"You do know what you're saying is treason?"-- Robert Vaughn
Sometimes I weary of directories, and remain tempted to let Writer's Market drop, as they cannot keep their information logs current. I did not initially approach FEE in order to spend hours in research, only to fail twice, and then support them on the skeletal remains of my father's affluence, simply for a byline geared towards yuppies. But if I can pass Jeffrey's muster at a future date, it is a gateway back to my former success, matriculated in the Fourth Estate. I also chewed a cuticle on Reason, remaining good as my word, not because Brian will keep telling me "no," so much as because I too want to move beyond core libertarian tenets, not that I do not see now that they go small scale, with one or two in depth features. Neither publication matters right now. I am exhausted, even through the graft I took from Jeffrey in January was small, and needs to be altered, expanded, for other outlets. So why, then, when Mr. Tucker was being surreptitious about rum as the "spirit of pirates," did I not reply with repartee in kind?
My tweet, in fact, was inappropriate. Don't write it in public, I told myself, but did, that my abuser stepfather drank rum, so I prefer gin. Conservatives eschew victimization, and that small pin drop on my part was escalating, mildly. From what I can tell, I like the man, and do not begrudge the paddle too much. On some things I have to pay the price of going slower. As long as I can function as writer, too, topics can recycle, in unexpected ways. Learned that by now. It was not his rejection that compelled me, so much as I was saying something about distribution of bad outcomes. It is difficult enough that for spastics, fluidity of motion is a fantasy. We also have to become poultry dishes for bigoted den mothers and carrion for ambulatory predators, and here I am, still trying to compete with the best minds, driving myself to exhaustion because the Night Owl kicked in after morning lethargy; even though I am not sexually attracted to Ray Liotta, all the sudden he's an interesting fuck. I am not sure how to explain this, even to myself. Repulsion arousal, hate sex, ferocity bang.
As to schedule, syndication has thrown me some godsends, though I want to budget in High Castle for itself. We'll see. I need to chat with ATT and see if my old battle axed PC's can handle the wireless device, and then change my plan. I feel like a fucking data fugitive, not particularly healthy, in and of itself.
My concern over Ciccariello isn't entirely hypocritical. I have, perhaps legitimately, felt the wrath of the left in my psychic bonding with Christopher Dorner, Google received abuse host reports, as Google does, and threatened to disrupt my ability to use their host services, with skittish assurances that "no content would be deleted". I did want Christopher Dorner to win in his battle with the LA police, and I wasn't being satirical. Sometimes I am, but not while this man was alive. Did I want him to murder his Captain's daughter? No, and his taunts on that officer's message service foretold the endgame of Dorner's agony, of which I'm envious, while some of you are thinking you need more than lithium.
Fair game, after a lifetime of torture and abuse; if an instructor like Ciccariello can be flippant on social media, as I sometimes am, about politically destructive capacities we're taught to take seriously, even in mitigating bitterness, we've got problems, and I am definitely a contributor. I cannot castigate Ciccariello. I'm not outraged. I don't believe he should be threatened, but he was more stupid than judicious in taunting social media to bite him. It is dumb. With Jerry McGuire, it was only internal, and I wasn't a witness, only the gatherer of anecdotal defiance. The only thing roaring in my ears, was this man, who had a gift, that of making me forget my horribly contorted flesh, had been fired. I was about 21ish, and went into the ladies room, curiously devoid of trannies, unless my broken body was a stand in to gender identity challenges, and howled. I kicked the stalls, burst into tears, and finally went back to class to collect my paper. He was wearing a checkered picnic cloth shirt, my eyes were bloodshot, but he acted as if everything was normal. If he had not, perhaps I would not be in the inner city destroying myself because my internal insurrectionist is driven by hate.
I am here because my emotional tumult over this man was a boomerang, a fellow now almost like one of Yeats skeletons on a stick, and I went a boom a rang rang, and became a vile bigot. I keep asking myself what it was, why this man. And concede everyone else was right, normal girls aren't driven by such intense compulsion. My answer is the sexual molestation I received at the hands of my mother's men: I saw it in Jerry, and what I saw, I wanted to be vanquished by; that level of hate is intense.
When I hear of horrific things like like Tarshis being sodomized after downing a redeye, I feel compelled to reach out to the victim through shared experience, though I myself was never forcibly sodomized. Stuart Lone, my fabled heroin addicted stepfather, merely groped me, tortured my dead brother in front of my eyes. It was mother's man before him, another stone addict named Beaky, ugly as sin, who tried to rape me, and I let my ex Frank penetrate me anally, perhaps out of self-hatred, and I did not like the pressure on my bowel. Had problems days afterward. Well, I found the old woman, coping with her torment, much as I am letting it all hang out, coping with mine and losing, understanding Robinson's cautious commiseration and Ta-Nehisi Coates' struggle with his conscience.
