Fiberglass Insulation

By implication, older people who use personal social services have been subjected to bureaucratic procedures and assessments that have increasingly focused on what they cannot do or achieve in order to identify their eligibility for services. These kinds of assessment procedures have contributed to the construction of older people using services in a language of dysfunction and problem states [....] Opportunities for narrative approaches have declined, Baars and co-authors, page 143, Aging, meaning, and social structure

My poor aunt gets combative with me when I verbally point to affinities, aggressive without understanding I am referring to acceptance. I have to find other supports than a cancer stricken 75 year old half out of her mind, and if cousin Richard is occasionally perusing mio postio, my advice to my cousin is to start spending it down. It isn't easy Richie, never is. Stephanie and I have poppa, and I'm 3/4ths in the sewer. Apply pressure before she spirals into hospice. "Yeah, and you?"

The difference between me and tu mere, my cousin, is I haven't been diagnosed with additional disease other than molar cavies, already tied to cerebral palsy as a symptom. I'm pugilist, and show obvious wear and tear no employer would look past to give me a chance-- except as a radical author, but that is still a niche doorway; I'm otherwise stable except for Ken Cantrell's  compassionate malevolence putting an end to a miserably secure environment (sigh). Now I'll face bowel movements and disturbing the peace, and other flags. The police operator who took my call Thursday morning was courteous. The emotional armor of a seasoned practitioner in play in our Orwellian U-verse, she was even, sonorous, like Peter Haber, the Swedish variation on Ian Flemming.

Sjowell, like Dick Wolf's screen writers, gets the conflation right in "Boy in the Glass Bowl", illustrating how crime and abuse ripple in concentric circles around impairment until they fall back inward. An autistic boy who cannot articulate is easy prey for a sodomite who then makes him an orphan. Sjowell emphasizes solving the puzzle is its own reward, and Beck's team can return to the rewards allotted to camaraderie among those close to Arctic climates. Only with Vincent D'onofrio of yore are viewers taxed a bit more. The Terri Schiavo episode was searing, so dark and cruel in conclusion that I winced; the husband's capture was more horrible than the brain death he caused, Goren almost functioning as a yawl, raking rivulets of exposure in a triumph of materialism.  Wait until I confront Trudy's boss. He is the real prick, the tour de force toward whom a tongue lashing would be a pleasurable offense. Trudy is deft, and evasive, but displays her weakness, Louis Armstrong eyes with their genetic inclination to dissemble. I want her supervisor. Ken Cantrell, the thick ape, just vibrating for castration. 30 years ago such hate would have never been a pleasure.

Good Tidings

"An artist is always alone-- if he is an artist.--Henry Miller, in the early and rough edges of The Tropic of Cancer

Alice Sara Ott has a wondrously acculturated life brought about by her discipline as a pianist who handles the levers with her bare feet. The discipline is admirable because no disabled woman with my type of developmental brain injury can achieve it, but in the confusion of her Eurasian identity, the legacy of Germany's link to Japan as an Axis power, is a saga not wholly unfamiliar, even for those outside the glass of her high octane lifestyle, the privilege of her mobility (unless the Russians blow her airliner out of the sky too in Putin's quest for winning the pissing contest in the waning days of this remorseful presidency via Harvard Law). I did not tell you about my superheated crush with my Eurasian when I was 36. Hormones and slavering insanity in the early days of cyber coupling pursuits before it made the satire of Letterman's top ten list, prepared to give my father a legitimate reason to kill me when I begged him for money to fly to Dusseldorf in pursuit of my own high yellow biracial cosmopolitan fellow with his charming Japanese German dick.

"I couldn't handle it," he told me, and freaked out with regret at the thought that he hurt me, not anticipating the lethal humiliation that the former Linda C Richman would have in store for me soon thereafter.

*
My elder cousin asked after me, and I would prefer a friendship with his wife Adele over that of the fractious succor I have with her mother in law, but the simple act of her husband's query gave me a sliver of hope that I can get the fuck out of Riverside before it is too late. (Conversely, the wagons may be circling around my waning strength and emotional terror at the hands of Presby's bitches). Clarity Media for some reason has given me a promotion. Because I growl? The African American inner city stoicism on its broken regressive back, its authoritarian Stalinist mindset, has scarred me irrevocably, and I can't throw a holy high fucking fit at Jerry for doing this because he advised me not to, but what was that really about? I wouldn't have been able to handle coercing his virtue even if I had the capacity to tempt him. Always running, without the finesse appreciation such as this requires.

The Russians Are Coming?

"Lazy days, my razor blade, could use a better edge."-- my favorite switch hitter

This lyricist shaped my childhood, even my pleasures in subversive tendencies. I spent my adolescence and my adulthood chasing after satiation of my Elton John adulation, in the Kantian timbre with the rest of you, solely in this one instance, and I've always been disappointed. Never a concert, not even when Elton was at the art museum (it was horrible for me, wading on three wheels amid all those bodies) and in 17 years of pixels, it never occurs to me that Taupin would have an email link for slavers to dash down a rabbit hole.

My aunt wants me to accept my life at Riverside as the best I am going to be able to do, at this point, given my age, and the shared genetics of spangled Italian colons; it is not ideal but for the most part I am left alone and do as I please. True and not, but I now understand she is frightened Richie and his wife Adele are going to put her in a facility. I am weighing how to address him on these matters, because I see both sides of the argument, with her voice ringing in my ears about my independence, my ass nearly fell off my shower stool twenty minutes later, and I've not had my rinse, such as it is, because I hauled myself back into the Quickie with one arm, chair nearly inverted on a 45 degree angle.

A bad transfer isn't the end of the world, and I know how to handle my laterals, but Marie doesn't realize if I stay with Presby Presby will one day move against me. I'm vulnerable, and that vulnerability is contingent on slapstick artists like Timothy Artis. I am angry at him because I have hated his stringy ass for a number of years, but here we are, my life overwhelmed until I find a new stringy ass. He won't be coming back. In my discussions with Trudy, with my implied racism, I said his mind operated on "horse and buggy time."

For what these jobs entail, he is not the worst slovenly minority to have. Women are afraid of me. Tim wasn't, and knew better, did his work and stayed off the fucking cell, but he has jeopardized my safety, once seriously, by not showing up. It doesn't get better for people like me, with no money, in HUD's nigger enclave.

This is a literary life, c'est pas?