Strategic Retreat

As the lunacy of my non-compliance continues toward the overwhelming crisis of self-enforced eviction-- what, exactly, do I expect to happen without access to electricity and toiletries? Nothing beneficial-- I'll pull a shuttlecock and actually post about a partial or legally blind content creator from the ewe mentality of Niume-land and its troubles. I've written before I have very little to say about the intersection between art therapy and aspiring disabled individuals in the fine arts, and I have, at best, a nominal command of art criticism, but those of you without chronic pain want this, positive attitude effusive, sympathetic ecology appreciation, and would prefer I turn the rudder, assert that Oscar Perez has an eye for the harmony of contemplating the environment. Done.

Certain things don't translate on web sites that well, and traditional portraiture, whether paint or still frame, is one. Digital pictures cheat the aesthetic appreciation for which our eyes, symmetric and concentrated, like all primates, were designed. Oscar followed me and I followed back, and barely hear a peep out of him, picked up a slightly more centered perception of him on Virily, where I've remained relatively quiet. I hold happiness and contentment suspect, and believe those inclined to genius normally do, and, in affinity with my mentor, Jerry, I do not like crowds, though my twitter presence escalates, at least on the benevolence of the gatekeepers.

Do you want me to tell you what will happen if I do not evacuate myself from Presby? I did not think so, but I shall, just the same, release my inner militant. She will ensure a tragedy occurs if she doesn't get out. The lack of physical ability to fight is irrelevant in this regard.

I came up with the idea of a subset essay at least, whether or not for my collection, of something like "The Jerry Memoirs," as my bondage to his memory fades, and he is a wisp of an old man on a stick. I dug up his 2012 reading on YouTube. Same old McGuire, and yes, I expected, for him, some sort of expansiveness, instead of a parody of his forceful 40's. I do not know yet, but corrected my self-awareness. I attached myself to him out of shared conceit. If he was the best Shakespearean on the east coast, I was going to be SuperCripple, if this is easy enough for mass mindsets to grasp. The late entry 19 year old needed a piece of that ego, and latched, however unconsciously intuited. I believed that he could spare me a condemned fate, and had I been more dispassionate, I might have been right, but he ignited my cunt, as reductive as that is on end note.