Affirmation of Police Brutality in This Evening's Pilot

As a service provider, Niume is certainly entitled to be what it is. My bafflement comes into play wondering why they would have followed this voice of caustic bitumen for so long, and then expect me to play nice in their digital sandbox. If they wish to mitigate isolation and my combative failure with 21 years of exile from a meaningful career, it is a bit late. If I don't like them then leave them alone, common sense would counsel, and I mostly intend to because of one thing: the majority of their posters are boring. I am nearly driven to tears by the poor writing skills I see in so many posts, and rather prefer the dynamic world of IRS agents destroying my father, stripping my sister and I of our estate, or libertarian defiance of the FTC, Homeland Security, and FBI agents shooting Oregon separatists who did not want to go to prison for freeloading. neither Craig Brittain nor Tony Stiles asked for my friendship. I offered it to Tony freely, when he was active on social media, and he shall always have it, if I can ever do anything for him. Craig is different. His tweets entertained me, and Jack Dorsey took that away, and so I am in Craig's corner, regardless of my digital stoop debate with Adam Steinbaugh over the last two days. I do not watch Cozi all that often, but they were clever to revive stoop talk. This was the urban practice of the northeast, circa 59 through 1968, and I paid attention when Cozi interviewed the disgraced Eliot Spitzer on the stoop. This is the one thing native Philadelphians have that you do not understand. John Goodman understands it, ditto Steve Miller twice, and Adam. Philly loiters, and pretty much governs itself, regardless of City Hall, and what belches out of career municipal executives, on the stoop, and Donald Trump brought me closer to his bizarre tirades when he gave that black reporter as good as she got. She started it, and in the post Obama era, why does the Congressional Black Caucus still exist?

Tooth Marks to a Schism

His Holiness Benedict XVI in his paternal concern for the spiritual distress which the parties concerned have voiced as a result of the excommunication, and trusting in their commitment, expressed in the aforementioned letter, to spare no effort in exploring as yet unresolved questions through requisite discussions with the authorities of the Holy See, a remission

Of course, attorneys in Haddonfield, never mind the abuse and humiliation I suffered at the hands of Liberty Resources, Incorporated, claimed, in a letter forbidding me any further contact with the center, that they forwarded my email referencing Omar Mateen to the FBI, which I then subsequently forwarded to Tony Stiles for his radio program. I then threw a legitimate fit, heart-rending torment, in the voice mail of Nancy, one of a dwindling number of the originals left from Liberty's founding, and she sent me to a deaf woman's phone. Liberty actually breaks the law, and makes settlements. I get referred to federal authorities for livid malice, nothing happens. This is the disease of urban entrenchment, but it's not quite so subversive any longer that I have the federal agency's communique with the public in an adversary file.
Had I signed into the virtual Niume community sooner I would have been deflated faster, and cannot say there was much of a conqueror's enthusiasm for joining in; it took me scant time to scold the administrators. I'm too hard nosed for all this "tune into nature" sensibility, finding myself exactly back where I was with Examiner. Clarity Media evidently folded its citizen journo slave labor into AXS, and I haven't attempted to return, hat in hand, for five dollar pieces over Niume's penny ante. No wonder they never cared about my post links, however hot the tongs. I'm unsure why blacks keep following me, but I'm as much to blame, linking  back to them, unwittingly, indifferently. I am not trying to blame anyone in Oklahoma, if that was the implication people took away. I simply had an idea to bear down on Nichols with a fresh eye, and I had it earlier than the journo speculating on McVeigh's other motives, hence my anger. I had the idea and did not persist.

Talcun

The Sunlight Aria: Diaper Rash and other irritants 11/28/16

                            (56)

It did not take me long to lose my battle with the last of my relatively fresh credit line from Capital One to upgrade to the Vuse Vibe tank, which comes as close to poisoning myself to death as can be imagined, in my masochistic kinks for cherry diddles, the poignancy of Ken Wahl's Reagan era physique aside, why him, why it hurt to view him in a show for which I never cared, why he responded, why I want to fuck him to prove my irregular clitoris can still respond to masculine intercourse? Intrinsically, what I've blogged is the truth, I do not desire a lesbian partnership, but climaxing past the raw sewage of my trauma, past ugly women deviation, this is increasing in difficulty, not that it matters with my urine sore cunt.
  Fifty three was my break year, no doubt there, no rejuvenation, I simply couldn't get myself out of here in time; I'm sinking, whatever my newly wounded friction with Joan Tarshis, not even entirely sure what happened, why I even sounded off in the first place, two old and broken women, destroyed progressives, one a rabid animal, the other keeping faith, both milkweed Caucasians, soured milk, after a fashion. The link between us, however tenuous through social media, mattered to me, whether or not Cosby was violating her when I was six, being internalized as a childhood hate crime. It is her fault, in part, that she wasn't wise enough to utilize a chaperone. This was the sixties, and celebrities of his stature had inflated egos, much as my obstinacy resulted in essentially surviving a muted genocide, with now so little to show for it. Pain, raw sewage, mitigating with liquid nicotine vapor. I don't know what her mechanisms are, other than classic liberal discernment, akin to my faux relationships, adopting Stiles as my little brother. If I scrounged up bus fare to seek him out in Nebraska the poor fellow would probably shit himself, as this indicates the degree of how much I in turn have absorbed affectation: Look at what I'm writing about, in the dead zone of my section 202 decline, the headaches from inhaling? From poor nutrition coffee diet, the weight of my fatigue, pushing myself to write through it and amazed I've gotten this far. 
I opened Jawbone, to take a break from the rest, for a bit. I don't know how long, maybe a week, maybe less. I have to really focus later and put the housing grievance against Presby together, however much more it is going to shrink the willpower I have left, but willpower for what?
I have nothing in my life, none of the things people live for, even the disabled, which is why Bryan Fuller's ideas about dead alive are so telling, in a strange way, though he keeps failing, but failing with a difference, since he understands a medium to which I'm inherently hostile, to say the least.

