Wireless in a Snow Shower

I'd heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well, it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah--Pentonix

I suppose, presuming I have regular viewers, like the dwindling audience for daytime soaps, that you would rebut me by pointing out that a minority paraprofessional from the hood cares for my welfare should make me feel guilty, as my conscience doesn’t give a flying fig, not that I do not think said paraprofessional isn’t a nice guy, of course he is. I simulate the ingrained Italian generosity learned from my family on my childhood knee, and he contributes in return, in this charming interstice of the village of the damned, but it is an act I am within relative parameters, able to keep up behind my otherwise world-weary sinuses. Earlier last week, in grieving for his previous patient, he gripped my right thigh, covered by solid gray sheeting, to emphasize the man’s edema, and I felt sexually aroused. That happens, as old as Lady Chatterly’s Lover, the nurse sexualizing the regressive grooming of the crippled husband (when I read Lawrence I resist the vulnerability his cadence demands, not my favorite canonical author) and as recent as the marginal industry effort, me before you, a genuine triumph in cripland film I should feel obligated to view for this account. Perhaps I’ll invite Dr. Dorwart to write a guest review instead, to rest these world weary Italian eyes: I am not going to fuck the nigger five years my junior. It was the mere incidental grip on my thigh. We’re supposed to go to Dunkin Donuts this morning to update the OS for my forlorn second generation Apple 5s, pondering my reluctance to allow ATT to turn off my plug in, adding the expense of a new phone, but if I cannot trust the hotspot to ping?

Victoria Wharton is actually causing me more grief than the kind-hearted African I callously denigrate, but this is as much padre’s fault as my own. He sent her to me. Without Facebook I would not have suspected her mental instability, and was reluctant to reconnect her to daddy, but did so she would stop texting me. My sister informed me Sunday evening that Victoria is a threat to my father’s welfare (drug swiping, etc) and the dowager’s lioness roared. I let the woman have it and threatened her with arrest, due to slipping on my own gullibility, my father’s as well. 

He hired Victoria. Eldest daughter presumed Victoria was reliable, steady, but instead, is another episode of white trash feigning a low middle class. Exactly what fantasy of personal grace and demeanor do I reside in? My heart always breaking on my father’s rat pack stylized imitation, ladies’ man to the end, twisting my love on the rack, the daughter he abandoned, submitted to medical repair, again, and again, and again. First love of my life, he represses what a bloody disappointment I am, first born, fitting virtual reality is no longer removed from the lives we live.

Residuals

If I did not stop doing this I was going to die.--Cheryl Strayed

On the whole, I was predisposed towards prejudicial distain of Salvation, simply by virtue of dealing with fifty years of the asteroid meme in the industry, and I could have made myself sleep, as CBS re-aired the pilot Friday evening. It had a few libertarian brush strokes, but the fact that Dell flat screen computer monitors and Apple phones have become supporting players in television science fiction doesn't translate well, as far as I am concerned, which is why I might have paid more attention to The Mindy Project; its twitter account followed me a long time ago. I haven't written about it because I am ambivalent about the humor in The Office, but at least these situation comedy offshoots from British models still focus on character. In an alternate world where I had mobility on my feet, as you do, I might have been Mindy as heroine, playfully acerbic as opposed to caustic, in the varying degrees of hostility humans have, mocking their own behavior.

I need to be cautious in reconciling with the maternal voice of my sex. Children need to be reared, but in the developed world, we've lost perspective on the matter. Reconciling with Gretchen, and getting too familiar with Robert's liberalism, reminds me why I've gotten banned from the collective social voice, and I cannot wade back in like a holistic penitent. It isn't that I want to hurt them, or be disparaging. I know Robert hopes I find my way to peace, acceptance, some sort of happy extraction, and Gretchen probably forgave me because she knew she wasn't the target of my antagonism, but sometimes, the second sex, with its pasteurized, urbane husbands, is insufferable, and my Speakeasy past, not wholly absent in social media, recollects my unease with clacking hens. I've kept Cheryl Strayed on twitter, but the memory of her authorial voice about her journey into horse and needle tracks had a vaporous quality to it, a sort of conspiratorial nod that her lack of control with narcotics wasn't serious. I forget why she and I connected nearly twenty years ago, and as I've written before, that she ignored my greeting on twitter doesn't rankle that badly. It might be simply that she doesn't remember we used to post to each other. We would not have become, or remained friends, however. There is another whom I haven't mentioned. Diane Kirsten Martin, Robert's workshop colleague. She and I sparred over my bias toward Africans on Facebook. I did not get banned for being civilly frank, thought I might, frankly didn't care, and we've ignored each other since, but this still reflects the lassitude of Robert's nature. Diane is catty, I'm the brass bitch, and Cheryl, his wife, smiles mischievously. None of this is my world, this San Francisco Episcopalian middle brow curvature, and it never shall be. But if I reject it, then what exactly was I aspiring to, defeated as I am by urban progressive corruption? 

