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.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/local/traf
Open to: All, detailed results viewable to: All, participants: 1
Was Dr. Charles Snelling's murder suicide a moral act?
0 (0.0%)I believe I tossed the original hardcopy, or will, if any pages are left in my folder bin, but today it looks like a transitional day, a garish permeable gray that deters me from driving outside, and yet is also a signature of my defeat, my failure to succeed against the merciless indictment of American poverty. Like Studs Lonigan, which I indifferently purchased last evening, not really caring if inundating myself with fresh texts is symptomatic, I am apparently in need of hardier mettle, though it could be argued that I've read enough of Dreiser and company to not need anymore educating on reality by the American left.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0054348/
Books have to be everything for me now, absorbing all the passions of failed lovers, absorbing my inability to travel, and return to my origins; this is to what my life has to cling, the damn text, the narrative, the homosexuality and hetero-romance that subverts itself within it, but is repulsive to observe as I have observed it, and contradicted myself within its planks rather than reconciled myself to it, and I mean this as a progressive matter, and not that I am tormented about a personal homoerotic experience as I once had to wrangle through it, neither on one side or the other. My desire to get laid just cracked open, out of nowhere, evidently, except for seeing Linus Roache as Merton Densher. And I have no male on me to seize the moment.
For those of us who know Dove Densher's name is ironic, a prelude to his retirement from the world, because his guilt is weighed upon the innocence he trampled. Maybe I will finally publish something in The Henry James Review to please the dead ghost of my memory of Michael C. Clark. I scribbled out an idea on the James list, an idea derived from my imperfectly tortured account here, and I have a year to send the editor Susan an acceptable abstract. I have not written a damn abstract in years, but let's engage in hypotheticals:
I put my wounded intellect to the grind, complete my task, and let us stipulate, for the sake of argument, that it passes Susan's peer review, and is published. What happens then, the pearly gates open and I can get the fuck out of Presby? There is no joy juice that in turn can reconcile how much time and strength I've lost, that can offer me achievement, the foundation of any happiness.
- Current Mood:
bitchy
http://www.phillyshakespeare.org/content.a
I really wanted to go, and apparently misspelled the title, she grins.
But while I am here, I am not claiming to be a picturesque version of emotional stability. I am certainly not that, but do not engage in the major symptoms traditionally associated with mania. My only self-medicating is nicotine, caffeine, and salmon oil, which I've taken regularly for nearly a year. I don't drink, and though I can cry, those tears are associated with stressors, like loss of salary, my bank constantly offering me a line of credit and turning me down.
My half brother got ugly with me for this reason: I asked him repeatedly if he contacted the CIL near his house, and had to raise my voice just to get him to respond, and then all of the sudden I am as sick as our mother was because I need a change of environment. Between my family, public housing, and disability culture, I will no doubt be joining Whitney Houston on her ferry ride of dependence eventually. [rolls eyes]
- Current Mood:
disappointed
It is not much of a stretch to sense that Paine would have been appalled at the state of the divided government in the US today; his passion against Britain's increasingly decorative monarchy, to use Niall Ferguson's phrase, can be extrapolated, and Paine would have lashed out at executive branch authority with the same zeal, even while he died a pauper in the country that took on England's mantle.
Telling.
- Current Mood:
full
If I did have a lawyer, I would be in a state of bliss to be in some serious litigation, but I am powerless, and ailing, as I described myself on my twitter account, and able-bodied female novelists cut me off, not liking my behavior. I am socially isolated, but if a legal team does think they can help me, and sort out what is actionable in my hard luck story, then that legal team should tell spastic_dowager they want to listen. I am unhappy, and sustained injuries that will probably prevent any resumption towards success on my part, this in and around 2007-08
I have detailed my issues with an SSRI in other posts, but developing dependence on an anti-depressant isn't going to solve that I would improve markedly if I could get out of Presby. This is not an abnormal frustration, and the only time honored solution a piqued Liberty staffer can offer me is their housing lists. Sorry. Going into North Philadelphia to live again is not a solution, and a drug to make me passive might assauge any number of people around me, but it will not end poverty as a stressor, and it will not heal for my sense of feeling trapped by a company that aggressively infringes on civil rights, but cannot competently case manage. Is it so irrational that I want to get away from a landlord that tried to have me removed due to the fact that I could not obtain the equipment I needed, and Liberty, rather than even deigning to be accountable for my fear of more aide abuse, punishes me for being angry?
