I’ve been whoring it up over at secondlife (tm Linden Labs) dot com and I am back to report that blatant consumerism is indeed as possible in virtual worlds as it is in the mundane world.

I’ve been rather active in asperger stuff and t.b.i. stuff as well. Walking the dog every day. Cleaned out a room for my dad to have a bedroom, and am currently cleaning up the attic. So yeah, pagan nation I have been neglecting you.

Truthfully yes I have been severely worried about my dad.
Everything else is shiny distraction.

spike

The stoopid saga of VESID sucks carries on. The job handler/job developer/employment consultant whatever has transferred to a different job herself. The VESID-sucks counselor (my third) is apparently absent from work due to personal/medical whatever. Consequently, I have once again attained the status of limbo without the use of drugs.

As damsel has pointed out in a couple of comments over at Blogaholics, VESID-sucks has as a modus operandi the rigging of failure. Specifically and anecdotally only (based on googling various and sundry terms such as “VESID sucks” and “VESID horror stories” and “VESID complaints”) one problem is the mindset to shove us into a job any job without much regard to anything. The other problem is the tendency of VESID helpers to declare many of us as being somehow falling short in the intelligence department and the blatant advice to lower our goals. Of course, if picking up pins with a tweezer and putting them in a container is a measure of anything at all– the stoopid it burns– then lots of people should automatically settle for a two year community college degree or a secretarial course or a job in retail or at a supermarket packing groceries. Sigh.

Anecdotally only, a good friend of mine was advised by his O.V.R. testers in another state that college would be an “impossible” goal for him to reach as well. Friend is brilliant. Friend went on to achieve 4.0 in college courses. See, the rub is that if any of our employment situations, college enrollment in courses or a pursuit of study, etcetera is not in line with what VESID sucks (or O.V.R. sucks) assumes is “realistic” based on our putting pins into a container using tweezers, they don’t have to support it. In other words, I can be denied job coaching if the lousy little part-time job I have demands that I do something that VESID doesn’t think I should do or am capable of doing. And folks who wish to obtain bachelor degrees or more can be denied needed funding by VESID or O.V.R. because the rigors of academia are a far stretch from what their stoopid testing shows that those folks should be able to do.

Could it be funding? The organization that is supposed to provide me with job development and job coaching services is getting paid more than three thousand dollars for one year of their non-services. (Just as soon as I provide a doctor’s note indicating that a temporary exacerbation of vertigo into a two-week “attack” is now resolved for the time being and I can “return to work” which I don’t have, my non-services can resume. Just as soon as someone figures out that I am on their caseload that is.)

VESID stands to benefit financially by talking people down into two years of college or a secretarial course versus bachelor’s level studies and more. And VESID benefits financially by setting their counselors’ objectives to get the disabled customers working (at anything) as soon as frickin’ possible. To hell with our aspirations. To hell with what we want. To hell with MEANINGFUL employment. No love, VESID sucks, no love.

The three thousand bucks VESID has wasted on my non-employment this past year could have been used to send damsel to her very much wanted and sought after bachelor’s degree. Ah, damsel wasn’t even eligible for financial aid from VESID sucks and they made her take those stupid tests anyways. Those of us who are not totally broke don’t get to have our tuitions paid. Books and twelve cents a mile was the last I heard. At the price of gas these days, twelve cents a mile is a bad joke. Considering that the professional VESID helpers are getting around three times that amount for their mileage, it is an insult.

Another two friends recently found themselves as “trainees” or whatever the fancy word is at a local sheltered workshop. Apparently, those of us who are judged severely disabled do get encouraged to spend at least twenty hours a week at one of those places. It’s part of the process of getting the disabled into jobs. The two friends were told that this was now their best chance at gaining supportive employment down the road. Other avenues– community college courses or a job developer calling them up on Fridays and nagging them– failed to produce a job of any sort for my two friends. Who exactly refers the VESID failures to sheltered workshops? I still have not found the answer to that question. Neither the VESID sucks counselors nor the job developer have admitted to initiating referral. I asked. I searched the website for clues. No clear information was given. But I digress.

