Wireless in a Snow Shower

I'd heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well, it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah--Pentonix

I suppose, presuming I have regular viewers, like the dwindling audience for daytime soaps, that you would rebut me by pointing out that a minority paraprofessional from the hood cares for my welfare should make me feel guilty, as my conscience doesn’t give a flying fig, not that I do not think said paraprofessional isn’t a nice guy, of course he is. I simulate the ingrained Italian generosity learned from my family on my childhood knee, and he contributes in return, in this charming interstice of the village of the damned, but it is an act I am within relative parameters, able to keep up behind my otherwise world-weary sinuses. Earlier last week, in grieving for his previous patient, he gripped my right thigh, covered by solid gray sheeting, to emphasize the man’s edema, and I felt sexually aroused. That happens, as old as Lady Chatterly’s Lover, the nurse sexualizing the regressive grooming of the crippled husband (when I read Lawrence I resist the vulnerability his cadence demands, not my favorite canonical author) and as recent as the marginal industry effort, me before you, a genuine triumph in cripland film I should feel obligated to view for this account. Perhaps I’ll invite Dr. Dorwart to write a guest review instead, to rest these world weary Italian eyes: I am not going to fuck the nigger five years my junior. It was the mere incidental grip on my thigh. We’re supposed to go to Dunkin Donuts this morning to update the OS for my forlorn second generation Apple 5s, pondering my reluctance to allow ATT to turn off my plug in, adding the expense of a new phone, but if I cannot trust the hotspot to ping?

Victoria Wharton is actually causing me more grief than the kind-hearted African I callously denigrate, but this is as much padre’s fault as my own. He sent her to me. Without Facebook I would not have suspected her mental instability, and was reluctant to reconnect her to daddy, but did so she would stop texting me. My sister informed me Sunday evening that Victoria is a threat to my father’s welfare (drug swiping, etc) and the dowager’s lioness roared. I let the woman have it and threatened her with arrest, due to slipping on my own gullibility, my father’s as well. 

He hired Victoria. Eldest daughter presumed Victoria was reliable, steady, but instead, is another episode of white trash feigning a low middle class. Exactly what fantasy of personal grace and demeanor do I reside in? My heart always breaking on my father’s rat pack stylized imitation, ladies’ man to the end, twisting my love on the rack, the daughter he abandoned, submitted to medical repair, again, and again, and again. First love of my life, he represses what a bloody disappointment I am, first born, fitting virtual reality is no longer removed from the lives we live.

Tertiary Clusters

"I am a living ghost."-- Constantin Reliu

To be reduced to thinking wedging a ten dollar plastic feminine urinal around fancily sewn napkin paper with wadding is an accomplishment is already a significant spiral downward, and the dowager is up very late because her distressed colon will be the death of her, as an hour after the temporary Jevs attendant left, things went to town, even as I buy her food I cannot afford. Why? Given what you read, it must seem strange, but these people get slave wages, finally having my hair washed, and I have no other responsibilities. I may be hostile to urban black humility and low self-esteem, but these people have nothing, most of them, trash television, much the same way franchise authors and screen writers sell junk bonds on quantum theory. Third Contact does not fall into my category of “flawed but intriguing”. It is the worst tripe I’ve ever seen produced in Britain, and it goes as follows: a suicidal psychiatrist begins losing his patients to suicide, then discovers they pick some kind of alternate memory and a scientist sends them to this particular quantum field of happily ever after. The conflicts in the plot involve his disbelief, and then he joins them, in a garden with his wife, who in this world, sustained a trauma which is ambiguous, perhaps a miscarriage. Brian Greene consoles us on television, poking fun at himself with alternate universe theories, because the laws of nature tend to repeat themselves, but this is tantamount to asserting that the particle accelerator and Vatican canonical law are neck and neck in the same rat race, the same quest for immortality.

I have referred to this before on Blogger, but the sole happy moment in my life was when John Tassoni snuck up on me in the dormitory hall with his freezing hands wrapping me in a bear hug, his intent being merely to startle me, add me into his cache of flirtations because the little boy inside the boxer wants to be loved. He had no idea I had fallen in love with him, not then, not there, and had I kept my stupid mouth shut, perhaps I would have never found myself on Race Street with a load of shit in my pubic hair. I do not believe, for the tenth of a second that the God particle may exist, that in an alternate universe he and I married and made an intellect tag team while I’m the radiant mother of his children. For all the complexities of the technology and the functional equations, the human super monkey always needs a venue for hope springs eternal, while my sister, middle child princess, walls herself in her home of denial, never making more than pro forma gestures of sympathy, and I, the invalid of his issue, perhaps the fault of my mother’s turbulent body, ripping out of her birth canal, disgusted and as weary as he, commit to doing the whole funeral in hostile territory. Maybe it is the stress, the probiotic, but if I cannot regain some of the function I still had in September, I am done. My stepmother died a horrible death, trapped in a terrible, if not horrifying marriage, to a father I’ve loved so strongly because he’s incapable of being emotionally supportive. He throws money at the issue, I throw money at impoverished minorities with whom I want nothing to do, taking small victories in having vanquished the Muslim’s prostrate ass in my face, and now I have to go make a mess. Can’t lie in it; not going to get much sleep.

