As quintessential to Texas as Lonestar Beer, barbecue, and Willie Nelson's Fourth of July picnic, swimming holes are vital to surviving the region's endless, sweltering summers. Carolyn Tracy and co-author preface.
Against better judgment, I fully charged this ailing bucket of a dirty chair, and got it down to 3 hours and a quarter, bemused by some journalist's deliberate poke about sharks not swimming in Houston, and no, I am not tweeting it. Houston is trending enough and the Guv Abbott will feed the coffers well into next year: gave him three exclamation points and decided to donate here. It shall not be much, offered with whimsy, perhaps. I'd land in Dallas and undoubtedly eat lead in the dark at the hands of the hardened sociopaths who can read the little snuff of my soul clinging to the wick, or maybe not. Remember Elton's parody on Caribou? Ai yi yippie yi ay, local color ever diminishing because Eric McCormack put his nose in for ASPCA rescue. There were a few moments in his face against Hirt's rejection of him right before Dove's S1 climax which were reminiscent, pulling the wire taut. Rejection makes life hard enough, but one little interstitial injury to brain plasticity, and life as a primate outcast, grasping rudimentary twigs. I don't know how Hawking copes, even though I do, he sublimates it to teaching us why particle covalence is such a difficult configuration outside of functional equations.
Showing posts with label rejecting disability indentity. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rejecting disability indentity. Show all posts
Thursday, August 31, 2017
Sunday, August 21, 2016
Muffled Down
Capitalism's need for productive and consuming bodies means that it works with Baconian medicine to repair, segregate, or eliminate those embodiments that prevent the free flow of capital.-- Jason Reiner Greig, Reconsidering Intellectual Disability, p 83
It could reasonably be argued, in 2007, when the parents of Ashley X ignited their high profile ethical controversy, I still considered myself part of the activist family, mortally wounded as I may have felt. I did not get involved in the protests surrounding the aggressive sterilization of this child, but I did not lend my voice in opposition to the protests, in part because I shared the activists repugnant recoil over the surgical repression of Ashley's womanhood. I've gone further since, as some of my readers know, simplifying things, like King Herod, but before we wade back into that, parents, particularly mothers, are in the wrong here, to do everything you can to keep minimally sentient humans alive, only to turn them into exceptional medical experiments in the service of scientists. It may be excruciating to let such children die. Hargitay's writers were clever in the one midterm SVU episode, where Olivia was given power of attorney over a premie who even beat me by a number of weeks, and the audience is left hanging, not knowing whether Wolf's battle scarred diva opts for brain surgery or letting the child pass away. It was a nice touch, the writers not resolving the crisis, though granted, irresolution may have been an escape valve, as these powerful unions did not want to take a position to ignite further piss offs, in Jason Statham lingo.
Just as in real time, popular procedurals are greatly ambivalent about disability and crime, the pathology and implications involved. It runs the gamut, from paralyzed cops, traumatic brain injured ball players whose damaged lobe aggression poses legitimate danger, to autistics being used as a diversionary blame, to impaired witnesses being implicated, but crucial to the case. The latter day Linus Roache episode, Falling, rather shamefully gives Not Dead Yet the wish fulfillment it did not achieve in real time protests, while looking at the implications less starkly than Criminal Intent.
Oh, the duress of the parents comes out here, but the mother ship is more concerned with societal consequences, as opposed to Goren's internalized psychological battles. In this sense, it can be argued that the US very successfully uses Hollywood to anesthetize militancy in the bud. At least until Trump destroyed established conservative models.
Now, as to what I believe, even if it offends the laity, is that the Spartans had it right, not that we any longer dash fetal flesh in rock quarries, but the better part of valor is to let children with severe developmental defects be recycled, as natural processes intended for those who cannot achieve their own dignity of person. Pillow Angels are morally reprehensible, as much a material product as the mega shopping malls John Paul II inveighed against in his last encyclicals.
Meanwhile, I woke desperately trying to save my work, knowing The Guardian isn't an option. I've used the work of their journalists as background, and I'd have to seriously revamp. I also need to relax. "Crime Fighter Feline" was an outgrowth of an essay started in the mid-90's about how terrible living in Philadelphia is, though it is true I no longer have the luxury to incubate successfully accepted pieces over that length of time.
It could reasonably be argued, in 2007, when the parents of Ashley X ignited their high profile ethical controversy, I still considered myself part of the activist family, mortally wounded as I may have felt. I did not get involved in the protests surrounding the aggressive sterilization of this child, but I did not lend my voice in opposition to the protests, in part because I shared the activists repugnant recoil over the surgical repression of Ashley's womanhood. I've gone further since, as some of my readers know, simplifying things, like King Herod, but before we wade back into that, parents, particularly mothers, are in the wrong here, to do everything you can to keep minimally sentient humans alive, only to turn them into exceptional medical experiments in the service of scientists. It may be excruciating to let such children die. Hargitay's writers were clever in the one midterm SVU episode, where Olivia was given power of attorney over a premie who even beat me by a number of weeks, and the audience is left hanging, not knowing whether Wolf's battle scarred diva opts for brain surgery or letting the child pass away. It was a nice touch, the writers not resolving the crisis, though granted, irresolution may have been an escape valve, as these powerful unions did not want to take a position to ignite further piss offs, in Jason Statham lingo.
Just as in real time, popular procedurals are greatly ambivalent about disability and crime, the pathology and implications involved. It runs the gamut, from paralyzed cops, traumatic brain injured ball players whose damaged lobe aggression poses legitimate danger, to autistics being used as a diversionary blame, to impaired witnesses being implicated, but crucial to the case. The latter day Linus Roache episode, Falling, rather shamefully gives Not Dead Yet the wish fulfillment it did not achieve in real time protests, while looking at the implications less starkly than Criminal Intent.
Oh, the duress of the parents comes out here, but the mother ship is more concerned with societal consequences, as opposed to Goren's internalized psychological battles. In this sense, it can be argued that the US very successfully uses Hollywood to anesthetize militancy in the bud. At least until Trump destroyed established conservative models.
Now, as to what I believe, even if it offends the laity, is that the Spartans had it right, not that we any longer dash fetal flesh in rock quarries, but the better part of valor is to let children with severe developmental defects be recycled, as natural processes intended for those who cannot achieve their own dignity of person. Pillow Angels are morally reprehensible, as much a material product as the mega shopping malls John Paul II inveighed against in his last encyclicals.
Meanwhile, I woke desperately trying to save my work, knowing The Guardian isn't an option. I've used the work of their journalists as background, and I'd have to seriously revamp. I also need to relax. "Crime Fighter Feline" was an outgrowth of an essay started in the mid-90's about how terrible living in Philadelphia is, though it is true I no longer have the luxury to incubate successfully accepted pieces over that length of time.
