Kimmy's Mouse Under The Oven

Even if I wanted to go roll onto my mattress, I would not get much sleep. Discounting my bedridden helplessness throughout October and much of November, this is my fourth or fifth major accident to date in my ever encroaching bands of constriction, a brief speculation about being afflicted with Typhus flickers in my mind, one of the first really clever articles I ever read in The New Republic, or perhaps meningitis. He handles it as well as anyone can, my larger than life attendant who rolls in in the morning hyped on sugar and spouting astrology and numerology and I nod my head what the fuck do I care why do I want to sleep with this asshole? It is an interesting form of African American liberation heresy, reading the signs as a method to comprehend the happenstance of material events, though it is equally true I believe in my traits being born as an Aquarius, the water-bearer, and he seems to have a natural aptitude for this pseudo-science, the gargantuan I now characterize as Galahad. I have only treated him as well as I have, to date, for the temptation of his physique, and while my need has not quite been vanquished, I am too sore these days, we’ve grown too familiar to freshen it, argue like a couple on the wane. The evening I could have fully kissed him is bygone, so why am I milking it to the mundane even as Charles Krauthammer celebrates life to his last hours? “No no no,” I exclaimed at the super-phone Friday shortly before the traditional supper hour, rocking back and fourth in my equally supped up chair, and the boy man hugged me as he saw my face crater, but I am growing weary of nigger gallantry, no offense to the African who recently came to my feed. I am merely taking comfort in doing what I do, trolling to make people genuflect away from me. This is my coping mechanism, allowing red meat to diminish the fineness of my acumen, actually not so fine anymore, since words like colossal no longer readily spring to mind. And Charles is a colossus, larger than life, whether in effigy or as adversary or in alliance, the psychiatrist who jumped ship, abandoned faith in medical model classification to become the guardian of the right thing to do, the right policy to pursue. In print, he was too hard, and I was slow toward any empathetic agreement, not being a true conservative, and Galahad is heartened by my determination to restore my merit, to find a way to fill the shoes Krauthammer leaves behind, me, the little whiff of angry vulgarity. I told Galahad I had a suicide plan. “Go ahead, turn me in,” I said. “Make it worse.” Don’t tell me what it is.

Anthony Bourdain only has the silence of what forensic science chooses to reveal. He was a delight to listen to in his television appearances. Sorrow is the right keynote to feel, and in my verve to the alternate path, I need your prayers to use my mind to regain my own control. I weep, and offer them to you in turn, as I plot to get this diaper off, soiled in despair. Pray for me. At the very least, Trump could fly my anus over North Korea, nourishing alternative food sources, or giving Kim dysentery. Not specious enough? I’m not strong enough this morning.

Endoscopy Maintenance

...Prepping is nothing more than extending to the rest of your life the same foresight that compels you to keep a spare tire and a first aid kit in your car. (sic)--Reason staff

My last vestige of alliance with independent living modal structure, not that I’ve proactively reached for it within the last year, comes mainly from three Twitter accounts. One is Deborah Ruh, who pounds the pavement with traditional empowerment events and accomplishments. I have no grievance with it, and even if I did, community integration has been stuck in a wormhole since 1984. Disability centers engage in the same static with vocational rehabilitation, and the incorporation of Maximus as the elephant in the room is a rather obvious admission of failure on the part of public welfare systems when it comes to disability. This is not necessarily integral to the Commonwealth to which I am domicile. I have the public presser arm of Maximus on my Twitter feed, and Jack would undoubtedly ban me if I engaged them with my variation of a Tasmanian Devil body slam, but I am acute enough to know that Maximus news is the front cover for the arduous processes of rationed genocide. Baring my fangs at them, in essence, amounts to Mueller prosecuting Manafort in order to justify his probe into Russia’s revamped existential threat. The second is Quad Life, which is on radio silence, not an unknown let down in my neck of the woods, and the third is Jason Dorwart, who told me to check out a theater group, but has yet to inform me how I sample his publication on drama and inclusion. I will qualify here that my open suggestion that “maybe” he and I could meet for coffee if I headed to Virginia was purely for business arrangements within traditional progressive academia. I was of course curious, and scanned his CV, but I am not necessarily looking for a paraplegic within age appropriate range. Thus far, Jason and I lag, whatever our potential, because I am wallowing in my own fecal mucous, rather than ambulance chasing art therapy. I also accepted Maria Dewan’s friend request on Facebook, but she ended the connection after I tagged her in this post, 
believing that The Aide Who Loved Me would have been torn away by now.

