Antenna

"You think I'm having fun?"-- Cate Blanchett

My aunt called me Tuesday afternoon from the hospital where she took my father's brother because she is angry at my father because I inadvertently revealed something my sister told me which my father wanted kept quiet. My care giver is a momma's boy, Marie wants to be paid attention to, and now I have to be the rock of Gibraltar despite the fact I believe my father's brother should cease medical treatment and be given palliative care, and I'd gladly stick Galahad on a pike and inform JEVS that I make Bill Cosby's bigot from 1969 look like Caesar, and made all of my second pitch since this catastrophe and incapacitation began, killing my building manager in a quantum of neuron estuaries, an arrow through the neck, impairing her vocal chords, her blood gurgling up through her tongue, high hate for a rather characterless chocolate woman allegedly afflicted with lupus. She looks like an afflicted from lupus, with her owl's black rimmed glasses, fearing me like the devil's spawn. Erik, the transsexual, is afflicted with symptoms similar to lupus, and I missed all the fun when he lit his face on fire in the last days of winter 2019 with a tobacco cigarette. I had nothing to do with it, but you can feel free to envision the relish of enmity.
I never set out to be an ambitious journalist writing for The National Review like David French, here exposing the fissures between libertarians and traditional conservatives that the once living Charles Krauthammer expounded on with a rhetorical shrug
 

A fragile nation suffers from deep partisan polarization, mistrust of institutions, and a media in crisis . . . And you throw that garbage hot take into the stew? Have you no decency, sir? At long last, have you no decency?

— David French (@DavidAFrench) March 25, 2019

I just turned to the profession to make a living. I know NRO doesn't accept freelance queries. I know they have internships. All I'd like to know is how do I send them a fucking resume? I did ask them, without the gerund as adjective.

Pulmonary Ides Within Indications of Tardive Dyskinesia

"I want to thank TMZ for not trying to find me in the hospital."-- Whoopi Goldberg, snatched from the jaws

Sitting here trying to relax, difficult as that is when I cannot restore my rhythms as a writer, deescalating at dinner prepared too early, reading Kevin Baker in Harper’s Magazine, the January 19 issue. Just as with The Atlantic, it is unlikely that a woman with cerebral palsy, one who believed ambition would allow success, can ever penetrate this monthly periodical, not that I’m ready just yet. Though I may be slightly more sympathetic to his April hue and cry about New York rental costs, his January essay "The Crisis of the Constitution" is another piss and moan about the electoral college.

Since I first gained access to the hard intellectual left of Lawrence Lessig, I too have been reading college backlash articles since Bush v. Gore, and it becomes nullifying to constantly read about majority rights being subverted, particularly as it is sympathized by my friend Robert Thomas in his posted link material, when it has only occurred in American electoral history five times, once in 1888, twenty four years after the 13th Amendment to the Constitution passed in the aftermath of Civil War. Baker tries utilizing Hamilton's alarm over electors in Article 63 of The Federalist papers, but representative government will always be a flawed vehicle. I do not care how open a politician is, even the Democratic Socialist Ocasio-Cortez, there is a disjunction between elected official and voter. For my money, which in the present tense no longer exists, the more disconnects there are between voters and office holders, the better it is.

That isn't set in stone. Clinton was a Rhodes Scholar hillbilly, via Ed Rendell.

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) March 12, 2019

Do I miss long form articles such that Harper's provides? Yes. Can I still construct them with my near insurmountable physiological pressures? I do not refer simply to *adult diapers*, as between my family and the socialized medicine which makes me desirous of raking my fingernails across Paul Krugman's face in hopes of leaving a permanent hairline scar of fury, I have lost just a little too much self-determination. Making my own coffee, incidental details such as these. Even if one day, I can still compete, and the above thread with Douthat's readers is proof enough that the malfeasance in my urban life has been fundamentally unfair to my economic security, the validation comes too late for me to be the one, the spastic who could have been important, though some of Sanders' factory saints suggest I certainly carry myself that way, and so I should.

Pulmonary Obstruction Cycles

"I've had my setbacks too."-- a  technician the dowager will likely never commission again who freely divulged his skepticism with HomeAdvisor.

I wish to clarify what I wrote in Green Room about fundamental inequality. No one is to blame for the hardship imposed by spastic quadriplegia. What is worthy of censure is the religious outcry for our lives which thereafter essentially leaves us on our own beyond a certain point. Google doesn't have to allow me continued use of its AdSense services, for instance, and I created my own difficulty there through the abandon of my LiveJournal account, but I still have an inactive AdSense account with 3 dollars and 45 cents I rightfully earned, even if I am rhetorically otherwise unacceptable. I have no idea if Google still actively supports this pay for play option, but its disability services unit should be able to assist me in transferring that amount over to Shareaholic, or another provider. I cannot be like Leopold Bloom and know everything about software coding. Everyone has limits, intellectually and within pedagogue applications, and thanks to the folly of poorly deployed nepotism, I will be chained to the Commonwealth's dispensed with, and revised notions, of Medicaid Waiver services for the foreseeable future. Everything I've written about it still remains true, even with this paraprofessional and I settled into a begrudging routine, my overwrought awakening stymied. I asked him to tone it down, his attempt to badger me into happiness, and he likes another inner city single mother of two who had a miserable holiday. I cannot live life on a fraudulent buoy which only looks sturdy but is otherwise a filament, and it is entirely permissible for Ross Douthat and the Kathleen Parker's of this world to be equanimous patricians. My outcry isn't over inevitable biological decline. My outcry is over the near continuous disaster brought about by the failure of durable goods, ignorance of the black public housing wardens I have to contend with, like Gail Sims. She is clueless in relation to how stringent state or Commonwealth compliance requirements are, and it is in fact her job to at least have an awareness of the rules. I got paid $25k in the 90s to advocate for my clients out of these insane labyrinths, and now I have to arm wrestle nigger hicks out of the boon docks *shielded*, in the absolutely persuasive contention of Richard Dawkins, by the Presbyterian applied doxology of predestination.
Will I delete this post for a living commission or living wage contract? Certainly. Is it invalid? No. The obstacles I have to continuously surmount are inhumane, and I'm not living in Kabul. Libertarians shouldn't be fearful of examining market weaknesses, but by the same token, progressives need to realize that federated partnerships with nominal Christian denominations funded by established religions needs to come to an end. Presbyterian Homes gets away with murder. I have the right to self-defense, especially as, every time I am nearly ready to launch a genre collection, my survival is mysteriously, rather suddenly, at stake.

