Digitalis

This is all I know, so far: AdSense, which is Shareaholic's derivative model, is a fee for profit advertising service. The account holder pays a fee, and receives a pay out for every 10 dollar accrual. I am far less clear about Ad Words, other than I have agreed to pay Google for the clicks. What the dowager gets out of it, as an improvised individual desperate upon desperate for a needed change, is entirely unknown. I can afford to allow the search giant to profiteer off my posts for one billing, and if I get nothing, then I'll cancel the campaign. but I am telling Google publicly, right now, that I may have softened my vehemence decibel, but my anger will never be entirely diminished. Everyone has a side, spanning the gamut, from Jewish supervisors to building managers, but I have 33 years of a hostile environment with exactly the same landlord under which I am a crime victim, repetitively. For those of you with better mobility, you believe you could live with this without disparagement?
Better than a shelter? Not by all that much, as I've dealt with shelter clients at Project Share, and it seems to make little difference whose rod is on their spine, the housing authority or the shelter managers. In addition to which, and this is my failure, alone, I let spend down methodologies evaporate my savings, savings which, if I do survive past 65, I needed. I literally have nothing, bar one, I frightened Presby's corporate office with the liability I have on them. That's it, that, and my 50,000 dollar education which garnished me a return somewhere in the neighborhood of 80k before taxes, roughly estimated. 

There is no discernible difference to this valiantly active domain, not yet, but the masses love the virtue of patience.

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Update: this was a failure of comprehension. No more ad words. The charge will be insubstantial. Notice all the help I am getting attempting to monetize my work, sigh.

Food Poisoning, Entrenched

"I'm sorry if you felt ill treated,"-- the undoubtedly committed volunteers of Bacopa

Editors. I did not feel ill treated. Publishing a writer is an arbitrary business, more so in the age of digital do it yourself files, looking at my non fiction collection in despair, just prior to logging on, sick to my stomach, if I growl in illegal and heinous fashion toward Putin's overly long tenure at the helm of the Russian Federation, perhaps I could outwit the FSB assassin (hypothetically, I know the Russians who view me are perhaps only trolling for propaganda) into dumping their plutonium capsules into literary advisors offices. I raised my voice about the poetry editor only because I am a one woman spastic who spent four hours formatting a small selection of my lighter unpublished pieces, and regardless of the fact that I read their guidelines and saw the guidelines I wanted to see, after years in the independent zine morass, it took the poetry editor seconds to ding me. That is the only reason I wauled, and the poetry editor's ranking over seer and I had a polite e-convo. The end, now all the sudden an anonymous voice pricks the scab. Editors. I am sick to my stomach. Unusual, perhaps the carrots. Handled the toilet twice in so many hours just as if I was a decade younger, also unusual, adopted new bathing tactics, however long  this lasts, still tricky. I'd like to blame Hermine, but think my heart is giving out, don't particularly want any saving grace from cardiology.

If I substantially revise my bylines for my wee small volume, whether I do it myself or fast a contest fee, throw in a few of my stronger blog posts, also revised, and in a quixotic move, add my two published short stories in the back, is that fair, to substantially alter the content to suit my aesthetic voice over past editors? Josie Byzek doesn't count here, and if the last picture I saw of her and her partner was Ginny, then perhaps there are a few Protestants left who by definition have to swallow humility when they transform facially into a jackass. Editors. Not to mention names, as I desire to remain on The Freeman's good side, my wauling about that was over my rush rush when I had, apparently, drifted into another topic. I wasn't mad at them, but me, for failing the bar, which is of another kind, as I have nothing to prove in literary terms. My CV is four pages of a lifetime, as I weaken and sicken and need to find a stable space. It will begin to cool in a few days, hopefully. For our purposes, I released myself from the original Gojira in my last hour of holding myself awake, asking what the fuck am I doing I'm not writing a dissertation on Godzilla as a coping mechanism for  Hiroshima; I will, however, study Honda's nightmarish early anime seriously another time. Rodan is sickening, and yet I studied every Japanese male, wondering which of them wouldn't lose face with my shins clamped around their buttocks. Perhaps it is a summer cold. I'm off to bed, after I look up the shit on ISBN numbers.

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.

In Bare Minutes

The editor didn't understand what I was saying, and I suppose that's most of you. I spent weeks researching this piece, weeks, and just taught myself how to use Google Docs, and this is what the price of doing business comes to, the price of not having a friend in the world to call and say I was just crushed. The score, for my pieces, is two rejections and one acceptance since my 2010 piece "Crime Fighter Feline".

Fuck

Deficit Apotheosis

"What do you think this place is?"-- Noah Emmerich as Dr. Jenner of the CDC

Since fear of Alzheimer's is basically wasted energy, and Camillieri was spared the worst of slowing brain processes as he hit his eighties, I know there isn't much I can do about it, given my own family history, my bellicose maternal grandfather breaking down from the ravages of senility, my late mother's lapses prior to her sudden collapse, but the close of fifty four years of unhappy regimentation sends me a warning flag about coping with anxiety: Rule number one: If I need to sit on a draft without a mandatory deadline, then sit on it. Remind me of this now and again, in your silence. I cannot discuss the specifics of what I was working on at the end of July through August of 2016, and like any freelancer, after a brief pucker over a bruise, jumping back in, repeating all is not lost, I have a source and did a ton of research. 

I have a draft, in the cloud, transitioned my Word 7 clumsiness to Google's effortless Chrome, but I drew a blank Friday morning om my concluding paragraph; I forced the issue due to severe extremes to which most women with cerebral palsy wouldn't push themselves, and I knew it. The publisher wouldn't have cared if I waited, stalled, procrastinated another 72 hours, even another week. All I would have gotten was a policy byline in a publication I curiously enjoy, and that is all I've lost, knowing better than to query Marie Varenas about whether or not she thought I was demented. Asking a terminally ill woman on Prozac, riding a snicker of exasperation. I linked back to Yabberz Friday afternoon by accident, intending to go to my Yahoo account, and a quick glance assured me I wasn't missing anything. Part of the problem with the Yabberz model is structural: 40 followers often share the same links, and for me it triggered  an adverse onslaught, one from which I am glad to be gone. Twitter is what it is, all of us vying and promoting and being pithy in 160 characters, but we can ignore it when we wish to, turn off notifications. The Hortons adapted their software to this approach, but for me, it did not work, led to unpleasant agitation, much like the Grimes family at their wits end to escape annihilation in episode six.

The destruction of the CDC in "The Walking Dead" was a spectacle condensed, in the ever wobbly line between big screen and flat screen, but it was also a 21st century reminder that technical optimism is also a faith misplaced in the face of catastrophe. If I have now become sympathetic to the ideas the Confederacy thought it had to defend, well, even I'm astonished-- but it was a message. Faith in government is a complacency that can prove to be quite costly.