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.
Showing posts with label sibling rivalry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sibling rivalry. Show all posts
Sunday, January 25, 2015
Monday, December 2, 2013
Easter Parade, Severely
"It is a street where poverty meets ambition." -- John Steinbeck hosting O'Henry adaptations
When I was in 11th grade Steinbeck was a deity. Grapes of Wrath was a masterpiece I never yet repurchased and remember my lessons about the text with some clarity. Seeing Steinbeck projected on digital flat screen narrating O'Henry's sentimental vignettes humanizes him, Dust Bowl reporter extraordinaire, an old man even prior to writing Travels With Charlie. Small microcosms like that, the little episodic revelations, make my thankless task here worth it, not writing to please you, but myself. Steinbeck would smash the ten commandments over my skull due to my learned intolerance. My sister chastised me through her torrential tears. All blacks are not the same, this between bouts of anguish. Her boozer husband had an alleged affair and my eldest niece has MS, and this is why I feel living in the sterile vanguard of Richard Yates, and don't care, but she is still my little sister, with all her sins, terminations. She does not have to deal with the black working class the way I do, Stephanie, my valley girl younger sister who siphons narcissism out of the room, finally settled on being a nurse, the 1400 she owes me gone, but this is sisters. Do I hate her?
No, not akin to how I hate certain classes of activists, but our relationship will henceforth be wary.
Capitalism did not solve my problem with minority exploitation of my disability. Cleaning lady damaged my new interview skirt, tossed some personal effects, and may have filched my food. I am going to take this out on the building manager, Trudy Richardson, also black, whose career seems to benefit from my economic duress in these circumstances. You, no doubt, see my causal links as unfair, (and they are, as Caucasian managers equally benefit from my containment) but I frankly remain indifferent. Black women of certain caste and type victimize me. I've put up with this for a very long time, and fail to envision requisite solutions. If not the custodial staff of this company it will be a future aide on some model via Medicare or Caid. My sister does not have African Americans in her home, rushing about trashing things without asking because their labor is high pressure stress. Furious internal struggle about keeping verbal agreement for second paid visit or not. I fall behind, best of intentions notwithstanding. Complaining to the hustler in charge won't do any good; kicking my landlord's ass keeps me flagged. What a wonderful life.
When I was in 11th grade Steinbeck was a deity. Grapes of Wrath was a masterpiece I never yet repurchased and remember my lessons about the text with some clarity. Seeing Steinbeck projected on digital flat screen narrating O'Henry's sentimental vignettes humanizes him, Dust Bowl reporter extraordinaire, an old man even prior to writing Travels With Charlie. Small microcosms like that, the little episodic revelations, make my thankless task here worth it, not writing to please you, but myself. Steinbeck would smash the ten commandments over my skull due to my learned intolerance. My sister chastised me through her torrential tears. All blacks are not the same, this between bouts of anguish. Her boozer husband had an alleged affair and my eldest niece has MS, and this is why I feel living in the sterile vanguard of Richard Yates, and don't care, but she is still my little sister, with all her sins, terminations. She does not have to deal with the black working class the way I do, Stephanie, my valley girl younger sister who siphons narcissism out of the room, finally settled on being a nurse, the 1400 she owes me gone, but this is sisters. Do I hate her?
No, not akin to how I hate certain classes of activists, but our relationship will henceforth be wary.
Capitalism did not solve my problem with minority exploitation of my disability. Cleaning lady damaged my new interview skirt, tossed some personal effects, and may have filched my food. I am going to take this out on the building manager, Trudy Richardson, also black, whose career seems to benefit from my economic duress in these circumstances. You, no doubt, see my causal links as unfair, (and they are, as Caucasian managers equally benefit from my containment) but I frankly remain indifferent. Black women of certain caste and type victimize me. I've put up with this for a very long time, and fail to envision requisite solutions. If not the custodial staff of this company it will be a future aide on some model via Medicare or Caid. My sister does not have African Americans in her home, rushing about trashing things without asking because their labor is high pressure stress. Furious internal struggle about keeping verbal agreement for second paid visit or not. I fall behind, best of intentions notwithstanding. Complaining to the hustler in charge won't do any good; kicking my landlord's ass keeps me flagged. What a wonderful life.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Anticoagulant
"You can do better sister. I'm married." Richard Conte, giving the Eisenhower era bourgeois a tutorial on the benefits of denial.
When I listen to the American left and its moderate counter voices go at it over a film like Zero Dark Thirty, I throw up my hands, if not in despair, then at least, futility. Kathryn Bigelow glamorizes torture, depicts it as no more than a video game, or she does not. We need new gun control legislation, and while we empower everyone, hey, civil rights is not a suicide pact, and potentially violent people like James Holmes need to be contained, so let's take a page from the affluent psychiatrist paraplegic who eschews his other classification as a wheelchair user and return to the good old days of involuntary commitment, while cynicism is the intellectual reserve of the mediocre, like the spastic_dowager, who has taken many risks to leave her scarred psyche bleeding in her amateur neuro image scan without quite crossing the border toward anarchy, which, even if I did, probably would not be taken seriously, while still cognizant enough to know that eradication has been done many times in the course of civilization outpacing our capacity to cope, and that after we get over this massacre, that genocide, we lose more definition, and so what is the use of being slightly more forgiving of Mussolini for being an inept projection of a virile thug. Isn't she funny, the poor little spaz, getting a little attention from Europe, Asia, in fascination? Mockery? Perhaps as a target of exploitation. You don't even know what horror is you little gnome, so why not be more positive and upbeat while the US is in its superpower status, however much it is diffusing?
