The Anvil and The Nail

Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood, was an evil genius. She said she hoped to “exterminate blacks like weeds” & so began “educating” us about “choice”. She is the author of voluntary genocide.
18 million black deaths later & liberals still defend her dream.
Sad!

— Candace Owens (@RealCandaceO) May 15, 2019

In the constant sifting through the sand dunes of mediocrity in search of aesthetic kernels, the sort of kernel which can fuel the engine for any contemplative essay, not just the pet peeves of an obstinate blogger, enthusiasm for an Australian actor like John Noble can dull rather quickly. His first ripple on the isometric weather system which hovers over this coastal metropolis was on The Fringe, a series which was an early attempt by JJ Abrams Productions at expiation for not living up to the expectations generated by Lost, and no spinoff or imitator ever quite had the same impact on popular culture as that plane crash, but The Fringe had high hopes of doing so with the offering of an invidious transhumanism which only managed to lampoon itself, which is a great deal for the dowager’s lack of interest to assert, as Noble didn’t leave her captivated as the unstable scientist. One could speculate that Noble is the tin man version of Cate Blanchett, generational descendants of penal colony exports who pay homage to the motherland but “get” America, to paraphrase Blanchett herself, her contextual framework worth some thought against her headier films. In Heaven, an extended metaphor superimposed on an already elaborate medieval structure, Blanchett and Ribisi are penitents, but is it merely coincidental that their shaven scalps evoke Holocaust survivors? Noble is meant to project that degree of enigmatic menace onto his viewers, but only does so with a rather shallow apologia, the dark side of Darius Tanz’es nimble libertarian liquidity in Salvation, and because CBS is a two bit shallow nickel and dime hustler, they hustle Noble over to The Good Wife while Salvation is still taping to get him to do another shadowy figure killed by an indignant defendant probably bedazzled by tortuous action against his harmless barking dog into the stark travesty killing which is Noble’s fate. We might as well embrace Bach.

This is something Brian Sims manages to conveniently obliterate from the latest ignition over Roe v Wade. He behaves, in that self-created video, like a patriarchal male who dares to treat women of faith like the Second Sex. This doesn’t mean that men don’t have the right to speak, but Sims engages in visceral relegation of the feminine mystique, a homosexual male helping women destroy the newborn of the species. It was a fatal miscalculation for a Democrat who has a lock on the 182 district he represents. Pennsylvania Republicans don’t have candidates to run against him or Farnese, my state senator on whom I finally, if briefly, set eyes. His lock down is also a form of cowardice. He isn’t an abortion doctor, Sims, merely a new age autocrat paving the way for humanity’s new edge transformation. We already know the adage, in our collective conscience, about being careful with wishes.

The Anvil

I thought I had already posted the picture of Sims posing with me. It is quite possible I did post it and using Google's internal search engine simply did not locate it under the legislator's name. Here it is:

If you look closely I am obviously emotionally ransacked, and you can hear a more able Mary Worrrilow talk over my head saying "that's better," after I tried doing Wellbutrin in 2003. This photo with a caviler and well groomed attorney who we do not need to envision in an anal posture occurs much later, perhaps 18 months before this last, perhaps final, implosion of my independence. Mary Worrilow is my mother's youngest surviving sister. She and I aren't on speaking terms, and I don't like her, never have, nor her husband, nor her daughter who says she loves me so much. But for the moment, I'll just add this. If a quadriplegic with a battering ram life can put a homosexual politician who can certainly pass for straight on his knees for the sake of being placated, then the world isn't going to end. When Isabella commissioned the Spanish Inquisition, Brian and I both would have been tortured, even ignited and scorched above faggots to purge Christendom of blasphemy.

As if Captain Bly Hailed from Scranton

As a corollary aside to my meeting with Krawchuk, what rankles me about former AG Kathleen Kane goes beyond political dualism, to borrow the phrase from my short lived protégé Louise. I have read at the very least a dozen articles on the Kane saga and I cannot quite offer a cogent summary: it involved an adversarial relationship with Corbett, one of the worst one term governors in PA history, the fallout from the Sandusky scandal, the pornographic emails floating around the state capital of Harrisburg (I obviously have some experience there on the municipal level), Kane's investigative overreach, paranoia, which seems justified, a shaky press conference once she was indicted, her omission to the jury in relation to any vendettas she harbored with DA's. One could simply say she was out of her depth, don't over-analyze it, and yet, her downfall, and patently unfair prison term, seems to throb with my own mortal scars. The citizens elected her, but this counted for nothing once the legal machinery kicked into place to impeach, remove, put her on trial. Representative Brian Sims, the great gay "Philadelphia hope" who could not see me, not see me at all, may have been quoted in the press telling Kane "I love you!" for not defending Pennsylvania's defense of marriage act, but once the grease hit the pan, he didn't stand by her. Typical for these cases. I did not vote for the woman, but remain disturbed. The Commonwealth is still far too much the "old boy's network," and I still have a significant residual sympathy for her vanquished star. If President Obama could release the significantly disturbed Bradley Manning from federal prison, where he should have remained, Governor Wolf could and should commute Kane's sentence. She is a mother with children of her own, and we should be able to comprehend that the destruction of Joe Paterno's legacy, the scandal that rocked Penn State, should never happen again.

