Round Pegs in the Square

This Hewlett Packard is very old. I am having enough difficulties with it and Windows Ten cannot be installed. As of today, Microsoft stops supporting Windows 7, and it will be a little longer until I can afford a new device. I already know how ludicrous it is to believe engaging in homicidal impulses toward a section 202 building manager with a rote series of trained gestures is. Philadelphia has hundreds of these matriarchal browbeaters, and if I engage in any form of illegal aggression toward her, I only prove her point. The best weapon in her arsenal was my family's provincialism, and I have pretty well suffered enough, but even the police, who don't like 202 tenants, said Trudy Richardson's harassment toward me bordered concentration camp excursiveness. The company could have simply evicted me, and the black paraplegic above me, David, has far stronger foul odors on the 6th floor. I doubt he was assaulted by Protective Services and more, as was I.
So I fight, and maybe I get rid of a house nigger with owlish glasses from New Jersey with her alleged lupus. Maybe Corey Booker gets involved and says I cannot behave like a monster because Presbyterian Homes really hates the disabled. The beat goes on. The boss Trudy is afraid of, as in The Grifters Angela Houston terror, is a Director named Dulles. Bald, fat, black, corrupt as a horse's ass, I politely told him he was full of shit, and it was indicated to me that this cowed Trudy to the same degree that her tactics have me fighting for my life. If I do engage in illegal behavior toward this woman, and go to court, I doubt the judge will allow me to move for jury nullification

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.

Untenable Mummers' Day

The holiday is the perfect time.--the man in charge

In this chair I cannot go bare buttock as I used to. The vinyl seat is too hard, too small, and the discomfort I undergo has taken away very nearly all my control, including the food preparation I did on my own, let alone dressing and food shopping. Nor have I so much made a dent in assessing what the cleaning service did or did not do with certain personal effects, including my clothes to which I had adapted. When the Caribbean accented paraprofessional sat me up in the winter afternoon, before the bad transfer assist, alarming as that was, my growing weakness might as well have set off a Geiger counter. I got Mike on a word of mouth basis from a former Liberty consumer, and assumed he understood cerebral palsy fittings. I am at fault for taking the chair, assuming I could adapt, but he should have known better also, on the basis of the broken models piled under the daybed beneath the one window I once handled on my own, on top of a week’s worth of unnecessary hospital stays. I don’t have access to my work, cannot restart much of what I was doing, not from scratch, and my aunt thinks I’d thrive in her mother’s home, all because of a combustible grease monkey. A Man Called Ove is the type of literary conceit on which I was weaned. The title character feels life has passed him by. His suicide attempts fail. Poor planning, community interference. The point of the film, probably the book too, is learning he is still valued and can fill in the gaps. I’ve no such luxury, fearful I’ll never get past this. Fighting welfare and Medicare rationing kept me healthy. Seven doctors had nothing to treat me for. Diaper shit and piss, my inability to sustain my nutrition, is making short work of this, and if I did not feel I’m being forced down the drain, it wouldn’t be so hard to swallow. A nursing home isn’t going to let me write and have digital access, despite the occasional Washington Post feature from those with no choice. I left Oz off at season four, after “O’Reilly” kills Nathan’s rapist himself, weary of all this overflow, wondering how much longer I can persevere, but maybe it isn’t simply Philadelphia, it’s self-depreciating half assed efforts, with swatting being the new eel wriggling in the cesspool. Libertarians should have no problem uniting against weaponizing police against innocent civilians. I have my recidivism too, from my childhood under the knife to some damn cubicle, accepting it as the hardship of decline. It isn’t worth it: Let’s see what the new year brings, shall we? I’m off to bed, against better judgment, daring to remove the diaper, staining the underpad so my crotch can get some air.

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?

Cognitive Dissonence

I had an appointment with another troubleshooting repair business from fast acting Home Advisor, but canceled, for the time being, as Office conversion and recovery is the least of my problems, as kid brother reminds me, my spastic life is an embarrassment of riches, not that I have translated it as well as manu. I did like his trek economics approach in his interview with Thiel, and as a dead cat owner thrice over, I understood how his dying cat Cosmo was a stresssor, me and a number of other account holders, but his tweets are as flaky as mine are flushable, and I just removed him. Not that this matters terribly either, if I will have to put my accounts in abeyance for the time being. His pop tech approach was developed for me to teach, at the turn of the century, but I could not pivot of the mattress without a radiator gut protest alert, so my notice, unfortunately, will drag on a bit, at the discretion of Trudy's use of force against my so so viral animus, which drove off the ACLU black guy in the MA area, I believe.

