Adhesive For A Cousin’s Mouth

The most remote inhabited island group in the world, Tristan de Cunha in the southern Atlantic Ocean, is so tiny its main island has no airstrip.


In the process of rebuilding the destruction of my life’s work, I wanted to begin retyping something low priority, like my graduate novel chapters, and this pick was the wrong thing for Thursday morning. I cannot locate The Novelists of Don Paydola (shortened later to simply Don Paydola), my idea of real world characters vanishing onto a fantasy island, already corrupted by Lost, if only by virtue of industry success resentment, and wonder why I do not abandon the project altogether, given that I’m basically a short form writer with other more urgent matters to attend to, but since my pace is currently on par with the slime of a laboring snail’s trail, I have to reactivate my rhythm with some sort of launch pad before the beginning, and this was indeed the title of my first chapter. Before The Beginning, before my $800 Toshiba failed, before my continued defiance against ever increasing constriction, before my cousin’s wife became my embattled consigliere over something like our mutual rare attendance at funerals, and yes, I unkindly begin to chafe even as I pursued Billy by telephone over worry for her optical health, given that I resist being insulated by domestic quandaries. Pam of course made inquiries about what I write, and so I sent her Safari on a search about my meeting with Adam Kokesh, published on Medium, and now cousin Pam is following me on Ev Williams brain child, little realizing what I do on Blogger. If she did she would be mad, and our bond, however heavily device supported, would perhaps rupture, and that may not be an entirely consequential demerit, as the monster of self-absorbed selfishness bores itself into the dowager’s shoulder blades. I wanted a confidante, and now I remain uncertain about the virtues of having one, those demands it places upon me, my limited time oozing in my hour glass like salt water taffy. The caregiver who threw himself into my need like a super absorbent smore, located the little of this complex linguistic trick I actually managed to complete before the age of 35, this same Thursday afternoon, and I simply seem incapable of moving fast enough. His 40 hours necessitate my drooling accommodation, in the revolving door to our chocolate melted marshmallow sparks, not fully able to answer the question if I’d trade fucking him for the rarified solitude I enjoyed in September. Terry O’Quinn does not make for an enthralling family annihilator in Stepfather. The pensive mask of his narrow blue eyes and the chiseled expression in his birdlike face were always suited to the enigma of John Locke. His movie, in contrast, had little suspense, rote and shrill, always resistant as I was to this notion of virtual penetration into our three dimensional space, I am now fully infected with potential consequences, though even here, cynicism prevails. On the outside of the Fourth Estate, Facebook is disdained by thirtysomethings. I suspect it’s real market value will fuel the next big short.

First of Winter

For the time being, I shut off the daily digest from the genesis of Ev Williams efficiency models, and I am considering suspending myself from social media, even to the extent I utilize it, for a time. Contrary to twitter's aggregating argument, that more followers offer solutions, even online, I do not thrive in a mass, and blocked CrimeMonitor for doing what hundreds of you have done since 09, linking to my account as a hook, then walking a way. This time it provoked me, at least as it pertains to the aftermath. CrimeMonitor gets its leverage off of the creation of victims, of which I am a cyclical one, and yet isn't interested in its reverberation, or wants to see smiles decorating the scarred tissues. I may have grown old online, but I'm of a generation which understood what loyalty to a periodical meant. On Medium, the very notion of a contributing identity means nothing, whether it is drugs, mental illness, abuse, software developing optimism, its impact on journalism, its impact on policy. This doesn't mean I won't continue to approach those who create a publication masthead, or that I won't rewrite what I submitted to ModernJourno and others about Serge Kovaleski and hypocrisy, revising past myself until I get it right, but I am still of a boomer age, when a byline in The Atlantic Monthly was a boon. A bunch of engineers in San Francisco cannot write me an application to undue the damages at the hands of a corporation which I've allowed to dictate the terms of my existence for 30 years, only to wake up to it enraged when it was rather late in the day, or write software to undo the damage from years of consumer model apologies for not being proficient at the duties outlined in the position for which you were hired. 