A Libertarian Will Pull Up Your Woolens

"I don't hate anyone." Mike Baduchio, political operative-- (sic)

This evening I actually made it to my first Libertarian Party meeting in winter, this due to prior knowledge that I could ramp it up onto the Irish Pub's portico, and I met my first local libertarian politician, Ken Krawchuk, a bit of a ne'er do well with a grizzled  out of Montgomery County, running for Guvenor against the seemingly insipid Tom Wolf.. He has run for the governorship several times, Mr. Krawchuk, and told me to write about meeting him, his tutorial on canvassing, being a wedge issue bitch in general-- not that he told me to write that, but I can be as disillusioned with libertarian political chapters as anything else, always a distant fourth rail in the American primary system. I met new people, old people, all my white boys, promising energetic turks, the geeks, the pot bellied stoners, the disruptive quadriplegic barking orders, spending money she wasn't prepared to,  birthday gift not cleared yet due to bowel and holiday, meeting Molly and Mitch, the servers, and Mike, Krawchuk's handler. I broached Milo, and was respected enough to be asked about the state legislature. Was astonished to be asked. I did not say Brian K Sims should be torched, but would have liked to. Instead: "the state legislature is corrupt, on both sides of the aisle."  And emoted strong feelings about the demise of Kahleen Kane. I called her Harris and Ken corrected me, only small notches of my 17 year distress escaping. I did not bring up my life threatening self-evacuation that is scaring me so much my problem might solve itself with a mid-July stress death, putting my life in jeopardy to do this as it was. On a full charge, the dilapidated Jazzy barely made my 23rd to Market to 20th and Walnut trisect and back the same way. The Quantum balks at the cold, which should be worse this time of year, but I live in the chair, and this is not the reliable P-200. I'm obviously wearing the battery down with constant use, and have another mental hand of cards to play, as this machine is only giving me three and a half hours run time, at best, with the short. I wanted to press Krawchuk. Kindly colorful figure he may be, why keep doing it, being the wedge bitch, the thorn? But I've made this click my family: Kokesh, Miller-Miller, Stiles, and poor Craig. Libertarianism, local, national, this is my psychiatry, and doing some libertarian stories, even getting a scoop, (possibly) this may be part of my final act. I was going to be stark, and as hollow as a snub-nosed cartridge, but I am too empty of feeling, so drained I cannot summon the will for the caustic erosion, ignoring, for example, that there was an African American stud in the mist, as well. We are diverse. I am simply the only spaz, the dowager, being asked permission by the kindly stout wife of the operative if she could pull up my socks. She did,. My mother must be turning in her grave, that this is the solution I've given myself to, as if these fractious individualists would sacrifice themselves to rescue me from Center City Niggerland. Don't feed me shit about freedom of mind. I've lived a fucking holocaust, with interludes, without a scintilla of hope to possess something so vital as private property. Will still bobbing, with all these hooks, baited as a catfish.

Piggyback

I just applied for a temporary position with the speed of lightning, amazed at how irrelevant a CV can be these days. My LinkedIn profile, though upgraded, doesn't have everything, and my picture is terrible, the one with the imposed upon Sims is marginally better. And I'll switch to that later, test that was of progressive tolerance, that town hall meeting at Trinity. My flesh is gravel despite recent updrafts, needing to do less, better.

My point, riding Jeffrey's column, is that subsidies do not lead to optimal outcomes, and I am borderline, skirting the edge of total downfall. My mind is still here, and though my father's sister would kill me for this, and nearly has, we have to make judgments. She and my youngest surviving paternal uncle are autonomic (virtually) biohazards, and sustained medical treatment should be suspended. Keep them comfortable, but let them go. Ditto my father, ditto his wife. It takes away from others who aren't that sick, and need things to stay in society. I am living like a ragpicker precisely because the most expensive clients, like my grandmother, to whom Mary was quite close, is a nurse's meal ticket. I love Pauline, mind you, but she is one of our last links from the nineteenth to the 21st century, and she's suffering, having lost herself. Like Peter Thiel, but with a much different advocacy promoting it, it is not going to happen to me. Sure, people still die from poor medical outcomes at my age, or Gwen Ifill's, but the do everything approach is far too successful in developed economies.
Yes, euthanasia has problems, and Francis would zap me in a blinding mist for a callow lack of mercy, but we need to start thinking about limiting medical resources. Pure Genius is bullshit, in that regard. If Uncle Joseph could still contribute, had a utility, that would be different, but he is senile, with autistic anti-social behavior, and a carrier of deadly infection, nearly bedridden. We need to start thinking like Nazi doctors now. We do already, but in the wrong way. Within certain stages, people need to let go. Marie has been treated for cancer since her sixties and still smokes. I fought, but gave in to vaping to spare myself what little pain I can, and if I have a metastasis, that is on me. I'll take the morphine. Chemo can kiss my ass.

Foster Care Inconstancy in Millibars

"If someone gets shot they should stay shot."-- William H. Macy, or, as I like to say, "all cats are cats".

kimmy has her own peculiar characteristics, one of which is insisting I get off wretched fecal and urine sinkhole mattress when she insists upon it; her mew has a grating high pitch of protest even as she purrs on pillow above my head, bushing out her tail, and befriending the latest super mouse as opposed to killing latest super mouse, but as all my boys have died in this accursed Riverside studio, what am I to do? I applied myself to a grief counselor over Oliver and grief counselor iterated in bourgeoisie fashion that my male felines were my family. Oliver was put down shortly after mother drop in 11/05, and a part of me says fuck this shit, and another part is devastated beyond expectation over Joey's little brother. 

