Me and my bloody ideas; there is a certain recalcitrance toward the article which has nothing to do with the editor, nor the publication. I wanted to do a good job and tossed 500 words out like a two penny hack. I did not expect the editor to accept the draft as it was, I just wanted to find my direction, where I was going, and at the moment I have lost my way, quite frankly, and need examples if not more sources. There is a resident here in the building who would be perfect to utilize, but my problem with this is two fold: she flipped on me roughly a year ago for observing her need for a hearing aid, and I do not want to use the other tenants for my work. I may want to vacate this building more than life itself, but do not need the grief of troubling my neighbors. No State of Play with Russell Crowe investigating conspiracy fabrications in the remainder of my life experience. On the basis of a first viewing, this was a very convoluted movie which possibly deflates the liberal paranoia over the power of corporate conspiracy.
Even when I was healthier, and had my job, my social events were a party at Rick's home, the executive director at Matrix, and some six years later, that kitsch picnic Liberty held at their old location, where AccessLife hired me and Linda yanked my chain. Forget about happy. Pleasurable events? The joy of good company? Do I have any reserves left for the joy of any future experience?
And people just want to put labels on me and tell me to get fixed.
I go through some really bad hours when I just want to give my notice, without any plans, and it takes every ounce of will I have not to dash my sliver of security against the rocks, not that it is any one thing, since I have told my stories, at least in part, including the fact that I only moved into this building because I was a crime victim. Browsing through my kindle classics, I recently settled on The Castle of Otranto as a text I'd move faster with than 1m a month, and I am surprised to find it hilarious. Don't know enough about Horace Walpole to know if he intended to usher in the Gothic genre as a medieval seven year itch, but the melodrama has such a fantastical conflagration that it comes off with satiric undercurrents. In error about my pace, it sits fallow as we enter into mid July. Mood counts with this genre .
I am a bit run down tonight; I'll be back tomorrow, attempting to hunker down and get all these delayed tasks finished; haven't been sleeping well. I know it could be worse, I understand that, and that even retail landlords are as half assed as those with HUD contracts, and that in a way, I temporarily got what I wanted: Attendant care is off my back, even if Tim wants more work out of me because he needs my money-- hence my acerbic yowl at skinning my knees on my first prospective sale in such a length of time, but I will get this article through the needle and learned my lesson about holding back when I have to. This doesn't alter the fact that I need a change, and a fresh environment for my old age.
If I could land a room mate or two near my own age, rent a house with them so I could work in peace! But I simply don't have people in my life anymore, not of that kind; it is similar in model to Steve Tara's arrangement in Australia. Who is this? A blind man in Australia who friended and then unfriended me on .LiveJournal. He can be found on twitter, and we'll discuss this more at a later date. He is better adjusted than spastic, and I did want to keep the link, but he did not like how I shared a sentiment about my nature.
I wonder if I have enough clout to approach McCarthy in relation to work, in yet another speculative feather. I am too old to reinvest and create a new career with the industry, but can develop amnesia over incidents like Daniel Schneider. Even online, people of similar look and build behave like compatible molecules, don't they? Since not all of my older posts will be transferring to Blogger, I should explain that Daniel accessed one of my comments on Ebert's blog, found me on LiveJournal, invited me to his Cosmoetica gmail community, sparks flew, I left, and blew a gasket due to being naive and vacuous in my own right, subsequently damaging this long term project, and yes, the paranoid intensity of my reaction was not healthy, and you may be satisfied with your holistic balance in comparison. I am not really angry with the well meaning fool, so much as [was, sic] really upset that I let myself be flummoxed; it is over, and in the same mold can leave my Roger Ebert anxiety at the door, strike out on my own. I still respect the old man, but think his mild detractors, those whom I've read, have a point in the way he caters to popular sentiment, perhaps confusing respect with common denominators.
I doubt I can earn a living on regret, but as an episode, the situation points to the limitations of connecting via device. I did not know who, or what, Daniel Schneider was, and he in turn was entirely ignorant of my economic and social marginalization, and the length of time I have spent in online communities of all different stripes. Before he ended his interaction with me, he wrote, "I have done thousands of interviews in this industry, and David Foster Wallace is a fraud." I honestly don't know what I am supposed to take from this assertion, and a Cosmoetica gmail community with eclectic discussions about movies and Daniel's pontifications about politics, his wife's personal literary reviews, may be charming to some, but I am a spastic quadriplegic whose last and best hope is to restore her work ethic. Email groups clog our inboxes, along with tons of spam, and whatever support he and Mrs thought they were offering, let me pose a question, do they have the ability to hire a wheelchair user at their bakery?
I handled this contact badly, and there is no way around that, my own level of impatience and insolence, but even his rape-victim nurse who chased me down to my LiveJournal inbox, believing that her emotional pain would give me pause, this woman had employment, and has much better access to resources through her hospital to get treatments, access and medical expertise I do not have, and need to restore in my actual, physical existence, a social structure. Daniel calls David Foster Wallace a *fraud* to level an accusation, but lacks the expertise to see why Wallace succeeded, deploying fraudulence as a literary conceit.
*
When felines want to wake up their crippled mothers, they push the call switch, summon security, and freak out when a minority unlocks my door. Of course I was naked and finally sound asleep, and had to get up, shout that I was indecent. I cannot quite cross the Rubicon, and lose my lions to make a venue change easier. Not that I do not love my boys, and indeed, during that *assessment team* intimidation tactic that Trudy Richardson, the manager, threw at me in 08, I offered to get rid of my pets, and this was Debra Horne, a woman who passes for a social services professional:
"We do not want you to get rid of the cats," yet she was standing there with two black men and a swaying older woman of lighter color, trying to gauge my removal, never mind that their subcontractors broke my desktop, that I could not get the CRT equipment I needed, and that I am still paying for. Debra is pretty high up on entitled but ignorant people I hate list. I know why they want me to keep the children, however. My responsibility for them is a distraction, but I am not working, and at this rate, I may never get back on my feet. Thus my children add to my financial burdens, and without them I'd be freer to leave, at least lighten my options.
I love da Joey, and little Vinnie. Of course I am a sap, but. It is a balancing act of bad choices, and depositing them at the SPCA would probably end their lives, and is no guarantee I can find better living arrangements.
I have to make some revisions to my complaint letter to previously mentioned officials, but I should be packed up by Friday. Rocking the boat is so very difficult, but I have to. What I went through could wind up killing someone else like me. I am old and tired, but have to shout, and this is complete. Here is hoping for Tuesday.