Use The Knob

"you better mean it"-- Chaz Ebert

On a good day, which is not today, I may throw caution  to the wind in relation to concern about the Jazzy motors and corrosion, and do my old bathing chair transfer, at leas once, given that it is summer, particularly as I may present myself to Toomey's staff and become a nuisance about NCIL abuses, I don't know. I'm tired, expect too much of people and myself, and my only intimate relationship apparently resides in Twitter and libertarian politics, and keeping my chin up despite 202 carpets turned into a muddy gulch in ten years of powerchair tires and cat puke and urine and other choice accidents. In Indecent Proposal, Woody Harrelson mentions an architect named Louis Kahn who died impoverished on a bench but as yet, built a masterpiece, and I shall no longer even have that as compensation. No masterpiece here, having glanced at Linda's insufferably shallow posts. I shouldn't have. After eighteen years, it behooves little to observe her superficial shields have only worn the worse for wear. I don't even have the savvy, for it takes savvy, to die of an opioid induced overdose, not having a doctor at my disposal to coax into a nice bottle of Fentanyl. Even if I did, or had the money for a dealer, I'd probably vomit it up. Unlike Marilyn and Michael and Prince, I don't have the fucking privilege of celebrity pill popping, though the ailing O'Neal with his whiny tenor could provide an availing tutorial along the parallel lines of self-pity; I have that in common with the star of my youth. What I do not have, particularly, is a favorite Marilyn Monroe film. The more I study her, the more I see a calendar girl who was a fish out of water, and she and Arthur Miller were one of the more improbable power couples. What in the holy fuck did they marry each other for? He wound up making her a caricature, and she wound up killing Clark Gable in a pretentious and ugly little film.

I wrote, many hundreds of posts ago, that there was something about New Wave black and white movies which cannot be reproduced. I am not a professional critic, but this holds true for me with films of a certain cast, and Miller badly wants this for The Misfits, but it is an ugly movie, nearly its entire ensemble spaced out with injuries or imminent death, and even Roger Ebert, when he could still speak, kind of trailed off, with Miller's motifs about the necessity of slaughter making little sense even to a fat Chicago newspaper man with his Pulitzer and his chocolate bunny widow. (I have no particular need today to be unkind to Chaz simply due to reactionary intransigence beyond the aforementioned descriptive depreciation.) It isn't Don't Bother to Knock either, though for all intents and purposes, Anne Bancroft's recriminations might as well be interchangeable with what I get from Richardson's managerial duress. I should have telephoned the legal referral I received today, and instead, rowed my oars in typical avoidance due to huge impaction, successfully dispensed. Why am I still writing? Much like the overweening caretaker in The Goddess observes, "it's all I know how to do," and I cannot return to my mother's family either. It is a convenience of self-deception, loving them but no longer of them, I shall disrupt my sordid stability in dramatic fashion shortly, uselessly, perhaps, but the act of defiance is ready to cascade a riot of one.

Ley de Fuga

"I'm not running from you people the rest of my life." --Clive Standen, pilot

I seem to remember some of Dead Man's Gun from my last year of cable television, long ago now, so I was mistaken in the belief that when This TV first ran the series, it was a new experience; not all of them, but Peter Firth doing a double feint as The Ripper, posing as a precursor to Scotland Yard, throwing suspicion on the surgeon, this is eerily familiar in the epoch of my vigor. I still had hope, in 1997, that I'd "recover" from my Matrix Research Institute divorce. It was more like a critical injury actually, despite my vigorous combat with my misery at the job: I used to say to myself, "look at Linda, dedicated, disciplined" and I'd picture Jewish princess on her knees in her office. I was never her, however, and if moving into the ghetto was my first fatal mistake, going into mental health was my second. Never had the requisite emotional armor, and affixing myself to online interaction, 30 odd years or so in, is having too much of an impact. I differentiate posting addiction and cyber sexual chatting-- which I stopped --I could see I was potentially compromising my safety after a round of Turkish Backgammon smut (he was a valet in Jersey, nothing exotic)-- from the fact that now I log on to decrease agitation, and conversely, wind up provoked and over extended, even as I am rolling myself out of Riverside, I am fussing about a damn data plan on laptops over six years old, is an indication of my organic failure: I'll be dead or insane in about five years, best estimation-- but just because Showtime produced all this conscientious liberal learning to accept people for who they are material, it does not make their product better than commercial series, necessarily. Dead Man's Gun is, at is essence, the Jewish liberal dominion in Hollywood smirking at Gentile intrigue over mysticism, Christian investment in it, with sharia law fatigue. The Snakefinger episode is actually a cruel penalty, amputating a safecracker's hand deliberately with a backfired gun. It is more Middle Eastern than American frontier. I have issues with ambulatory fears over chronic conditions, but I am not that irrational as to say disarticulation for a bank robber in late Victorian America is justified.

I ask forbearance. Cripples do not leave senior housing after 32 years of blunt force trauma, but I know, whatever I have to abandon, I'm going, and I won't make it. I am internalizing charming murder sprees, novelizing them on one end, terrified of losing my balance on the other. I never really had a good home life, but my mother's trash trying to fuck me in Ridley Park was an oasis next to my life in this rust belt Commonwealth and the urban ignorance which has magnified my stress.

