Libiamo, ne' lietti calici
che la bellezza infiora,
e la fuggevol ora
s''inebrii a volutta.-- the libretto
Collaborative state model systems like niume earn the ire of the damned because they aren't very well thought out. Thousands of users, all vying for attention, none particularly discriminating when it comes to pixel image resolution, and the dowager is, herein, also at fault in this, unable to upgrade at an affluent pace, hence, the British based platform's advertising rate hikes hurt many people, pensioners, homeless individuals, not simply those limited by conditions, and the staff should have anticipated this beforehand, considered previous ailing models, like Yabberz, Examiner, and looked at what Medium is doing, especially since Niume utilizes the proprietary software of Medium's model. Considering the physical labor of blogging, 89 percent of it not revenue generating, how have these efficiency models optimized anything for those without the capacity to grasp computing technology? It demonstrates capitalist vulnerability, like a carnivore. Powerful, lethal at first glance, transformed into an atrocity by simple technical constructs, like spears, and then socialists like the disability attorney Tom Earle commiserate while they make sure mortuary services are in their investment portfolios. I give Virily something of a pass on this because they are Marxist heirs, not quite classical communists as such, but emulators, kissing cousins to western European compassion, even while that compassion crashes on its face.
Earlier this summer, though I demurred rather than continue, I almost got into a serious battle on social media with mother's sister, her family, about a certain level of inattentiveness to my plight, and of all people, (soft snort of deflected affection), Sheldon Novick jumped in, attempting to offer reassurance "we love you." And then he went silent. Had this been one of Mrs. Ramsey's dinner parties, I might have looked at him edgewise-- not so much for the interjection, as I've been equally inappropriate with the good legal scholar-- but I was raising my voice about the blinders of family self-interest. As an academic sympatico, he's blameless. During this episode, I committed a serious cognitive error, not recognizing another woman with cerebral palsy who I knew slightly from the intake center. When she friended me, I did not enlarge her photo image. I thought she was one of my aunts contacts, a case manager, possibly setting me up to fall on my sword, and the whole time, she was just Maria, a woman who knows I'm aggrieved, but not much else. This level of paranoia illustrates the disease of Philadelphia's static social model, making most of us sicker, not keeping us healthy. Tom posted to Maria on Friday in the last days of August, like an amicable simpleton, and it took me some doing, stifling the trigger for a condescending legally blind taco soft Mexican, tolerant of everything except for legal accountability, admitting fault, actually making amends. It seems nearly impossible for them, and the shock I put on his face sixteen years ago was like a land mine he had inadvertently triggered, then he clamped his jaw. Even the poorest lawyers have innate discipline for instinctively going non-responsive. This may be worthy to applaud, but he is one of two attorneys who specialize in rehabilitation law, and he's an enemy. It makes me wonder, how little social order would hold if Wall Street and similar finance centers, truly fell, no whipping boys to prop up so many dependent hordes. We'll never know, not in my lifetime, unless I assume too much.
Every cognizant wheelchair user knows what Tammy Duckworth has achieved, and on Thursday, I pushed back, politely, against her egalitarian altruism by illustrating how its opposite only confirmed my basic conservative convictions. I argued with her tweets as one disabled woman to another, not nameless writer to new branded political liberal. I believe she understood this, and neither of us had the upper hand on the better part of valor. It is a curious thing, little eddies amid the Trumpian wars.
Showing posts with label sheldon novick. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sheldon novick. Show all posts
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Wednesday, June 21, 2017
Austerity of Mortar
On rare occasions, I marvel at the fact that Robert Thomas and I have been friends for slightly over two decades. It is lost to obscurity, who initiated our mutual familiarity, why we exchanged email addresses, why I confided much to him as an email junkie, at first. I treated him like a girlfriend, not a man, which signifies something about San Francisco liberalism and pasteurized testicles, and when I more recently told him I was having trouble with a draft of a poem titled "Black China," which is still troubled, a bit too lethal with sexual trauma, he made a suggestion which I appreciated, which illustrates I hold my ferocity it check for intelligence of a kind, similar to Jeffrey Tucker, a would-have been editor, and the Foundation for Economic Education's Communication Director. Why can't I just write FEE? Why drag it out, as if choking to death on marbles, fascinating spheres which must be manufactured in a method similar to ball bearings.
All Robert remarked upon when we discussed "Black China," was "it has a lot going on." What else could he convey, or even know for himself, about women, brain damage, and the like? Robert and I have remained friends because I haven't been vicious, overly demanding, and we have an entire country between us, even as I grow more increasingly autocratic, vehement, toggling how far I will take militant defiance of authority as a salve for failure and age. Sheldon Novick, also, tweeted "thank you my friend," for his birthday wishes. I was not going to drag the Jamesian legal scholar into this post, but what he meant was I wasn't being an imposition, and he appreciated my following of convention to single him out. Though I cannot speak for Jeffrey, whose mind operates closest to my own pattern when I am not being utterly heinous, Robert Thomas, Sheldon Novick, and Joanne Marinelli are going to soon expire, not to mention my mentor, and none of us have absolute control over these last decades. Indeed, even hale and energetic generations under us, to whom we're supposed to bequeath our intrinsic wisdom, often face the end unexpected. The elderly, being cautious, sometimes survive the folly of youthful credence in itself, and when Jeffrey raised his voice about Wambier's excruciating sufferance under the nearly extinct fanaticism of Pyongyang, the last vestige of Maoism's exterminating tendencies, I did not wish to allow Jeffrey's resonating outcry to reach me. I knew of the story beforehand, but there are only so many causes any of us can attend to at one time, and even if Wambier was part of a tour group, why take the risk? There are places in the world westerners, Americans, shouldn't go, even for journalistic exposes, unless it is necessary for their jobs, as part of the foreign service. Nonetheless, despite the errors of our free, liberal, will, he did not deserve his fate. He went, and the conservative reaction doesn't change such a horrendous outcome. Jeffrey reached me, although here, too, I put the bit in my teeth, and never wrote him the letter I thought I might. He cannot save me simply because his intellect is equally shrewd, and keen. Bad choices, eggs in the basket starting to turn. When boiled eggs go bad, the odor, even for invalids challenged by the arts of hygiene, is pungent, domineering, and compels disposal.
There is no hyperbole sufficient for the volatility of the DMZ. It quells Trump's idiocy with the same force of regularity applied to spastic belligerence. Though one cannot speak for Xi's protean Marxism, American patriotic sentiment, when examining the bewilderment that is Asia, has to be mindful of disaster's gravity, even if orchestrated by the most extreme cultist dictatorship left in the world. Chuch'e (CIA) generates its own zealots, even under young Kim's fractious grip, and detainees have been used as bargaining chips with the regularity of a dripping faucet. Jimmy Carter extracted Ajahon Gomes from his predicament. There may be an abatement of Kim's rogue antipodes for the time being, but it will continue, and it will continue because this is the consequence of the left, of state model socialism. It is a wonder indeed, the tolerance allotted to a militant, increasingly right wing woman in her blasted circumstance. A Jewish secular liberal, a California poet with just so slightly better branding, a Southern libertarian whose humanism eschews the lessons of social fear. Perhaps not as diversified as it appears.
On one occasion, near the "Hand-over," when I was not present, the expedition was more successful. It struck a party of nearly 50 Indians, killed several warriors, and captured others. Memoirs of W.T. Sherman, p. 19
The case of Otto F. Warmbier is horrifying. This terror state is a disgrace to the human race.— Jeffrey A Tucker (@jeffreyatucker) June 20, 2017
All Robert remarked upon when we discussed "Black China," was "it has a lot going on." What else could he convey, or even know for himself, about women, brain damage, and the like? Robert and I have remained friends because I haven't been vicious, overly demanding, and we have an entire country between us, even as I grow more increasingly autocratic, vehement, toggling how far I will take militant defiance of authority as a salve for failure and age. Sheldon Novick, also, tweeted "thank you my friend," for his birthday wishes. I was not going to drag the Jamesian legal scholar into this post, but what he meant was I wasn't being an imposition, and he appreciated my following of convention to single him out. Though I cannot speak for Jeffrey, whose mind operates closest to my own pattern when I am not being utterly heinous, Robert Thomas, Sheldon Novick, and Joanne Marinelli are going to soon expire, not to mention my mentor, and none of us have absolute control over these last decades. Indeed, even hale and energetic generations under us, to whom we're supposed to bequeath our intrinsic wisdom, often face the end unexpected. The elderly, being cautious, sometimes survive the folly of youthful credence in itself, and when Jeffrey raised his voice about Wambier's excruciating sufferance under the nearly extinct fanaticism of Pyongyang, the last vestige of Maoism's exterminating tendencies, I did not wish to allow Jeffrey's resonating outcry to reach me. I knew of the story beforehand, but there are only so many causes any of us can attend to at one time, and even if Wambier was part of a tour group, why take the risk? There are places in the world westerners, Americans, shouldn't go, even for journalistic exposes, unless it is necessary for their jobs, as part of the foreign service. Nonetheless, despite the errors of our free, liberal, will, he did not deserve his fate. He went, and the conservative reaction doesn't change such a horrendous outcome. Jeffrey reached me, although here, too, I put the bit in my teeth, and never wrote him the letter I thought I might. He cannot save me simply because his intellect is equally shrewd, and keen. Bad choices, eggs in the basket starting to turn. When boiled eggs go bad, the odor, even for invalids challenged by the arts of hygiene, is pungent, domineering, and compels disposal.