I evidently appreciate Thomas McCarthy vision of progressive pushback despite the fact that trying to live it in my own life has turned my innards overripe. Films being what they are, however, it seems only the Farrelly brothers take risks with the grotesque, with spina bifida contained by leg brace and diaper and crutch, and McCarthy is cautious, not risking this over much in his desired, some might say extracted, performances. Jenkins' Walter Vale has the slight and not unkindly whiff of a pruned Puritan about him, especially in his jagged rebuff of his student, his interaction with the piano instructor who mildly offends his sensibility, Hiam Abbass is muted in ethnicity, not Syrian, slightly too Anglicized so as to evoke empathy and lower defenses. Haaz Sleiman is like the jazz player, infusing the somewhat shriveled European cultural polish. Danai Gurira clips it like a Nile Queen. I've seen the type before, in students, bad attendant pair bondings, but my point being that McCarthy very carefully polishes his collection, edgy, but with all the parts clicking in the right places, rather than the inner city disrupting, or threatening, the pattern of the wearied American academic.
This is still a great film, and it is the real reason I persist with disability themes online, despite what you may believe to the contrary, to deconstruct such precious jewels, probably the only thing that keeps me human, at the end of the day.
What McCarthy manages to expose is the cost of the systems we impose upon ourselves, their crushing weight, sacrificing the gifts of cultural infusion. The gifts of the west are not dead when seen through fresh eyes. Mouna's ability to get emotionally involved with the Phantom of the Opera encapsulates and reflects on her situation, with her son in a dungeon she cannot penetrate, and Mrs. Vale's music offers this mother solace in much the same way that Walter finds an outlet in learning the djembeNo one is accountable here, certainly not the guards at the center where Tarek is detained and removed, individuals against whom a strike would be futile, which Walter finally accepts in resignation. This does not mean that immigration is not an intractable problem due to the imbalance of affluence, nor would McCarthy's compassionate leniency solve for it any better than Arizona hardliners, just to cull an example, but the US certainly lacks a sane and coherent policy, something that transcends administrations.
That such divergent visionaries as Tolstoy and a post modern independent director could illuminate the same problem, how our systems subsume autonomy, points to the fact that we'll probably need to shave a few billion of ourselves off before we scare ourselves straight, and start to really pay attention.
As hostile as I am to homosexual culture I have observed and experienced, the 1980 Dressed to Kill is nothing more than cheap slasher theatrics for aging leads losing top billing status. The script conveniently confuses, or deliberately combines, disassociative personality disorder with gender identification, and none of the actors do the mental health community any favors. Michael Caine does Cockney tongue in cheek very well in a variety of contexts, but he does not do transvestite, and isn't particularly credible as a man tortured between masculine and lethal feminine sides.
Bad art is worse than sexual identity politics that eclipses the finer aesthetic qualities of culture and civilization, and De Palma really soiled his stronger qualities with a rotten egg.
And yes, I am procrastinating because of the late Nor'easter making everyone and my cat feel ill. We needed the rain in the PA east, and the snow melt near the west, as we are technically in drought condition, but nothing will induce me to venture out, not even the fact that the kids are throwing a tantrum over the fish and shrimp. I ordered their trout, other tastes I know they enjoy more.
There are politics in every situation, I realize that, despite my psychological injuries, and I am not quite positive I am still working for the publication I just failed. Nasty nasty little voice in my head, but the editor has no real reason to keep me, so I am pretending, and will give myself the week, though it seems to be melding into a loss. When I look at LiveJournal's most popular entries category, I am frustrated. I could not even pick a good nascent service provider, and for the moment I am stuck because of my limited and fearful understanding of computer science. I know when it serves me not to post too much detail, but I too am trying to read the tea leaves with my temporary editor, and I am here, and not there because a mind that is a half century old works a little differently. I cannot work as fast as I used to, and a post, however indulged, is at least a jump start. I am a night owl, also something of a disadvantage to a freelancer, depending on the topic, and I may have to go buy cigarettes for the sake of the work itself. My stash of fakes, if it gets here intact, will not be in until Thursday, Friday, at the latest, because I am always running behind. I open my draft, and it is not really so bad.
*
Linda Dezenski's real crime against me centers on her willingness to sacrifice me to employees less able, like Jimmi. As a manager, Linda made many enemies before me, and I have received my education on that score, but I defended her, very loyal for seven or eight years, and what I get in return is to be chewed up and spit out like a ball of pulp fiber. I thought she recognized my value, and respected it, and this is the touchstone where my pain resides. I recognized what I thought was her quality as a leader, and I did push her to take more chances, be more visible by accepting the position with the national council, just as Liberty pushed her later, shaping her as a local spokeswoman who could actually handle the pressure of appearing on a program like Radio Times.
The full sequence of what she did to me is what causes those hard to swallow postal episodes that surface as an event in this country, so much shattered glass, like the blood fest in Macbeth; bloodshed and power vacuums lead to psychosis, resolved in Shakespeare's methodology by a just application of ruthlessness, in oposition to the inbalance of clinging, at all costs, to an authority you do not have the faintest idea how to use.
I had a bit of breakfast, and I am pausing now for more caffeine, almost ready to go, debating a more careful shift to the shower, it is very blustery, very cold, and maybe the uneven weather is why fluffball caught a stomach ailment. Vinnie swat his brother, as if to say, "You should not upset mommy!"
All is well now among our most anthropomorphized carnivore companions. Cats beat dogs in this category, and if you think about it, the evidence is obvious. Batman never had a nemesis dubbed Rovergirl.
*
I am pondering the issue, however, of how cheap it is for me to malign bad editors and scholastically limited writers like Josie, or Jimmi-- but Shrode is a lightweight, so let's focus on the dyke, and her more valid advocacy position. Contention: Her betrayal of me rather undermines what she stands for, and I resent it despite the effort both she and partner Ginny took to meet me at the Asian restaurant I could not afford, and was too mundane, too close, to my building. This is what I cannot explain to cyber contacts like Manny, that I have so few opportunities for fresh pursuit.
It was the same that day with two lesbians, a cripple, and a whippet thin and painted foster adolescent from Bangladesh. It makes me sick to my stomach, literally, to dwell on what I am willing to subject myself to, in a series of ever diminishing returns. Even a superb cinematic narrative like The Visitor cannot sway me that our contemporary multi-cultural deluge is the brighter future we should embrace. Josie has forever lost my respect, but if she wanted to keep it, and the price it took her to "come out as a Christian gimp" she should not have lashed out at Cecil. If I had behaved like that with Ginny, it would have never been forgiven.
