John has a good memory-- Erik von Schmetterling, before he lost his
After I was banned from this online community portal, circa 2002, I spiraled downward in Yahoo Groups, and unsubcribed from the atheist community after a time. Posting like a blackguard wasn't exactly home cooked meatloaf with mash potatoes. I have not crossed any boundaries with this non-fiction community, one of the few very active on which I remain, because I cannot keep up with their reading pace, and do not post often, and this is how I have marked my existence rolling from my bed to this desk for 15 years, give or take: who bans my account, who doesn't, which communities I leave voluntarily.
My health is beginning to fail-- not the best case scenario for sticking my anguish inside of how Joyce utilized his lack of balance crammed into one evening, unintended double entendre as this is. Joyce crams deconstructions, and I crammed over three hundred pages, now find myself disoriented, trying to relocate my gravitational center and mitigate my need to freak fuck myself into a stroke. I read all night at the desk, dressed at nine and drove my blocks in somewhat somnolent states of being Rather dramatic way to rediscover my analytic decline, that I am not a student anymore; the goal is close, I am nearly finished with Ulysses, the sordid reflection of Leopold's Dublin like the crack in my psyche: if I stay with this landlord through this summer I am as good as dead, and if I give my notice this is tantamount to no more than executing the sentence.
The people with cerebral palsy with whom I live basically horrify me and I have little to say to those like the Gladhandler, or Sherry, with her happy retardation, and the ablests? They will listen, give or take, to my brutalized indignation, but how viable I remain among them is an unspoken question, how realistic it is for me to remain defiant.
The guy with the glasses who lets me in to the group, almost over now, is still good looking to my unloved trollop within.
It's been a wonderful life.
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