ADHD Wasted Space

That's the problem with being the man, you never know what you left behind.-- Ice T

I barely know Adam. I did not give him a donation for his self-styled polemic on Freedom, and under my various forms of classification, sticking the cornbread veteran in a room with Debra Horne keeps the estuaries of the Mississippi slithering along. The half witted caramel brick bat and the ex-soldier may not be from the same swamp where Okies use catfish as sexual enhancement accessories, but they both speak the same language, and in trying to flee the holocaust of my life under oh so lovely creatures as these minorities, so illustrious in the fine examples they are on the evils of inbreeding, I am appealing to yet another variation of Southern rube, whose libertarian beliefs are more ecumenical than is decent for anyone's taste. In desperation, I asked the man who waltzed off with an Alford plea if he had any space in that compound of his, and do not expect a response, but I asked, and he and I spoke all of what? 30 seconds? I made no money on my column about his speaking engagement I posted on Medium, but it may be one of the last vestiges of professional writing I have to display, and, to be honest, I have softened my attitude, share some kindred spirit with his raw defiance, and here we are. Black women have the power to threaten me with a straight jacket for bellowing in fury after what I've had to eat and absorb under their employer's management for 33 years, and I am bucking on the Internet, which will blithely ignore me, regardless of how the ball bounces: Tuesday I may have no power; Wednesday, I may be locked out, and the receptionist, Lahnisha-- something like that-- black women have this peculiar suffix fixation-- has been retaliating against me since 2015, jeopardizing my safety, long before I let anyone have it, but consider: she is terrified of me and yet Friday, I inadvertently opened the door to spot shop, and she handed me the burning bridge rebuttal notices. If I'm lucky, maybe polyps will block up my hole with speed sufficient enough to make moral scruples irrelevant. Yes, even sympathizers who would like to help cannot, or else you're a potential kidnapper waiting to prey on my nativity, and be thankful I am not just another overkill murder in Oakland California.

Jesus fucking Christ. I got lucky, that, in the season finale, Salvation's tech company giant, of Tanz Industries, the ever wiry Cabrera, disclosed he had Huntington's. So my instincts were on the money to play with the series components, even as the plot grows multi-layered, and I was scooped by Danielle's survival. It is interesting to note, as well, that Iwan Rheon, Inhumans's Maximus, is disabled because he deteriorated into being a mere human being, one who had only his mind to manipulate the coup that he did. This is a kid's show, playing dress up for prime time, but it is light enough, with themes that matter on the level of a liberetto, to enjoy without having to study too hard. Television is growing up, nonetheless, Kira Sedgwick's valley tangles, mature as they are, fail to persuade me, since I am a driveby shooting, once removed.

Angry Savant

I recovered one of my newer non fiction revisions from Submittable, and if I'm able to do that, I must be doing something obviously dense with the files Tom took off my hard drive. Now, particularly, I do not have the funds to spare to show up my illiteracy with code. Maybe if I struggle with conversion online this will solve the problem. Yes, I am terrified. Technically, as a legal matter, I can be homeless, but not functionally, and last week, I nearly had a stroke, close to following Petty, whose hoarse baritone recalls itself, but the writer in me has risen back up, because what and how Debra Horne is threatening me with is ridiculous. I want to be clear, a landlord has the right to kick me out for bad hygiene. But they do not. They want to put me away for saying no, for being angry, crucified by the liberal left. I have to die like anyone, except Peter Thiel, he man faggot, but I will decide what those terms are, not HHS or some half witted crisis manager from the corporate office in Montgomery County. We have to stop doing this. Please. Heed me.

Quakertown Brass

Caesar is home.-- the guttural utterance

“My chair shorted out,” I posted mainly to my family on Facebook this day on the asphalt across from PECO central. Cops can’t do a bloody thing except watch you hopelessly reboot, but does cousin Tommy remind me to call my uncle?  No! I struggle back to building. Do I remember to telephone my bloody uncle? No! Does my sister recall that my godfather runs a bloody DMV(Designated Medical Vendor)?  No! I manage to race up to tenth floor of this bloody zoological senior parody of Planet of the Apes. You heard me. I am as guilty as Hamblin when it comes to disparaging senior goon squads. Some of the people who populate Riverside might be lifted straight out of Annie Proulx for subconscious routing routines. Ah, but the dowager’s contempt is momentarily bounding with self-flagellations, as I intently asked Maria for Mr. Wheelchair’s number and desperately begged Michael for a speedy purchase, and like a fuckwit, I bought a model I knew was bad for me because I managed to haul my soiled buttocks onto a car seat. This is what syphoned out a week’s worth of hospital costs depleting the Medicare Trust Fund, a gift I’m still giving. 10 fucking G’s and a ding because I never met a vendor like Mike, who, when he queried me about being done after one modification, wasn’t joking, and no one remembered, myself particular, that my godfather runs a respected company I’ve worked with before, all this Italian Catholic noise, my father and I ready to draw blood over a hospital bed, letting cheap conniving minorities bilk him over the assistance Presbyterian Homes offers indigent tenants daily for housekeeping: my last paid commission for my work floated in around 2010. If the linguistic cash register that sublimates the bond between fathers and daughters wasn’t a life jacket, Trudy and Debra, and their Mississippi fecal twang vocals, would have pulverized me in a juicer by now. I don’t blame Maria for any of this, but it’s evident I am still infected by the conspiratorial tensions of us versus them in disability culture, as my only life-threatening prognosis is ableism and niggardly incompetence which spearheads Pennsylvania like a persistent lymphoma. I may not have anything seriously wrong with me twelve weeks into the end of January, but damage? Yes, the type of damage which leads to “down the drain” gallows humor, because a pathological technician tells me he’ll fix the problem, but just blows me off, from before Thanksgiving through 1/19/18, a perfect way to reference in rogue elements which forms part of Austin Petersen’s experience. In his case, it was polluted cancer drugs. I do not eschew free market models due to this. Like Austin, I can separate bad apples from the model, and Mike’s callousness is born out of rationing and single payer options, but I do curse the fact quite bitterly that I tend to trust wheelchair providers, and see my family as somewhat apart. My uncle is invisible in my life, and I plum forgot him. He’s on it now, but the quality time I was struggling to cling to? I still cannot convert my files in the wake of my Toshiba failure, and don’t want to antagonize certain parties in my circle to help me circumvent Home Advisor’s prices, but it is a fact of life if I want to earn money again, I need access to my documents. We can all debate the models, regulated and otherwise, but streamlining customized needs is far easier in a director’s cut than it is in handling individual adaptation, within or outside of a chronic condition.

