Vocal Cords of Alyssa Milano

"This reverend brother has been all his life engaged in fighting among the Saracens for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights Templars--" Sir Walter Scott, one of the first to utilize the innovation of life insurance.

I spent the evening desperately looking to make a digital pitch, failed in the effort, but resolved to hit Harper’s later this week with a traditional mailing despite living conditions to the tune of a dilapidated bunker. I misplaced my hardcopy file in this melee of public housing and destitution, but misplaced it on my own, despite my father’s ineffectual convergence with minority fatalism and Mainline Medical’s deplorable product fitting, I had the file, pulling out my accomplishments, still making an effort to get Negro medical management to see me as human, barking them down to fleeing from me in terror, but didn’t place said file back into place. It is a strange power to have, this spark of hatred in my eyes so ready and willing to die in the name of an insurgency I cannot even define, as every sort of organizing principle has governance behind it, whatever equitable distribution we believe in or not. Tanz Industries and Darius might have saved civilization on a thumbnail, (not the only one disgruntled with the CBS cancelation) but the Variety piece tells us nothing except ratings. No sourcing, just a straight news item, no names, no tug of war between the show’s producers and the executives at the Central Broadcasting System who made the cut. Salvation was a damn good series for what it was, utilizing real propulsion theory and applied engineering, so that even libertarians can hate corporate sometimes, and certainly do. We all hate rental agents within varying degrees, and make no mistake that section 202 owners are engaged in the business of gerontology, but it is not a market based contracture. It is a taxpayer subsidy for a broad range of spectrum disorders in the elderly 62 and above, and I rolled into it as a 31 year old career professional. Now look at me, luckily so caged, so free to leave. I can roll out on this fraternal Presbyterian dictatorship anytime I please, after years of subjugated terror. Threatening the governor of Pennsylvania means next to nothing to me in this context. I mean that literally, despite the fact that Wolf and Ridge and the ailing Rendell are status quo establishment politicians we all used to favor. Put Wolf, the executive, and Toomey, the stalwart Irishman, in the same room, and what do you have? Both are pro-business, one doesn’t like the Social Security dispensary on the backs of American workers, the other is never going to say that Medicaid is merely a transposition for the descendants of slaves. Both would condescend to me, “now now spastic, homicide is not a legitimate political outcome.” But that’s only a veneer, and all a care giver has to do is have a bad day, leave me lying on the single foam mattress, move the power chair away. It would be interesting to discover if I still had the collegiate strength to get up off the floor, to conquer bad wheelchair technology.

Elbow Curvatures, Cast Off

You can also be addicted to hate.-- the manufactured paraplegic of Emerald City

Even though the majority frame it this way, and this includes me, and Blogger, in my antipodean merger of aggression and trolling and gleefully rationalized spree killing, mourning that I shall never have the luxury of splitting Richardson’s skull open before disappearing into the dusk: the nigger with her protruding frog eyes and buck teeth conniving, she has beaten me. She contracted my father and his sister into hiring a cleaning service which wiped out my command of my domain. I did give my notice, but it is extreme duress not to have any control of my own space, and in a power chair in which my strength has been wasted. I cannot use this bucket seat for anything else but driving myself around, with emaciated ligaments screaming at me in pain to quit. I’m crying in small episodes, revealing my darker side to this sumo wrestler Muslim I lose in 13 days. She is a stupid fat bitch, hurting and bruising me up, and this is the dues I’ve paid to the Obama Administration. I cannot be ugly with the stupid fat Muslim without generating more crisis. It’s Barry Levinson, it’s Oz, at a pace more malingering and cruel, only slower. My only crime: getting overwhelmed with poor central planning and bad nutrition, living past 55. I might as well be nigger prag (not that I’ve translated the slang for prison rape) not that anyone is fool enough to engage in domestic insurrection for me. The joke is orthopedic medicine and disability activism hasn’t tortured me enough: the ambulatory majority, applying brute force, telling me to adapt, has decimated my strength, and when you’re bowed down in concentric circles, in such a fashion, the deployment of free speech, advocating for men like Craig Brittain only illustrates the fact that aligning myself to the far right hasn’t deregulated me into a safe haven. I messaged Craig once after Twitter allowed him to return. Could he pick me up at the Texas border? Dead serious, I did not persist, and no libertarian has truly befriended me. Suicide, or regimented agony until I careen into the inevitable death spiral, digital connections have left me on my own. Not that it was my right to impose on Mark, across the pond, or even Craig, but I was looking for an individualist willing to at least partially take on the burden I represented, they themselves not realizing, Craig, particularly, that companies are not beholden to the First Amendment. Jack has the perfect right to give Twitter the personality of a smore, and Google can shut me down for my embrace of violence as part of the simian psyche out of which we evolved, though in my case, it is more for an agenda than indiscriminate mayhem. It is now amusing that I was willing to take a ban for a cautious oddball who dumped my account despite my loyalty. What does it matter now? My anus, urethra, every bit of my biology weakened. Nine weeks, a cacophony of bitches telling me this is how it has to be, unless I have the strength for poison, if I haven’t waited too long.  

