Draco's Fire Lunge

'passed on from hand to hand"-- Elton John, negating projectile weapons

In the differential between being helpless and being rendered helpless, it is interesting to note that the keystone for Magee Rehabilitation Hospital was laid in 1982, while I was zipping around the borough of Ridley Park and the city of Chester, oblivious, on that mainly picturesque campus, of the sterile fate which lie ahead as part of the Jefferson Health network. Magee’s masonry is still relatively young, just shy of forty years, the front line, in Philadelphia, for spinal injuries, I only ever penetrated here to be fitted, as my closed circuit institutionalization began in 1972, not that this insolent and glowering little vixen could know this, with her spitfire blond strands, uneven stare. She could not hope to travel through my varied gateway of sexual molestation at the hands of African minorities, vaginally penetrated, as if I were nothing more than a terrorized marsupial dispensed for use on the forearm of privileged schoolboys. She deserves to be slapped across the face, this single syllable expression of umbrage and bloodthirsty xxxxx’es, and perhaps she realizes, the little cunt, that a spastic such as I calls out the cannon, already in prison, with nothing to lose in the deploy of the big guns.

She isn’t much of an adversary in her bristle.

Ellen De Generes, conversely, probably would comprehend these rivulets of scar tissue in the guise of my violent stepfather, abusing one and all in my whore of a mother’s household. I suppose I fled, like a boomerang, while Ellen dispenses with femininity altogether. This cross dressing transvestite enthusiasm actually has a long undercurrent in vaudeville going back to the Victorian era. The disability law firm from Maryland, following me in a brief subterranean exchange, may be hungry enough to take legal action against the vendor Mainline Medical, presided over by my uncle, Louis Cristinziani, but what good is that in a burning vertigo on the verge of collapse?

Singular Insulation Propelled on Cheap Batteries

The wounded gunman, {sic} Gary Atkins, looked at one of his hostages, MaryLinda Moss, and told her it was all over for him.-- Robin Abcarian

Robin's feature is a nicely balanced human interest story, taking aim at American excesses all around, whatever conspiracy theories are still plaguing our fourth largest metropolitan newspaper in their post-Tronc aftermath. SWAT teams invariably escalate tensions, however pristine they appear in television serials, the villain didn't want to lose it entirely, this is California, after all, a state that latticed Trader Joe's, which doesn't advertise, into a nationwide cult, and a woman with diabetes thought fast on her feet, touching upon our ambivalence with cages, referencing the positive attributes of being a free market society. Some prisoners do become notorious causes, but those are a small minority, and MaryLinda was cognizant of limits. Perhaps some of you feel I was never cognizant of mine, and shrug. It isn't your fault I moved into "the badlands" of Philadelphia and wound up defeated, unwilling to correct the price I paid by moving back in with my mother, and here I am, so much bloody pulp, not strong enough to rewrite what I have to while shit gases out of me, allowing myself to wither on the vine under JEVS. This is where I get Galahad from, the care worker with whom I got frisky. I knew of JEVS when I too coordinated, and so here we are, with an all black cast, including a flaming gay drug addict whom I have to try really hard not to run out of my unit Monday. With all due respect to my Catholic and Christian accounts, this Trey fellow is a dead man on stilts, an incredibly fucked up little twinkee, he makes my West Oak Lane man look like college material, and I am barely holding it together, even though this Mawson Dave followed me, put aa assertive foot forward with Twitter DM. Hello Joanne, how are you? I patted Galahad's shoulder. "See you, I got a new boyfriend," teasing him. This is how we put up with each other, the bitch and the lion. I do not know what Dave wanted, don't have the energy to play the field anymore. This Q6 is a good chair, and after raising my voice at my uncle's troubled medical vendor, the avuncular technician, a man I know from childhood, reminded me that people are people, whether private enterprise or state model run, changed the arms for me to restore my hand grips. It is too little, too late. Restoring my legacy is an overload, and Galahad's determination to keep me from implementing my despair plan is only aided by inertia. All I have to do is unleash my inner caustic, empty, hollow-eyed hatred, as in, get the fuck out of my studio, you nigger imbeciles, and then go buy what I need, sort out the details. It is contingent upon me to want to live, to keep fighting, but this Q6 is just too high off the ground for me to be anything in it other than a potted plant. I no longer dress, barely prepare my food. The VNA achieved next to nothing, as did my father, my father's sister. Now I am just a body, giving unskilled blacks a Medicaid living at 10.5 an hour. Not one person respected the narrative I offered them so I could retain my skills, not one. I presume my followers have nothing to say to that. 
I truly believed my sense of lifelong alienation would one day pass, back in my make the best of it Reagan era coming of age, and I would have been proud of myself for the strength of my accomplishments, instead of hit after hit leaving me already dead, barely able to sustain interpersonal relationships, impoverished, soiling disposable paper linens as soon as the end result of Lyndon Johnson's 60 year civil rights expansion walks out the door.

Verne Miller Bowel Obstruction

"It had begun early that morning when he stopped for gas.--Tom Pawlik, Vanish

The age of my technology makes all this more than a bit frustrating. Friday evening I was able to sync, and sampled an Amazon original, Absentia, which opens with Stana Katic in a water tank, or being punched, or stabbing a journalist in hospital, but this morning, despite cold reboots, I cannot get the hotspot to ping, wonder if it is the anti-virus software. I’d like to lose the USB plug in. It keeps my phone bill high, as the black man who has based his economic decisions on my assurances drags me by my legs in the morning like a fucking sack of turnips, helps me sit on a Jay cushion far too high while the Depends wadding gnaws my rectum for the hours I sit here.

