Conquest of Galactic San Francisco

Vervoort, 40, suffered from incurable, degenerative spinal pain. She said in an interview in Rio de Janeiro three years ago that she only got about 10 minutes of sleep some nights and described the pain that caused others to pass out from just watching her. She said sports kept her alive.-- as disseminated from the Belgian press in its clinical mercies

I have always been a Johnny come lately to viral fads. I was diffident about blogging when it became a form of media counter culture, had the misfortune to select LiveJournal as a starting point in 2009, and my scar tissue was too raw and unpolished despite my publishing experience. I was diffident about Twitter, and only ran afoul of it as a platform after I adapted to it and its staff in turn adopted Facebook censorship tools, and I think we're all cognizant of the fact that less screen time is beneficial, but this wisdom is difficult to apply when we become prisoners to socialist models of impoverished tenancy housing, and my recent lacuna towards posting anything at all is due to pain and apathy of defeat in an essentially nigger city whose values will eventually destroy the success of European colonial expansion. A mild mannered technocrat like Ev Williams, and indeed, few others, even libertarians, can understand how such hatred within me evolved, as we are taught to condemn what people do, not who they are, and costly solutions like extermination aren't feasible, except as it pertains to the reality that humans kill each other, most often because familiarity breeds contempt, or men have a visceral fear of femininity, less often out of ethnic hatred bred by politics, and I've been desensitized enough to be aware of my own impulse triggers, however ineffectual, but this isn't why I have an intuitive dislike for Medium.
For a significant time, I did not even assemble the platform as the original collective platform on which other models like Niume or Virily were based. Nevertheless, I've paid into Medium membership and the partnership program, primarily because I could die from sitting on my buttock in a disastrously assembled Quantum powerchair. Pennsylvania's Medicaid and federal Medicare is killing me faster than my age, allowing me to understand Vervoort's excruciating embrace of euthanasia better than most of you, and the right to suicide will eventually overcome ecumenical and secular opposition, yet I balk, despite the apathy and the peril and the poverty I am fighting. I balk over every justified suicide tourist, and like the rest of you, even grow angry when it can be viewed as an extravagant contagion, the suicides of despair which cannot even visualize urban honey traps like mine, me with no one, no more positive bonds with former supervisors, no more dead lovers, cheating husbands, just tissue paper underwear and a mentally hobbled black man tending to me whom I would do anything to cut loose. I pity him more than not, as I have excuses which he doesn't, and I am, after all, this close to sixty years of age, and may not make it. This Blogger account will remain open as long as I am able to type it, but I have to slow down with it as I need money desperately if I can hope to circumvent the destruction of civilization through social welfare. Some content I've done here will go to my Medium account, some won't, and I am always, in some form, working toward a scholarly end. And if I can hold out maybe I can repair my horrendously bad environment.

The Avoidance of Wedding Ceremonies

You are such a nasty, evil bitch that no one wants to be around you.-- family feud online

I am going to Magee Rehab for a proper wheelchair evaluation, which I'm not sure will achieve much, at this point, as I think of the toe polish of Elizabeth Nass and Mayr, mummified in Ellicott City. We probably cannot classify their deaths as a live burial. I will pick up after the hobbled pony ass next to me clocks out, like Gilbert Osmond shutting out Isabel Archer's lights, one by one.

7:14 pm: The reason I contemplate these derailment deaths is that I was relatively new to social media's real time immediacy in 2010. I did not participate through commenting as news of the accident spread through Baltimore Sun's coverage, but I felt the same sense of dissonance most of us feel in such situations, the dissonance Eugene Robinson felt about Cosby as the great comedian's stature was diminished. They were crushed not minutes after those images of their feet made the rounds, and no, this fragmenting attention spans of ours  cannot lay blame solely on software coding, as our attentions are assailed, inundated daily, not simply with people like me saying what happened, but people like me framing the issues about what happened. Locomotive engines are the industrial technologies of the Gilded Age, barely streamlined out of their 19th century mechanical application. We no longer have foremen with shotguns lording over Irish immigrant workers they less rarely massacred in secret, in Pennsylvania (sorry NAACP), but we do have derailments, passenger and freight. The robber barons of yesteryear are the conservative laughingstocks of today.  The guy who ran Amtrak under George W. Bush would appear on television mildly scathing with "Would you like to buy it?" In the sardonic voice of age, and a company like CSX is a nuisance to the multiplicity of classes that inhabit Logan Square, or form the graphic horror of unique films that ushered us into this century. Hopefully thet didn't have much time to suffer, Elizabeth and Louese, which writes like an improper variation of my stepmother's name, but outside of those who procreated them, they're nothing more than a statistic, like footballers.

