"Our neighbor's head landed in our house." --a young Syrian refugee
If there is the slimmest possibility that I can manage the relocation necessary for any author who truly takes risks, that I can stave off degeneration long enough to accomplish something and redeem my self-respect, I'd like to end this last score of my life as an investigative journalist. I like asking hard questions, and making everyone uncomfortable, not that this would be easy for a spastic quad on her last legs, but I know my own self-worth. I am smarter and sharper than Josie Byzek, the Jesus dyke who knows whats best except for when it comes to violating my trust, and I am a better writer than Daniel. In truth, I feel some pity for Schneider's wasted potential, and I hit on it yesterday. He does not apply himself to focusing on what he knows how to do in his on voice, and devolves in semi-automatic recriminations that interest no one. My persona and his are not so dissimilar, but I have an agenda. Does he, other than culling stray pups to be his online personal groupie base? If you are one of his sympathizers and think you have some insight, I will approve your comment and let it stand, and I don't bruise easily. If you want to let me have it, you may.
Michael Snyder is more informative on Herlihy than either Dan or I are on any topic, but does not answer the central question. If James and Tennessee were so complete in themselves, why did Herlihy kill himself in 1993? He was aging, certainly, but was he sick, tired of being a one note wonder compared to Steinbeck? Lee's stills are priceless and come as a bit of a shock, as both the playwright and novelist look like wax contortions in pain, not only from a different era, but otherworldly, except that their lifestyle, their coded literary subversions, are as familiar to me as the piss in Erika's urine bag. I am interested in an answer, because I am working, torturing, if you like, an essay on writers suicides, and need more facts on the more notorious, and Herlihy made my list.
I empathize with Voight's Joe in the film, and if I can manage, intend to watch it early Friday morning, again. When I will start the digital etext, only Josie's *baby boy* in the manger may know, but I do agree with other viewer comments that the jump cuts in the film suggesting that Buck was gang raped take the edginess out of Herlihy's seminal accomplishment, because it obscures the narrative arc. If Joe and Ratso trend gay, Schlesinger seems comfortable leaving new wave homoeroticism swinging on its own rope, murky in terms of Buck's future maturity and wisdom.
I want progressives, or left center moderates, to understand something: I treated the Philadelphia community I knew with all the tolerance I had, that started to come to an end in 2006, after Miss Eddy, the mixed race inner city woman, threw all her sexual needs into hitting on me, when she was my agency aide. My anger does not stem from an auto-erotic response. I am physically impaired, and I am tired of being used for target practice by men, women, lesbians, and other sociopathic reflectors, whatever the ethnicity, and I did a disservice to my own esteem in breaking bread with Josie and Ginny, even if that social setting was their gesture of remorse. An atypical opponent, I am not quite an over-simplified redneck. The gay scene is not healthy for heterosexual confidence, not in terms of emotional intimacy, confiding friendships. I am going to dismantle your comfort zone, gay equality be damned.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Wednesday, January 30, 2013
Exsanguination
Whether Giuseppe Tomasi was a true pacifist is debated; perhaps even he did not know for certain. His psyche was, at the very least, complex, even to his psychologist wife. Nevertheless, his defiance of Italian social conformity was very real if often subtle. Best of Sicily
Doing some biomethodology research for a fantasy piece of mine, of all the contemptible genres, yes, a fantasy story that every science fiction editor swears is boring is actually working for me. Now you see why I have only earned about 3,000 USD, and no, I do not know the exact total, never filed a schedule C, not that I would not have, but journalism breaks your heart, lies, and every journalist knows this, which is why plagiarism scandals like this skirt the truth, and no, I never engage in unethical behavior, that is not what the issues are in the fourth estate; it is a huge question, whether or not access serves the public trust, like when David Brooks and Petraeus have lunch and then the general's penis sets the stage for the next international Bourne identity entertainment, but I have other things on my mind, the morning quarrel with Vinnie, which led to a second pair of broken glasses. I was going to go back to bed and simply cave in, and then had a mild second wind and said if dressing is too much writing is not, just do what I am able; my shins are hurting, however.
I know how this is going to come off, given what I have revealed, and how often I have written Linda's name, and my frank exposure of a life in emotional pain, but the demon/saint dichotomy within disability culture is still a real prejudice, and creating a real crippled killer, that an audience would accept, seems an almost insurmountable challenge. We are angels if we're helpless with drooling eye floating smiles, demons, if like me, we tell minor film personalities like Schneider to go fuck themselves, hurt their feelings, and then have a crying fit because said man is a jackass rather than an established connection who might have connected me to real work.
Dan, if I had known who you were when you approached my old account, I would not have ignored you but would have turned you down. You, your wife may not have thought you were patronizing me but you were. However, I apologize, and my upset apple cart was uncalled for. Now that we have that out of the way, no one cares about the chip on your shoulder with the Kenyon Review. You need an editor, and have to understand that the academy, not unreasonably, treats creative writing as a craft, which it is. I came up in literary small presses, and you do not understand the culture, even if, like me, you recognize the problem. The issue is how one markets poetry and fiction that has by necessity become beholden to historical canons. We're not enemies, but regardless of your classes at Harvard, your bakery, your talents at producing inane black television comedy, you are a fool who doesn't know how to apply yourself.
Write about being a minor figure in the industry. Stop complaining and pasting email arguments, and get yourself a better web design. You certainly have the connections. I don't. Use what you have.
Doing some biomethodology research for a fantasy piece of mine, of all the contemptible genres, yes, a fantasy story that every science fiction editor swears is boring is actually working for me. Now you see why I have only earned about 3,000 USD, and no, I do not know the exact total, never filed a schedule C, not that I would not have, but journalism breaks your heart, lies, and every journalist knows this, which is why plagiarism scandals like this skirt the truth, and no, I never engage in unethical behavior, that is not what the issues are in the fourth estate; it is a huge question, whether or not access serves the public trust, like when David Brooks and Petraeus have lunch and then the general's penis sets the stage for the next international Bourne identity entertainment, but I have other things on my mind, the morning quarrel with Vinnie, which led to a second pair of broken glasses. I was going to go back to bed and simply cave in, and then had a mild second wind and said if dressing is too much writing is not, just do what I am able; my shins are hurting, however.
I know how this is going to come off, given what I have revealed, and how often I have written Linda's name, and my frank exposure of a life in emotional pain, but the demon/saint dichotomy within disability culture is still a real prejudice, and creating a real crippled killer, that an audience would accept, seems an almost insurmountable challenge. We are angels if we're helpless with drooling eye floating smiles, demons, if like me, we tell minor film personalities like Schneider to go fuck themselves, hurt their feelings, and then have a crying fit because said man is a jackass rather than an established connection who might have connected me to real work.
Dan, if I had known who you were when you approached my old account, I would not have ignored you but would have turned you down. You, your wife may not have thought you were patronizing me but you were. However, I apologize, and my upset apple cart was uncalled for. Now that we have that out of the way, no one cares about the chip on your shoulder with the Kenyon Review. You need an editor, and have to understand that the academy, not unreasonably, treats creative writing as a craft, which it is. I came up in literary small presses, and you do not understand the culture, even if, like me, you recognize the problem. The issue is how one markets poetry and fiction that has by necessity become beholden to historical canons. We're not enemies, but regardless of your classes at Harvard, your bakery, your talents at producing inane black television comedy, you are a fool who doesn't know how to apply yourself.
Write about being a minor figure in the industry. Stop complaining and pasting email arguments, and get yourself a better web design. You certainly have the connections. I don't. Use what you have.
Risorgimento
I can only theorize who was tracking my address on probtheme, and have several of those, the minute conveniences we utilize, theories. LBGT activists can be a militant lot, but no, I do not waste my energies stalking strangers online merely to harass, and I am not hounding their chief operating officer either. Counterproductive, which does not mean, once I am finished going my legal circuit, that I will not engage their board of directors. I intend to exhaust all my options before deciding my next step, whatever that may be, in declining health, but whoever you were, obviously, you wasted your time. I learned my lessons about foaming the head on the beer glass, and actively trolling doesn't earn money, does it? Your SB event sounds like fun, DW, reasonably priced, but I think I am staying home, passing up any possible sexual overkill with a pot belly.
I spent over $470 on the James Joyce reading group, and unhappily realized I did not need another undergraduate audit, and I am not enjoying myself, lagging in my studies, in my reading. Do I drop it, and just go in for research on my stronger days? I like Lance, told him as much, and reluctantly tapped him as a resource for, yes ssis, academic support, but I feel like an alien at the table, whether or not my perception is accurate, and have not made friends, (though the question remains, whom I would like to adopt, and that would not be the instructor, since I see myself as an imposition on his youthful volubility) and regret not waiting for a really motivating study choice. I have not made any decisions, one way or the other. Five sessions to go, while the weather is warm today, but bad for me to engage. Winds, with storms coming. How do I get out of this city, keeping my humanity intact?
I cannot handle full time career pressures to the extent that you can, not anymore.
I spent over $470 on the James Joyce reading group, and unhappily realized I did not need another undergraduate audit, and I am not enjoying myself, lagging in my studies, in my reading. Do I drop it, and just go in for research on my stronger days? I like Lance, told him as much, and reluctantly tapped him as a resource for, yes ssis, academic support, but I feel like an alien at the table, whether or not my perception is accurate, and have not made friends, (though the question remains, whom I would like to adopt, and that would not be the instructor, since I see myself as an imposition on his youthful volubility) and regret not waiting for a really motivating study choice. I have not made any decisions, one way or the other. Five sessions to go, while the weather is warm today, but bad for me to engage. Winds, with storms coming. How do I get out of this city, keeping my humanity intact?
I cannot handle full time career pressures to the extent that you can, not anymore.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Melodious Timbre
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.--Robert Frost, in his well taught "Mending Wall"
Part of the reason I have not risked Google's ire just yet is that I do not have enough time to truly test American corporate intolerance for free speech, conjoined to the fact that I do care about what I am attempting, and why this web log project matters to me as a legacy. Now, of course, there are limits, and that I am furiously angry at the juxtaposition between independent living ideology and its institutional cruelty, this does not give me the right to behave like Al Capone with sagging breasts, and I am educated enough to know better. Inheriting my father's temper is one thing, and deploying my intelligence to circumvent my loss of strength, and to strike back, that is another, but there is more to it than that. The larger question is, if I piss everyone off, have I achieved anything? It is an important question, because when I start digging, I am really going to burrow, and I have to weigh those risks; at my best, and perhaps worst, I spare nothing, and that is inclusive of Jimmy Carter's scarred bid for political sainthood. He and Woodward mellowed to maturity in that Georgia climate, and both the peanut farmer and the sympathetic Hollywood widow make me wonder why Lincoln did not allow Sherman to really punish the South, literally bury it beneath the furrows of its plantation caste hierarchy. That damn agrarian pathology, dragging on and on so that we can be sure the death of America's psychic historical scar tissue will outlast the viability of our nation state. The melodrama of her drawling and slightly phlegmatic voice is a superfluous excess, but in Summer Wishes, it fits the feminine state of menopause and regret.
