The Brain That Wouldn't Die?

I am a bit cynical.

Journalists need to make money, and Doug Saunders of G and M is no exception, but blaming Mallory for the crisis in Tibet which opened the door for the Chinese to take control of the country seems like a bit of a stretch. I am fairly certain indigenous peoples too need climbing skills for more reasons than the desire to "do it," and there is nothing wrong with humans climbing mountains. Climbers who fall and break their backs join my club, which is a lifelong adventure in its own right, if the demonstrations over Terri Schiavo were any indication. The average cost of nursing home care is roughly 6,500 a month, and both my father's wife and my father's sister are pretty much bankrupt due to recurring cancer (the aunt, who is one of my characters herein that made Blogger hiccup), and rheumatoid arthritis with a possible blood myeloma for the wife, and those of you reading this who pay taxes are subsidizing my many battles and failures with matriculation, and this shitty sterile and boring studio where I am now back to total subsistence. I supported Michael Schiavo, in opposition to Josie Byzek and her troubadours over removal of Terri's feeding tube, even if the brain death proponents were wrong, due to the quality of life issues involved with persistent vegetative states. I picked up 36 page views once discussing my stepmother's death with seeming anticipatory avarice, but the woman is suffering, and whatever his sins, my despair and Louise's caustic bitterness combined with her physical suffering, which make my bad power chair posture seem quaint, is taking its toll on mio padre. Add this up with your family members on ventilators-- and Globe and Mail worries itself over an advanced primate that gets a hard on for mountain summits.

If the Communists in Beijing want me to take a page from Collectivism for the greater good, people with life threatening illness need to look at the greater good, and bring the super drugs and surgeries to a stop, and this includes the fabulous, like Bobbi Brown. Those dollars sucking in to battle our horrific diseases could be going to advancing infrastructure, making our mobility technologies safer and easier, and yet Italians now want to play with decapitation for some poor bastard whose limbs look like a broiled canary delicacy. I could not hear the whole video without my ear plugs, but 15 million dollars to bring deliciously bad camp to life? What in the fucking hell does the medical establishment think its doing? How would the distinct spinal cords merge? What kind of bodily control would the man acquire? The state of Pennsylvania wants me to hire criminal labor instead of giving me adaptive technologies. I let a cut rate medical vendor fit me to a cut rate Jazzy chair with plastic castors that drives like a cart about to get crushed in an earthquake when I was 45 years old because I was in a hurry to try to get my life back on track, and some patient in Italy is purportedly risking his life with someone else's brain death. I reapplied for Medicaid, and I'm pissed off and quite ready to go to jail.

Inimitable Autonomies Within a Myeloma

Brown initially shared Garrison's pacificism. As a boy, he'd been so disgusted by what he saw of soldiers during the War of 1812 that he later refused to drill with local militias and paid fines to avoid military service. -- Midnight Rising, kindle edition loc 375

In relation to the ACA, I take a different view. Health care will never be radically equalized; it is impossible to achieve this on a global scale. Access to humane treatment is not entirely beyond scope, but this has regional variability.

I have written that I believe in self worth, and do, but cannot delude myself, on macro scales, that my individual life is valuable. My birth was dangerous and difficult and the fetus was supposed to die, didn't, and when that is the summation of an existence, it alters the viewpoint. Someone like Monica Carr, herself a warped challenge for you not to judge her disapprovingly, as she is not simply heavy, but repulsive, like the teletubbies, of which I've been suspicious since I first laid eyes on them, used to tell me that my reactions were irrational. Mmm. For a happy god-fearing suburbanite who successfully raises her progeny and keeps her partner's testicles in a vise, a desire for a short lifespan might be irrational.

