The Eight Ball Visor

Wer wird ein Kind so zeigen, wie es ist? Wer wird es in seiner Konstellation platzieren, mit einem gewissen Abstand in der Hand?-- Google's synthesis of Rilke, from English and back again

In all fairness to Mr. Dorsey, who looks appalling to anyone's sartorial sense of public presentation, be it New Yorker correspondents or TED enthusiasts, almost as if he's channeling Tommy Lee Jones as Gary Gilmore fresh out of Woodstock:
  
No one arbitrarily anointed him, Ev Williams and his now streamlined Medium, or the others faithful to coding, including Donald Hicks (who certainly looks the part of a queer Iranian's dance partner), to be defenders of the First Amendment, which no longer exists, other than as concept devoid of access. If I was as much of a fiend as I purport to be, I would have weaponized myself against Yashar Ali, gaining significant insight, of a sudden, as to why his family are dissidents from the Islamic Republic in Tehran. Instead I took a break, revisiting the stark comfort of Styron's voice in Sophie's Choice. But for accidents of geography, I might have conceivably matched Styron in aesthetic temperament, despite my sympathies for the feudal caste system Robert E Lee struggled valiantly to save. Styron is to the left of that, undoubtedly, having the grace to host another canonical voice which yet eludes me, James Baldwin, but heaven forbid teaching any of this to the indignant nigger with his high functioning mood disorder who has tended to your besieged buttocks for the past year. If it makes progressives any easier with the ever burgeoning unease of my extreme prejudice, it mortifies me more that I almost fucked a black man who might have been my client at Matrix. This is the graver ethical lapse, one I'm almost ready to cut the cord with, even with the knowledge that I am trapped, Waiver services the maelstrom sucking me under.
Styron did not appear to be happy with liberalism towards the end of his life, radiating that comforting bleakness softly from him on his last appearance on Charlie Rose, betraying that he did not want to die horribly crippled, a slip in manner both he and Rose quickly corrected. What would he have made of the fact that I hold Llhan Omar to be an enemy of state? Reconstituting Nazism for his own lack of species optimism is one thing, a naturalized Somali bigot in the halls of Congress? This may have eluded the grasp of his privilege.
LLhan may say what she likes about Israel. I have certainly explored secular liberalism with my own diffidence, but she has not earned the right to be a federal official in any capacity, has barely earned the privilege of being a citizen. Whether or not she manages to get assassinated, I certainly have the temerity to see how enervating her political success is to the health of our body politic, stripped as I am of Trump's moral cowardice. If my pet monkey from Jewish Employment  Vocational Services Home Care Wing wasn't browbeating me to death for forty hours a week, I'd fly to Minneapolis and launch a ruthless investigation into Omar's electoral success, willing to place myself in mortal jeopardy to do so. I cannot change anything about my Medicaid service in this Commonwealth, even with my delightful Twitter stalker on my heels, a speculative stalker, offering to place himself at my service. It was never what I required, and any additional support will come far too late in my disaffection.

This time, I only missed 36 minutes

If only I could do something important, like bake a souffle, or pick out a tie. --Audrey Hepburn, Wait Until Dark

What I wanted to dismantle this morning, and possibly rectify, is my diffident sensibilities toward MeToo, Nick Gillespie, and his associate editor Elizabeth Nolan Brown. I got into an argument with her about date rape, and although I am capable of respecting Nick and his intelligence, and he mine, I swiped at him in a personalized frustration which will not help me return to the field with the stresses I’m undergoing. I wanted to explain all of this just a little better, and explain it in the sense that I do not need to become a Reason Magazine contributor, but Reason’s staff are often intellectually sloppy, like Brown is with her notions of Kavanaugh’s credibility, only I let my spool unwind too much Wednesday and leaned into my cousin about the paraprofessional who has eaten up a number of my posts on this account. I want to terminate my relationship with him because he lashes out constantly at the way, and how, I speak, and I’m near a breaking point, must have been out of my mind to have ever entertained the idea of becoming his lover. I have been through worse with this outsourced care, but never every single day of the week. I want the nigger out of my life. I can make it happen, but it means grief, possibly his termination, and absolutely nothing of this sustained duress will change for me. Not now. Starting over with yet another minority will wind up in exactly the same place, until I opt to attempt a failsafe suicide method, lose my mind, or give in, go to a state run facility, and if I were stronger, I’d put this torrent fusillade aside and teach myself to work differently, and simply cut him loose. What’s holding me back is I don’t want to keep recycling people whose behaviors are far more abhorrent to me, and that is all. I don’t feel for him in any real erotic context, and beneath the surface, his animosity toward me is taking its toll. There is little to no intervention advocates for victims of [insert category] can offer me, and Nick doesn’t see this, the limits on progressive modality here. Neither, I am sure, does Brown. I was wrong, last spring, to allow my loneliness to let this man cross the line. I crossed it too, we backed off, but cannot quite depersonalize, and for a quadriplegic, aging and always fiercely protective of her independence, it never stops. I’ll have more to say on the matter.

