Blow me down with a holiday breeze: A PAYING EDITOR JUST SAID YES!
I should go berserk in agony more often, hey Ann? Specifically addressing Ann Tran as a colleague here. Let's discuss my particular conjecture as it pertains to homoerotic elevation.
I have made much in previous posts to my link with Ms Phillips. It both excites and arouses me that she and I share a byline. In my more obscure antipodes, I published a poem dedicated to her called "fortissimo" which is both sexually competitive and dangerously suggestive of foreplay, and not being afraid to challenge myself, I did so, not interested in her sexually, but envious, and perhaps we've been around this bend before, but exactly what am I envious of, other than her privilege of projecting a state of lithe? To be totally, unsparing and uncompromising, did I elevate Phillips because Jerry, whom I deified, recommended I read Black Tickets? It has been so long I only remember liking this early collection as a series of vignettes, and repurchased an e -copy however long ago, two years, despite her relative teaching security against my ironclad welfare death spiral, or does her skill merit my admiration, her accomplished, rural to urbane transference? Last I investigated, she had a stint at Princeton. I have no idea if she has received my ancient fan mail, but where does all this birthday cake icing come from? Machine Dreams lags. I never finished it. Fast Lanes, so what?
This means, to my shock, that the aesthetic sensibilities of dogged eared Shakespeareans isn't always absolutely on the mark. Why exactly then did I deify Jerry so blindly? To hide, not push myself, because I was afraid of giving in to the lesbians who have hit on me, with the mixed race cellulose inner city sow who couldn't keep her paws to herself being the most sordid? I did reject her, violently, and what she did not not arouse or liberate me. I survived. The Hollywood studio system may have long had a celluloid closet, which we'll mine later, as a documentary, but the Screen Writers Guild has yet to really apply itself to the homily woman, the Georgy Girl who snares the obviously appalled James Mason who realizes what he traded in order to be the brow beaten husband. There are no stories out there for us, not really. Occasional cop show.
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