Violence in the Voice

"And you will never touch her again." the Rose Armiger of Henry James

I was going to back date this post into the archives, but decided to leave it its currency, as I am in the process of wiping myself off Twitter, both like, and unlike, James Woods. It was my one real time outlet to the world, now that I am in bondage, but I am sick of it, and unlike Laura Loomer, I am not going to let the company have that kind of power over me for uncouth knocks, though it was my only friend, not realizing that my correspondence was going to their law firm, as if I am in a position to bite. I'm not, and I am not even angry, merely finished. The only reason I deleted the hard tweet defending people like Ryan Fournier on Kamala Harris and the sexual insults against her was to delete the account. I then deactivated, but thought the better of my data. Parler is all that is left, and that, as Trumper Darkness to Light says, sucks, no hostility to the said Parler app developer intended. I can't really *talk* on Parler. Paul Joseph Watson and cronies aren't interested in deconstructive sagas of how I live worse than a dog in its own shit. They are deniers and info wars. I am not, just vitriolic at my worst and ugly and mean, trying to hang on, with occasional fine points. I don't get a hard on over Donald Trump, but when he bucks one in the net, good for him, and American liberalism otherwise is vomit. I have grown too ossified, and, simultaneously, not thickened enough. I knew the monitors would target me eventually, but didn't think it would convey my doom is foretold.
I had the strange inclination to start rewriting my faded novel idea that JJ Abrahams ran the long yard to innovate television with. I thought forcing myself into the flow, taking a retreat, would insulate me from my suicide planner playing deck. Telling you my quadriplegic neighbor Jay is dead certainly won't do that. He was a true C break quadriplegic, my age, younger by only weeks, and almost akin to my sister's husband, if memory is accurate-- that I cannot guarantee--, he went into construction at 19, fell off a roof, and like me, had enough, and smoked and drank himself to death. Since I now have no viewers, why not be as utterly frank and blunt and inconsolable as the case warrants. Instead of rewriting those chapters between a bell diving anguish, I nearly finished James The Other House, but not finished enough for the whole, and watched Garak stumble into the Dominion War. His incisive mendacity makes him one of my favorite Trek characters. If any stray reader wishes to tell me why I should continue dealing with feces riding into my vagina after I taught myself how to take care of it with all my power chairs low enough and built on the right slant, that is, until 17, go ahead, take a crack at it. Like Jay, I've fought all my life. Unlike Jay, I hate the niggers in their diffident service of my needs. I don't truly know what he thought. His airway constricted. He's dead.

Segnatto Esatto

Who are you and what makes you so important?-- Twitter user frog contessa, whom I answered tersely

I have to confess, despite the fact that social media is increasingly passe, even for me, the nativity of plebeians like the above contessa still has the capacity to throw one's ego off the mount. I am important simply because I tweet back to Speaker Ryan?
 

Three years ago, we began a great journey to set our nation on a better path. Now, my season of service is coming to a close. Tune in live soon for my Farewell Address as Speaker of the House: https://t.co/RrNzrxPmYU

— Paul Ryan (@SpeakerRyan) December 19, 2018

As a disabled, disenfranchised American, I am entitled to my ambivalent sympathies for the 54th Speaker of the House. He wasn't always mercilessly excoriated in the press by those of Canadian Jewish ancestry, like David Frum, but when the deputy prime minister of Italy ferrets out and follows your account, it is best to run your research fast and furiously and pay appropriate homage to the man in his native tongue. I knew Matteo was right wing, like Beppe, who isn't as right wing as English media would have the five star movement in the homeland appear, but when it comes to the political power Salvini holds, the spastic dowager dropped the ball, and aspirates:

 

"Se uccide i cristiani è nostro fratello". Queste le parole di odio del 20enne somalo arrestato per terrorismo internazionale. E voleva mettere "bombe in tutte le Chiese d'Italia". GALERA ed ESPULSIONE, via dal nostro Paese questa gente. VIA! https://t.co/8hCp35z8WV

— Matteo Salvini (@matteosalvinimi) December 18, 2018

Augh!!!!!!!!!!!!!! A stiletto through the heart! 

Matteo, questa donna rotta vuole morire e baciare i ciottoli a Roma per favore! I cannot very well excoriate the man for follow and drop behavior which I'd otherwise normally deplore. When I calm down and renew my grammar studies with vigor I will *speak* to him, but yes, the Deputy Prime Minister of my homeland, the blood of Roma in my veins, followed me, for three days! Who isn't the Empress of Italy under these transcendent hues of a cathedral's stained glass?

