Caramel Coated Sponges

My concern over Ciccariello isn't entirely hypocritical. I have, perhaps legitimately, felt the wrath of the left in my psychic bonding with Christopher Dorner, Google received abuse host reports, as Google does, and threatened to disrupt my ability to use their host services, with skittish assurances that "no content would be deleted". I did want Christopher Dorner to win in his battle with the LA police, and I wasn't being satirical. Sometimes I am, but not while this man was alive. Did I want him to murder his Captain's daughter? No, and his taunts on that officer's message service foretold the endgame of Dorner's agony, of which I'm envious, while some of you are thinking you need more than lithium.

Fair game, after a lifetime of torture and abuse; if an instructor like Ciccariello can be flippant on social media, as I sometimes am, about politically destructive capacities we're taught to take seriously, even in mitigating bitterness, we've got problems, and I am definitely a contributor. I cannot castigate Ciccariello. I'm not outraged. I don't believe he should be threatened, but he was more stupid than judicious in taunting social media to bite him. It is dumb. With Jerry McGuire, it was only internal, and I wasn't a witness, only the gatherer of anecdotal defiance. The only thing roaring in my ears, was this man, who had a gift, that of making me forget my horribly contorted flesh, had been fired. I was about 21ish, and went into the ladies room, curiously devoid of trannies, unless my broken body was a stand in to gender identity challenges, and howled. I kicked the stalls, burst into tears, and finally went back to class to collect my paper. He was wearing a checkered picnic cloth shirt, my eyes were bloodshot, but he acted as if everything was normal. If he had not, perhaps I would not be in the inner city destroying myself because my internal insurrectionist is driven by hate. 
I am here because my emotional tumult over this man was a boomerang, a fellow now almost like one of Yeats skeletons on a stick, and I went a boom a rang rang, and became a vile bigot. I keep asking myself what it was, why this man. And concede everyone else was right, normal girls aren't driven by such intense compulsion. My answer is the sexual molestation I received at the hands of my mother's men: I saw it in Jerry, and what I saw, I wanted to be vanquished by; that level of hate is intense.

Quentin Radio

"The press will have a field day with this latest escapade."-- in the script

Vengeance, if individuals are serious about enacting it, changes people. Christopher Dorner probably recognized, before the tear gas blaze in the cabin, that he had failed, and that killing his supervisor's daughter wasn't as liberating as he thought it would be, and that he was better off dead in those mountains as opposed to getting the death penalty-- and yet, his impulse to engage in anarchy against our institutional paradigms and their increasing complexity wasn't invalid.

Let me go back to Poets and Writers banning my online account (yes, I'm over it but making another point). Posters were afraid of me because I was raw with pain about what happened to me within the ranks of independent living, but, whatever my rhetoric and its decibel level, it was raw, it was grief, and beneath the surface, even today, I lost something in role models once valued. Linda was the only woman with cerebral palsy who I genuinely liked, even though, to channel Kill Bill, I knew what she was capable of. I just didn't believe she was capable of doing it to me, and in turn, she probably did not calculate that I'd put a dent in her bubble, leading to her early retirement.

That is emotional investment-- but why? Because the role model heroine was all I had, itself a sad commentary on fulfillment. The only job I never struggled with internally was my brief sojourn with AccessLife. A good editor is worth his weight in gold, but it was one position, and even with Christopher Reeve I was perhaps unfairly contentious. I am less raw now of course, but the inexorable grind is closing in on me as I age with this condition, and my line between being a bullshit artist and real malevolence is blurring, hollowly, perhaps, as the transsexual is 2/3's corpse, punishment enough for his ethics, and I was told Cassie James departed the field with an illness as well, but the thought of dying so browbeaten-- whatever the pedestrian counsels about acceptance, my ego cannot swallow it-- but what resolution would serve? It isn't about punitive  damages rolled into an annuity. It is about striking the system, and or really paying a price for which I lack the tenacity.

I have, however, become that cold.

Gratitude for smartasses

It takes me a little effort to remember when I met my poet colleague Robert Thomas. 2006. I do not know how he and his wife tolerated the trip across country, but for me the early evening was cold, rainy, with the Jehovah's Witness from Unlimited Staffing traveling with me, with her misery and diabetes and cat with broken leg. Liana, my nigger hustling burden to whom I was overly generous. Caucasian patronage, guilt, the fact that her face was wan, anxious. Roll your eyes at me. I gave her a loan for the cat with the broken leg because I thought Liana and I would work out, but she got fired, and I still extend myself too much to help younger women, i.e., Karina, but I was determined to meet my last Poets & Writer's sympathizer, so Liana and I traveled to Ardmore, and Ardmore isn't that far from suburban youth in Ridley Township. Eight years ago, my last sojourn out of the city limits.