Great Expectations

we're gonna keep comin at ya

I cannot write a post long enough to explain with what frequency case managers intertwined themselves in my life, whether vocationally, or mental health issues due to my mother, or in institutional rehabilitation, but Presbyterian Homes, from the time I moved into Riverside in 1994, virtually invented same sex marriage in relation to the frequency with which their managers and social workers disavowed my right to privacy, and I do not mean solely the current team. Debra Horne is, for lack of any other way to phrase it, a sad testament to the human condition when individuals with low IQ interbreed, and this is exactly why Presby hired her. Intimidating, high tan, Mississippi accent like bile in her throat I think she came here in a jean jumper in 05. Black. Bull. Dyke, just ahead of her tenants to wield her invisible baton. I did not know what I was setting myself up for with this shuffling minority matron, her hernia, lesbianistic overtones, nearly amalgam of the orderlies who abused me under Dr. Chance. After what I have been through in North Philadelphia, I carry no guilt about despising her, don't care a jot if mother's family is appalled, and this woman's cruel arrogance is a living rebuttal to whatever Jeffrey's treatise is on the right's collectivism. Minorities can be as morally corrosive as anyone else, and it used to be Debra I wanted to have punished, but that has since been upgraded. Debra's immediate superior has committed a criminal offense, and I'll see Trudy Richardson on the other side of a civil suit, or force Philadelphia's finest to mortally injure me, and one of you shall give my lifelong melancholy turned rogue a fine eulogy, I am sure. Mettle, spirit, and all that, even if there aren't people quite suited to human existence, people we'd be better off without.


But in 1986, I tried hard to be a good compliant tenant, nearly slept with the son of a reverend, and discovered identity politics, a righteous cause, in Jonathan Capehart's voice, to be nothing more than moral poison. I have always more or less enveloped myself in despondency. Some quadriplegics do better, some worse, and my intelligence, applied to my pain, makes me an existential threat-- my Senator's tolerance doesn't want to peer too deeply into my militancy which applauds him most of the time, and I'd stop Casey junior cold, not having anything to lose in the darkness of the unsaid, only made worse because, I know, intrinsically, my hourglass doesn't have too much quality sand left before the upper chamber metes out my allotment. Look at all this has taken out of me, the economics of appeasing "a fraternal contractor," who your taxes subsidizes to intentionally break *us* down. Some bloody system. I spent my savings cleaning this apartment. Not all of it, but a great deal went into Tim's pocket, or a cleaning service, then Karina. Now it has evaporated, and I have since been under constant threat because I don't want to be whored off again under welfare's sterling subcontractors. I've yet to hear any libertarian stampede, however, to run my vacuum, throw in a load of laundry. They've all got hard ons for block chain code.

Hackneyed Contremps in Ankara

So you don't like stupid people. Susan Sarandon


Although I'd be perfectly content to eat fish for the remainder of my shortening lifespan, there is a degree of disenchantment with the gelatin texture of the flesh, less prevalent in shark steaks, but I happen not to be big on flounder or salmon, that unpleasant jaw jutting stream fighter, except in a pate; when consumed in copious amounts as a spread, on anecdotal testimony, salmon reduces vitriolic levels of intense recrimination, but it will not change how minorities in an urban environment created scars too prevalent to give way to remorse. I have a last battle to fight with blacks whom I cannot perceive in anything but reduced terms, as harsh and impolitic as you may find that sentiment, and despite my former co-worker's optimistic Jesus advocacy on Facebook. I cannot tell you why I approved Cheryl's friend request. In our energetic adulthood, she possessed what I cannot, charm, a touch of class, like Cosby's television daughters, but the public square is one thing. My private life is another, and black exploitation, attitude, particularly when preying on my former naiveté, progressive guilt, if you like, has taken too much out of me. Trudy Richardson may have backed off because I've fought her like a hellhound, and used the Diamond Park assault to scare both her and Debra Horne as to legal consequence, but in eight years, I had threatening letters under my door once a week, in addition to her unceasing, back stabbing attacks, and no ambulatory white woman would endure that, you know it, and I have to fight back. That is the way it is. I could have cost Presby a significant settlement when I was 31. I did not, and my compensation for that has been to endure 24 years of bigotry and stigma. It makes a criminal record seem perfectly reasonable, let alone my own unapologetic mindset about black culture and its vernacular, and no uptick in foreign national followers under Erdogan's lackadaisical authoritarian posture will change that. Not to say that the dowager isn't intrigued by this influx of Turkish citizenry, but sympathies for Orhan's dialectical balancing between modernism and faith as a national statement doesn't make me an expert on the Ottoman's interchange with Arabia, Slavic influx, and Western alliance. As a people, you represent an ethnic oddity in peculiar geographical circumstances. I can give you a run for your money, with a practice warm up, at a backgammon table, but happy, fluffy, four years before 60? That will take a bit more than Eastern scales strummed to a mesmerizing reverberation on exotic strings: I foment until it's no longer possible, and should have gone to bed at two o'clock, a bad Friday to creak overtired with imperative deadlines nipping palsied tendons, but you baffle me.

