Flushed Cries of Distress

 I am not Howard Stern." --Charlie Rose, in a post operative interview with Terry Gross, a preemptive strike indicating how much we all owe Howard Stern 

As my follower Jason Dorwart is aware, sexual pride is important in the progressive disabled community. I’ve written about it in somewhat explicit fashion in earlier years, nor am I the only formerly indoctrinated and embittered outcast to be censored in search and have page views suppressed because of it. Far more confident paraplegic females have had instructional videos removed from You Tube by Google over the issue, and in extending an olive branch to ableism, the dowager was sympathetic. Reading the narratives of shared experience takes us only so far, and whereas sexual activity may leave certain women ambivalent, others may be happy in pushing boundaries. Harassment and hostile environment is the flip side of this coin, and having been through these trials, my viewers may think I’d find the scoop by Irin Carmon and Amy Brittain commendable. Eight testimonials illustrate a pattern of conduct similar to those which besieged Cosby into an opaque court case, and Rose, like other lesser PBS titans, stayed at the top of his game far past Medicare eligibility. He was bound to be forced into retirement at some point, given that his facial features in a live interview setting occasionally cast a ghoulish aspect to his profile.

What is seemingly intractable, however, is the incongruity of his cultural and political excellence juxtaposed against behavior we more readily expect to emanate out of the Playboy mansion. From my point of view, it is less about power, in Rebecca Traister’s micro-post, and more about a legacy of excellence tarnished less by the heinous aspects and more by the hideousness foisted on all of us by entropy. Look at everything he has done to explore issues with his audience, his lengthy segments taking psychiatric medical model treats seriously, even with enthusiasm by his guests. Rose is a robust believer in cooperative treatment in a way the spastic dowager is not, dissecting the clinical aspects of his heart disease with more than one eminent cardiologist, in an envious lust to hang on to the quality of his life. He channeled the outrage felt by the public over the Iraq war to joust with Donald Rumsfeld over the destruction of a regime and a society which later devolved under Obama into a puppet state. Judy Woodruff commended him on his scoop with Assad when the Syrian theatre was hot. There are too many probative conversations to list which amount to a daunting legacy. If it seems I am coming perilously close to advocating a grin and bear it approach, which is what my humiliation has amounted to since 1999-- no, not quite. I'm merely suggesting, much as with Roman Polanski, that being the best at something shouldn't be entirely forgotten, and though there is a rush to being a journalist on deadline which extended my lifeline to September 2017, I'm increasingly unhappy with The Washington Post anointing itself as the moral arbiter of feminine esteem. Would I have broken this story, unleashing the #MeToo fury in the public square? What I can say is this: I would have waited to give Rose the benefit of the doubt. We should rehabilitate and honor that ego, whether or not he considers his cardiac issues debilitating, or merely chronic.

Digressing Clinical Aspects

I just wanted to have a dinner party.-- Meryl Streep keeping abreast of ebullient eschatology

Concentrated dramatic creativity can be detrimental; to iterate it once again, the screen adaptation of Cunningham's derivative novel, The Hours, ripped a hole in my chest, and I had to restrain myself from screaming in email. At Cunningham's publisher, or the author, in much the same way I danced on the griddle of hard copy fan mail for Jayne Anne Phillips, before I concluded, in my maturity, that she wasn't a movement author for me, so much as a secondary iconic figure to cling to Jerry McGuire, which in its own way, is me being rather merciless. Was Phillips sexually attractive in her Poets & Writers heyday? Sure, I am not entirely immune to MacLaine's discovery in The Children's Hour, but neither does it mean I have kd lang's sexual fantasies. I do not gurgle over the breast nipple of which I was deprived. It has never gotten me off. I'm simply so masochistic, and in so much pain, that feminine sensuality opens vulnerability-- but I can never read Cunningham, and have to stay away from the film. It is too intense, however much I am the same.

I am not in particularly good shape. "So? What do you want us to say, go get joy juice." Doing a nice piece on twitter's problems, however, still makes me inexplicably lively, as I believe social media's herd mentality is not always beneficent. I am not here to get hyped, or win popularity contests. I am not Wallace either, but I perceive the price he paid for his laser lens elocution, and I am such a lesser, spastic figure.

