Tag Archives: Dollhouse

Camille & Liberty Sue For Rights

Camille Paglia
Camille Paglia
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Originally published on October 29, 1996

Paglia, eh? Great. You're a leg up on me with that pair of trousers, but yes, she's plugged into my short shorts of writers I intend to exploit on my own terms, buttressing hers, by reading a fuller body of her work.

You are waving at battleship clowns though, in pointing out what you read as gross generalizations on maleness, presuming, as we agree, the topic is her announced speciality, because far too many books I have read on race, gender, even pop ass religion & nuclear physics are written by ascendant experts guilty of similar transgressions against their own daring models of zero, not zero. But if her generalizations of "her men" are just that, aren't those of "her women" just as general and no less caricatured than those of Henry Miller, Mick Jagger, or Gloria Steinum?

If the defining factor of her work can be said to bestow truth to the fact that the man on the hipper side of the manhood schematic is as driven to be "a man" by forces he struggles to control and improve against great odds of acrimony and self-doubt as those which women bear inside themselves—which they, grabbing their own perspective, conclude as just and feminine (but perhaps not righteous for all?). As a woman speaking on this topic, your subjectivity remains the trait you can never escape regardless of race, gender, creed or dvisibility by zero...no less than anything I have to say on this or any subject matter. Such is the human condition in reality. All else is politics, art, and the place on earth where stupid remarks are taken for granted because human frailty and the language they have invented has made it that way.

Absolute gender essence is a fiction, but factors forcing us into certain camps are just & natural all the same. While we may find it fascinating to sit under a banana shrub tree with a cool drink to pine for a formula that would equalize the world, nothing is further from the true, and is simply a fuzzy concept developed to bring a better cohesion between differences in a crowd. While some political theories have tried to erase, other smudge the inherent differences between men and other men, women and other women, alliances and enemies cross pollinating the lines, so the best we can hope for is an active intelligence when this whistling dixie of topics is brought to the table.

If Johnny can't read. That's a problem Johnny has. If nobody in Johnny's class can read, maybe that's a class problem, or perhaps a rude statistical anomaly. Solving for a class problem is a one Johnny at a time scenario, no matter how many times Billy's, or Rachel's or Al-Amid's class (who can all read after a fashion, but in emphatic degrees of speciality, one to and against another, and so we say there is no class problem, but an individual level of compliance to a standard which suffers in a state of flux, never at rest, but always evolving with new imput). And so it goes. Natural selection. Crowd warfare disguised as crowd fanfare. We both know the issue is more complicated than Johnny. His home life, his specific subculture, and the tumultuous uber culture drive the imagination into places no young mind can handle without strong guidance, and simply overwhelm the attention span where little teaching, even if made interesting and important to the student can penetrate. I'd like to know, Landry, of a few Paglia clichés you find utterly testing reality. It could prove an interesting exchange between us.

The body must go. Recycle this dirt is what I say. I feel alive only when co-opting the conspiracies of language as my own private sandbox. One day I'll probably lose this damn limb to bad circulation, gout, diabetes, stroke, or what have I, so I guess I'll just have to find myself a woman who has a sick thang for amputees.
I hate being traffic cop and lone cleanup crew around here, but I am a natural for the job. I live among two wood bees who tend to be slobs. Tim & Sue give a good bawdyhouse try at neatliness and order of the court, but they wear blinders as narrow as my hunt for the perfect job. Am I a braggart to state that each of them exercise weaker powers of observation, and ply a more sluggish recall from whatever ROM hard drive they've in the belfry? So I get to play the neatnik butch Gabriel who says, I'm running the show and I said THIS is how WE do it. After footing the bill Sue's a gem trapped in the goo of sporadic bursts of saltwater taffy which describes our push and pull dichotomy, and puts up with it only because she understands the efforts I put in around here go a long way toward making the whole Dollhouse balancing act work.

While I'm still probably not back to fifty percent normal, the Dollhouse clutter piled up for days until I couldn't help myself but to storm around all day picking up in a slow painful hobble. Of course everyone including Lizbeth& Chris last weekend has predicted my left foot without a cast will heal to an ouchy mess, even though my choice to forego the cast was one of the doc's original options as he groped the swollen mob of purple toes and x-rays last week. So I'm taking my chances with Providence, but haven't I always?