When I lose a long time follower like Justin Murphy, the assistant professor kindred Catholic libertarian, yes, I wince, but caution myself I cannot ascribe reasons for my account removal to his feed. I was going to keep his on mine, may restore him later, but I give very little time to my followers, even failing to recall that Mikaela’s tag line is a far superior resume to mine, and half the time, I do not know what Justin is tweeting, and so I did not rise above the law of an eye for an eye as proscribed in Deuteronomy, and dropped Justin and his specious queries about weed and mass, even as he hit like for a couple of my responses, which seems inconsistent, a drop with continuing validation. Trust me, I know imitating Mikaela’s trained anchor pleasantness would improve my social media ratings, but is Mikaela being hauled off a generic hospital bed by a minority who failed in manufacturing at one corporate plant after another, from food processing to retail? I cannot overcome the cruelty of medical socialism, in my 57^th year, plagued by nightmares of being hauled away by force by a bevy of females similar to the scurrying bitches of VNA, to another institution for imbeciles, while the director puts his hand down my blouse, strangles me with a forcible kiss, as I protest repeatedly that I’ve been matriculated and educated, hauling myself awake much like Stana in her fast moving collision of a lead, it is still nonetheless a variation on my end game, which my readers assure themselves they are helpless to prevent. Going out with a time trigger bomb wired to this power chair, punishing my posture and all but strip mining me helpless, doesn’t present me with that much of a dilemma. March For Our Lives cannot de-weaponize the anguish of a life bowed over the screw.

A Civet’s Perineal Gland

The civet produces a musk highly valued as a fragrance -- a Wiki entry

Would viewer’s like this implosive and still not master of the blogger format to walk it back, offer an expression of remorse against tantalizing aspects of destructive impulses? Let’s listen to the planks creak under a plodding tread and see where we wind up this Monday morning. I was going to try to explain some of this to the caretaker, with the pressures she’s under, colliding with mine, leading to another failed outreach, in my continuing attempt to rebuild a support system. I don’t wish to diagram her as I have Karina, (and even here, my diagram of white post-beatnik flakes is meant to illustrate that trying to circumvent regulated paradigms has failed me, more than once in recent months) but for women in their 30’s, they seem to share certain attributes of fragility in common beyond grieving for their mothers. We all grieve for mothers if we live long enough, although in Arrival we have an inverse loss of a mother losing a daughter to a terminal illness. I tend to agree with Renner’s physicist that Amy Adams, in character, made the wrong choice. Vileneuve created an excellent film, made me interested in Chaing’s novella, but I have to reject the transcendental consolations of the director’s vision. It is bad enough having cerebral palsy, but I’ve had so much cut out of my life that so many of you in my class have had, and a studio in which I am sick of living looks more like a storage locker in a bus depot. It makes Dinklage seem nearly art deco chic in The Station Agent What my father is doing to his third wife is exactly what he did to me as a child, and the incessant drama of this woman’s hammock swing between life and death, for the last ten years, wears on me, wears on my sister, it’s wrong, and I vow not to prolong my pain on that road, even though I am in a dreadfully vulnerable tumult at the moment.

Medicare, which Krugman announced as an event on his eligibility day, cannot go on like this indefinitely. If I balk at my freefall, look at my stepmother’s. She is bedridden, barely cogent on a good day, in constant pain and in need of round the clock care, for ten years, a virtual trade deficit in her own right. All I’ve ever really been in need of was a decent power chair, good technology, an efficient transport and my career back. Regardless of your politics, I never intended, regardless of my belief that an urban grid would be easier, to have the clock stopped because the Commonwealth’s rehabilitation governance is a joke everyone knows. I get mad because it is up to us, the people, to change it, but we don’t, certainly not in Pennsylvania. Aging, the end of life, it is neither easy, nor efficient, but we could do better, unlike the Visiting Nurses Association. They have no authority to get Mike from Mr. Wheelchair to undo the damage he’s done; they shoved an unsafe generic hospital bed down my throat, and then Nancy Lotz says “oh, sorry, call your father, put your bed back together.” It isn’t that simple, and I’d have to pay people for their time, non-linear or not, and the VNA bills Medicare—for taking my temperature. That’s fraud. So was my week in the hospital. I wasn’t sick, I’m simply being killed by a scooter a shady jackass foisted on me, and I need to pick a day to stay up until morning to find a lawyer. I’d have an easier time sleeping with Peter Thiel.

Robert Byrd’s White Nigger Echo Chamber

"I have to go to Norristown--" The Mechanic

I am literally teasing matted locks of my greying and now wiry hair out of my scalp, ever slowly, and to my mortification, it looks like Gilda Radner's worst day of chemotherapy, the original anti-prime timer, and yet persisting, slowly, tackling the worst before I let a cosmologist do what they can with it, but as it is now, it perfectly symbolizes what 14 weeks of being at the mercy of Medicare has done to me, and this is what Paul Krugman champions, how long and punishing this has been, trying so hard to fend off the iron jaws of “means testing,” my case is now under review at County Assistance. No idea why, as my savings were depleted by 2014. I held off reapplying for Medicaid as long as I could, but knew I would need it (late in the day) for another power chair, but all of a sudden, I am “under review,” in order that the Commonwealth can ensure it protects itself. No one is willing to ensure I am protected from it. The dynamic nigger duo, Trudy and Debra, contracted with Liberty Health to at first pressure me to comply, and then Tom of Liberty Health did his damnest to talk me into signing myself away, but didn’t know his job, that Hahnemann University Hospital couldn’t put me away. I had no condition they could treat me for, but Hahnemann and the Visiting Nurses association, and Mike's bucket seat ingenuity, have virtually incapacitated me. Libertarian political philosophy, perhaps traditional conservatives, as well, may not have an answer for disability, dependence, and rationed care, but the system has some serious dystopian fissures. Maybe it will right itself after boomers have their mass die off, but I am not so sanguine about Western medicine’s  market correction. My father cannot afford to let his wife die in the most compassionate manner, my body has taken fourteen weeks of a prolapse break down, to the point even my arms are now affected by tremors, and these are my options:

a)      Hang on until I can manage a better power chair fitting and ditch hospital bed and hope for partial recovery

b)      Attempt suicide and hope I don’t fail

c)       Give up and allow Inglis House or equivalent facility to torture me into hospice

