Ischemic Stroke Pulses in Joy Reid’s Fan Club

"She apologized because she got caught." --James Woods

Basically, I have three choices. Call the case manager, a woman thirty odd years our junior, request he be exchanged for absolutely no good reason, as I came at this woman hard, and as a result, my caretaker and I were awarded special recognition. Regardless of what I’d say to his superiors, questions would be raised that would have consequences after singing his praises. I’d in essence relieve significant sexual tension between us to return to potluck picks even though his tactics worked. My breasts have flushed out, I feel like I’m ovulating again, his hands break out in a sweat at the touch of my skin, and although it was not the very brief French kiss I planted on him not many posts ago, he did kiss me on the lips Saturday. For someone fighting me so hard verbally still on one end, he is still compliant on the other, and I have to come to terms with the fact I’m in love with him: maybe it is entangled in the desperation of entrapment, gratitude. I’ve run the gamut and realize the disparity between us just as he does, nearly begging him to leave me even after saying to him please don’t leave my life. “I’m not going anywhere!” he exclaims. And yet, after being rolled and changed and clothed in dilatory routine I’ve been subjected to since October, I sat by the larger window on my left, vaping, and the dowager, in defiant resurrection, said wearily, this fine spring day, you have no idea how happy I’d be to get off this bed myself, how this insulation enveloping me is making me lose my fucking mind. That too, was my rebellious truth. Shall we pick a card? But we were on choices, were we not?

Second choice, as previously mentioned, force his hand. Make him sleep with me or forcibly reject me. Life is short, I’m 56, and to whatever degree I’m culpable, see whether we work as lovers or don’t, and accept how either pathway changes our respective roles. I’m not absolutely certain here, but he’d take me out of hunger if nothing else if I really seduced him into it, or else he would not have allowed my aggressive foreplay.

Third, leave it as it is, let him go, which I thought, on Friday, that I had, only to find myself in tears, once again, four or five hours past. These tears are rather familiar, in the need for adhesion to an able male protector who will give me sympathy, or commiseration, but never that which they do not feel, Jerry or John from my febrile youthful longing, a handful of others. This guy was, is, simply too generous, his heart nearly literally on its sleeve, I can see the very dark irony over killing myself on the sword of nigger pity, with perhaps a little desire mixed in. I have to allow myself some credit in his fear of his own lust. I see what it’s doing to him. Part of me cares not to have him suffer, even as my cousin, new found consigliere, tells me I cannot help what I feel, defender of Joy Reid’s revulsion, my very own. Do I have the right to force him into something not best for either our mutual long term interests? Georgy Girl took a satirical bite out of those hormones saddling James Mason to an otherwise oblivious Lynne Redgrave in the flush of conquest. We’re no longer in that era where women shifted the balance of power, this one saturated in urine twice over.

This, under his zealous guardianship, the shrinking cadaver in her final blows under optimal regulatory compliance.

Voyeurs to Spastic Climax

"I've been in worse places than your apartment."--the proprietor

It is not that I cannot work, I am recalcitrant about starting something new when I was in the middle of other things, but I suppose I can marshal my forces, weakened as they are, evaluate whether or not I need to interview Woods, and then form my questions. One thing I am not interested in, and this goes for O’Neal as well, whose publicist chose not to respond to my inquiry, though I intend to persist, is prurient “gotcha” profiles. O’Neal was too candid with Tavis Smiley in 2012. The interview was memorable, by media standards a successful expose, one in which Ryan may not have meant to reveal he was a bit bitchy, but it didn’t serve his legacy, and I prefer to learn more about craft, sans Al Pacino, who has taught his fans, fantasy fuck melt girl here included, about the art. If I do approach James, this is what I want, not his sex life, or his scorecard political bites. I want the work, some intangible insight into his magnetism, and if I’ve fallen in love just a little, from a distance, I can afford it. It may even smooth out my ability to finesse over and above letting the world know I’m owed for my own continuously browbeat ability: Dana got me on the toilet, and I am weak, but not quite that weak, and perhaps should sue Mike. The code, in disability culture, is wheelchair mechanics are supposed to get it, and I feel betrayed, because Mike’s sensibility is I’m supposed to know how to build my own chair. That is his job, even if his wife is sick, I don’t know how it assuages his personal life to drag me down the drain with him. What I do may not matter if what I do is too late, and he places demands on me I can’t meet, Trudy Richardson wants what’s best for me? How is pressure sores on a bad machine good for me, not even able to go to the bathroom without a thirty year old woman pole vaulting my body because I can’t help her on a scooter device which impedes me? And the answer to this is to have a rookie cop haul me off for psychiatric care? Penn Medicine bounced me back to Riverside in record speed, the police having washed their hands, and Trudy says “well you don’t have to be so aggressive.”

