While we sit here with the left lung elongated like papier mache fracking above the diaphragm, struggling with oxygen in a fetid interior, or waiting for the onset of congestive heart failure, perhaps startled by Commissioner Goodell’s only recently found permissiveness, with a hint of bombastic fraudulence attached, like everything in the adolescence of the American athlete, a vestige of Roman gladiator braggadocio attached, nonetheless, our governing system modeled on the Republic as it is, it is only now, in this financially unsuccessful writer’s last viable years, that she sits here with her insistent feline, reflecting on the incredible entrapment of the pus that has erupted out of her ass since childhood, even my now dying grandmother, in her energetic fifties, helping my mother with my accidents, lower extremities locked in a primitive lower torso exoskeleton I discarded in my teens, would exclaim, “you just don’t quit.” Indeed, my biology is an aberration, an organic mechanism which should never have thrived. In recent months though, the axis has shifted from concern with control to persistent abdominal discomfort, normal or not for post-menopausal tissue in the preliminary stages of final entropy. Perhaps my efforts to salvage my files constructed on 07 software will be a final blow, one with which my physiology will not be able to cope, as I have put too much physical labor into continual reconstruction, though I did not print everything, not having space to insure that physical drafts remain undamaged. We take all this chaotic reality and turn them into constructs, as Adrian Lyne does in his erotic thrillers, but what I am attempting to percolate, now that I have rapidly rushed hot coffee, is we do not seem to do any better for the humanities which build over time. If we utilize the George Smiley method of back tracing, in the work of the great Stendhal, who is the only novelist anyone need ever read, says the dowager from her precipice, it is the erotic sin which triggers devout fervor through contemplation. This is something generally lost to us in the contemporary era. Arguably lost even in monastery or seminary, from what I am able to access-- Julian doesn’t destroy the marriage of Madame Renault. He wakes her up to what loving sensuality means, even if all he wanted was the conquest. She has no choice but to find solace through the post-Reformation Catholicism of its day, as she cannot chase after a penniless peasant scholar who doesn’t have much of a scruple in relation to chastity. Lyne’s early 21st century parable dispenses with this sentiment, even if all human foibles are present in Unfaithful: jealousy, suspicion, guilt, even the preening growth of being alive due to the sheer pleasure of exotic physicality. I felt this way when I was the Other Woman, though my motives, before the disaster of being pursued by a drooling pig from New York, were different from that of Lane’s driven character. I was not lured in; I was rather in search of a man without fear, and that ferreted out wounded, bored, or unhappy husbands, who left both me as mistress and their wives to pick up the pieces without rippling each other to shreds—rather difficult, as I’ve indicated in the past, not to mention the overlay of Mark Sanford and Chapur. Look at the capital a once promising political star relinquished in the name of desire. Was it worth it? Did he read French literature before we toasted ourselves into non-entities? Just as Lyne asks if his characters deserve the consequences of their deception, the arguments we’re having about fundamental fairness and distribution don’t really change anything, unless it relates to insularity juxtaposed against the tensions of diversity. Unfaithful is unique in another way, as it is unabashedly about the license of white privilege gaming its own destruction. The people of color we glimpse in the movie function as a buffer, more or less.
Showing posts with label marital affairs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label marital affairs. Show all posts
Friday, September 22, 2017
The Frantic Movements of House Flies
Mark Sanford has nothing left to lose--Tim Alberta
While we sit here with the left lung elongated like papier mache fracking above the diaphragm, struggling with oxygen in a fetid interior, or waiting for the onset of congestive heart failure, perhaps startled by Commissioner Goodell’s only recently found permissiveness, with a hint of bombastic fraudulence attached, like everything in the adolescence of the American athlete, a vestige of Roman gladiator braggadocio attached, nonetheless, our governing system modeled on the Republic as it is, it is only now, in this financially unsuccessful writer’s last viable years, that she sits here with her insistent feline, reflecting on the incredible entrapment of the pus that has erupted out of her ass since childhood, even my now dying grandmother, in her energetic fifties, helping my mother with my accidents, lower extremities locked in a primitive lower torso exoskeleton I discarded in my teens, would exclaim, “you just don’t quit.” Indeed, my biology is an aberration, an organic mechanism which should never have thrived. In recent months though, the axis has shifted from concern with control to persistent abdominal discomfort, normal or not for post-menopausal tissue in the preliminary stages of final entropy. Perhaps my efforts to salvage my files constructed on 07 software will be a final blow, one with which my physiology will not be able to cope, as I have put too much physical labor into continual reconstruction, though I did not print everything, not having space to insure that physical drafts remain undamaged. We take all this chaotic reality and turn them into constructs, as Adrian Lyne does in his erotic thrillers, but what I am attempting to percolate, now that I have rapidly rushed hot coffee, is we do not seem to do any better for the humanities which build over time. If we utilize the George Smiley method of back tracing, in the work of the great Stendhal, who is the only novelist anyone need ever read, says the dowager from her precipice, it is the erotic sin which triggers devout fervor through contemplation. This is something generally lost to us in the contemporary era. Arguably lost even in monastery or seminary, from what I am able to access-- Julian doesn’t destroy the marriage of Madame Renault. He wakes her up to what loving sensuality means, even if all he wanted was the conquest. She has no choice but to find solace through the post-Reformation Catholicism of its day, as she cannot chase after a penniless peasant scholar who doesn’t have much of a scruple in relation to chastity. Lyne’s early 21st century parable dispenses with this sentiment, even if all human foibles are present in Unfaithful: jealousy, suspicion, guilt, even the preening growth of being alive due to the sheer pleasure of exotic physicality. I felt this way when I was the Other Woman, though my motives, before the disaster of being pursued by a drooling pig from New York, were different from that of Lane’s driven character. I was not lured in; I was rather in search of a man without fear, and that ferreted out wounded, bored, or unhappy husbands, who left both me as mistress and their wives to pick up the pieces without rippling each other to shreds—rather difficult, as I’ve indicated in the past, not to mention the overlay of Mark Sanford and Chapur. Look at the capital a once promising political star relinquished in the name of desire. Was it worth it? Did he read French literature before we toasted ourselves into non-entities? Just as Lyne asks if his characters deserve the consequences of their deception, the arguments we’re having about fundamental fairness and distribution don’t really change anything, unless it relates to insularity juxtaposed against the tensions of diversity. Unfaithful is unique in another way, as it is unabashedly about the license of white privilege gaming its own destruction. The people of color we glimpse in the movie function as a buffer, more or less.
