Take me on. --a ha
I
am not certain that I’d incur any significant losses by telling you I am
researching bipolar disorder and pregnancy without yet having any potential
query clear in my mind. Sourcing obstetricians and patients is, on the basis of
contingency, a high wire act, thinking of my mother in her moribund jean
jumpers, besieged fertility goddess of her time, blood running down her thick
set thighs after she tripped outside a store. She straightened herself out
without the use of a metronome
during her pregnancy with Benjamin, her last child, only half-brother, rarely
to dwell on her memory, slovenly sexual energy shared by eldest daughter with
spears of pain in my shins, burdened more by sexual regret than anything, the
game still on in his mind, and as my mewing 9:15 ache indicates, still in my
mind too. The problem is I don’t have a clear read on what he wants. Why tell
me he had an anal sex daydream with me if he wants me to behave? A good deal of
the dowager’s arrogance was flattered by this admission, but the man’s passive
aggressive baiting then swiping me down perplexes me. If it is mere lechery he
could have had me by now, as my reactionary battalion of racial fear collapsed mid
month. If these are his weapons, I’ve deployed my own somewhat subtle
corral. It isn’t exactly nothing when daddy’s nonna puts poppa on the telephone
to greet an African American male over 50 keeping her buttocks in fairly good
hygiene, nor is it exactly nothing when this father’s sister decides to take
him out to dinner. Marie’s largesse astonishes even me, but my family must
appreciate the beatitude of my silence, a shotgun wedding with comedic
exaggeration between us, he and I—in his mind, he fears my family will force a
commitment on him if our already hairline intimacy billows away the scant
coverage shielding the breasts of which he gets a good glimpse on a daily
basis. No man or woman can ride this current forever, if it’s there. I’m old enough
to remember M-TV’s initial launch on cable, the primitive social media of its
day, making micro track musical narratives, all of which lumbered under Ken
Wahl’s hairstyle. Though a-ha is an industry promoted boy band, You Tube was
smart enough to take me back into time to the range of motion screaming in my
soul on the refrain of its confidence. If he and I have such a hold on each
other’s need, take on me, take me on,
our smart phones are all but a cock ring and dildo apart, in theory, rebuilding
the bridge I keep trying burn. There is nothing in my damaged womanhood he doesn’t know. How did I stay on my knees in this fantasy?
Let me correct myself: I have a secret or two left.
"What's your point?"-- Joan Tarshis
It may not be wise to post when I'm overtired, pausing in contemporary projects to pull up "Jawbone," my nineties story with its loose Biblical overtones of Samson, everyone's favorite Nazarene and Jewish bully. I drove around, unwisely plowing through my folders, looking for the hard copy, and should probably reconstruct it from memory. Pelecanos modern black face, with the gimmick of its masquerade, to which the man is entitled, made me dwell on it a bit. My narrator is a mafia accountant, probably in late eighties Philadelphia, even though I don't specify a date, and it concludes with a brutal pistol whipping death, in the hood. Seven pages of it on my drive. The original runs past twenty, and it's here, in the desk, or the bin, swallowed by my own disgust in my barren life. I'm able to type, numbingly, but the search for my drafts will have to wait. I wanted to reread any ostensible copy I had, tighten the convolutions. Unable to remember if I started it before or after Brandon Phillips hurt me, but I lived through sustained abuse before that. In Diamond Park, I had room. It was a series of joined cubes, built for wheelchairs, and that I miss, if not the cavalcade of the hustle on the pavement outside my window, black men with toddlers in diapers, begging me for bread at similar hours prior to sunrise. What is not to hate from one end of Philadelphia to this one? The black simpletons I live with here at Riverside, my neighbors, while I roll around, crotch on stained pillowcases over simple piece of foam cushion, rolling old socks over my flaky feet, difficult to wear a decent pair of shoes with this god awful chair. I lack the language of aerodynamics to explain, and the slippers I got from Amazon were a failure. I can wear them but they'd never stay on out in the open. Am I close to Henry Miller's nihilistic courage with the grotesque? It was nearly the same with my mother in Ridley Park. She had very little for vanity of appearance and I've less, with the greater impoverishment. Toward the end of her life, eleven years ago yesterday, I realized my mother was insane. I'm progressing along the same route, though I shun the MH consumer model with the same intransigence I display toward the welfare state.
