Ovviamente non poteva aspettare di liberarmi di me-- Tommaso Landolfi, An Autumn Story; p38 Occasionally, Hollywood will toss supporting actors like William Katt a bone, give them a lead in relatively superficial dramas like Steve Milner's House (1985), then repeat the formula ad nauseam for sequel syndication. A quasi-novella length idea of mine was closer to what happens to Doris Lessing as narrator in The Memoirs of a Survivor, where Western civilized world order is peeled away towards a tribal, and ferocious, transhumanism, if that resonates with any familiarity. On psychologically stressful days, Doris Lessing's rather inimitable parable frightens me, in our post-911 world, and Landolfi is somewhere in between the poles of a two dimensional commercial product and Lessing's obfuscating, ambiguous, sinister novel.
My tale never moved beyond 15 pages. It was about a daughter with a bisexual best friend who returns home to find the walls somewhat pliable, organic, and it was left unfinished during the time I was crushing on John Tassoni. I am having a devil of a time about removing or leaving him on my Facebook stream, primarily because I am in the preliminary stages of actively dying, and the paraprofessional tending to my stressed spastic body really didn't understand what he was restoring to my life. I don't love John anymore, and I'm not sure I even like him. Before I admitted my first love to him, cowardly, lying across from him on opposite bunk beds, perhaps we amused each other, and then in 85 I fled the home where he visited me. Be kind to the cripple. The home I link to is about our 3rd suburban house after my parents divorced, where I grew into a naive collegiate. You don't hold onto these memories when wellness flumes out of your intestines, no, what you cling to is the power of access to a celebrity like James Woods. I wanted to say goodbye to him, even if I had to do it through Kristen Bauguess, if she's still his fiance to be. From reporting I've scanned, Twitter will be deleting Woods' account permanently for non compliance. I don't care how hypocritical the left paints him due to his trophy dating, he kept my spirits lifted. Then again, why should Jack Dorsey give a fuck about the end of a torrent quadriplegic's life.
We know it hurts.-- Subprimal's editors No, rejections from non-paying markets doesn't hurt. What hurts is my loss of ability to make money because I no longer seek succor at the rancid nursery of Josie Byzek's regressive breast. I have been wasting some usage arguing on New Mobility's contact submittal form about the past, and while my observation to Josie that I don't know her well enough to hate her may be accurate, it is not quite true. I would love to go to Lancaster County and whip her across her ugly shrugging self-effacing face, all over an Argentine who cut me off, a Catholic abandoned by his wife, pompous, kindly, hefty fellow with a high voice. I threw out his telephone number. No one can undo Josie's lack of impulse control, anymore than I can undo mine, so what do I want? She has her own self esteem issues, and hides under her tortoise shell. I may conveniently overlook that she published an essay in my collection about "leaving Matrix," and that led me to my pithy 3000 USD, but any number of outlets might have published it, and I had other pieces. No, Tim left me on the shoals in 2005. Journalists know how dirty our business is, the price of gaining access; but what I am talking about is how activists belie their own rhetoric about inclusion. In the span of 24 hours, after I did my personal relationships feature, I was on Tim's list of writers, then not. I took this personally. It hurt my feelings, and it is safe to say no one else ever treated me this way. No editor, no publisher. Even Jeffrey's "I'll pass," on my Brexit efforts didn't sting that much. The failure only motivated me. The problem with me and the Freeman, however, is I like a fight, a brawl, naming names. Jeffrey prefers generalities, and so I am biding my time. We'll see. He may have been confused when I sent him my niume link to District 9, but this film is a splendid three course meal for the politicization of entertainment. Before anything else, I am a ferocious reactionary. Not this ferocious, but Doris Lessing predicted our regressive tendencies in her Memoirs. Did we pay attention? And is this relevant to the virtues of automation? If minorities can do this to each other, doesn't this give you a better sense of why I so urgently and incessantly want to get the holy fuck out from under Trudy Richardson's power to threaten, humiliate me? She's black, superficially authoritarian, but she is stupid, and a nigger nanny. The species still exists. However much you disapprove of my diction. My family cannot handle it, neither can you, what it takes for the majority of functionally dependent wheelchair users to survive, and while I was going to go with the reasonable equanimity of NPR to discuss the explosive, and corrosive growth, of entitlements, worldwide, Breitbart's bristling is not entirely a fabrication. Dependency, simply in and of itself, corrupts the human spirit. The piece answered my question about corrective surgery, though that also has risks.