Green Room Dialogues Toward Cultural Relevance

But there are questions about Foster, now, that any reasonable person-- much less any reasonable employer-- should want to have answered.-- The Ringer, in a voluble chorus against a franchise over-valuing marketing skills against trauma we never used to discuss.

Ross Douthat’s appearance on Rose was the first that I became aware of him as a vivacious, enthusiastic analyst with an optimistic outlook. The link I selected for my viewers to stream is arbitrary as opposed to the actual segment with its few sentences I recall, the show where Ross deconstructs Harvard as a pulsating progressive mass with a model libertarian overlay. It was not so much what Ross said during the interview, as much as his engagement with his answer. It caught my attention, and that was it. It was not enough for me to rush to Amazon to purchase his book, or resubscribe to The New York Times. I am more interested in The Wall Street Journal at present, but that his tweet about Michel Houelleberg's byline, his underwhelming column about the ruling elite of yesteryear, his brazen assertion on Twitter about membership within that elite not being all that privileged as it’s cracked up to be, led me to do some background research on his biography. Ross Douthat and Niall Ferguson, in combination, with a little Sullivan in the mix, as you gasp that my virulence against homosexual identity momentarily makes allowances for this argument, represents a reasonable approximation of a writer’s life I thought I could sustain. All of them have scheduled appearances on television, and this is something I’ve no idea how to do, nor have the work product to make the effort feasible. Is this an agent’s responsibility? A publicist’s? Arcane details within the supposition that knowledge acquisition on camera doesn’t lend itself easily to mnemonic retention. I have been on television, purely for gawker purposes, but never as an analyst with access, to serve as a conduit, or to engage as an equal. Krauthammer, although he is no longer around to ask, presumably needed assistance in his daily living activities and was still able to manage. I no longer know now if the biggest joke is that which I have played on myself. Still, one receives the sense that Houelleberg is disingenuous in his appreciation of our Trump transformation. The president has thoroughly exhausted me and everyone else, and under Douthat’s playful assertion that we’re living a libertarian West Wing in realtime these days, I rather interjected that it is unfair that I can barely keep myself afloat within the labyrinth of a punitive public housing system while he almost had his career handed to him on a silver platter. This is not the “fusion” I envisioned in being able to go toe to toe with someone like Kathleen Parker. This is why I created this account in the first place, to reach across the divide, whether to a conventional moderate such as Parker, or Ross as her slightly more contrarian alter ego. The opposition to his Wasp nostalgia on social media was misguided, although that opposition to his prominence is the only battlefield Ross engages for his salary, but that doesn’t mean he defined his parameters all too clearly: JFK certainly emulated what being part and parcel of American royalty entails. His Catholicism was virtually an afterthought, and Truman, as the heir to Roosevelt’s deified mantle, didn’t ascend upwards in national politics with a silver spoon in his mouth, and the historical lens through which we view LBJ isn’t necessarily urbane, polished. Johnson was a local color Texan who played the ends against the means, cementing the Medicare disaster we live with today.

Collard Green Extraction

"I no longer walk with a limp," James Woods, Against All Odds

My old flame of 37 years ago, (concurrent with the invasion of Grenada, no less) reminded me of a word I rarely use on Blogger: morale. It is a difficult state of cohesion for me to locate as a writer-journalist in hindrance at present, but the liberal-progressive bandwagon follow then block my account on Twitter isn’t helping. To a degree this is arbitrary, sometimes not worth mentioning, like the British transsexual RD Ronald who followed me and then beat a quick path back to her disturbing body decals of gunshot wounds. Seconds before she fled my digital space, my question read, “Are you a real transsexual?” I was baffled, found her Facebook page and excoriated her deliberately. If the LBGT activists want to play mind games with me they will be dealing with smoking skid marks, particularly as consequences for the dowager are negligible. There was too the donna from … Naples, was it? Her cut stung, as my use of nomenclature was only an attempt to welcome a comrade; but the BrowneProject, which as far as I’ve been able to ascertain, consists of a guitarist named Chris, followed me on July 28^th, and barely gave my palsied forearms 48 hours before he blocked me for querying the question as to what he wanted. Yes, we all unfollow and sometimes block accounts daily, but in this instance, whatever his circumstances, his virtual cut has the semblance of discrimination against a disabled woman only attempting a reminder that I have never been a paid music critic, though I will give the forthright the benefit of the doubt, like Ali Spagnola, who came to me through Medium. I admire her spunk, and have filed away to my ailing synapses that her oeuvre is due some consideration, as Russ Still will also receive, if I can accrue some semblance of my own autonomy as I had it last year.

