"Now I know, that rose trees never grow in New York City."-- Elton John
And
now, of a sudden, I’ve found my way back into Captain Fantastic, the greatest English speaking musical album of
all the world, which might not have come into existence if the dowager had been
the enforcer of Britain’s anti-homosexual laws. They would have had been
enforced. Reginald Dwight might have received an ad hoc rupture of the Vas Deferens
from the testicles in the necessary imperial need for order, not that this
would have cured where his desires led, nor it is as false a dichotomy as you
might believe, in my willingness not to fear locking horns over decency and the
progressive expansion of artistic force. American rock was a relatively
innocent flirtation riding on Elvis Presley’s corn fed hips before the British
invasion occurred. The foment of my youth, however, can no longer rise to the sheer
delphinic epiphany of “Curtains,” and lesbians in Lancaster, those whom I used
to know, might be in danger of my ire in less than a hyperbolic fashion if
their circumference shrinks to within striking distance. Last week, a brief
wildfire erupted, but even then I knew, as old a conflict as Mann’s Death In Venice,
an ironic, if well studied choice, that one cannot defy biology, unless, as in
The Ambassadors, where queer genius is obfuscated into the concealed repression
of an illicit, if straight, extramarital affair, or The Tempest, which is
Shakespeare’s mastery proclaiming the aged wisdom to be paramount, that mature
partnerships can only reinvigorate up to a point.
This
is not to say conservative reactionaries do not have needs. We’re not monks,
but my New Mobility feature, in 04, exposed and attacked this very thicket
within attendant care, in which I am now both, conquered by, then turned conqueror
of, a sexual attraction inside of it, depending on how I wish to interpret the matter,
resolved to turn off the tap as I was, truly believing he was being kind out of
pity. He today assures me this isn’t the case, and the lioness in my gonads has
stopped lashing about like a wildcat, and remains merely alert in her den, observant,
tender, and yes, mildly happy, but it doesn’t change me, nor the way I might
see the possible fruition
in a father's eyes.
If I want to go deeper into Elton’s supremacy, however—for
me, a specialized supremacy—meaning he is the best among British talents of my
era, I will only go deep enough to say that his gifts wouldn’t exist had his
homosexuality been accepted as a mainstream biological imperative, as opposed
to tolerated, in the late 60’s, and I in turn wouldn’t have been corrupted by
his preeminent subversiveness, joined to Taupin’s scathing lyrical narratives. “Alice,”
from Yellow Brick Road, still pierces with hypocritical poignancy when it comes
to sexual secrets, but that doesn’t mean Bernie’s progressive sympathies have
been victorious, nor that I’m the bad guy. I know we can’t put the genie back
in the bottle, but there are limits, even things Shawn and I couldn’t share down
the road. We’ve already lived a half century in different worlds. My mention of Loving made no dent in our conversations, and since I'm barren, I would not be able to wed, should it come to that, in my faith, but I have to look into that.
"That was hard enough to figure out in the seventies."-- Andrew Sullivan
I
cannot deny my friend Alan his humanity, for he was my friend for over three
decades, if I can, at the very least, extol him for constancy. Some aspects of
our relationship weren’t particularly healthy, like our stoned failure to engage
in coitus before he sorted out his orientation issues. (There must be a happy
queer somewhere who enjoyed fat ugly boy’s well-endowed penis, and I have to
assert, had the weed not been so potent, my long time collegiate loser buddy by default might
have given the dowager a fulfilling climax despite zero chemistry between us,
human sexuality being the morass that it is.)
What
I’m attempting to clarify is I cannot excise Alan as I have had to excise Josie
and the failed transhissexual on the eighth floor with his insufferable partner,
and this is a crucible in my rejection of Sullivan’s culture. I have the rather
erroneous temptation to justify my hostility in philosophical thesis form, as
if a right-wing paper creates a solution to the amorphous totality of the
culture wars. This isn’t how it works. Alan certainly isn’t going to care if I
classify his illicit adventures feeding his anxiety about contracting AIDS on the scold worthy shelf about personal responsibility and not engaging in high risk trysts in the parks he frequented for a wanker; neither does Karl Schmid, the local ABC video journalist. Various media outlets reported Schmid received an outpouring of support when he announced his 10 year HIV positive status. I am not readily trampling on the left to moderate gravitation towards feel the love when the LBGT community asserts this identity pride in the face of such a lethal virus, but ye doves are apparently cooing over high risk sexual practices which led to AIDS trans-spotting from the African bush outward. The only "outpouring" my little brother Nicholas received as a troubled addict dying from AIDS in 1995 came from his parents, and my brother's memory, too, deserves opprobrium for knowingly passing the disease onto his girl, hence, I concede troubled heterosexuals can be just as culpable as a purportedly smart man like Andy, not smart enough to constrain his behavior which led to his contraction. You might argue that Sullivan, being of my generation, had medical ignorance as an excuse. The son of my father didn't (and yes, that is mio padre). Neither does Schmid, so what exactly are you supporting him for? Owning up? I doubt any of us will be cleaning his rectum if or when the virus beats his anti-viral cocktail.
If you suspect what's really eating me is the betrayal I received for my tolerance, I will not deny that is part and parcel of the package, and I too, made risky sexual judgments, but not as risky as those in parts of the homosexual community. I do not know if Alan evaded HIV. For his sake I hope so, as dealing with my depressed virulence cost him emotionally, but it certainly seems to me he didn't care enough about health and well being to stop. "The body has some resistance," he told me, still telephone active. This guy tried an Episcopalian seminary after embroiling neighbor state New Jersey in a shameful disgrace far less entertaining than Sandford's. Yes, rolling back sexual liberty might help us live longer, despite libertarian allowances for self-destructive behavior. Gender fluidly doesn't have to result in a grand devil's bargain.
