I have not self-published a manuscript to kindle yet. I do not feel quite confident enough to do so, and do not know if I should, nor what I'm even worth, be it as a poet or columnist. I am also not sure how to ask advice of anyone who has self-published through Amazon's distribution model. I've read complaints on the Good Reads site about delayed commissions, but I only ever had a problem with one Amazon seller, long ago, before I understood how the retail giant is an Intranet unto itself, partnering with other businesses. I have always received payments promptly, however.
I have, this after 34 years as creative writer later journalist, one, mind you, one poetry manuscript of strongest work about ready to go, and I will not tell you how much money I've lost on contest fees and contributor copy support, I who cannot afford to enter all that many to begin with, over the years, with this one manuscript always ready to go, but I've now slowly developed a rhythm for electronic submissions, finally found formula, as it were, even if, my sorry slaving for Examiner aside, my most powerful essay on urban poverty I gave away to a woman named Bianca for her Appalachian area journal which I haven't yet added to my CV because yours truly doesn't know what Karina K did with my contributor copy, and I cannot get this Karina K back on the phone, and the one editor who liked my deaf pitch before that, I failed. And this is the stuff who opines for legacy media, with a select hit list for disabled members of the Philadelphia activist community, except for the fact that I've been published in established media, but not lately, since I am Anthony Elonis with a sometimes more insidious, or entertaining menace, not quite so puerile.
No husband to murder, and my scar tissue has throbbed on past my long ago supervisor's departure, c'est pas? I haven't read Elonis's posts. I suppose he reads like ISIS in an inflammatory state, but if he was writing his *puerile* invective against wife in a journal on paper, would we be here? I am as savage as he is on my bad days, teetering precariously toward brutal, and I mean brutal, institutional indigence. Barring a miracle, I know exactly how much control a nursing home will impose on me if I go from section 202 housing into a Medicaid home. I've lived it and earned a living from it. Established journalists even publish about it these days, and we take out the violins. I very seriously do not want my remaining years to linger in such a circumscribed fashion, and I'm back to submitting poems again, after all this time. I am a fool people, to let a resource center which was never very good to begin with, cause me so much damage, not as if the system offers disability entitlement recipients all that many options.
Showing posts with label disability centers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label disability centers. Show all posts
Monday, February 16, 2015
Friday, November 28, 2014
Quentin Radio
"The press will have a field day with this latest escapade."-- in the script
Vengeance, if individuals are serious about enacting it, changes people. Christopher Dorner probably recognized, before the tear gas blaze in the cabin, that he had failed, and that killing his supervisor's daughter wasn't as liberating as he thought it would be, and that he was better off dead in those mountains as opposed to getting the death penalty-- and yet, his impulse to engage in anarchy against our institutional paradigms and their increasing complexity wasn't invalid.
Let me go back to Poets and Writers banning my online account (yes, I'm over it but making another point). Posters were afraid of me because I was raw with pain about what happened to me within the ranks of independent living, but, whatever my rhetoric and its decibel level, it was raw, it was grief, and beneath the surface, even today, I lost something in role models once valued. Linda was the only woman with cerebral palsy who I genuinely liked, even though, to channel Kill Bill, I knew what she was capable of. I just didn't believe she was capable of doing it to me, and in turn, she probably did not calculate that I'd put a dent in her bubble, leading to her early retirement.
That is emotional investment-- but why? Because the role model heroine was all I had, itself a sad commentary on fulfillment. The only job I never struggled with internally was my brief sojourn with AccessLife. A good editor is worth his weight in gold, but it was one position, and even with Christopher Reeve I was perhaps unfairly contentious. I am less raw now of course, but the inexorable grind is closing in on me as I age with this condition, and my line between being a bullshit artist and real malevolence is blurring, hollowly, perhaps, as the transsexual is 2/3's corpse, punishment enough for his ethics, and I was told Cassie James departed the field with an illness as well, but the thought of dying so browbeaten-- whatever the pedestrian counsels about acceptance, my ego cannot swallow it-- but what resolution would serve? It isn't about punitive damages rolled into an annuity. It is about striking the system, and or really paying a price for which I lack the tenacity.
I have, however, become that cold.
Vengeance, if individuals are serious about enacting it, changes people. Christopher Dorner probably recognized, before the tear gas blaze in the cabin, that he had failed, and that killing his supervisor's daughter wasn't as liberating as he thought it would be, and that he was better off dead in those mountains as opposed to getting the death penalty-- and yet, his impulse to engage in anarchy against our institutional paradigms and their increasing complexity wasn't invalid.
Let me go back to Poets and Writers banning my online account (yes, I'm over it but making another point). Posters were afraid of me because I was raw with pain about what happened to me within the ranks of independent living, but, whatever my rhetoric and its decibel level, it was raw, it was grief, and beneath the surface, even today, I lost something in role models once valued. Linda was the only woman with cerebral palsy who I genuinely liked, even though, to channel Kill Bill, I knew what she was capable of. I just didn't believe she was capable of doing it to me, and in turn, she probably did not calculate that I'd put a dent in her bubble, leading to her early retirement.
