Miserere, A Traduce of Jimmi Shrode

 Like anyone else, radicals will fail.-- Alfred Kazin

A little research indicates Justin Marks adapted Rudyard Kipling’s The Jungle Book for Disney’s reboot against its animated film version, which may be considered a classical rendition of sentiment, and provides a bit of a brace to explain “Counterpart” and the essential weight JK Simmons carries in it. What Marks role was over that of Amy Berg, who was the series writer for season one, mystifies those of us not paying into guild dues to understand how to meld original narratives into contemporary molds, but as the man with the key responsibility for the concept, Marks clearly knows how to bring fabulism to life on television, a fabulism with an inherent allegorical bent; as crisp as critics found Counterpart to be, its dramaturgic roots reside in Medieval morality plays, where the characters are direct symbols. The Iago of the curled mustache being the Vice, or Falstaff as the fool of Appetite, most of Counterpart’s characters are archetypes of this sort. Some are more complex than others, like Howard and Emily Silk, and how their choices define them, or James Cromwell as Yanek, yet another master manipulator whose misguided focus impacts the entire species. Others are easier, like Stephen Rea as Alexander Pope, the mission oriented creator of black mirror assassins, very clever compact irony there, to name a rogue agency manager after the most renown British poet of mock epics. In and of itself, the twenty episode allegory isn’t complicated. The writers sprinkle a bunch of clues, Karl Marx and the pernicious attraction of his political philosophy, the mention of a Prime world Holocaust survivor, obvious allusions to the Berlin Wall, a weaponized biological agent injected into what we might consider to be the “Eastern bloc,” which the “original” Western world denies occurred, but what Marks ultimately wanted transfixed viewers to take away from all this is more elusive. I ate the convoluted story line up like candy, right up to the implied black widow sex and death associations, particularly as it related to the marginally drawn homosexual composites, but the intensity of this melodrama isn’t for everyone, and it rarely takes its foot off the gas pedal. A rare exception, toward the denouement, is when the FBI agent Temple’s husband says raising a disabled child is akin to a detour in Holland, and Clare’s more tortured spouse rejoins with, “Italy has too many tourists.” Touche, in the same vein, the disabled community has too many fractal patterns to succeed. Setting aside my excoriation of the integration models of my generation, Jimmi’s obituary to his partner lacks the balanced restraint most trained journalists know to offer readers. When Jimmi writes Erik came to University of Pennsylvania to seek treatment for numbness in his hands, this is a tell. A better way to phrase it: Dr. von Schmetterling was unable to complete his internship due to illness. Such reticence offers the decedent just that much more respect, something poor Mr. Shrode cannot affix to his own person. Despite his claims of advocacy for the meek and enslaved of the passive with spittle in the crevices of their lips, Jimmi buckles when the going gets rough. He caves, fearful of righteous anger, transformative, much like Clare as “Shadow,” as her admirers point out, she eliminates a more effervescent Other to run a crew with as much ruthlessness as Emily Silk, on the other Housekeeping end. That Mr. Marks seems more linear minded in his progressive sensibilities disappoints me. I expected a less binary perspective, especially as the left has scored all its major victories. Eradication of divergent views isn’t going to change how adversity inflicts itself on the acknowledged dread of the expendable.  

A Fury Almost Not to be Recognized

"New hope for the civically exhausted--" TNR's rebtanded tagline

Coping with false allegations is never a pleasant experience, but I doubt those in Twitter's scrolling immediacy paused to reflect on the hyperbolic decibel level which surrounds American physical intimacy as it rolls back its blinds on the sexual revolution with some degree of diffidence. The catfish operatives who trolled on Buttigieg's character in mid-spring were the first to wither under a crisp recoil, as per the announcement of the Burkman/Wohl press conference.

Jacob Wohl plans to hold a press conference on his Pete Buttigieg sexual assault smear on Wednesday pic.twitter.com/BS2R38PFBr

— Will Sommer (@willsommer) May 6, 2019

Not Dale Peck, but as I read these persistent entrails of innuendo, Wohl was taking a page from Me Too as a reflective lesson. If Kavanaugh was going to burn, then why not a favored son from the midwest who has the admiration of former right winger Tom Nichols? I looked at some paragraphs of Peck's screed and with some piqued irony saw myself in his words, as some of you must have read me in my delineations of Erik von Schmetterling, the failed female medical intern with its freakish androgyny, and Jimmi Shrode, its pallid partner, but Peck is wrong too, too infer that educated people such as myself, once a supporter of gay marriage, could steer my starboard in the other direction, turn my back, and yet preoccupy myself with Mayor Pete's private life. What is that to me, aging, vulnerable, in paralysis regardless of policy nuance? The National Review, for all of my restlessness with its content, offered me a better grasp of Buttigieg's executive limitations in dealing with the lethal shooting of a black resident who allegedly pulled a knife on an officer. Dale Peck simply continues onward with the destruction of a periodical which many of us have lauded as a Beltway institution. I can say quite honestly I wouldn't want, as of this post, a byline in The New Republic. That window has passed, to echo Jeffrey Tucker when he wanted to praise Beyonce but was upbraided by someone uptight when it came to a white man writing about a black woman's music. Western civilization is so sadly broken. I can revert to my excoriating denigration on the basis of race and ethnicity, (let alone orientation) but the rest of the country has left me parked at the curb, no matter how much more dehumanization there is left to sustain in a neo-liberal candyland.