It is LEGAL to pay a disabled “trainee” less than the minimum wage at such places. Way less. The assumption is (based on “timed studies” often conducted with staff volunteers) that a disabled worker cannot possibly be fast enough or good enough to make the minimum wage. The disabled worker in a sheltered workshop is subject usually to piecework, pro-rated of course. If the disabled “trainee” is lucky enough to qualify for training off-site (welding or warehouse loading or potato peeling or newspaper insert stuffing or cleaning), the disabled “trainee” still will not receive minimum wage. Under the law, the workshop is not required to pay it. In effect, the “trainee” is furnishing part of the salary of the on-site rehab counselor (separate from the VESID counselor), part of the salary of the workshop supervisor, part of the salary of the off-site trainer, part of the salaries of all of the staff people who come in contact with the trainee. And of course, part of the profit of the sheltered workshop comes from the trainee’s pittance because the workshop is able to low-ball other businesses when it comes to bidding.

Meanwhile, the absence of vertigo attacks is the least of my concerns. I continue to have serious problems which concern me far more than the fact that my world drifts to the left 24/7. As usual, anything worth having is worth working for. And I shall have to force my damaged brain to think of other options to reach my goals and other people who can point out some ways to proceed. There is a word for those people who are willing to help yet aren’t professional helpers– natural supports. All of this leads me to tentatively conclude that VESID sucks must therefore be the unnatural supports.

Oh yeah and VESID sucks: fruck you.

sapphoq healing t.b.i.

I manage to choke out a proper greeting. Say something inane. Here is my phone number. You can call me. I am grown. You are still my mother even though I have rejected your legacy and moved beyond it. I love you. Maybe I will come see you sometime. It’s been awhile. Happy Mother’s Day. I hang up. Mother’s Day is a day of mourning. For what could have been.

She wanted. She always wanted. She wanted my love, demanded it, could not recognize it. I was a terrified child. I could not name the terror to my own self. I told anyone who would listen for a minute that my mother drank too much. No one listened. And she drank on and on. The scotch. After marrying again, the wine. The pretensions. She wanted to be Italian. She really tried. The only spices she knew were salt, oregano, parsley, and sometimes a bit of basil from the garden. She doled them out sparingly. She said pepper was made from little grounded up rocks. We didn’t have a pepper shaker. Bacon had to be burned to a crisp in order to be rendered edible. I was a child. I did not always remember everything I had to get at the store. By sixth grade I was doing the laundry at the laundromat and all of the supermarket shopping. I learned to ask the produce man or a lady customer who looked nice to pick out the ripe tomatoes for me, to tell me which of the bunches of bananas I should bring home. I was a child. I didn’t know how to do many of the things that were required of me.

When she was angry, her voice took on a vibrancy that is gone now. She screamed. She yelled. She threw a bottle of tonic water at me once in high school. She threw me down some stairs once, after dragging me on my stockinged knees across the carpet. She was the queen of humiliation. She pretended to call my nursery school teacher and screamed into the phone the horrible thing I had become. Years later, I realized that the nursery school teacher had to be dead. She called me a frig. Frig was her favorite word, a baptized substitution for the word fuck. You are a frig. Frig frig frig. Hit her Tony. I always thought of him as a jellyfish, yielding to all of her orders. He was. I was too. Not to be, well perhaps I would not have survived my childhood and adolescence.

She baked cookies. Sugar cookies from a recipe torn out of a magazine. They were good. She made drop cookies and cookies with melted chocolate pieces too. Mainly though, it was the sugar cookies. With lots of butter in them. She made a Polish rum cake once. She dumped an entire bottle of rum over it after it came out of the oven. The cake was so thick with rum that pressing the fork tines against it would yield a flood. In my blackened innocence, I thought an alcoholic drank wine at home. So as soon as I could, I drank beer out. I had forgotten about the beatings, the vindictiveness, how she made my poodle disappear one Sunday when I was visiting my dad. I’d forgotten how at restaurants she would delicately eat the seafood or spaghetti and delicately lift the elegant shining stemmed glass to her painted lips, pretending all was right with the world and that she had two shining daughters from the same father and those two daughters loved her more than life itself.

