All of my posting activity will cease, except as pursuant to my need to access my archives, or if the operating staff comes out of its persistent vegetative state with some new plan.
I have no idea how long it will take me to activate Blogger with Google's monetizing applications for the time I still have paid up for Ad Sense, but I will work on it through next week while moving my content. If any fluent software user can help me you have my expressed gratitude.
I have posted this url before, but, directing this post primarily at twitter, this is my url for what I have already cached over the winter, and I am flagged for adult content, even though my posts on GB are thus far more sedate than they are on LJ, given that I have not settled in.
To LJ staff and volunteers, this is a very poor play. I supported the site in good faith, whatever indignation my reactionary stance or detailed narrative has aroused.
The url:
http://thedowagerworld.blogspot.com/?zx=6
To all those who friended me here, I thank you, but barring an extraordinary circumstance, this account will be closed by fall.
Then Harvard University libertarian liberal sympathies can curate my bylines, edit my live journal account into a kindle flat foot seller, and a student of Niall's can send me a poster of Dr. Ferguson's circumspect analysis of why the Congo predicates the failure of the African state. To wit, I am honored that Amy Wilkinson now follows me on twitter https://twitter.com/?iid=am-865263630133
As I will cop to the admission that Harvard has fascinated me since I joined the PBS occult orbit in my vibrant adulthood. I know why Harvard has its pedigree, but I am not sure what continues to make it preeminent, if the university arguably runs the government, it hasn't been able to nullify the caste entrapment of the American entitlement system. I certainly cannot leap the divide between me and my African neighbors. I tried talking to one woman one day about the fact that Joe and I were not twins due to the similar impression of our cerebral palsy. I used the word monolithic to indicate that the disabled were no more a united bloc than the African community. "What's monolithic?" she interrupted and then spaced out.
Don't try to label me and then pack me away until you're willing to really study the consequences of a destructive capitalism and socialism that is the tragedy of the American underclass. The White House must have gotten my message. They sent me an email beating the drums about Obama's lively disability policy (rolls eyes).
Not a huge Jim Carrey fan, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is nevertheless on the agenda, and it is nice to know it is a free stream, because the issue of losing memory interests me, given that trauma has the upper hand in having shaped who, and what I am. I know. Gnostic Christians would say I had six years with a silky grey cat with a sweet and spoiled temperament, and Oliver before that survived nearly twenty years despite the fact that most of that was hand to mouth, and for now, I still have the little one.
All of this enters into the writing, but as I have complained, there has been very little joy for me, even when I tried to configure hope within Catholicism. My negotiations with the divine were more like Marxist unionists engaging in riots. Sex was never much, and only turned me on when it was liberating within the betrayal of borrowing husbands.
I have failed career, relationships, and quality friendships, and my freelancing is stalled, perhaps beyond bereavement, though my slow down can in part be blamed on my nicotine battles. Is it so much to ask, as a disabled woman, for a revamp, before I need beta blockers and oxygen to linger on in chronic stasis?
- Mood:
blank
I can give up or keep fighting (ooo) but think I am getting to old to keep diverting my needs onto domesticated animals that will perish until they have the measure to outlive me. I am at war with my entire family over leaving Riverside Presbyterian. They see what to me is a revolting monochrome of American decline, as my security and privilege. I see this as a prolonged death. Each side is right, wrong, to a varying degree.
Down time will not help me toward a victory, but I need it, still recharging.
With that as a given, China's hybrid Deng reform model has rolled back Mao's excesses, without a doubt, but I am highly skeptical that I'll live to see Asian hegemony offer me any solutions for my old age. If the imperial age is over, perhaps the age of the superpower is also finished. I would have gotten Joey in if I had been sure it was a block, just so you know. I was not positive it was not allergies, and his health issues more than likely would have continued to drag out. I need to weigh guilt in that light; he had a chronic condition and I have limits. I upped my salmon oil dosage liberally, nearly 4000 ml. I have to go get more tomorrow. Joe's was out, and I need cat food, of course; the weather remains highly volatile, and this is an issue, regardless of my personal upkeep.