While we sit here with the left lung elongated like papier mache fracking above the diaphragm, struggling with oxygen in a fetid interior, or waiting for the onset of congestive heart failure, perhaps startled by Commissioner Goodell’s only recently found permissiveness, with a hint of bombastic fraudulence attached, like everything in the adolescence of the American athlete, a vestige of Roman gladiator braggadocio attached, nonetheless, our governing system modeled on the Republic as it is, it is only now, in this financially unsuccessful writer’s last viable years, that she sits here with her insistent feline, reflecting on the incredible entrapment of the pus that has erupted out of her ass since childhood, even my now dying grandmother, in her energetic fifties, helping my mother with my accidents, lower extremities locked in a primitive lower torso exoskeleton I discarded in my teens, would exclaim, “you just don’t quit.” Indeed, my biology is an aberration, an organic mechanism which should never have thrived. In recent months though, the axis has shifted from concern with control to persistent abdominal discomfort, normal or not for post-menopausal tissue in the preliminary stages of final entropy. Perhaps my efforts to salvage my files constructed on 07 software will be a final blow, one with which my physiology will not be able to cope, as I have put too much physical labor into continual reconstruction, though I did not print everything, not having space to insure that physical drafts remain undamaged. We take all this chaotic reality and turn them into constructs, as Adrian Lyne does in his erotic thrillers, but what I am attempting to percolate, now that I have rapidly rushed hot coffee, is we do not seem to do any better for the humanities which build over time. If we utilize the George Smiley method of back tracing, in the work of the great Stendhal, who is the only novelist anyone need ever read, says the dowager from her precipice, it is the erotic sin which triggers devout fervor through contemplation. This is something generally lost to us in the contemporary era. Arguably lost even in monastery or seminary, from what I am able to access-- Julian doesn’t destroy the marriage of Madame Renault. He wakes her up to what loving sensuality means, even if all he wanted was the conquest. She has no choice but to find solace through the post-Reformation Catholicism of its day, as she cannot chase after a penniless peasant scholar who doesn’t have much of a scruple in relation to chastity. Lyne’s early 21st century parable dispenses with this sentiment, even if all human foibles are present in Unfaithful: jealousy, suspicion, guilt, even the preening growth of being alive due to the sheer pleasure of exotic physicality. I felt this way when I was the Other Woman, though my motives, before the disaster of being pursued by a drooling pig from New York, were different from that of Lane’s driven character. I was not lured in; I was rather in search of a man without fear, and that ferreted out wounded, bored, or unhappy husbands, who left both me as mistress and their wives to pick up the pieces without rippling each other to shreds—rather difficult, as I’ve indicated in the past, not to mention the overlay of Mark Sanford and Chapur. Look at the capital a once promising political star relinquished in the name of desire. Was it worth it? Did he read French literature before we toasted ourselves into non-entities? Just as Lyne asks if his characters deserve the consequences of their deception, the arguments we’re having about fundamental fairness and distribution don’t really change anything, unless it relates to insularity juxtaposed against the tensions of diversity. Unfaithful is unique in another way, as it is unabashedly about the license of white privilege gaming its own destruction. The people of color we glimpse in the movie function as a buffer, more or less.
Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Emancipation of the Flesh
"What do I have to do?"--Franka Potente
What can be added to Ebert's review of Run Lola Run is Tykwer's captures of German physiognomy is subversively disturbing, and his Berlin of 20 odd years ago unpleasant, irregardless of meta insular playfulness. Post Nazi Germans cast here look like African albino marionettes. Phew. Holding one's nose, the father's relation to the mistress has the same torpor as any over familiar relation. In Unfaithful, we're drawn into a titillating, irresistible compulsion which in turn leads to irresistible brutality. This is the way cinema dishes it up. No one is immune these days to the hypersexuality of augmentation. The reality is anything but, barring those rare moments of young love.
I have hinted at my affairs, but censored myself out of caution as well as delicacy. I was caught once and the ex-wife was civil, but I prefer not to go through it again. Next to my fabled dog fight with Linda Dezenski, that conversation, rippling from Montreal to my ghetto, is the searing sin of muted conscience, but it was the sin of relatively inconvenient fluids and farcical flopping about. I am not much for bragging with enthusiasm category, and maybe it is sad, too old, vaginally drying out now, for any real hormonal productive liberation to find its way back to the future, and the deceased Frank Versanti's weight was repugnant. He and I couldn't have intercourse, didn't, but his body was a graphic horror novel writing itself. I'd be facetious, tongue in check, and aim a barb at traumatic conversions, but naked women provide their own inhibited repulsions-- and yet, our ability to desire perfect form and design did not start with cinema.
