlightenment about dropping dead suddenly and the Jewish norms of medical hypochondria being prepared for it, but I did understand the Niles and Daphne exaggerated classism collapse: the psychoanalyst all hot and heavy for a domestic being a better class of warden to Mahoney as the gadfly father slowing down, Leeves interjecting herself at the appropriate moment and then turning back to the sink to finish the dishes, familiarity over. This is representative of the conflict in care-giving, whether or not we humorize it. Some days it is difficult to do that, as when bathroom maintenance fails, or the man cuts at you: little brother's troubled son "not being your business," objecting to your coldness, akin to the way a prospective partner would, but he and I differ on my brother, my public battle with my sister-in-law. I want her to stop behaving like a teenager and rectify my nephew's emotional pain. This is the price of the cannon I loaded at her, and so it shall remain, my regret burrowed in the fact that my sister Stephanie is a good mother, as are other members of my family better parents than what my brother seems capable of. I love Benny, but our relationship, for me, is over. In the 8 months I've been going through this, not one call or text in my direction. Stephanie, my sister, may not set foot in Riverside, but she's been here for me. Truce remains intact. As to the fight with Galahad, I played the bruised lover, emphasis on played. We made up, but my volubility rouses his masculine irritation, irrespective of my coldness. My magic nigger man phase, if the dowager is honest with Joanne, is over, mainly, other than being gratified he'd fuck me, all other things being equal. "Let me fuck you if you want me to stop talking," this I said this morning, a rote effort to return to the moment, for whatever reasons, in my analytical dispensary. He did, after all, remind me of the lover I had hoped I could be for the right man, when it mattered, but I am, as I said, bored, as he vacillates between the caring boy and the man who's frustrated. Live his life or shut the fuck up, in his dedication to this provider and it's scum of the earth criteria, the care workers as equally Medicaid clients. If it wasn't a slow burn killing field without the fanatical star quality of the Khmer Rouge, that would be one thing, but it's killing me, my good news for you, as such, I found my draft of The Driver on my external drive, which doesn't mean I've been almost eliminated. If I had the strength to calibrate my work as I used to, perhaps I'd get past this; not while I'm forced to dump in a disposable out of mutually shared fatigue, exchanging the hug and kiss, his happy ritual. I haven't destroyed his construct, not just yet. It isn't a lie he's pierced my armor, despite that my interior conflicts haven't meshed.

Quentin Tarantino and The Maturation of Corridos as a Process of Fermentation

Why not just have a private corporation buy up all the southern border land and turn it into hotels and casinos? They have pretty great security.

— Austin Petersen (@AP4Liberty) June 19, 2018

Austin was certainly being facetious with his suggestion when the groundswell over family separation was surging forth, but it represents what the dowager values about our political association, and in some ways, binds libertarians together. It is an idea reminiscent of Tarantino's  From Dusk to Dawn franchise, and the threat posed by the hybridization of Latino subservience with American conquest.

The first of the three films is the most grandiloquent, with Tarantino's and Keitel's transformations integral to their character arcs, violent prone sociopath and preacher suggestive of an insatiable affinity between violence as a solution and dogmatism. Quentin would be the perfect trend setter for immigration policy, as it never was about the humane, only the cross pollenization of febrile infection.

Embalming of A Freelancer

I am only now discovering that much of my work in my master file from the Toshiba is gone, despite what I paid the technician, twice now. My essay on The Driver was just gelling into a sustainable thesis in September 2017. I simply cannot take much more of this. I really can't. Because I had to move into an 811 public housing building and then let the fucking corporation con me into accepting Riverside, because I have no academic safeguards to secure my projects, and now my physiology cannot sustain the stresses. I cannot take it, I can't. This is all the time, every fucking PC failure, every conflict with the building owner's louse brained nigger squadron. It is not one calamity, it is cyclic, and this machine is 11 years old. I just can't continue like this, my chest, bowel burning. I can't --goodbye.

