"The whole room trembles, expands, contracts, moves a few centimeters to the right or left, up or down, all the while keeping its cubical shape."-- Danilo Kis, Hourglass
I am a bit too dim-witted to understand just whom I am pissing off in the Google/twitter verse to have no referring urls on Blogger for a week. I have taken far more incendiary attitudes in the past than I have of late, though Bibi might find my attitude toward Israel perplexing, and I haven't addressed whether or not my disenfranchisement at the hands of the Jewish princess theme has made me Antisemitic-- though I may have lost a Jewish graduate student on twitter's back end. Even if I wanted to keep track of all that, however, twitter moves too fast. But the answer is no, with qualification, and that being, Jewish liberalism is also a flawed, human institution, This liberalism exists on the plane of Jonathan Swift's satirical bite evinced in Gulliver's Travels, and it is jaundice, but a jaundice with paucity. My Jewish cousins are my most favored family members, and if I could I'd move in with Robin instantaneously. Childhood affections, and she has style, a good metabolism, kept her figure, unspoken griefs shared at my brother's funeral. This is my remaining brother's twitter account, and you see his footprint; he dodges me, his bitter oldest sister. As good as his word, he will shut out my demise in an institutional environment, poor little Benny. Carries mother's maiden name, I don't really blame him. I may eat libertarian ideas as rapaciously as I gasp on fetid indoor radiated air, but Prince Charming isn't going to gallop over to Riverside from social media to rescue me from my remorseful imposition on African American society. If Benjamin cannot handle it, nor my sister, how much more the power males who admire my balls?
Yes, I have them, but only due to the fact I have no vested interest in not calling spades for what they are as I've experienced them, and in transit from Trader Joe's last evening, to the 7-11, I carelessly lost my sock assist, after years of caution, in the usual analogy of density and precocious wit. A simple piece of wood with rubber sealed wire, my entire life has been on the inside of the concentration camp, only flirting with the illusion of freedom in the flickering candle of liberal police states. I can't tell you what it is about the translucent finesse of Danilo's moral guilt that is worth revisiting as my exacerbations thicken with sputum, rereading too much at once, unwilling to fight, but equally not ready to go. I just started The Onion Field. The film made me realize Wambaugh's book would be better, because it isn't simply about a cop killing, but reverberation.
I concede, reluctantly, that small as my account may be, I am part of twitter verse, at least until I get myself banned. Why ever would a smart gal like me do that?
Showing posts with label benjamin netanyahu. Show all posts
Showing posts with label benjamin netanyahu. Show all posts
Friday, February 6, 2015
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Turnstile Passes
"It may even be worse for you, in the end."-- Robert Shaw
Richard Rodriguez is perhaps ecstatic, positively jubilant. With only a glancing reference to his essays, I relent and forgive him for his sexual orientation. Why am I able to offer Rodriguez this gift, when I would otherwise drive Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern, my mother's surviving ex-friend Kmac, my own ex-collegiate friend Alan Gordon, who met Jimmi exactly once, ditto for the old queen Jim who I had to tolerate in the strange topography of Germantown when I drew my salary off of the Pew Charitable Trusts, why does Rodriguez get off when LBGT activists could throw themselves off Niagara? I have never observed the fabled hysteria of lemmings stampeding themselves off an escarpment, but that would be my jubilee, as far as the activists and myself are concerned. "Why are you blaming us for a trauma triggered by your supervisor, who enjoyed her little mind fuck at your expense? We didn't do it."
Your permissive promiscuity lays the groundwork for evil that has nothing to do with a messiah as a transmuted human deity. Zealous willful blindness of indulgence, Richard Rodriguez may not lack it, but he recognizes it as a Hispanic Catholic minority, and he is willing to be conflicted with it, not let himself off. He knows he sins, and this is his metaphysical decency within his faith, so I forgive and respect him, though I only know how heart felt his writing must be from the sincerity and gravitas of his media appearances. In a future dalliance, one day I must immerse myself in his work beyond that offered on public airways. Not that this isn't further complicated by Proustian intertextual superfluity, but I have spent the evening with the night, and plod one plank at a time, even in envy.
