Sometimes I have to resist the impulse to make connections to other writers; it has gotten me into trouble in the past, particularly when I wrote letters, real letters, to ugly male poets, or sick male draft dodgers (American) who hibernated in Montreal until they abandoned their wife and son. I got caught with my proverbial panties around my ankles with that incident. Perhaps it should have taught me a lesson, long before I recognized my former supervisor online, and that she bitch nearly put me in Liam Neeson’s mortuary.
I do not know that I’d consider Dave mentally ill, the draft dodger. The adjective used was the cry of his ex-spouse’s pain when dealing with a seductive manipulator. Her husband out maneuvered me at his own game, which might be just as well. He might have raped me, as I was young and feckle enough for the marriage bed, as many men from my past can attest. I was a heat seeking missile for a five Euro fuck. The abuse had not really erupted full blast into my psyche then. I was young, and sleeping with ambulatory men who had no discernible physical impairment was important to me.
“False Blood” your essay in Granta 117, is typical for the publication, and I cannot really ferret out the keynotes within it that made me want to rush to email to contact you, telling you about my dead addict brother. I resisted. You’re British, married, with children, and actually earn a viable living in our profession. Your blood condition is uncommon and sounds like a typical, if otherwise charming, British eccentricity. Whereas cerebral palsy is run of the mill. Even spastic aggression is run of the mill. I know I am not in motive to seduce you. My libido only rears its head in odd moments, I’m tired of being rejected by men online who won’t be bothered even to meet me to give me a chance, and I remember then what my former lesbian editor did to Cecil, and I wish someone would bust Josie for me, for doing that to my prospects, but it wasn't illegal, and women are known for despoiling out of jealousy.
No, I do not know how to cope with the stress of what the black nursing aides did to me. When added up to what cerebral palsy has cost me in terms of sexual assaults and medical brutality, it might as well be a small miracle that bouts of ideation aren’t worse. I have mentioned the mixed race woman Miss Eddy, who hit on me. She is a sick and ugly person, and told me her father was murdered, which might be her fate if she doesn’t learn how to contain her attacks on the down low. American black vernacular for secret sexual perversions. I do not enjoy wanting horridly ignorant poor people dead, but she may exploit other invalids and since I did not file charges against her I cannot prevent it.
Two others stand out. A voodoo lady from Germantown who Liberty afflicted me with not days into my mother’s death. Straight out of a studio zombie casting, missing teeth and a head turban. She opened my mail illegally, looking for a will, frightening me terribly. In this city you learn, and I could smell it on her, that she would have robbed me at the nearest opportunity of physical incapacitation. I could not even grieve for my mother with this poison hovering over my ass, trying to victimize me. No one helped me; I had to get her out of my studio, keep her out on my own recognizance; in fairness it wasn't in the bankruptcy lawyer’s purview to be of assistance but she is the person to whom my terror was revealed.
The disability center coordinators know full well the type of paraprofessional prototype which lends itself to criminal solicitation, and yet they continue pairing indigent minorities with the most vulnerable among the mobility impaired, essentially creating expendable classes and manufacturing tokenism to call it freedom.
Cassie's elevation creates its own form of tunnel vision which is ultimately a contradiction in terms. Cassie knows it. Josie knows it, and this is why the culture expiated me out. I refuse to accept the paradigm and see it as a low grade genocide metastasized to such a degree on the east coast, west coast, American rust belt, that it is nearly impossible for a body to extricate out of it.
The other was Ingrid Bunton who wore her dead newborn as a decal and slept with one of the security guards who came banging on my door. She impregnated herself on the job and the scandal made me a laughing stock.
I do not have an answer as to why I have singled you out with this type of half way measure, a post on my blog to which you need not reply, but I am reaching out to a stranger who has had his own battles, a stranger who might understand. I intend to put my disability center out of business; their evil has to be reigned in, and no federal mandate is such a vapid excuse for criminal incompetence. It is not within your range to help me, doubtlessly, and you’d probably chastise me for insinuating such an incongruous folly. You have your isles, but your work has struck a chord in me. Sincerely.
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