The Overactive Nerve

"I doggedly out myself at London dinner parties as a Leave supporter-- though I might skate safely on the chummy assumption that as a halfway sane person, I backed Remain. -- Lionel Shriver, Harpers April 19 issue

Anorexia Nervosa is a shock and awe driven disorder with a symbiotic relationship to the slasher films of Wes Craven which insist on a near fantastical resilience in the face of modern predation. In contrast to the hypervigilance of feminine mystique under threat, anorexia is a grotesque distortion of the hourglass figure torching itself to emaciation, a form of hysteria on overdrive, with hysteria being the speculative conceit that kills Milly Theale. Whatever else The Wings of the Dove imparts to admiring readers, it imparts a certain vacancy in the mist of ostentation and material need, and this is wherein its modernism resides, despite the fact that James is still the eminent Victorian of repressed portents, even at the turn of a fresh new century, in whose second decade, on his deathbed, James has a stream of consciousness moment with Napoleonic emblems. Feminine histrionics aren't that expansive, and conditions like anorexia, or fibromyalgia, which now possibly afflicts a sister middle child as well as the brow beaten novelist Gretchen Laskas, who probably will never engage your dowager on Twitter, are actually conditions of shrinkage, with force enough to liken it to the tornado's funnel. Noa Pothoven wanted to vanish. Both the state and her family allowed her to do so. As a sexual assault victim many times over, I feel more than Douthat's scolding sensibility of concern he expresses in "Dystopia," and in fact, when this piece resonated with me on the phone, I did not know this column was his, but he is right that this is Europe transmitting the wrong moral equivalence on an international scale. Our species is ill equipped to accept human suffering and it's outcry, and so increasingly dispenses with it.

It is entirely possible that continued force feeding and psychotherapy wouldn't have improved Noa's quality of life. Maybe she wouldn't have learned to cease living with her rapists, but Belgian clinical expertise seemed to have folded rather quickly on this point. Anorexia and post-traumatic stress are treatable. She might have flourished as a writer, or something else, just like the Parkland shooting survivor suicides, or the Sandy Hook parent who took his own life. These deaths are microcosms, as opposed to lemmings stampeding an escarpment, but human life was once much harsher, even in the Jamesian era. In Wings, James never spells out what reporting drives Merton Densher's passion, but Linus Roache has a telling little monologue in the opening of the movie about young adolescents driven into prostitution and then having their venereal diseases hidden by cruel cosmetic deceit. Henry James arguably leaves it open ended for Merton to attack his audience in such a fashion. Was he too principled to realize what he might have done with Milly's fortune to end the practice?

This time, I only missed 36 minutes

If only I could do something important, like bake a souffle, or pick out a tie. --Audrey Hepburn, Wait Until Dark

What I wanted to dismantle this morning, and possibly rectify, is my diffident sensibilities toward MeToo, Nick Gillespie, and his associate editor Elizabeth Nolan Brown. I got into an argument with her about date rape, and although I am capable of respecting Nick and his intelligence, and he mine, I swiped at him in a personalized frustration which will not help me return to the field with the stresses I’m undergoing. I wanted to explain all of this just a little better, and explain it in the sense that I do not need to become a Reason Magazine contributor, but Reason’s staff are often intellectually sloppy, like Brown is with her notions of Kavanaugh’s credibility, only I let my spool unwind too much Wednesday and leaned into my cousin about the paraprofessional who has eaten up a number of my posts on this account. I want to terminate my relationship with him because he lashes out constantly at the way, and how, I speak, and I’m near a breaking point, must have been out of my mind to have ever entertained the idea of becoming his lover. I have been through worse with this outsourced care, but never every single day of the week. I want the nigger out of my life. I can make it happen, but it means grief, possibly his termination, and absolutely nothing of this sustained duress will change for me. Not now. Starting over with yet another minority will wind up in exactly the same place, until I opt to attempt a failsafe suicide method, lose my mind, or give in, go to a state run facility, and if I were stronger, I’d put this torrent fusillade aside and teach myself to work differently, and simply cut him loose. What’s holding me back is I don’t want to keep recycling people whose behaviors are far more abhorrent to me, and that is all. I don’t feel for him in any real erotic context, and beneath the surface, his animosity toward me is taking its toll. There is little to no intervention advocates for victims of [insert category] can offer me, and Nick doesn’t see this, the limits on progressive modality here. Neither, I am sure, does Brown. I was wrong, last spring, to allow my loneliness to let this man cross the line. I crossed it too, we backed off, but cannot quite depersonalize, and for a quadriplegic, aging and always fiercely protective of her independence, it never stops. I’ll have more to say on the matter.

Simian Mists Application

Oah oooh, oah ooooooh, Elton John, Curtains

The dowager’s ire, if she is to engage in a certain degree of veracity with her audience, stems from an unexpected reawakening which cannot be satisfied except through an incidence which might seem as exploitive as what she explored in her controversial New Mobility Magazine feature in 2004. Slant it one way, and yes, she can see it through the periscope of an alarmist, regulatory left, and conservative constraint both. I have already given ample indication that I’ve been on the inside of a conflict resolution giving me double vision on the matter of a simulation of an authentic interpersonal relationship borne out of economic and decentralized necessity. But there is this undertow aspect, the full-blooded woman rising to the surface even so close to biological twilight, caught in abeyance, with few outlets other than to restore her functional ability as a writer. What can she do, as a practical matter, to allow reinvigoration to lead where it may? She is too old for neon signs on her chest, rather risk adverse to trading cash for a hustler, and this isn’t really a Fay Wray subliminally lewd moment where the marionette finger of an outraged gorilla is poking her breasts, although the 1933 film popularizes stereotypical fears dramatized by The Birth of a Nation, unless we kill the smart phones utilized in research for galivanting off with a mind of their own while we try to conserve those expensive gigabytes.

