Freelancer Autonomic

"You were there,"  Tavis Smiley, asserting an obvious statement of fact timorously.

Breakfast? Risotto, eighty percent consumed, anxiety attack abated, last mug of espresso cooling on my scarred heels. Google doesn't seemed too concerned about outbursts or homicidal impulses, as they, Google, keep mailing me nice suggestions, and hey, Google, if you want a hissy fit, all I want is to re-monetize my account and don't know how babe, and my stingy viewers aren't going to download me to kindle so I can buy myself a new beret. Every militant cripple has to be out for herself, but I'd like the beret before my journey, fraught with peril, commences. I wonder how I can do this, with my extensive knowledge production of what homelessness entails. How can I beat those odds?

It hasn't happened, yet, but I've had my fill of this landlord, meanwhile, thinking-- have to not give up. I did earn three thousand, so I must be able to earn more, and wish I could post more details about my ideas, but that would be foolhardy, turning my tumblers for you on the dialectical tensions between the industry and the ethics of the death toll.

Night of the Living Dead still has the power to make us cross our legs in a warding off reflex. At first, the opening seems to signal to the audience that we are entering into a send up of typical bourgeoisie pretensions, loosening up Judith O'Dea, somewhat suggestively. Romero is leading us by the nose, as if to say, I can set the blonde up for a cherry pop too, duh. Then it veers off, unexpectedly, in to becoming a post-apocalyptic dare on miscegenation, which still had a certain fearful fascination for those in the innocent wonders of childhood, and then it becomes an odious indictment of caste tensions, and cleverly reverses expectations, to remind us why the Southern mindset in the twentieth century was so horrible, so worthy of guilt, necessitating tolerance for Smiley's pretensions, Tavis closing his eyes to sway to the guitar strumming of the loose-skinned folksinger, a white witness to the times, "when Martin was killed." A bit bold on the part of Tavis, to do that on a set studded with floodlights, a kind of obstinate bubble, a testament of faith that one day the progressive level playing field will be victorious.

No Tavis. You'll never see that dream realized, because difference can never be equalized without creating a new class oppression, and the very fact that I am past the half century mark, unable to separate myself from government control of my destiny, is a glaring defacement at your altar. Duane Jones did have a nice piece ass, but I was just a kid. 

The Community in the Integration

PBS just concluded a report on the burgeoning claims backlog at the VA. Promises to veterans in this country have been broken since Washington's administration, but became a significant concern in terms of actualized civil unrest during President Hoover's tenure. I have seen archival footage of a very circumspect Eisenhower ordering troops to quell the demonstrators. Heart rending case of a mother eating its young, but the issue has me dwelling on naturalized development of a shared sense of community, which I'd like to build on at some point.

Recertifications, half and half cookie

I do not believe in James Purefoy's acting, nor his character, but if Christopher Dorner had taken his pain, calculated better, and had attempted to become a genotype such that the fictional character Joe Carroll of The Following represents, I would have become an accessory after the fact for poor Christopher, and that goes for anyone with real balls enough to know that the American political system does not work, not nationally.

In Sex and the City, fans remember the Blair Underwood arc with Nixon, and how the extra who played one of the condominium owners raised the issue of the sports doctor with financials under pressure, then we swerved to the hot chocolate. Would those financials have continued to be investigated daily if the character had remained a recur?

Every nine months total strangers, adversaries, like Trudy, and Ludie (the infantilism here in black female names)-- I was living here before Ludie was hired, yet I have to give this girl total access to my financial information. I am about to refuse, and that will essentially force everyone's hand, including my own. I was once making close to 26,000 a year. What does Presby save in real dollars due to the fact that, through hands on experience, Ludie knows how to foot?

I do not begrudge Ludie her job, but this company has had its hand in ending my matriculation. I don't want to play this game anymore. This, for my internal sensibility, is the choice I have, the death of a thousand cuts because my credit rating is in the congestive heart failure of a marginal debt, in comparison to this young woman's, versus making myself homeless, an irrational act, because it is a fast rupture against the lethargy of failure.

Harvard has never posted one word, not as chastisement, nor pity, in response to my irritable volubility. Our interaction, as such, is an accommodation. Once in a while I follow her links, encourage her with the passion I once had, and she is too busy to argue with me to sing "here comes the sun," not that I know what she thinks. I can infer, however. The safety net in Texas is, I am assuming, harsher than eastern PA's, and a new location is not a cure for my life, but I need to make one last play toward mobility, and where I land, it will be my last act.

The Quiet Genocidal Collusion

"Poverty is a business." --Alan Gordon, income maintenance civil servant, former university friend and as far as I know, still homosexual.

