In Paris, masked and hooded protesters picked up and hurled crowd barriers and other projectiles in running battles with police-- Les Miserables, redux The failure
of my Toshiba laptop in 17 did not directly affect my relationship with Writer’s Market. I was simply forced to miss my billing renewal date because of my hope
for rescue from an over-valued computer technician. The Writer’s Market website
never coded particularly well. Their emails reminding me of auto-renewal were
sporadic, and the renew never took place, perhaps due to the fact that I
purchased 24 month installments with quotidian regularity. I had to manually
renew the use of their directory services, sometimes under the advisement of
customer service through F+W’s 800 number, only to discover, late fall 17, that
the website stopped accepting credit cards. Through necessity, setbacks
mandated other options. I have let sleeping dogs lie, moving on, and Duotrope
has better mastered the art of automated updates for creative writers-- psychologically I still live in the ecumenical adhesion to the newsprint
directories that Writer’s Market and Dustbooks represented, and in fact have
long contemplated a revisionist obituary for one time playwright Len Fulton,
the demi-god of the independent presses which I have ever so reluctantly started
to eschew. I did not mind coming up through them, like a rag time impresario,
but I’ve begun to see, again reluctantly, that literary journals, bloviated as
they are through their college department budgets, are as extraneous as
decentralized independent living centers. My friend Robert Thomas is still
committed to them, because like me, this is how he grew up, what he and I both
were taught about publishing and generating content, and neither he nor I need
directories to canvas and update information as much as we used to, but I spent
a significant amount of time this morning galivanting through Newsweek pages looking
for updated guidelines for freelancers, and this dinosaur brand is also somewhat
diaphanous on the matter. Duotrope doesn’t list the publication due to said
inconsistencies. Automation has definitively changed the landscape, but that
doesn’t mean code itself isn’t a chimera. Twitter is increasingly embedding with
traditional media outlets, but at its core, like Facebook, it is inherently
unstable, wreaks havoc on human physiology. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t
stay adhered to it on a daily basis, and it is absolutely not helping me retain
my grip on journalistic pretensions, even as a counterculture figure. Examples
of that are Charlie Kirk, whom I culled off of Nick Gillespie. I followed Kirk
for a while, and still read his tweets with recurring frequency, but find his
ideological stridency tiring, even parroting. Facts are by and large
contingent, but the retaliatory way in which Kirk uses those facts to defend
the right at all costs is debatable. Candace Owens fares better in my esteem,
but I cannot follow her lead. Old sows like myself aren’t telegenic. I cannot
do podcasts, and if I even attempted it YouTube would have my head on a
platter. If Writer’s Market is foundering, its corporate owners might take a
page from Fee, which folded The Freeman, and cede the field to digital
innovation.
Once
upon a time, I was ready to defend Twitter against Milo. Notanymore. If Minnesota wanted to elect Omar to the House, then Minnesotans can reap what they in turn sow, but the same applies to Laura Loomer. Her fervor makes David Frum look relatively paltry. However, herein truly lie the seeds of our doom. If genocide is a form of political extremism brought about by reactionaries fueled by severe economic stresses, Loomer's post-Twitter insignia is a cosmetic mockery behind which looms Orwellian defeat.