A Moabite in Judah

"I think it started when Burr shot Hamilton."-- Dr. Randy Barnett, Georgetown University

What I wanted to discuss Tuesday morning, with a certain degree of blandness in my demise, is the destruction of Paul Ryan's legacy. Jack Posobiec, local Trumpian jackass whom I followed briefly to see what formula he was using that I wasn't, in order to support himself, blockhead who treats his followers like eighth grade civic students, collapsing the lack of virtual dimension on social media with the invocation to raise your hand (and where, Jack, are people supposed to raise their hands in the automated continuity of cloud computing based storage?) Damn stupid fuck, Posobiec. I attend three universities and get out-shined by a Protean buzz head like this fellow, who observed earlier in the week, "Ryan has been in the legislature 20 years, can you name his accomplishments?" That was a stinging rebuke to a tax reformist, and I think, not entirely fair, not even by the standards of Chait's summary for Intelligencer. When I was still on Niume's failed public blogging platform, I too jumped on the bandwagon, badly wanting the ACA repealed. It has made my access to reasonable standard of care that much more difficult, and this was the one thing I had hoped the GOP could achieve. While it's trues that Trump was light on policy details, Ryan was an experienced legislature who committed a stunning ideological failure. This diminished his prominence, and that was the end of that. But instead, let's switch gears
to Twitter's detractors, once again delivered by Dr. Barnett and his delightfully cribbed humor. I happen to enjoy the way Barnett delivers his bon mots thank you, and he was kind enough to tweet beck to me about the demise of the filibuster, which I believe is an overlooked issue in contemporary legislative battles. I happen to agree with Reynolds, particularly in light of the fact that I mistook Sergio Siano for a Korean lesbian and got into a brawl with a British faggot named Farlene, or some such spelling, and half the international disabled community. I am laughing to the point of burning tears in my eyes. 
My Samsung Galaxy is larger than my old Apple, but if I do not open the actual thumbnail pictures of account holders, I cannot see them all that clearly in miniature. I knew the retweet came from a follower in Singapore, and leapt to the wrong conclusions. On my computer screen, Sergio is clearly a male who didn't want to be embroiled in a date rape. However, if you examine his thread, he claims he was accused of being gay, does gay things, and isn't homophobic. He insists on it more than once. While the old fashioned term "gay panic" actually points to the possibility of a psychotic break, people need to cease and desist on the issue of homoerotic fear. It is perfectly natural to be afraid of letting go of that kind of inhibition. I told Sergio, as I have written here, that I was molested by an insatiable black woman from the inner city. It was one of the most difficult episodes in my life, and this is why gays and lesbians get killed. I comprehend violent reactions against such prevaricating tactics of exploitation. Gender fluidity is going to take us quite some time to process, to hit on equitable solutions for all, including insecure heterosexuals. Speaking of which, I have not read Douthat's wasp piece yet, but he is defending caste poise, dispensed to the masses. Why was Ruth, as King David's great-grandmother, so important within the Torah? Think about it for a while. There are a number of lessons in Semitic apocrypha. 

Mayday

It's four o'clock in the morning, damn it.-- Bernie Taupin

I have a post in draft I wish to finish about Leonard Cohen's signature lyric, but I am juggling so many issues, along with events tied to them, that I merely stopped by to make a pout, wishing my twitter accounts could ideally stay stable more than a week, with yet another block for reasons unknown. The fact that I drive a very hard bargain, not all the time, but when I do, doesn't mean I am always right to do so, but it also doesn't mean I can change my spots simply because I've never been happy before and now I am happy because someone I desire desires me. I never had that people, odd as it may seem, and as I reiterate constantly, I'm near the end of my life and would say I don't appreciate divine humor on that score-- I know too, that being wanted doesn't change I have a lot of shit thrown at me and a lot of shit to repair, which doesn't make sense if read literally. My fiances are now even more strained, and after Monday, the seventh, I have to rebuild a resume, make a do or die effort to unlock crucial Office 7 files into my Word upgrade, and get back to work, however clumsy my pitching may be. I do not have a relationship with my mother's brother, my godfather, but he rushed my new power chair, and maybe extended me some further small wedge of freedom. We can never quite discount personal connections, or loyalties which we value, but scouts honor I'll get the fuck off my non- existent but anticipated resumption of my sex life, sucking all the oxygen out of my discipline and energy. Bad girl, and it's nearly three am.

Follow The Zig

What elevates The Singing Detective is the way in which these threads gradually intersect: individuals from Marlow's childhood memories appear in his pulp detective fantasy; characters from the detective fantasy emerge in the 'real' hospital ward.-- John Cook

Without being able to fathom how digitizing a video feed works, I realize shooting video through a cell phone is incredibly easy, so just as ATT's proprietary secrets from the eighties spawned the troubled tech giants we have today, once the Defense Department relinquished Internet technology for civilian use, images vanished from three dimensional space, even vanishing on the two dimensional surfaces on which they were printed, though I imagine digital films can be converted to celluloid reels suitable to run on older projection technology, and I may look into it for a future feature, because the fact that things have gotten too easy may be contributing to the violence inflicting itself on the collective crowd. YouTube and other systems like it offer the lowliest voices a place at the table. By the same token, we are all lost in the sheer volume. During the #deleteFacebook trend, I responded to a nice twitter user by tweeting the now 18 accounts linked to my FB stream do not read my posts tagged to a specific relative. I take it in good humor, but lone wolves seem to increasingly find it desirable to take it out in ways that have never been done before. However we classify it, the end result is the same, with varying ripple effects. Sandy Hook shook me terribly, but it wasn't Columbine. Orlando left me ambivalent, and had me reported to the authorities in a ridiculous case of grandstanding that unraveled into the physical anguish I currently endure daily. Paddock's goldfish bowl tactics sickened me, and with the Florida high school shooter, I rather gave the viewers who find their way here the finger-- granted this was a dubious rhetorical strategism, but going postal in the corporate headquarters of a video uploading service  constantly at war with itself over what is and isn't accessible seems a quintessentially American act, whether over a rationalization particular to the aggrieved, or a domestic violence end game, as authorities now speculate that it was.

