Name Your Assailant

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.

Verdi's delicate precision instruments

Libiamo, ne' lietti calici
che la bellezza infiora,
e la fuggevol ora
s''inebrii a volutta.-- the libretto

Collaborative state model systems like niume earn the ire of the damned because they aren't very well thought out. Thousands of users, all vying for attention, none particularly discriminating when it comes to pixel image resolution, and the dowager is, herein, also at fault in this, unable to upgrade at an affluent pace, hence, the British based platform's advertising rate hikes hurt many people, pensioners, homeless individuals, not simply those limited by conditions, and the staff should have anticipated this beforehand, considered previous ailing models, like Yabberz, Examiner, and looked at what Medium is doing, especially since Niume utilizes the proprietary software of Medium's model. Considering the physical labor of blogging, 89 percent of it not revenue generating, how have these efficiency models optimized anything for those without the capacity to grasp computing technology? It demonstrates capitalist vulnerability, like a carnivore. Powerful, lethal at first glance, transformed into an atrocity by simple technical constructs, like spears, and then socialists like the disability attorney Tom Earle commiserate while they make sure mortuary services are in their investment portfolios. I give Virily something of a pass on this because they are Marxist heirs, not quite classical communists as such, but emulators, kissing cousins to western European compassion, even while that compassion crashes on its face.

Earlier this summer, though I demurred rather than continue, I almost got into a serious battle on social media with mother's sister, her family, about a certain level of inattentiveness to my plight, and of all people, (soft snort of deflected affection), Sheldon Novick jumped in, attempting to offer reassurance "we love you." And then he went silent. Had this been one of Mrs. Ramsey's dinner parties, I might have looked at him edgewise-- not so much for the interjection, as I've been equally inappropriate with the good legal scholar-- but I was raising my voice about the blinders of family self-interest. As an academic sympatico, he's blameless. During this episode, I committed a serious cognitive error, not recognizing another woman with cerebral palsy who I knew slightly from the intake center. When she friended me, I did not enlarge her photo image. I thought she was one of my aunts contacts, a case manager, possibly setting me up to fall on my sword, and the whole time, she was just Maria, a woman who knows I'm aggrieved, but not much else. This level of paranoia illustrates the disease of Philadelphia's static social model, making most of us sicker, not keeping us healthy. Tom posted to Maria on Friday in the last days of August, like an amicable simpleton, and it took me some doing, stifling the trigger for a condescending legally blind taco soft Mexican, tolerant of everything except for legal accountability, admitting fault, actually making amends. It seems nearly impossible for them, and the shock I put on his face sixteen years ago was like a land mine he had inadvertently triggered, then he clamped his jaw. Even the poorest lawyers have innate discipline for instinctively going non-responsive. This may be worthy to applaud, but he is one of two attorneys who specialize in rehabilitation law, and he's an enemy. It makes me wonder, how little social order would hold if Wall Street and similar finance centers, truly fell, no whipping boys to prop up so many dependent hordes. We'll never know, not in my lifetime, unless I assume too much.

Every cognizant wheelchair user knows what Tammy Duckworth has achieved, and on Thursday, I pushed back, politely, against her egalitarian altruism by illustrating how its opposite only confirmed my basic conservative convictions. I argued with her tweets as one disabled woman to another, not nameless writer to new branded political liberal. I believe she understood this, and neither of us had the upper hand on the better part of valor. It is a curious thing, little eddies amid the Trumpian wars.

Libiamo ne' lieti calici

The chic reminiscence of Jeffrey Eugenides perfectly captures the life I tore myself away from in Ridley Park. Beneath the surface the film is about a world of European affluence devoid of multicultural dynamism, and his characters are as familiar to me as the back of my hand, now that I'm only a piece of indigent driftwood an imposition on minorities who spray an aerosol when I throw my sister's maternity jumper on to stroll down to check the mail. In theory, I could just give my notice and deposit myself at father's. sister's doorstep. Padre is living off soup. My sister's children are stricken, due to her middle child narcissism? 

You have to understand, my father's sperm, in numerical order, produced a male firstborn which my mother miscarried, then me, then Michelle, who was an unfortunate, minimally aware mentally retarded being who might have been better off left to wolves, so when Stephanie appeared, my poor parents must have sent Pope Paul a hefty tithe, and it was with Stephanie's birth we became suburban, climbed the fucking ladder until my mother got divorced and spiraled out of control. I love her, or did, but that emotion is twisted into a great deal of hate, Eugenides' send up was what I could observe and never enter. Prom? What was a fucking prom? A corsage? What was that?

Getting stoned, that I knew something about, but it never-- I never got high-- drunk, yes, but drugs simply made me darker. Anyone who knew me then would be shocked at seeing my face, just as Debbie Russell, spastic co-worker, was in 07 before she was laid off. Tell myself positive things? With what? Pretend I still have prospects and can argue with members of legacy media and their bylines? I tell myself not to take it so hard when security guards, who themselves cannot garnish too much for sitting on their asses in a building such as this, treat me like a pariah, but it hurts, only parking a moment to convey something to Joseph Delesio, who was on my case management docket all those years ago when I was a consultant for seven dollars an hour, believing I was on my way.

Should I get into an altercation with poorly paid black females and use racial epithets, proceed to actual incarceration? What the state would actually do to me in that event I am unsure of. What difference does it make?