"I knew what it meant. He knew what it meant."-- a eulogy
Michael
Almereyla does more than draw the viewer’s attention to what acting
approximates in the 2017 Majorie Prime. One of his major themes is the price of
the burdens we carry, encased in a rather skeptical presentation of what we
leave behind in the residuals of virtual reality. Senility and suicide present
themselves here beyond being an issue of sociological concern. Both as a
condition, (dementia) and a destructive act overriding survival (corresponding
suicides) Almereyla presents a family stifled and suffocating on itself. Geena
Davis, never entirely impressive as the Vitamin D American girl caught in a
vortex through association, in her A list days, (The Fly, Thelma and Louise), has
mastered the projection of a crabby 60 year old who knows the runaway train is
coming, and sends out her warning signals with a certain degree of fatalism. As
it is present in the pilot of The Exorcist in her solicitation of the priest,
it is present in Majorie Prime in subtler fashion, only in this world Geena’s
character is a troubled mother with an equally problematic mother daughter
relationship. Tim Robbins, as he does in Code 46, carries the onus of being
surly and frustrated vanilla, filling in all these melancholy lacunae until it’s
his turn to linger. Hamm has to project being a lifelike composite of a husband
we never knew, and almost as Spielberg does in his mawkish afterword in A.I.,
Michael leaves us with an open ended question about empathetic software
mimicking the ghost of the human spirit. We aren’t informed as to whether or
not the primes are voluntary, but each character goes through the motions,
rebellious resignation in tow. These moral obligations around virtual memory already
resonate here and now: Google has rules about what happens if payments for the
domain lag, everyone has an opinion about the erasure of Gawker as a
distinctive, now archival, media voice, questions swirling about how Peter Thiel defines his libertarian beliefs against a worrisome, and mighty,
plutocratic streak. Neither longevity nor voluntarily taking one’s own life
appear palatable in Almereyla’s, and by extension, Robert Redford’s vision. To
qualify a previous post, I realize the aging potentate of Barefoot in the Park is probably not micro-managing Sundance Studios,
but I read cues in this project easily attributable to what we know about
Redford’s public person. The column he wrote after Newman’s death stayed with
me, in a particularly masculine no nonsense manner.
If we look at where we are headed, through Almereyla's lens and other dystopian minded thinkers, libertarian outcry, if not defeated outright, is always compromised. Kokesh, the boy soldier idealist, envisions a free market utopia, but still plays cowboys and indians with an apparently zealous authority. Harassing stoners, intimidating militant quadriplegics comes easy; mass murder not so much. Nick Gillespie doesn't know where the total lack of boundary and freedom collide; (little did I realize Nick and I have far too much in common) Austin Petersen is aiming for a synthesis so the establishment can satiate his political ambition. How do we all fit under the same tent? More importantly, personal liberty is elusive, as an empirical matter. I need not remind my viewers that I gave notice hours before my power chair's demise, and if it is in any way binding, I'm still here, constricted. For every Fee contributor celebrating market dynamism, there are 15 to 20 Americans like me and my parental generation shackled to a rather troubled medical entitlement system. I heard Adam chant, "the state will fall," like a Baptist hymn. Eventually, the way things are going, it must, as our ability to enact in a concerted effort to change our paradigms, this is limited. On the small scale, however, government processes are already overwhelmed, not to remind you of Flint Michigan, or San Diego's homeless. I have lived five minutes to midnight for a very long time. There is only so much our inner resources can spare.
I often have to pause my life for a minute — whether that’s driving down the sidewalk, using my laptop, or eating a meal--my alma mater. Whenever a writer prefers to sit around and pontificate, instead of working, it signifies sirens of calamity in the background, which actually aren't that dire: I wrote a response to George Will's rather ingenious attack on Trump's willful ignorance, forced myself to find a conclusion, hit the ground with six hundred words, and no one is happy. I have to retool it for other markets I've looked at, fairly certain of ones that would spit in my face, aware of the timelessness issue, and would like to turn the crusty baseball enthusiast upside his head and shake his premium express credit cards out of his pockets, also aware, that if I take these insider dirty laundry issues too far, I possibly wind up black balled. To a certain extent, I am already there, of course. Josie Byzek may not have closed her twitter account because of how often she is cited in Disability in Entertainment Arts, but it is safe to say, I'll never go home again. All I want to know is why I was frozen out of New Mobility. My feature, with intimations of Damore's fate, was controversial, but Tim Gilmer still included me on his contributors. The fat lady hadn't sung, as yet. By the same token, the periodical is very limited, insular in scope, and of little help to me. The only thing I can force upon the United Spinal Association is trouble, but I have larger behemoths in the scope, hence, I have to live with the rancor, or push a point with no real justifiable outcome, but what I want Josie to see is her rationalizations about ambulatory male ignorance in no way protected me, despite regulatory schematics, from paraprofessional abuse, from section 202's regimented discrimination. Does she like it, being a lesbian, that in the dark net of attendant care, so many helpless to defend themselves become enslaved to predatory control? I cannot shield myself from its likely recurrence forever. This, supposedly, was the point of Precious's author, this nothing we can do attitude, despite all our industrious legal generation. Bambauer cleared up a contextual issue for me, in part, and this is how it works, but not really. Google Blogger should suspend me. Twitter too, and authority should force me into compliance, and I suffer say another eight years, until terminal issue discloses itself, or I can take up my little plan and try beating the odds, or go on, wrangle the system for the joy juice that will not force a lethal reaction. Difficult to do with cerebral palsy.
