The Grande Braderie de Lille attracted 2.5 million visitors-- the BBC, ever reliable vestige of the world order its empire aspired to install
Allow me to preface this by writing that I know beforehand that my participation on collaborative sites like Niume is voluntary: if I want to stop, then stop if I really believe I'm worth more. My real point of contention is that over participation in social media lends itself to dumbing down, not developing signature distinction of voice. This is why I prefer caustic vitriol. The negativity in nasty honesty is a motivating vision, but in the context of a disabled woman in the crowd, my experience on LinkedIn is that a significant number of users were too paranoid to engage, and in my limited attempts to be active in its quasi-academic whizbiz portal, I was intimidated at first, then flagged for relevance, and so we all learn to post next to nothing, unless we're in private groups. I now succeed just fine on LimkedIn by not typing, though my known real world enemies also have CV listings on the network competitor.
Stay offline? Force myself? I make an effort. but it is increasingly difficult to write and pitch and job hunt without search. Plugging in is both lifeline and anathema, a gauze bandage and a frustration. I've relaxed slightly on FB, warily, and fear the administrators in my network will suspend me on twitter, because the need to bite will eventually get the best of me, with profligate necessity, though I want it as a resource, sparing as that may be; but Niume makes me recoil, as if to ball myself in a protective posture from human ordinance. The savant may inhabit the intellect, but it is still an intellect, not a shopping spree in the Lille Flea Market, held in abeyance after the Paris attacks.
The good news, such as I have any, is that I found my coffee essay, finally, weirdly, and I am likely to field 20 rejections over it, by excoriating Frank's ghost, planking it with sentiments about the perils of commodity and retail. The stupid bastard antagonized me, and still I lack the decency to allow the maggots enough time to clear the skeleton of gangrene in its moldy coffin. But I can tell you why this is: Lava Hulk was my lengthiest failed relationship, and I comprehend the retreat to The Altar of The Dead, while I clarify once more. Platforms for organizations have the right not to respond, but I should have the right as well to express my desire for prospective partnership. Content pages increasing lack procedural steps on how to gain access, whether non profit, or independent media.
And I know that I'll never be free/
As long as I'm a ghost you cannot see, Lightfoot's ballad, even if it's too glaringly obvious.
I may have noticed, from my slow and grudging LinkedIn activation, where I've been basically silent, except to tell Tom Earle that I wasn't going to stop fighting the syndicate, which finally relocated again-- they do that-- that Jerry's email was culled by accident for a connect prompt. I had a choice to make in 07 about contacting him at all, and I did it anyway. Life is short, and logarithms have little idea about the follies which stain our souls. I don't want his forgiveness, nor an apologia about my likely matriculation. Others besides Jerry told me I might enjoy teaching, but I'm no longer well enough, and was too frail from the start for students, regardless of their level, though I was a decent tutor. I can't just say, politely, "hi old man, how is Susan?" after I've been wiping his ass and mine off the floor for the last eight years, but nevertheless, seeing his social media account is a needle poke in the balloon. I just logged on to research my strange disjunctive part eulogy for my failure with my ex the deceased Frankie and the failed journalist in me screaming for a coffee article. Since everyone else writes about coffee I want to write about coffee and I've been beating my cranium with a switch for many years, how to sell a damn pitch resting on what everyone else says about the coffee bean, fungus, the crap about the 500 million franchises on the east coast alone? (This is spastic flipping out being civil, and this is the state of my unquenchable anger this morning.) If I do not find a safe way to vacate landlord, I'm dead; fighting a speculative shelter shiv seems tame, comparatively.
"Sandy, God is not a democracy."-- Reverend James Liddell
Television is not very good with science fiction. Paid critics assert this is because the genre is about ideas, so most Americans trade on aesthetic quality to enjoy this camp, this American included, with her taste for junk food, of which the original Outer Limits is representative. The late 90's revamp pushes it however, even if the production values are a significant upgrade on Robert Duvall transforming into an enemy alien. It is obvious that the Vancouver reboot of the series was plagued by budget problems, resheathing other episodes into conspiracy theories. I happen to remember them all, but Final Exam seems to be a virtual transcript for Columbine, and indeed, before I checked my dates, I thought the CBC was scolding its rebel cousin with an extended metaphor about alienated American males. The show aired a year before the Columbine boys acted, however, and though nothing can be proven, if you substitute the fictional cold fusion bomb for Goth and machine guns it comes down to nearly the same event.
I'd rather go out that way than go the route of Ezra Pound's grandiose insanity and death in a Fascist prison, never having forgotten this foot note of the fabled modernist. I lost one of my canvas bags Saturday and strolled out to see if it was perchance on the sidewalk:
Senile transsexual Erik von Schmetterling: "Hi," with its naturally subversive smirk.
