More Arteriosclerosis

nTaking a break from my need to do activities, I just finished balancing my checking account to the nearest estimate, and listened once again to the pleasures of Swimming to Cambodia. Spalding Gray had a vivacious wit, and an apparently vibrant life, and yet his doom was encoded within his abilities, and his presumed suicide posits relief as opposed to the outrage I have had to tunnel through regarding David Foster Wallace. I suppose that is odd, but Spalding's suffering was of a different timbre, and had qualities of manic saintliness, more along the lines of an affectuoso. The thought occurred to me, in the back of my mind, that Greg Zacharias responded to my post to the James list the way that he did because he thought my phrase "a collusion of peers" had a whiff of the anti-Semitic about it.

That was not my intent, however, and he did not respond to my email. Though normally I would make a caviler comment at this point, I do not like being on the wrong side of terminal degree scholars whose connections could be of use, assuming I do not kick the bucket from my deterioration, though I feel slightly indignant, as I am not his student, and wasn't disrupting a lecture. My assumptions about the Jamesians have backfired on more than one occasion, but the reason this latest round of cattiness troubles me is because Greg recently surprised me by passing my proposed thesis along the pipeline, and this led me to speculate that perhaps I had erred in seeing myself as an incongruent fit. Like James himself, I chaw on slim pickings, and for all I know at this point, maybe the entire community of lively intelligent invalids lurks on the James list so that we don't, to steal from Rosy's exit in The Princess Casamassima , "blow our brains out." James was fond of that phrase in his middle period, when he wrote the novels no one particularly likes.

Ah well. If you were a man so inclined I'd hide a knowing smile in a sprig of violets, but this is what it comes to for potato pouch unhappy women, worrying about internecine back bites.

Now Steve's Elastic

I am by no means an aficionado of Steve Martin's rise to recognition. There were the glaring white suits, which only someone like Martin could wear; there was the King Tut bit, his appearances on variety shows, about which I can no longer be definitive. Those who knew who he was before these breaks are on the inside of the comedy circuit, much as I was once on the inside of the Rust Belt's literary matrix, but I was never particularly enthusiastic about his satire, which falls under the heading of not knowing why certain people stay famous, but Leap of Faith, like his later film, Shopgirl (2005), is n outlier, despite the fact that Pearce gives way at the end to populist sentiment, as I wrote here, in a revised "Ecclesiastical Concerns".

Not so faithful in my viewing of the film that I can recall the script and dialogue with exacting nuance, I can still make certain observations about Pearce's modality within his Midwestern contextual globe that these actors inhabit convincingly: Martin's hair on the bus in the opening shot, when they are on the road just before they break down in Hick Town USA, has an exaggerated drag queen aspect to it which I find off putting, which is part of my problem with liking Steve Martin in the first place. His "jerk" character seems to have an authentic reality somewhere inside of his crazy guy act, although in recent years, now that we're in sobering mode, the last time I paid any attention to him was when he was on a program proclaiming the virtues of the banjo. We'll return after I take my usual sore buttock pressure sore break. Hopefully I will not overshoot my mark for later this afternoon.

Elastic Smokescreens

Bad couple of survival days following my May 9th post, but I feel better now, discounting indigestion from the largest dose of Aleve that I am willing to take, which is brand name naproxen rather than ibuprofen, all the while tapping a pencil against the cranium, how am I going to save my article, but I'll ride out trying certain sources until next week. Perhaps my age is not going to allow me any redemption of misery, I can only speculate, especially when it takes me over an hour to do lateral transfers and dress, and then have another half hour of difficulty engaging in the reverse from joint pain, and overtiring. Back when I spayed my anger at the pedestrian suburbanites in the P&W Speakeasy, at least I still had the strength to fuel the outcry, and my willingness to fight. Of course I'm weakening, what else can I expect? But if I am unsafe doing transfers and hand grips that are second nature, then I made those pedestrian emerging writers and authors fear or ostracize or engage in contention with me for naught, and between 98 and 02 and now, I still want the same things, to salvage a career, better quality of autonomy, and to cite Carole King, recording artist of my youth, whose Tapestry I once knew by heart, but it's too late baby now, it's too late, aside from the fact that Obama has sunk another notch in my wilting support for him, and yes, you knew I would write that, just as if I could get past the fact that Romney sickens me, his preparatory school behavior actually has moved him up the ladder. Why? Honesty, just like Martin Peretz and his difficult attitude with Muslims. We're all bigots, and while table manners are what makes social group dynamics interesting, I do believe that prevarication has taken progressives too far, and there will be backlash, maybe not in my lifetime, but it will occur, I am nearly certain.