I often have to pause my life for a minute — whether that’s driving down the sidewalk, using my laptop, or eating a meal--my alma mater. Whenever a writer prefers to sit around and pontificate, instead of working, it signifies sirens of calamity in the background, which actually aren't that dire: I wrote a response to George Will's rather ingenious attack on Trump's willful ignorance, forced myself to find a conclusion, hit the ground with six hundred words, and no one is happy. I have to retool it for other markets I've looked at, fairly certain of ones that would spit in my face, aware of the timelessness issue, and would like to turn the crusty baseball enthusiast upside his head and shake his premium express credit cards out of his pockets, also aware, that if I take these insider dirty laundry issues too far, I possibly wind up black balled. To a certain extent, I am already there, of course. Josie Byzek may not have closed her twitter account because of how often she is cited in Disability in Entertainment Arts, but it is safe to say, I'll never go home again. All I want to know is why I was frozen out of New Mobility. My feature, with intimations of Damore's fate, was controversial, but Tim Gilmer still included me on his contributors. The fat lady hadn't sung, as yet. By the same token, the periodical is very limited, insular in scope, and of little help to me. The only thing I can force upon the United Spinal Association is trouble, but I have larger behemoths in the scope, hence, I have to live with the rancor, or push a point with no real justifiable outcome, but what I want Josie to see is her rationalizations about ambulatory male ignorance in no way protected me, despite regulatory schematics, from paraprofessional abuse, from section 202's regimented discrimination. Does she like it, being a lesbian, that in the dark net of attendant care, so many helpless to defend themselves become enslaved to predatory control? I cannot shield myself from its likely recurrence forever. This, supposedly, was the point of Precious's author, this nothing we can do attitude, despite all our industrious legal generation. Bambauer cleared up a contextual issue for me, in part, and this is how it works, but not really. Google Blogger should suspend me. Twitter too, and authority should force me into compliance, and I suffer say another eight years, until terminal issue discloses itself, or I can take up my little plan and try beating the odds, or go on, wrangle the system for the joy juice that will not force a lethal reaction. Difficult to do with cerebral palsy.
Drexel University is not that well known to me, but well known enough to be intuited that it's little league academics, a bit spartan, perhaps afflicted with uncertainty, and in the larger societal context, George may have survived employee termination, where Lisa did not, because he was white, angry leftist. In contrast, viewers saw Tucker at war with a paranoid minority in Durden, and echoes of the Black Panthers may have resonated. In real time, these issues are about group dynamics, and less about theory, like claims liberty. This is a contextual issue, our faith in an institutional judiciary. It punished Brandon Phillips, my assaulter, but this did nothing for me. It also pushed back against an unscrupulous landlord, one which thrives on a socialist subsidized federalism, dear libertarian friends, but I live in terror, nonetheless, after years of conflict. Yes, I have a choice: go homeless, bully the same old intake system into emergency relocation, but a real genuine legal fight is probably going to take 24 months. For what? Do I presume more affluence? Support him or not, (I am in the middle, hoping he will hurt progressives who failed me), Trump is a symptom; he is not a proximate cause. Some of my longest online associates have made me diffident because of well worn beatnik cosmetic protests that really cannot unravel poverty entrapment.
I have little idea why my brother took me off his Facebook account, as in, here we go, again, but I know, in part, he is insecure about the usual family stuff, to paraphrase Ice Tea, about having been born a bastard, and I was also, for me, mildly subversive about maternal aggrandizement on Gretchen's posts: I am not particularly enthralled that my eldest nephew also sprang a leak and had an unplanned pregnancy; nor am I best friends with my sister in law. I am not even certain that the social media giant has been particularly conducive. I got kicked off a Dubai based fuckwit's freelance group without even trying, left another voluntarily. What use is all of this to me? It is a tool, like Twitter, but for me, two tools which do the same thing where the larger is counterproductive isn't necessarily beneficial. In the strange ways of virtual communication, I used a hard nosed analyst's well deserved jab at Manning to talk myself down. Let me return to Tom Earle. He had no idea what the internal politics of the disability center were like under Fern Markowitz and Linda Dezenski, and I'm not in the mood to keep reiterating what was going on. If you take LBGT extremists and put them in a room, Jewish princess addendum or not, chaos is the end result. I told you before, these individuals had little love lost between them, and the homosexuals replaced Fern, one of their own, with a soft, blind Latino who delights in toddlers. I realize he was beholden to the board who put him in place. I embarrassed him with a toxic issue which in essence, destroyed my support system, and I'm culpable. I did not do what most women do in these situations and legal up until years later, I stopped caring, went through another homosexual politician, broke down, emailed Toomey, and then the axis shifted. Toomey's doing? I do not know, but support the Senator, nonetheless, and went through this again with Josie on a lesser scale in her little isle at United Spinal Association, all of this within recurring Pennsylvania welfare abuses and rental agent contiguous, and I stress, contiguous, harassment, until I proclaimed myself a racist, fought like one, and damaged quadriplegic remains in a stalemate with authority. Tom, however, did not have to leave the streamers flutter in the vent. He could have investigated, dismissed Linda then, and as a decent man, offered me something, like a fucking transfer. This is why I am angry with him. He's a fucking civil rights attorney, but never mind. Burrow, then threaten me. This is how Nancy Pelosi's "rule of law" works for those who cannot buy tort and didn't meet the deadlines due to the extent of the pain, and I just cannot dig myself out. Maybe, just maybe, I'll find a housing lawyer, but it's a little late for me to recover. I am, after all, one mortal against a cruel institutional paradigm, still attempting to encompass opera, not quite managing, except for Verdi. La Traviata, upon discovery, has an effervescent quality nearly impossible to capture, and Violetta, with the right soprano, is enough to cling to, now and again, were it only I who might have been pursued with passion for who I was, consumption might have freely enveloped me in its inflammatory excretions. This gives concessions to Dumas in his masculine anxiety. So be it.
I can be lazy every so often and be entirely unremarkable, even though my father is still alive at 81, and my maternal grandmother bridge spans three centuries, her age lost to me if not her birthday, 12/18-- my mother collapsed at 62, so of course, my 56th year, scrawny, dry, soiled, and even slightly gnarled, quietly out of sight, makes me nervous. Death will relieve me of mortal psychological anguish, and I'll die alone, no Schiavo with a second wife to be caressing me while I starve and growl like staggering motorcycle pistons, god have mercy and give me save haven from bulge eyed niggers who talk chewing feces, god have mercy. I pray this daily and constantly and don't hear Richard Spencer leading a stampede, but Thomas's death, at 69, is interesting in the context of his late roles. He was the husky bookseller facilitating whatever elements of the actual resistance is in High Castle, and though A Strange Affair is an insipid watercolor, Thomas at least has the more significant energy as a traitor any besieged wife might desire to concussion and get off despite doing it. How William Russ gets any work at all points to the tenacity of cliche, as in greeting card verse. Sixty nine; bit young for a wiry Texan.
My sole surviving Austrian grandmother courtesy of my cousin before she was placed, demented pic.twitter.com/rPoAwc0MjV
. you have a rotten mouth yes I do grandmom Pauline, in the blackguard of my tantrums, the likes of which I shall not punish myself with merciless detail, but I love this woman; her youngest daughter, now too in the era of ailments, hives, replacement joints, is almost 70. I am setting myself up, quietly, plotting. I have nothing to lose.