By all of Jesus F Christ, Vincent was a difficult and badly behaved wingman, I should be relieved, by any objective measure, especially as I suspected feline senility, and in part I am, but would like to string some humans up, particularly my own sex, and smoke them like a flank of bacon. I miss my baby boys, and need to get out of this place. Most of you have little idea what a public housing transfer entails and I don't even have the money to pack even if a mega tantrum gets me an exceptional transfer in Sims district; more of the same petty vindictiveness of nigger class poverty, in my deplorable bar stool diction, nine years away from the section 202 age requirement, and I know I don't have them, those nine years.

No expert in astrophysics, I nevertheless assumed if our sun went nova that the destruction of Earth would be nearly instantaneous, so I am uncertain as to what Niven is saying in his dodgy North Hollywood metaphor, nearly certain that I'd hate Vancouver, playful and dynamic as it appears, it certainly doesn't appear to be cyborg friendly.

No Automated Mail Today

I am supposing I received my answer from Toomey's team in the form of a non-answer, despite the fact I cleanly let a little hair down. I know they are busy and not worried about an angry, powerless woman, and her blog account. Even if federal law enforcement wants to prick up its ears on my behalf, I'm old, hygiene challenged, and the parent rental company in which I'm trapped has every rational conviction to boot me, but that is my objection: terrorizing and humiliating me since the system of structures and supports collapsed over my head doesn't solve anything, despite so called HUD protections. I do not have much quality time left, and need to stop shrinking like a violet. Just not sure how to get there, aside from telling a gay politician to fuck off, between a vacuum of nothing and nothing. I do agree with many of Pat's convictions, not all, certainly. I have to run.

Prima Facie Periodontitis

I cannot even afford to go to the drug store to get self treatment for tooth decay, sent Toomey's people the most frank email I've ever addressed to a politician. Should I be worried that I'm annoyed? I could give you names but shall not. On the off chance any of them have read this account and figure I'm too hot, well, I've been paying paying that price, but blame liberalism, regardless of conservative hypocrisy, which I've never denied. I know a tad about Toomey's positions, and I don't care. That is not why I want in, calculating what buttons I need push. Thus far it's ambiguous, but between Dennis O'Brien, and gadfly Brian Sims, whose name I just fucking forgot, my cynicism about city council, and playing soccer with Toomey's offices, representative politics and ideology seem a bit of a crock. Yes, these are legislators, not necessarily victims rights advocates, and I'm a sow with little golden quality time ahead, a hypocrite too, because I've refrained from insulting Sims outright. He's just a cog in the wheel, but he is, nonetheless, a faggot attorney with a rock solid base-- not that I have a particular reason to be antagonistic, but I asked a man for help leaving an uneducated, nearly imbecile constituency on which he depends, and then got postcards from The Watermark about attendant care. Fuck Sims, putting it mildly-- not that Toomey cares either, but if my motives to get behind him is to strike back, let's see what happens, if I am not on the verge of dubious medical outcomes.

Dense in interesting ways

"Hate can be exciting. Haven't you noticed?--George Macready

When I started posting in this sorry experiment of a personal voice, I picked LiveJournal's platform on which to do it before switching to Blogger, an entity which doesn't like me, as you know, because I've come very close to using language illegally. In the abstract that sounds silly, doesn't it? But -- ah, don't let me start about seeking out military snipers. It makes the depth of my pain inconsequential, and Philadelphia's ... (marginally white) underclass treats it that way. A somewhat blind smoker named Richard says he'd buy me an Uzzi, and let us simply stipulate for the record that we're all grateful spastic has no capacity to handle firearms, as Richard the smoker jokes with me. There is Finicum, and the tape of his death, San Bernardino, and Gubler's Dr. Spencer in analytic cadence: "Women rarely engage in violence unless they're angry for sustained lengths of time." What we're willing to do, what we're able to get away with, are perhaps two different things, and it's killing me. If I could walk, and you know this, Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne would know their place; I'd out rank them and they would never have the power to humiliate me the way they've both done for years. If I could walk I wouldn't be here, regardless of the economic circumstances, and in 2009 I just surfed, afraid I'd get in trouble, which I managed to do anyway, and said, "hmm, let me try this," and where and how do I wind up? In a service provider for Russia's bicameral mindset! An appropriate platform effort for a foul, sometimes rabid get help you need medication savant.

Yes. The only rational check I have holding me in when it comes to Presby's pecuniary competence is the fact that the sheer number of stupid people doing the job Trudy and Debra and Mike and Niles and supervisory agents therein do out number the rest of us and I'd have to be tried for a war crime if I got rid of them. Look at the website people. Look. I inducted myself into this when I was 23 years old. Twenty fucking three. I was in graduate school, and living in this type of system where niggers in the most horrific conditions dropped dead like flies and traumatized me repeatedly, almost killed me, and then a google-eyed bitch comes in as the new brownie for a transsexual failed internist's insistence on renovations, I nearly died again, and that after the lover this thing fucks got moved around on a chess board with me so I could default on my debt, and google-eyed brownie girl attacks me because she is afraid of menacing quadriplegic, and you all want civility. It isn't nice to tell the 42 president who officiated the funeral of King's widow to shut the fuck up, and it is rather insidious to envision the Secret Service killing me over impulse control, written in highly volatile language and deleted.

Do I obsess the presidency? No, and pose no threat to them even if I had a coronary in giving them a frank exchange, but god as my witness, Philadelphia is going to change its paradigm before I am dead, and I will not allow people like Debra Horne to be so cruel and vapid towards people like me in the future, and disability centers that engage in contiguous illegality will be dissolved and punished, and Philadelphia City Council, and the state legislature are going to either heed or imprison me, and the attorney general of the United States had better have an ear to the ground.

