The Pooch, with a twist

Are we willing to wash the feet of our neighbors?--holy Thursday


I tweeted that I was lying back down at three am, and did, but got up again immediately, embarrassed that I was caught by such a powerful stressor that I barely had time to pivot. It is not that I do not care about my intestinal battles; my esteem is tied into a good transfer, but I flaunt incontinence as a rebuff, the consequence of my survival. I am trying to challenge you all about this. My official statement to the bull bitches downstairs asserted I would vacate the premises tomorrow but given my quadriplegia, would need time to extract my possessions. Once I roll out, I am not entirely certain I am getting back in. I cannot afford it but may need a motel for a night, and thus far, bathed my feet, dialed the usual network of eliminations, all I could, for this morning. I read Ross's opine on Hefner's overstayed decline, and I am not sure where my recently acquired shrugs of depreciation come from, but was Playboy that big a deal? And my father's girlie mags of three decades back made the Trumpism of today possible? Ross is doing what we all do with this curious tool of the sign, the hieroglyphs we all recognize according to the geography of linguistic development, but the Harvard veneer gives it too fine a twist.

Active shooter in Las Vegas was at Mandalay Bay. Unsure about other resorts yet. My son and I both work at Luxor and Excalibur. Thankfully neither of us working now. Friend just saw tank and military vehicles heading to area. Pray for our city, please. #PrayForLasVegas

— M A Nöthem (@mikandynothem) October 2, 2017

Nothern's straight forward outcry in the face of our repetitive cataclysms is my preferred arrhythmia, and no, I do not have a serial killer collection, but it was mere coincidence, in real time, while the Vegas massacre was happening, that I was watching footage of beautiful Norway caught in Breivik's grip, and the backstory is puzzling. If he displayed psychopathy at three years of age, why was he left with mother? And if the EU is so restrictive with firearms, how could Breivik acquire them? His attack on his own countrymen makes no sense, neo-Nazi or not, as I am probably not long for the world, without any friends, sustainable supports. This has a great deal to do with what section 202 eroded in my life. I have nothing, no contacts, not so much as an old college buddy. Social media, twitter, at least, may give me contours, a certain familiar pattern. Nothing else.

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.

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.

Aurevoir, Mon ami

Of course, in the indigence tableau of choices, free broadcast is offering a film to honor Mary Tyler Moore, Just Between Friends. Ted Danson walking in the doorway as if caught with his pants down; Ebert saying it had a made for television feel, which it did. Despite progressive analysis of Moore as sexually assertive against Dick Van Dyke, I never saw her character, as Mary Richards, basically all she knew how to play, as anything but brave and glaring veneers, which made her angry and repressed matron all the more terrifying in Ordinary People. (I agree with certain online critics that Ordinary People ignites genuine terror, and it is due entirely to Moore miraculously winding up her fury into something we all desire to flee. Oh it is dated, with all the known elements, Hirsch the patriarch who can absorb anything, but if anything indicts Episcopalian America, Ordinary People deserves a shrine.) But as to this Reagan era teleplay, the premise was interesting, and might have been a vehicle for vicious recrimination which doesn't, in fact, so easily resolve. It was too civil, and lacked courage to truly say something about marriage, family.

Facebook at least did me one service, and that is to realize I cannot roll backward and go home. Looking at my mother's sister in her anniversary photo with my uncle. I cannot go back, so, if I step off Presby, I am essentially on my own. I am so scarred that the mold no longer fits, sitting down to my sister in law's eggplant after a vigorous affair with a computer consultant who lived westward past Longwood Gardens: I'm not there anymore, and realized, that if so many days back, I grabbed O'Brien's follow like a floating life raft, it was a rather brittle salvage effort: I am not strong enough, not anymore, either for my complacent unhappiness as a life long public housing tenant with one sole agent, or to survive the violent disruption I'm shortly to bring upon myself. I have no answer, truly. I can battle waiver services again, but my temperament is such, that if I terrified Eddie the day after her sexual conduct, minority attendant conflict resolution 2.0 may get me a jacket, or killed. These rationalizations from all the duress I've eaten, maybe the next one won't, what? Maybe the next one won't swindle me? Try to extort me?