If you want to know why I believe American federalism is hopelessly compromised, why I believe the social service sector in this country is a conspiracy that educated men like Gregory Zacharias won't look at very closely (bottom photo faculty board), allow me to present my opening evidence. This is HUD's evaluation of Diamond Park, the units I jumped at to live independently, the units where I suffered the PTSD of inner city violence, most of that black, and then transferred to Riverside with Terri Way after my assault. 

These units are not worth the FMR listing, and Presby's FMR for Riverside is even more inflated, as center city property values are mainly commercial and come at a premium.

In 1994, my father dumped me, and what furniture I had (he gave me a couch later but I had no room and gave it away and this hurt my father) and left cursing. From that evening, to my letter to Trudy Richardson over the winter threatening legal action, my life here, privately, has been hell.

I have told you about Trudy's deployment of the assessment team in 08, but I was also forced, years ago, to pay for a meal program even though I was banned from the dining room. A Jewish lawyer named Gold did his statue-legalize with a Presby brother bar member and that ended.

So, you know a relative of a tenant nearly took my life under the management of PresbyHomes, whose staff dissuaded litigation but gave me no support except to have me placed here, where I never wanted to live. I have had to put up with constant thrust and counter thrust, from the time I was 23 to 50.

Sheldon "doesn't know what to say," and I have no animus with his honesty. Greg stopped interacting with me; busy man who doesn't have time to deal with the hard luck of a brittle invalid. Don't kid yourselves about the rhetoric of freedom and liberty from our presidents' mouths. 

Now, I grant you, it is not the fault of  instructors who taught me that I ended up not teaching and live with a dung beetle's distress, if not enthusiasm, nor is it Sheldon's, or Greg's, but putting up a fence because I did not manage to jump the supersaturated meritocracy humanities, what does that signify? And what have I truly done to merit the cold shoulder online? Mmm. Greg would-- what idiom should I use?-- throw a wobbly if I wanted to fast track oral exams and the like to get special status to work at Creighton-- which is not a plea to be incompetent.

I have looked for other landlords, but refuse to return to the inner city, because it would crack me if not kill me, and I want off the public housing grid, especially section 202. Would you want this for your 23 year old daughter because she was impulsively naive about integration? I am asking for help, but it is to get out of this, any way I can, for the few stable years I have ahead. Please.

The gait of Toru Tanaka

"You're not living here at Riverside!"-- Trudy Richardson in April 2008  when I could not clean the apartment because it was taking me over a year to get Medicare to repair my old power chair or get me a new one.

My neighbor Jay moved into this Presby location approximately the same time as I did, a paraplegic from a fall at a construction site when he was nineteen. Younger than I am, his health is deteriorating in an alarming fashion. Tim, my long serving domestic collusionist, informed me yesterday that Jay is in the hospital with a serious blood infection, and his family may "put him in a nursing home." This is not the fate of every low income tenant under the PresbyHomes umbrella, but the majority of us are driven insane by the company's daily rhythm, a rhythm driven by this efficacious department, driven by state inspectors, or by Presby itself.

Jay is sick because he does nothing but sit and smoke in his unit and doesn't move, and the blood pools in our legs, buttocks. I am informing you of his plight not to gossip, but to illustrate the despair of forced marginalization even within section 811/202 vectors. Jay has no where near my education, but he would certainly understand why I have been raising my voice for so long on the Internet about the sterile cruelty of the social safety net in the US, and there has to be a better way, which is why I think the HUD independent living modules need to be dismantled and made more fluid, more private property oriented with regional community support.

I want to be in a private apartment *supported* by affluent Caucasians, possibly Asians, and undoubtedly Roman Catholics, whom I feel are trustworthy. And those affluent individuals need to be more involved with those struck by chronic conditions, whether at birth, or later. You aren't. Tanaka, in order not to injure Chuck Norris, action star silly air, tosses him over the bar in An Eye For An Eye. Primitive choreography due to safety concerns. If I could inhabit Kalani with my hidden limp, I would have fractured Chuck's skull by slamming it into the bar panels, and as I critique more policy, maybe you will one day understand that anger. I still share it with more visible activists, despite my rift with them.

