If any of my viewers are wondering about my hubris, over the last couple of days I believed a stroke or heart attack to be imminent, because I know I'm giving my notice, maybe even over this weekend, and I know this is huge and I'm probably headed for exactly what I wish to avoid, only worse, feeling faint and mildly nauseous, my intestines refuse to leave me in peace, and perhaps I've lost stability due to cheap calorie intake.
An event may still occur, as I have all the symptoms women my age develop, and I basically cannot access a doctor unless I drive myself to the internal medicine clinic I abandoned two years ago, but it appears to be I am being punished for tortellini and finger snacks. It is almost a musical score. Management puts out inspection notices and the dowager's internal combustion goes bouillabaisse. I could make light of it, but now have to redirect a good portion of my weekend. A paraprofessional from the state would simply leave me bedridden. It might be fine for my mother's sister to say we all fail, and she took care of me once with a portable commode, but for me a half century of this might as well be the brothers from The Vampire Diaries starting in the antebellum South. All I want is to leave Philadelphia, while Thiel can play musical chairs with venture capital.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Viral Transmission
"This is just to test your blood pressure," said Art reassuringly, noticing that the sweating was becoming excessive. As soon as the first slight pressure was applied to the bulb, the man moved. Without warning he screamed in terror and Art was on the floor... The Onion Field, location 459
Joseph Wambaugh's depiction of gay panic is quite different in text than in the screen play adaptation which led to the film, so different even the dowager isn't sold by what is going on in the company Ian keeps on his way to becoming a martyr in the name of law enforcement. In the movie, Ted Danson's Ian is a hastily contrived pastiche, because Wambaugh's underlying concern, as transmuted by the director, is the reverberating impact of justice as a convoluted process. In the book itself, whatever Ellroy's introductory praises, all of Wambaugh's character development seems like a hatchet job, as if he is desperate to imitate Capote and swallows his tongue in the process. This makes Onion Field a fascinating period piece, despite itself, and Wambaugh's hatchet has a nascent driving energy which intimates a command to skip the movie and read the true crime saga in the troubled years of Nixonion paranoia; but the screen writers for the film at least made homosexuality and vice recognizable. Wambaugh, by contrast, seems quite incidentally to border on science fiction.
By 1973 the dowager was growing up in the world, forcibly incarcerated just like Art's patient, and people didn't flip out over a blood pressure cuff due to sexual impulses. They might cry over girls on the ward engaging in mock lesbian teasing, to establish pecking order, as primate groups do, but this curious piece of exposition in the first chapter teeters on the edge of dramaturgic abstract art, as if Michael Rooker's serial killer was introduced on stage by Becket.
If the dowager was inconsiderate to Nick Denton in tweeting her repugnance for Michael Hall's brave and brief exchange with his fictional minority law enforcement officer, it was deliberate, but not quite due to prudent shock. Denton looks ambiguous, the way most radical Britons out of the radical left Labour wing do, and just as most radical Anglo Saxons do, male or female, they reach out to minority short order cooks to make political statements, perhaps covertly, through their sexual liaisons, and Denton does the same thing with his partner, besmirching marriage as a sacrament, defiant and in your face: I'm gay and love a black American. So what? The Western middle class has found a method of appropriating gay difference: elevating homosexual monogamy, even while medical epidemiologists' like Fauci hover in the background. Oh, they don't judge, but they are they failsafes policing sexual adventurism which by normal social standards are still considered criminal, like the use of handcuffs for restraint, for instance. And in a gay cross race relationship, there is always a bit of a hustle going on, cashing in on white privilege. I know it because I've been there, and indeed, could roll out on Market Street in my haggard skirt attire and pick up three black men willing to sleep with me, a broken welfare spastic, but a white broken welfare spastic, nothing more than a reprehensible power play, damning me into abomination territory. I'd like to remind the Holy Father, in this vein, that whatever his Marxist sentiments due to his Argentine background, he is the last Prince on the face of the earth whose statements have world renown impact, and one of religion's remaining functions is to name apostasy for what it is. You are not just a victim's advocate Francis, you carry thousands of years of Roman authority in that burden on your shoulders, and the growing material power of people like Thiel and Denton needs to be countermanded. The battle between them is almost akin to the sins to be plucked out of the Divine Comedy. Denton revels in sexual exposure because he wants to be accepted as a non-deviation, while Thiel blows 10 million on civil tort because he isn't quite gay enough to flout it in a parade, while broken withered crones can't even get a paralegal to do a case assessment on her life long toxic environments and medical model brutality which improved nothing on her original issues wrought by brain damage. Being able to blatantly buy the law simply because an individual created a flicker of a wrestling personality are episodes through which class resentment could trigger serious social unrest.
