Sommelier's Emergency

 'Liberation!' Astonishing how criminal instincts do survive in the human species." -- Yevgeny Zamyatin, stewarded by beleaguered American translators.

The old adage about mixing apples and oranges isn’t quite so representative of incongruity. Both apples and oranges are rich, nutrient liquid masses produced for seed germination. Both apples and oranges are tree borne fruits with peelable and edible skins, in some degree, packed with citric acid, with one favored by worms, the other more porous to the naked eye and associated with the benefits of sunshine, currently a rare commodity in this neck of the northeast, where the Delaware River swivels with an inverse question mark at its narrowest before it empties into the Atlantic; yet the semantics of the phrase remain due to correspondence which pleases the symmetry of primate eyes. The idiomatic mixing of horticulture’s most domesticated fruits is indicative of a disruptive pattern, and for those who try to toy with this, like this former palsied poet still out to pasture, sometimes it works, like in my happily recovered “Electromagnetic Custer” piece, which the 1991 graduate team at Oxford Magazine accepted last minute, but when it doesn’t, it can splinter under its own weight. A good example of this is Gareth Tunley’s 2017 indie, “The Ghoul,” which is rather baffling, and splinters off in too many unexplained directions, despite Tunley’s efforts to create an infinity trap for its troubled protagonist. It may be a short feature, but the supporting character Moulson is never adequately connected to the hero’s menacing and wayward turn, and as can be best puzzled out, Christopher’s university couple friends have a parallel to the older therapists who feature prominently in whatever narrative arc there is to grasp. A hellish sensibility cannot serve as the sole sinews for such disjointed lack of a plot. The Prime Original 7500 fares better, but aging battle axes in the fractal of a drain swirl pummel touchpads bit more slowly than of yore, and my ambition to tie this into disillusionment with libertarians of the left? I have a bad habit of losing patience with account holders who irritate me, and I tried really hard with Curt, but his sentiment that “Tubman’s bust (sic) appearing on the twenty dollar bill is really cool,”  broke this imperiled camel’s hump, and I blocked him in a miserable affront to my endorsement of 1^st Amendment principles. Since I am still stupidly paying Alphabet for this domain, I don’t have to post this very minute, but my buttock has been forced into jeopardy. Overheated gauze. The obstinate nigger care simply isn’t enough for the hatred and hastily assembled ignorance which destroys spastics such as I, despite qualifying remarks by any sympathizers.

Neural Net Diversity and Accidental Contact with Malodorous Waste on the Sole

"Please don't leave me," -- Emmett J. Scanlan , ghastly impregnator

Oftentimes, I do wish I could bring disabled performers into this account. I have been made aware, for instance, of how Aneesh Chaganty deploys Kiera Allen in Run, who is reputedly a wheelchair user herself, and in this sense, I do not necessarily feel that Jason Dorwart’s forcefulness doesn’t yield positive results, particularly in his spat with Bryan Cranston of Breaking Bad. For a reminder, Cranston starred in an American remake, The Upside, about the manufactured survival of a quadriplegic and his African baggage handler. In the French original, the baggage handler actually was an African character, who finds his lesser equivalent in Kevin Hart playing off of Cranston’s vitality. The controversy swirled around representation, and I said the same thing to Jay Gertz, years before this disability script was conceived, that Jason wrote in his Denver column after the fact: Hollywood professionals utilize our lives and leave us behind, with notable exceptions. If you are a conservative, or a Parler user with raucous diction, or even a libertarian pulpit thumper, where is my divergence with Dr. Dorwart and his ejaculation and ham sandwich humor?

Essentially, it is about the reality of limits and liability. The film industry is in essence still an industry, and there are risks to putting physically frail people onscreen. Not all of those frail individuals can transcend empowerment therapy and make it art, like Vincent Price, who fainted from emphysema in passing the stardom torch to Depp in Burton’s esoteric fable. Scissorhands was the beloved suspense actor’s final film role, and as I wrote before Dorwart blocked me, to my regret (just because I renounce IL doesn’t mean I don’t miss those who don’t), the logistics of viewing smaller productions as when Jason recommended Tribe of Fools to me in 2018 was difficult in 2018. Heading into 2021, it is virtually impossible for me to assist such peers without making use of Zoom. Who or what are they, this tribe? Jason, after passing me to his wife's account like an abused housecat, will never bother to relent. The wife blocked me after following me too. I merely challenged her with a question. Her husband disavowed me, in the familial sense of shared experience, so what made her follow me? No answer, merely the ever invigorating dynamic of death by social cut, albeit digital in nature. Some couple, so much fragile psychology, a mere visiting assistant professor,  carefully categorized after the Gibson's landmark victory, engaged in exactly the same contracultural segregation the technocracy sees as valid. Thus it follows my own expansive rationale with video, and its gluttony. Instead of once again climbing the rungs in voluble physiological distress to save my thin oeuvre of equally spartan lifelines, I discovered terrible B megalodon movies with such abstract composites of  UN bureaucratic obsessives that the shark seemed possessed of military genius, then punished myself with this incestuous horror gem.  I will give Scanlan and his supporting female actor credit for one thing. They manage to convey sibling rivalry like a blown fuse, which despite disgust, was nevertheless titillating, but what was the point? Kellee wants to assure the second sex will endure male loathing into perpetuity? Three years, two hard drive failures, one drunk computer technician stopping short of propositioning me, one Quantum Edge crushing me in spinal pressure, and my dog-tied janitor who thinks I understand what he means by Saturn is in your twelfth house. And I expected to put life and legacy back together.