Until she reached her early sixties, I was never sure about my mother, but now I am, and Pauline should have had her first born committed. Then I would not exist, under Google's wary admonishment and social media's accordion Barring a miracle, I'll be forced into Inglis House, unless I pick an end date, and end my life. Public housing, more than anything else, even my hatred of Liberty Resources, destroyed it, this life where I fought so hard and built a career on the federal welfare system, entered the middle class, and wasn't strong enough. I destroyed The Matrix Research Institute, in part, and should have realized, behind the scenes, that the people who ran Liberty at the top knew Rick, and I shouldn't have trusted them in the first place, my supervisor's antics aside. Now a good day is where I keep control.
Mother did eventually redeem herself, settled down, alone, dying suddenly, though I've never forgiven her, nor Marie, my father's sister, probably bipolar herself, unable to see it in the woman who could not carry me safely to term. I booted my aunt off my contacts, as bad as all that, and explained it hastily to my arson investigator cousin. In my family, the elder Italians set you up to take a fall, and I'm tired, and intend to never speak to Marie Varenas again. Spastic is done, not that she hasn't pulled, and intimated things no one should intimate to old women with too many face lifts. I saw, in one of Tony Stiles tweets, a critique of a Muslim registry. He is right. It would be abused, and can be defeated. Perhaps there is a lesson to be drawn from Samson in that, whoever created his legend. He appropriated the enemy to destroy it.
"My experience as a lawyer and a judge is that you listen to all the testimony and then you try to determine the motivation for the one that is not telling the truth." Senator Heflin via Anita Hill.
Scandal seems to be necessary if only due to the fact that we're half-assed primates who believe we control the universe but conveniently ignore that fact that it remains a challenge for seven billion people to shit on decent toilet bowls, so when I ask myself if I am being disingenuous in following Bobbi Kristina's potential expiration, the answer is yes, but no more so than the reporter who cobbled together the piece: I'm two faced, but I also exist on this earth because my surviving grandmother did not institutionalize the woman who bore me, who hooked up with my father, according to Aunt Mary, to avoid matricide, and the end result was my mother institutionalized two children in her stead. Whitney Houston, husband, daughter, cable reality show, recall the unseemliness of Anita Hill and Clarence Thomas, in my misfortune to have watched those hearings. Joseph Biden bellowed like a bull elephant, perhaps unable to convey without destroying his political career, that hearsay is not a disqualification for conservative minorities.
I am not sure how I survived the psychic familial scars. Maybe I did not suicide because I could not; maybe my sexual drives went into latching onto teachers, but as you grow older, do not have a sustaining social structure, it grows harder. Houston and then Bobbi may not have cared to reach out, mentor, the way primates of status usually do, but that was the route I took, burning myself to a crisp. And as I physically weaken, I am not sure how much I can continue to absorb.
I had a history teacher, the one whose name I haven't yet typed, Raymond Bruno. He was suave, 180 degrees a conservative to the latter day Jerry McGuire's liberalism, and I did something bad to Ray, as his student, and threatened something in one of my teeming epistles. I cannot remember what, but remember that he was furious with me, because he cared. My crush on him finally ending when I found the new obsessions, I wanted to marry Ray Bruno too; wish I had. At one point he suggested I had an Electra Complex. An accurate foretaste of my future. Our narcissism of suffering, black or white, needs re-examination.
