Camilleri Flats

The British government had become the prime European support of the khedive of Egypt, but sought to remain aloof from the affairs of the Egyptian-ruled Sudan. -- Britannica's encapsulation of slaughter

I took the risk and drove this aged, dimpled, battered and shorting Quantum under the showerhead to hose down, for no more than a few minutes, wrapped in baggies. The bath chair is still functional despite my slide down in 2015, if it occurred in the spring of 2015. Even on sturdier days, the shower stall is a risk transfer, always was, and the Quantum's design ups the notch, as opposed to the easier sling of the P-200, and even with pain killers, and remembering to ease my shimmy off the porcelain throne, I am not ready to play the piper leaving the chair's motors parked close to a good dose of steam, so it is a micro cheat in a necessary living extension of my body. Andrea Camilleri uses power chairs as accouterments in his annoying Sicilian detective series. On my last count, one power chair was the shroud for a clever suicide electrocution, and one was used as a lesson about corruption. If Andrea doesn't like Sicilians, the dowager despises the shame Sicily brought down on Roman glory, even if their old world provincialism seeps into our circulation system like venom. Camilleri is Don in his own right, but he is also a bullshit artist for pathos.

I'm working on my article, very slowly. It is not about rejection, nor commission. As a policy piece, I want it to pass ableism standards. This matters to me, and if it is declined I'll live but you better bet your sweet ass if Editor A doesn't accept it I'll burn through 25,000 journalists if I have to to get it branded. Hence my inactivity of late.

Today, this evening, maybe things aren't so bad. I need to be slightly less pecuniary with pain medication despite daily doses of fish oil, and become more clever with bathing techniques if the pivot cannot be reverted to immediately with confidence, but if you had to choose between end of live indigence in a state bastion like Inglis House, or going out relatively intact, with your dignity behind you, which do you think you'd pick? Camilleri can afford the luxury of a godfather's flesh, etched and contained in codes of honor. Some things never change, and the Sudan is still the Sudan, despite the contest between the superstars, Heston and Laurence Olivier, in a deplorable pantomime of a Muslim nationalist. 

A Good Defecation, Trembling

In our times, as was remarked, no one is content with faith, but "goes right on." The question as to whither they are proceeding may be a silly question; whereas it is, a sign of urbanity and culture to assume that every one has faith, to begin with, for else it were a curious statement for them to make, that they are proceeding further.-- Soren Kierkegaard

Nice old AT&T hasn't booted me. I failed to mention, on Blogger, as well as social media, that sins of overage in my last billing period wasn't simply due to nagging pet children. I've lost my battle with nicotine, and Vuse essentially rekindled dependency, and here we are again, my emotional health doomed to a rhetoric of vehement helplessness. Despite the fact that stuffing Jimmi's balls down his throat is a boring impossibility, let me return to Mr. Shrode's sanction when he spun around on his thick elephant soles to address me with "I read your blog," two weeks ago, the spitting image of Beavis.

Jimmi and Erik are exceedingly disadvantaged freaks, as I've written before, and reading, if Jimmi did read it, that I wanted a laundry list of ADAPT activists dead is a hard pill to swallow; if someone wrote they wanted me dead I too might waffle between context and complaint, but the assertion indicates just how hard loss of faith is, then not being able to leave the source of so much pain.  We all knew each other once, Josie Byzek, Jimmi, Erik, Linda, Cassie, myself, and making assertions like that in public has rental agents justifying their continued dehumanization of my person with rationalizations. 

Erik was a source for my first HTP article, for which I was paid a decent commission. Something I may have also posted before, and I understand why the severity of their disadvantage led to their gaming of the intake center, but they absolutely refuse to admit they could ever be wrong about anything-- hence my emotional health is analogous to Olivier's caricatured sadism in The Running Man. Jimmi said "I read your blog," as if to imply my posts were compensating indicators, and maybe they are, but Jimmi's emotional maturity is that of a thirteen year old in the body of a Shirley Booth who needs a cosmetic surgeon. If he inadvertently winds up alone with me his fear of me makes him sway nervously, which only increases my contempt, this thick, fat child tyrant on whom I've wasted so much energy. He once wrote an article, submitted to Josie, that a disabled lawyer who was matriculated, representing client X against PA's rehab law, would one day "find out" the extent of the jeremiad he was aiding (my paraphrase-- Jimmi doesn't have my diction, and he writes like a wailing tyrant, as well).

It is Jimmi's turn to now learn a hard lesson: Unethical behavior due to a strident and overbearing sense of entitlement can, and does, impact other people adversely, and before I am dead this bully bitch is going to learn why state civil service guidelines have rules discouraging nepotism. I'm going to clip some wings, and the near absolute power Jimmi and Erik had, I intend to see that mitigated within NCIL. Am I really capable of tolerating the degradation of my enemies? I do not know, but I've been known to be unmoved by individual collapse on sidewalks. In Patricia Clarkson, that erosion of empathy might translate as dispassionate reticence. As an actress, she absorbs loss and longing within herself, even while the audience reads her like an instruction manual. She serves her scripts with much the same function James' Maria Gostrey serves Strether. The academics have a term for it, slipped my mind many years ago. We see it over and over, The Station Agent, which, interesting as it is, glosses over her ideation as a mother with irreconcilable losses; in Lars and the Real Woman, she's the doctor none of us have, a real humanist sensitive to the dignity of marginal crackpots. In Pieces of April, she is the tyrannical scourge running out of time. Learning to Drive follows these same reasonable, liberal parameters; I do not need to know how it tests the limits of friendship to everyone's satisfaction, but do know what is broken cannot always be fixed by reconciliation.

The Psychology of Deadlines

How does one accurately transliterate agony? The challenge of symbolism to depict--during my public housing home invasion that forever conflated my perspective on social fear, vocal chords were frozen in silence, and then terror broke lose once my Mighty Joe dragged me into my own bedroom. The damn exploded and I shrieked, my voice voluminous in sound waves, tenants in laundry room heard but were afraid to intervene. Time saved me, as Bradon would have had to asphyxiate or fracture my skull in less than ten minutes; within that time frame the salaried minorities appeared, old Myers, exterminator, young Terri, who I correctly evaluated as integration material in the urban business district. He was also not hardened enough to kill a white nearly penniless (these fuckwits exploited me for minimum wage without health insurance toward the event of my departure), invalid, but terror overwhelmed me, would have haunted my family had a black addict murdered me after they begged me not to do what I did after moving into North Philadelphia. The Washington Post loves analysts who are American triumphalists, but that triumph rests on nearly horrific--I cannot convey the recoil of the inner city--had the Luftwaffe reversed expectations and bombed our ghettos it would have not been unimaginable to believe it would have been a backhanded cleansing. Now you see how I handle pressure, and the expectation of delivery under pressure, for what? .05 cents a word on aggregate basis? I'm hastily throwing together five hundred word for my first pop, despite diffidence. I am not sure I will not fail here as I did for my hearing loss piece, but then again, this is inglorious assembly line journo-infotainment. With edits I'll get two dollars for Google Wallet. Spader just had an interesting scene smothering an old ally terminal with cancer?