If you are on the left, and want to rewrite the Second Amendment, then you wind up with innocent citizens like Andrew Finch being killed by military police, or, even in my case, if you want Google's Alphabet services to suspend this account because layers of injustice fuel an impotent anger, would I be determined enough to teach myself code and defend a domain like a hacker? Is it worth it because I allow myself to engage in shock jock syndrome? Do I deserve to be tortured with the best of intentions in a state run nursing home because my definitions are so bold, so formerly defiant? If I published franchised pamphlets instead of posts in the immediate aftermath, would that be different, or just another variation of Richard Spencer's fraudulent mystique, the "crazy racist" in the Daily Beast catalog? He can engage social media civilly when he wishes, but twitter's de-verification of his account illustrates the symptomatic stomach virus of liberalism. Verification is merely supposed to indicate to the follower that personality x is personality x. It isn't going to change Richard's thought crimes gymnastics. He doesn't impress me, but neither does Twitter's sanction. Either ban the man or let him retain the cult following. I can do a scatological and daring musical from a hospital bed gasping for breath on incidental orgasms too, shedding snake skins. That is what we're processing in the not but almost post-conglomerate Facebook era. My public television affiliate took its dose of mock courage to air Dennis Potter's daring foray into how creative non-linear thinkers process coping mechanisms. The regional backlash was so fierce that WHYY never aired a seminal work of such melodramatic English playfulness again, in a decade where both Potter and the dowager were relevant concerns.

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.

Congenital Kiss and Tell

On January 31^st, Vincent D’Onofrio expressed consternation for the loss of some followers due to voicing his political beliefs, and with a slight hedge, I offered a mitigating consolation without mocking him, but admit I’m a bit taken aback by how soft he seems to be outside of the studio’s insulation, and perhaps I shouldn’t be, since he is a regional performer with crossover national appeal. Woods is a little larger, but one thing the two actors share is a sense of the personable on social media not so readily apparent with others, and since fame interests me as a contextual problem, with questions about whether Twitter collapses recognition, engenders it with sometimes detrimental spontaneity, or not, with Ebert’s dictum that “[Celebrities are] just people,” coming into play, getting used to the pain of this hard vinyl seat, the physical pain and despondency in tandem. Mike the prick wants 400 dollars to convert what I’m sitting on to a base with a cushion, and if I was desperate for a usable chair in the fall, I’m not only now desperate to rid myself of torture, but the spool unwinding in my interior doesn’t know how much longer I can stand it. The man at the helm of Mr. Wheelchair has lied to me fifteen ways to Sunday. He had another chair for me. Now he doesn’t. He was coming in November to rectify the problem, then it was December. Then January. Each time he was a no show. Neither of us trusts each other. A little of that fame utilized to raise conscious awareness might be useful at present, as I’d rather not take the time and energy to consult a lawyer about this, and Medicare is its own sweet draconian process.

Today I lost a truck load of followers becuz of my views on where our nation is at right now. My liberal snowflake views,my bleeding heart views,my freedom2call out false info when I c it&my call4equlity.I have2say though it did put a smile on my face. #NoFearNoGreedNoEnvy

— Vincent D'Onofrio (@vincentdonofrio) January 30, 2018

D’Onofrio’s public worry about his drop illustrates that everyone can be affected by “the numbers game,” of automated models, unless consumed by distress which reduces its concern: Much to my astonishment, Karina refused to break off our relationship founded by Craigslist. She returned to Philadelphia for personal reasons I will not dangle before you with callous indifference, ignored my indignation, and crashed in upon me with her heart of gold hugs, however suspect its reliability, so I relented and we’ve made up, just after Amazon’s own streamlining suggested I might be interested in Breathe, an Indian series with more than one or two parallels between hero cop with his emotional wounds and his antagonist. Madhavan is interesting as Danny, a soccer coach whose son is afflicted with cystic fibrosis, due to more than his unipolar descent into psychopathy. Due to the fact that this is Bollywood rather than its American cousin, the series whets my aesthetic curiosity, but this said, I am not convinced this is how killers are made or pursued in Indian society, but why Danny descends into hell, why he destroys his own social decency, you’re looking at it right here people. I could be wrong, but Breathe seems to have its own melodramatic subversion, damned if I don’t find it funny, even if the logic of his multiple efforts for one fresh donor after the other  is unclear. 

Twitter Fell On The Floor

I can't laugh, and I can't sing-- at least one thing the mercurial faggot got right.

