Polynomial Spectrums

Alessandro Manzoni's mother was the beautiful and brilliant daughter of Cesare Beccaria, a distinguished writer on penal reform who enjoyed considerable fame not only in his native Lombardy, but also in liberal literary circles in pro-revolutionary Paris.-- Bruce Penman, an introduction.

I do not particularly enjoy considering myself a stalker, not beyond a certain point, and if I was as callous as I purport myself to be, I would have simply removed Tassoni's account from my Facebook feed, in tacit correction of a mentally hamstrung minority who thought he was doing something good for me, but instead, as grist for the mill, with a mastication near to that of Jamesian attenuation, I weigh the matter as heavily as Queen Elizabeth does in beheading a Catholic subversive. Heartburn versus he isn't the bad guy, and why did he accept the request if we quarreled in 02 in our relatively hale middle age? He achieved his goals, and I've done remarkably well, considering, annoyed at myself. My feelings are still involved, as if my consciousness teleported itself into Marquez's Love in The Time of Cholera.

The care worker, however, provided me with an understated life jacket. John is an authentic link to my more aspirational past, when I did believe my writing was a calling. He has 417 Facebook connections. I have 23, and torched more than a few of those, removed my mother's family from view because Mary wants me to go to a home because her brother, my dear godfather, couldn't get his apathetic technician to do the fitting right for my needs. So I am dying, simple as that. This is a serious rift between me and my aunt, also a partial cyborg. From what I have read of Cronin's trilogy, the Fox Network has its work cut out for it, and I'm rather in agreement with critics like Wheldon that it doesn't interweave properly between the novelist's past and future shifts. It does, as a show, tap into our anxieties in this post Ebola age better than Stephen King does with The Stand. That novel, while driven by well formed characters, was never worth the effort. It simply transforms calamity into Armageddon, a 70's era neurosis in tow. Cronin taps into a more complex undercurrent of civilization overwhelmed by a brute atavism humans never truly conquered.

I have witnessed the same ghastly minority devaluations in North Philadelphia, with the same white clean up operation, that has left district attorney Matthew Weintraub so visibly shaken. We all see the paternalism involved here, the privilege aghast at the color coded gasps of despair. Gosselaar and Sidney's studio manufactured bond, for our disappointed escapism, is no palliative, neither is the progressive fairy tale that egalitarianism is the better part of valor. My sister in law disrespects me because I don't coo at her son's child in the mall, not stopping to think how long it's actually been since I voluntarily went to a mall, or even have any funds to spend there. Instead, my finely educated mind has to spar with a black man who goes off on me because I do not salivate at his movie recommendations. There isn't any statutory requirement in Medicaid Waiver services that I have to be grateful to be diminished by his rote series of tasks, after living a life of mostly sterile disparity, and yet for all the violence in my failing lungs, nearly aspirating to death on a flu shot I did not want, but complying with an Asian resident's request to receive, I still refuse to go down. Should the FBI tag me, you think?

Singular Insulation Propelled on Cheap Batteries

The wounded gunman, {sic} Gary Atkins, looked at one of his hostages, MaryLinda Moss, and told her it was all over for him.-- Robin Abcarian

Robin's feature is a nicely balanced human interest story, taking aim at American excesses all around, whatever conspiracy theories are still plaguing our fourth largest metropolitan newspaper in their post-Tronc aftermath. SWAT teams invariably escalate tensions, however pristine they appear in television serials, the villain didn't want to lose it entirely, this is California, after all, a state that latticed Trader Joe's, which doesn't advertise, into a nationwide cult, and a woman with diabetes thought fast on her feet, touching upon our ambivalence with cages, referencing the positive attributes of being a free market society. Some prisoners do become notorious causes, but those are a small minority, and MaryLinda was cognizant of limits. Perhaps some of you feel I was never cognizant of mine, and shrug. It isn't your fault I moved into "the badlands" of Philadelphia and wound up defeated, unwilling to correct the price I paid by moving back in with my mother, and here I am, so much bloody pulp, not strong enough to rewrite what I have to while shit gases out of me, allowing myself to wither on the vine under JEVS. This is where I get Galahad from, the care worker with whom I got frisky. I knew of JEVS when I too coordinated, and so here we are, with an all black cast, including a flaming gay drug addict whom I have to try really hard not to run out of my unit Monday. With all due respect to my Catholic and Christian accounts, this Trey fellow is a dead man on stilts, an incredibly fucked up little twinkee, he makes my West Oak Lane man look like college material, and I am barely holding it together, even though this Mawson Dave followed me, put aa assertive foot forward with Twitter DM. Hello Joanne, how are you? I patted Galahad's shoulder. "See you, I got a new boyfriend," teasing him. This is how we put up with each other, the bitch and the lion. I do not know what Dave wanted, don't have the energy to play the field anymore. This Q6 is a good chair, and after raising my voice at my uncle's troubled medical vendor, the avuncular technician, a man I know from childhood, reminded me that people are people, whether private enterprise or state model run, changed the arms for me to restore my hand grips. It is too little, too late. Restoring my legacy is an overload, and Galahad's determination to keep me from implementing my despair plan is only aided by inertia. All I have to do is unleash my inner caustic, empty, hollow-eyed hatred, as in, get the fuck out of my studio, you nigger imbeciles, and then go buy what I need, sort out the details. It is contingent upon me to want to live, to keep fighting, but this Q6 is just too high off the ground for me to be anything in it other than a potted plant. I no longer dress, barely prepare my food. The VNA achieved next to nothing, as did my father, my father's sister. Now I am just a body, giving unskilled blacks a Medicaid living at 10.5 an hour. Not one person respected the narrative I offered them so I could retain my skills, not one. I presume my followers have nothing to say to that. 
I truly believed my sense of lifelong alienation would one day pass, back in my make the best of it Reagan era coming of age, and I would have been proud of myself for the strength of my accomplishments, instead of hit after hit leaving me already dead, barely able to sustain interpersonal relationships, impoverished, soiling disposable paper linens as soon as the end result of Lyndon Johnson's 60 year civil rights expansion walks out the door.