If I flee Philadelphia I am not sure what will happen, but I am very close. Spastic's soul says run. I am serious, and I am not sure if this is a psyche's attempt to stay alive as opposed to creative destruction. I'd only know through playing the card
- Mood:
depressed
I spent a small fortune on Dr. Eigner's practice http://034929c.netsolhost.com/our-staff/o
When Oliver died, the vase of ash was the stuff of literary satire. Keeping Joey's is a self-imposed sentence, but also an acknowledgement. I loved Joey best, but was too stingy to be wrong a third time in a row.
House Wrap was in keeping with the spirit of the show, even if it did not entirely subvert expectations. I am trying to stream the Wilson prognosis episode.
The date just reminded me it is my dead brother's birthday. (I should be an addict kind of sigh escaping me...)
- Mood:
drained
I do not want to be this spinster, a quintessential Aileen Wuornos in my own right, with dead animal trophies, mourning carnivore personalities. It is a character type often and easily ridiculed, even while I realize I killed my proxy child through lack of vigilance. A hard truth for a quadriplegic in my situation, but a basic one. Joey nagged me incessantly for treats, and I gave in, buying the available rather than coaxing him to accept the medical diet, and in trying to curb my anxiety over his straining, trying to constrain my reactions and budget, I killed him, my baby boy, the sweetest cat in the world, a maudlin biddy telling The Cat Doctor staff "I'm sorry," as if I expect their absolution.
I'd rather be the Diane Lane in Unfaithful, conflicted even in the liberation of sexual betrayal, but I was actually the Paul Martel figure. The reason I do not discuss this is fear of the wives. I got caught, once, and it was pretty horrible. A dead cat is pedestrian by comparison to a courtesan's criminality.
- Mood:
distressed
I will hold that thought.
Oliver lived too long; he was dying at nineteen, but Joey still had vigor at only six. I have gotten past the shock, but not the other pedestrian stages of grief. I love little Vinne, his brother, but it is not the same, although he is sticking very close, he knows, somehow, and I am indulging, but it still is not the same. Joey was fluff love of life for me.
I was nearly a victim of date rape, and I bear some blame for it, for moving to the inner city to prove a point, maybe for letting my emotions get the better of me, but I never sank the way this prostitute allowed herself to sink, and here I am at the half century mark, nearly short of cracking because I want better options than passive compliance. One of Liberty's now retired coordinators, who knew me when I was still active at Liberty, said during my spiral down the drain to where I am now, that "You shouldn't have to work," in that usual condescending fashion these case managers have, but everyone should be respected for wanting to be of use as long as we can. Many CIL consumers make excuses, and you've read me falling into that, in relation to bus routes, Paratransit, and while I do not mind doing grunt work in this studio for an hourly sum, I do not want to set myself up for more failure. I am not a good receptionist, and lousy at typing, and trying to compete for those positions isn't in my best interest at my age. I'd rather modify my writing skills in between freelancing jobbers. And if I can't?
The film eclipses how hard Aileen actually tried, and maybe that is what's nagging me about the gaps in her biography. She looks a little like my mother's lesbian welfare comrade Kmac. Not exactly, but there is an echo of resemblance in the smirk, the flush of the skin in the shot, at least in this Wiki photo. My mother regretted telling me that Kmac courted her, as I wrote in some earlier posts, and I regret knowing, not simply out of revulsion, but because this woman made the few safe havens of my childhood a lie, and yes, I had an attachment to her as the more stable figure then, between the two of them, my mother and her butch buddy. There were issues between this woman and her deceased daughter, whose obituary I also posted when I was still active on the now fabled literature network forums.
You know what? I actually do want to enjoy a bit of life in the little time I have left before I get locked back in some real cage under another name. I don't have much in the quality quiver before I physically weaken into that reality, and yet in a very real sense, I have been punished much like Wuornos, battling with some of the same negatives that led her onto her desperate bid.
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