Am I suicidal, under the circumstances? Should I be? I am laughing a bit, the mighty warrior, losing the round she always does in radiated vapor, my fourth feline, and she, being the least of them, not helping, as she soiled some paper, which will be bagged, shortly. Search found me a contact location I can drive to on my own. I realize there are waiting lists, but I hope they will let me use my urinal in their shelter bathroom while I sort out the destination dance, whether it be the end of the road, or a last effort to freedom from fear. I do not like African American contra indicator culture very much, aside from their urban brutality, and still feel, as liberal educational programming has pointed out in relation to indigenous populations of the Northern hemisphere, that the original African, the first among us, are being evolved out, even if never vanished, entirely. I know it doesn't work that way, but their skins are lighter. Ice Tea is certainly not fresh out of the Congo, for instance, just as I know I am gunning for time I do not have, but lets dwell on it a moment: just because black collectivism, with its stoic humility, makes me turn up my nose, I would not pick an ADA client, or a Caucasian, for a job, just because my racial prejudice is now intensified: I just never want a black person to come within ten feet of my personal care. That is the way it is, in my lovely deployment of social Darwinism.

Mating Calls

I used to call this Hewlett Packard the old queen, and remain amazed it still works, and that I am not quite insane, but suppose we're getting there, aren't we? All my time, productivity, but I guess it does not matter. I could have worked some, on my Smith Corona. The disk drive for it failed a long time ago, but it still works in both draft mode, with small DOS screen, and as a typewriter, but I didn't move a muscle, barely read, and have to reinstall office, and then see what this latest fuckwit managed to save from the Toshiba, but I cannot win, can I? Just this much ahead on my debt, and I had to waste what little credit I have on a pc tech who has his own ass in arrears. It doesn't take much for many of us to become nothing once again, that quickly, not being savvy enough, like all off you, to just download office for free. 

I am being abused by a relatively new tenant named Dominic. I think he is Italian. He is stupid and belligerent, and I am going to have to file a harassment complaint, which will get me a transfer, but I do not know how much worse despair can get: I am near the end of what little functional independence I have, and the story of my adult life, from the age of 23 forward, is abuse in buildings managed by this senior living corporation. I feel perfectly justified in engaging in terroristic violence against Presbyterian Homes. Can I? No. Would I? Yes, so by all means, report me if you wish, but their contract with HUD needs to be severed.

33 years of my life, and no, I can not fault traditional academic instructors, even though Jerry was right. I should have never transferred to the city. But I had no idea Philadelphia was going to pulverize me to the extent it has. Dominic's issue? Who knows. He is sick, uncouth, thinks he is more street wise than he is, and singled me out, I can only surmise, because the word on me is that I am a skeevy loudmouth. He looks like my Uncle Thomas's more brutish younger brother, bald with a black grey  ring of hair just above the ear. I do not care that he doesn't like me. It is the public aggression he displays. Taking it from niggers is one thing, but a Broad Street bully is another, and the company is going to get waves because he is interfering in my ability to do normal things in public. Talk on the phone, or with the technician. It is impossible for him to ignore me, I mean impossible, and if I drag the police into it, what can they do? A restraining order isn't going to get a mentally ill cancer patient to cease and desist. 33 years, and I still believe I can be competitive in the marketplace.

I am literally ready to roll out the damn door and find a place to die, and surely, I have the strength I have to carry like Swarzenegger, to pull myself up despite a neutron star barbel on my sternum. I am not far away from threatening this bastard's life. It is a little more than that. Online access vulnerability is nearly as crippling as my brain damage. Since I sustain few true friendships, let alone able to consider myself salable to Viagra men, I have no idea what keeps me alive. Curiously, however, my commode transfers are more confident, as if I'm actually returning to work.

Mouse Cadaver Double Bound

The human body is very dirty. -- Arthur Hill

I allowed myself to get wrapped up in the plot of Salvation without applying any critical rigor to the performances, and now that well know speculative futurist actors are involved in the coming denouement, the intensity of the dystopian aspect wanes: at first, I thought the screen writers guild were going to spin an ironic manipulation of the deep state conspiracies made so prevalent in the digital age-- and to clear something up, taking the JFK, RFK, and MLK assassinations in sequence, it is difficult not to see these killings as a low grade coup. It is the reasoning behind it which is elusive, but fortunately, I do not have the energy to delve into bootlegger class graft and a America's preeminent, partially fraudulent, minority saint. Salvation comes off as a pre-processed microwaveable dinner. Finnigan, at least initially, was taxed with the most complex delivery, but this has since radiated outward among the ensemble. Do I appreciate Cabrera, Rowe and Dale?

I haven't penetrated that deeply, while the pacing ensures mainly irrelevant plaudits, like a gay Secretary of State on the run. I missed the Russian Federation on "alert" episode, but caught enough in play back to piece together the subsequent stand down. What interests me is the antecedents, the analogue era posited doom of The Satan Bug, where Dana Andrews, the wooden war era bean counter, was perfectly cast, and The Andromeda Strain, which is one of my favorite science fiction films of all time, precisely due to its rigorous realism. The Andromeda Strain doesn't condescend to its audience, uses real science, and if it didn't predict AIDS paranoia in the black community, it certainly anticipated the fact that MRSA will one day make the achievements of western medicine insignificant, because it will wipe us out, centralized hospital model or the strategic mobility of doctors without borders notwithstanding. Uber-wealth will of course hang on, as it always does, but we are too many not to hit an alarming new mortality rate. I am not faulting any system or ideology, just acknowledging reality. Collectivism and self interest, in our species, never quite balances without calamity.

