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?