"I saw a bunch of scared actors afraid of losing their jobs."-- John Corbett, who manages to make me curl, pleasantly
It was gratifying to see the late Patty Duke Astin in the instantly forgettable 05 Bigger Than The Sky, its two hour run time consuming my salmon pate preparation, a steady diet of which usually revives my energy, but not today, not even with a thousand milligram caplet swallowed beneath it. The amount of caffeine I have absorbed, the real shift in humidity as the summer season shifts into full gear, this accentuates my plaque build up, my arthritis, and the strange irritation in my rectum which has been and remains not part of my normal biological narrative since I allowed the late Frank access to it. A former aide named Kisha assured me that Frank's enthusiastic anal experimentation would not have done anything harmful to me. She is probably correct, as my intimacy with him ended within the first year and six months of our relationship, and any infection from his hazardous body would have done more to me by now; it is, nonetheless, a basic truism, before 2006 my colon in and of itself wasn't raising the potential of malignancy. The tendency towards polyps runs in the family, as well
In mid 2016, I understand the situational irony of actually being dead alive, almost as well as Duke comprehends, in either her maudlin or satirical modes, her emotional pendulum swings-- my mind and its acuity still relatively intact, but knowing the end is in sight, giving into it despite my libertarian exhilaration. Just getting through the day, making myself a meal, grinding what remains of my occlusion to get through my ligaments, breathing shallow, let alone driving this battered vehicle about my limited range, or throwing a load of colors in the wash, is doing me in, much like the labor of the Comtrex freight, protesting its heavy metal elements on the rails.
I was rather stupid to allow myself to get drawn in to the Yabberz community, and I'm extracting myself from it, reluctantly, true, like a puss-faced toddler. There are some sharp witted users who habituate the virtual dynamic of Golden State liberal hypocrisy, but the best of them visit infrequently; not all of them may have mental health issues, but one of the return users, harleyboy66, is an exact replica of the clientele I used to case manage, possibly dangerous under the right provocation. I can tell because of his lack of coherence. He was the wrong person to be having an online discussion with about quadriplegia and ideation. I am not quite certain what I'm going to *do* with Mike and Melissa's volatile maven. I agree with a Romanian critic that Yabberz has an unpleasant political miasma to it, but on the other hand, as a blogging platform, it does have its uses, and as I'm not under commission, I can still keep my account active enough to experiment with ideas, if I can keep a lid on threatening the faux liberals, as well as the true left, with total annihilation. If anything, Yabberz has contributed to my own polarization, and I am still not particularly fond of peripheral views to which a Cyclops is limited. And since I have forgotten my fatigue, obviously I need to be true to myself, and work, in the time I have, work.
I also want to scream at Tony Stiles to steal a hydraulic van and come rescue me from an African American punk majority, if only as a charitable contribution. Perhaps I should contact the Koch brothers.
Showing posts with label ulysses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ulysses. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 1, 2016
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Fluck of the Irish
"I, personally, do not believe there is a ghost in the machine." Stephen Hawking on voice amplifier.
My exasperation with my incidental attempts to engage with the Toomey reelection campaign has little to do with the Senator himself. I do not keep track of his voting record, though cognizant of the fact that he was a tea party conservative who made gestures of reconciliation after Sandy Hook. I support him on ending Pennsylvania's status as a sanctuary zone, despite my unwillingness to recommit to the Republican Party. What irks me is on a good day in spring I wanted to go to his office on JFK to report for duty, and was under a misapprehension.
"Madam, mam," the staffer exclaimed on the phone, as if warding off a pit bull. Legislative offices for government business is distinctly separate from campaign headquarters in New Wales, which, if I had attempted to reach prior to Memorial Day of 2016, would have been problematic, with my large humidity altered two day defecations of mostly phlegm, drying out slowly in my century plus skeleton. Trolling for voters on my overly rich 5s isn't my strongest suit, in my desire to rally to keep myself alive.
In the zenith of his middle-aged bigotry, mio padre had little regard for either the Irish or the Poles, and was always keen on a reducible joke of the sort to which Joyce wasn't immune. My father's racism was only fiery when it came to niggers sleeping with whites. That was the sacrilege, but now in his eighties, it only has a wraith like echo to his slow enfeebling. My tap dancing flirtation with the senator's clan has left me disheartened, dubious about representation altogether, as if it would have been such a contested breach of ethics to allow me a reasonable accommodation to appear, if for nothing else but the discovery of incumbency's larder. This isn't to convey I give McGinty a second thought, only the realization that constituency is an over-valued classification, and the right's ideology is little more than fried rat on hickory next to violating federal regulations. I want to literally punish American liberalism, and Republicans seem merely to genuflect, or looking like a Seraphim during the papal visit.
I have absolutely no idea if raising my voice to Toomey and Sims and the convivial Dennis O'Brien did anything at all, other than shrink my body mass for a six foot depth dug grave. I softened the title because I'm not angry, only dissipating beyond the two political parties.
My exasperation with my incidental attempts to engage with the Toomey reelection campaign has little to do with the Senator himself. I do not keep track of his voting record, though cognizant of the fact that he was a tea party conservative who made gestures of reconciliation after Sandy Hook. I support him on ending Pennsylvania's status as a sanctuary zone, despite my unwillingness to recommit to the Republican Party. What irks me is on a good day in spring I wanted to go to his office on JFK to report for duty, and was under a misapprehension.
"Madam, mam," the staffer exclaimed on the phone, as if warding off a pit bull. Legislative offices for government business is distinctly separate from campaign headquarters in New Wales, which, if I had attempted to reach prior to Memorial Day of 2016, would have been problematic, with my large humidity altered two day defecations of mostly phlegm, drying out slowly in my century plus skeleton. Trolling for voters on my overly rich 5s isn't my strongest suit, in my desire to rally to keep myself alive.
In the zenith of his middle-aged bigotry, mio padre had little regard for either the Irish or the Poles, and was always keen on a reducible joke of the sort to which Joyce wasn't immune. My father's racism was only fiery when it came to niggers sleeping with whites. That was the sacrilege, but now in his eighties, it only has a wraith like echo to his slow enfeebling. My tap dancing flirtation with the senator's clan has left me disheartened, dubious about representation altogether, as if it would have been such a contested breach of ethics to allow me a reasonable accommodation to appear, if for nothing else but the discovery of incumbency's larder. This isn't to convey I give McGinty a second thought, only the realization that constituency is an over-valued classification, and the right's ideology is little more than fried rat on hickory next to violating federal regulations. I want to literally punish American liberalism, and Republicans seem merely to genuflect, or looking like a Seraphim during the papal visit.
I have absolutely no idea if raising my voice to Toomey and Sims and the convivial Dennis O'Brien did anything at all, other than shrink my body mass for a six foot depth dug grave. I softened the title because I'm not angry, only dissipating beyond the two political parties.
