The Acrylic of Glee in Anarchy 99

Despite the hardship of a nearly bigamous entanglement with a direct care worker on a daily basis, despite curious crimping in her sternum, not necessarily but likely related to bowel evacuation, the dowager's confidence is slowly returning; if she wasn't tinnitus-oscillating weary, she would attempt to slide herself on to the toilet without benefit of the shambling cocoa panda man who thunders through the door between 10 and 11:30 am daily. He still inhibits me into anxiety over doing for myself, as the last thing I want is for the yo-yo man to throw his back trying to insure I do not lose my balance, so I am cranky. When you live under the mantle of a fraternal order such as this, however:

Another image of Presbyterian scoliosis. pic.twitter.com/mlj4cahdCx

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) November 12, 2018

Then espy the actress of Charmed like a reigning fury while an honorable man undergoes the most outrageous form of character assassination one can conceive in a Republic so beholden to Roman institutions:

Then this, the destruction of Malibu, earns a spastic in a bubble of her own,  the merit of telegraphing a visceral level of satisfaction. Californians have created this bottleneck disaster on their own, without any help from the rust belt or the northeast corridor. Yes, the horses did not deserve to suffer, and apparently they did not, but Milano earned a few cracks in the dome. That she is a sexual assault victim herself doesn't earn her the rectitude of privilege. There are thousands of us, and yet there it is, the exemptions, the exaltation of Hollywood, in a festooned appearance in the chamber of the Judiciary Committee. I, who have been head butted by a remorseless medical single payer option for the last 13 months like a termite queen host carrier of cholera, will not maintain a moment of silence, nor spare the "victims" of Woolsey so much as a dime. Mandate capitalism is one thing, the superficiality of opulence is another, and the utter barbarism of the clinical model towards non-compliance is another still, especially when medical objectification is merely a liberal form of intimidation beyond a certain point. Woods gets a pass, for reasons previously stipulated, but one understands this is his milieu, luxurious as it must be toward constipation relief. 

Rewriting Othello From Peas in a Tin

The French president can point to some benefits of his approach. Trump reserves most of his admiration for autocrats like Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping and Mohammed bin Salman. Macron is the only democratically elected head of state Trump seems to genuinely admire. --The Guardian

Emmanuel Macron is a rather gorgeous echo of JFK, though my aide couldn't see it when I pointed it out prior to our latest vacillations in familiarity, like Julie Andrews singing first this way and that way. Julie Andrews has a succinct clarity of voice, crisp as an apple orchard And in the same vein that the detractors of Trump slant it, the uncanny ability of the French to straddle the line is something even a borderline fanatic can admire, appreciate. Not everything has to revolve around a polar opposition, even if the podiatrist reminded me of the social set from which I drafted myself away. If things get serious, if they aren't quite already for a hapless spastic, this will be an issue. A quadriplegic may straddle white ranks, from trailer trash to mundane foot specialists, but a plow horse groomed into a thoroughbred? I'm not Rex Harrison, nor Leslie Howard, secret agent man, and only note it because the equestrian in question developed an interesting invisibility while I engaged the doctor, exchanging codas rather than accommodating both. I've read about it in black literature but never quite understood it until Friday, this intuitive displacement by caste by the lowest ranking member of the caste himself. The podiatrist, in his droll activity, didn't create this dynamic, nor did the dowager, but the lines just that suddenly reorganized. White to white co-valency cannot be penetrated by a minority laborer not of the professional class. These divisions I may have wanted to fracture when I was 23, but not now, even as I gain ground through reassurance, that what I presume to be rejection is only hesitation, growing bolder in assertion by virtue of my liberality, as I somehow have to trampoline off the socialist net once again. I applaud Austin's sentiment here

Yeah you can keep that socialized medicine right the hell away from the good old US of A.  https://t.co/ux7jqfJC8f

