Adhesive For A Cousin’s Mouth

The most remote inhabited island group in the world, Tristan de Cunha in the southern Atlantic Ocean, is so tiny its main island has no airstrip.


In the process of rebuilding the destruction of my life’s work, I wanted to begin retyping something low priority, like my graduate novel chapters, and this pick was the wrong thing for Thursday morning. I cannot locate The Novelists of Don Paydola (shortened later to simply Don Paydola), my idea of real world characters vanishing onto a fantasy island, already corrupted by Lost, if only by virtue of industry success resentment, and wonder why I do not abandon the project altogether, given that I’m basically a short form writer with other more urgent matters to attend to, but since my pace is currently on par with the slime of a laboring snail’s trail, I have to reactivate my rhythm with some sort of launch pad before the beginning, and this was indeed the title of my first chapter. Before The Beginning, before my $800 Toshiba failed, before my continued defiance against ever increasing constriction, before my cousin’s wife became my embattled consigliere over something like our mutual rare attendance at funerals, and yes, I unkindly begin to chafe even as I pursued Billy by telephone over worry for her optical health, given that I resist being insulated by domestic quandaries. Pam of course made inquiries about what I write, and so I sent her Safari on a search about my meeting with Adam Kokesh, published on Medium, and now cousin Pam is following me on Ev Williams brain child, little realizing what I do on Blogger. If she did she would be mad, and our bond, however heavily device supported, would perhaps rupture, and that may not be an entirely consequential demerit, as the monster of self-absorbed selfishness bores itself into the dowager’s shoulder blades. I wanted a confidante, and now I remain uncertain about the virtues of having one, those demands it places upon me, my limited time oozing in my hour glass like salt water taffy. The caregiver who threw himself into my need like a super absorbent smore, located the little of this complex linguistic trick I actually managed to complete before the age of 35, this same Thursday afternoon, and I simply seem incapable of moving fast enough. His 40 hours necessitate my drooling accommodation, in the revolving door to our chocolate melted marshmallow sparks, not fully able to answer the question if I’d trade fucking him for the rarified solitude I enjoyed in September. Terry O’Quinn does not make for an enthralling family annihilator in Stepfather. The pensive mask of his narrow blue eyes and the chiseled expression in his birdlike face were always suited to the enigma of John Locke. His movie, in contrast, had little suspense, rote and shrill, always resistant as I was to this notion of virtual penetration into our three dimensional space, I am now fully infected with potential consequences, though even here, cynicism prevails. On the outside of the Fourth Estate, Facebook is disdained by thirtysomethings. I suspect it’s real market value will fuel the next big short.

Class Reunion

what a glorious feeling I'm happy again-- the musical

My distraught cousin believes I am in bed. My antagonized attendant believes I should be in bed, and I was on the point of going to bed, but the upset apple cart might be likened to the evidence of a high school pep rally pecking order, one which I don’t really have time for, but nonetheless I offered provocation, not at Maxine's incitement level 20 minutes to check out and Galahad rebelled. Rightly so, as I do not let go easily. The consequences fell on my cousin’s head more than my own, as my raw aches cauterized by the end of May, but I had a 62 year old woman wailing she did nothing wrong, why was Galahad mad at her? This is not a feigned attachment. She truly believes my care worker is her friend, and it makes me skittish, how she clings to a working class man she only spoke to once. Even I’m not that attached, and without his attentiveness, even if I did transfer myself onto the chair in his absence, I would run into loss of independence hygiene maintenance, and I’m next to indifferent on the matter, still bound to the temporal order of the world because a deflated ego wishes to save my voice. Am I engaged in that recovery? Only in minor starts, overwhelmed. White collar professionals presumably have a better grip on emotional maturity, and if he knows he has his freedom, he erupts vigorously when I drop the occasional depth charge into it. Why bother? Fighting to reset the parameters of his intimate consolation, I respect that, obey the routine, but cannot pretend continuously that this situation is a cakewalk for me. Being bused some 40 minutes outside my district into Sun Valley in the ninth grade was equally not delectable, and the only utilitarian victory disability activism handed me on a platter was suing Ridley Township to install wheelchair ramps. It never mitigated the culture shock, something which took years, shedding the special education modifier. Bringing all my professional acumen to bear, I am functionally my cousin’s psychologist, singing pennies from heaven while Gene Kelly choreographs the special effects of water vapor. I miss making love, transforming him into a pugilist sparring partner.

