I thought John Barth was dead, and that I had simply missed his obituary in passing, but his jabbing narrative voice is exactly the same as when he was still writing about being middle aged and married to his graduate student wife, only he is 85 or so, and empty as a bramble, or so he says. It turns out Mr. Harper died and I did not know. Typical Philadelphia black man, simple as a mousse, limping down Race Street after some scandal with resident council funds. "You have no choice," this is what he told me around 2010 when Brian got his manual wheelchair caught in the tracks outside my window, the engine flattening the poor traumatic brain injury bastard like a scrap of tin, no choice for me not to participate in Presbyterian Homes religious activities. I never do. I find Ann Beattie's anecdotes cruel and doubt her veracity, and yet her essay didn't-- oh how can I convey this, tired and scuzzy?-- her acerbic sensibility about her social set meshed into my rage, life long, about not being in it too with every franchise author of repute. I am still up, brush burning tail bone, contemplating a complicated essay on systems that I probably cannot do without investigating endless regulations and human processes being overwhelmed by them, the latest VA scandal symptomatic of the fact that civilization is invariably going to collapse if we keep this up. I haven't found my voice for it, as I usually do, however. This may take me some time, and yet my productivity is challenged because my enthusiasm ebbs. I get tired of authors, the industry, the pretensions. A young minority felt touched by the dismay in one of my Linked In posts, and he reached out to me. What the hell could I tell him? That my poverty is an acid vat and he was being kind to an angry fascist, coiled in her bitterness and terror of the swallowing to come?
I told him something in the futile poignancy of his desire to be supportive. It was courteous and emblematic enough of doomed circumstance, while Beattie had cutting edge collegiate sex with an instructor I had to relegate to a cocaine addict who cut me by bragging about his black girlfriend. Like Ann, I have the familiarity of a Chinese outlet when I desire the comfort of fried rice. Recognized it in the success of her reputation, my aggrandized failure.
I am not going to beat Pennsylvania's social services paradigm. If veterans are a vast post service entitlement class constantly straining resources, my vitriol, to use the poet Amy Holman's justified scolding of my uncouth temper many years ago, has to be taken in context. Soldiers serve their countries and become expendable unless they stay in the hierarchy. I lost my caste, basically in 97, and then caught a few minor breaks. Not major or even lucky ones: Mother died and left the kids a lump split by a third, and I made about six months of my entitlement benefits on commission, roughly. Since the tap dried and 50 cents per word went poof, I did not rush to the IRS ever popular kiss and tell rubric. I would have had I become established. I didn't. This is a difficult industry in which to achieve that, and I'm not a novelist. Not a competitive scholar-- not that I fear academic journals; I'm simply not superwoman.
Sneezed, needed a napkin. Even to get away, a little while, away from my antagonism toward Jimmi Shrode, his partner. I used to go to Wildwood, but that was long ago and would now be a logistical inconvenience, much like getting along with fans. Sigh.
Friday, May 30, 2014
Tuesday, May 27, 2014
Keitel's Mumbai, Florid
"Pakistan is no ordinary country."-- Benazir Bhutto's last preface.
One thing neither John Irvin nor his screen writer Ken Solarz answer for is the underlying cowardice of Stephen Dorff's character Skip Kovich in their latter day City of Industry. Dorff’s motivation for icing the heist crew put together by Timothy Hutton, who is seemingly in the preliminary stage of getting his lead role on Leverage, this woebegone every American kid of Taps and the brittle, frightening scenes in Ordinary People, invisibly axed in a jump shot by a snow cone Dorff, this flinty indifferent spree killer with scant principle to speak of, we’re to presume he fears Elliot Gould’s muscle, given the carnage that burns through the reel beyond the brief back story putting the figurines in place? He certainly fears being outnumbered.
Irvin’s transition from ensemble to allowing for the aging Keitel to absorb the weight of the lead and the pursuit remains intriguing, as is the relationship he develops between Keitel and Janssen in her role as the vulnerable brass tacks widow. The film itself is also transitional, between then and now. Not wholly a procedural of the past, with a signature detective rectifying matters, nor quite a gut wound graphic, such as we might see with The Following, or in Bryan Fuller and David Slade’s dark aesthetic. Little is left to the imagination, but the gore isn’t quite so pronounced as it would be for Tarantino.
The punishment that the elder Egan absorbs is a puzzling ambiguity, even somewhat fantastical, with Roy hovering between life and death as he fractures Skip’s skull. The agony Keitel projects is the only Dionysian passion he allows Roy Egan to have, as one wonders if he does die and is in fact reborn, miraculously defying his chest wound in these muted enclosures, Hutton’s fatal optimism dappled in Florida sunlight, with Roy’s pursuit of Skip moving in gradations from shadows to the expansive danger of a post midnight world. Does Irvin’s denouement suggest an escapism similar to Morrison’s hymn for her ravenous ghost?
Fantastical flights of fantasy can reinforce narrative meaning, as they do in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, or they can make the moral gratuitous, as happens in Beloved. City of Industry wobbles on a balance beam between unifying impact and lack of responsibility for its glamorization, but it‘s worth examination.
Pakistan exists as a weak and marginally governable state because the British administers in Asia did not heed their literary masochist, EM Forster. Thanks to his novels the western hemisphere is a homosexual police state. If you know how Pakistani and Indian differ ethnically feel free to cue me in.
One thing neither John Irvin nor his screen writer Ken Solarz answer for is the underlying cowardice of Stephen Dorff's character Skip Kovich in their latter day City of Industry. Dorff’s motivation for icing the heist crew put together by Timothy Hutton, who is seemingly in the preliminary stage of getting his lead role on Leverage, this woebegone every American kid of Taps and the brittle, frightening scenes in Ordinary People, invisibly axed in a jump shot by a snow cone Dorff, this flinty indifferent spree killer with scant principle to speak of, we’re to presume he fears Elliot Gould’s muscle, given the carnage that burns through the reel beyond the brief back story putting the figurines in place? He certainly fears being outnumbered.
Irvin’s transition from ensemble to allowing for the aging Keitel to absorb the weight of the lead and the pursuit remains intriguing, as is the relationship he develops between Keitel and Janssen in her role as the vulnerable brass tacks widow. The film itself is also transitional, between then and now. Not wholly a procedural of the past, with a signature detective rectifying matters, nor quite a gut wound graphic, such as we might see with The Following, or in Bryan Fuller and David Slade’s dark aesthetic. Little is left to the imagination, but the gore isn’t quite so pronounced as it would be for Tarantino.
The punishment that the elder Egan absorbs is a puzzling ambiguity, even somewhat fantastical, with Roy hovering between life and death as he fractures Skip’s skull. The agony Keitel projects is the only Dionysian passion he allows Roy Egan to have, as one wonders if he does die and is in fact reborn, miraculously defying his chest wound in these muted enclosures, Hutton’s fatal optimism dappled in Florida sunlight, with Roy’s pursuit of Skip moving in gradations from shadows to the expansive danger of a post midnight world. Does Irvin’s denouement suggest an escapism similar to Morrison’s hymn for her ravenous ghost?
Fantastical flights of fantasy can reinforce narrative meaning, as they do in Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, or they can make the moral gratuitous, as happens in Beloved. City of Industry wobbles on a balance beam between unifying impact and lack of responsibility for its glamorization, but it‘s worth examination.
Pakistan exists as a weak and marginally governable state because the British administers in Asia did not heed their literary masochist, EM Forster. Thanks to his novels the western hemisphere is a homosexual police state. If you know how Pakistani and Indian differ ethnically feel free to cue me in.
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Of the essence
Yet even at that late stage, there was a level of our society which managed to live as if nothing much was happening--nothing irreparable. -- The Memoirs of a Survivor, almost half way through.
I forced myself to stay up yesterday to watch Mizumono, only to discover WCAU, the local NBC affiliate, had a rain delay for a Phillies Dodgers game. Piping mad, as I might have rested earlier, been ready to drive out sooner. Jugular piercing, gut thrust, and now Abigail Hobbs must truly be dying, I would have rather seen it full screen. The Swedenborgian I hired got lost earlier in the week, Thursday, trying to find her way back to my building, and I have been plagued with significant bowel evacuation ever since. She was on Bainbridge when she pinged like the fourth time to inform me she got called in for a death watch. I have not quite let her go, and it actually matters little, whether she turns her cell back on and I kindly tell her, with little perturbation as possible, that it isn't working, as powerless as I am, struggling with near cold turkey because I am trying to stretch.
Enough cash on hand to roll to bodega later to mitigate my withdrawal, hoping to have enough time to dash to Joe's as well, surrounded by utter silence, not a friend in the world, a former neighbor from Page Street told me "marriage does not complete you," and there is certainly enough evidence for that, Jace not unique with his impulse control issues, only recognized within the industry.
Loneliness isn't a salve either, despite my activities, even my exasperation with people: On my very first day as Jerry's student, I thundered at him in modulated deference, "Newspapers don't publish good poetry," and he bitch slapped back, "Newspapers publish perfectly good poetry."
33 years later, post his myocardial infarction, my major depressive episode burn injuries, I am still right. He's not. Newspapers publish typical American double entendres of the sort which can't take risks in the public square, like the rough and passionate sex an R rating gets away with suggesting every so often. David Slade must be hot.
