Osteoporosis on A Metronome Beat

It could always be worse. -- Dana, a precursor to my current stomping testosterone laborer

I suppose I can live with it after all, that a man’s mistake led to a brief uproar and the inevitable retrenchment, so much intense back and forth. The service coordinator, once my title also, frightened me into an essential resignation, ashes in the sandbox, the oxygen and energy sucked out of me by my despairing cousin; if Galahad and I are chameleons, one moment a simulation of a couple, the next two worn out individuals who’ve time lapsed half a century, Monday had a tinge of a high school pep rally, as if he could charge at my shrieking and tremulous physique like a point guard. My cousin’s misery makes my emptiness seem relatively infinitesimal. My cynical, callous side resents her for it, but her situation is as equally a teaching tool. She married twice, the one she’s in now with my blood relative fractured by hideous wounds, which, for once, out of personal loyalty, the dowager shall not reveal, if otherwise to be burdened with tight-knit bond through text only. I, by contrast, never married, and there is nothing ironclad about a future abandonment between this man and I.

I did blink first, and was going to withdraw from his employer, my current provider, but I’d have to fend off inquiries, and my departure would have been because we did not violate the rules altogether, and intercourse now carries too many riders, almost an afterthought. I never really had him. The fellow simply hasn’t been laid for 15 months. The last date I was in my fiancé’s bed is beyond my memory, 2006? The care worker found it incredible, and there, Pam and I have a bond. She and Bill abstain, from what inferences she offers. This you may know, which means I don’t care enough if it gets read and I land on even more familial estrangement (my half-brother). My sister-in-law and I had an unforgiving quarrel on Facebook, giving me insight, therefore, about social media creating its own news. It finally happened to me, with my nephew sleeping in his car while his trollop mother parades her granddaughter, his child, like a trophy. Dawn, my brother’s wife, is forever high school trailer trash, but look who’s talking, my aspirations defeated by a former Walmart cargo-handler. I was, of course, going to go into racial epithet mode, then considered the racer from Nederland, which is in Colorado. I owe the man an apology for thinking he was actually native African. No harm. Speed is a drug, like Mia Farrow’s kidney-stone liberalism.

In comparison to my barren womb, my cousin has two children. She owns her home. I own nothing, and yet I’m so much stronger than this whining, self-pitying bitch, so much so that I offered to put myself in the middle, see if I can suture her marriage into healing, drawing her and Bill out with a couple-friends dynamic. She’s afraid I’ll spill her secrets, like Meyer’s blood guilt driving the visions of his conscience, sans Match Point.

What Allen asks in this film is to consider the price of adulation over and above desire, but he does not expiate himself, distastefully trapping Scarlett Johansson as a situational victim because she gave in to an unhappy husband, simply through association, with her own parallel relationship discord. Allen loyalists deem his capture of Soon-yi to be creepy. Galahad is of the opinion that it was sick, and I'm inclined to agree. There was no letter of the law crime, but he fell on the sword against his own backlash with the mortality counter, condensing his time. It doesn't seem to make Mia any more sympathetic, curiously, hiding, as she does, as a leftist in mortal combat. Is my gratitude toward Galahad a blinder, after a fashion? Given my history as a victim of black dysfunction, our sparring match over what is genuine and isn't has been remarkable. I know him better than I ever did Frank, but he's still a shackle in a sandpit, and my mortal coil has a ton of work to do.

If I remain loyal, contrary to my inclination, and he finds other employ, a woman? I've been writing the script of an ugly, stark, care giver's murder for a long time. I may have mentioned it, even.

Matters of Life and Death in an Aide de Camp

It's not your business -- a nursing aide in his degree of over-involvement

David Niven would decease just shy of a decade after starring in Vampira, a mindless piece of camp the dowager took solace from despite Prime's superfluous generosity, her bad leg an unremitting source of discomfort. Not a matinee idol of my time, he nevertheless radiates the humanism of the British Empire at its finest, cheapening himself in the decade of me, the decade of youth, with herein a breast and curvature patriarchal fantasy quite worthy of Hugh Hefner, who lasted with remarkable tnacity into the digital era. Beneath its superficiality, however, Vampira does for Niven what Assassination Tango does for Duvall with its much weightier center of gravity, allowing old dogs the assurance of relevance. Whatever feminine critics might say of the opening kill shot of the babette while the tourists wade in on the joke, Duvall plays the same game with December-male trophy status as Niven's handlers do 28 years before, scoring a few bimbo points on cross-ethnic sexual intimacy to boot, while the dowager misses making her own coffee, being alone and sleeping until six pm if she wishes, her surly breast desirous of making her male paraprofessional go away. Right now I don't feel like characterizing him through a pseudonym. I just want him to find another job and get the fuck out of my life, despite his sensitivity to my humiliation and my constant inquiry about my feelings and even unanticipated sparring matches. I can eject myself, at considerable inconvenience, as I've written, but it will be more for the worse.

I did an idiotic thing, and told him about Tassoni, buried in my archives, the instances of my Tassoni episodes, and to my utter chagrin, Galahad friended John on my phone, and more bloody awful still, John friended me back. Who wants the past tense of bittersweet losses to of a sudden have contemporary currency? I've posted things here about my undergraduate life which would undoubtedly antagonize the man I never got over, in this half-quasi sing song space with a minority who went one or two quarters with me towards the finish line of a turbulent spring. As I've also written, I am not huge on Facebook virtues, don't do selfies or announce events or floral arrangements, instead grilling my way into a fabulous family annihilator, but nevertheless, John and I are in feed, because I let a hip hop minstrel tap dance on my memories of the deepest longing for another Italian American I ever had. What the fuck is it with men? Act, don't reflect, never mind mortification, a way of stating you're saying fuck you and help me at the same time, remember? I epigrammed his 2002 email, and suggested he and Galahad could bromance on their respective tie-in, namely me. Yes, I am furious, and said I love you, now a second time, to a man passionately insisting he isn't my boyfriend.
You must remember this, a kiss is but a kiss. Judy Dench may offer up the inference that it's all in the incipient detail of domestic charms. God save the Queen.

