Modular Four Legged Application

When I first interviewed with Riverside, after my attack, I turned in down, in 1993, under what must have been the original managers. I returned to Diamond Park. That evening, a cabbie was left for dead a foot or two from my bedroom window, and I am not certain what led me to plead with Terri weeks later, to get me out of what her supervisor extracted her from. I do not like the perpetual motion of litigation any more than anyone else, but at the time, it was a choice between two evils: the hyper dictation of Riverside, which, no more than anything, did not truly protect me from more victimology, or the incessant vandalism to violence spectrum of the accessible Diamond Park units. I did not fully understand 202 housing. I was still traumatized, and it was not my place to purloin Richard Baron or Daniel Raudenbush into my personal advocates. They were directors, not the justice league, and it’s moot, twenty years afterward, as they have little love for the fact that I talked to Pew after my resignation, and, while I am still resolved, assuming the chair doesn’t short out for good, a distinct possibility, on rolling out, I am ambivalent about my unit key—not so much that Trudy cannot lock me out—lupus lady can do as she pleases from her caramelized perspective—but what do I owe the feline? I have no one to take her temporarily.

1.       I never wanted to live at Riverside, and everyone is tone deaf to this, Trudy in particular, Debra, the Health & Human Services civil servants who either glare or bleat at me.

2.       Presby’s Diamond Park owners, and Riverside’s, were negligent in the assaults, molestation, and robberies I suffered.

3.       The Liberty Resources homosexuals with whom I am forced to reside, whom I once thought I could trust until I learned of their illegal activities, spiraling into a DOJ investigation, is not helping me.

And I am now the bad guy, will wind up paying some sort of further criminal, legal, inhumane penalty, because I say the unsaid, and refuse to comply until I say so, and will never allow another minority paraprofessional to touch me again, not willingly, and I’m worried about what I owe a shelter animal who also suffered. I am not sure who to call. I am sure most of you say give an inch. No one has given one to me. My fear of Trudy’s power, not exaggerated, her constant lashing out at me to give my notice, isn’t enough. I gave it after they attempted to remove me, and she is still threatening me. This is not the United States in which I once believed, not the country where no one would come to my side, give me physical support, not just that of virtual reality. My mother’s sister is a good woman, kept her sister’s children out of foster care, emptied my commode. She cannot do it again, but my father’s indifference, in my adolescent bitterness, is still the inevitable conclusion of my life: I’ll die as hard as I’ve lived. Many do, silently. I did, by the way, receive a job offer Friday and wish I could take pleasure in it. Perhaps next week.

Oden's Hammer, with admissible discrepancies

Part of what I am attempting to do on Disability In Entertainment Arts is utilize my brain damage to my advantage, which is why I convolute so many things together. It doesn't always work, and my short lived protégé Louise Norlie indicated I might be less confusing, and less rushed, but some of my triggers are indicative of trauma no iconic personage can cure, like guilt over my online usage. I need to at the very least, mitigate this. My provider isn't an authoritarian dragoon. I may have had a little trouble mailing my bill in during the era of dial up , for which even I can scarf as a primitive folly, despite not being fully wireless- but I waited a little too patiently for ATT to convert to online billing, and I followed suit. I have been responsible, did everything they every asked of me, including the dreaded credit deposit. (Years ago, and yes, they returned it, but I am lucky I had over 30,000 dollars at my disposal to play these games.) Quelch. Now she is discussing long lost freedom of her personal finances. No one does that, nor do I, up to a point, but I am only attempting to illustrate how far my life imploded thanks to the false assurances of the disability intake model: When I was 23, still a rather fresh inner city body, I was in danger of starving to death, because the SSA field offices, overwhelmed, did not keep tabs on what their verifiable cripple was doing, and arbitrarily suspended my SSI. It points to why, unlike my dying father's sister, I am very very reluctant to depend on state welfare. I got through it then, but being very nearly in the same place, 32 years later, is obscene. I'm fully cognizant that I am less elastic, and yes, part of this falls on my shoulders: I resigned from The Matrix Research Institute like a water logged koosh ball, frightened of my clients, overwhelmed at losing my brother-- hence, "bumping into" my former manager from the center from which Matrix plucked me, this wasn't my best option, confiding in her through posts. My wounds over that permeate this entire account, revealing to me an implosive level of destruction which could, hypothetically, write itself out as a NSA political thriller spiraling into Armageddon.