A simple philosophical syllogism intimates a proof for God in this way: if we can conceive the possibility of its existence, then it can exist, ergo, perfection, since we conceive of it, is possible. We fail. Bendrix's sex life too, is merely the tension between the illusive security and comfort of the hearth being disrupted in the analytical British attitude toward a happy shag and the frustrations of obsession: Greene has as much an unerring way with protagonists who have their view blocked by possession, as much as I do with the masochism of longing: I literally have no idea why meeting a Shakespearean named Jerry McGuire when I was a 19 year old entering freshman of English literature in my father's living room, why this coincidence was so overpowering I fucked myself royally. I do not know. There were other instructors, but under Jerry's awning I was a wildly rotating dwarf star who fell very badly for the Italian antithesis of the angry veteran of Suny. Ashes to ashes, god's joke was to give me a buffoon as a stand in who in part let himself die because my contempt made a genuine bond of affection impossible. Unfaithful, locks Gere in to something that ultimately will destroy the marriage he committed murder to reset, and if I take the night of the Munich attack, being streamed live, as an indicator of the corrosion of monoculture, the only difference between a bus stop in Germany after hours and the bus stop at Darby, in my wheelchair, is cleanliness, the lack of drunk black hustlers perceived as a threat.
What can be added to Ebert's review of Run Lola Run is Tykwer's captures of German physiognomy is subversively disturbing, and his Berlin of 20 odd years ago unpleasant, irregardless of meta insular playfulness. Post Nazi Germans cast here look like African albino marionettes. Phew. Holding one's nose, the father's relation to the mistress has the same torpor as any over familiar relation. In Unfaithful, we're drawn into a titillating, irresistible compulsion which in turn leads to irresistible brutality. This is the way cinema dishes it up. No one is immune these days to the hypersexuality of augmentation. The reality is anything but, barring those rare moments of young love.
I have hinted at my affairs, but censored myself out of caution as well as delicacy. I was caught once and the ex-wife was civil, but I prefer not to go through it again. Next to my fabled dog fight with Linda Dezenski, that conversation, rippling from Montreal to my ghetto, is the searing sin of muted conscience, but it was the sin of relatively inconvenient fluids and farcical flopping about. I am not much for bragging with enthusiasm category, and maybe it is sad, too old, vaginally drying out now, for any real hormonal productive liberation to find its way back to the future, and the deceased Frank Versanti's weight was repugnant. He and I couldn't have intercourse, didn't, but his body was a graphic horror novel writing itself. I'd be facetious, tongue in check, and aim a barb at traumatic conversions, but naked women provide their own inhibited repulsions-- and yet, our ability to desire perfect form and design did not start with cinema.
A simple philosophical syllogism intimates a proof for God in this way: if we can conceive the possibility of its existence, then it can exist, ergo, perfection, since we conceive of it, is possible. We fail. Bendrix's sex life too, is merely the tension between the illusive security and comfort of the hearth being disrupted in the analytical British attitude toward a happy shag and the frustrations of obsession: Greene has as much an unerring way with protagonists who have their view blocked by possession, as much as I do with the masochism of longing: I literally have no idea why meeting a Shakespearean named Jerry McGuire when I was a 19 year old entering freshman of English literature in my father's living room, why this coincidence was so overpowering I fucked myself royally. I do not know. There were other instructors, but under Jerry's awning I was a wildly rotating dwarf star who fell very badly for the Italian antithesis of the angry veteran of Suny. Ashes to ashes, god's joke was to give me a buffoon as a stand in who in part let himself die because my contempt made a genuine bond of affection impossible. Unfaithful, locks Gere in to something that ultimately will destroy the marriage he committed murder to reset, and if I take the night of the Munich attack, being streamed live, as an indicator of the corrosion of monoculture, the only difference between a bus stop in Germany after hours and the bus stop at Darby, in my wheelchair, is cleanliness, the lack of drunk black hustlers perceived as a threat.
Monday, January 18, 2016
Travanti Hemlock at the root
"It is therefore no surprise to find that anti-homosexual repression is itself an indirect manifestation--" Homosexual Desire, page 55
I probably take the national prize for online inappropriate behavior, and one year went *off* in email with a sort of loose jointed Briton about trauma conversion. Total stranger, and I'm emailing him about a rather intimate issue of masochism, probably fresh in the aftermath in my tug of war with my former supervisor-mentor, but some years before the half-breed from the inner city violated my personal sanctity, upon which I discovered I couldn't be masochist enough, and fought, but to be entirely honest, there is a part of my psyche, after years of learned devaluation, that could have let this absolutely repugnant female have her way, and destroyed myself in the process, but in coming to terms with it, I'm now beginning to put it away, to stop twisting my head, and the next African American who tries a "Miss Eddy* maneuver isn't going to enjoy the consequences.
Leaving Travanti frozen in the eighties of his prime to be able to watch a relatively contemporary work like C.O.G. bite on the ass from a distance takes courage, in more ways than one: Bochco fed us Frank Furillo as a nearly messianic figure, and this is a grave sin, a set of expectations offered by a fictional character against which we judge the men we think we want, the ones who reject us next to the gluttons we reject. Travanti and Bosson really were sanitized versions of my mother and father. It hurts, surprisingly, and leaves us with residues of what we have to offer, which we do, in reserves, until dementia or what will kill us takes over.