The Visitor (2008) with Richard Jenkins, is a remarkable rebuttal to the Bush era climate of our last decade, but it is also a masterpiece with a variety of exculpatory layers.
Oliver Marinelli is gone seven years now, and when Joey and Vinnie were born, I told my aunt I did not want them, but here I am, six years in a parent, torn between my bond, the stress of Joey's health cycles, and the need to conserve my own strength, a problem that has been ongoing many weeks into the future, and will reach a crisis sooner rather than later.
I need to sit down and literally create a new writing schedule. My head alone cannot jiggle the demands of the digital age, and this may take some time.
I do very poorly when it comes to handling animal illness, and Joey has a spring influenza that leads him to behave just like his mother, a prima donna in a melodramatic death yowl. I can't handle it, and would accept veterinarian doping in these instances. I woke my father up at eleven last night, called the emergency hospital, orating helplessness, contacted Tim too early today, look like I've been thrown off a train, mopping up cat puke, trying to stop Vinnie from scolding his brother into a third world war, and everyone is quiet now, peeing and eating as far as I can tell. I feel like giving my notice and letting this company put me in a home so I can just stop trying altogether, born out of monotony, born out of lack of pleasure, or the hard hymn breaking fuck of Jeremy Irons in The French Lieutenant's Woman. I wonder if Irons always has his thumb on his power switch, so evident in his best work, the dynamic and perfectly cultured man that silences broken bodies and sexual orientation issues. Not over endowed with beef steak, but just hard enough, and just tame enough, that he is an alpha prize. For whatever reason, my clitoris is having an extended hot flash, whining uselessly for A-list sex, but if Josie Byzek has an aura of rancid mayonnaise about her auto-immune ailing body, I myself am like a drowned dudong. All Pacific based hunters do to kill this animal is hold its head beneath the waves, so that it cannot breathe.
I'd kill the hunter, without adjudicating whether it is unfair to condemn the human animal for its opportunistic methods of predation.
The possible contact I was going to investigate knocked on my door yesterday, bearing prunes, which I declined. She is a wash as pertains my piece, but Asian, and I am more kindly disposed toward her, despite my history with the residents here, most of them dead. Much like my own, her hair has that frazzled greying look, and an investigation of e-cig prices made me decide I am better off with aeros. Maybe I'll tune into baseball. Litters to clean. If you wonder if it is really that bad, no, it would not be, if I could salvage some self-respect, if Jeremy Irons thought I was worth seducing.
I have been criticized for discussing film arts and then engaging in character assassination and or launching attacks on disability culture in the same breath, the argument being that people do not read posts sequentially even though I may be telling my personal history in a linear fashion, tying it in when I can, to those thematic arcs that interest me.
The criticism is fair enough, but
1. I am not an established author or journalist, and 1a, LiveJournal (though Blogger is a slightly better network) does not offer me, and nor do I have, the resources to make this account competitive with other niche oriented writers, and if some of my posts confuse those on twitter or any other social network, those of you who speak English can ask me what I mean, or tell me that I am unclear. Linda and Erik and Josie and Jimmi and others had a major impact on the fact that my career ambitions went up in flames, and as I have iterated, I did not go to the EEOC when I was legally advised to do so, but I can deploy testimonial, in the same fashion that Josie Byzek sees it as a penultimate empowerment tool, even if I engage in repetition, I try to do it in such a way as to draw the larger picture.
I understand that these personal testaments may not always interest you, for any number of reasons, but it will be a legacy I leave behind me, assuming I can preserve my digital content, and revise and revise past my own emotional scars. Ted Koppel once said that death is the universal experience we all face but none of know until the event of dying itself; I am roughly paraphrasing that, but the cerebral anchor who carried ABC's social conscience for so long was right. All of us also have legacy, no matter who we are, happy and wholistic or not, even if, in conjunction with that, our voices drown each other out.
I am aiming at that minority, and those ablests who may "get it," who can possibly see that I have a point, and that the paradigm, however mandated, can strive toward improving itself.
At the end of the day, I do not see how I might still emerge victorious; it is more than likely I will simply fade away, unfulfilled, even if I have a late life major medical event, after fifty years of plenty medical events, or just continue to decline, but I will probably always see my life as a battle to be waged, in one form or another. I am sure some find that an unfortunate perspective, and could say I could make an effort to be more content, and that I could accept that I will probably die under a company like Presby.
I'll never be grateful for it.
I wanted to lay down at eight o'clock actually, and one thing led to another, and I am here only because I an finishing my coffee before bed. I do not really like to post about my work here, and both wish and hope to stay on good terms with this editor, but there is such a thing as being too hasty, and I should have sat on my draft until Wednesday. She did give me until then, and I would have made my own further revisions, and have possibly gotten closer to the goal post. Fried myself out instead, and now I live to regret it-- but we'll see what happens. I am rethinking my structure and planning my next assaults, and hope to send her in better next week. My body is a half-century old, I am not as young as I was, and chalk it up to time management, and some error in not attempting certain contacts. (This saga is, of course, ongoing in many subsequent posts...)
I only watch Awake because Jason Isaacs sexually attracts me, in a rugged way that I begin to miss in American males, but television, and a majority of films, rarely handle science fiction very well. I don't know if Howard Gordon writes every episode, but he does seem to suggest that Britten's delusions have some real world context to them: the beat cops nearly arresting him due to the skinny dipping in the last episode, or Laura Innes interview with the incest victim, or her discussion about Britten with the FBI SA.
The finale is bound to disappoint me; the conspirators either stuck something in this guy's head during his rescue at the scene of the accident, have him in a virtual reality vat, or drugging him in some deco-cool manner, if Laura Innes' comment to the crew cut guy about "taking out his whole family" means the wife and son both perished.
I need a new series to attach myself to, and do not have one, and, in the nature of contradiction, I am not on FB, but am on Google +, unphased and virtually unused, except for a Jamesian who forgave me for being socially inappropriate; he is a blessed and decent soul, and yes, this is spiritual rhetoric, but a spinster can be forgiven Vaseline surges.
I took the day off, feeling my failure more than you can see it; I did drop everything but a few paragraphs in here to try to put what I was doing together as a good proactive health piece, though I did not harass medical providers by phone because I know how they are in urban environments, and trying to find a lay professional to do a phone interview in the time I had would have required more clout than I own, and that isn't just about my ringing ears and misquoting. I did contact lay providers, but even that was a difficult penetration.
It is not that I'm giving up, but that I could not deliver what the editor needed in time, and I used to be able to do it, and it could even make me more corrosive still, I suppose, what this company as landlord and city and Liberty Resources have taken out of me, and in this taking off a day, I stayed with the traditional broadcast of the poverty stricken, and watched some Cold Case episodes, and reflected on the Zeljko Ivanek guest star, "One Night" where he plays a teacher with MS who kills twice.