The Medicare medical equipment model failed me from 14 forward. The Trump Administration had nothing to do with it. I did not have a primary care doctor or practice that met my needs, and still don’t. The VNA is an outsource model staffed by nurses and other therapists near retirement. Mike and I are in agreement here. They know jack shit, this VNA, but private contraction failed too. Hiring Karina from Craigslist was a mistake, and utilizing Mr. Wheelchair broke my strength, my resilience, and the fucking liberal majority insisting I need an attendant has taken 98 days to put my Medicaid eligibility under review. I’m sure Krugman would blame austerity, but that would be too linear. I was in the beginning of needing to curtail and be cautious, in September 2017, but I wasn’t failing; Pennsylvania seems determined to rectify that. I should go lie down, as the grease monkey is coming early evening. Should you pray all goes well for the dowager’s scathing mouth? All I ever wanted was a career, to make something of myself, to have some freedom to achieve certain things, maybe have a good man, but no, 32 years ago, I moved into an accessible 811, and that anguish and rage permeates this one wee blogging platform. 

Untenable Mummers' Day

The holiday is the perfect time.--the man in charge

In this chair I cannot go bare buttock as I used to. The vinyl seat is too hard, too small, and the discomfort I undergo has taken away very nearly all my control, including the food preparation I did on my own, let alone dressing and food shopping. Nor have I so much made a dent in assessing what the cleaning service did or did not do with certain personal effects, including my clothes to which I had adapted. When the Caribbean accented paraprofessional sat me up in the winter afternoon, before the bad transfer assist, alarming as that was, my growing weakness might as well have set off a Geiger counter. I got Mike on a word of mouth basis from a former Liberty consumer, and assumed he understood cerebral palsy fittings. I am at fault for taking the chair, assuming I could adapt, but he should have known better also, on the basis of the broken models piled under the daybed beneath the one window I once handled on my own, on top of a week’s worth of unnecessary hospital stays. I don’t have access to my work, cannot restart much of what I was doing, not from scratch, and my aunt thinks I’d thrive in her mother’s home, all because of a combustible grease monkey. A Man Called Ove is the type of literary conceit on which I was weaned. The title character feels life has passed him by. His suicide attempts fail. Poor planning, community interference. The point of the film, probably the book too, is learning he is still valued and can fill in the gaps. I’ve no such luxury, fearful I’ll never get past this. Fighting welfare and Medicare rationing kept me healthy. Seven doctors had nothing to treat me for. Diaper shit and piss, my inability to sustain my nutrition, is making short work of this, and if I did not feel I’m being forced down the drain, it wouldn’t be so hard to swallow. A nursing home isn’t going to let me write and have digital access, despite the occasional Washington Post feature from those with no choice. I left Oz off at season four, after “O’Reilly” kills Nathan’s rapist himself, weary of all this overflow, wondering how much longer I can persevere, but maybe it isn’t simply Philadelphia, it’s self-depreciating half assed efforts, with swatting being the new eel wriggling in the cesspool. Libertarians should have no problem uniting against weaponizing police against innocent civilians. I have my recidivism too, from my childhood under the knife to some damn cubicle, accepting it as the hardship of decline. It isn’t worth it: Let’s see what the new year brings, shall we? I’m off to bed, against better judgment, daring to remove the diaper, staining the underpad so my crotch can get some air.

Shtako, Defiantly

"Stop complaining."

If the videos posted to social media on the subject have a modicum of authenticity, there are those on the right who allege that Moore’s loss to Doug Jones was a conspiracy; they ought to be applying that disbelief in the voting to examining why he was allowed to secure the nomination in the first place. The Troy Messenger cites Shirley Reddoch as saying that Moore’s run off victory against Strange sent “a clear statement”. Yeah, a clear statement that Trumpian methodology has sent Republicans into freefall. Even the fact that New York’s mogul in chief supported Moore is a contradiction in terms. President Trump proclaimed often enough during the primaries that he was a businessman. In that light, going against rational conservative objections to support Moore, such as those voiced by Toomey, made the president look like a mouth piece for an authoritarian regime in trouble, as opposed to a shrewd political strategist. George Wallace, to whom Moore has been compared, might have been the inflammatory bigot of his day, but when he could still walk, he stepped aside rather than be arrested by the military who insured that Brown v. Board of Education was enforced, proving that he was a realist unwilling to sacrifice himself for what he purportedly believed. Wallace has even been vindicated in part, if you examine urban school districts for any great length, given that economics have re-segregated pubic schools. The accusations of molestation were not dispositive, but they rode on an irrational wave of hysteria which bodes ill for the republic. Moore has a right to be as dogmatic as he wishes, but separation of church and state is an abiding principle of American pluralism, and has no place in the federal legislature. It signifies how much Catholic temperance has failed to reign in the fervor of American evangelical factionalism in the US, despite Niall's admiration of our "work ethic'" in apparent abeyance at the moment.

