I left the elist, finally; they are moving to Facebook anyway and now only have Casey's silliness in the absence of my tendency to be disruptive. Casey Abel has a nearly photographic memory of James, but treats his data like a game of trivial pursuit, annoying everyone until the new (2012?) crop of non-academics inveighed.
Sometimes things need to reach a conclusion, however. I haven't been booted by Wapo yet despite their skittishness with any citation of Asian abortion rates, but I am not after acrimony with the grand dame. I started the Bernstein Woodward 4 dollar memoir of Watergate, and cannot see how Nixon would have fundamentally destroyed the republic by becoming dictator; my oversimplification, I suppose.
Showing posts with label henry james society. Show all posts
Showing posts with label henry james society. Show all posts
Friday, January 2, 2015
Monday, May 5, 2014
Inciting Accreditation
"I could have just bought another pair."-- Robert Duvall, attempting to echo what mortality causes us to lose.
It is not Alzheimer's, yet. It is mainly that I rush, and as I asked Robert to remind me, I should have edited my email to Marcia-- and this reflects the net negative of digital lives, trying to beat deadlines, trending topics, not giving ourselves gestation time.
My own sense of alienation enables me to understand it in freaks, or those like Louise, with their particular deformities, and the girl wanted to talk books and aesthetic tastes, so it should not have been that difficult to humor her without my wounds vibrating to a banshee tempo-- but I did not desire this association for myself, on my own terms, and, even if she meant no harm, which she didn't, she disrupted my comfort zone with the other members on the list, and now I feel like nothing more than a disparaging element.
Losing competency when never having had a chance to actualize it in the first place due to physical obstacles and psychic pain, this is a terrifying prospect-- but competency related to what? I meant what I posted about respecting Marcia's analytic ability, but psychoanalytic theory hovers in the realm of discredited mythology, one that preoccupies itself with androgyny in an abstract sense. The actual reality of dealing with a clinically ill transvestite like Erik von Schmetterling imposes a real threat to a psyche, triggers revulsion one can taste, and that I had to struggle with even when I imposed myself on him and Jimmi in their unit, three floors up, or engaging with them in public.
How does theorizing, outside of tangible data related to physics or biology, enable progression? Increasingly attracted to gaunt definitions in masculine figures, I am not trying to parachute in on terminal degree scholars without having earned it. All I wish is to utilize their expertise to accomplish good work before it is too late, because working hard is all I have left.
In their eyes, I am a disruption, annoying, even threatening. But a caged animal is threatening when so many elements go against its ability to thrive, when human sexuality epitomizes itself in liberal doxology as salutary for its own transient virtue, leaving us all rutting like happy pigs. My body never lent itself to those discoveries of paramount pleasures and stimulations. Even those of you who may want to commiserate and suggest gels or orifice beads and other toys of the trade, I would object and indicate there are more important things, a restraint towards a wiser conservation, like the cruel, but necessary culling that took place on the new CW series, the 100. We've lost the virtue of self-sacrifice, yet another reason I disdain homosexual lifestyles.
It is not Alzheimer's, yet. It is mainly that I rush, and as I asked Robert to remind me, I should have edited my email to Marcia-- and this reflects the net negative of digital lives, trying to beat deadlines, trending topics, not giving ourselves gestation time.
My own sense of alienation enables me to understand it in freaks, or those like Louise, with their particular deformities, and the girl wanted to talk books and aesthetic tastes, so it should not have been that difficult to humor her without my wounds vibrating to a banshee tempo-- but I did not desire this association for myself, on my own terms, and, even if she meant no harm, which she didn't, she disrupted my comfort zone with the other members on the list, and now I feel like nothing more than a disparaging element.
Losing competency when never having had a chance to actualize it in the first place due to physical obstacles and psychic pain, this is a terrifying prospect-- but competency related to what? I meant what I posted about respecting Marcia's analytic ability, but psychoanalytic theory hovers in the realm of discredited mythology, one that preoccupies itself with androgyny in an abstract sense. The actual reality of dealing with a clinically ill transvestite like Erik von Schmetterling imposes a real threat to a psyche, triggers revulsion one can taste, and that I had to struggle with even when I imposed myself on him and Jimmi in their unit, three floors up, or engaging with them in public.