Real bone ash is chemically inert and free of organic matters. -- Axner Pottery Supply
Ted Danson never quite made it to the top of the A list, unless Cheers at its peek is equivalent to Clark Gable not giving a damn as Dixie smoldered. Our favorite libertarian bar tender is now just a familiar face who can graft into series as filler. The two greatest romances of my network epoch were Steve Austin and Lindsay uniting the orthopedic ward cheering our first tacky cyborg lovers, though how that would actually work at face value raises interesting issues. Would it have been piston oil coitus?
The other was Ted Danson and Shelley Long. I was as invested in that chemistry as the rest of you, hooting and swooning and wondering if I'd survive or die gladly with that kind of Yankee bronco fuck, but the man could never propel himself aloft toward deification after the series ended, perhaps because his character's feather weight gravity in Cousins couldn't ground the actor into really challenging roles. The Canadian birthday cake pastoral suited the plane on which his ambition hovered, betrayals and regroupings playing themselves out in Vancouver's postcard version of an American metropolis, indulgent, pretty to look at, generating nausea up digestion.
Two interesting moments within the episode arcs: Rossellini with her lip bleeding when the couple consummated their revenge. It was not an authentic sexual expression it itself, but catches something about seven year itches which hits the right note, and made me chuckle at my escapades, and Petersen in the doorway afterward, with his beer. He hits weird notes as an actor in forgettable ensembles, cutting his dialogue in key moments, imprinting memory. Danson transplants him in this remake, only to replace Petersen as CSI's driving force. One with diminished stature the other only gained as the deaf forensics expert.
I pity Gallagher's daughter. Eight years old, and her affluent well educated mother has her diagnosed because her tantrums are *violent rages*. Do any of us ever stop to wonder whether or not a species should trust its own efficacy to reprogram itself? I had a few bitter altercations with my mother. We served to trigger each other. But my developmental physiology mimics emotional fluxes that in my mother were dangerous, and thus made me overwrought. This poor kid already has life long inadequacy grilled right into her psyche; here's hoping mom gets payback. Parents are well meaning enemies, but often can't envision long term consequences.
No two trajectories of every emotional aberration are the same, and as someone who was branded from the moment I was bundled into an incubator, I do not have to imagine the stigma the Gallagher's institutional paradigm inflicts on their eleven year old girl, their alarm at her volleys. I have not experienced them, but I spent a lifetime coping with them, in autistic deaf dumb and blind children, in my own institutional youth grafting, let alone my dead career. This professor's clutch on the throttle may harm as much as mitigate her child's behavior. My mother's censure and judgment did as much to me, especially when she was under her own psychiatric treatment, waltzed into Shriner's to push my buttons, among other items on the lengthy laundry list we accrue into maturity.
"I'm a puppet of a high functioning sociopath."-- Megan Boone
Patty Duke is given a diva scene in the tepid drama, The Baby Sitter, tapping into her varnished mania to have an episode made leaden by booze, and it is sadly camped, almost stenciled in to a talented actress'es notable itinerary.
All aging actors seem to encompass these plot points: the breakthrough, the rise, the critical accolades in the train toward the apex, and then they attempt to cling to their glory through hackneyed scripts which then go to DVD. Shatner is no exception, and the only reason he had a resurgence on Boston Legal was because he played with audience nostalgia for his embodiment of James T Kirk, lampooning the action hero with considerable sophistication as the barging litigator. Boomer middle age anxiety was cruel, however, and heads rolled in the dust.
Duke is a footnote, and Shatner plays the gallant, and we're indifferent. Respectful to the elder celebrity with a nod, but know in the back of our minds he is fish meal for obit gurus. Duke's exit is more consequential.
Her bipolar disorder initially cycled her creativity, and in The Patty Duke Show, between the lines of the starched script, runs an argument for accommodation of mood differentials, as opposed to their classification through the ever gargantuan medical model. Arguably, Duke herself may have put a dent in her ability to get roles through her embrace of the term as a medical definition. As a teen, she channeled that intensity to humanize Helen Keller, but failed to transition over in maturity, in contrast to Sally Field, who dramatized the condition for ER.
