Sweet Weak

There was no answer, no movement within, so Gruber inserted his key into the lock and twisted.--Bernard Malamud, The Mourners

Clever Google, but I have to tolerate its algorithms, since I am granted so much latitude, or am I?  My colon has a life of its own, so I have to give up on it, but as always, it was mucus build-up causing   my unsteadiness posted here, as opposed to an insatiable fondness for macaroons. Until Zico, coconut was a starchy seed taken for granted, one of my mother's explorations, goring holes into the husk, offering a taste of the raw juice. Tastes change, And no medium is without its own polemical sins. An effigy of a lynching is not *horrific*. Salon is making a value judgment about a coping mechanism, the cruelty of a joke, while other outlets reinforce the racism Salon decries with its moral superiority. Villagers in the Congo still believe in the persecution of witches, Ugandans still conduct human sacrifice. Authorities in Qatar think a progressive Asian American couple is trafficking in human organs. I always thought William Golding something of a facile author, his famous story too circumscribed, just as I'm still rather startled that Mike Levy invited me to Writersblock-- not that I am complaining-- it is a valuable research tool, but I'm not a progressive, nor am I a fake conservative slavering with dark secrets. Focus too much on outliers? My response is we've already lost valid definitions of ourselves, to the point that British school children on an island teaching themselves to hunt feels more like a Grecian abstract. So much hubris about our data collection, theoretical models, yet our metaphysical needs carry price tags which liberalism refuses to acknowledge. This is my reality check, while I post psychic duels civilized women leave unsaid.

My conflict with the former Linda Richman did, in point of fact, cause a mental escalation which may have led to what is termed a trauma conversion--but I think it was something else, because what I really am is a sexually disappointed woman who on the whole thinks sexual pleasure and adventurism is overrated, sans Jason Lee in Chasing Amy. One can ignore Affleck and still come away perplexed. I like a nice fedora and sharply tailored shoulders in a blazer due to a projection of power in a noir cut, as opposed to announcing through attire that I'm *out*. Even back in the day, when Alan Gordon, my longest friendship with anyone, said I'd make a good butch, it was a put down, hardly a compliment.

Not that I'm immune to the homoerotic-- but Jamesian shielding and Proustian segues are techniques into voyeurism-- and my enthusiasm to observe writers like James Baldwin from a distance has cooled. I no longer see Giovanni's Room as a must read, and I agree with Hurston's critics that her depiction of segregated black society is rather two dimensional. I am about two pages in her most acclaimed novel, and believe I wasted my money on the digital edition, debating whether or not I am going to persevere. The God in whom her women anticipate gave me a break, and I caught the loose stool that plumes out of my control every so often in my hindered lung function, very glad too, as accidents consume my time, though these attacks still creep up on me. And my transsexual nemesis? He (it) is sick. His aide, Dorothy, who has with all the kindness in the world gotten in my face, so informed me. I declined to express the truth I feel about Erik and his freaking health, if you care to guess. Dorothy is New York city Haitian or Jamaican, and would no more hit on me than would an adopted aunt. I still wouldn't let her within ten feet of my personal space.