The homosexuality of the son is nothing more than a plot device to ensure the psychological duress of Rita and Harry, but the film is so effective because of the honesty of the characters beneath the stylized mechanisms of its location scenery. What we have here is a husband and wife struggling to come to terms with abandonment (spastic is not alone) and the fact that their progeny have evolved into their own people, with the gay son Bobby exiling himself from pedestrian repression for the sake of his own survival and sanity, and that character, Bobby, transposed from 73 to contemporary barriers being forcibly smashed, might think Andrew Sullivan is destroying the freedom of alternative choices. He is more sketched into the film to provide Woodward with her conflict, so it is difficult to know for sure, but the dialogue between Woodward and Balsam, for its era, is deft, honest, and lacking in pretension, a generation that still had fascism on its back, and wasn't sure of the right answer, but knew that affluence wasn't the sum totality of its need.
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.--Robert Frost, in his well taught "Mending Wall"
Part of the reason I have not risked Google's ire just yet is that I do not have enough time to truly test American corporate intolerance for free speech, conjoined to the fact that I do care about what I am attempting, and why this web log project matters to me as a legacy. Now, of course, there are limits, and that I am furiously angry at the juxtaposition between independent living ideology and its institutional cruelty, this does not give me the right to behave like Al Capone with sagging breasts, and I am educated enough to know better. Inheriting my father's temper is one thing, and deploying my intelligence to circumvent my loss of strength, and to strike back, that is another, but there is more to it than that. The larger question is, if I piss everyone off, have I achieved anything? It is an important question, because when I start digging, I am really going to burrow, and I have to weigh those risks; at my best, and perhaps worst, I spare nothing, and that is inclusive of Jimmy Carter's scarred bid for political sainthood. He and Woodward mellowed to maturity in that Georgia climate, and both the peanut farmer and the sympathetic Hollywood widow make me wonder why Lincoln did not allow Sherman to really punish the South, literally bury it beneath the furrows of its plantation caste hierarchy. That damn agrarian pathology, dragging on and on so that we can be sure the death of America's psychic historical scar tissue will outlast the viability of our nation state. The melodrama of her drawling and slightly phlegmatic voice is a superfluous excess, but in Summer Wishes, it fits the feminine state of menopause and regret.
The homosexuality of the son is nothing more than a plot device to ensure the psychological duress of Rita and Harry, but the film is so effective because of the honesty of the characters beneath the stylized mechanisms of its location scenery. What we have here is a husband and wife struggling to come to terms with abandonment (spastic is not alone) and the fact that their progeny have evolved into their own people, with the gay son Bobby exiling himself from pedestrian repression for the sake of his own survival and sanity, and that character, Bobby, transposed from 73 to contemporary barriers being forcibly smashed, might think Andrew Sullivan is destroying the freedom of alternative choices. He is more sketched into the film to provide Woodward with her conflict, so it is difficult to know for sure, but the dialogue between Woodward and Balsam, for its era, is deft, honest, and lacking in pretension, a generation that still had fascism on its back, and wasn't sure of the right answer, but knew that affluence wasn't the sum totality of its need.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Boulet and Nicholas
"Yeah, you're going to make us all famous--" Nicholas Marinelli, Jr, approximately 1991, when the editor of River Rat Review unwittingly caused me huge problems by mailing my contributor copy of a poem about my mother's drug addiction to my father's address, at which point, I was threatened with Hollywood style Italian vengeance. I had a ball and didn't, simultaneously.
Course correction for my dead little brother's diseased and wasted skeleton, whatever is left of it after 18 years, I have no desire to make our family skeletons into a Spielberg movie, only justice for what was stolen from me in my evidently fatal migration back to the city of my birth. The dignity of my ability to stake out my own self-definition against the backdrop of my now severely limited economic options, for one. Did you know Gloria Reuben is Canadian?
I did not. Chuckle. I do not remember the entire storyline in her role as Jean Boulet, but vividly recall the scene, after the HIV positive diagnosis, when she visited her treating physician, an actress I also recognized, and if you trivia buffs want to get off your asses and help me dig the episode out of archive, that would be lovely; for whatever reason, that sappy bit of realistic dialogue, and Reuben's expressive, limpid eyes, remained with me, not while Nicky was dying horribly and I could not be there to touch him and tell the little criminal bastard I loved him anyway, but the scene stayed with me, the way these things do: I wonder whatever happened to her? Then there she was, proof, with my favorite occasional television abrasion, and I felt an odd surge of, what, exactly? Gratitude and nostalgia? Not entirely sure, but trotted myself to her website and snivelled, piteous disability journalist as I wish to remain. Her handlers are probably asking themselves what does she want from us if she doesn't have a plan?
Nothing, as of yet, but a teeny tiny bit of compassionate star dust wouldn't hurt. You might say that's what this corn fritter was offering me two years ago after he read my comment on Ebert's loneliness post, and okay, I became impolitic and paranoid with lightning speed, but that is both Daniel's and my fault. Me for not asking myself better questions before I waded into his community, and he for making assumptions about my track record. Gloria is B+ celebrity third contact attempt, another quasi-shelf possibility. We'll stay tuned, shall we?
I am not sparing you little Nicky, but, not this morning. Relieved?
Course correction for my dead little brother's diseased and wasted skeleton, whatever is left of it after 18 years, I have no desire to make our family skeletons into a Spielberg movie, only justice for what was stolen from me in my evidently fatal migration back to the city of my birth. The dignity of my ability to stake out my own self-definition against the backdrop of my now severely limited economic options, for one. Did you know Gloria Reuben is Canadian?
I did not. Chuckle. I do not remember the entire storyline in her role as Jean Boulet, but vividly recall the scene, after the HIV positive diagnosis, when she visited her treating physician, an actress I also recognized, and if you trivia buffs want to get off your asses and help me dig the episode out of archive, that would be lovely; for whatever reason, that sappy bit of realistic dialogue, and Reuben's expressive, limpid eyes, remained with me, not while Nicky was dying horribly and I could not be there to touch him and tell the little criminal bastard I loved him anyway, but the scene stayed with me, the way these things do: I wonder whatever happened to her? Then there she was, proof, with my favorite occasional television abrasion, and I felt an odd surge of, what, exactly? Gratitude and nostalgia? Not entirely sure, but trotted myself to her website and snivelled, piteous disability journalist as I wish to remain. Her handlers are probably asking themselves what does she want from us if she doesn't have a plan?
Nothing, as of yet, but a teeny tiny bit of compassionate star dust wouldn't hurt. You might say that's what this corn fritter was offering me two years ago after he read my comment on Ebert's loneliness post, and okay, I became impolitic and paranoid with lightning speed, but that is both Daniel's and my fault. Me for not asking myself better questions before I waded into his community, and he for making assumptions about my track record. Gloria is B+ celebrity third contact attempt, another quasi-shelf possibility. We'll stay tuned, shall we?
I am not sparing you little Nicky, but, not this morning. Relieved?
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Straight Arrow
"She showed him it was okay to live again." --Christopher Walken
Since we were most recently discussing reconciliation and its lack thereof, I have forgotten I wish to grate on your nerves one last time this evening, and mention that Tony Scott redeems the flawed vehicle Man on Fire, and yes, it is flawed, with an over-sentimentalized brutality, and a silent ruthlessness hinted at, but not quite evaluated fairly, in Denzel's Creasy or Walken's Rayburn, and the Latino father's Russian roulette suicide is sanctimonious, and yet, and yet-- what makes Washington fatally over the top in Training Day somehow falls into place here, with its gritty textured realism, redeems the monstrosity of our own capacity for the cruelty of expenditure, of willingness to annihilate, whatever the reasons, fraud, money laundering. That Walken downplays his menace, and is world weary, humane, slightly tongue in cheek, compliments the sense of redemption earned, something else your favorite Catholic atheist is roasting on her spit.
When I return, it will be for revisions, and as always, better penetration, even if I never reach the lighthouse.
Since we were most recently discussing reconciliation and its lack thereof, I have forgotten I wish to grate on your nerves one last time this evening, and mention that Tony Scott redeems the flawed vehicle Man on Fire, and yes, it is flawed, with an over-sentimentalized brutality, and a silent ruthlessness hinted at, but not quite evaluated fairly, in Denzel's Creasy or Walken's Rayburn, and the Latino father's Russian roulette suicide is sanctimonious, and yet, and yet-- what makes Washington fatally over the top in Training Day somehow falls into place here, with its gritty textured realism, redeems the monstrosity of our own capacity for the cruelty of expenditure, of willingness to annihilate, whatever the reasons, fraud, money laundering. That Walken downplays his menace, and is world weary, humane, slightly tongue in cheek, compliments the sense of redemption earned, something else your favorite Catholic atheist is roasting on her spit.
When I return, it will be for revisions, and as always, better penetration, even if I never reach the lighthouse.
Game Day
I am taking WaPo's advice, but not because I really understand technicalities and the players. I hate the Patriots, and any team that humiliates Tom Brady deserves that over hyped trophy, and I never much cared about the 49er's, and have long suspected San Francisco to be the victim of Canadian usurpation.
This is an old woman's mind. Go Baltimore.
This is an old woman's mind. Go Baltimore.
Molten Eggs
"You cannot enforce this deal with him; he's deranged!"-- Chris Kramer, UFOlogy
The one last observation I have to offer about my curious conflation, for the time being, is that I am more forgiving of Marty's acquired prejudices against Muslims than the scofflaw that surrounded him at Harvard and his resignation from The New Republic over them. I was still very active on the TNR site at the time, and remember much of the salient details of the uproar, but Marty has been formed by his experiences much as I have been formed by mine, and he is as entitled as he is cultured, despite the fact that old age has turned him into a Mario Puzo character (and Michael, you successfully bored me to tears only two paragraphs in, despairing for my non-existent byline, alas!). Bigotry is never the sum total of anyone, even those less erudite and flaming in reaction. My experience with the disabled/LBGT activists has taught me this: betrayal is more important than the principles these activists purportedly stand for, that they have no honor, and that they will subvert anything to their own ends, including the Christian faith, or any doctrine, biological science, for that matter, and their minds are not so stable as the psychiatric shift warrants, and though I can be duped, I shall not reconcile with libertines simply because they wear dress clothes and imitate pedestrian modality. I have been too close, seen too many head games, whether or not they involved me, and hurt too often. Human homosexuality is not moral, nor blessed, nor spiritually sanctioned, virtuous.
It is subversive, psychologically twisted, indulgent, and gratuitous, even if its practitioners are happy, or have an untouchable A list status, or falls into queer genius, but I will deal with cultural and literary contributions at a later date.
Lament as I may that I have no fresh series to attach to, I have found rewards in the dead zone of cancellation, and I am finding The Collector of use, as I have mentioned in previous posts, and I hope someone in the industry one day attempts to reinvigorate it. The UFO episode was a decent bit of gamesmanship, and funny, to boot. I am not quite sure where Cooksey was taking all the threads, all the motifs within the mainframe, but suffice to say, I am mining the episodes that exist, and need to review the pilot once more. Remind me that I cannot wilt with surrender back into the literary journal entirely, but a great deal of that is sheer fatigue. 28 submissions a month on average down to two. Do you see what you are sapping out of me? Stingy lurkers, the lot of you.
The one last observation I have to offer about my curious conflation, for the time being, is that I am more forgiving of Marty's acquired prejudices against Muslims than the scofflaw that surrounded him at Harvard and his resignation from The New Republic over them. I was still very active on the TNR site at the time, and remember much of the salient details of the uproar, but Marty has been formed by his experiences much as I have been formed by mine, and he is as entitled as he is cultured, despite the fact that old age has turned him into a Mario Puzo character (and Michael, you successfully bored me to tears only two paragraphs in, despairing for my non-existent byline, alas!). Bigotry is never the sum total of anyone, even those less erudite and flaming in reaction. My experience with the disabled/LBGT activists has taught me this: betrayal is more important than the principles these activists purportedly stand for, that they have no honor, and that they will subvert anything to their own ends, including the Christian faith, or any doctrine, biological science, for that matter, and their minds are not so stable as the psychiatric shift warrants, and though I can be duped, I shall not reconcile with libertines simply because they wear dress clothes and imitate pedestrian modality. I have been too close, seen too many head games, whether or not they involved me, and hurt too often. Human homosexuality is not moral, nor blessed, nor spiritually sanctioned, virtuous.
