"I tried to remember when I first realized that I was virtually ambidextrous," -- The Thief
When Ali Spagnola started to follow my twitter account, I embedded a certain degree of astonishment in Guardian. Before that, I telephoned the cancerous Italian aunt, and said "Marie, I have a huge pop star following me on twitter and she doesn't need me in the slightest." I also cannot explain twitter to cancerous aunt, but then I said "Oh, wait!" and figured out a little puzzle. A woman known to Ali wrote a post of the sort many suburbanites relate to, and I made a comment to the effect that disabled individuals still, by and large, view this world through glass houses, mildly petulant. Is it a contradictory following?
Ali has that heart-shaped svelte energy. My body, no matter what I do, even starving on pride, is indolent. I am small enough in stature to weigh her size, at 5 ft 2 in, but obesity trends in my family, and I'm probably 240, or hovering there, as I've not been eating much. I'm also 20+ her senior. But, I used to drink, wanted to fuck every beatnik of a certain type in sight, and had I not ended up so victimized? The possibilities of ambidextrous exuberance were there.
In all honesty, I haven't had the time to know what Ali's musical recognition offers me. I know what my rewards are from a few, select followers, but I am the old lady defeated by a majority nigger city (and yes, this morning I've posted it) and I'm dog paddling, my breathing tube breaking the surface, sinking back, and inexplicably emerging once more. Amazed, wondering where this strength, even with the dry skin, post-menopausal vagina. I am Nakamura's addict pickpocket lover held in abeyance only because I'm designated as a special class, with dubious federal protections, but let me make a comparison.
Patrick Stewart wouldn't respond to me as a person for whatever tea is left in Tianjin, because I flout decency and good manners, but, if he did, I'd have a reaction; perhaps log off, cry for a week, delete this account for shame, for failure, but not with Ali Spagnola. Her outreach took me back, yes, and the feisty artist she undoubtedly is has earned my gratitude, but she might as well be a stepdaughter I'm mentoring, and this is basically ditto for most of my verified users. You're blank slates, with the exception of those who I came to first.
Ignorance precludes intimidation. As for endorsements, Fuminori Nakamura is the greatest Asian noir author to walk on Japanese soil. A developmentally damaged mind would need to live very long to equal a novel of the underside with such skill as he exhibits. He got me through an extremely difficult week.
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