In Violation

What do you hear?
Nothing but the rain.-- Edward James Olmos and Katee Sackhoff in stucco dialogue, Battlestar Galactica
Adding insult to injury, and significantly decreased ability to produce content, now without any commission activity,at least until I have the strength to engage a new platform, the left back quarter of my jaw has been stricken by an abscess. I have been fielding this for three weeks, stricken by allergic reactions to the antibiotics, amoxicillin, and the clindamycin I can only just handle, not being entirely certain I will survive the extractions at this point when the major clinics in Philadelphia actually reopen. I have never been able to transfer to the dental chair, and now my respiratory function is labored, my colon inflamed, my fecal incontinence all the more painful, no inglorious suicide by Lieutenant Dualia here as the series winds down into what is nearly a blockbuster climax. My theory about the entitled bullet in her brain, after nuclear Earth is rejected by the weary human insurgency, is that she cannot cope with having lost Billy, who is replaced by Tory in an episode I still have to back view. The Galactica reboot of 15 years ago is in many ways preposterous, takes survival genocide to a whole new level wherein I have never been able to take you with me, and I cannot get enough of it. Olmos has so sold me on Commander Admiral Adama that I simply dispense with his furiously repressed and vengeance stricken Latino identity, but he makes it work here as an embattled man of duty without saying a word, as does the entire ensemble, since we're all united here against an amalgam of Islamic terrorism transmuted into cybernetic wrath. How clever, and yet, throughout, the Cylons are basically children. Trumpian politics may have caught up to me at one point, but I have long since been superseded, erased, exterminated, and I regret the Ev Williams pay to play system on Medium more than I can tell you. We cannot actually use writing to say anything anymore, since Google has superseded Orwell, at least not collectively, and regardless of how diverse Medium members are, they fucking say nothing, collectively, over and over again, like much of Google's sweet candy streaming, keep it light, moving, and everything is forgettable technocratic automated bookmarks.
I deliberately said something into this ambulatory pitter patter, and the now mortally stricken battle axe of a spastic warrior has broken the rules, for daring to contend that a nigger predator is a thing under a column which so radically asserted that it's okay to be pessimistic because, in Jessica's cosmetic words, "people aren't going to make it". Jessica knows nothing, absolutely nothing, about medical barbarism which sits like a sewer tank on what used to be American material opulence, and whatever you've been through with the quarantine, you'll bury the subhuman lives of quadriplegics on the back stove of human affairs soon enough, as you always have; if you want me, come get me. You've tried before, and the Google rules are only the greatest sanction to exterminate the marginalized who are better off dead in the first place, not that Medium's staff will agree with that, but they are sure as hell on radio silence. I will not delete my raw outcry on the platform, because the sheer force of what I need to do to draw attention to corrupted subsistence illustrates it must be a necessary function of my right to live.

Simian Mists Application

Oah oooh, oah ooooooh, Elton John, Curtains

The dowager’s ire, if she is to engage in a certain degree of veracity with her audience, stems from an unexpected reawakening which cannot be satisfied except through an incidence which might seem as exploitive as what she explored in her controversial New Mobility Magazine feature in 2004. Slant it one way, and yes, she can see it through the periscope of an alarmist, regulatory left, and conservative constraint both. I have already given ample indication that I’ve been on the inside of a conflict resolution giving me double vision on the matter of a simulation of an authentic interpersonal relationship borne out of economic and decentralized necessity. But there is this undertow aspect, the full-blooded woman rising to the surface even so close to biological twilight, caught in abeyance, with few outlets other than to restore her functional ability as a writer. What can she do, as a practical matter, to allow reinvigoration to lead where it may? She is too old for neon signs on her chest, rather risk adverse to trading cash for a hustler, and this isn’t really a Fay Wray subliminally lewd moment where the marionette finger of an outraged gorilla is poking her breasts, although the 1933 film popularizes stereotypical fears dramatized by The Birth of a Nation, unless we kill the smart phones utilized in research for galivanting off with a mind of their own while we try to conserve those expensive gigabytes.

If an NPR Georgetown University critic lamented to her listeners that vampirism is the most overused conceit in literature, creature flicks aren’t far behind, though concessions must be granted, and one of them is the original Kong is a classic, with little of that diluting empathy of the later films humanizing the embattled silverbacks and their close lowland mountain relative. All the sudden, we’re responsible for their welfare, even as we utilize Caesar as an implausible didactic warning about taking pharmaceutical miracles too far. Planet of the Apes, whichever versions we prefer, takes the antagonist victory to its fantastical extreme: the monster wins, regardless of human ingenuity attempting to outwit it—but setting that aside for Kong’s magnified context, if the gorilla as we know it wins, then what? What alternate pathway can be reasonably construed? I certainly don’t have one for our slower relatives analogous to our own species afflicted with Downs Syndrome. Unsympathetic as it may seem, I take issue with conservative pricks to our conscience when it revolves around mental retardation. The dowager doesn't exactly put Kasich in the wrong, exiting the stage on a high plateau, or dispute Thiessen's heroic clarion call, which bravely pushes back against presumption. The issue is about destitution. If I, as a near spastic genius, am falling into poverty inverse pyramid trap, due to avoidance and obstinacy in part, those necessarily limited by brain damage only have so many niches.

For every moment of Penn's brilliant dramaturgic portrayal of a mentally challenged man cleaning up after prejudices against him barely registered, giving his audience the near fairy tale resolution which makes Americans feel good about our basic decency, there are three tragedies like Ethan's, toppling from the Empire State, because you either want us dead, or constrained into norms with which you're comfortable. I posted a really hard spiral into the abuse I suffered via Unlimited Staffing, nearly too hard even for me to defeat its masochistic destruction. The woman was a predator, but the difference, between that, and the crack of the walnut shells you've read on this account, is two lonely people fumbling about, trying to fill each other's spaces; it shouldn't be a crime, and as a technical matter, it's not, except the client has to dictate her terms, and the care giver has to meet them, while the man, and the woman dance the slimmest tightrope, waiting to see what drops, and when.