Actually, the non-paying think tank provided me with a green light to go ahead, and this is where you start to swivel the joystick in a blind panic: National security is not my field of expertise, and there are more than a few thousand bloggers who dissect Washington daily, who have far greater ease of access to deputy directors and the plethora of advisors who've circulated in and out of the West Wing over the last twenty years. Now I have to track a couple and compel them to talk to me. Only I have no idea how to pose my questions with a straight face, but this is what I wanted, despite my imminent lodging crisis, so you may feel free to see me screaming in a Six Feet Under sketch, while I curse Twitter's staff profusely for recycling the has been relevance of Barry Manilow's sexual identity, because Manilow was the virtual definition of a  fop long before gay marriage became a rallying cry for their side. He is the king of Dork, and now, I can't get his duck paddling vocals out of my head. Yes, I had an album. My parents no doubt preferred this variation of gruel flung from a spoon to stick to the wall, as opposed to Peter Townsend's seductive and daring artistry, but why I had the album, why I sat reading postcards for the Manilow fan club on the school bus, this is anyone's guess.

Calm down. If I marshaled my forces to get a query past the gate, then I can marshal an article on a policy hypothetical and its repercussions. I do not have to re-litigate an entire series of events which have already been reported ad nauseam. I am a real journalist. Was, not a pretense of a recording artist whose fifteen minutes of fame barely merits disturbing the grave of Andy Warhol, tragic pop culture guru, dispensed dung beetle refuse. In many ways, my willingness to breach decorum, in a montage of biting disillusionment, is too toxic for social media, and too nasty for Niume, with its few lions and flocks, yet the sheep keep coming. A follow, a subscription, these are effortless. Human intervention, well, that is another matter, with sometimes detrimental results. The question becomes, if my disdain is so all pervasive, the love for the scold itself, that too, lends itself to the strident mockery embedded in the blank verse of Moliere. But if Jack thinks he is going to save his company with marshmallow whip, perhaps United Airlines can have him appointed as Viceroy to Saint-Helena, as this is one quad who wouldn't mind seeing Silicon Valley in a game of Castaway. Google finds me dangerous. Various web communities followed suit, but no one has lifted a bloody finger to help me against my disadvantage and nearly intolerable circumstance. Remember, I live with activists who were under investigation, whose institutional solidarity humiliated me. I should not have to be reminded of this on a daily basis, in a senior living facility which finally acknowledged what I've condemned for years. The disabled can no longer live in section 202 housing, unless they meet the age requirement. The American welfare state is going to implode and destroy itself sooner rather than later.

Resurrection's Security Detail

"Kate Simon reveals the special charms of the Umbrian hill towns, the enchantments of the Etruscan tomb paintings." Jacket blurb, The Places In Between

The injury which Ken Wahl sustained on the set of Wiseguy during the Tucci Pizzolo segment was mere happenstance, luck of the draw, much as his neck injury was bipedal carelessness, something which fame may aggrandize, and yet, if Umberto Eco wrote a pendulous attack on hermeneutics with his convoluted novel  Foucault's Pendulum (read more than twice), it is not so easy for humans to dismiss pattern recognition. We're configured for it, and the familiar things of more vigorous adulthood are sometimes recognized with shock, recollected schematics much easier to grasp in scope: As an actor, Ken Wahl wore his emotions and his retro-eighties shag doo hairstyle on his sleeve, for me, back then, just more disco culture transplanted onto an organized crime drama which was already part of a bygone era, an era which Mario Puzo captured and magnified for studio players to glorify. Michael Corleone's power, in other words, went the way of the Kennedy brothers as martyrs. We either bury the JFK, RFK assassinations, and move on, knowing the Warren Commission never answered the public unease, or drive ourselves crazy.
Cannell's show was window dressing the moral ambiguities of the 20th century coning to a close, which Kevin Spacey capitalized on to become one of the greatest actors of his time, great acting for which we nearly lack a syntax. Where Wahl is an open book, easily read, even if personally unknown, Spacey is a manipulative master of a humane but ruthless center, even in lesser films, he has the uncanny ability to keep his audience suspended on the wire, until delivery of the dénouement where he triumphs, whether or not Wahl's face was in the mix. Enter contemporary surrealism of 2016, since we're all on twitter with its massive micro data aggregation. I'm there, Wahl's there, and my cancerous aunt, the few thousand like her who find social media alienating aren't, but they, with the dowager and Ken Wahl only two decades behind them, are dying, in their last years, tick tock. A disabled woman makes an attempt to be heartfelt in her usual birdshot method, to a heartthrob of yesteryear who inadvertently took the punishments to his physique that his character sustained for dramatic continuance, followed him and retweeted his adoptive cause and he returned the favor, and to discover that at 2am, just transferring, sent a shot of adrenaline right through her heart, as if she could roll straight back to her hormone raging thirties.
I felt vulnerable, and emailed my sister like a squealing teen, as if tomorrow my knight will finally appear to ride me out of this corrupt African majority city because an actor was conciliatory, if cautiously so, as I also wasn't raunchy in my outreach, also careful, because his past brought me back to a collegiate womanhood before the worst wounds became an inhumane pin cushion, because he made me feel like an Italian American who would have her man, as was once hoped, instead of portents in busted legs getting injured by cameramen, signifying lack of heed for omens, for civilization under strain, the weight of lethargy a valve into which old age invariably gets bottled. I am not conciliatory. I did not vote for Trump because I think conservatives will give me vindication before I buckle under my own weight. I'm not one of the mogul's supporters. I simply understand his insensitivity, and since I wanted to make a choice, afraid of dying, I picked the lack of empathy I myself have learned and roared and got reported for numerous times already, knowing the Clinton mendacity would be worse than a dickhead from New York. As the national voice of Jewish motherhood, Marcus is already in histrionics, but fair is fair.  My notes, too, however, are ossifying on a familiar scale, because all I have are the search for signs, the hope for magical evasions of burgeoning helplessness. You might ask what's wrong that a fleeting connection made me feel flush? Nothing, but it is the vain strength of days bygone, since every defecation, every move I make, is a balance on a tightrope whose safety net is effervescent.

