Back Up Parentis with Titus

Do you ever have anything positive to say?-- my better weekend aide

The only thing Bosch brings to the table as a procedural, in my estimation, is hard luck forming its central character as a stickler with his own honor code, (something with which I identify) but the second season opened with something which threads through the history of civilization: using human frailty as a form of masking. The first thing this wizened detective does after a six month suspension for flipping a pissant captain, fraudulent as that felt, is expose a suspect as not his father with emphysema in a wheelchair on oxygen. Chair gets violently thrown, (not that this doesn't happen to actual users) suspect flees, and our star of course lassos him in. Hugo makes the same distinctions in The Hunchback of Notre Dame, when the unfortunate poet Pierre Gringoire gets corralled by beggars of a 15^th(?) century Paris in upheaval. They only pretend to be lame and crippled. The gruesome operatives of Slumdog Millionaire, if you recall, take no chances with such fakery, and blind destitute street kids to beg for what must be an unstable currency. Although I can feel Jason Dorwart’s raised eyebrows behind me, nothing has truly changed in the world. Why do I assert this? Because Erik von Schmetterling, for all his transsexual ADAPT zealotry of yesteryear, is senile, his troops dying in Riverside Presbyterian’s lobby, while I’m literally quaking myself to death in an incompetent mechanic’s contraption because I can no longer pivot to take a damn dump in the toilet and the medical professionals around me are going berserk bilking Medicare without doing a damn thing to restore my function, and a west African minority has me running around doing her job because she’s too tired. So I have to criss cross center city buying supplies I cannot afford. I can, conceivably, explore suing Mr Wheelchair for product liability, but by the time that needle moves a stroke will have probably hit me, my body actually fighting the disposable adult wear for hours until discharge necessarily takes place, in pain regardless of her masks and gloves and her physically brutal ignorance. I allowed Dana to see too much of this, my racial hostility. It preys a little because she is morally decent, but her provider, TLC, is “cheap immigrant labor,” once removed. Karina is little better, white as she may be. I wasn’t planning on a yodel about entitlement metastasis this morning, however, but since I’m here, from what I am able to observe, millennials and the adolescents coming up behind them may well end up living in much more poorer standards than those I’ve had; I just have to find the right entryway to broach the topic without causing undo friction to my family in their hardships, but it does alarm me. Karina is 38 and she has an adrift life. At that age, I was earning between 250 and 400 on commissioned articles, working, in other words. Nevertheless, let me uplift my percussion with an upbeat rhythm, as transitory as social media can be, I was heartened by Svetlana's discovery of my account, dare I consider her a spiritual sister in arms!

Funeral For A Friend

"We need to tell them she's human too." -- a sales vendor named Jeff who has no idea

While Sean Hannity broadcasts CPAC 18 live, and I only make note of the physiological inability to drum up the enthusiasm for what the speeches and mini-bar raids signify in relation to the state of conservatism in America today, always vocal enough, whatever its failures, to look askance at social media purges, Karina breezed back into my life because the Muslim who will soon be redeployed back to her own kind, suggested, “Call her back,” and with great reluctance, I did. Thus I was treated to Rover the dog, flash drives of her men, because I allowed myself to be persuaded. It would have been more optimal had I remained firm when I told her on Facebook to let me go. The mother died from her melanoma yesterday, and Miss Kraus had the presence of mind to text me the information in a simple sentence, a sentence which might have been a rebuff, as pertains my own growing weakness, or simply the need to connect. I am domicile to the region, so is the mother, a woman I spoke to once, chaffing against the burden of this circumstance. Gretchen Laskas posted about the passing of her best friend’s father during this mild oscillation into my daily living, and I am not going to recant it specifically; it is her world, experience that belongs to what made her, and I couldn’t enter into it even if I consider her a friend, which I do, but she hit on what I had once and took away from myself by returning to the city, the conspiratorial intimacy with someone you’ve bonded to. Linda and I had it for a little while, and it is how she defended herself when she threw me off guard preening about spastic climaxes: she meant it as a conspirator, as if my love life was commensurate with her marital intimacy. (It wasn’t, and for the record, I doubt my convulsions make my orgasms more pleasurable than those of more mobile women.) It may seem inconsiderate to raise an objection to my former cleaning woman’s loss, but Karina cannot fill the void she thinks she can for me, just as I could only be a temporary economic support, little more. I can’t comfort her as if we’d known each other all our lives.

I can, despite this machine, wash my own hair, but I’d never hear the end of it from the Muslim, and have to consider this something of a write off herein, the corrosion of all this dependence is like the autonomic shock conclusion in Carnival of Souls.

 Though it is a different genre, this movie mourns humanism to nearly the same degree Amazon does with Electric Dreams. It takes us awhile to realize we’ve bought it, still trying to swim  while we sink.

The Dining Room Table

When I could still enjoy solitaire as a form of recreation rather than psychological duress, some of my favorites were the two deck game, St. Helena, and the small table game, Four Seasons. I made Four Seasons harder than it is on Warfield’s software, allowing only one move on the tableau per pile. I won rarely. Another was Hit or Miss (or Roll Call), a simple count and discard game, Accordion, and oddly enough, Perpetual Motion, which is a simple pattern game which can last a long time. I would not recommend playing it on the device, in my teenage mind which had no idea I’d plummet back into this distraction at this age, not helping myself. I have to wean myself away from all this awhile, upset that I allowed Karina to prey upon my sympathies, giving her money to wash my hair. Instead of being conscientious about the matter and giving me advance notice that her mother would be entering hospice, she took my money without finishing what she started, flimsy woman. I read this a long time ago in her and knew better and the Muslim, who is up in arms that I’m ditching TLC even though I’ve told her this for weeks, won’t do it, and my father’s ex attendant, whom I said I was going to hire on my dime, won’t shut the fuck up, so much so I’m having second thoughts about honoring my verbal assurances to her. She lost her mother too. “When Momo calls what you going to say?”

