I am reluctant to use the active ingredient in Mucinex, which is Guainfensin, to treat my chronic pulmonary decline, because it was certainly not designed for emphysema, but it is the best decongestant I have ever used that is an over the counter treatment. At least it used to be, and although I am unexpectedly drying out, as I posted yesterday, I do not need a relapse, and popped another with breakfast, and this is left over capellini and sardines; no driving out in the rain, even for Fancy Feast; the children will have to make due with the Purina K&K and my two small cans until tomorrow. A shower would make me feel better in one sense, but I need the breeze; it eases the still air in the unit that makes me labor, and so I will wait a little longer to feel confident about closing the windows and getting wet.
Due to the light winter, I am very much afraid of a summer with hard driving temperatures, and perhaps need to grit my teeth and buy a fan, and expend energy on how to keep the children safe with it in the living area.
Again, you may feel that my moral blame laid at the doorstep of Linda, Liberty, and Presby is representative of impaired judgment, but, by the time I glued myself back together from what Linda had done, I lost unrestricted use of Paratransit, and Presby was harassing me, constantly. My tense relationship with this company did not begin with their hire of Trudy Richardson, and if I am forced to continue my decline here, it will not end with her departure. Building managers are like candied almonds to this corrupt religious entity.
I have detailed numerous other instances for you in these years, and now things may be stable, but my health is failing, and sustained victimatization has as much to do with that as my struggle with ending tobacco use. Internalizing my abuse has not been good for me, and as a factual matter, the law may not have any exceptions to offer me to pursue any kind of justice.
Still, I took the time last evening to print my templates, and the kids, because I have been cautious, haven't noticed anything.
I do not fear my state representative, or complaining to her. I fear the fallout at the end of the day if I persist in keeping these things front and center as violations of the Americans With Disabilities Act, and my civil rights. Maybe I am mistaken if I think the ACLU is an effective shield here, but I am packing up my first copy to them, with additional letterhead. I do not know about Governor Corbett, but I am hoping to use his lack of enthusiasm of ADAPT and Cassie James, to my advantage.
Saturday, March 31, 2012
Thursday, March 29, 2012
The Aeneid
I have refrained from discussing my banishment from The Literature Network with the same impetus that I have discussed my banishment from the P$W Speakeasy, partly due to the fact that my sins in the former community were negligible in comparison to the latter, and the site owner remains, still, an infantile jackass, but losing the connection of virtual familiarity still bites. I have little desire to return to the latter site, and this took me ten years of grinding away at a guilt I allowed to balloon, seeing myself in a fearful and degenerative aspect, which more or less is concomitant on mental illness as a matter of degree, to parse more finely, a mood disorder. To tirelessly reiterate the point, however, what I wanted from the MFA guild was a path to freedom that did not involve teaching, and it is now in twilight. As to the former forum, so called, it bores the shit out of me, minus the handful of useful contacts; those contacts, however, are apparently not my friends, since none of them use my comment section, and they know spastic is also the avatar Jozanny, hence my cynicism about connection and alienation through device, despite the fact that the stability of my lung function is coming to an end. I have probably purchased my last supply of Aeros, and may need more aggressive breathing therapy very soon, and even though I may not have fully connected the dots to any satisfaction of the online legal community, my former supervisor, her employer, and my landlord, have, through their negligence, destroyed my health. Had Liberty kept its promises, I would not today be so weakened, and sick, and levels of loss have their priorities.
However, I reconnected with Virgil (Manny) by the virtue of a spammer who had gotten hold of his yahoo address, and will confess that I have relented in relation to our former friction, which can be blamed on Italian provincial rivalry between NYC and Philly neighborhoods, she smiles while dying. If you hurry and look at the site, you'll notice Orphan Pip is still an active regular, and thus will be footnoted. The moderator Scheherazade, intones, "We take bans very seriously, and will not talk about them."
This, as well, is an utter form of hypocrisy. I committed no crime; my lungs were in bad shape and the site owner kicked me off because I attempted to discuss the chapter summary payment for what I had completed. Our capacity for pretension knows no end, and is in fact, limitless, and no one there cares about compassion for a homebound invalid.
As Manny is of my blood, I forgive his citations of the godspel of John to comfort me, and bear him the affection of our fellowship, remain pleased that he came to meet me and that we exchanged gifts and kisses, and that he and his wife are happy with their young son, and that I can bless their fortunes from afar, and the personal convictions he and I share are no longer so different, though Manny has been a good Catholic, and spastic has not, and can never recommit to the faith, as such, because I cannot vacillate, like Anne Rice, between extremes. I may have mentioned I sent her POB a letter once. Pointless exercise.
However, I reconnected with Virgil (Manny) by the virtue of a spammer who had gotten hold of his yahoo address, and will confess that I have relented in relation to our former friction, which can be blamed on Italian provincial rivalry between NYC and Philly neighborhoods, she smiles while dying. If you hurry and look at the site, you'll notice Orphan Pip is still an active regular, and thus will be footnoted. The moderator Scheherazade, intones, "We take bans very seriously, and will not talk about them."
This, as well, is an utter form of hypocrisy. I committed no crime; my lungs were in bad shape and the site owner kicked me off because I attempted to discuss the chapter summary payment for what I had completed. Our capacity for pretension knows no end, and is in fact, limitless, and no one there cares about compassion for a homebound invalid.
As Manny is of my blood, I forgive his citations of the godspel of John to comfort me, and bear him the affection of our fellowship, remain pleased that he came to meet me and that we exchanged gifts and kisses, and that he and his wife are happy with their young son, and that I can bless their fortunes from afar, and the personal convictions he and I share are no longer so different, though Manny has been a good Catholic, and spastic has not, and can never recommit to the faith, as such, because I cannot vacillate, like Anne Rice, between extremes. I may have mentioned I sent her POB a letter once. Pointless exercise.
Fear & Trembling
I only have a portion of Kierkegaard's seminal work in translation from mobi, but the focus here concerns Wiki's summary of William X Kienzle seemingly renders the former priest's career with as much contention as I have experienced with various theocracies. I do not know his noir novels on which the film with Sutherland as the progressive cleric is based, and so made a note of this for future reference, in order to clarify things later if need be, but the film itself is not very good, and so I cannot defend The Rosary Murders as the studio translated it in 1987, but I can extrapolate from it, and we'll happily work our way backwards, starting with the omega, because starting with the conclusion is the best way I can enter into it.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
San Luis Rey Bridges
I am of an age when I can now enter into Jerry's skin; my exuberant youth that saw him as epistemological cocaine must have amounted to a mega sized pain in the ass; if his poetry is any indication he hasn't changed much, and other than tabulating my damages, I cannot really tell you how much I have changed. There was always some sense of emotional risk and unease that I attached to physical intimacy with potential lovers, and here I am, looking at the young with a jaundiced eye, even if it alters my perspective in relation to my past.
The capellini did not upset my stomach yesterday, as I had it with a light cream and scallops quick frozen and packaged by Trader Joe's (I cannot praise this gift-wrapped franchise model from California enough, although if you asked me how it is so very different from a traditional supermarket, I would probably have to borrow a snot-nosed New York Times MBA to assist me in elucidating its convenience couture), and I actually tired myself out from working yesterday, email upon email, which will accrue as my deadline approaches; I now know when that deadline is, and thus, have calmed, after a brief quake of my scar tissue; it came and went within moments, which is what my earlier therapists and I have been trying to illustrate. With healthy supports, I am pretty much fine, and the problem with Liberty Resources (if you are a parent with a disabled child, I warn you, if you donate to Liberty you assist a bad provider at your peril) over the years has been that it did not provide me with a healthy support environment, which is why I will defy death itself to get this federal mandate revisited, even if I have to repeat this in hundreds of posts.
Which reminds me, I did not print my template letter yet, because I have not had the time to package and protect it against the children so I could post it, but I have been informed that the senator's staff will be here next week. Do I simply present the missive, or properly postmark the thing, or present the missive and mail it to myself and the ACLU? I have my own level of cowardice and fear, but I cannot let this issue go, because crime was committed, my life was jeopardized. I cannot bury this and allow a future Linda to wind up killing someone because she doesn't know how to pay attention, but that doesn't mean I am not scared that the state of Pennsylvania might punish me further for raising my voice.
Mmm. Time for a fresh fake.
Today I am more along the lines of nibbling, pondering the Motorola Faith of Rome in which I was raised, and the nostalgia that surrounds it like my candy coated almonds. I mean, of course I could go back to mass and not say anything, and utilize my parish for my own ends, but I fear my pugilist tendencies against the collar, and the deference we pay to papal authority, which doesn't quite fit the progressive white shock of hair that is Donald Sutherland in the late 20th century, playing a not quite credible Father Koesler in a thriller that languishes. We'll kick it up.