Having asserted this, however, music will not heal my present anguish over a night to day helplessness from loss of machines and furnishings that kept me functional, nor will the social psychology of Mark Goulston, the doctor from California whose suicide prevention tweets aren’t relevant to my medical vulnerability. I let him go, wish him well, but my existence is intolerable, and needs more intervention of “boots on the ground,” and additional technical devices than the American welfare system will ever provide. Empathy isn’t going to prevent the collapse from infections borne of my own waste, if it continues. If Chris Browne is representative of the best the British left can do, “loving his friends,” believing in lyricism’s healing, but blocking me in a simple attempt at conversation, it gives me insight into British conservatives who’ve friended me and proven themselves resourceful.

Brilliant end to the day with my twin bro @BrowneProject 😁😄🤩😍 pic.twitter.com/a2d6bdAXIf

— 🌣 Nature Druid 🌣 (@n_distractions) August 25, 2018

As I cannot spontaneously visit my family and raise a glass of bubbly, these twins are cruel people. I'm the one who can't walk.

Toxins in the Feminine Figure Beneath the Appeasement of Tovah Feldshuh's Command

"They have the right to live," Axel Steier, a Mission Lifeline founder, said of the migrants.

Do they now? There is not a high profile government official on the face of the earth, not even Kim Jong Un, who denies basic human rights, with the colorful Duterte being a quickly superimposed afterthought, in terms of being a (refreshing) exception. The dowager might not be so bemused if she had to live under Rodrigo's charming apologia for brutality, but pauses to reflect that Philadelphia's regime has no discernible difference against Filipino distributive poverty median. If life turns pretty cheaply for the vast majority of the world's estimated 4.5 billion Asians, it is merely a reflection of our evolutionary bottleneck crisis still at play, the mayoralty of this city like so much shuffleboard, at least since the Rizzo family relinquished power. The key center city districts, like my ward, 187, have the concentrated opulence of high finance and gentrification via condominiums. The residential neighborhoods are territoriality marked by fried chicken franchises, regardless of the name we draw in the raffle: Wilson Goode, John Street, Ed Rendell, once the potential scourge of gun manufacturers, Michael Nutter, and even Jim Kenney, his soda tax jeopardizing retail establishments in an already poor city, doesn't change this dynamic. The evolution of money, the concentration of wealth like spokes on a wheel surrounding city hall, by implication, are far more important than dying city residents transported to dialysis treatment at 7 am. Or a woman with cerebral palsy being beaten to a pulp by systemic corruption, all the sudden, and necessarily, bending over backward for a care worker to whom she was, however briefly, more erotically inclined than she was to Tim Artis, her other long standing passive minority who was paid out of pocket. Just because the game of an interpersonal relationship is a lie without legs beyond her acquiescence to Medicaid's contract doesn't mean she cannot be hurt. She was Monday, another indefatigable blow, even if counseled not to compare her quadriplegic physique to an able-bodied woman walking her dog. Well defined buttocks win every time over the buddy girl aroused, then burnt back down to carbon, and this cycle will repeat, indefinitely, unless I bolt, for more of the same, endless misery, and I don't have the stamina to hire, fire, another 50 people I do not even want in my personal space.
My cousin thinks he cares about me enough that this is  "real". But I knew from our fight at the end of April what I forced him to tell me was the brute honesty: I am only tempting enough for him to struggle not to sleep with me, and I do not have the ability to transcend what the malformations of this city have scarred on me not to relegate him, despite, despite the woman in me who keeps sounding if he really cares. Not enough not to smote me where it counts. Fine, but all of this is draining me, a mere shell of my former self, hardly in the grip of Locklear's crisis, as much fading relevance as her loss of control due to substance abuse?