This is Saran, the big African child who cleans my stool five days a week. What does she think I’m going to say? I am a racist Momo and I’m sick of your accents and skin color, sick of not being able to have any time to myself, at all. I may not be dying, but my strength is gone, and all I have is my mental capacity struggling against my mechanics, not even positive I can trust my uncle’s company to restore my independence just a little. Mike altered what he sold me, but I shall never be fully functional in this machine, and it may be too late; fine, but I am losing my ability to cope. In Philip K Dick’s Electric Dreams, this peels off under your thumbnail like mica, a sad series, aptly casting Terrence Howard and his moral rectitude, carrying the burden of incendiary individuals like myself on his back. For me, this is going to bed early. I will make edits tomorrow after the Jewish nurse dashes off. She has achieved nothing in terms of making things better. I am under no illusions about moving on, what I’ll continue to face.

Congenital Kiss and Tell

On January 31^st, Vincent D’Onofrio expressed consternation for the loss of some followers due to voicing his political beliefs, and with a slight hedge, I offered a mitigating consolation without mocking him, but admit I’m a bit taken aback by how soft he seems to be outside of the studio’s insulation, and perhaps I shouldn’t be, since he is a regional performer with crossover national appeal. Woods is a little larger, but one thing the two actors share is a sense of the personable on social media not so readily apparent with others, and since fame interests me as a contextual problem, with questions about whether Twitter collapses recognition, engenders it with sometimes detrimental spontaneity, or not, with Ebert’s dictum that “[Celebrities are] just people,” coming into play, getting used to the pain of this hard vinyl seat, the physical pain and despondency in tandem. Mike the prick wants 400 dollars to convert what I’m sitting on to a base with a cushion, and if I was desperate for a usable chair in the fall, I’m not only now desperate to rid myself of torture, but the spool unwinding in my interior doesn’t know how much longer I can stand it. The man at the helm of Mr. Wheelchair has lied to me fifteen ways to Sunday. He had another chair for me. Now he doesn’t. He was coming in November to rectify the problem, then it was December. Then January. Each time he was a no show. Neither of us trusts each other. A little of that fame utilized to raise conscious awareness might be useful at present, as I’d rather not take the time and energy to consult a lawyer about this, and Medicare is its own sweet draconian process.

Today I lost a truck load of followers becuz of my views on where our nation is at right now. My liberal snowflake views,my bleeding heart views,my freedom2call out false info when I c it&my call4equlity.I have2say though it did put a smile on my face. #NoFearNoGreedNoEnvy

— Vincent D'Onofrio (@vincentdonofrio) January 30, 2018

D’Onofrio’s public worry about his drop illustrates that everyone can be affected by “the numbers game,” of automated models, unless consumed by distress which reduces its concern: Much to my astonishment, Karina refused to break off our relationship founded by Craigslist. She returned to Philadelphia for personal reasons I will not dangle before you with callous indifference, ignored my indignation, and crashed in upon me with her heart of gold hugs, however suspect its reliability, so I relented and we’ve made up, just after Amazon’s own streamlining suggested I might be interested in Breathe, an Indian series with more than one or two parallels between hero cop with his emotional wounds and his antagonist. Madhavan is interesting as Danny, a soccer coach whose son is afflicted with cystic fibrosis, due to more than his unipolar descent into psychopathy. Due to the fact that this is Bollywood rather than its American cousin, the series whets my aesthetic curiosity, but this said, I am not convinced this is how killers are made or pursued in Indian society, but why Danny descends into hell, why he destroys his own social decency, you’re looking at it right here people. I could be wrong, but Breathe seems to have its own melodramatic subversion, damned if I don’t find it funny, even if the logic of his multiple efforts for one fresh donor after the other  is unclear. 

Robert Byrd’s White Nigger Echo Chamber

"I have to go to Norristown--" The Mechanic

I am literally teasing matted locks of my greying and now wiry hair out of my scalp, ever slowly, and to my mortification, it looks like Gilda Radner's worst day of chemotherapy, the original anti-prime timer, and yet persisting, slowly, tackling the worst before I let a cosmologist do what they can with it, but as it is now, it perfectly symbolizes what 14 weeks of being at the mercy of Medicare has done to me, and this is what Paul Krugman champions, how long and punishing this has been, trying so hard to fend off the iron jaws of “means testing,” my case is now under review at County Assistance. No idea why, as my savings were depleted by 2014. I held off reapplying for Medicaid as long as I could, but knew I would need it (late in the day) for another power chair, but all of a sudden, I am “under review,” in order that the Commonwealth can ensure it protects itself. No one is willing to ensure I am protected from it. The dynamic nigger duo, Trudy and Debra, contracted with Liberty Health to at first pressure me to comply, and then Tom of Liberty Health did his damnest to talk me into signing myself away, but didn’t know his job, that Hahnemann University Hospital couldn’t put me away. I had no condition they could treat me for, but Hahnemann and the Visiting Nurses association, and Mike's bucket seat ingenuity, have virtually incapacitated me. Libertarian political philosophy, perhaps traditional conservatives, as well, may not have an answer for disability, dependence, and rationed care, but the system has some serious dystopian fissures. Maybe it will right itself after boomers have their mass die off, but I am not so sanguine about Western medicine’s  market correction. My father cannot afford to let his wife die in the most compassionate manner, my body has taken fourteen weeks of a prolapse break down, to the point even my arms are now affected by tremors, and these are my options:

a)      Hang on until I can manage a better power chair fitting and ditch hospital bed and hope for partial recovery

b)      Attempt suicide and hope I don’t fail

c)       Give up and allow Inglis House or equivalent facility to torture me into hospice