La Vie As Giet Jaune Under The Specter of Article 13

In Paris, masked and hooded protesters picked up and hurled crowd barriers and other projectiles in running battles with police-- Les Miserables, redux

The failure of my Toshiba laptop in 17 did not directly affect my relationship with Writer’s Market. I was simply forced to miss my billing renewal date because of my hope for rescue from an over-valued computer technician. The Writer’s Market website never coded particularly well. Their emails reminding me of auto-renewal were sporadic, and the renew never took place, perhaps due to the fact that I purchased 24 month installments with quotidian regularity. I had to manually renew the use of their directory services, sometimes under the advisement of customer service through F+W’s 800 number, only to discover, late fall 17, that the website stopped accepting credit cards. Through necessity, setbacks mandated other options. I have let sleeping dogs lie, moving on, and Duotrope has better mastered the art of automated updates for creative writers--  psychologically I still live in the ecumenical adhesion to the newsprint directories that Writer’s Market and Dustbooks represented, and in fact have long contemplated a revisionist obituary for one time playwright Len Fulton, the demi-god of the independent presses which I have ever so reluctantly started to eschew. I did not mind coming up through them, like a rag time impresario, but I’ve begun to see, again reluctantly, that literary journals, bloviated as they are through their college department budgets, are as extraneous as decentralized independent living centers. My friend Robert Thomas is still committed to them, because like me, this is how he grew up, what he and I both were taught about publishing and generating content, and neither he nor I need directories to canvas and update information as much as we used to, but I spent a significant amount of time this morning galivanting through Newsweek pages looking for updated guidelines for freelancers, and this dinosaur brand is also somewhat diaphanous on the matter. Duotrope doesn’t list the publication due to said inconsistencies. Automation has definitively changed the landscape, but that doesn’t mean code itself isn’t a chimera. Twitter is increasingly embedding with traditional media outlets, but at its core, like Facebook, it is inherently unstable, wreaks havoc on human physiology. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t stay adhered to it on a daily basis, and it is absolutely not helping me retain my grip on journalistic pretensions, even as a counterculture figure. Examples of that are Charlie Kirk, whom I culled off of Nick Gillespie. I followed Kirk for a while, and still read his tweets with recurring frequency, but find his ideological stridency tiring, even parroting. Facts are by and large contingent, but the retaliatory way in which Kirk uses those facts to defend the right at all costs is debatable. Candace Owens fares better in my esteem, but I cannot follow her lead. Old sows like myself aren’t telegenic. I cannot do podcasts, and if I even attempted it YouTube would have my head on a platter. If Writer’s Market is foundering, its corporate owners might take a page from Fee, which folded The Freeman, and cede the field to digital innovation.

Once upon a time, I was ready to defend Twitter against Milo. Not anymore. If Minnesota wanted to elect Omar to the House, then Minnesotans can reap what they in turn sow, but the same applies to Laura Loomer. Her fervor makes David Frum look relatively paltry. However, herein truly lie the seeds of our doom. If genocide is a form of political extremism brought about by reactionaries fueled by severe economic stresses, Loomer's post-Twitter insignia is a cosmetic mockery behind which looms Orwellian defeat.

Singular Insulation Propelled on Cheap Batteries

The wounded gunman, {sic} Gary Atkins, looked at one of his hostages, MaryLinda Moss, and told her it was all over for him.-- Robin Abcarian

Robin's feature is a nicely balanced human interest story, taking aim at American excesses all around, whatever conspiracy theories are still plaguing our fourth largest metropolitan newspaper in their post-Tronc aftermath. SWAT teams invariably escalate tensions, however pristine they appear in television serials, the villain didn't want to lose it entirely, this is California, after all, a state that latticed Trader Joe's, which doesn't advertise, into a nationwide cult, and a woman with diabetes thought fast on her feet, touching upon our ambivalence with cages, referencing the positive attributes of being a free market society. Some prisoners do become notorious causes, but those are a small minority, and MaryLinda was cognizant of limits. Perhaps some of you feel I was never cognizant of mine, and shrug. It isn't your fault I moved into "the badlands" of Philadelphia and wound up defeated, unwilling to correct the price I paid by moving back in with my mother, and here I am, so much bloody pulp, not strong enough to rewrite what I have to while shit gases out of me, allowing myself to wither on the vine under JEVS. This is where I get Galahad from, the care worker with whom I got frisky. I knew of JEVS when I too coordinated, and so here we are, with an all black cast, including a flaming gay drug addict whom I have to try really hard not to run out of my unit Monday. With all due respect to my Catholic and Christian accounts, this Trey fellow is a dead man on stilts, an incredibly fucked up little twinkee, he makes my West Oak Lane man look like college material, and I am barely holding it together, even though this Mawson Dave followed me, put aa assertive foot forward with Twitter DM. Hello Joanne, how are you? I patted Galahad's shoulder. "See you, I got a new boyfriend," teasing him. This is how we put up with each other, the bitch and the lion. I do not know what Dave wanted, don't have the energy to play the field anymore. This Q6 is a good chair, and after raising my voice at my uncle's troubled medical vendor, the avuncular technician, a man I know from childhood, reminded me that people are people, whether private enterprise or state model run, changed the arms for me to restore my hand grips. It is too little, too late. Restoring my legacy is an overload, and Galahad's determination to keep me from implementing my despair plan is only aided by inertia. All I have to do is unleash my inner caustic, empty, hollow-eyed hatred, as in, get the fuck out of my studio, you nigger imbeciles, and then go buy what I need, sort out the details. It is contingent upon me to want to live, to keep fighting, but this Q6 is just too high off the ground for me to be anything in it other than a potted plant. I no longer dress, barely prepare my food. The VNA achieved next to nothing, as did my father, my father's sister. Now I am just a body, giving unskilled blacks a Medicaid living at 10.5 an hour. Not one person respected the narrative I offered them so I could retain my skills, not one. I presume my followers have nothing to say to that. 
I truly believed my sense of lifelong alienation would one day pass, back in my make the best of it Reagan era coming of age, and I would have been proud of myself for the strength of my accomplishments, instead of hit after hit leaving me already dead, barely able to sustain interpersonal relationships, impoverished, soiling disposable paper linens as soon as the end result of Lyndon Johnson's 60 year civil rights expansion walks out the door.

