It's All Fixed?

 "The last game needed to win is always the hardest."-- Nazem Kadri, rink Sultan

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I first heeded the call to return to what used to enthrall me about NHL professional hockey in 2022, when the AVS defeated Tampa Bay to host the Stanley Cup that off season. It wasn't a hard and fast rekindling of  a twelve year old's medical model pain which found appeasement in the dark listening to Flyer's radio as the Broad Street Bullies brought it home and actually let me touch that magical trophy when I was still in my normal W sitting  posture, in pigtails, hard for me to remember now, my normal body in that horrible vaginal-painted ward in 1975, before the surgeons, with my father's permission, destroyed me, although I am obviously still here, suffering writer's block superficially due to Substack, another collective bargain with digital devils which obviously isn't working. I don't want to do this on that model, indulge myself. I can't afford it.

Kadri was more quixotic than exotic to me, wondering in the back of my mind if the Canadians htad gone too far turning a Muslim into an athletic nerd. Perhaps I followed up on the racism Naz had to field, but it wasn't the focus of my attention. All the line journalists wanted to speak to him, he was good at relating to fans while closing in on that victory, trying to find a fixation that will keep me strong enough not to self-destruct with end of life nigger welfare care at my disposal, such intimacies as are necessary with the majority black warders making me worse, not better, than when  Google wanted to terminate me for incendiary, caustic tones. Perhaps I wanted an insurrection, much like the Red Brigade did when they assassinated Moreno, but I am too old now. Genocide, carnage, casualties, it doesn't heal pain solve my arduous cursor issues, or earn me Paul Bissnnette's acknowledgement. What would that do for me anyway, giving up on James Woods the actor with muted rancor, and why that? Trump Elevation Syndrome? The tragedy of his Palisades survival? X makes me feel too familiar with Woods, and like some thinkers, I cannot process that virtual reality, ditto my dying aunt. I have written about her on Blogger, disparagingly, and she is dying almost exactly as Pope Francis did. It is all fixed, she used to tell me about sports, and after the Canes victory Monday evening, her sensibility makes me balk. She's right. Granted Florida was tired, but some of you remember the early James Woods film, Against All Odds. Big money wants game 5. Too cynical?

Incredibly Edible

Brazen, liberating, cathartic for the torturous glee that immolation foments, then polarizes toward a devastating regret, this image from Maj Toure, in its unbridled enthusiasm for ammunition stockpiles hurts Libertarian attempts to free those of African descent from the interlocking mesh of collective responsibility, a responsibly which nevertheless has mixed results in reigning the parasitic disease of inner city violence.

And now ALL of our @blkgunsmattr range classes have an ammo sponsor.
How are we gona support the folks that support our work?
BY SUPPORTING THEM.
Handgun? @FenixAmmunition
Rifle? @FenixAmmunition
Any kinda ammo? @FenixAmmunition
Follow em and show LOVE! #BlackGunsMatter pic.twitter.com/CW9CzOTSyB

— Maj Toure (@MAJTOURE) July 8, 2019

Toure's candidacy won't change the endemic manufacture of a permanent American underclass through title deed grants issued to realtors who contract with housing authorities to subsidize their building ownership to warehouse people who've become useless through affect, the onset of dementia, and disease.

Jeffrey Tucker asserts with nearly pristine admiration that property ownership was the great capitalist innovation, but this innovation is increasingly bundled into tranches which few of us, even if educated, can penetrate with any degree of contemporary literacy. Philadelphia Corporation For The Aging is not, in fact, incorporated like the Home Depot founded by Bernie Marcus. PCA actually evaluates the extermination value of a designated class, humans over 50 who aren't legitimized members of the establishment hierarchy. Do you think Paul Ryan, or VP Biden, are constantly getting assessed for needs determination, as I've been subjected to since my resignation from my grant funded advocacy? My eighty year old aunt, a third of her gut missing in her triage field battle against cancer, defies PCA's asset forfeiture processes through the tyranny of running a wrecking ball through her sons' lives, both of them over 50, to keep her younger brother free of medical incarceration, beyond being anchored by a penile catheter pissing his own blood, a hernia tube in his stomach. Does my uncle enjoy his constant emergency transports in and out of hospital? Is it any wonder virile niggers jack on projectile power?

Antenna

"You think I'm having fun?"-- Cate Blanchett

My aunt called me Tuesday afternoon from the hospital where she took my father's brother because she is angry at my father because I inadvertently revealed something my sister told me which my father wanted kept quiet. My care giver is a momma's boy, Marie wants to be paid attention to, and now I have to be the rock of Gibraltar despite the fact I believe my father's brother should cease medical treatment and be given palliative care, and I'd gladly stick Galahad on a pike and inform JEVS that I make Bill Cosby's bigot from 1969 look like Caesar, and made all of my second pitch since this catastrophe and incapacitation began, killing my building manager in a quantum of neuron estuaries, an arrow through the neck, impairing her vocal chords, her blood gurgling up through her tongue, high hate for a rather characterless chocolate woman allegedly afflicted with lupus. She looks like an afflicted from lupus, with her owl's black rimmed glasses, fearing me like the devil's spawn. Erik, the transsexual, is afflicted with symptoms similar to lupus, and I missed all the fun when he lit his face on fire in the last days of winter 2019 with a tobacco cigarette. I had nothing to do with it, but you can feel free to envision the relish of enmity.
I never set out to be an ambitious journalist writing for The National Review like David French, here exposing the fissures between libertarians and traditional conservatives that the once living Charles Krauthammer expounded on with a rhetorical shrug
 

A fragile nation suffers from deep partisan polarization, mistrust of institutions, and a media in crisis . . . And you throw that garbage hot take into the stew? Have you no decency, sir? At long last, have you no decency?

— David French (@DavidAFrench) March 25, 2019

I just turned to the profession to make a living. I know NRO doesn't accept freelance queries. I know they have internships. All I'd like to know is how do I send them a fucking resume? I did ask them, without the gerund as adjective.

It Ends With The Saints

"Declining life expectancy is a choice, but taxing capital gains at a lower rate than wage income was a law given to Moses on Mount Sinai."

