Dense in interesting ways

"Hate can be exciting. Haven't you noticed?--George Macready

When I started posting in this sorry experiment of a personal voice, I picked LiveJournal's platform on which to do it before switching to Blogger, an entity which doesn't like me, as you know, because I've come very close to using language illegally. In the abstract that sounds silly, doesn't it? But -- ah, don't let me start about seeking out military snipers. It makes the depth of my pain inconsequential, and Philadelphia's ... (marginally white) underclass treats it that way. A somewhat blind smoker named Richard says he'd buy me an Uzzi, and let us simply stipulate for the record that we're all grateful spastic has no capacity to handle firearms, as Richard the smoker jokes with me. There is Finicum, and the tape of his death, San Bernardino, and Gubler's Dr. Spencer in analytic cadence: "Women rarely engage in violence unless they're angry for sustained lengths of time." What we're willing to do, what we're able to get away with, are perhaps two different things, and it's killing me. If I could walk, and you know this, Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne would know their place; I'd out rank them and they would never have the power to humiliate me the way they've both done for years. If I could walk I wouldn't be here, regardless of the economic circumstances, and in 2009 I just surfed, afraid I'd get in trouble, which I managed to do anyway, and said, "hmm, let me try this," and where and how do I wind up? In a service provider for Russia's bicameral mindset! An appropriate platform effort for a foul, sometimes rabid get help you need medication savant.

Yes. The only rational check I have holding me in when it comes to Presby's pecuniary competence is the fact that the sheer number of stupid people doing the job Trudy and Debra and Mike and Niles and supervisory agents therein do out number the rest of us and I'd have to be tried for a war crime if I got rid of them. Look at the website people. Look. I inducted myself into this when I was 23 years old. Twenty fucking three. I was in graduate school, and living in this type of system where niggers in the most horrific conditions dropped dead like flies and traumatized me repeatedly, almost killed me, and then a google-eyed bitch comes in as the new brownie for a transsexual failed internist's insistence on renovations, I nearly died again, and that after the lover this thing fucks got moved around on a chess board with me so I could default on my debt, and google-eyed brownie girl attacks me because she is afraid of menacing quadriplegic, and you all want civility. It isn't nice to tell the 42 president who officiated the funeral of King's widow to shut the fuck up, and it is rather insidious to envision the Secret Service killing me over impulse control, written in highly volatile language and deleted.

Do I obsess the presidency? No, and pose no threat to them even if I had a coronary in giving them a frank exchange, but god as my witness, Philadelphia is going to change its paradigm before I am dead, and I will not allow people like Debra Horne to be so cruel and vapid towards people like me in the future, and disability centers that engage in contiguous illegality will be dissolved and punished, and Philadelphia City Council, and the state legislature are going to either heed or imprison me, and the attorney general of the United States had better have an ear to the ground.

Spastic believes she solved her befuddlement over accessing WIFI, which I really need to do. Stupid cripple, eh? 

Trivial Decadence: A brief Christmas Post

Her face is meditative, solemn, almost august, as she commences the lascivious dance that will awaken the slumbering senses of old Herod. Diamonds scintillate against her glistening skin.--Against the Grain, Chapter 6

Kafka may have been skeptical of the midrash, but he succeeded in becoming a canonical author because biblical guilt carries over in his work. Scripture is two dimensional; Kafka is absurdly abstract in his cockroach as an extended metaphor of patriarchal judgment. Spastic has not read her St. Joseph's edition in a very long time, but remembers enough to know the Gospel of Mark presents Salmone as a collusionist to her mother's will. The queen wants the Baptist silenced, tells Salmone, less a figure of peace, more a hedonistic nullification, to dance for Herod. The rest gives way to Hollywood's variation on Apocrypha which is a disservice in the conflict between faith and rational progression.

In comparison to what we're beset with today, 1953 revisionists were a placid bunch, but the critics should have castigated Dieterle for casting Rita Hayworth as a clean run girl whose innocence is duped in an era of Gnostic flowering which created the second branch of monotheism. Getting a script past the censors is one thing. Transforming Semitic deviance into an American chorus line erases what the metaphysical conflict seeks to teach. Sexual gluttony perverts the gift of duty to a higher purpose, and Salmone, at least in the Baptist thread, seeks to subvert the coming of the Incarnate through offering appeasement to insatiable appetite. The Silent Generation as represented by mio padre may be dying off, but one thing which hasn't changed in all these years, keeping tempo on the American scene, is how shallow we are as a nation. Huysmans may be cloying, and claustrophobic, but he doesn't walk away from the threat of annihilation which sensory fulfillment poses, and narratives from a camera should never be the last word.

Hayworth had a troubled life in her later years, and if lacking depth is a flaw, her tormented alcoholic rages seem amply deserved.