Do it for MEEEE, she pleaded in the sweet pitched cajoling voice of protestant communion she pulls out for these special darling occasions which eventually will all blur together after a while and I guess that’s what we for lack of a better word call love. And so I did.
The body must go. Recycle this freckled pail of dirt is what I say. The best notion of life, that time when I most feel alive in duty and occupation, no matter what my lesser aptitudes may say about me, is when I am co-opting the language conspiracies of men and women into my own private sandbox. Exercise of the walkabout flesh is very painful to me. I've always needed a specific purpose to getting out and going over and above, sustaining my own life. Longevity appeals only in the sense that I might reach a level of success in this exploration of mind. One day I'll probably lose this damn limb to bad circulation, gout, diabetes, stroke, or what have I, so I guess I'll just have to comfort myself in a woman who has a sick affection for amputees. Sue only this morning after complimenting me for swallowing a couple ibuprofrin and I goo gooed in pointing out how tickled baby dance silly she gets when I'm popping pills, said back that she just wanted me to get better so I could stomp around again. Hmmm. Baby likes my stomping around better than my gimping around. That's normal, ME too, but it's always a fart when Sue dishes out a pill because she seems to have this weird buddy system relationship with pain pills.

She ain't no JUNKY by any stretch. We're just talking over the counter stuff, but she's really blows a goose whenever the pillbox is passed around. In my case, it's as if—if she can just get me to pop a pill—she has performed a recognizable measure of social work in heading me in the right direction of the fit & well. But I DO have to give her credit for some fine sweet words of caring as she nagged me into submission about finally going to see Doctor Ford. Do it for MEEEE, she pleaded in the sweet pitched cajoling voice of protestant communion she pulls out for these special darling occasions which will eventually all blur together after a while and I guess that's what we for lack of a better word call love. And so I did.

And I am redeemed with honors (called GETTING THE CREDIT in Dollhouse parlance) for having been right as a pat hand of three aces and a greenhaired Jack in both diagnosing & proscribing a laissez faire attitude in the first place, but it was good to get professional confirmation. That's the best health care I can suffer. Emergency blockades. Damage control. Squeaky clean is somebody's else triumphant life. Blind faith in OVERCOMING the body in all these war wounds is the method of least resistence I cling to, it's a motto, a white flag, black flag, label of a thousand filthy warthogs rutting in the mud...

As for this blurring of categories I often speak of, especially in what Miller sarcastically loathed as literature, I do not stand on ceremonial demarcations of fiction, biography, lasting truth, evidence of genius, email correspondence, men of letters, rogue pundits, cultural betters, dry bone or snot-nosed detractors. Distractions, all of it. Like a drop or two of kerosene in a steaming pot of outdoor stew, it'll all boil off in the end.

GT

Dollhouse Charms

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The Dollhouse Grillyard
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Originally published on October 13, 1996

Anecdotes on the grill, hip-hugging and pressure cooked people sprawled about the deck with all sorts of psychoses just a spoon feed away. All told, it seems everyone left with a pleasant evening under their belts after chortling on cheese dip, assorted dishes and the chow din of new acquaintences.

Bob and Peter had never met. Michelle was new goth bird. Allie announced she was moving in with Bob, saving $800 a month, helpful since she too is leaving Columbia Research for greener pastures, that is to say, her hunt for that illusive green card, saying that CR has a long record of hiring aliens but dropping the ball on green card sponsorship.

The gathering began late, which of course threw off my own psychological equilibrium for most of the early part of the day since I had hoped for an early start, early end, but things softened and turned to a generalized sense of fun once Peter and Michelle arrived sometime shortly after 1730hrs.

The afternoon heat chilled rather quickly, finally underpinning the autumnal ambience to the other seasonal changes visible in the sheets of orange-brown leaves blanketing the backyard matched by the brilliant, cascading angles of the fading sun.