Follow The Zig

What elevates The Singing Detective is the way in which these threads gradually intersect: individuals from Marlow's childhood memories appear in his pulp detective fantasy; characters from the detective fantasy emerge in the 'real' hospital ward.-- John Cook

Without being able to fathom how digitizing a video feed works, I realize shooting video through a cell phone is incredibly easy, so just as ATT's proprietary secrets from the eighties spawned the troubled tech giants we have today, once the Defense Department relinquished Internet technology for civilian use, images vanished from three dimensional space, even vanishing on the two dimensional surfaces on which they were printed, though I imagine digital films can be converted to celluloid reels suitable to run on older projection technology, and I may look into it for a future feature, because the fact that things have gotten too easy may be contributing to the violence inflicting itself on the collective crowd. YouTube and other systems like it offer the lowliest voices a place at the table. By the same token, we are all lost in the sheer volume. During the #deleteFacebook trend, I responded to a nice twitter user by tweeting the now 18 accounts linked to my FB stream do not read my posts tagged to a specific relative. I take it in good humor, but lone wolves seem to increasingly find it desirable to take it out in ways that have never been done before. However we classify it, the end result is the same, with varying ripple effects. Sandy Hook shook me terribly, but it wasn't Columbine. Orlando left me ambivalent, and had me reported to the authorities in a ridiculous case of grandstanding that unraveled into the physical anguish I currently endure daily. Paddock's goldfish bowl tactics sickened me, and with the Florida high school shooter, I rather gave the viewers who find their way here the finger-- granted this was a dubious rhetorical strategism, but going postal in the corporate headquarters of a video uploading service  constantly at war with itself over what is and isn't accessible seems a quintessentially American act, whether over a rationalization particular to the aggrieved, or a domestic violence end game, as authorities now speculate that it was.

If you are on the left, and want to rewrite the Second Amendment, then you wind up with innocent citizens like Andrew Finch being killed by military police, or, even in my case, if you want Google's Alphabet services to suspend this account because layers of injustice fuel an impotent anger, would I be determined enough to teach myself code and defend a domain like a hacker? Is it worth it because I allow myself to engage in shock jock syndrome? Do I deserve to be tortured with the best of intentions in a state run nursing home because my definitions are so bold, so formerly defiant? If I published franchised pamphlets instead of posts in the immediate aftermath, would that be different, or just another variation of Richard Spencer's fraudulent mystique, the "crazy racist" in the Daily Beast catalog? He can engage social media civilly when he wishes, but twitter's de-verification of his account illustrates the symptomatic stomach virus of liberalism. Verification is merely supposed to indicate to the follower that personality x is personality x. It isn't going to change Richard's thought crimes gymnastics. He doesn't impress me, but neither does Twitter's sanction. Either ban the man or let him retain the cult following. I can do a scatological and daring musical from a hospital bed gasping for breath on incidental orgasms too, shedding snake skins. That is what we're processing in the not but almost post-conglomerate Facebook era. My public television affiliate took its dose of mock courage to air Dennis Potter's daring foray into how creative non-linear thinkers process coping mechanisms. The regional backlash was so fierce that WHYY never aired a seminal work of such melodramatic English playfulness again, in a decade where both Potter and the dowager were relevant concerns.

