The Queen of the house represents the Christian virtue of mercy, which is different from the equitable justice allegorized in Britomart. Whereas equity returns to philosophical principles in order to ensure the defendant receives his proper due, mercy offers freely to redeem offenders who sincerely repeat their crimes.-- Poetry Foundation's rehabilitative sympathy for The Faerie Queene
My sister-in-law cannot convert my Office 7 files not in the cloud, and I droop. The only way I know how to defeat this on my own is to find my Office 7 CD, which is hopefully somewhere, hack my product key, install, then open said files in Office 365, and the only human being who probably desires to help me solve this with all his heart is a paraprofessional with whom my lifespan is alarmingly eclipsed, so hurry, get it all in, and there are worse things in life than misdirected denial, but a decent way to leash a man, to my surprise, is a thousand dollar piece of technical hardware. It is nothing new to wake up and feel rebellion with biology. Robert, in messenger: "I can't believe I'm 67!" "Forever young!" The dowager retorted in equal vein, as I go stomping around with I'm 56. But I am 56, and whether certain lines are blurred between regressive care, I was onto that as early as his first Wednesday with me, and something more, I remain restless, my retrenchment not least among the reasons for that, to be polite about what I mean, but you should know already. I mean, this man took a risk, because I wept, he wanted to console me, just as I've taken risks of late, running through every rationale while he takes me to school on the court. I do not want to be sexually manipulated because of depression and cynicism simply out of a misplaced fiduciary duty on his part, and yet we've been so close to taking each other that I am not simply frustrated, more than that, perplexed. He trusts me thus far not to can his ass and says he is in heat for various areas where we all know our erogenous zones live, and I'm his fucking job at the same time. He's guardian, family, brother, and yes, a man in my life who outlasted my particular talent for being unforgiving. And this, despite the fact I cannot cut him down. There are 1001 pathways to that but his zeal is a bit forcibly sealing my jaws and silencing my tongue-- not about the heavy petting-- but him, because he's the rare embodiment of a good man. I've always wanted that, but not due to his economic necessity. My cousin, equally scarred, asked why am I afraid if I believe I'm in love with him. I'd think the answer would be obvious. If and when he's ready to move on, who gets screwed, whether or not that literally happens? But as of yet, I am not sure I've grafted my own hybrid of apples and oranges.
I'm 56, losing ground to technical folly and not a few unexpected ground balls. Do I wrest out some kind of commitment from an inner city minority that will make me self-conscious for the rest of my life? The anarchist in me isn't dead, trust me there.
Showing posts with label a patch of blue. Show all posts
Showing posts with label a patch of blue. Show all posts
Sunday, May 6, 2018
Sunday, April 15, 2018
Blue Patches With Rubber Tips, Bearing the Crutch
"It doesn't have to be a death sentence," --Megan Crowley
It is difficult to adjudicate A Patch of Blue against contemporary standards without viewing it as a public service announcement to maintain silence in the face of differences between ethnic groups not altogether superficial. I must have seen the film a half dozen times, find the echo of my own reactionary fear in Shelley Winters and her recriminating castigation, calling Poitier your black buck, play acting the white trash of which I am a little embodied, or Poitier’s containment of the blind girl’s unintentional disruption, when she nearly topples the fruit pyramid in the supermarket, and yet the movie filters through me like a light urine stream right before a major stool struggle, the arc of the narrative dissipates, leaving behind the poignancy of a connection between a disabled woman and a black man essentially teaching her how to adapt, never actualized, because Poitier’s character realizes the girl’s feelings are based in part on a sheltered dependency. In North Philadelphia, there was, in fact, a blind woman beaten daily and traumatically by a black husband. The dowager was the unfortunate observer of her caramelized face browbeat by crisis counselors and patrol officers, and she disappeared before I relocated to Race Street, a most likely death sentence to an inevitable probable cause, lest you continue to marvel about the scars of the lioness breathing more shallowly beneath my ribs, and so we come full circle, back to my initial rebellion, planting myself in the inner city solely on the basis of a lust to live. To my sensibilities of enduring interior conflict, Shane, (ahem) the paraprofessional tending my shriveled wings, is sexually attractive, and makes me realize what happiness I might have