Every year for two weeks we went down the shore. There would be a house near the ocean, or once a cramped motel room which I hated for the lack of privacy. There were other kids there, down the shore on vacation with their parents. I learned to walk barefoot on the hot tarry street, how to smoke a cherry cigar once, how to dig under the overturned lifeguard boat at night and have a child’s seance. J.F.K. if you are here, give us a sign. And the candle would blow out and we would dig back out of there with a quickness. We went to Bingo as a family, to the beach as a family, to a restaurant, to the boardwalk. My little half-sister and I rode the rides, were treated to custards, walked and walked and walked holding hands in front of the two parents who were busy weaving a public fantasy. I learned how to panhandle on that same boardwalk with a younger summer child vacationing down the shore. Mister, I need a dime to call my parents to come pick us up. And so we would collect enough money for a five dollar bag of weed. Then we would walk the three miles back to our beach along the shoreline, avoiding the gate where we were supposed to pay. The beach where we stayed lacked the rides or the matrons of the gates demanding payment. The cars at our beach had parking stickers instead. And there were gazebos instead of rides. And the overturned boats.

I swam out once, way beyond where I was supposed to be. The lifeguards sent a boat out after me. I was fine though, a strong swimmer in my element. The saltiness and the fresh air and the sun invigorated me. By time the boat got to me, I had already turned around and was halfway back. They did not insist that I get in the boat. They didn’t yell at me for doing such a stupid thing when I’d arrived back on the sand. My mother hadn’t noticed, or pretended not to. A small crowd had gathered to watch the aborted rescue. My mother continued sunning herself, reading a paperback all relaxed as if nothing potentially dangerous was happening. She didn’t say a word to me when I got back and flopped on the beach towel. The music pouring from the tinny transistor radio didn’t miss a beat. And I learned that silence can be as fracturing as a beating.

If I had to choose one word to describe my mother it would be vindictive. My mother is still vindictive, even in her senior years. The thing inside her that made her give away or abandon my dog and call me a frig and be late for the wedding pictures still exists. I do not pretend to know how it got there. That doesn’t matter now. The knowledge of her vindictiveness does not comfort me. Yet it is better to know an unpleasant– even cruel– truth than to ignore it and pretend. I do not pretend that everything that is wrong with me or toxic about me is purely the result of her essence. I will not pretend that there weren’t good times. It’s just that the good times always ran into the bad times, that there was never any escape. After my physical escape, there were years of learning how to escape mentally.

When my mother dies, I will mourn. I will mourn for what could have been and not for the woman she was. I will grieve for a long time and I will carry on. Life is like that. Happy Mother’s Day.

spike q./sapphoq remembers

sapphoq

On Sunday May 14th, 2006 the apartment did indeed catch on fire. Two family cats were saved. One firefighter was injured. 77K of damage was caused to the apartment building and stuff inside of it. Christopher, then 19, had to be airlifted to a hospital in Portland, Oregon. The burns covered 80% of his body. He died on Friday May 19th, 2006.

Nicolaas and Agnes reported to the police station as requested for questioning. They were charged with first-degree arson and first- or second-degree manslaughter. (Report of the manslaughter charges differ in degree). The fire was thought to be caused by arson, specifically by Nicolaas and Agnes DeGroot setting fire to paper in the middle of the living room floor and then leaving their son to burn while they left to feed the bloody horses.

Yeah, they had their day in court where they (via separate attorneys) were allowed to Alford plea the charges. An Alford plea means that the defendants admit that the State can prove its’ case against them, but falls short of admitting any guilt on the part of the defendants. The original charges were pled down to criminal negligent homicide.