How does theorizing, outside of tangible data related to physics or biology, enable progression? Increasingly attracted to gaunt definitions in masculine figures, I am not trying to parachute in on terminal degree scholars without having earned it. All I wish is to utilize their expertise to accomplish good work before it is too late, because working hard is all I have left.
In their eyes, I am a disruption, annoying, even threatening. But a caged animal is threatening when so many elements go against its ability to thrive, when human sexuality epitomizes itself in liberal doxology as salutary for its own transient virtue, leaving us all rutting like happy pigs. My body never lent itself to those discoveries of paramount pleasures and stimulations. Even those of you who may want to commiserate and suggest gels or orifice beads and other toys of the trade, I would object and indicate there are more important things, a restraint towards a wiser conservation, like the cruel, but necessary culling that took place on the new CW series, the 100. We've lost the virtue of self-sacrifice, yet another reason I disdain homosexual lifestyles.
Phillips Head, Stripped
"You have to touch me. On the inside part. And you have to call me my name." -- Beloved, p. 137
It was a surprisingly cool day. Normally, I do not get much fresh air on this back end of the building which faces the Schuykill, and it is pleasant, the need not to scurry after my life long concomitant triggers with animal waste and feline maintenance. Cats. Spend how many ten spots on trinkets for them and they prefer to practice their hunting skills with our Homindaen accouterments: the ear plugs for the Apple, a device whose touchpad interface still has not merited the need to fetishize its convenience, or my endless supply of plastic cigarettes.
This is scant consolation for my frayed relations with the Jamesians, and I bitterly rue my gushing ease of familiarity with Louise. I almost hate her for my flawed ease of intimacy with crippled strangers. I had a major disruption on the list years ago, before Louise lurked on it, (or so I assume, as she would have been very young and perhaps still an undergraduate) when Carrol Cox wrote a controversial article for HJR about the list serv itself. Marcia was still easily conversant with me back then, and explained to me that Carrol Cox flustered a number of her colleagues, not just me. I thought Dr. Cox made a stab in my direction, however. Feeling slighted, I unsubscribed in a huff. Returned later, tail quietly between my legs.
I cannot unsubscribe and re-subscribe as the whim seizes me, but I no longer feel welcomed, encouraged, supported, and this friction began when Louise approached me, unwittingly creating the cripple to cripple affinity, and now I’m pissed off. I liked being the underdog with these scholars, liked the hope that I could one day submit an article, and join their conversation, only to be called upon to be a mentor and good lieutenant for a girl of nascent naiveté who was impacted by the force of my writing. I cannot remember what led to my opening up with her.
Initially, I thanked her for her praise and left it at that. Much like more successful authors, I have enough experience to be wary of admirers (my obsessive clinging to the memory of Jerry McGuire being a case in point). If I thought anything else about it, I speculated incorrectly that Louise was a graduate student who knew nothing about the furious chip on my shoulder. I forgot about it. She approached me again, followed me to LiveJournal, where I have yet to wrap up my account. I made a fatal mistake at that point in the extent of my interaction, allowed her to telephone, posted something facile to the list serv which upset Greg who in turn upset me, post openly about all this, and cannot glue that fellowship over a singular and esoteric appreciation back together.
As a virtual community, small straw that it is to cling to, the list was my haven away from disability and civic strife, and I am pissed. Really, but being pissed doesn’t grant absolution, nor make Greg and I easy again. I had the right to decouple myself from the girl. I have been in a precarious state of living for a long time. More than likely my emotional state will continue to rock under duress. Louise has a federal job, and whatever security goes with that. I have the nightmare of recycled indigence, and whatever her fragility, she has not sustained my abuse. I no longer have the strength or psychic space to carry other disabled people due to my ability to survive hell, and in the same vein, Dr. Ian has the right to cut me loose, for whatever perceived breach. It was a small thing that mattered to me though, belonging and contributing to those appreciative of Jamesian mastery. I’m left at a loss, growling of little consolation.
