What is missed in penile insertion into the vaginal orifice, the depth of which is rivaled only by the anus, though both are out done by the esophagus, which I believe metastasized into a lump and killed Cousin Albert, a form of terminal demise to which I am privy, and rate second only to locked in syndrome as an expiration most desirous to avoid, is the heat of this highly sexualized piece of cartilage. The heat of a penis is a positive sensation, like the pilot light in an oven, and I never truly experienced it as a form of desire for me, as a liberating escape from ravages of conscious identity. It was only a curiosity, the few times I was at it, outside of tongue. Albert brought the Jewish blood in, as with most Italian families. I never see these favored cousins.
At this stage in my lifespan it is probably too late, any future potential sex little more than a violation and discomfort, rather than consensual adventure, or an act of love. We see how romantic congruence translates on the set on a daily basis, know what chemistry is. Frank tried his best to run through his paces, in fact, but as far as the dowager was concerned he might have been one of her groping clients, men and women, black and white, from whom evasive maneuvers were necessary: now the air we breathe is compromised. I did not realize, until recently, that Zoo was in its third season, with Billy Burke ever the intrepid survivalist. I have never read any of James Patterson's stories, do not intend to, as much because of his inane commercial advertising as any of his other marketing strategies, but will give him this: Zoo is a nice revenge fantasy poorly executed, even if my rather late glimpse into what is going on felt like an episode of The 100, with every actor hiding behind skype and simulated computer graphics, signifying that complexity and catastrophe go hand in hand in our current populist age. I may have recycled this sentiment as well, but merge it with the pragmatic sensibility of the Amazon customer pointing out the opening season's rushed, choppy feel. Trump upbraided Lisa Durden for her vitriol, and I've reached a kind of plateau where no one truly cares about mine. I recycle too much of it, to the tune of tone deafness, and my white hot anger has not translated, quite, into consequence, as my COPD occasional flare ups slipped my mind. If I am actively in my early dying stage, I've markedly eluded emergency medical care. Perhaps it's too easy to blame barometric pressure, but how many good resets I have, this Thursday morning after Salvation's disruption, seem suddenly precious.
I cannot tell you, despite the grooves of my trauma, that I have been latently butch all along. Were that the case, the lesbian passes I've had to absorb, forced, would have gotten me off. This never happened. Not feeling well, I fathom getting back to bed without incident, shins swollen, wondering if its worth pushing matters, manufacturing a hate crime, on a strong day, rolling dice with God in a failing machine.
"A cordon sanitaire was created around us. Don't go near the Le Pens." -- Marine Le Pen
Sitting up past bedtime, contemplating my lack of species optimism, I skimmed through Michael Gerson's column on Trump's Harrisburg rally, where he quotes Havel on the politics of the possible, the Kantian high road against Trump's illegitimate anti-immigration bigotry, comparing it to mine, mostly in house, against primarily four linear minded black women, realizing that national analysts by necessity cannot look at the localized details of the communities in which we abide. I pity Trump, distain him as well, but have to acknowledge his divisiveness speaks to certain truths, as I spent part of nine o'clock watching a true crime video of hip hop and heroin. Despite my inner city quicksand tragedy, my immersion into black culture never went that far. I was disgusted by what I was viewing; by the same token, I am too tired, too worn down, to worry about the concourse of Google's censorship, if I deign to use my mouth as my weapon. Not all blacks utilize counter culture music as a front for subterranean drug culture, but if we took Gerson off his beltway establishment deadlines, and his vaunted efforts to roll back Trumpian myopia, and had him instead share a cell with crack hoodlums filmed for the sole purposes for exposure to minority gang culture, the conscientious anxieties of Eastern European humanism, filtered through a true conservative professional rhetorician, always wary of Slavic bears, would come face to face with ghetto machismo; it might be likened to two alien species, one of whom could barely interpret the other. The urbane would fracture against such brutalism, and most of us realize this. Education does not change how expendable most of us beneath the surface are. For every Sheryl Sandberg, with her pedestrian sentiments about making elbows in the creek for option b, there are undoubtedly 300,000 people on minimum wages, fixed incomes, and Sandberg's job is what, exactly? Running Facebbok's automated systems, as if this is somehow vital, a billion images with a few hundred words per post attached. Immigration, at its core, is about mobility as a counter agent to community stagnation, and we have complicated it for thousands of years. Citizen versus foreigner. Global conglomeration and transport technologies accelerate it, but only on the presumption that journeys are survivable, however affordable or not they are.
