Eschatological Targets

"I wouldn't know where to find such people." Tom Wilkinson.

When Howard Stern had syndication currency, simulcast from his New York station to WYSP, he claimed, in less than scintillating fashion, that black authors wrote to capitalize on the white guilt market, and I probably believe that about Morrison's work, though I am not entirely certain about Beloved in particular, like a snake in the grass, choking on marshmallow. Did she write it for the chimera of canonization? For herself? For a paucity of comparison to the estimated 4 million lives taken in the division of the Korean peninsula?

We read fictional narratives for many reasons, the most prevalent being an enjoyment of satire, or the need to escape ourselves. What Morrison has provoked in me is guilt, guilt not for her characters, some so abused, so wretched, that they snap into a madness, pleasure and horror intermingled, but guilt in my own identification with her bleak exposition. There is nothing wrong with softening the toughness in her courageousness in being explicit, as she does in Beloved. It has the standard ironical undercurrents, humorous interludes, comparisons to Salman Rushdie's ending of The Satanic Verses, descending into the escape hatch of schizophrenia, but the hymnal wail of Morrison's communal voice of expiation was too overly lavish. It led to a regurgitation of my sympathies. This doesn't mean I resent Toni the way I resent Oprah's rise as America's shadow empress, but a cop out is still a cop out, though it would be too much to feel the grand dame implicitly modulated her tone for a Danny Glover/Winfrey deal.

I do not know the truth about myself anymore. Jimmi Shrode cut me socially first because I was having an emotional breakdown over what Linda did to me. He had been my friend (supposedly), but refused to understand what he and Erik von Schmetterling did was wrong, and placed honest applicants at a disadvantage. Since Philadelphia ADAPT, as a whole, cannot rectify its moral turpitude, I cannot reengage the group. I have absolutely no intimacy in my life, not a soul to speak to who cares about me. Think about that, how hard it has been for me while Linda still buses into work, has her social extensions and a paycheck, and I can't leave the building where so many of her consumers still traffic in and out of her domain. Both the staff who knew me and the staff who didn't say "I transferred your case file." Why don't we close your case file?

Are you that relegated? 

Sheeba's Dirge

"I seek to root out the phallic mother from her real and imaginary place at the heart of what I call psychoanalytic modernism."-- Marcia Ian in her introduction.

I was fascinated by Milkman as a young girl, and yet, I have turned my back in defiance on the old guard of Toni Morrison and Alice Walker in my old age, and yes, it troubles me, especially as I accept the science of evolution. Our DNA is primarily African. We're all hermaphrodites modified from a basic female template, and embryos go awry, much as I did, but biological explanations are one thing. Social dynamics are another, and I am not predisposed to be optimistic about transhumanism or our future, merging ourselves to technology and robotics. Perhaps I demand too much of Toni Morrison, demand solutions of her that I absolve in Richard Wright or Ralph Ellison. I respect Ellison. Invisible Man is as yet an argument in my psyche, still wrestling in the ring, with little love lost, on my part, for African American contra indicators as Philadelphia and other venues have presented it. Certainly there is a difference between behavior and the equality of opportunity, but equality is a bad thing. It lies about strata. It lies about caste and it lies about difference, dependence, and fails to address what liberty and freedom are in a world burgeoned with a successful species that is toppling under its own weight. The stupidity of how we entertain ourselves, whored to impulse products and mediocrity of content, and by the same token, to dazzle with masterpieces, is at the same time disjunctive with routines, patterns we fall into, aging into risk adversity, sating appetite with culinary ambitions, intensity of erogenous sensation.

The deft cruelty of Baker's character in Prada toward Hathaway's Sachs is something no woman ever truly gets over. She moves on, wises up about sexual motives, but that deflating blow against superlative romantic inclination shows what can be done with a golden boy vanity in the right hands, despite the fact that Baker comes off as vapid and somewhat clueless when lending himself out for interviews, or doing banal move to DVD flicks like S&D 101. Nothing wrong with a light sexual comedy that makes fun of itself, but no idiot would mistake a sick old woman in the dark for a centerfold offering coitus for being a good front. The script and direction could have been slightly more integral, biting, at least sufficient to offer pause. Oversexed as we are, we shield ourselves from the consequences of aging, the inability of the medical model to do anything but contain the decline, offer props. Oxygen, catheters, face lifts. We break, yet epitomize the vanity of perfect chic and the convenience of style, with less fortunate in looks relegated to being lesbian office assistants.