That is emotional investment-- but why? Because the role model heroine was all I had, itself a sad commentary on fulfillment. The only job I never struggled with internally was my brief sojourn with AccessLife. A good editor is worth his weight in gold, but it was one position, and even with Christopher Reeve I was perhaps unfairly contentious. I am less raw now of course, but the inexorable grind is closing in on me as I age with this condition, and my line between being a bullshit artist and real malevolence is blurring, hollowly, perhaps, as the transsexual is 2/3's corpse, punishment enough for his ethics, and I was told Cassie James departed the field with an illness as well, but the thought of dying so browbeaten-- whatever the pedestrian counsels about acceptance, my ego cannot swallow it-- but what resolution would serve? It isn't about punitive damages rolled into an annuity. It is about striking the system, and or really paying a price for which I lack the tenacity.
I have, however, become that cold.
Monday, June 16, 2014
All Trolls in a Bottle
Mmm. So now it is called digital courage? By the time volatile bloggers make it into Wapo ledes it is old, stale. I emailed one of my gang of five this morning, in fact, after I realized I let her list membership hang on my old, stale, and relatively inactive Yahoo Group.
Let me explain to you one unique difference between Elonis and myself:
1. My disability center is 15 minutes downtown from where I write you. The environment the center provided was, in Linda's words, "like a second family." No disagreement there. This family is gone for me now, regardless of whether or not my former supervisor still believes I was courting her sexually. It is gone. She could retire tomorrow; it doesn't matter. The entire environment of Liberty is traumatic for me, like seeing the shock on the face of Michelle McCandless, a consumer employee, when she recognizes me but doesn't speak.
2. I still live in the building with the transvestite and prat boy partner who rotate on the board of the directors for Liberty, and still see daily my former consumers whom I've case managed.
3. I have no alternative to this federally mandated center. Once they hang you out to dry, without the resources to move on, you're hung. Do you understand? There are other providers of medical services which mimic the center model, but no competitive alternative to the center itself
I am not blameless for the situation being what it is, but my family should have heeded my plea and helped me to move on before my stress and decomposition into corrosive emotional pain became what it is now. I've told you about the attendant abuse and landlord harassment, swirling about like a tornado funnel whose sheer force pummels a human body to its death. An external framework that criminalizes indigence.
Let me explain to you one unique difference between Elonis and myself:
1. My disability center is 15 minutes downtown from where I write you. The environment the center provided was, in Linda's words, "like a second family." No disagreement there. This family is gone for me now, regardless of whether or not my former supervisor still believes I was courting her sexually. It is gone. She could retire tomorrow; it doesn't matter. The entire environment of Liberty is traumatic for me, like seeing the shock on the face of Michelle McCandless, a consumer employee, when she recognizes me but doesn't speak.
2. I still live in the building with the transvestite and prat boy partner who rotate on the board of the directors for Liberty, and still see daily my former consumers whom I've case managed.
3. I have no alternative to this federally mandated center. Once they hang you out to dry, without the resources to move on, you're hung. Do you understand? There are other providers of medical services which mimic the center model, but no competitive alternative to the center itself
I am not blameless for the situation being what it is, but my family should have heeded my plea and helped me to move on before my stress and decomposition into corrosive emotional pain became what it is now. I've told you about the attendant abuse and landlord harassment, swirling about like a tornado funnel whose sheer force pummels a human body to its death. An external framework that criminalizes indigence.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Smokey Opals
"You'll see my smile looks out of place."-- Smokey Robinson
To be a writer is nothing, but to be an author through the track of my tears exacts the terrible necessity of its price, the over-invested attachment, which for me will lead to some sort of literature generation of the tangible kind, either with a book jacket, or laminated article, through the ebb and flow of accreted megalomania, crested after challenging the levies, don't believe my heart isn't broken, that it has taken so long to see the distaste in exploiting human suffering.
I cared. I still do, and, barring a miracle, will return to the constraints of being a micro managed living wage, an indigent puddle for someone's salary, but there has to be a better way to do it than the socialized lowest common denominator we have. One of those is instituting rational euthanasia, stringent safe guards in place, rating levels of treatment accordingly. The health care professional would make less money, but our species would conserve finite resources through compassionate culling. Given population demographics we will be forced into it eventually, regardless of speculative venue, Soylent Green or Cuaron's contemporaneous homage.
Ethan Saylor would have become expendable; it would have been an inevitable consequence. The officers no doubt over-escalated his compliance, but it is an issue of adaptation, and the boy did not know how to mitigate his behavioral intransigence. It is irrelevant, whom among us had the skills to coax him down; he would have been killed in exactly the same way that compliance models surreptitiously attempted to suck me under while my country was conveying that I too could have equal opportunity. This is how socialized paradigms, disability centers, public housing, socialized medicine, destroy the individuals they deign to assist.
I do not sign the Saylor petition. And I won't. It comes down to a value judgment of husbandry. If you believe this is callused, Liberty Resources does exactly the same thing. A very few become essential personnel, earning their salaries on the basis of rationed scarcity, making personal autonomy more expensive and inefficient than necessary, thereby unable to recognize value, the skills of intelligence that could lead to system enhancement.