In that sense, my failure to see Moore, despite her comedic timing, as anything more than a titular representation of a fait accompli, might be forgiven. Always there, her gregarious teeth, her occasional references to diabetes.

Utter Carelessness with Anonymity

I do not have Russian cyber hacker savvy to know whether or not this link my favorite unreliable airhead sent to me will block you, but the Apple app has a thumbnail image of Karina, who is now probably on Haley's comet trajectory in relation to my unhappy occupation of this ten story welfare junket. She wants to be nice, my short term, short lived domestic, wants to keep in touch.

My lips purse in exasperation, all that money I guzzled in her gas tank. I know more about her now, but happily, I'm not that much of a violator. Her life isn't interesting, transitory as it earns my envy otherwise. Think she'll pick me up as my slow evacuation progresses? Bets on the militant cripple versus New Church heresy?

As a side note, I just tweeted to another crabbed has been about the cars Hill used in The Driver. If you can tell me the make and model of the key vehicles you get acknowledgement credits in my work. Pony up call for aficionados. Come on.

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.

Living Pncers

Presbyterian Homes, in its commitment to good works, stressed out Marie Varenas, to threaten me indirectly through her about taking me to court to put me away, and I don't see how this is in any form a merciful Christianity. I myself am nearly beyond the point of caring, the ugly words of a dying woman almost out of her mind in her own right. She agrees with me about the attendants, that they are to be feared, but today it was "Who the hell are you? You don't have any rights." I held off, as she is near the end of her life, as I'm near the end of having access to a platform, without believing I'll get lucky. I am not angry with a father's sister in severe decline, but rather the corporate office adding to her stress, and I plowed through their Spring Mills numbers until I found the right one, at 4:50 pm Tuesday, 610-834-1001, and intend to get further combative with them tomorrow. I made hints with Liberty on the Rocks, knowing better but hinting anyway, that I'd have to go underground if I'm to survive at all, but I'm not particularly intimate with their rotational culture, whether their new to the conversation, or regulars, and I'm certainly not in a position to earn money in computer sciences, though I suppose I do okay with the limited level of literacy I have. 
Walking out of section 202, to turn an idiom, will impact my disability insurance, barring I find a temporary mailing address. I told Trudy Richardson to shut her damn mouth, always talking over me, with that innate minority minstrel sensibility bred into the descendants of sharecroppers. "Why do I have to do it?" She'd rather I give my notice, since their notice of eviction will be a lengthier process. You obviously don't read her, nor observe the reasons for my antagonism toward a google-eyed jackass with her gapped front teeth. If I could, I'd critically injure her, though literally hordes could be tapped to replace her. Perhaps her question was "Why make me do it?" But we hung up on each other, me with my torch for competency and justice, and her-- well, this is how Presby makes their money, ruthless, battering, what has my obstinacy achieved? Padre: don't get bent out of shape, but it is a bit late for that, as I'm fighting my way to the sewer, evidently. I, with all this intelligence, all this promise, not knowing if O'Brien lost a local election. Something. His website is inactive.  

Nanny Goat

"Don't come out. It's too hot."-- Nicholas Marinelli

Despite the storm, and the fact that I knew I was off when I launched from toilet back to cushion Saturday, an attendant would not have solved the problem that I lost my balance after 10 pm. I did not actually fall, just squished, an actual Kafka vermin, and I deposited large, shall we say. Cerebral palsy is like that; wheelchair sitting augments the problem, and when my stool is hefty I get winded and knew I should have waited and repositioned; nevertheless, the episode is a harbinger that my lateral transfers are weakening. Evicting myself from Niggerland and nigger bitches and beetle boys shall not restore my strength, but I warned mio padre of my scheme and he said okay without realizing I'm rolling out of Riverside for good. Depositing that stool in a diaper would have amounted to a health hazard, and I may not have a solution, but I'm going home, divided as to whether I should put myself in rehab for a few days, not optimistic about that, and transfer boards never worked for me.