The knot of Gambia in the Asphyxiation of David Foster Wallace

Scipio also evidently had a Wal Mart. It was Amber Moltke who suggested that they leave the artist to watch his Sunday Reds game in peace the way he liked to. [sic] The Suffering Channel, loc 4199

Purely in terms of linguistic intricacy, the bones of Wallace rank second to David Mitchell. Mitchell exists in his own universe, and the two writers are different, with the exception that neither can be read without full focus, both take an extraordinary labor, and backing down, going boob tube for some drift, has merit after a load on. The problem with Wallace is that his satirical agony is but a hair's breadth off the entirely unbearable, and though Infinite Jest was purchased, and just glimpsed at, intends to be read, to be able to do what this man did has an excess of heart, too much. Normal humans, his father, wife, those kind of people, the ones who feel Presbyterian Homes cannot put quadriplegics in straight jackets fast enough, blame his illness-- not simply for his death, but the manner of man he was, way he lived. The dowager is less categorical about the science. She can hear Krauthammer regrowing his spinal cord in protest, and in no way denies that depression has parameters, but, David Foster Wallace was, in his own right, a genius, and hung himself nine months in to Obama's revolt as a movement candidate toward the presidency, which ends today. Wallace knew psychiatry could continue to treat him, however variable therapeutic treatment is, and we can assume he loved his intelligence and his ability, and his wife and family. He certainly did not have to face what those with my chronic developmental damage have to face. He and I were contemporaries, only his suicide sparked a furious determination to reconstruct who, what he was, for which Literature Network, reluctantly, may be given credit. I've written about this before, perhaps more unevenly, hammering away. Quite honestly, my anger remains, remains because he understood sensory, physical, deprivation, was a midwestern progressive darling if ever one existed, and fine tunes the tradition, ignited by Joyce, made a ballad by Pynchon, thrown in our faces with raunchy glee by Miller, and nuanced with particular sophistication in "The Suffering Channel," for Wallace, a lighter story, about shit. The ultimate post modern reductionist sentiment is that we're all piss and shit in the end. Wallace couples this with what must be his loathing for marketing/ media aggrandizement, the last story in his last completed collection, about a hick who bakes and fossilizes human stools. The author then leaves another project unfinished, utilizing Asberger's, from what was gathered before Slate became wearisome, and then, the end.

What do I gain from all this? He was my age in 08, a modest celebrity who successfully navigated the MFA puppy mill which put me out to pasture, and I am beginning to resemble a survivor of Auschwitz, and Europe has to snake the scope fairly deep to illustrate that black Africa eschews democracy with equivalent relish to the way American Marxists were once blacklisted. I do not think Wallace hung himself because his illness superseded him. 

Let me switch hit and make an assertion that libertarians and liberals may be confused about which spectrum I'm on; that is reasonable. I am fucking furious that my life was destroyed, essentially, by Jewish liberal prevarication, and a small handful of homosexuals, that I moved into a wheelchair access one bedroom apartment at 23, and then come out like a squeegee tube at 54 in a predominantly black, predominantly hostile senior living facility with arrogant Adventists on one end, the closed circuit Koreans on the other, and a handful of broken whites, passive spastics, save one. Wallace saw this. Whatever other relief he sought, he knew. Humans are driving themselves off the cliff, no matter how education, innovation, resolve problems. King Kong beats his chest. Might makes right, and if it was truly any different, I would not be living in a high risk lifestyle with a debt which amounts to no more than Zuckerberg's or Thiel's, weekly travel expenses.

Thick Middle

"You saw me standing alone."-- Blue Moon

Let us go back, on a shoestring budget comparable to what the unfortunate Victor Garber deals with on Frequency, sure enough he titillated us more as Garner's father on Alias, even if that series was too heavily dosed by Dan Brown's badly deployed medieval fantasy, to remember that The Seventh Sign is a tasteless Demi Moore vehicle, exploiting an actor with Downs Syndrome-- even I shall concede Mongoloid is a harsh designation, exactly why I deign to recall it to you-- as an intoning seer of doom. But did the mentally retarded actor himself have the cognition to realize he was being stereotyped as a harbinger of the Apocalypse? 
This is how the casting scouts for The Exorcist wanted to use me and others when they found us at Rusk Institute. I would have been that much less destitute in the contemporary century had I stood up to the case management staff and at least met with the production crew on its fishing expedition, before the movie made such an indelible impact that it fatally palled the decade. The movie was one of the first I transfixed myself for on whatever computer, through a streaming provider, Prime, I believe, years ago, and would have no difficulty streaming it again. I believe my generation was cursed by the film, by the novel which preceded the film, by David Foster Wallace superimposing the film in his best Oblivion short story before David Foster Wallace hung himself leaving his sorry ass to rock the noose. Didn't he bother to consider what his wife would experience upon discovering his body? We'll let this sincere testament of dread answer for why I have kept my distance from the Fox revival, not a prequel, nor a sequel, but an offshoot. Though I am unforgiving of actors in general, Geena Davis (phew) is not a lead who ever really held my interest, even giving birth to larva in her Jeff Goldblum nightmare. But I will say I admire that this particular subset of horror, as a genre, tries valiantly to take evil seriously, as Wallace does, and I do too, which is why Wallace ended badly, and you can have no doubt I'm still shrieking, mindful of the line in the sand. I'm not the Virginia Tech Asian, but my broken life form nudges closer to that shooter's break, as Maigret would have put it, on a daily basis. I could use Callum's absorption technique for Horse. The anus is faster than the stomach. Real torture, such as we find in Lear, or the MGM version of Samson, makes most viewers flinch, so horror is usually married to camp, to ensure the audience has its shields. The lupine variety which subverts our expectations best, in a playful, but ruthlessly curt fashion, is An American Werewolf in London. I have not seen it in a long time, but its beat, its tracks, its satire, and its sad sharp shooting conclusion, makes us forgive Hollywood every so often. Naughton doesn't seem to have aged well.