Spastic believes she solved her befuddlement over accessing WIFI, which I really need to do. Stupid cripple, eh? 

Esoteric Degeneration

"All of us at one time or another had our lives fall apart."-- Dina Strada

And for spastic to argue tenaciously with the pressures of women issues, not all of us spend our lives under institutional regimentation only to realize there is no way out from under its thumb, not even in that blanketing things left unsaid in our untrammeled collegiate system. We all get sick from time to time, and if we don't die from esoteric degeneration (how is this link for indecipherable jargon?) then either our hearts give way to plaque or our organs consume themselves with cancer, but in what sense of the word do our choices represent our freedom?

Let's take the conventional Robert Frost motif on roads not taken: Joanne heeds Professor Jerry and stays home in Ridley Park. Speculation about graduate work aside, she winds up as a part time librarian or special ed instructor, never sets eyes on the former Linda C Richman, notoriously toxic executive, and the grandson of the nearly retarded monosyllabic Mrs Phillips assaults someone else. Okay, my blood brother still wastes away like a blasted ear of corn, my mother still drops dead, perhaps in front of me, my father still loses everything because the IRS sees him through the lens of a mafia version of Enron (yes, another unclear allusion but it involves taxes and I have no fucking idea why federal agents set off on my father like a wolf pack), so he still winds up back in the hood when we were once almost near a Harvard family level of affluence, and maybe I just snuff out like vanilla, forced into Inglis House without having ever been privy to its horrific impact.

I would have never gone screaming in prose to a mutedly gay lawyer about my toxic panic vis a vis Linda's reign at an ineffectual intake center coupled with an abusive attendant care paradigm, and neither he nor any other elected official can do a fucking thing for me while I sit here evaluating how my 53 year old intestines and increasingly pronounced hearing loss and loss of muscle mass will allow me to navigate back into substantial gainful activity. Uh huh.

Brian, the man, is having a town hall meeting tonight, as he's so carefully drummed into me with two emails and a robo call beneath the bubble of punishment I'm taking in this Jazzy Quantum. I don't go then I don't go. The budget allocation under state Republican austerity doesn't affect me directly either way; the Philadelphia public school system is a cesspool regardless of who does what with it, and Harney County's answer to what remains of American individualism reads more like a travesty of Pilgrim's Progress than a spirited hoorah for the independent underdog. If I do go, even though I'm not unionized and PNI will ignore me as readily as any other established outlet, then maybe I get a story, red meat in pansy land, something.

One of the residents of Riverside with terminal cancer, a bigot named Dominic, disparaged me in a brief give and take: "You bring people down." That maybe true, from the viewpoint of an animal caged in captivity, age 5 and onward.

Like Stanwyck on Chamberlain

"Innocence must be proven, not proclaimed."-- Vincent Winterhalter

This is one of those mornings. Spastic needs to remember she used to be a closet centrist, and for the sake of whatever impoverished pride she has left in pursuit of aesthetic diligence, really going off like an actual militant will leave other angry individuals as hollow, if I force tragedy to strike, as the tape of Robert's death left me upon viewing it. His death was meaningless, as mine would be if I left authorities with no choice but to subdue me, and I do not entirely comprehend the grievances of the Oregon radicals. I read the reporting, as some of you still do, and know that the Department of the Interior controls well over half the state, but I don't really live in da Vinci code territory. Not quite. My rental agent is a pathological liar, but that goes for most of the Commonwealth I live in, west or east, as it does for the citizens in Flint, Michigan. Even California is virtually ungovernable, Jerry Brown is simply a favored son, and so he has the benefit of being tolerated. I even have no idea what the secret society symbolism in the Finicum article I cited means, despite the fact I can sound off like a conspiracy theorist with Liberty On The Rocks when it suits me, and then turn around and message Sheldon Novick that he should be a dean of his department, on the flimsy strength of the fact that his scholarship makes him the better author between the two of us. I don't really know Dr. Novick, anymore than I can pretend an allegiance to Tony Stiles. I am in fact rather skeptical of Tony's human trafficking tweets, because at the end of the day we all go into the deli slicer where our offal makes a good salami; I don't know Tony either, though there is a six degree of separation familiarity-- and Dr. Novick and I have watched my failed potential surge against the crags for years. For his sake, should I be ashamed of my anarchist excitement?

A moral dilemma of my own making, but without reservation, Sheldon Novick has a fine mind. He is wry, doesn't scream at my cats for various infractions, and I endorse his legacy despite the fact that I am as cool to the experiment that is the state of Israel as Jennifer Rubin is to Rand Paul as the libertarian heir apparent. 

As uncouth as I've been on Blogger in the destruction of my own moderation, I never imagined a day where a first generation ERA advocate would utter sexist remarks. Sanders is too liberal even for the interior angry radical my uncle Tom once accused me of being, but I'd never accuse the women who support him of doing so for the sake of their sexual satisfaction. Steinem managed to offend me, and I am merely a lowly short circuited failure, a troll who shoots herself in the foot. When I met my gay state representative, in a lowered voice I said I'm going to give you hell, and he took it with the normative tenor of depreciation, a homosexual dandy with a veneer, when turned off, exposes what any constituent is reluctant to see revealed: an emotional armor, a ruthlessness, perhaps due to the realization of how limited his role is, reading the beaten anguish in a face like mine. Everything he stands for makes me nauseous, everything, but for him this doesn't count. I rarely vote on state or city referendums, and don't pay property taxes. Unseating him with a conservative who could take his district is a bad Fantasia script. Pennsylvania hasn't had a budget for seven months, and so the difference between Corbett and Wolf comes down to this: Corbett blamed Joe Paterno, subsequently tanking his political career, and Wolf is a cosmopolitan wall flower, a figurine in whom we've lost the faith. I dream of how happy I might have been with my thighs clamped onto Jerome Robart. I'd have never let go, in my poor, broken, bitter little heart.

