Living Pncers

Presbyterian Homes, in its commitment to good works, stressed out Marie Varenas, to threaten me indirectly through her about taking me to court to put me away, and I don't see how this is in any form a merciful Christianity. I myself am nearly beyond the point of caring, the ugly words of a dying woman almost out of her mind in her own right. She agrees with me about the attendants, that they are to be feared, but today it was "Who the hell are you? You don't have any rights." I held off, as she is near the end of her life, as I'm near the end of having access to a platform, without believing I'll get lucky. I am not angry with a father's sister in severe decline, but rather the corporate office adding to her stress, and I plowed through their Spring Mills numbers until I found the right one, at 4:50 pm Tuesday, 610-834-1001, and intend to get further combative with them tomorrow. I made hints with Liberty on the Rocks, knowing better but hinting anyway, that I'd have to go underground if I'm to survive at all, but I'm not particularly intimate with their rotational culture, whether their new to the conversation, or regulars, and I'm certainly not in a position to earn money in computer sciences, though I suppose I do okay with the limited level of literacy I have. 
Walking out of section 202, to turn an idiom, will impact my disability insurance, barring I find a temporary mailing address. I told Trudy Richardson to shut her damn mouth, always talking over me, with that innate minority minstrel sensibility bred into the descendants of sharecroppers. "Why do I have to do it?" She'd rather I give my notice, since their notice of eviction will be a lengthier process. You obviously don't read her, nor observe the reasons for my antagonism toward a google-eyed jackass with her gapped front teeth. If I could, I'd critically injure her, though literally hordes could be tapped to replace her. Perhaps her question was "Why make me do it?" But we hung up on each other, me with my torch for competency and justice, and her-- well, this is how Presby makes their money, ruthless, battering, what has my obstinacy achieved? Padre: don't get bent out of shape, but it is a bit late for that, as I'm fighting my way to the sewer, evidently. I, with all this intelligence, all this promise, not knowing if O'Brien lost a local election. Something. His website is inactive.  

Fear in the Digital Age

I wanted to discuss Google's power, without overreacting, because I remain uncertain why they are moving my domain from WHOIS. I am intelligent, but don't quite grasp why Blogger's upgrade means I'm being exported; it is either procedural, or some sort of majority flagging is going on. I don't understand the email and never succeeded in getting anything made clear in their forums, and have a week to try to get a live representative to explain things to me. Perhaps it just isn't worth the head winds. Maybe getting familiar on Yabberz had something to do with it, but I cannot know that, even if I ask. It wouldn't achieve anything, but the time and energy I've spent putting my soul into this account is all I have, whether it appalls viewers or ignites pity, or occasional appreciation, this is it, and forcing me to make it a personal account no one sees except by request is pointless, regardless of who has been embarrassed.

(Apparently nothing untoward happened, but I still don't get it, as my twitter account is still secured on a WHOIS platform.) It also isn't fair that Google may be earning money on my posts but cannot make re-mometization simpler for me as a disadvantaged woman over 50, even if you might say I have other platform choices.)

I am going to die soon. My body can't take the stress, regardless of corporate unease, and leaving this human stain is necessary, even if I understand the monopolistic gravitation toward moderation which my mettle won't obey, since mortality overtaking us creates urgency. I've become blunter, without going so far as to try to draw Trump's supporters to my advantage. If I cannot get justice for the cruelty of my life, I intend to go down fighting. One year, Marie said, "you belong in the street!" Because I don't let up. 23 year old university students shouldn't be trapped in section 202 housing for life simply due to the fact that they are power chair users who never guite solved the commute issue. I hate Presbyterian Homes, and by extension, the whole 202 system. When Denny O'Brien advocates the virtue of yoga classes, how the holy fuck am I supposed to enter into that? To make a grievance threadbare, Liberty Resources and Linda Dezenski were my segregated family, as was the dying gargoyle on the eighth floor.

My mother, ten years ago, maybe more, asked why I couldn't just live my life. There is nothing left of it to live.

