The Beckles Projection

I had a busy, if virtual day, angling to see if I can return to the real world against young turks, such as this gent, if I indeed have enough left in my cognitive matrix to do so, since I am barely a goose with enough down left to hold myself up to a swan, and I was never a turk. In the convenience store, a young nerd said "here you go mamma," and of course I allowed it to glide, but it rankled. My mother was a mamma, a loose one, a lush, without the humor we tend to associate with the Wife of Bath, she opened her legs to the wrong people. So did I, come to think of it, without the magnitude of such reverberating damage to anyone other than myself, still with the mettle of the feckless, social media is not all that it is hyped to be, because I still like the weight of critical analysis as compared to typing "ooo how lovely!" to Ms. Farrow about her pictures. When it comes to Woody's behavior yes I have picked the side I am on, but as a matter of social equality, I have to get fusty with the forces of feminine domestication, and believe, especially in the West, that women have to "embrace their inner bitch" to quote Laurie in script, to operate in the alpha male world, and that we'd be better off engaging without overt lesbianism in the process. Do I expect secular academia to really take me back in the fold with that plank, nearly collapsed as it is? Am I for real? Not in terms of fire and brimstone epithets, no, but as an intellectual warning, yes.

My pleasures are few. One of them once was dragging my body into class with a spastic infantilism, my crutches splayed in the hallway, my breathing labored, gratefully pushing my buttocks back onto the sling seat of a metallic wheelchair frame long rusted into recycle, or landfill. Video rarely takes me out of my consciousness, sex never, good or bad, and I am probably past any point of abandon, and yes, I know abandon is ellusive for the healthy. Levels of practice and expertise are involved. It was like that when I took Paratransit to the Riverfront to see A.I. Bladder filled itself like a weakened rubber, most likely I wet myself in the studio when I returned, not a good day for wonder, or even to feel secure. After the Colorado shooting, reporters kept blaring that theatres were supposed to be a safe place for families, and those of you with relevant pair bondings, of which I am sometimes envious. I never felt that way, not safe, except when Kmac told my mother, the bungle of us screaming at Jaws popping out of the ocean, that "damn shark should run for president." She was wry in the closet. We're catching up with our fictions of science, the erosions of those boundaries, the autonomic, clinical coolness of a Spock, a Data, a Goren, a Sherlock Holmes. I always thought the organic androids from Alien were the most plausible. Should I have my DNA preserved, and come back without damaged brain tissue? Is that possible? 

Whan That Aprill

I've been trying to sit still for the last three hours, since I boiled up breakfast and glided my view over a hale Warren Beatty and a still comic Stockard Channing in The Fortune (1975), and though I could make a few preliminary observations, all I will note is Warren's telling love of the jazz age. He must have heard tales as a young fellow, and I heard more than a few on my bad Catholic side of the family. I also respect Channing a great deal. [Self-editing note: For now, I am not returning to mass, and think what you like, but this is not about the legend of the Christ. Jesus can go fuck himself, and I am more than likely not cursing a historical figure, let alone a dual-equal human-god, which is apparently the primary concern of every Christian sect. What I am struggling with is the need for social cohesion, but I cannot be self-fraudulent. I can lie out of respect for my grandmother, but not for the sake of looking for a good white Catholic male of the right age, not yet. I am not as hard as Hitchens, who I emailed not so long ago before he died, and I cannot say he read what I wrote but think that he did, or was informed, given his subsequent article; I am not sure why he pissed me off too, because I certainly cannot say Hitch was stupid in the way that Daniel Schneider is a thick skulled dumb ass, but maybe Hitchens upsets me for exactly this, that most of us are softer, even with atheism. I cannot return to my parish under a lie, however. It repulses me even though I mourn the Vatican.]
Allow me to ensure today that my sister will never speak to me again, for in my odious want of tact, her abortions messed up her life, in those early years, as much as her inability to control her pregnancies later had the same impact. This does not mean that I want Roe v. Wade overturned. I am talking about her narcissism and lack of personal responsibility. When one of my girls terminated later, that was different, precisely because she was black, already had one baby, and did not have the supports that Stephanie, by contrast, would have had available. The first major rift between Stephanie and myself was over her first abortion; she leapt on top of me, throttling me, screaming "Shut up!" It is in my bad autobiographical story. I took her and future white trash husband in, and there we were, killing each other. Painfully funny, maybe, but progressive rights, in the abstract, are not always what they seem.

I am angry enough at my sister that I would give spammer predators her personal information, but it is not an effective backlash tactic.

I cannot hunt down that source today, as my nerves are an odious jangle, even though I had the presence of mind to buy hard peppermint candy, to help me sally. I could swear that I had a beautiful Middle English edition of The Canterbury Tales . But if I did, it is buried somewhere.