And the Erstwhile Ottomans Go Skedaddle

"You confided in a Jewish woman?"-- my incredulous paraprofessional, late spring 17

I just wasted three hours of data writing this. I left the tab open offline, but Google wouldn't cache or publish it, even though I've done it this way before. I am going to start crying, and need editorial support I'm not going to get, but I'll move on, for now.

Consider The Ostomy

A colostomy is an opening-- called a stoma

The reason I am shortly to terminate my Facebook account is this: my half-brother convinced me to join, then his fucking wife went ballistic  on me because instead of cooing at her illicit grandchild I wrote lose some weight Ben, and the indomitable Dawn rebelled. Dawn is, front and center, Florida trailer trash, and by degrees, my animosity towards my extended family prevailed, and I want nothing more to do with Facebook. Never did, certainly not to restore a man like John P Tassoni among the living. The only reason I haven't closed the account is loose ends, nothing more. I am also wavering about Twitter, but that is the dilemma of a loner in the crowd. Facebook is a personal distress, but Twitter is another kind of tax.

My tirelessly researched post which I flubbed early that morning was my flub, not mighty Google threatening a poor cripple in jeopardy, and yes, I am in literal medical jeopardy and the single payer Medicare/Medicaid option could care less. The post was a construct surrounding my fascination with Audrey Hepburn, which I can restructure, but what I was dancing around, and search leading me to an Israeli outlet, Haaretz, was the particularly insidious nature of anti-Semiticism, the flaming righteousness of Jewish liberalism-- is there a covalency here?-- and my follower JD Landis question about whether or not Trump's ascendancy led to Bowers. Landis likes to test TwitterVerse with collective inquiries, but I believe he contextualizes the issue wrongly, and I'll return to it. I live in a near continuous state of being overwhelmed, and wish I too, like cousin Tommy, could enjoy watching the Flyers live on ice. I love hockey. Watch out for what compromises you make for younger siblings. Benjamin cut me off his feed, and he's my blood for whom I've sacrificed in the name of our slut bitch mother. Want to talk about hurt, do you?

La Vie As Giet Jaune Under The Specter of Article 13

In Paris, masked and hooded protesters picked up and hurled crowd barriers and other projectiles in running battles with police-- Les Miserables, redux

The failure of my Toshiba laptop in 17 did not directly affect my relationship with Writer’s Market. I was simply forced to miss my billing renewal date because of my hope for rescue from an over-valued computer technician. The Writer’s Market website never coded particularly well. Their emails reminding me of auto-renewal were sporadic, and the renew never took place, perhaps due to the fact that I purchased 24 month installments with quotidian regularity. I had to manually renew the use of their directory services, sometimes under the advisement of customer service through F+W’s 800 number, only to discover, late fall 17, that the website stopped accepting credit cards. Through necessity, setbacks mandated other options. I have let sleeping dogs lie, moving on, and Duotrope has better mastered the art of automated updates for creative writers--  psychologically I still live in the ecumenical adhesion to the newsprint directories that Writer’s Market and Dustbooks represented, and in fact have long contemplated a revisionist obituary for one time playwright Len Fulton, the demi-god of the independent presses which I have ever so reluctantly started to eschew. I did not mind coming up through them, like a rag time impresario, but I’ve begun to see, again reluctantly, that literary journals, bloviated as they are through their college department budgets, are as extraneous as decentralized independent living centers. My friend Robert Thomas is still committed to them, because like me, this is how he grew up, what he and I both were taught about publishing and generating content, and neither he nor I need directories to canvas and update information as much as we used to, but I spent a significant amount of time this morning galivanting through Newsweek pages looking for updated guidelines for freelancers, and this dinosaur brand is also somewhat diaphanous on the matter. Duotrope doesn’t list the publication due to said inconsistencies. Automation has definitively changed the landscape, but that doesn’t mean code itself isn’t a chimera. Twitter is increasingly embedding with traditional media outlets, but at its core, like Facebook, it is inherently unstable, wreaks havoc on human physiology. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t stay adhered to it on a daily basis, and it is absolutely not helping me retain my grip on journalistic pretensions, even as a counterculture figure. Examples of that are Charlie Kirk, whom I culled off of Nick Gillespie. I followed Kirk for a while, and still read his tweets with recurring frequency, but find his ideological stridency tiring, even parroting. Facts are by and large contingent, but the retaliatory way in which Kirk uses those facts to defend the right at all costs is debatable. Candace Owens fares better in my esteem, but I cannot follow her lead. Old sows like myself aren’t telegenic. I cannot do podcasts, and if I even attempted it YouTube would have my head on a platter. If Writer’s Market is foundering, its corporate owners might take a page from Fee, which folded The Freeman, and cede the field to digital innovation.

