All Trolls in a Bottle

Mmm. So now it is called digital courage? By the time volatile bloggers make it into Wapo ledes it is old, stale. I emailed one of my gang of five this morning, in fact, after I realized I let her list membership hang on my old, stale, and relatively inactive Yahoo Group.

Let me explain to you one unique difference between Elonis and myself:

1. My disability center is 15 minutes downtown from where I write you. The environment the center provided was, in Linda's words, "like a second family." No disagreement there. This family is gone for me now, regardless of whether or not my former supervisor still believes I was courting her sexually. It is gone. She could retire tomorrow; it doesn't matter. The entire environment of Liberty is traumatic for me, like seeing the shock on the face of Michelle McCandless, a consumer employee, when she recognizes me but doesn't speak.

2. I still live in the building with the transvestite and prat boy partner who rotate on the board of the directors for Liberty, and still see daily my former consumers whom I've case managed.

3. I have no alternative to this federally mandated center. Once they hang you out to dry, without the resources to move on, you're hung. Do you understand? There are other providers of medical services which mimic the center model, but no competitive alternative to the center itself

I am not blameless for the situation being what it is, but my family should have heeded my plea and helped me to move on before my stress and decomposition into corrosive emotional pain became what it is now. I've told you about the attendant abuse and landlord harassment, swirling about like a tornado funnel whose sheer force pummels a human body to its death. An external framework that criminalizes indigence.

Forever In Bluejeans

"Where do I find the cones?"


This was Frank, telephoning me Christmas day, since it is the time of year that he makes his Spanish coffee. You will consider it an improvement that I have stopped peppering his hideously deformed epidermis with invective, and that because I no longer care, whether you consider this a good, or bad thing. I wanted to love a variation of my father, burnished by a humanist polish, and wound up living my grandmother Pauline's life with Big Lou, the more favorable comparison going to the fruit picker and WW2 laundry driver, my grandfather, and so what, so say, I may be an alpha next to you spastic, but I have inane conversations with my husband, lover, or dildo. Every compensation we make is a mechanism for coping with the truth.

I dance on the grave of my failed marriage to this man, laugh starkly that even here I invested so much in trying to ignore the fact that our sexual intimacy was an exchange: his obedience for using my vagina breasts and anus for his gratification, which ties in to the distortion of aesthetics in the human body throughout the known history of our civilizations, their history of using form for the mythos of their own manifest destiny; my link is not the series I am recalling, however. [I remembered the series after log off and will pick up on it later.]

My agitation increases significantly with bowel impaction, and it would bode well for me to remember it the next time my monologues threaten to rival Jamie Foxx performing race related schizophrenia, except that I do not delude, only feel like a rat in a cage waiting for Debra Horne's checklist to finish me off, more Sancho than Beowulf to my draconian cleverness. Why don't I just put this woman out of my mind? Why does it frighten me so much that an idiot makes me feel less than human? I have dealt with her type all of my life, and I would like to stop matching wits with them. This wish shall never be granted to me-- unless.

That I am damned runs at this point, mmm, 93 percent to 7 for unless? As far as I can ascertain, I am not failing, but do exhibit some death stage symptoms, interestingly enough, and to take a clunker trope from The Collector, where the photographer connected to the journalist who has the autistic son who can discern the intent of the devil, how is hope still possible for someone like myself? My relations with my brother and sister are damaged, forever. Easy enough for them to exploit my sense of obligation as a barren elder, but quite another matter to offer me social equality, visit me despite where I live, I am facing the total abandonment prevalent among both the elderly and disabled populations. Must I forever be a victim to some mechanism of injustice?

Time to feed the pet children. Partially ready for Drinker's West, not going to Arch street in this deserted city morning, my dark blue slacks deodorized in the bathroom, a notation that I will be mocked for my sneakers and my cap, if I wear either. I like my cap, makes me look like a golfing troll. Wink. My father's brother is dying, by the way, and I feel guilty for my not so subtle realization that my senile uncle has been useless for a long time. Marie would kill me, literally, if she knew what I tell you. And just in case I do not have the time tomorrow, happy new year, a phrase so innocuous I should not write it. Medicare has spent thousands and thousands on my uncle's poor quality of life, and inversely destroyed my own by making it impossible to get technology I need to be healthy, happy, which equally suggests I may not be manic, only being driven to it.

Window In

I have no idea how accurate Blogger statistics are, nor whether it is serendipitous or not, but most of my.... followers?, readers?, however the holy fuck you account for yourselves, you seem to be European, through what connection, this is of little import, but in the aftermath of the Great Collapse of 08, you seem to be killing yourselves. I cannot welcome you to the land of indignity beneath our Western veneer if you keep this up, so cut it out. My childhood was one of orthopedic butchery, encapsulated by fear of the monkey child, until my emotional pain, and trauma after trauma, betrayal upon betrayal, disappointment upon disappointment, turned me into what I am now, and I may not have an answer for my old age, but the answer I hold to is that I will battle back. This does not mean that women like Debra Horne will not break me in the end. People like Debra succeed because their job is to punish non-compliance, in sometimes justified fashion, sometimes not. It is their livelihood to monitor, as indeed it was mine for five years. Suicide is not going to change the paradigm we've created that destroys the human spirit.

Now, in my case, how I stay out of more institutionalization later, I do not know; the truth is, beneath the deadly contours of my rage, a deadly rage yes, but impotent, an impotent daydream of wild justice, beneath this, I am weary, exhausted beyond my strength, and I may just go poof, and women like Debra will assess this with convictions like "I knew it," and any former surviving bosses, those who deserve punishment, those who do not, but made an effort, will feel sorry. Outside of the legacy of my thus far minor authorship, this is my lot, the pity of people who will look away, but I will go down fighting, and maybe, just maybe, give the next Linda C. Dezenski, the next Debra, or even the next Jimmi, whose behavior undermines the very inclusion he seeks, reason to pause. You have to fight, fight your pain, fight your poverty, and if you will go down, due to Alzheimer's or something else equally progressive, well, make your choices in the early stages. Not resisting the inevitable, however, is not the same thing as self murder. In this universe, there has never been a verified case of resurrection.