Big Yellow Taxi

"Oooo, nah nah nah,"  Joni with her back up in the folk era

Mmm. I missed a luncheon date at The Watermark, because I skipped a day, distracted over the Quantum, and upset with Rhett Hackett. I posted to his site that I did not like "being bluffed by liberal bullshit artists," and then tried an email later, and only got a courtesy call explaining his foundation's change of heart; I was trying to be persuasive so that they would understand that if I can do anything with the little time I've left, I want to stop medical model brutality and other forms of violence from destroying women with my ability in the future, but it was a plea for shielding on deaf ears, and if I try this again remind me that I hate liberalism, would you? And I'd imagine there goes any write up as a nice profile piece on New Jersey's mission in life to be the escape haven from New York and Philadelphia. (But we'll allow that to simmer.)

It does matter, the long term affect, despite the fact that it discomfits my sister and brother, I'm still suffering the consequences of being an aggravated assault victim at the hands of Brandon Phillips, just as the treating psychologists predicted when I was on my liberal tether with the defunct Matrix Research Institute, and I feel like a pin cushion for any mode of target practice you'd care to imagine, which is why I do not trust CNA's, even Tim, whom I've known for any number of years-- not in the sense that he'd hurt me, but that he's a welfare player, and will feel smug when the Department of Public Welfare processes me into a Soylent Green wafer. We do not literally cannibalize ourselves, but we're already there, rather late in the day to examine primate controls the primates are placing on themselves without stopping to reflect that risk is necessary, so is disease, and decomposition.

Mitchell, though she falls into my generational nomenclature, might as well be Lady Gaga. I know they are recording artists, but draw blanks. Mitchell was simply recognized as a decorative beatnik, popularizing the Kerouac zeitgeist to always burn the tread on asphalt, warning Madonna in the 80's that the limelight would fade for the Material Girl at some point, never really giving ourselves time to pause, put a break on the controls we inject into and onto our anatomy, to reconsider the industry surrounding the obituary, the underlying avarice we display when faced with the fallibility of mortality. With all the ethics surrounding journalistic integrity, apparently the paparazzi cannot distinguish being comatose from other ailments into a seventieth decade which might lead to fainting spells.

I am very bitter about the surgical aggressions to my body, unlike some, if all it amounts to is cruelty and entrapment in a public housing matrix which is an inhumane forced form of diversity, which all comes down to how and where we invest resources. I might have been perfectly happy, in my late twenties, to live in a small group home, and I mean small, for those who were developmentally damaged but had matriculative ability. I should have been with my peers, not terrorized by the venomous elderly, and what the fuck can I do about it now? Riverfront told me, yesterday, if the Jazzy is seven years old, Medicare would allow me a new one.

Uh huh. I cannot stay at Riverside, and most of you have no idea what equipment acquisition is like with my level of indigence. 

Inversion Therapy

"I do not mean to suggest this was a conversion of convenience. I wanted to believe."-- Reza Aslan, Newshour damage control candidate

William Holden was before my time. Why he is a Hollywood celeb is beyond my comprehension, in much the same way that Miley Cyrus might be Tralfamadorian. It is solely due to Kathleen Parker that I gather Miley is a soft pornography performer, and I wail, too young to be in the generation gap, but here we are. It seems Holden's one and only elevation is against Bogart and beautiful Audrey. Audrey Hepburn transcends stardom. Looking at her face, I may not want to believe in God, but can understand why we have angels dance. Holden only confirms my tendency toward nihilism; hated Earthling when it recollected my youth. The man is not an actor, and this makes me rapacious, willing to drown Sri Lanka so that Kwai exists as a CinemaScope travesty. Guinness had a good death in Kwai, but Alec Guinness actually has theatrical force, much like Simon Schama.

I do not care to read Rough Crossings, but I am thinking of Schama's recognition of the dialectical tensions between Britain and the US on liberalism, because it can be seen in the majority of the twentieth films between the last imperial power and its fabulous offspring, and I half toy with the idea of contacting Schama and saying I need a fucking vocabulary mate, hey, help a cripple out dear boy. But why would he assist me? Pounding my fist, I see it, trying to encapsulate it, but it's difficult, a heterodoxy between the glamour of Hannibal and the documentary ruthlessness of 10 Rillington Place. Attenborough's Christie triggers memories of my assault, and frightens me more than Michael Rooker in Portrait, despite the realism of Henry's alienated outside status as a predator. 

Marie the aunt tells me to forget the Brandon Phillips who nearly killed me but I cannot; he lives in every sexual assault I experienced before or since, and this inner city brawn boy minority coward whose grandmother was a Presby tenant on the floor above me may one day make me famous, unpacking every middle brow Catholic girl's worst nightmare, I know the terror of Christie's victims, as well as the bemusement over Aslan's kerfuffle. Academics can also be pandering hacks, and this will be a scab I may pick for some time to come.

I would not have posed the question the way Lauren Green did, but the Newshour is also guilty of bias over the Zealot fiasco. Propping up Aslan was more important to the PBS team than being objective in terms of the quality of the text. Green was actually challenging Aslan's doubt, whether or not her interrogative stance was an unfair blow to his integrity. Remind me that I am pushing myself too hard for my age, and that I cannot live on maple walnut brownies, but I have fallen in love, not with William Holden.