Estonia is no more sovereign than Haiti

In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism.-- Graham Greene

Perhaps my emendations on Virily pass muster in the risible sense. I had forgotten that I had saved the piece in the weeks prior to my rupture with Clarity Media, and it was an easy feint to adapt, one all seasoned writers learn, and it is oddly perfect to expand, seasoned with basil, to spice up my non-fiction collection. I will probably not last too long, however, with Natalie's overzealous plagiarism checks, on this Baltic mock up. Niume's staff does it too, but they have sense enough to see I have standards, and leave me alone (I think). Here I can engage the whimsy of telling Vladimir Putin to go fuck himself, so as to secure not dying in senility, but the Baltic millennials would sooner drop an ovum than allow my decorum breaches to fester, not with the bear's breath always in their downwind. Greene himself is one of the most influential least read authors on my psyche, though The End of the Affair is tawdry even with the Feinnes upgrade.
It does illustrate the failure to which I allude far better than I can bully my way into it, even if Bendrix is disillusioned on an entirely different pretext. Greene's voice is not so dissimilar to mine, both brutalized, but where Greene is stark and sacrificial, I am a vengeance ride with the flat of my foot on the gas, waiting to be put down like a rabid travesty. I wasn't able to truly work last night. Groin pain, impaction becoming more symptomatic, I have to coax myself into hatred of Debra Horne's peasant sloping posture to shed anxiety over a lateral transfer fall, and how much longer murder will keep me aloft is anyone's guess: this is part of the failure. In a seven year effort to bind both worlds, as I once hoped I could help Linda Dezenski do, I have transposed the thesis and become a rolling hate crime whose any explicit detail would merit another visit by law enforcement. The same thing might have happened, invariably, if the state had left me institutionalized, instead of matriculating, educating me into indentured servitude, a few steps removed from how harsh it was for Helen Keller. These intestinal battles knock the wind out of me, and my shins need a rest. Then I hope I stabilize, but if I do make a minor news item on a first arrest warrant, I suppose it is unfortunate. I've been driven that far, nearly 60.

Comparative Hypocracy

At that time, in March 2003, was that the right decision?  And now, as we look back on it 13 years later, would it have been better if we’d taken the opposite decision and what would have been the consequences of that opposite decision?  If you can’t answer that question, then you’re a commentator and not a decision maker.--a former superficial narcissist now only respected in the Northern Hemisphere

Although the dowager shuns flash fiction, while she sinks in dread of her fate in her damaged Quantum, brevity can sometimes have great power, especially when a secular Jewish actor so successfully submerges his ethnic identity that fans not salient on the biography tended to believe he actually was Italian, yes, you may make fun of a bitter and nasty savant lashing out in real life at minority wardens last week to the point of no return, really pissed, burning bridges not to be rebuilt with apologies, Peter Falk's very early and forceful portrayal of a religious fanatic on the Alfred Hitchcock Hour's "Bonfire" episode rival's that of Robert Mitchum's psychopath in Night of the Hunter. One might even speculate Falk at least examined Mitchum's film performance, which, if the more youthful Shelley Winter wasn't always a fatalist easy lay who passively  shrouds acceptance of misogynist terminal violence, might have even been more forceful. Not that the Hitchcock teleplays don't play the same conceits, but Bonfire is far more insidious because of Falk's ability to project conviction. It is an amazing performance prefiguring Columbo's tenacity; whereas Mitchum oozes fraudulence which crests to a breaking point. In Cape Fear, he essentially inhabits the same role which triggers threat anxiety in a truly illicit fashion. But Falk's character believes his own psychosis wrapped in Pentecostal fervor-- not to say his preacher was aping this Oklahoma groundswell of sectarian hokum. He kills the old woman in the opening as deftly as any modern nursing home angels of mercy never discovered due to the shortage of forensic pathologists. It is a real to life parallel rarely tackled in the sixties, with the exception of the British film I mentioned years ago-- no energy to spend fifteen minutes digging it up. Later, if I have any serene moments left dashing around trying to shake out a safe landing, but still, Falk's submersion, much like Nimoy's in primitive science fiction, and even Kirk Douglas, to a lesser extent, intrigues, perhaps because of the dowager's tendency toward voluble revelation, she is fascinated by the unsaid, the burrowing of identity in the closet.

Real crips would say I am peddling calcified cow chips to justify my own aesthetic inquiry, but in a non linear fashion, Falk is succinct towards the fusion of subsets, and also an argument against me, and my ferocious scorn. The Modern Catholic might be pleased to know that I feel bad about what I did Friday, but let me cue some people in: my dying aunt has been the only one there for me in recent years, tried to support me, and one covert round with these black women who run this building, and she folds, all eliciting my contempt, now irreconcilable, though I love my aunt. They stressed her out, preyed on her own insecurity about how she's going to die, and interfered in the small amount of familial support I had. I cannot continue on in such an environment; it isn't Christian to me, and in point of fact, my aunt found a custodial person she was going to send over. That's gone. One thing I realized though. The Libertarians are right. Stupid hicks with power can do all sorts of things, and engaging in such petty cruelty as they have, calling my emergency contact behind my back, only confirms my lack of species optimism. I may be afraid of my vulnerability; only natural, but these bitches are nothing, not anymore.

Taking Aim at Corporate

Let me know if this is confusing; having transmitted it, with scant resources, my days are numbered, even as I wake stiff with cramps, crumbling like a chicken wing, I piss a quart of water and make myself rise, with little idea how I am enduring, at all:

Presbyterian Homes
Corporate Office

My name is Joanne Marinelli. I have been a section 811 202 tenant of Riverside since August 1994 as a transfer from Diamond Park, where I became an assault victim in 1993.