Tuesday, July 26, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
Brokered Conversions
Michelle Cottle's passive aggressive sniping in her articles, whether for The Atlantic or The New Republic, in old media periodical cross breeding, isn't as evident in her online demeanor when subbing for the old PBS battle axe Mark Shields; spastic was more interested in putting her face to the work, merging body to voice, than the analysis predicating the rise and fall of national political ambitions as our two party system continually fragments in the gilded age of Silicon Valley. I admonished Michelle years ago for a blog post she wrote in incredulous censure of a woman in full dementia she overheard in a supermarket. It was a duplicitous method all writers use, capitalizing on ailments to churn content, but it wasn't the woman's fault if she was disoriented, and Michelle's snippy intonation culminated in assigning blame, and yet, if Ms. Cottle represents one end of the ambulatory spectrum, and spastic the other, just short of a contorted "demon" in the black underclass vernacular, then my own quest for fusion has failed. If I won't play by the rules, as reasonable suburbanites like my mother's sister might ask, then what do I expect? I expect the so called progressives to be honest: the media has a caste system too, and Gwen Ifill, Judy Woodruff, would be incapable of offering me social equality.
WPVI could film me in 1992 using the automatic doors of the Presidential Suites office complex, but it is a form of tokenism, much as my unintended comical interludes on Senator Rickles SSA committee, or some such fellow from Michigan, was tolerated with chagrin a few years later, in Washington DC. It was all I could do not to fuck the black congressional aide under the table, but I had wet dreams of my own about Clinton. The district just does something to the sex drive, regardless of ideology, or fringe element.
Perhaps I will never be a fully engaged journalist again. The field has its own bubble, constantly eschewing itself, constantly exploiting, inundating, telling it slant to engage. I understood its mechanisms from the days when my Ridley High article quoting the superintendent about driving school generated controversy in the senior class. There I was invisible, doing my job, fully matriculated, and I daresay happy, but it's a ruthless way to make a living, and has its elements of sociopathy, as the writers for Hannibal intimated in their first season's work. I signed up to do a meet up with writers in center city tonight, but again, I'm too tired, not there so much for group think. All I do is write. I thought the networking would smooth out my vulgar plumage. Maybe next time, again.
In applying my sentiments to the plight of flagship brands, I'd watch for Chris Hughes to hand off TNR to another legacy holder, even a possible merger with the former satellite voice of Boston. We'll see.
WPVI could film me in 1992 using the automatic doors of the Presidential Suites office complex, but it is a form of tokenism, much as my unintended comical interludes on Senator Rickles SSA committee, or some such fellow from Michigan, was tolerated with chagrin a few years later, in Washington DC. It was all I could do not to fuck the black congressional aide under the table, but I had wet dreams of my own about Clinton. The district just does something to the sex drive, regardless of ideology, or fringe element.
Perhaps I will never be a fully engaged journalist again. The field has its own bubble, constantly eschewing itself, constantly exploiting, inundating, telling it slant to engage. I understood its mechanisms from the days when my Ridley High article quoting the superintendent about driving school generated controversy in the senior class. There I was invisible, doing my job, fully matriculated, and I daresay happy, but it's a ruthless way to make a living, and has its elements of sociopathy, as the writers for Hannibal intimated in their first season's work. I signed up to do a meet up with writers in center city tonight, but again, I'm too tired, not there so much for group think. All I do is write. I thought the networking would smooth out my vulgar plumage. Maybe next time, again.
In applying my sentiments to the plight of flagship brands, I'd watch for Chris Hughes to hand off TNR to another legacy holder, even a possible merger with the former satellite voice of Boston. We'll see.
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Incurable Desires of a Romantic at Heart
Dear Orhan Pamuk,
My name is Joanne Marinelli. Before you appeared on the round table with Charlie Rose to promote Snow, I had no idea who you were, but your interview with the zealous and cosmopolitan talk show host stayed with me, and I purchased an electronic edition of your novel long after its rippling effects on the circuit had simmered down, and I gained not a few page views from Turkey when I compared my own militancy to the threat your poet Ka felt from Hande during the family gathering in Kars. I write a rather esoteric blog called Disability in Entertainment Arts, and Google doesn't always know what to do with my equally acerbic outbursts. Google Blogger was going to privatize my account and then reversed itself, so you aren't the only one who's voice is occasionally hindered by authority, even if my manners aren't as subtle as yours, within your clever narration techniques.
I am a long suffering poet with spastic cerebral palsy, native to Philadelphia, with a small collection of poetry called Like Fire. I do not yet have a second, and at the rate my life is going, my oeuvre may be left as unfinished as that of your sad protagonist. I had a brief rise as a poet, a longer stint as an ineffectual case manager within disability and mental health intake, then earned 3,000 USD as a journalist, like Ka.
I suppose I am writing to you, as opposed to doing what can only now be a retrospective appreciation of your novel, because I identify with the alienation of your analytical observers within the text, and I was betrayed by people I trusted in a rather heinous fashion, and for an American, my situation is presently untenable, though perhaps not as dire as your suicide girls. I am not being beaten by my ex-fiancé, but I am being terrorized by the state welfare system as Pennsylvania administers it, presently engaging in a passive resistance which isn't much of a solution: a homeless cripple by the end of July is in a far worse position in a majority African city than a defiant cripple who gives in to the cruelty of compliance models given her age, hence this small trail of epistolary outreach to career academics.
After all the Modernist tricks I've learned, and even after the streak of lightning that was David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, a construct which brought me to tears because no matter how hard I practice I'll never achieve anything like that, you are a very gifted novelist, possibly a great one, breaking through all the stereotypical images Hollywood offers about what being Turkish means. I'm half rabid with poverty, inches away from being crushed by merciless regimentation, and though I never studied under a foreign national like you, you made me care, made me struggle with my own conflicts with pluralism in secular governance. I'm never going to be happy, but I am undoubtedly afraid to give a life afflicted with so much pain up to fate.
My best wishes,
Joanne
My name is Joanne Marinelli. Before you appeared on the round table with Charlie Rose to promote Snow, I had no idea who you were, but your interview with the zealous and cosmopolitan talk show host stayed with me, and I purchased an electronic edition of your novel long after its rippling effects on the circuit had simmered down, and I gained not a few page views from Turkey when I compared my own militancy to the threat your poet Ka felt from Hande during the family gathering in Kars. I write a rather esoteric blog called Disability in Entertainment Arts, and Google doesn't always know what to do with my equally acerbic outbursts. Google Blogger was going to privatize my account and then reversed itself, so you aren't the only one who's voice is occasionally hindered by authority, even if my manners aren't as subtle as yours, within your clever narration techniques.
I am a long suffering poet with spastic cerebral palsy, native to Philadelphia, with a small collection of poetry called Like Fire. I do not yet have a second, and at the rate my life is going, my oeuvre may be left as unfinished as that of your sad protagonist. I had a brief rise as a poet, a longer stint as an ineffectual case manager within disability and mental health intake, then earned 3,000 USD as a journalist, like Ka.
I suppose I am writing to you, as opposed to doing what can only now be a retrospective appreciation of your novel, because I identify with the alienation of your analytical observers within the text, and I was betrayed by people I trusted in a rather heinous fashion, and for an American, my situation is presently untenable, though perhaps not as dire as your suicide girls. I am not being beaten by my ex-fiancé, but I am being terrorized by the state welfare system as Pennsylvania administers it, presently engaging in a passive resistance which isn't much of a solution: a homeless cripple by the end of July is in a far worse position in a majority African city than a defiant cripple who gives in to the cruelty of compliance models given her age, hence this small trail of epistolary outreach to career academics.