Genocide in a Cheshire Cat

Maybe I'd be lucky and not die at all. Maybe I'd be a cripple all my life ...  maybe I'd be paralyzed and have to sit in a wheelchair. The Tropic of Cancer, almost in the middle

Like I need another of these. 

In the secret space of my callous self, I had always wanted to be free of pet rearing so I could give my notice and die a hard tragic death on the asphalt, and now I'm nearly there, but for kimmy, whom I'm giving a hard time, because my guilt has the corrosive power of destruction. I have a soft spot for all cats, but I loved my boys, and could not give any of them a good death, though Oliver got the best, and I had time to grieve with him. Educated liberals, when not taking human pet attachments seriously, lampoon them, and I fully comprehend the impetus, yet realize, as most feline lovers do, conspiratorially, that cats are superior to humans, and I miss my boys, putting all my energies into a fantasy which is cerebral, almost finished, and has me torn. Upload it to Amazon as a single, or not? I have not made up my mind, envious of Henning Mankell's ability to put his balls on a string. There are female authors who can do the same, but not like men.

Talisman is almost 20 years old, and Manning isn't afraid to kick himself in the ass, have a little fun, and have a relevant message about how our lack of ethics ripples outward; he makes it look easy, within a relatively simple meta-fictional framework, and it isn't. I blocked this shit without a word, increasingly disaffected.

Travanti Hemlock at the root

"It is therefore no surprise to find that anti-homosexual repression is itself an indirect manifestation--" Homosexual Desire, page 55

I probably take the national prize for online inappropriate behavior, and one year went *off* in email with a sort of loose jointed Briton about trauma conversion. Total stranger, and I'm emailing him about a rather intimate issue of masochism, probably fresh in the aftermath in my tug of war with my former supervisor-mentor, but some years before the half-breed from the inner city violated my personal sanctity, upon which I discovered I couldn't be masochist enough, and fought, but to be entirely honest, there is a part of my psyche, after years of learned devaluation, that could have let this absolutely repugnant female have her way, and destroyed myself in the process, but in coming to terms with it, I'm now beginning to put it away, to stop twisting my head, and the next African American who tries a "Miss Eddy* maneuver isn't going to enjoy the consequences.

Leaving Travanti frozen in the eighties of his prime to be able to watch a relatively contemporary work like C.O.G. bite on the ass from a distance takes courage, in more ways than one: Bochco fed us Frank Furillo as a nearly messianic figure, and this is a grave sin, a set of expectations offered by a fictional character against which we judge the men we think we want, the ones who reject us next to the gluttons we reject. Travanti and Bosson really were sanitized versions of my mother and father. It hurts, surprisingly, and leaves us with residues of what we have to offer, which we do, in reserves, until dementia or what will kill us takes over.

Be prepared for post-menopausal pain. It is something a woman over 50 needs to discuss with potential new boyfriends. I was just getting the hang of sex after my fling with Pat, my ludicrous fling which still has an undercurrent of dread, in my thirties, and then the ball stopped, and if I get into Frank (the ex) and sex I may end up asking a hunter to go retrieve that rifle with scope, but it can never now be the same, an expression of a bond of appreciation, had it been if I had been more resourceful in resilient middle years.

Why did I bother to chastise CrimeMonitor? Because I am a victim, two, three, four times over, and when the account holder actually bothered to pay attention, his subsequent click of "unfollow" was the behavior of a mongrel, another arm chair cosmetic. I at least make an effort to think about what accounts have to offer. He, or she, has earned my contempt.

Fuminori Nakamura and the vigor of Asian noir

"I tried to remember when I first realized that I was virtually ambidextrous," -- The Thief

When Ali Spagnola started to follow my twitter account, I embedded a certain degree of astonishment in Guardian. Before that, I telephoned the cancerous Italian aunt, and said "Marie, I have a huge pop star following me on twitter and she doesn't need me in the slightest." I also cannot explain twitter to cancerous aunt, but then I said "Oh, wait!" and figured out a little puzzle. A woman known to Ali wrote a post of the sort many suburbanites relate to, and I made a comment to the effect that disabled individuals still, by and large, view this world through glass houses, mildly petulant. Is it a contradictory following?