Blue Patches With Rubber Tips, Bearing the Crutch

"It doesn't have to be a death sentence," --Megan Crowley

It is difficult to adjudicate A Patch of Blue against contemporary standards without viewing it as a public service announcement to maintain silence in the face of differences between ethnic groups not altogether superficial. I must have seen the film a half dozen times, find the echo of my own reactionary fear in Shelley Winters and her recriminating castigation, calling Poitier your black buck, play acting the white trash of which I am a little embodied, or Poitier’s containment of the blind girl’s unintentional disruption, when she nearly topples the fruit pyramid in the supermarket, and yet the movie filters through me like a light urine stream right before a major stool struggle, the arc of the narrative dissipates, leaving behind the poignancy of a connection between a disabled woman and a black man essentially teaching her how to adapt, never actualized, because Poitier’s character realizes the girl’s feelings are based in part on a sheltered dependency. In North Philadelphia, there was, in fact, a blind woman beaten daily and traumatically by a black husband. The dowager was the unfortunate observer of her caramelized face browbeat by crisis counselors and patrol officers, and she disappeared before I relocated to Race Street, a most likely death sentence to an inevitable probable cause, lest you continue to marvel about the scars of the lioness breathing more shallowly beneath my ribs, and so we come full circle, back to my initial rebellion, planting myself in the inner city solely on the basis of a lust to live. To my sensibilities of enduring interior conflict, Shane, (ahem) the paraprofessional tending my shriveled wings, is sexually attractive, and makes me realize what happiness I might have had with such strength as his, and it is rather unfair to discover this, tottering on the brink of  a final weakness towards helplessness I cannot defeat, that the right degree of masculinity ignites my passion, the very will to live, after years of absorbing everything of the emotional pain I’ve written about to my audience. Part of me says to hell with the stigma, and wants to win him despite what I am, despite what he sees every day, and consume him. But I am playing tic tac toe with an aging woman’s embers. He is not the true target, simply a man I like using his strong shoulders as a bulwark for a spastic quadriplegic who was never loved as she wished, with her reactionary anarchist already looking down her nose at having fun with such tensions. It would never work between us, and I know it already because it isn’t a last act of love, merely defiance, fooling yourself the hormones still work in secret. We could not succeed as a couple, as equals in the dynamic of society’s fabric, in any sense. I cannot embrace his world, having sustained such damage in it, any more than he could embrace mine—the world from which I fled, deluding myself in relation to liberal sanctity. Yet I do like him, his energetic man child smile, clinging to him more than a little, like Amy Adams defying narrative frameworks with mystical orthography that eddies linear time. Like the actress, I too ply her thematic imperative, of calling out, “Come back to me,” the life I see as so fulfilling, married to a kindred heart. What sort of love letter is this? One that knows Miss Crowley is in need of a market correction.

Decline and Fall

"Christianity is a sickness."-- my paraprofessional

That I am actually reading Gibbon in tandem with Niall Ferguson's now familiar analogy and rhythm is a coincidence, and that he does touch on healthcare as a staggering edifice of a troubled welfare system is certainly not attributable to me. I worry more, in fact, that pitching to Vanity Fair is a nearly insurmountable task for a non-staffer, as opposed to the bon professor's ready access. I'd have to send a resume to Comnsate Publications, last time I researched the issue. I have to work my way back in on a smaller scale. My bowel is hurting, the adult diapers, as I knew they would years ago, are destroying my buttock epidermis, and I'm having tremors. I was warned about all of this, only now collapsing at 56 plus a testament to thick Italian skulls, well back into the past, and I cannot delude myself that I'm redeemable as a woman with cerebral palsy who refused to apply to Harvard on the fear of social stigma. I'm dying, and I'm dying of nothing but the poverty of technical medical disaster, and I die unrepentant, unable to tweet a compliment to Pat Toomey without getting inexplicably attacked by this account. I did not have to respond to Memes, and it was undoubtedly worth my while not to do so, but I am in pain, and Memes, like a social media jackass, tells me I am privileged because I contacted Pat Toomey about illegal collusion at Philadelphia's farcical disability center. I have no idea what Memes wants from me, and consider his, or her, conduct, no more than harassment. I am not special to Toomey, or his staff, I just agree with him after facing a lifetime of antipodal destruction under Philadelphia Housing authority auspices, and stand by my tweet, which I shall not embed, that Toomey is righteous. Others are free to make their own decisions. I only repent the precipitous decline in my health because single payer option rationing is its proximate cause, and I do not blame the GOP. I worried, briefly, that I'd really destroy my mental welfare by developing a bond with the male paraprofessional on whom I now depend, but then I realize he says uneducated and outlandish conspiratorial sentiments, and it will not happen, hopefully. I have heard such stories of racial remorse conscientiousness before, and I cannot. Because I still harbor that unpleasant internal condensation. He and I "friended" each other, so this evening, I will not push the envelope any further, nonetheless, we're both single, lonely, and if he is going to nurse me for an indefinite period, men are men, women are women, and I need be cautious, or find him better economic security, and return to antagonistic tensions with predominately minority women. This has no correlation to my defense of Niall Ferguson against Pankaj Mishra's charges of neo-imperialism, not at first glance, but throughout history, state welfare systems erode the vibrancy of civilization. I crushed myself with high expectations. Gibbon, as you may or may not know, worked in episodic poverty, and suffered from scoliosis, but he was an important transitional historian, a bridge between hagiography of the Enlightenment, and evidence based means testing and aggregate data of the modern discipline which Niall engages with astute methodology, and his critics miss his main points about authority, central state systems, and the evolution of modern economy and financial innovation. I would not deign to call Niall righteous. It is not the right descriptive for an accessible scholar and analyst, but he's a realist who recognizes boundary markers, concedes progressive victories against differences oppressed by social caste, and his critics are simply off base. He taught me about the evolution of money in a manner I was never challenged to consider, and if that isn't a scholar doing his job, pray tell, what is?

