Fat Greeks Trumpet

THE FOODS OF GREECE ARE THE RICHEST IN THE MEDITERRANEAN. An assertion in the Olive and the Caper

Reviewers play a sucker's game, and Pelecanos plays to populist liberal sentiment for its fools gold, as I too for a time fell to kindle crazed herd mentality and downloaded every piece of shit Amazon threw in my face, not that George is as bad as some of the pablum I deleted from my digital archive in the cloud. Nothing is worse than the Christian genre. Not Catholic, but popular Evangelical thriller authors. They should be shot for turning linguistic intricacy into maggots breeding on mold.. Pelecanos isn't that. He has an agenda, the desire to illustrate that eagles and penguins are basically the same, and when he was the vogue appetizer of the week in the established media, much was made of the fact that Pelecanos had a black protagonist named Derek Strange. So the dowager chased a bit of tail. No one likes every genre they buy, and noooooooo, I ain't the kind of writer who can talk about Maglites and soul radio and offer readers a penile fixation with the heirs to the Camaro, but George's mancave approach to DC crime and illicit activity shows me exactly how I will not play to formula if enough of my brain cells survive to try my idea. 

Fuck commercialism, fuck the formula, and as I'm over over tired with swollen feet and tingling ankles we'll reserve my discontent for another day, but the Strange franchise title I have is Right As Rain. In comparison to the myriad black authors I've read in my half century of years, Pelecanos's authenticity is a self conscious joke. Alice Walker may have bristled at everything, but if she was among the minority literati who bristled at what George appropriated, you can pass the word to the diva of purple I'll be glad to assist if she wants to string this whitey up and toggle his inner sanctum up a bit. I will now never watch The Wire. Ever, because this man's presumption is beyond the very bounds of any known universe. I hate idiots. I hate stupidity, but more than that, the air of knowing self-righteousness makes Mussolini come off as a saint. I forbid anyone to talk to me, to recommend anything by Pelecanos. After I finish this detective novel, Comey won't have enough resources to chase me down with a federal warrant. Now my overwhelmed aching frame is off to bed.

Chiaroscuro, della Scalizo

Of the twenty children Brown fathered, nine died before the age of ten, among them a baby girl accidentally scalded to death by an elder sister.--Tony Horwitz, Midnight Rising, loc. 143

How many times have I written here not to telephone dying aunts, particularly when I am under so much strain of my own accord? Waiting on a small line of credit which shouldn't have been approved, even if we all know that game; told myself not to dial her number, but my father doesn't quite fill me in on medical gossip events, so I dialed, and the rate at which she and I disconnect from each other is a form of compensation toward not hurling expletives at each other; things which cannot be unsaid. I "slipped" in relation to my demented uncle's mortality, and that was enough, as it usually is. My knowledge that my cousin's mother is on the fringe, being closed by concentric bands on functionality, isn't the crux of the problem.

I have no social extensions to keep me on the ground, with my yellowed and crooked underbite, my weary and mortally wounded eyes-- even when I am safe on supplies, the damage can be read in my eyes like a marriage between Henry Lee Lucas and the Kama Sutra. I have tried to provide myself outlets. The Rosenbach, as I knew beforehand, wasn't the appropriate venue. Liberty On the Rocks members -- with the exception of Zach Tollen-- he a product of the consumer model, tolerate and feel badly for me to an extent. They see I have an active mind, one invariably dragged by a ball and chain, like my uncle's body, which, like an orca when it expires, is classified as a biological hazard, but I have no intimates, nor intimacy, in my marginalized indigence, thus at my core more caustic than my aunt. My niece's MS is a blow to my sister's self-absorption, and honestly, I don't really care, having lived my own rivers of death, but this is what eighty year olds ahead of me do, even if they are progenitors. They wag like maids.

