Polar Vortex

All the texts I really want access to cost a great deal of money. Google Books and other scan technologies may be pressuring copyright law, but it does not answer the issues related to epistemology and equity, this she says researching a commodities article idea only vaguely formed in the direction of "do something on coconuts," borrowing from Time correspondents, in other words, sort of but not really. How would you define fair trade?

Farmers in the golden triangle should be able to prosper, but I think I want to examine or ridicule retail rather than scurry out to Asia to help life long sexual abuse victims. My old mentor, you remember him, right? Before I contacted him in 07, not wanting to because I knew I'd get emotional, I found a page of his poetry similar to what he used to workshop, fragmenting the battered female. I liked those pieces better than I like Vulgar Exhibitions. Sorry Jerry. Compassion, shame, it is all out the window at this point, and more than likely I did not want to sleep with you, but transferred my stepfather's abuse onto you. Ah ha. Key in the lock and it doesn't matter, does it?

We're all dead, I consider myself a bloody failure, you settled in a Louisiana swamp. I am one of those women in your stanzas, however, slumped over the toilet seat, not tripping only by virtue of the fact I am not street wise in these fevered cycles. A man of great foresight you were. I cannot tell you to go fuck yourself, as you advised me not to run back to the city, and it was never entirely rational, what I thought I needed from you, or my suave history teacher whom I never named. If I had married a fellow like either of you, would I have been happy? Remember what you did not want to say when I wrote the anagram poem of my name by mistake, flushing my identity down the sewer? 

"It's it's--" his hyper Irish voice trailed off, unable to look too closely at my vision of my own self-image. 

Curse of Sinn Fein

Perhaps my coconut milk curdled, but suffice to say I cannot attend to group this afternoon. Used to a troubled bowel as I am, the virulence of this attack frightened me to the point that if I want to return to Italy to die, I'd better start focusing on getting that done. I'd dive into racism in the 21st century, but should wait to see if I have gone viral in the tradition of an influenza.

It is official: I am sick beyond the normal parameters of COPD, and over-utilizing blu and its glycerin atomizers may have contributed. Again, I cannot work, again.

But since I cannot find the post I am looking for, and what else is new, let me make some slight observation about attuning our addictive propensities to alternate and digital technologies: these and these each have strengths and weaknesses. Aero is simple and portable and can be taken anywhere, but does not last long and generates pressure on the need to recycle. The electronic version is stronger and closer to the stabilization of tobacco, but binds the user to the grid with greater necessity, and I am not entirely sure this is much better than the rise of the tobacco industry, though its torturous fall is a utilitarian virtue for public health. As Aaron Eckart in his didactic mode illustrates, however, many of our modern conveniences have pitfalls.

And I am unsure what the left thinks it will achieve in the attempt to regulate vice and negative behaviors out of existence.

A Glimpse Through the Window

"You are not evil!"
--Erik von Schmetterling, six weeks ago when I told him I'd purchase his cigarette brand for the sake of old times...

I should be in bed, as my symptoms possibly invoke wariness, suppositions about typhoid fever; instead, I swallowed a small bowl of paneer, hoping to keep it in, and sent my latest sallow memoir of dead fat bipolar mother out dancing on the ether, a twirling plate on a stick, whoosh, off to a contest of a publication which never impressed me. When I reflect on Marcel, and assert that I am darker than you know, I am not merely hinting at my mafia in Hollywood bloodlust toward the Philadelphia activists of whom you are weary of reading any more about, I mean as well that I have secrets of the type that cost Henry Miller some blood and guts. I am not quite quite willing to be so embarrassed in a blogger account as Miller is in his writing, but as I physically weaken I risk greater severity of my triggers, and must head toward my mattress, nodding off, drinking Pepto; whether with this post lengthened later, or a new one to leap the frog, we will trot on hopefully not in so many hours between then and now. My hungriest wish, if not my greatest, is to get laid by a man like Jeremy Irons, just once, dosing myself with necessary pain killers. Why couldn't I have been more attractive, less plagued by mammary cysts?

It is Jeremy's appearance on Tavis Smiley that I want to enter into, but damn illness snuffed out the appreciation. One is drawn to the man's intelligence, not just the physique. At the moment I need to discover whether or not I can absorb nutrition.

I have bran in there, rumbling as I revise, so hoorah; lets elision back. To listen to Jeremy speak is to learn anew how status can command silence, but I heard a subtext within the promotional chatter for his latest appearance on screen, this review of which does not deter curiosity. I heard, juxtaposed against the grounding that Tavis seems to fluster in, a certain lack of sincerity. Not that Irons was lying. Perhaps at this stage of his life, maybe plagued by ennui, wondering if he should have done something else, been an entrepreneur; there was also the usual plaint of the famous about fame itself, though I think the disadvantaged would trade on this curse in an instant, and not simply on the merits of affluence. Status confers privilege, and an indirect if not actual power. All those with name recognition should be more mindful of this, even if they would like us to understand the flip side of the coin. I may never fully cement my reputation, for instance, but if I surprise myself and wind up in a dilemma similar to Rowling, notoriety would be the least of my worries, regardless of my audience.

Dead Ringers bowed me over with indelible impressions as a Reagan era hit, part of the reason I have remained fixated on Irons in his season, but only part. Now back to the conclusion of The Ring Cycle, after which, I shall swear off opera viewing on a flat screen for the rest of my life. The sensationalism on which the Met banks smells like twilight to me.