Minimal Awareness, Astute Aim, Channeling Kundera's Wry Commiseration

If every second of our lives recurs an infinite number of times, we are nailed to eternity as Jesus Christ was nailed to the cross. It is a terrifying prospect.-- Milan Kundera, Chapter 2

This is the best image I could find of our flaccid koala in my tinge of remorse. He would never have had the heart to excise me from sustained interaction, as did Maria, in my mere hint of expression as a sexual being, woman unfulfilled, never perceived for herself of what sensual liberation could offer in my bond, and yes, it is painful. Such slight acquaintance as I had with Maria. The Gladhandler was too emasculated, in generational terms, to boast or engage in erect virility, and alas, the dowager doesn't have a gelded eunuch in the life of those persecuted gender non-conformists to ask if this defines what they mean by this new-fangled  coinage of non-binary, but John, being a masculine weather vane of of exquisite simplicity, had smiles and greetings for all.

My Facebook post summarizes the remaining challenge of fleshing out a blank slate, his last attendant one of the most destitute I had ever seen, as the radical left would often spar with me, he derived his self-worth from those rolling congestive marches of clanging titanium wheel rims. I do not, being from the planet Krypton.



There is no further need for pseudonyms, such small delight as may be derived from that. I teased him about forming an insurgent militia to kill you. He took pleasure in my whimsy.

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.

The Abandon

Can you explain your views? Do you think ADAPT and others shouldn't protest in House/Senate office buildings?

— Kim Nead (@kim_nead) September 25, 2017

I promised Kim Nead, a woman whom I assume to be a Krugman sympathizer, that I would offer her an explanation of my views on predominantly left wing disability protesters. Shall we do a numbered list?
1. Most of them suffer far too much cognitive impairment to understand the crippling ideology of their dependence.
2. Those that used to, like Erik, or Cassie, people whom I've linked to-- you can research them on your own, ultimately derive their own power by unifying the mentally retarded.
3. All humans may do this, but in independent living, dissenters who get ostracized suffer more severe consequences than most. There are startlingly few Title IX violations which lead to murder in the work place. I viewed one such incident at 3M, but in disability culture, once you are driven out, it might as well be an economic execution. This is why I have gone rightward, although the toll I have taken by not holding my hand out for the Commonwealth's astringent mercy has been exacting. I do not deny exhaustion permeates every aspect of my life, at this point, although the state GOP gave me enough advance notice about the young Republican awards in Allentown that I could commit to going and then fail. I know Pittsburgh slightly, Harrisburg a little better, but Pennsylvania is a bizarre colony of origin, and Allentown, other than a recording refrain, my have been a drive through in my younger years.

Flaming Krugman, as I have learned, is no fun. His nasty reputation precedes him, and though I can give as good as he does, it would be a wrestling match with wounds afflicted on both sides, so I mute the extent of my rancor with his obnoxious knowledge acquisition. This is not to say I grasp economic theory. I'm interested, but the mathematical skill needed would strain my failing acuity. His smugness, however, triggers nausea, hostility from other economists who have taught me things, like Dr. Ferguson. I'd personally like to put Niall and Paul in the ring, and back my Scottish bay, if you get the analogy. Here is another: the left justifies itself exterminating an innocent fish, one bred for our pleasure. Nazi gas chamber, if you ask me.