I forced myself to stay up yesterday to watch Mizumono, only to discover WCAU, the local NBC affiliate, had a rain delay for a Phillies Dodgers game. Piping mad, as I might have rested earlier, been ready to drive out sooner. Jugular piercing, gut thrust, and now Abigail Hobbs must truly be dying, I would have rather seen it full screen. The Swedenborgian I hired got lost earlier in the week, Thursday, trying to find her way back to my building, and I have been plagued with significant bowel evacuation ever since. She was on Bainbridge when she pinged like the fourth time to inform me she got called in for a death watch. I have not quite let her go, and it actually matters little, whether she turns her cell back on and I kindly tell her, with little perturbation as possible, that it isn't working, as powerless as I am, struggling with near cold turkey because I am trying to stretch.
Enough cash on hand to roll to bodega later to mitigate my withdrawal, hoping to have enough time to dash to Joe's as well, surrounded by utter silence, not a friend in the world, a former neighbor from Page Street told me "marriage does not complete you," and there is certainly enough evidence for that, Jace not unique with his impulse control issues, only recognized within the industry.
Loneliness isn't a salve either, despite my activities, even my exasperation with people: On my very first day as Jerry's student, I thundered at him in modulated deference, "Newspapers don't publish good poetry," and he bitch slapped back, "Newspapers publish perfectly good poetry."
33 years later, post his myocardial infarction, my major depressive episode burn injuries, I am still right. He's not. Newspapers publish typical American double entendres of the sort which can't take risks in the public square, like the rough and passionate sex an R rating gets away with suggesting every so often. David Slade must be hot.
Wednesday, May 21, 2014
Periscope Has Gender
I shall not be reviewing Eric Edwards. He contacted me politely in a group mail to Amazon customer reviewers, asserting he was a local celebrity in San Diego. Emails from strangers asserting blessed fortunes tend to elicit hostility, but I strapped on my muzzle, mentioned Examiner, and Eric Edwards sent me a PDF of his masculine point of view, whose acknowledgments offer garlands to the 56 year marriage of his parents. I cannot do it, read this short text and offer a salient synopsis, mainly due to my perception of a certain insularity from the author, though this is what it takes to hone merit, create a pathway toward establishment. And this represents the answer to my unhappiness beneath turgid victimization: I wanted to be Ann Patchett appearing on Charlie Rose. I'm not Patchett, who is what? Bemused? Wry, yes, but wry in an abbreviated manner, with a pleasant projection of self-sufficiency. I envy that. People who stay intact, hold it together. She is right about teaching. It is not the right profession for all of us, and like she did, I turned to writing articles, but turned to it too late with too many events either threatening me physically or destroying an already precarious health.
My father's sister is, sadly, senile, and due to this I will stop posting about her. Overtly, anyway. She has anti-depressants she is not taking. She needs them, because her cognitive abilities are deteriorating. If I try them yet again, it will be a game of guess the right dosage until something goes wrong with the cocktail. Dependence simply creates more problems. I already know this due to tobacco, blu cigs, and aeros, my expenditures on these products. I am not going to discuss the fact that Marie is nuts with either cousin William or Richard. I was, but Marie and Joseph are old and sick. I am worn out with it, much like the latest outcry over Shinseki.
The VA has treated the rank and file like an expendable class from Hoover's days in office, when he had Eisenhower shoot protesters. I am over 50, and soldiers getting fucked over by the Pentagon is a solo chorus that never stops improvising. This is just one sub-group, veterans, and I am a raving maniac because intake centers eschewed me, case management wasn't exactly my dream niche, and I opened my mouth on a message board @ P&W and all hell broke loose. Sigh. We don't know what we're doing, even those with the expertise to dismiss my reactionary stance. The 100 is just another show easy on its production values, but one day humanity really will face these choices, in a collective necessity over riding self interest.
My father's sister is, sadly, senile, and due to this I will stop posting about her. Overtly, anyway. She has anti-depressants she is not taking. She needs them, because her cognitive abilities are deteriorating. If I try them yet again, it will be a game of guess the right dosage until something goes wrong with the cocktail. Dependence simply creates more problems. I already know this due to tobacco, blu cigs, and aeros, my expenditures on these products. I am not going to discuss the fact that Marie is nuts with either cousin William or Richard. I was, but Marie and Joseph are old and sick. I am worn out with it, much like the latest outcry over Shinseki.
The VA has treated the rank and file like an expendable class from Hoover's days in office, when he had Eisenhower shoot protesters. I am over 50, and soldiers getting fucked over by the Pentagon is a solo chorus that never stops improvising. This is just one sub-group, veterans, and I am a raving maniac because intake centers eschewed me, case management wasn't exactly my dream niche, and I opened my mouth on a message board @ P&W and all hell broke loose. Sigh. We don't know what we're doing, even those with the expertise to dismiss my reactionary stance. The 100 is just another show easy on its production values, but one day humanity really will face these choices, in a collective necessity over riding self interest.
Over Pizza
Initial thought: "Interesting," in a perverse sort of way. Immediately took me into Lessing's prescience in the creation of her menacing, predatory children, and my inability to reread Memoirs during 9/11. I still have my copy, yellowed paperback, Jerry required for his course. For me Tribal Imagery, Jerry's ambitious synopsis, was nothing more than an orgasm generator, and look at me now, unable to be shocked by underdeveloped amoral curiosity.
I still have limits. Killing prairie dogs with strychnine ignites the furious woman that most men fear, even the ranchers using the poison. The worst torture left, imaginable to me, is to torture my cats to death in front of me. Couldn't bear it, but home invaders do that to aging women. I've read about it, recalled it as kimmy barreled into the reading lamp. The Apple ring tone upset her. Wrong number. Spic banger, looking for his dealer, or a bang, and I laughed at my vulnerable carnivores, scolding the female. Little Vincento trotted under my hand. I'm in charge mom. He is ten years, slowing down, going to be dead soon.
So am I, my compassion eroded so significantly that it doesn't matter. I was going to assert certain prospective intentions, but that is also irrelevant-- not so much about idiotic, or diabolical scheming-- as much as damage is damage, like an occlusion. Killing the enemy only resonates the possibility of better future outcomes; it would not mitigate the proportional suffering of my life. I am angry at Jerry, a man whose abilities once elicited reverence, shock and awe. Angry because intelligence was never enough. Murdering instructors only has so many subversive implications.
*********
And anytime I insinuate rather than write it straight out, little fuckers do gaping views. Jerry is fine. He might have prepared me for the stigma I would face, but that was asking a lot of the dear best bastard I ever knew. My mind was on the dish best served cold for the knives in my back, but it isn't even Google as gate keeper which concerns me anymore. Best laid plans, kids, delay the inevitable for empty people.
I still have limits. Killing prairie dogs with strychnine ignites the furious woman that most men fear, even the ranchers using the poison. The worst torture left, imaginable to me, is to torture my cats to death in front of me. Couldn't bear it, but home invaders do that to aging women. I've read about it, recalled it as kimmy barreled into the reading lamp. The Apple ring tone upset her. Wrong number. Spic banger, looking for his dealer, or a bang, and I laughed at my vulnerable carnivores, scolding the female. Little Vincento trotted under my hand. I'm in charge mom. He is ten years, slowing down, going to be dead soon.
So am I, my compassion eroded so significantly that it doesn't matter. I was going to assert certain prospective intentions, but that is also irrelevant-- not so much about idiotic, or diabolical scheming-- as much as damage is damage, like an occlusion. Killing the enemy only resonates the possibility of better future outcomes; it would not mitigate the proportional suffering of my life. I am angry at Jerry, a man whose abilities once elicited reverence, shock and awe. Angry because intelligence was never enough. Murdering instructors only has so many subversive implications.
*********
And anytime I insinuate rather than write it straight out, little fuckers do gaping views. Jerry is fine. He might have prepared me for the stigma I would face, but that was asking a lot of the dear best bastard I ever knew. My mind was on the dish best served cold for the knives in my back, but it isn't even Google as gate keeper which concerns me anymore. Best laid plans, kids, delay the inevitable for empty people.
Saturday, May 17, 2014
Narendra Modi
Minister Modi, congratulations on your victory for Bharatiya Janata: I am only an observer from afar of the British Empire's former crown jewel, and look on with mild perplexity on the sectarian strife between Indian Hindu and Muslim, but your rise as a nationalist intrigues me. I could engage in hyperbole toward other ends, but since I know India and Pakistani tensions are brittle and complex. all I will post is that conservative leadership needs to stand firm, and I hope you do so, and manage a great evolution for your ancient nation, its rich cultural heritage.
I am probably "not going to make it," to paraphrase the great American actor Spencer Tracy, from his last film. Everyone who is a movie buff knows about Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, but I let it drift by until last week, and found it amazingly frank, sincere, without the false subversity of Spike Lee's Jungle Fever.
Asians know something about creative destruction, and would invariably suggest I find a way to accept that my last gasp of determination will not be enough, and that I bow to the will of "consumer model" compliance. This is gaining in popularity around urban areas like New Delhi, to my understanding. Classifications designed toward ease of designation. This discovery about my follower on this Blogger account is what so vainly disappointed me, after turning my tumblers, about him. I thought Ed lived here at Presby for medical reasons. Before 2012 this earned him my deference, my respect. He is Jewish, but I assume this is not an issue on the subcontinent. As there is the general term, consumer, which means shopper, so there is disabled consumer. Then mental health consumer. These are poisonous designations, and India's much maligned caste system, though I cannot speak for its efficacy, is admirably forthright. I do not know Ed that well, but he is evidently a nice mild mannered fruitcake, and embraces the consumer agency model, which is still relatively young in its systems development, only just created when I was in my twenties.