Treatment of a body of work as complex and open to multiple interpretations as is Freud's risks inappropriate emphasis. Judith Van Herik Journalism, as any established journalist will tell you on any given day, is a cutthroat industry, its players necessarily competitive, but paradoxically, they provide each other with a peer support system: so when a divorced mother like Dorthea Stillman, who had her brand break in Newsweek, could inform me at the turn of the century in rather circumspect fashion that most editors don't respond to freelance queries, it wasn't something of which I was necessarily unaware. It merely made any kind of response or inclusion seem privileged. When I put my feature up on New Mobility, with Tim Gilmer's cooperation, he never gave me any indication that there was something wrong. Indeed, the fact that he included me on the periodical's 2004 contributor's list indicated good work. I got paid, they honored that much, and I would not start blogging until five years later, but I feel I deserve an explanation for why he treated me like a light switch: on his list, then off it. Whatever my problems, these online internecine cordons are a reflection of how quadriplegics with cerebral palsy are treated in three dimensional space. I had not raised my voice about the methodology of Josie Byzek, or anything of the sort. The actions I took, thirteen years ago, included reporting a belligerent wheelchair couple for engaging in rhetorical violence. I was still hurting about the Poets & Writers board at the time. PW had banned my account for "atypical trolling," and at New Mobility, I got you damn bitch I am going to rape and slit your throat. Something of which I've never been guilty, even on Blogger. What I am trying to say is Tim ostracized me, with no explanation: was it my visit and conflict on the board? If so, why not tell me? Josie was a regular contributor on my Yahoo group until she forced me to take away the users freedom to post, but again, in terms of a sequential timeline, Tim dropped me first; the old man, who puts such a premium on his emotional stability, simply cut me off, five years after I had to go through my title IX violation at the disability center. These were my secondary families, my support systems. I certainly cannot blank slate it now, and pitch the old grizzly with my ideas, bypassing my contempt for the spinal cod association's tortoise lesbian, but how would you have felt, within your group identity, being so exiled, under a hostile, criminal, landlord, with that entity's constant, incessant badgering and duress? It is this which draws us into the dynamic representation of a comic actor's embodiment of Satan, the corrosion over time. It can buckle any will. Mr. Frost does an excellent job of illustrating how. Mr. Frost is not a perfect film, by far. It anticipates graphic documentary captures which would come after it, like Schindler's List, plays with some of the same which came before, and mixes this up with turmeric biting melodrama and a dose of camp which borders perilously close to farce, threatening to unravel its moments of stark gravity, but for what Goldblum has to do, within the trappings of Jewish demonology, it is a decent effort, aiming for the implausibly naturalistic. The opening isolation surrounding the character, nearly idyllic, using the pupils as a mirror to reflect white crosses, nice touch, and the devil as an amateur chef speaks volumes, with Goldblum's horror, at the height of his currency, essentially mocking Gentile suppositions of apocalyptic judgment, whether in his finer rendition of The Fly, or in this curious British effort which insists, that like matter itself, evil is an energy which cannot be destroyed. My father, my parents, institutionalizing me for seven years, this was not my doing, but as a nine year old child, I was vaginally penetrated by minority orderlies who denigrated me: she's just like Iris. And I might offer Josie's limitations more leniency if she had the courage to go on the record. She and Tim both. about these cyclic abuses at the hands of those of African descent. Getting past each incident, this is one thing, but when it keeps flinging, like oatmeal, what am I supposed to do? The conduct of the paraprofessional from Unlimited Staffing, her voracious appetite written into her face, like an Okie in the swamp, reignited a revolt against HUD's procedural cruelty which is going to cost me further still. It doesn't amount to selling your soul, or giving a fallen angel the opening it needs to possess, to expulse torture and brutality in radiating waves, but it comes down to an equivalency, whether we believe soul has tangible energy or not.
The verbal disease above noticed may be reserved for diagnosis by and by. --TS Eliot, The Perfect Critic You are going to have to bear with me on this one. I rely on the WPHIL syndication system more for quality than any other free broadcast access I have, and I was going to digress in frustration that all Amazon Prime and Netflix amount to are content distribution systems, making us all jackasses at the end of the day, though I'll stay with Prime as long as I can. We'll save this for later, however. A minor internalized hilarity occurred because WPHIL17 listed the wrong 21st century film with the same tile: ZapIt had on the grid the Concussion 2015, about the NFL's grand medical conspiracy. What WPHIL actually aired was the 2013 Concussion, and what is the 2013 Concussion? The 2013 Concussion is bored lesbian housewife, after taking a hit by her kid, seeking out prostitutes for sex, and then lets herself get pimped. You would figure I'd have a field day with this, and you'd be entirely correct, except for the fact that Stacie Passon is a courageous director, and this film is representative, outside of its subject, with what I am starved for: a story for mature adults, with mature themes, which ends on a curious Lionel Shriver note. Everyone stays in their places. No police, no Candice Bergin grand scandal. It has a very chromatic libertarian undercurrent. And as I critic, I liked it, but Passon in her dual role as screenwriter and den mother with unsparing eye, ultimately proves my point about the blinding insulation of gratuitous pleasure. I'd ask Sara Posada, while visualizing her astonishment, if it is really like that for women these days, all these wild catting moments and flings and actually rather tepid sexual secrets, and if it is, I am out gunned, mocked by you all, and weep in profuse preferential self-pity. Sniff. The obese teenager who is Weigert's first client is my heroine, personally, for realizing in herself that heterosexual pair bonding is the better part of valor. I was ready to break out the pom poms when she ended this business arrangement, I kid you not. But let me take a swing at a tricky knuckle ball: if Gretchen Laskas can forgive the dowager for once ballistic outrage, why can't that same forgiveness be granted to a dung mother like Josie Byzek? Let me put that issue in these hypothetical terms: certain lines crossed are flag indicators, and I never ridiculed my more able writer friends personal relationships. Josie broke code. I don't care what he posted that offended her, I could talk to Cecil, he could keep up with me, and she took that away, and doesn't have the armor available to shield herself if I so much as ever set eyes on her again. Cyber relationships, on the percentages, are mostly ephemeral. More than likely I could never have coaxed Morales to dinner, but every time I consider the cost of my isolation, I send a secret prayer out that someone slaps this rancid Lancaster excuse for a Christian across her face, like she deserves. He was the last effort for the vigor I had that might have offered me a reasonable chance. I won't find it on a site like Our Time. You know that; I am too pared to the bone. Sara, by the way, astonished me first by following me. I would not have asked, and it does provide me comfort, but I cannot treat her like a confidante. This is primarily due to age, and I have taken a care toward reserve. I like her very much though, and demand you all behave. She is possibly a happy future I shall not fully see.