Ali has that heart-shaped svelte energy. My body, no matter what I do, even starving on pride, is indolent. I am small enough in stature to weigh her size, at 5 ft 2 in, but obesity trends in my family, and I'm probably 240, or hovering there, as I've not been eating much. I'm also 20+ her senior. But, I used to drink, wanted to fuck every beatnik of a certain type in sight, and had I not ended up so victimized? The possibilities of ambidextrous exuberance were there. 

In all honesty, I haven't had the time to know what Ali's musical recognition offers me. I know what my rewards are from a few, select followers, but I am the old lady defeated by a majority nigger city (and yes, this morning I've posted it) and I'm dog paddling, my breathing tube breaking the surface, sinking back, and inexplicably emerging once more. Amazed, wondering where this strength, even with the dry skin, post-menopausal vagina. I am Nakamura's addict pickpocket lover held in abeyance only because I'm designated as a special class, with dubious federal protections, but let me make a comparison.

Patrick Stewart wouldn't respond to me as a person for whatever tea is left in Tianjin, because I flout decency and good manners, but, if he did, I'd have a reaction; perhaps log off, cry for a week, delete this account for shame, for failure, but not with Ali Spagnola. Her outreach took me back, yes, and the feisty artist she undoubtedly is has earned my gratitude, but she might as well be a stepdaughter I'm mentoring, and this is basically ditto for most of my verified users. You're blank slates, with the exception of those who I came to first.

Ignorance precludes intimidation. As for endorsements, Fuminori Nakamura is the greatest Asian noir author to walk on Japanese soil. A developmentally damaged mind would need to live very long to equal a novel of the underside with such skill as he exhibits. He got me through an extremely difficult week.  

Cecil, Walter Palmer, and outrage

Liberals may think that a good deal of my anger comes from disillusionment more than the erosion of progressive sentiment, and on the apex predatory scale, that may not be entirely relevant. The private racism I've been privy to in my family used to trouble me, and no, I will not embarrass them, said relatives, with a who's who said what.

I'll vilify myself instead: My father wasn't a monster when his adolescent daughter had the black boyfriend temptation going. I now see African American soft socialism the way my Catholic family does, and bitterly regret what they were trying to tell me when I had leftist religion, because I see what being broken on the progressive spikes jutting out of Philadelphia like Nazi defenses on the beaches of Normandy does to the disadvantaged.

There. You're smart fanatic is condemned-- however, Walter Palmer will face criminal persecution if I have anything to say about it, and with crowd funding sources, I should not marginalize this power. I've conveyed there will be no more killing of apex felines. I meant it, and on this issue I side with the protesters. It is true Cecil was 13 and had to die sometime, but we are now responsible for these pet children. And I will not have it. I will not.

This man will surrender his hunting license and make restitution to the citizens of Zimbabwe. I'm going to see to that. Cecil was our child, and this shall not happen again on my watch. Dr. Palmer tortured an alpha male in a dirty and underhanded way, and I'm not letting this go. This man's recreational hunts are finished. Period. End of story.

On an editorial note, Google has been moving my twitter email in spam. Didn't realize it. I now comprehend loglines! Some of you are thus forgiven. Ominous smile.

That it is biodegradable is no panecea

I slid off my bathing chair because I did not commit to my lateral pull on the way back to my poor old P200, which is more my husband than my limited number of unhappy suitors. I hate my ex; the normal type of hate that makes divorce a pathology industry, but I do not hate him with the manic rage bestowed on my former supervisor, sliding off the damn chair but not really sustaining any injury. The EMS team made me more uncomfortable dragging me out to the stretcher whereupon I declined a ride to hospital, not that I wasn't tempted, but changed my mind. How much longer will I be posting? I do not know. I wrote "I have nothing left," many months ago, and that stands as the outcry it pretty much entails, not that EMS isn't used to encounters with fecal matter, but from now on, when I am taunt, I'll just have to wash via the mop bucket, and this evening, pop the Aleve.

Before you shake your heads at the degree of embattlement I am sustaining, I was on attendant care, from 1997 to 2006, and have too many fiascoes, one after the next. I can no longer afford to purchase assistance, and perhaps my poppa was right, and we're better off aborted. I can not end my life being attended to by people who cannot handle the burden it entails. I won't. I've lived what you do not see when you put people away, and it is in part, analogous to genocide, in a concession to Cassie James.

Why did Oz add me to their lists? twitter is cataloging itself? Would any of you be willing to pay me volunteer visits on rotation? Ha. 

Stifle of Schuykill Air

I myself have nothing to add to the death meme other than a lust for wanton destruction, which corporate bodies wouldn't let me get away with, even if I could circumvent my shrinking flesh, leaving the window open all day, preferring the hard March air to the radiator while I bury myself every five minutes, but know I cannot go on with my landlord much longer, despite my asset spend down and my helplessness, despite everything I know about homelessness, and menacingly ill wheelchair users who appear on the curbs of Market or Chestnut Streets and vanish. Save for my erudition, I am one of them now, consumed by this country's mercilessness for strays. I'm finished, and yet Nathan Gibbs, nice enough looking fellow, was kind enough to let me join his journo team, and I begin to have a glimmer of understanding about Ev Williams model for Medium. Medium is Space, and within Space, there are Publications which are an interlocked multi-verse. I like the concept better than much of the material, but now, how to I earn some money?