The capellini did not upset my stomach yesterday, as I had it with a light cream and scallops quick frozen and packaged by Trader Joe's (I cannot praise this gift-wrapped franchise model from California enough, although if you asked me how it is so very different from a traditional supermarket, I would probably have to borrow a snot-nosed New York Times MBA to assist me in elucidating its convenience couture), and I actually tired myself out from working yesterday, email upon email, which will accrue as my deadline approaches; I now know when that deadline is, and thus, have calmed, after a brief quake of my scar tissue; it came and went within moments, which is what my earlier therapists and I have been trying to illustrate. With healthy supports, I am pretty much fine, and the problem with Liberty Resources (if you are a parent with a disabled child, I warn you, if you donate to Liberty you assist a bad provider at your peril) over the years has been that it did not provide me with a healthy support environment, which is why I will defy death itself to get this federal mandate revisited, even if I have to repeat this in hundreds of posts.
Which reminds me, I did not print my template letter yet, because I have not had the time to package and protect it against the children so I could post it, but I have been informed that the senator's staff will be here next week. Do I simply present the missive, or properly postmark the thing, or present the missive and mail it to myself and the ACLU? I have my own level of cowardice and fear, but I cannot let this issue go, because crime was committed, my life was jeopardized. I cannot bury this and allow a future Linda to wind up killing someone because she doesn't know how to pay attention, but that doesn't mean I am not scared that the state of Pennsylvania might punish me further for raising my voice.
Mmm. Time for a fresh fake.
Today I am more along the lines of nibbling, pondering the Motorola Faith of Rome in which I was raised, and the nostalgia that surrounds it like my candy coated almonds. I mean, of course I could go back to mass and not say anything, and utilize my parish for my own ends, but I fear my pugilist tendencies against the collar, and the deference we pay to papal authority, which doesn't quite fit the progressive white shock of hair that is Donald Sutherland in the late 20th century, playing a not quite credible Father Koesler in a thriller that languishes. We'll kick it up.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Lamb Vindaloo
Panic begins to descend, but I need to calm down. I did not give New Editor a specific date. I told (them) this week, and if I have to wait until Friday to send (them) an update, then I wait. My source, on the basis of my research, may not exist, but most likely does; this is not a time to go driving around center city for Fancy Feast wet meat that Joey is not going to voice complaint over, but by tonight I shall be forced, having given up, bought a bag of Kit & Kaboodle called it treats, and the children seem quite happy chasing dry food all over the studio. They want dry food, and this drives mother to distraction, worrying about Beloved Son's bladder. I do not leave it in their bowl, and for now this is the best I can do, having inexplicably lost two cans of the aforementioned wet meat, I have to go get more, but it will be a late night drive.
10/5 edit: My guilt lies in this laxity, as my poor child would have still been alive if I had remained strict, although I had hoped he was cured, as there were no blocks in his previous straining behavior when I did manage to get him in; I loved this animal, despite my resentment of Aunt Marie obligating me with 27 years of responsibility, sometimes conflict with my now incisively hated landlord. I have no one with whom I can share my grief, not an intimate in the truest sense.
***
I deleted my March 2010 post about my taste for Indian food discovered at the Taj Mahal; if I wish to now begin my my lede (deep breath). I did indicate, in the 2010 post, that the restaurant on Chestnut Street that was known as the Taj Mahal was closed. I do not know why, but this is what I did in 1997, other than cyber sex and trolling for the real thing, I rolled into restaurants, franchises, some now defunct, and spent money on meals I could not afford, alone. I am not sure what it would take anymore not to always be on the inner self of my own consciousness.
10/5 edit: My guilt lies in this laxity, as my poor child would have still been alive if I had remained strict, although I had hoped he was cured, as there were no blocks in his previous straining behavior when I did manage to get him in; I loved this animal, despite my resentment of Aunt Marie obligating me with 27 years of responsibility, sometimes conflict with my now incisively hated landlord. I have no one with whom I can share my grief, not an intimate in the truest sense.
***
I deleted my March 2010 post about my taste for Indian food discovered at the Taj Mahal; if I wish to now begin my my lede (deep breath). I did indicate, in the 2010 post, that the restaurant on Chestnut Street that was known as the Taj Mahal was closed. I do not know why, but this is what I did in 1997, other than cyber sex and trolling for the real thing, I rolled into restaurants, franchises, some now defunct, and spent money on meals I could not afford, alone. I am not sure what it would take anymore not to always be on the inner self of my own consciousness.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Ubi Caritas
As I have stated before in earlier posts, there is a part of me that wants to return to the hard Roman Catholicism of the past, the brutally hard faith that makes Mel Gibson believe his anti-Semiticism is its own self-justification; the kind of hard faith that allows for anti-homosexual attitudes, in point of fact. I am not hostile to the civil expansion of gay rights because I am repressing my sexual desire to eat pussy and suck boobs. I had my trial by fire. I am anti-homosexual because celebrating and making this orientation equal to the positive life force of procreation is a moral corruption, even if it has perfectly acceptable biological explanations. Biology, indeed, the very process of evolution is brutal, and that brutality has plenty of side pockets for evil to fester, just as most of us feel that a cancer, just sitting inside the body, doing its thing, is evil, even if its cellular mechanisms can be objectively explained as a process. In his Granta essay about his disease and his drug use, and Granta loves this detached descriptive darkness of our interior destructive impulses, I've read enough of the periodical over the years to know this even without concurrence, Will Self writes that he had to come to hate his drug use in order to survive and overcome it. I wanted to write to Will, on the heels of finishing his essay, and have not. His dissonance would not necessarily connect with mine, and he is working his assignments; I have yet to reestablish myself. To take from his example, however, while my epidermis shrivels up and crunches, a pork rind, I am forced to use intolerance for the same ends: to survive being a loser and treated like my former supervisor's whelp bitch, and my trust again violated by Josie Byzek, I have had to roll up the draw bridge. Something of this dynamic is what John Patrick Shanley deploys in Doubt (2008 for the film); my hearing loss is an issue in my attempt to view this movie properly, but I saw it again this morning in the full force of its impact, and the way the theater parable was translated to the screen actually makes me thirst to compare a well directed stage performance. Even though this is my third view of the movie, I am too moved at this moment for aesthetic distance of the sort that no doubt would give me a larger and more comfortable audience-- but I am sacrificing popularity for the sake of my agenda, even if that agenda will not necessarily be preserved by a current content account. Somehow, maybe my outcry will survive, and in the future, the worst of CIL cruelity can be reformed and held in check.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ubi_caritas
And, by the same token, the worst of public housing contracts which lead to corruption and hypocrisy can one day be held in check. But I will mention one or two things about this film. The set director nailed the historical context, even with the sisters' habits, though I am not familiar with the particular type of bonnet the nuns wore, and I enjoyed Philip Seymour Hoffman as Father Flynn. It was a well nuanced performance, one of the few times his talent really honed in with trouble and ambiguity.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ubi_caritas
And, by the same token, the worst of public housing contracts which lead to corruption and hypocrisy can one day be held in check. But I will mention one or two things about this film. The set director nailed the historical context, even with the sisters' habits, though I am not familiar with the particular type of bonnet the nuns wore, and I enjoyed Philip Seymour Hoffman as Father Flynn. It was a well nuanced performance, one of the few times his talent really honed in with trouble and ambiguity.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Spud Dud
I used to watch The Fugitive series, and the last episode had such an anti-climatic thud that it makes Hugh Laurie's diminished season cliff hangers look positively grandiose, and this despite David Lynch's imitative tribute via Bob; any derivative articles I do as a result of this on going and twisted disability thesis might involve investigation into keynote one time wonders like David Janssen.
What did actors like these do with themselves after having one series like this, which, after all, was a bit blase? For some reason, I liked him in his methodical, almost leisurely pursuit of the one-armed man, yet another amputee villain for our cap trophies. Perhaps it was his reserve, suggestive of more beneath the surface.
What did actors like these do with themselves after having one series like this, which, after all, was a bit blase? For some reason, I liked him in his methodical, almost leisurely pursuit of the one-armed man, yet another amputee villain for our cap trophies. Perhaps it was his reserve, suggestive of more beneath the surface.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Requiem, Third Movement
Emphysema at least offers the distraction of providing interesting observations while it kills you, like a long and slow poisoning by carbon monoxide. The attack I had yesterday, successfully contained, was particularly bad, and I am gradually being drowned in my own pus. I find this starkly amusing, and no counselor would lift me out of this otherwise, the attacks being fierce after Tim cleans; perhaps it is bleach fumes. I temporarily removed the air freshener, and believe I will get through the weekend without needing script for steroids or oxygen therapy. I should have stopped smoking at 19 when I puked in padre's bathroom from tonsillitis. Padre did not modify the bathroom very well.
