Violence in the Voice

"And you will never touch her again." the Rose Armiger of Henry James

I was going to back date this post into the archives, but decided to leave it its currency, as I am in the process of wiping myself off Twitter, both like, and unlike, James Woods. It was my one real time outlet to the world, now that I am in bondage, but I am sick of it, and unlike Laura Loomer, I am not going to let the company have that kind of power over me for uncouth knocks, though it was my only friend, not realizing that my correspondence was going to their law firm, as if I am in a position to bite. I'm not, and I am not even angry, merely finished. The only reason I deleted the hard tweet defending people like Ryan Fournier on Kamala Harris and the sexual insults against her was to delete the account. I then deactivated, but thought the better of my data. Parler is all that is left, and that, as Trumper Darkness to Light says, sucks, no hostility to the said Parler app developer intended. I can't really *talk* on Parler. Paul Joseph Watson and cronies aren't interested in deconstructive sagas of how I live worse than a dog in its own shit. They are deniers and info wars. I am not, just vitriolic at my worst and ugly and mean, trying to hang on, with occasional fine points. I don't get a hard on over Donald Trump, but when he bucks one in the net, good for him, and American liberalism otherwise is vomit. I have grown too ossified, and, simultaneously, not thickened enough. I knew the monitors would target me eventually, but didn't think it would convey my doom is foretold.
I had the strange inclination to start rewriting my faded novel idea that JJ Abrahams ran the long yard to innovate television with. I thought forcing myself into the flow, taking a retreat, would insulate me from my suicide planner playing deck. Telling you my quadriplegic neighbor Jay is dead certainly won't do that. He was a true C break quadriplegic, my age, younger by only weeks, and almost akin to my sister's husband, if memory is accurate-- that I cannot guarantee--, he went into construction at 19, fell off a roof, and like me, had enough, and smoked and drank himself to death. Since I now have no viewers, why not be as utterly frank and blunt and inconsolable as the case warrants. Instead of rewriting those chapters between a bell diving anguish, I nearly finished James The Other House, but not finished enough for the whole, and watched Garak stumble into the Dominion War. His incisive mendacity makes him one of my favorite Trek characters. If any stray reader wishes to tell me why I should continue dealing with feces riding into my vagina after I taught myself how to take care of it with all my power chairs low enough and built on the right slant, that is, until 17, go ahead, take a crack at it. Like Jay, I've fought all my life. Unlike Jay, I hate the niggers in their diffident service of my needs. I don't truly know what he thought. His airway constricted. He's dead.

Septic Enzymes

What dire offence from am'rous causes springs-- Alexander Pope

What I’ve spent most of the last 72 hours doing is a perverse form of digital housekeeping, accusing someone named Godwin Bowen of stalking me through multiple user accounts, although I didn’t quite phrase the indictment this way in our brief direct message conflict. For all that I know of online predators, this could go as far back as Mawson Dave and his Syrian relief efforts, these persistent private greetings trying to alleviate my duress in a majority minority city, or maybe people are making fun of me in the cesspool of social media sewage. I am not looking for more cyber sex adventures. What I need is a better quality of intervention than what welfare can offer me, as opposed to the risk of an online sociopath who washed out of the armed forces. In this context, it is remarkable I remember Mawson Dave’s user name at all. In between Mawson and Godwin, I got hit by an alleged Australian widow in Oregon and a French homosexual named Sebastien in Mouelle. Sebastien in Mouelle is 42, looking for a committed relationship with another male. My limited French, mainly utilized to parse Marine Le Pen’s rhetorical flame throwers at normative Parisian liberalism, was appalled. There must be a ground zero in there somewhere, and yet it is Facebook which took the brunt of my pathology, not Twitter. Citing Paul Joseph Watson was merely a pretext for an undulating anger. Visits to the mall of which I no longer have the luxury, second cousins I do not join for zoological strolls, or Tassoni’s video of monk seals in Hawaii. What is all this but an aesthetic list of deprivation for me? I never built those planks of my own immediate family. All that lingers there is an uncouth cop from the Bronx, and he’s dead, so I had enough. Facebook, in the estrangement with my half-brother, is scheduled for deletion, while we leave it to Bloomsberg News to offer minute items, Fatbergs are now clogging pipelines, and as happens, occasionally, I had a massive discharge, and refusing, after midnight, to sit in it, I cut the panty off and got it in the trash. The care worker will not see victory. I’m this close to canceling Medicaid and rolling off, assuming I even have stamina enough to leave the city’s jurisdiction, my death will begin with a staph infection.

John as he is today, my bleeding La Traviata. He prefers that Rocky and Adrianna be aired for Thanksgiving. He talked to my aide on Facebook most of the time. It wasn't a double indemnity I happened to enjoy.

The Velociraptor of Yucca Flats

"I'm concerned about the risk of the risk."-- Donna Brazile, pretense of a force to be reckoned with

The only episode of The Good Wife which came to the dowager's attention when it had currency on the free CBS network was "A New Day," and even that was only a partial view 10 minutes into the story, which I can only say, now that I realize what was going on in the stratosphere Rahm Emanuel's dismal leadership, is one of the more improbable plots out of the third season, a gay Palestinian killing a one time Jewish hook up who didn't want him, with all of forty stereotypical stab wounds illustrating gay hysteria for the sole purpose of placing Chris Noth and Julianna Marguiles in diametrical opposition to each other as Alicia begins to assert her litigious independence. Rather than striving to regain a modicum of my independence, or burning my bridges with my godfather and his troubled designated vendor, Mainline Medical, such as they've never been burned before, I've retreated inward, lost in this neo-realist series developed by the King's in an effort to pave the way for Hillary's coronation never to be? I'm waiting on tinderhooks for Will's death, which reverberated the reviewer's pens and carried over to me, reading the reverberating reviews which I in turn should be doing, getting access to those contingent previews prior to air date. At this rate, conditions of digital media brands being what they are, that's a rueful notion, that I can still stand toe to toe in entertainment media, re-assemble my building blocks, still fortunate that I do not have the shriveled post-menopausal neckline Mary Collins of Virginia.