Prima Facie Periodontitis

I cannot even afford to go to the drug store to get self treatment for tooth decay, sent Toomey's people the most frank email I've ever addressed to a politician. Should I be worried that I'm annoyed? I could give you names but shall not. On the off chance any of them have read this account and figure I'm too hot, well, I've been paying paying that price, but blame liberalism, regardless of conservative hypocrisy, which I've never denied. I know a tad about Toomey's positions, and I don't care. That is not why I want in, calculating what buttons I need push. Thus far it's ambiguous, but between Dennis O'Brien, and gadfly Brian Sims, whose name I just fucking forgot, my cynicism about city council, and playing soccer with Toomey's offices, representative politics and ideology seem a bit of a crock. Yes, these are legislators, not necessarily victims rights advocates, and I'm a sow with little golden quality time ahead, a hypocrite too, because I've refrained from insulting Sims outright. He's just a cog in the wheel, but he is, nonetheless, a faggot attorney with a rock solid base-- not that I have a particular reason to be antagonistic, but I asked a man for help leaving an uneducated, nearly imbecile constituency on which he depends, and then got postcards from The Watermark about attendant care. Fuck Sims, putting it mildly-- not that Toomey cares either, but if my motives to get behind him is to strike back, let's see what happens, if I am not on the verge of dubious medical outcomes.

Caught Between Two Metaphors and the Antiquity of Scheduled Broadcast

Entertainment media blitzes do more harm than good on occasion. I know so much about The Planet of the Apes reboot franchise, which started in 2011, thanks to the myopia of Charlie Rose, that I am deterred, but Caesar is an apt stand in for the underlying rage of repression which leads to instability, and yet one loves Sam Neill as the very definition of a taciturn dream catch. The films run into each other and will invariably rerun, but both are useful to me. ABC and the CW will heed the siren and replay them as soon as possible. I'm leaning toward the older political satire in full, due to the fact that Rupert Wyatt's pretensions were so laden Rose made fun of them to his face. Caesar, of course, is the ultimate libertarian made legend. Spastics may have the same fervor when appearing before City Council, as Denny O'Brien isn't going to be let off that easily. (Alas, another obscure reference, but a writer in reduced circumstance has two hours of nagging felines prior to meal preparation.)

The Polanski Triad

"The reality of her terror is made palpable by our shared experience. The audience  is given insight into her deteriorating world and cannot help but identify with her."--Julia Ain-Krupa, Roman Polanski: A Life in Exile, p.41

There are very few films which actually deal with tenement predicaments as a central motif, and Polanski only succeeded at it, in his attempts, by making his movies into a horror trilogy. When I am well enough, if the dowager has any true resurgence left, nursing a head cold in these leonine winds, a head cold apparently days in the making, I'll buy The Tenant, if necessary, and then bread my meats in a shake-n-bake. I saw the film many times, and know that, as the last in his series, it was about a man desperately attempting to warn himself about losing who he thought he was, after skirting the edges of where he shouldn't have ventured, but I can't remember the entire narrative, just the nail polish scene, the body cast (and don't we know a thing or two about skin yellowing after a year in plaster paris) and Shelley Winters behaving like a fatalistic concierge, which leads us to the issue of gentrification and a basic liberal anger.

Sure, I have the rage of many a disabled activist; I wrote as much in earlier posts, but an overweening level of classification is as evil as too much austerity on the other end of the spectrum, which is why Congress needs to revisit public housing. Like many other Americans, once I was screwed over by former supervisors and a paradigm into which I was indoctrinated with contradictory platitudes, I faced the same problems as the rest of you who lose jobs: harassment by debt collectors, particularly after default, the breakdown of my medical equipment, and months, literally months, of what felt like hostile captivity. Between 99 and 08 my life was almost a living hell, excepting my wedding plans, and now, eight years later, how in god's name am I supposed to find the strength of will to remain competitive, returning to substantial gainful activity? I can't ignore it. Federal law is punitive, regardless of my age and symptoms, and Treasury will, eventually, garnish what little I subsist on. This is why my fury is enough to dissuade Councilmen, even those designated as "special needs," because we do end up feeling like Catherine in Repulsion, protecting our body from scavengers of our innocence, or Mia and Roman overwhelmed by an entrapment conspiracy. We may not have the solution to the problem of stacking ourselves up on top of one another, a plate of pancakes, but it is a living hell when we're shackled to confinement against our will. It did not cost Presbyterian Homes anything to allow me to change my mind, leaving the unit in Diamond Park, right off Temple University's campus, for Riverside's internecine back bite, but it cost me; a career, an extension of a hostile environment, my confidence, self esteem. Any public housing lawyer would say how lucky that is. Yep.