Not for me. Existence, to be precious, needs contingency, and it's okay to be single, if you have sustaining relationships and function around that; during youth, dreams of ambition kept me afloat, but I should have realized as an undergraduate that I was doomed, simply as a matter of policy containment and failed domestication. I am sloppy, cluttered, have Italian sinuses, and when I have not been caged, or made into a Frankenstein facsimile, pedestrian sensibility wants it done as a matter of course, hence the dimmer on empathy for aggressive treatments of complex cancers, or even Dick Cheney's heart disease. Continuous fighting in this sense is the irrationality on a evolutionary scale. We're a complex primate, but possibly not unique, and sustaining each 7.1 billion self interested persons may be beneficial to selfish desire to stick around as long as possible, but not in the best interest of the large egg on which we live. If you are over fifty with a multiple myeloma, all that chemo, all those drugs, may buy you time at the expense of other long term viabilities.

I never believed in my own invincibility, and that is one value the long term disabled community can offer. That I'd rather have euthanasia available as an option is not an easy thing to write, but I write it in terms of my expenditures. I have not raised children. Career has been a lifelong unhappy battle, and because people need to make a living themselves, they get the right to manage how I live, and from here, within how many months, I will be forced, once again, to depend on quasi-asinine nursing care, primarily bed ridden because lifting me off a mattress invites liability. I'd rather go to sleep than spend an excruciating period of time under that duress. Now I have to go work on my 400 word piece of snark. Harrumph.

Sarin Neurotoxins

"You never really learn something until you teach it." My latter day drama instructor.

Look at that face. You would never imagine such a female maintains a benevolent dictatorship. Mother watch me hunt. Mother the foot massage means we need to eat as a family, but only after I beckon you to the food bowl three times and only after I see you engaging in mastication will I shoo you so a jaguar may gnaw daintily. Mother make the bed, and your little black panther is a pain in the ass, but when he lets me curl up with him then that's the ticket! No I won't come back in the house! Yes I will when they scare me! And on and on. I have been raising cats since I was a kid and little little kimmy is a young 2, and will outlive my independence, which is reason enough to purchase my blog on your kindle. The unfortunate orphan needs an endowment, and you will save the cats if you want me to outgrow my caustic flint spark cynicism. She lost her babies and deserves the good life. I considered joining PETA due to my feline zeal, but Wallace turned it on the dime, and PETA is almost too fanatical, because evolution cannot be managed like a suburban duplex. I am on the fence because feline poachers deserve the death penalty, and in indecision cannot cash in my chips.

This post was an entirely different subject, but let me get my cold calculus which has driven some of you off out of the way: My stepmother is dying, and Marie no doubt reasoned it was her brother's place to inform me, since he is my father. My feelings about Louise are not pleasant. She was my mother's colleague in nursing school and dated my father behind my mother's back. My lover never understood my umbrage about that, but even married husbands who cheat are befuddled by the bitch codex. The bitch codex says you do not marry your nursing friend's divorced husband and Louise did anyway and never imagined what she was in for, and that includes my indignation with her mouth. My father's impotence is not something I as his eldest daughter am going to treat as a clinical seminar suggesting solutions, and this became an international incident, along with other choice cuts from her invalid tongue.

She has been crippled for years by RA. Takes one to know one, and now she has leukemia or Roy Schneider's multiple myeloma and I am only worried about the impact of her death on my father. That is the way it is. I love my daddy and daddy needs his wife, relieved that her estate issues will presumably enter tort before padre himself expires and my sister and I will then litigate each other, but I am not emotionally invested in stepmother hate. I don't like her or her children, but Louise has paid for landing padre as a caretaker, in more ways than I am willing to reveal, or that you'd want me to.

If she dies, however, this changes things, and maybe I shall be able to part company with PresbyHomes before my future end stage hospice care, within a year or two. I cannot grieve her. My father. My poor father.

Autonomous Straight

"You're going to have to accept the fact that sometimes we can't save everyone." Shemar Moore, toffee muscle

We never see Bobby Goren romantically involved with a woman, only the implication of prospective involvement. Forget Nicole Wallace (sheesh); forget the occasional utilization of Eames as the faux lover despite its dual implausibility-- dual because they often play act couple for the sake of solving the case, but by the end of season six certain insinuations goad Bobby into aggression-- his dying mother, his brother whom he loses to murder, the denouement with the brass busted shrink (again, sheesh), no, the more subtle interstice is with the blond foil with the attachment disorder, or his flirtation with the brunette who had a summer girl crush on the Russian mob girl killed by the cross dresser who killed his mama out of natal jealousy.