Pleurisy Lamps

darkness darkness, be my friend

Your favorite dowager never cared much for the British invasion, outside of Elton. I still love the music and lyrics of the pianist and Taupin. That cannot be excised. And I personally believe that Captain Fantastic is a masterpiece equal to any other musical genre, but regrettably, I have to close the valve on EJ's seductive fluidity. It is not so much the politics of culture wars. I knew the entertainer was homosexual when I was 13, on the ward, clinging to my sole pop idol. Today, at 54, I'm psychologically too brittle for the pathos of the duo's best work: "I used to know this old scarecrow," as an obese New Yorker I hung with, intermittently, remarked, is a ballad to determine movement toward cessation as well as catharsis. I can no longer let myself go, for the chords or the falsetto the geek "can no longer do." And I have to keep my distance not to get abusive with old faggy. Just the way it is. But The Stones? People who idolize Mick and Keith are sorry, shriveled souls. Scorsese and I would grimace at each other across our egos, if I had access to  him. We'd quarrel, Martin and I, which I acknowledge is idiosyncratic, given the shared heritage. He is a great artist, Martin, but I'd eviscerate him with pleasure. The Rolling Stones aren't even worth the effort of fending off my narcissism, my terror of losing control of my life. I took a NSAID, to clear some hay fever, and feel easier, avoiding my hard work despite looming deadlines. 
I will not, under any circumstances, go back to a home for cripples. I will use violence, and intense suffering, to avoid it, even if conservatives like Toomey feel that my intelligence will need to accept it, eventually, I will not, and instead force my death, whatever my sin against Catholicism in so doing. or even as a secular breach. Suicide is tough, difficult. Not even depression truly strives for it, within eroding positive love of life, but there are worse things, and institutions like Inglis House are vestiges of fascism we accept as medically necessary. However brutal. I do not truly know if such homes are legitimate forms of capitalism as Adam Smith envisioned the economic system, but it is one area where I reject it, ruthlessly. People are better off dead, whether or not they feel clinging to life under such regimented circumstances is their choice. Euthanasia can be equally as profitable, and though I mock bowl headed junkets like Brian Jones, illustrating my conservative streak against addiction's gleeful destruction, an overdose is a bright and shiny little glory against such suffering I case managed and lived as a little girl. If I have to incite a criminal act against certain cruel minorities lobbing hate crimes with impunity, so be it. I will not go back, and will die on my feet. I don't understand your bipedal rhythm, and cannot convey that lack to you: my dream persona races wind and leaves on wheels, or always looks up at her father, dead grandmother, fat slut of a mother's tortured soul. Intellectually, I get the mechanics, one foot in front of the other, the efficiency of two legs, but even on crutches, walking into class hoping that Jerry would note the distinction, walking is not part of my innate wiring. Perhaps that makes me diabolically clever, clever enough to be stunning, and within this, lies an embedded rationale for eugenics. Another day.

Prelude to a Double Edge

"She said Americans were too PC to search a man in a wheelchair."-- Stephen Schnetzer

Carrie Fisher's timely medical crisis not only points to a certain coldness in your narrator. It has an interesting parallel to her own mother's death, which may have involved psycho-tropic interaction. The same sort of fatal interaction killed a woman of similar condition who used to live here, briefly my client. She also had cerebral palsy, was 24, and made my problems with anxiety seem pedestrian by contrast. If the door rattled, she was frightened, Cheryl Ward, and she died, probably much like my mother, because practitioners don't know what they are doing. The fabled ambulatory practice at Jefferson,which spastic regrets, equally admitted as much, hence my relative impatience with arrogant asses like Krugman when they pontificate on the percentile at which the US is already in the stranglehold of socialized medicine. The last time spastic listened to anything Paul had to say, the figure he used, lumping the VA and Medicare together, was 60%. I cannot argue with economists on their damn metrics; if we threw them in a jar and let them kill each other, much as has been suggested of poets, we'd all be better off. Ryan has to speak this way, of course, as one day he may become emperor of the last empire, smoldering like a charred forest fire, because policy sometimes runs afoul of individual variance. Joanne Cristinizani was neither as compliant nor as healthy, though less mentally ill, less affluent, than the actress--but the parallel between their cases illustrates physicians over reliance on medication, as opposed to behavior modification. Fisher had a rather optimistic fealty to medical model mitigation of her delusions; the problem with that is cocktails build up tolerance, the body changes, the script ceases to have the same potent effect. She also liked ECT. but might not electroconvulsive therapy, however tame it is, contemporaneously, in comparison to what we saw Nicholson act out in his Cuckoo cult classic, make the aging body more vulnerable?
I am a skeptic of western medical models, as they never did me any favors, but I do not want this skepticism to be misleading. I have seen some really tragically fucked up mental health clients in my day, and they would be eating feces without anti-psychotics, much like drug addicts in Portland Oregon correctional detention centers, but I am poking holes in our complacency towards pharmaceutical miracles, especially when physicians are tone deaf to succinct individual circumstance. The cookie cutter syndrome. I am not the first journalist to highlight it.

Addiction is a predisposition of our complex mammalian biology, but under this large umbrella, the cookie cutter syndrome leaves a certain minority of patients with addictive propensities swinging in the wind; if we stopped putting labels on it (no, it is not a disease, but can destroy brain activity that presupposes empathy and the like) and decriminalized narcotics, we'd solve a lot of problems, shrink incorporating prisons, which would be a good thing.
Note to twitter: I am going to cease following accounts that block me due to this blog, especially when I've done naught to proud union plumbers to deserve it. I push lines. I admit that, and I cannot forgive the disabled community of my generation for hanging me out to dry, and I hate Riverside, hate it, so a Democrat who believes in unions, leaping first, asking questions later, blocks me because of what? Intensity? Blocking is a forming of scolding. I don't do it often. All he and others ha to do was unfollow. I feel like I'm being punished for being inclusive, when I normally wouldn't, and this will remain an issue, although I just gave "in" to the latest six accounts.
I hate what Riverside has done to me despite the episodic violence of my other building. In 94, when my father dumped me here, cursing, I was 31 years old, I think. That is a long time to be ostracized and afraid of vicious seniors. My career was destroyed, and the shit I've gone through would make Hustler rich if they had the nerve for a graphic memoir. I'm trapped, and I'm rolling out of here in a battered power chair this summer come hell or high water, and if Google wants to suspend me, fine, but I'm hanging by a thread, and so intend to push. My entire damn life in this city has been a frayed twine since I got here. It is the holiday, and I haven't seen most of my family sine 05. Poppa stopped by with his ineffectual dismay in 07. All I have to show for everything is eleven dollars in the bank. Blocking me for bad tude when I'm not trolling users is disingenuous, and it irritates me especially when I hold abandonment by newcomers in abeyance.
Don't read me. You don't have to, but I refuse to be a pariah of leftist do gooders, capiscimi? My candle burns lower, but fiercer for it.