Are there any decent families left in this country? A brief member of my Jerry-clique, a nursing student named Nancy Hoffel, was right. She argued with me about tobacco, and while I don't much care about life shortening effects in and of themselves, emphysema (or COPD, more likely, since I have always had episodes of bronchitis) has coruscating aspects, in unexpected ways. My mother's butch buddy has similar issues with COPD, and both Tim the assistant and custodial Mike have stage 1. I may be at stage 3 out of 5, if we play the medical lottery, but know my time is short, and my family just doesn't care in the sense of helping me make a move toward more tranquil resettlement.
I am looking for my damaged hard copy of Moby Dick. I want the foot notes of this great literary rip off. I have a digital copy, signifying how much I love this American epic, but want to plug my notes in the kindle, and will search again when the flush of my fever subsides. The novel needs to be read, and students need to take the effort, including the passages Melville lifts straight from the Essex tragedy, because Melville transforms this into the tragedy of the American destiny. It is our epic, and I brook no dissent from anyone on the matter. It speaks to us even in our contemporary matrix.
Huston's film with Peck, in my estimation, is the most faithful adaptation to Melville's intent, but there is no film that matches the breadth of Melville's narrative. I cannot work anymore right now; hopefully this will pass, but the episodes are progressive, and worsening, despite my willpower and fish oil and my luck with diet in lessening the worst impact of control issues.
Are there any decent families left in this country? A brief member of my Jerry-clique, a nursing student named Nancy Hoffel, was right. She argued with me about tobacco, and while I don't much care about life shortening effects in and of themselves, emphysema (or COPD, more likely, since I have always had episodes of bronchitis) has coruscating aspects, in unexpected ways. My mother's butch buddy has similar issues with COPD, and both Tim the assistant and custodial Mike have stage 1. I may be at stage 3 out of 5, if we play the medical lottery, but know my time is short, and my family just doesn't care in the sense of helping me make a move toward more tranquil resettlement.
I am looking for my damaged hard copy of Moby Dick. I want the foot notes of this great literary rip off. I have a digital copy, signifying how much I love this American epic, but want to plug my notes in the kindle, and will search again when the flush of my fever subsides. The novel needs to be read, and students need to take the effort, including the passages Melville lifts straight from the Essex tragedy, because Melville transforms this into the tragedy of the American destiny. It is our epic, and I brook no dissent from anyone on the matter. It speaks to us even in our contemporary matrix.
Huston's film with Peck, in my estimation, is the most faithful adaptation to Melville's intent, but there is no film that matches the breadth of Melville's narrative. I cannot work anymore right now; hopefully this will pass, but the episodes are progressive, and worsening, despite my willpower and fish oil and my luck with diet in lessening the worst impact of control issues.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Requiem, mid service
One of the few pleasures of my life was settling down with a decent meal or snack on Monday nights to watch House, and the real public crisis in American culture is that this transplanted English hybrid is coming to an end. I may be mildly curious about the game being played on Awake, with Laura Innes reprising her ambiguous alien role from The Event, at which I glanced for less than twenty minutes to know I wasn't going to follow it, and I may tolerate Grimm, though it borders on mawkish cute, but I have no other attachment as I've had to Hugh Laurie's vehicle for the last eight years; when these last eight episodes air, I have no idea where my next outlet will come from, streaming cable shows aside, although, as an aside, I could dwell on the actress in her own variation on the physically impaired doctor on ER., except for the fact that the ensemble studies were not quite comparable to the arc on the aforementioned upgrade, and her struggle as a lame woman with her need for nurture from another pair of flouncy nipples was unconvincing, in the minutes given to it. ER did deal with the loss of ability, and the coping that follows it, but the show was a steroid soap, more or less, centered around the tensions of triage.
As for Hugh and his resume trail in late 20th century English farce, the genealogy not at my fingertips, this is not about accolades for the actor. However deserved, Laurie does not inspire affection, and imperfect as the show is, I'd still argue is the best the commercial networks have put out there. Utilized in this or any subsequent account I shall have it will be, even as it cycles into reruns, but I am officially in mourning for my feeble, but no less loyal rave, for eight years into my imminent senior life.
If I survive, and become affluent enough within that survival as age encroaches, I may buy all eight seasons of the series, and memorize them, and can recall, with sufficient clarity, that I thought the pilot episode of House was a rip off of the NIH medical thriller on NBC, which burnt out with the speed of a flaring bushfire. I missed the influence of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle entirely. Proof that I am a dipshit just like everyone else. Impatience tempers my admiration of Doyle's most famous caricature. My fidelity to Laurie's upgrade merely proves what I used to post on the literature network. I prefer the next generation.
I spent the morning immersed in the terms of literary theory, pushing a little, with close calls over physical instability. Lucky.
As for Hugh and his resume trail in late 20th century English farce, the genealogy not at my fingertips, this is not about accolades for the actor. However deserved, Laurie does not inspire affection, and imperfect as the show is, I'd still argue is the best the commercial networks have put out there. Utilized in this or any subsequent account I shall have it will be, even as it cycles into reruns, but I am officially in mourning for my feeble, but no less loyal rave, for eight years into my imminent senior life.
If I survive, and become affluent enough within that survival as age encroaches, I may buy all eight seasons of the series, and memorize them, and can recall, with sufficient clarity, that I thought the pilot episode of House was a rip off of the NIH medical thriller on NBC, which burnt out with the speed of a flaring bushfire. I missed the influence of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle entirely. Proof that I am a dipshit just like everyone else. Impatience tempers my admiration of Doyle's most famous caricature. My fidelity to Laurie's upgrade merely proves what I used to post on the literature network. I prefer the next generation.
I spent the morning immersed in the terms of literary theory, pushing a little, with close calls over physical instability. Lucky.
Black, White, Mestizo, and Coffee
Every time I sit down here in this uncomfortable posture at this ill suited desk that has to be well over thirty years old, it is something. Yesterday, Joey the Beloved knocked my indian lamb curry on the floor, and restraint was difficult just at that moment. I managed, however, with one shout that sent both feline children running for cover, and I felt a hunger pang just now even though I do not want to eat, and spilled coffee creamer on myself, on the outside of twenty minutes, and smell sticky sweet. Had the non-dairy fluid hit my joystick, it is likely I would not be here multi-tasking, and I am probably going to offend you, or incite indignation that will not find its way to my comment section for a variety of reasons, perhaps because I write effectively with blunt force trauma, perhaps because no one wants to take on a misanthropic quadriplegic, or no one with the exception of louise, pays my posts any attention, because I am not fun, or rarely engage in light-hearted taste, although I have, now and again, expressed food or film delight.
No souffle this morning, as it will not please you to know that I did not sign the petition to have George Zimmerman prosecuted for the death of Trayvon Martin, and this is not due to my diffidence over black identity and victimization so much as a glazed ennui. I do not have it in me to feel outraged, even though somethig went terribly wrong here, and I cannot rehash the facts, the police investigation, or the controversial *Stand Your Ground* law, or take issue with Donna Britt over the misapplication of social fear, any better than my salaried colleagues can, but I do know that neighborhood watch is not about proactive interference with a crime in progress, or even suspicion, and Zimmerman's obviously irresponsible aggression is exactly why gun manufacture should not be left to the whim of free market capitalism.
I cannot, however, get involved, though my thoughts, much like WaPo's byline, turns to Zimmerman himself.I wonder if he fears for his life. I wonder if he should fear for it.
I have seen Ms. Britt flit about on American public television, and though I sympathize with the loss of her brother to time immemorial police aggression due to profiling, I take issue with certain of her worldviews, informed, of course, by her identity, much as mine have been. She platforms her comfort in this Liberation Deity that has such depth in black Protestant theology, and I can't take it seriously as a candy coating for grief over historical memory. I lost a brother too, an actual criminal at that, who graduated from petty addict thievery to first degree rape and assault with a deadly weapon, and then conveniently started his AIDS death march. He shamed our family name, embroiled my father in earlier litigation, and I am not sitting here like a weeping willow giving it up to Jesus.
I've had more than my share in this life, and whatever impassioned partisanism I have left, I have none left to spare for the continuation of traditional racial conflict in the United States. We are not basically a good country, and our national identity is one forged in historical and contemporary brutality. Zimmerman will probably be charged, but what is larger than that likely event, is the corporate mindset surrounding the development of lethal weapons and mass producing them like rock candy. This is what allowed Zimmerman to be out there playing rent-a-cop when he had no business doing so.
This country used to be capable of large movements, and it is time for Congress to properly revisit the Second Amendment, and yes, go through the torturously long process of the two-thirds majority ratification by the state legislators. If you believe, like those in Poets & Writers before you, or some members of my family, or Homo Tweets, that mental health treatment would make me more palatable, then you should be concerned that I could more easily visit the hood and buy a 357 magnum with a body on it than be cured by something like Prozac, which given my brain damage and other secondary symptoms, could kill me.
These are not toys, handguns, and all we use this technology for is slaughter of our own species due to superficial characteristics that create real regional conflicts and dehumanization.
