"Knowledge has replaced faith." --Kathy Baker, holding the fort
Having taken a look at Patreon, it is not a suitable venue for me. If they think a Canadian like Southern will get people killed, my beliefs about violence as an argument would shock them. Yes, I played nice, on the main, however stark some of my sentiments, on Niume, and the English left allowed me to vent, mildly, but Niume's staff seem to eat pastoral ecology like smores. However decorative its web interface, it genuinely isn't a collective for me, and Virily isn't a community for angry disabled Americans with anarchist streaks. I haven't given up on Virily, and they seem a little sharper than Niume, but my writing for Baltic states mimicking the west, methinks, must necessarily be limited. I was also mistaken about Due, and while not judging them, I am not entirely sure what they believe they can do for me. Note to Due: I live on a very limited disability entitlement, like many in Japan, most of the Southern Hemisphere, etcetera, and wading through LinkedIn millennials trying to find some work I can do again in limited fashion has proven futile. You seem to be a consumer award venue of some kind of which I am not entirely clear, but I'll give it time. What this means is I don't know how to divorce myself from Blogger. Wordpress would boot me in record time, from what I've gathered over the years, and I'm not quite hyperbolic enough, in IS fashion, for the dark net, even if the dark net twitter account -- the one I'm thinking of, could teach me how to do all those server bounces, and this would be the case even on days of stressed expletives. This said, if Southern and I had a hypothetical fight, I'd plow her in on the inside of five minutes, so I cannot see why Patreon had a panic attack. I am not trying to personalize anything, just to caution readers. I never heard of her before Scoop, and she seems a possible ally; nor was I spurious about riding her comet tail for a profile, I am only saying I can knock the ambulatory world on its myopic ass with neither regrets nor second thoughts. The Damore saga has whet my interest, intensely, but I cannot capitalize on it just yet. The so called "screed" obtained by Gizmodo seemed a relatively innocuous, drippy skim. I think we need to sit down and reconsider what we're doing with computer technologies.
I just applied for a temporary position with the speed of lightning, amazed at how irrelevant a CV can be these days. My LinkedIn profile, though upgraded, doesn't have everything, and my picture is terrible, the one with the imposed upon Sims is marginally better. And I'll switch to that later, test that was of progressive tolerance, that town hall meeting at Trinity. My flesh is gravel despite recent updrafts, needing to do less, better. My point, riding Jeffrey's column, is that subsidies do not lead to optimal outcomes, and I am borderline, skirting the edge of total downfall. My mind is still here, and though my father's sister would kill me for this, and nearly has, we have to make judgments. She and my youngest surviving paternal uncle are autonomic (virtually) biohazards, and sustained medical treatment should be suspended. Keep them comfortable, but let them go. Ditto my father, ditto his wife. It takes away from others who aren't that sick, and need things to stay in society. I am living like a ragpicker precisely because the most expensive clients, like my grandmother, to whom Mary was quite close, is a nurse's meal ticket. I love Pauline, mind you, but she is one of our last links from the nineteenth to the 21st century, and she's suffering, having lost herself. Like Peter Thiel, but with a much different advocacy promoting it, it is not going to happen to me. Sure, people still die from poor medical outcomes at my age, or Gwen Ifill's, but the do everything approach is far too successful in developed economies. Yes, euthanasia has problems, and Francis would zap me in a blinding mist for a callow lack of mercy, but we need to start thinking about limiting medical resources. Pure Genius is bullshit, in that regard. If Uncle Joseph could still contribute, had a utility, that would be different, but he is senile, with autistic anti-social behavior, and a carrier of deadly infection, nearly bedridden. We need to start thinking like Nazi doctors now. We do already, but in the wrong way. Within certain stages, people need to let go. Marie has been treated for cancer since her sixties and still smokes. I fought, but gave in to vaping to spare myself what little pain I can, and if I have a metastasis, that is on me. I'll take the morphine. Chemo can kiss my ass.
