"Why should he not kill her?" -- Harold Frederic, digital location 4198
Did I mention paranoia? I cannot even mourn my friendship and admiration for Linda as it once sustained me, because it still relieves me 14 years onward, the thought of her skull fractured in a manner common to such rage induced by psychical injuries. In a coma, or transition to cadaver, she could never run the disability center! And what an investment of sound and fury this is, the popping champagne corks as I replay my last small happiness in the hope she meets an end appropriate to her ethical lapses. My subconscious warned me in a dream of Jewish demonology long before I ever did any research on Lilith, research for the sake of utilizing the film with cock a doodle Warren Beatty. Co workers had warned me years ago, don't idolize her. Chris Dorner, not definite this listing is him but no relation to the Navy Seal ash mummy poster child-- warned me even before I understood what a POP account was. Did I listen? I told Linda about the dream. I knew this was verge of desperation, chatter typing her about a Shirley Temple baby walking back and forth between us (representing infantilism). So much for work related friendship. My non-fiction editors aren't reading my account. Examiner.com doesn't care even if they are reading this account, since it will be long in the tooth before I see a commission reach PayPal. Red-rimmed eyes inflamed, killing myself for pennies.
Are such pennies better than nothing? We were friends, Linda and I; an assertion against Frank, the ex I did not want, who felt she wasn't really my friend. He is correct in that she was willing to make me expendable: I should not have been such a sycophant to her ego. It wasn't working, no matter how imminent my financial catastrophe, and with my disillusionment, she may have calculated she was doing me a painful favor. There was that bond, however, that neither of us acknowledged
I have to believe that; it wasn't simply her dominance at my expense, nor my genetic predisposition toward a volubility learned at mother's knee. What is still so vexing is the realization that she was my last, and I cannot even grieve for it, because I triggered it myself, imploded in rage and fear at the mere hint of sexual experimentation along those lines. Seven years, that is how long it took me to start writing poetry again, because I did not want to discover that I was obliquely troping the torture of lesbians so that militant LBGT activists could snicker at my repressed homo-eroticism. In certain veins this is farcical, that an eight month discussion in email set the stage to destroy the rest of my life. I would not have gotten undressed with the ugly cop bastard living below me if Linda had not made me feel so sexually insecure, and she used my creative writing to do it. Every time I tried to get back up and go back to work after that, the den mother bitches who want to run my life kept knocking me down.
In 2002 wheelchair users lost unlimited Paratransit; in 2006 I suffered abuse at the hands of choice aides, and was injured during the building renovations that the famous regional homosexuals forced on our shared parent company. One of the guards who witnessed an angry argument I had with Erik, *Miss Hanes*, as she calls herself, walks away from her post every time I roll into the lobby. I believe she has a child out of wedlock. I only spoke to her because I wanted to know if ecigs were worth the money.
"I still smoke." So much for bull dykes with batons, but Miss Hanes is one of those. Most of us have had exposure to black hard asses.
Showing posts with label lilith. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lilith. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
Ostler Lone
The cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind. Thomas Paine
Methinks I am as comfortable as I am going to get this afternoon, with this body always in pain and nearly always rank; had something of a near miss with my feminine urinal so you can add caffeine laden piss to that, my continual coffee intake either masking or preventing diabetes. I don't suppose German netizens wish to inform me why they are my most numerous viewers after those in the US? Any recommendations? I am an extraction of Mengele manufacture without benefit of concentration camp assembly. His eugenics legacy lives on, in much the same way that Gene Hackman is always Gene Hackman and yet inhabits his characters, with the possible exception of his supporting role in Lilith, but even there, he was an adept shrub. And it is quite a distinct idiolect, one that not every actor can inhabit, being Buzz Lloyd and yet distinctively Hackman, in simultaneous fashion. Marooned is ruthless in its imprint of the American global ascent, and I'd in fact argue it is almost as post modern as this guy's work. It is a film without pretense despite a multi-layered contrivance, powerful for those of us who actually lived through the aspirations of the Apollo missions, as I did. Gregory Peck insinuating suicide to Richard Crenna and getting away with it for the utilitarian good of NASA? This is the decade that was covert about my mother's suicide attempts, a woman who should have been institutionalized, and wasn't. Before she died she told me that, my mother: Had Pauline and Louis her father committed her she would have gotten worse. Not for me to speculate, but her children would not have suffered Stuart Lone, who remains on my hit list (and that my former supervisor ranks nearly in parity to this stepfather, in this exclusive club, tells you how seriously I take her criminality), finger fuck step father who attempted to rape a nine year old girl and made me sick on Jack Daniels so he could violate me. Let Blogger ban me for being desirous of his murder. Monster. Filth. I shall not forgive. I cannot, not for the suffering he inflicted on me, on my sister, now estranged.
