LIVE: First Biden-Trump Debate Descends Into Name-Calling and Interrupti...
Actually I'm being disingenuous by posting this, as if I'd personally watched or listened to a single minute of it--when the truth is that I so viscerally loathe and despise both of these so-called presidential candidates (the mere sight of either of their faces makes me sick to my stomach) that I could not have borne to have done so. I'm posting it, rather, solely for the purpose of demonstrating that this unseemly farce is not, in fact, worth paying the least attention to.
C'mon, Puh-leeze--Abortion, sickening tragedy that it intrinsically is, is not something that civilized people doubt is a woman's inalienable prerogative.
For, at least, the first six months of pregnancy. Or maybe the first four and a half months (to be fair to the rights of the putative entity which is the fetus).
Louis Farrakhan On Hillary Clinton " That's a Wicked Woman "
Funny thing about me and the Reverend Farrakhan, we totally agree about everything--but most particularly about the screaming horrific abomination of what Hillary (and Obama) did to Libya. God all-Friday.
Mary Magdalene: Art's Scarlet Woman (Art Documentary) | Perspective
Ugh. Mary Magdalene, the heterosexual Christian obsession, with which I have never, so God help me, been even peripherally concerned, nor at all interested, nor about which have I ever been even the least bit curious. What a fuckin dullard's tale. How much I was spared when, at age eleven, I left the Christian religion--and all its concomitant, neurotic-obsessive, heteronormative folk-myths--far behind me.
Tribal People Try Italian Pasta For The First Time
"Tribal People"? Indeed. 8.6% of the population of India (104 million). Indeed. They're real--and supposedly, some of them, aboriginal; which, in India, can put it back 17,000 years or so. They all seem, in their several ways, to be conscious of the fact that their so ancient ethnic provenience may have blinkered them and rendered them backward and ignorant, and they seem also, in their several individual ways, to resent and resist that imputation.
The Universe wants to get high. For fun. I guess that's the optimistic answer--and I suppose it well enough characterizes the party atmosphere of ¡Big Bang! On the other hand, is it plausible? Does it dry any tears? What are the consequences of thinking so?
is, simply, that they can't get it through their heads that bisexuality, not heterosexuality (or, for that matter, homosexuality), is the norm for humans and most other animals. So, try as they will, they can't read Gilgamesh as a romance (which it is), but persist in reading it as a sexless bromance (which, of course, it also is).
Maybe. Burning Sappho, of course, heads the list. Then you go on counting, fewer--way fewer--but wonderfully alive and authentic lady-persons: Christine de Pisane, Mme. de Sévigné, Sei Shonagon, Jane Austen, Emily Dickinson, Colette. I confess that I have, personally, a special penchant for the prose of Françoise Sagan, which, even when I don't like or agree with what she is saying, has the effect on me of sweet music. As does, of course also the prose of Helen Waddell. But I beg not to have to consider the thundering classicism of Marguerite Yourcénar, for, if you please, she has transgressed: Her morbid, Lesbian interest in the affective nature of exclusively male (pederastic) relationships is an Abomination. As is that also, of course, of Mary Renault.
No, really, let's not. There are several, shall we say, idiosyncratic features of Mrs. Rowling's prose--the "said glumly"s, the British, non-U cutenesses--which have so-far baffled my attempts at reading so much as a whole paragraph of it. It is distasteful, and, I find, insuperably tedious. So I don't know actually, at first hand, whether it's transphobic in the Hannibal the Cannibal, or the Norman Bates (Psycho), standard heteronormative sense, or not; but if our Authoress is saying, as 'tis said she says, that men become trannies in order to prey on women, my judgement is that that is really a weird, somewhat hysterical-sounding, heterosexual female-only-sounding opinion, and that I think it, in fact, very doubtful, that men who wish to turn themselves into women, and who apparently suppose that cosmetic surgery will accomplish that transformation, might be motivated, even to endure the horrific agonies of "transition," by so distant and eventual an object of fulfillment (as to prey upon women). I, personally, think that autogynephilia is a likelier, more immediate (and wittier) source of the transgender delusion--In men, the so-called MtF, "trans women," of course that is to say. In women and girls, on the other hand, the desire to be male, and the vain hope that, wishing very hard, together with testosterone injections and appalling elective surgeries, might achieve maleness, FtM, seems to have its dependent origination in an even creepier, rather more stupid (not to say mulish), underlying idée fixe; which I gather that Ms. Rowling does not know about, or at least doesn't concern herself with. Thank heaven for small favors.
An in my early-thirties Affaire duCoeur for me: How beautiful I was in the summer of '74 reading her Imperial Highness's Alexiad in English, vowing one day to read it in Greek. It was a good read.
I think, for this upcoming American presidential election, I'll vote for Vladimir Putin--again.
It's not that I like what he's done in Chechnya, or that I excuse his political homophobia (I suppose that, in an authoritarian state--even in an authoritarian state whose authority is warmly approved of by 86% of its citizens--you always need some arbitrary, bullshit reason for hauling people in and beating them up), but, given such a non-choice as we are yet once again given, yes, I'd choose Vladimir Putin--or Justin Trudeau. Or anybody. But I like Putin, and would vote for him for president because I think he'd destroy the C.I.A., and the F.B.I., and the D.E.A. Which surely, surely, need to be destroyed. ¿Think you not? How could Putin's (or Trudeau's) destroying, say, those three paramilitary terrorist agencies--with or without exemplary executions--do as much damage to America as the continued existence of any one of them would do? And, assuredly, will do.
Now that we no longer need them to carry us and our belongings around--and having long since, on this continent, ceased to eat them--and consciously disregarding what we know of the cesspit, that their ubiquitous excrement made of all material existence, in the world before 1920: Horses are, in and of themselves, neat.
The 'Apple-loosa Horse,' twice represented among these ten exemplars of remarkable horse coat-patterns, is, properly (not as mispronounced by mush-mouthed pseudo-folk historians), the Palouse Horse--i.e., a horse selectively bred, both for physical and mental characteristics, by Nez Perce Indians, in what was then their homeland, along the course of the Palouse River, among the rolling hills, in eastern Washington State, of grass-covered wind-blown loess, known as 'the Palouse' (from the French 'Pelouse' for 'lawn')--But 'Appaloosa' if you will.
"Kitchen Fires" in India are actual fires, in the Kitchen.
They are real, constant threats to the lives and persons of the sari-clad women who tend them, and boil quantities of oil over them; both to the innocent and inadvertently clumsy, and to those, perhaps less innocent, whose dowries have not been paid.
I burn hot. I tend to exhaust people in conversation, like Margaret Fuller did Carlyle. Which leaves me (but apparently not Margaret) always wishing I'd shut up sooner. I have quite a few friends and not many enemies, but I'm very proud of the few I do have. There is consensus among my friends about me, which is how I know to write about myself. What my enemies think of me I have no idea. That, of course, could be dangerous.
The list of interests and favorites is absurdly partial and half-assed, particularly as to music and books. It's the stupid format of the blog itself, as given, that, of course, I color outside the lines and burst the seams of.