I am less diffident about Salvation now that it is back on air, relieved to have a show to follow with a degree of eagerness. The series was put into production too early to forecast Trumpian politics. Indeed, Tovah's evergreen character actor carry over, from Danielle Melnick the crusader, to Danielle Melnick holding the strands at the end of the world, may have anticipated a Clinton administration in error, with Sasha Ruiz merely the usurper who has to be defeated, a Trumpian villain whose path to the presidency can be blamed on Hugh Hefner, Charles Krauthammer, and Bill Clinton, depending on which columnist's byline is in stroke recovery, but Salvation, nevertheless, feels like the industry is throwing a bone to the cops: be a good electorate now, we put a woman in charge handling the asteroid, the Russians, and cyberterrorists! And we gave her a Libertarian (Tanz) to elevate to the Vice Presidency! My right to life, meanwhile, lurches on mission creep. 

Alford Plea, with Skid

We had a good laugh at that one. --David Foster Wallace

Deadbeats. This is what I am thinking of, spinning my wheels for 15 hours in exasperated anger that a nurse practitioner named Dana Rigley, who doesn’t have a license to treat me, insists on her one month daily visit for 10 minutes despite her very own acknowledgement that her function is non-essential for me as a quadriplegic. Socialized medicine at its finest. I would be delighted to challenge the traditional liberal as to what this labor and expenditure on her part amounts to, and wouldn’t receive an answer as to the hidden lack of efficacy and fraud within single payer options as I terminated her visits and waltzed her out of the door in tears, and I thought I lacked the requisite emotional armor, pushing back against Mia’s stridency, politely, but pushing against her now carnivorous, delicate, boney frame. I will not make so much as a dent against her convictions, as the sitting Pope reminds me of my hardened heart and I reminded his warders of a once warrior driven faith. Deadbeats, where do they come in? Ah, my cousin by marriage, with whom I was not many futurist hours past this post terse and unkind, has a broken younger ambulatory ex-Marine brother who reminds me of my dead fiancée of course, and he has a crush on me. I want nothing to do with it, and assumed Pam would be angry with me for openly deeming him a half-wit, but Pam rolls right along with her indolence and her dogs, as the fine citizens od this country elbow each other to expiate their pain on trash TV. My attendant’s exquisite tastes: Dr. Phil’s prostitutes, Dr. Phil’s anorexic emergencies, Dr. Phil’s molested stepdaughters. This is the corrosive acid eating us away, the self-absorption of Dr. Phil’s megalomaniacs who have lost touch with reality and because they appear on Dr. Phil, receive a cushy voluntary commitment environment. Civic conscience and duty, these now fall on famous athletes, on Hollywood celebrity. We hide behind them, those with whom we align. Mia’s followers defend her against non-trolling critiques such as mine. James gets defended by his salient multitude, and television so carefully matures with Emily Tyra, an actual dancer, receives a punitive back story, starving herself into sterility. Code Black is so cleverly an industry send up, a playful coyness to it, the opening season a fantasy musical dance number reminiscent of Glee, a tolerable viewing  bracket. Little more than that, barely making a dent in the rebuilding I need to do with, for, my work. Exactly what assistance do I desire from you? A visit from Mikaela Hunt, with her middle brow womens’ interest questions I occasionally attend to with dilatory respect (entering into her modality when I please)? I am in love with an African American nerd whose sex drive is skewered into the wiring of nurture, regardless of all these years I have avoided this situation and attacked the regressive dependency paradigm which feeds the business of poverty and chronic condition, and believe its state regulated enforcement is evil and despite my unapologetic rancor with black counterculture, I want to authenticate an interpersonal relationship here, worn and threadbare daisy. I tempt him. The next day hope scuttles, and on we go, not listening to him to try to shit this morning on demand. One day, I’ll hit the fuck this pedal past my error of believing my work was secure. Such slim incentives not to follow David Foster Wallace on the other side, past the photosphere.