Dense in interesting ways

"Hate can be exciting. Haven't you noticed?--George Macready

When I started posting in this sorry experiment of a personal voice, I picked LiveJournal's platform on which to do it before switching to Blogger, an entity which doesn't like me, as you know, because I've come very close to using language illegally. In the abstract that sounds silly, doesn't it? But -- ah, don't let me start about seeking out military snipers. It makes the depth of my pain inconsequential, and Philadelphia's ... (marginally white) underclass treats it that way. A somewhat blind smoker named Richard says he'd buy me an Uzzi, and let us simply stipulate for the record that we're all grateful spastic has no capacity to handle firearms, as Richard the smoker jokes with me. There is Finicum, and the tape of his death, San Bernardino, and Gubler's Dr. Spencer in analytic cadence: "Women rarely engage in violence unless they're angry for sustained lengths of time." What we're willing to do, what we're able to get away with, are perhaps two different things, and it's killing me. If I could walk, and you know this, Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne would know their place; I'd out rank them and they would never have the power to humiliate me the way they've both done for years. If I could walk I wouldn't be here, regardless of the economic circumstances, and in 2009 I just surfed, afraid I'd get in trouble, which I managed to do anyway, and said, "hmm, let me try this," and where and how do I wind up? In a service provider for Russia's bicameral mindset! An appropriate platform effort for a foul, sometimes rabid get help you need medication savant.

Yes. The only rational check I have holding me in when it comes to Presby's pecuniary competence is the fact that the sheer number of stupid people doing the job Trudy and Debra and Mike and Niles and supervisory agents therein do out number the rest of us and I'd have to be tried for a war crime if I got rid of them. Look at the website people. Look. I inducted myself into this when I was 23 years old. Twenty fucking three. I was in graduate school, and living in this type of system where niggers in the most horrific conditions dropped dead like flies and traumatized me repeatedly, almost killed me, and then a google-eyed bitch comes in as the new brownie for a transsexual failed internist's insistence on renovations, I nearly died again, and that after the lover this thing fucks got moved around on a chess board with me so I could default on my debt, and google-eyed brownie girl attacks me because she is afraid of menacing quadriplegic, and you all want civility. It isn't nice to tell the 42 president who officiated the funeral of King's widow to shut the fuck up, and it is rather insidious to envision the Secret Service killing me over impulse control, written in highly volatile language and deleted.

Do I obsess the presidency? No, and pose no threat to them even if I had a coronary in giving them a frank exchange, but god as my witness, Philadelphia is going to change its paradigm before I am dead, and I will not allow people like Debra Horne to be so cruel and vapid towards people like me in the future, and disability centers that engage in contiguous illegality will be dissolved and punished, and Philadelphia City Council, and the state legislature are going to either heed or imprison me, and the attorney general of the United States had better have an ear to the ground.

Spastic believes she solved her befuddlement over accessing WIFI, which I really need to do. Stupid cripple, eh? 

I am not a liberal

Do not think that because I hate my landlord that I'm a liberal. Presby's power comes as a direct result of congressional classification, and while I am sure this Councilman-At-Large, the go to gentleman for special needs, is a sweetheart, I remember this bastard, his wife, rumors of the black mafia and the corruption swirling around city government under John Street, whom I met, and the look in the mayor's eye said "be nice to the retard," which I did not countermand. I had a craving for a burger and threw on a threadbare skirt and one of Monica Carr's blouses absent the reserve of a brassiere, and when I saw Street in the parking lot, I posed an incredulous interrogative, "Is that the Mayor?" then rushed home seized with fervor to crucify the bastard with the voice of New Republic finesse, and my confidence cratered, unfortunately.

Not that I had not achieved my goal at fusion before, with my appearance in the Inquirer's metro section, but a TNR byline would have sustained it, and now achieving that is problematic. Marty Peretz, whatever his flaws, was acute, sharp, penetrating in the selection of his contributors, which at times aroused my zeal. This is not TNR under Hughes as a privileged candy man.

What am I, in the political sense of the term? An annihilator with libertarian sympathies, close to making myself expendable because women in case management have absolutely no fucking idea what they're doing, and Presby's owners aren't about the good works of their doctrine. Persecuting my non-compliance is a business model to them. Bad things happen to good people? Let it go? How many bad things? If my sister lost one of her children, I doubt she'd continue with the pragmatic conduit role of reigning me in. My mother is dead because she miscarried, birthed two cripples, one who should have been euthanized, and lost a son. My stepmother is her friend from nursing school my father married to survive, and she is an invalid on her last legs. If I was Louise I would not hesitate to bake arsenic in almond cookies and consume them. She hates my sister, Benjamin and I, which is probably transference. My father is a misogynist and doesn't love her.

I have serious doubts about whether or not I would have been better off if the 1963 neo-natal unit had shut off my oxygen. I am not exactly sure by what magic I had prevailed, but what is in store for me? Bed ridden dependence on the descendants of Jim Crow or Hispanic drug mules, and I'll be damned if I'm going through that, mark my words.