Teardrops on the scales

"Kill the wino." James Caan

Though I woke on time (obviously, since this is a rare daylight post) I canceled my attendance at the Sims job fair in an email to his Harrisburg account at 7:20. I need some adjustment time with this hated Jazzy Quantum, the encroaching humidity, and if I lack the confidence to deal with recruiters in public at this moment, it will show. I'm an old woman skewering her fucking skull in desperation, and though the developing world would laugh in my face on the true measure of desperate lives, comparisons have little mitigating effect, even with the unintentional humor in the room mate search questionnaire.

Why are you looking for a room mate now?
"My wife is leaving me." Not ideal, but I called his number, out of sheer amusement, and I cannot find the electrician whose wife has cancer and whose current roommate is "psycho." Not idea either. I've been on ward with cancer patients, but was going to reach out to said electrician anyway, since I consider myself highly undesirable. Found him. He and his ailing spouse would put me closer to little brother, but an electrician with one ailing spouse considering me as an addendum would be up for canonization, yes, si?

21 years of my life with Protestant skinflints who've given me fonts of trauma, with their nigger chicks just piling it on, lancing my wounds because I'm furious that I came here, not considering it a choice in Meryl Streep's stark terms in her Priestly Prada habitation. Despite this section 202 building location, I turned it down after my assault. I did not want to live here, ever, because I knew what it would do to me, and I'm no longer sure which evil is worse, the real ghetto or this crematorium, 21 years of strenuous hate. Why didn't I get out before? Well, Linda humiliated me and recovery time took two years; Paratransit was then lost, Frank happened, my mother died, had to put first cat down, the aide abuse, power chairs breaking, this is why, and any mind can only take so much contiguous crisis. I do not know if I hate Trudy Richardson for her integral nature or for her continued escalation and aggressive attacks against me, but I am either leaving this building or going to jail for pushing back; it's that simple.

Onward. Either way, I'm suing this company, and that because it cost Presby absolutely nothing to move me fifteen minutes past Diamond Park. I had already been pre-approved, and the only individuals who paid were my father, mother, the tenant who I bumped. At this point, it has little to do with ideology. I keep getting hurt, and the people imposing the pain aren't exactly on Lynch'es pay grade.

Dandy Walker Recriminations

for her part, she liked her boobies. -- Virginia Woolf, one hundred fifty pages in prior to the stones in her coat

Au contraire, Rotten Tomatoes, Grauman and Davis created the first real anti-metropolis film of its kind with Lady in a Cage, a stark black and white with an uber realism to countermand a certain Shakespearean absurdity. This is a film that imprints itself in utero, exposing liberalism for what it is, a crock in the eddy of self interest. There is a little Sunset Blvd, here, consciously or otherwise, upgraded to be a little less exaggerated, closer to the big NE or Midwest cityscape, with a dash of Chaplin. but for the fact that Grauman wasn't offering viewers a digestible farce. Lady is closer to an existential travesty, its hint of mother son incest translatable, as it is always translatable for aging glamour girls, as di Haviland biding farewell to regal beauty, and James Caan saying hello, an imitable Brando who always has a streak of malevolence, whether he is the good guy or not. He's mean, cowed only by more ruthless brawn. 

Davis pulls a few strings, even for a 53 year old film. Fences would not normally be as brazen as Mr. Paul, but this movie is otherwise chilling for its honesty in relation to crowd theory and unwillingness to act, how the underclass preys on vulnerability, the aging, makes lack of functionality,expendable, namely with the death of the wino who precipitated the home invasion. Just as with the dead dog in the opening, we gaze in curiosity before we'll help, or act, sucking the life's blood out of those we can.

I conveyed to Sims, little center city big man, that I'd go to his job fair tomorrow, and for that, ought to lie down, knowing I will not really sleep, nor probably be treated with any receptive interest, even if I perfume. The faces of my former mental health consumers have carved themselves into my sad, anxious gaze, with my deep passive aggressive contempt. None of what I've been through since I moved to Temple University is Brian's fault, but if I could hold his attention for 30 minutes god help the man. Why?

I am not sure. I'm 52, with violent dumps which intimate I ain't getting anywhere near Oliver Sacks terminal old age, the mortal guru of equanimity, and it is not precise to label my state legislator an adversary, as such. His Gnosticism hasn't harmed me, but if I had the nerve, which, tomorrow, I shall not, I'd tell him this equal treatment for orientation business is just more Orwellian comfort food. Brian could pass as anything, a partner for Deloitte & Touche, but no. Gay identity is but party noise. When the world can look past me as a spastic savant? Not possible.