— Ross Douthat (@DouthatNYT) January 5, 2019

Not for some of us it isn't, so who is Douthat speaking to? Vox contributors like Ezra Klein seem to presume that ideology can triumph over biological entropy when warranted, and it is presumptuous, whether in reference to Ginsburg, Antonin Scalia, or William Rehnquist, whom some of us remember perfectly well died as chief justice during Bush 43's second term. If Douthat annoys me so much with his ironic biblical allusions I can simply remove him from my feed, but we pay these people to think, and where is the thought here? Regardless of the ideological spectrum from which we ponder these things, this ghoulish death watch barometer surrounding Ginsburg diminishes feminine authority. It is hardly an enhancement or augmentation to continually quote Colbert's "bubble wrap" dig for one of the most powerful senior citizens in the country, whose health outcome blots out the sun when it comes to a comparison with people like my aunt, Marie Varenas, who has also had her share of oncological battles with tumor masses, first in the stomach, then the lung. She is now a frail 79, which doesn't seem to be a foreshortening of the average American woman's "span," although the quality of her independence has been arguably impacted after a lifetime adhesion to the habit, three packs of Marlboros a day, at one point, but Douthat isn't speaking to her self-destructive behavior either. He merely references it as a universal critique of how the working class rewards itself, without hesitating for one moment to reflect that just maybe those diagnosed with autism, downs syndrome, muscular dystrophy, or the recently deceased Lucasian's motor neurone disease, didn't have a choice.

Does this mean I am assigning blame for the suffering obstacles of cerebral palsy's flash in the pan successes snuffed out by lengthy periods of impoverished ennui? Yes, in part, but it is a complex interlocking of ableism and its clueless ignorance, and the way we respond to Ginsburg's age is symptomatic of that, with a few, like Dr. Barnett, offering the appropriate level of decorum. James Woods, akin to my aunt, trumpets her resilience. This may amount to a form of denial, certainly in Marie's case, while conservatives like myself neigh off with her head, a "get real" concern about functionality. In truth, I have erroneously associated Ginsburg's elevation as a palliative for President Clinton's withdrawn nomination of Lani Guinier for Attorney General, a woman who might have served as Ocasio-Cortez's clit licking doubles book end if she wasn't a crone herself by now, but I cannot think of any key decisions of Ginsburg's which fundamentally improved those niceties like gender equality, or the self-immolation of affirmative action. It was O'Connor, not Ginsburg, who sided with liberalism to preserve the ADA as a hollowed out veneer to frightening anarchists like myself.

When Mickey Rourke Still Had A Face

Our mothers were right Charlucci, it's better to stick with your own kind.-- the post dexterously maimed Eric Roberts, as Paulie

I no longer get offers to family gatherings. What I was invited to attend this afternoon, and not attending after all, is a birthday party for my 96 year old grandmother here at Fair Acres. This is where her daughter Mary Worrilow, with her cyborg joint replacements, wishes for me to relocate, as if I need to keep an eye on the vacancy of identity in Pauline Cristinziani's emaciated frame. My father's sister Marie is diametrically opposed to the idea, preferring that I accept my lot here at Riverside, with its understated ideas of significantly abusive minority competency, while I play shuffleboard with the skepticism of a world weary soul. This is an image of Pauline in her ever so slowly stoic withdrawal from her sense of herself, part regal Catholic warrior, devout, unshaken, part peasant, the life she led during the war era makes us look like a group of distressed hatchlings saturated in fossil fuels. The spastic dowager should honor this grandparent in the celebration of a life extended beyond any reasonable meaning. She appears to be miserable in the Fair Acres visiting room, well groomed, hair white and nearly matted, her hand grasping her knee, she bears an appearance of anguish. Septa's route 21 is onerous, from Chestnut Street to 69th Street Terminal, it is damp, and although it would be good to get away, and I would be seeing family I never otherwise get to see, Saturday morning, a spastic colon pole vaulted into a lovely stress attack, ever so slowly enabling death through sepsis in my feces, domineering beyond what we would wish on enemies, presumably--

My administration is reviewing the strength of this ruling. In the event any court damages the #ACA, I will do everything in my power to direct state agencies to protect Pennsylvanians. https://t.co/pVOaLtBkKn

— Governor Tom Wolf (@GovernorTomWolf) December 15, 2018

--unless it's my governor, willfully maintaining the forest of the Commonwealth's poverty-stricken, as careless, otherwise, with the deciduous oaks, still wondering whatever happened to a citizen's self-esteem. And this, too, is an image of John, nearly 60, playing games with his vanity and conceit; it was partly his rebuff, as I've written, being the propeller behind the reason I boomeranged into the inner city in the first place.

Arguably, however, things might have not been appreciably different if I had played my cards closer to home. If John's post-graduate partner, whom I saw once, while they were totally into each other in a slow dance, parted ways with him, or he her,the link I give you provides ample reason why. If I had been able-bodied, with an appropriately toned body, would the demise of what I thought I wanted. birthing his children, among other things, have taken so much out of me that I never loved again? My novelist friend Gretchen, in the interim, faces the possibility of losing her son, Brennan, to an interior brain infection already surgically tackled once. She's such a polished writer that I am living this with her, but it's also why Facebook is anathema to me (and yes, my account chungs along). Even if she was still in West Virginia, I couldn't help her.

My beautiful boy is in deep trouble. He's got an infection. They seem to feel they have caught it in time but he was doing very poorly. Please help Adrian's Cancer Fund. Every person in our family is struggling at our limits, Adrian most of all. https://t.co/jK2LFuMqtX pic.twitter.com/V0MQZb2xB9

— Troy Blackford (@TBlackford3) December 16, 2018

The same applies to my steady follower. If Troy Blackford's plight with Adrian is genuine, I feel for the child. Even if I had the money, even some expertise, I couldn't change the outcome, but this is different in kind, again, from mobility medical indifference beating hordes into a pulp. Those of you who truly believe health care is a right, have no damn idea how you're referencing it. It is certain not inalienable as a pathway to freedom.