It is subversive, psychologically twisted, indulgent, and gratuitous, even if its practitioners are happy, or have an untouchable A list status, or falls into queer genius, but I will deal with cultural and literary contributions at a later date.
Lament as I may that I have no fresh series to attach to, I have found rewards in the dead zone of cancellation, and I am finding The Collector of use, as I have mentioned in previous posts, and I hope someone in the industry one day attempts to reinvigorate it. The UFO episode was a decent bit of gamesmanship, and funny, to boot. I am not quite sure where Cooksey was taking all the threads, all the motifs within the mainframe, but suffice to say, I am mining the episodes that exist, and need to review the pilot once more. Remind me that I cannot wilt with surrender back into the literary journal entirely, but a great deal of that is sheer fatigue. 28 submissions a month on average down to two. Do you see what you are sapping out of me? Stingy lurkers, the lot of you.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Desert Heat
Just because it is hard doesn't mean we should not try.-- Jay Carney, our indomitable conduit between the administration and the fourth estate.
I paid Amazon's price for the Windows 7 upgrade disk, as I would need it even if the download is free, and if I can get it to run in my corrupted drive, then all is well, and if not, I go to my virtually unused Toshiba, cross my fingers, and while I am doing that, play patty cake with this poor HP, grand old lady suffering under my illiteracy. She really is not worth much more money, but I cannot afford to keep buying computers, tablets, and a new battery for her, that will come next month. The HP is definitively she, a fusty queen, in contrast to my Dell, who was a good boy until my landlord's oh so wonderful subcontractors terminated his hard drive, but let me not dwell on my resource drainage. And as per my aunt's advice, I will do my best with the Vista drivers, but remain confused, debating my television choices for this afternoon. I saw a portion of Tuck Everlasting before, and other than the fact that it left my shift in neutral, my jury is out as to its utility, but I believe for now, this is a skip, not that I necessarily eschew children's literature, I just never tried to be that kind of writer.
Let me scour my sentiments about Israeli politics with slightly more over-simplified persistence, while I push Vinnie and his nagging off with my skull, and tell him to leave me alone. No sale. They do not like the fish, but little kimmy was a good girl, and after the excitement of mommy's fall from bed, she ate her breakfast. I am snowed in, as even minor accumulations can damage either power chair, so they have to tolerate the supply I have available. My sympathies toward the Jewish state cooled during the first intifada. A video of a gaunt vulnerable father getting killed while trying to shield his child, a young boy also killed in a hail of bullets at a military checkpoint, shrivelled my heart. I have never been marginalized to that extent, but I am certainly that expendable. What was the price of their deaths in the course of geo-political reality? Nothing but the price of my memory, and perhaps burial in a network video archive, but it was enough.
The Holocaust is no excuse for 66 years of Palestinian blood on the hands of Israeli capability, sweeping up nearly mute collateral damage along with perhaps justified intransigence of refugee resistance. The Islamic faith has its own appalling callousness, but I am quite capable of entering into how and why their radicalization occurs.
I paid Amazon's price for the Windows 7 upgrade disk, as I would need it even if the download is free, and if I can get it to run in my corrupted drive, then all is well, and if not, I go to my virtually unused Toshiba, cross my fingers, and while I am doing that, play patty cake with this poor HP, grand old lady suffering under my illiteracy. She really is not worth much more money, but I cannot afford to keep buying computers, tablets, and a new battery for her, that will come next month. The HP is definitively she, a fusty queen, in contrast to my Dell, who was a good boy until my landlord's oh so wonderful subcontractors terminated his hard drive, but let me not dwell on my resource drainage. And as per my aunt's advice, I will do my best with the Vista drivers, but remain confused, debating my television choices for this afternoon. I saw a portion of Tuck Everlasting before, and other than the fact that it left my shift in neutral, my jury is out as to its utility, but I believe for now, this is a skip, not that I necessarily eschew children's literature, I just never tried to be that kind of writer.
Let me scour my sentiments about Israeli politics with slightly more over-simplified persistence, while I push Vinnie and his nagging off with my skull, and tell him to leave me alone. No sale. They do not like the fish, but little kimmy was a good girl, and after the excitement of mommy's fall from bed, she ate her breakfast. I am snowed in, as even minor accumulations can damage either power chair, so they have to tolerate the supply I have available. My sympathies toward the Jewish state cooled during the first intifada. A video of a gaunt vulnerable father getting killed while trying to shield his child, a young boy also killed in a hail of bullets at a military checkpoint, shrivelled my heart. I have never been marginalized to that extent, but I am certainly that expendable. What was the price of their deaths in the course of geo-political reality? Nothing but the price of my memory, and perhaps burial in a network video archive, but it was enough.
The Holocaust is no excuse for 66 years of Palestinian blood on the hands of Israeli capability, sweeping up nearly mute collateral damage along with perhaps justified intransigence of refugee resistance. The Islamic faith has its own appalling callousness, but I am quite capable of entering into how and why their radicalization occurs.
Friday, January 25, 2013
The Mossad Foul is Fair
My attitude toward the state of Israel has invariably shifted over the years, from that of unquestioned idealism to serious doubts about American foreign policy being tethered to Ashkenazi self-righteousness, and today, merely colored by cynicism, I respect the ruthlessness of the Mossad, but much like the Guardian staff, question the morality of that ruthlessness. Though I am powerless to be ruthless, my own morality has suffered from its intractable growth, which justice would staunch, an abstract idea that seems unlikely at this point, though the question of a diabolical disabled evil preoccupies whatever remains of my creative talent, as an ethical, technical problem. Whatever Linda's virtue, she undermines it by unnecessary humiliation, and her employer refuses to deal with it by utilizing an appropriate discipline, which in this case, is forcing her resignation. Linda repeatedly gets "herself into trouble." Her words, disrepecting her colleagues, turning on, and I cite, on the basis of facts I have in evidence:
1. blind subordinates, otherwise qualified
2. minority subordinates, who successfully sued under her administration
3. quadriplegic subordinates like myself, too incapacitated to meet EEOC deadlines
4. paraplegics in the same situation
If she was a corporate executive, do you think her tenure would be so long lived? Her former boss, Fern Markowitz, is as much a bigot as some feel Martin Peretz to be, except that Fern gets a free pass, as a Jewish lesbian, and I don't, because I troll in dark crevices, chewing grubs, but make no mistake, Fern was never about equality. She needed to control wheelchair users like myself, and that is not respect, with the exception of the symbolic tokenism Cassie James Holdsworth emanates. That is untouchable in Liberty's world, but for when I pierced it in anger. Fern took the problem Linda created and compounded it.
"I need to make a living Fern."
"Welllll," she trilled, like that, gesturing her hand at me, akin to a trainer with a rebellious circus animal, one that did not comply, instead of offering me a respectful discussion. Liberty's entire staff operates under this pathology of prevarication, which lesbians exude with peculiar talent, in Fern's case probably generational, and necessary, to evade the animosity Shakespeare reserved for supernatural androgyny, and this is the seed of my villainy, which, depositing in my rare disabled characters, is problematic, for I am taking a conceit, coupled with the real pain of my terribly cruel ouster, which Cassie acknowledged when she team tagged me on the grant proposal I was not going to do for their evil, and disservicing disability empowerment by letting this evil take its course in my work. Fern herself was ousted by a transvestite and his unstable and occasionally vicious partner, so it would be ironic, if, in truly unleashing my view, I wind up with a best seller, which is why I study intelligence. The price of vengeance, however, is an ancient lex talionis in the time warp of a modern age.
It is not Fern I want to eliminate, as Fern is punishment enough for her own reality, but the cruelty of the paradigm that allows her and her successors to engage in nearly untrammeled corruption, it has to go. Nursing homes are not an apologia for federally protected disability center ineffability.
1. blind subordinates, otherwise qualified
2. minority subordinates, who successfully sued under her administration
3. quadriplegic subordinates like myself, too incapacitated to meet EEOC deadlines
4. paraplegics in the same situation
If she was a corporate executive, do you think her tenure would be so long lived? Her former boss, Fern Markowitz, is as much a bigot as some feel Martin Peretz to be, except that Fern gets a free pass, as a Jewish lesbian, and I don't, because I troll in dark crevices, chewing grubs, but make no mistake, Fern was never about equality. She needed to control wheelchair users like myself, and that is not respect, with the exception of the symbolic tokenism Cassie James Holdsworth emanates. That is untouchable in Liberty's world, but for when I pierced it in anger. Fern took the problem Linda created and compounded it.
"I need to make a living Fern."
"Welllll," she trilled, like that, gesturing her hand at me, akin to a trainer with a rebellious circus animal, one that did not comply, instead of offering me a respectful discussion. Liberty's entire staff operates under this pathology of prevarication, which lesbians exude with peculiar talent, in Fern's case probably generational, and necessary, to evade the animosity Shakespeare reserved for supernatural androgyny, and this is the seed of my villainy, which, depositing in my rare disabled characters, is problematic, for I am taking a conceit, coupled with the real pain of my terribly cruel ouster, which Cassie acknowledged when she team tagged me on the grant proposal I was not going to do for their evil, and disservicing disability empowerment by letting this evil take its course in my work. Fern herself was ousted by a transvestite and his unstable and occasionally vicious partner, so it would be ironic, if, in truly unleashing my view, I wind up with a best seller, which is why I study intelligence. The price of vengeance, however, is an ancient lex talionis in the time warp of a modern age.
It is not Fern I want to eliminate, as Fern is punishment enough for her own reality, but the cruelty of the paradigm that allows her and her successors to engage in nearly untrammeled corruption, it has to go. Nursing homes are not an apologia for federally protected disability center ineffability.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Woodward, Widowhood
"I believe I had an accident; I think I wet myself a little. Isn't that awful?"-- Joanne Woodward to Martin Balsam, 1973
After supreme efforts like this, efforts that knock the wind out of me because I assumed facts not in evidence-- that this campaign could accommodate me by making the work part time, for instance, but opps, no, sorry, fidelity to Barack Obama as an occult demigod is not to be impinged upon by the punishing reality of lifelong abuse, a huge dose of bigotry swallowed daily in my own right, and a degrading lifelong struggle against poverty, yes, I grow angrier still, and wish I had the time and the ability to take young women like the zealous Catherine and her equally zealous Cairo counterpart and give them a reality check, not that I'll be granted the opportunity, but, whoever it is that needs to know, and whatever game theory I am deploying, know this: my opposition to equality on the basis of homosexual orientation is genuine, and if liberals need to think I am asserting this because of the abuse I received at the hands of the disabled community in PA, and that I am in denial of my own homoerotic sadomasochistic impulses, if that suits your fancy, and places me in a comfortable categorization for dismissal, nothing I post will change your mind in that regard, and I am, in the rhetorical sense, being drowned in our cultural *sea change,* in attitude, not so lacking in observation as you might suppose, but I will not, and indeed cannot, allow conservative Britons like Andrew to don themselves in pedestrian gnostic normalcy without putting up a fight, and Andy is not so pedestrian that he did not test HIV positive in 93, before my scar tissue had formed, before I knew what he was, and that is yet another dose of pretension on the American landscape. I am ailing, and no doubt soon to be dead, and Google will have to make its own decisions about my voice, as it wishes, but you have been warned. I am a clever woman, not typical in how I handle my honesty or exposures about bias, and I am declaring civil war without the benefit of biblical injunction.