Though I cannot for the life of me do it tomorrow, showing up at a Toomey campaign hub at the last minute to make scripted calls, this will also leave an indelible imprint of commiseration, unless I take 48 hours to fight with dressing as I used to, before the Quickie shorted out, but even then, desolation radiating off one's flesh like a depth charge blowing the bodies of fish to the surface doesn't exactly forge new paths in the garden. Black Mirror seems to be something of interest which escaped notice, but it will have to wait in an interior queue of a black lung goop, assuming I have an opportunity to get to it, even if it is a primarily ambulatory oxymoron.  As a disabled woman in the 21st century, let alone the previous one, I shouldn't be able to comprehend the destitution of John Brown's life.

Romans and Celts

"The North, I mean the living North, was suddenly all transcendental. It went behind the human law, it went behind the apparent failure, and recognized eternal justice and glory." -- Henry David Thoreau, cited in Weird John Brown: Divine Violence and The Limits of Ethics

The second generation kindle which my broken urinal splashed has fully recovered, though the controller was not amused with me. How many of these things has Amazon manufactured? Thousands? I understand that the micro-bead ink is made in Israel. I am rather attached to the one the retailer shipped me originally. I have a relationship with this kindle, curse it ferociously but derive more comfort from it than my marginally younger Paperwhite, though I know the 2Gk has to be exchanged, deregistered, soon. I am sad, because the device has it's own character, and do not wish to deactivate it, Russian trolls notwithstanding.

The above paragraph serves as a rationale as to why I'm solidly behind Toomey, despite the sense, intuitively derived, that his staff may believe I need a nose ring and some manners; who bothers when the mare is barren? In point of fact, if Toomey's circle saw how I live, bipartisanship would turn a leaf or two, and that circle would coax me to die as I had lived, in medical model institution, siding with the intellectually limited minorities who manage the building (but not themselves, blacks seem to repeatedly confirm they behave like Chinese villagers with petty vendettas, and I am getting out, one way or another, fall on my sword, if I must). If I know what I know, that obscene fortresses like Inglis House are reliable portfolios, and I applaud Toomey's business acumen as a necessary aggression, then why don't I fold in my hand?

Because I know what it's like to have money, and a beautiful 3 acre home, une poppa who taught me the value of work and self reliance, and I did all of this before progressives ass-kissed federal mandates like the ADA, which, as statues, are simply useless repetitions. I may baffle the left, may confuse the Christian right wing, and other libertarians may not trust my authoritarian streak, granted, but every liberal biased negative ad against Toomey makes him a proper capitalist in my eyes, willing to bury the hatchet over such unspoken skeletons. The Celt and the Roman married the same faith, but despise each other. Keep it under your hat. 

It is to my misfortune I did not push to be a flunky to get what I wanted, but if he keeps his seat, the mare ninnies another day.

Thick Middle

"You saw me standing alone."-- Blue Moon

Let us go back, on a shoestring budget comparable to what the unfortunate Victor Garber deals with on Frequency, sure enough he titillated us more as Garner's father on Alias, even if that series was too heavily dosed by Dan Brown's badly deployed medieval fantasy, to remember that The Seventh Sign is a tasteless Demi Moore vehicle, exploiting an actor with Downs Syndrome-- even I shall concede Mongoloid is a harsh designation, exactly why I deign to recall it to you-- as an intoning seer of doom. But did the mentally retarded actor himself have the cognition to realize he was being stereotyped as a harbinger of the Apocalypse? 
This is how the casting scouts for The Exorcist wanted to use me and others when they found us at Rusk Institute. I would have been that much less destitute in the contemporary century had I stood up to the case management staff and at least met with the production crew on its fishing expedition, before the movie made such an indelible impact that it fatally palled the decade. The movie was one of the first I transfixed myself for on whatever computer, through a streaming provider, Prime, I believe, years ago, and would have no difficulty streaming it again. I believe my generation was cursed by the film, by the novel which preceded the film, by David Foster Wallace superimposing the film in his best Oblivion short story before David Foster Wallace hung himself leaving his sorry ass to rock the noose. Didn't he bother to consider what his wife would experience upon discovering his body? We'll let this sincere testament of dread answer for why I have kept my distance from the Fox revival, not a prequel, nor a sequel, but an offshoot. Though I am unforgiving of actors in general, Geena Davis (phew) is not a lead who ever really held my interest, even giving birth to larva in her Jeff Goldblum nightmare. But I will say I admire that this particular subset of horror, as a genre, tries valiantly to take evil seriously, as Wallace does, and I do too, which is why Wallace ended badly, and you can have no doubt I'm still shrieking, mindful of the line in the sand. I'm not the Virginia Tech Asian, but my broken life form nudges closer to that shooter's break, as Maigret would have put it, on a daily basis. I could use Callum's absorption technique for Horse. The anus is faster than the stomach. Real torture, such as we find in Lear, or the MGM version of Samson, makes most viewers flinch, so horror is usually married to camp, to ensure the audience has its shields. The lupine variety which subverts our expectations best, in a playful, but ruthlessly curt fashion, is An American Werewolf in London. I have not seen it in a long time, but its beat, its tracks, its satire, and its sad sharp shooting conclusion, makes us forgive Hollywood every so often. Naughton doesn't seem to have aged well.

