Coronation?

Brief note to Bill: Shut the fuck up and let your wife fight her own battles with the Senator from Vermont. You do not have the privilege of a third leg to stand on with your historical philandering from the governorship of Arkansas to the presidency, not when it comes to throwing charges of "sexism" around. Your daughter, too, Mr. President, had to live with the after effects of the public embarrassment you caused the country: your 'friendship" with Flowers, the Paula Jones case. I studied the judge's ruling there as it pertained to the toxic environment I sustained locally at Philadelphia's independent living center, and realized how despairingly high the bar has to be to receive compensation for toxic humiliation inflicted on a female psyche. You displayed an erection to Ms. Jones to be serviced.

Not something easily forgotten but not legally actionable. You want to know what was happening to me while you were dealing with Bush'es transition team? The day after my former co-worker Debra Russell gave the housing counselor position to the Secretary of the Board's lover, in direct violation of the Commonwealth's guidelines, Louis, my former neighbor from Folsom, overheard my former supervisor lash out at me over the phone: I'm sorry sweetheart! She accused me of wanting to sleep with her because she emailed me graphic responses about her orgasms and I had a breakdown over it. Anyway, Louis picked up the ball, as if we were still doing obscene phone calls from school. Everyone who knew me started calling me sweetheart, sniggering, and I blamed myself and tried to cut my throat, but I didn't. And this is the same center my building manager tried to force me to go back to when she was hired in 2007, Mr. President, despite the fact that the same corporation which employs her was negligent in my aggravated assault in 1993.

I believed in you then, did the things people are supposed to do to recover, tried to be a principled advocate, and served on your SSA committee, though I didn't have time to schedule a White House tour. You do not know the first thing about sexism Bill. You're a callow hillbilly who believes your privileges entitle you to super status, while my family begs me to stay where I am with Riverside Presby because it is "safe". It is killing me to do so. My heart is going into congestive failure, and I have such animosity toward your legacy I'm almost willing to fight for Bernie to give the GOP nominee a better chance. This is why I queried Politico about doing an article on your problematic tenure as First Husband: You'd really return to running the country through the back door, while bookies make odds if you're healthy enough for another two or three ejaculations in the wrong direction. I'm not going to make it through your third term while I argue with Philadelphia's Human Relations Commission on extraordinary circumstances and statue limits: I remember your elated hand slapping after the Jones verdict. I remember Lorena Bobbitt, and my line of vision is waist level. Convenient, wouldn't you say?

Stymied

Few of Joyce's books appear on the Irish school curriculum. His play "Exiles" has not been performed in Dublin for many years. His poetry is almost unknown in his homeland, and "Ulysses" is widely regarded in Ireland as an impenetrable and pretentious folly (which, in parts, it magnificently is). Joseph O'Conner for WSJ


The Hill County Farms case illustrates the loathsome underbelly of the American welfare state, that small pockets of our country are no better than dangerously disintegrated communities in Somalia. I do not care what your politics are. I do not care if I have raised more than a few eyebrows with the depth of my internalized scars. I do not care if Angelina Jolie forms a Tinseltown Exploratory Committee and wins all 50 states in a landslide in 2016, this horrifying instance of slavery is why I hate you, why, if you are of African ancestry and I have hurt your feelings, you have nothing to say to me, and why if you are a homosexual, I'd wire your mouth shut sooner than pay you a farthing in respect, and why, if you are white and suburban with your two children, what these men had to suffer is the fault of your despicable self-interest, and why, if you are a disability center consumer, you're deluding yourself. Next to the conditions these men endured my poverty is rich, but I have seen situations that do not leave much in the lack of imagination in terms of a crumbling existence that the least of ant colonies would not endure.

You see this story as an aberration. To me it's civilization's end, just beginning.

There are very few active Joyce forums online. I joined a Joyce serv akin  to the James list model  that hasn't seen a post since  2007, driven in my bid to find out to the degree possible how much  of James Joyce had read before 1922. Bloomsday makes me wrinkle my nose and avert my gaze, as if I had caught sight of my brother's dead hamster in the basement, drowned and floating. I do not really wish to read a fucking passage of Ulysses on June 16th. Charming Lance asked me if I would be well enough, if I wished to; no doubt I shall. The exercise and celebration is pointless.

Nautica

The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would, according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be calculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus, thereby causing the elastic pores of the corpora cavernosa to rapidly dilate in such a way as to instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to that part of the human anatomy known as the penis--Ulysses, page 289

Joyce and his whore house venereal disease, saved by a chambermaid. According to this sensibility I should have seen Frank and his spic Bronx survival skills as a blessing, this from an ex-fiance who only told me later that he had bee exposed to the herpes virus and that he nearly asphyxiated the cousin wife who left him, and yes, I turn back to him, but only because of our history, however negative. "I cannot become like you!" I rage, and this is cruel to his pus laden flesh, never even started the murder mystery where his killer remains undetected because I do not know how to break off closure for a killer who is not caught, a Hannibal of my own. How much trophy fucking Bryan Fuller must be able to tap. Blows a kiss.  Television is growing up. Bryan baby you've just got it down man.