After all the Modernist tricks I've learned, and even after the streak of lightning that was David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, a construct which brought me to tears because no matter how hard I practice I'll never achieve anything like that, you are a very gifted novelist, possibly a great one, breaking through all the stereotypical images Hollywood offers about what being Turkish means. I'm half rabid with poverty, inches away from being crushed by merciless regimentation, and though I never studied under a foreign national like you, you made me care, made me struggle with my own conflicts with pluralism in secular governance. I'm never going to be happy, but I am undoubtedly afraid to give a life afflicted with so much pain up to fate.
My best wishes,
Joanne
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Helsinki is an exotic state
The Finnish upgrade to Wybe's global media feed, Look of a Killer, however synthetic in its charm, has only furthered my conviction that Slavic Eurasians against Siberian backgrounds says something uniquely telling about the human condition, which the adaptations of Jussi Vares exposes with more precision than the more contemporary, jazzier series. We can't shake the traces of absurdest, abstract expressionism, just as I can't shake the fact that I am a cripple, a pig, with all the best of intentions, aging out of relevance. Why should millennials care, in other words, about the most destitute Americans glued to the dictatorship of social service paradigms? I just got off the phone with UCPA, searching for alternatives, to what though? I'm an old stubbly pear, personal aide, room mate, or cavern like Inglis House notwithstanding, only alive when I'm writing. Off the keyboard I'm a numb racist by virtue of having lived under the auspices of a Presbyterian syndicate for 30 years. I cannot change the end result of my downward escalation, the impassive masks of ambulatory persons to whom I appeal. "Cripple is a whole other country," I told the public policy guy with his affirmative sympathy. Commiseration doesn't alter that landscape, and though engaging in dialogue with an activist mentality may not be so bad, making connections one has, I no longer know how to sell myself optimism. Within a decade I'll be bed ridden. Ask yourself, in that context, what the relentless pressure Trudy Richardson imposes on me hopes to achieve other than making me someone else's problem. Being quadriplegic sucks. It hurts, and the positive attitude of empowerment is only a constraining measure, a conviction that this existence is better than nothing.
I have to ease up over the next few weeks, as if I'll actually hold myself to that.
I have to ease up over the next few weeks, as if I'll actually hold myself to that.
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Vincent Likes The Bed Making Game
All this scar tissue bubbling over the loss of simple plastic tube technology, but the Aero filled in the gaps from the e-vapes, and I became dependent on both cigarette technologies to keep me away from traditional tobacco. Vuse is nice, and I am switching over to it from blu cigs, but the Aero simply worked for me, and I cannot back slide back into 3 packs a day. My lung decline is too advanced, aside from the children I must soon give up, unless the sliver of my mind left still convinced of my tragic mental acuity can pull a stroke of genius out of my life long location misery. Tony Stiles is the most recognized libertarian following me on twitter. I took a few days to digest this, think about it, schedule a slot to listen to his broadcast, or flag my time to do so, at some point, but let me say this: The one thing we all know is if you break your leg, you can no longer run the Olympic marathon. Liberals out of sympathy create the Paralympics so the gimps can imitate what they once were, and a conservative might say amputation is the better part of valor-- so, there are politics around these broken bodies, and my desire to get out of Riverside Presbyterian is not a denial of the fact that I'm over 50 but a recognition of it: I want the housing authorities to stop criminalizing my limitations and I want to decline without constantly being threatened by Protestants modeling me on their "good works" doctrine (through terrorizing me for 30 years, that will do it), first under Caucasian hypocrites, then under black liberation theology, which has its own pretensions that personal responsibility burrows over African psychopathy. Like Stacy Head, I know it doesn't, but unlike Stacy Head, I am unapologetically racist. Philadelphia's minority majority encrypted that codex for me, and the city of New Orleans is a disease I am buoyed not to know, just as sibling frictions are complex. I apologized to my sister for going overboard with her in 2007. My life was in jeopardy, seriously, and I lost it, but this isn't to recognize simmering resentments.
Stephanie married badly, and her husband is placid but also white trash, and having four children in rapid succession dampened her aspirations. What they were I can no longer say, since she enrolls in college, drops out, takes a nursing degree but has to end her career for the sake of the husband. In her book, I have unenviable freedom, and we both accuse each other that these are the lives we made. I know I need technology I can no longer afford to stay independent. Christ knows I've grown old with militants like Cassie James frightening people and my former editor Josie Byzek preaching catechism to the choir, but I'm of an age where I make the decisions: look at how many layers of government direct how we live our lives, SSA, HUD, the VA, the IRS, and the favorite of drug dealers, public welfare. This is why I spent my childhood under the knife, so that I could provide a house nigger like Trudy Richardson a job telling senile people how to handle their ovens in a kitchenette. This is it, that's all I am, a problem that justifies her salary while I was doing home economics before she was born, in rehabs, when I was fourteen. Freedom is making the bed on my time, thank you, and saying let me go when it it time instead of medically torturing me back into bed ridden containment. I've considered accessing 4 chan to help me get out, even for a short time. I know it is a risk, but this is how much I want to breathe without regulatory dictation at my back, though it could be too late, could be.
Stephanie married badly, and her husband is placid but also white trash, and having four children in rapid succession dampened her aspirations. What they were I can no longer say, since she enrolls in college, drops out, takes a nursing degree but has to end her career for the sake of the husband. In her book, I have unenviable freedom, and we both accuse each other that these are the lives we made. I know I need technology I can no longer afford to stay independent. Christ knows I've grown old with militants like Cassie James frightening people and my former editor Josie Byzek preaching catechism to the choir, but I'm of an age where I make the decisions: look at how many layers of government direct how we live our lives, SSA, HUD, the VA, the IRS, and the favorite of drug dealers, public welfare. This is why I spent my childhood under the knife, so that I could provide a house nigger like Trudy Richardson a job telling senile people how to handle their ovens in a kitchenette. This is it, that's all I am, a problem that justifies her salary while I was doing home economics before she was born, in rehabs, when I was fourteen. Freedom is making the bed on my time, thank you, and saying let me go when it it time instead of medically torturing me back into bed ridden containment. I've considered accessing 4 chan to help me get out, even for a short time. I know it is a risk, but this is how much I want to breathe without regulatory dictation at my back, though it could be too late, could be.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Poop deck doxing
"There is nothing so dangerous as a woman with nothing left to lose."-- voice over narrator.
I recognize Caitlin's description of the problem of digital mob rule; its potential impact lurked in the background long before Spike Lee fell into an "I'm gonna get that sucka," mindset and posted the wrong address for his followers, with the resulting fallout. I am guilty of it myself, to the extent that even if my former disability center is lying about my former supervisor's departure, the sheer force of my emotional pain has had a significant dampening impact. Fortunately for you, I do not opine on Leelah/Joshua Alcorn's orientation. Not due to lack of courage, simply that it is news to me and I can't waddle out buffalo chips chasing every prairie fire, except to reiterate what I've conveyed before. Suicide is selfish. A select number of individuals may have no choice at the end of the day, but I have trouble believing that a 14 year old's suffering was so extreme that he/she had to punish his family with a irreversible solution. Look at the tenacity of Cosby's accusers, or genocide survivors. A didactic scold like Martin Amis isn't wrong about the strength of survivors, using his novel art to excavate fascism. (More on that another day, I have to tackle the pragmatics of post-European imperialism)
China's news agency put out the usual statistical factoid that 35 people died in riots on the mainland. I'm willing to bet John Lewis, as an Atlantic contributor, isn't in temple lighting incense for these 35-- my point being that today's activists should be as honest with their blinders as my generation is not.. My scapegoating exorcism occurred 15 years ago, and nothing has changed about the language as a whine of dependency. I do not wish to return to it, at least not as a protester. The world of IL is a subset, just as this Texas Monthly on Michelle Lyons is a subset, an oracle tableau of stark banality which is not really about the death penalty, because sometimes, there are no answers, and the European line in the sand over life imprisonment glosses over their parallel ethical morass in the worst cases. What Pamela is exploring is a subculture with its own price tag, creating its own expatriates.