If an NPR Georgetown University critic lamented to her listeners that vampirism is the most overused conceit in literature, creature flicks aren’t far behind, though concessions must be granted, and one of them is the original Kong is a classic, with little of that diluting empathy of the later films humanizing the embattled silverbacks and their close lowland mountain relative. All the sudden, we’re responsible for their welfare, even as we utilize Caesar as an implausible didactic warning about taking pharmaceutical miracles too far. Planet of the Apes, whichever versions we prefer, takes the antagonist victory to its fantastical extreme: the monster wins, regardless of human ingenuity attempting to outwit it—but setting that aside for Kong’s magnified context, if the gorilla as we know it wins, then what? What alternate pathway can be reasonably construed? I certainly don’t have one for our slower relatives analogous to our own species afflicted with Downs Syndrome. Unsympathetic as it may seem, I take issue with conservative pricks to our conscience when it revolves around mental retardation. The dowager doesn't exactly put Kasich in the wrong, exiting the stage on a high plateau, or dispute Thiessen's heroic clarion call, which bravely pushes back against presumption. The issue is about destitution. If I, as a near spastic genius, am falling into poverty inverse pyramid trap, due to avoidance and obstinacy in part, those necessarily limited by brain damage only have so many niches.

For every moment of Penn's brilliant dramaturgic portrayal of a mentally challenged man cleaning up after prejudices against him barely registered, giving his audience the near fairy tale resolution which makes Americans feel good about our basic decency, there are three tragedies like Ethan's, toppling from the Empire State, because you either want us dead, or constrained into norms with which you're comfortable. I posted a really hard spiral into the abuse I suffered via Unlimited Staffing, nearly too hard even for me to defeat its masochistic destruction. The woman was a predator, but the difference, between that, and the crack of the walnut shells you've read on this account, is two lonely people fumbling about, trying to fill each other's spaces; it shouldn't be a crime, and as a technical matter, it's not, except the client has to dictate her terms, and the care giver has to meet them, while the man, and the woman dance the slimmest tightrope, waiting to see what drops, and when.

Verne Miller Bowel Obstruction

"It had begun early that morning when he stopped for gas.--Tom Pawlik, Vanish

The age of my technology makes all this more than a bit frustrating. Friday evening I was able to sync, and sampled an Amazon original, Absentia, which opens with Stana Katic in a water tank, or being punched, or stabbing a journalist in hospital, but this morning, despite cold reboots, I cannot get the hotspot to ping, wonder if it is the anti-virus software. I’d like to lose the USB plug in. It keeps my phone bill high, as the black man who has based his economic decisions on my assurances drags me by my legs in the morning like a fucking sack of turnips, helps me sit on a Jay cushion far too high while the Depends wadding gnaws my rectum for the hours I sit here.

When I lose a long time follower like Justin Murphy, the assistant professor kindred Catholic libertarian, yes, I wince, but caution myself I cannot ascribe reasons for my account removal to his feed. I was going to keep his on mine, may restore him later, but I give very little time to my followers, even failing to recall that Mikaela’s tag line is a far superior resume to mine, and half the time, I do not know what Justin is tweeting, and so I did not rise above the law of an eye for an eye as proscribed in Deuteronomy, and dropped Justin and his specious queries about weed and mass, even as he hit like for a couple of my responses, which seems inconsistent, a drop with continuing validation. Trust me, I know imitating Mikaela’s trained anchor pleasantness would improve my social media ratings, but is Mikaela being hauled off a generic hospital bed by a minority who failed in manufacturing at one corporate plant after another, from food processing to retail? I cannot overcome the cruelty of medical socialism, in my 57^th year, plagued by nightmares of being hauled away by force by a bevy of females similar to the scurrying bitches of VNA, to another institution for imbeciles, while the director puts his hand down my blouse, strangles me with a forcible kiss, as I protest repeatedly that I’ve been matriculated and educated, hauling myself awake much like Stana in her fast moving collision of a lead, it is still nonetheless a variation on my end game, which my readers assure themselves they are helpless to prevent. Going out with a time trigger bomb wired to this power chair, punishing my posture and all but strip mining me helpless, doesn’t present me with that much of a dilemma. March For Our Lives cannot de-weaponize the anguish of a life bowed over the screw.

Modular Four Legged Application

When I first interviewed with Riverside, after my attack, I turned in down, in 1993, under what must have been the original managers. I returned to Diamond Park. That evening, a cabbie was left for dead a foot or two from my bedroom window, and I am not certain what led me to plead with Terri weeks later, to get me out of what her supervisor extracted her from. I do not like the perpetual motion of litigation any more than anyone else, but at the time, it was a choice between two evils: the hyper dictation of Riverside, which, no more than anything, did not truly protect me from more victimology, or the incessant vandalism to violence spectrum of the accessible Diamond Park units. I did not fully understand 202 housing. I was still traumatized, and it was not my place to purloin Richard Baron or Daniel Raudenbush into my personal advocates. They were directors, not the justice league, and it’s moot, twenty years afterward, as they have little love for the fact that I talked to Pew after my resignation, and, while I am still resolved, assuming the chair doesn’t short out for good, a distinct possibility, on rolling out, I am ambivalent about my unit key—not so much that Trudy cannot lock me out—lupus lady can do as she pleases from her caramelized perspective—but what do I owe the feline? I have no one to take her temporarily.

1.       I never wanted to live at Riverside, and everyone is tone deaf to this, Trudy in particular, Debra, the Health & Human Services civil servants who either glare or bleat at me.

2.       Presby’s Diamond Park owners, and Riverside’s, were negligent in the assaults, molestation, and robberies I suffered.

3.       The Liberty Resources homosexuals with whom I am forced to reside, whom I once thought I could trust until I learned of their illegal activities, spiraling into a DOJ investigation, is not helping me.

And I am now the bad guy, will wind up paying some sort of further criminal, legal, inhumane penalty, because I say the unsaid, and refuse to comply until I say so, and will never allow another minority paraprofessional to touch me again, not willingly, and I’m worried about what I owe a shelter animal who also suffered. I am not sure who to call. I am sure most of you say give an inch. No one has given one to me. My fear of Trudy’s power, not exaggerated, her constant lashing out at me to give my notice, isn’t enough. I gave it after they attempted to remove me, and she is still threatening me. This is not the United States in which I once believed, not the country where no one would come to my side, give me physical support, not just that of virtual reality. My mother’s sister is a good woman, kept her sister’s children out of foster care, emptied my commode. She cannot do it again, but my father’s indifference, in my adolescent bitterness, is still the inevitable conclusion of my life: I’ll die as hard as I’ve lived. Many do, silently. I did, by the way, receive a job offer Friday and wish I could take pleasure in it. Perhaps next week.