Yes I do. I would not have survived independent living collusion if I hadn’t been so aggressive, if I had not made an effort to put dirty laundry front and center, and then there’s Mike, like a damn body slam, toss the product and then reel the hook, so long, and good luck, an old man with a sick wife burying me along side him, this is why I believe violence needs to create upheaval. Trauma teaches the complacent a lesson.

Not Paddock’s way, no. McVeigh was closer, and he and Nichols posed a threat to the state. This is what disability activism needs, a leader smart enough to threaten the compliance models represented by the Richardson’s and the Nancy Lotz’s of the world. But whether it is cousins, or private hires, or state aides, housekeeping takes precedence over what small contentment I held to. “The apartment looks cleaner,” a false positive, signifying nothing, other than I am right, and have been right all along. I need to be sacrificed for the sake of sanitation, and if that’s the case, why not let me go to sleep? Because the Pope says all life is precious, to the last. If we really believe that, Presbyterian Homes and Liberty Resources would have admitted negligence long ago, but we deny, then reveal too much, and burrow, the damn human race. I claim the right to pave the way for a new age militancy, as good as my word, researching Krugman on trade, a militant that will follow in my wake, since I am not diabolical nor quite ruthless enough, not gouging out the eyes of my CO, like Alvarez, in his senseless, senseless cage. Tom Brady critically injured on the field? That would be a start. A call to arms!

Modular Four Legged Application

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

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

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

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

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

Albert Finney's Papacy

"Death carries no passport," Louis Gossett Jr pretending to address the UN before being assassinated

When TheGaryo initially discovered my thus far lone twitter account, the dowager assumed he was a comic book fan, not a British footballer. And as of this writing, I am not certain who the fuck he is, nor what he deigns to offer. I only recently noticed his numbers, a whale of his own making, perhaps. He also stopped following me, twice; twice returned, and I would have gone on blithely ignoring the man, to the extent we assume gender, but for the fact I suspected him in relation to hoax accounts sent my way.

If he is a British athlete of standing, I can only speculate his motives for being charitable to a spastic racist in the process of losing control of her game: he is being charitable, or wonders about the possibility of chronic injury. If it is the latter, O'Neill would be better off reading Hockenberry, who I only recently stopped following, exasperated because I was weakly clinging to the shared experience identification. It only takes us so far, like the embarrassment of shitting yourself in front of an Israeli source while eating olives. The Israeli graciously clucks his tongue, and out comes a mop and pail. I may not know Hockenberry, but I know too much, inclusive of the fact he has never turned his Dateline/PBS beam on the cruelty of CIL culture. Clint Eastwood, as a former elected official, he makes great target practice, never mind NCIL corruption. This points to my decoupling, with my own incontinence an integumental hindrance growing in proportion to lack of resources, and Riverside's central thermostat. My landlord took away my ability to control the radiator. It sickens me, and I get blamed, as usual. Complaining does little, though I've attempted, in the past, to talk to Mike Pera, who should face a firing squad for being the dumbest Caucasian on the planet. I might have beat the situation this morning, but waited and had a potato, eating so much less than I used to what is coming out of me must have mitigated any arterial plaque-- or I am not absorbing what little nutrients getting dissolved in my stomach. 70 degrees outside, my bedside window cracked, fan running, my end of life career a battle with fecal puss, like Slothrop's post-modern swim through toilet plumbing.

For the record, I am ambivalent about Karol Wojtyla's usurpation of the Roman Empire's last titular vestige of its grip on the world. Ceding to the Polish, then the German balks and the cardinals go to Argentina. Scowling. Was the Cardinal Wojtyla a great force of moral resistance? If memory serves, that may be affirmed, but he turned the papacy into a celebrity contest which will continue to have troubling indications. Hopefully I'll be gone before Nigeria gains control of The Curia.  

What Does Larry Summers want?