Even the doo is telling

Perhaps because it aired so late in the series, "Make Me a Perfect Murder," with an actress who had no relevant staying power, (Van Devere), brings us a bit closer to the dawn of post-modern sensibilities making jagged edges. This is still Columbo, but Falk minimizes his Jewish working class doggedness, and our dimmed feminist anxieties, glass ceilings, are more important than disposing of the patriarchy, as represented by shooting the male with the script. For 50 minutes of airtime, I like Devere here. She's sharp, but on the curve. Her Firestone isn't yet the "Dynasty" bitch, but her voice modulation is still her weapon, maybe even me in a good body. 

It's something to regret, because what we love about Columbo is unraveling in 1978. We all know it, but let Falk reprise the character well into the first decade of y2k,  until senility encroaches. Everything else unraveled too. My hatred of Yabberz, and my urgency to wipe it out, is nonsensical, but there was too much pattern recognition; too much California dreamin' crashing smack into one of David Foster Wallace's automobile suicides, and I cannot get involved in interactive portals of that category anymore, and it is not about my aggression.

It is about my clock. The only way to beat my scar tissue is work, not that dancing aggregate crap. 

I hate it; I cannot engage like that, not ever again. I do not mean in policy details. Anyone can trip me up on detail. I cannot explain it yet, but I'd rather be thrown under wild horses than to utter the name Horton ever again. Donny Brasco, cf.

No third way for mortal coils?

"I owe the woman something, she kept me alive."-- Ed Harris

Disintegration. I have limited knowledge about abstract expressionism. One of my former Yahoo group members who understood what I was after, a disabled teacher from Britain, introduced me to the issue of de Kooning's work in conjunction with his end of life Alzheimer's, and then unsubscribed, in the story of my life. de Kooning lived a long time, and Pollock went in tyrannical fashion. I come on to piss and moan, nearly falling off the Jazzy getting off my deplorable bedding, transferred back to sunken lumpy mattress after rare accident, half-shit myself, got transfer right on the second round, logged on instead of cleaning what I can and going to get a little food, discover Anthony Riley has earned my envy, a rather selfish observation to offer, pondering these issues. I know why Ed Harris excels at portraiture, but remain diffident about Jackson Pollock's place among his contemporaries. Why couldn't he die alone? The film is a remarkable piece of biography, but the story is more or less sordid. What legacy does Namuth capture? Why did Lee Krasner sacrifice herself? What is it to break past Picasso? Why does the biography lead to cynicism even as the film itself is transcendent?

It leads me back to David Foster Wallace, my anger with him, because he had the skill to give me a place at the table, and doubtlessly would have understood me, and the bastard caved in, and I understand why, rejecting the medical model solace utilized by his wife, his father. What some established columnists felt about Phillip Seymour Hoffman's relapse and last trip on his dose over the rainbow, I felt about Wallace. I don't have to have known David to know we would have made sparks, engaging with each other, and yet I persist, obstinate blockhead, Harris' extraordinary abilities sneaking up on me. I should go, but let me let you know, I am giving my notice soon, told myself to give it a week or two, but I'll need a crash site, kabeesh?

Shock, but not awe

This was not a headline I expected to see, and there is no way in hell I'm covering it, not even as an aggregate piece, but I knew when Williams played Mork that his hypermania would crash. I am sad, but just as with David Foster Wallace, pissed off. Ambulatory people are so fucking selfish it is incredible, but wheelchair users have to be heroic. Damn it all to fucking hell. I followed his career since I was a kid.

2:36 AM: I am still upset, too little sleep to work due to pet children and the riot act. I had a certain affection for Robin's persona, and despite the fact that this was an expected trajectory, I am agitated none the less, and this is the drawback of failed intimacy: I don't have a man to comfort me while I thresh out my grief.

I believe in the right to die, but Williams still could have put his stature to good use; more later when I'm less raw.