To be a writer is nothing, but to be an author through the track of my tears exacts the terrible necessity of its price, the over-invested attachment, which for me will lead to some sort of literature generation of the tangible kind, either with a book jacket, or laminated article, through the ebb and flow of accreted megalomania, crested after challenging the levies, don't believe my heart isn't broken, that it has taken so long to see the distaste in exploiting human suffering.
I cared. I still do, and, barring a miracle, will return to the constraints of being a micro managed living wage, an indigent puddle for someone's salary, but there has to be a better way to do it than the socialized lowest common denominator we have. One of those is instituting rational euthanasia, stringent safe guards in place, rating levels of treatment accordingly. The health care professional would make less money, but our species would conserve finite resources through compassionate culling. Given population demographics we will be forced into it eventually, regardless of speculative venue, Soylent Green or Cuaron's contemporaneous homage.
Ethan Saylor would have become expendable; it would have been an inevitable consequence. The officers no doubt over-escalated his compliance, but it is an issue of adaptation, and the boy did not know how to mitigate his behavioral intransigence. It is irrelevant, whom among us had the skills to coax him down; he would have been killed in exactly the same way that compliance models surreptitiously attempted to suck me under while my country was conveying that I too could have equal opportunity. This is how socialized paradigms, disability centers, public housing, socialized medicine, destroy the individuals they deign to assist.
I do not sign the Saylor petition. And I won't. It comes down to a value judgment of husbandry. If you believe this is callused, Liberty Resources does exactly the same thing. A very few become essential personnel, earning their salaries on the basis of rationed scarcity, making personal autonomy more expensive and inefficient than necessary, thereby unable to recognize value, the skills of intelligence that could lead to system enhancement.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Anti-Trust Harpsicord
"I've been missing in action for over a month."-- David Carradine, swinging funerealist
Solutions are always trickier, and always imperfect, but one I can suggest off the bat is to bifurcate advocacy from case management systems. The disability center services recipient controls absolutely nothing. They are merely led to believe otherwise. The ones with the control are the fund allocators for Medicaid waiver services, and, as I've previously indicated, I have some research to do.
As Cassie used to empower her troops by commandeering Septa vehicles, she was also perpetrating the continuation of class conflict (cf Blue Collar) through the intimidation of non-unionized primarily minority CCT drivers, CCT drivers who also victimize and infrequently kill their clients due to poor training, criminal jackets. And Ms. James knows this is a valid charge on her doorstep, has been investigated by the DOJ, and in contemporary terms she mews softly, defanged and spayed.
I've always believed in more constructive engagement, even in terms of old American cities with impossible transport authorities.
For those of you who've suggested work at home on per hour basis solutions, I am not excluding the option, merely hampered by phlegm derived inflammation welling up through my Eustachian tube, building up the ear wax. Writing is and must by necessity be an insulating process, but I need constructive social engagement, not from Presby, and certainly not from 714 Market Street. Linda Dezenski may stay healthy when she is through eating her own by fidelity to the process, but I cannot be in that environment, even after I force her resignation.
Solutions are always trickier, and always imperfect, but one I can suggest off the bat is to bifurcate advocacy from case management systems. The disability center services recipient controls absolutely nothing. They are merely led to believe otherwise. The ones with the control are the fund allocators for Medicaid waiver services, and, as I've previously indicated, I have some research to do.
As Cassie used to empower her troops by commandeering Septa vehicles, she was also perpetrating the continuation of class conflict (cf Blue Collar) through the intimidation of non-unionized primarily minority CCT drivers, CCT drivers who also victimize and infrequently kill their clients due to poor training, criminal jackets. And Ms. James knows this is a valid charge on her doorstep, has been investigated by the DOJ, and in contemporary terms she mews softly, defanged and spayed.
I've always believed in more constructive engagement, even in terms of old American cities with impossible transport authorities.
For those of you who've suggested work at home on per hour basis solutions, I am not excluding the option, merely hampered by phlegm derived inflammation welling up through my Eustachian tube, building up the ear wax. Writing is and must by necessity be an insulating process, but I need constructive social engagement, not from Presby, and certainly not from 714 Market Street. Linda Dezenski may stay healthy when she is through eating her own by fidelity to the process, but I cannot be in that environment, even after I force her resignation.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Developmental Fecal Discharge
I will put enmity between you and the woman, between your offspring and hers; they will strike at your head, while you strike at their heel. 3:15
Sean is not an ideologically committed Marxist. As channeled through Mickey Rourke, Penn realizes the film industry is a business. Dead Man Walking and I Am Sam reflect this. Both cater to the popular impulse. Conservative reaction is corrupted tunnel vision. Progressives are the bona fide heroes in this argument, but don't push your audience too hard, driving it to the mat, for the state does have legitimate interests in protecting children from developmental limitations. Sean wears Sam like a fashion statement, much like his politics. Where was he, or this prima donna, when this poor child needed rescue? We don't see things in the film that just barely scratch the surface. Mentally retarded people can be aggressive, thereby possibly abusive to offspring, as much so as the paradigm discards them. Cassie James is a militant exhibitionist; my critique will not change that, but for all her static, she apologizes for case management racism, her psyche divided and contradictory precisely because she failed to matriculate outward.
