Fever Transit

Disease does have its own auto-erotic components, particularly related to the release of inhibitions. The most noted of these, in literary terms, is Mildred in Of Human Bondage. The charms of syphilis and British whoring, however, is nothing compared to a full frontal view of mentally ill queers with bloody cuticles who have full blown AIDS stricken partners with deadly froths of spittle on their mouths. This was one of my Christmas parties with the secular Jewish bosses I worked for with their progressive holy grails, if you want to know why my rage, with the lid off, unchecked by nicotine, would be so frightening if I utilized it in the now quaint and dated slang of going postal, but then again, could I be bipedal, most likely I would have been a battered woman, like mother. Mon frere morte passed his AIDS on to his girl, and this is why I believe that culling modalities will one day be dystopian realities for our species, though it is a matter of degree, and I have work that centers around jacking off cancer cunts during a course of treatment. The Castle of Otranto, with which I am racing along when I am tired, dances around this more obliquely. Despite Walpole's playfulness, there is something unseemly about Manfred bursting at the seams with his seed, as there is in the generational passage in a film like Darkness, which I need to view again. I lost the narrative thread in the last third of the film. As pro forma as it was, the script utilizes Huntington's as a conduit for horrific possibility. I had a waking nightmare recently, my power chairs being dismantled by Presby security, deliberately, cruelly, while I laid on my mattress, naked, crying on the phone for my father, who appeared like an imbecile, strolling along while I was taken away on a stretcher. If you think these motherfuckers will lift a finger to protect me against this actuality, the joke is on us, as we already live in the world of Soylent Green. We've been there for a very long time.

Yes, I know, my terror is overblown, woven in with the magnification of Wagner's darkness, and the rebuttal of the able world is the conspiracy of the system against me is my own adorable symptom, held up by my baby brother, by the Jamesian list moderator (in a different context), but no, if I do not get out of this building, and find a patron, this will be my fate, whatever cognition I will or will not have left to recognize it. I am in the process of being discarded, like so many of my former clients I carry on my back, with there own abandon, their own outcry. If I could just land a punch, find some form of liberation in the deployment of aggression, conceptually, it is a liberating notion. And all I wanted was a quiet day with my texts, notes on modernism; it never works out that way, and I am too tired now, past a painful lung flare.