Wireless in a Snow Shower

I'd heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well, it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah--Pentonix

I suppose, presuming I have regular viewers, like the dwindling audience for daytime soaps, that you would rebut me by pointing out that a minority paraprofessional from the hood cares for my welfare should make me feel guilty, as my conscience doesn’t give a flying fig, not that I do not think said paraprofessional isn’t a nice guy, of course he is. I simulate the ingrained Italian generosity learned from my family on my childhood knee, and he contributes in return, in this charming interstice of the village of the damned, but it is an act I am within relative parameters, able to keep up behind my otherwise world-weary sinuses. Earlier last week, in grieving for his previous patient, he gripped my right thigh, covered by solid gray sheeting, to emphasize the man’s edema, and I felt sexually aroused. That happens, as old as Lady Chatterly’s Lover, the nurse sexualizing the regressive grooming of the crippled husband (when I read Lawrence I resist the vulnerability his cadence demands, not my favorite canonical author) and as recent as the marginal industry effort, me before you, a genuine triumph in cripland film I should feel obligated to view for this account. Perhaps I’ll invite Dr. Dorwart to write a guest review instead, to rest these world weary Italian eyes: I am not going to fuck the nigger five years my junior. It was the mere incidental grip on my thigh. We’re supposed to go to Dunkin Donuts this morning to update the OS for my forlorn second generation Apple 5s, pondering my reluctance to allow ATT to turn off my plug in, adding the expense of a new phone, but if I cannot trust the hotspot to ping?

Victoria Wharton is actually causing me more grief than the kind-hearted African I callously denigrate, but this is as much padre’s fault as my own. He sent her to me. Without Facebook I would not have suspected her mental instability, and was reluctant to reconnect her to daddy, but did so she would stop texting me. My sister informed me Sunday evening that Victoria is a threat to my father’s welfare (drug swiping, etc) and the dowager’s lioness roared. I let the woman have it and threatened her with arrest, due to slipping on my own gullibility, my father’s as well. 

He hired Victoria. Eldest daughter presumed Victoria was reliable, steady, but instead, is another episode of white trash feigning a low middle class. Exactly what fantasy of personal grace and demeanor do I reside in? My heart always breaking on my father’s rat pack stylized imitation, ladies’ man to the end, twisting my love on the rack, the daughter he abandoned, submitted to medical repair, again, and again, and again. First love of my life, he represses what a bloody disappointment I am, first born, fitting virtual reality is no longer removed from the lives we live.

Demi Moore's Clairvoyance

I resisted cell phones for a long time. During the fist Obama campaign I was on Stephanie Verderame's family plan, a woman once my sister on whom I flipped during the building renovations (circa 2007). Nasty flipped. I called her a cunt, and however much she yanked my apron strings, baby sister and cunt snaps a ribbon somewhere, but I am too tired to claim I am not impervious to shame.

Anyway, however briefly, I entered into a two year contract for the Apple iPhone 5c, and as you can see, Steve Jobs did not carve me a pancreatic cancer choice cut to deify him. I am going to attempt to activate the damn trinket now. What the fuck is wrong with you to believe the world is changed over a pocket data device? Jesus Christ, a martini evening of allergies and foul mood, I am going to try to make this union work, as I'll travel easier. Tom Cruise might have taken Katie's role in this baked over youth angst Stepford Wives fin de siecle as a non-compliance omen. Not sure I'm feeling well enough to tolerate snark tripe engaged in coitus.

Italian Anglais

"Will you be civil!" --Nicholas Marinelli, Sr.

Fathers and daughters invariably disappoint each other. As an undergraduate, I had to do some forging on ahead with vocational services when padre could no longer afford the tuition. I doubt yanking vocational services along as I did in the mid-eighties would be possible today as it was then. My education was expensive, as my old age will be even more so. I told myself not to get my hopes up when I heard "looking for a new place," before my aging parent's cell phone went dead, but leaden despondency vanished.

My father hates me. You may say I exaggerate, but he attempted abandonment of all his children, even his dead son, when my mother divorced him; he hates the fact that I am a cripple, hates the fact that I am slovenly via biological inclination; I hate my father, but always loved his elegance, sense of style, his drive for material acumen.

I have been trying to make him proud of me for 50 years, and my grief for my sociopathic ghost of a brother is mainly through his eyes. He loved little Nicky, loved Italy. Gandolfini's sudden death was a story in my head I am writing in irony before it became an obituary, much like Pacino's ...And Justice For All was an episodic soap opera in the foment of his Godfather arc. The former film is not a Francis Ford Coppola masterpiece, but getting past the fact that Justice is a situational argument about jurisprudence, it is actually a very dark rendition about the dirt that goes on in the criminal courts, and how the law grinds people with a civic sense of decency into a pulp, and favors sadists, which John Forsythe's one dimensional demeanor adapts to conveniently, in this instance.

It was some years ago now. Padre may have been 69 or 71, still handsome. I was lowered on the hydraulic Paratransit lift, growling about the driver's incompetence, before my sister and I ruptured into civil war, appearing for my usual compulsory holiday visit, and I was admonished. All whites are racists, but they hide it behind whatever vinaigrette you'd like me to list: veneer, condescension, affluence, ripping off (immersion in) black culture, belief that Barack Obama is a demi-god, or one of my favorites, paternalism toward the Sudanese in relation to the eradication of the guinea worm. 