Actions can speak louder than words, and she quit Liberty twice, the first time as my peer support counselor, which is nothing but a fraudulent method of being tone deaf, repeating the concerns of the nascent inductee back to them, the second time for marriage and a move to Britain, where upon an accidental pregnancy, she has an existential crisis akin to my own, and Nancy flies to England to bring the ADAPT firebrand home, tail between her legs. I despise Cassie James almost as much as I hate what Linda did to me. They are both analogous to the thunderous collapse of the Twin Towers. Penn, however, has a creative artist's versatility. Leftist that he is, the dialogical interplay in some of his riskier roles offers another language, something authentic in the merger of paranoia and a skewered perspective that is as conversant with the Outsider as one of Eastwood's westerns with their snark. Cassie just hits scales with a spoon, tone deaf, keeping Depends as brand name adult diaper viable in the rhythm and commerce of our capitalist system. She paid her dues. I have no issue with that, as opposed to the corruption she maintains, soiled, stinking up the hallway, as blind in her vision as Rush Limbaugh.
Does anything I post get back to the vanguard at the center, and its political arm? I have no data on that and don't care, not after the hoops I've jumped, but much of what ADAPT does backfires, intimidates (hello), and has negative consequences. If Cassie was as principled as her public rhetoric is to be believed, Liberty Resources would actually take pride in being a competent system of support. In its 30 years of existence, it vomits as much entrails as it elevates on the other, much like Sean's hairstyle generates electricity.
Sean is not an ideologically committed Marxist. As channeled through Mickey Rourke, Penn realizes the film industry is a business. Dead Man Walking and I Am Sam reflect this. Both cater to the popular impulse. Conservative reaction is corrupted tunnel vision. Progressives are the bona fide heroes in this argument, but don't push your audience too hard, driving it to the mat, for the state does have legitimate interests in protecting children from developmental limitations. Sean wears Sam like a fashion statement, much like his politics. Where was he, or this prima donna, when this poor child needed rescue? We don't see things in the film that just barely scratch the surface. Mentally retarded people can be aggressive, thereby possibly abusive to offspring, as much so as the paradigm discards them. Cassie James is a militant exhibitionist; my critique will not change that, but for all her static, she apologizes for case management racism, her psyche divided and contradictory precisely because she failed to matriculate outward.
Actions can speak louder than words, and she quit Liberty twice, the first time as my peer support counselor, which is nothing but a fraudulent method of being tone deaf, repeating the concerns of the nascent inductee back to them, the second time for marriage and a move to Britain, where upon an accidental pregnancy, she has an existential crisis akin to my own, and Nancy flies to England to bring the ADAPT firebrand home, tail between her legs. I despise Cassie James almost as much as I hate what Linda did to me. They are both analogous to the thunderous collapse of the Twin Towers. Penn, however, has a creative artist's versatility. Leftist that he is, the dialogical interplay in some of his riskier roles offers another language, something authentic in the merger of paranoia and a skewered perspective that is as conversant with the Outsider as one of Eastwood's westerns with their snark. Cassie just hits scales with a spoon, tone deaf, keeping Depends as brand name adult diaper viable in the rhythm and commerce of our capitalist system. She paid her dues. I have no issue with that, as opposed to the corruption she maintains, soiled, stinking up the hallway, as blind in her vision as Rush Limbaugh.
Does anything I post get back to the vanguard at the center, and its political arm? I have no data on that and don't care, not after the hoops I've jumped, but much of what ADAPT does backfires, intimidates (hello), and has negative consequences. If Cassie was as principled as her public rhetoric is to be believed, Liberty Resources would actually take pride in being a competent system of support. In its 30 years of existence, it vomits as much entrails as it elevates on the other, much like Sean's hairstyle generates electricity.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Epicanthic Majority
"I do this because I do not want to be silent anymore." Bia Ling
Some party officials involved in the toppling of Bo Xiliai must have been aware of Jon Avnet's ponderous, top heavy, flat on its face film, Red Corner. Taking in the reversals as mere stand in mechanisms, the playbook of corruption and paralysis is virtually the same in the mediocre legal thriller and in real world events in Chongqing.
Part of Avnet's problem as a director is that he creates an atmosphere of asphyxiation, then traps his actors in it, which neither realism nor dramatic tension can repair, aside from his fixation with the mutilation of the Asian female figure.
As to my irresponsibility with my terms of reference, this is laziness, and on better days my torpedoes will have better aim. One of the first activities I engaged in as a consultant for Liberty, when they were wealthier and rented space on city line, was feed an old woman in a chest brace spaghetti at a hastily organized luncheon which I believe was my responsibility. Whether it points to the utter uselessness of a higher education, I'll let you access for yourself. How it is indicative of human worth?