Two people testified that Nicolaas and Agnes De Groot were cool and devoted parents. Nice to their autistic son, caring about his needs, blah blah blah. The judge decided that the parents did not intend any bad vibes when they left their severely autistic son alone in the apartment without any supervision. He sentenced Nicolaas and Agnes DeGroot to six months in the county jail.

This is a case that in my opinion should never have been allowed to be Alford plea’d.

Autistic kids do grow up to be autistic adults unless their uh devoted parents kill them.

spike

Parents charged with first-degree arson and first- or second-degree manslaughter:
http://democratherald.com/articles/2006/05/22/news/local/news02.txt
http://www.cityofalbany.net/services/news_releases/show_item.php?id=521

Alford pleas and a sentence to six month in the county jail:
http://www.dhonline.com/articles/2008/02/08/news/local/2loc01_jail.txt#blogcomments

From $cientology: Church of the Holy Censor Available at: http://www.whyaretheydead.net/mirror/xenu.ca/pickets/leaflets.html

One of Scientology’s preferred sayings is “Think for yourself”. Why, then, does Scientology censor its own members? It all started on March 13th 1998, at the L. Ron Hubbard birthday celebration in Los Angeles. Mark Ingber, a Church of Scientology official, announced that Scientologists would be given an opportunity to sell Scientology books and recruit for Scientology through nearly-identical promotional websites (getting 10% of the money that these recruits end up spending in Scientology, but that’s another story). To put up one of these sites, a Scientologist has to sign a contract. Here’s a short excerpt from that contract: “If you wish to use this authorization regarding the Marks and the Works, you must: … (6) agree to use the specific Internet Filter Program that CSI [Church of Scientology International Incorporated] has provided to you which allows you freedom to view other sites on Dianetics, Scientology or its principals without threat of accessing sites deemed to be using the Marks or Works in an unauthorized fashion or deemed to be improper or discreditable to the Scientology religion;” “Deemed improper or discreditable”, eh? Boy, aren’t Scientologists lucky to have someone there to decide for them what facts about their religion they can and cannot see. If they didn’t use this filter, they might find out about the suspicious deaths in Scientology and the uncomplimentary things that judges have said about Scientology. Can’t have Scientologists finding out the ugly facts behind Scientology, can they? So, Scientology tries, through this internet filter, to prevent its members from reading negative information about Scientology on the internet. This internet filter does 4 things to words and websites that Scientology doesn’t like: The filter blocks a list of websites. Anyone with the filter installed can’t access these websites, AT ALL. Examples of blocked sites include: http://www.xenu.net, http://www.entheta.net, http://www.lermanet.com, all websites containing information the “Church” of Scientology doesn’t want its members to see. The filter blocks a list of newsgroups. Anyone with the filter installed can’t access these newsgroups, AT ALL. Some of these blocked newsgroups include: alt.religion.scientology, alt.support.ex-cult. Since scientology claims it’s not a cult, why would it need to block an ex-cult newsgroup? The filter blocks a list of words, that will be removed from a web page or email message. Some words blocked lead to odd combinations: NOTs and Anima are blocked, so “I’m not sure that animal is healthy” gets changed to “I’m ure that l is healthy”. Other words blocked are peoples’ names: Deana Holmes (a critic of Scientology), Bob Minton (another critic of Scientology, who appeared recently on NBC’s Dateline). Why does Scientology try to prevent its members from reading about these people? What does Scientology have to hide? The filter has another list of words, that will stop an internet page from loading, or kick a user from an IRC channel (remove him from the discussion). If the filtered computer sees one of these words, the computer will stop receiving data through the present connection. These words include: Entheta (refers to http://www.entheta.net), xenu, Fishman Affadavit, Bare Faced Messiah (a critical book on Scientology, in the Books on the Net section at http://www.xenu.net). These words and websites are only some of the terms blocked by the Scientology internet filter. The whole list can be found at: http://www.taniwha.com/crack.list.html Some information sources, for further reading: Operation Clambake: http://www.xenu.net (Lots of information!) Canadian Critical Scientology Information: http://xenu.ca Occupied Clearwater: http://www.xenu-city.net Deaths in Scientology: www.b-org.demon.nl Church of Scientology Censors Net Access for Members: http://www.xenu.net/archive/events/censorship/

[end of copy and paste. N.B. this docu is available as a pdf download and is meant for distribution.]