My city limit range is about as far as the Rosenbach Museum and back to my apartment on a full charge. 15 blocks. I did not get a renewal notice for my membership, which is just as well, I told their director I was broke last year, but when I get out of combat range with Trudy Richardson, my area of marginalization runs basically from 19th and Chestnut to 23rd and Race Street. Everyone is in a hurry, except a defiant stout weather beaten spastic woman in a shawl, gnawing an Italian hoagie from an Asian bodega. In an internal disjunction. No rational reason to love what I have left, to endure. Not a friend in the world who voluntarily wants to telephone me, offer me the comfort of familiarity, my personal interaction with Linda C. Dezenski wasn't like that when I still had it, my former supervisor who evokes such enmity that she has been a law and order corpse beyond my ability to estimate, no. I pulled, Linda responded and then humiliated me. Were we ever actually friends? Somewhere in there, I think so, but it could not survive the fact that I hated decentralization that had to lie about what it was in the dead rhetoric of the revolution, and Linda's enthusiastic, shallow, dominance. Most of you side with her, because I am becoming nothing more than-- I was going to use the phrase "white nigger trash"-- but let me write it another way-- I am becoming a disposable woman in pain who will not make it easy on herself by giving in. The Medicaid system is going to kill me one way or another, but I am about to tell five African Americans who have the juice to go fuck themselves, in a hard contained way, methodically, with what acumen remains, and then? Well, the crowd funding content model caught on, and someone spiked my page views. Grazie.

He is just a man, shoulders as shrunken as mine, and I don't have the clout to compel counter terrorism experts to respond, but this is what I wanted, right?

Hopelessness

"I didn't even know you existed."-- Alain Delon

Hmm. I am not an old woman in a South Korean village being cajoled to eat yogurt by a teacher turned produce distributor. I am not a Mali soldier with a boom box in a sandstone hut. I am an American disabled woman who has been destroyed by public housing because I thought "running away" when I was 22 would resolve feelings of abandonment and rejection by men on whom I had no claim. The despondency of the Korean grandmothers doesn't make me count my blessings, and in fact I fired Karina again because I was wrong. Seeking out a somewhat vacant white girl to do the chores of countless CNA's before her only leaves me uncertain how much of my personal correspondence she threw away.

I am not hip, not funny, riled up a few people through my affinity with a berserk Navy Seal's emotional pain, walked that back with my disapproval for his killing of his boss'es daughter--genuine at that as it was a bad insurrectional strategy--dead broke and dead alive--and social media on occasion lands me itinerant wanderers. How nice. I threatened my father about leaving Riverside Presbyterian or else, poor eighty year old papa with his dying wife, but leaving Presbyterian Homes or else is a kind of futile gesture, won't change anything, and but for its size, this studio is not much different from my apartment at Dixon Hall where Jerry bravely sauntered in from time to time, his physique at forty nine engraved on my asinine fucking brain.

Compliance? Oh yes. One day I will no longer be able to transfer. It will be an inevitable defeat after a life long struggle to be redeemed in an incisive imitation of what I thought was his analytical penetration. My mother and sister both, in their way, ask me why I can't just live my life. What that was. Counseling the disabled and the mentally ill and finding case management a sterile grievance, always waiting for Prince Charming in this contorted pear body, one that wound up with a Hispanic buffoon who elicits pity from all. If I'm as conservative as I claim, I should just give up and go back where my father put me, where all the abuse started, in a home. Nine years old, tears running down my face, listening to WMGK magic music. They went off air when I was in the inner city proper. I protested, stupidly. Easy listening abounds on FM. Karina must be upset, as it is well after midnight. She pinged. I give her credit, struggling with her disgust. She needed my money, but I cannot go on with this woman. 

It is a matter of common sense to me which doesn't seem to apply to the ambulatory: Not to make assumptions about what may or may not be discarded; what may or may not be relocated. My fan letters, Michael's references, these things mattered to me, but it isn't that Karina might have thrown them away without thinking. Everyone treats me this way, in my desire and necessity to keep a paper trail.