Ashes in The Sandbox

Vive ru Mort-- graffiti in French Connection 2

Operating on less than six hours of sleep in 48 hours, I sat and watched Gene Hackman's excruciating struggle against drug addiction in his second attempt to bring down Charnier, realizing it's virtually impossible to make films like this anymore, so stark, so complex to unravel, so willing to pit doomed moral principles against cesspools of liberal relativism, never imagining I'd live to see Ireland defying the Catholic Church over abortions on demand, wondering why something so hedonistic as Vampira made me ponder the parasitic elements of vampire lore, in its over-used persistence exploring the transformed human into an innate predator driven to tear flesh and blood. David Slade's 30 Days of Night more aligned to my preferences than canonical variations with Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, not that I did not appreciate the revival attempt, putting this all together, we cannot seem to dismantle how we're out-pacing ourselves. My not quite boyfriend paraprofessional may not have noticed the stony numb hatred in my face when I allowed him to sling me into the hoya lift, valiantly repressing my desire to dehumanize him, this African American who puckers his lips like a failed little boy looking for mamma's approval. It ignites my tenderness, and yet I still reduce him, myself, in scurrilous depreciation. Why don't I write it then? I've written it often enough, maybe because I keep hitting the same keynotes, I am afraid, agonized beyond my ability to endure what I am suffering, what I swore never to allow, what I've seen happen to residents here afflicted with cerebral palsy over and over again, for the sake of the fact I am willing to love this loony jamboree fellow, I have become Kafka's metamorphosis, even on the verge of kicking the logs out from under it. And if I kick the logs out, then I must not love him very much, confident if I ceased being his paycheck I'd never see him again, let alone fuck him to death. That phrase is an important concession in our increasingly binding symbiosis. Everything I've despised and fought, my entire 34 years battling and losing in the city of Philadelphia, for him I am a spider bound in a sling, to make his work keeping me here less of an effort, almost ready to terminate every other socialized medical effort around him, the Visiting Nurses Association, Residential Health Services, leeches, blood sucking leeches, while I keep this account active rather than prioritize reassembly of my published work, learn Duotrope, desperately lunge back in as a journalist. My exhaustion is not from any of this. I merely forced myself to stay in the tilt chair, and failed, to await the equipment delivery, texting my equally suffering, steadfast cousin. I need her. My venting was merely she cannot see what she has, and even if one day we transcend his current stability, and become real partners, all Galahad represents is the defiance of desire in the face of death, but unlike Frank, I care about this bumbling lion roaring at me with his nonsense to keep my spirits up, care about him more than any other attendant, as he sucks the fucking life out of me, wearing himself down, unable to afford to do otherwise. Like Josh Hartnett, I will absorb enough of this poverty octopus to burn to ash with the dawn, having slain the virus, its fermenting pestilence, ignoring the pain in my chest. My physiology won't sustain this much longer. Prepare, therefore. Like the morning sun.

Phosphorus Spots

This is the problem with battling a life on whatever entitlement system you can to name. The crisis such as I am having now, these are exceedingly difficult to manage. I have taken a huge hit, over two hundred dollars in additional expenses, with my static life, in an environment which was never one of my own choosing, I can barely nibble any food, remembering my mother coming to Ridley Senior High, where I was parked, as always, in the administrative offices, guidance counselor, perhaps, with the SSI paperwork. I was 16, and had I the benefit of hindsight, to be forthright, I might have stopped my education then and there, with the federal welfare stranglehold. Yesterday, I viewed, come to think of it, one of the last late Law & Order episodes with Waterston and Roache, and the cattish actress who was ADA Connie. The abortion doctor assassination, which, for Wolf's writing team, was powerfully done, in terms of authenticity, and like some of those genetically doomed babies, I should have been allowed to die, instead of incubated, although, even in the incubator, I was supposed to die. Even premature, perhaps it was my destiny, to terrorize ableism. I do not know.

I am still here, of course, but it is too much for me. I may not kill a minority building manager or any of her residents, or a lesbian, or my former supervisor, but I am clinging to the escarpment hidden by rushing waterfalls, and can see my psyche, a spastic psyche, riddled with bullet holes, on some derivative of Thorazine, little more than a maniac, like so many Inglis residents. Yet this L&O episode challenged my extermination of the species as effectively, if not more so, than all the Catholic accounts I follow, and, if I did not know better, Pope Francis might have been tweeting directly to me earlier this morning. For once, this socialist Argentine, of whom I am diffident, reached me as Santo Padre; yet I refuse, like Anne Rice, to flip flop, fall on my knees, and give in to my occasional awareness of a devout fervor. Why? When I did believe, I was too self-conscious to accept all this damned nonsense, the holy spirit, the tongues. I dared to laugh at God, as Umberto Eco raised so dramatically in The Name of the Rose, three years before I ever graced a campus, I laughed at God, and I feel the import of that sacrilegious defiance, and thus force mystery and materialism to co-habituate in my Catholic Atheism. Better to reject divine character than to accept and damn yourself for knowing you can never love it, indeed, hate it, which probably matters little.

This Office 365 download is agonizingly slow, but I threw in the towel  on installing my older 2007 version, and have yet to see if it will take on this expensive, but still ten year old laptop, my feet swollen, tinnitus swirling in my eardrum, powerless, squalid woman, desperate to restore her work, sweating fish oil through her pores. The high school secretary, she had a predication for Sidney Sheldon. I too, find Rage of Angels moves along at a pleasingly taut, climatic pace. Even just sitting here, oblivious to section 202 housing hostilities and jeopardy, I'm suffering, yowling at my poor baby brother for surcease, gratified to engage Gretchen again, even playing along with Facebook humor, I might as well be a writhing succubus: the download is complete, but I have to go to bed, with so little to spare, like a box of food for little kimmy.