In rare cases, MS does progress rapidly and kills, but I do not believe this occurs with a nearly life long remission. More importantly, people with lifelong illness do not kill because of the condition itself. If they go crazy it is because they are trapped, or had a brutal life.
I have ranted about Josie Byzek on this account, a woman who is deteriorating from the same condition as Ivanek's plagued antagonist, and shall let you in on the fact that I never had any emotional investment in New Mobility's managing editor. I actually found any proximity to her unpleasant, and think she is basically a one track mind Christian who, like Andrew Sullivan, needs to twist doctrine to rationalize her deity with homosexuality, and thinks personal testimonial is the apex of disability culture.
I don't. It isn't valueless, but at the end of the day it possibly cheapens the fact that perhaps some of us still want to matriculate in real world terms. I am just angry about what she did to me online. Linda, at least when her last name was Richman, was another matter. I was invested, personally loyal, and did not enjoy being treated like a plaything; things like these make able-bodied people dangerous, of course, when work becomes the main value of self identification, but they can break the disabled more.
The rationale for Zeljko's character, however, is a crock. No one goes out and kills high school aged males due to being diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. Cold Case, even though the series never quite sold me, seems to imply that the scales of justice cannot always rectify, and in a situation where you have a terminal murderer, as in the "One Night" of 2006, maybe it can't. Zeljko's teacher was a shade too humane to make this particular story line work. It doesn't make any sense.
Dick Clark may have been Philadelphia born and bred, but I offer his passing none of the praise I much earlier bestowed on M. Night Shyamalan. Clak's fame was of the most brittle and vacuous kind, and his personality of the sort we are better off without, whatever he did for the early pangs of rock n'roll; he was a has been much longer than he was the go to vector for the recording industry, his staying power of the sort that allows recognition to be an innocuous mediocrity, which is why fame in itself has such interesting gradations to it.
I fumbled the ball on my article and I am upset even though I shouldn't be and accept the learning experience; it happens even for established media players that sources cannot be had by deadline, and ideas not what they seem.
I took the time to eat, and refreshed myself on the episode "Under My Skin," which is one of Anne Dudek's last recurring appearances on House as Cutthroat bitch, primarily because I pitied the ballerina, and needed to recall the mystery surrounding her skin sloughing off. Finished my oyster cheese omelet on cue for a change, no spills, minimum mess. This episode fooled me the first time. I thought Cuddy really was assisting House detox, and thought that the maverick actually did beat the rap, when it was the set up for Andre Braugher's entry, all the same, but even Braugher wasn't victorious, and House went from mental breakdown to prison; whatever the last episode will be, the moral of the series is that genius has a price tag, and that people don't change. I see now what the writers were doing. House was hallucinating his anti-social tendencies through Amber, and his conflicted attraction to decency through Cuddy.
I also took the time to mount my kindle drive successfully, I believe, no crash, and now I can work my article, one that is proving more difficult than I would have supposed, at first, and because I need the money, I'd prefer not to fail, but guess if I do, it is not the end of the world. You could no doubt jump into your shower, cleanse and reset, but my body will not hear of it, not tonight, not for fish oil, nor for Aleve, and I have no homeopathic remedy available for stress induced panic, surfing excepted, and I have to be online anyway, to start piecing what I have together, to see if I can emerge with the source that will coast me in over the next forty-eight hours. It has been rather educational, learning either that deaf support specialists are as insular as the Amish, or simply won't respond to a query. I am not sure just yet how far I am willing to browbeat local resources, whether making an actual roll in would shake me out an audiologist who has some seasoning.
In my sibling ruptures and on-going argument, and I'd say Stephanie and I are still fighting through non-communication, my brother told me he hopes I find closure, but I happen not to believe in it. The things that wound us may diminish over time, and yes, they have in my case as well, or I probably wouldn't be sitting here, but whereas a pedestrain double XX Slate journalist can write about losing her mother as a healthy passage through grief, losing my mother was not of the same arc, nor was losing my brother, nor my lack of a pleasurable sex life, nor the knives in my back from Linda and the disabled community around us, nor what I have been through in this city, and its home care services.
I carry a great deal more than most other able bodied female American writers, though maybe not quite as much as some African women might, not that the comparative measure matters, in any relevant sense. I argued earlier on against my twitter detractors that I was proud of my survival, but the moral of my story, whatever its conclusion, is that my price tag was simply too much, whether or not I can fairly assign blame. In many instances, I can't, even if I want to stretch, and say if my grandmother Pauline had committed her daughter after my mother's first suicide attempt, than this half-century of detail those of you with strong constitutions are actually reading, it would not be here.
Bringing Out the Dead is actually symptomatic of the American disease that most of us live, and that I firmly believed I deserved to avoid after the butchery of my youth. Perhaps my indignation will only become worse over time. The film is repeating, and I liked it so much I can reenter it that quickly, or, in other words, Scorsese finally scores in spastic's psyche!
Scorsese finally made a film that I can enjoy for its own sake, without grudging the excesses of his imprint, in his 1999 Bringing Out the Dead, with Cage and the ever supernatural Patricia Arquette. The tonal whine in her voice has the ability to grate the nerves, but she serves as a well cast foil here. I'll be percolating on it, as usual.
I am sure some fine analytical mind already compared Scorsese's more theologically superlative Last Temptation to Gibson's Passion, but I will not oblige by caring to do the same, not for the time being, I suppose it is due to the hyper manic personality cult that Martin generates, one to which I am not partial. Mel interests me more, due to his self destructive implosions that have tarnished his seasoned celebrity arc.
Though I have had a few scuttle butt moments as a white trash Catholic, myself, and feel guilty still about that brashy 14 year old at Rusk Institute, which me believes I posted about in brief, in 2010, I do not share Mel's scope of prejudice, but do still have issues with the Hebraic adhesion to secular liberalism, and one day I am going to make myself more popular still by describing my interactions with Fern Markowitz, who was once the epicenter of the universe at Liberty Resources, but not today, still snooting for sources as I am.
As my editor graciously granted me an extension to besiege the health care establishment into next week, I can stop in over the weekend. The 72 British rendition of Tales From The Crypt is an early experiment in graphic adaptation.