The Trump presidency: tragedy or comedy? https://t.co/TdUbGvkXP0 pic.twitter.com/Z8v32GGVLu

— Niall Ferguson (@nfergus) December 17, 2017

The left has essentially lost its mind, and the right seems hell bent on swallowing its own tail, which leaves the dowager, in her suffering under the wondrous rationing of the welfare state, and her faulty consumer decisions, severely disconcerted. I want conservatives to succeed, to roll back the drawbridge, even as my options grow ever more tenuous, and the toll of bad mechanics weakens me as I enter my seventh year past 50. My well being and my health are in jeopardy, and the fact that I have Medicare and Medicaid amounts to negligible quality control, ever steadily forcing me into an acute crisis, not mitigating it, after everything I’ve been through, the wheelchair vendor has left me in a situation which amounts to daily torture, imprisoned on a consumer hospital bed on which I can barely move, and I am still with the right, even if the state GOP is ignorant of how incapacitated I am, how negligent my care is, white professionals and black unskilled labor alike just rushing in and out of a section 202 which I technically evacuated ten weeks ago. It is this very cruelty, which is the business of poverty, which leaves me unrepentant, despite the fact that personalities like Niall Ferguson can only acknowledge the brutal truth of unremitting indigence. Yeah, it has gotten better: sixty years ago or more, before Judy Garland offed herself, I might have been in a rubber room with tards, perhaps beaten to death for my temper rather than threatened with disruption by Blogger for being a militant. I’m an upgrade, from no voice at all to Dreiser’s An American Tragedy, with all the requisite lack of forgiveness, for failure, embedded in stark negativity, while transplanted Britons frolic in amazement at the farce of the west wing before them. Niall himself has been pacified into a degree of disingenuousness. Whatever his former diffidence about the homosexual psyche, in its refreshing honesty, he is of course friends with a petulant AIDS stricken apostolic queer like Andy. Birds of a feather, imperial voices with paternalistic eyes watching over its troubled Infante Terrible, however roiled my country is at present, bawling in colic.

Drums Along The Mohawk

"But we won." --Henry Fonda

I begin to take a dim view of IT technicians as a whole. They should be able to assist me better than they do, whether it’s Geek Squad or PhillyTechGuy or the vendor Tom Cook who did not do what he said he was going to do. These men can walk, they have automobiles. I never stiffed them, and it is always the same game of chicken: I still view myself as a failed scholar. They see a bull dyke in rags, I suppose, one that shares the same urgency as Constance Sumner, but in a different context. I need something else for these last months with my cognitive ability still intact, and if I cannot get it, then mocha bug bran women like building manager Trudy Richardson will have a self-fulfilling prophecy. “We don’t know each other,” she says. Fuck that. She is a nigger fascist as sure as I’m road rage ready to die in authority’s restraints, but if black arrogance has been particular, illegally cruel, on the other end of the spectrum, Caucasians aren’t really giving me appropriate levels of support. Cook has to make a living, but so do I, and I’m in a bit of a bind, one which he claims he can unravel, but he should have done this the first time. I cannot do everything by myself, and though I don’t expect social media to fall over itself coming to my aid, my viewers aren’t of much use either. I mean, I have taken my share of adversity, still forced to live with fringe homosexuals who think 60 style protests is a panacea for institutional medical care, and I’ve taken my share, getting gob smacked like Jody Foster in the insidious opening to The Silence of the Lambs, but I haven’t been devastated by natural disaster (though governmental incompetency may be a sufficient substitute) and should take heart, and work around this obstacle. Except it is my life’s work, and I am still trying to compete in the mainstream, and ta ta, one laptop death takes a fucking month out of my life, when I should be in bed. But my biological rhythms liven between midnight and five am, so I write as if I was still pulling an all nighter for exams. This is my way of being as skeptical of the right as I am of the left. What good is it if no one hears the narrative? 

I cannot claim to have a personal relationship with libertarians. Locally, John you used my name in print with feigned offense, he knows me best, but there is friction between us, as my Roman malevolence truly did widen his eyes, the not cool aging invalid who would delight in guerrilla warfare. If I had the ability to command, there is my solace, in the fanaticism of destruction. In lieu of Apocalypse Now, my father opens his checkbook, but this is tantamount to giving the Ebola virus an aspirin, and I do not see Richard Spencer letting my Machiavellian intellect usurp the niche of his ethnographic conceits, but, absent that personal relationship, tracking men like the muted Tony Stiles and politicos like Austin Petersen interests me. I knew of Austin by name long before social media, and I said to myself, researching him, years ago, so this is a radical, then subsequently discovered this is not the case. Austin isn’t a radical, but my blood lust, that is radical. I am very hard in certain aspects, and agree with Austin’s healthcare privilege view because he is right. All you have to do is observe. Claiming healthcare “rights” obliterates the quality of care issue, and with all medical resources limited as they are, Jimmy Carter’s cancer treatments and McCain’s poor prognosis glioma take away from others. There may be no direct link to my quality of care chain, but nonetheless, it is still a triage of association. Men of stature in 80^th and 90^th decades limit preventative resources for others with more optimal survival, and I may take a swipe at hard policy posts as time allows. That I vaguely recollect Roy Moore's removal from the Alabama bench at all is a mystery.