Shyster of Last Resort, sans Bulgakov

"You read a lot, don't you?"--Tony's disappointed Philadelphia contact

The one character trait that unites Philadelphia's dispersed Italian community is bullshit artistry. My grandfather, his children, my entire tribe, and I have taken my slops, in the agrarian lingo, and splattered the walls. Perhaps I should take a ride into Kensington and see how long it takes to wind up in hospital. I am really giving my notice, and it is not funny, and yet, I'm releasing myself from pretensions I hate, all this over assistance paid by Medicaid. Marie Varenas, who has no online presence whatsoever, except for me and my posts, conveyed, that, as a last resort, EMS could haul me back in to her kitchen, where I waited in my 20ish years on academic probation, because I hated Temple, for Diamond Park to be habitable, nagging Michael Washington, my retched conditions unseen, so long ago, but I really cannot do that again. My uncle who lives there now is functionally senile and circling the drain with his condition, aside from my aunt's.

I have not seen my father's sister since my mother's funeral. She looked like a Spanish version of a generic Joan Rivers on a bad Botox day, and her weight loss after losing her stomach would impact me noticeably, but, if I am able to visit her until I sort this out, she is there. 

Individuals with political positions may feel sorry for my arc, but I could see, in that constituent interchange with Brian and his audience, that politics is primarily a game of appeasement, and I am increasingly treated like a woman who is told to know her place, and behave. I should have sought adjudication when the iron was hot, but I am intransigent, demanding it now, and it will lead to EMS or police carting me off, and after that happens? Yet this conflict is invigorating me. I can see some really hard policy pieces coming out of it, if I can snatch electrical outlets, in some context. I'm pissed, really mentally divorcing myself from Presbyterian Homes, and terrified of shelters, but this isn't simply about compliance. It is about choices. I toured this building with the last Caucasian assistant manager who worked the secondary position, Janice, after I became an Eppi crime victim, and turned her down.

Presby, if it really bases its theology in good works, should have down the right thing and found me another rental agent after my attack. I was working, I had a salary of 23,000 a year, and what eroded my health was my hatred of how this community treated me, a life long hazing and initiation through the facade of social cruelty. Yes, there is no landlord tenant nirvana, but I have been crucified in a community I never selected, nor desired, and my ticket to that drain is on the horizon. I am really breaking some eggs, throwing all my energies into a new plate. It may not be enough.

The Denny Missive

Dear Councilman Dennis O'Brien,

I am not quite sure why you followed me on twitter despite my risqué, sometimes virulent voice on Blogger as spastic_dowager, a virulence which had, or has, dulled my civic humanity, if I ever had it to begin with. I was a virulent child as well, in and out of Home of the Merciful Savior, run by the notorious Dr. Chance; I had episodes with my mother in Shriner's too, never a passive spastic, which perhaps I should not admit to, with everything going on at the moment, but I am writing you an edited version of a sequence of events I sent to Mason Lane, Brian Sims Chief of Staff, and perhaps all I'll get from you, as well, is silent chagrin I'll never get to see. I do not know what Sims and staff did with the information, but I do know my former supervisor Linda Dezenski left Liberty Resources, the IL center on 714 Market Street, and I also know Riverside Presbyterian has escalated pressure on me beyond what I'm willing to endure, and I'm giving notice soon, in some ways a form of my own epitaph, but I am writing you as I'd speak, a defiant woman who got a dose for defying her father and reversing urban flight. I've been punished for that.

In 86 to 88 I moved into Diamond Park, on Page St, making the worst mistake of my life. I was exposed to endemic minority violence, a knifing due to drugs, abuse, beatings, vandalism in various creative forms of destruction, child abuse: a schizophrenic grandmother fractured her daughter's face, and I drove into my unit screaming for the police. In 93 it was my turn. Aggravated assault, relative of a tenant, Brandon Phillips, knocked on my door. I thought I was dead, I really did, but he got frightened, and like most petty addicts not quite wasted of conscience, my desperate screams for life ran him off. Presbyterian Homes was negligent. There was no security at the building. No sign in sheet. I wanted to sue, and allowed then manager Terri Way to talk me out of it, because I'm a dunce, and thought the chic black girl was my friend. With great resistance, I followed her to Riverside in 94. I felt I had no choice, and living here, in its own way, has been toxic ever since, especially since Ellen Hovey retired. Under one manager, Schwab, I was attacked by the seniors, and Steve Gold, a disability lawyer, mediated me out of that. 

I left case management in 96, and did not realize I effectively destroyed my career. Liberty assured me for 4 years that I could return to their employ, and they did what they always do, set me up, humiliated me, and because Linda and I got too personal, and I was under pressure, I broke down. You cannot help me with this part of it, so I'll skim, but her board members live here, the consumers I came up with do as well, and it's toxic for me.

I was abused by a number of paraprofessionals, two from Unlimited Staffing, and with great difficulty got Liberty to report molestation and robbery to the state in 06. You cannot recommend a lawyer, I know, you are a politician, and probably think that Riverside's current staff putting the screws in me is their prerogative, but I am begging you to get them off my back, please, simply due to the fact that they are a cut rate company using pluralism as an excuse. The constant unannounced harassment at my door is disrupting my ability to achieve my own goals, please. If my citizenship means nothing because I'm disabled and don't want to comply without getting justice in return, what's the point? I do not want a minority aide. End of story. I spent down assets I no longer have on cleanings. Let Ken Cantrell and the owners he shields move to evict if they wish, but I will not accept constant ominous missives under my door and constant visits. As a Christian company, they could show some humility and admit some liability against my well being. I will call your office next week. My evacuation needs support. Thanks for following me. 

