Catherine Deneuve

I could not meet the demands of working at The Washington Post, whatever standards remain, but I study the special bylines, the one timers-- that I hope to break; if I can do it with the Inquirer I can do it with Wapo, one day, but if I am going to bounce, cancel my digital access and move on, I am ambivalent, reluctant, and familiar with contempt. I've not made up my mind, and cancellation would not be a total blackout-- and yet, elongating  hyper sigh, I like my comfort zone of being part of its community, as long as I keep a check on running the comments (the moderators, those almighty arbiters of online speech, did not grant me a comment badge; sniff, but then again, I am a guppy competitor, and a sociopathic blogger who hasn't quite quite truly lain it out on the mat since then again I am a quite vulnerable sociopath, and vengeance killings have been done by better lesbians than I am ever going to be-- does a sardonic jibe diminish my serious hostility to the gay community?) I've held my fire, and we'll see what happens when I go to target practice. I will be honest, however. I know I cannot roll back the social acceptance-- but what I am going to do is leave a warning for the future-- and when ape men cloning leads to recombinant disaster a futurist will pull me out of archive with smug reverberation. Highsmith aged quite awfully. She is an unsettled factor in my personal canon. I did one novel in group, the rest, well, of course-- through the studio filter. I just had an unpleasant picture, a vomit lurch, of Highsmith meeting Josie Byzek, pushing my limit on nauseating visuals and digestion. A tired superego, well. I know. What revolts, this is entirely irrelevant in the progressive pantheon. I regret not having studied Roman Polanski with an expert. What the motifs are beneath the surface of his claustrophobic spaces. Repulsion doesn't  have the ruthless upper cut of Rosemary's Baby, but I've now seen the trilogy. Hopefully I'll find the language I'm looking for, beyond his brilliance with repression. Is an auteur's signature merely a matter of style? Should women always expect to be pin cushions, fatuous with hatreds?

Men still make me happier, on the whole, despite the fact that I was a bloody fool. I almost wish Jerry had struck me across the face, shook me violently, though he did, as such, kick my ass in the process of his migratory journey and final placement.