My vascular system is probably going to wig out in the near future, and I am going to try to get as much online detail up as I can before that, as disability center governance has always been a strategic game of spank the monkey.
It is due to the amazing tenacity of Allison Joseph, a woman who should be nominated as literary resource agent in chief, that one discovers more promising markets like Pentimento. I have not had time to study its content, but it has a better aesthetic focus than Breath & Shadow. I do not know if Chris Kuell is still with Ability Maine (he is), but it stands to reason that a blind editor should feel no shame in requesting sighted assistance for proofreading galleys. Pentimento may signify some incremental progress on the issue of quality standards.
Some party officials involved in the toppling of Bo Xiliai must have been aware of Jon Avnet's ponderous, top heavy, flat on its face film, Red Corner. Taking in the reversals as mere stand in mechanisms, the playbook of corruption and paralysis is virtually the same in the mediocre legal thriller and in real world events in Chongqing.
Part of Avnet's problem as a director is that he creates an atmosphere of asphyxiation, then traps his actors in it, which neither realism nor dramatic tension can repair, aside from his fixation with the mutilation of the Asian female figure.
As to my irresponsibility with my terms of reference, this is laziness, and on better days my torpedoes will have better aim. One of the first activities I engaged in as a consultant for Liberty, when they were wealthier and rented space on city line, was feed an old woman in a chest brace spaghetti at a hastily organized luncheon which I believe was my responsibility. Whether it points to the utter uselessness of a higher education, I'll let you access for yourself. How it is indicative of human worth?
My vascular system is probably going to wig out in the near future, and I am going to try to get as much online detail up as I can before that, as disability center governance has always been a strategic game of spank the monkey.
It is due to the amazing tenacity of Allison Joseph, a woman who should be nominated as literary resource agent in chief, that one discovers more promising markets like Pentimento. I have not had time to study its content, but it has a better aesthetic focus than Breath & Shadow. I do not know if Chris Kuell is still with Ability Maine (he is), but it stands to reason that a blind editor should feel no shame in requesting sighted assistance for proofreading galleys. Pentimento may signify some incremental progress on the issue of quality standards.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Interior Palsies
"There was no treachery too base for the world to commit; she knew that. No happiness lasted; she knew that. --Virginia Woolf
It is not so much the embarrassment. I have dealt with that, taken myself apart and reassembled the pieces, frightening off midwestern humorists and dozens of other collagen enthusiasts, no. This is not the wedge; loathing is. Disability center dynamics literally make me sick to my stomach. The endless presentations, sex seminars, legal aid professors lecturing about benefits and assuring downtrodden alumni that services offered by law students are limited in scope, without reference to the mystery of how state budgets get codified in Harrisburg, people like Linda constantly neutering the semantics of the English language: "Attendants are not care givers but assistants." That is Linda's voice. "We categorize it as excess revenue." She complained to me when we argued over our computers that no one wanted to see her for herself. I tried to see her, and discovered a raptor beneath a parakeet's warbling delicacy, which means befriending this former boss was a mistake. The trial for a sterile and segregated case management compliance model that made me promise after promise after promise and never followed through, hurt me physically as well as triggering a crisis is slated to rule for the plaintiff, and yet I am a quadriplegic, who though mainly self-sufficient when stable, can nose dive just as quickly.
A disabled in action member Susan exclaiming "you have balls," this during the rare strategy gatherings I attended. Yes. Balls to defy Erik and shutting the she-man down when he attacked her.
Balls to confront Linda and take them all on and come away from all that significantly beaten.
Balls to make online users leery. Balls to be totally familiar with the interior cripple who will behave like one when it suits, to don that voice, the little girl inside who in all other things being equal wants to stamp her foot and get a new able-bodied warder like Jayne Anne. Ambulatory women protected me from my mother when I was young. Psychologists in repressed marriages made me dinner; physical therapy aides taught me catechism. Camp counselors taught me the intrigue of boys, so why can't I have more successful writer friends? Like Joanie chasing me. Mentally retarded girl practically falling out of her lap to have me ward her.
As I have shown, however, I have as well the ruthless analysis of my own interior calculus, one that knows I have passed the female novelist scene, not quite so rewarded anymore by literary press culture, so perhaps I am play acting, indulging the regression, the assurance of an ambulatory baby sitter. I have taken charge of Joanie in the past. Taken her out. She's harmless, a child who thinks she fazes me with an admission that she dated my fourth cousin. He is also afflicted (that corrupted Old World genetic code), barely walks. I hardly know him. There isn't much more quality of life time for the sacrifices and choices I need to make, and that forms part of my morose shadings which bloggers are not supposed to indulge. I am weakening; in not so many years, I shall soon be mainly bed ridden. Ms. Dezenski will probably retire with accolades, unless I really have the stones. She withstood the Crothers treatment paradigm for seven years, a daughter of presumable Jewish affluence.