The issue, however, is not marriage equality, but Obama's prevarication; he is getting as bad, nearly, as Fern Markowitz, my favorite Jewish lesbian. Obama knows full well that federal supremacy goes back to Chief Justice John Marshall, and a patchwork of states not honoring the marriage licenses issued by other states isn't sustainable, and I doubt the current Chief Justice, Roberts, is going to rupture the edifice by which Marshall made SCOTUS a co-equal branch of government.

Because I do believe in a citizen's civic responsibility, I am conflicted about my vote this November. Abstaining is a cop out, but we don't seem to have many other options. I am debating a write-in.

Totem Heroes

Linda Lee Cadwell is an American princess tragedy if there ever was one. White to Asian liaisons may not have the same level of stigma attached to them that white to African pairings used to, but in 1964 this must have raised a few eyebrows, Linda's marriage to Bruce Lee, who I suppose ushered in the studio system's exploitation of martial arts as graphic mythology, one that has evolved, with the Chinese and Japanese engaged in gaming theory authencity at times, though today's contemporary academy darlings can of course homage their existence to Akira Kurosawa.

Rashomon the Crow franchise is not, but it is fascinating to see how, almost like a hyper-alloy, B-grade superlative ability merges into personal tragedy, legacy cut short twice over. Bruce dies a sudden medical death from cerebral edema, which any writer could relish for not being hackneyed (although maybe it is, or would be in print, or would need a rather deft touch to have an impact) and then the son of the father gets killed by a prop in a hybrid flick, costing the princess who took a risk another shattered octave.

I stayed up Sunday morning to see if Wicked Prayer stood out any better, and the answer is yes and no. David Boreanaz plays villains with a satirical B flat strum that reminds me of his father's personable weather forecast delivery-- probably a reason why his Angel always disappointed me-- and Dennis Hopper sadly needed the money for his cancer treatment, but this third installment was more interesting, in its own way, a hybrid-hybrid variation whose hackneyed brutality is still wince worthy.

If Lance Mungia had played this movie just a bit straighter, it might have actually been frightening, and it also might have had a lesson to offer about how the history of oppression has its own gaming theory consequences, because the tribes are still trampled, even if casinos on the reservation can be arguably deemed a payback. Every ethnic group is using material high jinks that European culture superimposed, and though I may be weary of entitlement chips on the shoulder, a la Martin Luther King, the overlay of materialism on historic and cultural heritage may not bode well for the species.

The Crow saga is onto something with the vulnerable avenger troping. We see it in films like Hancock, or Steig Larsson's autonomic heroine. Brandon Lee had a decent romantic flair, in his own sudden death forever lost potential. Poor princess Linda, and her quieter tragic cult.

Transient Ventricles

Settled down, I am a bit winded, in my sister's faded navy blue maternity jumper, with the belly hole. I rarely wear it in public, and in fact, most of my clothes are worn out recycle items, ruined, stained, never mind fashionable.  Much doing needs to be done this week, both due to and in spite of my troubled article, and cannot afford to be winded by phlegm build up, haunted as I am by this wee small implosion. It is not the editor and has nothing to do with her. She is a judicious diplomat and praised me where merited, no, this is an issue of my own weakness, morally, or medically, if one needs to see it that way: if I cannot meet the demands of magazine publishing cycles, I'm sunk, and this has hit me in the past week to my inner core, beyond Linda as a pained figurine in my psyche, not that this woman is not a genuine source of pain, she is, but writing is what I am, and I fell down on a perfect opportunity. This hits the real me, not the disabled identity that I am sick of, quite frankly, and it is a problem I will have to handle with more deft caution in the future, that is, if I ever make another sale in my life, after openly discussing this failure. And openly discussing it is more risky, professionally, than any personal details, or gossip that I''ve posted.

I missed a film that might have been applicable for our purposes,  but no matter in the moment, as I am winded.

*
As I tend to regenerate a little energy in the pre-dawn hours before my rest, I will add that I have to own a bit of humble pie in relation to the new Jamesian I mention in Ochre; he is seasoned, pleasantly, in relation to my worsted tentacles, and I erred in believing my few words made me seem like a squawking sea gull. He is of my own generation, and I confess this is pleasing, a man of my age with whom to interact on a mutually shared esoteric taste. It will keep in my pocket as a momento, though of course I have not received any further communique from the man since I directed him toward my posts, "pleading the fifth". Maybe this is nothing and he did not take the time to read anything further, or perhaps he retreated, counting his blessings, but the exchange did please me, symbolic of what I have always wanted, a real matriculated life without enforced segregation.