But can Verdi do Chicago Slam?

Let a free woman fall in love, Camille declares, and she will gladly submit to her chains. More than one hundred fifty years later, the question is whether this has entirely ceased to be true. -- Toril Moi, Introduction, location 209

I cannot provide the exact date I flipped myself in my old manual wheelchair after frothing at the mouth with Jennifer Barnhart. June, I think, and I had an agreement with the ex to come after me, and had a technician visit due. Flipped between bedpost and katty corner in such a manner I could not undo the seat belt, and therein lie the danger, as opposed to the fall itself, Jennifer's voice in my head intonating defensive disengagement, I hated the disability center all the more, her voice in my head, breast painfully wedged on the cat carrier. Knew I did not want to die and that independent living centers were nothing more than exterminating enterprises, simultaneously. Jennifer and I didn't know each other. She came in to Liberty under Tom Earle, but my rage intimidated her, as it intimidates most of Liberty. Even Linda emailed me back, "Why are you so angry?"

I suppose this isn't a good way to head toward entropy and putrefaction, this constant inferno of distemper which isn't sure, with the certitude of Islamic State adherents, that she would not enjoy the delivery of a few significant contusions. Why I hate certain figures, like Debra Horne, with bituminous discharge of scorn can be summarized with the knowledge that Presbyterian Homes hired her to intimidate people. She is not a compassionate person, with that new orange dye hair and thick lard ass, sense of inadequacy around black men who possibly find her sensuality to hover around zero, I stood up to her, hard, very hard, and yet I am hardly victorious in making a nigger matron who wields her invisible truncheon eat rust. Do I hate her enough to see her hurt? Only insofar as I remain trapped here. Oh, the activists whom cannot be trusted, they have her number: Ugly women without prospects have only so many options.

Madeleine Stowe mediates being an fairly attractive brunette with traces of elegance in an interesting way with the 1994 Blink. The plot is somewhat contrived, and the contacts the actress wears in the opening, as always, have a Friday the 13th effect. (Putting real disabled individuals in film, blind or otherwise, brings us into the problematic terrain of exploitation.) But the subtext between Madeleine and Quinn is intriguing. Stowe isn't competing with Patty Duke's spectacular and dramatic habitation of the Keller child, who quite ably controls her family until Bancroft, with compassionate cruelty, wants to give the girl a chance. No, Stowe is negotiating the wounded chick meme. 

Haven't we all been fucked over in one way or another? The surgery her Emma undergoes gives her back her sight which all but the blind take for granted. It takes her out of the security of damage and darkness she knew from having an abusive mother, and makes her newly vulnerable with restored senses she cannot trust, with Aidan alternating between an insecure jackass who wants his cake but not the threat of commitment, and the tough love cop, no genius, no glory, but this is Chicago with its smokey interiors and oily alleyways, conscience smote by anger of Madeleine's fist and the anger of the child of one of the killer's victims, Stowe discovers, once faced with the truth of a deranged fixation, that she is resilient. Given her later habitation of Dumas' Mercedes in the ABC series Revenge, the contextuality of Stowe's femininity mediates between deceptive vulnerability, and a woman's pain over lost causes.

In the Stockholm of Neuro diversity

"It's not a PC thing."-- Amy Harmon

Ms. Harmon's facial expression lends itself to superciliousness, and this is what centered my focus on her appearance at the end of a brief documentary about Rosie Glynn, her widowed mother, who teaches writing in the Pittsburgh area, and the younger Glynn sister, who is normal. Rosie is mentally retarded, and is herded like a livestock animal in a curtailed supported employment program, a very regulated form of slavery for aggressive imbeciles who are aggressive because they know their minds are a garbled bouillabaisse.

