Small Catholic Sympathies

"I don't like lesbians. They are so heavy and humorless." -- the still young Goldie Hawn

I can imagine, in a faux empathy with the pedestrian Sally Quinn, feeling badly that the Vatican turned me away because I was a homily bulk of phlegm in a corroded power chair, and I suspect her reasoning on Benedict's resignation is something most observers of intrigue within the Holy See believe. The rigid German was JP2's second in command, after all, and under the anti-Warsaw Pact Vicar, pedophilia was a great sin to be forgiven, and this is where Sally drops the ball on Old World asceticism. Even in today's world, we need the attraction of pure orthodoxy, and conservative obstinacy in the Roman Catholic Church. The theology is nonsense, but so is the idea of a multiverse where the stuff in it is no more than a hologram of a two dimensional strip of data that is the same inside a black hole's gravitational field as well as outside of it. Even men like Denzel's Creasy can cling to hope in a saint's medallion, so how much less should be granted men of the collar who need to ejaculate and aim for covert intimacy? The monsters we create are no less human than you are yourselves, as much as you believe otherwise, and forgiveness is also part of that Roman authoritarian hierarchy.

Indeed, via this reasoning I should forgive the zealous fruitcake and freaky failed intern who identifies as male, fucking a half wit fat homosexual as fat and pallid as a giant mollusk, and I might have been able to do that had not they, and their culture of corruption, and self-hatred, contributed so much to the trauma I have battled. The side of my conscience that remembers the loving idealist I was might say I lacked compassion in letting a sick transvestite "have it," just short of his caretaker or the guard interfering, but I am weary of Erik taking my temperature in the cosmopolitan sense of acknowledging me; it has ceased any meaning short of being a sick joke, and I tire of watching this female man linger in useless waste. I need to leave it behind and contain it, respectively, try as I might to stop it from destroying others with the promise of future matriculation.

Catholicism, however, is a religion, and giving predatory priests up to secular imprisonment damages what the faith stands for. You do not see lawyers reading my blog rushing out to examine my case and extracting justice, do you? My independent living center burrows over its breach of conduct; excoriating pastors isn't going to change our universal tendency to paper over the corrosive nature of power.

Ronstadt Data Lacerations

Astute enough to save my documents and revisions to my external drive, that much I believed I could do, and do not know what was lost in translation. For those not published, this is a visceral pain that creates ulcers for writers. My fantasy story was taking shape, soon to be finished at about 7,500mm. It and other newer word documents may still be on the HP and I am going to wait for transfer cable, or track down a real Creasy and stick enough C4 up the monied rectum of Bill Gates for my own creative destruction. I still really like Man on Fire and Denzel in it with Scott's soft catholic sympathy, and we're still turning this empathy of my own for imperfect vehicles whose flaws provide a pathway toward metaphysical consolation. If my old Dell was a well behaved boy, and the HP a bit of a bitch, this Toshiba is Dexter on an indiscriminate rampage. If I boot the HP now my sanity would be in jeopardy, and so I am holding off, sure I mismanaged Office 07 in some way. This lady may be a toffee Starbucks version of Madonna, but she has nothing on Ronstadt's range.

Straight Arrow

"She showed him it was okay to live again." --Christopher Walken


Since we were most recently discussing reconciliation and its lack thereof, I have forgotten I wish to grate on your nerves one last time this evening, and mention that Tony Scott redeems the flawed vehicle Man on Fire, and yes, it is flawed, with an over-sentimentalized brutality, and a silent ruthlessness hinted at, but not quite evaluated fairly, in Denzel's Creasy or Walken's Rayburn, and the Latino father's Russian roulette suicide is sanctimonious, and yet, and yet-- what makes Washington fatally over the top in Training Day somehow falls into place here, with its gritty textured realism, redeems the monstrosity of our own capacity for the cruelty of expenditure, of willingness to annihilate, whatever the reasons, fraud, money laundering. That Walken downplays his menace, and is world weary, humane, slightly tongue in cheek, compliments the sense of redemption earned, something else your favorite Catholic atheist is roasting on her spit.

When I return, it will be for revisions, and as always, better penetration, even if I never reach the lighthouse.