"Blind Alleys," with Patrick Macnee and Nigel Patrick playing the respective foils, is a strange, disembodied take on institutional dehumanization that evokes Maupassant's story of a blind man ejected by his family, left to freeze to death. In the film, dependent on corny twists, the blind extract their justice for harsh regimentation; the monstrosity of the teleplay is not meant to be taken seriously, of course, but it serves as an apt metaphor for contemporary activist screaming matches represented by groups like ADAPT, or even my inability to deploy closure in relation to Liberty's inability to meld competence with regimentation.
Is the price of self-interested inequality worth how it brutalizes, and thus hardens, the disadvantaged?
It will be a hectic or high octane week, and either way, a stressful one, not that I'll ever know this life at the level Mike Wallace practiced it, nor would I want to know it at the level Mike Wallace practiced it. I am not telegenic, photogenic, or a good film capture. I knew Wallace went public about his depression, but did not know he attempted suicide after his litigation battle with General Westmoreland. Things like this bother me, that a man with such power and success could experience the sense of futility I have experienced most of my life. I've posted before that my depressive episode over Linda's conduct nearly sent me over the edge, but I've never attempted true physical harm. I lost my control with her, and verbally spiraled, went beet red, rolled in the kitchen, crying and then laughing in pain that two damaged women with such affinity and talent could engage in such degrees of hate. What she did to me was an act of hatred, just as much as I experienced it afterwards as an intensity of feeling, and yet people so less marginalized, like Mike, or David Foster Wallace, gave in, or nearly did. Odd world we live in.
For me it is an axis between fighting the bastards to the end, and the terror of aging into that horrible geriatric helplessness that was the beginning of my childhood. I could hate my father for that, the putting away, and that I've fought a losing battle all my life for his affirmation. I blame my mother instead.
A Few Good Men (1992) is a dangerous drama exactly because it is so convincing about how conspiracies develop over little things, but suggests that the American conscience prevails in the end, when that really isn't the case.
The factual sequence of events, and actual truth, these are very difficult to ascertain, and I don't buy for a minute that a prominent colonel's career would be destroyed over a private's hazing in peacetime, as we can see how difficult the abuses in Iraq and Afghanistan are to prosecute, and these are far graver tragedies than the back story in this script. The same could be said of any victim's testimonial, mine, or a hundred other bleeding hearts, and this is simply do to the way group dynamics work.
But the film also supports Foucault's observations about how we human animals increasingly mechanize our biological design for the sake of proficiency; it is the entire subtext of the conflict between the characters Cruise and Nicholson portray.
I only ate one meal yesterday, an inadvertent accident of sorts. I tried the Danish pancakes with a dash of the usual maple and a generous fork scrape of cocoa almond spread, and after dealing with Tim's failing short term memory, I collapsed, but still not sleeping well.
I am making my omelet now, bland, but with cheddar, in my Marathon Grill bowl, to keep it round, and it will fill me but most likely give me phlegm fever. I am used to that, and honestly, I am partial to unfertilized chicken eggs, and would readily eat any other edible poultry eggs. The difference this morning is I did not make a sandwich, but dressed two slices of sourdough on the side. I splattered on the kindle and polished the screen with the splatter, but ate, no reading. Still hungry, as can reasonably be expected, but the edge is off of being famished, and think I can recline, but non!
Alas! Back cushion!
The aeros have either not come in or went to the package room Thursday, and no one notified me. Remember the shot of Michael C Hall screaming in the funeral parlor? Ah ha, she says, grinning. Life is not only irrational, but inexorably silly, and I do not want to go into remission (actually relapse, but an interesting error) to tobacco at my old levels, which is going to happen unless I find another type of aid, and after I balance my accounts, I am going to research the electric brands. I highlighted the danger of the dependency of David Foster Wallace, but cannot solve my own. Any one have a preference in terms of atomizers? Does anyone ever answer my questions posed in these posts? So many stubborn tanka bloggers, eh?
The weekend will be ecumenical, of course, unless I stream, and I may finally be in the mood to do so, but Mel's Passion is running later this evening, and spastic wants to see . Mel is, understandably, everyone's favorite pissing pony, and the late Hitchens went after him over his ultra conservative Catholicism, but he is also quite an interesting director, and I am not afraid of his spiritual quest. I do not believe in a god, or a divine, but science cannot answer certain questions about self-recognition, and aspiration. Sam Harris'es materialistic rap of Mother Teresa as clearly depressed, this is not enough for me, because I've felt the earth rock beneath the vinyl sling on which I sit, not that I can call it a vocation of faith.
I might have saved myself some personal anguish not to have trusted in the intensity of what I felt when I was young, nor putting all my eggs into Linda's basket as I hit major trouble in my mid-30's (a young middle age, enjoy while you have it), but that intensity may not always be in the realm of the pathology of the overwrought. The drama queen might kick in if I ever saw Jerry again, of course, throwing myself out of the wheelchair, he'd ask, "What are you doing? You alright?" While I'd land on my knees, tears welling up, my voice crying, "I failed," as if I held it there, my greatest sin in a display case.
But I wouldn't want to cause him another cardiac incident.
There are things to be said about Blade's life and biography that serve as a stand-in for seediness in an urban environment, I just don't like the films as they have been adapted from the graphic form, and do not really see how Snipes used the role as anything more than a thug camp throw away. There are a number of threads within vampirism, of course, and the Blade saga weaves them together in a somewhat crass fashion that smashes together with the subtlety of bumper cars, with jump cuts into the hyper-stylized martial arts choreography.
The Stoker Gothic/Romantic tradition is one, though I tend to find the Nosferatu meme of fevered consumption and insatiable appetite leading to eco-devastation more compelling, but there is also another motif, not exactly distinct, but more carnivorous and animistic, in films like 30 Days of Night. Here the horror is just the feeding impetus, and little else, with Goth incorporation almost quaint.
The fact that Blade is black may evoke Richard Matheson, at least for enthusiasts, but there is not much allusion or irony in the films. Then there is Let The Right One In.
I enjoyed this film, but remain as perplexed by it as the early TNR reviewer was upon its initial release, and its meaning is something of a mystery. I believe I mentioned this in 2010, when I was still part of LitNet, and some future revisions may be in order.
I saw Wolf again this morning, and Nichols does devolve the storyline, which is very nearly an early Prada on steroids, but I'd like to sit on what I am thinking for a day or two, because I do not think Nichols was attempting a short sell. I think the literal half of the film was a compliment to the clever weave of the mythology and totem in the first part. Does James Spader turn being despicable into high art, as Janet Maslin suggests?
