And the wrought-iron maze he had explored in the kitchen like a gold miner pawing through pay dirt was in fact a revolting clump of scars. Not a tree, as she said. Maybe shaped like one, but nothing like any tree he knew because trees were inviting. -- Toni Morrison, Beloved, p. 30
Too worn out from viral inflammation which has been a constant since the moronic custodial staff put the heat on in October, I need a gynecologist. I need to be embarrassed by an already speculative infection, dirty cripple spatially trailing in a twenty second dimension above the shoulder, except it is not that simple, not to be clever enough. It is not that difficult to extrapolate the challenge of bodies and hygiene; the stereotype has some truth. Without any true diagnostic training, however, going into blind alleys are unnecessary detriments.
I do not know why I hang on to spastic dowager as an avatar. Google wants me to integrate. Examiner wants me to integrate. AT&T pities me with motherly stern reminders. An Examiner film critic on conference called the handle clever; it is.
Presby has to be dismantled, because the classification engenders schema of further exploitation. Rise up. I implore you. Now that I've incited, I have to lie down with my irritated drying skin. I may have mentioned I have soured on Hahnemann. Temple University hospital is acceptable--not necessarily better than my former nearly bankrupt caretaker, but acceptable. I hate Temple University, something I avoided discussing previously because Jerry told me not to transfer and I did anyway. Why did I get so fucked up over this angry beatnik? I will die with this fucked up entangled scar tissue for a dynamic instructor whose star has dimmed. I'd ask you to shoot me, but I'm too tired to be taken seriously.
Did I mention I worry about getting black balled? I do.
I have pushed the envelope, perhaps sorry probtheme no longer burns in my urethra, (am I?) but I haven't really really pushed. Hmm. Does my savagery shame my conceit? I have to lie down and then find a gyn, caught in the ridicule of examining pubic hair on a daily basis, battling crabs, yeast, discharges, hemorrhages. This manufactures the nihilist.
Showing posts with label vagina dialogues. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vagina dialogues. Show all posts
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
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?
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?
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