More of the Earlier Bryan Fuller

"You better mean it!" the widow Chaz to Charlie Rose

How Dead Like Me wound up in "the MGM library," to quote Comet's response to me on a related matter, is probably as much a mystery as the weird rules Fuller makes up in his head, but the dowager can see why the series made a splash, and I certainly identify with Muth's acerbic disillusioned puss as she comes of age in that space between the temporal and beyond. I could watch this series a long time and live in it, and see how it  illustrates. Fuller succeeds in the industry because he takes the worst of human nature and redeems it. Whereas I just drive the forces of the Furies, looking for the next Big Bang, young or old, I've always been the same, evading the exterminator, living a flea bag life, watching my effusiveness harden liked glazed sap bled on bark off a bore hole. I have changed, disillusioned myself, not with literary ambition so much, as questioning its utility. What does an anti-hero like Hannibal offer us, after all? Irony aside, we couldn't function if celebration of psychopathy became normal, however vicariously liberating such visionary mechanisms appear to be. The majority of of live droll little lives, our guts and arthritis overtaking us, pests like moths and roaches and mice an embarrassment to be battled, wondering if billionaires ever have these problems. Doubtlessly Thiel would be horrified by what my quadriplegic incontinent living does to carpets and furnishings, though no coils have broken through the mattress yet. I am disheartened by all the revising I have to do with this account, not so much worried about my viciousness as my tendency to obscure correspondences in my earlier posts.

Have to repair it, and sometimes want to kick it to the curb. I am not going to live long enough to go in search of my own lost time and Proustian perfect captures of weaving his memory into a mature authorial voice. Putting a note on my door (for the custodians) that I'm unstable due to end of summer humidity might be the truth, but it only delays the inevitable condemnation: I was never good enough, not to sustain relationships, certainly not to create a family. I sucked myself into an 811 box in North Philly, finished my harsh urban life at Temple University, and then sank in amber, like an autonomic gangrene representation out of a French director's Dadaist nightmare, here thinking of one of Ebert's clips, probably buried on his website. Even he didn't know what to make of this film. The actors looked putrid while riding a bus. That was probably a distinctive vision of the modern condition, but again, the bodies of the dead turning into maggot consumption don't engage us. My sister said I could not see the full view of our dead mother in 2005. I raised a meek objection toward a closed casket service.

Unlike George, I do not learn from mea culpas thrown my way. I just say give me a fucking Uzi. I am cognizant that giving Presby and its Riverside Negro Womens' League my notice, keeping my fiery denigration of management to a minimum, probably spells my doom, but this year, I mean what I say, and though I am stalling, I do intend to abandon my secure, if miserable, routine, under the banner of a so called "Inspired Life". The tenants in 202 are expendable, diseased, ill, unbalanced, stupid, damaged, failures. I have a piece of white trash named Rich eating out of my hand because I am kind to him. His entitlement is managed by a representative payee because he is a gambling crackpot. The former advocate in me is only a facsimile of decency in dealing with him, and this coldness in me, judging this happy broken piece of voluble shit on his phone as worthless, is roughly the truest literary vision I can offer, and I am just a dirty post-menopausal cripple running her last energies on acrid coffee, about to break the piggy bank, facing threats more mundane than flaming space debris.  

Karma Buried in Nepal

"This is how the legal system works, so you work within it."-- Marlo Thomas

"We have a few steps."-- Good Karma Cafe

Now that I can join Nick Denton in the legal threats department for the deliberate use of an appalling analogy, and possibly join a Temple University professor with whom I studied Faulkner in earning an FBI file, but what can they threaten me with when my landlord utilized the Department of Health and Human services to suggest Inglis House? Regardless of how pretty the Inglis site looks to the eye, it is comparable to a minimum security prison: I may not have been a troubleshooter there for the better part of two decades, but the facility is the equivalent of an equally minimum security insane asylum, and whatever the sin of spiraling hell, I'm not going, and thus have a constant fingertip on my pulse, but even in small things, my engagement with the literary community has been a whirlwind of bravado as heady as crash landing in Tibet: hauling two flights of stairs in Robin's Book Store to read for the enigmatic Grecian lesbian who was Alexandra Grilikhes. Our association, never fully contextualized, was predicated on a degree of willful blindness. I pretended not to heed the homosexual sirens flashing in my Freudian id, and she pretended I wasn't a disruptive jackass who fit right in with University of Pennsylvania's ratified Ivy League sentiments. There was also my brazen five hour train ride to Pittsburgh, in my wee little manual chair. Immortal words to Harry Calhoun when the car opened at the station, "I have to pee!" He has a small penis, such kind observations after a 72 hour holiday of insanity, inclusive of the lovable loathsome Louis McKee. We talked all the time, Lou and I, me turning green after he won a grant.

Now I have to make do with the minute slights of parking my chafed tail bone outside of ad hoc neo-beatnik locales. What I am trying to say is I'm totally with the psychology of moving on; I'm doing my damnest, but the cyanide capsule of the ADAPT pathology which is Riverside Presbyterian's unique variation of human trafficking is the Battle of Somme on my soul. Erik von Schmetterling's day attendant did not engage in toxic behavior toward me once, or twice, it was persistent, continual, for nearly 8 months; then I challenged him and he threatened, denigrated me, and yes, after everything I've written here about victimization clinging to my flesh like a Zika infection, I am throwing down the gauntlet, unable, like you, to casually barhop in the best areas. If I could stick a pin in a map, if I could get there, I'd be gone by the end of next week, hitching my battery charger to Nebraska if I thought I had the wherewithal.

Stymied

Few of Joyce's books appear on the Irish school curriculum. His play "Exiles" has not been performed in Dublin for many years. His poetry is almost unknown in his homeland, and "Ulysses" is widely regarded in Ireland as an impenetrable and pretentious folly (which, in parts, it magnificently is). Joseph O'Conner for WSJ


The Hill County Farms case illustrates the loathsome underbelly of the American welfare state, that small pockets of our country are no better than dangerously disintegrated communities in Somalia. I do not care what your politics are. I do not care if I have raised more than a few eyebrows with the depth of my internalized scars. I do not care if Angelina Jolie forms a Tinseltown Exploratory Committee and wins all 50 states in a landslide in 2016, this horrifying instance of slavery is why I hate you, why, if you are of African ancestry and I have hurt your feelings, you have nothing to say to me, and why if you are a homosexual, I'd wire your mouth shut sooner than pay you a farthing in respect, and why, if you are white and suburban with your two children, what these men had to suffer is the fault of your despicable self-interest, and why, if you are a disability center consumer, you're deluding yourself. Next to the conditions these men endured my poverty is rich, but I have seen situations that do not leave much in the lack of imagination in terms of a crumbling existence that the least of ant colonies would not endure.

You see this story as an aberration. To me it's civilization's end, just beginning.

There are very few active Joyce forums online. I joined a Joyce serv akin  to the James list model  that hasn't seen a post since  2007, driven in my bid to find out to the degree possible how much  of James Joyce had read before 1922. Bloomsday makes me wrinkle my nose and avert my gaze, as if I had caught sight of my brother's dead hamster in the basement, drowned and floating. I do not really wish to read a fucking passage of Ulysses on June 16th. Charming Lance asked me if I would be well enough, if I wished to; no doubt I shall. The exercise and celebration is pointless.