If I am going to sacrifice the thin gruel of my security, it will not be immediate. I have to cushion my flight to allow my scant resources to offer me the slimmest chance possible to avoid de facto state imprisonment. My family cannot or will not assist, and Liberty, we have been there and back again, is a dead tool, and as long as I have any mind left, I have to reject their paradigm. My emotional investment, and my emotional pain, is about the past. Neither of my former supervisors respected me enough to sit down with me and figure out what the CIL could do to still support me, and no, sitting down to work with Gil Ott, who died in the position that I would have wanted, was not the worst thing in the world, nor the attempted partnership with his actress friend, but I am not Joe D, the lobby consumer, and needed to make a living, one, and two, one of my supervisors is guilty of criminal conduct.
David Harris, a Speakeasy writer who long outlived his usefulness on that community, consoled me years ago by saying I thrive on contention. He is right about that, but not about how my Liberty superiors treated me. Disability centers are not Microsoft or Google at each other's throats in a complex digital interdependency that is so big, their future failure will spell significant disaster.
Federal mandates that make Liberty and all its sister state centers a reality, this is American Marxism in action, and it is a sick system. Surgeons keep replacing parts, much as they do in Vice-President Cheney's chest, but the corruption remains, and the very people this paradigm was designed for wind up suffering. Too many, as in this case, I am not an exception to the rule, and the only thing that can fix it is a Congressional review.
I am taking most of the day off. I am going to read, sulk, and eat chips with black bean dip. I will be back tonight, like Henry Fonda, resurrecting John Steinbeck.
At some point, the fact that centers keep making excuses for malfeasance will ultimately make them unsustainable, and it needs to be addressed at the federal level, whether I live to see it or not-- but my additional issue is this. Griping online is one thing, but mailing letters is another, and quadriplegic or not, I have to plan some kind of withdrawal.
I could not find the dime store candy at Trader Joe's that you can pick up at any pharmacy, but did find lollipops, and remain inching along in superlative increments. If the aeros are not delivered today either to my box or the office, I may not make it, despite the best of intentions, and sucking the tin of pops continuously. I can still afford the charger-fake cigarette products, but do not know that they would work. I know the aeros do, not perfectly, but they keep me out of pain and allow me to write, and believed they would ship in as quickly as they did with my last order, and I have to get working on my other source. I remember the 1994 Wolf with Nicholson and Spader, enough so that the capsule synopsis refreshed my memory.
This interesting vehicle was on this morning, and for our purposes, would have been worth seeing again, but I cannot fight my body beyond certain levels of fatigue as once able, and was actually lucky not to have any mishaps going from point A to getting home to putting groceries away to going to bed, parking the chair too close to the telephone. I could have fallen. Most of the time I only get lucky because I can reach back and grab the bed posts, which have a name in wood working, but I do not need to sweat that out, this instance of fine craft terminology. I am going to wait a few days and see if my station runs this again; if not I'll see if Azmo has it on instant v. Suppose I can check now, and 2.99 is not bad for a rental; I will sit on this a little, as I have learned to intuit these bland network cycles while HBO doles out real drama!
Wolf is Nicholson's McMurphy in mid-arc ,linked in concurrence , not yet Schmidt, coming to terms, closing his books, but old enough to have the rug pulled out from under him. I am turning a dime on why Nichols twists the story to a literal turning point; consider this flagged.
You can find Jimmi's columns online if you know where to look. I am not going to assist, which is me being facetious with my audience; his diction stomps at you in sandstone clogs, like John Candy doing a lumber only to lose the command of the camera. According to Jimmi's logic, every disabled individual who is successfully matriculated is in denial. He never explains himself, Jimmi Shrode; he is just a shriek of hysteria, like a striated dose of Blade.
I am not particularly keen on the character, or the dynamic spun around Snipes' blood craving. I am bored with vampire literature and traditions, what can I say?
There is a supposed Joe Penny send up on the way which fits here, but it might be something else. So I sit, but the exterminator couldn't wait this morning for the colon that does not know how to quit. I plan my fucking life around these building cycles, and shouldn't have to feel guilty. I wasn't denying the exterminator access, I was cleaning my fucking ass, but all the sudden this Protestant gulag respects my privacy. Mike apologized, but I am still a little pissed. I don't know when to expect the next visit.
I've been trying to sit still for the last three hours, since I boiled up breakfast and glided my view over a hale Warren Beatty and a still comic Stockard Channing in The Fortune (1975), and though I could make a few preliminary observations, all I will note is Warren's telling love of the jazz age. He must have heard tales as a young fellow, and I heard more than a few on my bad Catholic side of the family. I also respect Channing a great deal. [Self-editing note: For now, I am not returning to mass, and think what you like, but this is not about the legend of the Christ. Jesus can go fuck himself, and I am more than likely not cursing a historical figure, let alone a dual-equal human-god, which is apparently the primary concern of every Christian sect. What I am struggling with is the need for social cohesion, but I cannot be self-fraudulent. I can lie out of respect for my grandmother, but not for the sake of looking for a good white Catholic male of the right age, not yet. I am not as hard as Hitchens, who I emailed not so long ago before he died, and I cannot say he read what I wrote but think that he did, or was informed, given his subsequent article; I am not sure why he pissed me off too, because I certainly cannot say Hitch was stupid in the way that Daniel Schneider is a thick skulled dumb ass, but maybe Hitchens upsets me for exactly this, that most of us are softer, even with atheism. I cannot return to my parish under a lie, however. It repulses me even though I mourn the Vatican.]
Allow me to ensure today that my sister will never speak to me again, for in my odious want of tact, her abortions messed up her life, in those early years, as much as her inability to control her pregnancies later had the same impact. This does not mean that I want Roe v. Wade overturned. I am talking about her narcissism and lack of personal responsibility. When one of my girls terminated later, that was different, precisely because she was black, already had one baby, and did not have the supports that Stephanie, by contrast, would have had available. The first major rift between Stephanie and myself was over her first abortion; she leapt on top of me, throttling me, screaming "Shut up!" It is in my bad autobiographical story. I took her and future white trash husband in, and there we were, killing each other. Painfully funny, maybe, but progressive rights, in the abstract, are not always what they seem.
I am angry enough at my sister that I would give spammer predators her personal information, but it is not an effective backlash tactic.
I cannot hunt down that source today, as my nerves are an odious jangle, even though I had the presence of mind to buy hard peppermint candy, to help me sally. I could swear that I had a beautiful Middle English edition of The Canterbury Tales . But if I did, it is buried somewhere.
My face is ashen to the point that the Market Street public has noticed; maybe they believe I am terminally ill. I have set a baseline, and that is, give my state representative and others time to respond, and then maybe I will prepare to go to Pittsburgh. I have been to Pittsburgh, and probably have enough strength to take flight there; maybe the beatnik community would help, I don't know. We'll discuss it after the exterminator leaves tomorrow.
