Calipers for Endoscopy

spastic_dowager: "I'm going to give you hell."
Brian Sims, state legislator: "I can take it."

Ah, cowardly troll. Puffy face will only get her so far anymore, the contravene of pasty plaque to the brazier definition of eloquence in Jeremy Irons. I did not think of that, but could see Sims doing Irons in a remake of Forster's Maurice. Who would not want to fuck Jeremy Irons in his prime, with that caviler elegance?

Tim Keller took 4 pics of me and his shoe leather boss, and I realized, this yesterday evening, that I no longer count among the human race; it hit me with a callow thud, in Trinity Center. The only people who count are those who pay property taxes. State wards like myself either get killed for non-compliance or remain subservient. I did retail handshakes, and the progressives in public policy didn't realize I wanted to rip his young squeaky cute face off for urging me to go back on Medicaid: "the waiver is gone now with the ADA." I made nice with the Haitian and his co-worker at Dunkin Donuts, since I look like welfare shit. The Haitian jilted me prior to my hire of Karina, but I took his number again-- just in case, and I need packers. My inner voice is screaming "Tony Stiles please save me!" and Tony, well, he is the real thing. I only get this stout palsied body extracted, until the next escalation, the next crisis, and Tony babe, I am giving my notice next week. Marie Varenas will be resurrected, miraculously, so she can come throttle her niece. My father telephones like a chastened penitent and I ignore him; I'm in my 53rd year, always the figurative train wreck, and I've convinced myself of my own rhetoric, utterly convinced I'll manage to survive, though perhaps I secretly relish combat with police brutality, and I truly throbbed for Jeremy Irons, the Merchant Ivy extraordinaire, a footnote in time. David Cronenberg, whose name is almost synonymous with human will extinguished by ravenous appetite which consumes itself, probing cavities. I have deliberately avoided posting about Dead Ringers. This film is one of the few exceptions where my aberrant voice, so marginal, merges with industry critics. Jeremy Irons is so deft, so subtle, you foam at the mouth with natural lubricant, but the actor in his time, in the zenith of his skill, is no more, a retrospective shadow, diffident, not sure why he picked acting. You want to fuck that hauteur. "Presby Homes has perpetrated hate crimes against me." Puffy face pouting red, body flexing eyes welling with tears. Sims is rather attractive and I was mildly aroused. I am going to survive this, right?

Perhaps not. He gave me permission to use the photo. I need a job. Dreamland. . 

More Rainy Glimpses

I was going to frump off, retire with my kindle, weigh making a facetious comment about incorporating a partnership with @PhillyEBooks (waves), but then caught a small, oscillating surge, and decided to have my dining coffee with you. This is my last cup of coffee for the evening, trying to listen to Jeffrey Brown and remember what I want to write at the same time, but I just shut the news off. Listening to ourselves talk on television can fray sensory input as badly as surfing does sometimes. The one thing we all do well, the literate, the less so, the gang banger, Islamic terrorist and or their supporters who utilize rhetoric to radicalize, is talk. Listening is another matter, as is controlling our own narrative. Everyone wants to tell me what to do. Lesbians who I tried to engage with social equality want to tell me who I can, and cannot date, and then slide the therapy tray through the slot in my jail cell; the Presbyterians want to regulate my housekeeping and go back to interpersonal conflicts with attendants. Some people in this building, like my ex, like Erik, are nearly married to the minorities who just barely keep them out of nursing homes, and this is the situation I will find myself in once again very soon, which compels my urgency for a fresh environment. My father's sister too, has earned her rights as a matriarchal dictator, and we spent the afternoon arguing loudly about why I cannot collect my mother's payroll taxes into her Social Security. I can't, this used to be my job, and the qualifying systems are different for the benefits that SSA administers. A slightly known secret is that Italians can hate each other the most, and you may picture me raising my hand in affirmation.

Richie, if you happen to surf by my account on blogger, I love you and your mother and remember what you told me some years ago about leaving her alone. Well, you may consider this my come-uppance. Tua madre is driving me crazy.