The only tranquil moments I had under Presby's management-- which, for those of you who do not know, has been my life long rental agent, was when I was still matriculated as a student. In those days, I did not believe that I was going to undergo a lifetime of conflict, persecution, but now, having gone through mortal combat, biology is picking up where the paradigm left off, and I am beginning to feel grim. Poetry, non-fiction, and half-glazed deadlines aren't enough for me, and I know the institutional hell I will face, unlike you. Work, stop complaining. I know, but I cannot be amicable burning my cell phone battery begging for legal representation feeling like this, my bad hip like embossed root canal. I printed up the forms I need to file with the Human Relations Commission, but I am not so sanguine, whether Earle's title with them is now more honorary than active. Kimmy hunted around the trash bag, looking for her prize. It is not pleasant, using broken reachers to carefully dispose of these little templates. Remarkable, from mice came the very carnivores who dispense of them like gumballs. Crichton's death did have a quality of suddenness. Unfortunate, because his rebuttals had the force to make progressives back down.

Great Expectations

we're gonna keep comin at ya

I cannot write a post long enough to explain with what frequency case managers intertwined themselves in my life, whether vocationally, or mental health issues due to my mother, or in institutional rehabilitation, but Presbyterian Homes, from the time I moved into Riverside in 1994, virtually invented same sex marriage in relation to the frequency with which their managers and social workers disavowed my right to privacy, and I do not mean solely the current team. Debra Horne is, for lack of any other way to phrase it, a sad testament to the human condition when individuals with low IQ interbreed, and this is exactly why Presby hired her. Intimidating, high tan, Mississippi accent like bile in her throat I think she came here in a jean jumper in 05. Black. Bull. Dyke, just ahead of her tenants to wield her invisible baton. I did not know what I was setting myself up for with this shuffling minority matron, her hernia, lesbianistic overtones, nearly amalgam of the orderlies who abused me under Dr. Chance. After what I have been through in North Philadelphia, I carry no guilt about despising her, don't care a jot if mother's family is appalled, and this woman's cruel arrogance is a living rebuttal to whatever Jeffrey's treatise is on the right's collectivism. Minorities can be as morally corrosive as anyone else, and it used to be Debra I wanted to have punished, but that has since been upgraded. Debra's immediate superior has committed a criminal offense, and I'll see Trudy Richardson on the other side of a civil suit, or force Philadelphia's finest to mortally injure me, and one of you shall give my lifelong melancholy turned rogue a fine eulogy, I am sure. Mettle, spirit, and all that, even if there aren't people quite suited to human existence, people we'd be better off without.


But in 1986, I tried hard to be a good compliant tenant, nearly slept with the son of a reverend, and discovered identity politics, a righteous cause, in Jonathan Capehart's voice, to be nothing more than moral poison. I have always more or less enveloped myself in despondency. Some quadriplegics do better, some worse, and my intelligence, applied to my pain, makes me an existential threat-- my Senator's tolerance doesn't want to peer too deeply into my militancy which applauds him most of the time, and I'd stop Casey junior cold, not having anything to lose in the darkness of the unsaid, only made worse because, I know, intrinsically, my hourglass doesn't have too much quality sand left before the upper chamber metes out my allotment. Look at all this has taken out of me, the economics of appeasing "a fraternal contractor," who your taxes subsidizes to intentionally break *us* down. Some bloody system. I spent my savings cleaning this apartment. Not all of it, but a great deal went into Tim's pocket, or a cleaning service, then Karina. Now it has evaporated, and I have since been under constant threat because I don't want to be whored off again under welfare's sterling subcontractors. I've yet to hear any libertarian stampede, however, to run my vacuum, throw in a load of laundry. They've all got hard ons for block chain code.