Which makes Woodward's late century sociological pastiche a suitable and dated point of entry, Newman's less celebrated second half. I am straining to remember what Paul said about the differences between him and Joanne when they became their parts, on his big appearance on the actors studio series, and I cannot quite recall. He worked from inward to out, whereas she had an outward starting point. It does not make me respect her talent any more or less, and in the work of her prime years, she annoys me most of the time, not always, though I believe I see, a little, what made them more the sum of their parts for each other. Last I saw of her was those public service spots for recycling, before Paul died, and yet despite the contemporary mockery that Summer Wishes is prone to illicit, I like her in the role of Rita, and the struggle she and Balsam engage to negotiate their relationship in its seasoned reality. I am, however, understandably, battle fatigued, and fighting the fear of real, and actual, total failure, and can no more turn to the disabled community on the basis of my abused trust, than I can hope for progressive willingness to open your eyes, or that a rational conservative can see me, rescue me from the injustice of this paradigm, and allow me to breathe-- when my strength rebuilds, therefore.
After supreme efforts like this, efforts that knock the wind out of me because I assumed facts not in evidence-- that this campaign could accommodate me by making the work part time, for instance, but opps, no, sorry, fidelity to Barack Obama as an occult demigod is not to be impinged upon by the punishing reality of lifelong abuse, a huge dose of bigotry swallowed daily in my own right, and a degrading lifelong struggle against poverty, yes, I grow angrier still, and wish I had the time and the ability to take young women like the zealous Catherine and her equally zealous Cairo counterpart and give them a reality check, not that I'll be granted the opportunity, but, whoever it is that needs to know, and whatever game theory I am deploying, know this: my opposition to equality on the basis of homosexual orientation is genuine, and if liberals need to think I am asserting this because of the abuse I received at the hands of the disabled community in PA, and that I am in denial of my own homoerotic sadomasochistic impulses, if that suits your fancy, and places me in a comfortable categorization for dismissal, nothing I post will change your mind in that regard, and I am, in the rhetorical sense, being drowned in our cultural *sea change,* in attitude, not so lacking in observation as you might suppose, but I will not, and indeed cannot, allow conservative Britons like Andrew to don themselves in pedestrian gnostic normalcy without putting up a fight, and Andy is not so pedestrian that he did not test HIV positive in 93, before my scar tissue had formed, before I knew what he was, and that is yet another dose of pretension on the American landscape. I am ailing, and no doubt soon to be dead, and Google will have to make its own decisions about my voice, as it wishes, but you have been warned. I am a clever woman, not typical in how I handle my honesty or exposures about bias, and I am declaring civil war without the benefit of biblical injunction.
Which makes Woodward's late century sociological pastiche a suitable and dated point of entry, Newman's less celebrated second half. I am straining to remember what Paul said about the differences between him and Joanne when they became their parts, on his big appearance on the actors studio series, and I cannot quite recall. He worked from inward to out, whereas she had an outward starting point. It does not make me respect her talent any more or less, and in the work of her prime years, she annoys me most of the time, not always, though I believe I see, a little, what made them more the sum of their parts for each other. Last I saw of her was those public service spots for recycling, before Paul died, and yet despite the contemporary mockery that Summer Wishes is prone to illicit, I like her in the role of Rita, and the struggle she and Balsam engage to negotiate their relationship in its seasoned reality. I am, however, understandably, battle fatigued, and fighting the fear of real, and actual, total failure, and can no more turn to the disabled community on the basis of my abused trust, than I can hope for progressive willingness to open your eyes, or that a rational conservative can see me, rescue me from the injustice of this paradigm, and allow me to breathe-- when my strength rebuilds, therefore.
Mulch
It was after this failed interview post that I noticed the probtheme link in my traffic sources, (it was also my birthday) and it led me to speculate on what my isp trackers thought I was capable of. Scalping sweet briar on a spear shaft? I care far too much about my own ego to pelt lesbians with egg shells, and leaving vitriolic imagery with boiling vats aside, the reasons I have drifted rightward from the progressive advocacy Catherine represents in her Barack deification (I know, I have been there, though not, insofar as it concerns the Obamas, with them) is because I have been tortured on the rack of the lie of social equality fifty ways from Sunday.
And my interview, fuck wits, was to campaign for Planned Parenthood. It is incumbent upon me that I did not ask the girl on the phone, whose name was Emily, the right questions before I showed up, and so I gift wrapped my parachute when I realized it would be next to impossible for me to field that degree of inner city travel.
However, my point to the gay marriage girls is exactly the reality check my physical limitations represent: Gay marriage is cosmetic. Including people like me in the real world is not. I might have been able to handle in office clerical duties and was shot down. By what metric my exclusion on the basis of my brain damage is progressive in terms of reasonable accommodation, this eludes me. Perhaps when Catherine lowers her brimming temperature, she'd have a few thoughts in response.
And my interview, fuck wits, was to campaign for Planned Parenthood. It is incumbent upon me that I did not ask the girl on the phone, whose name was Emily, the right questions before I showed up, and so I gift wrapped my parachute when I realized it would be next to impossible for me to field that degree of inner city travel.
However, my point to the gay marriage girls is exactly the reality check my physical limitations represent: Gay marriage is cosmetic. Including people like me in the real world is not. I might have been able to handle in office clerical duties and was shot down. By what metric my exclusion on the basis of my brain damage is progressive in terms of reasonable accommodation, this eludes me. Perhaps when Catherine lowers her brimming temperature, she'd have a few thoughts in response.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
A Purveyor of Necessities
The Roman, like the Englishman who follows in his footsteps, brought to every new shore on which he set his foot (on our shore he never set it) only his cloacal obsession. --James Joyce, Ulysses, location 2112
How comprehensive one can be following a 4:40 am dash on the most frigid day of the new year is a good question, but let me dial myself back slightly, for your understanding: When Greg Zacharias admonished me about conspiracies, he meant my James list posts were not being bounced on purpose, not realizing I was attempting to make a sardonic joke. When my half brother admonished me, he meant my family was not engaged in collusion to put me back in a nursing home, but fuck that. My baby bro and my full blooded sister are selfish whining materialistic parents who let me down and feel guilty about it and are headed for a legal negotiation, while my family elders wish I'd shut the fuck up, and mother's sister has reverted to loving inclusionary noises, all well and good, but la damage has been done, though I grant you, in stealing my mentor's title from an old workshop piece de resistance, that I am the primary purveyor of my bubonic plague. If Rico was a Simenon morality play that the studio turned into an uneasy hatchet job that has a great deal to say about Caucasian caste, then Arlington Road is positively operatic red meat, and on my last viewing I paid very careful attention, and there is enough ambiguity about Hope Davis as Brooke, and the blond operative in the ponytail who closes the film, to leave hanging some interesting questions, and a film like Brazil, satire it may be, ties this up nicely, but I am still thinking, and am thinking now of sleep, and my wry smile when Catherine, the blue-eyed bright progressive, chatted with me and the North Philadelphia minorities, about hostility to the LBGT community. Little did she know I was bitter, disillusioned, and how victimized. She would not, none of them knew, and no, they will not, this ACLU offshoot, be able to accommodate me to do their canvassing. It will be too difficult, though the young woman involved in the Cairo uprising interested me, and though you know not to what I allude, she talked back, and the half century old cripple stood firm, unmoving, a virtual edifice of granite, watching humanity knowing not what it reaps.
How comprehensive one can be following a 4:40 am dash on the most frigid day of the new year is a good question, but let me dial myself back slightly, for your understanding: When Greg Zacharias admonished me about conspiracies, he meant my James list posts were not being bounced on purpose, not realizing I was attempting to make a sardonic joke. When my half brother admonished me, he meant my family was not engaged in collusion to put me back in a nursing home, but fuck that. My baby bro and my full blooded sister are selfish whining materialistic parents who let me down and feel guilty about it and are headed for a legal negotiation, while my family elders wish I'd shut the fuck up, and mother's sister has reverted to loving inclusionary noises, all well and good, but la damage has been done, though I grant you, in stealing my mentor's title from an old workshop piece de resistance, that I am the primary purveyor of my bubonic plague. If Rico was a Simenon morality play that the studio turned into an uneasy hatchet job that has a great deal to say about Caucasian caste, then Arlington Road is positively operatic red meat, and on my last viewing I paid very careful attention, and there is enough ambiguity about Hope Davis as Brooke, and the blond operative in the ponytail who closes the film, to leave hanging some interesting questions, and a film like Brazil, satire it may be, ties this up nicely, but I am still thinking, and am thinking now of sleep, and my wry smile when Catherine, the blue-eyed bright progressive, chatted with me and the North Philadelphia minorities, about hostility to the LBGT community. Little did she know I was bitter, disillusioned, and how victimized. She would not, none of them knew, and no, they will not, this ACLU offshoot, be able to accommodate me to do their canvassing. It will be too difficult, though the young woman involved in the Cairo uprising interested me, and though you know not to what I allude, she talked back, and the half century old cripple stood firm, unmoving, a virtual edifice of granite, watching humanity knowing not what it reaps.
Sunday, January 20, 2013
In My Journal
The Sunlight Aria: Urethra Knives 01/20/13
(36)
Dialing down the spastic dowager voice, I have to step off the blogger platform now and again, even if hate is truly beginning to consume me, as an issue even on the most pragmatic terms, what does it matter? Much like Sebold’s dead and virgin fuck worthy adolescent, vivacious and charming as the young actor was on screen, the hate itself is all that I have left, stark, veering toward crone cryogenics, this is how a constantly thwarted lust for life dies, its embers encased in stone cold methane, not any one thing, merely the cumulative total, besotting myself with Jerry, our 2007 contact the last gash, really, the last expenditure I had to exhaust. Did I love him, Frank asked with his Puerto Rican imbecility, and I cannot remember what I actually said to my bonny bastard nearly ex husband, but no, one does not love a glass fractured mortal icon now balding into a praying mantis post Vietnam boomer posture, no, but I would do anything now to reset the relative idyll, my brother engaged with his needle via which AIDS would waste the masculinity of his flesh into yellowish pink fevered bones no one wanted to touch, this that was Ridley Park, had I not answered the phone, and wrote “Professor McGuire,” on a notepad, dwelling on his professional title with nascent awe, had I not been there to let him the key to go look at my father’s little upstairs studio, had I not asserted myself, and found myself shaken to the core that he was a Shakespearean about to teach where I was about to be a freshman, poor Joanie looking at me like what’s the big deal?