If we're going to deconstruct our humanity through microcelluar biology, the potential cyborgs which emerge from Google's Tonka Toy kit in AI might provide an answer as to why self aware intelligent life destroys itself before a hospitable planet cooks in a nova event horizon. By the same token, competing theories, in certain instances, do more harm than good. We're all assuming Lubitz died a mass murderer, perplexed by his actions. Unless he left a manifesto in a drawer, we'll never know, and shouldn't automatically consign his fate to the need for advanced neuroscience.
Casting James Garner was tacky perhaps, but since everyone loved The Rockford Files that was capital to bank on in the past, and Maureen Stapleton bypasses her near mutilating death experience without a hitch, and if Biehn is an empty cypher, the fault may not lie solely with Bianchi. I caught the similarities and antecedents with All About Eve on my own. Garner is a likable personality, but outside of a stock western cowboy with trigger wounds, the man never inhabits a character. Like Bea Arthur, Garner always plays himself, and by the time this feckled infusion finds its way to Chicago Hope, it becomes stultifying. Yet The Fan is more than a hybrid tongue in cheek slasher film; it is also a bridge between old industry glamour and our modern hyper classification, the end result being it has shaky footing in both worlds. Bacall's fragility is stunning, and even more beautiful in the median between youth and withered old age, such as is apparent in both her role and off screen tiff with Kidman in Birth.
Catherine Zeta Jones and Stephen Fry want to help all Caucasians who go whacked by the age of 45. *Her* trigger was Michael's throat cancer, aren't we so lucky to be educated thus? And Fry perhaps created tri-sexuality, fucking men, women, and the Monty Python legacy altogether, why not end his life if he cannot become god like Charlie Chaplin? I went hunting, and indulged my usage looking for an early bit of Bogart sentimentality I was going to utilize, but I cannot find the film title. Fans would know it; he tumbles to his death after being emoted by the girl with the game leg, before he made the big time, smoking himself to the end just like Christopher Hitchens with his palpable extrusions. I cannot remember why The Rockford Files were enlivening. Perhaps it reassembled the last frontier self-reliance, with James taking his lumps because the noir code says this is what the good guy has to do until he gets old enough to get a Supreme Court series cancellation.
I have little sympathy for Fry. Only his affluence leaves him once removed from the clients I dealt with daily, and suffering is tyrannical, selfish. Those of us with victimization and life long indigence may have commiserate excuses, but not Fry, even if he only remains second tier. It is much the same as a Syrian refugee casting an eye on my lifelong threats of eviction by landlord because of my lack of willingness to passively comply. I can still take a shit, watch a flat screen television, do not live in terror of Islamic schisms, so who am I to live in pain at the bottom of the American barrel? I am old enough to see this sarin usage as a repeat of Saddam Hussein slaughtering his own in the war with Iran.
The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind. Thomas Paine
Methinks I am as comfortable as I am going to get this afternoon, with this body always in pain and nearly always rank; had something of a near miss with my feminine urinal so you can add caffeine laden piss to that, my continual coffee intake either masking or preventing diabetes. I don't suppose German netizens wish to inform me why they are my most numerous viewers after those in the US? Any recommendations? I am an extraction of Mengele manufacture without benefit of concentration camp assembly. His eugenics legacy lives on, in much the same way that Gene Hackman is always Gene Hackman and yet inhabits his characters, with the possible exception of his supporting role in Lilith, but even there, he was an adept shrub. And it is quite a distinct idiolect, one that not every actor can inhabit, being Buzz Lloyd and yet distinctively Hackman, in simultaneous fashion. Marooned is ruthless in its imprint of the American global ascent, and I'd in fact argue it is almost as post modern as this guy's work. It is a film without pretense despite a multi-layered contrivance, powerful for those of us who actually lived through the aspirations of the Apollo missions, as I did. Gregory Peck insinuating suicide to Richard Crenna and getting away with it for the utilitarian good of NASA? This is the decade that was covert about my mother's suicide attempts, a woman who should have been institutionalized, and wasn't. Before she died she told me that, my mother: Had Pauline and Louis her father committed her she would have gotten worse. Not for me to speculate, but her children would not have suffered Stuart Lone, who remains on my hit list (and that my former supervisor ranks nearly in parity to this stepfather, in this exclusive club, tells you how seriously I take her criminality), finger fuck step father who attempted to rape a nine year old girl and made me sick on Jack Daniels so he could violate me. Let Blogger ban me for being desirous of his murder. Monster. Filth. I shall not forgive. I cannot, not for the suffering he inflicted on me, on my sister, now estranged.