The Wasp Woman

"I had to do that."-- Susan Cabot in her final film

While I was pondering the lesson of Alison, realizing I never had that I never had the will such as that, the will to optimize for positive outcomes even without the benefit of being stabbed 37 times and left for dead in a gaming reserve, I chanced upon NBC's Reverie by accident. As of this writing, ZapIt no longer provides me with a local programming guide, and in my spastic inefficient manner, I now bounce from network to network when my nose isn't buried in Prime, wondering when, if ever, I will simply sit and read again quietly. Was it by sheer coincidence I caught episode 6, "Pas de Deux", with a paraplegic dancer in a rather disembodied atmosphere? I decided then and there to ditch the marginally better medical drama Code Black for Shahi's winsome, wounded, Marla, downloaded the NBC app, and with the pilot under my belt, have three of ten episodes viewed, as uncertain as published critics how unwitting persons of interest can be tricked into entering Reverie with interrogators without the command prompt, mindful that Hollywood's depictions of virtual reality are nothing new, just more prevalent, closer to the cutting edge, unlike Tron, which was a video game inside. Part of my frustration with the standard medical serial is audiences are cued to marvel at doctors as superheroes, when we all know this is mainly the furthermost thing from the truth. Care is a variance, and Reverie is more accurate than most about institutional processes destroying the individual character. Pilar's life as a cancer patient is ruthless and barren, and Marla's rescue of her in the turbulent Chile of 1973 is more pyrrhic than cathartic, just as doctors cannot do anything for my primary condition, or its secondary symptoms, until my immune system gives way to my now severely limited control. So my energies to restore my published history move at a monolithic pace, only in part due to the paraprofessional and his wretched daytime television. The discomfort I experience in this new model Quantum is more systemic than the old models which have preceded it, and I have taken inordinate droughts behaving like Tim Mccarthy's bludgeoned character in Remainder, a novel Amazon reminds me I purchased in 2010 of all my approximate 630 electronic titles, this personal narrator marginalized into apathetic numbness seems to be overtaking me with the prevalence of Marla's new hallucinatory uncertainty.
The paragraphs I lost on the day of Frank Versante's death are few. I pitched them to Quartz perhaps a year and a half back, looking for clues as to my original coffee piece path. Did I make sense to the editors? I don't know. They were polite, as always, but this reconstruction is catastrophic, unseen by anyone, even Galahad, whom I've ceased to reference. I have to breathe, despite the breadth of my digital losses, including my penny articles. I already know Blogger will not protect this account should I not memorialize it. Perhaps I should have anticipated this now violently sterile way of life, but I never saw it coming, that my entire legacy could nearly be wiped out due to poverty and lack of precaution. Whatever the rage of my betrayal by the wasted space insolence of homosexuals like Jimmi Shrode, this I do not deserve, not the loss of my every accomplishment, everything I aspired to. Real killers are actually memorialized. Journalists tell their stories. A week after the date of this post, I moved, made a pitch. It's something.

Adhesive For A Cousin’s Mouth

The most remote inhabited island group in the world, Tristan de Cunha in the southern Atlantic Ocean, is so tiny its main island has no airstrip.


In the process of rebuilding the destruction of my life’s work, I wanted to begin retyping something low priority, like my graduate novel chapters, and this pick was the wrong thing for Thursday morning. I cannot locate The Novelists of Don Paydola (shortened later to simply Don Paydola), my idea of real world characters vanishing onto a fantasy island, already corrupted by Lost, if only by virtue of industry success resentment, and wonder why I do not abandon the project altogether, given that I’m basically a short form writer with other more urgent matters to attend to, but since my pace is currently on par with the slime of a laboring snail’s trail, I have to reactivate my rhythm with some sort of launch pad before the beginning, and this was indeed the title of my first chapter. Before The Beginning, before my $800 Toshiba failed, before my continued defiance against ever increasing constriction, before my cousin’s wife became my embattled consigliere over something like our mutual rare attendance at funerals, and yes, I unkindly begin to chafe even as I pursued Billy by telephone over worry for her optical health, given that I resist being insulated by domestic quandaries. Pam of course made inquiries about what I write, and so I sent her Safari on a search about my meeting with Adam Kokesh, published on Medium, and now cousin Pam is following me on Ev Williams brain child, little realizing what I do on Blogger. If she did she would be mad, and our bond, however heavily device supported, would perhaps rupture, and that may not be an entirely consequential demerit, as the monster of self-absorbed selfishness bores itself into the dowager’s shoulder blades. I wanted a confidante, and now I remain uncertain about the virtues of having one, those demands it places upon me, my limited time oozing in my hour glass like salt water taffy. The caregiver who threw himself into my need like a super absorbent smore, located the little of this complex linguistic trick I actually managed to complete before the age of 35, this same Thursday afternoon, and I simply seem incapable of moving fast enough. His 40 hours necessitate my drooling accommodation, in the revolving door to our chocolate melted marshmallow sparks, not fully able to answer the question if I’d trade fucking him for the rarified solitude I enjoyed in September. Terry O’Quinn does not make for an enthralling family annihilator in Stepfather. The pensive mask of his narrow blue eyes and the chiseled expression in his birdlike face were always suited to the enigma of John Locke. His movie, in contrast, had little suspense, rote and shrill, always resistant as I was to this notion of virtual penetration into our three dimensional space, I am now fully infected with potential consequences, though even here, cynicism prevails. On the outside of the Fourth Estate, Facebook is disdained by thirtysomethings. I suspect it’s real market value will fuel the next big short.

