...
I just can never square it that someone who would do such a wonderful, heroic, courageous, important, well-executed thing would then turn around and, like a silly brainless faggot aching for a boyfriend, sorry, blow it so horrifically, and then turn right back into the wonderful, heroic, courageous, important, well-executing man he was in the beginning. I did watch "Kiss of the Spider Woman" at least ten times and so this should be okay with me, but it isn't.
I guess maybe in his state of hormonal upheaval he might have simply decided he wanted to be known for his valor and so found himself a snake to whom he might confess. I mean, what he did would not have solved the desire for a sexual identity that worked for him or the pain of being him. I'm trying to work out a believable scenario for myself here. I do not have enough sympathy for gonadal imperatives, least of all in the male, having suffered their ravages enough in my own life. The only thing that drove me more than my gonadal imperatives was the drive for the truth of me, of life, of existence. I saw it separating me from my earthly desires, but I could not change it. And once I finally got that strong hit of kenshō, I knew precisely the waste and folly of reifying hormonal urges, could nearly drop dead of the feeling of repentance except for that being only more concretizing of more thin air.
From the time of realizing I was going where my lover would not follow to now has been some twenty-three-odd years, the first of which I stopped crying about as often as others start crying. I cried in my sleep. I cried at the drive-up window. I cried in the wilderness and in the city. And then, finally, after a year or so, it got worse. I could not cry anymore. Nothing would have been a bigger relief. During that time, the time beyond tears, only one thing made me cry, and that was a moron woman in Bolinas who was going to rent me a place to live changing her mind and renting to someone else without notifying me. I called her on the day I was moving in to tell her what time I'd be there. That's when she decided to mention that she'd rented it to someone else. I was homeless. In a moment.
Still, I digress, none of it got fixed until kenshō. The most wretched and agonized thing you can imagine worked her chromosomes off on Zen. So I have an idea the intensity of suffering that thin air creates. I still cannot take in the amount of destructive pressure it would take to root around for a scuzz like Adrian Lamo and give him the gun to shoot you with. Maybe that's just what Bradley did. Maybe it's as horrific as that. Maybe my suspicion that it was a setup, a trade for a free sex change, is just me falling to the press of the cynicism all around. That could be. There just is no accident-ness about how Manning was fingered.
Still, even if it's all fake, someone who did this shouldn't have gotten a punishment more than a swift court martial and a short sentence, at worst, and that it has instead been so draconian already just makes me suspect the more that it has all been a setup, that they're angling for an Assange crucifixion, and, of course, to paralyze us.
.
