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.

tutto in famiglia

Shut the hell up you bitch ass nigga. You will continue to run this country further into the ground and risk lives every time you breathe. You’re not the president. Just a dumpster full of hate. FOH. Sick to my stomach that literal shit currently represents America to the world. https://t.co/qoNWllmZIm

— Jussie Smollett (@JussieSmollett) January 12, 2018

I have not had much to post about my mother's sister Mary in her ebullient mark upon her league of students in the face of her deceased sister's emotive turbulence. This is due to fear of consequence. Her husband, also obese to the point that its malevolence on his family is grotesque, is a Methodist prig, and in other circumstances her might have been to PA's Delaware County what Chris Noth's Peter Florrick is to Cook County in Illinois. If he had not married into Mary's Catholic family, he might have been a local big wig, and the paper's treated him him as such when he was "Chief of D's," to use the Dick Wolf colloquium from SVU in an overt strategism to draw the audience in. 

Unlike yours truly, Mary is a true bovine conservative, and when she gets a few simple ideas in her head she masticates them to the finish line, and if niggers like Trudy Richardson have terrorized me for nearly ten years of her managerial authority, than what better advocacy can the Worrilow family offer me but to move into Fair Acres with my grandmother's living cadaver in Lima? I'd be given a room with another patient where I could "come and go". The wonders of the empty hollow that is the Americans with Disabilities Act from a woman twice my size, twice as thick, replacing herself with titanium bones. I have broken with my aunt, permanently, which points to the anathema, the irony, that poets and writers suspended my account from the Speakeasy for detailing the issues of chronic condition which Gretchen posts about daily on Facebook, but I hate the latter, regret the former. Mary nearly died earlier in 2018, due to pulmonary embolism, and yet everyone is slavering to do me more harm. Trudy's been at it longer, and I am determined she'll pay a price for that. Lumping me in with dementia patients prone to violence is not a conducive environment, nor as safe as my sister might otherwise believe. I may not be able to assist true conservatives in excising LLhan Omar as a fatal virus on our body politic, but Presbyterian Homes is going to feel my bite. Corruption before the face of God might as well open the doors to Armageddon.

The Long Pincers Umbra

"That statue is not about football," Gleason, straining to speak because of the effects of ALS, said moments before the formal unveiling on a rain-soaked Friday afternoon.-- a hero in continuing pan shots of emaciation

What I see in the above image is the less than illustrious rise of an ancestral peasant class, with its nearly denuding and uniformless dressing of the crone age female body, mass manufactured couture, making the best of it on a parochial teacher's salary, representative of the culture wars surrounding gender today, more den mother than feminine, all in slacks. They would not use the terminology of Gloria Steinem, but there is no doubt they've benefited from the feminist generation, emasculating males who simply do not have the fortune to be a Monsignor in charge of secondary education. They submit as the obedient second sex to Catholic priests, but dare I say this is primarily pro forma. The large woman in the back right is a retired principal, and doesn't live in the same building with a priest who let her go, many years ago, relieving her of her responsibilities, unlike myself, forced to delightfully reside with dying clients and one heinous transsexual who protected and covered up my toxic humiliation at the turn of the century. More on the limpid retraction of disability independent living due to the centralized triumph of Maximus later. However bad things were before under the decentralized Medicaid Waiver before, things under Maximus are like lining up humans over fifty for slaughterhouses, and this merciless safety net for indigence is traded on the NYSE. I can only snicker, starkly, not even compliant with near dying well, with brave smiles. Oh, my aunt, she only wants what's best for me. Not offering the same appearance of frailty as Justice Ginsburg and bubble wrap, she nevertheless encloses herself in a dome, with her own fears, near to 70, with allegories of rebirth in heaven. She is upset with yours truly for throwing a spear at the sacred pantheon of her mother, my grandmother, who sits at a table with a geriatric aplomb, zoological spectrum of vacancy. And exactly what, you ask, does this have to do with Robert Mueller's Russia probe rumbling along in avalanche? Aside from the need to demystify Putin, who has the same financial inability to restore the former Soviet empire as any other colonial power, Mueller's applied brute force is destroying lives, as opposed to protecting domestic election integrity. Manafort is no more or less unethical than the flash boys of Wall Street, and my eyes glaze over with the new, if recycled, Slavic paranoia. that's right, but I got sucked into a Twitter brawl with blat, and Mary. It cost me, but doesn't it always, at that? If Pelosi decides to impeach the ignoramus in chief, and starts to chip away at Senate solidarity, it doesn't change the continuing erosion of our former unifying ties as a country. Regular readers can scroll through 1600 posts, to discover my integrity in disposable linens. From this perspective, Justin Cronin manages to convince me of world's end. We're overwhelmed with pathogens, meaningless, aimlessly frail identities. His trilogy is so similar to Carey's film I thought the series was a clever spin off. Another error. Worried? Alas, don't be. I have decided to suspend medical services, soon. That will be the start of my journey as well, as if I am the first of the last. I am determined to leave Philadelphia.