When I approached the humanity preservation through Linked In, I was essentially trying to restore myself to the Matrix Research model that, at one time, kept me gainfully employed, but this time as a volunteer, and maybe Courtney Cox did me a favor reminding me I have a significant level of class resentment against a coordinator with less than half my qualifications, who could be my grandchild, shooting me down without even giving me an interview, when the white abuse survivor, Rhett, considered me a promising candidate.

This is why I let myself be a caustic troll, why I say nigger with a reactionary lash. It is bad enough having the brain damage and body I do, hitting the walls of ageism and black entitlement on top of that. Courtney Cox hurt me, and even allowing for her youth, it burns. I wasn't rude to her, or Rhett, but it is perfectly fine for blacks to bitch slap it up, and odious when Caucasian bile builds up as a backlash, to be conveniently targeted by hypocrisy with everyone saying "don't talk like that," even if its an obvious, observable state, with the "like that" right in front of you: Courtney hurt me by questioning my judgment, and at my age, it sticks..

Even if my extended family sent me birthday gifts ahead of Saturday, I'm in serious trouble, and may need emergency food, and yes, I'm entirely to blame.

Weights And OZY

OZY's ability to utilize twitter's lists is marginally opaque,and this was a legitimate request for guidance on the model, ignored-- and more than anything else, this willingness to ward off-- this account is just an opportunistic reservoir for spammers if I am going down, in any case-- gets to me. I am an OZY 2014 intriguing journalist, but because I went to their website and didn't know what to do, now I'm persona non-grata, because I was frustrated rather than pleasant. I am opaque on Medium's structure too, but Ev never offered me any cosmetic support-- OZY did, and their team refuses now to respond to me.

Did the intern listing me actually read what I was writing? People tried to shut me down for my empathy for the late, ineffectual anarchist Christopher Dorner.  The only change between then, and now, I'm out of money, and a ten year old Quickie which suited me best, is down

The girl across the street, Jodi, lives by nursing home rules for the mentally retarded in a community model setting. Her case manager or welfare claims agent gives her 40 dollars a month as pocket change, and the state manages the rest of her entitlement. My ex, with his posterior multiple strokes mental processing, says "She isn't retarded, trust me." With umbrage indicative of a bad experience that, as his former lover, I am better off not knowing, but I know better than he that she is an MR client. Banned from this building for stealing.

She asked me for toilet paper over the intercom; in her mind, my slightly higher status obligated me to support her. Conservative principles kept me alive with 1963 neo-natal technology, and then tortured me in various institutional settings upon which liberal academia sort of lied to me--granting that I gave up hope in my 30's that a doctorate would necessarily do me any good (it would not now). 

Popular sentiment of working class talk back: the world doesn't owe me anything. And oh yes it damn well does, a lot more than Carlos narrating pasteurized prisoners on horses.

Conquest of the Planet of the Apes

I've been online much longer than I intended today, wondering how much I should lie to get back in somewhere. Rick, as my former executive director, would have no reason to be sympathetic. I caused Mr. Baron some problems with Pew, basically over peanuts, and then Fern Markowitz, the patron saint of progressive Jewish lesbianism, and Linda C. Dezenski, her emulator, taught me a thing or two about homosexuality, corruption, and using federal mandates as a personal chop shop back at Liberty.

Payback's a bitch. Where am I going to get fresh references? Dan was polite to me when I found his profile on Linked In, but Matrix is no more, and whether I raised valid objections with their grantors or not, it was ungracious... Sigh.

I hate liberalism, hate it. Even if I pull on New Mobility, the publication of my favorite pretentious lesbian gimp, it has been years since Tim Gilmer and I exchanged emails. It matters to my sense of personal integrity, but there isn't much I can do about it on a pragmatic level.