Be prepared for post-menopausal pain. It is something a woman over 50 needs to discuss with potential new boyfriends. I was just getting the hang of sex after my fling with Pat, my ludicrous fling which still has an undercurrent of dread, in my thirties, and then the ball stopped, and if I get into Frank (the ex) and sex I may end up asking a hunter to go retrieve that rifle with scope, but it can never now be the same, an expression of a bond of appreciation, had it been if I had been more resourceful in resilient middle years.
Why did I bother to chastise CrimeMonitor? Because I am a victim, two, three, four times over, and when the account holder actually bothered to pay attention, his subsequent click of "unfollow" was the behavior of a mongrel, another arm chair cosmetic. I at least make an effort to think about what accounts have to offer. He, or she, has earned my contempt.
I probably take the national prize for online inappropriate behavior, and one year went *off* in email with a sort of loose jointed Briton about trauma conversion. Total stranger, and I'm emailing him about a rather intimate issue of masochism, probably fresh in the aftermath in my tug of war with my former supervisor-mentor, but some years before the half-breed from the inner city violated my personal sanctity, upon which I discovered I couldn't be masochist enough, and fought, but to be entirely honest, there is a part of my psyche, after years of learned devaluation, that could have let this absolutely repugnant female have her way, and destroyed myself in the process, but in coming to terms with it, I'm now beginning to put it away, to stop twisting my head, and the next African American who tries a "Miss Eddy* maneuver isn't going to enjoy the consequences.
Leaving Travanti frozen in the eighties of his prime to be able to watch a relatively contemporary work like C.O.G. bite on the ass from a distance takes courage, in more ways than one: Bochco fed us Frank Furillo as a nearly messianic figure, and this is a grave sin, a set of expectations offered by a fictional character against which we judge the men we think we want, the ones who reject us next to the gluttons we reject. Travanti and Bosson really were sanitized versions of my mother and father. It hurts, surprisingly, and leaves us with residues of what we have to offer, which we do, in reserves, until dementia or what will kill us takes over.
Be prepared for post-menopausal pain. It is something a woman over 50 needs to discuss with potential new boyfriends. I was just getting the hang of sex after my fling with Pat, my ludicrous fling which still has an undercurrent of dread, in my thirties, and then the ball stopped, and if I get into Frank (the ex) and sex I may end up asking a hunter to go retrieve that rifle with scope, but it can never now be the same, an expression of a bond of appreciation, had it been if I had been more resourceful in resilient middle years.
Why did I bother to chastise CrimeMonitor? Because I am a victim, two, three, four times over, and when the account holder actually bothered to pay attention, his subsequent click of "unfollow" was the behavior of a mongrel, another arm chair cosmetic. I at least make an effort to think about what accounts have to offer. He, or she, has earned my contempt.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
... And Les Innocents of Georges Simenon
What I was actually going to attempt to post about was the adaptation of Les Innocents on Worldview. I would drop Patterson for Simenon any day and did, and Marshal's performance as the duped cuckold got to me, pierced, no Maigret in sight; it felt fresh, this implicit complication of human motives.
I make people nervous because I'm obviously willing to use revelation when it suits me. Why trust me with how I post on Blogger? However much Linda Dezenski destroyed my emotional well being, the other side of her willingness to be an expending sociopath is that I've embarrassed her. She went over the top and the crime of it will never stay buried if my work survives-- but there are events, episodes, where I've kept those experiences to myself, particularly my sordid comic flings with married men.
I would discuss him and the others, but euthanasia via cat fights with ex-wives and other confessions isn't what I had in mind, and families are involved, and for once, Simenon opens this egg without too many conceits pertinent to mystery dramas.
We're human. People get hurt, even me, through becoming vulnerable, and Simenon exposes this with certain truisms about why women in spite do what they do; the story rang true, Marie's motives, Jean-Paul's scourged conscience, keeping his deceit close, Celerin's grief forcing him to seek out the verities. The novel was published in 72. The adaptation was fitted for the digital age, more powerful for it, in an evening where I should not have sat for it, perhaps, enjoying my plummet back to asceticism. I shall not be able to sustain it, not much longer. As fragile as our interior sense of self is, however, it isn't easy to die. Life fights for itself.
I make people nervous because I'm obviously willing to use revelation when it suits me. Why trust me with how I post on Blogger? However much Linda Dezenski destroyed my emotional well being, the other side of her willingness to be an expending sociopath is that I've embarrassed her. She went over the top and the crime of it will never stay buried if my work survives-- but there are events, episodes, where I've kept those experiences to myself, particularly my sordid comic flings with married men.
I would discuss him and the others, but euthanasia via cat fights with ex-wives and other confessions isn't what I had in mind, and families are involved, and for once, Simenon opens this egg without too many conceits pertinent to mystery dramas.
We're human. People get hurt, even me, through becoming vulnerable, and Simenon exposes this with certain truisms about why women in spite do what they do; the story rang true, Marie's motives, Jean-Paul's scourged conscience, keeping his deceit close, Celerin's grief forcing him to seek out the verities. The novel was published in 72. The adaptation was fitted for the digital age, more powerful for it, in an evening where I should not have sat for it, perhaps, enjoying my plummet back to asceticism. I shall not be able to sustain it, not much longer. As fragile as our interior sense of self is, however, it isn't easy to die. Life fights for itself.
Thursday, April 2, 2015
A Beaten Stray Bitch
I look positively grotesque, and no doubt should fly to Beijing and reinvent myself as an albino demon. I'm reflecting on this because I got a hit on a potential male room mate, and only now really looked at his picture, and only now have my doubts. My soul is lost people, utterly lost, real mental anguish at the thought of myself at Inglis and its circumscribed regime, a little grey room with a stainless steel night stand, a few books, my power chair crowding the hallway in a traffic jam of medical chaos, or variations on my lifelong public housing torpor, and here I am welling eyes with a dandled politico. For a homosexual male Sims is too pretty for me to launch into my daring will Blogger disrupt my account tirades, but sometimes I wonder, all the same. Science, phases. I miss sex, but intercourse never-- if Pat had had more time that evening in 1997, perhaps, but kindness and longing isn't quite enough.