Permanent Lacunae

This is one of Trump's most underappreciated political achievements of the year: consolidation of power over a party to which he had scant personal or institutional ties. -- Matthew Yglesias, Vox

The reason I do not remember Titus Welliver as the "man in black" on Lost is because the dowager allowed her following of the show to lapse in the second season, which can be taken as a veiled critique of a complex mystery which made too many demands on its viewers, not that I am denying the show was a radical innovation; thinking about it over the last couple days, I was surprised by how much I had forgotten about it, the real time back stories and their tie ins to the unexplained occurrences. Excluding my ignorance over how good or bad Abrams work was on the lost youth of Star Trek. I ten to believe JJ cannibalized his own capital due to overreach. His writers deployed some of Lost's tactics in Revolution, and it felt anemic, and Once Upon A Time downgraded itself to a fourth grade series of correspondences. I've posted before that Lost's escapism from the impairments of biological reality was a coping mechanism pertinent, if not entirely beneficial, to the diseased and the lame, however quaint or charming you'd like to make it, while Jennifer Rubin claims Trump is destroying democracy and my friend Nick wonders, almost simultaneously, if Trump is killing the libertarian movement. Personally, I think Zuckerberg has destroyed history, freedom of thought, and that this lands on Facebook's desk, so Mark should be jailed, tried for crimes against humanity, and his dwindling assets, 30 billion in losses at last count, should be distributed to poor stricken scholars on the comparative basis of measuring IQ against limited resources.

Years ago, I promised you I would put a Lost reviewing on my to-do list, and I apologize that it has only made it to a watch list which might as well be the fountain of youth. It isn't simply a matter of paying Prime for what I once got for free. I balk at going back into the puzzle, because I know there were threads left unanswered, and tend to believe Abrams success is a reflection of a post traumatic terrorism flux  from which we cannot break free. I also told you, years ago, that I started a novel in 1989 strikingly similar to the idea of Lost, real world characters vanishing to an island plagued by never ending insurgency. I shortened the title to Don Paydola, a bit wonky. Gretchen Laskas read part of it and claimed I was a writer's writer, the parts of it I actually typed to hard drive still temporarily locked into an office 7 .wps extension. I overreached with the ambition of that concept too. We'll see if I ever finish it, and stop worrying about my resentment that a Jewish television producer got quixotic. I really don't understand why we exaggerate the forces at play. Everyone drops an egg because Facebook harnesses a sixth of the global population, while on an individual basis, none of us take it that seriously. Trump is a vulgar carnival barker, but he tapped into the little guy. The left thinks this is a suicide pact, and the right is rife with factionalism, but we'll live. John Bolton is a known element. 

Lazarus’ Preclampsia Gorilla Channel Mitigation

His hands, palms upward at his sides, were covered in blood.-- JG Ballard, Crash, p3

I have to walk myself back, and admit to a correction: There are whites, at least those who work for Liberty Health, who are as moronic as Presbyterian Homes minority managerial staff like Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson, even if it befuddles me why the coffee light guard downstairs is fixated on my father’s rushed appearance during this too lengthy interregnum which will result in my spirit being crushed. I do not know what Liberty Health is, but their employees harassed me just as I was harassed in 14 by an earlier pair. The 2017 round was an older man named Tom, and one younger patronizing punk. I asked the younger if he knew any famous people with cerebral palsy. “No,” was my answer, and I should have kicked his ass, even from my filthy mattress. I did frighten them both, in October, as only women can, and they both jumped to help me eat when I hissed with scorn at “fucking regulations!” The kid was a kid, but this Tom is as much an ignorant racist as I admit to being, the forthright savant. I gave Tom more punishment over telephone, as the idiot’s contractual obligations are to shovel us like shit into nursing homes, but, the key is not my inconsolable misery, and the punishment my body is taking and will not recover from. It is what I asked the punk bastard kid, and how he responded. This signifies the failure of sixty years worth of activism and disability law, and that attitudes do not change. I never expected to literally adopt the mantle of Vassar Miller. Those odds are long, but there are not enough of us who can cross over into the mainstream. I once believed Linda Dezenski could do it, but I suppose I took care of that, not quite able to let it flow, like Dana Delaney and her cannabis dealer in “Hand of God.” The dealer is a lesbian nigger, and tells Diva Harris (Delaney) a back story that concluded, “That was the first time I made out with a woman and had an orgasm.” No big deal. Women smirk about sex just as men do, but the way my former supervisor did what she did triggered my emotional scars, and I did not think such a genteel poem as I sent her would have resulted in such a graphic suggestion. I needed to leave this building then, as I always have, my one constant, willing to be homeless outcry, and the counternarrative, looming so large, is to move in with my 94 year old grandmother.

