Septic Enzymes

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs-- Alexander Pope

What I’ve spent most of the last 72 hours doing is a perverse form of digital housekeeping, accusing someone named Godwin Bowen of stalking me through multiple user accounts, although I didn’t quite phrase the indictment this way in our brief direct message conflict. For all that I know of online predators, this could go as far back as Mawson Dave and his Syrian relief efforts, these persistent private greetings trying to alleviate my duress in a majority minority city, or maybe people are making fun of me in the cesspool of social media sewage. I am not looking for more cyber sex adventures. What I need is a better quality of intervention than what welfare can offer me, as opposed to the risk of an online sociopath who washed out of the armed forces. In this context, it is remarkable I remember Mawson Dave’s user name at all. In between Mawson and Godwin, I got hit by an alleged Australian widow in Oregon and a French homosexual named Sebastien in Mouelle. Sebastien in Mouelle is 42, looking for a committed relationship with another male. My limited French, mainly utilized to parse Marine Le Pen’s rhetorical flame throwers at normative Parisian liberalism, was appalled. There must be a ground zero in there somewhere, and yet it is Facebook which took the brunt of my pathology, not Twitter. Citing Paul Joseph Watson was merely a pretext for an undulating anger. Visits to the mall of which I no longer have the luxury, second cousins I do not join for zoological strolls, or Tassoni’s video of monk seals in Hawaii. What is all this but an aesthetic list of deprivation for me? I never built those planks of my own immediate family. All that lingers there is an uncouth cop from the Bronx, and he’s dead, so I had enough. Facebook, in the estrangement with my half-brother, is scheduled for deletion, while we leave it to Bloomsberg News to offer minute items, Fatbergs are now clogging pipelines, and as happens, occasionally, I had a massive discharge, and refusing, after midnight, to sit in it, I cut the panty off and got it in the trash. The care worker will not see victory. I’m this close to canceling Medicaid and rolling off, assuming I even have stamina enough to leave the city’s jurisdiction, my death will begin with a staph infection.

John as he is today, my bleeding La Traviata. He prefers that Rocky and Adrianna be aired for Thanksgiving. He talked to my aide on Facebook most of the time. It wasn't a double indemnity I happened to enjoy.

tutto in famiglia

Shut the hell up you bitch ass nigga. You will continue to run this country further into the ground and risk lives every time you breathe. You’re not the president. Just a dumpster full of hate. FOH. Sick to my stomach that literal shit currently represents America to the world. https://t.co/qoNWllmZIm

— Jussie Smollett (@JussieSmollett) January 12, 2018

I have not had much to post about my mother's sister Mary in her ebullient mark upon her league of students in the face of her deceased sister's emotive turbulence. This is due to fear of consequence. Her husband, also obese to the point that its malevolence on his family is grotesque, is a Methodist prig, and in other circumstances her might have been to PA's Delaware County what Chris Noth's Peter Florrick is to Cook County in Illinois. If he had not married into Mary's Catholic family, he might have been a local big wig, and the paper's treated him him as such when he was "Chief of D's," to use the Dick Wolf colloquium from SVU in an overt strategism to draw the audience in. 

Unlike yours truly, Mary is a true bovine conservative, and when she gets a few simple ideas in her head she masticates them to the finish line, and if niggers like Trudy Richardson have terrorized me for nearly ten years of her managerial authority, than what better advocacy can the Worrilow family offer me but to move into Fair Acres with my grandmother's living cadaver in Lima? I'd be given a room with another patient where I could "come and go". The wonders of the empty hollow that is the Americans with Disabilities Act from a woman twice my size, twice as thick, replacing herself with titanium bones. I have broken with my aunt, permanently, which points to the anathema, the irony, that poets and writers suspended my account from the Speakeasy for detailing the issues of chronic condition which Gretchen posts about daily on Facebook, but I hate the latter, regret the former. Mary nearly died earlier in 2018, due to pulmonary embolism, and yet everyone is slavering to do me more harm. Trudy's been at it longer, and I am determined she'll pay a price for that. Lumping me in with dementia patients prone to violence is not a conducive environment, nor as safe as my sister might otherwise believe. I may not be able to assist true conservatives in excising LLhan Omar as a fatal virus on our body politic, but Presbyterian Homes is going to feel my bite. Corruption before the face of God might as well open the doors to Armageddon.