We'll see. I have to laugh at twitter, how my followers ratchet up one minute and then nose dive, my airing out of so many demons, intensity, this bothers the shallow pastry mindset, does it, or is it lack of interest? I really can't keep up, but if I have a few constant regulars, I know I need to keep searching and dialing the phone, but I will need a place to roll into by June. I can't last here another year. I can give you some general parameters: I want nothing to do with California, and NYC is Philly, simply worse. I am attracted to New England, Texas, Oregon, Seattle, maybe South or North Carolina near my brother, despite the fact he finds me too hot to handle; he is still my kid brother, and I remain fond of him, caught as he is between Stephanie, myself, and sister animosity. I am going back on Craigslist in short order to appeal for room mates for a broken spaz in her early fifties. Perhaps I'll meet an addict in a halfway house, fall in love, wait for that short window to open when I remember I still believe intercourse has possibilities. I cannot clench with my legs. That was always a tactical issue. Perhaps a bottle of Aleve would assist. I fight not to take too many.

The Guise of Moliere's Couplet

"Leave me I say; take yourself out of sight."-- Alceste

I simply don't like people all that much, especially not in innocuous aggregates of pithy pleasantries and photographs, and social media makes my distaste more pronounced, with exceptions. Mike Levy invited me to BeaconReader's Writersblock with nothing to gain, so he has my allegiance; and I would not mind helping Tony Stiles become a powerful libertarian, being his aging operative and staying out of the limelight, but platforms like twitter and Linked-In? Mindless sentimentality.

I don't need it.

Disaffection

"thank you for following me" a direct message 

Mr. Harris may have forgotten that he was following a nasty a bituminous troll, because he sent yours truly a direct message which asserted that he'd "return the favor," when I decided to let his feed on my stream, an indicator that he may have ignored my links. My synaptic connections aren't what they used to be either; I too struggle with fine print, but I try to visit my twitter page and trim the branches.

I may stop linking my DIA posts so often, however, if the moral majority is going to pressure Blogger to silence me. Where that pressure came from might be nice to know, but I am not going to let it stop me, not that I can fight Google, I know that. This software belongs to the company, and the First Amendment applies to the public square-- but Blogger succeeded in making me angrier, inadvertently, perhaps.

I am, on occasion, chastised by the establishment for lack of relevance, which annoys the holy shit out of me when it comes to social media. I wanted to talk about texts, on Linked In, with those who taught them, but down came the muzzle, "lack of relevance," without me breathing a word about my personal situation. I could not fight back, Linked In couldn't tell me anything, and yet I had to be mortified.

This isn't virtual stigma following real life prejudice? We do not have to thank followers in thousands of automated emails. Think about it. I'll leave my account. I like Medium, and think it's better for us than thousands of writer authors tweeting what we won't read. I like BeaconReader too, and for that I need twitter. 

I'm mean, hurtful, and occasionally vile, but I am also challenging and divergent, and you really need to stop and think about the price people like me are asked to pay. I am in exactly the same room I was when I was punted off Poets & Writers. How many of those authors have moved on, been able to change? I am in exactly the same studio where Linda squealed to me like a pig about her orgasms, and she may have left the disability center, but I am sure the bitch has her mortgage paid off. I know she, and Josie Byzek, whom I've also offered choice words, have online access. Jimmi Shrode, who is afraid of me, may too. Jimmi is afraid of me, instinctively, and he should be, but he can walk, and has what he wants, at least until Erik dies. I'm alone; I'm in pain, and I live in an environment I never wanted to be, and all you fine players can't handle it.

Overly Involved

I am just an aging disabled woman on her way out, but what I do differently than the angry trolls on New Mobility chat boards, which New Mobility may have ceased to maintain, given Facebook's monopoly, is that I sublimate it into a justified critique of progressive overreach, while the left shifts uncomfortably with the implications, like the cremation of the Russian traitor in the new fast paced Allegiance on CBS. Very few people can handle that degree of ruthlessness. My medical model life has been an incremental equivalency of that ruthlessness, just as the ISIS burning death of a member of the Jordanian air force moves beyond the nature of any argument. The pedestrian nicety holds that Muslims don't kill other Muslims. Zarqawi's legacy closed the door on that polite fiction, but by the same token, graphic excess is not a triumph in fear.

Joshua was initially responsive toward my appreciation of Chaim Potok, and there it ended, and I just blocked a young woman named Natalia Lomala without knowing anything except that she doesn't tweet. Why should I care if my non-compliance is on the verge of more ruthless control? I'm on the verge of being finished, evacuating myself. I'll be placed somewhere, and social media won't do a damn thing for me.