I know so much, so little of your country, all at the same time! I did not know Hinduism could even have a hard line, like right wing evangelicals. But now I will cause trouble: 1. Pakistan needs to be punished for killing Benazir Bhutto! Ineffective minister or not, she was still a Brahmin. 2. Stand firm, don't allow any massacres, lest progressives get hard ons about the natural rights of lemmings Make nice with China, and only then shoot to kill.
I am probably "not going to make it," to paraphrase the great American actor Spencer Tracy, from his last film. Everyone who is a movie buff knows about Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, but I let it drift by until last week, and found it amazingly frank, sincere, without the false subversity of Spike Lee's Jungle Fever.
Asians know something about creative destruction, and would invariably suggest I find a way to accept that my last gasp of determination will not be enough, and that I bow to the will of "consumer model" compliance. This is gaining in popularity around urban areas like New Delhi, to my understanding. Classifications designed toward ease of designation. This discovery about my follower on this Blogger account is what so vainly disappointed me, after turning my tumblers, about him. I thought Ed lived here at Presby for medical reasons. Before 2012 this earned him my deference, my respect. He is Jewish, but I assume this is not an issue on the subcontinent. As there is the general term, consumer, which means shopper, so there is disabled consumer. Then mental health consumer. These are poisonous designations, and India's much maligned caste system, though I cannot speak for its efficacy, is admirably forthright. I do not know Ed that well, but he is evidently a nice mild mannered fruitcake, and embraces the consumer agency model, which is still relatively young in its systems development, only just created when I was in my twenties.
I know so much, so little of your country, all at the same time! I did not know Hinduism could even have a hard line, like right wing evangelicals. But now I will cause trouble: 1. Pakistan needs to be punished for killing Benazir Bhutto! Ineffective minister or not, she was still a Brahmin. 2. Stand firm, don't allow any massacres, lest progressives get hard ons about the natural rights of lemmings Make nice with China, and only then shoot to kill.
Hollow Log
Billowing tirade, I splintered on my ex today, unfairly, hissing at the glamorization of Michael Sam's sex life, then roaring I would nuke the entire eastern seaboard if I could, then disconnected the 5c in tears. Nuking the entire eastern seaboard implies that anguish has that degree of magnitude: I cannot break what binds my future asceticism, and my pissant student loan debt which is going to crush me, with or without putting myself back on Medicaid.
If I find Frank and his bulk on his hospital bed and his Hoya lift repugnant, with a running price tag he has cost Pennsylvania well over 100, 000 dollars, I should have the decency to leave him alone, regardless of my nerves. My rage was about the sand pit sucking me under. My landlord repeatedly broke the law, letting seniors harass me freely for years, and yet because I then roar at Trudy, who is just trying to be a good matriarchal black nanny, I have to let all that go. Vulnerable cripple with target right smack on her back. My disability center breaks state and federal law so often that they are a running joke, and I have to let all that go, poets and writers in a unified front regrettably parked my digital ass out the door because I had an insurrectionist rage in relation to all this, and they are about selling craft to refine talent. If I want to be Henry Miller with jugs, then hey. P&W has to vacuum in writing students. Go staple your brain, spastic.
George has MS. He doesn't rave. He writes well crafted short stories with a mildly sinister aspect. I met him and his wife at an Abington bookstore in my little manual chair, bored out of my mind. "I talk just like I post on Speakeasy don't I?"
"Yes," he nodded.
"I think it is enough," this is what he posted on the boards as Dana, the moderator, and Gretchen, the melodramatic southern novelist, closed ranks and banned my account. Whatever the inflammatory nature of my rhetoric, I had residents of Riverside throwing bars of soap at me, while this man, writing with the hope of saving troubled teens, ostracized me after having met me and I purchased First Tiger, his early YA novel. I wonder if my neighbor and follower Ed knows that about my history with this building, that I was physically pelted. Doubtlessly not. He suffers too and doesn't let it throb where dialysis evidently disfigured him. The horror of such group stigmatization doesn't go away with a snap of the fingers.
Weigh this. Weigh this against a history of medical disfigurement, life long sexual victimization, then come back at me with Atwood's salutary apologia for Toni Morrison's embodiment of dignity in endurance. Language signifies the reality of the flesh, but it isn't tangible. There is no reason to run into similar troubles at Linked In. It is simply a career resource site, and I do not have the time, but this is why I fear mass aggregation.
I forgot to add, with economic contests such as this, the voices of the dead recounting Sunset Blvd seems charmed, indeed.
If I find Frank and his bulk on his hospital bed and his Hoya lift repugnant, with a running price tag he has cost Pennsylvania well over 100, 000 dollars, I should have the decency to leave him alone, regardless of my nerves. My rage was about the sand pit sucking me under. My landlord repeatedly broke the law, letting seniors harass me freely for years, and yet because I then roar at Trudy, who is just trying to be a good matriarchal black nanny, I have to let all that go. Vulnerable cripple with target right smack on her back. My disability center breaks state and federal law so often that they are a running joke, and I have to let all that go, poets and writers in a unified front regrettably parked my digital ass out the door because I had an insurrectionist rage in relation to all this, and they are about selling craft to refine talent. If I want to be Henry Miller with jugs, then hey. P&W has to vacuum in writing students. Go staple your brain, spastic.
George has MS. He doesn't rave. He writes well crafted short stories with a mildly sinister aspect. I met him and his wife at an Abington bookstore in my little manual chair, bored out of my mind. "I talk just like I post on Speakeasy don't I?"
"Yes," he nodded.
"I think it is enough," this is what he posted on the boards as Dana, the moderator, and Gretchen, the melodramatic southern novelist, closed ranks and banned my account. Whatever the inflammatory nature of my rhetoric, I had residents of Riverside throwing bars of soap at me, while this man, writing with the hope of saving troubled teens, ostracized me after having met me and I purchased First Tiger, his early YA novel. I wonder if my neighbor and follower Ed knows that about my history with this building, that I was physically pelted. Doubtlessly not. He suffers too and doesn't let it throb where dialysis evidently disfigured him. The horror of such group stigmatization doesn't go away with a snap of the fingers.
Weigh this. Weigh this against a history of medical disfigurement, life long sexual victimization, then come back at me with Atwood's salutary apologia for Toni Morrison's embodiment of dignity in endurance. Language signifies the reality of the flesh, but it isn't tangible. There is no reason to run into similar troubles at Linked In. It is simply a career resource site, and I do not have the time, but this is why I fear mass aggregation.
I forgot to add, with economic contests such as this, the voices of the dead recounting Sunset Blvd seems charmed, indeed.
Friday, May 16, 2014
Michael's Prism
"I don't know," Michael C. Clark, always wry, never fearful of bewilderment.
"Speakeasy is not meeting your needs," oh god forbid, not the staff who evaluate MFA curriculums, but their volunteer board moderators.
It is his memory which embodies the emotional investment of my exile from P&W, on a digital scale. Their customer service agents, in the little contact I've had with them since 2002, are perplexed by my personal indignation. Of course they would be, as creative writing is an oversold academic industry which should not be a separate and distinct subset in the study of literature, and yet it is. MFA groups polish technique, leave us with Toni Morrison roasting smores over slavery's aftermath, or Franzen, always living in a block bluster mindset.
As a published writer unable to make the transition to franchise author, I want something else? Yes, to remove the pain of loss from my memory, when Michael wasn't my husband, but was representative of the humanist soul mate I desired, believing in its happiness. I may excoriate Jerry McGuire, but Michael I rarely write about. Embarrassment, guilt for being such an imposition on his personal space. He tolerated it, that imposition, except when he told me about his diagnosis, and I did not know what to do. I ran away, me, when he was always there for me, even with my 28 year old dating troubles with a Jerry look a like who had ferrets.
I listened to Michael's son Andy play the violin, was there when his daughter Emily's birth was announced in the CAS cafeteria, and realized far too late in my life that here was the graduate student hook up I should have played for, and realized it with the anguish distinct to Jamesian novelistic antipodes: Michael was whom I should have married, this Michael divorced, with his wife's motives bewildering to me. Michael Clark was a perfect husband, father and teacher to the extent that fallibility allows--and I am not much for fallibility, my own included, always struggling for a better thesis, the vision that will give me that breakthrough, that victory particular to itself.
I did love Michael C Clark. We were not physically intimate, so the authenticity of feeling may be on the cheap: I did not have to deal with his weight that made his pudginess charming, or evaluate his capacity for sexual blandishments, but I loved him.
I weep, what else is there? He never told me he was designated my academic adviser because he took on that role for Widener's disabled student body, a demurral of recognition in the fact that I always was and will remain, a segregated element. I know what some of you would say about that. My quadriplegia isn't an excuse to hurt others. I've been told this on innumerable occasions, and yes, I have been wrong, sometimes over the top in vitriolic build up, but when the paradigms surrounding me impede equal opportunity as a fact of life, progressives like Jonathan Capehart are waxing in effusive cosmetic jewelry.
The power of those who control the connective software, this has a cumulative affect.
"Speakeasy is not meeting your needs," oh god forbid, not the staff who evaluate MFA curriculums, but their volunteer board moderators.
It is his memory which embodies the emotional investment of my exile from P&W, on a digital scale. Their customer service agents, in the little contact I've had with them since 2002, are perplexed by my personal indignation. Of course they would be, as creative writing is an oversold academic industry which should not be a separate and distinct subset in the study of literature, and yet it is. MFA groups polish technique, leave us with Toni Morrison roasting smores over slavery's aftermath, or Franzen, always living in a block bluster mindset.
