DWTS in Obsolescence of Product

no one talks like that--a wheelchair mechanic

Death is the most carnivorous of any ecological process, particularly when it is embodied in John McCain’s overly long victory lap for a heroism plucked like a thorn out of a tenuous policing action, his emaciated skin all but fused to his now skeletal visage, his torture as a prisoner of Asians on the peninsula referenced as a secular hagiography but never discussed, unless it be by biographers able at one time to solicit the details. The dowager doesn’t know how his forearms were broken for the near term intelligence desired by the charlies of Ho Chi Minh’s collective nationalism, nor why the bones weren’t set properly. Nearly two decades ago, when his candidacy was a viable property, slight details of his personal grooming needs were mentioned in profiles, and Dick Polman’s skepticism of the Arizona Senator’s maverick label have certainly been refuted by the malignant glioma currently disrupting his brain function. While no one doubts McCain’s political skill, failed nominee or not he is a national figure, a patriot in the truest sense, willing to wear blinders for the sake of it, to strike at adversaries with inflammatory rhetoric, clever barbs which swayed the 08 electorate toward The Invisible Man, his speculative presidency, had the enthusiasm not gone to the paper doll of the Neutral zone, would not have engendered history. The man pulls on the reigns with far too much frequency, coaching and scolding from the bench, just another centrist, whereas I would have vanished into the wasteland of American indigence. Thursday, October 10^th, I packed my electronics, intending to depart my chaotic destitution, and as I was able to predict, my old Quantum shorted out. It is now in the hallway, Trudy Richardson’s chastisements forthcoming. With tremendous struggle, I purchased a bucket seat model on the blind, from an ever harried vendor. They are all the same, and I am still helpless, too weary to adapt to a swivel seat, calculating I’ll survive a failed transfer to my bed rather than the toilet, if I transfer at all. No more money to restore the independence I had with other models, barely able to get my ass on the vinyl with the foot stool upended. This is helplessness, my mind still intact, a 48 hour hospital stay indicating I am a healthy plow mare, one which spins our modern caste systems round and round, low skilled black technicians, cafeteria workers, social services, nurses, chaplains who I sent running with adept verbal fury. Physicians play very little part in this. The same can be proffered for rehabilitative medicine. McCain’s prominence is a constraint. His peers and admirers offer a modicum of delicacy to a dying man, one whom impatience might sweep off the stage: retire to a lucrative hospice suite already and allow your state’s legislature to fulfill its one constitutional function not abrogated by progressive amendments, and appoint your replacement, his heroism as much a construct as it is genuine. I really have to shit, thrown out with all lack of finesse. I may not survive attempting something different, as opposed to a lateral transfer, but medical model hierarchy isn’t as suave as what the industry serves as a daily aperitif. The cracks in the wall aren’t casually dismissed, and Shaun Murphy’s libertarian definition of himself echoes mine, but centralized institutionalism will take care of my dystopian vision of humanity. It won’t take too long. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is one of the origin territories, and it is strangling itself to death with its socialized governing structure. I weigh my will to survive on the minute, and I am going to do something which isn’t done: my address is 158 N 23^rd Street, Riverside. If anyone can stop by just for a few minutes, to stand by, no lifting, ring me. 267-207-5455. It is very temporary, and I prefer you not be black. I wouldn’t write this if my willpower wasn’t telling me to try to hang on.

An Air Bubble Injection Isn't a Bad Idea

"I didn't have your mother abort you because I was trying to be a good Catholic."-- the last time I saw my father, who doesn't love me, 2005

My antagonism toward Senator Sanders isn't feigned; that would be the case even if I had remained in the Clinton to Obama tent. I still respect Barack Obama on certain, narrowly defined issues, which is why the alt right probably doesn't trust me; I'm a tad too mercurial to be a methodical genocidal assassin, like Glennon Engleman-- but the Harvard Constitutional scholar, in pragmatic terms, failed us, and here we are, arguing disability and impeachment articles with the abandon and revel of Agitprop staged at the Metropolitan. We elected a celebrity real estate developer to be the 45th president. The Beltway might as well be in a life or death battle with an Ebola strain which refuses to be tamed. Racists have new found legitimacy, and this will remain the case even if Donald falls. Truth to power, my secret anarchist clings to her miserable little stasis on Race Street's dead end with secret glee-- there is no 24th block for Race, it merges with the parking lot for Riverside Presbyterian to the left, and then is cut off by freight tracks, Edgewater to the right.

I plan to stage a protest, if necessary, to get the corporation to yield on the matter of my liabilities with it, and I can imagine how many of you would willingly incite on my behalf. Be honest with yourself about how cerebral palsy makes you feel, even if Arizona cannot see McCain needs to be retired. To take the threat of a gore by the horns, Dr. Engleman is not your typical American spree killer. Even the police recounting the back breaking effort it took to implicate him wear a look of taciturn dismay with themselves over what a game of charades a midwesterner from St. Louis was able to sustain for so long. They should have given the guy a job as a wet boy in the Pentagon, not a life prison sentence. Murder for hire isn't an intrinsic immorality, necessarily. He executed enemies or contracts swiftly, efficiently, and while he certainly had an underlying misogyny, he wasn't a sadist who got off on torture, as we see in more sordid cases, and died at the twilight of my career. Unlike the protagonist on whom Dear Mr. Gacy was based, who ultimately committed suicide with a brave face-- a link to someone like Engleman would have been beneficial, after 2000, in particular. Two coolly analytical minds are better than one. As a true crime story, whatever energy I'm spending on milk already curdled, Engleman's plus 20 year life as a front bears superficial comparison to Corbin Bernsen's The Dentist (99). This movie was simply a berserk romp playing on our worst fears about the accursed occlusion of our well behaved sedate teeth-- but Corbin kept us in on the joke underlying this charming rampage.

