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.

First of Winter

For the time being, I shut off the daily digest from the genesis of Ev Williams efficiency models, and I am considering suspending myself from social media, even to the extent I utilize it, for a time. Contrary to twitter's aggregating argument, that more followers offer solutions, even online, I do not thrive in a mass, and blocked CrimeMonitor for doing what hundreds of you have done since 09, linking to my account as a hook, then walking a way. This time it provoked me, at least as it pertains to the aftermath. CrimeMonitor gets its leverage off of the creation of victims, of which I am a cyclical one, and yet isn't interested in its reverberation, or wants to see smiles decorating the scarred tissues. I may have grown old online, but I'm of a generation which understood what loyalty to a periodical meant. On Medium, the very notion of a contributing identity means nothing, whether it is drugs, mental illness, abuse, software developing optimism, its impact on journalism, its impact on policy. This doesn't mean I won't continue to approach those who create a publication masthead, or that I won't rewrite what I submitted to ModernJourno and others about Serge Kovaleski and hypocrisy, revising past myself until I get it right, but I am still of a boomer age, when a byline in The Atlantic Monthly was a boon. A bunch of engineers in San Francisco cannot write me an application to undue the damages at the hands of a corporation which I've allowed to dictate the terms of my existence for 30 years, only to wake up to it enraged when it was rather late in the day, or write software to undo the damage from years of consumer model apologies for not being proficient at the duties outlined in the position for which you were hired. 

When I approached the humanity preservation through Linked In, I was essentially trying to restore myself to the Matrix Research model that, at one time, kept me gainfully employed, but this time as a volunteer, and maybe Courtney Cox did me a favor reminding me I have a significant level of class resentment against a coordinator with less than half my qualifications, who could be my grandchild, shooting me down without even giving me an interview, when the white abuse survivor, Rhett, considered me a promising candidate.

This is why I let myself be a caustic troll, why I say nigger with a reactionary lash. It is bad enough having the brain damage and body I do, hitting the walls of ageism and black entitlement on top of that. Courtney Cox hurt me, and even allowing for her youth, it burns. I wasn't rude to her, or Rhett, but it is perfectly fine for blacks to bitch slap it up, and odious when Caucasian bile builds up as a backlash, to be conveniently targeted by hypocrisy with everyone saying "don't talk like that," even if its an obvious, observable state, with the "like that" right in front of you: Courtney hurt me by questioning my judgment, and at my age, it sticks..

Even if my extended family sent me birthday gifts ahead of Saturday, I'm in serious trouble, and may need emergency food, and yes, I'm entirely to blame.

Conquest of the Planet of the Apes

I've been online much longer than I intended today, wondering how much I should lie to get back in somewhere. Rick, as my former executive director, would have no reason to be sympathetic. I caused Mr. Baron some problems with Pew, basically over peanuts, and then Fern Markowitz, the patron saint of progressive Jewish lesbianism, and Linda C. Dezenski, her emulator, taught me a thing or two about homosexuality, corruption, and using federal mandates as a personal chop shop back at Liberty.

Payback's a bitch. Where am I going to get fresh references? Dan was polite to me when I found his profile on Linked In, but Matrix is no more, and whether I raised valid objections with their grantors or not, it was ungracious... Sigh.

I hate liberalism, hate it. Even if I pull on New Mobility, the publication of my favorite pretentious lesbian gimp, it has been years since Tim Gilmer and I exchanged emails. It matters to my sense of personal integrity, but there isn't much I can do about it on a pragmatic level.

Medium is eye fetching and uneven, and, however uncouth my devolving bar keep diction, I have been careful not to get into tweet battles with X, careful not to argue with Medium's writers-- not that this is a conscious effort. I've been there with online recriminations and Medium is too vast. If I wish to keep quiet, then I do-- but the fact that I communicated with them directly yesterday made me think, and think with alarm that perhaps I am past the point of adaptation? This frightens me, especially if I survive another 20 years.

