7.99 is not a bad price to be inundated with the state socialist model which controls most of the world. In my cable deprived free broadcast zone, WYBE runs Mhz feed, when not broadcasting the Russians in English, on 35.5, and I've no idea how this new streaming package will affect my droll allegiance to Mikael Persbrandt as the sole conservative in Sweden, or a parody of one, barring Johan Norberg, who has earned liberal critiquing rights, along with Niall Ferguson, with the seal of approval from the American left. But European procedurals bore me too now, and I really only watch to see how those corrupt souls who didn't emigrate manage themselves in the world, weighing in my mind Roman tolerances over my current non-compliance in Philadelphia's African shadow state. I do not know that it would necessarily be worse. Italians know my type, and deal with the abrasions of the social outcast with a thousand years of theatrical absurdity behind them.
This model is damaging my health, and that because of a Medicare bean counter. I give my notice in July, assuming I live that long, and take Septa to my proverbial stepmother's home and camp outside a block in Springfield. Enough to provoke an eighty year old padre over the edge?
What I fail to understand is why Presbyterian Homes doesn't evict me. I've all but labeled myself a reactionary racist, brimming with ferocity. I hate nearly all the tenants, and cannot think of many exceptions. I've satirized Trudy Richardson as a google-eyed fool, and Debra Horne is a Neanderthal dredged from the Mississippi River. Their parent employer all but treats me like a rabid zoological specimen, utilizing the carrot and stick approach. The interior of this studio is a deplorable statement on a nearly lifelong battle with indigence, and nothing moves, as I've stated in the past, until something does. By the time the motherfuckers who run this company decide to litigate my competency, I'll be out on the street, shifting the parameters. I made contact with one wheelchair company, one, and I simply don't have the time to play the single payer option system for a tilt chair design disaster. I let Magee do this to me, and I have no strings to pull.
If I thought it would do any good, I'd have myself arrested for assaulting Democrats.
Thursday, April 30, 2015
Sunday, April 26, 2015
Incurable Desires of a Romantic at Heart
Dear Orhan Pamuk,
My name is Joanne Marinelli. Before you appeared on the round table with Charlie Rose to promote Snow, I had no idea who you were, but your interview with the zealous and cosmopolitan talk show host stayed with me, and I purchased an electronic edition of your novel long after its rippling effects on the circuit had simmered down, and I gained not a few page views from Turkey when I compared my own militancy to the threat your poet Ka felt from Hande during the family gathering in Kars. I write a rather esoteric blog called Disability in Entertainment Arts, and Google doesn't always know what to do with my equally acerbic outbursts. Google Blogger was going to privatize my account and then reversed itself, so you aren't the only one who's voice is occasionally hindered by authority, even if my manners aren't as subtle as yours, within your clever narration techniques.
I am a long suffering poet with spastic cerebral palsy, native to Philadelphia, with a small collection of poetry called Like Fire. I do not yet have a second, and at the rate my life is going, my oeuvre may be left as unfinished as that of your sad protagonist. I had a brief rise as a poet, a longer stint as an ineffectual case manager within disability and mental health intake, then earned 3,000 USD as a journalist, like Ka.
I suppose I am writing to you, as opposed to doing what can only now be a retrospective appreciation of your novel, because I identify with the alienation of your analytical observers within the text, and I was betrayed by people I trusted in a rather heinous fashion, and for an American, my situation is presently untenable, though perhaps not as dire as your suicide girls. I am not being beaten by my ex-fiancé, but I am being terrorized by the state welfare system as Pennsylvania administers it, presently engaging in a passive resistance which isn't much of a solution: a homeless cripple by the end of July is in a far worse position in a majority African city than a defiant cripple who gives in to the cruelty of compliance models given her age, hence this small trail of epistolary outreach to career academics.
After all the Modernist tricks I've learned, and even after the streak of lightning that was David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, a construct which brought me to tears because no matter how hard I practice I'll never achieve anything like that, you are a very gifted novelist, possibly a great one, breaking through all the stereotypical images Hollywood offers about what being Turkish means. I'm half rabid with poverty, inches away from being crushed by merciless regimentation, and though I never studied under a foreign national like you, you made me care, made me struggle with my own conflicts with pluralism in secular governance. I'm never going to be happy, but I am undoubtedly afraid to give a life afflicted with so much pain up to fate.
