The Occupation of Venezuela

"Guaido has grown so much politically they haven't been able to touch him," the assertions English language media  asserts about stature

Things are moving too slowly for any hope on my part that mobility medicine can mitigate what I have had to endure since September of 17. The direct care worker, whose pseudonym he probably cannot reference as the knight from the Arthurian legends, gave me most of the day off, but for all that, making an effort to cut down on Twitter interaction, discipline is compromised through indigestion due to my bowel and inability to evacuate, as by the time he gets here I am empty and when he’s ready to clock out, it is too late, is only just getting in 3 o’clock Monday, his automotive issues taking a toll on the month. I have not moved the goal post further along toward developing new editorial relationships, though I have started a back burner story about the homosexual drug addict Jevs sent me as a back up when Galahad takes time off. Obamacare, no matter its exchanges and networks, doesn’t change the nature of an hourly wage on Medicaid budgets, and you’ll get drug addicts with criminal records who can get aging tenants evicted for being extreme homosexuals with criminal records. Eviction from a public housing building such as Riverside might leave me overjoyed if it was the result of my own actions, but if it came about as the result of an extreme queer (even Galahad recoils from this man, and Galahad is an inner city minority resident),  this is something else again, and would give me ample cause of action to sue Trudy Richardson, the building manager who no more believes in civil liberties than she would that the legends of St. Nicholas has legs, but be heartened. Apathy has triumphed over my visions of treating Trudy like one of Daryl’s head shots from the Walking Dead, which relates directly to the fact that Galahad resents the fact I’m not grateful for him. Why should I be? He isn’t indispensable, and I cannot push him to help me regain strength. His time off, though earned, is primarily arbitrary. Jevs doesn’t have standards in place to be mindful about giving these individuals required down time such as I’d receive. He is frustrated with this lack of gratitude. These flare ups take their toll, the vituperations in a sphincter which exudes a furnaced laxity so domineering that a younger undergraduate took the Shakespearean’s request to write a poem about her name literately and wrote an anagram about her identity being flushed into the sewage system. “It’s it’s—” stuttered the then voluble Jerry McGuire, with his ham fisted strength yet young, at the time, less good looking, than the now imploded Luke Perry. Magee Rehabilitation, its first keystone inscribed the same year as Jerry’s “it’s it’s,” stumble cadence at a conference table on a Chester campus, is more representative of a healthcare system in crisis as opposed to something worthy of marvel. I’m not post-op; not in recovery. The physical therapists express resistance toward my treatment, the only innovation since my last visit being wall diagrams about surviving a mass shooting, oblong ellipticals in deep red blue color contrasts, with arrows. Perhaps soiled adult briefs would be a distraction in the face of such an event, burrowing the exuberant celebration of youth, a youth which truly believed in victorious conquest. As one of my literate British followers noted, when you have nothing left to lose, you have nothing left to fear.

Push Back

I have not worked on my ghetto manuscripts for ages, and when it comes to my poetry, this censor was psychological. I did not wish to discover that my savagery would be sated through troping the murder of lesbians, as occurs in the deflated climax of Discard Me Tenderly. That strangulation exposition is stilted, and not a very good depiction of intramural disability abuse. At the time that this was an active work in progress, however, I saw this violence trigger as an illustration of self-hatred, trying to destroy the crippled body by destroying the projected sycophant, and in mental health terms, maybe this is what my supervisor Linda did to me in the reenactment, the travesty, actually, of when she first hired me. Burning me and countless others under her was her act of self-hatred. After these events completed their cycle, I did not want to write about killing women, discovering any kind of satisfaction in that, so I concentrated on the real freelancing, and since 2008 that has been akin to revving an empty engine, but this is more than psychoanalytic. I no longer derive much pleasure in literary journals, if I ever did, and trying to get back to any positive pleasure in the construction of narrative is rusty, but I am attempting to regroup, and need to cease worrying about my legacy, my hope of cementing establishment through my philly byline. So this is my posting break on top of my poetry break which is a deflection from the stress of having bitten off too much, and I started an argument with Jonathan Capehart's dismay in his comment section and I am telling you that also, and think that he and other black journalists oversimplify their contention about the rise of racism in the age of Obama. I take a dim view of urban black norms because I simply cannot respect them and their sensibility of collective freedom through a mutually restrictive propriety. Capehart and others may be quick to shame someone like me, but they don't have an answer for the punishment I've taken in the black community either. If I had the late Helen Gurley Brown's power, I'd hire Capehart to work for me at a publication, but I don't want him wiping my ass as a caretaker, or abusing me like Debra and Trudy did, and I'm tired of feeling alienated by living in a black city. My willingness to be vocal about my class resentment has next to nothing to do with the president. It is about the destruction of my economic viability, and yes, I'd fire Debra Horne in less than five seconds. Why? She is ignorant, and not particularly competent in her narrow views on compliance. To my mind this is not Jim Crow jingoism, but if you view it differently, it is also not your personal experience, is it?

Rage, Of Angels, Out of the Dark

When? Probably sometime in 2011, I posted that I would incorporate what was relevant, and let my speculative, perhaps non-existent, followers, put the pieces together as they would, and I also wrote, in an equally speculative manner, about my first viewing of Paul Cox's 1991 A Woman's Tale, which ran the other day. I was forced to miss it, but will add here that it belongs firmly in any development of disability and fine arts, and I agree with everything the aging Ebert writes. or nearly everything, but I need to study Cox and Florence again before I diverge. I will also go as far as to quote him:

She is a woman of power and confidence, a woman who insists on her dignity when the world wants her to give up and admit she is sick and go off somewhere convenient to die.

This is who I am in a nutshell, brazen, uncouth, short-tempered, violating all known table manners. Now, do I condone the murder this petition protests? No, not quite, but as a victim of lesbian harassment, I do not think gay panic should be eliminated as a mitigating factor in sentencing those who kill in homophobic rage, because I understand the need to strike back when victimized, and I cannot defend myself against women who abuse their position, either as my client, my personal assistant, or my straight disabled supervisor who systemically humiliated me for somewhat over a year of my life in playing me against her homosexual colleagues and my former friends.

If gay activists find me hateful, well, those of you I've known have trampled my boundaries uncaring of the emotional pain you've caused, and despite my atheism, the religious conservatives are right, for the wrong reasons, not that the actions of Chris Cooper's character in American Beauty were justified, as that was repression that sprung a leak.