ADHD Wasted Space

That's the problem with being the man, you never know what you left behind.-- Ice T

I barely know Adam. I did not give him a donation for his self-styled polemic on Freedom, and under my various forms of classification, sticking the cornbread veteran in a room with Debra Horne keeps the estuaries of the Mississippi slithering along. The half witted caramel brick bat and the ex-soldier may not be from the same swamp where Okies use catfish as sexual enhancement accessories, but they both speak the same language, and in trying to flee the holocaust of my life under oh so lovely creatures as these minorities, so illustrious in the fine examples they are on the evils of inbreeding, I am appealing to yet another variation of Southern rube, whose libertarian beliefs are more ecumenical than is decent for anyone's taste. In desperation, I asked the man who waltzed off with an Alford plea if he had any space in that compound of his, and do not expect a response, but I asked, and he and I spoke all of what? 30 seconds? I made no money on my column about his speaking engagement I posted on Medium, but it may be one of the last vestiges of professional writing I have to display, and, to be honest, I have softened my attitude, share some kindred spirit with his raw defiance, and here we are. Black women have the power to threaten me with a straight jacket for bellowing in fury after what I've had to eat and absorb under their employer's management for 33 years, and I am bucking on the Internet, which will blithely ignore me, regardless of how the ball bounces: Tuesday I may have no power; Wednesday, I may be locked out, and the receptionist, Lahnisha-- something like that-- black women have this peculiar suffix fixation-- has been retaliating against me since 2015, jeopardizing my safety, long before I let anyone have it, but consider: she is terrified of me and yet Friday, I inadvertently opened the door to spot shop, and she handed me the burning bridge rebuttal notices. If I'm lucky, maybe polyps will block up my hole with speed sufficient enough to make moral scruples irrelevant. Yes, even sympathizers who would like to help cannot, or else you're a potential kidnapper waiting to prey on my nativity, and be thankful I am not just another overkill murder in Oakland California.

Jesus fucking Christ. I got lucky, that, in the season finale, Salvation's tech company giant, of Tanz Industries, the ever wiry Cabrera, disclosed he had Huntington's. So my instincts were on the money to play with the series components, even as the plot grows multi-layered, and I was scooped by Danielle's survival. It is interesting to note, as well, that Iwan Rheon, Inhumans's Maximus, is disabled because he deteriorated into being a mere human being, one who had only his mind to manipulate the coup that he did. This is a kid's show, playing dress up for prime time, but it is light enough, with themes that matter on the level of a liberetto, to enjoy without having to study too hard. Television is growing up, nonetheless, Kira Sedgwick's valley tangles, mature as they are, fail to persuade me, since I am a driveby shooting, once removed.

