Collard Green Extraction

"I no longer walk with a limp," James Woods, Against All Odds

My old flame of 37 years ago, (concurrent with the invasion of Grenada, no less) reminded me of a word I rarely use on Blogger: morale. It is a difficult state of cohesion for me to locate as a writer-journalist in hindrance at present, but the liberal-progressive bandwagon follow then block my account on Twitter isn’t helping. To a degree this is arbitrary, sometimes not worth mentioning, like the British transsexual RD Ronald who followed me and then beat a quick path back to her disturbing body decals of gunshot wounds. Seconds before she fled my digital space, my question read, “Are you a real transsexual?” I was baffled, found her Facebook page and excoriated her deliberately. If the LBGT activists want to play mind games with me they will be dealing with smoking skid marks, particularly as consequences for the dowager are negligible. There was too the donna from … Naples, was it? Her cut stung, as my use of nomenclature was only an attempt to welcome a comrade; but the BrowneProject, which as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, consists of a guitarist named Chris, followed me on July 28^th, and barely gave my palsied forearms 48 hours before he blocked me for querying the question as to what he wanted. Yes, we all unfollow and sometimes block accounts daily, but in this instance, whatever his circumstances, his virtual cut has the semblance of discrimination against a disabled woman only attempting a reminder that I have never been a paid music critic, though I will give the forthright the benefit of the doubt, like Ali Spagnola, who came to me through Medium. I admire her spunk, and have filed away to my ailing synapses that her oeuvre is due some consideration, as Russ Still will also receive, if I can accrue some semblance of my own autonomy as I had it last year.

Having asserted this, however, music will not heal my present anguish over a night to day helplessness from loss of machines and furnishings that kept me functional, nor will the social psychology of Mark Goulston, the doctor from California whose suicide prevention tweets aren’t relevant to my medical vulnerability. I let him go, wish him well, but my existence is intolerable, and needs more intervention of “boots on the ground,” and additional technical devices than the American welfare system will ever provide. Empathy isn’t going to prevent the collapse from infections borne of my own waste, if it continues. If Chris Browne is representative of the best the British left can do, “loving his friends,” believing in lyricism’s healing, but blocking me in a simple attempt at conversation, it gives me insight into British conservatives who’ve friended me and proven themselves resourceful.

Brilliant end to the day with my twin bro @BrowneProject 😁😄🤩😍 pic.twitter.com/a2d6bdAXIf

— 🌣 Nature Druid 🌣 (@n_distractions) August 25, 2018

As I cannot spontaneously visit my family and raise a glass of bubbly, these twins are cruel people. I'm the one who can't walk.

Incommoded Logan Hosts

This section shall not abridge the right of a citizen to apply, himself or his agent, to any foreign government or the agents thereof for redress of any injury--John Adams paranoia for the young states in the last year of the Enlightenment

Unfortunately for me, my bowel vaulting in a painful battle with sunflower seeds and  chicken, so it may be this morning is the morning my body goes into colony collapse, and this will be it, and Blogger will make its determinations about archiving, this, all that is left, I am interested in defending Flynn, and simply do not have the resources of the political establishment, nor the time. I cannot drop everything again to pursue a career military professional's downfall over temperament and hints of collusion. I actually did hope, once he got in, that Trump would defend certain things, but for all the media's highlight on turmoil, this is just Washington politics as usual, and I am personally annoyed that Trump cannot give the press corp a legitimate alternate view of reset buttons, like detente with Russia through radical capitalism. Trump seemingly doesn't have the ability to defend himself and the "art of the deal". Political theater just dances as usual, and as usual, this mogul is going to crumble before the careerist civil service, of which Flynn was a part of through at least three administrations. Surely no one is accusing a career general of having been bought by petrol dollars?

I now have to go make a wish, and hope I'll be okay.

Registered if I change my mind

I fling out one level of emotive defiance and I lose 15 accounts. I can smirk, persevere, as always, but once in a while I need a good "fuck you," even if not directed at an individual, because I've gone through the kiln of life long stigma, and now I have to prepare to die by inexorably being sucked back in to medical stricture and decline, unless I can handle what an officer on yet another anemic procedural didn't inflict on himself. The opening scene was data mining, however variable.