When Mickey Rourke Still Had A Face

Our mothers were right Charlucci, it's better to stick with your own kind.-- the post dexterously maimed Eric Roberts, as Paulie

I no longer get offers to family gatherings. What I was invited to attend this afternoon, and not attending after all, is a birthday party for my 96 year old grandmother here at Fair Acres. This is where her daughter Mary Worrilow, with her cyborg joint replacements, wishes for me to relocate, as if I need to keep an eye on the vacancy of identity in Pauline Cristinziani's emaciated frame. My father's sister Marie is diametrically opposed to the idea, preferring that I accept my lot here at Riverside, with its understated ideas of significantly abusive minority competency, while I play shuffleboard with the skepticism of a world weary soul. This is an image of Pauline in her ever so slowly stoic withdrawal from her sense of herself, part regal Catholic warrior, devout, unshaken, part peasant, the life she led during the war era makes us look like a group of distressed hatchlings saturated in fossil fuels. The spastic dowager should honor this grandparent in the celebration of a life extended beyond any reasonable meaning. She appears to be miserable in the Fair Acres visiting room, well groomed, hair white and nearly matted, her hand grasping her knee, she bears an appearance of anguish. Septa's route 21 is onerous, from Chestnut Street to 69th Street Terminal, it is damp, and although it would be good to get away, and I would be seeing family I never otherwise get to see, Saturday morning, a spastic colon pole vaulted into a lovely stress attack, ever so slowly enabling death through sepsis in my feces, domineering beyond what we would wish on enemies, presumably--

My administration is reviewing the strength of this ruling. In the event any court damages the #ACA, I will do everything in my power to direct state agencies to protect Pennsylvanians. https://t.co/pVOaLtBkKn

— Governor Tom Wolf (@GovernorTomWolf) December 15, 2018

--unless it's my governor, willfully maintaining the forest of the Commonwealth's poverty-stricken, as careless, otherwise, with the deciduous oaks, still wondering whatever happened to a citizen's self-esteem. And this, too, is an image of John, nearly 60, playing games with his vanity and conceit; it was partly his rebuff, as I've written, being the propeller behind the reason I boomeranged into the inner city in the first place.

Arguably, however, things might have not been appreciably different if I had played my cards closer to home. If John's post-graduate partner, whom I saw once, while they were totally into each other in a slow dance, parted ways with him, or he her,the link I give you provides ample reason why. If I had been able-bodied, with an appropriately toned body, would the demise of what I thought I wanted. birthing his children, among other things, have taken so much out of me that I never loved again? My novelist friend Gretchen, in the interim, faces the possibility of losing her son, Brennan, to an interior brain infection already surgically tackled once. She's such a polished writer that I am living this with her, but it's also why Facebook is anathema to me (and yes, my account chungs along). Even if she was still in West Virginia, I couldn't help her.

My beautiful boy is in deep trouble. He's got an infection. They seem to feel they have caught it in time but he was doing very poorly. Please help Adrian's Cancer Fund. Every person in our family is struggling at our limits, Adrian most of all. https://t.co/jK2LFuMqtX pic.twitter.com/V0MQZb2xB9

— Troy Blackford (@TBlackford3) December 16, 2018

The same applies to my steady follower. If Troy Blackford's plight with Adrian is genuine, I feel for the child. Even if I had the money, even some expertise, I couldn't change the outcome, but this is different in kind, again, from mobility medical indifference beating hordes into a pulp. Those of you who truly believe health care is a right, have no damn idea how you're referencing it. It is certain not inalienable as a pathway to freedom.

Consider The Ostomy

A colostomy is an opening-- called a stoma

The reason I am shortly to terminate my Facebook account is this: my half-brother convinced me to join, then his fucking wife went ballistic  on me because instead of cooing at her illicit grandchild I wrote lose some weight Ben, and the indomitable Dawn rebelled. Dawn is, front and center, Florida trailer trash, and by degrees, my animosity towards my extended family prevailed, and I want nothing more to do with Facebook. Never did, certainly not to restore a man like John P Tassoni among the living. The only reason I haven't closed the account is loose ends, nothing more. I am also wavering about Twitter, but that is the dilemma of a loner in the crowd. Facebook is a personal distress, but Twitter is another kind of tax.

My tirelessly researched post which I flubbed early that morning was my flub, not mighty Google threatening a poor cripple in jeopardy, and yes, I am in literal medical jeopardy and the single payer Medicare/Medicaid option could care less. The post was a construct surrounding my fascination with Audrey Hepburn, which I can restructure, but what I was dancing around, and search leading me to an Israeli outlet, Haaretz, was the particularly insidious nature of anti-Semiticism, the flaming righteousness of Jewish liberalism-- is there a covalency here?-- and my follower JD Landis question about whether or not Trump's ascendancy led to Bowers. Landis likes to test TwitterVerse with collective inquiries, but I believe he contextualizes the issue wrongly, and I'll return to it. I live in a near continuous state of being overwhelmed, and wish I too, like cousin Tommy, could enjoy watching the Flyers live on ice. I love hockey. Watch out for what compromises you make for younger siblings. Benjamin cut me off his feed, and he's my blood for whom I've sacrificed in the name of our slut bitch mother. Want to talk about hurt, do you?

Niles & Daphne

You're not Jewish are you?-- a widow's response to Kelsey Grammer being out of his element at her husband's funeral

