Why I lagged behind on the reading of some of my
early 2010 e-text purchases? One reason was, surely, the mere logistics of the
kindle reader I was using: I have written prior to this entry that I am fond of
electronic devices as they age, if I am comfortable with them, though this is
not the case with the eighth generation kindle I forlornly upgraded at a now
defunct off-campus shoppe called Joe’s Coffee
-- too much money spent on a heavy glazed fritter regardless of the
coffee swilled needlessly, not the least of which because while Amazon was
remotely salvaging this slightly thicker eighth generation model, my behemoth common
law husband Frank was dying of kidney failure (he and I were having serious
issues and he didn’t want me to attend hospice with him) but I exhaled his last
with him, that last weighted draw of bated breath in his olive-pitted, diseased
skin, sucking on my own encroaching fiftieth year vinegar: I couldn’t persuade Frank
to undergo dialysis to have more be with his family. I have always felt I
should have been able to persuade him, for the sake of his grandchildren, who
loved him, for the sake of his younger brother, and especially for the sake of
his son. This is why satirists like Marc Haig and his off balanced Radleys got
the short straw to a degree; Alison Strobel I had simply forgotten I had, and
The Weight of Shadows is just good enough, my perineum convulsing mildly with
her narrative, to keep me interested in her younger generation. Herman Koch is
another matter with his turn of the decade novel. There are a number of movies about
The Dinner, and they deterred me from reaching completion, there are
also trace echoes of Dostoevsky and Tolstoy in Koch’s charming didactic lesson,
but, ultimately, Paul Lohman’s pre-crisis triggers come off like the contrivance
of a marionettist, and the final chapter disappointed me, perhaps even because
of his brusque geocidal rattling of his students. The talent of Herman Koch is
immense, and should be read, but he isn’t quite ready to dock the yacht. A
grain of salt should be secured at the table.
Showing posts with label ex-fiance. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ex-fiance. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 21, 2026
Searing Parables of the Digitally Condensed
A noble hunger, long unsatisfied, met at last its proper food, and almost instantly the food was snatched away.-- CS Lewis
Wednesday, June 6, 2018
Burton’s Antony, Elizabeth’s Cleopatra & a Ground Run at the Crust
Their tumultuous liaison-- before the marriages and divorces-- famously began in 1962 on the set of the colossally over-budget epic, Cleopatra.--Liz Ronk
Although
my new found old age presently puts this to the test, I was never much one for
the feminine accouterments of vanity, and unlike my mood challenged cousin, I
rather shirk the effort when it comes to daily appointments with
cosmetologists. My hair, though otherwise unknotted thanks to temporary fill
ins prior to my current depth charges in search of authenticity, hangs
unpleasantly silver white, thinning and unruly, and I can hardly afford to be
fashion conscious, so I have no idea who Kate Spade
is. My only indicator toward rancor is for the 13 year old daughter, as
thirteen was also a traumatic year for me. But if I wrote in my post above that
we should learn to accept the consequences of obdurate suffering, the flip side
of the coin is it is relatively unimaginable that her privilege wasn’t worth
combating whatever her problems amounted to. Philadelphia’s oozing ineptitude
is like one long string of rock candy ruthlessly blistering my esophagus, one
calamity after the next, my interpersonal space all but barren of any meaning unless
you include the endless revolving door of minorities whom I’ve despised (and
what does Galahad do with this truism, pray tell?), and here a fashion guru
engages in a violent act of dramaturgy which give women of her mindset pause.
Fuck the mental illness caveat. The majority of those who adhesive themselves
to psychiatric disorders tarry on like the rest of us, oftentimes micromanaged
by the welfare state with the same degree of competence I’ve gotten since my
1996 resignation. Financial difficulties, divorce? None of these things would
have landed her where the majority of spastic savants land, sinking in
quicksand. One can only imagine what anguish drove her to her cessation. In my
case, you don’t. Interspersed throughout my threads since I came to Blogger was
the outcry I have nothing left. This
now includes lack of control over my mobility, and although my focus has condensed
on this male nursing aide, now joined in my default conspiracy, to the point
that preoccupation seems obsessive, my vulnerability fraught with being damned
again, it isn’t so much that he’s another unobtainable male inadvertently
reeled in and driven back, not quite. It is merely that he represents what
Frank Versante should have been for me: a middle-aged relationship worth
settling for, one that died in a flash fire and yet remains binding, at least,
as long as I stay put. He has been both, conflicted and hard on me, seducing
and diffident, fearful too. In so many words, I told him, jokingly, that if his
hands got near my cherry, then I would be staking a claim, with one of my
winsome smiles. He now behaves as if my vagina was a radioactive mine. I happen
to find it amusing. Nonetheless, whatever I think I still feel, or trying to
calculate what he does for me, I will eventually cut the cord. I forgive him
for, well, our foreplay. He forgives me, for both the foreplay and my hard
slash into the social stigma of a white cripple and a black lover who isn’t her
lover, yet, but I am not one who blissfully buries her dead. He woke up my
sensuality, left it in midair, and I’m not having it. Necessity merely demands
a hold on the end game. And now I’m off to bed, as promised.
Friday, September 22, 2017
Hysteria
If I threaten the technician who did the hard drive extraction that isn't going to get me very far, but I'm going to have to call him about debugging, and either or sit here most of this morning trying to convert my files. I cannot rebuild my publication history from scratch and expect it not to cost me, as it did moving from Diamond Park to Riverside, as it did with each subsequent computer failure and upgrade; for the time being, my credit card company sailed in, doubling my limit, but this is scant comfort if my accomplishments for the last five years are simply erased. Fault it as you may, but writing has had to become my life. There is nothing else. The deceased Frank Versanti, (or Versante) claimed he was in love with me after he proposed, in monosyllabic fashion, but my interpretation of his enthusiasm was his lewdness was victorious, something which repulsed me, the gluttony written all over his face. His lust to have my asymmetrical breasts to grope wasn't my idea of healthy desire between two middle aged people settling for each other. As much as I tried to go through with it twelve years ago, I couldn't, at 42 to 43, settle for an ape, even if I never quite rescinded my claim on his obligation to me; hence, you'd figure, since I am so emotionally fragile, that I'd be on Amber's side over that of Woods, a fading personality who would take one look at me and imitate the nascent verbal losses of John Irving's Reagan era characters:
Instead, I am with the hot headed old man, even rather sympathetic to his usurpation of youthful women. Lauren Southern isn't wrong, after all. The girl inside of us recognizes the snake in the grass. We even like it. My newfound appreciation of James and his caustic bitr is not the flush of a fan many times removed. He is a known quantity, whether or not my warped body could please him sexually. It is merely a clinical question. Could I satisfy a seventy year old man whose name would elevate my stature? I have no idea, but Woods is worth settling for, not an illiterate spic from the Bronx.
As a technical matter, since I can now write, offline, though be it from scratch, for the moment, I am less fragile than before, but intend to be dead before the Commonwealth forces me into this fortress, despite the gooey social media policy on suicidal outcry. My whole life has amounted to failing against the grip of regimentation on my throat. I know what well balanced libertarians would say: stop feeling sorry, train yourself to keep the appropriate distance from nursing aide swine. Recognize you cannot cure your pain. Okay, but what do you know of 33 years of case management, aggressive senility, housing authority drywall?
Psychic predicted #Democrat lawmaker would be ridiculed by millions. #Genius https://t.co/frxah1mRXu— James Woods (@RealJamesWoods) September 22, 2017
Instead, I am with the hot headed old man, even rather sympathetic to his usurpation of youthful women. Lauren Southern isn't wrong, after all. The girl inside of us recognizes the snake in the grass. We even like it. My newfound appreciation of James and his caustic bitr is not the flush of a fan many times removed. He is a known quantity, whether or not my warped body could please him sexually. It is merely a clinical question. Could I satisfy a seventy year old man whose name would elevate my stature? I have no idea, but Woods is worth settling for, not an illiterate spic from the Bronx.
As a technical matter, since I can now write, offline, though be it from scratch, for the moment, I am less fragile than before, but intend to be dead before the Commonwealth forces me into this fortress, despite the gooey social media policy on suicidal outcry. My whole life has amounted to failing against the grip of regimentation on my throat. I know what well balanced libertarians would say: stop feeling sorry, train yourself to keep the appropriate distance from nursing aide swine. Recognize you cannot cure your pain. Okay, but what do you know of 33 years of case management, aggressive senility, housing authority drywall?
