"There was no treachery too base for the world to commit; she knew that. No happiness lasted; she knew that. --Virginia Woolf
It is not so much the embarrassment. I have dealt with that, taken myself apart and reassembled the pieces, frightening off midwestern humorists and dozens of other collagen enthusiasts, no. This is not the wedge; loathing is. Disability center dynamics literally make me sick to my stomach. The endless presentations, sex seminars, legal aid professors lecturing about benefits and assuring downtrodden alumni that services offered by law students are limited in scope, without reference to the mystery of how state budgets get codified in Harrisburg, people like Linda constantly neutering the semantics of the English language: "Attendants are not care givers but assistants." That is Linda's voice. "We categorize it as excess revenue." She complained to me when we argued over our computers that no one wanted to see her for herself. I tried to see her, and discovered a raptor beneath a parakeet's warbling delicacy, which means befriending this former boss was a mistake. The trial for a sterile and segregated case management compliance model that made me promise after promise after promise and never followed through, hurt me physically as well as triggering a crisis is slated to rule for the plaintiff, and yet I am a quadriplegic, who though mainly self-sufficient when stable, can nose dive just as quickly.
A disabled in action member Susan exclaiming "you have balls," this during the rare strategy gatherings I attended. Yes. Balls to defy Erik and shutting the she-man down when he attacked her.
Balls to confront Linda and take them all on and come away from all that significantly beaten.
Balls to make online users leery. Balls to be totally familiar with the interior cripple who will behave like one when it suits, to don that voice, the little girl inside who in all other things being equal wants to stamp her foot and get a new able-bodied warder like Jayne Anne. Ambulatory women protected me from my mother when I was young. Psychologists in repressed marriages made me dinner; physical therapy aides taught me catechism. Camp counselors taught me the intrigue of boys, so why can't I have more successful writer friends? Like Joanie chasing me. Mentally retarded girl practically falling out of her lap to have me ward her.
As I have shown, however, I have as well the ruthless analysis of my own interior calculus, one that knows I have passed the female novelist scene, not quite so rewarded anymore by literary press culture, so perhaps I am play acting, indulging the regression, the assurance of an ambulatory baby sitter. I have taken charge of Joanie in the past. Taken her out. She's harmless, a child who thinks she fazes me with an admission that she dated my fourth cousin. He is also afflicted (that corrupted Old World genetic code), barely walks. I hardly know him. There isn't much more quality of life time for the sacrifices and choices I need to make, and that forms part of my morose shadings which bloggers are not supposed to indulge. I am weakening; in not so many years, I shall soon be mainly bed ridden. Ms. Dezenski will probably retire with accolades, unless I really have the stones. She withstood the Crothers treatment paradigm for seven years, a daughter of presumable Jewish affluence.
Showing posts with label susanna daniel. Show all posts
Showing posts with label susanna daniel. Show all posts
Friday, August 9, 2013
Saturday, February 2, 2013
7 Stages
"What about the coldness of the narrator?"-- one of my astute online critical evaluators.
I could envision that my voice raises concerns for the young cyber turks who manage to keep twitter running smoothly. "We try not to interfere," does not mean they are not skittish about anything that may hint at incitement, and I have done more than hint-- but tweets are the brick wall of my digital age adaptation. I do not like cell phone micro-blogs, and it slipped my mind that adolescents who may have gone from my tweets to my posts here may have shit a few bricks-- in essence I hit the tweet button without contemplating twitter culture, how it flares and ends careers that fast, but my career, as such, ended with this merry enclave in 2004, unfortunately. I do not particularly disdain New Mobility for being what it is, a hybrid of Cosmo, my relation to Josie aside. I am mildly piqued at Tim Gilmer for dropping me off his team of contributors after I did my feature, and I have toyed with confronting him about it, but he probably wouldn't offer me an explanation. I visited their online board and shouldn't have (it is not important to detail, but if Poets & Writers banned me for public arguments, on NM's board a quad in Florida posted that I needed to be raped and have my throat cut, and I pasted it in, and reported). That was the only time I played cop, but then got the cold shoulder on any further access as a contributor.
Add two and two together with Josie's need to control her own territory.
However, New Mobility has one or two key notes and repeats these scales, emulating most periodical impulse content, and twitter is not viable for giving me social anchorage. I understand it but intellectually look on it as a virus, and the viral snub by Susanna Daniel effectively eliminated twitter as an interactive community for me. Like Strether, and yes, I may edit that stub, it is clumsy, I feel snubs like spears. I am still conflicted about the magazine, as a second clip would not hurt, but that would take moxie at this point.
Josie and Tim do not read my blog, I am sure. They do what they need to to keep the publication which employs them alive, but this doesn't discount the ripple effect. I could also turn this on its head, submit a piece about being an alienated one time contributor, and why. It would take guts, me to submit it, NM to dare publish it, and Josie to stomach it-- which is not the same thing as becoming her public adversary.