This is the reason this series is making me uneasy. Not that I don't *get it,* of course I do. Malevolence can be as methodical as police investigations for the greater good. Prior bad acts can lead us one way or another, but it is still a difficult show, symptomatic of our national ailment, and it doesn't have to be that graphic not to make me want to vomit at its implications.
There is a brief description toward the end of Cormac's nuke porn where diarrhea is dribbling down the father's pant leg, a mortality signature signifying the price this man paid to keep his boy alive. This was my mother's second husband, jigging around on a heroin crash with shit spilling out of his crack, seeping into his denim. The Presbyterians browbeat me for 28 years after on the sentiment that cleanliness, divinely guided, is curative towards the scars of such trauma. Personally, seeing the backend of my domestic malfeasance in blackface only accentuates my despair of humanity. You no doubt see this as narcissistic, but this is how I'm feeling today, arthritis easing momentarily.
Part of this is my titanic struggle not to smoke tobacco, and I fear an imminent breakdown of the fact that I have been clean since last March; part of this is my menstrual cycle is an all but sterile issue, and I am still enough in the memory of fertility to mourn my healthy femininity, and the welfare state should not be killing me with compliance. There was a woman here in Riverside Presbyterian, tall and intimidating, with dry toffee skin, bipolar, how dangerous I know not, who thundered at me, "You don't believe in God?" as if it was an insult. Amy with the face cancer telephoned me, asking me, because of my background in advocacy, to stop Debra from evicting this woman for not taking her medication. For me that was a conflict of interest, and she chased me on the Parkway. I pitied her situation, avoided contact.
Enter Jane with the dog, white, over the last twenty four months, she threatened me, has harassed countless residents, forced me to change my telephone number, and I asked why Debra Horne is not evicting her?
Anyone have any faith in state vocational civil servants who leave and take on the Protestant work ethic to keep poverty a healthy and thriving industry of exploitation?
I would do anything to go home, something I no longer have to go to, and caution that access to mental health services is not a panacea for HUD's contractual alliance with religious companies that browbeat the most disadvantaged populations.
More to the point, neither woman is or was helped by Presby, and after 27 years, I, personally, am being destroyed by women who have total access to everything I do, all the money I have; they control every aspect of my life, threaten me at will, and yes, I can give my notice, except for the fact that doing so is tantamount to putting myself physically at risk. I do not know what happened to Amy's friend, and Jane is stigmatized by most of the tenants, at least those that still utilize healthy social networks. I am afraid of her irrational antagonism, and what I was once trained to do would not help. Is it an over-magnified social fear?
I was sitting in lobby, talking. Jane came in with the dog. I told her that I was going to legal aid and asked her if she would like me to mention her concerns, offered her a hairbrush for the mongrel. She said no, caught the elevator. I started to head up, and Jane took the lift back down, followed me on the larger freight elevator, and had a violent altercation with me, in the car, at close range, and then started telephoning me at one, sometimes three, in the morning. The managers suggested I call the police if it continued, and asked me to write it up, and she has since graduated to harassing my former clients. Her triggers are possibly borderline for actual violence, and that she is now preying on people I worked to help troubles me. Neither Trudy nor Debra have any professional training in mental health, disability, or geriatrics, and as such, are not qualified to either integrate or remove the problem populations they are being paid to handle.
