I often have to pause my life for a minute — whether that’s driving down the sidewalk, using my laptop, or eating a meal--my alma mater.
Whenever a writer prefers to sit around and pontificate, instead of working, it signifies sirens of calamity in the background, which actually aren't that dire: I wrote a response to George Will's rather ingenious attack on Trump's willful ignorance, forced myself to find a conclusion, hit the ground with six hundred words, and no one is happy. I have to retool it for other markets I've looked at, fairly certain of ones that would spit in my face, aware of the timelessness issue, and would like to turn the crusty baseball enthusiast upside his head and shake his premium express credit cards out of his pockets, also aware, that if I take these insider dirty laundry issues too far, I possibly wind up black balled. To a certain extent, I am already there, of course. Josie Byzek may not have closed her twitter account because of how often she is cited in Disability in Entertainment Arts, but it is safe to say, I'll never go home again. All I want to know is why I was frozen out of New Mobility. My feature, with intimations of Damore's fate, was controversial, but Tim Gilmer still included me on his contributors. The fat lady hadn't sung, as yet. By the same token, the periodical is very limited, insular in scope, and of little help to me. The only thing I can force upon the United Spinal Association is trouble, but I have larger behemoths in the scope, hence, I have to live with the rancor, or push a point with no real justifiable outcome, but what I want Josie to see is her rationalizations about ambulatory male ignorance in no way protected me, despite regulatory schematics, from paraprofessional abuse, from section 202's regimented discrimination. Does she like it, being a lesbian, that in the dark net of attendant care, so many helpless to defend themselves become enslaved to predatory control? I cannot shield myself from its likely recurrence forever. This, supposedly, was the point of Precious's author, this nothing we can do attitude, despite all our industrious legal generation.
Bambauer cleared up a contextual issue for me, in part, and this is how it works, but not really. Google Blogger should suspend me. Twitter too, and authority should force me into compliance, and I suffer say another eight years, until terminal issue discloses itself, or I can take up my little plan and try beating the odds, or go on, wrangle the system for the joy juice that will not force a lethal reaction. Difficult to do with cerebral palsy.
Drexel University is not that well known to me, but well known enough to be intuited that it's little league academics, a bit spartan, perhaps afflicted with uncertainty, and in the larger societal context, George may have survived employee termination, where Lisa did not, because he was white, angry leftist. In contrast, viewers saw Tucker at war with a paranoid minority in Durden, and echoes of the Black Panthers may have resonated. In real time, these issues are about group dynamics, and less about theory, like claims liberty. This is a contextual issue, our faith in an institutional judiciary. It punished Brandon Phillips, my assaulter, but this did nothing for me. It also pushed back against an unscrupulous landlord, one which thrives on a socialist subsidized federalism, dear libertarian friends, but I live in terror, nonetheless, after years of conflict. Yes, I have a choice: go homeless, bully the same old intake system into emergency relocation, but a real genuine legal fight is probably going to take 24 months. For what? Do I presume more affluence? Support him or not, (I am in the middle, hoping he will hurt progressives who failed me), Trump is a symptom; he is not a proximate cause. Some of my longest online associates have made me diffident because of well worn beatnik cosmetic protests that really cannot unravel poverty entrapment.
Despite Thurgood Marshall and Clarence Thomas, despite years of aggressive litigation to broaden civil rights, social reality on the ground is relatively stagnant in the African American community, at least when it comes to major urban enclaves. Philadelphia, Detroit, Compton, Liberty City, large sections of New Orleans, LA, the District of Columbia, even San Antonio, from what I've seen in historical footage, though I grant that Texan violence seems to have a more ruthless aspect to it. The Northeast corridor is more five and dime, if my years off campus were any indication. My perpetrator, for instance, allocated that he was subduing me in order to rob me, but I had next to nothing of value in Diamond Park, five dollars on my kitchen table, purchased by my Italian grandmother, utilized as a writing desk, I still keep my Smith Corona PWP on it, in my static environment. Five dollars, some change. Drug stabbings, drug fires, inner city neighborhoods aren't just about a deficit of resources, and poverty isn't simply about lack of money, nor even education. It's uselessness, and efficiency developers like Ev Williams cannot always solve this through coding and apps; neither can the Communist Party in Beijing, from what I've seen, and white Americans aren't immune from this malaise of not being able to apply themselves. Karina telephoned me Tuesday, unexpectedly, disruptive, and was quite changed, back to her natural brunette hair color, wearing very little mascara. I don't know what it is with me and this New Church woman who inadvertently ignited a war between me and Riverside's management, or, more correctly, ushered in the latest battle I will eventually lose. I feel badly for her, and like her even if she's flighty, leaving me with the mistake of trusting her judgment, and I suppose she feels badly for me, and I'm wondering if I engage in my last life altering event of giving my notice at the end of March, come hell or high water, if she'll let me sleep in her car. I've no idea how she's managed to retain the vehicle, even less why a 36 year old who's a bit loony wants to be my friend. I cannot pay her what I did, even if I find a writing job. What should the fact that she's being kind to an embittered cripple mean? She hardly has the resources to pool her fortunes with mine to help me relocate on the last leg of my viable years. She doesn't want to apply to be my consumer model attendant. Sandra Bland had a position awaiting her, by contrast, when she was arrested for that traffic violation. Did she fear losing it over a misdemeanor?