As an Italian woman with quadriplegia assaulted by a black relative of a public housing tenant and molested by a biracial inner city woman, I do not really have a say in this internecine argument about black identity spilling over into white cross over acclaim. Cosby did not have the greatest impact on me due to the popularity of Cliff Huxtable, rather, I had to endure countless instructional films of Bill Cosby doing exaggerated versions of Ralph Ellison's lone black man defiantly penetrating through the brick walls of white preconceptions, and it influenced my subconscious about the righteousness of being a straight arrow. Now I have to live with the imagery of his alleged forced penetrations, with these women alone with him like naked sheep, shorn of their woolly coats, in our sexually permissive society.
I tweeted to Joan. You can read it. I cannot enter into how she lives with it, being forcibly fucked by such a talented man who had such an influence on our psyches. It isn't about whether or not we believe her, or want to defend an icon who may have to end his public career on such a note, it is more about what kind of society we want, where trauma is apparently the new normal, and nothing is innocent any longer. Coates' observation that we generate our moral values from people like Cosby may seem a deft perception, but in reality, personality cults cut across human cultures. It isn't simply an American meme. Napoleon is still a herald in France. Margaret Thatcher was part of a Reagan era triad, of some sort, and so on. Nomenclatures evoke their own language, and Ellison would probably be turning in his grave. I was naive enough to tape his picture and obituary on my door in the inner city the year he passed away in 1991, a man whose genius strove more than most to call identity politics the tragedy for which they were. Right now I can't forgive anyone. Black journalists, corporate media, women like me and Joan who eat it and don't fight back until it is far too late, certainly not a comedian who made me believe my moral center was a justified possibility.
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 cause of America is in a great measure the cause of all mankind. Thomas Paine
Methinks I am as comfortable as I am going to get this afternoon, with this body always in pain and nearly always rank; had something of a near miss with my feminine urinal so you can add caffeine laden piss to that, my continual coffee intake either masking or preventing diabetes. I don't suppose German netizens wish to inform me why they are my most numerous viewers after those in the US? Any recommendations? I am an extraction of Mengele manufacture without benefit of concentration camp assembly. His eugenics legacy lives on, in much the same way that Gene Hackman is always Gene Hackman and yet inhabits his characters, with the possible exception of his supporting role in Lilith, but even there, he was an adept shrub. And it is quite a distinct idiolect, one that not every actor can inhabit, being Buzz Lloyd and yet distinctively Hackman, in simultaneous fashion. Marooned is ruthless in its imprint of the American global ascent, and I'd in fact argue it is almost as post modern as this guy's work. It is a film without pretense despite a multi-layered contrivance, powerful for those of us who actually lived through the aspirations of the Apollo missions, as I did. Gregory Peck insinuating suicide to Richard Crenna and getting away with it for the utilitarian good of NASA? This is the decade that was covert about my mother's suicide attempts, a woman who should have been institutionalized, and wasn't. Before she died she told me that, my mother: Had Pauline and Louis her father committed her she would have gotten worse. Not for me to speculate, but her children would not have suffered Stuart Lone, who remains on my hit list (and that my former supervisor ranks nearly in parity to this stepfather, in this exclusive club, tells you how seriously I take her criminality), finger fuck step father who attempted to rape a nine year old girl and made me sick on Jack Daniels so he could violate me. Let Blogger ban me for being desirous of his murder. Monster. Filth. I shall not forgive. I cannot, not for the suffering he inflicted on me, on my sister, now estranged.
This is the reason this series is making me uneasy. Not that I don't *get it,* of course I do. Malevolence can be as methodical as police investigations for the greater good. Prior bad acts can lead us one way or another, but it is still a difficult show, symptomatic of our national ailment, and it doesn't have to be that graphic not to make me want to vomit at its implications.
There is a brief description toward the end of Cormac's nuke porn where diarrhea is dribbling down the father's pant leg, a mortality signature signifying the price this man paid to keep his boy alive. This was my mother's second husband, jigging around on a heroin crash with shit spilling out of his crack, seeping into his denim. The Presbyterians browbeat me for 28 years after on the sentiment that cleanliness, divinely guided, is curative towards the scars of such trauma. Personally, seeing the backend of my domestic malfeasance in blackface only accentuates my despair of humanity. You no doubt see this as narcissistic, but this is how I'm feeling today, arthritis easing momentarily.