Bernsen, arguably, had the most sustaining power of the LA Law ensemble, after Florek. Dann did what he did very well as the restraint on boomer indignation in SVU, but it was a one note gambit. Hamlin got lost in the game of a leading man to be who couldn't. Underwood, well. Sex and the City wasn't a sneeze, but Blair keeps hitting a wall. He is too smooth for the street, but just this side of too mechanized to resonate with his audience; in comparison, Bernsen is rather self aware of his range, even in his grease monkey sun shades, and made his choices well after the series went off air. He is particularly adept in The Killing Box, nearly reaching Robin Willians's sustained tensions between the wounds of evil bitten into our basic altruism.

Sidebar to Wisdom's Impatience

When I am in the mood to give concessions to Vladimir Putin's true socialist allies, like Paul here, they might want to prick up their ears. The general consensus of the establishment, of which Krauthammer is a stalwart member, is the Obama presidency is a failure, and Trump is an omen, a burning wet dream infected by syphilis. This may be correct, but correct in varying degrees. Obama too was Poetus in late 2007, and we watched his president elect briefings biting our nails. What was going on in Philadelphia's poverty housing had not yet threatened my life. It is hard to sequence the Riverside Presbyterian renovations with the end of Bush and the dawn of Barack, but I believe those briefings took place before I had to spend over a month on the second floor and afterwards went through living hell to get this chair which I now sit in, battered, with a short in its wiring, and I still don't have the process in place for a new chair why because I had to switch from one set of indifferent residents to another set which I loathe more. See me working on this vital problem? I should just be able to bypass doctors and go to a vendor and fast track the issue, but oh no. Medicare's hoops have driven me berserk, and Krauthammer, being a true paraplegic, one with a medical license, probably gets his feces prepared by a pastry chef. I grant that Obama's Poetus briefings were processional, nothing like what Donald is doing, but Obama too eclipsed his predecessor, one whom we still dislike, and the financial crash wasn't his fault; perhaps it consumed most of his political capital, with Geithner at the helm. While I cannot argue over TARP, not having the expertise, I think credit goes where it is due, and Geithner, modest federal civil servant, probably saved the country from something worse. Perhaps my libertarian sympathizers, online or otherwise, might contest this notion, but Geithner wasn't a liberal. No one in the business of regulating capital is liberal. That said, I do not blame Obama for the subprime mortgage default credit swap meltdown which even today, has me living like a shelter resident, in the exact same building where I was, in 1995, part of the professional middle class, never never happy with where I resided, its environment, my neighbors, or the managerial class using me as an unpaid in kind support case manager, and some of you marvel at my present homicidal hostility. I have a visceral disdain for Paul Krugman. That may be a developmental flaw. He and I may have exchanged a few words, but we're not peers. I have little less affinity with Krauthammer. He is still pontificating as if his was a vital psychiatric practice. He believes in the military's ability to kill our way into nation building, even if this is an over-simplification of his hawkish policy stands, but his column yesterday jibes with my utter political weariness. My zenith under George W Bush and Bill Clinton's public erections were short lived, and my earnings writing about disability dribbled to piss stains under the out going Kenyan Messiah. Barack is an astute visionary, but not an equally astute executive. By the time Carson changes HUD's policy, probably giving Presbyterian Homes virtual police power, I may have already wound up a hate crime, if I can even manage to roll out when Riverside moves to evict over non-compliance. And yes, I voted for it. Let's see what happens.

Vow to Nominate

For those whom might have forgotten that Americans are governed by constitutional separation of powers, it is Barack Obama's duty to nominate a jurist for the Supreme Court. France 24's feed almost intimates that the 44th president thinks the opposition might yank this constitutional power out from under him. Spastic assumed death in chambers might overtake Ginsberg, or Thomas, not Scalia, a man whom spastic had intended to quote on originalism for the benefit of conservatives who like Cruz: in the parlance of the document "says what it says," Cruz'es nomination as the GOP candidate-- not that spastic assumes the senator prevails on the run-- will cause a constitutional crisis, one not meant to be debated by a SCOTUS in even numbers, as parents with disabled children loosen their dandruff on the supposition that I need a new blog title.

Not really. Entertainment is a big tent, and there is a play in circulation about Antonin arguing with one of his occasionally hired liberal clerks. Have to go boil potatoes and get some hot coffee into me. I have been feeling a little better, ashamedly living off my father, which isn't sustainable. Got a smoothie into me, which reset my pulmonary decline back to normal, unless metastasis has emerged, being of an age where it could. Even adversaries concede Antonin was colorful. Liberals who felt he should resign for litigating policy now have what they wanted, the old fashioned way. My condolences, showered generously.

Hillary Clinton, Benghazi Viceroy?

"David, you've killed me!" Donald Sutherland, protesting Nimoy's autonomic miasma.