Spastics like myself have some insulation in that regard. Police do not like the hassle arresting wheelchair users pose, even if their domestic housekeeping presents itself as a liability, and as I come from a family with a number of first responders, I know something about cops and firefighters. They don't want to kill anybody, normally, and aren't prone to excessive force, not on the beat, but an arrest brings any citizen closer to a high risk lifestyle, though in most cases it is a revolving door, when it doesn't lead to rehabilitation due to injuries sustained in high crime areas. Darrell Jordan's decision to impanel a grand jury which then declines to indict doesn't foster trust in enforcement, any more than indicting a celebrity like Bill Cosby on hearsay is justice for victims of sexual assault, and just as automation forgets we're people first. I've been a writer publishing since I was 19, and Inquisitr has ignored my inquiries too.
Ozy would probably say, if it said anything, that my umbrage with them is misguided, and it probably used an automated system to sweep in my twitter account in 2014, and their email to my yahoo address was a prompt, and this doesn't obligate them to listen to me, especially since I am not a passive disabled woman grateful for ambulatory suffrage, but they certainly aren't as liberal as they claim if they can't handle how Philly's incompetent paradigm traumatized me. Won't even bother to listen. In California the unbearable lightness of being is a mandatory disposition, evidently.
Applying the proportionality test to both negative and positive rights may undermine any margin of appreciation of the [sic] state authorities. This gives rise to the problem of over-determination.-- Dual authors Klatt and Meeter, The Constitutional Structure of Proportionality, p 86
How one views the Lionel Tate case, almost twenty years old, depends on your filter. Dana Canedy doesn't bother to cast doubt on the "wrestling defense," because The New York Times couldn't fathom how the prosecutor filed for premeditation, while it is overtly challenged by Bill Kurtis three years later. And then, true to form for troubled African American men, Tate engages in recidivism. It tempts reactions along the lines of dangerous eugenic fallacies, but ethnicity is not a meaningless term, certainly not in the medical field, and in jurisprudence, experts eradicate bias through pretense. Caste, social station, are irrelevant behind the shield of our systems process. Never mind that, according to accepted norms, if you baby sit a six year old and leave her with your son twice her size and hear cries of distress, you get yourself out of bed and check. Kathleen Grossett-Tate was culpable in the death of Tiffany Eunick, but what do we wind up with? Traumatized liberal attorneys, a besmirched ADA, a judge who couldn't craft an appropriate punishment because his hands were tied by state guidelines, a single mother scarred for life by the loss of her little girl, a governor currently limping along in the primaries who attempted to split the difference in a glaringly ineffectual fashion, and the United States once again exposes its bongo justice, during the Clinton years, to foreign ridicule.
At the time this case became one in a series of sensational events the state of Florida just keeps on giving, I was a fledgling journalist. The lesbian ADAPT activist gave me a byline, and the rest is moot, given present earnings capacity. I did not really understand search, and came late to Google, which is why I intuit a vague familiarity, at best, with the trial.
Similarly, during the last days in the life of David Koresh, I was a work incentives advocate due to the wide latitude of a Pew Charitable Trust grant, and Waco was for all intents and purposes a prelude to Xbox, where we begin to lose the ability to differentiate collateral damage. I accepted the concern for the welfare of the children as paramount over and above a radical sect to command adherents as it pleased. Against the stress of case management, it was dramatic entertainment which might have been negotiated better, but hardly a trigger for sedition, sans McVeigh. What created him, what created ISIS, isn't going to fizzle due to drone technology, especially when one's former youthful enthusiasm evaporates because a female feline dashes out in the hallway, gnaws neighbor's trash after you spent the holiday morning chasing cat chow, screaming "Get the fuck in the studio," and Tim opens his door, helping you reign in a spayed foster rescue little bigger than a football. She puked outside Jim's door, the brother with end stage renal disease. I wanted a writing studio exactly like that of Andre Dubus, and instead, I am like a samurai gutting her intestines, familial aspirations imploded, after a middle class life more affluent than this.