Amy, mind, has made her specialty out of the developmentally disabled autism spectrum. Case manager once removed, which is why her disingenuous expression is so easily read in her evasions, telegraphing itself loud and clear. The progressive expansion of radical equality isn't going to stop until our desiccated bones merge in ecological empathy for a blade of grass. Not that I don't understand. 

On the contrary, I weep for Rosie, pity her mother, and realize the younger sister will deploy the psychiatric profession at some point in her maturity in order to handle the emotional guilt. I comprehend why Rosie Glynn removes oxygen from the dining room, creating a vacuum which crushes the soul 20,000 leagues beneath the sea.

Five years ago I wrote that I wasn't going to deal with agenda films like this often, but now and again they have to be included, because Amy Harmon struggles with the brutality of forthrightness to the degree that she herself is more the monstrosity than an adolescent screaming at her mentally ill mother to have an abortion, getting whipped across the face for it, and with a bloodied eye, almost going into foster care. This is the vitriol for which the fortunate, if droll, poet, Amy Holman, rebuked me, a vitriol that would have turned my half brother into a fetal carcass, as so many women do with their pregnancies. It is all about the demeanor, how we get censored, how we conjoin Asian women with their abortion rate. Bill Kurtis is offering an expose. I use his story with an undercurrent of divisiveness that incites Indian women with indignation. What's my point?

*
All I wanted to do is go out to dinner, enjoy the man's company, and fuck him, if applicable. I was healthy enough at the time to still engage in a romper room frolic, whether he needed Viagra or did not, and I still feel it. No matter how much I might humiliate my former editor, nothing will return the moment to me, the heightened magic of anticipation, that she destroyed lashing out at him over her keyboard, right in front of my eyes. Please. Don't tell me to buck up and keep trying. I lunged at nearly every possible opportunity I could since I was 36.

What man wants me at 52, with only the virtue of thinning pubic hair? I know women do this to each other, but what I did in my past life to wind up drawn and quartered by the ultimate third world den mother with multiple sclerosis must have been unimaginable. If I ever see her again, for all my physical vulnerability, she'll feel my scorn, the all consuming bitterness, like a phoenix reborn out of bone ash. I have to keep revising, keep pushing, now the blog, now the article, my only polish a glittering ferocity.

Shirley

Simon Baker's little escapade with Winona serves as an example of why I do not utilize comedies all that often. I am interviewing a student this afternoon, and if the student doesn't work I talked with another resident's CNA, whose name is, in fact, Shirley (score a double entendre for Hazel, as I did not realize my post title was playing second base) and may simply wind up with her after my viola training with Craigslist.

At this point I anticipate offering the horn of Africa visitation rights while I take a fugue conniption in a sand dune. My mother was, cruelly put, skid marks in a fat lady's underwear, which is why I have not the least idea when it was last I wore panties, as I'm an impaction on a roll, like my ex, Frank, indolent on stained underliners. Taupin, of course, meant "Stinker," to be a subversive celebration of the sixties counter culture, but being the real thing is the source of much of my masochism: if not my father threatening my life, then my landlord always in a state of warfare. Never changes. I could stop writing and simply police my own odor borne clutter and it still would not change. I have a complex and graphic story I am working on still called "The Monsters That Go Bump" where I try to offer my readers a visual of my assault as it happened rather than abstracting it in an essay. I still get heart palpitations when I remember it. I based my main character on a dead social worker, but what I have to take care not to be too blatant about in a blog post I let all hell break loose in this fiction, and the crippled woman, under therapy for it in prison, kills her quite innocent attendant in revenge for the assault.

It is a hard story, one I may never finish and may fain find a publisher for, as I make no apologies for its glittering hatreds. Not that I plan any harm to any paraprofessionals, but I hate them all. Most of them. Hate is the one emotion that streams a constant in my fountain. This one woman who contacted me sounds incredibly devout, so upon turning it over she's a skip, almost an anachronism, much like Shirley Booth, in a dinosaur age.

Ragtime Cadenza

"If you show people their future, then they have no future."--Ben Affleck, giving JJ Abrams the scene to replicate Colm Feore's death in his more contemporary series.