Activity As Tolerated

State Department denies Tillerson called Trump a 'moron' --Meghan Keneally for ABC News

If I was into this stiff upper lip business, like my former follower Mark, then I would just wade in with a High Castle analysis, in equal parts pernicious and praiseworthy of Rufus Sewell as John Smith, whose series son did the right thing, turning himself in to the American Reich to be destroyed due to his muscular dystrophy,  
I almost followed suit, with a different diagnosis, almost, and ultimately may not have a choice. My shins are emaciated, like my outmoded hardware. My family is at war over the matter, and the assholes from Adult Protection Services are salivating at the bit to put me away, in the Belmont Avenue hellhole, but a few things are holding me off. Control, the right to say no, and a race to save my published work. I can blame this vendor, but only in part. The power chair isn't bad, whether or not he overcharged me. It drives well. I remain conflicted about keeping it. Adapting to it is something else. I was over ridden, by fearsome matrons in their 60's over replacing my furnishings with a hospital bed, can't use that either, my father, his sister, Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson, favorite niggers to hate, annihilated my personal effects, and I am virtually choking to death to lose the 52 year old West African immigrant keeping me alive. She is Muslim, hyper and ignorant as much as caring. We clash daily. She is rough and hurts: only when these ruthless Marxists do their final assessment can I lose Sarrin, if I choose. We all have to fail biologically-- but I just keep taking too many punches, and my ligaments are starting to buckle. Holding my weight, which just eight weeks ago I could manage, is now being contested. Arthritis. But I still have some fight, my hair matted beyond rescue, at the moment.

I lost approximately 18 social media accounts since October, in my semi-anguished outcry, perhaps rightly. Old invalids moaning, after all. Credit Austin for staying with me, along with some others, but I am a bit sore at Mark Antro. He has the right to drop what accounts he pleases, but I'm his ally and thought we were friends, and I mean friends. I am too battle scarred to have a cougar interest in him, but I support him. He seemed puzzled by what he claimed were my 'attacks'. What attacks? For me an attack is telling Paul Krugman he is a fucking fascist at heart. That's an attack.

I always respected Mark and defended him against his critics; having tuned down my woe meter, however, I gained 3 or 4, including, inexplicably, Ed Rogers. Unless I am in error, I remember Ed's more active political currency. I respect his voice, and in the revolving door of preference, followed him earlier, having dropped Jennifer Rubin. I only 'unfollowed' Ed as a traffic issue, tweeted a positive on his Trump tabloid piece. Voila. I've no idea why I've been so graced, and mentioned it to my novelist poet colleagues with astonishment, as only the Trinity knows if the universe has a contracted byline left for a vulgar Italian in her spastic frailty. Is a Principal calling Trump a moron insubordination? If it's merely academic, I tweeted to mogul man "to get his fucking act together". Nothing doing. 

Something Nice, for a change?

"Christ," uttered in exasperated dodged bullet fashion: I met a very together, hip, attractive, industrial engineer at the normative LOTR meet up, who seemed to enjoy my hyperbole which draws a line at macro aggression. You cannot kill them all. (homosexuals) I almost messaged the wrong account, thinking it was she, and I can only be thankful I hesitated. Whew. If I had been a normal birth, dodged my maternal grandfather's physiology, I might have been Sara. Wistful sniff. Her beau has a Dennis Quaid aura, and they kindly treated me to a glass of dry wine, as a round up. I have been having desperate visions of Inglis House with every tremor, and really needed a drink, so happily ran up a small tab. Normally I don't, and when she uttered "nursing home," I let it pass. What more can I say? I cannot ask what you would do, and I burned up my mileage in disability activism a long long time ago, to paraphrase American Pie. Adapt around the decline, or cut it short, stifled 33 years with Presbyterian Homes fuck wits, not the only libertarian sympathizer who needs a lawyer and another landlord, but to the extent this woman represents digital era futures, she empowered me, even wretched in my decline.

Facebook Administrators and the Reactive Cripple

Every time we post something which can be seen as inflammatory on the basis of reality, social media administrators warn us about privacy settings. Is there a tally to this before account suspension sets in? The poet Robert Thomas posted a link to a Washington Post  data survey about the GOP and the failure of black economic matriculation, found it deplorable, and I posted a stark reality reminder comment about inner city living by referencing a Sunday evening sexual assault event  currently under investigation, even while merrily skimming past my former minority co-worker Cheryl's sunny day images which are the equivalent of my family's sunny day images, a blanket cover of positronics, almost like automated cymbals through which we deafen ourselves, even if the reality represents something we as a populace are helpless to mitigate. Another victim, another day, and the half cocked spastic should just grin and bear it and stay put. Wilson Goode set an entire neighborhood in flames in an attempt to pacify Move, before I became locked in as a Presbyterian zoological specimen, then the more dynamic prosecutor Ed Rendell sued gun manufacturers, then Michael Nutter had to wear the shame of Danieal Kelly on the city's face. Danieal doesn't happen with a great deal of frequency, but just enough to remind us how low humanity is capable of sinking, much like Russian thugs perforating livers of Putin dissents reveal the nature of Slavic brutality beneath the surface; and Kenney? Jim Kenney is not a mayor who is intent on creating his own imprint on Philadelphia. He is an interim executive with a corrupt DA on the sole of his shoe, a carry over of liberal exhaustion, no less factually bankrupt simply due to the fact that Ross Douthat epitomizes Trump as the exhaustion of the libertarian idea on the other end.

What I wrote in the comment on Robert's feed was that blacks who "aren't matriculated through their counter culture are exploitative opportunists." So I did leave something of a gap open for the civility of black professionals who would no more use sex to subdue a quadriplegic than the few academics who occasionally cock their ear in my direction. Am I a bit pensive? Most assuredly. Can't I ever be in a good mood about anything? Ah, but bursting bubbles in the swirl of indigence which can be directly attributable to former disability activists is all part of the fun.

