Sommelier's Emergency

 'Liberation!' Astonishing how criminal instincts do survive in the human species." -- Yevgeny Zamyatin, stewarded by beleaguered American translators.

The old adage about mixing apples and oranges isn’t quite so representative of incongruity. Both apples and oranges are rich, nutrient liquid masses produced for seed germination. Both apples and oranges are tree borne fruits with peelable and edible skins, in some degree, packed with citric acid, with one favored by worms, the other more porous to the naked eye and associated with the benefits of sunshine, currently a rare commodity in this neck of the northeast, where the Delaware River swivels with an inverse question mark at its narrowest before it empties into the Atlantic; yet the semantics of the phrase remain due to correspondence which pleases the symmetry of primate eyes. The idiomatic mixing of horticulture’s most domesticated fruits is indicative of a disruptive pattern, and for those who try to toy with this, like this former palsied poet still out to pasture, sometimes it works, like in my happily recovered “Electromagnetic Custer” piece, which the 1991 graduate team at Oxford Magazine accepted last minute, but when it doesn’t, it can splinter under its own weight. A good example of this is Gareth Tunley’s 2017 indie, “The Ghoul,” which is rather baffling, and splinters off in too many unexplained directions, despite Tunley’s efforts to create an infinity trap for its troubled protagonist. It may be a short feature, but the supporting character Moulson is never adequately connected to the hero’s menacing and wayward turn, and as can be best puzzled out, Christopher’s university couple friends have a parallel to the older therapists who feature prominently in whatever narrative arc there is to grasp. A hellish sensibility cannot serve as the sole sinews for such disjointed lack of a plot. The Prime Original 7500 fares better, but aging battle axes in the fractal of a drain swirl pummel touchpads bit more slowly than of yore, and my ambition to tie this into disillusionment with libertarians of the left? I have a bad habit of losing patience with account holders who irritate me, and I tried really hard with Curt, but his sentiment that “Tubman’s bust (sic) appearing on the twenty dollar bill is really cool,”  broke this imperiled camel’s hump, and I blocked him in a miserable affront to my endorsement of 1^st Amendment principles. Since I am still stupidly paying Alphabet for this domain, I don’t have to post this very minute, but my buttock has been forced into jeopardy. Overheated gauze. The obstinate nigger care simply isn’t enough for the hatred and hastily assembled ignorance which destroys spastics such as I, despite qualifying remarks by any sympathizers.

The Sagittal Plane

 Vaughan devised the massive rear end collisions of sworn enemies, hate deaths celebrated in the engine fuel. -- Crash, location 160

In recent weeks I have, in desultory fashion, worked a few words a day on a staid assessment of Mitt Romney, staid in comparison to the furor of The Rolling Stone’s assassinations of the former governor as OCD plastic, very nearly anachronistic in terms of its hostility, now that we’re all sober to the fact that hard rock as a form of protest is just another business model; 2012 is a displacement milestone, perhaps an expiation over the fact that this was the last national election cycle in which I did not participate, assisting in neither Obama’s second term mandate nor Romney’s contraction as a national figure. In the passage of time which comprise the dates 1979 to 1986, the phrase “frontrunner for Black Sabbath,” would have been unfamiliar to me. I was cognizant as to what KISS or Ozzy represented; I may have listened to the noise, observed my sister handling a pungent roach with tweezers, but this is as far as it went. I haven’t been able to fend off the ranks of becoming a member of the living dead, poisoned mice in my drop ceiling crackling like a burnt fuse, and so I look at them myself: I have always known them, been proximity to them, and still live with them, and imagine if I really desired to invite a backlash of disciplinary action from the carefully cached online presence of Human Good, then all I have to do is procure illicit camera shots of the American morons epitomized in section 202 housing and provide you with names to the faces, like the bald guy Morton with his Tourette’s syndrome. I almost substituted Tay Sachs disease for the more eccentric neurological disorder, the processes of an overburdened mind whose suffering is almost unfurled beyond any ideological points of reference. What I allude to is this 88 minute special interest documentary on the French solution to criminal insanity, Unit for Difficult Patients. Chantera does a fairly decent job with her grant dollars explaining the UDP as a psychiatric control fortress, sketching out a brief history of the city of Cadilac as a magnet for trauma, and offering these patients what dignity she can in reconstructing their stories. She concentrates on Eric, a bong head who stabbed his sister in the throat, and even in this very circumscribed world, the French tendency toward the disingenuous takes hold, with Eric’s mother relieved that his schizo-affective disorders are so rigidly controlled, while his case manager shrugs with the admission that the UDP wasn’t the place for this man, meaning he should have done his jail time. At the end of his story, he smiles like a whipped dog, the mark of his suffering indelible, and modern liberalism lurches forward. No, I am not going to suggest that the blades of the guillotine offer more precise relief. They do of course, but what I saw, what it always reverts back to, is the seeds of institutional methodology contain the flourishing growth of human damnation. These men, their history of violence, drugged into malleable children who behave for occupational therapy projects.

I had singled out the Osbournes prior to the new lock jaw disease of the current age; I warned this woman didn't know herself very well, didn't I?