Tapioca

"I believe God wrapped himself up in that baby boy."-- Josie Byzek

One pitch last evening. Only one? When I reference the blank spaces in eschatology, I do no mean metaphysical definitions of the afterlife, and the metaphors we create around the notion of souls. Heaven is a postscript for serenity. Hell is a more dynamic narrative of unfinished business, degrees of intensity, passion, murder, vengeance, lust, avarice, treason. The worst sin is betrayal and what and whom we turn on, sort of like Donald Trump and Ted Cruz playing jacks with slay the bimbo. Rape, molestation of children, this is a betrayal to the species, and homosexuality, taken to the level western activists have taken it, basically is a materialist argument in evolutionary terms. Humans are like other mammals with sexual drives in need of being sated, so we divorce sexuality from its main purpose, and have industries devoted to cock rings, dildos, erotic films, smokers, rape fantasies, not that these aren't also heterosexual excesses. On one level, liberals glorify the liberating aspects of a great orgasm, and it is so closely tied to death, not only because vigorous intercourse can wind up killing people, usually males, but I imagine women too have bought it, in time honored fashion, with their shins clamped on a nice buttock, but because of the loss of control mimics physical escape; not that I'm saying a world of gender neutered eunuchs is preferable, but freedom aggrandizes bodily sensation to the point that it obscures other potentialities. No, what I mean about this void, is, what do we look upon in the face of decline? Family dynamic? I never had a good one, with the possible exception of baby half brother, love my father terribly, but our relationship is a cash register. My entire life might be summarized as doing everything to win my father, and failing. I learned and watched football to talk my father's language, and do him twice better as a Roman mafioso race baiting reactionary. He'd break my jaw if he knew what my posts convey. It is a method, many times removed, of how angry I am with him, how much I blame myself for Nicholas junior, his punk thuggery, suffering, the pain he caused so many people, his wasted AIDS skeletal frame in the coffin, cherry monoxide cheeks.
Do I believe in Jesus, like Josie Byzek? No, when push comes to shove, to give Catholicism a difficult time, if Christ actually existed, he is not what Saul, the original Christian killer, fed to Rome. Then why do I label myself a Catholic atheist, and believe the Office of the Inquisition should be restored and granted the death penalty? To which I'd be first in line? Grace is only achieved through martyrdom. I lived in hell for significant portions of these fifty plus years headed down the drain, what have I done in that time? Over invested like a pinball held aloft in a miracle game of Frenzy, giving myself first to devotion, yet always truculent with the collar. Then it was romance, never actualized, ever. I thought, a long time ago, maybe I could win a spastic New York therapist, went back to Rusk for work study, and his first words? "You got heavy, didn't you?" My parents would have been appalled at how hard I then tried to get laid, alone, sixteen, in Manhattan. I played up every virile male I could find, black, white, Italian, cop, disabled, Italian-Japanese, Hispanic-- Jesus, with the H morpheme. What do I have to show for it? 300 poems, a handful of bylines, controversy, giving everything the finger, no security, alone, afraid, with moth worn skirts, soiled clothes, survivor of medical practice that did absolutely nothing for me, in a prognosis of any sort. Had I snagged An Academic, might I have had more tranquil pleasures? I should have never allowed myself to relocate to Riverside. I perhaps should have gone back to my mother, but we would have harmed each other. She died alone. I'm gone, a boon a rang rang.

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.

The ACA Is Complex, That Much We Know

When I was an undergraduate on the vaunted Medicaid, all I did was call Delcrest for power chair issues. It is much worse now, and I made a terrible mistake leaving Hahnemann Internal for the Ambulatory Practice. Hahnemann was indifferent, but mostly got me through the red tape, barring the extraordinary disaster of 2007. No chair, no attendant, as my molestation the year prior triggered a relapse, and this was when Trudy first had her team attack me, after my injuries sustained during the renovations. After going through hell, she humiliated me, and it was only because I had the money to pay my uncle's mechanics to refurbish the P-200 that I'm still here. The Jazzy is off warranty, and Jefferson treats me as if I was an Alzheimer's patient, as opposed to a quadriplegic; I have neither resources nor stamina to travel the length of the city to get past the gateway to get to the rehab personnel who might or might not keep me aloft. If you want to discuss thin ice, and the fact that I sound exactly like an activist exile, point conceded, but the activists in Philadelphia were the proximate cause of the problems I've faced. Jimmi Shrode whines like a gargantuan toddler that he'll fight all his life for wards in Inglis, those who remain passive, but that his lover's aide harassed me, or that after the violence of Diamond Park, a significant minority of attendants abused me at Riverside, or that this has been a hostile environment since 1994, never mind. I am the bitch, Jimmi is an aging pig bastard who thinks green eye shadow is still a homoerotic subversion. The Bern's charming Pol Pot paradise cleverly evaded my health insurance. I was a full time consultant. Matrix gave me a standard HMO, and now? Cancelling my Medicare may seem like a horrible idea, but what service am I getting? A resident charged me 90 dollars to tell me I wasn't diabetic. I'm hanging by a rather tenuous thread.

Rocks Certainly Give the Illusion of Stark, Brutal Surfaces

I did post yesterday that I was going to take a break, but I've returned to say that the system has pushed me to the point of criminal insanity. I reverted back to the recovery center of my adolescent youth, and amazingly, Moss still has me on file, living at my old Diamond Park address, and the best anyone can do for me, in pain, and at crisis point, is give me an appointment  over 45 days away with an orthopedic doctor who will probably look at me, think "Inglis House" and say something circumspect.

I could, of course, try my legs again in the bathroom, but again, narcotic strength withdrawal tied to narcotic strength arthritis pain, in this bloody awful Jazzy, is pushing it, even as my rectum has gone berserk. Everyone says try again with an attendant, which in translation means "put up with nigger behavior," and it is an impossible situation, forced to continue to engage the assholes who can declare victory, as I'm pretty much now a mind in a carcass-- I think, to the extent that Mr Radio Personality Stiles understands me, his advice that my defiance can "withstand anything" only comes up to a point, as the majority of humans in the US don't live by extraordinary medical regime. I had to live everything I have written about on this blog, with a pathology dwarfed only by Tunisians in Nice, and now I have no freedom whatsoever. It is going to take me days to knock any number of bitches around like bowling pins before the dust settles, you did not hear Joan's reaction, the receptionist, "Don't do that! Let them help you!"