Rewriting Othello From Peas in a Tin

The French president can point to some benefits of his approach. Trump reserves most of his admiration for autocrats like Vladimir Putin, Xi Jinping and Mohammed bin Salman. Macron is the only democratically elected head of state Trump seems to genuinely admire. --The Guardian

Emmanuel Macron is a rather gorgeous echo of JFK, though my aide couldn't see it when I pointed it out prior to our latest vacillations in familiarity, like Julie Andrews singing first this way and that way. Julie Andrews has a succinct clarity of voice, crisp as an apple orchard And in the same vein that the detractors of Trump slant it, the uncanny ability of the French to straddle the line is something even a borderline fanatic can admire, appreciate. Not everything has to revolve around a polar opposition, even if the podiatrist reminded me of the social set from which I drafted myself away. If things get serious, if they aren't quite already for a hapless spastic, this will be an issue. A quadriplegic may straddle white ranks, from trailer trash to mundane foot specialists, but a plow horse groomed into a thoroughbred? I'm not Rex Harrison, nor Leslie Howard, secret agent man, and only note it because the equestrian in question developed an interesting invisibility while I engaged the doctor, exchanging codas rather than accommodating both. I've read about it in black literature but never quite understood it until Friday, this intuitive displacement by caste by the lowest ranking member of the caste himself. The podiatrist, in his droll activity, didn't create this dynamic, nor did the dowager, but the lines just that suddenly reorganized. White to white co-valency cannot be penetrated by a minority laborer not of the professional class. These divisions I may have wanted to fracture when I was 23, but not now, even as I gain ground through reassurance, that what I presume to be rejection is only hesitation, growing bolder in assertion by virtue of my liberality, as I somehow have to trampoline off the socialist net once again. I applaud Austin's sentiment here

Yeah you can keep that socialized medicine right the hell away from the good old US of A.  https://t.co/ux7jqfJC8f

— Austin Petersen (@AP4Liberty) April 24, 2018

but it is a reactionary revolt against leftist distribution sowed into place by Lyndon Johnson. If I defy it too adamantly, exactly how do I survive? It isn't something I haven't focused on with daily concentration, as all I'm doing is softening into mundane blandishments I've resisted until reaching out to a cousin, who by example tries to teach me we reserve passion for vocalists like Jeff Buckley, so charmingly deceased that he transformed Leonard Cohen into his own cardiovascular system. Under Pentatonix, "Hallelujah" is a defiant triumph. Buckley makes it into a dirge worth bowing your head over. Despite new found ease with You Tube and texting, finally having caught up with the rest of you, overwhelmed by messaging, I do not readily find surcease in exchanging pop culture video like bit coin, even if now my own self censor is kicking in. It isn't that I've been beaten by the middlebrow, only vested interests, the knowledge that my cousin is a private person, our new found intimacy valued. She may not mind you knowing she's lame too, but would mind if I detailed her own tensions with my father's sister, not that you couldn't extrapolate what those entail from earlier posts-- but I will tell you her interests don't really mesh to mine. I love felines but don't fetishise it as she does her dog breeds, and may chuck all of this if certain elements come back together. Starved intimacy is a powerful thing, very, but I could just as easily text my brother about misplaced tortellini, in the run of the mill.

Nail Clippings

 If I actually attempt to tongue, and he responds, that is a change, a risk. -- quoting myself

This almost occurred today, in the esoteric sense of writing your own script, and I am not entirely certain he was play acting. I also learned in my early 30's, I am not as invulnerable to letting physical attraction take its own course as I may put forward, but other than that, I am going to divert your eyes from any further details except to convey this is a simulation of a dried twig trying to be a mature bloom. This positive attitude, from him, the therapists, from Dana, his predecessor who has a serious enthusiasm for Stromae, who lost his father to the Rwandan genocide and used it to energize his music, I cannot maintain it as the majority of you do.

I have an intrinsic awareness that I am in the latter stages of my quality time, and being treated like a piece of red tape for over 24 weeks, white coats bopping to sign forms, takes its toll; beneath the surface, after I save my non-cloud loaded files, I want to fold, despite Shane's (let's call him that) compassionate excellence at my care. One or two members on my family branch like him a great deal, glad he makes me happy, but his masculinity is like the USS Enterprise lowering its shields against a Borg cube: after 33 years of my hardened routes, hard won achievements, maybe I bang a minority, or come close. So what? Regardless of the post-Obama era, in my family structure, he'd represent the otherness Joanne brings to the table, whether or not he remains virginal. I want the damn welfare circus to cease rotating its slats for each of my body parts. Again, I have no latent condition which requires that only a podiatrist clips my toenails, no infection, or diabetes, and if someone just put my heels on one of my sitting chairs and leaned me forward, I'd do it myself, just as most of you would, instead of being vacuum packed poultry parts.. Theoretically, I could shut all this down-- but if I did, and drove my chair as far as the park, scuttled under a bench, eventually first responders would place me in a medical facility commensurate with my growing fear of being imprisoned in them sooner or later. Good evening-- that is as up beat as I go. Off to bed, still willing to allow 4 the process.

