Arthur Miller's Larynx

"What are you, my wife?"   -- a harried paraprofessional who was grateful I recalled he forgot to fax his time sheet

When management turns on the radiator, I always tend to destabilize in my intestinal region, though somewhat unbeknownst to me, I was vulking waste into my disposal briefs because of a summer cold, so the situation has somewhat reversed itself, even though my interior air quality is now analogous to a fabled Turkish bath. And we've had so much of this lately. Erdogan's authoritarian hypocrisy, the House of Saud and its Janus face. If I am familiar with Khashoggi's writing I cannot remember it. Of course he did not deserve death in a choke hold with dismemberment, but I am going to assert a truism via which I only diminish my once vaunted desire to return to the ranks wherein those with contracts club each other over the head: Saudi Arabia is an enemy.
It is over now, the cold, but I desperately need to regain some independence. I cannot continue to function like this, with or without this minority and our near affair. I don't want him, and this is a near 180 degree turn, but I can't feel anything for a man who disdains my thirst to return to analysis. Our welfare partnership nearly tore asunder this past Monday. He became furiously angry that the kitchen was in moderate disarray, given my punishing helplessness in this Quantum model. I love my godfather, but the vendor he runs, Mainline Medical, failed me. My suffering is obdurate, and my purported nurse blew a gasket because I did not make the fill-in aide do a better job. He frightened me as if I had actually been weak enough to sleep with him, and it nearly ended that morning between us. It is probably the way it will end, although he grew tender, appreciative, when I simulated "being" his woman, reminding him the time sheet had to be faxed, after we closed the rift which only fuels my confirmation bias. A failed little boy who cries for his mother, this fellow. I'd flick him away like a speck of lint, remembering I too can reject able bodied men. I'd go on, colder, harder, bigoted, but you've had enough implosive virulence from yours truly whose first priority is weaponizing anesthetics against homosexuals, mounting them with pins, despite the papal voice of Francis: Do not condemn them. Indeed, I admire the illumination of Foucault despite his resistance to thesis, on body mechanization. AIDS was in its infancy as a known pathogen in 1987, so I cannot, much like Erdogan, go "too" far, but I respect Foucault's use of a structuralist approach to make us see the insidious nature of control on our physiology, invidious , ever encroaching. Perhaps, the more rigorous the work product, the more sexual risks Michel Foucault needed to take. Well, he was French.
Into this, the Facebook engaged in a mass purge last week, and Breitbart, nonetheless, stirred me into empathetic anger for Brian Kolfrage. I am following him on Facebook, not yet on Twitter. Here is the article informing many of us about why we lost PM Beers. Here is the press release. It may read like a conscientious consumer protection plan, yet I never trusted social media from day one, and have some degree of difficulty placing a three limb amputee with a family to support on par with Rasputin. I will have a more focused post on the conflicts herein, perhaps on LinkedIn, which censored me briefly from participating in groups due to "lack of relevance." Now I simply do not engage. Before my older more functional Quantum failed, I made a tremulous job search on LinkedIn, and nothing ever panned. I received letters of interest from unfunded grants, like Plato's cave wall. I have to broaden my efforts. However weakened, the dragon wakens once more. Help me.

Syndication Block Edits, The Fallow Fields of an Elijah Price Warp

Searching for the shining face of God Jean?-- Burt Lancaster, Scorpio

In the sense that poverty requires patience before gratification is achieved, it took courage for Coronji Calhoun to allow himself to be exposed as the obese kid who gets picked on by everyone, including his mother, in Monster’s Ball, but like the late 20^th century Big Night, one of my favorite Tucci films, Forster intends for Monster’s Ball to be a rather convoluted allegory of the post-civil rights era in the American South. The Amazon app announced that it was free to Prime subscribers the same evening Bounce, the black programming channel—which as often as not airs blockbuster setups with Sylvester Stallone on flimsy pretexts—made Ball available to viewers during the conventional prime time slots we all had to depend on before we were cable subscribers. Your poor dowager had a momentary tug of war. She cannot quite afford a streaming device for her flat screen, but needed her other devices free, thus opted to trust that the syndication edits did not diminish the full effect by any significant degree, as they did with Unbreakable.  As her beleaguered pessimism makes rather self-evident, the dowager has been slowing down to a terrible degree, never envisioning the crack of the powder keg crumpling me in to this extent, and thus, utilizing free broadcast to catch Elijah’s appalling rationale for his genocidal miniatures to Willis’ David Dunn, was what I tuned in for, except that this last muted monologue, the darkest of all megalomania’s expansive graphic excesses, is what Bounce chose to edit, in my precious expending of my energies, exasperating, but not nearly as much as Thornton’s conflicted correction officer, harboring a suppressed appetite for the dynamics of diversity in his sweet tooth for bowls of chocolate ice cream? Both Hank and Leticia have ambivalent relationships with their progeny, Heath Ledger is actually dead, with no real world repairs necessary for a Glock’s trajectory penetrating the furniture. What is Sean Combs here but a misguided, regressive boy hoping to evade a truant’s penalty? As Musgrove, he is the softer underbelly to the brittle ruthlessness Jackson’s Elijah exudes. Forster admirers may disagree, but I do not see reconciliation in the story’s conclusion, not in Halle’s speculative glance as she looks toward the headstones in the yard.