Ah, Business Insider clarified the ever fawning economic advisor. Summers gets plenty of op ed space from Wapo, as all formerly prominent policy makers do, and I am rather skeptical still, not of China's rise on the global stage, but as to whether it matters. Sure, the People's Republic obfuscates in a manner that the Western Hemisphere doesn't, but what of it? To a degree we're all in a microcosmic police state, and if the heirs to Maoist apparatchick take over, the denial of propaganda isn't going to save us any more than freedom of expression, as liberty is eclipsed by statutory guidelines. Social Security is not administered according to civil liberties of the people, neither is our byzantine tax code, certainly not housing authorities, and this cuts across the board, from Home Owner's Associations to public housing police states, let alone medical model stricture.

I tried to lie down for my appt this afternoon, and had to force myself up, as my Achilles's heel always rides the forefront: dorm rooms, rehabs, hospital beds, apartment dwellings exactly the same, barring size: Dixon Hall, Diamond Park, this studio, off white and cheap as Chinese drywall. I never had, never will, a stake in ownership, as my father and family did once. I have to forgive my father, because of our home in Folsom. It was a home, a rancher with an individualized presence, like our house in Ridley.

All I have now are laminated floors, imposing cinder block  hospital halls, or transfers to sterile environments much the same as this. Did Alain Delon whine as Frank Riva when Xavier dusted him off and gave him a little flat with adorable cat sequences as only the French can do? I'm going back to bed. Fuck Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell. I will find a way to sue Presby for negligence, compliance be damned, however quizzical it seems that Blogger referring urls link back to the Henry James list serv.

As a virtual academic community, it deserves praise as a continuing tributary, but as my matriculation continues to take a pounding, the space to organize the shavings of biographical detail is no longer a kind of monastic security, and the inadequacy of intellectual discipline keeps me away. I doubt I'll ever return-- which is not to convey if my life stabilizes I will not resume researching a proposal.

Tumescent Twilight

Trudy Richardson, erstwhile tootsie tooth and manager of Riverside, called out the big guns, a couple of kids from DHS younger than thirty, asking me in agitated voices, "I've been to Inglis House, what's wrong with it?" And I from my bedside, acting as my own attorney, told them about my aggravated assault, Debra Horne's prior conduct, challenging her competency, upon which child men asked her to leave, and then the child men left, I told the building secretary I was giving my notice, Trudy and I pulled our swords from our scabbards, and then I received my recertification packet under the door, which I am ignoring, and I have under August, actually, to blithely disregard HUD. Obviously some statutory nicety prevents Presby from filing for eviction. What that is lies beyond my acumen, and NBC already has situation comedies about modern tenement living. I personally find this all amusing in my sharp witted indigence, since to be kind they obviously do not wish to forcibly take Vinne from me. This is about the lowest point in my life, except for when my benefits were suspended after I was accepted into Diamond Park, or Brandon Philips with his hands around my neck, throttling me, and I did not die. Super human strength, super human obstinacy,  beyond the salient details, I have nothing poignant to offer. The joke is like the goal line that extends around the world when the touchdown is on the post. The only person who cares is an equally unfortunate aunt battling her ailing body. I wonder what my followers would choose, if the merciless welfare state would be worth it to you.

A Piss Off, in essence

The sardonic in me, the competing desires which cancel each other out, these say I want to go home, but the IRS forced my father to divest himself of the home I might have inherited, and at the same time, I want nothing more to do with my family. I'm too far in the gutter as it is, never imagining myself here at Riverside. Before I moved in, it must have been around spring 92, Paratransit picked me up, and the driver locked me down behind Linda, to my astonishment, still committed to her first marriage, and we passed the building riding into Liberty, observed Joe, always running his mouth, and Linda remarked, "We've had a lot of problems with them." Presby's management.

I did not make it clear to her, after having divested myself of Matrix, those seven years later, that it was Presby's management fueling my desperation, as opposed to the not so interesting sexual rivalry I unwittingly triggered with the woman, and here I am, beaten, since Mike Howard left, by each subsequent manager after him, attack after attack, threat after threat, freely administered by the Department of Housing and Urban Development, lunging and retreating like the cowardly lion, why not just begin eviction proceedings? My savings now spent on medical bills and buying janitors, slaving away at penny articles, and I'm supposed not to be depressed, keep a positive attitude, reign it in before the police drag me out and dump me somewhere, a building where I'll be drugged, held in a hospital bed in restraints, if I'm so fortunate.