Peter got a call this morning suggesting he’s still in queue for a job interview at, I think, one of the places he’s interned. That’s timely, since we mildly roasted Peter the last hour of last night’s gathering focussing on his need to find a job because neither he nor we are rolling in web business yet, and in order to really be worth his ambition in GSIS stock, he needs to improve his own skills and speed with practice, not on my time and dollar, but on his own.
Bob was cheerful all night long. He and Peter gloried in their common interest in comic books and Japanese animation. Allie unloaded her greencard woes in her horrible English tongue which is less a mumble than a slippery slur of half-formed syllables. But she too was cheery, even as the night pushed late into the mind, curled into her chair, snuggled into sweatshirt sleeves intent on listening to the banter of the boys. Michelle didn't talk much, not that she's shy or inarticulate, but with a full deck of notorious chatterers on board, she politely played it safe. She's a psychology major at Purdue, and was markedly endearing as she also curled in her chair, tilting her head in such a way as to communicate an adoration for Peter whenever he took to the common soapbox.

But she's no mere fawn. Peter had burned some bacon earlier that afternoon, and when Sue suggested the microwave was a saner choice for the chore, Peter of course started in with his own variation of Shipwreck rationale.

Michelle surnamed Carnes as in Kim no relation, immediately backed Sue as Peter mumbled off into that land of geez, can't I ever be right about something, even when pushing the I'm wrong about nothing spin cycle. Maybe not. Perhaps I'm being ever slightly unfair for the sake of a short line of bull. Admittedly, I wasn't there in the kitchen, although at one point I nearly bolted from my chair to race upstairs as my complaint-driven pathos peeled back the stench of newly formed carbon gathering in my ever sensitive nostrils, but Sue witnessed to me later, and I have no problem imagining that when she said he started explaining something about hot grease and the natural water in the bacon combining to blacken it, he was pulling a big time, uh, well you know what I mean. This a been a banner weekend. Had a swell time on the bay feasting with the three Spence dolls plus Pitch. I'm sure this topic has come up before but I forget your opinion on crabs. I would imagine Philly to be a great place for the critters, even while somewhat overshadowed by the world famous Philadelphia cheesesteak culture.

Peter got a call this morning suggesting he’s still in queue for a job interview at, I think, one of the places he’s interned. That’s timely, since we mildly roasted Peter the last hour of last night’s gathering focussing on his need to find a job because neither he nor we are rolling in web business yet...
Shorthand Kenny Sacks, sports fan primo, now in Seattle... I just timed out to ring him, but got the machine, formerly of Philly, still raves about how much he misses the Philly steak of his youth. His mom once had promised to ship him a crate of the whole steak-n-cheese enchilada, bread, meat, cheese from a local distributor just to ease his homesickness and taste bud deprivation after he moved out there a couple, well, maybe three years ago now. Don't know if that panned out, but it was a nice motherly gesture.

His mom is a dear, a small hairspray-blonde Jewish cabana queen who looks and talks like she just stepped out of a Seinfeld episode. She kept trying to feed us sweets from the fridge. One year our colleague in the online fantasy baseball league wimped out in getting our Phillies tickets. She bailed us out with her influence, calling the front office, seating us in the best seats we'd ever had over the four games Sue and I had shared with the Nuthouse Gang, right near home plate just a few rows up and a few seats down the first base line behind the net.

Peter and Michelle are gone for the day. They'll sup at his parent's house tonight, and she'll fly back to Indiana tomorrow afternoon. Peter got a call this morning suggesting he's still in queue for a job interview at, I think, one of the places he's interned. That's timely, since we mildly roasted Peter the last hour of last night's gathering focussing on his need to find a job because neither he nor we are rolling in web business yet, and in order to really be worth his ambition in GSIS stock, he needs to improve his own skills and speed with practice, not on my time and dollar, but on his own.

No feelings were unduly trampled, and I feel the exchange was blithely enlightening, as he admitted that he has often been chastised for a lack of speed and creativity in his work, and is hoping to improve on these fronts in time. I'm committed to helping him where and when I can, but he must certainly begin to pull his weight in some area, and for now that appears to be simply paying the agreed upon rent, and then working to improve his skills in areas that we both can exploit so that he indeed can become a healthy factor in the growth potential of Graphic Solutions Ink Systems and CYFII, his own company. In other words, we're each still operating in good faith.

GT

Neither Stick Nor Stones (She Mumbled)

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Styx Haunts The Dollhouse
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Originally published on August 16, 1996

Well folks, it's official. Styx has left the building. After spending four of five nights away from the Dollhouse in her search for fun & frenzy around the U Street corridor, spending nearly every dime of the $200 plus she bussed in with, Styx wandered up on Wednesday afternoon an hour past her declared work time of noon. I told her she was fired, having been very clear that if I was going to make work for her in order to help her make Dollhouse rent I wanted her to take it as serious as any outside job: honesty, dedication, and consistency the foundation of that relationship. And since she now had no visible means of support, I thought she should leave for those greener pastures she had taken up in recent days.