Exactly, the big deal is I am dying in Philadelphia because I made a dynamic and once beautifully manic intellect that his was, as I then saw it, the biggest deal of my life, and no Frank, that is not love. It is the sentiment of wounded, even crippled primates, that gives fanaticism its power to do so much harm, that is what I experienced. The divine revelation of Christ for a Renaissance post modern sensibility. I could not just settle for getting raped by one of my mother’s trailer trash lovers, crying through the then necessary aborting drill bit no, me? I had to worship a somewhat gifted educator, sitting here at fifty looking at all the pieces of that puzzle, and how they, those pieces, accentuate the multiplicity of my wounds in a taunt pickle of aging urine, dark or light, depending on what liquid I utilize when I am not utilizing, like Kerouac, an intake of 32 ounces of coffee. Bladder cancer would actually be something of an upset, but then, if that is actually what it is, if not a cervical issue also. even if I do not lose to it outright, would give a plebeian sanctimonious owl hooting woman like Josie her justification, wouldn’t it? I need no imagination to know how a rabid bitch like that would take the news that I went down over a degrading rubber balloon, offering up a little prayer perhaps, in the happy consolation of her congregation, her and that insufferable God loves me as he made me hope. The stupid mechanisms we use, non viable females.
I do not know whether or not I am strong enough to handle a temporary fieldwork assignment, courteous as I and the ACLU woman were to each other, someone like me, forced to turn to the radical left, blind to the pain they bred in me, but going to the interview will, at least, be yet another matron whaling in the dark engagement. We’ll see, whether or not I ever forgive myself. Do I love him? It reverberates, a challenge to any rationale, like his daily familiarity with Susan. The doubt in my mind will never entirely settle, whether my finalist poem “On Goodbyes” was a love song of a turbulent girl in the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong thunder in her heart for men who could not accept her as a loving intimate, not that way, and had he dared it, not that it would have been right, but had it happened, and not been the stuff of real sexual fulfillment, I would have laughed, his gaunt and ugly energy, my flaccid spastic body and thick black pubic hair, I would have laughed, for that which is a broken heart. I hope Joanie did well. She was a good girl, a sweet soul, never was unkind to me.
6:03 am, Sunday
(36)
Dialing down the spastic dowager voice, I have to step off the blogger platform now and again, even if hate is truly beginning to consume me, as an issue even on the most pragmatic terms, what does it matter? Much like Sebold’s dead and virgin fuck worthy adolescent, vivacious and charming as the young actor was on screen, the hate itself is all that I have left, stark, veering toward crone cryogenics, this is how a constantly thwarted lust for life dies, its embers encased in stone cold methane, not any one thing, merely the cumulative total, besotting myself with Jerry, our 2007 contact the last gash, really, the last expenditure I had to exhaust. Did I love him, Frank asked with his Puerto Rican imbecility, and I cannot remember what I actually said to my bonny bastard nearly ex husband, but no, one does not love a glass fractured mortal icon now balding into a praying mantis post Vietnam boomer posture, no, but I would do anything now to reset the relative idyll, my brother engaged with his needle via which AIDS would waste the masculinity of his flesh into yellowish pink fevered bones no one wanted to touch, this that was Ridley Park, had I not answered the phone, and wrote “Professor McGuire,” on a notepad, dwelling on his professional title with nascent awe, had I not been there to let him the key to go look at my father’s little upstairs studio, had I not asserted myself, and found myself shaken to the core that he was a Shakespearean about to teach where I was about to be a freshman, poor Joanie looking at me like what’s the big deal?
Exactly, the big deal is I am dying in Philadelphia because I made a dynamic and once beautifully manic intellect that his was, as I then saw it, the biggest deal of my life, and no Frank, that is not love. It is the sentiment of wounded, even crippled primates, that gives fanaticism its power to do so much harm, that is what I experienced. The divine revelation of Christ for a Renaissance post modern sensibility. I could not just settle for getting raped by one of my mother’s trailer trash lovers, crying through the then necessary aborting drill bit no, me? I had to worship a somewhat gifted educator, sitting here at fifty looking at all the pieces of that puzzle, and how they, those pieces, accentuate the multiplicity of my wounds in a taunt pickle of aging urine, dark or light, depending on what liquid I utilize when I am not utilizing, like Kerouac, an intake of 32 ounces of coffee. Bladder cancer would actually be something of an upset, but then, if that is actually what it is, if not a cervical issue also. even if I do not lose to it outright, would give a plebeian sanctimonious owl hooting woman like Josie her justification, wouldn’t it? I need no imagination to know how a rabid bitch like that would take the news that I went down over a degrading rubber balloon, offering up a little prayer perhaps, in the happy consolation of her congregation, her and that insufferable God loves me as he made me hope. The stupid mechanisms we use, non viable females.
I do not know whether or not I am strong enough to handle a temporary fieldwork assignment, courteous as I and the ACLU woman were to each other, someone like me, forced to turn to the radical left, blind to the pain they bred in me, but going to the interview will, at least, be yet another matron whaling in the dark engagement. We’ll see, whether or not I ever forgive myself. Do I love him? It reverberates, a challenge to any rationale, like his daily familiarity with Susan. The doubt in my mind will never entirely settle, whether my finalist poem “On Goodbyes” was a love song of a turbulent girl in the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong thunder in her heart for men who could not accept her as a loving intimate, not that way, and had he dared it, not that it would have been right, but had it happened, and not been the stuff of real sexual fulfillment, I would have laughed, his gaunt and ugly energy, my flaccid spastic body and thick black pubic hair, I would have laughed, for that which is a broken heart. I hope Joanie did well. She was a good girl, a sweet soul, never was unkind to me.
6:03 am, Sunday
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Right To Bear
Nothing is as frightening as a disillusioned liberal.
--popular saying
I twirl her reputation like a baton in the hands of a cheerleader who possesses the dexterity to twirl, watching the shiny loose change tumble from her pockets, blood bouncing in her skull, dizzying, post-surgical nausea unpleasantly sloshing in a disturbed stomach, my once and never again editor from Lancaster, taking from me what can never be replaced, will this end of life investment in venom be worth it? My energy is too fagged on this warmer winter morning to refine the incision, lucky for my skimmers, so I speculate, pondering the gun control issue, and the unfortunate rise of the new witch hunt over those with mental defect, diseased brains, or mood disorders aggravated by poverty, and sometimes deliberate blindness of self-interest. Both sides have it wrong, the radical left and the anal retentive NRA.
Against the NRA is the fact that guns are designed to kill very efficiently. The right needs to admit this and stop beating about the bush. Guns are lethal weapons, and even in trained hands, lead to tragic and unintended consequences. They may give us nice fantasies, especially in the hands of a still vibrant, erotic, dangerous Christopher Walken in his early Reaganesque Forsyth vehicle of mercenary cynicism, but they erode moral empathy, and make our inner cities war zones of post traumatic stress inbreeding.
Against the left: Stop splitting hairs and stand for something. The second amendment needs to be revised, and that revised law needs to be ratified the way the founding fathers intended ratification to work, passed by a 2/3 state majority. Easy, no, but progressives damn themselves this way all the time. Sexual equality is cosmetic sissy whining and obscures real concrete and serious issues that ail the failed Enlightenment Ideal that was supposed to be the United States. Stop picking on what is primarily a problem of underclass poverty, mental illness, and start asking some serious questions about weaponry and capitalism, corporate profit. Toying with an article proposal here, the specifics of which shall not be for your consumption.
--popular saying
I twirl her reputation like a baton in the hands of a cheerleader who possesses the dexterity to twirl, watching the shiny loose change tumble from her pockets, blood bouncing in her skull, dizzying, post-surgical nausea unpleasantly sloshing in a disturbed stomach, my once and never again editor from Lancaster, taking from me what can never be replaced, will this end of life investment in venom be worth it? My energy is too fagged on this warmer winter morning to refine the incision, lucky for my skimmers, so I speculate, pondering the gun control issue, and the unfortunate rise of the new witch hunt over those with mental defect, diseased brains, or mood disorders aggravated by poverty, and sometimes deliberate blindness of self-interest. Both sides have it wrong, the radical left and the anal retentive NRA.
Against the NRA is the fact that guns are designed to kill very efficiently. The right needs to admit this and stop beating about the bush. Guns are lethal weapons, and even in trained hands, lead to tragic and unintended consequences. They may give us nice fantasies, especially in the hands of a still vibrant, erotic, dangerous Christopher Walken in his early Reaganesque Forsyth vehicle of mercenary cynicism, but they erode moral empathy, and make our inner cities war zones of post traumatic stress inbreeding.
Against the left: Stop splitting hairs and stand for something. The second amendment needs to be revised, and that revised law needs to be ratified the way the founding fathers intended ratification to work, passed by a 2/3 state majority. Easy, no, but progressives damn themselves this way all the time. Sexual equality is cosmetic sissy whining and obscures real concrete and serious issues that ail the failed Enlightenment Ideal that was supposed to be the United States. Stop picking on what is primarily a problem of underclass poverty, mental illness, and start asking some serious questions about weaponry and capitalism, corporate profit. Toying with an article proposal here, the specifics of which shall not be for your consumption.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Addendum Death Dance
All That Jazz is, of course, an able-bodied film with its own subtext, and Dave Kehr does offer me what a poet once named Wendy would phrase as, "the shock of recognition," in Gideon's Mephistophelean aspects, but what it offers to a disability thesis is a certain Kantian aspect, that, whatever makes you a hot property, be it Scheider's restrained sex appeal on camera, or a potential political power on the rise, or skills that lend themselves to choreography, none of us have it for very long, and need to make the most of it, even as our biological design breaks down, kills us through our own behavior, though Gideon is a type of an anachronism, the basic fun loving self-destructive addict, one that I'd wager no longer exists, even in Fosse's world.
Schneider too declined and died of blood cancer, maybe not a bad way to go.
For a technical quadriplegic, I was once fairly affluent, however I have to square my father in my psyche as he heads toward dementia, and I decline, but I assert this as a basic truth: I face the prospect of dying in squalor in the last superpower standing because I was a confused 23 year old who wanted love with a passion, took risks toward total independence, and failed, and this is unjust. I no longer know, at 50, how much work I can take on in a traditional employee context, and I can bust my ass fifty ways from Sunday on article pitches, and it might not matter. I cannot force publishers to contract me, and can still fail, as I did with my editor last year.
I cannot even leave section 202 housing like a fucking normal human being. If you want me to readjust my attitude, it is simple, give me hope, and leave your community integration rhetoric in the outhouse, where it belongs.
Schneider too declined and died of blood cancer, maybe not a bad way to go.
For a technical quadriplegic, I was once fairly affluent, however I have to square my father in my psyche as he heads toward dementia, and I decline, but I assert this as a basic truth: I face the prospect of dying in squalor in the last superpower standing because I was a confused 23 year old who wanted love with a passion, took risks toward total independence, and failed, and this is unjust. I no longer know, at 50, how much work I can take on in a traditional employee context, and I can bust my ass fifty ways from Sunday on article pitches, and it might not matter. I cannot force publishers to contract me, and can still fail, as I did with my editor last year.
I cannot even leave section 202 housing like a fucking normal human being. If you want me to readjust my attitude, it is simple, give me hope, and leave your community integration rhetoric in the outhouse, where it belongs.