It was posted to Writersblock by Venkat, and is the best long form article of 2014, receiving a staggering 8 votes. It may be read as a progressive victory in the wings, but there is always an undertow, a warning in those wings. Surviving is never quite the same when what has to be survived is overwhelming. How we vanish, it always has a ripple effect.
I recognize Caitlin's description of the problem of digital mob rule; its potential impact lurked in the background long before Spike Lee fell into an "I'm gonna get that sucka," mindset and posted the wrong address for his followers, with the resulting fallout. I am guilty of it myself, to the extent that even if my former disability center is lying about my former supervisor's departure, the sheer force of my emotional pain has had a significant dampening impact. Fortunately for you, I do not opine on Leelah/Joshua Alcorn's orientation. Not due to lack of courage, simply that it is news to me and I can't waddle out buffalo chips chasing every prairie fire, except to reiterate what I've conveyed before. Suicide is selfish. A select number of individuals may have no choice at the end of the day, but I have trouble believing that a 14 year old's suffering was so extreme that he/she had to punish his family with a irreversible solution. Look at the tenacity of Cosby's accusers, or genocide survivors. A didactic scold like Martin Amis isn't wrong about the strength of survivors, using his novel art to excavate fascism. (More on that another day, I have to tackle the pragmatics of post-European imperialism)
China's news agency put out the usual statistical factoid that 35 people died in riots on the mainland. I'm willing to bet John Lewis, as an Atlantic contributor, isn't in temple lighting incense for these 35-- my point being that today's activists should be as honest with their blinders as my generation is not.. My scapegoating exorcism occurred 15 years ago, and nothing has changed about the language as a whine of dependency. I do not wish to return to it, at least not as a protester. The world of IL is a subset, just as this Texas Monthly on Michelle Lyons is a subset, an oracle tableau of stark banality which is not really about the death penalty, because sometimes, there are no answers, and the European line in the sand over life imprisonment glosses over their parallel ethical morass in the worst cases. What Pamela is exploring is a subculture with its own price tag, creating its own expatriates.
It was posted to Writersblock by Venkat, and is the best long form article of 2014, receiving a staggering 8 votes. It may be read as a progressive victory in the wings, but there is always an undertow, a warning in those wings. Surviving is never quite the same when what has to be survived is overwhelming. How we vanish, it always has a ripple effect.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Phillips Head, Stripped
"You have to touch me. On the inside part. And you have to call me my name." -- Beloved, p. 137
It was a surprisingly cool day. Normally, I do not get much fresh air on this back end of the building which faces the Schuykill, and it is pleasant, the need not to scurry after my life long concomitant triggers with animal waste and feline maintenance. Cats. Spend how many ten spots on trinkets for them and they prefer to practice their hunting skills with our Homindaen accouterments: the ear plugs for the Apple, a device whose touchpad interface still has not merited the need to fetishize its convenience, or my endless supply of plastic cigarettes.
This is scant consolation for my frayed relations with the Jamesians, and I bitterly rue my gushing ease of familiarity with Louise. I almost hate her for my flawed ease of intimacy with crippled strangers. I had a major disruption on the list years ago, before Louise lurked on it, (or so I assume, as she would have been very young and perhaps still an undergraduate) when Carrol Cox wrote a controversial article for HJR about the list serv itself. Marcia was still easily conversant with me back then, and explained to me that Carrol Cox flustered a number of her colleagues, not just me. I thought Dr. Cox made a stab in my direction, however. Feeling slighted, I unsubscribed in a huff. Returned later, tail quietly between my legs.
I cannot unsubscribe and re-subscribe as the whim seizes me, but I no longer feel welcomed, encouraged, supported, and this friction began when Louise approached me, unwittingly creating the cripple to cripple affinity, and now I’m pissed off. I liked being the underdog with these scholars, liked the hope that I could one day submit an article, and join their conversation, only to be called upon to be a mentor and good lieutenant for a girl of nascent naiveté who was impacted by the force of my writing. I cannot remember what led to my opening up with her.
Initially, I thanked her for her praise and left it at that. Much like more successful authors, I have enough experience to be wary of admirers (my obsessive clinging to the memory of Jerry McGuire being a case in point). If I thought anything else about it, I speculated incorrectly that Louise was a graduate student who knew nothing about the furious chip on my shoulder. I forgot about it. She approached me again, followed me to LiveJournal, where I have yet to wrap up my account. I made a fatal mistake at that point in the extent of my interaction, allowed her to telephone, posted something facile to the list serv which upset Greg who in turn upset me, post openly about all this, and cannot glue that fellowship over a singular and esoteric appreciation back together.
As a virtual community, small straw that it is to cling to, the list was my haven away from disability and civic strife, and I am pissed. Really, but being pissed doesn’t grant absolution, nor make Greg and I easy again. I had the right to decouple myself from the girl. I have been in a precarious state of living for a long time. More than likely my emotional state will continue to rock under duress. Louise has a federal job, and whatever security goes with that. I have the nightmare of recycled indigence, and whatever her fragility, she has not sustained my abuse. I no longer have the strength or psychic space to carry other disabled people due to my ability to survive hell, and in the same vein, Dr. Ian has the right to cut me loose, for whatever perceived breach. It was a small thing that mattered to me though, belonging and contributing to those appreciative of Jamesian mastery. I’m left at a loss, growling of little consolation.
I will bookmark the idea to one day expand on my displeasure with Toni Morrison's masterpiece. It is still important to be responsible towards the aesthetic dissonances we harbor.
It was a surprisingly cool day. Normally, I do not get much fresh air on this back end of the building which faces the Schuykill, and it is pleasant, the need not to scurry after my life long concomitant triggers with animal waste and feline maintenance. Cats. Spend how many ten spots on trinkets for them and they prefer to practice their hunting skills with our Homindaen accouterments: the ear plugs for the Apple, a device whose touchpad interface still has not merited the need to fetishize its convenience, or my endless supply of plastic cigarettes.
This is scant consolation for my frayed relations with the Jamesians, and I bitterly rue my gushing ease of familiarity with Louise. I almost hate her for my flawed ease of intimacy with crippled strangers. I had a major disruption on the list years ago, before Louise lurked on it, (or so I assume, as she would have been very young and perhaps still an undergraduate) when Carrol Cox wrote a controversial article for HJR about the list serv itself. Marcia was still easily conversant with me back then, and explained to me that Carrol Cox flustered a number of her colleagues, not just me. I thought Dr. Cox made a stab in my direction, however. Feeling slighted, I unsubscribed in a huff. Returned later, tail quietly between my legs.
