Petty Shallows

I am reluctant to use the active ingredient in Mucinex, which is Guainfensin, to treat my chronic pulmonary decline, because it was certainly not designed for emphysema, but it is the best decongestant I have ever used that is an over the counter treatment. At least it used to be, and although I am unexpectedly drying out, as I posted yesterday, I do not need a relapse, and popped another with breakfast, and this is left over capellini and sardines; no driving out in the rain, even for Fancy Feast; the children will have to make due with the Purina K&K and my two small cans until tomorrow. A shower would make me feel better in one sense, but I need the breeze; it eases the still air in the unit that makes me labor, and so I will wait a little longer to feel confident about closing the windows and getting wet.

Due to the light winter, I am very much afraid of a summer with hard driving temperatures, and perhaps need to grit my teeth and buy a fan, and expend energy on how to keep the children safe with it in the living area.

Again, you may feel that my moral blame laid at the doorstep of  Linda, Liberty, and Presby is representative of impaired judgment, but, by the time I glued myself back together from what Linda had done, I lost unrestricted use of Paratransit, and Presby was harassing me, constantly. My tense relationship with this company did not begin with their hire of Trudy Richardson, and if I am forced to continue my decline here, it will not end with her departure. Building managers are like candied almonds to this corrupt religious entity.

I have detailed numerous other instances for you in these years, and now things may be stable, but my health is failing, and sustained victimatization has as much to do with that as my struggle with ending tobacco use. Internalizing my abuse has not been good for me, and as a factual matter, the law may not have any exceptions to offer me to pursue any kind of justice.

Still, I took the time last evening to print my templates, and the kids, because I have been cautious, haven't noticed anything.

I do not fear my state representative, or complaining to her. I fear the fallout at the end of the day if I persist in keeping these things front and center as violations of the Americans With Disabilities Act, and my civil rights. Maybe I am mistaken if I think the ACLU is an effective shield here, but I am packing up my first copy to them, with additional letterhead. I do not know about Governor Corbett, but I am hoping to use his lack of enthusiasm of ADAPT and Cassie James, to my advantage.

The Aeneid

I have refrained from discussing my banishment from The Literature Network with the same impetus that I have discussed my banishment from the P$W Speakeasy, partly due to the fact that my sins in the former community were negligible in comparison to the latter, and the site owner remains, still, an infantile jackass, but losing the connection of virtual familiarity still bites. I have little desire to return to the latter site, and this took me ten years of grinding away at a guilt I allowed to balloon, seeing myself in a fearful and degenerative aspect, which more or less is concomitant on mental illness as a matter of degree, to parse more finely, a mood disorder. To tirelessly reiterate the point, however, what I wanted from the MFA guild was a path to freedom that did not involve teaching, and it is now in twilight. As to the former forum, so called, it bores the shit out of me, minus the handful of useful contacts; those contacts, however, are apparently not my friends, since none of them use my comment section, and they know spastic is also the avatar Jozanny, hence my cynicism about connection and alienation through device, despite the fact that the stability of my lung function is coming to an end. I have probably purchased my last supply of Aeros, and may need more aggressive breathing therapy very soon, and even though I may not have fully connected the dots to any satisfaction of the online legal community, my former supervisor, her employer, and my landlord, have, through their negligence, destroyed my health. Had Liberty kept its promises, I would not today be so weakened, and sick, and levels of loss have their priorities.

However, I reconnected with Virgil (Manny) by the virtue of a spammer who had gotten hold of his yahoo address, and will confess that I have relented in relation to our former friction, which can be blamed on Italian provincial rivalry between NYC and Philly neighborhoods, she smiles while dying. If you hurry and look at the site, you'll notice Orphan Pip is still an active regular, and thus will be footnoted. The moderator Scheherazade, intones, "We take bans very seriously, and will not talk about them."

This, as well, is an utter form of hypocrisy. I committed no crime; my lungs were in bad shape and the site owner kicked me off because I attempted to discuss the chapter summary payment for what I had completed. Our capacity for pretension knows no end, and is in fact, limitless, and no one there cares about compassion for a homebound invalid.