Oden's Hammer, with admissible discrepancies

Part of what I am attempting to do on Disability In Entertainment Arts is utilize my brain damage to my advantage, which is why I convolute so many things together. It doesn't always work, and my short lived protégé Louise Norlie indicated I might be less confusing, and less rushed, but some of my triggers are indicative of trauma no iconic personage can cure, like guilt over my online usage. I need to at the very least, mitigate this. My provider isn't an authoritarian dragoon. I may have had a little trouble mailing my bill in during the era of dial up , for which even I can scarf as a primitive folly, despite not being fully wireless- but I waited a little too patiently for ATT to convert to online billing, and I followed suit. I have been responsible, did everything they every asked of me, including the dreaded credit deposit. (Years ago, and yes, they returned it, but I am lucky I had over 30,000 dollars at my disposal to play these games.) Quelch. Now she is discussing long lost freedom of her personal finances. No one does that, nor do I, up to a point, but I am only attempting to illustrate how far my life imploded thanks to the false assurances of the disability intake model: When I was 23, still a rather fresh inner city body, I was in danger of starving to death, because the SSA field offices, overwhelmed, did not keep tabs on what their verifiable cripple was doing, and arbitrarily suspended my SSI. It points to why, unlike my dying father's sister, I am very very reluctant to depend on state welfare. I got through it then, but being very nearly in the same place, 32 years later, is obscene. I'm fully cognizant that I am less elastic, and yes, part of this falls on my shoulders: I resigned from The Matrix Research Institute like a water logged koosh ball, frightened of my clients, overwhelmed at losing my brother-- hence, "bumping into" my former manager from the center from which Matrix plucked me, this wasn't my best option, confiding in her through posts. My wounds over that permeate this entire account, revealing to me an implosive level of destruction which could, hypothetically, write itself out as a NSA political thriller spiraling into Armageddon.

Ten years ago, getting away from Presby terian Homes, this would have mitigated such terrible scars. [Riverside is the beige white tower if you want to rescue and thereby own my loyalty for life.] Now? I may have a case to sue the corporate office in Spring Mills from here to the center of the earth, but if I perceive an occasional overage as a crime against humanity. I am not really long on holding onto my sanity. My shins are going, but this doesn't mean a paraprofessional represents an optimal solution, you can trust me. I see too many abuses, even under Trudy's duress, using every weapon she can, striking out at me without realization of the consequences, because she is a moron, because Presbyterians hire minorities barely a step ahead of their brutal underclass on which they earn their salary, and there are far too many people like this, as opposed to those of keen acuity damaged by relentless cruelty. I have research to do, and may slow with Blogger for a time. I don't know if the company will allow me to code ads back in. They do not have to. I may, just barely, hold my inner savage in check, but I shall never be entirely free of the belief that people driven to violence have had too much amplified whippings. 

As for Louise, I don't know how she is faring under the Trump Administration. She was a nice girl. Our contact had too much subterfuge.

Strategic Retreat

As the lunacy of my non-compliance continues toward the overwhelming crisis of self-enforced eviction-- what, exactly, do I expect to happen without access to electricity and toiletries? Nothing beneficial-- I'll pull a shuttlecock and actually post about a partial or legally blind content creator from the ewe mentality of Niume-land and its troubles. I've written before I have very little to say about the intersection between art therapy and aspiring disabled individuals in the fine arts, and I have, at best, a nominal command of art criticism, but those of you without chronic pain want this, positive attitude effusive, sympathetic ecology appreciation, and would prefer I turn the rudder, assert that Oscar Perez has an eye for the harmony of contemplating the environment. Done.

Certain things don't translate on web sites that well, and traditional portraiture, whether paint or still frame, is one. Digital pictures cheat the aesthetic appreciation for which our eyes, symmetric and concentrated, like all primates, were designed. Oscar followed me and I followed back, and barely hear a peep out of him, picked up a slightly more centered perception of him on Virily, where I've remained relatively quiet. I hold happiness and contentment suspect, and believe those inclined to genius normally do, and, in affinity with my mentor, Jerry, I do not like crowds, though my twitter presence escalates, at least on the benevolence of the gatekeepers.

Do you want me to tell you what will happen if I do not evacuate myself from Presby? I did not think so, but I shall, just the same, release my inner militant. She will ensure a tragedy occurs if she doesn't get out. The lack of physical ability to fight is irrelevant in this regard.

I came up with the idea of a subset essay at least, whether or not for my collection, of something like "The Jerry Memoirs," as my bondage to his memory fades, and he is a wisp of an old man on a stick. I dug up his 2012 reading on YouTube. Same old McGuire, and yes, I expected, for him, some sort of expansiveness, instead of a parody of his forceful 40's. I do not know yet, but corrected my self-awareness. I attached myself to him out of shared conceit. If he was the best Shakespearean on the east coast, I was going to be SuperCripple, if this is easy enough for mass mindsets to grasp. The late entry 19 year old needed a piece of that ego, and latched, however unconsciously intuited. I believed that he could spare me a condemned fate, and had I been more dispassionate, I might have been right, but he ignited my cunt, as reductive as that is on end note.

Bad Hash Browns

I am sitting here, certification deadline looming, and if I have any regular readers at all, you'd say, stay in section 202 another year, let Presby kick you out, don't be so destructive and put yourself in jeopardy, and I'm surfing around, trying to monetize my rage that I put seven years into. I doubt Google's Alphabet will allow me to reopen my AdSense account. Leaving me alone, short of giving you a hit list of whom, when, where-- this is one thing. Letting me make money on stark negativity is another, but these posts are seven years of work, and I've poured my heart and passion into much of it. Some archive material needs polish, and I need more real data pursuit, but still, I am writing for nothing because a Silicon behemoth is alarmed at the depth of my parceled tranches. Before I lose it in my favourites, to use Niume's English pasteurized variation, Pimdell's lazy rehash for the Globe illustrates that Trump's base has a point: This opinion piece is wrapping for fish and chips; it does nothing for journos who've been on the track. 