There is no hyperbole sufficient for the volatility of the DMZ. It quells Trump's idiocy with the same force of regularity applied to spastic belligerence. Though one cannot speak for Xi's protean Marxism, American patriotic sentiment, when examining the bewilderment that is Asia, has to be mindful of disaster's gravity, even if orchestrated by the most extreme cultist dictatorship left in the world. Chuch'e (CIA) generates its own zealots, even under young Kim's fractious grip, and detainees have been used as bargaining chips with the regularity of a dripping faucet. Jimmy Carter extracted Ajahon Gomes from his predicament. There may be an abatement of Kim's rogue antipodes for the time being, but it will continue, and it will continue because this is the consequence of the left, of state model socialism. It is a wonder indeed, the tolerance allotted to a militant, increasingly right wing woman in her blasted circumstance. A Jewish secular liberal, a California poet with just so slightly better branding, a Southern libertarian whose humanism eschews the lessons of social fear. Perhaps not as diversified as it appears.
On one occasion, near the "Hand-over," when I was not present, the expedition was more successful. It struck a party of nearly 50 Indians, killed several warriors, and captured others. Memoirs of W.T. Sherman, p. 19
Friday, January 27, 2017
Humanist Bound
I figure, if I am getting blocked without being able to pinpoint either the user or the rationale, it must be because I put too much heart in saying "look, here is the end of the road!" I have little to no idea how Carson will change section 202 policies by the beginning of April, but by any reasonable standard, I am non-complaint, and my interior is not orderly, nor clean. Eight year old carpet needs section replacement, etcetera, yet shame is the least of my concerns, as I sat here attempting a minor note of eloquence to Sheldon Novick, his a learned mind of wonderfully constructed explanations of our best achievements. Henry James as a collector of social culture. Legal theory that turned constitutional law into the progressive victory whose zenith culminated, and started its process of erosion, under Lyndon Johnson, and I, in my worst moments, the stoking troll with charcoal eyes whose rage, when she is really tired, really tired, is beyond reason in its destructive cruelty. His social media metrics are sterile, Sheldon's, though I alternate with my distance of address from him, one one formal, "Dr Novick," which feels pretentious. He is neither colleague nor instructor, we are not socially familiar, and my numbers, not huge by any margin, yet more dynamic than his, My private message failed because the Toshiba cursor bounces and I lost the window. Sheldon would not care and I'll try another day. He's been extremely generous with me, and I feel traces of guilt. How can I froth with genocidal pathology and appreciate his scholarly arguments in the same brain mind dualism? There are ways to defend libertarian freedom and deplore Donald Trump simultaneously. I'm getting there but I'm not superhuman, and if I give this building manager her victory, go out into a cruel world into an environment where many people my age are strapped, I at the very least, need a destination. At the same time, I am too overwrought. But I am not doing what I plan to because of libertarian theory. Last time I checked, we all live once, and I need to get the fuck out of here, and the wreckage of my past in the gait of Jimmi Shrode's indignation, his partner's virtually zombie dead body with catheter tubes. Erik is a literal figure out of Shakespeare's supernatural.
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Like Stanwyck on Chamberlain
"Innocence must be proven, not proclaimed."-- Vincent Winterhalter
This is one of those mornings. Spastic needs to remember she used to be a closet centrist, and for the sake of whatever impoverished pride she has left in pursuit of aesthetic diligence, really going off like an actual militant will leave other angry individuals as hollow, if I force tragedy to strike, as the tape of Robert's death left me upon viewing it. His death was meaningless, as mine would be if I left authorities with no choice but to subdue me, and I do not entirely comprehend the grievances of the Oregon radicals. I read the reporting, as some of you still do, and know that the Department of the Interior controls well over half the state, but I don't really live in da Vinci code territory. Not quite. My rental agent is a pathological liar, but that goes for most of the Commonwealth I live in, west or east, as it does for the citizens in Flint, Michigan. Even California is virtually ungovernable, Jerry Brown is simply a favored son, and so he has the benefit of being tolerated. I even have no idea what the secret society symbolism in the Finicum article I cited means, despite the fact I can sound off like a conspiracy theorist with Liberty On The Rocks when it suits me, and then turn around and message Sheldon Novick that he should be a dean of his department, on the flimsy strength of the fact that his scholarship makes him the better author between the two of us. I don't really know Dr. Novick, anymore than I can pretend an allegiance to Tony Stiles. I am in fact rather skeptical of Tony's human trafficking tweets, because at the end of the day we all go into the deli slicer where our offal makes a good salami; I don't know Tony either, though there is a six degree of separation familiarity-- and Dr. Novick and I have watched my failed potential surge against the crags for years. For his sake, should I be ashamed of my anarchist excitement?
A moral dilemma of my own making, but without reservation, Sheldon Novick has a fine mind. He is wry, doesn't scream at my cats for various infractions, and I endorse his legacy despite the fact that I am as cool to the experiment that is the state of Israel as Jennifer Rubin is to Rand Paul as the libertarian heir apparent.
As uncouth as I've been on Blogger in the destruction of my own moderation, I never imagined a day where a first generation ERA advocate would utter sexist remarks. Sanders is too liberal even for the interior angry radical my uncle Tom once accused me of being, but I'd never accuse the women who support him of doing so for the sake of their sexual satisfaction. Steinem managed to offend me, and I am merely a lowly short circuited failure, a troll who shoots herself in the foot. When I met my gay state representative, in a lowered voice I said I'm going to give you hell, and he took it with the normative tenor of depreciation, a homosexual dandy with a veneer, when turned off, exposes what any constituent is reluctant to see revealed: an emotional armor, a ruthlessness, perhaps due to the realization of how limited his role is, reading the beaten anguish in a face like mine. Everything he stands for makes me nauseous, everything, but for him this doesn't count. I rarely vote on state or city referendums, and don't pay property taxes. Unseating him with a conservative who could take his district is a bad Fantasia script. Pennsylvania hasn't had a budget for seven months, and so the difference between Corbett and Wolf comes down to this: Corbett blamed Joe Paterno, subsequently tanking his political career, and Wolf is a cosmopolitan wall flower, a figurine in whom we've lost the faith. I dream of how happy I might have been with my thighs clamped onto Jerome Robart. I'd have never let go, in my poor, broken, bitter little heart.
This is one of those mornings. Spastic needs to remember she used to be a closet centrist, and for the sake of whatever impoverished pride she has left in pursuit of aesthetic diligence, really going off like an actual militant will leave other angry individuals as hollow, if I force tragedy to strike, as the tape of Robert's death left me upon viewing it. His death was meaningless, as mine would be if I left authorities with no choice but to subdue me, and I do not entirely comprehend the grievances of the Oregon radicals. I read the reporting, as some of you still do, and know that the Department of the Interior controls well over half the state, but I don't really live in da Vinci code territory. Not quite. My rental agent is a pathological liar, but that goes for most of the Commonwealth I live in, west or east, as it does for the citizens in Flint, Michigan. Even California is virtually ungovernable, Jerry Brown is simply a favored son, and so he has the benefit of being tolerated. I even have no idea what the secret society symbolism in the Finicum article I cited means, despite the fact I can sound off like a conspiracy theorist with Liberty On The Rocks when it suits me, and then turn around and message Sheldon Novick that he should be a dean of his department, on the flimsy strength of the fact that his scholarship makes him the better author between the two of us. I don't really know Dr. Novick, anymore than I can pretend an allegiance to Tony Stiles. I am in fact rather skeptical of Tony's human trafficking tweets, because at the end of the day we all go into the deli slicer where our offal makes a good salami; I don't know Tony either, though there is a six degree of separation familiarity-- and Dr. Novick and I have watched my failed potential surge against the crags for years. For his sake, should I be ashamed of my anarchist excitement?
A moral dilemma of my own making, but without reservation, Sheldon Novick has a fine mind. He is wry, doesn't scream at my cats for various infractions, and I endorse his legacy despite the fact that I am as cool to the experiment that is the state of Israel as Jennifer Rubin is to Rand Paul as the libertarian heir apparent.
As uncouth as I've been on Blogger in the destruction of my own moderation, I never imagined a day where a first generation ERA advocate would utter sexist remarks. Sanders is too liberal even for the interior angry radical my uncle Tom once accused me of being, but I'd never accuse the women who support him of doing so for the sake of their sexual satisfaction. Steinem managed to offend me, and I am merely a lowly short circuited failure, a troll who shoots herself in the foot. When I met my gay state representative, in a lowered voice I said I'm going to give you hell, and he took it with the normative tenor of depreciation, a homosexual dandy with a veneer, when turned off, exposes what any constituent is reluctant to see revealed: an emotional armor, a ruthlessness, perhaps due to the realization of how limited his role is, reading the beaten anguish in a face like mine. Everything he stands for makes me nauseous, everything, but for him this doesn't count. I rarely vote on state or city referendums, and don't pay property taxes. Unseating him with a conservative who could take his district is a bad Fantasia script. Pennsylvania hasn't had a budget for seven months, and so the difference between Corbett and Wolf comes down to this: Corbett blamed Joe Paterno, subsequently tanking his political career, and Wolf is a cosmopolitan wall flower, a figurine in whom we've lost the faith. I dream of how happy I might have been with my thighs clamped onto Jerome Robart. I'd have never let go, in my poor, broken, bitter little heart.