I think not.
Sure, I have moods, made myself nicotine dependent, but I am not bipolar, and react, primarily because I am not grateful for this shelter when the company that manages it treats my disability as if it was an aspect of criminology, simply because the state paradigm has been harmful to me, and part of the reason I do not whole-heartedly embrace diversity. Some consider me evil.
Maybe I am hopeless, in that vein, sometimes feel that way, and do not like the ACLU but wish they could rescue me, ya dig?
- Current Mood:
drained
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_ss_i_3
On the one side, I have my immediate family, who do not hate me, exactly, but won't do anything to assist me to retreat from my present circumstances, and they use my pain as an excuse to feel I am better served by a return to an institutional environment, except for Marie, but she is fairly impaired herself, and on the other, I have the system, and you've certainly read a great deal from me on that. Liberty Resources, as a body, would say that it is me and not them, that Linda has moved on and has ceased to acknowledge what she did to me and the pain it cost me and that no one there cares, as she is their nominal superior and they aren't going to take my side over hers, but that I can still utilize the center.
Factually that may be true, but I cannot utilize Liberty anymore, because it is essentially the epicenter of both psycho-sexual and professional humiliation. I cannot teach a disability seminar there, or pair with some quasi-art therapy actress, or work with deceased poet coordinators. This is the way Liberty says it is sorry when its staff engages in harm; it dumbs you down.
Had they done the right thing, and either demoted or fired Linda, compensated me appropriately, I would not be anti-CIL today.
Activist protest also has nothing to offer me; for all that I've written about Erik von Schmetterling and Jimmi Shrode that makes you hold me suspect (perhaps), you do not get a chance to observe the bigotry with which they are treated by the residents here who do not write online. Vivian calls Erik *the baby* due to his dementia, and this is what an angry tranvestite has sentenced himself to as his age and health close in on him, after all those years of demonstrations, so otherwise empowering. He has nothing to show for it but constraint from which he is free in name only. This is why I consider the old guard out of Philadelphia, Linda included, as pathological liars.
The activists are not entirely wrong, but I am still cognizant and living a virtual death sentence, primarily because the mobility options available to me as I age make it nearly impossible for me to secure a salary for retirement, and as such I cannot leave section 202 housing without the threat of doing so leading to real bodily harm. I have heard a number of articulate Americans say they are trapped, or have been, by the Great Recession, and I believe them, but if you put yourself in the pinball layout I've been bumping for 26 years, may be you'd be less surprised at the scathing nature of my posts.
Once upon a time, I trusted what Liberty represented, and received more institutional cruelty, on balance, than support that would have helped me succeed. Cassie James made multiple attempts, failed, and Liberty simply rehires her; Linda makes legally actionable decisions as an executive with cerebral palsy, and the board of directors protects her, and not every disabled individual goes from someone inside the family to an ostracized case management problem to be excised, but too many do to suggest that the paradigm works.
I want to leave it behind, trust me, but don't know what other paradigm to turn to. I cannot take on the debt to secure a PhD when teaching would be a significant accommodation challenge. I cannot rest on my laurels and get cushy work and design courses I want to teach, like Jerry did in my time with him, and writing as a successful wage earner without a significant pedigree in your wake, well, here I am.
- Current Mood: discontent
Gear shift, with the reassurance of smoked trout oiling my fingertips of my typing hand, I had made a mental notation much earlier about the journalists Will Self and John Kaplan, and here is Self's much better promotional web log than I have the resources to do for myself:
http://will-self.com/
His highlights on British rail only turn my thoughts to the British cripples who have to get around on these faded, gloried isles, but it is his essay in Granta, "False Blood", which compensates me for my Stephen King disdain; if my mind wasn't screaming bloody hell for coffee, I'd dive in this instant.
Next post.
- Current Mood: thirsty
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