Robert Byrd’s White Nigger Echo Chamber

"I have to go to Norristown--" The Mechanic

I am literally teasing matted locks of my greying and now wiry hair out of my scalp, ever slowly, and to my mortification, it looks like Gilda Radner's worst day of chemotherapy, the original anti-prime timer, and yet persisting, slowly, tackling the worst before I let a cosmologist do what they can with it, but as it is now, it perfectly symbolizes what 14 weeks of being at the mercy of Medicare has done to me, and this is what Paul Krugman champions, how long and punishing this has been, trying so hard to fend off the iron jaws of “means testing,” my case is now under review at County Assistance. No idea why, as my savings were depleted by 2014. I held off reapplying for Medicaid as long as I could, but knew I would need it (late in the day) for another power chair, but all of a sudden, I am “under review,” in order that the Commonwealth can ensure it protects itself. No one is willing to ensure I am protected from it. The dynamic nigger duo, Trudy and Debra, contracted with Liberty Health to at first pressure me to comply, and then Tom of Liberty Health did his damnest to talk me into signing myself away, but didn’t know his job, that Hahnemann University Hospital couldn’t put me away. I had no condition they could treat me for, but Hahnemann and the Visiting Nurses association, and Mike's bucket seat ingenuity, have virtually incapacitated me. Libertarian political philosophy, perhaps traditional conservatives, as well, may not have an answer for disability, dependence, and rationed care, but the system has some serious dystopian fissures. Maybe it will right itself after boomers have their mass die off, but I am not so sanguine about Western medicine’s  market correction. My father cannot afford to let his wife die in the most compassionate manner, my body has taken fourteen weeks of a prolapse break down, to the point even my arms are now affected by tremors, and these are my options:

a)      Hang on until I can manage a better power chair fitting and ditch hospital bed and hope for partial recovery

b)      Attempt suicide and hope I don’t fail

c)       Give up and allow Inglis House or equivalent facility to torture me into hospice

The Medicare medical equipment model failed me from 14 forward. The Trump Administration had nothing to do with it. I did not have a primary care doctor or practice that met my needs, and still don’t. The VNA is an outsource model staffed by nurses and other therapists near retirement. Mike and I are in agreement here. They know jack shit, this VNA, but private contraction failed too. Hiring Karina from Craigslist was a mistake, and utilizing Mr. Wheelchair broke my strength, my resilience, and the fucking liberal majority insisting I need an attendant has taken 98 days to put my Medicaid eligibility under review. I’m sure Krugman would blame austerity, but that would be too linear. I was in the beginning of needing to curtail and be cautious, in September 2017, but I wasn’t failing; Pennsylvania seems determined to rectify that. I should go lie down, as the grease monkey is coming early evening. Should you pray all goes well for the dowager’s scathing mouth? All I ever wanted was a career, to make something of myself, to have some freedom to achieve certain things, maybe have a good man, but no, 32 years ago, I moved into an accessible 811, and that anguish and rage permeates this one wee blogging platform. 

Midpoints

"Can I still play the violin?"--Lois Smith

Where Defiance ends and The Man in The High Castle begins in 2015, there is a thematic congruence, one superficial, the other overly dramaturgical. Both series suggest American values have been tested and raise questions in relation to our global role in the aftermath of successful blows on our soil. The “races” of Defiance address pluralistic tensions. The nuclear device in High Castle which incinerates the White House in the Smith family flashback resonates with the same sobering shock as watching the Twin Towers implode on 9/11, not that it need be translated in that fashion, since the series’ creators are faithful to the spirit of Dick’s unsparing depreciation of American sensibilities, however heightened the realism for the sake of Prime’s competitiveness with Netflix, this too something of a retail fiction. Streaming is streaming, whatever we put in the pipeline. I have not gone into High Castle at great length because I sequenced it rapidly after the start of my still ongoing personal crisis, and there is a great deal of material to peel. Whatever viewers feel about Berlin as the superpower du jour, the cinematic quality of SO1 & 2 seems well done to me, and one hopes the set personnel received worthwhile compensation. Amazon proved itself rather shrewd as opposed to SyFy, since revamping Kennedyesque authoritarian alternatives is easier than bringing otherworldliness to St. Louis and beyond. The outer framework of the Defiance plot falls well within the traditions of the genre, and isn’t anything we have not seen before, particularly in print. Megalomania pits itself against the upright and the just. Asimov may be able to get five Foundation novels out of that, but cable television can’t expect its audience to join all those threads so seamlessly. High Castle’s writers have more dramatic tensions and complexity, and Julia Crain manages to play both sides against the middle, just as we aren’t altogether certain about Joe Black’s moral compass, especially given the revelation that he was a Leidermoif [sic] newborn.