To clarify a point from yesterday's post, I am not trying to convey that if everyone heeded the lessons of literary endeavor that Harambe would still be alive, but what I am asserting is we refuse to draw on the lessons we attempt to teach ourselves, despite the fact we already know what they are. This isn't ideological as much as it is a signature of human folly. If we had gone the dowager's route, and did the utmost to respect the life of the gorilla, and the four year old boy had sustained trauma, this would be another conversation. But even if we aren't statisticians, humans are the most numerous advanced mammals, and we're killing the rest, even if occasionally, we spare aggressive orcas over money. Large predatory felines need habitat, as do their elephant nemesis's. All this is vanishing, and we're going to kill ourselves off with microbes because we fight our biological demise beyond reason.

I used to be utterly perplexed at the primacy of homo sapiens,. but the evolutionary short form solution is that we bred ourselves into this, which doesn't explain our larynx, voice box, the evolution of language, the fact that descendants of dinosaurs can mimic it but nevertheless never invented their own form. We do not have any equivalent rivals of parity, within our own genus or outside of it, except for drug resistant bacteria, a simpler invertebrate life form we can combat, but not vanquish. Humans already cull themselves indirectly, through a plethora of policies which are utterly misguided, but we had best start thinking of better solutions before a few lucky thousands scrape by on reindeer lichen.

There is only one thing of which I am certain: Hillary will not get my vote, speculative war pandemic notwithstanding, in my autumn achey decline, the radiator making me flume with mucus of which I've increasingly little to spare, what I don't like about the Jazzy is the petal holders extend outward an inch; I've only just discovered that driving the chair slightly past the center without clipping the underside of my thigh enables easier pivot, buttock better planted, which doesn't mean I'm not fatally compromised unless I move on and find someone to live with. Not an easy task.

Sublimating Malcontent

I want to parse my sentiments about Ms. Weiner a little further. I do not resent that a female author who answers for my younger sister's middle brow frustrations found her niche. I emailed her, in light of her public television essay to tell her to take pride in what she achieved and stop ducking, among a few other things. Good in Bed wasn't a bad novel, and I could see why little Stephanie found some resonating quality in Weiner's voice. If I had been able bodied, still battling the family predisposition toward obesity, maybe I would have finished the book, and reconciled with the heroine as she found a stable relationship, but this seems all that American women are able to do, within the confines of the MFA paradigm, and it holds little interest for me. The only difference between Ann Beattie and Jennifer Weiner is a) mechanics-- Weiner is more frank about finger fucking without veering off into an erotic subgenre, whereas I've never read Beattie making the same observations b) urbanity-- Beattie needs Manhattan the way Woody Allen needs jazz and Farrow's adopted daughter; Weiner is more homespun, behind the windowpane c) self-assurance-- which Weiner lacks. This is the only real reason I wrote her, perhaps intimidating her a touch when I told her I had been "reported to the FBI," and as I assumed, my psyche punished me for my independent living center hatreds as black as ocher.

Shins buckled on a bad pivot, shins the surgeons carved so that if they touched the back of my thigh, my ligaments would flare with excruciating pain, asking myself if I wanted to lie there, dehydrate until Thursday and see what would happen and instead I copped and telephoned EMS after a wriggle bout. I landed oddly, and you may trust, when Grimes tells his son "you're never safe," had I waited and not exerted myself to sit up-- Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Presby, all this seemed relatively unimportant-- giving my notice seems neither here, nor there, and I am probably taking the plunge. Not that my father is obligated, and it is his demented wife's property, not his, but I can afford to return to Springfield, and perhaps not everyone is a secret Ariel Castro. [ I am not by the way-- my heinous darkness leans toward quick kills; torture is boring, and my body simply absorbs the pain.]

What I mean is that lack of appreciation is a come down, and I'm utterly indifferent to Jennifer Weiner's own subversive tactics, and wish women would try something else now and then, not only along the lines of Muriel Spark's wicked social intelligence-- it is this which pierces insularity, that matters of taste make our hard work a bucket of polluted water, saturated with cleaning agents.