Idiopathic Lung Expansion

"It's like I keep losing people."--  Christopher Meloni

So Oz too has a wheelchair bound narrator. Even on an a la carte basis, I cannot afford an HBO subscription, but I'll try to remember this series might be worth viewing, unlike Orange Is The New Black; I read the reviews of the series, and I know as a Netflix exclusive it is a quality show, but, as I wrote years ago, the series has too much proximity with my life in the inner city; it is with studious deliberation that I do not want to get involved with it, even as a rerun, but since I miss Meloni, and he makes for a good conflicted Catholic, Oz might have the requisite distance for not too much wincing, even as I am still confused about what is going on with Philadelphia affiliate stations. With two movie channels lopped off my free broadcast signals, I'll be forced to stream more, which I cannot truly afford, even if I'm streaming free content. You may have a family mega data plan. I don't, and the FCC isn't going to level that playing field at the point of Napoleon's bayonet in the interim.

I am working, through some miracle and perhaps shakily, but working; it is not the morality of a tobacco company like RJ Reynolds which comes into question, but why addiction needs to be punished. It seems to come with the turf of higher mammalian function. I've caught on to how far they will go to subsidize my habit, so perhaps next month shall be just that much less brutal, but unless I find some type of employment suitable foe my decline, I might as well market my pubic hair as a new and improved micro mop head.

Though not by much, some family members are more empathetic shields than others. Billy is a cop, which perhaps cuts me some latitude, not that I flash it, or sew it onto my breast pocket, but this is sort of a greyish area between yours truly and more ideological libertarians--not that I am singling out my faux brother, but I am ambivalent about aggrandized police cover ups. Like me, way down here scraping my survival in America's true police state (the welfare system), cops know what they know, and they know eventually they have to put people like me down, barring a controlled alternative form of incarceration. That my cousin doesn't follow me doesn't perturb me, given that I've characterized his mother as a Philadelphia archetype, but he cares more about individual suffering than my sister, and certainly doesn't want to use his piece on anyone. Federal agents may or may not be a different story, but they don't have the resources to worry about me. I called the disability center, cursed them in the pain of my failing strength, nothing happened. I uttered "fuckwits" as an epithet, four times or so.

I am not particularly desirous of getting mauled in a prison cell, but learning how to manipulate others is a skill some deviants can learn. I've done it once in awhile, but when it comes to certain transsexuals, certain areas of learned Jewish prevarication, I am outmaneuvered. This ends my break, though I've been writing all afternoon. 

The Patrick Stewart Knack

I have serious psychological problems due to being a lifelong quadriplegic.
--I am sorry to hear that but have to keep going through this. Interlude amid aging processors unable to handle intake capacity.

Earlier, the dowager was going to post that she had to get a sampling of Space 1999, and was even going to rouse you to campaign Comet TV to purchase the re-broadcast rights to the show, to replace the worn out Outer Limits, but less than a 15 second view on You Tube brought about a dismal scoff. In Next Generation, Stewart certainly had his weaker takes inside Jean Luc, but I am not sure Landau had what it takes, and perhaps the producers should have listened to Sylvia Anderson and cast British actors, as she wished. I am not ready to sit here and stare at You Tube the rest of the afternoon, but I will stream some of the shares. The thought came to mind: Landau's adamant beakishness makes the celluloid Shatner seem Shakespearean, and Shatner and Nimoy always played for camp. Is this too harsh for a mind screaming for a vape?

Agony may lend itself to travesty, but in lieu of killing my father and threatening a race war, I have to work in micro increments. Up at 5 AM, two days from now, I'm physically exhausted, smacking my lips for what limited nicotine I can lick from the cartridge. As I truly have to work, my nerves aren't amused.

Almost Less Than 24 Hours

The last time I sought emergency mental health services was between 1999 and 2000, after Linda was finished playing politics on my economic desperation. I do not bring it up to keep reviewing the respective prisms through which my former supervisor and I saw our interaction. It simply all boils down to the same thing: the image of my brother looking desperate, rabid, while my immediate family commiserated with the juvenile psychiatrist. This crisis wasn't about me, my immobility, but my younger brother's cathartic violence. He died a rapist and a vandal, wasted by AIDS, and I write this for anyone who cares to click the flag to read: I was pissed, majorly, about being pulled from my midterms to talk about Nicholas, and yet I'm pretty much the same, absent the desire to commit sexual violence, as such. My parents were a bad cocktail, a stereotypical Roman male with that singular Italian fury, and a beautiful but suicidal manic who ate her way out of her looks, a couple who manufactured two cripples and a dead sociopath, with my so called normal sister and her fucked up family.