Dead to The World

but boys aren't into spina bifida -- a truism from a child recur to a pretty boy ensemble

It is a rare event I wake with him standing over me at the foot of the bed, but I was that oblivious Friday morning, neither hearing the phone nor his entry as he moved to my left, tapping me tentatively, warning me about the necessity of tactile contact, something he believes in rather too literally. While speaking with the case manager about supplies, he forgot himself and caressed my stomach, bare of my aunt’s 1960’s rayon blue evening blouse, in an erotic and rather intimate gesture which leaves little to the imagination, and caught himself while looking at the victorious smile on my face. I won. This is our most vulnerable congruence with each other, that phrase about fucking me to death not beyond the realm of possibility. Any other woman would have seized this opportunity, particularly in light of the battle we waged with each other toward the beginning of May about the physical boundaries already transgressed, but the work week had been wearying, holding well over a cup of urine in my bladder which would have gushed in a not easily removed transference, so I kept the irony to myself, merely chortling you are going to meet mio padre sooner than anticipated. And a part of inner conscious cynicism  says okay so what? You’ve proven black men do have different standards, according to the norms of social intelligence on such issues, your cousin was right. He cares about you. Possibly you don’t care any more after ten weeks of ying yang.But I do care, to the extent humanly possible beyond my scar tissue, and in such moments as these, his masculinity is desirable, the major stumbling block being that we’re caught in a Christian allegory of unintended lust restrained by the virtue of economics. He may be mine, as long as the welfare noose remains inviolate. Is there anything beneath the surface of this state funded contract, should it be removed? Does everything have to be recast as a rhetorical construct? (Yes)

There is, as well, the simple aspect of a woman’s wistfulness to have to learn what its like to be desirable as a woman first to an ambulatory male, her last cognitive worthwhile years on the wane. My marital affairs don’t count here, as these were simply the dowager’s circumventing life-long rejections, the same rejections the daughter of the black alpha surgeon in Code Black understands, playing a character afflicted with spina bifida. I never had these peer experiences on serial television when I was coming of age. Ironside, just as my martial affairs, doesn’t count. Burr deployed a gimmick to extend his viability as Perry Mason.

Ashes in The Sandbox

Vive ru Mort-- graffiti in French Connection 2

Operating on less than six hours of sleep in 48 hours, I sat and watched Gene Hackman's excruciating struggle against drug addiction in his second attempt to bring down Charnier, realizing it's virtually impossible to make films like this anymore, so stark, so complex to unravel, so willing to pit doomed moral principles against cesspools of liberal relativism, never imagining I'd live to see Ireland defying the Catholic Church over abortions on demand, wondering why something so hedonistic as Vampira made me ponder the parasitic elements of vampire lore, in its over-used persistence exploring the transformed human into an innate predator driven to tear flesh and blood. David Slade's 30 Days of Night more aligned to my preferences than canonical variations with Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, not that I did not appreciate the revival attempt, putting this all together, we cannot seem to dismantle how we're out-pacing ourselves. My not quite boyfriend paraprofessional may not have noticed the stony numb hatred in my face when I allowed him to sling me into the hoya lift, valiantly repressing my desire to dehumanize him, this African American who puckers his lips like a failed little boy looking for mamma's approval. It ignites my tenderness, and yet I still reduce him, myself, in scurrilous depreciation. Why don't I write it then? I've written it often enough, maybe because I keep hitting the same keynotes, I am afraid, agonized beyond my ability to endure what I am suffering, what I swore never to allow, what I've seen happen to residents here afflicted with cerebral palsy over and over again, for the sake of the fact I am willing to love this loony jamboree fellow, I have become Kafka's metamorphosis, even on the verge of kicking the logs out from under it. And if I kick the logs out, then I must not love him very much, confident if I ceased being his paycheck I'd never see him again, let alone fuck him to death. That phrase is an important concession in our increasingly binding symbiosis. Everything I've despised and fought, my entire 34 years battling and losing in the city of Philadelphia, for him I am a spider bound in a sling, to make his work keeping me here less of an effort, almost ready to terminate every other socialized medical effort around him, the Visiting Nurses Association, Residential Health Services, leeches, blood sucking leeches, while I keep this account active rather than prioritize reassembly of my published work, learn Duotrope, desperately lunge back in as a journalist. My exhaustion is not from any of this. I merely forced myself to stay in the tilt chair, and failed, to await the equipment delivery, texting my equally suffering, steadfast cousin. I need her. My venting was merely she cannot see what she has, and even if one day we transcend his current stability, and become real partners, all Galahad represents is the defiance of desire in the face of death, but unlike Frank, I care about this bumbling lion roaring at me with his nonsense to keep my spirits up, care about him more than any other attendant, as he sucks the fucking life out of me, wearing himself down, unable to afford to do otherwise. Like Josh Hartnett, I will absorb enough of this poverty octopus to burn to ash with the dawn, having slain the virus, its fermenting pestilence, ignoring the pain in my chest. My physiology won't sustain this much longer. Prepare, therefore. Like the morning sun.