More than likely, I will only ever see Hannibal through the actors who've embodied him rather than as Harris created him. I dislike thrillers in print. There are exceptions to this, but on the whole, authors rarely if ever deliver the goods. Hence I do Harris an injustice to give Bryan Fuller and Dacy and Mikkelsen all the credit, layering their vogue-ish series over top what has come before. Diabolical natures can amplify altruistic impulses. Moral rectitude can have its own obdurate obstinacy. Paleontologists seemingly dispense with the sanctity of life because epistemological  production is paramount, but Frances Glenn Cross will be, if the accusations against him hold, expurgated, and eliminated, for killing on the basis of murdering due to hatred of ethnicity. He violated the social contract that modern human societies vowed and failed to eliminate. Christopher Dorner, comparatively, engaged in revenge murder against a civilian police system which is probably still corrupt, despite reforms instituted in the aftermath of the Rodney King beating. Neither man had a rational justification for their actions, in the tension between the expendability of being and the precious nature of being. Being is preferred to not being, barring the exceptional instance, like seditious intent, or national interest. Yet we're still in a place where violence is coded to produce what we necessarily conclude to be a just outcome. We see it in formula thrillers like Affleck's mediocre futurist vehicle, where Eckhart wastes what he has proven to be a brilliant social intelligence, but we also see it daily beyond our fantastical destruction of villains, or those who do not tune it out when going to shing dings where it's bring you're own clams, sometimes we tune in, beyond cell text pings to the wrong number, to what foreign and domestic fanaticism wreaks upon optimistic and happy individuals. We do not assign hierarchical values to Afghan or Pakistani lives,and though we expect NATO forces to defeat the Taliban, American forces are expected to be disciplined if they urinate on enemy flesh. Killing is easy. Desecration is more onerous, more unspeakable, enveloped by darkness. I am that angry to dig into it this deeply, and I do not truly know what decency I am willing to transgress for the sake of appeasing my virtue-- no, my sense of injustice. I gave Erik the finger, shaking with Barbara's rage, back in winter. I am that angry with shim, his rhetoric and ethical sleaziness. Last week she/he said hello while I barged up to my ex. (I own Frank due to his marriage proposal, which I admit is my not entirely rational prerogative) One look from me, Erik drove back into the building. Just one look. If I could get away from shim, our history and our younger healthier intimacy, my hate wouldn't be so corrosive. I don't exactly hate the US, but our welfare state is a cruel, derisive business, one I was weak enough to be destroyed by. Barbara, if you're wondering, is another spastic, totally helpless, 70 year old slut who vented on me some years ago. "Asshole," she hissed, a tubular sea worm undulating in the coral.

Do I frighten you? There is nothing I can convey to Bernie Taupin, strangely, other than to express skepticism with how deeply embedded his best work threshed out my interior longings, I debated one of my bizarre and skittish communiques for five minutes. Fuck it, him, and the entire British invasion of rock and roll.

The Russians Are Coming?

"Lazy days, my razor blade, could use a better edge."-- my favorite switch hitter

This lyricist shaped my childhood, even my pleasures in subversive tendencies. I spent my adolescence and my adulthood chasing after satiation of my Elton John adulation, in the Kantian timbre with the rest of you, solely in this one instance, and I've always been disappointed. Never a concert, not even when Elton was at the art museum (it was horrible for me, wading on three wheels amid all those bodies) and in 17 years of pixels, it never occurs to me that Taupin would have an email link for slavers to dash down a rabbit hole.

My aunt wants me to accept my life at Riverside as the best I am going to be able to do, at this point, given my age, and the shared genetics of spangled Italian colons; it is not ideal but for the most part I am left alone and do as I please. True and not, but I now understand she is frightened Richie and his wife Adele are going to put her in a facility. I am weighing how to address him on these matters, because I see both sides of the argument, with her voice ringing in my ears about my independence, my ass nearly fell off my shower stool twenty minutes later, and I've not had my rinse, such as it is, because I hauled myself back into the Quickie with one arm, chair nearly inverted on a 45 degree angle.

A bad transfer isn't the end of the world, and I know how to handle my laterals, but Marie doesn't realize if I stay with Presby Presby will one day move against me. I'm vulnerable, and that vulnerability is contingent on slapstick artists like Timothy Artis. I am angry at him because I have hated his stringy ass for a number of years, but here we are, my life overwhelmed until I find a new stringy ass. He won't be coming back. In my discussions with Trudy, with my implied racism, I said his mind operated on "horse and buggy time."