Since that transfer, I have been an exceedingly unhappy ADA client who was banned from your dining service in 2005 and still forced to pay for it under building manager Debra Schwab. I sought and received legal representation and was victorious over Presby's blatant institutional cruelty.

Up through 2006, let me cut through the chase, I was placed under psychological duress by a number of minority attendants while trying to be a compliant tenant. I was swindled by a Jehovah's Witness contracted out by Unlimited Staffing, then molested by another female from the same staffing service, again, under Presby's auspices.

You have allowed Trudy Richardson to aggressively intimidate me with assessment teams since 2007, one team under your own contract, and twice since then by Health and Human Services staffers who charged me at my bedside saying that they had been to Inglis House, what's wrong with it?

Let me put this in terms you hypocritical mother fuckers understand: Presby is in part liable for the trauma I experienced in Diamond Park in 1993. I let the corporation off as opposed to litigating it and doing what was best for my health. Not anymore. You can tell the Presbyterian attorneys who sit on your board that I intend to file a hate crimes complaint specifically against Riverside's owner, and the corporation's unwillingness to take any responsibility for the lack of security at the Diamond Units.

If you continue to allow Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne to play mind games with me until I manage to retain legal counsel, you have two options: have me placed under arrest, or begin eviction proceedings against me. I was within my legal rights to sue Presby in 1993 for the home invasion I survived. I didn't pursue the matter because I let Presby's then employee Terri Way talk me out of it, took her advice and came to Riverside. It is an inhumane paradigm for a young and intelligent disabled woman who only and ever wanted a career. I shall not rest until you take responsibility for your acts of bad faith, or I see you at trial. For the record, Senator Pat Toomey's staff has my federal letter of complaint on file.

Sublimating Malcontent

I want to parse my sentiments about Ms. Weiner a little further. I do not resent that a female author who answers for my younger sister's middle brow frustrations found her niche. I emailed her, in light of her public television essay to tell her to take pride in what she achieved and stop ducking, among a few other things. Good in Bed wasn't a bad novel, and I could see why little Stephanie found some resonating quality in Weiner's voice. If I had been able bodied, still battling the family predisposition toward obesity, maybe I would have finished the book, and reconciled with the heroine as she found a stable relationship, but this seems all that American women are able to do, within the confines of the MFA paradigm, and it holds little interest for me. The only difference between Ann Beattie and Jennifer Weiner is a) mechanics-- Weiner is more frank about finger fucking without veering off into an erotic subgenre, whereas I've never read Beattie making the same observations b) urbanity-- Beattie needs Manhattan the way Woody Allen needs jazz and Farrow's adopted daughter; Weiner is more homespun, behind the windowpane c) self-assurance-- which Weiner lacks. This is the only real reason I wrote her, perhaps intimidating her a touch when I told her I had been "reported to the FBI," and as I assumed, my psyche punished me for my independent living center hatreds as black as ocher.

Shins buckled on a bad pivot, shins the surgeons carved so that if they touched the back of my thigh, my ligaments would flare with excruciating pain, asking myself if I wanted to lie there, dehydrate until Thursday and see what would happen and instead I copped and telephoned EMS after a wriggle bout. I landed oddly, and you may trust, when Grimes tells his son "you're never safe," had I waited and not exerted myself to sit up-- Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Presby, all this seemed relatively unimportant-- giving my notice seems neither here, nor there, and I am probably taking the plunge. Not that my father is obligated, and it is his demented wife's property, not his, but I can afford to return to Springfield, and perhaps not everyone is a secret Ariel Castro. [ I am not by the way-- my heinous darkness leans toward quick kills; torture is boring, and my body simply absorbs the pain.]

What I mean is that lack of appreciation is a come down, and I'm utterly indifferent to Jennifer Weiner's own subversive tactics, and wish women would try something else now and then, not only along the lines of Muriel Spark's wicked social intelligence-- it is this which pierces insularity, that matters of taste make our hard work a bucket of polluted water, saturated with cleaning agents.

Solidarity

"Socially, culturally, morally, America has taken on the aspect of a decadent society and a declining nation."-- Patrick J. Buchanan, preface to Suicide of a Superpower

It is rather disconcerting to respond to a GQ image of the stadium exodus in Paris just prior to heating up your fish and chips and then find yourself quoted live on France 24 three hours later, rushing to telephone the dying aunt now holed up with dying brother and my immediate progenitor, my father, exhausted with tales of his dying wife, as fed to you by a sister you listen to, mouthing support you do not mean. Louise is dying, the fleeting nurse and more evincing invalid with her rheumatoid arthritis. "Her rectum is falling out of her ass," says besieged sister, and this makes you, as a cripple who wants to kill her apartment manager on any given Sunday, feel curiously more lucid than the rest of my clan: I am now evidently in charge, hanging by a thread while being quoted by France 24, watching the civilized world simply descend, trying to curb my hyperbole, but truly believing that Caucasian moral decency is imperiled, aware that this is a draconian throwback even to the 19th century. I could tell you too, how I took on Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne and the new one, Gail Sims, last week, losing my temper, standing up to Debra, calling her incompetent, a lout, realizing my contempt for these mocha women isn't worth my soul.

Louise has Sundowning Syndrome, to hear my sister tell it, while I continue to accrue a better, diminished, picture of Ben Carson, my mild interest in the black boy who did good in Detroit waning. He fooled Nightline, evidently, those many years ago, the carefully groomed and educated minority now revealing levels of bombast which alarm the establishment, reminding yourself you have little idea who the establishment is. But the generalized anxiety among the fractious conservative class seems to convey "What if Trump or Carson gets the nomination, or worse, becomes president if the edifice of ossified Clinton centrism cracks?"