Josh Groban's Growth Spurt

You don't know how to talk to people.--nothing the dowager hasn't heard before

My readers may appreciably take comfort in the fact that I have very little formal training in music, as cousin Pamela and I swap tunes as a form of moral support, to discover on my own that I know You Raise Me Up through exposure on commercial radio, and it is this Josh Groban, pitted unequivocally against Brian Greene, and by extension, Feynman:

"It doesn't seem to me that this fantastically marvelous universe...can merely be a stage so that God can watch human beings struggle for good and evil."--Richard Feynman, born 100 years ago today. pic.twitter.com/jBGq68ysWp

— Brian Greene (@bgreene) May 12, 2018

whose atheism Greene is highlighting, who wins the argument. No one can listen to Groban's trembling baritone and not be reminded of our transcendental merger with aspiration, regardless of your faith, or lack thereof. The singer might be a telescopic savant, little knowing that one of my tweets to him, for miserable Pamela's sake, was tongue in cheek, and the public face of popular physics may understand genius enough to distill it to rogues such as I, but listen to Josh, then listen to Greene, and a pathway may be found where neither personality is necessarily in dialectical opposition to the other. Musical compositions are as carefully coordinated as the Hubble telescope, in certain respects, so God may be absent and present just the same, whether in a spiritual or material worldview, as I stray further and further afield into this woman's land mines, with conscious alarm telling me to withdraw while I can, and don't, carrying this woman's pain atop of mine. I owe her mother-in-law as my father's sister, certain loyalties, while neither woman does much to give disability pride a good name, with their respective conditions forming a cesspool of self-pity, with brassy Philadelphia sparks as we wither. I, who am suicidally depressed but for my resilience against it, begin to fear my cousin's wife may kill herself, as she insulates her failing body in recrimination. I, who had a horrific medical life, see Pam's as worse, aside from the fact that sticking my nose in it, as Richard the elder would remind me, supporting Pam is just outside an immediate family concern, while for once, the paraprofessional holding himself off me, just, may find me nodding off in the machine, trying to find the space to work between his scent, and Pam's grip on me as a liferaft, to still work as a writer, taking too much of a toll. He took my hand yesterday, seized it, as no man has ever done, to indicate effect, possession? And I wonder what the hell we're doing, me, maybe 24 months off from returning to medical institutional fodder, and this former factory food processor. Oh, I've had relatively tepid sex with able-bodied men like him, wanted to see if he would be any different, and instead, we're torturing each other in this bizarre ritual where he sees me as woman enough, but it is a sad commentary that a woman of my age has to have grown so old to experience desire conjoined to such care, forging ourselves against each other. No mobile man ever seized my hand like that. It kicked me in the skull like a gulf ball, and in part led to this all nighter, while Pam and I bleached the skeleton in the closet, vibrating with such tenacious despair.

Last Day In April

Take me on. --a ha

I am not certain that I’d incur any significant losses by telling you I am researching bipolar disorder and pregnancy without yet having any potential query clear in my mind. Sourcing obstetricians and patients is, on the basis of contingency, a high wire act, thinking of my mother in her moribund jean jumpers, besieged fertility goddess of her time, blood running down her thick set thighs after she tripped outside a store. She straightened herself out without the use of a metronome during her pregnancy with Benjamin, her last child, only half-brother, rarely to dwell on her memory, slovenly sexual energy shared by eldest daughter with spears of pain in my shins, burdened more by sexual regret than anything, the game still on in his mind, and as my mewing 9:15 ache indicates, still in my mind too. The problem is I don’t have a clear read on what he wants. Why tell me he had an anal sex daydream with me if he wants me to behave? A good deal of the dowager’s arrogance was flattered by this admission, but the man’s passive aggressive baiting then swiping me down perplexes me. If it is mere lechery he could have had me by now, as my reactionary battalion of racial fear collapsed mid month. If these are his weapons, I’ve deployed my own somewhat subtle corral. It isn’t exactly nothing when daddy’s nonna puts poppa on the telephone to greet an African American male over 50 keeping her buttocks in fairly good hygiene, nor is it exactly nothing when this father’s sister decides to take him out to dinner. Marie’s largesse astonishes even me, but my family must appreciate the beatitude of my silence, a shotgun wedding with comedic exaggeration between us, he and I—in his mind, he fears my family will force a commitment on him if our already hairline intimacy billows away the scant coverage shielding the breasts of which he gets a good glimpse on a daily basis. No man or woman can ride this current forever, if it’s there. I’m old enough to remember M-TV’s initial launch on cable, the primitive social media of its day, making micro track musical narratives, all of which lumbered under Ken Wahl’s hairstyle. Though a-ha is an industry promoted boy band, You Tube was smart enough to take me back into time to the range of motion screaming in my soul on the refrain of its confidence. If he and I have such a hold on each other’s need, take on me, take me on, our smart phones are all but a cock ring and dildo apart, in theory, rebuilding the bridge I keep trying burn. There is nothing in my  damaged womanhood he doesn’t know. How did I stay on my knees in this fantasy? Let me correct myself: I have a secret or two left.

Rewriting Othello From Peas in a Tin

The French president can point to some benefits of his approach. Trump reserves most of his admiration for autocrats like Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping and Mohammed bin Salman. Macron is the only democratically elected head of state Trump seems to genuinely admire. --The Guardian

Emmanuel Macron is a rather gorgeous echo of JFK, though my aide couldn't see it when I pointed it out prior to our latest vacillations in familiarity, like Julie Andrews singing first this way and that way. Julie Andrews has a succinct clarity of voice, crisp as an apple orchard And in the same vein that the detractors of Trump slant it, the uncanny ability of the French to straddle the line is something even a borderline fanatic can admire, appreciate. Not everything has to revolve around a polar opposition, even if the podiatrist reminded me of the social set from which I drafted myself away. If things get serious, if they aren't quite already for a hapless spastic, this will be an issue. A quadriplegic may straddle white ranks, from trailer trash to mundane foot specialists, but a plow horse groomed into a thoroughbred? I'm not Rex Harrison, nor Leslie Howard, secret agent man, and only note it because the equestrian in question developed an interesting invisibility while I engaged the doctor, exchanging codas rather than accommodating both. I've read about it in black literature but never quite understood it until Friday, this intuitive displacement by caste by the lowest ranking member of the caste himself. The podiatrist, in his droll activity, didn't create this dynamic, nor did the dowager, but the lines just that suddenly reorganized. White to white co-valency cannot be penetrated by a minority laborer not of the professional class. These divisions I may have wanted to fracture when I was 23, but not now, even as I gain ground through reassurance, that what I presume to be rejection is only hesitation, growing bolder in assertion by virtue of my liberality, as I somehow have to trampoline off the socialist net once again. I applaud Austin's sentiment here

