The Occupation of Venezuela

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

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

Galley Tear Sheets

"Marriage does not complete you."-- my former glaucoma blind neighbor

 I had the poor bastard on his knees trying to console my inconsolable stream of tears for a domestic life I’ll never have.  (Though this more nuanced Molina love portrait will remain only a synopsis via second hand.) I did not intend to do that and did not turn and play aggressor in the process of his knee on my behalf, with a shrug, as I by mere happenstance remember this post, without enough context in it to recall the necessity of citing Alberto Moravia. Poor Shawn is out of his depth, and out of curiosity I said he could read my posts. And as you can read, he commented with a vernacular appreciation, and I do not care what he says, Joanne you’re not dead! Nor do I care what the crones of Visiting Nurses say about bringing me back. Frank was a living embodiment of what former neighbor Tom advised me in my mid-twenties. Frank was a lack of completion, more than that, an alienation. Shawn is not a completion either but for reasons unknown to me, our simulated intimacy whispers in my ear: this is what it means to be held, this is comfort in another’s strength, and he has to give me time to have my little whirlwind. I have had larger whirlwinds, even derived satisfaction from utilizing pity to manipulate men of more piercing temperament than he, but now I only feel chagrin at my power to bring a softer Hulk to marriage proposal position within the blink of an eye, a boy man who thinks my acquired culinary tastes are akin to sinking in quicksand, and makes me laugh, exclaiming, “I cannot eat this,” despite the fact that I thought seaweed snacks were a popular vogue. My past and present make rather strange bookends: Brandon was one Negro stereotype out of The Birth of A Nation, the aggressor whose lewd violence threatened white purity, and my life itself, and now I am distressing my caretaker of sweeter cocoa hue because I never made a good marriage. Without actually being able to petulantly stomp my foot and fracture solid concrete, my grief nevertheless stands in as a recipe substitution doing exactly that. Don’t I think other people suffer? Sure I do. Stephen Hawking bore his 24 hour maintenance with gentility, and Megan Crowley deserves President Trump’s attention, though I believe her father’s zealous determination to be misguided, which immediately places our relation to each other, corresponding points of impairments, in opposition with my arguments, but I’ll never have Gretchen’s pleasure, probable joy, in the sanctity of her union with Karl. I never wanted children, but the way Gretchen brings her little girl to life has its charm, and I will enjoy one day meeting her daughter, though my budget is momentarily too strained to return to the Virginias—but my point is, I begin to see why wives of such caliber celebrate family, and fear the lash upon lash which has fed a fury such as mine, defying online rules of engagement. I see what it is. When you lose the ability to utilize your toilet on demand because of a predatory mechanic you desperately begged for help, then get back to me, in my past sterile godsend that was September 2017.

Auto Immune Flares

love lies bleeding in my hands-- the other British faggot of whom I've time honored conflicted ambivalence

I can barely remember H.G. Wells’ The Invisible Man. Read long ago as a teen not so specious then as to transpose it with Ellison’s Invisible Man, yet specious enough now to tell you they interlock, the concrete superficial suspense tale the film industry cannot resist revising on a continuous basis, and the powerful novel by Ellison which abrogates racial identity. A recent rendition written by Henderson attempts to elevate Wells’ science fiction with some of Ellison’s stark eloquence of erasure, perhaps asking us to reconsider scientific endeavor and zealous overkill. Henderson manages canonical faith to the original character in his upgrade, giving Griffith a dead son whom the doomed scientist believes was butchered by a former student, and we are given Griffith’s flashback of what he believes occurred with only circumstantial evidence, as he drinks his formula, acquires Hodgkin’s disease, descends into madness. I am not sure why the remake was made, as I respect my stepmother’s caretaker enough to tell her Louise may have purchased her last medical drama, curious thing, social media. I liked this woman when she disposed of my filthy mattress, and Facebook has given me hints about her emotional instability. I like her less, and way way back in archives, before Google dangled a suspension threat, I drew more than 30 page views in my matter of fact caustic bite. If she dies things will change. Social intelligence gawked at the circumspect nature of my developmental mindset. The caretaker doesn’t realize there is little love lost between me and Louise, with her deadly rheumatoid arthritis and her caustic mouth, complaining to me about my father’s impotence, stigmatizing my brother, saying I should be put away. Her son’s willingness to slash her tires, while an intimidating expression of rage, is an act I comprehend, but what pisses me off is my father subsumes his life like a dog for a sick and florid catty woman, always unpleasant and miserable, who should have been allowed to die three years ago, at least, while I hang like a chad, a consequence of my own obstinance. I did this to me, moving to bad neighborhoods in a sterile city, and now my mother’s nursing school colleague sleeps in hospice, younger sister and I in a truce of purveyed necessities, making a pun only I understand from one of Jerry’s workshop pieces. Think plague. Stephanie and I worry about Dad, the toll on poppa, poor poppa, and I have maybe a day or so left with the Muslim who is wiping my ass. How can I empathize Ellison and label myself his antithesis? A racist is as much reduced as those she stereotypes. You can all go fuck yourselves, because I am still well enough to live instead of urinating Depends, weary of the eschatology dynamic. Yes, death is a part of life, unless you’re a ghoul like Peter Thiel, pulverizing Nick Denton, British nigger lover who’d remove my malicious rhetoric.