Joseph Wambaugh's depiction of gay panic is quite different in text than in the screen play adaptation which led to the film, so different even the dowager isn't sold by what is going on in the company Ian keeps on his way to becoming a martyr in the name of law enforcement. In the movie, Ted Danson's Ian is a hastily contrived pastiche, because Wambaugh's underlying concern, as transmuted by the director, is the reverberating impact of justice as a convoluted process. In the book itself, whatever Ellroy's introductory praises, all of Wambaugh's character development seems like a hatchet job, as if he is desperate to imitate Capote and swallows his tongue in the process. This makes Onion Field a fascinating period piece, despite itself, and Wambaugh's hatchet has a nascent driving energy which intimates a command to skip the movie and read the true crime saga in the troubled years of Nixonion paranoia; but the screen writers for the film at least made homosexuality and vice recognizable. Wambaugh, by contrast, seems quite incidentally to border on science fiction.
By 1973 the dowager was growing up in the world, forcibly incarcerated just like Art's patient, and people didn't flip out over a blood pressure cuff due to sexual impulses. They might cry over girls on the ward engaging in mock lesbian teasing, to establish pecking order, as primate groups do, but this curious piece of exposition in the first chapter teeters on the edge of dramaturgic abstract art, as if Michael Rooker's serial killer was introduced on stage by Becket.
If the dowager was inconsiderate to Nick Denton in tweeting her repugnance for Michael Hall's brave and brief exchange with his fictional minority law enforcement officer, it was deliberate, but not quite due to prudent shock. Denton looks ambiguous, the way most radical Britons out of the radical left Labour wing do, and just as most radical Anglo Saxons do, male or female, they reach out to minority short order cooks to make political statements, perhaps covertly, through their sexual liaisons, and Denton does the same thing with his partner, besmirching marriage as a sacrament, defiant and in your face: I'm gay and love a black American. So what? The Western middle class has found a method of appropriating gay difference: elevating homosexual monogamy, even while medical epidemiologists' like Fauci hover in the background. Oh, they don't judge, but they are they failsafes policing sexual adventurism which by normal social standards are still considered criminal, like the use of handcuffs for restraint, for instance. And in a gay cross race relationship, there is always a bit of a hustle going on, cashing in on white privilege. I know it because I've been there, and indeed, could roll out on Market Street in my haggard skirt attire and pick up three black men willing to sleep with me, a broken welfare spastic, but a white broken welfare spastic, nothing more than a reprehensible power play, damning me into abomination territory. I'd like to remind the Holy Father, in this vein, that whatever his Marxist sentiments due to his Argentine background, he is the last Prince on the face of the earth whose statements have world renown impact, and one of religion's remaining functions is to name apostasy for what it is. You are not just a victim's advocate Francis, you carry thousands of years of Roman authority in that burden on your shoulders, and the growing material power of people like Thiel and Denton needs to be countermanded. The battle between them is almost akin to the sins to be plucked out of the Divine Comedy. Denton revels in sexual exposure because he wants to be accepted as a non-deviation, while Thiel blows 10 million on civil tort because he isn't quite gay enough to flout it in a parade, while broken withered crones can't even get a paralegal to do a case assessment on her life long toxic environments and medical model brutality which improved nothing on her original issues wrought by brain damage. Being able to blatantly buy the law simply because an individual created a flicker of a wrestling personality are episodes through which class resentment could trigger serious social unrest.
