A man with a reflective turn of mind, walking through an exhibition of this sort, will not be oppressed, I take it, by his own or other people's hilarity--Thackeray, location 11
I never really prefaced children, which any regular viewers I have know is both a lie and a truth. Once I wasn't exiting university with a husband of choice, I never prefaced the risks of pregnancy, and aborted the idea of motherhood for a career, and for writing. Little patience with little humans; it is not really a regret, as my maternal drives are more suited to terrorizing poachers and other instances of animal cruelty which is unintentionally caused by hoarders (some of those are female) and aggressive human males. People who butcher silverbacks should be put to death. Fossey's murdered spirit offers zealous support, sotto voce. People who kill kitties, ah; people who kill kitties are zoned off, breed apart, not much of a surprise that my Russian viewers have vanished.
Mother Russia still believes in empire, in an economy that hunts and gathers, to channel George Will. Did the lengthy pause for coffee prove disruptive to my train of thought? Families aren't a beneficial panacea when other system modalities fail. I do not think even Ed, my lone account follower, realizes that I badgered my mother with wroth tantrums to get me the fuck out of Riverside Presbyterian from my earliest days when the company shuttled me over from the Temple campus environs. Marie attempts to pacify me with the belief that her brother my padre, will provide deliverance. This fable from my earliest days of my father's responsibilities does more detriment to my health than not. My father is nearly 80. Before my mother left him he was almost a millionaire. The IRS decided to destroy him fifteen years ago. Deference only partially weighs in on my speak no evil stance. I do not know what he did or how he did it when it comes to tax code violations.
The state of Pennsylvania considers me a violation simply for being alive at this point. Trudy and I are supposed to discuss my transfer request. I do not want to discuss it. Presby has gnawed on my soul, in conjunction with Septa and my disability center, since I was 23 years old. I do not know where you are in your life, but think about that. A 23 year old university graduate spit out like gristle in a 20 block radius of a city founded by Quakers. Philadelphia might as well be run by Joseph Stalin.
Sunday, December 29, 2013
Surreptitius rapere, Josh Barro
"I'm uncomfortable being on a soapbox," Gwen Ifill, after publishing her book about President Obama.
You look fairly personable and presentable to me Josh Barro, and I for one, do not have time to send hate mail, as a disabled woman who cannot eschew the obvious nature of her spastic-star-spangled banner flexed ligaments, which twist and contort in such interesting ways. Flambeaux I may be, but my social fears aren't so ingrained that I join in on mob assaults. I do not hate you, but a number of lesbians have earned my ire, and I'm weary of butch hits, and I have to stand against LBGT subversion of accepted methods of pair bonding, despite my education and significant voyeurism into indulgent sexual pleasures, relative to where those activities fit on affirmative and/or masochistic scales.
My parents allowed surgeons to butcher me at a young age, abandoned me, divorced, my mother moving in with her duplicitous lesbian neighbor who hit on her, my suffering mother. Whether this was before or after my womb carrier's third suicide attempt, can't say. All that would not have been so bad, but you see, for a cripple, it never stops. You think your orientation provides an impetus for terror, do you?
Guess again.
I do not feel like recounting the strenuous psychological wounds of my past in full. A little worn out hustling for my charming penny ante aggregate, having to work three times as hard as you for pot luck, since that is the draw, brother, between ambulatory function which you have, and quadriplegia predation and rejection, which I have to live.
I have known many homosexuals. Let me give you my list, aggregate it all here:
1. Kathy-- my bipolar mother's would be lover, who used to touch my crotch with an appetite in her ruddy face, before she decided to come out, in her merry widow weeds, co-opting a relative of her husband's; her daughter died of cancer, but they became estranged. I hate her for corrupting the sanctity of my already difficult childhood.
2. Alan from college-- he sought me out. I pulled on him, cried often in his company and he took it. I can't hate him quite, since I leaned on him out of cowardice, but homily people on both sides of the isle should know when to quit. Seeing each other naked and stoned was a sexual deterrent. My undying gratitude to drug induced lethargy.
3. My editor Alexandra, whose reticence was shield and sword. Let's categorize this peevish puritanical association an interesting exchange of mutual blindsiding that still managed to score me while she was dying of breast cancer.
4. Fern Markowitz, the Jewish lesbian boss of my Jewish supervisor. What they did to me consumes about 40 posts of partial detail. Ditto Erik von Schmettering, a crippled transvestite who is also a challenge to your groomed portrait. Ditto Jimmi Shrode, his fat partner. Ditto my former co-worker Jim, whose mild senility made him incompetent. His lover had full blown AIDS, and I hope someone had the sense to use the crematorium if they deceased.
This takes us to Josie Byzek, former editor who lashed out at my last male cyber interest.
What you do not discuss in your column about Robertson's supposedly vile intolerance, is the difference between Semitic moralism and modern Gnosticism-- where god as love is essentially meaningless.
And no one discusses the sneak attack of homosexual passes. Something I have had to tolerate repeatedly from disabled lesbians, mixed race nursing aides in the closet. Never mind repeated sexual and criminal assaults I've sustained. My tolerance meter, Josh, my struggle to survive, is well into negative numbers. You would not dare respond to me, but if you did, "I'm sorry for your situation," really wouldn't cut it. I was always part and parcel of corporate patronizing; tokenism, in fact.
Insidership? That's a treat tossed at me through the bars of my cage.
You look fairly personable and presentable to me Josh Barro, and I for one, do not have time to send hate mail, as a disabled woman who cannot eschew the obvious nature of her spastic-star-spangled banner flexed ligaments, which twist and contort in such interesting ways. Flambeaux I may be, but my social fears aren't so ingrained that I join in on mob assaults. I do not hate you, but a number of lesbians have earned my ire, and I'm weary of butch hits, and I have to stand against LBGT subversion of accepted methods of pair bonding, despite my education and significant voyeurism into indulgent sexual pleasures, relative to where those activities fit on affirmative and/or masochistic scales.
My parents allowed surgeons to butcher me at a young age, abandoned me, divorced, my mother moving in with her duplicitous lesbian neighbor who hit on her, my suffering mother. Whether this was before or after my womb carrier's third suicide attempt, can't say. All that would not have been so bad, but you see, for a cripple, it never stops. You think your orientation provides an impetus for terror, do you?
Guess again.
I do not feel like recounting the strenuous psychological wounds of my past in full. A little worn out hustling for my charming penny ante aggregate, having to work three times as hard as you for pot luck, since that is the draw, brother, between ambulatory function which you have, and quadriplegia predation and rejection, which I have to live.
I have known many homosexuals. Let me give you my list, aggregate it all here:
1. Kathy-- my bipolar mother's would be lover, who used to touch my crotch with an appetite in her ruddy face, before she decided to come out, in her merry widow weeds, co-opting a relative of her husband's; her daughter died of cancer, but they became estranged. I hate her for corrupting the sanctity of my already difficult childhood.
2. Alan from college-- he sought me out. I pulled on him, cried often in his company and he took it. I can't hate him quite, since I leaned on him out of cowardice, but homily people on both sides of the isle should know when to quit. Seeing each other naked and stoned was a sexual deterrent. My undying gratitude to drug induced lethargy.
3. My editor Alexandra, whose reticence was shield and sword. Let's categorize this peevish puritanical association an interesting exchange of mutual blindsiding that still managed to score me while she was dying of breast cancer.
4. Fern Markowitz, the Jewish lesbian boss of my Jewish supervisor. What they did to me consumes about 40 posts of partial detail. Ditto Erik von Schmettering, a crippled transvestite who is also a challenge to your groomed portrait. Ditto Jimmi Shrode, his fat partner. Ditto my former co-worker Jim, whose mild senility made him incompetent. His lover had full blown AIDS, and I hope someone had the sense to use the crematorium if they deceased.
This takes us to Josie Byzek, former editor who lashed out at my last male cyber interest.
What you do not discuss in your column about Robertson's supposedly vile intolerance, is the difference between Semitic moralism and modern Gnosticism-- where god as love is essentially meaningless.
And no one discusses the sneak attack of homosexual passes. Something I have had to tolerate repeatedly from disabled lesbians, mixed race nursing aides in the closet. Never mind repeated sexual and criminal assaults I've sustained. My tolerance meter, Josh, my struggle to survive, is well into negative numbers. You would not dare respond to me, but if you did, "I'm sorry for your situation," really wouldn't cut it. I was always part and parcel of corporate patronizing; tokenism, in fact.
Insidership? That's a treat tossed at me through the bars of my cage.
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Flat Screen Deficents
"Try to go over to Stephanie's," Nicholas senior, Zeus brandishing tinfoil
Aren't we all subject to exhausted spectacle, as Abrams' production company keeps trying to recreate Lost and keeps failing. What The Fringe was beneath the surface remains somewhat baffling. Four, five episodes wasn't enough to trigger anxiety about Google Glass, the marriage of your biology to enhancements. I quit Revolution after the season finale with the tower, more or less.
Almost Human is a crime of the lowest common denominator. I do not know what I hoped for, but 40 minutes of yet another procedural with wires being stomach implants was enough to hear alarm bells, invoking panic that Seneca in his age represented the stagnation of Latin as a lingua franca.
Canada once again comes to the rescue with a concept which is at least edible.
It isn't that I cannot access headier content through Prime and other outlets. It isn't simply a matter of my budget constraints either. Most of my manuscripts are written through utilizing search even if I am not posting online initially, so I still in the main have to sift through broadcast so as to mind my usage. I was in the Lost newsgroup for the first two seasons, before Google ate Usenet, and there was oftentimes much discussion how difficult the series was to produce. Perhaps it made Abrams wimp out, like Mexican American disability lawyers who are Marxists lacking accountability. JJ and Tom have a remarkable physical resemblance.
Should I inform you here that I have completed the beginning of my legal grievance against the center he runs? 2014 may be an interesting year.
Aren't we all subject to exhausted spectacle, as Abrams' production company keeps trying to recreate Lost and keeps failing. What The Fringe was beneath the surface remains somewhat baffling. Four, five episodes wasn't enough to trigger anxiety about Google Glass, the marriage of your biology to enhancements. I quit Revolution after the season finale with the tower, more or less.
Almost Human is a crime of the lowest common denominator. I do not know what I hoped for, but 40 minutes of yet another procedural with wires being stomach implants was enough to hear alarm bells, invoking panic that Seneca in his age represented the stagnation of Latin as a lingua franca.
Canada once again comes to the rescue with a concept which is at least edible.
It isn't that I cannot access headier content through Prime and other outlets. It isn't simply a matter of my budget constraints either. Most of my manuscripts are written through utilizing search even if I am not posting online initially, so I still in the main have to sift through broadcast so as to mind my usage. I was in the Lost newsgroup for the first two seasons, before Google ate Usenet, and there was oftentimes much discussion how difficult the series was to produce. Perhaps it made Abrams wimp out, like Mexican American disability lawyers who are Marxists lacking accountability. JJ and Tom have a remarkable physical resemblance.
Should I inform you here that I have completed the beginning of my legal grievance against the center he runs? 2014 may be an interesting year.
Friday, December 27, 2013
Mayonnaise treatments, Josh Barro finesse
It is a mild winter afternoon for a Christmas week Friday, small pleasure denied, spontaneous desire to join the joggers on the Schuykill River path. Neither chair is charged enough for my shimmy hour plus half dressing to go nowhere, lacking destination. The lack of spontaneity is the downer of mobility impairment, to on top of that have to deal with people like Debra Horne, a life long battle with vocational rehabilitation case management. VR is the repository of the most hated modality wheelchair users have to negotiate, and Jimmy Devane was nearly Debra Horne's replica during my very early post-high school years. I do not just hate her, with the woolly mammoth mindset for which PresbyHomes no doubt hired her. The antagonism, which puts it mildly, has a long memory.
Devane did receive the petite version of the 03 Hulk. Stricture, implosion, pretending that I am pushing back against Barro, not necessarily due to the pain and mechanics of anal sex. Most aspects of sexual activity have a certain incongruity, more often than not comic, like the urgency of Theron's ardor turned on to Ricci during the skating courtship; perhaps this was Jenkins' strategy, to display these hard women fondling moments as laughable, reductive as opposed to binding.
No Josh, I may not always do my best to penetrate collective projection in my criticism of various contra-indicators, but, just as an effeminate mimetic may be an evolutionary mechanism to curb aggression, the triggers that provoke hostility to it may equally be related to the perception of self-preservation. I'm sympathetic to Robertson only to the degree that progressives like yourself want to erase history, which conversely paves the way for worse extremes. I know.
Much of what I am posting with Blogger's adult flag banner cannot be written this way in any media, even aggregates, and though I am not paying a price now to own it, I may in the future-- the only caveat to that being I am too weak now, on average, to return to a 40, 45k salary, which is where I reasonably saw myself by now, with an IRA.