It is not so much the embarrassment. I have dealt with that, taken myself apart and reassembled the pieces, frightening off midwestern humorists and dozens of other collagen enthusiasts, no. This is not the wedge; loathing is. Disability center dynamics literally make me sick to my stomach. The endless presentations, sex seminars, legal aid professors lecturing about benefits and assuring downtrodden alumni that services offered by law students are limited in scope, without reference to the mystery of how state budgets get codified in Harrisburg, people like Linda constantly neutering the semantics of the English language: "Attendants are not care givers but assistants." That is Linda's voice. "We categorize it as excess revenue." She complained to me when we argued over our computers that no one wanted to see her for herself. I tried to see her, and discovered a raptor beneath a parakeet's warbling delicacy, which means befriending this former boss was a mistake. The trial for a sterile and segregated case management compliance model that made me promise after promise after promise and never followed through, hurt me physically as well as triggering a crisis is slated to rule for the plaintiff, and yet I am a quadriplegic, who though mainly self-sufficient when stable, can nose dive just as quickly.
A disabled in action member Susan exclaiming "you have balls," this during the rare strategy gatherings I attended. Yes. Balls to defy Erik and shutting the she-man down when he attacked her.
Balls to confront Linda and take them all on and come away from all that significantly beaten.
Balls to make online users leery. Balls to be totally familiar with the interior cripple who will behave like one when it suits, to don that voice, the little girl inside who in all other things being equal wants to stamp her foot and get a new able-bodied warder like Jayne Anne. Ambulatory women protected me from my mother when I was young. Psychologists in repressed marriages made me dinner; physical therapy aides taught me catechism. Camp counselors taught me the intrigue of boys, so why can't I have more successful writer friends? Like Joanie chasing me. Mentally retarded girl practically falling out of her lap to have me ward her.
As I have shown, however, I have as well the ruthless analysis of my own interior calculus, one that knows I have passed the female novelist scene, not quite so rewarded anymore by literary press culture, so perhaps I am play acting, indulging the regression, the assurance of an ambulatory baby sitter. I have taken charge of Joanie in the past. Taken her out. She's harmless, a child who thinks she fazes me with an admission that she dated my fourth cousin. He is also afflicted (that corrupted Old World genetic code), barely walks. I hardly know him. There isn't much more quality of life time for the sacrifices and choices I need to make, and that forms part of my morose shadings which bloggers are not supposed to indulge. I am weakening; in not so many years, I shall soon be mainly bed ridden. Ms. Dezenski will probably retire with accolades, unless I really have the stones. She withstood the Crothers treatment paradigm for seven years, a daughter of presumable Jewish affluence.
Friday, November 30, 2012
Altered States
It is not that I would not sleep if I tried, more simply, Thursday vanished, and half dressed for the drug store, I stopped, like the song, not undressing, like the singer, but stopped, ate, wondering how long I can stop speaking to my entire family, and find a bus, survive getting off it, and never returning. I use my past, my memory, and will continue to do so, but unlike what happens to lost itinerants in Hollywood, there is nothing for me in that past, its people, even if I use their names. Quadriplegics cannot do Jack Kerouac on the road, especially with old diodes that will not behave, and charge properly. "Whatever it is they did to you," Anne Kline intoned in a low voice, "people here still care about you."
No they don't, but the point is, for all that able bodied individuals are aware, or not, of how these centers function, they do not stop doing harm to a substantial number of people that come in, get indoctrinated, humiliated. The lucky ones, like Chris, sue and settle and then become director of an independent training center that then burns down, and the cycle continues. Sue and settle with the next Linda. The unlucky ones, like Ken, do pot in their nursing home apartment wings, and never mind Cassie's freedom rhetoric, suffer in obscurity, and me? I just took too many blows from too many sources, and what truly angers me, my own case aside, is no one puts a stop to it. Certainly not a lawyer like Thomas Earle, who I used to believe was a decent man, nor Fern Markowitz, the lesbian, whose decency seemed tied to being the bad cop. She was always a ferocious and inexplicable woman to me, who treated me like she needed to use a whip on my haunches. Not the national cil council, not the state regulators, nor the auditors, and employee litigation is just the cow with an udder always full. Corporations, like BP, oh, they pay a price, but no one gives a holy fuck about disability center malfeasance; their scandals get buried, particularly in areas with large disadvantaged populations. The closest the right gets to it is with a home grown idiot like Rick Santorum, and the best the left will do, nationally, is scream they will protect entitlements, when Medicare is a fucking nightmare to begin with, and public housing does not know what constitutional law is, not when government is subsidizing its brick and plaster. The left says this is better than what it was in Roosevelt's day. Not by much, especially not when age makes risk more costly. I cannot reform this by myself, but wince at what it may take to rouse the public. Caretakers killing us doesn't do it, Paratransit drivers raping us gets a script in a Dick Wolf drama, and cil consumers look the other way, until it happens to them, then they sue. No one touches how this system operates, because those like me are supposed to be matriculated, with superhuman effort, minimal resources, and those mostly badly managed. Now I'm going to bed, lucky if I don't drop the Joyce group this weekend at the little museum that tries very hard. Money already pissed.