Robert and I have interacted with each other well over a decade. Shudder. We met once. Are we true friends? Location prohibits either couple friends intimacy, if I had a new couple prospect to consider, or the nuisance invalid interloper, in the less charitable role of a third wheel, into a rare example of Californian style marital happiness. We do not pick up the telephone to chat about intimate details of our lives, but we respect each other's accomplishments. Is that now doomed because I spearhead Frisco's patrician gentility? Not on my end, not yet, as long as ideological cleavers don't slice the gourmet pizza into a potentially dangerous wedge.

Java Suture Script

The Grande Braderie de Lille attracted 2.5 million visitors-- the BBC, ever reliable vestige of the world order its empire aspired to install

Allow me to preface this by writing that I know beforehand that my participation on collaborative sites like Niume is voluntary: if I want to stop, then stop if I really believe I'm worth more. My real point of contention is that over participation in social media lends itself to dumbing down, not developing signature distinction of voice. This is why I prefer caustic vitriol. The negativity in nasty honesty is a motivating vision, but in the context of a disabled woman in the crowd, my experience on LinkedIn is that a significant number of users were too paranoid to engage, and in my limited attempts to be active in its quasi-academic whizbiz portal, I was intimidated at first, then flagged for relevance, and so we all learn to post next to nothing, unless we're in private groups. I now succeed just fine on LimkedIn by not typing, though my known real world enemies also have CV listings on the network competitor.

Stay offline? Force myself? I make an effort. but it is increasingly difficult to write and pitch and job hunt without search. Plugging in is both lifeline and anathema, a gauze bandage and a frustration. I've relaxed slightly on FB, warily, and fear the administrators in my network will suspend me on twitter, because the need to bite will eventually get the best of me, with profligate necessity, though I want it as a resource, sparing as that may be; but Niume makes me recoil, as if to ball myself in a protective posture from human ordinance. The savant may inhabit the intellect, but it is still an intellect, not a shopping spree in the Lille Flea Market, held in abeyance after the Paris attacks.

The good news, such as I have any, is that I found my coffee essay, finally, weirdly, and I am likely to field 20 rejections over it, by excoriating Frank's ghost, planking it with sentiments about the perils of commodity and retail. The stupid bastard antagonized me, and still I lack the decency to allow the maggots enough time to clear the skeleton of gangrene in its moldy coffin. But I can tell you why this is: Lava Hulk was my lengthiest failed relationship, and I comprehend the retreat to The Altar of The Dead, while I clarify once more. Platforms for organizations have the right not to respond, but I should have the right as well to express my desire for prospective partnership. Content pages increasing lack procedural steps on how to gain access, whether non profit, or independent media.

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.

Guilt and Significant Licorice Craving

"A man's lowest ebb may be his finest hour."-- Kris Kristofferson

I made something of an error which led to a false reaction with ever fortunate players of capital injection, and I'm owning up, which is why I keep most of my twitter email for lengthy periods: Ronald Chernesky merely liked a technical news tweet of mine on Amazon Echo not many mornings back, and I looked at his account in Philadelphia's lousy holiday pre-dawn light, not very hard, or studiously, and followed him. I erred, therefore, in making the assumption that he was trying to pick up my account, and may be held accountable for confusing him with my mild objection about what he was doing on my feed-- but my aging nose smells something, nevertheless, like the odor of smoked mackerel, and I have filed "future article with bewildered hostile source," away for future reference-- not immediately. Let the mild turbulence expend its energy, then move to balmy. I was, however, in the wrong, and will lower my tire speed on twitter in the future. Scouts' honor (predatory grin). When I want to be acknowledged by the security of his world, I do mean it.
In the interim, my body wants jelled candy. I was nearly ready to blow a wad on Amazon.

Traditions of Prague Foment

The Prague Spring had risen up from below, from the people themselves.-- Oleg Kalugin, Spymaster, p119

I do sometimes wonder why Twitter administrators haven't banned me. I've upset the kids, unwittingly, the teens yelling at me: "Chill Out!" and I've radicalized myself along libertarian sentiment enough to go to jail, just like Erik used to do. My favorite transsexual has a jacket, a sheet. Whatever your preferred usage-- but my willingness to act on my anger illegally springs from non-compliance. The mostly dead Erik  acts from the  radical left. Me? I want to destroy the entire system, from disability intakes, which are ineffectual outsource models, to HUD. If young libertarians like Craig have little love for the Federal Reserve, my hatred for the Department of Housing and Urban Development is as pristine as Ebsen's follies with Texan crude-- but not now. I'm sick, and it will take me two weeks to clear, give or take, with my stores of Mucinex, and, while I am unsure about my battle with Blogger, had I not purchased the domain, I sort of can pity the gatekeepers