Okinawa Transcendentals

Still, the destitute haven't been completely cut out of the oil bonanza. Chavez has funneled a portion of the windfall to provide an army of social services--ranging from free eye surgery to literacy classes--in the poorest neighborhoods. --Alexandra Starr, Letter from Caracas, spring 2007, The American Scholar

Fortunately for Dr. Dollyne, I do not feel well enough to roll upstairs to the community room to sow discord. She is scheduled to speak here at Riverside about race and disability roughly an hour from the time of this post being in composition. Her Institute sounds slightly along the order of black national socialism, and, if I am this close to making myself homeless to leave the grasp of this company, I'd achieve nothing by utilizing my anger to incite a bunch of enfeebled Adventist grizzled bitches and their warders. Presby has augmented my trauma for many years, and Trudy, if this gets back to you, none of your actions changes the fact that I have lived in Riverside under duress for many years before you came to the helm, and you've treated me yourself no better than Fatso treats Maggio. The line between Borgnine as a sadist with a truncheon and your threats, verbally and otherwise, isn't that wide, my aunt even affirming it.

"How you think they'd treat you?" She screeches.

Trudy Richardson has a job to do, people to answer to, and thus, cripples wind up like this cult hero, exterminated rather than lynched.

It takes a different feminine imagination than mine to understand the appeal of Montgomery Clift. It is as if a studio mogul said hey we finally found a fruit who makes women twit and cluck. Shelley Winters once claimed Clift was "a little AC/DC." More than a little. The entire film seems like an S&M fantasy, here to eternity. Never realized how well Frank could do a pansy ass, and he really looks like one with Maggio. Shudder. The novel and the film both rate comparison with Mailer's The Naked and The Dead. Ennui, boredom, repressed pathologies, against type.

Alexandra is a deft, dare I say luminous writer, but she miscalculated the fortunes of Chavez by a significant margin. The CIA dusted off its Castro file and actually achieved its goal, spastic writes with a margin of pleasurable derision. I think I will attempt to go to Texas. As badly as I want to acclimate to Tuscany, my body would not withstand the stress. We'll see.

Even if I cut and run in desperation, I need a storage facility, and a place for the cats, so on. The Lone Star has border issues, drought, and red meat to kazoo, but torturing my father, who does not care, "it's big," I pleaded. My need to leave is visceral, and I am not availed of this diet so I too can yield to the Stepford model.

Time to pitch, if I am not being black balled, but how paranoid is that?

Oligarchs

"Snakes don't eat people."-- the incredulous Jennifer Lopez

Luis Llosa may have been offering a homage to Spielberg with Anaconda, but the film was ridiculous, barely lucid in its underlying subtext of preserving the Amazon's mystique. At this point in my life I fail to see why mechanical sharks and snake machines with a malevolent sense of humor shouldn't be made Secretary General of the United Nations, and if I ever get through The Feast of The Goat by Llhosa the novelist, I will have to view the filmmaker's adaptation, and this unwittingly brings me back to my trouble: my literacy fluency has done absolutely nothing for me, not in terms of personal security, and Llhosa has stated to English media repeatedly that he belonged to a Latin American left which thought it could change things. But that seemingly took forever in blue jeans.

Modernism changed literature and left it for dead, which does not mean that content will not continue to be sold as impulse products for consumers, but what has modernism done to the moral glue, the third chimpanzee's empathy? And by that I mean us, culling Jared's title. I have spent my entire life consuming the English novel and science fiction, and only later getting into the subtlety, sheer marvel, of the action taking place on the continent. Stendhal is more than Balzac's equal, and I can only wonder at where Marcel picked up his cues, not quite 100 years later-- but Joyce? If we were to superimpose Ulysses onto the scripts for The Following, aren't we saying that an abstract modality, taken to its absurd forms, makes it easier to clear the way for immolation? And yes, I get the subversive irony of the fact that James Purefoy brings the terminal degree scholar into the ever burgeoning tent of the American serial killer (hello to my internal vengeance driver). Late 20th century cold war thrillers were an early version of this video game mentality, with the real monster being the American operative flipped for money, or the thrill of it.

In the good old days, I would not have feared a Soviet agent. The Soviet agent believed in what Lenin and Stalin bequeathed, but today's Russian thugs lead us back to Bulgakov's ridicule, which doesn't need an apologia for its reductionist, dystopian tendencies. Bulgakov may not be the best counter example for me to use to bolster hostility towards Joycean meta-fictional overlay, because I may hear the jazz in Mikhail's masterpiece, but cannot say he is right about Christian orthodoxy, but unlike Joyce, Bulgakov is empathetic to the need for hope.

I said something stupid in group when some there asked me if I was a grad student. I said we have a lot to blame the Modernists for, in the accusative. Let me put it this way: I doubt Joyce could have foreseen Osama Bin Laden, but I can see what the rise of Al Qaida means when I read the mock epic of this over educated Anglo-Irishman.