As a published writer unable to make the transition to franchise author, I want something else? Yes, to remove the pain of loss from my memory, when Michael wasn't my husband, but was representative of the humanist soul mate I desired, believing in its happiness. I may excoriate Jerry McGuire, but Michael I rarely write about. Embarrassment, guilt for being such an imposition on his personal space. He tolerated it, that imposition, except when he told me about his diagnosis, and I did not know what to do. I ran away, me, when he was always there for me, even with my 28 year old dating troubles with a Jerry look a like who had ferrets.
I listened to Michael's son Andy play the violin, was there when his daughter Emily's birth was announced in the CAS cafeteria, and realized far too late in my life that here was the graduate student hook up I should have played for, and realized it with the anguish distinct to Jamesian novelistic antipodes: Michael was whom I should have married, this Michael divorced, with his wife's motives bewildering to me. Michael Clark was a perfect husband, father and teacher to the extent that fallibility allows--and I am not much for fallibility, my own included, always struggling for a better thesis, the vision that will give me that breakthrough, that victory particular to itself.
I did love Michael C Clark. We were not physically intimate, so the authenticity of feeling may be on the cheap: I did not have to deal with his weight that made his pudginess charming, or evaluate his capacity for sexual blandishments, but I loved him.
I weep, what else is there? He never told me he was designated my academic adviser because he took on that role for Widener's disabled student body, a demurral of recognition in the fact that I always was and will remain, a segregated element. I know what some of you would say about that. My quadriplegia isn't an excuse to hurt others. I've been told this on innumerable occasions, and yes, I have been wrong, sometimes over the top in vitriolic build up, but when the paradigms surrounding me impede equal opportunity as a fact of life, progressives like Jonathan Capehart are waxing in effusive cosmetic jewelry.
The power of those who control the connective software, this has a cumulative affect.
Wednesday, May 14, 2014
Arson and Arsenic
Alas, bigots by definition are not inclined toward self-awareness.--Kathleen Parker, grasping the reigns with quite a strain
This home explosion is the closest thing I can find to what my aunt threw in my face via her son, but that it has a New Hampshire location means my fact finding detection system is off track, as it doesn't make any sense.
I am not sure why I continue to read Ms. Parker. I approached her in email as well, scoured by the same nasal vinegar you receive as an ubiquitous mindset on my part. Again, why? She is representative of the conservative affluent woman who wants everyone to be happy under the meaningless rhetoric of constitutional equal protections, while mildly chiding the country that we've lost the finesse of manner. In the case of Sterling, however, I side with Maher on Stiviano's underhandedness, regardless of the old man's attitude.
Stiviano utilizes babe sex to be a figure in baller culture, and that she stuck it to Sterling isn't any less deplorable due to the fact we're shoveling cubic tons of dirt on the underside of egalitarianism. I am still weighing what I want to dialogue about with Kathleen, who was in Laura Bush's press corp, before I hit the whining pity cripple pressure meter. She will not grant me access if ridicule is a temptation in the wings, but suffice it to say Wapo's gate keepers know who I am, nibbling establishment platform breadcrumbs, to the extent that Graham family prominence carries any weight. In DC it carries, of course, despite the fact her column seems a bit shrill today, its humor forced, which may beg the question of what I'm trying to distill through her constraint.
I have roughly 1800 dollars between me me and agonized defeat against adulthood destitution, so I am struggling to cut back on nicotine vapor intake, eating my usage to mitigate agitation, I use a small pointed soft wood to clean the filter cap over the lithium battery that constitutes the e-cig, a maintenance of necessary dedication.
This home explosion is the closest thing I can find to what my aunt threw in my face via her son, but that it has a New Hampshire location means my fact finding detection system is off track, as it doesn't make any sense.
I am not sure why I continue to read Ms. Parker. I approached her in email as well, scoured by the same nasal vinegar you receive as an ubiquitous mindset on my part. Again, why? She is representative of the conservative affluent woman who wants everyone to be happy under the meaningless rhetoric of constitutional equal protections, while mildly chiding the country that we've lost the finesse of manner. In the case of Sterling, however, I side with Maher on Stiviano's underhandedness, regardless of the old man's attitude.
Stiviano utilizes babe sex to be a figure in baller culture, and that she stuck it to Sterling isn't any less deplorable due to the fact we're shoveling cubic tons of dirt on the underside of egalitarianism. I am still weighing what I want to dialogue about with Kathleen, who was in Laura Bush's press corp, before I hit the whining pity cripple pressure meter. She will not grant me access if ridicule is a temptation in the wings, but suffice it to say Wapo's gate keepers know who I am, nibbling establishment platform breadcrumbs, to the extent that Graham family prominence carries any weight. In DC it carries, of course, despite the fact her column seems a bit shrill today, its humor forced, which may beg the question of what I'm trying to distill through her constraint.
I have roughly 1800 dollars between me me and agonized defeat against adulthood destitution, so I am struggling to cut back on nicotine vapor intake, eating my usage to mitigate agitation, I use a small pointed soft wood to clean the filter cap over the lithium battery that constitutes the e-cig, a maintenance of necessary dedication.
Tuesday, May 13, 2014
Feline Neutering
The Wings of the Dove is perverse because it is a great novel.-- Dr. Carrol Cox, blinded with age
News items such as this allow me to understand death threats to those involved in animal husbandry, like the breeder in the article. I have a soft spot for shepherds, and despite my education and intelligence, it is difficult for me not to feel that this bastard should have been shot himself; it points to my dim view of omnivorous primates. Love the cats, but the nagging, hate the cats, aerial check on inner animal cruelty repression when mother wants to be left alone: my dead Joey, I ran into him by accident, layered onto the guilt of losing him due to urinary tract blockage, most he ever received was a bop on the nose when he broke a light bulb.
I found this article searching for a news item on the suicide death of an electrician in a domestic dispute who was a friend to my cousin, who is an arson squad investigator. Marie told me about it in order to lash out at me. She can't handle her sons. She can't handle me, nor the fact that her brother, with his MRSA, his dementia, should be living in Presby, or something similar, more than I.
This has taken me a few angry days. Kimmy woke me at 11:30 this morning to outrageous gas pains, but I maintained control, not always so lucky. I sent Billy an email with quotidian sentiments for his friend, even while realizing I do not give a flying fuck about him, his sick wife, (not entirely accurate, and more an indication of my frustration, always trying to rebuild my own social set with suitable candidates and feeling rebuffed here, subtly) his fucked up mother's screeching voice in my head, her denial about her situation, her eldest son's cold reality check about getting her placed in a facility, where confidence reigns that my aunt, shrieking like a fury, could find Kasem.
All that I've endured, and an electrician with two children blows his brains out. Domestic discord. Read Madame Mauves. James had a discordant middle age note or two. What does family mean anymore if we're all eschewing obligation that normally come with familial ties? I lied to him about not telling my audience, but being darker than he knows? That's a race to the bottom of the glass.
News items such as this allow me to understand death threats to those involved in animal husbandry, like the breeder in the article. I have a soft spot for shepherds, and despite my education and intelligence, it is difficult for me not to feel that this bastard should have been shot himself; it points to my dim view of omnivorous primates. Love the cats, but the nagging, hate the cats, aerial check on inner animal cruelty repression when mother wants to be left alone: my dead Joey, I ran into him by accident, layered onto the guilt of losing him due to urinary tract blockage, most he ever received was a bop on the nose when he broke a light bulb.
I found this article searching for a news item on the suicide death of an electrician in a domestic dispute who was a friend to my cousin, who is an arson squad investigator. Marie told me about it in order to lash out at me. She can't handle her sons. She can't handle me, nor the fact that her brother, with his MRSA, his dementia, should be living in Presby, or something similar, more than I.
This has taken me a few angry days. Kimmy woke me at 11:30 this morning to outrageous gas pains, but I maintained control, not always so lucky. I sent Billy an email with quotidian sentiments for his friend, even while realizing I do not give a flying fuck about him, his sick wife, (not entirely accurate, and more an indication of my frustration, always trying to rebuild my own social set with suitable candidates and feeling rebuffed here, subtly) his fucked up mother's screeching voice in my head, her denial about her situation, her eldest son's cold reality check about getting her placed in a facility, where confidence reigns that my aunt, shrieking like a fury, could find Kasem.
All that I've endured, and an electrician with two children blows his brains out. Domestic discord. Read Madame Mauves. James had a discordant middle age note or two. What does family mean anymore if we're all eschewing obligation that normally come with familial ties? I lied to him about not telling my audience, but being darker than he knows? That's a race to the bottom of the glass.
Monday, May 12, 2014
Fear of Crowds
I joined a literature group on Linked In with over 30k members, and, if I allow myself to get familiar, my posts on Blogger will probably lead to Crucifixion by affluent professionals with children, and I kid with ye not that the anxiety in my chest is palpable. I am the mouth who managed to get banned from Poets & Writers, the New York Times Book forum, that for writing an angry ditty about a crotch on a stick, which was stupid on both ends; the Literature Network decapitated me without so much as a gunshot over the bow; the Jamesians are probably alienated by my impatience with arcane detail (with the exception of their personalities), and I'm moving hell at high tide for a new source list. Twitter shrugs. Twits can tweet fuck if they want to, and no doubt finds the spastic dowager amusing. I don't worry about twitter. Twits pointing guns and threatening airlines are more problematic than my poverty and plight in Philadelphia. Do I stand by my reactionary output? My online travail is a reflection of lifelong victimization, swallowed whole in public welfare America.
Do I cower? Will Blogger close my account before I hit delete if I hit delete? There are more ways to push boundaries than by expressing outrage with expletives worn out from wards of state at the bottom to Under secretaries of state saying "Fuck the EU," on Russian audio capture.