Friday, June 2, 2017
Hunchback To Mermaid Simplicity
I am the knight who will fight for your honor-- the delphonic trope in the elevator car
It all comes down to what we can learn to live with, and what we can't, and if I did not need the experience of Frank's sweaty brown diseased pockmarked water heavy lava laden body, why did I spiral into it, cutting him down barely two weeks before our nuptials'? I tried to take the advice of a relationships expert on NPR, of all things, settling for a sick spic who wanted a woman to tend to his regressive need to be babied, and to continue to argue with Frankie's memory, as you'll learn, our dead are never entirely resolved, whether they made us happy or not, he could not have possibly loved me when he proposed and offered me the ring. It doesn't work that way, despite my belief as a young woman that my initial conversation with a Shakespearean from New York was destiny. First impressions are just that, impressions, and Jerry after that then became an obsession in progress, my own blind spot to an interior emptiness. My error with a Bronx piece of refuse wasn't being persuaded by a woman on the radio to settle for a half breed who wanted me, whom I despised. Ingrid tried to persuade me too, the lanky spider limned black girl with her dead still born on her t-shirt: what we can live with, and what we can't. I could have talked Frank out of the ring, and rolled away, closed the book, failed experiment, but I was 42, and was never going to reconstruct an angry sexually dynamic beatnik for myself, even when I dated his double. All women, all girls, know how to do the math, and Frank paid a terrible price for his aspiration. I lost my temper, we had escalating bouts of domestic violence. I punished him. I punished him for his misogyny, for strangling his first wife, for his low life son. Did I get anything back, at all? Yes, living with someone is not the same as being marred for life by what we think we want and can never attain. Frank, however, was not emblematic of the Quasimodo, distressingly brought to life by a queer, rescued by the cerebral and rigid Frollo. As great a humanist as Hugo is, his flaws hit you like a cold August drought, signaling the movement away from the Sun's life force, raising hairs and goose bumps, and Frollo's dramatic turn into madness, borne out of lack of living intimacy, while entirely credible, isn't as convincing as Hugo might have made it. The priest was drawn too well as a Catholic, doing his duty before God, in saving the bell ringer, the freak who didn't have intellectual accretion tied to the respect his sheer physicality demanded.
If this freak is to save herself, she has to sever/e these ties with Riverside Presbyterian, and accept whatever calamity then ensues, even if former freelance cleaners call her at ten in the morning in the middle of a post. Though I may have misinterpreted the gesture, a voice in my head warned me that Karina wasn't phoning to check in on me. I had the sense she needed something. I am probably not the best person she can call on for counsel, as I need a consigliore of my own, always behind my own goals: I have a small window to stall for time, but Trudy Richardson believes she's cowed me, and this is one linear minded tootsie roll who is sadly mistaken. She has crossed too many lines. I've marginalized her even in blind fury, outmanned as I am by mass stupidity, asking as it does why I cannot see my own limitations, be a compliant passive angel. UCPA never did me any favors, between this rock and a hard place wherein I wedge.
It all comes down to what we can learn to live with, and what we can't, and if I did not need the experience of Frank's sweaty brown diseased pockmarked water heavy lava laden body, why did I spiral into it, cutting him down barely two weeks before our nuptials'? I tried to take the advice of a relationships expert on NPR, of all things, settling for a sick spic who wanted a woman to tend to his regressive need to be babied, and to continue to argue with Frankie's memory, as you'll learn, our dead are never entirely resolved, whether they made us happy or not, he could not have possibly loved me when he proposed and offered me the ring. It doesn't work that way, despite my belief as a young woman that my initial conversation with a Shakespearean from New York was destiny. First impressions are just that, impressions, and Jerry after that then became an obsession in progress, my own blind spot to an interior emptiness. My error with a Bronx piece of refuse wasn't being persuaded by a woman on the radio to settle for a half breed who wanted me, whom I despised. Ingrid tried to persuade me too, the lanky spider limned black girl with her dead still born on her t-shirt: what we can live with, and what we can't. I could have talked Frank out of the ring, and rolled away, closed the book, failed experiment, but I was 42, and was never going to reconstruct an angry sexually dynamic beatnik for myself, even when I dated his double. All women, all girls, know how to do the math, and Frank paid a terrible price for his aspiration. I lost my temper, we had escalating bouts of domestic violence. I punished him. I punished him for his misogyny, for strangling his first wife, for his low life son. Did I get anything back, at all? Yes, living with someone is not the same as being marred for life by what we think we want and can never attain. Frank, however, was not emblematic of the Quasimodo, distressingly brought to life by a queer, rescued by the cerebral and rigid Frollo. As great a humanist as Hugo is, his flaws hit you like a cold August drought, signaling the movement away from the Sun's life force, raising hairs and goose bumps, and Frollo's dramatic turn into madness, borne out of lack of living intimacy, while entirely credible, isn't as convincing as Hugo might have made it. The priest was drawn too well as a Catholic, doing his duty before God, in saving the bell ringer, the freak who didn't have intellectual accretion tied to the respect his sheer physicality demanded.
If this freak is to save herself, she has to sever/e these ties with Riverside Presbyterian, and accept whatever calamity then ensues, even if former freelance cleaners call her at ten in the morning in the middle of a post. Though I may have misinterpreted the gesture, a voice in my head warned me that Karina wasn't phoning to check in on me. I had the sense she needed something. I am probably not the best person she can call on for counsel, as I need a consigliore of my own, always behind my own goals: I have a small window to stall for time, but Trudy Richardson believes she's cowed me, and this is one linear minded tootsie roll who is sadly mistaken. She has crossed too many lines. I've marginalized her even in blind fury, outmanned as I am by mass stupidity, asking as it does why I cannot see my own limitations, be a compliant passive angel. UCPA never did me any favors, between this rock and a hard place wherein I wedge.
Wednesday, March 29, 2017
Java Suture Script
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.
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.
Sunday, December 25, 2016
Erosion of Authority
In relation to the Holy Father doing his job, I was very nearly rude Friday morning, when the modest bishop of Rome tweeted
and then bit my tongue. I may prefer that Jorge Mario Bergoglio had more stature, but to behave like a sophist in the manner of Hebdo Charlie, being so close to the end of my self reliance, has more remorse than reward. It recalled a study I glanced at briefly, about Cervantes needing exile to still be Catholic. During my brother's funeral, I glared at the priest. His homily was dry, circumspect, hasty summary of a turbulent monster boy's life, and I glared at this shepherd, his run of the mill tone. It wasn't personal. Any priest I've ever confessed to is dead, but that day, all things being equal, an exorcist might have had suspicions that a cripple might have needed a cleansing.
When it comes to Donald Trump, we're in another territory, namely, the diminished dignity of his office. I despise the man, and the issue isn't getting myself under surveillance for a vitriolic potty mouth, so much as it might be the price of these libertarian seismic waves: it would cost me nothing to tell Trump to go fuck himself, and no one else has that distinction. Bill Clinton might come close, not that gradations are of any use. It isn't a simple matter of decline, of turning into butt head bitch. Trump is a celebrity jackass whose carnivalesque antipodes have already worn threadbare. The world is undoubtedly at an end, with the bile of repugnance in my throat.
Don your civility, bless the Pontiff, who made due with the modern theatrical circus of godspel in the larnyx of Aretha Franklin. Kick it up, dare to be inappropriate. Go to Christmas mass, be gracious to Philadelphia's lanky shuffling in their pews. Wear the sneakers the dead pig from the Bronx gave you for a present. Go.
The Lord becomes man to journey with us in our everyday lives.— Pope Francis (@Pontifex) December 23, 2016
and then bit my tongue. I may prefer that Jorge Mario Bergoglio had more stature, but to behave like a sophist in the manner of Hebdo Charlie, being so close to the end of my self reliance, has more remorse than reward. It recalled a study I glanced at briefly, about Cervantes needing exile to still be Catholic. During my brother's funeral, I glared at the priest. His homily was dry, circumspect, hasty summary of a turbulent monster boy's life, and I glared at this shepherd, his run of the mill tone. It wasn't personal. Any priest I've ever confessed to is dead, but that day, all things being equal, an exorcist might have had suspicions that a cripple might have needed a cleansing.