Ten years ago, getting away from Presby terian Homes, this would have mitigated such terrible scars. [Riverside is the beige white tower if you want to rescue and thereby own my loyalty for life.] Now? I may have a case to sue the corporate office in Spring Mills from here to the center of the earth, but if I perceive an occasional overage as a crime against humanity. I am not really long on holding onto my sanity. My shins are going, but this doesn't mean a paraprofessional represents an optimal solution, you can trust me. I see too many abuses, even under Trudy's duress, using every weapon she can, striking out at me without realization of the consequences, because she is a moron, because Presbyterians hire minorities barely a step ahead of their brutal underclass on which they earn their salary, and there are far too many people like this, as opposed to those of keen acuity damaged by relentless cruelty. I have research to do, and may slow with Blogger for a time. I don't know if the company will allow me to code ads back in. They do not have to. I may, just barely, hold my inner savage in check, but I shall never be entirely free of the belief that people driven to violence have had too much amplified whippings. 

As for Louise, I don't know how she is faring under the Trump Administration. She was a nice girl. Our contact had too much subterfuge.

Karlskirche Droughts for Heart Murmurs

"I think my face is funny," Audrey Hepburn, blue blood trinket

My living scar tissue over little brother ghosts is not all that complicated. Nicholas junior and I enmeshed with each other in an interlocking vehemence borne out of contempt, the shared experience of pain, which, as with most things human, realizes too late the blood bond binding one to the other. When he was dying, baby brother appealed to eldest sister to come to him, and I had no way to drop my caseload to get to him, hence the abandonment I carry, not beyond the realm of some of your experiences. Rick, as the once-and-never future executive father figure, attempted to release me from my albatross with his own mortality tale of a relative left hanging. Didn't work.

With Alexandra, though, my interaction with her was a series of smokescreens worthy of Jamesian contortion, and no, it was not about repressed homo-eroticism, so much as, once again, my need for confidential intimacy, such as that from a child to camp counselor. Our first telephone exchange made me hope for a literary friend. Not that she knew it. Our first meeting sent off strobe emergency lights in my head. I knew she was butch, spinster butch, but would not allow my mind to form the fact that here was an authority from which I shrank due to lesbian overtones. Did I walk away? No. Did I try to get under her skin? Not the way I did with my other larger than life personages, but once a cripple made is an invalid baked in a kiln, and I was disruptive to her reticence, a reticence she insisted upon. She was as closed as I am open, with invidious penetration. She was not Erik, the fucked up shit on a stick. She wasn't Josie Byzek. Alexandra had no apologies to make, yet I wasn't woman enough to close off my sycophant psychology, looking for Dante's Virgil, moral perversion as it might have been. What we saw and appreciated in each other was the weight and scourge of the sin we carried. It gave her a pursed and drawn demeanor, and it has wrought in me, over the years, a terse unpleasantness. If I had been more assured in myself, I would have cut her out of me, like gangrene, and this was the best literary editor I ever had, knotted by deep aesthetic affinity that penetrated the lack of personal closeness. And yes, I hear you. "Fuck this," you mutter, fleeing for the hills, with so much import I place on the thinnest filaments. "Tough shit." That's my response, at least for this morning.

Conscience

One of my former co-workers from The Matrix Institute sent me a friend request, and I am leaning toward denial, even though at a holiday dinner she made a funny. It made me laugh. One of those had to be there moments. Richard Baron, our chief executive, was pontificating about being Jewish during Christmas, and Cheryl, rushing to defend her own pleasure, said "Christmas is universal," which stopped Richard in his tracks and earned her the stony stare opprobrium. I just found it amusing, and broke out with a guffaw. So this is why I remember who she is. We did not work together directly. She is black, but better educated than Harriet. I do not feel like picking the Harriet Fowler scab much further than I may have in 10. I have a great many conflicted feelings about Matrix. I helped destroy a liberal, overly permissive research facility that let me lie my way out of a few things. I was unhappy with the job (when am I not?) but I quit, really, because the battle to get around became the job.

I understand social media's rather scoping power, even if it creates tunnel vision: I myself waste no small energy asking "who blocked me?" and I have other things I need to do, and by now, I might have had at least 2k on twitter, if I wasn't me, and Cheryl is sort of like my aunt in that automated chat with photo and video do it for her, and I could almost hear what she thought, OMG it is Joanne. She has 508 connections. I have 8, and do not care for many more. The fact that I now openly wear racism, virulently at times, has little to do with my link to her, and I'd never use Zuckerberg's platform to do what I do on this domain. I bring it up solely because I do not feel any guilt looking at her account and shrinking back. I am supposed to feel remorse, and do not. This woman did nothing to me, never aggravated me, delighted in her life, and like the late Gwen Ifill, had a light bulb smile. Perhaps my humanity was always doomed in this fashion, but it is the fault of the black nanny terror I live with, as well. She and I barely knew each other then, so that she took the trouble is more or less a numbers game of seeking out the appearance of popularity. Not sure how conducive this is, whatever I decide.

