Drought in Cape Town

"Accidents happen quickly. Investigations take a great deal of time."--Jim Southworth, besieged custodian of our national triage crew.

That I feel put upon in my now estranged interaction with fantasy novelist Shayna Grissom is on my plate: she requested a critical volunteer on Twitter, and as a long time follower, I offered, despite my physiological stresses. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the effort involved a shot toward tolerance across the bow, going beyond my own Copernican heliocentrism into normalized primate social interaction, and it backfired. Shayna isn't thinking of my disability, doesn't realize this senior living apartment which I've hated for 25 years is tantamount to a county jail cell because I have no control of my own environment due to blithe fat and jolly nigger cleaning crews and a pair of white trash drug addicts who tended to my dying stepmother, that my cervical and anal regions are depleted of estrogen, are otherwise burning and sore because my godfather's staff fitted me badly to modern power chair technology under the curious vendor brand name of Quantum, and that I've never been to a writer's conference in the Pacific Northwest because I don't drive a Buick with her downturned pursed lips and limp blond hair, she simply wanted that reassurance writers need so I offered, and even though I offered, her urgency was an infringement on a critical care invalid. "I need this done now, immediately. It's been a tough week."
So I did it now immediately after an arm wrestling match with the President of City Council Darrell L Clarke, a man taken aback by an angry Italian spastic who cared absolutely nothing for the fact that the Councilman was the biggest dick at the microphone. It takes a great deal of braggadocio to be a reactionary when African adhesion to urban liberalism is a roiling tsunami drowning you in its cubic undertow, and yes, let it roll off and down your back (meaning mine), casually as Dennis Hopper's gunshot death sprawling his body on our wondrous ribbons of asphalt that forged a nation. Only, I did not believe at the time that Shayna was lesbianistic. Thought she had given a shout out to a husband right before her conference sojourn, but yes, I will concede the now nicely bracketed block of activists (wtf does non-binary mean?) would find it difficult to accept my quadriplegic stark unhappiness near the end of its life as it is. I have, after all, lent silent and tacit support to Andy Ngo later this month. No nuanced quibble here. Antifa is a terrorist organization. It is just a sense of dismay that online contact rarely takes root and offers supportive friendships, especially in generational distances.

When They See Me

Why do I suddenly want nothing to do with you? Because you declare yourself openly anti-gay. -- Shayna Grissom

The difference between first time fantasy novelist Shayna Grissom and left wing journalist PM Beers is generational. Shayna will block my account on Twitter. Beers and I will argue with each other, then play according to the binary choices offered by the tools and unfollow each other. I owe my readers an apology for PM Beers, although she too, like Jason Dorwart, had been linked to my account long term. I knew Beers was the California version of the hard left, but I stayed with her, including through her Twitter suspension, because I believed her able to call the left on bad behavior. Last evening, she posted a link celebrating the aghast recoil viewers are supposed to feel over When They See Us, the Netflix series about the false accusations leveled at the Central Park Five (yes, I remember, the police and the DA were desperate to diffuse hysteria and things went awry, as they usually do over race and sexual crimes). I raised my voice, deliberately, on this woman's thread, because I can't even remove myself from a rental agent guilty of serious criminal negligence, when I am a woman actually and repeatedly victimized by black aggression and criminal behavior, as if the police state in this country isn't firmly entrenched.

Noa Pothoven's saga makes all arm chair theorists like myself uncomfortable, because when I advocate for euthanasia as the better part of valor, her circumstances in no way reflected what I saw as an equitable solution, and if the Belgian state medical apparatus was involved in her death, it is an involvement that goes one step too far. She was raped by two men as a child and developed anorexia, but she was only 17. My sexual abuse began institutionally at the age of nine in a Catholic home for children where black ignorance simply didn't know any better. The age of 57 sees me back in exactly the same place, in which black prejudices reflect the best I can navigate in my life. Black people are not saints. They prey upon each other with ignoble exploitation, just as whites do, especially when entitlement is involved. I do not regret PM Beers. She is an entitled gadfly I tolerated until yesterday and decided not to anymore. Unlike Austin Petersen, I do not call her "friend," which in Petersen's case, a reasonably known libertarian personality, is mainly an honorific. 
With Shayna Grissom, I was simply trying to be supportive of a first time novelist. But here's the thing about Shayna and I, our interaction for a year: she never read my work, nor my blog, and slammed me only because I lent support to The Federalist, on the issue of homosexuality, in public. After she blocked me on Twitter, she had no affliction of conscience following my account on Goodreads. As I told her in message, I was a professional reviewer. Books sales evidently trump whatever offense I impinged upon.

