Easter Parade, Severely

"It is a street where poverty meets ambition." -- John Steinbeck hosting O'Henry adaptations

When I was in 11th grade Steinbeck was a deity. Grapes of Wrath was a masterpiece I never yet repurchased and remember my lessons about the text with some clarity. Seeing Steinbeck projected on digital flat screen narrating O'Henry's sentimental vignettes humanizes him, Dust Bowl reporter extraordinaire, an old man  even prior to writing Travels With Charlie. Small microcosms like that, the little episodic revelations, make my thankless task here worth it, not writing to please you, but myself. Steinbeck would smash the ten commandments over my skull due to my learned intolerance. My sister chastised me through her torrential tears. All blacks are not the same, this between bouts of anguish. Her boozer husband had an alleged affair and my eldest niece has MS, and this is why I feel living in the sterile vanguard of Richard Yates, and don't care, but she is still my little sister, with all her sins, terminations. She does not have to deal with the black working class the way I do, Stephanie, my valley girl younger sister who siphons narcissism out of the room, finally settled on being a nurse, the 1400 she owes me gone, but this is sisters. Do I hate her?

No, not akin to how I hate certain classes of activists, but our relationship will henceforth be wary.

Capitalism did not solve my problem with minority exploitation of my disability. Cleaning lady damaged my new interview skirt, tossed some personal effects, and may have filched my food. I am going to take this out on the building manager, Trudy Richardson, also black, whose career seems to benefit from my economic duress in these circumstances. You, no doubt, see my causal links as unfair, (and they are, as Caucasian managers equally benefit from my containment) but I frankly remain indifferent. Black women of certain caste and type victimize me. I've put up with this for a very long time, and fail to envision requisite solutions. If not the custodial staff of this company it will be a future aide on some model via Medicare or Caid. My sister does not have African Americans in her home, rushing about trashing things without asking because their labor is high pressure stress. Furious internal struggle about keeping verbal agreement for second paid visit or not. I fall behind, best of intentions notwithstanding. Complaining to the hustler in charge won't do any good; kicking my landlord's ass keeps me flagged. What a wonderful life. 

Viral Encephalitis

It is comparatively easy to dismiss Richard Yates. His novels are dated, and not particularly in a charming way, with only Richard Price's introduction standing out as a heart felt affectation. Yet every white nuclear family seems to undergo some form of sublet breakdown that destroy Frank and Alice. The Everyman edition I purchased is bound as well as an LOA edition, yet I am not sure what to do with it. I would not get much attempting to resell it used, wearing brave faces. Every holiday seems marked by increments of tragedy in my family, and tonight, rest assured, I just don't have the stones, this either for revelation or gloating of the sort that led to Christopher Dorner's unique signature of death by manhunt. This site is Pinerest managed shit, and what I am reduced to dealing with at my age. I no longer know the use, I truly do not.

You cannot see the extent of my corrosive malevolence, the sort that led to ISP tracking when I lashed out at Josie Byzek and the dyke free radicals didn't like it-- but it is a malevolence made all that much stronger. Lack of control, increased marginalization, these will do it, and I have written about payback, in the old fashioned Victorian sense of comeuppance fracturing hubris; it does not change the psychology of middle child sisters who believe everyone else should keep them afloat, does not change her children carry the triggers into the next generation on the sins of the father. The projective powers of Magneto and Xavier in the X-Men franchise are entertaining; take them seriously and discover that delusional states lead to injury, and yet, beneath the surface, the process of thought has to derive from some sort of reflective neuron activity. Can emotional pain run so deep that it can have a collective ripple effect? I saw a summary of one study suggesting as much.