Zuckerberg is a kid. I feel perfectly entitled to kick his meta-swindling billionaire ass, because, he, like you, refuses to look at the near genocidal price of the American welfare state, and I remember the twitter kids interviewing on public television. They aren't my censors, got that, but twitter's top brass have wedgies up their crotch. And I myself have gone a little off on the "follow and drop." When I was new to micro aggregate in 09 I had to learn, didn't quite get it, and got sore at a crime aggregator. I let it go, but really got mad, and swing expletives with Nixonion relish, and still feel sad for certain liberals who mattered to me; losing Nate was my fault, however. The flippancy of the ambulatory world just got to me when I looked at the other South African post graduate's blithe poise. Suck it up people, meet limited travesties like Gladhandler, trolls like me. Take us out to ball games, stop leaving us at the mercy of niggers who have no other choice. Stop running away from us. But now I have to work. Jeffrey gave me an idea. He can reject me 20 times, but I am determined, before I pass, to play in his league, and so I shall. All my other tabs are closed. Clean coffee pot, then hit boiler room. Some of you know the term.

Adversity Through All Our Days

A significant minority on social media doesn't understand my anger with sink and hook tactics, mindless links in which both parties don't pay attention. I am, first and foremost, of little use as a follower for investment strategists, especially when I'm forced to live on little over 200 dollars a month after I pay my charming rental subsidy and communications bill. I take a chance, and give the ambulatory world a glimpse into the sterile lives of urban impoverishment, and then, no one can handle it, getting a peek past my cerebral arguments, but so many of you expect me to read the same blandishments over and over again about social market models, and for now, I'm done. I am never going to restore what Philadelphia liberalism took away from me.

While my intuitive sense is I'm unfortunately too sturdy to die peacefully or suddenly or quickly, my ability to truly remain independent is nearly at its close. I can attempt suicide, hope I don't fail, or endure getting sucked back into a home, and more than half of you who follow me can't even remember that you followed an ailing disability journalist with her belching lava eruptions in the first place. The winter chills will undoubtedly pass. The first seasonal attack has already eased, without much more than coffee and Danish, but I am alone, tired, with battered equipment, and don't have the stamina for the next snap in the welfare net in my cruddy public housing studio.

I am done with you, with all of it, and yet, as vulnerable and weak and challenged as I am, for the last eight years of her tenure as nigger welfare queen, Trudy Richardson says, "then leave," and this spring, that is exactly what I'm doing, letting myself get sucked away, perhaps to be gang tortured like the boy in Chicago's video feed. So long people.

Back In The Highlife

It used to seem to me
That my life went by too fast-- Steve Wynwood

The most effective censors aren't necessarily powerful boys who allegedly parade their victories wearing Hulk Hogan costumes. My mother's side of the family has corralled me on Facebook, my eldest niece only a partial, if tender, anodyne, and I have even less love today for social media, my chest pounding at three am, I was ready to tweet "fuck you" or "fuck off" to some new franchise authors, which would have gone over splendidly. It is not their fault I am more piecemeal, less sustained, than a novelist, and they are only doing what market forces compel them to do, and if I am solicited to read and review, well, I've been able to do that, whether or not I wish to continue in that vein. I spoiled my New Years take out, dropping part of it, so even with small disruptions, I pay the price, and perhaps it was for the best, as I am slowly cleaning up under the table. Let it go. 
I know, but only desired to enjoy my meal, over a tolerable broadcast channel. Found out just this afternoon I sold a poem. Or, had one accepted, for a byline, and it would possibly be detrimental, or unwise, to convey more than that, but this is a piece with history, taken to a public library workshop, where the facilitator pressed me a little harder than the rest of her group: my skill level was too advanced; I snubbed them, rolled out, "I am not coming back," I emailed her, and revised, and revised, over time, on my own, forgetting what her issue was, no, vaguely remember, the juxtaposition of classical with urban, and here we are. I have published enough work for at least three books by now, and what have I been doing? Sparring with nigger nannies in life or death battles.

I cannot retreat back to literary zine culture and sit there licking my wounds while my artery plague tortures me. If I wanted to pass muster to join Jeffrey Tucker's cache of freedom thinkers and failed because I did not allow myself to percolate, it was a lesson learned. He cannot pay anyway, not now, and as I respect Freeman, I do what I can for it. Get up and skin my damn knees and keep taking the egg. I persist in the belief in my own acumen, even if it makes me loathe, well people, yes, but communal sensibility, and on excruciating days, low pressure isotherms sucking in your ankle fluids, telling you sister was right about heart disease, then let the day be bad. Let it go.

What my underlying argument with Marie's preservation instinct comes down to is a debate about mercy. I buy Clint Eastwood's argument about kill shots, as opposed to what both Marie and my father are doing, for brother and spouse, respectively. My Uncle Joe is suffering. He has dementia, a deadly bacterial infection, and now, diabetes is taking his vision. If that was my situation, I'd put a Glock in the hands of Adam Kokesh, and say "pull the damn trigger you Southern fried poke!" I would not mind a grave in a magic mushroom compound, and what disability activists would never tell you is this: Quadriplegia is suffering. We cannot go jogging, clear our heads, or ride a bike, and too many of you rely on the state to solve our problems. Back to my straightening up, letting the day be bad. 