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Aphasia
Many scholars lake to make safe nods to multicultural orthodoxy by implying that human races do not exist.-- Nicholas Wade, Chapter 4, A Troublesome Inheritance: Genes, Race and Human History
There is a documentary on You Tube which summarizes the Lionel Tate case through 2015, now coming to a close with typical confetti glitter surrounding the winter solstice, and spastic has flagged for consideration doing a book on the subject, which supposes I live long enough, and have the clout to get some of the primary players to open up to a relatively battered journalist with her fingernails just above the sewage canals beneath the streets. The good Sheldon Novick once encouraged me to explore the curiously destabilizing aspects to Alice James chronic condition and her brothers' gallantry, which in William's case bordered on incestuous compassion, but my triggers of interest are apparently aroused by the firestorm surrounding a child murderer who seems compellingly inconsequential in his interior aspect, in terms of self-realization and responsibility, and yet electrified intense emotional investment which failed to redeem him regardless of the ideological spectrum involved. Liberal empathy, conservative bluntness, failed to redeem Lionel Tate, the judicial hours spent disputing the facts in evidence failed to rectify the arc his troubled young adulthood, and a movement like black lives matter, what redress can it offer if Tate and his mother can't step up to the plate to address their own negligence, not without facing self-incrimination, in the death of Tiffany Eunick?
Institutional bias had no bearing on the events inside Mrs. Tate's dwelling. That bias only came into perception, if relevant, once the six year old was dead, and who spoke for her? The wings of Tiffany's mother were clipped because the monster wasn't a television manufactured psychopath whose behavior could be so carefully circumscribed by the genius profiler played by Matthew Gubler, just an overweight 12 year old with typical aggressive indicators of dysfunction allegedly tied to maternal indifference, and then it gets buried, superseded because Trayvon Martin gets killed by a paranoid vigilante, or disadvantaged individuals die in police custody, with little weight given to how overwhelmed police forces are, these days, the blue line of last resort. I am nearly positive my district now has a flag on me because I've complained about the terror and the hatred of the elderly I've experienced under the corporate banner of Presbyterian Homes.
Certainly, to pick up on Tony Stiles' point, all governments are so much more powerful than people, but that is everything. Landlords necessarily supersede impoverished tenants, because the concept of property is the lynch pin of capital-- even though we know that however it is zoned, structures on a landscape aren't owned. We exchange them, relative to the value of the location, and create space in the livable atmosphere of storied buildings. In essence I am conceding certain critiques to Marxism, at the same time flipping it. If I owned what I wanted to live in, I'd fight and fend for it, but section 202 housing is a classification designed by default for expendable classes, to treat you like a problem, not to help you climb, but to spit you into a hospice, which had its nascent inclination in the 19th century, in the birth of the sanitarium, and regulation on the federal level, leads to the spiral of dilapidation in more subtle fashion, as surely as shanty towns breed the next pandenic.
Lionel Tate is a footnote of black on black predation in the uproar over police brutality toward perceived civilian threats, black, white, Hispanic, Indian, and he shouldn't be. The familiarity of contempt generates more murder than the use of excessive force at the end of a gun barrel, not that I can drop everything to run with this, as my pet is guilty of capital endangerment.
There is a documentary on You Tube which summarizes the Lionel Tate case through 2015, now coming to a close with typical confetti glitter surrounding the winter solstice, and spastic has flagged for consideration doing a book on the subject, which supposes I live long enough, and have the clout to get some of the primary players to open up to a relatively battered journalist with her fingernails just above the sewage canals beneath the streets. The good Sheldon Novick once encouraged me to explore the curiously destabilizing aspects to Alice James chronic condition and her brothers' gallantry, which in William's case bordered on incestuous compassion, but my triggers of interest are apparently aroused by the firestorm surrounding a child murderer who seems compellingly inconsequential in his interior aspect, in terms of self-realization and responsibility, and yet electrified intense emotional investment which failed to redeem him regardless of the ideological spectrum involved. Liberal empathy, conservative bluntness, failed to redeem Lionel Tate, the judicial hours spent disputing the facts in evidence failed to rectify the arc his troubled young adulthood, and a movement like black lives matter, what redress can it offer if Tate and his mother can't step up to the plate to address their own negligence, not without facing self-incrimination, in the death of Tiffany Eunick?
Institutional bias had no bearing on the events inside Mrs. Tate's dwelling. That bias only came into perception, if relevant, once the six year old was dead, and who spoke for her? The wings of Tiffany's mother were clipped because the monster wasn't a television manufactured psychopath whose behavior could be so carefully circumscribed by the genius profiler played by Matthew Gubler, just an overweight 12 year old with typical aggressive indicators of dysfunction allegedly tied to maternal indifference, and then it gets buried, superseded because Trayvon Martin gets killed by a paranoid vigilante, or disadvantaged individuals die in police custody, with little weight given to how overwhelmed police forces are, these days, the blue line of last resort. I am nearly positive my district now has a flag on me because I've complained about the terror and the hatred of the elderly I've experienced under the corporate banner of Presbyterian Homes.
Certainly, to pick up on Tony Stiles' point, all governments are so much more powerful than people, but that is everything. Landlords necessarily supersede impoverished tenants, because the concept of property is the lynch pin of capital-- even though we know that however it is zoned, structures on a landscape aren't owned. We exchange them, relative to the value of the location, and create space in the livable atmosphere of storied buildings. In essence I am conceding certain critiques to Marxism, at the same time flipping it. If I owned what I wanted to live in, I'd fight and fend for it, but section 202 housing is a classification designed by default for expendable classes, to treat you like a problem, not to help you climb, but to spit you into a hospice, which had its nascent inclination in the 19th century, in the birth of the sanitarium, and regulation on the federal level, leads to the spiral of dilapidation in more subtle fashion, as surely as shanty towns breed the next pandenic.
Lionel Tate is a footnote of black on black predation in the uproar over police brutality toward perceived civilian threats, black, white, Hispanic, Indian, and he shouldn't be. The familiarity of contempt generates more murder than the use of excessive force at the end of a gun barrel, not that I can drop everything to run with this, as my pet is guilty of capital endangerment.
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Concentric Roulette
"I will always be a little more miserable than you." Charlie Sheen
Oh, I'm weak alright, because one thing consulting for Liberty Resources did to me was terrify me in relation to Inglis House, and the people who are maintained there aren't all dying, but the institutional paradigm takes a huge toll regardless of maintenance stratification. Wheelchair users aren't the only ones who suffer, which is why nursing human abuse is a litigation generator, and yet I can't fight my age, which isn't so much about my ass hitting the laminated pan in my shower stall: I fall periodically, but Trudy and the minions are now criminalizing it, and I am now exactly where I started in my twenties, thick, indigent, sitting in a stained T, my underlying desperation really akin to Dante's viciousness in The Inferno. I can only write without terror at Presby's power in small increments, and know when the time comes, I cannot live a virtually immobile life, like my ex, Frank, and with kudos to my sister, and to sympathizers like the fine biographer Sheldon Novick, who has a finesse and focus I'll never achieve, pills are not going to resolve this.
I have avoiding delving into suicide too deeply; it's passe really, but the mortality train is on my ass, and I apparently will never break away from cruel black matron enforcers on which my family consigned me and I later, subconsciously, consigned myself. If I had understood the weave of corruption in public housing before I over rode my parents on Diamond Park, I would have never have done it, and now it is all too late.
I'm going to put in a search for room mates and see what happens, I do not know. There are areas of the city that would destroy what cognizance I have left if officials punt me there for being stiff necked: Hunting Park, or Kensington, which is the equivalent of a West African shanty town, but economically is all I can now afford. I'd break there, break in Inglis, and two black woman here where I live are applying the institutional equivalent of blunt force trauma to lock me back into an abusive system.
I have the need to be, this morning, a memoirist in pique, which is much more indulgent than the focus a wonderful scholar like Sheldon applies, and need to find more time to spend with it, except not just now, because I have to apply such objective plaint as I have to give myself the space I need in the short window I have with my lateral transfer method. Take a look at Sheldon's work, his optimism tower's above the misfortune of brain lesions, bodily contortions, and the fear of healthier humans in reaction to it. The ADA hasn't really changed anything, at the core. Debra Horne, at bottom, fears me, and hence the truncheon applied against my biting contempt toward her, an adversarial relationship where she has all the chits to her advantage, and it is sad commentary on the welfare state.
Oh, I'm weak alright, because one thing consulting for Liberty Resources did to me was terrify me in relation to Inglis House, and the people who are maintained there aren't all dying, but the institutional paradigm takes a huge toll regardless of maintenance stratification. Wheelchair users aren't the only ones who suffer, which is why nursing human abuse is a litigation generator, and yet I can't fight my age, which isn't so much about my ass hitting the laminated pan in my shower stall: I fall periodically, but Trudy and the minions are now criminalizing it, and I am now exactly where I started in my twenties, thick, indigent, sitting in a stained T, my underlying desperation really akin to Dante's viciousness in The Inferno. I can only write without terror at Presby's power in small increments, and know when the time comes, I cannot live a virtually immobile life, like my ex, Frank, and with kudos to my sister, and to sympathizers like the fine biographer Sheldon Novick, who has a finesse and focus I'll never achieve, pills are not going to resolve this.
I have avoiding delving into suicide too deeply; it's passe really, but the mortality train is on my ass, and I apparently will never break away from cruel black matron enforcers on which my family consigned me and I later, subconsciously, consigned myself. If I had understood the weave of corruption in public housing before I over rode my parents on Diamond Park, I would have never have done it, and now it is all too late.
