Osteoporosis on A Metronome Beat

It could always be worse. -- Dana, a precursor to my current stomping testosterone laborer

I suppose I can live with it after all, that a man’s mistake led to a brief uproar and the inevitable retrenchment, so much intense back and forth. The service coordinator, once my title also, frightened me into an essential resignation, ashes in the sandbox, the oxygen and energy sucked out of me by my despairing cousin; if Galahad and I are chameleons, one moment a simulation of a couple, the next two worn out individuals who’ve time lapsed half a century, Monday had a tinge of a high school pep rally, as if he could charge at my shrieking and tremulous physique like a point guard. My cousin’s misery makes my emptiness seem relatively infinitesimal. My cynical, callous side resents her for it, but her situation is as equally a teaching tool. She married twice, the one she’s in now with my blood relative fractured by hideous wounds, which, for once, out of personal loyalty, the dowager shall not reveal, if otherwise to be burdened with tight-knit bond through text only. I, by contrast, never married, and there is nothing ironclad about a future abandonment between this man and I.

I did blink first, and was going to withdraw from his employer, my current provider, but I’d have to fend off inquiries, and my departure would have been because we did not violate the rules altogether, and intercourse now carries too many riders, almost an afterthought. I never really had him. The fellow simply hasn’t been laid for 15 months. The last date I was in my fiancé’s bed is beyond my memory, 2006? The care worker found it incredible, and there, Pam and I have a bond. She and Bill abstain, from what inferences she offers. This you may know, which means I don’t care enough if it gets read and I land on even more familial estrangement (my half-brother). My sister-in-law and I had an unforgiving quarrel on Facebook, giving me insight, therefore, about social media creating its own news. It finally happened to me, with my nephew sleeping in his car while his trollop mother parades her granddaughter, his child, like a trophy. Dawn, my brother’s wife, is forever high school trailer trash, but look who’s talking, my aspirations defeated by a former Walmart cargo-handler. I was, of course, going to go into racial epithet mode, then considered the racer from Nederland, which is in Colorado. I owe the man an apology for thinking he was actually native African. No harm. Speed is a drug, like Mia Farrow’s kidney-stone liberalism.

In comparison to my barren womb, my cousin has two children. She owns her home. I own nothing, and yet I’m so much stronger than this whining, self-pitying bitch, so much so that I offered to put myself in the middle, see if I can suture her marriage into healing, drawing her and Bill out with a couple-friends dynamic. She’s afraid I’ll spill her secrets, like Meyer’s blood guilt driving the visions of his conscience, sans Match Point.

What Allen asks in this film is to consider the price of adulation over and above desire, but he does not expiate himself, distastefully trapping Scarlett Johansson as a situational victim because she gave in to an unhappy husband, simply through association, with her own parallel relationship discord. Allen loyalists deem his capture of Soon-yi to be creepy. Galahad is of the opinion that it was sick, and I'm inclined to agree. There was no letter of the law crime, but he fell on the sword against his own backlash with the mortality counter, condensing his time. It doesn't seem to make Mia any more sympathetic, curiously, hiding, as she does, as a leftist in mortal combat. Is my gratitude toward Galahad a blinder, after a fashion? Given my history as a victim of black dysfunction, our sparring match over what is genuine and isn't has been remarkable. I know him better than I ever did Frank, but he's still a shackle in a sandpit, and my mortal coil has a ton of work to do.

If I remain loyal, contrary to my inclination, and he finds other employ, a woman? I've been writing the script of an ugly, stark, care giver's murder for a long time. I may have mentioned it, even.