Do I cower? Will Blogger close my account before I hit delete if I hit delete? There are more ways to push boundaries than by expressing outrage with expletives worn out from wards of state at the bottom to Under secretaries of state saying "Fuck the EU," on Russian audio capture.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Hot Air
THE revolutionary idea that defines the boundary between modern times and the past is the mastery of risk-- the Economist, world authority.
I always do this. Convince myself to stay up and work after cat care, eating, defecation-- which always tires me-- and then manage to fritter my weariness away on an overly focused awareness of the tinnitus giving my ear drum a steady buzzing. The one PBS segment for which Miles O'Brien has my gratitude is his short piece on tinnitus. I do not know if I revolt after this post and push myself, but people, the one division between spastic brain damaged viewpoints and ablest viewpoints which may never be overcome is why you engage in such unnecessary behavior.
This balloon crash is an entirely manufactured tragedy, much like the deaths in Ukraine, which should not be happening. Those 14 page views from Ukraine sober me, because I have a distaste for Euro-centric sectarian deaths, and may get myself in serious trouble by giving Russian security services and the EU a piece of my mind. I'm a powerless, defenseless, unhappy writer living in one of America's oldest cities founded by Quakers, and I receive 14 page views from an Eastern European country killing itself over Russian hegemony and western capitalism. This because I am acerbic and callous, but not acerbic and callous enough not to condemn the Russian Federation for the deaths of Litvinenko and Berezovsky. Their murders represent a misguided savagery, even in a world where brutality is contingent, but not the way Putin's actors go about it. I joined a Linked In group, and if I get active on the site, I'll probably be banned due to this blog-- not that I think much of Linked In. It is less confusing than Google Plus, but what of it. Relatively educated people can be inane.
All technologies have risks, but hot air balloon gliding is an absolutely unnecessary form of flight.
I always do this. Convince myself to stay up and work after cat care, eating, defecation-- which always tires me-- and then manage to fritter my weariness away on an overly focused awareness of the tinnitus giving my ear drum a steady buzzing. The one PBS segment for which Miles O'Brien has my gratitude is his short piece on tinnitus. I do not know if I revolt after this post and push myself, but people, the one division between spastic brain damaged viewpoints and ablest viewpoints which may never be overcome is why you engage in such unnecessary behavior.
This balloon crash is an entirely manufactured tragedy, much like the deaths in Ukraine, which should not be happening. Those 14 page views from Ukraine sober me, because I have a distaste for Euro-centric sectarian deaths, and may get myself in serious trouble by giving Russian security services and the EU a piece of my mind. I'm a powerless, defenseless, unhappy writer living in one of America's oldest cities founded by Quakers, and I receive 14 page views from an Eastern European country killing itself over Russian hegemony and western capitalism. This because I am acerbic and callous, but not acerbic and callous enough not to condemn the Russian Federation for the deaths of Litvinenko and Berezovsky. Their murders represent a misguided savagery, even in a world where brutality is contingent, but not the way Putin's actors go about it. I joined a Linked In group, and if I get active on the site, I'll probably be banned due to this blog-- not that I think much of Linked In. It is less confusing than Google Plus, but what of it. Relatively educated people can be inane.
All technologies have risks, but hot air balloon gliding is an absolutely unnecessary form of flight.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
Weights of Buenos Aires
All you will see is a girl you once knew/Although she's dressed up to the nines, at sixes and sevens with you.-- Andrew Lloyd Webber's occult on history.
Juan Peron's rise and decline is not mentioned in Assassination Tango, yet I can't help but wonder if due to Coppola's influence in the production, we have an attempted unspoken allegory on the dynamic energy and tragedy of 20th century South America. Ebert's appreciation of Duvall's vehicle (a swan song?) echoes my own attraction to the aesthetic of the film.
Professional critics voice discontent by claiming this is an indulgence for Duvall's ego? Name me a film with an A list celebrity which is not an indulgence for its star? It was not shot at an action thriller's pace, and I'm glad it was not. The hitman Duvall plays was run of the mill? Fuck that. Anderson is an old man who has his heart wrapped up in his little girl. He wants to retire. His capo, who I think was Frankie, talks him in to this foreign target.
The scenes Duvall plays with his wife are dynamic with an undercurrent. Warning: hard and dangerous sex ahead. They are also evocative of the glamour which Juan and Evita utilized to create a smokescreen around their dictatorship. There is also another dynamic, a paranoia of conspiracies which wrap around themselves, the ambiguity over who knows what, whether Frankie was trying to kill Anderson off, who might have wanted the general eliminated or panicked and changed their minds, whose strings the federal police were pulling, or who was pulling theirs. Does it truly say anything about the reign of the generals after Isabel Peron made a bid to reclaim power when I was an adolescent?
She was news then, just like a dowager empress. Should she be held accountable? Or are we supposed to be distracted by the absurdity of Pedraza filming Fellini like commercials? Does it spice up conjugal activity if you cast your wife as the threatening and subversive female against your pretend middle brow nuclear family unit? Are we being offered suggestions about despotism?
If social networking is just a complex communicating tool, why is it so much more disconcerting when we connect with those out of our past? I thought my immediate boss from Matrix would want nothing to do with me. I left Matrix in an emotional state, and critiqued, publicly, how my directors handled their project, not that they treated me badly, or discussed their erections. Dan wasn't a bad guy, as I've written. He solidified my cynicism (or skepticism) about the effectiveness of clinical psychology, but always played the decent man, perhaps due to the fact that he is a decent man. I'm tempted to IM him with an impertinence because though I've suspected Irv Rutman has been dead for a number of years, I have not found an obituary. Even if I had the gall to query that, in the sense of why it matters, or to ask for a reference so old, what good would it do me? Nevertheless, I reached out, reclaimed him. Odd, I suppose, less obtrusive than the telephone.
Juan Peron's rise and decline is not mentioned in Assassination Tango, yet I can't help but wonder if due to Coppola's influence in the production, we have an attempted unspoken allegory on the dynamic energy and tragedy of 20th century South America. Ebert's appreciation of Duvall's vehicle (a swan song?) echoes my own attraction to the aesthetic of the film.
Professional critics voice discontent by claiming this is an indulgence for Duvall's ego? Name me a film with an A list celebrity which is not an indulgence for its star? It was not shot at an action thriller's pace, and I'm glad it was not. The hitman Duvall plays was run of the mill? Fuck that. Anderson is an old man who has his heart wrapped up in his little girl. He wants to retire. His capo, who I think was Frankie, talks him in to this foreign target.
The scenes Duvall plays with his wife are dynamic with an undercurrent. Warning: hard and dangerous sex ahead. They are also evocative of the glamour which Juan and Evita utilized to create a smokescreen around their dictatorship. There is also another dynamic, a paranoia of conspiracies which wrap around themselves, the ambiguity over who knows what, whether Frankie was trying to kill Anderson off, who might have wanted the general eliminated or panicked and changed their minds, whose strings the federal police were pulling, or who was pulling theirs. Does it truly say anything about the reign of the generals after Isabel Peron made a bid to reclaim power when I was an adolescent?
She was news then, just like a dowager empress. Should she be held accountable? Or are we supposed to be distracted by the absurdity of Pedraza filming Fellini like commercials? Does it spice up conjugal activity if you cast your wife as the threatening and subversive female against your pretend middle brow nuclear family unit? Are we being offered suggestions about despotism?
If social networking is just a complex communicating tool, why is it so much more disconcerting when we connect with those out of our past? I thought my immediate boss from Matrix would want nothing to do with me. I left Matrix in an emotional state, and critiqued, publicly, how my directors handled their project, not that they treated me badly, or discussed their erections. Dan wasn't a bad guy, as I've written. He solidified my cynicism (or skepticism) about the effectiveness of clinical psychology, but always played the decent man, perhaps due to the fact that he is a decent man. I'm tempted to IM him with an impertinence because though I've suspected Irv Rutman has been dead for a number of years, I have not found an obituary. Even if I had the gall to query that, in the sense of why it matters, or to ask for a reference so old, what good would it do me? Nevertheless, I reached out, reclaimed him. Odd, I suppose, less obtrusive than the telephone.
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Next Generation
I lost track of The Hundred, as I can't keep up with everything, but caught an episode the other evening, and see how it has evolved into Game of Thrones with a technocratic edge, preying upon millennial worries of reliving the major conflicts of the silent generation, between totalitarianism and individual liberty, which in more convoluted ways, is the same issue nagging The Vampire Diaries and The Originals, how humans are evolving in relation to the past, with a heavy dose of violence, to inure and make the viewer care at the same time, and yet I have my own red herrings about it, the residue dying boomers leave behind in the mist of our self-absorbed neurosises, if there isn't another method besides these stylized survivor metaphors.
Nutritional Declension
I have been thinking about the death of two other journalistic giants: Peter Jennings four years ago, and Tim Russert last year.-- Howard Kurtz
The 100 is a strangely comforting formula for a disillusioned wisdom, much more so than anything JJ Abrams has out there today. Revolution seemed initially ambitious, but by the time of the season cliff hanger in the *tower,* the need for an emetic felt imminent.
Now I have the urge to fuck Isiah Washington and be 24 again in the forbidden zone of cross chocolate ejaculation. Perhaps because I'm starving, or really like the show, which I do, though I missed the pilot. I don't think I could anymore--consensually make love to a minority non baller. Obviously, I'm not Ebert. Well, for Caucasian males playing sugar daddy, the stigma is less prevalent. Before I ate the inner city and mortally expired on black violence, I lusted after my share. Maybe it would have been good as an experiment. Compassionate erection.