American Elections Are Rigged

From the time I attempted to merge my online activity with Yabberz and failed (not griping here, I hate the portal, troll or no troll) I have been looking for a reason to sing along with the Trumpets, not due to my enthusiasm for the mogul, but due to my anathema for the Clintons, this despite being on Bill's Social Security Committee and not getting groped, but nevertheless gaining insight into what power does to sex drives, even enhancing performance, perhaps.
 When it comes to exercising my right to vote, I am a nearly rigid libertarian, by default, by wariness, but my time clock is telling me my mind may be gone by 21. I am collapsing, biologically, and giving my notice and rolling back to Springfield to butt heads with my stepmother for a day isn't going to make the Blessed Mother part the sky so that I ascend in a direct line to sit on her knee, hence I'm adrift. Trump isn't wrong about what he says, but he is brusque to the point that it ignites antagonism, much as I do; he is neurotic, paranoid, defensive, and a misogynist. And yet I'm rewriting his syntax so as to provoke my viewers, belaboring the question as to why the GOP didn't contest the primary vote, take Jennifer Rubin's point, and put Pence forward as the frontrunner. Be that as it may, American elections have always been dirty. The establishment goes on PBS to talk about Trump's dangerous undermining, when all we have to do is read our own history books, which we conveniently ignore Teddy Roosevelt became president by accident. Party bosses wanted him out out the way, never expecting McKinley would be assassinated. No one voted for Teddy, but no one can say he wasn't a bull moose to be reckoned with. Special classes of people like me and disenfranchised Africans had nothing to do with the figure of Franklin's larger than life uncle. It was Franklin who set the federal welfare state in motion which is now a bloody global phenomenon. 
 What Trump is exhorting in shorthand is this: the two party American primary system spits out consensus nominees whose rhetoric bears little resemblance to actually running the country. In that sense, voting is rigged, and the party of Lincoln has troubled times ahead: I'm a fucking 54 year old cripple whose tragedy is the welfare state: Had my father been a proper Roman patrician, in the time of the empire, I would have been asphyxiated at birth, but people like me, in our survival, anticipate massive bureaucracy and global conglomerates. If republicanism falls, it is because it doesn't have the guts to be honest about marginalized expendability, but when it comes to who is or isn't out to get Donald, he turns off mortally outraged individuals like me, looking for hope in the ability to control my own fate.