My best wishes,
Joanne
My name is Joanne Marinelli. Before you appeared on the round table with Charlie Rose to promote Snow, I had no idea who you were, but your interview with the zealous and cosmopolitan talk show host stayed with me, and I purchased an electronic edition of your novel long after its rippling effects on the circuit had simmered down, and I gained not a few page views from Turkey when I compared my own militancy to the threat your poet Ka felt from Hande during the family gathering in Kars. I write a rather esoteric blog called Disability in Entertainment Arts, and Google doesn't always know what to do with my equally acerbic outbursts. Google Blogger was going to privatize my account and then reversed itself, so you aren't the only one who's voice is occasionally hindered by authority, even if my manners aren't as subtle as yours, within your clever narration techniques.
I am a long suffering poet with spastic cerebral palsy, native to Philadelphia, with a small collection of poetry called Like Fire. I do not yet have a second, and at the rate my life is going, my oeuvre may be left as unfinished as that of your sad protagonist. I had a brief rise as a poet, a longer stint as an ineffectual case manager within disability and mental health intake, then earned 3,000 USD as a journalist, like Ka.
I suppose I am writing to you, as opposed to doing what can only now be a retrospective appreciation of your novel, because I identify with the alienation of your analytical observers within the text, and I was betrayed by people I trusted in a rather heinous fashion, and for an American, my situation is presently untenable, though perhaps not as dire as your suicide girls. I am not being beaten by my ex-fiancé, but I am being terrorized by the state welfare system as Pennsylvania administers it, presently engaging in a passive resistance which isn't much of a solution: a homeless cripple by the end of July is in a far worse position in a majority African city than a defiant cripple who gives in to the cruelty of compliance models given her age, hence this small trail of epistolary outreach to career academics.
After all the Modernist tricks I've learned, and even after the streak of lightning that was David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, a construct which brought me to tears because no matter how hard I practice I'll never achieve anything like that, you are a very gifted novelist, possibly a great one, breaking through all the stereotypical images Hollywood offers about what being Turkish means. I'm half rabid with poverty, inches away from being crushed by merciless regimentation, and though I never studied under a foreign national like you, you made me care, made me struggle with my own conflicts with pluralism in secular governance. I'm never going to be happy, but I am undoubtedly afraid to give a life afflicted with so much pain up to fate.
My best wishes,
Joanne
Friday, April 24, 2015
Derelict in Transition
"I don't want any surprises."-- a Philadelphia police officer who ignored my request to be placed under arrest as he took my arm and I pivoted.
Or, when you're fucked, you're fucked, like Timothy Hutton as the troubled father on American Crime, a show experienced rather late, without the time for much back episode viewing, but Hutton, like so much in the perpetual motion of the generation gap, is a familiar figure, probably weary of the query I asked on his twitter account about Ordinary People; it is a frightening film, because the taut layer of repression is lethal, to his character and Mary Tyler Moore's, and perhaps for those of us with dead brothers.
Much like the previously referenced novelist, referenced with a mysterious undercurrent of umbrage?, Hutton was never able to quite close the deal with the following he had, and I was one among them, the silent follower who had a hidden reservoir of affection for the cuter, personable, everyman, who, like the stalwart Gene Hackman, could inhabit anything, soldier, con artist, a lost soul threatened by overwhelming guilt. And when the man is on, those undercurrents reach out.
My entire life has fallen apart, simply in shambles, with throbbing maniacal emotional scars off nicotine and doses of salmon oil, with fantasies of physical conflict my diabolical cunning cannot in fact engage over and above my biology, and I keep eating humiliation on top of humiliation and cannot move the needle in a suicide attempt because I am so crippled and so poor failure would simply make it worse, and yet, I'm still not doing the certification HUD requires, deliberately making it very very hard, tweeting to celebrities who comfort me like it's nothing, a casual exchange, and if I was younger perhaps I could cling to a hope of resurgence but I really can't.
Yes, I have the second chair, and I am in it, but the Quantum is not friendly to my independence, and the P-200 may not be worth saving and I can no longer buy a used machine. Too many plates on a stick, and that is assuredly old school variety gawking. I asked poppa to come over. He mistook my meaning. Nicky is always between us, as is his hatred for my mother, miscarrying a first born son, god punishing a bad Korean conflict era hook up with a disaster of a palsied daughter, then a dead imbecile, and his one little boy was a psychotic. Hail to our fathers.