I cannot unsubscribe and re-subscribe as the whim seizes me, but I no longer feel welcomed, encouraged, supported, and this friction began when Louise approached me, unwittingly creating the cripple to cripple affinity, and now I’m pissed off. I liked being the underdog with these scholars, liked the hope that I could one day submit an article, and join their conversation, only to be called upon to be a mentor and good lieutenant for a girl of nascent naiveté who was impacted by the force of my writing. I cannot remember what led to my opening up with her.
Initially, I thanked her for her praise and left it at that. Much like more successful authors, I have enough experience to be wary of admirers (my obsessive clinging to the memory of Jerry McGuire being a case in point). If I thought anything else about it, I speculated incorrectly that Louise was a graduate student who knew nothing about the furious chip on my shoulder. I forgot about it. She approached me again, followed me to LiveJournal, where I have yet to wrap up my account. I made a fatal mistake at that point in the extent of my interaction, allowed her to telephone, posted something facile to the list serv which upset Greg who in turn upset me, post openly about all this, and cannot glue that fellowship over a singular and esoteric appreciation back together.
As a virtual community, small straw that it is to cling to, the list was my haven away from disability and civic strife, and I am pissed. Really, but being pissed doesn’t grant absolution, nor make Greg and I easy again. I had the right to decouple myself from the girl. I have been in a precarious state of living for a long time. More than likely my emotional state will continue to rock under duress. Louise has a federal job, and whatever security goes with that. I have the nightmare of recycled indigence, and whatever her fragility, she has not sustained my abuse. I no longer have the strength or psychic space to carry other disabled people due to my ability to survive hell, and in the same vein, Dr. Ian has the right to cut me loose, for whatever perceived breach. It was a small thing that mattered to me though, belonging and contributing to those appreciative of Jamesian mastery. I’m left at a loss, growling of little consolation.
I will bookmark the idea to one day expand on my displeasure with Toni Morrison's masterpiece. It is still important to be responsible towards the aesthetic dissonances we harbor.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Inimitable Autonomies Within a Myeloma
Brown initially shared Garrison's pacificism. As a boy, he'd been so disgusted by what he saw of soldiers during the War of 1812 that he later refused to drill with local militias and paid fines to avoid military service. -- Midnight Rising, kindle edition loc 375
In relation to the ACA, I take a different view. Health care will never be radically equalized; it is impossible to achieve this on a global scale. Access to humane treatment is not entirely beyond scope, but this has regional variability.
I have written that I believe in self worth, and do, but cannot delude myself, on macro scales, that my individual life is valuable. My birth was dangerous and difficult and the fetus was supposed to die, didn't, and when that is the summation of an existence, it alters the viewpoint. Someone like Monica Carr, herself a warped challenge for you not to judge her disapprovingly, as she is not simply heavy, but repulsive, like the teletubbies, of which I've been suspicious since I first laid eyes on them, used to tell me that my reactions were irrational. Mmm. For a happy god-fearing suburbanite who successfully raises her progeny and keeps her partner's testicles in a vise, a desire for a short lifespan might be irrational.
Not for me. Existence, to be precious, needs contingency, and it's okay to be single, if you have sustaining relationships and function around that; during youth, dreams of ambition kept me afloat, but I should have realized as an undergraduate that I was doomed, simply as a matter of policy containment and failed domestication. I am sloppy, cluttered, have Italian sinuses, and when I have not been caged, or made into a Frankenstein facsimile, pedestrian sensibility wants it done as a matter of course, hence the dimmer on empathy for aggressive treatments of complex cancers, or even Dick Cheney's heart disease. Continuous fighting in this sense is the irrationality on a evolutionary scale. We're a complex primate, but possibly not unique, and sustaining each 7.1 billion self interested persons may be beneficial to selfish desire to stick around as long as possible, but not in the best interest of the large egg on which we live. If you are over fifty with a multiple myeloma, all that chemo, all those drugs, may buy you time at the expense of other long term viabilities.
I never believed in my own invincibility, and that is one value the long term disabled community can offer. That I'd rather have euthanasia available as an option is not an easy thing to write, but I write it in terms of my expenditures. I have not raised children. Career has been a lifelong unhappy battle, and because people need to make a living themselves, they get the right to manage how I live, and from here, within how many months, I will be forced, once again, to depend on quasi-asinine nursing care, primarily bed ridden because lifting me off a mattress invites liability. I'd rather go to sleep than spend an excruciating period of time under that duress. Now I have to go work on my 400 word piece of snark. Harrumph.
In relation to the ACA, I take a different view. Health care will never be radically equalized; it is impossible to achieve this on a global scale. Access to humane treatment is not entirely beyond scope, but this has regional variability.
I have written that I believe in self worth, and do, but cannot delude myself, on macro scales, that my individual life is valuable. My birth was dangerous and difficult and the fetus was supposed to die, didn't, and when that is the summation of an existence, it alters the viewpoint. Someone like Monica Carr, herself a warped challenge for you not to judge her disapprovingly, as she is not simply heavy, but repulsive, like the teletubbies, of which I've been suspicious since I first laid eyes on them, used to tell me that my reactions were irrational. Mmm. For a happy god-fearing suburbanite who successfully raises her progeny and keeps her partner's testicles in a vise, a desire for a short lifespan might be irrational.
Not for me. Existence, to be precious, needs contingency, and it's okay to be single, if you have sustaining relationships and function around that; during youth, dreams of ambition kept me afloat, but I should have realized as an undergraduate that I was doomed, simply as a matter of policy containment and failed domestication. I am sloppy, cluttered, have Italian sinuses, and when I have not been caged, or made into a Frankenstein facsimile, pedestrian sensibility wants it done as a matter of course, hence the dimmer on empathy for aggressive treatments of complex cancers, or even Dick Cheney's heart disease. Continuous fighting in this sense is the irrationality on a evolutionary scale. We're a complex primate, but possibly not unique, and sustaining each 7.1 billion self interested persons may be beneficial to selfish desire to stick around as long as possible, but not in the best interest of the large egg on which we live. If you are over fifty with a multiple myeloma, all that chemo, all those drugs, may buy you time at the expense of other long term viabilities.
I never believed in my own invincibility, and that is one value the long term disabled community can offer. That I'd rather have euthanasia available as an option is not an easy thing to write, but I write it in terms of my expenditures. I have not raised children. Career has been a lifelong unhappy battle, and because people need to make a living themselves, they get the right to manage how I live, and from here, within how many months, I will be forced, once again, to depend on quasi-asinine nursing care, primarily bed ridden because lifting me off a mattress invites liability. I'd rather go to sleep than spend an excruciating period of time under that duress. Now I have to go work on my 400 word piece of snark. Harrumph.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Second The Motion
It is difficult for nationally syndicated columnists to merge issues with micro-localization, but Samuelson gets credit for understanding and explicating the disability insurance explosion. Another flower in his buttonhole is deserved for recommending Timothy Taylor to educated readers. Mr. Taylor, more familiar with the American idiom than Niall Ferguson, did not dispense pity on a penny platter, and he and I had a civil exchange, at least until I was brazen enough to paste in my blogger url in my final response.