I know this is going to cost me, and I may lose my phone and even most of my possessions, unless I threaten the corporate office, but I'm leaving, even at the price of falling silent, maybe not forever-- or it could be that I have reached an end point, so if the authorities have coerced ATT into monitoring me they aren't going to find the radicalization they look for in the traditional sense. (I don't know, all I intimated to my favorite independent living center was one day they will face an Omar Mateen if they keep prevaricating as they do with quadriplegics, but it isn't just us, they hire and boot the blind and epileptics with equally perspicacious dispensing of employees who need unreasonable accommodating). I'm still evil, still angry enough to go to prison, but age trumps even the vicious, and I need to get this done before the man dies, while I wrestle the moral dilemma of bed ridden dependency. I cannot do it. I just can't. I know what I face, even if it's an open question how long I survive it. I want to go home, and my father is where that resides in my heart. I talked to him about a steel temp building of some sort. He is going to kill me, and I'm stressed beyond what I need, but there we have it.

Sublimating Malcontent

I want to parse my sentiments about Ms. Weiner a little further. I do not resent that a female author who answers for my younger sister's middle brow frustrations found her niche. I emailed her, in light of her public television essay to tell her to take pride in what she achieved and stop ducking, among a few other things. Good in Bed wasn't a bad novel, and I could see why little Stephanie found some resonating quality in Weiner's voice. If I had been able bodied, still battling the family predisposition toward obesity, maybe I would have finished the book, and reconciled with the heroine as she found a stable relationship, but this seems all that American women are able to do, within the confines of the MFA paradigm, and it holds little interest for me. The only difference between Ann Beattie and Jennifer Weiner is a) mechanics-- Weiner is more frank about finger fucking without veering off into an erotic subgenre, whereas I've never read Beattie making the same observations b) urbanity-- Beattie needs Manhattan the way Woody Allen needs jazz and Farrow's adopted daughter; Weiner is more homespun, behind the windowpane c) self-assurance-- which Weiner lacks. This is the only real reason I wrote her, perhaps intimidating her a touch when I told her I had been "reported to the FBI," and as I assumed, my psyche punished me for my independent living center hatreds as black as ocher.

Shins buckled on a bad pivot, shins the surgeons carved so that if they touched the back of my thigh, my ligaments would flare with excruciating pain, asking myself if I wanted to lie there, dehydrate until Thursday and see what would happen and instead I copped and telephoned EMS after a wriggle bout. I landed oddly, and you may trust, when Grimes tells his son "you're never safe," had I waited and not exerted myself to sit up-- Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Presby, all this seemed relatively unimportant-- giving my notice seems neither here, nor there, and I am probably taking the plunge. Not that my father is obligated, and it is his demented wife's property, not his, but I can afford to return to Springfield, and perhaps not everyone is a secret Ariel Castro. [ I am not by the way-- my heinous darkness leans toward quick kills; torture is boring, and my body simply absorbs the pain.]

What I mean is that lack of appreciation is a come down, and I'm utterly indifferent to Jennifer Weiner's own subversive tactics, and wish women would try something else now and then, not only along the lines of Muriel Spark's wicked social intelligence-- it is this which pierces insularity, that matters of taste make our hard work a bucket of polluted water, saturated with cleaning agents.

Radiator Vapor

Every year, Michael Pera, Riverside's custodial henchman horse's ass (and this isn't an exaggeration, he is a rube typical of the type Presbyterian Homes hires to save money) makes me sick when he turns on the heat. This year was worse than usual, and though I made an effort, I had to sleep, and missed my third attempt, partly resistance to clinical examination, to be evaluated for an alternative model chair.

