Echoes of Daniel

"I've done thousands of interviews!", the little big man, on my provocation

Somehow, I knew The Washington Post would produce this column on Angela Merkel, even if I lacked the requisite knowledge of Stelzenmuller and Brookings Institution Senior Fellows. Progressives, mothers, women, need assurance even while their worries are stoked, and I've written posts in the past that Merkel has, essentially, reconstituted German imperial ambitions which the Third Reich strove for, and had Hitler defeated the British, we might be in exactly the same place. 

If you'd like evidence that lithium might have a beneficial, mitigating effect on my dead brain tissue, my quarrel with Schneider in or around 2009 might offer proof I am in denial: when I cut myself off from his Cosmoetica site I thought I basically destroyed my career, and literally hid in the kitchenette, literally, cowering as if Dan and his wife were brain bugs about to suck my bodily fluids into a husk, and telephoned Marie in tears. The laity doesn't do what I did, even to B personalities, and here we are, perhaps my journalism days comparatively over. I don't know, not for sure, though it is harder to get paid, harder still to get prominent, and it isn't that Schneider is stupid, or doesn't have a point or two. I simply hated him, and didn't have the deviance to finesse it, play the facile invalid, take what opportunities I could. 

He isn't wrong about creative writing complacency, that it is coprocephalic. I came up in it's culture as an indigent poet starving to death offside Temple's campus, and going down in it through the firewall of Submittable fees, and don't have time to read it all, even if I wanted to put on liberal costumes to get laid. The journals aren't commercial products because heaven forbid students learn how to sell a marketable product. Would it have helped me in the eighties? No. Jerry was the Irish atheist Christ, and Professor Clark was beloved Apostle Thomas, and I was Janis, flaming out on angel dust for all that I truly thought about the future, and now I am megalomaniac enough to believe I can penetrate access to Bannon for vengeance, burying my hatchet in the rabbit hole that I voted for Trump the motherfucker over more of the same subsistence under the left. As much trauma as Diamond Park's location inflicted on me, I was still young, resilient, believed I could succeed, did, until I let the walls come tumbling, and never truly resurfaced. I'm hanging by my fingernails, actually pleading in my soul to threaten Riverside's manager in my notice, storming off, dead of winter in the bend, only my hellish intestines keeping me on the bit. Anything I can do to constrict CILS even further, like an anaconda, I'm going to do. The snake kills that way by design, atavistic. Revenge, that denotes a great deal of emotional involvement.