Osteoporosis on A Metronome Beat

It could always be worse. -- Dana, a precursor to my current stomping testosterone laborer

I suppose I can live with it after all, that a man’s mistake led to a brief uproar and the inevitable retrenchment, so much intense back and forth. The service coordinator, once my title also, frightened me into an essential resignation, ashes in the sandbox, the oxygen and energy sucked out of me by my despairing cousin; if Galahad and I are chameleons, one moment a simulation of a couple, the next two worn out individuals who’ve time lapsed half a century, Monday had a tinge of a high school pep rally, as if he could charge at my shrieking and tremulous physique like a point guard. My cousin’s misery makes my emptiness seem relatively infinitesimal. My cynical, callous side resents her for it, but her situation is as equally a teaching tool. She married twice, the one she’s in now with my blood relative fractured by hideous wounds, which, for once, out of personal loyalty, the dowager shall not reveal, if otherwise to be burdened with tight-knit bond through text only. I, by contrast, never married, and there is nothing ironclad about a future abandonment between this man and I.

I did blink first, and was going to withdraw from his employer, my current provider, but I’d have to fend off inquiries, and my departure would have been because we did not violate the rules altogether, and intercourse now carries too many riders, almost an afterthought. I never really had him. The fellow simply hasn’t been laid for 15 months. The last date I was in my fiancé’s bed is beyond my memory, 2006? The care worker found it incredible, and there, Pam and I have a bond. She and Bill abstain, from what inferences she offers. This you may know, which means I don’t care enough if it gets read and I land on even more familial estrangement (my half-brother). My sister-in-law and I had an unforgiving quarrel on Facebook, giving me insight, therefore, about social media creating its own news. It finally happened to me, with my nephew sleeping in his car while his trollop mother parades her granddaughter, his child, like a trophy. Dawn, my brother’s wife, is forever high school trailer trash, but look who’s talking, my aspirations defeated by a former Walmart cargo-handler. I was, of course, going to go into racial epithet mode, then considered the racer from Nederland, which is in Colorado. I owe the man an apology for thinking he was actually native African. No harm. Speed is a drug, like Mia Farrow’s kidney-stone liberalism.

In comparison to my barren womb, my cousin has two children. She owns her home. I own nothing, and yet I’m so much stronger than this whining, self-pitying bitch, so much so that I offered to put myself in the middle, see if I can suture her marriage into healing, drawing her and Bill out with a couple-friends dynamic. She’s afraid I’ll spill her secrets, like Meyer’s blood guilt driving the visions of his conscience, sans Match Point.