Envious. Thomas Harris generates psychical wounding thrillers, Hannibal churned out of covering criminal courts, or at least, speculated as such. Black Sunday was spawned from the 72 Munich games, but let us enlarge on geopolitical aspects. We once believed in Robert Shaw's Major from the film. Understood him, held fast to his ruthless expediency keeping us safe in our beds, perhaps even held a reservoir of sympathy for Bruce Dern's sociopathic veteran, but even this has vanished. The complicated mosaic of the Mossad is not quite so contingent on move and counter move in causation, saving us in the end. As a thriller, Black Sunday has an elocution, a prescient elegance of a unipolar map long since vanquished in the post 9/11 era. It began here, however, with a weak southern politician still ambling about in his near 90's, with his prefabricated simple dwelling habitats, carrying Guinea and the Sudan in his harvester. Jimmy Carter is a guilty man, and he knows it, all the more why he posits onus on Israeli apartheid. The heirs of Zionism may carry age old intransigence, but it is within the bloom of Carter's failure that the world we have today is what it is, right in the bosom of Obama's exhausted integrity.
More is the pity.
Richard Rodriguez is perhaps ecstatic, positively jubilant. With only a glancing reference to his essays, I relent and forgive him for his sexual orientation. Why am I able to offer Rodriguez this gift, when I would otherwise drive Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern, my mother's surviving ex-friend Kmac, my own ex-collegiate friend Alan Gordon, who met Jimmi exactly once, ditto for the old queen Jim who I had to tolerate in the strange topography of Germantown when I drew my salary off of the Pew Charitable Trusts, why does Rodriguez get off when LBGT activists could throw themselves off Niagara? I have never observed the fabled hysteria of lemmings stampeding themselves off an escarpment, but that would be my jubilee, as far as the activists and myself are concerned. "Why are you blaming us for a trauma triggered by your supervisor, who enjoyed her little mind fuck at your expense? We didn't do it."
Your permissive promiscuity lays the groundwork for evil that has nothing to do with a messiah as a transmuted human deity. Zealous willful blindness of indulgence, Richard Rodriguez may not lack it, but he recognizes it as a Hispanic Catholic minority, and he is willing to be conflicted with it, not let himself off. He knows he sins, and this is his metaphysical decency within his faith, so I forgive and respect him, though I only know how heart felt his writing must be from the sincerity and gravitas of his media appearances. In a future dalliance, one day I must immerse myself in his work beyond that offered on public airways. Not that this isn't further complicated by Proustian intertextual superfluity, but I have spent the evening with the night, and plod one plank at a time, even in envy.
Envious. Thomas Harris generates psychical wounding thrillers, Hannibal churned out of covering criminal courts, or at least, speculated as such. Black Sunday was spawned from the 72 Munich games, but let us enlarge on geopolitical aspects. We once believed in Robert Shaw's Major from the film. Understood him, held fast to his ruthless expediency keeping us safe in our beds, perhaps even held a reservoir of sympathy for Bruce Dern's sociopathic veteran, but even this has vanished. The complicated mosaic of the Mossad is not quite so contingent on move and counter move in causation, saving us in the end. As a thriller, Black Sunday has an elocution, a prescient elegance of a unipolar map long since vanquished in the post 9/11 era. It began here, however, with a weak southern politician still ambling about in his near 90's, with his prefabricated simple dwelling habitats, carrying Guinea and the Sudan in his harvester. Jimmy Carter is a guilty man, and he knows it, all the more why he posits onus on Israeli apartheid. The heirs of Zionism may carry age old intransigence, but it is within the bloom of Carter's failure that the world we have today is what it is, right in the bosom of Obama's exhausted integrity.
More is the pity.
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