The Medicare medical equipment model failed me from 14 forward. The Trump Administration had nothing to do with it. I did not have a primary care doctor or practice that met my needs, and still don’t. The VNA is an outsource model staffed by nurses and other therapists near retirement. Mike and I are in agreement here. They know jack shit, this VNA, but private contraction failed too. Hiring Karina from Craigslist was a mistake, and utilizing Mr. Wheelchair broke my strength, my resilience, and the fucking liberal majority insisting I need an attendant has taken 98 days to put my Medicaid eligibility under review. I’m sure Krugman would blame austerity, but that would be too linear. I was in the beginning of needing to curtail and be cautious, in September 2017, but I wasn’t failing; Pennsylvania seems determined to rectify that. I should go lie down, as the grease monkey is coming early evening. Should you pray all goes well for the dowager’s scathing mouth? All I ever wanted was a career, to make something of myself, to have some freedom to achieve certain things, maybe have a good man, but no, 32 years ago, I moved into an accessible 811, and that anguish and rage permeates this one wee blogging platform. 

Shadow Emissions From Brown Dwarfs

[In spite of his refined sensibility Hyacinth Robinson, the little Soho bookbinder, is condemned, as the Princess puts it, “to look at the good things of life only through the glass of the pastry-cook’s window.”]

I did not know that Oprah was also a sexual abuse victim who miscarried the fruits of the violence against her, and it certainly explains what lurks beneath her vivacious veneer, how she transmutes white suffering with the agrarian cracks in black culture; it nevertheless doesn’t remove the irritants of her telegenic superficiality, and the dowager believes this is what Karina doesn’t understand about umbrage against false friends. I think I had enough of that with my former heroine supervisor, Linda Dezenski, who “didn’t understand what I wanted,” when she let me crash land into a near self-inflicted violence. Discussing ideation is one thing, but the turmoil my former colleagues at Liberty left me in is another, and I could have never truly gotten past what happened to me without leaving River Presbyterian Apartments, and since I haven’t managed that, and keep getting punched in the face, I needed to cast off my former Craigslist hire. Karina saw the reality of my situation. Due to this, with a trace of guilt, I overcompensated her, but had a different set of expectations than consoling phone calls, particularly when I was in trouble in October. I had hoped the peripatetic passer would have stepped up to mitigate the stress of my equipment failure. The cues I read in her voice said no way, so I essentially tossed courtesy out the window, and unfriended her. I don’t necessarily dislike flighty blonds with wobbly centers, but this shallowness is the venial American sin. I would not have these same expectations from a women’s interest author like Gretchen Laskas, though she has been in my department with some of her early writings, because mutual physical support is not the foundation of our relationship. Karina, however, accepted how I defined her, rapidly suggested and then retracted a co-habitation, which, if she had more mettle behind her declarations, would have spared me the equestrian braying cruelty of an asshole like “Tom,” Presby’s contracted Holocaust squad leader. I fault conservatives here too, harder as I am on the left, especially Kaisch with his Downs Syndrome anti-abortion bill. Conservatives fight for our lives, but the majority of us wind up as slaves, constricted chattel, unless we have the peculiar genius of Hawking. It may appear that chronic conditions are harder on the precocious, but making that assumption is laurel resting. The mentally retarded know, particularly when entering into adulthood, that the world perceives the threat they pose. Robert Redford tries to cut through this superficiality within his maturity, almost with the force of preponderance in Majorie Prime. Whatever the flaws in its gravity, the revelation of emotional wounds, this futurist dramatic poem is a devastating condemnation of method acting. To that end it’s rather finely tuned, and probably an affectation in the wake of Paul Newman’s terminal cancer. The middlebrow would say Redford is wise, not engaging in a roman a clef, hiding his intent in subtext, but I have an agenda, going to be gone soon, and take my sacrifices. It could be that James Woods, trailing behind Redford some years, doesn’t have the capacity to read my responses, as his followers have steadily increased. In my case, I know I haven’t taken drops simply due to vulgarity, but I do wince, when my fondness leads me to positive attributes, like a solitaire guru, and I face the risk of more abandon if they become aware, but we all know the price of eggs, how difficult broken yolks are to clean away.

Italy isn't a nation state either

De Sousa is speaking out about her decade-long ordeal, which started when an Italian court convicted her in absentia -- along with two-dozen others -- connected to the 2003 U.S. government-sanctioned kidnapping of cleric Abu Omar.

I am still somewhat indignant toward Karina over my scrapbook, and this is why writers need to murder custodial employees every so often. I know, people, thank you. No one clips, and I don't even purchase tabloid copies any more, but I had tons and stacks of things I cannot replicate online. It was my tool kit. The woman is lucky I deflected and took it out on the poor house nigger doing her job. [Why are you blaming me?  I have ten years of Trudy's chirpy intonations running the gamut, and why am I blaming her?] Because. She intimidates me with such relentless veracity I am always having to deal with lies and losses and personal effects. But my hard copy processes did not always work. My fatal attraction toward fascist grandiosity started early, if my obsessive curation of all things Italy evinces such. It startled me, many years ago, when the caramel taffeta bitch baby thorn in my side was undoubtedly   learning her evasive survival maneuvers, that in writing a poem about Medici assassins, I had a nostalgia for the urbane brutality leading up to Mussolini. I still have illegible carbon copy of mio originale, and finally pulled through a revision, nearly complete, less exhortation toward the overzealous Il Duce. I'd take Benito back in a heartbeat however, which leads to the diffident castigation of Black Adder, from Liberty On The Rocks: "You want to blow up buildings and shoot [humans according to ethnicity]. Why are you even here?
Excellent question, but right wingers like freedom also. They accrue it in the will to power. You can view this for yourself in the fun frolic Kirk Douglas, Tony Curtis, and Ernest Borgnine have in The Vikings. Maiming was a way to live, not an identity. But to correct the software developer who doesn't want to get on my bad side, I do not lactate over arbitrary genocide, just my enemies. I am sure, by now, you all have my list penciled in, waiting for the next catapult. I'd go on, but intend to dither some usage on a submission.