Soft Spots in Ten Story Girders

Like many public housing tenants who end up becoming agitated and enveloped, literally, by lack of mood health, I am caught between inextricable forces: If I do not leave Riverside Presbyterian Apartments, I will wind up losing my ability not to engage in law breaking conduct, one way or the other. Some of you may say that marginally competent black women come a dime a dozen, however aggressive, cruel, and conniving they've been, focus, hang on, you've been through the worst. I know all this. I just need to leave. So leave, but doing that gives Presbyterian Homes exactly what it desires, and if I am not clever enough to get from destination A to (temporary?) destination B by August, what choices would first responders have, even if I hypothetically leave the borders of the Commonwealth? What the fuck would I do in a shelter, with this chair, if I could keep the more hopelessly deranged from an aging and damaged machine, with bedpan, and whatever else I could carry? It simply isn't fair, this delusion that I could be an independent woman who had options. I can barely sit here without some memory tied to this building, in my 23 year history in it (31 total under the same corporate 202 contract with HUD, I've never had another agent, just corrupt Presbyterian owners, basically a 15 minute Septa ride between Broad and Race), without a trigger begging me to strike back, and I cannot continue. I need to go, and I cannot manage. It is literally, as we speak, killing me, but in the interim, I've always had a forgiving blindness toward Philip K Dick, and as with ... _ElectricSheep? it will be fun to compare High Castle. Dick is one of those writers, flawed, on the mildly raw side, whose tendency toward abstract composites leaves screen writers, directors, room to breathe. I really do not know what I'm going to do otherwise.
Yes, I beat back Presby's escalating and illegal aggression toward me, but the price I have paid has destroyed intonations within which I'll never recover, and I write this without hyperbole. The system has destroyed my compassion. I am not capable of anything, but I am capable of unbridled fury which needs relief.

Marlon's Silent Harmonica

For a dozen years or so he had been feeling as if the vital fluid, the faculty of existing, [...] were ebbing.--Lampedusa, The Leopard, p228

Me being me, my early life ebbing birthday present to myself was to stream Last Tango in Paris, and already knowing so much about it in advance, was more or less diminished by Bertolucci's Truffaut affect, the meta dramatic technique of film within a film. There was an obvious homage to the older French director in Leaud's staginess as an intrepid enthusiast of capture, but shock, awe? Hardly. By today's standards, Schneidner's nascent coyness, coupled with that baby doll face, and Brando's shrewd magnetism, suggested more interesting motifs than Marie's body served in a candy dish. Method acting had engraved itself onto Brando by this point, encasing his defenses, locking away anything raw, except for the impetuosity of his violence, and curious compassion for Girotti's Marcel. Other than that, his performance was a tease, as in so much of his later work. Perhaps he let himself go after the butter scene, because this took what was left, so he exchanged keeping himself in shape for the effortless sating through eating well and over nourishing. Never really my type, I can still see, however, why women like Jeanne would succumb to his domineering ferocity in lieu of true loving congruence. Youth desires penetration of invulnerable pretenses, even if pivotal monologues do not quite penetrate inflammatory deafness, the constant companion to ringing ears. 

I still have time to run sections of the film again, review his weaving leg and what he was smirking to this poor girl, before he toyed with the small wind instrument, before this woman who decided to blame a simulated violation for the rest of her *ruined* life. Actors. What we put up with for aesthetics, inclusive of sudden democratic government totalitarianism for a hard look at power shifts between the sexes. As a woman myself, one whose contorted skeleton would be naked exploitation of a different texture, if substituted in the bathroom scene with Schneider's odd bush, with gradations like an inverted pyramid, I can attest that adventurism can lead to histrionic regret, but like so many doomed artists, even David Foster Wallace, my episodes of being chained to a spurious colon begins to give way to defeat: If I once believed myself matriculated, once made love to ambulatory men, now my grandfather's gastrointestinal turbulence is a psychological erosion of self worth. Rainy days are a bitch, elongated lung creping like a failed exercise in origami folding. Not a particularly good day person, I have been dragging since I woke. Maybe I'll rent it again later, or eat my usage last minute to recapture. Saturated as I am, near 60, with the best of the best, masterpieces, classics, believing I could have done better, myself, had I made better choices, I am glad of Bertolucci's tyranny in pursuit of this vision. Is Last Tango a great movie? I'd say intriguing, particularly with its interior strategies. We'd be a better species if we were this brave for the sake of creativity most of the time. Maybe I'll find a way to stop getting weaker and sicker, and get out, somehow, return to limited functionality; maybe I'll rationalize that atheists are wrong, that spirits retain identity, and that I can join Wallace in doomed ego limbo, or lose and die in Philadelphia's excuse for a wheelchair community. None of you know what to say. It is not one or two bad experiences which lead me to defy Medicaid Waiver services. Nine years have taught me that attendant care here at the bottom is legalized pimping; it does not change the fact my legs are going, my rectum is ready made greenhouse topsoil. After all the trauma I lived, my fail year has dawned, and I am, in all probability, telling Gail Sims, the newest assistant manager, that I'm not recertifying. I am also probably not going to find a pro bono champion between then and the initiation of eviction proceedings.