Tom Howell and his pals had as much adopted her, and I wanted her to go, so I worked up the stones to insist she leave. She was too quiet, acted like a prisoner, an ugly step-child, a peril to herself and to us, too antsy to get out of the house night after night. Obviously she was not comfortable here. And the feeling was mutual. Tim had wearied of her ghostlike emphemera, hardly a word spoken, and then only a whisper we invariably had to ask she repeat. We thrive on explicit boltwrenching chat around here. She thrived on escape. She just wasn't working out. All my speeches intended to enlighten and provoke exchange mattered nothing to her. She just wanted to flutter beyond like gutter garbage in the wind in some unspecific marking of time.

Despite yesterday’s hangover slump after crucifying an entire bottle of vodka the day before to ease the anxiety of having to turn my back on somebody, even somebody I probably loathed, I was notably relieved that she was gone. No deep & disturbing psychodrama, merely thirteen hours of photograph labels had passed between us. Other than $125 dropped on a twin mattress for her, which I am sure we can parlay into a proper use once we can afford to remodel the basement, I feel she owes us nothing, and I nothing to her. A closed chapter in all our lives.
When I awoke Tuesday morning and Tim said she had not come in again that night I figured she would stroll in late, and asked Sue to take the Metro leaving me the car to move her across town. And so I did. I fed her some Ethiopian along the way, and that was that. No anger, no final speeches. Just the shared feeling that this was the most natural thing to do considering the anxiety we both endured while she was here. Although she said she was prepared to complete her day's work that afternoon, she admitted she was happy to try her luck on the street.

She had spent last night at Ted's. An odd but warm fellow, a heavy-set bearded lost & found street saxophonist, Ted kept a place over on the notorious in one of the Paul Lutauf Belmont Street buildings—a barren dump as you can imagine, having lived over on that same stretch of Belmont-In-Squalor yourself a decade of woeful memories ago, eh Jennifer, but certainly more the Styx style than the ordered clichés of the mid-life middle class Dollhouse manor. We made no vows to keep in touch, for as I said, very little was directly exchanged, particularly on the topics of the immediate past and the oh so immediate future, and what little was said I drew out with a direct questioning, the sole standard form of communication we seemed fated to share until she would leave I presumed.

Despite yesterday's hangover slump after crucifying an entire bottle of vodka the day before to ease the anxiety of having to turn my back on somebody, even somebody I probably loathed, I was notably relieved that she was gone. No deep & disturbing psychodrama, merely thirteen hours of photograph labels had passed between us. Other than $125 dropped on a twin mattress for her, which I am sure we can parlay into a proper use once we can afford to remodel the basement, I feel she owes us nothing, and I nothing to her. A closed chapter in all our lives.

Strange how I once thought she & Tim might hit it off, when instead it was Howellnyms & his Braeniac crowd who took immediate advantage of this wandering waif.

She was quite efficient in those thirteen hours at the Mac. I used a microrecorder early in the mornings before she was stirring to identify the appropriate people, place, and dates of each photo. She then transcribed them, printed to label sheets, and then applied to pictures each label at an astonishing rate. I was quite pleased with her work, but I knew she wanted to maraud the cityscape instead despite her acquiescent nods when I plied her with questions concerning her comfort & intentions amongst the Dollhouse regulars. I might have let Rob Williams down, but it no longer mattered. He'd passed her along to me. I passed her along to Tom and Russell Braen—no doubt to their prudent chagrin—but at least she wanted to be over there with Russell's Myhouse crew, closer to the urban street action than she was with us. I heard somebody say Patrick Tracy, our looming Irish writer, won a Madam's Organ backroom blowjob out of it, her idea, his treat. Enough said.

GT

Impossible To Get To Icy Ithaca

winds-conscience
Winds of Conscience
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Am fighting off a cold, or an allergy in throat and sinus, and its accompanying depression. Impossible to get to Ithaca this week. You're off the hook. I'll challenge Sue to a visit sometime in August if that would be good for you. Are you still kicking the online addiction? Missed you sorely when I checked just now, and still nothing from you. Of course Steve was here most of the weekend, although he went home late each night, and returned the next day. It was great seeing him. I missed him, but now I feel like rotting jungle fungus warmed over the coals today.