"You need help," my sister's refrain after the CIL got done doing to me what it does to nearly everyone. There are variations: Dr. David Ward trying to get me to accept that I was clinically depressed, before CILS had a legal mandate, or my history instructor before that, trying to intercede in my life so he could sail me off to Harvard. Until I grew up some and got hit with the Tassoni thunderbolt, I wanted to marry Mr. Bruno, smiling at the normal puppy things. 

I should not write this, but despite the fact I am not at the Jayne Anne Phillips level, particularly since I am not a novelist-- and might have a little more change to bring my entitlement up a couple thousand if I was-- be that as it may-- I am fucking tired of the literary submission scene, but I can also never rise to the level of lawyer journalists like Jennifer Rubin, along with the others in her class. My withdrawal is pounding on me, yes, and my lunging hate (my audience should be so glad I am a quadriplegic, as I seem to have inherited Julius Caesar's thirst for war, or I am the -- never mind-- I cannot make my psyche complimentary to spree killers, though I have already) boils like a Georgia peach zombie wresting with the next vulnerable cast member. Even if I give my notice, flee, setting myself up for an unknown sleaze bag house arrest, I've past the point of revitalization, despite the fact that just as Virginia Woolf, we can push an exclamation point on the ecstatic. My fans who used to send me letters said "we'd never try to make a living as a writer," and I certainly never intended to, but re-matriculation? The harder I try, the crueler it becomes. 

Editor's Note

I have five days to go, and need to breathe, and work out a wheelchair fumigation, get the HP formatted and shut the fuck up before I really start a riot. I will never be able to cure myself from using tobacco, never, not that I am reverting back, but functioning without the vapor, being a good reporter, is hell, and I thought about approaching Denton to cover Rendell on Wednesday, but how can I? As strong as I am, smoking is the Achilles heel. It is so difficult, being already dead, dying to live a last few good years, package a small writing legacy, and WTF have I done but let disability kindergarten mentality destroy me?

Pretentious Liberal Motherfuckers

"You sure?"-- Lawrence Gilliard, coming back from the dead to cross us over

The Hortons did not do anything overtly illegal in their solicitation. This was not a case of the state police tracking my brother down like an animal, a script straight of a seventies exploitation film, which is what my indelible memory of his face in that detention facility compares it to, an episode of The Fugitive. All the Hortons did was find my twitter account;  perhaps in the belief that a raging bull with tits would help their traffic ratio; I said to myself what the fuck is this?  And made successive errors in judgment,  for which I am now shamelessly trolling the couple and their community regulars.

Just like Mark Johnson, I can strike below the belt, and I was going to tell Karen Lee Bartlett her husband was an annoying voluble ass, just to be cruel. She was probably checking me out, because her motor moving epileptic spouse gave me what I thought I needed: chatter. If she was worried, she needn't have been. I would have abused BridgeToursJade with far more ease than try to steal him. The level of damage we can cope with in our partners is in the eye of the beholder-- but this is why I knew I had to get the fuck out of there and erase myself, because I was going to hurt an innocent party, due to the fact that other site users hurt, or were provoking me beyond what I can stand these days.


Yet my loneliness is still overweening. An online "regular" is better than the sheen of oils on my brother's psychotic adolescent bewilderment, cutting him off from normal human discourse forever. It would never be the same after that.  He was a hardcore drug user. If this is what my attitude is like starving for nicotine, then my brother off PCP should have been shot dead, then and there, as a fugitive on the run, spaced out, in the shame he brought to our family name, his face riddled with tweaker acne. He did not simply rape an anonymous party, but one of my father's tenants: If I rebelled against doing penny articles for Clarity Media, I was not going to give them to the nanny state mentality of Mike and Melissa for nothing, and was cruelly harsh with her, telling her Mike was a bozo fuck. That's mean, but I shall never, ever make the Yabberz News mistake again.

Rectifying Chemical Imbalance

"Don't be so sensitive!"-- Robert De Niro, naturally inclined to mimic palsy

Jack Goes Boating is as much about transference as it is a contrast between experience and innocence, in attempting to come to terms with Phillip Seymour Hoffman, his craft, destructive escapism, and the use of a hookah as a biographical antidote. There is resistance toward full commiseration with the absence of his gift, repugnance toward his pudgy and nascent clueless character he portrays here, four odd years ago, but also admiration for the willingness on his part to savage vanity, passing the buck to Ortiz, whose limousine driver is more than the sum of Vega's contempt.

Why do we see the extended capture of an amputee engaged in rehabilitative training at the pool, which clearly serves for an extended metaphor for fleshing outward towards cumulative maturity? Appreciation of the actor doesn't lend itself toward connective sympathy for the liberal arguments embedded in his roles. He upended that by dying like hundreds of junkies before and since, either on a libertarian or material note, depending on the perspective we have toward addiction, and in spastic's view, the naturalist thesis is the prevailing victor. Complex life forms gravitate towards destructive dependence to alleviate negation, which to me seems covalent with our tendency towards being corrupt hypocrites, sans the plight of Pennsylvania's Kathleen Kane.

The Attorney General might hold my equivocal sympathy for her plight somewhat suspect, as well she should, since her review of Corbett's handling of the Jerry Sandusky investigation clearly had a political agenda to it, but the entire sorry fiasco illustrates that one doesn't have theological objections to gay marriage and the equality of sexual orientation as a purely cosmetic, Orwellian denial of bestiality. Is it really a form of political liberalism that led to the discipline of Pennsylvania's judicial employees over pornographic emails, or is Kane a closet authoritarian? If I disagree with her allegiance to Democratic principles, why am I standing by her now?