I never quite got that joke on Frasier, and I knew I was supposed to, the laugh track creating a brief caesura, even my executive director Richard Baron mentioning it at work the next day, repeating the actresses question with a bemused guffaw the dowager did not have the courage to interrupt for purposes of enlightenment about dropping dead suddenly and the Jewish norms of medical hypochondria being prepared for it, but I did understand the Niles and Daphne exaggerated classism collapse: the psychoanalyst all hot and heavy for a domestic being a better class of warden to Mahoney as the gadfly father slowing down, Leeves interjecting herself at the appropriate moment and then turning back to the sink to finish the dishes, familiarity over. This is representative of the conflict in care-giving, whether or not we humorize it. Some days it is difficult to do that, as when bathroom maintenance fails, or the man cuts at you: little brother's troubled son "not being your business," objecting to your coldness, akin to the way a prospective partner would, but he and I differ on my brother, my public battle with my sister-in-law. I want her to stop behaving like a teenager and rectify my nephew's emotional pain. This is the price of the cannon I loaded at her, and so it shall remain, my regret burrowed in the fact that my sister Stephanie is a good mother, as are other members of my family better parents than what my brother seems capable of. I love Benny, but our relationship, for me, is over. In the 8 months I've been going through this, not one call or text in my direction. Stephanie, my sister, may not set foot in Riverside, but she's been here for me. Truce remains intact. As to the fight with Galahad, I played the bruised lover, emphasis on played. We made up, but my volubility rouses his masculine irritation, irrespective of my coldness. My magic nigger man phase, if the dowager is honest with Joanne, is over, mainly, other than being gratified he'd fuck me, all other things being equal. "Let me fuck you if you want me to stop talking," this I said this morning, a rote effort to return to the moment, for whatever reasons, in my analytical dispensary. He did, after all, remind me of the lover I had hoped I could be for the right man, when it mattered, but I am, as I said, bored, as he vacillates between the caring boy and the man who's frustrated. Live his life or shut the fuck up, in his dedication to this provider and it's scum of the earth criteria, the care workers as equally Medicaid clients. If it wasn't a slow burn killing field without the fanatical star quality of the Khmer Rouge, that would be one thing, but it's killing me, my good news for you, as such, I found my draft of The Driver on my external drive, which doesn't mean I've been almost eliminated. If I had the strength to calibrate my work as I used to, perhaps I'd get past this; not while I'm forced to dump in a disposable out of mutually shared fatigue, exchanging the hug and kiss, his happy ritual. I haven't destroyed his construct, not just yet. It isn't a lie he's pierced my armor, despite that my interior conflicts haven't meshed.

Osteoporosis on A Metronome Beat

It could always be worse. -- Dana, a precursor to my current stomping testosterone laborer

I suppose I can live with it after all, that a man’s mistake led to a brief uproar and the inevitable retrenchment, so much intense back and forth. The service coordinator, once my title also, frightened me into an essential resignation, ashes in the sandbox, the oxygen and energy sucked out of me by my despairing cousin; if Galahad and I are chameleons, one moment a simulation of a couple, the next two worn out individuals who’ve time lapsed half a century, Monday had a tinge of a high school pep rally, as if he could charge at my shrieking and tremulous physique like a point guard. My cousin’s misery makes my emptiness seem relatively infinitesimal. My cynical, callous side resents her for it, but her situation is as equally a teaching tool. She married twice, the one she’s in now with my blood relative fractured by hideous wounds, which, for once, out of personal loyalty, the dowager shall not reveal, if otherwise to be burdened with tight-knit bond through text only. I, by contrast, never married, and there is nothing ironclad about a future abandonment between this man and I.

I did blink first, and was going to withdraw from his employer, my current provider, but I’d have to fend off inquiries, and my departure would have been because we did not violate the rules altogether, and intercourse now carries too many riders, almost an afterthought. I never really had him. The fellow simply hasn’t been laid for 15 months. The last date I was in my fiancé’s bed is beyond my memory, 2006? The care worker found it incredible, and there, Pam and I have a bond. She and Bill abstain, from what inferences she offers. This you may know, which means I don’t care enough if it gets read and I land on even more familial estrangement (my half-brother). My sister-in-law and I had an unforgiving quarrel on Facebook, giving me insight, therefore, about social media creating its own news. It finally happened to me, with my nephew sleeping in his car while his trollop mother parades her granddaughter, his child, like a trophy. Dawn, my brother’s wife, is forever high school trailer trash, but look who’s talking, my aspirations defeated by a former Walmart cargo-handler. I was, of course, going to go into racial epithet mode, then considered the racer from Nederland, which is in Colorado. I owe the man an apology for thinking he was actually native African. No harm. Speed is a drug, like Mia Farrow’s kidney-stone liberalism.

In comparison to my barren womb, my cousin has two children. She owns her home. I own nothing, and yet I’m so much stronger than this whining, self-pitying bitch, so much so that I offered to put myself in the middle, see if I can suture her marriage into healing, drawing her and Bill out with a couple-friends dynamic. She’s afraid I’ll spill her secrets, like Meyer’s blood guilt driving the visions of his conscience, sans Match Point.

What Allen asks in this film is to consider the price of adulation over and above desire, but he does not expiate himself, distastefully trapping Scarlett Johansson as a situational victim because she gave in to an unhappy husband, simply through association, with her own parallel relationship discord. Allen loyalists deem his capture of Soon-yi to be creepy. Galahad is of the opinion that it was sick, and I'm inclined to agree. There was no letter of the law crime, but he fell on the sword against his own backlash with the mortality counter, condensing his time. It doesn't seem to make Mia any more sympathetic, curiously, hiding, as she does, as a leftist in mortal combat. Is my gratitude toward Galahad a blinder, after a fashion? Given my history as a victim of black dysfunction, our sparring match over what is genuine and isn't has been remarkable. I know him better than I ever did Frank, but he's still a shackle in a sandpit, and my mortal coil has a ton of work to do.

If I remain loyal, contrary to my inclination, and he finds other employ, a woman? I've been writing the script of an ugly, stark, care giver's murder for a long time. I may have mentioned it, even.