We were promised The Jetsons, but instead life today still looks pretty much like it did in The Jeffersons.-- Paul Wiecek First, let me get this off my breast bone. Fuck Canada, the permanently wealthy liberal opposition, just to illustrate that the Commonwealth sycophant to the the impostor over in Buckingham Palace playing QE2, (she cannot possibly be that alive and well, just look at President George Herbert Walker Bush), is so different from the United States. They do not utilize fuck in an inverted sentence, but Wiecek did give me a sounding board which I do not intend to submit as a letter to the editor, and this is to his credit. I dropped everything for this bit of holiday writing. My other assignment is complex, and as I am not getting paid, I insist on going slowly; if I do perhaps then I'll wind up with a latter day commission on the same topic. Or maybe I'll fail, again, and that is important only to the extent I'd like to do some policy writing before my mother's sister tricks me into an institutional environment. I do not trust her. She has assisted living on her frontal lobe like a gliona. Her father-in-law could afford to die in assisted living care. I cannot, and they wouldn't accept me. She does not understand the system. I do, and it is not going to happen. This represents why I take my rupture with Linda so hard. She understands family selfishness as the enemy, and I no longer have peers whom I like, at all, except a scattered handful of writers and scholars, and I realized, when I wrote, days ago, that I was fond of Gretchen, I do not think she'll mind her sudden currency, I realize that this is my problem: I despise everyone in 202 housing, and when I knew Josie, there was an element of recoil in me, and I need more instances of this not being the case. This makes Wayne Booth's thesis more telling, even if it's problematic. Post-modernists like Jerry are correct. Morally responsible aesthetics are incredibly difficult, but this doesn't mean Booth didn't give me insight as to reading Jane Austin as a beautiful, conflated, liar. Take a dip in theory now and again. For Booth too is correct that Benchley is superficial-- but this doesn't mean it lacks any value. The Raw Shark Texts, which I assiduously bunted to archive, may be playful, and derivative, which I tend to enjoy, but Hall didn't give me reason to care for his correspondences. When I really need to be my old vehement self, I will not draw any extra button notices to my posts. The rest is up to Google's power and majority indignation, but don't kid yourself about the damages to my moral compass because I allowed a black girl my age, named Terri Way, to dupe me into moving into this hellhole which robbed me of my life. Not every wheelchair user gets sucked out to dry like this, and Presbyterian Homes shall pay the piper, or I am going to prison.
"this far, and no farther,"--Peter Falk No one of us, whatever the nexus of our identity we shed to be American, is a monolithic block, and in my eruptions on this account about so called activists, that can be seen in the lack of unity between us. I cannot tell you exactly what the rift between Erik & Jimmi and Josie Byzek was, but it was a rift over how "extreme" Pennsylvania ADAPT should or shouldn't be, and Erik, when the hermaphroditic freak was more lucid, removed Fern Markowitz as Liberty's executive director. Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern are all part of the LBGTQ block. There is no love lost between them, and Fern Markowitz, in addition, is a Jewish lesbian, just as Linda Dezenski is a Jewish princess, on the lower end of the scale. Where I entered into it, regardless of my fatal attempt to be close to my overly esteemed peer, is Linda used me in a power struggle to get Fern to violate Pennsylvania state hiring guidelines to hire Jimmi for a job Linda offered me which, after my logistics combat at Matrix, would have been next to impossible for me to do. Linda won the battle but lost the war. Jimmi quit, Erik had who knows how many strokes and cardiovascular issues, and I grew too angry to care, and this is the end product of all that, but I was incredibly naive, to lick my wounds by then grafting onto a Christian lesbian who'd humiliate me in public, bouncing online from one failed disability project after another. It is of only mild curiosity that Josie's twitter account under her own identity seems null and void. I hesitate to attribute it to my rancor. I haven't harassed her on social media, as, whatever my challenge to her role as caretaker extraordinaire, New Mobility is an undeniably progressive platform whose contributors say the same thing over and over with iterative nausea. Perhaps it has something to do with her run for the school board, but you'll notice, whatever her prominence as a champion for the marginalized, neither she nor partner Virginia foster disabled children. If I were Singh Lion, which I'm certainly not, I'd wonder about this curious trifecta of two women with a significant background in case management rearing Asian children of third world ethnicity, particularly when Josie is so impaired by MS. For the being of the welfare class, Josie is fairly solicitous of those in her care. I will not go so far as to impugn her nurturing impulses. My quarrel with her is commiseration doesn't resolve resource distribution, but she never applies herself to that, like the cost of battling over PVS cases, like Schiavo and Bobby Brown, and how this ties in with my ambivalence toward Roth's barrier breaking exposes is somewhat complex. FYI, I've read a number of Jewish novelists, like Chaim Potok, some Saul Bellow, and I've dipped into a little of everything (so how could I have drifted so rightward?) But however cemented his legacy may be, and I do recognize it, Philip Roth is an egotistical prick. I know the movies better than the novels, and concessions to some of his starkest feints have to be granted, but GoodbyeColumbus succeeded in making me antagonistic to all of its character types, Ali MacGraw in particular, portrays her coming of age as an expression of masochistic coitus. I am a great deal like Richard Benjamin on screen. This is why he stays with me despite the blithe inattentiveness to his interpretations of Roth in my past, but even as a pursuer progressive of almost 50 years ago, Neil Klugman is a contraction in terms, as are Roth's vigorous sexual expositions. It never occurs to Roth not to allow his men to be vulnerable to sexual entrapment, not to be afraid of knocking up daddy's little girl by not chasing her in daddy's house, like a hound dog. He is vacuous himself, but wants a monogamous commitment, to which Brenda, the perpetual, debutante, seems incapable. The film had its moments, and our urban life used to feel relatively secure where a boy could look up a girl and then show up, talk her home, but there is nothing here to celebrate in Roth's own hypocrisy, a surreptitious man cave, with its lack of respect, leaving me without even the proverbial suitcase to lug back to the depot in the era without stroll carts.
