Tireless Mantra

I want my viewers to understand something about my animus over Riverside Presbyterian, even before Trudy Richardson was hired to continue where her predecessor Brenda Williams left off: I never wanted to live here. That simple. Terri Way, who was employed by Presby for Diamond Park in 1993, dissuaded me from suing her employer for negligence after I was attacked by Brandon Phillips. I shudder writing his name, but his grandmother lived on the third floor, and when he couldn't steal from her one fine morning, he knocked on my door. Count that as twice in my life I survived what I wasn't supposed to. Him, and my premature breech birth.
The lawyers among you would say okay, Terri Way played me, I gave in and and followed her here, get over it, as everyone says, it is one of the more torpid section 202 units around, in a near center city location; but let's review:
1. A homosexual advocate couple, so called, engaged in collusion which ended my career and forced me into federal default. I have to see them daily in addition to their aide's uncouth and recent toxic behavior.
2. Trudy Richardson has objectified me three times, once in 2007, and then with Ken Cantrell and Health and Human Services, after I have been systemically abused by minority attendants-- I cannot keep suppressing I let the corporation off in 1993 and allowed the first Riverside manager I moved in under to exploit me as a case manager. Disabled or ambulatory, it may read like David Bowie's Soho during a restless post-war period, but wouldn't you find this level of duress a bit much? 32 years with one rental agent because I wanted to be independent, in a fatal mistake of exposure to catastrophic effects of urban violence. Look at what I have to reduce myself to now to get out from under. Perhaps an opening swan dirge.

Floral Arrangements via Higgs Boson

It was not the androgyny on stage that offered up David Bowie as a cultural icon. By the time his few tracks tame enough for commercial radio music it past the tuning fork in the left ear of adolescent rebellion, his eyes transfixed anything he did on film, like an anti-messiah ready to cast you off, a young woman sensed his explosiveness beneath the surface, and thus it is another blade to penetrate the starchy creviced tits only of interest to those who get a kick off the fetish of hustler, remorse for the ignorance of his cancer diagnosis. A Hawaiian red pineapple seems an appropriate transport for Ziggy's star on the walk of fame. It is okay to cry a little, okay to be positive and celebrate how unique his entertainment value was, how courageous his sentiment to turn away honors like a knighthood. He knew better.

This passing caught me off guard.

Stardust Once Removed

The woman weighs no more than a child. She has a smell. My mother fights it continually; bathing her, changing her sheets, carrying her to the bathroom so the smell can be contained and flushed away. --Jayne Anne Phillips, "Home"

I am not sure why Jerry recommended that I read Phillips. I remember nearly next to nothing about her collection "Black Tickets," but I consumed it as if attempting copulation with the recommendation as a sort of compensation, not being able to abase myself over the penis of the master. I wrote Phillips a poorly expressed letter from the inner city. Why? I wanted to feed off her confidence, imitate her vigorous sexual skills, if possible. I cut her picture out of a Poets & Writers article and published a poem about the fantasy of her competitive literary companionship in Metis, a local Jersey Xerox and staple effort. Admiration, as I have written, can be a dangerous attribute to those with low self-esteem.

Never heard from her, and she doesn't have the sustaining power needed for her novels. Her arc has passed its zenith, but she is at Rutgers, her look suggestive, even conspiratorial, exciting only insofar as if I could reach out and penetrate her shield, then I get to hold onto how Jerry at least enabled me to stay alive. I have weighed it once again, contacting her, in the time it has taken me to write this post, but I haven't read her work in years, and her voice, somewhat ponderous, bowed perhaps by an agrarian weight, has been surpassed; she does represent a sexual charge, not for herself necessarily, but the eroticism is inescapable: "I should have been Jayne Anne Phillips and I am not. I am a broken and pathetic--" a whine a whine. Moth to the flame, but moths are silent, not particularly aggressive and I did not enjoy her later novel Machine Dreams. Again, what is it I would want from her? What could her faded reputation offer me, scarred on so many levels as I am? What could Dr. Phillips heal that Bowie's predation in The Hunger offers in the recognition of insatiable appetite?

When I first saw this film the pace of Bowie's spectacular disintegration made an indelible impact, and offered exactly the kind of dangerous sexual foreplay I have always wanted with a man, one that impinges on the trauma of violation, with the elegance of cool. A local literary instructor, whose name escapes me for the moment, said on Fresh Air that vampirism is the most overused literary conceit. I agree with her, except for where it turns in interesting ways. The Hunger is a precursor to the terror we feel about being consumed, wasted from the inside out by viral flavors of the season: avian influenza, AIDS, ebola, and that wasting, in turn, make us focus on that one sole desire, which is the very damnation of its heat. It still contains something of the romantic in Gothic horror, and the danger of seduction that goes too far, lesbian or otherwise,  but it is also a precursor film to the rise of  retro-fitted zombie genres, like 28 Days Later, 30 Days of Night.

As a selfish outreach, I regret trying to make a connection with Phillips, but perhaps not the poem which is a preserved scrapbook tribute of a sort, saying, in effect, I wanted to be pretty like you, to have accomplished like you, to share gratifications which you seem to convey are in the realm of your experience. I toyed with viewing the film again on Saturday evening, but senile aunts, spoiled felines mewing, the usual things of poverty in tandem with broken bodies making nothing ever go right. 

Bad day, but found an unexpected network opportunity, if a summary skim of my post intensity doesn't kill it.