The 78 remake is somewhat different in subtext from the original 56 Body Snatchers, whose classic delineation is preferable to the muddied liberalism which ushered in the disaster of the Carter presidency. Domesticated, pasteurized kindness, tabulated to Sutherland's empathy enabling, isn't going to achieve jive squat over the ruthless need of a more potent conqueror, hence George W. Bush'es response to Osama bin Laden failed because it was a transference. The actual *enemy* in the aftermath of 9/11 was the Saudi kingdom's buy off of hard line extremism, but the neo-conservatives who had taken over the West Wing, lacked the will to uproot a corrupt oligarchy, and so, 14 years after the fact, we're pea shooting in Afghanistan, which is an ungovernable failed state, destroyed the British Empire's nicely drawn territorial borders for the sake of world order in Iraq, Iran, and another piece of shit country called Yemen, and Obama's carefully controlled airstrikes in 2011 against Qaddafi has essentially destabilized North Africa, while NATO and Putin eyeball each other, pissing in the wind over Kiev, and hoping to avoid a third world war in Syria.

First: If Hillary Clinton is truly responsible for the death of Ambassador Stevens, she should suspend her campaign and leave her party to scramble. Second: the GOP needs to realize that if the US has essentially ceased deploying the army for ground force occupation for anything other than mass die offs in Haiti, then chaos ensues, shit happens, and Secretary Clinton was in treatment for a blood cot derived from a hematoma during the attack on the compound, and the fault, if it lies anywhere, lies at the doorstep of two failed Administrations who have lost the ability to define goals and execute accordingly, because they realize progressives have lost the will for body counts.

Do I have any salient solutions? No, but a good starting point might lie in the realization that the U.N. would survive losing 5 members from the General Assembly. Yemen and Syria and Iraq and Afghanistan and North Korea and Sudan and Somalia need to be dissolved. That's seven, but such niceties like a shared national identity and ethos have long fled the scene. Erdogan would not mind seeing the restoration of the Ottoman Empire's prestige. That's a start. India could reabsorb Pakistan and Bangladesh. Would there be blood? How much collateral damage have we seen already since ISIS has become a cause? This is the sentiment you get on defecating through a second week of a bronchitis flare up for which powerful decongestants like Mucinex have not yet been deployed. I will not elect Hillary Clinton, but if you do, my antipathy may not supersede my suffocation on my own phlegm, but I'll go down fighting, fanatic ablaze to destroy those by whom I've been thwarted.

A break from the break of a sax serendipidity

You purchase Pain with all that Joy can give,/
And die of nothing but a Rage to live.--the last enlightened hunchback

The 1961 Goodbye Again is a masterpiece of my era, still a vibrant, living film. All Night Long, despite its fidelity to Stratford, cleverly embedded in a beatnik improvisation, fails the litmus test of its underlying anxiety, unsure of its own liberalism. Paul Harris does a good job of reversing expectations as the naturally regal chieftain, and McGoohan does as well as my managerial agent Trudy Richardson exaggerating the cowardliness of dissembling, but much like the problem of Othello itself, McGoohan loses hold of Johnny's core, and there is no accountability here for anyone. Des is not in forensics with ligature marks. Cas doesn't press charges, Rex abandons his band with Oedipal guilt, his wife chasing after him submissively, perhaps as an albatross of uncertain omen, and Patrick bangs his drum in insolence. Guess Who's Coming To Dinner?, five years older and nearly as evasive, is nearly down by comparison.

O comes nearly 40 years later, transliterating to the jazz on the court, is more provocative, but at least has a rationale? If Cosby wants the opportunity of a comeback, one way he might do it is by challenging the meandering estuaries of Obama's legacy. We have the 44th president of the US excoriating a comedian who could be his father on the basis of civil court transcripts-- this says as much about our national uncertainty as the controversy over Iran's entry into the nuclear family. We cannot define Bill Cosby as a monster and simply ask Congress to revoke his medal. My attacker was a black addict. I've forgiven him. 

I have interacted with Joan Tarshis and could have easily lied to the woman. She thought I was in the Cosby press corp and I gently corrected her, but it was within that interaction that I came to sympathize with Eugene Robinson's dissonance over Cosby's serial accusers. Social shaming has its place, but can rapidly capsize too far leeward.

Present at the Creation

Her life with hateful snares pursue,/You swore to love and cherish.

The recollection of Dean Acheson's voice was that of encyclopedic reassurance. He and Franklin were in charge, and the lend lease program would buttress Winston's tenacity to survive the crippling blows of Hitler's aggression, but in the late eighties, stifling boredom, raising the hew and cry of "I am not a historian," the events of the second world war were best left to Ronald Reagan's senility and his Vice President's competence in the Oval Office. We're a stupid people, Americans, letting a third party candidate like Ross Perot split the seams, handing over the reigns to the Clintons, who could not imitate JFK's protective smokescreen, and then lurching, badly, on the basis of our vaunted electoral college, to the Texan branded son of the more astute father, who was so incompetent we anointed a mixed race messiah who, instead of actually being a movement president, relegated himself downward. Barack became the [black] president who engendered [white] buyer's remorse, but we are forbidden to phrase it that way, and Clinton fatigue transmuted into Sex and the City marketing. The *historic* vote should have crowned a woman before a half-Kenyan. Indeed. Hillary is virtually a default empress in anticipation-- of what?