Because she's right, even if she engaged in some sort of orchestration of the grand jury to play hardball with her perceived enemies. Next week I'll have more time for substantive research to really wade into our modern jeremiad and the urgent need to scale back from regulatory reliance.  

The Fourth World

Physicians, aside from parental fallacies, have been the cause of most of my misery. Orthopedic specialists did nothing but rape my childhood. I do not care that my surgical butchery was *necessary*. I remember my history, and simple shin braces might have sufficed. What Shriner's Hospital did to me and countless others was reprehensible. Case closed. I was spared what they did to my acquaintances with spina bifida, beating them with poles while they were suspended in mid-air

Therapists? Psychologists couldn't save my brother, my mother, and I certainly cannot say what counseling achieved for me. Nancy Rubel, to her credit, found me a corrective course from the calamity that Temple University became, but she was one counseling psychologist out of many handfuls, and during our last session, she told me she was divorced. This was to allow me to absorb that no one is perfect.

During my accidental infliction of my first degree burns in 2005, the paramedics wanted to know what I was using. Rather than having a tear burst over my lack of control, I should have simply told them nicotine. When I was finally released back to Riverside, incapable of doing anything, and on attendant care, I might add, my coordinator at Liberty was impossible to reach. Ann was deaf, weary, and near retirement, and when she saw me she yelled "Oh my God!" and spent an hour on the phone when I had previously tried to reach her for over two weeks.

How am I doing? Making threats is illegal, yes, but the disability center is, in a word, criminally incompetent. Everyone knows this about Liberty Resources, and nothing happens, whether you survive getting ousted or spend your entire career there or something in between. The attendant Ann got me was a security guard who could not handle the care I needed before I was able to transfer again. I fired her on a pretext-- excessive cell phone conversations-- and as she once told me a story about a chauffeur who turned out to be a racist-- if she has online access and connected the dots, she probably wonders what she did, since my bona fides to join the club no one chooses to be in are burnished brass at this point. I replaced her with Marie, who was too disabled herself to stay on the job, eight years before her cancer returned. The powerful narcotics did two things at the time: ignite the desire to turn myself into a vegetable, and keep lighting up.

My bouts with withdrawal eclipse my abilities to focus, except for raw jagged entries like this. A guy from India actually wrote back to me, unfazed, about becoming room mates, and I knew that he would and knew that it would whet my anger against my fine fellow citizens. A day to go before my starving mind can afford vapor cartridges, but I am used to this too. Now I need to log off and fight like hell to work or try to sleep; doubt I can.

Taking a U turn

Mio padre, in in relation to my fall, wants me to go to hospital. Our conversation went something like this:

Aging patriarch: Why don't you go get checked out? I'll pay for it. If you want me to come over--
Translation: I don't think you're expendable.

Furious daughter: Come over? O please! You have Louise, and I have to get up to go to the store, and unlike you and Marie, I am making plans to go away, or to a home, because I am a realist while the two of you do nothing and sit there and suffer!
Translation: You don't love me and never did.

My father's sister is literally dying, and even allowing for the fact that no model can control everything, her suffering is driving me berserk. I'd email my cousins, or IM Richie at Linked In, but I know it is not my place to overstep my role as (overbearing) niece. Padre does not intervene, and I'm mad at everyone, familial and otherwise.

I am on the verge of giving my notice, with no plan, straining at the bit, even knowing that access to toiletry would be essential, and a problem, although I have a portable bedpan. It is all I can do not to lunge at Trudy and assault her tomorrow, and yes, this is beyond the bounds of decency, though I'd run out of usage attempting to detail the games these employees are directed to play, how many times I've complied and they simply do absolutely nothing. A Poets & Writers author wrote a book about an underclass woman who was gang raped and died of alcohol poisoning in the projects. I found the novel in Paley Library while I still lived near Temple. I forget the guy's name, I forget the title, but he wasn't writing fiction; he was writing about a police state which deliberately denigrates and defeats people who don't know what to do to stop it. Unlike the female character, and I'm not sure she was the lead, I never used fucking as an act to get what I craved, never tried to climb on my once well endowed cunt, though I did try very hard in my thirties and forties to get a protector. This is why I could not swallow my physical revulsion toward my ex; he was a misogynist bawling baby who wants to be pampered, and has no idea how to walk with me. Some men do have that idea. Married men, but I only ever made a direct effort to steal one. Tall order with the flimsiness of cyber dating in the early explosion of web growth.

I know giving my notice will kill my father and I know everyone who would want to console me would say this is how landlords are. I can't take it anymore. I don't drink, I don't whore myself, I gave up tobacco, and because niggers love to bitch slap as a method of matriculation, I'll be persecuted to my grave. I can't do it anymore.

Votive Voces for the Dead

I paid Google twelve dollars, almost everything I earned aggregating (huzzah, to echo a Harvard instructor), for a domain to protect all my writhing processes, and now I want to hit delete. Poof. Boom. Exhausted tinder, wipe it out and start over, rescind my swearing on a certain Shakespearean head, slay my malevolence and aim for love me I'm an invalid endearments, but it would not work. I'd find my way back to the wrong side of the culture wars, and even my relatives in Rome, of whom I have only faint hints, would be tempted to gag me and rummage for a hair shirt and a switch. We rarely see in film that the dying too can be tyrannical, the longer they linger, and Marie the Italian aunt is furious with me, over trifles, but she wins, I scurry, whose lungs the worse for wear? (Mine)

She needs hospice, while I, more ruthless, prepare my funeral train. I may have read former follower Clark wrong; twitter disconcerts us all, and the inferences I sewed together may be off base. It is difficult to engage each other through devices with so many loopholes and IP addresses, but after I wished her farewell, I began my rather fated outreach, and Marie's farewell to me, in so many words, is an old, precious photograph of Lillian walking me, in little white braces, with my cousin Thomas, who, much like my father's son, overdosed himself to death. I never knew what Lillian suffered through all this: diseased husband, divorced sons with menacing tempers, half bred daughters in law, one of them a loon. My mother.

