Peering into the past, the unnamable crime committed generationally. Prosaic redundancy outside of the realm of the quotidian refuted.as poetic didacticism.

Thus, the confutatis confusion of writer's verbal spewing spouting and pimping and pampered luxurious delving into the imaginatory vectors of the spiraling sinews of Life's ironies.

Reading the onus of my malification bonus, inherited AS A CURSE FROM a Step-child I was brought up by:

"The literary imagination is a choice, a left fork off the quotidian. If the splitting were only in the mind and not the world, deep imaginative reflection would be schizophrenic. But Kafka locates the commonplace in that deep realm of the imagination. In the work of Kafka and Beckett, the barrier between the imaginative and real worlds has dissolved. K. of The Castle strives in the imaginative world while acting out his desire in the quotidian. The same in essence is true for the Unnamable. We interpret and understand his struggle as though it took place in the mind of someone in our world desperate to keep the intimations of his uniqueness from being smothered. Wordsworth's Intimations Ode provides a useful analogy: "trailing clouds of glory do we come / From God"; "Shades of the prison-house begin to close"; "And custom lie upon thee . . . / Heavy as frost." In Beckett, life extinguishes any intimations of the sacred. The self-the soul-is extinguished, and would be for the Unnamable if he were not crafty-wise and indefatigable.

We pull for him, impelled by our recognition of different aspects of the hero, and the different planes on which his representation has a powerful significance. The Unnamable, as epic hero for our times, merges into the aspect of the condemned Jew, one of the vanquished, repelled by life yet clinging to it, as if his ghostly existence constituted an act of responsibility to those already murdered. …"--

Gary Adelman, It has taken me THIS MANY YEARS to be able to read his writing. A block a hurdle of the family jewels' nemesis saturation mentality of obscure unnamable because it's sensitive...subjects, unnamed yet written of in confutatis maledictis language.

My step-father never told me about this but taught me this dystopia through his Firewall trial, which he called Kafkaesq

I have problems with writing due to all the hacking/drugging/mind conttrol tech continuously aimed into my brain.

The page when I post and publish appears as a jumbled mess, due to hacking. The script is tiny, the links are posted as weird nearly opaque hues. I posted the link to my step-father's review and quotes twice because I could not open the first link and thought a mistake or hacking insert had blocked the link from appearing. It did not appear when I tried to open it after publishing so I posted thelink twice without delting the first link! Ha. Both links open after a slight, but lengthy waiting time.

Reviewing articles written during that time when the ages were opening a brief moment in space and time when creativity and political awareness were merged into an explosion of imagination and inventive potentiallities for love, tenderness, kindness and awareness creativity. The articles in the Daily Illini from 1973 remind me of a time when I could talk to people and feel a deep resonance with another intelligent human being, authentic. Now there only appear what seem to be abosolutely stupid and dumb blank droids programmed with zero personality and what personality I do discover is so abominable, due to the stalking mentality, that they are not worth having any sort of emotion over. 

All I can do is read the old news and remember when there was a sparkling depth to the quality of the light, streaming into my bedroom as I lay in a bliss with the joy of a happy, loving home atmosphere, creative writers, musicians and artists converging at my house at parties where I laughed and played and people were lovely and beautiful. My Step-father, Gary Adelman, and my mother, Bette Adelman, would take long walks hand-in-hand. Kissing in the kitchen with passion and fighting to end War for all time. When the hippies could go shopping as yuppies, the black fumes of the backlash turned into a scirocco backlash lashing black death dust destruction, akin to Kali seeking revenge for too much love, too much gaiety, too much happiness for my family. Retribution in the form of a conservative backlash has in this current day, revolved into what I keep referring to as a fascist Nazi take-over of the United States.

It's not the old records, the old R&B funkadelic, the old movies, the old clothing fashion that the remnants of this movement are retained, but in the writing such as the words of the two links barely readable in the blog post (hacked, made barely visible, as the fascist Nazi hackers would stain, delete and vanish all reminders of a time when independence of thought was welcomed if it entailed keeping white males out of fighting and dying instead of black lives and whatever else dont' matter to the bigot fascist white males and their nasty female and minority minions.

Did I just have to end this brief jaunt down memory lane with the usual current event hate parallel because the hacking continues while I attempt to type this?

What a shame, a damn shame.

I must write obscurely with or without a dark lense because of the hacking and other impediments, the block to my brain from the tech, and the inability to think with this tech blasting my brain into some kind of tiny hole where I can't move beyond a few paragraphs written in jumbled blank meaning but very laden with intent and meaning, packed full of meaning but unable to organize due to the mind control program tech and drugging and etc.

Peace and Love, that movement, will always remain with me. Regardless of how much hate these empty, meaningless idiots pour into my jome, body and life, I feel lucky glad exalted compared with these disgusting blank stupid apes who attack me nightly and daily.