Hunchback To Mermaid Simplicity

I am the knight who will fight for your honor-- the delphonic trope in the elevator car

It all comes down to what we can learn to live with, and what we can't, and if I did not need the experience of Frank's sweaty brown diseased pockmarked water heavy lava laden body, why did I spiral into it, cutting him down barely two weeks before our nuptials'? I tried to take the advice of a relationships expert on NPR, of all things, settling for a sick spic who wanted a woman to tend to his regressive need to be babied, and to continue to argue with Frankie's memory, as you'll learn, our dead are never entirely resolved, whether they made us happy or not, he could not have possibly loved me when he proposed and offered me the ring. It doesn't work that way, despite my belief as a young woman that my initial conversation with a Shakespearean from New York was destiny. First impressions are just that, impressions, and Jerry after that then became an obsession in progress, my own blind spot to an interior emptiness. My error with a Bronx piece of refuse wasn't being persuaded by a woman on the radio to settle for a half breed who wanted me, whom I despised. Ingrid tried to persuade me too, the lanky spider limned black girl with her dead still born on her t-shirt: what we can live with, and what we can't. I could have talked Frank out of the ring, and rolled away, closed the book, failed experiment, but I was 42, and was never going to reconstruct an angry sexually dynamic beatnik for myself, even when I dated his double. All women, all girls, know how to do the math, and Frank paid a terrible price for his aspiration. I lost my temper, we had escalating bouts of domestic violence. I punished him. I punished him for his misogyny, for strangling his first wife, for his low life son. Did I get anything back, at all? Yes, living with someone is not the same as being marred for life by what we think we want and can never attain. Frank, however, was not emblematic of the Quasimodo, distressingly brought to life by a queer, rescued by the cerebral and rigid Frollo. As great a humanist as Hugo is, his flaws hit you like a cold August drought, signaling the movement away from the Sun's life force, raising hairs and goose bumps, and Frollo's dramatic turn into madness, borne out of lack of living intimacy, while entirely credible, isn't as convincing as Hugo might have made it. The priest was drawn too well as a Catholic, doing his duty before God, in saving the bell ringer, the freak who didn't have intellectual accretion tied to the respect his sheer physicality demanded. 


If this freak is to save herself, she has to sever/e these ties with Riverside Presbyterian, and accept whatever calamity then ensues, even if former freelance cleaners call her at ten in the morning in the middle of a post. Though I may have misinterpreted the gesture, a voice in my head warned me that Karina wasn't phoning to check in on me. I had the sense she needed something. I am probably not the best person she can call on for counsel, as I need a consigliore of my own, always behind my own goals: I have a small window to stall for time, but Trudy Richardson believes she's cowed me, and this is one linear minded tootsie roll who is sadly mistaken. She has crossed too many lines. I've marginalized her even in blind fury, outmanned as I am by mass stupidity, asking  as it does why I cannot see my own limitations, be a compliant passive angel. UCPA never did me any favors, between this rock and a hard place wherein I wedge.

Junk Food Gas

We have no housing suggestions at this time.--Toomey's regional offices

I was a little more unkind to Jayne Anne's legacy than I had intended to be here, was mildly surprised Niume allowed me the ventilation, and shall perhaps make up for it at a later date. I cannot remember much about Fast Lanes or Black Tickets, and have yet to restart the earlier vignettes which earned the studiously silent professor her acclaim; no, I am not pouting that she will not respond to me; I simply thought emailing her would be the fastest method to get a copy of my poem back. I may even no longer have a draft, and murderous contempt for vacant Christian idiots doesn't solve the problem, does it now?

I know the alt.right doesn't give a fig leaf for my liberal brown nosing, blow upon blow. The state GOP, Toomey. They seek my loyalty, my monetary support, and if I have committed nearly irrevocable acts against black monolithic bull dykes, as long as the lava vein doesn't lead to property damage, who cares? So why have I switched sides? Because Toomey would have evicted me by now; there may have been some humiliation involved, but not this slithering nigger poison on its daily saline drip, and I like straight forward talk, think the man got the CIL to declaw my supervisor. The most cognizant rationale I've read about McConnell's breach of Beltway decorum, allowing the Garland nomination to expire, was that the party wanted to keep Scalia's seat solidly conservative: I've enough independence of mind left to be critical of "unicarmelizing" the federal legislature. It only gives libertarians more fuel, as we all grow more suspicious.


Sure, Obama disillusioned me, and his policies did jack to help me, as quads are always dismissed, third class humans, at best, if we require too much mending, but he was still the president. Trump wants the same respect, and in that light, Garland should have had a hearing. Gorsuch gets in, yes, but after I am dead, does Scotus become a dog and pony show off Broadway? If I can be nearing 55-- just barely, and be cynically disgusted, it is quite an erosion. Mr. Delvechio's history student, 36 years ago, was a patriot. She believed in her country. Philadelphia, as a chronic condition, destroyed that by the time the broken half-wit from the Bronx proposed to me. I think I was 42, thinking I'd stay well built for a while. Now I am ejecting myself from the inglorious projects which consumed health, virility. We'll see if JFK security shoos me off, like a mad woman, if I present myself to the Senator's staff, in the interim.