— Austin Petersen (@AP4Liberty) April 24, 2018

but it is a reactionary revolt against leftist distribution sowed into place by Lyndon Johnson. If I defy it too adamantly, exactly how do I survive? It isn't something I haven't focused on with daily concentration, as all I'm doing is softening into mundane blandishments I've resisted until reaching out to a cousin, who by example tries to teach me we reserve passion for vocalists like Jeff Buckley, so charmingly deceased that he transformed Leonard Cohen into his own cardiovascular system. Under Pentatonix, "Hallelujah" is a defiant triumph. Buckley makes it into a dirge worth bowing your head over. Despite new found ease with You Tube and texting, finally having caught up with the rest of you, overwhelmed by messaging, I do not readily find surcease in exchanging pop culture video like bit coin, even if now my own self censor is kicking in. It isn't that I've been beaten by the middlebrow, only vested interests, the knowledge that my cousin is a private person, our new found intimacy valued. She may not mind you knowing she's lame too, but would mind if I detailed her own tensions with my father's sister, not that you couldn't extrapolate what those entail from earlier posts-- but I will tell you her interests don't really mesh to mine. I love felines but don't fetishise it as she does her dog breeds, and may chuck all of this if certain elements come back together. Starved intimacy is a powerful thing, very, but I could just as easily text my brother about misplaced tortellini, in the run of the mill.

Decline and Fall

"Christianity is a sickness."-- my paraprofessional

That I am actually reading Gibbon in tandem with Niall Ferguson's now familiar analogy and rhythm is a coincidence, and that he does touch on healthcare as a staggering edifice of a troubled welfare system is certainly not attributable to me. I worry more, in fact, that pitching to Vanity Fair is a nearly insurmountable task for a non-staffer, as opposed to the bon professor's ready access. I'd have to send a resume to Comnsate Publications, last time I researched the issue. I have to work my way back in on a smaller scale. My bowel is hurting, the adult diapers, as I knew they would years ago, are destroying my buttock epidermis, and I'm having tremors. I was warned about all of this, only now collapsing at 56 plus a testament to thick Italian skulls, well back into the past, and I cannot delude myself that I'm redeemable as a woman with cerebral palsy who refused to apply to Harvard on the fear of social stigma. I'm dying, and I'm dying of nothing but the poverty of technical medical disaster, and I die unrepentant, unable to tweet a compliment to Pat Toomey without getting inexplicably attacked by this account. I did not have to respond to Memes, and it was undoubtedly worth my while not to do so, but I am in pain, and Memes, like a social media jackass, tells me I am privileged because I contacted Pat Toomey about illegal collusion at Philadelphia's farcical disability center. I have no idea what Memes wants from me, and consider his, or her, conduct, no more than harassment. I am not special to Toomey, or his staff, I just agree with him after facing a lifetime of antipodal destruction under Philadelphia Housing authority auspices, and stand by my tweet, which I shall not embed, that Toomey is righteous. Others are free to make their own decisions. I only repent the precipitous decline in my health because single payer option rationing is its proximate cause, and I do not blame the GOP. I worried, briefly, that I'd really destroy my mental welfare by developing a bond with the male paraprofessional on whom I now depend, but then I realize he says uneducated and outlandish conspiratorial sentiments, and it will not happen, hopefully. I have heard such stories of racial remorse conscientiousness before, and I cannot. Because I still harbor that unpleasant internal condensation. He and I "friended" each other, so this evening, I will not push the envelope any further, nonetheless, we're both single, lonely, and if he is going to nurse me for an indefinite period, men are men, women are women, and I need be cautious, or find him better economic security, and return to antagonistic tensions with predominately minority women. This has no correlation to my defense of Niall Ferguson against Pankaj Mishra's charges of neo-imperialism, not at first glance, but throughout history, state welfare systems erode the vibrancy of civilization. I crushed myself with high expectations. Gibbon, as you may or may not know, worked in episodic poverty, and suffered from scoliosis, but he was an important transitional historian, a bridge between hagiography of the Enlightenment, and evidence based means testing and aggregate data of the modern discipline which Niall engages with astute methodology, and his critics miss his main points about authority, central state systems, and the evolution of modern economy and financial innovation. I would not deign to call Niall righteous. It is not the right descriptive for an accessible scholar and analyst, but he's a realist who recognizes boundary markers, concedes progressive victories against differences oppressed by social caste, and his critics are simply off base. He taught me about the evolution of money in a manner I was never challenged to consider, and if that isn't a scholar doing his job, pray tell, what is?

Viva Zurita!