Yeah you can keep that socialized medicine right the hell away from the good old US of A.  https://t.co/ux7jqfJC8f

— Austin Petersen (@AP4Liberty) April 24, 2018

but it is a reactionary revolt against leftist distribution sowed into place by Lyndon Johnson. If I defy it too adamantly, exactly how do I survive? It isn't something I haven't focused on with daily concentration, as all I'm doing is softening into mundane blandishments I've resisted until reaching out to a cousin, who by example tries to teach me we reserve passion for vocalists like Jeff Buckley, so charmingly deceased that he transformed Leonard Cohen into his own cardiovascular system. Under Pentatonix, "Hallelujah" is a defiant triumph. Buckley makes it into a dirge worth bowing your head over. Despite new found ease with You Tube and texting, finally having caught up with the rest of you, overwhelmed by messaging, I do not readily find surcease in exchanging pop culture video like bit coin, even if now my own self censor is kicking in. It isn't that I've been beaten by the middlebrow, only vested interests, the knowledge that my cousin is a private person, our new found intimacy valued. She may not mind you knowing she's lame too, but would mind if I detailed her own tensions with my father's sister, not that you couldn't extrapolate what those entail from earlier posts-- but I will tell you her interests don't really mesh to mine. I love felines but don't fetishise it as she does her dog breeds, and may chuck all of this if certain elements come back together. Starved intimacy is a powerful thing, very, but I could just as easily text my brother about misplaced tortellini, in the run of the mill.

Beleaguered Castle Asteroid Shield

The murder of Andrew Petrie, ex-United States senator, changes the lives of his wife, Yvonne, and two brothers, artist Hugh and the mystic Stephen. Here's a brilliant analysis of relationships that miss, of introspection and misunderstanding, and of repercussions.-- a sympathetic reviewer

 It was disconcerting to realize only in mid-sentence that I was disagreeing with Joyce Carol Oates about the alleged non-action of the Parkland security officer when I scrolled search under the literature section. 

I have not researched the facts on the ground, but if he stay out of range, that was wrong.

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) February 24, 2018

The sheer volume of her output is rather daunting, rivaling that of King, even if she is too cerebral and literary to have King’s popular appeal. I know when I’m out-gunned, and wouldn’t have responded to her point at all had I caught myself, but I am not really an aficionado of her novels. A section of The Assassins scored beneath my undergraduate breast. Oates was up there, one of her central characters silenced by a respirator, undermining my expectations, and I am always down here, in the mucus mudpies, getting nigger fucked over every time I try to restore my work and submission routine, waiting on another visitation by a woman who until recently tended my hospice downgrading stepmother. More than Victoria herself, I want to sink to my knees and beg her fiancé, who claims he can convert anything, to restore my files. Even if the alchemy of how we react to the famous is somewhat integral to our own psyches, a star like Woods doesn’t faze me in the digital distance, but Oates does, even if longevity has dimmed her shine. Her celebratory profile of Mike Tyson was too convenient and self-serving, Blonde was a mixed bag, and tapping her for a White Oleander jacket blurb was in questionable taste. First time women novelists coming out of MFA culture have considerable lag time, and nothing White Oleander’s author did felt authentic to me. The main character was like a watered down Lolita with a flat tire. It came, went, movie deal, hackneyed as anything else.

Oates’s impassioned liberalism doesn’t leave much room for air, but I still feel she’s wrong. Cruz was on a rampage and had significant fire power, but security officers are hired to face such risks, and this officer might have done something short of martyrdom to save lives. That is the role for which they get paid. The actual instructors themselves should not have to function as police too. There are enough accreditation hurdles teachers face just to teach; having them armed in class has predictably bad outcomes. It may not be an impending world’s end, but Trumpian brinkmanship has increased my anxiety even as my range eclipses in this unstable meteorological shift of season. I need to stop punishing myself with procrastinating despair and get back to work while I wait to fix and upgrade technology, but I’m near breaking point, not sure how to scale down to adjust. Marie’s family is contemplating an exodus from the city due to taxes. This is radical for this branch of my family. It may be too late for me, the cruelty and paces Presbyterian Homes, constriction and loss of independence, my tonnage caving in my birdlike shoulders, catching up with Oates’s wrinkled visage.

Activity As Tolerated

State Department denies Tillerson called Trump a 'moron' --Meghan Keneally for ABC News

If I was into this stiff upper lip business, like my former follower Mark, then I would just wade in with a High Castle analysis, in equal parts pernicious and praiseworthy of Rufus Sewell as John Smith, whose series son did the right thing, turning himself in to the American Reich to be destroyed due to his muscular dystrophy,  
I almost followed suit, with a different diagnosis, almost, and ultimately may not have a choice. My shins are emaciated, like my outmoded hardware. My family is at war over the matter, and the assholes from Adult Protection Services are salivating at the bit to put me away, in the Belmont Avenue hellhole, but a few things are holding me off. Control, the right to say no, and a race to save my published work. I can blame this vendor, but only in part. The power chair isn't bad, whether or not he overcharged me. It drives well. I remain conflicted about keeping it. Adapting to it is something else. I was over ridden, by fearsome matrons in their 60's over replacing my furnishings with a hospital bed, can't use that either, my father, his sister, Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson, favorite niggers to hate, annihilated my personal effects, and I am virtually choking to death to lose the 52 year old West African immigrant keeping me alive. She is Muslim, hyper and ignorant as much as caring. We clash daily. She is rough and hurts: only when these ruthless Marxists do their final assessment can I lose Sarrin, if I choose. We all have to fail biologically-- but I just keep taking too many punches, and my ligaments are starting to buckle. Holding my weight, which just eight weeks ago I could manage, is now being contested. Arthritis. But I still have some fight, my hair matted beyond rescue, at the moment.

I lost approximately 18 social media accounts since October, in my semi-anguished outcry, perhaps rightly. Old invalids moaning, after all. Credit Austin for staying with me, along with some others, but I am a bit sore at Mark Antro. He has the right to drop what accounts he pleases, but I'm his ally and thought we were friends, and I mean friends. I am too battle scarred to have a cougar interest in him, but I support him. He seemed puzzled by what he claimed were my 'attacks'. What attacks? For me an attack is telling Paul Krugman he is a fucking fascist at heart. That's an attack.