I like his work; he is worth following, and deserves a paid subscription. I have sold my last potentially commissioned essay. I am out of manuscripts, and need to cull my posts to develop more articles. Spastic takes on economic theory? The Swiss will undoubtedly upgrade security.
I intend to dismantle independent living centers. I shall not succeed, but do not underestimate my zeal to expose their abuses and remove the mandate that gives them the security of incompetence. I have to do some research and weigh the level of exposure to my disability entertainment public. I did give myself an escape clause for hitting a little of this, a little of that.
I like his work; he is worth following, and deserves a paid subscription. I have sold my last potentially commissioned essay. I am out of manuscripts, and need to cull my posts to develop more articles. Spastic takes on economic theory? The Swiss will undoubtedly upgrade security.
I intend to dismantle independent living centers. I shall not succeed, but do not underestimate my zeal to expose their abuses and remove the mandate that gives them the security of incompetence. I have to do some research and weigh the level of exposure to my disability entertainment public. I did give myself an escape clause for hitting a little of this, a little of that.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Houyhnhnms
...there will be found the future warriors of the faith who will march out one day, burning and slaying in Christ's name, against a heathen Europe sunk in corruption, to see at last, amid the smoking ruins of Rome, a black Pope will sit on the throne of Peter.--Hermann Broch, The Sleepwalkers, p.29
Two pitches in one month, wow, aren't things looking just grand? The failure of my hearing loss article came about because I looked at deafness and chronic conditions as distinct, and then became rapidly confused, and beyond that I am still running a ticker tape, revising the pitch. Tried to behave with the editor as these losses are costly, and I am sulky about that, and have been sulky most of the week as it is the holiday and I'd like to get out and have no plans. Sticky and grumpy and for you, no doubt, your shower is routine. For me it is a damn death dance and I cannot do it today. Dana Byrd wrote me a short personal note on my membership renewal request, thanking me for participating in the Ulysses group last year, as if it was somehow commendable that spastic Italian trolls rubbed shoulders at the intersection of Dublin and Jerusalem. When I last saw her she was impeccable. Member appreciation night. Tight blond bun, blemished slightly by acne, she seemed preoccupied with her own worries, perhaps that her employment wasn't up to scale? Or a lover's rift, and despite the fact that I am on the edge, the brink of true madness, maintaining my membership matters. Next week it shall be renewed, because I believe in the preservation of what we were.
I can barely remember the pleasurable heat of a man's penis inside me. More than likely I will never again have the opportunity for willing and consensual pleasure, and I am angry about that too. But let me qualify: I am mad that Obama essentially changed nothing; I am mad that the tea party essentially changed nothing and in addition, they seem to think behaving like morons is a virtue. I am an American, regardless of my lust for Tuscan soil, but I am tired and have been beaten down by the disabled community in this city, no less, by a landlord that now walks on egg shells with me, by my declining strength, and for the Europeans and others who have viewed my posts, forget the myth of American exceptionalism. It works only for a minority, and of that minority, fewer sustain success through the course of a lifetime. Corporations can be compassionate to loyal cripples, of course, and I blow a kiss to old Ma Bell, but more than likely I will not be blogging after 2014, whether on Google's platform or another. My debt default will hound me to my grave, and no one cares about independent living center collusion, nor what it did to me; this is peanuts in the scales of corruption, and I am sure the feds will get right on it when I get to them; my health and ability will never be the same, however, and in a counter narrative I could just surrender and heed Veronica, find a care facility and then wait in pain because I am still strong willed, not ready to die.
Can't you just live your life?
The risks involved in taking a leap of faith once again at my age are different than yours, and I'd be alone in taking them. I have very little new manuscripts to submit, and I have to start culling these posts for transformation. I hope that odor is a gasoline discharge wafting in, rather than something in the studio. None of the powers laid a finger on China over Tiananmen but the Alawites need to be scolded into the next century's persecuted minority. I cannot imagine the loyalists around the Assads could not calculate the risks of a mass carnage. I did not know Hafez was guilty of the similar atrocities when I used to read Time's coverage of his rule. I thought in black and white terms. Good guys and bad, but I can envision dying by a police taser, if disease doesn't get me first.
Two pitches in one month, wow, aren't things looking just grand? The failure of my hearing loss article came about because I looked at deafness and chronic conditions as distinct, and then became rapidly confused, and beyond that I am still running a ticker tape, revising the pitch. Tried to behave with the editor as these losses are costly, and I am sulky about that, and have been sulky most of the week as it is the holiday and I'd like to get out and have no plans. Sticky and grumpy and for you, no doubt, your shower is routine. For me it is a damn death dance and I cannot do it today. Dana Byrd wrote me a short personal note on my membership renewal request, thanking me for participating in the Ulysses group last year, as if it was somehow commendable that spastic Italian trolls rubbed shoulders at the intersection of Dublin and Jerusalem. When I last saw her she was impeccable. Member appreciation night. Tight blond bun, blemished slightly by acne, she seemed preoccupied with her own worries, perhaps that her employment wasn't up to scale? Or a lover's rift, and despite the fact that I am on the edge, the brink of true madness, maintaining my membership matters. Next week it shall be renewed, because I believe in the preservation of what we were.
I can barely remember the pleasurable heat of a man's penis inside me. More than likely I will never again have the opportunity for willing and consensual pleasure, and I am angry about that too. But let me qualify: I am mad that Obama essentially changed nothing; I am mad that the tea party essentially changed nothing and in addition, they seem to think behaving like morons is a virtue. I am an American, regardless of my lust for Tuscan soil, but I am tired and have been beaten down by the disabled community in this city, no less, by a landlord that now walks on egg shells with me, by my declining strength, and for the Europeans and others who have viewed my posts, forget the myth of American exceptionalism. It works only for a minority, and of that minority, fewer sustain success through the course of a lifetime. Corporations can be compassionate to loyal cripples, of course, and I blow a kiss to old Ma Bell, but more than likely I will not be blogging after 2014, whether on Google's platform or another. My debt default will hound me to my grave, and no one cares about independent living center collusion, nor what it did to me; this is peanuts in the scales of corruption, and I am sure the feds will get right on it when I get to them; my health and ability will never be the same, however, and in a counter narrative I could just surrender and heed Veronica, find a care facility and then wait in pain because I am still strong willed, not ready to die.
Can't you just live your life?
The risks involved in taking a leap of faith once again at my age are different than yours, and I'd be alone in taking them. I have very little new manuscripts to submit, and I have to start culling these posts for transformation. I hope that odor is a gasoline discharge wafting in, rather than something in the studio. None of the powers laid a finger on China over Tiananmen but the Alawites need to be scolded into the next century's persecuted minority. I cannot imagine the loyalists around the Assads could not calculate the risks of a mass carnage. I did not know Hafez was guilty of the similar atrocities when I used to read Time's coverage of his rule. I thought in black and white terms. Good guys and bad, but I can envision dying by a police taser, if disease doesn't get me first.