Think the answer is yes

— Mary Collins (@MCollinsVAGirl) January 22, 2019

This is what she wrote in my lack of response to a rebuttal aimed at me in relation to Mueller's grand political theater, which has oscillated outward on the flimsiest of specters. I lost my temper to these apparently habitual terse retorts of hers, not that she could have been aware that I am not always capable of responding when I am now forced to fight a staph infection, an infection which will kill me necessarily unless I find another power chair through which I can restore some function. I don't want a piece of the story in relation to the ramifications of Mueller's over reach and abuses, unless I pick up a side lede on Flynn, who mystifies me. Mary pissed me off, believing that I cannot possibly comprehend the criminality involved in a mere logo leasing deal in Moscow, but it isn't only that. We're losing that altruism we used to have before smartphones transposed our interactions into hyper-partisan scorecards. Ms. Collins apparently doesn't realize, herself, with those tart snippets, what quadriplegic means, and how I am a thousand times stronger than she for what I've survived, even with the vortex sucking me in these last 17 months, and that vortex is a permanent condition of Ray's, the tweeter who reached out to Woods in his threats to publicly advertise his desire for self-harm. Sunday evening I kicked Ray in the balls. He claims, this Sunday evening, that his suicide attempt failed, and I retorted I am sitting in diaper shit, broke, and he needs to get over himself. His Christian sympathizers stroke his anguish, but not I, in this insulating pain of his to illicit pity. If he truly wanted to be dead that would have occurred after the actor's efforts got Ray placed on 50/51. The nurturing TwitterVerse offers about his "value" is only encouraging him to continue illuminating his pain, and that devotion to Jesus he wears on his sleeve is no doubt representative of a martyrdom complex. Whatever his mental illness is, if he desires its mitigation, it is contingent upon him to relocate a healthier egotistical comportment, and swallow the therapeutic paradigm available. A nursing home, by contrast, will not do the same for me, and if I take drastic action, I have to be able to mobilize quickly.

Momentum of Validation on a Swell

And the one thing we know the federal government cannot do is locate illegal aliens-- Kyra Sedgwick, not in Georgia anymore

As a matter of technicality, it was meningitis which killed my brother Nicholas, and not the HIV he injected into his bloodstream, but all I know about the disease is that it is prevalent among college age adults because college age adults live in close quarters and sneeze on each other with unguarded nonchalance, and Bre Payton was close enough to this sybaritic out of control age group to make her sudden demise from its attack on her brain-stem comprehensible, if otherwise unfortunate. I had a distant relative of similar age die in an accident at a skateboarding company where he worked. Brian was probably closer to being a millennial than Bre, but the suddenness of youth taken before its time makes me wonder why old age such as mine can malinger into bitterness, and others are snatched in nearly incidental fashion, as in MRSA or virulent cancer eating alive Mexican carpenters and eight year olds while others are merely hamstrung into inhumane predicaments. My novelist friend Gretchen Laskas has had a difficult time since returning from Ireland with her husband. I am unsure what it is Karl Laskas does, but it is high octane, like a client in Alicia Florrick's law firm, higher up than anything in my family short of my father's high rolling real estate deals, and while that affluence is certainly more secure than my vulnerable, withering indigence, it did not shield his wife, Karl's, from nearly unimaginable travail, which struck Gretchen like hobo's hopping the rails in pairs. Her uncle committed suicide while she was still in West Virginia, and then her son was in sudden mortal jeopardy when meningitis through a strep infection attacked her son's brain. Although the samples of Grechen's early novels which I read at the turn of the century were on the maudlin side, somewhat over - dramatized, her Facebook posts illustrate the maturity of a nearly Tolstoyan focus on family dynamic and medical crises: Brennan's brain surgeries, the scars on his skull like Frankenstein, chicken noodle soup day at the San Diego hospital, the purported city of a band musician named David Owen, who trolled me on Twitter

and just as quickly vanished on Twitter, like something out of a mariachi band in Creole culture. I was going to write a post about his charming screenshot fit of my tagline. No particular reason except that I won the shouting match. All of you, (as in Krugman, Douthat, Kathleen Parker) feel guilty about my existence. Gretchen doesn't. She was merely considerate enough to ask how I was the day I did not do my grandmother's birthday celebration in the rain, not doing as well as I should, despairing in chest pains from lack of proper ability to defecate of ever having true personal autonomy again, keeping my chin just above water in static pain in my godfather's ill begotten Quantum, and no, the fact that Bre and Brennan and Brian and my long spiritual underworld shyster brother of a vanished gen Y milieu exude reversal by epidemic and folly, these instances of decease are too variable, as yet, to point to apocalyptic wariness, what they do illustrate, beneath the seams, like the sordid exceptions in certain NFL clubs, is modern medicine progress is being stonewalled, in the breach, by evolution's powerful insistence, and its ineptitude, as well, in being able to adapt the independence of those such as I, whom it once trained into defiant ability. Kyra Sedgwick's perspective about honest coming of age dysfunction is a truism, after a fashion, even if what seasons The Closer as your standard ham and cheese is somewhat mystifying.