I do not know if I would not kill Linda for real, given her illegal humiliation from which I have (obviously), never fully recovered. If you want to know what in part prevented me from filing with the EEOC, I wrote to her that "I'd like to kill you." And I was afraid the government would not take my case. The statement encapsulates the lack of restraint; 14 years ago it was an idiomatic outlash written out of hurt, anger. In no way literal then, now I am not sure, quite honestly. Poor little crip joint, it would not take much for me to beat her clock, drive to Liberty, start what would amount to an illegal confrontation, and thus force a change in my life, getting myself arrested because of incompetent case management, interpersonal cruelty that only she and I remember, except that she left it behind, the sociopathic weasel who complies with her leash as long as her seniority is respected.

Think you need to put me back on probtheme? Well, if that day ever comes, I will not announce my plans beforehand. Missed Little Man Tate this afternoon, unfortunately, because I am not done with Foster's importance to my thematic intent.

I invested far too much in my iconic sensibility toward Linda, but it mattered because she was the only woman ever like me who wielded power. I tried to follow her example and the price tag wound up too traumatic. I did not follow through on the belief of my instructors either and if I am still a functional journalist?

Linda's response to you about these issues would be, aside from pointing out the anxiety in my transmissions, generated by knowledge that default would be a nightmare from which I could not escape, is that she fobbed me off on her dead coordinator Gil, who in turn fobbed me off on his local actress associate from painted bride. This amounts to additional insult onto injury, no more or less than that. What Linda did doesn't rise to the level of a sexual harassment case, not if President Clinton could drop his pants in front of Jones and get away with it, which he did; I was the party engaged in the urgency of communique, as well.

But my economic security was in jeopardy, and for eight months she treated me like her own personal Igor, and subsequently made it impossible for me to utilize Liberty without continuing to salt the wounds of what had become an abusive paradigm, and I have not been able to remove myself from it since-- how would you feel with this level of helplessness in a barren environment?

Trying to swallow broken glass. An inmate at Bellevue survived this; a vegetable, tube in his stomach, if memory serves. 

Crash Dump Curdle

I was surprised when Monica queried me voluntarily about Frank, during Brenda's international incident two weeks ago, surprised that she chose to speak to me on her own, at all, though I'd have to look up the date. If I do not write it down, either online, hard drive, or hard copy, I cannot remember the time frames about these things. I still dislike Monica, in the sense that white attendant reactionism to me, or paternalism, as with the-Susan-who-treats-Sherry-like-a-large-toddler, and that wasn't going to work with me, is about equal to the African dysfunctionalism in this system that has so scarred my psyche. If any of you read a future byline which indicates that I have been killed by one of these sterling paraprofessionals, don't be surprised; it happens, and all of Josie Byzek's efforts at chronicle collection, all of New Mobility's educational awareness pieces, do not change the fact that beneath the surface, attendant care can be as abusive as nursing home neglect.

I am not trying to rap Ebert for attempting to bridge the gap with his fans; if he gets a few to turn their civic conscience on, this is not a bad thing, but Roger got old and got sick, and I have been swimming in this cess pool since my sister Michelle's childhood. I remember her institutional environment, remember mine, and by default, my local disability center destroyed my life. I may salvage something, but it is too late for me to go back, absorb Hathaway's stress as Andrea, and climb back up, and even if, when I mail my missive, someone gets me a lawyer, and this lawyer comes up with a tactical approach that works, and Linda is politely retired, and Tom either institutes reforms or moves on, my compensation wouldn't amount to chicken feed, and that is the enormity of injustice.

It took me a  superhuman effort not to hurt myself back in 2000. I could not stand up for myself with EEOC intake personnel while I was decelerating and fighting it at the same time, even with a therapist, and this is the issue about time limits and the law. There is no other support system out there for me. Liberty is it, and they make me sick. My sister doesn't care. To her I am like Sherry, and to be treated like Sherry, and so I shield myself with contempt. My brother cares just enough not to be as callous as Stephanie, but when it comes to educating himself, and being aware, like the advocating author Rachel Simon, he chooses, like my sister, to stay blind, because they have children, and I am a terrifying burden.

Some people reading this may be moved, disabled or not, but do not know what to say or how to help, and I have already had my fill of Josie's compassionate pretensions that possibly cost me a happy memory of fun out on a date, with the anticipation of romance.  I would wipe out the ideology behind the simplicity of independent living as a phrase with my bare hands, if I could, and it would not change a thing.