Josh Groban's Growth Spurt

You don't know how to talk to people.--nothing the dowager hasn't heard before

My readers may appreciably take comfort in the fact that I have very little formal training in music, as cousin Pamela and I swap tunes as a form of moral support, to discover on my own that I know You Raise Me Up through exposure on commercial radio, and it is this Josh Groban, pitted unequivocally against Brian Greene, and by extension, Feynman:

"It doesn't seem to me that this fantastically marvelous universe...can merely be a stage so that God can watch human beings struggle for good and evil."--Richard Feynman, born 100 years ago today. pic.twitter.com/jBGq68ysWp

— Brian Greene (@bgreene) May 12, 2018

whose atheism Greene is highlighting, who wins the argument. No one can listen to Groban's trembling baritone and not be reminded of our transcendental merger with aspiration, regardless of your faith, or lack thereof. The singer might be a telescopic savant, little knowing that one of my tweets to him, for miserable Pamela's sake, was tongue in cheek, and the public face of popular physics may understand genius enough to distill it to rogues such as I, but listen to Josh, then listen to Greene, and a pathway may be found where neither personality is necessarily in dialectical opposition to the other. Musical compositions are as carefully coordinated as the Hubble telescope, in certain respects, so God may be absent and present just the same, whether in a spiritual or material worldview, as I stray further and further afield into this woman's land mines, with conscious alarm telling me to withdraw while I can, and don't, carrying this woman's pain atop of mine. I owe her mother-in-law as my father's sister, certain loyalties, while neither woman does much to give disability pride a good name, with their respective conditions forming a cesspool of self-pity, with brassy Philadelphia sparks as we wither. I, who am suicidally depressed but for my resilience against it, begin to fear my cousin's wife may kill herself, as she insulates her failing body in recrimination. I, who had a horrific medical life, see Pam's as worse, aside from the fact that sticking my nose in it, as Richard the elder would remind me, supporting Pam is just outside an immediate family concern, while for once, the paraprofessional holding himself off me, just, may find me nodding off in the machine, trying to find the space to work between his scent, and Pam's grip on me as a liferaft, to still work as a writer, taking too much of a toll. He took my hand yesterday, seized it, as no man has ever done, to indicate effect, possession? And I wonder what the hell we're doing, me, maybe 24 months off from returning to medical institutional fodder, and this former factory food processor. Oh, I've had relatively tepid sex with able-bodied men like him, wanted to see if he would be any different, and instead, we're torturing each other in this bizarre ritual where he sees me as woman enough, but it is a sad commentary that a woman of my age has to have grown so old to experience desire conjoined to such care, forging ourselves against each other. No mobile man ever seized my hand like that. It kicked me in the skull like a gulf ball, and in part led to this all nighter, while Pam and I bleached the skeleton in the closet, vibrating with such tenacious despair.

Basketball & Rules on a Sim Card Transfer

There's always some reason to feel not good enough, and it's hard at the end of the day. --Sara McLachlan

Let me open this post by saying that Samson and David are rather favored exemplars of what it takes to be steadfastly devout until the frailty of human need breaks the most heroic aspects of our nature, even in being a warrior for the certitude of exceptionalism. In our otherwise silent alliance in the many months the editor of Modern Catholic has remained my follower, Rebecca Angell may grasp this and admonish me with the inquiry, "You understand the radicalism Christ brought to the Hebrews, don't you?" Yes, but it's easier when Yahweh let's you slaughter a thousand Philistine's with the jawbone of a jackass. I have a novella trapped in WordPerfect 7 which I've almost sold tied around this very principle of martyrdom's Old Testament militancy, and I am more inclined to believe in Samson as a Nazarene than I am in Jesus as the feminine handmaiden to the Father. Blaspheme? Not quite, merely a stipulation that I need Samson as a Herculean figure, David as the King of Kings, before I can swallow the petulance of the Incarnate with his demands toward selflessness, and maybe, in my attempt to find a new trustworthy intimacy with women in my peer range, I need this new found submergence, new to me, sucked into a cousin's pain worse than mine. It interests me that a woman can be married, have at least one granddaughter, more dogs than I have cats, and be in such profound pain because her husband, my cousin by blood, is an impotent prick. "I can only imagine the things you write about me." Billy said this to me years ago, not realizing I find him rather colorless, emasculated as he is by his dying mother, and I now serve as a buoy to his wife while mutant fissures pulsate my body in ways never anticipated before the 15th of last month. Pam values her privacy, and I've already written enough, in both alarm and irritation, to disservice what her trust expects, as she too curls like a vine reaching out to my nursing aide.

On the basis of what this quixotic fellow has tossed at me, I'm assuming, brusquely, if I want him, then I can take him: he refuses to fully kiss me because then he'll have to take me, so he claims, while I look at my oblong face, incredulous-- but this isn't my point. I'm engaged in a serious battle with myself about winning him, as he claims I have, merely asking me to wait, or fearful my attachment will become irrevocable-- (I am already there, thank you)-- but is this what I really want, an untutored lion, for who's sake I'm studying the rules of the court? I had him literally on top of me Tuesday. It wouldn't have taken much, and yet, I released him, every day, another flavor, another stroke of his fingers, nearly intolerable, unable to engage in the usual stimulus to ease these frustrations, I'd rather he not use foreplay merely to ease my suffering, find him too sweet to remain infuriated, while the game goes on despite my bobby pins, ready to anesthetize the fluttering wings of the moths. I want to know that it's real, not Memorex, hoping I won't have to kill him with a strangulation of silk before he sorts it out himself.

Drainage Slats, authorized version

As I dug up my mother, minus her best photographic image, after I started this blog, in 2010, slightly too languorous to link the sites together, this was her invidious late life college student nursing peer who turned around and married her friend's husband.

Don't date Nick, mother said, disputing my memory of her advice. She told me she did not tell Louise not to date my father, but you can weigh an eldest daughter's daggers against an ambivalent divorcee, and Louise turned around and dated Nick, their age disparity similar to mine and Frank's, with reverse polarity. Frank allowed himself to die as my punishment, aged 69, whereas my father married an insatiable vampire, gnarled and inflamed knuckles only adding to her unhappy materialist avarice.