I do not know Maria well, barely at all, but I am none the less rankled by her inability to handle my expression of frustration with a sticky situation. I was merely utilizing an assessment for purposes of comparison, not condemning her through the observation, but the skittish tortoise retreated to its shell with its normative darting retraction in the face of assertion, and speaks to my dismay with activism's glass ceiling. Krauthammer and Hockenberry, regardless of their markers on the ideological spectrum, were ambulatory men who survived broken backs, and succeeded within the established media paradigm, something those strcken with developmental defects rarely do. I started to go to bed early, stressed with such quaking colon stresses as I've been, but the harried hare power napped within this rather offensive tilt technology appealing to her inner Luddite, gasping to a finish, still pushing

Dick's Torch

We all have bad days, and the Jazzy's battery memory, despite all my precaution, is on the way down. This is not a machine worth repairing, but caramel bitch started terrorizing me during my first equipment failure, and I cannot do it again, not with her nor her bull dykes, and the stress weighs me, vanishing in pain and out of the way because I left internal medicine and refuse to go back to Jefferson. This seems to make the brutality of High Castle applicable. I am in mid stride on S1, E3, with one operable ear plug to match my "bad" ear on the right. My left, which was my better ear drum, either has a permanent wax affliction, or lost sensitivity the last time I was actually on my bath chair. My acumen can only compensate for so much, and I'm telling you what I said years ago: staying at Riverside is destroying me. Linda Dezenski never fully understood what her conduct toward me did, truly leaving me without any allies. I have never heard one disability advocate, ever, systemically examine independent living corruption and suggest reforms. It's difficult because at one end of the spectrum you have Krauthammer, the crippled shrink who still plays policy doctor, and on the other end people like Cherry, barely in the world, and then Joe Delesio, the savant who imitates normal until he exposes his idiocy, and me, the outcast, terrorized by Africans who jump ship out of guilt, or stay on because they are as thick as SS guards in a New York skyscraper. I am going to die as hard as I've lived. What the fuck can you do?

Sidebar to Wisdom's Impatience

When I am in the mood to give concessions to Vladimir Putin's true socialist allies, like Paul here, they might want to prick up their ears. The general consensus of the establishment, of which Krauthammer is a stalwart member, is the Obama presidency is a failure, and Trump is an omen, a burning wet dream infected by syphilis. This may be correct, but correct in varying degrees. Obama too was Poetus in late 2007, and we watched his president elect briefings biting our nails. What was going on in Philadelphia's poverty housing had not yet threatened my life. It is hard to sequence the Riverside Presbyterian renovations with the end of Bush and the dawn of Barack, but I believe those briefings took place before I had to spend over a month on the second floor and afterwards went through living hell to get this chair which I now sit in, battered, with a short in its wiring, and I still don't have the process in place for a new chair why because I had to switch from one set of indifferent residents to another set which I loathe more. See me working on this vital problem? I should just be able to bypass doctors and go to a vendor and fast track the issue, but oh no. Medicare's hoops have driven me berserk, and Krauthammer, being a true paraplegic, one with a medical license, probably gets his feces prepared by a pastry chef. I grant that Obama's Poetus briefings were processional, nothing like what Donald is doing, but Obama too eclipsed his predecessor, one whom we still dislike, and the financial crash wasn't his fault; perhaps it consumed most of his political capital, with Geithner at the helm. While I cannot argue over TARP, not having the expertise, I think credit goes where it is due, and Geithner, modest federal civil servant, probably saved the country from something worse. Perhaps my libertarian sympathizers, online or otherwise, might contest this notion, but Geithner wasn't a liberal. No one in the business of regulating capital is liberal. That said, I do not blame Obama for the subprime mortgage default credit swap meltdown which even today, has me living like a shelter resident, in the exact same building where I was, in 1995, part of the professional middle class, never never happy with where I resided, its environment, my neighbors, or the managerial class using me as an unpaid in kind support case manager, and some of you marvel at my present homicidal hostility. I have a visceral disdain for Paul Krugman. That may be a developmental flaw. He and I may have exchanged a few words, but we're not peers. I have little less affinity with Krauthammer. He is still pontificating as if his was a vital psychiatric practice. He believes in the military's ability to kill our way into nation building, even if this is an over-simplification of his hawkish policy stands, but his column yesterday jibes with my utter political weariness. My zenith under George W Bush and Bill Clinton's public erections were short lived, and my earnings writing about disability dribbled to piss stains under the out going Kenyan Messiah. Barack is an astute visionary, but not an equally astute executive. By the time Carson changes HUD's policy, probably giving Presbyterian Homes virtual police power, I may have already wound up a hate crime, if I can even manage to roll out when Riverside moves to evict over non-compliance. And yes, I voted for it. Let's see what happens.