Tired as I am, I'll add that I refused even to look at Erik sitting outside the entrance on my way to the store; without his bulldog Goth bitch around we still talked, Erik and I. Not anymore, even though I relented after Joey's demise my displeasure remains. I do not hate him, but I simply can't play the game anymore and no longer wish to see. My own lungs are burning, and though he turned toward me, I pretended, like his partner, that the three of us never had connection.
Aside from the political story, which I have doled out in fragments, Jimmi and Erik play our former interaction like a bipolar disorder. Jimmi despises me for my contempt directed at his intellectual arguments, and Erik, when he still recognized me, would say, "I thought we still were [friends]" Then Jimmi would convey, when I tried to force him to listen, that Erik treats me with the same disdain he reserves for Linda's denial.
My disillusion, at this point, is eating away at my physical health, and I am weary of trying to ferret out sincerity in any of us, this freak transgender couple, my scarred intellect that wants established street cred but may be too constrained by illness and biological entropy to jump those hoops, and the sociopathic chief operating officer who I internalized far too highly in superlative terms.
I hate to say this, but the Vatican is right, chronic conditions and some disease is simply evil, and my heart and soul have been too corroded, living as a life long cripple.
As I suspect Louise would protest, I am not as bad as my online tone suggests, but that tone carries a great deal of restraint, and by that I do not necessarily mean foul rants, so much as blunt hatred. I hold it back because I know I'd come to regret it and hit delete, if I wasn't banned first. Hard snicker.
Kenny is one of the nicer rent a cops downstairs in the lobby, and obesity doesn't prevent him from actually doing his job. Like Tim, he is stick thin, and reported the car jacking that I was witness to, and if our backgrounds were just slightly more in sync, I would not mind dating him. Tenants get evicted for things like that here, and because I am naive, I got myself embroiled in something similar years back, with a piece of white trash who makes Frank look like the Bronx Casanova, and many of you may recall how my assessment of my ex-fiance has played out.
Kenny is near a hundred percent illiterate about digital technology and the new world of app-gadget fetish we live in today, but I blew some chatter out of my head about my tonsillitis episode. Nineteen is somewhat late in life for swollen tonsils, and Kenny says, with that inner city transplanted agrarian wisdom that leaves me impatient, "Focus on the present now, not the past."
All writers have is the past. The disabled woman on Sunday cut off, in her battle of wills, from her baby brother, is the same disabled woman Gretchen Laskas refused to respond to when I thought my ability to empathize with her agrarian mindset meant something. Has talking about our past in Speakeasy actually hurt her in any concrete terms? Did I print her telephone number? Or hurt her earnings? What I am driving at is when abandonment is merited, or not, and how it reflects reality. I have connected to thousands of people online over the years, but what makes a connection real, or my feelings of lost affinity germane? I miss Gretchen; if anything, I may have increased them if your curiosity is piqued. The best I can say about her novels, given the excerpts my fading memory recalls, is that she has the women's interest meme down, but weakly echoes Eudora Welty, and I have to be in the right frame of mind for Welty as it is.
Right now is as good as any to throw a tantrum about southern writers, but I believe I am well enough for coffee, even with my facial structure akin to over-heated cracked porcelain. It is perhaps accurate to suggest that if I stripped naked with a man as dark as Kenny, I'd have a panic attack; I will probably never be in a position to know.
By some interesting quirk of fate, it seems I will not have to use my savings for at least a week or two. I have been playing the usual parlor games since I was a young woman between jobs, and now? What choices do I actually have?
I can make things worse; this is what constitutes the illusion of having any further options. I am looking at InstaBulb here. The extra light would be useful, and I can use it near the PC when I want to charge but read kindle at my desk. It is late summer now as I archive this on Blogger, and I not only do not know when this order will ship, but have no idea how to contact the marketer.
They claim they will utilize COD, but I guess the tool would only work as well as the brand of battery used. In this unit I need it, but then I may return to bed. Not feeling well, not sleeping well, I can milk for my source later tomorrow if I do not hear from first contact. I may also be in the full throttle of a menopause adjustment, as it has only been three months since my cycle stopped.
I still get cramps, and wasted, or took the time to type the Administration a message @ the White House, but the portal did not carry. Not sure what use it would be to try again this evening. My shins are swelling. My brother Benjamin will not speak to me. I tried him three times this Sunday, because my health actually is failing, and I'd like my nephews to remember me. I don't know why this price is so extraordinary.
I am not sure what I once imagined about my life, but it wasn't this, and the real subtext behind my sibling rivalry breach is guilt. They took my assets, and expected a free ride. Now I am not a person because I am asserting that I have needs.
However you read me, or what conclusions you draw, I have no support, no friends that I actually like to be around for themselves, and more than likely will never regain a career in any viable sense of the word, and what I meant to convey is, you can't know how it feels.
I am not my mother. I do not find a vein in Will Self's drug culture and do dangerous things with the syringe for the thrill of it. I haven't gotten myself pregnant, or medically sucked a fetus I did not want out of my uterus, like my sister, and yet, because I never wanted to live in 202 housing, and it angers me due to the waste of my intelligence, this is an indication of crisis for homosexuals who insert their penises into the rectums of other males, or an excuse for my damn family to close off in rank, never mind that doing the same thing to my mother probably increased the pressure she felt to do hard core psychotropics, which may have contributed to her cardiac arrest.
I can't rebuild myself a viable social outlet, and if you are going to say look at how I treated Schneider, an over the top trigger is conceded; had I known it was that Daniel Schneider, I would have ignored him after a preliminary query, or tried to utilize his outreach in better fashion, dubious as that might have played out as an alternative.. List serves and viral networking take time. They are not cocktail parties, and I happen to like cocktail parties, the clink of ice, a joke regarding All About Eve.
Thank you for your article Ylan, for it represents the predicament in which Linda C. Dezenski left me twelve years ago, and now my lung issues leave me too much further impaired to undo the damage; more than likely I am now going to decline worse than any animal mortally injured in its habitat, which leaves me empty handed but for this age old question about the human condition.
I cannot apply for a hardship exception anymore, and that is my fault for being honest with the lawyer assigned to me during my bankruptcy hearing. I told the lawyer about my mother's death leaving an uexpected windfall from insurance, and the lawyer was not happy with me, as a practical matter. She and I could have applied for hardship, and I probably would have won, but I told her about my mum. I did not want to be prosecuted by the state for fraud had I not spoken, but you know, I begin to feel as if I might have succeeded in life with a criminal record, and I am starting to giggle on the verge of insanity, to steal a direct phrase from Henry James.