Don't speak ill? O, younger sister and I could go much further...

But the irony remains that this woman saw me with "Bedlam" blinking out of her eyes, and I remained independent for as nearly long as she transformed herself into a nursing home mattress. High school psycho-dramatist Victoria knows absolutely nothing about the facade behind the grimace of her charge. It aiin't over yet.

"It's like the Hatfield's and McCoy's," Stephanie typed. I laughed in cliched confirmation. 

Carbon Dating

When I contend with Brian Greene and other physicists on Twitter, effeminate mind altering geeks as they are, I must come off as a blockhead. I cannot compete with them in the mathematical empiricism which illustrates the laws of nature as necessarily fixed, so why do it then? Before giving a direct answer, it may surprise viewers to learn I once did amazingly well in algebra and Euclidian geometry, and even got an A on my chemistry final dragging my sister bitch on a leash. My acumen sharpened or fogged primarily due to despair. In my home districts, I thrived. Outside of them my motivation struggled without the proper covalent bonds, but I never quite lost interest in how Einstein and those who made nuclear war possible revolutionized astronomy. I did not realize, or had serious memory lapses against what I was taught, that stars start out as frozen gas that clumps together, takes 10m to ignite or fail, accordingly, and that our solar system won the lottery with long odds, especially since brown dwarfs are popular failures which do not result in fusion, in theory. Space generates its own dynamism over extraordinarily lengthy periods through vibration, end of story. And yet, theoretical physics borders on tacky space opera in places. Matter may ultimately be a hologram. Time may be an illusion. Dark energy. Anti-matter. Four forces, weak and strong, magnetism. Are we absolutely certain we aren’t attempting to decode god? We cannot really say all that much about our self-awareness, let alone why the particles which configure life are so different from those which configure uranium, or why disease and age and so many other things generate agony, against which pleasure is fleeting. We know joy when we feel it too, but most of life processes itself irrespective of human naval gazing, which is why androids and android sex and zombies and singularities worry our collective social dynamics. I do not think the laws of nature recreates humanity in alternate universes as neatly as the equations of impaction lend themselves to in popular science. This is where my “yes but,” comes in, even if I risk being a Neanderthal, like Ron Perlman in Hand of God. Perlman is always reprising himself as a caveman, and his canceled series challenges materialism in exactly the same way I feel the need to challenge what epistemology gains through radio waves and optics. The pilot episode reveals a conspiracy through hallucinogenic delusion which, just possibly, might be divine revelation coming at a necessary price. Amazon canceled it, so we’ll never know, as its second season seems to meander in corporate evil. The actor who plays Keith (Dillahunt?) was certainly made up to look like a warrior from Judges, conquering Canaan. Going against the grain of established critics, there are things I’ve enjoyed viewing here, if only to observe, in context, why the West Coast is as fucked up as upstate New York.

My mother’s sister telephoned, since I have stopped using Facebook. We ignored my abominable attitude, and the prospect of moving into grandmother’s nursing home went in one ear, as the saying goes. Mary really thinks she is doing the right thing, oblivious to the fact that my sentience is still vital. Marie, the other aunt, accused me of whining, thus generating the enthusiasm of her former married relation, and then hung up. I have my moments, but Marie is wearying me with this constant punishment, as both she and my father contributed to this gradated wasting of my strength. A generic ten year old Quantum extended my strength, and when it blew on 10/02, I didn’t assume I’d be dead in 6 months. Unless I can move the absolute zero of Satan’s forbidding glacial majesty, exchange power chairs, relearn how to maneuver myself to restore some semblance of self-determination, it is possible, without exaggeration. The disposable underwear, the loss of my fish, coffee, toilet usage, the toll may now be too much. Trudy Richardson may not have defeated me with her illegal tactics, but as I’ve written, the stocky lupus African achieved quite a lot with her conniving, linear mindset. I have no love lost over these murders. First I thought one thing, and then said it’s a black problem, and decided not to ripple Twitter’s ions. I am not Milo, quite, but if the handwriting is on the wall, things might get more interesting still, in my quest, if not for grace, then? 

Modular Four Legged Application

When I first interviewed with Riverside, after my attack, I turned in down, in 1993, under what must have been the original managers. I returned to Diamond Park. That evening, a cabbie was left for dead a foot or two from my bedroom window, and I am not certain what led me to plead with Terri weeks later, to get me out of what her supervisor extracted her from. I do not like the perpetual motion of litigation any more than anyone else, but at the time, it was a choice between two evils: the hyper dictation of Riverside, which, no more than anything, did not truly protect me from more victimology, or the incessant vandalism to violence spectrum of the accessible Diamond Park units. I did not fully understand 202 housing. I was still traumatized, and it was not my place to purloin Richard Baron or Daniel Raudenbush into my personal advocates. They were directors, not the justice league, and it’s moot, twenty years afterward, as they have little love for the fact that I talked to Pew after my resignation, and, while I am still resolved, assuming the chair doesn’t short out for good, a distinct possibility, on rolling out, I am ambivalent about my unit key—not so much that Trudy cannot lock me out—lupus lady can do as she pleases from her caramelized perspective—but what do I owe the feline? I have no one to take her temporarily.

1.       I never wanted to live at Riverside, and everyone is tone deaf to this, Trudy in particular, Debra, the Health & Human Services civil servants who either glare or bleat at me.

2.       Presby’s Diamond Park owners, and Riverside’s, were negligent in the assaults, molestation, and robberies I suffered.