We have short memories, whether in geological historical time or merely related to the course of human history, and I do not have to spearhead this, and could be nice, engage in the pleasantry of willful blindness and small kindness, when merited, I just have not dropped those dimes.
I have not seen my sister's eldest girl, Nicole, since the death of her granny. She is in a Catholic college now, and do not know what she makes of my rift with her mother, if anything. Stephanie shields her from me, afraid of what I might say about granny's past, or her own mother and father's, for that matter. The topic of my sister's pregnancy termination is a prime example, one of my searing trump cards; it is not that I want to hurt nieces or nephews, but merely that I must refuse the censorship of manner, politeness, merely due to this notion that kids don't know. Parents kid themselves about what kids do or don't know, and I may be wrong, and Nicole's children will live in a better world of radical equality of the kind that frightened Orwell, Huxley, in their totalitarian era.
If anything survives on this rock after we engineer ourselves into --*, natural evolution might want to give the lucky sentient horseshoe toss to the cuttlefish; yes, I know, that is misanthropic mediocrity crying uncle.
We all have better days.
When I listen to the American left and its moderate counter voices go at it over a film like Zero Dark Thirty, I throw up my hands, if not in despair, then at least, futility. Kathryn Bigelow glamorizes torture, depicts it as no more than a video game, or she does not. We need new gun control legislation, and while we empower everyone, hey, civil rights is not a suicide pact, and potentially violent people like James Holmes need to be contained, so let's take a page from the affluent psychiatrist paraplegic who eschews his other classification as a wheelchair user and return to the good old days of involuntary commitment, while cynicism is the intellectual reserve of the mediocre, like the spastic_dowager, who has taken many risks to leave her scarred psyche bleeding in her amateur neuro image scan without quite crossing the border toward anarchy, which, even if I did, probably would not be taken seriously, while still cognizant enough to know that eradication has been done many times in the course of civilization outpacing our capacity to cope, and that after we get over this massacre, that genocide, we lose more definition, and so what is the use of being slightly more forgiving of Mussolini for being an inept projection of a virile thug. Isn't she funny, the poor little spaz, getting a little attention from Europe, Asia, in fascination? Mockery? Perhaps as a target of exploitation. You don't even know what horror is you little gnome, so why not be more positive and upbeat while the US is in its superpower status, however much it is diffusing?
We have short memories, whether in geological historical time or merely related to the course of human history, and I do not have to spearhead this, and could be nice, engage in the pleasantry of willful blindness and small kindness, when merited, I just have not dropped those dimes.
I have not seen my sister's eldest girl, Nicole, since the death of her granny. She is in a Catholic college now, and do not know what she makes of my rift with her mother, if anything. Stephanie shields her from me, afraid of what I might say about granny's past, or her own mother and father's, for that matter. The topic of my sister's pregnancy termination is a prime example, one of my searing trump cards; it is not that I want to hurt nieces or nephews, but merely that I must refuse the censorship of manner, politeness, merely due to this notion that kids don't know. Parents kid themselves about what kids do or don't know, and I may be wrong, and Nicole's children will live in a better world of radical equality of the kind that frightened Orwell, Huxley, in their totalitarian era.
If anything survives on this rock after we engineer ourselves into --*, natural evolution might want to give the lucky sentient horseshoe toss to the cuttlefish; yes, I know, that is misanthropic mediocrity crying uncle.
We all have better days.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Scorch
I am not on, not at the moment, not with the precision and focus I want to maintain for this project. Perhaps I will never grasp my thesis, though I know it is here, both in the raw and the cooked, to pull from the culinary arts, which, just as anything else, is coping with life through the palate, a subtle theme in the film adaptation of Cunningham's The Hours. I saw this author on Rose, doing the usual whoring you want to be moved and bowled over and fucked by my vision, do you not? And the film, much like Babel, traumatized me, though it did so using the key Caucasian narcissistic keynotes of Western pretension. Iñárritu is much more complex, and his work is something I have not fully dealt with, and in the stupid way the human mind works, I cannot do my laundry this evening because of Nicole Kidman's ability to emasculate, because Cunningham took one of my few very favorite female writers, Virginia Woolf, and yes, I am hard on on female writers, but that is because most of us, myself included, refuse to suffer for the sake of genius, and this is another reason I literally despise Josie Byzek-- not because she is stupid, but because she lives in pragmatic denial, like my sister, despite the differences between my sibling and former editor, both now antagonists, he took Virginia's anguish and transcended it, and he did this all without directly invoking faith, and I do not know that I will ever read his novel, would love very much right now to scream at him and dig my fingers into his chest and no, of course I shall not, and dare I find an email address and write to him, if I get any response from him at all, it would be a standardized publicist response, but I haven't read the book, so he is safe from the failure of spastic's... what?