Thank you Mr Woods. This of all days was just what I needed to here. Dec 5th diagnosed with Stage IV Mantle Cell Lymphoma. It is in all my lymph nodes spleen bone marrow and blood seems hopeless bu I believe in miracles

— KathyB👠 (@BrandensteinKat) December 13, 2017

I am not back as a working writer yet, let alone journalist. I am in somewhat of a holding pattern: Am I dying or not? If Mike and I don't slay each other in mutual hostility toward rationed health services, can I restore my former lateral transfer functions or not? I can still take a piss in the ladies urinal designed for a vulva, but I am inhibited about fecal defecation in disposal briefs, and this inhibition is wreaking digestive havoc. Bed pans are just as problematic for these poor infantile immigrants who feed off me and tend to me badly. Libertarians can take a moral lesson from the fact that in my own squalor I was still thriving. Nine weeks into a power chair breakdown, streamtolled by domestication under Presbyterian hypocrisy, I have chest pains, continual bronchial congestion in my lung, all this from forced dependency, overlong stays in a generic, and bad, hospital bed, and black women who disposed of my personal effects yet once again. How often do you think objects that form part of your identity can be discarded, as if you were so much less than human, by one fucking rental agent, and none other, from the age of 23? Any circumstance can trigger dying unexpectedly. A number of us may have been struck by the story of the Texan contractor so rapidly stricken simply through the process of being a recovery optimist. The city of Philadelphia took 31 years to waste me into a despairing old woman, who, for all her brain power, allowed contradictory impulses and desperately broken trusts to do her in. The old white women from the Visiting Nurses Association trying to keep me afloat amount to little more than a vague exercise in incompetence. It offers one insight into both male misogyny and execution squads. I am sure most libertarians would consider cleanliness valuable, and it is not that I don't. I simply valued my independence more, and stayed clear of pressure sores, until now, and rashes. Sure, no one wants to kill me because I'm a spastic quadriplegic, but forced compliance causing my death? I am just one ever so slightly less anonymous life who related well to Adam's preaching skills when he turned prostate cancer into a parable about the collective majority and individual opposition on twitter. It was well done, and remains my only insight into libertarian philosophy and good grooming. I retweeted the above bit of moral poignancy from Woods' traffic, like anyone, trying to lift the embattled soul's spirit, but I'd never let it get that far, never would. Holding pattern. Save and publish, hang on? Recover? That is a very deep vortex.

Quakertown Brass

Caesar is home.-- the guttural utterance

“My chair shorted out,” I posted mainly to my family on Facebook this day on the asphalt across from PECO central. Cops can’t do a bloody thing except watch you hopelessly reboot, but does cousin Tommy remind me to call my uncle?  No! I struggle back to building. Do I remember to telephone my bloody uncle? No! Does my sister recall that my godfather runs a bloody DMV(Designated Medical Vendor)?  No! I manage to race up to tenth floor of this bloody zoological senior parody of Planet of the Apes. You heard me. I am as guilty as Hamblin when it comes to disparaging senior goon squads. Some of the people who populate Riverside might be lifted straight out of Annie Proulx for subconscious routing routines. Ah, but the dowager’s contempt is momentarily bounding with self-flagellations, as I intently asked Maria for Mr. Wheelchair’s number and desperately begged Michael for a speedy purchase, and like a fuckwit, I bought a model I knew was bad for me because I managed to haul my soiled buttocks onto a car seat. This is what syphoned out a week’s worth of hospital costs depleting the Medicare Trust Fund, a gift I’m still giving. 10 fucking G’s and a ding because I never met a vendor like Mike, who, when he queried me about being done after one modification, wasn’t joking, and no one remembered, myself particular, that my godfather runs a respected company I’ve worked with before, all this Italian Catholic noise, my father and I ready to draw blood over a hospital bed, letting cheap conniving minorities bilk him over the assistance Presbyterian Homes offers indigent tenants daily for housekeeping: my last paid commission for my work floated in around 2010. If the linguistic cash register that sublimates the bond between fathers and daughters wasn’t a life jacket, Trudy and Debra, and their Mississippi fecal twang vocals, would have pulverized me in a juicer by now. I don’t blame Maria for any of this, but it’s evident I am still infected by the conspiratorial tensions of us versus them in disability culture, as my only life-threatening prognosis is ableism and niggardly incompetence which spearheads Pennsylvania like a persistent lymphoma. I may not have anything seriously wrong with me twelve weeks into the end of January, but damage? Yes, the type of damage which leads to “down the drain” gallows humor, because a pathological technician tells me he’ll fix the problem, but just blows me off, from before Thanksgiving through 1/19/18, a perfect way to reference in rogue elements which forms part of Austin Petersen’s experience. In his case, it was polluted cancer drugs. I do not eschew free market models due to this. Like Austin, I can separate bad apples from the model, and Mike’s callousness is born out of rationing and single payer options, but I do curse the fact quite bitterly that I tend to trust wheelchair providers, and see my family as somewhat apart. My uncle is invisible in my life, and I plum forgot him. He’s on it now, but the quality time I was struggling to cling to? I still cannot convert my files in the wake of my Toshiba failure, and don’t want to antagonize certain parties in my circle to help me circumvent Home Advisor’s prices, but it is a fact of life if I want to earn money again, I need access to my documents. We can all debate the models, regulated and otherwise, but streamlining customized needs is far easier in a director’s cut than it is in handling individual adaptation, within or outside of a chronic condition.

