Quantum Models in Slovenia

Though I haven't perused any recent issues, Poets & Writers loves contributions about profiles in which the established figures discuss technique; never did a damn thing for me, blindly shelling out my money, for years. The organization is baffled at my ire now that I'm really feeling an economic pinch, but it is the same as other motifs seeping through this account: the price of spastic dowager's loyalty and passive acceptance. My technique to produce creatively never recovered from two things, the first being moving to this wretched studio at Riverside (Karina either trashing or misplacing my scrapbook of articles), and the second adapting to digital, even though it seems counter-intuitive, as I made more money as a journalist online between 99-08 than I ever did riding shotgun with literary journals as the caboose of arts and sciences departments, but while we're at it, let me merge apples and potatoes: I used to consider Kenyon Review to be highbrow, a desirable addition to my CV; that I use the past tense doesn't mean I'm now nonchalant, so much as questioning creativity's didactic ability in the modern era. I sampled KR online when my now distressed second generation kindle was more vogue. Forget dates. It was more than two years ago through, and there was a fictional story of an orphan chimpanzee whose mother was killed by a poacher who sold the baby to a progressive white American woman who had an adopted black daughter. The simian and the human youngster bonded but the chimp grew up, and like Caesar in the reboot, is placed in captivity, a last meeting with human sister ending in distress. The contributor's point was, I believe, to make us question human tendency to compartmentalize. Yet the senseless travesty of Harambe occurred despite the most astute of Kenyon's imperatives. The incurious toddler was actually the expendable mammal if we are going to arguable over the health of bio-diversity. Not that I wouldn't have made an effort to distract the silverback to recover the child, but in no way would I have shot dead an innocent ape denied its freedom so that we could gape at it; speaking of which, this is an upgrade I'll gun for next month. Back to work, back to coffee, and those who care about the election in November, go fuck yourselves. I wash my hands of the whole national scene.

It Isn't Simply Trudy Richardson's Dissembling Threats

As a practical matter, I have little idea how to avoid Inglis House and all the implications such regimentation entails. People lose more than freedom in a wheelchair community like it. They lose the right to say no, the right to decline medical torture, like forcible cathereterization, which I'd decline, regardless of chronic incontinence. It takes wealth to avoid such a fate, a huge degree of resources. Few have it, and if Presby starts legal proceedings against me for non-compliance with waiver services, I may be able to give notice and vacate myself, but I'm not going to get very far without sympathizers who have the willingness to buck the system and let me age on my own terms. In this day and age, that's pie in the sky.

No one likes nursing homes, but Inglis is a mad house reminiscent of Anne Sullivan's descriptions to Helen Keller's father, even if the rats are few and far between. The odor of diseased human waste overwhelms visitors, which is why few families stay involved with Inglis's wards, and rely on torturing peers like me to roll the front lines, when there is space enough between the gurneys in the hallways, the maddening number of power chairs outside patient rooms. Mechanics I knew from my own service needs could barely walk through the clutter, and as prejudiced as I claim to be, you certainly cannot care to contemplate what this does to the black paraprofessionals who have to maintain these bodies, day in, day out. They quit, try to deal with bitches like me, or more passive savants on the attendant care model, or use their salaries to go through nursing school to keep eating it, many of them not particularly good at their jobs, indifferent, much like my sister. My family would say I'm terrorized by the prospect. Yes, but this is due to Presby's methods, especially under Trudy's jurisdiction. She has been threatening me since she was a new hire, and her latest tactic was to stress fuck my dying aunt. I'm supposed to just let this roll off me and give it the finger? This is why I'm leaving. Going from point A to point B, with scant pennies.
What happens after that, I cannot say, but my literary tricks, allowing for satirical disruption, sans Bulgakov, are few. Far between. 

Think Positive!

Unlike Charles, or Michael Burry, who is both a writer's non-fiction construct and a real life investor with a medical degree, I failed though lack of application once too often. Case managing at my disability center was a mistake, not simply due to a pathological cat fight between me and a Jewish spastic, but because the human suffering I've seen is tearing me apart as much as the human suffering I've lived, and that includes what I had to absorb under Rick.

I do not blame the man. On the contrary, I remember his teaching lessons as if I was Elijah fed by ravens. I could see both Daniel and Rick clearly, having no desire for them, other than regret for my job. I had to be strong enough to live by institutional parameters, then absorb much worse for the sake of an appalling salary, and now minorities treat me like an imbecile, not deliberately, but because on top of all this fucking shit after being attacked by vicious dogs in their 70's for years, I should stay in this facility because I'm 52.

