The problem of Syria is analogous to the bilateral argument between atheists and theists. If the major powers do nothing, we face the prospect of a regional military conflict that will only grow in size and scope, and might threaten Israel. If the major powers act, or take sides in a proxy conflict, then we may wind up with the same playbook, and break the bank in the process. The use of chemical agents to exterminate life is an engagement of excessive torment on living bodies. Physical torture is one thing, but poisons are another, an overwrought condensed agony living things should not have to experience from human manufacture. Our planet is deadly enough on its own, and more to the point, Assad who trained to be an ophthalmologist, thinks he can get through this by utilizing Mithridatic tactics, and this not against an external enemy. Why does the Middle East remain in the mindset of eighth century jurisprudence?
On that question I submit greetings to Ms. Morin, who replaces Amy, who understandably had enough of my lack of beatitudes. Happiness is difficult to come by given one set of experiences over another, aside from my relief mechanisms in anarchy, but I have my own honor code. What I'd convey to JL Morin on far lighter terms than my above paragraph, is that I would be happy to engage in inglorious grunt work for the Huffington Post, if I understood how an aggregate works, which I only partially grasp. Fact checking is fine, and the like, since it is in the field I wish to remain with my lingering viability. We shall see.
I am risk adverse to this extent: If I snowball myself into full time work in another location and fail due to the fact that I am aging, I cannot just chuck it up to a loss and then scurry back to Philadelphia's public housing system. I have to be sure an employer can truly accommodate my limited functionality. I am still smart, to a varying degree, but need quadriplegic supports better than those received in the past, and negotiating this isn't easy. I have covered breaking news stories, and it is high octane, but obviously, going to Damascus would be absurd.
Reluctantly, I remain against a surgical intervention. What would it solve?
Showing posts with label asiatic vespers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label asiatic vespers. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Thursday, March 22, 2012
More Moment With Bob
The massacre is known as the Asiatic vespers. It is suggested that this massacre was to insure loyalty, because all those cities who participated in the massacre couldn't switch sides for fear of Roman reprisal.
The connection I made to Creeley through disconcerting him lasted only a moment, but for me, those meeting of the minds are rare, and nearly an abstraction. Even today, this very small event in my life with a minor movement poet is a living embodiment in my psyche, just as Jerry is, and my resentment of my own infantile sensibility of that fact; not that it is constant, nor exotic, indeed, this is worship built upon earlier foundations with other authority figures whom I manipulated. I wanted to marry my high school history teacher, who was Italian, and he, dear fellow, made the mistake of getting personally involved with my family. Why? He saw my potential, and my damage, and tried to rescue me for the Ivy League. I obsessed over his elegance, his couture and style, the ability of his limpid eyes to emote, and this is where much of my glittering self-loathing comes from. I cannot break the Platonic ideal and settle for the horror of sexual intimacy with a man like Frank. I am not claiming exceptionalism, only that my investments in what and who I cannot have, this too, has left me an angel of vengeance being destroyed by compliance models that only have my best interests at heart.
I want to be fillet mignon, and at best, I am a tasty salisbury steak with an extended clitoris and pubic hair which refuses dainty arousal, only wearied by loss of lubrication, and dryness, which, should I actually meet some decent bastard who can read me, and figure I am not that bad, this late in season, will have to be addressed. I know what it is to fuck stupidly, and then fuck slightly better with borrowed husbands, but I have never had the wonder of loving abandon. Frank did try, but I hated him from the beginning, and that was my mistake, believing I could repress my scathing contempt for a stupid mestizo from the Bronx simply so I could flee my supervisor's revealing intimacy.
How I survived this without going my brother's route and injecting myself to death with PCP, I do not know what to deem it, an accomplishment?
I do not want a doctorate, not any more; yes, it places me at a disadvantage, but at this stage of the game, that degree of focus and concentration offers little immunity from heading toward, or warding off, the corrosion of irreversible, traumatic, decline.
To augment this seasonal garnish, "The Crow" was my own discovery, before the imprinting of my own idolatry; it was coincidence that Jerry studied with the Beat to whom I was most responsive, and ironically, in a submission I cannot remember, rejected my work, I think before I went to his reading, and subsequent lecture on a poet Alan Dugan, a man whom I've yet to expore.
The connection I made to Creeley through disconcerting him lasted only a moment, but for me, those meeting of the minds are rare, and nearly an abstraction. Even today, this very small event in my life with a minor movement poet is a living embodiment in my psyche, just as Jerry is, and my resentment of my own infantile sensibility of that fact; not that it is constant, nor exotic, indeed, this is worship built upon earlier foundations with other authority figures whom I manipulated. I wanted to marry my high school history teacher, who was Italian, and he, dear fellow, made the mistake of getting personally involved with my family. Why? He saw my potential, and my damage, and tried to rescue me for the Ivy League. I obsessed over his elegance, his couture and style, the ability of his limpid eyes to emote, and this is where much of my glittering self-loathing comes from. I cannot break the Platonic ideal and settle for the horror of sexual intimacy with a man like Frank. I am not claiming exceptionalism, only that my investments in what and who I cannot have, this too, has left me an angel of vengeance being destroyed by compliance models that only have my best interests at heart.
I want to be fillet mignon, and at best, I am a tasty salisbury steak with an extended clitoris and pubic hair which refuses dainty arousal, only wearied by loss of lubrication, and dryness, which, should I actually meet some decent bastard who can read me, and figure I am not that bad, this late in season, will have to be addressed. I know what it is to fuck stupidly, and then fuck slightly better with borrowed husbands, but I have never had the wonder of loving abandon. Frank did try, but I hated him from the beginning, and that was my mistake, believing I could repress my scathing contempt for a stupid mestizo from the Bronx simply so I could flee my supervisor's revealing intimacy.
How I survived this without going my brother's route and injecting myself to death with PCP, I do not know what to deem it, an accomplishment?
I do not want a doctorate, not any more; yes, it places me at a disadvantage, but at this stage of the game, that degree of focus and concentration offers little immunity from heading toward, or warding off, the corrosion of irreversible, traumatic, decline.
To augment this seasonal garnish, "The Crow" was my own discovery, before the imprinting of my own idolatry; it was coincidence that Jerry studied with the Beat to whom I was most responsive, and ironically, in a submission I cannot remember, rejected my work, I think before I went to his reading, and subsequent lecture on a poet Alan Dugan, a man whom I've yet to expore.
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