Monday, March 17, 2014
... And Clench
Remember the Microsoft commercial with the deaf girl signing in the Bill Gates utopian sense, that there were no disabilities online? It is not true. I am alienated wherever I go, no matter whom I talk to, or what I do, barring a stranger's lack of familiarity. It may be what I get for hanging out with pompous assholes who flatter themselves over rhetorical expertise and treating early experts as a vocabulary which cannot be entered into without wearily cataloged diligence, but my point isn't about the electronic social cut; it's about belonging. I still want to fit in somewhere. The Jewish museum-- well, what did I expect, especially if I can't contact my Jewish cousins for cover?
I was banned by Poets & Writers, and allowed The Literature Network to repeat the process, I can never reconcile with disability activists in Philadelphia, and after oh, 15 years of posts with literary instructors on a group list, I get bitch slapped every time I assert myself. And my family? Well-- you know what that's like. I'm very depressed-- no, wrong sensibility.
Inchoate flailing. It occurred to me that the poster who once had the idea of Ulysses being a Cubist novel may have thought my response was an insult. Said response was more like a yelp, given my hostility to an exercise Joyce himself described as a "damned long novel."
Now you understand why purists kill intellectuals when they have a coup and bear responsibility for genocidal routs.
I was banned by Poets & Writers, and allowed The Literature Network to repeat the process, I can never reconcile with disability activists in Philadelphia, and after oh, 15 years of posts with literary instructors on a group list, I get bitch slapped every time I assert myself. And my family? Well-- you know what that's like. I'm very depressed-- no, wrong sensibility.
Inchoate flailing. It occurred to me that the poster who once had the idea of Ulysses being a Cubist novel may have thought my response was an insult. Said response was more like a yelp, given my hostility to an exercise Joyce himself described as a "damned long novel."
Now you understand why purists kill intellectuals when they have a coup and bear responsibility for genocidal routs.
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.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Open House
"That was something else. "-- The Rosenbach director correcting my veer off topic.
If I was savvy enough with graphics, I would screen shot the Rosenbach events email and embed it for you, but suffice to say, their open house is September 28, from 12 to 6, and if you have not been yet, and enjoy eccentric historical preserves in cityscapes, then go take a peek. My first time I practically fell over myself to unload my small change in their donation vessels, and we will not dwell on my economic folly of maintaining my contributor membership; it is a folly I wish upon myself. The docents are friendly and know the history of the family. I did not spend a great deal of time in the Jewish history exhibit last evening, primarily out of consideration for Jewish tribalism and the museum's more important moneyed donors, but it is still an accessible and informative exchange, and the Civil War gallery is well designed, interesting to amateur and professional.
I shall not be in attendance, as I am a member now, and will conserve my energies in the direction of events, or future reading groups, so my absence will no doubt be an added inducement. Eh, let me hedge: If I am well enough maybe I will drive over and play mascot, but stay on Delancey. My sore spot over my reading fumble of Ulysses during Bloomsday this summer past is minor in the scale of things, but perhaps nerves led me to broach the issue. I know I am not upscale, and perhaps irrevocably falling out of the meritocracy. I may also secretly desire to try again one day, but that involves politics, like anything, and I am the Italian who hates Joyce!
There are lesser and greater inclusionary practices, however, and what quirky little Rosenbach represents is the greater, though I do not have the knowledge beforehand to know if the bookseller installed an elevator in the home as it was when it served its primary purpose as a bourgeoisie dwelling. Do mark your calendar.
If I was savvy enough with graphics, I would screen shot the Rosenbach events email and embed it for you, but suffice to say, their open house is September 28, from 12 to 6, and if you have not been yet, and enjoy eccentric historical preserves in cityscapes, then go take a peek. My first time I practically fell over myself to unload my small change in their donation vessels, and we will not dwell on my economic folly of maintaining my contributor membership; it is a folly I wish upon myself. The docents are friendly and know the history of the family. I did not spend a great deal of time in the Jewish history exhibit last evening, primarily out of consideration for Jewish tribalism and the museum's more important moneyed donors, but it is still an accessible and informative exchange, and the Civil War gallery is well designed, interesting to amateur and professional.
I shall not be in attendance, as I am a member now, and will conserve my energies in the direction of events, or future reading groups, so my absence will no doubt be an added inducement. Eh, let me hedge: If I am well enough maybe I will drive over and play mascot, but stay on Delancey. My sore spot over my reading fumble of Ulysses during Bloomsday this summer past is minor in the scale of things, but perhaps nerves led me to broach the issue. I know I am not upscale, and perhaps irrevocably falling out of the meritocracy. I may also secretly desire to try again one day, but that involves politics, like anything, and I am the Italian who hates Joyce!
There are lesser and greater inclusionary practices, however, and what quirky little Rosenbach represents is the greater, though I do not have the knowledge beforehand to know if the bookseller installed an elevator in the home as it was when it served its primary purpose as a bourgeoisie dwelling. Do mark your calendar.
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Austrian Perocet
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking, but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack-- Count Guido Franceshini
Sixsmith, for an avatar, had a persuasive critical ability within the forum community. I do not know if he is still a part of Chris Beasley's rigid, insecure, and unjust virtual authoritarian play land, nor do I know his gender for sure, but he is a gifted critic who I believe respected my faculties as long as I kept my cyber sexual fancies to a minimum, and in one thread he asked me what I thought of Musil's posthumous, inconclusive masterpiece.
What I'd be able to convey to Six, in light of what I've written in Spirometry, is that Musil also deliberately engages in evasion within the massive tome that comprises Ulrich'es adventurous sexual escapades. It took an Austrian soldier to flush out Henry James jibe to Howells about publishing a story on incest, and at nearly two thousand pages, Henry James would have delighted in Musil's prolificacy. The Man Without Qualities is also the first modern novel to feature what we now categorize in the terms of psychopathy, the predator Moosbrugger. Beyond this assessment, I cannot offer more, at present, since I will be rereading, slowly, as I am rereading Broch, slowly, except to add that the gaming of Robert Musil is more accomplished than anything James Joyce indulges through linguistic playfulness. The great modernists lived through or anticipated WW1; perhaps WW2 killed them because they could not prevent it, despite realizing the consequences of European implosion, and why these men of genius could not recognize the rise of Fascism on the continent and try to stop it remains a mystery. Scholars laud Joyce for Leopold Bloom's metamorphosis, but the reductionist and incisive cruelty of Joycean humor makes me recoil, in light of the horror that launched itself upon the world past the publication of Ulysses. Unlike my former transvestite ally, (and whatever you read in this picture, s/he is a crook) I assign blame; it may be a heavy onus to put on a failed Jesuit with his own vulnerabilities couched in grandiloquence, but Joyce knew better, yes, even for circa 1922, and this is what sticks in my throat. Walt Whitman believed Leaves of Grass would prevent the Civil War. What Joycean frolic with Antisemitism achieves is the laying of a red carpet for a bloodbath.
