The Nature of Malice

My neighbor, of whom I shall after this mention nevermore, and perhaps unwisely educated on how to find my posts, expressed the same concerns a virtual plethora of others have in relation to my lack of reticence online, and today I am going to address this directly. Confessional writing, as a utility, can signify weakness and strength, simultaneously, and to the extent I have deployed it I have done so for the following reasons:

1. As it relates to the independent living and community integration model, I was betrayed in a legally actionable fashion on more than one occasion, and at the time wherein I had a window to litigate, I was not strong enough to act, partly out of my own guilt, however applicable it was in the commission of the harm, and though I am taking action in contemporary terms, I shall never see the resolution I deserved. I may be weak and in pain and fully conscious of failed potential, but realist enough to know that justice does not change the world one case at a time. Testament might, even if I do not live to see it, and I will state emphatically that Linda C Dezenski deserves to be punished. The only legal avenue I have to see that through is to force her resignation. I have revealed a great deal about Liberty and public housing, but I have not revealed everything, and for the disabled community that does not like it, that is fine. Blogger can close my account if enough of you complain, so feel free, but I refuse to stay silenced.

2. As to the absence or the intention of malice, well, determinations such as that are trickier, but as to my actual sentiments, yes, I feel malice toward those who have victimized me, and named those individuals, but my attention to detail, to personal recollection, is mainly to make a point, or to have an outlet. I have written very simply that *I hate* Cassie and Jimmi, but in translation, that means I find their methods deplorable, and feel frustrated that I cannot get away from Mr. Shrode and his partner; nothing would make me happier than making a healthier change in location.

Ed countered my poisonous cynicism by evoking the corporate ruling that residents can no longer congregate in the lobby, to feed the malicious gossip that is an everyday preoccupation of the ignorant. Regardless of what this does to the constitutional right of assembly, this is hardly the triumph of Enlightenment era evolutions about liberty, is it?

If you feel that I cannot be trusted, that is your perogative; none of you need to pay me the slightest attention.

How The Cymbals Reverberate

When I reviewed, or interpreted The Others earlier this year, I was unaware that Nicole Kidman had followed through on her psychological thriller arc with the equally creepy but possibly more uneven Birth (2004). Though I missed few, the minutes that escaped me were still crucial, and I'd like to screen it once more, but Cameron Bright was used to much better effect here than he was in the stupendous and confusing Ultraviolet, another film that has drawn my mention during my unfortunate LiveJournal stint. Endless revision, tying in the old posts and the new, for what exactly when I cannot solve my application problems, but this will wait until after the holiday, as the dynamic between the new little lady and my poor Vincent has exhausted me, and I am close to giving up the love of feline parenting, though it will break my heart, already rife with fragments. I will not be celebrating tomorrow; indefinite at this point, but I may try a weekend holiday ride to Penn's Landing. In all my years at this location I have never taken the 21 bus to the pier. For me, during the active years of my field work, it was always in the opposite direction, to Darby, smaller maybe, but to my memory the Darby borough is just as bad as the city. Drugs more concentrated, and I have more graphic memories of my mother's drug use, the purple bruises in the fleshy crook of her elbow, the rubber tubing I wasn't supposed to see. What was it that I said about reticence? But the irony of Doty's continued lunging over my review is that particular review was of no consequence as compared to what I write here for the sake of testament, alienating my family, and those who knew me. I think Doty has a lot to learn about what can be controlled in public domains, and what cannot; in contrast to his desire to be loved by his readers, I do not care about my audience in that way, so much as the integrity of my work itself, and if people are dismayed by what I produce, I do not go on a boner about it. I have been praised for the power of my poetry, for how hard hitting I am, or impressed poor Louise, who I abandoned through no fault of her own. She is a perfectly nice young woman who found my work *very raw,* and we should have left it as that. I have been criticized as pretentious, but unlike Doty, I did not harangue the now inactive Usenet poster who threw out that red meat. I like the complexity of my imagery, though it leads to the flaw of a certain top heaviness that can topple my poetic construct. I have been rejected as many thousands of times as the paltry dollars I have drawn in on my work. I have been accepted for publication in sometimes unexpected ways, and I have not been as successful with marketing paradigms as some, including those whom I actually respect, like Cheryl, (not liking the Oprah juggernaut and my expressed frustration at comparative trajectory is not the same thing as disdain; Cheryl is authentic--Doty is a crock, a load on) but there are reasons for this beyond talent, very much related to my vulnerability, strained resources.