Winded Aura

This theme of personal emancipation accounts for the audacious liberties Miller takes with Tropic of Cancer's style, a pastiche of poetic exultation, bland pornography, and the banalities of a personal diary.

Authors more rarely become celebrities, though at the moment I'd be less fazed than rabid if any of my more fortunate colleagues-- technically, I am an author of minute Chicago Slam acclaim-- but that is a matter of linguistic tongue in cheek-- deigned to get within ten feet of me, except David Mitchell, whom I shouldn't have read; if I ever got within range of his personal space it would not be to gasp and sputter with reverence, so much as to now become a borderline threat, the type Orhan's poet Ka feels when confronted by Hande at a family gathering; his skill diminishes most of us, Mitchell's, in the way that work horses never truly compete with innate genius, however refined. Henry Miller's work, in contrast, is a nihilist rant, when all is said and done, but what saves his travelogue fictions is the dynamic energy of them. 

Miller died while I was a high school student, and in the suburban milieu of Ridley Township, he would have never been taught. Yet in a vague diaphanous echo I remember his books in the school library, and I may have been familiarized with Cancer much earlier in my life, only it did not imprint on my synaptic memory.

It is in this vein that, though I can have no quarrel with the rare ethnic Christian sect in Irbil that Isis members want to slaughter, I still root for the militant proto-state to acquire real power, thrive. However cleansing Arabic fanaticism may be, it is different enough from Catholic authoritarian bluntness that I could never become a convert, almost a dirty word, an escape valve for treason, but sufficiently related in stricture that those who would kill me to save my soul have my admiration. All this impetus toward martyrdom because American section 202 housing conjoined to a deplorable welfare state destroyed my rightful economic station in life? You bet. Watch David Brooks make his aerial arm chops against the barbarism which has the Obama administration muting in fine liberal form, then think about your own lines in the sand.

I was all but forced to move into this building I wanted to vacate 30 seconds later after my padre dumped me in it with the accumulation of my poetic acetic life, forced when I had an income which should have allowed me other mobile options, even back then. Today I have no idea how, or if, I'll ever get back into the middle class, even if I spew our equal protection clause right into a stroke.