Unbreakable

"I'm the radical atheist humanist your parents told you to stay away from." Professor McGuire, circa 1985, terminated, arms outstretched, palms splayed upward, curiously reminiscent, Catholic posture

Oh yes, dance. Go to ATT and make pouty faces and work out some kind of integration lower bill deal. Dance. The service reps at the counter, customer reps on the phone, get too fusty and they'll boot you undoubtedly, old ma, always wagging fingers at dissenters. Something changed once again on my twitter account this afternoon, but luckily, I am a bit too numb to care about who was the latest to have their cosmopolitan manners recoil. Can't lose myself that way; can't care. But my heart is torn asunder, even if I may not always be in the mood for Simenon, the Dune France 2 production of Maigret is a work of art, but public television needs to follow the herd, team with a distribution service, bye bye free down time.

The commercial and public airwaves are stripped, barren, a damn football game here or there. I don't want to stream all the time, but decided I am interested in Jonathan Rhys-Meyers Man In The High Castle and will stream at least some of the first season. It sounds as if it has Phillip K Dick influences.

The Harrouff case contains as many puzzles as it answers, but this gruesome narrative hearkens back to Enlightenment era beliefs about the berserk, superhuman strength, and, perhaps Krauthammers' damnation of the culture is a playback, of the way modern derangement looks. Since the original 68 film, which I predate, and to Harrouff, is stone age camera work, zombie literature has permeated the horror genre substrata. Perhaps Austin got too into Walking Dead. The series might not have caused the psychotic break which led to these events, but those of you who are Austin's age know how blurred camp and realism have become. I may vanish by summer.

I have relented and spoken to Marie briefly. I told her Joseph should go to a home, like my father's wife. And Marie said "You belong in a home," the shadow over me my entire life, but it is wrong, not letting go. Joe Marinelli and I don't like each other. We bark back and forth, the greaseball, his spastic niece, but if he is going blind, Marie is wrong. He is dying, she is dying, and we all have to accept that, myself included; I'm just not letting Presby burrow me under, nor anyone else. I'll kill myself first. Billy won't answer my emails, but okay. Happy New Year.

An Old Fashioned

I tend to forget, even with my skewered data plan, skewered and entirely my fault, not ATT's, that we're always carrying each other's accounts around, technically always in each other's company, even when we're literally in each other's company, yet it isn't the same as dialing up a friend to chew the cud, which I can barely do with my familiaris these days. To my sister I'm a non entity, and my mother's sister, a generation older than I, steers clear of twitter for the most part (I mainly don't care, they ban me then they ban me, not that this should be an issue with this post) and I can't telephone my father to say happy father's day without it becoming a greenback guilt trip of mutual anxiety over parental and sibling mortality: but daddy may outlive me, and then there are hold outs like Yabberz, the last of the wild west.

I cannot put it to you succinctly why I dislike Yabberz so much. The same sense of egotistical outcast has followed me there, as it got me booted from other online communities, and my usage has taken a precipitous drop; nor am I sure I'm supporting the portal as a sustaining member next cycle, but I can give you one example: a valley girl type who calls herself Jacklyn followed me early in my account creation, and she quotes the Hobbit on her profile page. I grimaced, followed her back, stopped following her within 24 hours, and the bovine skull bitch then blocked me roughly a week ago, as if this was going to make me feel bad, because I cited Charles Krauthammer in response to which laws Obama broke. I never wanted a moronic bubble gum chewer linked to me in the first place, yet she blocked me for answering her fucking question, as opposed to me telling her she was a stupid bitch: it isn't her block which bothers me as much as her own hypocrisy. She claimed she wanted to follow me for "the give and take," and despite my aggravation with her responses to me I tolerated her, and thought that was the point. She could have simply stopped following me, but blocked me for citing a conservative paraplegic. The behavior of simpletons can infuriate.

Liberals are simply out of control on the Horton portal. "So stop using it," and yes, this is what it is coming down to, but having a discussion forum for what I like, once in awhile, shouldn't be such a marathon with tortuous interference.