I always respected Mark and defended him against his critics; having tuned down my woe meter, however, I gained 3 or 4, including, inexplicably, Ed Rogers. Unless I am in error, I remember Ed's more active political currency. I respect his voice, and in the revolving door of preference, followed him earlier, having dropped Jennifer Rubin. I only 'unfollowed' Ed as a traffic issue, tweeted a positive on his Trump tabloid piece. Voila. I've no idea why I've been so graced, and mentioned it to my novelist poet colleagues with astonishment, as only the Trinity knows if the universe has a contracted byline left for a vulgar Italian in her spastic frailty. Is a Principal calling Trump a moron insubordination? If it's merely academic, I tweeted to mogul man "to get his fucking act together". Nothing doing. 

Carbon Dating

When I contend with Brian Greene and other physicists on Twitter, effeminate mind altering geeks as they are, I must come off as a blockhead. I cannot compete with them in the mathematical empiricism which illustrates the laws of nature as necessarily fixed, so why do it then? Before giving a direct answer, it may surprise viewers to learn I once did amazingly well in algebra and Euclidian geometry, and even got an A on my chemistry final dragging my sister bitch on a leash. My acumen sharpened or fogged primarily due to despair. In my home districts, I thrived. Outside of them my motivation struggled without the proper covalent bonds, but I never quite lost interest in how Einstein and those who made nuclear war possible revolutionized astronomy. I did not realize, or had serious memory lapses against what I was taught, that stars start out as frozen gas that clumps together, takes 10m to ignite or fail, accordingly, and that our solar system won the lottery with long odds, especially since brown dwarfs are popular failures which do not result in fusion, in theory. Space generates its own dynamism over extraordinarily lengthy periods through vibration, end of story. And yet, theoretical physics borders on tacky space opera in places. Matter may ultimately be a hologram. Time may be an illusion. Dark energy. Anti-matter. Four forces, weak and strong, magnetism. Are we absolutely certain we aren’t attempting to decode god? We cannot really say all that much about our self-awareness, let alone why the particles which configure life are so different from those which configure uranium, or why disease and age and so many other things generate agony, against which pleasure is fleeting. We know joy when we feel it too, but most of life processes itself irrespective of human naval gazing, which is why androids and android sex and zombies and singularities worry our collective social dynamics. I do not think the laws of nature recreates humanity in alternate universes as neatly as the equations of impaction lend themselves to in popular science. This is where my “yes but,” comes in, even if I risk being a Neanderthal, like Ron Perlman in Hand of God. Perlman is always reprising himself as a caveman, and his canceled series challenges materialism in exactly the same way I feel the need to challenge what epistemology gains through radio waves and optics. The pilot episode reveals a conspiracy through hallucinogenic delusion which, just possibly, might be divine revelation coming at a necessary price. Amazon canceled it, so we’ll never know, as its second season seems to meander in corporate evil. The actor who plays Keith (Dillahunt?) was certainly made up to look like a warrior from Judges, conquering Canaan. Going against the grain of established critics, there are things I’ve enjoyed viewing here, if only to observe, in context, why the West Coast is as fucked up as upstate New York.

My mother’s sister telephoned, since I have stopped using Facebook. We ignored my abominable attitude, and the prospect of moving into grandmother’s nursing home went in one ear, as the saying goes. Mary really thinks she is doing the right thing, oblivious to the fact that my sentience is still vital. Marie, the other aunt, accused me of whining, thus generating the enthusiasm of her former married relation, and then hung up. I have my moments, but Marie is wearying me with this constant punishment, as both she and my father contributed to this gradated wasting of my strength. A generic ten year old Quantum extended my strength, and when it blew on 10/02, I didn’t assume I’d be dead in 6 months. Unless I can move the absolute zero of Satan’s forbidding glacial majesty, exchange power chairs, relearn how to maneuver myself to restore some semblance of self-determination, it is possible, without exaggeration. The disposable underwear, the loss of my fish, coffee, toilet usage, the toll may now be too much. Trudy Richardson may not have defeated me with her illegal tactics, but as I’ve written, the stocky lupus African achieved quite a lot with her conniving, linear mindset. I have no love lost over these murders. First I thought one thing, and then said it’s a black problem, and decided not to ripple Twitter’s ions. I am not Milo, quite, but if the handwriting is on the wall, things might get more interesting still, in my quest, if not for grace, then? 

Speed of light

See how fast I am moving? I put Septa in my phone, despite the fact it would be easier to take wheelchair taxi. Victims learn the hard way about the difference between rule of law and justice, and I know I am never going to get a lawyer to care about the fact that Terri Way, once my contemporary equal, talked me out of a lawsuit against Presby, but I am unreasonable, menacing, in exact proportion to cause I have against this religious based socialist plague on the body politic. The rise of the feminine collective easily enough besmirches male stature, whether it's Cosby or Harvey Weinstein, but the spokes barely turn for me, a nine year old girl vaginally penetrated by two African Americans in a home for children, medically brutalized thereafter, pursued sexually by her mother's addicts, an aggravated assault victim under the management of Presby, and Presby's answer is to threaten me with regimentation, and disability activism, whatever its former shielding, has swept me aside, because abuses continued with paraprofessionals, and I no longer want to play, no, under rule of law, Trudy Richardson can terrorize, browbeat, accentuate my anxiety at whim. Marie, my long time dying aunt, says I have to do it myself. Find a new habitat, persuade the oversaturated legal market to help me on my own, although I know all about impatient law firm brutality in the name of billing hours, though Silver & Silver was polite, and that, I appreciate. You're not living here at Riverside.
I am not going to go back and forth with you. 
Lahnisha call the police.
We're done.

This is ten years of a nigger nanny battering ram. Ten years, except it's never done, because the Commonwealth, you, everyone, wants Medicare care money by methodically torturing me into my grave. Cousin Richard may be annoyed with me for saying this, but neither he nor Billy would subject their mother, Marie, to what I've had to endure, simply to survive, and no one will, or can, lift a finger. Toomey wouldn't dare reexamine section 202 abuses, and liberals, hell, this is fascist heaven. Wonderful humanity.