1:33 AM, Monday

Life in Pieces

Ah ha

Mr. Stiles was one of the first personalities, along with John Dunn (though the Traditionism advocate may not be a media personality in the American sense of the term), to follow my account on twitter. I hesitated for many a year to start a blog, fearful I'd get an FBI file, but even I did not realize how outraged I was, in the transition from LiveJournal to Blogger. It is a dangerous outrage, a lone wolf outrage, empathy worn clean to the bone. It made Trump president; it made me, in turn, a pariah who eventually moderated herself only by degrees, and the idea I have for Niume, so far, is just as esoteric. I want to examine objects, emotional investments to them, and that would last like what, five posts? I did not realize, when This TV first aired Dead Man's Gun, that this was a precursor to Mankell's Talisman, and the carefully crafted Colt in the show was passed on from hand to hand, like a woman down South. The studio system, whether in its droll Vancouver outlay, which in Europe is Sweden, equally droll, persists with these stories because we do tend to believe omens of our own construction, suspect the gods, in the back of our mind.

But I only have a rough composite of Tony. First, I believed he was a paranoid cowboy of about 45 years. Then in pictures I said "he's only a kid," with full bodied curls, then I saw the mohawk and the glasses. Held my tongue, and by degrees, came to realize he is what John Murphy, his CFO claims, a humanist.

I'm not, and it isn't merely theoretical, because if I decide to apply pressure points to Trudy Richardson, the minority building manager, I will be going to jail. Two can play back ending, and I'm sure it will alarm her if I strike back. I have a little plot, whether I preface it with a dossier to a firm like Gaylords, or not. But his seems to be of the Michael Clayton variety, custodial services for firm efficiency. Perhaps with the holiday lull I can discover through him if I have cause, as a special victim, to take a bite out of Presby's Inspired Life. I'm owed damages, as well as relocation, and even as I divest myself of my dad's generation, I've softened, trying to fill the gaps for my brother and sister, and Ben would like me to move near him in North Carolina. The power of that hope immediately reoriented my compass, and I might have been back in high school. But I could just as easily throw the keys in Trudy's face, and roll off, not to return without a lawyer. Will she, won't she? Does social media have safety nets?

I need to take some time on the dial and see if I can find Tony's broadcast. I do favor radio over video, but my boom box lost its aerial, and it is difficult to tune NPR.

The Bullshit Artist

"What's your point?"-- Joan Tarshis

It may not be wise to post when I'm overtired, pausing in contemporary projects to pull up "Jawbone," my nineties story with its loose Biblical overtones of Samson, everyone's favorite Nazarene and Jewish bully. I drove around, unwisely plowing through my folders, looking for the hard copy, and should probably reconstruct it from memory. Pelecanos modern black face, with the gimmick of its masquerade, to which the man is entitled, made me dwell on it a bit. My narrator is a mafia accountant, probably in late eighties Philadelphia, even though I don't specify a date, and it concludes with a brutal pistol whipping death, in the hood. Seven pages of it on my drive. The original runs past twenty, and it's here, in the desk, or the bin, swallowed by my own disgust in my barren life. I'm able to type, numbingly, but the search for my drafts will have to wait. I wanted to reread any ostensible copy I had, tighten the convolutions. Unable to remember if I started it before or after Brandon Phillips hurt me, but I lived through sustained abuse before that. In Diamond Park, I had room. It was a series of joined cubes, built for wheelchairs, and that I miss, if not the cavalcade of the hustle on the pavement outside my window, black men with toddlers in diapers, begging me for bread at similar hours prior to sunrise. What is not to hate from one end of Philadelphia to this one? The black simpletons I live with here at Riverside, my neighbors, while I roll around, crotch on stained pillowcases over simple piece of foam cushion, rolling old socks over my flaky feet, difficult to wear a decent pair of shoes with this god awful chair. I lack the language of aerodynamics to explain, and the slippers I got from Amazon were a failure. I can wear them but they'd never stay on out in the open. Am I close to Henry Miller's nihilistic courage with the grotesque? It was nearly the same with my mother in Ridley Park. She had very little for vanity of appearance and I've less, with the greater impoverishment. Toward the end of her life, eleven years ago yesterday, I realized my mother was insane. I'm progressing along the same route, though I shun the MH consumer model with the same intransigence I display toward the welfare state.

Until she reached her early sixties, I was never sure about my mother, but now I am, and Pauline should have had her first born committed. Then I would not exist, under Google's wary admonishment and social media's accordion  Barring a miracle, I'll be forced into Inglis House, unless I pick an end date, and end my life. Public housing, more than anything else, even my hatred of Liberty Resources, destroyed it, this life where I fought so hard and built a career on the federal welfare system, entered the middle class, and wasn't strong enough. I destroyed The Matrix Research Institute, in part, and should have realized, behind the scenes, that the people who ran Liberty at the top knew Rick, and I shouldn't have trusted them in the first place, my supervisor's antics aside. Now a good day is where I keep control.