We've been here before. However much contempt I have for our primary two party system, and the centrist, self-absorbed bubba liberals that the Clintons are, the breach of protocol over her email account should serve as a dire warning about how Orwellian we've already become. It is a breach of ethics that the most important member of the cabinet used a private server in her diplomatic correspondence? Classified information, however juicy, shocking, sobering, brutal, or realpolitik, is still data. That is all it is. Threat assessments, secrets about deliberate poisonings, conspiracies, plots. That's it. Whatever Madame Secretary wanted to conceal, she did so for the reasons government officials world over dread transparency. It is nothing new, regardless of ideology. We do not look too closely at how things are run outside of our own spheres of knowledge. The majority of us with our enfeebled souls sublimate it. We write books, distract ourselves with theater, culinary arts. If we were all involved, the world would come to a standstill, much like parliamentary debate in the Oireachtas. IRA guerrillas killed British soldiers so that Ireland's legislators could argue with delicious impotence over the empowerment community integration offers hospital patients who clog facilities for lack of home health care packages.

Are we electing Hillary to a third Obama Clinton term? Or is it the Washington press corp?

Free Kiev

But tonight I would like to address my remarks particularly to this city and particularly to the Ukraine--a city and a republic that has meant so much to the Soviet Union and so much to the world, Richard Nixon.

Diffidence. The sole follower of my blog and I accidentally bumped into each other at the mail slots, and said the normal random things people say, my primary worry driving out in the frigid cold, and my ex, poor Frank, modern serf if there ever was, informed me his incestuous issue had a heart attack, and I'm guilty of glib indifference, and thus, if I can be so self-aware of how cold I am, how can I expect anyone on social media to lend me a hand? Whatever you read of the intelligence, the retrenched white hot anger, you'd look at me, see emotional wounds in my eyes, straggly hair, need for better grooming, look away, feel pity, dehumanize, wonder how my teeth became so damaged, and then, we have the massive liberal wailing over Rudy's jingoism. Some of us understand what Guiliani was saying, in translation: Barack Obama is thoroughly infused with a multiculturalism which  is ill suited for the sovereign head of the United States, but he did it in a reactionary way that isn't being nice to those of mixed race socialist heritage. I don't think anyone would disagree that Obama's mother made herself an outcast, and by some miracle  her boy navigated this without turning into inner city refuse. I'm the one who managed that, so accept my lot and shut the fuck up already.

Let me save some of you some time: I am no longer a patriot, and within reason, I am allowed to express this. I think our two party system has finished its course and no longer truly amounts to anything. We nominate centrists and essentially choose which moderate we like best on center right or center left. And I only have one image of Hillary Clinton when she was the first lady of Arkansas. Her hair was shoulder length, held in place by a black headband, while she was assuring a national interviewer that Jennifer Flowers "was just a friend."

I can know nothing else about the Clintons, but know that this duplicity speaks volumes about the limits of political representation, and I am that very rare thing: a violent brain damaged female who frightens patrician sensibilities, driven off from a number of online communities, not an easy thing, because I should be medicated. A helpless anarchist, but an anarchist none the less. I don't believe raping women is an effective intimidation tactic, and therein lies the difference between an Isis recruit and myself.

Am I really that hard? I am not the only disabled American who has been disenfranchised, not the only victim of crime and abuse, but with my enemies, probably. I've reached a place where I'd like them to feel what it is like, to be trapped in a senior living home because of one defiant choice when you were 23, stabbed in the back by activists you thought you could trust, and a Puerto Rican Italian man who should be dead, who is a living symbol of how health care is bankrupting the fucking country and dragging me down because there are no resources to spare to give me a better outcome, all I can feel about his son's insatiable ability to impregnate his idiot genes into women is that his heart attack serves him right. Therein is exactly what happened to my humanity. 

Excessive Force

Let us consider: Liberal academics claimed, shortly after the tragedy of Miriam Carey's death in October of 13, that deescalation might have saved her if the Capitol police had received the training to be able to distinguish non threatening mental illness from lethal intent. Carey was a dental hygienist. Omar Jose Gonzalez was, as if I need to reiterate it, an Iraqi veteran broken by his tour of duty, coupled with economic stress. Both had a fixation with our now unpopular President, a president who nevertheless, as all national politicians do, uses cultist adulation on his Obama for America website in order to inspire partisan loyalty. Gonzalez was not killed. Miriam was, but the preponderance of the evidence suggests that this woman with the baby in her car did not pose a serious threat to Barack Obama. 

One of the House panel members who grilled Julia Pierson, which one I cannot confirm via transcript, as I'm pressed for time,  essentially suggested to Pierson that Gonzalez should have been gunned down, just as Carey was.

We cannot have citizens in various stages of derangement threatening the functions of the federal government. Regardless of ideology we need some sort of system in place. I am not suggesting otherwise, but what I am asking us to examine is how quickly, with lightning speed, expendable classes of people are made. Did Gonzalez think threatening or killing the man who was elected to office opposing the war would ease his trauma? What was going on with Carey that her mind, stressed as a young minority with a baby to rear, needed access to the new hope of 2008 who turned out to be not so miraculous after all? Carey was just one of us, nameless, troubled, stressed. I have remained perturbed about her death without faulting the officers who enacted it-- but Gonzalez was created by the armed forces, was expended, and fell into the very small percentile of soldiers who go berserk. 

