Artificial Insemination

the share of folks not in the labor force remains near all-time highs-- my former grant funder

I was partially in error about Clarity Media's automat. Whatever unfathomable, mysterious reason, after offering my former editorial team a foul berating, I'm still receiving mails from AXS, in the calamitous state of affairs with the economics of content. I am sorely beginning to miss three dimensional space; haven't been back to my Examiner page. If it still exists. Worth more than the arthritis of my ligaments have put into it, I believe I'm worth more, I mean, than penny generated content. Maybe Morris believes she is worth more too, and would like to claw out Spielberg's eyes in a Minority Report rendition. It was her best role, getting Tom Cruise out of deep freeze in a good movie with a silly second sight premise. Women like Penelope Cruz seem to exist to get Cruise out of deep freeze.

Motifs associated with Morris to some extent. With objections to Cold Case otherwise noted, what it does differently is pace itself at the slow speed of reminiscence. It's best propaganda tool was its third oldest puzzle, Best Friends, and Tessa Thompson makes the most of her time on camera. The writers were clever, making it a girl crush, perhaps a transplant from the Harlem Renaissance. Could such affairs of the heart have occurred in Philadelphia in 1932? Between a moon faced Rosie and a minority fedora dyke? (I have a fondness for this male fashion statement which must mean I am repressing the liberating aspects of finding good pencil thin clit; get me to a psychoanalyst to embrace my deeply repressed bisexuality! That is what the LBGT activist terrorists would allege.) I doubt it. Caucasian male and a black woman, yes, but in 32 lesbianism did not exist as a recognized classification. Tessa's Billie dies not because of white male intolerance, but because the screen writers guild indulged in a progressive fairy tale. Yes, the jilted male beau gangs up on the pretty "darkie" girl, so the audience is offered a less than 30 second consequence, but it is still a dream sequence.

We'd react differently if this was transposed on Showtime, elongated into a drama series of depression era lesbianism between a maid and a bootlegger's sister. The world is not in fact shaded in back and white overtones with soft or harsh studio lighting. The writers in fact end the episode almost as if Rosie was a Victorian heroine, compensated for repressing her fascination with the attraction to the forbidden by being granted affluence, burying her dalliance within the safety of fantasy. One can see why Morris is cast between the fantastical and the futurist. Her countenance has that zeitgeist of the alien about it, otherworldly, living in her own dreamscape, whether we scrutinize her biography, chasing after what year she left Temple University after the rest of us, or not.

Paneer Tunneling

"And just as he was about to faint and gain at last one moment of oblivion, the motion stopped, and he would struggle instead against the pressure on his throat." Where Angels Fear To Tread, page 118

My repugnance toward my former fiance must have stimulated the last of my energies, but I regret allowing him to penetrate me anally with the fingers of his one remaining hand. Either I dislike anal sex or realized I had more esteem at the time than annihilation would warrant, and have forgiven him in his child-like misogyny. Frank is an imbecile, but one of the rewards of fucking imbeciles is applying pressure. Glutton guilt does the rest.

I can write this, write the post I wrote yesterday with its searing brush burns of emotional scar tissue, and yet seriously question the morality of Forster's sadomasochistic enthusiasm, fully aware my battle is over before I sound the bugle. The very act of signing, to couch it in Calvino's referential playfulness, is subversive, and sparks anticipation-- yet Forster is an early 20th century black marketeer. He makes the pain of sodomy seem like a lucrative enjoyment. (I can hear Salon's sexually active contributors laughing at me. I am also considering submitting a column to them about the hostile environment I experienced at both disability center locations), draws his readers in better than any pornographic centerfold, and was one of the first modern homosexuals to promote colonial to native homoerotic courtships. E.M. Forster was "aggressively" gay, to echo Chuck Hagel. Aggressively gay before apes through HIV transmission created *unsafe sex* practices.

Sue Davison had a theory about homosexuality. "The whole world will turn homosexual eventually," this offered up nonchalantly while she glammed me up in the kitchen one day, before college. I do not know, recalling the memory, if she was sounding me out or just being a dumb bitch, but she always tried to help me build my esteem. The make up, objecting to my body hatred of my legs and buttocks. The only person who ever truly succeeded in helping me to take pride in myself, that I'll leave as the obvious and unstated.

Famous Anecdotes

There is a vestigial aspect to the 1977 Julia which makes it an interesting study, and fleshes out Lillian Hellman's play a little more. The Children's Hour always confused me, at least as an attack on innuendo, but thrown against the titanic clashes of 20th century Europe perhaps one can wear Lillian's lenses, even about absence-- for absence of presence is something I understand. Of all my name dropping on this account, one thing ties into my waggling: Lack of intimacy. I do not know Jerry all that well, nor Linda, my favorite spastic sociopath. I do know my ex fiance with an exposed familiarity of the uncouth, and thus understand Hellman's inability to let go of the impression made to her heart, but as a bio epic the film doesn't work, and is more reminiscent of overdrawn aristocrats writing each other love notes for lack of any other relief from their body lice. 