Mother did eventually redeem herself, settled down, alone, dying suddenly, though I've never forgiven her, nor Marie, my father's sister, probably bipolar herself, unable to see it in the woman who could not carry me safely to term. I booted my aunt off my contacts, as bad as all that, and explained it hastily to my arson investigator cousin. In my family, the elder Italians set you up to take a fall, and I'm tired, and intend to never speak to Marie Varenas again. Spastic is done, not that she hasn't pulled, and intimated things no one should intimate to old women with too many face lifts. I saw, in one of Tony Stiles tweets, a critique of a Muslim registry. He is right. It would be abused, and can be defeated. Perhaps there is a lesson to be drawn from Samson in that, whoever created his legend. He appropriated the enemy to destroy it.

Essence of a Pornographic Interlude

I've always been something of a political animal in my work, and surmise now that this should have led me towards a journalistic concentration earlier than it did, but this was the fault of my iconic sensual needs focusing on instructors, culminating in my cleaving to rock star professor, which Jerry would have had directed elsewhere for a considerable sum. It isn't just that I nearly hate the old man now for hormonal intellectual overkill for which I was at fault. He warned me more than once, and I rankle over that as well, that he was astute enough to read my future anguish in the making. We'll never see each other again, he and I, but if we did, even if our aging appearance shocked each other, I'd have to struggle with a violent impulse to rage at him furiously, then to fall at his feet in florid pink stricken grief. He and John Tassoni, I have to admit, have the ability to trigger me to that level of provocation.

I've fought it all my life, and in biological dissolution that intensity may lift to expose my vanquished identity, the ultimate facade, as it were, but there it is. Conversely, if McGuire had slept with me, he would have been diminished, perhaps even relegated to stepfather pond scum. This relates to picking up my battlements and returning to pitching. My failure with Jeffrey Tucker's baby led to a small retreat: I did not procrastinate. I researched, and I still fell splat on my face, motivated but bit by digression, unwittingly arguing with Niall. If I had communicated this problem to Jeffrey beforehand I'm not sure my topic could have been saved, but I'm still sulking. I know I've been better than that, but my confidence took a hit; perhaps I'll never recalibrate.

I've picked myself up, but cannot fail the next time I get a green light, emerging, but busying myself with literary journal culture which I now find wearisome. Liberals think I'm still with the left when they access my creative output. Hardliners like Toomey mistrust me, and Tony's CFO jumped ship after telling me what a great humanist his boss is, but I do not take Murphy's bailout personally. On the commercial level, I am one of Puzo's soldiers, who will die for her Don, and most women of child rearing age rightly see this as a threat to domestic tranquility. In the right conditions, going down like a good soldier fulfills me because I couldn't find the thunder in the other to live for, and told Erik's passive caretaker, during Indian summer, that I'd break her transsexual's neck, after giving Erik the finger. His nanny was terribly pained; I have not seen Erik or Jimmi or their servile lout Chris since, more overjoyed than remorseful. Resolved to enter a poetry contest at the last minute even though I cannot afford it, then I have to get back on the circuit, and fight to rematriculate. I was not engaging in hyperbole when I tweeted to the President Elect I wanted an appointment to the National Council on Disability. Some of you get payback.

Let me add one thing about Tony Stiles. He may or may not understand me, and he and I may not always agree with each other, but my loyalty to the man is unswerving, because he found me and linked to me of his own accord. I prefer radio as my medium, and need a new system, and then would love to hear his show, promote him when he's right. That is as close as I get to fundamental ideology.

And if I'm having bodily wound sex with Ken Wahl in my head, to resurrect my full throttle, as long as it doesn't take water in the bow, hey.

Dismal Chantments

"Do you think you're never going to die? Well. it's not all sweet music and if you want to see real trouble take a walk through this hospital and you'll sing a love song about warts."-- Mario Puzo, The Godfather, the near last page of Chapter 22 

The local facilitator for Philadelphia's LOTR chapter has a fixation with Adam Kokesh which I do not. I hastily introduced myself to him a year before Justin Jouvenal put his paragraphs together to explain an Alford plea to the readers of The Washington Post, and can add that the authorities in Virginia wasted their time. Kokesh is something of a secular missionary, and his idolizers left me with my normative apprehension in the face of a cult following. I am not that much purchased on libertarian righteousness, and deleted the auto mail announcing Adam's appearance at a community center. I would have been more interested in meeting Tony Stiles in person, but the Black Adder and I also have some friction. Part youth against age, part my diffidence with software developers and computing, part my bitterness with liberalism and general disaffection, so I am not sure I can negotiate a reconciliation between Adder and Mr. Stiles. Adder suspects my liberalism, while liberals want to institutionalize me again as the best thing for me. Can't win, and I threw the last of my savings at Rosenbach Museum knowing that, in no way shape or form returning for their open house later this afternoon, and if you wish to see disaffection as an indictment, it isn't quite that. Scholars treat the Rosenbach with back-handed wonderment, and I am familiar enough with the museum's procedures to grasp at this bewilderment fondly, but throwing my money at them did not get me neither the connections nor the rescue from my entombment, and before Adder and I familiarized ourselves with each other, my first meeting with Liberty On the Rocks was an outcry I've long since sheathed. On to the next bizarre solution, one merging the idiotic with despair..