Am I engaging in liberal outrage? Perhaps James Dorwart thinks so, assuming he has time to scan my occasionally esoteric posts—but what some of you may not understand is I am using big tent egalitarianism to illustrate that big tent egalitarianism is a crock of shit. Other wheelchair users understand better than my ambulatory followers, and I am sure James does too—maybe I’ll throw him a bone about art therapy empowerment, as I am alienated out of the shared experience of identity, ever mindful that he stayed in the ivory tower. I deflated out of it, as opposed to pole vaulted. No one’s fault that case management destroyed me in certain ways; teaching might have done so too, but I think it raises serious moral questions, that I have to be destroyed because I’ve been non-compliant—in that sort of quasi-ecumenical vein, where “Hand of God,” works as an implied Pentecostal parable, Blessid is an implied Catholic cheat sheet, and left me displeased, and even the reviewer undercuts his own enthusiasm for what Heske and Fitz do without any valid clues as to who, or what, Jedediah (Montgomery) is supposed to be. The hostile obsessed ex-lover, Ethan, attempts to murder the supernatural neighbor, and I gathered this alluded to the Crucifixion, but beyond that, the only clue offered was Edward’s mention of the neighbor’s black teeth, and that his knowledge of horticulture had something to do with his lengthy lifespan. Instead of actually redeeming “Sarah,” the story ends with the message that the Resurrection makes life precious, too awkward even for apocrypha. I pleaded for help on this account two months ago, inappropriately, and expected exactly what I received, smirking, but if I am forced beyond any choice—I suspect Sarah had other alternatives—toward involuntary medical commitment, I’d be far less anguished if I had a voluntary executor to safeguard my work, published and all. Please think about it. Despite my obstinacy, and the nuclear fallout of my idealism, I deserve better than senseless maintenance in an institution, and even deserve better than immigrant African care. I may not prevail all that much longer, unless Melania invites me over to watch the president’s wildlife footage.

Yul Brynner Rides The Hearse

We know it hurts.-- Subprimal's editors

No, rejections from non-paying markets doesn't hurt. What hurts is my loss of ability to make money because I no longer seek succor at the rancid nursery of Josie Byzek's regressive breast. I have been wasting some usage arguing on New Mobility's contact submittal form about the past, and while my observation to Josie that I don't know her well enough to hate her may be accurate, it is not quite true. I would love to go to Lancaster County and whip her across her ugly shrugging self-effacing face, all over an Argentine who cut me off, a Catholic abandoned by his wife, pompous, kindly, hefty fellow with a high voice. I threw out his telephone number. No one can undo Josie's lack of impulse control, anymore than I can undo mine, so what do I want? She has her own self esteem issues, and hides under her tortoise shell. I may conveniently overlook that she published an essay in my collection about "leaving Matrix," and that led me to my pithy 3000 USD, but any number of outlets might have published it, and I had other pieces. No, Tim left me on the shoals in 2005. Journalists know how dirty our business is, the price of gaining access; but what I am talking about is how activists belie their own rhetoric about inclusion. In the span of 24 hours, after I did my personal relationships feature, I was on Tim's list of writers, then not. I took this personally. It hurt my feelings, and it is safe to say no one else ever treated me this way. No editor, no publisher. Even Jeffrey's "I'll pass," on my Brexit efforts didn't sting that much. The failure only motivated me. The problem with me and the Freeman, however, is I like a fight, a brawl, naming names. Jeffrey prefers generalities, and so I am biding my time. We'll see. He may have been confused when I sent him my niume link to District 9, but this film is a splendid three course meal for the politicization of entertainment. Before anything else, I am a ferocious reactionary. Not this ferocious, but Doris Lessing predicted our regressive tendencies in her Memoirs. Did we pay attention? And is this relevant to the virtues of automation?

If minorities can do this to each other, doesn't this give you a better sense of why I so urgently and incessantly want to get the holy fuck out from under Trudy Richardson's power to threaten, humiliate me? She's black, superficially authoritarian, but she is stupid, and a nigger nanny. The species still exists. However much you disapprove of my diction. My family cannot handle it, neither can you, what it takes for the majority of functionally dependent wheelchair users to survive, and while I was going to go with the reasonable equanimity of NPR to discuss the explosive, and corrosive growth, of entitlements, worldwide, Breitbart's bristling is not entirely a fabrication. Dependency, simply in and of itself, corrupts the human spirit. The piece answered my question about corrective surgery, though that also has risks.

Misery

I have been rather silent about Niume and Virily both since I've joined them and since gone awol, though I have a post in my head which may please Virily, when I can get to it. I am busy not being busy because this damn foster cat I adopted for my dead baby boy is going to kill me. Kimmy is a good girl, but she is my fourth pet child, my semi-second female, and one cannot help but love them but she refuses to let me drive my damn chair, refuses, without first combing the carpet for prey. This, and controlling my summer bowel, is my life, not to create an affinity with suicidal post modernists, but you have little idea how much I have refrained from constantly talking about the tyranny of stool movement and control, and how remarkably well I have done thus far despite almonds and four pints of ice cream. I have mainly ceased eating ice cream because whether or not I'm lactose intolerant milk makes me sick and speeds trots, but I have had so little I had the pints to create mucus, cursing fate. I am not a day person as is but my age, in these temperatures, in an environment where I am constantly angry and want to hurt minority women who are so ignorant it makes you question evolutionary process. How can such stupid people exist? I hate shallowness and have worn thin with baby pictures, but it takes no great degree of temerity to realize that perhaps collaborative blogging isn't a troll tamer. I do not generally like niume content, and I am still traditionalist enough to know that computer graphics don't translate well, whether the artist's creation or a photograph, like oscar's work. It is not the same experience as viewing in a gallery. Virily, I haven't really read, but I'm slightly too leery of Russian hackers. Nato isn't going to exactly do a hula hoop for the sake of Estonian sovereignty, and I am about as poor as the average Russian female trapped in Chernobyl. Both sites say they miss me. Very nice, but they too, will kill me before I ever see any real profit from either. Fuck em. I have other priorities right now, like enough coffee for a caffeine overdose, despite the weather.