Third Time's A Charm

"Closing The gap takes a deeper look into the gang stalking phenomenon."-- jacket blurb

BIn closing the distance between my psyche still flying under Google's all powerful radar, I actually emailed the recombinant Jayne Anne because Karina Klaus, the fucking white trash I hired, nearly killing my apartment manager whom I am still ready to rumble into an illegal situation over it, this Karina, the Craigslist swiss cheese Air Jordan brain, fucked around with my contributor copies while I was taking a piss and destroying a 60 dollar flea market skirt I bought from a minority vendor. The only thing I have in this world are my contributor copies, and so I overrode any self-effacement and emailed the once libertine southern debutante. I asked her if she could find the magazine, copy my poem, and send it to me. I was terse, not even offering a salutation. I then emailed her at Rutgers again, claiming I found my copy. and this, in point of fact, is not the case, so I suppose I should now wait, quietly, and see what this woman, over whose picture I destroyed a Poets &Writers issue so I could tape her profile to my door in the hard core badlands 15 minutes down Race, will say. I know Karina is a soft-shelled crab. I know she is in Oregon and whoever the dickwad is that she's fucking, I hope unwittingly compensates me by devastating her with a future episode of abandonment.

How vicious? 

What in the name of my long, abusive, spastic life do I have but my work? My anxiety over a future bi-nervous vulnerability to an unscrupulous feminine manipulator is misguided. The next ambulatory individual who fucks with my life, regardless of race or sexual orientation, is going to experience what it is to have a Roman assassin reborn. No one gives a fuck. I know. This is the age of social media, and I may not be a quadriplegic as scorched as a Precious in triplicate. Karina tends to believe we're friends. I am also going to blow my stack with Google, live, in fairly short order, about monetizing. Me and the mighty Silicon giant, round two. Smell a service suspension round the bend?

Hyper- vigilance with Lobster Bisque

"She went after everybody," my dead ex-fiance on why Trudy Richardson's predecessor, Brenda Williams, was terminated.

Once a nervous breakdown occurs, however mild it might have been in comparison to that of maternal progenitors, the threat of an escalating relapse is always present, the anxieties of post traumatic stresses more prevalent, the war between pragmaticism and the platform for your byline a harder struggle, as I tossed my Lessig rebuttal, as a speculative all nighter, to Brian Doherty of Reason when I actually had another pitch for him, and the dead bloodhound olfactory nerve linked to my ego is saying leave him alone. At least for a few months. On the other hand-- there is always the other hand, even if one wants a libertarian flag to flutter over virtual skeletal fracture, my bones snapping in creative destruction, my younger sister yelling at me when I said civilly that I know she'd put me away, time permitting, when the time comes; but we did not fight. I simply told her my writing ability was losing to anxiety, and if I was ever to in fact go senile she needed to tell me.
"Get out more."
With what? The LOTR meet up tolerates me, but none of its members reach out, and while the peripatetic Karina does reach out (maybe she needs an elder female figure too spastic, ever think of that?), the failed private care giver and the troll are on different tranches.  Karina isn't a peer, and I really have nothing to talk with her about.  Extremes of destitution take their toll on the calcium of bone which has passed the half century mark. The disabled community which follows me online cannot really help me, even if I embraced them more readily, which I do not. Where I am not cruel outright, I am either otherwise cold, or cool, although this particular slice of my audience can take pleasure in the fact that I've taken 20 lashes from think tanks I believe I have a divine right to penetrate. Snorts at self. Get up, keep fighting. I had an argument in my head about why I abandoned My Disability Matters. He and I messaged each other about prospective job proposals, and as usual, the end result was a significantly lower level of expectation. "The site is up, maybe you can write about it." Thanks Dale I know you're blind and have a much more positive attitude, but no thanks. It is analogous to fake news and false hopes.

In relation to the left's latch onto the newest evil, that of digital propaganda, Foucault has a point when he raises his voice about genealogy records being a more trustworthy metric over narratives. Take Gwen Ifill's death. PBS inflated Ifill's video eulogy out of proportion; the Newshour, one of the first pre-cable news shows to air the Watergate hearings, spent an entire week giving Gwen a memorial. It may not have been a concoction, like the pizzeria, secret den of iniquity, but it was a lot of inflated padding, less so in print. Her obituary wasn't truly news, not under the rubric of the right to know. It was an accolade, meaning, in essence, that much media filler is a take, a perspective, basically unnecessary, diluted already by television technology; now it collapses under automation. I'm still enough of a journalist to know how to check my facts, how to investigate and confirm. A public which cannot do the same cannot simply paint Russian hackers as the new red devil. 

Inclusion Paves Stairwells to Hell with Best intentions

"I don't know Stacey." Nate Maingard, fantasy abandoner

Karina Klaus, that is her full name, likes to surprise me, but in elongated chucks. I cannot remember when the fuck I hired her, in desperation. It is in here though, my bloody archives, trying to sustain my Trujillo - like self pity. Wiki's pic is not the man Llosa painted in my head, yet I cannot explicate the difference between the actual despot and Llosa's rapacious appropriation. I worked all night, shopped yesterday a living troll in the spastic flesh, and Karina telephones me, out of the goddamn blue, and I panicked. Nate Maingard, my love, twitter (my hate) Is she reading my posts? I said none of this, told her a parable, texted her about my thirtysomething self reliance. "You're my friend," she said. Yeah, all the way from Eugene Oregon. I can surmise Portland went for Clinton.