Honda's Gojira is a historical artifact, and has a few better shots at making the stuntman in the beast appear menacing, but I'm not in the mood. If we put a radioactive Tyrannosaurus up for bidding as secretary general of the United Nations, I doubt the global economic engine would pause to blink. Medium, though I don't know the search politics involved, promoted Truculent Fish on its news feed, perhaps due to Adam's prominence, though I haven't a clue. Kokesh simply doesn't impress me. I get the sense Tony's smarter, though he may be wary of my grafting tendencies-- but I don't know that I consider my profile page an actual published format. I've never been solicited, through Blogger, Medium, or other portal, but I suppose my key Medium pieces can go in my online essays section.

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.

Idiopathic Lung Expansion

"It's like I keep losing people."--  Christopher Meloni

So Oz too has a wheelchair bound narrator. Even on an a la carte basis, I cannot afford an HBO subscription, but I'll try to remember this series might be worth viewing, unlike Orange Is The New Black; I read the reviews of the series, and I know as a Netflix exclusive it is a quality show, but, as I wrote years ago, the series has too much proximity with my life in the inner city; it is with studious deliberation that I do not want to get involved with it, even as a rerun, but since I miss Meloni, and he makes for a good conflicted Catholic, Oz might have the requisite distance for not too much wincing, even as I am still confused about what is going on with Philadelphia affiliate stations. With two movie channels lopped off my free broadcast signals, I'll be forced to stream more, which I cannot truly afford, even if I'm streaming free content. You may have a family mega data plan. I don't, and the FCC isn't going to level that playing field at the point of Napoleon's bayonet in the interim.

I am working, through some miracle and perhaps shakily, but working; it is not the morality of a tobacco company like RJ Reynolds which comes into question, but why addiction needs to be punished. It seems to come with the turf of higher mammalian function. I've caught on to how far they will go to subsidize my habit, so perhaps next month shall be just that much less brutal, but unless I find some type of employment suitable foe my decline, I might as well market my pubic hair as a new and improved micro mop head.

Though not by much, some family members are more empathetic shields than others. Billy is a cop, which perhaps cuts me some latitude, not that I flash it, or sew it onto my breast pocket, but this is sort of a greyish area between yours truly and more ideological libertarians--not that I am singling out my faux brother, but I am ambivalent about aggrandized police cover ups. Like me, way down here scraping my survival in America's true police state (the welfare system), cops know what they know, and they know eventually they have to put people like me down, barring a controlled alternative form of incarceration. That my cousin doesn't follow me doesn't perturb me, given that I've characterized his mother as a Philadelphia archetype, but he cares more about individual suffering than my sister, and certainly doesn't want to use his piece on anyone. Federal agents may or may not be a different story, but they don't have the resources to worry about me. I called the disability center, cursed them in the pain of my failing strength, nothing happened. I uttered "fuckwits" as an epithet, four times or so.

I am not particularly desirous of getting mauled in a prison cell, but learning how to manipulate others is a skill some deviants can learn. I've done it once in awhile, but when it comes to certain transsexuals, certain areas of learned Jewish prevarication, I am outmaneuvered. This ends my break, though I've been writing all afternoon. 

Rocks Certainly Give the Illusion of Stark, Brutal Surfaces

I did post yesterday that I was going to take a break, but I've returned to say that the system has pushed me to the point of criminal insanity. I reverted back to the recovery center of my adolescent youth, and amazingly, Moss still has me on file, living at my old Diamond Park address, and the best anyone can do for me, in pain, and at crisis point, is give me an appointment  over 45 days away with an orthopedic doctor who will probably look at me, think "Inglis House" and say something circumspect.

I could, of course, try my legs again in the bathroom, but again, narcotic strength withdrawal tied to narcotic strength arthritis pain, in this bloody awful Jazzy, is pushing it, even as my rectum has gone berserk. Everyone says try again with an attendant, which in translation means "put up with nigger behavior," and it is an impossible situation, forced to continue to engage the assholes who can declare victory, as I'm pretty much now a mind in a carcass-- I think, to the extent that Mr Radio Personality Stiles understands me, his advice that my defiance can "withstand anything" only comes up to a point, as the majority of humans in the US don't live by extraordinary medical regime. I had to live everything I have written about on this blog, with a pathology dwarfed only by Tunisians in Nice, and now I have no freedom whatsoever. It is going to take me days to knock any number of bitches around like bowling pins before the dust settles, you did not hear Joan's reaction, the receptionist, "Don't do that! Let them help you!"

They've never helped me, whether I've treated them with intimidating belligerence or not. I'm coming to the end of what I can cope with, however much I know I'm still alive for the sake of my work. The moral issues surrounding our virtual imprints keep growing, but no one wants, nor knows what to do with me, the despairing destructor. I am just a really dark voice amid thousands and thousands of pedestrians, even as one has to wonder about Google's obligations. I'm near the end, and this is all that's left, a cripple who wanted to be normal and get a Jesus Christ superstar of her own. I quelled whatever paranoia I initially experienced at the discovery I lost broadcast access to Bounce and GetTV. I know it is one of these poverty things and not a ready news item, but I am puzzled as to what happened, why I lost these two stations.