They've never helped me, whether I've treated them with intimidating belligerence or not. I'm coming to the end of what I can cope with, however much I know I'm still alive for the sake of my work. The moral issues surrounding our virtual imprints keep growing, but no one wants, nor knows what to do with me, the despairing destructor. I am just a really dark voice amid thousands and thousands of pedestrians, even as one has to wonder about Google's obligations. I'm near the end, and this is all that's left, a cripple who wanted to be normal and get a Jesus Christ superstar of her own. I quelled whatever paranoia I initially experienced at the discovery I lost broadcast access to Bounce and GetTV. I know it is one of these poverty things and not a ready news item, but I am puzzled as to what happened, why I lost these two stations.

Sycophancy in Japanese Homoeroticism

"First comes dealing with the pain and loss,"-- the Josie Byzek I barely knew

If Blogger itself hasn't succeeded in subduing me, (not entirely), the fact that my twitter following slowly and ever so persistently grows might, despite the fact that every once in awhile I need to go off, mindful of the fact I have new eyes watching but I just spent well over two hours formatting and revising, with the alliance in charge perhaps having little to absolutely no idea how badly I need money in my proclivity toward cavies, falling on my knees in my subconscious saying please like me pay me.

It doesn't work like that, and those of us in the business know it. I'm only partially baffled that I broke ranks by getting into The Philadelphia Inquirer metro section in 05 on my second try and cannot, or could not, break ranks into the City Paper daily. It was not personal. I know that. I'd telephone and say how bout this? It was always "no, I don't think so," Patrick Rapa, primarily. I am sad they have been bowed over due to online advertising, but how much of an alternate voice they were remains unclear. A really old turn of the century piece about those suffering gender identity issues, cutting off their testicles in a bathtub, was Gawker type material, but how much did it serve the city's need to know? I had no idea the daily went down nearly nine months back.

Now I'll never get in it, which may be why I do not want to get on Melissa Nguyen Horton's bad side, with this being one of her thumbnail photos. In one of my puzzled moment episodes, she followed me on her little darling of a news community. What was I supposed to do, block the site owner where an unhappy quadriplegic complains? I followed her back, pondering Mario Puzo's sexual fascination with Asian lesbianism, or the snapshot I use of the saintly whore going off in an unholy triage of power cock with executives and madame, and our mainly one sided discussions in email. Melissa doesn't need to assert her Asian (new age?) identity, but she'll collect damaged strays like me, keep an eye on us. Maybe she just followed me on her portal to say "I'm human too, as fallible as you are, Joanne," but the truth is, I do not really have to time to break a sweat and produce professional quality reads on Yabberz, aside from hating Mark Johnson. I urgently need dental surgery, and it might kill me if I don't work on a solution. Medicaid isn't going to pick up a tab which could run in the thousands, and I am not sure where to go. The Temple dental clinic tortured me in my late 20's, private practices cannot help me, and I cannot get into the operating theater. All an abscess has to do is travel to my brain, and then I will not have to wrestle the moral issues any longer. 

Metastisis

The degree of toxic stress I'm shouldering is partly my own intransigence, and perhaps too much so: I can cancel with ATT and get cheaper ISPs, return to a partial supplemental security income, collect the 10 dollars in ETP the state would give me. The resistance doesn't come from libertarian fealty. It is not loyalty to Tony which makes me stubborn. Tony came to my twitter feed. I ran him through search, followed him back, and let John Murphy's later rhetorical question slide about what I "heard." Which means I was nice to Tony's CFO because I value what Tony Stiles represents.

I am torturing myself, to a certain extent, because I still believe I can manage my own affairs better than an income maintenance case manager, still believe I can still sustain employment (although I handled Swarthmore College in such a manner that the interviewer who ignored my questions about clips in email had three lawyers view my profile, Christ) I do intend to get mileage out of that incident as institutional liberal bias, and will hopefully find the right editor, but this is a card close to my chest.

My mother's sister, when she and I talk, says "You cannot work." I'll never accept that, but the system doesn't ease up. It isn't fair that every time I need a new power chair I have to see a primary resident, basically clueless Asian students like Dr. Mann, and then get billed 90 dollars, no closer to an evaluation with a provider who will respect me. Wheelchair users aren't programs. We're Americans, and yet a lobbyist from Jazzy gives a Medicare administrator a good snow job, and suddenly everyone in center city has this generic fuck-witted piece of machinery. It isn't right, and I blame conservatives and progressives. People like myself need the AMA to get the fuck out of our way and streamline things differently. It disgusts me.

I'm on the edge of the tight rope, however, and can't keep this up indefinitely. I did work, all by myself, for five years, and shouldn't be expendable because I'm past 50. I will send Tony a decent photo for my profile after I have change for the laundry. Things are that tight right now. 

Can't stop biology, but I am not going back to anything like the homes I've seen, and that's final.

Radiator Vapor

Every year, Michael Pera, Riverside's custodial henchman horse's ass (and this isn't an exaggeration, he is a rube typical of the type Presbyterian Homes hires to save money) makes me sick when he turns on the heat. This year was worse than usual, and though I made an effort, I had to sleep, and missed my third attempt, partly resistance to clinical examination, to be evaluated for an alternative model chair.

Not sure what I'm going to do now, as I can not expect a walk in on a stronger day would lead to an accommodation from rehabilitation specialists who do not see themselves as sycophants. I make things very hard, and if I'm still on the verge of giving notice, so as to release my threatening, mostly impotent virulence on the heads of this rental corporation, I not only threaten my survival for the sake of political protest. The homeless would make short work of me if I joined them in this generic contraption designed to save money. I've already transformed into a mostly feral defiance that women like Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson and the morbidly obese Monica Carr created, as a matter of intimation.