The Melnick Revolt Trigger

"There are dark forces at work here." Ian Anthony Dale

To deal a straight material hand this morning, lets revert back to anti-depressants, and assume, amid all the marvelous psychiatric diagnostic classifications available, that a turn of the century adjustment disorder graduated into traumatic stress, triggered deliberately by minorities trained to cordon off geriatric dementia, again, not the best environment to throw in formerly matriculated spastics burdened with quadriplegia. If I go on with this language, a medical textbook recruiter might take another look at my Linked profile, however ambivalent a disability journalist might be in that regard. Anti-depressants are used for more than serotonin regulation, and my skepticism about them doesn't apply to all treatment regimes, but when my mother's sister could talk over my head and exclaim, "that's better," when I was on that turn of the century script, for whom did the better refer? Not being able bodied, the drugs impaired physical ability to function, and cured nothing, however much my dead ex pig of almost husband observed, before he died, that I was getting worse. Frank did not move in here with his commanding army officer, whom he hated (yes, hated, I know, but he is dead and I won't get into it), but I am asked, by society, to grin and bear it every time a facetious transsexual, with whom I go way back, sits outside, its cognitive awareness diminished, smoking a cigarette, knowing what I know, the law letting him off, but not letting me off, why exactly? Because I am angry at how often corruption has destroyed my intellectual potential, and just like other Americans, I need a change of environment, and cannot effect it. Regardless of my condition, regardless of dimming economic prospects, regardless of Google's loving playfulness juxtaposed by its power, which I have nothing against, but have derived little trickle down benefit as a result (what possible use is Ad Words to me if all I am doing is paying into the company's services, again, this was me lacking the confidence not to purchase the campaign), I should be able to relocate, as a citizen of this ferrous republic, and cannot do it without facing what most consider irrational risk. I don't eschew Google's corporate muscle; its progressive proselytizing, that is another matter.

Enter in Danielle Melnick, making use of her ability to be Jack McCoy's intellectual equal, not always adversarial, in Dick Wolf's transformation of American crime dramas, or as the leader of the community Grimes managed to wreak havoc upon, perhaps inadvertently. That was as far as my local affiliate took me into The Walking Dead, but it was enough, as no one can withstand that much hell, that often. In Salvation, she is a stand in for what was expected to be the epitome of sexual equality. As Wiki indicates that the limited summer series was under development in 13, I doubt those who took it off the drawing board anticipated Trump, so in this slow burning coup in a complex asteroid disaster tale, one can infer that Melnick's very brief cameo, dying in a planned televised speech, was the industry's platitudes for girls, as "President McKenzie" was poisoned to death. Boys will be boys, in the grand scheme of things.


Fish oil, as my naturally occurring mood stabilizer of choice, seems to work as long as the continence issues can be managed. The dowager can feel, and function, on 2400 milliliters daily, taken with an actual fish diet. Again, this is expensive, but on limited evidence, seems to be more than a placebo effect. I only feel better, as of this writing, because I'm stocked, saturated myself with salmon, and hoping, fingers crossed, that I can make it to the Libertarian block party later today. If I do not take a bus, maybe I can spring the taxi. But I wish some of you could see the sum total. It is bad enough, being what I am. What Philadelphia has perpetrated on me, because I wanted independence, has been just short of too excruciating. Everyone needs a support system. A 56 year old shouldn't have to grope in the dark, treading in place solely due to inertia of the paradigms long set into place for relegation.

Use The Knob

"you better mean it"-- Chaz Ebert

On a good day, which is not today, I may throw caution  to the wind in relation to concern about the Jazzy motors and corrosion, and do my old bathing chair transfer, at leas once, given that it is summer, particularly as I may present myself to Toomey's staff and become a nuisance about NCIL abuses, I don't know. I'm tired, expect too much of people and myself, and my only intimate relationship apparently resides in Twitter and libertarian politics, and keeping my chin up despite 202 carpets turned into a muddy gulch in ten years of powerchair tires and cat puke and urine and other choice accidents. In Indecent Proposal, Woody Harrelson mentions an architect named Louis Kahn who died impoverished on a bench but as yet, built a masterpiece, and I shall no longer even have that as compensation. No masterpiece here, having glanced at Linda's insufferably shallow posts. I shouldn't have. After eighteen years, it behooves little to observe her superficial shields have only worn the worse for wear. I don't even have the savvy, for it takes savvy, to die of an opioid induced overdose, not having a doctor at my disposal to coax into a nice bottle of Fentanyl. Even if I did, or had the money for a dealer, I'd probably vomit it up. Unlike Marilyn and Michael and Prince, I don't have the fucking privilege of celebrity pill popping, though the ailing O'Neal with his whiny tenor could provide an availing tutorial along the parallel lines of self-pity; I have that in common with the star of my youth. What I do not have, particularly, is a favorite Marilyn Monroe film. The more I study her, the more I see a calendar girl who was a fish out of water, and she and Arthur Miller were one of the more improbable power couples. What in the holy fuck did they marry each other for? He wound up making her a caricature, and she wound up killing Clark Gable in a pretentious and ugly little film.

I wrote, many hundreds of posts ago, that there was something about New Wave black and white movies which cannot be reproduced. I am not a professional critic, but this holds true for me with films of a certain cast, and Miller badly wants this for The Misfits, but it is an ugly movie, nearly its entire ensemble spaced out with injuries or imminent death, and even Roger Ebert, when he could still speak, kind of trailed off, with Miller's motifs about the necessity of slaughter making little sense even to a fat Chicago newspaper man with his Pulitzer and his chocolate bunny widow. (I have no particular need today to be unkind to Chaz simply due to reactionary intransigence beyond the aforementioned descriptive depreciation.) It isn't Don't Bother to Knock either, though for all intents and purposes, Anne Bancroft's recriminations might as well be interchangeable with what I get from Richardson's managerial duress. I should have telephoned the legal referral I received today, and instead, rowed my oars in typical avoidance due to huge impaction, successfully dispensed. Why am I still writing? Much like the overweening caretaker in The Goddess observes, "it's all I know how to do," and I cannot return to my mother's family either. It is a convenience of self-deception, loving them but no longer of them, I shall disrupt my sordid stability in dramatic fashion shortly, uselessly, perhaps, but the act of defiance is ready to cascade a riot of one.

