Soirées à Marcel

"There are people who should die." Rose might be discussing the price of milk. "Americans have a hard time with that, because they think everyone who is bad got broken somehow and someone else is at fault."
                   --Timothy Hailinan, A Nail Through the Heart, kindle edition, location 672
A cripple without a phone usually winds up dead sooner than later; poor kimmy ruined my holiday, and I watched my elegant, once elegant hands throb with anxiety over a simple repair that took me five very long fucking days to fix. I clung to Proust, and here I diverge from Jerry. He had lunch with me one day and went into paroxysms over the deployment by Joyce of the word *grasshopper*. Maybe this clinging from me, the starved invalid, prevented me from ever attempting suicide, hanging onto my master's word, even if we are all invariably diminished with age. If any effeminate dandy could reconcile me to the illicit clit licker, it would be Proust, almost. He rivals James in my interior canonical battles, and, as I've told you, I do not let myself off with why I have changed on the issue of gay equality. I accept the science of it, but science and the stark brutal ugliness of the human condition are not the same thing. I have seen too much, felt too much, and some of my former friends thought I was going to kill myself after my infamous altercation with Linda, and I both defy and disappoint expectations, snickering, wondering why I am not in bed, having been up since six to grab the lesser custodial employee so he could restore my dial tone. I am darker than I reveal myself here, but impotently dark, so it does not matter, highly functional up to a point, but ping a lug nut out of place, and I am at the mercy of our unforgiving fidelity to the process. I know you cannot actually see my seething quadriplegia, and it amuses me that I am so otherwise intimidating to ablests, but my mother's ghost assures me that my rage is intimidating. If anything is my religion, it is linguistic intricacy, so maybe David Mitchell gave me the anchor to hold on, I am not sure. Cloud Atlas in theory could shut a very minor figure like me down. Such genius stuns, and the real reason my association with Daniel Schneider was doomed on less than a 30 second timer, this was his cavalier attitude toward In Search of Lost Time. Proust changed the world, and Danny-O scurries round the typeface like a dung beetle, tracking excrement on the page. Have a good morning dears.