Famine (Irish: an Gorta Mór, [anˠ ˈgɔɾˠt̪ˠa mˠoːɾˠ]) or the Great Hunger was a period of mass starvation, disease, and emigration in Ireland between 1845 and 1852. Do you ever expend useless capital on a frivolous enterprise? I was examining my LinkedIn Pulse transmissions, wondering why I want to write a LinkedIn post in the first place. I've been out of the game a very long time due to Philadelphia's periodic contractions of services leading up to the Great Recession; by 2010, despite cyclic familial monetary gifts, my money market account was wiped out, and I am exactly back where I was at the age of 23, except for the apartment, this one less functional than that on 1500 West Page Street. Out of curiosity I plugged my old zip code in search 19121, and came up with numerous dead articles and defeated HUD promises about humane, aesthetic, disability housing, wondering if this is an alternate Google verse. Why is writing a relatively generic and nondescript LinkedIn post important to me? To prove I'm still capable, not white trash, not so broken I cannot speak business? The writer Mark Johnson actually is listed as a Leftist Review contributor, hence I found him outside of Yabberz, to hypothetically tell his bosses he is an uncouth bastard, something I could never get away with on LinkedIn Pulse, on which I'd hardly be featured. I cannot afford to support LinkedIn, even if I had not been defeated by governmental insistence on spend down of my resources; regardless, without some form of steady commissions, I would have been wiped out anyway. What do I still believe I am able to do? In terms of my age and all the rest? I can hardly answer. It is akin to the differential between an agnostic and a Roman Catholic atheist who should lie down. My drive, curiously, went splat for a bit after I got a yes on my pitch. I am procrastinating again, no set deadline, but not ready to blow two gigabytes frying my brain on comparative data and need to relax, keep pitching, stay aware of the fact I'm no longer 35, get some rest, and trust in the fact that if I am not going to Inglis House, then be assured of my own strength and let the state know it will have to kill me first. There are publications I wouldn't submit to. Not that Mark's is one of them, but he'd probably have me black balled if he put my avatars together. Dog days coming in. I think I could move to Ohio without much culture shock, if I could stay out of the hood. PS: twitter assisted me with my research without so much as a blink, and that is something.
I do not have much for you this morning, other than a sense of being disgruntled, as I usually am, after parring viral communities down to size. I feel a certain weariness with blinding myself to the fact that I allow myself to be exploited, wobbling down the damn stepladder as opposed to holding my own. Ta-Nehisi, whose tag I now have to repair, was frank enough to tell readers the truth during the crescendo over Cosby: we don't make a great deal of money even under the brand name. This includes The New Republic prior to Chris Hughes, and okay, I struggled with an unsuitable community once again, get over it-- but LinkedIn hasn't been a five star venue either, exactly-- although I am taking another look. These platforms are indicating new ways hapless flat foots gain exposure, and I grasp the LinkedIn voice preference just enough, that with care, I can fake its light arcania sentiments, on some relevant issue I don't mind giving away. I am tired and in pain and comfortably starving so as not to aggravate aged patriarch with mummified third wife; and it could be worse. I've written strong pitches, weak pitches, fucked pitches with typographical errors and still, I pitch, and Yabberz users did, now and again, give me a new market. If I had stayed, I would have threatened to kill the entire body of California liberals, as a class unique unto themselves. There is something superficially inimical about those domicile to the golden state, not that I feel particularly generous to modal libertarians either. We need to learn how to bond in mutual support now and again, and if I roll out of public housing, I need someone to catch me, not just suck me dry as a consumer. Exposing Melissa's limits was exactly that. I can write about the public housing system as a corrupt and quiet holocaust forever, but who, exactly, would intervene? Catholicism even agrees with Presby's lies treating the broken with dignity. It is for our own good, or it isn't that you don't care, but you're sinking in an underwater mortgage too. I hear you, but section 811 and 202 are Satan's sadistic pleasures brought to life, the corrosion of defeat caught between our teeth without a decent polish and floss. It needs to end, even for nonagenarian bones. Regardless of who we fucking speak to, what we fucking say, a public housing tenant is so much chattel, a classification, automatically relegated, and I will show up in New Wales soon to find Toomey's campaign, and I intend to raise the damn dead when I do, if I have to, to break HUDs power.