I'm going to put in a search for room mates and see what happens, I do not know. There are areas of the city that would destroy what cognizance I have left if officials punt me there for being stiff necked: Hunting Park, or Kensington, which is the equivalent of a West African shanty town, but economically is all I can now afford. I'd break there, break in Inglis, and two black woman here where I live are applying the institutional equivalent of blunt force trauma to lock me back into an abusive system.
I have the need to be, this morning, a memoirist in pique, which is much more indulgent than the focus a wonderful scholar like Sheldon applies, and need to find more time to spend with it, except not just now, because I have to apply such objective plaint as I have to give myself the space I need in the short window I have with my lateral transfer method. Take a look at Sheldon's work, his optimism tower's above the misfortune of brain lesions, bodily contortions, and the fear of healthier humans in reaction to it. The ADA hasn't really changed anything, at the core. Debra Horne, at bottom, fears me, and hence the truncheon applied against my biting contempt toward her, an adversarial relationship where she has all the chits to her advantage, and it is sad commentary on the welfare state.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Cross Stations
"He is one of the very greatest English poets, and his greatness has never been fully acknowledged or described, in part at least because his prolific writing and his huge and idiosyncratic erudition make him hard to come to terms with all at once--" AS Byatt, "Robert Browning: Fact, Fiction, Lies, Incarnation and Art"
I haven't made an effort to meet any more divorced or widowed males, and at my age, single men might be slightly suspicious, since the lesbian Josie Byzek conveniently disrupted mine and Cecil Morales prospective interest in each other, difficult to dwell on,(excluding my infantile glutton driven ex) but even if I stuck my neck out of my tortoise shell and fortune surprised me with an alternate ending, a good man would have to compete with Linda's shrill enthusiasm in my head, "Oh come on Joanne, we all know that spastic..." It will always make me feel small, her voice, in email, crowing about Bruce's performance. I can ask myself why they divorced, and their split had reverberations within the CIL community, and immediately understand that divorce at the same time, though she never discussed her marital life, other than throwing her gratification in my face, and I can hear her with her most confidential sympathizers calling me a mawkish asshole.
She'd be right. I was a mawkish asshole, but desperation not to have sanctuary and order implode, not to be abused, under intense harassment by Riverside, which is as about terrible as you can imagine without an employer, and the racism of case managers, however veiled or overt, this is why I was so emotionally vulnerable with Linda. Marcia Ian tried to offer me a psychoanalytic perspective, that Linda was, subconsciously or otherwise, uncoupling my infantile need to return to the nest, and buttress those forked tongue assurances that I wasn't abandoned, but Marcia's admirable theorizing doesn't begin to heal the wounds of being scapegoated, victimized on one end by ineffectual case management, re: Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Jenelle Dost, and every defensive den mother at Liberty I've dealt with since, and exploited by black dysfunction, attendant neglect, on the other.
I pounded out a regressive rhyming verse for Linda, which I should not have done, simplistic and childish in stridency, which took me fourteen years to rewrite. I sent the esteemed Sheldon Novick a draft as a summary apologia for my social inappropriate familiarity when he was just a blank on whom my libations seeped in their wounds, and Robert liked it. American Poetry Review has remained silent, and I assume I am in the slush pile, if hard drives have one. I do not know, especially since my mortality is close at hand, if I can ever resurface, scythed, but back on my feet.
*******
My Patron Saint
--for Linda C Dezenski
Gold filigree molded to the cast by the armature will boil
you alive in a molten vat, crisp the epidermis, heaven of a bacon
back, the needle sting of rosemary, little pitch of thyme,
silken filaments of liposome accumulate the pupils;
accelerate the blind exhaust in idolatry, her moans: their
satisfaction leave you biting fugal dust, serrated blade in puncture.
Aerophagia onsets beneath the pressured ribs so rapidly, ebbing away and scrub,
the wounded climax but a moment, these the later Hebrew saints a
prelude to St. Anne, sort of, in the name of transitional gentile
Hannah was barren like Sarah, ailing tadpoles in an acid slink, writhe
and writhe again old woman, forth your issue a womb to hold the uncontainable
Incarnate, supposed to feel good, it is, within Blume's exploratory wash
cloth, or Toni's mad black bitch. Liberate it to the boast, pubic spasms an
end onto themselves, with vocal mandibles they speak, they're old stridency,
Helen Reddy on the LP, brass decor fit for flamenco, if barely in sync.
Empowered with a roar, intimations for the pedestrians on those autonomic
chilly roads, impregnable with so many episodes, turning points. Franciscan
orders create ascetics impervious to anything but pleasure in humility, one
dimension fresco with its halo most certain as an object, zealotry feared, good
reasons for it amid the lawyering medical class, those who shifted the axis.
Francis de Sales peddled something in commerce mind, not as padre might
envision, running with the bulls, ripped to a weight lifter's stance; better
yet, a green man so full of rage the canopy trembles beneath his tread.
The blessed meek anticipate the end we've reached, the end not of aggression,
eco-colony collapse, nor the whimpers of irresolute despair.
Sissy primate with its tartly bitter taste, the wanderer has a lesion on its
mind, circuits that scramble to ever greater depth, spastics brag,
appalling, sugar cubes of suffering carved into the metastasis, fettered
beyond benign, conscience felled the breast of Joan d'Arc.
Never to suckle, rear her own. Where is this freedom of the broken body?
Bundled into the derivatives, convulsing credit to a standstill?
Compliance gives us more within the fortress built to hide.
Urine bags burst the blush to purple, humiliated by the smell.
--Revised from 4/27/2000
I haven't made an effort to meet any more divorced or widowed males, and at my age, single men might be slightly suspicious, since the lesbian Josie Byzek conveniently disrupted mine and Cecil Morales prospective interest in each other, difficult to dwell on,(excluding my infantile glutton driven ex) but even if I stuck my neck out of my tortoise shell and fortune surprised me with an alternate ending, a good man would have to compete with Linda's shrill enthusiasm in my head, "Oh come on Joanne, we all know that spastic..." It will always make me feel small, her voice, in email, crowing about Bruce's performance. I can ask myself why they divorced, and their split had reverberations within the CIL community, and immediately understand that divorce at the same time, though she never discussed her marital life, other than throwing her gratification in my face, and I can hear her with her most confidential sympathizers calling me a mawkish asshole.
She'd be right. I was a mawkish asshole, but desperation not to have sanctuary and order implode, not to be abused, under intense harassment by Riverside, which is as about terrible as you can imagine without an employer, and the racism of case managers, however veiled or overt, this is why I was so emotionally vulnerable with Linda. Marcia Ian tried to offer me a psychoanalytic perspective, that Linda was, subconsciously or otherwise, uncoupling my infantile need to return to the nest, and buttress those forked tongue assurances that I wasn't abandoned, but Marcia's admirable theorizing doesn't begin to heal the wounds of being scapegoated, victimized on one end by ineffectual case management, re: Trudy Richardson, Debra Horne, Jenelle Dost, and every defensive den mother at Liberty I've dealt with since, and exploited by black dysfunction, attendant neglect, on the other.
I pounded out a regressive rhyming verse for Linda, which I should not have done, simplistic and childish in stridency, which took me fourteen years to rewrite. I sent the esteemed Sheldon Novick a draft as a summary apologia for my social inappropriate familiarity when he was just a blank on whom my libations seeped in their wounds, and Robert liked it. American Poetry Review has remained silent, and I assume I am in the slush pile, if hard drives have one. I do not know, especially since my mortality is close at hand, if I can ever resurface, scythed, but back on my feet.
*******
My Patron Saint
--for Linda C Dezenski
Gold filigree molded to the cast by the armature will boil
you alive in a molten vat, crisp the epidermis, heaven of a bacon
back, the needle sting of rosemary, little pitch of thyme,
silken filaments of liposome accumulate the pupils;
accelerate the blind exhaust in idolatry, her moans: their
satisfaction leave you biting fugal dust, serrated blade in puncture.
Aerophagia onsets beneath the pressured ribs so rapidly, ebbing away and scrub,
the wounded climax but a moment, these the later Hebrew saints a
prelude to St. Anne, sort of, in the name of transitional gentile
Hannah was barren like Sarah, ailing tadpoles in an acid slink, writhe
and writhe again old woman, forth your issue a womb to hold the uncontainable
Incarnate, supposed to feel good, it is, within Blume's exploratory wash
cloth, or Toni's mad black bitch. Liberate it to the boast, pubic spasms an
end onto themselves, with vocal mandibles they speak, they're old stridency,
Helen Reddy on the LP, brass decor fit for flamenco, if barely in sync.
Empowered with a roar, intimations for the pedestrians on those autonomic
chilly roads, impregnable with so many episodes, turning points. Franciscan
orders create ascetics impervious to anything but pleasure in humility, one
dimension fresco with its halo most certain as an object, zealotry feared, good
reasons for it amid the lawyering medical class, those who shifted the axis.
Francis de Sales peddled something in commerce mind, not as padre might
envision, running with the bulls, ripped to a weight lifter's stance; better
yet, a green man so full of rage the canopy trembles beneath his tread.
The blessed meek anticipate the end we've reached, the end not of aggression,
eco-colony collapse, nor the whimpers of irresolute despair.
Sissy primate with its tartly bitter taste, the wanderer has a lesion on its
mind, circuits that scramble to ever greater depth, spastics brag,
appalling, sugar cubes of suffering carved into the metastasis, fettered
beyond benign, conscience felled the breast of Joan d'Arc.