Alford Plea, with Skid

We had a good laugh at that one. --David Foster Wallace

Deadbeats. This is what I am thinking of, spinning my wheels for 15 hours in exasperated anger that a nurse practitioner named Dana Rigley, who doesn’t have a license to treat me, insists on her one month daily visit for 10 minutes despite her very own acknowledgement that her function is non-essential for me as a quadriplegic. Socialized medicine at its finest. I would be delighted to challenge the traditional liberal as to what this labor and expenditure on her part amounts to, and wouldn’t receive an answer as to the hidden lack of efficacy and fraud within single payer options as I terminated her visits and waltzed her out of the door in tears, and I thought I lacked the requisite emotional armor, pushing back against Mia’s stridency, politely, but pushing against her now carnivorous, delicate, boney frame. I will not make so much as a dent against her convictions, as the sitting Pope reminds me of my hardened heart and I reminded his warders of a once warrior driven faith. Deadbeats, where do they come in? Ah, my cousin by marriage, with whom I was not many futurist hours past this post terse and unkind, has a broken younger ambulatory ex-Marine brother who reminds me of my dead fiancée of course, and he has a crush on me. I want nothing to do with it, and assumed Pam would be angry with me for openly deeming him a half-wit, but Pam rolls right along with her indolence and her dogs, as the fine citizens od this country elbow each other to expiate their pain on trash TV. My attendant’s exquisite tastes: Dr. Phil’s prostitutes, Dr. Phil’s anorexic emergencies, Dr. Phil’s molested stepdaughters. This is the corrosive acid eating us away, the self-absorption of Dr. Phil’s megalomaniacs who have lost touch with reality and because they appear on Dr. Phil, receive a cushy voluntary commitment environment. Civic conscience and duty, these now fall on famous athletes, on Hollywood celebrity. We hide behind them, those with whom we align. Mia’s followers defend her against non-trolling critiques such as mine. James gets defended by his salient multitude, and television so carefully matures with Emily Tyra, an actual dancer, receives a punitive back story, starving herself into sterility. Code Black is so cleverly an industry send up, a playful coyness to it, the opening season a fantasy musical dance number reminiscent of Glee, a tolerable viewing  bracket. Little more than that, barely making a dent in the rebuilding I need to do with, for, my work. Exactly what assistance do I desire from you? A visit from Mikaela Hunt, with her middle brow womens’ interest questions I occasionally attend to with dilatory respect (entering into her modality when I please)? I am in love with an African American nerd whose sex drive is skewered into the wiring of nurture, regardless of all these years I have avoided this situation and attacked the regressive dependency paradigm which feeds the business of poverty and chronic condition, and believe its state regulated enforcement is evil and despite my unapologetic rancor with black counterculture, I want to authenticate an interpersonal relationship here, worn and threadbare daisy. I tempt him. The next day hope scuttles, and on we go, not listening to him to try to shit this morning on demand. One day, I’ll hit the fuck this pedal past my error of believing my work was secure. Such slim incentives not to follow David Foster Wallace on the other side, past the photosphere.

Niles & Daphne

You're not Jewish are you?-- a widow's response to Kelsey Grammer being out of his element at her husband's funeral

I never quite got that joke on Frasier, and I knew I was supposed to, the laugh track creating a brief caesura, even my executive director Richard Baron mentioning it at work the next day, repeating the actresses question with a bemused guffaw the dowager did not have the courage to interrupt for purposes of enlightenment about dropping dead suddenly and the Jewish norms of medical hypochondria being prepared for it, but I did understand the Niles and Daphne exaggerated classism collapse: the psychoanalyst all hot and heavy for a domestic being a better class of warden to Mahoney as the gadfly father slowing down, Leeves interjecting herself at the appropriate moment and then turning back to the sink to finish the dishes, familiarity over. This is representative of the conflict in care-giving, whether or not we humorize it. Some days it is difficult to do that, as when bathroom maintenance fails, or the man cuts at you: little brother's troubled son "not being your business," objecting to your coldness, akin to the way a prospective partner would, but he and I differ on my brother, my public battle with my sister-in-law. I want her to stop behaving like a teenager and rectify my nephew's emotional pain. This is the price of the cannon I loaded at her, and so it shall remain, my regret burrowed in the fact that my sister Stephanie is a good mother, as are other members of my family better parents than what my brother seems capable of. I love Benny, but our relationship, for me, is over. In the 8 months I've been going through this, not one call or text in my direction. Stephanie, my sister, may not set foot in Riverside, but she's been here for me. Truce remains intact. As to the fight with Galahad, I played the bruised lover, emphasis on played. We made up, but my volubility rouses his masculine irritation, irrespective of my coldness. My magic nigger man phase, if the dowager is honest with Joanne, is over, mainly, other than being gratified he'd fuck me, all other things being equal. "Let me fuck you if you want me to stop talking," this I said this morning, a rote effort to return to the moment, for whatever reasons, in my analytical dispensary. He did, after all, remind me of the lover I had hoped I could be for the right man, when it mattered, but I am, as I said, bored, as he vacillates between the caring boy and the man who's frustrated. Live his life or shut the fuck up, in his dedication to this provider and it's scum of the earth criteria, the care workers as equally Medicaid clients. If it wasn't a slow burn killing field without the fanatical star quality of the Khmer Rouge, that would be one thing, but it's killing me, my good news for you, as such, I found my draft of The Driver on my external drive, which doesn't mean I've been almost eliminated. If I had the strength to calibrate my work as I used to, perhaps I'd get past this; not while I'm forced to dump in a disposable out of mutually shared fatigue, exchanging the hug and kiss, his happy ritual. I haven't destroyed his construct, not just yet. It isn't a lie he's pierced my armor, despite that my interior conflicts haven't meshed.

Embalming of A Freelancer

I am only now discovering that much of my work in my master file from the Toshiba is gone, despite what I paid the technician, twice now. My essay on The Driver was just gelling into a sustainable thesis in September 2017. I simply cannot take much more of this. I really can't. Because I had to move into an 811 public housing building and then let the fucking corporation con me into accepting Riverside, because I have no academic safeguards to secure my projects, and now my physiology cannot sustain the stresses. I cannot take it, I can't. This is all the time, every fucking PC failure, every conflict with the building owner's louse brained nigger squadron. It is not one calamity, it is cyclic, and this machine is 11 years old. I just can't continue like this, my chest, bowel burning. I can't --goodbye.

