Category Archives: blogger theft

The Corner.

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	Header always append X-Frame-Options SAMEORIGIN

The new set up finally felt right.

The laptop should never have been situated anywhere near the davenport. Hardly welcoming to plunk one’s “office” right in the middle of the livingroom. Add to that the endless stream of paper mail – charity pleas, financial statements, natural health provocateurs, catalogues. Burgeoning piles, taunting every, lifelong attempt to keep an orderly house.

No matter that finding the means to actually toss the static stacks forever eluded. This would harken back to that Great Depression mindset and, well, that was inherited.

Yes. The corner was, finally, just perfect. The wicker rocker had been lovely neo-nostalgia, but sprawling, determined to scrape the last of the baseboard paint all the way down to its 1895 darkwood. And, sitting in the rocker was never right; its ergonomics, or lack thereof, had wrecked both her neck and sacra, the latter already pesky after the fall from the stage in ’09. Perhaps the new chair was more than just easy to assemble. Perhaps she could finally extend her spine fully, and expand her lungs. Perhaps she could finally, functionally, actively: sit.

With the sofa pushed forward, making room for the slender pole lamp, peace lily to the left wafting its oxygen, and heat vent just below, she was at last comfortable enough to troll Facebook, watch Showtime, and write without descending into the dull, half-wit of the couch potato. She noted that getting up to go to the piano was a far more frequent occurrence, now, the most encouraging observation of the hour.

Hardly anybody of any social importance anymore even knew that she played piano. The purchase of the Steinway was only meaningful to her, after all. Funny how expectations were fueled by fantasies, and these by notions. Notions of relative value.

Time didn’t actually pass, she’d been told. But, years did. And, she hadn’t been part of the league of pianists since at least 2005. A decade, to the Millennials and those who spawned them, was a lifetime.

She noted that, from this angle, her reflection appeared in the screen. The way the light refracted provided a clear image. Her face appeared to be receding from its head, the absence of estrogen draining the last of its contouring fat. She used to see an exotic Napolitan, even at her loneliest moments marveling at how distinct she was from the sea of Sicilians in the spectre of her locale. Now, she could only ponder the generic picture of a woman toward which nobody would even look twice.

She wondered if anybody would be listening seven days hence, as she made her recapitulating debut on the live airwaves. The year was probably 1990; Mavis Sargeant, ever the pioneer and a rare Brit in a community of staunch Germans and ethnic ghettos, had initiated “Potpourri”, live classical and its corollaries for a solid hour at high noon at the local PBS affiliate. For quite awhile, it stuck; now, nearly two decades in, live music was once again featured at WQLN – FM. Her selected colleagues had agreed to perform a trio program, and the marketing standard included a live broadcast “teaser” to lure attendees to the scheduled recital.

Thus was her life, lived – by the standards of her alleged family – in complete self-indulgence. Somehow, she had missed the importance of being seen out, in the evenings, where people gathered. She had neglected to form relationships with those who would sustain her social standing. Now her words, last testament to the proof that she had lived, were batted about by anonymous ghost writers, grifters in a world of the younger, prettier, and classed.

Pressing the space bar and the shift key, she placed the next set of them onto the template of the laptop screen.






© Ruth Ann Scanzillo   1/27/17   Post #478, all authentic, created by this writer, whose rights are reserved in spite of all attempts to the contrary. Yeah. To all the pathetic parasites: Someday, all your sins will find you out. To the honest among you, go in peace.


What is RSSING.COM, and Why?

I just tried to Google my blog site, by name.

Horrified, I discovered several of my blog posts at ANOTHER SITE, specifically RSSING.COM and another stupid one filled with hockey photos.

There is a form to fill out at RSSING.COM to complain, or make removal requests, but I am terrified that, if I click any of their boxes, my stuff will somehow disappear from, entirely!

Has any other WORDPRESS.COM blogger had a problem with RSSING.COM stealing content? I am paying $26 per year to OWN my blog URL. How, and WHY, can something like this possibly be happening? says that my RSS Feed links to this site. But, why? Did I authorize this? “Increasing traffic”? Only spammers, from what I can tell.

Comments, advice, instructions, explanations – PLEASE? Thanks.

Ruth Ann Scanzillo, author,

Can’t Search for my Own Blog Posts!




Anybody else having this problem?

I type a title of a known blog piece of mine into my own “Can’t Find the Poem or Essay You Seek?” which is my own blog Search bar located in the footer of my homepage and, when I click to activate the search, the page that comes up is TOTALLY BLANK.

It’s been going on for about a week. Furthermore, the blank page that appears has, in its address bar, the triangular exclamation point warning icon next to the Microsoft green padlock, and hovering over that yields: ” verified by”  Huh?!

In fact, the problem is getting worse. Last week, when I would go back and re-enter the title in the same search bar, and click on it, the piece would subsequently appear as if nothing unusual had happened. BUT – as of a few minutes ago, my repeat attempt yielded the same result: TOTALLY BLANK, WHITE PAGE.

THIS means that I cannot search for my own piece. And, it makes me wonder if visitors are also being prevented from searching for pieces by title using my provided Search bar.

And – I own my site page. I paid the $26 for the domain address privilege.

Please comment if you have been experiencing this glitch, or if you have figured out what has caused it in the past. Thanks!    Ruth Ann Scanzillo