Blumstein joined us yesterday for an afternoon to midnight scoot of four-handed cards, loads of grillmunch, beer, and filthy mouth muttering. It was even good seeing Bob on the upside of a three-day sick. The uncertainty principle does not apply to Bob. IT IS CERTAIN he will be sick three days a week. As I may have mentioned, he boasts on some occasions and complains other times of chronic fatigue syndrome. But he was fit as a for a few hours and we all enjoyed him, although Tim mentioned the other day how he noticed that Bob can at times practically suck away your soul with his tired hem and haw manner of speech. Oh well, of all people, he should know. Sue called this morning. She's home safely with the parents in south Georgia. Now there's only the flight back to National on Friday. All's quiet with the Dollhouse shoal.

Love and safety licks...

GT

A Basis For Back To The Basics In Ithaca

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Our Lady of the Flower(s)
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Date: Wed, 23 Jul 1996 8:26:08

Point of Origin: Itaca, New York

Hey, well, wherever shall I begin???!!

Had a great time with my mum and aunt. We went to the Cornell museum and botanical gardens...they are duly impressed by the first school I've attended that has a real campus—just like the ones in movies. My mum's parental fantasies and ambitions for me appear to be being realised—at least for the moment. We also worked on decorating my bedroom—its draped in black lace—their idea strangely enough. Next time they come we're going to make a black lace canopy for the bed—very Morticia Adams-ish. It seems that they're finally willing to decorate according to my tastes, realising that my interior decorating tastes like my fashion tastes will never be quite the same as theirs. Of course while they were here I gorged myself on the milk of maternal kindness and charity getting as much free stuff, labor, and meals as possible. The basics.

Unfortunately my indulgence (indirectly) led to a problem. After leaving a Thai restaurant (where I has a couple of beers), we went to the grocery store to get Asian food products—the store has an extensive selection. After leaving, as we sat at a traffic light waiting to leave the parking lot I was in an accident. A van in front of me suddenly went into reverse, backing into me. The driver ( young w/ pigtails, a nose ring, and a Henry Rollins t-shirt) became rather belligerent. My mum went to call the cops, although the other driver protested it. It turns out he doesn't have insurance, the van was a rental, and he only had a student id (Ithaca college), no driver's license with him (and the one he does have is from another state and expired—he just received a ticket last month for that). Thus his reluctance to involve the cops. But I insisted on getting them. After exchanging phone numbers, he left and I waited for the cops. Got an estimate yesterday—its going to cost a $1,000 to repair the car, but at least its driveable. Meanwhile this guy—Patrick Kennedy—has been in contact. He doesn't have much money—and will soon have even less since the cops have issued him three tickets—a fact which has him very upset. He seems to blame me for this, feeling, as I've said, it was wrong to involve the cops. I've tried to explain my position which is that without an official accident report I have nothing with which to pressure him into paying for the repairs. Anyway...

I was of course drinking all the while. He ended up making the usual offer of giving me his phone number and in a haze of beer and sexual fantasy I called him (he’s in NYC) and we talked until long past dawn. But oddly enough it didn’t involve any phone sex. He’s sent me some e-mail and I’m planning to reply.
It's good to hear Steve has been welcomed back into the bosom of the Dollhouse family. I have also had a reconciliation of sorts with a friend. I'm sure you've heard me speak of Themis. We had a falling-out a week before I left the city—drunk as usual—I can't remember what happened—blacked out as usual. I only know that it happened somewhere between my flat and a bar a few blocks away and that it must have been pretty bad cos I've never heard from him again. I suspect I told him a few unwelcome truths (aren't they always unwelcome?), not for the ifrst time, but appparently for the last time. In any event late Saturday night he called me, having got my number from the phone co., acting as if nothing had ever happened. We talked for awhile, but neither of us mentioned that night. I don't know if we're friends again or not or what prompted him to call. I can't decide if I should call him or not or perhaps e-mail him (my fave occupation). I'll have to write you about him and our strange relationship—but I'm not in the mood right now.