When it comes to Donald Trump, we're in another territory, namely, the diminished dignity of his office. I despise the man, and the issue isn't getting myself under surveillance for a vitriolic potty mouth, so much as it might be the price of these libertarian seismic waves: it would cost me nothing to tell Trump to go fuck himself, and no one else has that distinction. Bill Clinton might come close, not that gradations are of any use. It isn't a simple matter of decline, of turning into butt head bitch. Trump is a celebrity jackass whose carnivalesque antipodes have already worn threadbare. The world is undoubtedly at an end, with the bile of repugnance in my throat.
Don your civility, bless the Pontiff, who made due with the modern theatrical circus of godspel in the larnyx of Aretha Franklin. Kick it up, dare to be inappropriate. Go to Christmas mass, be gracious to Philadelphia's lanky shuffling in their pews. Wear the sneakers the dead pig from the Bronx gave you for a present. Go.
Tuesday, September 27, 2016
Contact Imports and the fall of Usher
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.
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.
Monday, August 15, 2016
Poor Signals Binge
"In Rome everything is the color of flesh," -- Diana Dors, another brass platinum defying the patriarchy
Individuals who are as disabled as I don't evict themselves from public housing without a game plan, without even much ability to pack the daybed, the one instance where dead Frank made himself useful, finding a wood frame I liked, with poles I grip after my palsied lateral twist balances my buttock on the sorry twin mattress, a holdover from the unsafe metal bed my mother purchased, the women charging in when I was new, assembling me back together, and yet I've made up my mind that by the end of September I'm rolling out, on a bus, swaddled in a diaper if I can wear the one box of diapers Timothy Artis dropped off when he was still active, in his servile request for rides from the women with cars, myself perhaps only hurrying along Presby's Inspired life in its forgone conclusion, putting myself out on the street to get scuttled in a time of political uncertainty, as I am presuming the election will be a coronation for the Clintons, both of whom look like wax museum figurines, while I wage a titanic mortal struggle within, unseemly at that, checking off the list of lost habits, no Vuse, no pot of coffee on demand, my little plan rolled up in my back pocket, I have to pull myself together and research shelter accommodations, discipline, in this summer torpor, too humid to sleep and nearly too humid to work.
I was always circumspect about Samuel Clemens as a local colorist, meaning I give obeisance to the canon of classification: Great American 19th century author, without caring. Shocking, though of course African American scholars have sabotaged Huckleberry Finn; Clemens too struggled with self-subterfuge, talking himself out of a suicide attempt. He was a successful grandee of American letters. No question of that, but he never anchored himself securely in economic terms, and made a number of bad investments, from which he never truly rebounded, which illustrates creativity in its self destructive tendencies.
For those of you whom I may confuse: I am vacating myself from 22 years of duress from an ineffectual, hypocritical, superficial Protestant dictatorship which exploits damaged humans along the same lines of modern animal husbandry, which is obscene, and a topic which once made Peter Singer the epicenter of activist outrage, along with those grievances, iterated previously, ambulatory individuals would only endure in a schematic and rigid tragedy like Ethan Frome, which is Wharton's homage to marginalized invalids, the likes of whom are, in contemporary terms, only found in Siberia, or Syria, Libya, maybe New Guinea.
The struggle to destroy Little Vinnie in April turned my one small vinyl suitcase into garbage. to be placed in the trash room before I run around center city demanding an advocate and legal help at the point of a bayonet, as I can. For a dago who used to be able to consume poultry and pork like a pig, I'm eating only in small spoonfuls of stress. You having a decent Monday morning? Time to really work a little and stop panicking, even in the knowledge I am not solving a thing letting blacks continue to make me the heavy, treating me like prey, or bludgeoning me with threats.
Individuals who are as disabled as I don't evict themselves from public housing without a game plan, without even much ability to pack the daybed, the one instance where dead Frank made himself useful, finding a wood frame I liked, with poles I grip after my palsied lateral twist balances my buttock on the sorry twin mattress, a holdover from the unsafe metal bed my mother purchased, the women charging in when I was new, assembling me back together, and yet I've made up my mind that by the end of September I'm rolling out, on a bus, swaddled in a diaper if I can wear the one box of diapers Timothy Artis dropped off when he was still active, in his servile request for rides from the women with cars, myself perhaps only hurrying along Presby's Inspired life in its forgone conclusion, putting myself out on the street to get scuttled in a time of political uncertainty, as I am presuming the election will be a coronation for the Clintons, both of whom look like wax museum figurines, while I wage a titanic mortal struggle within, unseemly at that, checking off the list of lost habits, no Vuse, no pot of coffee on demand, my little plan rolled up in my back pocket, I have to pull myself together and research shelter accommodations, discipline, in this summer torpor, too humid to sleep and nearly too humid to work.
I was always circumspect about Samuel Clemens as a local colorist, meaning I give obeisance to the canon of classification: Great American 19th century author, without caring. Shocking, though of course African American scholars have sabotaged Huckleberry Finn; Clemens too struggled with self-subterfuge, talking himself out of a suicide attempt. He was a successful grandee of American letters. No question of that, but he never anchored himself securely in economic terms, and made a number of bad investments, from which he never truly rebounded, which illustrates creativity in its self destructive tendencies.
For those of you whom I may confuse: I am vacating myself from 22 years of duress from an ineffectual, hypocritical, superficial Protestant dictatorship which exploits damaged humans along the same lines of modern animal husbandry, which is obscene, and a topic which once made Peter Singer the epicenter of activist outrage, along with those grievances, iterated previously, ambulatory individuals would only endure in a schematic and rigid tragedy like Ethan Frome, which is Wharton's homage to marginalized invalids, the likes of whom are, in contemporary terms, only found in Siberia, or Syria, Libya, maybe New Guinea.
The struggle to destroy Little Vinnie in April turned my one small vinyl suitcase into garbage. to be placed in the trash room before I run around center city demanding an advocate and legal help at the point of a bayonet, as I can. For a dago who used to be able to consume poultry and pork like a pig, I'm eating only in small spoonfuls of stress. You having a decent Monday morning? Time to really work a little and stop panicking, even in the knowledge I am not solving a thing letting blacks continue to make me the heavy, treating me like prey, or bludgeoning me with threats.
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Did Hollywood North create Eric Harris?
"Sandy, God is not a democracy."-- Reverend James Liddell
Television is not very good with science fiction. Paid critics assert this is because the genre is about ideas, so most Americans trade on aesthetic quality to enjoy this camp, this American included, with her taste for junk food, of which the original Outer Limits is representative. The late 90's revamp pushes it however, even if the production values are a significant upgrade on Robert Duvall transforming into an enemy alien. It is obvious that the Vancouver reboot of the series was plagued by budget problems, resheathing other episodes into conspiracy theories. I happen to remember them all, but Final Exam seems to be a virtual transcript for Columbine, and indeed, before I checked my dates, I thought the CBC was scolding its rebel cousin with an extended metaphor about alienated American males. The show aired a year before the Columbine boys acted, however, and though nothing can be proven, if you substitute the fictional cold fusion bomb for Goth and machine guns it comes down to nearly the same event.
I'd rather go out that way than go the route of Ezra Pound's grandiose insanity and death in a Fascist prison, never having forgotten this foot note of the fabled modernist. I lost one of my canvas bags Saturday and strolled out to see if it was perchance on the sidewalk:
Senile transsexual Erik von Schmetterling: "Hi," with its naturally subversive smirk.
Me: "Leave me alone! I hate you and everything you stand for [this on 4/02]."
I rather meant it, though it would be pointless to smash its face in. My ex died, unknown to me, smack on the day I drained my battery transversing University City to visit and do my updates at Joe Coffee. It was a bad day. I did not belong there, and couldn't differentiate their espresso brand from that Starbuck's offers, while Frankie died with near lightning speed in hospital, from end stage renal disease. His full name was Frank Versante. It no longer matters if I write it, sick fat and stupid bastard, skin pitted with blisters, gout. I used to think he was just a simple fuck who misinterpreted a bad sexual experience, but later came to believe he used his stupidity to ambush me into an engagement which made me miserable, and left me disgusted, and yet I feel it, within the layers of my obsidian cooked lava. He's gone.
And on the morning I'm actually posting this, a fierce April squall disturbs my sleep.