[I had to rush check a paying MFA generated journal, and don't know where they get the money, but I'll pick that thread up another day.]

Think Positive!

Unlike Charles, or Michael Burry, who is both a writer's non-fiction construct and a real life investor with a medical degree, I failed though lack of application once too often. Case managing at my disability center was a mistake, not simply due to a pathological cat fight between me and a Jewish spastic, but because the human suffering I've seen is tearing me apart as much as the human suffering I've lived, and that includes what I had to absorb under Rick.

I do not blame the man. On the contrary, I remember his teaching lessons as if I was Elijah fed by ravens. I could see both Daniel and Rick clearly, having no desire for them, other than regret for my job. I had to be strong enough to live by institutional parameters, then absorb much worse for the sake of an appalling salary, and now minorities treat me like an imbecile, not deliberately, but because on top of all this fucking shit after being attacked by vicious dogs in their 70's for years, I should stay in this facility because I'm 52.

I'd rather become homeless and die through a seizure delivered by a taser. I'm not trying to nit pick every slight, but we've lost the ability to understand each other. Whether I go down to the telephone store this week or wait, the customer service agent couldn't grasp I log online through a USB broad brand plug in.

I still do not agree with Charles Krauthammer all the time, but I commend him for this series. Here, he tacitly admits what I more brazenly rage over. The health system is insane. I should not have to get a primary physician's script every time I need rehabilitative support, and if nothing else sparks an insurrection, the American health care models will do the trick.

**
I was, once, a powerful poet, whatever I sacrificed in technique, but alas, I didn't go into banking like TS Eliot.

Wheelchair Basketball

Not a day passes over the earth, but men and women of no note do great deeds, speak great words, and suffer noble sorrows. Of these obscure heroes, philosophers, and martyrs, the greater part will never be known till that hour, when many that are great shall be small, and the small great; but of others the world's knowledge may be said to sleep: their lives and characters lie hidden from nations in the annals that record them. The general reader cannot feel them, they are presented so curtly and coldly: they are not like breathing stories appealing to his heart, but little historic hail-stones striking him but to glance off his bosom: nor can he understand them; for epitomes are not narratives, as skeletons are not human figures.--Charles Reade, The Cloister and the Hearth

Ah Charles, the five minutes to midnight conservative psychiatrist to whom I've edged ideologically closer. I could be making coffee, nursing my monoxide inflicted lungs, eating my Snickers bar watching the younger Alec Baldwin before his unseemly disgrace put grappling hooks on the God complex, and instead I am asking myself why European Antisemitism is necessarily a congenital defect. For you, apocalyptic scenarios are easy because everyone apparently has it in for the descendants of the Hebrews. It is a polite matter of degree: The Catholic Protestant West forced conversions, and then it tried Fascism, and the East, having lost Constantinople a long time ago, never got its chance at global dominion, so here we are, doomed in the modern world because of Resolution 181 and Albert Einstein's unwillingness to hose nuclear technology off his sidewalk when he was teased, and the Persians are more wily than we expected.

The Iraqi state might have fallen to the Shi'ite minority without the considerable interference of the Bush family of course, and Jimmy Carter could have taken a page from his brother and supported SAVAK with our considerable American resources. How is the contemporary Revolutionary Guard any different? But Mohammad Reza Shah Pahlavi died somewhere in exile after being treated for cancer. History being what it is, you're goading Obama, who is basically out of gas, or scolding Hillary, should she win and give her husband a third term, but simply as a matter of geopolitical reality, the modern state of Israel cannot survive into perpetuity on the guarantee of the US military, but beneath these macro niceties, la bonne docteur, lie the petty details of what makes people what they become. History isn't made by analysts, but by backlashes, and paradigm shifts, misery and discontent, reactions against the status quot.

I am not winning any popularity contests on Blogger with some of my posts, my clever veiled strategisms to admit.to belligerent attitudes after a lifetime spent as a discarded lab animal. but the Holocaust isn't going to repeat along the lines of Auschwitz due to the imposition of post-war borders. The petrol states fuel extremism to shield wealth and privilege, and Americans then wonder about fractious Arabic peoples like puppies dumbfounded by a coiled newspaper. I've branded myself as a bigot, to use a softer term this evening, because a good chunk of my prime career years have wafted up in smoke due to disingenuous assurances, duplicity, prevarication, lack of caution around caviler Jewish princesses, and if I was still physically resilient enough, perhaps virulence wouldn't have taken a toll on the ability to rebound.  

