Farrow's Generation

The angst I chew in Beckles is rising in prominence, and I know none of you know what to tell me, as only I know my growing physical weakness and remaining strength, but applying for this position would involve a great deal of work in and of itself, labor about which I cannot be too specific, but I would have to jump over many hurdles just to submit a competitive CV. If I do all that would I be strong enough? The question makes me want to split my skull for coconut juice, because the position truly interests me, and the very thought of fighting for it has inspired me with hope that I have not felt in a long time, but there are many issues involved, including my reading voice, which has suffered. Ebert has sustained catastrophic illness. So has gnostic man, who, if he ever mentioned my writing at all, would probably say I represent a safety net failure of unspeakable sadness, but their cases are different. These men are established, and I am a real jock cripple who has tasted what success could mean, but tragically never cemented my opportunity. If I go for broke, I will really have to break some eggs, and if I then get to an interview, I will need to be on, and I have never snorted coke.

Fuck, fuck, and to make a triple play, fuck.

Okay. I managed to get up to view this post RB Farrow vehicle, and let me make a quick observation before I return to burrow in later: A dirty little secret in the disabled community is that most of us want able-bodied lovers like Norman Eshley, which is why I did not let go of getting burned by Tassoni for a great length of time, or burning myself, not playing my cards properly. When I found his picture online, I had an Indian girl then, also an abuse victim, circa 2002. I squealed and blushed and did not see him as he was, a bald half assed jock academic who saved himself from being a punk through publishing on the finesse of his pedagogical concerns, no, I saw the only Italian American of my youth with whom I wanted to repopulate the Roman Empire, and my then Indian helper inflected her voice, "You really had a thing for this guy, huh?"

Yep, even if he suggested a label and then trotted off, not minding Faulkner's adage about the past not being the past.

In my brief scan of his abstract, my scurrilous lack of softened nostalgia burrows deeper, beyond the failings of my tie to him as an unrequited longing: I should have never believed that publishing papers such as his would have amounted to success. He himself was something of a jarring minimalist, as a writer, and I see traces of it in his jargon on interacting with his students as an instructor, much as my first person account of those years is just as poorly abstracted, though I do not toss the narrative because I still want certain parts of it, as a kind of personal mythos.

I want to write one or two academic articles on both Henry James and Italian Modernism, and then I am done; not sure I'd have much left after that, but since I am not an active or independent scholar, I am not sure I could meet the expectations of peer review, disadvantaged as I am.