Drainage Slats, authorized version

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

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

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

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

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

Every Unhappy Family Rolls Anna Karina Under the Train

I am not going to catch hell from pulling an all nighter today. TLC has dropped my case, and the JEVS case manager, of course, wasn’t informed that I’m quadriplegic. I informed her yesterday at the last moment, 3:30, then the West African nearly took my foot off, and this is public assistance at its finest. Just finished an inconclusive message exchange with Victoria, a woman whom I previously stated I wasn’t going to characterize, a woman whose employment caring for my dead stepmother was terminated shortly before this latest death watch, and nothing ever happens at the right time for me, except that another Caucasian all-American flake with television wide blue eyes texts me in the middle of the night as if she and I were in high school. She is sweet, thinks Louise was sweet, and I’ve spent far too much time trying to utilize her now inability to assist me, could unfriend her, but where else am I going to get material? I wasn’t okay for a little while. I may never again masquerade the perception of imperturbability  again, with my antagonism toward Louise miscued as Victoria refused to read the sharpness in my query about her condolences. I don’t hate Louise, didn’t know her well enough for that, as the bottom drops out from under my solar plexus, all of her suffering, the duress, my 82 year old father’s emptiness, no one left to boomerang on his anger over his dead son, my sense of displacement over Hawking’s demise surreal, as otherworldly as his deadpan explanations of the cosmos. I am not going to get past the physical punishment I am taking, and it is on me for leaving Hahnemann internal medicine prior to 2016, on me for my subsequent collapse, my failure with Jefferson, not changing where I am in the present, none of Hawking’s reserve and humor, elusive referencing. The difference between his lampooned round the clock care and my father’s wife is one of utility, of function. Louise either desired or was made to combat her rheumatoid arthritis and its blood infections too hard; it was too hard on mio padre, and didn’t help me from a distance, but Hawking was a public spectacle, footage of his emaciated frame in a tarp on TMZ, I truly regret his passing, as much as I sometimes regret investigative journalism.

It may be a post modern aspect, sympathizing with bad actors, and this horse has long bolted out of the barn despite my mild censure, but exactly who did the Pittsburgh Post Gazette help in its expose of Tim Murphy’s texts? The woman he slept with, us? We tend to see his private interactions with his mistress as hypocritical, but a man’s life was destroyed because he yielded to temptation. One of my lovers also offered to pay for a d & c, as it’s called, a uterine scrape, but then I calmed down. Fortunately, my life wasn’t further complicated by an unwanted pregnancy with a married man, but I am beginning to wonder about which shark is worse, the aphrodisiac of power, or the lunge to take it down. We have lost faith in institutions, in legislative processes, each other, and then hand the baton to the next fresh face. Do you ever stop to consider the devastation we’ve wrought?

A Civet’s Perineal Gland

The civet produces a musk highly valued as a fragrance -- a Wiki entry

Would viewer’s like this implosive and still not master of the blogger format to walk it back, offer an expression of remorse against tantalizing aspects of destructive impulses? Let’s listen to the planks creak under a plodding tread and see where we wind up this Monday morning. I was going to try to explain some of this to the caretaker, with the pressures she’s under, colliding with mine, leading to another failed outreach, in my continuing attempt to rebuild a support system. I don’t wish to diagram her as I have Karina, (and even here, my diagram of white post-beatnik flakes is meant to illustrate that trying to circumvent regulated paradigms has failed me, more than once in recent months) but for women in their 30’s, they seem to share certain attributes of fragility in common beyond grieving for their mothers. We all grieve for mothers if we live long enough, although in Arrival we have an inverse loss of a mother losing a daughter to a terminal illness. I tend to agree with Renner’s physicist that Amy Adams, in character, made the wrong choice. Vileneuve created an excellent film, made me interested in Chaing’s novella, but I have to reject the transcendental consolations of the director’s vision. It is bad enough having cerebral palsy, but I’ve had so much cut out of my life that so many of you in my class have had, and a studio in which I am sick of living looks more like a storage locker in a bus depot. It makes Dinklage seem nearly art deco chic in The Station Agent What my father is doing to his third wife is exactly what he did to me as a child, and the incessant drama of this woman’s hammock swing between life and death, for the last ten years, wears on me, wears on my sister, it’s wrong, and I vow not to prolong my pain on that road, even though I am in a dreadfully vulnerable tumult at the moment.

Medicare, which Krugman announced as an event on his eligibility day, cannot go on like this indefinitely. If I balk at my freefall, look at my stepmother’s. She is bedridden, barely cogent on a good day, in constant pain and in need of round the clock care, for ten years, a virtual trade deficit in her own right. All I’ve ever really been in need of was a decent power chair, good technology, an efficient transport and my career back. Regardless of your politics, I never intended, regardless of my belief that an urban grid would be easier, to have the clock stopped because the Commonwealth’s rehabilitation governance is a joke everyone knows. I get mad because it is up to us, the people, to change it, but we don’t, certainly not in Pennsylvania. Aging, the end of life, it is neither easy, nor efficient, but we could do better, unlike the Visiting Nurses Association. They have no authority to get Mike from Mr. Wheelchair to undo the damage he’s done; they shoved an unsafe generic hospital bed down my throat, and then Nancy Lotz says “oh, sorry, call your father, put your bed back together.” It isn’t that simple, and I’d have to pay people for their time, non-linear or not, and the VNA bills Medicare—for taking my temperature. That’s fraud. So was my week in the hospital. I wasn’t sick, I’m simply being killed by a scooter a shady jackass foisted on me, and I need to pick a day to stay up until morning to find a lawyer. I’d have an easier time sleeping with Peter Thiel.

