Highlight two or three keywords in yellow-- a Kenyan
Other than for obvious reasons, such as development of cult followings, I do not know why the 09 wrap up episode of Dead Like Me had to be made. The substitution of Wynter for Harris was poor form, and while the replacement of Mandy Patinkin as the preserver of tradition with a hedge fund manager may signal the obvious about our times, the last episode in 2003 was open ended enough to make this closure, six years on the drawing board, a bit redundant, even if it is about disruptions to the status quo. We can infer, because little sister Reggie decides to let go, that Georgia's reaps end with the comatose quarterback in the hell of his body, but I remain uncertain as to what the team revolt against Cameron signifies, unless it's just that some conditions always revert back to form-- which may mean I am going to be incarcerated regardless of what I do, but I cannot stay at Riverside any longer. So Kwale's observation that I have enough time on my hands to write positive posts about his equatorial continent isn't entirely accurate, as I have to find a way to bully myself out of the city in the time I myself have left on the clock. My personal sanity is at stake.
I have been brutal to Trudy, nigger nanny extraordinaire, I won't mince words about it, but the bitch is a conniving weasel who strikes behind my back. Why? Section 202 housing is as authoritarian as any Moscow dormitory for native Africans which only winds up burning down due to shoddy maintenance. I have to go. I won't get far, with my resources, but I have to. I cannot take it anymore. So she wins, in that primal cunning of our original model, lifestyle evolved to combat pervasive conditions brought about by malaria. Thousand word posts, with keywords. It makes the 3k I earned under contract look like a small fortune. Grunts.
I tweeted earlier I was watching a more seasoned O'Neal do an early version of fantasy football, but I am only half there. I'm looking up bus tickets, realizing most of my book library will perish; be donated. Running isn't going to rescue me. More likely put me in a great deal of hot water. I'm bolting, nevertheless. The last time I traveled must have been 1995, and that was instate, to Grantsville. I wrote Miss Richardson a terse but appropriately mannered note stipulating a lawsuit, slid it under the office door, escalating up, and by Thursday I'll probably be surrounded by HUD truancy officers, if I sleep in.
I got up early this morning. I'll be up early tomorrow, still waiting for chivalry's shield and protection. Mentally I've always plotted my points that way. A version of Jean Luc Picard would materialize and give me some peace.
"It's not that I don't have some sympathy for Ms. Kane. As the old saying goes, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there aren't people out to get you."-- Brian O'Neill
Media sometimes obfuscates as much as it informs, and I personally have no stake in whether the once vaunted Attorney General stays or goes. I did not like that she declined to defend Pennsylvania's defense of marriage act before SCOTUS nullified two thousand years of Judeo-Christian principles, nor did I care for her investigation of an assisted suicide case that wasn't, as re-litigated by the free daily City Paper. The daughter did not actively help her father die, so it was moot whether we're for or against euthanasia, but this whole scenario is patently absurd. Kathleen Kane is anyone's starling sister whom we wish to see succeed, and what her tribulations expose says less about her and more about the fact that if one of the oldest European land masses in the New World has lost the ability to govern, and China's state model is no particular antidote, I might as well take a sip of water, lie down, and pass away after a few weeks of excruciating dehydration.
My post title refers to a youthful stanza about never having anything to do on these lesser ceremonial holidays. Same conditions apply at the age of 53 with a dollar in the bank, but this hardship is entirely my fault, as I refuse to reapply for EBT or SSI, and will continue to refuse until the state forces me against my will, even as I milk homicidal aggression to get off my mattress finally, both the fault of the mattress and the poor quality of the Jazzy. I want a live-in companion, not an aide so much as an ambulatory friend, and that is easier said. I'm not Wonder Woman, but I am not all that sick despite incontinence and my lung function decline, and yet thinking out of the box to help a fiercely independent disabled writer beat welfare abuse is too much to ask, evidently.
People living together is analogous to a courtship, I know, but this is in the spirit of the new collaborative economy. Think about it, pass the word. I'm willing to leave Philadelphia, and even consign my felines to lethal injection. My entire online life has been a cry for change.
It is going to be a difficult week, ground down to starving my way through Monday. Blogger posted a caption about European Union cookie requirements which are beyond any consternation on my part. Why driving myself to force the city to arraign me is a solution for the depth of my pain resides in the hope it will spark something.
Miss Richardson has eased off her pressure tactics since I recertified in June, ripping out my fingernails in the process, but I've lost my civility at this point. It is drowning in my own bodily fluids, as I've begged my frigging family to help me leave for the last five years, and that is my family.