Mating Calls

I used to call this Hewlett Packard the old queen, and remain amazed it still works, and that I am not quite insane, but suppose we're getting there, aren't we? All my time, productivity, but I guess it does not matter. I could have worked some, on my Smith Corona. The disk drive for it failed a long time ago, but it still works in both draft mode, with small DOS screen, and as a typewriter, but I didn't move a muscle, barely read, and have to reinstall office, and then see what this latest fuckwit managed to save from the Toshiba, but I cannot win, can I? Just this much ahead on my debt, and I had to waste what little credit I have on a pc tech who has his own ass in arrears. It doesn't take much for many of us to become nothing once again, that quickly, not being savvy enough, like all off you, to just download office for free. 

I am being abused by a relatively new tenant named Dominic. I think he is Italian. He is stupid and belligerent, and I am going to have to file a harassment complaint, which will get me a transfer, but I do not know how much worse despair can get: I am near the end of what little functional independence I have, and the story of my adult life, from the age of 23 forward, is abuse in buildings managed by this senior living corporation. I feel perfectly justified in engaging in terroristic violence against Presbyterian Homes. Can I? No. Would I? Yes, so by all means, report me if you wish, but their contract with HUD needs to be severed.

33 years of my life, and no, I can not fault traditional academic instructors, even though Jerry was right. I should have never transferred to the city. But I had no idea Philadelphia was going to pulverize me to the extent it has. Dominic's issue? Who knows. He is sick, uncouth, thinks he is more street wise than he is, and singled me out, I can only surmise, because the word on me is that I am a skeevy loudmouth. He looks like my Uncle Thomas's more brutish younger brother, bald with a black grey  ring of hair just above the ear. I do not care that he doesn't like me. It is the public aggression he displays. Taking it from niggers is one thing, but a Broad Street bully is another, and the company is going to get waves because he is interfering in my ability to do normal things in public. Talk on the phone, or with the technician. It is impossible for him to ignore me, I mean impossible, and if I drag the police into it, what can they do? A restraining order isn't going to get a mentally ill cancer patient to cease and desist. 33 years, and I still believe I can be competitive in the marketplace.

I am literally ready to roll out the damn door and find a place to die, and surely, I have the strength I have to carry like Swarzenegger, to pull myself up despite a neutron star barbel on my sternum. I am not far away from threatening this bastard's life. It is a little more than that. Online access vulnerability is nearly as crippling as my brain damage. Since I sustain few true friendships, let alone able to consider myself salable to Viagra men, I have no idea what keeps me alive. Curiously, however, my commode transfers are more confident, as if I'm actually returning to work.

Irma's Vagaries In the Ligaments

She tried to make them fly.-- the author

When the dowager was parked at her Widener University desk, much as she is now, in a more dilapidated fashion, still sitting at Tom Reid's fob off hand painted excuse of a desk which should have been traded in long ago, she pounded out an angry story about a home invasion with a female victim who turned the tables on her attacker. The exact date of the story's creation is beyond memory, though it must have been in my later semesters, around 1985. It is a revenge fantasy, far more violent than the home invasion I defeated-- and that defeat really hinged on Brandon's conscience. It is difficult for me to type his name, but as I have always been a deft reader of character, he was as much afraid of what he was doing as I was in fear of my life, and this, really, aside from not being desperate enough to use an old Everest & Jennings power chair, motor pulley threaded to the back wheel with a rubber trim. I do not have the exact term for it, but it was designed much like a bicycle chain links the pedal rotary to the back tire. I was afraid, if I had tried to hurt him, that he'd topple me over or worse. Once he dragged me to my bedroom, Oliver following, that was a trigger. I fought, screamed, won, and in fact, I was screaming with such ferocity I did not realize I was the victor. My rapid, brutal little piece was never meant to anticipate my rather languorous spiral of a brutal womanhood.

During the blizzard of 1996, my landline phone rang in the dead of winter with a female editor asking if the piece was still available. 11 years, and I get a call in a blizzard, with no food in the kitchenette, to be queried by an editor of Blood & Flesh. She liked how I depicted violence against women, and then, in one of those quirks of literary endeavor, this same female editor postcarded that the team had decided to print its last issue and changed her mind, which has seemingly cursed this piece for life. I cannot get rid of it, and if I revise it to any substantial degree, then it becomes an old woman's makeover, as opposed to a university student's subconscious realization that she was a lifelong target of misogynist hatred. Writing it, strange as this may sound, was an interior mechanism to sublimate my undercurrent of hate for Jerry. I know this isn't fair, and the man saw something in me he encouraged to succeed, but my aggrandizement of his intellectual mania had a latent hostility attached to it, assigning blame to the blameless. It wasn't this unfortunate instructor's job to protect me from my mother's abuses--kill her lovers or my stepfather, just as my father, too, never stepped in to eliminate the heinous savagery embedded in my family history:

Opinion | Something is seriously off about this president https://t.co/iyFk6DEfta