What Allen asks in this film is to consider the price of adulation over and above desire, but he does not expiate himself, distastefully trapping Scarlett Johansson as a situational victim because she gave in to an unhappy husband, simply through association, with her own parallel relationship discord. Allen loyalists deem his capture of Soon-yi to be creepy. Galahad is of the opinion that it was sick, and I'm inclined to agree. There was no letter of the law crime, but he fell on the sword against his own backlash with the mortality counter, condensing his time. It doesn't seem to make Mia any more sympathetic, curiously, hiding, as she does, as a leftist in mortal combat. Is my gratitude toward Galahad a blinder, after a fashion? Given my history as a victim of black dysfunction, our sparring match over what is genuine and isn't has been remarkable. I know him better than I ever did Frank, but he's still a shackle in a sandpit, and my mortal coil has a ton of work to do.

If I remain loyal, contrary to my inclination, and he finds other employ, a woman? I've been writing the script of an ugly, stark, care giver's murder for a long time. I may have mentioned it, even.

Matters of Life and Death in an Aide de Camp

It's not your business -- a nursing aide in his degree of over-involvement

David Niven would decease just shy of a decade after starring in Vampira, a mindless piece of camp the dowager took solace from despite Prime's superfluous generosity, her bad leg an unremitting source of discomfort. Not a matinee idol of my time, he nevertheless radiates the humanism of the British Empire at its finest, cheapening himself in the decade of me, the decade of youth, with herein a breast and curvature patriarchal fantasy quite worthy of Hugh Hefner, who lasted with remarkable tnacity into the digital era. Beneath its superficiality, however, Vampira does for Niven what Assassination Tango does for Duvall with its much weightier center of gravity, allowing old dogs the assurance of relevance. Whatever feminine critics might say of the opening kill shot of the babette while the tourists wade in on the joke, Duvall plays the same game with December-male trophy status as Niven's handlers do 28 years before, scoring a few bimbo points on cross-ethnic sexual intimacy to boot, while the dowager misses making her own coffee, being alone and sleeping until six pm if she wishes, her surly breast desirous of making her male paraprofessional go away. Right now I don't feel like characterizing him through a pseudonym. I just want him to find another job and get the fuck out of my life, despite his sensitivity to my humiliation and my constant inquiry about my feelings and even unanticipated sparring matches. I can eject myself, at considerable inconvenience, as I've written, but it will be more for the worse.

I did an idiotic thing, and told him about Tassoni, buried in my archives, the instances of my Tassoni episodes, and to my utter chagrin, Galahad friended John on my phone, and more bloody awful still, John friended me back. Who wants the past tense of bittersweet losses to of a sudden have contemporary currency? I've posted things here about my undergraduate life which would undoubtedly antagonize the man I never got over, in this half-quasi sing song space with a minority who went one or two quarters with me towards the finish line of a turbulent spring. As I've also written, I am not huge on Facebook virtues, don't do selfies or announce events or floral arrangements, instead grilling my way into a fabulous family annihilator, but nevertheless, John and I are in feed, because I let a hip hop minstrel tap dance on my memories of the deepest longing for another Italian American I ever had. What the fuck is it with men? Act, don't reflect, never mind mortification, a way of stating you're saying fuck you and help me at the same time, remember? I epigrammed his 2002 email, and suggested he and Galahad could bromance on their respective tie-in, namely me. Yes, I am furious, and said I love you, now a second time, to a man passionately insisting he isn't my boyfriend.
You must remember this, a kiss is but a kiss. Judy Dench may offer up the inference that it's all in the incipient detail of domestic charms. God save the Queen.