Digressing Clinical Aspects

I just wanted to have a dinner party.-- Meryl Streep keeping abreast of ebullient eschatology

Concentrated dramatic creativity can be detrimental; to iterate it once again, the screen adaptation of Cunningham's derivative novel, The Hours, ripped a hole in my chest, and I had to restrain myself from screaming in email. At Cunningham's publisher, or the author, in much the same way I danced on the griddle of hard copy fan mail for Jayne Anne Phillips, before I concluded, in my maturity, that she wasn't a movement author for me, so much as a secondary iconic figure to cling to Jerry McGuire, which in its own way, is me being rather merciless. Was Phillips sexually attractive in her Poets & Writers heyday? Sure, I am not entirely immune to MacLaine's discovery in The Children's Hour, but neither does it mean I have kd lang's sexual fantasies. I do not gurgle over the breast nipple of which I was deprived. It has never gotten me off. I'm simply so masochistic, and in so much pain, that feminine sensuality opens vulnerability-- but I can never read Cunningham, and have to stay away from the film. It is too intense, however much I am the same.

I am not in particularly good shape. "So? What do you want us to say, go get joy juice." Doing a nice piece on twitter's problems, however, still makes me inexplicably lively, as I believe social media's herd mentality is not always beneficent. I am not here to get hyped, or win popularity contests. I am not Wallace either, but I perceive the price he paid for his laser lens elocution, and I am such a lesser, spastic figure.

The knot of Gambia in the Asphyxiation of David Foster Wallace

Scipio also evidently had a Wal Mart. It was Amber Moltke who suggested that they leave the artist to watch his Sunday Reds game in peace the way he liked to. [sic] The Suffering Channel, loc 4199

Purely in terms of linguistic intricacy, the bones of Wallace rank second to David Mitchell. Mitchell exists in his own universe, and the two writers are different, with the exception that neither can be read without full focus, both take an extraordinary labor, and backing down, going boob tube for some drift, has merit after a load on. The problem with Wallace is that his satirical agony is but a hair's breadth off the entirely unbearable, and though Infinite Jest was purchased, and just glimpsed at, intends to be read, to be able to do what this man did has an excess of heart, too much. Normal humans, his father, wife, those kind of people, the ones who feel Presbyterian Homes cannot put quadriplegics in straight jackets fast enough, blame his illness-- not simply for his death, but the manner of man he was, way he lived. The dowager is less categorical about the science. She can hear Krauthammer regrowing his spinal cord in protest, and in no way denies that depression has parameters, but, David Foster Wallace was, in his own right, a genius, and hung himself nine months in to Obama's revolt as a movement candidate toward the presidency, which ends today. Wallace knew psychiatry could continue to treat him, however variable therapeutic treatment is, and we can assume he loved his intelligence and his ability, and his wife and family. He certainly did not have to face what those with my chronic developmental damage have to face. He and I were contemporaries, only his suicide sparked a furious determination to reconstruct who, what he was, for which Literature Network, reluctantly, may be given credit. I've written about this before, perhaps more unevenly, hammering away. Quite honestly, my anger remains, remains because he understood sensory, physical, deprivation, was a midwestern progressive darling if ever one existed, and fine tunes the tradition, ignited by Joyce, made a ballad by Pynchon, thrown in our faces with raunchy glee by Miller, and nuanced with particular sophistication in "The Suffering Channel," for Wallace, a lighter story, about shit. The ultimate post modern reductionist sentiment is that we're all piss and shit in the end. Wallace couples this with what must be his loathing for marketing/ media aggrandizement, the last story in his last completed collection, about a hick who bakes and fossilizes human stools. The author then leaves another project unfinished, utilizing Asberger's, from what was gathered before Slate became wearisome, and then, the end.

What do I gain from all this? He was my age in 08, a modest celebrity who successfully navigated the MFA puppy mill which put me out to pasture, and I am beginning to resemble a survivor of Auschwitz, and Europe has to snake the scope fairly deep to illustrate that black Africa eschews democracy with equivalent relish to the way American Marxists were once blacklisted. I do not think Wallace hung himself because his illness superseded him. 

Let me switch hit and make an assertion that libertarians and liberals may be confused about which spectrum I'm on; that is reasonable. I am fucking furious that my life was destroyed, essentially, by Jewish liberal prevarication, and a small handful of homosexuals, that I moved into a wheelchair access one bedroom apartment at 23, and then come out like a squeegee tube at 54 in a predominantly black, predominantly hostile senior living facility with arrogant Adventists on one end, the closed circuit Koreans on the other, and a handful of broken whites, passive spastics, save one. Wallace saw this. Whatever other relief he sought, he knew. Humans are driving themselves off the cliff, no matter how education, innovation, resolve problems. King Kong beats his chest. Might makes right, and if it was truly any different, I would not be living in a high risk lifestyle with a debt which amounts to no more than Zuckerberg's or Thiel's, weekly travel expenses.

Hyper- vigilance with Lobster Bisque

"She went after everybody," my dead ex-fiance on why Trudy Richardson's predecessor, Brenda Williams, was terminated.