I am leaving my country one hell of a finger, opening those seams where the larvae wriggle, ghostly plump protein bodies. Happy New Year
Devane did receive the petite version of the 03 Hulk. Stricture, implosion, pretending that I am pushing back against Barro, not necessarily due to the pain and mechanics of anal sex. Most aspects of sexual activity have a certain incongruity, more often than not comic, like the urgency of Theron's ardor turned on to Ricci during the skating courtship; perhaps this was Jenkins' strategy, to display these hard women fondling moments as laughable, reductive as opposed to binding.
No Josh, I may not always do my best to penetrate collective projection in my criticism of various contra-indicators, but, just as an effeminate mimetic may be an evolutionary mechanism to curb aggression, the triggers that provoke hostility to it may equally be related to the perception of self-preservation. I'm sympathetic to Robertson only to the degree that progressives like yourself want to erase history, which conversely paves the way for worse extremes. I know.
Much of what I am posting with Blogger's adult flag banner cannot be written this way in any media, even aggregates, and though I am not paying a price now to own it, I may in the future-- the only caveat to that being I am too weak now, on average, to return to a 40, 45k salary, which is where I reasonably saw myself by now, with an IRA.
I am leaving my country one hell of a finger, opening those seams where the larvae wriggle, ghostly plump protein bodies. Happy New Year
Thursday, December 26, 2013
Burning Mississippi
Don't understand the live cams url ph listed as a traffic source, quite frankly. I am not stooping to Governor Palin's language when discussing ethnic tensions, but I often tend to forget that the Internet is not trafficked entirely by the meritocracy under pressure, and post Y2K adults were not alive during the JFK assassination. Nothing lasts, and those I may have incensed, those who may have skimmed and said "Huh?", like the third of the half of the wrong numbers on the east coast texting me to my caustic and repressed caustic rebuffs, I'll be gone soon, swallowed back into something like Rusk or like Moss or Magee. There is a significant disconnect between Philadelphia's virtual websites and the reality of its actual outdated facilities, the architecture of which is still faithful to mid-20th century industrial models. This fucking city, the vomit of its-- no, if I scald with scorn what would the point be. Staff and scrip would not just waltz to the rescue to find me a similar hovel across the pond. You don't know what you don't know until you've lived it, and the inner city/homosexual mindset is a disease. I have been intimate with it in ways my aunts and sister have not; it is not a case of hello how you doing in restrained social gatherings. I have seen too much on the inside, been made too vulnerable to it in my person. I need a respite, in much the way the Obamas can visit Hawaii when they wish.
*I am only a Magee outpatient. In the annals of rehabilitative medicine however, there is no difference in the three facilities other than time length. Rusk Institute started out tackling our massive war collateral.
*I am only a Magee outpatient. In the annals of rehabilitative medicine however, there is no difference in the three facilities other than time length. Rusk Institute started out tackling our massive war collateral.
Tuesday, December 24, 2013
J. L. Morin's City Sidewalks
"Of course this year there were no coconuts because there was a war on."-- Graham Greene
If this young and presumably promising novelist is still following me, (or even if she isn't though I would understand on both counts) what cannot be recaptured are the episodes of marvel and wonder. Even in delicately phrased special needs schools there were Christmas pageants, and while no vocal talent beheld the child in leg irons, whose creative rivulets were not geared toward pantomime, like. a nine year old oxen tilling diligently she Knew All The Words, and where the other young deformed personages stumbled, spastic, the nascent blockhead, shouldered on. Mother, father watching, the child determinedly loved this particular carol. The affection carried and the teachers ran up afterward grateful. "You saved the entire show." (I believe I was slated for transfer to Normal School as the evening concluded.)
Marvel, wonder, transcendence. City sidewalks busy sidewalks dressed in holiday style, nothing more than an urbane variation, the lack of ubiquity human nature invests in the solstice. Wide eyed nieces and nephews cannot restore it, triumph the nihilism. Destination Media is just another labor in the censored fracking of my sister Stephanie's marriage, her father absent against her Insistence that he be a grandfather to his only grandchildren. She hates Louise, archetypal stepmother, more than I, the mechanism for transference. We'd probably both like to murder our father. I do not go, as how am I to get in the house these days, warrior colon the one constant, the carryover skid marks of fecal stains on the leg brace leather, desperately trying to avoid mother haunting memory, aggregates suck.
If this young and presumably promising novelist is still following me, (or even if she isn't though I would understand on both counts) what cannot be recaptured are the episodes of marvel and wonder. Even in delicately phrased special needs schools there were Christmas pageants, and while no vocal talent beheld the child in leg irons, whose creative rivulets were not geared toward pantomime, like. a nine year old oxen tilling diligently she Knew All The Words, and where the other young deformed personages stumbled, spastic, the nascent blockhead, shouldered on. Mother, father watching, the child determinedly loved this particular carol. The affection carried and the teachers ran up afterward grateful. "You saved the entire show." (I believe I was slated for transfer to Normal School as the evening concluded.)
Marvel, wonder, transcendence. City sidewalks busy sidewalks dressed in holiday style, nothing more than an urbane variation, the lack of ubiquity human nature invests in the solstice. Wide eyed nieces and nephews cannot restore it, triumph the nihilism. Destination Media is just another labor in the censored fracking of my sister Stephanie's marriage, her father absent against her Insistence that he be a grandfather to his only grandchildren. She hates Louise, archetypal stepmother, more than I, the mechanism for transference. We'd probably both like to murder our father. I do not go, as how am I to get in the house these days, warrior colon the one constant, the carryover skid marks of fecal stains on the leg brace leather, desperately trying to avoid mother haunting memory, aggregates suck.
Monday, December 23, 2013
Immanent Apostasy
"So that if there was no Change in Bodies, no Variety in Matter, and no Vicissitude in Beings, there would be nothing agreeable, nothing good, or nothing pleasant.-- Giordano Bruno, Spaccio
Making judgments is in part how we evolved as a species. Now we destroy each other in mass aggregates of group thinking. My brother Nicholas was white, contracted AIDS off a contaminated needle, died in excruciating fashion, and yet I cannot take offense at Justine Sacco and her viral-deleted tweet. Even Caucasians of Boer descent should be allowed to be cavalier without such severe penalty as to be deprived of livelihood.
I revert to utter lack of optimism about our species. You will wipe yourselves out in 500 years or less, elevating Oakies for bread and circuses, only to fell them on urbane castigation of media arbitration. I did not read the article GQ, but since my limited mobility makes me humanoid thrice removed, toppling Sacco and Robertson is easier than faggot-defamation stalking a cripple mortally wounded by American Stalinist micro police tendencies.
I was polite to Jeff Bonforte during the yahoo mail outage, and then I had feedback from twitter resisting my courtesy. Corporations are granted anthropomorphic status for legal purposes, but the idea that they have persona elevates jackasses to post-apocalyptic status. Doesn't mean they aren't still operated by people, however, this despite liberal attempts to brandish them with genocidal intent. Big Oil, big tobacco. Humans are replaceable, but creating the Bill & Linda Gates Foundation, that is a centennial generated event, contracted through the acceleration of efficiency and data processing.
Bruno had his tongue pierced while he roasted; More was beheaded for staunch loyalty. The Inquisition is superbly modern in reverberation. Not that I'm perfect; at times the construct is left in the air, perfectly capable of being polite to Claudie when I visit Dunkin Donuts. Haiti and its unfortunate citizens, a defacto 52 state of the last western empire, fascinates me, as it did Graham Greene, screaming to Amazon that a Graham Greene quality kindle edition is an absolute necessity.
We're all martyrs for all seasons. Should I really go to Elk Forge?
Making judgments is in part how we evolved as a species. Now we destroy each other in mass aggregates of group thinking. My brother Nicholas was white, contracted AIDS off a contaminated needle, died in excruciating fashion, and yet I cannot take offense at Justine Sacco and her viral-deleted tweet. Even Caucasians of Boer descent should be allowed to be cavalier without such severe penalty as to be deprived of livelihood.
I revert to utter lack of optimism about our species. You will wipe yourselves out in 500 years or less, elevating Oakies for bread and circuses, only to fell them on urbane castigation of media arbitration. I did not read the article GQ, but since my limited mobility makes me humanoid thrice removed, toppling Sacco and Robertson is easier than faggot-defamation stalking a cripple mortally wounded by American Stalinist micro police tendencies.
I was polite to Jeff Bonforte during the yahoo mail outage, and then I had feedback from twitter resisting my courtesy. Corporations are granted anthropomorphic status for legal purposes, but the idea that they have persona elevates jackasses to post-apocalyptic status. Doesn't mean they aren't still operated by people, however, this despite liberal attempts to brandish them with genocidal intent. Big Oil, big tobacco. Humans are replaceable, but creating the Bill & Linda Gates Foundation, that is a centennial generated event, contracted through the acceleration of efficiency and data processing.
Bruno had his tongue pierced while he roasted; More was beheaded for staunch loyalty. The Inquisition is superbly modern in reverberation. Not that I'm perfect; at times the construct is left in the air, perfectly capable of being polite to Claudie when I visit Dunkin Donuts. Haiti and its unfortunate citizens, a defacto 52 state of the last western empire, fascinates me, as it did Graham Greene, screaming to Amazon that a Graham Greene quality kindle edition is an absolute necessity.
We're all martyrs for all seasons. Should I really go to Elk Forge?
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Squibs
The Dickensian Christmas, with its cozy homes, hearty dinners, and festive pleasures, is the embodiment of the Victorian Christmas.-- Tom Pold
Why the mostly antithetical relationship to the voice of Dickens? It goes back early, to the guilty imposition of presence on my academic adviser. Michael had a soft spot for Dickensian caricature, exaggerations of type. I had not yet read Casamassima, not between 82 to 85, but the Jamesian attack in this flagging middle years novel embodies some of my hostility to Dickens and type. Do you believe the modern world is any less brutal than what Oliver Twist conveys about the welfare state in the Victorian era?
My appreciation of Polanski's distinctions as an auteur come late. I did not know before 2009 that I would be setting up this topic, failing, remaining stubborn, but his interpretation of the famous tale seems uneasy. Jump cut to pastoral abstraction. By a certain hour, my temperature belies my artistry and legacy and though I hope NBC or another network runs the film again to save me the trouble, I stopped viewing after the caning. Perhaps a reflection of my intolerance for the genius of Dickens himself. I have ground to a halt in the opening chapters of Our Mutual Friend. It is the giant's voice slightly muted. I started it for a reading group thread on TLN, before the owner banned me for life (isn't this shit silly?), and trying to get through it is analogous to slicing lethargy for lard substitution. The decline of Christmas itself may be tied to the waning influence of Dickensian sentimentality. his over the top melodrama for the death of figurines like Dora, his horrific grief for prostitutes. Defenders would argue he did clear the brambles for progressive social justice.
One could also look at the family tree of influences and turn away, dismayed.
Why the mostly antithetical relationship to the voice of Dickens? It goes back early, to the guilty imposition of presence on my academic adviser. Michael had a soft spot for Dickensian caricature, exaggerations of type. I had not yet read Casamassima, not between 82 to 85, but the Jamesian attack in this flagging middle years novel embodies some of my hostility to Dickens and type. Do you believe the modern world is any less brutal than what Oliver Twist conveys about the welfare state in the Victorian era?
My appreciation of Polanski's distinctions as an auteur come late. I did not know before 2009 that I would be setting up this topic, failing, remaining stubborn, but his interpretation of the famous tale seems uneasy. Jump cut to pastoral abstraction. By a certain hour, my temperature belies my artistry and legacy and though I hope NBC or another network runs the film again to save me the trouble, I stopped viewing after the caning. Perhaps a reflection of my intolerance for the genius of Dickens himself. I have ground to a halt in the opening chapters of Our Mutual Friend. It is the giant's voice slightly muted. I started it for a reading group thread on TLN, before the owner banned me for life (isn't this shit silly?), and trying to get through it is analogous to slicing lethargy for lard substitution. The decline of Christmas itself may be tied to the waning influence of Dickensian sentimentality. his over the top melodrama for the death of figurines like Dora, his horrific grief for prostitutes. Defenders would argue he did clear the brambles for progressive social justice.
One could also look at the family tree of influences and turn away, dismayed.
Friday, December 20, 2013
Sponge Cake
Roger Greenspun pinpoints the leaky unraveling in Angel Levine as a film. The basic real time plot is Mostel witnesses a bodega theft, protests while the thief dies in a hit and run, reappears as Belafonte. From that point on we are asked by Kadar to consider the strike at hubris in the parable of Babel, and this is what I meant about lack of coherence, rather than an ambiguity of doubt. I wasn't in the frame of mind on the seventeenth to stay awake and examine the cinematography once more past the swirling kaleidoscope of fragmented effect.
Now I know where I am relocating once I charge Presby with a hate crime, civil rights violations, and a Chief Justice Roberts favorite, reverse discrimination. The secrets of exploiting the disadvantaged like slaughter house cattle are buried here, which makes my diabolical intelligence a threat to the system. Before I hired the swindling cleaning service T2S, I verbally offered Trudy a deal in return for an affidavit (not that I used the word affidavit--Trudy is a good imitation of an educated woman, but my IQ would put all three of the downstairs sisters on the defensive, and has, partly why I've survived to type this post). But fuck the deal.