Blooper Pitch

"I am licensed to carry," my former weekend attendant of biracial extraction

Succumbing to able bodied rationalism, if we can call it that, I allowed the harried healthcare professionals to order a home hoya, so the home boy doesn't break his back, my hope of full recovery ever narrowing. How long he actually stays on with me is an open question, as he tells me stories about his family killing each other in Germantown, and I showed him my account but told him not to read it given my gleeful use of slurs when I am in the mood. On the downside, I am taking a chance, as he upped my FB friends by one-- so we can add a two minority count-- former co-worker Cheryl and Shawn the zodiac believer. Unfortunately, in my recent post respectfully pushing back against Nick, I was correct. "What's liberalism?" Shawn the hip cat asked, illustrating the upside. If he disregards my prohibition and reads my links, he'll never comprehend the full imprecation of my hostility. Then again, I could not sync for 24 months because I did not comprehend iPhone had to pop up on the wireless network. Does this even things out? Do I solicit your pity? Will I engage death by cop and earn a student march thereby?

As anticipated, reading the English subtitles for Zone Blanche on my wider laptop is far more comprehensible, and I reviewed the pilot (again), ecstatic that French writers don't play me for a fool. Brahaim's Major Weiss solves her murder, kidnapping, murder (brother, widow, best friend) around the elongated subplots in the more inexplicable back stories, with just the mere suggestion of more sinister and foreboding aspects yet left to be unraveled. Methinks the writers are asking is the evil which emanates from baser human motives a magnifier of evolutionary brutality, or do natural events not particularly favorable to survival make it easier for the shrinkage of compassion? If so, the episodes have far better balance than any American counterpart. I like Brahaim, frail but tenacious, the maimed warrior in pursuit of her objective; I like the allergic prosecutor and the finesse of his comic relief, yet capable of breaking a suspect. We have some worthwhile motifs to examine as I savor S1, keeping my fingers crossed that the entrails don't spill out with an obvious stench, plotting the points in my head to distance myself from Mr. Mocha when I need to work. I have been a long time picking up the pieces while he watches The Young and the Restless. I do not do soap half as well as domestic terrorism, much like Emmanuel himself. So handsome, so Kennedy, in the romance of Paris I'll never taste.

Auto Immune Flares

love lies bleeding in my hands-- the other British faggot of whom I've time honored conflicted ambivalence

I can barely remember H.G. Wells’ The Invisible Man. Read long ago as a teen not so specious then as to transpose it with Ellison’s Invisible Man, yet specious enough now to tell you they interlock, the concrete superficial suspense tale the film industry cannot resist revising on a continuous basis, and the powerful novel by Ellison which abrogates racial identity. A recent rendition written by Henderson attempts to elevate Wells’ science fiction with some of Ellison’s stark eloquence of erasure, perhaps asking us to reconsider scientific endeavor and zealous overkill. Henderson manages canonical faith to the original character in his upgrade, giving Griffith a dead son whom the doomed scientist believes was butchered by a former student, and we are given Griffith’s flashback of what he believes occurred with only circumstantial evidence, as he drinks his formula, acquires Hodgkin’s disease, descends into madness. I am not sure why the remake was made, as I respect my stepmother’s caretaker enough to tell her Louise may have purchased her last medical drama, curious thing, social media. I liked this woman when she disposed of my filthy mattress, and Facebook has given me hints about her emotional instability. I like her less, and way way back in archives, before Google dangled a suspension threat, I drew more than 30 page views in my matter of fact caustic bite. If she dies things will change. Social intelligence gawked at the circumspect nature of my developmental mindset. The caretaker doesn’t realize there is little love lost between me and Louise, with her deadly rheumatoid arthritis and her caustic mouth, complaining to me about my father’s impotence, stigmatizing my brother, saying I should be put away. Her son’s willingness to slash her tires, while an intimidating expression of rage, is an act I comprehend, but what pisses me off is my father subsumes his life like a dog for a sick and florid catty woman, always unpleasant and miserable, who should have been allowed to die three years ago, at least, while I hang like a chad, a consequence of my own obstinance. I did this to me, moving to bad neighborhoods in a sterile city, and now my mother’s nursing school colleague sleeps in hospice, younger sister and I in a truce of purveyed necessities, making a pun only I understand from one of Jerry’s workshop pieces. Think plague. Stephanie and I worry about Dad, the toll on poppa, poor poppa, and I have maybe a day or so left with the Muslim who is wiping my ass. How can I empathize Ellison and label myself his antithesis? A racist is as much reduced as those she stereotypes. You can all go fuck yourselves, because I am still well enough to live instead of urinating Depends, weary of the eschatology dynamic. Yes, death is a part of life, unless you’re a ghoul like Peter Thiel, pulverizing Nick Denton, British nigger lover who’d remove my malicious rhetoric.