Dung, Bitches, Nouveau Princesses

"this far, and no farther,"--Peter Falk

No one of us, whatever the nexus of our identity we shed to be American, is a monolithic block, and in my eruptions on this account about so called activists, that can be seen in the lack of unity between us. I cannot tell you exactly what the rift between Erik & Jimmi and Josie Byzek was, but it was a rift over how "extreme" Pennsylvania ADAPT should or shouldn't be, and Erik, when the hermaphroditic freak was more lucid, removed Fern Markowitz as Liberty's executive director. Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern are all part of the LBGTQ block. There is no love lost between them, and Fern Markowitz, in addition, is a Jewish lesbian, just as Linda Dezenski is a Jewish princess, on the lower end of the scale. Where I entered into it, regardless of my fatal attempt to be close to my overly esteemed peer, is Linda used me in a power struggle to get Fern to violate Pennsylvania state hiring guidelines to hire Jimmi for a job Linda offered me which, after my logistics combat at Matrix, would have been next to impossible for me to do. Linda won the battle but lost the war. Jimmi quit, Erik had who knows how many strokes and cardiovascular issues, and I grew too angry to care, and this is the end product of all that, but I was incredibly naive, to lick my wounds by then grafting onto a Christian lesbian who'd humiliate me in public, bouncing online from one failed disability project after another.
It is of only mild curiosity that Josie's twitter account under her own identity seems null and void. I hesitate to attribute it to my rancor. I haven't harassed her on social media, as, whatever my challenge to her role as caretaker extraordinaire, New Mobility is an undeniably progressive platform whose contributors say the same thing over and over with iterative nausea. Perhaps it has something to do with her run for the school board, but you'll notice, whatever her prominence as a champion for the marginalized, neither she nor partner Virginia foster disabled children. If I were Singh Lion, which I'm certainly not, I'd wonder about this curious trifecta of two women with a significant background in case management rearing Asian children of third world ethnicity, particularly when Josie is so impaired by MS. For the being of the welfare class, Josie is fairly solicitous of those in her care. I will not go so far as to impugn her nurturing impulses. My quarrel with her is commiseration doesn't resolve resource distribution, but she never applies herself to that, like the cost of battling over PVS cases, like Schiavo and Bobby Brown, and how this ties in with my ambivalence toward Roth's barrier breaking exposes is somewhat complex. FYI, I've read a number of Jewish novelists, like Chaim Potok, some Saul Bellow, and I've dipped into a little of everything (so how could I have drifted so rightward?) But however cemented his legacy may be, and I do recognize it, Philip Roth is an egotistical prick. I know the movies better than the novels, and concessions to some of his starkest feints have to be granted, but Goodbye Columbus succeeded in making me antagonistic to all of its character types, Ali MacGraw in particular, portrays her coming of age as an expression of masochistic coitus. I am a great deal like Richard Benjamin on screen. This is why he stays with me despite the blithe inattentiveness to his interpretations of Roth in my past, but even as a pursuer progressive of almost 50 years ago, Neil Klugman is a contraction in terms, as are Roth's vigorous sexual expositions. It never occurs to Roth not to allow his men to be vulnerable to sexual entrapment, not to be afraid of knocking up daddy's little girl by not chasing her in daddy's house, like a hound dog. He is vacuous himself, but wants a monogamous commitment, to which Brenda, the perpetual, debutante, seems incapable. The film had its moments, and our urban life used to feel relatively secure where a boy could look up a girl and then show up, talk her home, but there is nothing here to celebrate in Roth's own hypocrisy, a surreptitious man cave, with its lack of respect, leaving me without even the proverbial suitcase to lug back to the depot in the era without stroll carts. 

Another One Bites The Dust

"She needed to be more liberal."-- Theodore Dreiser

I should be quiet when I get like this, knowing it is too late baby, whether I run or not, whether I cancel my Prime Membership or bite the bullet, whether I voluntarily throw myself back into Pennsylvania's mental health system, or not. I know that system well, and know it will not help me. Pacify me? That depends. Help me? No. Therapy cannot circumvent permanent destitution. Therapy, at least in Southern PA, is a secularized New Testament. Forgive. Think of what it would do for you. Declare bankruptcy. This is what I got from an intake counselor circa 2K during my nervous breakdown after I flipped on Linda, who is evidently her same pussycat self, from what I can gather. Linda's casualties sit on one end, and the eel in her sneakers and overcoat jumped ship on a railroad grant. Perhaps I am making things impossibly difficult deliberately, breaking myself faster than Presbyterian Homes would do it for me. When I told NYT on twitter that I am a genocide survivor it was not exaggeration. Section 202 takes broken people in and breaks them further. I have seen black schizophrenics fracture the faces of their grandchildren, rolling back to my unit, face the color of a turnip, screaming for police. I cannot forget that afternoon. I ran from my own mother's insanity to something much worse, whiplash upon whiplash upon whiplash, I purchased the Gladhandler a candy bar.
Who is he? No one, a simple cripple, 70 years old. Follows Erik like a fucking puppy. Sourced me, however, for AccessLife, so I am kind, even if I upload the cart and dump my bleeding scars on a tacit, naive simple bastard who never got laid. He loves his nigger dependence. Wince. Go ahead. Now I'll shut up. Jerry always hated that imperative command. I may just vaguely recall George Michael. I said, oh, must be AIDS. To my regular viewers (do I have any?) I need not continue in that vein. I'll lie down an hour. Pout about losing Mhz on WYBE.

Workplace Grievance Assailants

"I almost stabbed the masseuse." --  LaPaglia, Australian usurper 

Satoshi Uematsu is not such an anomaly as mothers with children would like to believe, which is why they should pay attention to the lessons Fuminori has to teach, but more than that; the mentally ill mirror the times around them, as LaPaglia himself may remember from one of his signature dialogues on schizophrenics.