had with such strength as his, and it is rather unfair to discover this, tottering on the brink of a final weakness towards helplessness I cannot defeat, that the right degree of masculinity ignites my passion, the very will to live, after years of absorbing everything of the emotional pain I’ve written about to my audience. Part of me says to hell with the stigma, and wants to win him despite what I am, despite what he sees every day, and consume him. But I am playing tic tac toe with an aging woman’s embers. He is not the true target, simply a man I like using his strong shoulders as a bulwark for a spastic quadriplegic who was never loved as she wished, with her reactionary anarchist already looking down her nose at having fun with such tensions. It would never work between us, and I know it already because it isn’t a last act of love, merely defiance, fooling yourself the hormones still work in secret. We could not succeed as a couple, as equals in the dynamic of society’s fabric, in any sense. I cannot embrace his world, having sustained such damage in it, any more than he could embrace mine—the world from which I fled, deluding myself in relation to liberal sanctity. Yet I do like him, his energetic man child smile, clinging to him more than a little, like Amy Adams defying narrative frameworks with mystical orthography that eddies linear time. Like the actress, I too ply her thematic imperative, of calling out, “Come back to me,” the life I see as so fulfilling, married to a kindred heart. What sort of love letter is this? One that knows Miss Crowley is in need of a market correction.
It is difficult to adjudicate A Patch of Blue against contemporary standards without viewing it as a public service announcement to maintain silence in the face of differences between ethnic groups not altogether superficial. I must have seen the film a half dozen times, find the echo of my own reactionary fear in Shelley Winters and her recriminating castigation, calling Poitier your black buck, play acting the white trash of which I am a little embodied, or Poitier’s containment of the blind girl’s unintentional disruption, when she nearly topples the fruit pyramid in the supermarket, and yet the movie filters through me like a light urine stream right before a major stool struggle, the arc of the narrative dissipates, leaving behind the poignancy of a connection between a disabled woman and a black man essentially teaching her how to adapt, never actualized, because Poitier’s character realizes the girl’s feelings are based in part on a sheltered dependency. In North Philadelphia, there was, in fact, a blind woman beaten daily and traumatically by a black husband. The dowager was the unfortunate observer of her caramelized face browbeat by crisis counselors and patrol officers, and she disappeared before I relocated to Race Street, a most likely death sentence to an inevitable probable cause, lest you continue to marvel about the scars of the lioness breathing more shallowly beneath my ribs, and so we come full circle, back to my initial rebellion, planting myself in the inner city solely on the basis of a lust to live. To my sensibilities of enduring interior conflict, Shane, (ahem) the paraprofessional tending my shriveled wings, is sexually attractive, and makes me realize what happiness I might have had with such strength as his, and it is rather unfair to discover this, tottering on the brink of a final weakness towards helplessness I cannot defeat, that the right degree of masculinity ignites my passion, the very will to live, after years of absorbing everything of the emotional pain I’ve written about to my audience. Part of me says to hell with the stigma, and wants to win him despite what I am, despite what he sees every day, and consume him. But I am playing tic tac toe with an aging woman’s embers. He is not the true target, simply a man I like using his strong shoulders as a bulwark for a spastic quadriplegic who was never loved as she wished, with her reactionary anarchist already looking down her nose at having fun with such tensions. It would never work between us, and I know it already because it isn’t a last act of love, merely defiance, fooling yourself the hormones still work in secret. We could not succeed as a couple, as equals in the dynamic of society’s fabric, in any sense. I cannot embrace his world, having sustained such damage in it, any more than he could embrace mine—the world from which I fled, deluding myself in relation to liberal sanctity. Yet I do like him, his energetic man child smile, clinging to him more than a little, like Amy Adams defying narrative frameworks with mystical orthography that eddies linear time. Like the actress, I too ply her thematic imperative, of calling out, “Come back to me,” the life I see as so fulfilling, married to a kindred heart. What sort of love letter is this? One that knows Miss Crowley is in need of a market correction.
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