Remonstration from the graveyard has minuscule reverberations, but humanity will not yield to the destructiveness of its nuclear capability, despite my lack of optimism from my simian bleachers. It is too simple, but the recognition that a Jewish state with an exceptional covenant is a contradiction in terms is not. Another thousand years, demographics will prove that point. 

Evacuation on the wind

"To most observers, my grandfather had been as elated to hear of Japan's decision to surrender as had the next man." John McCain's Faith of My Fathers

Mmm. Reiteration of the fact that I do not submit a great deal of my work to small press journals anymore. I have three pages of contributor copies of small press journals, mostly stashed in my closet shelf with the other journals in which I do not appear. From the time I began my post renovation recovery in 2008, through today, I have written nearly a thousand blog posts, had one non fiction essay accepted in a special Appalachian issue which I need to dig out of kitchen drawer, and fewer friendly rejections than I used to receive. People who do litzines are basically leftists who make fun of creative inanity for the most part. Intimate with the culture, I'm nonetheless no longer a fresh voice,

Like Charles Krauthammer. It may surprise you to learn I do not often agree with political conservatives on much of what they espouse. Homosexuality is more of a moral issue on which I've soured because of my past intimacy with homosexuals and my own insecurity about women who indulge in lewd pleasuring making passes at me. If this ever happens to me again I will attempt to kill the woman who does it, and I'll stand trial claiming self defense-- but I will engage the liberal censure of auto erotic threat postures another day. Trauma doesn't make these issues less complex-- and I cannot deny a voyeuristic examination of gay sexuality. Recovered enough that I can separate curiosity from what would make me happy-- and a happy embattled spastic flea bitten poet-- that is a tall order.

What interests me about the aging, uptight psychiatrist, and the fresher Texan AG is their successful refusal to allow paraplegia to define them. I am interested in the silences, as it is obvious to my viewers that cerebral palsy is still a badge which I assert, though I could be fraudulent. None of you know for sure. The poet Robert Thomas, his wife Cheryl, whom I have psychologically adopted as the female friend I might have had if I did not have to flee for the bus with a thieving Jehovah's Witness who only furthered my convictions about race and black theology, they know. It is interesting that two white moderately progressive writers met me at read promotions, and with knowledge of my intemperate sins between them, one cut me. The other sends me his collections. I occasionally do the same, but, god forbid if I had their telephone number. Cheryl might then buy my former supervisor a decent civilian attorney. I could talk God out of Judgement Day given half the chance. Griot as an insulating shield. Griot as an outcry, a need. 

Perhaps Kathleen Parker's name recognition would not heighten my profile as much as Jennifer Rubin's would, but Jennifer is not yet quite Parker. She's savvier and actually the type of conservative female a better metamorphosis might have molded me into; when Rubin is on she is as sharp as a tack. My foreign policy is more ruthless, more frightening, hopefully not sentiments that would gain Mossad's attention. The state of Israel is a failure and its eventual dissolution is inevitable. More stable powers need to declare certain territories as ungovernable and turn them into protectorates until issues of autonomy can be resolved. This includes Pakistan, North Korea, Israel, Iraq, Yemen, Somalia, Sudan (why does South and North Sudan exist?) Libya, Chad, Haiti, the San Dominican Republic, Syria, unfortunately. We all have lists. 

Transference, a Response to Charles Krauthammer

I remember certain things about the Bush Administration's response in the immediate aftermath of 9/11. Any administration would deserve some slack in the face of such chaos, but should it remain buried as a neo-conservative footnote that administration officials loaded bin Laden's Saudi relatives onto a plane without so much as even a brief interview on what they knew about Osama and his whereabouts?

We're busy relitigating the Iraqi War, flinging mud at the administration which started it, blaming the administration which ended combat operations, while Frontline's investigation into the Saudi royal family and its attempt to export its Sunni extremists is conveniently overlooked, because consumption of fossil fuel drives foreign policy. No established media outlet, to my recollection, ever investigated why the Bush foreign policy team was so closely aligned with the Saudi foreign ministry once the invasion of Iraq commenced.