My father threatened to kill me.
As a gentle post nuclear porn, the 100 is not anything we haven't seen before, and has more than a touch of implausibility, but it wends its way to the authentic origin of American optimism. Hopefully I'll catch the pilot on the bye.
I fixed my problem on my Examiner page. Still a fool for a penny. I'll give passing the ten dollar mark more time. Philadelphia interested subscribers would be a boost in that endeavor. I help the MH gent, partly because I was in the field. Even so, you could suggest authors you'd be interested in reading about.
The 100 is a strangely comforting formula for a disillusioned wisdom, much more so than anything JJ Abrams has out there today. Revolution seemed initially ambitious, but by the time of the season cliff hanger in the *tower,* the need for an emetic felt imminent.
Now I have the urge to fuck Isiah Washington and be 24 again in the forbidden zone of cross chocolate ejaculation. Perhaps because I'm starving, or really like the show, which I do, though I missed the pilot. I don't think I could anymore--consensually make love to a minority non baller. Obviously, I'm not Ebert. Well, for Caucasian males playing sugar daddy, the stigma is less prevalent. Before I ate the inner city and mortally expired on black violence, I lusted after my share. Maybe it would have been good as an experiment. Compassionate erection.
My father threatened to kill me.
As a gentle post nuclear porn, the 100 is not anything we haven't seen before, and has more than a touch of implausibility, but it wends its way to the authentic origin of American optimism. Hopefully I'll catch the pilot on the bye.
I fixed my problem on my Examiner page. Still a fool for a penny. I'll give passing the ten dollar mark more time. Philadelphia interested subscribers would be a boost in that endeavor. I help the MH gent, partly because I was in the field. Even so, you could suggest authors you'd be interested in reading about.
Tuesday, May 6, 2014
Vicious Irritation
I want to expand a bit on the travesty of vanity. Examiner is useful for a student or casual citizen journalist who follows aggregating methods. Even established media outlets aggregate, blog, dumb it down or up. Clarity Media outsources a tutorial which is standard journo 101 from your eleventh grade high school collegiate track instruction. The reviewers are a grade above the vanity contributors, and basically all they do is approve or reject news content for Google or Bing's RSS feed.
Now, follow along a moment. Examiner's guidelines suggest content between 150 to 400m. My rapid write up on Glass, which is starting to bore me as the ultimate angst device, ran to about 230m, aggregating from three other more content driven pieces. The reviewer rejected it as newsworthy for being too short and gave me new guidelines, which are Google's standard for newsworthy material.
Fine. You fix it. This is what journos do-- but I only wrote it hurriedly to maintain my eligibility for promotion on Google News, which is under threat because yours truly hasn't written news in 25 days. None of Examiner's trending topics interest me, a major exception being Oscar Pistorius. I see larger issues afoot in the plight of Bladerunner and the damnation of identity. I want to do a real article on this, my own work.
I am having technical problems on my Examiner page, however. So, do I now lose my precious eligibility to have my content promoted? Ha ha ha. I do not know much about Clarity Media. I know they own The Weekly Standard, which I would like to apply for a position with, if they could accommodate me, and have an opening, but this publication has more sobering standards, and I myself am nearly done in, so to speak.
Points to a larger issue of aggregate systems collapse. Examiner itself has a well meaning personality disorder. Saying one thing under management, another at the zombie stooge level, under which I'm running myself haggard, stinky witch with fish oil arm pits and straw dry dull greying hair, trying to maintain some modicum of self-reliance. I have no idea why Frances Glenn Cross believed his anti-antisemitism would be satisfied with the deaths of innocent people in temple. Since he is being tried under hate crime statue, presumably federal attorneys will argue he is rational, and wanted to kill out of hate.
My impulses toward violence are different, and stem from both deplorable inefficiency of state systems, my significant hatred of compliance models which are going to relegate me into infantilism anyway so why am I still fighting? and getting screwed so significantly by the activists themselves. BBC mystery producers know something about this in their Inspector Gently series. The desire to strike back doesn't pop out of a vacuum. I have no idea what you think about my content, contradictory as it is, maybe sometimes loopy also, indicative of skills giving way to belligerence, and maybe my hatred of gay and lesbian psychology has something to do with ugly women relegated to getting off on themselves with dildos, (investigating for a cover story) and my ex-supervisor's imaginary climaxes that she painted for me. Maybe. Reflexive analysis isn't an arm wrestling match with psychiatric manipulations, but it is also something I intuit as more compelling.
I don't know what I'd be willing to do in real world terms, if age, dependence, could be surmounted. It is not the innocent I want, but gnostic self love, regardless of its gender spectrum, is a kind of self-interested tunnel vision. We aren't all special, in the aggregating sense, and you know it.
Now, follow along a moment. Examiner's guidelines suggest content between 150 to 400m. My rapid write up on Glass, which is starting to bore me as the ultimate angst device, ran to about 230m, aggregating from three other more content driven pieces. The reviewer rejected it as newsworthy for being too short and gave me new guidelines, which are Google's standard for newsworthy material.
Fine. You fix it. This is what journos do-- but I only wrote it hurriedly to maintain my eligibility for promotion on Google News, which is under threat because yours truly hasn't written news in 25 days. None of Examiner's trending topics interest me, a major exception being Oscar Pistorius. I see larger issues afoot in the plight of Bladerunner and the damnation of identity. I want to do a real article on this, my own work.
I am having technical problems on my Examiner page, however. So, do I now lose my precious eligibility to have my content promoted? Ha ha ha. I do not know much about Clarity Media. I know they own The Weekly Standard, which I would like to apply for a position with, if they could accommodate me, and have an opening, but this publication has more sobering standards, and I myself am nearly done in, so to speak.
Points to a larger issue of aggregate systems collapse. Examiner itself has a well meaning personality disorder. Saying one thing under management, another at the zombie stooge level, under which I'm running myself haggard, stinky witch with fish oil arm pits and straw dry dull greying hair, trying to maintain some modicum of self-reliance. I have no idea why Frances Glenn Cross believed his anti-antisemitism would be satisfied with the deaths of innocent people in temple. Since he is being tried under hate crime statue, presumably federal attorneys will argue he is rational, and wanted to kill out of hate.
My impulses toward violence are different, and stem from both deplorable inefficiency of state systems, my significant hatred of compliance models which are going to relegate me into infantilism anyway so why am I still fighting? and getting screwed so significantly by the activists themselves. BBC mystery producers know something about this in their Inspector Gently series. The desire to strike back doesn't pop out of a vacuum. I have no idea what you think about my content, contradictory as it is, maybe sometimes loopy also, indicative of skills giving way to belligerence, and maybe my hatred of gay and lesbian psychology has something to do with ugly women relegated to getting off on themselves with dildos, (investigating for a cover story) and my ex-supervisor's imaginary climaxes that she painted for me. Maybe. Reflexive analysis isn't an arm wrestling match with psychiatric manipulations, but it is also something I intuit as more compelling.
I don't know what I'd be willing to do in real world terms, if age, dependence, could be surmounted. It is not the innocent I want, but gnostic self love, regardless of its gender spectrum, is a kind of self-interested tunnel vision. We aren't all special, in the aggregating sense, and you know it.
Monday, May 5, 2014
Inciting Accreditation
"I could have just bought another pair."-- Robert Duvall, attempting to echo what mortality causes us to lose.
It is not Alzheimer's, yet. It is mainly that I rush, and as I asked Robert to remind me, I should have edited my email to Marcia-- and this reflects the net negative of digital lives, trying to beat deadlines, trending topics, not giving ourselves gestation time.
My own sense of alienation enables me to understand it in freaks, or those like Louise, with their particular deformities, and the girl wanted to talk books and aesthetic tastes, so it should not have been that difficult to humor her without my wounds vibrating to a banshee tempo-- but I did not desire this association for myself, on my own terms, and, even if she meant no harm, which she didn't, she disrupted my comfort zone with the other members on the list, and now I feel like nothing more than a disparaging element.
Losing competency when never having had a chance to actualize it in the first place due to physical obstacles and psychic pain, this is a terrifying prospect-- but competency related to what? I meant what I posted about respecting Marcia's analytic ability, but psychoanalytic theory hovers in the realm of discredited mythology, one that preoccupies itself with androgyny in an abstract sense. The actual reality of dealing with a clinically ill transvestite like Erik von Schmetterling imposes a real threat to a psyche, triggers revulsion one can taste, and that I had to struggle with even when I imposed myself on him and Jimmi in their unit, three floors up, or engaging with them in public.
How does theorizing, outside of tangible data related to physics or biology, enable progression? Increasingly attracted to gaunt definitions in masculine figures, I am not trying to parachute in on terminal degree scholars without having earned it. All I wish is to utilize their expertise to accomplish good work before it is too late, because working hard is all I have left.
In their eyes, I am a disruption, annoying, even threatening. But a caged animal is threatening when so many elements go against its ability to thrive, when human sexuality epitomizes itself in liberal doxology as salutary for its own transient virtue, leaving us all rutting like happy pigs. My body never lent itself to those discoveries of paramount pleasures and stimulations. Even those of you who may want to commiserate and suggest gels or orifice beads and other toys of the trade, I would object and indicate there are more important things, a restraint towards a wiser conservation, like the cruel, but necessary culling that took place on the new CW series, the 100. We've lost the virtue of self-sacrifice, yet another reason I disdain homosexual lifestyles.
