Giant

"Take a break." Melissa Horton, Yaberrz

I've already told myself that Niume is just another tool. My problem is the posts, taken collectively, drip like the orphanage gruel in Oliver Twist, the other Dickens masterpiece never read, so, on my last megabytes for this billing period, I am waiting for the prompts to kick in, and tomorrow, or later, my tweets to my posts will be invalid. Chrome autopass works on some sites. On others, it creates issues.

I do not know how many of you remember Rock Hudson, in his last days, coming out


I do. I have the memory of the news conference, live, in 1985, and here he is, a wasted consequence of both a sexually permissive society, and concealment based on sexual secrets, a matinee idol of my mother's generation, with her mania never fully, effectively treated until she gave birth to my half brother, and survived the heroin addict she wedded in mistake. Benjamin's father was a late diagnosed schizophrenic. For me, Hudson was a television star, the composite model for Blue Bloods Tom Selleck. I was much better off, a naive ignorant youngster who couldn't decode, and had fantasies of a happy middle class Italian marriage-- but my Pulchinella was barren, and he is a ghost.

I made my decision. I am not recertifying with this Presby building. Trudy Richardson, as far as I am concerned, is a hate crime criminal. The real reason Presby doesn't evict, is section 202 makes money putting senior citizens in hospices and homes. It is a consequential decision, and once the deadline passes, that is it. I cannot change my mind. They will move to evict, and I am the one who keeps taking it. I cannot do this forever.

I do not mean to take the collective human mentality all that seriously, but it is overwhelming me, my need for creative space.

El Nino Effect

"Do you trust me Louis?"-- Augustus Brew, silicon archetype

The abbreviated version of my limited interactions with Cecil Morales can be summarized as follows: I joined his Catholic discussion group on Yahoo, and he then returned the favor by joining Disability Arts, which still hangs like a thumbnail, and then we went to email. I have no reason to believe he wasn't who he claimed to be, that pictures of him rough housing his son weren't a father with his boy, or that he wasn't Argentinean. We talked on telephone. I dangled my cunt like a trollop, and Josie Byzek, as I've written with past scathing bitterness, lashed out at him publicly, for motives I have already surmised: Give me an inch and I talk the length of the turf, I pull on people, and give little thought to telling lesbians wrapped up in the belief in Jesus Christ that they're going to hell. Did I email her that? No, but her insistence on her right to religious communion is blasphemy, and this may have gnawed on her subconscious.

I was paid in full. His insensitivity troubled her, but not I, and what he had wasn't looks. It was intellect, and this is what Miss Byzek disrupted: I could, at one time, talk to Cecil about ideas. I wanted that more than any worries over dangling and impotent cartilage, but what, now, can I do? I look haggard. I'm mentally beaten, struggling with my grandfather's bowel issues, anxiety, agitation, subsistence, and Frank Versante? Frank and I looked the part, but we had no real connection other than prurient groping, which ceased long before his death, almost a year ago. We were always disconnected, never into each other, despite his claims he loved me. That wasn't the case. He was just a dirty old bastard. I punished him, and pushed him. Made him do things, refused to accept that he wanted his helplessness, wanted his infantile indulgence. Now I'm alone, in the middle of the January thaw, fighting panic. I can cave in again, recertify this April, barring any catastrophic changes to HUD's policies, but it is not the unknown elements of the Trump Administration feeding my fear. It is rather the knowledge that I am not going to last another year in this building, and I'm at a loss. Psychiatry will, if it comes to that, merely invalidate me, nothing more. It will not fundamentally alter the livid hatred with which I'm struggling, the consequent difficulty of putting all this aside, focusing on work. I've nothing to offer an attorney, or an attorney's firm, beyond contingency; I cannot expect anything from my family, and even less from digital networks. I can wade my way through welfare intake, just make the call, but I'd drive away another fifty attendants, no matter how hard I try. Some of them may victimize me again, and I already know how much worse it can get. If I wrote these two paragraphs though, I suppose more can be coaxed. The sin, the grave sin in the back of my mind, that charming plan, I fear the suffering it would cause me, so much more suffering for such deplorable acts of impulse which put me in niggerland, which made me a poor old quad the President elect would satirize, a public spectacle of diminution. Pure Genius gets a small bump for giving an ALS sufferer an arc, without examining the moral issues of personal dignity in the face of such debilitation.