No souffle this morning, as it will not please you to know that I did not sign the petition to have George Zimmerman prosecuted for the death of Trayvon Martin, and this is not due to my diffidence over black identity and victimization so much as a glazed ennui. I do not have it in me to feel outraged, even though somethig went terribly wrong here, and I cannot rehash the facts, the police investigation, or the controversial *Stand Your Ground* law, or take issue with Donna Britt over the misapplication of social fear, any better than my salaried colleagues can, but I do know that neighborhood watch is not about proactive interference with a crime in progress, or even suspicion, and Zimmerman's obviously irresponsible aggression is exactly why gun manufacture should not be left to the whim of free market capitalism.
I cannot, however, get involved, though my thoughts, much like WaPo's byline, turns to Zimmerman himself.I wonder if he fears for his life. I wonder if he should fear for it.
I have seen Ms. Britt flit about on American public television, and though I sympathize with the loss of her brother to time immemorial police aggression due to profiling, I take issue with certain of her worldviews, informed, of course, by her identity, much as mine have been. She platforms her comfort in this Liberation Deity that has such depth in black Protestant theology, and I can't take it seriously as a candy coating for grief over historical memory. I lost a brother too, an actual criminal at that, who graduated from petty addict thievery to first degree rape and assault with a deadly weapon, and then conveniently started his AIDS death march. He shamed our family name, embroiled my father in earlier litigation, and I am not sitting here like a weeping willow giving it up to Jesus.
I've had more than my share in this life, and whatever impassioned partisanism I have left, I have none left to spare for the continuation of traditional racial conflict in the United States. We are not basically a good country, and our national identity is one forged in historical and contemporary brutality. Zimmerman will probably be charged, but what is larger than that likely event, is the corporate mindset surrounding the development of lethal weapons and mass producing them like rock candy. This is what allowed Zimmerman to be out there playing rent-a-cop when he had no business doing so.
This country used to be capable of large movements, and it is time for Congress to properly revisit the Second Amendment, and yes, go through the torturously long process of the two-thirds majority ratification by the state legislators. If you believe, like those in Poets & Writers before you, or some members of my family, or Homo Tweets, that mental health treatment would make me more palatable, then you should be concerned that I could more easily visit the hood and buy a 357 magnum with a body on it than be cured by something like Prozac, which given my brain damage and other secondary symptoms, could kill me.
These are not toys, handguns, and all we use this technology for is slaughter of our own species due to superficial characteristics that create real regional conflicts and dehumanization.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
More Moment With Bob
The massacre is known as the Asiatic vespers. It is suggested that this massacre was to insure loyalty, because all those cities who participated in the massacre couldn't switch sides for fear of Roman reprisal.
The connection I made to Creeley through disconcerting him lasted only a moment, but for me, those meeting of the minds are rare, and nearly an abstraction. Even today, this very small event in my life with a minor movement poet is a living embodiment in my psyche, just as Jerry is, and my resentment of my own infantile sensibility of that fact; not that it is constant, nor exotic, indeed, this is worship built upon earlier foundations with other authority figures whom I manipulated. I wanted to marry my high school history teacher, who was Italian, and he, dear fellow, made the mistake of getting personally involved with my family. Why? He saw my potential, and my damage, and tried to rescue me for the Ivy League. I obsessed over his elegance, his couture and style, the ability of his limpid eyes to emote, and this is where much of my glittering self-loathing comes from. I cannot break the Platonic ideal and settle for the horror of sexual intimacy with a man like Frank. I am not claiming exceptionalism, only that my investments in what and who I cannot have, this too, has left me an angel of vengeance being destroyed by compliance models that only have my best interests at heart.
I want to be fillet mignon, and at best, I am a tasty salisbury steak with an extended clitoris and pubic hair which refuses dainty arousal, only wearied by loss of lubrication, and dryness, which, should I actually meet some decent bastard who can read me, and figure I am not that bad, this late in season, will have to be addressed. I know what it is to fuck stupidly, and then fuck slightly better with borrowed husbands, but I have never had the wonder of loving abandon. Frank did try, but I hated him from the beginning, and that was my mistake, believing I could repress my scathing contempt for a stupid mestizo from the Bronx simply so I could flee my supervisor's revealing intimacy.
How I survived this without going my brother's route and injecting myself to death with PCP, I do not know what to deem it, an accomplishment?
I do not want a doctorate, not any more; yes, it places me at a disadvantage, but at this stage of the game, that degree of focus and concentration offers little immunity from heading toward, or warding off, the corrosion of irreversible, traumatic, decline.
To augment this seasonal garnish, "The Crow" was my own discovery, before the imprinting of my own idolatry; it was coincidence that Jerry studied with the Beat to whom I was most responsive, and ironically, in a submission I cannot remember, rejected my work, I think before I went to his reading, and subsequent lecture on a poet Alan Dugan, a man whom I've yet to expore.
The connection I made to Creeley through disconcerting him lasted only a moment, but for me, those meeting of the minds are rare, and nearly an abstraction. Even today, this very small event in my life with a minor movement poet is a living embodiment in my psyche, just as Jerry is, and my resentment of my own infantile sensibility of that fact; not that it is constant, nor exotic, indeed, this is worship built upon earlier foundations with other authority figures whom I manipulated. I wanted to marry my high school history teacher, who was Italian, and he, dear fellow, made the mistake of getting personally involved with my family. Why? He saw my potential, and my damage, and tried to rescue me for the Ivy League. I obsessed over his elegance, his couture and style, the ability of his limpid eyes to emote, and this is where much of my glittering self-loathing comes from. I cannot break the Platonic ideal and settle for the horror of sexual intimacy with a man like Frank. I am not claiming exceptionalism, only that my investments in what and who I cannot have, this too, has left me an angel of vengeance being destroyed by compliance models that only have my best interests at heart.
I want to be fillet mignon, and at best, I am a tasty salisbury steak with an extended clitoris and pubic hair which refuses dainty arousal, only wearied by loss of lubrication, and dryness, which, should I actually meet some decent bastard who can read me, and figure I am not that bad, this late in season, will have to be addressed. I know what it is to fuck stupidly, and then fuck slightly better with borrowed husbands, but I have never had the wonder of loving abandon. Frank did try, but I hated him from the beginning, and that was my mistake, believing I could repress my scathing contempt for a stupid mestizo from the Bronx simply so I could flee my supervisor's revealing intimacy.
How I survived this without going my brother's route and injecting myself to death with PCP, I do not know what to deem it, an accomplishment?
I do not want a doctorate, not any more; yes, it places me at a disadvantage, but at this stage of the game, that degree of focus and concentration offers little immunity from heading toward, or warding off, the corrosion of irreversible, traumatic, decline.
To augment this seasonal garnish, "The Crow" was my own discovery, before the imprinting of my own idolatry; it was coincidence that Jerry studied with the Beat to whom I was most responsive, and ironically, in a submission I cannot remember, rejected my work, I think before I went to his reading, and subsequent lecture on a poet Alan Dugan, a man whom I've yet to expore.
Requiem(s)
I just finished my fourth Gerstel, a non-alcoholic beer, in lieu of coffee, and no one will note or any discernible difference. I will have to edit my posts about my sister at some point, but she and I are estranged over money; (and this remains the case in the onset of winter 2012, my sister obliterating that her lack of support accentuated my distress) with my half-brother it is different; he and I are now estranged over his basement in North Carolina, (though the gulf has widened) which was never my best option to begin with, but was not Presby, the parent company I live under, and I pushed the envelope, not on Facebook, but still, in a virtual matrix, and I am feeling sorry about it, just like a real human being would. This happens with families with nursing home eligibles like myself, and I was hoping it wouldn't, laughing at my interior picture of twitter or LiveJournal falling over themselves to rush to my rescue, buying me the study of Andre Dubus, perhaps, in some Cinderella ending, despite my lack of requisite and docile loveliness required for such closure.
I was trying to stay awake to review In The Company of Men again, once more for free on Antenna TV, with that amusing retroactive golden age voice over, but even if I pushed, unwisely, to do so, my somnolent state of being probably couldn't keep up with Aaron Eckhart, who I find to be a wickedly sexual satirist. I have resisted discussing Stacy Edwards' supporting character, whose deafness makes Eckhart's satirical skill a delicious pain, within the usual paradigm, but this black comedy defies such paradigms. Sometimes I have to allow films to saturate, much like photosynthesis.
Despite the fact that I'm on deadline, I'll see you tonight, assurances in the technology being what they are, though I do not know which hat I'll be wearing. Self-contradictions being what it is, I am both more vulnerable and far worse than I let on, though I cannot know how many reading these entries divines this fact.
I was trying to stay awake to review In The Company of Men again, once more for free on Antenna TV, with that amusing retroactive golden age voice over, but even if I pushed, unwisely, to do so, my somnolent state of being probably couldn't keep up with Aaron Eckhart, who I find to be a wickedly sexual satirist. I have resisted discussing Stacy Edwards' supporting character, whose deafness makes Eckhart's satirical skill a delicious pain, within the usual paradigm, but this black comedy defies such paradigms. Sometimes I have to allow films to saturate, much like photosynthesis.