This is the reason this series is making me uneasy. Not that I don't *get it,* of course I do. Malevolence can be as methodical as police investigations for the greater good. Prior bad acts can lead us one way or another, but it is still a difficult show, symptomatic of our national ailment, and it doesn't have to be that graphic not to make me want to vomit at its implications.
There is a brief description toward the end of Cormac's nuke porn where diarrhea is dribbling down the father's pant leg, a mortality signature signifying the price this man paid to keep his boy alive. This was my mother's second husband, jigging around on a heroin crash with shit spilling out of his crack, seeping into his denim. The Presbyterians browbeat me for 28 years after on the sentiment that cleanliness, divinely guided, is curative towards the scars of such trauma. Personally, seeing the backend of my domestic malfeasance in blackface only accentuates my despair of humanity. You no doubt see this as narcissistic, but this is how I'm feeling today, arthritis easing momentarily.
Methinks I am as comfortable as I am going to get this afternoon, with this body always in pain and nearly always rank; had something of a near miss with my feminine urinal so you can add caffeine laden piss to that, my continual coffee intake either masking or preventing diabetes. I don't suppose German netizens wish to inform me why they are my most numerous viewers after those in the US? Any recommendations? I am an extraction of Mengele manufacture without benefit of concentration camp assembly. His eugenics legacy lives on, in much the same way that Gene Hackman is always Gene Hackman and yet inhabits his characters, with the possible exception of his supporting role in Lilith, but even there, he was an adept shrub. And it is quite a distinct idiolect, one that not every actor can inhabit, being Buzz Lloyd and yet distinctively Hackman, in simultaneous fashion. Marooned is ruthless in its imprint of the American global ascent, and I'd in fact argue it is almost as post modern as this guy's work. It is a film without pretense despite a multi-layered contrivance, powerful for those of us who actually lived through the aspirations of the Apollo missions, as I did. Gregory Peck insinuating suicide to Richard Crenna and getting away with it for the utilitarian good of NASA? This is the decade that was covert about my mother's suicide attempts, a woman who should have been institutionalized, and wasn't. Before she died she told me that, my mother: Had Pauline and Louis her father committed her she would have gotten worse. Not for me to speculate, but her children would not have suffered Stuart Lone, who remains on my hit list (and that my former supervisor ranks nearly in parity to this stepfather, in this exclusive club, tells you how seriously I take her criminality), finger fuck step father who attempted to rape a nine year old girl and made me sick on Jack Daniels so he could violate me. Let Blogger ban me for being desirous of his murder. Monster. Filth. I shall not forgive. I cannot, not for the suffering he inflicted on me, on my sister, now estranged.
This is the reason this series is making me uneasy. Not that I don't *get it,* of course I do. Malevolence can be as methodical as police investigations for the greater good. Prior bad acts can lead us one way or another, but it is still a difficult show, symptomatic of our national ailment, and it doesn't have to be that graphic not to make me want to vomit at its implications.
There is a brief description toward the end of Cormac's nuke porn where diarrhea is dribbling down the father's pant leg, a mortality signature signifying the price this man paid to keep his boy alive. This was my mother's second husband, jigging around on a heroin crash with shit spilling out of his crack, seeping into his denim. The Presbyterians browbeat me for 28 years after on the sentiment that cleanliness, divinely guided, is curative towards the scars of such trauma. Personally, seeing the backend of my domestic malfeasance in blackface only accentuates my despair of humanity. You no doubt see this as narcissistic, but this is how I'm feeling today, arthritis easing momentarily.
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