Went online yesterday and had an encounter in the ever-popular members rooms with a certain BenofDover. Went on for quite some time—he's a sub in search of a little discipline which I was naturally willing to virtually administer. I was of course drinking all the while. He ended up making the usual offer of giving me his phone number and in a haze of beer and sexual fantasy I called him (he's in NYC) and we talked until long past dawn. But oddly enough it didn't involve any phone sex. He's sent me some e-mail and I'm planning to reply. I'll let you know what happens.

So what is going on with you and this prostitute??!! What exactly were you planning and who was the friend who was arranging it and who was interested in the sex? Are you still pursuing this?

So you aren't able to roadtrip. Perhaps its just as well—I'm quite busy, desperately working on grant proposals, a task I've shamefully neglected. The fall semester, school, and grant deadlines are breathing down my neck and I'm beginning to panic. And I was feeling rather uncomfortable with your roadtrip requirements.

Love

Jennifer

Nothing But A Creeping Annoyance Was Lost

word
There's A Word For That
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Date: Sun Jul 21, 1996 1:11:28 AM

Brave sister—Steve is back in the Dollhouse fold, safely tucked in righteously as an original DH cast member after we kissed and made up, laughing and muddling thru blanket apologies, a case of beer, a few games of "perquacky" and juicy cat calls from the next wave of memory hounds setting up camp. Licking the Pussy, Nickel Ball, and Perquackey stalk our energies for reasons neither of us can quite make the case. Sue should telephone early Sunday morning after the cruiseship docks at 8:30 in Miami, a mere seven hours away—right before she gears up to cross the long Floridian peninsula depositing her Aunt Lou back in Albany GA, where Sue will fold into the lives of her shiny folks for a few days. The well-publicized whore in a box scenario was scuttled by default. Mouse failed to call at midnight after getting off work. Indifference had already settled over us like a rude collapsing smog, so nothing but a creeping annoyance was lost.

How was Mum & Auntie's visit? Did you make it to the Ontario waterworks? Today was a beautifully crisp sunny visitation. I signed a neighbor's petition in his race to get on the ballot for the DC School Board. I told him I din't speak the language of public schools. I wanted the Feds out of schools, and perhaps give schooling over to capital and its minions. Ha! The candidate scoffed at my suggestion like any good Republican trapped in an ultra-liberal jurisdiction would. The government sugar daddy model is the only configuration these major parties know, especially in dealing with the poor and the stupid and the college educated who need money for every project a new brood can think up. Watch your toes, professors...

Yep, keep 'em poor and stupid. Now that's a job for those who like motorcycles, trap doors, and house warming blessings in the name of Jesus Christ without knowing the Nazarene was a Jew down to his dying breath, so I want to be one too, leafy spinach & spam balls, and country music exercise videos. I'm sure there's a word for that. Despite the position of the mid-day sun in the Eastern sky where you sit to study strange behaviors of people still moved by ordinary magic, I can be such an ass sometimes. I wanna go with...

Good luck, Wayne Curtin! You'll need it...

GT

In Jobs Begin Responsibilities

delmore-schwartz
Delmore Schwartz
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Originally published on May 15, 1996

You wrote:
Hope you don't consider this an invasion of your privacy, but while checking some screen names for work, I was curious to check on what your whole list of handles was.

I wrote: Well Steve, I suppose you are entitled to quote a tired old windbag recently heard around the Dollhouse, "Hey it's MY JOB!" And to paraphrase old Delmore Schwartz, "and in jobs begin responsibilities!"

DS was one of James Laughlin's original wonder boys, a saber-rattling drunk, poet, and hapless mad Jew, perhaps in that order. Sent several women to suicide and sanatariums. My own Betty Sue, however, earns her stars and stripes, a remarkably strong if somewhat unmotivated woman. Her life is basically her job. Pride of roof over head is the most dominant consoling factor, when analyzing my relationship to her remarkably strident loyalty, but I'm getting off track and still staring through dirty windows. Delmore wrote a short story that brought him a vigorous measure of fame from peers and critics called In Dreams Begin Responsibilities. Glad you picked up The Recognitions. Wish you'd complete it, but life's not a bike race unless you make it one, and you must follow your own pace, of course. No beer? Cracker jack, me neither, but then I have a non-fungible excuse. I'm too old, tired, and cranky already. Alcohol dries up the brain fluids. I often feel the chemical blahs, and must liquify with other chills to balance the death wish with the lust for living alternately flooding these low energy reserves with sleep and excitement for what's happening now at the Dollhouse, at odds with any remaining residue my own dreams and responsibilities can provide me.