The Acrylic of Glee in Anarchy 99

Despite the hardship of a nearly bigamous entanglement with a direct care worker on a daily basis, despite curious crimping in her sternum, not necessarily but likely related to bowel evacuation, the dowager's confidence is slowly returning; if she wasn't tinnitus-oscillating weary, she would attempt to slide herself on to the toilet without benefit of the shambling cocoa panda man who thunders through the door between 10 and 11:30 am daily. He still inhibits me into anxiety over doing for myself, as the last thing I want is for the yo-yo man to throw his back trying to insure I do not lose my balance, so I am cranky. When you live under the mantle of a fraternal order such as this, however:

Another image of Presbyterian scoliosis. pic.twitter.com/mlj4cahdCx

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) November 12, 2018

Then espy the actress of Charmed like a reigning fury while an honorable man undergoes the most outrageous form of character assassination one can conceive in a Republic so beholden to Roman institutions:

Then this, the destruction of Malibu, earns a spastic in a bubble of her own,  the merit of telegraphing a visceral level of satisfaction. Californians have created this bottleneck disaster on their own, without any help from the rust belt or the northeast corridor. Yes, the horses did not deserve to suffer, and apparently they did not, but Milano earned a few cracks in the dome. That she is a sexual assault victim herself doesn't earn her the rectitude of privilege. There are thousands of us, and yet there it is, the exemptions, the exaltation of Hollywood, in a festooned appearance in the chamber of the Judiciary Committee. I, who have been head butted by a remorseless medical single payer option for the last 13 months like a termite queen host carrier of cholera, will not maintain a moment of silence, nor spare the "victims" of Woolsey so much as a dime. Mandate capitalism is one thing, the superficiality of opulence is another, and the utter barbarism of the clinical model towards non-compliance is another still, especially when medical objectification is merely a liberal form of intimidation beyond a certain point. Woods gets a pass, for reasons previously stipulated, but one understands this is his milieu, luxurious as it must be toward constipation relief. 

Tommaso Landolfi's Amityville Horror

Ovviamente non poteva aspettare di liberarmi di me-- Tommaso Landolfi, An Autumn Story; p38

Occasionally, Hollywood will toss supporting actors like William Katt a bone, give them a lead in relatively superficial dramas like Steve Milner's House (1985), then repeat the formula ad nauseam for sequel syndication. A quasi-novella length idea of mine was closer to what happens to Doris Lessing as narrator in The Memoirs of a Survivor, where Western civilized world order is peeled away towards a tribal, and ferocious, transhumanism, if that resonates with any familiarity. On psychologically stressful days, Doris Lessing's rather inimitable parable frightens me, in our post-911 world, and Landolfi is somewhere in
between the poles of a two dimensional commercial product and Lessing's obfuscating, ambiguous, sinister novel. 

My tale never moved beyond 15 pages. It was about a daughter with a bisexual best friend who returns home to find the walls somewhat pliable, organic, and it was left unfinished during the time I was crushing on John Tassoni. I am having a devil of a time about removing or leaving him on my Facebook stream, primarily because I am in the preliminary stages of actively dying, and the paraprofessional tending to my stressed spastic body really didn't understand what he was restoring to my life. I don't love John anymore, and I'm not sure I even like him. Before I admitted my first love to him, cowardly, lying across from him on opposite bunk beds, perhaps we amused each other, and then in 85 I fled the home where he visited me. Be kind to the cripple. The home I link to is about our 3rd suburban house after my parents divorced, where I grew into a naive collegiate. You don't hold onto these memories when wellness flumes out of your intestines, no, what you cling to is the power of access to a celebrity like James Woods. I wanted to say goodbye to him, even if I had to do it through Kristen Bauguess, if she's still his fiance to be. From reporting I've scanned, Twitter will be deleting Woods' account permanently for non compliance. I don't care how hypocritical the left paints him due to his trophy dating, he kept my spirits lifted. Then again, why should Jack Dorsey give a fuck about the end of a torrent quadriplegic's life.

Singular Insulation Propelled on Cheap Batteries

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

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

Kimmy's Mouse Under The Oven

Even if I wanted to go roll onto my mattress, I would not get much sleep. Discounting my bedridden helplessness throughout October and much of November, this is my fourth or fifth major accident to date in my ever encroaching bands of constriction, a brief speculation about being afflicted with Typhus flickers in my mind, one of the first really clever articles I ever read in The New Republic, or perhaps meningitis. He handles it as well as anyone can, my larger than life attendant who rolls in in the morning hyped on sugar and spouting astrology and numerology and I nod my head what the fuck do I care why do I want to sleep with this asshole? It is an interesting form of African American liberation heresy, reading the signs as a method to comprehend the happenstance of material events, though it is equally true I believe in my traits being born as an Aquarius, the water-bearer, and he seems to have a natural aptitude for this pseudo-science, the gargantuan I now characterize as Galahad. I have only treated him as well as I have, to date, for the temptation of his physique, and while my need has not quite been vanquished, I am too sore these days, we’ve grown too familiar to freshen it, argue like a couple on the wane. The evening I could have fully kissed him is bygone, so why am I milking it to the mundane even as Charles Krauthammer celebrates life to his last hours? “No no no,” I exclaimed at the super-phone Friday shortly before the traditional supper hour, rocking back and fourth in my equally supped up chair, and the boy man hugged me as he saw my face crater, but I am growing weary of nigger gallantry, no offense to the African who recently came to my feed. I am merely taking comfort in doing what I do, trolling to make people genuflect away from me. This is my coping mechanism, allowing red meat to diminish the fineness of my acumen, actually not so fine anymore, since words like colossal no longer readily spring to mind. And Charles is a colossus, larger than life, whether in effigy or as adversary or in alliance, the psychiatrist who jumped ship, abandoned faith in medical model classification to become the guardian of the right thing to do, the right policy to pursue. In print, he was too hard, and I was slow toward any empathetic agreement, not being a true conservative, and Galahad is heartened by my determination to restore my merit, to find a way to fill the shoes Krauthammer leaves behind, me, the little whiff of angry vulgarity. I told Galahad I had a suicide plan. “Go ahead, turn me in,” I said. “Make it worse.” Don’t tell me what it is.

