White Chocolate

I am not sure why I responded to Jennifer's post. Read it once, trying to make sense of it, skimmed it again, and then responded with macro view impatience about our inability to be ruthless and efficient enough, but if we were that we would not have put Bales in prison, nor castigated servicemen who spoke out loud what we all believe, but remains a breach of manner to say: American and European lives are more valuable than certain Arabic African and some Asian groups. And Google would have banned me long ago for demonic ferocity, although there is a difference in the imagining of mobile savagery and the actual ability of my transfer skills, and I haven't attempted to strangle kimmy for being a stubborn female. The minute I sit up I am subjected to relentless head buts from this relegated feline whose litter could not be saved, and as such I am posting without freshly brewed Italian roast, always unwise, even if kimmy doesn't let up, leaping and dancing, chewing plastic because she wants greens, until, resolute, I sit still.

Islamic State is hard enough, which makes them both admirable and dishonorable. They killed the press on our home turf. I stayed my hand on Foley for being a fool, going into the chaos of Syrian fractures, but killing journalists on the home front, then going after the Jews who remained on European soil, remained French-- there is no honor in this kind of attack, even if Islamic State would argue they are doing what WW2 Zionists did. The Zionists in the aftermath of the Third Reich had a reasonably zealous agenda in the face of a mechanized banal slaughter humans had never seen before, lacking the technical capacity. I don't think recreating a modern Israeli state worked, but comprehend it as a mission statement.

Extremists want a Caliphate? Afghanistan is already a prime example of homo sapiens devolution.

Karina pinged to ask how I was; you could wag a finger: See, you fired her and said she was stupid and she has remained kind. Yes, but I gave her about 300 I wouldn't have given a person of color. The kindness I miss is my childhood physical therapy aide. Mary Anne. She let me sleep over, taught me about scoliosis, which she had, not visibly, and prepared me for confirmation, an innocent attachment to a child vanquished by tunnel visions of loss too difficult to absorb. I don't know what went through her head day after day, watching me tortured in leg braces, locked into a standing table, mailing letters with Eisenhower's bust as an imprint on ten cent stamps. Lesbianism wasn't even a concept, though she was a Catholic woman of the 70's, floral blouses and an auburn beatles bob for a hairstyle. 

I need my coffee now.

The Cyril Cusack Glib Reassurance

AS Byatt, in her essay about Browning, struggles to capture something about his miasmal wit, which is nearly epic in invective rage without ranting. Keats may anticipate flash fictions and our like of pastels, dying young enough not to wither, but the author of Possession nails the difficulty with Browning. He felt poetry could still argue metaphysics, ideas, striding right along with the reductive nature of positivism, making a careful rereading of R et B move slowly. He is one of the few historical poets I respond to on my own, innately drawn to his voice, without faking it due to the fact poets are supposed to appreciate all poetry-- and because I am tired I will dispense with this simply: fuck that.

Most poetry should be scorned, and if anything has surprised me about late last century poets like my mentor Jerry, it is his ossification into place. What he did in workshop to me had a far more threatening hedonism to it then what I chased down on Google and then contacted him, kicking and screaming-- I told myself not to trust me because I knew I'd burst into tears. In 2002 I cried over Tassoni for two days; in 2007 Frank the ex did not know it, but the remainder of his cognitive function was in danger and my countenance was flushed in pain not because I did not fool around with the bastard back when but because I failed the standards of my best professor and I knew I'd beat myself, and did, and no longer respect his poetry as much as I used to; he ossified. This disappoints me here on my nigger welfare scum sucking throne, cappish?

Commercially or classically, the razor edge of nihilism is comforting, and with spymaster Le Carre, it is a brutally commercialized cynicism that says the same thing as Mitchell really: we'll always find ways to cannibalize each other for our own meat, and we encapsulate this like a warm blanket. The 2010 Canadian Altitude, which reversed my expectations about formula because it had interesting cinematography, almost uses a stem cell approach when dealing with the envelopment of loss. Andrews is almost playing billiards with the narrative of our imprints enveloping us a certain way due to seemingly random tragedy. Every action leads to reaction, one we may not know, but Le Carre overwhelms his characters. Burton through indignation, Guinness, as Smiley, through monastic castration, Fiennes through martyrdom, smiting consciences-- his plots superb and his characters well drawn, many of his endings, are, however, infuriating and deflationary, and yet they console, as much as Browning's palette of metaphysical contests.