The Saudi's get scolded by liberals, ignored by the right, while only one non-profit media outlet dares to connect the dots on the igniting sparks of Sunni radicalism. I am not attempting to insinuate that a declaration of war against an insecure monarchy with which we've had a long alliance, touted up by correspondents with weapons deals long before my university enrollment, would have been better than up routing Baathist Iraq, or destroying Muammar's grip on power in Libya; I will also concede Krauthammer has a point about the current administration's soft underbelly, but is the global oil conglomerate so powerful that it is worth the hundreds of thousands of Muslims dead, the reverberating psychic trauma to Americans and Europeans? Removing or reinforcing the al-Maliki regime is moot if the executive branch has been barking up the wrong tree for over a decade.

Aphelion

The SHARE website doesn't convey the sensibility of rolling into a psychiatric facility that polices itself rather poorly. I was sexually harassed in a Darby Share, threatened with assault in a Northeast location, propositioned in a partial hospital, and have seen eruptions of the sort that make the mentally ill easy targets for Kathleen Parker and David Brooks. What goes on in a Share is innocuous until an incident, valid or obscure, disturbs the peace. People masturbate, fondle each other, stare at television listlessly once their entitlement for the month is spent. Sordid and boring, how much of the negative behavior is attributable to reluctance to comply with chemical saturation, finding the dosage combination and the therapeutic treatment that works, I am not the blogger to turn to for that data. Charles Krauthammer is the practitioner turned conservative paraplegic follow the schematic this is the concomitant series of conditions psychiatrist. Does he still treat patients? Unknown. What would he point out to me? That I use quadriplegia affected damage from cerebral palsy not to work at attitude readjustment? That anti-depressants work? That my perspective is impaired from post-traumatic stress?

Was I bipolar when I was an undergraduate? The answer to that question has to be tempered by the fact that my life was regulated from birth until seventeen years of age by institutionalization, and when I met Jerry I was nascent, naive, repressive about my mother, her significantly more severe suffering, her sometimes abusive lovers, and I regret the extent of my emotional investment in his intellectual ability, know it was not his fault, and perhaps not entirely mine either, and as he counseled me on several occasions, pedagogy is not entirely unaware of this aspect in the instructor student dynamic. All this as a given, I have never seen myself as sick, ever, until I had to fend off Debra Horne threatening me when my life imploded in the recession, and this contributes to the sense of stigma that Ed inadvertently linked me to when he connected me to Zach Tollen. The burden is almost one too many to carry, especially when the weight of matriculation is a much different bar for me than it is for a licensed driver who owns a car, or has use of one. 

Can I let an accident of incomplete information go? Yes, but my attempt at selecting a neighbor as an outlet essentially ended, either as a failure of my ability as a writer or a mutually skewered comprehension. The reason it is so much more difficult to shrug off disability center negligence is due to the fact that this negligence never corrects itself, never reforms, and my former supervisor got away with the commission of a serious crime. The impact of this on my life was proportionately detrimental, and I remain cemented in place. How would you maintain a healthy outlook in such circumstances?

I avoided the mention of the naval facility shooting, more or less out of saturation, but I do not see it as either a treatment or gun regulation failure. Navy reservists need to have access to weapons, but soldiers and police are as fallible as anyone. They snap. We cannot control every contingency.

Sterilized Needles

"You are asking people to admit to illegal activity." a New Mobility regular named Barry, I think.


And that is what a good investigative journalist does, educate. There is an undercurrent in American culture, a belief that in the popular lexicon, we suffer from arrested development, emotionally anchored in high school, even as we perform the most complex surgeries, litigate the most arcane points of law. It is what keeps a network like ABC afloat, and in a simple sense, made Six Feet Under worthy of macabre acclaim. Do we have to mature, sober up, in the face of mortal demise? Accept the paternalism of genetically wiser tribal elders?

Disability culture is not quite as static as Goodall's discovery of chimp tool use, but it comes pretty close. Consumer model attendant care is a highly inefficient system that leads to regressive and sometimes abusive role reversal, and all the activists can do, for more than over 50 years of my lifespan, is say community integration is better, even while matriculation erosion basically amounts to institutional parity. I am suffering just as much with Presby as my landlord as I did as an abandoned child in Home of the Merciful Savior. Charles never addresses this, I suppose due to his disavowal of identity issues. John  weighs back in now and again, but he is one of the very few disabled public figures who is as successfully matriculated as a media professional with paralysis can be without overstating the obvious. But it is when individuals like my former supervisor, who causes so much unnecessary psychic and economic harm when she has the cognitive ability not to engage in such behavior, and individuals like me, who most often get left out.

Hockenberry, like thousands of disabled veterans, was once able-bodied. Those of us born with chronic impairments are the most expendable untouchables.

