The Eight Ball Visor

Wer wird ein Kind so zeigen, wie es ist? Wer wird es in seiner Konstellation platzieren, mit einem gewissen Abstand in der Hand?-- Google's synthesis of Rilke, from English and back again

In all fairness to Mr. Dorsey, who looks appalling to anyone's sartorial sense of public presentation, be it New Yorker correspondents or TED enthusiasts, almost as if he's channeling Tommy Lee Jones as Gary Gilmore fresh out of Woodstock:
  
No one arbitrarily anointed him, Ev Williams and his now streamlined Medium, or the others faithful to coding, including Donald Hicks (who certainly looks the part of a queer Iranian's dance partner), to be defenders of the First Amendment, which no longer exists, other than as concept devoid of access. If I was as much of a fiend as I purport to be, I would have weaponized myself against Yashar Ali, gaining significant insight, of a sudden, as to why his family are dissidents from the Islamic Republic in Tehran. Instead I took a break, revisiting the stark comfort of Styron's voice in Sophie's Choice. But for accidents of geography, I might have conceivably matched Styron in aesthetic temperament, despite my sympathies for the feudal caste system Robert E Lee struggled valiantly to save. Styron is to the left of that, undoubtedly, having the grace to host another canonical voice which yet eludes me, James Baldwin, but heaven forbid teaching any of this to the indignant nigger with his high functioning mood disorder who has tended to your besieged buttocks for the past year. If it makes progressives any easier with the ever burgeoning unease of my extreme prejudice, it mortifies me more that I almost fucked a black man who might have been my client at Matrix. This is the graver ethical lapse, one I'm almost ready to cut the cord with, even with the knowledge that I am trapped, Waiver services the maelstrom sucking me under.
Styron did not appear to be happy with liberalism towards the end of his life, radiating that comforting bleakness softly from him on his last appearance on Charlie Rose, betraying that he did not want to die horribly crippled, a slip in manner both he and Rose quickly corrected. What would he have made of the fact that I hold Llhan Omar to be an enemy of state? Reconstituting Nazism for his own lack of species optimism is one thing, a naturalized Somali bigot in the halls of Congress? This may have eluded the grasp of his privilege.
LLhan may say what she likes about Israel. I have certainly explored secular liberalism with my own diffidence, but she has not earned the right to be a federal official in any capacity, has barely earned the privilege of being a citizen. Whether or not she manages to get assassinated, I certainly have the temerity to see how enervating her political success is to the health of our body politic, stripped as I am of Trump's moral cowardice. If my pet monkey from Jewish Employment  Vocational Services Home Care Wing wasn't browbeating me to death for forty hours a week, I'd fly to Minneapolis and launch a ruthless investigation into Omar's electoral success, willing to place myself in mortal jeopardy to do so. I cannot change anything about my Medicaid service in this Commonwealth, even with my delightful Twitter stalker on my heels, a speculative stalker, offering to place himself at my service. It was never what I required, and any additional support will come far too late in my disaffection.

Tommaso Landolfi's Amityville Horror

Ovviamente non poteva aspettare di liberarmi di me-- Tommaso Landolfi, An Autumn Story; p38

Occasionally, Hollywood will toss supporting actors like William Katt a bone, give them a lead in relatively superficial dramas like Steve Milner's House (1985), then repeat the formula ad nauseam for sequel syndication. A quasi-novella length idea of mine was closer to what happens to Doris Lessing as narrator in The Memoirs of a Survivor, where Western civilized world order is peeled away towards a tribal, and ferocious, transhumanism, if that resonates with any familiarity. On psychologically stressful days, Doris Lessing's rather inimitable parable frightens me, in our post-911 world, and Landolfi is somewhere in
between the poles of a two dimensional commercial product and Lessing's obfuscating, ambiguous, sinister novel. 

My tale never moved beyond 15 pages. It was about a daughter with a bisexual best friend who returns home to find the walls somewhat pliable, organic, and it was left unfinished during the time I was crushing on John Tassoni. I am having a devil of a time about removing or leaving him on my Facebook stream, primarily because I am in the preliminary stages of actively dying, and the paraprofessional tending to my stressed spastic body really didn't understand what he was restoring to my life. I don't love John anymore, and I'm not sure I even like him. Before I admitted my first love to him, cowardly, lying across from him on opposite bunk beds, perhaps we amused each other, and then in 85 I fled the home where he visited me. Be kind to the cripple. The home I link to is about our 3rd suburban house after my parents divorced, where I grew into a naive collegiate. You don't hold onto these memories when wellness flumes out of your intestines, no, what you cling to is the power of access to a celebrity like James Woods. I wanted to say goodbye to him, even if I had to do it through Kristen Bauguess, if she's still his fiance to be. From reporting I've scanned, Twitter will be deleting Woods' account permanently for non compliance. I don't care how hypocritical the left paints him due to his trophy dating, he kept my spirits lifted. Then again, why should Jack Dorsey give a fuck about the end of a torrent quadriplegic's life.