Rare Winter Trots

"Is it that bad?" Stephen Dixon

It would have been nice to crawl on the belly of Mr. Morales, taking a rare proactive step of inserting him in my shaggy wolverine public hair, breathing freely. He made a marked impression on me, with his romantic force of mind. Is he dead? Retired? If my sole literary colleague on the face of the earth is still among us, it may be reasonable to assume a pompous trade journalist with avuncular smile, dimpled cheeks, black rimmed glasses, might still linger, if not in DC, then somewhere. I evidently cannot find a fucking soul on Facebook, not in terms of people I actually once knew, which means my paranoia on utilizing FB is overblown. I have no damn idea how to use the site to my benefit, embittered writer, lonely woman, whichever bovine Pulcinella I rake in the mulch toward the blades of April.

Why is the poet Robert Thomas my friend? Me drooling dowager retart toldshim between us I would not stir this up, but it boils down to a few simple things: He does not attract me, no slight to his wife intended. I am, in point of fact, fond of the image I hold of Robert's spouse, and regret I actually couldn't adopt her as a new chick clique to chew the fat-- that is another issue. Secondly, my contemporary colleague wisely never bestowed to my phone his number. Even if he had, it is too expensive to behave like my mother in domineering twenty minute conversations between me/they in Oakland. Thirdly, though I've no idea what he may have said behind the scenes, if anything, I do not blame him for my ban from Speakeasy, and I doubt he would have tolerated me this long if he sided with the ban camp. Fourth, and most importantly, I respect his craft. It is fine. It is polished, worthy of American celebrity certainly not disposed on any of us.

Then stop running your mouth and work. Yes, of course. Well, I do, but I have a lot going on, and cannot sit back quietly let Presby destroy what's left of my spirit. I'm working too, a rebuttal on libertarian dark sides, if you will. As to Cecil, whatever happened to him, I did not mean for my adamant stance to make him feel threatened. That was the extent to which Josie Byzek wounded me. I never tried again, after what she did, to take a chance with ambulatory accommodation with who I am. I wish she was dead, Josie, but know that in itself, wouldn't change my scars, this infantile hit list of mine. I even know doing things to fuck up Josie's domestic tranquility wouldn't affect much, but feel it is a legitimate issue to stop her from adopting or fostering third world Asian children. After more research, I may press that.

What a tale my thoughts could tell

"It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction. [sic]" Joseph Conrad, The Secret Agent, location 4-11

Even in incidental moments, slicing the dwindling supply of potatoes to get you through a traumatic riddled weekend, not really paying attention to The Blacklist, the Gordon Lightfoot soundtrack craters you in, as Spader methodically wastes another traitor ally with humane ruthlessness right on the edge, his acting, between the emotional wounds and internalized flippancy, though the opening first season episodes offered a wry subversive bemusement, interest waned with all these mysterious processes swirling around the rouge agent character of Elizabeth, her brutalized psycho husband who apparently survives major cavity wounds. No one is that important, and the brutality offered by the directors doing the captures and the cuts is somewhat complicit, served up as fantastic, with Reddington something of a vengeful deity, except that some clever staff member remembered Lightfoot. This was all it took, for those of us who grew up on the emotive breadsticks of Croce's legacy, one which never envisioned Nigerian swaggering with thickened buttocks on the streets of Rome.

Dowager learned of this social ill through Don Matteo, and has no empathy. Let the Italian government ship their charming red light migrants to Jamaica. If these women want to leave Lagos, then they should stop complaining as to the consequences of marginalized, alien status. I tutored Nigerian students, and liked it better when they were restrained Franophiles absorbing western education for improvement. The difference between Matteo and the progressive video journalists soliciting the pity of privilege, is the mystery drama blames Roman lewdness, its sexual excitement over difference. Reporters on the ground liken them to untouchables, confined to their own foreign ethnicity, who cannot pay them well-- which will take us down memory lane to the fickle years of Usenet.

If I've mentioned JoettaB before, it was perhaps with scant detail. In 2016, coming to its close, I cannot flush out my interaction with her to a very great degree. She tried to help me over the CIL rupture, seemed to have a special interest in unstable males prone to violence, and posted one of my essays about smoking on her website, which I wasn't ready to abandon, then she vanished, and I assume this was due to harassment, or being threatened. "It was not I," the dowager proclaims, hands raised in an exposure of innocence. I bring this up because the general rule of thumb is, if it is posted, then it's published, and first printing rights have vanished, even if it doesn't quite feel that way. Nonetheless, I am including a variation of the piece in my collection, because it is a piece of my early post Matrix history, and the woman's disappearance troubles me, and since I take a hideously long time to gestate, "The Zippo Lighter" may lead me to a commission on addiction. Joetta met Kiefer Sutherland online, and she prided herself on that connection. It seemed a credible boast: He sent her tickets. Whatever her troubles were, I regret the space she left. Given what I face in real life, online nastiness hasn't really penetrated in that way; though it is a stretch, I think she was impaired through MS.

Armageddon Advent

I feel the unholy need to write in a string of prose poem expletives, undoubtedly losing half of my twitter followers if I bellow "Jesus Fucking Christ" over and over like Quasimodo in the breach. I finished my fucking article and hate spec, flagging the idea that carbon monoxide may take care of my problems for me, I'm leaving Race Street in five weeks, see me running? I laid myself down at five, transferring with no fear on that strange energy of age and death, how can one evening it amounts to nothing, my old self in place, and the next, anxiety? I cannot depend on a welfare aide 24/7, but my heart raced, and up I came again; finish the piece, my shins strangely flush, and I'm off the leash. It is done, but I have many things to do, as if I really think the GOP is going to save me in my one-sided email transmissions to Kathleen Parker. Why do I type to Kathleen Parker when my idea is only yeast and soda? She is a moderate conservative keeping her opines on tempo, and I am a banshee of Italian melodrama mewing to Wapo people. Everyone fills the space. Now I need sleep.