Since I had my bowel impaction yesterday, went off schedule, and have to go to the store, I leave you with that questionable lucidity.

Lyricism Minutiae

Lifting a term from Naomi Perley in her 19th century literature studies, it is the rich intratextuality of Proust that I prefer over Joyce and his Homeric Shakespearean parody, and in this sense, I am an Italian Germanic Francophile over a Saxon Anglo satirist. Eliot critiqued that the novel as we once knew it ended with Flaubert and James. True, but Joyce and Proust, then David Mitchell, broke the bank.

The novel as a literary form is dead, and Joyce took a deconstruction to its limit and essentially failed. His word smashing may strike the funny bone, but is not a consciousness simulation. Proust, on the other hand, mimics the complexity of biology by turning detailed precision of memory into a musical score. Mitchell then in the 21st century gives it digital connective tissue with historical allusions bound by chance connections that unify from the center.

Nothing more can be done with narrative except for the arbitrary perspective that seeps in the cracks.

Naughty woman with a schedule I need to keep, I should be lying down, but I wrestle with my two bit tap on why the quiet Italians, limping in on the backs of the titans, should have the last word. It turns out I can play Russian roulette with both e-cig cartridges and the simple plastic poke tubes. My constructs are slow to form, but my advantage is I am a stubborn bitch, and I am going to take my place in the field, even if I have to tutor remedial English to grasp at straws. I hate Joyce, so there, but why?

You see?
*
Lazy troping.  I can appreciate certain things in the fabled Joycean virtuosity, and of course, Western civilization survived the onslaught of Modernism deconstructing the fabulism, the assurance, of the Elizabethan world order, but it could not stop personal autonomy from turning yesterday's warrior into the modern terrorist. Is this too damning a charge to aim at Broch, Bloomsbury, their successors?

Complicity, Clintons and Pecking Order

"I find the word 'cured' to be very difficult to define." --Julie Andrews

I am not going to dissect Arlington Road in the same manner that I attempted to flake from the mica of The Brothers Rico as a film; this is in part due to the fact that the agenda of Pellington and Kruger speaks for itself  in the more contemporary narrative. The threat is from within, that the American self-reliant frontier mindset is its own cancer, perhaps a crab incurable, and as dark as any ultra right wing mentality with which it might be compared. Pellington also offers Easter eggs for the flavor of any ideologue.

These are my main points of complicit ambiguity, however, with the understanding, on your part, that I do not have access to the full technical issues surrounding the making of the movie:

1. Was the child Brady a deliberate lure, whether or not Fenimore was switch hitting on bringing Faraday in, or was intent on framing and sacrificing Faraday from the opening frame?

2. Was Hope Davis used in a dual role as girlfriend / operative to suggest that no one can be trusted? Towards the close of the film there is a student, a plant from Fenimore's apparently huge resistance to the federal, progressive sensibility. I cannot tell from the credits whether this woman is an extra cast because she looks like Davis, or she is Davis in a game of masquerade, but the implication is the same.

3. What were Pellington and Kruger implying when Robbins ends the film by telling Cusack "They'll let us know."?

Perhaps homo sapiens is limited and self-deluded by First Cause entrapments in politics and physics alike.

The cult of the icon, however, is the least plausible when it comes to the validity of fronts, props, and powers behind the throne. Are the Clintons, for instance, part of a left centrist snow job? No, not in the Machiavellian sense. Hillary did not drive Vince to his death. She and her husband have a passive aggressive self-justification that was perhaps not the best thing for the US at the time, but they did not run around DC saying "Kill the bastards."

I am not in the Hillary glee club, however, and I never liked her in any of her incarnations, though she receives a passing grade for getting out of State without causing riots in Montana. Marooned taps into the psychic scar tissues that the modern autocracy makes us pay, exacerbating them. Gregory is all too convincing as the operative who has to keep the government safe from its own fallibility, and this makes it more than a movie and closer to a crumbling edifice about the price we pay for the right stuff, how the feminine is hated even in stock objectification. That no one would raise a hand to the mechanized astronaut's wife doesn't mean she isn't discarded because it is necessary, and she knows that she is complicit in the deception thrust upon her.

In Rico the government is like a binary switch. On or off, dismissed until it is a necessary last resort. In Marooned, personified in the abstract of NASA, it is the new secular religion, and in Arlington, it is a duped and impotent eunuch.