Turkish Coffee Deficit, B -

As the fame of the coffee plant spread to other lands, its centuries long voyage was about to begin [sic].

The resentment of America can be understood in light of the success of Three's Company, even if everyone understood the irony of Suzanne Somers' cluelessness, nascent innocence, which hearkens back to James's success with the novella Daisy Miller, but Somers' only claim to recognition illustrates the exhaustion of capital. The comedienne has lost her telegenic appeal and cuts a rather sad figure. She looks like an Irish alcoholic and should consider transforming herself into a silent partner. If you look closely at Ritter in Bad Santa one feels the same queasiness around the sickbed. We may not be able to internally cue ourselves onto silent heart valve death waiting for a fatal tear, but he looks and sounds seriously ill against the  unwitting Thorton, not that my comparison is exactly complimentary: Ritter had some talent beyond farce and timing for studio audiences. Somers has a decollete. She markets what she has, but still, do we ever ask why we don't close the door at some point? Time's up? Sunset Boulevard is mythic on this particular point-- not currency, everyone dims, but the ability to adapt. I imagine sooner as opposed to later our physical deaths will be virally milked into a virtual immortally which raises its own ethics.

I was correct to assume Judith Light honed her line readings on Soap Opera, wrong as to which one. Not Bobbi on General Hospital, but another character on CBS, an illustration of queer limits. She is forceful on SVU, but cannot follow through her lead in A Strange Affair. Jay Thomas, like my ex, was a cruel bastard, minus the uncouth porcine stupidity, which speaks to the convenience of intelligence, and a merciful, dignified end. My would be brother in law may not have known what to do after Frank nearly died from three strokes in succession, but up close, its aftermath was a grotesque lingering for which video rarely has the courage.

Imminent Belgium

"Would you mind shining your light on someone else today?" Mark Johnson, a liberal writer I managed to infuriate with no one else's help

I went to bed early this morning and couldn't sleep for the agony in my jaw, not so simple now to find a dental hospital that could treat me; it is not simply a question of draining Pennsylvania's Medicaid allocation. I know what it is like sitting in that dental chair for hours on end being tortured with root canal. I now have gum disease, and I'm suffering from indoor allergens and other small secrets relative to quadriplegia, and believe I'm functionally dying, like my Aunt Marie, dragging herself along with less adaptive ability, as time goes by. 

Morally, I don't know what to do. Kill myself now, wait for the bloody stroke, or tell the nigger bitches in the office that they've won, and consign my fate to Inglis House after a life with so little joy to it. Sex was never much, not like it was for Linda and her telescopic exuberance. And I did not want to fuck her, despite my stupidly unwise outburst from which it took me so long to recover. What made me angry was my dialectical rivalry with the spastic bitch. She could have great sex between her two husbands, while my clitoris hangs out like stewing meat for an Italian casserole, with absolutely no memories of that good fuck, except for anal games with my discarded and no less turbulently deceased spic ex of a pig. I do not enjoy anal penetration, don't want to suck tit, and there it lies. My only memories are rift with friction of never fitting with the right man, a good man, or lesbians in a variety pack coming at me not because I was signaling them, but because they thought my emotional vulnerability made me a good butch. And they were lucky that I was too impaired to kill them. That is what would have happened had it gone beyond hitting on me in the wrong situation, or in environments out of my element, and now it's too late. Stresses beyond my control are killing me, enfeebling me beyond being a good advocate for righteousness, or to climb onboard Toomey's train, or even writing one decent scholarly work. Where am I going to get the energy?

I'm barely eating two meals a day, struggling not to be haunted by Frank's infantile gluttony. I don't want to be haunted by it, my remorse, contempt, and the fact I hated him but took pleasure in being a couple, but what else is there, except the olive tinge to his face? I knew my mother was dying, and so did my sister, but I suspect neither of us ever resolved losing our mother. It has been 11 years, and we can mark the same parallel with Frank. I knew he didn't have long, and wonder if he died to spite me. I can't know, especially as I interjected to stay in his life, as opposed to reconciling anything