On a side note, Fox movies finally ran The Driver again and I watched it very carefully for another spec piece I haven't breathed about to anyone, begging God to help me stay true to myself. What has fresh air felt like these last two weeks?

Thudding Indentation

I cannot actually discuss the column I am working on, even in these days of hyperlinks down to the essential beat reporter, but I twisted myself from the lede to the essential meat of my idea, despite what extreme poverty and physiological duress are doing to me. What I can say is this is a mainstream policy piece about which I care, and as I've written three times, I want to get it right; by the end of next week I hope to have a workable draft nearly ready-- and, if I am declined, be prepared to be a good soldier, as Leonard Nimoy and Peter Falk were, at least on the set.

I may overuse the idea of conduits, but Falk and Nimoy were both filters between Jewish intellectualism and popular culture, and when my battle with Presbyterian pretensions and contiguous minority abusive stigma subsides, at least to some degree, consider these two celebrity character actors a foot note in one of my squiggly segues towards both fusion and difference.

Tubular Enemy

Famine (Irish: an Gorta Mór, [anˠ ˈgɔɾˠt̪ˠa mˠoːɾˠ]) or the Great Hunger was a period of mass starvation, disease, and emigration in Ireland between 1845 and 1852.

Do you ever expend useless capital on a frivolous enterprise? I was examining my LinkedIn Pulse transmissions, wondering why I want to write a LinkedIn post in the first place. I've been out of the game a very long time due to Philadelphia's periodic contractions of services leading up to the Great Recession; by 2010, despite cyclic familial monetary gifts, my money market account was wiped out, and I am exactly back where I was at the age of 23, except for the apartment, this one less functional than that on 1500 West Page Street. Out of curiosity I plugged my old zip code in search 19121, and came up with numerous dead articles and defeated HUD promises about humane, aesthetic, disability housing, wondering if this is an alternate Google verse. Why is writing a relatively generic and nondescript LinkedIn post important to me? To prove I'm still capable, not white trash, not so broken I cannot speak business? The writer Mark Johnson actually is listed as a Leftist Review contributor, hence I found him outside of Yabberz, to hypothetically tell his bosses he is an uncouth bastard, something I could never get away with on LinkedIn Pulse, on which I'd hardly be featured. I cannot afford to support LinkedIn, even if I had not been defeated by governmental insistence on spend down of my resources; regardless, without some form of steady commissions, I would have been wiped out anyway. What do I still believe I am able to do? In terms of my age and all the rest?

I can hardly answer. It is akin to the differential between an agnostic and a Roman Catholic atheist who should lie down. My drive, curiously, went splat for a bit after I got a yes on my pitch. I am procrastinating again, no set deadline, but not ready to blow two gigabytes frying my brain on comparative data and need to relax, keep pitching, stay aware of the fact I'm no longer 35, get some rest, and trust in the fact that if I am not going to Inglis House, then be assured of my own strength and let the state know it will have to kill me first. There are publications I wouldn't submit to. Not that Mark's is one of them, but he'd probably have me black balled if he put my avatars together. Dog days coming in. I think I could move to Ohio without much culture shock, if I could stay out of the hood.

PS: twitter assisted me with my research without so much as a blink, and that is something.

Free Ride

I do not have much for you this morning, other than a sense of being disgruntled, as I usually am, after parring viral communities down to size. I feel a certain weariness with blinding myself to the fact that I allow myself to be exploited, wobbling down the damn stepladder as opposed to holding my own. Ta-Nehisi, whose tag I now have to repair, was frank enough to tell readers the truth during the crescendo over Cosby: we don't make a great deal of money even under the brand name. This includes The New Republic prior to Chris Hughes, and okay, I struggled with an unsuitable community once again, get over it-- but LinkedIn hasn't been a five star venue either, exactly-- although I am taking another look. These platforms are indicating new ways hapless flat foots gain exposure, and I grasp the LinkedIn voice preference just enough, that with care, I can fake its light arcania sentiments, on some relevant issue I don't mind giving away.

I am tired and in pain and comfortably starving so as not to aggravate aged patriarch with mummified third wife; and it could be worse. I've written strong pitches, weak pitches, fucked pitches with typographical errors and still, I pitch, and Yabberz users did, now and again, give me a new market. If I had stayed, I would have threatened to kill the entire body of California liberals, as a class unique unto themselves. 

There is something superficially inimical about those domicile to the golden state, not that I feel particularly generous to modal libertarians either. We need to learn how to bond in mutual support now and again, and if I roll out of public housing, I need someone to catch me, not just suck me dry as a consumer.  Exposing Melissa's limits was exactly that. I can write about the public housing system as a corrupt and quiet holocaust forever, but who, exactly, would intervene? Catholicism even agrees with Presby's lies treating the broken with dignity. It is for our own good, or it isn't that you don't care, but you're sinking in an underwater mortgage too. I hear you, but section 811 and 202 are Satan's sadistic pleasures brought to life, the corrosion of defeat caught between our teeth without a decent polish and floss. It needs to end, even for nonagenarian bones. Regardless of who we fucking speak to, what we fucking say, a public housing tenant is so much chattel, a classification, automatically relegated, and I will show up in New Wales soon to find Toomey's campaign, and I intend to raise the damn dead when I do, if I have to, to break HUDs power.