Alford Plea, with Skid

We had a good laugh at that one. --David Foster Wallace

Deadbeats. This is what I am thinking of, spinning my wheels for 15 hours in exasperated anger that a nurse practitioner named Dana Rigley, who doesn’t have a license to treat me, insists on her one month daily visit for 10 minutes despite her very own acknowledgement that her function is non-essential for me as a quadriplegic. Socialized medicine at its finest. I would be delighted to challenge the traditional liberal as to what this labor and expenditure on her part amounts to, and wouldn’t receive an answer as to the hidden lack of efficacy and fraud within single payer options as I terminated her visits and waltzed her out of the door in tears, and I thought I lacked the requisite emotional armor, pushing back against Mia’s stridency, politely, but pushing against her now carnivorous, delicate, boney frame. I will not make so much as a dent against her convictions, as the sitting Pope reminds me of my hardened heart and I reminded his warders of a once warrior driven faith. Deadbeats, where do they come in? Ah, my cousin by marriage, with whom I was not many futurist hours past this post terse and unkind, has a broken younger ambulatory ex-Marine brother who reminds me of my dead fiancée of course, and he has a crush on me. I want nothing to do with it, and assumed Pam would be angry with me for openly deeming him a half-wit, but Pam rolls right along with her indolence and her dogs, as the fine citizens od this country elbow each other to expiate their pain on trash TV. My attendant’s exquisite tastes: Dr. Phil’s prostitutes, Dr. Phil’s anorexic emergencies, Dr. Phil’s molested stepdaughters. This is the corrosive acid eating us away, the self-absorption of Dr. Phil’s megalomaniacs who have lost touch with reality and because they appear on Dr. Phil, receive a cushy voluntary commitment environment. Civic conscience and duty, these now fall on famous athletes, on Hollywood celebrity. We hide behind them, those with whom we align. Mia’s followers defend her against non-trolling critiques such as mine. James gets defended by his salient multitude, and television so carefully matures with Emily Tyra, an actual dancer, receives a punitive back story, starving herself into sterility. Code Black is so cleverly an industry send up, a playful coyness to it, the opening season a fantasy musical dance number reminiscent of Glee, a tolerable viewing  bracket. Little more than that, barely making a dent in the rebuilding I need to do with, for, my work. Exactly what assistance do I desire from you? A visit from Mikaela Hunt, with her middle brow womens’ interest questions I occasionally attend to with dilatory respect (entering into her modality when I please)? I am in love with an African American nerd whose sex drive is skewered into the wiring of nurture, regardless of all these years I have avoided this situation and attacked the regressive dependency paradigm which feeds the business of poverty and chronic condition, and believe its state regulated enforcement is evil and despite my unapologetic rancor with black counterculture, I want to authenticate an interpersonal relationship here, worn and threadbare daisy. I tempt him. The next day hope scuttles, and on we go, not listening to him to try to shit this morning on demand. One day, I’ll hit the fuck this pedal past my error of believing my work was secure. Such slim incentives not to follow David Foster Wallace on the other side, past the photosphere.

Basketball & Rules on a Sim Card Transfer

There's always some reason to feel not good enough, and it's hard at the end of the day. --Sara McLachlan

