Mel Gibson, Henry Winkler, an Impostor's Break from Her Break

Like Stalin, Trujillo ruled by turning his rage without warning against his subordinates.-- Publisher's Weekly on Vargas Llosa's novel which pitted itself against the world, only to find that the United States is responsible for San Dominican industry keeping San Dominicans on San Dominican soil

Llosa's interviews on public television still give one pause, make a failed writer take a step back; as well written as The Feast of the Goat is, the assassins bookmarked to return to Urania's opening, her guilt ridden survival, all Llosa really does is confirm politics is a blood sport, a corrosion of any ideal about human governance. Dominicans and Haitians may no longer electrocute each other for amusement-- or is shock therapy only a dirty little secret in New Delhi?-- but the island of two weakling states which both have seats in Manhattan, a pretense toward sovereignty when both are still entirely colonial, illustrates basic geopolitical lies. If one examines things too closely, the notion of a patriotic national identity has fissures world over, and might still be cause for alarm in India, China, even Putin's imperial cult-- but there are strong states juxtaposed against mere contrivance, and this is why Lkosa pisses me off. He takes (a) reader through a historical xenophobic hell, for what exactly? Am I supposed to condemn Eisenhower and JFK for allowing Trujillo to repress socialist collectivism only to wind up with developing world paternalism, in 2010 and beyond, suckling on humane capitalism, patting Indians and descendants of the African diaspora on the head?

I am not envious. I cannot do everything, and Latin American literary gamesmanship I examine, with jaundice. Urania's anguish, the indignation of Trujillo's killers, this means little. I actually identify more with Trujillo's pain, in Llosa's conception of it, than with the humanists who have to carry the valise of his legacy for the rest of their lives. It is more Llosa's ego, and the doors it opened in Hollywood for his relatives to make rip off monster movies, much like Henry Winkler's dramatic irony in Vancouver merely confirms Mel became an entrenched victim of Jewish liberalism, that intellect which is so superior to the rest, and though Winkler is a league or two removed from my Jamesian associates, his satirical undercutting in The Imposter is the best episode of Dead Man's Gun, which can be overly strident-- but Winkler, as executive producer, is toying with our memory of Fonzie as the otherwise harmless variation of Italian bling. I was such a naive girl, not realizing Jewish men were aping Italiano to make fun of it, and also to hide themselves. God forbid people like Winkler or Falk or Nimoy display any orthodoxy after the cataclysms in Europe. This is the secular liberalism Gibson came up against, and took a beat down from the establishment. Far be it for spastic to judge, as a crippled Jewish princess did it to her too, but watching Winkler's peddler learn assertion, using his skills at reading to undercut machismo, represents a subtle, mostly victorious argument against virility, against the necessity for violence to achieve grace. Minority anarchists are doomed to the sidelines, suspecting we're right despite the price involved, and knowing it. There is a time when murder is righteous, even if effeminate behavior is clever enough to evade Satanical burrowing. My femininity was hurt by orthopedic surgery, already challenged before Steele cut into me as a girl. Pubic area was never tidy, well behaved and cupped nicely in the vaginal area, as is the median for such things.
Butch bitches would classify it as intersex, but fuck that. I'm mad I have to get old, to die, with so little to show for what walkers did to me. Oh, men. They fuck me, but wanting me is another matter. Unlike the dykes, who may correctly intuit my submissiveness without also reading my revulsion at enslaving myself to a regressive infantile nurturing. I have plotted these points, and rejected them, but it doesn't mean I'm not pissed, and know I'll be subjected to more advances, if I survive long enough. I hope I get lucky enough to really hurt the next woman. I want to send a message, let them be on the receiving end of surgical cuts that destroyed my esteem. Now I need to close my lost round with The Freeman and dust my ego. 

An Elgar for Hillary

Or a nihilist soothed by taut strings

"You're the one who left me." Frank Versante, my nihilist ex fiance

Who am I to judge how Hillary played the hand her husband dealt her? Just a disenfranchised voter who doesn't have much to be thankful for in terms of political ejaculations. I write many things that breach manners, how homosexual friends and associates and sixty year old transgendered freaks twisted my mind and loyalties and sensibilities and how a supervisor's gloating became ugly and a mass mocking, and all this is what is wrong with me in my broken body according to everyone else. I do not let it go, even though, whether I let it go or not, the fount of ablest hatred is always at hand, similar to Sister Veronica's interrogation.

I understand hate crimes, and while Antisemitism used to perplex me, after what I have been through and whom with, it doesn't anymore. So again, whether Bill and Hillary find each other a necessary liability is something none of us can ascertain against expediency. Huma Abedin may have made the same calculation for a lesser problem, since no one is claiming Anthony Weiner is a serial affair monger. Political analysts discussed this during the opening days of the Bush Administration, that one thing both of our major political brand families have in common is a narcissistic preoccupation  with themselves, and I do not understand why any American wants more of the same when so many of us have been left behind.

I would love to let the trauma Linda Dezenski dumped on my plate and a Jewish lesbian named Fern Markowitz then facilitated before the still functioning transvestite made the old crone eat shit go, but the games we Americans play with our most disadvantaged elements in our social safety net makes us no better then Sisi and the justication he uses to crush Brotherhood sympathizers. I want to go back to work, with a misshapen set of teeth because I cannot afford dental fees, with chronic bowel impactions and lung fluids. I can't drive and can dream on if I think New Mobility would give me more work when I am still angry at their Jesus lesbian for breaking the girl buddy honor code--and as I've told you, they put me on ice before I raised my voice about Josie Byzek and her labial Gnosticism. Jesus loves her, her body crippled by damaged nerve sheaths.

