Arthur Miller's Larynx

"What are you, my wife?"   -- a harried paraprofessional who was grateful I recalled he forgot to fax his time sheet

When management turns on the radiator, I always tend to destabilize in my intestinal region, though somewhat unbeknownst to me, I was vulking waste into my disposal briefs because of a summer cold, so the situation has somewhat reversed itself, even though my interior air quality is now analogous to a fabled Turkish bath. And we've had so much of this lately. Erdogan's authoritarian hypocrisy, the House of Saud and its Janus face. If I am familiar with Khashoggi's writing I cannot remember it. Of course he did not deserve death in a choke hold with dismemberment, but I am going to assert a truism via which I only diminish my once vaunted desire to return to the ranks wherein those with contracts club each other over the head: Saudi Arabia is an enemy.
It is over now, the cold, but I desperately need to regain some independence. I cannot continue to function like this, with or without this minority and our near affair. I don't want him, and this is a near 180 degree turn, but I can't feel anything for a man who disdains my thirst to return to analysis. Our welfare partnership nearly tore asunder this past Monday. He became furiously angry that the kitchen was in moderate disarray, given my punishing helplessness in this Quantum model. I love my godfather, but the vendor he runs, Mainline Medical, failed me. My suffering is obdurate, and my purported nurse blew a gasket because I did not make the fill-in aide do a better job. He frightened me as if I had actually been weak enough to sleep with him, and it nearly ended that morning between us. It is probably the way it will end, although he grew tender, appreciative, when I simulated "being" his woman, reminding him the time sheet had to be faxed, after we closed the rift which only fuels my confirmation bias. A failed little boy who cries for his mother, this fellow. I'd flick him away like a speck of lint, remembering I too can reject able bodied men. I'd go on, colder, harder, bigoted, but you've had enough implosive virulence from yours truly whose first priority is weaponizing anesthetics against homosexuals, mounting them with pins, despite the papal voice of Francis: Do not condemn them. Indeed, I admire the illumination of Foucault despite his resistance to thesis, on body mechanization. AIDS was in its infancy as a known pathogen in 1987, so I cannot, much like Erdogan, go "too" far, but I respect Foucault's use of a structuralist approach to make us see the insidious nature of control on our physiology, invidious , ever encroaching. Perhaps, the more rigorous the work product, the more sexual risks Michel Foucault needed to take. Well, he was French.
Into this, the Facebook engaged in a mass purge last week, and Breitbart, nonetheless, stirred me into empathetic anger for Brian Kolfrage. I am following him on Facebook, not yet on Twitter. Here is the article informing many of us about why we lost PM Beers. Here is the press release. It may read like a conscientious consumer protection plan, yet I never trusted social media from day one, and have some degree of difficulty placing a three limb amputee with a family to support on par with Rasputin. I will have a more focused post on the conflicts herein, perhaps on LinkedIn, which censored me briefly from participating in groups due to "lack of relevance." Now I simply do not engage. Before my older more functional Quantum failed, I made a tremulous job search on LinkedIn, and nothing ever panned. I received letters of interest from unfunded grants, like Plato's cave wall. I have to broaden my efforts. However weakened, the dragon wakens once more. Help me.

What a tale my thoughts could tell

"It was one of those grimy brick houses which existed in large quantities before the era of reconstruction. [sic]" Joseph Conrad, The Secret Agent, location 4-11

Even in incidental moments, slicing the dwindling supply of potatoes to get you through a traumatic riddled weekend, not really paying attention to The Blacklist, the Gordon Lightfoot soundtrack craters you in, as Spader methodically wastes another traitor ally with humane ruthlessness right on the edge, his acting, between the emotional wounds and internalized flippancy, though the opening first season episodes offered a wry subversive bemusement, interest waned with all these mysterious processes swirling around the rouge agent character of Elizabeth, her brutalized psycho husband who apparently survives major cavity wounds. No one is that important, and the brutality offered by the directors doing the captures and the cuts is somewhat complicit, served up as fantastic, with Reddington something of a vengeful deity, except that some clever staff member remembered Lightfoot. This was all it took, for those of us who grew up on the emotive breadsticks of Croce's legacy, one which never envisioned Nigerian swaggering with thickened buttocks on the streets of Rome.