This is no reflection on Lance Walhert; he is a competent instructor; neither is this a reflection on the Rosenbach. It was good to get out, good to engage, despite that my intellectual restlessness needs to push further than a paid discussion group, and if you were wise, and entered a profession like engineering for financial security, but always wanted to read Moby Dick, outsourced class structures such as this would satisfy you, as they did Cassie in the what's cooking pic. She is the gamy legged woman I rolled with now and again, a gimp Annie Proulx would have enjoyed subverting.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking, but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack-- Count Guido Franceshini
Sixsmith, for an avatar, had a persuasive critical ability within the forum community. I do not know if he is still a part of Chris Beasley's rigid, insecure, and unjust virtual authoritarian play land, nor do I know his gender for sure, but he is a gifted critic who I believe respected my faculties as long as I kept my cyber sexual fancies to a minimum, and in one thread he asked me what I thought of Musil's posthumous, inconclusive masterpiece.
What I'd be able to convey to Six, in light of what I've written in Spirometry, is that Musil also deliberately engages in evasion within the massive tome that comprises Ulrich'es adventurous sexual escapades. It took an Austrian soldier to flush out Henry James jibe to Howells about publishing a story on incest, and at nearly two thousand pages, Henry James would have delighted in Musil's prolificacy. The Man Without Qualities is also the first modern novel to feature what we now categorize in the terms of psychopathy, the predator Moosbrugger. Beyond this assessment, I cannot offer more, at present, since I will be rereading, slowly, as I am rereading Broch, slowly, except to add that the gaming of Robert Musil is more accomplished than anything James Joyce indulges through linguistic playfulness. The great modernists lived through or anticipated WW1; perhaps WW2 killed them because they could not prevent it, despite realizing the consequences of European implosion, and why these men of genius could not recognize the rise of Fascism on the continent and try to stop it remains a mystery. Scholars laud Joyce for Leopold Bloom's metamorphosis, but the reductionist and incisive cruelty of Joycean humor makes me recoil, in light of the horror that launched itself upon the world past the publication of Ulysses. Unlike my former transvestite ally, (and whatever you read in this picture, s/he is a crook) I assign blame; it may be a heavy onus to put on a failed Jesuit with his own vulnerabilities couched in grandiloquence, but Joyce knew better, yes, even for circa 1922, and this is what sticks in my throat. Walt Whitman believed Leaves of Grass would prevent the Civil War. What Joycean frolic with Antisemitism achieves is the laying of a red carpet for a bloodbath.
This is no reflection on Lance Walhert; he is a competent instructor; neither is this a reflection on the Rosenbach. It was good to get out, good to engage, despite that my intellectual restlessness needs to push further than a paid discussion group, and if you were wise, and entered a profession like engineering for financial security, but always wanted to read Moby Dick, outsourced class structures such as this would satisfy you, as they did Cassie in the what's cooking pic. She is the gamy legged woman I rolled with now and again, a gimp Annie Proulx would have enjoyed subverting.
Marcella Midget Queen Data Mime
I have indicated certain dark sympathies for people like Dorner, and many presume this to be a false alarm amid contradictory bias, but idiots, regardless of their superficial ethic differences, provide undue founts of justified pleasure for my cynicism. The reemergence of NSA data mining confuses me because it was already revealed at the close of the Bush Administration. It is not as if we did not know, regardless of the legal sword hanging over Snowden's head (and he confuses me more).
1. I do not have any faith in this kind of electronic surveillance;
2. It did not stop the Tsarnaev brothers;
3. It will be abused;
4. We need to start thinking about what kind of personal autonomy will remain at the end of this century.
If a minority excavator can kill six people because he was an oppressed drug addict deemed untouchable due to his civil rights (and lax oversight by city regulators) and a two bit industry actress can turn herself into a national security threat out of spite, then I guess we're finished. This center engages in illegal acts against a substantial minority of its staff, its clientele base, and my pain over what it and the activists around it did to me supposedly puts me outside the normal realm because I was not emotionally fit in the time frame the events occurred to go through the rigor of litigation, and the regulators with the power to reign in a bad system with a bad mandate will sit on their asses until the culture vomits out a Benschop or Richardson of its own.
Self interest and its blinding impact, incompetence, and the metrical creation of homogeneous compliance. Rulers of the universe.
1. I do not have any faith in this kind of electronic surveillance;
2. It did not stop the Tsarnaev brothers;
3. It will be abused;
4. We need to start thinking about what kind of personal autonomy will remain at the end of this century.
If a minority excavator can kill six people because he was an oppressed drug addict deemed untouchable due to his civil rights (and lax oversight by city regulators) and a two bit industry actress can turn herself into a national security threat out of spite, then I guess we're finished. This center engages in illegal acts against a substantial minority of its staff, its clientele base, and my pain over what it and the activists around it did to me supposedly puts me outside the normal realm because I was not emotionally fit in the time frame the events occurred to go through the rigor of litigation, and the regulators with the power to reign in a bad system with a bad mandate will sit on their asses until the culture vomits out a Benschop or Richardson of its own.
Self interest and its blinding impact, incompetence, and the metrical creation of homogeneous compliance. Rulers of the universe.
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
The Joyce Glove
It's over, and not to engage in hyperbole out of bounds, but I'd dance in the Salvation Army rumble if I could in sheer relief. I like the Rosenbach, I think, but a live reading group with a curriculum structure was a mistake for me, given my pulmonary distress. The cheerful blonde from the Wednesday group said, strangely, that I was *brilliant* when I complained I could barely remember how to construct a thesis statement. Her name is Amy. Nice woman.
I am ill, dying from my own past tobacco usage, and now the glycerin vapor, perhaps. Chronic bronchitis is not an unbearable metaphysical condition so much as minute suffocation. I cannot hug Jerry goodbye; this saddens me.
I have traversed that Market Street corner so often, it feels like an augur's ill tempered omen, an encroachment of third world malaise, the sleaze of urban corruption. I do not wish to wind up semi conscious on a respirator.
After rest we shall return.
I am ill, dying from my own past tobacco usage, and now the glycerin vapor, perhaps. Chronic bronchitis is not an unbearable metaphysical condition so much as minute suffocation. I cannot hug Jerry goodbye; this saddens me.
I have traversed that Market Street corner so often, it feels like an augur's ill tempered omen, an encroachment of third world malaise, the sleaze of urban corruption. I do not wish to wind up semi conscious on a respirator.
After rest we shall return.
Sunday, May 26, 2013
Princess Andromache, Croupier
.... not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away. "Old man," said he, "let me not find you tarrying about our ships, nor yet coming hereafter. Your sceptre of the god and your wreath shall profit you nothing. I will not free her. She shall grow old in my house at Argos far from her own home, busying herself with her loom and visiting my couch; so go, and do not provoke me or it shall be the worse for you."-- Samuel Butler's translation
How is it that one can eschew James Joyce and still appreciate the consequences of Modernism? There is much to appreciate in Ulysses, regardless if a pauper invalid spends well over five hundred dollars on cheat sheets and the nullification of her own pretensions, particularly the Calypso section, and then Nausicca, and the disjunctions from Nausicca between Bloom and Gerty leading into Circe which I absorbed with psycho-sexual shock, and will ponder beyond the conclusion of this reading group cycle. Joyce is on par with the blindness of subsuming into appetite, and still illicits my scorn.
