Big Yellow Taxi

"Oooo, nah nah nah,"  Joni with her back up in the folk era

Mmm. I missed a luncheon date at The Watermark, because I skipped a day, distracted over the Quantum, and upset with Rhett Hackett. I posted to his site that I did not like "being bluffed by liberal bullshit artists," and then tried an email later, and only got a courtesy call explaining his foundation's change of heart; I was trying to be persuasive so that they would understand that if I can do anything with the little time I've left, I want to stop medical model brutality and other forms of violence from destroying women with my ability in the future, but it was a plea for shielding on deaf ears, and if I try this again remind me that I hate liberalism, would you? And I'd imagine there goes any write up as a nice profile piece on New Jersey's mission in life to be the escape haven from New York and Philadelphia. (But we'll allow that to simmer.)

It does matter, the long term affect, despite the fact that it discomfits my sister and brother, I'm still suffering the consequences of being an aggravated assault victim at the hands of Brandon Phillips, just as the treating psychologists predicted when I was on my liberal tether with the defunct Matrix Research Institute, and I feel like a pin cushion for any mode of target practice you'd care to imagine, which is why I do not trust CNA's, even Tim, whom I've known for any number of years-- not in the sense that he'd hurt me, but that he's a welfare player, and will feel smug when the Department of Public Welfare processes me into a Soylent Green wafer. We do not literally cannibalize ourselves, but we're already there, rather late in the day to examine primate controls the primates are placing on themselves without stopping to reflect that risk is necessary, so is disease, and decomposition.

Mitchell, though she falls into my generational nomenclature, might as well be Lady Gaga. I know they are recording artists, but draw blanks. Mitchell was simply recognized as a decorative beatnik, popularizing the Kerouac zeitgeist to always burn the tread on asphalt, warning Madonna in the 80's that the limelight would fade for the Material Girl at some point, never really giving ourselves time to pause, put a break on the controls we inject into and onto our anatomy, to reconsider the industry surrounding the obituary, the underlying avarice we display when faced with the fallibility of mortality. With all the ethics surrounding journalistic integrity, apparently the paparazzi cannot distinguish being comatose from other ailments into a seventieth decade which might lead to fainting spells.

I am very bitter about the surgical aggressions to my body, unlike some, if all it amounts to is cruelty and entrapment in a public housing matrix which is an inhumane forced form of diversity, which all comes down to how and where we invest resources. I might have been perfectly happy, in my late twenties, to live in a small group home, and I mean small, for those who were developmentally damaged but had matriculative ability. I should have been with my peers, not terrorized by the venomous elderly, and what the fuck can I do about it now? Riverfront told me, yesterday, if the Jazzy is seven years old, Medicare would allow me a new one.

Uh huh. I cannot stay at Riverside, and most of you have no idea what equipment acquisition is like with my level of indigence. 

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.

In My Journal

The Sunlight Aria: Urethra Knives                                                                                      01/20/13

                                                                                                                                                  (36)

