Kingdoms Come

Self-interest is a rather condemning insulator. The children of celebrities either survive through imitation, like Ivanka Trump, or die in a drug overdose while in a grotesque imitation, like Bobbi Brown. I just remembered my pitch about Bobbi, and would probably have to hold my nose and open a Facebook account to get at my sources. I have no desire to get penalized and banned on the social networking giant, none, whatsoever, but like Ann Coulter, I may have to succumb, at least as a practical matter, but for the life of me can only barely fathom why Peck's son checked himself out. I am starving to death, doomed, spent a life long battle believing what liberals spoon fed me about success and disability, and the obituaries hang little pork chops on a string. Jonathan committed suicide, because of, or despite Father Chisholm's insufferable stridency? In Old Gringo, nearly one of Peck's last supporting roles, the actor mitigates his infallible conviction, since he is portraying Bierce, middlebrow hack, whose legacy mine might one day be reasonably compared to, but it was distasteful, badly done. We're used to the striated laces with which the old lion roars

Though I am not fully ready to take aim at Hollywood and Catholic pageantry, Peck's priggishness is another matter, and as old as Gentleman's Agreement is, I rooted for the realists, thank you very much, though I have never used "kike" as an epithet. I have no idea what it means. For its time, the 47 film was more honest than it had to be, but this was due to the war. Too many Europeans died in that conflict, in addition to the 6 million in the camps. Chisholm was aged, at the end of The Keys to the Kingdom, with its adamant lessons about tolerance and hypocrites, (I had forgotten Vincent Price and he was a breath of fresh air) to look like a Scottish saint. Compare this to his devil may care countenance in 89, against Fonda and Smitts. The elderly, eventually, are drawn to caviler libertarian defiance, even Peck, who probably would have been sworn into office by acclamation, if he had given his handlers the go. It is so much more convenient, merging celebrity and monarchy. The early 20th century Edwardians knew it, or Gambon had some fun with it, if the story of Elizabeth's father has any genealogical accuracy.

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.

Fighting With Silent Leftists, Whether Die Swiftly or Linger in Traumatic Entrails

Arm chair positivists. What I haven't had for years is someone picking up the phone and hey Joanne, how you doing? Don't get discouraged. Want to come work for us? How can I pick apart what OZY indices on twitter means, why their members are members? Why they put me on an intriguing journalist list-- 2014 was undoubtedly my last active year, despite the tremulous energy I've thrown into my posts. Bobbi Kristina has ceased to be a flap jack. Maybe. Her case differs from Terri Schiavo in our arguments about value, efficacy. Schiavo became an irrational cause celebre with insinuations of spousal indifference. None of us can know the inside of the Schiavo marriage, just as none of us know if Nick Gordon is guilty, but if Schiavo was a cause, Bobbi is an unspoken casualty of racial celebrity unable to adjust to life in the bubble. Real fame is a curse, making black celebrity more of a tightrope, unless you were Diana Ross, but the vegetative body, it troubles everyone, the dead alive. Venezuela might have become a beat if Hugo Chavez, like the fictional Veronika Gronnegaard, lingered in a coma. Veronika doesn't linger long, and essentially dies for a daughter emotionally oblivious to the impact, however debilitating. Frederick, the eldest son, virtually goes into major depression. Gro loses everything. Sunshine/Singe loses her innocence and splits her family.

My mother's death, swift, pulled the lynch pin out of my family, and barring a miracle I die alone in upscale minority projects. I will probably never fully recover my health for a simple reason. I did not leave Riverside in 2006, which is when I should have, and my ability to endure this community is failing. That simple. I am dying because I cannot change my hostile environment, because I'd have to fight the disability center tooth claw and nail for absolutely nothing. I rip $450 out of their petty change budget, let's say. Nothing. The disparate poverty of their current client base is loathsome, and their information and referral staff still type narrative notes, poising the same questions, destroying my self-same determination they claim to uphold. Faust got to see the world for his deal with the devil.