No they don't, but the point is, for all that able bodied individuals are aware, or not, of how these centers function, they do not stop doing harm to a substantial number of people that come in, get indoctrinated, humiliated. The lucky ones, like Chris, sue and settle and then become director of an independent training center that then burns down, and the cycle continues. Sue and settle with the next Linda. The unlucky ones, like Ken, do pot in their nursing home apartment wings, and never mind Cassie's freedom rhetoric, suffer in obscurity, and me? I just took too many blows from too many sources, and what truly angers me, my own case aside, is no one puts a stop to it. Certainly not a lawyer like Thomas Earle, who I used to believe was a decent man, nor Fern Markowitz, the lesbian, whose decency seemed tied to being the bad cop. She was always a ferocious and inexplicable woman to me, who treated me like she needed to use a whip on my haunches. Not the national cil council, not the state regulators, nor the auditors, and employee litigation is just the cow with an udder always full. Corporations, like BP, oh, they pay a price, but no one gives a holy fuck about disability center malfeasance; their scandals get buried, particularly in areas with large disadvantaged populations. The closest the right gets to it is with a home grown idiot like Rick Santorum, and the best the left will do, nationally, is scream they will protect entitlements, when Medicare is a fucking nightmare to begin with, and public housing does not know what constitutional law is, not when government is subsidizing its brick and plaster. The left says this is better than what it was in Roosevelt's day. Not by much, especially not when age makes risk more costly. I cannot reform this by myself, but wince at what it may take to rouse the public. Caretakers killing us doesn't do it, Paratransit drivers raping us gets a script in a Dick Wolf drama, and cil consumers look the other way, until it happens to them, then they sue. No one touches how this system operates, because those like me are supposed to be matriculated, with superhuman effort, minimal resources, and those mostly badly managed. Now I'm going to bed, lucky if I don't drop the Joyce group this weekend at the little museum that tries very hard. Money already pissed.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Other Women Entry
Distracted this morning, I have to drive to the pharmacy in an hour and half or so, not sure if I should brew a partial carafe, no carafe, heat up a mug of instant coffee which I'd rather save for emergencies, snow storms, busy on my own manufacture, I wonder what you discern in my writing, and none of you respond, not knowing what to say. If you are familiar with independent living/community integration models, you think I am unreasonable, obstinate, that I hurt myself more by not letting institutional ruthlessness go, and that I should listen to the near dead now partially spastic and mostly demented transvestite and return to counseling psychology, but will not comment to that effect because you risk intransigence in my response. I have been in clinical therapy environments from the age of fourteen through... how old was I in 2000? Mmm. A simple subtraction blank, is not early dementia just precious? Absolutely darling, the loss of identity. I may not know all the medical terminology of the clinician, as I was a tangential addition to the narcissism of the mental health field, but I know all the tricks, and I know, in the most reasonable terms, that the cure is work, change in habitat, and why Erik cannot get his stroke scarred mind around that is beyond me. I never wanted to live here, ever, and the toll has been costly. Purely by accident, I discovered a desirable relocation option, and must investigate, at once, and cross my fingers; you can hope for me as well. Perhaps the force of mass consciousness will wax good vibes. Kate's Place is another somewhat less desirable option, but I have to get myself up to 15k sustainable, not easy, and credulously, Kate's appears less accessible than Presby. But whether you are healthy and ambulatory, wheelchair user, cancer *survivor,* rehab patient, 80 year old scholar with cataracts whose gentle optimism parries against me, or Paula Broadwell, the new age Monica Lewinsky, so intriguing!, disability centers generate moral erosion, and they have to go. Big task, little woman, but someone has to stand up.
Married women flock to Holly. Married men--Barack, the silent Clinton, the rumored McCain, wince as if they singed their balls on the stove. My commiseration is for the outlier, the Other. Broadwill can get through this. Right now she is paranoid, with justification, and Paula, honey, emails can be broadcast to anyone? I am speaking as the woman embarrassed more than once, and not just with this pixie on canes. You lost your head, and I do not know what your darling deity is going to do, but you will crash, and you will crash hard, whether or not you write a tattle at the end of the president's term. I got caught once, and this was a Canadian beatnik scandal of minor proportions, but Mrs. Beatnik tracked me down. She cried bitterly about her son, and would you like to know what that felt like, her pain glancing off my chest while I sat on the edge of the ghetto burning Everything He Gave Me? A crucifixion, that was the sensation. The centurion nailed those spikes into my wrists, latching my ligaments to the cross. I had three more affairs after that, but you, lady, are a blithering idiot, hopefully not a double agent, and you shit on your kitchen table by confusing amorous pleasure with your career, his, and altered his marriage beyond repair, even if they stay together, the general and his pedestrian wife. Eventually you'll flee the notoriety, but it will cling to and sicken you and will be obligatory in your obituary announcement. However, I understand the conflict involved in iconic conflagration and sexual desire, how it later became subversive even if it can be fun, and fulfilling, but it is not a reward unless your feminine needs can evolve and come to realize worship of the male principle as a safe haven is a backfiring mechanism. I am old, and bitter, and don't think Americans should revel in the efficiency of Petraeus as a catch valve, but I will extend an offer for luncheon on me. Maybe a sympathetic agent can pull some strings and get me out of this city so I can then be assaulted and beaten to death on K street, or Utah, for that matter. My email is easy to find. I have to roll soon, however.