What the fuck am I? The scathing, if manufactured, sociopath? I was a horrible child, my other aunt's assurances aside. Mother hate, and rebellion against the matriarchs, and yet Lillian, who ruled like the queen mother in her family, is the voice of my dead, the voice of a small Mediterranean country that created the world as we know it, and collapsed into a tourist location for mystery writers. My grandmother is here, with her taciturn disapproval reigning me in, with her stern peasant strength and pride that made her beautiful.  Voglio vedere la sua Roma, mentre lei lo sapeva, ed esprimere un desiderio. I'll check it against my dictionary later, in my bad habit of having nothing to say. But I'm a writer. I boil the water, out comes the angel hair, al dente, or softer still. I am not sore at Marie. She's dying, and scared, not that my mortality isn't looming with terror, but I may have slightly more time, whether Jerry forgives me or not. He was the most extraordinary instructor I ever knew, bar none, and coming from a teething bitch, fighting to the last breath, that is the best gift I can ever return, even if he was Irish. Italians look down their noses, you know.

Candied Camera

"My experience as a lawyer and a judge is that you listen to all the testimony and then you try to determine the motivation for the one that is not telling the truth." Senator Heflin via Anita Hill.

Scandal seems to be necessary if only due to the fact that we're half-assed primates who believe we control the universe but conveniently ignore that fact that it remains a challenge for seven billion people to shit on decent toilet bowls, so when I ask myself if I am being disingenuous in following Bobbi Kristina's potential expiration, the answer is yes, but no more so than the reporter who cobbled together the piece: I'm two faced, but I also exist on this earth because my surviving grandmother did not institutionalize the woman who bore me, who hooked up with my father, according to Aunt Mary, to avoid matricide, and the end result was my mother institutionalized two children in her stead. Whitney Houston, husband, daughter, cable reality show, recall the unseemliness of Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas, in my misfortune to have watched those hearings. Joseph Biden bellowed like a bull elephant, perhaps unable to convey without destroying his political career, that hearsay is not a disqualification for conservative minorities.

I am not sure how I survived the psychic familial scars. Maybe I did not suicide because I could not; maybe my sexual drives went into latching onto teachers, but as you grow older, do not have a sustaining social structure, it grows harder. Houston and then Bobbi may not have cared to reach out, mentor, the way primates of status usually do, but that was the route I took, burning myself to a crisp. And as I physically weaken, I am not sure how much I can continue to absorb.

I had a history teacher, the one whose name I haven't yet typed, Raymond Bruno. He was suave, 180 degrees a conservative to the latter day Jerry McGuire's liberalism, and I did something bad to Ray, as his student, and threatened something in one of my teeming epistles. I cannot remember what, but remember that he was furious with me, because he cared. My crush on him finally ending when I found the new obsessions, I wanted to marry Ray Bruno too; wish I had. At one point he suggested I had an Electra Complex. An accurate foretaste of my future. Our narcissism of suffering, black or white, needs re-examination.

Vincent Likes The Bed Making Game

All this scar tissue bubbling over the loss of simple plastic tube technology, but the Aero filled in the gaps from the e-vapes, and I became dependent on both cigarette technologies to keep me away from traditional tobacco. Vuse is nice, and I am switching over to it from blu cigs, but the Aero simply worked for me, and I cannot back slide back into 3 packs a day. My lung decline is too advanced, aside from the children I must soon give up, unless the sliver of my mind left still convinced of my tragic mental acuity can pull a stroke of genius out of my life long location misery. Tony Stiles is the most recognized libertarian following me on twitter. I took a few days to digest this, think about it, schedule a slot to listen to his broadcast, or flag my time to do so, at some point, but let me say this: The one thing we all know is if you break your leg, you can no longer run the Olympic marathon. Liberals out of sympathy create the Paralympics so the gimps can imitate what they once were, and a conservative might say amputation is the better part of valor-- so, there are politics around these broken bodies, and my desire to get out of Riverside Presbyterian is not a denial of the fact that I'm over 50 but a recognition of it: I want the housing authorities to stop criminalizing my limitations and I want to decline without constantly being threatened by Protestants modeling me on their "good works" doctrine (through terrorizing me for 30 years, that will do it), first under Caucasian hypocrites, then under black liberation theology, which has its own pretensions that personal responsibility burrows over African psychopathy. Like Stacy Head, I know it doesn't, but unlike Stacy Head, I am unapologetically racist.  Philadelphia's minority majority encrypted that codex for me, and the city of New Orleans is a disease I am buoyed not to know, just as sibling frictions are complex. I apologized to my sister for going overboard with her in 2007. My life was in jeopardy, seriously, and I lost it, but this isn't to recognize simmering resentments.