Laid down like a good girl to rest my legs at 4:30 pm Tuesday with the Comtrex engine thrumming not more than a quarter mile from my back window. Reluctantly sat up at 7:30 to browbeat the Senate Majority Leader again over his discourtesy to Merrick Garland, like a rapid cur shredding opportunism, transferred, pissed urinal aperture nearly perfectly, debated my libertarian twitter intrigues and how far I'm willing to go, scowling. For a cripple evacuating herself with a snowball's chance in hell of evading the worst, I'm taking my own sweet fucking time, triply mad because I wanted to revive McVeigh and approached Brian Doherty about it and what do I discover on PBS this evening? Someone else revived McVeigh, and in the taffy of so many ideas being out there, I thought it was inconceivable that my pitch had mainstream traction, but this is a dirty rotten business. Am I mad at Brian? No, but I am not superhuman, and to pitch 250 times a month, eat, clean up my bowel, work my own projects, and expect lightning is not exactly the God complex memory of anal penetration. What Woodruff described wasn't my idea exactly. I have to go back and look, but some motherfucker beat me on giving Oklahoma a fresh eye, and you can all drop dead for all I fucking care. I've been amazing, to survive what I have over the last 18 years on top of earlier familial tragedy and systemic medical paradigms. Liberals love to point out that what my former Liberty family, and the cunt-sucking activists did to me can cause strokes, neighing like jackasses about inequality and sickness, and the trauma was almost too much, and here I am, swinging and getting sucker punched. I'd probably up my profile if I did give federal agents reason to create the dowager dossier, but my hit list is merely comprised of Commonwealth dregs not worth the pressure. An expendable godmother doesn't come with pre-packaged Lee Harvey Oswald mystique. Let's see now if she can transfer back to sleep, last pleasure in life hot coffee with soy flavored non-dairy. Despite terms of service, I'd shred Josie in public with blatant indifference, but I wilted her before, repeatedly, and missed my calling as the lesbian cower professional, much like felines specialize in snapping hyena spines.
This is what I'm trying to protect myself from, and couldn't, despite mt IQ, my investigative work for New Mobility, Josie the pissing milch cow's bread and butter, or any lies and subterfuge I engaged in to stave off worse than a sexual pass from the most gluttonous mulatto I ever laid eyes on. It happens more frequently to the disabled than any outside of disability centers know, hence my support for morally cool unpleasantness like eugenics, euthanasia. In 1991-93 I had a true quadriplegic client named Don; his aide put him on the commode and cleaned out his apartment. Not sure how he managed his rescue. Could you forgive or get over that? This is why state Medicaid Waiver systems need to be stopped, and it has nothing to do with conservative astringent. If you read the fine print of these federally "mandated" centers, and you comply with the paradigm, they have a "no liabilities" clause for pairing clients with fly by night providers like Unlimited Staffing, an agency against whom I had had the most cause to seek redress. That "no liability" clause is written into contracts because disability centers couldn't function otherwise, and still, like medical supply vendors, they unravel like a ball of yarn. Homemaker Services broke up its incorporation a number of years back. I first signed onto the waiver as a "federal employee" in 97, then the state treasury said I owed them taxes, because I was assigned a deaf case manager who was accused by the next one of bad faith procedure. Centralized institutional care is hell, cushioned by money or not, but decentralization doesn't work, I am sorry. Very few people like me, without some kind of professional earnings valve, are freer within being constrained by services. Wapo's reporting illustrates this fact. All the state statues amount to nothing because of substantive victimization between client and paraprofessional, left to their own devices. Get rid of it. In the interim, I found an old housing list, by virtue of dumping and cat knocking and then straightening up; dated, but it is what I need, a list, and maybe I can kick box a summer transition.
"I believe God wrapped himself up in that baby boy."-- Josie Byzek
One pitch last evening. Only one? When I reference the blank spaces in eschatology, I do no mean metaphysical definitions of the afterlife, and the metaphors we create around the notion of souls. Heaven is a postscript for serenity. Hell is a more dynamic narrative of unfinished business, degrees of intensity, passion, murder, vengeance, lust, avarice, treason. The worst sin is betrayal and what and whom we turn on, sort of like Donald Trump and Ted Cruz playing jacks with slay the bimbo. Rape, molestation of children, this is a betrayal to the species, and homosexuality, taken to the level western activists have taken it, basically is a materialist argument in evolutionary terms. Humans are like other mammals with sexual drives in need of being sated, so we divorce sexuality from its main purpose, and have industries devoted to cock rings, dildos, erotic films, smokers, rape fantasies, not that these aren't also heterosexual excesses. On one level, liberals glorify the liberating aspects of a great orgasm, and it is so closely tied to death, not only because vigorous intercourse can wind up killing people, usually males, but I imagine women too have bought it, in time honored fashion, with their shins clamped on a nice buttock, but because of the loss of control mimics physical escape; not that I'm saying a world of gender neutered eunuchs is preferable, but freedom aggrandizes bodily sensation to the point that it obscures other potentialities. No, what I mean about this void, is, what do we look upon in the face of decline? Family dynamic? I never had a good one, with the possible exception of baby half brother, love my father terribly, but our relationship is a cash register. My entire life might be summarized as doing everything to win my father, and failing. I learned and watched football to talk my father's language, and do him twice better as a Roman mafioso race baiting reactionary. He'd break my jaw if he knew what my posts convey. It is a method, many times removed, of how angry I am with him, how much I blame myself for Nicholas junior, his punk thuggery, suffering, the pain he caused so many people, his wasted AIDS skeletal frame in the coffin, cherry monoxide cheeks. Do I believe in Jesus, like Josie Byzek? No, when push comes to shove, to give Catholicism a difficult time, if Christ actually existed, he is not what Saul, the original Christian killer, fed to Rome. Then why do I label myself a Catholic atheist, and believe the Office of the Inquisition should be restored and granted the death penalty? To which I'd be first in line? Grace is only achieved through martyrdom. I lived in hell for significant portions of these fifty plus years headed down the drain, what have I done in that time? Over invested like a pinball held aloft in a miracle game of Frenzy, giving myself first to devotion, yet always truculent with the collar. Then it was romance, never actualized, ever. I thought, a long time ago, maybe I could win a spastic New York therapist, went back to Rusk for work study, and his first words? "You got heavy, didn't you?" My parents would have been appalled at how hard I then tried to get laid, alone, sixteen, in Manhattan. I played up every virile male I could find, black, white, Italian, cop, disabled, Italian-Japanese, Hispanic-- Jesus, with the H morpheme. What do I have to show for it? 300 poems, a handful of bylines, controversy, giving everything the finger, no security, alone, afraid, with moth worn skirts, soiled clothes, survivor of medical practice that did absolutely nothing for me, in a prognosis of any sort. Had I snagged An Academic, might I have had more tranquil pleasures? I should have never allowed myself to relocate to Riverside. I perhaps should have gone back to my mother, but we would have harmed each other. She died alone. I'm gone, a boon a rang rang.
