Raking The Blues

I was going to go to bed early, but recalled I wanted to write before about my history with Elton's work, maybe I'll hold out an hour, as this is something I can start afresh, conflicted as I was about him at thirteen. I know you turn away, but yes, I am very depressed. Everyone has their lives managed, at some point, but I am being closed in too early in my life, only as weak as I am due to bad tools, and everything has failed, from my purse strings to medical rationing, and if I take my life, facile process pushers win, just as they will if I vegetate in a nursing home. All I hoped for was self-sufficiency, some pride in that, and the right man to compensate for those whom I longed, and I let myself be shuttle cocked by a black woman I treated in a friendly manner into 202 housing. I hate you Terri, if you're still out there.

You got out, but Presby treats me like an alien species, and my family puts it on me. I wonder. Many people like you leave these bullshit positions, where a woman named Trudy now lactates at her desk, but I wonder how much guilt, how much corruption you were exposed to, led to to scuttle into Blue Cross.

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.

The Company We Keep

We were promised The Jetsons, but instead life today still looks pretty much like it did in The Jeffersons.-- Paul Wiecek

First, let me get this off my breast bone. Fuck Canada, the permanently wealthy liberal opposition, just to illustrate that the Commonwealth sycophant to the the impostor over in Buckingham Palace playing QE2, (she cannot possibly be that alive and well, just look at President George Herbert Walker Bush), is so different from the United States. They do not utilize fuck in an inverted sentence, but Wiecek did give me a sounding board which I do not intend to submit as a letter to the editor, and this is to his credit. I dropped everything for this bit of holiday writing. My other assignment is complex, and as I am not getting paid, I insist on going slowly; if I do perhaps then I'll wind up with a latter day commission on the same topic. Or maybe I'll fail, again, and that is important only to the extent I'd like to do some policy writing before my mother's sister tricks me into an institutional environment. I do not trust her. She has assisted living on her frontal lobe like a gliona. Her father-in-law could afford to die in assisted living care. I cannot, and they wouldn't accept me. She does not understand the system. I do, and it is not going to happen. This represents why I take my rupture with Linda so hard. She understands family selfishness as the enemy, and I no longer have peers whom I like, at all, except a scattered handful of writers and scholars, and I realized, when I wrote, days ago, that I was fond of Gretchen, I do not think she'll mind her sudden currency, I realize that this is my problem: I despise everyone in 202 housing, and when I knew Josie, there was an element of recoil in me, and I need more instances of this not being the case. This makes Wayne Booth's thesis more telling, even if it's problematic. Post-modernists like Jerry are correct. Morally responsible aesthetics are incredibly difficult, but this doesn't mean Booth didn't give me insight as to reading Jane Austin as a beautiful, conflated, liar. Take a dip in theory now and again. For Booth too is correct that Benchley is superficial-- but this doesn't mean it lacks any value. The Raw Shark Texts, which I assiduously bunted to archive, may be playful, and derivative, which I tend to enjoy, but Hall didn't give me reason to care for his correspondences.

When I really need to be my old vehement self, I will not draw any extra button notices to my posts. The rest is up to Google's power and majority indignation, but don't kid yourself about the damages to my moral compass because I allowed a black girl my age, named Terri Way, to dupe me into moving into this hellhole which robbed me of my life. Not every wheelchair user gets sucked out to dry like this, and Presbyterian Homes shall pay the piper, or I am going to prison.

Three Hours to Prepare a Decent Meal

It's the omnipresent constable." -- a sardonic Patrick O'Neal against Peter Falk

Microsoft offered me free antivirus software so I'm installing it, or part of it, wincing at what I paid Norton every cycle, and annoyances like this dart through our thought processes even in very dark places. Given how much I've hammered out on this account, how much further can a poor dowager descend? This spastic is aware of the gravity of making things so much harder by rolling out on these monsters, but if she doesn't go, she will wind up with forcible first response removal at some point, police struggling to put the Jazzy in manual while my hypertension explodes, hitherto merely the roar of a Roman lion. I sent Tony Stiles a copy of the New Jersey law firm prohibiting me any further contact with Philadelphia's notorious independent living center, without explaining things to him, without even realizing he might as well have been a geeky kid brother, given the disc jockey images of him which popped up, but the New Jersey law firm tactic crumpled: I roared into Nancy Salandra's voicemail last week about how I was traumatized and wanted to return to Delaware County, and a more recently minted den mother named Patricia McIntyre dialed my number back in less than 60 seconds but she and I have yet to speak. So much for Roman felines.

