Ochre Colors

When I get disappointed by a writing failure I sometimes stop writing altogether, a character flaw solely attributive to buying into the subtext of desuetude. It would not serve me to get into specifics, but perhaps I need to set this piece aside, work on it as I can, and stop punishing myself. The belt buckle is raising welts on my already desultory worldview because I needed the money, and I doubt the woman will pay me now, despite using my bragging rights, even if I manage to deliver at a later date. An obscure disabled freelancer cannot afford a failure such as this, and my confidence in my verbal acuity has been badly shaken, given that I have experience working under pressure.

There was a lesbian children's author on my endless stream of PBS fodder on Steve Adubato's show, not that I give two fucks about New Jersey, except for the fact that it is where most Philadelphia commercial employees live, and it might surprise you to learn that I agree with what she said about the over classification of identity, which is my main objection to progressive advocacy and activism, although I disagree with her that homosexuality should not matter, and yes, I can write this as a straight sentence without mockery, but treating my objection as a serious thesis, as I've written, is a difficult proposition, and does involve something of of a roll back on sexual liberalism, and doing so without becoming a Rick Santorum acolyte; not an easy thing to do while respecting evolutionary theory, and I do respect it.

To swing back to my insight into how hatreds and extremism develop in a psyche, in relation to Tarek Mehanna, I realize the cost of what I write in being frank that I can boil with the capacity of a fanatic in my loser's bid with matriculation and western materialism, but it isn't because I have cerebral palsy; it is because a series of impulsive decisions as a young woman left me stranded here, and I don't see a way out, even if the ACLU and the politicians are sympathetic. I know myself well enough to know that my emotional well being would improve if I could leave public housing, and find a change of venue. Too much baggage here, as louise, my would be acolyte, observed in a conversation, "Frank lives with you?"

Yes. I thought that was a given; he moved into the building in 04, and I broke our engagement in 05 three weeks before our wedding, then I published in the metro, and now he is dying while I struggle not to become a prime candidate for the silly Species franchise  Our conception of alien contact is too stereotypical in video.

"That was a silly thing to say," keeps replaying in my mind, because I was actually attempting to be fondly facetious, nothing more, and afterwards recoiled under the bedsheets, sulking, and have pushed the young ones from the James list serv away, sometimes deliberately, sometimes conflictedly, and shut down a conservation with a new fellow from Rhode Island. Why?

I don't really know. I understand rubbing shoulders with mummified academics can be intimidating, as I've iterated, and I understand newbies, or those lacking in self-assertion, look for softies like me: I love James and literary theory and all that, but the arcane details can shrivel the gonads, and so the non-mummified find me approachable, unless I breach, or drop an egg, but I'll grasp at straws on flimsy pretexts, as I did here, with ten words of personal expression about my need for a change of locale. That ceased the rapport, except it did not, and I own a mea culpa.  There are dangers of reeling too much in, especially on my own bumbling.