Echoes of Daniel

"I've done thousands of interviews!", the little big man, on my provocation

Somehow, I knew The Washington Post would produce this column on Angela Merkel, even if I lacked the requisite knowledge of Stelzenmuller and Brookings Institution Senior Fellows. Progressives, mothers, women, need assurance even while their worries are stoked, and I've written posts in the past that Merkel has, essentially, reconstituted German imperial ambitions which the Third Reich strove for, and had Hitler defeated the British, we might be in exactly the same place. 

If you'd like evidence that lithium might have a beneficial, mitigating effect on my dead brain tissue, my quarrel with Schneider in or around 2009 might offer proof I am in denial: when I cut myself off from his Cosmoetica site I thought I basically destroyed my career, and literally hid in the kitchenette, literally, cowering as if Dan and his wife were brain bugs about to suck my bodily fluids into a husk, and telephoned Marie in tears. The laity doesn't do what I did, even to B personalities, and here we are, perhaps my journalism days comparatively over. I don't know, not for sure, though it is harder to get paid, harder still to get prominent, and it isn't that Schneider is stupid, or doesn't have a point or two. I simply hated him, and didn't have the deviance to finesse it, play the facile invalid, take what opportunities I could. 

He isn't wrong about creative writing complacency, that it is coprocephalic. I came up in it's culture as an indigent poet starving to death offside Temple's campus, and going down in it through the firewall of Submittable fees, and don't have time to read it all, even if I wanted to put on liberal costumes to get laid. The journals aren't commercial products because heaven forbid students learn how to sell a marketable product. Would it have helped me in the eighties? No. Jerry was the Irish atheist Christ, and Professor Clark was beloved Apostle Thomas, and I was Janis, flaming out on angel dust for all that I truly thought about the future, and now I am megalomaniac enough to believe I can penetrate access to Bannon for vengeance, burying my hatchet in the rabbit hole that I voted for Trump the motherfucker over more of the same subsistence under the left. As much trauma as Diamond Park's location inflicted on me, I was still young, resilient, believed I could succeed, did, until I let the walls come tumbling, and never truly resurfaced. I'm hanging by my fingernails, actually pleading in my soul to threaten Riverside's manager in my notice, storming off, dead of winter in the bend, only my hellish intestines keeping me on the bit. Anything I can do to constrict CILS even further, like an anaconda, I'm going to do. The snake kills that way by design, atavistic. Revenge, that denotes a great deal of emotional involvement. 

Essence of a Pornographic Interlude

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

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

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

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

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

Hard Analysis Halt

"Stendhal and Sartre, curious choice,"-- Simenon's dialogue

Blogger never conveyed to me in explicit terms that I could no longer monetize this account through reactivation of AdSense. When I did post to the forums, my quandary apparently wasn't clear to computer literate users. They asked if I had an account. Yes. Inactive, because I was a doofus in initially experimenting with LiveJournal, which ended its partnership with Google's services. I earned a whopping 3.49 cents, and there it sits. I have tried repeated to figure out how to reactivate AdSense with this domain-- though not recently.

I could scrub out my biting temperament and remove the adult content flag. As most of you know, I am more stodgy than explicitly graphic, and even if I wanted to incite in a direct one on one ratio, I'd more than likely just get my ass kicked. The unfortunate bastard elect, who rode the gravy train of my vitriol, can get away with it. I can't, for obvious reasons, as advocating violence pushes boundary lines, and my intellectual pride, most of the time, says invective is beneath me, and even if I pushed and got away with it, I'd have to live with the results, which Donald Trump seems unwilling to do, or is perhaps incapable of doing, taking responsibility for his gut reactions. I'm not quite positive, if I suggest X, and Y followed, that I would not bring Satan into being, but by the same token, I am naturally inclined toward anarchy as something worth experiencing, life on full throttle.

Just not all of the time. Leading me to the perplexity of being always over-extended. If I go to Niume News, I'd get even slower, unless I break up with Blogger, and archive this eclectic thesis for something more topical, policy oriented, at least in an imitation of decency, though I'm already subversively thinking about calling it "The Dump," punning on old age obsession with shitting successfully. [Who really cares if I triumph over anxiety and entropy with commode discharges which avert disaster?]

I am a bit pissed, that in my effort to distangle disability center trauma, I have no choice but to cope with the reality of what is now true physical decline, and no, it simply is not fair. I not only have to live with a criminally negligent landlord and disability "activists" with no ethics, but now the unalterable ravage of the flesh. 32 years of my failure to change this environment and circumstance has taken its toll. I do not, at least technically, have to abandon Disability Arts, but I'd be forced to let it slumber to attempt other interests, even if changing my spots might have a dubious outcome. Simenon seems to imply that Stendhal and Sartre are incompatible, or had a precognitive insight into the spastic dowager's creation. It is perfectly legitimate to see Stendhal as a synchronic gateway to phenomenology.

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.

Wavering in Richard Spencer's Mirage

Let us separate a few apples, oranges, and maybe a chocolate almond pastry.