Never to suckle, rear her own. Where is this freedom of the broken body?
Bundled into the derivatives, convulsing credit to a standstill?
Compliance gives us more within the fortress built to hide.
Urine bags burst the blush to purple, humiliated by the smell.
--Revised from 4/27/2000
Thursday, July 24, 2014
As goes the District
"I am confident section 202 housing can fly again to serve the low income elderly and the handicapped."-- a pontificating Senator
Black journalists like Jonetta Rose Barras always do this. As long as its a member of the minority media doling moral sanction and speaking to the corruption of minority politicians, then progressives of all stripes can relax. Poverty and negative behavior like destruction of property is indicted, and CBS engages in grand larceny against intelligence marketing "Big Brother" as gen x reality television. If it is the likes of Eric Edwards I am trying to reach, I have been partially successful, but only that, as I tersely told the actual humorist of his little non-fiction pamphlet and local celebrity status in San Diego to go stuff it, after indicating a willingness to be kind to his work. I managed the first paragraph of his introduction, and felt myself akin to Nathanael West in his Mardi Gras guise counseling suicide to his victims of Prohibition era misogyny, in yet another iteration. I might have lied, and wrote something pithy, handed him our convenient two or three star rating, Clarity Media would have pitched me a few more pennies in my wallet, and on we go, not deigning to interfere. Nathanael West is actually an amazing predictor of the future, for Examiner.com does not have to fire me. I am not staff, keep my content parenthetically innocuous, and we're on our merry way. Offering me what I want towards the end of my viable productivity might be a nightmare after all, so I should consider myself lucky to have survived the modern black police state, fossil that I am beneath the harmony of the Pro Publica strivers, busy fighting for capital offenders in Muncy and other pristine terror wards, or a misjudgment might leave me at the mercy of a less gruesome Ariel Castro. Such a house arrest is a plausible scenario of my desperate desire for change, as what is unsaid in my actual quest for an attorney to litigate my freedom with the least possible negative consequence is my own indictment of African American bigotry, the indifference and unwillingness of my own class to support me toward my own esteem of what I believed my empirical value to be. Gwen Ifill, like me, is from an era where submersion was the price one paid to climb professionally, only tacitly acknowledging the brotherhood which paid in blood for her to become a top national anchor. Gwen no longer has Jonetta's space to spearhead the issue of real estate and our diseased socialist model so succinctly, but her platform doesn't offer anything innovative, as chastisement has been with us since Clan of the Cave Bear.
I am not guilty of any of the problems associated with the public housing tenant save one, and in this vein of reigning in, none of my early instructors did me any favors through the recognition of my own promise-- and in point of fact, Sheldon's later encouragement is equally null, equally void, not because I am unable to write a biography of Alice James and her pitiful succor on the breast of the woman in service to care for her, but because such a despicable exercise is no bulwark.
Black journalists like Jonetta Rose Barras always do this. As long as its a member of the minority media doling moral sanction and speaking to the corruption of minority politicians, then progressives of all stripes can relax. Poverty and negative behavior like destruction of property is indicted, and CBS engages in grand larceny against intelligence marketing "Big Brother" as gen x reality television. If it is the likes of Eric Edwards I am trying to reach, I have been partially successful, but only that, as I tersely told the actual humorist of his little non-fiction pamphlet and local celebrity status in San Diego to go stuff it, after indicating a willingness to be kind to his work. I managed the first paragraph of his introduction, and felt myself akin to Nathanael West in his Mardi Gras guise counseling suicide to his victims of Prohibition era misogyny, in yet another iteration. I might have lied, and wrote something pithy, handed him our convenient two or three star rating, Clarity Media would have pitched me a few more pennies in my wallet, and on we go, not deigning to interfere. Nathanael West is actually an amazing predictor of the future, for Examiner.com does not have to fire me. I am not staff, keep my content parenthetically innocuous, and we're on our merry way. Offering me what I want towards the end of my viable productivity might be a nightmare after all, so I should consider myself lucky to have survived the modern black police state, fossil that I am beneath the harmony of the Pro Publica strivers, busy fighting for capital offenders in Muncy and other pristine terror wards, or a misjudgment might leave me at the mercy of a less gruesome Ariel Castro. Such a house arrest is a plausible scenario of my desperate desire for change, as what is unsaid in my actual quest for an attorney to litigate my freedom with the least possible negative consequence is my own indictment of African American bigotry, the indifference and unwillingness of my own class to support me toward my own esteem of what I believed my empirical value to be. Gwen Ifill, like me, is from an era where submersion was the price one paid to climb professionally, only tacitly acknowledging the brotherhood which paid in blood for her to become a top national anchor. Gwen no longer has Jonetta's space to spearhead the issue of real estate and our diseased socialist model so succinctly, but her platform doesn't offer anything innovative, as chastisement has been with us since Clan of the Cave Bear.
I am not guilty of any of the problems associated with the public housing tenant save one, and in this vein of reigning in, none of my early instructors did me any favors through the recognition of my own promise-- and in point of fact, Sheldon's later encouragement is equally null, equally void, not because I am unable to write a biography of Alice James and her pitiful succor on the breast of the woman in service to care for her, but because such a despicable exercise is no bulwark.
Sunday, June 1, 2014
I Wake Up Screaming
"I wanted to be like the Europeans."--Orhan Pamuk, location 1856
Seasonal allergies and my father's sinuses is also a contingency not planned for, the grease ball's throbbing head with my mother's nerves, her father's intestinal issues rolled into a palsied post 50 flesh, waking itself at 4 in the morning to watch Grable and Mature conduct their insider studio celebrity jokes with perv kisses and stocking feet, titillating beef shots, watching Laird Cregar (who I never heard of) do a formulaic twist as a stalker, obsessive worshiper.
Hovering between my tormented genius, over-educated competency and decomposition, even online, the mental health consumer, for those of you with a Linked In account, laser in on me. They know it would not take much to leave me adrift and stranded as they are themselves, or have an intuitive antenna attuned to vulnerability, as Sheldon Novick knows, and Sarah too, the graduate intern of years past, I harbor a degree of guilt over certain cases of undeserved outbursts, not meant in all cases to intimidate. (I never truly had an axe to grind with Henry James aficionados, which isn't to allege that I am not in *Hallmark Mandy's* sandpit, that of recrimination in being argumentative.)
He is literally incomprehensible, however, worth dropping or making fun of, another argument against radical equality, even as I adopt a new online mentee whose skills are sharp, who probably doesn't realize he should tell me to go fuck myself and report me to the NAACP. My smile is bemused, my psyche not necessarily seeking reconciliation with the hatreds of learned experience and an affection for the energy, empathy, of the young and up and coming. Even though he wasn't the primary actor in the illegality of Liberty Resources against me, I truly hate Jimmi Shrode, his sissy and shrill voice of disdain, his ugly and gluttonous homosexuality, the black lacquer on his hand bitten fingernails, his occasional use of green eye shadow even more repugnant, the depth of a hatred that is such that it goes too far and would abate if I could leave Riverside. Other than closing my disability center down because of its corruption and institutional bias, the very last thing I want in my life is to vacate these premises without making my predicament more the worse, and I'm at a loss even though I have threatened the parent company.
Legal action against Presby is no guarantee that I can preserve my last years with dignity.
Seasonal allergies and my father's sinuses is also a contingency not planned for, the grease ball's throbbing head with my mother's nerves, her father's intestinal issues rolled into a palsied post 50 flesh, waking itself at 4 in the morning to watch Grable and Mature conduct their insider studio celebrity jokes with perv kisses and stocking feet, titillating beef shots, watching Laird Cregar (who I never heard of) do a formulaic twist as a stalker, obsessive worshiper.
Hovering between my tormented genius, over-educated competency and decomposition, even online, the mental health consumer, for those of you with a Linked In account, laser in on me. They know it would not take much to leave me adrift and stranded as they are themselves, or have an intuitive antenna attuned to vulnerability, as Sheldon Novick knows, and Sarah too, the graduate intern of years past, I harbor a degree of guilt over certain cases of undeserved outbursts, not meant in all cases to intimidate. (I never truly had an axe to grind with Henry James aficionados, which isn't to allege that I am not in *Hallmark Mandy's* sandpit, that of recrimination in being argumentative.)
He is literally incomprehensible, however, worth dropping or making fun of, another argument against radical equality, even as I adopt a new online mentee whose skills are sharp, who probably doesn't realize he should tell me to go fuck myself and report me to the NAACP. My smile is bemused, my psyche not necessarily seeking reconciliation with the hatreds of learned experience and an affection for the energy, empathy, of the young and up and coming. Even though he wasn't the primary actor in the illegality of Liberty Resources against me, I truly hate Jimmi Shrode, his sissy and shrill voice of disdain, his ugly and gluttonous homosexuality, the black lacquer on his hand bitten fingernails, his occasional use of green eye shadow even more repugnant, the depth of a hatred that is such that it goes too far and would abate if I could leave Riverside. Other than closing my disability center down because of its corruption and institutional bias, the very last thing I want in my life is to vacate these premises without making my predicament more the worse, and I'm at a loss even though I have threatened the parent company.
Legal action against Presby is no guarantee that I can preserve my last years with dignity.