Smothered In The Flock

"It was dehumanizing."-- Allison Stranger

A twitter notification, and I refrain from sarcasm, not particularly caustic, searching for the right way to put it. People are imbeciles, regardless of metadata, data mining, and automation which can actually be blamed on CNN and Ted Turner, historically. CNN, lampooned as it was, anticipated the nervous breakdown of the global conglomeration that is today's digital economy.

If I am so full of my own fucking ego, I certainly don't have any brand imprints but for a thimble touch, and whose particular fault is that? I have not troubled the New Yorker in an eon, not their kind of writer. The Atlantic. The New Republic, Boston Review, these were years ago, almost. This close, and The Atlantic does falter. Some of its women are weaker bitch slap contributors. In today's environment, one can shrug old media, as well, but we know the elite when we see it. Leaving myself out of it, there are perhaps four Niume bloggers who have professional experience, Gary Sharpe being one, the Parkinson's guy, and had I paused to assess, given my platform experience, I would have put him in as my referral. Sorry there, big guy. I'm hampered by aging laptops and reluctance to upgrade Windows, though Microsoft will eventually force the issue; I've already killed myself for CPM metrics, which is why I haven't pushed my posts for exhaustive originality, stringing my points on the backs of other stringers, those on the beat, access to Lexus. I could buy Lexus if I wanted to now, but I'm waiting. I need a media outlet to cushion resource expenditure of that sort, some kind of contract, cripple limitation notwithstanding.

I know I can quit Niume, significantly slow my pace, but it is mostly drivel, and that is the issue. I'm not afraid to push Niume's buttons, but their users are so placid, my meanness would be smothered by a melting pint of Ben and Jerry's. I know when I'm licked, even if I haven't barred rabid fangs, but I am going bare them here, to tell you this, whether Blogger gets alarmed or not: Philadelphia has taught me that black counter culture is destroying the United States, and in the collective sense, Black America, go fuck yourself. You want to get out, go back to Liberia. I hate you, not individually, but in the macro world, collectively, you drag yourselves down, with ignorance generative of your own cruelty. I can never repair myself from the bosom of Negro fatalism, and say this quite calmly: I am going to fight Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, and Gerry, the old cleaning lady who is mostly out of her mind. Why am I going to do this? I have to. If they were white, given the same institutional hostility of religious corporations, I would do the same thing if the whites had violated my dignity to the same degree. Will I go to prison? Probably not. Be forcibly incarcerated? That I do not know, but I am beyond the reigns of my family in terms of not agitating. If I had a way to penetrate my former supervisor, it is her learned prevarication that triggered this, set the ball in motion. It is nuanced, as I've written in 30 odd posts, and I was at times taut, maudlin, but she played me to a criminal offense, and is the target of retribution I cannot access but by federal civil litigation I probably cannot engender. She and I are both near the end of functional biology, to the extent of the cerebral palsy we both have. I am not taking any more of it, criminal malfeasance, from minorities with skulls of two inch thickness and 100 brain cells between them. I'm taking them down, and if I suffer for it, change has to start somewhere. I'm cranky with the rain, and have to do grocery I am really not up for this morning, with my grand last gasp playing itself out. I will never befriend an African again, ever, though they need not see this, as yet. I can still mask it.