 Dialing down the spastic dowager voice, I have to step off the blogger platform now and again, even if hate is truly beginning to consume me, as an issue even on the most pragmatic terms, what does it matter? Much like Sebold’s dead and virgin fuck worthy adolescent, vivacious and charming as the young actor was on screen, the hate itself is all that I have left, stark, veering toward crone cryogenics, this is how a constantly thwarted lust for life dies, its embers encased in stone cold methane, not any one thing, merely the cumulative total, besotting myself with Jerry, our 2007 contact the last gash, really, the last expenditure I had to exhaust. Did I love him, Frank asked with his Puerto Rican imbecility, and I cannot remember what I actually said to my bonny bastard nearly ex husband, but no, one does not love a glass fractured mortal icon now balding into a praying mantis post Vietnam boomer posture, no, but I would do anything now to reset the relative idyll, my brother engaged with his needle via which AIDS would waste the masculinity of his flesh into yellowish pink fevered bones no one wanted to touch, this that was Ridley Park, had I not answered the phone, and wrote “Professor McGuire,” on a notepad, dwelling on his professional title with nascent awe, had I not been there to let him the key to go look at my father’s little upstairs studio, had I not asserted myself, and found myself shaken to the core that he was a Shakespearean about to teach where I was about to be a freshman, poor Joanie looking at me like what’s the big deal?
 Exactly, the big deal is I am dying in Philadelphia because I made a dynamic and once beautifully manic intellect that his was, as I then saw it, the biggest deal of my life, and no Frank, that is not love. It is the sentiment of wounded, even crippled primates, that gives fanaticism its power to do so much harm, that is what I experienced. The divine revelation of Christ for a Renaissance post modern sensibility. I could not just settle for getting raped by one of my mother’s trailer trash lovers, crying through the then necessary aborting drill bit no, me? I had to worship a somewhat gifted educator, sitting here at fifty looking at all the pieces of that puzzle, and how they, those pieces, accentuate the multiplicity of my wounds in a taunt pickle of aging urine, dark or light, depending on what liquid I utilize when I am not utilizing, like Kerouac, an intake of 32 ounces of coffee. Bladder cancer would actually be something of an upset, but then, if that is actually what it is, if not a cervical issue also. even if I do not lose to it outright, would give a plebeian sanctimonious owl hooting woman like Josie her justification, wouldn’t it? I need no imagination to know how a rabid bitch like that would take the news that I went down over a degrading rubber balloon, offering up a little prayer perhaps, in the happy consolation of her congregation, her and that insufferable God loves me as he made me hope. The stupid mechanisms we use, non viable females.
 I do not know whether or not I am strong enough to handle a temporary fieldwork assignment, courteous as I and the ACLU woman were to each other, someone like me, forced to turn to the radical left, blind to the pain they bred in me, but going to the interview will, at least, be yet another matron whaling in the dark engagement. We’ll see, whether or not I ever forgive myself. Do I love him? It reverberates, a challenge to any rationale, like his daily familiarity with Susan. The doubt in my mind will never entirely settle, whether my finalist poem “On Goodbyes” was a love song of a turbulent girl in the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong thunder in her heart for men who could not accept her as a loving intimate, not that way, and had he dared it, not that it would have been right, but had it happened, and not been the stuff of real sexual fulfillment, I would have laughed, his gaunt and ugly energy, my flaccid spastic body and thick black pubic hair, I would have laughed, for that which is a broken heart. I hope Joanie did well. She was a good girl, a sweet soul, never was unkind to me.
6:03 am, Sunday

Altered States

It is not that I would not sleep if I tried, more simply, Thursday vanished, and half dressed for the drug store, I stopped, like the song, not undressing, like the singer, but stopped, ate, wondering how long I can stop speaking to my entire family, and find a bus, survive getting off it, and never returning. I use my past, my memory, and will continue to do so, but unlike what happens to lost itinerants in Hollywood, there is nothing for me in that past, its people, even if I use their names. Quadriplegics cannot do Jack Kerouac on the road, especially with old diodes that will not behave, and charge properly. "Whatever it is they did to you," Anne Kline intoned in a low voice, "people here still care about you."

No they don't, but the point is, for all that able bodied individuals are aware, or not, of how these centers function, they do not stop doing harm to a substantial number of people that come in, get indoctrinated, humiliated. The lucky ones, like Chris, sue and settle and then become director of an independent training center that then burns down, and the cycle continues. Sue and settle with the next Linda. The unlucky ones, like Ken, do pot in their nursing home apartment wings, and never mind Cassie's freedom rhetoric, suffer in obscurity, and me? I just took too many blows from too many sources, and what truly angers me, my own case aside, is no one puts a stop to it. Certainly not a lawyer like Thomas Earle, who I used to believe was a decent man, nor Fern Markowitz, the lesbian, whose decency seemed tied to being the bad cop. She was always a ferocious and inexplicable woman to me, who treated me like she needed to use a whip on my haunches. Not the national cil council, not the state regulators, nor the auditors, and employee litigation is just the cow with an udder always full. Corporations, like BP, oh, they pay a price, but no one gives a holy fuck about disability center malfeasance; their scandals get buried, particularly in areas with large disadvantaged populations. The closest the right gets to it is with a home grown idiot like Rick Santorum, and the best the left will do, nationally, is scream they will protect entitlements, when Medicare is a fucking nightmare to begin with, and public housing does not know what constitutional law is, not when government is subsidizing its brick and plaster. The left says this is better than what it was in Roosevelt's day. Not by much, especially not when age makes risk more costly. I cannot reform this by myself, but wince at what it may take to rouse the public. Caretakers killing us doesn't do it, Paratransit drivers raping us gets a script in a Dick Wolf drama, and cil consumers look the other way, until it happens to them, then they sue. No one touches how this system operates, because those like me are supposed to be matriculated, with superhuman effort, minimal resources, and those mostly badly managed. Now I'm going to bed, lucky if I don't drop the Joyce group this weekend at the little museum that tries very hard. Money already pissed.