Eastern Abstracts

I rather do not know where Orlando is, since I have mentioned it, and it is not so beloved for its satire that I am willing to upchuck for a kindle edition. I am togging with my reacher, in the lower milk crate that one of my former female attendants put together. I did not like her either, and she is long gone, with her side dialogues to her *brother* driving the Paratransit van about Armageddon being upon us because of a black child selling pretzels on the expressway. Despite Niall Ferguson's respect and highlight of the Protestant work ethic, Christianity is absurd, especially in the mouths of minorities looking for an excuse. I know how easy it is. God took Joey away to punish me is an easier rationalization than the reality of the fact that my cat's urinary tract issues had me constantly stressed, and my choice not to overreact and get him in by the 15th of May is what killed him, and is affecting the stress on my own health. My entire left side feels like a stroke waiting to happen, and I have mild spates of light headedness. "Go to the doctor!" No. I do not wish to know whether the would be onocologist Dr. Lantz is right, and my fall in 2008 prompted metastasis, or I am right, and it is an occlusion from bad habits getting worse. If I no longer have the opportunity to succeed in this country, then no, I am not punishing myself with more surgery, or chemo, or breast reconstruction I cannot afford. I will surrender to my body, whatever event it wants to have. Orlando is not lost, and is in the bottom of my pile in the lower crate. Perhaps I will start it again today, a compromise between not doing anything at all because the humidity has me in a vacuum wrap, but not wishing to return to bed. I am not my Aunt Marie, my father's sister, and the harder reality for me to accept is I should not try to adopt again, at least until I make some sales, or find some income generating activity that can accommodate my failing strength, but I remain undecided. Vinne is still mewing, looking for Joey, smelling the cushion from my equally fucked ex-fiance where Joey slept, and this breaks my heart more.





I am also reading Mingmei Yip's Petals From The Sky even though I eschew the romantic genre, and Yip is not quite polished enough to leave you feeling hung over from a bad dose of puppet theatre, but her approach, none the less, is interesting, Asian memes made gentle for western readers. The protagonist and her doctor are a shade over squeaky clean, but the narrative is holding me. It can only end in one of three ways. Girl gets doctor. Girl commits to religious order, or girl gives up, loses both, and settles for teaching art. When or if I return, I will be moving my archives in.