— Jennifer Rubin (@JRubinBlogger) September 4, 2017

And if this is, psychologically, what I am searching for in Trump's belligerence, I suppose I am bound to be disappointed: I do agree with his critics that he has a propensity to diminish his supporters, like Priebus, and I have no idea why Sessions became a target of the mogul's ire. I do not track Sessions with the same avidity I have paid to other attorney generals, and cannot offer anything about his apparent retrenchment of Order, with capital O, but he had a reason to recuse himself from Probe Russia, which, at the end of the day, will be more or less reveal itself as dirty money, and big deal. I have been a good girl most of my life, but a Mexican lawyer and my building manager want my head on a platter because I am weary of institutional corruption corroding my soul with ferrous iron, but I really do not read some of El Presidente's twitter rhetoric the way Rubin or his other prominent detractors do, particularly when it comes to North Korea. The world cannot be held hostage by Kim Jong Un's diseased xenophobic maneuvers forever, even if war in the South Pacific will invariably be a game changer. We wouldn't be able to compartmentalize it as easily as Afghanistan, and depending on how it happens, if it happens, the health of many a body politic is at risk, while I calculate how to give notice as a form of sanity, teaching minorities a lesson about illegal collusion, at my expense.

Strategic Retreat

As the lunacy of my non-compliance continues toward the overwhelming crisis of self-enforced eviction-- what, exactly, do I expect to happen without access to electricity and toiletries? Nothing beneficial-- I'll pull a shuttlecock and actually post about a partial or legally blind content creator from the ewe mentality of Niume-land and its troubles. I've written before I have very little to say about the intersection between art therapy and aspiring disabled individuals in the fine arts, and I have, at best, a nominal command of art criticism, but those of you without chronic pain want this, positive attitude effusive, sympathetic ecology appreciation, and would prefer I turn the rudder, assert that Oscar Perez has an eye for the harmony of contemplating the environment. Done.

Certain things don't translate on web sites that well, and traditional portraiture, whether paint or still frame, is one. Digital pictures cheat the aesthetic appreciation for which our eyes, symmetric and concentrated, like all primates, were designed. Oscar followed me and I followed back, and barely hear a peep out of him, picked up a slightly more centered perception of him on Virily, where I've remained relatively quiet. I hold happiness and contentment suspect, and believe those inclined to genius normally do, and, in affinity with my mentor, Jerry, I do not like crowds, though my twitter presence escalates, at least on the benevolence of the gatekeepers.

Do you want me to tell you what will happen if I do not evacuate myself from Presby? I did not think so, but I shall, just the same, release my inner militant. She will ensure a tragedy occurs if she doesn't get out. The lack of physical ability to fight is irrelevant in this regard.

I came up with the idea of a subset essay at least, whether or not for my collection, of something like "The Jerry Memoirs," as my bondage to his memory fades, and he is a wisp of an old man on a stick. I dug up his 2012 reading on YouTube. Same old McGuire, and yes, I expected, for him, some sort of expansiveness, instead of a parody of his forceful 40's. I do not know yet, but corrected my self-awareness. I attached myself to him out of shared conceit. If he was the best Shakespearean on the east coast, I was going to be SuperCripple, if this is easy enough for mass mindsets to grasp. The late entry 19 year old needed a piece of that ego, and latched, however unconsciously intuited. I believed that he could spare me a condemned fate, and had I been more dispassionate, I might have been right, but he ignited my cunt, as reductive as that is on end note.

Ewe's Juglar

I feel like Upton Sinclair foisting the Federal Meat Inspection Act on her own vernacular. All I need to do is play the pedestrian and my social media rating jumps, and then all I have to do is spit vitriol and subsequently ignore it to console myself. I've learned not to make too much of the automated accordion by now, but I have not changed, and if the building manager had a popular online account, she'd tell you that. Libertarian embrace has made me ferocious, but, to sound like the ghost of Deng, there are only so many ways to slay the cat: and I am not interested in "making a scene" on niume. I have virtually next to nothing against the platform, and would have bolted it three weeks ago if they had mailed me an automated password boot. My issue is with the model, not the people running it, or the users, and this is Google's fault. The Godmother glares at search giant, round 2.1. I let Kwale Powerhouse go because he was a bit too eager to exploit me, and this is what I've learned. Blacks use race to hurt the disabled, yet I ain't allowed to say certain truths without the online world choking on a wingbone (rolls eyes). This is why I am angry with Jerry at a deeper level. I bought his intellectual argument, and it was as much a crock as any conservative hypocrisy. Might as well mention it now and perhaps refine later, but I missed O'Neal's self-pity, so self-evident on Tavis, in his younger self in Hill's genre driven experiment. If Walter Hill knew what thesis I was building on his film, he'd say "girl, pretentious snit is a generous charge," and he'd no doubt be right, but I see what I see, beat slow and steady. I have nothing against Ryan O'Neal; he was the romantic lead who shaped my youth, and recognition notwithstanding, his weariness and mine converge at many points. My ambivalence about him doesn't desire pillage: I care too much about my product, but I don't care about his Sunset Boulevard  melodrama. I care about his creative legacy, the output, biding my time to email his publicist again. He is going to be gone soon, and I need him to let me in, just a bit. Perhaps he dislikes Walter and doesn't want journos on the scent.