One wearies of the rise of the Irish

"I did it; I beat the system."-- Ellen Muth

Beneath its supernatural elements, (I don't like the term mythology, which Wiki uses) Dead Like Me is slightly too courageous, too honest, about the perplexing transitory nature of being alive and dead alive, and our lust for experience, with certain contingencies outside of that, oddball clubs of all sorts, like Trek conventions. It was always disconcerting to me that Roddenberry arguably created a cult as well as science fiction for television. One may enjoy the adventures of the Enterprise, or guffaw, but people who dress up as Klingons no doubt fantasize about the permanent removal of pubic hair through electrolysis, and need a life, though this is how they get it, thinking of bizarre formulas, or rather, appreciating that people like Fuller make them work, and yet, some of the reaping episodes, particularly Callum's, are poorly directed, maudlin, and at the same time, the most disconcerting (what the fuck was that with the gay couple, jesus, one aspirates) I obviously didn't like that scene, though I'm not sure what got edited after Showtime leased its rights for public syndication. Mason always is on the receiving end of the take down; no wonder he zones it out. The birthday party father was particularly risible, and if his scorn was meant to be affecting, it worked. I would have stolen a quarter pint of Jack Daniels from a drunkard too, forcing myself to pay attention, as I may never get near this level of quality in the near term, and it's almost over, as we're in season two, past the pet reaper.

Take out the Protestant elements, overlooking the constraints of my palsy and the abuse I and my sister sustained (she got the brunt of it physically from my mother's post-divorce trash, and I carry guilt I couldn't protect Stephanie. I already know what her therapy sessions amount to even if I scoffed at what she hinted), I was Ellen's Georgia coming of age, and not getting to do what normal 18 year olds do, always on the outside, manipulating teachers. I might have had more courage after a certain point. You'd like it if I was more life affirming. I did strike out on my own, brave, stupid, obstinate girl, worked, traveled, secretly pissed on hotel carpeting in Hershey, survived date rape, fucked drug addicts and conflicted, wounded married men who fought my mockery and kept coming back until they won, and I still lost, penniless poet whose transfer skills turn inward to fear of irreversible injury. In the modern era, losing children is a microcosm of survivor's guilt, very much part of my father's retreat. I never had his love, try as hard as I might, particularly after he lost his son, the psycho boy he fought so hard to save. It is the closest entry I have into the insulating grief of the Khans, their coping mechanism being a scorched earth policy towards the lightning rod that Trump is. I stayed away from the brawl, partially due to my lack of comprehension as to why it gained such a high profile, and who started it-- but if you're a Muslim American going into the front lines of an irrational ideologically driven Iraqi war to show what a patriot you are in the face of a corrupted jihad, then you can expect to lose your progeny; to then use the media to lick your wounds is unseemly, even if Donald is a juvenile delinquent who has elevated narcissism as deserving of executive authority. If, on the seventh, I drive downstairs and wait in line to vote in the social services room on the ground floor, I may throw that vote away on Harambe, who became a manufactured news item: dead apes don't poll five percent on their own initiative. Someone put the gorrilla in the question--  then split the ticket to keep Toomey ensconced in incumbency, or throw it away to a slightly more deserving Johnson. Samuelson, Wapo's economic columnist, once suggested the US is increasingly more like Europe. I'd say Mexico, instead.

Albert Finney's Papacy

"Death carries no passport," Louis Gossett Jr pretending to address the UN before being assassinated

When TheGaryo initially discovered my thus far lone twitter account, the dowager assumed he was a comic book fan, not a British footballer. And as of this writing, I am not certain who the fuck he is, nor what he deigns to offer. I only recently noticed his numbers, a whale of his own making, perhaps. He also stopped following me, twice; twice returned, and I would have gone on blithely ignoring the man, to the extent we assume gender, but for the fact I suspected him in relation to hoax accounts sent my way.

If he is a British athlete of standing, I can only speculate his motives for being charitable to a spastic racist in the process of losing control of her game: he is being charitable, or wonders about the possibility of chronic injury. If it is the latter, O'Neill would be better off reading Hockenberry, who I only recently stopped following, exasperated because I was weakly clinging to the shared experience identification. It only takes us so far, like the embarrassment of shitting yourself in front of an Israeli source while eating olives. The Israeli graciously clucks his tongue, and out comes a mop and pail. I may not know Hockenberry, but I know too much, inclusive of the fact he has never turned his Dateline/PBS beam on the cruelty of CIL culture. Clint Eastwood, as a former elected official, he makes great target practice, never mind NCIL corruption. This points to my decoupling, with my own incontinence an integumental hindrance growing in proportion to lack of resources, and Riverside's central thermostat. My landlord took away my ability to control the radiator. It sickens me, and I get blamed, as usual. Complaining does little, though I've attempted, in the past, to talk to Mike Pera, who should face a firing squad for being the dumbest Caucasian on the planet. I might have beat the situation this morning, but waited and had a potato, eating so much less than I used to what is coming out of me must have mitigated any arterial plaque-- or I am not absorbing what little nutrients getting dissolved in my stomach. 70 degrees outside, my bedside window cracked, fan running, my end of life career a battle with fecal puss, like Slothrop's post-modern swim through toilet plumbing.

