I have seen the trailer for The Half Brother so often that despite the swollen eye of the actor who plays Fred Neilson, despite the father's dapper yellow clothing and his Buick, I haven't the least interest in seeing the saga unfold.
I have a brief note to add about Linked In: Global Media has included me as a participant on health care and I most appreciate it but I'm also not posting anything until I am okay with the site's "lack of relevance" flag. I tend to feel hurt when I feel I'm behaving and then get muzzled, and know other Linked In users remain unsure of their posts, and Bravo, corporate Big Brother has a silent network of people afraid to even be who they are, and I am not talking about deliberate attempts to troll either, and so the spastic dowager will remain mute until I get a sense of the group's concerns.
Look people, I know how the game is played. I feel marginalized and in need of attention and support, (if not supported employment, which is beneath the cost of my education) and most pitches get ignored and I don't pitch often enough and OZY put me in its twitter dragnet last year as a marketing ploy and sent me a link. I clicked the link and saw a dark page and asked myself what I was supposed to do-- and what I want from these heirs to The Grapes of Wrath is a fucking answer. Why put me on a list without paying attention to my incendiary temptations? After putting me on this list why ignore me now? The internet makes it too easy to just click it away. The difference is I make an effort first. I've forgiven and talked with marginalized populations with far worse hyperbole than my own, and essentially, team OZY is a liar. Suburban morale might chastise me with "now spastic you cannot bully".
Watch me. Disabled individuals still capable of gainful activity get rubbed the wrong way being used for a brand that wants everyone to be happy with their own sickle and hammer dignity rationed out in careful parcels while the hierarchies are staring us right in the face, unacknowledged. The game theory I'm playing here isn't all feigned, in other words.
Showing posts with label john steinbeck. Show all posts
Showing posts with label john steinbeck. Show all posts
Monday, June 29, 2015
Monday, December 2, 2013
Easter Parade, Severely
"It is a street where poverty meets ambition." -- John Steinbeck hosting O'Henry adaptations
When I was in 11th grade Steinbeck was a deity. Grapes of Wrath was a masterpiece I never yet repurchased and remember my lessons about the text with some clarity. Seeing Steinbeck projected on digital flat screen narrating O'Henry's sentimental vignettes humanizes him, Dust Bowl reporter extraordinaire, an old man even prior to writing Travels With Charlie. Small microcosms like that, the little episodic revelations, make my thankless task here worth it, not writing to please you, but myself. Steinbeck would smash the ten commandments over my skull due to my learned intolerance. My sister chastised me through her torrential tears. All blacks are not the same, this between bouts of anguish. Her boozer husband had an alleged affair and my eldest niece has MS, and this is why I feel living in the sterile vanguard of Richard Yates, and don't care, but she is still my little sister, with all her sins, terminations. She does not have to deal with the black working class the way I do, Stephanie, my valley girl younger sister who siphons narcissism out of the room, finally settled on being a nurse, the 1400 she owes me gone, but this is sisters. Do I hate her?
No, not akin to how I hate certain classes of activists, but our relationship will henceforth be wary.
Capitalism did not solve my problem with minority exploitation of my disability. Cleaning lady damaged my new interview skirt, tossed some personal effects, and may have filched my food. I am going to take this out on the building manager, Trudy Richardson, also black, whose career seems to benefit from my economic duress in these circumstances. You, no doubt, see my causal links as unfair, (and they are, as Caucasian managers equally benefit from my containment) but I frankly remain indifferent. Black women of certain caste and type victimize me. I've put up with this for a very long time, and fail to envision requisite solutions. If not the custodial staff of this company it will be a future aide on some model via Medicare or Caid. My sister does not have African Americans in her home, rushing about trashing things without asking because their labor is high pressure stress. Furious internal struggle about keeping verbal agreement for second paid visit or not. I fall behind, best of intentions notwithstanding. Complaining to the hustler in charge won't do any good; kicking my landlord's ass keeps me flagged. What a wonderful life.
When I was in 11th grade Steinbeck was a deity. Grapes of Wrath was a masterpiece I never yet repurchased and remember my lessons about the text with some clarity. Seeing Steinbeck projected on digital flat screen narrating O'Henry's sentimental vignettes humanizes him, Dust Bowl reporter extraordinaire, an old man even prior to writing Travels With Charlie. Small microcosms like that, the little episodic revelations, make my thankless task here worth it, not writing to please you, but myself. Steinbeck would smash the ten commandments over my skull due to my learned intolerance. My sister chastised me through her torrential tears. All blacks are not the same, this between bouts of anguish. Her boozer husband had an alleged affair and my eldest niece has MS, and this is why I feel living in the sterile vanguard of Richard Yates, and don't care, but she is still my little sister, with all her sins, terminations. She does not have to deal with the black working class the way I do, Stephanie, my valley girl younger sister who siphons narcissism out of the room, finally settled on being a nurse, the 1400 she owes me gone, but this is sisters. Do I hate her?
No, not akin to how I hate certain classes of activists, but our relationship will henceforth be wary.
Capitalism did not solve my problem with minority exploitation of my disability. Cleaning lady damaged my new interview skirt, tossed some personal effects, and may have filched my food. I am going to take this out on the building manager, Trudy Richardson, also black, whose career seems to benefit from my economic duress in these circumstances. You, no doubt, see my causal links as unfair, (and they are, as Caucasian managers equally benefit from my containment) but I frankly remain indifferent. Black women of certain caste and type victimize me. I've put up with this for a very long time, and fail to envision requisite solutions. If not the custodial staff of this company it will be a future aide on some model via Medicare or Caid. My sister does not have African Americans in her home, rushing about trashing things without asking because their labor is high pressure stress. Furious internal struggle about keeping verbal agreement for second paid visit or not. I fall behind, best of intentions notwithstanding. Complaining to the hustler in charge won't do any good; kicking my landlord's ass keeps me flagged. What a wonderful life.