This is the great United States, democratic power extraordinaire, unless you screw with the tax code, have your soul corroded by statutory mandates, and do not wish to comply with African Americans having constant access to your financials in order that the government can protect itself from any fraudulent activity on your part. The disability center, relying on my tacit passivity, sent me a flyer for a job fair at their Academy, which is some sort of vocational horseshit training consumers to use computers. Well, I have something to say to Liberty Resources: Go fuck yourselves. You're nothing more than a segregated prostitution ring run by den mothers who think they're preschool teachers once removed, offering quadriplegics like me assurance after assurance, until you violate state employee guidelines, or assume no liability if a disabled consumer gets abused, refuse to return phone calls when a disabled worker needs technical support, engage in denial about hostile environments, cannot restrain yourselves from the corruption of association. I wore myself out, food shopping, then a small load of laundry, in my stubborn, rage driven reliance, too worn out to work.

The Song of Bernadette

"I had to forget, otherwise life would have been impossible."--Jose Semprin via The Paris Review

My mother took me off the bus in my smaller leg braces that only went up my shin, after school. "Your father has something to tell you." I pranced, excited in my early attachment to suburban animal husbandry. "Where's Squeally?" I queried, he was a big brown bastard about the size of a large Indian rat, similar to this, and kept the house up all night shrieking for a neighbor's female, white as a rat; whose idea this was, to let Squeally meet and scent the female, seemed to be a majority and vastly unwise consensus, because Squeally lived up to his fucking name. He shrieked after the neighbor took the female away and he wouldn't shut up. I loved Squeally. "Your father has something to tell you." And my father held a large brown paper bag, and there was Squeally in the bag with his wood chips, and beloved poppa held a funeral for Squeally for his Nanna, his poor Nanna for whom he hated his wife. It was an illegal and amusing Catholic service for our less intimidating rodent species, in our beautiful rancher with its half acre which is why I love my father, hate my mother, and would put progressives into labor camps. My only cherished moment in a bad marriage between a woman with Sophia Loren's beauty and a sick overwrought mind, shrewish tongue, and her Roman husband. My only good memory. Then I was abandoned, in a room with a bed. By the time I was released from this merciless regiment, purportedly for my own good, my mother was a divorced, hypersexualized slut who nearly killed and permanently damaged her children. She did kill my little brother, because he could not take the pain. Many American stories may be like this, but for me it never ceased, and this is why I cannot forget. Ray Bruno inserted himself in the middle of this. I don't know why, nor what he saw. My intellectual promise was enough? Not anymore, and it's why I hate the activists I came up with, why the cleanliness of dispensing with sick human bodies, those with no further redeeming value, is attractive, even pristine, as it relates to the shells of sapien humanity, like Erik von Schmetterling, the female who is more a Shakespearean horror figure than not, inexplicably linked to the sexual ambiguity of Macbeth's witches. 

HUD believes in culling also. This is what the social safety net of liberal governance is about. Progressives want scarcity of resource to be concealed, and this is why I take the risks that I do. My tough little body may have another fifteen years, give or take; my independence does not. Shut me down if you wish. I intend to keep pushing. Nothing is perfect, but maybe as an end result we can start being more honest. The more complex administration of distribution becomes, the more flawed the regulatory enforcement is, and what I'm asking of my viewers is why I had to keep the medical model in business for all but perhaps a decade of my life if it is going to end the same way, in a room, with a bed, and a ventilator, maybe a catheter for end stage renal disease. We push empathy beyond the limits of where it should be, despite Hawking in his curious role of international shaman. I want real freedom in the little time I can still hold on my own, and to do that I need an Uber model, one willing to barter with poverty.

Centennial Autumns

"No one is going to put you away!" -- a beloved and weary padre.

The very existence of Presbyterian Homes is predicated upon fungible exploitation of medically dependent people. Trudy Richardson's salary and her hire, as well as Debra Horne's, is predicated upon cut rate assessments, and my own rise and fall through Liberty Resources past the Matrix Research Institute, through the crash of AccessLife, was based on the same premise: use the marginalized themselves to shepherd the flock. My father putting me away under lock and key was no different. Minority women abused me in a centralized institution then, and now everything Trudy does is designed toward containment of my autonomy. She is not merely a rental agent authority, but a collusionist on the cheap, without the requisite training for it, pushes the line daily. In a Toni Morrison novel, a woman like Trudy would be anchored to something psychologically firm through this line of work, as Morrison construes it in Song of Solomon. In my eyes, this is nothing but a travesty. Four black bitches holding the whip through their sense of entitlement, doing a two step on my better diction and resistance to the collective. What is a civil liberty when we grant huge federal exemptions to it in the ownership and maintenance of property?

