Turnstile Passes

"It may even be worse for you, in the end."-- Robert Shaw

Richard Rodriguez is perhaps ecstatic, positively jubilant. With only a glancing reference to his essays, I relent and forgive him for his sexual orientation. Why am I able to offer Rodriguez this gift, when I would otherwise drive Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern, my mother's surviving ex-friend Kmac, my own ex-collegiate friend Alan Gordon, who met Jimmi exactly once, ditto for the old queen Jim who I had to tolerate in the strange topography of Germantown when I drew my salary off of the Pew Charitable Trusts, why does Rodriguez get off when LBGT activists could throw themselves off Niagara? I have never observed the fabled hysteria of lemmings stampeding themselves off an escarpment, but that would be my jubilee, as far as the activists and myself are concerned. "Why are you blaming us for a trauma triggered by your supervisor, who enjoyed her little mind fuck at your expense? We didn't do it."

Your permissive promiscuity lays the groundwork for evil that has nothing to do with a messiah as a transmuted human deity. Zealous willful blindness of indulgence, Richard Rodriguez may not lack it, but he recognizes it as a Hispanic Catholic minority, and he is willing to be conflicted with it, not let himself off. He knows he sins, and this is his metaphysical decency within his faith, so I forgive and respect him, though I only know how heart felt his writing must be from the sincerity and gravitas of his media appearances. In a future dalliance, one day I must immerse myself in his work beyond that offered on public airways. Not that this isn't further complicated by Proustian intertextual superfluity, but I have spent the evening with the night, and plod one plank at a time, even in envy.

Envious. Thomas Harris generates psychical wounding thrillers, Hannibal churned out of covering criminal courts, or at least, speculated as such. Black Sunday was spawned from the 72 Munich games, but let us enlarge on geopolitical aspects. We once believed in Robert Shaw's Major from the film. Understood him, held fast to his ruthless expediency keeping us safe in our beds, perhaps even held a reservoir of sympathy for Bruce Dern's sociopathic veteran, but even this has vanished. The complicated mosaic of the Mossad is not quite so contingent on move and counter move in causation, saving us in the end. As a thriller, Black Sunday has an elocution, a prescient elegance of a unipolar map long since vanquished in the post 9/11 era. It began here, however, with a weak southern politician still ambling about in his near 90's, with his prefabricated simple dwelling habitats, carrying Guinea and the Sudan in his harvester. Jimmy Carter is a guilty man, and he knows it, all the more why he posits onus on Israeli apartheid. The heirs of Zionism may carry age old intransigence, but it is within the bloom of Carter's failure that the world we have today is what it is, right in the bosom of Obama's exhausted integrity. 

More is the pity.

Desert Heat

Just because it is hard doesn't mean we should not try.-- Jay Carney, our indomitable conduit between the administration and the fourth estate.


I paid Amazon's price for the Windows 7 upgrade disk, as I would need it even if the download is free, and if I can get it to run in my corrupted drive, then all is well, and if not, I go to my virtually unused Toshiba, cross my fingers, and while I am doing that, play patty cake with this poor HP, grand old lady suffering under my illiteracy. She really is not worth much more money, but I cannot afford to keep buying computers, tablets, and a new battery for her, that will come next month. The HP is definitively she, a fusty queen, in contrast to my Dell, who was a good boy until my landlord's oh so wonderful subcontractors terminated his hard drive, but let me not dwell on my resource drainage. And as per my aunt's advice, I will do my best with the Vista drivers, but remain confused, debating my television choices for this afternoon. I saw a portion of Tuck Everlasting before, and other than the fact that it left my shift in neutral, my jury is out as to its utility, but I believe for now, this is a skip, not that I necessarily eschew children's literature, I just never tried to be that kind of writer.

Let me scour my sentiments about Israeli politics with slightly more over-simplified persistence, while I push Vinnie and his nagging off with my skull, and tell him to leave me alone. No sale. They do not like the fish, but little kimmy was a good girl, and after the excitement of mommy's fall from bed, she ate her breakfast. I am snowed in, as even minor accumulations can damage either power chair, so they have to tolerate the supply I have available. My sympathies toward the Jewish state cooled during the first intifada. A video of a gaunt vulnerable father getting killed while trying to shield his child, a young boy also killed in a hail of bullets at a military checkpoint, shrivelled my heart. I have never been marginalized to that extent, but I am certainly that expendable. What was the price of their deaths in the course of geo-political reality? Nothing but the price of my memory, and perhaps burial in a network video archive, but it was enough.

The Holocaust is no excuse for 66 years of Palestinian blood on the hands of Israeli capability, sweeping up nearly mute collateral damage along with perhaps justified intransigence of refugee resistance. The Islamic faith has its own appalling callousness, but I am quite capable of entering into how and why their radicalization occurs.

The Mossad Foul is Fair

My attitude toward the state of Israel has invariably shifted over the years, from that of unquestioned idealism to serious doubts about American foreign policy being tethered to Ashkenazi self-righteousness, and today, merely colored by cynicism, I respect the ruthlessness of the Mossad, but much like the Guardian staff, question the morality of that ruthlessness. Though I am powerless to be ruthless, my own morality has suffered from its intractable growth, which justice would staunch, an abstract idea that seems unlikely at this point, though the question of a diabolical disabled evil preoccupies whatever remains of my creative talent, as an ethical, technical problem. Whatever Linda's virtue, she undermines it by unnecessary humiliation, and her employer refuses to deal with it by utilizing an appropriate discipline, which in this case, is forcing her resignation. Linda repeatedly gets "herself into trouble." Her words, disrepecting her colleagues, turning on, and I cite, on the basis of facts I have in evidence:

1. blind subordinates, otherwise qualified
2. minority subordinates, who successfully sued under her administration
3. quadriplegic subordinates like myself, too incapacitated to meet EEOC deadlines
4. paraplegics in the same situation

If she was a corporate executive, do you think her tenure would be so long lived? Her former boss, Fern Markowitz, is as much a bigot as some feel Martin Peretz to be, except that Fern gets a free pass, as a Jewish lesbian, and I don't, because I troll in dark crevices, chewing grubs, but make no mistake, Fern was never about equality. She needed to control wheelchair users like myself, and that is not respect, with the exception of the symbolic tokenism Cassie James Holdsworth emanates. That is untouchable in Liberty's world, but for when I pierced it in anger. Fern took the problem Linda created and compounded it.

"I need to make a living Fern."
"Welllll," she trilled, like that, gesturing her hand at me, akin to a trainer with a rebellious circus animal, one that did not comply, instead of offering me a respectful discussion. Liberty's entire staff operates under this pathology of prevarication, which lesbians exude with peculiar talent, in Fern's case probably generational, and necessary, to evade the animosity Shakespeare reserved for supernatural androgyny, and this is the seed of my villainy, which, depositing in my rare disabled characters, is problematic, for I am taking a conceit, coupled with the real pain of my terribly cruel ouster, which Cassie acknowledged when she team tagged me on the grant proposal I was not going to do for their evil, and disservicing disability empowerment by letting this evil take its course in my work. Fern herself was ousted by a transvestite and his unstable and occasionally vicious partner, so it would be ironic, if, in truly unleashing my view, I wind up with a best seller, which is why I study intelligence. The price of vengeance, however, is an ancient lex talionis in the time warp of a modern age.

It is not Fern I want to eliminate, as Fern is punishment enough for her own reality, but the cruelty of the paradigm that allows her and her successors to engage in nearly untrammeled corruption, it has to go. Nursing homes are not an apologia for federally protected disability center ineffability.