I will bookmark the idea to one day expand on my displeasure with Toni Morrison's masterpiece. It is still important to be responsible towards the aesthetic dissonances we harbor.
It was a surprisingly cool day. Normally, I do not get much fresh air on this back end of the building which faces the Schuykill, and it is pleasant, the need not to scurry after my life long concomitant triggers with animal waste and feline maintenance. Cats. Spend how many ten spots on trinkets for them and they prefer to practice their hunting skills with our Homindaen accouterments: the ear plugs for the Apple, a device whose touchpad interface still has not merited the need to fetishize its convenience, or my endless supply of plastic cigarettes.
This is scant consolation for my frayed relations with the Jamesians, and I bitterly rue my gushing ease of familiarity with Louise. I almost hate her for my flawed ease of intimacy with crippled strangers. I had a major disruption on the list years ago, before Louise lurked on it, (or so I assume, as she would have been very young and perhaps still an undergraduate) when Carrol Cox wrote a controversial article for HJR about the list serv itself. Marcia was still easily conversant with me back then, and explained to me that Carrol Cox flustered a number of her colleagues, not just me. I thought Dr. Cox made a stab in my direction, however. Feeling slighted, I unsubscribed in a huff. Returned later, tail quietly between my legs.
I cannot unsubscribe and re-subscribe as the whim seizes me, but I no longer feel welcomed, encouraged, supported, and this friction began when Louise approached me, unwittingly creating the cripple to cripple affinity, and now I’m pissed off. I liked being the underdog with these scholars, liked the hope that I could one day submit an article, and join their conversation, only to be called upon to be a mentor and good lieutenant for a girl of nascent naiveté who was impacted by the force of my writing. I cannot remember what led to my opening up with her.
Initially, I thanked her for her praise and left it at that. Much like more successful authors, I have enough experience to be wary of admirers (my obsessive clinging to the memory of Jerry McGuire being a case in point). If I thought anything else about it, I speculated incorrectly that Louise was a graduate student who knew nothing about the furious chip on my shoulder. I forgot about it. She approached me again, followed me to LiveJournal, where I have yet to wrap up my account. I made a fatal mistake at that point in the extent of my interaction, allowed her to telephone, posted something facile to the list serv which upset Greg who in turn upset me, post openly about all this, and cannot glue that fellowship over a singular and esoteric appreciation back together.
As a virtual community, small straw that it is to cling to, the list was my haven away from disability and civic strife, and I am pissed. Really, but being pissed doesn’t grant absolution, nor make Greg and I easy again. I had the right to decouple myself from the girl. I have been in a precarious state of living for a long time. More than likely my emotional state will continue to rock under duress. Louise has a federal job, and whatever security goes with that. I have the nightmare of recycled indigence, and whatever her fragility, she has not sustained my abuse. I no longer have the strength or psychic space to carry other disabled people due to my ability to survive hell, and in the same vein, Dr. Ian has the right to cut me loose, for whatever perceived breach. It was a small thing that mattered to me though, belonging and contributing to those appreciative of Jamesian mastery. I’m left at a loss, growling of little consolation.
I will bookmark the idea to one day expand on my displeasure with Toni Morrison's masterpiece. It is still important to be responsible towards the aesthetic dissonances we harbor.
Friday, March 21, 2014
Tomasi
Increasing soy, legume, and flaxseed consumption can help with estrogen deficiency.