Auto Immune Flares

love lies bleeding in my hands-- the other British faggot of whom I've time honored conflicted ambivalence

I can barely remember H.G. Wells’ The Invisible Man. Read long ago as a teen not so specious then as to transpose it with Ellison’s Invisible Man, yet specious enough now to tell you they interlock, the concrete superficial suspense tale the film industry cannot resist revising on a continuous basis, and the powerful novel by Ellison which abrogates racial identity. A recent rendition written by Henderson attempts to elevate Wells’ science fiction with some of Ellison’s stark eloquence of erasure, perhaps asking us to reconsider scientific endeavor and zealous overkill. Henderson manages canonical faith to the original character in his upgrade, giving Griffith a dead son whom the doomed scientist believes was butchered by a former student, and we are given Griffith’s flashback of what he believes occurred with only circumstantial evidence, as he drinks his formula, acquires Hodgkin’s disease, descends into madness. I am not sure why the remake was made, as I respect my stepmother’s caretaker enough to tell her Louise may have purchased her last medical drama, curious thing, social media. I liked this woman when she disposed of my filthy mattress, and Facebook has given me hints about her emotional instability. I like her less, and way way back in archives, before Google dangled a suspension threat, I drew more than 30 page views in my matter of fact caustic bite. If she dies things will change. Social intelligence gawked at the circumspect nature of my developmental mindset. The caretaker doesn’t realize there is little love lost between me and Louise, with her deadly rheumatoid arthritis and her caustic mouth, complaining to me about my father’s impotence, stigmatizing my brother, saying I should be put away. Her son’s willingness to slash her tires, while an intimidating expression of rage, is an act I comprehend, but what pisses me off is my father subsumes his life like a dog for a sick and florid catty woman, always unpleasant and miserable, who should have been allowed to die three years ago, at least, while I hang like a chad, a consequence of my own obstinance. I did this to me, moving to bad neighborhoods in a sterile city, and now my mother’s nursing school colleague sleeps in hospice, younger sister and I in a truce of purveyed necessities, making a pun only I understand from one of Jerry’s workshop pieces. Think plague. Stephanie and I worry about Dad, the toll on poppa, poor poppa, and I have maybe a day or so left with the Muslim who is wiping my ass. How can I empathize Ellison and label myself his antithesis? A racist is as much reduced as those she stereotypes. You can all go fuck yourselves, because I am still well enough to live instead of urinating Depends, weary of the eschatology dynamic. Yes, death is a part of life, unless you’re a ghoul like Peter Thiel, pulverizing Nick Denton, British nigger lover who’d remove my malicious rhetoric.

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.

Progenitor Smoke Signals

"Your client works for one of the toniest law firms in this city."-- a Dick Wolf episode with the Munsters

I rarely have any complimentary sentiments to offer my hypothetical colleagues still running the media rat race, but what I tweeted to Politico at 3 AM was a rare stint at admiration, even as I'm sinking in stress, without much of a lifeline. The rib taken from The Washington Post is tonier than the mother ship, even if they earned Carson's ire during the primary, and their reporting on Secretary Price's jet setting was good work. Should it have cost the man his power? I cannot really adjudicate that, given my tap dance with Health & Human Services civilians since 14. Tom Price was a conservative medical politician, and this interested me, even if his estimate inside the Beltway was mixed;. unlike Gaulstan, one of my few surviving followers from the foreign coastal-scape of poet friend Robert Thomas. I showed Mark's account to one of the laid back guards at the front desk, whose Muslim African name can't get past my tinnitus. The residents call this guard "Anthony," for convenience, good looking but slow on the uptake, and I am showing him the account of a psychiatric professional who applies himself to broad sociological political dynamics. 

Why was it important for me to prove myself to a vacant minority whose looks should have gotten him better employment? If, and it is a conditional if, I flee in spastic fashion to my father's driveway tomorrow, refusing to return until I have legal representation, this solves nothing. My father, one, never gave me affirmation, and as his executor, I am the one he should be leaning on, both of us physically worse for wear, but my need for psychic distance from Riverside is nearly insurmountable. Most of my family believes I should be "placed," so they share at least one cultural attribute with the Debra Horne's of this world. 

The family isn't going to say this, because they already have, and they don't want to see me cascade down the escarpment. What do I think? I think if I lived with someone, I'd hang on. There are programs for this, but only as it applies to property owners, and if I am going to upset the apple cart, I have to call it an early evening. I made a mistake, this level of toxic stress, but I should have ended my relationship as a Presbyterian lessee in 1994. It doesn't mean I would not have been a bannable entity, but I would not be in my present situation. As to the fall of Price, I am not quite sure most of us care about the conscious frugality of a Principal. We all know aerodynamic technology is not a cheap proposition. Classically free market? I'd argue not. 

Now I have to find a staple gun, and figure out my fucking plan B. Governmental crisis lines never answer the phone. I knew this, of course. Any one of you brazen enough to reach out and give a fearful spastic a hand?

