The verbal disease above noticed may be reserved for diagnosis by and by. --TS Eliot, The Perfect Critic
You are going to have to bear with me on this one. I rely on the WPHIL syndication system more for quality than any other free broadcast access I have, and I was going to digress in frustration that all Amazon Prime and Netflix amount to are content distribution systems, making us all jackasses at the end of the day, though I'll stay with Prime as long as I can. We'll save this for later, however. A minor internalized hilarity occurred because WPHIL17 listed the wrong 21st century film with the same tile: ZapIt had on the grid the Concussion 2015, about the NFL's grand medical conspiracy. What WPHIL actually aired was the 2013 Concussion, and what is the 2013 Concussion? The 2013 Concussion is bored lesbian housewife, after taking a hit by her kid, seeking out prostitutes for sex, and then lets herself get pimped. You would figure I'd have a field day with this, and you'd be entirely correct, except for the fact that Stacie Passon is a courageous director, and this film is representative, outside of its subject, with what I am starved for: a story for mature adults, with mature themes, which ends on a curious Lionel Shriver note. Everyone stays in their places. No police, no Candice Bergin grand scandal. It has a very chromatic libertarian undercurrent. And as I critic, I liked it, but Passon in her dual role as screenwriter and den mother with unsparing eye, ultimately proves my point about the blinding insulation of gratuitous pleasure. I'd ask Sara Posada, while visualizing her astonishment, if it is really like that for women these days, all these wild catting moments and flings and actually rather tepid sexual secrets, and if it is, I am out gunned, mocked by you all, and weep in profuse preferential self-pity. Sniff. The obese teenager who is Weigert's first client is my heroine, personally, for realizing in herself that heterosexual pair bonding is the better part of valor. I was ready to break out the pom poms when she ended this business arrangement, I kid you not.
But let me take a swing at a tricky knuckle ball: if Gretchen Laskas can forgive the dowager for once ballistic outrage, why can't that same forgiveness be granted to a dung mother like Josie Byzek? Let me put that issue in these hypothetical terms: certain lines crossed are flag indicators, and I never ridiculed my more able writer friends personal relationships. Josie broke code. I don't care what he posted that offended her, I could talk to Cecil, he could keep up with me, and she took that away, and doesn't have the armor available to shield herself if I so much as ever set eyes on her again. Cyber relationships, on the percentages, are mostly ephemeral. More than likely I could never have coaxed Morales to dinner, but every time I consider the cost of my isolation, I send a secret prayer out that someone slaps this rancid Lancaster excuse for a Christian across her face, like she deserves. He was the last effort for the vigor I had that might have offered me a reasonable chance. I won't find it on a site like Our Time. You know that; I am too pared to the bone.
Sara, by the way, astonished me first by following me. I would not have asked, and it does provide me comfort, but I cannot treat her like a confidante. This is primarily due to age, and I have taken a care toward reserve. I like her very much though, and demand you all behave. She is possibly a happy future I shall not fully see.
"Is it that bad?" Stephen Dixon
It would have been nice to crawl on the belly of Mr. Morales, taking a rare proactive step of inserting him in my shaggy wolverine public hair, breathing freely. He made a marked impression on me, with his romantic force of mind. Is he dead? Retired? If my sole literary colleague on the face of the earth is still among us, it may be reasonable to assume a pompous trade journalist with avuncular smile, dimpled cheeks, black rimmed glasses, might still linger, if not in DC, then somewhere. I evidently cannot find a fucking soul on Facebook, not in terms of people I actually once knew, which means my paranoia on utilizing FB is overblown. I have no damn idea how to use the site to my benefit, embittered writer, lonely woman, whichever bovine Pulcinella I rake in the mulch toward the blades of April.
Why is the poet Robert Thomas my friend? Me drooling dowager retart toldshim between us I would not stir this up, but it boils down to a few simple things: He does not attract me, no slight to his wife intended. I am, in point of fact, fond of the image I hold of Robert's spouse, and regret I actually couldn't adopt her as a new chick clique to chew the fat-- that is another issue. Secondly, my contemporary colleague wisely never bestowed to my phone his number. Even if he had, it is too expensive to behave like my mother in domineering twenty minute conversations between me/they in Oakland. Thirdly, though I've no idea what he may have said behind the scenes, if anything, I do not blame him for my ban from Speakeasy, and I doubt he would have tolerated me this long if he sided with the ban camp. Fourth, and most importantly, I respect his craft. It is fine. It is polished, worthy of American celebrity certainly not disposed on any of us.