Anticoagulant

"You can do better sister. I'm married." Richard Conte, giving the Eisenhower era bourgeois a tutorial on the benefits of denial.


When I listen to the American left and its moderate counter voices go at it over a film like Zero Dark Thirty, I throw up my hands, if not in despair, then at least, futility. Kathryn Bigelow glamorizes torture, depicts it as no more than a video game, or she does not. We need new gun control legislation, and while we empower everyone, hey, civil rights is not a suicide pact, and potentially violent people like James Holmes need to be contained, so let's take a page from the affluent psychiatrist paraplegic who eschews his other classification as a wheelchair user and return to the good old days of involuntary commitment, while cynicism is the intellectual reserve of the mediocre, like the spastic_dowager, who has taken many risks to leave her scarred psyche bleeding in her amateur neuro image scan without quite crossing the border toward anarchy, which, even if I did, probably would not be taken seriously, while still cognizant enough to know that eradication has been done many times in the course of civilization outpacing our capacity to cope, and that after we get over this massacre, that genocide, we lose more definition, and so what is the use of being slightly more forgiving of Mussolini for being an inept projection of a virile thug. Isn't she funny, the poor little spaz, getting a little attention from Europe, Asia, in fascination? Mockery? Perhaps as a target of exploitation. You don't even know what horror is you little gnome, so why not be more positive and upbeat while the US is in its superpower status, however much it is diffusing?

We have short memories, whether in geological historical time or merely related to the course of human history, and I do not have to spearhead this, and could be nice, engage in the pleasantry of willful blindness and small kindness, when merited, I just have not dropped those dimes.

I have not seen my sister's eldest girl, Nicole, since the death of her granny. She is in a Catholic college now, and do not know what she makes of my rift with her mother, if anything. Stephanie shields her from me, afraid of what I might say about granny's past, or her own mother and father's, for that matter. The topic of my sister's pregnancy termination is a prime example, one of my searing trump cards; it is not that I want to hurt nieces or nephews, but merely that I must refuse the censorship of manner, politeness, merely due to this notion that kids don't know. Parents kid themselves about what kids do or don't know, and I may be wrong, and Nicole's children will live in a better world of radical equality of the kind that frightened Orwell, Huxley, in their totalitarian era.

If anything survives on this rock after we engineer ourselves into --*, natural evolution might want to give the lucky sentient horseshoe toss to the cuttlefish; yes, I know, that is misanthropic mediocrity crying uncle.

We all have better days.

Krauthammer Codicil

Everything Dr. Krauthammer contends in public argument is what I have been attempting to convey to my audience on a more personal, and sometimes risky level. After all, discussing the corrosion of internal vengeance power fantasies after digesting lifelong humiliating paradigms is not something that will get me invited to Michelle Obama's Motown galas, but I am going to breakdown Charles' delineations a little further: the welfare state in America manufactures psychosis, if not spree killer psychotics, whatever prevention modalities remain in place. The entitlement system essentially traps vulnerable people, and literally drives them insane if they cannot secure gainful, and I'll add, secure employment.

Charles is entirely correct. My landlord has no legal authority to commit or institutionalize until dementia or aggressive behavior translates into property destruction, criminal behavior, or inability to function, but there is no flexibility in Medicare or state regulatory systems to adapt to individual needs as opposed to forced compliance, and I don't have the money Charles probably does to buy services more tailored for his needs as a paraplegic. There may not be any free lunch, but conservatives like the doctor are tone deaf to the fact that my birth disability nearly precludes my ability to succeed under our titular free market capitalist system. I have to succeed the same way my former counselor Cassie James does, earning her salary on the backs of those with developmental disabilities whose limitations prevent matriculation. This does not explain the Lanza family, but it is part of the larger problem, regulating ourselves to death with compliance, alienating ourselves with devices and the glamor of violence.

Feline and Female

The foster child is mine now. Grumbling. She is my last cat, and I still cannot say it was right, but if I had given her back, Vinnie would have been depressed, and like a mother who cannot stand the guilt of loving the lesser son less, if I had been as realistic as I should have been, this guilt would have probably led to fresh psychiatric evaluations, involuntarily mandated rather than freely sought to allieviate. I need work people, technical support, and my ad banners.

