[In spite of his refined sensibility Hyacinth Robinson, the little Soho bookbinder, is condemned, as the Princess puts it, “to look at the good things of life only through the glass of the pastry-cook’s window.”]
I
did not know that Oprah was also a sexual abuse victim who miscarried the
fruits of the violence against her, and it certainly explains what lurks
beneath her vivacious veneer, how she transmutes white suffering with the
agrarian cracks in black culture; it nevertheless doesn’t remove the irritants
of her telegenic superficiality, and the dowager believes this is what Karina
doesn’t understand about umbrage against false friends. I think I had enough of
that with my former heroine supervisor, Linda Dezenski, who “didn’t understand
what I wanted,” when she let me crash land into a near self-inflicted violence.
Discussing ideation is one thing, but the turmoil my former colleagues at
Liberty left me in is another, and I could have never truly gotten past what
happened to me without leaving River Presbyterian Apartments, and since I haven’t
managed that, and keep getting punched in the face, I needed to cast off my
former Craigslist hire. Karina saw the reality of my situation. Due to this,
with a trace of guilt, I overcompensated her, but had a different set of
expectations than consoling phone calls, particularly when I was in trouble in
October. I had hoped the peripatetic passer
would have stepped up to mitigate the stress of my equipment failure. The cues
I read in her voice said no way, so I essentially tossed courtesy out the
window, and unfriended her. I don’t necessarily dislike flighty blonds with
wobbly centers, but this shallowness is the venial American sin. I would not
have these same expectations from a women’s interest author like Gretchen
Laskas, though she has been in my department with some of her early writings,
because mutual physical support is not the foundation of our relationship.
Karina, however, accepted how I defined her, rapidly suggested and then
retracted a co-habitation, which, if she had more mettle behind her
declarations, would have spared me the equestrian braying cruelty of an asshole
like “Tom,” Presby’s contracted Holocaust squad leader. I fault conservatives
here too, harder as I am on the left, especially Kaisch with his Downs Syndrome
anti-abortion bill. Conservatives fight for our lives, but the majority of us
wind up as slaves, constricted chattel, unless we have the peculiar genius of Hawking.
It may appear that chronic conditions are harder on the precocious, but making
that assumption is laurel resting. The mentally retarded know, particularly
when entering into adulthood, that the world perceives the threat they pose.
Robert Redford tries to cut through this superficiality within his maturity,
almost with the force of preponderance in Majorie
Prime. Whatever the flaws in its gravity, the revelation of emotional
wounds, this futurist dramatic poem is a devastating condemnation of method acting. To that end it’s rather
finely tuned, and probably an affectation in the wake of Paul Newman’s terminal
cancer. The middlebrow would say Redford is wise, not engaging in a roman a
clef, hiding his intent in subtext, but I have an agenda, going to be gone
soon, and take my sacrifices. It could be that James Woods, trailing behind
Redford some years, doesn’t have the capacity to read my responses, as his
followers have steadily increased. In my case, I know I haven’t taken drops
simply due to vulgarity, but I do wince, when my fondness leads me to positive
attributes, like a solitaire guru, and I face the risk of more abandon if they
become aware, but we all know the price of eggs, how difficult broken yolks are
to clean away.
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