Scorn is a strong sentiment, a reaction against pity and the pathos of Joycean grandiosity, something that glimmers in Dubliners, rises in Portrait, and reaches a crescendo in Ulysses. Perhaps I am more Cartesian than I realize, certainly not as skillful as Nick Davis in deconstructing Greenaway. Nick helps me to see why The Belly of an Architect preoccupies and remains an insufferable pretension, and the argument it makes about feminism and legacy is to some extent historically relevant, structuralist, to say the least. Problematic films like these are needed even more than masterpieces. If you need to visualize what I mean in my charge toward a thesis, there is the gnat chameleon aspect of Jake Gyllenhaal's roles: the sounding center geek in Proof, The Zodiac Killer, a type against his A list swashbuckler bid Prince of Persia, a formula for which I could not sit still. Moving in part, more rugged in its realism than Errol Flynn's output, reminiscent of Douglas and Curtis maiming each other unto death, a film based on a game nevertheless doesn't belie expectations.
I ended my implicit contract with the long winded Timothy Artis, the talking mule of the Torah, and this time, I ended it for good. There is little between me and a major shit fest if I do not find a replacement soon, or return to the Medicaid waiver.
Should I give up, prepare for death? Like anyone has the balls to type in my comment section on accepting limitations and the inevitable. I have only a thin, thinning veneer for African American dominion in Philadelphia-- indeed, the cracks in black identity toward true matriculation into the mainstream has ushered itself in a little late for my adoption of developmental dove like expressions.
How is it that one can eschew James Joyce and still appreciate the consequences of Modernism? There is much to appreciate in Ulysses, regardless if a pauper invalid spends well over five hundred dollars on cheat sheets and the nullification of her own pretensions, particularly the Calypso section, and then Nausicca, and the disjunctions from Nausicca between Bloom and Gerty leading into Circe which I absorbed with psycho-sexual shock, and will ponder beyond the conclusion of this reading group cycle. Joyce is on par with the blindness of subsuming into appetite, and still illicits my scorn.
Scorn is a strong sentiment, a reaction against pity and the pathos of Joycean grandiosity, something that glimmers in Dubliners, rises in Portrait, and reaches a crescendo in Ulysses. Perhaps I am more Cartesian than I realize, certainly not as skillful as Nick Davis in deconstructing Greenaway. Nick helps me to see why The Belly of an Architect preoccupies and remains an insufferable pretension, and the argument it makes about feminism and legacy is to some extent historically relevant, structuralist, to say the least. Problematic films like these are needed even more than masterpieces. If you need to visualize what I mean in my charge toward a thesis, there is the gnat chameleon aspect of Jake Gyllenhaal's roles: the sounding center geek in Proof, The Zodiac Killer, a type against his A list swashbuckler bid Prince of Persia, a formula for which I could not sit still. Moving in part, more rugged in its realism than Errol Flynn's output, reminiscent of Douglas and Curtis maiming each other unto death, a film based on a game nevertheless doesn't belie expectations.
I ended my implicit contract with the long winded Timothy Artis, the talking mule of the Torah, and this time, I ended it for good. There is little between me and a major shit fest if I do not find a replacement soon, or return to the Medicaid waiver.
Should I give up, prepare for death? Like anyone has the balls to type in my comment section on accepting limitations and the inevitable. I have only a thin, thinning veneer for African American dominion in Philadelphia-- indeed, the cracks in black identity toward true matriculation into the mainstream has ushered itself in a little late for my adoption of developmental dove like expressions.
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?
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Stymied
Few of Joyce's books appear on the Irish school curriculum. His play "Exiles" has not been performed in Dublin for many years. His poetry is almost unknown in his homeland, and "Ulysses" is widely regarded in Ireland as an impenetrable and pretentious folly (which, in parts, it magnificently is). Joseph O'Conner for WSJ
The Hill County Farms case illustrates the loathsome underbelly of the American welfare state, that small pockets of our country are no better than dangerously disintegrated communities in Somalia. I do not care what your politics are. I do not care if I have raised more than a few eyebrows with the depth of my internalized scars. I do not care if Angelina Jolie forms a Tinseltown Exploratory Committee and wins all 50 states in a landslide in 2016, this horrifying instance of slavery is why I hate you, why, if you are of African ancestry and I have hurt your feelings, you have nothing to say to me, and why if you are a homosexual, I'd wire your mouth shut sooner than pay you a farthing in respect, and why, if you are white and suburban with your two children, what these men had to suffer is the fault of your despicable self-interest, and why, if you are a disability center consumer, you're deluding yourself. Next to the conditions these men endured my poverty is rich, but I have seen situations that do not leave much in the lack of imagination in terms of a crumbling existence that the least of ant colonies would not endure.
You see this story as an aberration. To me it's civilization's end, just beginning.
There are very few active Joyce forums online. I joined a Joyce serv akin to the James list model that hasn't seen a post since 2007, driven in my bid to find out to the degree possible how much of James Joyce had read before 1922. Bloomsday makes me wrinkle my nose and avert my gaze, as if I had caught sight of my brother's dead hamster in the basement, drowned and floating. I do not really wish to read a fucking passage of Ulysses on June 16th. Charming Lance asked me if I would be well enough, if I wished to; no doubt I shall. The exercise and celebration is pointless.
The Hill County Farms case illustrates the loathsome underbelly of the American welfare state, that small pockets of our country are no better than dangerously disintegrated communities in Somalia. I do not care what your politics are. I do not care if I have raised more than a few eyebrows with the depth of my internalized scars. I do not care if Angelina Jolie forms a Tinseltown Exploratory Committee and wins all 50 states in a landslide in 2016, this horrifying instance of slavery is why I hate you, why, if you are of African ancestry and I have hurt your feelings, you have nothing to say to me, and why if you are a homosexual, I'd wire your mouth shut sooner than pay you a farthing in respect, and why, if you are white and suburban with your two children, what these men had to suffer is the fault of your despicable self-interest, and why, if you are a disability center consumer, you're deluding yourself. Next to the conditions these men endured my poverty is rich, but I have seen situations that do not leave much in the lack of imagination in terms of a crumbling existence that the least of ant colonies would not endure.
You see this story as an aberration. To me it's civilization's end, just beginning.
There are very few active Joyce forums online. I joined a Joyce serv akin to the James list model that hasn't seen a post since 2007, driven in my bid to find out to the degree possible how much of James Joyce had read before 1922. Bloomsday makes me wrinkle my nose and avert my gaze, as if I had caught sight of my brother's dead hamster in the basement, drowned and floating. I do not really wish to read a fucking passage of Ulysses on June 16th. Charming Lance asked me if I would be well enough, if I wished to; no doubt I shall. The exercise and celebration is pointless.