The voice of old aunts

Everything is my fault. Marie's brittle contralto in my head, my frustration glancing her brittle skeleton, for lack of any other supports, including Karina's disappearance, the younger urban variation on my Ridley Park neighbors. What I had hoped, despite my intuitive sense of her capriciousness, and my displeasure with her inability to check with me first, was that she'd help me get out, despite the fact that I dismissed her. And our last conversation was about her schedule overwhelming her, my silent impactiom symptoms overwhelming me, and our haphazard rapprochement then snapped, with whatever trek she was doing, and then Frank, who cannot help me. I do not consider my follower Ed a friend, although he might have been had I been part of a couple; still, I want nothing more than to bring my sojourn with Presbyterian Homes to an end, and let the underclass finish me off, if I'm weak enough to be finished off, as opposed to setting off a chain of events, like Peter Gallagher in the Underneath.

He isn't afraid to take chances with a crippling ineptitude with that distinctive face, Gallagher, with the breadth of those eyebrows and mouth, everyone caught in the lattice of betrayal his emotionally warped character initiates, in a switch and bait plot. An old geezer from Sidney Hill, a building worse than this, asked me the salient question, "What about a job/"

Not unreasonable. If I want a fresh environment, go through another 40 interviews-- but I'm not the woman Daniel Raudenbush hired away from Liberty Resources; I'd have to scramble for references, and another failure, if I was accepted somewhere, would cause me more grief with Social Security, my bouncing on and off their rolls like a wildly oscillating EKG with a long flatline. I'm stuck in a bad place, and only have worse, and this isn't what I want; I've done nothing to deserve to be here, nothing, except to believe I could handle the ferrous iron rust of American indigence. If I give up, Google won't have anything to worry about in the jagged edges of dowager's voice. People in nursing homes don't get blog accounts.

And this is why I'm not an industry critic

"Some lines should never be crossed."-- Jason Lee

I did not recognize Jason Lee in Chasing Amy. I did not follow My Name is Earl all that closely, and for absolutely no reason but cheap thrills I'd assault Ben Affleck and then have the preoccupation of being investigated-- not that Affleck is a priority for the FBI, but of course I'm being specious, posting in coded language because angry people online get stupid and wind up at the Supreme Court, and even if I tried to engage in criminal activity, my lungs have turned scarlet with carbon monoxide, and that is mostly my fault, but not entirely. I have things to do and I'm sick and if I cave in to being ill, why don't I just resign myself and let the system triumph? How can I possibly gain any form of vindication at this point?

And what the fuck is Thomas Vinterberg trying to say? Donald Levit marshals insights very ably, much better than I ever could in a kaleidoscope of dystopian gloom, but a movie cannot trope in obfuscation like a villanelle, or a bad imitation of Shyamalan, and expect to get away with it leaving the viewer with such a bizarre punch card whose intent cannot be interpreted, Africans dangled like trophies. And I've been accused of literary pretension. Parts of It's All About Love are indeed interesting, resting on forceful, stark dialogue between Joaquin Phoenix and his ex-wife's goon squad, toying with the ever insidious threat to personal identity, playing with the baroque, but this movie makes the Scandinavian procedural seem as inviting as the impact of Hill Street Blues crime series realism.

Now that how poorly I feel has receded into the background, all I have to do is debate writing or lying down, moving my goals ahead a few days--I will not die in peace, that is a fiction-- but with what little I have left, I am desperate to move on. I understand dying aunt's argument that Riverside is the evil I know, and given my poverty I can't expect better, but my family can't understand how untenable this is given what I have been subjected to, and that I cannot keep bowing under and taking it. Trudy Richardson uses what tools she has to threaten and intimidate me, and since she has no legal means to make me some other institutional problem, she yells back "Then give your notice!" as if I could pack and cart blanch relocate myself, imposing on dead and past writer friends who couldn't handle giving me the adaptations I need, while my other aunt wants to make it worse, move me in with Alzheimer patients. Yes, some of you are working three jobs, crushed by student loan debt yourself, but I resigned from the Matrix Institute in 96, and have survived this in a series of diminishing returns, in exactly the same shit hole, for 18 years.

I'd love to fight for a real job again, but who is going to accommodate an overweight ex smoker whose bowel was a misadventure even when she case managed the mentally ill who were so dosed with psychotropics that my employment was nothing more than an excuse to keep me off welfare, the fieldwork over stressing me through no fault of the psychological overlords whose efficiency model would have gotten them wiped out at Google's command center?

