It has been an excruciating week, and perhaps I've held off flipping totally out with a strength I did not know I had but I cannot do this again, and I've been more facetious than I've intended, diverting my inner maniac who can only hear her bones snapping like the dried out wishbone of a turkey breast. I don't know. I don't want to be done, but by the same token, camping out at Toomey's regional offices on the verge of hysteria achieves what? I'm like a city Feeney against the black power of Seth Williams, at least in terms of human trafficking in the independent living paradigm, and if the Karina I fired remaining in my life is the new force of Christian moderation on the ferocity of a genuflecting destitution, it is too little too late in hackneyed terms: "Would you want to live here?"
"No," she said, grasping what 22 years in this formerly mixed, now mostly nigger shanty, has done to my health. An old nigger down the hall with nothing better to do puts cards under my door on a cyclic basis, quoting Matthew in her nearly illiterate block letter pen print. I'd spit in her face without a second's hesitation if I knew who she was. The 1997 version of the Outer Limits classic is more sophisticated than the black and white original, with its charming use of tin foil. The black and white, however, has the passion of its conviction, especially due to the irrational exuberance of mutually assured destruction in its time. Today Dr. Simon Holm would be arrested for leading Pegida.
The real me is exactly what the minority staff keeps attacking and threatening: an extremist created through having her welfare destroyed by section 811/202 housing corruption. Oh yes, by next week I'll be snarling less, if I haven't collapsed by then, but my humanity is damned, at least based on the preponderance of evidence.
Showing posts with label pegida. Show all posts
Showing posts with label pegida. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 26, 2016
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
Benefits of France 24
The shortwave WYBE feed Crime Scene Cleaner has an uppity nuanced humor, perhaps playing against Dick Wolf, and if not, certainly toying with class consciousness that still exists on the continent against the German working class in a contemporary urban mode, and yet, there is something fragile in Germany's shallow laughter at itself, not that Pegida is truly anything to worry about. Pegida is a kind of icing over a stalemate of egalitarian deceit.
If I had actually grown up Roman, as opposed to American, I would have been taught by grandmother Lillian to sit on a balcony, watching pedestrians on scooters, with quiet acceptance, but then again, I would not have survived my birth in the Italy of Fellini's Dolce Vita, and my inner voice is telling me my life is finished, I waited too long, and regardless of what I do, Pennsylvania's ineptitude has essentially made me grist for the mill. My poet friend, over 17 years now he has absorbed my accordion rhythms with Cisco panache, hard to believe-- and he might even point out I did not have to remind him how long we've applauded each other, he was nice enough to send me an email, and in my response, for once, I kept a lid on it, but I need to move on now before it becomes impossible, and it very nearly already is. I cannot go back into a home; I can't, but I cannot be like Frank, or Sherry and have my life dictated by low skill labor which borders criminality. And in those microcosms of self-interest, our relevance is increasingly precarious, unless we're engineers with a complex grasp, or microbiologists airily tweaking millions of years of evolution.
Mass extinction is one thing, a monkey aware that the caboose is hurling toward disastrous consequences is another. I am hoping that by February if I pull hard on the creative community I can find temporary housing of some sort.
If I had actually grown up Roman, as opposed to American, I would have been taught by grandmother Lillian to sit on a balcony, watching pedestrians on scooters, with quiet acceptance, but then again, I would not have survived my birth in the Italy of Fellini's Dolce Vita, and my inner voice is telling me my life is finished, I waited too long, and regardless of what I do, Pennsylvania's ineptitude has essentially made me grist for the mill. My poet friend, over 17 years now he has absorbed my accordion rhythms with Cisco panache, hard to believe-- and he might even point out I did not have to remind him how long we've applauded each other, he was nice enough to send me an email, and in my response, for once, I kept a lid on it, but I need to move on now before it becomes impossible, and it very nearly already is. I cannot go back into a home; I can't, but I cannot be like Frank, or Sherry and have my life dictated by low skill labor which borders criminality. And in those microcosms of self-interest, our relevance is increasingly precarious, unless we're engineers with a complex grasp, or microbiologists airily tweaking millions of years of evolution.
Mass extinction is one thing, a monkey aware that the caboose is hurling toward disastrous consequences is another. I am hoping that by February if I pull hard on the creative community I can find temporary housing of some sort.
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