Once a nervous breakdown occurs, however mild it might have been in comparison to that of maternal progenitors, the threat of an escalating relapse is always present, the anxieties of post traumatic stresses more prevalent, the war between pragmaticism and the platform for your byline a harder struggle, as I tossed my Lessig rebuttal, as a speculative all nighter, to Brian Doherty of Reason when I actually had another pitch for him, and the dead bloodhound olfactory nerve linked to my ego is saying leave him alone. At least for a few months. On the other hand-- there is always the other hand, even if one wants a libertarian flag to flutter over virtual skeletal fracture, my bones snapping in creative destruction, my younger sister yelling at me when I said civilly that I know she'd put me away, time permitting, when the time comes; but we did not fight. I simply told her my writing ability was losing to anxiety, and if I was ever to in fact go senile she needed to tell me.
"Get out more."
With what? The LOTR meet up tolerates me, but none of its members reach out, and while the peripatetic Karina does reach out (maybe she needs an elder female figure too spastic, ever think of that?), the failed private care giver and the troll are on different tranches.  Karina isn't a peer, and I really have nothing to talk with her about.  Extremes of destitution take their toll on the calcium of bone which has passed the half century mark. The disabled community which follows me online cannot really help me, even if I embraced them more readily, which I do not. Where I am not cruel outright, I am either otherwise cold, or cool, although this particular slice of my audience can take pleasure in the fact that I've taken 20 lashes from think tanks I believe I have a divine right to penetrate. Snorts at self. Get up, keep fighting. I had an argument in my head about why I abandoned My Disability Matters. He and I messaged each other about prospective job proposals, and as usual, the end result was a significantly lower level of expectation. "The site is up, maybe you can write about it." Thanks Dale I know you're blind and have a much more positive attitude, but no thanks. It is analogous to fake news and false hopes.

In relation to the left's latch onto the newest evil, that of digital propaganda, Foucault has a point when he raises his voice about genealogy records being a more trustworthy metric over narratives. Take Gwen Ifill's death. PBS inflated Ifill's video eulogy out of proportion; the Newshour, one of the first pre-cable news shows to air the Watergate hearings, spent an entire week giving Gwen a memorial. It may not have been a concoction, like the pizzeria, secret den of iniquity, but it was a lot of inflated padding, less so in print. Her obituary wasn't truly news, not under the rubric of the right to know. It was an accolade, meaning, in essence, that much media filler is a take, a perspective, basically unnecessary, diluted already by television technology; now it collapses under automation. I'm still enough of a journalist to know how to check my facts, how to investigate and confirm. A public which cannot do the same cannot simply paint Russian hackers as the new red devil. 

Poor Signals Binge

"In Rome everything is the color of flesh," -- Diana Dors, another brass platinum defying the patriarchy

Individuals who are as disabled as I don't evict themselves from public housing without a game plan, without even much ability to pack the daybed, the one instance where dead Frank made himself useful, finding a wood frame I liked, with poles I grip after my palsied lateral twist balances my buttock on the sorry twin mattress, a holdover from the unsafe metal bed my mother purchased, the women charging in when I was new, assembling me back together, and yet I've made up my mind that by the end of September I'm rolling out, on a bus, swaddled in a diaper if I can wear the one box of diapers Timothy Artis dropped off when he was still active, in his servile request for rides from the women with cars, myself perhaps only hurrying along Presby's Inspired life in its forgone conclusion, putting myself out on the street to get scuttled in a time of political uncertainty, as I am presuming the election will be a coronation for the Clintons, both of whom look like wax museum figurines, while I wage a titanic mortal struggle within, unseemly at that, checking off the list of lost habits, no Vuse, no pot of coffee on demand, my little plan rolled up in my back pocket, I have to pull myself together and research shelter accommodations, discipline, in this summer torpor, too humid to sleep and nearly too humid to work.

I was always circumspect about Samuel Clemens as a local colorist, meaning I give obeisance to the canon of classification: Great American 19th century author, without caring. Shocking, though of course African American scholars have sabotaged Huckleberry Finn; Clemens too struggled with self-subterfuge, talking himself out of a suicide attempt. He was a successful grandee of American letters. No question of that, but he never anchored himself securely in economic terms, and made a number of bad investments, from which he never truly rebounded, which illustrates creativity in its self destructive tendencies.

For those of you whom I may confuse: I am vacating myself from 22 years of duress from an ineffectual, hypocritical, superficial Protestant dictatorship which exploits damaged humans along the same lines of modern animal husbandry, which is obscene, and a topic which once made Peter Singer the epicenter of activist outrage, along with those grievances, iterated previously,  ambulatory individuals would only endure in a schematic and rigid tragedy like Ethan Frome, which is Wharton's homage to marginalized invalids, the likes of whom are, in contemporary terms, only found in Siberia, or Syria, Libya, maybe New Guinea.


The struggle to destroy Little Vinnie in April turned my one small vinyl suitcase into garbage. to be placed in the trash room before I run around center city demanding an advocate and legal help at the point of a bayonet, as I can. For a dago who used to be able to consume poultry and pork like a pig, I'm eating only in small spoonfuls of stress. You having a decent Monday morning? Time to really work a little and stop panicking, even in the knowledge I am not solving a thing letting blacks continue to make me the heavy, treating me like prey, or bludgeoning me with threats.

Almost Less Than 24 Hours

The last time I sought emergency mental health services was between 1999 and 2000, after Linda was finished playing politics on my economic desperation. I do not bring it up to keep reviewing the respective prisms through which my former supervisor and I saw our interaction. It simply all boils down to the same thing: the image of my brother looking desperate, rabid, while my immediate family commiserated with the juvenile psychiatrist. This crisis wasn't about me, my immobility, but my younger brother's cathartic violence. He died a rapist and a vandal, wasted by AIDS, and I write this for anyone who cares to click the flag to read: I was pissed, majorly, about being pulled from my midterms to talk about Nicholas, and yet I'm pretty much the same, absent the desire to commit sexual violence, as such. My parents were a bad cocktail, a stereotypical Roman male with that singular Italian fury, and a beautiful but suicidal manic who ate her way out of her looks, a couple who manufactured two cripples and a dead sociopath, with my so called normal sister and her fucked up family.

"You need help," my sister's refrain after the CIL got done doing to me what it does to nearly everyone. There are variations: Dr. David Ward trying to get me to accept that I was clinically depressed, before CILS had a legal mandate, or my history instructor before that, trying to intercede in my life so he could sail me off to Harvard. Until I grew up some and got hit with the Tassoni thunderbolt, I wanted to marry Mr. Bruno, smiling at the normal puppy things. 