Sherwood Forest

Patrick Stewart makes the resolution of class conflict something of a utopian uptick in Next Generation. "Humanity solved its economic problems," he tells one of the series varied and populous humanoid inhabitants, swept under the rug for the kids, in order to glide over real world pain and make it easy, like Philadelphia's nonchalant and urbane progressives, but 31 million Medicaid recipients in the US is not exactly something to rejoice over. Single payer systems, be they federalized benefits, Medicare, VA benefits, criss crossed under the imperiled ACA, is not only bankrupting the US, it is destroying American initiative, and every member of my family, barring my father, thinks Pennsylvania's social service system is a candy dispenser, while my landlord is using a rear guard action against me, a blunt force trauma that is akin to warding me off like a zoological aberration, because I am attempting to curtail costs by declining what is an abusive system by default, and they'll win, because I'm too tired, Presbyterian's management is deliberately exacerbating my social anxiety, my sense of vulnerability, to lock me into a paradigm which will only add to duress, as opposed to gratitude. Even behaviors from paraprofessionals, or idiots like Karina, which cannot be classified as abuse, still lead to bad outcomes. I've detailed as much in past posts, 

So I took council with my father, paid the room mate finder the not exorbitant fee they asked, left my link on Craigslist, and good luck with that. The public policy guy I spoke to after Sims charming town hall bit, I told him I was so unhappy where I was that just giving my notice would make me happy, and it would, in the vein of Alan Greenspan's "irrational exuberance," and I myself acknowledged the desire wasn't rational. "No, but it is an argument," the young man said, and he was correct. I'm being treated like a prisoner by a Protestant corporate entity whose very negligence contributed in significant part to my stress disorder. Oh, Trudy and Debra and custodial staff will say what Miss Eddy did in terms of her conduct was "wrong," and beneath the surface, the tenants who remain and survived the intra-building renovations can count their blessings, but the building, the property, supersede the value and the dignity of the lives they house. The company once had an on-call tenant housekeeper whose position was eliminated with her retirement, hence the burden of securing reliable assistance falls to the tenant, and even when I purchased Tim's labor, or bought another company, nothing they did changed much, and a CNA isn't going to really care. They deal with nursing home eligible bodies day in and day out, changing diapers and bedpans, and like police officers, need emotional armor.

Eventually, this is all going to come crashing down on the generations ahead of me, and if I am in pain and want to stop having my body constrained in brutal institutional fashion, I do not see this as unreasonable. Disability activists may, but the only choice I have is centralized regiments or decentralized regiments with the same "N.H.I.," factor, to ferret out a Cold Case catch phrase. I'd be delighted to stay on with robotic intervention as opposed to the human kind. A programmed device doesn't have opportunistic needs to exploit, doesn't make judgments over hygiene or poverty. I am sure Japanese intel will be right over to donate an I, Robot to alleviate my justified fear of more of the same.

Paradigm failures like mine cost far too much money.

A Beaten Stray Bitch

I look positively grotesque, and no doubt should fly to Beijing and reinvent myself as an albino demon. I'm reflecting on this because I got a hit on a potential male room mate, and only now really looked at his picture, and only now have my doubts. My soul is lost people, utterly lost, real mental anguish at the thought of myself at Inglis and its circumscribed regime, a little grey room with a stainless steel night stand, a few books, my power chair crowding the hallway in a traffic jam of medical chaos, or variations on my lifelong public housing torpor, and here I am welling eyes with a dandled politico. For a homosexual male Sims is too pretty for me to launch into my daring will Blogger disrupt my account tirades, but sometimes I wonder, all the same. Science, phases. I miss sex, but intercourse never-- if Pat had had more time that evening in 1997, perhaps, but kindness and longing isn't quite enough.

He did not love me, my borrowed husband--nor I him, but he won, and he won because our naked middle aged bodies fumbling and my "I have to pee" injection made me laugh, and he was going to show me, and kept seeing me until that happened, and I engaged in a now embarrassing whirlwind after it ended, a water bearer to the T.

Maybe the roomie will bail, or maybe I will, as he claims to be Puerto Rican. Nice enough in demeanor but possibly not a co-caretaker who would be right for a barren queen mother. Could someone please just help me leave Riverside Presbyterian? Please? 

The Vanishing of Pato

"Time chases us." a grave digger

This diabolical comedy actually does much of what I am doing here, sending up the high, the low, leaving clever middle brows to tidy the mess in the end, with the appropriate cover up, which prides me on the fact that my innate instincts always return to Italy.

I had a bad day Friday, reluctantly telephoned my sister and apologized again for demeaning her in 2007. I'm ashamed of that episode. She feels nothing will change if I force the hand of Presby, and my dying aunt thinks I made a mistake talking to Sims, but Marie's mental constitution is closer to mine; I told my sister the story, and she doesn't necessarily think playing the distressed damsel to the homosexual legislator to whom I'm diametrically opposed was a mistake, but I recognized in the demeanor of Tim Keller, Sims communication coordinator, indifference. As both an adversary and a disabled woman who has become a skid row female, I'm not a relevant constituent. I don't know if Sims office knew what Trudy was going to do to me yesterday afternoon, but I have no ally of my own, not one to fight for me, and I doubt state or city officials will dally me a plug nickel.

However, I made the decision to keep fighting, and as a result, I may vanish, and the internet will stream right along without me, but I am putting my viewers on notice. Monday morning I'm filing a criminal complaint against Presby, Trudy Richardson, and Debra Horne, essentially taking Tim's advice during first contact with him two years ago. If officers take me seriously and come to the building, I will probably wind up being the one placed under arrest. With the stress I am under, this will not bode well for my health, and we can imagine what this will do to Marie's constitution.