"You can't handle this." --Gabourey Sidibe How little we actually have to say about eschatology at the end of the day. This always comes back to me, even as I can barely pull myself up on the dull sky blue mattress, as old as my anguish enveloping itself around me at Riverside, the beaten, rusted, Sears Roebuck mattress courtesy of my mother's judgment in buying me a metal daybed that rocked like a tin can. Grotesque little mattress, but I cannot just get another spring coil twin, or a piece of hospital bed foam whose width would collapse too low. It has to be right so that I can pivot on, then push up to pivot off, and this I can discuss, the barren aesthetics of government socialism, not that padre did any better, had I stayed in Ridley Park. He built steep wooden ramps, a plastic shower stall, had violent arguments with me over pubic hair on my washcloth, now he is nurse to his dead wife's nursing colleague, twenty times as sick as the puss gassing out of my colon, due to my respiratory issues, other secrets. I cannot keep up, but neither could an attendant; they'd walk, confronted with pudding, the stench of post-menopausal decline. Those of you who can walk might ask, if you dared, what the fuck do I want? You aren't functionally ambulatory. Everyone gets old. You got screwed, badly. You take too many things to heart. Okay, but I never wanted this, in the sense that what limited fulfillment I might have had would have been from professional accomplishment, and now this is nearly beyond me, even if my poverty insists that I have to persevere. Fuck what Inglis House writes on its site. If I am legally forced into it than that is tantamount to the games the English aristocracy played, tossing any viable claimant to the throne in a dungeon like The Tower. The very minorities I so freely disparage have mental health breakdowns from working there, in significant numbers, and yet what can I say? Collegiate peers aren't kept. Most of my disabled peers aren't friends, and those who might have been remain faithful to the circumscribed segregated empowerment bullshit which is indeed bullshit when HUD is treated like the plague by private property owners. I can never knowingly trust another lesbian, and what Josie represents is an apostasy, unless religion is to become essentially meaningless. Maybe this is a bug, and it too shall pass, but my life was in no way lived with the compensations most whites expect. I'm destitute, with no people whom I even so much as like, or care to engage, around me, and the only way I can avoid the red death in the castle is to end it on my own terms.
It would have been nice to crawl on the belly of Mr. Morales, taking a rare proactive step of inserting him in my shaggy wolverine public hair, breathing freely. He made a marked impression on me, with his romantic force of mind. Is he dead? Retired? If my sole literary colleague on the face of the earth is still among us, it may be reasonable to assume a pompous trade journalist with avuncular smile, dimpled cheeks, black rimmed glasses, might still linger, if not in DC, then somewhere. I evidently cannot find a fucking soul on Facebook, not in terms of people I actually once knew, which means my paranoia on utilizing FB is overblown. I have no damn idea how to use the site to my benefit, embittered writer, lonely woman, whichever bovine Pulcinella I rake in the mulch toward the blades of April. Why is the poet Robert Thomas my friend? Me drooling dowager retart toldshim between us I would not stir this up, but it boils down to a few simple things: He does not attract me, no slight to his wife intended. I am, in point of fact, fond of the image I hold of Robert's spouse, and regret I actually couldn't adopt her as a new chick clique to chew the fat-- that is another issue. Secondly, my contemporary colleague wisely never bestowed to my phone his number. Even if he had, it is too expensive to behave like my mother in domineering twenty minute conversations between me/they in Oakland. Thirdly, though I've no idea what he may have said behind the scenes, if anything, I do not blame him for my ban from Speakeasy, and I doubt he would have tolerated me this long if he sided with the ban camp. Fourth, and most importantly, I respect his craft. It is fine. It is polished, worthy of American celebrity certainly not disposed on any of us. Then stop running your mouth and work. Yes, of course. Well, I do, but I have a lot going on, and cannot sit back quietly let Presby destroy what's left of my spirit. I'm working too, a rebuttal on libertarian dark sides, if you will. As to Cecil, whatever happened to him, I did not mean for my adamant stance to make him feel threatened. That was the extent to which Josie Byzek wounded me. I never tried again, after what she did, to take a chance with ambulatory accommodation with who I am. I wish she was dead, Josie, but know that in itself, wouldn't change my scars, this infantile hit list of mine. I even know doing things to fuck up Josie's domestic tranquility wouldn't affect much, but feel it is a legitimate issue to stop her from adopting or fostering third world Asian children. After more research, I may press that.
In reading about Pharmo Bro and Duca, without tweeting about it, I in my turn haven't been obstinate enough to harass my enemies in public. The last thing I ever emailed to Josie was I will never be civil to you, then booted her off my group. I know what she would say. What she did by lashing out at a trade journalist before whom I dangled myself, deliberately-- (in contrast, I would not dare breach my interaction with Jeffrey Tucker by complaining about vaginal yeast) was wrong, she apologized, and I do not help myself by letting rabid lesbianism stick in my craw. She's moved on and I am on the verge of death spiral homelessness. I am, however, the spastic quadriplegic all by her lonesome, even with data available which illustrate most cyber flings fail. That I will never be civil to you was an incoded murderous rage, which my intellect knows isn't worth the trouble. Cecil Morales may have had a passing interest in my puerile extroverting, but he thought I wanted a husband, and his bite was as vicious as my own, worse. He had a failed marriage, and my ghost of a dead spic came later. Killing the den mother of New Mobility won't give me back any opportunity for golden years comfort with the right fellow. Shrekli and Duca have debarked the gen X trail, the shadow of the sixties like an ancient taxidermy model ready to collapse at the slightest motion, an open door. I did no work. After I logged off yesterday I went to the store, yes, sick, for soup, a little fruit, watched most of O'Neal in The Driver again, this time memorizing Adjani's sympathy toward the protagonist, then knocked over a large slate milk crate which serves as an ad hoc vanity table, stacked with tomes. I am, oddly enough, desperate to get in O'Neal's head about this film, and have to move. I want O'Neal. Walter Hill is self-explanatory. But Ryan O'Neal, at least live, with the mask off, seems petty, vain. He had a good run, next to most of us, but not, however, as zealous lone wolf willing to live a monastic existence solely to be the best.