Deficit Apotheosis

"What do you think this place is?"-- Noah Emmerich as Dr. Jenner of the CDC

Since fear of Alzheimer's is basically wasted energy, and Camillieri was spared the worst of slowing brain processes as he hit his eighties, I know there isn't much I can do about it, given my own family history, my bellicose maternal grandfather breaking down from the ravages of senility, my late mother's lapses prior to her sudden collapse, but the close of fifty four years of unhappy regimentation sends me a warning flag about coping with anxiety: Rule number one: If I need to sit on a draft without a mandatory deadline, then sit on it. Remind me of this now and again, in your silence. I cannot discuss the specifics of what I was working on at the end of July through August of 2016, and like any freelancer, after a brief pucker over a bruise, jumping back in, repeating all is not lost, I have a source and did a ton of research. 

I have a draft, in the cloud, transitioned my Word 7 clumsiness to Google's effortless Chrome, but I drew a blank Friday morning om my concluding paragraph; I forced the issue due to severe extremes to which most women with cerebral palsy wouldn't push themselves, and I knew it. The publisher wouldn't have cared if I waited, stalled, procrastinated another 72 hours, even another week. All I would have gotten was a policy byline in a publication I curiously enjoy, and that is all I've lost, knowing better than to query Marie Varenas about whether or not she thought I was demented. Asking a terminally ill woman on Prozac, riding a snicker of exasperation. I linked back to Yabberz Friday afternoon by accident, intending to go to my Yahoo account, and a quick glance assured me I wasn't missing anything. Part of the problem with the Yabberz model is structural: 40 followers often share the same links, and for me it triggered  an adverse onslaught, one from which I am glad to be gone. Twitter is what it is, all of us vying and promoting and being pithy in 160 characters, but we can ignore it when we wish to, turn off notifications. The Hortons adapted their software to this approach, but for me, it did not work, led to unpleasant agitation, much like the Grimes family at their wits end to escape annihilation in episode six.

The destruction of the CDC in "The Walking Dead" was a spectacle condensed, in the ever wobbly line between big screen and flat screen, but it was also a 21st century reminder that technical optimism is also a faith misplaced in the face of catastrophe. If I have now become sympathetic to the ideas the Confederacy thought it had to defend, well, even I'm astonished-- but it was a message. Faith in government is a complacency that can prove to be quite costly.  

The Nine Tenths Aspect, Dowager Version

In light of Gawker's battle over the Terry Bollea sex video, I did some research on Thiel. Some. I did not scour every link, nor do I know the entire story of the trial Gawker Media's lawyers lost to the powerful venture capitalist's investment in painting a man like Bollea as a victim, but here is a surprise for you: I like Gawker. This comes late, admittedly, and I wish I could make corrections to their platform editor after I hit publish, but anyone who can run a headline asserting Zuckerberg is a paranoid fuck has my admiration. If I make threats against my disabled community, I come under intense pressure from Blogger and twitter, but Zuckerberg has a high bar to meet as a public figure to go after Denton. I also followed Thiel's ominously quiet twitter account and used "faggot" like a whiplash noun, so is this not suspiciously against my libertarian vibrations? 

Even Reason Magazine might hesitate to applaud Thiel's wealth as weapon against journalism. I'm a writer; it is what I damn well do for Christ's sake, and if Peter Thiel doesn't want to be outed as a stool softener, he should not be a public figure, but that ship has definitively sailed due to Ebay, Paypal, which I use, reluctantly, and had to use for Examiner's chump change, however many years it's been now. I am too ashamed of the fact that I bowed to Examiner's cut rate foreskin content aggregation to include it on my resume, but it consumed nine months of my life and added up to fifteen dollars. Whatever depression may have done to my Harvard acumen, I am still better than that.

Gawker is too, and I like it's meanness, Fleet Street bite. Thiel sets a dangerous precedent. I'm an individualist. I hate the New York Times, but if I had Thiel's money liberals would set me up for target practice if I sued Carlos Slin to decouple him from one of the most powerful newspapers in the US. I also shouldn't be paying Blogger for this domain name, assiduously applying myself, three bucks in a dead Adsense account, money which I actually need, as my budget is that bad, but I'm aging, frightened of that, and bitterly wronged.

Is media as an enterprise deplorable? Yes, and even Woodward and Bernstein should be challenged and deconstructed, but without narratives, we'd be murdering each other in crocodilian riverbeds. 

Craigslist does wonders for Emanuel Swedenborg

Despite Thurgood Marshall and Clarence Thomas, despite years of aggressive litigation to broaden civil rights, social reality on the ground is relatively stagnant in the African American community, at least when it comes to major urban enclaves. Philadelphia, Detroit, Compton, Liberty City, large sections of New Orleans, LA, the District of Columbia, even San Antonio, from what I've seen in historical footage, though I grant that Texan violence seems to have a more ruthless aspect to it. The Northeast corridor is more five and dime, if my years off campus were any indication. My perpetrator, for instance, allocated that he was subduing me in order to rob me, but I had next to nothing of value in Diamond Park, five dollars on my kitchen table, purchased by my Italian grandmother, utilized as a writing desk, I still keep my Smith Corona PWP on it, in my static environment. Five dollars, some change. Drug stabbings, drug fires, inner city neighborhoods aren't just about a deficit of resources, and poverty isn't simply about lack of money, nor even education. It's uselessness, and efficiency developers like Ev Williams cannot always solve this through coding and apps; neither can the Communist Party in Beijing, from what I've seen, and white Americans aren't immune from this malaise of not being able to apply themselves. Karina telephoned me Tuesday, unexpectedly, disruptive, and was quite changed, back to her natural brunette hair color, wearing very little mascara. I don't know what it is with me and this New Church woman who inadvertently ignited a war between me and Riverside's management, or, more correctly, ushered in the latest battle I will eventually lose. I feel badly for her, and like her even if she's flighty, leaving me with the mistake of trusting her judgment, and I suppose she feels badly for me, and I'm wondering if I engage in my last life altering event of giving my notice at the end of March, come hell or high water, if she'll let me sleep in her car. I've no idea how she's managed to retain the vehicle, even less why a 36 year old who's a bit loony wants to be my friend. I cannot pay her what I did, even if I find a writing job. What should the fact that she's being kind to an embittered cripple mean? She hardly has the resources to pool her fortunes with mine to help me relocate on the last leg of my viable years. She doesn't want to apply to be my consumer model attendant. Sandra Bland had a position awaiting her, by contrast, when she was arrested for that traffic violation. Did she fear losing it over a misdemeanor?

