Auto Immune Flares

love lies bleeding in my hands-- the other British faggot of whom I've time honored conflicted ambivalence

I can barely remember H.G. Wells’ The Invisible Man. Read long ago as a teen not so specious then as to transpose it with Ellison’s Invisible Man, yet specious enough now to tell you they interlock, the concrete superficial suspense tale the film industry cannot resist revising on a continuous basis, and the powerful novel by Ellison which abrogates racial identity. A recent rendition written by Henderson attempts to elevate Wells’ science fiction with some of Ellison’s stark eloquence of erasure, perhaps asking us to reconsider scientific endeavor and zealous overkill. Henderson manages canonical faith to the original character in his upgrade, giving Griffith a dead son whom the doomed scientist believes was butchered by a former student, and we are given Griffith’s flashback of what he believes occurred with only circumstantial evidence, as he drinks his formula, acquires Hodgkin’s disease, descends into madness. I am not sure why the remake was made, as I respect my stepmother’s caretaker enough to tell her Louise may have purchased her last medical drama, curious thing, social media. I liked this woman when she disposed of my filthy mattress, and Facebook has given me hints about her emotional instability. I like her less, and way way back in archives, before Google dangled a suspension threat, I drew more than 30 page views in my matter of fact caustic bite. If she dies things will change. Social intelligence gawked at the circumspect nature of my developmental mindset. The caretaker doesn’t realize there is little love lost between me and Louise, with her deadly rheumatoid arthritis and her caustic mouth, complaining to me about my father’s impotence, stigmatizing my brother, saying I should be put away. Her son’s willingness to slash her tires, while an intimidating expression of rage, is an act I comprehend, but what pisses me off is my father subsumes his life like a dog for a sick and florid catty woman, always unpleasant and miserable, who should have been allowed to die three years ago, at least, while I hang like a chad, a consequence of my own obstinance. I did this to me, moving to bad neighborhoods in a sterile city, and now my mother’s nursing school colleague sleeps in hospice, younger sister and I in a truce of purveyed necessities, making a pun only I understand from one of Jerry’s workshop pieces. Think plague. Stephanie and I worry about Dad, the toll on poppa, poor poppa, and I have maybe a day or so left with the Muslim who is wiping my ass. How can I empathize Ellison and label myself his antithesis? A racist is as much reduced as those she stereotypes. You can all go fuck yourselves, because I am still well enough to live instead of urinating Depends, weary of the eschatology dynamic. Yes, death is a part of life, unless you’re a ghoul like Peter Thiel, pulverizing Nick Denton, British nigger lover who’d remove my malicious rhetoric.

Listening to Beyonce is not my currency

"It is easy to kill; harder to be loved!"-- not the Michel Lonsdale  of Jackal

Why I log on and then drive to the kitchen for a hot coffee at the end of the month is one of those things, an inefficiency of poverty overwhelmed, restraining myself from writing a rather graphic notice to Trudy Richardson, building manager, threatening her safety, not her life. I am attempting to hold off just a week or two more before I crash any last hope on my head. I put Sanchez's Freeman article in my file not as a compliment, but as a store away to argue with later, as I basically disagree with most of it, having read it all before. Bullet points from the Left:

• genocide is politically generated
• resurgent nationalism leads to suspicion of foreign nationals (how many Chinese Americans are covert agents, we wonder)
• war is an invention of modernity (right)

I myself have argued for sympathy for Fascists, nor am I the only secret admirer of Mussolini. Porn stars drop his name to stir the paparazzi, but I am not facetious this morning, sadly. I am a murderer of intent, not of fact, as long as I would not draw it out, and obey my code, a dehumanized survivor who believes that dehumanizing is a necessary psychoanalytic mechanism, and slightly fascinated with Hoover's legacy in aftermath, I did a little digging into the Seberg Cointelpro case. There are a slew of urls on it, and maybe this is worth my time, a little investigating. I do distinctly remember that Hoover had been retired by 79, the year of Seberg's ruled suicide. But what I'd ask the conspiracy minded is what would federal agents have to gain by putting her under that level of duress? She was not the first mediocre actress to push the political spectrum to extremes. Law enforcement makes us all expendable at the street level, particularly black males, but the truly powerful fear soldiers like Kokesh more. Military men like him know the system and speak simply, spitting in chunks. As I am manufactured, I'm more deadly, capable of playing a long game.

I am not the least interested in assassinating figureheads, be it de Gaulle or Obama. I want to upend entire regulatory processes and then some. I am also slightly disenchanted with Fee's appreciation of my little donation. I told Jeffrey Tucker I believe in patronage even if I can no longer afford it, and 15 dollars is a pittance to publications fighting for survival. I don't know if I'll try with Jeffrey again. I failed to hold up my end, and as it stands, I'm tapped, not sure I have any ability to capture the attention of kids in their twenties, but I may, and suspect he and I share similar attributes when it comes to shirking accolades.