If I give up on myself, there's no further point.

Les Innocents in the Arc of Evolving Bag Lady

I logged on to chastise the Jefferson labyrinth in vain, depressed at how obvious the avarice is within Medicare as a single payer option. The best thing for me is to return to employment, and yet that goal has the road blocks built into it: I'm homeless, in all but actual fact, once removed, depressed and suffering some form of traumatic stress, and the Swarthmore College editorial department simply shut down after viewing my Linked In profile. What can I do? Trying to take a better picture will not change the toll these years have taken if, god forbid, I show up to a job interview with my occlusion.

Medicare arbitrarily signed me into a part D prescription plan, and I am ready to walk, freely lashing out at Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell on the way out, lasting mere hours, if that, but it is what my soul wants, to tell the system to unhinge itself from my torso. I do not need prescriptions. I need rehabilitation technology, a new location to live, work, but our hallowed Constitution doesn't apply when it comes to entitlement, and I'm beginning to recontour myself as just another cripple.

It isn't what I wanted.

Extermination Empathy Breathers

Another nearly xenophobic station signal I receive, WTVE, from Wilmington, just another ghetto striven enclave of row homes, is a retro-throwback broadcast, playing 1960 Japanese analog series I evidently should not have viewed as a child in the assassination rife year of 1968. The B grade tenor of the works falls into the category of fascination with vomit while alienated by Huffington Post Live's millennial chatter, however relevant to those spaces in films we do not see, jump cutting the pace of ennui. The station also airs stomach churning veterinary surgeries, and in one episode, a brawny gator farmer rushed an alligator with a colon blockage into surgery, and the veterinarian euthanized the reptile on the table after dumping its fecal waste it a pan.

How much did this cost the farmer? Wouldn't it have been more humane to shoot the creature and freeze it, ensuring death? We all have affinities, and without truly intending to disparage the farmer, there is going a bridge too far. Gators and crocodiles lay lots of egg clutches, easily replenished, and going through all that evasive butchery for a primitive fresh water predator seems beyond the pall, while we have a fairly affluent dentist behaving like a fugitive. If there is anything on the face of this earth that makes existence an irreparable folly, it is an animal surgeon dumping fecal blockage and then destroying what he couldn't save, much as what we did to ourselves years ago. 

I mourn Cecil, and hope his brother managed to defy the odds, as his tracker asserts, but this isn't really the point. The point is we're asinine stewards unable to manage our own innate impetus. I do not know what doctors told my parents in 1963. I know the story, as in countless other disability tales, I was supposed to die, and African Americans seem predisposed to help me right along with that, intimidating me back into being exploited for their economic benefit, while I lie struggling with withdrawal, losing to years of psychic pain, and no one will do for me what in animal medicine is standard.

I have to endure literal crippling agony, persecuted by motherfucking assholes who can't get better jobs. Zoologists dart and track and study. Industrial farmers engage in wholesale slaughter to keep chronic impoverished failures like me alive, and, in the conservative codex, I am one of those women without children whose fury Walter Palmer is attempting to evade.

But turning Palmer into an effigy isn't going to solve a fundamental exigency. The only thing left to poach when habitat is gone and magnificent stalkers like Cecil are confined into domesticated paradigms for which they were not evolved, are humans, already preying on ourselves. I just can't see my way to optimism of any sort. If I did not mention that kimmy my foster rescue isn't a royal pain in the ass, now might be the time, weary with the responsibility of pet rearing. One I let her go, it is probably over, the degree to which my lifespan might be considerably brutalized by that point.

Perhaps the meritocracy will surprise me, and rescue the manufactured urban spastic racist gradually decelerating, but I'll never be the same as I once was on the ascent.

Disaster, but the moths are tenacious

I set the phone alarm and heard it buzzing, but I sat up at six and took a pass on The Cafe and the computer programmers and working class brawn, missed Patterson Inc because I did not wait and when I stood at the bar the pain was unbearable, all from standard summer humidity, and I spent little over an hour slipping but miraculously not landing on the tile in my own waste, and in desperation drove under the shower head, in this horrible power chair, and neither CBS nor anyone else airs "The Silence of the Cicadas" as a free viewing, and I mope, still cleaning up in the bathroom, not knowing where to turn. Surrender?

Can you contemplate what moving to Inglis House entails at my age? What they will force upon me? I've dealt with the brutality of institutional regimes since I was five years old, and now I have to go back? I would not survive the constraints the system would force upon me, whether or not my dead mother's voice insists I'd enjoy "concerts". In small groups I'm fine. Concerts? Human animals flocking together for song or sports leads to altercations.

Driving under the shower worked, in small increments. I need a live in companion, but not here, and have to decide whether I fight the exterminator in the morning or try the pity violin. Libertarian philosophy presupposes the actual ability to resist, but what the hell am I going to do if Presbyterian Homes seeks state authorization to put me away? Sure, I give my notice, but then access to the power grid goes primal, and an accessible bathroom becomes a four star hotel. I haven't given up on Liberty on the Rocks. I like them, for the sheer incongruity of the group. The brawn mingling with the yuppies, the soft with the hard, but finding friends to give me a hug and support outside of the merciless autocracy destroying us all? That takes doing, evidently.