Spastics like myself have some insulation in that regard. Police do not like the hassle arresting wheelchair users pose, even if their domestic housekeeping presents itself as a liability, and as I come from a family with a number of first responders, I know something about cops and firefighters. They don't want to kill anybody, normally, and aren't prone to excessive force, not on the beat, but an arrest brings any citizen closer to a high risk lifestyle, though in most cases it is a revolving door, when it doesn't lead to rehabilitation due to injuries sustained in high crime areas. Darrell Jordan's decision to impanel a grand jury which then declines to indict doesn't foster trust in enforcement, any more than indicting a celebrity like Bill Cosby on hearsay is justice for victims of sexual assault, and just as automation forgets we're people first. I've been a writer publishing since I was 19, and Inquisitr has ignored my inquiries too.

Ozy would probably say, if it said anything, that my umbrage with them is misguided, and it probably used an automated system to sweep in my twitter account in 2014, and their email to my yahoo address was a prompt, and this doesn't obligate them to listen to me, especially since I am not a passive disabled woman grateful for ambulatory suffrage, but they certainly aren't as liberal as they claim if they can't handle how Philly's incompetent paradigm traumatized me. Won't even bother to listen. In California the unbearable lightness of being is a mandatory disposition, evidently.

Hitting Stride

My post about Kane's legal problems is mainly a rehash, in order to reach another thesis, not that I can fault myself. I don't have any fresh sources, but my point was about the forgotten in all this, which, going out on a limb, were the athletes Sandusky sodomized, as I'm assuming he engaged in anal penetration, though being convicted on sexual abuse charges is not statutory rape, I think. I'm undecided if I should delete my file, or just keep researching bylines and let my interest simmer. One insight I've gained: the coverage between Philadelphia and Allentown has succinct differences, which is also an interstice  of interest.

Have I made a choice to write out of my depth? I am posing the question as a failed freelancing tutorial, in a sense. More research. (Sigh)

Winded Aura

This theme of personal emancipation accounts for the audacious liberties Miller takes with Tropic of Cancer's style, a pastiche of poetic exultation, bland pornography, and the banalities of a personal diary.

Authors more rarely become celebrities, though at the moment I'd be less fazed than rabid if any of my more fortunate colleagues-- technically, I am an author of minute Chicago Slam acclaim-- but that is a matter of linguistic tongue in cheek-- deigned to get within ten feet of me, except David Mitchell, whom I shouldn't have read; if I ever got within range of his personal space it would not be to gasp and sputter with reverence, so much as to now become a borderline threat, the type Orhan's poet Ka feels when confronted by Hande at a family gathering; his skill diminishes most of us, Mitchell's, in the way that work horses never truly compete with innate genius, however refined. Henry Miller's work, in contrast, is a nihilist rant, when all is said and done, but what saves his travelogue fictions is the dynamic energy of them. 

Miller died while I was a high school student, and in the suburban milieu of Ridley Township, he would have never been taught. Yet in a vague diaphanous echo I remember his books in the school library, and I may have been familiarized with Cancer much earlier in my life, only it did not imprint on my synaptic memory.

It is in this vein that, though I can have no quarrel with the rare ethnic Christian sect in Irbil that Isis members want to slaughter, I still root for the militant proto-state to acquire real power, thrive. However cleansing Arabic fanaticism may be, it is different enough from Catholic authoritarian bluntness that I could never become a convert, almost a dirty word, an escape valve for treason, but sufficiently related in stricture that those who would kill me to save my soul have my admiration. All this impetus toward martyrdom because American section 202 housing conjoined to a deplorable welfare state destroyed my rightful economic station in life? You bet. Watch David Brooks make his aerial arm chops against the barbarism which has the Obama administration muting in fine liberal form, then think about your own lines in the sand.

I was all but forced to move into this building I wanted to vacate 30 seconds later after my padre dumped me in it with the accumulation of my poetic acetic life, forced when I had an income which should have allowed me other mobile options, even back then. Today I have no idea how, or if, I'll ever get back into the middle class, even if I spew our equal protection clause right into a stroke.

Julien's Father

Which one is worse, do you think, binary homosexual viciousness or a failed writer baring her fangs at vanity editors? Should we start a pool? Or ask why it is that I'm a failure and Jim Lehrer has affable Texas laurels on which his pending obituary will ride? It is a rhetorical question, attitudinal perhaps, but let me throw out a challenge flag: If progressive's are hell bent on riding to the rescue of Janay Palmer, why did she marry Rice after he dragged her unconscious body out of the elevator? She certainly wears the weariness of a defeated captive in Howard's photo. I never took my abusers back, even if bad judgment lead me to them initially. 

One understands the impetus of Jim's self-depreciation, and the JFK assassination affected him deeply, and led to political novels which I've yet to read. He survived a heart attack, and has exchanged final wishes with MacNeil, and in its over 40 year old history, what has PBS changed? It is as undeniably partisan as Fox, though with a more loquacious undertone.

