The knot of Gambia in the Asphyxiation of David Foster Wallace

Scipio also evidently had a Wal Mart. It was Amber Moltke who suggested that they leave the artist to watch his Sunday Reds game in peace the way he liked to. [sic] The Suffering Channel, loc 4199

Purely in terms of linguistic intricacy, the bones of Wallace rank second to David Mitchell. Mitchell exists in his own universe, and the two writers are different, with the exception that neither can be read without full focus, both take an extraordinary labor, and backing down, going boob tube for some drift, has merit after a load on. The problem with Wallace is that his satirical agony is but a hair's breadth off the entirely unbearable, and though Infinite Jest was purchased, and just glimpsed at, intends to be read, to be able to do what this man did has an excess of heart, too much. Normal humans, his father, wife, those kind of people, the ones who feel Presbyterian Homes cannot put quadriplegics in straight jackets fast enough, blame his illness-- not simply for his death, but the manner of man he was, way he lived. The dowager is less categorical about the science. She can hear Krauthammer regrowing his spinal cord in protest, and in no way denies that depression has parameters, but, David Foster Wallace was, in his own right, a genius, and hung himself nine months in to Obama's revolt as a movement candidate toward the presidency, which ends today. Wallace knew psychiatry could continue to treat him, however variable therapeutic treatment is, and we can assume he loved his intelligence and his ability, and his wife and family. He certainly did not have to face what those with my chronic developmental damage have to face. He and I were contemporaries, only his suicide sparked a furious determination to reconstruct who, what he was, for which Literature Network, reluctantly, may be given credit. I've written about this before, perhaps more unevenly, hammering away. Quite honestly, my anger remains, remains because he understood sensory, physical, deprivation, was a midwestern progressive darling if ever one existed, and fine tunes the tradition, ignited by Joyce, made a ballad by Pynchon, thrown in our faces with raunchy glee by Miller, and nuanced with particular sophistication in "The Suffering Channel," for Wallace, a lighter story, about shit. The ultimate post modern reductionist sentiment is that we're all piss and shit in the end. Wallace couples this with what must be his loathing for marketing/ media aggrandizement, the last story in his last completed collection, about a hick who bakes and fossilizes human stools. The author then leaves another project unfinished, utilizing Asberger's, from what was gathered before Slate became wearisome, and then, the end.

What do I gain from all this? He was my age in 08, a modest celebrity who successfully navigated the MFA puppy mill which put me out to pasture, and I am beginning to resemble a survivor of Auschwitz, and Europe has to snake the scope fairly deep to illustrate that black Africa eschews democracy with equivalent relish to the way American Marxists were once blacklisted. I do not think Wallace hung himself because his illness superseded him. 

Let me switch hit and make an assertion that libertarians and liberals may be confused about which spectrum I'm on; that is reasonable. I am fucking furious that my life was destroyed, essentially, by Jewish liberal prevarication, and a small handful of homosexuals, that I moved into a wheelchair access one bedroom apartment at 23, and then come out like a squeegee tube at 54 in a predominantly black, predominantly hostile senior living facility with arrogant Adventists on one end, the closed circuit Koreans on the other, and a handful of broken whites, passive spastics, save one. Wallace saw this. Whatever other relief he sought, he knew. Humans are driving themselves off the cliff, no matter how education, innovation, resolve problems. King Kong beats his chest. Might makes right, and if it was truly any different, I would not be living in a high risk lifestyle with a debt which amounts to no more than Zuckerberg's or Thiel's, weekly travel expenses.

A note on ecology and domestication

The aggregate for whom I am penny pimping AND NEED RESIDENTIAL AREA SUBSCRIBERS TO INCREASE MY COMMISSION (the residents of my building probably fall within Examiner's target range outside of sports actually but I have to weigh how much I'm willing to compromise my principles for ignorant Jesus spouting hypocrites) ran a story on Marius the giraffe-- or more correctly, the editorial team sent the aggregates who slave for them a link to search engine feeds. I briefly considered running with the head winds-- but my passions lean toward killing humans who kill cats and predators, not herd animals--it may also surprise you to learn I've never yet threatened an animal abuser, though it is tempting.

I take issue with Marc Bekoff, however. Was it cruel to kill a healthy two year old male who properly belonged on the African savanna? Yes. Ever see a lion take a wild giraffe down? That is cruel as well, whether or not the bolt gun is more humane than asphyxiation through curved fangs. I doubt either is pleasant in the shift from life to carcass, just as my death at the hands of 

a. an abusive paraprofessional
b. phlegm in my pulmonary tissue
c. other, primarily related to pressure sores and anxiety in developmental aging

will not be pleasant. Evolution is brutal; humans have done a great deal to both mitigate and prove this unfortunate fact, and the optimist belief that we can divorce existence from the brutality ranging from the cellular levels of consumption through orcas hunting blue whales, is too much hubris, even if transhumanism is all but ushered in upon us. I'll be happy to take the bolt gun off of the Danish. When I am ready perhaps an inner city banger will do the honor. It appeals to me more than sleep potions or bullets. I was tremendously angry at Wallace for his suicide, which was odd for a couple of reasons. Before he hung himself, I only read of his novel in passing and had no idea who Wallace was; investigation pissed me off, because he was, and had, everything I had hoped for myself. Humanist marriage, talent, students, fans, for Christ's sake, as well as the intuitive ability to use the immersion of disability in his work to offer a searing and penetrating perspective, and the genius greaseball fucking  hangs himself because he is in pain. I'm evidently not finished being really mad at a complete stranger whose work is nearly a virtuoso display of anguish. It should have been me instead, this is what my heart cries. I am still here, in this fucking provincial n---* shanty backwater where I was born in the fucking best of it public fucking housing system because its other units are pestering boils of post traumatic stress. 

I am still here, and I should have never come back.