I have seen the trailer for The Half Brother so often that despite the swollen eye of the actor who plays Fred Neilson, despite the father's dapper yellow clothing and his Buick, I haven't the least interest in seeing the saga unfold. I have a brief note to add about Linked In: Global Media has included me as a participant on health care and I most appreciate it but I'm also not posting anything until I am okay with the site's "lack of relevance" flag. I tend to feel hurt when I feel I'm behaving and then get muzzled, and know other Linked In users remain unsure of their posts, and Bravo, corporate Big Brother has a silent network of people afraid to even be who they are, and I am not talking about deliberate attempts to troll either, and so the spastic dowager will remain mute until I get a sense of the group's concerns. Look people, I know how the game is played. I feel marginalized and in need of attention and support, (if not supported employment, which is beneath the cost of my education) and most pitches get ignored and I don't pitch often enough and OZY put me in its twitter dragnet last year as a marketing ploy and sent me a link. I clicked the link and saw a dark page and asked myself what I was supposed to do-- and what I want from these heirs to The Grapes of Wrath is a fucking answer. Why put me on a list without paying attention to my incendiary temptations? After putting me on this list why ignore me now? The internet makes it too easy to just click it away. The difference is I make an effort first. I've forgiven and talked with marginalized populations with far worse hyperbole than my own, and essentially, team OZY is a liar. Suburban morale might chastise me with "now spastic you cannot bully". Watch me. Disabled individuals still capable of gainful activity get rubbed the wrong way being used for a brand that wants everyone to be happy with their own sickle and hammer dignity rationed out in careful parcels while the hierarchies are staring us right in the face, unacknowledged. The game theory I'm playing here isn't all feigned, in other words.
Okay, now that we are in a social media panic, I applied for a third writing position through LinkedIn. I had an advisor lady from the sometimes fiddle to faddle resource site following me on twitter, but even in my neural net which takes things personally, what happened to her is anyone's guess. I am never going to be the eccentric old woman who inadvertently grabs the scruff of the meek out of sewer pipes, and, since I promised myself no etudes to the fiascoes to my north, I will not provoke the pressure cooker this evening, other than to ask if I dare order take out as I am, hoping not to be judged too harshly on delivery. Demonic streaks being what they may, there is still a side to me which is full of life, it is simply obscured by stifling quicksand-- One question, seriously, for the embroiled African American agitators-- are any of you donating to Nepal from the businesses you're vandalizing? The death toll for the wee little country is over 6,300, of late, and I can tell you, I hate section 202 housing with enough vengeance to risk mortal injury at the hands of Philly's finest, simply by virtue of my age and condition, but I've never deliberately damaged this building, ever, whatever my escalating friction with management. I've been on the other side people, I have, ready to declare war on SEPTA, screaming at CCT drivers in a cardiac rage. Paratransit services remains exactly what it was in the eighties, with more efficiency only by virtue of the fact that power chair use was drastically curtailed in 2002. It is how the activism is applied, but emoting, all that earns is a jacket.
"Leave me I say; take yourself out of sight."-- Alceste I simply don't like people all that much, especially not in innocuous aggregates of pithy pleasantries and photographs, and social media makes my distaste more pronounced, with exceptions. Mike Levy invited me to BeaconReader's Writersblock with nothing to gain, so he has my allegiance; and I would not mind helping Tony Stiles become a powerful libertarian, being his aging operative and staying out of the limelight, but platforms like twitter and Linked-In? Mindless sentimentality. I don't need it.
"thank you for following me" a direct message Mr. Harrismay have forgotten that he was following a nasty a bituminous troll, because he sent yours truly a direct message which asserted that he'd "return the favor," when I decided to let his feed on my stream, an indicator that he may have ignored my links. My synaptic connections aren't what they used to be either; I too struggle with fine print, but I try to visit my twitter page and trim the branches. I may stop linking my DIA posts so often, however, if the moral majority is going to pressure Blogger to silence me. Where that pressure came from might be nice to know, but I am not going to let it stop me, not that I can fight Google, I know that. This software belongs to the company, and the First Amendment applies to the public square-- but Blogger succeeded in making me angrier, inadvertently, perhaps. I am, on occasion, chastised by the establishment for lack of relevance, which annoys the holy shit out of me when it comes to social media. I wanted to talk about texts, on Linked In, with those who taught them, but down came the muzzle, "lack of relevance," without me breathing a word about my personal situation. I could not fight back, Linked In couldn't tell me anything, and yet I had to be mortified. This isn't virtual stigma following real life prejudice? We do not have to thank followers in thousands of automated emails. Think about it. I'll leave my account. I like Medium, and think it's better for us than thousands of writer authors tweeting what we won't read. I like BeaconReader too, and for that I need twitter. I'm mean, hurtful, and occasionally vile, but I am also challenging and divergent, and you really need to stop and think about the price people like me are asked to pay. I am in exactly the same room I was when I was punted off Poets & Writers. How many of those authors have moved on, been able to change? I am in exactly the same studio where Linda squealed to me like a pig about her orgasms, and she may have left the disability center, but I am sure the bitch has her mortgage paid off. I know she, and Josie Byzek, whom I've also offered choice words, have online access. Jimmi Shrode, who is afraid of me, may too. Jimmi is afraid of me, instinctively, and he should be, but he can walk, and has what he wants, at least until Erik dies. I'm alone; I'm in pain, and I live in an environment I never wanted to be, and all you fine players can't handle it.