Medium is eye fetching and uneven, and, however uncouth my devolving bar keep diction, I have been careful not to get into tweet battles with X, careful not to argue with Medium's writers-- not that this is a conscious effort. I've been there with online recriminations and Medium is too vast. If I wish to keep quiet, then I do-- but the fact that I communicated with them directly yesterday made me think, and think with alarm that perhaps I am past the point of adaptation? This frightens me, especially if I survive another 20 years.

Going Back To My Lair

Before I log off to try to really work the way I used to work before I equalized religious pluralism with Nazi Germany, I want you to keep something in mind: I left my student apartment in Chester when I was approximately 21, to go to a dorm in Temple University, to bounce to the home of my now dying aunt. In that home I had to dump my own stool in plastic bags, which is in part why I leapt at Diamond Park, without realizing what I was getting into with urban violence and section 811 housing, which differs from section 202 housing only by virtue of age as a classification. You have to be 62 to live in section 202. I was 34. The rental agents, then, in 1994, used me, without in any way contributing to the Pew Grant which funded my position, to case manage the other tenants here, then castigating me when I got home. It was a conflict of interest Richard Baron rightly objected to-- but my point is public housing is a merciless system, with the people in charge equivalent to prison security guards. If I have no further prospect of anything better than to decline in an equally brutal medical regime like Inglis House, I claim the right to pull the plug.

I wanted something more, some place less sterile, and it is virtually too late at my age, but I sent Medium my resume. Just to do it, dinosaur or no.

Presumptive Rebuttal

"The middle class counts the most," Larry Summers

I feel in the back of my mind that at least part of Medium's Daily Digest feed is a rebuttal to my inflammatory Blogger stance. It is undoubtedly not the case, but I never claimed not to be flawed, and as a flawed imp, I am always arguing, need to be argued back to. Altucher's piece is nicely self-effacing without being an unforgiving turn off, but if I applied his logic to my current plight, I go back to LIFE WITH NURSING AIDE FOLLIES (I could write a fucking book, and half my twitter kindle promotionists say "that's the ticket!") But how can I work when my charming minority warders assault me with one after another civil servant? In 2007, when Debra Horne surrounded me with the assessment team utilized by Presbyterian Homes, my uncle had just returned my battered P-200 I am sitting in now. I offered to give up the cats, but fresh from Eddy's gluttony, there was no way in hell I was about to go through another 50 browbeaten women. 

"We don't want you to give up the cats." That is a racist response, and in the back of her mind, Debra Horne knows it. If Riverside Presbyterian has made me venomous, it has also changed Debra Horne from her first days here in a denim smock with matching pumps. Back then, she looked like she had fallen off something, and was uncertain. We've watched each other, two ugly women, alter within our respective casements, not for the better. She wears a hard, astonished look, with that vomiting orange hair dye women of her type don, because we still share the neural responses to a decorative bird's nest. And I, in turn, have been engraved with stress, and damaged my already damaged jaw line accordingly. Last week, she stood behind the kids from Department of Health and Human Services taking notes while I challenged her about my 22 years here. The boys were bigots too, but kids. What's wrong with a Bedlam like Inglis House, indeed. How any sane person can ask that is beyond me. It is not so much a victory or vindication against Presby. It is a corporate motherfucker and the right wing with whom I have ideologically aligned probably own stock, if reading me assume to themselves I'll have to give it up sooner than later-- this is what Altucher's least resistance, applied to me, would mean, and it will be over my dead body.

Hence my species pessimism. 

Andreas Lubitz Makes Depression Look Like What It Isn't

When presented with an infrared spectrum, it is easy to become confused by the peaks present. Brian C Smith, Infrared Spectral Interpretation, A Systematic Approach, p.27


The Sony Bravia flat screen from Dell cost somewhere between $650 to $699 or so, still flush from parental demise, one of the last times your queen mother had a universal circus going at the expense of the center city personnel running this building, making the ex bull doze himself a drive to Radio Shack for digital antenna, cajoling Timothy to screw it altogether. "Yours is better than mine," Frank observed, cryptically. I have no real way to evaluate electronic appliances, but even after years of abandoning the old concave analog sets, I have a more stable picture, barring cellular interference, and so what?