Koyaanisqatsi

The biographer therefore must make a choice---to penetrate that private reality and write a book that gives some sense of a life as it was lived, or to write some other sort of book, a commentary from the outside. -- Sheldon M. Novick

The contusion on my mother's profile from the left, just above the socket, during her survival flight from this excuse she married, erroneously, for the sake of her bastard child, was strangely beautiful. I am forgetful of the direction of the flight. She either followed Stuart to the Midwest and fled as fast as she could drive back home, or it was the reverse, and the fact that her little sister married a deputy chief of police whom Stuart feared, this saved my mother's life. Where the rest of us were also leaves me at a loss, but in a haze, perhaps we had left Mary's care to return to my father, for I was in my house when my mother's suffering could be read in her face. I feel guilty that I could not kill Stuart myself, as Nick Nolte did in his flashbacks that led to more sex with Streisand. (I wonder if anyone ever really enjoyed sleeping with her thus rendering her as PG sex kitten, but that Freudian aspect is as dated as Nancy Friday.)

I know I am quadriplegic and that level of expectation is a high water mark, but I did not protect my family, and got drawn into Stuart's predation trying to accept the man, and he was, in the truest sense. a revulsion, having no corresponding value as an alternate to natural harmony.

When I had my first email exchange with Sheldon, my grievance was a living crucifixion (don't believe the process they have posted, zealous Liberty; they will give you an audience but marginalize you with everything they have if you happen to have a Title II case, legitimately, against them, and, as an officer of the court, Tom Earle did not investigate or penalize Linda for what she did to humiliate me in front of my former neighborhood friends from the suburbs), so I caught him off guard, inadvertently, poor Sheldon, and later lost him and Sarah [for those of you keeping score I have had conflicts or frictions with five Jamesians, and was in the wrong twice, but care about the third--I liked the fact that Greg treated my article proposal with respect and my ego is still bruised that such manner, mutual courtesy, is now gone because I was tongue in cheek about spam] from my group. That is old egotistical tyranny. Smile.

The good Doctor Novick suggested I add my spin to the life of Alice. I am sure Strouse handles the job admirably. I am not a scholar of the lives of those who make the western canon, except for Italian modernists, should I live long enough, I might be swayed to caress such ribs as remain intact of Giuseppe. I think, for the prurient scholars who remain fascinated with Henry's penis, an anthropologist in the other department should apply for a grant to unravel the DNA sequence to gain insight into why a drug addict founded American psychology, whether Henry actually did pinch hit over the chamber pot exit, and whether Alice was muted as a lesbian invalid because she wanted to secretly wed a royal like Vincentio and imitated Isabella, dying in stunned silence.

My printer is not yet installed. But you are able to infer I am always behind.

Electra Glide Psychopathy

"That is why you use sex as an act of self-hatred."-- Vincent D'Onofrio, Anti-thesis

In Cold Blood, now a notorious hallmark, was adapted to the screen in 67 ; Electra Glide appears six years later, and despite the filmography I cannot recall any of Blake's leads other than Baretta, and of the series itself I remember nothing except that the actor had a personable brawn and the interaction with the cockatoo was enterprising, a good fit for the me decade, and after that there was the bizarre murder of trophy girl Bonny Lee Bakley, which I do not think is quite comparable to the OJ Simpson trial. 

Did Capote do this country any real favors with his true crime anatomy? Did the industry do Blake any favors in turn? My only evaluation between the drama and the scandal is that Blake's incoherence might serve as a warning that has since gotten lost in the shuffle, spree killing and police containment going to the poor guy's head.

Electra Glide, like much of the new wave films and their imitators, is a bit of a pose, and yet, its malevolent undercurrents remain authentic, worth paying attention to in the long term. The dark side of freedom being simply nothing less to lose is that good men and women who still have vested  interests can get wiped out in the cross fire. I am still not sure who killed Frank, whether Blake as the moderate was right, or Bush as the string em up cowboy who smelled the dark side of the hippie dealer, or Ryan as the old guard, humiliated by the disillusion of the liberalism posited in a third rate solo by Riley, but the last scene is effective at annihilating emotional defenses

Schismatic Espresso Breaks

"No you're not!" Timothy Artis admonishing me after I asserted I was rotten.

What Tim and I never say is implicit in our actions, our tolerance of each other out of necessity. He needs my ready payment unregulated by Medicaid waiver administration, and I need his relatively non-judgmental ability to handle my domestic interior, though this is slowing due to the fact that my freelancing is all but brain dead, with my recent laptop setbacks, and the fact that I am utilizing delay with one tenth that of Laurence Sterne's timing.