Craigslist does wonders for Emanuel Swedenborg

Despite Thurgood Marshall and Clarence Thomas, despite years of aggressive litigation to broaden civil rights, social reality on the ground is relatively stagnant in the African American community, at least when it comes to major urban enclaves. Philadelphia, Detroit, Compton, Liberty City, large sections of New Orleans, LA, the District of Columbia, even San Antonio, from what I've seen in historical footage, though I grant that Texan violence seems to have a more ruthless aspect to it. The Northeast corridor is more five and dime, if my years off campus were any indication. My perpetrator, for instance, allocated that he was subduing me in order to rob me, but I had next to nothing of value in Diamond Park, five dollars on my kitchen table, purchased by my Italian grandmother, utilized as a writing desk, I still keep my Smith Corona PWP on it, in my static environment. Five dollars, some change. Drug stabbings, drug fires, inner city neighborhoods aren't just about a deficit of resources, and poverty isn't simply about lack of money, nor even education. It's uselessness, and efficiency developers like Ev Williams cannot always solve this through coding and apps; neither can the Communist Party in Beijing, from what I've seen, and white Americans aren't immune from this malaise of not being able to apply themselves. Karina telephoned me Tuesday, unexpectedly, disruptive, and was quite changed, back to her natural brunette hair color, wearing very little mascara. I don't know what it is with me and this New Church woman who inadvertently ignited a war between me and Riverside's management, or, more correctly, ushered in the latest battle I will eventually lose. I feel badly for her, and like her even if she's flighty, leaving me with the mistake of trusting her judgment, and I suppose she feels badly for me, and I'm wondering if I engage in my last life altering event of giving my notice at the end of March, come hell or high water, if she'll let me sleep in her car. I've no idea how she's managed to retain the vehicle, even less why a 36 year old who's a bit loony wants to be my friend. I cannot pay her what I did, even if I find a writing job. What should the fact that she's being kind to an embittered cripple mean? She hardly has the resources to pool her fortunes with mine to help me relocate on the last leg of my viable years. She doesn't want to apply to be my consumer model attendant. Sandra Bland had a position awaiting her, by contrast, when she was arrested for that traffic violation. Did she fear losing it over a misdemeanor?

Spastics like myself have some insulation in that regard. Police do not like the hassle arresting wheelchair users pose, even if their domestic housekeeping presents itself as a liability, and as I come from a family with a number of first responders, I know something about cops and firefighters. They don't want to kill anybody, normally, and aren't prone to excessive force, not on the beat, but an arrest brings any citizen closer to a high risk lifestyle, though in most cases it is a revolving door, when it doesn't lead to rehabilitation due to injuries sustained in high crime areas. Darrell Jordan's decision to impanel a grand jury which then declines to indict doesn't foster trust in enforcement, any more than indicting a celebrity like Bill Cosby on hearsay is justice for victims of sexual assault, and just as automation forgets we're people first. I've been a writer publishing since I was 19, and Inquisitr has ignored my inquiries too.

Ozy would probably say, if it said anything, that my umbrage with them is misguided, and it probably used an automated system to sweep in my twitter account in 2014, and their email to my yahoo address was a prompt, and this doesn't obligate them to listen to me, especially since I am not a passive disabled woman grateful for ambulatory suffrage, but they certainly aren't as liberal as they claim if they can't handle how Philly's incompetent paradigm traumatized me. Won't even bother to listen. In California the unbearable lightness of being is a mandatory disposition, evidently.

Synergenic Oxymorons

Both technology and religion are found to have transcendence as a common motivation. -- Susan George, Religion and Technology in the 21st Century, introduction.

I remain diffident about following Justina Hadnott's account. Oh, the grooming and poise take work, and she wouldn't be caught dead in my static bubble guts environment, but I am too familiar with the smooth moving love joy routine of her less dazzling lard hindered sisters. My disposition is far too acerbic to love each day like it's my last. I've fought every day as my last, from calcified fecal matter buffering my hip spike cast on the ward (destroy them!) to my most recent calamities with having parked the Jazzy too far back to extend my bad arm to sit up on my concave stained mattress, and instead of giving in, calling 911, then getting a memo from Trudy Richardson asking why I did not contact the office. Well, because Lanishea the receptionist barely bothered to make a note to ask maintenance to bring up my new phone, and so I was left without the 5s until late Saturday, then the guard on duty did not respond to my pull cord signal for over six hours. This is minority competence in the inner city, hardly the pop corn comfort of Terrence Howard's scheming in prison issue orange.