Despite the fact that I'm on deadline, I'll see you tonight, assurances in the technology being what they are, though I do not know which hat I'll be wearing. Self-contradictions being what it is, I am both more vulnerable and far worse than I let on, though I cannot know how many reading these entries divines this fact.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Qualis artifex pereo
"You have the wrong Secretary." Senator John Kerry's immortal words to the spastic_dowager before he added more plumage to his stature.
Ambulatory individuals often find me humorous when I am intensely serious: "Dr. Creeley you taught someone who was a great influence on me!" I drove up to his table as if I were an ankle monitor ready to latch onto him, and to my great surprise, he burst out into a full throated laugh that made me love him instantly. I did not tell him his poem about killing crows determined the miserable course of my life, and I am starting to weep because Robert is dead, and even if I wanted to run to Jerry, to beg him not to die before me, to beg him to forgive me, to cry and cry on the shoulder of this habituated post modernist Shakespearean of whom I expected a more debonair career end, what good would it do? I am not quite ready to compare Hilter to Joan d'Arc, but the corrosion of poverty, the ignorance and ugliness of the human animal when compared to the beauty of other species we kill near indiscriminately due to lack of equitable distribution of resources and our inability to come up with pragmatic solutions, the fact that a good man never loved me, even if no binary partnership makes for completion, I have been up since noon yesterday, in the post-solstice of December, and I am exhausted, in the recurring motif of over-extension, too dark for anyone not to believe I need a leash, losing my track of acerbic tone, what is it I expect from posting like this? Later.
The later.
Sickness is the hatred of repentance... The poem is "The Crow" and it is in a smaller post-Vietnam collection of Creeley's work, less massive than the tome I purchased when he came to Philadelphia to wank our literary cunts. Robert is not my favorite poet, and on the whole the Beats are more vapor than substance, but "The Crow" is one of my favorite poems reflecting the exhaustion of the 20th century, much like De Niro's failed attempt at wit with the First Couple reflects the exhaustion of Western Imperialism finally giving way before Orientalism. It seems to have been settled with at least some veracity, that Barack is a typical progressive centrist, and I am not suggesting otherwise, but his mother seems to have been infected with John Lennon's bong paraphernalia, and piques my interest more than her disappointing golden child. In my initial post on this topic, near the close of my monetized account, I punned De Niro and Nero, and only upon revision realized this was more intuitive than the lazy carelessness of sarcasm.
Jerry cannot absolve in me what I cannot forgive in myself. I lost my bid to succeed as an American, case closed, the unforgiven in the mistakes of impulse. Pallid, my dour mother's bitter mouth inscribed on my expression like a destructive Artemis, sixty pounds too much of a belly in a stout frame, I am not apologizing to you or anyone else anymore for not reigning it in according to propriety, but, being tired, and Christmas stressed nine months of posts ahead, I shall refine this analysis as luxury allows, three cigarettes closer to cancer. I don't care.
Ambulatory individuals often find me humorous when I am intensely serious: "Dr. Creeley you taught someone who was a great influence on me!" I drove up to his table as if I were an ankle monitor ready to latch onto him, and to my great surprise, he burst out into a full throated laugh that made me love him instantly. I did not tell him his poem about killing crows determined the miserable course of my life, and I am starting to weep because Robert is dead, and even if I wanted to run to Jerry, to beg him not to die before me, to beg him to forgive me, to cry and cry on the shoulder of this habituated post modernist Shakespearean of whom I expected a more debonair career end, what good would it do? I am not quite ready to compare Hilter to Joan d'Arc, but the corrosion of poverty, the ignorance and ugliness of the human animal when compared to the beauty of other species we kill near indiscriminately due to lack of equitable distribution of resources and our inability to come up with pragmatic solutions, the fact that a good man never loved me, even if no binary partnership makes for completion, I have been up since noon yesterday, in the post-solstice of December, and I am exhausted, in the recurring motif of over-extension, too dark for anyone not to believe I need a leash, losing my track of acerbic tone, what is it I expect from posting like this? Later.
The later.
Sickness is the hatred of repentance... The poem is "The Crow" and it is in a smaller post-Vietnam collection of Creeley's work, less massive than the tome I purchased when he came to Philadelphia to wank our literary cunts. Robert is not my favorite poet, and on the whole the Beats are more vapor than substance, but "The Crow" is one of my favorite poems reflecting the exhaustion of the 20th century, much like De Niro's failed attempt at wit with the First Couple reflects the exhaustion of Western Imperialism finally giving way before Orientalism. It seems to have been settled with at least some veracity, that Barack is a typical progressive centrist, and I am not suggesting otherwise, but his mother seems to have been infected with John Lennon's bong paraphernalia, and piques my interest more than her disappointing golden child. In my initial post on this topic, near the close of my monetized account, I punned De Niro and Nero, and only upon revision realized this was more intuitive than the lazy carelessness of sarcasm.
Jerry cannot absolve in me what I cannot forgive in myself. I lost my bid to succeed as an American, case closed, the unforgiven in the mistakes of impulse. Pallid, my dour mother's bitter mouth inscribed on my expression like a destructive Artemis, sixty pounds too much of a belly in a stout frame, I am not apologizing to you or anyone else anymore for not reigning it in according to propriety, but, being tired, and Christmas stressed nine months of posts ahead, I shall refine this analysis as luxury allows, three cigarettes closer to cancer. I don't care.
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Down Time Binaries
Some philosophers believe the key to solving certain age old metaphysical problems is to embrace contradiction, but I haven't been able to resolve that I can enter into empathy with the father, who is able to draw me in to the hard flint of his psyche, while the son keeps me on the outside, pushing me away with a visceral animosity, the 1993 Falling Down being a notable exception.
Kirk Douglas exudes certain qualities in the best of his 20th century work, qualities that offer a subtle exchange on mind/body vulnerability, that can be exemplified by his black and white films like The Juggler 1953. His game theory with Jewish identity and diasporia doesn't always reach the depth of later Hollywood and foreign film Holocaust revisionism, and I only touched on it briefly in earlier posts, but he is certainly more successful with it at times than Paul Newman, and you may consider this a working outline, to which I shall add, as carefully as the late Christopher Hitchens, that I am critical of Jewish exceptionalism that seemingly makes the modern state of Israel a necessity.
Kirk Douglas exudes certain qualities in the best of his 20th century work, qualities that offer a subtle exchange on mind/body vulnerability, that can be exemplified by his black and white films like The Juggler 1953. His game theory with Jewish identity and diasporia doesn't always reach the depth of later Hollywood and foreign film Holocaust revisionism, and I only touched on it briefly in earlier posts, but he is certainly more successful with it at times than Paul Newman, and you may consider this a working outline, to which I shall add, as carefully as the late Christopher Hitchens, that I am critical of Jewish exceptionalism that seemingly makes the modern state of Israel a necessity.
Monday, March 19, 2012
Pricetag failure
Had I succeeded with the freelance proposal I submitted on this day, I would have been 250 dollars richer, just as, had Beasley kept his word, I would have had an additional 55 towards housekeeping. Adds up. The amounts involved would have been long gone since, but any amount is better than zero. I have slowed down, due to transitioning between accounts, and other activities you have read about above, but I also have to get better, honing trade market to idea, so I have retracted slightly into the old paradigm under which most writers get no money at all, and that is, leaning on my own hardcopy development.
I am going to let you in on a small secret that will make me even more popular with literary and independent magazine editors. Yessssss, reading recent issues matters, but not really, not for the classifieds from my former MFA syndicate. You learn after a while it is like a lottery. Get creative enough with your imagery and some editor somewhere will offer you a blow job or tit nibble. It may not be the high end, like Paris Review, or my near obsession, a before death correspondent byline in Atlantic Monthly, and note, I did not say fiction, or poetry, but an article, but anything you scribble, someone will give you space for it without pay.
Now, real freelancing, the hard stuff, the trades, policy wonks, medical, health-- that, my children, is where sources and study actually matters, and it still is not easy to do. Off contract, I hit pay dirt three or four times. Creative writing is useless, and no one will tell you that, because terminal degree holders need a job. Writing to earn a living is not the same as a novelist who gets lucky and then has a marketable franchise. It was not easy before digital and Amazon squeezed the purse, and it is worse now.
Able bodied writers do get day jobs of course, but you know I am a quadriplegic, and my special transit access curbed, along with the usual violins. Listen to your teachers, if not me, and vice versa. Go to law school, become a CPA, have a fallback. This is a brutal game. What was my idea? Hearing loss, and I fumbled. Next bullseye.
I am going to let you in on a small secret that will make me even more popular with literary and independent magazine editors. Yessssss, reading recent issues matters, but not really, not for the classifieds from my former MFA syndicate. You learn after a while it is like a lottery. Get creative enough with your imagery and some editor somewhere will offer you a blow job or tit nibble. It may not be the high end, like Paris Review, or my near obsession, a before death correspondent byline in Atlantic Monthly, and note, I did not say fiction, or poetry, but an article, but anything you scribble, someone will give you space for it without pay.