For the record, I am ambivalent about Karol Wojtyla's usurpation of the Roman Empire's last titular vestige of its grip on the world. Ceding to the Polish, then the German balks and the cardinals go to Argentina. Scowling. Was the Cardinal Wojtyla a great force of moral resistance? If memory serves, that may be affirmed, but he turned the papacy into a celebrity contest which will continue to have troubling indications. Hopefully I'll be gone before Nigeria gains control of The Curia.  

Registered if I change my mind

I fling out one level of emotive defiance and I lose 15 accounts. I can smirk, persevere, as always, but once in a while I need a good "fuck you," even if not directed at an individual, because I've gone through the kiln of life long stigma, and now I have to prepare to die by inexorably being sucked back in to medical stricture and decline, unless I can handle what an officer on yet another anemic procedural didn't inflict on himself. The opening scene was data mining, however variable.

To clarify a point from yesterday's post, I am not trying to convey that if everyone heeded the lessons of literary endeavor that Harambe would still be alive, but what I am asserting is we refuse to draw on the lessons we attempt to teach ourselves, despite the fact we already know what they are. This isn't ideological as much as it is a signature of human folly. If we had gone the dowager's route, and did the utmost to respect the life of the gorilla, and the four year old boy had sustained trauma, this would be another conversation. But even if we aren't statisticians, humans are the most numerous advanced mammals, and we're killing the rest, even if occasionally, we spare aggressive orcas over money. Large predatory felines need habitat, as do their elephant nemesis's. All this is vanishing, and we're going to kill ourselves off with microbes because we fight our biological demise beyond reason.

I used to be utterly perplexed at the primacy of homo sapiens,. but the evolutionary short form solution is that we bred ourselves into this, which doesn't explain our larynx, voice box, the evolution of language, the fact that descendants of dinosaurs can mimic it but nevertheless never invented their own form. We do not have any equivalent rivals of parity, within our own genus or outside of it, except for drug resistant bacteria, a simpler invertebrate life form we can combat, but not vanquish. Humans already cull themselves indirectly, through a plethora of policies which are utterly misguided, but we had best start thinking of better solutions before a few lucky thousands scrape by on reindeer lichen.

There is only one thing of which I am certain: Hillary will not get my vote, speculative war pandemic notwithstanding, in my autumn achey decline, the radiator making me flume with mucus of which I've increasingly little to spare, what I don't like about the Jazzy is the petal holders extend outward an inch; I've only just discovered that driving the chair slightly past the center without clipping the underside of my thigh enables easier pivot, buttock better planted, which doesn't mean I'm not fatally compromised unless I move on and find someone to live with. Not an easy task.