I once saw section 811/202 housing as a pit stop toward a presumably successful teaching and publishing career. Ha. Instructors themselves are in crisis, whether in secondary or collegiate ranks, and publishing for money is still adjusting to digital conglomeration, and now the cruelty of America's not so secret socialist paradigm is a way of life-- my failure, yes, I boomeranged myself back to the city, turbulent for reasons written in past posts-- but what I was really doing was trying to imitate how my father abandoned me as a nine year old by abandoning myself in an alienating and regressive black culture that over reaches like a high tide and recedes when white anger barks. Without realizing it, I decided to make myself expendable to the permanent welfare class because I wasn't able to pair bond with the appropriately humanist male of a certain type. I cannot undo the extraordinary level of damage to which I've been subjected.

Most likely I can litigate myself out of this insane classification in exchange for another, but we have to change how we regulate public housing. We're destroying ourselves through it. Tenants and warders alike. Trudy has puffed out like a balloon in yellow chiffon, a tell tale symptom one can find in any of Morrison's Southern racists who use rape as a source of amusement.

Health Care Crisis

Perhaps Google earns money off my raw content, and since I am not earning money off my raw content, then why am I investing so much of my time, breaking so many eggs, shredding my wounds? A Blogger account is not much, in terms of a legacy, if it can even be counted as one. Let me return to the poor vaunted Louise Norlie, secretly telephoning me from her backyard in New Jersey. "Most people go with their aide," she said, with an implied perplexity at my lack of having one. But in the ten years plus of having one, then using my own money to borrow Tim, I was abused, for the most part, by the African Americans taking the job. Not all of them, but a significant percentage. Every "aide" I had except for the new one, whom I have only used once, has discomfited me, if not abused me with micro-behaviors, and this is all I have to look forward to. Dealing with low income stressed strangers who have their own triggers. I did not go through six fucking years of university to make getting a diaper change my life time award, but my age is pushing the turning point where I'll have no choice but to depend on ignorant women with bad teeth for my care.

My last advice to Louise, by the way, is to assert herself for herself. Stop looking for apron strings, or for someone like me to draw you out on a specialized list serv, or for someone like me to engage with you because we both have other aesthetic needs beyond medical model maintenance. Go out, take a risk, meet a boy. Have sex. Do something rather than sneak telephone calls to wounded warriors.

Marie and I haven't spoken in over a week. A record for me, but father's sister and I have worn each other out. She doesn't want the same services offered by PCA that I also refuse at my peril, but it was her choice not to have hospice care for Lillian, my favorite grandmother, or my uncle, her husband, who died of lung cancer while she still smokes three packs a day. Nor is my father getting care for my stepmother Louise, with her RA. Did he marry her to punish himself for me, his dead son? I don't know, but he is eighty and cannot give his wife nursing care.

Louise hates us, my sister says. I don't doubt it. Maybe that is guilt over my mother, or that my physical vulnerability reminds her of her own, but let's extrapolate, even though I am not Timothy Taylor: You probably have an uncle Joseph with cognitive limitations signifying mild dementia, or an aunt with a broken wrist who can no longer climb stairs, with MRSA exposure and infection. If a mostly stable quadriplegic like me can fall out of production due to transit restrictions and major fallout with compliance, with the parental generation of her family now falling into "nursing home eligibility" (I welcomed padre into the club not many weeks back when Marie and I discussed the Louise crisis). My stepmother always is a crisis-- how are we going to afford the direction in which we're heading? You may think my euthanasia advocacy cruel, but demographics estimate global population will reach 11 billion by 2100. We're crushing ourselves.

Smokey Opals

"You'll see my smile looks out of place."-- Smokey Robinson

To be a writer is nothing, but to be an author through the track of my tears exacts the terrible necessity of its price, the over-invested attachment, which for me will lead to some sort of literature generation of the tangible kind, either with a book jacket, or laminated article, through the ebb and flow of accreted megalomania, crested after challenging the levies, don't believe my heart isn't broken, that it has taken so long to see the distaste in exploiting human suffering.

