Immersion to the Abdomen

"Where are the important families?" -- Michele Placido

The destruction of antiquities was not anticipated when ISIS and its leader gleamed like a new toy, and if an aging woman needs to draw the attention of law enforcement, the Islamic State did gleam like an alternative gemstone to be manipulated. The obstacles were considerable, inclusive of atheistic hedonism, as well as lack of ethnic cohesion. Formidable deterrents, in addition to lack of funds for the dangers of a flight to Iraq or Syria, courting death in geopolitical vacuums, nevertheless, Islamic State could slaughter as many Muslims and unique minority sects as it wished and remain admirable for a fanaticism roiling like a tidal wave through human civilization, until distaste invariably set in, the burning of the Jordanian pilot, and other typical corrosions of mission creep. The destruction of the Roman temple in Palmyra echoes the Catholic backlash against the Italian Renaissance, to some degree. Sculptures and artworks which would be priceless today were torched-- partly against the sexual promiscuity going on behind the scenes in the likes Leonardo da Vinci's studios. It would have been kinder to hang the old man for lechery, leaving the objects, even the architecture, for posterity.

And yet there is no justice which can be meted out, at the behest of Unesco or other world governing body, for the incalculable loss of the Palmyra ruins, even if Obama did something uncharacteristically reactive and launched warheads at Damascus, or put ground troops near the Turkish border. Destroying humanity's cultural memory basically nullifies our 100,000 mastery over our environment due to self recognition, and my bitterness at having been broken by the welfare state in Pennsylvania is in part responsible. I do not mean this in an aggrandized sense. I'm an anguished disabled woman spiraling down the drain at the top of her lungs. ISIS would take the top of those ailing organs and spout a gusher out of my chest, leaving my cadaver for whatever scavengers remain thriving in their region, but my pain at the hands of injustice has contributed to the explosive levels of intransigence grinding away at each other, in our day and age, so I take full responsibility for my insouciant flippancy, particularly in view of the fact that ascetics have difficulty remaining untainted on You Tube.

Guilty as charged, even though hitting my deceased cat with my back castor wheel when he was two was an accident, flaying my soul, guilt is the hydrochloric acid of my hate, flung off in radiating waves. Jesse Helms may have been correct about the emaciation of appreciating Robert Mapplethrope as an artist, but burning his oeuvre for the sake of grace is as bad as erasing the brutality of our historical past for futurist possibilities of more far ranging consequence, off to the store, deserted center city streets, there is always going against medical advice for what is likely prevalent. Stupid Italian Americans. My father's sister, blind to the suicidal anguish of the then manic depressive to whom she matched with her eldest wife beating brother. I hate my aunt this morning, or, more accurately, remain unforgiving. The entire tragedy of my family is her fault for being a JFK era busy body. Starting with the basic premise that we're all morons, our explosive planetary dominance is incredulous.