Drexel University is not that well known to me, but well known enough to be intuited that it's little league academics, a bit spartan, perhaps afflicted with uncertainty, and in the larger societal context, George may have survived employee termination, where Lisa did not, because he was white, angry leftist. In contrast, viewers saw Tucker at war with a paranoid minority in Durden, and echoes of the Black Panthers may have resonated. In real time, these issues are about group dynamics, and less about theory, like claims liberty. This is a contextual issue, our faith in an institutional judiciary. It punished Brandon Phillips, my assaulter, but this did nothing for me. It also pushed back against an unscrupulous landlord, one which thrives on a socialist subsidized federalism, dear libertarian friends, but I live in terror, nonetheless, after years of conflict. Yes, I have a choice: go homeless, bully the same old intake system into emergency relocation, but a real genuine legal fight is probably going to take 24 months. For what? Do I presume more affluence? Support him or not, (I am in the middle, hoping he will hurt progressives who failed me), Trump is a symptom; he is not a proximate cause. Some of my longest online associates have made me diffident because of well worn beatnik cosmetic protests that really cannot unravel poverty entrapment.
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.
"She went after everybody," my dead ex-fiance on why Trudy Richardson's predecessor, Brenda Williams, was terminated. Once a nervous breakdown occurs, however mild it might have been in comparison to that of maternal progenitors, the threat of an escalating relapse is always present, the anxieties of post traumatic stresses more prevalent, the war between pragmaticism and the platform for your byline a harder struggle, as I tossed my Lessig rebuttal, as a speculative all nighter, to Brian Doherty of Reason when I actually had another pitch for him, and the dead bloodhound olfactory nerve linked to my ego is saying leave him alone. At least for a few months. On the other hand-- there is always the other hand, even if one wants a libertarian flag to flutter over virtual skeletal fracture, my bones snapping in creative destruction, my younger sister yelling at me when I said civilly that I know she'd put me away, time permitting, when the time comes; but we did not fight. I simply told her my writing ability was losing to anxiety, and if I was ever to in fact go senile she needed to tell me. "Get out more." With what? The LOTR meet up tolerates me, but none of its members reach out, and while the peripatetic Karina does reach out (maybe she needs an elder female figure too spastic, ever think of that?), the failed private care giver and the troll are on different tranches. Karina isn't a peer, and I really have nothing to talk with her about. Extremes of destitution take their toll on the calcium of bone which has passed the half century mark. The disabled community which follows me online cannot really help me, even if I embraced them more readily, which I do not. Where I am not cruel outright, I am either otherwise cold, or cool, although this particular slice of my audience can take pleasure in the fact that I've taken 20 lashes from think tanks I believe I have a divine right to penetrate. Snorts at self. Get up, keep fighting. I had an argument in my head about why I abandoned My Disability Matters. He and I messaged each other about prospective job proposals, and as usual, the end result was a significantly lower level of expectation. "The site is up, maybe you can write about it." Thanks Dale I know you're blind and have a much more positive attitude, but no thanks. It is analogous to fake news and false hopes.