Television is not very good with science fiction. Paid critics assert this is because the genre is about ideas, so most Americans trade on aesthetic quality to enjoy this camp, this American included, with her taste for junk food, of which the original Outer Limits is representative. The late 90's revamp pushes it however, even if the production values are a significant upgrade on Robert Duvall transforming into an enemy alien. It is obvious that the Vancouver reboot of the series was plagued by budget problems, resheathing other episodes into conspiracy theories. I happen to remember them all, but Final Exam seems to be a virtual transcript for Columbine, and indeed, before I checked my dates, I thought the CBC was scolding its rebel cousin with an extended metaphor about alienated American males. The show aired a year before the Columbine boys acted, however, and though nothing can be proven, if you substitute the fictional cold fusion bomb for Goth and machine guns it comes down to nearly the same event.
I'd rather go out that way than go the route of Ezra Pound's grandiose insanity and death in a Fascist prison, never having forgotten this foot note of the fabled modernist. I lost one of my canvas bags Saturday and strolled out to see if it was perchance on the sidewalk:
Senile transsexual Erik von Schmetterling: "Hi," with its naturally subversive smirk.
Me: "Leave me alone! I hate you and everything you stand for [this on 4/02]."
I rather meant it, though it would be pointless to smash its face in. My ex died, unknown to me, smack on the day I drained my battery transversing University City to visit and do my updates at Joe Coffee. It was a bad day. I did not belong there, and couldn't differentiate their espresso brand from that Starbuck's offers, while Frankie died with near lightning speed in hospital, from end stage renal disease. His full name was Frank Versante. It no longer matters if I write it, sick fat and stupid bastard, skin pitted with blisters, gout. I used to think he was just a simple fuck who misinterpreted a bad sexual experience, but later came to believe he used his stupidity to ambush me into an engagement which made me miserable, and left me disgusted, and yet I feel it, within the layers of my obsidian cooked lava. He's gone.
And on the morning I'm actually posting this, a fierce April squall disturbs my sleep.
Emancipation of the Flesh
"What do I have to do?"--Franka Potente
What can be added to Ebert's review of Run Lola Run is Tykwer's captures of German physiognomy is subversively disturbing, and his Berlin of 20 odd years ago unpleasant, irregardless of meta insular playfulness. Post Nazi Germans cast here look like African albino marionettes. Phew. Holding one's nose, the father's relation to the mistress has the same torpor as any over familiar relation. In Unfaithful, we're drawn into a titillating, irresistible compulsion which in turn leads to irresistible brutality. This is the way cinema dishes it up. No one is immune these days to the hypersexuality of augmentation. The reality is anything but, barring those rare moments of young love.
I have hinted at my affairs, but censored myself out of caution as well as delicacy. I was caught once and the ex-wife was civil, but I prefer not to go through it again. Next to my fabled dog fight with Linda Dezenski, that conversation, rippling from Montreal to my ghetto, is the searing sin of muted conscience, but it was the sin of relatively inconvenient fluids and farcical flopping about. I am not much for bragging with enthusiasm category, and maybe it is sad, too old, vaginally drying out now, for any real hormonal productive liberation to find its way back to the future, and the deceased Frank Versanti's weight was repugnant. He and I couldn't have intercourse, didn't, but his body was a graphic horror novel writing itself. I'd be facetious, tongue in check, and aim a barb at traumatic conversions, but naked women provide their own inhibited repulsions-- and yet, our ability to desire perfect form and design did not start with cinema.
A simple philosophical syllogism intimates a proof for God in this way: if we can conceive the possibility of its existence, then it can exist, ergo, perfection, since we conceive of it, is possible. We fail. Bendrix's sex life too, is merely the tension between the illusive security and comfort of the hearth being disrupted in the analytical British attitude toward a happy shag and the frustrations of obsession: Greene has as much an unerring way with protagonists who have their view blocked by possession, as much as I do with the masochism of longing: I literally have no idea why meeting a Shakespearean named Jerry McGuire when I was a 19 year old entering freshman of English literature in my father's living room, why this coincidence was so overpowering I fucked myself royally. I do not know. There were other instructors, but under Jerry's awning I was a wildly rotating dwarf star who fell very badly for the Italian antithesis of the angry veteran of Suny. Ashes to ashes, god's joke was to give me a buffoon as a stand in who in part let himself die because my contempt made a genuine bond of affection impossible. Unfaithful, locks Gere in to something that ultimately will destroy the marriage he committed murder to reset, and if I take the night of the Munich attack, being streamed live, as an indicator of the corrosion of monoculture, the only difference between a bus stop in Germany after hours and the bus stop at Darby, in my wheelchair, is cleanliness, the lack of drunk black hustlers perceived as a threat.
What can be added to Ebert's review of Run Lola Run is Tykwer's captures of German physiognomy is subversively disturbing, and his Berlin of 20 odd years ago unpleasant, irregardless of meta insular playfulness. Post Nazi Germans cast here look like African albino marionettes. Phew. Holding one's nose, the father's relation to the mistress has the same torpor as any over familiar relation. In Unfaithful, we're drawn into a titillating, irresistible compulsion which in turn leads to irresistible brutality. This is the way cinema dishes it up. No one is immune these days to the hypersexuality of augmentation. The reality is anything but, barring those rare moments of young love.
I have hinted at my affairs, but censored myself out of caution as well as delicacy. I was caught once and the ex-wife was civil, but I prefer not to go through it again. Next to my fabled dog fight with Linda Dezenski, that conversation, rippling from Montreal to my ghetto, is the searing sin of muted conscience, but it was the sin of relatively inconvenient fluids and farcical flopping about. I am not much for bragging with enthusiasm category, and maybe it is sad, too old, vaginally drying out now, for any real hormonal productive liberation to find its way back to the future, and the deceased Frank Versanti's weight was repugnant. He and I couldn't have intercourse, didn't, but his body was a graphic horror novel writing itself. I'd be facetious, tongue in check, and aim a barb at traumatic conversions, but naked women provide their own inhibited repulsions-- and yet, our ability to desire perfect form and design did not start with cinema.
A simple philosophical syllogism intimates a proof for God in this way: if we can conceive the possibility of its existence, then it can exist, ergo, perfection, since we conceive of it, is possible. We fail. Bendrix's sex life too, is merely the tension between the illusive security and comfort of the hearth being disrupted in the analytical British attitude toward a happy shag and the frustrations of obsession: Greene has as much an unerring way with protagonists who have their view blocked by possession, as much as I do with the masochism of longing: I literally have no idea why meeting a Shakespearean named Jerry McGuire when I was a 19 year old entering freshman of English literature in my father's living room, why this coincidence was so overpowering I fucked myself royally. I do not know. There were other instructors, but under Jerry's awning I was a wildly rotating dwarf star who fell very badly for the Italian antithesis of the angry veteran of Suny. Ashes to ashes, god's joke was to give me a buffoon as a stand in who in part let himself die because my contempt made a genuine bond of affection impossible. Unfaithful, locks Gere in to something that ultimately will destroy the marriage he committed murder to reset, and if I take the night of the Munich attack, being streamed live, as an indicator of the corrosion of monoculture, the only difference between a bus stop in Germany after hours and the bus stop at Darby, in my wheelchair, is cleanliness, the lack of drunk black hustlers perceived as a threat.
Monday, January 18, 2016
Travanti Hemlock at the root
"It is therefore no surprise to find that anti-homosexual repression is itself an indirect manifestation--" Homosexual Desire, page 55
I probably take the national prize for online inappropriate behavior, and one year went *off* in email with a sort of loose jointed Briton about trauma conversion. Total stranger, and I'm emailing him about a rather intimate issue of masochism, probably fresh in the aftermath in my tug of war with my former supervisor-mentor, but some years before the half-breed from the inner city violated my personal sanctity, upon which I discovered I couldn't be masochist enough, and fought, but to be entirely honest, there is a part of my psyche, after years of learned devaluation, that could have let this absolutely repugnant female have her way, and destroyed myself in the process, but in coming to terms with it, I'm now beginning to put it away, to stop twisting my head, and the next African American who tries a "Miss Eddy* maneuver isn't going to enjoy the consequences.
Leaving Travanti frozen in the eighties of his prime to be able to watch a relatively contemporary work like C.O.G. bite on the ass from a distance takes courage, in more ways than one: Bochco fed us Frank Furillo as a nearly messianic figure, and this is a grave sin, a set of expectations offered by a fictional character against which we judge the men we think we want, the ones who reject us next to the gluttons we reject. Travanti and Bosson really were sanitized versions of my mother and father. It hurts, surprisingly, and leaves us with residues of what we have to offer, which we do, in reserves, until dementia or what will kill us takes over.