Towelettes For Allergens

You had better apologize man!-- my fraudulent paramour on the subject of flaming my family on Facebook

Only writers and authors who are truly dedicated to their work can understand the inimical frustration of always losing ground to the chaos of limited mobility. How I got to Diamond Park from the aunt’s rowhome and the vaunted dormitories of the sprawling urban campuses which were unforgiving in the transverse, I mercifully cannot remember, but getting to Riverside from Diamond Park in 1994, that was buck a day with poppa, losing much more than manuscripts and textbooks. He left me in the middle of the floor, abandoned me and my 2005 deceased cat Oliver, cursing, a rickety bedframe left as it was, I had to sit in an armchair most of the night, lost a day of work, and not much has changed since, even though back then, the manager of this nut house was a white woman named Peggy, and she had nothing to do with the egalitarian games between me and the other manager, Terri Way. I can’t put those losses on Presbyterian Homes and its fraternal collusion with HUD, but everything else? Aside from an internet addiction and my asinine marital affairs, and whatever lie I’m engaged in now in my charming tug of war between a scurrilous spastic bigot and her minority ball and chain, yes, all my losses are directly attributable to Riverside, and it is a lie, with this caregiver, except for the incidental chemistry, an accident at best. I’ve let it go, though Galahad and I are still encoding, a freight car moving with inimitable rumblings. Only in the dowager’s wondrous solar eclipse can she play okay fuck the nigger nurse and still loathe everything about Ice Cube and Barber Shop and African American norms. I’m worn out, bored, and past the desire to assert myself on his body. We’re playacting a relationship, like Jonathan Rhys Meyers playacting the fortuitous husband who got away with killing his mistress in Allen’s stark post-Mia Farrow project, Match Point. African Americans could never make such a devastating film as this, one which exposes the underbelly of Caucasian privilege as hollow when we discover we cannot have it all, punishing my 56 year old body so I can post, make sure the work the technician salvaged will be safe, get my collections published, then honestly, I am done. My sister-in-law rebelled, the dowager is all gloom and doom while she is at the mall with her granddaughter. Well, I cannot go to the mall anymore, unless I plan it with the dark knight in question, and I can’t live like that, even if I care about him, despite my toxic psychology. I wept, on April 15^th, because I had never been so in a man’s arms as it might have once mattered, when I was young, in all that longing, I never had anything last long enough, and Frank? His disability regressed him, I never wanted him, and here, I asked a provider for a male aide. I never intended to feel a physical attraction for him, wind up having such a battle about sex over fifty. It is not enough, not if I cannot reclaim my level of independence and self-determination. It’s unlikely.

Twitter Has Bookmarks Now, imagine

He, stroking my hair: You don't know that you can't be independent. You've got a new chair, can't you be happy?
The dowager, "No," stifling a petulant tear.

He wants me to be happy, presumably Samsung and ATT do too, finding some intrinsic relevance to tackle my pain in a phone of which I grasp about a tenth of its function, and rather than dwell on my inability to be at my ease with my own self-worth, I put Mainline Medical’s tilt chair on full speed and smashed into the plaster paris covering the wall in the hallway, the therapist throwing a wobbly, and my attendant of too much gargantuan heart blaming the dictator, as we call the therapist. The man, as a sexual distraction, is over for me, and has reverted to just being an asshole in the black male category, the favorite denigration of powers that be in Los Angeles, if Bosch is any indicator, so I’m still basically libertarian by instinct, if nothing else, as the jaws of life wait to disarticulate my rotary cuff, tendons and fat leaking bloodily from my shoulder. This has taken me six weeks to realize there isn’t a male on the face of the earth whom I’d desire openly who’d in turn want me, but can I fucking work anyway? No, unless I start from scratch, all over again, and you’ve heard this all before but I get angry anyway because he refuses to let me say it’s over or it isn’t because his cure for my depression is contact with him, after a now muted and petty fashion, and this will go on every fucking day, our shit in each other’s noses, contingent on his lousy eating habits and my impaction. The chair keeps me a foot off the ground, if not more. I’ve already written my death warrant, despite cousin Pam’s consolation. I’ve utilized her for solace, and she doesn’t understand his tambourine jiggles anymore than I do, up one day and down the next, and oh yes, he cares, no doubt of that, with my five wheelchairs in this fuck-ass studio, on a roll here, aren’t I? He cares about the thousand dollar Samsung, the wheelchair, but making love? The flavor of this turgid Monday: that’s too easy. I already told him, after that memorable April 15^th, that I’d hate myself for winding up a nigger’s lover, more recently sent him my diary page telling him to go fuck himself, nothing sticks, nothing makes him reorient, and yes, if he yields and I knead my knees into him and pull him down, he’s going in, and that, conversely doesn’t make any sense to me as the slatterly lass shooting up flares with him every afternoon, with his untutored but overzealous dedication to my welfare. I’d be grateful for it if I could work, if I had a reason to live beyond the fact that he grasps my shins, slides me down the deplorable mattress, slides my buttocks on the cushion, sits me up, then spins my legs, after I wash my pubic hair. We’re a literal horse and buggy. Oh, the disabled community would wave me back in, hello there, what did you expect? Not that I would let myself be so far subsumed, that hole I blasted in the hallway as much an omen as accidental. I don’t call this living. Would any of you?