Despite my lifelong education in black manner, I left the cleaning technician from Wilmington alone. I gave her space, and ninety dollars. I still lost, and I am tired of letting Protestant hypocrisy whiplash me. The fight goes on. Hopefully Dru man won't regret it if I trot on up for a visit. We'll see. Lovely holiday gift, I would think.
Now I know where I am relocating once I charge Presby with a hate crime, civil rights violations, and a Chief Justice Roberts favorite, reverse discrimination. The secrets of exploiting the disadvantaged like slaughter house cattle are buried here, which makes my diabolical intelligence a threat to the system. Before I hired the swindling cleaning service T2S, I verbally offered Trudy a deal in return for an affidavit (not that I used the word affidavit--Trudy is a good imitation of an educated woman, but my IQ would put all three of the downstairs sisters on the defensive, and has, partly why I've survived to type this post). But fuck the deal.
Despite my lifelong education in black manner, I left the cleaning technician from Wilmington alone. I gave her space, and ninety dollars. I still lost, and I am tired of letting Protestant hypocrisy whiplash me. The fight goes on. Hopefully Dru man won't regret it if I trot on up for a visit. We'll see. Lovely holiday gift, I would think.
Thursday, December 19, 2013
Black listed
And the wrought-iron maze he had explored in the kitchen like a gold miner pawing through pay dirt was in fact a revolting clump of scars. Not a tree, as she said. Maybe shaped like one, but nothing like any tree he knew because trees were inviting. -- Toni Morrison, Beloved, p. 30
Too worn out from viral inflammation which has been a constant since the moronic custodial staff put the heat on in October, I need a gynecologist. I need to be embarrassed by an already speculative infection, dirty cripple spatially trailing in a twenty second dimension above the shoulder, except it is not that simple, not to be clever enough. It is not that difficult to extrapolate the challenge of bodies and hygiene; the stereotype has some truth. Without any true diagnostic training, however, going into blind alleys are unnecessary detriments.
I do not know why I hang on to spastic dowager as an avatar. Google wants me to integrate. Examiner wants me to integrate. AT&T pities me with motherly stern reminders. An Examiner film critic on conference called the handle clever; it is.
Presby has to be dismantled, because the classification engenders schema of further exploitation. Rise up. I implore you. Now that I've incited, I have to lie down with my irritated drying skin. I may have mentioned I have soured on Hahnemann. Temple University hospital is acceptable--not necessarily better than my former nearly bankrupt caretaker, but acceptable. I hate Temple University, something I avoided discussing previously because Jerry told me not to transfer and I did anyway. Why did I get so fucked up over this angry beatnik? I will die with this fucked up entangled scar tissue for a dynamic instructor whose star has dimmed. I'd ask you to shoot me, but I'm too tired to be taken seriously.
Did I mention I worry about getting black balled? I do.
I have pushed the envelope, perhaps sorry probtheme no longer burns in my urethra, (am I?) but I haven't really really pushed. Hmm. Does my savagery shame my conceit? I have to lie down and then find a gyn, caught in the ridicule of examining pubic hair on a daily basis, battling crabs, yeast, discharges, hemorrhages. This manufactures the nihilist.
Too worn out from viral inflammation which has been a constant since the moronic custodial staff put the heat on in October, I need a gynecologist. I need to be embarrassed by an already speculative infection, dirty cripple spatially trailing in a twenty second dimension above the shoulder, except it is not that simple, not to be clever enough. It is not that difficult to extrapolate the challenge of bodies and hygiene; the stereotype has some truth. Without any true diagnostic training, however, going into blind alleys are unnecessary detriments.
I do not know why I hang on to spastic dowager as an avatar. Google wants me to integrate. Examiner wants me to integrate. AT&T pities me with motherly stern reminders. An Examiner film critic on conference called the handle clever; it is.
Presby has to be dismantled, because the classification engenders schema of further exploitation. Rise up. I implore you. Now that I've incited, I have to lie down with my irritated drying skin. I may have mentioned I have soured on Hahnemann. Temple University hospital is acceptable--not necessarily better than my former nearly bankrupt caretaker, but acceptable. I hate Temple University, something I avoided discussing previously because Jerry told me not to transfer and I did anyway. Why did I get so fucked up over this angry beatnik? I will die with this fucked up entangled scar tissue for a dynamic instructor whose star has dimmed. I'd ask you to shoot me, but I'm too tired to be taken seriously.
Did I mention I worry about getting black balled? I do.
I have pushed the envelope, perhaps sorry probtheme no longer burns in my urethra, (am I?) but I haven't really really pushed. Hmm. Does my savagery shame my conceit? I have to lie down and then find a gyn, caught in the ridicule of examining pubic hair on a daily basis, battling crabs, yeast, discharges, hemorrhages. This manufactures the nihilist.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Half Past Dead
"If it offends people you don't do it." -- an Independent Lens participant in the Liberation theology tradition.
What I really wanted Monday evening was to take my typical sitting shower. Instead I checked my enfeebled bank account, dressed, fought with the cats to let me get done, made it to Joe's, fought with the cats to return to the studio, ate a cold wrap, ate more English toffee than I should have, but stopped myself on the edge of over-indulgence, tin in the fridge. Is food shopping a twelve hour affair for you?
If I give up the pets I effectively give Little Vinnie a death sentence, but I am going to do two things this week. Battle Presby head on to transfer me out of the company within 24 months, and threaten my father with the fact that there will be consequences if I do not get an appropriate change of environment. Nothing will change about my vulnerability, but for my regular readers, would you want to stay with a landlord that gave you so much blood in the water?
Is it my impaired judgment that sees an egregious breach of ethics when under a manager named Debra Schwab, I was banned from the meal program but forced to pay for the service? This is what these companies do; it is how they operate, and they will strike at me again if I stay, in a circumstance where I might not be able to access a tenant attorney in time. Bernard Malamud was aware in the prepubescent decade of my youth how merciless and alienating big city life is; he was a fabulist in an era when Doris Lessing was only fomenting her memoirs-- but his work escaped my familiarity-- unfortunate, as The Angel Levine represents the type of fiction on which I was educated. The film is running once again this morning; it does not come together with coherence, not for me. I have attempted to be humorous about encroaching senility, but I am frightened, alone, and marvelously contemptuous of my jar of instant coffee, soluble in hot water, while ground beans are not.
Trivial things like that generate epistemological material?
What I really wanted Monday evening was to take my typical sitting shower. Instead I checked my enfeebled bank account, dressed, fought with the cats to let me get done, made it to Joe's, fought with the cats to return to the studio, ate a cold wrap, ate more English toffee than I should have, but stopped myself on the edge of over-indulgence, tin in the fridge. Is food shopping a twelve hour affair for you?
If I give up the pets I effectively give Little Vinnie a death sentence, but I am going to do two things this week. Battle Presby head on to transfer me out of the company within 24 months, and threaten my father with the fact that there will be consequences if I do not get an appropriate change of environment. Nothing will change about my vulnerability, but for my regular readers, would you want to stay with a landlord that gave you so much blood in the water?
Is it my impaired judgment that sees an egregious breach of ethics when under a manager named Debra Schwab, I was banned from the meal program but forced to pay for the service? This is what these companies do; it is how they operate, and they will strike at me again if I stay, in a circumstance where I might not be able to access a tenant attorney in time. Bernard Malamud was aware in the prepubescent decade of my youth how merciless and alienating big city life is; he was a fabulist in an era when Doris Lessing was only fomenting her memoirs-- but his work escaped my familiarity-- unfortunate, as The Angel Levine represents the type of fiction on which I was educated. The film is running once again this morning; it does not come together with coherence, not for me. I have attempted to be humorous about encroaching senility, but I am frightened, alone, and marvelously contemptuous of my jar of instant coffee, soluble in hot water, while ground beans are not.
Trivial things like that generate epistemological material?
Friday, December 13, 2013
The Faberge Egg of Ponzi Schemes
"They defended a stubbornly held view of themselves, which was that they were ordinary and in the right of it."-- Doris Lessing, kindle loc 27
Dick Polman utilizes the rule of thumb that when mainstream media zigs, you should zag in the other direction, but Jantjie is an irresistible confirmation, a nefarious joke of first order rebellion against saturated accolades of a top heavy liberal era doddering under so many finely attenuated victories. I can only imagine the swarm of stringers and interns who have contributed to the fall out, the back story juice. One flagship outlet blames Afrikaner subjugation, and I don't doubt it. I remember the townships. I also remember Winnie's gang, politely swept under the carpet for the soaring oratory. Many analogies made between apartheid and American segregation, but the Dutch settlement of Cape Town and the European bloodbath which created the United States are not quite identical. White Americans stigmatized a diverse ethnic group, including themselves, and came out of it with an uneasy plurality and an archaic bureau which yelps in decimated cycles, reminding the citizen uneasily of nineteenth century pacification.
So I pick at scabs. To what end? We could speculate that perhaps forced co-existence of diversity, such as within the absurd theocracy of public housing, doesn't work any better than the refugee camps of my favorite Afrikaner film. What District 9 says about racial hatred is not quite easy to parse, as the native Africans are and aren't integrated, and both black and Afrikaners hate the prawns.
Toe nails on ailing left foot clipped successfully, I am absolutely ecstatic that I now understand how an aggregate works, having forgotten that I posted my Blogger address in my profile statement, my poor brain dancing with pieces in my life already over-extended, and alas, now I have to troll for subscribers, but we're all in a spam lot, just like Gorden Gekko is a parody of a pissing army ant. Why Oliver Stone had to make the 2010 sequel is a bit of a dribble, not that the drool of the story line rests entirely on Douglas's shoulders. I'm beaten people, beaten even if I get the fuck out of this building, even if I feed my former supervisor her head on platter. The aesthetic vanity of a grand dame in dignified old age is beyond and away, dead alive rolling through the motions. I will stay with Examiner.com for a time, however. Sedentary lifestyle-- with patience maybe I can join the editorial team, if I can keep my thinking cap.
Dick Polman utilizes the rule of thumb that when mainstream media zigs, you should zag in the other direction, but Jantjie is an irresistible confirmation, a nefarious joke of first order rebellion against saturated accolades of a top heavy liberal era doddering under so many finely attenuated victories. I can only imagine the swarm of stringers and interns who have contributed to the fall out, the back story juice. One flagship outlet blames Afrikaner subjugation, and I don't doubt it. I remember the townships. I also remember Winnie's gang, politely swept under the carpet for the soaring oratory. Many analogies made between apartheid and American segregation, but the Dutch settlement of Cape Town and the European bloodbath which created the United States are not quite identical. White Americans stigmatized a diverse ethnic group, including themselves, and came out of it with an uneasy plurality and an archaic bureau which yelps in decimated cycles, reminding the citizen uneasily of nineteenth century pacification.
So I pick at scabs. To what end? We could speculate that perhaps forced co-existence of diversity, such as within the absurd theocracy of public housing, doesn't work any better than the refugee camps of my favorite Afrikaner film. What District 9 says about racial hatred is not quite easy to parse, as the native Africans are and aren't integrated, and both black and Afrikaners hate the prawns.
Toe nails on ailing left foot clipped successfully, I am absolutely ecstatic that I now understand how an aggregate works, having forgotten that I posted my Blogger address in my profile statement, my poor brain dancing with pieces in my life already over-extended, and alas, now I have to troll for subscribers, but we're all in a spam lot, just like Gorden Gekko is a parody of a pissing army ant. Why Oliver Stone had to make the 2010 sequel is a bit of a dribble, not that the drool of the story line rests entirely on Douglas's shoulders. I'm beaten people, beaten even if I get the fuck out of this building, even if I feed my former supervisor her head on platter. The aesthetic vanity of a grand dame in dignified old age is beyond and away, dead alive rolling through the motions. I will stay with Examiner.com for a time, however. Sedentary lifestyle-- with patience maybe I can join the editorial team, if I can keep my thinking cap.
Monday, December 9, 2013
Feline Separation Rift
I raised my voice to my orphan because I was in the middle of writing digital fish wrapping [I AM NOT A PHOTOGRAPHER] and I have to laugh. My boys, living and deceased alike, scuttle under the bed when I really lose my temper because I am not a saint in this confined space. Girls are different. Kimmy rolled in my sweater on the floor and said mom you know I'm adorable.
It worked. She is adorable. I am going to attempt a cell phone conference with Examiners Clarity owners on Tuesday. Attempt, one PM my time. Why? To get myself banned? (Not that they care what I do or say detach or stay with them one way or another...) but right now they are all I have. Ahem. Going to try a straight news piece soon, as they seem to like it so short I can cull a secondary back piece even if I cannot rattle a fresh source quote quickly, so perhaps it would be useful to reign in a fusillade (ahem).
This is not the kind of journalist I am. I know it's a business, and that Fox kills people for the sake of covert practices, and I am a fiery bitch on Google's largesse, but I'm troubled, all the same. Spam in the can.