When I wrote the first glimpse earlier, in September, I wanted to do something I rarely do in blogging, and talk about my writing, and I wanted to combine this in a more elegant fashion with listening to Jeremy Irons-- Tavis too, as I was interested to note the gravelly interviewer say he hated his voice, and then I lost the thread of what I wanted to do because I was actually defecating dangerously, and thought I was on the verge of a cardiac event. For an unemployed poet-journalist, whose lack of structure creates the boredom and illusion of endless time, battling the urgency of my vulnerability, my actual work suffers egregiously, including the medical article which is a distorted refraction in the cloud of my aging neurons. I did something stupid, or daring, depending on which way you look at it, and purchased a course on Ulysses, and I rather hate Irish literature, although my entire adult life has been built around Jerry, this unfortunate fellow is spastic's interpersonal mythology, and sometimes I hate myself over it. I used to dream that he and John would come to get me, rescue me, resolve things, and in a miracle of biology I would slap John Tassoni violently across his face, like a Joan Crawford, in my own soap opera, and Jerry would say something cutting, sardonic, relieving the tension.

Google crushed this little psychological comfort of mine. I'd flee either man now, literally. I never saw myself on the inside of status culture, like Rowling, but I also did not see myself as a lifelong and doomed ward of the state. We'll pick up on my work another day.

Cosmopolitan Shag

I wrote a number of posts back that Patrick Stewart melts me, and although I have to take Yahoo's carnivalesque banners in limited doses, this because I lived on the site portal at one time, losing not a few dissertations I'll never publish, screaming to Jerry in an unpleasant inner falsetto, "I'm sorry, I cannot complete the terminal arc, the human animal has wasted me, I am sorry." What powers of absolution do I believe this teacher deity holds? I punish myself for the invisible incompletions; he is only a representation of my failure in those early years of cyber and telephone sexual fantasies. I was very popular, due to my imagination, and with much effort, I did hook up, and now the article has led me to the classical heart throb, but those days are finished. I know cougar is the descriptive term du jour for women my age, but I just do not have the will to keep getting stomped on by the men of intelligence I want who don't feel anything for me, and my ex, Frank, he was obedient as long as I was willing to engage on the fictions of his virility, but I did not see the love he said he felt, and had I married him, he'd be in his hospital bed, probably complaining that I make love to the laptop and the cats, but to him, never. It would have been the truth, and we never engaged in intercourse because it would have been physically impossible, and he was impotent due to three, five, underlying conditions that came with his stroke. Stewart is 72, a classical actor who seems to stay smartly in the confines of his range, an ex-wife, children. I am not sure if his Claudius  was subversive or too molded by conceptualizations of the television set. 72, but that projection he was as Jean Luc contained things I had always wanted in a partner: confidence, wry depreciation, a mature masculinity that held bravado within reason, a magnetic rather than pretty attraction. Jeremy Irons shares similar attributes. Could they possibly be cloned, raffled off in a lotto? Do they cope with erectile dysfunction? I am still not ready for prime time, but I have to get out tomorrow, maybe Thursday and Friday, so I have to take care not to push myself too hard.

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.

Assassination Anthropology

I do very poorly when it comes to handling animal illness, and Joey has a spring influenza that leads him to behave just like his mother, a prima donna in a melodramatic death yowl. I can't handle it, and would accept veterinarian doping in these instances. I woke my father up at eleven last night, called the emergency hospital, orating helplessness, contacted Tim too early today, look like I've been thrown off a train, mopping up cat puke, trying to stop Vinnie from scolding his brother into a third world war, and everyone is quiet now, peeing and eating as far as I can tell. I feel like giving my notice and letting this company put me in a home so I can just stop trying altogether, born out of monotony, born out of lack of pleasure, or the hard hymn breaking fuck of Jeremy Irons in The French Lieutenant's Woman. I wonder if Irons always has his thumb on his power switch, so evident in his best work, the dynamic and perfectly cultured man that silences broken bodies and sexual orientation issues. Not over endowed with beef steak, but just hard enough, and just tame enough, that he is an alpha prize. For whatever reason, my clitoris is having an extended hot flash, whining uselessly for A-list sex, but if Josie Byzek has an aura of rancid mayonnaise about her auto-immune ailing body, I myself am like a drowned dudong. All Pacific based hunters do to kill this animal is hold its head beneath the waves, so that it cannot breathe.

I'd kill the hunter, without adjudicating whether it is unfair to condemn the human animal for its opportunistic methods of predation.


The possible contact I was going to investigate knocked on my door yesterday, bearing prunes, which I declined. She is a wash as pertains my piece, but Asian, and I am more kindly disposed toward her, despite my history with the residents here, most of them dead. Much like my own, her hair has that frazzled greying look, and an investigation of e-cig prices made me decide I am better off with aeros. Maybe I'll tune into baseball. Litters to clean. If you wonder if it is really that bad, no, it would not be, if I could salvage some self-respect, if Jeremy Irons thought I was worth seducing.