Segnatto Esatto

Who are you and what makes you so important?-- Twitter user frog contessa, whom I answered tersely

I have to confess, despite the fact that social media is increasingly passe, even for me, the nativity of plebeians like the above contessa still has the capacity to throw one's ego off the mount. I am important simply because I tweet back to Speaker Ryan?
 

Three years ago, we began a great journey to set our nation on a better path. Now, my season of service is coming to a close. Tune in live soon for my Farewell Address as Speaker of the House: https://t.co/RrNzrxPmYU

— Paul Ryan (@SpeakerRyan) December 19, 2018

As a disabled, disenfranchised American, I am entitled to my ambivalent sympathies for the 54th Speaker of the House. He wasn't always mercilessly excoriated in the press by those of Canadian Jewish ancestry, like David Frum, but when the deputy prime minister of Italy ferrets out and follows your account, it is best to run your research fast and furiously and pay appropriate homage to the man in his native tongue. I knew Matteo was right wing, like Beppe, who isn't as right wing as English media would have the five star movement in the homeland appear, but when it comes to the political power Salvini holds, the spastic dowager dropped the ball, and aspirates:

 

"Se uccide i cristiani è nostro fratello". Queste le parole di odio del 20enne somalo arrestato per terrorismo internazionale. E voleva mettere "bombe in tutte le Chiese d'Italia". GALERA ed ESPULSIONE, via dal nostro Paese questa gente. VIA! https://t.co/8hCp35z8WV

— Matteo Salvini (@matteosalvinimi) December 18, 2018

Augh!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A stiletto through the heart! 

Matteo, questa donna rotta vuole morire e baciare i ciottoli a Roma per favore! I cannot very well excoriate the man for follow and drop behavior which I'd otherwise normally deplore. When I calm down and renew my grammar studies with vigor I will *speak* to him, but yes, the Deputy Prime Minister of my homeland, the blood of Roma in my veins, followed me, for three days! Who isn't the Empress of Italy under these transcendent hues of a cathedral's stained glass?

Consider The Ostomy

A colostomy is an opening-- called a stoma

The reason I am shortly to terminate my Facebook account is this: my half-brother convinced me to join, then his fucking wife went ballistic  on me because instead of cooing at her illicit grandchild I wrote lose some weight Ben, and the indomitable Dawn rebelled. Dawn is, front and center, Florida trailer trash, and by degrees, my animosity towards my extended family prevailed, and I want nothing more to do with Facebook. Never did, certainly not to restore a man like John P Tassoni among the living. The only reason I haven't closed the account is loose ends, nothing more. I am also wavering about Twitter, but that is the dilemma of a loner in the crowd. Facebook is a personal distress, but Twitter is another kind of tax.

My tirelessly researched post which I flubbed early that morning was my flub, not mighty Google threatening a poor cripple in jeopardy, and yes, I am in literal medical jeopardy and the single payer Medicare/Medicaid option could care less. The post was a construct surrounding my fascination with Audrey Hepburn, which I can restructure, but what I was dancing around, and search leading me to an Israeli outlet, Haaretz, was the particularly insidious nature of anti-Semiticism, the flaming righteousness of Jewish liberalism-- is there a covalency here?-- and my follower JD Landis question about whether or not Trump's ascendancy led to Bowers. Landis likes to test TwitterVerse with collective inquiries, but I believe he contextualizes the issue wrongly, and I'll return to it. I live in a near continuous state of being overwhelmed, and wish I too, like cousin Tommy, could enjoy watching the Flyers live on ice. I love hockey. Watch out for what compromises you make for younger siblings. Benjamin cut me off his feed, and he's my blood for whom I've sacrificed in the name of our slut bitch mother. Want to talk about hurt, do you?