Speed of light

See how fast I am moving? I put Septa in my phone, despite the fact it would be easier to take wheelchair taxi. Victims learn the hard way about the difference between rule of law and justice, and I know I am never going to get a lawyer to care about the fact that Terri Way, once my contemporary equal, talked me out of a lawsuit against Presby, but I am unreasonable, menacing, in exact proportion to cause I have against this religious based socialist plague on the body politic. The rise of the feminine collective easily enough besmirches male stature, whether it's Cosby or Harvey Weinstein, but the spokes barely turn for me, a nine year old girl vaginally penetrated by two African Americans in a home for children, medically brutalized thereafter, pursued sexually by her mother's addicts, an aggravated assault victim under the management of Presby, and Presby's answer is to threaten me with regimentation, and disability activism, whatever its former shielding, has swept me aside, because abuses continued with paraprofessionals, and I no longer want to play, no, under rule of law, Trudy Richardson can terrorize, browbeat, accentuate my anxiety at whim. Marie, my long time dying aunt, says I have to do it myself. Find a new habitat, persuade the oversaturated legal market to help me on my own, although I know all about impatient law firm brutality in the name of billing hours, though Silver & Silver was polite, and that, I appreciate. You're not living here at Riverside.
I am not going to go back and forth with you. 
Lahnisha call the police.
We're done.

This is ten years of a nigger nanny battering ram. Ten years, except it's never done, because the Commonwealth, you, everyone, wants Medicare care money by methodically torturing me into my grave. Cousin Richard may be annoyed with me for saying this, but neither he nor Billy would subject their mother, Marie, to what I've had to endure, simply to survive, and no one will, or can, lift a finger. Toomey wouldn't dare reexamine section 202 abuses, and liberals, hell, this is fascist heaven. Wonderful humanity.

Irma's Vagaries In the Ligaments

She tried to make them fly.-- the author

When the dowager was parked at her Widener University desk, much as she is now, in a more dilapidated fashion, still sitting at Tom Reid's fob off hand painted excuse of a desk which should have been traded in long ago, she pounded out an angry story about a home invasion with a female victim who turned the tables on her attacker. The exact date of the story's creation is beyond memory, though it must have been in my later semesters, around 1985. It is a revenge fantasy, far more violent than the home invasion I defeated-- and that defeat really hinged on Brandon's conscience. It is difficult for me to type his name, but as I have always been a deft reader of character, he was as much afraid of what he was doing as I was in fear of my life, and this, really, aside from not being desperate enough to use an old Everest & Jennings power chair, motor pulley threaded to the back wheel with a rubber trim. I do not have the exact term for it, but it was designed much like a bicycle chain links the pedal rotary to the back tire. I was afraid, if I had tried to hurt him, that he'd topple me over or worse. Once he dragged me to my bedroom, Oliver following, that was a trigger. I fought, screamed, won, and in fact, I was screaming with such ferocity I did not realize I was the victor. My rapid, brutal little piece was never meant to anticipate my rather languorous spiral of a brutal womanhood.

During the blizzard of 1996, my landline phone rang in the dead of winter with a female editor asking if the piece was still available. 11 years, and I get a call in a blizzard, with no food in the kitchenette, to be queried by an editor of Blood & Flesh. She liked how I depicted violence against women, and then, in one of those quirks of literary endeavor, this same female editor postcarded that the team had decided to print its last issue and changed her mind, which has seemingly cursed this piece for life. I cannot get rid of it, and if I revise it to any substantial degree, then it becomes an old woman's makeover, as opposed to a university student's subconscious realization that she was a lifelong target of misogynist hatred. Writing it, strange as this may sound, was an interior mechanism to sublimate my undercurrent of hate for Jerry. I know this isn't fair, and the man saw something in me he encouraged to succeed, but my aggrandizement of his intellectual mania had a latent hostility attached to it, assigning blame to the blameless. It wasn't this unfortunate instructor's job to protect me from my mother's abuses--kill her lovers or my stepfather, just as my father, too, never stepped in to eliminate the heinous savagery embedded in my family history:

Opinion | Something is seriously off about this president https://t.co/iyFk6DEfta

— Jennifer Rubin (@JRubinBlogger) September 4, 2017

And if this is, psychologically, what I am searching for in Trump's belligerence, I suppose I am bound to be disappointed: I do agree with his critics that he has a propensity to diminish his supporters, like Priebus, and I have no idea why Sessions became a target of the mogul's ire. I do not track Sessions with the same avidity I have paid to other attorney generals, and cannot offer anything about his apparent retrenchment of Order, with capital O, but he had a reason to recuse himself from Probe Russia, which, at the end of the day, will be more or less reveal itself as dirty money, and big deal. I have been a good girl most of my life, but a Mexican lawyer and my building manager want my head on a platter because I am weary of institutional corruption corroding my soul with ferrous iron, but I really do not read some of El Presidente's twitter rhetoric the way Rubin or his other prominent detractors do, particularly when it comes to North Korea. The world cannot be held hostage by Kim Jong Un's diseased xenophobic maneuvers forever, even if war in the South Pacific will invariably be a game changer. We wouldn't be able to compartmentalize it as easily as Afghanistan, and depending on how it happens, if it happens, the health of many a body politic is at risk, while I calculate how to give notice as a form of sanity, teaching minorities a lesson about illegal collusion, at my expense.