For what these jobs entail, he is not the worst slovenly minority to have. Women are afraid of me. Tim wasn't, and knew better, did his work and stayed off the fucking cell, but he has jeopardized my safety, once seriously, by not showing up. It doesn't get better for people like me, with no money, in HUD's nigger enclave.

This is a literary life, c'est pas?

Arcs of Recreation

Become a Chimp Guardian-- a primatology motto

Gertrude Lintz is a period figure footnote, and the film based on her captive apes plays itself out like a comical footnote. Alan Cummings might as well have written a skit about getting his balls twisted, given his hyper manic throw away as the assistant. So much video footage is a form of trivial pursuit, and then there are auteurs, like Thomas McCarthy, whose work is so much more; then there is my annoying identification with Massa, the dead Massa, the movie puppet Massa who was evidently not Massa but another lowland gorilla who died in a circus, an attractive anadiplosis; not quite what I'm after.

Do socialites still exist? Our ape cousins only rate slightly higher on the commiseration scale than we do ourselves. They aren't quite human, and I was not entirely unmoved by Jane Goodall's life death and empathy in chimpanzee groups documentaries, but how often do we need to see agitated juveniles act out? Bush hunters poach them or slaughter them for food, and Europeans are still engaged in a jazz quartet with Darwin. Twinge with rebuff.

My post student interlude with Tom Reid was an important lull in my life, because Tom and I had shared sensibility and education in common, and maybe this is what my heart thought it might have relocated in fag boy Jesse, why his lurch off behavior hurts a little more. Marie said I would have made a pass at him, but I do not do forced conversions.

It did matter however, the hope of new relation, discovery of the other. He made me realize the extraordinary weight of the loneliness I carry, with his Google plus hockey mask image, and my Andrew Sullivan screen shot of the darkly overcast Amazon tower. Amy Purdy is the next generation; Sarah Kaufman's writing is of a caliber I once believed myself capable. I cannot enter into what resilience this young woman needed to come back from the devastation of meningitis, but the abyss she confronted, for me, is coming down to a stark choice: endure constraint and more indignity, or convince Final Exit to help me euthanize myself. 

Should We All Remember Massa?

Humans simply cannot leave well enough alone, which stomps me into why a film like Buddy needed to be made. An antithesis to Kong, since the classic was in production when Gertrude Lintz was raising her orphan? I realized after waiting for the tepid conclusion to a blithering narrative, which consisted mainly of juvenile chimpanzees carrying the film, that I've been alive long enough to have a memory link. I remember Massa. I remember this creature and his death, in an affinity almost too obvious. The CNA I was reluctant to hire never materialized. She took the wrong bus. This bodes well.

Now I am sick, and canceled my meeting with her tomorrow, and don't have the energy to post another Craigslist advertisement. Using the Haitian as a back up is null and void. I never wanted no cleaning assistance at all, but this consumes so much time, finding replacements for servile and obstinate bastards.

People will say anything to those with developmental conditions, then leave them hanging on a precipice, piss and moan at our funerals later with crocodile tears.

Phase Four

"That was last year. This year I need to make a living."-- William Holden

I am not good enough with code to copy the photo the Rosenbach sent me of author Wesley Stace. I'd get into trouble trying to use it anyway even if I was good enough to lift it, but he is slouched in a Lazy Boy, eyebrow cocked, frigid expression. I am tired of being the writer who hovers around franchise novelists, in the first place, and secondly, his conscious distribution of airs would collide with my solid, planted, braying bulk. I have no idea who he is, and I am not typing into search for a frame of reference. Not to recognize a writer feels curiously liberating.

