I'm sure there was no confusion in anyone's mind about the reason for your re-posting, Buck. I think we've all been issued with a personal copy of the Style-Sheet For Guys Who May Be Sad And Disturbing Manic Obsessives But Have Obviously Read A Book Or Two, and Item Number One on the handy checklist, in that indispensable little volume, of Things That You Should Never Allow To Slip Into Your Internet Postings If You Don't Want To Look Bad is, as we all know, "Spelling Mistakes (Particularly In Words of More Than Two Syllables)". I've done you the favor (or, as those of us lucky enough to have been born within loitering distance of Olivia spell it, the "favour") of checking your posting against the whole list of possible gaffes, faux pas and breaches of good taste (such as Item Three: "Does your posting inadvertently contain any exhortations to bloody murder and/or dismemberment of women in general or of specific individuals of said sex?" and Item 6: "Does your posting involve the divulgation, however justifiable in terms of the Mosaic law of "an eye for an eye", of the real given and family names of individual(s) clearly intent on maintaining, by recourse to ever more abstruse and affectionate "pet names", a precarious but nonetheless (estimatedly) 60% effective incognito?") and am glad to be able to give it a clean bill of health in all these respects.
Or if I HAVE overlooked something there, I suppose the fault is mine in any case, for having seized on her tiny momentary relapse into vanity and into flirtation with perverse exhibitionism to drag her back into this whole thing on a much larger scale than she (being the pusillanimous suburban housewife-to-be that she is) presently wishes or is likely, I would guess, ever to wish again.
And finally and most decisively, I suppose, I'm pursuing the wrong obsession in the entirely wrong place here, for all the occasional perfunctory reference, in these ravings, to "Olivia". Admittedly, there's a precedent, of sorts, for this rude and impertinent deflection and substitution of interest, and one that's not without a certain dumb weight of history behind it. In light of your occasional remarks about her shortcomings and limitations, I imagine you'll find this comparison a little lacking in a sense of proportion, but for my part her role and activity here, before her Transfiguration and Ascension into North Californian Housewife Heaven, always reminded me strongly of the Passion of the Christ (in a rather more cerebral, abstract and metaphysical version than Mel Gibson's popular snuff movie). I mean, just the idea of such an unmistakably and inalterably fallible and fleshly being being forced to become the vessel of an identity and a function which - if it originated indeed (somewhere far far back in that Internet history in which four years is equivalent to a Buddhist kalpa) in another equally fallible and fleshly being - has long since expanded and ramified into the realm and the order of the theological. My obsessive interest in her - expressed here, where the declared common interest and shared obsession is rather with Cracky - is perhaps, after all, no more rude and impertinent (vis-à-vis the "community", I mean; let's not get into the topic of how rude and impertinent it may be vis-à-vis her, or any other individual) than the obsessive interest directed, for millenia now, by a whole section of the community of the worshippers of the One God, rather to said God's vessel and proxy, the Christ. With apologies both to those who wince at seeing the drama of your and my redemption diluted and polluted by analogy with Cracky, let alone with Ravager Reynolds and to those - most probably a larger constituency, here without doubt, but most likely just about everywhere these days - who wince at seeing the drama of Cracky and her avatars diluted and polluted by the tired and complicated fairy-tales of the Church, I'm afraid that that was what I personally always felt/hallucinated to be going on here, and on Stickam, and in the lands at the bottoms of the various other virtual rabbit-holes I followed her down, chubby blond innocent that I am: "Oh my Jeffu, if it be possible, let this make-up and hat pass from me; nevertheless, not as I will, but as Thou wilt..."
But now it appears that she DID, after all, find, and take advantage of, a back door to Gethsemane and is living happily ever after, à la Kazantzakis, in the equivalent of the Bethlehem region, adjusted to local time, with the equivalent of Mary Magdalen, adjusted to local gender. And, although I've never personally read that far, I believe that Item Twenty-Seven or Twenty-Eight on the checklist reads something like: "Nuts as you evidently and undeniably are, make an effort now and then, within the limits of your seriously-compromised capabilities, to exercise a little restraint and mercy and not pursue TOO voraciously those who, for all their own personal failings and vacillations, must still on balance be considered to have said 'enough now' and taken their ball and bat and gone home."
So here endeth the sermon.