I think Agatha Christie's prodigious output is an indication of deep seated unhappiness, aside from pecuniary concerns. I read her more when I was younger, not so much recently. Can't go back into it as readily; there was also a television film about her suicide attempt which limped despite the efforts of Hoffman. In my list of 500 projects I'm never going to finish, I've pondered a murder novel and I've done preliminary research, and I seem to jumpstart myself by starting anew when I'm struggling with preposterous theories which I can see but others may not, as in Walter Hill is a political animal, The Driver is a political film without saying a word about the calamity lurch from Nixon to Ford losing to Carter. I am preparing this for a popular scholastic journal which once upon a time paid well, and I have to get there. Meanwhile, in short order, access to things taken for granted will become my latest logistical issue. 

Should I dare to try my hand at a detective tale, and I do not know that I can succeed, I'd aim not so much for Shakespeare's flirtation with graphic brutality as for the traumatic, and I'd push, to the breaking point, right on the edge between immolation and art. Of course, I can wait, and drag this, and let Presby threaten me more, despite half the shit I have on them, but I'm tired, hate them, and hate my familial indifference. I've hated Riverside since my mother, still living, set me up here, and there have been meanders, but if I ran into Terri Way today I'd throttle her for my passive tolerance of letting her snow me, and in very small ways preferred Diamond Park. Christie, however, did herself push the traumatic when Poirot, and this actor doesn't quite capture my image of Christie's Belgian-- [fuck Miss Marple]-- used his drug tolerance to snare his greatest nemesis. She gave Poirot a denouement surpassing what Doyle gave Holmes.

Bleached Bone to the Left

something in the wind that knows my name-- karen carpenter

I do not want my readers to infer I had an adversarial relationship with Terri Way during her three year employment with Presby. I didn't. We weren't exactly friends, but friendly, in contrast to relations with Trudy Richardson, who trills like a capon with a broken neck, frantically running around the chicken coup, cunning, but vapid, nonetheless morally despicable. Terri was more astute, more adept, and while I am not going to say she was traumatized by the fact that I was attacked by the grandson of a monosyllabic woman of Martin Luther King's era, she was impacted, and transferred out of Diamond Park in 1993, due to how bad it was. Both of us working, I treated her to a beer off City Line while we were both on the clock, regretted it, leaning toward the florid, even back then. I saw her on television for a Blue Cross Blue Shield commercial with Dick Vermeil, subsequent to her departure. That was that, but I let the girl hoodwink me. I know adjudicating Presby for negligence after I was assaulted, while not a mental health panacea, would have given me justice . Tenants of rapes sue their rental agents in civil courts and usually get awarded settlements. What have I gotten? Blatant and hostile discrimination, attacked relentlessly since Trudy was hired, and ableism wonders why it fears my livid bulimic anger, however much caught in a time capsule, like Ryan O'Neal.

O'Neal hasn't responded to my inquiries about The Driver. No reason why he should, and he may not have even seen them. I also promised to go through proper channels, and had best get to his publicist before the embittered actor up and croaks, but if he knew where my analysis of his work with Walter Hill was going, he'd probably be perplexed. Hill was simply positing western values in the burgeoning analogue age of the Me decade, and if references I've read hold, O'Neal wasn't the first casting choice, and yet, this enigmatic fable, distributed in the dawn of Jimmy Carter's measly leadership, is a rebuke to boomers, just as Bryan Fuller rebukes the passive indifference of Muth's generation. Dead Like Me, though it is the most intriguing free broadcast available to me, has its own time capsule quality, endearing, but flawed. Aside from its latter day production problems, one of the reasons Showtime may have cancelled it was its occasional weightiness on modern alienation. It takes a certain amount of bravado, which Mandy Patinkin has in his scene boiling penne, to invite your superior to dinner, and have the gesture all but vanish in a vacuum. Like Muth's Georgia, the only mitigating social extensions I ever had were from my career, and those were wrenched from me. Spending some of my money on the Rosenbach made me feel like an appendage. I grafted more cheaply onto local libertarians and like that better, which illustrates brawn and pretensions mix with volatility, but it's not enough.