Once upon a time, I was ready to defend Twitter against Milo. Not anymore. If Minnesota wanted to elect Omar to the House, then Minnesotans can reap what they in turn sow, but the same applies to Laura Loomer. Her fervor makes David Frum look relatively paltry. However, herein truly lie the seeds of our doom. If genocide is a form of political extremism brought about by reactionaries fueled by severe economic stresses, Loomer's post-Twitter insignia is a cosmetic mockery behind which looms Orwellian defeat.

Pedestrian Faultlines

Bring God’s tenderness and mercy to all those who are discarded by society.

— Pope Francis (@Pontifex) December 29, 2018

Jerzy Skolimowski’s The Shout opens with an English cricket game in process at a modern day sanitarium, rather upscale for the decade in which the film was produced. Such ostensible recuperative getaways are still to be found in the 21^st century. Phil McGraw doles them out as a reward for guests who agree to be sensationalized on his daily program. Tim Curry, as the writer receptacle through whom these impressions pour, strolls the grounds, as only the British can saunter, while engaged in a query with the doctor, much like a pretrial discovery, about Crossley’s history, a character sturdily embodied by a then thickening but still commanding Alan Bates, and then meets Crossley himself in the score keeper’s shelter, which looks much like a charming doghouse. They begin to have a conversation about what constitutes insanity, the implication being that Crossley, a superior intellect, is above it all, speaking three languages. We also see John Hurt and Susannah York stroll on what constitutes a Devon coastline, whether before or after the intrusion remains unclear, for at its heart this is a movie about urbanity being supplanted by a more primitive usurpation, much like Philippe Setbon’s Mr. Frost. Setbon’s later Goldblum vehicle is reminiscent of the industry’s somber unease during the Me decade. Western civilization seems triumphant, and yet a medieval hysteria lurks beneath the surface. Everyone wants to do The Exorcist, leading to Setbon’s send up an odd score later. It is only upon reflection that a hamstrung blogger under siege sees a striking similarity in Skolimowski’s and Setbon’s dramatic approach. Mr. Frost has more of a satirical bent, but both projects are about significantly nefarious subversions to pedestrian sensibilities. Robert Grave’s concerns, overlapping with Jerzy’s effects, aren’t so grandiose as to posit Satan in the temporal world. Graves is in pursuit of aggression and warfare through an examination of nomadic culture. In the very opening roll of the credits, which I often miss during this movie’s often cycled airtime, there is a negative image of an actor playing an Aboriginal shaman, or warrior, engaged in intimidating displays. Skolimowski then opens with the close of the film. Susannah York is fully restrained in universally recognized nursing white, with a short black cloak fastened under her chin while she pulls sheets from the bodies of Crossley’s grimaced characters. The bracketing of this scene is probably a concession to Grave’s preferences for formal structure, which is something of a contrast with Doris Lessing’s transitional fluidity. Both writers were pursuing similar themes in the same time frame. Graves would simply be dead sooner, and was more integral to Churchill’s generation than a colonialist like Lessing. What makes Skolimowski’s direction intriguing in The Shout is his willingness not to gift wrap Grave’s intent. Scholastic comprehension may be a breeze under Goldblum’s performance arcs, but Jerzy only provides hints as to why the Fielding’s are coerced into such insatiable gluttony under Bates’s wiles, broken only when John Hurt destroys the stone. Composing has something to do with it, the brutish sound effects Hurt experiments with: amplification of a housefly buzz, or the distortion of cigarette ash, instances of unpleasantness which break barriers. The Shout, like Dog Day Afternoon, and a select handful of other films, is the 1970’s in which I grew up. Something about a cinematography grounded in the nitty gritty, the underlying anxiety that humanity hasn’t truly prevailed, our values counteracted in an instant, make them far move innovative than today’s computer generated animation.