The Destruction of Pompe, Interdicted Sclerosis

"We thought we could change the world."-- Mario Vargas Llosa, post goat mortem

During the 2016 primary season, I tried to build a case, perhaps somewhat unsuccessfully, that Trump's hostility toward Serge Kovaleski, driven by his media antagonism, if we tally the number of fake news tweets into his presidency, did the collective social conscience a favor. That the president then flipped a coin in his first address to Congress to usher in Megan Crowley as a time honored, privileged, diminutive token doesn't contravene his credibility so much as expose a divided American psyche, and I'd say the ratio is at least 1 in 50 on the conservative side. For every extraordinarily privileged persons like Megan, or fully matriculated individuals like Governor Abbott, there are then ten marginalized wheelchair residents in a public housing facility with zoophytic lives, attributable to how badly Medicaid Waiver systems are administered. Though budget allocation is a factor, the number of dollars spent on regulating the poor to death isn't the only problem. Socialized medicine is a regulatory nightmare that hasn't changed in the 35 years in which I began making my living at it, unless the change is that of even more stricture through centralization, and this represents the failure of inclusion since Helen Keller became the apostle of being in the world despite the severity of her deprivation. My life was in jeopardy from 10/17 through 3/18 only to be placed in jeopardy once back in the system by a provider's attendants being a no show, which goes to the heart of why I took myself off of waiver services in 07. At this level of poverty in the Philadelphia region, the digital economy has a subzero impact. Case managers are like Bill Murray repeating Groundhog's Day with no outlet to wake up, and it represents Erik's failure beyond his current end of life mental decline. He forced this section 202 housing contractor to "renovate" the building, putting every single resident in here through unimaginable hell for well over a year, only to have the city's housing authority strike back by prohibiting disabled tenant access to senior living facilities unless they meet the age requirement, and ADAPT's defiance against medical model authority has also cratered in IL, since they now have nursing coordinators, and if we have a class of 30 autistic students blowing bubbles in a park, this is featured in a local news segment like a Gnostic gospel for savants, taking victories in the acknowledgement of our still precious limitations. If you'd like an example of how my pessimism could be assuaged, the Amazon series Britannia, though it vibes like Masterpiece theatre on steroids, presents its maimed with a live and let live aspect. There are no phalanx of visiting nurses doing absolutely nothing, certainly not with effective treatments, simply adaptation and aid by and whom is at hand. In the life of Emperor Claudius, which coincides briefly with the harsh rabbinical life of Jesus, there were no overzealous fathers who created found wealth for 24 hour nursing care, no persistent vegetative states used for dramatic purposes to portend malignancy. You were butchered, or tortured, wounded, survived or not. This is more beneficial for bipedal primates than blood thinners allowing a 94 year old to catapult into thinking her care givers and relatives are demons boring holes in her skull. If some of you would like me to cease hating the devoid lives of so many invalids I've lived through in this bariatric driven Commonwealth, stop elevating Megan for her stoic coping, and for those of developmental birth who can, let us hope too, like the slim minority of paraplegics and amputees in the mainstream, that we can earn establishment prominence. That's real inclusion, not government contracts with religious organizations and state civil servant intake that can't tall it's asshole from its dung heap.