Mayday

It's four o'clock in the morning, damn it.-- Bernie Taupin

I have a post in draft I wish to finish about Leonard Cohen's signature lyric, but I am juggling so many issues, along with events tied to them, that I merely stopped by to make a pout, wishing my twitter accounts could ideally stay stable more than a week, with yet another block for reasons unknown. The fact that I drive a very hard bargain, not all the time, but when I do, doesn't mean I am always right to do so, but it also doesn't mean I can change my spots simply because I've never been happy before and now I am happy because someone I desire desires me. I never had that people, odd as it may seem, and as I reiterate constantly, I'm near the end of my life and would say I don't appreciate divine humor on that score-- I know too, that being wanted doesn't change I have a lot of shit thrown at me and a lot of shit to repair, which doesn't make sense if read literally. My fiances are now even more strained, and after Monday, the seventh, I have to rebuild a resume, make a do or die effort to unlock crucial Office 7 files into my Word upgrade, and get back to work, however clumsy my pitching may be. I do not have a relationship with my mother's brother, my godfather, but he rushed my new power chair, and maybe extended me some further small wedge of freedom. We can never quite discount personal connections, or loyalties which we value, but scouts honor I'll get the fuck off my non- existent but anticipated resumption of my sex life, sucking all the oxygen out of my discipline and energy. Bad girl, and it's nearly three am.

Learning By Obituary

'and love is not a victory march"--Leonard Cohen

Let me give erstwhile Britonian Andrew Sullivan his due: When he was still blogging The Dish, he defended Brendan Eich and his donation on Proposition 8, and that was courageous, and the right thing to do, as people need the right to be wrong, and at the time, I concurred with Sullivan's reasoning. Eich did not publicize his views, did not create hostile environments for homosexuals, and leftist hysteria, as it has been embodied in the criticism of #MeToo, apparently wants us all to blossom into pretty pastels and cat pics rivaling India's population, and Voila, Mary had a little lamb, we all live happily ever after in a glass globe pastoral; being a more sincere apostate in his Catholic faith than I, he also introduced me to Gerard Manley Hopkins, when he was having a bad week with his lungs, led me further afield on David Foster Wallace's painful suicide, and on the preponderance of that alone, aside from his playful screen shot of Amtrak which wasn't meant to marginalize, my antagonism is deplorable. I lost a voice I ceased to respect, no real reason other than anathema for speculative anal penetration, and his destruction of marriage as a sacrament. This is the crux of queer genius. What Proust did for literature, what James did for the novel, what Foucault brought to the table about state control of physical bodies, are invaluable contributions. I know all this, but progressives, by the same token, are actually destroying personal liberty, not expanding it. What's happening on campuses today makes the destruction of Huckleberry Finn look like a table ornament, never mind that Twain worked seven years to perfect his Mississippi dialect, that an African slave is the moral center of the book. We've turned a mere word, nigger, into a form of capital punishment. And I refuse to feel guilty. The black women who run this building deserved what I did to denigrate them, as I have never been allowed, that's right, to be a fully fledged woman who could fulfill her potential. I tried devotion, and all I did in full throttle melancholy youth prior to meeting Jerry was negotiate with Christ, this manifestation of the Father, negotiate and accuse. Why did you allow this to happen to me? Give me a man. Like I want to return to that, playing fiddlesticks, touching among an interior ferocity to be a warrior for God. Priests excommunicate what I represent, even the Argentine, with his gaffes befuddling the flock. I treat His Holiness with respect on twitter, but personally feel he does Catholicism no favors. Of course hell exists, even for atheists who rebel in an unreasoned emotional intensity. Faith carries too high a price, for me, too much sacrifice, and yet, my indifference to homosexual advocacy for itself has been vanquished against the realization that humanity is inexorably unraveling what humanity means. Milo says, if we want to upgrade his rhetoric a notch, that we need new shields, after a fashion. We'll probably get them, as the sanctity of what marriage means, spiritually, is analogous to turning Leonard Cohen's classical lyric into a televised spectacle, sugar coated by a little girl so carefully imitating adult maturity.

I did my research, after the fact. Cohen, as an incongruous Canadian, employing American tropes in modulated Canadian fashion, only came to light for me after his death in 2016. I had no idea Hallelujah was a celebrated classic, a challenge grasped by many vocalists. I wouldn't have thought he could put the challenge of faith in such bold, clever terms, even as I near the end of my life. I am no longer a good human being, not beneath, whatever I fail to read in the crystal of my imagination, I thoroughly believe in limits, and in that for which the Inquisition stood. Sullivan, I doubt, will never realize the backlash of his legacy, and damned himself without anyone's help, but he has sinned in a quite febrile sense, against transcendent majesty of grace. My sin is knowing what I'd do to him for that, if you care to pray for any scalded soul.

Canadian Pineapple

And love is not a victory march. --Leonard Cohen

Even if I did an about face and eradicated every anti-homosexual remark from this account, and had never experienced what the butch league had subjected me to, k.d. lang would make me lunge with disgust, wretch on my own bile. I could try pity beneath the strength of that revulsion, and do feel slight traces for what feels like a putrid masculinity on the compact bullish solidarity of her physique, but in her mouth Cohen's mildly disillusioned  struggle and celebration of faith, as it is tied together through the humility and majesty of love, is a sacrilege. What is she trying to prove by appropriating how divine sentiment reveals itself to those who fight for their faith? I have other concerns at the moment, but if Trump could be tongue in cheek with gun owners about Hillary Clinton, then I find scope mounts an appeasing temptation. Get out of Christianity if you cannot accept what was revealed as an abominable offense before the very God Cohen wrestles in celebration.