3.       The Liberty Resources homosexuals with whom I am forced to reside, whom I once thought I could trust until I learned of their illegal activities, spiraling into a DOJ investigation, is not helping me.

And I am now the bad guy, will wind up paying some sort of further criminal, legal, inhumane penalty, because I say the unsaid, and refuse to comply until I say so, and will never allow another minority paraprofessional to touch me again, not willingly, and I’m worried about what I owe a shelter animal who also suffered. I am not sure who to call. I am sure most of you say give an inch. No one has given one to me. My fear of Trudy’s power, not exaggerated, her constant lashing out at me to give my notice, isn’t enough. I gave it after they attempted to remove me, and she is still threatening me. This is not the United States in which I once believed, not the country where no one would come to my side, give me physical support, not just that of virtual reality. My mother’s sister is a good woman, kept her sister’s children out of foster care, emptied my commode. She cannot do it again, but my father’s indifference, in my adolescent bitterness, is still the inevitable conclusion of my life: I’ll die as hard as I’ve lived. Many do, silently. I did, by the way, receive a job offer Friday and wish I could take pleasure in it. Perhaps next week.

Rogues

I can be lazy every so often and be entirely unremarkable, even though my father is still alive at 81, and my maternal grandmother bridge spans three centuries, her age lost to me if not her birthday, 12/18-- my mother collapsed at 62, so of course, my 56th year, scrawny, dry, soiled, and even slightly gnarled, quietly out of sight, makes me nervous. Death will relieve me of mortal psychological anguish, and I'll die alone, no Schiavo with a second wife to be caressing me while I starve and growl like staggering motorcycle pistons, god have mercy and give me save haven from bulge eyed niggers who talk chewing feces, god have mercy. I pray this daily and constantly and don't hear Richard Spencer leading a stampede, but Thomas's death, at 69, is interesting in the context of his late roles. He was the husky bookseller facilitating whatever elements of the actual resistance is in High Castle, and though A Strange Affair is an insipid watercolor, Thomas at least has the more significant energy as a traitor any besieged wife  might desire to concussion and get off despite doing it. How William Russ gets any work at all points to the tenacity of cliche, as in greeting card verse. 
Sixty nine; bit young for a wiry Texan.

My sole surviving Austrian grandmother courtesy of my cousin before she was placed, demented pic.twitter.com/rPoAwc0MjV

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) July 12, 2017

.

you have a rotten mouth yes I do grandmom Pauline, in the blackguard of my tantrums, the likes of which I shall not punish myself with merciless detail, but I love this woman; her youngest daughter, now too in the era of ailments, hives, replacement joints, is almost 70. I am setting myself up, quietly, plotting. I have nothing to lose.

Supernatural Silhouette

This Jazzy is basically fucked, (and called, in impoverished futility, this medical supply company from Twitter which has no Pennsylvania location) and since it only charged for an hour and a half after I got back from the libertarian committee meeting last week, where, after three years, I was educated that getting into the Cafe through the back alley was less strenuous, and no asshole in this city could tell me that before, right, so, staying in the building, I have run the battery down, carefully, on very small spurt plug ins, and just managed to get it to charge two hours, meaning I have to charge it less frequently, and by so doing, just perhaps realign the memory, despite the short, I don't know. I am basically doomed, and should have selected ABC's Somewhere Between over Midnight Texas. Somewhere Between takes the inexplicable desperation of damaged mother and the blackout drunk cop seriously, and is plausible in the sense that something happened to alter dire circumstance. Do I care? No.

I am rattling my saber at my mother's sister on glorious Facebook, and if so desired could really start shit, black bile from the gorge secrets never to be forgiven. Pause.

Benjamin is only my half brother, and never deserved what our mother's wayward life inflicted, so I will not really start shit, in an age where low pressure storms suck our ligaments back into the space wave particle dimension explained by math but just barely within the configuration of our brains. If I can, I'm lying down an hour or more. Not that I wish it, having listened, slept extra, ate heavy Spanakopita. I have to hold myself together long enough to deploy my plan of action, not that I know if it is plaque, impeding stroke, pancreas, or appendix. I have learned to chase law firm 800 numbers during claims court television. 

Big Box Pits

"we have no housing options at this time" --Pat Toomey's office, my fantasy avenger

One of the most sophisticated of the late Law & Order series, before Jesse Martin left and the fat poster boy for nigger grievances took over, now making his drum roll rapid timing on black-ish, is "Bottomless". Purely as a story, it opens like an exquisite floral bouquet, with an implicit acknowledgement of the fact the we're all expendable on the basis of income, career skill set, and age. It doesn't quite come out and call Walmart a devil, or simplify old school identity politics through Lieu and her retired boss of yesteryear, but it is a rather deft spin on ableism, white privilege, and the truth that one person's pain may initiate an investigation, in this case, grieving Chinese dry cleaners with a dead daughter fresh off her bar exam, with a frivolous lawsuit opening into criminally complicit sex which winds its way back to how deft Beijing is at playing the lack of accountability game, to the point the initial manslaughter is virtually obliterated from view. We're all little drops in the bucket, blanketed over by multi-billion dollar corporations, and I ridicule what, in contemporary terms, is a mortal emotional wound, one which I can no longer quite control (it's hot), with nicotine or fish oil or my usual methods, by tap dancing a mafia godmother game. Psychologically, it no longer is one, but for the fact I soften dissolute menace by putting the people with power on a pack of cards, and trying to hold myself together by rationalizing that I do not want to be placed in a psychiatric facility over ignorant vermin. Fine, but the problem: I've never, ever, gotten a victory for the cruelty I have sustained. Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne will no more than likely get a slap on the wrist for the devastating damage I've been forced to swallow for 32 years with "fraternal corporate" contractors with HUD's localized housing authorities. I've only ever had one of them, but they are all collusionary, and  complicit, with inept federal civil servants. In the end, it is all the same. Politburo or federal civil servant. I cannot sit and cull law firms on my cell when I have a fissure in my chest ready to burst my body and spray the walls with hemoglobin. The day I spoke to the gentleman at Silver & Silver I held the oar steady and just said okay, resigned. He is the one who said "wait," and gave me a referral, but it is too late. I hate Debra. I hate Trudy. And the disability activists. My humanity, at the moment, is too compromised for my grit. I am 56, battling elisions, repetitions, fear of my family, fear I'll never publish a brand article again (ie, people who publish in The Philadelphia Inquirer don't wind up like half-assed idiots on niume, or do they?). I had to reach for William Shatner's name, an actor I've known as Captain Kirk since I was a baby. 