Not sure what I'm going to do now, as I can not expect a walk in on a stronger day would lead to an accommodation from rehabilitation specialists who do not see themselves as sycophants. I make things very hard, and if I'm still on the verge of giving notice, so as to release my threatening, mostly impotent virulence on the heads of this rental corporation, I not only threaten my survival for the sake of political protest. The homeless would make short work of me if I joined them in this generic contraption designed to save money. I've already transformed into a mostly feral defiance that women like Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson and the morbidly obese Monica Carr created, as a matter of intimation.

If I give up on myself, there's no further point.

Les Innocents in the Arc of Evolving Bag Lady

I logged on to chastise the Jefferson labyrinth in vain, depressed at how obvious the avarice is within Medicare as a single payer option. The best thing for me is to return to employment, and yet that goal has the road blocks built into it: I'm homeless, in all but actual fact, once removed, depressed and suffering some form of traumatic stress, and the Swarthmore College editorial department simply shut down after viewing my Linked In profile. What can I do? Trying to take a better picture will not change the toll these years have taken if, god forbid, I show up to a job interview with my occlusion.

Medicare arbitrarily signed me into a part D prescription plan, and I am ready to walk, freely lashing out at Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell on the way out, lasting mere hours, if that, but it is what my soul wants, to tell the system to unhinge itself from my torso. I do not need prescriptions. I need rehabilitation technology, a new location to live, work, but our hallowed Constitution doesn't apply when it comes to entitlement, and I'm beginning to recontour myself as just another cripple.

It isn't what I wanted.

Last Legs, Abrogated

"The various kinds of sovereignty do not necessarily covary."-- Stephen D. Krasner

Frankenheimer's direction in The Horsemen is not necessarily New Wave, but it could not have been what it is without David Lean coming beforehand, and now stands as a favorite of spastic's hothead youth, previously unknown but for nostalgia television. The cinematography is rich, splendid, in colors of beauty and brutality, its thematic aims not so clearly deciphered, not quite about man's destructive capacity with his livestock either. Who knew camels would kill each other at the behest of their trainers? 

Frankenheimer seems to focus solely on man and beast in contention, without tipping the scales one way or the other. It is left for viewers to wonder why Omar's Uraz chooses to cripple himself instead of mending properly after breaking his leg, but it is similar to the way I may choose to bring this to an end and dump myself on the street. Obstinate individuals need the contest, and yet Uraz makes it extreme. After he has a concealed amputation and a victory ride on Jahil, the game trained warrior horse of his father, he rejects his village and goes off with a Taliban-like mountain herder who trains his goat to be a lethal killer at the bong of a drum roll. It is a weird quiet film that admires the defiance of natural anarchy as a way of life, something quietly eroded in progressive sensibility, and yet beneath the surface, the wealth of the developed world is under tremendous strain, analogous to the ephemeral doll like perfection of Leigh Taylor Young in Soylent Green. Given the actual state of civilization depicted on location, it is the actress as a trophy fuck who seems unreal, almost as if doctored for a commercial. Her upkeep must have cost a fortune, and her fate, left to its inferences as Charlton is carried away, wounded, mortally or not, protesting the horror of manufactured cannibalism. I'm not the first person to point out that liberalism unwilling to recognize limits invites catastrophe.

The conception of sovereignty is nonsensical, but some states are more sorereign than others. After 9/11, once I had all the facts, I actually would not have occupied Kabul. We should have wiped out Saudi Arabia, and the subsequent genealogy of events would have been different. Afghanistan, as a state, doesn't seem to function, and as with anything else, nation builders need to get out of the way.