My choice is stay, give in, take incarceration, or go back North, fifteen minutes uptown, so I can fall into spastic bitch trash slot. All because I'm not an anti-anxiety medications trying to control a classroom.

I believed in a dynamic life. This is simply going through the motions of American catacombs. No one wants an uncouth bitter bellicose happy anarchist fantasizing inglorious paybacks, skull fractures on a makeshift alarm clock as a weapon. There I have ideas, those reverberations of unwitting consequences. Even revenge comes cold.

Vegetative Demons

"We shouldn't have got involved."-- Josie Byzek

My aunt hung up on me last night. Age, cancer, yelling at me to let my anger go, not to file a complaint against my building manager and her tactics. With all deference to Tony Stiles, for whom I need to make time to engage, I never had a problem with the police. Some officers have been more diffident than others, some more sympathetic, or less, but I downloaded an email for my district, and if I start this, ignite this spark, they may not arrest me, but conceivably could escort me from the premises, and then twitter, in a fantastical show of force, will have to come rescue me, with a small gobbling chuckle in the back of my throat.

If I file a complaint against Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Presbyterian Homes, Ken Cantrell, I then undoubtedly raise a flag with the police. I am weighing this, in my small status among seven billion.

Terri Schiavo's brain stem function and Bobbi Kristina's are complimentary in some ways. The disability movement may be silent in Bobbi's case because the famed sire of Houston may have attempted suicide, one. Two, the family is not ending her medical care, though entertainment media seems buoyed on the issue, even if it has been less than six months since the poor little love child became non-responsive. Does her brain deserve more time toward a possible recovery?

Terri, as I understand it, aggravated her heart with dietary supplements, and disability activists made certain insinuations against Michael, the husband, in reference to the marriage, and that after 15 years of institutional care, his wife wasn't improving, so he wanted her out of the way. Josie's argument to me, at the Asian restaurant I could not afford, was that Terri Schiavo, whether she had minimal awareness or not, mimicked those who were non-verbal with mental retardation, hence, removing the feeding tube and letting the autonomic, if absent, woman, starve, gave the American public the wrong idea. How many of us would trade places with Bobbi, or Terri, if given their condition as a choice over and above dying? This was my luncheon with two lesbian Christian case managers, the dumbbell in my head going "This woman is my friend, right?"

Cecil Morales, despite the power of his verbal acuity and penetration, probably would not have worked for me as a romantic interest, and if he is still around, (I am not searching), I apologize to him for bristling and losing my cool. I was trapped, trying to hold onto my belief in people like Ms. Byzek, and my need for someone interesting to trust and sleep with, but I'd give my right arm to have had an anecdote to tell you about the dinner date I never had with a very penetrating Argentine trade journalist who was such a piercing Catholic theologian. She took that from me. Josie.

Her and Ginny. Peevish den mothers. What other kind is there? Forgiveness. Yep. I know, and a novel about it wouldn't lead to a movie deal as it did for Nora Ephron. Learn how to be less passive when people who think they know best screw your anticipations. Now I'll debate going back to work offline, or lying down. I take my time being indecisive about following back. Nothing personal; people don't like it when I let my neural net behave with that peculiar lack of compassion with which savants can be gifted.

Explosive Postures in the Arc of Compassionate Praise

But it is precisely here that a disastrous limitation in his position shows itself. --Martin Heidegger on Hermeneutics and Facticity

Ian McEwan is very good at illustrating corrosive anxiety which eats away at British definition for lack of an answer. As a novelist illuminating Western liberalism which is overwhelmed, Ian keeps it right on the edge; neither Daniel Craig nor director Roger Mitchell can master this in Enduring Love. The opening sequence is spectacular, and for that reason contrived, and Mitchell might have done better to consider a montage, some other form of adaptation. Ifans does a good job at being sick, using Gnosticism to implode toward annihilation, but Craig simply grows vicious and angry to the point that Ifans' mania seems mewing against it.

