Catharsis Resolution

In the aftermath of the bombing, I wrote that I felt pity for Jadar Tsarnaev, and that still holds true despite my anger at Mueller's lack of proficiency. I pity Tamerlan's corpse even while home grown outrage flows in my veins, veins desirous of expatriation and powerless to effect this transition. (Ah, I blaspheme for this dream) I have always been one of those annoying tight asses. Never cheated, never swindled, and this city of my birth has done absolutely nothing but punish me for my efforts to be a straight arrow. My anger may be concentrated on Linda's utter lack of consideration for the games she plays with our limited lives, my former supervisor, but this state insurer is a criminal enterprise, and the suffering Keystone cost me in 2007 when they dropped me after I lost Medicaid cannot be undone. I anticipated cuts in benefits after my mother died and did not care, as I wanted to resume my career, but I did not foresee that Medicare would kill me in order to protect itself from the fact that I depend on durable, functioning power chairs. Krugman, or John the Baptist with a .222 scope rifle, likes to point out that 60% of US healthcare is already socialized medicine, but leaves it to Keifer to fight veterans administration medicine regulatory overload in typical Hollywood point guard fashion.

The punishment my body absorbed from state retraction and federal compliance protections cannot be undone. It may be biopsied, and may be treatable, and may even be partly related to the fact that I am a feline pin cushion, but it can not be undone without impairing me to a point of questionable helplessness, and then the mighty mice progressives wonder at my lack of civility when minority rubes surround me in my doorway with the threat of making me someone else's problem. This is how the Presbyterian protestant exploitation deploys itself in the name of good works?

Putting young Jadar to death solves nothing. American autonomous notions remain threatened, however illusory they may be in fact, regardless of whether or not young Tsarnaev's lethal injection, if it comes to that, emerges as a ludicrous telecast on Good Morning America, so what does the administration of justice ever truly achieve? Have McVeigh's victims been able to heal? Are they satisfied or does our home bred insurrectionist haunt them?

What we hope for, I think, is the retraction of the corruption, and if I can pass away knowing that I have curbed the worst excesses of this segregationist model, I will at least have some measure of peace, even as I search for a new support network. I could try becoming the Rosenbach loon, having finally written their name, but wouldn't that be a test of secular tolerance.

I opened up with the group a little at our last meet, now that closure is coming. They are not so bad. Don't faint. I'll retype it if you want me to reaffirm the majority bipedal species can actually be tolerable.

Amore and Hairy Monsters

"B+-- you seem to despair of the whole process." An intuitive foreign policy instructor

Alejandro González Iñárritu is the only Latin American leftist to whom I concede my argument, and I would luxuriate in your stunned silence over this admission, except that I do not believe in it. Babel should not be viewed on network television. These idiots butchered the full extent of the film and its implications with their edits and jump cuts to commercial, and I am going to hiss at them in protest. 

My critical faculties scatter to the wind with every viewing, and upon reassembly, I cannot recall which post it was I wrote that I have not been able to offer Alejandro's work justice, but the assertion remains as true today as when I wrote it into archive; I can stitch together a few threads. The police intervene in each of the three arcs of the film, with tragic consequences in the Moroccan  and US border segment. The Japanese police more or less waltz in on a denouement that began before the film started, with the death of Chieko's mother, and it is only the Jones couple who are not assisted by authorities after the mother is shot.

To the extent that I am able to enter into the posture Inarritu seems to demand, he is right, but that little bird of a cautionary tale fluttering so charmingly around the halo of Barack Obama, led to the botched investigation that gave us the Boston marathon bombing. I am super pissed off at both the FBI and what remnants seemingly remain of the KGB. Am I ashamed of the former attorney general Ashcroft, the CIA and military intelligence under Rumsfeld for water boarding and Jose Padillla? Yes.

Their replacement is a Harvard Constitutional scholar, killing the children of militants with UAV's in our blind spot, and with his other hand, he scratches Chechens behind the ears for that warm fuzzy feeling. Most liberals who have known me over the years, in our online projections, ward me off. Spastic is rude. Spastic is in pain, so much pain. Even if I throw you a challenge flag on the field as it relates to self-delusion, let me offer Mueller a few keen insights on what he can learn from a developmental brain injury:

"Gee, Russian security services send us a red flag over Tamerlan Tsarnaev. We cannot find anything, but let's hold him in Russia for the time being and get him on a watch list. Bush may have had constipation on civil liberties but this in Chechnya we're talking about."

Fucking assholes. I am never voting for another President. Ever. Period.

Salaam Devereux!

The Real Thing looks at James in the context of the very material world in which his novels were written, published and read. --Greg Zacharias

Hum. Those who know Erik would tell you I am being unfair to the dying doctor. S/He invests his zeal in a positive way, in contrast to my seething due to the fact that his adversary burned me, and burned me at a fairly crisp temperature. My rebuttal to this is that Erik and Cassie engaged in fraudulent activity to the point that the DOJ investigated, and I don't like excusing criminality because the individuals engaged in it have glaring chronic conditions, nor do I enjoy being neighbors with such people, and then expected to be civil due to the fact that they've had heart attacks and numerous strokes, regressing thereby. 