I'd rather become homeless and die through a seizure delivered by a taser. I'm not trying to nit pick every slight, but we've lost the ability to understand each other. Whether I go down to the telephone store this week or wait, the customer service agent couldn't grasp I log online through a USB broad brand plug in.

I still do not agree with Charles Krauthammer all the time, but I commend him for this series. Here, he tacitly admits what I more brazenly rage over. The health system is insane. I should not have to get a primary physician's script every time I need rehabilitative support, and if nothing else sparks an insurrection, the American health care models will do the trick.

**
I was, once, a powerful poet, whatever I sacrificed in technique, but alas, I didn't go into banking like TS Eliot.

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.

That it is biodegradable is no panecea

I slid off my bathing chair because I did not commit to my lateral pull on the way back to my poor old P200, which is more my husband than my limited number of unhappy suitors. I hate my ex; the normal type of hate that makes divorce a pathology industry, but I do not hate him with the manic rage bestowed on my former supervisor, sliding off the damn chair but not really sustaining any injury. The EMS team made me more uncomfortable dragging me out to the stretcher whereupon I declined a ride to hospital, not that I wasn't tempted, but changed my mind. How much longer will I be posting? I do not know. I wrote "I have nothing left," many months ago, and that stands as the outcry it pretty much entails, not that EMS isn't used to encounters with fecal matter, but from now on, when I am taunt, I'll just have to wash via the mop bucket, and this evening, pop the Aleve.

Before you shake your heads at the degree of embattlement I am sustaining, I was on attendant care, from 1997 to 2006, and have too many fiascoes, one after the next. I can no longer afford to purchase assistance, and perhaps my poppa was right, and we're better off aborted. I can not end my life being attended to by people who cannot handle the burden it entails. I won't. I've lived what you do not see when you put people away, and it is in part, analogous to genocide, in a concession to Cassie James.

Why did Oz add me to their lists? twitter is cataloging itself? Would any of you be willing to pay me volunteer visits on rotation? Ha. 

Withering Pressure

To Examiner: I was going to try to hang on until I found a new position, but your automated management is contradictory and doesn't foster supportive relationships between disadvantaged contributors and your editorial staff. I am a quadriplegic with spastic cerebral palsy, and I've busted my ass for your aggregating demands for next to nothing. As I see little hope of advancement, fuck you, and fuck your parent company in Denver. This means I quit, affectionately.-- my sentiments exactly


And that is that, except for the fact that Examiner, being a digital tabloid, will probably keep my yahoo address on its rolls for a time: I cannot feel too badly, as receiving 10 dollars for over 12,000 words in 9 months signifies I am almost better off writing for nothing, looking at all the labor I've put into it. (Thus far, I am indeed still logged in to my page, we'll see.)

As happens to most Presbyterian tenants, my family is pressuring me on one hand while Trudy Richardson barks her thus far empty threats on the other, but Marie's sentiments that "I'll wind up on the street" are vacuous, simply by default. The corporate office may move for eviction before I find a lawyer, I can't say one way or the other, but the city would do what the company doesn't have the authority to do: reinstitutionalize me in the event of notice of intent, but I told Marie, as she continues to divest herself of her internal organs, that I can't live with what has been done to me anymore. whether it portends destruction or a new path for my remaining viability. I've learned how to surf, using the 5c, in my floundering absence, and realize how disconnected the devices leave us, despite content convenience. Scrolling my posts on a Mac safari is one thing: Offering me a way out of our merciless safety net is another. I understand. I have to fend for myself. I do regret, a little, losing my reviewer status. Evaluating books isn't that bad a task, but Clarity Media's model is notoriously bad.

Roads that should not be

"He got up and went across the room, hands outstretched to the bus driver." Jack Kerouac

I would not survive in a city shelter. I cannot survive with any of my relatives, and Inglis House is the stark phantasmagorical hell only documentaries have the courage to illustrate. Sometimes I look away, as you do, from the tracheotomies, the traumatic brain injuries that crumple our homo sapien signature in an instant. Marie fought with me two years ago. "You belong on the street!" And I've seen those as well. Wheelchair users on Philadelphia curb corners, white and black, emaciated and out of their minds, silent when they speak, and I am placing my body under this steam roller earlier than need be because I do not want to comply with Medicaid, with the state welfare system, because even Linda, to my astonishment, has moved on, and I am still here, with my non-compliance, sinking back into a world I might have been spared in the first place, and social media suggests I buy followers. I don't mind hospice. People have to die somewhere, but nonetheless, institutional paradigms will crush us under our own weight.