Arc of Nitrate Decomposition

Let us return to Professor Phillips momentarily, as the representative teacher novelist and vignette author. My first exposure to Jayne Anne was in an 1983 anthology, Matters of Life and Death. I believe this exposure presented before Jerry sent me trotting after Black Tickets, of which I can recall virtually nothing. "Home" is a strong short story and made a strong impression, but it embodies all of Jayne Anne's weaknesses, a penchant for abstraction, emotional coolness, the clipped mildly vicious bite of women in her social class. It points to her lack of sustaining power as a novelist. I blinded myself to it out of sexual frustration and envy, dangerous enough to be generative of bisexual anxiety, despite the fact I never had a sexual fantasy where oral orgasm involved a lithe and more biologically attractive woman making me the masochistic bitch begging in submission, all games, no glory. Deep enough for you? If so, why am I pushing this?

I may not literally die leaving Riverside section 202 after 24 years of hostility and fear. As a practical matter, whatever I do, first responders would be forced to remove me if I get stranded: I am cognizant this expedites what I've seen Presby do to residents for years, and years, since I was 23, but I just can't take it anymore, and I am hoping I am just clever enough to evade the barbarity Inglis House represents. My online voice, however, will not be what it was, so I'm pulling the knives, pressing the most dangerous triggers which usually ends lives of lesbian suckling gluttony, and am capable of a rather close distinction between a feminine sexual threat which would not lead to positive satiation, because the stark existential reality is, I could never be the Jayne Anne whose chic reticence appeals to a man of breeding, the cosmopolitan urbanite I always longed for: her so so achievements as the modern southern female will fade, because it is the standard, literary milk weed that passes for expression. She is more teacher than writer who makes the blood vibrate, and it is the women who reject teaching whose legacy is the most powerful in literary endeavor.

Despite the catastrophe before me, I am putting the strongest parts of my voice together, the Joanne poet who closed the issue of Oxford Magazine Jayne Anne opened. She aspired to the voice of angels. I intimated Custer's Last Stand can be attributable to the modern consumer economy of appliances like microwaves, much more complex in condemnation. I regret my letter to her publisher, forget what the fizz amounted to, but don't regret the torsion of my own self-deception. The cry that I too wanted a lithe eroticism, that I too wanted the power of God's creation in my vibrant woman's vessel, and was denied. Let's see who shall stand the test of time. The visiting professor or spastic survivor of American genocide.

Digressing Clinical Aspects

I just wanted to have a dinner party.-- Meryl Streep keeping abreast of ebullient eschatology

Concentrated dramatic creativity can be detrimental; to iterate it once again, the screen adaptation of Cunningham's derivative novel, The Hours, ripped a hole in my chest, and I had to restrain myself from screaming in email. At Cunningham's publisher, or the author, in much the same way I danced on the griddle of hard copy fan mail for Jayne Anne Phillips, before I concluded, in my maturity, that she wasn't a movement author for me, so much as a secondary iconic figure to cling to Jerry McGuire, which in its own way, is me being rather merciless. Was Phillips sexually attractive in her Poets & Writers heyday? Sure, I am not entirely immune to MacLaine's discovery in The Children's Hour, but neither does it mean I have kd lang's sexual fantasies. I do not gurgle over the breast nipple of which I was deprived. It has never gotten me off. I'm simply so masochistic, and in so much pain, that feminine sensuality opens vulnerability-- but I can never read Cunningham, and have to stay away from the film. It is too intense, however much I am the same.

I am not in particularly good shape. "So? What do you want us to say, go get joy juice." Doing a nice piece on twitter's problems, however, still makes me inexplicably lively, as I believe social media's herd mentality is not always beneficent. I am not here to get hyped, or win popularity contests. I am not Wallace either, but I perceive the price he paid for his laser lens elocution, and I am such a lesser, spastic figure.