What my best instructors saw in me, and what I'm failing to carry. I just can't do this anymore, all my bad options like Cormac's pretty horses, rearing in fear.
Worthless exercise it may be, but I am looking for people willing to assist a quadriplegic pack within the sad cruddy environment of her interior. Much of what I have can be tossed, though I need to save some of my furnishings. Ms Richardson is going on the offensive again, because of my slip in the bathroom. It is like clockwork, the staff assures me they won't harass me, and then they turn on the screws. This time I intend to be forcibly arrested, if I must, and it will probably lead to injury. I have a lot of clothes I don't use, and need a new paint job, and so on, but I cannot continue with Presby's methodology. I'm starting to cry, and just want the fuck out. If you could at least pass the word that I need some volunteers, I'd appreciate it. I am not going to let Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, or HUD, to continue to treat me like a criminal. I just cannot go on with it. This is a local need, obviously; I do not expect the Palins to parachute in to my rescue. You can email me, should you be brave enough:
Jozanny@yahoo.com
Edit: I'm looking for storage units. I'm done
I myself have nothing to add to the death meme other than a lust for wanton destruction, which corporate bodies wouldn't let me get away with, even if I could circumvent my shrinking flesh, leaving the window open all day, preferring the hard March air to the radiator while I bury myself every five minutes, but know I cannot go on with my landlord much longer, despite my asset spend down and my helplessness, despite everything I know about homelessness, and menacingly ill wheelchair users who appear on the curbs of Market or Chestnut Streets and vanish. Save for my erudition, I am one of them now, consumed by this country's mercilessness for strays. I'm finished, and yet Nathan Gibbs, nice enough looking fellow, was kind enough to let me join his journo team, and I begin to have a glimmer of understanding about Ev Williams model for Medium. Medium is Space, and within Space, there are Publications which are an interlocked multi-verse. I like the concept better than much of the material, but now, how to I earn some money?
We'll see. I have to laugh at twitter, how my followers ratchet up one minute and then nose dive, my airing out of so many demons, intensity, this bothers the shallow pastry mindset, does it, or is it lack of interest? I really can't keep up, but if I have a few constant regulars, I know I need to keep searching and dialing the phone, but I will need a place to roll into by June. I can't last here another year. I can give you some general parameters: I want nothing to do with California, and NYC is Philly, simply worse. I am attracted to New England, Texas, Oregon, Seattle, maybe South or North Carolina near my brother, despite the fact he finds me too hot to handle; he is still my kid brother, and I remain fond of him, caught as he is between Stephanie, myself, and sister animosity. I am going back on Craigslist in short order to appeal for room mates for a broken spaz in her early fifties. Perhaps I'll meet an addict in a halfway house, fall in love, wait for that short window to open when I remember I still believe intercourse has possibilities. I cannot clench with my legs. That was always a tactical issue. Perhaps a bottle of Aleve would assist. I fight not to take too many.
"But the real fierceness of desire, the real heat of a passion long continued and withering up the soul of a man is the craving for identity with the woman that he loves. He desires to see with the same eyes, to touch with the same sense of touch, to hear with the same ears." -- The Good Solder, loc. 1411
Well, okay. This is the website of Bianca Spriggs, and you never know why an editor will or won't take something. Allison Joseph and her team pay 25 dollars a page for non-fiction, over at Crab Orchard, and they struggled with "Crime Fighter Feline". Whereas Bianca *saw* my thematic intent toward expendable classes. I respect the fact she gave me the space, but exposure means jack shit unless you can capitalize and lock into a career, and I'm jammed on the issue of accreditation, although I could stretch the truth enough to get my foot in to a paying editorial position. Ms. Spriggs may have thought my curious memoir essay was a disillusioned riff on the mild side of Henry Miller; perhaps it was, but in another vein it could just have easily been about the evolution of a hard liner. She decided to publish it, and I decided not to look at myself too closely in the mirror, as it represented my first byline since 08. It could also represent adversaries keeping an open dialogue, as I'm nearly positive Bianca is a champion for progressive victory, as much as I've swung my stern to port on the Rhine-- but consider this an opening salvo for me to clarify messy reactionism surrounding ethnicity. Allison Joseph is, after all, an African American studies specialist in the vein of Sonia Sanchez, who I know slightly, enough to greet her on campus with smiles like flavored icicles, and maybe Allison's detection meter was discomfited by my ambiguity. Who knows? But Crab's byline would have had better market value, so you see, I'm trying to convey something about how we look at each other across the table.
My damage cannot be underdone, sadly, but what I am dealing with here is black power within the system: Why listen to someone like me if I deliberately skirt the cliff face of American segregation with provocative overtones?