Sunday, May 5, 2013
Nautica
The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would, according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be calculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus, thereby causing the elastic pores of the corpora cavernosa to rapidly dilate in such a way as to instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to that part of the human anatomy known as the penis--Ulysses, page 289
Joyce and his whore house venereal disease, saved by a chambermaid. According to this sensibility I should have seen Frank and his spic Bronx survival skills as a blessing, this from an ex-fiance who only told me later that he had bee exposed to the herpes virus and that he nearly asphyxiated the cousin wife who left him, and yes, I turn back to him, but only because of our history, however negative. "I cannot become like you!" I rage, and this is cruel to his pus laden flesh, never even started the murder mystery where his killer remains undetected because I do not know how to break off closure for a killer who is not caught, a Hannibal of my own. How much trophy fucking Bryan Fuller must be able to tap. Blows a kiss. Television is growing up. Bryan baby you've just got it down man.
I do not know if I would not kill Linda for real, given her illegal humiliation from which I have (obviously), never fully recovered. If you want to know what in part prevented me from filing with the EEOC, I wrote to her that "I'd like to kill you." And I was afraid the government would not take my case. The statement encapsulates the lack of restraint; 14 years ago it was an idiomatic outlash written out of hurt, anger. In no way literal then, now I am not sure, quite honestly. Poor little crip joint, it would not take much for me to beat her clock, drive to Liberty, start what would amount to an illegal confrontation, and thus force a change in my life, getting myself arrested because of incompetent case management, interpersonal cruelty that only she and I remember, except that she left it behind, the sociopathic weasel who complies with her leash as long as her seniority is respected.
Think you need to put me back on probtheme? Well, if that day ever comes, I will not announce my plans beforehand. Missed Little Man Tate this afternoon, unfortunately, because I am not done with Foster's importance to my thematic intent.
I invested far too much in my iconic sensibility toward Linda, but it mattered because she was the only woman ever like me who wielded power. I tried to follow her example and the price tag wound up too traumatic. I did not follow through on the belief of my instructors either and if I am still a functional journalist?
Linda's response to you about these issues would be, aside from pointing out the anxiety in my transmissions, generated by knowledge that default would be a nightmare from which I could not escape, is that she fobbed me off on her dead coordinator Gil, who in turn fobbed me off on his local actress associate from painted bride. This amounts to additional insult onto injury, no more or less than that. What Linda did doesn't rise to the level of a sexual harassment case, not if President Clinton could drop his pants in front of Jones and get away with it, which he did; I was the party engaged in the urgency of communique, as well.
But my economic security was in jeopardy, and for eight months she treated me like her own personal Igor, and subsequently made it impossible for me to utilize Liberty without continuing to salt the wounds of what had become an abusive paradigm, and I have not been able to remove myself from it since-- how would you feel with this level of helplessness in a barren environment?
Trying to swallow broken glass. An inmate at Bellevue survived this; a vegetable, tube in his stomach, if memory serves.
Joyce and his whore house venereal disease, saved by a chambermaid. According to this sensibility I should have seen Frank and his spic Bronx survival skills as a blessing, this from an ex-fiance who only told me later that he had bee exposed to the herpes virus and that he nearly asphyxiated the cousin wife who left him, and yes, I turn back to him, but only because of our history, however negative. "I cannot become like you!" I rage, and this is cruel to his pus laden flesh, never even started the murder mystery where his killer remains undetected because I do not know how to break off closure for a killer who is not caught, a Hannibal of my own. How much trophy fucking Bryan Fuller must be able to tap. Blows a kiss. Television is growing up. Bryan baby you've just got it down man.
I do not know if I would not kill Linda for real, given her illegal humiliation from which I have (obviously), never fully recovered. If you want to know what in part prevented me from filing with the EEOC, I wrote to her that "I'd like to kill you." And I was afraid the government would not take my case. The statement encapsulates the lack of restraint; 14 years ago it was an idiomatic outlash written out of hurt, anger. In no way literal then, now I am not sure, quite honestly. Poor little crip joint, it would not take much for me to beat her clock, drive to Liberty, start what would amount to an illegal confrontation, and thus force a change in my life, getting myself arrested because of incompetent case management, interpersonal cruelty that only she and I remember, except that she left it behind, the sociopathic weasel who complies with her leash as long as her seniority is respected.
Think you need to put me back on probtheme? Well, if that day ever comes, I will not announce my plans beforehand. Missed Little Man Tate this afternoon, unfortunately, because I am not done with Foster's importance to my thematic intent.
I invested far too much in my iconic sensibility toward Linda, but it mattered because she was the only woman ever like me who wielded power. I tried to follow her example and the price tag wound up too traumatic. I did not follow through on the belief of my instructors either and if I am still a functional journalist?
Linda's response to you about these issues would be, aside from pointing out the anxiety in my transmissions, generated by knowledge that default would be a nightmare from which I could not escape, is that she fobbed me off on her dead coordinator Gil, who in turn fobbed me off on his local actress associate from painted bride. This amounts to additional insult onto injury, no more or less than that. What Linda did doesn't rise to the level of a sexual harassment case, not if President Clinton could drop his pants in front of Jones and get away with it, which he did; I was the party engaged in the urgency of communique, as well.
But my economic security was in jeopardy, and for eight months she treated me like her own personal Igor, and subsequently made it impossible for me to utilize Liberty without continuing to salt the wounds of what had become an abusive paradigm, and I have not been able to remove myself from it since-- how would you feel with this level of helplessness in a barren environment?
Brown Nose
John has a good memory-- Erik von Schmetterling, before he lost his
After I was banned from this online community portal, circa 2002, I spiraled downward in Yahoo Groups, and unsubcribed from the atheist community after a time. Posting like a blackguard wasn't exactly home cooked meatloaf with mash potatoes. I have not crossed any boundaries with this non-fiction community, one of the few very active on which I remain, because I cannot keep up with their reading pace, and do not post often, and this is how I have marked my existence rolling from my bed to this desk for 15 years, give or take: who bans my account, who doesn't, which communities I leave voluntarily.
My health is beginning to fail-- not the best case scenario for sticking my anguish inside of how Joyce utilized his lack of balance crammed into one evening, unintended double entendre as this is. Joyce crams deconstructions, and I crammed over three hundred pages, now find myself disoriented, trying to relocate my gravitational center and mitigate my need to freak fuck myself into a stroke. I read all night at the desk, dressed at nine and drove my blocks in somewhat somnolent states of being Rather dramatic way to rediscover my analytic decline, that I am not a student anymore; the goal is close, I am nearly finished with Ulysses, the sordid reflection of Leopold's Dublin like the crack in my psyche: if I stay with this landlord through this summer I am as good as dead, and if I give my notice this is tantamount to no more than executing the sentence.
The people with cerebral palsy with whom I live basically horrify me and I have little to say to those like the Gladhandler, or Sherry, with her happy retardation, and the ablests? They will listen, give or take, to my brutalized indignation, but how viable I remain among them is an unspoken question, how realistic it is for me to remain defiant.