Pleurisy Lamps

darkness darkness, be my friend

Your favorite dowager never cared much for the British invasion, outside of Elton. I still love the music and lyrics of the pianist and Taupin. That cannot be excised. And I personally believe that Captain Fantastic is a masterpiece equal to any other musical genre, but regrettably, I have to close the valve on EJ's seductive fluidity. It is not so much the politics of culture wars. I knew the entertainer was homosexual when I was 13, on the ward, clinging to my sole pop idol. Today, at 54, I'm psychologically too brittle for the pathos of the duo's best work: "I used to know this old scarecrow," as an obese New Yorker I hung with, intermittently, remarked, is a ballad to determine movement toward cessation as well as catharsis. I can no longer let myself go, for the chords or the falsetto the geek "can no longer do." And I have to keep my distance not to get abusive with old faggy. Just the way it is. But The Stones? People who idolize Mick and Keith are sorry, shriveled souls. Scorsese and I would grimace at each other across our egos, if I had access to  him. We'd quarrel, Martin and I, which I acknowledge is idiosyncratic, given the shared heritage. He is a great artist, Martin, but I'd eviscerate him with pleasure. The Rolling Stones aren't even worth the effort of fending off my narcissism, my terror of losing control of my life. I took a NSAID, to clear some hay fever, and feel easier, avoiding my hard work despite looming deadlines. 
I will not, under any circumstances, go back to a home for cripples. I will use violence, and intense suffering, to avoid it, even if conservatives like Toomey feel that my intelligence will need to accept it, eventually, I will not, and instead force my death, whatever my sin against Catholicism in so doing. or even as a secular breach. Suicide is tough, difficult. Not even depression truly strives for it, within eroding positive love of life, but there are worse things, and institutions like Inglis House are vestiges of fascism we accept as medically necessary. However brutal. I do not truly know if such homes are legitimate forms of capitalism as Adam Smith envisioned the economic system, but it is one area where I reject it, ruthlessly. People are better off dead, whether or not they feel clinging to life under such regimented circumstances is their choice. Euthanasia can be equally as profitable, and though I mock bowl headed junkets like Brian Jones, illustrating my conservative streak against addiction's gleeful destruction, an overdose is a bright and shiny little glory against such suffering I case managed and lived as a little girl. If I have to incite a criminal act against certain cruel minorities lobbing hate crimes with impunity, so be it. I will not go back, and will die on my feet. I don't understand your bipedal rhythm, and cannot convey that lack to you: my dream persona races wind and leaves on wheels, or always looks up at her father, dead grandmother, fat slut of a mother's tortured soul. Intellectually, I get the mechanics, one foot in front of the other, the efficiency of two legs, but even on crutches, walking into class hoping that Jerry would note the distinction, walking is not part of my innate wiring. Perhaps that makes me diabolically clever, clever enough to be stunning, and within this, lies an embedded rationale for eugenics. Another day.

Decline, Decant, Trip The Steel Grab Bars

For America's giant, dinosaurlike economy — with its small, wealthy head; its big, fat middle; and its long low-income tail — there is a tried-and-tested response to a change in the weather. -- Niall Ferguson

Of all the universities with which I’ve been affiliated, I have no direct connection to Drexel, other than my relatives, who have administrative contracts with the campus, and brief gunrunner visits, dashing my long deceased P-200 to their computer service outlet, and of all the city’s big campuses, Drexel’s is the most utilitarian, but not in the aspirational sense, in its combination of sienna brick-face masonry and steel cordoned pathways, its architecture is unpleasant, and that it seems to have induced, if not sanctioned, George Ciccariello-Maher's behavior is only further evidence of institutional authority erosion. Outstanding teacher my ass. The man is an obnoxious twit who should have thought about his responsibility as a faculty member before he tanked himself in social media’s septic refuse. Jerry was dismissed from Widener for similar reasons, but that was in house, and didn’t become a Reaganite pet peeve as Maher did with Fox.

Professors shouldn’t receive threats for insolence, but one can comprehend backlash provoked by such irresponsible sarcasm. I rode in on the tail end of the initial incident, and after Twitter allowed me to sample his account, I wondered about doctorate degree valuation. Trump may have polarized the country, but he has been an urban celebrity for more than 20 years, elected by those, like myself, never given air by media outlets. Snark by academics in political science, underappreciated, without the lucre of a television deal, aren’t rectifying the wounds the president has caused through scalding barbs of insensitivity.

Caramel Coated Sponges

My concern over Ciccariello isn't entirely hypocritical. I have, perhaps legitimately, felt the wrath of the left in my psychic bonding with Christopher Dorner, Google received abuse host reports, as Google does, and threatened to disrupt my ability to use their host services, with skittish assurances that "no content would be deleted". I did want Christopher Dorner to win in his battle with the LA police, and I wasn't being satirical. Sometimes I am, but not while this man was alive. Did I want him to murder his Captain's daughter? No, and his taunts on that officer's message service foretold the endgame of Dorner's agony, of which I'm envious, while some of you are thinking you need more than lithium.

Fair game, after a lifetime of torture and abuse; if an instructor like Ciccariello can be flippant on social media, as I sometimes am, about politically destructive capacities we're taught to take seriously, even in mitigating bitterness, we've got problems, and I am definitely a contributor. I cannot castigate Ciccariello. I'm not outraged. I don't believe he should be threatened, but he was more stupid than judicious in taunting social media to bite him. It is dumb. With Jerry McGuire, it was only internal, and I wasn't a witness, only the gatherer of anecdotal defiance. The only thing roaring in my ears, was this man, who had a gift, that of making me forget my horribly contorted flesh, had been fired. I was about 21ish, and went into the ladies room, curiously devoid of trannies, unless my broken body was a stand in to gender identity challenges, and howled. I kicked the stalls, burst into tears, and finally went back to class to collect my paper. He was wearing a checkered picnic cloth shirt, my eyes were bloodshot, but he acted as if everything was normal. If he had not, perhaps I would not be in the inner city destroying myself because my internal insurrectionist is driven by hate. 
I am here because my emotional tumult over this man was a boomerang, a fellow now almost like one of Yeats skeletons on a stick, and I went a boom a rang rang, and became a vile bigot. I keep asking myself what it was, why this man. And concede everyone else was right, normal girls aren't driven by such intense compulsion. My answer is the sexual molestation I received at the hands of my mother's men: I saw it in Jerry, and what I saw, I wanted to be vanquished by; that level of hate is intense.