Almost Falling

"The stain!"-- Llosa's cry of mortal failing

Even in my most conscientious efforts, in the humidity, my ass leaks, not that Llosa would want to bother holding me up in effigy as he does Trujillo. I stopped in the middle of The Feast of the Goat. Llosa is taut and angry, his female who opens the book well developed, as is the assassin waiting to kill the paranoid and angry old man. I did not put my e-text in archive, I just don't see how the colonies of the Dominican Republic and Haiti fall as an indictment on my doorstep, nor how Llosa thinks he is changing the world with his fictional history, as I struggle with liquefied waste, a throbbing jaw and a tilt, this afternoon, from which I had to pull myself back, not willing to attempt a second lateral move, something I do every day, and have to do now, after I put my food away, not even able to grieve that I had to wind up with my grandfather's comically active bowel. If you think a West African immigrant is going to ably care for me, it's because you cannot see, nor peer too closely, just as Urania Cabral's husk of a father is detailed by Llosa as a clever episode of denigration. 

Yet in the mist of venerating despair, which has denigrated my flesh life long, Christ take your pick, including Erik von Schmettering's squat and thick little niger man, whose lips are wide, elongated with ignorance of manner, I sit here insisting revise your damn posts; you're running out of time, do better. We all have bad days, but where are my good to counter the terror I face? How could my mother, my flesh and bone, believe I could survive in Inglis House. Battered wheelchairs and gurneys clutter the halls, the odors of cache bags inescapable. I've suffered this my entire life, and I'm not even there.

Funny Thing on a Timothy Hutton Tether

"Who would want to live in a world without pharmaceuticals?"-- Peter Strauss

The dowager saw just enough (1.7 hours) of American Crime in its first season to now be confused by its second, until reading enough entertainment news allowed Ridley Scott's reprisal role strategy to dawn on a wearied mind; in essence meaning I shall have to stream season one, realizing how much I missed out in my enthusiasm for Felicity Huffman, whose work on Sports Night remains sorely under-appreciated, even to the point that her Desperate Housewives director allowed her to echo her savvy sports channel executive.

While too cautious to offer Scott's bravado a raving endorsement, and perhaps too old, as well, spastic is slowly supplanting NBC's Code Black with Scott's consciously jacked torque ratios. Paid critics call the series brave, spastic calls it catching up with cable television as the models for content slowly collapse and merge, but instead of staying by Tom Reid's battle worn contrivance of a desk to watch the episode, I sat up in bed, writhing in pain most of the evening, and yes, this is the fault of my obstinacy, trying to stay abreast of the online privileges to which I've become used to, and could not get my legs back up on the Jazzy cushion for a significant length of time when I tried to lie back down. I got where I was going, but part of the problem was the metal plate seating of the Jazzy cutting the surgically fused arch of my foot; this would not happen with the Quickie P-200.

Hutton is at once ubiquitous and exceptional as the Everyman American inheritor of Protestant moral sensibility. Those of us who grew up with him cling to the raw repressive exposures of Ordinary People, because it manages to cut across the value systems between the sprouting denominational folly of the Reformation and the Catholic imposition of rational hierarchy. Some of you no doubt laugh at these vulgar descriptions I deploy, as opposed to with me. Is it okay? Perhaps sometimes, and perhaps sometimes it's okay to be undercut. Writing a furious scold to minority ethical lapses in my head juxtaposed against a furious struggle to control my posture with aging furniture and bad equipment. A personal care attendant wouldn't have been around that time of night just because I wanted to use my daybed like a lounge chair, and yet, even a nearly perfect talent like Felicity gets lost in our streaming rush to be in all places at once. In the dowager's estimation, she's a great actress, and nobody's beating the drum.

In the abstract

The live in partner is not a bad idea for a woman of my age, but the matches are exhausting me, illustrating how fucking useless the activist cacophony of celebration around the ADA is. I telephoned one or two listings from the resource site, responded to perhaps 5 email addresses on my own before I scrolled down far enough to see the automated response instructions, deleted some 50 odd emails on my own, and the staying meme for those of my generation is that we're already dead. I certainly feel that way, and yet, if I call the 9th ward police division to file a criminal complaint against my building manager Trudy Richardson and her social worker Debra Horne, am I hastening my demise or will special victims take me seriously?