I should not write this, but despite the fact I am not at the Jayne Anne Phillips level, particularly since I am not a novelist-- and might have a little more change to bring my entitlement up a couple thousand if I was-- be that as it may-- I am fucking tired of the literary submission scene, but I can also never rise to the level of lawyer journalists like Jennifer Rubin, along with the others in her class. My withdrawal is pounding on me, yes, and my lunging hate (my audience should be so glad I am a quadriplegic, as I seem to have inherited Julius Caesar's thirst for war, or I am the -- never mind-- I cannot make my psyche complimentary to spree killers, though I have already) boils like a Georgia peach zombie wresting with the next vulnerable cast member. Even if I give my notice, flee, setting myself up for an unknown sleaze bag house arrest, I've past the point of revitalization, despite the fact that just as Virginia Woolf, we can push an exclamation point on the ecstatic. My fans who used to send me letters said "we'd never try to make a living as a writer," and I certainly never intended to, but re-matriculation? The harder I try, the crueler it becomes. 

Bearers of A Better Age

I finally slipped it on the proper finger, and of course it fit perfectly.-- Michael Grant

By the time we reach a certain age, stories of our mortal arcs become routine: you read one book about a wife watching the husband she lost to cancer lose his hair to chemotherapy, and the only difference a surgeon like Atu Gawande interjects, aside from sub-continent extraction, is the reminder that physicians are just as fallible as the patients they're killing. In this sense, Bill Lyon's arc of decline is something a half century of hearing it may buck. Alzheimer's is not Joanne Woodward's made for television movie. It is my mother's father yelling at me "You have to drive the van!" translating into you have to get ready for Paratransit.

But my grandfather was basically dead that evening. His son, Louis, my godfather, would have been better off shooting his dad in the backyard the day after the holiday. I emailed Mr. Lyon about this yesterday, telling him I couldn't comfort him and hoped it went easier on him than my grandfather. We can take his clinical shrinking and superimpose it into the loss of what being a newspaper man means. It means you searched for Lyon's columns, it means that he represented the working class voice of Philadelphia to a fine standard of excellence, and his example represents what I also reasonably hoped for.

What would you say? That I should have recognized I couldn't handle the severity of my emotional pain, much like my former clients, without committing myself to a lifelong psychiatric battle? I need not remind you, even when I was Jerry's student, being denied her father figure copulation, I had university counselors trying to ease my morbidity by telling me it was "an existential funk". I was younger, more resilient, still able to repress the humiliation which had not yet reached the toxicity of North Philadelphia. The disability center, as it exists today, doesn't know which voice mail to transfer me to, and the fact that Erik's day guy makes me feel unsafe isn't a joke. I have no where else to go, the more functional seniors at Riverside never wanted me here. I never wanted to live here in the first place. Just because Chris isn't going to kill me, I should not be subjected to his belligerent, hostile behavior.

Ideology, too, goes flatline at this point.

Females Nag Too Much

In the time honored vexation of crossing wires on social media, I attempted to speak softly to a mulatto whom I don't like, and he is now following my feed. I do not feel comfortable blocking a half wit who says he served as a Marine, but this is now the burden of conscience I get for making an attempt to tell him not to get too involved in online conversation, and conclude from this we've already drastically altered ourselves for the worse. I know what the man wants. To help me heal, help me soften my stance, but his oozing great guy flatulence holds absolutely no interest, just as my overwrought nerves about censorship go a bridge too far. Google is a company. Facebook is a company, and the litany of digital incorporation is not beholden to the First amendment, just as the right to incite is problematical, even if it is qualified by virtual lifelong punishment. Put it in a book instead of a blog, but even there, texts succeed or fail based on formula, market audience, the like.

I do not quite consider myself on par with the grotesque indulgence of Ducasse, but more importantly, I should not have to care as a creative writer, and Google's engineers and employees, not wanting to be arbiters of the First Amendment, should not have to be, even if they aren't sure about the stance of my anarchy. True pathology may be another matter. Have I hit that tenor on occasion? In my published work, every so often, yes. Editors have taken chances on me, but the instant post, this has done bad things to all of us. Obscene photos traded like gawker baseball cards-- and I don't even do that, though I caught my thigh in the phone frame snapping Vinnie and all the sudden had a graphic image designation, and I should have kept that shot, as Vinnie went off mewing in pain and terror in a plastic containment box at the mercy of a city employee named Elena who hated me for dragging her out here at five in the morning. I have to live with that too, and loved the child.

Publishing to Amazon kindle because I desperately need revenue is neither here nor there, ethically, except for the fact I'm using a retailer as a vanity publisher, which waffles me a little, as rejections matter, and being a disadvantaged minority beholden to an overpriced digital global distributor sets my teeth on edge. No one bothers with DEA, so why would vanity productions alter that in any significant fashion, though one grants the format differs? I have decided to try, dip a toe in, and see, but it is not the category of writer I am, and don't want to jip an audience. They deserve my best.

Grammatical Errors

Not that an amateur use of classification matters, but it is not dementia plaguing me yet. With my budget under strain, I am losing the benefit of my fish consumption, which mitigates my mood, and I've a week and a half to go until my shoe string money management returns to normal. I am doing the best I can, but if I threaten you all within an inch of your lives, pitch in and buy me a flavored Vuse capsule.

I'll be forcing myself to a lot of bed rest. It is like a Catch 22. The more strain on my physiology, the less I'm able to work despite how badly I need to push.