Kimmy's Mouse Under The Oven

Even if I wanted to go roll onto my mattress, I would not get much sleep. Discounting my bedridden helplessness throughout October and much of November, this is my fourth or fifth major accident to date in my ever encroaching bands of constriction, a brief speculation about being afflicted with Typhus flickers in my mind, one of the first really clever articles I ever read in The New Republic, or perhaps meningitis. He handles it as well as anyone can, my larger than life attendant who rolls in in the morning hyped on sugar and spouting astrology and numerology and I nod my head what the fuck do I care why do I want to sleep with this asshole? It is an interesting form of African American liberation heresy, reading the signs as a method to comprehend the happenstance of material events, though it is equally true I believe in my traits being born as an Aquarius, the water-bearer, and he seems to have a natural aptitude for this pseudo-science, the gargantuan I now characterize as Galahad. I have only treated him as well as I have, to date, for the temptation of his physique, and while my need has not quite been vanquished, I am too sore these days, we’ve grown too familiar to freshen it, argue like a couple on the wane. The evening I could have fully kissed him is bygone, so why am I milking it to the mundane even as Charles Krauthammer celebrates life to his last hours? “No no no,” I exclaimed at the super-phone Friday shortly before the traditional supper hour, rocking back and fourth in my equally supped up chair, and the boy man hugged me as he saw my face crater, but I am growing weary of nigger gallantry, no offense to the African who recently came to my feed. I am merely taking comfort in doing what I do, trolling to make people genuflect away from me. This is my coping mechanism, allowing red meat to diminish the fineness of my acumen, actually not so fine anymore, since words like colossal no longer readily spring to mind. And Charles is a colossus, larger than life, whether in effigy or as adversary or in alliance, the psychiatrist who jumped ship, abandoned faith in medical model classification to become the guardian of the right thing to do, the right policy to pursue. In print, he was too hard, and I was slow toward any empathetic agreement, not being a true conservative, and Galahad is heartened by my determination to restore my merit, to find a way to fill the shoes Krauthammer leaves behind, me, the little whiff of angry vulgarity. I told Galahad I had a suicide plan. “Go ahead, turn me in,” I said. “Make it worse.” Don’t tell me what it is.

Anthony Bourdain only has the silence of what forensic science chooses to reveal. He was a delight to listen to in his television appearances. Sorrow is the right keynote to feel, and in my verve to the alternate path, I need your prayers to use my mind to regain my own control. I weep, and offer them to you in turn, as I plot to get this diaper off, soiled in despair. Pray for me. At the very least, Trump could fly my anus over North Korea, nourishing alternative food sources, or giving Kim dysentery. Not specious enough? I’m not strong enough this morning.

Pissing Once or Twice on Palace Intrigue

"Woman, if you don't shut up I'll clock out and go home!"-- over an alteration about Hahnemann

Presuming I do not regain a modicum of the lateral transfer ability I had in September, I do not know where I go from here. My intelligence can only do so much, and though I’ve written before that suicides within the disabled community contravene everything positive about empowerment modules and their mantras, beyond a certain point there is only so much an impoverished, embattled warrior can take, in the feasible sense. My serious consideration towards walking out on Galahad’s provider has been braked temporarily, due to the unanticipated descent of a service coordinator asking moronic, unintentionally cruel questions about my medical comprehension. The regulatory paradigm under which Medicaid Waiver services operate in the Commonwealth today defeats the very purpose of rehabilitation law, as I reap the thrall of domestic discord without the compensation of actually being a girlfriend, his display of temper over something as innocuous as changing a medical appointment had the unintentional effect of reigniting my desire, and I put my despondency aside, temporarily, not giving a fuck about his neighbor and the sale of coffee in the least. The infuriated black male punching my thigh softly with his frustration, this was another matter, even as I pronged Mr. Paine about my moral obligation to continue on in such a fashion, my control now as nil as the lesser spastics once under my authority. Then it struck me that I had probable suspects for Paine’s identity, simply by virtue of being a failed writer who pays attention to too many  journalists, and proving my speculative target may at least bear the measure of a mild scoop.

When the aggregator at the helm True Pundit tweets his mind, it is a rather fascinating recycling of Deep Throat, even as I remain skeptical about what he thinks he knows about those in the highest echelons of power.