My response to this is cynicism: So what? Neither the smirking monkey with his evangelical definition nor the mogul-shyster would have the actual power to do much damage, not immediately, in this facade of a democratic republic where a wastrel of a reactionary like me gets quoted on live international television looking for social media filler about the latest attack on Europe which has broken many congruent hearts.

If I in turn had the power to generate hawkish policy, I'd say its time for the third world war. Assassinate Assan Rouhani of Iran, dissolve Syria, expose the Russian armed forces for their ineptitude, and so forth, as withering in rhetorical sentiment as papier-mache, while I was quoted on France 24, trivialized spastic on the margins, preferring to die in battle. Ludicrous, my family decimated by chemotherapy, innocent Western blood flowing in the age of a troubled new century molded by the fanaticism of a nefarious Saudi named Osama. The disintegration of Airbus 321 was tactically effective. It caused a united retrenchment. The attack on Paris, in contrast, will backfire, in expected ways and otherwise. All I can do is regret benighted choices, observe the web of familial disease, crack ghoulish jokes. Consider the hospice industry with disgust. People need to know when it is time to make peace with death, and my stepmother, and my father's sister Marie, and her brother, need to stop receiving extraordinary medical intervention. They will not do it of course, but it would free up resources to ease the stringency of the welfare state we all hate. The brutality of a cause, the brutality of centralized institutional paradigms, these are flip sides of the same coin.

Evening of Your Holiday Weekend

I followed the Huffington Post writer Chris Peaks briefly, and if I had a dialogue with him about being on the street, putting up with Presby's management and pressure tactics is trivial, but through most of my working career, I've seen the price of indigence, whether for paraplegics, those with clinical depression, those whose delusions were so bad they were basically potted plants. If I give in and make the best of it, biting my lips until they bleed, it's not going to help. As a company, Presby has intimidated me so badly, in another 24 months I'll turn into one of my mental health clients in outer space.

I have spent huge swaths of time literally imprisoned in my unit due to broken medical equipment, at which point management attacks. Not assists. Attacks. I am helpless in an ill fitting manual wheelchair, stressed after yet another minority solicits me for sex, and Debra Horne shows up with reinforcements, due to the fact that I pose an existential threat. I cannot stay here and keep going through this people. I'll break, and given what I've been through attempting to reenter the labor force, I'm no longer a desirable gambit. 

Not that I've sent out 50 resumes, but I'm at a significant disadvantage, stigmatized through the veneer of supposed neutrality.

Debra Horne is a criminal and belongs in prison, the civil method of asserting what should be done with minority Nazi's. I am not trying to be amusing here. Alzheimer's is one thing; what Presby has done to me as a disabled woman is another, and I cannot simply rebound after 30 years of blistering *pluralist* shields for corruption. Trudy and Debra have harassed and attempted to intimate me once too often, and I am filing charges. 

Disgraced Under the Torch

"I believe in genocide," Robert Downey Jr, not emulating Michael Gambon

James Gandolfini begins to be noticed in his supporting roles, in one of those mysterious processes of the sudden obituary for a performer one never knew, like the old friend in your back pocket; his support was small but pivotal in She's So Lovely.

How much the man is to be blamed for the muddle of The Last Castle is open to debate, but he hit the requisite notes as the resentful subordinate. In Fallen, (98), he is supposed to be the false feint to Denzel's righteous Hobbes, but Sigel's cinematography makes everyone look diabetic, and one wants to rush to give Goodman insulin rather than fear his conversion. If Hoblit is connotative about race, it is not implicit, and his unwitting template for the now tiresome bro series, The Supernatural, is not to the director's lasting credit.

The film strives for nuance, however, in a more ambitious fashion than the show. Azazel is a stand in for our inhumanity to ourselves. No obstinacy can eliminate it, just as strength of will cannot eliminate vulnerabilities that thick set matrons, their brains made of alligator stool blockage, will prey upon.

My manual wheelchair flip in 2007 was humiliating enough, lying for three, four hours latched onto a belt buckle which threatened my organs. How many days pass, Trudy, a well trained Oprah gibbon, launches her assessment team upon me, always on a day I have something to resolve, shamble-ass Debra Horne bellowing in the hallway "Do you want to hurt yourself?"

A former vocational counselor from Mississippi's civil service, and then they call out the big guns in April of this year, Department of Health and Human Service assessors. Do they inspect the work the rental agent hasn't done? No. Do they care how many of these aides violated my personal dignity? No, they use their ability to walk to intimidate me, rushing my bedside, before I held their utter impotency at bay on second visit at my door. I've had enough. I am not going to forget, and I'll break the law, if necessary, to punish this cruelty. This is your energy for the vengeance fueling hell. I forced my disability center to file a grieve with DHS, nothing happened, but this same department jumps through hoops for minorities scoping my back as a target, making themselves fools in the process. The state may not fall anytime soon, but bureaucratic procedures at this pro forma level are a travesty. I am prosecuted for my debt on one end and my disability on the other. Why not simply restore me to employment and relocate me? No, my failure means my body will be used now in PA for slave labor. 