You'd like simplicity? I hate the television. I hate watching it. And despite the miracle of the micro ink and touch interface, I hate kindle, I hate my smartphone, and the diaphanous platform chattering Ev William's Medium represents. Oh, it is pretty, marvelously pleasing to the eye, but we have destroyed something essential about pre-digital culture, all of us. We've cheapened something about learning through each other, even while I fight the welfare system closing its industrial age manacles on my intransigence. 

Speaking hypothetically, I do not think Presbyterian Homes has the wherewithal to take me to court to force my institutionalization, as it is simply a matter of my age, my lack of affluence to buy myself time, and I don't think anyone paying attention to me on social media feels they have the ability to prevent it, whether or not they care. If the situation were reversed, and it was one of you, and I was a Levy brother, for example, would I sacrifice time, money, to be your shield? It is a counterfactual speculation.

But as much as blunt force trauma is also a simplified argument, like rolls of coins in a sock to create a cat o nine, the actions of Lubitz are simply unfathomable. Depression doesn't entirely impede empathy, and I would not destroy the lives of innocents in a bid for relief from entrapment between rust iron bully dykes like Debra Horne and abusive or otherwise indifferent caretakers. As I keep hammering it home, I am, like many thousands, a quadriplegic under the medical restraint of Prometheus Unbound. Vengeance might seem applicable in  that context of a life with such a degree of cruelty, even if positivism might suggest alternatives, but not so randomly applied without any cause whatsoever.

An intuitive sensibility only, but nevertheless, I don't think Lubitz could have been possible before Microsoft made personal computing what it is, just as my further ostracism wouldn't have been possible if I would have been more objective, careful of my temper, frustrated with the bizarre remote which, as a cheap plastic implement, has a mind of its own, insisting the channel change bounce its signal sideways, and taking at least five minutes to obey the press of my fingertips. Smashing the damn thing would be an appeasement. My mind is on a controversial piece. I best get pitching.

Maigret buys a fecal transplant

I did not realize the attack I had this fine Saturday afternoon was a distressed stool in transit of its own accord. I thought it was gas. Sometimes an attack forces itself and there is little I can do but wait if I want to transfer. Indigestion had me fooled, and my constricted budget isn't going to help any. I don't even have wipes, which I use up in three month increments, and as used to it as I am, I'm set back. The cats are distressed, I'm distressed, and simply writing in carpe diem fashion, not that I didn't know my savings were in depletion. I worked so hard teaching myself Examiner's automated uploading, for what? Why am I such a doofus?

Now I'm doing the same with Medium, for absolutely nothing, my own agenda, not even bothering to query the publications I signed with on Ev's platform, though I've now mastered the editing props, I'm like a Russian, always in dissent between Western cultivation and Slavic stricture, going to lie down for an hour hope I can transfer smoothly later, no longer having the luxury of food when I want it. I could search for a cheaper ISP, cut myself off, partially at least, as digital life never really did much for me except make me feel badly, and the new platforms wouldn't even allow me to lash out and lose my temper, not in a combative duel (not that this is a legitimate exercise, as repetitive murder as a form of conversation was used by Stephen Dobyns. For me, it is a --not exactly psychosis-- a pathology perhaps, which no longer has any rationale. Nothing I can do will undo the harm that has been done to me. It may fall under the rubric of that's life, but my identity is on the verge of annihilation. If I attempted to become a domestic terrorist, I'd lose, not entirely sure how a quadriplegic would go about it, the only passion left in my life is vengeance. It means nothing. Women will always save cripples, as everyone has to be someone's patsy. 