Then stop running your mouth and work. Yes, of course. Well, I do, but I have a lot going on, and cannot sit back quietly let Presby destroy what's left of my spirit. I'm working too, a rebuttal on libertarian dark sides, if you will. As to Cecil, whatever happened to him, I did not mean for my adamant stance to make him feel threatened. That was the extent to which Josie Byzek wounded me. I never tried again, after what she did, to take a chance with ambulatory accommodation with who I am. I wish she was dead, Josie, but know that in itself, wouldn't change my scars, this infantile hit list of mine. I even know doing things to fuck up Josie's domestic tranquility wouldn't affect much, but feel it is a legitimate issue to stop her from adopting or fostering third world Asian children. After more research, I may press that.
In reading about Pharmo Bro and Duca, without tweeting about it, I in my turn haven't been obstinate enough to harass my enemies in public. The last thing I ever emailed to Josie was I will never be civil to you, then booted her off my group. I know what she would say. What she did by lashing out at a trade journalist before whom I dangled myself, deliberately-- (in contrast, I would not dare breach my interaction with Jeffrey Tucker by complaining about vaginal yeast) was wrong, she apologized, and I do not help myself by letting rabid lesbianism stick in my craw. She's moved on and I am on the verge of death spiral homelessness. I am, however, the spastic quadriplegic all by her lonesome, even with data available which illustrate most cyber flings fail.
That I will never be civil to you was an incoded murderous rage, which my intellect knows isn't worth the trouble. Cecil Morales may have had a passing interest in my puerile extroverting, but he thought I wanted a husband, and his bite was as vicious as my own, worse. He had a failed marriage, and my ghost of a dead spic came later. Killing the den mother of New Mobility won't give me back any opportunity for golden years comfort with the right fellow. Shrekli and Duca have debarked the gen X trail, the shadow of the sixties like an ancient taxidermy model ready to collapse at the slightest motion, an open door. I did no work. After I logged off yesterday I went to the store, yes, sick, for soup, a little fruit, watched most of O'Neal in The Driver again, this time memorizing Adjani's sympathy toward the protagonist, then knocked over a large slate milk crate which serves as an ad hoc vanity table, stacked with tomes. I am, oddly enough, desperate to get in O'Neal's head about this film, and have to move. I want O'Neal. Walter Hill is self-explanatory. But Ryan O'Neal, at least live, with the mask off, seems petty, vain. He had a good run, next to most of us, but not, however, as zealous lone wolf willing to live a monastic existence solely to be the best.
"Do you trust me Louis?"-- Augustus Brew, silicon archetype
The abbreviated version of my limited interactions with Cecil Morales can be summarized as follows: I joined his Catholic discussion group on Yahoo, and he then returned the favor by joining Disability Arts, which still hangs like a thumbnail, and then we went to email. I have no reason to believe he wasn't who he claimed to be, that pictures of him rough housing his son weren't a father with his boy, or that he wasn't Argentinean. We talked on telephone. I dangled my cunt like a trollop, and Josie Byzek, as I've written with past scathing bitterness, lashed out at him publicly, for motives I have already surmised: Give me an inch and I talk the length of the turf, I pull on people, and give little thought to telling lesbians wrapped up in the belief in Jesus Christ that they're going to hell. Did I email her that? No, but her insistence on her right to religious communion is blasphemy, and this may have gnawed on her subconscious.
