Miscellaneous Protocol

"They do not have to be doing this,"  Cassie James Holdsworth, linear whiner at regulatory restriction

No, I am not feeling particularly better, though I am less phlegmatic in color. Food is an anathema. It would be a pleasure to cease digestion and consider the possible vaginal absorption of Ensure. The Golden Years Rush.

Common Sense LOA edition back on shelf, due to other priorities, but Paine's anti-authoritarian rationale derived from agrarian Semitic polemicists mistrustful of city states would fit right in with the bravado insurgency. Would you enjoy a small token of honesty? Okay. I took a dig at the Miriam Carey event yesterday, a dig on the basis of deconstructing irrational behavior, upending it with the tenet that Obama speaks to everyone on nearly a weekly basis.

But in my annoying interdisciplinary approach, the Carey family has my commiseration. Miriam was sick, much sicker than the system ever attempted to make me accept about myself. I have been in Senate offices in DC, and I do not fuck with the capitol police, and I'd vanish at the approach of the Secret Service, who would kill me because I am mad at the President, which in translation means the trappings of the Oval Office would not subdue the Spastic Tongue Lashing, and then I'd go boom, like Miriam, poor woman. I do not believe she had to die like that, but what to do? I'm not that radical about non-compliance. She did fuck with the capitol police, the secret service, the landscaping contractor.

Nonetheless, the odds of her gaining access to the President were 10 to the sixth power to one, and it is unseemly, playing wild west with a citizen in pain in Washington's metro area with her baby in the vehicle.

On the less slim chance that my energy realigns sufficiently and I can land future assignments that I will complete to an editor's satisfaction, I am in search of a photographer with a decent portfolio who can negotiate their own contracts. I'll reiterate this every so often. I cannot deal with pics, even if Apple had spastic smart phones. I do have a portfolio. It may not be Vanity Fair, but it is sturdy, with one byline to a Pulitzer Prize winner. I am not in the mood for breakfast. Sulky morning, wondering how a dental hygienist could afford an Infiniti in the first place.

We need a moment of conscience.

Il disprezzo de Blond Bombshells

I gave up viewing Blindness at all, and took a shower, which is the only bit of drama remaining in relation to my own control of my life, my ability to set my own parameters. I have some things to do this week, not many, but some, and need to do my best with this unfortunate body, the battle with hygiene over its age and contortion, but I do not look like a woman worth fucking, except to black hustlers, and when they take aim at me, I grin behind glass, drive on. I would never sleep with one of them. With white trash, you can picture the hand wobble gesture that goes with "mmm, iffy." My mother picked up such men like hopping lice, one louse after the other. I have a hard time forgiving my mother for her licentiousness; it led to so much danger and violence for her children. I have lost count of how many times I was threatened with, or subjected to sexual assault, terrified that Stuart, my pathological stepfather, would kill my real dad, which is why I think the three of us, me, my estranged sister, deceased brother, never went to our father. It was not simply his pain and the emotional void of his ruined marriage. I believe we the children were trying to shield him, and it is why I have such a difficult time mourning for my mother, forbidding myself. I do not mean coping with the shock of the initial grief. Most would be hit hard, writers, failed writers, even my father. I mean mourning after that torrent is cooled. I do not allow myself certain things, like loving her memory, hating it. I know she was sick, and of course, I see some of her symptoms in myself. Her younger sister, me, Stephanie, we are a milder continuum. The added burden of my brain damage (sigh). I suppose we have been through my self-righteousness and justifications in two years of posts, but my mother's illness involves a great deal of repression; when she was alive, it erupted. My sister would say my face went purple and I should have my heart checked. Death has not staunched the wounds. Nor therapy. Nor drugs, nor the longing for jubilant abandon in the arms of a good man, to paraphrase the Brigitte Bardot of Contempt.

New Wave fascinates me, I fear, and some of you say to yourselves that I cheat my topic; this is both true and false. False in the sense that when I look at A list material it is with the view toward deeper deconstruction. It slipped my mind that Bardot is still alive, and turned into a reactionary crackpot, but in researching and finding myself back at Alberto Moravia's doorstep, I recalled Bardot's anti-Muslim stirrings in the news. What does this aging diva live on? I almost find myself pitying her. I am falling apart after 27 years of horrible struggle, and I feel sorry for Brigitte Bardot, her loss of relevance.

Contempt fails in its conscious structuralism, unlike the 61 Goodbye Again, for which I have a passionate abandon, and Bardot is indolent more than anything else, but it is, none the less, sending what cognition I have left on a hopeful romp.

Creative Destruction

I am angry at the authentic pain of my grief, even though I'm as human as any other pet owner. My anger is due to lack of time for mourning, for the emotional investment I had, and like my investment in trying to change Frank, who is like Clifford Chatterley, for those of you who know your Lawrence, regressive without the veneer of much social polish , that investment will now have a decorative ash container for a focal point. You can envision me holding Joey's ashes in my lap, rocking back and forth, the inflamed blood pressure in my face about to burst, a fucking piteous hag whose attachment to this creature cost me over three thousand dollars. Considering that I have been unemployed more or less since AccessLife ended in 2001, we are not talking poultry feed, and I am angry at Marie, angry at my inability to say no to her. She nests everyone with a creature. Most Southern European families have these Dolittle characters, saddling everyone with a puppy or a kitten barely weaned.

All of this enters into the writing, but as I have complained, there has been very little joy for me, even when I tried to configure hope within Catholicism. My negotiations with the divine were more like Marxist unionists engaging in riots. Sex was never much, and only turned me on when it was liberating within the betrayal of borrowing husbands.

Not a huge Jim Carrey fan, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is nevertheless on the agenda, and it is nice to know it is a free stream, because the issue of losing memory interests me, given that trauma has the upper hand in having shaped who, and what I am. I know. Gnostic Christians would say I had six years with a silky grey cat with a sweet and spoiled temperament, and Oliver before that survived nearly twenty years despite the fact that most of that was hand to mouth, and for now, I still have the little one.

I have failed career, relationships, and quality friendships, and my freelancing is stalled, perhaps beyond bereavement, though my slow down can in part be blamed on my nicotine battles. Is it so much to ask, as a disabled woman, for a revamp, before I need beta blockers and oxygen to linger on in chronic stasis?