Sleep with the fishes
With the possible exception of the homosexual class, what I despise the most in our human endeavor is stupidity and convention shielded by collectivism. It is a great deal to say I've bottled so much of my malevolent contempt, in relation to this, with a cork because of brotherly kinship for the absent libertarian Tony Stiles, but there is a grain of truth in it, because I must have been a Roman henchman in another life for a prominent family, and if I really let my hair down, I mean really, I'd blow more than one server on Blogger and really pose a problem for my local precinct.
Lest you think my hatred is merely aimed at the disposal of disadvantaged human wasted space, for which American 202 public housing was designed, let's take Michael Pera. He is either Italian or Polish, as in "stupid Pollack," an affable custodian, but also one of the dumbest morons I have ever encountered. When I bellowed out loud and clear you can go fuck yourself to Trudy on Friday, pulling my phone out of pocket, Mike looked like a frightened bug eyed beagle. It is 6 against 1 here at Riverside, no more than a gang of 4 or 5 at any one time, and they are scared to death of a cripple with 1/3 normal mobility; I was perfectly civil to the patrol officer they summoned to my unit, and have no idea what the young man told them, as this is sort of aggrandized domestic violence, but they all the sudden folded. Michael Pera makes my dead ex seem clever, and he makes Trudy Richardson's managerial conniving seem nearly prosaic.
What am I not hearing in Trudy's and my sister's and my family's argument? That going through another 25 to 50 paraprofessionals would assist my grooming and cleanliness and ease my housekeeping stress and at least get me food when this Jazzy goes down for good? I have already been through nine years of this; the afternoon in 07 I accidentally flipped, I had an aide scheduled who never showed, and Trudy launched her first attack, assigning blame, to me, because the system has such huge craters that I had to wait nearly a year for a fucking power chair because I earned an unexpected insurance payout, and the fucking assessment team asked me if I was suicidal, in public, after being molested by an Unlimited Staffer. It is all of you who are deaf, and whatever my belligerence, these fraternal government partnerships breed ineptitude. I am going to see to it that at least one minority's career in gerontology impoverishment comes to an end. Watch me roar.
Even in the worst of circumstances, writers write in their minds, only to draw blanks on all the vivacious verbiage in their heads once in front of the damn keyboard, and the only thing roaring at me now is "I can't go through this again," except I have to go through it again. I can't thrive in this world of applications and computer science. I can't surrender without that surrender translating into a certified nursing assistant's paycheck, or some other facsimile of an aide. The welfare state and its fucking solutions. Aides. Aides like Monica Carr. I've posted about her, her lupus, her morbid obesity worse than my mother's.
She's on the third floor in her client's studio because she can't breathe, and I am like one of the furies waiting to tap dance while she enters Hades.
A post is not a community, and Blogger will be relieved, no doubt, if I go, kicking and screaming, as the reality of my age forces me back into either a centralized facility, or I stay here in the forced diversity under contract with the Department of Housing and Urban Development. If the oligarchs in Putin's vast tundra want a bone, HUD is the most corrupt federal department in the United States, and that seems contingent regardless of ideology. Real estate equals corruption leading to bribery.
Yes, I have fonts of material yet, yes, I need to be realistic about the fact that I'm 53 and psychotherapy would saturate my fucking bloodstream with an anti-anxiety agent, and thereby I go from battered wife syndrome to a drone on a gurney while my mood is regulated while the aide changes my diaper, but I'm worn out. No, Philly isn't all that bad away from minority residential areas, and yes, I have a lousy attitude. I hate the vernacular "have a blessed day," and I'd be over joyed if I never hear it uttered out of another African American mouth, and even if I could relocate, I'm too old to ever be safe.
I was going to assert that I quit, but I cannot say I will not return tomorrow after a bowl of plain angel hair-- but this is the beginning of my goodbye. I can't be too unforgiving toward my best instructors. Maybe I was bipolar then and simply wasn't diagnosed. I bothered my academic advisor as often as I was pining about God-Shakespearean (wry self-pity), but in any event, I've had enough, and now, having sat in this god awful power chair far too long, I am afraid to leave the Toshiba on. It is now making strange sounds, like a smoke detector, and my Hewlett Packard, though pricier, is older still. Sniff.
The biographer therefore must make a choice---to penetrate that private reality and write a book that gives some sense of a life as it was lived, or to write some other sort of book, a commentary from the outside. -- Sheldon M. Novick
The contusion on my mother's profile from the left, just above the socket, during her survival flight from this excuse she married, erroneously, for the sake of her bastard child, was strangely beautiful. I am forgetful of the direction of the flight. She either followed Stuart to the Midwest and fled as fast as she could drive back home, or it was the reverse, and the fact that her little sister married a deputy chief of police whom Stuart feared, this saved my mother's life. Where the rest of us were also leaves me at a loss, but in a haze, perhaps we had left Mary's care to return to my father, for I was in my house when my mother's suffering could be read in her face. I feel guilty that I could not kill Stuart myself, as Nick Nolte did in his flashbacks that led to more sex with Streisand. (I wonder if anyone ever really enjoyed sleeping with her thus rendering her as PG sex kitten, but that Freudian aspect is as dated as Nancy Friday.)
I know I am quadriplegic and that level of expectation is a high water mark, but I did not protect my family, and got drawn into Stuart's predation trying to accept the man, and he was, in the truest sense. a revulsion, having no corresponding value as an alternate to natural harmony.
When I had my first email exchange with Sheldon, my grievance was a living crucifixion (don't believe the process they have posted, zealous Liberty; they will give you an audience but marginalize you with everything they have if you happen to have a Title II case, legitimately, against them, and, as an officer of the court, Tom Earle did not investigate or penalize Linda for what she did to humiliate me in front of my former neighborhood friends from the suburbs), so I caught him off guard, inadvertently, poor Sheldon, and later lost him and Sarah [for those of you keeping score I have had conflicts or frictions with five Jamesians, and was in the wrong twice, but care about the third--I liked the fact that Greg treated my article proposal with respect and my ego is still bruised that such manner, mutual courtesy, is now gone because I was tongue in cheek about spam] from my group. That is old egotistical tyranny. Smile.
The good Doctor Novick suggested I add my spin to the life of Alice. I am sure Strouse handles the job admirably. I am not a scholar of the lives of those who make the western canon, except for Italian modernists, should I live long enough, I might be swayed to caress such ribs as remain intact of Giuseppe. I think, for the prurient scholars who remain fascinated with Henry's penis, an anthropologist in the other department should apply for a grant to unravel the DNA sequence to gain insight into why a drug addict founded American psychology, whether Henry actually did pinch hit over the chamber pot exit, and whether Alice was muted as a lesbian invalid because she wanted to secretly wed a royal like Vincentio and imitated Isabella, dying in stunned silence.
My printer is not yet installed. But you are able to infer I am always behind.