Fixation is a nice word, but we have one black woman dead, forgotten, one veteran, presumably Latino, whose life is now over. Authorities will never allow him parole, in this new age where medieval savagery has reentered the lexicon, its shock value overplayed by Muslims, and a good man destroyed because civil libertarians insist on obfuscating self-defense into victimization, fifty years after Johnson enacted the civil rights act.

Barack Requiem

no faith teaches people to massacre innocents"-- our 44th commander rhetorician

Mr. President: When I was growing up, I was a fervent and occasionally rude Roman Catholic, and though Protestant and church fathers differ on textual interpretation, and it is also well known through the midrash  that Hebraic scribes engaged in hyperbole with a fluidity equal to that of their Hellenistic competitors, monotheism nonetheless does indeed justify the slaughter of innocents, particularly when Joshua invaded Canaan to create the state of Israel. Pagans were put to the sword. Does this mean that the twelve tribes engaged in genocide? Probably not on the scale we see today, but griot  is never entirely inaccurate, transcribed even from the distance of the judges to the courts of the corrupt rulers who led Israel into the Diaspora.

In the Gospel, as well, a pair of hypocritical converts drops dead at the feet of either Christ or Peter, or Paul, for that matter, the zealous torturer who conquered Rome. I did not realize James Foley was Catholic. This pierced my eroding conscience briefly, light as a fallen feather of a falcon. There was a tenure, perhaps as briefly past as Clinton's administration, when the barbarism of ISIS would have been equivalent to the showers at Auschwitz, but what has blurred the niceties of this distinction is the inhumanity of the paradigm, couched in fealty to the procedure. A significant percentage of persons gets weighed down by this, and rather than absorbing this unspecified guilty charge like a rat on a ninja course, they become hardened, join ISIS, a militia. 

Unless an extraordinary 2016 candidate emerges, you will be the last President I voted for. Reagan was a liar, and by the time of the Iran Contra testimony, obviously in the early stages of dementia, but he was the last leader in whom decency of conviction made me happy to be an American; now I'm a fascist promising immolation to myself for a hard life in the land of Negrodelphia. I despise Eric Holder, and you, poor fellow, should have been dean of Trinity College. You disappointed everyone, acolytes and adversaries. George Will has pondered whether or not your second term approaches *Carter territory,* but I see your lame duck standing as closer to Woodrow Wilson working himself into that ineffectual stroke.

Miscellaneous Protocol

"They do not have to be doing this,"  Cassie James Holdsworth, linear whiner at regulatory restriction

No, I am not feeling particularly better, though I am less phlegmatic in color. Food is an anathema. It would be a pleasure to cease digestion and consider the possible vaginal absorption of Ensure. The Golden Years Rush.

Common Sense LOA edition back on shelf, due to other priorities, but Paine's anti-authoritarian rationale derived from agrarian Semitic polemicists mistrustful of city states would fit right in with the bravado insurgency. Would you enjoy a small token of honesty? Okay. I took a dig at the Miriam Carey event yesterday, a dig on the basis of deconstructing irrational behavior, upending it with the tenet that Obama speaks to everyone on nearly a weekly basis.

But in my annoying interdisciplinary approach, the Carey family has my commiseration. Miriam was sick, much sicker than the system ever attempted to make me accept about myself. I have been in Senate offices in DC, and I do not fuck with the capitol police, and I'd vanish at the approach of the Secret Service, who would kill me because I am mad at the President, which in translation means the trappings of the Oval Office would not subdue the Spastic Tongue Lashing, and then I'd go boom, like Miriam, poor woman. I do not believe she had to die like that, but what to do? I'm not that radical about non-compliance. She did fuck with the capitol police, the secret service, the landscaping contractor.

Nonetheless, the odds of her gaining access to the President were 10 to the sixth power to one, and it is unseemly, playing wild west with a citizen in pain in Washington's metro area with her baby in the vehicle.

On the less slim chance that my energy realigns sufficiently and I can land future assignments that I will complete to an editor's satisfaction, I am in search of a photographer with a decent portfolio who can negotiate their own contracts. I'll reiterate this every so often. I cannot deal with pics, even if Apple had spastic smart phones. I do have a portfolio. It may not be Vanity Fair, but it is sturdy, with one byline to a Pulitzer Prize winner. I am not in the mood for breakfast. Sulky morning, wondering how a dental hygienist could afford an Infiniti in the first place.

We need a moment of conscience.

Taps

High features, naturally strong and powerfully expressive, had been burnt almost into Negro blackness by constant exposure to the tropical sun," Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe

The more we learn.  It was an accidental circumstance that a Jewish public housing tenant, who is in a comparatively soiled outhouse more lowly than the gorilla below me, reconnected me to mental illness empowerment intake; my anger was triggered because I asked the aforementioned tenant for more information, and should know by now that ethnic Communists undergo lobotomies in terms of gate-keeping skills. My spirit, my very essence, needs a change, and the reason America is in jeremiad is because the social safety net is destroying our ability to take the initiative, and my starvation for fresh space is turning into a pathology, and it need not.

This is not about mood swings. I have client confidentiality I need to maintain-- Christ-- but I knew well enough how pedestrian Edward is-- never again. Never. You may hold me accountable. No more overtures to public housing residents. That the president has lost all credibility with me is not nearly as disconcerting, but represents a national disheartening. I would prefer to leave the country, seriously. I can more readily doom myself under European case management than rot in the city of my birth, watching my digital clocks tick. Given the time I should be resting, but I am trying to contract typhoid like John Malkovich, who also does blindness in his first major supporting role. Actors never get it right, even the top billed like Malkovich whose face is now in protean death mask stage, sightlessness. Not Cameron Diaz in Garcia's vignettes.

