Almost Falling

"The stain!"-- Llosa's cry of mortal failing

Even in my most conscientious efforts, in the humidity, my ass leaks, not that Llosa would want to bother holding me up in effigy as he does Trujillo. I stopped in the middle of The Feast of the Goat. Llosa is taut and angry, his female who opens the book well developed, as is the assassin waiting to kill the paranoid and angry old man. I did not put my e-text in archive, I just don't see how the colonies of the Dominican Republic and Haiti fall as an indictment on my doorstep, nor how Llosa thinks he is changing the world with his fictional history, as I struggle with liquefied waste, a throbbing jaw and a tilt, this afternoon, from which I had to pull myself back, not willing to attempt a second lateral move, something I do every day, and have to do now, after I put my food away, not even able to grieve that I had to wind up with my grandfather's comically active bowel. If you think a West African immigrant is going to ably care for me, it's because you cannot see, nor peer too closely, just as Urania Cabral's husk of a father is detailed by Llosa as a clever episode of denigration. 

Yet in the mist of venerating despair, which has denigrated my flesh life long, Christ take your pick, including Erik von Schmettering's squat and thick little niger man, whose lips are wide, elongated with ignorance of manner, I sit here insisting revise your damn posts; you're running out of time, do better. We all have bad days, but where are my good to counter the terror I face? How could my mother, my flesh and bone, believe I could survive in Inglis House. Battered wheelchairs and gurneys clutter the halls, the odors of cache bags inescapable. I've suffered this my entire life, and I'm not even there.