The most fluid episodes, those of the Trade Minister’s visions of history as we know it, are more tenuous, though they expose what the citizens of today are meant to appreciate: how fortunate we are to live in a constitutional republic where the descendants of bootleggers were de facto royals who kept us out of war with the Soviets. Dick wasn’t quite so highbrow, and his aims nearly juxtapose those of Ridley Scott and his team. Everything Dick did was an attack on our pretensions, not a tribute to our national innocence.

Colic is a more targeted noun

Therefore, and shut the door upon them twain,
And prayed unto the Lord and he went up
And lay upon the corpse, dead on the couch,
And put his mouth upon his mouth, his eyes
Upon his eyes, his hands upon his hands-- Robert Browning

Andrew Lincoln has only so much he can do with culture shock and mortal anguish, just as the rest of the ensemble recurs are challenged, the only real hook for the audience being who is next to get beaten to death before the next oasis comes along, or the next community where appearances are deceptive. The local syndication of The Walking Dead reboots at season five, so alas, other than rescanning some episodes here or there (what happened to the veterinarian?) or next month streaming what I cannot afford, I am now one of these early floaters-- and no, though the 100 had an early, somewhat merciless, intrigue, I do not wish to catch up with it; in its own way, it is too chic, too much of the generation of my nephews. The Alexandria episodes of WD are interesting because they turn the tables. It is the Grimes group which inadvertently leads to such significant losses for Sam Waterston's stronger female foils, where Rick's earlier samaritan Morgan reemerges, but I no longer have the economic resources to keep myself abreast in a cavalier binge fashion, even as a 66 year old drunk with chest nodules which need a biopsy bums me a cigarette which I should not have taken, barely able to understand her, Mary Ellen. Whether in sneakers, slippers, she doesn't walk, but staggers, one of the silents from whom no one hears so much as a peep in terms of an online foot print. How the fuck am I supposed to be positive with this glaring waste of human sewage on which I had to make my career? It has very little to do with boom and bust cycles. I once lived something better, and my younger princess sister still does, whatever her debt, foreclosure status.

I still can't stop a nigger boy from playing his fun and games behind my back. How do you think you would like it? Or be able to rise above it? Would my libertarian associates give him a fucking contusion for my sake? They would probably kick me out of the group sooner than intervene, and I'm as penniless as some of my editors, speaking of which, I've taken a tentative dip into Montaigne in translation. He was an undergraduate gloss. One of those things. 

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.

Without Place

I am giving my notice on Friday, and as of a 4/21 edit, I have not yet, .dragging it out simply through my biological inertia. I telephoned all there is to telephone for the moment, but if anyone can spare me a space, a blanket, temporary lodging-- I doubt I'll beat the clock. I doubt I'll survive, but I simply cannot continue with the duress the system insists on imposing on me as a condition of my upkeep. Dennis O'Brien is undoubtedly busy. Perhaps I'll call his office tomorrow. 

I need to go. If you can help, let me know. This BDT site is where the policy coordinator I met at Sims meeting works. His name was Graham and he had a nice car, dialed his mother by accident on his OS, and I sat there in stained clothing with a noticeably bad occlusion to my underbite, my obviously traumatized demeanor an unspoken crime, in and of itself. No one sees my before and after, only the end result, and I cannot live in this building anymore, Inglis House as an alternative is tantamount to prolonged euthanasia, and this represents my life after 50.

The welfare state is what it is, until it stagnates and collapses under pressure.