I reek of perspiration. Marie does not want to rent her row home to blacks despite the fact that her grandson by marriage vandalized the property like one, and yet she wants me to rehire Timothy Artis, because I am a crippled white. I am supposed to be the bloody sainted progressive, blinded by the virtues of equality. Yes, prejudices have generational stratification, and the white Karina really didn't treat me any better than the black women before her, or the homosexual Jesse Staub evasively lying to me to get out from under the evidence of poverty on my life, but if it was my house, would I categorically red line it? Despite the caustic saline oozing out of my chest, I'd like to think I'm still not capable of that type of blanket condemnation. I am not hiring Tim back. He is a boozing addict with a record for possession who is nearly 70 and an infantile communist; dialing his number in the event of an emergency is no guarantee of anything either-- though by a miracle he saved Joey when I was evacuating the second floor to come back to the fifth, where I've been harassed into terror by my minority captors for 28 years now. Fucking charmed life.

Shards and fissures

I used to believe I'd automatically get myself excluded from the established press if I told the truth about inherent bias, but it is something of which most readers are suspicious of already, not without justification. Let me give a for instance. Eugene Robinson yesterday faults the administration's liberal self-righteousness in villainizing Putin's provocation in the Crimea, and indeed, Eugene's voice sates progressive outrage with the Bush Administration's 9/11 overreach. Nothing wrong with pandering to a liberal base trying to shore up a fading promise Barack Obama represented. If candidate Obama had not aspired to the presidency, one can speculate what he might have done as an inspirational leader on a more nuanced platform.

Like Robinson, I actually remember Grenada. I can neither affirm nor deny that it was an appropriate domino effect for Reagan era spheres of influence, but citing the US incursion on the petite Caribbean paradise doesn't explain Ukrainian turmoil. Neither does citing America's systemic destruction of Saddam Hussein's regime in Iraq. There is a minority viewpoint which doesn't equate Putin with Mussolini, which is not to be blind to modern Russian brutality. I am not unaware of ugly brute force in Russian penal systems, but this doesn't preclude Vladimir from acting out of legitimate national interests.

In that vein, plagiarism is not quite the crime journalists make it out to be, and that was what I was driving at in my column about fraud in my Examiner piece on Glass's inability to acquire a legal license. The editorial chicks who deign to approve or reject my pieces for a certain degree of promotional status didn't like it as newsworthy commentary. Certainly their prerogative, though I stayed up all night researching it, debating a call to the bar association contact. I am on to a thesis which matters, at least in relation to veracity. I do not believe my finished product, as such, does all that badly getting me where I want to go.  

I have to watch a very young Peter Falk play a spree killer for Hitchcock again; it was an interesting rationalization. Past informing the present; Falk did not mind spoofing himself, but he never played his audience false. I miss him. He loved life, tumbling with adversity and coming out of it with a twinkle in his eye. Tassoni had the same propensity toward sardonic affection in his gaze.

Patristical Longitude: Gideon's Millstone

"Why should he not kill her?" -- Harold Frederic, digital location 4198

Did I mention paranoia? I cannot even mourn my friendship and admiration for Linda as it once sustained me, because it still relieves me 14 years onward, the thought of her skull fractured in a manner common to such rage induced by psychical injuries. In a coma, or transition to cadaver, she could never run the disability center! And what an investment of sound and fury this is, the popping champagne corks as I replay my last small happiness in the hope she meets an end appropriate to her ethical lapses. My subconscious warned me in a dream of Jewish demonology long before I ever did any research on Lilith, research for the sake of utilizing the film with cock a doodle Warren Beatty. Co workers had warned me years ago, don't idolize her. Chris Dorner, not definite this listing is him but no relation to the Navy Seal ash mummy poster child-- warned me even before I understood what a POP account was. Did I listen? I told Linda about the dream. I knew this was verge of desperation, chatter typing her about a Shirley Temple baby walking back and forth between us (representing infantilism). So much for work related friendship. My non-fiction editors aren't reading my account. Examiner.com doesn't care even if they are reading this account, since it will be long in the tooth before I see a commission reach PayPal. Red-rimmed eyes inflamed, killing myself for pennies.

Are such pennies better than nothing? We were friends, Linda and I; an assertion against Frank, the ex I did not want, who felt she wasn't really my friend. He is correct in that she was willing to make me expendable: I should not have been such a sycophant to her ego. It wasn't working, no matter how imminent my financial catastrophe, and with my disillusionment, she may have calculated she was doing me a painful favor. There was that bond, however, that neither of us acknowledged

I have to believe that; it wasn't simply her dominance at my expense, nor my genetic predisposition toward a volubility learned at mother's knee. What is still so vexing is the realization that she was my last, and I cannot even grieve for it, because I triggered it myself, imploded in rage and fear at the mere hint of sexual experimentation along those lines. Seven years, that is how long it took me to start writing poetry again, because I did not want to discover that I was obliquely troping the torture of lesbians so that militant LBGT activists could snicker at my repressed homo-eroticism. In certain veins this is farcical, that an eight month discussion in email set the stage to destroy the rest of my life. I would not have gotten undressed with the ugly cop bastard living below me if Linda had not made me feel so sexually insecure, and she used my creative writing to do it. Every time I tried to get back up and go back to work after that, the den mother bitches who want to run my life kept knocking me down.

In 2002 wheelchair users lost unlimited Paratransit; in 2006 I suffered abuse at the hands of choice aides, and was injured during the building renovations that the famous regional homosexuals forced on our shared parent company. One of the guards who witnessed an angry argument I had with Erik, *Miss Hanes*, as she calls herself, walks away from her post every time I roll into the lobby. I believe she has a child out of wedlock. I only spoke to her because I wanted to know if ecigs were worth the money.

"I still smoke." So much for bull dykes with batons, but Miss Hanes is one of those. Most of us have had exposure to black hard asses.