In case any of you have been dead, drugged beyond recognition, or doing mundane things like working– as a public service– I am providing a brief synopsis of recent events. The Church of Scientology is considered to be a cult by some [including Germany] and has been blamed for a handful of deaths. A vid of Tom Cruise (remember him?) appeared on You Tube briefly. The Church of Scientology or someone over there didn’t like this. Believing the appearance of this vid to be a violation of copyright, a takedown order was issued. Some pissed-off hactivists known individually and collectively as Anonymous or Anon declared a sort of internet war. This internet war apparently involved D.D.O.S attacks, faxes, and phone calls. Leafleting has also been carried out in select cities and more actions protests are slated for February 10th or thereabouts.

Warren Buffett approves of these goings-on and so do I. Sure, I am anti-censorship. And the folks of scientology have a legal right to publish their ideas. Protesting has a noble history. It is through protesting that some things get done. The message gets out. The meme gets around. The stuff gets to go surfing electronically. Well, okay some of the stuff that Anon is doing might border on illegal or might be illegal. I am not a cop, lawyer, or judge. Some other folks will have to decide all of that stuff later on maybe. Meanwhile, in retaliation at least one site where Anon hangs out was attacked in turn by an organization calling itself “The Regime.” That particular site is now back up and in service as of this posting.

My sources are below. Many of them support Anon. At least one doesn’t. And several are official scientology sites, as far as I can tell. Adding .nyud.net/ to the url will cause any that are loading slowly to speed up. spike

http://cominganarchy.com/2008/01/25/is-the-war-on-scientology-4gw/ http://partyvan.info.nyud.net/index.php/Project_Chanology

http://www.time.com/time/magazine/article/0,9171,972865,00.html <—-5/6/91

http://whyaretheydead.net/ http://www.factnet.org/Scientology/memorials.htm

http://www.news.com/8301-10789_3-9857666-57.html http://www.news.com/8301-10789_3-9858436-57.html http://www.news.com/8301-10789_3-9858603-57.html http://www.news.com/8301-10789_3-9858956-57.html?tag=recentPosts

http://www.pcworld.com/article/id,141839-c,hackers/article.html
http://www.xenu.net/
http://www.xenu.net/news/20080122-OC_pressrelease.html

http://www.scientology.org/
http://www.scientologyreligion.org/sitemap.html http://www.volunteerministers.org/seminar/index.html
http://www.lronhubbard.org/

http://factnet.org/?p=240
http://www.encyclopediadramatica.com/PROJECT_CHANOLOGY http://www.warrenellis.com/?p=5476#comments http://theunfunnytruth.ytmnd.com.nyud.net/
http://preview.tinyurl.com/2zvstv [Open in new window] or
http://tinyurl.com/2zvstv [Open in new window]

All of the words below are either businesses which may be associated with Scientology or owned outright, or terms associated with Scientology.