Decline and Fall

"Christianity is a sickness."-- my paraprofessional

That I am actually reading Gibbon in tandem with Niall Ferguson's now familiar analogy and rhythm is a coincidence, and that he does touch on healthcare as a staggering edifice of a troubled welfare system is certainly not attributable to me. I worry more, in fact, that pitching to Vanity Fair is a nearly insurmountable task for a non-staffer, as opposed to the bon professor's ready access. I'd have to send a resume to Comnsate Publications, last time I researched the issue. I have to work my way back in on a smaller scale. My bowel is hurting, the adult diapers, as I knew they would years ago, are destroying my buttock epidermis, and I'm having tremors. I was warned about all of this, only now collapsing at 56 plus a testament to thick Italian skulls, well back into the past, and I cannot delude myself that I'm redeemable as a woman with cerebral palsy who refused to apply to Harvard on the fear of social stigma. I'm dying, and I'm dying of nothing but the poverty of technical medical disaster, and I die unrepentant, unable to tweet a compliment to Pat Toomey without getting inexplicably attacked by this account. I did not have to respond to Memes, and it was undoubtedly worth my while not to do so, but I am in pain, and Memes, like a social media jackass, tells me I am privileged because I contacted Pat Toomey about illegal collusion at Philadelphia's farcical disability center. I have no idea what Memes wants from me, and consider his, or her, conduct, no more than harassment. I am not special to Toomey, or his staff, I just agree with him after facing a lifetime of antipodal destruction under Philadelphia Housing authority auspices, and stand by my tweet, which I shall not embed, that Toomey is righteous. Others are free to make their own decisions. I only repent the precipitous decline in my health because single payer option rationing is its proximate cause, and I do not blame the GOP. I worried, briefly, that I'd really destroy my mental welfare by developing a bond with the male paraprofessional on whom I now depend, but then I realize he says uneducated and outlandish conspiratorial sentiments, and it will not happen, hopefully. I have heard such stories of racial remorse conscientiousness before, and I cannot. Because I still harbor that unpleasant internal condensation. He and I "friended" each other, so this evening, I will not push the envelope any further, nonetheless, we're both single, lonely, and if he is going to nurse me for an indefinite period, men are men, women are women, and I need be cautious, or find him better economic security, and return to antagonistic tensions with predominately minority women. This has no correlation to my defense of Niall Ferguson against Pankaj Mishra's charges of neo-imperialism, not at first glance, but throughout history, state welfare systems erode the vibrancy of civilization. I crushed myself with high expectations. Gibbon, as you may or may not know, worked in episodic poverty, and suffered from scoliosis, but he was an important transitional historian, a bridge between hagiography of the Enlightenment, and evidence based means testing and aggregate data of the modern discipline which Niall engages with astute methodology, and his critics miss his main points about authority, central state systems, and the evolution of modern economy and financial innovation. I would not deign to call Niall righteous. It is not the right descriptive for an accessible scholar and analyst, but he's a realist who recognizes boundary markers, concedes progressive victories against differences oppressed by social caste, and his critics are simply off base. He taught me about the evolution of money in a manner I was never challenged to consider, and if that isn't a scholar doing his job, pray tell, what is?

The Thieves of Lake Cumo

The European woman who I reference here, with my minimal Italian catch phrases, and here, in my otherwise harmless effort at ingratiating camaraderie, blocked me for my attempt at middlebrow kindness, and yes, I have been sling-backing twitter long enough to distance myself from over-heating, but still, I meant no harm and was trying to be a kindred spirit.

@Svetulja15 Ciao! Jozanny <___mio mal

😎

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) February 26, 2018

 My archeological dip shits on this account have nothing to do with her, or forming an attempted rapport with those still residing in my generational homeland, and I wish her well, but we cannot always remain immune from such slams. I am not really into Vincent D’Onofrio’s fireside chats with his followers, to utilize him as an example. He seemed a little too into it somehow, with his tweets, and got burned. As a consequence of being made a fool, he turned his social media account over to a manager, and I rather silently went poof: I can conceivably see a day where I can write an essay about Goren and the law’s relationship to disability and crime, but editors were created to give their writers press passes, if I ever get myself out from under this dip shit, piling as it does. D’Onofrio didn’t seem able to manufacture the requisite coolness, whereas I’m in the middle. I can simply be analytical, but still let my hair down now and then, however the “numbers game” of social media twists our heads. I am not the only writer of such unfortunate circumstances. Alessandro Manzoni wound up suffering from a nervous condition after The Betrothed gave us the modern historical novel. Bulgakov is known for one work, and he burned The Master and Margarita, then rewrote it from memory, (I can do no such thing with my works, which Riverside has repeatedly placed at risk.) We cannot all plot a book a year, as Oates does, though I think she has taken “publish or perish” so literally as to have diluted her power, and I simply hate Stephen King, to let the cripple in me be true to herself. King is not the worst fantasist, by far, but most of his output is dreck, and even at his best, his motifs are infantile. The Stand, for a nearly hysterical work about the collapse of civilization in the US, turns out just to be a retelling of the Resurrection through King’s sympathies for white trash working class. I prefer puking to treating him with respect, as I’ve had my fill of white trash mentality of late. Rather than pivot it in on the screw, giving you a two page post, my broken spirit worms its way to bed. We’ll pick up.

Beleaguered Castle Asteroid Shield

The murder of Andrew Petrie, ex-United States senator, changes the lives of his wife, Yvonne, and two brothers, artist Hugh and the mystic Stephen. Here's a brilliant analysis of relationships that miss, of introspection and misunderstanding, and of repercussions.-- a sympathetic reviewer

 It was disconcerting to realize only in mid-sentence that I was disagreeing with Joyce Carol Oates about the alleged non-action of the Parkland security officer when I scrolled search under the literature section. 

I have not researched the facts on the ground, but if he stay out of range, that was wrong.

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) February 24, 2018

The sheer volume of her output is rather daunting, rivaling that of King, even if she is too cerebral and literary to have King’s popular appeal. I know when I’m out-gunned, and wouldn’t have responded to her point at all had I caught myself, but I am not really an aficionado of her novels. A section of The Assassins scored beneath my undergraduate breast. Oates was up there, one of her central characters silenced by a respirator, undermining my expectations, and I am always down here, in the mucus mudpies, getting nigger fucked over every time I try to restore my work and submission routine, waiting on another visitation by a woman who until recently tended my hospice downgrading stepmother. More than Victoria herself, I want to sink to my knees and beg her fiancé, who claims he can convert anything, to restore my files. Even if the alchemy of how we react to the famous is somewhat integral to our own psyches, a star like Woods doesn’t faze me in the digital distance, but Oates does, even if longevity has dimmed her shine. Her celebratory profile of Mike Tyson was too convenient and self-serving, Blonde was a mixed bag, and tapping her for a White Oleander jacket blurb was in questionable taste. First time women novelists coming out of MFA culture have considerable lag time, and nothing White Oleander’s author did felt authentic to me. The main character was like a watered down Lolita with a flat tire. It came, went, movie deal, hackneyed as anything else.