Think Positive!

Unlike Charles, or Michael Burry, who is both a writer's non-fiction construct and a real life investor with a medical degree, I failed though lack of application once too often. Case managing at my disability center was a mistake, not simply due to a pathological cat fight between me and a Jewish spastic, but because the human suffering I've seen is tearing me apart as much as the human suffering I've lived, and that includes what I had to absorb under Rick.

I do not blame the man. On the contrary, I remember his teaching lessons as if I was Elijah fed by ravens. I could see both Daniel and Rick clearly, having no desire for them, other than regret for my job. I had to be strong enough to live by institutional parameters, then absorb much worse for the sake of an appalling salary, and now minorities treat me like an imbecile, not deliberately, but because on top of all this fucking shit after being attacked by vicious dogs in their 70's for years, I should stay in this facility because I'm 52.

I'd rather become homeless and die through a seizure delivered by a taser. I'm not trying to nit pick every slight, but we've lost the ability to understand each other. Whether I go down to the telephone store this week or wait, the customer service agent couldn't grasp I log online through a USB broad brand plug in.

I still do not agree with Charles Krauthammer all the time, but I commend him for this series. Here, he tacitly admits what I more brazenly rage over. The health system is insane. I should not have to get a primary physician's script every time I need rehabilitative support, and if nothing else sparks an insurrection, the American health care models will do the trick.

**
I was, once, a powerful poet, whatever I sacrificed in technique, but alas, I didn't go into banking like TS Eliot.

Conquest of the Planet of the Apes

I've been online much longer than I intended today, wondering how much I should lie to get back in somewhere. Rick, as my former executive director, would have no reason to be sympathetic. I caused Mr. Baron some problems with Pew, basically over peanuts, and then Fern Markowitz, the patron saint of progressive Jewish lesbianism, and Linda C. Dezenski, her emulator, taught me a thing or two about homosexuality, corruption, and using federal mandates as a personal chop shop back at Liberty.

Payback's a bitch. Where am I going to get fresh references? Dan was polite to me when I found his profile on Linked In, but Matrix is no more, and whether I raised valid objections with their grantors or not, it was ungracious... Sigh.

I hate liberalism, hate it. Even if I pull on New Mobility, the publication of my favorite pretentious lesbian gimp, it has been years since Tim Gilmer and I exchanged emails. It matters to my sense of personal integrity, but there isn't much I can do about it on a pragmatic level.

Medium is eye fetching and uneven, and, however uncouth my devolving bar keep diction, I have been careful not to get into tweet battles with X, careful not to argue with Medium's writers-- not that this is a conscious effort. I've been there with online recriminations and Medium is too vast. If I wish to keep quiet, then I do-- but the fact that I communicated with them directly yesterday made me think, and think with alarm that perhaps I am past the point of adaptation? This frightens me, especially if I survive another 20 years.

Going Back To My Lair

Before I log off to try to really work the way I used to work before I equalized religious pluralism with Nazi Germany, I want you to keep something in mind: I left my student apartment in Chester when I was approximately 21, to go to a dorm in Temple University, to bounce to the home of my now dying aunt. In that home I had to dump my own stool in plastic bags, which is in part why I leapt at Diamond Park, without realizing what I was getting into with urban violence and section 811 housing, which differs from section 202 housing only by virtue of age as a classification. You have to be 62 to live in section 202. I was 34. The rental agents, then, in 1994, used me, without in any way contributing to the Pew Grant which funded my position, to case manage the other tenants here, then castigating me when I got home. It was a conflict of interest Richard Baron rightly objected to-- but my point is public housing is a merciless system, with the people in charge equivalent to prison security guards. If I have no further prospect of anything better than to decline in an equally brutal medical regime like Inglis House, I claim the right to pull the plug.

I wanted something more, some place less sterile, and it is virtually too late at my age, but I sent Medium my resume. Just to do it, dinosaur or no.

Pepper Spray

I had forgotten about the US House of Representatives on my twitter feed. They are still following me, which, oddly, doesn't trouble me. They legislate federal public housing, and I was a year into section 202 housing travail when I showed up, like a wayward spark, on the Senate Committee for Social Security. At the time I received a few expressions which suggested that I was a fool suffered gladly, primarily from a bald Hawkings-like figure who was a doctor of public policy, diseased power chair user whose only commonality with myself was our medical equipment. I forget what I asserted to earn such implied censure, but I understood him. Matriculated intellect challenged, disrupted, by a petite spastic savant, forgetting why Richard Baron sent me there at all, other than it was part of my job to cajole people like myself away from entitlement dependency. We had two meetings about a bill, the first meeting hastily scheduled because I was already on Amtrak and could not be called back, so I committed the sin of inefficiency under the Clinton's watch too! I should put this back on my resume.