Wrestling Federations

I do not watch Fox News regularly, sampled Tucker Carlson on Twitter briefly after his exchange with Durden caused her financial security to enter into a tailspin, and still interpret that interview as Carlson baiting the horse. Philadelphia is basically a black city, and I got the gist of Durden's defensiveness about whites, didn't mind it, and truly believe Carlson is too linear, lacking the requisite Jewish urbanity pounded into us on a daily basis, but he did not cause Durden's employers to terminate her contract. Is he a racist, or a hypocrite? I label myself a racist so as not to be hypocritical, but make an effort to be fundamentally fair, unlike the leftists who terrorized Carlson's wife. Galahad wouldn't have lasted as long as he has, otherwise, and our morning ritual of personal hygiene issues is the dream job of no one. Terrorizing him [Carlson] because his rhetoric is reactive to Otherness gets us absolutely nowhere, except to someplace worse, an environment of little leniency. I unsubscribed from the Thrillest because I purchased The First Purge 2018, and Christ people, no right wing government needs such an elaborate scheme to legitimize micro-genocide as a policy solution on a once a year basis. Welfare states do it by turning health care into factory farming. Public housing does it through punitive stricture. If you're as poor as tenants who need 811 or 202, then paternalism is the rod on the back of the aberrant behavior which led to the impoverishment, just as Apple may lose its profit margin because it no longer has a stabilized monopoly on which to base long term development. AT&T had it for about a century. I've written in the past that sometimes, violence is necessary, as it was when T. H. Lawrence became a chameleon in Arabia, or when the ANC traded places with the National Party, and Cape Town is marginally better off than Kampala, but swarming television anchors and politicians of any political stripe with mob intimidation, this simply amounts to civil unrest in a republic becoming too leveraged to either over saturated professions or very high levels of expertise. 

This time, I only missed 36 minutes

If only I could do something important, like bake a souffle, or pick out a tie. --Audrey Hepburn, Wait Until Dark

What I wanted to dismantle this morning, and possibly rectify, is my diffident sensibilities toward MeToo, Nick Gillespie, and his associate editor Elizabeth Nolan Brown. I got into an argument with her about date rape, and although I am capable of respecting Nick and his intelligence, and he mine, I swiped at him in a personalized frustration which will not help me return to the field with the stresses I’m undergoing. I wanted to explain all of this just a little better, and explain it in the sense that I do not need to become a Reason Magazine contributor, but Reason’s staff are often intellectually sloppy, like Brown is with her notions of Kavanaugh’s credibility, only I let my spool unwind too much Wednesday and leaned into my cousin about the paraprofessional who has eaten up a number of my posts on this account. I want to terminate my relationship with him because he lashes out constantly at the way, and how, I speak, and I’m near a breaking point, must have been out of my mind to have ever entertained the idea of becoming his lover. I have been through worse with this outsourced care, but never every single day of the week. I want the nigger out of my life. I can make it happen, but it means grief, possibly his termination, and absolutely nothing of this sustained duress will change for me. Not now. Starting over with yet another minority will wind up in exactly the same place, until I opt to attempt a failsafe suicide method, lose my mind, or give in, go to a state run facility, and if I were stronger, I’d put this torrent fusillade aside and teach myself to work differently, and simply cut him loose. What’s holding me back is I don’t want to keep recycling people whose behaviors are far more abhorrent to me, and that is all. I don’t feel for him in any real erotic context, and beneath the surface, his animosity toward me is taking its toll. There is little to no intervention advocates for victims of [insert category] can offer me, and Nick doesn’t see this, the limits on progressive modality here. Neither, I am sure, does Brown. I was wrong, last spring, to allow my loneliness to let this man cross the line. I crossed it too, we backed off, but cannot quite depersonalize, and for a quadriplegic, aging and always fiercely protective of her independence, it never stops. I’ll have more to say on the matter.

The Acrylic of Glee in Anarchy 99

Despite the hardship of a nearly bigamous entanglement with a direct care worker on a daily basis, despite curious crimping in her sternum, not necessarily but likely related to bowel evacuation, the dowager's confidence is slowly returning; if she wasn't tinnitus-oscillating weary, she would attempt to slide herself on to the toilet without benefit of the shambling cocoa panda man who thunders through the door between 10 and 11:30 am daily. He still inhibits me into anxiety over doing for myself, as the last thing I want is for the yo-yo man to throw his back trying to insure I do not lose my balance, so I am cranky. When you live under the mantle of a fraternal order such as this, however:

Another image of Presbyterian scoliosis. pic.twitter.com/mlj4cahdCx

— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) November 12, 2018

Then espy the actress of Charmed like a reigning fury while an honorable man undergoes the most outrageous form of character assassination one can conceive in a Republic so beholden to Roman institutions:

Then this, the destruction of Malibu, earns a spastic in a bubble of her own,  the merit of telegraphing a visceral level of satisfaction. Californians have created this bottleneck disaster on their own, without any help from the rust belt or the northeast corridor. Yes, the horses did not deserve to suffer, and apparently they did not, but Milano earned a few cracks in the dome. That she is a sexual assault victim herself doesn't earn her the rectitude of privilege. There are thousands of us, and yet there it is, the exemptions, the exaltation of Hollywood, in a festooned appearance in the chamber of the Judiciary Committee. I, who have been head butted by a remorseless medical single payer option for the last 13 months like a termite queen host carrier of cholera, will not maintain a moment of silence, nor spare the "victims" of Woolsey so much as a dime. Mandate capitalism is one thing, the superficiality of opulence is another, and the utter barbarism of the clinical model towards non-compliance is another still, especially when medical objectification is merely a liberal form of intimidation beyond a certain point. Woods gets a pass, for reasons previously stipulated, but one understands this is his milieu, luxurious as it must be toward constipation relief. 