Insiders like Flynn, Gritz and myself -- we simply know too much. Things that if and when they become public will DWARF anything in the current news cycle. I can guarantee we're ALL -- separately -- prepping to open up cans of worms you wouldn't imagine. Many wheels in motion.

— Thomas Paine (@Thomas1774Paine) June 3, 2018

Governments are, by and large, about taxation, procurement, distribution, and enforcement, and through these methods, maintaining social order, with varying degrees of success. I reminded him, with a mild retort, that corruption, lack thereof, and or intelligence, which is primarily collected to restrain and thwart the goals of adversaries, has little effect on our daily lives, controlled by so many requirements and processes. Certainly, Flynn and Gritz may know things which keep the Pentagon brass awake at night, but all it might take is a Pakistani corporal having a bad day with a warhead to make Kashmir ground zero for a third world war. How is this relevant to those barely aloft? Nick Gillespie attributes Kate Spade’s despair to mental illness. From my vantage point, barely able to clean myself in soiled paper underwear, if you want to cut it short, perhaps the desire should be respected. If I can still persuade Galahad to make love with me one day, I am no longer sure what it would be, if it would destroy something, propel us forward? If I leave him, in a spiteful rebuff, it may close a final door. The first day I set eyes on him, I made the assumption we’d be a failure within 72 hours. In 10 weeks, we’re all but functioning like a common law couple, inextricably bound by a social medical model I’d annihilate in a meltdown, without a second thought. If I regain a percentage of my former ability, would I be so keen on him? Am I only fooling myself, subdued under his egress to the point of desiring to give him a child? Empires were once made with less, in Yogi Berra’s infamous solecism, it ain’t over, until it’s over, fearing, as I do, I’ll not be strong enough to secure my work, and this is where my appeal to libertarians like Austin will shortly come into play.

Burton’s Antony, Elizabeth’s Cleopatra & a Ground Run at the Crust

Their tumultuous liaison-- before the marriages and divorces-- famously began in 1962 on the set of the colossally over-budget epic, Cleopatra.--Liz Ronk

Although my new found old age presently puts this to the test, I was never much one for the feminine accouterments of vanity, and unlike my mood challenged cousin, I rather shirk the effort when it comes to daily appointments with cosmetologists. My hair, though otherwise unknotted thanks to temporary fill ins prior to my current depth charges in search of authenticity, hangs unpleasantly silver white, thinning and unruly, and I can hardly afford to be fashion conscious, so I have no idea who Kate Spade is. My only indicator toward rancor is for the 13 year old daughter, as thirteen was also a traumatic year for me. But if I wrote in my post above that we should learn to accept the consequences of obdurate suffering, the flip side of the coin is it is relatively unimaginable that her privilege wasn’t worth combating whatever her problems amounted to. Philadelphia’s oozing ineptitude is like one long string of rock candy ruthlessly blistering my esophagus, one calamity after the next, my interpersonal space all but barren of any meaning unless you include the endless revolving door of minorities whom I’ve despised (and what does Galahad do with this truism, pray tell?), and here a fashion guru engages in a violent act of dramaturgy which give women of her mindset pause. Fuck the mental illness caveat. The majority of those who adhesive themselves to psychiatric disorders tarry on like the rest of us, oftentimes micromanaged by the welfare state with the same degree of competence I’ve gotten since my 1996 resignation. Financial difficulties, divorce? None of these things would have landed her where the majority of spastic savants land, sinking in quicksand. One can only imagine what anguish drove her to her cessation. In my case, you don’t. Interspersed throughout my threads since I came to Blogger was the outcry I have nothing left. This now includes lack of control over my mobility, and although my focus has condensed on this male nursing aide, now joined in my default conspiracy, to the point that preoccupation seems obsessive, my vulnerability fraught with being damned again, it isn’t so much that he’s another unobtainable male inadvertently reeled in and driven back, not quite. It is merely that he represents what Frank Versante should have been for me: a middle-aged relationship worth settling for, one that died in a flash fire and yet remains binding, at least, as long as I stay put. He has been both, conflicted and hard on me, seducing and diffident, fearful too. In so many words, I told him, jokingly, that if his hands got near my cherry, then I would be staking a claim, with one of my winsome smiles. He now behaves as if my vagina was a radioactive mine. I happen to find it amusing. Nonetheless, whatever I think I still feel, or trying to calculate what he does for me, I will eventually cut the cord. I forgive him for, well, our foreplay. He forgives me, for both the foreplay and my hard slash into the social stigma of a white cripple and a black lover who isn’t her lover, yet, but I am not one who blissfully buries her dead. He woke up my sensuality, left it in midair, and I’m not having it. Necessity merely demands a hold on the end game. And now I’m off to bed, as promised.