Echoes of Daniel

"I've done thousands of interviews!", the little big man, on my provocation

Somehow, I knew The Washington Post would produce this column on Angela Merkel, even if I lacked the requisite knowledge of Stelzenmuller and Brookings Institution Senior Fellows. Progressives, mothers, women, need assurance even while their worries are stoked, and I've written posts in the past that Merkel has, essentially, reconstituted German imperial ambitions which the Third Reich strove for, and had Hitler defeated the British, we might be in exactly the same place. 

If you'd like evidence that lithium might have a beneficial, mitigating effect on my dead brain tissue, my quarrel with Schneider in or around 2009 might offer proof I am in denial: when I cut myself off from his Cosmoetica site I thought I basically destroyed my career, and literally hid in the kitchenette, literally, cowering as if Dan and his wife were brain bugs about to suck my bodily fluids into a husk, and telephoned Marie in tears. The laity doesn't do what I did, even to B personalities, and here we are, perhaps my journalism days comparatively over. I don't know, not for sure, though it is harder to get paid, harder still to get prominent, and it isn't that Schneider is stupid, or doesn't have a point or two. I simply hated him, and didn't have the deviance to finesse it, play the facile invalid, take what opportunities I could. 

He isn't wrong about creative writing complacency, that it is coprocephalic. I came up in it's culture as an indigent poet starving to death offside Temple's campus, and going down in it through the firewall of Submittable fees, and don't have time to read it all, even if I wanted to put on liberal costumes to get laid. The journals aren't commercial products because heaven forbid students learn how to sell a marketable product. Would it have helped me in the eighties? No. Jerry was the Irish atheist Christ, and Professor Clark was beloved Apostle Thomas, and I was Janis, flaming out on angel dust for all that I truly thought about the future, and now I am megalomaniac enough to believe I can penetrate access to Bannon for vengeance, burying my hatchet in the rabbit hole that I voted for Trump the motherfucker over more of the same subsistence under the left. As much trauma as Diamond Park's location inflicted on me, I was still young, resilient, believed I could succeed, did, until I let the walls come tumbling, and never truly resurfaced. I'm hanging by my fingernails, actually pleading in my soul to threaten Riverside's manager in my notice, storming off, dead of winter in the bend, only my hellish intestines keeping me on the bit. Anything I can do to constrict CILS even further, like an anaconda, I'm going to do. The snake kills that way by design, atavistic. Revenge, that denotes a great deal of emotional involvement. 

Essence of a Pornographic Interlude

I've always been something of a political animal in my work, and surmise now that this should have led me towards a journalistic concentration earlier than it did, but this was the fault of my iconic sensual needs focusing on instructors, culminating in my cleaving to rock star professor, which Jerry would have had directed elsewhere for a considerable sum. It isn't just that I nearly hate the old man now for hormonal intellectual overkill for which I was at fault. He warned me more than once, and I rankle over that as well, that he was astute enough to read my future anguish in the making. We'll never see each other again, he and I, but if we did, even if our aging appearance shocked each other, I'd have to struggle with a violent impulse to rage at him furiously, then to fall at his feet in florid pink stricken grief. He and John Tassoni, I have to admit, have the ability to trigger me to that level of provocation.

I've fought it all my life, and in biological dissolution that intensity may lift to expose my vanquished identity, the ultimate facade, as it were, but there it is. Conversely, if McGuire had slept with me, he would have been diminished, perhaps even relegated to stepfather pond scum. This relates to picking up my battlements and returning to pitching. My failure with Jeffrey Tucker's baby led to a small retreat: I did not procrastinate. I researched, and I still fell splat on my face, motivated but bit by digression, unwittingly arguing with Niall. If I had communicated this problem to Jeffrey beforehand I'm not sure my topic could have been saved, but I'm still sulking. I know I've been better than that, but my confidence took a hit; perhaps I'll never recalibrate.

I've picked myself up, but cannot fail the next time I get a green light, emerging, but busying myself with literary journal culture which I now find wearisome. Liberals think I'm still with the left when they access my creative output. Hardliners like Toomey mistrust me, and Tony's CFO jumped ship after telling me what a great humanist his boss is, but I do not take Murphy's bailout personally. On the commercial level, I am one of Puzo's soldiers, who will die for her Don, and most women of child rearing age rightly see this as a threat to domestic tranquility. In the right conditions, going down like a good soldier fulfills me because I couldn't find the thunder in the other to live for, and told Erik's passive caretaker, during Indian summer, that I'd break her transsexual's neck, after giving Erik the finger. His nanny was terribly pained; I have not seen Erik or Jimmi or their servile lout Chris since, more overjoyed than remorseful. Resolved to enter a poetry contest at the last minute even though I cannot afford it, then I have to get back on the circuit, and fight to rematriculate. I was not engaging in hyperbole when I tweeted to the President Elect I wanted an appointment to the National Council on Disability. Some of you get payback.

Let me add one thing about Tony Stiles. He may or may not understand me, and he and I may not always agree with each other, but my loyalty to the man is unswerving, because he found me and linked to me of his own accord. I prefer radio as my medium, and need a new system, and then would love to hear his show, promote him when he's right. That is as close as I get to fundamental ideology.