Terminals Heir

What tyrant daughters do to their fathers; the man is 81 years old, married to a community college colleague of my mere, a woman with a caustic upper bite, one on which I might have been trained in my own levels of bitumen, if I did not know better, and at our respective ages life might be more sedate, unless that is another fiction. Yes, Marvel Inhumans, evidence of short term memory lapses, struggle to recall the title. A few minutes of the opening were lost, but its grandiosity resides in my mostly bad fantastical efforts in a similar parallel. Black Bolt is a recognized face, and Lock Jaw is a routable infant, though I’m probably not going to have the luxury of following gods battle for hierarchy over and above its anthesis on ABC’s schedule. I want to ask you why I always let myself get whipped, but no one reading this would dare ask me to examine my own pathological shimmer: I only liked 2 aides out of 7 out of at least the dozen plus who waltzed in and out in nine years, one bolting after I had a bout with Chris the blind on the telephone when he lived near Harvard, “going off,” in the popular lingo, adjustment disorder spurting the vein, while Medusa is free to get a decent gut thrust on the islands. This woman, the aide, orange hair dye, pleaded, “I think you need help,” but what I did to myself only deepened the injury, like an Archimedes’ screw, slicing shaved steak, and at 1:15 eastern standard time, turbulence is a pebble, with a bad bruise on my right bicep. Had the Friday police used force, that certainly would have been a You Tube uproar video: I have never put this Quantum in manual, do not know how, neither would the patrolmen, and they would have had to drag or haul me out of the seat, subduing me into a real incident, because even if I had not struggled, my stress is obdurate as is, and I’m posting to Blogger! I can feel my bones as thin as a wing, and at the same time, I am a granite woman, obdurate, to what end? How can I be respected now, praised for doing decent work when I cannot activate 365 properly to convert Office 2007? Then again, 40k, in views, may not mean what I believe it does, and I don’t have to assert I did not know how deeply hate could go for Trudy and her colleagues, do I? It isn’t entirely pointless. The revenge I felt toward Jewish supervisor, while intense, was a mourning grievance, but not this. Not after how they keep sicking at me, after hours stealth attacks, after years and seven previous managerial follies, my criminal victimizations. Since it isn’t a joke, and not hyperbole, I cannot say it. I know despite what the woman has done she isn’t worth it. Linda, the supervisor, was a heroine, a leader worth following who broke my heart, no Freudian strings attached. This Richardson, no, she is malevolent, and I’m already in enough hot water, but I’m starting to comprehend motive as a decent woman should not—perhaps I should lie down.

April Fools

"No, with a prince."-- Catherine Devenuve, full bloom

I have been awake since about seven thirty Thursday evening, simply waiting for physiology to realign, and I am going to have to drive the Jazzy under the shower head fairly soon. It is risky, given that I have been lumbering in poor generic power chair technology with a short in its electric system for nearly three years, trying to upgrade, but it is less risky than a park near hot steam while I risk the old bathing chair, even though I should do things properly. My latest bad judgment was leaving Hahnemann for the ambulatory practice, in 14. I still have no new chair, and if I had the money, I'd skip the red tape and buy my own, but I'd be difficult about the fit, to get it right. But what are municipal progressives worried about? Not its marginalized underclass, but linking the commemoration of the Rizzo family to Charlottesville, because the city of brotherly love is a proverbial backwater, always has been, and I am wasting my data to burst out into tears. Frank and Joseph Rizzo have nothing to do with Bannon and Breitbart, and Trump's roiling rise, and Jim Kenney is old enough to know better. The Rizzos have a direct link to my family, and I don't have enough bullets through the heart. Now this. All evening, not to work, just to fight extraordinary dislocation pain, fight mild vertigo, indigestion, and take another bullet to the heart:

I cannot go on with 50 tweets but you are a local patrician; help me; not right to do to family!

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) September 8, 2017

The outcry here to our prominent local anchor is very real. I know Joe Rizzo's daughter. I stood on Broad Street for Frank's funeral procession, and my father received a commendation for rescuing the late mayor in an emergency fire, and I am going to find and buy that article. I am not going to let this legacy be cheaply besmirched without a fight, so help me God. And Jim Gardner knows this too. He knows what utter folly this is, the preening local celebrity insider who occasionally flaunts his access to the local political scene. He is a show horse, whether or not also a phony, but his living memory parallels mine, and a well placed word from him about this utter nonsense would carry weight, not that he would do it for the sake of my distress. The extreme right may not want the burden I represent, but if the left isn't careful, I may become the most unique aberration yet. I disliked Michael Nutter, but at least he was a defined scold. Kenney is the most ineffectual executive this city has had since Wilson Goode.

A declaration of war.