Tuesday, September 13, 2016
Bearing Witness
The graduate student who had a major crush on Ward liked me for myself; she was kind to me in an authentic way that was better for me then my too tight cleaving to my former best friend, Susan Davison. Susie-- I made Sue, and then her sister, live for me, because I did not really venture forth and take risks. With B---, the graduate, it was of a gentler tenor of mutual appreciation, and I got caught in the middle, between her and my philosophy professor, because she and I bonded, and she got hurt, with Ward and his open marriage rationalizations. I am not saying anything illegal occurred. B--- was of age, but I became the shoulder on whom she wept, and for that, I cannot forgive the not so spectacular instructor at Widener in his sinecured cocoon. Living his theories was a convenience which disregarded young adults like B--- and I were stupid. Though I no longer wear it, I still have the beige windbreaker she gave me before she departed. She had to go back, as she fell in love with Ward. I knew myself better. I was saturated with Jerry, besotted, obsessed in an unhealthy and dangerous manner. He and I are both circling the drain and I'm still writing it, flavors diminished as they may be, but I knew it was closer to intellectual rape as opposed to being Fallen, as B--- had fallen into a desire David was irresponsible to encourage, and I cannot forgive him. In anger, forgetting my rancor toward John for not seeing the woman I wanted to be for him, I told him in anger what Ward had wrought, and Tassoni and I were not so dissimilar in indignation. Tassoni threatened to go to the tenure committee. I attempted to dissuade him as I did not want to be involved and the woman was my friend. What happened after that?
John heads his own department in Ohio. I am a genocide survivor who pisses off Poets & Writers, the philosopher has a goatee, his protege an unfinished rite of passage, three television series rolled into one.
John heads his own department in Ohio. I am a genocide survivor who pisses off Poets & Writers, the philosopher has a goatee, his protege an unfinished rite of passage, three television series rolled into one.
Sunday, September 11, 2016
Bared Fangs, Spastic Werewolf Remembers
The issue at stake for humanity is broader than the climate change that is beginning to gain needed attention. -- Carl Folke, Respecting Planetary Boundaries, Chapter 2
Meet the devil incarnate. It blows the dowager's mind that David Ward survives, thrives yet, taught my niece, and can be telephoned, as in Yo, you philandering prick, still want that paper on atheism and ontology I blew off, disappointing your respect in my willingness to wrestle a thesis to its grave? My animosity toward Dr. Ward was an early flag I should have heeded better, sooner, but for my frustrated hormones driving the engine. It is not quite accurate to stipulate that I hated him during my naive quest toward my own genius, whatever that is, still sweeping up the dried dung of my aggravating deceased little black cat, a cat whom I'm grieving as hard if not harder than his beautiful fluff of a teddy brother. So much pain over a pet. But David Ward exemplifies everything I hate about progressive liberal sensibilities. If you are wondering why Jerry McGuire, (who I actually called by his first name) and Michael Clark, David's former colleagues, are spared the wrath of my overbite, that is a more complex question. The hippie aroused me, and Michael, who is presumably mostly skeletal at this stage of the second decade of his death, is the husband I might have married making me more in line with Aunt Mary. If I do not post a great deal of detail about Mary, who has survived my mother's death age by one year so far, there are reasons for that, namely that our accounts are linked on twitter, secondly, she was a Catholic principal and she'd kill me, if you catch my drift, but thirdly, she accomplished what the spastic dowager didn't, and this deserves respect. David Ward, on the other hand, would have been drawn and quartered in Foucault's medieval examples of criminal torture, and I am rather antagonistic toward his memory, though he looks better minus that bloody beard. He had jet black hair in the day, and the best way to describe him is as a lecherous porcine trickster from whom I should have given berth. He was one of the earliest authority figures to hint at clinical depression, with that cocked eyebrow expression suggesting do something about it. So when Erik, demigod of ADAPT, worn out with me on his couch. diagnosed me with the same eyebrow cock, the superimposed memory between the philanderer and the almost -transsexual, now merely a skin and bone Dr. Seuss, suggests affinity of anathema.
