Andre Dubus

The pineal gland was vitally connected with the center of life.  Alexander Blade

Gassy, coffee made, the letter opened, untouched, part multi-tasking, the Josephs aide de camp could not find it when Babette's office was closing, and I wept about the matter to Brian Sims guy when I telephoned their office. "Stupid woman," scolding myself mentally. The Sims guy no doubt believes my judgment is impaired, and to the extent that key personnel have any memory of me aside from the chief operating officer herself, Liberty would tell you an effort was made to make it up the injury. I had no desire to run an art therapy group, however, and parted with Barbara the art therapy performance artist, no slight intended to the Bride. I never really understood the obsession of Scott Norman to get the Bride to give developmental artists a place on stage. Wasn't that big a deal. The Bride is small, stuck in a protean time warp; never saw a performance there which caused any emotional response, unlike The Wilma.

Liberty is only important to the extent that it is not a competently run organization. That incompetence nearly got me killed during my landlord's renovations, and the injury has affixed itself. A mammary tumor? Ligament issue? Arthritis? Occlusion? What is your favorite game of solitaire? Go to the doctor and have the mammogram? Well, if I could find a practice that would respect the fact that I do not have the impetus for aggressive treatment, then perhaps. I do not find the source of precious life all that precious in my case, eroded to the degree that conflict with Presby is the way of life. My career was supposed to define that. Only because I am a wheelchair user poor as grit in your teeth does the need for change become a pathology. Conceding that "sell my soul" was trite, not worth the thirty pieces of the Pharisee. Poverty is abundant with powerlessness.

Beneath all the carnage, I miss her friendship, the COO, truly liked the woman, more than many of those functionally ambulatory, and wasn't prepared for her to catch me off guard with her obliging clitoris. I will try to go to Rome, the Rome of Anton Corbijn, where beautiful women, seemingly by necessity, well endowed, have to be mutilated. An age old issue. I saw things AO Scott and others did not mention in their review of The American. The lack of perfection in Irina Björklund's buttocks in the opening shot within the chateau. Her ass looked like a porcelain bowl.

For all the looks and all the charm, Clooney has the sexual vulnerability of men who are more beautiful than masculine, as if he is lonely even when he has what he wants. I am lonely without any of that whatsoever. I think even Dubus was lonely some of the time; his wife left him after he lost his leg in the car accident, the wife who had to clean the black fecal matter off the furniture of an established inheritor of Hemingway. I will go to Rome, make love to the sampietrini, give myself back to the fictive God I bargained with, adolescent, pleading.