Gonzo, sans Hunter

I could be running the rent downstairs in my bare feet and my stained beige skirt, in violation of the dress code. I could be going to bed, having sucked two Vuse cartridges back into my system, and instead, I am just the dago who keeps getting kicked. Liberty Resources wasted no time soliciting a law firm to threaten me, this after years of institutional abuse, breach of contract, toxic environment at their hands, and I? What am I going to do? Probably get arrested after the holiday, going to jail to experience even worse instances of being the prime mud crab in the dish. Oh, no one cares, when it's me, what I've been through, no one, not that I haven't tried a wee little, politicians notwithstanding, legal aid, ACLU. The only thing anyone sees is how angry I am, and so they get the Presbyterian Corporation, with its financial collusion with the Department of Housing and Urban Development, to back down, as I weaken, and weaken, urinating with increasingly diffident aim into a broken disposable urinal, even without the attendant, still getting abused by an attendant, and so this is what I do, martyr myself on an obstinacy only as obdurate as blood pressure allows in a 53 year old woman with strange accretions of psoriasis under her thighs, but hey, this is the oxygen of social media, and a great piece of trash for Nick if he wants it, perhaps an item for Tony Stiles to air as well.

There is a little thrill all the same, one defiant spastic greasy and weirdly drying matron, spiraling down against the system which invariably crushes us all. There is no Grisham crusader here willing to sit and take my whole story, point by point, just the blood in my face, the social fear at my rage, absent the reconciliation barbecue with the vindicated client, wounded, but at peace. I have no idea what that is, as it involves going through more than you care to stand. I told the lawyer I'd use the press. And so I shall. Let it play.

Terminus, foie gras

"I saw a bunch of scared actors afraid of losing their jobs."-- John Corbett, who manages to make me curl, pleasantly

It was gratifying to see the late Patty Duke Astin in the instantly forgettable 05 Bigger Than The Sky, its two hour run time consuming my salmon pate preparation, a steady diet of which usually revives my energy, but not today, not even with a thousand milligram caplet swallowed beneath it. The amount of caffeine I have absorbed, the real shift in humidity as the summer season shifts into full gear, this accentuates my plaque build up, my arthritis, and the strange irritation in my rectum which has been and remains not part of my normal biological narrative since I allowed the late Frank access to it. A former aide named Kisha assured me that Frank's enthusiastic anal experimentation would not have done anything harmful to me. She is probably correct, as my intimacy with him ended within the first year and six months of our relationship, and any infection from his hazardous body would have done more to me by now; it is, nonetheless, a basic truism, before 2006 my colon in and of itself wasn't raising the potential of malignancy. The tendency towards polyps runs in the family, as well

In mid 2016, I understand the situational irony of actually being dead alive, almost as well as Duke comprehends, in either her maudlin or satirical modes, her emotional pendulum swings-- my mind and its acuity still relatively intact, but knowing the end is in sight, giving into it despite my libertarian exhilaration. Just getting through the day, making myself a meal, grinding what remains of my occlusion to get through my ligaments, breathing shallow, let alone driving this battered vehicle about my limited range, or throwing a load of colors in the wash, is doing me in, much like the labor of the Comtrex freight, protesting its heavy metal elements on the rails.

I was rather stupid to allow myself to get drawn in to the Yabberz community, and I'm extracting myself from it, reluctantly, true, like a puss-faced toddler. There are some sharp witted users who habituate the virtual dynamic of Golden State liberal hypocrisy, but the best of them visit infrequently; not all of them may have mental health issues, but one of the return users, harleyboy66, is an exact replica of the clientele I used to case manage, possibly dangerous under the right provocation. I can tell because of his lack of coherence. He was the wrong person to be having an online discussion with about quadriplegia and ideation. I am not quite certain what I'm going to *do* with Mike and Melissa's volatile maven. I agree with a Romanian critic that Yabberz has an unpleasant political miasma to it, but on the other hand, as a blogging platform, it does have its uses, and as I'm not under commission, I can still keep my account active enough to experiment with ideas, if I can keep a lid on threatening the faux liberals, as well as the true left, with total annihilation. If anything, Yabberz has contributed to my own polarization, and I am still not particularly fond of peripheral views to which a Cyclops is limited. And since I have forgotten my fatigue, obviously I need to be true to myself, and work, in the time I have, work.

I also want to scream at Tony Stiles to steal a hydraulic van and come rescue me from an African American punk majority, if only as a charitable contribution. Perhaps I should contact the Koch brothers.

Like Stanwyck on Chamberlain

"Innocence must be proven, not proclaimed."-- Vincent Winterhalter

This is one of those mornings. Spastic needs to remember she used to be a closet centrist, and for the sake of whatever impoverished pride she has left in pursuit of aesthetic diligence, really going off like an actual militant will leave other angry individuals as hollow, if I force tragedy to strike, as the tape of Robert's death left me upon viewing it. His death was meaningless, as mine would be if I left authorities with no choice but to subdue me, and I do not entirely comprehend the grievances of the Oregon radicals. I read the reporting, as some of you still do, and know that the Department of the Interior controls well over half the state, but I don't really live in da Vinci code territory. Not quite. My rental agent is a pathological liar, but that goes for most of the Commonwealth I live in, west or east, as it does for the citizens in Flint, Michigan. Even California is virtually ungovernable, Jerry Brown is simply a favored son, and so he has the benefit of being tolerated. I even have no idea what the secret society symbolism in the Finicum article I cited means, despite the fact I can sound off like a conspiracy theorist with Liberty On The Rocks when it suits me, and then turn around and message Sheldon Novick that he should be a dean of his department, on the flimsy strength of the fact that his scholarship makes him the better author between the two of us. I don't really know Dr. Novick, anymore than I can pretend an allegiance to Tony Stiles. I am in fact rather skeptical of Tony's human trafficking tweets, because at the end of the day we all go into the deli slicer where our offal makes a good salami; I don't know Tony either, though there is a six degree of separation familiarity-- and Dr. Novick and I have watched my failed potential surge against the crags for years. For his sake, should I be ashamed of my anarchist excitement?