Concentric Roulette

"I will always be a little more miserable than you." Charlie Sheen

Oh, I'm weak alright, because one thing consulting for Liberty Resources did to me was terrify me in relation to Inglis House, and the people who are maintained there aren't all dying, but the institutional paradigm takes a huge toll regardless of maintenance stratification. Wheelchair users aren't the only ones who suffer, which is why nursing human abuse is a litigation generator, and yet I can't fight my age, which isn't so much about my ass hitting the laminated pan in my shower stall: I fall periodically, but Trudy and the minions are now criminalizing it, and I am now exactly where I started in my twenties, thick, indigent, sitting in a stained T, my underlying desperation really akin to Dante's viciousness in The Inferno. I can only write without terror at Presby's power in small increments, and know when the time comes, I cannot live a virtually immobile life, like my ex, Frank, and with kudos to my sister, and to sympathizers like the fine biographer Sheldon Novick, who has a finesse and focus I'll never achieve, pills are not going to resolve this.

I have avoiding delving into suicide too deeply; it's passe really, but the mortality train is on my ass, and I apparently will never break away from cruel black matron enforcers on which my family consigned me and I later, subconsciously, consigned myself. If I had understood the weave of corruption in public housing before I over rode my parents on Diamond Park, I would have never have done it, and now it is all too late.

I'm going to put in a search for room mates and see what happens, I do not know. There are areas of the city that would destroy what cognizance I have left if officials punt me there for being stiff necked: Hunting Park, or Kensington, which is the equivalent of a West African shanty town, but economically is all I can now afford. I'd break there, break in Inglis, and two black woman here where I live are applying the institutional equivalent of blunt force trauma to lock me back into an abusive system.

I have the need to be, this morning, a memoirist in pique, which is much more indulgent than the focus a wonderful scholar like Sheldon applies, and need to find more time to spend with it, except not just now, because I have to apply such objective plaint as I have to give myself the space I need in the short window I have with my lateral transfer method. Take a look at Sheldon's work, his optimism tower's above the misfortune of brain lesions, bodily contortions, and the fear of healthier humans in reaction to it. The ADA hasn't really changed anything, at the core. Debra Horne, at bottom, fears me, and hence the truncheon applied against my biting contempt toward her, an adversarial relationship where she has all the chits to her advantage, and it is sad commentary on the welfare state.

Tom Hanks Past Heyday Romance

I deleted so many emails off my Yahoo account the mail daemon booted me out of the system Monday morning. Today I kept going and have less in Yahoo than Gmail, able to envision how we are devolving on the environmental scale rather than advancing. I do not put Allison Joseph's transmissions in digest, and between her writing opportunity posts, Linked In, Examiner's editorial team, my Blogger account, twitter's desire for more enthusiastic participation, my cellular organization is mutating to fractal formulas, snacking tepidly on goat cheese and crackers. With age, all the symptoms with cerebral palsy that made me glance with some befuddlement at my physical therapist are now grilling with the sizzle of pork skin crisp, food regurgitation, tremors, my dislocated hip which Dr. Steele did not cut jack knifing, always interfering with my sexual comfort.

I am not puking up my meals just yet. Loss of appetite, gradual, so fascist that my enthusiasm to sample the deceased Nadine deflated, with a reminder on why she won the Pulitzer, or the Nobel ,rather. Not that apartheid works, but neither does American egalitarianism. I want my own quiet studio on the largesse of family or other charitable person of affluence; somewhat attracted to my neighbor Tim down the hall I made a mistake, told him "I hate living here Tim; I come from an affluent family." Knock on my door if you're afraid, or ever need to talk.

"Well we could go out for coffee but I have the ex fiance below you know," grinning sheepishly. Never shall I impose myself on him here on the floor. Learned that lesson long ago. He always mentions that we have the same birthday, tickled by it. I get impatient with the mannerism, simple coincidence, but for white trash he'd be acceptable, walks, is more magnetic than the ailing brother, a man sharper and more flinty, perhaps gay. This is a mistake since I decided to find a tenant lawyer and litigate myself out. Still, could he as an able bodied male find me attractive? Does he? Unsure. He's been nice, bought kimmy presents. Acceptable, given how environment has malformed me, as opposed to polished, and if I sue myself out within 15 months, such speculative interest would undoubtedly extinguish with that minor episode in a failed disabled writer's minuscule travesty toward her own decomposition. One does not make love with other housing tenants. Bad karma.