When I give my notice to Riverside, I'm rolling away. I'm not coming back, even at the cost  of abandoning kimmy, my library, my soiled linens. It will not change my indifference to domestic cleanliness, nor my aging limits, my unfairness to my father. I'll regret it, and maybe I am damning myself, but Richardson's evil is too much for me to carry without it becoming a criminal  liability. I have no supports I can count on, and know better than to expect intervention. I'd in fact be astonished, but once I'm on the bus, I'm not turning around.

Tireless Mantra

I want my viewers to understand something about my animus over Riverside Presbyterian, even before Trudy Richardson was hired to continue where her predecessor Brenda Williams left off: I never wanted to live here. That simple. Terri Way, who was employed by Presby for Diamond Park in 1993, dissuaded me from suing her employer for negligence after I was attacked by Brandon Phillips. I shudder writing his name, but his grandmother lived on the third floor, and when he couldn't steal from her one fine morning, he knocked on my door. Count that as twice in my life I survived what I wasn't supposed to. Him, and my premature breech birth.
The lawyers among you would say okay, Terri Way played me, I gave in and and followed her here, get over it, as everyone says, it is one of the more torpid section 202 units around, in a near center city location; but let's review:
1. A homosexual advocate couple, so called, engaged in collusion which ended my career and forced me into federal default. I have to see them daily in addition to their aide's uncouth and recent toxic behavior.
2. Trudy Richardson has objectified me three times, once in 2007, and then with Ken Cantrell and Health and Human Services, after I have been systemically abused by minority attendants-- I cannot keep suppressing I let the corporation off in 1993 and allowed the first Riverside manager I moved in under to exploit me as a case manager. Disabled or ambulatory, it may read like David Bowie's Soho during a restless post-war period, but wouldn't you find this level of duress a bit much? 32 years with one rental agent because I wanted to be independent, in a fatal mistake of exposure to catastrophic effects of urban violence. Look at what I have to reduce myself to now to get out from under. Perhaps an opening swan dirge.

Parallel Severity

The BBC knows how to do fantastic summary articles, and this rather deadening take on Christopher's decline after his body was incinerated nicely pieces the narrative together, even if we do not know why those of African descent are more severely crippled by mental illness than other ethnic groups, proportionally, and no, my prejudices are not skewing the data. All humans, if they go into psychosis, tend to devolve, and remain sick the rest of their lives, but when African Americans exhibit schizo or bipolar affect, there is a greater tendency toward gruesome violence, and if my hostility toward Trudy Richardson seems to manifest along these lines, let me back you up a bit: Ellen Hovey was Presbyterian Homes supervisory agent from 87 to 05. I was assaulted under her direct supervision, and since she knew her then protegee Terri played me for a fool, her managers tread lightly. Until her last hire was fired in 05. I was then again molested and robbed, and had to fend off attempted embezzlement. When Debra Schwab was hired-- she barely lasted a year, war broke out between me and Presby's Inspired Life, and the tenants council. I was *banned* and then made subject to extortion. In this instance, I did have the assistance of a Jewish "Philadelphia lawyer;" it is a long and convoluted story, but I had at least two or three letters under my door a month, and was put on biweekly inspections. I finally said no, and Trudy has done everything short of arrest me. Maybe now you see why eviction seems like relief of undue duress. I know if I do not leave here, a regrettable tragedy will be the end result. The woman is nothing to me, trust me; perhaps a weasel preying on her own, and the weakest, sickest. This is what these Protestant hypocrites do, and I've been fairly decent to survive 30 years of it. You read my dismal attitude, but you don't see, or hear, what this corporation does to wheelchair users. 30 years of my life. I personally feel I have tort against Miss Richardson, but that too, is lengthy. Even if I do downgrade to Dorner's breakpoint though, women aren't generally proficient armed forces killers. I might do X, or Y. Assassinating her parents is beyond the scope of the denigration she subjects me to. The layout of Los Angeles offers comprehension when it comes to why libertarians hate big city police departments. Out there, they do kill you, and whoever built LA must have been insane themselves. The residential districts look like fast food happy meals. I am researching, and this time, taking my time, speed writing and failing isn't any better than staying inside my lard ass comfort zone, but this piece isn't for The Freeman.