I stayed for ten minutes. What am I doing here reverberating in my browbeaten intelligence, relieved to be familiar with the director, laughing sardonically at their mail, treating a dying and angry entitlement strapped spastic woman like a philanthropist, though to be honest I feel an affinity with their librarian, who was gasping in the galleries, busy day. I left not due to alienation so much as lack of readiness to use my weapons at self-promotion. I am going to make labels, play the game of unsaid to make one last bid to get myself as equidistant from micro Protestant Africa as possible, treated myself to dinner since I indeed looked like a glass of La Lastra Sagovese, 60 dollars for calamari and doggy bags, living death as history. Am I a rabid monster destined for the gallows?
I had no idea Helen Keller was the source of so much salacious gossip in the fifties. Before her deification in the notorious play The Miracle Worker, there was the roman de clef, the story of Esther Costello. Heather Sears before Patty Duke. I am reading picture books of a blind deaf socialist when I was six years old and she was still alive, Keller, an ACLU founder, and possibly a mistress to Sullivan's husband. It just suggests to me things so difficult to convey between where I've been, and how much I hate now, how much I would hate her socialism the way I hate the disabled community I've experienced.
Be glad there is no magic pill people; you would not want to deal with me cured, maniacal with rage.
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