The guy with the glasses who lets me in to the group, almost over now, is still good looking to my unloved trollop within.
It's been a wonderful life.
After I was banned from this online community portal, circa 2002, I spiraled downward in Yahoo Groups, and unsubcribed from the atheist community after a time. Posting like a blackguard wasn't exactly home cooked meatloaf with mash potatoes. I have not crossed any boundaries with this non-fiction community, one of the few very active on which I remain, because I cannot keep up with their reading pace, and do not post often, and this is how I have marked my existence rolling from my bed to this desk for 15 years, give or take: who bans my account, who doesn't, which communities I leave voluntarily.
My health is beginning to fail-- not the best case scenario for sticking my anguish inside of how Joyce utilized his lack of balance crammed into one evening, unintended double entendre as this is. Joyce crams deconstructions, and I crammed over three hundred pages, now find myself disoriented, trying to relocate my gravitational center and mitigate my need to freak fuck myself into a stroke. I read all night at the desk, dressed at nine and drove my blocks in somewhat somnolent states of being Rather dramatic way to rediscover my analytic decline, that I am not a student anymore; the goal is close, I am nearly finished with Ulysses, the sordid reflection of Leopold's Dublin like the crack in my psyche: if I stay with this landlord through this summer I am as good as dead, and if I give my notice this is tantamount to no more than executing the sentence.
The people with cerebral palsy with whom I live basically horrify me and I have little to say to those like the Gladhandler, or Sherry, with her happy retardation, and the ablests? They will listen, give or take, to my brutalized indignation, but how viable I remain among them is an unspoken question, how realistic it is for me to remain defiant.
The guy with the glasses who lets me in to the group, almost over now, is still good looking to my unloved trollop within.
It's been a wonderful life.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Arcane Limey
Pressed for time this evening. Barreling through the hardest part to get done with this damned revolution that is now standard academic static. Need to finish so I can return to my own concerns, but am I glad I did this? No. Simulating the return to class has not made me healthier or more optimistic. I could not even move to the neighborhood where the museum is located, which, if I could, would make me healthier and more optimistic. Am I glad I discovered the museum? Perhaps I enjoy the association with their archivist, but this is where I can use the help of any Joycean enthusiast:
I am trying to ascertain how familiar James Joyce was with the work of Henry James, specifically if there is any proof that Joyce read the James novella What Maisie Knew without spending 5,000 hours researching the question. I did ask the Jamesians and I suppose off hand none of them knew. Does James Joyce offer any evidence in his letters? I will take any biographical testimony any Joycean could point me to, either in affirmation or negation.
I am trying to ascertain how familiar James Joyce was with the work of Henry James, specifically if there is any proof that Joyce read the James novella What Maisie Knew without spending 5,000 hours researching the question. I did ask the Jamesians and I suppose off hand none of them knew. Does James Joyce offer any evidence in his letters? I will take any biographical testimony any Joycean could point me to, either in affirmation or negation.
Sunday, April 28, 2013
Mannequin Manufacture
Yom Kippur has been called the "white fast." That's because it is not a fast of mourning, but rather a fast that is supposed to help the faster contemplate his or her sins and relationship with God. A different fast, one that mourns for the destruction of the Holy Temple, is a "black fast."--Craig Oren, Rutgers School of Law
Was Clint Eastwood thinking about this almost laughable leading man flick when he produced Million Dollar Baby? The dated new wave kill the sex symbol movie and the contemporary morality play, for all their differences, carry the same message: breaking free of the entrapment of sterile environment can be costly, in mind in body and spirit. Asinine activists protesting a narrative that had something to say. Linear minds are so limiting, so unwilling to think, to be challenged.
I have mentioned Marshall Zacharias (bottom still) more than a few times in the course of my writings on Blogger, and I forgive the man. As long as there is a Henry James Society scholars will be throwing spitballs around on bad hair days. I took my arguments about peers and collusion public, however, because Greg would not reply to my private email about the matter, and, as I have told my page views in the past, I hate social cuts, virtual or the three dimensional variety. I would have preferred even an angry response from him to no response at all, and I have to forgive that too. Perhaps his honors program had a crisis, or maybe he did not like how I ditched Louise, but why do I have to be in charge of wounded starlings? I am not getting paid to do that anymore and I didn't ask her to either follow me around online, or follow my example.
Does he look happy to you, or, like half the universe, is he a Zolcroft user?
Yahoo did not ban me for writing this. Surprise. I truly believed a flock of angry posters would have come at me, not two thumbs up. The dawn of a new civil war? Ah, clever spastic, that's all, no doubt, simply clever.
Was Clint Eastwood thinking about this almost laughable leading man flick when he produced Million Dollar Baby? The dated new wave kill the sex symbol movie and the contemporary morality play, for all their differences, carry the same message: breaking free of the entrapment of sterile environment can be costly, in mind in body and spirit. Asinine activists protesting a narrative that had something to say. Linear minds are so limiting, so unwilling to think, to be challenged.
I have mentioned Marshall Zacharias (bottom still) more than a few times in the course of my writings on Blogger, and I forgive the man. As long as there is a Henry James Society scholars will be throwing spitballs around on bad hair days. I took my arguments about peers and collusion public, however, because Greg would not reply to my private email about the matter, and, as I have told my page views in the past, I hate social cuts, virtual or the three dimensional variety. I would have preferred even an angry response from him to no response at all, and I have to forgive that too. Perhaps his honors program had a crisis, or maybe he did not like how I ditched Louise, but why do I have to be in charge of wounded starlings? I am not getting paid to do that anymore and I didn't ask her to either follow me around online, or follow my example.
Does he look happy to you, or, like half the universe, is he a Zolcroft user?
Yahoo did not ban me for writing this. Surprise. I truly believed a flock of angry posters would have come at me, not two thumbs up. The dawn of a new civil war? Ah, clever spastic, that's all, no doubt, simply clever.
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Breaking Away
As an undergraduate, when I reached Circe I stopped reading.-- my intrepid Ulysses group facilitator, Lance.
I have also entertained the possibility of returning to Ridley Park. The borough was my last suburban territory before I ran, so unsuccessfully, from the block where I listened to Townsend's album so often mio padre stormed out of his bedroom and abused my stereo, smashing it, while I was reading a community college instructor's critique of one of my grandiose hand written stories. "I have no one to help me pack," I interrupted my neighbor Ed last week, and it is petty obstacles like this with which I am making myself ill. Ed is mildly befuddled by my need, my sheer urgency, to get the holy motherfucking hell away from this company, from African American stoic indolence.
It does not surprise me that Joyce had a daughter with schizophrenia. Ulysses is in many ways symptomatic of the illness, just as the novel itself foreshadows the ailments of the Lost Generation. Zelda was the flowering wound that made Scott the voice of the Jazz Age, and nearly all of Fitzgerald's output speaks to me as much through my Aunt Cecily as through my own creative intuition. Cecily was in the twenties as much as her sister Pauline was in the cloister. Telling you that I hate Joyce bothers me less than the fact that my preferences have passion, but I disservice myself by emoting it that simply, since there is much in Joyce with which I identify.