My father doesn't want to see me; the sister put him up to it. I don't want him in my unit. He should go back to die at Myrtle Beach, and I envision my own demise in a deportation cell outside of Paris, dreaming of a much more inclusive global conflict than that Niall Ferguson or Jennifer Rubin might see ahead.
"Things are pretty much the same everywhere."-- Timothy Hallinan's Thai cop sidekick
This trial in Thailand seems to echo Western perceptions of vacuous Asian ethics, in a border country seemingly caught in an intersection. I have the actual AP feed bookmarked on my phone, and may refer back to it, but this seems a bit spooky, superimposed from our narrative entertainments in exotic locales. A Nail Through The Heart makes the Scandinavian television series, The Legacy, look like a picnic, and The Beach, as a film, dilutes itself with a poorly referenced plot, but why Thailand? A constitutional monarchy surrounded by a history of leftist extremes, with a big lying socialist bully up north, suffering and pleasuring civilization and savagery collide in an interesting dynamic. Hallinan's novel was so powerful it made me lie for hours in the dark, superimposing many things of my own. Timothy's American optimism perseveres through his travel detective, despite a tidal wave of genocidal deception, and mine cannot, even though he thanked me for my review when I was still with Examiner.
I have been thinking about proportionality for some time, and this case raises it in spades, whether the migrants are guilty or being set up, what possible justice is there for such a brutal attack? The British families will be haunted the rest of their lives, and what motives Zaw and Win may have had seems puzzling, as the evidence indicates there was a degree of rage to these killings. The case also is an exception to sociological studies about class and crime. The indignant do not kill the privileged, except when they do, apparently to sate some driving impulse.
I part company with conservatives like George Will about the death penalty in the US. Will acknowledges the reality of its erosion, and it is a state sanctioned cessation of life in which a percentage of innocent individuals were unjustly electrocuted, hanged, or injected, but I do not think it should be abolished. Some humans are heinous beyond incarceration, but anyway you choose to parse it, justice for these two Britons doesn't seem attainable through standard judicial procedure.
Ian Hacking has brilliantly shown how the diagnosis of fugue as a medical entity was linked in France to social concern over vagrancy.'--Pathologies of Travel, page 266
Intimations of homelessness, rolling into a crowd of young minority adolescents asking if they had seen a manila envelope I dropped to my avowed homosexual state legislator Brian K Sims and his team, after my conversation with his communications coordinator Tim, some seasons ago, who suggested that I call the police. I stopped following Sims on twitter, rarely voting on state political matters. Next my state senator, and so on. Even if I manage to leave Riverside Presbyterian intact, the way Philadelphia and its services network function, the fine and out standing professionalism of Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Liberty Resources, Septa, these have reduced me to pulp at the bottom of a Nutribullet, and as I have already been to CPS off Broad and Chestnut, I have little faith in their intake. I'm beaten, slaving away at some two bit tabloid website, a pallet bed in a West Philadelphia shelter doesn't seem all that bad at the moment, though the system, as it is, would sue each other about me, and I'll wind up in a place like Inglis, if not Inglis itself, the web now a huge spam cart, and beneath this beaten disabled woman is a streak of fantastic brutality so vile Blogger would shut down my account if I engaged in specificity. I know I actually of some of this cruelty in me. Not uncommon with brain damage, nor aging. I told a black woman who manages subsidized housing that I hated her, to her face, and came exceedingly close to excoriating her for her race, not caring if I did, but she played her race card on me too, trust as you may, despite the feminine pain I carry, and in this light I can tell you I am both envious and disturbed by Jean-Pierre Alaux Blood of the vine series. Like Nicolas le Floch, the adaptations of the books is well done, and we get a view of the insular world of enology, which has intrigued me for years. The French have both a bizarre and realistic take on justice and moral culpability. Much more intriguing than British didactic teachings to its wounded superpower child, yet Alaux is illustrating through his procedural what I am illustrating when I use revelation in the way I do: Sin manufactures monsters out of the innocent. An old European Jew figures out that collaborators of the Petain regime slaughtered his family during the war, and so he executes them, one by one, until a French police squad guns the fellow down, but only after Arditi, himself an odds and ends misfit who isn't quite the straight arrow, solves the puzzle, with its disturbing implications.