The dowager is cognizant of the fact, that while Nick Denton did not engage her in any fashion, he allowed her to use Gawker's tools. He did not judge me as I judge him and Peter Thiel both. If Jerry was here with me, his reprimand of my livid disgust would hurt, tangibly, and Ward would give me that cocked eyebrow, but it is due to boomers like Ward that such evil continues to perpetuate itself, that humanity has lost its compass, that Islamic terrorism learned from the IRA playbook, that transhumanism is on the verge of making things worse. Through the approximately 8 years my persona has been posting, much of what she has been doing was game theory according to her rules, not the CIA whiff of great sex with Victor Garber in Alias. I am still too much the cripple in her own head to repudiate Denton entirely. I liked Gawker. I'd like to kick Thiel's ass, and the light has dawned on me as to the utilitarian value of Roman crucifixion. And that is not good enough, of course. It is rhetorical hyperbole that a nigger lover garnished my sympathy, and a gay libertarian has me burning mad, and I mostly want to vomit.
My non-fiction collection will be lengthier than first assumed, but the formatting, the revisions, the possibility of retyping an entire hard draft into it makes catering to influenza seem nearly like a vital excuse. While I am not a great admirer of David Brooks, and mailed him that sentiment, I too, have lost a little bit of my soul, to echo his Friday analysis. I'm dispirited. I want to fight with professors, bury Paul Krugman in Donald Trump's cemetery tomb, replace Lenin's waxed body with Hillary. No one would notice.
Meet the devil incarnate. It blows the dowager's mind that David Ward survives, thrives yet, taught my niece, and can be telephoned, as in Yo, you philandering prick, still want that paper on atheism and ontology I blew off, disappointing your respect in my willingness to wrestle a thesis to its grave? My animosity toward Dr. Ward was an early flag I should have heeded better, sooner, but for my frustrated hormones driving the engine. It is not quite accurate to stipulate that I hated him during my naive quest toward my own genius, whatever that is, still sweeping up the dried dung of my aggravating deceased little black cat, a cat whom I'm grieving as hard if not harder than his beautiful fluff of a teddy brother. So much pain over a pet. But David Ward exemplifies everything I hate about progressive liberal sensibilities. If you are wondering why Jerry McGuire, (who I actually called by his first name) and Michael Clark, David's former colleagues, are spared the wrath of my overbite, that is a more complex question. The hippie aroused me, and Michael, who is presumably mostly skeletal at this stage of the second decade of his death, is the husband I might have married making me more in line with Aunt Mary. If I do not post a great deal of detail about Mary, who has survived my mother's death age by one year so far, there are reasons for that, namely that our accounts are linked on twitter, secondly, she was a Catholic principal and she'd kill me, if you catch my drift, but thirdly, she accomplished what the spastic dowager didn't, and this deserves respect. David Ward, on the other hand, would have been drawn and quartered in Foucault's medieval examples of criminal torture, and I am rather antagonistic toward his memory, though he looks better minus that bloody beard. He had jet black hair in the day, and the best way to describe him is as a lecherous porcine trickster from whom I should have given berth. He was one of the earliest authority figures to hint at clinical depression, with that cocked eyebrow expression suggesting do something about it. So when Erik, demigod of ADAPT, worn out with me on his couch. diagnosed me with the same eyebrow cock, the superimposed memory between the philanderer and the almost -transsexual, now merely a skin and bone Dr. Seuss, suggests affinity of anathema.
The dowager is cognizant of the fact, that while Nick Denton did not engage her in any fashion, he allowed her to use Gawker's tools. He did not judge me as I judge him and Peter Thiel both. If Jerry was here with me, his reprimand of my livid disgust would hurt, tangibly, and Ward would give me that cocked eyebrow, but it is due to boomers like Ward that such evil continues to perpetuate itself, that humanity has lost its compass, that Islamic terrorism learned from the IRA playbook, that transhumanism is on the verge of making things worse. Through the approximately 8 years my persona has been posting, much of what she has been doing was game theory according to her rules, not the CIA whiff of great sex with Victor Garber in Alias. I am still too much the cripple in her own head to repudiate Denton entirely. I liked Gawker. I'd like to kick Thiel's ass, and the light has dawned on me as to the utilitarian value of Roman crucifixion. And that is not good enough, of course. It is rhetorical hyperbole that a nigger lover garnished my sympathy, and a gay libertarian has me burning mad, and I mostly want to vomit.