Back In The Highlife

It used to seem to me
That my life went by too fast-- Steve Wynwood

The most effective censors aren't necessarily powerful boys who allegedly parade their victories wearing Hulk Hogan costumes. My mother's side of the family has corralled me on Facebook, my eldest niece only a partial, if tender, anodyne, and I have even less love today for social media, my chest pounding at three am, I was ready to tweet "fuck you" or "fuck off" to some new franchise authors, which would have gone over splendidly. It is not their fault I am more piecemeal, less sustained, than a novelist, and they are only doing what market forces compel them to do, and if I am solicited to read and review, well, I've been able to do that, whether or not I wish to continue in that vein. I spoiled my New Years take out, dropping part of it, so even with small disruptions, I pay the price, and perhaps it was for the best, as I am slowly cleaning up under the table. Let it go. 
I know, but only desired to enjoy my meal, over a tolerable broadcast channel. Found out just this afternoon I sold a poem. Or, had one accepted, for a byline, and it would possibly be detrimental, or unwise, to convey more than that, but this is a piece with history, taken to a public library workshop, where the facilitator pressed me a little harder than the rest of her group: my skill level was too advanced; I snubbed them, rolled out, "I am not coming back," I emailed her, and revised, and revised, over time, on my own, forgetting what her issue was, no, vaguely remember, the juxtaposition of classical with urban, and here we are. I have published enough work for at least three books by now, and what have I been doing? Sparring with nigger nannies in life or death battles.

I cannot retreat back to literary zine culture and sit there licking my wounds while my artery plague tortures me. If I wanted to pass muster to join Jeffrey Tucker's cache of freedom thinkers and failed because I did not allow myself to percolate, it was a lesson learned. He cannot pay anyway, not now, and as I respect Freeman, I do what I can for it. Get up and skin my damn knees and keep taking the egg. I persist in the belief in my own acumen, even if it makes me loathe, well people, yes, but communal sensibility, and on excruciating days, low pressure isotherms sucking in your ankle fluids, telling you sister was right about heart disease, then let the day be bad. Let it go.

What my underlying argument with Marie's preservation instinct comes down to is a debate about mercy. I buy Clint Eastwood's argument about kill shots, as opposed to what both Marie and my father are doing, for brother and spouse, respectively. My Uncle Joe is suffering. He has dementia, a deadly bacterial infection, and now, diabetes is taking his vision. If that was my situation, I'd put a Glock in the hands of Adam Kokesh, and say "pull the damn trigger you Southern fried poke!" I would not mind a grave in a magic mushroom compound, and what disability activists would never tell you is this: Quadriplegia is suffering. We cannot go jogging, clear our heads, or ride a bike, and too many of you rely on the state to solve our problems. Back to my straightening up, letting the day be bad. 

Unbreakable

"I'm the radical atheist humanist your parents told you to stay away from." Professor McGuire, circa 1985, terminated, arms outstretched, palms splayed upward, curiously reminiscent, Catholic posture

Oh yes, dance. Go to ATT and make pouty faces and work out some kind of integration lower bill deal. Dance. The service reps at the counter, customer reps on the phone, get too fusty and they'll boot you undoubtedly, old ma, always wagging fingers at dissenters. Something changed once again on my twitter account this afternoon, but luckily, I am a bit too numb to care about who was the latest to have their cosmopolitan manners recoil. Can't lose myself that way; can't care. But my heart is torn asunder, even if I may not always be in the mood for Simenon, the Dune France 2 production of Maigret is a work of art, but public television needs to follow the herd, team with a distribution service, bye bye free down time.

The commercial and public airwaves are stripped, barren, a damn football game here or there. I don't want to stream all the time, but decided I am interested in Jonathan Rhys-Meyers Man In The High Castle and will stream at least some of the first season. It sounds as if it has Phillip K Dick influences.

The Harrouff case contains as many puzzles as it answers, but this gruesome narrative hearkens back to Enlightenment era beliefs about the berserk, superhuman strength, and, perhaps Krauthammers' damnation of the culture is a playback, of the way modern derangement looks. Since the original 68 film, which I predate, and to Harrouff, is stone age camera work, zombie literature has permeated the horror genre substrata. Perhaps Austin got too into Walking Dead. The series might not have caused the psychotic break which led to these events, but those of you who are Austin's age know how blurred camp and realism have become. I may vanish by summer.

I have relented and spoken to Marie briefly. I told her Joseph should go to a home, like my father's wife. And Marie said "You belong in a home," the shadow over me my entire life, but it is wrong, not letting go. Joe Marinelli and I don't like each other. We bark back and forth, the greaseball, his spastic niece, but if he is going blind, Marie is wrong. He is dying, she is dying, and we all have to accept that, myself included; I'm just not letting Presby burrow me under, nor anyone else. I'll kill myself first. Billy won't answer my emails, but okay. Happy New Year.

The Bullshit Artist

"What's your point?"-- Joan Tarshis

It may not be wise to post when I'm overtired, pausing in contemporary projects to pull up "Jawbone," my nineties story with its loose Biblical overtones of Samson, everyone's favorite Nazarene and Jewish bully. I drove around, unwisely plowing through my folders, looking for the hard copy, and should probably reconstruct it from memory. Pelecanos modern black face, with the gimmick of its masquerade, to which the man is entitled, made me dwell on it a bit. My narrator is a mafia accountant, probably in late eighties Philadelphia, even though I don't specify a date, and it concludes with a brutal pistol whipping death, in the hood. Seven pages of it on my drive. The original runs past twenty, and it's here, in the desk, or the bin, swallowed by my own disgust in my barren life. I'm able to type, numbingly, but the search for my drafts will have to wait. I wanted to reread any ostensible copy I had, tighten the convolutions. Unable to remember if I started it before or after Brandon Phillips hurt me, but I lived through sustained abuse before that. In Diamond Park, I had room. It was a series of joined cubes, built for wheelchairs, and that I miss, if not the cavalcade of the hustle on the pavement outside my window, black men with toddlers in diapers, begging me for bread at similar hours prior to sunrise. What is not to hate from one end of Philadelphia to this one? The black simpletons I live with here at Riverside, my neighbors, while I roll around, crotch on stained pillowcases over simple piece of foam cushion, rolling old socks over my flaky feet, difficult to wear a decent pair of shoes with this god awful chair. I lack the language of aerodynamics to explain, and the slippers I got from Amazon were a failure. I can wear them but they'd never stay on out in the open. Am I close to Henry Miller's nihilistic courage with the grotesque? It was nearly the same with my mother in Ridley Park. She had very little for vanity of appearance and I've less, with the greater impoverishment. Toward the end of her life, eleven years ago yesterday, I realized my mother was insane. I'm progressing along the same route, though I shun the MH consumer model with the same intransigence I display toward the welfare state.