Both Shyamalan’s perspective on graphic novel culture and Forster’s powerful parable are turn of the century predicates, and Jackson’s portrayal of psychological malignancy is one of the greatest theatrical feats of this young century in which I perish, but there are still African stoic majorities who insist on an inflammatory deafness. Though I cannot weigh in on what penalties Weinstein may actually deserve, the culture of silence surrounding Cosby's behavior was broken by blacks themselves. Ta-Neshisi Coates, not known for emulating the once titanic comedian he covered for the Atlantic, is on record believing Cosby is guilty, and yet, this black free press still feels whites were out to punish Cosby. No, to the extent that the prosecutor acted, it was to placate feminine fury.

Tommaso Landolfi's Amityville Horror

Ovviamente non poteva aspettare di liberarmi di me-- Tommaso Landolfi, An Autumn Story; p38

Occasionally, Hollywood will toss supporting actors like William Katt a bone, give them a lead in relatively superficial dramas like Steve Milner's House (1985), then repeat the formula ad nauseam for sequel syndication. A quasi-novella length idea of mine was closer to what happens to Doris Lessing as narrator in The Memoirs of a Survivor, where Western civilized world order is peeled away towards a tribal, and ferocious, transhumanism, if that resonates with any familiarity. On psychologically stressful days, Doris Lessing's rather inimitable parable frightens me, in our post-911 world, and Landolfi is somewhere in
between the poles of a two dimensional commercial product and Lessing's obfuscating, ambiguous, sinister novel. 

My tale never moved beyond 15 pages. It was about a daughter with a bisexual best friend who returns home to find the walls somewhat pliable, organic, and it was left unfinished during the time I was crushing on John Tassoni. I am having a devil of a time about removing or leaving him on my Facebook stream, primarily because I am in the preliminary stages of actively dying, and the paraprofessional tending to my stressed spastic body really didn't understand what he was restoring to my life. I don't love John anymore, and I'm not sure I even like him. Before I admitted my first love to him, cowardly, lying across from him on opposite bunk beds, perhaps we amused each other, and then in 85 I fled the home where he visited me. Be kind to the cripple. The home I link to is about our 3rd suburban house after my parents divorced, where I grew into a naive collegiate. You don't hold onto these memories when wellness flumes out of your intestines, no, what you cling to is the power of access to a celebrity like James Woods. I wanted to say goodbye to him, even if I had to do it through Kristen Bauguess, if she's still his fiance to be. From reporting I've scanned, Twitter will be deleting Woods' account permanently for non compliance. I don't care how hypocritical the left paints him due to his trophy dating, he kept my spirits lifted. Then again, why should Jack Dorsey give a fuck about the end of a torrent quadriplegic's life.

Christina Light's Turbine

Hoping, praying for the best, she wrote her letter, and sent it on its way.-- Constance Fenimore Woolson, Anne, p. 120

Unlike Louis Begley, who writes a fine introductory defense of The Other House, yet another Jamesian outlier in the master's long, illustrious, life, I do not immediately equate Rose Armiger with the more villainous Kate Croy, particularly as she is embodied by Helena Bonham Carter with a voluptuousness I do not always wish to see in James' works, which isn't to argue that it isn't present, as it certainly is for Isabel Archer's vitality, acknowledging that Portrait is one of James greatest hits, I simply do not envision sexual repression and its illicit fulfillment in the late Victorian era as being on parallel tracks with Hollywood's version of what James means to imply in his demands on his audience. The latter day daguerreotypes of Woolson betray her wan and downcast weariness, and it may have been the height of arrogance to assume that the aging James, no longer a young Twinkie, could have saved Cooper's niece, even if he had given in to traditional monogamy for the sake of propriety. James suffered intense depressions too, but would have never been so uncivilized as to jump through a window in Venice three stories up. On the immediate level, Woolson exemplifies her uncle's pioneering spirit in the manner of her death. It is the *American* thing to do, meeting suffering head on with like minded violence, take out your despair with a bang, fracture your skull on the border stones hemming in the waterways of sleepy Venetian canals, or perhaps that fracture hit a cement walk below, hard dirt, or even a stoop; perhaps she simply broke her neck, and oh my, an expert has surely set their eyes on Woolson's death certificate by a seedy Venetian coroner who with bafflement finds Americans inscrutable. But Armiger isn't an approximation of Woolson, as May Bartram might have been, towards the end. 
There are, actually, many images of Woolson death certificates available on search, in the innocuous comforts hunting genealogy. Foucault, on a much different wavelength, (in retrospect, perhaps not so contradictory) was a fervent advocate for the genealogy, the illuminating detail, the comfort of arcane points in time. Begley makes an entirely legitimate comparison to James's late great master works which heralded the end of what the novel was, as art form. Croy, Stanton, do have designs which destroy innocence, but my comparisons, in order to justify the rescue of this "ugly duckling" narrative, is with the governess in The Turn of the Screw. Masterful authors always compete with themselves, and what the high Victorians didn't like in 1896 was this: James doesn't allow us into Rose Armiger's mind, and the clues that she will kill an innocent child under the age of reason are of scant brevity, whereas the governess of James's Christmas story, always lunging at Dickens, I write with an irritating grind of my failed 20th century salvaged teeth, loved her charges, seeking to protect them with a surmounting hysteria. We don't see this in the converted text of the failed play of 1896, only a mysterious, unwarranted combat for a widowed banker, haunted in the violence of a dead wife's prohibition and Rose's combat, within varying degrees, with the charming ingenue who is Jean Martle, and with Mrs. Beever, who wants things her way, for the best, without a hitch. I am more sympathetic toward Rose than many of James other heroines, not for what she does, but for what her acuity desires and demands to take shape, believing, if she succeeds Julia Bream she can transform Julia's husband  into someone more refined. The Other House, is, on its face, the last of James's major fictions which I didn't know, perhaps a fitting jettison, whatever I, in turn, enact.