Bronchial Nitrates

"Like all eighties kids, I was so busy being told how special I was I didn't get that went for everybody else."-- a lift from @TBlackford3

The prosthetic finger was a shock, and if I remember nothing else from The Piano, vaguely recollected as having run on network, but not overkilled, remembering that finger, remembering an inchoate grunt of protest, this is sufficient in inimical effervescence, the recognition of Anna Paquin raven haired, with that cherubic mouth she carries over to Darkness (a film which aired three times at least after my initial viewing, a film which I need to sit still for a fourth try, which in euphemistic terms means pushing the Quickie switch down. It emits a chirp which sounds cut off in mortal peril, a fragile Easter chick snapped like a wishbone, then making sure bladder remains pacified). Enigmatic images. I was not haunted like our avuncular ghost who spent so much money reconstructing a jaw and a mouth he could not use. I wrestled slightly about continuing to follow Chaz, but that would have been an act of fetishistic supersize fawning. I respected Ebert, but he played to audience catering in ways I'd refuse as a critic. A mechanized finger, elegant imperfection in a moving and vivid visual poem leagues removed Westworld, yet the props evoke each other, hinged digit and silver contacts of an ethically ambiguous chameleon casting directors can't utilize on the cheap that way ever again. Bynner played every type except starched bread: Indians, Asians, mulattoes, Russians, Christ knows what I've missed besides the robot, not nearly as sophisticated as the nightmare that kept Asimov up at night as he sequeled his Foundation trilogy, but Asimov might have appreciated Yul's last death stance as the  living Yoda turned gollem in his notorious service announcement. I may have also seen Polanski's swan, the haunted survivor threshing out America's narcissistic victimology. This is the universal thread binding all Americans. Emotionalism flows outward from us like liquid gold. The majority of us aren't worth a great deal as a matter of tort, regardless of self interest. This is the reason I tweaked Troy's tag, aside from copping to denominators along the subtle distinctions among networking aggregates, as the inflated Americanism that makes the United States insufferable, a repetitive chase after cotton candy, the best drug to slurp at the zoo.

I applied for my first online job, a freelance two bit perhaps ethically dubious, but too busy with my schedule to work during these few days of a break. Sanguine however, about Blogger post time consumption, as I have a book and a few articles buried in here, even if my portrait from Drinker's West inexplicably vanished. Perhaps it was data usage.

Fever Transit

Disease does have its own auto-erotic components, particularly related to the release of inhibitions. The most noted of these, in literary terms, is Mildred in Of Human Bondage. The charms of syphilis and British whoring, however, is nothing compared to a full frontal view of mentally ill queers with bloody cuticles who have full blown AIDS stricken partners with deadly froths of spittle on their mouths. This was one of my Christmas parties with the secular Jewish bosses I worked for with their progressive holy grails, if you want to know why my rage, with the lid off, unchecked by nicotine, would be so frightening if I utilized it in the now quaint and dated slang of going postal, but then again, could I be bipedal, most likely I would have been a battered woman, like mother. Mon frere morte passed his AIDS on to his girl, and this is why I believe that culling modalities will one day be dystopian realities for our species, though it is a matter of degree, and I have work that centers around jacking off cancer cunts during a course of treatment. The Castle of Otranto, with which I am racing along when I am tired, dances around this more obliquely. Despite Walpole's playfulness, there is something unseemly about Manfred bursting at the seams with his seed, as there is in the generational passage in a film like Darkness, which I need to view again. I lost the narrative thread in the last third of the film. As pro forma as it was, the script utilizes Huntington's as a conduit for horrific possibility. I had a waking nightmare recently, my power chairs being dismantled by Presby security, deliberately, cruelly, while I laid on my mattress, naked, crying on the phone for my father, who appeared like an imbecile, strolling along while I was taken away on a stretcher. If you think these motherfuckers will lift a finger to protect me against this actuality, the joke is on us, as we already live in the world of Soylent Green. We've been there for a very long time.

Yes, I know, my terror is overblown, woven in with the magnification of Wagner's darkness, and the rebuttal of the able world is the conspiracy of the system against me is my own adorable symptom, held up by my baby brother, by the Jamesian list moderator (in a different context), but no, if I do not get out of this building, and find a patron, this will be my fate, whatever cognition I will or will not have left to recognize it. I am in the process of being discarded, like so many of my former clients I carry on my back, with there own abandon, their own outcry. If I could just land a punch, find some form of liberation in the deployment of aggression, conceptually, it is a liberating notion. And all I wanted was a quiet day with my texts, notes on modernism; it never works out that way, and I am too tired now, past a painful lung flare.