Pop the Balloon

Jonathan Weiner's non-fiction enterprise was of interest precisely due to his reviewer's diffidence, precisely due to the author's lack of diligence. Initially, I was sympathetic to Weiner's fusion of European culture with the complex science of microbiology. Aubrey Jasper de Grey, featured prominently in Weiner's approach to the science of immortality, is a composite of the British eccentric, and learning about how Aubrey became obsessed with cellular biology is entertaining, but Weiner's attempt to behave like a Renaissance humanist falls apart in this book. He glosses over Francis Bacon and he glosses over Montaigne, and by the opening of part three, who cares about Aubrey's near ascetic compulsion to see humanity defeat death? Many of my readers may wonder if I am play acting at times, since, how can a disabled writer be against homosexuality in and of itself? It is an absurd position, and if the disabled writer wasn't so dissolute and poor, it is at least speculatively a dangerous position to have, and that same disabled writer's racism is unconscionable if she is as clever as she professes to be, but Jonathan's scattered bird pellet approach to his thesis makes the terror of the Inquisition seem almost a rational authoritarian stricture next to the hubris of our 21st century ambitions. We're going to defeat death itself. We're going to enter the transhumanist age of Singularity, and yet we cannot solve the basic economic problems of liquidity for everyone. We all claim we're universally tolerant and cannot mitigate geographical reality, whether it's American inner cities or the fall of Middle Eastern deserts to fanaticism, or the fact that West Africans are  about as brutal governing themselves as Imperial Europeans were in governing them in the colonial age.

In part three of his book, Weiner focuses on how death is a Kantian concern throughout the course of human civilization, as of course, it would be-- but let us say, for the sake of argument, that Weiner and Aubrey are right and within two or three lifetimes, we solve the problem of DNA entropy and the metaphysics of ontology is solved for complex organisms. It would seem to put the very process of living in stasis, which is not how evolution works. We may not be able to answer why life is what it is, which is about surviving to make successful copies of itself, but there is only so much matter to go around, and death recycles finite sources of material, especially water.

There is also the issue of progression. We invented the wheel. We maximized food sources through agriculture and animal husbandry. Created propulsion and artificial wings and learned how to aggregate data through circuitry, pushing the limits of what is manageable even with the extraordinary capacity of the human mind. I'm 53 and I'm rather bored with the fictions of convenience as a shield against calamity. Let's take physics, which says that galaxies behave in predictable ways, and stars burn in predictable increments of time, but what if that predictability was disrupted? What if the Sun stopped behaving as a well heeled middle aged star and something went wrong? The Internet wouldn't amount to much if a massive solar flare stripped away the Earth's magnetic field, hence we shouldn't presume we can exist as a species to witness the end of time itself. Infinity and immortality aren't verifiable concepts, as such. A few million years ago, our primate ancestors were creating the big toe and wrist ligaments that branched us off from gorillas and chimpanzees, and now we spend our time playing God when we aren't otherwise insufferably shallow, and if Weiner even knew my warped skeletal frame was typing this post, he'd probably say "Geez, I really ticked her off." And yes, he has.

Despite a life of regimented unhappiness, I fear death, which is an illogical emotional investment within my suffering, destructive impulses. I'll be gone soon just as Montaigne was at 59, even if I will not be quite sure how, through stresses to my heart, or COPD, but to extrapolate being the child of the postwar generation, and to add what? Two hundred years to that? A thousand? I agree with my father. Once you reach a certain age, you get tired. I do not share the digital optimism of people like Ev Williams, and the reason is simple. Despite all the marvels of human innovation, marvels which at least precipitated my survival, I cannot even satisfy the simple wish to relocate and return to the suburban modality of my youth. It isn't as if I'm aspiring towards the software moguls that populate Silicon Valley, like Bill Gates.

The Fourth World

Physicians, aside from parental fallacies, have been the cause of most of my misery. Orthopedic specialists did nothing but rape my childhood. I do not care that my surgical butchery was *necessary*. I remember my history, and simple shin braces might have sufficed. What Shriner's Hospital did to me and countless others was reprehensible. Case closed. I was spared what they did to my acquaintances with spina bifida, beating them with poles while they were suspended in mid-air

Therapists? Psychologists couldn't save my brother, my mother, and I certainly cannot say what counseling achieved for me. Nancy Rubel, to her credit, found me a corrective course from the calamity that Temple University became, but she was one counseling psychologist out of many handfuls, and during our last session, she told me she was divorced. This was to allow me to absorb that no one is perfect.

During my accidental infliction of my first degree burns in 2005, the paramedics wanted to know what I was using. Rather than having a tear burst over my lack of control, I should have simply told them nicotine. When I was finally released back to Riverside, incapable of doing anything, and on attendant care, I might add, my coordinator at Liberty was impossible to reach. Ann was deaf, weary, and near retirement, and when she saw me she yelled "Oh my God!" and spent an hour on the phone when I had previously tried to reach her for over two weeks.

How am I doing? Making threats is illegal, yes, but the disability center is, in a word, criminally incompetent. Everyone knows this about Liberty Resources, and nothing happens, whether you survive getting ousted or spend your entire career there or something in between. The attendant Ann got me was a security guard who could not handle the care I needed before I was able to transfer again. I fired her on a pretext-- excessive cell phone conversations-- and as she once told me a story about a chauffeur who turned out to be a racist-- if she has online access and connected the dots, she probably wonders what she did, since my bona fides to join the club no one chooses to be in are burnished brass at this point. I replaced her with Marie, who was too disabled herself to stay on the job, eight years before her cancer returned. The powerful narcotics did two things at the time: ignite the desire to turn myself into a vegetable, and keep lighting up.

My bouts with withdrawal eclipse my abilities to focus, except for raw jagged entries like this. A guy from India actually wrote back to me, unfazed, about becoming room mates, and I knew that he would and knew that it would whet my anger against my fine fellow citizens. A day to go before my starving mind can afford vapor cartridges, but I am used to this too. Now I need to log off and fight like hell to work or try to sleep; doubt I can.