I was paid in full. His insensitivity troubled her, but not I, and what he had wasn't looks. It was intellect, and this is what Miss Byzek disrupted: I could, at one time, talk to Cecil about ideas. I wanted that more than any worries over dangling and impotent cartilage, but what, now, can I do? I look haggard. I'm mentally beaten, struggling with my grandfather's bowel issues, anxiety, agitation, subsistence, and Frank Versante? Frank and I looked the part, but we had no real connection other than prurient groping, which ceased long before his death, almost a year ago. We were always disconnected, never into each other, despite his claims he loved me. That wasn't the case. He was just a dirty old bastard. I punished him, and pushed him. Made him do things, refused to accept that he wanted his helplessness, wanted his infantile indulgence. Now I'm alone, in the middle of the January thaw, fighting panic. I can cave in again, recertify this April, barring any catastrophic changes to HUD's policies, but it is not the unknown elements of the Trump Administration feeding my fear. It is rather the knowledge that I am not going to last another year in this building, and I'm at a loss. Psychiatry will, if it comes to that, merely invalidate me, nothing more. It will not fundamentally alter the livid hatred with which I'm struggling, the consequent difficulty of putting all this aside, focusing on work. I've nothing to offer an attorney, or an attorney's firm, beyond contingency; I cannot expect anything from my family, and even less from digital networks. I can wade my way through welfare intake, just make the call, but I'd drive away another fifty attendants, no matter how hard I try. Some of them may victimize me again, and I already know how much worse it can get. If I wrote these two paragraphs though, I suppose more can be coaxed. The sin, the grave sin in the back of my mind, that charming plan, I fear the suffering it would cause me, so much more suffering for such deplorable acts of impulse which put me in niggerland, which made me a poor old quad the President elect would satirize, a public spectacle of diminution. Pure Genius gets a small bump for giving an ALS sufferer an arc, without examining the moral issues of personal dignity in the face of such debilitation.
Natasha Richardson, in my estimation, never really seemed to fit in her films, except for The Handmaid's Tale, and in that laughably histrionic Margaret Atwood vehicle, none of the big names fit, because it was a turbo charged warning which was so grandiose that it metamorphoses its own mockery. Often the industry does this intentionally. Sometimes my own heaviness achieves this by accident. Alpha and Beta is a case in point. I showed it to one of the agency aides, in my nine year revolving door with the system, before I let Mary Johnson have it for her now defunct site, and I expected that Esmin the easy Jamaican soul would have been offended. "You're funny!" she said, laughing, on her scan of the final page. I wasn't trying to be. My world had shattered, and I was desperately trying to glue the egg back together, and in a rather convoluted sense, this entire account is a sort of vomit on my ruptured idealism. I screamed in Linda's voicemail, in my nervous breakdown, during that fresh turn of the century, (think I'm recovered?) "I believed in you!" And that is the truth. I thought she represented a triumph of integration.
Today, I am in fact much closer to Karl Shapiro's defense of the notorious Tropic of Cancer, which I am still reading. Miller is, for me, a stop and start nihilist, and though he is terrific with oral cadence, and a necessary voice, he isn't a great writer, hardly as canonical as his defenders would like. Henry James achieved more with his attenuation in the relic of the Victorian age than any of the leftists who mushroomed in the thirties. Miller is so raw he makes the throbbing radioactive vein in my chest seem cowardly, when I discuss which minority [substitute nigger bitches if you are in the she needs lithium like her mother category] exploited me in what fashion. They were not all uncouth brassy caste stricken Medicaid recipients, but a substantial minority of all those women in my revolving door have taken their toll. With my every transfer a feat of engineering physiological memory, I'm damned unless my remaining intellect can pick up my body after my next mistake, can guilt trip my way out of my corporate landlord before I lose myself, and I am doing that, at only fifty three, numb with apathy and avoidance, resilient only because of a corrosive-- well, I understand, in certain respects, the destructive attractions of the jihadists, though for me decapitation is lame. Everyone can breathe easy there.
So it perplexes me. Natasha Richardson cannot internalize, like Jodie Foster, who was a great actress because she internalized identity conflict. Ms Foster is not Ellen. DeGeneres radiates dyke like a wallowing hippo. Jodie Foster doesn't fit the categorical LBGT mold. Oh, I am not challenging her private intimacy so much as complimenting what will soon be lost, and that is the ambiguity of the outsider. It is what has made the child actor with whom so many of us came of age a powerhouse. Richardson, by contrast, is a two dimensional doll for thirteen year olds, hard to cast in the appropriate venue, but it is her role in Past Midnight which triggered my recent distress, conjoined with Benitiz's outreach. The soldier did not do anything wrong, exactly, and I never understood Hang Outs and now, duh, it is a chat scroll, but I am done whoring myself for nothing and should have ignored him. If I can find a divorcee like Cecil Morales who has the intellectual affinity for which I am starved, which is why I cannot forgive Josie Byzek, then yes, I'll take him, but I do not want anymore PC fantasy, as such. I was never shallow enough.
