Wireless in a Snow Shower

I'd heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
Well, it goes like this
The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah--Pentonix

I suppose, presuming I have regular viewers, like the dwindling audience for daytime soaps, that you would rebut me by pointing out that a minority paraprofessional from the hood cares for my welfare should make me feel guilty, as my conscience doesn’t give a flying fig, not that I do not think said paraprofessional isn’t a nice guy, of course he is. I simulate the ingrained Italian generosity learned from my family on my childhood knee, and he contributes in return, in this charming interstice of the village of the damned, but it is an act I am within relative parameters, able to keep up behind my otherwise world-weary sinuses. Earlier last week, in grieving for his previous patient, he gripped my right thigh, covered by solid gray sheeting, to emphasize the man’s edema, and I felt sexually aroused. That happens, as old as Lady Chatterly’s Lover, the nurse sexualizing the regressive grooming of the crippled husband (when I read Lawrence I resist the vulnerability his cadence demands, not my favorite canonical author) and as recent as the marginal industry effort, me before you, a genuine triumph in cripland film I should feel obligated to view for this account. Perhaps I’ll invite Dr. Dorwart to write a guest review instead, to rest these world weary Italian eyes: I am not going to fuck the nigger five years my junior. It was the mere incidental grip on my thigh. We’re supposed to go to Dunkin Donuts this morning to update the OS for my forlorn second generation Apple 5s, pondering my reluctance to allow ATT to turn off my plug in, adding the expense of a new phone, but if I cannot trust the hotspot to ping?

Victoria Wharton is actually causing me more grief than the kind-hearted African I callously denigrate, but this is as much padre’s fault as my own. He sent her to me. Without Facebook I would not have suspected her mental instability, and was reluctant to reconnect her to daddy, but did so she would stop texting me. My sister informed me Sunday evening that Victoria is a threat to my father’s welfare (drug swiping, etc) and the dowager’s lioness roared. I let the woman have it and threatened her with arrest, due to slipping on my own gullibility, my father’s as well. 

He hired Victoria. Eldest daughter presumed Victoria was reliable, steady, but instead, is another episode of white trash feigning a low middle class. Exactly what fantasy of personal grace and demeanor do I reside in? My heart always breaking on my father’s rat pack stylized imitation, ladies’ man to the end, twisting my love on the rack, the daughter he abandoned, submitted to medical repair, again, and again, and again. First love of my life, he represses what a bloody disappointment I am, first born, fitting virtual reality is no longer removed from the lives we live.

Drainage Slats, authorized version

As I dug up my mother, minus her best photographic image, after I started this blog, in 2010, slightly too languorous to link the sites together, this was her invidious late life college student nursing peer who turned around and married her friend's husband.

Don't date Nick, mother said, disputing my memory of her advice. She told me she did not tell Louise not to date my father, but you can weigh an eldest daughter's daggers against an ambivalent divorcee, and Louise turned around and dated Nick, their age disparity similar to mine and Frank's, with reverse polarity. Frank allowed himself to die as my punishment, aged 69, whereas my father married an insatiable vampire, gnarled and inflamed knuckles only adding to her unhappy materialist avarice.

Don't speak ill? O, younger sister and I could go much further...

But the irony remains that this woman saw me with "Bedlam" blinking out of her eyes, and I remained independent for as nearly long as she transformed herself into a nursing home mattress. High school psycho-dramatist Victoria knows absolutely nothing about the facade behind the grimace of her charge. It aiin't over yet.

"It's like the Hatfield's and McCoy's," Stephanie typed. I laughed in cliched confirmation. 

Every Unhappy Family Rolls Anna Karina Under the Train

I am not going to catch hell from pulling an all nighter today. TLC has dropped my case, and the JEVS case manager, of course, wasn’t informed that I’m quadriplegic. I informed her yesterday at the last moment, 3:30, then the West African nearly took my foot off, and this is public assistance at its finest. Just finished an inconclusive message exchange with Victoria, a woman whom I previously stated I wasn’t going to characterize, a woman whose employment caring for my dead stepmother was terminated shortly before this latest death watch, and nothing ever happens at the right time for me, except that another Caucasian all-American flake with television wide blue eyes texts me in the middle of the night as if she and I were in high school. She is sweet, thinks Louise was sweet, and I’ve spent far too much time trying to utilize her now inability to assist me, could unfriend her, but where else am I going to get material? I wasn’t okay for a little while. I may never again masquerade the perception of imperturbability  again, with my antagonism toward Louise miscued as Victoria refused to read the sharpness in my query about her condolences. I don’t hate Louise, didn’t know her well enough for that, as the bottom drops out from under my solar plexus, all of her suffering, the duress, my 82 year old father’s emptiness, no one left to boomerang on his anger over his dead son, my sense of displacement over Hawking’s demise surreal, as otherworldly as his deadpan explanations of the cosmos. I am not going to get past the physical punishment I am taking, and it is on me for leaving Hahnemann internal medicine prior to 2016, on me for my subsequent collapse, my failure with Jefferson, not changing where I am in the present, none of Hawking’s reserve and humor, elusive referencing. The difference between his lampooned round the clock care and my father’s wife is one of utility, of function. Louise either desired or was made to combat her rheumatoid arthritis and its blood infections too hard; it was too hard on mio padre, and didn’t help me from a distance, but Hawking was a public spectacle, footage of his emaciated frame in a tarp on TMZ, I truly regret his passing, as much as I sometimes regret investigative journalism.

It may be a post modern aspect, sympathizing with bad actors, and this horse has long bolted out of the barn despite my mild censure, but exactly who did the Pittsburgh Post Gazette help in its expose of Tim Murphy’s texts? The woman he slept with, us? We tend to see his private interactions with his mistress as hypocritical, but a man’s life was destroyed because he yielded to temptation. One of my lovers also offered to pay for a d & c, as it’s called, a uterine scrape, but then I calmed down. Fortunately, my life wasn’t further complicated by an unwanted pregnancy with a married man, but I am beginning to wonder about which shark is worse, the aphrodisiac of power, or the lunge to take it down. We have lost faith in institutions, in legislative processes, each other, and then hand the baton to the next fresh face. Do you ever stop to consider the devastation we’ve wrought?