Things You Can Tell is very good, merges into itself and its inclusionary frictions, yet I balk at saying it is a great film meshing disability, urban loons drawn familiar, to our recognition. I have dealt with Garcia as auteur before-- but the film doesn't fit on the mantelpiece properly in terms of really challenging viewers. This is how I am dealing with it now. With Garcia, it is about the magical realism of the father. The style is a shield, because we know we're looking for nuances of interpretation. These days we're all magical realists, our wars fought to be cached on YouTube. Living the science fiction we read as affixed adolescents, our government at the bidding of a Charlie Rose scoop. Yet despots fascinate us. Admit it. We create narratives around them, held by megalomania, giddy when it is fractured by hubris. Mussolini hung like a dead and bloated mule carcass. Czar Nicholas out of tune and executed in countless variations of Doctor Zhivago; all of Russian literature is Doctor Zhivago, the American induced mortal illness of Hugo Chavez, or Elizabeth's beheading of Mary Queen of Scotts via Glenda Jackson.

The blind rarely have a fixed eyeball. Their countenance usually has the appearance of a pronounced brow ridge.

Some affection for Isabelle Allende. The aide who received the stories of Eva Luna recognized me this morning. She was a single mother child herself years ago. Blows to the solar plexus aren't helpful. Deep breaths. I thought Edward Berkowitz cared enough about my concerns to be discriminating, and taking a few minutes to categorize the situation behind these private lectures he disseminated with Zen-like laissez-faire would have shielded me from a past with very negative consequences. Perhaps some of you understand how leaving a job is like a divorce. He worries my use of detail compromises online safety, but my emotional vulnerability never crossed his mind; he and I know each other and have the ability to ascertain each other's reality, unlike forum moderators. Existential hopelessness.

On the P & Q

"It's not my credibility on the line." --Barack Obama, defense lawyer

I may have hired a dead resident's old caretaker, and we've set the meeting for Tuesday morning; I am already picturing the contraction of her facial muscles as she tries not to react to my habitat, not sure if I should push myself hard to clean before our meeting, or if she has the experience not to be judgmental. Black? Yes, but if we can reach an understanding and I can keep her at arm's length, I can dial down my stress.

Obama has so utterly disappointed me I have lost faith in my country, and I'll never get it back. In 08, at his campaign headquarters, before he lost PA to Hillary by nine percentage points, while his youthful acolytes swarmed upstairs and downstairs, and I met uptight white middle aged political operatives in double breasted pinstripes, a hustler from the neighborhood held his hand out, trying to take my contribution to the campaign for himself, and that is Philadelphia. Contextualized against Fruitvale Station, you dismiss this, my over developed social fear and contempt, correct?

The boomer generation, those closer to my mother's age, did not know what the slogan meant, this "change we can believe in". Neither did I, but I was amazed at the energy Obama had behind him, and was astounded. I cannot tell you what I hoped for, maybe that his success would allow me to spring back, to change my environment. TARP and the ACA have not improved my circumstances. While the administration was young, the insurance coverage I had dropped me, and Trudy Richardson, regardless of her recent contraction, escalated pressure on me to the breaking point. I remain scathed, weary of always feeling the need to have my back up, that I can never let go, relax, and work, because someone needs entry, to check fire alarms the residents set off once a week, or to replace my pipe, sign a petition, inspect the unit, ride a power outage, review my fiances to make sure I am not hiding a fucking fortune. If I had my own writing studio, Siberia might seem like a blessed luxury in contrast to this nigger beehive. No one will take me in. The only thing I can do is apply for jobs and grants I do not have the accreditation nor the stamina to maintain.

A Response to Michael Gerson

Michael, the fact that I have adopted the role of a gadfly to mask very deep seated levels of emotional pain sometimes deliberately obfuscates my intent of getting my viewers to think, as well as the price I pay for the struggles I have in my need for legitimacy, desperate to de-marginalize, (un-marginalize?) as I have been for a significant length of time in my uneven bid for matriculation, but let me take on the raw wound of George Zimmerman, not as an adjudicated legal debate, nor even how it is viewed strictly along the lines of ethnic perception, but as a personal narrative that points to the complexity of lack of answers:

At the risk of her sons ostracizing me along with the rest of my family, I know my paternal aunt feels that Zimmerman was justified in murdering Trayvon, and I find her attitude horrific. Diminished as I may be through my admission of bigotry, I do not like stacked decks, and even under my aunt's rationale, if Trayvon was a troubled juvenile, he did not deserve the summary execution that Zimmerman's actions provoked. My aunt's attitude reflects the reality of my family's need for boundaries of the type that existed before Johnson managed to get civil rights legislation passed, reflects the difference between my white Catholic/Methodist/Jewish family and African Americans, even that of my mother's sister, with her PhD in education leadership. Over the dinner table, in her discussion of pedagogy and the Philadelphia school district, she says, "Who wants to deal with that?" As you have a background in speech writing, I am sure you can infer her meaning.