It might be too much icing to assert Dr. Carson has my admiration, but I do respect his honesty despite my racism, and it may be a tempered racism, as I do not want to engage in slaughter due to ethnicity. My virulence comes from forced diversity, my intolerance based on the fact that I cannot define my own boundaries because the system says I cannot discriminate. The question remains, however, if a mixed race constitutional scholar disillusioned our expectations, why we expect any better from a conservative neurosurgeon. I'm thinking about doing a piece on Carson.

Discrimination will always be part and parcel of the human dynamic, hence, Imperial Companions comes a bit late to my table. I ain't working for you, but I should never have had to be defeated by inner city violence and the polemic of HUD's lies when it comes to housing low income tenants. It might be hard for me to die like a militant, but that is my preference, if it comes to that.

I bought more cashews. They make me happy, but just a handful now and then.

Little Big Man

"If you don't agree with them, they turn on you." -- an associate reading my anti-homosexual posture

At my age, attraction to the opposite sex is another ball game, particularly when feminine hygiene is complicated by indigence, symptoms, and the only contours available on your palette range from caustic cynicism to moral outrage: Whenever Black Adder and I are alone before the anarchists show up, I am uncertain as to whether the Libertarian group leader and I are engaged in mortal combat over progressive disillusionment or conservative fealty. But we had a bead on each other Tuesday evening, as I told him about a denigrating incident with a black security guard over the holiday, and heard myself with a small degree of shock using a slur on a public sidewalk, uttered full of hurt, and Adder objecting, "Go after what they do, not who they are!" And I was ready to eat the kid for lunch with the retort that what we are often informs upon what we do. Then we let it pass.

I am not sure how I've become this person, but what contributed to it is the greater crime of Brian Coleman's platitudes in 2007 during Riverside's horrible renovations. I nearly went berserk during the whole affair, and wound up physically injured. The only *help,* I received was my father driving over, looking at me sitting with Erik, the pink mafia transsexual with its failed internship past, and buying me a tasteless sandwich. It isn't that I do not have the acuity to understand that Coleman was a fucking fool who wanted to support me. I worked for Liberty Resources too, but I was surrounded by Trudy Richardson, in her beauty queen phase, Tarmara, Trudy's second  who moved up, Brian, and my so called coordinator, Jenelle. I was weeping bitterly, wishing I could torture my former supervisor, and her invisible abandonment, and I have a black guy raining promises like Skittles, and no one, not I, or any of the other females, shutting him down, in addition to the fact that Presby just keeps treating me like a zoological freak. Erik, the mighty advocate, can't get involved; his dementia is advanced, in any case, and if anyone put the brakes on it for me it was possibly Councilman Denny O'Brien, mere speculation, until the next round. 

Coleman should have been accountable enough for his behavior to get me the help I needed; he wasn't, as is typical of the disability center. This is how Philadelphia, and most American inner cities, kill people with negligence, and I do not even have a criminal record.

Fuck Katrina's Anniversary Already

This evening's Simenon mystery was affecting, and I missed just enough of the title not to be able to give it to you, but it was an Assassin La Jeune Fils type. Lesbian petting which doesn't entice me. (My problem is masochism and pain associated with it, but another day when I'm ready to lose 20% of my small social media cotillion for exposing what Keats paraphrased as "hateful thoughts".) Then a grand old woman with her own tragedy trying to save the culprit. Only she goes too far, and the ending, affecting. Fucking French norms. Crazy and yet in part they get it right. 

Dirty Snow I've mentioned. Not ready to reread it. No need to in my five hundred things, but I must have every Simenon title. I must, absolutely, at least before, well. Let me return to the conscience of Charles Lane and suicidal depression. Therapeutic advice runs thus: take happy drugs and don't recriminate over what cannot be changed. 

Okay. Happy drugs do not work for varied technical reasons, and I cannot change a great deal, including not being able to sit outside and get away from a broken transsexual who I despise, not being able to get away from my clients, my fucking ex, who looks like a corpse, and every fucking organization and working class minority tells me to keep going back to Liberty Resources without respecting that I cannot, without respecting that I know too much about the corruption that turns Medicaid into a pimping service. Do you live with the elderly who attacked you? And an ex fiance? And disability center board members who are as corrupt as mafia dons? It is bad enough aging with cerebral palsy to the extent I have it, eating the reverberations of trauma every day. If I want to go to sleep, and I am absolutely sure, then I should be allowed.