Sterile Saturation

"And still somehow, it's life's illusions I recall..."-- folk lyric

While bedridden, and technically this is still my condition, I changed my AT&T plan so I could stream on my poor old phone, and believed the 22G Unlimited would be enough per billing period. Before the October blow to my fortunes it would have been, but I ate a great deal of data whetting my appetite with sometimes dubious ventures. I do not know what to make of USA’s Mr. Robot. Though its points are obvious, some of the threads seem tenuous, some scenes too brittle, too tense, and why writers had to harken back to Alf to remind us of the material world which we once knew before the digital age seems flimsy; this flimsiness is comparable, while my bad leg flexes in taut discomfort, to the obscure intent of The Lobster. My initial reaction to the movie, viewed in the pre-dawn dusk, very similar to my current hour, was confusion, and a sense the direction was belabored, forced. I caught the fabulism on my own, and might have realized this effort was from the European left. Had I known anything about Yorgos Lanthimos I might have been better prepared for what to expect. Tasha’s review, obviously sympathetic, was helpful, Brody's less so. Why does everything have to fall under the category of agitprop for New Yorker critics? Exclaiming to myself, “I had my trash quotient for the day,” I closed my Prime app and moved on, but now find myself unsettled, and may try the film again at a later time with my ear plugs less used than my others. Lanthimos’ opening scene exposes us to a woman driving intently in the rain. She stops in a pasture in the middle of nowhere, leaves her car, shoots a horse with what appears to be a Colt 45 revolver, and then we jump to David in his apartment, with his dog/brother. Was the opening the ex-wife, executing chivalry? The atmosphere of this film is deliberately heavy, as if the very oxygen we breathe was shackled, and everyone’s diction, but for David’s cadence, on occasion, is over accentuated and cutting, as if to drag Ovid into Orwell’s world, merging the totem aspect of Metamorphosis with a regulatory authority dictating your every move, relaxed only in bondage to the opposite sex so that you can gouge your own eyeballs out with a generic steak knife, or at least make the effort to do so, in order to be complimentary to an equally terse, stilted partner. This is the denouement, where David and Short Sighted Woman evade the Hotel and authority altogether, and find themselves in a restaurant which smacks of a fleeting 2016 realism, open ended, disturbing. Weisz’s abstract character, deceived into compliance, was blinded by the rebel leader during a city visit to a chamber orchestra where the couple, with glaring incaution, make no effort to hide the fact that they’re on their way to third base. The Leader not only broke the heavy petting kiss with a scolding, but exacted an irreversible penalty. Farrell, in the eatery’s bathroom, transforms himself into the invertebrate he suggested to the Manager, and Weisz no longer has the ability to discern this as a waiter fills her glass with water: this is how we always see lobsters when we dine, in a small tank, claws taped. Part of my reconsideration for Lanthimos’ intentions is a certain quixotic preoccupation with imperfection which still manages to permeate in some way, part of it is about modern isolation, and how digital interaction binds and wards us off at the same time. (This does not mean to imply I read it the same way as Robinson with “Facebook relationship status messages,” but I can see where she gets the interpolation.)

There are few pleasures I can point to in this hard life where I have defied or evaded death so often: my work in DC, my somewhat incendiary affairs with married men, on which I shall not dwell, my poetry reading in Pittsburgh, less for the poets, tepid aging beatniks, some dead, more for the fact I did it all by myself, this 87 adventure from eastern to western inner city; my cats, some of my bylines. But this is it, I don’t have people so much as passive indignation towards mamma’s family on Facebook, all being usurped, inflamed tendons furling Great Expectations into ash. Whatever the error of my choices, fomented by lack of fulfillment, I was never quite dispassionate enough to extract myself from them, and even today, on occasion, I recast my own version of Cinderella, with a gallant to sweep me off my feet—not quite so harmless an escape.

