Returning Dead

"If we took anymore help from your government, we'd all starve!"-- a serial actor costumed as an Indian chieftain.

I can barely write for my own pleasure anymore, my own sublimation of fulfillment unbound, let alone put my life under siege, on hold for value content to supplement an entitlement as UBI, but I loved Wild Wild West as a kid, and even then, Conrad's figure held my rapt attention. Mothers with children nod their heads and think, Stop there, and normally I would push back with something about vulgar nigger simulations of propriety and convention, but I simply don't have the time, for now, but for a few thoughts. Even for Wild West's action paced plots, Sammy Davis Jr is doing something else in "Returning Dead," and the ghost puppet he uses to break his confederate burrowers is eerily similar to Corbin Bernsen's Ghost Brigade. I lost the thread of the story, and shall return.  

Polar Vortex

All the texts I really want access to cost a great deal of money. Google Books and other scan technologies may be pressuring copyright law, but it does not answer the issues related to epistemology and equity, this she says researching a commodities article idea only vaguely formed in the direction of "do something on coconuts," borrowing from Time correspondents, in other words, sort of but not really. How would you define fair trade?

Farmers in the golden triangle should be able to prosper, but I think I want to examine or ridicule retail rather than scurry out to Asia to help life long sexual abuse victims. My old mentor, you remember him, right? Before I contacted him in 07, not wanting to because I knew I'd get emotional, I found a page of his poetry similar to what he used to workshop, fragmenting the battered female. I liked those pieces better than I like Vulgar Exhibitions. Sorry Jerry. Compassion, shame, it is all out the window at this point, and more than likely I did not want to sleep with you, but transferred my stepfather's abuse onto you. Ah ha. Key in the lock and it doesn't matter, does it?

We're all dead, I consider myself a bloody failure, you settled in a Louisiana swamp. I am one of those women in your stanzas, however, slumped over the toilet seat, not tripping only by virtue of the fact I am not street wise in these fevered cycles. A man of great foresight you were. I cannot tell you to go fuck yourself, as you advised me not to run back to the city, and it was never entirely rational, what I thought I needed from you, or my suave history teacher whom I never named. If I had married a fellow like either of you, would I have been happy? Remember what you did not want to say when I wrote the anagram poem of my name by mistake, flushing my identity down the sewer? 

"It's it's--" his hyper Irish voice trailed off, unable to look too closely at my vision of my own self-image. 

Richard Basciano

"A smile opens up the whole body!" Danny Aiello

Local newscasts serve up unethical contractors with the same relish that we dig into a pot roast dinner, and undoubtedly, local journalists will investigate construction bosses with renewed vigilance in light of Basciano's malfeasance. The reasons for the consistent malpractice are probably as long  and drawn out as the history of architecture, the ways in which edifice, monuments, churches and palaces are used, instilling grandeur, making statements about imperial might, material efficiency. Boots on the ground may get reconstructed in historical documentaries, but only the designers are treated with iconic status, whether this is through Charlie Rose, and his desire to educate his audience on design as art, or Peter Greenaway engaged in his curious examinations via cinematography. In the art of negativity, however, it also serves up the disintegration of Italian culture that can never be put back together again, even if there was a good deal of luck involved in the rise, the glory, of the Roman city state.

In one of my unfortunate events when I still utilized Paratransit services regularly, my sexual excitement over a male candy sent my driver into Basciano's local smut forum, closed now, some months prior to the Market Street collapse. I gave a fat no nothing black guy with gristled facial hair a hard on, and to this day, carry that episodic guilt, tuning myself to Kafka's abstract disparities. I might have been raped, or led him to get heavy on another client. Greaseball to jig indictment, hand in hand with long standing Mediterranean ambivalence toward North Africa. In these micro narrative terms, Basciano may be a facsimile, an anti-matter image layered on an already corrosive and provincial retraction (the mafia) of what it is to be a member of the meritocracy, the established figurehead in charge, running things, for appearances sake, while skating the lowest common denominator, because serfs are still expendable. Peasants no longer exist in the modern world. Of course not.

I am still in an exasperated stasis over what I did wrong saving my revisions which apparently vanished on my external drive, retyping because I still lack the steady nerve to open my HP and try to rescue my content. In my new found freedom of repose, sinkhole mattress challenging posture and sleep, dismay over my most influential professor's collection leads me to re-examine why I punished myself so badly over my lack of striving to eclipse him.

I never had certain things that make the arc of life worth living, like the joy of falling into a lover. Franz had many of the same problems as his health would gradually necessitate a disability stipend. I was never partial to his genius, of course, though in moments my prism aligns. 

San Luis Rey Bridges

I am of an age when I can now enter into Jerry's skin; my exuberant youth that saw him as epistemological cocaine must have amounted to a mega sized pain in the ass; if his poetry is any indication he hasn't changed much, and other than tabulating my damages, I cannot really tell you how much I have changed. There was always some sense of emotional risk and unease that I attached to physical intimacy with potential lovers, and here I am, looking at the young with a jaundiced eye, even if it alters my perspective in relation to my past.

The capellini did not upset my stomach yesterday, as I had it with a light cream and scallops quick frozen and packaged by Trader Joe's (I cannot praise this gift-wrapped franchise model from California enough, although if you asked me how it is so very different from a traditional supermarket, I would probably have to borrow a snot-nosed New York Times MBA to assist me in elucidating its convenience couture), and I actually tired myself out from working yesterday, email upon email, which will accrue as my deadline approaches; I now know when that deadline is, and thus, have calmed, after a brief quake of my scar tissue; it came and went within moments, which is what my earlier therapists and I have been trying to illustrate. With healthy supports, I am pretty much fine, and the problem with Liberty Resources (if you are a parent with a disabled child, I warn you, if you donate to Liberty you assist a bad provider at your peril) over the years has been that it did not provide me with a healthy support environment, which is why I will defy death itself to get this federal mandate revisited, even if I have to repeat this in hundreds of posts.

Which reminds me, I did not print my template letter yet, because I have not had the time to package and protect it against the children so I could post it, but I have been informed that the senator's staff will be here next week. Do I simply present the missive, or properly postmark the thing, or present the missive and mail it to myself and the ACLU? I have my own level of cowardice and fear, but I cannot let this issue go, because crime was committed, my life was jeopardized. I cannot bury this and allow a future Linda to wind up killing someone because she doesn't know how to pay attention, but that doesn't mean I am not scared that the state of Pennsylvania might punish me further for raising my voice.

Mmm. Time for a fresh fake.

Today I am more along the lines of nibbling, pondering the Motorola Faith of Rome in which I was raised, and the nostalgia that surrounds it like my candy coated almonds. I mean, of course I could go back to mass and not say anything, and utilize my parish for my own ends, but I fear my pugilist tendencies against the collar, and the deference we pay to papal authority, which doesn't quite fit the progressive white shock of hair that is Donald Sutherland in the late 20th century, playing a not quite credible Father Koesler in a thriller that languishes. We'll kick it up.