And if I'm having bodily wound sex with Ken Wahl in my head, to resurrect my full throttle, as long as it doesn't take water in the bow, hey.

Contact Imports and the fall of Usher

And I know that I'll never be free/
As long as I'm a ghost you cannot see, Lightfoot's ballad, even if it's too glaringly obvious.

I may have noticed, from my slow and grudging LinkedIn activation, where I've been basically silent, except to tell Tom Earle that I wasn't going to stop fighting the syndicate, which finally relocated again-- they do that-- that Jerry's email was culled by accident for a connect prompt. I had a choice to make in 07 about contacting him at all, and I did it anyway. Life is short, and logarithms have little idea about the follies which stain our souls. I don't want his forgiveness, nor an apologia about my likely matriculation. Others besides Jerry told me I might enjoy teaching, but I'm no longer well enough, and was too frail from the start for students, regardless of their level, though I was a decent tutor. I can't just say, politely, "hi old man, how is Susan?" after I've been wiping his ass and mine off the floor for the last eight years, but nevertheless, seeing his social media account is a needle poke in the balloon. I just logged on to research my strange disjunctive part eulogy for my failure with my ex the deceased Frankie and the failed journalist in me screaming for a coffee article. Since everyone else writes about coffee I want to write about coffee and I've been beating my cranium with a switch for many years, how to sell a damn pitch resting on what everyone else says about the coffee bean, fungus, the crap about the 500 million franchises on the east coast alone? (This is spastic flipping out being civil, and this is the state of my unquenchable anger this morning.) If I do not find a safe way to vacate landlord, I'm dead; fighting a speculative shelter shiv seems tame, comparatively.

Bearing Witness

The graduate student who had a major crush on Ward liked me for myself; she was kind to me in an authentic way that was better for me then my too tight cleaving to my former best friend, Susan Davison. Susie-- I made Sue, and then her sister, live for me, because I did not really venture forth and take risks. With B---, the graduate, it was of a gentler tenor of mutual appreciation, and I got caught in the middle, between her and my philosophy professor, because she and I bonded, and she got hurt, with Ward and his open marriage rationalizations. I am not saying anything illegal occurred. B--- was of age, but I became the shoulder on whom she wept, and for that, I cannot forgive the not so spectacular instructor at Widener in his sinecured cocoon. Living his theories was a convenience which disregarded young adults like B--- and I were stupid. Though I no longer wear it, I still have the beige windbreaker she gave me before she departed. She had to go back, as she fell in love with Ward. I knew myself better. I was saturated with Jerry, besotted, obsessed in an unhealthy and dangerous manner. He and I are both circling the drain and I'm still writing it, flavors diminished as they may be, but I knew it was closer to intellectual rape as opposed to being Fallen, as B--- had fallen into a desire David was irresponsible to encourage, and I cannot forgive him. In anger, forgetting my rancor toward John for not seeing the woman I wanted to be for him, I told him in anger what Ward had wrought, and Tassoni and I were not so dissimilar in indignation. Tassoni threatened to go to the tenure committee. I attempted to dissuade him as I did not want to be involved and the woman was my friend. What happened after that?

John heads his own department in Ohio. I am a genocide survivor who pisses off Poets & Writers, the philosopher has a goatee, his protege an unfinished rite of passage, three television series rolled into one.

Moral Dilemmas in Putrefaction

Even as recently as five years ago, when I in fact just started posting, not so inadvertently discovering affinities with spree killers, the thought that Jayne Anne was not my intellectual superior would have been unthinkable, and that, primarily, because this bastard was a personal deity, and while this may be categorically unfair to southern women writers who only mildly differentiate themselves from urban northeasters, Miss Phillips has systematically left me unimpressed, and I've contemplated removing her from my small mounties of rage on twitter, where she has neither responded, nor blocked me, my ambivalence neither here nor there toward our respective twilights,  unlike Poets and Writers, which blocked me for writing stigmatize in capitals after they invited suburban mermaids to chorus with them at a poetry reading. I may have reacted and tweeted inappropriately about how conformist the organization has become since its early days, but they are the ones being intransigent now, not I.

I have not been rude to Miss Phillips, and retain yet a slight trance of deference in my responses to her normative academic liberalism, but what I read in her, even as a disabled woman who personalizes on the basis of an effervescent clinging, is a white Southern woman who's used up, running the standard leftist treadmill we all know. This is a great deal to masticate in what amounts to a simple binary choice in the complexity of computer binary code, or is it something else, like a disabled woman betrayed by cosmetics? 

Mince Meat, Hytonia Convulsed The Hard Way

Blow me down with a holiday breeze: A PAYING EDITOR JUST SAID YES!
I should go berserk in agony more often, hey Ann? Specifically addressing Ann Tran as a colleague here. Let's discuss my particular conjecture as it pertains to homoerotic elevation.