Novel Outlines

"Is is is she okay?"-- a daughter whose nerves falter at the prospect of second degree murder.

Well, if loons and lesbians read my posts and see prime rib dollar signs, then I have to work harder. I don't have anything against those designated mentally ill in and of themselves. I don't even have much of an objection against those who think I'd be better off if I went back to therapy and played the pharmaceutical cocktail game in order to grin and bear it so sensitive minorities stop directing my url to hate crime notification units. I am doing what I am doing as a critique of identity politics and labels and fences, and the end result, as an informal tabulation, is a fellow resident unwittingly links me up with a Project Share user, my half brother and former university jilter insinuate that I am bipolar like my mother, the dyke cripples think I am dying to explore bi-nervous issues because letting my guard down with a former supervisor sent me along that prickly path. An indicator of what revelation amounts to at the end of the day.

For the most part, we neglect relatives of spree murders like Dorner. We more easily empathize with individuals like his captain, whose daughter Dorner killed to spread the suffering around. This isn't equivalent to the collateral damage of an insurgency, which is the distinction I was trying to make at one point, although many of you didn't like the fact that a self-proclaimed bigot could identify with a black Navy Seal who broke ranks with police collusion in a choice display of suicide by cop. A bit too dark, even if I am so severely jaded by ADAPT politics in turn. I am not Dorner to this extent: going after the relatives of those who screwed you over triggers the wrong calculus, and I prefer to bust the system by which we do this to ourselves, not engage in target practice on the pretty and happily oblivious.

I love my father, but happily avoided the fact of his serial domestic abuse. It was easy to blame my mother for her unceasing provocation, and to hate Louise for being the worst invalid of a stepmother imaginable. A visualized best seller in the over extended frantic need for money, but it is never so easy to get from your conceptual starting point to marketable product, absorbing it because we have to. All I ever wanted was my father to be Bill Bixby and love me, a prince among men, but how far do we go to save people from themselves? I am analogous to my mother's sister in this regard, sparing nothing to keep my ninety year old grandmother alive. Neither I nor my sister can stop the spigot of my father's rage, however, all but a sterile inheritance. Pause for the dynamic BBC upgrade of Sherlock, the most witty program about at the moment.

Parallel Severity

The BBC knows how to do fantastic summary articles, and this rather deadening take on Christopher's decline after his body was incinerated nicely pieces the narrative together, even if we do not know why those of African descent are more severely crippled by mental illness than other ethnic groups, proportionally, and no, my prejudices are not skewing the data. All humans, if they go into psychosis, tend to devolve, and remain sick the rest of their lives, but when African Americans exhibit schizo or bipolar affect, there is a greater tendency toward gruesome violence, and if my hostility toward Trudy Richardson seems to manifest along these lines, let me back you up a bit: Ellen Hovey was Presbyterian Homes supervisory agent from 87 to 05. I was assaulted under her direct supervision, and since she knew her then protegee Terri played me for a fool, her managers tread lightly. Until her last hire was fired in 05. I was then again molested and robbed, and had to fend off attempted embezzlement. When Debra Schwab was hired-- she barely lasted a year, war broke out between me and Presby's Inspired Life, and the tenants council. I was *banned* and then made subject to extortion. In this instance, I did have the assistance of a Jewish "Philadelphia lawyer;" it is a long and convoluted story, but I had at least two or three letters under my door a month, and was put on biweekly inspections. I finally said no, and Trudy has done everything short of arrest me. Maybe now you see why eviction seems like relief of undue duress. I know if I do not leave here, a regrettable tragedy will be the end result. The woman is nothing to me, trust me; perhaps a weasel preying on her own, and the weakest, sickest. This is what these Protestant hypocrites do, and I've been fairly decent to survive 30 years of it. You read my dismal attitude, but you don't see, or hear, what this corporation does to wheelchair users. 30 years of my life. I personally feel I have tort against Miss Richardson, but that too, is lengthy. Even if I do downgrade to Dorner's breakpoint though, women aren't generally proficient armed forces killers. I might do X, or Y. Assassinating her parents is beyond the scope of the denigration she subjects me to. The layout of Los Angeles offers comprehension when it comes to why libertarians hate big city police departments. Out there, they do kill you, and whoever built LA must have been insane themselves. The residential districts look like fast food happy meals. I am researching, and this time, taking my time, speed writing and failing isn't any better than staying inside my lard ass comfort zone, but this piece isn't for The Freeman.