Terms of Service

The Peruvian Maoists killed people with rocks, clubs and knives in hand to hand combat.-- Santiago Romcagliolo, page 148

The effects of nicotine vapor shortage, and the custodial employees doing me a favor, so they believe, by unlocking my door to leave pet supplies in the kitchenette; it disrupts my colon solidification, my need to stay off my pressure sore; sometimes leaves me unable to go back to sleep without pushing toward exhaustion. If I forbid Mike Pera or Niles entry in relation to what may be added labor for me to push up to my unit, I may end up regretting it, but Wednesday morning was physiologically frightening, even with pastrami and a nice spinach salad; no coffee, though I need a pot this evening, two and a quarter cups with the big fellow here; not sure if my total caffeine intake has increased accordingly, just as I'm equally uncertain if I should apologize to viewers for behaving like the typical road rage quadriplegic. Despite my efforts, I am a quadriplegic who has sustained systemic modal failure, and I could not lock in focus, and relaxation, with Pera's horse's ass boot jacking and my need to clean up after cats I am weary of raising, bound in obligation.

So you saw a peek of how similar I am both to David Foster Wallace, with too much heart, and an Alawite  member, with vested and ruthless interests. A calcified outcry not quite contained by the 3600 milligrams of salmon oil, though by now the dead spawn has done its saturation. 

Adaptation was never the main issue: When John and I knew each other as students, he captured in his critique of my work how cerebral palsy altered my spatial relation; it was an astute capture from the man whose children I longed to womb gestate. He is the only Italian American whose sons and daughters I wanted to bring into the world, but this is my point. All I possess, to countermand the sexual assaults and institutional cruelty I sustained, is longing for what I cannot conceptualize, literally: bipedal motion and perspective.

Violations I know. Walking on two feet might as well be as fantastical as warp drive. Back to work, but I do not see my desire for controlled euthanasia as irrational. If I have been brutalized out of the meritocracy, I'll be damned if I will allow a nursing home to utilize my body for a malpractice portfolio.  

A note on ecology and domestication

The aggregate for whom I am penny pimping AND NEED RESIDENTIAL AREA SUBSCRIBERS TO INCREASE MY COMMISSION (the residents of my building probably fall within Examiner's target range outside of sports actually but I have to weigh how much I'm willing to compromise my principles for ignorant Jesus spouting hypocrites) ran a story on Marius the giraffe-- or more correctly, the editorial team sent the aggregates who slave for them a link to search engine feeds. I briefly considered running with the head winds-- but my passions lean toward killing humans who kill cats and predators, not herd animals--it may also surprise you to learn I've never yet threatened an animal abuser, though it is tempting.

I take issue with Marc Bekoff, however. Was it cruel to kill a healthy two year old male who properly belonged on the African savanna? Yes. Ever see a lion take a wild giraffe down? That is cruel as well, whether or not the bolt gun is more humane than asphyxiation through curved fangs. I doubt either is pleasant in the shift from life to carcass, just as my death at the hands of 

a. an abusive paraprofessional
b. phlegm in my pulmonary tissue
c. other, primarily related to pressure sores and anxiety in developmental aging

will not be pleasant. Evolution is brutal; humans have done a great deal to both mitigate and prove this unfortunate fact, and the optimist belief that we can divorce existence from the brutality ranging from the cellular levels of consumption through orcas hunting blue whales, is too much hubris, even if transhumanism is all but ushered in upon us. I'll be happy to take the bolt gun off of the Danish. When I am ready perhaps an inner city banger will do the honor. It appeals to me more than sleep potions or bullets. I was tremendously angry at Wallace for his suicide, which was odd for a couple of reasons. Before he hung himself, I only read of his novel in passing and had no idea who Wallace was; investigation pissed me off, because he was, and had, everything I had hoped for myself. Humanist marriage, talent, students, fans, for Christ's sake, as well as the intuitive ability to use the immersion of disability in his work to offer a searing and penetrating perspective, and the genius greaseball fucking  hangs himself because he is in pain. I'm evidently not finished being really mad at a complete stranger whose work is nearly a virtuoso display of anguish. It should have been me instead, this is what my heart cries. I am still here, in this fucking provincial n---* shanty backwater where I was born in the fucking best of it public fucking housing system because its other units are pestering boils of post traumatic stress. 

I am still here, and I should have never come back.

Sarin Neurotoxins

"You never really learn something until you teach it." My latter day drama instructor.