Be prepared for post-menopausal pain. It is something a woman over 50 needs to discuss with potential new boyfriends. I was just getting the hang of sex after my fling with Pat, my ludicrous fling which still has an undercurrent of dread, in my thirties, and then the ball stopped, and if I get into Frank (the ex) and sex I may end up asking a hunter to go retrieve that rifle with scope, but it can never now be the same, an expression of a bond of appreciation, had it been if I had been more resourceful in resilient middle years.
Why did I bother to chastise CrimeMonitor? Because I am a victim, two, three, four times over, and when the account holder actually bothered to pay attention, his subsequent click of "unfollow" was the behavior of a mongrel, another arm chair cosmetic. I at least make an effort to think about what accounts have to offer. He, or she, has earned my contempt.
I probably take the national prize for online inappropriate behavior, and one year went *off* in email with a sort of loose jointed Briton about trauma conversion. Total stranger, and I'm emailing him about a rather intimate issue of masochism, probably fresh in the aftermath in my tug of war with my former supervisor-mentor, but some years before the half-breed from the inner city violated my personal sanctity, upon which I discovered I couldn't be masochist enough, and fought, but to be entirely honest, there is a part of my psyche, after years of learned devaluation, that could have let this absolutely repugnant female have her way, and destroyed myself in the process, but in coming to terms with it, I'm now beginning to put it away, to stop twisting my head, and the next African American who tries a "Miss Eddy* maneuver isn't going to enjoy the consequences.
Leaving Travanti frozen in the eighties of his prime to be able to watch a relatively contemporary work like C.O.G. bite on the ass from a distance takes courage, in more ways than one: Bochco fed us Frank Furillo as a nearly messianic figure, and this is a grave sin, a set of expectations offered by a fictional character against which we judge the men we think we want, the ones who reject us next to the gluttons we reject. Travanti and Bosson really were sanitized versions of my mother and father. It hurts, surprisingly, and leaves us with residues of what we have to offer, which we do, in reserves, until dementia or what will kill us takes over.
Be prepared for post-menopausal pain. It is something a woman over 50 needs to discuss with potential new boyfriends. I was just getting the hang of sex after my fling with Pat, my ludicrous fling which still has an undercurrent of dread, in my thirties, and then the ball stopped, and if I get into Frank (the ex) and sex I may end up asking a hunter to go retrieve that rifle with scope, but it can never now be the same, an expression of a bond of appreciation, had it been if I had been more resourceful in resilient middle years.
Why did I bother to chastise CrimeMonitor? Because I am a victim, two, three, four times over, and when the account holder actually bothered to pay attention, his subsequent click of "unfollow" was the behavior of a mongrel, another arm chair cosmetic. I at least make an effort to think about what accounts have to offer. He, or she, has earned my contempt.
Friday, June 26, 2015
Weights And OZY
OZY's ability to utilize twitter's lists is marginally opaque,and this was a legitimate request for guidance on the model, ignored-- and more than anything else, this willingness to ward off-- this account is just an opportunistic reservoir for spammers if I am going down, in any case-- gets to me. I am an OZY 2014 intriguing journalist, but because I went to their website and didn't know what to do, now I'm persona non-grata, because I was frustrated rather than pleasant. I am opaque on Medium's structure too, but Ev never offered me any cosmetic support-- OZY did, and their team refuses now to respond to me.
Did the intern listing me actually read what I was writing? People tried to shut me down for my empathy for the late, ineffectual anarchist Christopher Dorner. The only change between then, and now, I'm out of money, and a ten year old Quickie which suited me best, is down
The girl across the street, Jodi, lives by nursing home rules for the mentally retarded in a community model setting. Her case manager or welfare claims agent gives her 40 dollars a month as pocket change, and the state manages the rest of her entitlement. My ex, with his posterior multiple strokes mental processing, says "She isn't retarded, trust me." With umbrage indicative of a bad experience that, as his former lover, I am better off not knowing, but I know better than he that she is an MR client. Banned from this building for stealing.
She asked me for toilet paper over the intercom; in her mind, my slightly higher status obligated me to support her. Conservative principles kept me alive with 1963 neo-natal technology, and then tortured me in various institutional settings upon which liberal academia sort of lied to me--granting that I gave up hope in my 30's that a doctorate would necessarily do me any good (it would not now).
Popular sentiment of working class talk back: the world doesn't owe me anything. And oh yes it damn well does, a lot more than Carlos narrating pasteurized prisoners on horses.
Did the intern listing me actually read what I was writing? People tried to shut me down for my empathy for the late, ineffectual anarchist Christopher Dorner. The only change between then, and now, I'm out of money, and a ten year old Quickie which suited me best, is down
The girl across the street, Jodi, lives by nursing home rules for the mentally retarded in a community model setting. Her case manager or welfare claims agent gives her 40 dollars a month as pocket change, and the state manages the rest of her entitlement. My ex, with his posterior multiple strokes mental processing, says "She isn't retarded, trust me." With umbrage indicative of a bad experience that, as his former lover, I am better off not knowing, but I know better than he that she is an MR client. Banned from this building for stealing.
She asked me for toilet paper over the intercom; in her mind, my slightly higher status obligated me to support her. Conservative principles kept me alive with 1963 neo-natal technology, and then tortured me in various institutional settings upon which liberal academia sort of lied to me--granting that I gave up hope in my 30's that a doctorate would necessarily do me any good (it would not now).
Popular sentiment of working class talk back: the world doesn't owe me anything. And oh yes it damn well does, a lot more than Carlos narrating pasteurized prisoners on horses.
Wednesday, April 22, 2015
Sleepy Hollow
I have absolutely nothing to post, and logged on to actually research Nigeria for my diary entry, savage desolation of which, unseen except by my hard drive, Blogger would not disrupt my account, but not the savage desolation of which you might imagine. Not that he would answer me, (oh geez, this is him now) but I'd quaff John by his ears, today, for spending so much time with me when we were underclassmen. I'd go back in time and lunge at him, beating his sinewy Italian chest, saying "why? why torment me if you didn't want me?" and he'd punch a mirror, drop acid perhaps. I don't even know what the idiom means, dropping acid, and my rental agent is using government agents to corral me in a cage, or black authoritarians, whatever, I'm Kundera's Stalinist joke, a one spastic circus, who hopped in the shower before the news, as usual, and nothing happened, and if I had not called the guard earlier in the month, and had lain there, waited, wriggled, experimented and with strenuous effort picked myself up, I would not now be in this most dynamic challenge, as an obstinate -- what? A Roseanne?
Tassoni. He still looks stoned in his Facebook photo, just as well, I suppose. I hope Gail regrets him with whatever derisive satisfaction this would offer me, but I never had the world into each other they had, and it isn't so much women over 50 couldn't get a golden blossom as it is I could never cherish it, express gratitude for it. I ream my ex on one end and berate him on the other, helpless blind egghead with a windowsill of script, swathed in medical equipment. He horrifies me, and whatever it cost me to break our engagement, the marriage would have been a domestic free for all, and this wasn't what I was going to post about Cameron Diaz, the effervescent quality of her focus. For a former model, her thematic choices have been interesting, but vivacious, still trying to interpret her monologue in Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her. The rest of her filmography aside, her work with Berg and Garcia offer intimations about beauty to challenge conventional wisdom about sexual appeal, open doors. Her character in Very Bad Things wants her magical moment in life, but the price of elimination leaves her overwhelmed, shackled by invisible leg irons as stagnating as Leland Orser aping the mannerisms of a true quadriplegic. She has the same characteristics as Uma Thurman, though with softer facial expression.