He did not love me, my borrowed husband--nor I him, but he won, and he won because our naked middle aged bodies fumbling and my "I have to pee" injection made me laugh, and he was going to show me, and kept seeing me until that happened, and I engaged in a now embarrassing whirlwind after it ended, a water bearer to the T.
Maybe the roomie will bail, or maybe I will, as he claims to be Puerto Rican. Nice enough in demeanor but possibly not a co-caretaker who would be right for a barren queen mother. Could someone please just help me leave Riverside Presbyterian? Please?
Saturday, March 21, 2015
All precocious invalids have champions
"The mess has become an old friend."-- a French actress protecting her champion
It is uncanny, when biological rhythms themselves attune to conscious attachment, wake the body without the convenience of the alarm on the device, wakes you in time, despite the familiar eruption of a shameful rectal attack, which is oddly a relief, the battle with control, which is, however, transitioning into what will eventually kill, malady unknown, a sense of vertigo, starting way back at 36, getting significantly worse in the movement past your half century. Through the lens of Simenon, the animosity between the British and the French is utterly comprehensible, because the Franks have this insufferable sensibility of discretion, which would wisely serve us all ably if anyone paid the slightest attention. I don't, having dispensed with it all, but it is spring, I am sick, as usual, having warned myself about the container of almond butter, consumed not from greed. Desire for protein.
Just as Simenon manufactures a homosexual jurist in a dim interior, Maigret rents a room manufactures a faded damsel with broken wings, who thrives only when her spatial relation is rotated away from our fortunately stable sun, and has a love triangle which nearly results in a cop killing. I always try to give Maigret my rapt attention, but why Martinaud had to die for Mrs. Boris--- well being remains slightly puzzling. He was a loan shark of some sort, and the husband, soon to be a pensioner, was no guarantee. She fought Jules past fighting to save the man who valued her honor.
Affairs, much like homosexual secrets, often lead to mayhem as exemplified by the Fletcher case. To an American sensibility, Susan Chrzanowski was a culpable instigator in this locally sensational tragedy, and she paid a price. I could compare Susan to myself, but it is different. A sexually frustrated poet starved for passionate foreplay, setting herself up most of the time, is not the same thing as a presiding judge getting hot and heavy with a malcontent like Michael, who probably did shoot his wife. I base this on the fact that the parents noted Leann hated guns, and I'd never touch one myself, not even for an alpha male too good to be true. (This does not mean I am not joining the Libertarian Party. I am, but guns are dangerous in the immediate process of their utility, and I'm spastic; I'd never touch them.)
Yet we need love affairs. Need them to expose them. I support illicit sexual activity, in other words, without franchising equal treatment for homosexual orientation under the equal protection clause, making my principles rather difficult to defend, but I am going to be dead soon. I've never addressed whether or not I think a lesbian experiment on my part would have led to better sexual satisfaction. I have my reaction to feeling threatened on the one hand, and the passes, Eddie's molestation on the other, and not that it is entirely relevant, but I think not. I am not aroused by breasts, not particularly interested in deltas even of a better class act than mine (my anatomy is non standard) so no, I do not think a domestic arrangement similar to New Mobility's Josie Bysek is something I really desire and am fiercely repressing, despite my latch keys. I cannot stop other women from touching me inappropriately. It angers me, and I understand why those who engage in these sneak attacks are sometimes killed. We'll let Google measure that yardstick of an account in good standing, rolling my eyes.
To clear up any confusion, the company offered me an url for my Google plus account, and indicated I had *good standing". This company wearies, a little.
It is uncanny, when biological rhythms themselves attune to conscious attachment, wake the body without the convenience of the alarm on the device, wakes you in time, despite the familiar eruption of a shameful rectal attack, which is oddly a relief, the battle with control, which is, however, transitioning into what will eventually kill, malady unknown, a sense of vertigo, starting way back at 36, getting significantly worse in the movement past your half century. Through the lens of Simenon, the animosity between the British and the French is utterly comprehensible, because the Franks have this insufferable sensibility of discretion, which would wisely serve us all ably if anyone paid the slightest attention. I don't, having dispensed with it all, but it is spring, I am sick, as usual, having warned myself about the container of almond butter, consumed not from greed. Desire for protein.
Just as Simenon manufactures a homosexual jurist in a dim interior, Maigret rents a room manufactures a faded damsel with broken wings, who thrives only when her spatial relation is rotated away from our fortunately stable sun, and has a love triangle which nearly results in a cop killing. I always try to give Maigret my rapt attention, but why Martinaud had to die for Mrs. Boris--- well being remains slightly puzzling. He was a loan shark of some sort, and the husband, soon to be a pensioner, was no guarantee. She fought Jules past fighting to save the man who valued her honor.
Affairs, much like homosexual secrets, often lead to mayhem as exemplified by the Fletcher case. To an American sensibility, Susan Chrzanowski was a culpable instigator in this locally sensational tragedy, and she paid a price. I could compare Susan to myself, but it is different. A sexually frustrated poet starved for passionate foreplay, setting herself up most of the time, is not the same thing as a presiding judge getting hot and heavy with a malcontent like Michael, who probably did shoot his wife. I base this on the fact that the parents noted Leann hated guns, and I'd never touch one myself, not even for an alpha male too good to be true. (This does not mean I am not joining the Libertarian Party. I am, but guns are dangerous in the immediate process of their utility, and I'm spastic; I'd never touch them.)