Never mind. I spotted this morning, nearly a year to the day that I thought I stopped menstruating. Leave it to me to defy the medical model. I forget which physician it was, of course, but there was an article published about my extraordinary verbal skills in JAMA, or some buried and yellowed medical text. I am not supposed to have them, these skills, the acuity, even the ability to speak as well as I do. I will do laundry later, hopefully tomorrow, and even though one is not supposed to use rhetoric in this fashion, orthopedic surgeons, eliminated, would make the world more bearable. I could write it in more inflammatory fashion, but I hate doctors; they have not made my life or body better, and I'd sue Shriners Hospital for being worse than butchers. They were no more than torturers back in the late 60's, and yet, mio padre is my last parent. How can I hate the man who never allowed me the honor of being his first born daughter, who only wanted to be her father's princess?
Never mind. I spotted this morning, nearly a year to the day that I thought I stopped menstruating. Leave it to me to defy the medical model. I forget which physician it was, of course, but there was an article published about my extraordinary verbal skills in JAMA, or some buried and yellowed medical text. I am not supposed to have them, these skills, the acuity, even the ability to speak as well as I do. I will do laundry later, hopefully tomorrow, and even though one is not supposed to use rhetoric in this fashion, orthopedic surgeons, eliminated, would make the world more bearable. I could write it in more inflammatory fashion, but I hate doctors; they have not made my life or body better, and I'd sue Shriners Hospital for being worse than butchers. They were no more than torturers back in the late 60's, and yet, mio padre is my last parent. How can I hate the man who never allowed me the honor of being his first born daughter, who only wanted to be her father's princess?
Wednesday, June 6, 2012
Feline Odes For An Urn
Not quite, but I should break now before my broadband goes into its afternoon slow zone, get something else to eat and then finish charging and wash up to take my long power chair stroll to my vet, to get Joey's remains. I am feeling overwhelmed, and do not know if Drexel U would still bend the rules to assist me. My warranty with Best Buy and its Geek Squad Black Tie protection expired, and I have a few other hundred things to do before a stroke or cardiac event disrupts me, yet I am in distress about my monetizing illiteracy, and polishing my archive content, and footnoting that I need to delete my LJ tweet links. Maybe I should risk tracking my married lover down after all these years. I could see Yahoo latching onto that as newsworthy, couldn't you? I do not want to argue with Benjamin anymore right now, and I am not really sure he can negotiate the byzantine layers to Google's support systems. I do not really hate my sister, only the relationship we have with each other. I tell her voice mail I hate her; if I am suing her, I do not yet know. It may raise our mother from the dead,
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Requiem(s)
I just finished my fourth Gerstel, a non-alcoholic beer, in lieu of coffee, and no one will note or any discernible difference. I will have to edit my posts about my sister at some point, but she and I are estranged over money; (and this remains the case in the onset of winter 2012, my sister obliterating that her lack of support accentuated my distress) with my half-brother it is different; he and I are now estranged over his basement in North Carolina, (though the gulf has widened) which was never my best option to begin with, but was not Presby, the parent company I live under, and I pushed the envelope, not on Facebook, but still, in a virtual matrix, and I am feeling sorry about it, just like a real human being would. This happens with families with nursing home eligibles like myself, and I was hoping it wouldn't, laughing at my interior picture of twitter or LiveJournal falling over themselves to rush to my rescue, buying me the study of Andre Dubus, perhaps, in some Cinderella ending, despite my lack of requisite and docile loveliness required for such closure.
I was trying to stay awake to review In The Company of Men again, once more for free on Antenna TV, with that amusing retroactive golden age voice over, but even if I pushed, unwisely, to do so, my somnolent state of being probably couldn't keep up with Aaron Eckhart, who I find to be a wickedly sexual satirist. I have resisted discussing Stacy Edwards' supporting character, whose deafness makes Eckhart's satirical skill a delicious pain, within the usual paradigm, but this black comedy defies such paradigms. Sometimes I have to allow films to saturate, much like photosynthesis.
Despite the fact that I'm on deadline, I'll see you tonight, assurances in the technology being what they are, though I do not know which hat I'll be wearing. Self-contradictions being what it is, I am both more vulnerable and far worse than I let on, though I cannot know how many reading these entries divines this fact.
I was trying to stay awake to review In The Company of Men again, once more for free on Antenna TV, with that amusing retroactive golden age voice over, but even if I pushed, unwisely, to do so, my somnolent state of being probably couldn't keep up with Aaron Eckhart, who I find to be a wickedly sexual satirist. I have resisted discussing Stacy Edwards' supporting character, whose deafness makes Eckhart's satirical skill a delicious pain, within the usual paradigm, but this black comedy defies such paradigms. Sometimes I have to allow films to saturate, much like photosynthesis.
Despite the fact that I'm on deadline, I'll see you tonight, assurances in the technology being what they are, though I do not know which hat I'll be wearing. Self-contradictions being what it is, I am both more vulnerable and far worse than I let on, though I cannot know how many reading these entries divines this fact.
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