My non-fiction collection will be lengthier than first assumed, but the formatting, the revisions, the possibility of retyping an entire hard draft into it makes catering to influenza seem nearly like a vital excuse. While I am not a great admirer of David Brooks, and mailed him that sentiment, I too, have lost a little bit of my soul, to echo his Friday analysis. I'm dispirited. I want to fight with professors, bury Paul Krugman in Donald Trump's cemetery tomb, replace Lenin's waxed body with Hillary. No one would notice.
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Relative Obscurity
"No one wants to be forgotten."-- Sheryl Underwood
In
terms of relevant biographical detail, this care worn and rather haggard
quadriplegic in her dismal state, granted not quite as bleak as Holocaust
survivors in the Ukraine engaging in humiliating gestures of obeisance to
wealthy American Zionists, knows very little about the quirky, xenogeneic focused
Bryan Fuller, other than the inferences to be drawn from his screen writing.
There are the usual thumbnail facial portraits of him, with a weevil shag bowl
of hair, in his generation’s encapsulation of post-beatnik repercussions, with
the most recent photographic images suggestive of the fact that his looks have
gone the way of the conflated distortions we give to rubbery lips traditional
cinematography bequeaths to the insane, and here comes the chastisement, a
connection missed, the bridge span unrealized by the time Hannibal was
transmuted into a serial and Fuller had a reputation to maintain, a minute
reminder to my weary brain to check with my own small social media escarpment
and of course Mr. Fuller is on Twitter with a substantive following, because he
writes for television, and apparently cut his teeth scripting Star Trek
Voyager. Any more astute observer would have done her research here before
starting an entertainment blog involving the merger of disability culture and
criticism of its conceits only to wind up on the edge of genocide revealed and
illegal speech, like taking out contract hits on senior living facility matrons
worn out by life as much as any of us, almost like George Trepal.
Trepal
is unique on the scales of American criminology, nearly a textbook case of
graphic novel theme park diabolical villainy of which Martin Scorsese complains
(to the near bewilderment of his audience) in relation to Marvel. Trepal was an
expert chemist, a reputed lab cooker, a member of Mensa, along with his ex-wife,
and for all that, he allegedly engaged in a meticulous effort to poison his blue collar neighbors[JM1] the Carrs. One new fact which
wasn’t highlighted in the crime documentary about the case was that tensions
between Mrs. Trepal and Pyle Carr initialized because Pyle was converting a
garage, his property, into apartments for his daughters. This is apparently
illegal in Polk County. Libertarians may wish to take note of the fact, and if
you’re an undercover detective not so glamorously portrayed as Angie Dickinson
on Police Woman, you write a true crime book after the fashion of Wambaugh and
his onion field about the enormous effort it took to compile circumstantial
evidence against this man in the twilight of the Reagan era. It took agent
Susan Goreck two years of chaffing brass serial anxiety over limited resources,
just as we would expect in any scripted procedural, to gather enough evidence
for her district attorney to expose Trepal as a viper with a yellow belly.
Whether she ever fancied it or not, even a former cop has a franchise leg up on
the stumbling dowager. She is a crime author who might be said to have the
potential for a stark convergence with Fuller, who only once, despite all the
pressures of screen writers guild fees and threshold requirements, took his
macabre artistry too far. As a stand alone episode, “Ceuf” has little to do
with the domestic terrorism of the Boston Marathon bombing, and for those of us
who live with the specter of violence as part of our existence, it can be
absorbed, but at the same time, as the critics chastised, it aims a little too
close to the jugular beneath the surface of American familial discord. The
closest Fuller gets to something so existential and bleak prior to this is
Course Oblivion on Voyager. As with much of the Trek spin offs, Course Oblivion
rounds off an encounter with a toxic protoplasm from an inhospitable demon
planet. The protoplasm, mercury like, perhaps inspired by Solaris, after
contact with Harry and Tom Paris, develops sentience, and a new species is born
all too briefly. The protoplasm becomes Voyager and her crew, and then dissolves
conveniently in the middle of nowhere. The episode serves to remind us that not
all risk taking leads to victory, that life and consciousness is starkly
perishable, and not all mysteries all soluble. As the show isn’t quite ready
for cancellation, the real Voyager encounters its own death, and due to network
time constraints, forgets what it once did for this living blood.