The problem is temporarily solved, driving in so close to my milk crate bed stand that I endanger my pivot onto the toxic bedding, not that days cannot be numbered unexpectedly. Dave Goldberg's rather amusing treadmill demise is actually a perfect argument against mercy killing, since we never know, in the assurances we use to go on with our day, whether or not our propulsion driven tin cans will turn us into victuals for Elijah's ravens.

Airplanes are marvels of physics, and have been used in warfare since their manufacture became practical, and of course a passenger jet is still safer than most motor vehicles, but the post 9/11 environment has seen a dramatic change. We do not stop to think. Not necessarily that Airbus 321 may have been destroyed as an act of vengeance for MH17, (and if it was Putin is hardly chastened by conscience), but that we're rapidly losing control of the complex environment we've created. Cold War disinformation, the worry of my generation, is an outmoded tactic in the age of Goggle's amoral, if playful efficiency, and Obama's occasionally daring foreign policy insights ineffectual. Democracy is a shell game, and Communist central planning leads to the Orwellian cruelty of black children.

What does freedom mean in this context? We all have to game the system. We could mitigate it, on our own terms, but who does that anymore?

Think Positive!

Unlike Charles, or Michael Burry, who is both a writer's non-fiction construct and a real life investor with a medical degree, I failed though lack of application once too often. Case managing at my disability center was a mistake, not simply due to a pathological cat fight between me and a Jewish spastic, but because the human suffering I've seen is tearing me apart as much as the human suffering I've lived, and that includes what I had to absorb under Rick.

I do not blame the man. On the contrary, I remember his teaching lessons as if I was Elijah fed by ravens. I could see both Daniel and Rick clearly, having no desire for them, other than regret for my job. I had to be strong enough to live by institutional parameters, then absorb much worse for the sake of an appalling salary, and now minorities treat me like an imbecile, not deliberately, but because on top of all this fucking shit after being attacked by vicious dogs in their 70's for years, I should stay in this facility because I'm 52.

I'd rather become homeless and die through a seizure delivered by a taser. I'm not trying to nit pick every slight, but we've lost the ability to understand each other. Whether I go down to the telephone store this week or wait, the customer service agent couldn't grasp I log online through a USB broad brand plug in.

I still do not agree with Charles Krauthammer all the time, but I commend him for this series. Here, he tacitly admits what I more brazenly rage over. The health system is insane. I should not have to get a primary physician's script every time I need rehabilitative support, and if nothing else sparks an insurrection, the American health care models will do the trick.

**
I was, once, a powerful poet, whatever I sacrificed in technique, but alas, I didn't go into banking like TS Eliot.

Tsunami Effect

"People who watch it know it isn't boring."-- Robert MacNeil

To stay with IIsoe's adaptation as a lede, for a bit, the Catholic Church is correct with its catechism that some diseases represent evil. We never see Veronika's homosexual husband Carl, but it is his desire to satisfy his need for sodomy which precipitates the latter day crises at Gronnegaard, and the cancer weakened Veronika only has the satisfaction, after lifelong sexual promiscuity, of being caviler with Singe, the youngest daughter who never knew. The elder woman perhaps knew she was dying, and reveals the truth to a clueless florist of 26 that appearances concealed the consequences of so much sexual liberalism. Was Veronika cruel to the girl who only a day earlier she was attempting to ingratiate? Is lack of reticence appalling? As when a mother confesses her former best friend made a pass at her, and then, oh, a year, six months, regrets, through her emotional disorder psychiatry insists on classifying, says "I wish I never told you that."

Veracity alters the landscape. I loved Kathy more than my own mother when I was 12, and wished fervently to trade places with the deceased daughter Colleen. Kathy came out before my mother's anecdote, showing up at my sister's tete a tete gatherings, and I met the partner, a relative of the dead husband. My gaze stayed overhead. No remarks, just two fat women well over 35. I attempted to rekindle former childhood attachment as pretense. Hugged former childhood attachment at funeral for the bipolar matriarch who isn't to be blamed for my 53 year old predicament, and would burn the enemy at the stake along with New Mobility's star lesbian. Do I realize the implications of my rhetoric? Grand standing? Inflammatory? 