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Wolf bane Intrigue
Al Qaeda planned attacks years in advance, inserted sleeper cells, did reconnaissance. They took the long view, believing that their struggle would take decades, perhaps generations. -- Richard A Clarke, page 227
I cannot recall all of Clarke's testimony before Congress after 9/11, but I remember his demeanor, how it had a manichean aspect. He was very briefly a real American policy maverick, and his policy wonkish book was the first of its kind for me. I purchased the hardback seeking reassurance after the terrorist attack, and finished Against All Enemies in the hospital before my graft surgery, a period during which I often wept conspicuously, and the ward nurse guilt tripped mio padre and immediate family members into paying me a visit. I wanted to go home, then, as now, I want to go home. Mother's side of the familial would tell you that my longing to restore my sense of place and identity is my fault, and it is; they wanted me to move back in with mother before she dropped dead, so that I could relive all my sexual assaults, and I broke off my wedding engagement just weeks before the non-event, and apparently all I live for now is the fucking blog post, alternately violating my own internal decency and then reigning myself in.
Clarke is a competent assessor, but he wrote nothing I did not already know through my assiduous reading of the papers, or viewing PBS, reading The Boston Review. Last week I wondered where the title had gotten to, but did not panic over its absence. I may have given it away years ago, perhaps to the little whodonnit bookstore on my Chestnut Street corner. Though faded into the pundit netherworld, Richard Clarke did not have to violate national security to bite back the Bush Administration where it counted and get his point across. Looking at Edward Snowden's actions in this light lends itself to being fearful of young white men's paranoia, despite my own bigoted sizzling, displacement, rage at defeat.
Yet the maw this strange young man opened, if not racist, then at least a wound with a stink about the fact that we have a choc-mix centrist left administration in place, is a complex issue, as well as a perplexing event. Americans have to be be able to trust themselves in order to remain a superpower, and the government has to be hard on such people if it is to be able to function, and yet it bewilders sense, what young men like Bradley Manning (though a rage riddled homosexual) and Snowden have thrown away and forsaken, breaching patriotism in real world terms. Does Edward truly believe he will be able to thrive in Ecuador?
My alienation from the disability *conspirators* I was once in league with is not so draconian, not quite. I was always a writer first, but the game of spy-craft and the nature of intelligence and national interest is a labyrinth that mirrors psychopathy, the zeal of ideology driven a league too far. Literature and Hollywood have thrived on it since both have been in existence.
In the burrowing for my epigram, however, Clarke's evaluation recalls that I have to be true to my own sense of justice, however beaten I may be, whatever length of time it takes. If I cannot finish my protest missive today, I have to remember that I did get a draft off last year, without realizing that Babette Josephs political career had nearly concluded. Staying abreast of office holders is useful.
I cannot recall all of Clarke's testimony before Congress after 9/11, but I remember his demeanor, how it had a manichean aspect. He was very briefly a real American policy maverick, and his policy wonkish book was the first of its kind for me. I purchased the hardback seeking reassurance after the terrorist attack, and finished Against All Enemies in the hospital before my graft surgery, a period during which I often wept conspicuously, and the ward nurse guilt tripped mio padre and immediate family members into paying me a visit. I wanted to go home, then, as now, I want to go home. Mother's side of the familial would tell you that my longing to restore my sense of place and identity is my fault, and it is; they wanted me to move back in with mother before she dropped dead, so that I could relive all my sexual assaults, and I broke off my wedding engagement just weeks before the non-event, and apparently all I live for now is the fucking blog post, alternately violating my own internal decency and then reigning myself in.
Clarke is a competent assessor, but he wrote nothing I did not already know through my assiduous reading of the papers, or viewing PBS, reading The Boston Review. Last week I wondered where the title had gotten to, but did not panic over its absence. I may have given it away years ago, perhaps to the little whodonnit bookstore on my Chestnut Street corner. Though faded into the pundit netherworld, Richard Clarke did not have to violate national security to bite back the Bush Administration where it counted and get his point across. Looking at Edward Snowden's actions in this light lends itself to being fearful of young white men's paranoia, despite my own bigoted sizzling, displacement, rage at defeat.
Yet the maw this strange young man opened, if not racist, then at least a wound with a stink about the fact that we have a choc-mix centrist left administration in place, is a complex issue, as well as a perplexing event. Americans have to be be able to trust themselves in order to remain a superpower, and the government has to be hard on such people if it is to be able to function, and yet it bewilders sense, what young men like Bradley Manning (though a rage riddled homosexual) and Snowden have thrown away and forsaken, breaching patriotism in real world terms. Does Edward truly believe he will be able to thrive in Ecuador?
My alienation from the disability *conspirators* I was once in league with is not so draconian, not quite. I was always a writer first, but the game of spy-craft and the nature of intelligence and national interest is a labyrinth that mirrors psychopathy, the zeal of ideology driven a league too far. Literature and Hollywood have thrived on it since both have been in existence.
In the burrowing for my epigram, however, Clarke's evaluation recalls that I have to be true to my own sense of justice, however beaten I may be, whatever length of time it takes. If I cannot finish my protest missive today, I have to remember that I did get a draft off last year, without realizing that Babette Josephs political career had nearly concluded. Staying abreast of office holders is useful.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Like An Eagle?
Transferred badly to shower like a large pudding plop, and transferred out, weary of my domestic struggles, ate lobster cakes, have to clean my dutiful Krups, but wanted to watch my news, and only now finding out about the LA rogue, but this is the American brand. As angry as I am about the illegal acts against me, and the ostracization, and my weakened fading from the scene, and the fact that these scars live in me, and Josie and Linda don't care and waltz on, no, the most either of these women would receive from me is scorn, perhaps a cat fight. Dorner is a danger that goes beyond the problem of why American gun ownership is a right, and if it should remain so. I shut off PBS, a rare action on my part, and lied to Marie earlier today about how I was doing. I tire of my father's sister, and wish she'd cut this shit out about my birthday, quite frankly. Yes, I need the damn monetary gifts, which is exactly why I curse them. Marie, my father, even Mary, they will be gone soon, and I prefer that they shove their Social Security up their asses, and no, I don't speak to them that way, except for my father, more in a shouting match with the matriarchal sentiment than not, that he is not responsible for my welfare. He stopped loving his children when my mother divorced him, and of course it is not that simple. He struggled against the death of his son, my brother, and it is through the eyes of my father that I live in how Nicholas wasted away from AIDS.
Would you like me to apologize for my revulsion toward homosexual equality despite the fact that I have been a voyeur since the days of childhood tantrums against my mother when I was offended by her Rod McKuen poetry, and watched more Japanese pornography than you care to know, and was curious but never cared to indulge? Do you want to know what I saw when I watched Miss Eddy watching Geri the building custodian, Miss Eddy being the attendant who molested me? I saw a woman who was nearly insensate with slovenly lack of control, and despite the fact that I have been a lifelong trollop for a great sex life with men that never was, Miss Eddy, her very expression, was like an animal with rabies, revolting-- my former disabled alliances not so far removed from that. Peel away the skin, get an ape that likes to play with itself. No wonder why Christianity involved so much repression of appetite. No apology forthcoming. I tried to be a good true blue liberal, really, embraced the science, and concede there is no legal reasoning you could not marry your pet macaw if that is your thing, but Nicholas Kristof curiously never breaks out his tabernacle for the blessings of inner city sexual behavior.