Not that I'm any expert, but Jackson simply used a superior military strategy to destroy indigenous inhabitants, and open the Midwest for non-landed gentry. Today we call it development, a revolving door between government, industrial, residential spaces, with varying degrees of turnover, unless it all falls apart, driving around in our vehicles, stealing wifi, dying in hospice, or ever sure fire African famines. I'm old, miraculously survived through sterile regimentation, on the verge of homelessness because I'm stuck, after a lifetime of inefficient hydraulic lockdowns, driven to offices, rehabs, facilities. My great grandfathers were Austrian solders and Roman artisans. I curse their graves.
Therefore, and shut the door upon them twain,
And prayed unto the Lord and he went up
And lay upon the corpse, dead on the couch,
And put his mouth upon his mouth, his eyes
Upon his eyes, his hands upon his hands-- Robert Browning
Andrew Lincoln has only so much he can do with culture shock and mortal anguish, just as the rest of the ensemble recurs are challenged, the only real hook for the audience being who is next to get beaten to death before the next oasis comes along, or the next community where appearances are deceptive. The local syndication of The Walking Dead reboots at season five, so alas, other than rescanning some episodes here or there (what happened to the veterinarian?) or next month streaming what I cannot afford, I am now one of these early floaters-- and no, though the 100 had an early, somewhat merciless, intrigue, I do not wish to catch up with it; in its own way, it is too chic, too much of the generation of my nephews. The Alexandria episodes of WD are interesting because they turn the tables. It is the Grimes group which inadvertently leads to such significant losses for Sam Waterston's stronger female foils, where Rick's earlier samaritan Morgan reemerges, but I no longer have the economic resources to keep myself abreast in a cavalier binge fashion, even as a 66 year old drunk with chest nodules which need a biopsy bums me a cigarette which I should not have taken, barely able to understand her, Mary Ellen. Whether in sneakers, slippers, she doesn't walk, but staggers, one of the silents from whom no one hears so much as a peep in terms of an online foot print. How the fuck am I supposed to be positive with this glaring waste of human sewage on which I had to make my career? It has very little to do with boom and bust cycles. I once lived something better, and my younger princess sister still does, whatever her debt, foreclosure status.
I still can't stop a nigger boy from playing his fun and games behind my back. How do you think you would like it? Or be able to rise above it? Would my libertarian associates give him a fucking contusion for my sake? They would probably kick me out of the group sooner than intervene, and I'm as penniless as some of my editors, speaking of which, I've taken a tentative dip into Montaigne in translation. He was an undergraduate gloss. One of those things.
I shall not be reviewing Eric Edwards. He contacted me politely in a group mail to Amazon customer reviewers, asserting he was a local celebrity in San Diego. Emails from strangers asserting blessed fortunes tend to elicit hostility, but I strapped on my muzzle, mentioned Examiner, and Eric Edwards sent me a PDF of his masculine point of view, whose acknowledgments offer garlands to the 56 year marriage of his parents. I cannot do it, read this short text and offer a salient synopsis, mainly due to my perception of a certain insularity from the author, though this is what it takes to hone merit, create a pathway toward establishment. And this represents the answer to my unhappiness beneath turgid victimization: I wanted to be Ann Patchett appearing on Charlie Rose. I'm not Patchett, who is what? Bemused? Wry, yes, but wry in an abbreviated manner, with a pleasant projection of self-sufficiency. I envy that. People who stay intact, hold it together. She is right about teaching. It is not the right profession for all of us, and like she did, I turned to writing articles, but turned to it too late with too many events either threatening me physically or destroying an already precarious health.
My father's sister is, sadly, senile, and due to this I will stop posting about her. Overtly, anyway. She has anti-depressants she is not taking. She needs them, because her cognitive abilities are deteriorating. If I try them yet again, it will be a game of guess the right dosage until something goes wrong with the cocktail. Dependence simply creates more problems. I already know this due to tobacco, blu cigs, and aeros, my expenditures on these products. I am not going to discuss the fact that Marie is nuts with either cousin William or Richard. I was, but Marie and Joseph are old and sick. I am worn out with it, much like the latest outcry over Shinseki.