No one in the Executive Branch knew I breathed, and Toomey was still a private citizen then, but I learned that politicians are figureheads, and power is vested in the aides. If we recognized this I think we'd have fewer problems, because politics boils down to appropriations, and appropriations would find it prohibitive to customize architecture and programs toward optimal outcomes.

But I am going to say something: I did not move into a section 811 building like Diamond Park simply due to an English professor whose mouth, like mine, was his weapon. I moved into Diamond Park because my private living arrangements with Marie were horrific, not due to any fault of my aunt. My family never invested in best accessibility practices. I suffered for it, and Diamond Park eased that, absent medical technology, but my bid to live independently was a failure because the violence I was party to was endemic. 

My transfer to Riverside was also a failure, and I consider it inhumane to forcibly lump the disabled and low income seniors together. My first years here were hell, Babette Josephs notwithstanding, I was terrorized by the seniors, literally, then gradually by management, years before Trudy Richardson took over. I've individualized her and Debra Horne, but that too is irrelevant when the landlord's goal is marginalization for the sake of the regime.

One solution is to reconsider segregation: I would have been happier in a smaller community of peers with CP and MS who had the ability to remain autonomous outside of monstrosities like Inglis House, but to mediate such infrastructure issues costs a significant domestic investment. It is all about money, just as Sturgess realizes, to his character's dismay, in 21. For all the government mandates that integrated me, the government still failed, abominably, because it cannot regulate the reality of my vulnerability: I'm expendable. 

Exchanging Pennsylvania for New Jersey isn't what I had in mind

"There is no use talking about some things They're better left unsaid."-- Dennis Quaid

I am still sulking. Google, the mother of all monopolistic counter culture enterprises, accusing me in an automated warning of graphic video links. I've never done that, and whoever my regular viewers were, they know it. No, what it all comes down to is lack of manner. Blogger wants me to stop nose-diving despair, because we're lemmings at heart, capable of a mass consequence. I could surf around and find someone who could teach me how to make a blog platform and relocate, but that wouldn't stop corporate censorship, and it's wrong, even if the consequences of virulence lead to bad outcomes, that is a price, because we aren't free if it's freedom with restriction because we have to live with people and entities who do bad things and get away with them, and I've put my heart into this, six years, eventually to be cached into a screen shot. Unless I revise, and revise, cough up something really of hell fire.

I sent out my first resume in years, to a foundation across the border which calls itself *Humanity Preservation*. And pedestrians who have little use for vehemence might say that is what I should be doing, with an affirmative nod of the head, but if you have a son, daughter, grandchild, niece, cousin, with my disabled intelligence, would you want them to go through what Liberty, what Presby have done to me? Is this the system you want? Presby is a syndicate, and a dangerous one at the end of the day, as bad as those corporate models which inspire mistrust. Actual people who knew me once, like Jerry, whom I've no doubt antagonized (something of my outcry must have gotten back to him, because his alma mater contacted me and earned my displeasure) and my executive director Richard knew me later.

Neither of them would be able to handle what Philadelphia's inexorable and inept welfare state has done to me, and society wags "you're a bad girl spastic, no one has the right to say that murder is justified because you've been broken".

Those who aren't afraid to examine the evidence can see we're driving ourselves off the fucking cliff, but never mind. My voice, caustic as a paper cut, is bad for the bottom dollar. We'll see. I'm going to investigate Presby. We'll see if I stay well enough to sizzle the butter.

The Mucinex Capsules Slipped My Mind

Yael Grauer is right about one thing: Choices we make intersect with how life experience molds our outlook. Emotional over-investment can impede success, as much as alienation can enhance it, but in reading her post about her depressed friend, the dividing line comes into play: why ambulatory people who have work they care about would commit suicide is beyond me, and her work smacks of an insular narcissism typical of all Americans. Who among us would want to be in Jason Rezaian's predicament, whatever our problems? An Iranian interment might change my mind about bronchodilators, perhaps with lightning speed, although it would be something for the imagination, wouldn't it? Pitting caustic spastic intelligence against the Persian Revolutionary Guard. Acute blunt force trauma, and voila, one bravely deformed skeleton is a minute addition to anthropology. Where was I?