Funeral For A Friend

"We need to tell them she's human too." -- a sales vendor named Jeff who has no idea

While Sean Hannity broadcasts CPAC 18 live, and I only make note of the physiological inability to drum up the enthusiasm for what the speeches and mini-bar raids signify in relation to the state of conservatism in America today, always vocal enough, whatever its failures, to look askance at social media purges, Karina breezed back into my life because the Muslim who will soon be redeployed back to her own kind, suggested, “Call her back,” and with great reluctance, I did. Thus I was treated to Rover the dog, flash drives of her men, because I allowed myself to be persuaded. It would have been more optimal had I remained firm when I told her on Facebook to let me go. The mother died from her melanoma yesterday, and Miss Kraus had the presence of mind to text me the information in a simple sentence, a sentence which might have been a rebuff, as pertains my own growing weakness, or simply the need to connect. I am domicile to the region, so is the mother, a woman I spoke to once, chaffing against the burden of this circumstance. Gretchen Laskas posted about the passing of her best friend’s father during this mild oscillation into my daily living, and I am not going to recant it specifically; it is her world, experience that belongs to what made her, and I couldn’t enter into it even if I consider her a friend, which I do, but she hit on what I had once and took away from myself by returning to the city, the conspiratorial intimacy with someone you’ve bonded to. Linda and I had it for a little while, and it is how she defended herself when she threw me off guard preening about spastic climaxes: she meant it as a conspirator, as if my love life was commensurate with her marital intimacy. (It wasn’t, and for the record, I doubt my convulsions make my orgasms more pleasurable than those of more mobile women.) It may seem inconsiderate to raise an objection to my former cleaning woman’s loss, but Karina cannot fill the void she thinks she can for me, just as I could only be a temporary economic support, little more. I can’t comfort her as if we’d known each other all our lives.

I can, despite this machine, wash my own hair, but I’d never hear the end of it from the Muslim, and have to consider this something of a write off herein, the corrosion of all this dependence is like the autonomic shock conclusion in Carnival of Souls.

 Though it is a different genre, this movie mourns humanism to nearly the same degree Amazon does with Electric Dreams. It takes us awhile to realize we’ve bought it, still trying to swim  while we sink.

Critical Second Generation

I sure hope the road don't come to own me.-- Carole King, plaintive

My second generation kindle is showing its naked age at eighteen. The not quite French vanilla top cover is stained, its first hairline crack appearing early. Many years later it took a urine spill from my urinal, and the laminate on the five-way cursor split; it has to be coaxed. The screen is scratched, the battery isn’t taking a charge, the ink beads want to return to Israel for vacation, and yet, somewhat remarkably, I am still able to get it to function.

By necessity, I now depend on the marginally younger Paperwhite, but will miss the device, this particular device, when I can extradite myself to trade it in. I know Amazon has manufactured many kindles, and the $600 I spent for both of mine may seem steep compared to current prices, but I admit to attachment, and treat the outmoded model just as families treat coma patients, loving it more than the newer touch interface versions, since I am, unabashed, a proponent of keyboards. Guilt trails my soul, weeping a dirge at the organ. The Paperwhite has a protective case, O ye miserly dowager, if you are as devout as you claim, the older reader deserved the same consideration. Every actor in the industry has the art of portraying the coma nailed to the wall, in those reconstructed hospital episodes. The knack is in interpretation of the locked in individual. For Benjamin Walker, Teresa Palmer’s down time in The Choice, due to a car accident, represents coming to terms with loss. It permeates the dialogue of the movie skillfully for an otherwise light romance where the canines know everything ahead of their owners. In The Descendants, the comatose wife is a trigger, pain and discovery leading to a lesson in forthrightness. In House, the coma is the butt of a joke, and in the original Coma, the condition was weaponized to reveal medical conspiracy we all fear in physicians, surgeons especially, and in the canceled Hand of God, PJ the whining wimp is Ron Perlman’s moral guilt, divine mystery, or both. Wondering how many takes go into these efforts to illustrate the dilemma of how technology is used to force the living dead on our conscience, early on in this stupid crisis, I nearly choked to death aspirating a steak sandwich, and suppose this terror will be revisited, hardware in its ICU stages.

Activity As Tolerated

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

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

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

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

Engorged Twilights of Dirty Old Men

Lillian Rogers was an old black woman long before I allowed Terri Way to blindside me into coming to Riverside Presbyterian. She was one of the last of the original tenants to have lived here, had no family to speak of, and insisted that people cared about me, which is something of a misnomer. If people truly cared, by the standards of the country I live in, I would have had justice, instead of majority discrimination, and then, relentless persecution, but I cannot fault a simple minded Bible thumper for this, one who role played an artificial family for herself. Nightline produced a segment on this, a social construct story, supposedly illuminating how the oppressed fill in the gaps, while the Liberty On The Rocks chapter is all over the place, dancing in Media, drinking on Passyunk Avenue, and I am stressing about not snapping at another technician whom I do not trust, aging out of relevance, an incongruity in a suburban dance club even if I wasn’t approaching the emaciation of a sixtieth decade, knowing no more than any active reporter about Tamblyn’s veracity over and above that of Woods. I know nothing about either celebrity. I recognize one, obviously, through television syndication, and the little more I’ve learned since suggests a compatibility of rebellion. In the case of Woods, this draws in The Hollywood Reporter. For the quadriplegic, it draws the cruelty of objectification, from government civil servants, and one unfortunate police officer, which no doubt earns confusion from liberals who want to feel my pain: I virtually ignore Tamblyn’s account, despite the preponderance of the evidence in her favor, and joined instead with Woods 800,000 minions, liking five or more of his tweets. Why is this? Because my own sex augmented my trauma once too often, despite the monstrosity of my mother’s co-dependency lovers and her dysfunctional, abusive, horse shooting second husband. Even the mixed race paraprofessional who hit on me has her side of the story, probably believing she was offering succor to an invalid otherwise discarded, and you do, after all, discard, don’t you, against the anguish I balance on the wire, as daring as any circus daredevil, but for the sturdiest of account followers paying attention, or you shrug, not seeing any alternatives in the choices with which I am faced, except to still enjoy my coffee while I can, and disagreeing with Jacob Sullum about Woods confusion with legality of consent: we expect law enforcement to police sexual standards. Any SVU recycling would tell us that, while my unfortunate foster cat purrs on my hip, and our moments move with lightning speed. I booted the ever vivacious and slightly autistic Jeffrey F Tucker off my feed. He is a good columnist, but I have nothing more to gain from his tutorials to young turks. I’m the anti-tutorial, the fuck you tutorial, figuring I have to change my approach if I have any hope left towards future commissions. If Tom the equally stressed site visit technician cannot restore my files, the lacuna between the late Lillian Rogers and I is a matter of degree, as I exist in the press, lack of collected whole notwithstanding. If I can stop him, however, I may move Cook’s visit up. Starvation diet has deflated the strength of my sail.