Thursday, December 27, 2012
Family Annihilator. The Second Call
Just having a friend changes his brain chemistry.-- Robert Downey Jr, endearing drug addict, The Soloist denouement
Late Christmas afternoon I took a lengthy shower that went absolutely perfect in terms of lateral transfer, no bad launches back onto the Quickie sling, and then yesterday, I had a Herculean struggle not to just write my notice and be free of this company, as if my remaining 4k and my ability to flee in the middle of a Nor'easter was an absolute necessity. Nicotine depletion and lack of salmon oil cannot be blamed, and the minute I was able to slide my usual supply of Aeros out of my mail cubicle, I went to sleep feeling absolutely powerless. Strange sort of deterioration and dependency loop, I suppose, lay expert that I am, as the first hit of tobacco worked, and then did not. I wonder what it is I think shall change. Much like the late Steve Jobs, my personal hygiene is a game of touch and go compensation. Always has been, and I am genetically prone to clutter, adverse to consistent tidiness, which earns me the appelation of *dirty cripple* from Geri, the building custodian, a very dark skinned stereotype of the minority domestic caste, which has been slowly being eliminated in the age of Obama. The fact that I stink and in her experience, most of the wheelchairs users here have to fake real grooming, enforces her perception that we're monkeys who need constant henpecking for our good, which in turn reinforces my social fear of censure from black women who will more readily exploit me as an invalid with a target painted on my back. And I believe, at fifty years old, that I can break these chains with analytical journal articles, self-manufactured issues, and one last hoorah out of my once promising, tortured intelligence, illuminating this and that aspect?
Who am I fooling? Myself, like Richard Conte's Eddie? The elderly Baptist ladies have not slid one card under my door, and in 18 years, I always received three on average, so my tantrum over the radiator did, then, have an impact, though yesterday I did not cry out, just set off possible danger from hypertension. Aunt Mary wants me to move in with her after she relocates to Aston to be with her grandchildren, but since Pauline, my ailing and fiercely faithful grandmother, is not quite failing, this is not very possible. I love my mother's sister, really, and she is the last relative on whom I have not ventilated my gills, if you will, unless I bring up the fact that Trudy Richardson's nascent innocence, hired shortly before the building renovations, nearly killed me, in conjunction with my treasure trove of broken promises and liabilities from this closed and segregated subset. If I knew then what I know now. Living with Mary still is not optimal; she and her husband did enough saving us from my father's desire to abandon us during one of my mother's suicidal lapses, and Mary and Methodist husband, with whom there has been repressed friction since the early days of babysitting and first base, deserve their peace. Charitable tyranny is possible you see. I'd settle for a clean garage and a sofa bed, like a bevy of online strangers would enfold me with such compassion. Worth an inane giggle; let's return to the film, shall we?
Hey Rosella. Your tagline won my concession, but I eliminated a grapes of wrath migration long ago. Waves.
Late Christmas afternoon I took a lengthy shower that went absolutely perfect in terms of lateral transfer, no bad launches back onto the Quickie sling, and then yesterday, I had a Herculean struggle not to just write my notice and be free of this company, as if my remaining 4k and my ability to flee in the middle of a Nor'easter was an absolute necessity. Nicotine depletion and lack of salmon oil cannot be blamed, and the minute I was able to slide my usual supply of Aeros out of my mail cubicle, I went to sleep feeling absolutely powerless. Strange sort of deterioration and dependency loop, I suppose, lay expert that I am, as the first hit of tobacco worked, and then did not. I wonder what it is I think shall change. Much like the late Steve Jobs, my personal hygiene is a game of touch and go compensation. Always has been, and I am genetically prone to clutter, adverse to consistent tidiness, which earns me the appelation of *dirty cripple* from Geri, the building custodian, a very dark skinned stereotype of the minority domestic caste, which has been slowly being eliminated in the age of Obama. The fact that I stink and in her experience, most of the wheelchairs users here have to fake real grooming, enforces her perception that we're monkeys who need constant henpecking for our good, which in turn reinforces my social fear of censure from black women who will more readily exploit me as an invalid with a target painted on my back. And I believe, at fifty years old, that I can break these chains with analytical journal articles, self-manufactured issues, and one last hoorah out of my once promising, tortured intelligence, illuminating this and that aspect?
Who am I fooling? Myself, like Richard Conte's Eddie? The elderly Baptist ladies have not slid one card under my door, and in 18 years, I always received three on average, so my tantrum over the radiator did, then, have an impact, though yesterday I did not cry out, just set off possible danger from hypertension. Aunt Mary wants me to move in with her after she relocates to Aston to be with her grandchildren, but since Pauline, my ailing and fiercely faithful grandmother, is not quite failing, this is not very possible. I love my mother's sister, really, and she is the last relative on whom I have not ventilated my gills, if you will, unless I bring up the fact that Trudy Richardson's nascent innocence, hired shortly before the building renovations, nearly killed me, in conjunction with my treasure trove of broken promises and liabilities from this closed and segregated subset. If I knew then what I know now. Living with Mary still is not optimal; she and her husband did enough saving us from my father's desire to abandon us during one of my mother's suicidal lapses, and Mary and Methodist husband, with whom there has been repressed friction since the early days of babysitting and first base, deserve their peace. Charitable tyranny is possible you see. I'd settle for a clean garage and a sofa bed, like a bevy of online strangers would enfold me with such compassion. Worth an inane giggle; let's return to the film, shall we?
Hey Rosella. Your tagline won my concession, but I eliminated a grapes of wrath migration long ago. Waves.
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