Or, when you're fucked, you're fucked, like Timothy Hutton as the troubled father on American Crime, a show experienced rather late, without the time for much back episode viewing, but Hutton, like so much in the perpetual motion of the generation gap, is a familiar figure, probably weary of the query I asked on his twitter account about Ordinary People; it is a frightening film, because the taut layer of repression is lethal, to his character and Mary Tyler Moore's, and perhaps for those of us with dead brothers.
Much like the previously referenced novelist, referenced with a mysterious undercurrent of umbrage?, Hutton was never able to quite close the deal with the following he had, and I was one among them, the silent follower who had a hidden reservoir of affection for the cuter, personable, everyman, who, like the stalwart Gene Hackman, could inhabit anything, soldier, con artist, a lost soul threatened by overwhelming guilt. And when the man is on, those undercurrents reach out.
My entire life has fallen apart, simply in shambles, with throbbing maniacal emotional scars off nicotine and doses of salmon oil, with fantasies of physical conflict my diabolical cunning cannot in fact engage over and above my biology, and I keep eating humiliation on top of humiliation and cannot move the needle in a suicide attempt because I am so crippled and so poor failure would simply make it worse, and yet, I'm still not doing the certification HUD requires, deliberately making it very very hard, tweeting to celebrities who comfort me like it's nothing, a casual exchange, and if I was younger perhaps I could cling to a hope of resurgence but I really can't.
Yes, I have the second chair, and I am in it, but the Quantum is not friendly to my independence, and the P-200 may not be worth saving and I can no longer buy a used machine. Too many plates on a stick, and that is assuredly old school variety gawking. I asked poppa to come over. He mistook my meaning. Nicky is always between us, as is his hatred for my mother, miscarrying a first born son, god punishing a bad Korean conflict era hook up with a disaster of a palsied daughter, then a dead imbecile, and his one little boy was a psychotic. Hail to our fathers.
Thursday, April 23, 2015
The Spiritual Crisis of Climate Change
My second senator, son of the late, blithe, governor no one remembers, except in national memorial sentiment. I have avoided contacting the political scion of the western half of the state, which consists, in no particular order, of gun toting militia men, coal, hard line right wingers who'd pat me on the head, lasso me, and then stick me in the pig sty, asking me how I'd rate that environment over other forms of social constraint, and, of course, our infamous religious sects, the Mennonites and other dwindling Luddites, ah yes, the Amish, in my creative way around memory gap.
I only skimmed Casey's deft, polished, platform, left a comment on his Earth Day piece which probably puzzled whoever read it, but if I were to diagram, a town like Grantsville beats with Rick Santorum's heart. That it is now Casey's political base, while Toomey controls Philadelphia and the Southeast, is, well, skewered.
There is an inherent contradiction between the pressures of good environmental stewardship and radical egalitarian model for human rights, which capitalism takes care of through a social Darwinism once removed. Humanity cannot uphold the dignity of all and reverse its own climate change crisis at the same time. It isn't possible, which is why the left lies, religious authorities retain their cruelty through lack of competency, and aging individuals are hustled off with all the kindness in the world, and China will never micro-manage it all. Nor can I dissect a page view from UAE with any more speculation than the fact that I follow a blog from Morocco, just to keep an eye on things. Croatia, Ukraine, Turkey, 30 views from Turkey because I encapsulated Orhan's poet with a capture of understanding for doxology. I'm almost finished with Snow, and may just stop there, or not, but Bob junior apparently wants Al Gore's mantle, in less superlative fashion. I want an insurgency, an incompatible combination.
I only skimmed Casey's deft, polished, platform, left a comment on his Earth Day piece which probably puzzled whoever read it, but if I were to diagram, a town like Grantsville beats with Rick Santorum's heart. That it is now Casey's political base, while Toomey controls Philadelphia and the Southeast, is, well, skewered.
There is an inherent contradiction between the pressures of good environmental stewardship and radical egalitarian model for human rights, which capitalism takes care of through a social Darwinism once removed. Humanity cannot uphold the dignity of all and reverse its own climate change crisis at the same time. It isn't possible, which is why the left lies, religious authorities retain their cruelty through lack of competency, and aging individuals are hustled off with all the kindness in the world, and China will never micro-manage it all. Nor can I dissect a page view from UAE with any more speculation than the fact that I follow a blog from Morocco, just to keep an eye on things. Croatia, Ukraine, Turkey, 30 views from Turkey because I encapsulated Orhan's poet with a capture of understanding for doxology. I'm almost finished with Snow, and may just stop there, or not, but Bob junior apparently wants Al Gore's mantle, in less superlative fashion. I want an insurgency, an incompatible combination.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Mirage
"Life had finally caught up with me, and I was utterly overwhelmed."-- Peter Noble, Winning the War against Worry
Digital data processing doesn't make our lives easier; it merely concentrates it, and then we'll need applications to manage it all, forgetting key things crucial to what we do. Technology optimism is thus relative.