The abbreviated version of my limited interactions with Cecil Morales can be summarized as follows: I joined his Catholic discussion group on Yahoo, and he then returned the favor by joining Disability Arts, which still hangs like a thumbnail, and then we went to email. I have no reason to believe he wasn't who he claimed to be, that pictures of him rough housing his son weren't a father with his boy, or that he wasn't Argentinean. We talked on telephone. I dangled my cunt like a trollop, and Josie Byzek, as I've written with past scathing bitterness, lashed out at him publicly, for motives I have already surmised: Give me an inch and I talk the length of the turf, I pull on people, and give little thought to telling lesbians wrapped up in the belief in Jesus Christ that they're going to hell. Did I email her that? No, but her insistence on her right to religious communion is blasphemy, and this may have gnawed on her subconscious. I was paid in full. His insensitivity troubled her, but not I, and what he had wasn't looks. It was intellect, and this is what Miss Byzek disrupted: I could, at one time, talk to Cecil about ideas. I wanted that more than any worries over dangling and impotent cartilage, but what, now, can I do? I look haggard. I'm mentally beaten, struggling with my grandfather's bowel issues, anxiety, agitation, subsistence, and Frank Versante? Frank and I looked the part, but we had no real connection other than prurient groping, which ceased long before his death, almost a year ago. We were always disconnected, never into each other, despite his claims he loved me. That wasn't the case. He was just a dirty old bastard. I punished him, and pushed him. Made him do things, refused to accept that he wanted his helplessness, wanted his infantile indulgence. Now I'm alone, in the middle of the January thaw, fighting panic. I can cave in again, recertify this April, barring any catastrophic changes to HUD's policies, but it is not the unknown elements of the Trump Administration feeding my fear. It is rather the knowledge that I am not going to last another year in this building, and I'm at a loss. Psychiatry will, if it comes to that, merely invalidate me, nothing more. It will not fundamentally alter the livid hatred with which I'm struggling, the consequent difficulty of putting all this aside, focusing on work. I've nothing to offer an attorney, or an attorney's firm, beyond contingency; I cannot expect anything from my family, and even less from digital networks. I can wade my way through welfare intake, just make the call, but I'd drive away another fifty attendants, no matter how hard I try. Some of them may victimize me again, and I already know how much worse it can get. If I wrote these two paragraphs though, I suppose more can be coaxed. The sin, the grave sin in the back of my mind, that charming plan, I fear the suffering it would cause me, so much more suffering for such deplorable acts of impulse which put me in niggerland, which made me a poor old quad the President elect would satirize, a public spectacle of diminution. Pure Genius gets a small bump for giving an ALS sufferer an arc, without examining the moral issues of personal dignity in the face of such debilitation.
"I'm sorry if you felt ill treated,"-- the undoubtedly committed volunteers of Bacopa
Editors. I did not feel ill treated. Publishing a writer is an arbitrary business, more so in the age of digital do it yourself files, looking at my non fiction collection in despair, just prior to logging on, sick to my stomach, if I growl in illegal and heinous fashion toward Putin's overly long tenure at the helm of the Russian Federation, perhaps I could outwit the FSB assassin (hypothetically, I know the Russians who view me are perhaps only trolling for propaganda) into dumping their plutonium capsules into literary advisors offices. I raised my voice about the poetry editor only because I am a one woman spastic who spent four hours formatting a small selection of my lighter unpublished pieces, and regardless of the fact that I read their guidelines and saw the guidelines I wanted to see, after years in the independent zine morass, it took the poetry editor seconds to ding me. That is the only reason I wauled, and the poetry editor's ranking over seer and I had a polite e-convo. The end, now all the sudden an anonymous voice pricks the scab. Editors. I am sick to my stomach. Unusual, perhaps the carrots. Handled the toilet twice in so many hours just as if I was a decade younger, also unusual, adopted new bathing tactics, however long this lasts, still tricky. I'd like to blame Hermine, but think my heart is giving out, don't particularly want any saving grace from cardiology. If I substantially revise my bylines for my wee small volume, whether I do it myself or fast a contest fee, throw in a few of my stronger blog posts, also revised, and in a quixotic move, add my two published short stories in the back, is that fair, to substantially alter the content to suit my aesthetic voice over past editors? Josie Byzek doesn't count here, and if the last picture I saw of her and her partner was Ginny, then perhaps there are a few Protestants left who by definition have to swallow humility when they transform facially into a jackass. Editors. Not to mention names, as I desire to remain on The Freeman's good side, my wauling about that was over my rush rush when I had, apparently, drifted into another topic. I wasn't mad at them, but me, for failing the bar, which is of another kind, as I have nothing to prove in literary terms. My CV is four pages of a lifetime, as I weaken and sicken and need to find a stable space. It will begin to cool in a few days, hopefully. For our purposes, I released myself from the original Gojira in my last hour of holding myself awake, asking what the fuck am I doing I'm not writing a dissertation on Godzilla as a coping mechanism for Hiroshima; I will, however, study Honda's nightmarish early anime seriously another time. Rodan is sickening, and yet I studied every Japanese male, wondering which of them wouldn't lose face with my shins clamped around their buttocks. Perhaps it is a summer cold. I'm off to bed, after I look up the shit on ISBN numbers.