Why am I doing this? Because I want justice, and seemingly the only way to do it is to make the system put me in jeopardy. Then a lawyer will pay attention and possibly file a suit on my behalf. Yes, I'm the one not being reasonable about Medicaid, and know my physical strength is waning, but I told Debra forcefully in October that I was tired of taking it, and if Philadelphia kills me, maybe The Daily News would examine my case, look at reforms. I am not Michelle Blair's eldest child. How a young woman lives with this scenario for the rest of her life is unfathomable, but ever since I came out swinging on LiveJournal, and Harvard Square became a follower, my vision of the arc of my life seems to me the same: People led me to believe I could live a normal life, and, even if we assume my judgment is impaired by emotional pain, Debra Horne had a priori facts at her disposal about my grievance with my disability center, and did nothing when her team gave me their card, and said "Call them." Given the hostile environments in my life, I consider this a hate crime, regardless of what the middle brow thinks of my posting behavior.

Calipers for Endoscopy

spastic_dowager: "I'm going to give you hell."
Brian Sims, state legislator: "I can take it."

Ah, cowardly troll. Puffy face will only get her so far anymore, the contravene of pasty plaque to the brazier definition of eloquence in Jeremy Irons. I did not think of that, but could see Sims doing Irons in a remake of Forster's Maurice. Who would not want to fuck Jeremy Irons in his prime, with that caviler elegance?

Tim Keller took 4 pics of me and his shoe leather boss, and I realized, this yesterday evening, that I no longer count among the human race; it hit me with a callow thud, in Trinity Center. The only people who count are those who pay property taxes. State wards like myself either get killed for non-compliance or remain subservient. I did retail handshakes, and the progressives in public policy didn't realize I wanted to rip his young squeaky cute face off for urging me to go back on Medicaid: "the waiver is gone now with the ADA." I made nice with the Haitian and his co-worker at Dunkin Donuts, since I look like welfare shit. The Haitian jilted me prior to my hire of Karina, but I took his number again-- just in case, and I need packers. My inner voice is screaming "Tony Stiles please save me!" and Tony, well, he is the real thing. I only get this stout palsied body extracted, until the next escalation, the next crisis, and Tony babe, I am giving my notice next week. Marie Varenas will be resurrected, miraculously, so she can come throttle her niece. My father telephones like a chastened penitent and I ignore him; I'm in my 53rd year, always the figurative train wreck, and I've convinced myself of my own rhetoric, utterly convinced I'll manage to survive, though perhaps I secretly relish combat with police brutality, and I truly throbbed for Jeremy Irons, the Merchant Ivy extraordinaire, a footnote in time. David Cronenberg, whose name is almost synonymous with human will extinguished by ravenous appetite which consumes itself, probing cavities. I have deliberately avoided posting about Dead Ringers. This film is one of the few exceptions where my aberrant voice, so marginal, merges with industry critics. Jeremy Irons is so deft, so subtle, you foam at the mouth with natural lubricant, but the actor in his time, in the zenith of his skill, is no more, a retrospective shadow, diffident, not sure why he picked acting. You want to fuck that hauteur. "Presby Homes has perpetrated hate crimes against me." Puffy face pouting red, body flexing eyes welling with tears. Sims is rather attractive and I was mildly aroused. I am going to survive this, right?

Perhaps not. He gave me permission to use the photo. I need a job. Dreamland. . 

All of my five emails to Pennsylvania's political establishment

I clicked on Sheila Huff's account from my now well used Apple iPhone without thinking, and was prepared for the doctored breasts which meet your eye if you click her tweet. PhillyTechGuy may get another visit from me if Huff's site gave me a virus, but I cannot role play it that way. It is gratuitous. I'm not offended, I do not protest smut, and Miss Huff may use her riders as she pleases, but a woman of 53 is not 35, driven by those needs for an embryo hormones. Menstrual cycle stoppage triggers subtle changes.

I read Craig Whitlock's summary feature carefully, and do not have an issue with his inability to offer his readers a salient exposure (after all, I cannot get case managers to admit highly discriminatory behavior toward me, not on the record). We used to be able to say men are men and women are women, and apparently the Pentagon got its zipper caught between Paula Broadwell's antagonism toward a social climber when Paula herself was the one doing the serving  Jill Kelley's voluminous email exchanges with a Marine like Allen make my turn of the century chattiness seem tame. The small short story I mailed to Brian Sims may be considered private mail, but emails don't work that way. We all know it and forget it, unless we use a firewall encrypted by Captcha, which is what I used yesterday to solicit Sims again, daring my terse attitude to refer to his orientation with a sensibility of watered down aspersion. Perhaps Sims and Toomey know what I am trying to say in more uncouth terms, but these are very busy men, and Sims might ask me, in critique, if Republican austerity measures helped me out.

No. Losing Paratransit only accentuates my isolation, but that the service is now heavily restricted is partly the fault of militant activist victories, as per Cassie James Holdsworth, and Erik. The right wing is basically correct. Septa's buses are functionally accessible, unless too crowded to displace seated riders for wheelchair users, but my mobility isn't any easier. I wanted to own my own home, with a lawn, but apparently all realtors have some sort of federal contract with HUD. Part of a disabled mindset involves a trusting nativity. I'd ask someone like Joan Tarshis if she'd like a roommate if my intellect did not already know we don't do things like that-- although I did quite openly feel a surge of gusto with this guy, and had to struggle not to ask Mr. Stiles to come get me the fuck out of here, please. That would be putting a lot on libertarian self-reliance.