Look at that face. You would never imagine such a female maintains a benevolent dictatorship. Mother watch me hunt. Mother the foot massage means we need to eat as a family, but only after I beckon you to the food bowl three times and only after I see you engaging in mastication will I shoo you so a jaguar may gnaw daintily. Mother make the bed, and your little black panther is a pain in the ass, but when he lets me curl up with him then that's the ticket! No I won't come back in the house! Yes I will when they scare me! And on and on. I have been raising cats since I was a kid and little little kimmy is a young 2, and will outlive my independence, which is reason enough to purchase my blog on your kindle. The unfortunate orphan needs an endowment, and you will save the cats if you want me to outgrow my caustic flint spark cynicism. She lost her babies and deserves the good life. I considered joining PETA due to my feline zeal, but Wallace turned it on the dime, and PETA is almost too fanatical, because evolution cannot be managed like a suburban duplex. I am on the fence because feline poachers deserve the death penalty, and in indecision cannot cash in my chips.

This post was an entirely different subject, but let me get my cold calculus which has driven some of you off out of the way: My stepmother is dying, and Marie no doubt reasoned it was her brother's place to inform me, since he is my father. My feelings about Louise are not pleasant. She was my mother's colleague in nursing school and dated my father behind my mother's back. My lover never understood my umbrage about that, but even married husbands who cheat are befuddled by the bitch codex. The bitch codex says you do not marry your nursing friend's divorced husband and Louise did anyway and never imagined what she was in for, and that includes my indignation with her mouth. My father's impotence is not something I as his eldest daughter am going to treat as a clinical seminar suggesting solutions, and this became an international incident, along with other choice cuts from her invalid tongue.

She has been crippled for years by RA. Takes one to know one, and now she has leukemia or Roy Schneider's multiple myeloma and I am only worried about the impact of her death on my father. That is the way it is. I love my daddy and daddy needs his wife, relieved that her estate issues will presumably enter tort before padre himself expires and my sister and I will then litigate each other, but I am not emotionally invested in stepmother hate. I don't like her or her children, but Louise has paid for landing padre as a caretaker, in more ways than I am willing to reveal, or that you'd want me to.

If she dies, however, this changes things, and maybe I shall be able to part company with PresbyHomes before my future end stage hospice care, within a year or two. I cannot grieve her. My father. My poor father.

Hantavirus

For hypothetical PETA Partisans, The Black Marble engages the emotional interest. It takes a conceit I was trained to attend, the destruction of animal human bonding, cf, a more crew cut Martin Sheen killing Foster child star's hamster, Mel Gibson's dog killed by an archer in Road Warrior, the cat mutilation in Never Talk to Strangers, and turns it into the central conflict. Wambaugh had the nerve to focus a real slice of life vice on cruelty to animals, and I had a difficult time not uttering death threats at Harry Dean Stanton in a thirty year old film where James Woods looks fresh out of the performing arts-- but this film represents mature original comedies of which place viewers like myself on starvation diets, because they simply aren't made any more. Independent films, with few exceptions, spin their story arcs under the same burden of fragmented expectation. Harold Becker had the courage to allow his actors to be flawed human beings. Even Stanton's Skinner is traumatized by taking out his hatred on hyper terriers.

Most pet owners don't look too closely at the guilt of having faux children. I do; it is at once the ultimate form of narcissism we hold up for ironic exaggeration, and painfully appreciated at the same time. Eschew human children and become an immersible zealot. Favorite swine, favorite whale (orca is scary!), favorite carnivore.

If we really wanted to do a favor to other species, we'd engage in wiser palliative treatments, breed less, and restore habitat.

I have mentioned my senile uncle repeatedly. In the last two years he has has heart surgeries, hernia corrections, bladder surgery, and this week it is a new adventure under the knife; the sole reason I do not spar with my father's sister over this insane Nascar race she runs with bad health and medical model brutality is because I never had a vested interest in Joe and don't have the right. Try having your entire life circumscribed by orthopedic medicine as a curiosity, and maybe my argument for human dignity might not seem so misanthropic. 

Like An Eagle?

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

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

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

Key West, in Penury

"I'm not touching it." Jerry McGuire's motto against my varied efforts to penetrate and burrow.


Wherever this post is going, I am writing it 2/3's brain dead, but for the pedestrian in you, I enjoyed myself in group last evening, and if I was 28 years younger, would have lept off my chair, kissed Lance, kissed the archive librarian who I troubled with my arcane preoccupations, and the old man from from the Saturday half who said hello to me kindly, and the Camden group mate, though I would have left out the blonde. Call it the bitch radar. And there! This is what you say, was that so hard? Grasp these small pleasures. What is vengeance and a Valentine's Day massacre in comparison? It is vile, poor spastic, what you force yourself to carry, and your curiosity about Herlihy's demise is a case in point.

