Arc of Nitrate Decomposition

Let us return to Professor Phillips momentarily, as the representative teacher novelist and vignette author. My first exposure to Jayne Anne was in an 1983 anthology, Matters of Life and Death. I believe this exposure presented before Jerry sent me trotting after Black Tickets, of which I can recall virtually nothing. "Home" is a strong short story and made a strong impression, but it embodies all of Jayne Anne's weaknesses, a penchant for abstraction, emotional coolness, the clipped mildly vicious bite of women in her social class. It points to her lack of sustaining power as a novelist. I blinded myself to it out of sexual frustration and envy, dangerous enough to be generative of bisexual anxiety, despite the fact I never had a sexual fantasy where oral orgasm involved a lithe and more biologically attractive woman making me the masochistic bitch begging in submission, all games, no glory. Deep enough for you? If so, why am I pushing this?

I may not literally die leaving Riverside section 202 after 24 years of hostility and fear. As a practical matter, whatever I do, first responders would be forced to remove me if I get stranded: I am cognizant this expedites what I've seen Presby do to residents for years, and years, since I was 23, but I just can't take it anymore, and I am hoping I am just clever enough to evade the barbarity Inglis House represents. My online voice, however, will not be what it was, so I'm pulling the knives, pressing the most dangerous triggers which usually ends lives of lesbian suckling gluttony, and am capable of a rather close distinction between a feminine sexual threat which would not lead to positive satiation, because the stark existential reality is, I could never be the Jayne Anne whose chic reticence appeals to a man of breeding, the cosmopolitan urbanite I always longed for: her so so achievements as the modern southern female will fade, because it is the standard, literary milk weed that passes for expression. She is more teacher than writer who makes the blood vibrate, and it is the women who reject teaching whose legacy is the most powerful in literary endeavor.

Despite the catastrophe before me, I am putting the strongest parts of my voice together, the Joanne poet who closed the issue of Oxford Magazine Jayne Anne opened. She aspired to the voice of angels. I intimated Custer's Last Stand can be attributable to the modern consumer economy of appliances like microwaves, much more complex in condemnation. I regret my letter to her publisher, forget what the fizz amounted to, but don't regret the torsion of my own self-deception. The cry that I too wanted a lithe eroticism, that I too wanted the power of God's creation in my vibrant woman's vessel, and was denied. Let's see who shall stand the test of time. The visiting professor or spastic survivor of American genocide.