Tapioca

"I believe God wrapped himself up in that baby boy."-- Josie Byzek

One pitch last evening. Only one? When I reference the blank spaces in eschatology, I do no mean metaphysical definitions of the afterlife, and the metaphors we create around the notion of souls. Heaven is a postscript for serenity. Hell is a more dynamic narrative of unfinished business, degrees of intensity, passion, murder, vengeance, lust, avarice, treason. The worst sin is betrayal and what and whom we turn on, sort of like Donald Trump and Ted Cruz playing jacks with slay the bimbo. Rape, molestation of children, this is a betrayal to the species, and homosexuality, taken to the level western activists have taken it, basically is a materialist argument in evolutionary terms. Humans are like other mammals with sexual drives in need of being sated, so we divorce sexuality from its main purpose, and have industries devoted to cock rings, dildos, erotic films, smokers, rape fantasies, not that these aren't also heterosexual excesses. On one level, liberals glorify the liberating aspects of a great orgasm, and it is so closely tied to death, not only because vigorous intercourse can wind up killing people, usually males, but I imagine women too have bought it, in time honored fashion, with their shins clamped on a nice buttock, but because of the loss of control mimics physical escape; not that I'm saying a world of gender neutered eunuchs is preferable, but freedom aggrandizes bodily sensation to the point that it obscures other potentialities. No, what I mean about this void, is, what do we look upon in the face of decline? Family dynamic? I never had a good one, with the possible exception of baby half brother, love my father terribly, but our relationship is a cash register. My entire life might be summarized as doing everything to win my father, and failing. I learned and watched football to talk my father's language, and do him twice better as a Roman mafioso race baiting reactionary. He'd break my jaw if he knew what my posts convey. It is a method, many times removed, of how angry I am with him, how much I blame myself for Nicholas junior, his punk thuggery, suffering, the pain he caused so many people, his wasted AIDS skeletal frame in the coffin, cherry monoxide cheeks.
Do I believe in Jesus, like Josie Byzek? No, when push comes to shove, to give Catholicism a difficult time, if Christ actually existed, he is not what Saul, the original Christian killer, fed to Rome. Then why do I label myself a Catholic atheist, and believe the Office of the Inquisition should be restored and granted the death penalty? To which I'd be first in line? Grace is only achieved through martyrdom. I lived in hell for significant portions of these fifty plus years headed down the drain, what have I done in that time? Over invested like a pinball held aloft in a miracle game of Frenzy, giving myself first to devotion, yet always truculent with the collar. Then it was romance, never actualized, ever. I thought, a long time ago, maybe I could win a spastic New York therapist, went back to Rusk for work study, and his first words? "You got heavy, didn't you?" My parents would have been appalled at how hard I then tried to get laid, alone, sixteen, in Manhattan. I played up every virile male I could find, black, white, Italian, cop, disabled, Italian-Japanese, Hispanic-- Jesus, with the H morpheme. What do I have to show for it? 300 poems, a handful of bylines, controversy, giving everything the finger, no security, alone, afraid, with moth worn skirts, soiled clothes, survivor of medical practice that did absolutely nothing for me, in a prognosis of any sort. Had I snagged An Academic, might I have had more tranquil pleasures? I should have never allowed myself to relocate to Riverside. I perhaps should have gone back to my mother, but we would have harmed each other. She died alone. I'm gone, a boon a rang rang.

Fin, with Brisk

"You can't handle this." --Gabourey Sidibe

How little we actually have to say about eschatology at the end of the day. This always comes back to me, even as I can barely pull myself up on the dull sky blue mattress, as old as my anguish enveloping itself around me at Riverside, the beaten, rusted, Sears Roebuck mattress courtesy of my mother's judgment in buying me a metal daybed that rocked like a tin can. Grotesque little mattress, but I cannot just get another spring coil twin, or a piece of hospital bed foam whose width would collapse too low. It has to be right so that I can pivot on, then push up to pivot off, and this I can discuss, the barren aesthetics of government socialism, not that padre did any better, had I stayed in Ridley Park. He built steep wooden ramps, a plastic shower stall, had violent arguments with me over pubic hair on my washcloth, now he is nurse to his dead wife's nursing colleague, twenty times as sick as the puss gassing out of my colon, due to my respiratory issues, other secrets. I cannot keep up, but neither could an attendant; they'd walk, confronted with pudding, the stench of post-menopausal decline. Those of you who can walk might ask, if you dared, what the fuck do I want? You aren't functionally ambulatory. Everyone gets old. You got screwed, badly. You take too many things to heart.

Okay, but I never wanted this, in the sense that what limited fulfillment I might have had would have been from professional accomplishment, and now this is nearly beyond me, even if my poverty insists that I have to persevere. Fuck what Inglis House writes on its site. If I am legally forced into it than that is tantamount to the games the English aristocracy played, tossing any viable claimant to the throne in a dungeon like The Tower. The very minorities I so freely disparage have mental health breakdowns from working there, in significant numbers, and yet what can I say? Collegiate peers aren't kept. Most of my disabled peers aren't friends, and those who might have been remain faithful to the circumscribed segregated empowerment bullshit which is indeed bullshit when HUD is treated like the plague by private property owners. I can never knowingly trust another lesbian, and what Josie represents is an apostasy, unless religion is to become essentially meaningless. Maybe this is a bug, and it too shall pass, but my life was in no way lived with the compensations most whites expect. I'm destitute, with no people whom I even so much as like, or care to engage, around me, and the only way I can avoid the red death in the castle is to end it on my own terms. 

Inveterate Malice

If I was as ruthless as Peter Thiel, I'd give blogger up. I cannot restart my adsense account because I don't know how to reopen it and don't know either how to utilize Google Forums to get where I need to be, don't see many bloggers who are self funding in these particular domains, I wield my tongue like a volcanic lash, and defied terms of service guidelines to be illegal, and did not tone it down because of a law firm threat, but because I probably am not going to see sunrise at 60. Yet I'm here every day, starving, trying to keep father's resources at bay, but the way to do that is to cease talking to the Aunt. She forces the drifting family patriarch who made me his executor to assist me; it isn't right. Padre has a right to some peace. I found my way back to Beacon through the Levy's Writer's Block none of us use, going to try Beacon again, but I am far too tired to post, even as I realize, to my amazement, that I am giving the building manager the solution she seeks. Fear for my survival is not enough to keep me here in Riverside Presbyterian. There is no respect for the authority of Trudy Richardson, and I treat her in inveterate fashion, living here with so many episodic crises, I need to at least make the attempt to leave, even if social media isn't fully attuned to my subtext.

It may surprise you to learn I am civil to a few of the younger minorities, like Amneshia, a collegiate age guard. She said to me "I would do it (give your notice)," as I've been unhappy a very long time; from what she knows of my story, even she feels corporate should give me the damn transfer. My readers who have read enough to know the gist could telephone Spring Mills and say give the poor spastic what she needs. What is a telephone call?