Not that it is a question I'm prepared to answer this morning, though Dr. Sanchez cemented Cosby's stellar monarchy when he gave her a segment to read on The Cosby Show.
...
I need to find a place to stay, temporarily, within 6 weeks. This is me. If I do not leave Riverside Presbyterian, there will be hell to pay, and in essence, I am fucked, since I need people to help me pack, have to find them, get a storage unit, and beg a Mormon for mercy or what. I've read they will take a chance and help the fallen, but I am rabid and agree with Hitch that Joseph Smith was the wrong kind of anarchist and deserves to be pilloried. I have to get out of this building, and have to do it now.
I thought this Taipei crash video was a game, or the movie based on the game, not for very long, but few a few split seconds I believed it because I have never seen anything like it. Sneaky whisper in the back of my mind asking what the Chinese are up to? Still building the Great Wall after what? 2000 years now they're still worried about barbarians. Not to suggest that China has the technical know how to make MH370 vanish and then cause another trans Asia sea crash and now this, but CCTV is much more cleverer than its Russian counterpart, and the West mews. The West wants to make money in China, so what is a few hundred thousand lives or more, who cares about Party indoctrination? These are all small things, but these small things are looming large. Whether authoritarian or our precious free society, we're losing control of the mechanized complexities we think we have mastered. I really ought to give my fucking notice and head to Texas, even if I'm dead in a week.
This type of venue is about producing the product and sales data. I am more interested in the analytics which might still pay me for a well produced piece. Daniel Schneider tried to encourage me in this direction even as thinking about that first contact causes me to shrivel into a little ball, but search my archives. I don't need to remind myself all of the time-- and I cannot really say what Dan was guilty of that set me off. Sigh. I just don't work well in online groups, certainly not with a B actor trying to be charitable-- but with that episode I was stupid, and realize it. Had I just bit my tongue and faked a certain wide eye respect, played sweet little passive cripple, Dan Schneider and wifey might have been of use. Recognize him? He reached out to me in 2009, and now I BEAR THE MARK OF SHAME. Meaning the fact that he was obnoxious was not worth getting emotionally distraught, which I did.
Spilled milk and all that, but this was self inflicted. It is difficult for me, Jimmi Shrode ignoring me with his righteous indignation, and I nearly threatened him coming home from the store; the partner of the dying Erik, Jimmi, growing a beard now, the new in thing among infantile homo boys, not that Jimmi doesn't have the right to cut me, I am simply telling you I cannot take it anymore, and Linda should have paid a steeper penalty for sowing so much discord: Jimmi and Erik are Riverside's extraordinary tenants with a great deal of power, and understandably like the relative stability of the building. I hated this place from day one, and having powerful, if ailing, activists as secondary enemies because Linda used me like a pawn makes it worse, on top of the other salient details I have given you about the duress of living under so much hostility as a disabled woman.
I am tired people, worn out, and getting arrested for attempting a hate crime, one way to shorten a life span; my family is of little use. Basically none of them respect my judgment, and Stephanie and I have inflicted too much mutual damage, my sister. She and I will talk when necessary, but she sees my old age as her legal burden after our father's death, and I'd sooner gouge her eyes out, if you'd like my power of attorney, not to give unscrupulous Russians a hard on. I mean I've given up on the idea of returning to Ridley Park, which, despite the secret domestic violence, was my best youthful idyll. I can no longer pretend to go home again, but, by the same token, the longer I stay at Riverside, the higher my chances that I wind up on Sullivan's Dish as a sensational impulse spree of some sort. You cannot win with the likes of Jimmi and Erik, even if you score a few points on the board. Militant gays are like Islamists in this regard, and Erik is not the type of sensible transvestite who debates DOMA on PBS. Even insiders in IL consider Jimmi and Erik to be overtly fanatical. I need to stop seeing what they are. I need to wash my hands and keep myself as equi-distant from homosexual culture as possible. Linda's caviler machinations destroyed my health, ability to rebound, and created hostile circumstances from which it is difficult to extract myself, or find alternatives.
I'm wearing out.