In relation to the left's latch onto the newest evil, that of digital propaganda, Foucault has a point when he raises his voice about genealogy records being a more trustworthy metric over narratives. Take Gwen Ifill's death. PBS inflated Ifill's video eulogy out of proportion; the Newshour, one of the first pre-cable news shows to air the Watergate hearings, spent an entire week giving Gwen a memorial. It may not have been a concoction, like the pizzeria, secret den of iniquity, but it was a lot of inflated padding, less so in print. Her obituary wasn't truly news, not under the rubric of the right to know. It was an accolade, meaning, in essence, that much media filler is a take, a perspective, basically unnecessary, diluted already by television technology; now it collapses under automation. I'm still enough of a journalist to know how to check my facts, how to investigate and confirm. A public which cannot do the same cannot simply paint Russian hackers as the new red devil.
Even when I earned what might be considered a decent supplement under my former contracts, I was never much for speed writing, and have since developed a tendency to over-dramatize when I fail, since I believe my zeal usually overrides the weaknesses any voice has. Getting your ass kicked by an admirable editorial voice has positive demerits. I'm trying so hard to return to established media platforms I'm killing myself with the effort, in addition to revising my resume and applying for five jobs in succession. I am not in full blown dementia, not yet. It is my landlord's power, feeding my anxiety, and my age makes me rush. I want to remind my viewers that this monster has been my only landlord since I was forced, naturally, to vacate Temple's campus. I ricocheted to my aunt's row home, which was unsustainable. I am sure Marie remembers, which is why she out dramas me. I have seen horrible horrible things under Presby's stewardship, and I'll never stop being pissed off. It may be cheap that I denigrate the current bran-brain that runs Riverside. She cannot fight back, but I never signed up to have management virtually move in with me; at Diamond Park's location, it may have been mildly less pressing, but the violence and destabilization make minority collective stricture, responsibility as a social constraint, rather moot when blacks were killing each other and killing the pets of girlfriends on a cyclic basis. I should not have to evict myself simply to get movement, but this is what it is coming to. For the liberals who want me to mitigate in civil objective speak, I hate Trudy Richardson because she never, ever stops. She is like a cobra. If she cannot humiliate me one way, then she has subordinate Debra Horne threaten me through a terminally ill aunt on Prozac. I cannot keep living here. I cannot, because it will become a self fulfilling prophecy. Please, just please help me leave. I'm begging, anyone. I have no money left to speak of.
I've always been something of a political animal in my work, and surmise now that this should have led me towards a journalistic concentration earlier than it did, but this was the fault of my iconic sensual needs focusing on instructors, culminating in my cleaving to rock star professor, which Jerry would have had directed elsewhere for a considerable sum. It isn't just that I nearly hate the old man now for hormonal intellectual overkill for which I was at fault. He warned me more than once, and I rankle over that as well, that he was astute enough to read my future anguish in the making. We'll never see each other again, he and I, but if we did, even if our aging appearance shocked each other, I'd have to struggle with a violent impulse to rage at him furiously, then to fall at his feet in florid pink stricken grief. He and John Tassoni, I have to admit, have the ability to trigger me to that level of provocation. I've fought it all my life, and in biological dissolution that intensity may lift to expose my vanquished identity, the ultimate facade, as it were, but there it is. Conversely, if McGuire had slept with me, he would have been diminished, perhaps even relegated to stepfather pond scum. This relates to picking up my battlements and returning to pitching. My failure with Jeffrey Tucker's baby led to a small retreat: I did not procrastinate. I researched, and I still fell splat on my face, motivated but bit by digression, unwittingly arguing with Niall. If I had communicated this problem to Jeffrey beforehand I'm not sure my topic could have been saved, but I'm still sulking. I know I've been better than that, but my confidence took a hit; perhaps I'll never recalibrate. I've picked myself up, but cannot fail the next time I get a green light, emerging, but busying myself with literary journal culture which I now find wearisome. Liberals think I'm still with the left when they access my creative output. Hardliners like Toomey mistrust me, and Tony's CFO jumped ship after telling me what a great humanist his boss is, but I do not take Murphy's bailout personally. On the commercial level, I am one of Puzo's soldiers, who will die for her Don, and most women of child rearing age rightly see this as a threat to domestic tranquility. In the right conditions, going down like a good soldier fulfills me because I couldn't find the thunder in the other to live for, and told Erik's passive caretaker, during Indian summer, that I'd break her transsexual's neck, after giving Erik the finger. His nanny was terribly pained; I have not seen Erik or Jimmi or their servile lout Chris since, more overjoyed than remorseful. Resolved to enter a poetry contest at the last minute even though I cannot afford it, then I have to get back on the circuit, and fight to rematriculate. I was not engaging in hyperbole when I tweeted to the President Elect I wanted an appointment to the National Council on Disability. Some of you get payback. Let me add one thing about Tony Stiles. He may or may not understand me, and he and I may not always agree with each other, but my loyalty to the man is unswerving, because he found me and linked to me of his own accord. I prefer radio as my medium, and need a new system, and then would love to hear his show, promote him when he's right. That is as close as I get to fundamental ideology. And if I'm having bodily wound sex with Ken Wahl in my head, to resurrect my full throttle, as long as it doesn't take water in the bow, hey.