Annexing the Crimea

I ain't really here tonight, thus Blogger can sigh with relief that I am too tired for targeted insinuations, as my formerly transgendered intimate who is only of local ADAPT notoriety, is a living corpse, and not worth the trouble. I wasn't going to discuss Bruce's transition, precisely for the reasons Kathleen chooses to elucidate. If a resident with terminal cancer thinks I am a pretentious drama queen, but doesn't have the wit to make that zing, I think an aging athlete needs money, and I think this because the evidence suggests that biological males and females who see themselves as members of the opposite sex know this at an early age, and I grew up with Bruce Jenner's ass in his jockey shorts, and never heard a peep out of him that he really wanted breasts and his penis removed, not until reality television; this type of sensationalism leaves a bad taste in my mouth, the shallow strobes of bread and circuses from which the peasants never quite divorce themselves, the need for titillation. I am loathe to add to it, regardless of my peevish arteries which now hold these individual needs, self-interest, in circumspect reserve. Caitlyn certainly had no problem with her male identity when it came to the decathlon; Erik von Schmettering is much less glamorous, and is shied away from, welts on its arms, the persona all but vacated, neither quite male nor female, inciting a piteous revulsion. My ex is right that I waste my reserves letting this eat me to death, but I am merely reverting to form: in 94 I utilized Erik for emotional solace, and it was a mistake, and my pain no longer has access to comfort, sucking it out of the atmosphere. I'm pondering the magnificent energies of Ed Harris.

His talent to be Beethoven, his ability to become Jackson Pollack, or a bisexual novelist with AIDS in Cunningham's already backdated novel, is nothing short of extraordinary, and I'd like to fuck the man in appreciation, which doesn't mean he in turn would oblige, but my finesse meter is squandered this fine Sunday morning, wasting what little I have in my all consuming need for change. What's it getting me?

The protest of Salmonella's delicacy

One of those wincing days, getting up to comply with the public housing requirements as I've done with the same exact rental agent for 29 years at a frenetic pace, even though I know I'm leaving, trying to remind myself my little brother is following me and can read this, lest I revert to the stark corrosion which led to staff and scrip's support, but it is public housing which has bred my hatred, what my eye sees in the withered skin of these descendants of civil rights and slavery. If I stay I'm dead, and giving my notice merely expedites the matter. I went to a luncheon for the sake of a slice of pizza to listen to a next generation black professional talk about life insurance, and he was quite good at presenting, eliciting my elocution from my haggard frame, and if my mouth was a sword, I would have then committed mass murder: I snapped back at the older minorities who run the tenant's council, then debated Dominic in the lobby, a blustery white guy subsumed by his terminal cancer. You would not know he is dying, and I was as blunt with him as I am with anyone. Upon using the word "egalitarian" he said I was bullshit, that I use my acumen to camouflage my handicap. I sniggered. Wished him well, and here I am, expediting my death at the hands of Protestant positrons.

I'm really leaving, destitute as much through exterior ambiance as in emotional ravage, the film Winged Creatures strives, and fails, to authenticate sudden violence, depending heavily on the performance of Dakota Manning to hold the centrifugal force of the narrative, but as much as one may disdain agreement with NYT, the indie arcs here never meld, despite the cast, and Whitaker's character, diagnosed with his own metastasis, mopes his way through frailty. What concerns me is not that Woods attempts sincerity and unravels, but that writers should be wary of adaptive translation. As usual, the traumas resolve in holistic fashion, save for the diphthong of Beckinsale's far too nuanced denial of childhood neglect. It dims the desire to read an author like Roy Frieirich. His prose may be better, or worse, than his script, but both Frierich and Woods strive for an extended metaphor and wind up with the ubiquity of a Big Mac ground out of fillet, in summation of an unfortunate viewing experience-- it was one of my first films seen on the new Escape.

I cannot run from my limitations. I know that. I'm the textbook dirty cripple who challenges ambulatory endurance, but a battered women's shelter, in comparison to Presby's dominant minority management, feels like a fucking vacation. I have to let this location go. I know the state will win, eventually, but I'm still running; this is my response to what I knew would happen if I couldn't step it up. When I started blogging in 2009, I had 10,000 dollars left, transformed to ground carrion in six years. Poof.

PS: Personal loyalty means a great deal to me. 