Predatory Yellow

"It had all the facts wrong."-- Stephanie Verderame, on the IRS agents seizure of future estate assets.

I have never ever fabricated a source in my commissioned articles. Ever, but I am wizened with cynicism in the ever ongoing professional mourners waltzed in by The Fourth Estate over Glass, Blair, and some other justifying frauds of note. We all lie; everyone in the business knows it. We lie by omission, by lack of nuance, so on. Sometimes we organize the facts into a transfixing narrative that feels like veracity, (cf Ana Montes), but every hungry journalist has a prism. To what degree the audience dances depends on trust. Violating it is heinous! But there is a darker truth behind the excoriation of Glass, the massive manhunt that led to the incineration of Dorner. Insurrection. Threatening the underpinnings of the establishment. Now, Dorner played his menace wrong. When I vented that I wanted him to win and received gawker views, it was not a joke. Some of us are that angry-- but he executed his agenda so poorly one has to shrug in a disappointed "WTF?" The minute he put a bullet through that girl's brain, he committed suicide as opposed to launching a crusade. Glass sort of does the same thing. Confirming media bias by getting caught in a fabrication erodes a willingness to believe in our system and the consensus built around it.

Writing such sentiments in rheumy-eyed exhaust is a challenge to delineation, and illustrates the habituation of distracting tendencies, but people who can be fooled usually are, because they bring a set of preconceived notions before the table, but whether or not the Great Recession posited the seeds of a great unraveling remains to be seen. My local media company subversively headlined mass murder as the new national pastime. The sentiment accurately captures the tempo.

Chapter 17, Four Seasons in Damascus

What in water did Bloom, waterlover, drawer of water, watercarrier, returning to the range, admire?-- James Joyce, Ulysses, pg 522

Balefully intrigued, I may look at Almost Human beyond the pilot, but it presupposes a successful reintegration of damaged individuals, and this strains credulity, regardless of how futuristic the techniques of law enforcement, and the expenses of production being such that we need preseason press conferences, though perhaps these have always existed since the creation of movie cameras. Despite this blog, and despite the fact that I hope to develop a few articles out of it, and know I am good enough to interview Jodie Foster, I am still studying however, and waiting for a respectful idea to percolate that is different but still publishable, despite all this, I loathe the industry most of the time, despite its significant intersection with literature. If we are not utterly lampooning on the side of Milton Berle and The Three Stooges, or depicting a hackneyed dime novel on the set, these days, we are rigorously imitating the collapse of the United States, and I can see Jay Carney playing himself in a film funded by the MPLA once the dust settles, and the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia realigns itself with China for regional hegemony.

It is actually about regime change, and I am angry enough to be dangerous. What holds me in check is not physical helplessness, though that is an issue; it is the knowledge that if I wanted to engage in an insurrection I'd lose, and also the understanding that I could not do any better than all the other assholes in politics. If NBC cancels Hannibal I will take to the streets. I understand Syrians are suffering, but the US has been engaged in failed military action in the Islamic world for over a decade. John McCain keeps rationalizing like a caveman hinging on our military superiority. That superiority isn't going to hold or even last very long when the social safety net keeps spitting out shattered lives.

Cozy Cocoa

"I did not force your mother to have an abortion because I was trying to be a good Catholic."-- Nicholas Marinelli, the yuletide season following the death of his second wife.

Cooksey and Matheson seem to suggest that the Judeo-Christian conception of Satan has Manichean aspects, particularly in The Cowboy. The original Maya kills herself and the old man replaces her with the blond. I know cast changes have to be handled and television is pissant when it is free, but the notion that the devil may undo cf 2281 is an irresponsible offense to the French Canadians who want autonomy for Quebec.

I had assumed, from carefully bored followings of NBC's Cozi TV, that "The Campaign Manager" was the last, and one of the darkest of Cooksey's offerings, but the episode guide says it is "The Exorcist". I missed the Tattoo Artist. Not a regular viewer of The Supernatural, (the writers do not know what to do with the endless bro-male Caucasian angst), the two shows are nevertheless the same in terms of bromides. The American screen writers dance around personifying God. Their Lucifer was a petulant romantic, now MIA, but God is just hip dude, discussed but unknown even by the now half crazed archangels. Cooksey dispenses with all that, but the underlying cynicism in the dispensation squirms a displeasure. Then again, the series was canceled. The shows that exist emphasize the absence of divine will simply through the sheer dominance of demonic trickery. Does this indicate European maturity about divine manifestation? Over the course of the forty plus episodes in syndication, Cooksey slowly collapses the triumphant metaphors into human monstrosity hard enough for any of us to wrap our minds around, but only up to a point. The show touches domestic abuse lightly.