The Freeman appears to be a vigorous, softer version of how The New Republic might have evolved, and yes, it was considerate of them to send me a hand written card for my donation. I declined the free book. I'm tired, but I like them and I especially like Tucker's writing. When not in spastic domestic guerrilla war mode, Jeffrey Tucker is a worthy contender to debate, and perhaps one day I will leap the bar. I cannot halt at one prestige byline, and Fee is sort of a squiggly intermediate. I do not agree with all the contributors (who does?) but Jeffrey deserves praise. Don't be shocked; he aims his barbs with wicked pleasure and actually has inspired me to keep pushing, despite my demons, not that it may be enough. I don't want you to think I weep over rejections. I used to keep handwritten tabs, had hot cycles. I'm simply aging, slower, and have more imperatives about legacy, but as Fee's Communications director, Trump has an untapped brain trust he might tap into--and the man knows his Catholic Latin.
"It is easy to kill; harder to be loved!"-- not the Michel Lonsdale of Jackal Why I log on and then drive to the kitchen for a hot coffee at the end of the month is one of those things, an inefficiency of poverty overwhelmed, restraining myself from writing a rather graphic notice to Trudy Richardson, building manager, threatening her safety, not her life. I am attempting to hold off just a week or two more before I crash any last hope on my head. I put Sanchez's Freeman article in my file not as a compliment, but as a store away to argue with later, as I basically disagree with most of it, having read it all before. Bullet points from the Left:
genocide is politically generated
resurgent nationalism leads to suspicion of foreign nationals (how many Chinese Americans are covert agents, we wonder)
war is an invention of modernity (right)
I myself have argued for sympathy for Fascists, nor am I the only secret admirer of Mussolini. Porn stars drop his name to stir the paparazzi, but I am not facetious this morning, sadly. I am a murderer of intent, not of fact, as long as I would not draw it out, and obey my code, a dehumanized survivor who believes that dehumanizing is a necessary psychoanalytic mechanism, and slightly fascinated with Hoover's legacy in aftermath, I did a little digging into the Seberg Cointelpro case. There are a slew of urls on it, and maybe this is worth my time, a little investigating. I do distinctly remember that Hoover had been retired by 79, the year of Seberg's ruled suicide. But what I'd ask the conspiracy minded is what would federal agents have to gain by putting her under that level of duress? She was not the first mediocre actress to push the political spectrum to extremes. Law enforcement makes us all expendable at the street level, particularly black males, but the truly powerful fear soldiers like Kokesh more. Military men like him know the system and speak simply, spitting in chunks. As I am manufactured, I'm more deadly, capable of playing a long game. I am not the least interested in assassinating figureheads, be it de Gaulle or Obama. I want to upend entire regulatory processes and then some. I am also slightly disenchanted with Fee's appreciation of my little donation. I told Jeffrey Tucker I believe in patronage even if I can no longer afford it, and 15 dollars is a pittance to publications fighting for survival. I don't know if I'll try with Jeffrey again. I failed to hold up my end, and as it stands, I'm tapped, not sure I have any ability to capture the attention of kids in their twenties, but I may, and suspect he and I share similar attributes when it comes to shirking accolades.
