Victuals

I have been relatively quiet of late. Relatively quiet here on Blogger because it has always been a losing proposition, relatively quiet on Twitter because in truth, I have ceased to care, and it isn't anyone's fault that I lack mastery of the medium. Real despair, true despair, doesn't have the animus of racial hatred, which I have been known to embody, and will always embody, to some degree, it is too late to change the punishment inflicted on the organism, and I will not survive another round with Blogger either, the axe on the pain of experience. As a writer, in this moment in time, I have nowhere left to go, in the raw ganglia of gaping wounds that can only strike back like Ballard did in Crash, but Ballard's genius and ingenuity was an internalized agenda of turning agony into beauty through automotive technology. I certainly cannot master his parody of sexual and pornographic beauty of the infliction of suffering as its own kind of pristine agenda, and if Vaughan was an insurrectionist, Ballard's expose is undoubtedly convoluted, subtle, and more esoteric than I can ever hope to be. Elizabeth Taylor became as old and enfeebled as anyone without her megatron celebrity, but the image of her as a violet beauty who could obsessed has something of a temporal immortality our past ancestors handed over to demigods. What is Ballard offering up as a lesson here, in other words? The novel glorifies violent death, without regard for our digital era scolding over the sociological outcry about the rise of suicide as a form of despair. These days we simply get suspended over guidelines, and it is true, I have recently done myself no favors on Medium, the collective blogging site as generic as oatmeal. I told a lesbian black contributor she was disgusting and subsequently threw a couple of milder tantrums given that my section 202 housing community is now like a war zone in the Congo. Silencing the agony people don't like is simply more evidence of the same. I am expendable, and Medium took me out and shook me like a dog, not even giving me a chance to say victims, too, have breaking points. I cannot cope with the life I am being forced to live, and briefly dallied with the idea of antifreeze, but that is a great deal of agony on top of agony already inflicted. There are other platforms, but I'll run the same trouble there as anywhere. This lack of coping has little to do with what Corona has just done to the world. One of my followers told me privately that he thought I was a remarkable woman. Hardly, if I was that remarkable, I would have been able to get out of Philadelphia, would have been able to kick at progressives and remained standing. I know the little dyke girl who supported Bernie Sanders did not harm me, and was simply expressing political discontent, but I've been through a great deal on the underside of homosexual advocacy and race and I screamed. I screamed, and Jessica Valenti thinks I am a monster, probably, since I am in the class of those who "aren't going to make it," why am I not on their side? Because the poor also exploit and harm each other. They often lack the capacity of rational agents, and I have absolutely no way out, and I speak my truth of it, but not for much longer, and that is the true nature of despair. Nothing I do, nothing I say, will restore my quality of life. No sympathizer, no Parler, no Trump, no Democrat, nothing, certainly not the defeat of COVID-19, and I have no further decent pathway to forestall what old age is going to continue to do to me.