Until she reached her early sixties, I was never sure about my mother, but now I am, and Pauline should have had her first born committed. Then I would not exist, under Google's wary admonishment and social media's accordion  Barring a miracle, I'll be forced into Inglis House, unless I pick an end date, and end my life. Public housing, more than anything else, even my hatred of Liberty Resources, destroyed it, this life where I fought so hard and built a career on the federal welfare system, entered the middle class, and wasn't strong enough. I destroyed The Matrix Research Institute, in part, and should have realized, behind the scenes, that the people who ran Liberty at the top knew Rick, and I shouldn't have trusted them in the first place, my supervisor's antics aside. Now a good day is where I keep control.


Mother did eventually redeem herself, settled down, alone, dying suddenly, though I've never forgiven her, nor Marie, my father's sister, probably bipolar herself, unable to see it in the woman who could not carry me safely to term. I booted my aunt off my contacts, as bad as all that, and explained it hastily to my arson investigator cousin. In my family, the elder Italians set you up to take a fall, and I'm tired, and intend to never speak to Marie Varenas again. Spastic is done, not that she hasn't pulled, and intimated things no one should intimate to old women with too many face lifts. I saw, in one of Tony Stiles tweets, a critique of a Muslim registry. He is right. It would be abused, and can be defeated. Perhaps there is a lesson to be drawn from Samson in that, whoever created his legend. He appropriated the enemy to destroy it.

Piggyback

I just applied for a temporary position with the speed of lightning, amazed at how irrelevant a CV can be these days. My LinkedIn profile, though upgraded, doesn't have everything, and my picture is terrible, the one with the imposed upon Sims is marginally better. And I'll switch to that later, test that was of progressive tolerance, that town hall meeting at Trinity. My flesh is gravel despite recent updrafts, needing to do less, better.

My point, riding Jeffrey's column, is that subsidies do not lead to optimal outcomes, and I am borderline, skirting the edge of total downfall. My mind is still here, and though my father's sister would kill me for this, and nearly has, we have to make judgments. She and my youngest surviving paternal uncle are autonomic (virtually) biohazards, and sustained medical treatment should be suspended. Keep them comfortable, but let them go. Ditto my father, ditto his wife. It takes away from others who aren't that sick, and need things to stay in society. I am living like a ragpicker precisely because the most expensive clients, like my grandmother, to whom Mary was quite close, is a nurse's meal ticket. I love Pauline, mind you, but she is one of our last links from the nineteenth to the 21st century, and she's suffering, having lost herself. Like Peter Thiel, but with a much different advocacy promoting it, it is not going to happen to me. Sure, people still die from poor medical outcomes at my age, or Gwen Ifill's, but the do everything approach is far too successful in developed economies.
Yes, euthanasia has problems, and Francis would zap me in a blinding mist for a callow lack of mercy, but we need to start thinking about limiting medical resources. Pure Genius is bullshit, in that regard. If Uncle Joseph could still contribute, had a utility, that would be different, but he is senile, with autistic anti-social behavior, and a carrier of deadly infection, nearly bedridden. We need to start thinking like Nazi doctors now. We do already, but in the wrong way. Within certain stages, people need to let go. Marie has been treated for cancer since her sixties and still smokes. I fought, but gave in to vaping to spare myself what little pain I can, and if I have a metastasis, that is on me. I'll take the morphine. Chemo can kiss my ass.

Chiaroscuro, della Scalizo

Of the twenty children Brown fathered, nine died before the age of ten, among them a baby girl accidentally scalded to death by an elder sister.--Tony Horwitz, Midnight Rising, loc. 143

How many times have I written here not to telephone dying aunts, particularly when I am under so much strain of my own accord? Waiting on a small line of credit which shouldn't have been approved, even if we all know that game; told myself not to dial her number, but my father doesn't quite fill me in on medical gossip events, so I dialed, and the rate at which she and I disconnect from each other is a form of compensation toward not hurling expletives at each other; things which cannot be unsaid. I "slipped" in relation to my demented uncle's mortality, and that was enough, as it usually is. My knowledge that my cousin's mother is on the fringe, being closed by concentric bands on functionality, isn't the crux of the problem.

I have no social extensions to keep me on the ground, with my yellowed and crooked underbite, my weary and mortally wounded eyes-- even when I am safe on supplies, the damage can be read in my eyes like a marriage between Henry Lee Lucas and the Kama Sutra. I have tried to provide myself outlets. The Rosenbach, as I knew beforehand, wasn't the appropriate venue. Liberty On the Rocks members -- with the exception of Zach Tollen-- he a product of the consumer model, tolerate and feel badly for me to an extent. They see I have an active mind, one invariably dragged by a ball and chain, like my uncle's body, which, like an orca when it expires, is classified as a biological hazard, but I have no intimates, nor intimacy, in my marginalized indigence, thus at my core more caustic than my aunt. My niece's MS is a blow to my sister's self-absorption, and honestly, I don't really care, having lived my own rivers of death, but this is what eighty year olds ahead of me do, even if they are progenitors. They wag like maids.

Though I cannot for the life of me do it tomorrow, showing up at a Toomey campaign hub at the last minute to make scripted calls, this will also leave an indelible imprint of commiseration, unless I take 48 hours to fight with dressing as I used to, before the Quickie shorted out, but even then, desolation radiating off one's flesh like a depth charge blowing the bodies of fish to the surface doesn't exactly forge new paths in the garden. Black Mirror seems to be something of interest which escaped notice, but it will have to wait in an interior queue of a black lung goop, assuming I have an opportunity to get to it, even if it is a primarily ambulatory oxymoron.  As a disabled woman in the 21st century, let alone the previous one, I shouldn't be able to comprehend the destitution of John Brown's life.