As Manny is of my blood, I forgive his citations of the godspel of John to comfort me, and bear him the affection of our fellowship, remain pleased that he came to meet me and that we exchanged gifts and kisses, and that he and his wife are happy with their young son, and that I can bless their fortunes from afar, and the personal convictions he and I share are no longer so different, though Manny has been a good Catholic, and spastic has not, and can never recommit to the faith, as such, because I cannot vacillate, like Anne Rice, between extremes. I may have mentioned I sent her POB a letter once. Pointless exercise.

Fear & Trembling

I only have a portion of Kierkegaard's seminal work in translation from mobi, but the focus here concerns Wiki's summary of William X Kienzle seemingly renders the former priest's career with as much contention as I have experienced with various theocracies. I do not know his noir novels on which the film with Sutherland as the progressive cleric is based, and so made a note of this for future reference, in order to clarify things later if need be, but the film itself is not very good, and so I cannot defend The Rosary Murders as the studio translated it in 1987, but I can extrapolate from it, and we'll happily work our way backwards, starting with the omega, because starting with the conclusion is the best way I can enter into it.

San Luis Rey Bridges

I am of an age when I can now enter into Jerry's skin; my exuberant youth that saw him as epistemological cocaine must have amounted to a mega sized pain in the ass; if his poetry is any indication he hasn't changed much, and other than tabulating my damages, I cannot really tell you how much I have changed. There was always some sense of emotional risk and unease that I attached to physical intimacy with potential lovers, and here I am, looking at the young with a jaundiced eye, even if it alters my perspective in relation to my past.

The capellini did not upset my stomach yesterday, as I had it with a light cream and scallops quick frozen and packaged by Trader Joe's (I cannot praise this gift-wrapped franchise model from California enough, although if you asked me how it is so very different from a traditional supermarket, I would probably have to borrow a snot-nosed New York Times MBA to assist me in elucidating its convenience couture), and I actually tired myself out from working yesterday, email upon email, which will accrue as my deadline approaches; I now know when that deadline is, and thus, have calmed, after a brief quake of my scar tissue; it came and went within moments, which is what my earlier therapists and I have been trying to illustrate. With healthy supports, I am pretty much fine, and the problem with Liberty Resources (if you are a parent with a disabled child, I warn you, if you donate to Liberty you assist a bad provider at your peril) over the years has been that it did not provide me with a healthy support environment, which is why I will defy death itself to get this federal mandate revisited, even if I have to repeat this in hundreds of posts.

Which reminds me, I did not print my template letter yet, because I have not had the time to package and protect it against the children so I could post it, but I have been informed that the senator's staff will be here next week. Do I simply present the missive, or properly postmark the thing, or present the missive and mail it to myself and the ACLU? I have my own level of cowardice and fear, but I cannot let this issue go, because crime was committed, my life was jeopardized. I cannot bury this and allow a future Linda to wind up killing someone because she doesn't know how to pay attention, but that doesn't mean I am not scared that the state of Pennsylvania might punish me further for raising my voice.

Mmm. Time for a fresh fake.

Today I am more along the lines of nibbling, pondering the Motorola Faith of Rome in which I was raised, and the nostalgia that surrounds it like my candy coated almonds. I mean, of course I could go back to mass and not say anything, and utilize my parish for my own ends, but I fear my pugilist tendencies against the collar, and the deference we pay to papal authority, which doesn't quite fit the progressive white shock of hair that is Donald Sutherland in the late 20th century, playing a not quite credible Father Koesler in a thriller that languishes. We'll kick it up.
 

Lamb Vindaloo

Panic begins to descend, but I need to calm down. I did not give New Editor a specific date. I told (them) this week, and if I have to wait until Friday to send (them) an update, then I wait. My source, on the basis of my research, may not exist, but most likely does; this is not a time to go driving around center city for Fancy Feast wet meat that Joey is not going to voice complaint over, but by tonight I shall be forced, having given up, bought a bag of  Kit & Kaboodle called it treats, and the children seem quite happy chasing dry food all over the studio. They want dry food, and this drives mother to distraction, worrying about Beloved Son's bladder. I do not leave it in their bowl, and for now this is the best I can do, having inexplicably lost two cans of the aforementioned wet meat, I have to go get more, but it will be a late night drive.