Dowager learned of this social ill through Don Matteo, and has no empathy. Let the Italian government ship their charming red light migrants to Jamaica. If these women want to leave Lagos, then they should stop complaining as to the consequences of marginalized, alien status. I tutored Nigerian students, and liked it better when they were restrained Franophiles absorbing western education for improvement. The difference between Matteo and the progressive video journalists soliciting the pity of privilege, is the mystery drama blames Roman lewdness, its sexual excitement over difference. Reporters on the ground liken them to untouchables, confined to their own foreign ethnicity, who cannot pay them well-- which will take us down memory lane to the fickle years of Usenet.

If I've mentioned JoettaB before, it was perhaps with scant detail. In 2016, coming to its close, I cannot flush out my interaction with her to a very great degree. She tried to help me over the CIL rupture, seemed to have a special interest in unstable males prone to violence, and posted one of my essays about smoking on her website, which I wasn't ready to abandon, then she vanished, and I assume this was due to harassment, or being threatened. "It was not I," the dowager proclaims, hands raised in an exposure of innocence. I bring this up because the general rule of thumb is, if it is posted, then it's published, and first printing rights have vanished, even if it doesn't quite feel that way. Nonetheless, I am including a variation of the piece in my collection, because it is a piece of my early post Matrix history, and the woman's disappearance troubles me, and since I take a hideously long time to gestate, "The Zippo Lighter" may lead me to a commission on addiction. Joetta met Kiefer Sutherland online, and she prided herself on that connection. It seemed a credible boast: He sent her tickets. Whatever her troubles were, I regret the space she left. Given what I face in real life, online nastiness hasn't really penetrated in that way; though it is a stretch, I think she was impaired through MS.

The Psychology of Deadlines

How does one accurately transliterate agony? The challenge of symbolism to depict--during my public housing home invasion that forever conflated my perspective on social fear, vocal chords were frozen in silence, and then terror broke lose once my Mighty Joe dragged me into my own bedroom. The damn exploded and I shrieked, my voice voluminous in sound waves, tenants in laundry room heard but were afraid to intervene. Time saved me, as Bradon would have had to asphyxiate or fracture my skull in less than ten minutes; within that time frame the salaried minorities appeared, old Myers, exterminator, young Terri, who I correctly evaluated as integration material in the urban business district. He was also not hardened enough to kill a white nearly penniless (these fuckwits exploited me for minimum wage without health insurance toward the event of my departure), invalid, but terror overwhelmed me, would have haunted my family had a black addict murdered me after they begged me not to do what I did after moving into North Philadelphia. The Washington Post loves analysts who are American triumphalists, but that triumph rests on nearly horrific--I cannot convey the recoil of the inner city--had the Luftwaffe reversed expectations and bombed our ghettos it would have not been unimaginable to believe it would have been a backhanded cleansing. Now you see how I handle pressure, and the expectation of delivery under pressure, for what? .05 cents a word on aggregate basis? I'm hastily throwing together five hundred word for my first pop, despite diffidence. I am not sure I will not fail here as I did for my hearing loss piece, but then again, this is inglorious assembly line journo-infotainment. With edits I'll get two dollars for Google Wallet. Spader just had an interesting scene smothering an old ally terminal with cancer? 

Does Spader Have Head Lice?