Oates’s impassioned liberalism doesn’t leave much room for air, but I still feel she’s wrong. Cruz was on a rampage and had significant fire power, but security officers are hired to face such risks, and this officer might have done something short of martyrdom to save lives. That is the role for which they get paid. The actual instructors themselves should not have to function as police too. There are enough accreditation hurdles teachers face just to teach; having them armed in class has predictably bad outcomes. It may not be an impending world’s end, but Trumpian brinkmanship has increased my anxiety even as my range eclipses in this unstable meteorological shift of season. I need to stop punishing myself with procrastinating despair and get back to work while I wait to fix and upgrade technology, but I’m near breaking point, not sure how to scale down to adjust. Marie’s family is contemplating an exodus from the city due to taxes. This is radical for this branch of my family. It may be too late for me, the cruelty and paces Presbyterian Homes, constriction and loss of independence, my tonnage caving in my birdlike shoulders, catching up with Oates’s wrinkled visage.

Raking The Blues

I was going to go to bed early, but recalled I wanted to write before about my history with Elton's work, maybe I'll hold out an hour, as this is something I can start afresh, conflicted as I was about him at thirteen. I know you turn away, but yes, I am very depressed. Everyone has their lives managed, at some point, but I am being closed in too early in my life, only as weak as I am due to bad tools, and everything has failed, from my purse strings to medical rationing, and if I take my life, facile process pushers win, just as they will if I vegetate in a nursing home. All I hoped for was self-sufficiency, some pride in that, and the right man to compensate for those whom I longed, and I let myself be shuttle cocked by a black woman I treated in a friendly manner into 202 housing. I hate you Terri, if you're still out there.

You got out, but Presby treats me like an alien species, and my family puts it on me. I wonder. Many people like you leave these bullshit positions, where a woman named Trudy now lactates at her desk, but I wonder how much guilt, how much corruption you were exposed to, led to to scuttle into Blue Cross.

Progenitor Smoke Signals

"Your client works for one of the toniest law firms in this city."-- a Dick Wolf episode with the Munsters

I rarely have any complimentary sentiments to offer my hypothetical colleagues still running the media rat race, but what I tweeted to Politico at 3 AM was a rare stint at admiration, even as I'm sinking in stress, without much of a lifeline. The rib taken from The Washington Post is tonier than the mother ship, even if they earned Carson's ire during the primary, and their reporting on Secretary Price's jet setting was good work. Should it have cost the man his power? I cannot really adjudicate that, given my tap dance with Health & Human Services civilians since 14. Tom Price was a conservative medical politician, and this interested me, even if his estimate inside the Beltway was mixed;. unlike Gaulstan, one of my few surviving followers from the foreign coastal-scape of poet friend Robert Thomas. I showed Mark's account to one of the laid back guards at the front desk, whose Muslim African name can't get past my tinnitus. The residents call this guard "Anthony," for convenience, good looking but slow on the uptake, and I am showing him the account of a psychiatric professional who applies himself to broad sociological political dynamics. 

Why was it important for me to prove myself to a vacant minority whose looks should have gotten him better employment? If, and it is a conditional if, I flee in spastic fashion to my father's driveway tomorrow, refusing to return until I have legal representation, this solves nothing. My father, one, never gave me affirmation, and as his executor, I am the one he should be leaning on, both of us physically worse for wear, but my need for psychic distance from Riverside is nearly insurmountable. Most of my family believes I should be "placed," so they share at least one cultural attribute with the Debra Horne's of this world. 

The family isn't going to say this, because they already have, and they don't want to see me cascade down the escarpment. What do I think? I think if I lived with someone, I'd hang on. There are programs for this, but only as it applies to property owners, and if I am going to upset the apple cart, I have to call it an early evening. I made a mistake, this level of toxic stress, but I should have ended my relationship as a Presbyterian lessee in 1994. It doesn't mean I would not have been a bannable entity, but I would not be in my present situation. As to the fall of Price, I am not quite sure most of us care about the conscious frugality of a Principal. We all know aerodynamic technology is not a cheap proposition. Classically free market? I'd argue not. 

Now I have to find a staple gun, and figure out my fucking plan B. Governmental crisis lines never answer the phone. I knew this, of course. Any one of you brazen enough to reach out and give a fearful spastic a hand?

Hysteria

If I threaten the technician who did the hard drive extraction that isn't going to get me very far, but I'm going to have to call him about debugging, and either or sit here most of this morning trying  to convert my files. I cannot rebuild my publication history from scratch and  expect it not to cost me, as it did moving from Diamond Park to Riverside, as it did with each subsequent computer failure and upgrade; for the time being, my credit card company sailed in, doubling my limit, but this is scant comfort if my accomplishments for the last five years are simply erased. Fault it as you may, but writing has had to become my life. There is nothing else. The deceased Frank Versanti, (or Versante) claimed he was in love with me after he proposed, in monosyllabic fashion, but my interpretation of his enthusiasm was his lewdness was victorious, something which repulsed me, the gluttony written all over his face. His lust to have my asymmetrical breasts to grope wasn't my idea of healthy desire between two middle aged people settling for each other. As much as I tried to go through with it twelve years ago, I couldn't, at 42 to 43, settle for an ape, even if I never quite rescinded my claim on his obligation to me; hence, you'd figure, since I am so emotionally fragile, that I'd be on Amber's side over that of Woods, a fading personality who would take one look at me and imitate the nascent verbal losses of John Irving's Reagan era characters:

Psychic predicted #Democrat lawmaker would be ridiculed by millions. #Genius https://t.co/frxah1mRXu

— James Woods (@RealJamesWoods) September 22, 2017

Instead, I am with the hot headed old man, even rather sympathetic to his usurpation of youthful women. Lauren Southern isn't wrong, after all. The girl inside of us recognizes the snake in the grass. We even like it. My newfound appreciation of James and his caustic bitr is not the flush of a fan many times removed. He is a known quantity, whether or not my warped body could please him sexually. It is merely a clinical question. Could I satisfy a seventy year old man whose name would elevate my stature? I have no idea, but Woods is worth settling for, not an illiterate spic from the Bronx. 

As a technical matter, since I can now write, offline, though be it from scratch, for the moment, I am less fragile than before, but intend to be dead before the Commonwealth forces me into this fortress, despite the gooey social media policy on suicidal outcry. My whole life has amounted to failing against the grip of regimentation on my throat. I know what well balanced libertarians would say: stop feeling sorry, train yourself to keep the appropriate distance from nursing aide swine. Recognize you cannot cure your pain. Okay, but what do you know of 33 years of case management, aggressive senility, housing authority drywall?