Unfortunately, this is what happens to most of us with transcendental
aspirations with too many setbacks knocking us off our perch. The Trepal story
is nagging, to my mind worthy of revisionist reexamination, but on its face, a
Mensa IQ doesn’t amount to much when it is utilized to torture a once divorced
waitress into a coma. Trepal had a unique skill set, a mind that was devious
enough to rid the United States of her enemies, and instead he files motions on
death row, trying to outrun the clock.
More of the Earlier Bryan Fuller
"You better mean it!" the widow Chaz to Charlie Rose
How Dead Like Me wound up in "the MGM library," to quote Comet's response to me on a related matter, is probably as much a mystery as the weird rules Fuller makes up in his head, but the dowager can see why the series made a splash, and I certainly identify with Muth's acerbic disillusioned puss as she comes of age in that space between the temporal and beyond. I could watch this series a long time and live in it, and see how it illustrates. Fuller succeeds in the industry because he takes the worst of human nature and redeems it. Whereas I just drive the forces of the Furies, looking for the next Big Bang, young or old, I've always been the same, evading the exterminator, living a flea bag life, watching my effusiveness harden liked glazed sap bled on bark off a bore hole. I have changed, disillusioned myself, not with literary ambition so much, as questioning its utility. What does an anti-hero like Hannibal offer us, after all? Irony aside, we couldn't function if celebration of psychopathy became normal, however vicariously liberating such visionary mechanisms appear to be. The majority of of live droll little lives, our guts and arthritis overtaking us, pests like moths and roaches and mice an embarrassment to be battled, wondering if billionaires ever have these problems. Doubtlessly Thiel would be horrified by what my quadriplegic incontinent living does to carpets and furnishings, though no coils have broken through the mattress yet. I am disheartened by all the revising I have to do with this account, not so much worried about my viciousness as my tendency to obscure correspondences in my earlier posts.
Have to repair it, and sometimes want to kick it to the curb. I am not going to live long enough to go in search of my own lost time and Proustian perfect captures of weaving his memory into a mature authorial voice. Putting a note on my door (for the custodians) that I'm unstable due to end of summer humidity might be the truth, but it only delays the inevitable condemnation: I was never good enough, not to sustain relationships, certainly not to create a family. I sucked myself into an 811 box in North Philly, finished my harsh urban life at Temple University, and then sank in amber, like an autonomic gangrene representation out of a French director's Dadaist nightmare, here thinking of one of Ebert's clips, probably buried on his website. Even he didn't know what to make of this film. The actors looked putrid while riding a bus. That was probably a distinctive vision of the modern condition, but again, the bodies of the dead turning into maggot consumption don't engage us. My sister said I could not see the full view of our dead mother in 2005. I raised a meek objection toward a closed casket service.
Unlike George, I do not learn from mea culpas thrown my way. I just say give me a fucking Uzi. I am cognizant that giving Presby and its Riverside Negro Womens' League my notice, keeping my fiery denigration of management to a minimum, probably spells my doom, but this year, I mean what I say, and though I am stalling, I do intend to abandon my secure, if miserable, routine, under the banner of a so called "Inspired Life". The tenants in 202 are expendable, diseased, ill, unbalanced, stupid, damaged, failures. I have a piece of white trash named Rich eating out of my hand because I am kind to him. His entitlement is managed by a representative payee because he is a gambling crackpot. The former advocate in me is only a facsimile of decency in dealing with him, and this coldness in me, judging this happy broken piece of voluble shit on his phone as worthless, is roughly the truest literary vision I can offer, and I am just a dirty post-menopausal cripple running her last energies on acrid coffee, about to break the piggy bank, facing threats more mundane than flaming space debris.