In the velvet

This reflection restored all his self possession. -- Stendhal

What I enjoy about Zoo, despite the fact that James Patterson is an old school hack of the sort to which I do not stoop, is precisely the fact that it is stupid entertainment none of us need take seriously. I want to follow it and have seen only the second episode, alas, mainly to be blamed on apathy, running the gamut of negativity, the rage to strike back juxtaposed against every transfer now a risk of focused poise. I really do hate Debra Horne, Riverside's cut rate shamble ass enforcer, and I would not necessarily stop hating her or Trudy Richardson if I ever get the fuck away from the Presbyterian modal before it is too late. I do not know how far I'd go mentally over the injustices perpetrated on me, as imaginary infliction of violence is one thing, and what I lived on the razor edge of the badlands off North Broad Street is another. Brandon Phillips was a coward, which is, in essence, why I'm still alive. He was also stupid, as, in the time he was taking to subdue me, the exterminator may have gained access to my unit, and Brandon would have gotten caught, in the act. Debra Horne, in her intimidation tactics, perpetuates the cruelty of her race, which I only knew by default, in Home of the Merciful Savior, although, to my memory, there were not many African Americans who worked the wards in Shriners where mio padre had me butchered, latter day. 

Poise is important to Europeans. The French make it a raison d'etre, but it runs the gamut of Western Europe with the exception of my ethnic group, the Romans. I am 45 pages in to Cormac's other notorious book, Blood Meridian, and realized I could care less. McCarthy is a master tactician who runs hula hoops around James Patterson's commercial emphasis, and yet it is Patterson's revenge fantasy which consoles me. All I have to do is touch foreheads with the king of beasts, and the lion king would turn my enemies into viable cadavers for honeycombs, but of course, that is play acting. Actual retribution has a price, and leaves its mark, ever to be done effectively as a form of argument, this is a fine thread in the needle's eye, the main thesis of Cormac's argument. It isn't his skill I reject necessarily, but I still balk, at what, precisely, I think, is the lack of the toll on his protagonists, even when they take their punishment, they move from point A to Z unchanged. This is not how it scores itself on personal experience.

What I am trying to get at in the controversy over Shakespeare's genius does not relate to factual accuracy. Just as I'm not quite a Jamesian, I am certainly no expert on the English Renaissance, though Kermode and Jerry lifted fascinating curtains. If William served as a shield for the provocateur of a man who was an Earl and had the inside skinny on Elizabeth's insecurities, then that shield being so successful cannot be discredited, and must be seen as an essential component of the times, regardless of which camp has the evidence on its side, but there was controversy surrounding attribution of Alexandre Dumas' authorship, namely in the name of race baiting. If we use Dumas' characterizations of royalty as a model, there is no reason a man named Shakespar could not have created R2, R3, H4 and 5. The lack of a personal library after his death is not evidence that he did not have access to Hollinshed. And getting lost in trying to prove this theory over that one is a problem of tunnel vision, a cautionary tale in its own right about levels of investment.

Revenge Fantasy

"A Feast for February," is an unpublished constant, a tie to my youth in Dixon Hall, sitting at my desk then in Chester as I am sitting at Tom Reid's desk here on North 23rd street, wishing I could give Riverside's owner a coronary by demolishing his building and perk my engines up after that in a wild chase with federal agents where I'd win, overthrow the constitutional government of the US, to revert to an old idea, the city state, which actually still exists, beneath the surface, if we take the Vatican as the Medieval model for regional principalities. "February" was written before Philadelphia made its substantial contribution, other than medical and institutional torture, to my well endowed social fear, based on the same premise as Quindlen's book, as Michael Apted adapted it in Enough. My protagonist kills a taxi driver in New York who was stalking her. Violently. I don't explain certain things in the story, but like many things when I am on, it was a driven piece, fueled by the hatred of the damage done by the scum my mother allowed to damage her children, fueled by my hatred of knowing I'd never snare a good hippie. A later editor who later changed her mind liked how I depicted violence against women in the piece, hence whatever Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell think they observe in my antagonism toward them as rental agents attempting to put me in another institutional portfolio has always been there. I'm simply older, more ready to illustrate my contempt for black competency, regardless of how offensive this is to minorities. Many blacks openly tell me to my face they think I'm possessed, and you do not see that.

J-lo's character goes off grid and wins, kills the misogynist, who has the ability to do what he does to her through the convenience of privilege, and Apted gets canned for a sharply delineated film with a beneath the radar approach-- but he isn't wrong. The law cannot rectify the punishment battered women sustain. Me? I get stalked by Debra Horne and her assessment team, who insist I return to receiving services through a corrupt disability center which expurgates as many people as it lifts, and then I ratchet up the volume, and dare to deny Trudy Richardson a fifth inspection of my unit in as many months, and play a game of send in the clowns with Department of Health civil servants who apparently like naked spastic women. Must get them off, maybe they have a vested interest in fetish porn. 

Apted's solution for Jennifer's working class doormat is a mechanism, a vicarious pleasure for those who cannot create a careful plan for departure. The only thing I can do is seek self-reliant alliances, fall on deaf ears, or sacrifice myself in a noble death, or give up and go wait to die in a home like Inglis. Such options make terrorism appealing, especially when one knows the clock is ticking. If viewers find that frightening, I never had a say in what orthopedic surgeons did to my body. My little brother, relenting to be one of my followers, had some years to get conceived when I was defecating and being deformed in plaster casts, and I've earned the right to end my last viable years as I see fit, even if this means I force the state to kill me.

Mirage

"Life had finally caught up with me, and I was utterly overwhelmed."-- Peter Noble, Winning the War against Worry

Digital data processing doesn't make our lives easier; it merely concentrates it, and then we'll need applications to manage it all, forgetting key things crucial to what we do. Technology optimism is thus relative.

My lack of compliance, while not as aggressive as the slew of notable suicides in recent years, will enlarge my vulnerability as much as my intransigence is self protection, and beneath the surface, if I am homeless by the end of July, I do not care, whether I last hours, or weeks, before I'm transported, dumped, back to institutional paradigms of childhood and career, forced onto a catheter, but it isn't that I don't want to live, nor even that I do not want domestic assistance. I want to decide these things, not have an indomitable, stupid woman from Mississippi decide them for me. I never heard of Dr. Brandt, until his hanging became another titillating spectacle we need to cure depression tableau of the moment.