Now, real freelancing, the hard stuff, the trades, policy wonks, medical, health-- that, my children, is where sources and study actually matters, and it still is not easy to do. Off contract, I hit pay dirt three or four times. Creative writing is useless, and no one will tell you that, because terminal degree holders need a job. Writing to earn a living is not the same as a novelist who gets lucky and then has a marketable franchise. It was not easy before digital and Amazon squeezed the purse, and it is worse now.
Able bodied writers do get day jobs of course, but you know I am a quadriplegic, and my special transit access curbed, along with the usual violins. Listen to your teachers, if not me, and vice versa. Go to law school, become a CPA, have a fallback. This is a brutal game. What was my idea? Hearing loss, and I fumbled. Next bullseye.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Seafood Risotto
I ate as soon as I woke today, putting an end to that particular drama, if only because I heated up a risotto with a nice helping of fish, seafood, and it made two meals, recalling the early sequence in Big Nightwhere Tucci's lone customers are baffled by the seafood risotto that Shalhoub's character would see as a metaphysical victory for the culinary arts. I ain't quite sure what it is about my hard-fuck love for this film, perhaps nostalgia for basically fictional constructs, but it involves inimitable qualities: I equally would have needed a culinary education on the miraculous properties of risotto as a rice, just as the couple and I would have also indulged in an unschooled query over the lack of shrimp, or mussels in the shell.
Love is a many splendid thing. Be patient with me until next week, and understand that my penetrations take time, even if I may not have the luxury to complete them, entirely.
Big Night is not a perfect metaphor, and corollary relatives like Tampopo have a slightly better infused aesthetic sense, but nothing makes me long to be fully Roman more than this quiet masterpiece, which is just a shade off, by that much, with a made for television look.
Please, be kind, and come fetch me back to Tuscany. Spastic only longs for a small glimmer of happiness. Ciao!
Love is a many splendid thing. Be patient with me until next week, and understand that my penetrations take time, even if I may not have the luxury to complete them, entirely.
Big Night is not a perfect metaphor, and corollary relatives like Tampopo have a slightly better infused aesthetic sense, but nothing makes me long to be fully Roman more than this quiet masterpiece, which is just a shade off, by that much, with a made for television look.
Please, be kind, and come fetch me back to Tuscany. Spastic only longs for a small glimmer of happiness. Ciao!
Joy Juice, (and in Forgiveness machines)
To examine the suicide of David Foster Wallace, as I mentioned. I do not quite accept the medical model theory his father offered to the media, but let's submerge my resistance, and look at the medical model. Wallace became dependent on a particular cocktail, which one day ceased in its former effectiveness, the end result being the manufactured boy wonder is dead. Karen Green looks as I would have expected the wife of such a spousal partner to look, in my continuing research on writers and suicide, but I think I disagree with her on depression and brain chemistry as a matter of degree. People with clinical depression are not different from the more well adjusted. On the whole, we're smarter, and most survive a great deal of trauma, though Wallace to all appearances escaped this.
I do not want to die, struggling with the near narcotic force screaming at me for nicotine, but if I allow myself a dependency substitution, which one day loses its effect, who will have been right? The ablests? My mother also was nearly killed, once, by her lithium dosage, and her cardiac arrest in 05 may have been induced by her then current psychotropic combination, though it would have been difficult to prove.
My primary diagnosis is cerebral palsy. The birth brain injury may mimic what people like Homo Tweets (his twitter avatar may have changed) insists needs help, but I happen to know the difference, and do not roll out of bed believing in my Napoleonic grandeur, even on better days. My stash probably will not arrive until Monday or Tuesday, however, and I may not make it without sliding a banana peel.
This is in part the price of age, and it part the nature of mammalian design, which sometimes skewers the coping mechanisms. I've read psychiatrists gleefully gnawing @ Cartesian duality when it comes to the addict mind, and conformists seem to prefer stigma as a solution rather than understanding. I have my own locked in syndrome, freely able to move one arm, and yet I am shunned for what exactly? It doesn't seem odd to me that a crippled intelligence can grow caustic; it can be passive too, but that isn't who, or what I am.
Cassie, my crazy lady ex peer counselor, threw out egalitarian arguments at me after she came home from England and found out what her employer thrice over did to me: we're all consumers, or my favorite, "people say things".
Cassie turns away from the wounds her fidelity to the paradigm inflicted on me: I did not wind up like this in a vacuum. Linda, still her contemporaneous colleague, is an executive officer, and I never had anywhere near that rank. If I asked Cassie how sex with her husband could possibly compare due to her spinal paralysis, and I did it on the basis of some flimsy pretext, she would be just as offended as she was when I yelled that at her full of shit. I was wrong to yell at her in a form of anger transference, but my characterization isn't off.
A movement that cannot correct its own evil is doomed to failure, ultimately.
I do not want to die, struggling with the near narcotic force screaming at me for nicotine, but if I allow myself a dependency substitution, which one day loses its effect, who will have been right? The ablests? My mother also was nearly killed, once, by her lithium dosage, and her cardiac arrest in 05 may have been induced by her then current psychotropic combination, though it would have been difficult to prove.
My primary diagnosis is cerebral palsy. The birth brain injury may mimic what people like Homo Tweets (his twitter avatar may have changed) insists needs help, but I happen to know the difference, and do not roll out of bed believing in my Napoleonic grandeur, even on better days. My stash probably will not arrive until Monday or Tuesday, however, and I may not make it without sliding a banana peel.
This is in part the price of age, and it part the nature of mammalian design, which sometimes skewers the coping mechanisms. I've read psychiatrists gleefully gnawing @ Cartesian duality when it comes to the addict mind, and conformists seem to prefer stigma as a solution rather than understanding. I have my own locked in syndrome, freely able to move one arm, and yet I am shunned for what exactly? It doesn't seem odd to me that a crippled intelligence can grow caustic; it can be passive too, but that isn't who, or what I am.
Cassie, my crazy lady ex peer counselor, threw out egalitarian arguments at me after she came home from England and found out what her employer thrice over did to me: we're all consumers, or my favorite, "people say things".
Cassie turns away from the wounds her fidelity to the paradigm inflicted on me: I did not wind up like this in a vacuum. Linda, still her contemporaneous colleague, is an executive officer, and I never had anywhere near that rank. If I asked Cassie how sex with her husband could possibly compare due to her spinal paralysis, and I did it on the basis of some flimsy pretext, she would be just as offended as she was when I yelled that at her full of shit. I was wrong to yell at her in a form of anger transference, but my characterization isn't off.
A movement that cannot correct its own evil is doomed to failure, ultimately.
It is right that Ms. Green forgive her husband, as she was his spousal partner. My anger at Wallace in terms of his public persona, as we head into summer 2013, is subsiding, and it says something about my ego in the vicarious sense that it existed in the first place, but I will never be able to forgive every circumstance that eroded the metric for success in my personal history.
Friday, March 16, 2012
Permeable Gray
"Permeable Gray" was the title of an essay I had started when I was twenty-four, but never completed, during my first year in Diamond Park, during my first experiences with the assault of the barren, like drywall and plaster, on my aesthetic sense. Every urban skyline in America probably looks like the urban skyline of Philadelphia, unpleasantly garish, thus my title, which more readily found its thematic intent in my dead cat, and so became the essay I wanted under another title.
I believe I tossed the original hard copy, or will, if any pages are left in my folder bin, but today it looks like the callow transitional day I had in mind, a garish permeable gray that deters me from driving outside, and yet is also a signature of my defeat, my failure to succeed against the merciless indictment of American poverty. Like Studs Lonigan, which I indifferently purchased last evening, as if I need to keep replaying An American Tragedy in a thousand variations, I am apparently in need of hardier mettle, though it could be argued that I've read enough of Dreiser and company to not need anymore educating on reality by the American left.. Books have to be everything for me now, absorbing all the passions of failed lovers, absorbing my inability to travel safely as affluence might allow, and return to my origins; this is to what my life has to cling, the damn text, the narrative, the homosexuality and hetero-romance that subverts itself within it, that is repulsive to observe as I have observed it, and contradicted myself within its planks rather than found reconciliation, and I mean this as a progressive matter, not that I am tormented about a personal homoerotic experience that Linda once gave me and made me feel threatened. I can look back on my conversation with her and objectify it: she was being literal, knocking down my longing by giving me a picture of how fantastic it was for her to fuck her then spouse Bruce, but it was still insensitive. She knew nothing about my personal life and made assumptions which were inaccurate.
My desire to get laid just cracked open, out of nowhere, evidently, except for seeing Linus Roache as Merton Densher. And I have no male on me to seize the moment. I may not be the only one in deprivation and sensual starvation, but I do not know how we accommodate it and come out with a happy ending when war wounds come into play.