I have made much in previous posts to my link with Ms Phillips. It both excites and arouses me that she and I share a byline. In my more obscure antipodes, I published a poem dedicated to her called "fortissimo" which is both sexually competitive and dangerously suggestive of foreplay, and not being afraid to challenge myself, I did so, not interested in her sexually, but envious, and perhaps we've been around this bend before, but exactly what am I envious of, other than her privilege of projecting a state of lithe? To be totally, unsparing and uncompromising, did I elevate Phillips because Jerry, whom I deified, recommended I read Black Tickets? It has been so long I only remember liking this early collection as a series of vignettes, and repurchased an e -copy however long ago, two years, despite her relative teaching security against my ironclad welfare death spiral, or does her skill merit my admiration, her accomplished, rural to urbane transference? Last I investigated, she had a stint at Princeton. I have no idea if she has received my ancient fan mail, but where does all this birthday cake icing come from? Machine Dreams lags. I never finished it. Fast Lanes, so what?

This means, to my shock, that the aesthetic sensibilities of dogged eared Shakespeareans isn't always absolutely on the mark. Why exactly then did I deify Jerry so blindly? To hide, not push myself, because I was afraid of giving in to the lesbians who have hit on me, with the mixed race cellulose inner city sow who couldn't keep her paws to herself being the most sordid? I did reject her, violently, and what she did not not arouse or liberate me. I survived. The Hollywood studio system may have long had a celluloid closet, which we'll mine later, as a documentary, but the Screen Writers Guild has yet to really apply itself to the homily woman, the Georgy Girl who snares the obviously appalled James Mason who realizes what he traded in order to be the brow beaten husband. There are no stories out there for us, not really. Occasional cop show. 

Bearers of A Better Age

I finally slipped it on the proper finger, and of course it fit perfectly.-- Michael Grant

By the time we reach a certain age, stories of our mortal arcs become routine: you read one book about a wife watching the husband she lost to cancer lose his hair to chemotherapy, and the only difference a surgeon like Atu Gawande interjects, aside from sub-continent extraction, is the reminder that physicians are just as fallible as the patients they're killing. In this sense, Bill Lyon's arc of decline is something a half century of hearing it may buck. Alzheimer's is not Joanne Woodward's made for television movie. It is my mother's father yelling at me "You have to drive the van!" translating into you have to get ready for Paratransit.

But my grandfather was basically dead that evening. His son, Louis, my godfather, would have been better off shooting his dad in the backyard the day after the holiday. I emailed Mr. Lyon about this yesterday, telling him I couldn't comfort him and hoped it went easier on him than my grandfather. We can take his clinical shrinking and superimpose it into the loss of what being a newspaper man means. It means you searched for Lyon's columns, it means that he represented the working class voice of Philadelphia to a fine standard of excellence, and his example represents what I also reasonably hoped for.

What would you say? That I should have recognized I couldn't handle the severity of my emotional pain, much like my former clients, without committing myself to a lifelong psychiatric battle? I need not remind you, even when I was Jerry's student, being denied her father figure copulation, I had university counselors trying to ease my morbidity by telling me it was "an existential funk". I was younger, more resilient, still able to repress the humiliation which had not yet reached the toxicity of North Philadelphia. The disability center, as it exists today, doesn't know which voice mail to transfer me to, and the fact that Erik's day guy makes me feel unsafe isn't a joke. I have no where else to go, the more functional seniors at Riverside never wanted me here. I never wanted to live here in the first place. Just because Chris isn't going to kill me, I should not be subjected to his belligerent, hostile behavior.

Ideology, too, goes flatline at this point.

Rainy Day Parade

"He was an anarchist, like all artists."-- Georges Simenon, adapted

You Before Me appears to be a bright and vivacious vehicle, witty with repartee, an icing on the cake of an impossible romantic fantasy, and there is nothing wrong with it, these idealized fairy tales. They triumph, like many an inspirational disability film before it. The studio system wants us to believe such exotic adaptations work, like King Kong and the blond Valkyrie, a forbidden love which has to be destroyed, or create an unequal level of sacrifice. In the litany of dirty laundry secrets, true quadriplegics drool for fully functional ambulatory mates, and even though I was never going to give you this biographical etude, mostly out of embarrassment, when I was 28 I met a 43 year old man who was as near a spitting image of the Professor Jerry McGuire--

will she shut the fuck up when the man finally dies, or what?

and the Spitting Image and I went on a date, pathetic lonely souls, one with ferrets, and I let my Jewish student dentist David Briller talk me out of the Spitting Image, mainly because I was panicking about fucking Ferret Man-- although it might have done some good, or maybe he would have done me a favor and beat me to death before I had to absorb so much more trauma. I cannot judge. I snipped the snip in a hasty telephone call, felt bad, and when I told a blind girlfriend about the ferrets, "he's lonely," she mused, but as a long lasting relationship, I know without knowing, it would have been doomed, and turned the Jewish David Briller into oral nuclear erotica instead. Yes really. My problem being I never met a disabled man my equal.

Crip ambulatory relationships exist, but there is often a significant level of pathology involved, on one side or the other, usually women willing to go without orgasm, since for some it is overrated, but there is no real marriage which ever bridges the gap, which is why Trump's mocking of Serge Kovaleski did us a favor, exposing the true sentiment the majority feel, when it isn't outright disdain. I wanted to iterate this trajectory out of the way before returning to Bonjour Tristesse as an important cross over link. Just trust me on that.