El Nino Effect

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

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

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

Tough Love

Even when I earned what might be considered a decent supplement under my former contracts, I was never much for speed writing, and have since developed a tendency to over-dramatize when I fail, since I believe my zeal usually overrides the weaknesses any voice has. Getting your ass kicked by an admirable editorial voice has positive demerits. I'm trying so hard to return to established media platforms I'm killing myself with the effort, in addition to revising my resume and applying for five jobs in succession. I am not in full blown dementia, not yet. It is my landlord's power, feeding my anxiety, and my age makes me rush. I want to remind my viewers that this monster has been my only landlord since I was forced, naturally, to vacate Temple's campus. I ricocheted to my aunt's row home, which was unsustainable. I am sure Marie remembers, which is why she out dramas me. I have seen horrible horrible things under Presby's stewardship, and I'll never stop being pissed off.

It may be cheap that I denigrate the current bran-brain that runs Riverside. She cannot fight back, but I never signed up to have management virtually move in with me; at Diamond Park's location, it may have been mildly less pressing, but the violence and destabilization make minority collective stricture, responsibility as a social constraint, rather moot when blacks were killing each other and killing the pets of girlfriends on a cyclic basis. I should not have to evict myself simply to get movement, but this is what it is coming to. For the liberals who want me to mitigate in civil objective speak, I hate Trudy Richardson because she never, ever stops. She is like a cobra. If she cannot humiliate me one way, then she has subordinate Debra Horne threaten me through a terminally ill aunt on Prozac. I cannot keep living here. I cannot, because it will become a self fulfilling prophecy. Please, just please help me leave. I'm begging, anyone. I have no money left to speak of. 

Life in Pieces

Ah ha

Mr. Stiles was one of the first personalities, along with John Dunn (though the Traditionism advocate may not be a media personality in the American sense of the term), to follow my account on twitter. I hesitated for many a year to start a blog, fearful I'd get an FBI file, but even I did not realize how outraged I was, in the transition from LiveJournal to Blogger. It is a dangerous outrage, a lone wolf outrage, empathy worn clean to the bone. It made Trump president; it made me, in turn, a pariah who eventually moderated herself only by degrees, and the idea I have for Niume, so far, is just as esoteric. I want to examine objects, emotional investments to them, and that would last like what, five posts? I did not realize, when This TV first aired Dead Man's Gun, that this was a precursor to Mankell's Talisman, and the carefully crafted Colt in the show was passed on from hand to hand, like a woman down South. The studio system, whether in its droll Vancouver outlay, which in Europe is Sweden, equally droll, persists with these stories because we do tend to believe omens of our own construction, suspect the gods, in the back of our mind.

But I only have a rough composite of Tony. First, I believed he was a paranoid cowboy of about 45 years. Then in pictures I said "he's only a kid," with full bodied curls, then I saw the mohawk and the glasses. Held my tongue, and by degrees, came to realize he is what John Murphy, his CFO claims, a humanist.

I'm not, and it isn't merely theoretical, because if I decide to apply pressure points to Trudy Richardson, the minority building manager, I will be going to jail. Two can play back ending, and I'm sure it will alarm her if I strike back. I have a little plot, whether I preface it with a dossier to a firm like Gaylords, or not. But his seems to be of the Michael Clayton variety, custodial services for firm efficiency. Perhaps with the holiday lull I can discover through him if I have cause, as a special victim, to take a bite out of Presby's Inspired Life. I'm owed damages, as well as relocation, and even as I divest myself of my dad's generation, I've softened, trying to fill the gaps for my brother and sister, and Ben would like me to move near him in North Carolina. The power of that hope immediately reoriented my compass, and I might have been back in high school. But I could just as easily throw the keys in Trudy's face, and roll off, not to return without a lawyer. Will she, won't she? Does social media have safety nets?

I need to take some time on the dial and see if I can find Tony's broadcast. I do favor radio over video, but my boom box lost its aerial, and it is difficult to tune NPR.