Hepatic Cirrhosis

"There is this sense of urgency."-- Charlie Rose

It is not enough for me that Sally Mann is the cipher and the filter for her stricken husband, Larry. It may be enough for him. It may be enough for Sally, who, obviously, is insecure with the recognition her photography provoked, and needs discretion as a shield despite the impact of her aesthetic revelations, and it may be enough for an intrepid interviewer like Rose, but a much more difficult video for Charlie's audience to digest would have been to interview Larry Mann about what it is like dying from muscular dystrophy after giving his life for his wife's pursuit of interpreting the world through a camera lens. That's tougher than for what mercy allows, and it would have created controversy for a tired old man whose heart did not kill him, and made Sally herself more of a lightning rod.

In fact, I am going to throw down the gauntlet: Before Charlie retires, I am challenging him to interview nobody. I'd like to see what he would do with an individual with a developmental disability who strove and failed. I want him to cut across the insularity of success and sit at that table with a cripple scorched by poverty, a squandered genius, and see what happens, because I've grown cynical about aesthetic bubbles, and the priesthood surrounding altered perspectives. It isn't that images cannot change the world, merely that we're all inundated to their previous power to move us. In the world of color rods in the cone of the iris, Sally's dead greyhound with it's head lolling on a fence, elongated body like the slash of an angel, is a dead dog. If it had been a crushed insect, we would have had a different reaction.

I'm dying. Before you tell me to go to the doctor, I've been to one, another young Asian resident who knows absolutely nothing except the pathology of various rote causations. My identity is beginning to submerge into my autonomous bodily functions. In part you can thank these motherfuckers with their subtle avarice, death panel profiteering at my expense; in part it is my social fear, but if I'm broken, I haven't been broken the way Trudy Richardson may believe: I did the recertification to stay on in 202 housing at the last possible second, but am ready to give my notice, abandon everything but my computer briefcase, shed my library, and roll, with nothing but a farthing, with the realization that with every sleep, I drift off into the end result, into an occlusion of my cardiovascular system, shrinking away. I've burrowed down very far, so far away there is no room for the recrimination of human social structures falling apart at the seams. I cannot sustain encroaching uselessness, and that is breaking me of its own accord. 

If Worst Comes

If I cannot find a watering hole by July, I am considering a temporary admittance to rehab, and if that is the end of my productive life as a writer, a living human, perhaps I will be hurt on the inside of the institutional paradigm, but I have to part company with Riverside. I cannot do this with Presby as a parent company anymore. I cannot, even if it means I vanish and my psyche goes to hell. I can't. I simply cannot. We'll see. I'll miss-- doing this, being passionate, and I owe staff and script. I will read more of his work, try to buy his books. Maybe I can apply for asylum somewhere.

And good riddance to The Following. All the show conveyed was fanaticism belies trustworthiness. It touched too many nerves.

Derelict in Transition

"I don't want any surprises."-- a Philadelphia police officer who ignored my request to be placed under arrest as he took my arm and I pivoted.

Or, when you're fucked, you're fucked, like Timothy Hutton as the troubled father on American Crime, a show experienced rather late, without the time for much back episode viewing, but Hutton, like so much in the perpetual motion of the generation gap, is a familiar figure, probably weary of the query I asked on his twitter account about Ordinary People; it is a frightening film, because the taut layer of repression is lethal, to his character and Mary Tyler Moore's, and perhaps for those of us with dead brothers.

Much like the previously referenced novelist, referenced with a mysterious undercurrent of umbrage?, Hutton was never able to quite close the deal with the following he had, and I was one among them, the silent follower who had a hidden reservoir of affection for the cuter, personable, everyman, who, like the stalwart Gene Hackman, could inhabit anything, soldier, con artist, a lost soul threatened by overwhelming guilt. And when the man is on, those undercurrents reach out.