Ochre Colors

When I get disappointed by a writing failure I sometimes stop writing altogether, a character flaw solely attributive to buying into the subtext of desuetude. It would not serve me to get into specifics, but perhaps I need to set this piece aside, work on it as I can, and stop punishing myself. The belt buckle is raising welts on my already desultory worldview because I needed the money, and I doubt the woman will pay me now, despite using my bragging rights, even if I manage to deliver at a later date. An obscure disabled freelancer cannot afford a failure such as this, and my confidence in my verbal acuity has been badly shaken, given that I have experience working under pressure.

There was a lesbian children's author on my endless stream of PBS fodder on Steve Adubato's show, not that I give two fucks about New Jersey, except for the fact that it is where most Philadelphia commercial employees live, and it might surprise you to learn that I agree with what she said about the over classification of identity, which is my main objection to progressive advocacy and activism, although I disagree with her that homosexuality should not matter, and yes, I can write this as a straight sentence without mockery, but treating my objection as a serious thesis, as I've written, is a difficult proposition, and does involve something of of a roll back on sexual liberalism, and doing so without becoming a Rick Santorum acolyte; not an easy thing to do while respecting evolutionary theory, and I do respect it.

To swing back to my insight into how hatreds and extremism develop in a psyche, in relation to Tarek Mehanna, I realize the cost of what I write in being frank that I can boil with the capacity of a fanatic in my loser's bid with matriculation and western materialism, but it isn't because I have cerebral palsy; it is because a series of impulsive decisions as a young woman left me stranded here, and I don't see a way out, even if the ACLU and the politicians are sympathetic. I know myself well enough to know that my emotional well being would improve if I could leave public housing, and find a change of venue. Too much baggage here, as louise, my would be acolyte, observed in a conversation, "Frank lives with you?"

Yes. I thought that was a given; he moved into the building in 04, and I broke our engagement in 05 three weeks before our wedding, then I published in the metro, and now he is dying while I struggle not to become a prime candidate for the silly Species franchise  Our conception of alien contact is too stereotypical in video.

"That was a silly thing to say," keeps replaying in my mind, because I was actually attempting to be fondly facetious, nothing more, and afterwards recoiled under the bedsheets, sulking, and have pushed the young ones from the James list serv away, sometimes deliberately, sometimes conflictedly, and shut down a conservation with a new fellow from Rhode Island. Why?

I don't really know. I understand rubbing shoulders with mummified academics can be intimidating, as I've iterated, and I understand newbies, or those lacking in self-assertion, look for softies like me: I love James and literary theory and all that, but the arcane details can shrivel the gonads, and so the non-mummified find me approachable, unless I breach, or drop an egg, but I'll grasp at straws on flimsy pretexts, as I did here, with ten words of personal expression about my need for a change of locale. That ceased the rapport, except it did not, and I own a mea culpa.  There are dangers of reeling too much in, especially on my own bumbling.

Ecclesiastical Concerns

Fortuitous it may be, but I can empathize with Tarek Mehanna, although the Islamic faith is equivalent on my dung list along with the Church of Latter Day Saints. My disdain doesn't preclude an understanding of how a psyche can be drawn to radicalization and zealotry. If I woke up tomorrow cured of cerebral palsy, I'd leave the United States as a sheer act of equal opportunity hatred. And I mean clean, clear unbridled hate for it all, the millions trapped in public housing vectors, as I am, the elitism and disconnect of Romney, the pussy willow progressivism of Obama, with his bipolar inability to lower the temperature of Bush era paranoia, disability/LBGT activism and the African American seeming inability to see the end of history with the civil rights movement. Yet, terrorist acts, even when successful, or just, according to the beholder, simply carry too many costs, and I suspect this is the case even for Al Qaida jihadists at the end of the day. The scars of mass murder become unspeakable.

I may yet lose my mind, I don't know. I visualize my fault lines which may ultimately decelerate me into an old woman's delusional vat of aggression, forcibly constrained, but if it happens, its causation is a life of too much trauma and victimizing in the first place, leaving me in a rut of circumstances closing in on me, and from this vantage point, fanaticism's entry points are not strange, or alien. Violence is not kindled in vacuums.

Films like Bringing Out the Dead do not reinforce my conviction for an anthropomorphic god. I part company with Martin in terms of faith and belief, http://tinyurl.com/7r24z75, but rather, what he does here that works is the retention of elemental mystery about the human animal's self-awareness, the very process of an ontology. Steve Martin's 1992 Leap of Faith does the same thing in a less ambiguous fashion, suggesting that hucksterism can achieve positive social cohesion and resolution. It might have been a more complex testament if its climax did not lower its expectations to cater to Midwestern self-reliance, but it still represents an interesting examination of religious cynicism. More details may come in later posts.