"How was your Thanksgiving?"-- my former client Joe, who endorses Wheelchair Taxi
The implication by the radical left that the electors are proactive agents is not borne out by the historical evidence. The 20 electors disputed in the Hayes Tilden battle also resulted in protracted litigation, legislative action. I do no see, as Lessig, or Parker does, a College which actively thwarted a popular vote winner. Bush v Gore simply declared the Florida recount unconstitutional, and with a dwindling set of options, Gore finally conceded in 2000, unfortunately, as the 43 president was a disaster. Just because spastic grows reactive, this does not mean she is a lock step Republican. At heart, she is a terrorist, willing to sow destruction on corrupt human methodologies, but much as Doris Lessing explores in her strange, but real world novel, The Good Terrorist, spastic has an honor code, and a cruel minority manager may deserve what she gets, and section 202 tenants are the residual business of poverty, but the young computer engineering geniuses over 20 are useful to the generations beyond the boomers. I am not sure why my road runner failed reply to Lessig is important to me, but I agree with Fee it needs a fix, and maybe I should turn it into a longer back essay. The left is simply wrong, like the very fact of housing classifications. Section 202. Section 3. Section 811. Our societies learn nothing from the masters, those who have seen the nightmare of collective systems. Despite missing the first two of the last four episodes of Dead Like Me, it is over, thank goodness. Spastic is free of Vancouver pedestrian gentility. My Comet affiliate is still running the series, and I may review and refresh, but I am off the leash. This may not sound like enthusiasm, but my favorite segments were Callum Blue and the old woman who collapsed with her sugar bowel, and Laura Harris in her Catholic inducements arc. A real Catholic priest, if entering the gateway to reunification with the divine, would not say, "I am as curious as you are Daisy." This is a generic writer's evasion. None of us know anything, but at least a popular horrorist like Anne Rice applied her beliefs about the afterlife in some of her works. I confirmed to the local libertarians that I will attend their party at Gunner's Run, and I'd like very much to attend, but my budget is scraping the lard barrel, so as of this morning, I'm waffling, and entering a danger stress zone-- first winter storm approaching and I've little funds to stockpile even the basic grains available to the poor. I have a small window, but not much, to make up my mind. I also never meant to imply that local libertarians have to bond with me, it is simply that I have no people in my orbit who please me, who I enjoy, and Black Adder's regulars, and visiting graduates, are the best I can do, even if my obvious depression is an insulator.
Yet even at that late stage, there was a level of our society which managed to live as if nothing much was happening--nothing irreparable. -- The Memoirs of a Survivor, almost half way through. I forced myself to stay up yesterday to watch Mizumono, only to discover WCAU, the local NBC affiliate, had a rain delay for a Phillies Dodgers game. Piping mad, as I might have rested earlier, been ready to drive out sooner. Jugular piercing, gut thrust, and now Abigail Hobbs must truly be dying, I would have rather seen it full screen. The Swedenborgian I hired got lost earlier in the week, Thursday, trying to find her way back to my building, and I have been plagued with significant bowel evacuation ever since. She was on Bainbridge when she pinged like the fourth time to inform me she got called in for a death watch. I have not quite let her go, and it actually matters little, whether she turns her cell back on and I kindly tell her, with little perturbation as possible, that it isn't working, as powerless as I am, struggling with near cold turkey because I am trying to stretch. Enough cash on hand to roll to bodega later to mitigate my withdrawal, hoping to have enough time to dash to Joe's as well, surrounded by utter silence, not a friend in the world, a former neighbor from Page Street told me "marriage does not complete you," and there is certainly enough evidence for that, Jace not unique with his impulse control issues, only recognized within the industry. Loneliness isn't a salve either, despite my activities, even my exasperation with people: On my very first day as Jerry's student, I thundered at him in modulated deference, "Newspapers don't publish good poetry," and he bitch slapped back, "Newspapers publish perfectly good poetry." 33 years later, post his myocardial infarction, my major depressive episode burn injuries, I am still right. He's not. Newspapers publish typical American double entendres of the sort which can't take risks in the public square, like the rough and passionate sex an R rating gets away with suggesting every so often. David Slade must be hot.