Stranger Than Paradise

I do not need Niall Ferguson to remind me how often these cataclysms human civilizations occur, usually through succession of newer-ending authority upon the old, Pharaohs or Emperors defacing sculptures or frescoes they do not like, riots or reactionaries destroying art, burning manuscripts. I thought by now Americans would know better, and even if I got as ugly as I pleased, and forced Google to suspend my platform services, or brought the administrators in my network to suspend me on Twitter, it would not do much good. I am a woman four years from sixty, with a passionate love for life, beaten down by minority arrogance most whites, barring extremists, or former Governor Sarah Palin, being dismissive with phraseology, like "shucking and jiving," though the behavior does exist, would find too radioactive to touch, but I just have to ask those on the ideological left, who the fuck do you think you are? Saints, incapable of cruelty in your own right? This isn't simply about the Civil War, which has as many elements of white trash as segregation once had the force of legal authority. It is more than that. You're trying to eradicate the very basics of human nature. It can't be done, and Africans can be bad: Louis Farrakhan once openly asked "what is a Jew?" on tabloid television, and Al Sharpton is as reactive as Donald Trump. He's certainly not Barack Obama, with that soaring audacity, and the occasional willingness  to speak truth to power, despite the fact that his movement didn't move the barometer that much. We are just sorry, sad creatures, and I wash my hands of it. The superficiality of modern day constructs, like Bachelor in Paradise, doesn't help. Producers throw a bunch of 20 somethings together, and I have absolutely no idea where Corinne got her notions of sexual assault. I know what abuse is, the alcoholism and addictions tied into it. One of my mothers lovers, street name Beaky, tried to sleep with me when I still had a throb for John Tassoni. I have had to eat so much humiliation, but what buzzes is candied people on network getting into it beyond what ABC bargained for in playing up diversity and romantic tension. No one dares to say that perhaps Corinne was afraid of DeMario because he was black, though it sits right in front of us, social fears, reality on the ground, and sex makes us vulnerable. It is not always loving, has as many triggers as pleasures, and maybe shouldn't be played up for the camera in the course of normal courtship rituals. You're all beyond me today.

Patterson's Poor Execution

What is missed in penile insertion into the vaginal orifice, the depth of which is rivaled only by the anus, though both are out done by the esophagus, which I believe metastasized into a lump and killed Cousin Albert, a form of terminal demise to which I am privy, and rate second only to locked in syndrome as an expiration most desirous to avoid, is the heat of this highly sexualized piece of cartilage. The heat of a penis is a positive sensation, like the pilot light in an oven, and I never truly experienced it as a form of desire for me, as a liberating escape from ravages of conscious identity. It was only a curiosity, the few times I was at it, outside of tongue. Albert brought the Jewish blood in, as with most Italian families. I never see these favored cousins.
At this stage in my lifespan it is probably too late, any future potential sex little more than a violation and discomfort, rather than consensual adventure, or an act of love. We see how romantic congruence translates on the set on a daily basis, know what chemistry is. Frank tried his best to run through his paces, in fact, but as far as the dowager was concerned he might have been one of her groping clients, men and women, black and white, from whom evasive maneuvers were necessary: now the air we breathe is compromised. I did not realize, until recently, that Zoo was in its third season, with Billy Burke ever the intrepid survivalist. I have never read any of James Patterson's  stories, do not intend to, as much because of his inane commercial advertising as any of his other marketing strategies, but will give him this: Zoo is a nice revenge fantasy poorly executed, even if my rather late glimpse into what is going on felt like an episode of The 100, with every actor hiding behind skype and simulated computer graphics, signifying that complexity and catastrophe go hand in hand in our current populist age. I may have recycled this sentiment as well, but merge it with the pragmatic sensibility of the Amazon customer pointing out the opening season's rushed, choppy feel. Trump upbraided Lisa Durden for her vitriol, and I've reached a kind of plateau where no one truly cares about mine. I recycle too much of it, to the tune of tone deafness, and my white hot anger has not translated, quite, into consequence, as my COPD occasional flare ups slipped my mind. If I am actively in my early dying stage, I've markedly eluded emergency medical care. Perhaps it's too easy to blame barometric pressure, but how many good resets I have, this Thursday morning after Salvation's disruption, seem suddenly precious.
I cannot tell you, despite the grooves of my trauma, that I have been latently butch all along. Were that the case, the lesbian passes I've had to absorb, forced, would have gotten me off. This never happened. Not feeling well, I fathom getting back to bed without incident, shins swollen, wondering if its worth pushing matters, manufacturing a hate crime, on a strong day, rolling dice with God in a failing machine.

Jeff Goldblum's Extroverted Exceptionalism: The Corrosion of Expulsion as Metamorphosis

Treatment of a body of work as complex and open to multiple interpretations as is Freud's risks inappropriate emphasis. Judith Van Herik

Journalism, as any established journalist will tell you on any given day, is a cutthroat industry, its players necessarily competitive, but paradoxically, they provide each other with a  peer support system: so when a divorced mother like Dorthea Stillman, who had her brand break in Newsweek, could inform me at the turn of the century in rather circumspect fashion that most editors don't respond to freelance queries, it wasn't something of which I was necessarily unaware. It merely made any kind of response or inclusion seem privileged. When I put my feature up on New Mobility, with Tim Gilmer's cooperation, he never gave me any indication that there was something wrong. Indeed, the fact that he included me on the periodical's 2004 contributor's list indicated good work. I got paid, they honored that much, and I would not start blogging until five years later, but I feel I deserve an explanation for why he treated me like a light switch: on his list, then off it. Whatever my problems, these online  internecine cordons are a reflection of how quadriplegics with cerebral palsy are treated in three dimensional space. I had not raised my voice about the methodology of Josie Byzek, or anything of the sort. The actions I took, thirteen years ago, included reporting a belligerent wheelchair couple for engaging in rhetorical violence. I was still hurting about the Poets & Writers board at the time. PW had banned my account for "atypical trolling," and at New Mobility, I got you damn bitch I am going to rape and slit your throat. Something of which I've never been guilty, even on Blogger. What I am trying to say is Tim ostracized me, with no explanation: was it my visit and conflict on the board? If so, why not tell me? Josie was a regular contributor on my Yahoo group until she forced me to take away the users freedom to post, but again, in terms of a sequential timeline, Tim dropped me first; the old man, who puts such a premium on his emotional stability, simply cut me off, five years after I had to go through my title IX violation at the disability center. These were my secondary families, my support systems. I certainly cannot blank slate it now, and pitch the old grizzly with my ideas, bypassing my contempt for the spinal cod association's tortoise lesbian, but how would you have felt, within your group identity, being so exiled, under a hostile, criminal, landlord, with that entity's constant, incessant badgering and duress? It is this which draws us into the dynamic representation of a comic actor's embodiment of Satan, the corrosion over time. It can buckle any will. Mr. Frost does an excellent job of illustrating how.