Hypermanic Climax

"The bad news is I've just been suspended and don't give a fuck!-- libertarian authority pumping lead

Between the 83 84 semesters of my underclassmen years, I had a nursing student roommate named Lee. She was diagnosed with lymphoma and had to withdraw, and though my memory is malleable, I think her boyfriend, an engineering geek, told me she went through an unimaginable medical hell, and all I remember is the drip of her lassitude, curled up on the mattress, or dragging herself into the kitchen for tea. She and I actually got along, but even in my young adult years, trying to expand my melancholy wings, death may have not been ready for me, but was nevertheless an omnipresent force.

not dying

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) August 30, 2017

I am dubious as to whether she survived, but find it ironic that perhaps I've met her mortality on a grading curve, having such a difficult time with my bowel that a miniscule nosebleed hit my stomach. Rushing to look up lymphoma's symptoms, I have some of them, so it may not be COPD, after all, which finishes the job. If I am really sick, with something killable, then fighting Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne's civil liberty violating tactics are meaningless, in the context of going against medical advice, not that I have any. My nostrils are dry from vapor; it may be nothing or not, with no money to spare to find a practice in this city which I feel I can trust. Nick Gillespie may counsel against anarchy in his many frenetic uploads on Reason, but people in the early stages of dying, if they are as angry as I, might pose a threat to public safety. I am winded, afraid to consume the edibles I have, sufficient for a 48 hour period, sipping my coffee, saturated with old NSAIDS due to the damp changeability of the weather, but that doesn't mean I'm incapable of going down for my own sense of lost cause. That I diced a few metaphysical chives and sent Nick an invitation to connect on Linked wasn't, as might be construed, a need for legitimacy. I was offering respect, and told him we'd disagree. I am not, as is he, as is Austen Petersen, a social liberal, and no people, I may not live long enough to olive branch that divide. I know, intellectually, that hate crimes in the name of intolerance only shifts the spectrum back around again, but as for me, personally, poverty and municipal corruption created my internal willingness to go postal. By corruption I do not mean a Pelican Brief conspiracy, but rather, like most things urban, ineptitude. I am feeling my oats this morning, tired of exterminator visits making me over-anxious, but a good deal of my trauma resides in public housing extermination: I was attacked in my wheelchair access unit on the day he was due, and the contractors at Riverside are the raison d'etre for my duress non-eviction threat of eviction if I tell Trudy to go fuck herself again I will be evicted. 33 years of playing ravaged boob slut to the creased malice of Vincent Price in medieval fashions. I am filing with the Human Relations Commission now, but what I am attempting to convey is ideology isn't a panacea, in the shell game of a libertarian who's who. I want to give my notice, and I want to give it, badly enough that I'm getting sick, and it's fundamentally unfair. I nearly died because this landlord was indifferent to who had access in the much smaller Diamond Park. I shouldn't have to threaten whatever time I've left by divorcing myself from location I have always hated. I never wanted Riverside. Never.

Rogues

I can be lazy every so often and be entirely unremarkable, even though my father is still alive at 81, and my maternal grandmother bridge spans three centuries, her age lost to me if not her birthday, 12/18-- my mother collapsed at 62, so of course, my 56th year, scrawny, dry, soiled, and even slightly gnarled, quietly out of sight, makes me nervous. Death will relieve me of mortal psychological anguish, and I'll die alone, no Schiavo with a second wife to be caressing me while I starve and growl like staggering motorcycle pistons, god have mercy and give me save haven from bulge eyed niggers who talk chewing feces, god have mercy. I pray this daily and constantly and don't hear Richard Spencer leading a stampede, but Thomas's death, at 69, is interesting in the context of his late roles. He was the husky bookseller facilitating whatever elements of the actual resistance is in High Castle, and though A Strange Affair is an insipid watercolor, Thomas at least has the more significant energy as a traitor any besieged wife  might desire to concussion and get off despite doing it. How William Russ gets any work at all points to the tenacity of cliche, as in greeting card verse. 
Sixty nine; bit young for a wiry Texan.

My sole surviving Austrian grandmother courtesy of my cousin before she was placed, demented pic.twitter.com/rPoAwc0MjV

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) July 12, 2017

.

you have a rotten mouth yes I do grandmom Pauline, in the blackguard of my tantrums, the likes of which I shall not punish myself with merciless detail, but I love this woman; her youngest daughter, now too in the era of ailments, hives, replacement joints, is almost 70. I am setting myself up, quietly, plotting. I have nothing to lose.

