"You do know what you're saying is treason?"-- Robert Vaughn
Sometimes I weary of directories, and remain tempted to let Writer's Market drop, as they cannot keep their information logs current. I did not initially approach FEE in order to spend hours in research, only to fail twice, and then support them on the skeletal remains of my father's affluence, simply for a byline geared towards yuppies. But if I can pass Jeffrey's muster at a future date, it is a gateway back to my former success, matriculated in the Fourth Estate. I also chewed a cuticle on Reason, remaining good as my word, not because Brian will keep telling me "no," so much as because I too want to move beyond core libertarian tenets, not that I do not see now that they go small scale, with one or two in depth features. Neither publication matters right now. I am exhausted, even through the graft I took from Jeffrey in January was small, and needs to be altered, expanded, for other outlets. So why, then, when Mr. Tucker was being surreptitious about rum as the "spirit of pirates," did I not reply with repartee in kind?
My tweet, in fact, was inappropriate. Don't write it in public, I told myself, but did, that my abuser stepfather drank rum, so I prefer gin. Conservatives eschew victimization, and that small pin drop on my part was escalating, mildly. From what I can tell, I like the man, and do not begrudge the paddle too much. On some things I have to pay the price of going slower. As long as I can function as writer, too, topics can recycle, in unexpected ways. Learned that by now. It was not his rejection that compelled me, so much as I was saying something about distribution of bad outcomes. It is difficult enough that for spastics, fluidity of motion is a fantasy. We also have to become poultry dishes for bigoted den mothers and carrion for ambulatory predators, and here I am, still trying to compete with the best minds, driving myself to exhaustion because the Night Owl kicked in after morning lethargy; even though I am not sexually attracted to Ray Liotta, all the sudden he's an interesting fuck. I am not sure how to explain this, even to myself. Repulsion arousal, hate sex, ferocity bang.
As to schedule, syndication has thrown me some godsends, though I want to budget in High Castle for itself. We'll see. I need to chat with ATT and see if my old battle axed PC's can handle the wireless device, and then change my plan. I feel like a fucking data fugitive, not particularly healthy, in and of itself.
"She went after everybody," my dead ex-fiance on why Trudy Richardson's predecessor, Brenda Williams, was terminated.
Once a nervous breakdown occurs, however mild it might have been in comparison to that of maternal progenitors, the threat of an escalating relapse is always present, the anxieties of post traumatic stresses more prevalent, the war between pragmaticism and the platform for your byline a harder struggle, as I tossed my Lessig rebuttal, as a speculative all nighter, to Brian Doherty of Reason when I actually had another pitch for him, and the dead bloodhound olfactory nerve linked to my ego is saying leave him alone. At least for a few months. On the other hand-- there is always the other hand, even if one wants a libertarian flag to flutter over virtual skeletal fracture, my bones snapping in creative destruction, my younger sister yelling at me when I said civilly that I know she'd put me away, time permitting, when the time comes; but we did not fight. I simply told her my writing ability was losing to anxiety, and if I was ever to in fact go senile she needed to tell me.
"Get out more."
With what? The LOTR meet up tolerates me, but none of its members reach out, and while the peripatetic Karina does reach out (maybe she needs an elder female figure too spastic, ever think of that?), the failed private care giver and the troll are on different tranches. Karina isn't a peer, and I really have nothing to talk with her about. Extremes of destitution take their toll on the calcium of bone which has passed the half century mark. The disabled community which follows me online cannot really help me, even if I embraced them more readily, which I do not. Where I am not cruel outright, I am either otherwise cold, or cool, although this particular slice of my audience can take pleasure in the fact that I've taken 20 lashes from think tanks I believe I have a divine right to penetrate. Snorts at self. Get up, keep fighting. I had an argument in my head about why I abandoned My Disability Matters. He and I messaged each other about prospective job proposals, and as usual, the end result was a significantly lower level of expectation. "The site is up, maybe you can write about it." Thanks Dale I know you're blind and have a much more positive attitude, but no thanks. It is analogous to fake news and false hopes.
In relation to the left's latch onto the newest evil, that of digital propaganda, Foucault has a point when he raises his voice about genealogy records being a more trustworthy metric over narratives. Take Gwen Ifill's death. PBS inflated Ifill's video eulogy out of proportion; the Newshour, one of the first pre-cable news shows to air the Watergate hearings, spent an entire week giving Gwen a memorial. It may not have been a concoction, like the pizzeria, secret den of iniquity, but it was a lot of inflated padding, less so in print. Her obituary wasn't truly news, not under the rubric of the right to know. It was an accolade, meaning, in essence, that much media filler is a take, a perspective, basically unnecessary, diluted already by television technology; now it collapses under automation. I'm still enough of a journalist to know how to check my facts, how to investigate and confirm. A public which cannot do the same cannot simply paint Russian hackers as the new red devil.