Mr. Frost is not a perfect film, by far. It anticipates graphic documentary captures which would come after it, like Schindler's List, plays with some  of the same which came before, and mixes this up with turmeric biting melodrama and a dose of camp which borders perilously close to farce, threatening to unravel its moments of stark gravity, but for what Goldblum has to do, within the trappings of Jewish demonology, it is a decent effort, aiming for the implausibly naturalistic. The opening isolation surrounding the character, nearly idyllic, using the pupils as a mirror to reflect white crosses, nice touch, and the devil as an amateur chef speaks volumes, with Goldblum's horror, at the height of his currency, essentially mocking Gentile suppositions of apocalyptic judgment, whether in his finer rendition of The Fly, or in this curious British effort which insists, that like matter itself, evil is an energy which cannot be destroyed. My father, my parents, institutionalizing me for seven years, this was not my doing, but as a nine year old child, I was vaginally penetrated by minority orderlies who denigrated me: she's just like Iris. And I might offer Josie's limitations more leniency if she had the courage to go on the record. She and Tim both. about these cyclic abuses at the hands of those of African descent. Getting past each incident, this is one thing, but when it keeps flinging, like oatmeal, what am I supposed to do? The conduct of the paraprofessional from Unlimited Staffing, her voracious appetite written into her face, like an Okie in the swamp, reignited a revolt against HUD's procedural cruelty which is going to cost me further still. It doesn't amount to selling your soul, or giving a fallen angel the opening it needs to possess, to expulse torture and brutality in radiating waves, but it comes down to an equivalency, whether we believe soul has tangible energy or not.

Logic behind defiance

This is what I'm trying to protect myself from, and couldn't, despite mt IQ, my investigative work for New Mobility, Josie the pissing milch cow's bread and butter, or any lies and subterfuge I engaged in to stave off worse than a sexual pass from the most gluttonous mulatto I ever laid eyes on. It happens more frequently to the disabled than any outside of disability centers know, hence my support for morally cool unpleasantness like eugenics, euthanasia. In 1991-93 I had a true quadriplegic client named Don; his aide put him on the commode and cleaned out his apartment. Not sure how he managed his rescue. Could you forgive or get over that? This is why state Medicaid Waiver systems need to be stopped, and it has nothing to do with conservative astringent.

If you read the fine print of these federally "mandated" centers, and you comply with the paradigm, they have a "no liabilities" clause for pairing clients with fly by night providers like Unlimited Staffing, an agency against whom I had had the most cause to seek redress. That "no liability" clause is written into contracts because disability centers couldn't function otherwise, and still, like medical supply vendors, they unravel like a ball of yarn. Homemaker Services broke up its incorporation a number of years back. I first signed onto the waiver as a "federal employee" in 97, then the state treasury said I owed them taxes, because I was assigned a deaf case manager who was accused by the next one of bad faith procedure.

Centralized institutional care is hell, cushioned by money or not, but decentralization doesn't work, I am sorry. Very few people like me, without some kind of professional earnings valve, are freer within being constrained by services. Wapo's reporting illustrates this fact. All the state statues amount to nothing because of substantive victimization between client and paraprofessional, left to their own devices. Get rid of it. In the interim, I found an old housing list, by virtue of dumping and cat knocking and then straightening up; dated, but it is what I need, a list, and maybe I can kick box a summer transition.

Marlon's Silent Harmonica

For a dozen years or so he had been feeling as if the vital fluid, the faculty of existing, [...] were ebbing.--Lampedusa, The Leopard, p228

Me being me, my early life ebbing birthday present to myself was to stream Last Tango in Paris, and already knowing so much about it in advance, was more or less diminished by Bertolucci's Truffaut affect, the meta dramatic technique of film within a film. There was an obvious homage to the older French director in Leaud's staginess as an intrepid enthusiast of capture, but shock, awe? Hardly. By today's standards, Schneidner's nascent coyness, coupled with that baby doll face, and Brando's shrewd magnetism, suggested more interesting motifs than Marie's body served in a candy dish. Method acting had engraved itself onto Brando by this point, encasing his defenses, locking away anything raw, except for the impetuosity of his violence, and curious compassion for Girotti's Marcel. Other than that, his performance was a tease, as in so much of his later work. Perhaps he let himself go after the butter scene, because this took what was left, so he exchanged keeping himself in shape for the effortless sating through eating well and over nourishing. Never really my type, I can still see, however, why women like Jeanne would succumb to his domineering ferocity in lieu of true loving congruence. Youth desires penetration of invulnerable pretenses, even if pivotal monologues do not quite penetrate inflammatory deafness, the constant companion to ringing ears. 

I still have time to run sections of the film again, review his weaving leg and what he was smirking to this poor girl, before he toyed with the small wind instrument, before this woman who decided to blame a simulated violation for the rest of her *ruined* life. Actors. What we put up with for aesthetics, inclusive of sudden democratic government totalitarianism for a hard look at power shifts between the sexes. As a woman myself, one whose contorted skeleton would be naked exploitation of a different texture, if substituted in the bathroom scene with Schneider's odd bush, with gradations like an inverted pyramid, I can attest that adventurism can lead to histrionic regret, but like so many doomed artists, even David Foster Wallace, my episodes of being chained to a spurious colon begins to give way to defeat: If I once believed myself matriculated, once made love to ambulatory men, now my grandfather's gastrointestinal turbulence is a psychological erosion of self worth. Rainy days are a bitch, elongated lung creping like a failed exercise in origami folding. Not a particularly good day person, I have been dragging since I woke. Maybe I'll rent it again later, or eat my usage last minute to recapture. Saturated as I am, near 60, with the best of the best, masterpieces, classics, believing I could have done better, myself, had I made better choices, I am glad of Bertolucci's tyranny in pursuit of this vision. Is Last Tango a great movie? I'd say intriguing, particularly with its interior strategies. We'd be a better species if we were this brave for the sake of creativity most of the time. Maybe I'll find a way to stop getting weaker and sicker, and get out, somehow, return to limited functionality; maybe I'll rationalize that atheists are wrong, that spirits retain identity, and that I can join Wallace in doomed ego limbo, or lose and die in Philadelphia's excuse for a wheelchair community. None of you know what to say. It is not one or two bad experiences which lead me to defy Medicaid Waiver services. Nine years have taught me that attendant care here at the bottom is legalized pimping; it does not change the fact my legs are going, my rectum is ready made greenhouse topsoil. After all the trauma I lived, my fail year has dawned, and I am, in all probability, telling Gail Sims, the newest assistant manager, that I'm not recertifying. I am also probably not going to find a pro bono champion between then and the initiation of eviction proceedings.