Initial thought: "Interesting," in a perverse sort of way. Immediately took me into Lessing's prescience in the creation of her menacing, predatory children, and my inability to reread Memoirs during 9/11. I still have my copy, yellowed paperback, Jerry required for his course. For me Tribal Imagery, Jerry's ambitious synopsis, was nothing more than an orgasm generator, and look at me now, unable to be shocked by underdeveloped amoral curiosity. I still have limits. Killing prairie dogs with strychnine ignites the furious woman that most men fear, even the ranchers using the poison. The worst torture left, imaginable to me, is to torture my cats to death in front of me. Couldn't bear it, but home invaders do that to aging women. I've read about it, recalled it as kimmy barreled into the reading lamp. The Apple ring tone upset her. Wrong number. Spic banger, looking for his dealer, or a bang, and I laughed at my vulnerable carnivores, scolding the female. Little Vincento trotted under my hand. I'm in charge mom. He is ten years, slowing down, going to be dead soon. So am I, my compassion eroded so significantly that it doesn't matter. I was going to assert certain prospective intentions, but that is also irrelevant-- not so much about idiotic, or diabolical scheming-- as much as damage is damage, like an occlusion. Killing the enemy only resonates the possibility of better future outcomes; it would not mitigate the proportional suffering of my life. I am angry at Jerry, a man whose abilities once elicited reverence, shock and awe. Angry because intelligence was never enough. Murdering instructors only has so many subversive implications. ********* And anytime I insinuate rather than write it straight out, little fuckers do gaping views. Jerry is fine. He might have prepared me for the stigma I would face, but that was asking a lot of the dear best bastard I ever knew. My mind was on the dish best served cold for the knives in my back, but it isn't even Google as gate keeper which concerns me anymore. Best laid plans, kids, delay the inevitable for empty people.
It is curious that I am an acolyte of Doris Lessing on the basis of such slight familiarity as I have with her work. My first exposure, initiated by Jerry, motivated for me by sex as much as intellectual inquiry, was The Memoirs of a Survivor, and I suspect this title will remain a favorite, despite my intense desire to consume her speculative material, which one assumes is more comfortably categorized as science fiction. I will reread Memoirs as long as I live, but had a quite serious battle with an anxiety attack when I attempted this in the weeks following September 11th, and tossed the poor abused and yellowed and aged paperback against the back wall, which forms a slight alcove. This is the area in which I fell and nearly died after returning to this unit after the renovations, because it was a freak accident that wedged me, left me unable to free myself. The aging text survived the toss, has survived Jerry's class, as Jerry and I and indeed Ms. Lessing still survive, and in the study of this work I learned about Ms. Lessing's life and its possible savagery that imprinted on her so that she became the woman who blithely scares the living shit out of the rest of us.
I have been diffident about reading *everything,* as I am not sure it is necessary, nor do I want to quarrel with her legacy, as I can envision an argument with her middle brow and middle aged women, and their grounded, pragmatic objections, but I will hopefully read more, unless I wind up shivved in a homeless shelter due to my conflicts with public housing, an appropriate caution under which to mention that next came The Good Terrorist, then The Cleft. And then The Fifth Child came online and I chortled in glee, as I proudly assert that I want to read this "before." Before what? Before I became too influenced by "the best Shakespearean on the east coast." Which is now the Gulf coast I suppose (and maybe no longer the best?), but who am I to judge that, and I am sure less than one percent of you are following my obscure train of thought. Spell it out spastic? I am not in the mood today, as I am angry to that which my ambition finds itself sacrificed because I invest too much emotionally.
I read The Fifth Child in little more than two sittings, and felt that terror gnaw at me in my stomach, like Linda Blair's fuck buddy. I did mention to you in the past that I was courted as an extra for this franchise, did I not? But Lessing at her best is more terrifying than The Exorcist, and that is because of how she sees what she sees, and the sensibility, in the smartly educated, that she is right, and those of us that know it cannot warn the rest of you urgently enough to wake up, be more on your guard, and less self interested in the bloody conquest of your kitchen appliances over foodstuffs, your domesticated insistence on status culture; we're all going to hell one way or another, but we could slow that down, all of us, if we pay attention, if we listen, if we learn that the right choices are never easy. The Fifth Child enthralls, but for a student of Jerry's, disappoints. Reviewers who were baffled by the novel did not dwell on its family resemblance to Memoirs, with which it shares a great deal, though it is more localized to the dynamic and the schisms within the Lovatt family.
I do not know how Lessing mastered what her ambiguity portends. I can achieve the comparable in my poetry, and have, in my best work, but I could never do the same in prose, not with her force, a real mistress of horror, and I bestow that phrase as a crowning achievement, excelled by no other.