Flora, Fauna, Cashew butter

"But we like suffering."-- Sebastiano Somma

The Woods, being an 06 release, doesn't lack for atmosphere, but as an allegory for the destruction of Camelot, I am still trying to put the thread through the needle. In this instance, the plot summaries do not fill in the gap. Absentee fathers who make promises they cannot keep, those are long realized, but the wardrobe, the hairstyles are too Kennedyesque not to suggest the worst of the ecosystem against the urbane liberalism built on the corruption of bootlegging during Prohibition. Beyond the implication, however, the feminine anguish loses me. Patricia Clarkson is getting on my nerves, and even when it goes to syndication, I'm skipping Learning to Drive on purpose. 

Clarkson has a range similar to Jane Alexander, pensive Protestant females with good breeding who encompass the disjunctive as best they can within the fine tuned chiseled features: thin lips, kept figure, a nurturing conduit of more mothering than sensual definition. I have had the runs for three days, incommoded with sickly sweet stench, washing the mattress of my damnation, today it is the power chair cushion, and this is happening because I've ceased transferring to my shower stool, in order not to corrode the Jazzy engines, since I shall have to make due with this model at least another year.

I do not mind that I'm sloppy, but losing to a filthy downgrade is another matter, and attendants are not going to tolerate this level of battle fatigue. I give up, resign my fate, go insane in an institution. Commiseration will not alter this reality.

I did construct a plan. I finally settled on one, and hope it will not cause an extreme internal struggle, not that I'm ready for it, fortuitous or otherwise, I cannot seem to go down, not quietly. Is this necessarily beneficial? Time to clean the soil, once again. 

Imbecile

I figured out why I cannot activate the 5s iPhone replacement, and it may count toward the decline of my emotional well being that I am reluctant to joust my way downtown so that live AT&T agents can help me swap my SIM in the devices. The constant need to impose inconveniences my desire for self-reliance, but the online staff said it was fine, no extra charge; I now avowedly, avowedly hate iPhones. The 5c came back online, but apparently has schizophrenia, so I have to get the exchange wrapped up by tomorrow, and save my contacts, at least. The stress is poison and not in any way the fault of the old giant and I have no idea why I'm posting this, having not gone with my erstwhile libertarian associates to see the debate. I asked Carly's staff how she feels about the ADA. This Jazzy is still killing me, but that is my fault. I haven't been able to will myself to keep my appointment with the ambulatory practice and get in a boxing match with physical therapists who know jack shit about why I'd like to take Zhang Ziyi's example and slaughter them wholesale. Me and my oh so fine Roman temper, but I have at least somewhat snapped back past sheer toxic panic. 

I'm not going to make it. What does it even mean anymore? Stop posting and work? Yes, with tinnitus, precipitous hearing decline, twenty dollars in my checking account, and my terse cadence with African Americans who keep reciting wonderful tales about case managers and attendants, still pitching in my head on technological upgrade anxiety and poverty, or telling Toomey's staff I make Trump a positive boy scout in comparison to my rage, but hey, here's my resume destroy the independent living center system and relocate me to Allentown, yeah?

I know my attitude would improve if I could leave Riverside, and dismantle Presbyterian hypocrisy.

Politics.

Fuck Katrina's Anniversary Already

This evening's Simenon mystery was affecting, and I missed just enough of the title not to be able to give it to you, but it was an Assassin La Jeune Fils type. Lesbian petting which doesn't entice me. (My problem is masochism and pain associated with it, but another day when I'm ready to lose 20% of my small social media cotillion for exposing what Keats paraphrased as "hateful thoughts".) Then a grand old woman with her own tragedy trying to save the culprit. Only she goes too far, and the ending, affecting. Fucking French norms. Crazy and yet in part they get it right. 

Dirty Snow I've mentioned. Not ready to reread it. No need to in my five hundred things, but I must have every Simenon title. I must, absolutely, at least before, well. Let me return to the conscience of Charles Lane and suicidal depression. Therapeutic advice runs thus: take happy drugs and don't recriminate over what cannot be changed. 

Okay. Happy drugs do not work for varied technical reasons, and I cannot change a great deal, including not being able to sit outside and get away from a broken transsexual who I despise, not being able to get away from my clients, my fucking ex, who looks like a corpse, and every fucking organization and working class minority tells me to keep going back to Liberty Resources without respecting that I cannot, without respecting that I know too much about the corruption that turns Medicaid into a pimping service. Do you live with the elderly who attacked you? And an ex fiance? And disability center board members who are as corrupt as mafia dons? It is bad enough aging with cerebral palsy to the extent I have it, eating the reverberations of trauma every day. If I want to go to sleep, and I am absolutely sure, then I should be allowed.

I really have become a racist, and I apologize, but black society and its counter culture isn't where I belong, and I have to eat it. More on this later. I've decided to visit City Council and try to greet Denny, and deliberately ruckus, paying the price of the pissed.

Heat Advisory

Even in the worst of circumstances, writers write in their minds, only to draw blanks on all the vivacious verbiage in their heads once in front of the damn keyboard, and the only thing roaring at me now is "I can't go through this again," except I have to go through it again. I can't thrive in this world of applications and computer science. I can't surrender without that surrender translating into a certified nursing assistant's paycheck, or some other facsimile of an aide. The welfare state and its fucking solutions. Aides. Aides like Monica Carr. I've posted about her, her lupus, her morbid obesity worse than my mother's.

She's on the third floor in her client's studio because she can't breathe, and I am like one of the furies waiting to tap dance while she enters Hades. 

A post is not a community, and Blogger will be relieved, no doubt, if I go, kicking and screaming, as the reality of my age forces me back into either a centralized facility, or I stay here in the forced diversity under contract with the Department of Housing and Urban Development. If the oligarchs in Putin's vast tundra want a bone, HUD is the most corrupt federal department in the United States, and that seems contingent regardless of ideology. Real estate equals corruption leading to bribery.