I may have taken risks battling my demons for all of you to read, but Derek Medina defies the capacity of ignorance. He loves his FB contacts, then murders the reality of his failing marriage. Of course, I do not know who is reading my posts, though I have been told my anger at my landlord has had a ripple effect--but I assume a certain degree of anonymity. Liberty ignores me, for instance, or if not, maybe they remain a little worried about future legal action. So does my family, and if Mary has seen this I have a good idea of what chastisements might be in order, and still take the risk. I understand the temptations that led men like Dorner and Medina to their destruction, and I understand them because I have faced a life of brutality and near violent abuse-- but I do not love you, and in fact do not know if I still care about anyone. Saving felines from poachers still matters, and I get an overwhelming emotional response when hunters and scientists kill my kitties. Other than that? Perhaps an unfortunate testament.

Marcella Midget Queen Data Mime

I have indicated certain dark sympathies for people like Dorner, and many presume this to be a false alarm amid contradictory bias, but idiots, regardless of their superficial ethic differences, provide undue founts of justified pleasure for my cynicism. The reemergence of NSA data mining confuses me because it was already revealed at the close of the Bush Administration. It is not as if we did not know, regardless of the legal sword hanging over Snowden's head (and he confuses me more).

1. I do not have any faith in this kind of electronic surveillance;
2. It did not stop the Tsarnaev brothers;
3. It will be abused;
4. We need to start thinking about what kind of personal autonomy will remain at the end of this century.

If a minority excavator can kill six people because he was an oppressed drug addict deemed untouchable due to his civil rights (and lax oversight by city regulators) and a two bit industry actress can turn herself into a national security threat out of spite, then I guess we're finished. This center engages in illegal acts against a substantial minority of its staff, its clientele base, and my pain over what it and the activists around it did to me supposedly puts me outside the normal realm because I was not emotionally fit in the time frame the events occurred to go through the rigor of litigation, and the regulators with the power to reign in a bad system with a bad mandate will sit on their asses until the culture vomits out a Benschop or Richardson of its own.

Self interest and its blinding impact, incompetence, and the metrical creation of homogeneous compliance. Rulers of the universe.

Wicked Men

Dear Joanne,
Thank you for contacting my office. I appreciate your taking the time to share your thoughts about current issues. Please be assured that constituent correspondence will receive a reply in the near future. Pat Toomey

Thursday evening a crisis ensued with cupboard bare of tins, and when I returned Friday morning at nine lady iguana leapt onto my thigh and stood, in need of reassurance against abandon, and I cursed my heart, one that loves these children too much and yet after a lifetime of dead felines and an inability to save myself perhaps coming down the turn off on Baltimore Pike, underneath all this I am a regular smoe that mourns her few authentic friendships. They are gone, and all I have left is a battle that takes a bull headed obstinacy to wage, an embarrassment at my temper, an exposure to more indignity, like Biden repeating "pubic hair in a coke" in the Anita Hill fiasco. 

I never understood Hill then, but I understand the pain of hostile environments, friends and colleagues belittling, turning on you with snide and disparaging epithets. Castro is our newest pariah, the new "monster." But these residential imprisonments are common among the lowest urban social castes. Sordid, like little Affleck tearing down Morgan Freeman one plank at a time. Oh, even I shut Ariel off, and debate donating to the women in their trauma, but it is exactly through the process of not being willing to open your eyes that notorious horrors like this happen. Castro will be murdered in prison if not in due process of justice, but he is human. The worst kind, sadistic, devoid and beyond redemption.

When I wrote "I wanted Christopher Dorner to win," I understood the 31 page views, the gawk, is she really crippled?  How can she mean that? Like a raw, vibrating lash, and yes, even through he was wrong, and seriously eroded his own case by killing the daughter, I had hoped to see in him a defiant liberator, victorious against a modern malaise represented by filth like Castro. Tamerlan Tsarnaev, by contrast, was a cosmetic zealot in the vein that Biden meant it during his speech for the fallen officer, and crashed American psychoses with bad manners; fine tuning my dark discriminations.