Delayed Pleasantries with Alphabet Subsidies, and Other Quandaries

...this can be achieved only by "carving out" a certain constellation of phenomena.-- Levi-Strauss, Structural Anthropology, p. 285

Having been tested for diabetes a number of times since my burn accident, which occurred during Brenda Williams brief tenure, before the RICHARDSON WARS (and I'm still here, barely, smile), and Williams too, just as Trudy, and Trudy's Gerber foods mentality, cited me for non-compliance, but she was kicked to curb for trying to go after every resident with strict compliance, and I mean strict. The PHA regulatory handbook is probably similar to the nefarious SSA POMs, and you'd be surprised what you'd learn reading the SSA POMs,. It is like a perverse variation of The Empire Strikes Back, the *business* of Social Security, its schemers, petty prison terms, but I have been tested, and told I am not diabetic. Granted that, in recent years, I have catered to cheap snacks and bakery since the 7 Eleven franchise opened. (I took many months become a frequent flyer, as I preferred a bodega further off, but 24 hour service and proximity and vaping supply transformed me into a power chair inconvenience). I am living currently on barely two meals a day, mostly bulk grains and potatoes and legumes, and moved a stool so large Tuesday evening I in fact cannot change the litter until I am sure not to clog, and remain fairly confident my bowel shall kill me before COPD suffocates me to death. Large evacuations indicate diabetes. Perhaps coffee masks it. I've cut down on fish oil, but for my petite stature what impaction does to me is stupendous, now and again.
 My problem with KDP is my uncertainty over formatting, and depending on how much of my output I apportion to being an independent, I have to learn, but I am a writer, journo, small j momentarily hopefully not forever but at my age I am not bucking hot zones. Perhaps there is a story there; what I am not is a designer, and I hope I can link my content page to my text. I really don't know how to do some of these things, and thus far, I have one Amazon guide. We'll see. In my early kindle years the amount of digital dreck worried me, and I do not wish to do that to myself, whatever my kinks, my flaws. I have them, including telling Amazon I wasn't going to buy anymore books due to a seller's delay with Levi-Strauss, and what a feeble threat, as I'm killing myself today to hang onto Prime. I keep grinding away at the conceit, the intellectual pretension, of changing the world through narrative skills, just as The Raw and The Cooked joined into the intellectual ferment of its time, difficult and giddy as an anthropological study as it is. I once believed I had Strauss's acumen, his ability, to invest in such important theses, so I am as egotistical as Roth, on a certain level. I wonder what you think, but then, I assume I already know, even if I cannot say what a detrimental impact my wounded voice has had, I really don't know, but yes, I have crossed lines decency prohibits, and in that, the dying hermaphrodite has gotten the message to engage as little as possible with me. I am working, however, whatever the odds against me, what else can I do? If it takes me until August to hire an attorney, then it takes me until August. And, if I bridle it and repeat like a chant, Google is not the enemy, it is no more than a tertiary issue: I cannot afford pay to play Ad Sense fees, certainly not in July, with a meager effort to put something in my stomach.

Epistolary Address on the Margins: Paul Ryan

"It's more like a slow train wreck."-- Lanhee J. Chen, expectations disappointed

I tweeted a question weeks ago, Mr. Speaker, to your twitter account, about Boehner's warning on repeal and replace. Not being a citizen of Wisconsin in your district, I did not expect a response, but knew you were headed for trouble with your replacement bill, and I do blame you, even if Trump's public face is disingenuous on the matter. No one cares about my opinions. This is partially my fault. If Blogger had actually suspended me two years ago, I might have made it a cause celebre with Breitbart. If I had cleaned up my act, at least on this account, I might have linked it as a resume highlight, but did not quite go to either extreme, except for a recent severe depression over the prospect, not yet actually in process, of summer homelessness, which caused a precipitous drop in my followers, and probably has Dr. Floch shaking his head, a younger and more attractive head than I thought, about the difficulties and demands I place upon myself, but I am a radical, don't believe in making medical paradigms a way of life, and if Medicare costs eat up 20% GNP even before Obamacare, add the VA medical budget to that, Medicaid, it really isn't possible to continue, and I tend to disagree with Timothy Taylor about the cost of the sickest patients: I have a grandmother in her mid 90's in a home, no more than a functional corpse. I do not know how much this is costing her surviving daughter, ten years my senior; it is wrong, and I'd withhold nutrition and hydration. Ditto for my father's brother. He is extremely sick with heart disease and viral infections, and his sister, who has basically served as a self trained hospice nurse since her husband's lung cancer, isn't far behind. I disagree with my Church here, to some extent, and when quality of remaining life is marginal, withhold treatment. It is nothing I haven't written before, but it is what I believe, given that the medical treatment I get is shoddy, with students, or residents who wanted me on oxygen, or an inhaler, failing to take other factors into account, like allergies, and I haven't seen a doctor since my Craigslist hire. Where is my line? I do not know, maybe in my meringues.

Yours was a sorry performance Friday evening, and just as I, you're old enough to remember Tip O'Neill, the last Speaker who had any real corralling power. Earmarks too, which may need to be restored in the House rules. I had hoped to live long enough to see you in the Presidency, a rational corporate conservative, but you ran this game drive like Mickey Mouse. I do own some knowledge about how bills are sponsored and written, and know how hard it is, but you've had national prominence even prior to being Romney's running mate. You should have learned to control the chamber by now. Let's be less headstrong in the future. I have to lie down; pushing too hard.