I cared. I still do, and, barring a miracle, will return to the constraints of being a micro managed living wage, an indigent puddle for someone's salary, but there has to be a better way to do it than the socialized lowest common denominator we have. One of those is instituting rational euthanasia, stringent safe guards in place, rating levels of treatment accordingly. The health care professional would make less money, but our species would conserve finite resources through compassionate culling. Given population demographics we will be forced into it eventually, regardless of speculative venue, Soylent Green or Cuaron's contemporaneous homage.

Ethan Saylor would have become expendable; it would have been an inevitable consequence. The officers no doubt over-escalated his compliance, but it is an issue of adaptation, and the boy did not know how to mitigate his behavioral intransigence. It is irrelevant, whom among us had the skills to coax him down; he would have been killed in exactly the same way that compliance models surreptitiously attempted to suck me under while my country was conveying that I too could have equal opportunity. This is how socialized paradigms, disability centers, public housing, socialized medicine, destroy the individuals they deign to assist. 

I do not sign the Saylor petition. And I won't. It comes down to a value judgment of husbandry. If you believe this is callused, Liberty Resources does exactly the same thing. A very few become essential personnel, earning their salaries on the basis of rationed scarcity, making personal autonomy more expensive and inefficient than necessary, thereby unable to recognize value, the skills of intelligence that could lead to system enhancement. 

Keystone State, A Federal Subsidy

Dahlia thinks she is doing due diligence for victims advocacy, and having lived the life of my mother's domestic violence, Ms Briggs has a long road ahead of her, one that is beyond the ACLU's scope, but let me put my perpetrator Brandon front and center. He made me a victim of an inner city home invasion first because I took off of work to prepare to transition to full time, but second, and more importantly, because I was complying with HUD and Presby's extermination regulations. Back then, cabinet's had to be cleared and sprayed, and I was hurriedly clearing my kitchen. Knock on my door, which I believed was the pest contractor.

Trudy Richardson knew nothing about this, and she was most likely in middle school avoiding the bare foot and pregnant syndrome when Brandon decided I was rib eye steak, but the Presby executive who retired before Trudy Richardson deployed her dementia commando team knew, and Ellen Hovey would have never threatened me in the fashion under which Trudy was permitted to do, given the extreme stress I was already in; my lawsuit against the company is coming, rest assured, but Dahlia unwittingly assists in my argument. Section 811 202 housing is as corrupt as any Russian state profit model, and it has to end, and God as my witness, I am going to burn this torch beyond my death, if necessary.

Neeson in Dublin

It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's annual dance. Everybody who knew them came to it, members of the family, old friends of the family, the members of Julia's choir, any of Kate's pupils that were grown up enough and even some of Mary Jane's pupils too. Never had it fallen flat.  --James Joyce, The Dead

Perhaps Agnieszka Wojtowicz-Vosloo was attempting to do something more ambitious with After.Life than what she could deliver, but it is to her credit that I see things in her feature film that echo my undergraduate studies of the early Modernists, things that recall Eliot's grasp for an existence made inert through anesthesia, or Joyce's ability to show a mode of living entirely paralyzed. We have seen such things before. Virtually everyone with the ability to operate a video camera uses a nose bleed to suggest something sinister is afoot in the transient netherworld. We are not told why Ricci's middle school teacher has a bleed, uses meds, or why the mother behaves like a shellfish with a claw attached to your finger. We do not see Liam's Deacon at the initial crash site, and don't know how he gets his victims out of the ER, or why he can fool the doctors so readily with a muscle paralytic. We do not quite need to know these things for the narrative to work better than it does, but Justin Long, scion of Jeepers Creepers the first, is not up to pitting himself against Neeson's absolute and short tempered faith. Long's on and off panic switch is as much static as Ricci's desperate phone call. I am still waiting for little Ricci to inhabit a role I can believe in, her complicity in Monster aside, and I am not entirely clear on Canterbury's Jack. An apprentice, yes, but Wojtowicz seems to want him to stand as an ambiguous observer whose conscience is finally swayed.

More than suspense, Agnieszka seemed to be aiming for suspension, asking us how we live inside the routine entrapments we fear changing: There is the promise of more potential within the failure.