Inverted Pulcinella

This juxtaposition of proud, cunning thief from the upper class and loud, crass pervert from the servant class is one that is key to understanding Pulcinella's behaviors.-- traditional characteristics

George Ciccariello Maher and Pamela Taylor show an incurious lack of balance, as pertains to their economic interests. Spastic has conveyed nearly a free speech absolutism, to the point of letting vacuous threats against individual enemies stand, but that is easily enough done for a woman who has had nearly every aspiration defeated. If spastic finds a news organization willing to provide a contract, this account may go into mothballs, but she has also been very cautious in her diction about the sitting President and First Lady. I am still a little too smart to give myself tapeworm from raw muscle torn hot and bloody from the rib, and even if  Taylor can be taken at her word about the context of her usage, she had to realize the reactive connotation between "ape" and Michelle's skin color, and writing a post like that on FB?
Statisticians say 1 in 3 people utilize Zuckerberg's Harvard yearbook monster, and everyone else followed suit, mimicking either Twitter or the other behemoth. For a sitting director to exercise that kind of language in a social media post might tell her bosses something about her lack of acuity and ability to compartmentalize.
I defend her. If I should have the right to allow my corrosive, sometimes explosive pain, sock it to the ambulatory world, then she can say what most Europeans feel about blacks. Not all Europeans-- but Pamela's voice is indeed a refection of aspersion, one which forgets the shield of her responsibility to her employer to reflect before she posts. Development corporations do not want to be in the position of defending pot shots at national figures.
Ciccariello is more mundane in the annuals of academic controversy. My mentor went through a similar steam bath with the dean of my college, but if an assistant professor can be so blithely acerbic, should he be teaching at an engineering school like Drexel? I placed his account in my new folder, adversaries, and the administrators removed it. Why is is so wrong, in this context, to acknowledge we have adversaries in the world? I do not know Ciccariello, and assume the real impetus behind his barb is unhappiness with his course load; his case illustrates that accreditation is not always a just winnowing process. With the appropriate sedative, a little preparation, I could roll to his lectern and eat his students for lunch, but alas, most of you look at me and see a savant, a phantasm suitable for Lord of the Rings emaciation. So I have 3 dollars in the bank, intimidating a bingo-eyed African building manage out of her career, willing to go to jail over black authoritarianism punishing me for my inner city victimization.

Inclusion Paves Stairwells to Hell with Best intentions

"I don't know Stacey." Nate Maingard, fantasy abandoner

Karina Klaus, that is her full name, likes to surprise me, but in elongated chucks. I cannot remember when the fuck I hired her, in desperation. It is in here though, my bloody archives, trying to sustain my Trujillo - like self pity. Wiki's pic is not the man Llosa painted in my head, yet I cannot explicate the difference between the actual despot and Llosa's rapacious appropriation. I worked all night, shopped yesterday a living troll in the spastic flesh, and Karina telephones me, out of the goddamn blue, and I panicked. Nate Maingard, my love, twitter (my hate) Is she reading my posts? I said none of this, told her a parable, texted her about my thirtysomething self reliance. "You're my friend," she said. Yeah, all the way from Eugene Oregon. I can surmise Portland went for Clinton.

She's my friend, Karina, from Craigslist. Get real spastic, the ambulatory world expects you to know your place, accept you can't care for yourself, be nice to Pennsylvania's welfare. That kind of friendship, an itinerant passing, a ricochet of failed consideration. I previously wrote she suggested she and I could live together and she retracted just as quickly. I'm that type of quadriplegic. None of you can handle it, only nigger trash for wages not worth the price. There are worse. My dead ex-, Frank, who was probably correct that this chick is drug suey. I worked all night, to what end? Lessig treated me like a real journalist. I think, or faulty adversary.

She is still with the bum over 50 (for the puzzled, it is buried in my tweets). I recently gave Danita Berg a hard time, and I am thinking of writing a piece about it, my pugilistic stance with the left. She runs a damn literary website for fairies, she isn't a trauma specialist, but I laid into her inappropriately similar, but not exactly the same, as what I did to Stacey, Nate's co-patriot. I never supposed the recording artist knew the hapless engineer. If I really let myself go-- well, I am. In public housing, section 811 or 202, recertification is mandatory. I'm not doing it this year, so nigger Trudy gets what she wants. I either find a solution, or I'll be muzzled by August. The stream will go on, with or without us.
Spooky.