I told Lance not to read my account on Blogger, despite handing him my Amazon download page, lamely, but should he surf by, I am four and a half chapters behind, in Sirens, so it seems evident that spastic has had her fill of literary class instruction, ne c'est pas? Lance is the talent of the next generation, a kind, decent young man who yields to the humorous impulse. I am not in equal measure a decent and dignified old woman: we always continue learning, but with deceleration of a half century and the twilight of my ambition ahead, no more school, however lax the simulation.
This posits the urgency. I cannot make Ed see it, that without a relocation, my moral compass will collapse. I need to make this happen this season, and if the drama of my sanity hinges on my failure or success, you'll no doubt read to tell the tale.
I have also entertained the possibility of returning to Ridley Park. The borough was my last suburban territory before I ran, so unsuccessfully, from the block where I listened to Townsend's album so often mio padre stormed out of his bedroom and abused my stereo, smashing it, while I was reading a community college instructor's critique of one of my grandiose hand written stories. "I have no one to help me pack," I interrupted my neighbor Ed last week, and it is petty obstacles like this with which I am making myself ill. Ed is mildly befuddled by my need, my sheer urgency, to get the holy motherfucking hell away from this company, from African American stoic indolence.
It does not surprise me that Joyce had a daughter with schizophrenia. Ulysses is in many ways symptomatic of the illness, just as the novel itself foreshadows the ailments of the Lost Generation. Zelda was the flowering wound that made Scott the voice of the Jazz Age, and nearly all of Fitzgerald's output speaks to me as much through my Aunt Cecily as through my own creative intuition. Cecily was in the twenties as much as her sister Pauline was in the cloister. Telling you that I hate Joyce bothers me less than the fact that my preferences have passion, but I disservice myself by emoting it that simply, since there is much in Joyce with which I identify.
I told Lance not to read my account on Blogger, despite handing him my Amazon download page, lamely, but should he surf by, I am four and a half chapters behind, in Sirens, so it seems evident that spastic has had her fill of literary class instruction, ne c'est pas? Lance is the talent of the next generation, a kind, decent young man who yields to the humorous impulse. I am not in equal measure a decent and dignified old woman: we always continue learning, but with deceleration of a half century and the twilight of my ambition ahead, no more school, however lax the simulation.
This posits the urgency. I cannot make Ed see it, that without a relocation, my moral compass will collapse. I need to make this happen this season, and if the drama of my sanity hinges on my failure or success, you'll no doubt read to tell the tale.
Saturday, March 23, 2013
Lyricism Minutiae
Lifting a term from Naomi Perley in her 19th century literature studies, it is the rich intratextuality of Proust that I prefer over Joyce and his Homeric Shakespearean parody, and in this sense, I am an Italian Germanic Francophile over a Saxon Anglo satirist. Eliot critiqued that the novel as we once knew it ended with Flaubert and James. True, but Joyce and Proust, then David Mitchell, broke the bank.
The novel as a literary form is dead, and Joyce took a deconstruction to its limit and essentially failed. His word smashing may strike the funny bone, but is not a consciousness simulation. Proust, on the other hand, mimics the complexity of biology by turning detailed precision of memory into a musical score. Mitchell then in the 21st century gives it digital connective tissue with historical allusions bound by chance connections that unify from the center.
Nothing more can be done with narrative except for the arbitrary perspective that seeps in the cracks.
Naughty woman with a schedule I need to keep, I should be lying down, but I wrestle with my two bit tap on why the quiet Italians, limping in on the backs of the titans, should have the last word. It turns out I can play Russian roulette with both e-cig cartridges and the simple plastic poke tubes. My constructs are slow to form, but my advantage is I am a stubborn bitch, and I am going to take my place in the field, even if I have to tutor remedial English to grasp at straws. I hate Joyce, so there, but why?
You see?
*
Lazy troping. I can appreciate certain things in the fabled Joycean virtuosity, and of course, Western civilization survived the onslaught of Modernism deconstructing the fabulism, the assurance, of the Elizabethan world order, but it could not stop personal autonomy from turning yesterday's warrior into the modern terrorist. Is this too damning a charge to aim at Broch, Bloomsbury, their successors?
The novel as a literary form is dead, and Joyce took a deconstruction to its limit and essentially failed. His word smashing may strike the funny bone, but is not a consciousness simulation. Proust, on the other hand, mimics the complexity of biology by turning detailed precision of memory into a musical score. Mitchell then in the 21st century gives it digital connective tissue with historical allusions bound by chance connections that unify from the center.
Nothing more can be done with narrative except for the arbitrary perspective that seeps in the cracks.
Naughty woman with a schedule I need to keep, I should be lying down, but I wrestle with my two bit tap on why the quiet Italians, limping in on the backs of the titans, should have the last word. It turns out I can play Russian roulette with both e-cig cartridges and the simple plastic poke tubes. My constructs are slow to form, but my advantage is I am a stubborn bitch, and I am going to take my place in the field, even if I have to tutor remedial English to grasp at straws. I hate Joyce, so there, but why?
You see?
*
Lazy troping. I can appreciate certain things in the fabled Joycean virtuosity, and of course, Western civilization survived the onslaught of Modernism deconstructing the fabulism, the assurance, of the Elizabethan world order, but it could not stop personal autonomy from turning yesterday's warrior into the modern terrorist. Is this too damning a charge to aim at Broch, Bloomsbury, their successors?
Thursday, March 14, 2013
Wandering Rock
...the individual brain, even if outstanding, was lagging farther and farther below the dizzy peak which science and technology in their totality had reached.-- Alexander Blade
Part of the reason I chaff over Ulysses is that I plod, not making the time for an autopsy of due diligence, and should not have then spent the money, though it went to a good cause, as I am the child of the aesthetic underdog, but something about the Joycean idiolect gives me epileptic seizures, and this goes back to my reading of Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man when money wasn't my primary concern. Perhaps it is not important that I grasp it for you right now, why Marcel Proust is soul food and Joyce is an orbital emergency to battle. I should be able to appreciate the subversive characteristics of the leprechaun, and do, but there is an undercurrent of antagonism when I enter Joyce, as if I am being conned. With Sterne this is central. Frustrated expectations essentially serve as the reader's antagonist in this early post modern exploit, which I read, reread, never seem to finish, poor Shandy, still waiting for me to allow his mum to enter into labor, but it takes me more and more of an effort to accomplish my goals, brushing my now dry and brittle hair, hour and a half to dress, and that on a good day. I am wasting too much time, but if you go, and my physiology allows, I will see you here:
Part of the reason I chaff over Ulysses is that I plod, not making the time for an autopsy of due diligence, and should not have then spent the money, though it went to a good cause, as I am the child of the aesthetic underdog, but something about the Joycean idiolect gives me epileptic seizures, and this goes back to my reading of Dubliners and A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man when money wasn't my primary concern. Perhaps it is not important that I grasp it for you right now, why Marcel Proust is soul food and Joyce is an orbital emergency to battle. I should be able to appreciate the subversive characteristics of the leprechaun, and do, but there is an undercurrent of antagonism when I enter Joyce, as if I am being conned. With Sterne this is central. Frustrated expectations essentially serve as the reader's antagonist in this early post modern exploit, which I read, reread, never seem to finish, poor Shandy, still waiting for me to allow his mum to enter into labor, but it takes me more and more of an effort to accomplish my goals, brushing my now dry and brittle hair, hour and a half to dress, and that on a good day. I am wasting too much time, but if you go, and my physiology allows, I will see you here:
A dinner to benefit Bloomsday | ||||||
|
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Curse of Sinn Fein
Perhaps my coconut milk curdled, but suffice to say I cannot attend to group this afternoon. Used to a troubled bowel as I am, the virulence of this attack frightened me to the point that if I want to return to Italy to die, I'd better start focusing on getting that done. I'd dive into racism in the 21st century, but should wait to see if I have gone viral in the tradition of an influenza.