Myeloma Glitter Maw
"You have to be careful with something like that in national policy. It corrodes the forces; it corrodes the torturer."--Gen Stanley McChrystal
General McChrystal, sir: Obama may be relieved, or not, and most likely no one will care that I face the danger of Ezra Pound in his decline, and I am aware that I face such a danger as I recoil from the sordidness of the flesh, the sordidness of urban America, but I do not dislike Barack, and sometimes even agree with him. However, if Mitt Romney had not been nominated, I would have voted against the president. Radical equality progressives are as extreme as national socialists once were, and they are destroying the United States. I think you were treated unfairly by the current administration over the Rolling Stone expose. It is not as if you endangered national security by fucking female officers, and I have your book in my queue. Here is the deal: If you have national political aspirations, the spastic_dowager will support you, as long as you give me a tasty victual. I want the federal mandate that secures independent living centers eliminated. Kabeesh? If it was up to me I'd say let's go for a coup d'etat, but since it is not, and I am debating showing up for my local inauguration event to troll for kindle users to give me a subscription, I'd settle for seeing you at the head of, or in, a 2016 transition team. I want the people in Philadelphia who hurt me punished, and I know you've seen much worse in Iraq, but sir, the third world does exist in the US, and I deserve the compassion to stop living in it, because I am a gifted woman, and should not have to be watching my soul perish, like Roy Schneider producing his own death journey in Fosse's flawed but smart aleck musical hybrid.
I miss Roy Schneider the actor for more shallow and more sexual reasons, as compared to the moral certitude of Anne Bancroft, but miss him I do, the hyper cool tight ass, the perfect foil for the damn great white shark who probably would have been a better president than the majority of the men who held the office, and for those very reasons, All That Jazz had a powerful effect on me as a young woman. Even with multiple myeloma, Schneider kept his edge, commanding the desire of women like me to unify in the elegance of his eros (the scene where he kisses the dying woman with white hair). Fosse's devil may care moxie reaches me, despite the mild sexism inside the world of dance subculture. They just don't make movie stars like him anymore.
General McChrystal, sir: Obama may be relieved, or not, and most likely no one will care that I face the danger of Ezra Pound in his decline, and I am aware that I face such a danger as I recoil from the sordidness of the flesh, the sordidness of urban America, but I do not dislike Barack, and sometimes even agree with him. However, if Mitt Romney had not been nominated, I would have voted against the president. Radical equality progressives are as extreme as national socialists once were, and they are destroying the United States. I think you were treated unfairly by the current administration over the Rolling Stone expose. It is not as if you endangered national security by fucking female officers, and I have your book in my queue. Here is the deal: If you have national political aspirations, the spastic_dowager will support you, as long as you give me a tasty victual. I want the federal mandate that secures independent living centers eliminated. Kabeesh? If it was up to me I'd say let's go for a coup d'etat, but since it is not, and I am debating showing up for my local inauguration event to troll for kindle users to give me a subscription, I'd settle for seeing you at the head of, or in, a 2016 transition team. I want the people in Philadelphia who hurt me punished, and I know you've seen much worse in Iraq, but sir, the third world does exist in the US, and I deserve the compassion to stop living in it, because I am a gifted woman, and should not have to be watching my soul perish, like Roy Schneider producing his own death journey in Fosse's flawed but smart aleck musical hybrid.
I miss Roy Schneider the actor for more shallow and more sexual reasons, as compared to the moral certitude of Anne Bancroft, but miss him I do, the hyper cool tight ass, the perfect foil for the damn great white shark who probably would have been a better president than the majority of the men who held the office, and for those very reasons, All That Jazz had a powerful effect on me as a young woman. Even with multiple myeloma, Schneider kept his edge, commanding the desire of women like me to unify in the elegance of his eros (the scene where he kisses the dying woman with white hair). Fosse's devil may care moxie reaches me, despite the mild sexism inside the world of dance subculture. They just don't make movie stars like him anymore.
Tuesday, January 15, 2013
International Criminality
There are no easy choices when it comes to mortality; in one of my many Harrisburg conferences, under the old Pennsylvania Citizens Council, where I first met Josie, who even then was odd, owlish, non descript, a plain Jane who needs to wave Jesus I love pussy on her flagpole, (ah spastic, trolling, now now) there was a deaf dumb and blind minority, pretty woman, considering, who could not hear herself scream when a power chair ran over her foot in a beige pump, Anne Bancroft's majesty entirely absent. What choice does a woman like that have? This is what I asked myself at the time, even as the story of the Belgian twins saddens me. As much as we might need to be wary of Europe's move toward euthanasia, to the extent that I am still viable as a disabled American, one who does not want to die, but is suffering due to extraordinary marginalization, I cannot fault the decision these men made. Would you like me to display compassion toward Josie? Unlikely as it may be, but not impossible, that she and I will ever set eyes on each other again, I know her MS has told on her body, and that she is no longer passable as able. I also know, as you do, that I am a demanding figure, but let me tell you why I am so pissed off with her. She had the ability to recognize how lonely I was, had the ability to ascertain how Cecil's intelligence and perception captivated me, and then turned right around and destroyed any hope I had of building a relationship with him. Progressives who want to tell me this does not make all homosexuals vicious and untrustworthy may be factually correct, but with this kind of dirty laundry, no one needs what you feel you deserve in terms of your sexual activity, and your demands for marriage. What did I do to Josie to deserve this? Let's see. I talked to her in email, perhaps too facetious at times. I gave her daughter a Sherman Alexie collection for which I paid 24 dollars. That is what I did, to New Mobility's managing editor. So what do I want? I want activists to examine their consciences. I am still alone, in exactly the same location where this woman dragged her rancid body to sit near me on a fountain after I charged her with my power chair to grin wolfishly at her hand waving alarm. At the time I thought I meant it as a joke, and much as I have my choice of enemies between this activist mafia and the case management modalities with which they dance, Richard Conte is increasingly hemmed in by the syndicate men whom Kubik controls in Rico. As Eddie heads toward his little brother, Karlson has wardrobe dress everyone up as cowboys. Charming.
Johnny got out too, like the middle child, but apparently opted for a real frontier purity, overshadowed by Lamotta, and Eddie, racked by guilt, decides to fray his cufflinks and turn states evidence, and Alice gets the reward of a recommendation by the DA for the orphanage. I do not think Karlson meant for his viewers to be entirely at ease with this quick plaster happy ending. There seems to be an underlying uncertainty about the price of collusion, but I'll sharpen up my knives as I find the terminology, and the framework I seek.
Johnny got out too, like the middle child, but apparently opted for a real frontier purity, overshadowed by Lamotta, and Eddie, racked by guilt, decides to fray his cufflinks and turn states evidence, and Alice gets the reward of a recommendation by the DA for the orphanage. I do not think Karlson meant for his viewers to be entirely at ease with this quick plaster happy ending. There seems to be an underlying uncertainty about the price of collusion, but I'll sharpen up my knives as I find the terminology, and the framework I seek.
Gangsta Grades
Everyone knows that Rome was all bread and circuses.
--Oswyn Murray
On my way home from the Joyce group Saturday, I paused at the commerce building cubicle to eat my turkey and drink my caffeine like a speed freak, and two of the women in the group, with whom I might have clicked, given they were not grandmothers, or old Irish cops, passed and cut me, quite rapidly, not even bothering to say hello, and as they left my line of vision, a disturbed African American stopped, tried to engage me, screaming at the top of his lungs, "I love you!" "Go away or I'll call the cops." Okay, he said.
Merely an episode, perhaps prescient, given where the local disability activists have left me. Online interaction does not work; patronage has not succeeded, and I cannot imagine what subset of the publishing industry would want to accommodate me on a part time basis, in terms of steady pay, not simply commissioned sales-- and yet we laud violins for poor Swartz, another hounded victim, though his actual crime in terms of digital copyrights seems, at least for Eric Holder's tenure at Justice, mushy.
Public housing has already killed me, and you, Liberty, one day you will immolate yourselves, not by me, because my will is sapped, but you will cause this city such a scandal one day that its administration will be forced to put you into receivership, because this is Philadelphia, the metropolis that invented the ever diminishing returns on self depreciating incompetence, passed between Italian corruption Jewish liberal lesbianism and black and white Protestant denominations of least qualification like a platinum coin worth a billion dollars for the supremacy of the jackass model. No, I am not going away, but even if a lawyer will sue for me, I am already lost, sitting in the kitchen, drained of any desire to believe that I am still a real human being, still capable of thriving, and then a squabble of the usual sort among the Jamesians revived me temporarily, led me to a brief surge, and I send them all hugs and kisses, even Greg Zacharias, who, like my brother, thinks I need SSRIs in an appropriate dosage to modify my view about the conspiracy against me.
From my earliest posts on Arlington Road, I have been in an in depth argument with Greg, actually, and also my family, to show that yes, non compliance creates the trauma that makes the system act to operate against our universal desire for autonomy. Ah, the cripple and her scholar tweaking! Such small joys, let's finish up with The Brothers Rico, though the film may linger on for some time.
--Oswyn Murray
On my way home from the Joyce group Saturday, I paused at the commerce building cubicle to eat my turkey and drink my caffeine like a speed freak, and two of the women in the group, with whom I might have clicked, given they were not grandmothers, or old Irish cops, passed and cut me, quite rapidly, not even bothering to say hello, and as they left my line of vision, a disturbed African American stopped, tried to engage me, screaming at the top of his lungs, "I love you!" "Go away or I'll call the cops." Okay, he said.
Merely an episode, perhaps prescient, given where the local disability activists have left me. Online interaction does not work; patronage has not succeeded, and I cannot imagine what subset of the publishing industry would want to accommodate me on a part time basis, in terms of steady pay, not simply commissioned sales-- and yet we laud violins for poor Swartz, another hounded victim, though his actual crime in terms of digital copyrights seems, at least for Eric Holder's tenure at Justice, mushy.
Public housing has already killed me, and you, Liberty, one day you will immolate yourselves, not by me, because my will is sapped, but you will cause this city such a scandal one day that its administration will be forced to put you into receivership, because this is Philadelphia, the metropolis that invented the ever diminishing returns on self depreciating incompetence, passed between Italian corruption Jewish liberal lesbianism and black and white Protestant denominations of least qualification like a platinum coin worth a billion dollars for the supremacy of the jackass model. No, I am not going away, but even if a lawyer will sue for me, I am already lost, sitting in the kitchen, drained of any desire to believe that I am still a real human being, still capable of thriving, and then a squabble of the usual sort among the Jamesians revived me temporarily, led me to a brief surge, and I send them all hugs and kisses, even Greg Zacharias, who, like my brother, thinks I need SSRIs in an appropriate dosage to modify my view about the conspiracy against me.
From my earliest posts on Arlington Road, I have been in an in depth argument with Greg, actually, and also my family, to show that yes, non compliance creates the trauma that makes the system act to operate against our universal desire for autonomy. Ah, the cripple and her scholar tweaking! Such small joys, let's finish up with The Brothers Rico, though the film may linger on for some time.
Monday, January 14, 2013
Coefficient Flight to Precision
"Have you ever been to Philly sir? You have to be crazy to live there."-- Nicholas Cage, snickering his way out of involuntary confinement, circa 1984
In the days following 911, like most Americans, I wanted a response, and like most Americans, I did not really give much thought to what it meant, to wipe the Taliban off the face of the earth, indeed, to eradicate Al Qaida, radiate the group with isotopes so that it would suffer the worst kind of slow and incurable poisoning imaginable, and like most Americans, this slog bequeathed to us by Rumsfeld and Cheney, in conjunction with Iraq, has infected American power, weakened our collective blood stream with a persistent influenza, which still battles our white cell count, the victor undecided.
