The Beckles Projection

I had a busy, if virtual day, angling to see if I can return to the real world against young turks, such as this gent, if I indeed have enough left in my cognitive matrix to do so, since I am barely a goose with enough down left to hold myself up to a swan, and I was never a turk. In the convenience store, a young nerd said "here you go mamma," and of course I allowed it to glide, but it rankled. My mother was a mamma, a loose one, a lush, without the humor we tend to associate with the Wife of Bath, she opened her legs to the wrong people. So did I, come to think of it, without the magnitude of such reverberating damage to anyone other than myself, still with the mettle of the feckless, social media is not all that it is hyped to be, because I still like the weight of critical analysis as compared to typing "ooo how lovely!" to Ms. Farrow about her pictures. When it comes to Woody's behavior yes I have picked the side I am on, but as a matter of social equality, I have to get fusty with the forces of feminine domestication, and believe, especially in the West, that women have to "embrace their inner bitch" to quote Laurie in script, to operate in the alpha male world, and that we'd be better off engaging without overt lesbianism in the process. Do I expect secular academia to really take me back in the fold with that plank, nearly collapsed as it is? Am I for real? Not in terms of fire and brimstone epithets, no, but as an intellectual warning, yes.

My pleasures are few. One of them once was dragging my body into class with a spastic infantilism, my crutches splayed in the hallway, my breathing labored, gratefully pushing my buttocks back onto the sling seat of a metallic wheelchair frame long rusted into recycle, or landfill. Video rarely takes me out of my consciousness, sex never, good or bad, and I am probably past any point of abandon, and yes, I know abandon is ellusive for the healthy. Levels of practice and expertise are involved. It was like that when I took Paratransit to the Riverfront to see A.I. Bladder filled itself like a weakened rubber, most likely I wet myself in the studio when I returned, not a good day for wonder, or even to feel secure. After the Colorado shooting, reporters kept blaring that theatres were supposed to be a safe place for families, and those of you with relevant pair bondings, of which I am sometimes envious. I never felt that way, not safe, except when Kmac told my mother, the bungle of us screaming at Jaws popping out of the ocean, that "damn shark should run for president." She was wry in the closet. We're catching up with our fictions of science, the erosions of those boundaries, the autonomic, clinical coolness of a Spock, a Data, a Goren, a Sherlock Holmes. I always thought the organic androids from Alien were the most plausible. Should I have my DNA preserved, and come back without damaged brain tissue? Is that possible?