The media is just as absorbed in generating Bobbi Kristina into. a saga as it elevated Terri Schiavo into a Shakespearean tour de force. Terri Schiavo, however, was emblematic, to all parties, whether it was the life affirming ecumenical advocates, or the death with dignity advocates who wanted a vegetable with minimal awareness and a shrunken brain to be released. Nothing could be proven against Michael Schiavo prior to 2005. Terri's presumed diet pill usage is not an a priori indicator of abuse. Bobbi Kristina is not emblematic, just the poor little rich girl who brought the hood into Paris, in essence, despite Houston's celebrity and daddy Brown's acumen, whatever that amounts to. The family has the money to emulate Caucasian anal retention standards, but black is black, skidding on its on depreciation and hair relaxers. And Bobbi's attempted suicide or abuse at the hands at adopted brother is fresh enough that if the conspiracy minded Caucasian public could not get Michael, they are damn well going to roast Nick Gordon in a public shaming.

The upstanding Fascist who hates the hood where she is now totally indigent gives him the benefit of the doubt, even if the girls are always the heavy. Public television newscasts are boring, and pink. Why am I picking on Ozy? They were nice to me, and all the sudden I've developed a papier mache indignation. Why? No one reading my content is willing to risk helping me re-engage first, worrying about the rest later. Safety and support outside the box. Work, a fresh change of environment where I can reach for a modicum of tranquility. I'm not ready to die. On the razor's edge, I'm still fighting. Give me a chance. The libertarians accepted me. More than I can say for the hideous cruelty and corruption in the progressive welfare state.

Michael Jackson's Body Make-Up

The truth was that only far from home could a citizen of England, Germany, or France be nothing but an Englishman or German or Frenchman.-- Rodney Bruce Hall, National Collective Identity, page 214

The media loves the exposure of hypocrisy, and Capehart is in his element of righteous indignation over Rachel Dolezal's ethnicity. What no columnist has written outright, treading lightly on matters of defamation, is that Dolezal seems to be a clever and fraudulent opportunist with narcissistic character traits similar to the faded, occasionally recycled, Stephen Glass. In his earlier column on Ms. Dolezal's mendacity, Jonathan uses the code "furthering the cause". Red meat for black entitlement I've apparently impinged on every day of my life since I was 23. I'll leave Wapo's voice of black pride off the hook for my aggravated assault in North Philly. I was being the good progressive, and predatory addicts come in all shapes, all sizes, including opium pipes for an Afghani pasha with nothing else but a fix. I'll even leave him off for Ms. Eddy from Unlimited Staffing doing her version of the mixed race fuck bunny pass for my benefit. The woman falls into the nigger fringe ugly lesbian rejected within the culture of black liberation-- but there was the Germantown voodoo priestess hitting me up for money after my mother died in 05. For two days this woman barraged me, illegally opening my mail. Did a case manager help me? My bankruptcy lawyer? Guess again.

There was Ingrid, wearing her dead newborn on a decal, as if I needed to stare at that daily, who slept with a schizophrenic security guard who came banging on my door after her, impregnating herself again and embarrassing me-- not a crime, but it scandalized the building, not to mention the Jehovah's Witness who swindled me out of 300 dollars-- Mr. Capehart wouldn't dare address a rather livid disabled woman's victimization at the hands of black dysfunction on a contiguous basis, not to mention black arrogance, limited intellectual capacity I deal with regularly. I do not have a place at this table, as an established outlet would not let me critique black social norms using my personal experience and exposure to it-- but Rachel certainly exposes the brittle planks of Capehart's identity bible. Playing the role of a black abuse victim gave her a hedge with the tenure committee, not a bad way to go, as Europeans generally face tougher standards. 