A moral dilemma of my own making, but without reservation, Sheldon Novick has a fine mind. He is wry, doesn't scream at my cats for various infractions, and I endorse his legacy despite the fact that I am as cool to the experiment that is the state of Israel as Jennifer Rubin is to Rand Paul as the libertarian heir apparent. 

As uncouth as I've been on Blogger in the destruction of my own moderation, I never imagined a day where a first generation ERA advocate would utter sexist remarks. Sanders is too liberal even for the interior angry radical my uncle Tom once accused me of being, but I'd never accuse the women who support him of doing so for the sake of their sexual satisfaction. Steinem managed to offend me, and I am merely a lowly short circuited failure, a troll who shoots herself in the foot. When I met my gay state representative, in a lowered voice I said I'm going to give you hell, and he took it with the normative tenor of depreciation, a homosexual dandy with a veneer, when turned off, exposes what any constituent is reluctant to see revealed: an emotional armor, a ruthlessness, perhaps due to the realization of how limited his role is, reading the beaten anguish in a face like mine. Everything he stands for makes me nauseous, everything, but for him this doesn't count. I rarely vote on state or city referendums, and don't pay property taxes. Unseating him with a conservative who could take his district is a bad Fantasia script. Pennsylvania hasn't had a budget for seven months, and so the difference between Corbett and Wolf comes down to this: Corbett blamed Joe Paterno, subsequently tanking his political career, and Wolf is a cosmopolitan wall flower, a figurine in whom we've lost the faith. I dream of how happy I might have been with my thighs clamped onto Jerome Robart. I'd have never let go, in my poor, broken, bitter little heart.

A very brief message for Tony Stiles Global Media

As I've previously posted in scattered intervals, I have deliberately overtaxed myself this month with my own semblance of vanity which I am sure Amazon Prime appreciates. Why stay with Prime? Because it has taken me less than ten years not to be intimidated to upload my own work for kindle. Within another three months or so I should be ready, though I am wary, and learned, as to the pitfalls of vanity promotion and will attempt to make my collection a viable submission to a midlist press.

Having made this qualification, I cannot put progressives to the sword for engaging in a rigorous asceticism of my own making, but I am going to put them to the sword for what they've done to me, and I am going to write a piece for Tony in my own words, in part with unprintable invective, but I will filter it after the tendencies toward castrating Mexican American lawyer sissies freely ventilates the organ. If Tony thrives on progressive dirty linen, I am going to give the Texan who took on Homeland Security a field day, and if Tony wants to run it for me in the cadence of Palin's perpetual indignation, then Tony can run it that way, and if he can't, I am still a good soldier who is determined to die on her own two feet!

But I have to work very hard to keep an even keel until my younger sister's birthday passes in February, capisce?

Metastisis

The degree of toxic stress I'm shouldering is partly my own intransigence, and perhaps too much so: I can cancel with ATT and get cheaper ISPs, return to a partial supplemental security income, collect the 10 dollars in ETP the state would give me. The resistance doesn't come from libertarian fealty. It is not loyalty to Tony which makes me stubborn. Tony came to my twitter feed. I ran him through search, followed him back, and let John Murphy's later rhetorical question slide about what I "heard." Which means I was nice to Tony's CFO because I value what Tony Stiles represents.

I am torturing myself, to a certain extent, because I still believe I can manage my own affairs better than an income maintenance case manager, still believe I can still sustain employment (although I handled Swarthmore College in such a manner that the interviewer who ignored my questions about clips in email had three lawyers view my profile, Christ) I do intend to get mileage out of that incident as institutional liberal bias, and will hopefully find the right editor, but this is a card close to my chest.

My mother's sister, when she and I talk, says "You cannot work." I'll never accept that, but the system doesn't ease up. It isn't fair that every time I need a new power chair I have to see a primary resident, basically clueless Asian students like Dr. Mann, and then get billed 90 dollars, no closer to an evaluation with a provider who will respect me. Wheelchair users aren't programs. We're Americans, and yet a lobbyist from Jazzy gives a Medicare administrator a good snow job, and suddenly everyone in center city has this generic fuck-witted piece of machinery. It isn't right, and I blame conservatives and progressives. People like myself need the AMA to get the fuck out of our way and streamline things differently. It disgusts me.

I'm on the edge of the tight rope, however, and can't keep this up indefinitely. I did work, all by myself, for five years, and shouldn't be expendable because I'm past 50. I will send Tony a decent photo for my profile after I have change for the laundry. Things are that tight right now. 

Can't stop biology, but I am not going back to anything like the homes I've seen, and that's final.