Let me open this post by saying that Samson and David are rather favored exemplars of what it takes to be steadfastly devout until the frailty of human need breaks the most heroic aspects of our nature, even in being a warrior for the certitude of exceptionalism. In our otherwise silent alliance in the many months the editor of Modern Catholic has remained my follower, Rebecca Angell may grasp this and admonish me with the inquiry, "You understand the radicalism Christ brought to the Hebrews, don't you?" Yes, but it's easier when Yahweh let's you slaughter a thousand Philistine's with the jawbone of a jackass. I have a novella trapped in WordPerfect 7 which I've almost sold tied around this very principle of martyrdom's Old Testament militancy, and I am more inclined to believe in Samson as a Nazarene than I am in Jesus as the feminine handmaiden to the Father. Blaspheme? Not quite, merely a stipulation that I need Samson as a Herculean figure, David as the King of Kings, before I can swallow the petulance of the Incarnate with his demands toward selflessness, and maybe, in my attempt to find a new trustworthy intimacy with women in my peer range, I need this new found submergence, new to me, sucked into a cousin's pain worse than mine. It interests me that a woman can be married, have at least one granddaughter, more dogs than I have cats, and be in such profound pain because her husband, my cousin by blood, is an impotent prick. "I can only imagine the things you write about me." Billy said this to me years ago, not realizing I find him rather colorless, emasculated as he is by his dying mother, and I now serve as a buoy to his wife while mutant fissures pulsate my body in ways never anticipated before the 15th of last month. Pam values her privacy, and I've already written enough, in both alarm and irritation, to disservice what her trust expects, as she too curls like a vine reaching out to my nursing aide.

On the basis of what this quixotic fellow has tossed at me, I'm assuming, brusquely, if I want him, then I can take him: he refuses to fully kiss me because then he'll have to take me, so he claims, while I look at my oblong face, incredulous-- but this isn't my point. I'm engaged in a serious battle with myself about winning him, as he claims I have, merely asking me to wait, or fearful my attachment will become irrevocable-- (I am already there, thank you)-- but is this what I really want, an untutored lion, for who's sake I'm studying the rules of the court? I had him literally on top of me Tuesday. It wouldn't have taken much, and yet, I released him, every day, another flavor, another stroke of his fingers, nearly intolerable, unable to engage in the usual stimulus to ease these frustrations, I'd rather he not use foreplay merely to ease my suffering, find him too sweet to remain infuriated, while the game goes on despite my bobby pins, ready to anesthetize the fluttering wings of the moths. I want to know that it's real, not Memorex, hoping I won't have to kill him with a strangulation of silk before he sorts it out himself.

Unbreakable

"I'm the radical atheist humanist your parents told you to stay away from." Professor McGuire, circa 1985, terminated, arms outstretched, palms splayed upward, curiously reminiscent, Catholic posture

Oh yes, dance. Go to ATT and make pouty faces and work out some kind of integration lower bill deal. Dance. The service reps at the counter, customer reps on the phone, get too fusty and they'll boot you undoubtedly, old ma, always wagging fingers at dissenters. Something changed once again on my twitter account this afternoon, but luckily, I am a bit too numb to care about who was the latest to have their cosmopolitan manners recoil. Can't lose myself that way; can't care. But my heart is torn asunder, even if I may not always be in the mood for Simenon, the Dune France 2 production of Maigret is a work of art, but public television needs to follow the herd, team with a distribution service, bye bye free down time.

The commercial and public airwaves are stripped, barren, a damn football game here or there. I don't want to stream all the time, but decided I am interested in Jonathan Rhys-Meyers Man In The High Castle and will stream at least some of the first season. It sounds as if it has Phillip K Dick influences.

The Harrouff case contains as many puzzles as it answers, but this gruesome narrative hearkens back to Enlightenment era beliefs about the berserk, superhuman strength, and, perhaps Krauthammers' damnation of the culture is a playback, of the way modern derangement looks. Since the original 68 film, which I predate, and to Harrouff, is stone age camera work, zombie literature has permeated the horror genre substrata. Perhaps Austin got too into Walking Dead. The series might not have caused the psychotic break which led to these events, but those of you who are Austin's age know how blurred camp and realism have become. I may vanish by summer.

I have relented and spoken to Marie briefly. I told her Joseph should go to a home, like my father's wife. And Marie said "You belong in a home," the shadow over me my entire life, but it is wrong, not letting go. Joe Marinelli and I don't like each other. We bark back and forth, the greaseball, his spastic niece, but if he is going blind, Marie is wrong. He is dying, she is dying, and we all have to accept that, myself included; I'm just not letting Presby burrow me under, nor anyone else. I'll kill myself first. Billy won't answer my emails, but okay. Happy New Year.