I've stopped using Linked In, not because I want to cause trouble, not on a career networking site, but because I do not understand its posting policies, and I am, evidently, not the only participant who feels like I'm in the middle of a digital police state: one teacher posts that Catherine, in Wuthering Heights, is *bitch,* and I get flagged for possible lack of relevance. No idea who spearheaded that, but many Linked In users delete, constantly rephrasing. Not exactly sure this is beneficial to our evolutionary social hierarchy. But everything now automated, while the site muzzles with one hand, it woos engagement and paranoia on the other. Why would a real estate developer from Atlanta look at my profile? Accident? Gentrification? Owns a stake in public housing? I have no idea. If it was up to me I'd detonate this damn building and dance on the rubble, and yet we cannot stop ourselves, can we? ISIS may be an outgrowth of Saudi extremism migrating outward, unique to a deprecated Sunni culture none of understand, but reaction doesn't spring out of a vacuum. We're all overwhelmed, our healthcare systems, the Secret Service-- Wapo's reporting has displeased me, as all human systems are fallible, and no national executive ever entirely immune from risk. Reagan was shot by a man living his own film version of his obsession in his head-- our inability to solve economic stratification. What did I desire that has been so sorely lacking? Privacy, a place to write and flourish, not stacked like a pancake with a bunch of gibbering idiots and a bitter transvestite doctor living on 1/4 of his fucking brain with a lupus like condition preventing his sex change, an androgyny worse than the disease. Everyone in this building is a living corpse, except for the occasional accident of youthful disruption and sexual irresponsibility. I have no pleasurable sexual memories. My last husband was 1997, and I handled him and the liaison with very little poise. I did not love him but shouldn't have kept sleeping with him, as when he knew he had made me vulnerable, only then I received the time immemorial phrase of my adult life, "I don't feel anything." Coupe de gras.
I have no desire to use Linked In and its network to be subversive, push the envelope, be malicious, or to shred the reputation of my former supervisor into pork patties. I would not get away with it, and like most who use the service, I am there to network. I also give Richard Gent's "English Language & Literature" credit for reminding me that deconstruction can be light hearted. Instructors hold keys to the profound no more than anyone else. As one or two of the blunt Britons on the James list told me years ago, "Do your own research." It is not their fault that I have logistical impediments. But if Linked In is representative of the Facebook model, the First Amendment is dead on arrival, and Blogger only tolerates my posts because I am not urging my viewers or my audience, or the few readers I may have who attempt to sort out my damaged brain chemistry, to kill my enemies for me. What would be in it for them would only be the quid pro quo of my traumatized mind, and there are no guarantees an obligation like that would pay off. What corporations allow as written speech and do not allow, however, is eminently frustrating. The context of how I mention Examiner.com makes me a spammer even if the intent of my post was to discuss fair use. Or did Jay take exception to the fact that I mentioned his name? I literally do not know if I should use Linked In Groups or not, and was assertive with a group manager, moderator, and LI's customer service. Used the censure of removing myself to make a point of *disadvantaged status* without invoking the ADA, and the moderation flag then vanished. But this is how we talk today, and I'm trying to salvage a modest level of respectability as I spangle into the recesses of the matronly with only the bittersweet left in turbulence, and Linked In has many writing communities. Connections with sympathetic editors are valuable, someone out there may be able to customize a work model for me that would at least keep me above indigence. Backing away entirely is not in my best interest, ludicrous as the model appears to be in actions and traffic. The addition of the moderation process is not an assessment of your posting quality. Rather, it's designed to equip all group managers to screen content from members who've been blocked from other groups. " How and why was I blocked from other groups?
I thought I was doing okay on Linked In groups, but no. My posts have been "flagged as irrelevant or spam" though I cannot say anything about who my plaintiffs are. This is depressing me very badly because I have tried to keep an even keel, and now feel unfairly treated by a mass aggregate. I am excited by ISIS. I am not Sunni, and apparently not even a disabled female worth the benefit of the doubt, but I hope they win. Fanaticism at least gives its adherents something to believe in.