It seems to me, given what women such as I have to field, that he was a sissy, so I'd fall into Sarah Bernstein's caviler satirists category. The argument there being when the cruel joke is a way of coping as opposed to a hate crime (zzzz). He had money, a successful career, and I lost my savings being afraid of a tootsie roll like Trudy Richardson, afraid of her power to continually ostracize me, and she and Debra, their civil service enforcers, have been preeminently successful on that score, just as the seniors under Debra Schwab were, literally harassing me. I do not need it. A police officer using force against me for a deliberate, or developmental disruption, is more honest. Broken primates suck up money.

I'm not entirely unhappy either, which might surprise you, because whatever happens, I will always fight to be free, on my terms, with my awesome, ferocious mind, tired of being a passive anomaly for compassionate problem solvers like an old flame. Yes, I've made mistakes, and hired a nice floozy off Craigslist named Karina who was the beginning of the end of ambulatory treading on my personal dignity because she wanted to help, by throwing out all my documents and some personal effects, and Trudy wanted to know, "Why are you blaming me?"

Because my life has to be destroyed for some standard I could never meet in the first place.

Brubaker's Valkerie

"My colleagues have a lasting vocation, that is to say, they see in the ecclesiastical calling a long continuance of dining well and having a warm suit." Stendal, p144

I stopped to watch The Last Castle this afternoon, as opposed to remaining steadfast to Georges Simenon recycles. I was never particularly huge over Redford, but he too is an ailing link to my vanishing boomer lexicon, a language where one of the last real boomer superstars knows what its like not to have Paul Newman, and so I made a reluctant choice, not sorry to see the late Gandolfini in action up against the straight arrow icon. 

The story wants to be a real world metaphor, like the late 80's Big Night, Tucci's critically acclaimed love child, but seemingly doesn't make a great deal of sense. I certainly couldn't figure it out as anything more than a pissing contest where your crime doesn't define you until it does? Irwin's piece de resistance appeals to me, of course, and like the damaged Aquilar, Redford as Irwin sacrifices his superlative status as the last American superstar, for an idea about fundamental fairness, or something, I am not entirely sure, the point taken that Colonel Winter, like Aquilar, loses self control in just that moment it takes to violate military code, to prevent Irwin's last act of defiance.

I've been thinking about my personal course of action, as forcing police officers to arrest me, the stress of that would finish me, even if the last thing a cop cares about is making an angry quadriplegic angrier still, and why can't she accept that she needs an attendant? Housekeeping help? I never did not accept it; that isn't the point. I have taken a series of blows from which recovery has been difficult, and this Christian landlord of mine, whatever my slavering hatred, has liabilities, aside from Ms. Richardson's ability to terrorize me, and I'm too angry to stand down, stopping just on the verge of letting her goad me into insulting her last fall. I cannot keep standing down on these matters, and if I have to earn myself a jacket, then the state has another notch in its belt.

Monica Carr was one of my first so called aides, during an early episode without a power chair. Welfare assigned her to me for 12 hours a week. I actually needed the help, and she could not do it, reported me to her police district for harassment. There was no Trudy google-girl then, and Debra Horne was conspicuously absent when another woman named Star, from Homemaker Services, tried to steal my commission as a contract journalist for HTP. Can I trust discussing this with O'Brien? I'll try; then I'm calling the cops, filling a complaint, and appealing to AG Harris, who is supposed to be aggressive.

In the abstract

The live in partner is not a bad idea for a woman of my age, but the matches are exhausting me, illustrating how fucking useless the activist cacophony of celebration around the ADA is. I telephoned one or two listings from the resource site, responded to perhaps 5 email addresses on my own before I scrolled down far enough to see the automated response instructions, deleted some 50 odd emails on my own, and the staying meme for those of my generation is that we're already dead. I certainly feel that way, and yet, if I call the 9th ward police division to file a criminal complaint against my building manager Trudy Richardson and her social worker Debra Horne, am I hastening my demise or will special victims take me seriously?

I've sustained overwhelming, systemic abuse on attendant care, and no one seems to give a flying fuck that I lack the endurance to keep taking it. I am in a very bad mood, everything hurts, and I am trying to calculate if I can get myself up if I slip in the shower stall a second time.

Presumptive Rebuttal

"The middle class counts the most," Larry Summers

I feel in the back of my mind that at least part of Medium's Daily Digest feed is a rebuttal to my inflammatory Blogger stance. It is undoubtedly not the case, but I never claimed not to be flawed, and as a flawed imp, I am always arguing, need to be argued back to. Altucher's piece is nicely self-effacing without being an unforgiving turn off, but if I applied his logic to my current plight, I go back to LIFE WITH NURSING AIDE FOLLIES (I could write a fucking book, and half my twitter kindle promotionists say "that's the ticket!") But how can I work when my charming minority warders assault me with one after another civil servant? In 2007, when Debra Horne surrounded me with the assessment team utilized by Presbyterian Homes, my uncle had just returned my battered P-200 I am sitting in now. I offered to give up the cats, but fresh from Eddy's gluttony, there was no way in hell I was about to go through another 50 browbeaten women. 

"We don't want you to give up the cats." That is a racist response, and in the back of her mind, Debra Horne knows it. If Riverside Presbyterian has made me venomous, it has also changed Debra Horne from her first days here in a denim smock with matching pumps. Back then, she looked like she had fallen off something, and was uncertain. We've watched each other, two ugly women, alter within our respective casements, not for the better. She wears a hard, astonished look, with that vomiting orange hair dye women of her type don, because we still share the neural responses to a decorative bird's nest. And I, in turn, have been engraved with stress, and damaged my already damaged jaw line accordingly. Last week, she stood behind the kids from Department of Health and Human Services taking notes while I challenged her about my 22 years here. The boys were bigots too, but kids. What's wrong with a Bedlam like Inglis House, indeed. How any sane person can ask that is beyond me. It is not so much a victory or vindication against Presby. It is a corporate motherfucker and the right wing with whom I have ideologically aligned probably own stock, if reading me assume to themselves I'll have to give it up sooner than later-- this is what Altucher's least resistance, applied to me, would mean, and it will be over my dead body.