Natasha often paid a heavy price for similar psychological risks, despite the fact she'll never have a legacy beyond historical relevance, unlike Vanessa.
"We shouldn't have got involved."-- Josie Byzek
My aunt hung up on me last night. Age, cancer, yelling at me to let my anger go, not to file a complaint against my building manager and her tactics. With all deference to Tony Stiles, for whom I need to make time to engage, I never had a problem with the police. Some officers have been more diffident than others, some more sympathetic, or less, but I downloaded an email for my district, and if I start this, ignite this spark, they may not arrest me, but conceivably could escort me from the premises, and then twitter, in a fantastical show of force, will have to come rescue me, with a small gobbling chuckle in the back of my throat.
If I file a complaint against Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Presbyterian Homes, Ken Cantrell, I then undoubtedly raise a flag with the police. I am weighing this, in my small status among seven billion.
Terri Schiavo's brain stem function and Bobbi Kristina's are complimentary in some ways. The disability movement may be silent in Bobbi's case because the famed sire of Houston may have attempted suicide, one. Two, the family is not ending her medical care, though entertainment media seems buoyed on the issue, even if it has been less than six months since the poor little love child became non-responsive. Does her brain deserve more time toward a possible recovery?
Terri, as I understand it, aggravated her heart with dietary supplements, and disability activists made certain insinuations against Michael, the husband, in reference to the marriage, and that after 15 years of institutional care, his wife wasn't improving, so he wanted her out of the way. Josie's argument to me, at the Asian restaurant I could not afford, was that Terri Schiavo, whether she had minimal awareness or not, mimicked those who were non-verbal with mental retardation, hence, removing the feeding tube and letting the autonomic, if absent, woman, starve, gave the American public the wrong idea. How many of us would trade places with Bobbi, or Terri, if given their condition as a choice over and above dying? This was my luncheon with two lesbian Christian case managers, the dumbbell in my head going "This woman is my friend, right?"
Cecil Morales, despite the power of his verbal acuity and penetration, probably would not have worked for me as a romantic interest, and if he is still around, (I am not searching), I apologize to him for bristling and losing my cool. I was trapped, trying to hold onto my belief in people like Ms. Byzek, and my need for someone interesting to trust and sleep with, but I'd give my right arm to have had an anecdote to tell you about the dinner date I never had with a very penetrating Argentine trade journalist who was such a piercing Catholic theologian. She took that from me. Josie.
Her and Ginny. Peevish den mothers. What other kind is there? Forgiveness. Yep. I know, and a novel about it wouldn't lead to a movie deal as it did for Nora Ephron. Learn how to be less passive when people who think they know best screw your anticipations. Now I'll debate going back to work offline, or lying down. I take my time being indecisive about following back. Nothing personal; people don't like it when I let my neural net behave with that peculiar lack of compassion with which savants can be gifted.
I argue with my aunt Marie, cruelly, brutally, or with the compassionate realism you may like, to get a grip and prepare for her palliative care. She too is dying, like my stepmother, Louise, but Marie and I are much alike, obstinate Roman American temperaments. Neither Marie nor I want the home health care aides, but the difference is Marie has had cancer surgery twice. I only struggle with moderate obesity and the agitation of not enough nicotine, and I have been abused by and within the welfare system. Marie Varenas is dying, and even if this post earns the ire of her sons, my cousins, they have to get on the ball, knowing full well that Uncle Joe is one large plaque blockage.
I managed my shower chair, grateful, but I am telling you now, I would rather put myself to sleep than move here. I will not do it, and though I cannot assign blame to my infamous supervisor for the real horrific hauntings of warehousing our chronic conditions in homes, I wish I had been a wiser 28 year old than I was, wowed by Linda in her jeans and cuff crutches. Even my work for the disability center left the indelible stain of hell imprinted on me.