Anthony Bourdain only has the silence of what forensic science chooses to reveal. He was a delight to listen to in his television appearances. Sorrow is the right keynote to feel, and in my verve to the alternate path, I need your prayers to use my mind to regain my own control. I weep, and offer them to you in turn, as I plot to get this diaper off, soiled in despair. Pray for me. At the very least, Trump could fly my anus over North Korea, nourishing alternative food sources, or giving Kim dysentery. Not specious enough? I’m not strong enough this morning.

Endoscopy Maintenance

...Prepping is nothing more than extending to the rest of your life the same foresight that compels you to keep a spare tire and a first aid kit in your car. (sic)--Reason staff

My last vestige of alliance with independent living modal structure, not that I’ve proactively reached for it within the last year, comes mainly from three Twitter accounts. One is Deborah Ruh, who pounds the pavement with traditional empowerment events and accomplishments. I have no grievance with it, and even if I did, community integration has been stuck in a wormhole since 1984. Disability centers engage in the same static with vocational rehabilitation, and the incorporation of Maximus as the elephant in the room is a rather obvious admission of failure on the part of public welfare systems when it comes to disability. This is not necessarily integral to the Commonwealth to which I am domicile. I have the public presser arm of Maximus on my Twitter feed, and Jack would undoubtedly ban me if I engaged them with my variation of a Tasmanian Devil body slam, but I am acute enough to know that Maximus news is the front cover for the arduous processes of rationed genocide. Baring my fangs at them, in essence, amounts to Mueller prosecuting Manafort in order to justify his probe into Russia’s revamped existential threat. The second is Quad Life, which is on radio silence, not an unknown let down in my neck of the woods, and the third is Jason Dorwart, who told me to check out a theater group, but has yet to inform me how I sample his publication on drama and inclusion. I will qualify here that my open suggestion that “maybe” he and I could meet for coffee if I headed to Virginia was purely for business arrangements within traditional progressive academia. I was of course curious, and scanned his CV, but I am not necessarily looking for a paraplegic within age appropriate range. Thus far, Jason and I lag, whatever our potential, because I am wallowing in my own fecal mucous, rather than ambulance chasing art therapy. I also accepted Maria Dewan’s friend request on Facebook, but she ended the connection after I tagged her in this post, 
believing that The Aide Who Loved Me would have been torn away by now.

I do not know Maria well, barely at all, but I am none the less rankled by her inability to handle my expression of frustration with a sticky situation. I was merely utilizing an assessment for purposes of comparison, not condemning her through the observation, but the skittish tortoise retreated to its shell with its normative darting retraction in the face of assertion, and speaks to my dismay with activism's glass ceiling. Krauthammer and Hockenberry, regardless of their markers on the ideological spectrum, were ambulatory men who survived broken backs, and succeeded within the established media paradigm, something those strcken with developmental defects rarely do. I started to go to bed early, stressed with such quaking colon stresses as I've been, but the harried hare power napped within this rather offensive tilt technology appealing to her inner Luddite, gasping to a finish, still pushing

Tertiary Clusters

"I am a living ghost."-- Constantin Reliu

To be reduced to thinking wedging a ten dollar plastic feminine urinal around fancily sewn napkin paper with wadding is an accomplishment is already a significant spiral downward, and the dowager is up very late because her distressed colon will be the death of her, as an hour after the temporary Jevs attendant left, things went to town, even as I buy her food I cannot afford. Why? Given what you read, it must seem strange, but these people get slave wages, finally having my hair washed, and I have no other responsibilities. I may be hostile to urban black humility and low self-esteem, but these people have nothing, most of them, trash television, much the same way franchise authors and screen writers sell junk bonds on quantum theory. Third Contact does not fall into my category of “flawed but intriguing”. It is the worst tripe I’ve ever seen produced in Britain, and it goes as follows: a suicidal psychiatrist begins losing his patients to suicide, then discovers they pick some kind of alternate memory and a scientist sends them to this particular quantum field of happily ever after. The conflicts in the plot involve his disbelief, and then he joins them, in a garden with his wife, who in this world, sustained a trauma which is ambiguous, perhaps a miscarriage. Brian Greene consoles us on television, poking fun at himself with alternate universe theories, because the laws of nature tend to repeat themselves, but this is tantamount to asserting that the particle accelerator and Vatican canonical law are neck and neck in the same rat race, the same quest for immortality.