Endoscopy Maintenance

...Prepping is nothing more than extending to the rest of your life the same foresight that compels you to keep a spare tire and a first aid kit in your car. (sic)--Reason staff

My last vestige of alliance with independent living modal structure, not that I’ve proactively reached for it within the last year, comes mainly from three Twitter accounts. One is Deborah Ruh, who pounds the pavement with traditional empowerment events and accomplishments. I have no grievance with it, and even if I did, community integration has been stuck in a wormhole since 1984. Disability centers engage in the same static with vocational rehabilitation, and the incorporation of Maximus as the elephant in the room is a rather obvious admission of failure on the part of public welfare systems when it comes to disability. This is not necessarily integral to the Commonwealth to which I am domicile. I have the public presser arm of Maximus on my Twitter feed, and Jack would undoubtedly ban me if I engaged them with my variation of a Tasmanian Devil body slam, but I am acute enough to know that Maximus news is the front cover for the arduous processes of rationed genocide. Baring my fangs at them, in essence, amounts to Mueller prosecuting Manafort in order to justify his probe into Russia’s revamped existential threat. The second is Quad Life, which is on radio silence, not an unknown let down in my neck of the woods, and the third is Jason Dorwart, who told me to check out a theater group, but has yet to inform me how I sample his publication on drama and inclusion. I will qualify here that my open suggestion that “maybe” he and I could meet for coffee if I headed to Virginia was purely for business arrangements within traditional progressive academia. I was of course curious, and scanned his CV, but I am not necessarily looking for a paraplegic within age appropriate range. Thus far, Jason and I lag, whatever our potential, because I am wallowing in my own fecal mucous, rather than ambulance chasing art therapy. I also accepted Maria Dewan’s friend request on Facebook, but she ended the connection after I tagged her in this post, 
believing that The Aide Who Loved Me would have been torn away by now.

I do not know Maria well, barely at all, but I am none the less rankled by her inability to handle my expression of frustration with a sticky situation. I was merely utilizing an assessment for purposes of comparison, not condemning her through the observation, but the skittish tortoise retreated to its shell with its normative darting retraction in the face of assertion, and speaks to my dismay with activism's glass ceiling. Krauthammer and Hockenberry, regardless of their markers on the ideological spectrum, were ambulatory men who survived broken backs, and succeeded within the established media paradigm, something those strcken with developmental defects rarely do. I started to go to bed early, stressed with such quaking colon stresses as I've been, but the harried hare power napped within this rather offensive tilt technology appealing to her inner Luddite, gasping to a finish, still pushing

Jamboree at Midterm

"just when you think you've got it down, your heart in pieces on the ground--" Pat Benatar

I no longer have anything to anticipate when this care worker inserts his key into the lock, no more daunting seduction attempts while my body lies naked beneath disposal peach underpads, nor any rationalizations on my part. Obfuscation seems to be an innate part of his personality, and maybe that is par for the course if you live in the West Oak Lane section of the city, but I regret the small moments, particularly his seizure of my wrist when I reached up to turn on my lamp behind this HP Pavillion. That was new to me, at 56. Things you are supposed to experience as a schoolgirl. I thought it meant there was a pathway out of defining myself as patient and her nursing aide, and I thought too high, climbing whatever particular ladder rung. I could write, as I normally would, that the next African American male who so much as makes an edgewise gesture will be heading into a massacre, but this is sandpaper rhetoric against the fact that I wanted to be part of a couple again. Instead I have to live with this man, who cracked me open, then reburied my body, until I can find the time to make an exit strategy, or he beats me to it, in my own knowledge, too well versed, of independent living.