Perhaps it isn't dying, yet. A simple bronchial flare which has subsided, but when did I ever have a moment of fulfillment outside of case management processes? During my inept sexual congress with Scott Bryan, recovering coke addict? My slightly less inept fling with Pat Dillon, the Irish version of my father, over-dramatizing my emotional vulnerability during our break-up? I drove out in a rain storm to a food vendor, crying. My sister screamed at me that he was married, what did I expect? And I forget what Edith, the assistant manager on Presby's typical minority promotional track, did at the time to console me. I was only a resident for three years, and rolled to the office to be consoled, Debra Horne not yet on tap as the bully matron.

"But you're a quadriplegic, what do you want?"

Too poor even for the salve a clean slate might offer, this is all I long for, the last desire, scarcity of resource will dictate how terrible this will be for me.

Optimistic Warps

"I trained to be an English professor, and now I'm a sociopath," a spastic dowager line that made a black bible thumper, one whom spastic doesn't want to reengage, laugh.

I am not a real journalist, (though it can reasonably be argued I am in expert in disability journalism) just declining in recidivist fashion to 11th grade journalism studies to try to earn a little from my content, and 3000 USD is too diminutive, but it may surprise you to learn I disagree with Robert G. Kaiser about the outcome of the cratering legacy media. His essay is excellent; his essay is heart-breaking, and I wept over the last printed edition of The Bulletin, which employed mio padre-- and after the Philadelphia Inquirer's fiascoes, the Bulletin's exit was dignified. Kaiser's piece received 4 votes on Beacon Reader Writersblock, and 4 is something of a consensus in that quixotic community, but we need to remember that mass literacy is still a novelty in the annuals of human history. Had I been born in 1863 I doubt I would have been taught to read, let alone transform into a bitterly overeducated sewer rat-- but I think human thirst for news will survive the death of physical newspaper circulation and the diminished power of broadcast, even if most astute players see the beginning of a self-fulfilling human apocalypse just ahead of the curve. Technology seems to increment its own collapse, but the human animal invariably adapts, freedom and authority in continual tension. Facebook models, for instance. Everyone tells me to open an FB account and I won't do it, despite my small, sometimes incendiary, mostly incendiary, foot print on twitter-- but I do not test the limits of a twitter ban because I do not argue with individual account holders, at least I believe this is why my twitter account isn't flagged-- and secondly, I don't care about tweets and don't see them as valid news content-- though we all use them as such-- I take it or leave it, in other words, though my platform would suffer from a suspension or departure-- but I do not trust Mark Zuckerberg. I do not like his biographical footprint, and only barely understand the usefulness of Google Plus--harboring most of my family which is why I don't post my Blogger urls there, and Linked In makes me feel paranoid-- but this will also evolve, and change, and people like Mike Levy are conduits to new traditions via which the public will stay informed.

Hopelessness

"I didn't even know you existed."-- Alain Delon

Hmm. I am not an old woman in a South Korean village being cajoled to eat yogurt by a teacher turned produce distributor. I am not a Mali soldier with a boom box in a sandstone hut. I am an American disabled woman who has been destroyed by public housing because I thought "running away" when I was 22 would resolve feelings of abandonment and rejection by men on whom I had no claim. The despondency of the Korean grandmothers doesn't make me count my blessings, and in fact I fired Karina again because I was wrong. Seeking out a somewhat vacant white girl to do the chores of countless CNA's before her only leaves me uncertain how much of my personal correspondence she threw away.

I am not hip, not funny, riled up a few people through my affinity with a berserk Navy Seal's emotional pain, walked that back with my disapproval for his killing of his boss'es daughter--genuine at that as it was a bad insurrectional strategy--dead broke and dead alive--and social media on occasion lands me itinerant wanderers. How nice. I threatened my father about leaving Riverside Presbyterian or else, poor eighty year old papa with his dying wife, but leaving Presbyterian Homes or else is a kind of futile gesture, won't change anything, and but for its size, this studio is not much different from my apartment at Dixon Hall where Jerry bravely sauntered in from time to time, his physique at forty nine engraved on my asinine fucking brain.

Compliance? Oh yes. One day I will no longer be able to transfer. It will be an inevitable defeat after a life long struggle to be redeemed in an incisive imitation of what I thought was his analytical penetration. My mother and sister both, in their way, ask me why I can't just live my life. What that was. Counseling the disabled and the mentally ill and finding case management a sterile grievance, always waiting for Prince Charming in this contorted pear body, one that wound up with a Hispanic buffoon who elicits pity from all. If I'm as conservative as I claim, I should just give up and go back where my father put me, where all the abuse started, in a home. Nine years old, tears running down my face, listening to WMGK magic music. They went off air when I was in the inner city proper. I protested, stupidly. Easy listening abounds on FM. Karina must be upset, as it is well after midnight. She pinged. I give her credit, struggling with her disgust. She needed my money, but I cannot go on with this woman. 

It is a matter of common sense to me which doesn't seem to apply to the ambulatory: Not to make assumptions about what may or may not be discarded; what may or may not be relocated. My fan letters, Michael's references, these things mattered to me, but it isn't that Karina might have thrown them away without thinking. Everyone treats me this way, in my desire and necessity to keep a paper trail.