Searing Parables of the Digitally Condensed

A noble hunger, long unsatisfied, met at last its proper food, and almost instantly the food was snatched away.-- CS Lewis

Why I lagged behind on the reading of some of my early 2010 e-text purchases? One reason was, surely, the mere logistics of the kindle reader I was using: I have written prior to this entry that I am fond of electronic devices as they age, if I am comfortable with them, though this is not the case with the eighth generation kindle I forlornly upgraded at a now defunct off-campus shoppe called Joe’s Coffee  -- too much money spent on a heavy glazed fritter regardless of the coffee swilled needlessly, not the least of which because while Amazon was remotely salvaging this slightly thicker eighth generation model, my behemoth common law husband Frank was dying of kidney failure (he and I were having serious issues and he didn’t want me to attend hospice with him) but I exhaled his last with him, that last weighted draw of bated breath in his olive-pitted, diseased skin, sucking on my own encroaching fiftieth year vinegar: I couldn’t persuade Frank to undergo dialysis to have more be with his family. I have always felt I should have been able to persuade him, for the sake of his grandchildren, who loved him, for the sake of his younger brother, and especially for the sake of his son. This is why satirists like Marc Haig and his off balanced Radleys got the short straw to a degree; Alison Strobel I had simply forgotten I had, and The Weight of Shadows is just good enough, my perineum convulsing mildly with her narrative, to keep me interested in her younger generation. Herman Koch is another matter with his turn of the decade novel. There are a number of movies about The Dinner, and they deterred me from reaching completion, there are also trace echoes of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy in Koch’s charming didactic lesson, but, ultimately, Paul Lohman’s pre-crisis triggers come off like the contrivance of a marionettist, and the final chapter disappointed me, perhaps even because of his brusque geocidal rattling of his students. The talent of Herman Koch is immense, and should be read, but he isn’t quite ready to dock the yacht. A grain of salt should be secured at the table.

Romans and Celts

"The North, I mean the living North, was suddenly all transcendental. It went behind the human law, it went behind the apparent failure, and recognized eternal justice and glory." -- Henry David Thoreau, cited in Weird John Brown: Divine Violence and The Limits of Ethics

The second generation kindle which my broken urinal splashed has fully recovered, though the controller was not amused with me. How many of these things has Amazon manufactured? Thousands? I understand that the micro-bead ink is made in Israel. I am rather attached to the one the retailer shipped me originally. I have a relationship with this kindle, curse it ferociously but derive more comfort from it than my marginally younger Paperwhite, though I know the 2Gk has to be exchanged, deregistered, soon. I am sad, because the device has it's own character, and do not wish to deactivate it, Russian trolls notwithstanding.

The above paragraph serves as a rationale as to why I'm solidly behind Toomey, despite the sense, intuitively derived, that his staff may believe I need a nose ring and some manners; who bothers when the mare is barren? In point of fact, if Toomey's circle saw how I live, bipartisanship would turn a leaf or two, and that circle would coax me to die as I had lived, in medical model institution, siding with the intellectually limited minorities who manage the building (but not themselves, blacks seem to repeatedly confirm they behave like Chinese villagers with petty vendettas, and I am getting out, one way or another, fall on my sword, if I must). If I know what I know, that obscene fortresses like Inglis House are reliable portfolios, and I applaud Toomey's business acumen as a necessary aggression, then why don't I fold in my hand?

Because I know what it's like to have money, and a beautiful 3 acre home, une poppa who taught me the value of work and self reliance, and I did all of this before progressives ass-kissed federal mandates like the ADA, which, as statues, are simply useless repetitions. I may baffle the left, may confuse the Christian right wing, and other libertarians may not trust my authoritarian streak, granted, but every liberal biased negative ad against Toomey makes him a proper capitalist in my eyes, willing to bury the hatchet over such unspoken skeletons. The Celt and the Roman married the same faith, but despise each other. Keep it under your hat. 

It is to my misfortune I did not push to be a flunky to get what I wanted, but if he keeps his seat, the mare ninnies another day.