Before Dishonor

Presumably, ABC hopes to hold its audience for A Million Little Things with a certain degree of incompatibility between Ron Livingston's upbeat attitude juxtaposed against his character Jon's decision to act, and throw himself off a balcony: was it due to realtor graft, his wife's affair? Oh yummy, but let's do the conscientious thing and offer the audience a public service announcement for suicide prevention. I have little objection to Yvonne Villarreal raising the issue of "romanticizing" the character. She is on target, at least from the perspective of the issues surrounding the ensemble and their collective affect. Rescuing Roday from his third rate mediocrity on psych was a mistake, whether or not asininity is an effective mechanism for levity. I simply fail to see how making a purportedly mature drama about the tincture of despair ameliorates what is now a national crisis. There are no captures here of modern medical barbarity like Inglis House, or losing function. NBC's Reverie may not be Black Mirror, but it at least had the courage to touch upon centralization and its cruelty as the very last business model we'll willingly forego as we stampede toward the end of history. 

I am sorry I've been so long away. I shall address it in a bit. Many issues are distressing me, not the least of which is Jack Dorsey's herd mentality, on top of my personal situation and the horrendous need to readjust. I miss James Woods' voice on :TwitterVerse, and that investment is the least of my problems.

Affirmation of Police Brutality in This Evening's Pilot

As a service provider, Niume is certainly entitled to be what it is. My bafflement comes into play wondering why they would have followed this voice of caustic bitumen for so long, and then expect me to play nice in their digital sandbox. If they wish to mitigate isolation and my combative failure with 21 years of exile from a meaningful career, it is a bit late. If I don't like them then leave them alone, common sense would counsel, and I mostly intend to because of one thing: the majority of their posters are boring. I am nearly driven to tears by the poor writing skills I see in so many posts, and rather prefer the dynamic world of IRS agents destroying my father, stripping my sister and I of our estate, or libertarian defiance of the FTC, Homeland Security, and FBI agents shooting Oregon separatists who did not want to go to prison for freeloading. neither Craig Brittain nor Tony Stiles asked for my friendship. I offered it to Tony freely, when he was active on social media, and he shall always have it, if I can ever do anything for him. Craig is different. His tweets entertained me, and Jack Dorsey took that away, and so I am in Craig's corner, regardless of my digital stoop debate with Adam Steinbaugh over the last two days. I do not watch Cozi all that often, but they were clever to revive stoop talk. This was the urban practice of the northeast, circa 59 through 1968, and I paid attention when Cozi interviewed the disgraced Eliot Spitzer on the stoop. This is the one thing native Philadelphians have that you do not understand. John Goodman understands it, ditto Steve Miller twice, and Adam. Philly loiters, and pretty much governs itself, regardless of City Hall, and what belches out of career municipal executives, on the stoop, and Donald Trump brought me closer to his bizarre tirades when he gave that black reporter as good as she got. She started it, and in the post Obama era, why does the Congressional Black Caucus still exist?

Vecchio's Bended Knee

What child is this, who, laid to rest,
On Mary's lap lay sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet,
While shepherds watch are keeping?-- the classic carol

Jack Dorsey is the boy man who lucked out and got the coolest bubble gum machine we fantasized about as children, but the standard terms of service bulletin does not abrogate moral responsibility, nor does it resolve the issue of what to do with fanaticism in the context of social networks. I know something about hate, real vitriolic hate of the type which led Poets & Writers to suspend me before bitterness and betrayed trust extended to hating my former homosexual associates, one of whom was a real friend, if not the best one for me, before my tolerance ruptured into corrosion, before I really got hurt, physically and mentally, and experienced black racism which liberals hastily deny exists, but I know enough to know we are not going to kill ourselves back to the age of Exodus, and I have restrained myself from my worst caustic excesses, for selfish reasons as well. I care about my legacy. Members of al-Shabab need to realize they are already corrupted, if they are using twitter to heighten the profile of this fantasy Caliphate they believe they can impose on Northern Africa.

I weep for our dead, but also for the fact that I am the oracle of a history very few are willing to respect. I lived the Kent State massacre, lived it, and like the rest of the country, was horrified that a state national guard could kill university students simply for protesting our military aggression bent on dousing Asian nationalism. I've read that Google hates being the arbiter of first amendment rights; I get it. Dorsey imitates the model, a convenient preclusion of conscience. Tears can now resume streaking my face.