Tassoni. He still looks stoned in his Facebook photo, just as well, I suppose. I hope Gail regrets him with whatever derisive satisfaction this would offer me, but I never had the world into each other they had, and it isn't so much women over 50 couldn't get a golden blossom as it is I could never cherish it, express gratitude for it. I ream my ex on one end and berate him on the other, helpless blind egghead with a windowsill of script, swathed in medical equipment. He horrifies me, and whatever it cost me to break our engagement, the marriage would have been a domestic free for all, and this wasn't what I was going to post about Cameron Diaz, the effervescent quality of her focus. For a former model, her thematic choices have been interesting, but vivacious, still trying to interpret her monologue in Things You Can Tell Just by Looking at Her. The rest of her filmography aside, her work with Berg and Garcia offer intimations about beauty to challenge conventional wisdom about sexual appeal, open doors. Her character in Very Bad Things wants her magical moment in life, but the price of elimination leaves her overwhelmed, shackled by invisible leg irons as stagnating as Leland Orser aping the mannerisms of a true quadriplegic. She has the same characteristics as Uma Thurman, though with softer facial expression.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
Andreas Lubitz Makes Depression Look Like What It Isn't
When presented with an infrared spectrum, it is easy to become confused by the peaks present. Brian C Smith, Infrared Spectral Interpretation, A Systematic Approach, p.27
The Sony Bravia flat screen from Dell cost somewhere between $650 to $699 or so, still flush from parental demise, one of the last times your queen mother had a universal circus going at the expense of the center city personnel running this building, making the ex bull doze himself a drive to Radio Shack for digital antenna, cajoling Timothy to screw it altogether. "Yours is better than mine," Frank observed, cryptically. I have no real way to evaluate electronic appliances, but even after years of abandoning the old concave analog sets, I have a more stable picture, barring cellular interference, and so what?
You'd like simplicity? I hate the television. I hate watching it. And despite the miracle of the micro ink and touch interface, I hate kindle, I hate my smartphone, and the diaphanous platform chattering Ev William's Medium represents. Oh, it is pretty, marvelously pleasing to the eye, but we have destroyed something essential about pre-digital culture, all of us. We've cheapened something about learning through each other, even while I fight the welfare system closing its industrial age manacles on my intransigence.
Speaking hypothetically, I do not think Presbyterian Homes has the wherewithal to take me to court to force my institutionalization, as it is simply a matter of my age, my lack of affluence to buy myself time, and I don't think anyone paying attention to me on social media feels they have the ability to prevent it, whether or not they care. If the situation were reversed, and it was one of you, and I was a Levy brother, for example, would I sacrifice time, money, to be your shield? It is a counterfactual speculation.
But as much as blunt force trauma is also a simplified argument, like rolls of coins in a sock to create a cat o nine, the actions of Lubitz are simply unfathomable. Depression doesn't entirely impede empathy, and I would not destroy the lives of innocents in a bid for relief from entrapment between rust iron bully dykes like Debra Horne and abusive or otherwise indifferent caretakers. As I keep hammering it home, I am, like many thousands, a quadriplegic under the medical restraint of Prometheus Unbound. Vengeance might seem applicable in that context of a life with such a degree of cruelty, even if positivism might suggest alternatives, but not so randomly applied without any cause whatsoever.
An intuitive sensibility only, but nevertheless, I don't think Lubitz could have been possible before Microsoft made personal computing what it is, just as my further ostracism wouldn't have been possible if I would have been more objective, careful of my temper, frustrated with the bizarre remote which, as a cheap plastic implement, has a mind of its own, insisting the channel change bounce its signal sideways, and taking at least five minutes to obey the press of my fingertips. Smashing the damn thing would be an appeasement. My mind is on a controversial piece. I best get pitching.
The Sony Bravia flat screen from Dell cost somewhere between $650 to $699 or so, still flush from parental demise, one of the last times your queen mother had a universal circus going at the expense of the center city personnel running this building, making the ex bull doze himself a drive to Radio Shack for digital antenna, cajoling Timothy to screw it altogether. "Yours is better than mine," Frank observed, cryptically. I have no real way to evaluate electronic appliances, but even after years of abandoning the old concave analog sets, I have a more stable picture, barring cellular interference, and so what?
You'd like simplicity? I hate the television. I hate watching it. And despite the miracle of the micro ink and touch interface, I hate kindle, I hate my smartphone, and the diaphanous platform chattering Ev William's Medium represents. Oh, it is pretty, marvelously pleasing to the eye, but we have destroyed something essential about pre-digital culture, all of us. We've cheapened something about learning through each other, even while I fight the welfare system closing its industrial age manacles on my intransigence.
Speaking hypothetically, I do not think Presbyterian Homes has the wherewithal to take me to court to force my institutionalization, as it is simply a matter of my age, my lack of affluence to buy myself time, and I don't think anyone paying attention to me on social media feels they have the ability to prevent it, whether or not they care. If the situation were reversed, and it was one of you, and I was a Levy brother, for example, would I sacrifice time, money, to be your shield? It is a counterfactual speculation.
But as much as blunt force trauma is also a simplified argument, like rolls of coins in a sock to create a cat o nine, the actions of Lubitz are simply unfathomable. Depression doesn't entirely impede empathy, and I would not destroy the lives of innocents in a bid for relief from entrapment between rust iron bully dykes like Debra Horne and abusive or otherwise indifferent caretakers. As I keep hammering it home, I am, like many thousands, a quadriplegic under the medical restraint of Prometheus Unbound. Vengeance might seem applicable in that context of a life with such a degree of cruelty, even if positivism might suggest alternatives, but not so randomly applied without any cause whatsoever.
An intuitive sensibility only, but nevertheless, I don't think Lubitz could have been possible before Microsoft made personal computing what it is, just as my further ostracism wouldn't have been possible if I would have been more objective, careful of my temper, frustrated with the bizarre remote which, as a cheap plastic implement, has a mind of its own, insisting the channel change bounce its signal sideways, and taking at least five minutes to obey the press of my fingertips. Smashing the damn thing would be an appeasement. My mind is on a controversial piece. I best get pitching.
Saturday, February 21, 2015
Free Kiev
But tonight I would like to address my remarks particularly to this city and particularly to the Ukraine--a city and a republic that has meant so much to the Soviet Union and so much to the world, Richard Nixon.
Diffidence. The sole follower of my blog and I accidentally bumped into each other at the mail slots, and said the normal random things people say, my primary worry driving out in the frigid cold, and my ex, poor Frank, modern serf if there ever was, informed me his incestuous issue had a heart attack, and I'm guilty of glib indifference, and thus, if I can be so self-aware of how cold I am, how can I expect anyone on social media to lend me a hand? Whatever you read of the intelligence, the retrenched white hot anger, you'd look at me, see emotional wounds in my eyes, straggly hair, need for better grooming, look away, feel pity, dehumanize, wonder how my teeth became so damaged, and then, we have the massive liberal wailing over Rudy's jingoism. Some of us understand what Guiliani was saying, in translation: Barack Obama is thoroughly infused with a multiculturalism which is ill suited for the sovereign head of the United States, but he did it in a reactionary way that isn't being nice to those of mixed race socialist heritage. I don't think anyone would disagree that Obama's mother made herself an outcast, and by some miracle her boy navigated this without turning into inner city refuse. I'm the one who managed that, so accept my lot and shut the fuck up already.
Let me save some of you some time: I am no longer a patriot, and within reason, I am allowed to express this. I think our two party system has finished its course and no longer truly amounts to anything. We nominate centrists and essentially choose which moderate we like best on center right or center left. And I only have one image of Hillary Clinton when she was the first lady of Arkansas. Her hair was shoulder length, held in place by a black headband, while she was assuring a national interviewer that Jennifer Flowers "was just a friend."
I can know nothing else about the Clintons, but know that this duplicity speaks volumes about the limits of political representation, and I am that very rare thing: a violent brain damaged female who frightens patrician sensibilities, driven off from a number of online communities, not an easy thing, because I should be medicated. A helpless anarchist, but an anarchist none the less. I don't believe raping women is an effective intimidation tactic, and therein lies the difference between an Isis recruit and myself.
Am I really that hard? I am not the only disabled American who has been disenfranchised, not the only victim of crime and abuse, but with my enemies, probably. I've reached a place where I'd like them to feel what it is like, to be trapped in a senior living home because of one defiant choice when you were 23, stabbed in the back by activists you thought you could trust, and a Puerto Rican Italian man who should be dead, who is a living symbol of how health care is bankrupting the fucking country and dragging me down because there are no resources to spare to give me a better outcome, all I can feel about his son's insatiable ability to impregnate his idiot genes into women is that his heart attack serves him right. Therein is exactly what happened to my humanity.
