Ironside Enumerations

Again he thought how processional Venice was, -- Barry Unsworth, Stone Virgin, p 50

I cling to Stone Virgin, a Booker Prize text, as if it was on its way to becoming sepulchral, if not scriptural; what Unsworth achieves in his work, something I could never do, no mattter how much I researched, or fight to travel, is to transition the character type of Henry James, into modern fin de siecle figures. He collapses figurines into modernism without resorting  to linguistic tricks. David Mitchell may have made me weep, with the fatal imprint of Cloud Atlas, but Unsworth gave me a religious revival, and may have had an indirect impact on what I was attempting to achieve in Dimmer Beacons, and failed, despite that the essay is in its third printing, and as with every risk of revision, a rewriting of the text for my too slowly compiled non-fiction collection may lead to something lesser, if I really get ugly about Linda, and whatever kudos to the culture of victimhood, Linda was my fault. I talk. I talk to total strangers about the haggard bitch of articles. I call Tony Stiles my little brother to feel better, and I'm killing myself into a principled libertarian death spiral so that nigger nannies can make their car payments, fraying my rage between homicidal transcendence and suicidal anchor stones to keep my corpse floating beneath the riverbed, after a week of extraordinary duress on bouillon cubes and basil, the last of my kind, in actuality. Many writers up through World War 2 went insane, or needed torpor, and died, like James l Herlihy, and I am my old self until I return to Presbyterian Homes, which I am going to leave, despite the week of bouillon cubes. All very well, but I cannot dismantle a sports chair like Bruno Debrandt more successfully rendering a modern, paraplegic cop in the WYBE feed, Cain. Cain succeeds where Underwood failed because it doesn't utilize black guilt. I know Debrandt from more than the convoluted Spiral, a series only viewed sporadically, but cannot place his role which imprinted him, and I was going to inveigh that his functionality was outside of my worldview, but that isn't true. I lived date rapes and fucks and spasmodic heavy petting.

Part of this is panic over my dad. He is old and I want to go to him, to stop being a guilty financial transaction, to forgive him for doing to me then what Trudy Richardson does to me now, and I hate this woman so much it frightens me. I hate Trudy Richardson more than I hate Linda Dezenski, because this is what I wanted from Linda, to spare me the Presbyterian Moby Dick avarice. What the Presbyterian Homes model represents is human dystopia at its worst, and we need to stop it, just as we need to stop our obscenities with exotic game like Harambe. Only we cannot stop what we're doing, can we?