Revenge Fantasy

"A Feast for February," is an unpublished constant, a tie to my youth in Dixon Hall, sitting at my desk then in Chester as I am sitting at Tom Reid's desk here on North 23rd street, wishing I could give Riverside's owner a coronary by demolishing his building and perk my engines up after that in a wild chase with federal agents where I'd win, overthrow the constitutional government of the US, to revert to an old idea, the city state, which actually still exists, beneath the surface, if we take the Vatican as the Medieval model for regional principalities. "February" was written before Philadelphia made its substantial contribution, other than medical and institutional torture, to my well endowed social fear, based on the same premise as Quindlen's book, as Michael Apted adapted it in Enough. My protagonist kills a taxi driver in New York who was stalking her. Violently. I don't explain certain things in the story, but like many things when I am on, it was a driven piece, fueled by the hatred of the damage done by the scum my mother allowed to damage her children, fueled by my hatred of knowing I'd never snare a good hippie. A later editor who later changed her mind liked how I depicted violence against women in the piece, hence whatever Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell think they observe in my antagonism toward them as rental agents attempting to put me in another institutional portfolio has always been there. I'm simply older, more ready to illustrate my contempt for black competency, regardless of how offensive this is to minorities. Many blacks openly tell me to my face they think I'm possessed, and you do not see that.

J-lo's character goes off grid and wins, kills the misogynist, who has the ability to do what he does to her through the convenience of privilege, and Apted gets canned for a sharply delineated film with a beneath the radar approach-- but he isn't wrong. The law cannot rectify the punishment battered women sustain. Me? I get stalked by Debra Horne and her assessment team, who insist I return to receiving services through a corrupt disability center which expurgates as many people as it lifts, and then I ratchet up the volume, and dare to deny Trudy Richardson a fifth inspection of my unit in as many months, and play a game of send in the clowns with Department of Health civil servants who apparently like naked spastic women. Must get them off, maybe they have a vested interest in fetish porn. 

Apted's solution for Jennifer's working class doormat is a mechanism, a vicarious pleasure for those who cannot create a careful plan for departure. The only thing I can do is seek self-reliant alliances, fall on deaf ears, or sacrifice myself in a noble death, or give up and go wait to die in a home like Inglis. Such options make terrorism appealing, especially when one knows the clock is ticking. If viewers find that frightening, I never had a say in what orthopedic surgeons did to my body. My little brother, relenting to be one of my followers, had some years to get conceived when I was defecating and being deformed in plaster casts, and I've earned the right to end my last viable years as I see fit, even if this means I force the state to kill me.

Fiberglass Insulation

By implication, older people who use personal social services have been subjected to bureaucratic procedures and assessments that have increasingly focused on what they cannot do or achieve in order to identify their eligibility for services. These kinds of assessment procedures have contributed to the construction of older people using services in a language of dysfunction and problem states [....] Opportunities for narrative approaches have declined, Baars and co-authors, page 143, Aging, meaning, and social structure

My poor aunt gets combative with me when I verbally point to affinities, aggressive without understanding I am referring to acceptance. I have to find other supports than a cancer stricken 75 year old half out of her mind, and if cousin Richard is occasionally perusing mio postio, my advice to my cousin is to start spending it down. It isn't easy Richie, never is. Stephanie and I have poppa, and I'm 3/4ths in the sewer. Apply pressure before she spirals into hospice. "Yeah, and you?"

The difference between me and tu mere, my cousin, is I haven't been diagnosed with additional disease other than molar cavies, already tied to cerebral palsy as a symptom. I'm pugilist, and show obvious wear and tear no employer would look past to give me a chance-- except as a radical author, but that is still a niche doorway; I'm otherwise stable except for Ken Cantrell's  compassionate malevolence putting an end to a miserably secure environment (sigh). Now I'll face bowel movements and disturbing the peace, and other flags. The police operator who took my call Thursday morning was courteous. The emotional armor of a seasoned practitioner in play in our Orwellian U-verse, she was even, sonorous, like Peter Haber, the Swedish variation on Ian Flemming.

Sjowell, like Dick Wolf's screen writers, gets the conflation right in "Boy in the Glass Bowl", illustrating how crime and abuse ripple in concentric circles around impairment until they fall back inward. An autistic boy who cannot articulate is easy prey for a sodomite who then makes him an orphan. Sjowell emphasizes solving the puzzle is its own reward, and Beck's team can return to the rewards allotted to camaraderie among those close to Arctic climates. Only with Vincent D'onofrio of yore are viewers taxed a bit more. The Terri Schiavo episode was searing, so dark and cruel in conclusion that I winced; the husband's capture was more horrible than the brain death he caused, Goren almost functioning as a yawl, raking rivulets of exposure in a triumph of materialism.  Wait until I confront Trudy's boss. He is the real prick, the tour de force toward whom a tongue lashing would be a pleasurable offense. Trudy is deft, and evasive, but displays her weakness, Louis Armstrong eyes with their genetic inclination to dissemble. I want her supervisor. Ken Cantrell, the thick ape, just vibrating for castration. 30 years ago such hate would have never been a pleasure.