I have contemplated the scourge of every dark blogging account, but it would make everything I've endured meaningless, and yet, I need this to stop, HUD regulations, Riverside's Bible study groups and infantile activities. Robert, one of the more challenged residents with cerebral palsy who is close to my age, told me last night his sister took care of me in Shriner's Hospital, when we were children being tortured, and I remember plenty from the ward I wish to forget, but had no idea Robert's circumference was so close to mine, nor recall his sister. "You're happy about it aren't you?" Grinning like the devil. He is mentally retarded, yet this is the language of identity we speak, while I am in contention with a handful of authoritarian niggers upon whom I am forcing no choice but to legally remove me from their premises, such an epic failure for such a mind, penniless, powerless, channeling Kerouac's zeitgeist without the ability to flow with his counter culture mobility. I'm scared out of my wits.

Parallel Severity

The BBC knows how to do fantastic summary articles, and this rather deadening take on Christopher's decline after his body was incinerated nicely pieces the narrative together, even if we do not know why those of African descent are more severely crippled by mental illness than other ethnic groups, proportionally, and no, my prejudices are not skewing the data. All humans, if they go into psychosis, tend to devolve, and remain sick the rest of their lives, but when African Americans exhibit schizo or bipolar affect, there is a greater tendency toward gruesome violence, and if my hostility toward Trudy Richardson seems to manifest along these lines, let me back you up a bit: Ellen Hovey was Presbyterian Homes supervisory agent from 87 to 05. I was assaulted under her direct supervision, and since she knew her then protegee Terri played me for a fool, her managers tread lightly. Until her last hire was fired in 05. I was then again molested and robbed, and had to fend off attempted embezzlement. When Debra Schwab was hired-- she barely lasted a year, war broke out between me and Presby's Inspired Life, and the tenants council. I was *banned* and then made subject to extortion. In this instance, I did have the assistance of a Jewish "Philadelphia lawyer;" it is a long and convoluted story, but I had at least two or three letters under my door a month, and was put on biweekly inspections. I finally said no, and Trudy has done everything short of arrest me. Maybe now you see why eviction seems like relief of undue duress. I know if I do not leave here, a regrettable tragedy will be the end result. The woman is nothing to me, trust me; perhaps a weasel preying on her own, and the weakest, sickest. This is what these Protestant hypocrites do, and I've been fairly decent to survive 30 years of it. You read my dismal attitude, but you don't see, or hear, what this corporation does to wheelchair users. 30 years of my life. I personally feel I have tort against Miss Richardson, but that too, is lengthy. Even if I do downgrade to Dorner's breakpoint though, women aren't generally proficient armed forces killers. I might do X, or Y. Assassinating her parents is beyond the scope of the denigration she subjects me to. The layout of Los Angeles offers comprehension when it comes to why libertarians hate big city police departments. Out there, they do kill you, and whoever built LA must have been insane themselves. The residential districts look like fast food happy meals. I am researching, and this time, taking my time, speed writing and failing isn't any better than staying inside my lard ass comfort zone, but this piece isn't for The Freeman.

Stress Fracture

Women talk about sex all the time.-- Stephanie Verderame's summary of my employment trauma.

Why my body has not exploded from hypertension is not something an investigating physician would concern himself with, because I am trying to do what I once thought miss pixie on her canes capable of doing, fusing a viable link between worlds, though arguably, I am using my literary and corresponding interpretive skills to indict the rhetoric behind the case for community integration, something that Louise my would be acolyte caught, but found  confusing, and as I once wrote, that is fair enough.

I weigh how far I want to wade in the purple, since I am trying to make an effort to be marketable, but, if Linda was the catalyst for my break with the Philadelphia center, my hatred, on the conceptual level, stems from the knowledge that disability centers are no more than decentralized institutional enforcement zones: Instead of putting the broken in one place, which, though sanitary, is cursed with the overpowering odor of ammonia, we get state categorized, and in overwhelming majorities, bitch slapped in the projects; nothing this woman does changes that, either for me, (driving me over to her public housing pizza parlor a long long time ago), or for her followers. If her counter thrust to me after she crashed and burned in England under her own weight was that Liberty wanted me to succeed, I'll believe that when she and other staffers stop breaking the law to further their own agenda, and to practice accountability. If I had had the courage to file with the Philadelphia Human Resources Commission where Thomas Earle now sits, Liberty might be better monitored, and Linda Dezenski, the missionary sociopath, would not be the COO (if I had married and moved to England, maybe that action is a Liberty magic potion: "We hire Cassie back no matter how many times she quits, but we traumatize Joanne with sexual gloating, humiliation, inner city aides who molest, abuse and aggravate her stress because she needs to understand compliance with this way of life is freedom!" Moving into a senior citizens home in the apogee of her adulthood is better than what she did for us running excursions into Inglis House!)