My lack of compliance, while not as aggressive as the slew of notable suicides in recent years, will enlarge my vulnerability as much as my intransigence is self protection, and beneath the surface, if I am homeless by the end of July, I do not care, whether I last hours, or weeks, before I'm transported, dumped, back to institutional paradigms of childhood and career, forced onto a catheter, but it isn't that I don't want to live, nor even that I do not want domestic assistance. I want to decide these things, not have an indomitable, stupid woman from Mississippi decide them for me. I never heard of Dr. Brandt, until his hanging became another titillating spectacle we need to cure depression tableau of the moment.
It seems to me, given what women such as I have to field, that he was a sissy, so I'd fall into Sarah Bernstein's caviler satirists category. The argument there being when the cruel joke is a way of coping as opposed to a hate crime (zzzz). He had money, a successful career, and I lost my savings being afraid of a tootsie roll like Trudy Richardson, afraid of her power to continually ostracize me, and she and Debra, their civil service enforcers, have been preeminently successful on that score, just as the seniors under Debra Schwab were, literally harassing me. I do not need it. A police officer using force against me for a deliberate, or developmental disruption, is more honest. Broken primates suck up money.
I'm not entirely unhappy either, which might surprise you, because whatever happens, I will always fight to be free, on my terms, with my awesome, ferocious mind, tired of being a passive anomaly for compassionate problem solvers like an old flame. Yes, I've made mistakes, and hired a nice floozy off Craigslist named Karina who was the beginning of the end of ambulatory treading on my personal dignity because she wanted to help, by throwing out all my documents and some personal effects, and Trudy wanted to know, "Why are you blaming me?"
Because my life has to be destroyed for some standard I could never meet in the first place.
Digital data processing doesn't make our lives easier; it merely concentrates it, and then we'll need applications to manage it all, forgetting key things crucial to what we do. Technology optimism is thus relative.
My lack of compliance, while not as aggressive as the slew of notable suicides in recent years, will enlarge my vulnerability as much as my intransigence is self protection, and beneath the surface, if I am homeless by the end of July, I do not care, whether I last hours, or weeks, before I'm transported, dumped, back to institutional paradigms of childhood and career, forced onto a catheter, but it isn't that I don't want to live, nor even that I do not want domestic assistance. I want to decide these things, not have an indomitable, stupid woman from Mississippi decide them for me. I never heard of Dr. Brandt, until his hanging became another titillating spectacle we need to cure depression tableau of the moment.
It seems to me, given what women such as I have to field, that he was a sissy, so I'd fall into Sarah Bernstein's caviler satirists category. The argument there being when the cruel joke is a way of coping as opposed to a hate crime (zzzz). He had money, a successful career, and I lost my savings being afraid of a tootsie roll like Trudy Richardson, afraid of her power to continually ostracize me, and she and Debra, their civil service enforcers, have been preeminently successful on that score, just as the seniors under Debra Schwab were, literally harassing me. I do not need it. A police officer using force against me for a deliberate, or developmental disruption, is more honest. Broken primates suck up money.
I'm not entirely unhappy either, which might surprise you, because whatever happens, I will always fight to be free, on my terms, with my awesome, ferocious mind, tired of being a passive anomaly for compassionate problem solvers like an old flame. Yes, I've made mistakes, and hired a nice floozy off Craigslist named Karina who was the beginning of the end of ambulatory treading on my personal dignity because she wanted to help, by throwing out all my documents and some personal effects, and Trudy wanted to know, "Why are you blaming me?"
Because my life has to be destroyed for some standard I could never meet in the first place.
Sleepy Hollow
I have absolutely nothing to post, and logged on to actually research Nigeria for my diary entry, savage desolation of which, unseen except by my hard drive, Blogger would not disrupt my account, but not the savage desolation of which you might imagine. Not that he would answer me, (oh geez, this is him now) but I'd quaff John by his ears, today, for spending so much time with me when we were underclassmen. I'd go back in time and lunge at him, beating his sinewy Italian chest, saying "why? why torment me if you didn't want me?" and he'd punch a mirror, drop acid perhaps. I don't even know what the idiom means, dropping acid, and my rental agent is using government agents to corral me in a cage, or black authoritarians, whatever, I'm Kundera's Stalinist joke, a one spastic circus, who hopped in the shower before the news, as usual, and nothing happened, and if I had not called the guard earlier in the month, and had lain there, waited, wriggled, experimented and with strenuous effort picked myself up, I would not now be in this most dynamic challenge, as an obstinate -- what? A Roseanne?