I cleaved to the Speakeasy site seventeen years ago, sitting in the same stained shirts, creating a psychiatric ward with my posts, as one homemaker flung the accusation in my direction. I grieved for a very long time about my banishment, and those more sympathetic to me than the pedestrian sentiments which closed ranks against me, consoled me with the suggestion, "We do not have time for the Speakeasy." Meaning keep busy, live your life. Seventeen years, same spot, same place, additional abuse heaped on me like spaghetti sauce, being followed by my jackass Jewish neighbor because HE is now the West Philadelphia mental health advocate. No one in P&W's Spring Street offices realizes the emotional nature of my tie to their brand, nor am I implying they should. My academic adviser is dead, and I'm rotting in an old age facility, more or less, learning to be vile with fluid ease, switching back and forth, derogatory analyst slaving for pennies with Clarity Media's laughable, snarky sibling. Oh yes, they be teaching me. Content, video, aggregating. AP style. Google News algorithms run the fucking universe. Now I am always busy, when I am not fondling my bedsore, skin rotting beneath my fingers. Joey has joined the dead in my nightmares, my poor sweet little boy, resurrected right out of Stephen King's playbook. Examiner is run by real people, but I've never seen such a cock-a-mammy enterprise: "Joanne you're eligible for Google News promotion..." This from a Colin somebody; when I get names I save them, only Google News is now weeding Examiner out of its feeds. Changes in the equation. In my psyche, I said to my dead brother's shadow "Nicky put the knife down, you're not going to kill me." Classic Hitch.

Former Flotus

There ought certainly to be some bound beyond which the cult of favorite authors should not be suffered to go.-- William Dean Howells, American aesthete

Grumbling, spending money on juice. Basically a joke, but I have to do what I can. Between blu and the aero my physiology is barely manageable; in 2015 I will probably fracture and return to real cigarettes, barring a minor miracle of discretionary income. I wanted to be important in what I did with my life and to love as well and fully as I could with this Borgia temperament. Jesse got it; he knew me less than 40 minutes but understood. That I want to be on my own; that a lifelong battle in public housing has destroyed the best part of my vibrancy. I suppose it is just as well, these dashed hopes wrangling around once again. I am torn between hating gay lesbian transgenders and realizing how starved, utterly starved, I am for my own set. Jesse represented that.

I am going to give my notice to Presby soon. I'd rather-- but pause on the realization that as a practical matter the state would incarcerate me, rather than leave me incapacitated on the street. But I have reached the end of my tether, and something has to give. I've let the Pennsylvania *safety net* promulgate my quadriplegia into an American sanctioned life long hate crime. Two weeks, this is all I am giving myself before I terrorize sweet caramel Trudy with her meritorious pretense. She modulates her voice to take the accent out of it, but I am not fooled. So, this may be the beginning of a lengthy goodbye. My cousin is amusing, over the top with his assurances. "I'm there for you."

Fucking crock. Marie says jump and he grabs a tape measure. He is lying. Not that I mind. Marie didn't quite pulp her Billy into a sissy-- but he isn't ready to let me move in with him, his spouse. No one is there for me when it comes to leaving this urban nigger shanty.

Beholden

It is sooooooo good to hear from you!!!-- my stressed out arson detective cousin, bit of a corn puff I was once almost tempted to an incestuous dalliance with when we were packing beers in the  backyard, but this was long ago, far away, and he looked a little like Stallone crossed with Tom Selleck

I tweeted trove's reposting (and how the reprint market will actually function in search engine digital space hints at bizarre absurdity) of Daniel D'Addario's Salon piece on Scarlett Johansson because D'Addario uses the industry tropes I am only just learning, and disparaging, without much thought applied to it, not on his part. Nope. I am the one struggling with what kind of comparative language we're dealing with, how impermanent it might or might not be when it is entirely dependent on how we interpret visual cues received through camera lenses. Do any of us really keep up with all these figures? Why they're in, or out? I simply don't see the beauty in Johansson that D'Addario references as an afterthought. Not even in Lost in Translation's opening shot. Pink panties?  We use underwear to cover, and thus repress, sexual and rectal function in the major orifices where humans still have significant hair coverage in abundance, and to me, Scarlett is Caucasian in color with somewhat African-like facial features. An oddity, this without any real knowledge of her genealogy. To me it is the character that holds interest, whether it be Amanda Plumber trying to hold a B-lead without being fatal to her range (her appearance in Hannibal expected, and, for once, a bit of a cliche), or Patrick Stewart's melt in my mouth virility. But let me not start foaming at the mouth.