I call it Stalinist. And Old Joe executed many Russians at his convenience. I could not save myself though literary skills and ambition. I could not save myself by modeling Jerry or Michael, oh but what I can do is fight back against this in the last remaining years of my life, and start a movement for Congress to overturn the mandate protection. That direct enough for you, how corrupt and sordid our values are in the early 21st century?

There might be virtue in the argument that I should stop caring. I did not listen to myself when my own instincts told me to back away and pack up shop, and cease trusting this woman. Did I over react to her dominance and rank? Undoubtedly, but the scales were unbalanced in the first place. Linda has the esteem, and mental health benefit, of living in her own home; for nearly 28 years now, I have been chattel in section 811 and section 202 housing, which makes me a second class citizen. We tend to respect those with ownership of private property, and all I wanted from my former family was for them to honor their pledges; instead, Linda's public humiliation of me led to an equally public denigration, and I had served this movement faithfully.  It nearly killed me, and I am certain that others even more powerless have been case managed to death by CIL culture, with the best of intentions. It needs to be stopped, and I will most likely not live long enough to dismantle it, but I must expose it, and at least begin the process of conscientious reform

Like Elizabeth in the heyday of her court, hamstrung by her own insecurities, my inability to assert myself over the system because of a nervous breakdown is saltpeter on my tail feathers. I was told my state representative was leaving office, but saw nothing on her web site to that effect at the time I mailed my template grievance; technically, *all of this,* minus my evidence, is now on public record. Her regional office closes this month. One of her temps suggested city council, a body to which I intend to proceed-- but I do not berate myself internally. My conviction may have cemented late, but it cemented, and I am determined to see movement. Many wheelchair users are helpless, and that is simply a fact, like my grandfather's deterioration from dementia turning into a danger, and I get that, but attendant care only generated more trauma for me, as opposed to what it was supposed to relieve, and the only way to repair that is go after the waiver and its regulations. I will have more to say on this as a policy issue.

Tack & Thump

I have been criticized for discussing film arts and then engaging in character assassination and or launching attacks on disability culture in the same breath, the argument being that people do not read posts sequentially even though I may be telling my personal history in a linear fashion, tying it in when I can, to those thematic arcs that interest me.

The criticism is fair enough, but

1. I am not an established author or journalist, and 1a, LiveJournal (though Blogger is a slightly better network) does not offer me, and nor do I have, the resources to make this account competitive with other niche oriented writers, and if some of my posts confuse those on twitter or any other social network, those of you who speak English can ask me what I mean, or tell me that I am unclear. Linda and Erik and Josie and Jimmi and others had a major impact on the fact that my career ambitions went up in flames, and as I have iterated, I did not go to the EEOC when I was legally advised to do so, but I can deploy testimonial, in the same fashion that Josie Byzek sees it as a penultimate empowerment tool, even if I engage in repetition, I try to do it in such a way as to draw the larger picture.

I understand that these personal testaments may not always interest you, for any number of reasons, but it will be a legacy I leave behind me, assuming I can preserve my digital content, and revise and revise past my own emotional scars. Ted Koppel once said that death is the universal experience we all face but none of know until the event of dying itself; I am roughly paraphrasing that, but the cerebral anchor who carried ABC's social conscience for so long was right. All of us also have legacy, no matter who we are, happy and wholistic or not, even if, in conjunction with that, our voices drown each other out.

I am aiming at that minority, and those ablests who may "get it," who can possibly see that I have a point, and that the paradigm, however mandated, can strive toward improving itself.

At the end of the day, I do not see how I might still emerge victorious; it is more than likely I will simply fade away, unfulfilled,  even if I have a late life major medical event, after fifty years of plenty medical events, or just continue to decline, but I will probably always see my life as a battle to be waged, in one form or another. I am sure some find that an unfortunate perspective, and could say I could make an effort to be more content, and that I could accept that I will probably die under a company like Presby.

I'll never be grateful for it.