If you're going to use a hot air balloon as an allegory for humanity's precarious suspension between heaven and hell, in other words, going psycho-thriller on the time tested motif lends itself to being a cheap plot twist. Language is interdependent with visual acuity, so the motion picture is necessarily linked to language, and its proto-scientific discipline, linguistics, but narrative and film are also two different beasts, and fidelity to the text can be an Achilles's heel.

What Jerry does really well on occasion is getting his morphemes in just the right combination of synecdoche. "the whizzer" is evocative of blood spurting up out of a slit vein. Me? I simply pummel my stanzas, hating the definite article with a vengeance. I do not pun. I compact, and close with a thud, taking on even speculative traumatic conversion with defiance. Without necessarily having cured myself, since I have to deal with the residue of a senile transsexual who cannot register that I hate s/him and want nothing to do with its living carcass, I've managed, nonetheless, to close the door.

What I cannot do is restore my sensual self-esteem. That would take money my vanity as a broiled prawn doesn't have, though I'm sexually attracted to two of the men from Libertarian meet-up. Would I dare to do anything about that? Ah.

Tim Kenneally has done some decent reporting for the Wrap on Bobbi's health care, and I wish I could take my piece of this as a disability journalist: none of us are immune from the fact that the costs of long term care will bankrupt the global economy, but what journalists on Bobbi's beat cannot answer is why Brown's physicians cannot counteract whatever it was she ingested. People as young as Bobbi can come out of persistent vegetative states, but it takes extraordinary commitment to capture that spark of spirit as opposed to mere brain stem activity. We need to start letting go. I still have my faculties and want to return to employment, but the death industry takes precedence, while I starve on my pride.

Candied Camera

"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.

Ineffectual Inoculations against den mothers like Nancy Salandra

Zhang Fan and Lyu, another member of the group, called the victim an "evil spirit," before Zhang bludgeoned her head with a chair, then jumped on her and trampled her head, --a Beijing correspondent

That mammalian progeny imitate their elders should not create a cultural dissonance, but fame seems to lend itself to surreal gawking in the face of tragedy. If Whitney Houston OD'd herself in bubble bath, it seems par for the course that daughter Bobbi would follow suit, in a similar vein to Chris Farley following John Candy in their mutually respective spirals of self-destruction, which is why I've given the event the 15 minute news cycle attention. We tend to believe that success, which may be generated by celebrity, or create the celebrity, generates happiness, but those in the recognition game have to develop complex coping strategisms, or not, factoring in those troublesome issues related to ethnicity and its norms.

I thought I read, in the news items on Bobbi, that she found her mother in 2012, but don't expect me to verify this. I saw the consequences of my mother's third suicide attempt, sitting on my knees as a kid, in a posture my former supervisor would understand, while EMS escorted mother on gurney out the front door. EMS would escort me too: dislocated index finger, my third degree burns from setting hair on fire, a slit chin worked on by a black trauma intern? at Temple Hospital, when I still consulted for deese Stalinists, though their facilities were on city line then.

I had a brambling argument with Nancy at five yesterday. She claimed she did not understand my demand, in this email, for restitution, but of course she wouldn't. She knows perfectly well that Medicaid Waiver administration is red tape smothering Bedlam, and we argued. Liberty doesn't provide attendant care.

Oh really. Back and forth. Did I want a housing list? I don't know what happened. Sue Liberty if that's what you want. Back and forth, the new provider is SHCB (or some similar anachronism, I did not care), back and forth, she is treated like a ferret goddess within the independent living paradigm, and all I heard was a peevish brittle whippet who wanted to know what I wanted if I did not want to reengage intake all over again. Our single payer options are hellish affairs, and this is how outcasts are treated, and I am sure the bureaucrats in Harrisburg are going to fall over themselves giving me full disclosure on Medicaid bidding wars. I do not intend to let it go. I won't. I want better outcomes, less abuse, fewer EEOC lawsuits. I am in my 53rd year and want to seek asylum under Rand Paul's auspices. I want to restore benevolent dictatorship and put myself to sleep, when the time comes; I've never dreamed of my mother's pills.