Mining Twitter for provocation and paying absurdist fees

"I've seen men hurt worse and lose more."-- Joseph Cotton, the third man

Trivial detail: Twitter notifications emailed me October 27, 2015. "You have a new follower!" Neil Thomas Stacey, whose thin and languid ambulatory poise rather recently infuriated me, the insulated self-interest. I flagged him down on twitter's web page to get a sense of who I lost, and became angry. Not with a South African civil engineer tossing out pithy trinket tweets so much as with ambulatory blithe assumptions about its privilege. I have, in point of fact, lost hundreds-- maybe decades instead, of followers since I opened a twitter account, including Nicholas Kristof, and as of Sunday, Neil's follow countryman, and my sentimental favorite, Nate. Every bitter bitch needs at least one twinkie for sentimental comfort, and I wanted to chase after Maingard, and suppose I did sorta, trying to explain. He claims he blocked me accidentally and cannot find my account, and it feels like I've lost an adoptive nephew, or the good fuck, worth more than 5 rand, if only, but it is my fault for hating the able-bodied. I went on o small rampage and booted Trump's daughter, Ivanka. How many gulfs can I expect to leap, after all? Why should she bridge my divide? She is a status mogul descendant, tweeting what wealthy blonds tweet about babies, and I am just a spastic, slowly losing, but also failing to see the late Roger Ebert's awe of social media. I also parted from Dale Reardon, a blind Australian who may have believed I wanted back in the throng. Shared experience, all that, in disability land. And no, I need a job, not the segregation of disability empowerment. When I tweeted, "I am saying goodbye to you," however, Dale understood what Stacey could not grasp: Cripples, even smart ones, emotionally invest a little more, and I liked having Maingard as a sugared sex fantasy to show off to the vanquished Karina. Sniffling a little, but over what? That Nate misunderstood the dots I connected to get from A to B? Is a long time follower a relationship? The age of automation gets on all our nerves.

I asked my sister to ask her children who Shelita Burke was. I followed her back, initially, for the sake of the chasm between us, but during my mini-rebellion, all she wanted me for was to prop her label profile, and the humane fascist said no more. Screw the damn numbers. (Ali Spagnola is a different context, one enumerated many posts back in archive.) And I only knew one thing about the Singh before Harjinder found me. A Singh assassinated Indira Gandhi, who overruled her advisers and kept her guard. "How else can we prove we're secular?" She inquired. But I can understand a sect who know what they are, and I followed the proud father foodie back, with respect, even if he too has to work on my profundity.

Registered if I change my mind

I fling out one level of emotive defiance and I lose 15 accounts. I can smirk, persevere, as always, but once in a while I need a good "fuck you," even if not directed at an individual, because I've gone through the kiln of life long stigma, and now I have to prepare to die by inexorably being sucked back in to medical stricture and decline, unless I can handle what an officer on yet another anemic procedural didn't inflict on himself. The opening scene was data mining, however variable.

To clarify a point from yesterday's post, I am not trying to convey that if everyone heeded the lessons of literary endeavor that Harambe would still be alive, but what I am asserting is we refuse to draw on the lessons we attempt to teach ourselves, despite the fact we already know what they are. This isn't ideological as much as it is a signature of human folly. If we had gone the dowager's route, and did the utmost to respect the life of the gorilla, and the four year old boy had sustained trauma, this would be another conversation. But even if we aren't statisticians, humans are the most numerous advanced mammals, and we're killing the rest, even if occasionally, we spare aggressive orcas over money. Large predatory felines need habitat, as do their elephant nemesis's. All this is vanishing, and we're going to kill ourselves off with microbes because we fight our biological demise beyond reason.

I used to be utterly perplexed at the primacy of homo sapiens,. but the evolutionary short form solution is that we bred ourselves into this, which doesn't explain our larynx, voice box, the evolution of language, the fact that descendants of dinosaurs can mimic it but nevertheless never invented their own form. We do not have any equivalent rivals of parity, within our own genus or outside of it, except for drug resistant bacteria, a simpler invertebrate life form we can combat, but not vanquish. Humans already cull themselves indirectly, through a plethora of policies which are utterly misguided, but we had best start thinking of better solutions before a few lucky thousands scrape by on reindeer lichen.

There is only one thing of which I am certain: Hillary will not get my vote, speculative war pandemic notwithstanding, in my autumn achey decline, the radiator making me flume with mucus of which I've increasingly little to spare, what I don't like about the Jazzy is the petal holders extend outward an inch; I've only just discovered that driving the chair slightly past the center without clipping the underside of my thigh enables easier pivot, buttock better planted, which doesn't mean I'm not fatally compromised unless I move on and find someone to live with. Not an easy task.

Pretentious Liberal Motherfuckers

"You sure?"-- Lawrence Gilliard, coming back from the dead to cross us over

The Hortons did not do anything overtly illegal in their solicitation. This was not a case of the state police tracking my brother down like an animal, a script straight of a seventies exploitation film, which is what my indelible memory of his face in that detention facility compares it to, an episode of The Fugitive. All the Hortons did was find my twitter account;  perhaps in the belief that a raging bull with tits would help their traffic ratio; I said to myself what the fuck is this?  And made successive errors in judgment,  for which I am now shamelessly trolling the couple and their community regulars.

Just like Mark Johnson, I can strike below the belt, and I was going to tell Karen Lee Bartlett her husband was an annoying voluble ass, just to be cruel. She was probably checking me out, because her motor moving epileptic spouse gave me what I thought I needed: chatter. If she was worried, she needn't have been. I would have abused BridgeToursJade with far more ease than try to steal him. The level of damage we can cope with in our partners is in the eye of the beholder-- but this is why I knew I had to get the fuck out of there and erase myself, because I was going to hurt an innocent party, due to the fact that other site users hurt, or were provoking me beyond what I can stand these days.


