Diving Bells

"You aren't welfare trash. You have your writing. You're intelligent." --Frank, whose unspeakable crime was attempting to make spastic_dowager his wife.

I cannot handle it when I visit Frank in his unit. He is not in a nursing home, but he lives within the community in name only. His studio looks like a hospital ward in precisely the relation that my studio looks like a train depot. He lies in a hospital bed surrounded by steel frames, pulleys, life alert buttons, and I did not enjoy anal sex on the end of his fist; he admired the lubricated intensity of my climax, however, and this, our creation of a third gender, one that I destroyed in horror, with the realization that the lead car was about to flatten me, has nothing on the failed queer intimacy between John Marcher and May Bartram. I have interacted with some of these scholars Tate refers to for years, and the best they can do is assert that homoerotic impetus subverts traditional Victorian bonds, and remain fixated there.

I think there is more to it than that, whatever the erosion of lesbianism's epistemological force, as if there is truly an erasure of the value of the breast as a container because same gender attraction to her own vessel was eradicated via the rise of Semitic monotheism. Literary scholars sometimes forget to stop making love and assuaging each other's ego. There is a third way into James that doesn't necessarily involve his orientation, whether he actively ejaculated into it, or not.

Simulation, and I think this is what has keep me fixated to the mastery of James, beyond my dead academic advisor giving me a lifelong quest, or my now very pained sexual security, which must, after all, have some bisexual proclivity, since I kept my distance from Alexandra but was impacted by the knowledge of her absence upon her decease, or my cling to Michael's memory itself. My own little plot for a divorced professor with two children, his younger daughter named for Emily, of course. I was there for his happiness when she was born, but this is simulation, just as Frank and I, had I married him,would have been an imitation of viability as husband and wife, and yet I am not finally surrendering, in the classical right wing trigger dynamic, to confess to self sanctified faggots that I am truly one of you, and that my depressive episode with Linda was a near lethal dose of gay panic and wallowing in maudlin strings, I loved her as an imprint of how I saw myself in her psychopathy, though I believed this for a number of years after our near deadly altercation with each other, my obsessively referenced supervisor. I believed that her conduct must have cracked me because I am a repressed switch hitter, but this is an error, at least in terms of self-realization, though I share many of her attributes: cold, analytical, lacking in empathy unless it is an extraordinary tragedy, like Newtown. She is a praying mantis in physique, which I would have preferred over my florid cellulose, but those are genetics.

Henry James penetrates the horror of simulated intimacy, even while Marcher acknowledges how this diminishes us in its very grasp, makes us perfect asses. I did not work at all Saturday, but I have the data I need to reconstruct my political representative contacts, as I need to get away from the dying doctor transvestite, before my anger at this figure overcomes my developmental condition in a miraculous display of strength; this is why I visited Frank, to spew the poison of Erik von Schmetterling out of my mouth.