Let's cut to the chase: Am I a racist? Not in the evolutionary sense. As a matter of biology Tim is superior to me in many functional respects, but in terms of sociological dynamics I suppose many of you would feel comfortable giving me that label because of what Kevyn Orr signifies, even in the 21st century. Philadelphia, Chicago, Detroit, places like Compton in California. All black cities that seep into the cracks and filter through the white working class, sometimes striking the truly affluent. Is it fair of me to suggest that the black inner city is responsible for Garrett's propensity to addict and od himself? It happened in my family as well, and Nicholas did not need black drug dealers to destruct in the end, but enablement is a relevant issue, and the fact that a mature man of sixty two has to engage in infantilism, asking the disabled woman still struggling on the straight and narrow for a cash advance because he "needs cigarettes." Well, we have not come that far yet, not in my terminology of community integration. Although I dream to get good enough so that my voyeur viewers will one day give me enough support for this small happiness. It would be more convenient for you to download me to your kindle, and I'd only work harder. If you are working, what is another 99 cents?

I have not installed my apparently cheap laser jet yet, and need to take care of that, at least to ensure that I will not have to return it, tweaked some minor revisions here, I will attempt to take a break, plow back into rewriting what I have to, having rode out my pc illiterate grief (it struck me hard). I have held up on continuing with my conspiracy theory analysis because I do actually see it as applicable, and not simply a matter of reaction. To disagree with the state of Israel does not make one automatically guilty of anti-semiticism. Sheldon is a weighty and cerebral optimist in his Jamesian scholarship, and more than that, he is a delight to read while his thesis gains in illumination, so get to it. I have sworn myself silly that I am starting The Young Master later into Saturday morning. Perhaps you too would join the chorus led by Leon Edel.

I think the sheer audacity of Henry James and Oliver Wendell Holmes jacking off is an indelible source of amusement, and there is nothing to suggest Sheldon's homoerotic imagination is wrong.

If I change my mind I'll be back later.

Wandering Rock

...the individual brain, even if outstanding, was lagging farther and farther below the dizzy peak which science and technology in their totality had reached.-- Alexander Blade

Part of the reason I chaff over Ulysses is that I plod, not making the time for an autopsy of due diligence, and should not have then spent the money, though it went to a good cause, as I am the child of the aesthetic underdog, but something about the Joycean idiolect gives me epileptic seizures, and this goes back to my reading of Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man when money wasn't my primary concern. Perhaps it is not important that I grasp it for you right now, why Marcel Proust is soul food and Joyce is an orbital emergency to battle. I should be able to appreciate the subversive characteristics of the leprechaun, and do, but there is an undercurrent of antagonism when I enter Joyce, as if I am being conned. With Sterne this is central. Frustrated expectations essentially serve as the reader's antagonist in this early post modern exploit, which I read, reread, never seem to finish, poor Shandy, still waiting for me to allow his mum to enter into labor, but it takes me more and more of an effort to accomplish my goals, brushing my now dry and brittle hair, hour and a half to dress, and that on a good day. I am wasting too much time, but if you go, and my physiology allows, I will see you here:

A dinner to benefit Bloomsday

When Friday, June 14, 2013 Where Trinity Center for Urban Life 22nd and Spruce Streets, Philadelphia, PA 19103 Why Because your support makes the Rosenbach’s largest annual public program possible. Bloomsday is a free celebration of James Joyce’s Ulysses that attracted 2,047 participants in 2012.

The Bear Itself

Meanwhile, my revision losses may not be as dire as I once believed, and that is my only optimism for today, although I must have overrode my story, or something. I am not partial to bears, even though for felines I too am an idiot like Treadwell. I'd roll right up to a male lion and kiss big kitty and it would not kill me and yes, I know it would not, not on first contact. Perhaps later but not in the beginning, because I have an affinity.

Bears are another matter and I would not relish a mauling due to a fit of temper, and in that sense for you I am the grizzly, eh?

I can write spurious posts too you know, but I am tired, so cue in the tags until I revise. I am both darker and rabid than you read, but sometimes simply disruptive in play mode, and intend to keep you dancing.