Libertarian writers only hit liberals on the most general terms when it comes to Walmart. They need to take better aim, and have my courage, if not the cliff face on which I am so precariously ready to topple, to illustrate that it is also federalism which leads companies like V Halter to stick its thumb up its ass, as there are no private contractors for naval fleets. Today is my 27th, corrected, anniversary with AT&T, as the grand old utility reminds me. I almost left them in 1999 for unlimited Internet, never howled at them, or complained, and they've rolled over for me like a beached whale. This is my stand in for interpersonal intimacy.

It is not losing someone in a state of negativity

Wife says 'never go to bed angry' after waking from row to find husband dead on sofa https://t.co/H6SbFQk6bL

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) July 11, 2017

Domesticated housewife bullshit. We cannot control every circumstance, and what it really comes down to is learning to live with what we cannot control. My last words to my brother were "get off the phone you fucking psychopath." My surviving brother feels guilty for not helping my father bathe him, but I cannot hold Ben accountable for that, as I feared to kiss him when my mother walked him, zombie on a leash. What I do not do anymore is lash out at evangelicals, though they confuse my sympathy with faith, and eventually pay the price, blocking me after a feisty libertarian discussion, proving that Catholics are tougher, and are the one true faith, the rest of you be damned, a hint of conviction there in the exhortation. But the moniker "atheist Catholic" isn't a Derrida linguistic game, as some of you think. It embraces the dialectical contradictions which agnostics just whine about. 

1. There is no God. That is fairly well settled, but disaffection with materialism lends itself to Catholic stricture, and on another day, if my plaque doesn't cause imminent catastrophe, my war with Protestant doxtology goes on, and shall be victorious. I truly thought Google would have had it in for me by now, if I used Plus, and that FB would have long ago banned me. The sole reason I don't close my FB account, literally the only reason, as my family with their pesky skeletons annoy me (I know things some cousins do not know I know but I am in too weakened a position to ignite tensions, as all of our parental generation are vulnerable, on their last legs) is so that I may chase sources, or get blogging advice.

I am working and in bad humor. Leave me alone-- yelling at my viewers as if they're the proximate cause of all my trouble🙌

Robert Guillaume's Fake Prison Milk Eye

Mario Puzo's Hell's Kitchen is less widely  known than The Godfather. It covers the same terrain in slightly weaker form, with its central character getting whacked off in a Jacuzzi, wherein the novelist allows the dying consciousness its self-depreciating voice, the same as any wise guy. You can see within this narrative that Puzo was a man of Eisenhower lesbian erotica. It wasn't an "identity" back then. More like the ultimate patriarchal fantasy: two pussies and a dick in the middle. I suppose its exposition on what Hell's Kitchen then represented is a complimentary bookend to the 1990 State of Grace, one of the few films in which I do not like Ed Harris' role. The slow motion gun battle in the bar is one of the more idiotic in the annuals of modern film, and a waste of Harris' otherwise extraordinary energy, which I sit here considering, impacted to the point of day long discomfort, an overgrown toenail still waiting to be sawed. The first film in which Harris ever made an impression on me, though it might have been another actor look alike, he was mock fucking his wife in a standing position, virtually having a stroke in order to project restrained violence in intercourse. I've never seen anything like it before or since, but I'd certainly be interested in trying it, my shins raised to the collarbone. Less arthritis pain. I never had sex in affection, only illicit excitement. Whether I'm right or wrong about the scene being one of his earlier roles, after A History of Violence Ed just seemed to explode with a string of great performances. This is why I am suffusing my synapses, attempting to contextualize it, my stepmother once again in hospital, my father exhausted, while my head is doing a little pep rally, cheerleading: die you damn bitch.

Niume cratered, as one might suppose, top heavy as it was with mostly insufferable posts. I am getting weary of the necessity of digital improvisation, all the same, but in not so many hours, I'll rear my head to enter the preliminary stages of my piece for the think tank, though the Russia investigation is steam rolling.

Hayfever In A Fog

Australia aroused special doubt. --Tatyana Tolstaya, my favorite Tolstoy relative.

I came on actually to mine Google on Ryan O'Neal, vaunted cancer patient and parent of disabled son, and wound up pitching to a small zine on FB because I knew no other way, and I begin to get upset with how I am supposed to interface with media platforms if no one is using email anymore, and here I am, whining, wondering how I am going to prove what I told CATO about my thesis on this movie, the hot and sexy Driver. Cato no doubt said "Say what?" It was not a formal pitch. I just told them cripple with the brain that wouldn't die might be on her way. 