The #knifeattack in Japan was at disability center no surprise: all hate us

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) July 25, 2016

Uematsu may be a rarity in terms of unrest on Japanese soil itself, but his aggression reflects what happens in institutional paradigms. Decentralized or not, ugly situations occur, cut across cultural differences, cut across ethnicity. Mammals seem basically programmed to take advantage of injury, illness, weakness, or other forms of distress. We accept it, even practice it, if the Danes are any indication, when we pretend to absent the human animal from land mass ecosystems, something almost impossible in the 21st century. When it comes to ourselves, that is another matter entirely. While a complex series like The Churchmen is not immune to conflicts of doctrine juxtaposed against material violence, within the seminary itself we do not see knife fights, but HMS as it existed in the 70's under Dr. Chance, who had his own deity complex issues despite his attempt to dissuade second generation Romans against aggressive surgeries, was home to violence with blades in recreation rooms. This writer lived with what the good orthopedist's business represented for three years, before Shriner's took over and destroyed my body for another surgeon's career. Only the records of Home of the Merciful Savior exist, but as bad as it was, next to this the home, with its dark granite facing, was club med. Chance had a private residence across the walk, and it was like his private fiefdom. LRI is in some ways fundamentally worse, as the collusion and fraud of Erik von Schmetterling, Cassie James, and Linda Anthony represent. I shouldn't have to live with it, harassed by a so called assistant whose uncouth behavior makes Joe  Caesar's progenitor.

Karma Buried in Nepal

"This is how the legal system works, so you work within it."-- Marlo Thomas

"We have a few steps."-- Good Karma Cafe

Now that I can join Nick Denton in the legal threats department for the deliberate use of an appalling analogy, and possibly join a Temple University professor with whom I studied Faulkner in earning an FBI file, but what can they threaten me with when my landlord utilized the Department of Health and Human services to suggest Inglis House? Regardless of how pretty the Inglis site looks to the eye, it is comparable to a minimum security prison: I may not have been a troubleshooter there for the better part of two decades, but the facility is the equivalent of an equally minimum security insane asylum, and whatever the sin of spiraling hell, I'm not going, and thus have a constant fingertip on my pulse, but even in small things, my engagement with the literary community has been a whirlwind of bravado as heady as crash landing in Tibet: hauling two flights of stairs in Robin's Book Store to read for the enigmatic Grecian lesbian who was Alexandra Grilikhes. Our association, never fully contextualized, was predicated on a degree of willful blindness. I pretended not to heed the homosexual sirens flashing in my Freudian id, and she pretended I wasn't a disruptive jackass who fit right in with University of Pennsylvania's ratified Ivy League sentiments. There was also my brazen five hour train ride to Pittsburgh, in my wee little manual chair. Immortal words to Harry Calhoun when the car opened at the station, "I have to pee!" He has a small penis, such kind observations after a 72 hour holiday of insanity, inclusive of the lovable loathsome Louis McKee. We talked all the time, Lou and I, me turning green after he won a grant.

Now I have to make do with the minute slights of parking my chafed tail bone outside of ad hoc neo-beatnik locales. What I am trying to say is I'm totally with the psychology of moving on; I'm doing my damnest, but the cyanide capsule of the ADAPT pathology which is Riverside Presbyterian's unique variation of human trafficking is the Battle of Somme on my soul. Erik von Schmetterling's day attendant did not engage in toxic behavior toward me once, or twice, it was persistent, continual, for nearly 8 months; then I challenged him and he threatened, denigrated me, and yes, after everything I've written here about victimization clinging to my flesh like a Zika infection, I am throwing down the gauntlet, unable, like you, to casually barhop in the best areas. If I could stick a pin in a map, if I could get there, I'd be gone by the end of next week, hitching my battery charger to Nebraska if I thought I had the wherewithal.

Inability to Come to Terms

I wasted a lot of time this afternoon discovering what I already knew, that community portals like Yabberz are counterproductive, that regardless of what I do, individuals such as I get sucked into contests, and I abandoned Mike Horton's nursery of festivities three times in the course of my online life, and should no doubt give up blogging, given the emotional erosion that comes with age. Perhaps I am a little too frenetic to push the envelope a little more right now, and should go clean my coffee pot, which I meant to do all day and instead wanted to log on to research Trump's plausibility with his audit of the Federal Reserve, and instead, went to that fucking nuisance of a non-partisan venue. Jesus Fucking Christ. Why, when I know better?