In the aftermath of the bombing, much has been made of the fact that the Russians asked the FBI to investigate Tamerlan Tsarnaev, and that our agents found nothing illegal. I am baffled by this dove cooing by the executive branches involved. Bortnikov is willing to see journalists murdered, willing to kill Berezovsky, but can't imprison an ethic Chechen on suspicions of radicalization simply because the Chechen had legal American status?

Romans know when dead fish begins to decompose, and the stench can overwhelm.

I made contact with a live Google voice yesterday, but will attempt live interaction again tomorrow to resolve monetization, because spastics need to prep the necessary data requirements. Perhaps I should take my proposal that I made on list when Greg and I were courteous seriously. I started this blog to generate projects along these lines, after all. Lot of work; would not need to contact Kidman necessarily. An alliance with Frigide Bargot would offer prodigal cover, nyet? Burn injuries move from acute to chronic with age.

Slavic Escarpment

"Look at him. He's just pissing himself to tell us about the fake Aryan Cosmetics conspiracy!" --Vincent D'onofrio

The narrative behind the rise of Catherine the Great is fascinating in its imposition. A fairly low key Prussian enlightenment era aristocrat marries well, excels in the game of court intrigues, has her husband murdered, or the truth around his death successfully repressed, and Voila, long live Czarina, the great Russian ruler who isn't Russian. I wrote a poem about her after extensive research. It is a poem in need of a tuning, but one of the last I showed to Robert before Trudy Richardson's hire at Riverside nearly annihilated my existence. If you think I am being unfair to the evasive minority who will tap dance any way but loose in order to avoid a civil rights lawsuit against her parent company, look at what we do to the damned; it is in this sense that I pity young Tsarnaev, regardless of his motives. David Brooks gives me cover here for incredulity at the sheer magnitude of the manhunt that took place in Boston. A kid is a kid, despite the marathon deaths, the loss of the campus security guard. Slavic conventions baffle me, but Alexandra published my poems that used those conceits to signify desolation, my Grecian editor who had to fucking die of breast cancer despite the fact that prim and proper lesbian was the best promoter I had. Here too, back in the day, initially, when I heard Alexandra's voice for the first time, I grew excited. "New literary friend!" This assertion ran in my mind until I met her in person. Flag went up and chilled any sentiment I had about confidential intimacy when she presented herself. The able bodied world can't even allow me confidantes in my own fucking field, and more still, she did not functionally edit me. This is what I asked of her when she was dying, and I could not get the manuscript out to her in time, and so she died on me also, a pissant of a hanging chad.

Doubtlessly, I stay with WaPo as a reader because of its national gridiron mentality, but let me respond to Joel Achenbach's points by objecting to his use of grid iron simplicity. I am as perplexed as any of you about the motives of the brothers, but the tactics of the terrorist is not about winning, it is about resort.

I am hesitant to press on with this in any thorough fashion in the moment given the national tempo and corporate suppression,  which I find absolutely ludicrous, but I am always mindful that I am letting my id, scars, analytics, dangle under the largesse of a powerful corporate tolerance.

Disenfranchisement, Patriot Pluck

Mmm, baby brother accepted my invitation to Google +, this after I gave his voice mail a furious tongue lashing, many weeks ago now, around the time of these events, though I cannot provide a date of the evening the tongue lashing occurred. Why our mother gave him the name of the most loved tribe, born of true love after years of deception, if Hebraic hagiography has any psychic validity, is mystifying, but it seems to suit him. I played chess with his deceased biological father, a schizophrenic who dived on top of my sister and beat her while I had a front row seat on the next pillow over. When he was lucid, I found him sexually attractive, and would have lived Fitch'es best dramatic arc before Oates persuaded her to make it a novel, but the man was on his death march at the dawn of conception. This is Benjamin's history.

He is still my kid brother, and I am his eldest sister, I know people, I know. I have rank, and toggling his blinders might have been harsh, and he has the most adorable boys, my nephews, but those blinders needed some jiggling.

I am not posting a damn word to him in the stream, not now. Lovely, isn't it?

Barring some catastrophic incident, I am not quitting, of course not, but I am not pushing myself hard enough either, not always, afflicted in and not in any good way like Mr. Ramsay, though I hope to hold on, break through.

Not this morning, however. Still need to install the printer. I know it is easy, but I am fearful around all this technology. I came on to reply to my sister citizens who cry out on Facebook asking when is it going to stop?

If you had been paying attention, you'd already know the answer, which is why I have taken so many risks in so many posts, being honest with the negations my dignity has borne, stripped away like a forensic anatomy puzzle. As a journalist, I know nothing, and hell will freeze over before I ever have anything like Ted Koppel's source list, but violence is not created in a vacuum. This is the cost of marginalization.