Until his PBS run this evening, I never considered Derek Jacobi sexually attractive. Odd times, but his apostasy, like that of most deniers who relish the implausible, does not make much sense. The Earl was an aristocrat, and just as easily as Essex might have been hanged or beheaded for anarchy, or subverting the security of the state. Not sure I am going to group today. Time to rest, however.
I could envision that my voice raises concerns for the young cyber turks who manage to keep twitter running smoothly. "We try not to interfere," does not mean they are not skittish about anything that may hint at incitement, and I have done more than hint-- but tweets are the brick wall of my digital age adaptation. I do not like cell phone micro-blogs, and it slipped my mind that adolescents who may have gone from my tweets to my posts here may have shit a few bricks-- in essence I hit the tweet button without contemplating twitter culture, how it flares and ends careers that fast, but my career, as such, ended with this merry enclave in 2004, unfortunately. I do not particularly disdain New Mobility for being what it is, a hybrid of Cosmo, my relation to Josie aside. I am mildly piqued at Tim Gilmer for dropping me off his team of contributors after I did my feature, and I have toyed with confronting him about it, but he probably wouldn't offer me an explanation. I visited their online board and shouldn't have (it is not important to detail, but if Poets & Writers banned me for public arguments, on NM's board a quad in Florida posted that I needed to be raped and have my throat cut, and I pasted it in, and reported). That was the only time I played cop, but then got the cold shoulder on any further access as a contributor.
Add two and two together with Josie's need to control her own territory.
However, New Mobility has one or two key notes and repeats these scales, emulating most periodical impulse content, and twitter is not viable for giving me social anchorage. I understand it but intellectually look on it as a virus, and the viral snub by Susanna Daniel effectively eliminated twitter as an interactive community for me. Like Strether, and yes, I may edit that stub, it is clumsy, I feel snubs like spears. I am still conflicted about the magazine, as a second clip would not hurt, but that would take moxie at this point.
Josie and Tim do not read my blog, I am sure. They do what they need to to keep the publication which employs them alive, but this doesn't discount the ripple effect. I could also turn this on its head, submit a piece about being an alienated one time contributor, and why. It would take guts, me to submit it, NM to dare publish it, and Josie to stomach it-- which is not the same thing as becoming her public adversary.
Until his PBS run this evening, I never considered Derek Jacobi sexually attractive. Odd times, but his apostasy, like that of most deniers who relish the implausible, does not make much sense. The Earl was an aristocrat, and just as easily as Essex might have been hanged or beheaded for anarchy, or subverting the security of the state. Not sure I am going to group today. Time to rest, however.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Drum Roll Ready Exasperation
Now I am being asked to review certain genres for kindle, that is when I am not being excoriated by the likes of Lee Doty and then abandoned by the likes of Susanna Daniel for their fear that my perception of their work as being relatively shallow is accurate. Although we might add to this by saying Susanna ceased any response to me because I do not medicate my emotional response, and that violates her suburban Christian fastidiousness, and is not true to the revolutionary intent of Christianity in its early formation; it still hurt my feelings, because I had no original intent, not on twitter, of being unfriendly. As to reviews, I turned one fantasy writer who praised me for knowing my stuff down, but this time I do not know. There is as much collusion in publishing as anything else. I wish Susanna well, and of course, she has the perfect right not to see me as one among equals, but all I wanted was a normal interaction with a female novelist who had what I did not, a happy life. I can never have whatever that is, but not being able to build bridges defeats my goal.
Toying with the idea of constructing a mass email to Amazon writers: "You want a review, I want my blog downloaded for kindle." Then WaPo will unearth a price gouging scandal, and I'll be investigated by the FBI.
The power of monopoly.
*
Not that I wish to make overt assumptions, but the aspiring(?) science fiction novelist from the UK has, at least since my Monday transmissions, remained mute. People, look: writing, to me, is not a parlor game, nor is it an Amazon sales ranking. If you are going to approach me hoping for my interest, then don't inconvenience me by vanishing because you suddenly feel intimidated. I have published over 300 poems, I became a semi-established journalist been 99 and 04, and have a small press issue of the now defunct Crawlspace 17 devoted to my work. Small presses are a marginalized joke whether they are training grounds for MFA students or the winsome nostalgia of the radical left for men like Steinbeck and Dreiser. If I had understood this when Jerry and Michael tried to talk me down when I was your age, I would have listened to my father and gone into accounting. I will write until I am dead, but being a publishing whore, that is another issue. Public arguments between established pundits, or even the head bashing between Lee Doty and myself, or Poets & Writers and myself, or my umbrage at Daniel Schneider for making me feel like a fucking asshole, is not what it is cracked up to be. My body is a half century old and might as well be three times that. I have nothing except a small library and an indulgence for cats. If you write shit I'll crucify you, and if you sweat blood and tears and do something from the heart, then I'll recognize that, but if you are going to solicit Joanne because her insights into what she likes or doesn't impresses you, more to the benefit of Bezos bottom line than ours, then Joanne needs help too. Those in the top echelons who get paid for critical review analysis are far and few between, and as a professional, cosmopolitan breed, a dying class. Grow up.