Stifle of Schuykill Air

I myself have nothing to add to the death meme other than a lust for wanton destruction, which corporate bodies wouldn't let me get away with, even if I could circumvent my shrinking flesh, leaving the window open all day, preferring the hard March air to the radiator while I bury myself every five minutes, but know I cannot go on with my landlord much longer, despite my asset spend down and my helplessness, despite everything I know about homelessness, and menacingly ill wheelchair users who appear on the curbs of Market or Chestnut Streets and vanish. Save for my erudition, I am one of them now, consumed by this country's mercilessness for strays. I'm finished, and yet Nathan Gibbs, nice enough looking fellow, was kind enough to let me join his journo team, and I begin to have a glimmer of understanding about Ev Williams model for Medium. Medium is Space, and within Space, there are Publications which are an interlocked multi-verse. I like the concept better than much of the material, but now, how to I earn some money?

We'll see. I have to laugh at twitter, how my followers ratchet up one minute and then nose dive, my airing out of so many demons, intensity, this bothers the shallow pastry mindset, does it, or is it lack of interest? I really can't keep up, but if I have a few constant regulars, I know I need to keep searching and dialing the phone, but I will need a place to roll into by June. I can't last here another year. I can give you some general parameters: I want nothing to do with California, and NYC is Philly, simply worse. I am attracted to New England, Texas, Oregon, Seattle, maybe South or North Carolina near my brother, despite the fact he finds me too hot to handle; he is still my kid brother, and I remain fond of him, caught as he is between Stephanie, myself, and sister animosity. I am going back on Craigslist in short order to appeal for room mates for a broken spaz in her early fifties. Perhaps I'll meet an addict in a halfway house, fall in love, wait for that short window to open when I remember I still believe intercourse has possibilities. I cannot clench with my legs. That was always a tactical issue. Perhaps a bottle of Aleve would assist. I fight not to take too many.

Lesson Plan

"Voglio costruire qualosa."-- Simone Montedoro

Let me link you to my Dimmer Beacons essay imported to Medium from Breath and Shadow, not because I want attention, but because Medium has a better font, and the piece serves as an example of a cop out failure for which Ability Maine gave me a $25 dollar honorarium, Chris Kuell deeming it good enough, which it isn't.

I was trying to say something about failure, both in a micro and macro context, intent on enlarging on a deeper existential threat, and instead, I consciously stalled, perhaps unwilling to address that there was a homoerotic element of danger in both my admiration of my supervisor's ability to wield power as a disabled woman, and her inability to retain any personal loyalty she would project to subordinates prior to turning on them (I am not the only one who is triggered to upset at the mention of her name; like anything, IL has its particular subculture for the initiated.). I was also trying to examine the elusive metric of success, which I failed by virtue of feeling over discipline. The failed scholar in me has regrets, but tenacity in research takes time, and health--or at least enough energy to complete the task. 

Now, it is my work, and I can take certain components and remix them, but I think I was dredging a bit up on what it is to live a life fully instead of vaulting into safety valves, which is a personal flaw, rarely doused with cold water, and those I can count on my fingers: the cruelty of the first time I had sex with Scott, my affairs with married men, perhaps looking for a death via Medea, because when you get caught as the "other woman" the fury that Euripides brings to life doesn't feel quite so legendary in the fog of antiquity, and then life with Frank.

My ambitions, however, were essentially destroyed by a K-12 paradigm because I wearied of graduate studies. My aunt didn't. She has her PhD, negotiating that with being faithful to the Catholic Church-- though I cannot see that she has derived any real economic security as an educational administrator.

And the question remains. I signed into Medium and published myself, but I am not sure what that means. It is a platform, catering heavily to communication and computer tech, and the seismic new world order. I only partially speak that language, especially as the train left the station in my mid-30's, and I didn't bounce back.

And whatever my way forward, I won't bounce back into home ownership, having a car; perhaps not even a passage to Italy, though I still hold out hope to close my aging eyes on Rome. In the meanwhile, former follower Kelly Clark seems to have vanished-- not that I'm troubled. Normally I would not have followed a celebrity blitz feed as was her content, but I indicated my willingness to accommodate cute.