It worked. She is adorable. I am going to attempt a cell phone conference with Examiners Clarity owners on Tuesday. Attempt, one PM my time. Why? To get myself banned? (Not that they care what I do or say detach or stay with them one way or another...) but right now they are all I have. Ahem. Going to try a straight news piece soon, as they seem to like it so short I can cull a secondary back piece even if I cannot rattle a fresh source quote quickly, so perhaps it would be useful to reign in a fusillade (ahem).
This is not the kind of journalist I am. I know it's a business, and that Fox kills people for the sake of covert practices, and I am a fiery bitch on Google's largesse, but I'm troubled, all the same. Spam in the can.
Constrained in Sequins
"I don't know why I want to write you
now."-- Robert Thomas, translating heritage.
Anyone who remembers the golden age of Eisenhower matinee as an adult is dead, thus this is a qualification to the inexplicable mystery of why men found Lana Turner a worthwhile trophy hard on. It is baffling. Marilyn Monroe is self-explanatory, like her latter day counterpart, Goldie Hawn, who may have upgraded the motif, but followed in its tradition with sterling lack of deviation. Grace Kelly was upper echelon. Doris Day was barefoot and pregnant, the girl scout type. But Lana Turner? Golden heart ho?
Loretta Young wasn't marketed to men. On the contrary, her capital as a Hollywood diva was her appeal to my mother. The nuclear family tensions beneath the surface, the cover up of the crime worse than the crime itself. Despite obstacles, if you do not violate the theatrical laws of time and scene your sacrifice shall be duly noted, rewarded in the end. The model has been deconstructed a thousand times over in feminist literary theory. I am not interested in defending it so much as interested in the anxiety which threatens Young's constraint through the course of her career, caught in a high wire act between obedience, independence within her own movement, sacrifice to the pressures of the patriarchy with the implicit acknowledgment that she will be granted a degree of autonomy if she behaves, a more talented and palatable Joan Crawford. Crawford was often histrionic because she scared the living shit out of you, and probably saved a few men the trouble of a vasectomy. Loretta was a more honeyed variation, not immune to the sensibility of threat.
now."-- Robert Thomas, translating heritage.
Anyone who remembers the golden age of Eisenhower matinee as an adult is dead, thus this is a qualification to the inexplicable mystery of why men found Lana Turner a worthwhile trophy hard on. It is baffling. Marilyn Monroe is self-explanatory, like her latter day counterpart, Goldie Hawn, who may have upgraded the motif, but followed in its tradition with sterling lack of deviation. Grace Kelly was upper echelon. Doris Day was barefoot and pregnant, the girl scout type. But Lana Turner? Golden heart ho?
Loretta Young wasn't marketed to men. On the contrary, her capital as a Hollywood diva was her appeal to my mother. The nuclear family tensions beneath the surface, the cover up of the crime worse than the crime itself. Despite obstacles, if you do not violate the theatrical laws of time and scene your sacrifice shall be duly noted, rewarded in the end. The model has been deconstructed a thousand times over in feminist literary theory. I am not interested in defending it so much as interested in the anxiety which threatens Young's constraint through the course of her career, caught in a high wire act between obedience, independence within her own movement, sacrifice to the pressures of the patriarchy with the implicit acknowledgment that she will be granted a degree of autonomy if she behaves, a more talented and palatable Joan Crawford. Crawford was often histrionic because she scared the living shit out of you, and probably saved a few men the trouble of a vasectomy. Loretta was a more honeyed variation, not immune to the sensibility of threat.
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Up for air
"The soup that eats like a meal," a copywriter's cashier check.
The Dreiser estate should have sued Paramount posthumously for the hatchet job that is A Place in the Sun (1951). Whatever one feels about the great American movement authors in their milieu, the farther away we move from them, An American Tragedy is a nuanced labor that deserves the sweat of a reader's commitment and a scriptwriter's respect. Clift manages somehow to project the clueless demeanor that reasonably captures Clyde Griffiths wishful fast track waltz, but only just. I spent a great deal of time self-teaching the novel to myself before the kindle Paperwhite was born and my 2nd generation model was hot stuff, and it is a depressing book, one that upends American culture through deployment of the nuclear option, far greater in literary impact than Majority Leader Harry Reid's institutional scuttle of the filibuster. I'll freely admit I am not prepared to open the fuchsia casing that holds my most charming Amazon device and give you my notes and points this morning.
I rather hit a brick wall after I hired that cleaning company for nothing. A real wall, deeper than the reality of my bigotry. I'm tired, and almost ready to just pay the ultimate penalty, roll myself down to the office and tell my female minority wardens who I would slur but that would be a cheap shot, that they win, and they may inform their superiors that I will fold, and be placed in a hell like Inglis House. If I do that, I only increase a likelihood that a renewed major depression will finish me off, strapped and bound, an intravenous of joy juice burying me in Tarkovsky's voided afterlife. The Russian version is better than the Clooney Solaris upgrade, more in keeping with Lem's genius and mastery of genre that transcends collectivism.
I cannot suicide, but I can no longer truly hope to vindicate myself either and I know it. I can fight vigorously and transfer out of Presby, and that may happen. My sister and I are now in a marginal truce, and my mother's sister wants me back in middle brow Catholic suburbia, trading in little Italy nigger city once again for Caucasian gated sublet life I left behind because of my graduate student obsession, a sounding fury masquerade.
I was a stupid girl and I regret it but I've said that before, but the price has--I can no longer do what it takes to hope for a reasonable level of affluence as I head to my mid fifties. On that note, let me welcome Staff and Scrip. Finally a European who knows how to put on a fiery argument!
The Dreiser estate should have sued Paramount posthumously for the hatchet job that is A Place in the Sun (1951). Whatever one feels about the great American movement authors in their milieu, the farther away we move from them, An American Tragedy is a nuanced labor that deserves the sweat of a reader's commitment and a scriptwriter's respect. Clift manages somehow to project the clueless demeanor that reasonably captures Clyde Griffiths wishful fast track waltz, but only just. I spent a great deal of time self-teaching the novel to myself before the kindle Paperwhite was born and my 2nd generation model was hot stuff, and it is a depressing book, one that upends American culture through deployment of the nuclear option, far greater in literary impact than Majority Leader Harry Reid's institutional scuttle of the filibuster. I'll freely admit I am not prepared to open the fuchsia casing that holds my most charming Amazon device and give you my notes and points this morning.
I rather hit a brick wall after I hired that cleaning company for nothing. A real wall, deeper than the reality of my bigotry. I'm tired, and almost ready to just pay the ultimate penalty, roll myself down to the office and tell my female minority wardens who I would slur but that would be a cheap shot, that they win, and they may inform their superiors that I will fold, and be placed in a hell like Inglis House. If I do that, I only increase a likelihood that a renewed major depression will finish me off, strapped and bound, an intravenous of joy juice burying me in Tarkovsky's voided afterlife. The Russian version is better than the Clooney Solaris upgrade, more in keeping with Lem's genius and mastery of genre that transcends collectivism.
I cannot suicide, but I can no longer truly hope to vindicate myself either and I know it. I can fight vigorously and transfer out of Presby, and that may happen. My sister and I are now in a marginal truce, and my mother's sister wants me back in middle brow Catholic suburbia, trading in little Italy nigger city once again for Caucasian gated sublet life I left behind because of my graduate student obsession, a sounding fury masquerade.
I was a stupid girl and I regret it but I've said that before, but the price has--I can no longer do what it takes to hope for a reasonable level of affluence as I head to my mid fifties. On that note, let me welcome Staff and Scrip. Finally a European who knows how to put on a fiery argument!
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Kurdstantinople
and for the next I think about three days, the president will lie in -- the former president will lie in state.-- Charlayne Hunter-Gault
I do not mean to suggest, in my Ifill post, that prominent African Americans are responsible for the fact that I get it from all sides. Henry Louis Gates did not create North Philadelphia's destitution any more than I manufactured Glenn Beck, but there is an essential disconnect between Dr. Gates, his historical admonishments, his genetic challenges to the very identity he embraces, and the reality of life on the ground in urban corridors, whether those corridors are west coast, the LA-Compton track, or east coast, which extends from the DC metro grid and hits a speed bump roughly at Hartford's city line in CT (when she wishes spastic is an amateur demographics expert).
Bill Cosby shares my traditionalism in this regard, and I respect the comedian for his early first decade efforts to speak the truth to northeast urban black communities (and Cosby's middle aged bigot he created for K-12 sociology instruction is also a mimetic simulation of the angry retractive jackass into which my civic duty has contorted). But, and this is what I keep driving at-- Cosby's honesty lacks the spearheaded pretensions of Gates and his indignation with white privilege. The only effect my father's denigrating attitude about blacks had on blacks themselves was his exodus from the city and the tax revenue that went with it. At the end of the day, I detached myself from every minority paraprofessional: partly discomfort, partly contempt, but in a number of instances, also an instinctual need for self-preservation.
The time to shine technician did not hurt me; maybe she did not take my dates, knowingly throw out my wheelchair tools, or pay attention to my dress skirt on the bar I purchased to interview locally on my grid, but she is the last blue collar minority I will allow within five feet of my personal space, excepting police or EMS. Yes, I am a quadriplegic, but I'm done, however I have to square that reality.
I do not mean to suggest, in my Ifill post, that prominent African Americans are responsible for the fact that I get it from all sides. Henry Louis Gates did not create North Philadelphia's destitution any more than I manufactured Glenn Beck, but there is an essential disconnect between Dr. Gates, his historical admonishments, his genetic challenges to the very identity he embraces, and the reality of life on the ground in urban corridors, whether those corridors are west coast, the LA-Compton track, or east coast, which extends from the DC metro grid and hits a speed bump roughly at Hartford's city line in CT (when she wishes spastic is an amateur demographics expert).
Bill Cosby shares my traditionalism in this regard, and I respect the comedian for his early first decade efforts to speak the truth to northeast urban black communities (and Cosby's middle aged bigot he created for K-12 sociology instruction is also a mimetic simulation of the angry retractive jackass into which my civic duty has contorted). But, and this is what I keep driving at-- Cosby's honesty lacks the spearheaded pretensions of Gates and his indignation with white privilege. The only effect my father's denigrating attitude about blacks had on blacks themselves was his exodus from the city and the tax revenue that went with it. At the end of the day, I detached myself from every minority paraprofessional: partly discomfort, partly contempt, but in a number of instances, also an instinctual need for self-preservation.
The time to shine technician did not hurt me; maybe she did not take my dates, knowingly throw out my wheelchair tools, or pay attention to my dress skirt on the bar I purchased to interview locally on my grid, but she is the last blue collar minority I will allow within five feet of my personal space, excepting police or EMS. Yes, I am a quadriplegic, but I'm done, however I have to square that reality.
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Gwen Ifill, Postpartum Rinses
I may email Dr. Gates, because this is how my mind works. Engage with enemies who were unfairly arrested after I have unfairly been scarred living in terror, in Philadelphia's Beirut war-zone mock up of an inner city, across the street from a state campus from my 23rd year. The entitlement which radiates from Henry Louis Gates is refined with restrained ebullience, but the difference between pride and conceit has its own continuum. The man projects pompous inflation, and if I have shut myself off from the history of the African diaspora, what would I expect of a response?
Not that there would be one--but I'd ask for an accounting. Filching may be a time honored tradition in custodial work, and I do not mean to take fiascoes with cleaning companies all that seriously, but I returned to Philly as a young woman to succeed, not to have to struggle an entire lifetime against nearly unremitting threat and relentless superhuman effort for my place at the table.
Gwen Ifill and I had a moderated 30 second exchange on WaPo's website. Do not ask me about what. Like a diligent anchor, she wrote I could download the Newshour for my iPad as well! Is information and education necessarily tied to markets in this way necessarily the best we can do? Is this beneficial to the human mindset, regionally? Globally? I recall Ford's lawyering up on Gwen when she only mildly pressed the politician during his primary run about family corruption. Politico might have kept on it-- but my point is more about social burrowing and the value or lack thereof of exposure.
I have barely eaten all day, and wish I could laugh about it, but I rode this grim route in my twenties; I'd rather be dead than repeat the experience.
Not that there would be one--but I'd ask for an accounting. Filching may be a time honored tradition in custodial work, and I do not mean to take fiascoes with cleaning companies all that seriously, but I returned to Philly as a young woman to succeed, not to have to struggle an entire lifetime against nearly unremitting threat and relentless superhuman effort for my place at the table.
Gwen Ifill and I had a moderated 30 second exchange on WaPo's website. Do not ask me about what. Like a diligent anchor, she wrote I could download the Newshour for my iPad as well! Is information and education necessarily tied to markets in this way necessarily the best we can do? Is this beneficial to the human mindset, regionally? Globally? I recall Ford's lawyering up on Gwen when she only mildly pressed the politician during his primary run about family corruption. Politico might have kept on it-- but my point is more about social burrowing and the value or lack thereof of exposure.