Suicide, or my fascination with Burry's speculative success, his willingness to trust Michael Lewis with such an intimate portrait in The Big Short, which I'm reading on loan. If I tried to invest the little I have left in any sort of speculative fiance I'd run afoul of HUD. Libertarians may hate the Internal Revenue Service, but if they had the clout to dismantle HUD I'd be able to move toward decomposition with some residue of pleasure. Every public housing unit in this country and not a few university apartments, look exactly the same, perhaps built up with Chinese drywall.

Before I graduated to COPD, I had chronic bronchitis, which Rick might remember, and expectorants used to clear me up, with a great deal of fluid, and I've cheated myself this way for many years, like a leper in a Philippine sanatorium, yet another de facto colony of the United States. Why do Asians inhabit these islands? Like many disparate regions in Africa, things haven't changed outside of Manila, beyond Imelda Marcos absences for a lampooning article in Time, and never forgotten from my history lessons was McKinley and his deplorable governance of  the islands at the turn of the century. Of course in 110 it has metamorphosed into progressive determinism, with typhoons and cluster villages ravaged by flooding. 

Forget my conflicts with my building managers, work, take it easy, and bolt, one last time, die hard, die well, write a better post in forty-eight hours. Forgive myself for being an asshole, something I find rather difficult to do.

And this is why I'm not an industry critic

"Some lines should never be crossed."-- Jason Lee

I did not recognize Jason Lee in Chasing Amy. I did not follow My Name is Earl all that closely, and for absolutely no reason but cheap thrills I'd assault Ben Affleck and then have the preoccupation of being investigated-- not that Affleck is a priority for the FBI, but of course I'm being specious, posting in coded language because angry people online get stupid and wind up at the Supreme Court, and even if I tried to engage in criminal activity, my lungs have turned scarlet with carbon monoxide, and that is mostly my fault, but not entirely. I have things to do and I'm sick and if I cave in to being ill, why don't I just resign myself and let the system triumph? How can I possibly gain any form of vindication at this point?

And what the fuck is Thomas Vinterberg trying to say? Donald Levit marshals insights very ably, much better than I ever could in a kaleidoscope of dystopian gloom, but a movie cannot trope in obfuscation like a villanelle, or a bad imitation of Shyamalan, and expect to get away with it leaving the viewer with such a bizarre punch card whose intent cannot be interpreted, Africans dangled like trophies. And I've been accused of literary pretension. Parts of It's All About Love are indeed interesting, resting on forceful, stark dialogue between Joaquin Phoenix and his ex-wife's goon squad, toying with the ever insidious threat to personal identity, playing with the baroque, but this movie makes the Scandinavian procedural seem as inviting as the impact of Hill Street Blues crime series realism.

Now that how poorly I feel has receded into the background, all I have to do is debate writing or lying down, moving my goals ahead a few days--I will not die in peace, that is a fiction-- but with what little I have left, I am desperate to move on. I understand dying aunt's argument that Riverside is the evil I know, and given my poverty I can't expect better, but my family can't understand how untenable this is given what I have been subjected to, and that I cannot keep bowing under and taking it. Trudy Richardson uses what tools she has to threaten and intimidate me, and since she has no legal means to make me some other institutional problem, she yells back "Then give your notice!" as if I could pack and cart blanch relocate myself, imposing on dead and past writer friends who couldn't handle giving me the adaptations I need, while my other aunt wants to make it worse, move me in with Alzheimer patients. Yes, some of you are working three jobs, crushed by student loan debt yourself, but I resigned from the Matrix Institute in 96, and have survived this in a series of diminishing returns, in exactly the same shit hole, for 18 years.

I'd love to fight for a real job again, but who is going to accommodate an overweight ex smoker whose bowel was a misadventure even when she case managed the mentally ill who were so dosed with psychotropics that my employment was nothing more than an excuse to keep me off welfare, the fieldwork over stressing me through no fault of the psychological overlords whose efficiency model would have gotten them wiped out at Google's command center?

Pugilist Transformations

"In the ensuing war, particles of divine light-substance are imprisoned in the darkness."-- John Kevin Coyle, Manichaeism and Its Legacy

Examiner.com put out one of its mass memos last week about Google News crackdown on thinness of content, which points to the problem of hyper-linking. I consider myself an ethical writer regardless of my proclivity toward lack of reticence, but even my head is spinning at this point about original sources, and I have no direct contact with Examiner's editing staff, this in order to learn what they would like me to change.