Pugilist Transformations

"In the ensuing war, particles of divine light-substance are imprisoned in the darkness."-- John Kevin Coyle, Manichaeism and Its Legacy

Examiner.com put out one of its mass memos last week about Google News crackdown on thinness of content, which points to the problem of hyper-linking. I consider myself an ethical writer regardless of my proclivity toward lack of reticence, but even my head is spinning at this point about original sources, and I have no direct contact with Examiner's editing staff, this in order to learn what they would like me to change.

Boxing is yet another metaphor for the industry's delight with its cannibalistic dark side, which is why we have so many films about the sport and liberal outrage about who, and what, it spits out. Raging Bull takes a slightly different timbre on this, as it is more about the awe and artistry in Marciano's fury, darker than Stallone and his perpetual hound dog lovable pull the girl in. Di Niro's variation on Marciano forces us to pose questions about rage, self-destruction, homicidal intent, without benefit of easy answers. Scorsese has his elevations, and the hard schematics from Humphrey Bogart's final years on which to draw, or Anthony Quinn's pustule diction in Requiem. The Harder They Fall (1956) picks its bones in a few easy places, and is an early indictment of sports media collusion with graft, but the real issue is Bogart's character, trying to square his conscience 30 odd years before Spike Lee hopscotched out of Brooklyn with a chip on his shoulder. There are subtexts within subtexts, as Bogart, I think, is also saying something about his status in the industry, the syndrome he and Lauren  virtually manufactured with single-handed charisma, and who really holds the reigns of capital in the studio system.

Yesterday I mentioned the senior advocate over me after John spiraled at my former place of employ, and, if I were still talking to Dan, my issue wasn't, and still isn't, matriculating the black welfare class upward. My issue was that I took a job where a black girl from the hood had supervisory authority over me to the point that we all reached a limit. I'm not Hillary Clinton, but I had graduate credits which I had hoped to complete when I was at Matrix, and had to toddle about like a goose in leg irons with a senile queer and a black girl who had no desire to matriculate herself further; I did-- hence my hydrochloric acid toward attempting to trust Philadelphia ADAPT later. My civil liberties have been violated repeatedly; my trust betrayed, repeatedly. Acceptance is one thing, but outrage isn't born in a vacuum.

A small Tuscan town

"That's a trochee in the second beat."-- Anna Deavere Smith

The furthermost I went on Tuesday to producing for Examiner was a shell shocked surfing of beat bylines on reliable Liberty City. I need a break from aggregating, despite Examiner's automated protests, and despite what I've posted in the past about how I desire to finish out my final productive years as an investigative journalist. Perhaps I have caused too much offense in some of my posts, but I have become a racist, however mortified, in enacting my university transfer as a mere form of protest, but deciding to be a good progressive while I was at it. Ten years of forced co-habitation with minority paraprofessionals, over 26 years of inner city housing, and I'm now a somewhat appreciative admirer of Abu Bakr al Bagdadi.

The community integration model has traumatized me into a superlative reactionary, and I do not know if this is what my undergraduate instructor saw in me when he advised me "not to do it." Americans of a certain socio-economic status put a premium on gnostic self love that is in continuous conflict with the worth of any individual human life, like that of Miss Eddie, the expendable bi-racial sloth who triggered within me a brief exercise toward self-immolation until I halted the attempt and wept. I could not reach the supervisor of the agency who sent her and nearly terrorized the woman out of my unit the following day. She had a real expression of fear in her face, and the following day after that I would not let her in. Trudy Richardson was hired some months after this, sent her equality charming minority assessment team up to my door. "I have a job to do now; people I have to answer to." I wonder how she would have felt had my father molested her and I surrounded her with klan members because she was reacting to trauma triggered by slovenly indiscretion.

The larger issue for me isn't Eddie's lack of restraint. The larger issue is the social exploitation of vulnerable people which virtually turns attendant care into a prostitution ring, buried in my 2004 back issue. There are things which need to be said which we never do. The community integration model breaks down when the recipient needs virtual constant care. That is better served in a centralized location.

I came as close as I could on Tuesday to giving Daniel Raudenbush an apology for my resignation and disillusionment with the work incentive project for which he hired me, but the fact remains, that, had John Spots spiraled into his suicidal crisis a month earlier, leaving the good psychologist to interview me with Harriet Fowler, I would have declined the position, and stayed at Liberty Resources until the center would have turned on me in a more timely fashion.