Ostler Lone

The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind. Thomas Paine

Methinks I am as comfortable as I am going to get this afternoon, with this body always in pain and nearly always rank; had something of a near miss with my feminine urinal so you can add caffeine laden piss to that, my continual coffee intake either masking or preventing diabetes. I don't suppose German netizens wish to inform me why they are my most numerous viewers after those in the US? Any recommendations? I am an extraction of Mengele manufacture without benefit of concentration camp assembly. His eugenics legacy lives on, in much the same way that Gene Hackman is always Gene Hackman and yet inhabits his characters, with the possible exception of his supporting role in Lilith, but even there, he was an adept shrub. And it is quite a distinct idiolect, one that not every actor can inhabit, being Buzz Lloyd and yet distinctively Hackman, in simultaneous fashion. Marooned is ruthless in its imprint of the American global ascent, and I'd in fact argue it is almost as post modern as this guy's work. It is a film without pretense despite a multi-layered contrivance, powerful for those of us who actually lived through the aspirations of the   Apollo missions, as I did. Gregory Peck insinuating suicide to Richard Crenna and getting away with it for the utilitarian good of NASA? This is the decade that was covert about my mother's suicide attempts, a woman who should have been institutionalized, and wasn't. Before she died she told me that, my mother: Had Pauline and Louis her father committed her she would have gotten worse. Not for me to speculate, but her children would not have suffered Stuart Lone, who remains on my hit list (and that my former supervisor ranks nearly in parity to this stepfather, in this exclusive club, tells you how seriously I take her criminality), finger fuck step father who attempted to rape a nine year old girl and made me sick on Jack Daniels so he could violate me. Let Blogger ban me for being desirous of his murder. Monster. Filth. I shall not forgive. I cannot, not for the suffering he inflicted on me, on my sister, now estranged.

This is the reason this series is making me uneasy. Not that I don't *get it,* of course I do. Malevolence can be as methodical as police investigations for the greater good. Prior bad acts can lead us one way or another, but it is still a difficult show, symptomatic of our national ailment, and it doesn't have to be that graphic not to make me want to vomit at its implications.

There is a brief description toward the end of Cormac's nuke porn where diarrhea is dribbling down the father's pant leg, a mortality signature signifying the price this man paid to keep his boy alive. This was my mother's second husband, jigging around on a heroin crash with shit spilling out of his crack, seeping into his denim. The Presbyterians browbeat me for 28 years after on the sentiment that cleanliness, divinely guided, is curative towards the scars of such trauma. Personally, seeing the backend of my domestic malfeasance in blackface only accentuates my despair of humanity. You no doubt see this as narcissistic, but this is how I'm feeling today, arthritis easing momentarily.

Transgressio, Urban Analogs

"... for the Baghdad I knew then seems now closer to the time of the Nights than it does to our own times." --Hussain Haddawy, The Arabian Nights, 1988 edition

Strange, the predilection for translators ventilating on their under-appreciated art, this failed child of the sixties marooned in the void between Drexel, Temple, and University of Pennsylvania campuses, respectively, the latter of which is not Ivy League, but sticks its nasal accent up your ass with well mannered decorum, though what it shares with the other two is the specter of inner city crime hanging over your shoulder. Our society both was and wasn't the film that, though now fallen   victim to kitsch, is in some ways ruthlessly modern, minimalist. The female actors potted plants, aerosol air and glued eyelashes, tears and widow weeds ready. It owes a debt to Kubrick, as does Mr. Soames. District 9 pays subtle homage to analog aspirations, and Blomkamp takes his work seriously. Earned undying gratitude.

I should be going to sleep, and this post may not ply so deeply due to this salient fact, but perhaps I should refine my parameters. The hate in my marrow has more to do with the void closing in on me, like our bodies daring the overwhelming entry into space, and our sheer insignificance in it. This is not the constriction I wanted to settle for, state socialism, an exploited body everyone else earns a living on, though I too, must plead guilty of having done the same. I am imposed upon, with fewer and fewer choices not to be so, but let's get Copernican. We all know Manhattan is the center of the universe, representative of every urban environment, whether cosmopolitan or provincial slummers who never get much beyond the radius of their street block, with an encompassing loss or longing, an interior with its own macular degeneration. I lived in Manhattan, never fully absorbed it, exactly the same and not the same as Philadelphia.

Glycemic Igor

The only rationale I can see for Legends of The Fall being produced is industry handlers wanted to cement Brad Pitt's body for its earning potential, which various celebrity urls list as anywhere from 100 to 180 million. This seems low, given his staying power, and the partnership with Jolie. There is also the comparison to A River Runs Through It, virtually the same film. See Pitt nearly kill Julia Ormond, the implicit message for the girls being prime rib comes with a price tag: we are all better off fantasizing about grade A fucking instead of doing what it takes to get it, because potential pitfalls lurk, if not by death on the ever closing American frontier, then by conviction for stalking.

Hopkins was cast to be Gregory Peck, the cosmopolitan force taming North American ecosystems as opposed to integrating with it, like the natives whose totem metaphysics are more harmonic than that for which empirical measurements allow, not that I have any issues with indigenous indignation or passive compliance with their adaptive way of life being crushed, so much as I think it's time to move on, and look beyond the efficacy of gaming casino ownership. This is not a round about way of saying Rand Paul is not wrong, but he isn't, and his tenacious alarm is on point.