Great curiosity and a greater memory were necessary, Tertullian, De testimonio animae
The sometimes self published poet Laurel Speer was one of the last independents I had a traditional correspondence with, and it was Laurel's essays to me that Karina, eating her own zeitgeist, tossed in the trash, which ignited my blazing saddles warfare with-- as much as I want to use invective, it is a judgment how often one can rail with "muthafucker niggers" all the time before people stop reading-- but suffice it to say, like one of John Gardner's murdered anarchists, I look at black culture with a jaundiced eye, even with the security guard calling me at 11 during the election returns because a tenant heard a noise-- the disabled with ability to matriculate should stay out of public housing, whatever else-- Laurel's daughter is disabled, so unlike the suburbanites on P&W's site, my emotional pain did not seem to faze her when I copped to it, on our typing paper exchanges. She did not deign to advise me, lecture me about drugs, and I did not offer my opinion about her poetry. She is a better columnist, and if she and I were to have a public debate, which I know she likes to do, she would probably write, is this scurrilous online attitude working for you?
But the larger question is about the limits of tolerance, and what comes after the destruction of civilization if annihilators succeed before we destroy the environments from which we evolved, and we threaten ourselves with silence. Most literary writers seem threatened with it, at some point, as the flesh shrinks, we are not at our most dynamic. I do not want to email Eugene Robinson with pride in informing him of my bigotry-- what I'd like to know is why the American black mindset is so schematic, so fatalistic, so pretentious, and with all that so predatory, willing to make me expendable because I am the weakest link. This is also why I need to find a way out of Riverside. If I had listened to my parents, to Jerry, whose memory I've abused with unfair license, I would still think Martin Luther King had justice on his side. Now I see de facto segregation as the better form of sanity, and in my heart, that homosexuals need an exorcist, which could be the hyperbole of bisexual trauma, but nuance is, shall we say, on going.
I have had kinky fantasies, nothing worth writing about, as I am conservative even in masturbation, but after what I've been through, imagination and reality often crash with unexpected results. The sloth who hit on me, Eddy, she did not make me realize that lesbian games were for me. Being exploited by inner city trash made me sick, and made me understand my own father's racism when, like any teenager, she wanted to sow her oats. Now I do papa one better.
Having seen a couple of Walking Dead episodes, the series isn't just a blue collar form of empowerment, it is a Southern cautionary tale for urbanites, one that I'm unsympathetic toward, though power chairs would have trouble with homestead terrain.
My choices this evening is the cable zombie hit or a comic book movie about a vigilante. I hate zombie films, zombie themes, but realize the popularity of the series was due to the performance of composite Americans under threat from atavistic hordes. I could quell my curiosity, read my rereads and new reads, mull my a la carte labor for Examiner: If I stop writing for them, I lose the discipline it gives me, but staying is equally thankless, given my age and return for my labor, and the fact that I want more cerebral projects.
I really can't take the stress of trying to relocate myself in the face of such odds, and okay, if I have to buckle, then I'll buckle.
Some of you may critique me, correctly, that beneath an otherwise thin veneer I have used this account as a radicalized political agenda, and I'll accept a guilty plea, but things are escalating with PresbyHomes, and oddly, I have stopped being eaten alive by fear and feel liberated. I told Trudy Richardson I hated her and did not care, because I do hate her in her underpaid cut rate nanny state mentality. I hate Debra Horne slightly more, that for another day. But I need a place to stay.
I know asking for help, particularly from Philadelphia tweeters, is probably futile, and doubtlessly many of you don't like my attitude, and suspect I am a softer version of my mother, should do the script combo dance and won't because I quadriplegic enough, but if any of you can think of temporary lodgings I might utilize from center city outward toward Media, I'd be grateful. I do not care about amenities, I just want to stay out of city shelters.
It would be brief, until my mother's sister, hapless father and or little sister and myself can reach consensus. I'll listen to the pins drop.
I only found out my former supervisor left my disability center after her demotion earlier today. My case against her factored into that, likely. Should I express remorse? It doesn't change the fact that Philadelphia destroys its most vulnerable residents, not always with conscious malice, but certainly through its compliance models.
I'd be overjoyed, really, for a comment, or suggestion.
Fiction writers use compulsory homicidal impulses to create modern fragmentary arts, murdering the same character over and over again, and this is what I do to Linda on bad days, in episodes stolen from Richard Roundtree, I snap her vertebrae. My favorite is fracturing her skull with my laptop, but despair has mitigated much of this into ridicule, being so damaged and unable to leave the epicenter of it, on top of a simple normal desire for change.
I am not looking for a condominium beyond my means: I'll sleep in a garage as long as its wired and street level. All I want is to stay out of North and West Philadelphia, with enough space for two wheelchairs, my desk, bed, and toilet facilities I can use, and no housing authority interference.
Liberty Resources and Presby and Septa, in combination, have railroaded me into oblivion. My family cannot help me return near them to Delaware County, can you? Isn't there something, someone, some resource out there which can offer me a new berth, for the love of god I deserve better than what Presby has done to me.