Yet we need love affairs. Need them to expose them. I support illicit sexual activity, in other words, without franchising equal treatment for homosexual orientation under the equal protection clause, making my principles rather difficult to defend, but I am going to be dead soon. I've never addressed whether or not I think a lesbian experiment on my part would have led to better sexual satisfaction. I have my reaction to feeling threatened on the one hand, and the passes, Eddie's molestation on the other, and not that it is entirely relevant, but I think not. I am not aroused by breasts, not particularly interested in deltas even of a better class act than mine (my anatomy is non standard) so no, I do not think a domestic arrangement similar to New Mobility's Josie Bysek is something I really desire and am fiercely repressing, despite my latch keys. I cannot stop other women from touching me inappropriately. It angers me, and I understand why those who engage in these sneak attacks are sometimes killed. We'll let Google measure that yardstick of an account in good standing, rolling my eyes.
To clear up any confusion, the company offered me an url for my Google plus account, and indicated I had *good standing". This company wearies, a little.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Lesson Plan
"Voglio costruire qualosa."-- Simone Montedoro
Let me link you to my Dimmer Beacons essay imported to Medium from Breath and Shadow, not because I want attention, but because Medium has a better font, and the piece serves as an example of a cop out failure for which Ability Maine gave me a $25 dollar honorarium, Chris Kuell deeming it good enough, which it isn't.
I was trying to say something about failure, both in a micro and macro context, intent on enlarging on a deeper existential threat, and instead, I consciously stalled, perhaps unwilling to address that there was a homoerotic element of danger in both my admiration of my supervisor's ability to wield power as a disabled woman, and her inability to retain any personal loyalty she would project to subordinates prior to turning on them (I am not the only one who is triggered to upset at the mention of her name; like anything, IL has its particular subculture for the initiated.). I was also trying to examine the elusive metric of success, which I failed by virtue of feeling over discipline. The failed scholar in me has regrets, but tenacity in research takes time, and health--or at least enough energy to complete the task.
Now, it is my work, and I can take certain components and remix them, but I think I was dredging a bit up on what it is to live a life fully instead of vaulting into safety valves, which is a personal flaw, rarely doused with cold water, and those I can count on my fingers: the cruelty of the first time I had sex with Scott, my affairs with married men, perhaps looking for a death via Medea, because when you get caught as the "other woman" the fury that Euripides brings to life doesn't feel quite so legendary in the fog of antiquity, and then life with Frank.
My ambitions, however, were essentially destroyed by a K-12 paradigm because I wearied of graduate studies. My aunt didn't. She has her PhD, negotiating that with being faithful to the Catholic Church-- though I cannot see that she has derived any real economic security as an educational administrator.
And the question remains. I signed into Medium and published myself, but I am not sure what that means. It is a platform, catering heavily to communication and computer tech, and the seismic new world order. I only partially speak that language, especially as the train left the station in my mid-30's, and I didn't bounce back.
And whatever my way forward, I won't bounce back into home ownership, having a car; perhaps not even a passage to Italy, though I still hold out hope to close my aging eyes on Rome. In the meanwhile, former follower Kelly Clark seems to have vanished-- not that I'm troubled. Normally I would not have followed a celebrity blitz feed as was her content, but I indicated my willingness to accommodate cute.
What couldn't she handle? My bad attitude? I'll never know, but I don't think I'll change. My earth was scorched; entropy now cometh... I may tire out, but I suspect happiness is a polite fiction-- not that there aren't genuinely happy folk who don't need Prozac. Or all we all on something?
* I am past the point of anti-depressant utility; being made to look placid isn't a substitution for an actual repair, and regeneration past the half century mark becomes tricky.
Let me link you to my Dimmer Beacons essay imported to Medium from Breath and Shadow, not because I want attention, but because Medium has a better font, and the piece serves as an example of a cop out failure for which Ability Maine gave me a $25 dollar honorarium, Chris Kuell deeming it good enough, which it isn't.
I was trying to say something about failure, both in a micro and macro context, intent on enlarging on a deeper existential threat, and instead, I consciously stalled, perhaps unwilling to address that there was a homoerotic element of danger in both my admiration of my supervisor's ability to wield power as a disabled woman, and her inability to retain any personal loyalty she would project to subordinates prior to turning on them (I am not the only one who is triggered to upset at the mention of her name; like anything, IL has its particular subculture for the initiated.). I was also trying to examine the elusive metric of success, which I failed by virtue of feeling over discipline. The failed scholar in me has regrets, but tenacity in research takes time, and health--or at least enough energy to complete the task.
Now, it is my work, and I can take certain components and remix them, but I think I was dredging a bit up on what it is to live a life fully instead of vaulting into safety valves, which is a personal flaw, rarely doused with cold water, and those I can count on my fingers: the cruelty of the first time I had sex with Scott, my affairs with married men, perhaps looking for a death via Medea, because when you get caught as the "other woman" the fury that Euripides brings to life doesn't feel quite so legendary in the fog of antiquity, and then life with Frank.
My ambitions, however, were essentially destroyed by a K-12 paradigm because I wearied of graduate studies. My aunt didn't. She has her PhD, negotiating that with being faithful to the Catholic Church-- though I cannot see that she has derived any real economic security as an educational administrator.
