I have not researched the facts on the ground, but if he stay out of range, that was wrong.— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) February 24, 2018
The sheer volume of her
output is rather daunting, rivaling that of King, even if she is too cerebral
and literary to have King’s popular appeal. I know when I’m out-gunned, and
wouldn’t have responded to her point at all had I caught myself, but I am not
really an aficionado of her novels. A section of The Assassins scored beneath my undergraduate breast. Oates was up there, one of her central characters
silenced by a respirator, undermining my expectations, and I am always down here, in the mucus mudpies, getting
nigger fucked over every time I try to restore my work and submission routine,
waiting on another visitation by a woman who until recently tended my hospice
downgrading stepmother. More than Victoria herself, I want to sink to my knees
and beg her fiancé, who claims he can convert anything, to restore my files.
Even if the alchemy of how we react to the famous is somewhat integral to our
own psyches, a star like Woods doesn’t faze me in the digital distance, but
Oates does, even if longevity has dimmed her shine. Her celebratory profile of
Mike Tyson was too convenient and self-serving, Blonde was a mixed bag, and tapping her for a White Oleander jacket blurb was in questionable taste. First time
women novelists coming out of MFA culture have considerable lag time, and
nothing White Oleander’s author did felt authentic to me. The main character
was like a watered down Lolita with a flat tire. It came, went, movie deal,
hackneyed as anything else.
Oates’s
impassioned liberalism doesn’t leave much room for air, but I still feel she’s
wrong. Cruz was on a rampage and had significant fire power, but security
officers are hired to face such risks, and this officer might have done
something short of martyrdom to save lives. That is the role for which they get
paid. The actual instructors themselves should not have to function as police
too. There are enough accreditation hurdles teachers face just to teach; having
them armed in class has predictably bad outcomes. It may not be an impending
world’s end, but Trumpian brinkmanship has increased my anxiety even as my
range eclipses in this unstable meteorological shift of season. I need to stop
punishing myself with procrastinating despair and get back to work while I wait
to fix and upgrade technology, but I’m near breaking point, not sure how to
scale down to adjust. Marie’s family is contemplating an exodus from the city due to taxes. This is radical for this branch of my family. It may be too late for me, the cruelty and paces Presbyterian Homes, constriction
and loss of independence, my tonnage caving in my birdlike shoulders, catching
up with Oates’s wrinkled visage.
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