10/5 edit: My guilt lies in this laxity, as my poor child would have still been alive if I had remained strict, although I had hoped he was cured, as there were no blocks in his previous straining behavior when I did manage to get him in; I loved this animal, despite my resentment of Aunt Marie obligating me with 27 years of responsibility, sometimes conflict with my now incisively hated landlord. I have no one with whom I can share my grief, not an intimate in the truest sense.
***

I deleted my March 2010 post about my taste for Indian food discovered at the Taj Mahal; if I wish to now begin my my lede (deep breath). I did indicate, in the 2010 post, that the restaurant on Chestnut Street that was known as the Taj Mahal was closed. I do not know why, but this is what I did in 1997, other than cyber sex and trolling for the real thing, I rolled into restaurants, franchises, some now defunct, and spent money on meals I could not afford, alone. I am not sure what it would take anymore not to always be on the inner self of my own consciousness.

Ubi Caritas

As I have stated before in earlier posts, there is a part of me that wants to return to the hard Roman Catholicism of the past, the brutally hard faith that makes Mel Gibson believe his anti-Semiticism is its own self-justification; the kind of hard faith that allows for anti-homosexual attitudes, in point of fact. I am not hostile to the civil expansion of gay rights because I am repressing my sexual desire to eat pussy and suck boobs. I had my trial by fire. I am anti-homosexual because celebrating and making this orientation equal to the positive life force of procreation is a moral corruption, even if it has perfectly acceptable biological explanations. Biology, indeed, the very process of evolution is brutal, and that brutality has plenty of side pockets for evil to fester, just as most of us feel that a cancer, just sitting inside the body, doing its thing, is evil, even if its cellular mechanisms can be objectively explained as a process. In his Granta essay about his disease and his drug use, and Granta loves this detached descriptive darkness of our interior destructive impulses, I've read enough of the periodical over the years to know this even without concurrence, Will Self writes that he had to come to hate his drug use in order to survive and overcome it. I wanted to write to Will, on the heels of finishing his essay, and have not. His dissonance would not necessarily connect with mine, and he is working his assignments; I have yet to reestablish myself. To take from his example, however, while my epidermis shrivels up and crunches, a pork rind, I am forced to use intolerance for the same ends: to survive being a loser and treated like my former supervisor's whelp bitch, and my trust again violated by Josie Byzek, I have had to roll up the draw bridge. Something of this dynamic is what John Patrick Shanley deploys in Doubt (2008 for the film); my hearing loss is an issue in my attempt to view this movie properly, but I saw it again this morning in the full force of its impact, and the way the theater parable was translated to the screen actually makes me thirst to compare a well directed stage performance. Even though this is my third view of the movie, I am too moved at this moment for aesthetic distance of the sort that no doubt would give me a larger and more comfortable audience-- but I am sacrificing popularity for the sake of my agenda, even if that agenda will not necessarily be preserved by a current content account. Somehow, maybe my outcry will survive, and in the future, the worst of CIL cruelity can be reformed and held in check.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ubi_caritas

And, by the same token, the worst of public housing contracts which lead to corruption and hypocrisy can one day be held in check. But I will mention one or two things about this film. The set director nailed the historical context, even with the sisters' habits, though I am not familiar with the particular type of bonnet the nuns wore, and I enjoyed Philip Seymour Hoffman as Father Flynn. It was a well nuanced performance, one of the few times his talent really honed in with trouble and ambiguity.

Spud Dud

I used to watch The Fugitive series, and the last episode had such an anti-climatic thud that it makes Hugh Laurie's diminished season cliff hangers look positively grandiose, and this despite David Lynch's imitative tribute via Bob; any derivative articles I do as a result of this on going and twisted disability thesis might involve investigation into keynote one time wonders like David Janssen.

What did actors like these do with themselves after having one series like this, which, after all, was a bit blase? For some reason, I liked him in his methodical, almost leisurely pursuit of the one-armed man, yet another amputee villain for our cap trophies. Perhaps it was his reserve, suggestive of more beneath the surface.