And the question remains. I signed into Medium and published myself, but I am not sure what that means. It is a platform, catering heavily to communication and computer tech, and the seismic new world order. I only partially speak that language, especially as the train left the station in my mid-30's, and I didn't bounce back.
And whatever my way forward, I won't bounce back into home ownership, having a car; perhaps not even a passage to Italy, though I still hold out hope to close my aging eyes on Rome. In the meanwhile, former follower Kelly Clark seems to have vanished-- not that I'm troubled. Normally I would not have followed a celebrity blitz feed as was her content, but I indicated my willingness to accommodate cute.
What couldn't she handle? My bad attitude? I'll never know, but I don't think I'll change. My earth was scorched; entropy now cometh... I may tire out, but I suspect happiness is a polite fiction-- not that there aren't genuinely happy folk who don't need Prozac. Or all we all on something?
* I am past the point of anti-depressant utility; being made to look placid isn't a substitution for an actual repair, and regeneration past the half century mark becomes tricky.
Thursday, November 27, 2014
A See D See
She's overwrought with vengeance." Peter Rainer
The exertion it takes to masturbate outweighs the reward, but when time is taken to deal with a cunt as uncomfortable now as it was in my folly to ask Linda's advice on the matter, I scroll through a dreary set of scenes. A pallet mattress in a greyish flophouse where I am gang coaxed into masochistic submission, or go through a tie down in some stolen episodes from Japanese porn, with very little cognizance as to why Western men go for Asian women, although I find Indian men arousing and have a rape scene with my former cigarette vendor, infrequently, and exchanged Jim Brown for Bill Cosby in Joan's viral redeye scenario, or would have swapped Cosby for Brown had I remembered Brown was representative of black power in my era. Who, after all, wants to get raped by a thick lip flapper with a floating eye such as Cosby exhibits?
Black abuse of my person is the indelible stain, yet I have not taken my own life, unsure if it is sheer will or simply lethargy, perhaps both, but I will never again allow an African of either gender to lay a hand on me, ever.
Sometimes it's a whirlpool bath, or the married computer consultant's dick. He was kind to me. I called myself his whore, lacerating my soul over meaningless sex with a man whose wife cuckholded him and had a middle aged spastic's insistence. I almost had a fight with my mother's sister and would have had cellphone not served as a check. It isn't her fault she cannot see what institutionalization and her older sister's mental health has done to me. Like my own younger sister, she cannot see it, cannot deal with it, and that is most any audience, almost as indigent now as I was when I ran here because Jerry McGuire was an absence of presence. People attempted to tell me when I was that young that my compulsion to attach to his like was an obstinate distortion, but then again, I have never lived life with a full throttle investment. Not that I feel it any longer, his absence of presence. I've used up that little bit, and to be honest with you, I am irked SUNY contacted me about a no nothing reading I did in Pittsburgh. Not with them. Him. Still playing the teacher with his fucking encouragement. Christ man. I'm a cripple. Neither you, nor Michael, nor David ever talked to me about realistic career options.
You all taught me how to think. Bravo. Didn't stop me from being a vibrating pin cushion for every fucking imaginable threat out there. Even if I agree with blue blood liberals like Dana that McCulloch shielded Darren Wilson, I am glad that he did, which is the inverse of being relieved that Michael Brown is dead, but if you fuck with cops, then you can expect to become dead. I do not fuck with officers, and I can still expect, that one day I may die in their custody. Visions of how that plays out are as varied as the wind.
Cleaned my coffee pot. Beet salad, lentil soup. If I could lose sixty pounds and get my teeth fixed, a fedora and a zoot suit would suit me just fine, and you can pass the cannoli on that. Plenty of hot coffee too.
The exertion it takes to masturbate outweighs the reward, but when time is taken to deal with a cunt as uncomfortable now as it was in my folly to ask Linda's advice on the matter, I scroll through a dreary set of scenes. A pallet mattress in a greyish flophouse where I am gang coaxed into masochistic submission, or go through a tie down in some stolen episodes from Japanese porn, with very little cognizance as to why Western men go for Asian women, although I find Indian men arousing and have a rape scene with my former cigarette vendor, infrequently, and exchanged Jim Brown for Bill Cosby in Joan's viral redeye scenario, or would have swapped Cosby for Brown had I remembered Brown was representative of black power in my era. Who, after all, wants to get raped by a thick lip flapper with a floating eye such as Cosby exhibits?
Black abuse of my person is the indelible stain, yet I have not taken my own life, unsure if it is sheer will or simply lethargy, perhaps both, but I will never again allow an African of either gender to lay a hand on me, ever.
Sometimes it's a whirlpool bath, or the married computer consultant's dick. He was kind to me. I called myself his whore, lacerating my soul over meaningless sex with a man whose wife cuckholded him and had a middle aged spastic's insistence. I almost had a fight with my mother's sister and would have had cellphone not served as a check. It isn't her fault she cannot see what institutionalization and her older sister's mental health has done to me. Like my own younger sister, she cannot see it, cannot deal with it, and that is most any audience, almost as indigent now as I was when I ran here because Jerry McGuire was an absence of presence. People attempted to tell me when I was that young that my compulsion to attach to his like was an obstinate distortion, but then again, I have never lived life with a full throttle investment. Not that I feel it any longer, his absence of presence. I've used up that little bit, and to be honest with you, I am irked SUNY contacted me about a no nothing reading I did in Pittsburgh. Not with them. Him. Still playing the teacher with his fucking encouragement. Christ man. I'm a cripple. Neither you, nor Michael, nor David ever talked to me about realistic career options.