Draco's Fire Lunge

'passed on from hand to hand"-- Elton John, negating projectile weapons

In the differential between being helpless and being rendered helpless, it is interesting to note that the keystone for Magee Rehabilitation Hospital was laid in 1982, while I was zipping around the borough of Ridley Park and the city of Chester, oblivious, on that mainly picturesque campus, of the sterile fate which lie ahead as part of the Jefferson Health network. Magee’s masonry is still relatively young, just shy of forty years, the front line, in Philadelphia, for spinal injuries, I only ever penetrated here to be fitted, as my closed circuit institutionalization began in 1972, not that this insolent and glowering little vixen could know this, with her spitfire blond strands, uneven stare. She could not hope to travel through my varied gateway of sexual molestation at the hands of African minorities, vaginally penetrated, as if I were nothing more than a terrorized marsupial dispensed for use on the forearm of privileged schoolboys. She deserves to be slapped across the face, this single syllable expression of umbrage and bloodthirsty xxxxx’es, and perhaps she realizes, the little cunt, that a spastic such as I calls out the cannon, already in prison, with nothing to lose in the deploy of the big guns.

She isn’t much of an adversary in her bristle.

Ellen De Generes, conversely, probably would comprehend these rivulets of scar tissue in the guise of my violent stepfather, abusing one and all in my whore of a mother’s household. I suppose I fled, like a boomerang, while Ellen dispenses with femininity altogether. This cross dressing transvestite enthusiasm actually has a long undercurrent in vaudeville going back to the Victorian era. The disability law firm from Maryland, following me in a brief subterranean exchange, may be hungry enough to take legal action against the vendor Mainline Medical, presided over by my uncle, Louis Cristinziani, but what good is that in a burning vertigo on the verge of collapse?

Chachi Piercings

and Farrah Faucett's death becomes a footnote in history, a commentator on Jackson's overdose the same day

So when Mary Poppins here deigns to lecture me I will bite. She is the one shouting. No one had to respond to my cross post. I was just politicizing dependency. https://t.co/j00AtgwZWR

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) May 27, 2019

So much of a fusillade, these so many things to do while shading in the margins of circling the drain, and where does directional conscious lead? To a mild sense of astonished commiseration for Scott Baio in social media mothballs. He gets attacked for tweeting about his daughter playing golf. We should all have Mr. Baio’s problems while we lament incontinence destroying what is left of quality of life, and Melaine shouts about cooption of a Delete Facebook pushback (promptly deleted after her bout of agitation over her indignation of digital etiquette, for Christ's sake, with this country's problems). I too am now universally excoriated by the disabled community. We all die alone, the title of a German guilt novel so thick with pathos it submerges like a diving bell, or like Farrah dying on a luxurious duvet, maintaining her wounded Texan girl looks until the very end, but that very end was the most horrible transfiguration of what and who she was, inured, after years of medical drama, inured, but not quite inured enough not to find O'Neal's material trappings grotesque, purely and simply, a fetish of baubles. He'll never answer my questions about The Driver, this piece on merging Walter Hill to Carter's bubba presidency. I've worked so hard to penetrate, merge a thesis on my own terms, my life vacuumed under, much like the impression of a manufactured construct Alana Stewart leaves behind, a residual effect, Baio's solicitation of crisis management is merely a pragmatic reflection of reality. Video rules our lives more thoroughly than any impending existential threat to our existence, like medical rationing. I regret absorbing Farrah's struggle. It was rather tense, superficial. Perhaps Mr. Baio is just a proud, decent dad, but I am past accolades. If a critic wishes to appear sympathetic, Baio had a amicable mien, in the window of youthful vigor, suitable for the nostalgia toward milk and cookies. While Happy Days splayed its wholesome innocence, I was in the surgical ward, bones broken, my insane mother driving me into a squall, arguably dooming us both, those fleeting moments sparse. Have I no joy, nothing in this momentous arc? Only those moments before the end of my affairs.
I hurt Sunday evening, my face mottled in loneliness, poised to do anything to end this *home care*.

Vocal Cords of Alyssa Milano

"This reverend brother has been all his life engaged in fighting among the Saracens for the recovery of the Holy Sepulchre; he is of the order of Knights Templars--" Sir Walter Scott, one of the first to utilize the innovation of life insurance.