I have referred to this before on Blogger, but the sole happy moment in my life was when John Tassoni snuck up on me in the dormitory hall with his freezing hands wrapping me in a bear hug, his intent being merely to startle me, add me into his cache of flirtations because the little boy inside the boxer wants to be loved. He had no idea I had fallen in love with him, not then, not there, and had I kept my stupid mouth shut, perhaps I would have never found myself on Race Street with a load of shit in my pubic hair. I do not believe, for the tenth of a second that the God particle may exist, that in an alternate universe he and I married and made an intellect tag team while I’m the radiant mother of his children. For all the complexities of the technology and the functional equations, the human super monkey always needs a venue for hope springs eternal, while my sister, middle child princess, walls herself in her home of denial, never making more than pro forma gestures of sympathy, and I, the invalid of his issue, perhaps the fault of my mother’s turbulent body, ripping out of her birth canal, disgusted and as weary as he, commit to doing the whole funeral in hostile territory. Maybe it is the stress, the probiotic, but if I cannot regain some of the function I still had in September, I am done. My stepmother died a horrible death, trapped in a terrible, if not horrifying marriage, to a father I’ve loved so strongly because he’s incapable of being emotionally supportive. He throws money at the issue, I throw money at impoverished minorities with whom I want nothing to do, taking small victories in having vanquished the Muslim’s prostrate ass in my face, and now I have to go make a mess. Can’t lie in it; not going to get much sleep.

Back Up Parentis with Titus

Do you ever have anything positive to say?-- my better weekend aide

The only thing Bosch brings to the table as a procedural, in my estimation, is hard luck forming its central character as a stickler with his own honor code, (something with which I identify) but the second season opened with something which threads through the history of civilization: using human frailty as a form of masking. The first thing this wizened detective does after a six month suspension for flipping a pissant captain, fraudulent as that felt, is expose a suspect as not his father with emphysema in a wheelchair on oxygen. Chair gets violently thrown, (not that this doesn't happen to actual users) suspect flees, and our star of course lassos him in. Hugo makes the same distinctions in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, when the unfortunate poet Pierre Gringoire gets corralled by beggars of a 15^th(?) century Paris in upheaval. They only pretend to be lame and crippled. The gruesome operatives of Slumdog Millionaire, if you recall, take no chances with such fakery, and blind destitute street kids to beg for what must be an unstable currency. Although I can feel Jason Dorwart’s raised eyebrows behind me, nothing has truly changed in the world. Why do I assert this? Because Erik von Schmetterling, for all his transsexual ADAPT zealotry of yesteryear, is senile, his troops dying in Riverside Presbyterian’s lobby, while I’m literally quaking myself to death in an incompetent mechanic’s contraption because I can no longer pivot to take a damn dump in the toilet and the medical professionals around me are going berserk bilking Medicare without doing a damn thing to restore my function, and a west African minority has me running around doing her job because she’s too tired. So I have to criss cross center city buying supplies I cannot afford. I can, conceivably, explore suing Mr Wheelchair for product liability, but by the time that needle moves a stroke will have probably hit me, my body actually fighting the disposable adult wear for hours until discharge necessarily takes place, in pain regardless of her masks and gloves and her physically brutal ignorance. I allowed Dana to see too much of this, my racial hostility. It preys a little because she is morally decent, but her provider, TLC, is “cheap immigrant labor,” once removed. Karina is little better, white as she may be. I wasn’t planning on a yodel about entitlement metastasis this morning, however, but since I’m here, from what I am able to observe, millennials and the adolescents coming up behind them may well end up living in much more poorer standards than those I’ve had; I just have to find the right entryway to broach the topic without causing undo friction to my family in their hardships, but it does alarm me. Karina is 38 and she has an adrift life. At that age, I was earning between 250 and 400 on commissioned articles, working, in other words. Nevertheless, let me uplift my percussion with an upbeat rhythm, as transitory as social media can be, I was heartened by Svetlana's discovery of my account, dare I consider her a spiritual sister in arms!

Misery

I have been rather silent about Niume and Virily both since I've joined them and since gone awol, though I have a post in my head which may please Virily, when I can get to it. I am busy not being busy because this damn foster cat I adopted for my dead baby boy is going to kill me. Kimmy is a good girl, but she is my fourth pet child, my semi-second female, and one cannot help but love them but she refuses to let me drive my damn chair, refuses, without first combing the carpet for prey. This, and controlling my summer bowel, is my life, not to create an affinity with suicidal post modernists, but you have little idea how much I have refrained from constantly talking about the tyranny of stool movement and control, and how remarkably well I have done thus far despite almonds and four pints of ice cream. I have mainly ceased eating ice cream because whether or not I'm lactose intolerant milk makes me sick and speeds trots, but I have had so little I had the pints to create mucus, cursing fate. I am not a day person as is but my age, in these temperatures, in an environment where I am constantly angry and want to hurt minority women who are so ignorant it makes you question evolutionary process. How can such stupid people exist? I hate shallowness and have worn thin with baby pictures, but it takes no great degree of temerity to realize that perhaps collaborative blogging isn't a troll tamer. I do not generally like niume content, and I am still traditionalist enough to know that computer graphics don't translate well, whether the artist's creation or a photograph, like oscar's work. It is not the same experience as viewing in a gallery. Virily, I haven't really read, but I'm slightly too leery of Russian hackers. Nato isn't going to exactly do a hula hoop for the sake of Estonian sovereignty, and I am about as poor as the average Russian female trapped in Chernobyl. Both sites say they miss me. Very nice, but they too, will kill me before I ever see any real profit from either. Fuck em. I have other priorities right now, like enough coffee for a caffeine overdose, despite the weather.