Although the current administration bears some criticism in how these conflicts have been resolved, commitment to any kind of goal lost in the process of leaving it on the shoulders of Karzai, the issue is less ideological and more prone to ridicule. The Chinese secret police quell their internal protest demonstrations more effectively than a democratic superpower and its Nato allies can achieve a goal, to pacify a territory that seems to lack any intuitive understanding of national sovereignty. This adds to the weight of my disdain for Kathryn Bigelow, which is unfortunate, but I will sift my way around to that. It has nothing to do with her importance in being, in the moment, an influential female director who tackles war theatre without apologies, leaving viewers to extrapolate and interpolate the harsh tactical angles, which, if we compare it to Alan Parker's Birdy, illustrates how much war films have changed, and how much studios feel they are willing to risk, perhaps as payback for our shame, or how much Cheney was willing to squander principle to justify the ends, and left us as dirty as the manifest destiny and violence against the indigenous left us with a blood guilt buried in textbooks and forgotten, only pulled out and referenced when liberals feel like kicking me in the teeth.
Birdy is an independent film for which I have a soft spot, personally and artistically. I saw it first with collegiate friend Tom, the memory of our give and take only growing in commensurate value as the years pass and I have no real links, or a bond, with anyone of his like, not for sexual affection, or even love, but the pleasure of his company, the value of aesthetic conversation. If I knew Alan Parker he would probably be a spirited ally, given the motifs he coaxed out of Cage and Modine, their resistance against control, poverty, and a bleak mechanized urban blight only accentuated by the heightened trauma of Vietnam.
Bigelow dispenses with the artifice of metaphorical salve to such wounds, but she should not be the decisive factor in how we repair the Clinton - Bush legacy, and Obama's tepid resolution of such a problematic paradigm. Killing Osama may have involved tactical danger, but it was otherwise a pointless exercise, since we seem to lack a vision for restoring the moral ascendancy of Pax America, and Bigelow gets to amuse herself being a modern GI Joe cocktease who does not condone torture, as if we expect her, and her producers, to say anything else. If her work is admirable, didactic, offers an interpretation to be celebrated, then hey, but to the extent that the public does not care, then the public needs castigation for refusing to be educated. Zero Dark Thirty should be an augmentation, and nothing more than that. Do I object if the Academy awards her? Certainly not, but if you allow her films to define the most successful terrorist plot in human history, then just give it up now, resign from the United Nations, and let the Mexican drug cartels retake our Western territory, and we can govern ourselves as effectively as the Castro's govern their island ninety miles from our shores.
In the days following 911, like most Americans, I wanted a response, and like most Americans, I did not really give much thought to what it meant, to wipe the Taliban off the face of the earth, indeed, to eradicate Al Qaida, radiate the group with isotopes so that it would suffer the worst kind of slow and incurable poisoning imaginable, and like most Americans, this slog bequeathed to us by Rumsfeld and Cheney, in conjunction with Iraq, has infected American power, weakened our collective blood stream with a persistent influenza, which still battles our white cell count, the victor undecided.
Although the current administration bears some criticism in how these conflicts have been resolved, commitment to any kind of goal lost in the process of leaving it on the shoulders of Karzai, the issue is less ideological and more prone to ridicule. The Chinese secret police quell their internal protest demonstrations more effectively than a democratic superpower and its Nato allies can achieve a goal, to pacify a territory that seems to lack any intuitive understanding of national sovereignty. This adds to the weight of my disdain for Kathryn Bigelow, which is unfortunate, but I will sift my way around to that. It has nothing to do with her importance in being, in the moment, an influential female director who tackles war theatre without apologies, leaving viewers to extrapolate and interpolate the harsh tactical angles, which, if we compare it to Alan Parker's Birdy, illustrates how much war films have changed, and how much studios feel they are willing to risk, perhaps as payback for our shame, or how much Cheney was willing to squander principle to justify the ends, and left us as dirty as the manifest destiny and violence against the indigenous left us with a blood guilt buried in textbooks and forgotten, only pulled out and referenced when liberals feel like kicking me in the teeth.
Birdy is an independent film for which I have a soft spot, personally and artistically. I saw it first with collegiate friend Tom, the memory of our give and take only growing in commensurate value as the years pass and I have no real links, or a bond, with anyone of his like, not for sexual affection, or even love, but the pleasure of his company, the value of aesthetic conversation. If I knew Alan Parker he would probably be a spirited ally, given the motifs he coaxed out of Cage and Modine, their resistance against control, poverty, and a bleak mechanized urban blight only accentuated by the heightened trauma of Vietnam.
Bigelow dispenses with the artifice of metaphorical salve to such wounds, but she should not be the decisive factor in how we repair the Clinton - Bush legacy, and Obama's tepid resolution of such a problematic paradigm. Killing Osama may have involved tactical danger, but it was otherwise a pointless exercise, since we seem to lack a vision for restoring the moral ascendancy of Pax America, and Bigelow gets to amuse herself being a modern GI Joe cocktease who does not condone torture, as if we expect her, and her producers, to say anything else. If her work is admirable, didactic, offers an interpretation to be celebrated, then hey, but to the extent that the public does not care, then the public needs castigation for refusing to be educated. Zero Dark Thirty should be an augmentation, and nothing more than that. Do I object if the Academy awards her? Certainly not, but if you allow her films to define the most successful terrorist plot in human history, then just give it up now, resign from the United Nations, and let the Mexican drug cartels retake our Western territory, and we can govern ourselves as effectively as the Castro's govern their island ninety miles from our shores.
The Triple Talaq in Dennis Hopper's Oxygen Tank
It's impressive, how thoughtfully Penn handles this material. The good brother isn't a straight arrow, and the bad brother isn't romanticized as a rebel without a cause, and there are no easy solutions or neat little happy endings for this story.--Ebert's relative digital archive
Celluloid is merely a flammable plastic. Images print at 24 frames per second. There may be gaps in my knowledge as to how digital design and upload changes this basic camera technology, but this is the way it works at a material level. There is nothing to signify that Dennis Hopper's violent ends in the medium relate to his obituary, succumbing to cancer, as opposed to a heart attack or stroke, the three main killers in American medical models. In Easy Rider, he is merely a tag along biker taken out in a brutal shot gun sequence by Peter Fonda's suppliers. Perhaps it is merely a question of aesthetic appeal, but Easy Rider is too conscientious in making sure its audience understands the ruthlessness of commune culture radicalism. Robert Blake's Electra Glide in Blue, though its title character is softened by a nascent simplicity which ultimately dooms him, is equally too deliberate on this point, five years older as it may be. Hopper's biker wants to authenticate attachment. Blake's cop ends his life trying to live up to the imprimatur of every police force: to protect and serve. Hopper is more of a diode. For the always borderline hysteria of David Lynch, which despite itself, bears the signature of an auteur, Hopper is the flawed menace of Blue Velvet, a film the dowager always wanted to see after the whirlwind of Twin Peaks, and Kyle MacLachlan's masturbatory sequence in Sex and The City, and due to the fact that a local syndicate in Reading does not submit its schedule to the broadcast grid, the first 30 minutes were missed, to an interior howling, as the consumption of usage might have been avoided, here Hopper still serves up an appearance of sharp definition, despite the necessity of the oxygen mask and the vein in his right temple, protruding. Lynch'es intent is still puzzling, with the yellow man's statuesque bleeding contusion, but Hopper's destructive morbidity is not, whatever the rationale for the freak torture he inflicts, a 180 degree curve from the clueless barkeep in The Indian Runner, an old man who just happens to get in the way of Viggo Mortensen's triggers, a culmination of the domino effect more effectively scarring American can do sensibility than altering Indochina's xenophobic collectivism.
What does all this convey about Hopper's morbid mortality? Being eaten alive by metastasized tumors at the age of 73 is not exactly an untimely demise, to be sure, but it seems predictable through the projection of a callow rebelliousness that has no purposeful aim.
Celluloid is merely a flammable plastic. Images print at 24 frames per second. There may be gaps in my knowledge as to how digital design and upload changes this basic camera technology, but this is the way it works at a material level. There is nothing to signify that Dennis Hopper's violent ends in the medium relate to his obituary, succumbing to cancer, as opposed to a heart attack or stroke, the three main killers in American medical models. In Easy Rider, he is merely a tag along biker taken out in a brutal shot gun sequence by Peter Fonda's suppliers. Perhaps it is merely a question of aesthetic appeal, but Easy Rider is too conscientious in making sure its audience understands the ruthlessness of commune culture radicalism. Robert Blake's Electra Glide in Blue, though its title character is softened by a nascent simplicity which ultimately dooms him, is equally too deliberate on this point, five years older as it may be. Hopper's biker wants to authenticate attachment. Blake's cop ends his life trying to live up to the imprimatur of every police force: to protect and serve. Hopper is more of a diode. For the always borderline hysteria of David Lynch, which despite itself, bears the signature of an auteur, Hopper is the flawed menace of Blue Velvet, a film the dowager always wanted to see after the whirlwind of Twin Peaks, and Kyle MacLachlan's masturbatory sequence in Sex and The City, and due to the fact that a local syndicate in Reading does not submit its schedule to the broadcast grid, the first 30 minutes were missed, to an interior howling, as the consumption of usage might have been avoided, here Hopper still serves up an appearance of sharp definition, despite the necessity of the oxygen mask and the vein in his right temple, protruding. Lynch'es intent is still puzzling, with the yellow man's statuesque bleeding contusion, but Hopper's destructive morbidity is not, whatever the rationale for the freak torture he inflicts, a 180 degree curve from the clueless barkeep in The Indian Runner, an old man who just happens to get in the way of Viggo Mortensen's triggers, a culmination of the domino effect more effectively scarring American can do sensibility than altering Indochina's xenophobic collectivism.
What does all this convey about Hopper's morbid mortality? Being eaten alive by metastasized tumors at the age of 73 is not exactly an untimely demise, to be sure, but it seems predictable through the projection of a callow rebelliousness that has no purposeful aim.
Friday, January 11, 2013
Anticoagulant
"You can do better sister. I'm married." Richard Conte, giving the Eisenhower era bourgeois a tutorial on the benefits of denial.
When I listen to the American left and its moderate counter voices go at it over a film like Zero Dark Thirty, I throw up my hands, if not in despair, then at least, futility. Kathryn Bigelow glamorizes torture, depicts it as no more than a video game, or she does not. We need new gun control legislation, and while we empower everyone, hey, civil rights is not a suicide pact, and potentially violent people like James Holmes need to be contained, so let's take a page from the affluent psychiatrist paraplegic who eschews his other classification as a wheelchair user and return to the good old days of involuntary commitment, while cynicism is the intellectual reserve of the mediocre, like the spastic_dowager, who has taken many risks to leave her scarred psyche bleeding in her amateur neuro image scan without quite crossing the border toward anarchy, which, even if I did, probably would not be taken seriously, while still cognizant enough to know that eradication has been done many times in the course of civilization outpacing our capacity to cope, and that after we get over this massacre, that genocide, we lose more definition, and so what is the use of being slightly more forgiving of Mussolini for being an inept projection of a virile thug. Isn't she funny, the poor little spaz, getting a little attention from Europe, Asia, in fascination? Mockery? Perhaps as a target of exploitation. You don't even know what horror is you little gnome, so why not be more positive and upbeat while the US is in its superpower status, however much it is diffusing?
We have short memories, whether in geological historical time or merely related to the course of human history, and I do not have to spearhead this, and could be nice, engage in the pleasantry of willful blindness and small kindness, when merited, I just have not dropped those dimes.
