Quakertown Brass

Caesar is home.-- the guttural utterance

“My chair shorted out,” I posted mainly to my family on Facebook this day on the asphalt across from PECO central. Cops can’t do a bloody thing except watch you hopelessly reboot, but does cousin Tommy remind me to call my uncle?  No! I struggle back to building. Do I remember to telephone my bloody uncle? No! Does my sister recall that my godfather runs a bloody DMV(Designated Medical Vendor)?  No! I manage to race up to tenth floor of this bloody zoological senior parody of Planet of the Apes. You heard me. I am as guilty as Hamblin when it comes to disparaging senior goon squads. Some of the people who populate Riverside might be lifted straight out of Annie Proulx for subconscious routing routines. Ah, but the dowager’s contempt is momentarily bounding with self-flagellations, as I intently asked Maria for Mr. Wheelchair’s number and desperately begged Michael for a speedy purchase, and like a fuckwit, I bought a model I knew was bad for me because I managed to haul my soiled buttocks onto a car seat. This is what syphoned out a week’s worth of hospital costs depleting the Medicare Trust Fund, a gift I’m still giving. 10 fucking G’s and a ding because I never met a vendor like Mike, who, when he queried me about being done after one modification, wasn’t joking, and no one remembered, myself particular, that my godfather runs a respected company I’ve worked with before, all this Italian Catholic noise, my father and I ready to draw blood over a hospital bed, letting cheap conniving minorities bilk him over the assistance Presbyterian Homes offers indigent tenants daily for housekeeping: my last paid commission for my work floated in around 2010. If the linguistic cash register that sublimates the bond between fathers and daughters wasn’t a life jacket, Trudy and Debra, and their Mississippi fecal twang vocals, would have pulverized me in a juicer by now. I don’t blame Maria for any of this, but it’s evident I am still infected by the conspiratorial tensions of us versus them in disability culture, as my only life-threatening prognosis is ableism and niggardly incompetence which spearheads Pennsylvania like a persistent lymphoma. I may not have anything seriously wrong with me twelve weeks into the end of January, but damage? Yes, the type of damage which leads to “down the drain” gallows humor, because a pathological technician tells me he’ll fix the problem, but just blows me off, from before Thanksgiving through 1/19/18, a perfect way to reference in rogue elements which forms part of Austin Petersen’s experience. In his case, it was polluted cancer drugs. I do not eschew free market models due to this. Like Austin, I can separate bad apples from the model, and Mike’s callousness is born out of rationing and single payer options, but I do curse the fact quite bitterly that I tend to trust wheelchair providers, and see my family as somewhat apart. My uncle is invisible in my life, and I plum forgot him. He’s on it now, but the quality time I was struggling to cling to? I still cannot convert my files in the wake of my Toshiba failure, and don’t want to antagonize certain parties in my circle to help me circumvent Home Advisor’s prices, but it is a fact of life if I want to earn money again, I need access to my documents. We can all debate the models, regulated and otherwise, but streamlining customized needs is far easier in a director’s cut than it is in handling individual adaptation, within or outside of a chronic condition.

Registered if I change my mind

I fling out one level of emotive defiance and I lose 15 accounts. I can smirk, persevere, as always, but once in a while I need a good "fuck you," even if not directed at an individual, because I've gone through the kiln of life long stigma, and now I have to prepare to die by inexorably being sucked back in to medical stricture and decline, unless I can handle what an officer on yet another anemic procedural didn't inflict on himself. The opening scene was data mining, however variable.

To clarify a point from yesterday's post, I am not trying to convey that if everyone heeded the lessons of literary endeavor that Harambe would still be alive, but what I am asserting is we refuse to draw on the lessons we attempt to teach ourselves, despite the fact we already know what they are. This isn't ideological as much as it is a signature of human folly. If we had gone the dowager's route, and did the utmost to respect the life of the gorilla, and the four year old boy had sustained trauma, this would be another conversation. But even if we aren't statisticians, humans are the most numerous advanced mammals, and we're killing the rest, even if occasionally, we spare aggressive orcas over money. Large predatory felines need habitat, as do their elephant nemesis's. All this is vanishing, and we're going to kill ourselves off with microbes because we fight our biological demise beyond reason.

I used to be utterly perplexed at the primacy of homo sapiens,. but the evolutionary short form solution is that we bred ourselves into this, which doesn't explain our larynx, voice box, the evolution of language, the fact that descendants of dinosaurs can mimic it but nevertheless never invented their own form. We do not have any equivalent rivals of parity, within our own genus or outside of it, except for drug resistant bacteria, a simpler invertebrate life form we can combat, but not vanquish. Humans already cull themselves indirectly, through a plethora of policies which are utterly misguided, but we had best start thinking of better solutions before a few lucky thousands scrape by on reindeer lichen.

There is only one thing of which I am certain: Hillary will not get my vote, speculative war pandemic notwithstanding, in my autumn achey decline, the radiator making me flume with mucus of which I've increasingly little to spare, what I don't like about the Jazzy is the petal holders extend outward an inch; I've only just discovered that driving the chair slightly past the center without clipping the underside of my thigh enables easier pivot, buttock better planted, which doesn't mean I'm not fatally compromised unless I move on and find someone to live with. Not an easy task.