Galahad's Love

When a player got zero point, it’s called ‘love’. Although the theory is often heard that it represents the French word l'oeuf, meaning 'an egg' (from the resemblance between an egg and a zero) this seems unlikely. "Love" means zero. In tennis, the server's score is given first, so "love-fifteen" means the server has no points, the opponent has fifteen.--Quora

I am going to get into trouble here if the real time medical professionals who have waltzed in and out of my technological catastrophe since November chance upon this account and put two and two together, and I need no more grief than my life has already purchased, merci beaucoup, nevertheless, the care giver and his patient, within a week of dive bombing each other, came within a milometer of engaging in sexual intercourse on a hospital bed whose electronics might have been damaged in the process, and it certainly isn't the hottest contact I ever had, but riveting suits, and after he clocks out, I pace the studio like a caged jaguar for any length of time, then he takes over at 11 am, like a panther, and I fall in love with this gargantuan magnanimity of his a little further each day. We have battled. He has given me truths I thought I needed to hear: if I leave this agency then it's over, right? He nods, but then we're back on the trampoline. I've lashed myself like any worthwhile Catholic ascetic, swung my own metronome back and forth, lashed out in my posts here. It is pointless. I'm in love with him. He has ignored my requests to retreat when he's able to do so. I seriously do not know how long I can ignore my impulse to flee. I can do so without providing any reason in my request for a transfer. It would temporarily halt his paycheck but would otherwise leave him fit for duty.

I have been a very tough girl, all of my life, but not this tough. Were it not for the money, he'd take me, but says I'd never be able to hold him. I am doing a remarkable job, thus far, by taking the bits of his defenses which drop, but where am I going to be in six months, if, eight weeks in, I have cashed in every pressed rose petal at my command? We live together half the day as if we are husband and wife. I cannot not touch him, but then stop myself.afraid, really now, of taking him. We aren't school children, and I necessarily find myself consoled by Woody Allen's expiation of his own indulgences as an embittered old man. Cassandra's Dream and Match Point are excoriating narratives unraveling his own guilt at the scandal, and they fascinate for that reason, even as a hint of criminal incest has chased him since the storm broke. I am in nothing like that, but this lion heart, in his determination to filter out my bile, may find his zealotry penetrating my last broken heart, sizable arrowheads too well aimed.

In Place of Scurrilous Venom

In reaction to any questionable statement or activity, social media users can create huge waves of outrage within just a few hours. These so-called online firestorms pose new challenges for marketing communications.

I signed up for twitter shortly after the intrepid Kathleen Parker syndicated one of her columns about signing up for it. There is no question as to its utility as an aggregate, no question as to its marketing value, nor its power for social agitation, though if I asked my followers to put an uncouth nigger aide who has been giving me my latest set of housing problems in his place, non-interference then suddenly becomes an issue of proactive removal: no, I'm not asking for that, I made a scene, and the misogynist ape filth wilted like a toddler. I'm still placing the finishing touches on putting his underclass balls in a very overclass vise, but this is where I'm at now, just under the half way mark to 60.

In the historical timeline, twitter governance seems to float on an uneasy median of contradiction, with special rules for obscenity, brands, proportionality of the ratio between following and followers, which, under some bizarre rationale, can be "bought". What is that, a status and prestige issue of some sort? Or tweets get promoted, for a fee. All this hardware, all this wireless technology, and all it comes down to is whose hustle supersedes, even if, for a time, this includes the unexpected combat between digital executives and a resurgent medieval code of conduct (ISIS), with both corrupted by liquidity.

As with much of the old guard giving way, even though I'm an unquestionably active presence on the micro blogger, landing ineffectual, sometimes excessive blows, I have no desire to follow 100k in accounts to get 75k in return, and remain diffident about platforms and coding tools: I just read what I read in people: Melissa is a less aggrandized version of Soon-yi and Woody Allen, her partner Mike nothing more than a baboon whose gravitations are led by his penis for Asian pussy, something which has been playing out between Caucasian men and Asian women since Japan was opened at a bayonet's receiving end. I may have curbed my acerbic starkness, parred it down, but at heart, I basically view Mr. Stiles' tweets on human trafficking as little more than a facade. I haven't been particularly supercilious about it due to his staying power, and of course, modern slavery isn't dungeons and dragons, but as African Americans in North Philadelphia answer their own sense of worth with either fatalism or brutality, like Erik's aide harassing me in public space (I wonder if my family would put up with living with corrupt homosexuals who destroyed careers, only to have to deal with this belligerence, no less), how can I give a fuck about social media's victim badges, when I cannot close the door on my own?