Applying the proportionality test to both negative and positive rights may undermine any margin of appreciation of the [sic] state authorities. This gives rise to the problem of over-determination.-- Dual authors Klatt and Meeter, The Constitutional Structure of Proportionality, p 86 How one views the Lionel Tate case, almost twenty years old, depends on your filter. Dana Canedy doesn't bother to cast doubt on the "wrestling defense," because The New York Times couldn't fathom how the prosecutor filed for premeditation, while it is overtly challenged by Bill Kurtis three years later. And then, true to form for troubled African American men, Tate engages in recidivism. It tempts reactions along the lines of dangerous eugenic fallacies, but ethnicity is not a meaningless term, certainly not in the medical field, and in jurisprudence, experts eradicate bias through pretense. Caste, social station, are irrelevant behind the shield of our systems process. Never mind that, according to accepted norms, if you baby sit a six year old and leave her with your son twice her size and hear cries of distress, you get yourself out of bed and check. Kathleen Grossett-Tate was culpable in the death of Tiffany Eunick, but what do we wind up with? Traumatized liberal attorneys, a besmirched ADA, a judge who couldn't craft an appropriate punishment because his hands were tied by state guidelines, a single mother scarred for life by the loss of her little girl, a governor currently limping along in the primaries who attempted to split the difference in a glaringly ineffectual fashion, and the United States once again exposes its bongo justice, during the Clinton years, to foreign ridicule. At the time this case became one in a series of sensational events the state of Florida just keeps on giving, I was a fledgling journalist. The lesbian ADAPT activist gave me a byline, and the rest is moot, given present earnings capacity. I did not really understand search, and came late to Google, which is why I intuit a vague familiarity, at best, with the trial. Similarly, during the last days in the life of David Koresh, I was a work incentives advocate due to the wide latitude of a Pew Charitable Trust grant, and Waco was for all intents and purposes a prelude to Xbox, where we begin to lose the ability to differentiate collateral damage. I accepted the concern for the welfare of the children as paramount over and above a radical sect to command adherents as it pleased. Against the stress of case management, it was dramatic entertainment which might have been negotiated better, but hardly a trigger for sedition, sans McVeigh. What created him, what created ISIS, isn't going to fizzle due to drone technology, especially when one's former youthful enthusiasm evaporates because a female feline dashes out in the hallway, gnaws neighbor's trash after you spent the holiday morning chasing cat chow, screaming "Get the fuck in the studio," and Tim opens his door, helping you reign in a spayed foster rescue little bigger than a football. She puked outside Jim's door, the brother with end stage renal disease. I wanted a writing studio exactly like that of Andre Dubus, and instead, I am like a samurai gutting her intestines, familial aspirations imploded, after a middle class life more affluent than this. My father doesn't want to see me; the sister put him up to it. I don't want him in my unit. He should go back to die at Myrtle Beach, and I envision my own demise in a deportation cell outside of Paris, dreaming of a much more inclusive global conflict than that Niall Ferguson or Jennifer Rubin might see ahead.
In many countries, lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender people are persecuted, attacked and killed.-- Fred Hiatt, an admirable opinion writer otherwise. If I attempted to throw myself on the mercy of the Libertarians, just as with the the leftists, it would be to little avail. Some of you may or may not know I tweeted the indomitable Tony Stiles a direct message asking him if he could help me leave Philly to let me know, and I did not expect his largess to follow through and leap to my rescue in the shadow nation we'll call Nigerland, as I'm not sure I'm ready to risk total banishment in digital space just yet if I allow myself my true nasty colors-- for which Poets & Writers did ban me, but in my four years of running my mouth on Speakeasy, my vitriol had not coalesced into extremism in this unfortunate spastic frame. I list to my right, my right arm flexes in, and I'm peasant trash who really believed she could be a matriculated establishment player, after years of fighting the welfare state, I'm right back where I started leaving a large impersonal city campus without enough money to wash the piss out of my laundry. I became distraught with every resignation from every job I hated, and leaving the Matrix Research Institute was no exception, but the difference then, in 1996, was I knew I was fucking finished. Circumstances merely dragged things out. I started to write for money after dear lesbian bitch dead in my own heart published Leaving The Matrix Institute in a PA council on disability chapbook, and I managed to get lucky, and then surprised when mommy dropped and her insurance carrier left her children money. My younger sister wanted my cut and I said no. She and Ben joked about how long I held onto that nest egg, and now it's over. I'm on the verge of irrational flight out of one of the better 202 housing units in center city, mostly due to shame over my creativity with skid marks, my inability to get along with the wastrels in this community, the wastrels who make up the majority in this country, broken by the Roosevelt's culture of dependency. You want to come clean my apartment as an act of charity before the exterminator shows up tomorrow and my war with Trudy Richardson begins again? No? I thought not. This fucking Jazzy is hurting me, and all I want is to run, and pray for luck, when I actually logged on to research Medicaid's health care plans. If I could I'd slide into a hole and starve to death while the beat goes on, and as yet, I endure, but probably not much longer. I wonder what Hiatt would have to say about gay activist corruption that had such a disparate impact on my well being. He'd parse it no doubt by differentiating bad acts from equal treatment. And my response? Fuck that.
"We shouldn't have got involved."-- Josie Byzek My aunt hung up on me last night. Age, cancer, yelling at me to let my anger go, not to file a complaint against my building manager and her tactics. With all deference to Tony Stiles, for whom I need to make time to engage, I never had a problem with the police. Some officers have been more diffident than others, some more sympathetic, or less, but I downloaded an email for my district, and if I start this, ignite this spark, they may not arrest me, but conceivably could escort me from the premises, and then twitter, in a fantastical show of force, will have to come rescue me, with a small gobbling chuckle in the back of my throat. If I file a complaint against Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Presbyterian Homes, Ken Cantrell, I then undoubtedly raise a flag with the police. I am weighing this, in my small status among seven billion. Terri Schiavo's brain stem function and Bobbi Kristina's are complimentary in some ways. The disability movement may be silent in Bobbi's case because the famed sire of Houston may have attempted suicide, one. Two, the family is not ending her medical care, though entertainment media seems buoyed on the issue, even if it has been less than six months since the poor little love child became non-responsive. Does her brain deserve more time toward a possible recovery? Terri, as I understand it, aggravated her heart with dietary supplements, and disability activists made certain insinuations against Michael, the husband, in reference to the marriage, and that after 15 years of institutional care, his wife wasn't improving, so he wanted her out of the way. Josie's argument to me, at the Asian restaurant I could not afford, was that Terri Schiavo, whether she had minimal awareness or not, mimicked those who were non-verbal with mental retardation, hence, removing the feeding tube and letting the autonomic, if absent, woman, starve, gave the American public the wrong idea. How many of us would trade places with Bobbi, or Terri, if given their condition as a choice over and above dying? This was my luncheon with two lesbian Christian case managers, the dumbbell in my head going "This woman is my friend, right?" Cecil Morales, despite the power of his verbal acuity and penetration, probably would not have worked for me as a romantic interest, and if he is still around, (I am not searching), I apologize to him for bristling and losing my cool. I was trapped, trying to hold onto my belief in people like Ms. Byzek, and my need for someone interesting to trust and sleep with, but I'd give my right arm to have had an anecdote to tell you about the dinner date I never had with a very penetrating Argentine trade journalist who was such a piercing Catholic theologian. She took that from me. Josie. Her and Ginny. Peevish den mothers. What other kind is there? Forgiveness. Yep. I know, and a novel about it wouldn't lead to a movie deal as it did for Nora Ephron. Learn how to be less passive when people who think they know best screw your anticipations. Now I'll debate going back to work offline, or lying down. I take my time being indecisive about following back. Nothing personal; people don't like it when I let my neural net behave with that peculiar lack of compassion with which savants can be gifted.