Since a part of me hates them, I have contemplated leaving the list once again. I hate them for being dry tawdry snits. I hate them because even if I kill myself to publish a paper in the Henry James Review nothing I accomplish will make me a colleague. I do not relish being addressed as "my dear," and this set me off to breach their ostentatious restraint; yet my entire Internet life has been defined by disease impaired sometimes courteous Jamesians, even if I hate them more for a disabled identity tagging me even within a virtual community, on the fucking list, whose only tangible cohesion is that group members are centralized and disseminated through Creighton. I'm being unfair and unkind, and the unkindness amounts to this:
I wish the Munchkin had left me alone. More than that. I wish my reticence had not lowered my guard with the girl. I did not want her friendship, and still, I waded in at low tide. It is true I raised my drawbridge later, when I found myself engaging the shared experience plot points, not doing myself any favors with it, but it was foolhardy, allowing this familiarity, after all my years of accrued folly. And let me make a distinction: I am not condemning the *tells* Louise gave me about herself. The brittle bones, my inferences about her social isolation. I am condemning me for getting personal with a fan. She might have been perceptive and had other fine qualities as a reader, but JD Salinger wasn't entirely off key in his exasperation with idol worshipers. The exchange has been consigned to the attic, but I cannot afford to fall into similar traps in the future.
I am not giving up coffee, as I wonder what in L'Wren Scott's financial difficulties was worth hanging herself over. Presume that Jagger was a demigod dick. She had to know that. Her story makes me wonder about those of us who endure, because if it wasn't for the nightmare of my utter failure in the Brotherly Hood, I'd throw in the fucking towel. Annoyed with myself for borrowing Jared Diamond from the Prime lending library. Yes, I can give him back, a public intellectual who doesn't necessarily appeal to me, but Amazon indicated I have to wait a week before I can borrow again.
A small part still loves the James in whom I find solace, and yet asserting myself to say "goodbye Dr. Cox and Greg consider my scolding as a buried axe battle," this means nothing; it is entirely irrelevant. I do not really hate them. Their emblematic genteel lifestyle is beyond the acquisition of my resources. Not that they're wealthy by modern gilded age standards, but they are more secure in economic terms than I'll ever manage in the fewer productive years I've left.
Since a part of me hates them, I have contemplated leaving the list once again. I hate them for being dry tawdry snits. I hate them because even if I kill myself to publish a paper in the Henry James Review nothing I accomplish will make me a colleague. I do not relish being addressed as "my dear," and this set me off to breach their ostentatious restraint; yet my entire Internet life has been defined by disease impaired sometimes courteous Jamesians, even if I hate them more for a disabled identity tagging me even within a virtual community, on the fucking list, whose only tangible cohesion is that group members are centralized and disseminated through Creighton. I'm being unfair and unkind, and the unkindness amounts to this:
I wish the Munchkin had left me alone. More than that. I wish my reticence had not lowered my guard with the girl. I did not want her friendship, and still, I waded in at low tide. It is true I raised my drawbridge later, when I found myself engaging the shared experience plot points, not doing myself any favors with it, but it was foolhardy, allowing this familiarity, after all my years of accrued folly. And let me make a distinction: I am not condemning the *tells* Louise gave me about herself. The brittle bones, my inferences about her social isolation. I am condemning me for getting personal with a fan. She might have been perceptive and had other fine qualities as a reader, but JD Salinger wasn't entirely off key in his exasperation with idol worshipers. The exchange has been consigned to the attic, but I cannot afford to fall into similar traps in the future.
I am not giving up coffee, as I wonder what in L'Wren Scott's financial difficulties was worth hanging herself over. Presume that Jagger was a demigod dick. She had to know that. Her story makes me wonder about those of us who endure, because if it wasn't for the nightmare of my utter failure in the Brotherly Hood, I'd throw in the fucking towel. Annoyed with myself for borrowing Jared Diamond from the Prime lending library. Yes, I can give him back, a public intellectual who doesn't necessarily appeal to me, but Amazon indicated I have to wait a week before I can borrow again.
A small part still loves the James in whom I find solace, and yet asserting myself to say "goodbye Dr. Cox and Greg consider my scolding as a buried axe battle," this means nothing; it is entirely irrelevant. I do not really hate them. Their emblematic genteel lifestyle is beyond the acquisition of my resources. Not that they're wealthy by modern gilded age standards, but they are more secure in economic terms than I'll ever manage in the fewer productive years I've left.
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