Diffidence. The sole follower of my blog and I accidentally bumped into each other at the mail slots, and said the normal random things people say, my primary worry driving out in the frigid cold, and my ex, poor Frank, modern serf if there ever was, informed me his incestuous issue had a heart attack, and I'm guilty of glib indifference, and thus, if I can be so self-aware of how cold I am, how can I expect anyone on social media to lend me a hand? Whatever you read of the intelligence, the retrenched white hot anger, you'd look at me, see emotional wounds in my eyes, straggly hair, need for better grooming, look away, feel pity, dehumanize, wonder how my teeth became so damaged, and then, we have the massive liberal wailing over Rudy's jingoism. Some of us understand what Guiliani was saying, in translation: Barack Obama is thoroughly infused with a multiculturalism which is ill suited for the sovereign head of the United States, but he did it in a reactionary way that isn't being nice to those of mixed race socialist heritage. I don't think anyone would disagree that Obama's mother made herself an outcast, and by some miracle her boy navigated this without turning into inner city refuse. I'm the one who managed that, so accept my lot and shut the fuck up already.
Let me save some of you some time: I am no longer a patriot, and within reason, I am allowed to express this. I think our two party system has finished its course and no longer truly amounts to anything. We nominate centrists and essentially choose which moderate we like best on center right or center left. And I only have one image of Hillary Clinton when she was the first lady of Arkansas. Her hair was shoulder length, held in place by a black headband, while she was assuring a national interviewer that Jennifer Flowers "was just a friend."
I can know nothing else about the Clintons, but know that this duplicity speaks volumes about the limits of political representation, and I am that very rare thing: a violent brain damaged female who frightens patrician sensibilities, driven off from a number of online communities, not an easy thing, because I should be medicated. A helpless anarchist, but an anarchist none the less. I don't believe raping women is an effective intimidation tactic, and therein lies the difference between an Isis recruit and myself.
Am I really that hard? I am not the only disabled American who has been disenfranchised, not the only victim of crime and abuse, but with my enemies, probably. I've reached a place where I'd like them to feel what it is like, to be trapped in a senior living home because of one defiant choice when you were 23, stabbed in the back by activists you thought you could trust, and a Puerto Rican Italian man who should be dead, who is a living symbol of how health care is bankrupting the fucking country and dragging me down because there are no resources to spare to give me a better outcome, all I can feel about his son's insatiable ability to impregnate his idiot genes into women is that his heart attack serves him right. Therein is exactly what happened to my humanity.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Suge Knight may not know my neighbors
Not sure why Acquired Deficiency received as many views as it did. Beneath the surface I miss my blunt idealism, and, at least when he wasn't posting about his co-habitation conflicts (noting that I have not been honorably reticent toward my ex Frank either) I was moved by Andrew Sullivan's sincerity. What the fuck else to deem it of course he cannot possibly engage in high risk sexual activity with his partner but how can they be celibate?
Terribly prurient on my part while I busied myself nagging this homosexual again, politely, because I wish to now get involved in state politics. What is troubling me is that my callous indifference is no longer a game of pretend: I cannot read Andrew Sullivan's posts about his dead dogs without a sniff of recoiling malaise, imagining Sponge Bob, and taking a tip from Charles Lane on the urethra and orgasm, holding a little urine helps me remember engorged penises are wondrous. Charles Lane is a television critic. I know nothing about the book. I'm being manipulative. I am also not really me anymore, cherishing next to nothing about the life I've lived, and I'll never get it back, the belief that I have a future, that I'm relevant, that love is a splendid thing, that the love of my life exists, that I can be made love with and enjoy it. Jude Law is what the evolutionary gay dandy was probably designed to be, the girl boy who could tap dance to vaginal victory before those with more masculine definition. My femininity, feminine confidence, started to collapse when I was 42, when I saw Frank naked. You have no idea what lengths revulsion takes you to when a more attractive supervisor demolishes your ego.
Getting better involved getting out, and I may possibly be too scarred emotionally and mentally at this point.
Correction: Why I substituted Charles Lane for Hank Stuever might pose a challenge to even the most stalwart psychoanalyst. Perchance a preference .for Lane's strident masculine concerns over Stuever's analysis of women and their interests, but let the gaffes be fruitful.
Terribly prurient on my part while I busied myself nagging this homosexual again, politely, because I wish to now get involved in state politics. What is troubling me is that my callous indifference is no longer a game of pretend: I cannot read Andrew Sullivan's posts about his dead dogs without a sniff of recoiling malaise, imagining Sponge Bob, and taking a tip from Charles Lane on the urethra and orgasm, holding a little urine helps me remember engorged penises are wondrous. Charles Lane is a television critic. I know nothing about the book. I'm being manipulative. I am also not really me anymore, cherishing next to nothing about the life I've lived, and I'll never get it back, the belief that I have a future, that I'm relevant, that love is a splendid thing, that the love of my life exists, that I can be made love with and enjoy it. Jude Law is what the evolutionary gay dandy was probably designed to be, the girl boy who could tap dance to vaginal victory before those with more masculine definition. My femininity, feminine confidence, started to collapse when I was 42, when I saw Frank naked. You have no idea what lengths revulsion takes you to when a more attractive supervisor demolishes your ego.
Getting better involved getting out, and I may possibly be too scarred emotionally and mentally at this point.
Correction: Why I substituted Charles Lane for Hank Stuever might pose a challenge to even the most stalwart psychoanalyst. Perchance a preference .for Lane's strident masculine concerns over Stuever's analysis of women and their interests, but let the gaffes be fruitful.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Malicious
My ex-fiance, for those of you not following along, is a bed ridden 5'6" King Kong, maybe 450 lb when he moved in and was more hopeful then of some physical recovery. He fell once, only once, in my bathroom, due to singular distinctions for which I am seemingly fated. Why I initially agreed to marry him? I thought my control would be reward enough. I was wrong, and hurt big ugly burly baby spic/dago from the Bronx whose intelligence is keener than my own on certain things. He was a Bronx cop, coke addict and he thinks Karina falls under the same rubric, and he may be right. My instincts about the woman were that I was being played, not that she hurt me, not yet.
She somehow was let in the building yesterday and came pounding on my door, like so many menacing drug users of my past, and telephoned twice, looking for a reference, which, perhaps to you may seem petty, but I refused her. This isn't simply about my personal correspondence. She may have discarded official documentation which may cause me undue hardship down the road. I'm worried now, and I hired her, using Craigslist on the advice of my veterinary technician. This is why I've kept myself off the Medicaid system, to stay away from this.
She somehow was let in the building yesterday and came pounding on my door, like so many menacing drug users of my past, and telephoned twice, looking for a reference, which, perhaps to you may seem petty, but I refused her. This isn't simply about my personal correspondence. She may have discarded official documentation which may cause me undue hardship down the road. I'm worried now, and I hired her, using Craigslist on the advice of my veterinary technician. This is why I've kept myself off the Medicaid system, to stay away from this.
Wednesday, July 30, 2014
Inundated Drives, on Brioche toast
I do not give a rat's ass in hell that I am eight years older than Jerome Robart. There is some intangible quality about French seduction and French fucking and with one little turn of the key, with a trophy love like this, I would have been a satisfied and happy woman, in love with life. Please, please, help me kneel like the actress who plays Sabine (or Satin), in one last false bloom, my spastic grip on his ass riding the rocking horse, I once had a reputation for dedicated oral sex and I would bury my face in his testes and gladly suffocate; no wonder poor Maupassant went insane with syphilis. What the fuck is it about European men? And you do not tell me about Nicolas Le Floch? Wicked viewers.
When I stop fervently straining to harvest the last of my nectar for the heaven of such a seduction, by the mother of Christ, Robart's subtly might inspire some rosette synapses to brilliance. Don't grow old bereft for such unions of masculine definition, if you heed nothing else from me, feel your passion and live it fiercely. Go after it, if I only had.
---------
There is a trollop at play, and an undercurrent of truth to the fact that Robart's role in a Enlightenment era procedural ignites frustration. My ex fiance tried, early on in our failed liaison, to ignite the same sparks one can find in a Paris boudoir, but I did not love the man, and he could not persuade me with such attributes as he had that others assumed made Frank and I a couple who were suited for each other: Everyone around the neighborhood called him my husband, when I could still get him out of his bed, and this says something about outward appearances over interior dissatisfaction, Jerome may not be picture perfect, which is a deterrent in George Clooney, but what he does with the bemused wrinkle of those almond eyes, Robart.
Fuck. I must go to Europe to die. It is imperative, even if difficulties are paramount.
When I stop fervently straining to harvest the last of my nectar for the heaven of such a seduction, by the mother of Christ, Robart's subtly might inspire some rosette synapses to brilliance. Don't grow old bereft for such unions of masculine definition, if you heed nothing else from me, feel your passion and live it fiercely. Go after it, if I only had.