Tassoni. He still looks stoned in his Facebook photo, just as well, I suppose. I hope Gail regrets him with whatever derisive satisfaction this would offer me, but I never had the world into each other they had, and it isn't so much women over 50 couldn't get a golden blossom as it is I could never cherish it, express gratitude for it. I ream my ex on one end and berate him on the other, helpless blind egghead with a windowsill of script, swathed in medical equipment. He horrifies me, and whatever it cost me to break our engagement, the marriage would have been a domestic free for all, and this wasn't what I was going to post about Cameron Diaz, the effervescent quality of her focus. For a former model, her thematic choices have been interesting, but vivacious, still trying to interpret her monologue in Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her. The rest of her filmography aside, her work with Berg and Garcia offer intimations about beauty to challenge conventional wisdom about sexual appeal, open doors. Her character in Very Bad Things wants her magical moment in life, but the price of elimination leaves her overwhelmed, shackled by invisible leg irons as stagnating as Leland Orser aping the mannerisms of a true quadriplegic. She has the same characteristics as Uma Thurman, though with softer facial expression.
Tassoni. He still looks stoned in his Facebook photo, just as well, I suppose. I hope Gail regrets him with whatever derisive satisfaction this would offer me, but I never had the world into each other they had, and it isn't so much women over 50 couldn't get a golden blossom as it is I could never cherish it, express gratitude for it. I ream my ex on one end and berate him on the other, helpless blind egghead with a windowsill of script, swathed in medical equipment. He horrifies me, and whatever it cost me to break our engagement, the marriage would have been a domestic free for all, and this wasn't what I was going to post about Cameron Diaz, the effervescent quality of her focus. For a former model, her thematic choices have been interesting, but vivacious, still trying to interpret her monologue in Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her. The rest of her filmography aside, her work with Berg and Garcia offer intimations about beauty to challenge conventional wisdom about sexual appeal, open doors. Her character in Very Bad Things wants her magical moment in life, but the price of elimination leaves her overwhelmed, shackled by invisible leg irons as stagnating as Leland Orser aping the mannerisms of a true quadriplegic. She has the same characteristics as Uma Thurman, though with softer facial expression.
Monday, April 20, 2015
Feet On The Ground
Since he has a verified account symbol, Nate must have name recognition. Perhaps I've done the beatnik circuit with his relatives. A look at his capsule biography puts that to rest. At the same time, my mind flips through my involvement with Athol Fugard's work at the Wilma, remembering I used to orbit the anti-apartheid clique with perfectly self-righteous conviction, and now, in my old age, not so sure. I am thinking about tolerance, in conjunction with the way I've delineated Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, and most of North Philadelphia in public, and candidate Oliver, to his credit, reached across the aisle. Maybe he senses that my real issue is the sense I am being shilled by these women unfairly, given my history with the killing fields of Protestant do-goodism.
I do not have contemplation in hand to get into it this morning. I'm just letting my guard down: I'm scared.
Presby has no legal ability to shuttle me to Inglis, but they are doing to me, at a much younger age, what they've done to many others in my 21 years of observation, and I cannot stay much longer, whether I push back hard or meander and duck. I'm angry enough to get arrested at eight thirty, if necessary, but that only hastens Pennsylvania's crushing brutality against me, unforgiving of failure, and I have to find a space to camp. Then perhaps another.
But if Nate threw his hat in my ring, then I can whisper "Hang on..." and hold tight. Thank you Nate.
I do not have contemplation in hand to get into it this morning. I'm just letting my guard down: I'm scared.
Presby has no legal ability to shuttle me to Inglis, but they are doing to me, at a much younger age, what they've done to many others in my 21 years of observation, and I cannot stay much longer, whether I push back hard or meander and duck. I'm angry enough to get arrested at eight thirty, if necessary, but that only hastens Pennsylvania's crushing brutality against me, unforgiving of failure, and I have to find a space to camp. Then perhaps another.
But if Nate threw his hat in my ring, then I can whisper "Hang on..." and hold tight. Thank you Nate.
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