Model Metastasis

As I come online, look at The Freeman on American mental attitudes, consider Petula Dvorak's district byline a catastrophe, I may be in error about what my American viewers understand about the federal entitlement system, how pervasive it is, and how corrupt, whatever someone like Witter sustained. Unlike Dvorak's profile of hard bitten determination of a wronged beneficiary, most recipients getting SSDI, or SSI cheat. I am one exception, took my hits, and now I'm the bitch who needs to get piked by minorities who treat me like a rabid animal. I was going to write a lengthy post about this, and perhaps I still will, about classification, and gaming the system, all stemming from the fact Marie pissed me off. She doesn't know it and didn't mean it, but her "handy man" is a buzzard on SSI who cheats under the table, cleaning for cash. His sister is an aide on the system, and now, I want nothing to do with either. Your FICA taxes fund this shit hole of fraud, and looking the other way. It is doomed, and we're dooming ourselves with it, this welfare state, beneath the surface. It speaks to why I embrace Toomey, despite his disconnect, despite that his staff, in my limited contact with them, probably envision me much like Witter's service providers before she found an attorney willing to listen.
Billy Varenas is my favorite cousin, and in fact, is probably my one family member I like most, but his mother's long kiss of death to cancer, and his uncle's long kiss of death to infections and developmental ailments represent an astronomical burden, as does my stepmother. They take from aging people like me who still cling to restoring gainful activity, and it points to why I take such a dismal view of the human animal, of the mental health consumer model, in particular, and the utter fucking travesty at the bottom, the entitlement dependency so entrenched any rollback will result in cataclysms which would make the 08 crisis look like a mild market correction. I too made my living off this. Some of you know that. Grants to try to curtail the welfare burden of the mentally ill we now incentivize to cripple themselves as much as I defy the limits people want to impose on my quadriplegia, and I'm still fucking full of myself to think I can revolt, roll out of section 202 housing, and survive it?
I sent Moss a despondent contact submittal, forced to miss my appointment this afternoon. The sixteen year old post surgical patient I was in their beds, missing out on normal teenage high school preoccupations, that poor girl never got very far. I have no idea why I'm bothering. I should just throw my fucking keys in the office and get an accessible bus ride out of state, find a sewer and wedge my ass in 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. 

Feline Neutering

The Wings of the Dove is perverse because it is a great novel.-- Dr. Carrol Cox, blinded with age

News items such as this allow me to understand death threats to those involved in animal husbandry, like the breeder in the article. I have a soft spot for shepherds, and despite my education and intelligence, it is difficult for me not to feel that this bastard should have been shot himself; it points to my dim view of omnivorous primates. Love the cats, but the nagging, hate the cats, aerial check on inner animal cruelty repression when mother wants to be left alone: my dead Joey, I ran into him by accident, layered onto the guilt of losing him due to urinary tract blockage, most he ever received was a bop on the nose when he broke a light bulb.

I found this article searching for a news item on the suicide death of an electrician in a domestic dispute who was a friend to my cousin, who is an arson squad investigator. Marie told me about it in order to lash out at me. She can't handle her sons. She can't handle me, nor the fact that her brother, with his MRSA, his dementia, should be living in Presby, or something similar, more than I.

This has taken me a few angry days. Kimmy woke me at 11:30 this morning to outrageous gas pains, but I maintained control, not always so lucky. I sent Billy an email with quotidian sentiments for his friend, even while realizing I do not give a flying fuck about him, his sick wife, (not entirely accurate, and more an indication of my frustration, always trying to rebuild my own social set with suitable candidates and feeling rebuffed here, subtly) his fucked up mother's screeching voice in my head, her denial about her situation, her eldest son's cold reality check about getting her placed in a facility, where confidence reigns that my aunt, shrieking like a fury, could find Kasem. 

All that I've endured, and an electrician with two children blows his brains out. Domestic discord. Read Madame Mauves. James had a discordant middle age note or two. What does family mean anymore if we're all eschewing obligation that normally come with familial ties? I lied to him about not telling my audience, but being darker than he knows? That's a race to the bottom of the glass.