Quantum Models in Slovenia

Though I haven't perused any recent issues, Poets & Writers loves contributions about profiles in which the established figures discuss technique; never did a damn thing for me, blindly shelling out my money, for years. The organization is baffled at my ire now that I'm really feeling an economic pinch, but it is the same as other motifs seeping through this account: the price of spastic dowager's loyalty and passive acceptance. My technique to produce creatively never recovered from two things, the first being moving to this wretched studio at Riverside (Karina either trashing or misplacing my scrapbook of articles), and the second adapting to digital, even though it seems counter-intuitive, as I made more money as a journalist online between 99-08 than I ever did riding shotgun with literary journals as the caboose of arts and sciences departments, but while we're at it, let me merge apples and potatoes: I used to consider Kenyon Review to be highbrow, a desirable addition to my CV; that I use the past tense doesn't mean I'm now nonchalant, so much as questioning creativity's didactic ability in the modern era. I sampled KR online when my now distressed second generation kindle was more vogue. Forget dates. It was more than two years ago through, and there was a fictional story of an orphan chimpanzee whose mother was killed by a poacher who sold the baby to a progressive white American woman who had an adopted black daughter. The simian and the human youngster bonded but the chimp grew up, and like Caesar in the reboot, is placed in captivity, a last meeting with human sister ending in distress. The contributor's point was, I believe, to make us question human tendency to compartmentalize. Yet the senseless travesty of Harambe occurred despite the most astute of Kenyon's imperatives. The incurious toddler was actually the expendable mammal if we are going to arguable over the health of bio-diversity. Not that I wouldn't have made an effort to distract the silverback to recover the child, but in no way would I have shot dead an innocent ape denied its freedom so that we could gape at it; speaking of which, this is an upgrade I'll gun for next month. Back to work, back to coffee, and those who care about the election in November, go fuck yourselves. I wash my hands of the whole national scene.

Gorilla Out of Shoulder Blades

In the literary genre, there are better and lesser credits, just as in journalism. The brand name credits have always alluded me, sometimes by a nose. APR hexed me as an undergraduate, handwriting a precious consolation note beneath its then 1983 standard rejection slip: "sorry to say no!". Even as a student I was baffled. WTF did it mean? I have supported APR intermittently, and would and shall continue to do so, with the luxury of resource, even if I never get a slice of their space, but like Kenyon, APR is a status brand; in marketing terms, I have few of these, the best being a minority anthology out of Pittsburgh, another fallow destitute period where I abused the young man who accepted me in it-- and yet, even today, simply by taking blind aim, I wind up in the laps of African American scholars who see my suffering as a corresponding voice to their historical memory: I had the gall, if you like, to ask one of these if she might consider writing a forward to my long tortured poetry manuscript, the strongest of them. "I am not sure I am the right person," she wrote, but if I do trouble her with it, why does such hypocrisy offer momentary glee? My psyche is far more interesting than that of Lee Doty's nurse (to pick an old scab).

I make the damnest effort to stay away from lesser known student journals, precisely because of the scaffold of credits I do have, but this is because of a towering giant who is no more. Len was truly independent, and he never humiliated me as did the Poets and Writers community, but I am caught with my zipper painfully pinching my crotch: I am too established not to ignore a great deal of what Allison transmits and writing magazines advertise, but cannot limit myself to APR and the Atlantic, creatively, and expect to survive. I am even less as a freelance journalist, but face nearly the same difficulty in getting commissioned for content. The digital world imploded an already wobbly pay for play patronage system: It killed Len's singular loyalty driven Small Press Review. I miss what the man meant to me.

Pity the Trump

The time is all we've lost/ I'll try it! Jonathan Edwards

I cannot say what the other drifters in Philadelphia's LOTR think of me, with the possible exception of Black Adder, a young man who doesn't suit as a primary target, but I no longer have a healthy social intelligence, let alone social extensions I value, and value me in return. I had a flicker of interest in the Asian computer geek, but haven't batted an eyelash, nor intend too, as I know nothing, inclusive of his age, sexual orientation; he is kind, however, and comprehends my fervor when I see him. I have a relationship to kimmy, at least in mourning for Vinnie, a relationship to broadcast schedules, to Trader Joe's as a brand, to the self-absorption of the seventies, singing Jonathan's post Woodstock angry ballad as loudly as I could in my alienated urban world of happy blacks and more diffident Pakistani's.

All I have left is memories of fraudulent emotional investment, and on bad days, the cut of my former manager's voice in my head, with her come off it attitude because a poem of longing for a man I never caught had a double entendre on the word "come," which suited her convenience to go off on me. "Hands With Cerebral Palsy" was never a literal experience between Tassoni and I, never an assertion of a caress to his face, only the stanzas of a broken heart. In this context, I've assiduously avoided too much dissection of the flaming Trump phenomena; never liked him, saw him as carnivalesque, his rise indicative indeed of the warnings prophesied in Network and Max Headroom, but the establishment has so gone off its rocker I'm leaning toward not giving my vote to Harambe, the saintly victim of human primacy. "Sunshine" was a pop fizz out of the turbulent 60's, but despite the resonance of the chords Edwards strikes, it cops a plea, and in that vein fails its liberal zeal.