Recertifications, half and half cookie

I do not believe in James Purefoy's acting, nor his character, but if Christopher Dorner had taken his pain, calculated better, and had attempted to become a genotype such that the fictional character Joe Carroll of The Following represents, I would have become an accessory after the fact for poor Christopher, and that goes for anyone with real balls enough to know that the American political system does not work, not nationally.

In Sex and the City, fans remember the Blair Underwood arc with Nixon, and how the extra who played one of the condominium owners raised the issue of the sports doctor with financials under pressure, then we swerved to the hot chocolate. Would those financials have continued to be investigated daily if the character had remained a recur?

Every nine months total strangers, adversaries, like Trudy, and Ludie (the infantilism here in black female names)-- I was living here before Ludie was hired, yet I have to give this girl total access to my financial information. I am about to refuse, and that will essentially force everyone's hand, including my own. I was once making close to 26,000 a year. What does Presby save in real dollars due to the fact that, through hands on experience, Ludie knows how to foot?

I do not begrudge Ludie her job, but this company has had its hand in ending my matriculation. I don't want to play this game anymore. This, for my internal sensibility, is the choice I have, the death of a thousand cuts because my credit rating is in the congestive heart failure of a marginal debt, in comparison to this young woman's, versus making myself homeless, an irrational act, because it is a fast rupture against the lethargy of failure.

Harvard has never posted one word, not as chastisement, nor pity, in response to my irritable volubility. Our interaction, as such, is an accommodation. Once in a while I follow her links, encourage her with the passion I once had, and she is too busy to argue with me to sing "here comes the sun," not that I know what she thinks. I can infer, however. The safety net in Texas is, I am assuming, harsher than eastern PA's, and a new location is not a cure for my life, but I need to make one last play toward mobility, and where I land, it will be my last act.

The Black Irish, Consiigliore

"The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly.  He moved his head uncertainly."--James Joyce, Ulysses, p 165

Typical of cognitive brain density limitations, getting bluCigs down, the timing, charging, and usage, this is no easy feat, but I have the basics. It simulates real inhalation better when the battery and atomizer are fresh, but should not be held in the mouth like the simple Aero. I do not have the discretionary income to keep myself amply supplied with both, but freely confess I do not have the physiological strength to break dependence on nicotine's narcotic grip. When I cramp due to withdrawal, my mobility is further impaired, never mind my psyche, and stress. All that is an extension of my existence is my small personal library, my bylines and the detritus of my intellect striven against a poverty that flakes my emotions like brittle mica. That's it. Nothing else defines me. Dead felines die with me, and I have no idea what Google's policy is on memoriam accounts, as Google may freely do what it wishes with its services. I have never had my own place, or a husband, a family, a home, my own furnishings. Objects in the Jamesian sense, far and very few between. Is this what bothers you about my foray into difference, and its macabre insinuations?

I wonder. This studio is devoid. A tangle of wires and not enough outlets. Obsolescent electronic devices. Bins of dead letter bills entitlements, cheap cat toys, thick and outdated telephone directories used as antenna props. I should be reading for group, but the kindle is charging, and so I am here, in time honored Dickensonian fashion, I am going to work for mio padre, in a vain attempt to offset illustrious destitution while my seventy-eight year old progenitor still lives, pondering my antipathy to Joyce. It may have something to do with Jerry's driving energy for the destructive correspondences, and the Joycean gamesmanship, which I don't like even while appreciating, which is curious, since all modernists have some national pathos at play. That which James deploys turns my stomach, however. I haven't written much about the museum where I participate in these activities, as opposed to writing around it, due to my column, but it is not quite Upstairs Downstairs so much as brimming with dialectical tensions, and the black security guards who patrol in residence wear a look of perplexity:

"Are you Jewish?"
"No Italian."

And I am studying Irish literature, white welfare trash under the auspices of a sometimes intolerant black urban city state, watching those beholden to MLK's lack of content in character spin their wheels. Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum.

Exeunt With The Bear

I'm like a connoisseur of champagne cognac, the perfume nearly beats the taste. Pete Townsend, Empty Glass

I spent a very unproductive day chasing after these Tuesday, trapezing on Locust, which I rarely do, kicking myself over my imposing introduction to @PhillyTechGuy. Could have cut my crisis time in half. Possibly saved a few dollars. Getting laid momentarily crossed my mind; their pitch is accurate, however, and the store seems pleasant. Do I ever drop my pretense?