Three Hours to Prepare a Decent Meal

It's the omnipresent constable." -- a sardonic Patrick O'Neal against Peter Falk

Microsoft offered me free antivirus software so I'm installing it, or part of it, wincing at what I paid Norton every cycle, and annoyances like this dart through our thought processes even in very dark places. Given how much I've hammered out on this account, how much further can a poor dowager descend? This spastic is aware of the gravity of making things so much harder by rolling out on these monsters, but if she doesn't go, she will wind up with forcible first response removal at some point, police struggling to put the Jazzy in manual while my hypertension explodes, hitherto merely the roar of a Roman lion. I sent Tony Stiles a copy of the New Jersey law firm prohibiting me any further contact with Philadelphia's notorious independent living center, without explaining things to him, without even realizing he might as well have been a geeky kid brother, given the disc jockey images of him which popped up, but the New Jersey law firm tactic crumpled: I roared into Nancy Salandra's voicemail last week about how I was traumatized and wanted to return to Delaware County, and a more recently minted den mother named Patricia McIntyre dialed my number back in less than 60 seconds but she and I have yet to speak. So much for Roman felines.

I think Agatha Christie's prodigious output is an indication of deep seated unhappiness, aside from pecuniary concerns. I read her more when I was younger, not so much recently. Can't go back into it as readily; there was also a television film about her suicide attempt which limped despite the efforts of Hoffman. In my list of 500 projects I'm never going to finish, I've pondered a murder novel and I've done preliminary research, and I seem to jumpstart myself by starting anew when I'm struggling with preposterous theories which I can see but others may not, as in Walter Hill is a political animal, The Driver is a political film without saying a word about the calamity lurch from Nixon to Ford losing to Carter. I am preparing this for a popular scholastic journal which once upon a time paid well, and I have to get there. Meanwhile, in short order, access to things taken for granted will become my latest logistical issue. 

Should I dare to try my hand at a detective tale, and I do not know that I can succeed, I'd aim not so much for Shakespeare's flirtation with graphic brutality as for the traumatic, and I'd push, to the breaking point, right on the edge between immolation and art. Of course, I can wait, and drag this, and let Presby threaten me more, despite half the shit I have on them, but I'm tired, hate them, and hate my familial indifference. I've hated Riverside since my mother, still living, set me up here, and there have been meanders, but if I ran into Terri Way today I'd throttle her for my passive tolerance of letting her snow me, and in very small ways preferred Diamond Park. Christie, however, did herself push the traumatic when Poirot, and this actor doesn't quite capture my image of Christie's Belgian-- [fuck Miss Marple]-- used his drug tolerance to snare his greatest nemesis. She gave Poirot a denouement surpassing what Doyle gave Holmes.

More of the Earlier Bryan Fuller

"You better mean it!" the widow Chaz to Charlie Rose

How Dead Like Me wound up in "the MGM library," to quote Comet's response to me on a related matter, is probably as much a mystery as the weird rules Fuller makes up in his head, but the dowager can see why the series made a splash, and I certainly identify with Muth's acerbic disillusioned puss as she comes of age in that space between the temporal and beyond. I could watch this series a long time and live in it, and see how it  illustrates. Fuller succeeds in the industry because he takes the worst of human nature and redeems it. Whereas I just drive the forces of the Furies, looking for the next Big Bang, young or old, I've always been the same, evading the exterminator, living a flea bag life, watching my effusiveness harden liked glazed sap bled on bark off a bore hole. I have changed, disillusioned myself, not with literary ambition so much, as questioning its utility. What does an anti-hero like Hannibal offer us, after all? Irony aside, we couldn't function if celebration of psychopathy became normal, however vicariously liberating such visionary mechanisms appear to be. The majority of of live droll little lives, our guts and arthritis overtaking us, pests like moths and roaches and mice an embarrassment to be battled, wondering if billionaires ever have these problems. Doubtlessly Thiel would be horrified by what my quadriplegic incontinent living does to carpets and furnishings, though no coils have broken through the mattress yet. I am disheartened by all the revising I have to do with this account, not so much worried about my viciousness as my tendency to obscure correspondences in my earlier posts.

Have to repair it, and sometimes want to kick it to the curb. I am not going to live long enough to go in search of my own lost time and Proustian perfect captures of weaving his memory into a mature authorial voice. Putting a note on my door (for the custodians) that I'm unstable due to end of summer humidity might be the truth, but it only delays the inevitable condemnation: I was never good enough, not to sustain relationships, certainly not to create a family. I sucked myself into an 811 box in North Philly, finished my harsh urban life at Temple University, and then sank in amber, like an autonomic gangrene representation out of a French director's Dadaist nightmare, here thinking of one of Ebert's clips, probably buried on his website. Even he didn't know what to make of this film. The actors looked putrid while riding a bus. That was probably a distinctive vision of the modern condition, but again, the bodies of the dead turning into maggot consumption don't engage us. My sister said I could not see the full view of our dead mother in 2005. I raised a meek objection toward a closed casket service.