610-834-1001

I go over Richardson's head now, taunting the dezins of the domestic in Montgomery County, my rancor very much equal opportunity. I hissed into a Vice-President's voicemail fearlessly, threatening institutional duress. For one of such slender means I really buy into my role as the mafia don with cojones on the cunt. I just wrote cunt and made myself an imagined hermaphrodite, which is why Google corporate washes its hands, in part.

I am really angry at Petter Thiel, for the thing itself, but also have much thinking to do. Have a good morning. I have to pack in a bit early.

Nanny Goat

"Don't come out. It's too hot."-- Nicholas Marinelli

Despite the storm, and the fact that I knew I was off when I launched from toilet back to cushion Saturday, an attendant would not have solved the problem that I lost my balance after 10 pm. I did not actually fall, just squished, an actual Kafka vermin, and I deposited large, shall we say. Cerebral palsy is like that; wheelchair sitting augments the problem, and when my stool is hefty I get winded and knew I should have waited and repositioned; nevertheless, the episode is a harbinger that my lateral transfers are weakening. Evicting myself from Niggerland and nigger bitches and beetle boys shall not restore my strength, but I warned mio padre of my scheme and he said okay without realizing I'm rolling out of Riverside for good. Depositing that stool in a diaper would have amounted to a health hazard, and I may not have a solution, but I'm going home, divided as to whether I should put myself in rehab for a few days, not optimistic about that, and transfer boards never worked for me.

I know this is going to cost me, and I may lose my phone and even most of my possessions, unless I threaten the corporate office, but I'm leaving, even at the price of falling silent, maybe not forever-- or it could be that I have reached an end point, so if the authorities have coerced ATT into monitoring me they aren't going to find the radicalization they look for in the traditional sense. (I don't know, all I intimated to my favorite independent living center was one day they will face an Omar Mateen if they keep prevaricating as they do with quadriplegics, but it isn't just us, they hire and boot the blind and epileptics with equally perspicacious dispensing of employees who need unreasonable accommodating). I'm still evil, still angry enough to go to prison, but age trumps even the vicious, and I need to get this done before the man dies, while I wrestle the moral dilemma of bed ridden dependency. I cannot do it. I just can't. I know what I face, even if it's an open question how long I survive it. I want to go home, and my father is where that resides in my heart. I talked to him about a steel temp building of some sort. He is going to kill me, and I'm stressed beyond what I need, but there we have it.

What's in a Resource?

"Do you know what you're hoping for?"-- Diana Ross, crossing over

While I am waiting for the overdose of my aging Nsaids to kick in so I can try to lie down without duly landing on the carpet, which I'm vacating shortly, let me post a little more about Liberty. All I ever did there, before I went to Irv's deceased research institute, was take a nursing home resident in a body brace to a luncheon I was directed to organize. That is about it. The woman died shortly thereafter, and the rest of the time, I visited nursing home residents, or subjected minority public housing cripples to the same level of objectification Liberty's coordinators inflicted on me between 99 and 08, aside from the charming psychic warfare going on between Linda and I. The center is always writing grants, empowerment projects, but their staff has little to no enforcement power. At its essence, independent living centers are rehabilitation and mobility medicine at cut rate prices, micro managed by either optimistic or cynical lieutenants like myself. My former peer counselor, Laverne King, was terminated for being a power wheelchair user placed in exactly the same predicament Linda tried to place me: She lied about an onsite visit to a consumer who's residence was inaccessible. She should not have lied, but I am now uncertain about Bob Michael's rather swift termination of her livelihood. The more sentient Erik von Schmettering, the once upon a time dubious ally from whom I sought relief, in much the same way as Celine screamed for relief in his work, would say the CIL I knew in 89 has *changed,* but that isn't really the truth. They just encroached upon state vocational services. Aside from what happened to me, why am I so angry then, why am I still so emotionally vested in the institutional cruelty the paradigm represents? I've already discussed their utter lack of accountability. Indeed, even in my recent conflict with Erik's squat and pudgy attendant, Erik whimpered "Chris didn't do anything to you," even though Chris was doing something, objectifying me down to tits and puss. 

I'm angry because I know they need to be stopped, before they actually do drive a quadriplegic with my potential to suicide. In my story with the center, lies the reflection of hundreds of failures, cripples burned across the country, with morally superior case managers hiding behind the shields of their processes. I am not the only victim, though allowing my over-identification with psychopathology supervisor has its own unique signature. If either Linda, the CSPPPD aunt, or the community advocate, had truly respected me, they would not have played mind games with me. Both of them. They could have spared me a conference, asked me where I wanted to go after I washed out under Richard Baron. I know the eggs in one basket approach leads to ooze and broken cartons, but it isn't as if a 37 year old who was under a misapprehension about teaching could suddenly wait tables, or go into ballet, and as I've written before, the Painted Bride theatrical performer and I didn't mesh. I satirize art therapy with as much irony as AS Byatt, who does do things differently.

None of you want the burden we represent once we lose the shelter of family, in my case, never that healthy to begin with, and yet, we're supposed to grin, bear it, in a happy bauble of subsistence. I truly say, echoing my brutal poppa's drunken reflections on the tragedy of his children, that you should let us die in selective reduction, or at birth. Far less cruel, more merciful than life by statutory regulation, all but meaningless.  I never wanted to live like this. I wanted the same freedom I think you have, on the other side of the glass. I still didn't stay down Saturday evening, true, but what moved the needle was knowledge. It would have been an excessive way to expire.