What couldn't she handle? My bad attitude? I'll never know, but I don't think I'll change. My earth was scorched; entropy now cometh... I may tire out, but I suspect happiness is a polite fiction-- not that there aren't genuinely happy folk who don't need Prozac. Or all we all on something? 

* I am past the point of anti-depressant utility; being made to look placid isn't a substitution for an actual repair, and regeneration past the half century mark becomes tricky.

Zeynep Tufekci and opinion writing as trivial pursuit

Okay, out of sheer boredom, an unwillingness to shift my pressure sore, coupled with an unwillingness to lie down and continue to be driven out of my zealous mind, I reread the prompts for Medium, made small edits to my two pieces (I can now embed links, as if this isn't a universal application!) and did not curse Ev Williams once, which I'm sure the mainstream finds gratifying, but I need to compound a reaction to Zeynep's spirited defense of Lisa Adams for continuing to treat a terminal metastasis as the result of breast cancer.

All Miss Tukekci is saying, in a nutshell, is that Lisa Adams was a spirited woman of good middle class temperament, an optimist who faced adversity with courage and realism, and her detractors should not have begrudged the woman decent palliative care in her last months with her family. I wrote this in three sentences, and it in no way adjudicates the crisis in medical model rationing, nor does it offer any real insight on the rising cost of aggressive therapies for aggressive diseases

.Zeynep lost a friend in whom she was obviously invested, just as I've addressed those in whom I invested, with darker residual effects, obscuring more salient issues. Aggressive cancers are one subset of medical rationing, and surgeons like Gawande and his colleagues treat them as best they can, but cancers aren't chronic conditions, and don't address how much of our health care dollars go into keeping people like my ex Frank alive, and my uncle Joseph, neither of whom are functional. Joseph has mild dementia, some kind of anti-social disorder, and it is on his body, clogged with the effects of European susceptibility to heart disease, and thousands like him, like the late Terri Schiavo, on whom we waste precious resources, resources which could have gone toward keeping me employed, giving me a fucking decent set of technologies to substantially reduce dependence on more functionally able individuals.

I have no problem with cancer patients who want to fight, or receive humane easing of pain from tumors. I do have a problem with seeing wasted shells afflicted with a progressive condition like Huntington's being forcibly integrated when their condition is obviously killing them. We cannot seem to ration rationally, and yes, despite horrific abuse due to my mother's bipolar disorder, and the medical model system, I stayed stable, physically, despite the disability center, despite an ecumenical corporation like Presby, but the price I've paid is essentially a knock out punch, decoupling me from the only thing I really had that mattered: the career. Miss Tufekci is being a good cheerleader, but she isn't looking below the tip of the iceberg.

Concomitant Affinity with flavored ices

"They have concerts there." Joanne Cristinziani

Did Patricia Arquette stop to consider the plight of Amy Pascal before giving her Oscar speech? Probably not, but it points to the inherent implosion of the ever expanding egalitarian tent. Amy Pascal certainly had a salary that offered her security and self sufficiency, and yet, Sony Entertainment allowed one of the worst extremist states in Asia to dictate the terms of Ms Pascal's departure. How does this happen in the most powerful republican democracy left on the planet? The President of the United States lost face to Kim Jong Un. Truman fought a war over this peninsula, a real war with real consequences, and technological interface turns us all into a laughingstock.

Arquette is a slightly older, better branded, variation on Kathryn Morris: the ice blonde with a cellophane glamour who can be the predator and carnage target simultaneously, obviously to keep viewers in suspense. Morris, intuitively closer to the ground, has not fully mastered the leitmotif as Arquette managed to do after leaving her first horror franchise. By the time she landed Medium as a signature role, industry critics conveyed that Medium respected its audience. That is true, but if it enabled morons to take psychics seriously, it raises interesting questions about morality and artistic license, which Jerry McGuire, as an instructor, would have been cool to. (Yes, I remember everything.) The series gave the predictive qualities of its title character a natural realism, at least initially, without the need of grandiose spectacle.