I've sustained overwhelming, systemic abuse on attendant care, and no one seems to give a flying fuck that I lack the endurance to keep taking it. I am in a very bad mood, everything hurts, and I am trying to calculate if I can get myself up if I slip in the shower stall a second time.

That it is biodegradable is no panecea

I slid off my bathing chair because I did not commit to my lateral pull on the way back to my poor old P200, which is more my husband than my limited number of unhappy suitors. I hate my ex; the normal type of hate that makes divorce a pathology industry, but I do not hate him with the manic rage bestowed on my former supervisor, sliding off the damn chair but not really sustaining any injury. The EMS team made me more uncomfortable dragging me out to the stretcher whereupon I declined a ride to hospital, not that I wasn't tempted, but changed my mind. How much longer will I be posting? I do not know. I wrote "I have nothing left," many months ago, and that stands as the outcry it pretty much entails, not that EMS isn't used to encounters with fecal matter, but from now on, when I am taunt, I'll just have to wash via the mop bucket, and this evening, pop the Aleve.

Before you shake your heads at the degree of embattlement I am sustaining, I was on attendant care, from 1997 to 2006, and have too many fiascoes, one after the next. I can no longer afford to purchase assistance, and perhaps my poppa was right, and we're better off aborted. I can not end my life being attended to by people who cannot handle the burden it entails. I won't. I've lived what you do not see when you put people away, and it is in part, analogous to genocide, in a concession to Cassie James.

Why did Oz add me to their lists? twitter is cataloging itself? Would any of you be willing to pay me volunteer visits on rotation? Ha. 

Limits

The Able Act is an expansion of the SSA work incentive known as PASS; this is what today's crop of otherwise brainless assholes are excited about; just as the ADA was grandfathered into federal statue on the basis of the 504 Rehabilitation Act, the Able Act would simply expand the tent to the mentally retarded who can be bridled, like a mule, to engage in simple slave labor tasks. Not necessarily a bad idea. Idiots become senior citizens if they live long enough-- my scorn, as usual, goes to the progressives who think all this layering achieves anything at all. You are shielded from the veneer of bad case managing and its bigotry. The Levy brothers of Beacon do not see it. Offering me inclusion on Writersblock was kind, and even discriminating, since my foul language and blatant prejudices have their ups and downs, but that kindness is not analogous to repairing a foul and evil system. You do not see how Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne treat me for my non-compliance; the fact that I dehumanize them makes my readers uncomfortable, and a part of my imagination enjoys their denigration. The only one who understood that was Erik, the dying transsexual. He told me to tell Debra to "go fuck herself" quote unquote, on a bad post stroke evening when I still leaned on a dialogue with the devil for lack of any other outlet. Some years back, but after my molestation in 2006.

For whatever stupendous reason, I was going to tweet about my bad transfer to bath chair on New Years Day. Why, I have no idea. Nicotine cramps impair my interior transfer balance. Swiveling back to power chair is more difficult than pivoting out, but finally, after two hours of trying to plant my soles, I did nit fall only because my left arm held my weight long enough for my right elbow to wedge my right buttock in. No tweet soliciting advice, no guard seeing me as a naked brick bat, no cop. It was close, but why tweet it? Even as most of us carry digital reality even moments before dying, why am I now so much engaged with 160 character affectation when it is too late for me? When urban ineptitude destroyed everything for me, even as I function on superhuman antipodes.

I had forgotten about gimpgirl. She bores me, and my caustic sensibility offends her no doubt, despite the fact she retweeted my snip about the ACLU on speed dial-- but again, no one from the online disabled community interacts with me-- why? Because I have crucified CILS as segregated bullshit? Relentlessly embarrassed Linda Dezenski? Disengaged from a midget like Louise with a bad attitude even though I held my frustration in? Disability activists are strident, unipolar, and evidently cowards. If they were truly in control of their IL centers, I would not have emerged from being lied to for four years, humiliated by suburban classmates, and none of you have anything to say. If I am so wrong, so warped, as cripples, you should. I'm going to shut Liberty Resources down, even if I have to go to prison, and I mean it. The last of my assets mull Ritter's bimbo.