I have barely eaten all day, and wish I could laugh about it, but I rode this grim route in my twenties; I'd rather be dead than repeat the experience.
Monday, December 2, 2013
Easter Parade, Severely
"It is a street where poverty meets ambition." -- John Steinbeck hosting O'Henry adaptations
When I was in 11th grade Steinbeck was a deity. Grapes of Wrath was a masterpiece I never yet repurchased and remember my lessons about the text with some clarity. Seeing Steinbeck projected on digital flat screen narrating O'Henry's sentimental vignettes humanizes him, Dust Bowl reporter extraordinaire, an old man even prior to writing Travels With Charlie. Small microcosms like that, the little episodic revelations, make my thankless task here worth it, not writing to please you, but myself. Steinbeck would smash the ten commandments over my skull due to my learned intolerance. My sister chastised me through her torrential tears. All blacks are not the same, this between bouts of anguish. Her boozer husband had an alleged affair and my eldest niece has MS, and this is why I feel living in the sterile vanguard of Richard Yates, and don't care, but she is still my little sister, with all her sins, terminations. She does not have to deal with the black working class the way I do, Stephanie, my valley girl younger sister who siphons narcissism out of the room, finally settled on being a nurse, the 1400 she owes me gone, but this is sisters. Do I hate her?
No, not akin to how I hate certain classes of activists, but our relationship will henceforth be wary.
Capitalism did not solve my problem with minority exploitation of my disability. Cleaning lady damaged my new interview skirt, tossed some personal effects, and may have filched my food. I am going to take this out on the building manager, Trudy Richardson, also black, whose career seems to benefit from my economic duress in these circumstances. You, no doubt, see my causal links as unfair, (and they are, as Caucasian managers equally benefit from my containment) but I frankly remain indifferent. Black women of certain caste and type victimize me. I've put up with this for a very long time, and fail to envision requisite solutions. If not the custodial staff of this company it will be a future aide on some model via Medicare or Caid. My sister does not have African Americans in her home, rushing about trashing things without asking because their labor is high pressure stress. Furious internal struggle about keeping verbal agreement for second paid visit or not. I fall behind, best of intentions notwithstanding. Complaining to the hustler in charge won't do any good; kicking my landlord's ass keeps me flagged. What a wonderful life.
When I was in 11th grade Steinbeck was a deity. Grapes of Wrath was a masterpiece I never yet repurchased and remember my lessons about the text with some clarity. Seeing Steinbeck projected on digital flat screen narrating O'Henry's sentimental vignettes humanizes him, Dust Bowl reporter extraordinaire, an old man even prior to writing Travels With Charlie. Small microcosms like that, the little episodic revelations, make my thankless task here worth it, not writing to please you, but myself. Steinbeck would smash the ten commandments over my skull due to my learned intolerance. My sister chastised me through her torrential tears. All blacks are not the same, this between bouts of anguish. Her boozer husband had an alleged affair and my eldest niece has MS, and this is why I feel living in the sterile vanguard of Richard Yates, and don't care, but she is still my little sister, with all her sins, terminations. She does not have to deal with the black working class the way I do, Stephanie, my valley girl younger sister who siphons narcissism out of the room, finally settled on being a nurse, the 1400 she owes me gone, but this is sisters. Do I hate her?
No, not akin to how I hate certain classes of activists, but our relationship will henceforth be wary.
Capitalism did not solve my problem with minority exploitation of my disability. Cleaning lady damaged my new interview skirt, tossed some personal effects, and may have filched my food. I am going to take this out on the building manager, Trudy Richardson, also black, whose career seems to benefit from my economic duress in these circumstances. You, no doubt, see my causal links as unfair, (and they are, as Caucasian managers equally benefit from my containment) but I frankly remain indifferent. Black women of certain caste and type victimize me. I've put up with this for a very long time, and fail to envision requisite solutions. If not the custodial staff of this company it will be a future aide on some model via Medicare or Caid. My sister does not have African Americans in her home, rushing about trashing things without asking because their labor is high pressure stress. Furious internal struggle about keeping verbal agreement for second paid visit or not. I fall behind, best of intentions notwithstanding. Complaining to the hustler in charge won't do any good; kicking my landlord's ass keeps me flagged. What a wonderful life.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Viral Encephalitis
It is comparatively easy to dismiss Richard Yates. His novels are dated, and not particularly in a charming way, with only Richard Price's introduction standing out as a heart felt affectation. Yet every white nuclear family seems to undergo some form of sublet breakdown that destroy Frank and Alice. The Everyman edition I purchased is bound as well as an LOA edition, yet I am not sure what to do with it. I would not get much attempting to resell it used, wearing brave faces. Every holiday seems marked by increments of tragedy in my family, and tonight, rest assured, I just don't have the stones, this either for revelation or gloating of the sort that led to Christopher Dorner's unique signature of death by manhunt. This site is Pinerest managed shit, and what I am reduced to dealing with at my age. I no longer know the use, I truly do not.
You cannot see the extent of my corrosive malevolence, the sort that led to ISP tracking when I lashed out at Josie Byzek and the dyke free radicals didn't like it-- but it is a malevolence made all that much stronger. Lack of control, increased marginalization, these will do it, and I have written about payback, in the old fashioned Victorian sense of comeuppance fracturing hubris; it does not change the psychology of middle child sisters who believe everyone else should keep them afloat, does not change her children carry the triggers into the next generation on the sins of the father. The projective powers of Magneto and Xavier in the X-Men franchise are entertaining; take them seriously and discover that delusional states lead to injury, and yet, beneath the surface, the process of thought has to derive from some sort of reflective neuron activity. Can emotional pain run so deep that it can have a collective ripple effect? I saw a summary of one study suggesting as much.
You cannot see the extent of my corrosive malevolence, the sort that led to ISP tracking when I lashed out at Josie Byzek and the dyke free radicals didn't like it-- but it is a malevolence made all that much stronger. Lack of control, increased marginalization, these will do it, and I have written about payback, in the old fashioned Victorian sense of comeuppance fracturing hubris; it does not change the psychology of middle child sisters who believe everyone else should keep them afloat, does not change her children carry the triggers into the next generation on the sins of the father. The projective powers of Magneto and Xavier in the X-Men franchise are entertaining; take them seriously and discover that delusional states lead to injury, and yet, beneath the surface, the process of thought has to derive from some sort of reflective neuron activity. Can emotional pain run so deep that it can have a collective ripple effect? I saw a summary of one study suggesting as much.
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Intransigent Poultry Farms
"This sounds like a very old story told in a new voice."-- Yusef Komunyakaa
Rosemary Murphy's animated death narrative in Milcho Manchevski's 2001 Dust had more of an impact than the story deserves. We've seen this kind of thing before done better in other contexts, the ferocious struggle with letting go as the body fails and the will defies, longing for a cigarette more than sex, which is seemingly the longing of every intellect seeking deliverance, including Svevo, which is indicative of necessity. Smokers should be allowed to die in peace. Rosemary's Prue is not central to Manchevski's Ottoman love story. Her character is absent, not solely because it is a history of her multi-ethnic conception. She is trapped by a past to which she is so bound that her only outlet is embellishment, a particularly eastern, Turkish conceit. It is an attractive absence, like my on again off again dialectic with the poet Robert Thomas.
I have engaged with him as a poet myself for many years, and he and his wife Cheryl and myself met briefly during a University of Pennsylvania's attempt at hybridization of the traditional literary reading. The hybridization failed; the coffee house in which the reading took place has shuttered its doors, our mothers have expired, Robert and I are still slugging it out in our fifties, and sixties in his case, with me cratering in to an overwhelmed nearly destitute obsolescence, wondering about his art, my own, my struggle to comply with marketable demand.
There is no need to over-analyze that our vocational endeavor made us friends, Robert and I, but what the hell is it that this relation is digitally derived? We are and aren't familiar to each other, and I have restrained the worst aspects, my lack of reticence, because I appreciate his aesthetic skill without resentment. His motifs are so different I appreciate them without desire of emulation. Not that I can't consider some of his strategies in comparison to mine, inclusive of hedging minute portions of envious snot for his bylines which every creative writer wants. Meaning I'll never see space in Poetry Magazine. My technique would never please Don Share nor his successors. And since I am perfectly attuned and stereotypical of the anonymous miserable poet, that's fine. I tried Poetry once. Perhaps there is a rebound goal on my deathbed.
For the sake of veracity, however, most authors and writers lives are not changed substantially, even by success.
Rosemary Murphy's animated death narrative in Milcho Manchevski's 2001 Dust had more of an impact than the story deserves. We've seen this kind of thing before done better in other contexts, the ferocious struggle with letting go as the body fails and the will defies, longing for a cigarette more than sex, which is seemingly the longing of every intellect seeking deliverance, including Svevo, which is indicative of necessity. Smokers should be allowed to die in peace. Rosemary's Prue is not central to Manchevski's Ottoman love story. Her character is absent, not solely because it is a history of her multi-ethnic conception. She is trapped by a past to which she is so bound that her only outlet is embellishment, a particularly eastern, Turkish conceit. It is an attractive absence, like my on again off again dialectic with the poet Robert Thomas.
I have engaged with him as a poet myself for many years, and he and his wife Cheryl and myself met briefly during a University of Pennsylvania's attempt at hybridization of the traditional literary reading. The hybridization failed; the coffee house in which the reading took place has shuttered its doors, our mothers have expired, Robert and I are still slugging it out in our fifties, and sixties in his case, with me cratering in to an overwhelmed nearly destitute obsolescence, wondering about his art, my own, my struggle to comply with marketable demand.
There is no need to over-analyze that our vocational endeavor made us friends, Robert and I, but what the hell is it that this relation is digitally derived? We are and aren't familiar to each other, and I have restrained the worst aspects, my lack of reticence, because I appreciate his aesthetic skill without resentment. His motifs are so different I appreciate them without desire of emulation. Not that I can't consider some of his strategies in comparison to mine, inclusive of hedging minute portions of envious snot for his bylines which every creative writer wants. Meaning I'll never see space in Poetry Magazine. My technique would never please Don Share nor his successors. And since I am perfectly attuned and stereotypical of the anonymous miserable poet, that's fine. I tried Poetry once. Perhaps there is a rebound goal on my deathbed.
For the sake of veracity, however, most authors and writers lives are not changed substantially, even by success.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Malls and Mood Rings
Real bone ash is chemically inert and free of organic matters. -- Axner Pottery Supply
Ted Danson never quite made it to the top of the A list, unless Cheers at its peek is equivalent to Clark Gable not giving a damn as Dixie smoldered. Our favorite libertarian bar tender is now just a familiar face who can graft into series as filler. The two greatest romances of my network epoch were Steve Austin and Lindsay uniting the orthopedic ward cheering our first tacky cyborg lovers, though how that would actually work at face value raises interesting issues. Would it have been piston oil coitus?
The other was Ted Danson and Shelley Long. I was as invested in that chemistry as the rest of you, hooting and swooning and wondering if I'd survive or die gladly with that kind of Yankee bronco fuck, but the man could never propel himself aloft toward deification after the series ended, perhaps because his character's feather weight gravity in Cousins couldn't ground the actor into really challenging roles. The Canadian birthday cake pastoral suited the plane on which his ambition hovered, betrayals and regroupings playing themselves out in Vancouver's postcard version of an American metropolis, indulgent, pretty to look at, generating nausea up digestion.
Two interesting moments within the episode arcs: Rossellini with her lip bleeding when the couple consummated their revenge. It was not an authentic sexual expression it itself, but catches something about seven year itches which hits the right note, and made me chuckle at my escapades, and Petersen in the doorway afterward, with his beer. He hits weird notes as an actor in forgettable ensembles, cutting his dialogue in key moments, imprinting memory. Danson transplants him in this remake, only to replace Petersen as CSI's driving force. One with diminished stature the other only gained as the deaf forensics expert.
I pity Gallagher's daughter. Eight years old, and her affluent well educated mother has her diagnosed because her tantrums are *violent rages*. Do any of us ever stop to wonder whether or not a species should trust its own efficacy to reprogram itself? I had a few bitter altercations with my mother. We served to trigger each other. But my developmental physiology mimics emotional fluxes that in my mother were dangerous, and thus made me overwrought. This poor kid already has life long inadequacy grilled right into her psyche; here's hoping mom gets payback. Parents are well meaning enemies, but often can't envision long term consequences.
No two trajectories of every emotional aberration are the same, and as someone who was branded from the moment I was bundled into an incubator, I do not have to imagine the stigma the Gallagher's institutional paradigm inflicts on their eleven year old girl, their alarm at her volleys. I have not experienced them, but I spent a lifetime coping with them, in autistic deaf dumb and blind children, in my own institutional youth grafting, let alone my dead career. This professor's clutch on the throttle may harm as much as mitigate her child's behavior. My mother's censure and judgment did as much to me, especially when she was under her own psychiatric treatment, waltzed into Shriner's to push my buttons, among other items on the lengthy laundry list we accrue into maturity.
