Kafka Does Jersey: A Study in Red
Tape, that is - miles and miles of shiny, bright (and, undoubtedly, petroleum-product derived) red tape (or maybe it's crimson - and these things matter, because, if you use the wrong terminology you have to wad it all up, throw it away, and start over again - thank you for playing the home version of our game), artfully configured in a torturous yet convoluted labyrinthine configuration that only appears to be a maze with an entrance and an exit, but is actually a complex series of interconnected oubliettes.
Oh, wait! "No Exit" is Sartre, isn't it? Or maybe I'm in some 21st Century sitcom version of "Waiting for Godot" (and what y'all need to remember is that I don't find most sitcoms very funny). Truth to tell, it's most like an Arthur Murray, follow the footprints, dance lesson crossed with "The Myth of Sisiphus" by Albert Camus.
So much for Existentialism 101.
It's like trying to walk through Jell-O to accomplish anything with this program. If I were mentally and physically able to navigate and overcome this fabulous festival of bullshit in a timely fashion and without assistance...I wouldn't bloody need it, would I?!?!?!
Ahem...Perhaps I should begin again.
Back when New Gingrich was carrying out his "Contract [on] America" with all the jovial aplomb and ruthless efficiency of a Bensonhurst Mafioso, some crip activist got a hold of a memo of his where he states, point blank and in plain English, taht one of the goals of the GOP was to target the under-65 disabled in the Social Security/Medicare systems as a big step in forcing that system to "wither on the vine." He even went so far as to put into writing his "target disenrollment figures" for getting qualified recipients off the rolls.
As twisted as this policy was (is?), it's tangible. That is to say, there's something there to fight against. What I face, instead, is more of a seemingly disconnected series of gaffes, gaps, and semiconscious somnambulants.
I'm approved, but the criteria for compensating
rampallion is a) uncertain, b) uneven, c) inconsistent, d) being changed...e) all of the above (at some point...so far).
I have, therefore, a "backlog" of fundage that is supposed to be available for goods and/or services to aid in my health and/or daily living. When I try to apply this mythical fundage to any of the myriad goods and/or services I could actually put to such good use, however, I am told that, in reality, these are not the kinds of assistances I can use this fundage for. What CAN I use this fundage for? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe better.
Medicaid (purportedly) covers a number of the services herein referred to as The Stuff That Works (tm). Which would be lovely if I could actually avail myself of said services. I've been given a list of criterion under which I may access a provider...however, it would appear that there isn't a single provider in the state of NJ who fits the criterion. The people whose job it is to provide me with a LIST of "qualified" providers...wait for it (Gods know, I have)...have flat out refused to do so.
Medicaid purports to cover certain products I couldn't get before (even though I needed them), such as a nebulizer and a cushion for my wheelchair. Until I actually tried to get them. Forget the fact that the nearest place to get the stuff is an hour and 1/2 away. Forget the questionable competence of the staff (both of these are an entirely different exercise in Existentialist angst.) We go there...twice...and wait...a lot...and fill out all the forms...and wait...and wait some more...and have them call my doctor...and my pharmacist?...and wait...only to find that, well, maybe it's not covered and maybe it is...or, rather, it is on paper, but not in practice...but, we're not sure...and we really won't know for sure until they get around to telling us...someday soon...we think.
I've got an appointment to speak to a Nutritionist, who's going to tell me to do things that we already know but cannot afford to implement.
The palliative treatments I'm permitted (and that only barely - don't get me started on the DEA practicing medicine without a clue, much less a licence! Grrr...hiss...) don't really hit the mark. They're not anodynes, just analgesics and anesthetics. If the analgesics really did the trick I guess it would be alright...but, mostly, I've got the choice of pain or zombification. Veles help me, I choose pain.
I'm not a good zombie. I'm too lame (literally) to shuffle about providing morbid comic relief. And I'm too angry to just sit in the corner, waiting to die. When it comes to being undead, I've always preferred vampirism...though frankly, I think I've got enough anger burning inside of me to make a pretty decent wraith right now.
Which brings us back to Existentialism and the fundamental question Camus posits in " The Myth of Sisiphus" (and other writings actually): What is the point of existence when existence itself is absurd?
Camus posits that suicide, rather than a protest against, or a relief from the absurdity, is simply the final absurd act in the absurd melodrama. The sane response, the artistic response, the only response that is awake, aware and thoughtful, is to LIVE. One must persist in the face of absurdity, lest the absurdity triumph.
I have a wife. I have a son. I have a Family of the Heart. I have friends. I also know what it's like to be on the "day-side" of that Twilight Decision, no matter how well-planned or well-reasoned. I have things to do and promises to keep.