How Dead Like Me wound up in "the MGM library," to quote Comet's response to me on a related matter, is probably as much a mystery as the weird rules Fuller makes up in his head, but the dowager can see why the series made a splash, and I certainly identify with Muth's acerbic disillusioned puss as she comes of age in that space between the temporal and beyond. I could watch this series a long time and live in it, and see how it illustrates. Fuller succeeds in the industry because he takes the worst of human nature and redeems it. Whereas I just drive the forces of the Furies, looking for the next Big Bang, young or old, I've always been the same, evading the exterminator, living a flea bag life, watching my effusiveness harden liked glazed sap bled on bark off a bore hole. I have changed, disillusioned myself, not with literary ambition so much, as questioning its utility. What does an anti-hero like Hannibal offer us, after all? Irony aside, we couldn't function if celebration of psychopathy became normal, however vicariously liberating such visionary mechanisms appear to be. The majority of of live droll little lives, our guts and arthritis overtaking us, pests like moths and roaches and mice an embarrassment to be battled, wondering if billionaires ever have these problems. Doubtlessly Thiel would be horrified by what my quadriplegic incontinent living does to carpets and furnishings, though no coils have broken through the mattress yet. I am disheartened by all the revising I have to do with this account, not so much worried about my viciousness as my tendency to obscure correspondences in my earlier posts.
Have to repair it, and sometimes want to kick it to the curb. I am not going to live long enough to go in search of my own lost time and Proustian perfect captures of weaving his memory into a mature authorial voice. Putting a note on my door (for the custodians) that I'm unstable due to end of summer humidity might be the truth, but it only delays the inevitable condemnation: I was never good enough, not to sustain relationships, certainly not to create a family. I sucked myself into an 811 box in North Philly, finished my harsh urban life at Temple University, and then sank in amber, like an autonomic gangrene representation out of a French director's Dadaist nightmare, here thinking of one of Ebert's clips, probably buried on his website. Even he didn't know what to make of this film. The actors looked putrid while riding a bus. That was probably a distinctive vision of the modern condition, but again, the bodies of the dead turning into maggot consumption don't engage us. My sister said I could not see the full view of our dead mother in 2005. I raised a meek objection toward a closed casket service.
Unlike George, I do not learn from mea culpas thrown my way. I just say give me a fucking Uzi. I am cognizant that giving Presby and its Riverside Negro Womens' League my notice, keeping my fiery denigration of management to a minimum, probably spells my doom, but this year, I mean what I say, and though I am stalling, I do intend to abandon my secure, if miserable, routine, under the banner of a so called "Inspired Life". The tenants in 202 are expendable, diseased, ill, unbalanced, stupid, damaged, failures. I have a piece of white trash named Rich eating out of my hand because I am kind to him. His entitlement is managed by a representative payee because he is a gambling crackpot. The former advocate in me is only a facsimile of decency in dealing with him, and this coldness in me, judging this happy broken piece of voluble shit on his phone as worthless, is roughly the truest literary vision I can offer, and I am just a dirty post-menopausal cripple running her last energies on acrid coffee, about to break the piggy bank, facing threats more mundane than flaming space debris.
Tuesday, September 6, 2016
Food Poisoning, Entrenched
"I'm sorry if you felt ill treated,"-- the undoubtedly committed volunteers of Bacopa
Editors. I did not feel ill treated. Publishing a writer is an arbitrary business, more so in the age of digital do it yourself files, looking at my non fiction collection in despair, just prior to logging on, sick to my stomach, if I growl in illegal and heinous fashion toward Putin's overly long tenure at the helm of the Russian Federation, perhaps I could outwit the FSB assassin (hypothetically, I know the Russians who view me are perhaps only trolling for propaganda) into dumping their plutonium capsules into literary advisors offices. I raised my voice about the poetry editor only because I am a one woman spastic who spent four hours formatting a small selection of my lighter unpublished pieces, and regardless of the fact that I read their guidelines and saw the guidelines I wanted to see, after years in the independent zine morass, it took the poetry editor seconds to ding me. That is the only reason I wauled, and the poetry editor's ranking over seer and I had a polite e-convo. The end, now all the sudden an anonymous voice pricks the scab. Editors. I am sick to my stomach. Unusual, perhaps the carrots. Handled the toilet twice in so many hours just as if I was a decade younger, also unusual, adopted new bathing tactics, however long this lasts, still tricky. I'd like to blame Hermine, but think my heart is giving out, don't particularly want any saving grace from cardiology.