Use The Knob

"you better mean it"-- Chaz Ebert

On a good day, which is not today, I may throw caution  to the wind in relation to concern about the Jazzy motors and corrosion, and do my old bathing chair transfer, at leas once, given that it is summer, particularly as I may present myself to Toomey's staff and become a nuisance about NCIL abuses, I don't know. I'm tired, expect too much of people and myself, and my only intimate relationship apparently resides in Twitter and libertarian politics, and keeping my chin up despite 202 carpets turned into a muddy gulch in ten years of powerchair tires and cat puke and urine and other choice accidents. In Indecent Proposal, Woody Harrelson mentions an architect named Louis Kahn who died impoverished on a bench but as yet, built a masterpiece, and I shall no longer even have that as compensation. No masterpiece here, having glanced at Linda's insufferably shallow posts. I shouldn't have. After eighteen years, it behooves little to observe her superficial shields have only worn the worse for wear. I don't even have the savvy, for it takes savvy, to die of an opioid induced overdose, not having a doctor at my disposal to coax into a nice bottle of Fentanyl. Even if I did, or had the money for a dealer, I'd probably vomit it up. Unlike Marilyn and Michael and Prince, I don't have the fucking privilege of celebrity pill popping, though the ailing O'Neal with his whiny tenor could provide an availing tutorial along the parallel lines of self-pity; I have that in common with the star of my youth. What I do not have, particularly, is a favorite Marilyn Monroe film. The more I study her, the more I see a calendar girl who was a fish out of water, and she and Arthur Miller were one of the more improbable power couples. What in the holy fuck did they marry each other for? He wound up making her a caricature, and she wound up killing Clark Gable in a pretentious and ugly little film.

I wrote, many hundreds of posts ago, that there was something about New Wave black and white movies which cannot be reproduced. I am not a professional critic, but this holds true for me with films of a certain cast, and Miller badly wants this for The Misfits, but it is an ugly movie, nearly its entire ensemble spaced out with injuries or imminent death, and even Roger Ebert, when he could still speak, kind of trailed off, with Miller's motifs about the necessity of slaughter making little sense even to a fat Chicago newspaper man with his Pulitzer and his chocolate bunny widow. (I have no particular need today to be unkind to Chaz simply due to reactionary intransigence beyond the aforementioned descriptive depreciation.) It isn't Don't Bother to Knock either, though for all intents and purposes, Anne Bancroft's recriminations might as well be interchangeable with what I get from Richardson's managerial duress. I should have telephoned the legal referral I received today, and instead, rowed my oars in typical avoidance due to huge impaction, successfully dispensed. Why am I still writing? Much like the overweening caretaker in The Goddess observes, "it's all I know how to do," and I cannot return to my mother's family either. It is a convenience of self-deception, loving them but no longer of them, I shall disrupt my sordid stability in dramatic fashion shortly, uselessly, perhaps, but the act of defiance is ready to cascade a riot of one.

Waking Dream in Shaolin Pallor

"How do I look?"-- David Carradine

It does not matter to my bowels, in this humidity, barely eating enough for two meals in 72 hours, I am skid marked, no matter what care I take, jock cripple or not, however long I have lived with incontinence, whatever methods Dr. Sloane attempted, and he fed me a cartel's envy, I now have nearly continuous pain in my gut, and how much more can I continue to rise above it with stoicism? I hate Niume.com, and I know it is an unfair emotion, but they shouldn't have courted me in an attempt to save themselves. Yet my eulogy to David through his father bore fruit out of it, and I'm writing myself to death, because I know it's over, and it isn't that complex that I'm haunted by a man whose heyday was forged in my impressionable years, that he and I both would become antagonistic to Kwai Chang Caine.

This man is the ghost of a love waylaid, and I have to relearn how to embed video, arching and tossing on a mattress long delayed for the incinerator, we will the dead back to life. No one is putting me away, no one. Let's take five. 

Estonia is no more sovereign than Haiti

In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism.-- Graham Greene

Perhaps my emendations on Virily pass muster in the risible sense. I had forgotten that I had saved the piece in the weeks prior to my rupture with Clarity Media, and it was an easy feint to adapt, one all seasoned writers learn, and it is oddly perfect to expand, seasoned with basil, to spice up my non-fiction collection. I will probably not last too long, however, with Natalie's overzealous plagiarism checks, on this Baltic mock up. Niume's staff does it too, but they have sense enough to see I have standards, and leave me alone (I think). Here I can engage the whimsy of telling Vladimir Putin to go fuck himself, so as to secure not dying in senility, but the Baltic millennials would sooner drop an ovum than allow my decorum breaches to fester, not with the bear's breath always in their downwind. Greene himself is one of the most influential least read authors on my psyche, though The End of the Affair is tawdry even with the Feinnes upgrade.
It does illustrate the failure to which I allude far better than I can bully my way into it, even if Bendrix is disillusioned on an entirely different pretext. Greene's voice is not so dissimilar to mine, both brutalized, but where Greene is stark and sacrificial, I am a vengeance ride with the flat of my foot on the gas, waiting to be put down like a rabid travesty. I wasn't able to truly work last night. Groin pain, impaction becoming more symptomatic, I have to coax myself into hatred of Debra Horne's peasant sloping posture to shed anxiety over a lateral transfer fall, and how much longer murder will keep me aloft is anyone's guess: this is part of the failure. In a seven year effort to bind both worlds, as I once hoped I could help Linda Dezenski do, I have transposed the thesis and become a rolling hate crime whose any explicit detail would merit another visit by law enforcement. The same thing might have happened, invariably, if the state had left me institutionalized, instead of matriculating, educating me into indentured servitude, a few steps removed from how harsh it was for Helen Keller. These intestinal battles knock the wind out of me, and my shins need a rest. Then I hope I stabilize, but if I do make a minor news item on a first arrest warrant, I suppose it is unfortunate. I've been driven that far, nearly 60.