Allow me to qualify that all I am after is facts in evidence. In 93 I was in fact thirty and had no idea who Herlihy was, barely knew that Midnight Cowboy was Voight's signature vehicle, and I am cognizant that no one truly understands what motivates life taking, whether they involve Capone's pecuniary interests, or an aging homosexual who could not recapture the vitality of the Keys, and that even under the guise of Wallace's selfishness, and my anger over it, cognizant that his suffering was a piss in the wind, and he had everything I feel that I secretly deserved (and what is that adverb dear, secretly, when you bray loud and clear?), that these things are mysterious, and the intrepid academic has been there and back, enough already, all you have is indignation. True, but I am stubborn, and plow on with my own dialogical efforts. In David's case, the pedestrian can only point to the medical model, and that his clinical depression went off the rails, and yours has not, stronger in failure. In Herlihy's case I think there is more damning evidence, and that is what I seek.

Regardless of my militant stance, I pity the BSA, and while not sure I have fully digested Lillian's analysis, she is right that dodging is not a solution. Democracy may not be easy, to quote Obama, but when faced with the possibility that now something as pedestrian as your local scout troop will be hit with a gay rage scandal, this basically leaves innocence with no safe havens. Intolerable to idealism and honor that goes with it.

John Gardner and the Twilight of Suffering

To the detriment of being on my better behavior with young Lance and his charming efforts to get the untutored through Ulysses, I fell asleep Thursday in near winter bright afternoon reading what I actually wanted to read on the Paperwhite, scowling, The Sunlight Dialogues, really into it when Millie faced Taggart without quite realizing who the demonized little brother was, when I fell into a reverie due to the pain in my hip, right hip, still dislocated, and Steel did not butcher. All that physical suffering as a child so that I can entropy into more now. Dr. Chance and Steel controlled the destiny of many, if not Linda herself. The retarded spastics who might have been under my case management eye at one time, now my limited but happy neighbors, gave me the link, and I saw my future, this problem leg in a splint, while I lie in a bed, a discarded bit of meat, hoping my snotgreen cherry monoxide scarred lungs will prevent me from living long enough to get my jaws broken when I bite a future Debra Horne on the pork of her forearm. Gardner, being dead and dead quick, cannot help being an anachronism, whether or not he was taking a cue from Tarkington to deconstruct America through exposing the Hodge family, making Clumly evocative of a sterile old rooster who carried the mark of death through his white hairlessness. Never finished the novel in school, so I am not sure where he is going, dated and outlived by Wallace, who killed himself less quick, less neat, but with a more accurate tempo that Gardner suspected, but did not survive long enough to hate, media hype. Even if I wanted my trigger of pain to be my swan song, and I am not entirely positive about that although punished, yes, Linda too does not know when to quit, when to stop humiliating, and that because I built her up, trying to hang on to one last tie that actually mattered to me, because I was afraid of the collapse I am still living, even if I wanted to go outside of those boundaries to enact that punishment, and made an effort, I would not be able to make it count, to use it to expose the corruption and cruelty and through taking that action, strike at the conscience. I cannot direct a caustic intelligence to mesh with the reality of a broken and declining body to achieve the affect of the lone hero, the one who stands alone. I can no longer afford upgrades, need a new laptop battery, and either have to save this machine or format my newer, smaller, backup. If someone could explain for me, when installing new drivers, does the machine in DOS equate the ENTER key with SET UP? That is what I do not know how to do, hit the right button to get the updated drivers working. I will not bite, I just do not have the mind to handle mainframe and software degrade issues. It is an HP Pav dv6, roughly six years old, if anyone can explain this to me in simple, toddler, terms, you are one of the few who have my gratitude.

Very small meals, I have to stay up and go to Joes. The chair is nearly on full power, that achieved yesterday, barely enough clean clothes, if we look away from agony, ecstasy is no longer possible either, but if I am going down, I am going in flames, that much I know.

Funereal Esplanade

I did call my brother this evening around nine to see if he would assist me with the AdSense authentication code for this Blogger account. Benjamin is *done* with me because he feels guilty about my circumstances. I ceased being the stoic elder among my siblings, surviving siblings, and took a pic axe to the birthday card facade, and the luv ya! from my unfortunate half brother, who is the sire of a dead alcoholic whose schizophrenia was blooming when he was my deceased mother's lover, turned into "you and your wicked tongue; no one wants to deal with you, probably bipolar, go get some help, you're not coming to my house and I am not responsible for your fucked up life..." but both he and the middle princess, Stephanie, were perfectly fine taking four thousand dollars from their disabled public housing sister who spent the early years of her twenties starving on egg noodles in the inner city. I have to be insane you see, because I violate good manners that Levi-Strauss worked so hard to prove was a universal concern through his research into the Borneo tribes in his now famous study The Raw and the Cooked, which I doubt anyone would contend isn't the structuralist masterpiece of its era, but I called him anyway, and can still pull rank even if diagnosing me is his way of compartmentalizing me aside, or downwind, from his familial stresses. I have a chip on my shoulder, as relates to his better half, in relation to his selfishness, but remain more wounded from my sister's indifference, which some of you may have read from my other account.