Boxing is yet another metaphor for the industry's delight with its cannibalistic dark side, which is why we have so many films about the sport and liberal outrage about who, and what, it spits out. Raging Bull takes a slightly different timbre on this, as it is more about the awe and artistry in Marciano's fury, darker than Stallone and his perpetual hound dog lovable pull the girl in. Di Niro's variation on Marciano forces us to pose questions about rage, self-destruction, homicidal intent, without benefit of easy answers. Scorsese has his elevations, and the hard schematics from Humphrey Bogart's final years on which to draw, or Anthony Quinn's pustule diction in Requiem. The Harder They Fall (1956) picks its bones in a few easy places, and is an early indictment of sports media collusion with graft, but the real issue is Bogart's character, trying to square his conscience 30 odd years before Spike Lee hopscotched out of Brooklyn with a chip on his shoulder. There are subtexts within subtexts, as Bogart, I think, is also saying something about his status in the industry, the syndrome he and Lauren  virtually manufactured with single-handed charisma, and who really holds the reigns of capital in the studio system.

Yesterday I mentioned the senior advocate over me after John spiraled at my former place of employ, and, if I were still talking to Dan, my issue wasn't, and still isn't, matriculating the black welfare class upward. My issue was that I took a job where a black girl from the hood had supervisory authority over me to the point that we all reached a limit. I'm not Hillary Clinton, but I had graduate credits which I had hoped to complete when I was at Matrix, and had to toddle about like a goose in leg irons with a senile queer and a black girl who had no desire to matriculate herself further; I did-- hence my hydrochloric acid toward attempting to trust Philadelphia ADAPT later. My civil liberties have been violated repeatedly; my trust betrayed, repeatedly. Acceptance is one thing, but outrage isn't born in a vacuum.

Carcano Ammunition

"So write."-- Howard Stern, when he was still at WMMR

Would it surprise you to learn I hired a 32 year old homosexual who enjoys cooking? I did it because of my post traumatic stress, and I told him about that, the assault. I also insinuated something about the damage to my health under the Medicaid waiver. I told him not to read my blog, this account, deflected what he presumed to be my progressive sympathy for gay marriage, and will admit to you, should he find my spastic dowager url and quit due to my reactionary stance, I will feel it. I am not so far sociopathic yet; however, beneath my conscience, I don't care, honestly, and this reflects how bloody far gone I am; he is white, still relatively young, and I've spent far too much time and money on housekeeping since my divorce and frustration with Tim Artis, sinking in quicksand; this is all I am doing, watching my emotional pain smoke from inside and out.

There is a writing job at Princeton and I'm telling myself to submit my resume and worry about the obstacles later, but my body is over a half century old and I am not sure who I'm kidding. People who knew me in the 90's here are shocked when they see the toll the damage my rift with Linda has taken on me. It has not been as much as some, but nevertheless, the damage has been considerable, more than all the sum total of my epistolary arts, to Ron Offen, the poet who never published me in Free Lunch, but responded to me by telling me about his wife's cancer. I carried his letters into work in my early days with Matrix at their strange, somewhat queer Alden Park offices. I wrote to everyone in the Len Fulton network, and even emailed Len himself later on when he took my SPR oped.

Now I post, to everyone, in theory, but it is not the same. Salutations on paper to individuals were my message in a bottle. I am not strong enough to re-matriculate people, and I am not sure what to do. Finding a Kevorkian to deliver me from getting buried by indigence is a dicey proposition. Writing from the heart is no longer a guarantee of anything, and even if Blogger allows me to resign into Ad Sense when I close LiveJournal, which should occur soon, I cannot really afford to pay in. I obviously do not cater to popular sentiment.

Kisha asks how I am, and I haven't responded to her yet. I fired her twice, yet she found my account on LinkedIn and let bygones be. I've no reason to troll the girl, relatively dark skinned with a son, she's more affluent than I, with my useless education. 

Jerry doesn't know how many tears I shed for getting his signature on Vulgar Exhibitions. He was simply a teacher looking for an apartment, and I allowed this desultory instance to ruin my damn life. I should have simply asked him for a pity fuck and absorbed the damage from a cursory and brutal rejection, c'est pas? Enough men despise me if they do not view me as hustle slut trash otherwise.

Surreptitius rapere, Josh Barro

"I'm uncomfortable being on a soapbox," Gwen Ifill, after publishing her book about President Obama.

You look fairly personable and presentable to me Josh Barro, and I for one, do not have time to send hate mail, as a disabled woman who cannot eschew the obvious nature of her spastic-star-spangled banner flexed ligaments, which twist and contort in such interesting ways. Flambeaux I may be, but my social fears aren't so ingrained that I join in on mob assaults. I do not hate you, but a number of lesbians have earned my ire, and I'm weary of butch hits, and I have to stand against LBGT subversion of accepted methods of pair bonding, despite my education and significant voyeurism into indulgent sexual pleasures, relative to where those activities fit on affirmative and/or masochistic scales.