Friday, March 28, 2014
The Hunt for Kony
"There were people with their tongues hanging out of their mouths."-- a child narrator in a Richard Gere film
Scowling. The viewers who reported me due to the immersion of my sympathy with Christopher Dorner had it right in the first place, and correctly divined my genocidal impetus. I would dare to sit in judgment, and like the Chinese authorities in the Peoples’ Republic, I’d gleefully waste thousands here and thousands there in hyperbolic exaggeration, and deep down inside, there are many human power mongers like me, not to add a few Egyptian generals to the list, or the entire governing body of North Korea. The only reason I do not really let loose, I mean really let it out in a verbal ingenuity of hell fiend on wheels in a scathing vat of boiling gold to the tenth Klevin, is only partially due to an over developed paranoia. I care too much about the project I’ve developed on my two blogging accounts, akin to my fervor to annihilate public housing.
The fossil fuel residue that ignites my violet Roman temper upset mio padre. I telephoned him to discuss estate planning in my avarice. He then telephoned his demented sister of whom, it may be said, is wearing me out in her shrewd and shrill inconsistencies. This, from a spastic running her native tongue into the searing Fahrenheit. Marie, my Uncle Joseph, Louise mio padre’s wife, with her RA, would save us a great deal of trouble with a lungful or two of carbon monoxide, regardless of my cousins’ umbrage. Richie and I do not get along, and he’d whale me for the blunt force of my unhappiness his mother has absorbed since 2006. Billy would be softer.
Should I apologize to the writers like Robert and academics like Carrol Cox or Sheldon Novick, when I letter write failure miseries in my box set? I did the same thing to Professor Jerry McGuire, now in emeritus status, deploy rhetorical strategies to make the more deftly able feel badly for me. I would apologize to Robert for my last plaint, but he is too well mannered to tell me he is weary of my electric chatter in his head, and I am uncouth enough to go into minute speculative detail signifying nothing, except for one small item. Robert is my exception to the rule about online interactions. He is my friend, mainly because we’re both poets. All I was going to convey is that I do not want to sleep with him, and then apologize to his wife for that, but you see how the worms wriggle in the tin if I keep up this reflective introspection, especially as one Watson like sidekick is better than none at all. You have no idea how much I’d like to say “fuck housekeeping” and bring back an official caste system. I have to lie down, as I’m interviewing a second candidate later this afternoon, even when I utilize a post as letter writing to no one. I would have liked Reiner's film somewhat better if it was as nuanced as Lost in Translation. I may pick this up again. Buttock has made a request, in the interim, not to suicide by pressure sore. One of my former aides just pinged me on Linked In. That she will probably regret in relatively short order, ha.
Scowling. The viewers who reported me due to the immersion of my sympathy with Christopher Dorner had it right in the first place, and correctly divined my genocidal impetus. I would dare to sit in judgment, and like the Chinese authorities in the Peoples’ Republic, I’d gleefully waste thousands here and thousands there in hyperbolic exaggeration, and deep down inside, there are many human power mongers like me, not to add a few Egyptian generals to the list, or the entire governing body of North Korea. The only reason I do not really let loose, I mean really let it out in a verbal ingenuity of hell fiend on wheels in a scathing vat of boiling gold to the tenth Klevin, is only partially due to an over developed paranoia. I care too much about the project I’ve developed on my two blogging accounts, akin to my fervor to annihilate public housing.
The fossil fuel residue that ignites my violet Roman temper upset mio padre. I telephoned him to discuss estate planning in my avarice. He then telephoned his demented sister of whom, it may be said, is wearing me out in her shrewd and shrill inconsistencies. This, from a spastic running her native tongue into the searing Fahrenheit. Marie, my Uncle Joseph, Louise mio padre’s wife, with her RA, would save us a great deal of trouble with a lungful or two of carbon monoxide, regardless of my cousins’ umbrage. Richie and I do not get along, and he’d whale me for the blunt force of my unhappiness his mother has absorbed since 2006. Billy would be softer.
Should I apologize to the writers like Robert and academics like Carrol Cox or Sheldon Novick, when I letter write failure miseries in my box set? I did the same thing to Professor Jerry McGuire, now in emeritus status, deploy rhetorical strategies to make the more deftly able feel badly for me. I would apologize to Robert for my last plaint, but he is too well mannered to tell me he is weary of my electric chatter in his head, and I am uncouth enough to go into minute speculative detail signifying nothing, except for one small item. Robert is my exception to the rule about online interactions. He is my friend, mainly because we’re both poets. All I was going to convey is that I do not want to sleep with him, and then apologize to his wife for that, but you see how the worms wriggle in the tin if I keep up this reflective introspection, especially as one Watson like sidekick is better than none at all. You have no idea how much I’d like to say “fuck housekeeping” and bring back an official caste system. I have to lie down, as I’m interviewing a second candidate later this afternoon, even when I utilize a post as letter writing to no one. I would have liked Reiner's film somewhat better if it was as nuanced as Lost in Translation. I may pick this up again. Buttock has made a request, in the interim, not to suicide by pressure sore. One of my former aides just pinged me on Linked In. That she will probably regret in relatively short order, ha.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Colon Viscosity
Save any free email addresses you inadvertently receive from current or former faculty @ Harvard. You could imitate Pynchon's illustrious homage to Joyce in Gravity's Rainbow and suck the excrement straight from Wood's colon, using the hose portion directly affixed from the scope. I take this link to James Wood on faculty to be the James Wood I've so often read on TNR. In another life, Wood may not have found me the perfect good wife, but we might have gone snit to snit over an anomalous crab salad in the faculty cafeteria. I am actually deploying my stalking skills on another Personaged Instructor, who shall remain unnamed because I am going to WHINE as politely and literately as possible about writing a post on my pet light bulb for him; but I can't read every thing, and this is me screaming about reading everything and raging at the ridicule of taking down a supervisor I looked up to because of a homoerotic panic that was fake and triggered by other underlying anxieties, not that it doesn't mean she did not deserve a comeuppance. More will follow, perhaps in accelerated fashion, because I will be a centurion before the Congress of the United States yields to the spastic dowager. Where were we again? The unnamed academic, yes, not that I have not named a few. Sheldon would not be entirely startled to discover he is the digitized father-rabbi I never had. He is a good man, and that is spastic's seal of approval. Where was I?
Research, yes, sick to my puss. I have no desire to set foot in Paley ever again but I have to schedule a contact. Alma mater electronic utilization. Lie down an hour. I have too much to do, oddly enough, though spastic can't stop the train. My savings may evaporate entirely by spring.
Research, yes, sick to my puss. I have no desire to set foot in Paley ever again but I have to schedule a contact. Alma mater electronic utilization. Lie down an hour. I have too much to do, oddly enough, though spastic can't stop the train. My savings may evaporate entirely by spring.
Tuesday, May 21, 2013
Folic Acid
Already [t]he film, and not just Louisa’s husband, seems to feel that childbearing is a woman’s paradigmatic work, wheres a man's is to create great art--Nick Davis
I have to go downtown this morning, and thus I am trying to take it easy with sinuses that have been on the flare for three weeks, angry at myself for putting myself back into an informal course curriculum, anger stemming from the fact that I am going to be dead soon and Ulysses is not the detective game I wanted to play; astonished to discover this degree of antipathy in myself toward the text, this is more than the folly of my immersion with Jerry. I really don't like Joyce, and although I am a failure and now too weakened to do much about that, it makes little sense that a great author such as this pisses me off, another detective game in itself.
I do not know if Sheldon Novick is upset with me. I don't know if Jerry is upset with me either, but Jerry is memory, and Sheldon is an accomplished Jamesian who told me I could accept a gift, and wrote, many years ago, "to my friend," and now maybe he regrets the appellation, maybe not. The alliance mattered, perhaps out of a mutually shared sentiment, his being better disciplined, of course, and mine more disruptive, angst ridden, that James was a romantic optimist, of a sort.
If I have lost the association with Sheldon, this is part of the price of intellectual ferocity whose only achievement has been to get my minority landlord wardens to back off, which isn't much (and yes, I slur them, going off like gun powder, but have to remember who outnumbers whom in this city), but I am sorry to lose it just the same. He is a good man whose nature is not one to see psychic hell on earth as a place of fortitude from which to argue.
I used to feel guilty using slurs of a certain kind. Not anymore. Why do I tell you that? Is this symptomatic of mental erosion? Or in part the honesty of my resentment of having to cope with a plethora of black anti-social behaviors, and, unlike some of you, I am trapped, and have not the slightest way out, of not dealing with them again in the future. My brother would not want any of my minority attendants in his home, but day in and day out I have to cope with it, their insolence, unwillingness to keep to an agreed upon schedule, and those are the small annoyances that do not threaten my personal safety. I do not want to die at the hands of black negligence or black violence, but the odds are about as good as Oxbow's that I will fall before one or the other.
I paid attention to the Preakness on NBC sports because it is a world I do not know, with a pageantry beholden to a fictionalized notion of American aristocracy, one that would have eroded even if Lincoln had managed to avert the civil war. I laughed at it, old men with old money running herd animals on race tracks. Will computer simulations one day become horses?
I have to go downtown this morning, and thus I am trying to take it easy with sinuses that have been on the flare for three weeks, angry at myself for putting myself back into an informal course curriculum, anger stemming from the fact that I am going to be dead soon and Ulysses is not the detective game I wanted to play; astonished to discover this degree of antipathy in myself toward the text, this is more than the folly of my immersion with Jerry. I really don't like Joyce, and although I am a failure and now too weakened to do much about that, it makes little sense that a great author such as this pisses me off, another detective game in itself.