It is official: I am sick beyond the normal parameters of COPD, and over-utilizing blu and its glycerin atomizers may have contributed. Again, I cannot work, again.
But since I cannot find the post I am looking for, and what else is new, let me make some slight observation about attuning our addictive propensities to alternate and digital technologies: these and these each have strengths and weaknesses. Aero is simple and portable and can be taken anywhere, but does not last long and generates pressure on the need to recycle. The electronic version is stronger and closer to the stabilization of tobacco, but binds the user to the grid with greater necessity, and I am not entirely sure this is much better than the rise of the tobacco industry, though its torturous fall is a utilitarian virtue for public health. As Aaron Eckart in his didactic mode illustrates, however, many of our modern conveniences have pitfalls.
And I am unsure what the left thinks it will achieve in the attempt to regulate vice and negative behaviors out of existence.
It is official: I am sick beyond the normal parameters of COPD, and over-utilizing blu and its glycerin atomizers may have contributed. Again, I cannot work, again.
But since I cannot find the post I am looking for, and what else is new, let me make some slight observation about attuning our addictive propensities to alternate and digital technologies: these and these each have strengths and weaknesses. Aero is simple and portable and can be taken anywhere, but does not last long and generates pressure on the need to recycle. The electronic version is stronger and closer to the stabilization of tobacco, but binds the user to the grid with greater necessity, and I am not entirely sure this is much better than the rise of the tobacco industry, though its torturous fall is a utilitarian virtue for public health. As Aaron Eckart in his didactic mode illustrates, however, many of our modern conveniences have pitfalls.
And I am unsure what the left thinks it will achieve in the attempt to regulate vice and negative behaviors out of existence.
Thursday, February 28, 2013
The Black Irish, Consiigliore
"The blind stripling did not answer. His wallface frowned weakly. He moved his head uncertainly."--James Joyce, Ulysses, p 165
Typical of cognitive brain density limitations, getting bluCigs down, the timing, charging, and usage, this is no easy feat, but I have the basics. It simulates real inhalation better when the battery and atomizer are fresh, but should not be held in the mouth like the simple Aero. I do not have the discretionary income to keep myself amply supplied with both, but freely confess I do not have the physiological strength to break dependence on nicotine's narcotic grip. When I cramp due to withdrawal, my mobility is further impaired, never mind my psyche, and stress. All that is an extension of my existence is my small personal library, my bylines and the detritus of my intellect striven against a poverty that flakes my emotions like brittle mica. That's it. Nothing else defines me. Dead felines die with me, and I have no idea what Google's policy is on memoriam accounts, as Google may freely do what it wishes with its services. I have never had my own place, or a husband, a family, a home, my own furnishings. Objects in the Jamesian sense, far and very few between. Is this what bothers you about my foray into difference, and its macabre insinuations?
I wonder. This studio is devoid. A tangle of wires and not enough outlets. Obsolescent electronic devices. Bins of dead letter bills entitlements, cheap cat toys, thick and outdated telephone directories used as antenna props. I should be reading for group, but the kindle is charging, and so I am here, in time honored Dickensonian fashion, I am going to work for mio padre, in a vain attempt to offset illustrious destitution while my seventy-eight year old progenitor still lives, pondering my antipathy to Joyce. It may have something to do with Jerry's driving energy for the destructive correspondences, and the Joycean gamesmanship, which I don't like even while appreciating, which is curious, since all modernists have some national pathos at play. That which James deploys turns my stomach, however. I haven't written much about the museum where I participate in these activities, as opposed to writing around it, due to my column, but it is not quite Upstairs Downstairs so much as brimming with dialectical tensions, and the black security guards who patrol in residence wear a look of perplexity:
"Are you Jewish?"
"No Italian."
And I am studying Irish literature, white welfare trash under the auspices of a sometimes intolerant black urban city state, watching those beholden to MLK's lack of content in character spin their wheels. Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum.
Typical of cognitive brain density limitations, getting bluCigs down, the timing, charging, and usage, this is no easy feat, but I have the basics. It simulates real inhalation better when the battery and atomizer are fresh, but should not be held in the mouth like the simple Aero. I do not have the discretionary income to keep myself amply supplied with both, but freely confess I do not have the physiological strength to break dependence on nicotine's narcotic grip. When I cramp due to withdrawal, my mobility is further impaired, never mind my psyche, and stress. All that is an extension of my existence is my small personal library, my bylines and the detritus of my intellect striven against a poverty that flakes my emotions like brittle mica. That's it. Nothing else defines me. Dead felines die with me, and I have no idea what Google's policy is on memoriam accounts, as Google may freely do what it wishes with its services. I have never had my own place, or a husband, a family, a home, my own furnishings. Objects in the Jamesian sense, far and very few between. Is this what bothers you about my foray into difference, and its macabre insinuations?
I wonder. This studio is devoid. A tangle of wires and not enough outlets. Obsolescent electronic devices. Bins of dead letter bills entitlements, cheap cat toys, thick and outdated telephone directories used as antenna props. I should be reading for group, but the kindle is charging, and so I am here, in time honored Dickensonian fashion, I am going to work for mio padre, in a vain attempt to offset illustrious destitution while my seventy-eight year old progenitor still lives, pondering my antipathy to Joyce. It may have something to do with Jerry's driving energy for the destructive correspondences, and the Joycean gamesmanship, which I don't like even while appreciating, which is curious, since all modernists have some national pathos at play. That which James deploys turns my stomach, however. I haven't written much about the museum where I participate in these activities, as opposed to writing around it, due to my column, but it is not quite Upstairs Downstairs so much as brimming with dialectical tensions, and the black security guards who patrol in residence wear a look of perplexity:
"Are you Jewish?"
"No Italian."
And I am studying Irish literature, white welfare trash under the auspices of a sometimes intolerant black urban city state, watching those beholden to MLK's lack of content in character spin their wheels. Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum.
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