My conditions are bad, but not as dire as when my mother died, and before you ask, I wound up having to use most of those funds for medical bills, and to pay Tim for not having the time to take care of me very well. I'd like to stop using him altogether, but professional cleaning services would cost more, and inflame my bronchial issues just the same. Would you like a dark anecdote? Do you have a choice?
My colon erupted, little more than a half hour behind this paragraph; it felt like a decent half gallon of paste, with all the phlegm I have been producing, and that eruption would have been an accident, but I had a chuck liner stuck to my thigh, and that caught the opening discharge, like a loose diaper, spared the worst. I got lucky, in a sense, but I will never get better, and so Chris Beasley bans my account @ the literature network because I tried to approach him on the fact that I was ill, but could he pay me for the work he accepted, and this discussion constituted an attack.
You know what I think it constitutes? Spastic_dowager absorbs a great deal of punishment, whatever else I am guilty of. Posting frequency does effect concentration, and I tried to limit my usage before I crossed swords with the big kahuna, not become too invested, but did anyway, but how far we go with banning online accounts makes me wonder. I did not threaten to sue Mr. Beasley, though I will soon file a discrimination claim against him, because some of those virtual connections mattered to me. I never harassed or attacked any poster, nor emailed them to talk, though I did make a few research requests from young and healthier instructors, and I never consciously attempted to violate their rules, nor given an *infraction*. I know about this from live meeting three members, and in short I'm tired of being punished like this.
Meat Loaf's guest star appearance on House is one of my favorites in the deteriorated mid-season arcs. It was one of the first episodes I streamed on my damaged desktop, and is far too clever by half, troping on expectation reversal, perhaps carrying the faint whiff of the Lazarus curse, which has its subterranean literary conceit spawned out of biblical apocryphia, anchoring this motif in a realistic character study of a monogamous pair bonding whose attachment, however genuine, led to a disappointment, unwittingly enabling demise, and the condemnation of fate following from this, namely in the husband's revival.
Penn's departure was the disruptive and jarring note, never convincing, even when the producers scripted it for 30 seconds in the last episode; the writers could argue that the implausible Kutner suicide fits the motifs of the show. House the sociopath revolves round his trajectory, destroying the more stable, but by that rationale, I'd be a millionare tomorrow funding super pacs; this doesn't cancel its high status for me, but I would have been happier seeing a Kutner scoring some kind of victory over the central character. If the suicide was the victory, it violates the dramatic tension, going too far over the edge, in terms of screwing your boss, perhaps the trajectory of the missile I seem seem to be riding as our warm weather transitions to the next season.
I had to think for a moment to recall Eye of the Needle, which I knocked about in a paragraph when I first conceived of this project, but Sutherland seems to simply roll in and roll out of his parts after this war thriller. I can't think of any film I know of after that where he is not playing Liberal Conscience With Boof Shag; this includes Kienzle's whodunit. It is not that I do not respond to him as an actor; he projects comfort, sometimes balanced compassion, and when he dons the diabolical psychopath, audiences involve their feelings because they see the humane within the menace, but somehow it doesn't quite carry him as a clerical sleuth, not that this doesn't have its own conceits in solving mysteries. Derek Jacobi seems tailor made for his medieval monk. Alec Guinness has Father Brown, which also served him in being George Smiley better than anyone else, but Sutherland doesn't quite carry the dichotomy of the humanist holy man about him, and this is the first problem with the film; it has a subtext that the movie doesn't quite flesh out in the fact that our protagonist is weary with obedience. I am not objecting to this weariness in and of itself, but it drags on the narrative that propels the movie, instead of serving it. Koesler's platonic relationship with the journalist Pat Lennon, which I fully understand is integrated with Kienzle's personal experience of breaking his vows, is a loose strand left to hang, rather than engaging the viewer.
Incest between father and daughter is the primary trigger for the serial killing spree that opens with a nun about to go secular. I am not quite clear how Koesler works out the killer's twisted logic towards the climax, but the killer, Javison, assigns blame for not being stopped, and this is the juxtaposition that interests me about the film. It handles nearly the same problem as Shanley's Doubt, about whether evil is subsumed in the very institution that tries to torture it out of our flesh, if possible, handles it poorly, with all the thud of Medea's deus ex machina; my sensibility is that of implicit seepage.
See the last section on good and evil acts on this Vatican Catechism page:
The issue of moral guilt is doled out like so many eucharist wafers. Of course Javison is a monster, much like my mother's second husband, (and I give credit here to my then parish in Chester for helping me survive Stuart Lone, who I hope is dead, or will die as painfully as he treated my family) but his daughter's school is guilty, for not believing the girl about the abuse. Durning's staunch pastor is guilty, even Koesler has to carry that balance between penitent and pain that simply decelerates into slaughter.
Medical models, creating their own apologia for the mechanisms of psychopathy, do not really resolve the capacity for human anguish, anymore than the silence of bishops, for the sake of preserving the institution. Sound familiar?
Perhaps Father William Saunders assisted the SWG with the script of The Rosary Murders, because his article sounds just like the debate between Koesler and Kileen in the film. I quote:
The sacramental seal is inviolable. Quoting Canon 983.1 of the Code of Canon Law, the Catechism states, "...It is a crime for a confessor in any way to betray a penitent by word or in any other manner or for any reason" (No. 2490). A priest, therefore, cannot break the seal to save his own life, to protect his good name, to refute a false accusation, to save the life of another, to aid the course of justice (like reporting a crime), or to avert a public calamity. He cannot be compelled by law to disclose a person's confession or be bound by any oath he takes, e.g. as a witness in a court trial. A priest cannot reveal the contents of a confession either directly, by repeating the substance of what has been said, or indirectly, by some sign, suggestion, or action. A Decree from the Holy Office (Nov. 18, 1682) mandated that confessors are forbidden, even where there would be no revelation direct or indirect, to make any use of the knowledge obtained in the confession that would "displease" the penitent or reveal his identity.
Roman Catholicism, throughout its history, seems to brace itself, and fails, as a bulwark against the failings of the human animal. What I miss about the Church is not its corporate and legal structure that enforces the foundation of faith, not its placement of Yahweh and the Christ, Mary, Apostles, saints, and a coup d'etat by Polish Communist Superstars. What I miss about it is the comfort of certainty, and my rebellion against it did not begin with Jerry as my new source of succor. I butt heads with Father Kelly when I was sixteen over some fine point about Scripture, when he was hearing my confession in the rectory.
"We're not going to discuss that," he said. So much for docility.