I really have become a racist, and I apologize, but black society and its counter culture isn't where I belong, and I have to eat it. More on this later. I've decided to visit City Council and try to greet Denny, and deliberately ruckus, paying the price of the pissed.

The Denny Missive

Dear Councilman Dennis O'Brien,

I am not quite sure why you followed me on twitter despite my risqué, sometimes virulent voice on Blogger as spastic_dowager, a virulence which had, or has, dulled my civic humanity, if I ever had it to begin with. I was a virulent child as well, in and out of Home of the Merciful Savior, run by the notorious Dr. Chance; I had episodes with my mother in Shriner's too, never a passive spastic, which perhaps I should not admit to, with everything going on at the moment, but I am writing you an edited version of a sequence of events I sent to Mason Lane, Brian Sims Chief of Staff, and perhaps all I'll get from you, as well, is silent chagrin I'll never get to see. I do not know what Sims and staff did with the information, but I do know my former supervisor Linda Dezenski left Liberty Resources, the IL center on 714 Market Street, and I also know Riverside Presbyterian has escalated pressure on me beyond what I'm willing to endure, and I'm giving notice soon, in some ways a form of my own epitaph, but I am writing you as I'd speak, a defiant woman who got a dose for defying her father and reversing urban flight. I've been punished for that.

In 86 to 88 I moved into Diamond Park, on Page St, making the worst mistake of my life. I was exposed to endemic minority violence, a knifing due to drugs, abuse, beatings, vandalism in various creative forms of destruction, child abuse: a schizophrenic grandmother fractured her daughter's face, and I drove into my unit screaming for the police. In 93 it was my turn. Aggravated assault, relative of a tenant, Brandon Phillips, knocked on my door. I thought I was dead, I really did, but he got frightened, and like most petty addicts not quite wasted of conscience, my desperate screams for life ran him off. Presbyterian Homes was negligent. There was no security at the building. No sign in sheet. I wanted to sue, and allowed then manager Terri Way to talk me out of it, because I'm a dunce, and thought the chic black girl was my friend. With great resistance, I followed her to Riverside in 94. I felt I had no choice, and living here, in its own way, has been toxic ever since, especially since Ellen Hovey retired. Under one manager, Schwab, I was attacked by the seniors, and Steve Gold, a disability lawyer, mediated me out of that. 

I left case management in 96, and did not realize I effectively destroyed my career. Liberty assured me for 4 years that I could return to their employ, and they did what they always do, set me up, humiliated me, and because Linda and I got too personal, and I was under pressure, I broke down. You cannot help me with this part of it, so I'll skim, but her board members live here, the consumers I came up with do as well, and it's toxic for me.

I was abused by a number of paraprofessionals, two from Unlimited Staffing, and with great difficulty got Liberty to report molestation and robbery to the state in 06. You cannot recommend a lawyer, I know, you are a politician, and probably think that Riverside's current staff putting the screws in me is their prerogative, but I am begging you to get them off my back, please, simply due to the fact that they are a cut rate company using pluralism as an excuse. The constant unannounced harassment at my door is disrupting my ability to achieve my own goals, please. If my citizenship means nothing because I'm disabled and don't want to comply without getting justice in return, what's the point? I do not want a minority aide. End of story. I spent down assets I no longer have on cleanings. Let Ken Cantrell and the owners he shields move to evict if they wish, but I will not accept constant ominous missives under my door and constant visits. As a Christian company, they could show some humility and admit some liability against my well being. I will call your office next week. My evacuation needs support. Thanks for following me. 

Without Place

I am giving my notice on Friday, and as of a 4/21 edit, I have not yet, .dragging it out simply through my biological inertia. I telephoned all there is to telephone for the moment, but if anyone can spare me a space, a blanket, temporary lodging-- I doubt I'll beat the clock. I doubt I'll survive, but I simply cannot continue with the duress the system insists on imposing on me as a condition of my upkeep. Dennis O'Brien is undoubtedly busy. Perhaps I'll call his office tomorrow. 

I need to go. If you can help, let me know. This BDT site is where the policy coordinator I met at Sims meeting works. His name was Graham and he had a nice car, dialed his mother by accident on his OS, and I sat there in stained clothing with a noticeably bad occlusion to my underbite, my obviously traumatized demeanor an unspoken crime, in and of itself. No one sees my before and after, only the end result, and I cannot live in this building anymore, Inglis House as an alternative is tantamount to prolonged euthanasia, and this represents my life after 50.

The welfare state is what it is, until it stagnates and collapses under pressure.

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.