No mental health professional ever diagnosed me as bipolar like my mother, even when I drove myself in to one of the old intake centers during my post-supervisor depressive episode, and even when I suggested to a no name treating intern that I would try an anti-depressant to see if the drug would heal the wound. It did not. Brand name Wellbutrin (I nearly always misspell its proper name)  knocked me out. I could not transfer from my wheelchair safely, but it was only after Daniel Schneider came trolling to put me, poor spastic, on his poor man's groupie mailing list, that I tried saturating myself with a heavy fish diet and salmon oil and I posted that on good days, it moderates. I could not expect miracles after losing Joey, however, and grew a little weary, last week, of our species ocean rape for our seafood palette. Varied my diet but upped the oil ingestion.

Does the medical model label matter? I suppose it depends, if it might have saved David Foster Wallace, or Virginia Woolf, which it did not. Wallace had the technical advantage, and Woolf has my admiration. I am reading Jacob's Room, comforted by her mild individuation of Topaz the cat, who "was now a very old and mangy cat and would soon have to be killed." The only Woolf novel I ever formally studied and finished was To The Lighthouse, remarkable, however we label her diagnosis, that she could complete such a masterpiece. Woolf is no Sylvia Plath, and has a real social intelligence that remains a quiet genius that even the studio system quietly translates. I have Orlando and Mrs. Dalloway. The latter is still uncut; the former I may have to start again. I am in the middle, before the master's sex change. Whether or not Woolf was bi, and her mental instability may have contributed to that, I do not read Orlando in the modern sense of transgender advocacy. Many readers would disagree with me on this, but I will tackle my argument with a finished, fresher reading in the future. I viewed a mediocre adaptation of the novel years ago, when Bravo was actually a relevant syndicator.


Heat, grief, a life long marginalized poverty. I have to compartmentalize AdSense away this humid morning, but I hope to make an effort to solve my illiteracy after the heatwave, as I have a great deal of content to transfer anyway, aside from pitches, my creative writing, whose production has slowed, because I must do less

Egg Whites, Third Sunrise

I only ate one meal yesterday, an inadvertent accident of sorts. I tried the Danish pancakes with a dash of the usual maple and a generous fork scrape of cocoa almond spread, and after dealing with Tim's failing short term memory, I collapsed, but still not sleeping well.

I am making my omelet now, bland, but with cheddar, in my Marathon Grill bowl, to keep it round, and it will fill me but most likely give me phlegm fever. I am used to that, and honestly, I am partial to unfertilized chicken eggs, and would readily eat any other edible poultry eggs. The difference this morning is I did not make a sandwich, but dressed two slices of sourdough on the side. I splattered on the kindle and polished the screen with the splatter, but ate, no reading. Still hungry, as can reasonably be expected, but the edge is off of being famished, and think I can recline, but non!

Alas! Back cushion!

The aeros have either not come in or went to the package room Thursday, and no one notified me. Remember the shot of Michael C Hall screaming in the funeral parlor? Ah ha, she says, grinning. Life is not only irrational, but inexorably silly, and I do not want to go into remission (actually relapse, but an interesting error) to tobacco at my old levels, which is going to happen unless I find another type of aid, and after I balance my accounts, I am going to research the electric brands. I highlighted the danger of the dependency of David Foster Wallace, but cannot solve my own. Any one have a preference in terms of atomizers? Does anyone ever answer my questions posed in these posts? So many stubborn tanka bloggers, eh?

The weekend will be ecumenical, of course, unless I stream, and I may finally be in the mood to do so, but Mel's Passion is running later this evening, and spastic wants to see . Mel is, understandably, everyone's favorite pissing pony, and the late Hitchens went after him over his ultra conservative Catholicism, but he is also quite an interesting director, and I am not afraid of his spiritual quest. I do not believe in a god, or a divine, but science cannot answer certain questions about self-recognition, and aspiration. Sam Harris'es materialistic rap of Mother Teresa as clearly depressed, this is not enough for me, because I've felt the earth rock beneath the vinyl sling on which I sit, not that I can call it a vocation of faith.

I might have saved myself some personal anguish not to have trusted in the intensity of what I felt when I was young, nor putting all my eggs into Linda's basket as I hit major trouble in my mid-30's (a young middle age, enjoy while you have it), but that intensity may not always be in the realm of the pathology of the overwrought. The drama queen might kick in if I ever saw Jerry again, of course, throwing myself out of the wheelchair, he'd ask, "What are you doing? You alright?" While I'd land on my knees, tears welling up, my voice crying, "I failed," as if I held it there, my greatest sin in a display case.