I do not know if Sheldon Novick is upset with me. I don't know if Jerry is upset with me either, but Jerry is memory, and Sheldon is an accomplished Jamesian who told me I could accept a gift, and wrote, many years ago, "to my friend," and now maybe he regrets the appellation, maybe not. The alliance mattered, perhaps out of a mutually shared sentiment, his being better disciplined, of course, and mine more disruptive, angst ridden, that James was a romantic optimist, of a sort.
If I have lost the association with Sheldon, this is part of the price of intellectual ferocity whose only achievement has been to get my minority landlord wardens to back off, which isn't much (and yes, I slur them, going off like gun powder, but have to remember who outnumbers whom in this city), but I am sorry to lose it just the same. He is a good man whose nature is not one to see psychic hell on earth as a place of fortitude from which to argue.
I used to feel guilty using slurs of a certain kind. Not anymore. Why do I tell you that? Is this symptomatic of mental erosion? Or in part the honesty of my resentment of having to cope with a plethora of black anti-social behaviors, and, unlike some of you, I am trapped, and have not the slightest way out, of not dealing with them again in the future. My brother would not want any of my minority attendants in his home, but day in and day out I have to cope with it, their insolence, unwillingness to keep to an agreed upon schedule, and those are the small annoyances that do not threaten my personal safety. I do not want to die at the hands of black negligence or black violence, but the odds are about as good as Oxbow's that I will fall before one or the other.
I paid attention to the Preakness on NBC sports because it is a world I do not know, with a pageantry beholden to a fictionalized notion of American aristocracy, one that would have eroded even if Lincoln had managed to avert the civil war. I laughed at it, old men with old money running herd animals on race tracks. Will computer simulations one day become horses?
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Largesse in Bed
...like The Mount, it has numerous rooms and a bewildering array of windows. --Sandra M Gilbert, The Whirling Princess
I can understand why Sheldon Novick tossed out Alice James and her morbidity as a project for my morbidity, and I was always morbid, a horrible child, if that satisfies the mood swing advocates that I am in self-denial. I throw tantrums-- but let not my narcissism stray too far afield. As fond as I am of Dr. Novick's generous spirit, I would become impatient with Alice as a subject, a charge that bedevils Susan Sontag's output. I would prefer not to dismiss a project solely for the hope of money, though if I knew the invalid left a diary I had forgotten it, and remain curious, even in my apparent indulgence for forgiving bad metaphysical quests. Liam's After.Life (09) falls into the same category and is interesting despite itself. Natasha had not yet had her fatal accident at the time of filming, as far as dates go, but for all the intents and purposes of Deacon as character, Liam might have already been cocooned in morbid grief. I want to resist the story line's literalism that our morticians may indeed be serial killers, and for an actor of Neeson's caliber, the plot might have offered up a more textured ambiguity on Western origin myths, but the premise is indeed interesting, as I mull.
There are lesbians and there are women who grow immeasurably weary of men, and I suspect Sontag had little internal anchor, as opposed to a preference for women's breasts. Her son is still out there, and would probably disabuse my ruminations if I had any name recognition, but I am having trouble remembering why Sontag had a public mantle in the first place. I'd like to read her work on AIDS as metaphor.
I will not hold my breath for audience support on acquiring a copy.
I can understand why Sheldon Novick tossed out Alice James and her morbidity as a project for my morbidity, and I was always morbid, a horrible child, if that satisfies the mood swing advocates that I am in self-denial. I throw tantrums-- but let not my narcissism stray too far afield. As fond as I am of Dr. Novick's generous spirit, I would become impatient with Alice as a subject, a charge that bedevils Susan Sontag's output. I would prefer not to dismiss a project solely for the hope of money, though if I knew the invalid left a diary I had forgotten it, and remain curious, even in my apparent indulgence for forgiving bad metaphysical quests. Liam's After.Life (09) falls into the same category and is interesting despite itself. Natasha had not yet had her fatal accident at the time of filming, as far as dates go, but for all the intents and purposes of Deacon as character, Liam might have already been cocooned in morbid grief. I want to resist the story line's literalism that our morticians may indeed be serial killers, and for an actor of Neeson's caliber, the plot might have offered up a more textured ambiguity on Western origin myths, but the premise is indeed interesting, as I mull.
There are lesbians and there are women who grow immeasurably weary of men, and I suspect Sontag had little internal anchor, as opposed to a preference for women's breasts. Her son is still out there, and would probably disabuse my ruminations if I had any name recognition, but I am having trouble remembering why Sontag had a public mantle in the first place. I'd like to read her work on AIDS as metaphor.
I will not hold my breath for audience support on acquiring a copy.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
The Quiet Genocidal Collusion
"Poverty is a business." --Alan Gordon, income maintenance civil servant, former university friend and as far as I know, still homosexual.
If you want to know why I believe American federalism is hopelessly compromised, why I believe the social service sector in this country is a conspiracy that educated men like Gregory Zacharias won't look at very closely (bottom photo faculty board), allow me to present my opening evidence. This is HUD's evaluation of Diamond Park, the units I jumped at to live independently, the units where I suffered the PTSD of inner city violence, most of that black, and then transferred to Riverside with Terri Way after my assault.
These units are not worth the FMR listing, and Presby's FMR for Riverside is even more inflated, as center city property values are mainly commercial and come at a premium.
In 1994, my father dumped me, and what furniture I had (he gave me a couch later but I had no room and gave it away and this hurt my father) and left cursing. From that evening, to my letter to Trudy Richardson over the winter threatening legal action, my life here, privately, has been hell.
I have told you about Trudy's deployment of the assessment team in 08, but I was also forced, years ago, to pay for a meal program even though I was banned from the dining room. A Jewish lawyer named Gold did his statue-legalize with a Presby brother bar member and that ended.
So, you know a relative of a tenant nearly took my life under the management of PresbyHomes, whose staff dissuaded litigation but gave me no support except to have me placed here, where I never wanted to live. I have had to put up with constant thrust and counter thrust, from the time I was 23 to 50.
Sheldon "doesn't know what to say," and I have no animus with his honesty. Greg stopped interacting with me; busy man who doesn't have time to deal with the hard luck of a brittle invalid. Don't kid yourselves about the rhetoric of freedom and liberty from our presidents' mouths.
Now, I grant you, it is not the fault of instructors who taught me that I ended up not teaching and live with a dung beetle's distress, if not enthusiasm, nor is it Sheldon's, or Greg's, but putting up a fence because I did not manage to jump the supersaturated meritocracy humanities, what does that signify? And what have I truly done to merit the cold shoulder online? Mmm. Greg would-- what idiom should I use?-- throw a wobbly if I wanted to fast track oral exams and the like to get special status to work at Creighton-- which is not a plea to be incompetent.
I have looked for other landlords, but refuse to return to the inner city, because it would crack me if not kill me, and I want off the public housing grid, especially section 202. Would you want this for your 23 year old daughter because she was impulsively naive about integration? I am asking for help, but it is to get out of this, any way I can, for the few stable years I have ahead. Please.
If you want to know why I believe American federalism is hopelessly compromised, why I believe the social service sector in this country is a conspiracy that educated men like Gregory Zacharias won't look at very closely (bottom photo faculty board), allow me to present my opening evidence. This is HUD's evaluation of Diamond Park, the units I jumped at to live independently, the units where I suffered the PTSD of inner city violence, most of that black, and then transferred to Riverside with Terri Way after my assault.
These units are not worth the FMR listing, and Presby's FMR for Riverside is even more inflated, as center city property values are mainly commercial and come at a premium.
In 1994, my father dumped me, and what furniture I had (he gave me a couch later but I had no room and gave it away and this hurt my father) and left cursing. From that evening, to my letter to Trudy Richardson over the winter threatening legal action, my life here, privately, has been hell.
I have told you about Trudy's deployment of the assessment team in 08, but I was also forced, years ago, to pay for a meal program even though I was banned from the dining room. A Jewish lawyer named Gold did his statue-legalize with a Presby brother bar member and that ended.
So, you know a relative of a tenant nearly took my life under the management of PresbyHomes, whose staff dissuaded litigation but gave me no support except to have me placed here, where I never wanted to live. I have had to put up with constant thrust and counter thrust, from the time I was 23 to 50.
Sheldon "doesn't know what to say," and I have no animus with his honesty. Greg stopped interacting with me; busy man who doesn't have time to deal with the hard luck of a brittle invalid. Don't kid yourselves about the rhetoric of freedom and liberty from our presidents' mouths.
Now, I grant you, it is not the fault of instructors who taught me that I ended up not teaching and live with a dung beetle's distress, if not enthusiasm, nor is it Sheldon's, or Greg's, but putting up a fence because I did not manage to jump the supersaturated meritocracy humanities, what does that signify? And what have I truly done to merit the cold shoulder online? Mmm. Greg would-- what idiom should I use?-- throw a wobbly if I wanted to fast track oral exams and the like to get special status to work at Creighton-- which is not a plea to be incompetent.
I have looked for other landlords, but refuse to return to the inner city, because it would crack me if not kill me, and I want off the public housing grid, especially section 202. Would you want this for your 23 year old daughter because she was impulsively naive about integration? I am asking for help, but it is to get out of this, any way I can, for the few stable years I have ahead. Please.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Koyaanisqatsi
The biographer therefore must make a choice---to penetrate that private reality and write a book that gives some sense of a life as it was lived, or to write some other sort of book, a commentary from the outside. -- Sheldon M. Novick
The contusion on my mother's profile from the left, just above the socket, during her survival flight from this excuse she married, erroneously, for the sake of her bastard child, was strangely beautiful. I am forgetful of the direction of the flight. She either followed Stuart to the Midwest and fled as fast as she could drive back home, or it was the reverse, and the fact that her little sister married a deputy chief of police whom Stuart feared, this saved my mother's life. Where the rest of us were also leaves me at a loss, but in a haze, perhaps we had left Mary's care to return to my father, for I was in my house when my mother's suffering could be read in her face. I feel guilty that I could not kill Stuart myself, as Nick Nolte did in his flashbacks that led to more sex with Streisand. (I wonder if anyone ever really enjoyed sleeping with her thus rendering her as PG sex kitten, but that Freudian aspect is as dated as Nancy Friday.)