I was not as invested in Dorner's issues as my posts on the event he posed may seem to indicate, not in terms of taking him off the beat and assessing his impaired judgment, but had he escaped it would have been thrilling. The DC sniper scared the living shit out of the east coast. I was there, and like a substantial minority in the media, I thought the US faced the possibility of an insurrection. Muhammad's death was nearly sanctifying in light of that possibility. Dorner's? Idiotic. It seems apropos then that I came in a little late to The Following. Better production values than the CW's tacky rival. Bacon when he is on, solidly grounded. Emma is an elfin echo of Mia Farrow. Muhammad could have had an insurrection; he was methodical enough, cold enough, and this is what made the true aspect of humanity's universal tendency to close ranks behind authoritarianism rear its head against Dorner. He was one of the very few who could boast leverage; he succeeded in illustrating that but had no real contingency thought out so that the abused, the wronged, the angry, could have united behind him. I certainly would have, all things being equal, had he truly applied his intelligence as opposed to raving on FB. Many courageous historians point out, accurately, that the US is democratic in its rhetoric, and tyrannical in practice, re: the moment I committed to paper that I would be seeking legal action against my landlord, they started leaving me alone. After 28 years of dictation on how they want me to live, Presby and their regulators have gone mute, one, because they are fully aware that in their book, spastic has no civil liberties, and two, they are up to no good, so I really need a public housing attorney. Injuries may magnify, but sometimes they have legitimate cause, and my pain is in part a reaction against black bigotry, with their white managers pulling the strings. Presby suits are far more fearsome than Catholic molesters. Let Karen chaw a pithy tweet out of that contention.

Chased by a bear

Fiendish and caustic this afternoon to the point that Mekhi might consider strangulation too dignified for glittering bitterness, his stint as Othello the baller was outrageously too self-conscious, and the play is the least liked of the great tragedies. Nelson and Kaaya locked themselves in an inflationary reverence which is not served by the sinister pathos of the Elizabethan staged original. I should just stop here and go back to bed and finish charging there, as I have to make my first run to Walgreens later this evening to purchase a starter kit, and yet I persist here and not sure why I do so, as I surfed to my url on my kindle, a free view, why bother to pay Amazon to download? What is the value I offer? Am I going to do real time profiles and engage in an integrated dark genius? Will Google allow me to re install Ad Sense once I close my other account if I can figure out what the fuck I am doing? Not if I was ready to celebrate Dorner's anarchy if it had been better planned. I wanted the man to win, to beat the system, and instead he murdered a beautiful woman and her fiance for the emptiness of hollow taunts, allegedly. I thought Navy Seals were precision experts, technically lethal and able to achieve valid goals, and this event was nothing, modern spree madness, death by every law enforcement agency this country is able to utilize. Stupid bastard. We're all stupid bastards, and my excuse is diabolical pity in public housing radiator heat, bags of cat dung, Google keying me into Jerry's email. I should have never contacted him, but did anyway despite the femoral artery bleed. That is how I handle emotional investments.

I may have known about the Orangeburg Massacre before I saw the documentary time slot scheduled for this afternoon, but if I did I buried it. Race riots were one thing, Kent State another, and in a post-9/11 world, civil disobedience, social order and terrorism, these boundaries have been splintered into a social structure that is unnerving, unsure of itself, looking over its shoulder for the next serial player to defy models and ideology. Is it a problem with identity and community, shared experience?

Yes, but more than that, our systems are outstripping the ability of our biology to cope with it, and we lose perspective, thinking that human means more than it actually does, a highly evolved animal that is no more than that, highly evolved, and I plead guilty to being caught in the crux of that struggle: if we evade extinction in current geological time, I would be astonished, though my identity would long be recycled. Perhaps I was the last saber tooth, fallen to the extraordinary ability of the primate hand.

Bolingbroke, Deep Purple

"Oh come on Joanne, we all know that spastic contraction increases the intensity of the convulsions, and I know what the power of the truth is!" -- Linda C. Dezenski, at the beginning of the end of everything good I clung to about the American left.