The protest of Salmonella's delicacy

One of those wincing days, getting up to comply with the public housing requirements as I've done with the same exact rental agent for 29 years at a frenetic pace, even though I know I'm leaving, trying to remind myself my little brother is following me and can read this, lest I revert to the stark corrosion which led to staff and scrip's support, but it is public housing which has bred my hatred, what my eye sees in the withered skin of these descendants of civil rights and slavery. If I stay I'm dead, and giving my notice merely expedites the matter. I went to a luncheon for the sake of a slice of pizza to listen to a next generation black professional talk about life insurance, and he was quite good at presenting, eliciting my elocution from my haggard frame, and if my mouth was a sword, I would have then committed mass murder: I snapped back at the older minorities who run the tenant's council, then debated Dominic in the lobby, a blustery white guy subsumed by his terminal cancer. You would not know he is dying, and I was as blunt with him as I am with anyone. Upon using the word "egalitarian" he said I was bullshit, that I use my acumen to camouflage my handicap. I sniggered. Wished him well, and here I am, expediting my death at the hands of Protestant positrons.

I'm really leaving, destitute as much through exterior ambiance as in emotional ravage, the film Winged Creatures strives, and fails, to authenticate sudden violence, depending heavily on the performance of Dakota Manning to hold the centrifugal force of the narrative, but as much as one may disdain agreement with NYT, the indie arcs here never meld, despite the cast, and Whitaker's character, diagnosed with his own metastasis, mopes his way through frailty. What concerns me is not that Woods attempts sincerity and unravels, but that writers should be wary of adaptive translation. As usual, the traumas resolve in holistic fashion, save for the diphthong of Beckinsale's far too nuanced denial of childhood neglect. It dims the desire to read an author like Roy Frieirich. His prose may be better, or worse, than his script, but both Frierich and Woods strive for an extended metaphor and wind up with the ubiquity of a Big Mac ground out of fillet, in summation of an unfortunate viewing experience-- it was one of my first films seen on the new Escape.

I cannot run from my limitations. I know that. I'm the textbook dirty cripple who challenges ambulatory endurance, but a battered women's shelter, in comparison to Presby's dominant minority management, feels like a fucking vacation. I have to let this location go. I know the state will win, eventually, but I'm still running; this is my response to what I knew would happen if I couldn't step it up. When I started blogging in 2009, I had 10,000 dollars left, transformed to ground carrion in six years. Poof.

PS: Personal loyalty means a great deal to me. 

A Good Rule of Thumb is not an Endorsement

Stop posting during burn out seems to be fairly wise, especially if lack of polish is a dilution, but Park Towne will not be able to meet my urgency to vacate current premises, and I have a Tuesday early evening appointment to visit, but inertia is a huge underclass problem. Presby either will not or cannot move for eviction, and I am unable to remove myself without making my body a significant shift in burden to Philadelphia as a municipality. Even a woman's shelter is all but virtually moot if my transfer method is weakening, which it is, and so I am going the route of every other disabled individual over 50. Total dependence on minimal minority labor, or else. I am considering asking the ACLU to sue to allow me humane euthanasia, which will fall on deaf ears.

I admire Final Exit, they understood I am my father's daughter and wanted a quid pro quo arrangement, and no can do, but they made me smile, and when I sat up, I thought twitter's notification about Oliver was a news outlet, at first, not a candidate, but I'll let things stand, wondering what a next generation minority power player wants with a biased and bitter little girl in her overly battered body. I know nothing about Oliver.

This is all there is-- yes, I know, but as useful as it is to learn from how documentary film maker Ken Burns uses narrative structure in his video, again, liberals expose their own problems: success against carcinogenesis creates intractable dilemmas not so easily overcome despite the self interest of survival, and my insight into this epistomelogical plank has been one of my driving themes, despite the acknowledged hierarchy of ocogenes over and above developmental and chronic damage. What happened to me as a child would not necessarily happen today, in the same vein that radical mastectomy has fallen by the wayside, but because one, just one centralized disability center engaged in EEOC violations, and because one, just one rental agent using its powerful religious sect as a shield, evaded negligent liability, and is free to make their property a toxic environment for me, well, here I am, a piece of hide for all ideological parties concerned.