Yet my loneliness is still overweening. An online "regular" is better than the sheen of oils on my brother's psychotic adolescent bewilderment, cutting him off from normal human discourse forever. It would never be the same after that.  He was a hardcore drug user. If this is what my attitude is like starving for nicotine, then my brother off PCP should have been shot dead, then and there, as a fugitive on the run, spaced out, in the shame he brought to our family name, his face riddled with tweaker acne. He did not simply rape an anonymous party, but one of my father's tenants: If I rebelled against doing penny articles for Clarity Media, I was not going to give them to the nanny state mentality of Mike and Melissa for nothing, and was cruelly harsh with her, telling her Mike was a bozo fuck. That's mean, but I shall never, ever make the Yabberz News mistake again.

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.  

An Old Fashioned

I tend to forget, even with my skewered data plan, skewered and entirely my fault, not ATT's, that we're always carrying each other's accounts around, technically always in each other's company, even when we're literally in each other's company, yet it isn't the same as dialing up a friend to chew the cud, which I can barely do with my familiaris these days. To my sister I'm a non entity, and my mother's sister, a generation older than I, steers clear of twitter for the most part (I mainly don't care, they ban me then they ban me, not that this should be an issue with this post) and I can't telephone my father to say happy father's day without it becoming a greenback guilt trip of mutual anxiety over parental and sibling mortality: but daddy may outlive me, and then there are hold outs like Yabberz, the last of the wild west.

I cannot put it to you succinctly why I dislike Yabberz so much. The same sense of egotistical outcast has followed me there, as it got me booted from other online communities, and my usage has taken a precipitous drop; nor am I sure I'm supporting the portal as a sustaining member next cycle, but I can give you one example: a valley girl type who calls herself Jacklyn followed me early in my account creation, and she quotes the Hobbit on her profile page. I grimaced, followed her back, stopped following her within 24 hours, and the bovine skull bitch then blocked me roughly a week ago, as if this was going to make me feel bad, because I cited Charles Krauthammer in response to which laws Obama broke. I never wanted a moronic bubble gum chewer linked to me in the first place, yet she blocked me for answering her fucking question, as opposed to me telling her she was a stupid bitch: it isn't her block which bothers me as much as her own hypocrisy. She claimed she wanted to follow me for "the give and take," and despite my aggravation with her responses to me I tolerated her, and thought that was the point. She could have simply stopped following me, but blocked me for citing a conservative paraplegic. The behavior of simpletons can infuriate.

Liberals are simply out of control on the Horton portal. "So stop using it," and yes, this is what it is coming down to, but having a discussion forum for what I like, once in awhile, shouldn't be such a marathon with tortuous interference.

[I had to rush check a paying MFA generated journal, and don't know where they get the money, but I'll pick that thread up another day.]

Females Nag Too Much

In the time honored vexation of crossing wires on social media, I attempted to speak softly to a mulatto whom I don't like, and he is now following my feed. I do not feel comfortable blocking a half wit who says he served as a Marine, but this is now the burden of conscience I get for making an attempt to tell him not to get too involved in online conversation, and conclude from this we've already drastically altered ourselves for the worse. I know what the man wants. To help me heal, help me soften my stance, but his oozing great guy flatulence holds absolutely no interest, just as my overwrought nerves about censorship go a bridge too far. Google is a company. Facebook is a company, and the litany of digital incorporation is not beholden to the First amendment, just as the right to incite is problematical, even if it is qualified by virtual lifelong punishment. Put it in a book instead of a blog, but even there, texts succeed or fail based on formula, market audience, the like.

I do not quite consider myself on par with the grotesque indulgence of Ducasse, but more importantly, I should not have to care as a creative writer, and Google's engineers and employees, not wanting to be arbiters of the First Amendment, should not have to be, even if they aren't sure about the stance of my anarchy. True pathology may be another matter. Have I hit that tenor on occasion? In my published work, every so often, yes. Editors have taken chances on me, but the instant post, this has done bad things to all of us. Obscene photos traded like gawker baseball cards-- and I don't even do that, though I caught my thigh in the phone frame snapping Vinnie and all the sudden had a graphic image designation, and I should have kept that shot, as Vinnie went off mewing in pain and terror in a plastic containment box at the mercy of a city employee named Elena who hated me for dragging her out here at five in the morning. I have to live with that too, and loved the child.

Publishing to Amazon kindle because I desperately need revenue is neither here nor there, ethically, except for the fact I'm using a retailer as a vanity publisher, which waffles me a little, as rejections matter, and being a disadvantaged minority beholden to an overpriced digital global distributor sets my teeth on edge. No one bothers with DEA, so why would vanity productions alter that in any significant fashion, though one grants the format differs? I have decided to try, dip a toe in, and see, but it is not the category of writer I am, and don't want to jip an audience. They deserve my best.