Ted Danson never quite made it to the top of the A list, unless Cheers at its peek is equivalent to Clark Gable not giving a damn as Dixie smoldered. Our favorite libertarian bar tender is now just a familiar face who can graft into series as filler. The two greatest romances of my network epoch were Steve Austin and Lindsay uniting the orthopedic ward cheering our first tacky cyborg lovers, though how that would actually work at face value raises interesting issues. Would it have been piston oil coitus?
The other was Ted Danson and Shelley Long. I was as invested in that chemistry as the rest of you, hooting and swooning and wondering if I'd survive or die gladly with that kind of Yankee bronco fuck, but the man could never propel himself aloft toward deification after the series ended, perhaps because his character's feather weight gravity in Cousins couldn't ground the actor into really challenging roles. The Canadian birthday cake pastoral suited the plane on which his ambition hovered, betrayals and regroupings playing themselves out in Vancouver's postcard version of an American metropolis, indulgent, pretty to look at, generating nausea up digestion.
Two interesting moments within the episode arcs: Rossellini with her lip bleeding when the couple consummated their revenge. It was not an authentic sexual expression it itself, but catches something about seven year itches which hits the right note, and made me chuckle at my escapades, and Petersen in the doorway afterward, with his beer. He hits weird notes as an actor in forgettable ensembles, cutting his dialogue in key moments, imprinting memory. Danson transplants him in this remake, only to replace Petersen as CSI's driving force. One with diminished stature the other only gained as the deaf forensics expert.
I pity Gallagher's daughter. Eight years old, and her affluent well educated mother has her diagnosed because her tantrums are *violent rages*. Do any of us ever stop to wonder whether or not a species should trust its own efficacy to reprogram itself? I had a few bitter altercations with my mother. We served to trigger each other. But my developmental physiology mimics emotional fluxes that in my mother were dangerous, and thus made me overwrought. This poor kid already has life long inadequacy grilled right into her psyche; here's hoping mom gets payback. Parents are well meaning enemies, but often can't envision long term consequences.
No two trajectories of every emotional aberration are the same, and as someone who was branded from the moment I was bundled into an incubator, I do not have to imagine the stigma the Gallagher's institutional paradigm inflicts on their eleven year old girl, their alarm at her volleys. I have not experienced them, but I spent a lifetime coping with them, in autistic deaf dumb and blind children, in my own institutional youth grafting, let alone my dead career. This professor's clutch on the throttle may harm as much as mitigate her child's behavior. My mother's censure and judgment did as much to me, especially when she was under her own psychiatric treatment, waltzed into Shriner's to push my buttons, among other items on the lengthy laundry list we accrue into maturity.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Hegel in Vancouver
"Married men and married women can only be close friends in large crowds."-- Ted Danson, has been heart candy.
Aunt Marie fell earlier in the week, broke her wrist. I did not tell her ancient cunning "I told you so," but I told her over the summer to begin the process of case managing her decline. She claimed she wasn't ready. Now that she is in pain with a joint fracture which will not heal properly, she is "ready to throw everything to PCA," and mildly incensed me by saying she doesn't know how I do it with one hand. She is old and in excruciating pain, but Jesus H Fucking Christ I need a new set of colorful expletives. I considered poon in the sense Ellroy uses it, but as slang it is more rancid and degenerative than I care to be. Barriers need not be built so thick.
I spent the early years of my childhood shuttled from row home to row home to row home, yellowed with cellophane lamp shades and plastic upholstery, Marie's included, on my knees on her kitchen linoleum as a monkey child screaming at her Rottweiler, thinking it was going to eat me, which led Uncle Richie to yell at me for frightening the damn dog, the tumors in his chest floating into place with T-1 switches, then I lived with her prior to my entry into the steaming dung of North Philadelphia, but the bigotry rolls like kidney stones from colon polyps.
Any time blacks start something between Temple University and Drexel, it becomes an international incident, but drive byes in Kensington, robberies in West Philly, these are slasher lede segments for the local broadcasts (Fox still sleeps with Coppola's opera; as a local network they believe traditional mafia is still relevant). I have been dealing with the guilt terror in that street thief's face, even if the kid has a defense to play, for 27 years now. It is the face of every black man who cannot matriculate into a professional niche within the business class. It is the face that destroyed whatever liberal creed I had twisted in my vaginal mucous when I migrated back, the face that angrily moved me rightward, the face that allows me to lose intimidation if I set out to teach Spike Lee something about humility.
Of the 600k minorities who legally reside in this large but dilapidated urban grid, two thirds of their children are texting me in face time audio urging me to "get mommy out of the toilet." My restraint has been admirable; it shall not last. In studio when I feel the need I toss the 5c in my canvas and hook it where I can access it. That alone helps me relax, but having matured from a vigorous 30 something into a bitter hag sow on Internet screens, sexting Jobs rib cage is beyond my day dreams.
Aunt Marie fell earlier in the week, broke her wrist. I did not tell her ancient cunning "I told you so," but I told her over the summer to begin the process of case managing her decline. She claimed she wasn't ready. Now that she is in pain with a joint fracture which will not heal properly, she is "ready to throw everything to PCA," and mildly incensed me by saying she doesn't know how I do it with one hand. She is old and in excruciating pain, but Jesus H Fucking Christ I need a new set of colorful expletives. I considered poon in the sense Ellroy uses it, but as slang it is more rancid and degenerative than I care to be. Barriers need not be built so thick.
I spent the early years of my childhood shuttled from row home to row home to row home, yellowed with cellophane lamp shades and plastic upholstery, Marie's included, on my knees on her kitchen linoleum as a monkey child screaming at her Rottweiler, thinking it was going to eat me, which led Uncle Richie to yell at me for frightening the damn dog, the tumors in his chest floating into place with T-1 switches, then I lived with her prior to my entry into the steaming dung of North Philadelphia, but the bigotry rolls like kidney stones from colon polyps.
Any time blacks start something between Temple University and Drexel, it becomes an international incident, but drive byes in Kensington, robberies in West Philly, these are slasher lede segments for the local broadcasts (Fox still sleeps with Coppola's opera; as a local network they believe traditional mafia is still relevant). I have been dealing with the guilt terror in that street thief's face, even if the kid has a defense to play, for 27 years now. It is the face of every black man who cannot matriculate into a professional niche within the business class. It is the face that destroyed whatever liberal creed I had twisted in my vaginal mucous when I migrated back, the face that angrily moved me rightward, the face that allows me to lose intimidation if I set out to teach Spike Lee something about humility.
Of the 600k minorities who legally reside in this large but dilapidated urban grid, two thirds of their children are texting me in face time audio urging me to "get mommy out of the toilet." My restraint has been admirable; it shall not last. In studio when I feel the need I toss the 5c in my canvas and hook it where I can access it. That alone helps me relax, but having matured from a vigorous 30 something into a bitter hag sow on Internet screens, sexting Jobs rib cage is beyond my day dreams.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Virtua Q610
To soothe the City Kitties breast, here is their little girl illustrating why Medicare actuaries should be flown to Polish secret rendition facilities. Retail price assembled runs about 7k, and the damn motor is so slow it would kill me on the Parkway. I'll update this later.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Hackman's Armature
"Aging is a disease."-- Jonathan Weiner
Not four hours after uploading Turnstile, drifting into Weiner's obsession with gerontology, and balking despite symmetrical mindsets, the Apple 5c pings me into a Hollywood lesbian's group messaging circle. Despite the encroachment of late spring indigence with less and less ability to counteract it, I am not beyond a certain level of bemused sniggering at interconnected folly. I queried Diane Anderson-Minshall roughly two years ago with a cinema centered pitch, one in which I am still interested, for Curve Magazine, with minor diabolical motives on my part: Once in the gateway, there is no harm in keeping an eye out on gay glamour confetti. I mentioned Josie's name in the pitch to indicate I had associates. Diane did not respond, and I am mature enough to understand those odds, but never imagined importing Gmail into an iPhone would open the shutter on this woman's privacy, which, even within my psychological hostility, wouldn't be fair. Necessity being the mother of literacy as well as invention, I managed to shut off group messaging, and then fussed to both aunts before finally sinking under REM activity. I balk at this level of obtrusiveness in texting, and the fact that I held onto to her editorial email doesn't mean I want to read her fluff about getting ready for school.
Funny, none the less.
The European rendition of The Birdcage is superior to the American version. Lane and Hackman have a valiant pillow fight, but the foreign release is better grounded in the trigger ignitions of gender identity. Now that I am really sabotaging what's left of my career ambitions, my twilight zone may have a few intriguing page dates left, si?
Weiner's view on biological entropy is far too fixated on stability and stasis.
Not four hours after uploading Turnstile, drifting into Weiner's obsession with gerontology, and balking despite symmetrical mindsets, the Apple 5c pings me into a Hollywood lesbian's group messaging circle. Despite the encroachment of late spring indigence with less and less ability to counteract it, I am not beyond a certain level of bemused sniggering at interconnected folly. I queried Diane Anderson-Minshall roughly two years ago with a cinema centered pitch, one in which I am still interested, for Curve Magazine, with minor diabolical motives on my part: Once in the gateway, there is no harm in keeping an eye out on gay glamour confetti. I mentioned Josie's name in the pitch to indicate I had associates. Diane did not respond, and I am mature enough to understand those odds, but never imagined importing Gmail into an iPhone would open the shutter on this woman's privacy, which, even within my psychological hostility, wouldn't be fair. Necessity being the mother of literacy as well as invention, I managed to shut off group messaging, and then fussed to both aunts before finally sinking under REM activity. I balk at this level of obtrusiveness in texting, and the fact that I held onto to her editorial email doesn't mean I want to read her fluff about getting ready for school.
Funny, none the less.
The European rendition of The Birdcage is superior to the American version. Lane and Hackman have a valiant pillow fight, but the foreign release is better grounded in the trigger ignitions of gender identity. Now that I am really sabotaging what's left of my career ambitions, my twilight zone may have a few intriguing page dates left, si?
Weiner's view on biological entropy is far too fixated on stability and stasis.
Monastic Infidelity
Wang 's book makes the larger case “that aesthetic forms are inseparable from social, political, and historical contexts when it comes to the writing and reception of poetry.”
The CW ran the intriguing Adrian Lyne adaptation from the French over the past week of March 2014, and a toggle to my memory reminded me of the subtext within the film about style and affluence being somewhat fine and brittle. I sandwich this memento in between my more forceful retractions from liberalism in part to illustrate the difficulty of my Gordian knot, since monogamy itself has always been a difficult contract for us, the advanced human primate. I see humanity as nothing more than repulsive apes who made cognitive leaps and bounds by inexplicable accidents of anatomy, and yet remain attracted to ascetic rigor, remain supportive of flings, the liberating aspects of affairs.
Though I cannot speak for Gere's performance on a single viewing, Lane and Martinez inhabit a chic crackling which leaves me indecisive about both the murder and Lyne's conclusion, but his direction offers a distinctive, haunting collage, one that remains past the narrative itself. I am not sure whether it's worth eating up my usage to view it online or wait for it to run on broadcast again, but for our purposes, the film is a theatrical antithesis.
The CW ran the intriguing Adrian Lyne adaptation from the French over the past week of March 2014, and a toggle to my memory reminded me of the subtext within the film about style and affluence being somewhat fine and brittle. I sandwich this memento in between my more forceful retractions from liberalism in part to illustrate the difficulty of my Gordian knot, since monogamy itself has always been a difficult contract for us, the advanced human primate. I see humanity as nothing more than repulsive apes who made cognitive leaps and bounds by inexplicable accidents of anatomy, and yet remain attracted to ascetic rigor, remain supportive of flings, the liberating aspects of affairs.
Though I cannot speak for Gere's performance on a single viewing, Lane and Martinez inhabit a chic crackling which leaves me indecisive about both the murder and Lyne's conclusion, but his direction offers a distinctive, haunting collage, one that remains past the narrative itself. I am not sure whether it's worth eating up my usage to view it online or wait for it to run on broadcast again, but for our purposes, the film is a theatrical antithesis.
Turnstile Passes
"It may even be worse for you, in the end."-- Robert Shaw
Richard Rodriguez is perhaps ecstatic, positively jubilant. With only a glancing reference to his essays, I relent and forgive him for his sexual orientation. Why am I able to offer Rodriguez this gift, when I would otherwise drive Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern, my mother's surviving ex-friend Kmac, my own ex-collegiate friend Alan Gordon, who met Jimmi exactly once, ditto for the old queen Jim who I had to tolerate in the strange topography of Germantown when I drew my salary off of the Pew Charitable Trusts, why does Rodriguez get off when LBGT activists could throw themselves off Niagara? I have never observed the fabled hysteria of lemmings stampeding themselves off an escarpment, but that would be my jubilee, as far as the activists and myself are concerned. "Why are you blaming us for a trauma triggered by your supervisor, who enjoyed her little mind fuck at your expense? We didn't do it."