I was flagged by some bitch for going into detail about the black racism I've lived, and she no doubt had a victory orgasm, and that ends my membership in such fractious folly, proving there are things we cannot change about ourselves. Pain only tends to breed more unkindness, and no one likes self-pity, or uncouth veracity. I have insinuated things about Philadelphia Adapt and my former colleagues, of course; I'm not their only victim, nor Presby's, even though I've stated in no uncertain terms what I'd like to do to Riverside, so maybe Blogger is afraid someone will take ideas into their head. I don't know, but in that case, let me be arrested and charged. More than the people, I want independent living centers overhauled. For what they are, they hurt too many. No one cares, and sometimes that is why people act. I'm never going to clear my debt, even if I find a happier environ and some small part time activity, and contrary to what liberals may feel, I want to honor the obligations of my loan, but it is not going to happen, as my marginalization is now the product which funded my own past salaries, and I put my heart and my soul on a sleeve, and Blogger has to inject itself in very careful doublespeak.

Don't get me wrong, Google is mighty and I'm an ant outracing the killing fields, but I want my voice to remain as a testament to the fact that intelligence, matriculation, spare us nothing when the blows keep coming, like Trudy Richardson's repeated humiliations. I would truly rather eviction, even though some of you cannot see that logic.

Who, me?

I of course post better when I dig up my web sites and take my time in Word, which I still hate but cannot afford the upgrade to Corel, but my aunt just yelled at me that I'm spoiled and I'm going to wind up in the street for upbraiding federal housing contracts with hypocritical corporations which shield both of my building owners, Diamond Park and Riverside. So I wind up in the street, fully cognizant of the fact that social media will not rush to my rescue. I get that, and also get that the street just leaves me for what I am, vulnerable carrion that EMS will scrape up off the surface of something somewhere, eventually, and I get it too that my father has lost everything after nearly sixty decades of busting his hump.

He was a good provider and doesn't deserve the tragedy of his life, anymore than I do mine for being an obstinate fool, but for however long my access to a platform lasts, I am a victim of black corruption, shielded by housing authority statutory requirements. Some weeks ago, my physiology under strain, I roared at Trudy on my cell that I wanted to know what her employer was going to do to mitigate my trauma, and rushed the office, and got a dose of black team tag:

"There is no Diamond Park." What exactly do these women take me for?

They later dropped the gag, but just because hip hoppers are now policing my tweets, this doesn't mean I do not have legitimate grievances with a rental agent which operates withing a classification which by design creates an expendable class (section 202 age requirements) under which I've lived my entire adult life. In 07, whether to strike back at ADAPT activists or not, PHA allowed those rental agents under 202 subsidy to stop accepting ADA tenants. Glorious. If I still had my salary I'd have shaken my booty and gave Ms. Horne the finger on my way out the door. But as a pauper skimming the surface on just over 7k a year, my placement options are even more restricted. I talked to the receptionist at Toomey's Philadelphia office politely this afternoon; his campaign headquarters is elsewhere.

Liberals would say I'm screwing myself by aligning my anger with the Senator's reactionary boundary lines. I doubt it, because liberalism, hiding under piss poor interfaith excuses, seemingly cannot accept accountability. I am a victim of three inappropriate sexual incidents, if you would like to call it that, one toxic environment out of a disability center, an aggravated assault, institutional abuse, and then state assessing agents, twice after a previous manager banned me from the dining service. In exactly what sense is the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania operating to serve my best interests as a disabled woman over 50?

I have four options, as I see it, 

1. Stay here in the merry land of African American minstrels and be grateful for a paraprofessional bed bath as an eventuality while I lie to myself about re-matriculation;

2. Hasten my demise in a shelter

3. Go insane at Inglis House

4. Enact my suicide plan

Fifth option suggestions people? Find an Ariel Castro I can live with, perhaps?

Mussolini's Mistress

Mmm. Dis account just favored Cueball, which might have been shorter, or at least more cleverly entwined, and does favoring mean Shape Arts means to be encouraging or that I should indeed put a muzzle in it? 

Look, I've been cautious, but the disability community across the pond needs to understand that I hate the ADAPT members I came up with, and have posted so. People like Erik von Schmetterling and Cassie James Holdsworth may be symbiotic tokens of empowerment, and Linda Dezenski was groomed along the same lines, to be a representative spokeswoman, but they were also corrupt, and cannot or will not confront the fact that they hurt a lot of people, many now dead, some voiceless, as I could become at any time, and I'm sorry, but it's wrong, even if that not quite a real transsexual is in dementia and not quite what it was. This, along with African American bigotry, ignited the rage in me drawing me closer to red meat paranoid right wingers. Many of you in Canada and England may not know what to say, but I still live with the consequences. Linda did not just catch me off guard in private describing sexual satisfaction with her blind husband, assuming I had that experience in on the game, which I do not. I had bad sexual experiences and semi exciting affairs, but nothing like she hit me with, and she then played me in a crowd in front of old associates whom I told her I was interested in, I was humiliated, forced to compete with Erik's lover like a pawn, and all the city of Philadelphia can do is tell me to access the disability center. It is untenable, and Liberty doesn't actually do anything except pay case workers to access, and make assessments. It's crock. If you want to help me then help me find a way to get out. If Linda had truly apologized and made amends, I could forgive her, but I can't.