The VA has treated the rank and file like an expendable class from Hoover's days in office, when he had Eisenhower shoot protesters. I am over 50, and soldiers getting fucked over by the Pentagon is a solo chorus that never stops improvising. This is just one sub-group, veterans, and I am a raving maniac because intake centers eschewed me, case management wasn't exactly my dream niche, and I opened my mouth on a message board @ P&W and all hell broke loose. Sigh. We don't know what we're doing, even those with the expertise to dismiss my reactionary stance. The 100 is just another show easy on its production values, but one day humanity really will face these choices, in a collective necessity over riding self interest.
I have been thinking about the death of two other journalistic giants: Peter Jennings four years ago, and Tim Russert last year.-- Howard Kurtz
The 100 is a strangely comforting formula for a disillusioned wisdom, much more so than anything JJ Abrams has out there today. Revolution seemed initially ambitious, but by the time of the season cliff hanger in the *tower,* the need for an emetic felt imminent.
Now I have the urge to fuck Isiah Washington and be 24 again in the forbidden zone of cross chocolate ejaculation. Perhaps because I'm starving, or really like the show, which I do, though I missed the pilot. I don't think I could anymore--consensually make love to a minority non baller. Obviously, I'm not Ebert. Well, for Caucasian males playing sugar daddy, the stigma is less prevalent. Before I ate the inner city and mortally expired on black violence, I lusted after my share. Maybe it would have been good as an experiment. Compassionate erection.
My father threatened to kill me.
As a gentle post nuclear porn, the 100 is not anything we haven't seen before, and has more than a touch of implausibility, but it wends its way to the authentic origin of American optimism. Hopefully I'll catch the pilot on the bye.
I fixed my problem on my Examiner page. Still a fool for a penny. I'll give passing the ten dollar mark more time. Philadelphia interested subscribers would be a boost in that endeavor. I help the MH gent, partly because I was in the field. Even so, you could suggest authors you'd be interested in reading about.
"I could have just bought another pair."-- Robert Duvall, attempting to echo what mortality causes us to lose.
It is not Alzheimer's, yet. It is mainly that I rush, and as I asked Robert to remind me, I should have edited my email to Marcia-- and this reflects the net negative of digital lives, trying to beat deadlines, trending topics, not giving ourselves gestation time.
My own sense of alienation enables me to understand it in freaks, or those like Louise, with their particular deformities, and the girl wanted to talk books and aesthetic tastes, so it should not have been that difficult to humor her without my wounds vibrating to a banshee tempo-- but I did not desire this association for myself, on my own terms, and, even if she meant no harm, which she didn't, she disrupted my comfort zone with the other members on the list, and now I feel like nothing more than a disparaging element.
Losing competency when never having had a chance to actualize it in the first place due to physical obstacles and psychic pain, this is a terrifying prospect-- but competency related to what? I meant what I posted about respecting Marcia's analytic ability, but psychoanalytic theory hovers in the realm of discredited mythology, one that preoccupies itself with androgyny in an abstract sense. The actual reality of dealing with a clinically ill transvestite like Erik von Schmetterling imposes a real threat to a psyche, triggers revulsion one can taste, and that I had to struggle with even when I imposed myself on him and Jimmi in their unit, three floors up, or engaging with them in public.
How does theorizing, outside of tangible data related to physics or biology, enable progression? Increasingly attracted to gaunt definitions in masculine figures, I am not trying to parachute in on terminal degree scholars without having earned it. All I wish is to utilize their expertise to accomplish good work before it is too late, because working hard is all I have left.
In their eyes, I am a disruption, annoying, even threatening. But a caged animal is threatening when so many elements go against its ability to thrive, when human sexuality epitomizes itself in liberal doxology as salutary for its own transient virtue, leaving us all rutting like happy pigs. My body never lent itself to those discoveries of paramount pleasures and stimulations. Even those of you who may want to commiserate and suggest gels or orifice beads and other toys of the trade, I would object and indicate there are more important things, a restraint towards a wiser conservation, like the cruel, but necessary culling that took place on the new CW series, the 100. We've lost the virtue of self-sacrifice, yet another reason I disdain homosexual lifestyles.