It is not Alzheimer's, yet. It is mainly that I rush, and as I asked Robert to remind me, I should have edited my email to Marcia-- and this reflects the net negative of digital lives, trying to beat deadlines, trending topics, not giving ourselves gestation time.
My own sense of alienation enables me to understand it in freaks, or those like Louise, with their particular deformities, and the girl wanted to talk books and aesthetic tastes, so it should not have been that difficult to humor her without my wounds vibrating to a banshee tempo-- but I did not desire this association for myself, on my own terms, and, even if she meant no harm, which she didn't, she disrupted my comfort zone with the other members on the list, and now I feel like nothing more than a disparaging element.
Losing competency when never having had a chance to actualize it in the first place due to physical obstacles and psychic pain, this is a terrifying prospect-- but competency related to what? I meant what I posted about respecting Marcia's analytic ability, but psychoanalytic theory hovers in the realm of discredited mythology, one that preoccupies itself with androgyny in an abstract sense. The actual reality of dealing with a clinically ill transvestite like Erik von Schmetterling imposes a real threat to a psyche, triggers revulsion one can taste, and that I had to struggle with even when I imposed myself on him and Jimmi in their unit, three floors up, or engaging with them in public.
How does theorizing, outside of tangible data related to physics or biology, enable progression? Increasingly attracted to gaunt definitions in masculine figures, I am not trying to parachute in on terminal degree scholars without having earned it. All I wish is to utilize their expertise to accomplish good work before it is too late, because working hard is all I have left.
In their eyes, I am a disruption, annoying, even threatening. But a caged animal is threatening when so many elements go against its ability to thrive, when human sexuality epitomizes itself in liberal doxology as salutary for its own transient virtue, leaving us all rutting like happy pigs. My body never lent itself to those discoveries of paramount pleasures and stimulations. Even those of you who may want to commiserate and suggest gels or orifice beads and other toys of the trade, I would object and indicate there are more important things, a restraint towards a wiser conservation, like the cruel, but necessary culling that took place on the new CW series, the 100. We've lost the virtue of self-sacrifice, yet another reason I disdain homosexual lifestyles.
Self hating Clarity
I am not exactly sure how to picture the executives in Denver who run the company which runs Examiner, but they must laugh at a miserable sow like me behind my back. Aggregating all these articles and reviews is real work for me, but with the commission I am receiving, I am little better off than I was trying to pretend I'm grateful to be a literary journal contributor. First, after popping my cherry on "how it works", I get derailed over newsworthiness. Editing on the cheap, despite having driven myself like an ox. I can't even fight with a Communications Director, talk with some live harried ferret who is probably receiving minimum wage. I "contact them," and get scheduled mail generated critiques. Then they can't love me enough. Then I chilled my heels because after 30 articles the commission barely buys me a coffee.
They have their administrative grief, struggling to meet the standards to stay in Google's news feed. This isn't my fault. I was a real journalist, but photography requires physical dexterity I have to leave to others, and unlike a respectable media outlet, Examiner doesn't partner an imagest with a content provider.
Now they're nagging me. I can't even lose my temper and have a good blow and quit. With every other journalistic enterprise, I had a contract. I once made 50 cents a word. Examiner is nothing more and nothing less than a vanity driven ass wiping exercise, and if I unsubscribe, throw a tantrum, they just reabsorb my estimated payment, and I wind up in negative number territory. Labor hours, lost productivity on what I'd rather be doing. This is all a fucking joke.
They have their administrative grief, struggling to meet the standards to stay in Google's news feed. This isn't my fault. I was a real journalist, but photography requires physical dexterity I have to leave to others, and unlike a respectable media outlet, Examiner doesn't partner an imagest with a content provider.
Now they're nagging me. I can't even lose my temper and have a good blow and quit. With every other journalistic enterprise, I had a contract. I once made 50 cents a word. Examiner is nothing more and nothing less than a vanity driven ass wiping exercise, and if I unsubscribe, throw a tantrum, they just reabsorb my estimated payment, and I wind up in negative number territory. Labor hours, lost productivity on what I'd rather be doing. This is all a fucking joke.
Phillips Head, Stripped
"You have to touch me. On the inside part. And you have to call me my name." -- Beloved, p. 137
It was a surprisingly cool day. Normally, I do not get much fresh air on this back end of the building which faces the Schuykill, and it is pleasant, the need not to scurry after my life long concomitant triggers with animal waste and feline maintenance. Cats. Spend how many ten spots on trinkets for them and they prefer to practice their hunting skills with our Homindaen accouterments: the ear plugs for the Apple, a device whose touchpad interface still has not merited the need to fetishize its convenience, or my endless supply of plastic cigarettes.
This is scant consolation for my frayed relations with the Jamesians, and I bitterly rue my gushing ease of familiarity with Louise. I almost hate her for my flawed ease of intimacy with crippled strangers. I had a major disruption on the list years ago, before Louise lurked on it, (or so I assume, as she would have been very young and perhaps still an undergraduate) when Carrol Cox wrote a controversial article for HJR about the list serv itself. Marcia was still easily conversant with me back then, and explained to me that Carrol Cox flustered a number of her colleagues, not just me. I thought Dr. Cox made a stab in my direction, however. Feeling slighted, I unsubscribed in a huff. Returned later, tail quietly between my legs.
I cannot unsubscribe and re-subscribe as the whim seizes me, but I no longer feel welcomed, encouraged, supported, and this friction began when Louise approached me, unwittingly creating the cripple to cripple affinity, and now I’m pissed off. I liked being the underdog with these scholars, liked the hope that I could one day submit an article, and join their conversation, only to be called upon to be a mentor and good lieutenant for a girl of nascent naiveté who was impacted by the force of my writing. I cannot remember what led to my opening up with her.
Initially, I thanked her for her praise and left it at that. Much like more successful authors, I have enough experience to be wary of admirers (my obsessive clinging to the memory of Jerry McGuire being a case in point). If I thought anything else about it, I speculated incorrectly that Louise was a graduate student who knew nothing about the furious chip on my shoulder. I forgot about it. She approached me again, followed me to LiveJournal, where I have yet to wrap up my account. I made a fatal mistake at that point in the extent of my interaction, allowed her to telephone, posted something facile to the list serv which upset Greg who in turn upset me, post openly about all this, and cannot glue that fellowship over a singular and esoteric appreciation back together.
As a virtual community, small straw that it is to cling to, the list was my haven away from disability and civic strife, and I am pissed. Really, but being pissed doesn’t grant absolution, nor make Greg and I easy again. I had the right to decouple myself from the girl. I have been in a precarious state of living for a long time. More than likely my emotional state will continue to rock under duress. Louise has a federal job, and whatever security goes with that. I have the nightmare of recycled indigence, and whatever her fragility, she has not sustained my abuse. I no longer have the strength or psychic space to carry other disabled people due to my ability to survive hell, and in the same vein, Dr. Ian has the right to cut me loose, for whatever perceived breach. It was a small thing that mattered to me though, belonging and contributing to those appreciative of Jamesian mastery. I’m left at a loss, growling of little consolation.
I will bookmark the idea to one day expand on my displeasure with Toni Morrison's masterpiece. It is still important to be responsible towards the aesthetic dissonances we harbor.
It was a surprisingly cool day. Normally, I do not get much fresh air on this back end of the building which faces the Schuykill, and it is pleasant, the need not to scurry after my life long concomitant triggers with animal waste and feline maintenance. Cats. Spend how many ten spots on trinkets for them and they prefer to practice their hunting skills with our Homindaen accouterments: the ear plugs for the Apple, a device whose touchpad interface still has not merited the need to fetishize its convenience, or my endless supply of plastic cigarettes.
This is scant consolation for my frayed relations with the Jamesians, and I bitterly rue my gushing ease of familiarity with Louise. I almost hate her for my flawed ease of intimacy with crippled strangers. I had a major disruption on the list years ago, before Louise lurked on it, (or so I assume, as she would have been very young and perhaps still an undergraduate) when Carrol Cox wrote a controversial article for HJR about the list serv itself. Marcia was still easily conversant with me back then, and explained to me that Carrol Cox flustered a number of her colleagues, not just me. I thought Dr. Cox made a stab in my direction, however. Feeling slighted, I unsubscribed in a huff. Returned later, tail quietly between my legs.
I cannot unsubscribe and re-subscribe as the whim seizes me, but I no longer feel welcomed, encouraged, supported, and this friction began when Louise approached me, unwittingly creating the cripple to cripple affinity, and now I’m pissed off. I liked being the underdog with these scholars, liked the hope that I could one day submit an article, and join their conversation, only to be called upon to be a mentor and good lieutenant for a girl of nascent naiveté who was impacted by the force of my writing. I cannot remember what led to my opening up with her.
Initially, I thanked her for her praise and left it at that. Much like more successful authors, I have enough experience to be wary of admirers (my obsessive clinging to the memory of Jerry McGuire being a case in point). If I thought anything else about it, I speculated incorrectly that Louise was a graduate student who knew nothing about the furious chip on my shoulder. I forgot about it. She approached me again, followed me to LiveJournal, where I have yet to wrap up my account. I made a fatal mistake at that point in the extent of my interaction, allowed her to telephone, posted something facile to the list serv which upset Greg who in turn upset me, post openly about all this, and cannot glue that fellowship over a singular and esoteric appreciation back together.