My parents allowed surgeons to butcher me at a young age, abandoned me, divorced, my mother moving in with her duplicitous lesbian neighbor who hit on her, my suffering mother. Whether this was before or after my womb carrier's third suicide attempt, can't say. All that would not have been so bad, but you see, for a cripple, it never stops. You think your orientation provides an impetus for terror, do you?

Guess again.

I do not feel like recounting the strenuous psychological wounds of my past in full. A little worn out hustling for my charming penny ante aggregate, having to work three times as hard as you for pot luck, since that is the draw, brother, between ambulatory function which you have, and quadriplegia predation and rejection, which I have to live.

I have known many homosexuals. Let me give you my list, aggregate it all here:
1. Kathy-- my bipolar mother's would be lover, who used to touch my crotch with an appetite in her ruddy face, before she decided to come out, in her merry widow weeds, co-opting a relative of her husband's; her daughter died of cancer, but they became estranged. I hate her for corrupting the sanctity of my already difficult childhood.

2. Alan from college-- he sought me out. I pulled on him, cried often in his company and he took it. I can't hate him quite, since I leaned on him out of cowardice, but homily people on both sides of the isle should know when to quit. Seeing each other naked and stoned was a sexual deterrent. My undying gratitude to drug induced lethargy.

3. My editor Alexandra, whose reticence was shield and sword. Let's categorize this peevish puritanical association an interesting exchange of mutual blindsiding that still managed to score me while she was dying of breast cancer.

4. Fern Markowitz, the Jewish lesbian boss of my Jewish supervisor. What they did to me consumes about 40 posts of partial detail. Ditto Erik von Schmettering, a crippled transvestite who is also a challenge to your groomed portrait. Ditto Jimmi Shrode, his fat partner. Ditto my former co-worker Jim, whose mild senility made him incompetent. His lover had full blown AIDS, and I hope someone had the sense to use the crematorium if they deceased.

This takes us to Josie Byzek, former editor who lashed out at my last male cyber interest.

What you do not discuss in your column about Robertson's supposedly vile intolerance, is the difference between Semitic moralism and modern Gnosticism-- where god as love is essentially meaningless.

And no one discusses the sneak attack of homosexual passes. Something I have had to tolerate repeatedly from disabled lesbians, mixed race nursing aides in the closet. Never mind repeated sexual and criminal assaults I've sustained. My tolerance meter, Josh, my struggle to survive, is well into negative numbers. You would not dare respond to me, but if you did, "I'm sorry for your situation," really wouldn't cut it. I was always part and parcel of corporate patronizing; tokenism, in fact. 

Insidership? That's a treat tossed at me through the bars of my cage.

Mucinex Valors

I was a putz too fourteen years ago. Got soppy, maudlin, panicky when she did not answer me. I advise anyone facing student loan default not to go this route, though I do not know how this crushing debt becoming nearly inviolate helps anyone, the debtors, or the economy. I literally let Linda exacerbate my anxiety, triggering the depression joined to it into an overwhelming-- cascade. Not sure how else to describe it. Episodes have roots, however, and this started in 95 with my brother's AIDS death. Padre told me to go to work on the day it occurred, which was a mistake. My then executive director shared his personal experiences about not being there for the death of his mother, which was kind of him, but despair gnawed hope into ground glass after Nicky died, and I resigned from Matrix not long thereafter. First damn broke with that. People in wheelchairs don't quit jobs, and I'd left three positions in a less than contained fashion. My last day under Linda's supervision, while friendly, came less than 12 hours after my assault, so I was on shaky pinions in my early thirties. By the time she threw me with her opinion that spastics have better orgasms than the rest of you, my eggshell was a thinning vellum, and my cherry was a flagellation center in which the hatred that creates assassins came to life, freshly minted.

By the time I stabilized, the building renovations started, and the inner city butch sack who wanted to ply her desire to indulge, unfortunately selected me for a target.

Second leg of long nightmare. Yes, I know; whipping this up in a post is not self-curation, but Miss Eddy's stealth and predatory deception leads to violence not due to denial and repression of auto erotic response; her deceit has its part, similar to that my mother's best friend Kmac played. This was not Chris Cooper in American Beauty, who was roused to courage by the sight of Spacey getting ripped. Eddy was a nursing aid, and it took me a long time to live down her hit, so long that black women in scrubs still make me uneasy. Not everyone has the self-confidence of a comedic character actor to make dung bitches switch it off fast enough. A young Canadian biology technician posted that gays can misinterpret signals. That might be fine for heterosexuals highly confident in their own sensuality, but aggressive lesbians shouldn't be surprised when they provoke their own injuries.