All in the Family

"We could just keep quiet about it."--the Attenborough version

I do not know if Google would remove my account if I was exceedingly blunt, or honestly cut to the chase, as quadriplegia does not excuse illegal incitement, but I am worn out with swallowing what I have allowed myself to swallow, taking it year after year, from one form of institutional horror to another, to Medicare dictating the terms of my quality of life when I was younger and stronger, my acumen and intelligence deserving better. It is a rare investigative journalist indeed who examines Medicare and Medicaid in terms of allocation and delivery of service; our old world cultural bastion deserves credit for its in depth look at dialysis, but I can't remember the last time Paul Krugman turned his radical liberalism to the heart breaking reality of the limitations imposed by socialized medicine, not within the scope of his intellectual pretensions; he may be the smartest New York Times economist on campus, but that would change considerably if a stroke paralyzed him and he was traumatized by minority paraprofessionals, perhaps even humiliated by his peers, academics in whom he trusted.

I am not the first person to wish ill on a former superior, and I won't be the last, but my anger primarily stems from the knowledge that disability centers are segregated obscenities, and Linda Dezenski, involved in one law suit after another, remains there as a titular second in command. In a real corporate climate she would have been forced out of power, and there lies my anger. She created a hostile environment for me which compromised the supports I needed. Statue of limitations long gone. Sorry. Mixed race aide wants to make love to me, another swindles me and their supervisors say don't press charges, we'll repair it, and I just wind up being another profit margin, while the minorities who manage my building for the company want to put me away, shift the burden. There has to be a smart attorney out there who can see my adult life has been a living land mine and can adjudicate justice for it. Linda would tell you her side, that she did not mean it, that I displayed considerable anxiety; I was emotional. She acted without thinking and attempted to reflect my concerns, but she broke the law, needs to be removed, and my suffering needs to be acknowledged, served as an illustration that compliance paradigms can do more harm than good. When people lose faith in the system, crime statistics rise. She may have removed her digital footprint, but I'll refrain from speculation.

I am virtually helpless, but if I have to die with all this swept aside because I am inconsequential, then our civilization doesn't really amount to anything.

Linda Ronstadt's Parkinson's was the luck of the draw, ended the normative comeback cycles for recording artists on the downward curve of the apex. I treated her as an afterthought, not realizing she is still out there, stoic and less of a point man than Michael, not as flamboyant; I am considering purchasing her memoir out of commiseration, because she is of my time and I understand the period in which she gained recognition, but I do not actually care about her duet with Smokey Robinson.

The nihilist sniggers, wondering if I should teach you how to steal without getting yourself sued for plagiarism  I am considering it myself, taking an idea from an author never read, and writing a horrific tale of graphic precision, daring to get it published, as I am doing with my inner city attacker. Producing from the heart of a searing and authentic vision is difficult, the difference that divides canonical authors from the mediocre and the offering of platitudes.

Active Theatre Rations

Meeks died--thinking the El Serrano Motel looked just like the Alamo. James Ellroy, LA Confidential, pg 6



To augment my brazen temerity, and to object to a simplistic tirade by Jonathan Rauch in the August 2012 kindle edition of The Atlantic Monthly, where Rauch claims that conservative libertarians are not being honest, and that the Tea Party wants to deny health care to the poor, and suggests the right wing wants to repeal this 1986 Act, I am suggesting no such thing, whether due to the cognitive limitations of my uncle's dementia, or certain classes of those sustained with little quality of life in nursing homes.

I have seen horrors in the field, in institutional environments, and in active surgical wards that maybe you have or haven't, and dare to suggest that we begin to make value judgments over who gets more aggressive treatment and who doesn't. The average cost of heart bypass surgery is 60K. My father had many viable and productive years left when he had his procedure. His little brother, with his behavioral disorders, does not, and my aunt's aggressive do everything approach is a misguided drain of resources as opposed to utilizing compassionate palliative efforts. And if that sixty thousand dollars had been invested in giving me the technology I needed in my 30's to give me the most proactive independent environment possible, I would be paying my taxes and have remained a viable and more affluent citizen who could pay her debts. NYT's favorite flatfoot is absolutely correct that the US has practiced socialized medicine for years, but the end result is a horrific nightmare of fraud and sometimes questionable treatment, and what Keystone 65 plus did do me over procuring a power chair from a non-certified rehabilitation facility nearly cost me my life, not that the coordinating jackasses from my favorite center could do more than say "oh, you have to impoverish yourself through spend down!"

It may not be all about me, but what I went through up to 2008 caused me sustained trauma and nearly killed me, and a woman of my intelligence deserved better.