Incommoded Logan Hosts

This section shall not abridge the right of a citizen to apply, himself or his agent, to any foreign government or the agents thereof for redress of any injury--John Adams paranoia for the young states in the last year of the Enlightenment

Unfortunately for me, my bowel vaulting in a painful battle with sunflower seeds and  chicken, so it may be this morning is the morning my body goes into colony collapse, and this will be it, and Blogger will make its determinations about archiving, this, all that is left, I am interested in defending Flynn, and simply do not have the resources of the political establishment, nor the time. I cannot drop everything again to pursue a career military professional's downfall over temperament and hints of collusion. I actually did hope, once he got in, that Trump would defend certain things, but for all the media's highlight on turmoil, this is just Washington politics as usual, and I am personally annoyed that Trump cannot give the press corp a legitimate alternate view of reset buttons, like detente with Russia through radical capitalism. Trump seemingly doesn't have the ability to defend himself and the "art of the deal". Political theater just dances as usual, and as usual, this mogul is going to crumble before the careerist civil service, of which Flynn was a part of through at least three administrations. Surely no one is accusing a career general of having been bought by petrol dollars?

I now have to go make a wish, and hope I'll be okay.

Fin, with Brisk

"You can't handle this." --Gabourey Sidibe

How little we actually have to say about eschatology at the end of the day. This always comes back to me, even as I can barely pull myself up on the dull sky blue mattress, as old as my anguish enveloping itself around me at Riverside, the beaten, rusted, Sears Roebuck mattress courtesy of my mother's judgment in buying me a metal daybed that rocked like a tin can. Grotesque little mattress, but I cannot just get another spring coil twin, or a piece of hospital bed foam whose width would collapse too low. It has to be right so that I can pivot on, then push up to pivot off, and this I can discuss, the barren aesthetics of government socialism, not that padre did any better, had I stayed in Ridley Park. He built steep wooden ramps, a plastic shower stall, had violent arguments with me over pubic hair on my washcloth, now he is nurse to his dead wife's nursing colleague, twenty times as sick as the puss gassing out of my colon, due to my respiratory issues, other secrets. I cannot keep up, but neither could an attendant; they'd walk, confronted with pudding, the stench of post-menopausal decline. Those of you who can walk might ask, if you dared, what the fuck do I want? You aren't functionally ambulatory. Everyone gets old. You got screwed, badly. You take too many things to heart.

Okay, but I never wanted this, in the sense that what limited fulfillment I might have had would have been from professional accomplishment, and now this is nearly beyond me, even if my poverty insists that I have to persevere. Fuck what Inglis House writes on its site. If I am legally forced into it than that is tantamount to the games the English aristocracy played, tossing any viable claimant to the throne in a dungeon like The Tower. The very minorities I so freely disparage have mental health breakdowns from working there, in significant numbers, and yet what can I say? Collegiate peers aren't kept. Most of my disabled peers aren't friends, and those who might have been remain faithful to the circumscribed segregated empowerment bullshit which is indeed bullshit when HUD is treated like the plague by private property owners. I can never knowingly trust another lesbian, and what Josie represents is an apostasy, unless religion is to become essentially meaningless. Maybe this is a bug, and it too shall pass, but my life was in no way lived with the compensations most whites expect. I'm destitute, with no people whom I even so much as like, or care to engage, around me, and the only way I can avoid the red death in the castle is to end it on my own terms. 

The knot of Gambia in the Asphyxiation of David Foster Wallace

Scipio also evidently had a Wal Mart. It was Amber Moltke who suggested that they leave the artist to watch his Sunday Reds game in peace the way he liked to. [sic] The Suffering Channel, loc 4199

Purely in terms of linguistic intricacy, the bones of Wallace rank second to David Mitchell. Mitchell exists in his own universe, and the two writers are different, with the exception that neither can be read without full focus, both take an extraordinary labor, and backing down, going boob tube for some drift, has merit after a load on. The problem with Wallace is that his satirical agony is but a hair's breadth off the entirely unbearable, and though Infinite Jest was purchased, and just glimpsed at, intends to be read, to be able to do what this man did has an excess of heart, too much. Normal humans, his father, wife, those kind of people, the ones who feel Presbyterian Homes cannot put quadriplegics in straight jackets fast enough, blame his illness-- not simply for his death, but the manner of man he was, way he lived. The dowager is less categorical about the science. She can hear Krauthammer regrowing his spinal cord in protest, and in no way denies that depression has parameters, but, David Foster Wallace was, in his own right, a genius, and hung himself nine months in to Obama's revolt as a movement candidate toward the presidency, which ends today. Wallace knew psychiatry could continue to treat him, however variable therapeutic treatment is, and we can assume he loved his intelligence and his ability, and his wife and family. He certainly did not have to face what those with my chronic developmental damage have to face. He and I were contemporaries, only his suicide sparked a furious determination to reconstruct who, what he was, for which Literature Network, reluctantly, may be given credit. I've written about this before, perhaps more unevenly, hammering away. Quite honestly, my anger remains, remains because he understood sensory, physical, deprivation, was a midwestern progressive darling if ever one existed, and fine tunes the tradition, ignited by Joyce, made a ballad by Pynchon, thrown in our faces with raunchy glee by Miller, and nuanced with particular sophistication in "The Suffering Channel," for Wallace, a lighter story, about shit. The ultimate post modern reductionist sentiment is that we're all piss and shit in the end. Wallace couples this with what must be his loathing for marketing/ media aggrandizement, the last story in his last completed collection, about a hick who bakes and fossilizes human stools. The author then leaves another project unfinished, utilizing Asberger's, from what was gathered before Slate became wearisome, and then, the end.

What do I gain from all this? He was my age in 08, a modest celebrity who successfully navigated the MFA puppy mill which put me out to pasture, and I am beginning to resemble a survivor of Auschwitz, and Europe has to snake the scope fairly deep to illustrate that black Africa eschews democracy with equivalent relish to the way American Marxists were once blacklisted. I do not think Wallace hung himself because his illness superseded him. 