Model Metastasis

As I come online, look at The Freeman on American mental attitudes, consider Petula Dvorak's district byline a catastrophe, I may be in error about what my American viewers understand about the federal entitlement system, how pervasive it is, and how corrupt, whatever someone like Witter sustained. Unlike Dvorak's profile of hard bitten determination of a wronged beneficiary, most recipients getting SSDI, or SSI cheat. I am one exception, took my hits, and now I'm the bitch who needs to get piked by minorities who treat me like a rabid animal. I was going to write a lengthy post about this, and perhaps I still will, about classification, and gaming the system, all stemming from the fact Marie pissed me off. She doesn't know it and didn't mean it, but her "handy man" is a buzzard on SSI who cheats under the table, cleaning for cash. His sister is an aide on the system, and now, I want nothing to do with either. Your FICA taxes fund this shit hole of fraud, and looking the other way. It is doomed, and we're dooming ourselves with it, this welfare state, beneath the surface. It speaks to why I embrace Toomey, despite his disconnect, despite that his staff, in my limited contact with them, probably envision me much like Witter's service providers before she found an attorney willing to listen.
Billy Varenas is my favorite cousin, and in fact, is probably my one family member I like most, but his mother's long kiss of death to cancer, and his uncle's long kiss of death to infections and developmental ailments represent an astronomical burden, as does my stepmother. They take from aging people like me who still cling to restoring gainful activity, and it points to why I take such a dismal view of the human animal, of the mental health consumer model, in particular, and the utter fucking travesty at the bottom, the entitlement dependency so entrenched any rollback will result in cataclysms which would make the 08 crisis look like a mild market correction. I too made my living off this. Some of you know that. Grants to try to curtail the welfare burden of the mentally ill we now incentivize to cripple themselves as much as I defy the limits people want to impose on my quadriplegia, and I'm still fucking full of myself to think I can revolt, roll out of section 202 housing, and survive it?
I sent Moss a despondent contact submittal, forced to miss my appointment this afternoon. The sixteen year old post surgical patient I was in their beds, missing out on normal teenage high school preoccupations, that poor girl never got very far. I have no idea why I'm bothering. I should just throw my fucking keys in the office and get an accessible bus ride out of state, find a sewer and wedge my ass in it.

Inveterate Malice

If I was as ruthless as Peter Thiel, I'd give blogger up. I cannot restart my adsense account because I don't know how to reopen it and don't know either how to utilize Google Forums to get where I need to be, don't see many bloggers who are self funding in these particular domains, I wield my tongue like a volcanic lash, and defied terms of service guidelines to be illegal, and did not tone it down because of a law firm threat, but because I probably am not going to see sunrise at 60. Yet I'm here every day, starving, trying to keep father's resources at bay, but the way to do that is to cease talking to the Aunt. She forces the drifting family patriarch who made me his executor to assist me; it isn't right. Padre has a right to some peace. I found my way back to Beacon through the Levy's Writer's Block none of us use, going to try Beacon again, but I am far too tired to post, even as I realize, to my amazement, that I am giving the building manager the solution she seeks. Fear for my survival is not enough to keep me here in Riverside Presbyterian. There is no respect for the authority of Trudy Richardson, and I treat her in inveterate fashion, living here with so many episodic crises, I need to at least make the attempt to leave, even if social media isn't fully attuned to my subtext.

It may surprise you to learn I am civil to a few of the younger minorities, like Amneshia, a collegiate age guard. She said to me "I would do it (give your notice)," as I've been unhappy a very long time; from what she knows of my story, even she feels corporate should give me the damn transfer. My readers who have read enough to know the gist could telephone Spring Mills and say give the poor spastic what she needs. What is a telephone call?

610-834-1001

I go over Richardson's head now, taunting the dezins of the domestic in Montgomery County, my rancor very much equal opportunity. I hissed into a Vice-President's voicemail fearlessly, threatening institutional duress. For one of such slender means I really buy into my role as the mafia don with cojones on the cunt. I just wrote cunt and made myself an imagined hermaphrodite, which is why Google corporate washes its hands, in part.

I am really angry at Petter Thiel, for the thing itself, but also have much thinking to do. Have a good morning. I have to pack in a bit early.

Back Again Itinery

I had to reboot over the audio, and have nothing to post really, my legs thick, losing water weight at the end of summer, pondering my fate as I close my fifty fourth year. My father's house cleaner is due to visit to "assess" my unit, and if you want the truth, fuck that, though she sounds totally harmless. I want to leave where I live, despite everything, even the probability that I'm signing my death warrant, and I'm going to ask this woman if she'll help me pack, whatever she assesses, with my aunt and her shrieking ugliness. I'm so sick of people, spinning like weather vanes. My entire family knows full well they hate public housing, but because I'm a cripple, oh, it's good enough for me. I'm tired of Marie. I'm tired of my dead mother's voice, telling me to be reasonable, that I'd love it here, that they give concerts. I'm tired of rationales, trying to defy my own biology, even my lack of social media popularity. I'm infected, indeed, placate twitter with sugared civility, sis a seethe, not that the connections are useless, and some of the disability account holders, perhaps they feel sorry, maybe believing I'd be happier in Sydney, or Estonia. Helpific, last I checked, follows me, but again, what would I do as an emigre in the Baltic states? I logged onto their website, typed a profile, and with no prompts required, feel like a damn fool. I like them though, would undoubtedly be happier with no Africans in sight-- aren't I awful, simply incorrigible? What would they call me? väike fašistlik? How would I get there, with what, especially with Putin's eminent domain issues? Slavs. Damn me if I comprehend their mindset, personality cults, collective dissidents, as it were. I may not get the Menippean aspects of Bulgakov entirely. He is a bit of a puzzle, but even the good doctor knew, how and where we live is rooted in a great deal of vanity and cruelty, and I'd raze every damn government housing authority to rubble if I had the power, which begs the question of what I'd do next, even if I did not create this account to dismantle policies, or even to write about remaining bedridden for the remainder of my life in this tough Southern European body as opposed to deciding it's time. I've scaled back on that discussion, despite recent events. I don't believe in it, never did, but the alternatives in my case are fairly dire, unless, and the unless is what's lacking. People I actually like who would dare not to leave me at the mercy of punishing indigence, and I know it's a lot to ask of those appropriate to my station.