I, as a disabled woman, have had to deal with that, since my parents institutionalized me in Home of the Merciful Savior, from the time I was nine years old: I was sexually abused by minority internees I lived with, and by the orderlies who attended to my personal needs, and then I was assaulted by my mentally ill mother's lovers, was a matriculated out cast in high school, pretty much the same during my active university years, and then exposed myself to a genocidal third world subsistence level of poverty in North Philadelphia, nearly lost my life once to a drug addict there, and what I have sustained in the years since is none the less horrific as the bullet on which Trayvon bled to death. It is even worse for developmentally disabled and black. Danieal is dead despite all the DHS and disability services within Philadephia combined, not only because she was voiceless, but worthless by this city's standards. The fact that I was of an affluent well educated family protected me from Danieal's end of life starvation, but only up to a point.

I hate urban African American norms, and it is a hatred learned through the observation of inner city devaluation of their own lives. I hate the depreciation and the fatalism of those norms, and the bigoted narrow mindedness of the working class who cannot even read Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. I have had the text thrown back in my face as a near implied accusation because I dared to use great minority achievements in literature as a starting point for discussion. Have you yourself ventured much beyond K street, gotten your hands dirty, ignoring your own affluence and demeanor, waded into the hood so you can be accused of paternalism for trying to reach out to a black boy under threat?

Obama is not a miracle. He is a multi-faceted exception who has the same symbolic level of helplessness as the titular ADAPT activist who has left me hung out to dry because I keep trying to build bridges back to the ambulatory world you inhabit.

Elastic Smokescreens

Bad couple of survival days following my May 9th post, but I feel better now, discounting indigestion from the largest dose of Aleve that I am willing to take, which is brand name naproxen rather than ibuprofen, all the while tapping a pencil against the cranium, how am I going to save my article, but I'll ride out trying certain sources until next week. Perhaps my age is not going to allow me any redemption of misery, I can only speculate, especially when it takes me over an hour to do lateral transfers and dress, and then have another half hour of difficulty engaging in the reverse from joint pain, and overtiring. Back when I spayed my anger at the pedestrian suburbanites in the P&W Speakeasy, at least I still had the strength to fuel the outcry, and my willingness to fight. Of course I'm weakening, what else can I expect? But if I am unsafe doing transfers and hand grips that are second nature, then I made those pedestrian emerging writers and authors fear or ostracize or engage in contention with me for naught, and between 98 and 02 and now, I still want the same things, to salvage a career, better quality of autonomy, and to cite Carole King, recording artist of my youth, whose Tapestry I once knew by heart, but it's too late baby now, it's too late, aside from the fact that Obama has sunk another notch in my wilting support for him, and yes, you knew I would write that, just as if I could get past the fact that Romney sickens me, his preparatory school behavior actually has moved him up the ladder. Why? Honesty, just like Martin Peretz and his difficult attitude with Muslims. We're all bigots, and while table manners are what makes social group dynamics interesting, I do believe that prevarication has taken progressives too far, and there will be backlash, maybe not in my lifetime, but it will occur, I am nearly certain.

The issue, however, is not marriage equality, but Obama's prevarication; he is getting as bad, nearly, as Fern Markowitz, my favorite Jewish lesbian. Obama knows full well that federal supremacy goes back to Chief Justice John Marshall, and a patchwork of states not honoring the marriage licenses issued by other states isn't sustainable, and I doubt the current Chief Justice, Roberts, is going to rupture the edifice by which Marshall made SCOTUS a co-equal branch of government.

Because I do believe in a citizen's civic responsibility, I am conflicted about my vote this November. Abstaining is a cop out, but we don't seem to have many other options. I am debating a write-in.

Silver Linings

By some interesting quirk of fate, it seems I will not have to use my savings for at least a week or two. I have been playing the usual parlor games since I was a young woman between jobs, and now? What choices do I actually have?

I can make things worse; this is what constitutes the illusion of having any further options. I am looking at InstaBulb here. The extra light would be useful, and I can use it near the PC when I want to charge but read kindle at my desk. It is late summer now as I archive this on Blogger, and I not only do not know when this order will ship, but have no idea how to contact the marketer.

They claim they will utilize COD, but I guess the tool would only work as well as the brand of battery used. In this unit I need it, but then I may return to bed. Not feeling well, not sleeping well, I can milk for my source later tomorrow if I do not hear from first contact. I may also be in the full throttle of a menopause adjustment, as it has only been three months since my cycle stopped.

I still get cramps, and wasted, or took the time to type the Administration a message @ the White House, but the portal did not carry. Not sure what use it would be to try again this evening. My shins are swelling. My brother Benjamin will not speak to me. I tried him three times this Sunday, because my health actually is failing, and I'd like my nephews to remember me. I don't know why this price is so extraordinary.

I am not sure what I once imagined about my life, but it wasn't this, and the real subtext behind my sibling rivalry breach is guilt. They took my assets, and expected a free ride. Now I am not a person because I am asserting that I have needs.

However you read me, or what conclusions you draw, I have no support, no friends that I actually like to be around for themselves, and more than likely will never regain a career in any viable sense of the word, and what I meant to convey is, you can't know how it feels.

I am not my mother. I do not find a vein in Will Self's drug culture and do dangerous things with the syringe for the thrill of it. I haven't gotten myself pregnant, or medically sucked a fetus I did not want out of my uterus, like my sister, and yet, because I never wanted to live in 202 housing, and it angers me due to the waste of my intelligence, this is an indication of crisis for homosexuals who insert their penises into the rectums of other males, or an excuse for my damn family to close off in rank, never mind that doing the same thing to my mother probably increased the pressure she felt to do hard core psychotropics, which may have contributed to her cardiac arrest.