I spent the evening desperately looking to make a digital pitch, failed in the effort, but resolved to hit Harper’s later this week with a traditional mailing despite living conditions to the tune of a dilapidated bunker. I misplaced my hardcopy file in this melee of public housing and destitution, but misplaced it on my own, despite my father’s ineffectual convergence with minority fatalism and Mainline Medical’s deplorable product fitting, I had the file, pulling out my accomplishments, still making an effort to get Negro medical management to see me as human, barking them down to fleeing from me in terror, but didn’t place said file back into place. It is a strange power to have, this spark of hatred in my eyes so ready and willing to die in the name of an insurgency I cannot even define, as every sort of organizing principle has governance behind it, whatever equitable distribution we believe in or not. Tanz Industries and Darius might have saved civilization on a thumbnail, (not the only one disgruntled with the CBS cancelation) but the Variety piece tells us nothing except ratings. No sourcing, just a straight news item, no names, no tug of war between the show’s producers and the executives at the Central Broadcasting System who made the cut. Salvation was a damn good series for what it was, utilizing real propulsion theory and applied engineering, so that even libertarians can hate corporate sometimes, and certainly do. We all hate rental agents within varying degrees, and make no mistake that section 202 owners are engaged in the business of gerontology, but it is not a market based contracture. It is a taxpayer subsidy for a broad range of spectrum disorders in the elderly 62 and above, and I rolled into it as a 31 year old career professional. Now look at me, luckily so caged, so free to leave. I can roll out on this fraternal Presbyterian dictatorship anytime I please, after years of subjugated terror. Threatening the governor of Pennsylvania means next to nothing to me in this context. I mean that literally, despite the fact that Wolf and Ridge and the ailing Rendell are status quo establishment politicians we all used to favor. Put Wolf, the executive, and Toomey, the stalwart Irishman, in the same room, and what do you have? Both are pro-business, one doesn’t like the Social Security dispensary on the backs of American workers, the other is never going to say that Medicaid is merely a transposition for the descendants of slaves. Both would condescend to me, “now now spastic, homicide is not a legitimate political outcome.” But that’s only a veneer, and all a care giver has to do is have a bad day, leave me lying on the single foam mattress, move the power chair away. It would be interesting to discover if I still had the collegiate strength to get up off the floor, to conquer bad wheelchair technology.

The Anvil and The Nail

Margaret Sanger, the founder of Planned Parenthood, was an evil genius. She said she hoped to “exterminate blacks like weeds” & so began “educating” us about “choice”. She is the author of voluntary genocide.
18 million black deaths later & liberals still defend her dream.
Sad!

— Candace Owens (@RealCandaceO) May 15, 2019

In the constant sifting through the sand dunes of mediocrity in search of aesthetic kernels, the sort of kernel which can fuel the engine for any contemplative essay, not just the pet peeves of an obstinate blogger, enthusiasm for an Australian actor like John Noble can dull rather quickly. His first ripple on the isometric weather system which hovers over this coastal metropolis was on The Fringe, a series which was an early attempt by JJ Abrams Productions at expiation for not living up to the expectations generated by Lost, and no spinoff or imitator ever quite had the same impact on popular culture as that plane crash, but The Fringe had high hopes of doing so with the offering of an invidious transhumanism which only managed to lampoon itself, which is a great deal for the dowager’s lack of interest to assert, as Noble didn’t leave her captivated as the unstable scientist. One could speculate that Noble is the tin man version of Cate Blanchett, generational descendants of penal colony exports who pay homage to the motherland but “get” America, to paraphrase Blanchett herself, her contextual framework worth some thought against her headier films. In Heaven, an extended metaphor superimposed on an already elaborate medieval structure, Blanchett and Ribisi are penitents, but is it merely coincidental that their shaven scalps evoke Holocaust survivors? Noble is meant to project that degree of enigmatic menace onto his viewers, but only does so with a rather shallow apologia, the dark side of Darius Tanz’es nimble libertarian liquidity in Salvation, and because CBS is a two bit shallow nickel and dime hustler, they hustle Noble over to The Good Wife while Salvation is still taping to get him to do another shadowy figure killed by an indignant defendant probably bedazzled by tortuous action against his harmless barking dog into the stark travesty killing which is Noble’s fate. We might as well embrace Bach.

This is something Brian Sims manages to conveniently obliterate from the latest ignition over Roe v Wade. He behaves, in that self-created video, like a patriarchal male who dares to treat women of faith like the Second Sex. This doesn’t mean that men don’t have the right to speak, but Sims engages in visceral relegation of the feminine mystique, a homosexual male helping women destroy the newborn of the species. It was a fatal miscalculation for a Democrat who has a lock on the 182 district he represents. Pennsylvania Republicans don’t have candidates to run against him or Farnese, my state senator on whom I finally, if briefly, set eyes. His lock down is also a form of cowardice. He isn’t an abortion doctor, Sims, merely a new age autocrat paving the way for humanity’s new edge transformation. We already know the adage, in our collective conscience, about being careful with wishes.

The Anvil

I thought I had already posted the picture of Sims posing with me. It is quite possible I did post it and using Google's internal search engine simply did not locate it under the legislator's name. Here it is:

If you look closely I am obviously emotionally ransacked, and you can hear a more able Mary Worrrilow talk over my head saying "that's better," after I tried doing Wellbutrin in 2003. This photo with a caviler and well groomed attorney who we do not need to envision in an anal posture occurs much later, perhaps 18 months before this last, perhaps final, implosion of my independence. Mary Worrilow is my mother's youngest surviving sister. She and I aren't on speaking terms, and I don't like her, never have, nor her husband, nor her daughter who says she loves me so much. But for the moment, I'll just add this. If a quadriplegic with a battering ram life can put a homosexual politician who can certainly pass for straight on his knees for the sake of being placated, then the world isn't going to end. When Isabella commissioned the Spanish Inquisition, Brian and I both would have been tortured, even ignited and scorched above faggots to purge Christendom of blasphemy.