Shear Glee

Yes, I know I'm taking a cheap shot with a chortle, but I don't have the gigabytes for a long online post. This has been my world since I was nine years old. Welcome to it, rainbow coalition naive idealists. Hopefully I'll be dead before the American collapse begins in earnest. I wonder how the minority population of Ferguson would relish a migratory journey back to South Sudan, but I could hear a pin drop on that score.

Mordantly Fecund

"I need time to grieve."-- Allison Joseph

Not all New Wave cinema is necessarily an accurate representation, and Liza Minnelli's video worn recycle The Sterile Cuckoo  is a dated antiquity, which, memories of Garland's biography like episodic flash cards in the comparison, led me to look on Minnelli's performance as an exploration of mother's emotional pain, with a light hearted side. Liza is not her mother-- though her capital comes from Judy's passion, a heart which transcends the avant garde which surrounds Judy's overdose and death. That Pokey is hostile to homosexual codex would lead mortally wounded souls to wonder that gay pride activists don't get the sturdy network vehicle taken off the air.

When I saw Allison's picture, realized she might have read my powerful essay about the scars of inner city living, and my sparse, but nevertheless substantial communiques with her over the years, my rage against diversity being forced down my throat, I shriveled with an OMG moment, having made apparently erroneous assumptions about her ethnicity. Usually, when she communicates to the list en masse, I normally join in with perfuse accolades and praise, which are sincere despite my class conflicts here in the dungeon, but when she announced a death in the family, I quelled the urge to join in with digital comfort, because all I've ever had with her are one-sided conversations. What we generate in epistomological contexts simply through research--not that I am able to judge whether I've caused her offense. I used to assert I was biased, at first, and I've since graduated-- but my reasons for this are simple. Integration, in principle, has an abstract, noble liberal sentiment. Reality is something else, and I applaud the courage of Nicholas Wade, though of course, he would shun me for being deliberately rude, sometimes hotly vitriolic-- the fact remains, however, that Allison has the luxury of her reticence and commitment to helping writers. I live with the fear of being exterminated by women like Trudy Richardson on the one hand, and inner city women who need to indulge their own comfort in exploiting me, or going through more trauma through urban crime. 

Allison could say she is vulnerable as well. Being a minority academic is no guarantee of indemnity--, but she has a salary, the security of tenure, and I bust my hump for peanuts.

Gwen Ifill, Postpartum Rinses

I may email Dr. Gates, because this is how my mind works. Engage with enemies who were unfairly arrested after I have unfairly been scarred living in terror, in Philadelphia's Beirut war-zone mock up of an inner city, across the street from a state campus from my 23rd year. The entitlement which radiates from Henry Louis Gates is refined with restrained ebullience, but the difference between pride and conceit has its own continuum. The man projects pompous inflation, and if I have shut myself off from the history of the African diaspora, what would I expect of a response?

Not that there would be one--but I'd ask for an accounting. Filching may be a time honored tradition in custodial work, and I do not mean to take fiascoes with cleaning companies all that seriously, but I returned to Philly as a young woman to succeed, not to have to struggle an entire lifetime against nearly unremitting threat and relentless superhuman effort for my place at the table. 

Gwen Ifill and I had a moderated 30 second exchange on WaPo's website. Do not ask me about what. Like a diligent anchor, she wrote I could download the Newshour for my iPad as well! Is information and education necessarily tied to markets in this way necessarily the best we can do? Is this beneficial to the human mindset, regionally? Globally? I recall Ford's lawyering up on Gwen when she only mildly pressed the politician during his primary run about family corruption. Politico might have kept on it-- but my point is more about social burrowing and the value or lack thereof of exposure.

I have barely eaten all day, and wish I could laugh about it, but I rode this grim route in my twenties; I'd rather be dead than repeat the experience.