I can't rebuild myself a viable social outlet, and if you are going to say look at how I treated Schneider, an over the top trigger is conceded; had I known it was that Daniel Schneider, I would have ignored him after a preliminary query, or tried to utilize his outreach in better fashion, dubious as that might have played out as an alternative.. List serves and viral networking take time. They are not cocktail parties, and I happen to like cocktail parties, the clink of ice, a joke regarding All About Eve.

 

Qualis artifex pereo

"You have the wrong Secretary." Senator John Kerry's immortal words to the spastic_dowager before he added more plumage to his stature.


Ambulatory individuals often find me humorous when I am intensely serious: "Dr. Creeley you taught someone who was a great influence on me!" I drove up to his table as if I were an ankle monitor ready to latch onto him, and to my great surprise, he burst out into a full throated  laugh that made me love him instantly. I did not tell him his poem about killing crows determined the miserable course of my life, and I am starting to weep because Robert is dead, and even if I wanted to run to Jerry, to beg him not to die before me, to beg him to forgive me, to cry and cry on the shoulder of this habituated post modernist Shakespearean of whom I expected a more debonair career end, what good would it do? I am not quite ready to compare Hilter to Joan d'Arc, but the corrosion of poverty, the ignorance and ugliness of the human animal when compared to the beauty of other species we kill near indiscriminately due to lack of equitable distribution of resources and our inability to come up with pragmatic solutions, the fact that a good man never loved me, even if no binary partnership makes for completion, I have been up since noon yesterday, in the post-solstice of December, and I am exhausted, in the recurring motif of over-extension, too dark for anyone not to believe I need a leash, losing my track of acerbic tone, what is it I expect from posting like this? Later.

The later.

Sickness is the hatred of repentance... The poem is "The Crow" and it is in a smaller post-Vietnam collection of Creeley's work, less massive than the tome I purchased when he came to Philadelphia to wank our literary cunts. Robert is not my favorite poet, and on the whole the Beats are more vapor than substance, but "The Crow" is one of my favorite poems reflecting the exhaustion of the 20th century, much like De Niro's failed attempt at wit with the First Couple reflects the exhaustion of Western Imperialism finally giving way before Orientalism. It seems to have been settled with at least some veracity, that Barack is a typical progressive centrist, and I am not suggesting otherwise, but his mother seems to have been infected with John Lennon's bong paraphernalia, and piques my interest more than her disappointing golden child. In my initial post on this topic, near the close of my monetized account, I punned De Niro and Nero, and only upon revision realized this was more intuitive than the lazy carelessness of sarcasm.

Jerry cannot absolve in me what I cannot forgive in myself. I lost my bid to succeed as an American, case closed, the unforgiven in the mistakes of impulse. Pallid, my dour mother's bitter mouth inscribed on my expression like a destructive Artemis, sixty pounds too much of a belly in a stout frame, I am not apologizing to you or anyone else anymore for not reigning it in according to propriety, but, being tired, and Christmas stressed nine months of posts ahead, I shall refine this analysis as luxury allows, three cigarettes closer to cancer. I don't care.

Arteriosclerosis

James Bennet, the methodical editor of the venerable Atlantic Monthly, invoked a historical conversation between Dick Morris and Bill Clinton on the issue of Presidential ratings to illuminate the preoccupation of the March edition, which is namely, are we watching Obama fail, and I have already answered that in the affirmative. It does not boil down to mere policy issues, like whether TARP was large enough, or his health care reform which did nothing to help me during my extenuating circumstances in his months as the President Elect, now being dismantled by the judiciary, or his I had a monster daddy book, or his audacity of hope. He was a great candidate, and then he vanished, by varying degrees, into the methodology of the executive process, and TNR asked the question early on if that was enough to govern the country.

Not from where I sit.

And this is liberalism which has lost its way. Unlike the top tier executives at Liberty, I will not have a pension, not only due to the fact that I was pilloried by them, but by the time I had stabilized myself, about a year and a half later, I lost my special transportation services, was driven to hell and back by my landlord for the sake of renovations, and my medical equipment safety net went snap crackle and pop, and I'll never recover from this, in any financial sense of the word. My heart isn't in the best shape, aside from other issues, and if my senator will not help me, then I'll break the law if necessary to hold Liberty's COO accountable; I'll suffer if I get arrested, maybe sicker, but I cannot bounce in fresh hoops to reach new heights.

This isn't just about the fact that I allowed Linda to twist my stressed psyche 180 degrees. I admit to a vulnerable culpability, and it is ironic that I am willing to use ADAPT's tactics against their members embedded within CILS when I am highly critical of their value; it is about the methodology, which has a very high failure rate, unless you are so disabled, so poor, that a coordinator marking compliancy checkmarks is an upgrade from institutional restraints.

Those who really know me know how much of a quadriplegic I am. Must the system fail me so horribly because I want the same professional and social equality as Jerry had, or John Tassoni obtained? Unlike Erik, or even Jimmi, I want to work and earn a living.

The Matrix Research Institute was my failure, but Liberty promised me support which never materialized, and I have been dealing with this CIL's crippling institutional pathology for over twenty years. It has to change.