Stephanie married badly, and her husband is placid but also white trash, and having four children in rapid succession dampened her aspirations. What they were I can no longer say, since she enrolls in college, drops out, takes a nursing degree but has to end her career for the sake of the husband. In her book, I have unenviable freedom, and we both accuse each other that these are the lives we made. I know I need technology I can no longer afford to stay independent. Christ knows I've grown old with militants like Cassie James frightening people and my former editor Josie Byzek preaching catechism to the choir, but I'm of an age where I make the decisions: look at how many layers of government direct how we live our lives, SSA, HUD, the VA, the IRS, and the favorite of drug dealers, public welfare. This is why I spent my childhood under the knife, so that I could provide a house nigger like Trudy Richardson a job telling senile people how to handle their ovens in a kitchenette. This is it, that's all I am, a problem that justifies her salary while I was doing home economics before she was born, in rehabs, when I was fourteen. Freedom is making the bed on my time, thank you, and saying let me go when it it time instead of medically torturing me back into bed ridden containment. I've considered accessing 4 chan to help me get out, even for a short time. I know it is a risk, but this is how much I want to breathe without regulatory dictation at my back, though it could be too late, could be.

Rapport

Just orating to orate, off any semblance of a construct, I spoke to Karina, and insulted the woman, but she shall be returning, once, to fix whatever the fuck she did with my contributor copies, and after that? I am nearly at the end of my rope, and may need to take a few weeks off to throw all of my remaining energy into relocating, with my declining health being what it is. 

Before the seasonal festivities, Uber astonished me by affirming they can drive a power chair user, although my interior red flag said "This, I have to see..." If Karina can assist me with packing and an Uber driver can pick me up, all I would need is a destination, a breathing hole on the Siberian tundra, buying one of Gerard's watches, in the carcass of his lions.

He is like a Jamesian type, Depardieu, a musketeer with no king, grabbing at the scruff of the beast for being senile, alluding to my problems with little Vincento, always the most difficult, if most Egyptian, of my felines. Eleven, thin, gaunt, leaving surprises for this terse unhappy woman you read who needs a change in order simply not to die; kimmy, to drive the wedge further, has a fascination with the dung bags I put in the trash. I'm going to let them go soon, the children, because if I really want to leave niggerland (with its Korean influx), Vinne will have to be euthanized sooner than Oliver was.

Mio padre, serial abuser, is hovering over my stepmother, a wasted carcass herself with the rheumatoid arthritis leading into leukemia. She's dying. Father beats her as he raised his hand to my mother, and yet the eighty year old man clothes himself in the mortality of my mother's nursing school associate, Louise. My father shall lose his third and very crippled wife who thinks her very crippled stepdaughter should be put away, just as he lost his son, crying in my mother's arms. He didn't want Nicky to die' he didn't want Nicky to die, and Nicky died, wasted husk of pestilence, and Louise shall die as well. She has always been sickly, and I wonder if she ever cared for patients at all, with her red crumbled knuckles, repulsive lizard of a woman. My aunt Marie is smoking again and if she must she must but cost the state a fortune for her cancer. 

I don't deny. I'm simply caught, like the virile Gerard in his prime, between the frigid and the fulsome, screwed over by both. I'll too exclaim "Fuck your Schubert!" Forced to surrender without knowing how.

Zelda?

I do not really pay much attention to twitter as a general rule. I did at first, to a degree of detriment, but I haven't yet read tweets on my cell, and I am cautious about targeting (as opposed to mentioning) followers. Basically I write and tweet, and do my best to stay out of arguments, though I did tell the singer who wrote incendiary remarks about Obama that he was a fool. Early on, when I was new to the site, followers coming or going piqued me, and I did post about three. Homo Tweets seemingly disappeared, and good for him. Being gay and a New York liberal deigning to lecture me about getting therapy was a trifle much, but I had a level of ignorance about how the system worked, and when I was with LiveJournal, I reacted in error. 

Even chatter junkies can be driven ill by continuous feed; hence I keep my distance, and don't really give a fuck about micro blogging in the aggregate, even though we're all people on it. Given this, the attacks on Zelda are baffling. Robin was a privileged man. He had to work hard, grant that, and probably needed cocaine to drive himself, as I do not see how else the relentless improvisation propelled him into becoming a Hollywood convention. But the majority of us aren't so lucky, hence the anger some of us feel about his suicide. Limelight fades; this is an inevitable truth, and the medical model bullshit correspondents dutifully milk to highlight mental health are all well and good, but Williams was hideously selfish, and should have made contingencies aging stars usually make to age with dignity. He did not and set a bad example, but this isn't Zelda Williams fault. She lost her father, and why she was taunted so viciously is inexcusable. She'll be grieving a long time.

Why I was so nettled by the event may be my own fear about stark choices ahead I may have to face that a celebrity like Williams wouldn't have had to contend with in the same way, whatever the state of his fiances, and one would think, after inhabiting a neurologist like Sacks, the comedian would know better; I'll get over my umbrage. I have to, but attacking his child is below all common decency.

Shock, but not awe

This was not a headline I expected to see, and there is no way in hell I'm covering it, not even as an aggregate piece, but I knew when Williams played Mork that his hypermania would crash. I am sad, but just as with David Foster Wallace, pissed off. Ambulatory people are so fucking selfish it is incredible, but wheelchair users have to be heroic. Damn it all to fucking hell. I followed his career since I was a kid.

2:36 AM: I am still upset, too little sleep to work due to pet children and the riot act. I had a certain affection for Robin's persona, and despite the fact that this was an expected trajectory, I am agitated none the less, and this is the drawback of failed intimacy: I don't have a man to comfort me while I thresh out my grief.

I believe in the right to die, but Williams still could have put his stature to good use; more later when I'm less raw.