She's my friend, Karina, from Craigslist. Get real spastic, the ambulatory world expects you to know your place, accept you can't care for yourself, be nice to Pennsylvania's welfare. That kind of friendship, an itinerant passing, a ricochet of failed consideration. I previously wrote she suggested she and I could live together and she retracted just as quickly. I'm that type of quadriplegic. None of you can handle it, only nigger trash for wages not worth the price. There are worse. My dead ex-, Frank, who was probably correct that this chick is drug suey. I worked all night, to what end? Lessig treated me like a real journalist. I think, or faulty adversary.

She is still with the bum over 50 (for the puzzled, it is buried in my tweets). I recently gave Danita Berg a hard time, and I am thinking of writing a piece about it, my pugilistic stance with the left. She runs a damn literary website for fairies, she isn't a trauma specialist, but I laid into her inappropriately similar, but not exactly the same, as what I did to Stacey, Nate's co-patriot. I never supposed the recording artist knew the hapless engineer. If I really let myself go-- well, I am. In public housing, section 811 or 202, recertification is mandatory. I'm not doing it this year, so nigger Trudy gets what she wants. I either find a solution, or I'll be muzzled by August. The stream will go on, with or without us.
Spooky.

Mining Twitter for provocation and paying absurdist fees

"I've seen men hurt worse and lose more."-- Joseph Cotton, the third man

Trivial detail: Twitter notifications emailed me October 27, 2015. "You have a new follower!" Neil Thomas Stacey, whose thin and languid ambulatory poise rather recently infuriated me, the insulated self-interest. I flagged him down on twitter's web page to get a sense of who I lost, and became angry. Not with a South African civil engineer tossing out pithy trinket tweets so much as with ambulatory blithe assumptions about its privilege. I have, in point of fact, lost hundreds-- maybe decades instead, of followers since I opened a twitter account, including Nicholas Kristof, and as of Sunday, Neil's follow countryman, and my sentimental favorite, Nate. Every bitter bitch needs at least one twinkie for sentimental comfort, and I wanted to chase after Maingard, and suppose I did sorta, trying to explain. He claims he blocked me accidentally and cannot find my account, and it feels like I've lost an adoptive nephew, or the good fuck, worth more than 5 rand, if only, but it is my fault for hating the able-bodied. I went on o small rampage and booted Trump's daughter, Ivanka. How many gulfs can I expect to leap, after all? Why should she bridge my divide? She is a status mogul descendant, tweeting what wealthy blonds tweet about babies, and I am just a spastic, slowly losing, but also failing to see the late Roger Ebert's awe of social media. I also parted from Dale Reardon, a blind Australian who may have believed I wanted back in the throng. Shared experience, all that, in disability land. And no, I need a job, not the segregation of disability empowerment. When I tweeted, "I am saying goodbye to you," however, Dale understood what Stacey could not grasp: Cripples, even smart ones, emotionally invest a little more, and I liked having Maingard as a sugared sex fantasy to show off to the vanquished Karina. Sniffling a little, but over what? That Nate misunderstood the dots I connected to get from A to B? Is a long time follower a relationship? The age of automation gets on all our nerves.

I asked my sister to ask her children who Shelita Burke was. I followed her back, initially, for the sake of the chasm between us, but during my mini-rebellion, all she wanted me for was to prop her label profile, and the humane fascist said no more. Screw the damn numbers. (Ali Spagnola is a different context, one enumerated many posts back in archive.) And I only knew one thing about the Singh before Harjinder found me. A Singh assassinated Indira Gandhi, who overruled her advisers and kept her guard. "How else can we prove we're secular?" She inquired. But I can understand a sect who know what they are, and I followed the proud father foodie back, with respect, even if he too has to work on my profundity.

Dissolved in Water

A work in progress?-- Trudy Richardson, being diffident while Karina was being obstinate in 2014

You may laugh: I cannot find my fiction file with my hard drafts, and I have no idea where "Jawbone" is sitting. I remember the story, and as I've previously indicated, I have the first seven pages, but for all its weaknesses, which I wanted to revise, it was one of my favorite fictions. And I'm furious, with ambulatory persons not respecting that as a writer I horde articles and facts and drafts. Karina didn't respect it, nor my father's dead mother, nor any African American attendant (hissed). One of my younger aides, who works for a dentist, if social media is any indicator-- I-- ah, it came back, Lakisha Doe. I fired Kisha twice, not before before mother's mother took her to lunch-- but she bought me a huge heavy plastic storage bin. It may be there. It may be under the desk. I threw out the entire Cigna Medicare Part D prescription plan from welfare. I threw out half of the United States Postal Service, which Speaker Ryan may want to close, and my poor female, the one getting the short end of the stick, in my peevish old age, as yes, I am old, I mean this in a variety of ways, is all excited, lively, playing with wheelchair parts. Mom, what is going on?
My accumulations kimmy, things that mattered to me, have to be dictated by the government as forbidden, or discarded, and it just isn't enough, brain damage, a life of recoiled pain, people who walk have to dictate which markers even indicate that a quadriplegic once aspired and existed. The little girl is on my thigh, needy, alone, no babies to attend, as her litter was destroyed, and no more Vinnie to quarrel with; he was destroyed. She is a good girl, but I am no longer the good mother, I'm now too poor for that, a world away from the six thousand I still had when I fought my conscience, paid her adoption fees, donated to the shelter in Joey's name. I have to rest, work from memory but basically now rewriting, but I will assert this. Do not tell me not to hate. Writing, above all else, is the only thing I ever had transcending all else. Trudy can have the police break my wrists dragging me out of the building, but I swear to Christ, I'll take her job with me if I have to before anyone ever railroads my life again while I still breathe, while I yet cognate.