Incommoded Logan Hosts

This section shall not abridge the right of a citizen to apply, himself or his agent, to any foreign government or the agents thereof for redress of any injury--John Adams paranoia for the young states in the last year of the Enlightenment

Unfortunately for me, my bowel vaulting in a painful battle with sunflower seeds and  chicken, so it may be this morning is the morning my body goes into colony collapse, and this will be it, and Blogger will make its determinations about archiving, this, all that is left, I am interested in defending Flynn, and simply do not have the resources of the political establishment, nor the time. I cannot drop everything again to pursue a career military professional's downfall over temperament and hints of collusion. I actually did hope, once he got in, that Trump would defend certain things, but for all the media's highlight on turmoil, this is just Washington politics as usual, and I am personally annoyed that Trump cannot give the press corp a legitimate alternate view of reset buttons, like detente with Russia through radical capitalism. Trump seemingly doesn't have the ability to defend himself and the "art of the deal". Political theater just dances as usual, and as usual, this mogul is going to crumble before the careerist civil service, of which Flynn was a part of through at least three administrations. Surely no one is accusing a career general of having been bought by petrol dollars?

I now have to go make a wish, and hope I'll be okay.

Fin, with Brisk

"You can't handle this." --Gabourey Sidibe

How little we actually have to say about eschatology at the end of the day. This always comes back to me, even as I can barely pull myself up on the dull sky blue mattress, as old as my anguish enveloping itself around me at Riverside, the beaten, rusted, Sears Roebuck mattress courtesy of my mother's judgment in buying me a metal daybed that rocked like a tin can. Grotesque little mattress, but I cannot just get another spring coil twin, or a piece of hospital bed foam whose width would collapse too low. It has to be right so that I can pivot on, then push up to pivot off, and this I can discuss, the barren aesthetics of government socialism, not that padre did any better, had I stayed in Ridley Park. He built steep wooden ramps, a plastic shower stall, had violent arguments with me over pubic hair on my washcloth, now he is nurse to his dead wife's nursing colleague, twenty times as sick as the puss gassing out of my colon, due to my respiratory issues, other secrets. I cannot keep up, but neither could an attendant; they'd walk, confronted with pudding, the stench of post-menopausal decline. Those of you who can walk might ask, if you dared, what the fuck do I want? You aren't functionally ambulatory. Everyone gets old. You got screwed, badly. You take too many things to heart.

Okay, but I never wanted this, in the sense that what limited fulfillment I might have had would have been from professional accomplishment, and now this is nearly beyond me, even if my poverty insists that I have to persevere. Fuck what Inglis House writes on its site. If I am legally forced into it than that is tantamount to the games the English aristocracy played, tossing any viable claimant to the throne in a dungeon like The Tower. The very minorities I so freely disparage have mental health breakdowns from working there, in significant numbers, and yet what can I say? Collegiate peers aren't kept. Most of my disabled peers aren't friends, and those who might have been remain faithful to the circumscribed segregated empowerment bullshit which is indeed bullshit when HUD is treated like the plague by private property owners. I can never knowingly trust another lesbian, and what Josie represents is an apostasy, unless religion is to become essentially meaningless. Maybe this is a bug, and it too shall pass, but my life was in no way lived with the compensations most whites expect. I'm destitute, with no people whom I even so much as like, or care to engage, around me, and the only way I can avoid the red death in the castle is to end it on my own terms. 

Bearing Witness

The graduate student who had a major crush on Ward liked me for myself; she was kind to me in an authentic way that was better for me then my too tight cleaving to my former best friend, Susan Davison. Susie-- I made Sue, and then her sister, live for me, because I did not really venture forth and take risks. With B---, the graduate, it was of a gentler tenor of mutual appreciation, and I got caught in the middle, between her and my philosophy professor, because she and I bonded, and she got hurt, with Ward and his open marriage rationalizations. I am not saying anything illegal occurred. B--- was of age, but I became the shoulder on whom she wept, and for that, I cannot forgive the not so spectacular instructor at Widener in his sinecured cocoon. Living his theories was a convenience which disregarded young adults like B--- and I were stupid. Though I no longer wear it, I still have the beige windbreaker she gave me before she departed. She had to go back, as she fell in love with Ward. I knew myself better. I was saturated with Jerry, besotted, obsessed in an unhealthy and dangerous manner. He and I are both circling the drain and I'm still writing it, flavors diminished as they may be, but I knew it was closer to intellectual rape as opposed to being Fallen, as B--- had fallen into a desire David was irresponsible to encourage, and I cannot forgive him. In anger, forgetting my rancor toward John for not seeing the woman I wanted to be for him, I told him in anger what Ward had wrought, and Tassoni and I were not so dissimilar in indignation. Tassoni threatened to go to the tenure committee. I attempted to dissuade him as I did not want to be involved and the woman was my friend. What happened after that?

John heads his own department in Ohio. I am a genocide survivor who pisses off Poets & Writers, the philosopher has a goatee, his protege an unfinished rite of passage, three television series rolled into one.

Anemic Corn Beef

should I stay or should I go

I was trying to study this morning, my little free text on the Medici, and I didn't really succeed at sitting down and taking notes, part age, part I ought to just give up and let Alphabet drill a hole in my skull and plant its microchip, and now part of my left molar is rotting away. We all lose, eventually, but I am not certain why I need to mortify myself to the consistency of ground sand. There is this ontological state, with all my emotional pain, and there is cessation. Part of existence lies in seeking relief from it, and yet most of us do not want to die, until the agony of clinging becomes too much, and I fear my end, this morning, because the wounds tearing at me beneath my breast are like a lash, because I hate black women, black culture, and everything about section 202, the Presbyterian hypocrisy. Engaging in demolition against the property would provide me with a fleeting, transitory glee, masking more pain, that's all, I'd still hate, as an active, living verb, and I'll lose to it; don't we all, not even realizing I was part of a class action suit against ATT for its sales tax. I never signed onto that, and yet liberals insist they know what's best for me, and I am sure team Toomey needs such a snarling animal. I was going to go uptown today, but if I'm chomping at the muzzle without cause?