I am a bit unwell, and had no intention of launching into this right now, but, like Proust, I'll die with pen in hand. As I had previously predicted, I did feel it, this Jesse my newly failed hire bailing on me. We had a fairy spastic argument, at least once removed. He is annoyed that I challenged his credibility. I realize many of us have shaky security in these times, but I'll be honest with my viewers. My mind doesn't work like that. I have had far too many coincidences with domestic custodians to believe that a guy who lives with a drag queen on South Street interviews with me for over an hour and then has to fly off the fucking handle cause of his mother. He said "It has nothing to do with you."

I hear this as if it's some kind of fungible containment field from ambulatory people who only want to help. It isn't that I think Jesse lied outright, but his mother's need enabled him to renege on me because he had his doubts, which is fine. I am angry, however, and I've often had to sublimate a great deal of that anger in dealing with assistance. I do not know if I can trust him in the future; I have no idea what I'm doing next, either. Letting him go isn't entirely curative, whether or not his mother emergency was genuine: he would not speak to me when I called, which for me rouses suspicion. He didn't need to go into intimate deals simply to speak to me-- and for me this is a signature way of telling me he wrote me off. Instead, he might have told me he didn't want the work in the first place.

Queer Eye Decoder, Doris Lives!

“All I ever wanted in my life was to get married, have kids, keep house and cook, and even though I did all these things, I still ended up in Hollywood.”-- the grand diva of more idyllic days

Only bits and pieces of Pillow Talk can be visualized, the confetti of its time. It may be a stretch, the notion that Rock Hudson was taking a mild enmity-riddled jab at la grand dandy in that scene with Doris, their little coffee klatsch, and then the staid post-Commissioner wasting away before our eyes at a Hollywood press conference. This was the Hudson I knew, the one trying to be the daddy wise ass. Even in death, in the grip of the worst disease to pass from bush hunters to queers, Hudson was reluctant to deconstruct himself along Clifton Webb's lines. Webb was the studio caricature of  Oscar Wilde, Proust, Henry James, their social milieu, but Hudson was the more clever chameleon, *the gay bachelor,* wasting away in public, exciting plague memories, mob panic, quarantine. We haven't  removed ourselves so far away from that vociferous social fear. We'd all love to believe otherwise, taking yet a new set of faggots on good faith (sigh).

I'm getting too old for volleys, and this bores you (or bores me), my adult settings that have taken only a few truly graphic turns, and most of those in a spittoon around a graphic temper which isn't really genocidal. I mean, come on. Caliban is only playfully demonic.

My back up kicked in, the Haitian at my adopted franchise, and I am supposed to meet with an Italian CNA the afternoon of 4/11. Female. You'd think it would please me, but it does not, 95% of my mind has already rejected her without a real interview so much as a confessional stress complaint over my decoupling with Jesse. 

I am slightly too overwhelmed to make our rendezvous; this post has nothing to do with it. Power chairs need to be charged, writing, reading, or throwing a load of laundry in the machine, teaching the cleaning lady about the Paperwhite, and the miraculous ability to utilize Amazon's book loan while some senile fucker sets off the fire alarm. I cannot fight Presby solely on the basis of my own legal acumen. Yet this doesn't seem to stop me.

I'll admit privatization causes mobility impaired individuals as much grief as the state system. Within plateaus of stability, I've failed. Sometimes the solutions simply aren't there.

Doris Day Always In Your Head

I'm so sorry but I am not going to be able to work for you for at least three or four weeks . Something's happened with my mom and I need to leave for New Jersey in about ten minutes. I'd rather not get into it over email but when I can I'll give you a call to explain. Once again I apologize and I hope you are able to find somebody else to work for you for the time being . Take care.

Just as I posted. A five minute luxury, the feeling I'd be able to get along with him, the help. I have put so much time and effort into resisting strangulation through the Medicaid waiver. I hired him despite my online stand against the lifestyle and culture, and here we go again. I have a back up, but he won't be available for awhile.

K cera cera

*
I had forgotten what it's like to enjoy the pleasure in someone's company. I really had. It is terrible, in a way.