I love cats more than anything, but I care about my ability to be good to them, and I am too haunted by losing them, and will never have Joey again. Tim, my helper off  the rolls, aims his barbs at me, particularly on ambitious days when I am wound hard and want him to come and go as rapidly as possible, but I do not sleep all day, an observation both he and my sister believe, in their exclusive views, is an accurate observation of my denial that pharmaceutical dependency would upgrade my outlook, and I'd kick his ass if I could, hers too. I have to get out of the chair to change my position. My legs swell and like many of his other clients, meaning he should know better, I have a pressure sore. If liberals don't meet these challenges, I am going to kick their asses through aligning myself with Krauthammer in the creation of the Militant Quad Party. And this is not all hyperbole, not entirely a barb of my own to stub progressives toes. I always have to bite my tongue, why? Because gay is now a gnostic spiritual quest, and blacks like Tim don't have my erudition. I have been impolitic myself with the fellow in the provision of free sociology lectures, but I am getting real tired, with celerity, of getting singled out for behavioral issues that are not symptoms of mental illness in and of themselves without factoring in the severity of my physical vulnerability. If I could find anyone else who would do the job and keep their mouths shut about my life, I would burn not a few minority views about wheelchair users, and fire him like a raging bull, to boot.

What I am attempting to emphasize here is not Timothy's prejudicial views as a passive and harried paraprofessional, or that my bigotry is virtuous, but that in certain respects, provincialism was beneficial to our species, and losing the bond of extended familial ties cannot be augmented by regulated social services. We speak nearly an entirely different language, Tim and I, even if he has the non threatening aspects coded in appropriately so that my trust is not too wary. I told him I was waiting for him to finish so that I could work on what I need to do to update my curriculum vitae, and he took this to mean I blamed him for my delay in filling out a job application. He has absolutely no idea what a cv is, what creating a professional paper trail looks like, and it is not that I do not understand; I understand perfectly, but also eschew liberalism's holy grail that diversity solves our problems. Was it necessarily a good thing that a private university accepted me, that my professors led me to believe I could become like them, on the one hand, while on the other the student body treated me like a foreign object?

Peripatetic Rollers

I cannot recall any familiarity with the voice of Charles Krauthammer during my adolescent loyalty to the authority of Time Magazine, but his was an active media platform back in the day when reasonably intelligent readers consumed the periodical like a rich dessert with a sophistication of texture. I miss what the publication meant to me as a student, one of my Constitutional instructors snapping at the lectern, "Put that away!" when I wanted to continue with my foreign policy article, and I obediently swiped the glossy off my desk. When I first started reading Krauthammer on WaPo, it was in a state of amnesia, confronted by a hostile alien, but I reflected today, after I battled the neocon psychiatrist in the comments section, where I am becoming an inadvertent regular, studying the paper the way gnostic mystics lose themselves in the kabbalah, that Charles and John Hockenberry are the only two prominent paraplegics in national news media who have a broad based recognition. Charles actually thinks the way a disabled mind would, which is why he incites his readers (sometimes viewers) to such passions, for or against. Of course he is better educated, no argument there. I whine the night away about my colon; doubt he would be caught dead discussing ostomy tubes and any potential pressure sores, but he still thinks like I do, cutting it down to size: Obama is a wet dish rag, and Bush was tougher and had the right idea. You take the Middle East, country by country, kill the designated strongmen and fanatics, with the exception of oil wealthy magnates, and welcome to hell. I did not think Obama actually articulated anything akin to a doctrine in his Cairo address, but this is why Charles has notoriety and I have never derived any financial benefit out of being a wonk, except for the mention of John Bolton in an editorial where I was paid a pittance.

To say I am in closer alignment with Charles is inaccurate, but I have increasingly paid more attention to him, and his refusal to allow paralysis to define him is something I have realized a little late in life as a disabled writer with cerebral palsy. If I was a wonk, though, and had the influence to be taken seriously, this is what I would do, short of murdering our way out of the problem, which Bush and Obama have done, continue to do with drones. I would simply end Afghanistan and Pakistan as sovereign nations. Do a damn deal with whomever, China, Turkey, India, Iran. Turn the two countries into a protectorate by force, take away Pakistan's nuclear toys, and rule the region as empires once did. Use Turkish troops, give Iran a bit of hubris and give the Revolutionary Guard an entirely new population to terrorize.

Will it happen? No, but it is better than allowing near failed nation states to start a third global war, with more dire consequences than the second, where the bad guys were more clearly defined.

I am better, dried out my lungs in forty eight hours, but severity will only continue to be an issue.