Pricks to the price of loyalty

"He was a man of small stature, with hair blanched rather by suffering and sorrow than by age." -- Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo, digital location 2116

A short message thread with John Murphy posed an interrogative "Have you heard of Tony Stiles?" The apparently attractive young man is looking for acolytes to join in Tony's campaign against human trafficking, a rather noble, if daunting sentiment. Mr. Murphy benefits from the price of loyalty, and indicated Mr. Stiles had the humane decency most of us profess to have, as altruism is deemed beneficial. Murphy followed me a short time, then ceased, my failure to hold his interest a metric of some sort, perhaps that I alternately flirt with libertarian ideas, then turn and critique them, or maybe I'm just a downer, and he is a more upbeat promoter for his employer, one who hasn't eviscerated him. 

Such evisceration, a knife to the heart carried as an entrapment, taken to its logical conclusion, often leads to the emotional implosion of Kenneth Halliwell, the prototype of homosexual rage against itself. Prick Up Your Ears was about abandonment against the growth of a dead playwright's horizon. Fusing that with an agenda to send a message to reform a paradigm leads to the same interior crawlspace. If the inability to let go, and the blunt force trauma of destitution moves in the direction of vengeance, the trigger for it eliminated, there is an emotional recoil against the punishment inflicted, and escaping Halliwell's fate becomes an odds game: accepting a bad act that removes you from your innocence, however inflicted with injustice, and then beating the law, which is achievable, but rarely successful.

The emotional investment of a good lieutenant is not the same as a homoerotic set of coordinates exposed and deemed unacceptable, although emotional fraying can conflate the two, but I was John Murphy 23 years ago, motivated by a leadership I wanted to promote, to elevate, to see it as a public conduit, and misjudged that of which it was capable. Not that the scar remains fresh, nor even palpable, as the 23 years have beaten against the brute strength, now swimming with oblivion, waiting to see if there is enough left for the veracity of vindication, or if I fade past midnight like so many quadriplegics looking at a sixtieth decade like a death warrant, or a veritable concentration camp.

Come spring I need to give my notice, another daunting endeavor, but a necessary therapeutic tool; I'll need to trust someone's transitory generosity on the heels of this event. We'll see, but I couldn't give Mr. Styles the personal loyalty which she once had at her disposal. The price of grief, and blow after blow after blow. Impotent even to support my immediate family.

Aphasia

Many scholars lake to make safe nods to multicultural orthodoxy by implying that human races do not exist.-- Nicholas Wade, Chapter 4, A Troublesome Inheritance: Genes, Race and Human History

There is a documentary on You Tube which summarizes the Lionel Tate case through 2015, now coming to a close with typical confetti glitter surrounding the winter solstice, and spastic has flagged for consideration doing a book on the subject, which supposes I live long enough, and have the clout to get some of the primary players to open up to a relatively battered journalist with her fingernails just above the sewage canals beneath the streets. The good Sheldon Novick once encouraged me to explore the curiously destabilizing aspects to Alice James chronic condition and her brothers' gallantry, which in William's case bordered on incestuous compassion, but my triggers of interest are apparently aroused by the firestorm surrounding a child murderer who seems compellingly inconsequential in his interior aspect, in terms of self-realization and responsibility, and yet electrified intense emotional investment which failed to redeem him regardless of the ideological spectrum involved. Liberal empathy, conservative bluntness, failed to redeem Lionel Tate, the judicial hours spent disputing the facts in evidence failed to rectify the arc his troubled young adulthood, and a movement like black lives matter, what redress can it offer if Tate and his mother can't step up to the plate to address their own negligence, not without facing self-incrimination, in the death of Tiffany Eunick?

Institutional bias had no bearing on the events inside Mrs. Tate's dwelling. That bias only came into perception, if relevant, once the six year old was dead, and who spoke for her? The wings of Tiffany's mother were clipped because the monster wasn't a television manufactured psychopath whose behavior could be so carefully circumscribed by the genius profiler played by Matthew Gubler, just an overweight 12 year old with typical aggressive indicators of dysfunction allegedly tied to maternal indifference, and then it gets buried, superseded because Trayvon Martin gets killed by a paranoid vigilante, or disadvantaged individuals die in police custody, with little weight given to how overwhelmed police forces are, these days, the blue line of last resort. I am nearly positive my district now has a flag on me because I've complained about the terror and the hatred of the elderly I've experienced under the corporate banner of Presbyterian Homes.

Certainly, to pick up on Tony Stiles' point, all governments are so much more powerful than people, but that is everything. Landlords necessarily supersede impoverished tenants, because the concept of property is the lynch pin of capital-- even though we know that however it is zoned, structures on a landscape aren't owned. We exchange them, relative to the value of the location, and create space in the livable atmosphere of storied buildings. In essence I am conceding certain critiques to Marxism, at the same time flipping it. If I owned what I wanted to live in, I'd fight and fend for it, but section 202 housing is a classification designed by default for expendable classes, to treat you like a problem, not to help you climb, but to spit you into a hospice, which had its nascent inclination in the 19th century, in the birth of the sanitarium, and regulation on the federal level, leads to the spiral of dilapidation in more subtle fashion, as surely as shanty towns breed the next pandenic.

Lionel Tate is a footnote of black on black predation in the uproar over police brutality toward perceived civilian threats, black, white, Hispanic, Indian, and he shouldn't be. The familiarity of contempt generates more murder than the use of excessive force at the end of a gun barrel, not that I can drop everything to run with this, as my pet is guilty of capital  endangerment.