When I first joined Examiner over the winter, their advice to me, however removed in locale and my internal time sensing mechanism, was "not to hide." But any raise in profile carries risks, and I sometimes wonder why Blogger tolerates my sometimes rampaging content, not all of it an act, because posts are regulated for behavior, and not given full free speech latitude, but this points to how social networking stokes paranoia. I am afraid of Linked In's controls, and the hassle of having everything I write in a group like the Professional Women's Network "subject to review". It is a large group, and I don't want to presume too much, but subjecting to review is neither a guarantee of containment, nor definitive indicator of future acts. My grudges have poisoned my emotional well being, certainly, but when I broke my wedding engagement with Frank, my family should have helped me relocate. They did not, and I am stuck in exactly the same place I have been in against my will since 1994. The former supervisor who hurt me has probably paid off her mortgage. My apartment manager Trudy Richardson, who was a cheaper investment for Pennsylvania than I, gets paid to harass me for being non compliant, and Jimmi and Erik, Christ knows what they think they've actually achieved. Disability activism presumes that transitioning from an institutional environment to a housing environment where behavior is proscribed to the 10th power is the definition of success. For me this rings hollow without rewarding matriculation-- and I have been without that since 2005. Being in section 811/202 housing from the beginning of a career that keeps breaking me hasn't been the easiest thing to withstand, but we seem to insist on regulating ourselves down to the bland banality of oatmeal. I wanted a real independence in my life, not 50 memos about inspections and tenant meetings and who gets ostracized for not being a black baptist. I wanted to travel, not demonstrate with other wheelchair users for empowerment. It is a flawed and forced form of inclusion that has its own sterility. I wanted an income for vanity, my own furniture, decent clothes, not struggling with disability payments, alone, with no friends of my own choosing. I have interacted with a woman named Mary Bryant on the network, and if I am guessing correctly she's a better Catholic than I ever was, even in the fervor of my religious years. I opened up, just enough, to tell her I don't recommend Linked In members read my blog-- if the post goes through-- but if she did she'd probably wonder why I'm not on my dead mother's lithium dosage, getting *help*. It would certainly be a way for the social cruelty I've experienced life long to be buried, in tandem with the fact that I've dished some of that back, particularly on suburban female author hopefuls with caustic ferocity born out of despair. I may have wised up, but social fear is not an unwise prerequisite when utilizing social sites. I've had a horrible life. It pisses me off, and the people who've wronged me got away with it. Every time.
"I wanted to be like the Europeans."--Orhan Pamuk, location 1856 Seasonal allergies and my father's sinuses is also a contingency not planned for, the grease ball's throbbing head with my mother's nerves, her father's intestinal issues rolled into a palsied post 50 flesh, waking itself at 4 in the morning to watch Grable and Mature conduct their insider studio celebrity jokes with perv kisses and stocking feet, titillating beef shots, watching Laird Cregar (who I never heard of) do a formulaic twist as a stalker, obsessive worshiper. Hovering between my tormented genius, over-educated competency and decomposition, even online, the mental health consumer, for those of you with a Linked In account, laser in on me. They know it would not take much to leave me adrift and stranded as they are themselves, or have an intuitive antenna attuned to vulnerability, as Sheldon Novick knows, and Sarah too, the graduate intern of years past, I harbor a degree of guilt over certain cases of undeserved outbursts, not meant in all cases to intimidate. (I never truly had an axe to grind with Henry James aficionados, which isn't to allege that I am not in *Hallmark Mandy's* sandpit, that of recrimination in being argumentative.) He is literally incomprehensible, however, worth dropping or making fun of, another argument against radical equality, even as I adopt a new online mentee whose skills are sharp, who probably doesn't realize he should tell me to go fuck myself and report me to the NAACP. My smile is bemused, my psyche not necessarily seeking reconciliation with the hatreds of learned experience and an affection for the energy, empathy, of the young and up and coming. Even though he wasn't the primary actor in the illegality of Liberty Resources against me, I truly hate Jimmi Shrode, his sissy and shrill voice of disdain, his ugly and gluttonous homosexuality, the black lacquer on his hand bitten fingernails, his occasional use of green eye shadow even more repugnant, the depth of a hatred that is such that it goes too far and would abate if I could leave Riverside. Other than closing my disability center down because of its corruption and institutional bias, the very last thing I want in my life is to vacate these premises without making my predicament more the worse, and I'm at a loss even though I have threatened the parent company. Legal action against Presby is no guarantee that I can preserve my last years with dignity.