When the time came, I thought, in the throes of death, I'd scream for Jerry, somewhat parenthetically, or go back further, to Raymond, whose emotional armor I was able to pierce, sibilant, manipulative teenager that I was, but no. There is a place where Joanne and all her longing is simply unraveling, coming apart, without bonds to hold her to the ground, constant tension from my jaw, my temple, strange declensions in my left shin, sturdy enough to linger on in torpor, to lose my time and place. Then I get mad, but it may not be enough, and my Roman father who despised my survival in the world, he may outlive me. The one twist in the endless stream of police procedurals from the European left: in "A Death in Flanders" the actor playing the retired inspector keels over dead on the train, staring at the woman passenger across from him as intently as the French predator he collared, an effective send up. But we're not all that lucky, with our broken, battered hearts. Those of us without looks, figures, or enough shallow ruthlessness.

Fumes from the Exhaust

"Those grown old, who have had the youth bled from them by the jagged edged winds of winter, know sorrowfully that Indian summer is a sham to be met with hard-eyed cynicism."-- Grace Metalious, Peyton Place

Even those lacking a certain artworld diction might find the works of Veronika Gronnegaard trivial in an otherwise engaging drama from Maya IIsoe, who, whether she intended it or not,shows the progressive spectrum is exhausted. Veronika did what she wanted sexually, whether or not she could tell that her first husband was a dangerous sexual libertine, and then the spears thrust outward.

Another flag: Frederick's wife sleeps with her brother-in-law. Credible, but even for Scandinavian tendencies to repress, how could anyone's marriage survive such an indiscretion? In the difference between my leonine ideals of a good man, and my ex, the imbecile half-wit Frank, I suspect love is closer to the constant fighting in which Frank and I engage, but if he fucked my sister, I write this dead pan-- the man would be dead, and I mean that. [He is safe, as Stephanie has her own problems.] So, while the exchange between the actors as husband and wife seems consistently Protestant, and buried below the surface, Sliveg's [sic] declaration that what she did was unforgivable usually proceeds a death knell of some sort.

Just a note about my ex: I am not fair to him, and only continue the volley because I have absolutely no support other than a misogynist moron. I am basically dead to the man, yet we still fight like Raymond's parents, on the sitcom, and it does make me laugh, that whatever I dish to the Bronx bastard, he throws it right back. 

I'm a writer.
That's no excuse.

He has no idea.

Taking a U turn

Mio padre, in in relation to my fall, wants me to go to hospital. Our conversation went something like this:

Aging patriarch: Why don't you go get checked out? I'll pay for it. If you want me to come over--
Translation: I don't think you're expendable.

Furious daughter: Come over? O please! You have Louise, and I have to get up to go to the store, and unlike you and Marie, I am making plans to go away, or to a home, because I am a realist while the two of you do nothing and sit there and suffer!
Translation: You don't love me and never did.

My father's sister is literally dying, and even allowing for the fact that no model can control everything, her suffering is driving me berserk. I'd email my cousins, or IM Richie at Linked In, but I know it is not my place to overstep my role as (overbearing) niece. Padre does not intervene, and I'm mad at everyone, familial and otherwise.

I am on the verge of giving my notice, with no plan, straining at the bit, even knowing that access to toiletry would be essential, and a problem, although I have a portable bedpan. It is all I can do not to lunge at Trudy and assault her tomorrow, and yes, this is beyond the bounds of decency, though I'd run out of usage attempting to detail the games these employees are directed to play, how many times I've complied and they simply do absolutely nothing. A Poets & Writers author wrote a book about an underclass woman who was gang raped and died of alcohol poisoning in the projects. I found the novel in Paley Library while I still lived near Temple. I forget the guy's name, I forget the title, but he wasn't writing fiction; he was writing about a police state which deliberately denigrates and defeats people who don't know what to do to stop it. Unlike the female character, and I'm not sure she was the lead, I never used fucking as an act to get what I craved, never tried to climb on my once well endowed cunt, though I did try very hard in my thirties and forties to get a protector. This is why I could not swallow my physical revulsion toward my ex; he was a misogynist bawling baby who wants to be pampered, and has no idea how to walk with me. Some men do have that idea. Married men, but I only ever made a direct effort to steal one. Tall order with the flimsiness of cyber dating in the early explosion of web growth.