Juice

Asserting that JT Villalobos is courageous is not an endorsement of progressive exposure so much as approval for illustrating reality, and what children can and do tolerate for the parent of preference. Looking at the young actress who makes Navy's bond with her mother so convincing, we see the problem of claiming the US as a casteless society. Barack went through something of this underbelly and became an improbable candidate in 2008, yes, and liberals inveigh that merit has replaced privilege. Not quite. My father wanted to mirror Protestant affluence and crashed, and I at the bottom wanted to defy my condition and essentially win my father by becoming my dad, and allowed a disability center K-12 mentality to shovel a shitload on that, and here we are.

Can we withstand anything, in the libertarian parlance of Tony Stiles, and in the dialogue of Mulberry's progeny? Interesting film, needs a run or two again on inflamed eardrum, as Escape doesn't deploy captioning. When one dissects Texan coda, the sensibility is intriguing, and not as crazy as liberals paint it. Transplanting my 53 year old ground up carcass into its culture isn't realistic.

I've made up my mind to pity my way to Rome to die, despite the Italian government and the Syrians. I'll give the migrants my unit in exchange. Right back where we started.

Waking Wound

I still have a dialogue going with the man from India who will be in the US next week, but I doubt this is a partnership that will succeed, because I am not sufficiently agile, and I'd have to drop everything and absorb the consequences, namely, that I could never return to Riverside. Whatever the spiritual bliss of that, I still need a landing, in essence. I learned from foreign correspondents that Asian Indians are more likely to interact with vulnerable groups, and herein lies my proof. 

California liberalism on the socialist side of the spectrum will paternalize me, and that plays out like a Jimmy Dean commercial, but the disabled woman dares have a valid counterpoint, and oh, her email goes to junk, but the Asian programmer deigns to interact with me. It was pleasant, however futile, or nearly futile (I am determined that team OZY and I will have a real conversation. Do I expect this conversation to provide me employment? Further my career? No, but if I can contribute a nano liter to putting OZY out of business, it would be good fodder for his program).

Dreams about my felines invariably mean something else, driving on a nearly pitch black road with little kimmy on my lap. She jumps off behind a car and I am panicking she will be killed and ask for directions at a crossroad, needing to pick which direction I want. These intra species bonds are invariably selfish, whatever I'm in the process of losing.

Amanuensis to Moby Dick, Guardian Mentality No. 2

Dreamt I stood in a china shop so crowded from floor to far-off ceiling with shelves of porcelain antiquities etc. David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas, p.43

William Gaddis, for the uninitiated, is a fine writer, and my edition of The Recognitions has a far less elaborate jacket, a lamination of white green yellow blue, like an atheist Christmas card, but the novel, while a precursor to the genius of David Mitchell, is a ponderous effort, a hell on earth labor to actually finish, living as I did, on the edge of the badlands, 1500 W. Page Street, closing a tome about frauds, fakes, originals, with the final phrase "rarely played." reverberating with the stark imprint of an epitaph. Perhaps Gaddis's publisher believed Gaddis was a modern James Joyce, but no. Whatever one feels about the author who murdered the novel, Joyce is a lively labor. Gaddis is a dissertation down the rabbit hole, with a density somewhat thicker than the later Gravity's Rainbow, if my imprint dates are in alignment. and following on the heels of my first nominee, you can still appreciate what literary movements like Modernism have to offer without adding The Recognitions as a very long spooling funnel to your archives. I started the first chapter again approximately six months ago, and if I wind up as a most unfortunate casualty of this youthfully old birth city of American independence, I may never get to fully reengage with William's game theory.

Ali darlin, I have absolutely no idea who you are, and I almost have absolutely not a creative word to post about the fact you've followed me. I do not stream much. Don't have a playlist, and don't use my 5c like an iPod, though I am sure Apple and ATT and Google would be ecstatic if I grasped at the straws of my zealous turning thirteen obsession with Elton John and went back to the British sound of my era as opposed to being part of the problem, as tommyturbo asserted, but what I can convey is the amazing ability of language, to create a word like amanuensis, a word I never knew until Mitchell gave me a visceral existential crisis. If Modernism killed the novel, Mitchell destroyed the aspiration of any ambition I ever had, and yet, I did not expire on the table when this revelation sucker punched me after I finished his profound display of virtuosity. I passed on my battered and stained copy to young Lance, who patiently waltzed this spastic through Ulysses in 2013. I kindly offered Lance my edition and he said no he had to give it back because he needed to buy Cloud Atlas in hard cover. I cannot guarantee you I'll trudge on at this softer pace, as my intention to vacate this unfortunate studio apartment I've inhabited since 1994 by the end of July is not, in fact, particularly salient to the imagination. Disabled writers on entitlements simply do not vacate section 202 housing. It is not done, but I cannot stay. My ability to cope with Presbyterian corporate methodology, beating and beating at me as long as it has, because I was a naive 23 year old who saw this way of life as a mere stepping stone toward a fulfilling literary adventure-- I do not know what I thought. I thought I could become like my mentor Jerry, whose name I weary of typing, but anyway, what was I saying? Oh.

Even though I do not stream all that much, as I am sorting all of this out, listening to your work is on my list, but Tony's radio show comes first. If you have, oh, I do not know, access to writer's studio digs where I could bring my cats. I love the feline children, one cannot help that, well, let me know. If you're interested in what I have to say, well, I've reached across the generation then. Now I need to rest a bit, but I had to log on and dissect this. Compulsion must be satisfied.