I have a word both about Chris Peak's reprint from Gawker and to the author himself: Some forms of suffering are worse than existence. That is just the way it is. I fell into mental health to earn a living, and between that experience, my life, and a corrupt unethical Protestant corporation intent on being a skin flint, living in one of the poorest cities on the east coast, I never fully recovered. Part of my solution, is to deactivate the grid. We are the animals that created it, and can still cut across it, but don't get too involved with the emotional pain of others. I could write fifty posts in a week, and no one can understand the fact I am in my last functional years, and yes, despite every TOS governing every online portal, my strongest years of sufficiency were taken from me, illegally. No adjudication can turn back that clock, hence my options are unpleasant. Those who can evade such stark choices are blessed. Yesterday's storm offered the type of snowfall which lends itself to metaphysical inquiry, and I had logged in to actually telephone Inglis House-- the idea being vaguely, to force their intake to kill me; yet I stopped, wrote a post instead.

I don't suppose my fine European viewers in Germany will give me any indication of what their 30 page views mean, of course not. Hitler's grave will degrade and re-enter the evolutionary food chain before I'm offered any legitimacy..

Disaffection

"thank you for following me" a direct message 

Mr. Harris may have forgotten that he was following a nasty a bituminous troll, because he sent yours truly a direct message which asserted that he'd "return the favor," when I decided to let his feed on my stream, an indicator that he may have ignored my links. My synaptic connections aren't what they used to be either; I too struggle with fine print, but I try to visit my twitter page and trim the branches.

I may stop linking my DIA posts so often, however, if the moral majority is going to pressure Blogger to silence me. Where that pressure came from might be nice to know, but I am not going to let it stop me, not that I can fight Google, I know that. This software belongs to the company, and the First Amendment applies to the public square-- but Blogger succeeded in making me angrier, inadvertently, perhaps.

I am, on occasion, chastised by the establishment for lack of relevance, which annoys the holy shit out of me when it comes to social media. I wanted to talk about texts, on Linked In, with those who taught them, but down came the muzzle, "lack of relevance," without me breathing a word about my personal situation. I could not fight back, Linked In couldn't tell me anything, and yet I had to be mortified.

This isn't virtual stigma following real life prejudice? We do not have to thank followers in thousands of automated emails. Think about it. I'll leave my account. I like Medium, and think it's better for us than thousands of writer authors tweeting what we won't read. I like BeaconReader too, and for that I need twitter. 

I'm mean, hurtful, and occasionally vile, but I am also challenging and divergent, and you really need to stop and think about the price people like me are asked to pay. I am in exactly the same room I was when I was punted off Poets & Writers. How many of those authors have moved on, been able to change? I am in exactly the same studio where Linda squealed to me like a pig about her orgasms, and she may have left the disability center, but I am sure the bitch has her mortgage paid off. I know she, and Josie Byzek, whom I've also offered choice words, have online access. Jimmi Shrode, who is afraid of me, may too. Jimmi is afraid of me, instinctively, and he should be, but he can walk, and has what he wants, at least until Erik dies. I'm alone; I'm in pain, and I live in an environment I never wanted to be, and all you fine players can't handle it.

Mastering Medium

I may be too old, or too garrulous, for Ev Williams to consider hiring me to work at Medium. My feed may as yet be shooting myself in the foot, but I like the concept and would like to try to be able to meet his requirements, so I am telling myself to be patient with the formatting prompts. I'll get it. This is part of our future. "Breathe," I say, "don't overwhelm your synapses."

I'll get it, and I may be a bitch in a bull moose, but I'm a hard worker and I take responsibility, even for being incivil to Examiner. Ev gets the format right. Clarity Media doesn't. I have a CV in the small presses three pages long, and it doesn't matter in the slightest.

We Italians are devolving.

On the issue of surrender

I am really not feeling well, and remain convinced, if I cart myself off to a regional hospital, yielding up all my bodily secrets, because I do not like the internal medicine department training students on my poverty, that I will not be returning to this building, and that I am therefore done, so what do I do, or Blogger, or twitter, or my cached history online, what do I do with it?