For those of us who know The Wings of the Dove Densher's name is ironic, a prelude to his retirement from the world, because his guilt is weighed upon the innocence he trampled. Maybe I will finally publish something in The Henry James Review to please the dead ghost of my memory of Michael C. Clark. I scribbled out an idea on the James list, an idea derived from my imperfectly tortured account here, and I have a year to send the editor Susan an acceptable abstract. I have not written a damn abstract in years, but let's engage in hypotheticals:
I put my wounded intellect to the grind, complete my task, and let us stipulate, for the sake of argument, that it passes Susan's peer review, and is published. What happens then, the pearly gates open and I can get the fuck out of Presby? There is no joy juice that in turn can reconcile how much time and strength I've lost, that can offer me achievement, the foundation of any happiness.
I believe I tossed the original hard copy, or will, if any pages are left in my folder bin, but today it looks like the callow transitional day I had in mind, a garish permeable gray that deters me from driving outside, and yet is also a signature of my defeat, my failure to succeed against the merciless indictment of American poverty. Like Studs Lonigan, which I indifferently purchased last evening, as if I need to keep replaying An American Tragedy in a thousand variations, I am apparently in need of hardier mettle, though it could be argued that I've read enough of Dreiser and company to not need anymore educating on reality by the American left.. Books have to be everything for me now, absorbing all the passions of failed lovers, absorbing my inability to travel safely as affluence might allow, and return to my origins; this is to what my life has to cling, the damn text, the narrative, the homosexuality and hetero-romance that subverts itself within it, that is repulsive to observe as I have observed it, and contradicted myself within its planks rather than found reconciliation, and I mean this as a progressive matter, not that I am tormented about a personal homoerotic experience that Linda once gave me and made me feel threatened. I can look back on my conversation with her and objectify it: she was being literal, knocking down my longing by giving me a picture of how fantastic it was for her to fuck her then spouse Bruce, but it was still insensitive. She knew nothing about my personal life and made assumptions which were inaccurate.
My desire to get laid just cracked open, out of nowhere, evidently, except for seeing Linus Roache as Merton Densher. And I have no male on me to seize the moment. I may not be the only one in deprivation and sensual starvation, but I do not know how we accommodate it and come out with a happy ending when war wounds come into play.
For those of us who know The Wings of the Dove Densher's name is ironic, a prelude to his retirement from the world, because his guilt is weighed upon the innocence he trampled. Maybe I will finally publish something in The Henry James Review to please the dead ghost of my memory of Michael C. Clark. I scribbled out an idea on the James list, an idea derived from my imperfectly tortured account here, and I have a year to send the editor Susan an acceptable abstract. I have not written a damn abstract in years, but let's engage in hypotheticals:
I put my wounded intellect to the grind, complete my task, and let us stipulate, for the sake of argument, that it passes Susan's peer review, and is published. What happens then, the pearly gates open and I can get the fuck out of Presby? There is no joy juice that in turn can reconcile how much time and strength I've lost, that can offer me achievement, the foundation of any happiness.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Bard Access
Reality check: For those individuals who have to medicalize my pain along standard fault lines, Amazon sent me this deal for Philadelphia Shakespearean Theatre, and I was mildly enthralled about the prospect of seeing Titus Andronicus, more interested in the flaws of problem plays than the dramaturgical signification of classical tragedy, I even made a mental note to pitch a review to City Paper, but their box office doesn't offer power chair access. I am not placing blame, it is a small company, but you might be more cautious in the future about putting labels on me.
In the absence of presence, I am not claiming to be a picturesque version of emotional stability. I am certainly not that, but do not engage in the major symptoms traditionally associated with mania. My only self-medicating includes nicotine, caffeine as a stimulant, needed against the symptomology of indolence, and salmon oil, which I've taken regularly for nearly a year. I don't drink, and though I can cry, those tears are associated with stressors, like loss of salary, my bank constantly offering me a line of credit and turning me down.
My half brother got ugly with me for this reason: I asked him repeatedly if he contacted the independent living center near his house, and had to raise my voice just to get him to respond, and then all of the sudden I am as sick as our mother was because I need a change of environment. Between my family, public housing, and disability culture, I will no doubt be joining Whitney Houston on her ferry ride of dependence eventually. [rolls eyes]
In the absence of presence, I am not claiming to be a picturesque version of emotional stability. I am certainly not that, but do not engage in the major symptoms traditionally associated with mania. My only self-medicating includes nicotine, caffeine as a stimulant, needed against the symptomology of indolence, and salmon oil, which I've taken regularly for nearly a year. I don't drink, and though I can cry, those tears are associated with stressors, like loss of salary, my bank constantly offering me a line of credit and turning me down.
My half brother got ugly with me for this reason: I asked him repeatedly if he contacted the independent living center near his house, and had to raise my voice just to get him to respond, and then all of the sudden I am as sick as our mother was because I need a change of environment. Between my family, public housing, and disability culture, I will no doubt be joining Whitney Houston on her ferry ride of dependence eventually. [rolls eyes]
Age of Reason
I have been slow to enter into my LOA edition of the collected works of Thomas Paine. My edition was still relatively fresh, with spanking hardcover newness, in the stone age of 1997 when I was still healthy enough to interview at organizations like New Orleans, which did for mental retardation and developmental drooling what The Matrix Research Institute did for psychiatric illness, but at approximately a paragraph to a page a week, Common Sense is still a refreshing read, and illustrates Paul Rabinow's point about our intellectual interdependence on the Enlightenment Era. In contemporary time, I reflect on Paine's complaint about monarchical authority, but surely the colonial polemicist knew some executive force had to be in charge.
It is not much of a stretch to sense that Paine would have been appalled at the state of the divided government in the US today; his passion against Britain's increasingly decorative monarchy, to use Niall Ferguson's phrase, can be extrapolated, and Paine would have lashed out at executive branch authority with the same zeal, even while he died a pauper in the country that took on England's mantle.
Telling.
It is not much of a stretch to sense that Paine would have been appalled at the state of the divided government in the US today; his passion against Britain's increasingly decorative monarchy, to use Niall Ferguson's phrase, can be extrapolated, and Paine would have lashed out at executive branch authority with the same zeal, even while he died a pauper in the country that took on England's mantle.
Telling.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Briefly Self
"I realized I did not love him enough." -- Giancarlo Giannini, Darkness
Will Self' accepts culpability for his years as an addict, in his December Granta essay, as much as one can, without folding up guilt like a winter duvet vacuum packed in your space bag, a one dimension cube. My sense is that Hitchens could not do this with his variation of dying memoir that I've read so much of from the time I was a young girl.
Will Self' accepts culpability for his years as an addict, in his December Granta essay, as much as one can, without folding up guilt like a winter duvet vacuum packed in your space bag, a one dimension cube. My sense is that Hitchens could not do this with his variation of dying memoir that I've read so much of from the time I was a young girl.
Swerves
When I woke earlier Sunday evening I had a chaotic waking nightmare that my bank froze my accounts and I ran around to bankers at their desks pleading that I had to feed my cat, Oliver, and they kept saying, "sorry, we have to investigate your overdrafts" and these figures at gray metallic desks were none that I had dealt and sparred with at my branch, but Slavic of feature, then jump cut, as dreams do, a lavender room, with my dead cat, Oliver (picture Sylvester, give him a white fur face, black hood on his head, longer in torso than the average male with huge white feet) and my father walking out of it, throwing paper bills in the air; I grasped seventy dollars in my good hand, and got up shaken. Not an easy Sunday evening. This reflects my fear of losing control. I felt like the wife in Waugh's scathing satire, A Handful of Dust, and yes, the film was brilliant but exceedingly painful, a difficult movie to desire to view under multiple sittings. I felt like Kafka's protagonist in The Trial, not unusual, since Kafka understood the guilt surrounding disability. I dread praising Kafka, and my relationship to his legacy is difficult; for those of you who are canonical worshippers, I swear you off this morning in relation to my humility and appreciating strange genius. I come around and back again sometimes, like an elliptical orbit.
Saturday, March 10, 2012
Blame Game
I am heating up a sparse omelet, which was consumed and eaten in the time it took me to write the descriptive terms of the omelet being sparse, and now I am fighting malaise and my shin and feet discomfort. I may lie down for an hour and try to return at seven my time, and this time stretches out like salt water taffy. My film analysis will also be sparse, for the time being. I could muse about Peter Cushing's camp in the 1968 Corruption which runs the mad doctor meme on the cheap, but is more interesting for its New Age subtexts, in the way that all British era films of this period have a curious Amicus-land quality to them that make them distinctive, with a metallic glint that doesn't quite capture the terminology which eludes me, whether or not these films are more spoofs than true horror films. Something like Paper Mask (1990) is actually much more chilling, and took me a bit of sparring with Google to dredge up from the depths: and shall be kept in reserve for the future.