Re (Assignment)

"It is people like you, William, who are destroying the moral fabric of the country."-- Patrick McGoohan, Anglicized reactionary

Outland's cultural interplay  operates on levels with a number of tranches. It is an obvious homage by Hyams to High Noon, which in itself isn't really a western, but a question about what kind of country America is, but the narrative is also about Connery's frustration with the Fleming formula. It has its weak spot, the worshipful wife doing an early version of Skype. Kira projects Carol O'Niel as little more than a moon child who wants to be dominated by self-made virility. Don't we all. Beyond this, it offers a fulfilling neo-realism which makes the difficulty of transliterating science fiction all the more rewarding, posited in a plausible futurist technocratic frailty. Walter Hill may not have had a direct influence on Hyams's work, but someone was paying attention.

Methink's Hill's protestations out forced gender switching are disingenuous, but I am not ready to challenge an entertainment icon on his understated political consciousness,  and prefer to go through O'Neal first, and know I have to move: the man is sick, seemingly in need of money-- but I am also barely holding it together. My "essay-ish" piece on The Driver is not slated for Rolling Stone, as its cultural insulation makes me queasy: Wenner switched sides, thus not invalidating arguments about sexuality and choice-- but in recent searches, debated pitching the entertainment icon a slant. It would not hurt. Freelancers get ignored hundreds of times a day-- but I am staying my hand, as they seem to already eat Hill like ice cream. I am trying to probe a little more deeply, much as the juxtapositions in The Prisoner keep the viewer off balance. It too is science fiction dressed up like a primitive comic book (much like The Good Place, which sends up smugness rather cheaply and isn't enough).

For now, this is all I can manage. If I haven't broken the law and assaulted Trudy Richardson, at week's end, perhaps I will have crept through my own physiological torments enhanced by corruption.

Immaculate Conceptions

"The lady was ugly!"-- Wilkie Collins

Ms. Ellen Muth is not so insulated in the problems of celebrity that she couldn't reach back out, which she did, liking my tweet in my praise of her character. One small pleasure in a crippled writer's twilight. I quite unwittingly sent an anti-lesbian poem-- one which was once much larger and ambitious in scope, to a Peter Pan pixie faggot in a no nothing literary journal I decided to briefly grace with my attention. Old august potentates do that. Allen Ginsberg, a more mercurial fruit in his time, appears with me in Big Scream, which was also nothing, lithographed pages in a binder. [I could have met the celebrated beatnik with Jerry, and very conscientiously passed on the opportunity.] What game am I playing?

In the mechanism of not paying attention, just keeping busy, and if I accidentally blow torch a progressive anus along the way, provocative victory is salivating, as I am starving and desperately in need of an inhale, I am taking a risk, partially charged, running to the bank early, hoping the entitlement is there. Ravenous seems to induce hyper sexual restoration. Don't ask, but in thinking of Nick Denton doing what I didn't, I am fairly confident Michael Washington would have slept with me. I was burning; he knew it, and if I had kept a lid on it and he had fraternized with me over a drink, I would have become a human stain. Padre would have killed me while I was even in the process of drilling the mixed race fetus out of my vaginal cavity. The fuck of the century would have ruined my life.

But while I am here, a 19th century literature reader defended Collins as a sympathetic advocate of the impaired. It was a defense to my liking, made me reconsider Collins stature against Dickens. I hear the censorious roar of protest in my ears, but I simply cannot stomach Dickens, prefer his less illustrious contemporaries, and understand why Henry James made valiant efforts to undermine the prodigious Victorian novelist of Great Expectations, (The only Dickens work I like, though my Signet edition is misplaced).