I've damaged, or taken aim at reputations of people who failed me. I'm anti-homosexual because I've had to wrestle with lesbian hits more than once, and became too intimate with a number of homosexuals in turn. I am not calling 911 now. I don't think so, and I'm still running the digital hustle, importing some of my published material to Ev's platform, trying to learn how to edit on it, and I'm clawing with my fingernails, stressed to the toxic. If I give up, yes, I'm punishing myself, on one level, but I'm truly worn out and have no where to go to catch a break or recharge and I no longer have friends; I'm talking to strangers, and it could be a bad adaptation to the liquid nicotine, my coffee too acrid. At some point it is time, and mine is evidently tangible atrophy at fifty three. I've been lousy before we all have, but this is different, maybe colon cancer for all I know, and I won't fight that.

All That Jazz doesn't shrink from this greatest fear. Fosse makes the ontological anxiety of nullification as theatrical as one can, and Christ knows I'd like going out on a jazz number with a conveyor belt. The much more rigorous Austrian film with the flamboyant Sheila Florance, A Woman's Tale,  delivers the same message, more process involved, much more compliance until the son's final shift to his mother's spirit.

I'd rather Schneider's metaphor, wondering if he thought of this movie on his death bed. If the strenuous nature of the production left him dismayed. Do we even have empathy to spare for the billions we've buried before us?

But I'm bawling, eh, invisible tail winds in flame? I wish I had the money to hire a hit man, had something to offer someone for my list.

Positive Endorsement

My most energetic hours are now, assuming I've eaten. I'm easiest between 2 and 5 am, with the knowledge that things are relatively tranquil, but something always acts up. My digestive tract, or the felines rousing themselves in an outburst of havoc. I am still succinctly dubious of twitter. I understand it much better as spam, but it really isn't my interactive tool of choice, though I am on it and not Facebook, and I'll add, to my detriment, that I'm waiting to be banned, baffled that I haven't been, but a little too clueless to get myself banned, since in all my online history, I haven't done the newsworthy twitter banning items, and a person cannot argue on it. Snipe, yes. Snipe which is callow and bad for the mind, but convos are a tad swift for me.

Ev's Medium I've just tried, rushing my copy without links or gifs or things, but I am forgiven because the psychology of meeting a deadline sparks my battery, and if I fix it and keep running items of interest which I do not hold for sale maybe they will commission me on the slog. I like it better than Examiner.com, an outlet I grew to hate, because I don't like tabloid journalism, not for the return on the work submitted--I mean, writing for nothing, at my age, is less than writing for cent per page view, but Clarity was no good for me. Medium is better, with one caveat: I'm lost on graphics. My brother has that literacy. I do content. I do cerebral. I do thinking. I do getting constantly chastised for expressing ferocity. I cannot do graphics, video, and I'm no photographer. I lack the dexterity. Respond with limited aesthetic appreciation, yes, but produce it, no. Similar to annexing children. I never planned for pregnancy, which is why during my fertile years I panicked against the unsheathed penis (no longer relevant), but I dislike children, which may lend itself to why old schematic films like The Village of the Damned (1960) resonate. The stark definition of the enemy, in black and white, is consoling-- and yet the motif, evil within the innocence, cuts across cultures-- though Asians utilize it with more ambiguity due to the ambivalence of their deities, as in Dark Water, which I brought up earlier. The year of the post momentarily escapes me, but  birth is a dangerous process, as was observed in the arc of The Kite Runner. We fear what is within the womb, though we may miss its comfort, forget in the ebb and flow of brutal life, which urbanism, somehow, makes more stark than the battering of living an agrarian life. Philadelphia may be a patchwork of sad residential row homes with more vibrant commerce vectors in the center and the Northeast, but Tokyo, in many ways, signifies a future devoid of the price we pay for being outsiders . It leads to even further examination of Inarritu's Japanese tween in Babel.