My
old flame of 37 years ago, (concurrent with the invasion of Grenada, no less)
reminded me of a word I rarely use on Blogger: morale. It is a difficult state
of cohesion for me to locate as a writer-journalist in hindrance at present,
but the liberal-progressive bandwagon follow then block my account on Twitter
isn’t helping. To a degree this is arbitrary, sometimes not worth mentioning,
like the British transsexual RD Ronald who followed me and then beat a quick
path back to her disturbing body decals of gunshot wounds. Seconds before she
fled my digital space, my question read, “Are you a real transsexual?” I was
baffled, found her Facebook page and excoriated her deliberately. If the LBGT
activists want to play mind games with me they will be dealing with smoking
skid marks, particularly as consequences for the dowager are negligible. There
was too the donna from … Naples, was it? Her cut stung, as my use of nomenclature
was only an attempt to welcome a comrade; but the BrowneProject, which as far
as I’ve been able to ascertain, consists of a guitarist named Chris, followed
me on July 28th, and barely gave my palsied forearms 48 hours before
he blocked me for querying the question as to what he wanted. Yes, we all
unfollow and sometimes block accounts daily, but in this instance, whatever his
circumstances, his virtual cut has the semblance of discrimination against a
disabled woman only attempting a reminder that I have never been a paid music
critic, though I will give the forthright the benefit of the doubt, like Ali
Spagnola, who came to me through Medium. I admire her spunk, and have filed
away to my ailing synapses that her oeuvre is due some consideration, as Russ
Still will also receive, if I can accrue some semblance of my own autonomy as I
had it last year.
Having
asserted this, however, music will not heal my present anguish over a night to
day helplessness from loss of machines and furnishings that kept me functional,
nor will the social psychology of Mark Goulston, the doctor from California
whose suicide prevention tweets aren’t relevant to my medical vulnerability. I
let him go, wish him well, but my existence is intolerable, and needs more
intervention of “boots on the ground,” and additional technical devices than
the American welfare system will ever provide. Empathy isn’t going to prevent
the collapse from infections borne of my own waste, if it continues. If Chris
Browne is representative of the best the British left can do, “loving his
friends,” believing in lyricism’s healing, but blocking me in a simple attempt
at conversation, it gives me insight into British conservatives who’ve friended
me and proven themselves resourceful.
Brilliant end to the day with my twin bro @BrowneProject 😁😄🤩😍 pic.twitter.com/a2d6bdAXIf— 🌣 Nature Druid 🌣 (@n_distractions) August 25, 2018
As I cannot spontaneously visit my family and raise a glass of bubbly, these twins are cruel people. I'm the one who can't walk.
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