I hate Niume, honestly, and I've been filing my buttocks on sandpaper to write decent posts, and still hate them. No, they have done nothing. Yes, they have better collaborative bloggers than I, few, and far, between, and I hate them anyway, because I cannot write 900 penny posts for 10 dollars, but my mind is writing them. Just who the holy fuck do I think I am? Christ. Cripple of the 500 things before she strokes, fractures her fused thick hytonia clenched feet, stained with waste and dead skin, coliform dead skin. My aunt looks horrible. She doesn't carry her weight as well as my mother did, and I ponder how well she's walking on that knee joint. My cousin is just as obese, but freaked out that her baby boy might have had a chronic disease due to involuntary head movements-- this is your attitude about conditions, and yet, you all want me to be nice, civil, applying community standards. I did not get into this with my cousin. Yes, I get it. Mothers freak until the kid is eighteen, and then carry survivors's guilt if the child dies from an OxyFendayl overdose, or gang war, but still. You don't abort us, but if we fuck up a few times? Oh.

Any ambulatory person not homeless would have suicided at this point in my personal circumstances, pointing toward my ambivalent relationship with Tolstoy's messianic arc enveloping the agony of soul.

Epistolary Address on the Margins: Paul Ryan

"It's more like a slow train wreck."-- Lanhee J. Chen, expectations disappointed

I tweeted a question weeks ago, Mr. Speaker, to your twitter account, about Boehner's warning on repeal and replace. Not being a citizen of Wisconsin in your district, I did not expect a response, but knew you were headed for trouble with your replacement bill, and I do blame you, even if Trump's public face is disingenuous on the matter. No one cares about my opinions. This is partially my fault. If Blogger had actually suspended me two years ago, I might have made it a cause celebre with Breitbart. If I had cleaned up my act, at least on this account, I might have linked it as a resume highlight, but did not quite go to either extreme, except for a recent severe depression over the prospect, not yet actually in process, of summer homelessness, which caused a precipitous drop in my followers, and probably has Dr. Floch shaking his head, a younger and more attractive head than I thought, about the difficulties and demands I place upon myself, but I am a radical, don't believe in making medical paradigms a way of life, and if Medicare costs eat up 20% GNP even before Obamacare, add the VA medical budget to that, Medicaid, it really isn't possible to continue, and I tend to disagree with Timothy Taylor about the cost of the sickest patients: I have a grandmother in her mid 90's in a home, no more than a functional corpse. I do not know how much this is costing her surviving daughter, ten years my senior; it is wrong, and I'd withhold nutrition and hydration. Ditto for my father's brother. He is extremely sick with heart disease and viral infections, and his sister, who has basically served as a self trained hospice nurse since her husband's lung cancer, isn't far behind. I disagree with my Church here, to some extent, and when quality of remaining life is marginal, withhold treatment. It is nothing I haven't written before, but it is what I believe, given that the medical treatment I get is shoddy, with students, or residents who wanted me on oxygen, or an inhaler, failing to take other factors into account, like allergies, and I haven't seen a doctor since my Craigslist hire. Where is my line? I do not know, maybe in my meringues.

Yours was a sorry performance Friday evening, and just as I, you're old enough to remember Tip O'Neill, the last Speaker who had any real corralling power. Earmarks too, which may need to be restored in the House rules. I had hoped to live long enough to see you in the Presidency, a rational corporate conservative, but you ran this game drive like Mickey Mouse. I do own some knowledge about how bills are sponsored and written, and know how hard it is, but you've had national prominence even prior to being Romney's running mate. You should have learned to control the chamber by now. Let's be less headstrong in the future. I have to lie down; pushing too hard.

Aurevoir, Mon ami

Of course, in the indigence tableau of choices, free broadcast is offering a film to honor Mary Tyler Moore, Just Between Friends. Ted Danson walking in the doorway as if caught with his pants down; Ebert saying it had a made for television feel, which it did. Despite progressive analysis of Moore as sexually assertive against Dick Van Dyke, I never saw her character, as Mary Richards, basically all she knew how to play, as anything but brave and glaring veneers, which made her angry and repressed matron all the more terrifying in Ordinary People. (I agree with certain online critics that Ordinary People ignites genuine terror, and it is due entirely to Moore miraculously winding up her fury into something we all desire to flee. Oh it is dated, with all the known elements, Hirsch the patriarch who can absorb anything, but if anything indicts Episcopalian America, Ordinary People deserves a shrine.) But as to this Reagan era teleplay, the premise was interesting, and might have been a vehicle for vicious recrimination which doesn't, in fact, so easily resolve. It was too civil, and lacked courage to truly say something about marriage, family.

Facebook at least did me one service, and that is to realize I cannot roll backward and go home. Looking at my mother's sister in her anniversary photo with my uncle. I cannot go back, so, if I step off Presby, I am essentially on my own. I am so scarred that the mold no longer fits, sitting down to my sister in law's eggplant after a vigorous affair with a computer consultant who lived westward past Longwood Gardens: I'm not there anymore, and realized, that if so many days back, I grabbed O'Brien's follow like a floating life raft, it was a rather brittle salvage effort: I am not strong enough, not anymore, either for my complacent unhappiness as a life long public housing tenant with one sole agent, or to survive the violent disruption I'm shortly to bring upon myself. I have no answer, truly. I can battle waiver services again, but my temperament is such, that if I terrified Eddie the day after her sexual conduct, minority attendant conflict resolution 2.0 may get me a jacket, or killed. These rationalizations from all the duress I've eaten, maybe the next one won't, what? Maybe the next one won't swindle me? Try to extort me?

In that sense, my failure to see Moore, despite her comedic timing, as anything more than a titular representation of a fait accompli, might be forgiven. Always there, her gregarious teeth, her occasional references to diabetes.