Me: "Leave me alone! I hate you and everything you stand for [this on 4/02]."
I rather meant it, though it would be pointless to smash its face in. My ex died, unknown to me, smack on the day I drained my battery transversing University City to visit and do my updates at Joe Coffee. It was a bad day. I did not belong there, and couldn't differentiate their espresso brand from that Starbuck's offers, while Frankie died with near lightning speed in hospital, from end stage renal disease. His full name was Frank Versante. It no longer matters if I write it, sick fat and stupid bastard, skin pitted with blisters, gout. I used to think he was just a simple fuck who misinterpreted a bad sexual experience, but later came to believe he used his stupidity to ambush me into an engagement which made me miserable, and left me disgusted, and yet I feel it, within the layers of my obsidian cooked lava. He's gone.
And on the morning I'm actually posting this, a fierce April squall disturbs my sleep.
"I feel like a visitor to this marriage!"-- Morris Chestnut, bad bluejeans shuffle
I remember the user handle Cambaird from years ago, in a more turbulent space of grievance, which must mean I was a member of Yabberz years ago; I do not believe I was banned, as sometimes I am the one who surfed off from sites in a huff, annoyed by the disruption of trolls who couldn't see that my suffering was of the utmost importance. The differential, between then and now, isn't a cure so much as it is biological erosion mitigates intensity. Linda Dezenski is two years my senior, now chastened under a grant for railroad victims within very specific parameters (though I do not believe she has physically departed from Liberty, as they claim, when I telephone to warn them my battle is coming), and she hit these symptoms of our unraveling before me. Plaque psoriasis is a loss of adhesion, and it resided on her right elbow 15 years ago just as it is now perennial and perhaps a permanent problem on mine. She has the resources yet, on the backs of all those rib cages pierced at the point of her sword, to chase after cosmetic solutions, appeasing vanity's struggle with the clock, while I pour pitchers of water over dander, rolling around in scissor tackled knits, investigating which hot spots I'm going to attempt to huddle in, giving retail outlets money I can ill afford while attempting software downloads over trade-ins, a street roller once removed but for a sheer act of will. An eatery on Commerce Square is closer than Joe's Coffee, while determination vacillates between staying closer to residence, the latter retains more possibilities for a commercial pitch, in that space where entrails haven't evacuated my body cavity.
The mobility medical scene in Unbreakable has a sinister suspense. We stay glued to Jackson, in a suspended animation, in his give and take with Robin Wright, the wife of Bruce Willis, superhero of circumstance. In Not Easily Broken, (2009) the white physical therapist is a contrivance, left to hang like a chad on a Florida voting ballot, in an outrageously maudlin narrative, which conveys, nevertheless, certain truisms about the vindictiveness of black matriarchal dominance. No one should have to mark their closure on their prime of life via hazy recall over computer monitors built like television sets with vacuum tubes, watching a second rate actor who seems custom made to play a lizard in a disguise of the human epidermis.
Now Gustave is spastic's idea of an unbeatable frontrunner, and I may vote next November simply for the sake of using him as a write in, a crocodile too smart to fall for human entrapment and too tough to die. Sounds like a good December marriage proposal too, now that I'm thinking about it, too tired for anything more than facetious flippancy in the moment. All things being relevant, I am on my way to sunken mattress from Sears and Riverside daybed Number One all the way back to 1994. Dear old dad dumped me from Diamond Park-- Trudy Richardson was probably in the public school system learning her exemplary evasive skills-- yes, a back-handed cut, and if black mothers want my advice please lose your taste for this German derivative. Seriously. "Trudy" denotes an airhead silliness in a girl-- and my mother had to come rescue me the next day. I slept in an armchair and couldn't go to work, if this gives my current viewers any indication why I'm so obsessive about moving on.
I intend to be here at Joe's Coffee for the WiFi access early Friday, with my normal apologetic stance for being a hindrance. I don't know how long my upgrades will take and I may use my pouty invalid expression to get special treatment. I will bring hard copy reading, maybe real paper and real pen, weighing how much of my money I'm going to hand over for bribery purposes. I'll tweet to confirm, rather conflicted as to whether I should bifurcate and trade my older kindle in and just keep the Paperwhite (sigh). Ereaders are now essential brain extensions and I cannot live without them. The two I have cost me about five hundred for the pair. Hard to imagine now.
I cannot give up. I will rematriculate. Fuck building managers, and with that trumpet, that is all to which my pretension aspires to this evening.