Your permissive promiscuity lays the groundwork for evil that has nothing to do with a messiah as a transmuted human deity. Zealous willful blindness of indulgence, Richard Rodriguez may not lack it, but he recognizes it as a Hispanic Catholic minority, and he is willing to be conflicted with it, not let himself off. He knows he sins, and this is his metaphysical decency within his faith, so I forgive and respect him, though I only know how heart felt his writing must be from the sincerity and gravitas of his media appearances. In a future dalliance, one day I must immerse myself in his work beyond that offered on public airways. Not that this isn't further complicated by Proustian intertextual superfluity, but I have spent the evening with the night, and plod one plank at a time, even in envy.
Envious. Thomas Harris generates psychical wounding thrillers, Hannibal churned out of covering criminal courts, or at least, speculated as such. Black Sunday was spawned from the 72 Munich games, but let us enlarge on geopolitical aspects. We once believed in Robert Shaw's Major from the film. Understood him, held fast to his ruthless expediency keeping us safe in our beds, perhaps even held a reservoir of sympathy for Bruce Dern's sociopathic veteran, but even this has vanished. The complicated mosaic of the Mossad is not quite so contingent on move and counter move in causation, saving us in the end. As a thriller, Black Sunday has an elocution, a prescient elegance of a unipolar map long since vanquished in the post 9/11 era. It began here, however, with a weak southern politician still ambling about in his near 90's, with his prefabricated simple dwelling habitats, carrying Guinea and the Sudan in his harvester. Jimmy Carter is a guilty man, and he knows it, all the more why he posits onus on Israeli apartheid. The heirs of Zionism may carry age old intransigence, but it is within the bloom of Carter's failure that the world we have today is what it is, right in the bosom of Obama's exhausted integrity.
More is the pity.
Richard Rodriguez is perhaps ecstatic, positively jubilant. With only a glancing reference to his essays, I relent and forgive him for his sexual orientation. Why am I able to offer Rodriguez this gift, when I would otherwise drive Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern, my mother's surviving ex-friend Kmac, my own ex-collegiate friend Alan Gordon, who met Jimmi exactly once, ditto for the old queen Jim who I had to tolerate in the strange topography of Germantown when I drew my salary off of the Pew Charitable Trusts, why does Rodriguez get off when LBGT activists could throw themselves off Niagara? I have never observed the fabled hysteria of lemmings stampeding themselves off an escarpment, but that would be my jubilee, as far as the activists and myself are concerned. "Why are you blaming us for a trauma triggered by your supervisor, who enjoyed her little mind fuck at your expense? We didn't do it."
Your permissive promiscuity lays the groundwork for evil that has nothing to do with a messiah as a transmuted human deity. Zealous willful blindness of indulgence, Richard Rodriguez may not lack it, but he recognizes it as a Hispanic Catholic minority, and he is willing to be conflicted with it, not let himself off. He knows he sins, and this is his metaphysical decency within his faith, so I forgive and respect him, though I only know how heart felt his writing must be from the sincerity and gravitas of his media appearances. In a future dalliance, one day I must immerse myself in his work beyond that offered on public airways. Not that this isn't further complicated by Proustian intertextual superfluity, but I have spent the evening with the night, and plod one plank at a time, even in envy.
Envious. Thomas Harris generates psychical wounding thrillers, Hannibal churned out of covering criminal courts, or at least, speculated as such. Black Sunday was spawned from the 72 Munich games, but let us enlarge on geopolitical aspects. We once believed in Robert Shaw's Major from the film. Understood him, held fast to his ruthless expediency keeping us safe in our beds, perhaps even held a reservoir of sympathy for Bruce Dern's sociopathic veteran, but even this has vanished. The complicated mosaic of the Mossad is not quite so contingent on move and counter move in causation, saving us in the end. As a thriller, Black Sunday has an elocution, a prescient elegance of a unipolar map long since vanquished in the post 9/11 era. It began here, however, with a weak southern politician still ambling about in his near 90's, with his prefabricated simple dwelling habitats, carrying Guinea and the Sudan in his harvester. Jimmy Carter is a guilty man, and he knows it, all the more why he posits onus on Israeli apartheid. The heirs of Zionism may carry age old intransigence, but it is within the bloom of Carter's failure that the world we have today is what it is, right in the bosom of Obama's exhausted integrity.
More is the pity.
Familiar Umbrage
Here is my last piccolo diavolo, Vincento, the surviving brother. "See what I have to put up with on my bed? Devices, wires, flashes, photographs. Could I wake her up when Joey needed emergency surgery?
When nonna is broke I will have to stop guilt tripping her with that argument."
When nonna is broke I will have to stop guilt tripping her with that argument."
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Swinging It
Or I could have married an economist like Timothy Taylor, which is a subversive assertion without the provocation of temptation. He doesn't turn me on, but parses my plight more reasonably than the public housing residents with whom I live so unwillingly, or the disability center staffers who simply outsource institutional compliance and make the disillusioned expendable, and even more than a few believers expendable, as a price for the lie in the paradigm. I didn't have this insight when I was a physically mature 28. It escaped me, that all Liberty proffers is the same centralized institutional care, with blue collar level skill, outsourced within the community rather than the institution.
I had what Liberty now calls skills training at Home of the Merciful Savoir as a precocious child, and support coordination staff start off on their entry level 18k making this lifetime compliance model a rectal scope to shove up our asses.
Ambulatory individuals might ask what the fuck is it that I want, to be able to entertain myself in a cockroach colony?
Not quite. What Tim's hard driving cerebral analysis grapples is the cost of a domesticated biology, and getting it right isn't always about equilibrium of expenditure so much as the right level of investment early with applied and rational levels of ruthlessness. Hence Vonnegut's assault on Billy in Slaughterhouse Five, or the disjunction between scene locale, precision acting, and the real Americana buffeted and billowed by the great recession that Up in the Air epitomizes to the point of a near gold standard. Jayne Anne Phillips, in whose work I was once enviously invested because I couldn't "fool around" with my teachers, a flippancy that Vera Farmiga throws off so coolly, decries the injustice of mandatory drug sentencing, channeling a Nicholas Kristof column, like good militant liberals.
I no longer have the ability to be outraged by individual trafficking circumstances which have quadrupled the growth of the prison industry. We've already damned ourselves with welfare state corporate models so top heavy they implode with every uptake in the climate shift.
I had what Liberty now calls skills training at Home of the Merciful Savoir as a precocious child, and support coordination staff start off on their entry level 18k making this lifetime compliance model a rectal scope to shove up our asses.
Ambulatory individuals might ask what the fuck is it that I want, to be able to entertain myself in a cockroach colony?
Not quite. What Tim's hard driving cerebral analysis grapples is the cost of a domesticated biology, and getting it right isn't always about equilibrium of expenditure so much as the right level of investment early with applied and rational levels of ruthlessness. Hence Vonnegut's assault on Billy in Slaughterhouse Five, or the disjunction between scene locale, precision acting, and the real Americana buffeted and billowed by the great recession that Up in the Air epitomizes to the point of a near gold standard. Jayne Anne Phillips, in whose work I was once enviously invested because I couldn't "fool around" with my teachers, a flippancy that Vera Farmiga throws off so coolly, decries the injustice of mandatory drug sentencing, channeling a Nicholas Kristof column, like good militant liberals.
I no longer have the ability to be outraged by individual trafficking circumstances which have quadrupled the growth of the prison industry. We've already damned ourselves with welfare state corporate models so top heavy they implode with every uptake in the climate shift.
Urban Vigilantes
"Just in case you skimmed over that, Eminem is saying he wants to kill a woman he particularly despises with a machine gun."--Lucy Jones, NME
Dick Costolo is sanguine about suspending the twitter accounts of lawyers if they attempt to corral class action clients through the micro-network, yet Spike, because he is a celebrity, can engage in an overt vigilante attempt, which, despite his lauded artistry, he doesn't verify, gets his facts wrong, and disrupts the lives of innocent people. Settles with them for pocket change, wants the suit dismissed, and no doubt holds the loyalty of his followers with a bond stronger than the variability of melanin. Is it fair that market value dictates access and privilege in this manner?
I am no particular fan of George Zimmerman despite my experiences in the inner city, but I do care about the rule of law, which is why I never published any direct threats to my disability center, or to my former supervisor Linda, despite years of duress as a consequence, yet this man can do as he likes and come away with a wrist slap because he has an agenda, and airs dirty laundry on the inside of his brothers and sisters, swimming the established currents of the left because he got Jackson to do a shuffle parody. The virtual highlight of Jungle Fever. Given that I have been victimized by entitlement and identity, I think the suit against Lee should hold, and that twitter should consider suspending his account until the case settles, and the issue of inciting the public is examined with serious consideration. Whatever the future holds for Zimmerman, he was acquitted in the death of Trayvon. Killing the man amounts to giving all of us an open season. Perhaps a boycott of future Lee projects is in order. The breakout work had energy, to the limited extent I'm familiar, but the chocolate chip that drives his work walls off entry into it. Spike likes to kick box his audience. I wonder how he'd feel about a spastic steam roll.
Dick Costolo is sanguine about suspending the twitter accounts of lawyers if they attempt to corral class action clients through the micro-network, yet Spike, because he is a celebrity, can engage in an overt vigilante attempt, which, despite his lauded artistry, he doesn't verify, gets his facts wrong, and disrupts the lives of innocent people. Settles with them for pocket change, wants the suit dismissed, and no doubt holds the loyalty of his followers with a bond stronger than the variability of melanin. Is it fair that market value dictates access and privilege in this manner?
I am no particular fan of George Zimmerman despite my experiences in the inner city, but I do care about the rule of law, which is why I never published any direct threats to my disability center, or to my former supervisor Linda, despite years of duress as a consequence, yet this man can do as he likes and come away with a wrist slap because he has an agenda, and airs dirty laundry on the inside of his brothers and sisters, swimming the established currents of the left because he got Jackson to do a shuffle parody. The virtual highlight of Jungle Fever. Given that I have been victimized by entitlement and identity, I think the suit against Lee should hold, and that twitter should consider suspending his account until the case settles, and the issue of inciting the public is examined with serious consideration. Whatever the future holds for Zimmerman, he was acquitted in the death of Trayvon. Killing the man amounts to giving all of us an open season. Perhaps a boycott of future Lee projects is in order. The breakout work had energy, to the limited extent I'm familiar, but the chocolate chip that drives his work walls off entry into it. Spike likes to kick box his audience. I wonder how he'd feel about a spastic steam roll.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Harry Bergeron
"Tried it. We're no picnic ourselves."
Exactly. The key scene in the lounge between Vera and Anna on lesbian experimentation is subtle. Up in the Air (2009) offers sly renderings with each reviewing, and there is a swipe here about lack of discipline towards appearance and grooming. Reitman winds his cinematography as tight as an Apple OS platform (and I am still not sold on the essential necessity of the convenience, partly generational), the literate cued in now to Alexandra's duplicity over being comfortable (appearances don't matter) and deceptive about the degree to which she was utilizing Ryan like a truffle, although he treats his lifestyle in such a fashion, a decorous candy dish, leading us to Kurt Vonnegut and his back handed warnings. The actual story on which the Bergeron adaptation is based, if you do not know it, would give Obama a frontal lobe injury.
Vonnegut, like Rajaniemi, uses satirical conceits which in lesser hands is akin to mutilating your pussy and scrotum on a bed of nettles, and yet this is Vonnegut, who defies classification. I am old enough to remember his biology of the English iamb, unlike you, in my hard copy archive, and realize from where Kurt jacks that he is no more a genre adherent than Hubbard is a reincarnation of Moses.
I have had a running allergy for three weeks. Colds sparked by Presby's idea of humane heating I am used to, but not this constant itch, clear post nasal drip frothing, relieved not by a decongestant but an anti-inflammatory, hard study of euthanasia papers. I've come up with a bizarre idea, in the nomenclature of uproars, and if I want to get myself drummed out of the mainstream, or merely intent on an emulating hard on for Estelle Getty's provocative timing, depends on how cleverly ugly Blogger will allow me to be. Don't doubt that I am not simply because I fear terms of service.
The older I grow, the angrier I get, the closer I come to carnage seemingly for the sole purpose of obliterating and then I pull myself up short. Is it that bad? I'm not Spike Lee, and he utilized twitter for vigilantism on innocent people. Being a brand with a chip as hard as pink quartz up his ass, recognition is a shield under which he can get away with it.
I will show you little vinnie pictures soon.
Exactly. The key scene in the lounge between Vera and Anna on lesbian experimentation is subtle. Up in the Air (2009) offers sly renderings with each reviewing, and there is a swipe here about lack of discipline towards appearance and grooming. Reitman winds his cinematography as tight as an Apple OS platform (and I am still not sold on the essential necessity of the convenience, partly generational), the literate cued in now to Alexandra's duplicity over being comfortable (appearances don't matter) and deceptive about the degree to which she was utilizing Ryan like a truffle, although he treats his lifestyle in such a fashion, a decorous candy dish, leading us to Kurt Vonnegut and his back handed warnings. The actual story on which the Bergeron adaptation is based, if you do not know it, would give Obama a frontal lobe injury.