Quantum Models in Slovenia

Though I haven't perused any recent issues, Poets & Writers loves contributions about profiles in which the established figures discuss technique; never did a damn thing for me, blindly shelling out my money, for years. The organization is baffled at my ire now that I'm really feeling an economic pinch, but it is the same as other motifs seeping through this account: the price of spastic dowager's loyalty and passive acceptance. My technique to produce creatively never recovered from two things, the first being moving to this wretched studio at Riverside (Karina either trashing or misplacing my scrapbook of articles), and the second adapting to digital, even though it seems counter-intuitive, as I made more money as a journalist online between 99-08 than I ever did riding shotgun with literary journals as the caboose of arts and sciences departments, but while we're at it, let me merge apples and potatoes: I used to consider Kenyon Review to be highbrow, a desirable addition to my CV; that I use the past tense doesn't mean I'm now nonchalant, so much as questioning creativity's didactic ability in the modern era. I sampled KR online when my now distressed second generation kindle was more vogue. Forget dates. It was more than two years ago through, and there was a fictional story of an orphan chimpanzee whose mother was killed by a poacher who sold the baby to a progressive white American woman who had an adopted black daughter. The simian and the human youngster bonded but the chimp grew up, and like Caesar in the reboot, is placed in captivity, a last meeting with human sister ending in distress. The contributor's point was, I believe, to make us question human tendency to compartmentalize. Yet the senseless travesty of Harambe occurred despite the most astute of Kenyon's imperatives. The incurious toddler was actually the expendable mammal if we are going to arguable over the health of bio-diversity. Not that I wouldn't have made an effort to distract the silverback to recover the child, but in no way would I have shot dead an innocent ape denied its freedom so that we could gape at it; speaking of which, this is an upgrade I'll gun for next month. Back to work, back to coffee, and those who care about the election in November, go fuck yourselves. I wash my hands of the whole national scene.

Workplace Grievance Assailants

"I almost stabbed the masseuse." --  LaPaglia, Australian usurper 

Satoshi Uematsu is not such an anomaly as mothers with children would like to believe, which is why they should pay attention to the lessons Fuminori has to teach, but more than that; the mentally ill mirror the times around them, as LaPaglia himself may remember from one of his signature dialogues on schizophrenics.

The #knifeattack in Japan was at disability center no surprise: all hate us

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) July 25, 2016

Uematsu may be a rarity in terms of unrest on Japanese soil itself, but his aggression reflects what happens in institutional paradigms. Decentralized or not, ugly situations occur, cut across cultural differences, cut across ethnicity. Mammals seem basically programmed to take advantage of injury, illness, weakness, or other forms of distress. We accept it, even practice it, if the Danes are any indication, when we pretend to absent the human animal from land mass ecosystems, something almost impossible in the 21st century. When it comes to ourselves, that is another matter entirely. While a complex series like The Churchmen is not immune to conflicts of doctrine juxtaposed against material violence, within the seminary itself we do not see knife fights, but HMS as it existed in the 70's under Dr. Chance, who had his own deity complex issues despite his attempt to dissuade second generation Romans against aggressive surgeries, was home to violence with blades in recreation rooms. This writer lived with what the good orthopedist's business represented for three years, before Shriner's took over and destroyed my body for another surgeon's career. Only the records of Home of the Merciful Savior exist, but as bad as it was, next to this the home, with its dark granite facing, was club med. Chance had a private residence across the walk, and it was like his private fiefdom. LRI is in some ways fundamentally worse, as the collusion and fraud of Erik von Schmetterling, Cassie James, and Linda Anthony represent. I shouldn't have to live with it, harassed by a so called assistant whose uncouth behavior makes Joe  Caesar's progenitor.

Caught Between Two Metaphors and the Antiquity of Scheduled Broadcast

Entertainment media blitzes do more harm than good on occasion. I know so much about The Planet of the Apes reboot franchise, which started in 2011, thanks to the myopia of Charlie Rose, that I am deterred, but Caesar is an apt stand in for the underlying rage of repression which leads to instability, and yet one loves Sam Neill as the very definition of a taciturn dream catch. The films run into each other and will invariably rerun, but both are useful to me. ABC and the CW will heed the siren and replay them as soon as possible. I'm leaning toward the older political satire in full, due to the fact that Rupert Wyatt's pretensions were so laden Rose made fun of them to his face. Caesar, of course, is the ultimate libertarian made legend. Spastics may have the same fervor when appearing before City Council, as Denny O'Brien isn't going to be let off that easily. (Alas, another obscure reference, but a writer in reduced circumstance has two hours of nagging felines prior to meal preparation.)

Planet Dawn

It begins, the egregious piss and moaning of the vulnerable tyrant to get what she wants, one last time, without making things worse, although I'm not sure what is worse than being disabled in Philadelphia, caught between its Quaker roots and its dysfunctional African nanny-state mentality, unless it is to be a Palestinian casualty of Hamas and Israeli intransigence. Four adolescents, in what should have been the ferment of young adulthood, now a cause celebre for more collateral damage. I saw so many clips of Caesar from The Rise of the Planet of the Apes on Charlie Rose that I was dissuaded from downloading it, but of course the reboot fits my paradigm here.

One of my points, in the revelation of my virulent domestic past, is that human worth is incompatible with our capacity for destruction. Yes, it is a risk to juxtapose these issues, and some ambulatory readers are likely to side with the building manager. Like Caesar, I am a construct who threatens to shatter the glass, and these poor inner city black women have their work cut out for them. Public housing governance is in reality a low key Stalinist state, which may mean I begin to agree with this guy.