Hassan is Dead

What time was it when I woke Monday? After-noon-ish, focusing my entire energies on one small load of laundry, perfuming my sister's much abused and only worn in the building maternity jumper, made it to the laundry room at 7:30 and had to wait. The elderly black man was using the front load washing machine. Made it back up here by 9:50 to see the movie adaptation of the novel I avoided deliberately when it was the darling impulse purchase of its time. Not all of the movie. Had to piss and was starving, but I got the basic points. Sodomy is the Islamic secret beneath the web of lies we all play, Housseini's tale just another version of The Killing Fields, and my spiritual waste land is as stark as Pol Pot or the Taliban. This is what my autobiographical narrative has done to my soul, and there is no redemption, just an Aaron Eckhart dark comedy without the merit of his bite. A woman with cerebral palsy who let public housing for urban road kill destroy her life.

I never expected to succeed as an author, or a writer, or a poet-- not even when I was Jerry's fuck me adhesive on my grandiose metaphysical quest -- but I expected to succeed, and it never occurred to me to attribute failure to mood disorders. Perhaps it should have occurred to me. Not that I am shocked my stepmother is dying. She has been seriously ill since she and mio padre married. My ambition to be established in a career is slipping through my fingers and I am going to lose my father soon (if Jerry himself is not threatened with the same prospect after our communique in 07) and I can feel my own mortality falling apart, like the corpse of the friend in American Werewolf in London. We all have to die, but I know the mental torture of being bedridden like my fucking moron ex Frank is something I simply cannot endure; my life has been a runaway abject terror of living like that, like this, living like I am, an intelligence buried under squalor contained by nursing aides who are neither medical caretakers nor janitors. Perhaps I cannot rematriculate. Perhaps it is already too late, the pain of genocidal epochs absorbed like a sponge. I've never been happy. Obsessive, yes, desperate, yes, strong, yes. Moments of pleasure, my byline in Philadelphia Inquirer garbled ecstatically to my sister in anti-climatic fashion, whereas Jerry would have understood. It would have called for a drink. None the less, what progressives have done in succeeding to keep me de-institutionalized is more inhumane than my parents abandoning me in Home of the Merciful Savior. I should have died in the knife fight that threatened the occupational therapist who played John Denver records in the playroom, after we were fed dinner. This was also the me decade I knew.

Paper Moon

It is a contradiction in terms, to complain about LiveJournal, and yet continue to post the deplorable sentiments on the darker side of difference, but this is due to the fact that I am utterly ignorant about handling Google's applications to fully move over to Blogger. I know it is simply a matter of transferring code, but I do not understand how to do it. No mind here for computer science, but I will soon have to clear my slate for three or four days, and resolve these issues, including cleaning up and/or reformatting my laptop, as I have lost my ads so the sympathetic among you can pitch me pennies, and there is absolutely no reason to stay if something is wrong with the Ad Sense application.

Mind, I do not have any intense feelings about LJ--I just have not found any writers here who click, who are on my same wave length, or even smarter. Other than certain communities, most other member journalists don't engage me as a reader, although I am obviously supportive of the disabled community that exists, but they cannot help me, insofar as I know, and I cannot help them. Not really, not anymore. I am tapped out, first and foremost, in part, sinking, though I do try to resist indulging the fact that I am in pain, at least directly, and political ideology does not seem to have any solutions for me. I disagree with the ACLU, for instance, on certain key points, like gender equality, and their protection of the far left, specifics of which will be left for another day, but vainly hope to deploy them, simply due to the fact that I am too poor to relocate myself out of Riverside on my own accord.

I scanned Yahoo Trending about the suicide of Robert Kennedy Jr's ex-wife, and I have more reasons in the field than Spalding, or David, and Mary too, to consider early termination, but I am too angry to imagine those who know me saying "how sad," and a certain defiance, as well as a co-mingling of lethargy, and my still mewing desire to salvage some kind of achievement, this has held me back, but by the same token, I need to bring some kind of change to the fore, because my strength is not superhuman.

Ryan O'Neal discussed Tatum's antipathy to his relationship with Farrah , and I see this as something quite normal in relation to father daughter dynamics in a broken home. With a name made actor like O'Neal these typical bourgeoisie issues are somewhat inflated by Tinseltown glitter. My relationship with my father's other women, especially my stepmother, was fraught with conflict when not absolutely ice cold, and this is very middlebrow, pedestrian, not quite high enough for A-list scandal status, such as swirled around Tiger Woods, and the dent that his marital splintering had on the fact that others depend on his image for their livelihood.

More Arteriosclerosis

nTaking a break from my need to do activities, I just finished balancing my checking account to the nearest estimate, and listened once again to the pleasures of Swimming to Cambodia. Spalding Gray had a vivacious wit, and an apparently vibrant life, and yet his doom was encoded within his abilities, and his presumed suicide posits relief as opposed to the outrage I have had to tunnel through regarding David Foster Wallace. I suppose that is odd, but Spalding's suffering was of a different timbre, and had qualities of manic saintliness, more along the lines of an affectuoso. The thought occurred to me, in the back of my mind, that Greg Zacharias responded to my post to the James list the way that he did because he thought my phrase "a collusion of peers" had a whiff of the anti-Semitic about it.

That was not my intent, however, and he did not respond to my email. Though normally I would make a caviler comment at this point, I do not like being on the wrong side of terminal degree scholars whose connections could be of use, assuming I do not kick the bucket from my deterioration, though I feel slightly indignant, as I am not his student, and wasn't disrupting a lecture. My assumptions about the Jamesians have backfired on more than one occasion, but the reason this latest round of cattiness troubles me is because Greg recently surprised me by passing my proposed thesis along the pipeline, and this led me to speculate that perhaps I had erred in seeing myself as an incongruent fit. Like James himself, I chaw on slim pickings, and for all I know at this point, maybe the entire community of lively intelligent invalids lurks on the James list so that we don't, to steal from Rosy's exit in The Princess Casamassima , "blow our brains out." James was fond of that phrase in his middle period, when he wrote the novels no one particularly likes.

Ah well. If you were a man so inclined I'd hide a knowing smile in a sprig of violets, but this is what it comes to for potato pouch unhappy women, worrying about internecine back bites.