I know giving my notice will kill my father and I know everyone who would want to console me would say this is how landlords are. I can't take it anymore. I don't drink, I don't whore myself, I gave up tobacco, and because niggers love to bitch slap as a method of matriculation, I'll be persecuted to my grave. I can't do it anymore.

Mimic

Blogger managed to frighten me, and I am still digesting it, as a prelude to the arc of my life ending exactly as it started, bodily functions constrained, wondering why viewers of my posts necessarily need to feel victorious in censoring a voice soon to fade regardless. Humanity knows it is in trouble, and power has shifted away from territorial governance to corporate control on a global scale, just as David Mitchell presaged it in Cloud Atlas, and just as the main catastrophe in the novel indicated, it won't really change that we're doomed to irrational repetition of conflicting interests, whether vengeance is refined through engineering efficiency or relegated to vulgarity, I am not certain I ever had a choice about my destiny, part failed scholar, part failed systems module, part semi-failed writer who cannot grasp everything, computer science being one topic of unfortunate illiteracy. Even if I desired comprehension, I could not grasp the complex aspects of circuitry and code, but understand the power it generates, and it scared me; I'm used to human censure, but not being wiped off search because I cause offense, or am considered irrelevant, or simply a provocateur.

Decorum would insist that I need not lift the curtains I do to prove a point, but I'm suggesting otherwise. We pay a price for sustaining people like me, especially when the judicial process cannot rectify the trauma which has to be necessarily absorbed. I am ignoring the health systems in place for that rather than seeking adequate treatment because mental health is a game of Russian roulette, and pharmaceuticals don't work. I learned this about intake long ago, just like prison, therapy is a cycle of recidivism by degree, and makes treating professionals themselves vulnerable, which liberal journalists ignore when they talk about crisis in services. There is no getting better for approximately a third of trauma clusters, only volume muting, and Google muted my volume, why?

The inferences? What I've insinuated about hate? Perhaps. I do not hate my ex-fiance in the traditional sense of domestic discord. I hate what he is, how the Bronx molded him, and hate how he lives, and how I live too. For my subjective intent, it isn't worth the price, which is why I engaged in an inappropriate social outreach and gave Tony Stiles my telephone number. His local notoriety doesn't mean anything to me personally except that it gives him a capacity I've lost in being vanquished so I took a chance, not really expecting that he'd oblige me with a reciprocal response as a knight in shining armor. I'm looking at a position for a health journalist, and I am not motivated, indecisive as to whether I should force myself to apply anyway. I'd rather become a dictator and overthrow a representative government, a brief and flaring bookend to my tortured legacy.

The voice of old aunts

Everything is my fault. Marie's brittle contralto in my head, my frustration glancing her brittle skeleton, for lack of any other supports, including Karina's disappearance, the younger urban variation on my Ridley Park neighbors. What I had hoped, despite my intuitive sense of her capriciousness, and my displeasure with her inability to check with me first, was that she'd help me get out, despite the fact that I dismissed her. And our last conversation was about her schedule overwhelming her, my silent impactiom symptoms overwhelming me, and our haphazard rapprochement then snapped, with whatever trek she was doing, and then Frank, who cannot help me. I do not consider my follower Ed a friend, although he might have been had I been part of a couple; still, I want nothing more than to bring my sojourn with Presbyterian Homes to an end, and let the underclass finish me off, if I'm weak enough to be finished off, as opposed to setting off a chain of events, like Peter Gallagher in the Underneath.

He isn't afraid to take chances with a crippling ineptitude with that distinctive face, Gallagher, with the breadth of those eyebrows and mouth, everyone caught in the lattice of betrayal his emotionally warped character initiates, in a switch and bait plot. An old geezer from Sidney Hill, a building worse than this, asked me the salient question, "What about a job/"

Not unreasonable. If I want a fresh environment, go through another 40 interviews-- but I'm not the woman Daniel Raudenbush hired away from Liberty Resources; I'd have to scramble for references, and another failure, if I was accepted somewhere, would cause me more grief with Social Security, my bouncing on and off their rolls like a wildly oscillating EKG with a long flatline. I'm stuck in a bad place, and only have worse, and this isn't what I want; I've done nothing to deserve to be here, nothing, except to believe I could handle the ferrous iron rust of American indigence. If I give up, Google won't have anything to worry about in the jagged edges of dowager's voice. People in nursing homes don't get blog accounts.