Irma's Vagaries In the Ligaments

She tried to make them fly.-- the author

When the dowager was parked at her Widener University desk, much as she is now, in a more dilapidated fashion, still sitting at Tom Reid's fob off hand painted excuse of a desk which should have been traded in long ago, she pounded out an angry story about a home invasion with a female victim who turned the tables on her attacker. The exact date of the story's creation is beyond memory, though it must have been in my later semesters, around 1985. It is a revenge fantasy, far more violent than the home invasion I defeated-- and that defeat really hinged on Brandon's conscience. It is difficult for me to type his name, but as I have always been a deft reader of character, he was as much afraid of what he was doing as I was in fear of my life, and this, really, aside from not being desperate enough to use an old Everest & Jennings power chair, motor pulley threaded to the back wheel with a rubber trim. I do not have the exact term for it, but it was designed much like a bicycle chain links the pedal rotary to the back tire. I was afraid, if I had tried to hurt him, that he'd topple me over or worse. Once he dragged me to my bedroom, Oliver following, that was a trigger. I fought, screamed, won, and in fact, I was screaming with such ferocity I did not realize I was the victor. My rapid, brutal little piece was never meant to anticipate my rather languorous spiral of a brutal womanhood.

During the blizzard of 1996, my landline phone rang in the dead of winter with a female editor asking if the piece was still available. 11 years, and I get a call in a blizzard, with no food in the kitchenette, to be queried by an editor of Blood & Flesh. She liked how I depicted violence against women, and then, in one of those quirks of literary endeavor, this same female editor postcarded that the team had decided to print its last issue and changed her mind, which has seemingly cursed this piece for life. I cannot get rid of it, and if I revise it to any substantial degree, then it becomes an old woman's makeover, as opposed to a university student's subconscious realization that she was a lifelong target of misogynist hatred. Writing it, strange as this may sound, was an interior mechanism to sublimate my undercurrent of hate for Jerry. I know this isn't fair, and the man saw something in me he encouraged to succeed, but my aggrandizement of his intellectual mania had a latent hostility attached to it, assigning blame to the blameless. It wasn't this unfortunate instructor's job to protect me from my mother's abuses--kill her lovers or my stepfather, just as my father, too, never stepped in to eliminate the heinous savagery embedded in my family history:

Opinion | Something is seriously off about this president https://t.co/iyFk6DEfta

— Jennifer Rubin (@JRubinBlogger) September 4, 2017

And if this is, psychologically, what I am searching for in Trump's belligerence, I suppose I am bound to be disappointed: I do agree with his critics that he has a propensity to diminish his supporters, like Priebus, and I have no idea why Sessions became a target of the mogul's ire. I do not track Sessions with the same avidity I have paid to other attorney generals, and cannot offer anything about his apparent retrenchment of Order, with capital O, but he had a reason to recuse himself from Probe Russia, which, at the end of the day, will be more or less reveal itself as dirty money, and big deal. I have been a good girl most of my life, but a Mexican lawyer and my building manager want my head on a platter because I am weary of institutional corruption corroding my soul with ferrous iron, but I really do not read some of El Presidente's twitter rhetoric the way Rubin or his other prominent detractors do, particularly when it comes to North Korea. The world cannot be held hostage by Kim Jong Un's diseased xenophobic maneuvers forever, even if war in the South Pacific will invariably be a game changer. We wouldn't be able to compartmentalize it as easily as Afghanistan, and depending on how it happens, if it happens, the health of many a body politic is at risk, while I calculate how to give notice as a form of sanity, teaching minorities a lesson about illegal collusion, at my expense.

Rise of the Platypus

The law doesn't always provide justice. Meloni,ever reliable in summation

I have the same weakness as an active journalist, which at present is a tenuous bracket, due to the fact that my one successful pitch since spring sits in Hugo's Parisian catacombs, gears linked in permanent coitus, my mind looking at puzzle pieces, not particularly desirous of the Defense Department's attention, as does Bennet the menace. As to the DOD, I may actually type out my questions before I start dialing federal area codes. I do not begrudge old hands like Will; don't think that. Nor am I trying to rescue the Trump Administration: I got a little pissed with lax semantics that hit the social media trend curve, and although not quite satisfied with my end product, toggling the worth of rousing an old source if I expand my length, there is an intrinsic flaw in Will's reasoning, and I am trying to illuminate that.
If it eases Jeffrey Tucker's mind, which could be queer, or slightly autistic, I went for paying markets as well, the wise editors who know better than to smart aleck their response, not just The Freeman. Another loaf on the back shelf, or what, not sure, but I will not lengthen it this morning, I doubt, or trouble Nick Gillespie's fiefdom just yet, since I believe I found a way into a longer form about First Amendment nihilism which has been chewing at me for a lengthier time than just the latest shaming or riled Twitter protest. I may also have to walk back, in my expectedly ignored invite to Nick to connect, that I would support Reason indefinitely, interesting as it may be that my poverty played a small part in Stossel's contract. Reason is not only a little too liberal, it is hurried, kinetic, dashing here and here, much like the state of California, an important component territory of American power, to be sure, but this online dominance of Frisco psychology, juxtaposed with New York's offended blue nose progeniture disavowing one of its own, pitted against once energetic authoritarians like Guilliani, who rise with near heroism, then invariably slam dunk into disgrace. failed expectations being the nature of the human condition. The Freeman, in libertarian terms, has a better vitality than Reason, even if we’re all somewhat subliminally aware of what Lucinda Chambers, formerly of Vogue’s UK division, voiced with certain observational veracity without any innovative replacement in sight: magazines are increasingly irrelevant, meaning distinction, in diction and style. There are no more Winchells, and although television formatted Cronkite as Winchell in a video medium, this has long been waning into the diminutive, showhorse anchors. I’ve had a bit of luck in both vocational and professional oscillations as a writer: half creative scholar, half journalist. It hasn’t been without moments, or appreciative response, but my 60th decade is in sight, and I do not have the support of colleagues or editorial staff, exception being Robert’s introduction to my slim, rather jouneyman’s aggregation of work, and my now vanished review of his collection. Is this all there is?