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whitney hill

Can’t Breathe. Can’t See.

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Can’t Breathe. Can’t See.

Within minutes I have eight hands simultaneously checking my back for rashes, sticking ports in my arm and checking my vitals. They ask me for consent in using a breathing tube (luckily, wasn't used), then in one quick action a nurse tells me to take a deep breath and an epi pen is jammed into my upper thigh. In an instant, an IV of steroids and Benadryl begin to rush into my veins and I feel like Frankenstein reborn.

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Stopping The Assault: Public Vengeance for Kelly Thomas

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Stopping The Assault: Public Vengeance for Kelly Thomas

Very few words can sum up my disgust. My hatred. My anger. And with all the emotions that rise to the tipping point of what my consciousness can handle, I am left physically recoiling from the very thought of our police, nay political state. Endlessly questioning on when our cops became the true parody of Dredd, winning the tittles of Judge, Jury and Executioner. What powers have we as an American people given up to be ruled by fear and abused by authority? If our governed figureheads, time after time, choose to make examples of citizens for petty crimes, then why doesn't the unlawful murder at the hands of a cop weigh in the same? Why do we settle on only blaming the cop and not the departments that employ, teach and train them? Surely the Commissioners, Chief Of Police and Legislatures who issue leniency and minimum repercussions towards their own in uniform, gravely affect the outcome of how the following officers carry themselves - conduct their duties

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Solipsism

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Solipsism

Straying a little bit away from articles that are usually posted here at Sporkability, I recently got caught up with the idea of depersonalization. And so, going with that mind set, I examined curious occurrence of dreams and how they trick the mind and senses into believing something false and how Descartes Meditation theories play into this idea. Enjoy!

In our awaken state of mind, with our bodies tolling throughout the day, we rely on our senses, our conscious morally correct mind, each other and ourselves to relay back to us what we see and know.  We trust in the elementary things that have been taught to us from years ago. We act on them and use them as devices to make simple and exquisite decisions.  At the end of the day we retire, slipping into an altered state of mind, we dream of things that could never fully come to term if placed in this world of limitations. We wake and replay each day with only minor differences to tell one another from the last. Our senses drive us through this process; we follow blindly. We are finite.  We are flawed.

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Why designers are responsible for the layout of societies social structure

There is a problem.  An epidemic, a sickness fragmenting our societies very fiber and woefully little is being done to eradicate it. This debilitating problem, plague to sanity, endangers over a third of the world’s population; the end is not nigh. I’m of course talking about the disease of the designers.

            It can be argued that the sole purpose of a designer is to constantly create and destroy, which in turn creates a correlation with the individuals who purchase, use and discard what’s been generated. What the affluent designer assumes is needed for the community becomes implemented and unless a thorough user and market analysis is researched and taken into account, a flawed product becomes born. However, the imperfections of this bastard product (product of urban plans by architects, social structure by the lawmakers and government) at times become overlooked and instead scapegoated towards the ‘imperfections’ of the individuals who use them. I repeat, there is problem and it is with the ideology of the designer and their flawed product that alienates their users.

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Retard. Crippled. Hopeless. Flawed.

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Retard. Crippled. Hopeless. Flawed.

Those words, like a festering wound, would echo through my being and cause a mental pang that left me enraged and unsettled.

I guess some would say that I was oversensitive – I mean they were just words. Silly, stupid words that I should have been able to let roll off my back. At least this is the coping advice I was given my whole life (drastically easier said than done, mind you). The memories however, the ones that crawled into my mind when I heard such words, were unavoidable and couldn’t be easily forgotten. What are you really supposed to do when words such as these, are used to define your differences?

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​  The Hand, Mind and Written Muscle:  How PTSD & TBI Helps Inspire A Writer Part II

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​ The Hand, Mind and Written Muscle: How PTSD & TBI Helps Inspire A Writer Part II

All of my disabilities, foibles and peculiarities feed into the process.

My years of jerking cars from wrecks and hauling them across San Jose produced the mundane side of Hooker.

My being overweight, love for cooking and caring for others shows up in Dolly the dispatcher.

My year spent in a wheelchair during college shows up in the retired detective.

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The Hand, Mind and Written Muscle:  How PTSD & TBI Helps Inspire A Writer Part I

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The Hand, Mind and Written Muscle: How PTSD & TBI Helps Inspire A Writer Part I

When we say TBI, the general public sees helmets - battles and football. But I did neither. Mine comes from some accidents, and a lot of getting smacked in the head with a big stick many times over the eleven years. I did medieval broadsword fighting.

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