Caramel Coated Sponges

My concern over Ciccariello isn't entirely hypocritical. I have, perhaps legitimately, felt the wrath of the left in my psychic bonding with Christopher Dorner, Google received abuse host reports, as Google does, and threatened to disrupt my ability to use their host services, with skittish assurances that "no content would be deleted". I did want Christopher Dorner to win in his battle with the LA police, and I wasn't being satirical. Sometimes I am, but not while this man was alive. Did I want him to murder his Captain's daughter? No, and his taunts on that officer's message service foretold the endgame of Dorner's agony, of which I'm envious, while some of you are thinking you need more than lithium.

Fair game, after a lifetime of torture and abuse; if an instructor like Ciccariello can be flippant on social media, as I sometimes am, about politically destructive capacities we're taught to take seriously, even in mitigating bitterness, we've got problems, and I am definitely a contributor. I cannot castigate Ciccariello. I'm not outraged. I don't believe he should be threatened, but he was more stupid than judicious in taunting social media to bite him. It is dumb. With Jerry McGuire, it was only internal, and I wasn't a witness, only the gatherer of anecdotal defiance. The only thing roaring in my ears, was this man, who had a gift, that of making me forget my horribly contorted flesh, had been fired. I was about 21ish, and went into the ladies room, curiously devoid of trannies, unless my broken body was a stand in to gender identity challenges, and howled. I kicked the stalls, burst into tears, and finally went back to class to collect my paper. He was wearing a checkered picnic cloth shirt, my eyes were bloodshot, but he acted as if everything was normal. If he had not, perhaps I would not be in the inner city destroying myself because my internal insurrectionist is driven by hate. 
I am here because my emotional tumult over this man was a boomerang, a fellow now almost like one of Yeats skeletons on a stick, and I went a boom a rang rang, and became a vile bigot. I keep asking myself what it was, why this man. And concede everyone else was right, normal girls aren't driven by such intense compulsion. My answer is the sexual molestation I received at the hands of my mother's men: I saw it in Jerry, and what I saw, I wanted to be vanquished by; that level of hate is intense.

The ACA Is Complex, That Much We Know

When I was an undergraduate on the vaunted Medicaid, all I did was call Delcrest for power chair issues. It is much worse now, and I made a terrible mistake leaving Hahnemann Internal for the Ambulatory Practice. Hahnemann was indifferent, but mostly got me through the red tape, barring the extraordinary disaster of 2007. No chair, no attendant, as my molestation the year prior triggered a relapse, and this was when Trudy first had her team attack me, after my injuries sustained during the renovations. After going through hell, she humiliated me, and it was only because I had the money to pay my uncle's mechanics to refurbish the P-200 that I'm still here. The Jazzy is off warranty, and Jefferson treats me as if I was an Alzheimer's patient, as opposed to a quadriplegic; I have neither resources nor stamina to travel the length of the city to get past the gateway to get to the rehab personnel who might or might not keep me aloft. If you want to discuss thin ice, and the fact that I sound exactly like an activist exile, point conceded, but the activists in Philadelphia were the proximate cause of the problems I've faced. Jimmi Shrode whines like a gargantuan toddler that he'll fight all his life for wards in Inglis, those who remain passive, but that his lover's aide harassed me, or that after the violence of Diamond Park, a significant minority of attendants abused me at Riverside, or that this has been a hostile environment since 1994, never mind. I am the bitch, Jimmi is an aging pig bastard who thinks green eye shadow is still a homoerotic subversion. The Bern's charming Pol Pot paradise cleverly evaded my health insurance. I was a full time consultant. Matrix gave me a standard HMO, and now? Cancelling my Medicare may seem like a horrible idea, but what service am I getting? A resident charged me 90 dollars to tell me I wasn't diabetic. I'm hanging by a rather tenuous thread.

