How The Cymbals Reverberate

When I reviewed, or interpreted The Others earlier this year, I was unaware that Nicole Kidman had followed through on her psychological thriller arc with the equally creepy but possibly more uneven Birth (2004). Though I missed few, the minutes that escaped me were still crucial, and I'd like to screen it once more, but Cameron Bright was used to much better effect here than he was in the stupendous and confusing Ultraviolet, another film that has drawn my mention during my unfortunate LiveJournal stint. Endless revision, tying in the old posts and the new, for what exactly when I cannot solve my application problems, but this will wait until after the holiday, as the dynamic between the new little lady and my poor Vincent has exhausted me, and I am close to giving up the love of feline parenting, though it will break my heart, already rife with fragments. I will not be celebrating tomorrow; indefinite at this point, but I may try a weekend holiday ride to Penn's Landing. In all my years at this location I have never taken the 21 bus to the pier. For me, during the active years of my field work, it was always in the opposite direction, to Darby, smaller maybe, but to my memory the Darby borough is just as bad as the city. Drugs more concentrated, and I have more graphic memories of my mother's drug use, the purple bruises in the fleshy crook of her elbow, the rubber tubing I wasn't supposed to see. What was it that I said about reticence? But the irony of Doty's continued lunging over my review is that particular review was of no consequence as compared to what I write here for the sake of testament, alienating my family, and those who knew me. I think Doty has a lot to learn about what can be controlled in public domains, and what cannot; in contrast to his desire to be loved by his readers, I do not care about my audience in that way, so much as the integrity of my work itself, and if people are dismayed by what I produce, I do not go on a boner about it. I have been praised for the power of my poetry, for how hard hitting I am, or impressed poor Louise, who I abandoned through no fault of her own. She is a perfectly nice young woman who found my work *very raw,* and we should have left it as that. I have been criticized as pretentious, but unlike Doty, I did not harangue the now inactive Usenet poster who threw out that red meat. I like the complexity of my imagery, though it leads to the flaw of a certain top heaviness that can topple my poetic construct. I have been rejected as many thousands of times as the paltry dollars I have drawn in on my work. I have been accepted for publication in sometimes unexpected ways, and I have not been as successful with marketing paradigms as some, including those whom I actually respect, like Cheryl, (not liking the Oprah juggernaut and my expressed frustration at comparative trajectory is not the same thing as disdain; Cheryl is authentic--Doty is a crock, a load on) but there are reasons for this beyond talent, very much related to my vulnerability, strained resources.

Weakest Link

My new foster kitty has taken charge of the situation, wasting little time on Joey's scent, little Vincent's angst, or my diffidence, despite her small size. She seems little more than a kitten herself, and had a stillborn litter veteranian medicine could not save, holds me prisoner by making her favorite spot the power chair. After a week of this I have threatened her with return to City Kitties, and both she and the former little Vincent seem to be getting the message, but I am nearly over the edge, wondering if I should forsake them both at this point. Joey cannot be replaced. I may kill my father's sister if she says another word to me on the matter, which will no doubt win me plaudits with my cousins. But the Friday Lady Rambo came to me (here is her picture, and while under my roof she is Lady Rambo and though sweet, has stressed me out; if you wish to adopt her do not worry about me!) Erik decided to converse with me on the outside vestibule. Callow as many an activist in the past has been to me, I was civil to Riverside Presbyterian's dying Dr. Seuss, who looks like a ghastly cat in the hat. I did not tell transvestite freak to fuck off precisely because his mind is nearly gone, and he was not a direct agent playing along in what Linda Dezenski did to me. I have never fully articulated what happened to me as a political casualty in Philadelphia's cripland, and may never actually be able to spell it out for a public until I find out if redress is utterly hopeless, but Erik and Jimmi's self-interested sense of entitlement, rule breaking, and Justice Department investigations into their activities played their part.