"Closing The gap takes a deeper look into the gang stalking phenomenon."-- jacket blurb
BIn closing the distance between my psyche still flying under Google's all powerful radar, I actually emailed the recombinant Jayne Anne because Karina Klaus, the fucking white trash I hired, nearly killing my apartment manager whom I am still ready to rumble into an illegal situation over it, this Karina, the Craigslist swiss cheese Air Jordan brain, fucked around with my contributor copies while I was taking a piss and destroying a 60 dollar flea market skirt I bought from a minority vendor. The only thing I have in this world are my contributor copies, and so I overrode any self-effacement and emailed the once libertine southern debutante. I asked her if she could find the magazine, copy my poem, and send it to me. I was terse, not even offering a salutation. I then emailed her at Rutgers again, claiming I found my copy. and this, in point of fact, is not the case, so I suppose I should now wait, quietly, and see what this woman, over whose picture I destroyed a Poets &Writers issue so I could tape her profile to my door in the hard core badlands 15 minutes down Race, will say. I know Karina is a soft-shelled crab. I know she is in Oregon and whoever the dickwad is that she's fucking, I hope unwittingly compensates me by devastating her with a future episode of abandonment.
How vicious?
What in the name of my long, abusive, spastic life do I have but my work? My anxiety over a future bi-nervous vulnerability to an unscrupulous feminine manipulator is misguided. The next ambulatory individual who fucks with my life, regardless of race or sexual orientation, is going to experience what it is to have a Roman assassin reborn. No one gives a fuck. I know. This is the age of social media, and I may not be a quadriplegic as scorched as a Precious in triplicate. Karina tends to believe we're friends. I am also going to blow my stack with Google, live, in fairly short order, about monetizing. Me and the mighty Silicon giant, round two. Smell a service suspension round the bend?
My point is that illness is not a metaphor, and that the most truthful way of regarding illness---and the healthiest way of being ill---is one most purified of, most resistant to, metaphoric thinking. -- Susan Sontag
Meryl Streep presents herself as a translucent mirage in Dark Matter (2007), a progressive caught between multicultural faith and the reality of academic politics. Forget extrapolations. Chen’s direction and Shebar’s script are irresponsible in their rendition of events that transformed Gang Lu into a spree killer, with his goal perhaps being the elimination of an entire department. Liu Xing is too sympathetic as an alter, and the triggers that lead him to kill Aidan Quinn’s Reiser foreshadowed on the cheap, with tai ching intersplices dispersed between scenes; its binary closures of the women racing, both the attache and the mother, in a fatuous attempt to contain the damage. The Virginia Tech massacre was a real and traumatic event, one that perhaps forever pierced the notion of intellectual ambition as a form of insulation against the vulgarity of urban violence.
In many respects, I am a radical advocate of free speech, doomed and dwarfed thereby due to the worrisome rise of the digital global conglomerate, and rarely engage in the moral chastisement of cheap theatrical manipulations, but Bridget Fonda’s Single White Female falls into the same category as Chen‘s lame interpolation. The unedited scene of deceptively forced fellatio between Jennifer Jason Leigh and Steven Weber was a masturbation stimulant that I did not need to incorporate in the psyche of my delayed sexual maturity, but the scene made an indelible impact, this out of nothing but a B grade slasher formula dressed up by psychological excuses for purposes of justification, just another patriarchal brick thrown at the shrieking and hysterical female, not a few leagues past the range of veracity.
I’ve needed a bit of rest, trying to finish some much needed chores, remind myself that I actually was a writer before portals and search engines. At my age it's increasingly difficult, and in the rare instance that I view television to escape, I did not need that unexpected tantrum of blood and guts with a shiny Colt revolver and a bling starburst.