Love to share, hate to waste. Not greedy, just discerning. If the guilty and the innocent share the same bedpan in the afterlife, why am I arguing this over that in the present one? But my list of handles? Now where did I put that thing...

GT

The Apple, The Worm, The Drip

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New York Apartment
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As we both once thought true, Landry, Master Jack was the hoofer the the rest of our whole stinking gang suspected was going to fly higher than the laws of normalcy would usually allow, but somehow it always broke down with him. It wasn't me. I had signs to follow, my undoing I suppose. Concerning Jack's failure to rise above, I don't know why specifically, although a major contributing factor in my mind is that crack habit he's got. A consistant need to pound drugs is obviously bad news for most gonzos. And like most gonzos Jack feels immune to these special dangers, and always feels like he can rise above any problems just in the nick of time. But time is merciless, and all I'm saying is I hope Jack steers clear of most of that garbage out there in his new start. Yes, we had a little run in about that rabbit worm (and monkey) of his. He hasn't done it very often and I blew up so bad the last time to the point where he was obviously ashamed. If it happens again, I doubt I will give him a second chance. I just think it is throwing your money away in addition to being a waste of time. I'm at a stage in my life where I just don't want to deal with that crap no how any which way, zero tolerance, no more turning the cheek in allowing lurkers to run roughshod.

B Suzy and I are hopping the Amtrak up New York City this weekend to make the rounds with an old friend, Jennifer. Jack knows her at a distance. Up close, who knows anyone? We are each mere fractals of our true self.

Working on her doctorate in social anthropology—she just got notice of acceptance to Cornell—so she will be moving to Ithaca in upper state within a few weeks. The past two years at the New School have left at the freezeline of parental support, but this Cornell package carries with it an $8K annual stipend, so she's set for pocket flash, but observes the town of Ithaca as an eerie hovel, full of strange hippy looking people, no strip malls, no 7-11s, nothing but a few docile streets, a couple of schools, and hills to kill for if one happened to be a skate punk. She's not, however, and without a car, is already sweating the cold icy strides up and down those inclines, fretting she'll hate it, if she survives it.

Such are the crass ironies of a well-circulated life, eh Landry? Hope all this psychodrip suits you. It’s what I do when I write, and when I am alone wrestling with my thoughts, or wife. My style often takes the form of a complaint. But in all honesty, I just want a live that suits me, just like everybody else. Unfortunately…
Jennifer is still rather gothic in appearance and outlook, can't squelch the hipsterific riot grrrl stirring inside her, although she's embraced an academic mindset, is quite the scholar, dean's list et al, and seething to escape the stranglehold of her past. This weekend should be fantastic now that the heat wave in which we suffered 95-100 degree weather for three days straight has pissed off and new highs in the low 70s are expected. Her lower Lex Ave walk-up of course is slack on AC, and I suppose you don't have one either. I understand there are few of them on the SF Bay. But here at the Dollhouse climate control is ALWAYS a cool calculation.

Well, gotta go start some dinner. I'm blackening some salmon steaks tonight, although Tim is chewing top sirloin because he avoids seafood. The lad pays us a flat rate per as a dinner guest, so if living here boosts Tim's self-esteem and his sense of responsibility a notch or two as he claims and keeps him off heroin as he says it is doing, then I suppose we can all feel grateful that this particular opportunity knocked. His extra money helps keep us on monthly budget and out of hock, so it seems to be working all around, although of course I've had to stand firm on a few principles Tim would conveniently fail to understand, but I should brag in his name that these moments have been few thus far. I guess he's been here eight weeks on Friday. Jack only lasted three days when he returned from Germany, frying my patience before he bolted up to Diane and Adrian's to squander his small forture with them.

Such are the crass ironies of a well-circulated life, eh Landry? Hope all this psychodrip suits you. It's what I do when I write, and when I am alone wrestling with my thoughts, or wife. My style often takes the form of a complaint. But in all honesty, I just want a live that suits me, just like everybody else. Unfortunately...

GT