Vonnegut, like Rajaniemi, uses satirical conceits which in lesser hands is akin to mutilating your pussy and scrotum on a bed of nettles, and yet this is Vonnegut, who defies classification. I am old enough to remember his biology of the English iamb, unlike you, in my hard copy archive, and realize from where Kurt jacks that he is no more a genre adherent than Hubbard is a reincarnation of Moses.
I have had a running allergy for three weeks. Colds sparked by Presby's idea of humane heating I am used to, but not this constant itch, clear post nasal drip frothing, relieved not by a decongestant but an anti-inflammatory, hard study of euthanasia papers. I've come up with a bizarre idea, in the nomenclature of uproars, and if I want to get myself drummed out of the mainstream, or merely intent on an emulating hard on for Estelle Getty's provocative timing, depends on how cleverly ugly Blogger will allow me to be. Don't doubt that I am not simply because I fear terms of service.
The older I grow, the angrier I get, the closer I come to carnage seemingly for the sole purpose of obliterating and then I pull myself up short. Is it that bad? I'm not Spike Lee, and he utilized twitter for vigilantism on innocent people. Being a brand with a chip as hard as pink quartz up his ass, recognition is a shield under which he can get away with it.
I will show you little vinnie pictures soon.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Invariably Droll
Unlike my hearing loss piece, I met this deadline with all due speed under the 400 m limit, and expect criticism and a rewrite request, perhaps just minor revisions to my data and title, but haven't the faintest hope of earning all that much, mainly out of distrust for a conglomerate which doesn't make embedding easy, as does Blogger. I am not entirely sure that the .com is a genuine publishing entity.
I'll leave it unnamed until they get back to me and I complete the filing requirements, and even then, I may let you sort it out on an individual basis, but it has the insinuation of vanity publishing, hacking to the last resort.
I so wanted to be pleased; now I am not, but let's wait, let's see, and when something comes up, I'll keep applying. Not that I have to stop pitching; I'd just like real part time assignments. It is after six am. Sleep patterns changing. Stress.
I'll leave it unnamed until they get back to me and I complete the filing requirements, and even then, I may let you sort it out on an individual basis, but it has the insinuation of vanity publishing, hacking to the last resort.
I so wanted to be pleased; now I am not, but let's wait, let's see, and when something comes up, I'll keep applying. Not that I have to stop pitching; I'd just like real part time assignments. It is after six am. Sleep patterns changing. Stress.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Inimitable Autonomies Within a Myeloma
Brown initially shared Garrison's pacificism. As a boy, he'd been so disgusted by what he saw of soldiers during the War of 1812 that he later refused to drill with local militias and paid fines to avoid military service. -- Midnight Rising, kindle edition loc 375
In relation to the ACA, I take a different view. Health care will never be radically equalized; it is impossible to achieve this on a global scale. Access to humane treatment is not entirely beyond scope, but this has regional variability.
I have written that I believe in self worth, and do, but cannot delude myself, on macro scales, that my individual life is valuable. My birth was dangerous and difficult and the fetus was supposed to die, didn't, and when that is the summation of an existence, it alters the viewpoint. Someone like Monica Carr, herself a warped challenge for you not to judge her disapprovingly, as she is not simply heavy, but repulsive, like the teletubbies, of which I've been suspicious since I first laid eyes on them, used to tell me that my reactions were irrational. Mmm. For a happy god-fearing suburbanite who successfully raises her progeny and keeps her partner's testicles in a vise, a desire for a short lifespan might be irrational.
Not for me. Existence, to be precious, needs contingency, and it's okay to be single, if you have sustaining relationships and function around that; during youth, dreams of ambition kept me afloat, but I should have realized as an undergraduate that I was doomed, simply as a matter of policy containment and failed domestication. I am sloppy, cluttered, have Italian sinuses, and when I have not been caged, or made into a Frankenstein facsimile, pedestrian sensibility wants it done as a matter of course, hence the dimmer on empathy for aggressive treatments of complex cancers, or even Dick Cheney's heart disease. Continuous fighting in this sense is the irrationality on a evolutionary scale. We're a complex primate, but possibly not unique, and sustaining each 7.1 billion self interested persons may be beneficial to selfish desire to stick around as long as possible, but not in the best interest of the large egg on which we live. If you are over fifty with a multiple myeloma, all that chemo, all those drugs, may buy you time at the expense of other long term viabilities.
I never believed in my own invincibility, and that is one value the long term disabled community can offer. That I'd rather have euthanasia available as an option is not an easy thing to write, but I write it in terms of my expenditures. I have not raised children. Career has been a lifelong unhappy battle, and because people need to make a living themselves, they get the right to manage how I live, and from here, within how many months, I will be forced, once again, to depend on quasi-asinine nursing care, primarily bed ridden because lifting me off a mattress invites liability. I'd rather go to sleep than spend an excruciating period of time under that duress. Now I have to go work on my 400 word piece of snark. Harrumph.
In relation to the ACA, I take a different view. Health care will never be radically equalized; it is impossible to achieve this on a global scale. Access to humane treatment is not entirely beyond scope, but this has regional variability.
I have written that I believe in self worth, and do, but cannot delude myself, on macro scales, that my individual life is valuable. My birth was dangerous and difficult and the fetus was supposed to die, didn't, and when that is the summation of an existence, it alters the viewpoint. Someone like Monica Carr, herself a warped challenge for you not to judge her disapprovingly, as she is not simply heavy, but repulsive, like the teletubbies, of which I've been suspicious since I first laid eyes on them, used to tell me that my reactions were irrational. Mmm. For a happy god-fearing suburbanite who successfully raises her progeny and keeps her partner's testicles in a vise, a desire for a short lifespan might be irrational.
Not for me. Existence, to be precious, needs contingency, and it's okay to be single, if you have sustaining relationships and function around that; during youth, dreams of ambition kept me afloat, but I should have realized as an undergraduate that I was doomed, simply as a matter of policy containment and failed domestication. I am sloppy, cluttered, have Italian sinuses, and when I have not been caged, or made into a Frankenstein facsimile, pedestrian sensibility wants it done as a matter of course, hence the dimmer on empathy for aggressive treatments of complex cancers, or even Dick Cheney's heart disease. Continuous fighting in this sense is the irrationality on a evolutionary scale. We're a complex primate, but possibly not unique, and sustaining each 7.1 billion self interested persons may be beneficial to selfish desire to stick around as long as possible, but not in the best interest of the large egg on which we live. If you are over fifty with a multiple myeloma, all that chemo, all those drugs, may buy you time at the expense of other long term viabilities.
I never believed in my own invincibility, and that is one value the long term disabled community can offer. That I'd rather have euthanasia available as an option is not an easy thing to write, but I write it in terms of my expenditures. I have not raised children. Career has been a lifelong unhappy battle, and because people need to make a living themselves, they get the right to manage how I live, and from here, within how many months, I will be forced, once again, to depend on quasi-asinine nursing care, primarily bed ridden because lifting me off a mattress invites liability. I'd rather go to sleep than spend an excruciating period of time under that duress. Now I have to go work on my 400 word piece of snark. Harrumph.
Monday, November 11, 2013
The Psychology of Deadlines
How does one accurately transliterate agony? The challenge of symbolism to depict--during my public housing home invasion that forever conflated my perspective on social fear, vocal chords were frozen in silence, and then terror broke lose once my Mighty Joe dragged me into my own bedroom. The damn exploded and I shrieked, my voice voluminous in sound waves, tenants in laundry room heard but were afraid to intervene. Time saved me, as Bradon would have had to asphyxiate or fracture my skull in less than ten minutes; within that time frame the salaried minorities appeared, old Myers, exterminator, young Terri, who I correctly evaluated as integration material in the urban business district. He was also not hardened enough to kill a white nearly penniless (these fuckwits exploited me for minimum wage without health insurance toward the event of my departure), invalid, but terror overwhelmed me, would have haunted my family had a black addict murdered me after they begged me not to do what I did after moving into North Philadelphia. The Washington Post loves analysts who are American triumphalists, but that triumph rests on nearly horrific--I cannot convey the recoil of the inner city--had the Luftwaffe reversed expectations and bombed our ghettos it would have not been unimaginable to believe it would have been a backhanded cleansing. Now you see how I handle pressure, and the expectation of delivery under pressure, for what? .05 cents a word on aggregate basis? I'm hastily throwing together five hundred word for my first pop, despite diffidence. I am not sure I will not fail here as I did for my hearing loss piece, but then again, this is inglorious assembly line journo-infotainment. With edits I'll get two dollars for Google Wallet. Spader just had an interesting scene smothering an old ally terminal with cancer?
Bronchial Nitrates
"Like all eighties kids, I was so busy being told how special I was I didn't get that went for everybody else."-- a lift from @TBlackford3
The prosthetic finger was a shock, and if I remember nothing else from The Piano, vaguely recollected as having run on network, but not overkilled, remembering that finger, remembering an inchoate grunt of protest, this is sufficient in inimical effervescence, the recognition of Anna Paquin raven haired, with that cherubic mouth she carries over to Darkness (a film which aired three times at least after my initial viewing, a film which I need to sit still for a fourth try, which in euphemistic terms means pushing the Quickie switch down. It emits a chirp which sounds cut off in mortal peril, a fragile Easter chick snapped like a wishbone, then making sure bladder remains pacified). Enigmatic images. I was not haunted like our avuncular ghost who spent so much money reconstructing a jaw and a mouth he could not use. I wrestled slightly about continuing to follow Chaz, but that would have been an act of fetishistic supersize fawning. I respected Ebert, but he played to audience catering in ways I'd refuse as a critic. A mechanized finger, elegant imperfection in a moving and vivid visual poem leagues removed Westworld, yet the props evoke each other, hinged digit and silver contacts of an ethically ambiguous chameleon casting directors can't utilize on the cheap that way ever again. Bynner played every type except starched bread: Indians, Asians, mulattoes, Russians, Christ knows what I've missed besides the robot, not nearly as sophisticated as the nightmare that kept Asimov up at night as he sequeled his Foundation trilogy, but Asimov might have appreciated Yul's last death stance as the living Yoda turned gollem in his notorious service announcement. I may have also seen Polanski's swan, the haunted survivor threshing out America's narcissistic victimology. This is the universal thread binding all Americans. Emotionalism flows outward from us like liquid gold. The majority of us aren't worth a great deal as a matter of tort, regardless of self interest. This is the reason I tweaked Troy's tag, aside from copping to denominators along the subtle distinctions among networking aggregates, as the inflated Americanism that makes the United States insufferable, a repetitive chase after cotton candy, the best drug to slurp at the zoo.
I applied for my first online job, a freelance two bit perhaps ethically dubious, but too busy with my schedule to work during these few days of a break. Sanguine however, about Blogger post time consumption, as I have a book and a few articles buried in here, even if my portrait from Drinker's West inexplicably vanished. Perhaps it was data usage.
The prosthetic finger was a shock, and if I remember nothing else from The Piano, vaguely recollected as having run on network, but not overkilled, remembering that finger, remembering an inchoate grunt of protest, this is sufficient in inimical effervescence, the recognition of Anna Paquin raven haired, with that cherubic mouth she carries over to Darkness (a film which aired three times at least after my initial viewing, a film which I need to sit still for a fourth try, which in euphemistic terms means pushing the Quickie switch down. It emits a chirp which sounds cut off in mortal peril, a fragile Easter chick snapped like a wishbone, then making sure bladder remains pacified). Enigmatic images. I was not haunted like our avuncular ghost who spent so much money reconstructing a jaw and a mouth he could not use. I wrestled slightly about continuing to follow Chaz, but that would have been an act of fetishistic supersize fawning. I respected Ebert, but he played to audience catering in ways I'd refuse as a critic. A mechanized finger, elegant imperfection in a moving and vivid visual poem leagues removed Westworld, yet the props evoke each other, hinged digit and silver contacts of an ethically ambiguous chameleon casting directors can't utilize on the cheap that way ever again. Bynner played every type except starched bread: Indians, Asians, mulattoes, Russians, Christ knows what I've missed besides the robot, not nearly as sophisticated as the nightmare that kept Asimov up at night as he sequeled his Foundation trilogy, but Asimov might have appreciated Yul's last death stance as the living Yoda turned gollem in his notorious service announcement. I may have also seen Polanski's swan, the haunted survivor threshing out America's narcissistic victimology. This is the universal thread binding all Americans. Emotionalism flows outward from us like liquid gold. The majority of us aren't worth a great deal as a matter of tort, regardless of self interest. This is the reason I tweaked Troy's tag, aside from copping to denominators along the subtle distinctions among networking aggregates, as the inflated Americanism that makes the United States insufferable, a repetitive chase after cotton candy, the best drug to slurp at the zoo.
I applied for my first online job, a freelance two bit perhaps ethically dubious, but too busy with my schedule to work during these few days of a break. Sanguine however, about Blogger post time consumption, as I have a book and a few articles buried in here, even if my portrait from Drinker's West inexplicably vanished. Perhaps it was data usage.
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