Feeble Evocations

"The best advice I can give you is to stay out of hospitals Lieutenant." -- Leonard Nimoy

For the few of you who may have noticed, I emoted to Secretary Kerry's account that "we had to help France!" But I am in tandem with the analysts who say we cannot prepare for that level of contingency which led to the massacre at Nice. The images did indeed feel just like a joint Francais American thriller, or even the one novel by Harris not about Hannibal, inundation and emotion struggling hand in hand with each other. I want to help, really. I want to drop everything, apply for an impoverished Visa and meaninglessly shed my blood for the neo imperial nation which did so much to launch the United States, but I'd only be a hindrance, despite the dark irony of my intuitive understanding how public housing enabled this man to lose his conscience. This has been a sometimes blaring subtext of my Blogger account for exactly this reason. This so called social safety net should never be a lifetime injunction. I don't even have a criminal record, but can understand if it was despair which drove this Tunisian, how that despair flowered, because his age is precisely how long I've lived under this regime, nearly my entire life, and my family would say I don't want to accept reality-- but Reeve was injured far worse than I, and Dana never abandoned or dumped him, not in the way so many of us are left to hang, and yet, at the same time, this senseless idiot has merely paved the way for more bloodshed which is coming, because he had absolutely no objective other than to sow destruction which will ultimately unite NATO, even if the alliance ends up targeting certain geographical areas of the Arab spring with limited warhead strikes. This degree of carnage simply cannot continue, and we all know it. To fall back on the post modern conceit of one person's terror  is another's freedom, that holds true if the objective can be traced to an oppression which has lifelong consequences, as in the case of the Holocaust era Zionist, or a Chinese Maoist radicalizing against destitute starvation, or a disability activist imposing a tyrannical strike on ambulatory norms, but the Nice attack was an exercise in futile carelessness. It would not have been draconian on the part of Nice traffic authorities to check the damn vehicle, from the back stories I hear coming in. Everything is a weapon now. Digital technologies, 20th century industrial technologies, and the worst things I could never imagine are no longer left to the imagination. God help us all.

Foul Mood

For the record, I did not want to see the Foley beheading video Gillmor references in our flagship periodical. I have seen enough since the Iranian revolution in 79 that nothing the Arabs or their related sects do to us, or each other, shocks me. The only difference between then and now is the superficial glitterati factor, as true for ISIS as it is for Ferguson, but I also did not need Gillmor to articulate what I've long worried about, where the line is-- not solely due to the fact that my conscience vies with the temptation toward criminality due to desperation out of a lifelong oppression under the heel of every ethic identity, my own, others, and the disabled themselves-- we're cruel as well, as the diction in some of my posts evinces. If I thought I had the savvy to handle it, I'd use ISIS for my own objectives, much as Marthe Keller uses Bruce Dern's mortally scarred veteran, and this is a fairly chilling admission from a fifty two year old naive twit getting squeezed out on both ends, from the system and the people not quite subject to it in the same way (yet), my cries for latitude, for room to breathe, increasingly limited, other than to give my notice and try to make a run for it on some fairly long odds. What do I want?

I want the company Presbyterian Homes out of my fucking life, that is what I want, and for equally myopic black women to stop using my back as a career opportunity while I'm killing myself on my graduate education writing penny articles. Charles Horton, the vice chair on the mayor's commission on disability, was little more than useless, giving me the number for Rita Foley, a black accessibility coordinator for this collusionary enterprise. Her pay grade is so dear she doesn't return telephone calls, and assumes we all embrace liberation theology, since her voice mail, for a city agency, ends on "have a blessed day." Now we know: Philadelphia isn't the American city of independence, merely the functional arm of minority Adventists.

I'm truly not a liberal anymore. I'll grant progressives this: Darren Wilson used excessive force to subdue Michael Brown, but after the life I've led under Eastern Pennsylvania's modus operandi, I'll donate to Wilson's defense fund. Tolerance never meant we had the right to eat each other alive because we cannot learn to divine and respect difference, and difference sometimes means apart from.

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.