Collard Green Extraction

"I no longer walk with a limp," James Woods, Against All Odds

My old flame of 37 years ago, (concurrent with the invasion of Grenada, no less) reminded me of a word I rarely use on Blogger: morale. It is a difficult state of cohesion for me to locate as a writer-journalist in hindrance at present, but the liberal-progressive bandwagon follow then block my account on Twitter isn’t helping. To a degree this is arbitrary, sometimes not worth mentioning, like the British transsexual RD Ronald who followed me and then beat a quick path back to her disturbing body decals of gunshot wounds. Seconds before she fled my digital space, my question read, “Are you a real transsexual?” I was baffled, found her Facebook page and excoriated her deliberately. If the LBGT activists want to play mind games with me they will be dealing with smoking skid marks, particularly as consequences for the dowager are negligible. There was too the donna from … Naples, was it? Her cut stung, as my use of nomenclature was only an attempt to welcome a comrade; but the BrowneProject, which as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, consists of a guitarist named Chris, followed me on July 28^th, and barely gave my palsied forearms 48 hours before he blocked me for querying the question as to what he wanted. Yes, we all unfollow and sometimes block accounts daily, but in this instance, whatever his circumstances, his virtual cut has the semblance of discrimination against a disabled woman only attempting a reminder that I have never been a paid music critic, though I will give the forthright the benefit of the doubt, like Ali Spagnola, who came to me through Medium. I admire her spunk, and have filed away to my ailing synapses that her oeuvre is due some consideration, as Russ Still will also receive, if I can accrue some semblance of my own autonomy as I had it last year.

Having asserted this, however, music will not heal my present anguish over a night to day helplessness from loss of machines and furnishings that kept me functional, nor will the social psychology of Mark Goulston, the doctor from California whose suicide prevention tweets aren’t relevant to my medical vulnerability. I let him go, wish him well, but my existence is intolerable, and needs more intervention of “boots on the ground,” and additional technical devices than the American welfare system will ever provide. Empathy isn’t going to prevent the collapse from infections borne of my own waste, if it continues. If Chris Browne is representative of the best the British left can do, “loving his friends,” believing in lyricism’s healing, but blocking me in a simple attempt at conversation, it gives me insight into British conservatives who’ve friended me and proven themselves resourceful.

Brilliant end to the day with my twin bro @BrowneProject 😁😄🤩😍 pic.twitter.com/a2d6bdAXIf

— 🌣 Nature Druid 🌣 (@n_distractions) August 25, 2018

As I cannot spontaneously visit my family and raise a glass of bubbly, these twins are cruel people. I'm the one who can't walk.

Progenitor Smoke Signals

"Your client works for one of the toniest law firms in this city."-- a Dick Wolf episode with the Munsters

I rarely have any complimentary sentiments to offer my hypothetical colleagues still running the media rat race, but what I tweeted to Politico at 3 AM was a rare stint at admiration, even as I'm sinking in stress, without much of a lifeline. The rib taken from The Washington Post is tonier than the mother ship, even if they earned Carson's ire during the primary, and their reporting on Secretary Price's jet setting was good work. Should it have cost the man his power? I cannot really adjudicate that, given my tap dance with Health & Human Services civilians since 14. Tom Price was a conservative medical politician, and this interested me, even if his estimate inside the Beltway was mixed;. unlike Gaulstan, one of my few surviving followers from the foreign coastal-scape of poet friend Robert Thomas. I showed Mark's account to one of the laid back guards at the front desk, whose Muslim African name can't get past my tinnitus. The residents call this guard "Anthony," for convenience, good looking but slow on the uptake, and I am showing him the account of a psychiatric professional who applies himself to broad sociological political dynamics. 

Why was it important for me to prove myself to a vacant minority whose looks should have gotten him better employment? If, and it is a conditional if, I flee in spastic fashion to my father's driveway tomorrow, refusing to return until I have legal representation, this solves nothing. My father, one, never gave me affirmation, and as his executor, I am the one he should be leaning on, both of us physically worse for wear, but my need for psychic distance from Riverside is nearly insurmountable. Most of my family believes I should be "placed," so they share at least one cultural attribute with the Debra Horne's of this world. 

The family isn't going to say this, because they already have, and they don't want to see me cascade down the escarpment. What do I think? I think if I lived with someone, I'd hang on. There are programs for this, but only as it applies to property owners, and if I am going to upset the apple cart, I have to call it an early evening. I made a mistake, this level of toxic stress, but I should have ended my relationship as a Presbyterian lessee in 1994. It doesn't mean I would not have been a bannable entity, but I would not be in my present situation. As to the fall of Price, I am not quite sure most of us care about the conscious frugality of a Principal. We all know aerodynamic technology is not a cheap proposition. Classically free market? I'd argue not. 

Now I have to find a staple gun, and figure out my fucking plan B. Governmental crisis lines never answer the phone. I knew this, of course. Any one of you brazen enough to reach out and give a fearful spastic a hand?