My entire life has fallen apart, simply in shambles, with throbbing maniacal emotional scars off nicotine and doses of salmon oil, with fantasies of physical conflict my diabolical cunning cannot in fact engage over and above my biology, and I keep eating humiliation on top of humiliation and cannot move the needle in a suicide attempt because I am so crippled and so poor failure would simply make it worse, and yet, I'm still not doing the certification HUD requires, deliberately making it very very hard, tweeting to celebrities who comfort me like it's nothing, a casual exchange, and if I was younger perhaps I could cling to a hope of resurgence but I really can't.

Yes, I have the second chair, and I am in it, but the Quantum is not friendly to my independence, and the P-200 may not be worth saving and I can no longer buy a used machine. Too many plates on a stick, and that is assuredly old school variety gawking. I asked poppa to come over. He mistook my meaning. Nicky is always between us, as is his hatred for my mother, miscarrying a first born son, god punishing a bad Korean conflict era hook up with a disaster of a palsied daughter, then a dead imbecile, and his one little boy was a psychotic. Hail to our fathers.

Mirage

"Life had finally caught up with me, and I was utterly overwhelmed."-- Peter Noble, Winning the War against Worry

Digital data processing doesn't make our lives easier; it merely concentrates it, and then we'll need applications to manage it all, forgetting key things crucial to what we do. Technology optimism is thus relative.

My lack of compliance, while not as aggressive as the slew of notable suicides in recent years, will enlarge my vulnerability as much as my intransigence is self protection, and beneath the surface, if I am homeless by the end of July, I do not care, whether I last hours, or weeks, before I'm transported, dumped, back to institutional paradigms of childhood and career, forced onto a catheter, but it isn't that I don't want to live, nor even that I do not want domestic assistance. I want to decide these things, not have an indomitable, stupid woman from Mississippi decide them for me. I never heard of Dr. Brandt, until his hanging became another titillating spectacle we need to cure depression tableau of the moment.

It seems to me, given what women such as I have to field, that he was a sissy, so I'd fall into Sarah Bernstein's caviler satirists category. The argument there being when the cruel joke is a way of coping as opposed to a hate crime (zzzz). He had money, a successful career, and I lost my savings being afraid of a tootsie roll like Trudy Richardson, afraid of her power to continually ostracize me, and she and Debra, their civil service enforcers, have been preeminently successful on that score, just as the seniors under Debra Schwab were, literally harassing me. I do not need it. A police officer using force against me for a deliberate, or developmental disruption, is more honest. Broken primates suck up money.

I'm not entirely unhappy either, which might surprise you, because whatever happens, I will always fight to be free, on my terms, with my awesome, ferocious mind, tired of being a passive anomaly for compassionate problem solvers like an old flame. Yes, I've made mistakes, and hired a nice floozy off Craigslist named Karina who was the beginning of the end of ambulatory treading on my personal dignity because she wanted to help, by throwing out all my documents and some personal effects, and Trudy wanted to know, "Why are you blaming me?"

Because my life has to be destroyed for some standard I could never meet in the first place.

Shyster of Last Resort, sans Bulgakov

"You read a lot, don't you?"--Tony's disappointed Philadelphia contact

The one character trait that unites Philadelphia's dispersed Italian community is bullshit artistry. My grandfather, his children, my entire tribe, and I have taken my slops, in the agrarian lingo, and splattered the walls. Perhaps I should take a ride into Kensington and see how long it takes to wind up in hospital. I am really giving my notice, and it is not funny, and yet, I'm releasing myself from pretensions I hate, all this over assistance paid by Medicaid. Marie Varenas, who has no online presence whatsoever, except for me and my posts, conveyed, that, as a last resort, EMS could haul me back in to her kitchen, where I waited in my 20ish years on academic probation, because I hated Temple, for Diamond Park to be habitable, nagging Michael Washington, my retched conditions unseen, so long ago, but I really cannot do that again. My uncle who lives there now is functionally senile and circling the drain with his condition, aside from my aunt's.