There is more to contort. I am too weary with sleep, clinging with broken fingernails to a small happiness intersection, I thought something was there between us. I genuinely did.

Sacrifice Fly

I've got you under my skin.-- a crooner

She reminds me of mine too-- Alan :Gordon

I am up this morning, restless, hay fever sick, with the nurse practitioner who isn’t licensed to treat me come and gone, nothing said about the allergy ooze burbling up into my crotch, if the significance of what cunt denotes is now front and center in our social forums, James Woods ever tongue in cheek in that regard, my resilience put to the test over Memorial Day weekend due to the fact that the provider sent me a homosexual drug addict whose shriven swishing ass was continually revealed in all its dark brown nakedness. True to my survivalist libertarian sentiment (waving congenially at Austin), I told the kid to do what he needed to do without getting caught, not bothering to explain to him the statue passed by Congress making eviction mandatory for any public housing tenant whose attendant is found in possession of drug paraphrenia. The dowager knew these demographics for residential urban minorities long before this volley took its aim, and she’d have to be able to cope with it for Galahad’s sake, in all its divisive currency, if there is a future between us. What do I know? He’s here now, oblivious both to what I’m writing now and what I blurted out in text to him Friday when his car broke down. I went into a virtual panic so fraught with paranoia it might have well as been one of Woody’s early classics. “I’m in love with you,” I typed, not a minute and 30 seconds before screaming to my cousin that I had to get out if I couldn’t handle it, as I was deluding myself. I’m handling it now, not referencing a word in relation to Deep State. Oh, I waited, as women will at this stage, and got Sinatra. Now that thread sits behind a closed door. We are talking the usual minutia of such plans between two people, but whether or not it’s an implied us, and as of this evening it once again isn’t, is moot, even if I cannot mute my damn tongue. With such an affinity for Roseanne Barr’s pensive bite, my viewer’s might believe I am appreciable of her rise in the comic genre. Not quite, as she was too close in representation to our mothers, Alan and I, when prat boy was my best friend, and I had an antithetical response to her stage routines. I remember enough to posit her sympathies for the Trumpian brand to her hatred of institutionalization. That, as well, is a shared value. What I haven’t read, in all the controversy surrounding her aesthetic choices to reduce and insult Jarrett, though I am usually a little more obtuse after my “want them dead” post of many years ago, is the fact that Roseanne’s entertainment abilities come from deep seated emotional pain. Age many soften what we were, Roseanne, or myself, but doesn’t eliminate the errors, and the impaired judgment, in the lingo of psychiatry, hence, she might have been expected to do something like this. I have no love for Jarrett, but going below the belt isn’t really a legitimate critique of her near blind idolatry for her president. I’ve been there before. I have figures like Woody Allen and Clint Eastwood, and yes, James Woods too, on my mind, because so many of the big stars are gone. Allen and Eastwood are of an age, and so superlatively iconic, that they’ve become ruthless, in their respective genres, just as Woods has turned harbinger. My dear little big man of an aide, a man who wishes I’d shut my mouth when appropriate, gave me a little holiday with a free viewing of Grand Torino, and nothing in the narrative was surprising. Goodbye Dirty Harry, I am mourning a superstar, anticipating the dead, the pre-written obituary—and this is what Match Point does for me with Woody, particularly with Meyers’ last climatic scenes. We’ll pick it up then. I am in a swamped and saturated pressure vat. Bad time to be in love with lost causes, fatal error my heart, my own reiterating pattern.