Dianetics. Sterling Management Systems. The Way to Happiness Foundation. Applied Scholastics. Fair Game. Old Mayo. Citizens Commission on Human Rights. Concerned Businessmen’s Association of America. HealthMed. Foundation for a Drug-Free World. The Drug-Free Marshals of Seattle. The Drug-Free Marshals of Los Angeles. Say No to Drugs, Say Yes to Life. Volunteer Ministers Corp. Religious Technology Center. E-Meter. Clear. The Bridge. Operating Thetans. Engram. Lead the Way to a Drug-Free U.S.A. Drug-Free Ambassadors. Golden Era Productions. Bridge Publications. New Era Publications. International Hubbard Ecclesiastical League of Pastors. Scientology Missions International. Narconon. Criminon. Feshbach “stock busters.” Flag Service Organization. Fort Harrison Hotel. Field Auditor groups. Class V Churches. Celebrity Centre Churches. Saint Hills. Advanced Organizations. Freewinds. The Drug Busters. Food for All. Hands of Hope Quilt. Sea Org. The National Commission on Law Enforcement and Social Justice. Koenig photometer. Purification Rundown. Effective Solutions. Suppressive person. Disconnection. Linksfield House. Emotional Tone Stress Test.

Labels: Anon, Anonymous, censorship, DDOS, murder accusations, Scientology

As my dreams dwindle, obesity takes over and balloons obscenely– trapping me in folds of putrid flesh– until I am unrecognizable. Diets failed. Lifestyle changes failed miserably. This is who I am today. I define myself by numbers on a scale. Society defines me by my non-existent paycheck.

When I was working, I had arrived several times but I hated it. Now that I am not working, I no longer have teary outbursts or meltdowns. I am old and my body is falling apart. “So where are you working now?” Fuck you. Thanks for still believing in me when I don’t believe in myself.

And fuck you. And fuck you too. The stupid VESID morons told me lies. They strung me along for three years. Three VESID “counselors.” The cunt I used to smoke pot with when we were co-workers. The man with a handshake like a dead fish. The new one with no discernible personality. All of you left me to rot. And I let you do it. That is my largest failure.

My get up and go and my AC-shun Ac-shun drum drum A-C-T drum drum I-O-N were casualties of sheared neuronic pathways and synapses which no longer have any electrical charge. “Get out of bed,” my elderly aunt tells me over the telephone wire. “Get dressed.” I do. I just keep forcing myself. Any alternative is worse.

Waiting. Waiting until I feel well. Waiting until I feel well enough to. Waiting until I feel. Waiting until. Doesn’t work. I know this as truth from my past. I remember.

And so I get up. Get dressed. Spend time on the computer. Take care of the dog, cats, frogs, fish. Blog about my reluctance to do housework and my severe procrastination. And then I force myself to do something. Anything. Sweep the floors. Pick up. Move things around. Spent too easily, I sleep. Get up again. Force myself to do more. Buy the newspaper. Look for a part-time job that I might be able to stand doing. Call the 55b/c personnel office to ask what I can do to expedite the getting of a state job.

Perhaps dreaming isn’t so elusive after all. Hope is not dead entirely. I lean over, adjusting the ankle braces against my white athletic socks. I breathe. And I begin the task at hand. Building my life anew.

sapphoq healing t.b.i.

The professionals tell us, “You all need to quiet down and listen to our instructions.”

“Fuck your instructions!” someone yells. “You professionals are the stoopids,” adds another.
“Your behaviors are unacceptable,” the professionals chant together. “You both need a ten minute time-out.”

The two go to their time-out chairs smiling, because the rainbows in their boxes are now tap dancing and singing a rather risque drinking song.

The time-out is over. Before the professionals can stop us, we all run to the barred windows. The youngest in the group opens all the windows.

We let the rainbows out of our boxes. They escape through the slits and blow kisses at us as they fly away.
We return to our seats and sit quietly in awe and wonder.

The professionals pass out M&Ms because we are now sitting quietly with our [now empty] boxes and no longer arguing with them about the contents.

Or:
The autistic youngster wants to reach for something and can’t manage it so he uses the arm of a friendly adult to get it.
The standard issue kid whines and throws a temper tantrum and maybe climbs up on the furniture and breaks a leg.

Or:
Those that accuse us of not having this other mind thing don’t recognize that we do. We are quiet about it. And we are free from the compulsion to arrange the environment into socially acceptable small talk.

spike