Gear shift, with the reassurance of smoked trout oiling my fingertips of my typing hand, I had made a mental notation much earlier about the journalists Will Self and John Kaplan, and here is Self's much better promotional web log than I have the resources to do for myself:
His highlights on British rail only turn my thoughts to the British cripples who have to get around on these faded, gloried isles, but it is his essay in Granta, "False Blood", which compensates me for my Stephen King disdain; if my mind wasn't screaming bloody hell for coffee, I'd dive in this instant.
Gear shift, with the reassurance of smoked trout oiling my fingertips of my typing hand, I had made a mental notation much earlier about the journalists Will Self and John Kaplan, and here is Self's much better promotional web log than I have the resources to do for myself:
His highlights on British rail only turn my thoughts to the British cripples who have to get around on these faded, gloried isles, but it is his essay in Granta, "False Blood", which compensates me for my Stephen King disdain; if my mind wasn't screaming bloody hell for coffee, I'd dive in this instant.
Thursday, March 8, 2012
Issac Notes
Jason Isaacs only recently came to my attention as Jackson Brodie in Case Histories, which I was going to post about and cannot remember if I did, not that I am claiming I have not viewed him before, only that his abilities reached me as the wounded copper, which he is reprising inAwake. I am sure this British actor would be thrilled to know he is probably one of the last Semitic-Europeans on the face of the earth who spastic_dowager finds sexually arousing; he is like a Jewish Humphrey Bogart.
I am not sure what I feel about Awake just yet, only that I am suspicious that we're all being duped, and the pilot is worth another stream, and perhaps, just perhaps, this show is the new Lost, just not so out of control.
I am not sure what I feel about Awake just yet, only that I am suspicious that we're all being duped, and the pilot is worth another stream, and perhaps, just perhaps, this show is the new Lost, just not so out of control.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Streep In Stilletto
I can envision taking Lauren Weisberger's novel out of the library on a slow day, one that might involve the leisure of trivial pursuit, but whatever the film adaptation leaves out, what it augments it augments so that getting beneath the surface of high couture isn't an issue for me. We do not need to see beneath the surface of Miranda Priestly, because Streep's minimalism says enough about the cost in and of itself that further exploration isn't necessary. Like Alexandre Dumas' dazzling marionettes, The Devil Wears Prada offers a material surface that becomes its own argument, and the pushback from Andrea's friends and family is obligatory, because the story has to acknowledge that the rarified atmosphere of high fashion is one that most mortals could not flourish in, not just those made obese and diabetic by high fructose corn syrup.
Yet we're all fascinated by pagentry and style, and why we are is interesting, even if it might have convoluted evolutionary triggers, our ability to distinguish color and pattern, to desire the perfect human figure even as we exploit and react to its varied entropic deformities. Meryl Streep does something virtually impossible in this film, or in real life, in that she embodies a perfect figure, that on a small scale is the epic equivalent of Grecian mythology-- not that Prada is a great film, or can stand with the classics, but it is great within the urban world it inhabits, one that makes Islamic fanaticism look like a biological nightmare by way of comparison, as if our species were losing its remarkable ability to conquer environments rather than evolving, as science fiction either suggests we shall or will fail, which sums up this vast genre in a nut shell, but is the basic truth behind it.
Is style an evolutionary adaptation? Andrea seems to reject it, on the surface, when it is time, she does not want to pay Miranda's price for ruthless perfection, but is that really what is going on with this movie, and why it was such a hit, strikes so many chords?
The fact that I don't need to read Weisberger's book isn't a reflection on her work; all serious writers have some version of it, like mine with selecting Alexandra Grilikhes over Bob Small, for instance, with her aesthetic vision more in tune with mine over Bob's working class post-beatnik brass knuckles, the two of them represent the basic division within the American literary presses. My thoughts here are only scratching the surface, goaded on by what Harvard modernist critics have written too, in their critical shorthand that my range does not quite match, though I can see where writing about Prada might assist me in making that leap. I did not expect that Weisberger's self-discovery, however Hollywood translated, would imprint on me in my environment to such a degree, the brutalism of a life style barren of any glamor whatsoever.
Yet we're all fascinated by pagentry and style, and why we are is interesting, even if it might have convoluted evolutionary triggers, our ability to distinguish color and pattern, to desire the perfect human figure even as we exploit and react to its varied entropic deformities. Meryl Streep does something virtually impossible in this film, or in real life, in that she embodies a perfect figure, that on a small scale is the epic equivalent of Grecian mythology-- not that Prada is a great film, or can stand with the classics, but it is great within the urban world it inhabits, one that makes Islamic fanaticism look like a biological nightmare by way of comparison, as if our species were losing its remarkable ability to conquer environments rather than evolving, as science fiction either suggests we shall or will fail, which sums up this vast genre in a nut shell, but is the basic truth behind it.
Is style an evolutionary adaptation? Andrea seems to reject it, on the surface, when it is time, she does not want to pay Miranda's price for ruthless perfection, but is that really what is going on with this movie, and why it was such a hit, strikes so many chords?
The fact that I don't need to read Weisberger's book isn't a reflection on her work; all serious writers have some version of it, like mine with selecting Alexandra Grilikhes over Bob Small, for instance, with her aesthetic vision more in tune with mine over Bob's working class post-beatnik brass knuckles, the two of them represent the basic division within the American literary presses. My thoughts here are only scratching the surface, goaded on by what Harvard modernist critics have written too, in their critical shorthand that my range does not quite match, though I can see where writing about Prada might assist me in making that leap. I did not expect that Weisberger's self-discovery, however Hollywood translated, would imprint on me in my environment to such a degree, the brutalism of a life style barren of any glamor whatsoever.
Friday, March 2, 2012
Temporal Audience
I allude, and for those of you who may be able to follow my thought processes, I allude to the fact that I finished my task, and the red ball will begin shortly. I have learned, from previous experience, not to print anything until a few hours before I go to the mailbox, because Joey the Beloved Son will shred and puke and tree my precious printing paper, much more aggressively than Oliver Twist the First used to. But now my challenge will be not to allude to my ethical scar tissue until I see what plays; however, I have accomplished my task, and yes, know I took long enough, and had some twitter ribbing-- but there are consequences to whistle blowing, and I will only become more vulnerable with time, not less. Even if the PTB tell me politely to go kiss my ass, there are still consequences to doing this, just as my posts here have or may have consequences, at least until LJ or I poof these writings, or change, and try to be innocuous; I suspect I am somewhere in the middle between the suddenly late Andrew Breitbart and really a Heidi-softie at heart, but have to insist that I understand what creates people like Santorum and the deceased polemicist. What and who they are isn't bred in a bell jar.
Here is a contradiction in terms for you: I liked Dick Wolf's Law & Order formulas, not to deny flawed stories and weaknesses, but dislike the procedurals that followed as the result of his influence, and have increasingly soured on Criminal Minds. Their most recent episode "A Family Affair" illustrates the reason. Not that paraplegics cannot be dangerous. Barbara upstairs has cp much worse than I do, even more helpless, and her aggression is much much worse than the irritability you read from me here, and that Steve Tara chastised me over. I do not dislike loki, I merely wanted him to stop advising me about writing. I failed my own expectations, but that doesn't mean I need to be told what I already know, and loki does not know that I opened a Good Reads account years ago.
http://www.cbs.com/shows/criminal_minds/e
My problem with the episode is not the expectations reversal, or Kathy Baker, a fine and seasoned actress given the right material; the construct, whoever in the SWG churned it out, has no real diegesis, which isn't always the case with this series, to be fair, but I increasingly dislike behavioral science as a secular religion. Maybe we are simply biological machines, and that's it, but I am a little defiant here, metaphysically. I eschew divinity, but cannot bring myself to forsake purpose, meaning, and the transcendent, not entirely, even if that is incongruent
Here is a contradiction in terms for you: I liked Dick Wolf's Law & Order formulas, not to deny flawed stories and weaknesses, but dislike the procedurals that followed as the result of his influence, and have increasingly soured on Criminal Minds. Their most recent episode "A Family Affair" illustrates the reason. Not that paraplegics cannot be dangerous. Barbara upstairs has cp much worse than I do, even more helpless, and her aggression is much much worse than the irritability you read from me here, and that Steve Tara chastised me over. I do not dislike loki, I merely wanted him to stop advising me about writing. I failed my own expectations, but that doesn't mean I need to be told what I already know, and loki does not know that I opened a Good Reads account years ago.
http://www.cbs.com/shows/criminal_minds/e
My problem with the episode is not the expectations reversal, or Kathy Baker, a fine and seasoned actress given the right material; the construct, whoever in the SWG churned it out, has no real diegesis, which isn't always the case with this series, to be fair, but I increasingly dislike behavioral science as a secular religion. Maybe we are simply biological machines, and that's it, but I am a little defiant here, metaphysically. I eschew divinity, but cannot bring myself to forsake purpose, meaning, and the transcendent, not entirely, even if that is incongruent
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