Toying with the idea of constructing a mass email to Amazon writers: "You want a review, I want my blog downloaded for kindle." Then WaPo will unearth a price gouging scandal, and I'll be investigated by the FBI.
The power of monopoly.
*
Not that I wish to make overt assumptions, but the aspiring(?) science fiction novelist from the UK has, at least since my Monday transmissions, remained mute. People, look: writing, to me, is not a parlor game, nor is it an Amazon sales ranking. If you are going to approach me hoping for my interest, then don't inconvenience me by vanishing because you suddenly feel intimidated. I have published over 300 poems, I became a semi-established journalist been 99 and 04, and have a small press issue of the now defunct Crawlspace 17 devoted to my work. Small presses are a marginalized joke whether they are training grounds for MFA students or the winsome nostalgia of the radical left for men like Steinbeck and Dreiser. If I had understood this when Jerry and Michael tried to talk me down when I was your age, I would have listened to my father and gone into accounting. I will write until I am dead, but being a publishing whore, that is another issue. Public arguments between established pundits, or even the head bashing between Lee Doty and myself, or Poets & Writers and myself, or my umbrage at Daniel Schneider for making me feel like a fucking asshole, is not what it is cracked up to be. My body is a half century old and might as well be three times that. I have nothing except a small library and an indulgence for cats. If you write shit I'll crucify you, and if you sweat blood and tears and do something from the heart, then I'll recognize that, but if you are going to solicit Joanne because her insights into what she likes or doesn't impresses you, more to the benefit of Bezos bottom line than ours, then Joanne needs help too. Those in the top echelons who get paid for critical review analysis are far and few between, and as a professional, cosmopolitan breed, a dying class. Grow up.
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Six Degree Acceleration
I can be guilty of pretension, but I am not guilty of it when it comes to the realization that LiveJournal has outlived its usefulness, but I overshot my mark and will be stuck with it as a utility for a little while yet. Google may solve my problems rather quickly once I wind my way through their support system. I will post this: Few of you, outside of certain communities, have held my interest. You do not write well, and from the end of one computer, it becomes tedious. The difference between an author and a writer is something the Jamesians will be taking up in conference, but it is a matter of degree. Susanna Daniel may succeed along that trajectory, and become a typical funny bones midwesterner who would bore the living shit out of me, I do not know, but she is not quite an author yet. She is a novelist perhaps just reaching for stature, and scored a byline with Slate, something I have not yet managed. I am still a writer, in this sense, and not an author, but from what I see on LJ, Microsoft is not particularly concerned with the erudition of its client base.
You need to remember that even electric posts need to cater to an interest, and those will be my parting words to the English fluent; the Slavic behavior there is a good indicator of why your Soviet empire collapsed. Perhaps Slavic cultural norms have lost fluidity, and would be dying out but for modern technology, swallowed into Asian memes.
But writers also internally censor what they have not processed. I create the balance beam between Jerry and myself as something that would make able readers feel sorry that I was caught up in this dynamic, where you might exclaim, "how lonely she was!"
Not always. He and I had our tensions between us, and here is a summation for you on the irony of my adult life. The last time I actually spoke to the man was in 92 in my office, fishing for grad school recommendations. I had him on one end of the line reluctantly rebuffing me due to the length of time involved, and then saying we could meet in conference, while Linda was sitting to my right, waiting for me to get off the phone. I think she sat in the W or Indian style that I used to deploy before my surgery. I was swearing off one icon, a little pissed at him, muttering that he was conceited, while the spastic woman I had raised onto a dais was patiently waiting to discuss my goal planner.
Therein lies the shattered tragedy of a life that otherwise might have given back so much. Assigning blame to anyone wouldn't change the facts.
You need to remember that even electric posts need to cater to an interest, and those will be my parting words to the English fluent; the Slavic behavior there is a good indicator of why your Soviet empire collapsed. Perhaps Slavic cultural norms have lost fluidity, and would be dying out but for modern technology, swallowed into Asian memes.
But writers also internally censor what they have not processed. I create the balance beam between Jerry and myself as something that would make able readers feel sorry that I was caught up in this dynamic, where you might exclaim, "how lonely she was!"
Not always. He and I had our tensions between us, and here is a summation for you on the irony of my adult life. The last time I actually spoke to the man was in 92 in my office, fishing for grad school recommendations. I had him on one end of the line reluctantly rebuffing me due to the length of time involved, and then saying we could meet in conference, while Linda was sitting to my right, waiting for me to get off the phone. I think she sat in the W or Indian style that I used to deploy before my surgery. I was swearing off one icon, a little pissed at him, muttering that he was conceited, while the spastic woman I had raised onto a dais was patiently waiting to discuss my goal planner.
Therein lies the shattered tragedy of a life that otherwise might have given back so much. Assigning blame to anyone wouldn't change the facts.
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