Missa debet restituere ecclesiae

I have been out of sorts, I know, and make poverty tenant living worse than it is, most of the time. It isn't simply that I hate Riverside to the point of risking imprisonment, however. Poverty housing in Philadelphia is mostly the same, a cesspool, like its public school system, and Riverside is just that, a cesspool of petty vendettas and doilies, better than most of any other units I've experienced, but that is partly the point. Even if I let another municipal matron like Nakea dictate the terms of my existence, and look how gracious she appears in her portrait as the preening nigress, it becomes more of the same. It is not fair that my life ended in a major trauma at 37, only for the next 16 years to be browbeat because I've sustained systemic abuse and prefer eviction. Last year, I barely and mean barely, evaded eviction by Presby, and only haven't given notice because I don't know if I can find some sort of shelter I can handle, and I've had COPD attacks, now my molar nerves are throbbing. WTF would I go? The local libertarians can't help me, etcetera, and yet, I'm sick with rage; it will break me, eventually, and padre is now moving into his second childhood, subtly. He isn't Murdoch.

One thing is certain, however, those old B stock Roman empire films transmitted by local Delaware independent stations, are a riot. I do not really watch them, unless I suspect a modicum of historical truth, but what they lack in quality the certainly make up for in wardrobe. Perhaps I was crucified under Marcus Aurelius, or poisoned by the Medici, despite their flowering Renaissance. Even getting my shit together will never be enough. I've truly been broken, and I'm all to blame.

Who, me?

I of course post better when I dig up my web sites and take my time in Word, which I still hate but cannot afford the upgrade to Corel, but my aunt just yelled at me that I'm spoiled and I'm going to wind up in the street for upbraiding federal housing contracts with hypocritical corporations which shield both of my building owners, Diamond Park and Riverside. So I wind up in the street, fully cognizant of the fact that social media will not rush to my rescue. I get that, and also get that the street just leaves me for what I am, vulnerable carrion that EMS will scrape up off the surface of something somewhere, eventually, and I get it too that my father has lost everything after nearly sixty decades of busting his hump.

He was a good provider and doesn't deserve the tragedy of his life, anymore than I do mine for being an obstinate fool, but for however long my access to a platform lasts, I am a victim of black corruption, shielded by housing authority statutory requirements. Some weeks ago, my physiology under strain, I roared at Trudy on my cell that I wanted to know what her employer was going to do to mitigate my trauma, and rushed the office, and got a dose of black team tag:

"There is no Diamond Park." What exactly do these women take me for?

They later dropped the gag, but just because hip hoppers are now policing my tweets, this doesn't mean I do not have legitimate grievances with a rental agent which operates withing a classification which by design creates an expendable class (section 202 age requirements) under which I've lived my entire adult life. In 07, whether to strike back at ADAPT activists or not, PHA allowed those rental agents under 202 subsidy to stop accepting ADA tenants. Glorious. If I still had my salary I'd have shaken my booty and gave Ms. Horne the finger on my way out the door. But as a pauper skimming the surface on just over 7k a year, my placement options are even more restricted. I talked to the receptionist at Toomey's Philadelphia office politely this afternoon; his campaign headquarters is elsewhere.

Liberals would say I'm screwing myself by aligning my anger with the Senator's reactionary boundary lines. I doubt it, because liberalism, hiding under piss poor interfaith excuses, seemingly cannot accept accountability. I am a victim of three inappropriate sexual incidents, if you would like to call it that, one toxic environment out of a disability center, an aggravated assault, institutional abuse, and then state assessing agents, twice after a previous manager banned me from the dining service. In exactly what sense is the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania operating to serve my best interests as a disabled woman over 50?

I have four options, as I see it, 

1. Stay here in the merry land of African American minstrels and be grateful for a paraprofessional bed bath as an eventuality while I lie to myself about re-matriculation;

2. Hasten my demise in a shelter

3. Go insane at Inglis House

4. Enact my suicide plan

Fifth option suggestions people? Find an Ariel Castro I can live with, perhaps?

Esoteric Degeneration

"All of us at one time or another had our lives fall apart."-- Dina Strada

And for spastic to argue tenaciously with the pressures of women issues, not all of us spend our lives under institutional regimentation only to realize there is no way out from under its thumb, not even in that blanketing things left unsaid in our untrammeled collegiate system. We all get sick from time to time, and if we don't die from esoteric degeneration (how is this link for indecipherable jargon?) then either our hearts give way to plaque or our organs consume themselves with cancer, but in what sense of the word do our choices represent our freedom?

Let's take the conventional Robert Frost motif on roads not taken: Joanne heeds Professor Jerry and stays home in Ridley Park. Speculation about graduate work aside, she winds up as a part time librarian or special ed instructor, never sets eyes on the former Linda C Richman, notoriously toxic executive, and the grandson of the nearly retarded monosyllabic Mrs Phillips assaults someone else. Okay, my blood brother still wastes away like a blasted ear of corn, my mother still drops dead, perhaps in front of me, my father still loses everything because the IRS sees him through the lens of a mafia version of Enron (yes, another unclear allusion but it involves taxes and I have no fucking idea why federal agents set off on my father like a wolf pack), so he still winds up back in the hood when we were once almost near a Harvard family level of affluence, and maybe I just snuff out like vanilla, forced into Inglis House without having ever been privy to its horrific impact.