Unlike George, I do not learn from mea culpas thrown my way. I just say give me a fucking Uzi. I am cognizant that giving Presby and its Riverside Negro Womens' League my notice, keeping my fiery denigration of management to a minimum, probably spells my doom, but this year, I mean what I say, and though I am stalling, I do intend to abandon my secure, if miserable, routine, under the banner of a so called "Inspired Life". The tenants in 202 are expendable, diseased, ill, unbalanced, stupid, damaged, failures. I have a piece of white trash named Rich eating out of my hand because I am kind to him. His entitlement is managed by a representative payee because he is a gambling crackpot. The former advocate in me is only a facsimile of decency in dealing with him, and this coldness in me, judging this happy broken piece of voluble shit on his phone as worthless, is roughly the truest literary vision I can offer, and I am just a dirty post-menopausal cripple running her last energies on acrid coffee, about to break the piggy bank, facing threats more mundane than flaming space debris.  

Inveterate Malice

If I was as ruthless as Peter Thiel, I'd give blogger up. I cannot restart my adsense account because I don't know how to reopen it and don't know either how to utilize Google Forums to get where I need to be, don't see many bloggers who are self funding in these particular domains, I wield my tongue like a volcanic lash, and defied terms of service guidelines to be illegal, and did not tone it down because of a law firm threat, but because I probably am not going to see sunrise at 60. Yet I'm here every day, starving, trying to keep father's resources at bay, but the way to do that is to cease talking to the Aunt. She forces the drifting family patriarch who made me his executor to assist me; it isn't right. Padre has a right to some peace. I found my way back to Beacon through the Levy's Writer's Block none of us use, going to try Beacon again, but I am far too tired to post, even as I realize, to my amazement, that I am giving the building manager the solution she seeks. Fear for my survival is not enough to keep me here in Riverside Presbyterian. There is no respect for the authority of Trudy Richardson, and I treat her in inveterate fashion, living here with so many episodic crises, I need to at least make the attempt to leave, even if social media isn't fully attuned to my subtext.

It may surprise you to learn I am civil to a few of the younger minorities, like Amneshia, a collegiate age guard. She said to me "I would do it (give your notice)," as I've been unhappy a very long time; from what she knows of my story, even she feels corporate should give me the damn transfer. My readers who have read enough to know the gist could telephone Spring Mills and say give the poor spastic what she needs. What is a telephone call?

610-834-1001

I go over Richardson's head now, taunting the dezins of the domestic in Montgomery County, my rancor very much equal opportunity. I hissed into a Vice-President's voicemail fearlessly, threatening institutional duress. For one of such slender means I really buy into my role as the mafia don with cojones on the cunt. I just wrote cunt and made myself an imagined hermaphrodite, which is why Google corporate washes its hands, in part.

I am really angry at Petter Thiel, for the thing itself, but also have much thinking to do. Have a good morning. I have to pack in a bit early.

Taking Aim at Corporate

Let me know if this is confusing; having transmitted it, with scant resources, my days are numbered, even as I wake stiff with cramps, crumbling like a chicken wing, I piss a quart of water and make myself rise, with little idea how I am enduring, at all:

Presbyterian Homes
Corporate Office

My name is Joanne Marinelli. I have been a section 811 202 tenant of Riverside since August 1994 as a transfer from Diamond Park, where I became an assault victim in 1993.

Since that transfer, I have been an exceedingly unhappy ADA client who was banned from your dining service in 2005 and still forced to pay for it under building manager Debra Schwab. I sought and received legal representation and was victorious over Presby's blatant institutional cruelty.

Up through 2006, let me cut through the chase, I was placed under psychological duress by a number of minority attendants while trying to be a compliant tenant. I was swindled by a Jehovah's Witness contracted out by Unlimited Staffing, then molested by another female from the same staffing service, again, under Presby's auspices.

You have allowed Trudy Richardson to aggressively intimidate me with assessment teams since 2007, one team under your own contract, and twice since then by Health and Human Services staffers who charged me at my bedside saying that they had been to Inglis House, what's wrong with it?

Let me put this in terms you hypocritical mother fuckers understand: Presby is in part liable for the trauma I experienced in Diamond Park in 1993. I let the corporation off as opposed to litigating it and doing what was best for my health. Not anymore. You can tell the Presbyterian attorneys who sit on your board that I intend to file a hate crimes complaint specifically against Riverside's owner, and the corporation's unwillingness to take any responsibility for the lack of security at the Diamond Units.

If you continue to allow Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne to play mind games with me until I manage to retain legal counsel, you have two options: have me placed under arrest, or begin eviction proceedings against me. I was within my legal rights to sue Presby in 1993 for the home invasion I survived. I didn't pursue the matter because I let Presby's then employee Terri Way talk me out of it, took her advice and came to Riverside. It is an inhumane paradigm for a young and intelligent disabled woman who only and ever wanted a career. I shall not rest until you take responsibility for your acts of bad faith, or I see you at trial. For the record, Senator Pat Toomey's staff has my federal letter of complaint on file.