NOTHING BUT A HEARTACHE...
I sent a six page essay about CC BECK and Captain Marvel, to a place called the comics journal. This place is a website which daily links to about the same seven names and overtly and ham handedly deals with the scholarly aspect of comics books, thus robbing them of any inherent joy as must be done even by the fags of a Calvinistic empire.
At this self deluded and self righteous site, one can find the awful grafted pretense of seriousness of cartoon books, mixed in with say, a love of fifteen year old magna being read by forty year olds, heads up on Danielle Corsetto's next PBS like pledge drives, long considerations about the need to get content OUT THERE, Marvels list price on wall street, links to weekly anger at some cartoon wonderwoman in a thong on some comic book cover from women who I would have thought wouldn't be so adverse to the open showing of sexuality of women, but then, what do I know, revaluations of Maus that never explains to me why my Jewish neurologist thought it was heinous, and of course, scholarly dissertations about The Batman, which never even touch on his screamingly apparent homo erotic underpinnings. No, it is the Franciscan ethic style of list making like that I just did, which put this guy off a five thousand word article about Beck, and he made that clear.
Again, I have forgotten that my old computer ,which is now a doorstop, holds all those articles and novellas which were written by me on Works 6, and which now are burnt away like so many Roman books upon which they stood for balance. If I have anything left at all, it is a ragtag collection of some first draft things in Rich text, which I never re saved in a more edited form, but, I got the feeling that that wasn't all of his argument, and this guy let me know that it wasn't just a few typos which made him aghast.
But, I didnt create this style, pal, it comes to me from a long line of Italic sensibilities, so different than how and why white woman write, that it has seeped into me, and again, I doubt a few typos and some unfinished sentances were what was really at play here. From the Prince, to Aquinas,to what is left of Rome, to Christopher Marlow, Chaucer, to even Francis Bacon, Gore, and parts of Capote as he tired of the aboriginals sex in the aboriginal city, it is truly list making as writing, piling of ideas and clauses to a desired, intended end. Stolen from Livy and Levi, a spic named Marquez took it and contorted it into something called magic realism, not understanding that neither magic, nor realism have anything to do with it. The awful New york Times thus gave this poor mans Octavio Paz wondrous reviews and trashed the medieval minded Calvino from which he stole even more than he stole from Paz, of course until Gabby went and , like rag headed Toni, stopped being a delightful and thankful ethnic for them, which Italians never are.
After a bit, I felt bad that again, I am always at wits end here, with unfinished essays, burnt out computers, redoing the same acts a thousand times, a sisters laptop which can accept one port at use at time, meaning I can use the mouse, or the hp printer , but never both, as a gray box holds a million words in a works configuration which no one can or even could then read. But then, I thought, what, No proofer reader on staff at NEWSVIEW , Mister Hollenger...? No, a gay Jew San Fran Liberal, who actually has printed my pagan minded The END IS NEAR work, has warned me how to read into all this stuff, and when the man at TCJ, or just THE JOURNAL as he vainly called it, referred to me as "A BLOGGER", this man emailed me and told me he is pretending to be a lower case NY TIMES, if one can think that low. I say this wondering how all those seven names which he daily attaches and links to would think of that admonishment, I wonder how the Johannas and the Occasional Superheroines would think of that line of demarcation, so cute coming from someone of the gutters as it does. I thought of all those who write stories about such scholarly ideals as who's been arrested for murder in the comics con biz or how the new Thors are moving out of stores, would see that distinction he made.
The Livian list making, the serpentine sentences, the clauses upon dizzying clauses, the asides, they are all the tools of a Jesuit education, and I eagerly put them to use. As much as they are an anathema to hair flipper Maureen, they are the basis of italic thought, as writing in any other less encumbered, simpletonii, lawyerly way is the role of iconography, fascism, or the church. Ironically, still, the piece wasn't about Beck at all, though it was a review of Shazam archives two, as much as it was a sad and sweet Antonian eulogy for a art and a time, which the smiling man exemplified, and was a critique not of a comic book, but a theme of a lost America.
And, 'Ironically' to use his rather misused word, it was written in a style taught to me by men in black robes and collars, and thus was probably the truly closest thing to a scholars old examination of something astonishing than his magazine knew, though it had nothing to do with longer articles which they have seen fit to print, with more words which are constantly about a strange diminution of web cartoonists like Corsetto who try saliently to be heard, and of course, money markets and how to use the internet for fun and profit, and mostly are about and lionizing the old comics to which they hold the Sunday funnies reprints rights to re bundle and re sell.