The Crusades

"We will die like civilized men."-- Anthony Hopkins

Even if I am procrastinating my assignment-- I need to and not attempting flagellation, I have other things to do, and need to stop treating niume like my personal playpen. Give it a break, yet here I am, not really on point, merely on fervor. My libertarian acquaintance Sara talks the language of upward mobility, and I am literally attempting to die in a battle of religious fervor, terrorizing African liberation theology, with a broken bottle and a growl, like Samson with a Tampax stuck in the vagina. I would not have to venture far back into North Philadelphia to catch a bullet over my goading bite: nine people were shot off campus, nine. It follows, from this, if I am going to let the building manager evict me, in lieu of attempting to break her arm, I'd better have a designated haven by the end of July. This is not a great deal of time, yet I am coasting, preoccupied with the topic as my posts may be. Legally homeless is one thing, but as a practical matter, I either have to deploy this impoverished intelligence or first responders will deploy it for me. Can I beat the system and stay safe just because I have the fucking phone?

I do not exactly let Catholics off for what happened to me as a child under Dr. Chance-- the good doctor told my brutal father not to dice me up-- and the Roman mindset wasted no time finding Shriners to override conscience-- but I am more forgiving. If it was up to me, Presbyterians would be dead. All of them. We'll leave it there. I have to rest shins.

Romans and Celts

"The North, I mean the living North, was suddenly all transcendental. It went behind the human law, it went behind the apparent failure, and recognized eternal justice and glory." -- Henry David Thoreau, cited in Weird John Brown: Divine Violence and The Limits of Ethics

The second generation kindle which my broken urinal splashed has fully recovered, though the controller was not amused with me. How many of these things has Amazon manufactured? Thousands? I understand that the micro-bead ink is made in Israel. I am rather attached to the one the retailer shipped me originally. I have a relationship with this kindle, curse it ferociously but derive more comfort from it than my marginally younger Paperwhite, though I know the 2Gk has to be exchanged, deregistered, soon. I am sad, because the device has it's own character, and do not wish to deactivate it, Russian trolls notwithstanding.

The above paragraph serves as a rationale as to why I'm solidly behind Toomey, despite the sense, intuitively derived, that his staff may believe I need a nose ring and some manners; who bothers when the mare is barren? In point of fact, if Toomey's circle saw how I live, bipartisanship would turn a leaf or two, and that circle would coax me to die as I had lived, in medical model institution, siding with the intellectually limited minorities who manage the building (but not themselves, blacks seem to repeatedly confirm they behave like Chinese villagers with petty vendettas, and I am getting out, one way or another, fall on my sword, if I must). If I know what I know, that obscene fortresses like Inglis House are reliable portfolios, and I applaud Toomey's business acumen as a necessary aggression, then why don't I fold in my hand?

Because I know what it's like to have money, and a beautiful 3 acre home, une poppa who taught me the value of work and self reliance, and I did all of this before progressives ass-kissed federal mandates like the ADA, which, as statues, are simply useless repetitions. I may baffle the left, may confuse the Christian right wing, and other libertarians may not trust my authoritarian streak, granted, but every liberal biased negative ad against Toomey makes him a proper capitalist in my eyes, willing to bury the hatchet over such unspoken skeletons. The Celt and the Roman married the same faith, but despise each other. Keep it under your hat. 

It is to my misfortune I did not push to be a flunky to get what I wanted, but if he keeps his seat, the mare ninnies another day.

When Summer Burns The Earth, Again

"Looking like a true survivor, feeling like a little kid."-- I'm still standing

I am not trying to convey that my fervent appreciation of Elton’s discography was exceptional. The little big man gave The Who a run for their money, stayed relevant on the charts longer than he should have, his beats increasingly trivial by the time I stopped buying his albums, I simply reflect back, and remain uncertain. Taupin’s lyricism either kept me alive or nourished the root of my latter day scathing cynicism, merging my moody to his narcissistic, allegorical depth: tracks like “Meal Ticket,” after all, display a libertarian send up of the welfare state. It seems to illuminate upon my fundamental flaw, diving into this British rock melancholia on the basis of a grade school special education teacher’s recommendation. Neil Montgomery, my first puppy love, exceedingly masculine to a thirteen year old’s burgeoning sex drive. Much taken with “Bennie and the Jets,” and responsible for my slavering purchase of every album Elton ever recorded, this over adhesion remains a cautionary tale, Neil soon vaporized by other longings, never actualized. He probably grew florid in old age, reflective blue eyes, wavy brown hair, mustache. He taught me hockey, and it remains my favorite sport, never enough opportunity to view and follow the teams, not since Clarke’s Broad Street Bullies. This was the year they brought the Stanley Cup to the ward, and the dowager then in pigtails, got to touch the iconic trophy as compensation for orthopedic butchery soon to follow.

Was the masochism always there, or ingrained? Analysis cannot always cure the wounds of destructive implosion. If I felt threatened by my former program manager Linda Dezenski, my backlash, the cruelty of the vitriol I heaped on her afterwards was a form of self-cutting without physically engaging in the activity. Ditto the journey through the attendant care abuse. In spite of this, a lesbian indulgence would never be satisfactory. Attendant care itself assures me on this point, as the close physical contact with the Africans, however necessary, is undesirable, in the seven years winding its way through this account, toward the collapse of my machines and ensuing frailty, I lived in those elusive ballads. How is “Ticking” a lazy predicate for the spree shootings which flair up and recede straight through 2018? It blames Catholicism through flashback refrains for a mass murderer Bernie probably dredged up through Fleet Street. I did the same thing as a poet, while remaining not so sanguine about causal links between theology and violence. I drowned myself in this, music meant for LSD users of its age, and what did I purchase with all these intense investments?? Nothing but the folly of alienating myself further, condemned to a life of mostly brutal micro-management, while celebrity glides on double standards. A recording artist sues his manager, confesses to being strung out on drugs, like a prodigal son, while run of the mill opioid users constitutes a crisis. In the transition from actively living towards actively dying, (conservatives, while not wrong in relation to sanctity, seem to forget the hardship which goes in tandem with birth diagnosis) this woman is not having the easiest of times, but she’ll be glad to go. I am glad for destructors like Cruz, whatever neuroscience does to them. I'm glad, and there will be impaired individuals clever enough, in the future, to strike, evade capture, for the sake of what you do to us, what you do to teach us to pulverize each other.