If the Hillary movie is made, surely a vetting intern can find video of the couple patronizing a group of special education angels in wheelchairs.

Egg Whites, Third Sunrise

I only ate one meal yesterday, an inadvertent accident of sorts. I tried the Danish pancakes with a dash of the usual maple and a generous fork scrape of cocoa almond spread, and after dealing with Tim's failing short term memory, I collapsed, but still not sleeping well.

I am making my omelet now, bland, but with cheddar, in my Marathon Grill bowl, to keep it round, and it will fill me but most likely give me phlegm fever. I am used to that, and honestly, I am partial to unfertilized chicken eggs, and would readily eat any other edible poultry eggs. The difference this morning is I did not make a sandwich, but dressed two slices of sourdough on the side. I splattered on the kindle and polished the screen with the splatter, but ate, no reading. Still hungry, as can reasonably be expected, but the edge is off of being famished, and think I can recline, but non!

Alas! Back cushion!

The aeros have either not come in or went to the package room Thursday, and no one notified me. Remember the shot of Michael C Hall screaming in the funeral parlor? Ah ha, she says, grinning. Life is not only irrational, but inexorably silly, and I do not want to go into remission (actually relapse, but an interesting error) to tobacco at my old levels, which is going to happen unless I find another type of aid, and after I balance my accounts, I am going to research the electric brands. I highlighted the danger of the dependency of David Foster Wallace, but cannot solve my own. Any one have a preference in terms of atomizers? Does anyone ever answer my questions posed in these posts? So many stubborn tanka bloggers, eh?

The weekend will be ecumenical, of course, unless I stream, and I may finally be in the mood to do so, but Mel's Passion is running later this evening, and spastic wants to see . Mel is, understandably, everyone's favorite pissing pony, and the late Hitchens went after him over his ultra conservative Catholicism, but he is also quite an interesting director, and I am not afraid of his spiritual quest. I do not believe in a god, or a divine, but science cannot answer certain questions about self-recognition, and aspiration. Sam Harris'es materialistic rap of Mother Teresa as clearly depressed, this is not enough for me, because I've felt the earth rock beneath the vinyl sling on which I sit, not that I can call it a vocation of faith.

I might have saved myself some personal anguish not to have trusted in the intensity of what I felt when I was young, nor putting all my eggs into Linda's basket as I hit major trouble in my mid-30's (a young middle age, enjoy while you have it), but that intensity may not always be in the realm of the pathology of the overwrought. The drama queen might kick in if I ever saw Jerry again, of course, throwing myself out of the wheelchair, he'd ask, "What are you doing? You alright?" While I'd land on my knees, tears welling up, my voice crying, "I failed," as if I held it there, my greatest sin in a display case.

But I wouldn't want to cause him another cardiac incident.

Ubi Caritas

As I have stated before in earlier posts, there is a part of me that wants to return to the hard Roman Catholicism of the past, the brutally hard faith that makes Mel Gibson believe his anti-Semiticism is its own self-justification; the kind of hard faith that allows for anti-homosexual attitudes, in point of fact. I am not hostile to the civil expansion of gay rights because I am repressing my sexual desire to eat pussy and suck boobs. I had my trial by fire. I am anti-homosexual because celebrating and making this orientation equal to the positive life force of procreation is a moral corruption, even if it has perfectly acceptable biological explanations. Biology, indeed, the very process of evolution is brutal, and that brutality has plenty of side pockets for evil to fester, just as most of us feel that a cancer, just sitting inside the body, doing its thing, is evil, even if its cellular mechanisms can be objectively explained as a process. In his Granta essay about his disease and his drug use, and Granta loves this detached descriptive darkness of our interior destructive impulses, I've read enough of the periodical over the years to know this even without concurrence, Will Self writes that he had to come to hate his drug use in order to survive and overcome it. I wanted to write to Will, on the heels of finishing his essay, and have not. His dissonance would not necessarily connect with mine, and he is working his assignments; I have yet to reestablish myself. To take from his example, however, while my epidermis shrivels up and crunches, a pork rind, I am forced to use intolerance for the same ends: to survive being a loser and treated like my former supervisor's whelp bitch, and my trust again violated by Josie Byzek, I have had to roll up the draw bridge. Something of this dynamic is what John Patrick Shanley deploys in Doubt (2008 for the film); my hearing loss is an issue in my attempt to view this movie properly, but I saw it again this morning in the full force of its impact, and the way the theater parable was translated to the screen actually makes me thirst to compare a well directed stage performance. Even though this is my third view of the movie, I am too moved at this moment for aesthetic distance of the sort that no doubt would give me a larger and more comfortable audience-- but I am sacrificing popularity for the sake of my agenda, even if that agenda will not necessarily be preserved by a current content account. Somehow, maybe my outcry will survive, and in the future, the worst of CIL cruelity can be reformed and held in check.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ubi_caritas

And, by the same token, the worst of public housing contracts which lead to corruption and hypocrisy can one day be held in check. But I will mention one or two things about this film. The set director nailed the historical context, even with the sisters' habits, though I am not familiar with the particular type of bonnet the nuns wore, and I enjoyed Philip Seymour Hoffman as Father Flynn. It was a well nuanced performance, one of the few times his talent really honed in with trouble and ambiguity.