You all taught me how to think. Bravo. Didn't stop me from being a vibrating pin cushion for every fucking imaginable threat out there. Even if I agree with blue blood liberals like Dana that McCulloch shielded Darren Wilson, I am glad that he did, which is the inverse of being relieved that Michael Brown is dead, but if you fuck with cops, then you can expect to become dead. I do not fuck with officers, and I can still expect, that one day I may die in their custody. Visions of how that plays out are as varied as the wind.
Cleaned my coffee pot. Beet salad, lentil soup. If I could lose sixty pounds and get my teeth fixed, a fedora and a zoot suit would suit me just fine, and you can pass the cannoli on that. Plenty of hot coffee too.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Does Spader Have Head Lice?
"lnventa la noche en ventura
otra noche,
otra espacio" Octavio Paz, Pasado en claro, with slight license
Carol never had the rabbit's foot, but she educated me about everything else, the elder sister of my best friend to whom I latched after the rift with Susan. Carol was floor captain of the apartment units in my university housing, and instead of turning myself into Vassar Miller or SE Hinton, the blonds of my block fomented my education, like a kid in a five & dime, virgin bugged at the shiny pink and conveniently large penis, less impressed with the egg, vaguely recalling skepticism. Carol was attractive, more mild version of her sister. Sue was voluptuous, more drama queen. I miss them both, terribly. Drank with them both, a drunk pathetic dead weight spaz hanging with the alpha girls who could afford to treat sex like a five and dime. I'm not a virgin any longer, and yes, I really was a mistress to married men, with real sexual intercourse, but those evenings, Carol educating me about pleasures I never could realize, represent moments of positive intimacy with other women I'll never inhabit again; never invested in enhancements. If I did now-- shrug. My clitoris extends slightly, off standard but not unusual. Maybe this is why I shit a horse with Linda's excited email transmission. I miss her too. Not the woman she is, an aged mantis, but the younger tag team we were; there was a personal bond. She sold me down river for an ugly faggot with the emotional repertoire of a five year old, and I can't get away from them, the freaks. His conceptual inequality sounds magnanimous, and I do not doubt Reich has the authentic brawn of a street peddler; he may have even met the transvestite with s/his infantile bitch with testes on the leash, but he'd never socialize with them.
Was there a seduction? I suppose, but not for that kind of experimentation. It was a fencing match and spastic believed I could play the hand, deliberately blind to the fact she and I were in the process of destroying what I should have left alone. My life was about to fall apart, and this game of shirking blades made it worse. The critics are right about Soylent Green. Heston is always a gesture of granite stoicism, but it was a film of my time, textured and colored perfectly for the Me decade jeremiad. Robinson burned in our minds because he really was being cannibalized by cancer that pulled conviction out of Charlton, an intensity of conviction. We did not use the word procedural as a categorization, not in those days, but this was an exceptional dichotomy of pursuit in a world that no longer had standards, practices we trusted.
I can see it, the end of our species. We will not come to our senses, colonize Titan, or have any real sense of intrigue about Spader, in a television slot of viscous and carefully delineated slime, deploying diseases, anhidrosis, like a damn card trick. James, you're of my generation and you are capable of a better disreputable range. What the fuck are you doing?
otra noche,
otra espacio" Octavio Paz, Pasado en claro, with slight license
Carol never had the rabbit's foot, but she educated me about everything else, the elder sister of my best friend to whom I latched after the rift with Susan. Carol was floor captain of the apartment units in my university housing, and instead of turning myself into Vassar Miller or SE Hinton, the blonds of my block fomented my education, like a kid in a five & dime, virgin bugged at the shiny pink and conveniently large penis, less impressed with the egg, vaguely recalling skepticism. Carol was attractive, more mild version of her sister. Sue was voluptuous, more drama queen. I miss them both, terribly. Drank with them both, a drunk pathetic dead weight spaz hanging with the alpha girls who could afford to treat sex like a five and dime. I'm not a virgin any longer, and yes, I really was a mistress to married men, with real sexual intercourse, but those evenings, Carol educating me about pleasures I never could realize, represent moments of positive intimacy with other women I'll never inhabit again; never invested in enhancements. If I did now-- shrug. My clitoris extends slightly, off standard but not unusual. Maybe this is why I shit a horse with Linda's excited email transmission. I miss her too. Not the woman she is, an aged mantis, but the younger tag team we were; there was a personal bond. She sold me down river for an ugly faggot with the emotional repertoire of a five year old, and I can't get away from them, the freaks. His conceptual inequality sounds magnanimous, and I do not doubt Reich has the authentic brawn of a street peddler; he may have even met the transvestite with s/his infantile bitch with testes on the leash, but he'd never socialize with them.
Was there a seduction? I suppose, but not for that kind of experimentation. It was a fencing match and spastic believed I could play the hand, deliberately blind to the fact she and I were in the process of destroying what I should have left alone. My life was about to fall apart, and this game of shirking blades made it worse. The critics are right about Soylent Green. Heston is always a gesture of granite stoicism, but it was a film of my time, textured and colored perfectly for the Me decade jeremiad. Robinson burned in our minds because he really was being cannibalized by cancer that pulled conviction out of Charlton, an intensity of conviction. We did not use the word procedural as a categorization, not in those days, but this was an exceptional dichotomy of pursuit in a world that no longer had standards, practices we trusted.
I can see it, the end of our species. We will not come to our senses, colonize Titan, or have any real sense of intrigue about Spader, in a television slot of viscous and carefully delineated slime, deploying diseases, anhidrosis, like a damn card trick. James, you're of my generation and you are capable of a better disreputable range. What the fuck are you doing?
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