But I wouldn't want to cause him another cardiac incident.

Joy Juice, (and in Forgiveness machines)

To examine the suicide of  David Foster Wallace, as I mentioned. I do not quite accept the medical model theory  his father offered to the media, but let's submerge my resistance, and look at the medical model. Wallace became dependent on a particular cocktail, which one day ceased in its former effectiveness, the end result being the manufactured boy wonder is dead. Karen Green looks as I would have expected the wife of such a spousal partner to look, in my continuing research on writers and suicide, but I think I disagree with her on depression and brain chemistry as a matter of degree. People with clinical depression are not different from the more well adjusted. On the whole, we're smarter, and most survive a great deal of trauma, though Wallace to all appearances escaped this.

 I do not want to die, struggling with the near narcotic force screaming at me for nicotine, but if I allow myself a dependency substitution, which one day loses its effect, who will have been right? The ablests? My mother also was nearly killed, once, by her lithium dosage, and her cardiac arrest in 05 may have been induced by her then current psychotropic combination, though it would have been difficult to prove.

My primary diagnosis is cerebral palsy. The birth brain injury may mimic what people like Homo Tweets (his twitter avatar may have changed) insists needs help, but I happen to know the difference, and do not roll out of bed believing in my Napoleonic grandeur, even on better days. My stash probably will not arrive until Monday or Tuesday, however, and I may not make it without sliding a banana peel.

This is in part the price of age, and it part the nature of mammalian design, which sometimes skewers the coping mechanisms. I've read psychiatrists gleefully gnawing  @ Cartesian duality when it comes to the addict mind, and conformists seem to prefer stigma as a solution rather than understanding. I have my own locked in syndrome, freely able to move one arm, and yet I am shunned for what exactly? It doesn't seem odd to me that a crippled intelligence can grow caustic; it can be passive too, but that isn't who, or what I am.

Cassie, my crazy lady ex peer counselor, threw out egalitarian arguments at me after she came home from England and found out what her employer thrice over did to me: we're all consumers, or my favorite, "people say things".

Cassie turns away from the wounds her fidelity to the paradigm inflicted on me: I did not wind up like this in a vacuum. Linda, still her contemporaneous colleague, is an executive officer, and I never had anywhere near that rank. If I asked Cassie how sex with her  husband could possibly compare due to her spinal paralysis, and I did it on the basis of some flimsy pretext, she would be just as offended as she was when I yelled that at her full of shit. I was wrong to yell at her in a form of anger transference, but my characterization isn't off.

A movement that cannot correct its own evil is doomed to failure, ultimately.

It is right that Ms. Green forgive her husband, as she was his spousal partner. My anger at Wallace in terms of his public persona, as we head into summer 2013, is subsiding, and it says something about my ego in the vicarious sense that it existed in the first place, but I will never be able to forgive every circumstance that eroded the metric for success in my personal history.

Proponents

Erik's first real imprint on me was at a Disabled In Action meet at the Library for the Blind, on Walnut Street. Cassie was there, planning strategy, later, but in the hallway, Erik was mocking me, smiling facetiously because he was smoking hooked up to an oxygen tank, and I was reacting to the possible danger; one wrong move with his Zippo and no doubt I would have never wound up being his neighbor three floors below-- and this is evidence, for all his zeal, that he contradicts his beliefs with actions of self-hatred; indeed, evidence I should not have latched on to him and Jimmi with my naive faith in their just cause which isn't so just, with their personal corruption. He has declined very badly since those years, and I am weary of observing it, though you think me heartless, to pummel a transvestite in his slowly revolving death.

To my mind, the life he leads now, with nearly 24 hour care and his loss of control, isn't much different than a life he'd have in a home, and this is what awaits me in five? ten years? Virtual helplessness, contained by paraprofessionals shoving bowel suppositories up my rectum, like Tim does for Jay, and then tells me feces stories, which inspire me in the tradition of Pynchon and Wallace.

Wallace was a competitive tennis player, and I can never experience the joy of that, power serves on a manufactured flat surface. Conceptualize it, maybe, but the joy of balancing on the balls of my feet, that I cannot imagine, and the man took his own life, despite all of his over-educated skill, and I, by turns, can do nothing with the umbrage that rises in me over it, except express it.

Why does Erik cause me pain then, if I disavow him and all the rest? Because I was once invested in these activists, and once I cared, and still care enough to roll myself out like a door mat for the sake of mutual support, unless you need a sex change operation, never completed due to your lupus-like disease, your multi-strokes and cardiac events.