Yes, I have fonts of material yet, yes, I need to be realistic about the fact that I'm 53 and psychotherapy would saturate my fucking bloodstream with an anti-anxiety agent, and thereby I go from battered wife syndrome to a drone on a gurney while my mood is regulated while the aide changes my diaper, but I'm worn out. No, Philly isn't all that bad away from minority residential areas, and yes, I have a lousy attitude. I hate the vernacular "have a blessed day," and I'd be over joyed if I never hear it uttered out of another African American mouth, and even if I could relocate, I'm too old to ever be safe.

I was going to assert that I quit, but I cannot say I will not return tomorrow after a bowl of plain angel hair-- but this is the beginning of my goodbye. I can't be too unforgiving toward my best instructors. Maybe I was bipolar then and simply wasn't diagnosed. I bothered my academic advisor as often as I was pining about God-Shakespearean (wry self-pity), but in any event, I've had enough, and now, having sat in this god awful power chair far too long, I am afraid to leave the Toshiba on. It is now making strange sounds, like a smoke detector, and my Hewlett Packard, though pricier, is older still. Sniff.  

The protest of Salmonella's delicacy

One of those wincing days, getting up to comply with the public housing requirements as I've done with the same exact rental agent for 29 years at a frenetic pace, even though I know I'm leaving, trying to remind myself my little brother is following me and can read this, lest I revert to the stark corrosion which led to staff and scrip's support, but it is public housing which has bred my hatred, what my eye sees in the withered skin of these descendants of civil rights and slavery. If I stay I'm dead, and giving my notice merely expedites the matter. I went to a luncheon for the sake of a slice of pizza to listen to a next generation black professional talk about life insurance, and he was quite good at presenting, eliciting my elocution from my haggard frame, and if my mouth was a sword, I would have then committed mass murder: I snapped back at the older minorities who run the tenant's council, then debated Dominic in the lobby, a blustery white guy subsumed by his terminal cancer. You would not know he is dying, and I was as blunt with him as I am with anyone. Upon using the word "egalitarian" he said I was bullshit, that I use my acumen to camouflage my handicap. I sniggered. Wished him well, and here I am, expediting my death at the hands of Protestant positrons.

I'm really leaving, destitute as much through exterior ambiance as in emotional ravage, the film Winged Creatures strives, and fails, to authenticate sudden violence, depending heavily on the performance of Dakota Manning to hold the centrifugal force of the narrative, but as much as one may disdain agreement with NYT, the indie arcs here never meld, despite the cast, and Whitaker's character, diagnosed with his own metastasis, mopes his way through frailty. What concerns me is not that Woods attempts sincerity and unravels, but that writers should be wary of adaptive translation. As usual, the traumas resolve in holistic fashion, save for the diphthong of Beckinsale's far too nuanced denial of childhood neglect. It dims the desire to read an author like Roy Frieirich. His prose may be better, or worse, than his script, but both Frierich and Woods strive for an extended metaphor and wind up with the ubiquity of a Big Mac ground out of fillet, in summation of an unfortunate viewing experience-- it was one of my first films seen on the new Escape.

I cannot run from my limitations. I know that. I'm the textbook dirty cripple who challenges ambulatory endurance, but a battered women's shelter, in comparison to Presby's dominant minority management, feels like a fucking vacation. I have to let this location go. I know the state will win, eventually, but I'm still running; this is my response to what I knew would happen if I couldn't step it up. When I started blogging in 2009, I had 10,000 dollars left, transformed to ground carrion in six years. Poof.

PS: Personal loyalty means a great deal to me. 

Murphy Analgesic

>No, two African American candidates brought race squarely into the campaign on live television during a debate Monday night, squabbling over what it means to be black.

The memory of Chakra Fattah doing the acoustic equivalent of drawing blood on Michael Nutter in a desperate bid for the mayoralty of this city is a vivid historical paean in the burial of dirty laundry which subsequently failed to make much difference. Both men share the same political base, about as old school as it gets, and I have thus far avoided contact with the Congressman about my problems, which are mainly state and municipal related, and, similar to Senator Toomey, Fattah is one of a very select number of 535-- but there are additional reasons. I do not take onus with Senator Toomey and in my contacts I hope I was deferential. Fattah might be another story, partly because I have a little extra education on the underside of identity politics, and Fattah and his wife are wealthy and economically secure beyond what my family could sustain, so there might be some class resentment at play, and so, when my representative included my twitter handle in a short sweet thread on Huntington's, I felt self-conscious, not about the thread, but about my lack of fluidity in progressive sentiment.

I could engage in a lack of civility which is not fair to my federal representative. His affluence has nothing to do with my lights "going out one by one" to quote Isabel Archer on her husband. Damn it to hell that Henry James has a fantastic immortality, and then again, if I "got real" with one of Fattah's staff, a frank exchange might clear the air, but his affluence does speak volumes about the fact that we do not have political equity in the US, and have not had it since Jackson's presidency, and Jackson was an unbowed proponent of defeating native Americans, in the naughty sentiment of manifest destiny. I am still fairly close to bolting-- and if I do is it because I want Pennsylvania authorities to apply force to my person? Is this what I seek simply to make political points about my traumatized and always precarious social welfare? Do I want the police to stun me or apply restraint to risk a seizure, or, do I really believe I can run, evade the worst, force a change? Psychiatry is not simply about the mind, as if emotional disturbance is a disembodied state. I experienced significant indignity over the course of a lifetime, and like a dolt, case managed equal parts suffering and indignity in others, and Candice has the arc of her late husband's illness, the arc of her looks, her father, her famous series, and she seems blase about it and covering an aura of malcontent. "People stepped up to the plate," she said. I no longer have anyone able to do that for me, and yet even though I listened to the diffident comedienne explore her past forthrightly, as a viewer, I might as well have been standing on a rock pile in a Yemenis village. Murphy Brown, in the retrospective sense, had as much to do with timing as with who Candice Bergen is.