The Lone Ranger Evokes Brexit

"Life clung to me like a disease."-- Javier Barden

One of the Sjowall and Wahloo Beck novels which resonates our universality to a slightly more authentic degree is The Scorpion, which puts two cases of domestic violence on parallel tracks, one working class, the victim of the first case a woman abused by an evidently suicidal cop, the other, drawing heavily on Mikael Persbrandt, letting Peter Haber recede into the background, the top billed actor giving way to his scene stealing sidekick, involves Gunvald's sister and her troubled husband, who hangs himself before his tough love brother in law can shrink his prostate gland with a crowbar. Persbrandt has a limited range, but like many talented actors whose gifts align with the correct habitation, viewers bond to his invitation to join him in ironic complicity. 
Swedish actors are not my type, but Persbrandt cuts to the heart of my vulnerability. He represents what I've always wanted as a lone disabled woman: the protector, the one who will make it stop hurting, and the screenwriters for the Beck series play with this conceit, and upend it powerfully in this adaptation. The white knight can't always stop the pain, even though he risks life and limb, takes a bullet, trench coat billowing outward. Here comes superman, or the Pinkertons. Granted, this is still televised entertainment, and not all males provoked who slap women around opt for violent incremental, or sudden suicide. My father is a case in point, though before Shriners Hospital butchered me, maybe when I was eleven, I thought he was going to kill us all. My mother would not stop; let's face the fact that in episodes of discord women are verbal aggressors, and my mother wouldn't stop. She was like oil on fire, and I thought my fireman father, my hero, was going to kill his entire family. His rage and broken arm imprinted itself.
We survived. My mother moved on to worse men, really dangerous sick men, and my father married Louise, my mother's friend from college, who my father is keeping alive through extraordinary rendition, which I suppose isn't so remarkable, as love doesn't keep me tethered to Frank, but guilt refuses me the courtesy of obliteration to his ghost, much as the 2012 Skyfall is an endearing tribute to Ian Fleming, though we may roll eyes at the formula. This modernized installment on the franchise gets a great deal right about why we need melodrama and Judy Dench as the defender of the Union Jack. "No no, don't kill off mother!" We cry out, but what makes Craig absolutely the right man in the right casting for the reboot after Brosnan and Roger Moore, made him wrong for Enduring Love. McEwan's story is distasteful to me, but putting this in context, Craig was miscast. What makes him right for a super spy bordering on disbelief and immortality makes him wrong for a slice of life personality disorder stalker. But Javier's face, isolated in his glass pentagon, offers those of us systemically brutalized the same self-recognition The torture he took, which turned him, is representative of what hides behind this smiling face, the price she made loyalists pay. I don't live it anymore, not like I did, and taking her out when I myself am near the end would only reverberate within the culture for a brief period. Analysts would say tunnel vision prevented me from my own reconciliation, that this is the price of the game, as we call it. Yet that damage also liberates us, calculating the price.

Pakistan Is A Scorpion

I just had a chat, not so much strange, as disconcerting, with an alleged contractor for the US Marines on Google Plus, and I was polite, but bewildered. I am too soldered up with naive scar tissue to play cyber fantasy games, anymore. I used to, but  got too sucked into it, and cursed myself for logging on to see how Hangout connections worked.

What the fuck am I supposed to say to men younger than I with my drying punta, to take a term from Barry Unsworth, the great mimic? Of whom I was not cognizant of decease, by the way, and thought the novelist still living. 

I miss sex, being a naturalized trollop, I do, but I also know it is too late for me to find liberation with a man, on Viagra or not. My affairs were hurried trysts, without orgasm, frigid woman ripe to get her head twisted by homosexual vultures and straight mentally ill molesters alike. Some of which I've detailed, perhaps not well enough for my viewers to understand the sense of violation these inappropriate behaviors from my clients imposed on me.

He is a Hispanic widower from Ohio on the ground in Syria, and my sympathy, if he wasn't bluffing, walked hand in hand with an interior tantrum: I am fucking bored and don't want to be doing this. Everyone wants a photograph. I directed him to the photo I uploaded on Medium with my Afghan column, an incongruous image placed there because I did not want to run afoul of permissions. 

Since I had lashed out at my former manager the way I did fifteen years ago I assumed it was due to bisexual susceptibility, and challenged myself accordingly, but never went in search of an experiment. The women who actually did hit on me made me feel three things: the mixed race woman who dared to do what she did triggered a need for self-immolation and a homicidal urge to give her a lethal hematoma. This is the reality of state intake systems. Like Cosby's alleged accusers, who couldn't gain traction, I have to live with the knowledge that I could have subjugated myself for the benefit of Miss Eddie's indulgence; she would have died if she had forced her pass much further than she did, and it can always happen again. The only response from the ambulatory world is to go through another 50 minorities with whom I do not wish to engage; we should be able to do better than this, which is why I fight Presby's intimidation tactics so forcefully. Eviction notices are more humane than 22 years of harassing intimidation to pair me with women who exploit me.

The client? Sharon was an amputee. I was tired. It was past ten in the evening. I was at the Darby Project Share in my small manual Quickie in which I wasn't all that maneuverable, supposed to use my skills as an advocate, but people self-involved in mental aberration, I've learned, could care less, and try to take advantage, and that is what Sharon did, whipping out her arm behind my back and running her finger up an erogenous zone. My back flexed involuntarily, but her hit wasn't arousing, and in fact what was being gauged was my susceptibility to collapsing boundaries, much like what Annabella Scoirra faces as the vulnerable therapist against Deborah Unger. Scoirra raises her palm to halt her patient. With Sharon, all I could do was retreat inward because of where I was, and woke with the memory Monday morning, angry. This is what I've been subjected to all my life: finger fucked in the Home of the Merciful Savior, assaulted under my mother's blind shadow. You know the rest, but unlike Chris Cooper, doing the repressed fanatic in American Beauty, chewing cunt isn't on my secret Happy menu. If it was I'd have a few bodies on my belt by now.

Yes, I feel provoked, and shouldn't have responded to the fellow's invitation. My post title comes from Lynn, a reporter I once posted with, echoing what all Americans knew after nine eleven.

Courtesy Note

Dolphin Mobility highlighted my Itinerary post, and I do not have enough of a British accent to transmute an Italian "grazie," into a proper British English thank you, even with a modicum of astonishment. 

My recent posts have been rough around the edges, and this is not simply due to a well worn anger at being disenfranchised, since I am battling toxic stress with aging technology, and my ambivalence about Francis swinging the pendulum too far to the left is not beyond the penetration of those columnists still getting paid, but I can whittle a few more planks down to size:

As superlative as JP2's stature was during his tenure, neither he nor his administrators had a good answer for the sexual molesters in problem dioceses, and Benedict may have retired because he was caught between pastoral doctrine, re: predators are sinners and still human, and redress for the victims, and Francis'es election may have been passing the buck on the extension of JP2's  administration.

Hence, Francis may feel his is a reactive papacy to placate the left, which wants a more progressive Vatican less prone to authoritarian crackdown. My response to this is counter-intuitive, in light of my attacks on disability empowerment models, but we need Roman Catholicism and its conservative moral stricture against apostasy, because progressives are on a suicide pact, and Roman Catholicism's firmament against that is a better alternative than ISIS, which is something Western liberalism inflicted on itself.

In much the same way that a substantial minority of those harmed by NCIL members face limits on what reforms can repair within the paradigm, sexual abuse victims cannot simply upend a faith that the Apostle Paul nearly willed into being single-handedly after his conversion. Certainly, the Church is a human institution, but it is an institution whose historical continuity is worth fighting for, and passionately defending.