If, as Wilde posits, the artist's life is zir chef d'oevre, and if the alchemists prima materia when turning lead into gold is zir self, then perhaps persistence shall yet prove its own reward.
Oh, wait! "No Exit" is Sartre, isn't it? Or maybe I'm in some 21st Century sitcom version of "Waiting for Godot" (and what y'all need to remember is that I don't find most sitcoms very funny). Truth to tell, it's most like an Arthur Murray, follow the footprints, dance lesson crossed with "The Myth of Sisiphus" by Albert Camus.
So much for Existentialism 101.
It's like trying to walk through Jell-O to accomplish anything with this program. If I were mentally and physically able to navigate and overcome this fabulous festival of bullshit in a timely fashion and without assistance...I wouldn't bloody need it, would I?!?!?!
Ahem...Perhaps I should begin again.
Back when New Gingrich was carrying out his "Contract [on] America" with all the jovial aplomb and ruthless efficiency of a Bensonhurst Mafioso, some crip activist got a hold of a memo of his where he states, point blank and in plain English, taht one of the goals of the GOP was to target the under-65 disabled in the Social Security/Medicare systems as a big step in forcing that system to "wither on the vine." He even went so far as to put into writing his "target disenrollment figures" for getting qualified recipients off the rolls.
As twisted as this policy was (is?), it's tangible. That is to say, there's something there to fight against. What I face, instead, is more of a seemingly disconnected series of gaffes, gaps, and semiconscious somnambulants.
I'm approved, but the criteria for compensating
rampallion is a) uncertain, b) uneven, c) inconsistent, d) being changed...e) all of the above (at some point...so far).
I have, therefore, a "backlog" of fundage that is supposed to be available for goods and/or services to aid in my health and/or daily living. When I try to apply this mythical fundage to any of the myriad goods and/or services I could actually put to such good use, however, I am told that, in reality, these are not the kinds of assistances I can use this fundage for. What CAN I use this fundage for? Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe better.
Medicaid (purportedly) covers a number of the services herein referred to as The Stuff That Works (tm). Which would be lovely if I could actually avail myself of said services. I've been given a list of criterion under which I may access a provider...however, it would appear that there isn't a single provider in the state of NJ who fits the criterion. The people whose job it is to provide me with a LIST of "qualified" providers...wait for it (Gods know, I have)...have flat out refused to do so.
Medicaid purports to cover certain products I couldn't get before (even though I needed them), such as a nebulizer and a cushion for my wheelchair. Until I actually tried to get them. Forget the fact that the nearest place to get the stuff is an hour and 1/2 away. Forget the questionable competence of the staff (both of these are an entirely different exercise in Existentialist angst.) We go there...twice...and wait...a lot...and fill out all the forms...and wait...and wait some more...and have them call my doctor...and my pharmacist?...and wait...only to find that, well, maybe it's not covered and maybe it is...or, rather, it is on paper, but not in practice...but, we're not sure...and we really won't know for sure until they get around to telling us...someday soon...we think.
I've got an appointment to speak to a Nutritionist, who's going to tell me to do things that we already know but cannot afford to implement.
The palliative treatments I'm permitted (and that only barely - don't get me started on the DEA practicing medicine without a clue, much less a licence! Grrr...hiss...) don't really hit the mark. They're not anodynes, just analgesics and anesthetics. If the analgesics really did the trick I guess it would be alright...but, mostly, I've got the choice of pain or zombification. Veles help me, I choose pain.
I'm not a good zombie. I'm too lame (literally) to shuffle about providing morbid comic relief. And I'm too angry to just sit in the corner, waiting to die. When it comes to being undead, I've always preferred vampirism...though frankly, I think I've got enough anger burning inside of me to make a pretty decent wraith right now.
Which brings us back to Existentialism and the fundamental question Camus posits in " The Myth of Sisiphus" (and other writings actually): What is the point of existence when existence itself is absurd?
Camus posits that suicide, rather than a protest against, or a relief from the absurdity, is simply the final absurd act in the absurd melodrama. The sane response, the artistic response, the only response that is awake, aware and thoughtful, is to LIVE. One must persist in the face of absurdity, lest the absurdity triumph.
I have a wife. I have a son. I have a Family of the Heart. I have friends. I also know what it's like to be on the "day-side" of that Twilight Decision, no matter how well-planned or well-reasoned. I have things to do and promises to keep.
If, as Wilde posits, the artist's life is zir chef d'oevre, and if the alchemists prima materia when turning lead into gold is zir self, then perhaps persistence shall yet prove its own reward.