The bitch is back

stone cold sober as a matter of fact

Teetering on the edge of a precipice doesn't stop incidental commands from firing along the neural network on which our minds are, if only that, a conceptual extension. An entreaty to Vast Drive about my block on twitter led to an interesting revelation: I am considered a pornographer. I have battled the establishment in a myriad of ways, and because  I launch into vulgar tirades, I get a label like that, pornography. Weary sigh, need to revise, as if it matters on the close of 1500 posts, reading too much into social media actions, as well. Henry Miller's nihilist rant was ruled not obscene, and I'm a pornographer. Uh huh. Vast Drive didn't block me for my politics, but because their social media manager solicited web porn, otherwise indifferently. I've been graphic, sometimes effectively, sometimes too rushed, but I am not selling "the fuck of the century," in the immortal words of Michael Douglas feint riding Sharon Stone. When Basic Instinct went to DVD, I was still imposing myself on Jimmi Shode and Erik, and you cannot see them, their thick porcine and ghoulishly androgynous human forms, not very nearly approximated on Modern Family. Jimmi is just fat, an ugly flat nose, beady insecure eyes. He pushes back against management by writing defiant nonsense on memos. I, on the other hand, have actual tort against Presby, they know it, and its getting ugly.

The Gladhandler (pseudonym because his cerebral palsy limits him) used to be one of our lambs. Parceled out between us, Erik, corrupt self-hating trans, Linda the Jewish denier prevaricator, me, Debbie. He asked me to give his aide a cigarette. He has no other existence. Who am I to judge? It isn't that I condemn limited functioning invalids, but even Sean Penn made his mentally retarded father dynamic. Gladhandler isn't, he's a dog on a leash.

You'll have to kill me first.

Jason Statham's Inspiring Disenbodiment

"Mental health will drive you mad." Quiet Riot

Liberals like Paul Krugman would argue, not without some justification, that public housing affords a person of my physical vulnerability more protection than would a private rental, and indeed, when I toured the Presidential Suites between 1992-93, Linda Dezenski referred me to her private contractor for unit modification. He wanted 5k, which for me, or my father, my mother, would have been astronomical at the time, on top of the rent, and if I or the landlord terminated the lease, I would have had to restore the apartment, and although this may sound accusative, I have no idea where Linda thought I could come up with that kind of expenditure. Her department and Staroscik's department were paying me seven dollars an hour as a consultant. My entry level salary at Matrix was an improvement, but I would have needed at least an annual salary of 50,000 to maintain the lifestyle my father provided me as an adolescent, and I would have also needed tenure, which, even if I listened to all the middle class advice, put myself on an autonomic pharmaceutical regimen, would not have been guaranteed. The field was already becoming saturated, and the humanities is soft. Even a successful founding country import like Niall Ferguson buttressed himself as a historian by creating an interesting specialty as it relates to economic policy and development. I could have never hoped for that kind of intellectual magnetism, not easily afforded to women as it is.

But my intelligence still deserves better than this sterile, fatalistic paralysis, the regulatory paradigm designed deliberately not to allow me to keep my assets. I do not want to do my recertification, which will be scheduled soon, not making it easy on myself. I would have approximately six weeks to find persons unknown willing to help me pack, in exchange for what, a tutorial? Six weeks, a storage facility, deciding what to do with the feline children, what temporary shelter I could find, destroying my comfort to decouple myself from the burgeoning industry of plurality poverty in this country. The recession hit many people hard, maybe even those reading this, but my upward mobility ended because I did not have the emotional armor necessary for case management after my accumulation of inner city and suburban poverty progressed against my well being like brain plague and rabies. For such a large country to lose the dynamism of aspiration signals deeper structural flaws, and with my age, I have to trend my expectations downward, but even if Presby staff and PCA deescalate the institutional bias against me, on top of the overt discrimination and abuse, I simply cannot continue in this environment, with Jimmi Shrode's indignation a silent slap in the face with every encounter between us. I no longer know how active his near zombie partner is on Liberty's board of directors, but the two of them, as homosexual militants, like mafia bosses, have pull, and my level of critical dissent against the so called activists, it simply isn't tolerated. Aside from which, I simply cannot return to 714 Market Street. That my conflict with disability intake is so public is, of course, in the present tense, my responsibility, but when I was being humiliated by them, this was not due entirely to my breakdown. Linda put me through my paces with former colleagues, former suburban school mates and neighbors. It is very difficult to live with, and Riverside's tentacles are very much entwined with it. Henry Miller, so slowly digested, has been a bad influence, evidently, as if I could waltz, penniless, from predicament to predicament, without legs to stand on-- though there are sexual fetishes out there which could garner me traffic in the red light district. 

A Glimpse Through the Window

"You are not evil!"
--Erik von Schmetterling, six weeks ago when I told him I'd purchase his cigarette brand for the sake of old times...

I should be in bed, as my symptoms possibly invoke wariness, suppositions about typhoid fever; instead, I swallowed a small bowl of paneer, hoping to keep it in, and sent my latest sallow memoir of dead fat bipolar mother out dancing on the ether, a twirling plate on a stick, whoosh, off to a contest of a publication which never impressed me. When I reflect on Marcel, and assert that I am darker than you know, I am not merely hinting at my mafia in Hollywood bloodlust toward the Philadelphia activists of whom you are weary of reading any more about, I mean as well that I have secrets of the type that cost Henry Miller some blood and guts. I am not quite quite willing to be so embarrassed in a blogger account as Miller is in his writing, but as I physically weaken I risk greater severity of my triggers, and must head toward my mattress, nodding off, drinking Pepto; whether with this post lengthened later, or a new one to leap the frog, we will trot on hopefully not in so many hours between then and now. My hungriest wish, if not my greatest, is to get laid by a man like Jeremy Irons, just once, dosing myself with necessary pain killers. Why couldn't I have been more attractive, less plagued by mammary cysts?

It is Jeremy's appearance on Tavis Smiley that I want to enter into, but damn illness snuffed out the appreciation. One is drawn to the man's intelligence, not just the physique. At the moment I need to discover whether or not I can absorb nutrition.

I have bran in there, rumbling as I revise, so hoorah; lets elision back. To listen to Jeremy speak is to learn anew how status can command silence, but I heard a subtext within the promotional chatter for his latest appearance on screen, this review of which does not deter curiosity. I heard, juxtaposed against the grounding that Tavis seems to fluster in, a certain lack of sincerity. Not that Irons was lying. Perhaps at this stage of his life, maybe plagued by ennui, wondering if he should have done something else, been an entrepreneur; there was also the usual plaint of the famous about fame itself, though I think the disadvantaged would trade on this curse in an instant, and not simply on the merits of affluence. Status confers privilege, and an indirect if not actual power. All those with name recognition should be more mindful of this, even if they would like us to understand the flip side of the coin. I may never fully cement my reputation, for instance, but if I surprise myself and wind up in a dilemma similar to Rowling, notoriety would be the least of my worries, regardless of my audience.

Dead Ringers bowed me over with indelible impressions as a Reagan era hit, part of the reason I have remained fixated on Irons in his season, but only part. Now back to the conclusion of The Ring Cycle, after which, I shall swear off opera viewing on a flat screen for the rest of my life. The sensationalism on which the Met banks smells like twilight to me.