Europe, and undoubtedly the United States is falling down this slope as well, will never revert to colonial outgrowth. And, despite Putin, despite a surging China too, though Jinping is as much a ripe for mockery jackass as is our American Harvard Law professor (I think it is time to diminish the influence of Harvard University on national policy, seriously) the age of imperialism is over, the end of nationhood itself is, all things being relative, upon us, not in my lifetime, and maybe not quite in the lifetime of my eldest niece, but it is here, nevertheless-- yet we lose something if the post-Google global conglomerate doesn't pay attention to history, especially Old World history. Savant neighbor Robert, the spastic tart who lives in Riverside with me, told me today to believe in myself, tried and true axiom, and yet, believing in myself, the principles of personal liberty which I cherish, means I am placing my personal security in peril. I nearly took Debra Horne's head off when I talked to her yesterday, literally telling her I was tired of taking it, and meaning it. Yes, Debra is, in progressive terms, a disadvantaged minority from the South, but her matriarchal ignorance doesn't make her any less bigoted because her job is to enforce compliance. Riverside's owner, whoever this person is, isn't a slumlord, but he, she, or they, are still extortionists-- which again doesn't mean I am against property owners, just their lack of accountability, and the brutal double standards foisted on me all my life.
In the aftermath of the bombing, I wrote that I felt pity for Jadar Tsarnaev, and that still holds true despite my anger at Mueller's lack of proficiency. I pity Tamerlan's corpse even while home grown outrage flows in my veins, veins desirous of expatriation and powerless to effect this transition. (Ah, I blaspheme for this dream) I have always been one of those annoying tight asses. Never cheated, never swindled, and this city of my birth has done absolutely nothing but punish me for my efforts to be a straight arrow. My anger may be concentrated on Linda's utter lack of consideration for the games she plays with our limited lives, my former supervisor, but this state insurer is a criminal enterprise, and the suffering Keystone cost me in 2007 when they dropped me after I lost Medicaid cannot be undone. I anticipated cuts in benefits after my mother died and did not care, as I wanted to resume my career, but I did not foresee that Medicare would kill me in order to protect itself from the fact that I depend on durable, functioning power chairs. Krugman, or John the Baptist with a .222 scope rifle, likes to point out that 60% of US healthcare is already socialized medicine, but leaves it to Keifer to fight veterans administration medicine regulatory overload in typical Hollywood point guard fashion.
The punishment my body absorbed from state retraction and federal compliance protections cannot be undone. It may be biopsied, and may be treatable, and may even be partly related to the fact that I am a feline pin cushion, but it can not be undone without impairing me to a point of questionable helplessness, and then the mighty mice progressives wonder at my lack of civility when minority rubes surround me in my doorway with the threat of making me someone else's problem. This is how the Presbyterian protestant exploitation deploys itself in the name of good works?
Putting young Jadar to death solves nothing. American autonomous notions remain threatened, however illusory they may be in fact, regardless of whether or not young Tsarnaev's lethal injection, if it comes to that, emerges as a ludicrous telecast on Good Morning America, so what does the administration of justice ever truly achieve? Have McVeigh's victims been able to heal? Are they satisfied or does our home bred insurrectionist haunt them?
What we hope for, I think, is the retraction of the corruption, and if I can pass away knowing that I have curbed the worst excesses of this segregationist model, I will at least have some measure of peace, even as I search for a new support network. I could try becoming the Rosenbach loon, having finally written their name, but wouldn't that be a test of secular tolerance.
I opened up with the group a little at our last meet, now that closure is coming. They are not so bad. Don't faint. I'll retype it if you want me to reaffirm the majority bipedal species can actually be tolerable.
"I'm talking about a relationship with a device."
--Cynthia Nixon
If the kindle came equipped with a vibrator and gender identification software I'd marry it; charging it in the face of a hybrid storm is no doubt lame, but this amounts to my preparations for Sandy. Hardest thing is that my plastic nicotine vapor has not arrived and I assume if the winds really hit the postal service will go into cardiac arrest, and this will amount to my most discomforting withdrawal, second hardest will be intermittent power outages, but Philadelphia, asinine backwater that it is, seems to collect sordid child abuse cases and leaves the grand theater of disaster to NYC. Give or take, I can eat until Wednesday; currently mining The Lovely Bones, but I am not sure the story is ripe candidate topically. To cope it uses the magical realism route. An engaging first hour, however, and more than that, to add a quick end note, this adaptation is my idea of a perfect modern drama. Sebold reminds me of Alice Hoffman.
The soft fatalism that resolves this tale may be how Sebold resolved her own trauma. I commend the courage of her survival skills. I know who all my attackers were, and for her never to have received justice, never to have known, illustrates why we cling to fate. It must have taken her quite a leap, but I am not positive that quantum mechanics ensures lex talonis, though on the basis of probability it may allow for it. The film runs again in an hour, and moved me powerfully. My physical stress is taking its toll, and for the next 24 hours, perhaps, I will conserve my strength, and try to talk to my own projects as I talk to you.
