The Grande Braderie de Lille attracted 2.5 million visitors-- the BBC, ever reliable vestige of the world order its empire aspired to install
Allow me to preface this by writing that I know beforehand that my participation on collaborative sites like Niume is voluntary: if I want to stop, then stop if I really believe I'm worth more. My real point of contention is that over participation in social media lends itself to dumbing down, not developing signature distinction of voice. This is why I prefer caustic vitriol. The negativity in nasty honesty is a motivating vision, but in the context of a disabled woman in the crowd, my experience on LinkedIn is that a significant number of users were too paranoid to engage, and in my limited attempts to be active in its quasi-academic whizbiz portal, I was intimidated at first, then flagged for relevance, and so we all learn to post next to nothing, unless we're in private groups. I now succeed just fine on LimkedIn by not typing, though my known real world enemies also have CV listings on the network competitor.
Stay offline? Force myself? I make an effort. but it is increasingly difficult to write and pitch and job hunt without search. Plugging in is both lifeline and anathema, a gauze bandage and a frustration. I've relaxed slightly on FB, warily, and fear the administrators in my network will suspend me on twitter, because the need to bite will eventually get the best of me, with profligate necessity, though I want it as a resource, sparing as that may be; but Niume makes me recoil, as if to ball myself in a protective posture from human ordinance. The savant may inhabit the intellect, but it is still an intellect, not a shopping spree in the Lille Flea Market, held in abeyance after the Paris attacks.
The good news, such as I have any, is that I found my coffee essay, finally, weirdly, and I am likely to field 20 rejections over it, by excoriating Frank's ghost, planking it with sentiments about the perils of commodity and retail. The stupid bastard antagonized me, and still I lack the decency to allow the maggots enough time to clear the skeleton of gangrene in its moldy coffin. But I can tell you why this is: Lava Hulk was my lengthiest failed relationship, and I comprehend the retreat to The Altar of The Dead, while I clarify once more. Platforms for organizations have the right not to respond, but I should have the right as well to express my desire for prospective partnership. Content pages increasing lack procedural steps on how to gain access, whether non profit, or independent media.
And I know that I'll never be free/
As long as I'm a ghost you cannot see, Lightfoot's ballad, even if it's too glaringly obvious.
I may have noticed, from my slow and grudging LinkedIn activation, where I've been basically silent, except to tell Tom Earle that I wasn't going to stop fighting the syndicate, which finally relocated again-- they do that-- that Jerry's email was culled by accident for a connect prompt. I had a choice to make in 07 about contacting him at all, and I did it anyway. Life is short, and logarithms have little idea about the follies which stain our souls. I don't want his forgiveness, nor an apologia about my likely matriculation. Others besides Jerry told me I might enjoy teaching, but I'm no longer well enough, and was too frail from the start for students, regardless of their level, though I was a decent tutor. I can't just say, politely, "hi old man, how is Susan?" after I've been wiping his ass and mine off the floor for the last eight years, but nevertheless, seeing his social media account is a needle poke in the balloon. I just logged on to research my strange disjunctive part eulogy for my failure with my ex the deceased Frankie and the failed journalist in me screaming for a coffee article. Since everyone else writes about coffee I want to write about coffee and I've been beating my cranium with a switch for many years, how to sell a damn pitch resting on what everyone else says about the coffee bean, fungus, the crap about the 500 million franchises on the east coast alone? (This is spastic flipping out being civil, and this is the state of my unquenchable anger this morning.) If I do not find a safe way to vacate landlord, I'm dead; fighting a speculative shelter shiv seems tame, comparatively.
Come learn how to care for the feral and stray cats in your community and make use of the many resources now available to assist you
The line between commiseration and pity can be porous, or run the gradient of a fine tooth comb. I feel an ironic level of antagonism that I actually feel sorry for Leonard Nimoy. I have been blessed by fawning old niggers, comforting me with their liberation theology Jesus, since I was sweet sixteen trying to get laid in NYC (blacks need to learn to stop pulling this shit; it's getting old boys) and I feel sorry for the man who was Spock. A talented actor typecast into a wax figure, and I feel sorry, as if I should go run and buy his book that every entertainer writes when they become identified with their roles.
To satisfy my travel mug fetish I was going to buy this one. I've left it bookmarked, as it is chic, but I spotted this one on site, four dollars less, and if I start dosing a pot a day we're in trouble, like mice under the oven.
If Tavis Smiley were to ask what gets me up in the morning, aside from two temperamental felines swatting each other over my naked stomach that has not known a proper male caress in a long time, I'd tell the intrepid, if grating interviewer, "Coffee." Humidity throws this already spastic contortion of flesh out of whack. Sinuses, which trouble the ablests among us as well, so limping along like a rag picker, barely eating, I could not bring myself to go to my Joe's today, but resorted to their instant coffee packets over brewing in my Krups. I do not really have a good reason why I do not complete my usual automatic drip cycle, maybe it is the secret lizard lurking in my primal brain that an old and wicked gypsy has not accessed, but the Trader Joe's instant travel packets are not bad for the price.
I opted out of seeing the dynamic Slumdog Millionaire this evening, choosing to stay with known formulas, which might surprise those of you who understand that I make demands of my aesthetics, but I wasn't ready to absorb yet more Eastern narratives to fill the empty vessel of Western materialism, so I stayed with what I knew. A small snippet about Stephen King's fantasy-horror constructs: As terrible as the movie Thinner is, the idea of physically wasting away due to moral culpability is interesting, and in better hands might have been a better tale. Joe Mantegna, always reliable on delivery, is the only actor here to put in a lucid performance; it is interesting that his brutality, pitted against extra-sensory ability, leaves his character unscathed.
Some of you may know I am not partial to King's work, and so what else is new? Junk food of the mind is just as bad as that which generate body toxins, however.