Let me switch hit and make an assertion that libertarians and liberals may be confused about which spectrum I'm on; that is reasonable. I am fucking furious that my life was destroyed, essentially, by Jewish liberal prevarication, and a small handful of homosexuals, that I moved into a wheelchair access one bedroom apartment at 23, and then come out like a squeegee tube at 54 in a predominantly black, predominantly hostile senior living facility with arrogant Adventists on one end, the closed circuit Koreans on the other, and a handful of broken whites, passive spastics, save one. Wallace saw this. Whatever other relief he sought, he knew. Humans are driving themselves off the cliff, no matter how education, innovation, resolve problems. King Kong beats his chest. Might makes right, and if it was truly any different, I would not be living in a high risk lifestyle with a debt which amounts to no more than Zuckerberg's or Thiel's, weekly travel expenses.

Rare Winter Trots

"Is it that bad?" Stephen Dixon

It would have been nice to crawl on the belly of Mr. Morales, taking a rare proactive step of inserting him in my shaggy wolverine public hair, breathing freely. He made a marked impression on me, with his romantic force of mind. Is he dead? Retired? If my sole literary colleague on the face of the earth is still among us, it may be reasonable to assume a pompous trade journalist with avuncular smile, dimpled cheeks, black rimmed glasses, might still linger, if not in DC, then somewhere. I evidently cannot find a fucking soul on Facebook, not in terms of people I actually once knew, which means my paranoia on utilizing FB is overblown. I have no damn idea how to use the site to my benefit, embittered writer, lonely woman, whichever bovine Pulcinella I rake in the mulch toward the blades of April.

Why is the poet Robert Thomas my friend? Me drooling dowager retart toldshim between us I would not stir this up, but it boils down to a few simple things: He does not attract me, no slight to his wife intended. I am, in point of fact, fond of the image I hold of Robert's spouse, and regret I actually couldn't adopt her as a new chick clique to chew the fat-- that is another issue. Secondly, my contemporary colleague wisely never bestowed to my phone his number. Even if he had, it is too expensive to behave like my mother in domineering twenty minute conversations between me/they in Oakland. Thirdly, though I've no idea what he may have said behind the scenes, if anything, I do not blame him for my ban from Speakeasy, and I doubt he would have tolerated me this long if he sided with the ban camp. Fourth, and most importantly, I respect his craft. It is fine. It is polished, worthy of American celebrity certainly not disposed on any of us.

Then stop running your mouth and work. Yes, of course. Well, I do, but I have a lot going on, and cannot sit back quietly let Presby destroy what's left of my spirit. I'm working too, a rebuttal on libertarian dark sides, if you will. As to Cecil, whatever happened to him, I did not mean for my adamant stance to make him feel threatened. That was the extent to which Josie Byzek wounded me. I never tried again, after what she did, to take a chance with ambulatory accommodation with who I am. I wish she was dead, Josie, but know that in itself, wouldn't change my scars, this infantile hit list of mine. I even know doing things to fuck up Josie's domestic tranquility wouldn't affect much, but feel it is a legitimate issue to stop her from adopting or fostering third world Asian children. After more research, I may press that.

Albert Finney's Papacy

"Death carries no passport," Louis Gossett Jr pretending to address the UN before being assassinated

When TheGaryo initially discovered my thus far lone twitter account, the dowager assumed he was a comic book fan, not a British footballer. And as of this writing, I am not certain who the fuck he is, nor what he deigns to offer. I only recently noticed his numbers, a whale of his own making, perhaps. He also stopped following me, twice; twice returned, and I would have gone on blithely ignoring the man, to the extent we assume gender, but for the fact I suspected him in relation to hoax accounts sent my way.

If he is a British athlete of standing, I can only speculate his motives for being charitable to a spastic racist in the process of losing control of her game: he is being charitable, or wonders about the possibility of chronic injury. If it is the latter, O'Neill would be better off reading Hockenberry, who I only recently stopped following, exasperated because I was weakly clinging to the shared experience identification. It only takes us so far, like the embarrassment of shitting yourself in front of an Israeli source while eating olives. The Israeli graciously clucks his tongue, and out comes a mop and pail. I may not know Hockenberry, but I know too much, inclusive of the fact he has never turned his Dateline/PBS beam on the cruelty of CIL culture. Clint Eastwood, as a former elected official, he makes great target practice, never mind NCIL corruption. This points to my decoupling, with my own incontinence an integumental hindrance growing in proportion to lack of resources, and Riverside's central thermostat. My landlord took away my ability to control the radiator. It sickens me, and I get blamed, as usual. Complaining does little, though I've attempted, in the past, to talk to Mike Pera, who should face a firing squad for being the dumbest Caucasian on the planet. I might have beat the situation this morning, but waited and had a potato, eating so much less than I used to what is coming out of me must have mitigated any arterial plaque-- or I am not absorbing what little nutrients getting dissolved in my stomach. 70 degrees outside, my bedside window cracked, fan running, my end of life career a battle with fecal puss, like Slothrop's post-modern swim through toilet plumbing.

For the record, I am ambivalent about Karol Wojtyla's usurpation of the Roman Empire's last titular vestige of its grip on the world. Ceding to the Polish, then the German balks and the cardinals go to Argentina. Scowling. Was the Cardinal Wojtyla a great force of moral resistance? If memory serves, that may be affirmed, but he turned the papacy into a celebrity contest which will continue to have troubling indications. Hopefully I'll be gone before Nigeria gains control of The Curia.