Utter Carelessness with Anonymity

I do not have Russian cyber hacker savvy to know whether or not this link my favorite unreliable airhead sent to me will block you, but the Apple app has a thumbnail image of Karina, who is now probably on Haley's comet trajectory in relation to my unhappy occupation of this ten story welfare junket. She wants to be nice, my short term, short lived domestic, wants to keep in touch.

My lips purse in exasperation, all that money I guzzled in her gas tank. I know more about her now, but happily, I'm not that much of a violator. Her life isn't interesting, transitory as it earns my envy otherwise. Think she'll pick me up as my slow evacuation progresses? Bets on the militant cripple versus New Church heresy?

As a side note, I just tweeted to another crabbed has been about the cars Hill used in The Driver. If you can tell me the make and model of the key vehicles you get acknowledgement credits in my work. Pony up call for aficionados. Come on.

Feasibility Study

It has been an excruciating week, and perhaps I've held off flipping totally out with a strength I did not know I had but I cannot do this again, and I've been more facetious than I've intended, diverting my inner maniac who can only hear her bones snapping like the dried out wishbone of a turkey breast. I don't know. I don't want to be done, but by the same token, camping out at Toomey's regional offices on the verge of hysteria achieves what? I'm like a city Feeney against the black power of Seth Williams, at least in terms of human trafficking in the independent living paradigm, and if the Karina I fired remaining in my life is the new force of Christian moderation on the ferocity of a genuflecting destitution, it is too little too late in hackneyed terms: "Would you want to live here?"
"No," she said, grasping what 22 years in this formerly mixed, now mostly nigger shanty, has done to my health. An old nigger down the hall with nothing better to do puts cards under my door on a cyclic basis, quoting Matthew in her nearly illiterate block letter pen print. I'd spit in her face without a second's hesitation if I knew who she was. The 1997 version of the Outer Limits classic is more sophisticated than the black and white original, with its charming use of tin foil. The black and white, however, has the passion of its conviction, especially due to the irrational exuberance of mutually assured destruction in its time. Today Dr. Simon Holm would be arrested for leading Pegida. 

The real me is exactly what the minority staff keeps attacking and threatening: an extremist created through having her welfare destroyed by section 811/202 housing corruption. Oh yes, by next week I'll be snarling less, if I haven't collapsed by then, but my humanity is damned, at least based on the preponderance of evidence.

Craigslist does wonders for Emanuel Swedenborg

Despite Thurgood Marshall and Clarence Thomas, despite years of aggressive litigation to broaden civil rights, social reality on the ground is relatively stagnant in the African American community, at least when it comes to major urban enclaves. Philadelphia, Detroit, Compton, Liberty City, large sections of New Orleans, LA, the District of Columbia, even San Antonio, from what I've seen in historical footage, though I grant that Texan violence seems to have a more ruthless aspect to it. The Northeast corridor is more five and dime, if my years off campus were any indication. My perpetrator, for instance, allocated that he was subduing me in order to rob me, but I had next to nothing of value in Diamond Park, five dollars on my kitchen table, purchased by my Italian grandmother, utilized as a writing desk, I still keep my Smith Corona PWP on it, in my static environment. Five dollars, some change. Drug stabbings, drug fires, inner city neighborhoods aren't just about a deficit of resources, and poverty isn't simply about lack of money, nor even education. It's uselessness, and efficiency developers like Ev Williams cannot always solve this through coding and apps; neither can the Communist Party in Beijing, from what I've seen, and white Americans aren't immune from this malaise of not being able to apply themselves. Karina telephoned me Tuesday, unexpectedly, disruptive, and was quite changed, back to her natural brunette hair color, wearing very little mascara. I don't know what it is with me and this New Church woman who inadvertently ignited a war between me and Riverside's management, or, more correctly, ushered in the latest battle I will eventually lose. I feel badly for her, and like her even if she's flighty, leaving me with the mistake of trusting her judgment, and I suppose she feels badly for me, and I'm wondering if I engage in my last life altering event of giving my notice at the end of March, come hell or high water, if she'll let me sleep in her car. I've no idea how she's managed to retain the vehicle, even less why a 36 year old who's a bit loony wants to be my friend. I cannot pay her what I did, even if I find a writing job. What should the fact that she's being kind to an embittered cripple mean? She hardly has the resources to pool her fortunes with mine to help me relocate on the last leg of my viable years. She doesn't want to apply to be my consumer model attendant. Sandra Bland had a position awaiting her, by contrast, when she was arrested for that traffic violation. Did she fear losing it over a misdemeanor?

Spastics like myself have some insulation in that regard. Police do not like the hassle arresting wheelchair users pose, even if their domestic housekeeping presents itself as a liability, and as I come from a family with a number of first responders, I know something about cops and firefighters. They don't want to kill anybody, normally, and aren't prone to excessive force, not on the beat, but an arrest brings any citizen closer to a high risk lifestyle, though in most cases it is a revolving door, when it doesn't lead to rehabilitation due to injuries sustained in high crime areas. Darrell Jordan's decision to impanel a grand jury which then declines to indict doesn't foster trust in enforcement, any more than indicting a celebrity like Bill Cosby on hearsay is justice for victims of sexual assault, and just as automation forgets we're people first. I've been a writer publishing since I was 19, and Inquisitr has ignored my inquiries too.