Soon Yi and silent acquiesce

When you started aborting, we were still watering-- Vincent Peloso

I am critical of the nanny state over which Nutter resides and Arenda adjudicates with an overzealous tilt. I have trolled in reactive fashion over my dimly varnished view of African American culture, thus diminish any creditably I might have once wielded with what I perceive to be legitimate criticism. I realize this culture isn't monolithic, and can strive to command respect. Despite the fact that I am uncouth, and more than not dismissed by serious scholars who put in a great deal of leg work, I do respect McWhorter, but his iconoclastic streak sometimes confuses me about his reactive tendencies.

The governance of the city of Philadelphia is rather sterile; this is not solely attributable to Nutter's administration. PA is one of the original 13 states, and Quaker imprinting hasn't always been conducive to the dynamics of entrepreneurial energy. Liberty's static existence is a microscopic representation of Philly's sterility, with little pockets that thrive, like center city finance. Center city urban design; it isn't enough against the stoic fatalism of black residential areas-- or even the Rosenbach's tacit acceptance of neighborhood fruitcakes-- a rare criticism of the the museum's insular yet egalitarian embrace of the residential disparities within its ranks.

I migrated back to Philadelphia shortly after the Move bombing, in my incalculable timing, and I'll say this for Wilson Goode: He started a tradition of ineptitude getting our city serious media coverage. Not that this is a form of urban exceptionalism: NYC is as sordid as Woody Allen's arousal triggers, and the the adopted daughter he grafted from Mia has the poise reminiscent of a  Khmer Rouge survivor-- which takes us into the caverns of Shoah beneath the sting of Woody's satire-- his early work even had a subversive anti-Semitic charge thrown at it, one I am not studied enough to analyse fairly; Detroit is a smaller inner city version of Brotherly Love. Even San Francisco has the Tenderloin-- but what it illustrates is that the left is not free of the socialist tokenism Ralph Ellison so brilliantly crucified now nearly 3 quarters of a century behind in Invisible Man.

The Obama Administration friend zone designation is more of the same. I have to try and go out now in this weather for dry cat food. A stressor to finish me off, perhaps.

Farrow and Allen Show My Age

This is the snapshot of Elaine's as it is today, shuttered. When I lived at Rusk Institute I might have whined to my medical student dorm mates about spying out the upper end Manhattan socialites. Pit the lower East Side against North Philadelphia and use your imagination. This is a thread you can pick up from Henry James and trace straight through to Husbands and Wives, although for those of you in your 30's, 20's, Woody is an emaciated pervert and Mia is the old rerun starlet when nothing else is on. It is not for me to judge her over compensating.

As rapidly as online technology is changing, it still frizzles my brain waves that I have tweeted to Mia Farrow at the same time that I am using her persona for my own literary powers. Would you just submit your work using the traditional submission routes, or when finished, post it where she'd be able to read it? I was never a huge fan of Woody as an auteur, though Husbands and Wives is surreal, so painfully ironic it could kill, and what Allen coaxed out of Pollack touch on my own interpersonal tensions. Mia's career baffles me more, preoccupies me more as a peculiar feminist problem, given the history of the men around her, since Polanski has his own nymphet issues. Where Polanski is concerned I am more ready to equivocate.

Even if Woody and Soon-Yi are happy, even if their affair technically is in the realm of the legal, and even if his relationship with Mia became moribund, what he did is unforgivable, regardless of his influence and stature in cinema. Most of us realize, even today, that there are certain boundaries. My younger sister and I may never reconcile, but I would never allow a romance with her husband. My stepmother (em) did the same thing to my mother, marrying my father after she and my mother finished nursing school. My lover once objected, "Your parents were divorced?" and they were, just as I was also by default invading the terrain of my lover's wife, but there is a difference between a fling and using friendships to steal. Allen committed a crime, imploded a stability of the sort that made our species successful. No wonder we enjoy seeing high society as a morally corrupt contract with resonant forces not to be trusted.