Making a point!

What does a svelte and maybe sexy ballerinw on point have to do with a wimpy little boy whose parents occasionally threatened to put him in hospital for now weighing enough and was a total klutz whose father never successfully taought hism how to make fist, with ears the stuck out like Dumbo or Barak Obama from his short shorn little head? A sad analogy.

For years in elementary school I had violon lessons. I had no interest in it but I wa scoerced to do it. It was like being trained in ballet but never having any hope of reaching the Promised Land of going on point. Flat foot city. What would hav ebeen the point? I had a sort of fantasy about "vibratto", wehre the violinist makes a (what's the word for it?) vibrating sould not just a protracted monotony noise. I had no hope of ever doing this. I had no motivation to eep doing something tha twould never get me anywhere.

Looking back with 20-20 hindsight over half a century later it's obvious wha tI should have done: Told the adolts(spelling intended per usual) that I wanted to play vibratto. Maybe they would havetold me that I was jus a little boy and that was something I'd get to do when I was grown up like their flaccid couch potatoes. Or they may have has empathy and sympathy for this sad little creature iwas and showed me how to do it. Who knows? But I have been childrearended to be ashamed of myself and not ask for anything and have no value. Get the point? Ha! Ha! Bfradford had no need to be inspired because he was a bright little boy with a wimpy body: their doormat. Of course they smiled, because they were: grownups! (They had "paid their dues": and now they were callng their debt in on me.)

In college which I was no allowed to enjoy because I always had the Or else! threat of assignment and tests spoiling everything (along with the OCD fears my parenst had intheir igonrant incompetence beste me with).... But In freshman philosophy clss I probably read tha tFriedrich Nietzsche who probably ahd gone insane dur to his virtue being protected so he had visited a prostitute with syphilis thank you parents and teachers for protecting his virtue, had said:

"Overcome the spirit of gravity!"

How I would have liked that: to be free to soar in thoughts and feelings, not be oppressed by ass—ignments and tests and hopelessnedd that I would ner be (metaphorically, of ocurse) "on point". I got the point: If I was Superman I coauld have been free. "If wishes were horses then beggars would ride" (Jay Unger) What was the point? To avoid as much of them harming me more as possible. Yale summa cum laude by avoidance.

The sorrow ant the pity. had I not been subjected to The Occupation, I might have had a joyous life: I was "bright" enough, and despite my body bein very fragile it was remarkabloy healthy. It all went to waste du the them. Oh how selfish Bradford is! You bet. But had I had a heppier life I migh thave contributed more to their pathetic world which is the sedimentation of the contributions of gifted persons: Some gifted person ingvented the wheel. every adolt can push a cart instead of bearing all that weight on his (her, other's) back. They lost by maing me lose. But as somebody said: Never attribute to malice what can be explained by simple stupidity [ and, I (BMcC[18-11-46-503]) add: ignorance].

Getting even

I have never been able to give back to these people any of what they gave me. I should hever have had to put up with them in the first place.

When the prig faculty of St. Paul's Illiberal Day Carcel for pubsecent male virgins except-for-omerta-sanitary-services-for-jocks wanted to persecute me for writing: "FUCK" in the condensation on a window of that school transportantion vehicle back in 8th grade, I should been able to walk out of the Ass&mdash'istantd Haedmaster's claustrophobic little concrete block walled office stuffed full of their disgusting vengeful faces, slammed the door on them, and never have had to return to their benighted pedagogical day carcel. I could at least have started studying them even if I could not do anything about them (like I was able to do many years later with the faculty of Westchester Institute for training in psychoanalysis and paychotherapy, which I turned into data for my doctoral dissertation). I should also have told my clueless father to goddamned call a dermatologist to get the mole they had born me with off my chest (both literally and figuratively). I should have.... (but I was just a wimpy childrearended kid)

A minor miracle om Social Media! That big hunk of adult male flesh that had threatened me for showing intelletual initiative in 7th grade (1959) finally died in 2022 (aetatis suae: 91 years). He school's PR gave put a tribute on Facebook. I apparently happened upon it at just the right moment to post my truth about him fto get #1 placement on both Google and Bing, right under the: big picture of his smiling face, for all his adulators ("one of the last 'Old Lions'") to see first. If only he could have seen it himself, and, just maybe, learned something!

I do not like Social Media. But I'm not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, especially since I have "had to eat" being told: "if wishes were horses when beggars would ride." Hi, ho Silver! Away!