I know exactly zero about D'onofrio's ballet with metal affect, but he did not get Goren's stressor imbalances out of method acting, and the beginning of the end of Vincent's deconstruction of his best known character is quite interesting when juxtaposed against the dying Scheider. Even with a multiple myeloma, Roy is the consummate ladies man pitted up against a suffering buffoon whose analytical abilities aren't enough to keep him together anymore. The deconstruction of the super human predator/prey motif is as superlative as it has always been with the use of psychopathy as entertainment, but this is very much an insider's industry script, a homage to Schneider the super cool against Spielberg's super monster. And should Steven feel guilty for the frightening decline of our monster fish? I think about how much fear orcas and sharks inspire real terror within. There is a bucket to do, eh? Go to Seaworld, drive to the edge of the sea tiger's liquid prison. Voila, spastic is an abstract seal to stun into edible submission.

But the intangible fascination lies in the fact that Schneider has aged, his eyes muddied, his neckline in rivulets, and he is still the Schneider who could sexually satisfy, could be for me the alpha coitus of the century, while D'onofrio has to give mea culpas to tattles that his weight gain in season seven was due to medication. 

Different cultures have different values when it comes to physical vanity-- and I wonder, actually, if this is the real problem with the nature of being human. We conceive perfection, dignity, metaphysical harmony, unable to reconcile this entirely with a strictly biological, material narrative, chemically manipulating pain and suffering, altering and sometimes torturing the female shape. Demi Moore's fortune spent on plastic surgery isn't quite enough to fool the close observer that she is now preserved as opposed to attractive. But Liz Taylor was forever Cleopatra. She just had that goddess aura straight through to cessation. 

I have my own vanity, but it never laid in the attempt to compete with an ambulatory woman's considerable advantages. Perhaps a more ruthless humility would have served my old age.

Myeloma Glitter Maw

"You have to be careful with something like that in national policy. It corrodes the forces; it corrodes the torturer."--Gen Stanley McChrystal



General McChrystal, sir: Obama may be relieved, or not, and most likely no one will care that I face the danger of Ezra Pound in his decline, and I am aware that I face such a danger as I recoil from the sordidness of the flesh, the sordidness of urban America, but I do not dislike Barack, and sometimes even agree with him. However, if Mitt Romney had not been nominated, I would have voted against the president. Radical equality progressives are as extreme as national socialists once were, and they are destroying the United States. I think you were treated unfairly by the current administration over the Rolling Stone expose. It is not as if you endangered national security by fucking female officers, and I have your book in my queue. Here is the deal: If you have national political aspirations, the spastic_dowager will support you, as long as you give me a tasty victual. I want the federal mandate that secures independent living centers eliminated. Kabeesh? If it was up to me I'd say let's go for a coup d'etat, but since it is not, and I am debating showing up for my local inauguration event to troll for kindle users to give me a subscription, I'd settle for seeing you at the head of, or in, a 2016 transition team. I want the people in Philadelphia who hurt me punished, and I know you've seen much worse in Iraq, but sir, the third world does exist in the US, and I deserve the compassion to stop living in it, because I am a gifted woman, and should not have to be watching my soul perish, like Roy Schneider producing his own death journey in Fosse's flawed but smart aleck musical hybrid.

I miss Roy Schneider the actor for more shallow and more sexual reasons, as compared to the moral certitude of Anne Bancroft, but miss him I do, the hyper cool tight ass, the perfect foil for the damn great white shark who probably would have been a better president than the majority of the men who held the office, and for those very reasons, All That Jazz had a powerful effect on me as a young woman. Even with multiple myeloma, Schneider kept his edge, commanding the desire of women like me to unify in the elegance of his eros (the scene where he kisses the dying woman with white hair). Fosse's devil may care moxie reaches me, despite the mild sexism inside the world of dance subculture. They just don't make movie stars like him anymore.