But Trudy, the current manager, does chart, if you like, any signs or symptoms that count as aberrations she can use to advocate for institutionalization, has done her best to make me doubt my sanity, and I am grateful to Ed for scorning that tactic, reminding me of my strength, but I've never had a vacation, never able to get away from this, except for funerals, and the independent living coordinator, whoever they are, is roughly equal in parity to the cruelty of Debra's ignorance and lack of qualifications. Jane needs mental health support, and should have been evaluated for that during her residency application, but neither Presby nor centers like these have the money to spend for personnel training. Hence, when they promote black women through the ranks, the supervisory staff is basically no more than a few steps ahead of their low income welfare residents.
If I cannot leave, safely, I will be broken beyond my ability to recover, perhaps not immediately, but soon.
I did call my brother this evening around nine to see if he would assist me with the AdSense authentication code for this Blogger account. Benjamin is *done* with me because he feels guilty about my circumstances. I ceased being the stoic elder among my siblings, surviving siblings, and took a pic axe to the birthday card facade, and the luv ya! from my unfortunate half brother, who is the sire of a dead alcoholic whose schizophrenia was blooming when he was my deceased mother's lover, turned into "you and your wicked tongue; no one wants to deal with you, probably bipolar, go get some help, you're not coming to my house and I am not responsible for your fucked up life..." but both he and the middle princess, Stephanie, were perfectly fine taking four thousand dollars from their disabled public housing sister who spent the early years of her twenties starving on egg noodles in the inner city. I have to be insane you see, because I violate good manners that Levi-Strauss worked so hard to prove was a universal concern through his research into the Borneo tribes in his now famous study The Raw and the Cooked, which I doubt anyone would contend isn't the structuralist masterpiece of its era, but I called him anyway, and can still pull rank even if diagnosing me is his way of compartmentalizing me aside, or downwind, from his familial stresses. I have a chip on my shoulder, as relates to his better half, in relation to his selfishness, but remain more wounded from my sister's indifference, which some of you may have read from my other account.
No mental health professional ever diagnosed me as bipolar like my mother, even when I drove myself in to one of the old intake centers during my post-supervisor depressive episode, and even when I suggested to a no name treating intern that I would try an anti-depressant to see if the drug would heal the wound. It did not. Brand name Wellbutrin (I nearly always misspell its proper name) knocked me out. I could not transfer from my wheelchair safely, but it was only after Daniel Schneider came trolling to put me, poor spastic, on his poor man's groupie mailing list, that I tried saturating myself with a heavy fish diet and salmon oil and I posted that on good days, it moderates. I could not expect miracles after losing Joey, however, and grew a little weary, last week, of our species ocean rape for our seafood palette. Varied my diet but upped the oil ingestion.
Does the medical model label matter? I suppose it depends, if it might have saved David Foster Wallace, or Virginia Woolf, which it did not. Wallace had the technical advantage, and Woolf has my admiration. I am reading Jacob's Room, comforted by her mild individuation of Topaz the cat, who "was now a very old and mangy cat and would soon have to be killed." The only Woolf novel I ever formally studied and finished was To The Lighthouse, remarkable, however we label her diagnosis, that she could complete such a masterpiece. Woolf is no Sylvia Plath, and has a real social intelligence that remains a quiet genius that even the studio system quietly translates. I have Orlando and Mrs. Dalloway. The latter is still uncut; the former I may have to start again. I am in the middle, before the master's sex change. Whether or not Woolf was bi, and her mental instability may have contributed to that, I do not read Orlando in the modern sense of transgender advocacy. Many readers would disagree with me on this, but I will tackle my argument with a finished, fresher reading in the future. I viewed a mediocre adaptation of the novel years ago, when Bravo was actually a relevant syndicator.
Heat, grief, a life long marginalized poverty. I have to compartmentalize AdSense away this humid morning, but I hope to make an effort to solve my illiteracy after the heatwave, as I have a great deal of content to transfer anyway, aside from pitches, my creative writing, whose production has slowed, because I must do less