I trusted her and she made that feel like eating nails in a hair shirt. How could I have taken legal action if the events in question caused me a breakdown and I still have to live with Erik and his partner? You want me to drop the hyperbole about their sexuality? Okay, but they've hurt people for their own ends. And have a chip on their shoulders at least as thick as the Antarctic. I need to get the fuck out of this environment, or black women like Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne will create their own prophecy and launch a DOJ investigation over my cadaver. Residencies like these might help, but I'm hardly Stockholm material.

Radicalized Euthanasia

Where the editorial board treads cautiously, I do not: those with incurable chronic conditions who have faced life long degradation and see no alternative, should be allowed to end their lives in much the same way animal shelters euthanize dogs, cats, the odd turtle, and professional animal husbandry slaughters livestock. I do not have the time, in this moment, to build a devastating case, but the pain I've detailed repeatedly, recycling various items, is in itself case enough, if not the discarded bodies in nursing homes do not pile it on. Humanity may be more than other mammalian species in many respects, but we're still, primarily, a primate who by accident came up as a bipedal feat of engineering in an extraordinarily fragile fashion, and with all due respect to the Holy Father and the Eminences of the Church, my poppa allowed me to birth in order to "be a good Catholic" and put me in a Catholic home for children. I was nine years old, and my abuse at the hands of unwitting minority orderlies who were in all respects a template of Riverside's Debra Horne, began there, never ended.

Now, whether people who actually know me read this, or strangers, what could I have possibly be guilty of at nine years to have borne what I did?

Victims have extraordinary strength, but for quadriplegics, it becomes a serial way of life which at a certain point becomes analogous to a terminal illness. Let ADAPT advocates break their teeth on that. 

Disaffection

"thank you for following me" a direct message 

Mr. Harris may 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.

Plight of Placenta Detachment

This type of venue is about producing the product and sales data. I am more interested in the analytics which might still pay me for a well produced piece. Daniel Schneider tried to encourage me in this direction even as thinking about that first contact causes me to shrivel into a little ball, but search my archives. I don't need to remind myself all of the time-- and I cannot really say what Dan was guilty of that set me off. Sigh. I just don't work well in online groups, certainly not with a B actor trying to be charitable-- but with that episode I was stupid, and realize it. Had I just bit my tongue and faked a certain wide eye respect, played sweet little passive cripple, Dan Schneider and wifey might have been of use. Recognize him? He reached out to me in 2009, and now I BEAR THE MARK OF SHAME. Meaning the fact that he was obnoxious was not worth getting emotionally distraught, which I did.

Spilled milk and all that, but this was self inflicted. It is difficult for me, Jimmi Shrode ignoring me with his righteous indignation, and I nearly threatened him coming home from the store; the partner of the dying Erik, Jimmi, growing a beard now, the new in thing among infantile homo boys, not that Jimmi doesn't have the right to cut me, I am simply telling you I cannot take it anymore, and Linda should have paid a steeper penalty for sowing so much discord: Jimmi and Erik are Riverside's extraordinary tenants with a great deal of power, and understandably like the relative stability of the building. I hated this place from day one, and having powerful, if ailing, activists as secondary enemies because Linda used me like a pawn makes it worse, on top of the other salient details I have given you about the duress of living under so much hostility as a disabled woman.

I am tired people, worn out, and getting arrested for attempting a hate crime, one way to shorten a life span; my family is of little use. Basically none of them respect my judgment, and Stephanie and I have inflicted too much mutual damage, my sister. She and I will talk when necessary, but she sees my old age as her legal burden after our father's death, and I'd sooner gouge her eyes out, if you'd like my power of attorney, not to give unscrupulous Russians a hard on. I mean I've given up on the idea of returning to Ridley Park, which, despite the secret domestic violence, was my best youthful idyll. I can no longer pretend to go home again, but, by the same token, the longer I stay at Riverside, the higher my chances that I wind up on Sullivan's Dish as a sensational impulse spree of some sort. You cannot win with the likes of Jimmi and Erik, even if you score a few points on the board. Militant gays are like Islamists in this regard, and Erik is not the type of sensible transvestite who debates DOMA on PBS. Even insiders in IL consider Jimmi and Erik to be overtly fanatical. I need to stop seeing what they are. I need to wash my hands and keep myself as equi-distant from homosexual culture as possible. Linda's caviler machinations destroyed my health, ability to rebound, and created hostile circumstances from which it is difficult to extract myself, or find alternatives.

I'm wearing out. 

Old Lions, Fresh Solstice

Not to take issue with Chris Zimmer, since she and I have different agendas, but I give SVU's writers credit for reminding us that adjudication doesn't rectify the hidden costs of our scars. It may have been a soft boiled episode, but Hargitay and Vassilieva brought it home, recapping the earlier story lines. I am soft on Dick Wolf, meaning I forgive what Zimmer opines as tepid, out of familiar reassurance, and I can assure you I don't enjoy rolling off my daybed feeling revictimized every day, but the hardest thing to expurgate from disability activism is the internecine cruelty embedded within it.