If I substantially revise my bylines for my wee small volume, whether I do it myself or fast a contest fee, throw in a few of my stronger blog posts, also revised, and in a quixotic move, add my two published short stories in the back, is that fair, to substantially alter the content to suit my aesthetic voice over past editors? Josie Byzek doesn't count here, and if the last picture I saw of her and her partner was Ginny, then perhaps there are a few Protestants left who by definition have to swallow humility when they transform facially into a jackass. Editors. Not to mention names, as I desire to remain on The Freeman's good side, my wauling about that was over my rush rush when I had, apparently, drifted into another topic. I wasn't mad at them, but me, for failing the bar, which is of another kind, as I have nothing to prove in literary terms. My CV is four pages of a lifetime, as I weaken and sicken and need to find a stable space. It will begin to cool in a few days, hopefully. For our purposes, I released myself from the original Gojira in my last hour of holding myself awake, asking what the fuck am I doing I'm not writing a dissertation on Godzilla as a coping mechanism for Hiroshima; I will, however, study Honda's nightmarish early anime seriously another time. Rodan is sickening, and yet I studied every Japanese male, wondering which of them wouldn't lose face with my shins clamped around their buttocks. Perhaps it is a summer cold. I'm off to bed, after I look up the shit on ISBN numbers.
Editors. I did not feel ill treated. Publishing a writer is an arbitrary business, more so in the age of digital do it yourself files, looking at my non fiction collection in despair, just prior to logging on, sick to my stomach, if I growl in illegal and heinous fashion toward Putin's overly long tenure at the helm of the Russian Federation, perhaps I could outwit the FSB assassin (hypothetically, I know the Russians who view me are perhaps only trolling for propaganda) into dumping their plutonium capsules into literary advisors offices. I raised my voice about the poetry editor only because I am a one woman spastic who spent four hours formatting a small selection of my lighter unpublished pieces, and regardless of the fact that I read their guidelines and saw the guidelines I wanted to see, after years in the independent zine morass, it took the poetry editor seconds to ding me. That is the only reason I wauled, and the poetry editor's ranking over seer and I had a polite e-convo. The end, now all the sudden an anonymous voice pricks the scab. Editors. I am sick to my stomach. Unusual, perhaps the carrots. Handled the toilet twice in so many hours just as if I was a decade younger, also unusual, adopted new bathing tactics, however long this lasts, still tricky. I'd like to blame Hermine, but think my heart is giving out, don't particularly want any saving grace from cardiology.
If I substantially revise my bylines for my wee small volume, whether I do it myself or fast a contest fee, throw in a few of my stronger blog posts, also revised, and in a quixotic move, add my two published short stories in the back, is that fair, to substantially alter the content to suit my aesthetic voice over past editors? Josie Byzek doesn't count here, and if the last picture I saw of her and her partner was Ginny, then perhaps there are a few Protestants left who by definition have to swallow humility when they transform facially into a jackass. Editors. Not to mention names, as I desire to remain on The Freeman's good side, my wauling about that was over my rush rush when I had, apparently, drifted into another topic. I wasn't mad at them, but me, for failing the bar, which is of another kind, as I have nothing to prove in literary terms. My CV is four pages of a lifetime, as I weaken and sicken and need to find a stable space. It will begin to cool in a few days, hopefully. For our purposes, I released myself from the original Gojira in my last hour of holding myself awake, asking what the fuck am I doing I'm not writing a dissertation on Godzilla as a coping mechanism for Hiroshima; I will, however, study Honda's nightmarish early anime seriously another time. Rodan is sickening, and yet I studied every Japanese male, wondering which of them wouldn't lose face with my shins clamped around their buttocks. Perhaps it is a summer cold. I'm off to bed, after I look up the shit on ISBN numbers.
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