Quantum Models in Slovenia

Though I haven't perused any recent issues, Poets & Writers loves contributions about profiles in which the established figures discuss technique; never did a damn thing for me, blindly shelling out my money, for years. The organization is baffled at my ire now that I'm really feeling an economic pinch, but it is the same as other motifs seeping through this account: the price of spastic dowager's loyalty and passive acceptance. My technique to produce creatively never recovered from two things, the first being moving to this wretched studio at Riverside (Karina either trashing or misplacing my scrapbook of articles), and the second adapting to digital, even though it seems counter-intuitive, as I made more money as a journalist online between 99-08 than I ever did riding shotgun with literary journals as the caboose of arts and sciences departments, but while we're at it, let me merge apples and potatoes: I used to consider Kenyon Review to be highbrow, a desirable addition to my CV; that I use the past tense doesn't mean I'm now nonchalant, so much as questioning creativity's didactic ability in the modern era. I sampled KR online when my now distressed second generation kindle was more vogue. Forget dates. It was more than two years ago through, and there was a fictional story of an orphan chimpanzee whose mother was killed by a poacher who sold the baby to a progressive white American woman who had an adopted black daughter. The simian and the human youngster bonded but the chimp grew up, and like Caesar in the reboot, is placed in captivity, a last meeting with human sister ending in distress. The contributor's point was, I believe, to make us question human tendency to compartmentalize. Yet the senseless travesty of Harambe occurred despite the most astute of Kenyon's imperatives. The incurious toddler was actually the expendable mammal if we are going to arguable over the health of bio-diversity. Not that I wouldn't have made an effort to distract the silverback to recover the child, but in no way would I have shot dead an innocent ape denied its freedom so that we could gape at it; speaking of which, this is an upgrade I'll gun for next month. Back to work, back to coffee, and those who care about the election in November, go fuck yourselves. I wash my hands of the whole national scene.

Dominic Purcell and Clive Owens Look like matching Duds

Now Gustave is spastic's idea of an unbeatable frontrunner, and I may vote next November simply for the sake of using him as a write in, a crocodile too smart to fall for human entrapment and too tough to die. Sounds like a good December marriage proposal too, now that I'm thinking about it, too tired for anything more than facetious flippancy in the moment. All things being relevant, I am on my way to sunken mattress from Sears and Riverside daybed Number One all the way back to 1994. Dear old dad dumped me from Diamond Park-- Trudy Richardson was probably in the public school system learning her exemplary evasive skills-- yes, a back-handed cut, and if black mothers want my advice please lose your taste for this German derivative. Seriously. "Trudy" denotes an airhead silliness in a girl-- and my mother had to come rescue me the next day. I slept in an armchair and couldn't go to work, if this gives my current viewers any indication why I'm so obsessive about moving on.

I intend to be here at Joe's Coffee  for the WiFi access early Friday, with my normal apologetic stance for being a hindrance. I don't know how long my upgrades will take and I may use my pouty invalid expression to get special treatment. I will bring hard copy reading, maybe real paper and real pen, weighing how much of my money I'm going to hand over for bribery purposes. I'll tweet to confirm, rather conflicted as to whether I should bifurcate and trade my older kindle in and just keep the Paperwhite (sigh). Ereaders are now essential brain extensions and I cannot live without them. The two I have cost me about five hundred for the pair. Hard to imagine now.

I cannot give up. I will rematriculate. Fuck building managers, and with that trumpet, that is all to which my pretension aspires to this evening.

Souffle

I am partial to digital mah jong puzzles for useful procrastination, always on the look out for more intricate formats. I must have done something wrong with my external drive, however. Medley cannot load because the .dll is missing. Wrestled over staying online to play my other Gamehouse concepts, but Toshi here seems to have tamed, and my lungs have coughed up enough mucus to get French pastry chefs to the 22nd century.

Next time I reformat-upgrade, I need triple word processing back up. If other writers put content in the cloud, do they get ripped off? I know Azmo uses cloud services for kindle, so I will find out if I transmit my files to either device.