Name Your Assailant

I have little idea why my brother took me off his Facebook account, as in, here we go, again, but I know, in part, he is insecure about the usual family stuff, to paraphrase Ice Tea, about having been born a bastard, and I was also, for me, mildly subversive about maternal aggrandizement on Gretchen's posts: I am not particularly enthralled that my eldest nephew also sprang a leak and had an unplanned pregnancy; nor am I best friends with my sister in law. I am not even certain that the social media giant has been particularly conducive. I got kicked off a Dubai based fuckwit's freelance group without even trying, left another voluntarily. What use is all of this to me? It is a tool, like Twitter, but for me, two tools which do the same thing where the larger is counterproductive isn't necessarily beneficial. In the strange ways of virtual communication, I used a hard nosed analyst's well deserved jab at Manning to talk myself down. 

Let me return to Tom Earle. He had no idea what the internal politics of the disability center were like under Fern Markowitz and Linda Dezenski, and I'm not in the mood to keep reiterating what was going on. If you take LBGT extremists and put them in a room, Jewish princess addendum or not, chaos is the end result. I told you before, these individuals had little love lost between them, and the homosexuals replaced Fern, one of their own, with a soft, blind Latino who delights in toddlers. I realize he was beholden to the board who put him in place. I embarrassed him with a toxic issue which in essence, destroyed my support system, and I'm culpable. I did not do what most women do in these situations and legal up until years later, I stopped caring, went through another homosexual politician, broke down, emailed Toomey, and then the axis shifted. Toomey's doing? I do not know, but support the Senator, nonetheless, and went through this again with Josie on a lesser scale in her little isle at United Spinal Association, all of this within recurring Pennsylvania welfare abuses and rental agent contiguous, and I stress, contiguous, harassment, until I proclaimed myself a racist, fought like one, and damaged quadriplegic remains in a stalemate with authority. Tom, however, did not have to leave the streamers flutter in the vent. He could have investigated, dismissed Linda then, and as a decent man, offered me something, like a fucking transfer. This is why I am angry with him. He's a fucking civil rights attorney, but never mind. Burrow, then threaten me. This is how Nancy Pelosi's "rule of law" works for those who cannot buy tort and didn't meet the deadlines due to the extent of the pain, and I just cannot dig myself out. Maybe, just maybe, I'll find a housing lawyer, but it's a little late for me to recover. I am, after all, one mortal against a cruel institutional paradigm, still attempting to encompass opera, not quite managing, except for Verdi. La Traviata, upon discovery, has an effervescent quality nearly impossible to capture, and Violetta, with the right soprano, is enough to cling to, now and again, were it only I who might have been pursued with passion for who I was, consumption might have freely enveloped me in its inflammatory excretions. This gives concessions to Dumas in his masculine anxiety. So be it.

Supernatural Silhouette

This Jazzy is basically fucked, (and called, in impoverished futility, this medical supply company from Twitter which has no Pennsylvania location) and since it only charged for an hour and a half after I got back from the libertarian committee meeting last week, where, after three years, I was educated that getting into the Cafe through the back alley was less strenuous, and no asshole in this city could tell me that before, right, so, staying in the building, I have run the battery down, carefully, on very small spurt plug ins, and just managed to get it to charge two hours, meaning I have to charge it less frequently, and by so doing, just perhaps realign the memory, despite the short, I don't know. I am basically doomed, and should have selected ABC's Somewhere Between over Midnight Texas. Somewhere Between takes the inexplicable desperation of damaged mother and the blackout drunk cop seriously, and is plausible in the sense that something happened to alter dire circumstance. Do I care? No.

I am rattling my saber at my mother's sister on glorious Facebook, and if so desired could really start shit, black bile from the gorge secrets never to be forgiven. Pause.

Benjamin is only my half brother, and never deserved what our mother's wayward life inflicted, so I will not really start shit, in an age where low pressure storms suck our ligaments back into the space wave particle dimension explained by math but just barely within the configuration of our brains. If I can, I'm lying down an hour or more. Not that I wish it, having listened, slept extra, ate heavy Spanakopita. I have to hold myself together long enough to deploy my plan of action, not that I know if it is plaque, impeding stroke, pancreas, or appendix. I have learned to chase law firm 800 numbers during claims court television.