In 2002, right around the time I was exiled from the Poets & Writers community, Septa CCT instituted restricted eligibility, and it has been like a Jamesian turn of the screw ever since. There are things I have not discussed about service providers and threats to my survival, items I've held back, attempting to avoid certain stereotypical aspects, and I do not always succeed. If I accuse Philadelphia's spina bifida loud mouth of tunnel vision, I am not so far behind strumming cat guts with a bow.

Reinvention is a difficult task when the environment in which it needs to be done is one you never wanted in the first place that holds so much baggage, more damage than pleasure, and little that is fresh, invigorating. Risk adverse to another failure due to productive decline, I have little desire to utilize the campus of my alma mater; it is older than old. I want to let it go, be rid of the whole city with its inability to govern itself, although these days that is apparently a bicoastal affliction.

I can't work this morning. Post-a-vent yes, slight revising, waiting for one of Anthony Perkin's last films. Another Lovecraft variation, maybe I should pack it in now, resign myself to Inglis House, death industry bar none. In a few years, my lateral transfer skills will be more difficult. I will be off Blogger more than likely, barring a Google Amazon takeover of independent living itself, which I'd support. So many limits, so few choices, and Linda will go on, no matter. Gutting subordinates is often its own reward. I am going to bed.

Day of The Locust

Our national flag ship cites 3,300 public housing agencies. Spastic, like the rest of the known universe, doesn't believe the Tea Party has the moxie to reignite historical sparks by holding firm long enough to put section 811, 202 and rent control tenants on the streets, but my sympathies are inclined toward their desire to clean house.

29 years of African American wardens of various stripes with access to my personal fiances. 29 years of black rape, animal cruelty, violence due to mental illness, regulating my speech, discourse with other tenants, knuckled under to give low skilled laborers a wage. If I could trust white libertarian and conservative charity and compassion, I would start a secessionist movement.

From 2004 I've had no gainful employment, and from 1997 I have been harassed by the DOE. I have no credit. If Cassie James wants to know why I am as angry with her methods as I am with the systemic regulatory oppression, it is because the activists were only willing to look out for me when I complied with a paradigm designed to hold me down. 

I am not a felon, but I have essentially been convicted and hanged. Progressives want control and behavior compliance. The right can't see its way past radical capital strangulation for those born into it.

Nebuchadnezzar's Amulet

I stayed for ten minutes. What am I doing here reverberating in my browbeaten intelligence, relieved to be familiar with the director, laughing sardonically at their mail, treating a dying and angry entitlement strapped spastic woman like a philanthropist, though to be honest I feel an affinity with their librarian, who was gasping in the galleries, busy day. I left not due to alienation so much as lack of readiness to use my weapons at self-promotion. I am going to make labels, play the game of unsaid to make one last bid to get myself as equidistant from micro Protestant Africa as possible, treated myself to dinner since I indeed looked like a glass of La Lastra Sagovese, 60 dollars for calamari and doggy bags, living death as history. Am I a rabid monster destined for the gallows?

I had no idea Helen Keller was the source of so much salacious gossip in the fifties. Before her deification in the notorious play The Miracle Worker, there was the roman de clef, the story of Esther Costello. Heather Sears before Patty Duke. I am reading picture books of a blind deaf socialist when I was six years old and she was still alive, Keller, an ACLU founder, and possibly a mistress to Sullivan's husband. It just suggests to me things so difficult to convey between where I've been, and how much I hate now, how much I would hate her socialism the way I hate the disabled community I've experienced.

Be glad there is no magic pill people; you would not want to deal with me cured, maniacal with rage. 

Autotrophic Folly

"The term deep state originated in Turkey." -- a paraphrase from Sennott's reporting.

Granta Magazine is of singular distinction only due to the fact that I've supported it solely as a subscriber. In the nineties I was intimated by its quality, more like a quarterly collection than a periodical, and the sisters who founded Glimmer Train imitate the Granta brand, but imitate it like a Tiffany lamp knock off. The Glimmer Train sisters have rejected me, though be it rarely, and this is fine. Glimmer Train is not my favorite project. Granta used to be; I am less enamored of its voice, less intimidated, even irked by its contributor narcissism, I've become selective, more easily led to perceive flaws, than I was in the past. I do not kid myself. Certain bylines still matter, and Granta's would, but nothing I have is that piece. I am not going to write about my mother's death in that sonorous Granta fashion. Pushing the envelope in a manuscript about wiping out Philadelphia's disability activists? Maybe, but this is speculative, dependent upon my control, brimming with the ironic undercurrent particular to Granta's voice, and selecting the right word that leads to the singular and pleasing sense of pretense. I cannot lose it to raw aggression, in other words.