"lnventa la noche en ventura
otra noche,
otra espacio"  Octavio Paz, Pasado en claro, with slight license

Carol never had the rabbit's foot, but she educated me about everything else, the elder sister of my best friend to whom I latched after the rift with Susan. Carol was floor captain of the apartment units in my university housing, and instead of turning myself into Vassar Miller or SE Hinton, the blonds of my block fomented my education, like a kid in a five & dime, virgin bugged at the shiny pink and conveniently large penis, less impressed with the egg, vaguely recalling skepticism. Carol was attractive, more mild version of her sister. Sue was voluptuous, more drama queen. I miss them both, terribly. Drank with them both, a drunk pathetic dead weight spaz hanging with the alpha girls who could afford to treat sex like a five and dime. I'm not a virgin any longer, and yes, I really was a mistress to married men, with real sexual intercourse, but those evenings, Carol educating me about pleasures I never could realize, represent moments of positive intimacy with other women I'll never inhabit again; never invested in enhancements. If I did now-- shrug. My clitoris extends slightly, off standard but not unusual. Maybe this is why I shit a horse with Linda's excited email transmission. I miss her too. Not the woman she is, an aged mantis, but the younger tag team we were; there was a personal bond. She sold me down river for an ugly faggot with the emotional repertoire of a five year old, and I can't get away from them, the freaks. His conceptual inequality sounds magnanimous, and I do not doubt Reich has the authentic brawn of a street peddler; he may have even met the transvestite with s/his infantile bitch with testes on the leash, but he'd never socialize with them.

Was there a seduction? I suppose, but not for that kind of experimentation. It was a fencing match and spastic believed I could play the hand, deliberately blind to the fact she and I were in the process of destroying what I should have left alone. My life was about to fall apart, and this game of shirking blades made it worse. The critics are right about Soylent Green. Heston is always a gesture of granite stoicism, but it was a film of my time, textured and colored perfectly for the Me decade jeremiad. Robinson burned in our minds because he really was being cannibalized by cancer that pulled conviction out of Charlton, an intensity of conviction. We did not use the word procedural as a categorization, not in those days, but this was an exceptional dichotomy of pursuit in a world that no longer had standards, practices we trusted.

I can see it, the end of our species. We will not come to our senses, colonize Titan, or have any real sense of intrigue about Spader, in a television slot of viscous and carefully delineated slime, deploying diseases, anhidrosis, like a damn card trick. James, you're of my generation and you are capable of a better disreputable range. What the fuck are you doing?

Fedora's Lurk, Like Reza Aslan

The prolonged Cold War—that Manichean drama of projections and counterprojections; the Vietnam War—not generally acknowledeged as the longest war in American history (1954-73); the protests against the Vietnam War, which forcibly divided the generations-- Joyce Carol Oates, ferocity shrew

Dashiell Hammett could teach those rushed kindle authors a few things about making light surface fiction interesting. I have studied him more than once under Jewish and Gentile liberal. James Joyce may rouse my hostility as an unforgiving fuck who smirks his way into the apologia of the dimmer dial, but Hammett doesn't thin his gruel for the sake of the puzzle, and The Maltese Falcon is one of my favorite commercial novels. My money is on Sam Spade teaching alien archaeologists more about civilization than the joke on Leopold Bloom. James Spader seems to embody a bit of each character, the Manichean detective, the corrupt and corrosively mocked Jew. It manifests itself in his early and quixotic role in Stargate, a breathtaking speculative cinematic otherworld. follows him in Wolf, manifests a wickedly promising menace in Boston Legal, only to fizz in The Practice. It is a menace of more complex nuance than that offered by Christopher Walken. Walken carries a bit of jingoism in his ruthless irony, but Spader leaves one unsure, as if he is a fervent convert to Satanic possibilities, or a Crusader who just discovered the potency of salvation. We're never sure which in his manipulative antipodes.

It is not enough for The Blacklist, which is patently ridiculous. No one man can manipulate die hard gum shoes and the ruthless hardened criminals and stay three moves ahead of either, not even America's unifying KGB statesman. With that qualification, the show may be of use, in its idiotic television way (Ukrainian ordinance guerrillas apparently inhabit the capital and spring to life for the convenience of the screen writer's guild, but hey, who is starving in corrupt government housing methodologies, not screen writers!). Good and bad each have debilitating costs and secrets, in the measure of how far brutality has come, gut stabbings are routine in gratuitous teleplay, a delight! If producers wanted to do it right, they'd anglicize a Persian and twist his balls in a confused identity matrix. The real Islamists can't be killed fast enough, but multicultural humanism on an American campus is a pasturized entry pass.