Bullies, Terrorists, and Congressmen: Ten for Today

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My head aches with the world, swollen with the chaos and calamity of it. No salve of good will and transcendent detachment patches the soreness, the inflammation, and the throbbing anger.

When I reactively shout at him, my father’s happy. Negative attention is better than none. I’ve raised my children, done my job outmaneuvering ration-less beasts. Why do they appear in full grown men’s bodies now? I’m mad that I can’t return to my former childless self—be the child and not the parent.

And then that runaround with the country of Kaiser. Institutions are built to crush people who pay for them, give them their existence. Medicine is meant to be waved before the eyes of the sick, taunting, “Catch me if you can.” I hated when boys stole a poor unsuspecting victim’s wool hat and played keep away, tossing it just above the desperately grabbing hands reaching for it.

I’m not alone in this now perceived defect, empathy. Yet, it drains the very peace from me, feeling it all, the hands of every eternally colonized American—women, children, people of color, and the poor—with raised hands clutching at their wool hats—respect, pay, opportunity, voice, healthcare, food, dignity—just out of reach by bullies gleefully foaming at the mouth as they expand their world by shrinking others’.

Always a zero sum game to psychotics, paranoids, terrorists, and congressmen.

Being writerly me: Ten for Today

October 10, 2016
This week I am the writer. Most weeks I’m more the teacher than the writer, and a bit of a dabbler in word pretties on the side. And every day I’m the mom.
But this week, I am working like a writer: writing, procrastinating, struggling, and mostly feeling insecure. I’ve been badgered by contract bosses breathing down my neck. “Is there a draft yet?” “Take your time (I gave you a week and it’s about 3 days in), but let me know when you have a draft.” And then, “How about now? Now? What about now?” Fuck, I’m trying to work!
So yesterday I sent my draft–twice. Once by message on the writing platform and once by invitation to Google docs. Nothing. Hurry up and wait.
But it didn’t take long before I got not one but five requests to view the doc. How big is this organization? I guess I never ask the important questions when I interview. They ask me if I can write, and I say I can. End of story.
What you want me to write, I can write it. For two days, I have been writing about robots and other godsends in upcoming AI applications. Health care will continue to automate for decades, delegating jobs to bots–therapy chat bots, vitals chat bots, and take two aspirins and call me in the morning chat bots. Amazing.
And then there’s IBM’s super duper Watson, kicking ass on Jeopardy when he’s not diagnosing disease and prescribing medicine. Watson will find the cure for cancer. Makes the post human age moniker I go by more real each passing year.
Today was rah rah cheerleading day for how wonderful corporations want their worker bees to beam good health and cheer–and not just for monetary reasons. That one was a hard sell–especially adding a little soft wit and snarkiness to make it less dull.
Tomorrow I’m the editor.

pixabay: dog writer

Health? No Care


Stitching quilted time surgical square by square, a hodgepodge of olive drabs and polluted sky blues in pattern--patient in, patient out--
a nurse-maid wends her way through plastic bags plump and warm with piss
and blood-stained pillow cases where patients puke spittle in their sleep.

A helper of the sick, a cold hand but a hand nevertheless, she pricks fingers and asses, plugs up spills poured in gut-twisting fiery pain with a pat and a clean sheet, plight of the sick, wedged between death and dying her daily duties.

Goddess in green, she performs impeccably clean, masked, gowned and gloved, hairless and germ-free--safety's illusory garments for germ workers, spreading disease and then getting paid for treating the infected in the circle of death cheats.

A man who survived contracting a deadly, antibiotic-resistant bacteria from what they inserted inside his body, contaminated just by existing behind the sterilized hospital walls, lost his will to live, a potential suicide by health care.

Like homework sent home from school, he was delivered home to nurse himself, take back his own health with needles to prep and pop, blood to digitally track and communicate, which was too much to do for his weakened old self, so he opted out.

A list of twenty ten-step perilous operations to complete for his own mending, too soon after his near-death visit to the sleepless halls of buzz button calls and electronic beeps of monitors ironically measuring life's slippage.

Too weak to stand, he gathered his will, lost his way, awash in the maze of pop-in nurse-teachers, marching in step to medical time, protocols and measures, without care, dispassionately immune to measure more than mortal drops of human blood.