Richard Burton's Alacrity of Overbite When The Sole Keynote is Rage

There is very little unsaid in Look Back in Anger. Jimmy Porter lashes out verbally at a huge variety of topics – the class system, American evangelists, Alison’s family, women in general, flamboyant homosexuals.

Every writer who has any degree of aspiration in the U.S. wants to get into The Atlantic and similar periodicals. The popular highbrows, interchanging bylines with senior fellows even, those minute analysts of detail, like Fallows, who effortlessly seams up space in The New Republic and The Atlantic, as easily as filtering sea water with gills, reserving a land organ lung for gulps of oxygen when hauling that reptilian ancestry on the beach. None of you have any idea how hard it was for me to once come as close as I did to both periodicals, though I wised up in my pre-internet era and ceased submitting my poetry to the magazine that made Henry James into a sub-academic gay decoder for the untutored. Anyone of pretension keeps the Atlantic in orbit, knows that James Bennet went to New York after Hitchens passed away, knows Frum took over, without necessarily caring how far this descendant of the Roman working class has fallen, in mortal combat with her marshmallow nigger aide on a daily basis. Conceivably, I could argue I am being abused by this man, verbally, daily, on the eve of the midterm results, Frum rather inconceivably tweets

A female friend just lost a job for being "difficult." As she narrated what had happened, it struck me: a difficult woman is one who asks for the things I get without having to ask for them.

— David Frum (@davidfrum) November 6, 2018

He was mocked, but my response was not satirical, rather a throbbing pulse of pain, none of you really give a fuck. I took the man off my feed, genuinely indignant, genuinely more than indignant. Given his paranoia over Trump's ostensible Manchurian qualities, I'd be persecuted for cruelty to Canadian expatriates if that poor mother Russian bear shredded his jugular in a particularly creative mortal gerrymander. Do you read this as a victimized outcry?  Maybe it is a sentiment we can expect from a Canadian blunderbuss who was 43's speechwriter. 
I only ever saw the black and white film version of Osborne's explosive movement drama, find it a consolation that Burton is somehow incapable of anything but a commanding grandeur, and in that, he's irreplaceable, even if cutting feminine love for him into the forbidden orifices is a trifle superlative, wishing that you might have a child and that it would die, the agony he created then triumphant over him. This wasn't the post I wanted to write this morning, obviously, but I'll toss out a discordant positron: The delightful optimism of Antonio Paris pleases me. He honors me, even if the alliance isn't everlasting.

The Prohibition Against Pork

"I hate it when there's no bad guy."-- Joe Mantegna

In the week before the Tree of Life massacre occurred, there was a significant reaction on Twitter to Farrakhan’s now excoriated verbiage comparing Jews to termites, and I knew nothing about it, and raised my voice to suggest for those of us who wished to remain in ignorance on the matter, the collective scolding gave Farrakhan an undue legitimacy his fading relevance had long bypassed, at least on the merits. I mentioned that he had the same linear minded fixation with Jewish identity as when he appeared on Phil Donahue in our prehistoric analog era prior to the Digital Age, and it was suggested to me not to be too dismissive, especially in light of the fact that Keith Ellison's political aspirations are stained with Farrakhan's sphere of influence-- such influence he still holds with Nation of Islam, and I admit I was stymied by the brief colloquy. Then Bowers had his rampage which mortally wounded us all, collectively, whether Maga or never Trump; indeed, Trump rather capitulated that this casualty list out of Pittsburgh was too much for our collective psyche, and we're gamely flailing ahead, recoiling.

I myself am no longer quite capable to experience such devastation as that which lead my follower JD Landis to ask if Bowers would not have happened if Trump had not won in 2016. By this I do not mean my conscience isn't troubled, only that the quivering dissonance has been muted by my own personal calamity. I did not engage with my occasionally prurient gallows interest in such rhetoric as this, and what The Jerusalem Post offers up as confirmation is the farthest I go in an examination of Farrakhan's nefarious notoriety. I have reasons for this, reasons which, if I am to be sincere with myself, demand that I torture the matter out, follow the curve where it leads me, in between horrid power chair tilt naps and my current domineering submergence to the interpersonal regression to the care giver always at me, like a battering ram. If I am lucky, the grist will turn the mill further later this evening.