This Hewlett Packard is very old. I am having enough difficulties with it and Windows Ten cannot be installed. As of today, Microsoft stops supporting Windows 7, and it will be a little longer until I can afford a new device. I already know how ludicrous it is to believe engaging in homicidal impulses toward a section 202 building manager with a rote series of trained gestures is. Philadelphia has hundreds of these matriarchal browbeaters, and if I engage in any form of illegal aggression toward her, I only prove her point. The best weapon in her arsenal was my family's provincialism, and I have pretty well suffered enough, but even the police, who don't like 202 tenants, said Trudy Richardson's harassment toward me bordered concentration camp excursiveness. The company could have simply evicted me, and the black paraplegic above me, David, has far stronger foul odors on the 6th floor. I doubt he was assaulted by Protective Services and more, as was I.
So I fight, and maybe I get rid of a house nigger with owlish glasses from New Jersey with her alleged lupus. Maybe Corey Booker gets involved and says I cannot behave like a monster because Presbyterian Homes really hates the disabled. The beat goes on. The boss Trudy is afraid of, as in The Grifters Angela Houston terror, is a Director named Dulles. Bald, fat, black, corrupt as a horse's ass, I politely told him he was full of shit, and it was indicated to me that this cowed Trudy to the same degree that her tactics have me fighting for my life. If I do engage in illegal behavior toward this woman, and go to court, I doubt the judge will allow me to move for jury nullification
Showing posts with label a christmas carol. Show all posts
Showing posts with label a christmas carol. Show all posts
Monday, January 13, 2020
Thursday, July 4, 2013
The Imagined Meritocracy, Rosy Muniment
Everyone has their own views on James. To Ellen Moody he was an aggressive lover of other men; to Sheldon Novick he was coy about homosexual practices. Others believe he was a tortured celibate; this also applies to the lens we bring to the text.-- the spastic dowager
When I raised my voice in transmission to Gregory Zacharias about my weariness in the role of the good lieutenant, perhaps I should have paused to reflect on why I always find myself in the uniform. I have been trying to revise, simply revise, a poem of mine which I like. It sits in my strongest manuscript which I am attempting to take out of moth balls and put it back into the contest circuit. Since the title of the poem is appropriate to cite in anticipation of this evening's spectacle, I will feed it to you: "A Festive Independence". Do you see what the immediacy of the digital age has done to those of us who had some sense of tranquility before it? As a member of the Henry James Society, until the early summer of 2014, I am now coddling the aggrieved ego of the non academic acolyte, and have done so in an attempted sympathy, with doubts in the back of my mind as to whether or not I didn't make things worse. I take no quarrel with Lionel Trilling's attempted rescue of The Princess Casamassima. Lionel's knowledge illuminates Henry's motives for the novel, but here, James's masterful ambiguity fails him, because anarchy is not amendable to the qualities of the fairy tale. Hyacinth is almost a protean transvestite for his beauty, and little convincing as the man in the middle between zealotry and aesthetic appreciation, and yet I think of James at his most invested in his middle years, his most cynical, trying to keep his creations, the doll-like Rosy, from "blowing her brains out." This is how the narrator leaves the poor girl, dreaming of aristocratic finesse and their vivid estates. Yet James did disability cultural a favor by pitting Rosy in a dialogical contest with the fabled Tiny Tim, because we have two extremes on the spectrum, pity, and the tyranny of guilt.
Every time I reveal that cerebral palsy necessitates dependence on my power chair, and that I am one of those in poverty who Henry James varnishes in semi-gloss, affluent white males, either in the vigor of their public roles, (Niall Ferguson), or in looking to me for assertive sympathy, convey the same sentiments, the same sorrow for my *situation*. Perhaps I am better off that Greg assumes the posture that I'm a disruptive force.
This certainly applies to Edward Snowden's mortal fear. Dana balances the bone stuck in my throat, and though I rarely agree with any columnists opinion in its entirety, Milbank touches upon the crux of the problem. Snowden's paranoia about Obama is overblown; Snowden's cowardice flies in the face of the gravity of his actions. Outsourcing security clearances to USIS represents the real problem, more so than whether or not his ass is fried. I'd contend, even if Snowden evades the executive branch for the time being, his ass is fried anyway, but you cannot run the CIA on absolutist free market models.
When I raised my voice in transmission to Gregory Zacharias about my weariness in the role of the good lieutenant, perhaps I should have paused to reflect on why I always find myself in the uniform. I have been trying to revise, simply revise, a poem of mine which I like. It sits in my strongest manuscript which I am attempting to take out of moth balls and put it back into the contest circuit. Since the title of the poem is appropriate to cite in anticipation of this evening's spectacle, I will feed it to you: "A Festive Independence". Do you see what the immediacy of the digital age has done to those of us who had some sense of tranquility before it? As a member of the Henry James Society, until the early summer of 2014, I am now coddling the aggrieved ego of the non academic acolyte, and have done so in an attempted sympathy, with doubts in the back of my mind as to whether or not I didn't make things worse. I take no quarrel with Lionel Trilling's attempted rescue of The Princess Casamassima. Lionel's knowledge illuminates Henry's motives for the novel, but here, James's masterful ambiguity fails him, because anarchy is not amendable to the qualities of the fairy tale. Hyacinth is almost a protean transvestite for his beauty, and little convincing as the man in the middle between zealotry and aesthetic appreciation, and yet I think of James at his most invested in his middle years, his most cynical, trying to keep his creations, the doll-like Rosy, from "blowing her brains out." This is how the narrator leaves the poor girl, dreaming of aristocratic finesse and their vivid estates. Yet James did disability cultural a favor by pitting Rosy in a dialogical contest with the fabled Tiny Tim, because we have two extremes on the spectrum, pity, and the tyranny of guilt.
Every time I reveal that cerebral palsy necessitates dependence on my power chair, and that I am one of those in poverty who Henry James varnishes in semi-gloss, affluent white males, either in the vigor of their public roles, (Niall Ferguson), or in looking to me for assertive sympathy, convey the same sentiments, the same sorrow for my *situation*. Perhaps I am better off that Greg assumes the posture that I'm a disruptive force.
This certainly applies to Edward Snowden's mortal fear. Dana balances the bone stuck in my throat, and though I rarely agree with any columnists opinion in its entirety, Milbank touches upon the crux of the problem. Snowden's paranoia about Obama is overblown; Snowden's cowardice flies in the face of the gravity of his actions. Outsourcing security clearances to USIS represents the real problem, more so than whether or not his ass is fried. I'd contend, even if Snowden evades the executive branch for the time being, his ass is fried anyway, but you cannot run the CIA on absolutist free market models.
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