And More Porchetta Feuds

Every single day, since I left Matrix, disbanded since Irvin Rutman retired or passed away, I have gotten up from that day bed five yards behind me, trying to convince myself my life was not over. Every damn day, first the unemployment office, sometimes in tears. Then I reunited with this gang of crooks briefly and not easily, before the shit hit the fan with their ensconced princess, and one of their many now deceased employees gave me a stipend for a profile of another dead girl, Karin. Her lack of mobility due to her type of cerebral palsy killed her, killed her young. Her lover had a felony record, and Liberty paid this offside Adonis under the table. This is what they do. Imagine then, how fortunate it would have been for me if Linda had wanted a bisexual fling spastic a la mode, though I puked when I began to fear her motives in our email conversation. If you fuck a Liberty staffer, fringe benefits abound, and Linda accused me of this, in fact, after the pin popped my skull and I turned into an IED. Or a grenade. Whatever you like. Every day. I tried, at first, to return to, social services on the Matrix model, and then got lucky with freelance work, but that was not such that I had to string. At AccessLife I started to believe that maybe I'd get back to near my old salary, but failed to realize how insecure journalism is; I carried on bravely, still intend to, but remained entombed in this building, if only through inertia, meaning that this marvel of competency threatens, rarely litigates, though since I put my defiance in print, my back is up.

And so today, I managed a round with my sister, and her husband may be joining the ranks, if his tumor paralyzes him. His entire family is on disability, either SSA or workman's compensation, and in an odd way, this finishes trying to mend fences with my immediate family. If the physicians cannot treat to maintain the man, I know Stephanie. She'll leave him, the children grown. I am only an aunt to the six of them, counting the little brother ignoring me, after I pissed away 4,000 dollars on the two of them, in name. We really don't need episodes of Revolution, do we, to learn how the human animal turns on a dime?

She suggested that maybe I could visit for Christmas, perhaps not realizing that this involves more labor than can be managed, especially with her spouse impaired. Even if Septa scheduled a ride for me without a crisis negotiator, I am no longer entirely safe in my manual wheelchair. It is fifteen years old beyond any usefulness, and the Catholic heavens forbid she visit me here at Riverside, which is my point, beyond money. My officer cousin can inconvenience himself for my sake, and his mother's, but in my sister's suburban lexicon, this amounts to catastrophe.

I know. Focus on my goals, stay positive, and I'll be in exactly the same place tomorrow, living scar tissue.

Porchetta Links

Things were going fairly well in the waning afternoon sunlight of mid-November's autumn, nature having reminded the latest east coast starling who is actually in charge, things settled down, and although spastic has no hope of earning a fucking cent on her poetry, playing the guilt game with the even more ephemeral literary journal was an active back step, a deceleration (do not kid yourself about my rage-- I may be leery of pushing the envelope with Google, but if I believed that I had the physical ability to carry out a tactical assault for justice, barring that I still have layers of politicians and the civil service to engage, and pity wooing, after this is exhausted, my temperament is such I'd choose this over post modern polemics, if my intelligence could counterbalance my physical helplessness, though the compassionate house nigger lifting me off the foam mattress which was just a little too low for me to do my lateral transfer suggests otherwise). I would spare Tim, in the age old tradition of objective indifference. The man may hold me back, now and again, because of his limitations, none the less, my target is the power that denies the regulatory system nearly any degree of flexibility. Rising up from the black lagoon into this tranquil interlude comes Aunt's obsession with niece and a new mattress for her daybed. My ex found the daybed and I owe him there because its sturdy wooden frame works, gives me hand grips.

For those remaining fans of Terry Gilliam's cult status, this is my aunt with the mattress obsession. Yes, the old woman with her frightening face lift, her ostomy issues, is on my side, and I know that. I lived with her before imprisoning myself in public housing. I know she wants to help, and that she sees how my sister's exploitation has hurt me, on top of my trauma (for newbies not following, I gave my sister a substantial loan during the Great Recession, wanted her to help me during the building renovations, and sister, who won't lift a finger for anyone else, wants to put me in a nursing home. She has husband, education, four children, a house worth 500k, and needs everyone else to support her; you figure it out).

Niece tries to tell aunt that niece needs to track down editor boss for cv for the editorial position, and that the optimal time was then, while I had the space, landlord leaving me the fuck alone, I have to plow through my documents, but no. Aunt and niece shatter each other's nerves, despite me telling her to throw mattress out, nope. Favorite cousin hauls ass with senile uncle. Good to see cousin, teach him kindle, tell him blog is up on Azmo for download. Coz is going to help me advertise... I really want to try for this job, one last great push, and I am screwed now, because the foam needs an inch, or an inch and a half base, and while I have to sort that out and reroute my newfound lack of room, because Tim just leaves things, I am running out of time to put a competitive submission in place. He was a terrific authority figure, my AC editor, and taught me how to be a better journalist. On deadline, I was in Paula's heat for the fellow,  and I have no idea what he looks like. The odds of me finding him before this Thursday? The issue of the economically disadvantaged at a standstill in time management is not new. If I do not apply, if I miss taking a last heroic leap, I might as well be Tuttle vanishing in a layer of ordinance.