Watchbird was my least favorite of the MSF episodes made, but I have to concede that it was ahead of me on the prophetic implications of drone technology, and it need not be a corrupt president we have to worry about if these drones are given access to domestic airspace.

I have been trying to recover enough stamina to enter into cyber recovery of my manuscripts, but I'm not there yet, and indeed, yesterday almost passed out after moving my bowel, leaving me worried about my strength to find consultant work outside of my writing, as well as coping with the stress of relocation. The physicians were never much help with my continence management, other than to ask if it was chronic. I am a bit of a hypochondriac, but I felt the taste of death in this latest episode of ebbing faintness, and could barely transfer, type a paragraph. Potatoes for dinner helped me reset, Anthony's mildly sinister squint implanted once again on my short term memory. I was hoping for two or three more years of quality time, but I am uncertain I'll get even that.

Wedlock Impulse

The idea that the more educated the population was, the more readily its problems could be solved had quietly faded away.  -- Ian McEwan, The Child in Time, location 342

Conservatives have their own level of inconsistency. They would like to see abortion banned, or if they cannot quite achieve that, they'd like to see it severely restricted, and as far as I know, very few of the right wing address affluence and pregnancy termination. On the scale of relative moral value, they aren't too sympathetic to single mothers who have their children, as I am sure Lori Silverbush would agree in the way she contextualizes her film.

I hate the phrase food insecurity, a catch phrase that presupposes our ability to control things like arable land production and the pressures of industrial livestock. The young minority mother in the clip struggling to feed her children and doing it while employed does not earn my sympathy for one reason, despite the fact that my aging quadriplegia has me in a straight jacket almost as constrictive: she had the sex that gave her the children without considering her education or her options, like marriage.

Yes, I had impulsive sex. Had I conceived I would have aborted-- a hard but necessary choice, as no one can have it all, either the left or the right. Abortion can be both, an economic necessity and a lack of personal responsibility, as it was for my middle child sister. Abstinence is a difficult bar to maintain, but it isn't impossible, and had I attempted to be that disciplined at this young woman's age, maybe I would not be stuck in the land of the black underclass, watching my potential rot through the hate in my bone marrow. 

A Place at the Table is one documentary I am skipping, despite the complex geopolitical aspects of nutrition. If progressives want to end starvation then they need to acknowledge that it begins with learning constraint. Everything has a price tag.

Curse of Sinn Fein

Perhaps my coconut milk curdled, but suffice to say I cannot attend to group this afternoon. Used to a troubled bowel as I am, the virulence of this attack frightened me to the point that if I want to return to Italy to die, I'd better start focusing on getting that done. I'd dive into racism in the 21st century, but should wait to see if I have gone viral in the tradition of an influenza.

It is official: I am sick beyond the normal parameters of COPD, and over-utilizing blu and its glycerin atomizers may have contributed. Again, I cannot work, again.

But since I cannot find the post I am looking for, and what else is new, let me make some slight observation about attuning our addictive propensities to alternate and digital technologies: these and these each have strengths and weaknesses. Aero is simple and portable and can be taken anywhere, but does not last long and generates pressure on the need to recycle. The electronic version is stronger and closer to the stabilization of tobacco, but binds the user to the grid with greater necessity, and I am not entirely sure this is much better than the rise of the tobacco industry, though its torturous fall is a utilitarian virtue for public health. As Aaron Eckart in his didactic mode illustrates, however, many of our modern conveniences have pitfalls.

And I am unsure what the left thinks it will achieve in the attempt to regulate vice and negative behaviors out of existence.

Deep Dish Cherry

So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread, being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves.--Romeo and Juliet, 5.3.5-6

My essential argument, with which most of you would disagree, is that perspicacity should triumph over civility, not so much for trolling as an inherent value in itself, but for the sake of veracity. I certainly respect the way Maher has made a career out of it, and agree with him most of the time, when I spare myself the leisure of paying attention to his routine; it's been a long dry season, as far as that goes, though he would probably be puzzled at my defense of Roman Catholicism despite my lack of parish involvement and my soft atheism. I am having a terrible craving for soda or juice and hate the former. Vending machine in the laundry room but the guard no doubt put it on report if I requested access (sigh). Few things I have been neglecting with Arlington Road, Brazil, which I should make an effort to conclude-- but black ire doesn't concern me all that much. I live among you and want nothing more than to flee from the wonders of the African American codex, qualifying that with the caution that there are discriminations not yet explored in that assertion.