BSA is archaic, and that is its real problem. I quite frankly don't give a fig that its leadership has a convulsive response equivalent to strychnine poisoning, and congratulate the Marxists. Total global conquest. One day it will blow right back in your faces. Have a good morning.
Would you like me to apologize for my revulsion toward homosexual equality despite the fact that I have been a voyeur since the days of childhood tantrums against my mother when I was offended by her Rod McKuen poetry, and watched more Japanese pornography than you care to know, and was curious but never cared to indulge? Do you want to know what I saw when I watched Miss Eddy watching Geri the building custodian, Miss Eddy being the attendant who molested me? I saw a woman who was nearly insensate with slovenly lack of control, and despite the fact that I have been a lifelong trollop for a great sex life with men that never was, Miss Eddy, her very expression, was like an animal with rabies, revolting-- my former disabled alliances not so far removed from that. Peel away the skin, get an ape that likes to play with itself. No wonder why Christianity involved so much repression of appetite. No apology forthcoming. I tried to be a good true blue liberal, really, embraced the science, and concede there is no legal reasoning you could not marry your pet macaw if that is your thing, but Nicholas Kristof curiously never breaks out his tabernacle for the blessings of inner city sexual behavior.
BSA is archaic, and that is its real problem. I quite frankly don't give a fig that its leadership has a convulsive response equivalent to strychnine poisoning, and congratulate the Marxists. Total global conquest. One day it will blow right back in your faces. Have a good morning.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Myeloma Glitter Maw
"You have to be careful with something like that in national policy. It corrodes the forces; it corrodes the torturer."--Gen Stanley McChrystal
General McChrystal, sir: Obama may be relieved, or not, and most likely no one will care that I face the danger of Ezra Pound in his decline, and I am aware that I face such a danger as I recoil from the sordidness of the flesh, the sordidness of urban America, but I do not dislike Barack, and sometimes even agree with him. However, if Mitt Romney had not been nominated, I would have voted against the president. Radical equality progressives are as extreme as national socialists once were, and they are destroying the United States. I think you were treated unfairly by the current administration over the Rolling Stone expose. It is not as if you endangered national security by fucking female officers, and I have your book in my queue. Here is the deal: If you have national political aspirations, the spastic_dowager will support you, as long as you give me a tasty victual. I want the federal mandate that secures independent living centers eliminated. Kabeesh? If it was up to me I'd say let's go for a coup d'etat, but since it is not, and I am debating showing up for my local inauguration event to troll for kindle users to give me a subscription, I'd settle for seeing you at the head of, or in, a 2016 transition team. I want the people in Philadelphia who hurt me punished, and I know you've seen much worse in Iraq, but sir, the third world does exist in the US, and I deserve the compassion to stop living in it, because I am a gifted woman, and should not have to be watching my soul perish, like Roy Schneider producing his own death journey in Fosse's flawed but smart aleck musical hybrid.
I miss Roy Schneider the actor for more shallow and more sexual reasons, as compared to the moral certitude of Anne Bancroft, but miss him I do, the hyper cool tight ass, the perfect foil for the damn great white shark who probably would have been a better president than the majority of the men who held the office, and for those very reasons, All That Jazz had a powerful effect on me as a young woman. Even with multiple myeloma, Schneider kept his edge, commanding the desire of women like me to unify in the elegance of his eros (the scene where he kisses the dying woman with white hair). Fosse's devil may care moxie reaches me, despite the mild sexism inside the world of dance subculture. They just don't make movie stars like him anymore.
General McChrystal, sir: Obama may be relieved, or not, and most likely no one will care that I face the danger of Ezra Pound in his decline, and I am aware that I face such a danger as I recoil from the sordidness of the flesh, the sordidness of urban America, but I do not dislike Barack, and sometimes even agree with him. However, if Mitt Romney had not been nominated, I would have voted against the president. Radical equality progressives are as extreme as national socialists once were, and they are destroying the United States. I think you were treated unfairly by the current administration over the Rolling Stone expose. It is not as if you endangered national security by fucking female officers, and I have your book in my queue. Here is the deal: If you have national political aspirations, the spastic_dowager will support you, as long as you give me a tasty victual. I want the federal mandate that secures independent living centers eliminated. Kabeesh? If it was up to me I'd say let's go for a coup d'etat, but since it is not, and I am debating showing up for my local inauguration event to troll for kindle users to give me a subscription, I'd settle for seeing you at the head of, or in, a 2016 transition team. I want the people in Philadelphia who hurt me punished, and I know you've seen much worse in Iraq, but sir, the third world does exist in the US, and I deserve the compassion to stop living in it, because I am a gifted woman, and should not have to be watching my soul perish, like Roy Schneider producing his own death journey in Fosse's flawed but smart aleck musical hybrid.
I miss Roy Schneider the actor for more shallow and more sexual reasons, as compared to the moral certitude of Anne Bancroft, but miss him I do, the hyper cool tight ass, the perfect foil for the damn great white shark who probably would have been a better president than the majority of the men who held the office, and for those very reasons, All That Jazz had a powerful effect on me as a young woman. Even with multiple myeloma, Schneider kept his edge, commanding the desire of women like me to unify in the elegance of his eros (the scene where he kisses the dying woman with white hair). Fosse's devil may care moxie reaches me, despite the mild sexism inside the world of dance subculture. They just don't make movie stars like him anymore.
Monday, June 18, 2012
Special Olympics Intransigence
In an anecdote for Jon Bateman, who perhaps shares that type of mystifying and implacable Canadian temperament with his countrymen, one that finds my Italian American histrionics to be something of a puzzle, let me say I love hockey, and wheelchair hockey is probably the one para Olympic sport I have an enthusiasm for, since I love brawls on skates. Now the bad news that I will state in readily accessible fashion: I do not want anymore disabled friends, either in virtual or real life. This does not mean you cannot comment on my blog and tell me to go to hell for sabotaging the empowerment tactics you all hold dear, and I am using you in a mass plural, and not singling out Mr. Bateman per se, but I am singling out young women like Louise indirectly, and I will broaden this out slightly to explain that I do not like interacting with fans of my work. You can follow me, praise me, damn me, yell at me like my half-brother Benjamin that I "need something," and I may or may not respond, but no friendships unless I decide otherwise. It simply does not work out for me. I trusted Linda C. Dezenski. I trusted Josie Byzek. I trusted Jimmi Shrode. I trusted Erik von Schmetterling, and while Cassie James did not exactly violate my trust, I believed in her integrity once, and that has sunk with the ship. Trying to stay friends with my semi-imbecile ex did not work, and the mentally retarded who are my high functioning neighbors flee my company like a bat out of hell, the inverse being true, as well, that the friends I attempted attachment to did not want me. Louise sent me a nice email about my work and I put it away. She later resurfaced, and the attempted familiarity was a mistake, and from now on I will keep the walls in place. Writing about the personal is different than interpersonal intimacy. Ask the more affluent British writer Will Self, who I may or may not email, but if I do I will not directly court his intimacy. I am published enough that I resist fan psychology, and even when it comes to Niall Ferguson, despite my mildly subversive tongue in cheek, my mode of operation is looking for new peer support venues. In other words, interact if you like, but seeking a bond with me is off the table. Ablest writers at my level or above, excepting the few I have already linked to and kept, will be taken on a case by case basis.
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