Any individual on the inside of the independent living dynamic would liken the above email exchange to a standard disability sex seminar, nothing graphic, no implicit intent here to humiliate, or even threaten. I had solicited the woman's advice on vaginal dryness, and I am the one who went beserk in the end stage, and only hurt myself more by cascading into a rage and its subsequent emotional fracturing that I never want to experience again, and only by degrees, and an iron will, survived what this above morally corrupt executive is capable of doing to others for the sake of power, really on the interior of Shakespearean examination of what drives the human will to command, govern, ascend, accrue wealth. I understand Dorner, and given the edification of Ellroy's crime noir, I am not quite ready to concede that the Los Angeles police department is preeminently righteous in this matter, even after the death of Rodney King. The tragedy of Christopher Dorner, however, is that it took him four years to embody living death, to decide to strike, knowing that in doing so he has given up on his humanity, falling into the age old fallacy that his skills put him above human empathy. It is up to me, if not as a commissioned journalist (and no, I cannot cover a deadly and fast moving event like this) then as a writer of literary skill, to negotiate men like Christopher.

Linda is not causing me pain now, and most of the staff around her, and my old friends who contributed, are dead, or left the independent living center, but that culture gave me blow after blow after blow for nine years after this eight month cyber exchange led to my rift with her and my subsequent denigration, to which my landlord and economic contraction contributed mightily, and now my life depends on my ability to make money through writing almost by necessity. And the ablest response? Take drugs, get therapy. You need help, tuning us out, not listening, banning us off social networks, (in my case sometimes unfairly, I was myself on TLN but never went on the attack against their considerable moronic personas, the owner simply would not pay me for the one chapter I did, hello life long ban, after four years, I cannot keep going through this, letting my guard down and then getting exiled). This is what progressives inflict upon themselves, even Jesse, ever the oportunist to stay in play. Then the professionals go on the air to discuss the psyche and its aberrations. What has created this new playbook after 9/11? The DC sniper, VTech, Aurora, Newtown, and now the latest alienated paramilitary man. This is not attributable simply to guns as a glittering commodity, dicing mental health diagnoses. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, while I calculate even a mild disruption by Nemo. It will not be pretty, never is in our modern welfare state.

Like An Eagle?

Transferred badly to shower like a large pudding plop, and transferred out, weary of my domestic struggles, ate lobster cakes, have to clean my dutiful Krups, but wanted to watch my news, and only now finding out about the LA rogue, but this is the American brand. As angry as I am about the illegal acts against me, and the ostracization, and my weakened fading from the scene, and the fact that these scars live in me, and Josie and Linda don't care and waltz on, no, the most either of these women would receive from me is scorn, perhaps a cat fight. Dorner is a danger that goes beyond the problem of why American gun ownership is a right, and if it should remain so. I shut off PBS, a rare action on my part, and lied to Marie earlier today about how I was doing. I tire of my father's sister, and wish she'd cut this shit out about my birthday, quite frankly. Yes, I need the damn monetary gifts, which is exactly why I curse them. Marie, my father, even Mary, they will be gone soon, and I prefer that they shove their Social Security up their asses, and no, I don't speak to them that way, except for my father, more in a shouting match with the matriarchal sentiment than not, that he is not responsible for my welfare. He stopped loving his children when my mother divorced him, and of course it is not that simple. He struggled against the death of his son, my brother, and it is through the eyes of my father that I live in how Nicholas wasted away from AIDS.

Would you like me to apologize for my revulsion toward homosexual equality despite the fact that I have been a voyeur since the days of childhood tantrums against my mother when I was offended by her Rod McKuen poetry, and watched more Japanese pornography than you care to know, and was curious but never cared to indulge? Do you want to know what I saw when I watched Miss Eddy watching Geri the building custodian, Miss Eddy being the attendant who molested me? I saw a woman who was nearly insensate with slovenly lack of control, and despite the fact that I have been a lifelong trollop for a great sex life with men that never was, Miss Eddy, her very expression, was like an animal with rabies, revolting-- my former disabled alliances not so far removed from that. Peel away the skin, get an ape that likes to play with itself. No wonder why Christianity involved so much repression of appetite. No apology forthcoming. I tried to be a good true blue liberal, really, embraced the science, and concede there is no legal reasoning you could not marry your pet macaw if that is your thing, but Nicholas Kristof curiously never breaks out his tabernacle for the blessings of inner city sexual behavior.

BSA is archaic, and that is its real problem. I quite frankly don't give a fig that its leadership has a convulsive response equivalent to strychnine poisoning, and congratulate the Marxists. Total global conquest. One day it will blow right back in your faces. Have a good morning.