To those at Dolphin however, I owe you. I feel less alone this morning. Big hug on this side of the pond.

Evening of Your Holiday Weekend

I followed the Huffington Post writer Chris Peaks briefly, and if I had a dialogue with him about being on the street, putting up with Presby's management and pressure tactics is trivial, but through most of my working career, I've seen the price of indigence, whether for paraplegics, those with clinical depression, those whose delusions were so bad they were basically potted plants. If I give in and make the best of it, biting my lips until they bleed, it's not going to help. As a company, Presby has intimidated me so badly, in another 24 months I'll turn into one of my mental health clients in outer space.

I have spent huge swaths of time literally imprisoned in my unit due to broken medical equipment, at which point management attacks. Not assists. Attacks. I am helpless in an ill fitting manual wheelchair, stressed after yet another minority solicits me for sex, and Debra Horne shows up with reinforcements, due to the fact that I pose an existential threat. I cannot stay here and keep going through this people. I'll break, and given what I've been through attempting to reenter the labor force, I'm no longer a desirable gambit. 

Not that I've sent out 50 resumes, but I'm at a significant disadvantage, stigmatized through the veneer of supposed neutrality.

Debra Horne is a criminal and belongs in prison, the civil method of asserting what should be done with minority Nazi's. I am not trying to be amusing here. Alzheimer's is one thing; what Presby has done to me as a disabled woman is another, and I cannot simply rebound after 30 years of blistering *pluralist* shields for corruption. Trudy and Debra have harassed and attempted to intimate me once too often, and I am filing charges. 

Teardrops on the scales

"Kill the wino." James Caan

Though I woke on time (obviously, since this is a rare daylight post) I canceled my attendance at the Sims job fair in an email to his Harrisburg account at 7:20. I need some adjustment time with this hated Jazzy Quantum, the encroaching humidity, and if I lack the confidence to deal with recruiters in public at this moment, it will show. I'm an old woman skewering her fucking skull in desperation, and though the developing world would laugh in my face on the true measure of desperate lives, comparisons have little mitigating effect, even with the unintentional humor in the room mate search questionnaire.

Why are you looking for a room mate now?
"My wife is leaving me." Not ideal, but I called his number, out of sheer amusement, and I cannot find the electrician whose wife has cancer and whose current roommate is "psycho." Not idea either. I've been on ward with cancer patients, but was going to reach out to said electrician anyway, since I consider myself highly undesirable. Found him. He and his ailing spouse would put me closer to little brother, but an electrician with one ailing spouse considering me as an addendum would be up for canonization, yes, si?

21 years of my life with Protestant skinflints who've given me fonts of trauma, with their nigger chicks just piling it on, lancing my wounds because I'm furious that I came here, not considering it a choice in Meryl Streep's stark terms in her Priestly Prada habitation. Despite this section 202 building location, I turned it down after my assault. I did not want to live here, ever, because I knew what it would do to me, and I'm no longer sure which evil is worse, the real ghetto or this crematorium, 21 years of strenuous hate. Why didn't I get out before? Well, Linda humiliated me and recovery time took two years; Paratransit was then lost, Frank happened, my mother died, had to put first cat down, the aide abuse, power chairs breaking, this is why, and any mind can only take so much contiguous crisis. I do not know if I hate Trudy Richardson for her integral nature or for her continued escalation and aggressive attacks against me, but I am either leaving this building or going to jail for pushing back; it's that simple.

Onward. Either way, I'm suing this company, and that because it cost Presby absolutely nothing to move me fifteen minutes past Diamond Park. I had already been pre-approved, and the only individuals who paid were my father, mother, the tenant who I bumped. At this point, it has little to do with ideology. I keep getting hurt, and the people imposing the pain aren't exactly on Lynch'es pay grade.

Brubaker's Valkerie

"My colleagues have a lasting vocation, that is to say, they see in the ecclesiastical calling a long continuance of dining well and having a warm suit." Stendal, p144

I stopped to watch The Last Castle this afternoon, as opposed to remaining steadfast to Georges Simenon recycles. I was never particularly huge over Redford, but he too is an ailing link to my vanishing boomer lexicon, a language where one of the last real boomer superstars knows what its like not to have Paul Newman, and so I made a reluctant choice, not sorry to see the late Gandolfini in action up against the straight arrow icon. 

The story wants to be a real world metaphor, like the late 80's Big Night, Tucci's critically acclaimed love child, but seemingly doesn't make a great deal of sense. I certainly couldn't figure it out as anything more than a pissing contest where your crime doesn't define you until it does? Irwin's piece de resistance appeals to me, of course, and like the damaged Aquilar, Redford as Irwin sacrifices his superlative status as the last American superstar, for an idea about fundamental fairness, or something, I am not entirely sure, the point taken that Colonel Winter, like Aquilar, loses self control in just that moment it takes to violate military code, to prevent Irwin's last act of defiance.

I've been thinking about my personal course of action, as forcing police officers to arrest me, the stress of that would finish me, even if the last thing a cop cares about is making an angry quadriplegic angrier still, and why can't she accept that she needs an attendant? Housekeeping help? I never did not accept it; that isn't the point. I have taken a series of blows from which recovery has been difficult, and this Christian landlord of mine, whatever my slavering hatred, has liabilities, aside from Ms. Richardson's ability to terrorize me, and I'm too angry to stand down, stopping just on the verge of letting her goad me into insulting her last fall. I cannot keep standing down on these matters, and if I have to earn myself a jacket, then the state has another notch in its belt.

Monica Carr was one of my first so called aides, during an early episode without a power chair. Welfare assigned her to me for 12 hours a week. I actually needed the help, and she could not do it, reported me to her police district for harassment. There was no Trudy google-girl then, and Debra Horne was conspicuously absent when another woman named Star, from Homemaker Services, tried to steal my commission as a contract journalist for HTP. Can I trust discussing this with O'Brien? I'll try; then I'm calling the cops, filling a complaint, and appealing to AG Harris, who is supposed to be aggressive.