Ozy would probably say, if it said anything, that my umbrage with them is misguided, and it probably used an automated system to sweep in my twitter account in 2014, and their email to my yahoo address was a prompt, and this doesn't obligate them to listen to me, especially since I am not a passive disabled woman grateful for ambulatory suffrage, but they certainly aren't as liberal as they claim if they can't handle how Philly's incompetent paradigm traumatized me. Won't even bother to listen. In California the unbearable lightness of being is a mandatory disposition, evidently.

Narrow Casting

"I have no money to give you." -- bluntly

I have my state in error in the Darren Wilson case mentioned in my most recent post, and in my own peculiar way of back drafting an old newspaper man like Kurtis, I need to do some research, but what pisses me off, capital case aside, is that defense lawyers behave as if they're ordained, and on a crusade to prevent extermination, refusing to look reality in the eye, and see dissembling manipulation for what it is.

This was an old case, early nineties, no new juice in it unless I find something, but the whole episode seems to predicate the true moral erosion of progressive justification: taking responsibility. It angers me. The attorney on one end of the sea saw battling mission creep, and an overgrown blunderbuss of a prisoner on the other, his demeanor oozing with "pity the poor home boy masking his own shame for being odious." It makes my skin crawl, not that my own errors in judgment are any more salient.

Karina telephoned, surprising me. Spastic presupposed she blocked my number. Spastic presupposed Karina read the blog, and took offense, even if the stereotypical hair net of the dim witted blonde fits. She is a stupid woman-girl, fishing for money I no longer have, hardly able to keep her own schedule, characteristic of the detritus hired by public welfare. 

My own Cameron Diaz? Karina lacks the mastery of the actress for timing and cues, but I offered the woman the consumer model position, again. "I'm out in the country, looking for a place to live." She must be desperate, soliciting me after all these months. In a chastened civility, I asked after the mother, whose terminal cancer is now, evidently, "cured". Uh huh.

Mirage

"Life had finally caught up with me, and I was utterly overwhelmed."-- Peter Noble, Winning the War against Worry

Digital data processing doesn't make our lives easier; it merely concentrates it, and then we'll need applications to manage it all, forgetting key things crucial to what we do. Technology optimism is thus relative.

My lack of compliance, while not as aggressive as the slew of notable suicides in recent years, will enlarge my vulnerability as much as my intransigence is self protection, and beneath the surface, if I am homeless by the end of July, I do not care, whether I last hours, or weeks, before I'm transported, dumped, back to institutional paradigms of childhood and career, forced onto a catheter, but it isn't that I don't want to live, nor even that I do not want domestic assistance. I want to decide these things, not have an indomitable, stupid woman from Mississippi decide them for me. I never heard of Dr. Brandt, until his hanging became another titillating spectacle we need to cure depression tableau of the moment.

It seems to me, given what women such as I have to field, that he was a sissy, so I'd fall into Sarah Bernstein's caviler satirists category. The argument there being when the cruel joke is a way of coping as opposed to a hate crime (zzzz). He had money, a successful career, and I lost my savings being afraid of a tootsie roll like Trudy Richardson, afraid of her power to continually ostracize me, and she and Debra, their civil service enforcers, have been preeminently successful on that score, just as the seniors under Debra Schwab were, literally harassing me. I do not need it. A police officer using force against me for a deliberate, or developmental disruption, is more honest. Broken primates suck up money.

I'm not entirely unhappy either, which might surprise you, because whatever happens, I will always fight to be free, on my terms, with my awesome, ferocious mind, tired of being a passive anomaly for compassionate problem solvers like an old flame. Yes, I've made mistakes, and hired a nice floozy off Craigslist named Karina who was the beginning of the end of ambulatory treading on my personal dignity because she wanted to help, by throwing out all my documents and some personal effects, and Trudy wanted to know, "Why are you blaming me?"

Because my life has to be destroyed for some standard I could never meet in the first place.

The voice of old aunts

Everything is my fault. Marie's brittle contralto in my head, my frustration glancing her brittle skeleton, for lack of any other supports, including Karina's disappearance, the younger urban variation on my Ridley Park neighbors. What I had hoped, despite my intuitive sense of her capriciousness, and my displeasure with her inability to check with me first, was that she'd help me get out, despite the fact that I dismissed her. And our last conversation was about her schedule overwhelming her, my silent impactiom symptoms overwhelming me, and our haphazard rapprochement then snapped, with whatever trek she was doing, and then Frank, who cannot help me. I do not consider my follower Ed a friend, although he might have been had I been part of a couple; still, I want nothing more than to bring my sojourn with Presbyterian Homes to an end, and let the underclass finish me off, if I'm weak enough to be finished off, as opposed to setting off a chain of events, like Peter Gallagher in the Underneath.

He isn't afraid to take chances with a crippling ineptitude with that distinctive face, Gallagher, with the breadth of those eyebrows and mouth, everyone caught in the lattice of betrayal his emotionally warped character initiates, in a switch and bait plot. An old geezer from Sidney Hill, a building worse than this, asked me the salient question, "What about a job/"

Not unreasonable. If I want a fresh environment, go through another 40 interviews-- but I'm not the woman Daniel Raudenbush hired away from Liberty Resources; I'd have to scramble for references, and another failure, if I was accepted somewhere, would cause me more grief with Social Security, my bouncing on and off their rolls like a wildly oscillating EKG with a long flatline. I'm stuck in a bad place, and only have worse, and this isn't what I want; I've done nothing to deserve to be here, nothing, except to believe I could handle the ferrous iron rust of American indigence. If I give up, Google won't have anything to worry about in the jagged edges of dowager's voice. People in nursing homes don't get blog accounts.