Married women flock to Holly. Married men--Barack, the silent Clinton, the rumored McCain, wince as if they singed their balls on the stove. My commiseration is for the outlier, the Other. Broadwill can get through this. Right now she is paranoid, with justification, and Paula, honey, emails can be broadcast to anyone? I am speaking as the woman embarrassed more than once, and not just with this pixie on canes. You lost your head, and I do not know what your darling deity is going to do, but you will crash, and you will crash hard, whether or not you write a tattle at the end of the president's term. I got caught once, and this was a Canadian beatnik scandal of minor proportions, but Mrs. Beatnik tracked me down. She cried bitterly about her son, and would you like to know what that felt like, her pain glancing off my chest while I sat on the edge of the ghetto burning Everything He Gave Me? A crucifixion, that was the sensation. The centurion nailed those spikes into my wrists, latching my ligaments to the cross. I had three more affairs after that, but you, lady, are a blithering idiot, hopefully not a double agent, and you shit on your kitchen table by confusing amorous pleasure with your career, his, and altered his marriage beyond repair, even if they stay together, the general and his pedestrian wife. Eventually you'll flee the notoriety, but it will cling to and sicken you and will be obligatory in your obituary announcement. However, I understand the conflict involved in iconic conflagration and sexual desire, how it later became subversive even if it can be fun, and fulfilling, but it is not a reward unless your feminine needs can evolve and come to realize worship of the male principle as a safe haven is a backfiring mechanism. I am old, and bitter, and don't think Americans should revel in the efficiency of Petraeus as a catch valve, but I will extend an offer for luncheon on me. Maybe a sympathetic agent can pull some strings and get me out of this city so I can then be assaulted and beaten to death on K street, or Utah, for that matter. My email is easy to find. I have to roll soon, however.
Thursday, April 5, 2012
Timbre
If I am going to sacrifice the thin gruel of my security, it will not be immediate. I have to cushion my flight to allow my scant resources to offer me the slimmest chance possible to avoid de facto state imprisonment. My family cannot or will not assist, and Liberty, we have been there and back again, is a dead tool, and as long as I have any mind left, I have to reject their paradigm. My emotional investment, and my emotional pain, is about the past. Neither of my former supervisors respected me enough to sit down with me and figure out what the CIL could do to still support me, and no, sitting down to work with Gil Ott, who died in the position that I would have wanted, was not the worst thing in the world, nor the attempted partnership with his actress friend, but I am not Joe D, the lobby consumer, and needed to make a living, one, and two, one of my supervisors is guilty of criminal conduct.
David Harris, a Speakeasy writer who long outlived his usefulness on that community, consoled me years ago by saying I thrive on contention. He is right about that, but not about how my Liberty superiors treated me. Disability centers are not Microsoft or Google at each other's throats in a complex digital interdependency that is so big, their future failure will spell significant disaster.
Federal mandates that make Liberty and all its sister state centers a reality, this is American Marxism in action, and it is a sick system. Surgeons keep replacing parts, much as they do in Vice-President Cheney's chest, but the corruption remains, and the very people this paradigm was designed for wind up suffering. Too many, as in this case, I am not an exception to the rule, and the only thing that can fix it is a Congressional review.
I am taking most of the day off. I am going to read, sulk, and eat chips with black bean dip. I will be back tonight, like Henry Fonda, resurrecting John Steinbeck.
At some point, the fact that centers keep making excuses for malfeasance will ultimately make them unsustainable, and it needs to be addressed at the federal level, whether I live to see it or not-- but my additional issue is this. Griping online is one thing, but mailing letters is another, and quadriplegic or not, I have to plan some kind of withdrawal.
David Harris, a Speakeasy writer who long outlived his usefulness on that community, consoled me years ago by saying I thrive on contention. He is right about that, but not about how my Liberty superiors treated me. Disability centers are not Microsoft or Google at each other's throats in a complex digital interdependency that is so big, their future failure will spell significant disaster.
Federal mandates that make Liberty and all its sister state centers a reality, this is American Marxism in action, and it is a sick system. Surgeons keep replacing parts, much as they do in Vice-President Cheney's chest, but the corruption remains, and the very people this paradigm was designed for wind up suffering. Too many, as in this case, I am not an exception to the rule, and the only thing that can fix it is a Congressional review.
I am taking most of the day off. I am going to read, sulk, and eat chips with black bean dip. I will be back tonight, like Henry Fonda, resurrecting John Steinbeck.
At some point, the fact that centers keep making excuses for malfeasance will ultimately make them unsustainable, and it needs to be addressed at the federal level, whether I live to see it or not-- but my additional issue is this. Griping online is one thing, but mailing letters is another, and quadriplegic or not, I have to plan some kind of withdrawal.
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