As a virtual community, small straw that it is to cling to, the list was my haven away from disability and civic strife, and I am pissed. Really, but being pissed doesn’t grant absolution, nor make Greg and I easy again. I had the right to decouple myself from the girl. I have been in a precarious state of living for a long time. More than likely my emotional state will continue to rock under duress. Louise has a federal job, and whatever security goes with that. I have the nightmare of recycled indigence, and whatever her fragility, she has not sustained my abuse. I no longer have the strength or psychic space to carry other disabled people due to my ability to survive hell, and in the same vein, Dr. Ian has the right to cut me loose, for whatever perceived breach. It was a small thing that mattered to me though, belonging and contributing to those appreciative of Jamesian mastery. I’m left at a loss, growling of little consolation.
I will bookmark the idea to one day expand on my displeasure with Toni Morrison's masterpiece. It is still important to be responsible towards the aesthetic dissonances we harbor.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Ambrosia Stings
"Everyone has choices!"-- Gordon Alexander
A psychoanalytic theorist named Marcia Ian just gave me the cold shoulder, and I can feel the singe from her offices on campus to the swollen crest of the Schuykill flooding, one which had the Fire Department lock down my building last week. So I can only surmise I confuse most of you most of the time and that is why I never receive suggestions? hmm. This is what I wrote her, admittedly hurried, asking her to be an article source:
" Hello Marcia,
A psychoanalytic theorist named Marcia Ian just gave me the cold shoulder, and I can feel the singe from her offices on campus to the swollen crest of the Schuykill flooding, one which had the Fire Department lock down my building last week. So I can only surmise I confuse most of you most of the time and that is why I never receive suggestions? hmm. This is what I wrote her, admittedly hurried, asking her to be an article source:
" Hello Marcia,
It has been a long time since I dumped my scars on Jamesian scholars like yourself, but I have come to admire your mettle even within my defeat. I am writing, however, to request a source quote from you on a Simpson's puff piece, if you are willing.
I aggregate for Examiner
for an appalling commission, but I have trapped myself in a damned if I do or don't mode. An original source would get me promoted on Google News for a few more pennies, and if I am a good girl perhaps Clarity Media will help me out one day. (I highly doubt it.)
I'll write it up and then think of something along the lines of satire, animation, a better world. The editorial team posits a 48 hour deadline, but a credentialed assignment gets more latitude. Perhaps I will purchase one of your studies."
My opening sentence obfuscates, granted, as I did not want to rehash my laments of 14 years ago on which she deigned to advise me-- and I have no reason to feed you that either, as I still like how she thinks-- but she verbally slammed the door in my face as smartly as a nun with a ruler.
I am not sure what to make of it, and replied to her rebuff, regardless of the danger of being junked in her trash folder, but let that be a lesson on the justification of paranoia.
Louise Norlie attached herself to me via the James list subscribers, and perhaps Louise was a student of one of the subscribers. I tried to accommodate Louise at first. Some of you may remember me writing about this in earlier seasons, and I then told Louise I needed to stop interacting with her, which was the truth. I was afraid of hurting the girl down the road, and really did not want to be her buddy.
I can also understand that many terminal degree scholars do not like my manner, and I simpered about Greg Zacharias for a bit after he scolded me; I do not hold onto every grudge, however. I'll get past it, but I once believed Marcia a sympathetic mind set, and she is a decent instructor, capable of challenging perspective. Licking my wounds is obviously much more interesting than serving up Simon Baker like a suckling roast, which was my initial intent. I'll weigh just diving right back into it.
Meryl Streep's character in The Devil wears Prada has real world equivalents. I surpass that a bit being a reactionary troll bitch whom Google probably can't wait to see institutionalized so they can bury her nasty and bitter-- but we'll venture back over that unholy ground later.
Thursday, May 1, 2014
Cosmetics
Though I am only chipping away at my antipodean retrenchment toward progressive horizontal planes that Yahoo correspondents whip up like fruit salad, and in fact wasn't going to post at all, since my cunt feels like it's being eaten alive in a granary silo, due to dryness, lack of healthy sexual activity--most of the men who weren't sexually assaulting me like pavement dung were otherwise impotent--I never had a very active sex life to begin with-- and when the bottle blond I hired hugged me and we both exclaimed "go girl," I wasn't sexually aroused and repressing it, merely relieved that I found a nice white twit in her thirties who feels compassion for my cash payment--when I move she suggested maybe she'd live with me, and it is possibly doable, with enough space for her young middle-aged sex life, her dirty finger nails and her enjoyment of trying to *glam me up,* like Susie back in the day (and did the former Susan Davison formerly my best friend have kids? Sue, I am old and in pain and miss you and the intimacy we had, you out there?) Ellen Page is impossibly shallow and narcissistic, which is why I oppose homosexual equality in the first place. There is no such thing as equality between heterosexual and homosexual and metrosexual latent eunuchs. Marriage, as such, is the invention of the city state, which eventually evolved into empires, then modern nations.
Monogamy, in humans, is a haphazard affair, necessary for the welfare of children. Like my former instructor, Jerry, I am diffident about marriage as a civilly regulated sanction, and I don't give a fuck that the LBGT mob unleashed by Andy Sullivan of whom I was once, briefly, an admirer, which is why the pompous Oxford twerk sent me a screen shot of the Amtrak building outside my window, I don't care that ferocious queers wants this legally regulated bond for themselves. Fuck LBGT activists. You want a piece of me, that's fine. I've suffered more than you and I'll kick you to the curb regardless of potential ostracism. There is no such thing as equality between people. Jesse Staub dicked with me and he was one of yours. He did not have to lie to me because he was conflicted about the condition of my unit, but he did, and caused me additional weeks of unnecessary stress. But that has nothing to do with Kathleen Kane being a good liberal unwilling to defend traditional marriage in Pennsylvania for when Staub meets his significant other. It doesn't cost anything, this monogamy for homosexuals, and in fact, creates new and unending venues for post nuptial litigation. Lawyers need to maintain the fact that their expertise is essential. If Charlie Rose gave me a corner the next time he had Andy on air, if I did not have such first hand experience with how deadly AIDS is, I'd eat Andy's ass for breakfast. I'd make headlines alright. I wouldn't have a damn thing to lose.
Monogamy, in humans, is a haphazard affair, necessary for the welfare of children. Like my former instructor, Jerry, I am diffident about marriage as a civilly regulated sanction, and I don't give a fuck that the LBGT mob unleashed by Andy Sullivan of whom I was once, briefly, an admirer, which is why the pompous Oxford twerk sent me a screen shot of the Amtrak building outside my window, I don't care that ferocious queers wants this legally regulated bond for themselves. Fuck LBGT activists. You want a piece of me, that's fine. I've suffered more than you and I'll kick you to the curb regardless of potential ostracism. There is no such thing as equality between people. Jesse Staub dicked with me and he was one of yours. He did not have to lie to me because he was conflicted about the condition of my unit, but he did, and caused me additional weeks of unnecessary stress. But that has nothing to do with Kathleen Kane being a good liberal unwilling to defend traditional marriage in Pennsylvania for when Staub meets his significant other. It doesn't cost anything, this monogamy for homosexuals, and in fact, creates new and unending venues for post nuptial litigation. Lawyers need to maintain the fact that their expertise is essential. If Charlie Rose gave me a corner the next time he had Andy on air, if I did not have such first hand experience with how deadly AIDS is, I'd eat Andy's ass for breakfast. I'd make headlines alright. I wouldn't have a damn thing to lose.
Crabs
I am not on this morning, and since I am not on, debating the worth of tweeting a youthful aging cripple's shrinkage, my drying up scurrilous sentiments. Not that I'm the first to worry brain plasticity once it is over the age of 50. What I am going through now is what Jerry was going through when I was his student who wanted to fuse herself to his corduroy blazer in my own quite tortured psychic guilt for wanting to sleep with him. I was nineteen when I first met him while Susan sat in the car. Nineteen, and I still can't shut the fuck up about my aging Shakespearean post modernist whose intellectual force wasn't enough to maintain the decency of my conscience.
Jerry: "Joanne, what the fuck do you want from me? I was kind. I encouraged you as best I could to imitate me. I am sorry your path was more obstructionist than that. I am old, and as I've written you, had a heart attack. You're over 50, presumably frigid over a duress you've struggled with for years which had nothing to do with me. I kept my mouth shut. Your former supervisor did not. That is the price you've paid for using words to get you from A to B in deploying subversive behavior."
Joanne: (sniveling): I wanted to be happy being loved by someone like you. I subjected myself to date rapes trying to find you in men who approximated your appearance. I sublimated our necessary detachment to my career and that died, fast and furiously.
Call in Smokey's commercialization of French baroque, hey? The tracks of pork like collagen. Toni Morrison's work angers me, and I meant my damning praise against the herd to be angrier than it turned out in barreling my dissatisfied sentiment, delayed over my domestic assistance anxiety. I found a woman, white, whom I like. We'll see.
Jerry: "Joanne, what the fuck do you want from me? I was kind. I encouraged you as best I could to imitate me. I am sorry your path was more obstructionist than that. I am old, and as I've written you, had a heart attack. You're over 50, presumably frigid over a duress you've struggled with for years which had nothing to do with me. I kept my mouth shut. Your former supervisor did not. That is the price you've paid for using words to get you from A to B in deploying subversive behavior."
Joanne: (sniveling): I wanted to be happy being loved by someone like you. I subjected myself to date rapes trying to find you in men who approximated your appearance. I sublimated our necessary detachment to my career and that died, fast and furiously.
Call in Smokey's commercialization of French baroque, hey? The tracks of pork like collagen. Toni Morrison's work angers me, and I meant my damning praise against the herd to be angrier than it turned out in barreling my dissatisfied sentiment, delayed over my domestic assistance anxiety. I found a woman, white, whom I like. We'll see.
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