Let's indulge in speculation and say I get in by next year. I had to move past the half century mark to realize even a Granta byline changes nil, paid or otherwise, at this point. If I was still in my thirties it might have landed me a position under which I could manage my debt, but not now. The only time this public housing shanty guarantees me relative undisturbed peace to work is between two and six am. The internet is of course somewhat to blame for my fall in productivity, but before I opened a blog account, that drop in productivity is mainly due to nearly continuous conflict with Presby. Sure, it is amusing, but not when you have no other options, and managers, whether white and shrill, or black and liars through their teeth, have the power to limit the circumference of your daily routine to a 24 hour care facility. I can no longer rely on family to take me in. I transferred to Riverside against my will in 1994, and faced continuous harassment by the other tenants until I threatened the current manager, Trudy Richardson, with legal action. It is Trudy, and her "former OVR employee" Debra Horne, who took what traumatized me in the inner city, and made me nearly irreversibly biased against urban African American culture, and I know if I cannot get away from section 202 housing, then I really will sicken, lose to aggression, vitriol mitigated by chemical saturation and its side effects. I can get on another transfer list, sure, back to bad neighborhoods, weakened further still by waiting who knows how many years, and I can't take this anymore, except I have to take it, unless by a miracle I can hire myself away full time and sustain it.

4:30 this morning saw me take two plus hours to make a submission to the same old literary journal circuit, just to keep myself active, and this is a sink back to the excruciating poverty of my twenties. If I sink back into this fox hole, the quick sand of indigence before my social services career, then it is essentially over. It doesn't bear repeating who and what I have to thank for that, but at my age, the emerging exposure contributor's copy catch all might as well be the joke of a real world Truman Show character defeated by post production realism.

Mitochondrial Deformity

"Look at her labia." Joanne Marinelli, the first one

What I had hoped, at least until a couple of years ago, was that my half brother and his wife and myself could scrape up the resources to renovate his basement, and that, while not ideal, would have gotten me away from Jimmi Shrode's constant silent censure that I have to deal with here in the building on a daily basis. 

Before Benny and I quarreled, I wanted evidence from him that would illustrate that he was behind me, and provided him with the tools to do that before I lost patience with the fact that no movement was forthcoming. After my resource site AccessLife went out of business, and after New Mobility's management ceased to acknowledge me by 2005, the only supports I really had were inertia, both personal and systemic-- systemic in the sense that no regulatory model in Pennsylvania has ever propelled me forward, as opposed to becoming a hindrance. Seven years is a long time to feel stranded, to be doled out more molestation, then physical trauma.

And if I had the means to give my notice, I would force Jimmi to respond to me, because ugly gay men, in particular, have this sanctimonious way of cutting. I've burst into tears in front of him after realizing the enormity of what Limda had done. Playing me like that damaged me almost irrevocably, dashing any hope I had for the same things most Americans want. Mortgage, self-sufficiency. I don't want to be his friend again, but would like to take off the heat and get both him and Erik to realize that utilizing their personal relationship as paramount, not to be challenged, hurts the center the two of them supposedly govern. And the board of directors doesn't govern very well. Liberty Resources is constantly settling lawsuits.

I *see* my damage in the context of these events the same way that my site member sees it, but I know myself well enough to know that if I did not have to put up with the 8th floor LBGT A team as a daily reminder that I am exiled, it would be easier on me. Battling to keep my head up is hard enough. Now, let me put my progressive gay love hat back on for a minute:

When Linda told me she supported Jimmi for the job he wasn't supposed to have, she meant it in terms of peer support, and that bubble boy would be better off matriculated (impossible, trust me, what local media will tell you about Phila ADAPT bears little or no reflection on reality; they are terrorists, with brain disorders and palsies and intense moods and fat broken bodies, but still zealots who don't worry law enforcement since they are zealots easy to kill). I get that, but when you treat a federally mandated center as if it was a point guard mafia for the 5, 6 at the top who are indispensable, that is the corruption of socialism.

The corruption of materialism lies in the fact that I cannot be a burden to Benjamin and his wife. Rare thing in the US these days that families are the main resource for each other, and Benny is scared of what I am willing to say, like that his biological parent abused Stephanie, and that Stuart Lone, the wrong stepfather, would have killed little Nicky if powerful uncles had not intervened. Sensible people say "It's over."

I have a lot of overs, in this building, in my career, school years, institutions. When is the last time someone was able to touch me? My mother was always telling Kmac to check out my anatomy because my bipolar mother whose estimable gifts have watered themselves down within did not like how I looked. Kmac's ugly ruddy hands were always clutching my pubic area. If I had known what she was, I would have let child services take me away. They asked me at school if my mother was unfit. 

It is unfortunate I was such a clever, loyal child. In Dr. Rubel's words, I am not done being pissed. Tough enough for you? I am going to hit even harder. I want to save future spastics from needing the dowager.