I know I am quadriplegic and that level of expectation is a high water mark, but I did not protect my family, and got drawn into Stuart's predation trying to accept the man, and he was, in the truest sense. a revulsion, having no corresponding value as an alternate to natural harmony.
When I had my first email exchange with Sheldon, my grievance was a living crucifixion (don't believe the process they have posted, zealous Liberty; they will give you an audience but marginalize you with everything they have if you happen to have a Title II case, legitimately, against them, and, as an officer of the court, Tom Earle did not investigate or penalize Linda for what she did to humiliate me in front of my former neighborhood friends from the suburbs), so I caught him off guard, inadvertently, poor Sheldon, and later lost him and Sarah [for those of you keeping score I have had conflicts or frictions with five Jamesians, and was in the wrong twice, but care about the third--I liked the fact that Greg treated my article proposal with respect and my ego is still bruised that such manner, mutual courtesy, is now gone because I was tongue in cheek about spam] from my group. That is old egotistical tyranny. Smile.
The good Doctor Novick suggested I add my spin to the life of Alice. I am sure Strouse handles the job admirably. I am not a scholar of the lives of those who make the western canon, except for Italian modernists, should I live long enough, I might be swayed to caress such ribs as remain intact of Giuseppe. I think, for the prurient scholars who remain fascinated with Henry's penis, an anthropologist in the other department should apply for a grant to unravel the DNA sequence to gain insight into why a drug addict founded American psychology, whether Henry actually did pinch hit over the chamber pot exit, and whether Alice was muted as a lesbian invalid because she wanted to secretly wed a royal like Vincentio and imitated Isabella, dying in stunned silence.
My printer is not yet installed. But you are able to infer I am always behind.
The contusion on my mother's profile from the left, just above the socket, during her survival flight from this excuse she married, erroneously, for the sake of her bastard child, was strangely beautiful. I am forgetful of the direction of the flight. She either followed Stuart to the Midwest and fled as fast as she could drive back home, or it was the reverse, and the fact that her little sister married a deputy chief of police whom Stuart feared, this saved my mother's life. Where the rest of us were also leaves me at a loss, but in a haze, perhaps we had left Mary's care to return to my father, for I was in my house when my mother's suffering could be read in her face. I feel guilty that I could not kill Stuart myself, as Nick Nolte did in his flashbacks that led to more sex with Streisand. (I wonder if anyone ever really enjoyed sleeping with her thus rendering her as PG sex kitten, but that Freudian aspect is as dated as Nancy Friday.)
I know I am quadriplegic and that level of expectation is a high water mark, but I did not protect my family, and got drawn into Stuart's predation trying to accept the man, and he was, in the truest sense. a revulsion, having no corresponding value as an alternate to natural harmony.
When I had my first email exchange with Sheldon, my grievance was a living crucifixion (don't believe the process they have posted, zealous Liberty; they will give you an audience but marginalize you with everything they have if you happen to have a Title II case, legitimately, against them, and, as an officer of the court, Tom Earle did not investigate or penalize Linda for what she did to humiliate me in front of my former neighborhood friends from the suburbs), so I caught him off guard, inadvertently, poor Sheldon, and later lost him and Sarah [for those of you keeping score I have had conflicts or frictions with five Jamesians, and was in the wrong twice, but care about the third--I liked the fact that Greg treated my article proposal with respect and my ego is still bruised that such manner, mutual courtesy, is now gone because I was tongue in cheek about spam] from my group. That is old egotistical tyranny. Smile.
The good Doctor Novick suggested I add my spin to the life of Alice. I am sure Strouse handles the job admirably. I am not a scholar of the lives of those who make the western canon, except for Italian modernists, should I live long enough, I might be swayed to caress such ribs as remain intact of Giuseppe. I think, for the prurient scholars who remain fascinated with Henry's penis, an anthropologist in the other department should apply for a grant to unravel the DNA sequence to gain insight into why a drug addict founded American psychology, whether Henry actually did pinch hit over the chamber pot exit, and whether Alice was muted as a lesbian invalid because she wanted to secretly wed a royal like Vincentio and imitated Isabella, dying in stunned silence.
My printer is not yet installed. But you are able to infer I am always behind.
Friday, March 15, 2013
Schismatic Espresso Breaks
"No you're not!" Timothy Artis admonishing me after I asserted I was rotten.
What Tim and I never say is implicit in our actions, our tolerance of each other out of necessity. He needs my ready payment unregulated by Medicaid waiver administration, and I need his relatively non-judgmental ability to handle my domestic interior, though this is slowing due to the fact that my freelancing is all but brain dead, with my recent laptop setbacks, and the fact that I am utilizing delay with one tenth that of Laurence Sterne's timing.
Let's cut to the chase: Am I a racist? Not in the evolutionary sense. As a matter of biology Tim is superior to me in many functional respects, but in terms of sociological dynamics I suppose many of you would feel comfortable giving me that label because of what Kevyn Orr signifies, even in the 21st century. Philadelphia, Chicago, Detroit, places like Compton in California. All black cities that seep into the cracks and filter through the white working class, sometimes striking the truly affluent. Is it fair of me to suggest that the black inner city is responsible for Garrett's propensity to addict and od himself? It happened in my family as well, and Nicholas did not need black drug dealers to destruct in the end, but enablement is a relevant issue, and the fact that a mature man of sixty two has to engage in infantilism, asking the disabled woman still struggling on the straight and narrow for a cash advance because he "needs cigarettes." Well, we have not come that far yet, not in my terminology of community integration. Although I dream to get good enough so that my voyeur viewers will one day give me enough support for this small happiness. It would be more convenient for you to download me to your kindle, and I'd only work harder. If you are working, what is another 99 cents?
I have not installed my apparently cheap laser jet yet, and need to take care of that, at least to ensure that I will not have to return it, tweaked some minor revisions here, I will attempt to take a break, plow back into rewriting what I have to, having rode out my pc illiterate grief (it struck me hard). I have held up on continuing with my conspiracy theory analysis because I do actually see it as applicable, and not simply a matter of reaction. To disagree with the state of Israel does not make one automatically guilty of anti-semiticism. Sheldon is a weighty and cerebral optimist in his Jamesian scholarship, and more than that, he is a delight to read while his thesis gains in illumination, so get to it. I have sworn myself silly that I am starting The Young Master later into Saturday morning. Perhaps you too would join the chorus led by Leon Edel.
I think the sheer audacity of Henry James and Oliver Wendell Holmes jacking off is an indelible source of amusement, and there is nothing to suggest Sheldon's homoerotic imagination is wrong.
If I change my mind I'll be back later.
What Tim and I never say is implicit in our actions, our tolerance of each other out of necessity. He needs my ready payment unregulated by Medicaid waiver administration, and I need his relatively non-judgmental ability to handle my domestic interior, though this is slowing due to the fact that my freelancing is all but brain dead, with my recent laptop setbacks, and the fact that I am utilizing delay with one tenth that of Laurence Sterne's timing.
Let's cut to the chase: Am I a racist? Not in the evolutionary sense. As a matter of biology Tim is superior to me in many functional respects, but in terms of sociological dynamics I suppose many of you would feel comfortable giving me that label because of what Kevyn Orr signifies, even in the 21st century. Philadelphia, Chicago, Detroit, places like Compton in California. All black cities that seep into the cracks and filter through the white working class, sometimes striking the truly affluent. Is it fair of me to suggest that the black inner city is responsible for Garrett's propensity to addict and od himself? It happened in my family as well, and Nicholas did not need black drug dealers to destruct in the end, but enablement is a relevant issue, and the fact that a mature man of sixty two has to engage in infantilism, asking the disabled woman still struggling on the straight and narrow for a cash advance because he "needs cigarettes." Well, we have not come that far yet, not in my terminology of community integration. Although I dream to get good enough so that my voyeur viewers will one day give me enough support for this small happiness. It would be more convenient for you to download me to your kindle, and I'd only work harder. If you are working, what is another 99 cents?
I have not installed my apparently cheap laser jet yet, and need to take care of that, at least to ensure that I will not have to return it, tweaked some minor revisions here, I will attempt to take a break, plow back into rewriting what I have to, having rode out my pc illiterate grief (it struck me hard). I have held up on continuing with my conspiracy theory analysis because I do actually see it as applicable, and not simply a matter of reaction. To disagree with the state of Israel does not make one automatically guilty of anti-semiticism. Sheldon is a weighty and cerebral optimist in his Jamesian scholarship, and more than that, he is a delight to read while his thesis gains in illumination, so get to it. I have sworn myself silly that I am starting The Young Master later into Saturday morning. Perhaps you too would join the chorus led by Leon Edel.
I think the sheer audacity of Henry James and Oliver Wendell Holmes jacking off is an indelible source of amusement, and there is nothing to suggest Sheldon's homoerotic imagination is wrong.
If I change my mind I'll be back later.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)