I would have never gone screaming in prose to a mutedly gay lawyer about my toxic panic vis a vis Linda's reign at an ineffectual intake center coupled with an abusive attendant care paradigm, and neither he nor any other elected official can do a fucking thing for me while I sit here evaluating how my 53 year old intestines and increasingly pronounced hearing loss and loss of muscle mass will allow me to navigate back into substantial gainful activity. Uh huh.

Brian, the man, is having a town hall meeting tonight, as he's so carefully drummed into me with two emails and a robo call beneath the bubble of punishment I'm taking in this Jazzy Quantum. I don't go then I don't go. The budget allocation under state Republican austerity doesn't affect me directly either way; the Philadelphia public school system is a cesspool regardless of who does what with it, and Harney County's answer to what remains of American individualism reads more like a travesty of Pilgrim's Progress than a spirited hoorah for the independent underdog. If I do go, even though I'm not unionized and PNI will ignore me as readily as any other established outlet, then maybe I get a story, red meat in pansy land, something.

One of the residents of Riverside with terminal cancer, a bigot named Dominic, disparaged me in a brief give and take: "You bring people down." That maybe true, from the viewpoint of an animal caged in captivity, age 5 and onward.

TNR, First Peel

"Although I did not share my father's aversion to ugliness--which often led us to associate with stupid people--I did feel vaguely uncomfortable in the presence of anyone completely devoid of physical charm. Their resignation to the fact that they were unattractive seemed to me somehow indecent." --Francoise Sagan, Bonjour Tristesse, p.8

Scorpion King 3, for a schlock multicultural saga, one which minimizes Eurocentricism to brute force which plods its way though Eastern mysticism, isn't bad for light-hearted distraction, though spastic lost track of the climatic battle with Talus (damn it to hell) because she was busy pruning twitter accounts-- something we'll return to momentarily-- and I wanted to raise an incident from the opening, when Ramusan utilizes elephants to defend his city.

Spastic has mixed feelings about elephants. Padre once rode one at the zoo with Nicky or Stephanie with his legs splayed across the beast, and my mother and I had a pissable laugh moment, even remembering it brings an immediate chuckle-- but when I say mixed feelings, I mean I mourn an ancient, highly intelligent, if inconvenient, herd animal which is apparently doomed, but also, rather powerful, threatening, and a target to be killed and handled with respect, simultaneously. The army of Talus, having breached the wall, spears one of Ramusan's beasts, with an implication of mortal wound, and it upset me, in a militant PETA guerrilla type of provocation, even though I knew it was a movie, and the elephants probably understood they were playing a game at the behest of the huge monkeys who took care of them.

I was trained to study this in film, our sentimentality at our own destructive capacity with other species. There is no hard and fast either or here. Apex predators evolved for a reason, but human conscience and bio-empathy, to use an E.O. Wilson phrase, is one of inherent contradiction between our need to prove time and again our mastery over environment, and our desire to see the majority of mammals as our children, despite consuming them to our taste or eradicating habitat. Environmentalists will invariably lose this battle, and I do not write it lightly. Were it up to me I'd be a male lion breaking the backs of hyenas for sport, in an unadulterated display of power, but since humans are paramount, I'd imagine within a hundred years of my death Africa will have lost its magnificent big game, unless we brutally curtail our own population. That is an exceedingly difficult task, even if we grant our own psychopaths unfettered license.

As to social media, I do not mean to be deliberately hurtful here, but I am increasingly paranoid about mothers with children, and blocked one of my long-standing followers accordingly due to it. I beat my own path, and while mothers are ferocious forces in their own right, I am writing for mature, hopefully literate audiences. High schoolers read at their own risk, and I write this with full realization that I'm rarely "hard core," but I do, euphemistically, tap the brass ring now and then. If I cave in and give myself an FB account, then I may indeed go haywire managing it all, being detritus needs clearing now and again. Mathayus could give Goodell a few pointers about putting two teams in contest that are equally matched in battle. The third and fourth quarters were deplorable. What else is new?

Flora, Fauna, Cashew butter

"But we like suffering."-- Sebastiano Somma

The Woods, being an 06 release, doesn't lack for atmosphere, but as an allegory for the destruction of Camelot, I am still trying to put the thread through the needle. In this instance, the plot summaries do not fill in the gap. Absentee fathers who make promises they cannot keep, those are long realized, but the wardrobe, the hairstyles are too Kennedyesque not to suggest the worst of the ecosystem against the urbane liberalism built on the corruption of bootlegging during Prohibition. Beyond the implication, however, the feminine anguish loses me. Patricia Clarkson is getting on my nerves, and even when it goes to syndication, I'm skipping Learning to Drive on purpose. 

Clarkson has a range similar to Jane Alexander, pensive Protestant females with good breeding who encompass the disjunctive as best they can within the fine tuned chiseled features: thin lips, kept figure, a nurturing conduit of more mothering than sensual definition. I have had the runs for three days, incommoded with sickly sweet stench, washing the mattress of my damnation, today it is the power chair cushion, and this is happening because I've ceased transferring to my shower stool, in order not to corrode the Jazzy engines, since I shall have to make due with this model at least another year.

I do not mind that I'm sloppy, but losing to a filthy downgrade is another matter, and attendants are not going to tolerate this level of battle fatigue. I give up, resign my fate, go insane in an institution. Commiseration will not alter this reality.

I did construct a plan. I finally settled on one, and hope it will not cause an extreme internal struggle, not that I'm ready for it, fortuitous or otherwise, I cannot seem to go down, not quietly. Is this necessarily beneficial? Time to clean the soil, once again.