Hence my species pessimism. 

Sherwood Forest

Patrick Stewart makes the resolution of class conflict something of a utopian uptick in Next Generation. "Humanity solved its economic problems," he tells one of the series varied and populous humanoid inhabitants, swept under the rug for the kids, in order to glide over real world pain and make it easy, like Philadelphia's nonchalant and urbane progressives, but 31 million Medicaid recipients in the US is not exactly something to rejoice over. Single payer systems, be they federalized benefits, Medicare, VA benefits, criss crossed under the imperiled ACA, is not only bankrupting the US, it is destroying American initiative, and every member of my family, barring my father, thinks Pennsylvania's social service system is a candy dispenser, while my landlord is using a rear guard action against me, a blunt force trauma that is akin to warding me off like a zoological aberration, because I am attempting to curtail costs by declining what is an abusive system by default, and they'll win, because I'm too tired, Presbyterian's management is deliberately exacerbating my social anxiety, my sense of vulnerability, to lock me into a paradigm which will only add to duress, as opposed to gratitude. Even behaviors from paraprofessionals, or idiots like Karina, which cannot be classified as abuse, still lead to bad outcomes. I've detailed as much in past posts, 

So I took council with my father, paid the room mate finder the not exorbitant fee they asked, left my link on Craigslist, and good luck with that. The public policy guy I spoke to after Sims charming town hall bit, I told him I was so unhappy where I was that just giving my notice would make me happy, and it would, in the vein of Alan Greenspan's "irrational exuberance," and I myself acknowledged the desire wasn't rational. "No, but it is an argument," the young man said, and he was correct. I'm being treated like a prisoner by a Protestant corporate entity whose very negligence contributed in significant part to my stress disorder. Oh, Trudy and Debra and custodial staff will say what Miss Eddy did in terms of her conduct was "wrong," and beneath the surface, the tenants who remain and survived the intra-building renovations can count their blessings, but the building, the property, supersede the value and the dignity of the lives they house. The company once had an on-call tenant housekeeper whose position was eliminated with her retirement, hence the burden of securing reliable assistance falls to the tenant, and even when I purchased Tim's labor, or bought another company, nothing they did changed much, and a CNA isn't going to really care. They deal with nursing home eligible bodies day in and day out, changing diapers and bedpans, and like police officers, need emotional armor.

Eventually, this is all going to come crashing down on the generations ahead of me, and if I am in pain and want to stop having my body constrained in brutal institutional fashion, I do not see this as unreasonable. Disability activists may, but the only choice I have is centralized regiments or decentralized regiments with the same "N.H.I.," factor, to ferret out a Cold Case catch phrase. I'd be delighted to stay on with robotic intervention as opposed to the human kind. A programmed device doesn't have opportunistic needs to exploit, doesn't make judgments over hygiene or poverty. I am sure Japanese intel will be right over to donate an I, Robot to alleviate my justified fear of more of the same.

Paradigm failures like mine cost far too much money.

Concentric Roulette

"I will always be a little more miserable than you." Charlie Sheen

Oh, I'm weak alright, because one thing consulting for Liberty Resources did to me was terrify me in relation to Inglis House, and the people who are maintained there aren't all dying, but the institutional paradigm takes a huge toll regardless of maintenance stratification. Wheelchair users aren't the only ones who suffer, which is why nursing human abuse is a litigation generator, and yet I can't fight my age, which isn't so much about my ass hitting the laminated pan in my shower stall: I fall periodically, but Trudy and the minions are now criminalizing it, and I am now exactly where I started in my twenties, thick, indigent, sitting in a stained T, my underlying desperation really akin to Dante's viciousness in The Inferno. I can only write without terror at Presby's power in small increments, and know when the time comes, I cannot live a virtually immobile life, like my ex, Frank, and with kudos to my sister, and to sympathizers like the fine biographer Sheldon Novick, who has a finesse and focus I'll never achieve, pills are not going to resolve this.

I have avoiding delving into suicide too deeply; it's passe really, but the mortality train is on my ass, and I apparently will never break away from cruel black matron enforcers on which my family consigned me and I later, subconsciously, consigned myself. If I had understood the weave of corruption in public housing before I over rode my parents on Diamond Park, I would have never have done it, and now it is all too late.

I'm going to put in a search for room mates and see what happens, I do not know. There are areas of the city that would destroy what cognizance I have left if officials punt me there for being stiff necked: Hunting Park, or Kensington, which is the equivalent of a West African shanty town, but economically is all I can now afford. I'd break there, break in Inglis, and two black woman here where I live are applying the institutional equivalent of blunt force trauma to lock me back into an abusive system.

I have the need to be, this morning, a memoirist in pique, which is much more indulgent than the focus a wonderful scholar like Sheldon applies, and need to find more time to spend with it, except not just now, because I have to apply such objective plaint as I have to give myself the space I need in the short window I have with my lateral transfer method. Take a look at Sheldon's work, his optimism tower's above the misfortune of brain lesions, bodily contortions, and the fear of healthier humans in reaction to it. The ADA hasn't really changed anything, at the core. Debra Horne, at bottom, fears me, and hence the truncheon applied against my biting contempt toward her, an adversarial relationship where she has all the chits to her advantage, and it is sad commentary on the welfare state.