Julia was one of the few Jane Fonda vehicles which ever intrigued me. I thought Redgrave might do something interesting against the life long movie star chameleon whose frantic undercurrents drive me up the wall. Jane tries very hard here to use herself as an icon to play a theatrical icon, one who is now basically a footnote-- but it doesn't work, and Vanessa has little to do with the title character except to make her a blue blood willing to sacrifice body parts and personal security for radical egalitarianism-- the very thing I'm now using my pen to fight.

I loved my best friend Susan the way Hellman expresses her love for her early Nazi casualty, not my supervisor. I identified with Linda. If I had to be a woman with spastic cerebral palsy I wanted to make myself over in the image of a prevaricating Jewish fuck who reclines back into herself, a mortally wounded ferret-- but my depressive episode brought about by her betrayal wasn't gay panic. I believed for a long time that this was the case. I did not want to sleep with her then, and don't now, these many years past her divorce--but I did let her cause me a tremendous amount of suffering in my branded, platonic attachments, and this is one of Hellman's motifs-- personal and platonic investments beneath restraint, not so much forcibly repressed, but expected.

At one time, I loved Sue, my ambulatory best friend who had her own ambivalence about her sexual freedom. I kissed her hand too like a devoted litter whelp, when she came back from Alaska with Steve, but there was no sexual arousal involved in my attachment. I contrast this with my present state of being. My only interpersonal intimacy is with my second worst enemy: a broken female physician transvestite who can barely remember its own name while I wait to dance on its grave. Erik lacks the mental capacity to understand that I believe his extermination would be beneficial for the species, and that discussing the hostile environment Linda created for me 13 years ago is no panacea.

Arcs of Recreation

Become a Chimp Guardian-- a primatology motto

Gertrude Lintz is a period figure footnote, and the film based on her captive apes plays itself out like a comical footnote. Alan Cummings might as well have written a skit about getting his balls twisted, given his hyper manic throw away as the assistant. So much video footage is a form of trivial pursuit, and then there are auteurs, like Thomas McCarthy, whose work is so much more; then there is my annoying identification with Massa, the dead Massa, the movie puppet Massa who was evidently not Massa but another lowland gorilla who died in a circus, an attractive anadiplosis; not quite what I'm after.

Do socialites still exist? Our ape cousins only rate slightly higher on the commiseration scale than we do ourselves. They aren't quite human, and I was not entirely unmoved by Jane Goodall's life death and empathy in chimpanzee groups documentaries, but how often do we need to see agitated juveniles act out? Bush hunters poach them or slaughter them for food, and Europeans are still engaged in a jazz quartet with Darwin. Twinge with rebuff.

My post student interlude with Tom Reid was an important lull in my life, because Tom and I had shared sensibility and education in common, and maybe this is what my heart thought it might have relocated in fag boy Jesse, why his lurch off behavior hurts a little more. Marie said I would have made a pass at him, but I do not do forced conversions.

It did matter however, the hope of new relation, discovery of the other. He made me realize the extraordinary weight of the loneliness I carry, with his Google plus hockey mask image, and my Andrew Sullivan screen shot of the darkly overcast Amazon tower. Amy Purdy is the next generation; Sarah Kaufman's writing is of a caliber I once believed myself capable. I cannot enter into what resilience this young woman needed to come back from the devastation of meningitis, but the abyss she confronted, for me, is coming down to a stark choice: endure constraint and more indignity, or convince Final Exit to help me euthanize myself. 

Sciatic Isotopes

"It's surmountable."-- Miles O'Brien, always on CNN

Adding to texture, even sexually arousing in a bizarre liberation toward a thanatological analysis, JT Petty also toys with reversal expectations in his admirable film. When Karl Geary leads his little posse in search of his fictitious band of indigenous marauders, and they find the girl with the spasmodic movements of her lingering humanity in her toe, the dialogue suggests a lethal Alien cavity burst. We don't get that. The actual burrowers are swarmers, an ambiguous terror, overgrown termites bursting out of a nightmare. Placing Doug Hutchison in the appropriate frame, he played the southern commander who doesn't get picked off, doubtlessly there are correspondences to be extrapolated from that, in his projection of dangerous virility, he would no doubt think my former supervisor's scathing epithet of sweetheart an apt dismissal of why I can't play with men like him. 

I can see why he found Stodden a platinum trophy. That long nosed sexual suggestiveness is something Susan radiated outward in her youthful sexual adventurism, my former best friend and was she really? But I cannot pry too deeply into memories that suggest disdain. Sue did care about me, but her friend Kim mocked my vacant facial expressions; it hurts more now that I did not understand that Kim was suggesting the dowager buffoon by pretending to drool in her lap. Pretty girl, raven actress looks with curly black hair, almond eyes. Rich cherry pout for a mouth. She taught me about English coins, having been across the pond.

Should Sue be out there, on FB or whatnot, reconnecting wouldn't help. There is too much pain in our mutual past alone for it to be surmounted. To play a game of six degrees though, if you know an aging blond in her fifties whose unmarried name was Davison, I send along a deep hug to pass on. I loved her once; hope she found happiness. What the fuck is that, eh?