Weights of Buenos Aires

All you will see is a girl you once knew/Although she's dressed up to the nines, at sixes and sevens with you.-- Andrew Lloyd Webber's occult on history.

Juan Peron's rise and decline is not mentioned in Assassination Tango, yet I can't help but wonder if due to Coppola's influence in the production, we have an attempted unspoken allegory on the dynamic energy and tragedy of 20th century South America. Ebert's appreciation of Duvall's vehicle (a swan song?) echoes my own attraction to the aesthetic of the film. 

Professional critics voice discontent by claiming this is an indulgence for Duvall's ego? Name me a film with an A list celebrity which is not an indulgence for its star? It was not shot at an action thriller's pace, and I'm glad it was not. The hitman Duvall plays was run of the mill? Fuck that. Anderson is an old man who has his heart wrapped up in his little girl. He wants to retire. His capo, who I think was Frankie, talks him in to this foreign target.

The scenes Duvall plays with his wife are dynamic with an undercurrent. Warning: hard and dangerous sex ahead. They are also evocative of the glamour which Juan and Evita utilized to create a smokescreen around their dictatorship. There is also another dynamic, a paranoia of conspiracies which wrap around themselves, the ambiguity over who knows what, whether Frankie was trying to kill Anderson off, who might have wanted the general eliminated or panicked and changed their minds, whose strings the federal police were pulling, or who was pulling theirs. Does it truly say anything about the reign of the generals after Isabel Peron made a bid to reclaim power when I was an adolescent?

She was news then, just like a dowager empress. Should she be held accountable? Or are we supposed to be distracted by the absurdity of Pedraza filming Fellini like commercials? Does it spice up conjugal activity if you cast your wife as the threatening and subversive female against your pretend middle brow nuclear family unit? Are we being offered suggestions about despotism?

If social networking is just a complex communicating tool, why is it so much more disconcerting when we connect with those out of our past? I thought my immediate boss from Matrix would want nothing to do with me. I left Matrix in an emotional state, and critiqued, publicly, how my directors handled their project, not that they treated me badly, or discussed their erections. Dan wasn't a bad guy, as I've written. He solidified my cynicism (or skepticism) about the effectiveness of clinical psychology, but always played the decent man, perhaps due to the fact that he is a decent man. I'm tempted to IM him with an impertinence because though I've suspected Irv Rutman has been dead for a number of years, I have not found an obituary. Even if I had the gall to query that, in the sense of why it matters, or to ask for a reference so old, what good would it do me? Nevertheless, I reached out, reclaimed him. Odd, I suppose, less obtrusive than the telephone.

Eagle Scavengers

"If you could drive you could get a better job."-- Daniel Raudenbush, a director who hit the nail on the head

I could have written a piece similar to that of James Mulvaney. Obviously I did not, and I do not resent his byline; I resent the fact that I cannot marshal my facts fast enough to mediate between timeliness and an interesting perspective. Mulvaney is persuasive, but a devil's advocate like me, who would have also referenced Aaron Alexis, might have weighed the alternative of law enforcement caution. If Miriam had crashed the barrier with her Infiniti, killing herself and her child, the issue driving the debate would have been of a different caliber. Even if James makes new allies in the ever specialized behavior modification field, we cannot be expected to master and isolate every contingency.

If you are asking if I am reversing my sentiments which echo that of the body politic, of course not. Even as a reactionary I feel that Miriam's death was a disgrace. She was not an enemy, only expended collateral for the sake of protecting sculpture and property, collectively important landmarks, yes, but it points to my philosophical intransigence with public housing. As a tenant, I am expendable, treated as such.

Where I would also diverge from Mulvaney is on the emblematic nature of Carey's pursuit and death. Post-modernists, perhaps Henry James, would utilize a crack in an aesthetically pleasing object, and this is a well worn and time honored literary conceit. I view it somewhat differently: that our competence isn't keeping pace with our paradigms, and that homo sapiens fears species inadequacy as much as it does planetary annihilation, thematically enlarged as a motif beyond expert specialization. We should apply ourselves to the issue. Perhaps there is a Carey back story in my future, but not in the immediate aftermath; it is unfortunate, an epistemological generation to which I could contribute.