Leitourgos

I am a liberal Row-Ark. What I am not is a card carrying ACLU radical
-- Matthew McConaughey

Many people are turned off by Joyce's meta-textual efforts, myself included; the saga of Ireland's violins are wearisome, even if this is a callous modern sensibility, and makes me pea green, and thereby inducted, when I think of the money I spent. You do not want to know what I paid to become a patron of a small slice of Philadelphia's cultural history, but it is comparable to what a three credit course went for when I was a student. One among the group is a novelist, and he and I were the first two people in the room, generation divided, I read and typed notes on my kindle, and he had three huge books. Our exchanges were clipped, heightened, and I caution myself to remain passive and let the clover patriots indulge themselves. I am only there to contrast Joyce with Lampedusa and Proust and Broch, who I am slowly rereading, scribbling notes in the book. I did not know The Sleepwalkers was in the Modernist family when I bought the novel, and only remember the anarchist, with a strange jolt, a pang, as if his death was my loss. I am more familiar with Joyce than I let on, but harbor an ambivalent hostility (you gasp! no!). He is one of the greatest writers in the English language, but those Irish violins, the Troubles, the Celtic warriors who corrupted my Roman legions, I sigh... Perhaps the novelist is published, not play acting an amateur. We shall see, and I suppose I should reread Portrait and really make an effort and be a good girl; tis my money, but I think Joyce, and perhaps Marcel, were creating a secular liturgy, and that is my very simple defense of Ulysses and Finnigans Wake. Not sure I shall ever attempt the latter, though I cannot be definitive.

Hoping to get to the DMV today, but not positive. Partly the problem is the distance of the drive; the Septa routes are bothersome for such a short distance, but I do need to get the mug updated. If I hate PresbyHomes as much as I assert, I am not on an intracounty transfer list because I fail to see the point. Every other location is problematic, and I was on the suburban transfer list but DCCC HUD lost me. I can go as blue in the face as is survivable, but this doesn't change the fact that I have set myself up for trouble, barring charitable private property. For all the nerve it took me to write to Babette, getting an acknowledgement is elusive, which does not bode well for my late life cause of independent living center reforms; my public avatar and private sentiments are slowly merging, however, because I do believe that disability centers kill the disabled through incompetence, I really do.

This is the danger inherent in building managers like Trudy Richardson and her bulldog, Debra. They are handed power without the professionalism or training to handle it without violating the very civil liberties the ACLU holds dear, but the ACLU spikes a fever on fusion centers and their infringement of privacy, right of association, or sex, or fringe protest; if I was in Columbia having Marxist orgasms with trade unionists, I'd expect the FBI to have a hard on for my hard drive data. What compliance and case management are doing to our basic rights, however, never mind; it's an afterthought, like me, the scars I carry. The glare  Obama bored into Romney is my own, except the odds that my injustices will be rectified are virtually nil, and yes, it was in part my social fear, and the knowledge that the cruelty of my former employer destabilized me.

I worked last night during the debate, and I'm pushing my body beyond what is safe. Have a good one peepbles.