• The 1983 attack on the Marine barracks in Lebanon is not comparable to the 2012 attack on the Benghazi compound which killed Ambassador Stevens, regardless of what Madame pontificates. I actually lived through the former event, and do not recall the Reagan administration getting a free pass during the civil war. As a politician, Hillary is mixing her metaphors. The attack in Lebanon wasn't foreseeable in the same way that Benghazi should have been to anyone with a moderate security clearance. In 83, the Marines and the French were in a military installation, and the Reagan administration was never accused of skin fliniting security detail. These things were up to the commanders on the ground, and these commanders were flummoxed, successfully, with tragic results and significantly more causalities than occurred in Libya. Hillary was directly responsible for the situation Ambassador Stevens was in, and Susan Rice then tried to cover it up. If it was up to me Susan Rice would have been booted to Manila a long time ago, and Duterte might have been a useful lapdog in his ascent to the helm of America's 56th state, give or take, as the heirs to the Spanish empire, which exasperates me.
•  Under Constitutional law, Trump is qualified for the presidency. He may not be suitable for the presidency, but he is qualified, and analysts should have found a better way to splice this.

I'm glad we've cleared this up, in my missed calling as the first female fascist dictator. Meanwhile, I am most likely resigned to buying a new Toshiba battery. I paid well over 2000k for both these laptops, and my HP is more stable, larger, and doesn't give me so many problems, I just haven't booted it up since PhillyTechGuy's staff worked on it because the dowager forgets if she had a password on the older machine. This doesn't mean I cannot try to boot it up and reinstall everything, but I do not know what to do if I can't get the HP to unlock. Guy moved, and did not consult the dowager before doing so, and she is a trifle piqued, as local networking still matters. If anyone on social media might advise me about HP when I am ready I'd much appreciate it. I do not believe, when I used the lady regularly, that I required the password prompt, which is why I've forgotten it, and cannot remember how Guy's nascent young adults bypassed the issue; young Gina long moved on, from what Guy told me. Two thousand dollars plus is a great deal of money for me to come to nothing. I don't know. I've gone through two desktops, and my laptops are old. Sigh, but poverty and technological interface are relevant issues.

Niume invited me to join them; if I do I suppose I cannot delve into genocide with my usual relish. For now I'm indecisive, as my frightening fury hasn't changed, trust me. I've simply given Blogger a break. You too, though I have my Trumpian moments

Abject Failure

The last time my computer battery went south, the Toshiba stopped running, despite the external charger. PhillyTechGuy said it shouldn't do that, but that is in fact what it did, and I am broke, and dirty, with renegade pests run amok, the power chair falling apart, lacking the funds to throw my laundry in the wash, even if I fold, and telephone welfare, the attendant I'd land would be someone as desperate as I am; it would not hold. SSI would give me about forty dollars, and it is stringent. Sell an article and I'm in overpayment territory, and when this becomes your entire life because your brain damage was just bad enough, what is the point? Where am I to find the resilience? Maintain my sanity? I am this close to cancelling my Medicare premium, rolling myself out the door, attempting to manufacture a fatal collision with a truck, which I do not deserve. My father's bypass surgery has put him on notice that it too is ready to fly south, and I am having headaches and seeing spots in front of my eyes; his sister, like my sister, is nearly out of her mind, and she thinks I have solutions to spend down. Throwing in the towel merely trebles anguish, and pathos is out of fashion these days. I would not wake to discover that Inglis House would gratify me. Regardless of what the state spent to refurbish the "wheelchair community," it was built not to be seen. It is a castle where human detritus is hidden away, drugged, mumbling incoherently on gurneys-- how am I to live like that, as opposed to an alternative marginally more palatable? Here lies spastic dowager, done in by bad intestines and deplorable domestic conditions, saying livid vicious things to bingo eyes and buck teeth in the sultry air of an unpleasant autumn. If this Jazzy in which I sit kicks, it becomes relatively moot, believing I can climb the fuck back out. I'd have to go away. I cannot fight medical rationing in an unsafe manual wheelchair for another 9 to 12 months because I cannot get past primary care physicians to get at the damn technology upgrades I need. Terms of service policies frown on "glorifying" negative behaviors invariably grinding down to the inevitable conclusion, but I do not see the dignity of enduring lifelong institutional nightmares, drugged into oblivion for the sake of unskilled labor. They left my right hip dislocated, the fucking crippled children surgeons, after destroying what control I had, cutting hamstrings, fusing feet bones, only to hit middle age arthritis just as ambulatory individuals do; barring a miracle, I can't hold the line that much longer, and I'd rather go down much as General Gordon did in his beloved Sudan, doomed in my own Alamo, because I fled to this city, obstinate ass wipe, cratered by her own expectations. The roulette wheel of our elected officials changes nothing of the obscenity of the welfare state, breaking me, breaking your back as well. Parents never see these consequences. 

Why I am not a liberal

Sometimes we have to take shortcuts. Billy



makes an excellent keystroke. My hip and right leg are killing me, as if spurs were in my pelvic socket, so I'm slowing down a bit.