I have not seen my father's sister since my mother's funeral. She looked like a Spanish version of a generic Joan Rivers on a bad Botox day, and her weight loss after losing her stomach would impact me noticeably, but, if I am able to visit her until I sort this out, she is there. 

Individuals with political positions may feel sorry for my arc, but I could see, in that constituent interchange with Brian and his audience, that politics is primarily a game of appeasement, and I am increasingly treated like a woman who is told to know her place, and behave. I should have sought adjudication when the iron was hot, but I am intransigent, demanding it now, and it will lead to EMS or police carting me off, and after that happens? Yet this conflict is invigorating me. I can see some really hard policy pieces coming out of it, if I can snatch electrical outlets, in some context. I'm pissed, really mentally divorcing myself from Presbyterian Homes, and terrified of shelters, but this isn't simply about compliance. It is about choices. I toured this building with the last Caucasian assistant manager who worked the secondary position, Janice, after I became an Eppi crime victim, and turned her down.

Presby, if it really bases its theology in good works, should have down the right thing and found me another rental agent after my attack. I was working, I had a salary of 23,000 a year, and what eroded my health was my hatred of how this community treated me, a life long hazing and initiation through the facade of social cruelty. Yes, there is no landlord tenant nirvana, but I have been crucified in a community I never selected, nor desired, and my ticket to that drain is on the horizon. I am really breaking some eggs, throwing all my energies into a new plate. It may not be enough.

Fiberglass Insulation

By implication, older people who use personal social services have been subjected to bureaucratic procedures and assessments that have increasingly focused on what they cannot do or achieve in order to identify their eligibility for services. These kinds of assessment procedures have contributed to the construction of older people using services in a language of dysfunction and problem states [....] Opportunities for narrative approaches have declined, Baars and co-authors, page 143, Aging, meaning, and social structure

My poor aunt gets combative with me when I verbally point to affinities, aggressive without understanding I am referring to acceptance. I have to find other supports than a cancer stricken 75 year old half out of her mind, and if cousin Richard is occasionally perusing mio postio, my advice to my cousin is to start spending it down. It isn't easy Richie, never is. Stephanie and I have poppa, and I'm 3/4ths in the sewer. Apply pressure before she spirals into hospice. "Yeah, and you?"

The difference between me and tu mere, my cousin, is I haven't been diagnosed with additional disease other than molar cavies, already tied to cerebral palsy as a symptom. I'm pugilist, and show obvious wear and tear no employer would look past to give me a chance-- except as a radical author, but that is still a niche doorway; I'm otherwise stable except for Ken Cantrell's  compassionate malevolence putting an end to a miserably secure environment (sigh). Now I'll face bowel movements and disturbing the peace, and other flags. The police operator who took my call Thursday morning was courteous. The emotional armor of a seasoned practitioner in play in our Orwellian U-verse, she was even, sonorous, like Peter Haber, the Swedish variation on Ian Flemming.

Sjowell, like Dick Wolf's screen writers, gets the conflation right in "Boy in the Glass Bowl", illustrating how crime and abuse ripple in concentric circles around impairment until they fall back inward. An autistic boy who cannot articulate is easy prey for a sodomite who then makes him an orphan. Sjowell emphasizes solving the puzzle is its own reward, and Beck's team can return to the rewards allotted to camaraderie among those close to Arctic climates. Only with Vincent D'onofrio of yore are viewers taxed a bit more. The Terri Schiavo episode was searing, so dark and cruel in conclusion that I winced; the husband's capture was more horrible than the brain death he caused, Goren almost functioning as a yawl, raking rivulets of exposure in a triumph of materialism.  Wait until I confront Trudy's boss. He is the real prick, the tour de force toward whom a tongue lashing would be a pleasurable offense. Trudy is deft, and evasive, but displays her weakness, Louis Armstrong eyes with their genetic inclination to dissemble. I want her supervisor. Ken Cantrell, the thick ape, just vibrating for castration. 30 years ago such hate would have never been a pleasure.