Tapestry Tracks

"The whole room trembles, expands, contracts, moves a few centimeters to the right or left, up or down, all the while keeping its cubical shape."-- Danilo Kis, Hourglass

I am a bit too dim-witted to understand just whom I am pissing off in the Google/twitter verse to have no referring urls on Blogger for a week. I have taken far more incendiary attitudes in the past than I have of late, though Bibi might find my attitude toward Israel perplexing, and I haven't addressed whether or not my disenfranchisement at the hands of the Jewish princess theme has made me Antisemitic-- though I may have lost a Jewish graduate student on twitter's back end. Even if I wanted to keep track of all that, however, twitter moves too fast. But the answer is no, with qualification, and that being, Jewish liberalism is also a flawed, human institution, This liberalism exists on the plane of Jonathan Swift's satirical bite evinced in Gulliver's Travels, and it is jaundice, but a jaundice with paucity. My Jewish cousins are my most favored family members, and if I could I'd move in with Robin instantaneously. Childhood affections, and she has style, a good metabolism, kept her figure, unspoken griefs shared at my brother's funeral. This is my remaining brother's twitter account, and you see his footprint; he dodges me, his bitter oldest sister. As good as his word, he will shut out my demise in an institutional environment, poor little Benny. Carries mother's maiden name, I don't really blame him. I may eat libertarian ideas as rapaciously as I gasp on fetid indoor radiated air, but Prince Charming isn't going to gallop over to Riverside from social media to rescue me from my remorseful imposition on African American society. If Benjamin cannot handle it, nor my sister, how much more the power males who admire my balls?

Yes, I have them, but only due to the fact I have no vested interest in not calling spades for what they are as I've experienced them, and in transit from Trader Joe's last evening, to the 7-11, I carelessly lost my sock assist, after years of caution, in the usual analogy of density and precocious wit. A simple piece of wood with rubber sealed wire, my entire life has been on the inside of the concentration camp, only flirting with the illusion of freedom in the flickering candle of liberal police states. I can't tell you what it is about the translucent finesse of Danilo's moral guilt that is worth revisiting as my exacerbations thicken with sputum, rereading too much at once, unwilling to fight, but equally not ready to go. I just started The Onion Field. The film made me realize Wambaugh's book would be better, because it isn't simply about a cop killing, but reverberation.

I concede, reluctantly, that small as my account may be, I am part of twitter verse, at least until I get myself banned. Why ever would a smart gal like me do that?