My abstract on James has nothing to do with this. I shall write it over the weekend. I do not always lighten it up, but this contest sounds fun. I'd like a writing party. Email me, bearing in mind I'm in cyclic bronchitis mode, taking extra rest, dying in my own fluid.

47 Ceilings

"You guys lucked out. I normally hate everything, but like the Rosenbach."

I have to charge for a few hours before I can begin to labor frantically. Tuesday offered a transitional thunderstorm and a power outage disrupted my plans to circumvent, or mitigate, the exterminator’s morning censure. HUD’s mandatory extermination polices have inadvertently (or perhaps by design), been the source of much duress in my lifelong conflict with the public housing methodology of Presby, and I knew uncoupling my work relationship with Tim would lead me down this path, but things have to come to an end, and by degrees, a compliant pack mule grew tired of harnessing a manufactured Jezebel; it lasted seven years. I cannot ride it farther, and only repressed my frustration with his flower child mind for as long as I did because it was worse on the grid, and sometimes he and I managed well enough.

The ability to get along with others has been significantly eroded, but what I confessed to the archive librarian Tuesday morning in the rain was more true than she could probably contextualize in processing my anti-social behavior. Her little preserve of a Jewish bookseller as an historic artifact still holds its charms, whereas what my years under Rick’s well meaning authority revealed to me about human suffering, its clinical, stigmatizing, and so often utterly incompetent aspects, destroyed my aspirations, even my quest for transcendence, when coming to terms with my place in humanity, and humanity’s place for itself.

I do not care to relive my Matrix years all that often. My essay about my time at the Institute took me three years of walking on hot coals, and it wound up in my erstwhile lesbian traitor’s chapbook outlet, my own draft still on my hard drive, but the advocate who interviewed me with Dan decided he wanted to kill himself approximately 48 hours after I was hired in their weird Alden Park offices, and he insisted on resigning, which left me in a situation where I never would have accepted the position. I engaged in subterfuge, begged my former CSPPPD supervisor to take me back. She refused because of Cassie, and in trying to do the right thing, keeping myself employed with them, my own health was subsequently destroyed, upon which Liberty made its own substantial contributions after I forced my resignation.

In the abstract, Rick’s proposal made sense: hire people on the entitlement rolls to counsel other beneficiaries off of those same rolls back toward matriculation, or supported employment. In practice, as Samuelson of Wapo has noted, the disincentives for those with mental illness were too great. Lawyers waged great battles to say that most disenfranchised Americans became disabled, and real cripples like myself end up all the more victimized, because I do not want to ride with the herd, case managed into oblivion, but here we are, with a broken welfare state that cannot, in point of fact, sustain Romney’s 47 percent.

Deforestation

"But that's your job Joanne!"-- Richard C Baron, premiere Jewish boss

As you can see, Rick has not relocated very far from the offices in Germantown which bracketed my very long ascent to a nervous breakdown. He is not a bad executive, when all is said and done, but I diverged then, and still do, from the conceptual models he and Irv Rutman utilized to get the grant funding that gave me my middle class salary for two plus years. As a polite technicality we all agree I lasted with the project three years, and there is no love lost between any of us on lack of efficiency in the supervision of the advocates, one of whom simply wasn't qualified to assist those who wanted to utilize the work incentives. 

Extrapolate my sparring matches with this very small band of liberalism's Stalinist largesse onto the fucking joke Philadelphia harbors as an an excuse for an independent living center, and there you have it. Had I listened to my old professor Jerry, stayed in Delaware County, my mother's death might have precipitated my early return to institutionalization. Instead, black managers for a protestant company violated my civil rights. I ate it for years until I put it on paper that I would file a lawsuit, then all goes silent and they hire a group therapist so that the homosexuals, Koreans, Africans, assorted wheelchair users, make nice-- and they wait, for my body to break, for me to get entangled in red tape, for my family to come together in an unfortunate agreement.

A personality whom I cannot recall, but his film was Running With Scissors and he might have been Brian Cox. I cannot be sure, he did a Cozi talk stoop segment and said there is always another perspective to bring to bear.

Right. What perspective is that? My body took a great deal of punishment for Rick's methodology of inclusion. The center from which he got me only and ever was honest with me once about not hiring me back. Instead of hearing that, I allowed their forked tongue appeasement psychopathy to make me ill with a cynicism and bitterness not so easily reversed as my desire for freedom grows ever more restrictive. I can give Presby my notice. Go to SSA and stop my benefits. All that would do is return me to childhood incarceration. There was an imbroglio years back about Inglis sitting on Liberty's board of directors. How and why it was resolved does not matter, because the system is a revolving door, with its self determination little more than a polite fiction. The civil servants who allocate your tax dollars? They are the ones with actual power.