---------
There is a trollop at play, and an undercurrent of truth to the fact that Robart's role in a Enlightenment era procedural ignites frustration. My ex fiance tried, early on in our failed liaison, to ignite the same sparks one can find in a Paris boudoir, but I did not love the man, and he could not persuade me with such attributes as he had that others assumed made Frank and I a couple who were suited for each other: Everyone around the neighborhood called him my husband, when I could still get him out of his bed, and this says something about outward appearances over interior dissatisfaction, Jerome may not be picture perfect, which is a deterrent in George Clooney, but what he does with the bemused wrinkle of those almond eyes, Robart.
Fuck. I must go to Europe to die. It is imperative, even if difficulties are paramount.
Wednesday, August 21, 2013
Virgil Swann
"It's simply impossible for us to live with vulgar people. It's a defect, no doubt; it's an immense inconvenience, and in the days we live in it's sadly against one's interest."-- Henry James, The Reverberator
Smallville, recalled due to wanton disregard for sanctity, was too much about being occult eye candy; Welling was a nearly too perfect retrofit to the solid, self-defined, simple back to basics American that Christopher once exemplified and still attempted to exemplify once he became helpless.
He could no longer exemplify it as a true expression of quadriplegia; his paralysis makes my ability to drag my upper torso across the floor positively invigorating, and I did not get along with him at AccessLife, being my usually contentious self; yet I feel guilty for the deaths of Reeve and his wife. I had nothing to do with either his subcutaneous pressure sore or Dana's lung cancer, and my interaction with the pair was limited, but there is guilt, right here, in this absence, in an empty space that can only be defined as a void.
Superman necessitates the values of the GI Joe American male; no way to get around that without negating what the graphic contours of his abilities represent. In looking back at the series, and adding the conjunction of Leah Remini's troubles, perhaps Scientology had too much influence on the series. It was in spite of myself television. Nothing on, and a utilized package, so Reeve playing off Welling was less effective than it might have been if I had a) understood Swann as the technocratic prophet; cared about L Ron Hubbard's repressed and rigid disciplines (he looks like a man whose lymph nodes overflowed with hedonism), and understood what the guild was doing with superhero encoding. It was bewildering most of the time, involving fantastical degrees of possession, corruption, and Nietzschean will to power.
Not all men, certainly, but most men are failed overgrown children, which is why I am so perplexed about Frank's hurt and don't know what he wants from me. I became intimate with him as a form of proof that I did not want to find a lesbian stick bitch along former supervisor Linda's lines, and also because I was sexually lonely. He was a horrific and revolting mistake, and leads one into certain temptations about the intelligence of the Hispanic male. If he and I had been young, then I could understand, but this was not a pairing out of love. He is a pig with a past of multiple partners and STD risk.
I need new friends; a new fuck buddy might be too much for which to hold out. If Pope Francis is orthodox this is right and a good thing for the Church. It is time. New Crusade. New Zeal. The Inquisition still exists as a matter of scant resource. The office should be reopened, and since I've lived in hell during my half century as a wheelchair user, there is no greater degree of suffering left which I have not previously experienced.
Smallville, recalled due to wanton disregard for sanctity, was too much about being occult eye candy; Welling was a nearly too perfect retrofit to the solid, self-defined, simple back to basics American that Christopher once exemplified and still attempted to exemplify once he became helpless.
.jpg/220px-Tom_Welling_(headshot).jpg&imgrefurl=http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Welling&h=220&w=176&sz=1&tbnid=hc8wTrPLMNM3mM:&tbnh=186&tbnw=148&zoom=1&usg=__TavqAztirckaOsRlKVT7aVf9_HY=&docid=ZbtNABvcspOA9M&itg=1&sa=X&ei=V68UUpj2HajXyAG_lYHQDQ&ved=0CMIBEPwdMAo){kind=link}
He could no longer exemplify it as a true expression of quadriplegia; his paralysis makes my ability to drag my upper torso across the floor positively invigorating, and I did not get along with him at AccessLife, being my usually contentious self; yet I feel guilty for the deaths of Reeve and his wife. I had nothing to do with either his subcutaneous pressure sore or Dana's lung cancer, and my interaction with the pair was limited, but there is guilt, right here, in this absence, in an empty space that can only be defined as a void.
Superman necessitates the values of the GI Joe American male; no way to get around that without negating what the graphic contours of his abilities represent. In looking back at the series, and adding the conjunction of Leah Remini's troubles, perhaps Scientology had too much influence on the series. It was in spite of myself television. Nothing on, and a utilized package, so Reeve playing off Welling was less effective than it might have been if I had a) understood Swann as the technocratic prophet; cared about L Ron Hubbard's repressed and rigid disciplines (he looks like a man whose lymph nodes overflowed with hedonism), and understood what the guild was doing with superhero encoding. It was bewildering most of the time, involving fantastical degrees of possession, corruption, and Nietzschean will to power.
Not all men, certainly, but most men are failed overgrown children, which is why I am so perplexed about Frank's hurt and don't know what he wants from me. I became intimate with him as a form of proof that I did not want to find a lesbian stick bitch along former supervisor Linda's lines, and also because I was sexually lonely. He was a horrific and revolting mistake, and leads one into certain temptations about the intelligence of the Hispanic male. If he and I had been young, then I could understand, but this was not a pairing out of love. He is a pig with a past of multiple partners and STD risk.
I need new friends; a new fuck buddy might be too much for which to hold out. If Pope Francis is orthodox this is right and a good thing for the Church. It is time. New Crusade. New Zeal. The Inquisition still exists as a matter of scant resource. The office should be reopened, and since I've lived in hell during my half century as a wheelchair user, there is no greater degree of suffering left which I have not previously experienced.
Thursday, May 24, 2012
Creative Destruction
I am angry at the authentic pain of my grief, even though I'm as human as any other pet owner. My anger is due to lack of time for mourning, for the emotional investment I had, and like my investment in trying to change Frank, who is like Clifford Chatterley, for those of you who know your Lawrence, regressive without the veneer of much social polish , that investment will now have a decorative ash container for a focal point. You can envision me holding Joey's ashes in my lap, rocking back and forth, the inflamed blood pressure in my face about to burst, a fucking piteous hag whose attachment to this creature cost me over three thousand dollars. Considering that I have been unemployed more or less since AccessLife ended in 2001, we are not talking poultry feed, and I am angry at Marie, angry at my inability to say no to her. She nests everyone with a creature. Most Southern European families have these Dolittle characters, saddling everyone with a puppy or a kitten barely weaned.
All of this enters into the writing, but as I have complained, there has been very little joy for me, even when I tried to configure hope within Catholicism. My negotiations with the divine were more like Marxist unionists engaging in riots. Sex was never much, and only turned me on when it was liberating within the betrayal of borrowing husbands.
Not a huge Jim Carrey fan, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is nevertheless on the agenda, and it is nice to know it is a free stream, because the issue of losing memory interests me, given that trauma has the upper hand in having shaped who, and what I am. I know. Gnostic Christians would say I had six years with a silky grey cat with a sweet and spoiled temperament, and Oliver before that survived nearly twenty years despite the fact that most of that was hand to mouth, and for now, I still have the little one.
I have failed career, relationships, and quality friendships, and my freelancing is stalled, perhaps beyond bereavement, though my slow down can in part be blamed on my nicotine battles. Is it so much to ask, as a disabled woman, for a revamp, before I need beta blockers and oxygen to linger on in chronic stasis?
All of this enters into the writing, but as I have complained, there has been very little joy for me, even when I tried to configure hope within Catholicism. My negotiations with the divine were more like Marxist unionists engaging in riots. Sex was never much, and only turned me on when it was liberating within the betrayal of borrowing husbands.
Not a huge Jim Carrey fan, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is nevertheless on the agenda, and it is nice to know it is a free stream, because the issue of losing memory interests me, given that trauma has the upper hand in having shaped who, and what I am. I know. Gnostic Christians would say I had six years with a silky grey cat with a sweet and spoiled temperament, and Oliver before that survived nearly twenty years despite the fact that most of that was hand to mouth, and for now, I still have the little one.
I have failed career, relationships, and quality friendships, and my freelancing is stalled, perhaps beyond bereavement, though my slow down can in part be blamed on my nicotine battles. Is it so much to ask, as a disabled woman, for a revamp, before I need beta blockers and oxygen to linger on in chronic stasis?
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