Hence the issue with algorithms: Eschewing the power of case management doesn't mean we should forget we cannot do human relations by binary code. Twitter suggests I follow Ms. Byzek without being able to denote my hostility toward her for her violation of my trust, and I have used some venomous terms in relation to her sexual orientation. What a solidified block we are, eh? Josie and Erik have their own enmity toward each other, and I hate all five of them, though I do not know Linda's status in ADAPT or Disabled In Action.
I emailed Josie within the last 24 months, chancing my pain to be graphic, because her email account was still on my group. I took her off, with an acerbic bristle, writing "I'll never be civil to you," and never shall.
The way that gays and lesbians informed my past is, if not dying out, ameliorating, and Josie, like many of you, would say her violation of my trust occurred years ago, she lashed out at Cecil to protect me, and tried to make it up, when she and her partner visited the city. The voice of reason in her Christian loving temperament. Cecil may have hurt me of his own accord, true, but that was my business, and even if I beat a conversation to death with an opening, I did not deserve what she did, and she knows it, given what happened to me at the CIL.
I need to read more staff and scrip, and assure John that if my circumstances change, I shall support his output. Let's usurp the UN!
None of Josie's online images look like the woman I've met in her various incarnations, but this image of her is the most unflattering ugly woman gone dyke lotus I could find. This is the mother earth udder who burned me over a trade journalist widower who was such a charming bigot. I am not often kind to myself, but I am more attractive than Josie, and I will not be charged under federal hate crime statues in the event of her death. I'd like to kill her, in my idiomatic class conscious roots, but one lesbian knife in the back isn't worth a contract hit. Nor was Cecil the love of my life. I joined his Catholic group and emailed him later with the thought that I had a yeast infection.
Got his attention, exchange of pictures, numbers. Pragmatic suburbanites to whom I complained about lesbian high crimes said I should have kept the man off my group. Housewives aren't always lacking in wisdom. What Josie disrupted beneath my feet was the shared interests Cecil and I could discuss, that I am starved for, and don't have the courage to keep getting knocked down online in searching for it.
I cannot talk to Frank, but Cecil read me; he was astute, a romantic Argentine who overcame his looks. Josie took this from me, just blew it away, and my hatred, therefore, toward LGBT norms doesn't come unsanctioned. I'm lonely. Burned to the tenth power, and now I'm 52. I don't have many concealed cards left to turn, and when I told Cecil I'd take the train to DC so he could see I was telling the truth, I received the standard internet alarm: he'd call the authorities. I don't want another chance specifically with him. Two caustic tongues in the same room doesn't regenerate moisture, but this is where progressive tolerances have left me, rolling from Jew bitch to dyke, while everyone has a piece in the Mexican's ass.
Ambulatory men have done bad things to me, but decent ones exist. The husband's I stole taught me that. I've always wanted one for myself; my life will be over soon.
People will disappoint each other, of course, and I wander alone in the wilderness like the ancient theologians who envisioned Yahweh as a world wide wrestling federation owner, one with the biggest dick in the room, because I am disappointed, neither vain nor sculpted nor telegenic enough to become a cult heroine (if the atheists are wrong and a divinity exists, it would not matter to me; I'd revert to anti-theism like Lautreamont) but my intellectual divergence with Josie runs deeper than rabid stricken neurons that run rampage on an MRI. If you wonder why I take it so much to heart that she snapped at a possible dinner date, it is because I made an effort to treat her like a social equal and a friend, and she committed a breach that cannot be undone, regardless of how I would have fared with Cecil on my own. He was also the last man with whom I dared to assert a romantic interest. My ex Frank was not. Frank was a five dollar fuck who operated on my pity to stretch a two hour mistake into a partnership I could not sustain, and it took me three years of hating him for it before my vociferous vitrification ran its course, in the petty vignettes of familiarity and contempt.
I am not sure what reserves I have for the dating game at the half century mark, and don't have the money for matchmakers. I am taking a few days off. I am thinking and playing catch up, and may wade into my old HP for an attempted rescue mission.