I have not seen my sister's eldest girl, Nicole, since the death of her granny. She is in a Catholic college now, and do not know what she makes of my rift with her mother, if anything. Stephanie shields her from me, afraid of what I might say about granny's past, or her own mother and father's, for that matter. The topic of my sister's pregnancy termination is a prime example, one of my searing trump cards; it is not that I want to hurt nieces or nephews, but merely that I must refuse the censorship of manner, politeness, merely due to this notion that kids don't know. Parents kid themselves about what kids do or don't know, and I may be wrong, and Nicole's children will live in a better world of radical equality of the kind that frightened Orwell, Huxley, in their totalitarian era.
If anything survives on this rock after we engineer ourselves into --*, natural evolution might want to give the lucky sentient horseshoe toss to the cuttlefish; yes, I know, that is misanthropic mediocrity crying uncle.
We all have better days.
When I listen to the American left and its moderate counter voices go at it over a film like Zero Dark Thirty, I throw up my hands, if not in despair, then at least, futility. Kathryn Bigelow glamorizes torture, depicts it as no more than a video game, or she does not. We need new gun control legislation, and while we empower everyone, hey, civil rights is not a suicide pact, and potentially violent people like James Holmes need to be contained, so let's take a page from the affluent psychiatrist paraplegic who eschews his other classification as a wheelchair user and return to the good old days of involuntary commitment, while cynicism is the intellectual reserve of the mediocre, like the spastic_dowager, who has taken many risks to leave her scarred psyche bleeding in her amateur neuro image scan without quite crossing the border toward anarchy, which, even if I did, probably would not be taken seriously, while still cognizant enough to know that eradication has been done many times in the course of civilization outpacing our capacity to cope, and that after we get over this massacre, that genocide, we lose more definition, and so what is the use of being slightly more forgiving of Mussolini for being an inept projection of a virile thug. Isn't she funny, the poor little spaz, getting a little attention from Europe, Asia, in fascination? Mockery? Perhaps as a target of exploitation. You don't even know what horror is you little gnome, so why not be more positive and upbeat while the US is in its superpower status, however much it is diffusing?
We have short memories, whether in geological historical time or merely related to the course of human history, and I do not have to spearhead this, and could be nice, engage in the pleasantry of willful blindness and small kindness, when merited, I just have not dropped those dimes.
I have not seen my sister's eldest girl, Nicole, since the death of her granny. She is in a Catholic college now, and do not know what she makes of my rift with her mother, if anything. Stephanie shields her from me, afraid of what I might say about granny's past, or her own mother and father's, for that matter. The topic of my sister's pregnancy termination is a prime example, one of my searing trump cards; it is not that I want to hurt nieces or nephews, but merely that I must refuse the censorship of manner, politeness, merely due to this notion that kids don't know. Parents kid themselves about what kids do or don't know, and I may be wrong, and Nicole's children will live in a better world of radical equality of the kind that frightened Orwell, Huxley, in their totalitarian era.
If anything survives on this rock after we engineer ourselves into --*, natural evolution might want to give the lucky sentient horseshoe toss to the cuttlefish; yes, I know, that is misanthropic mediocrity crying uncle.
We all have better days.
Wednesday, January 9, 2013
Before The Chancel
"What did we do? Burn a few heretics, sell some indulgences? That was in the days when the Church was a ruling body, we let governments do those things today." -- Anne Bancroft, Agnes of God
Obviously, if you speak ill of a suddenly dead dead body guard for stereotypical reinforcing, you can wreak havoc with viruses on one end, and infection flamed genitalia, not knowing which end is which, playing a glass bead game within a fevered intellect, forcing yourself to move, to sit up on your busted mattress using a three dimensional point on a graph of space time, vision unable to be replicated, lost insight into points and reference to location, we last left The Brothers Rico with Larry Gates as a mildly trenchant, deceptively civil sociopath, appealing to his bond with Eddie's mother for taking the bullet meant for him, and then he sends Eddie off, like a bloodhound, while we are cued into this family doom with the near nicety of a deus ex machina, nothing graphic. Paul Picerni bound in a chair, taking a punch, gasping last words, his gel lock flopping. Then Karlson does something interesting with the scene cut to Mrs. Rico's apartment in New York. This is the clash of Old World Europe into the new, and Argentina Brunetti was obviously typecast for culture shock, for her juxtaposition against the American groomed Kubik and Hollywood sugar boy Conte, her English heavily accented, her personal iconography with the madonna captured with no small degree of emphasis, the little bit of Roman hierarchy she needs for her own solace, wary of what her middle child is wresting out of her. This portent is Eddie's second warning, and what does he do with it? Persuading his mother or himself that Kubik is only looking out for the family's best interests?
There are hints, before Conte heads into his central conflict with Lamotta, that he is anxious about the consequences of his actions, not that Karlson takes much opportunity to examine the willful blindness of self-interest, a charge which I doubt can be laid at Simenon's door.
The cream cheese on bread I managed to get to this morning was the best breakfast I had in my life, which is either spelling out mortality's signature, or signifying the extraordinary persistence of will, I intend to pay a visit to the woman's clinic, at least to explore the possibility that this is more than hormonal stress, early next week, as I doubt my ability to flag down a gynecologist any sooner than that.
Obviously, if you speak ill of a suddenly dead dead body guard for stereotypical reinforcing, you can wreak havoc with viruses on one end, and infection flamed genitalia, not knowing which end is which, playing a glass bead game within a fevered intellect, forcing yourself to move, to sit up on your busted mattress using a three dimensional point on a graph of space time, vision unable to be replicated, lost insight into points and reference to location, we last left The Brothers Rico with Larry Gates as a mildly trenchant, deceptively civil sociopath, appealing to his bond with Eddie's mother for taking the bullet meant for him, and then he sends Eddie off, like a bloodhound, while we are cued into this family doom with the near nicety of a deus ex machina, nothing graphic. Paul Picerni bound in a chair, taking a punch, gasping last words, his gel lock flopping. Then Karlson does something interesting with the scene cut to Mrs. Rico's apartment in New York. This is the clash of Old World Europe into the new, and Argentina Brunetti was obviously typecast for culture shock, for her juxtaposition against the American groomed Kubik and Hollywood sugar boy Conte, her English heavily accented, her personal iconography with the madonna captured with no small degree of emphasis, the little bit of Roman hierarchy she needs for her own solace, wary of what her middle child is wresting out of her. This portent is Eddie's second warning, and what does he do with it? Persuading his mother or himself that Kubik is only looking out for the family's best interests?
There are hints, before Conte heads into his central conflict with Lamotta, that he is anxious about the consequences of his actions, not that Karlson takes much opportunity to examine the willful blindness of self-interest, a charge which I doubt can be laid at Simenon's door.
The cream cheese on bread I managed to get to this morning was the best breakfast I had in my life, which is either spelling out mortality's signature, or signifying the extraordinary persistence of will, I intend to pay a visit to the woman's clinic, at least to explore the possibility that this is more than hormonal stress, early next week, as I doubt my ability to flag down a gynecologist any sooner than that.
Tuesday, January 8, 2013
Quad care
"What barn do you people come out of?" Cecil the caustic Argentine
I had intended to bunker down and stop creating microslices of spastic self pity, but I am sick again and literally thrilled at the prospect of intern or student treating my uretha with their hesitant ignorance and then I have to fork over my money for their tuition; I know menopause is variable and I am not too concerned about what I hope is a late ovulation surge, but this is treatable crap; knowing me it is probably bladder cancer. Can't catch a break.
Did the bills, cleaned, and need to stop worrying how much affinity I have with Woolf, or my mother; my life was traumatic and difficult and disabled people have hurt me and we are as cruel as others can be.
Tomorrow then.
*
It was tomorrow when I wrote myself a sick day, but now I am really worried it might be influenza, and if I have to go to the ER like this I might as well be one of Scorese's urban disembodied. When I moved into this building I was 34 years old, making over 25,000 dollars a year. Do any of you believe that I can now resume that course?
I can put myself in the head of my former disabled associates and tell you their side of it, and show them compassion; however, I am the one who is alone and broke and scared and knows what games my landlord is willing to play, and some of my attendants, not all, have contributed to my stress induced trauma; my sister and brother are treating me like I am a meth head because I am angry that they need to judge how I live as worse than welfare scum, won't telephone to wish me HNY yet I was a saint when I wrote them checks out of my MMA. This isolation is supposed to keep me positive, well balanced?
I have to return to bed.
I had intended to bunker down and stop creating microslices of spastic self pity, but I am sick again and literally thrilled at the prospect of intern or student treating my uretha with their hesitant ignorance and then I have to fork over my money for their tuition; I know menopause is variable and I am not too concerned about what I hope is a late ovulation surge, but this is treatable crap; knowing me it is probably bladder cancer. Can't catch a break.
Did the bills, cleaned, and need to stop worrying how much affinity I have with Woolf, or my mother; my life was traumatic and difficult and disabled people have hurt me and we are as cruel as others can be.
Tomorrow then.
*
It was tomorrow when I wrote myself a sick day, but now I am really worried it might be influenza, and if I have to go to the ER like this I might as well be one of Scorese's urban disembodied. When I moved into this building I was 34 years old, making over 25,000 dollars a year. Do any of you believe that I can now resume that course?
I can put myself in the head of my former disabled associates and tell you their side of it, and show them compassion; however, I am the one who is alone and broke and scared and knows what games my landlord is willing to play, and some of my attendants, not all, have contributed to my stress induced trauma; my sister and brother are treating me like I am a meth head because I am angry that they need to judge how I live as worse than welfare scum, won't telephone to wish me HNY yet I was a saint when I wrote them checks out of my MMA. This isolation is supposed to keep me positive, well balanced?
I have to return to bed.
Monday, January 7, 2013
Toxic Shock
I made myself eat, hoping this unexpected surge from my uterus is not a hemorrhage, but I doubt it. Feels like my period, and no wonder I have been more intense than usual; maybe it was being around the fertile women in the bar. I could wail, you know, really cry out like some disabled people used to or still do, on New Mobility's boards, but that is beneath me. Cunningham's work was too difficult for me today, however, given my family history. How did I know the tyranny of Ed Harris and Kidman would feed my own back to me tenfold? With grandeur, which I lack, at least, unpublished. Literary individuals do not speak in a heightened fashion like that for three hours, absorbing and feeding back that degree of emotional pain, but I cannot undo the impact of Michael's work, and can only undress, surprised and set back, amusingly (no pads) bleed in a chuck, and wait to reset, or not, or give up, but I cannot, for whatever reason. I still want to live, despite the horror of my brother's AIDS death, or war crime rape in the Congo, or my abandonment of little Louise. I know what Louise wanted, a literary friendship, and I understood, but could not trust myself, and tersely broke the link, and feel guilty, but she was too young, and I am too hard, in some ways, despite her own isolation and disability. I could not carry the obligation, in the same way I cannot expect any of you who are relatively decent people to help me leave my landlord safely for a sustained period of time. Staying here is killing me, and giving my notice, a death sentence with a small, small window of being free at last, and then state authorities would dump me into an environment comparable to my childhood. I need that private security Leonard Woolf utilized to keep his wife alive. How he must have loved her.
Sunday, January 6, 2013
Scorch
I am not on, not at the moment, not with the precision and focus I want to maintain for this project. Perhaps I will never grasp my thesis, though I know it is here, both in the raw and the cooked, to pull from the culinary arts, which, just as anything else, is coping with life through the palate, a subtle theme in the film adaptation of Cunningham's The Hours. I saw this author on Rose, doing the usual whoring you want to be moved and bowled over and fucked by my vision, do you not? And the film, much like Babel, traumatized me, though it did so using the key Caucasian narcissistic keynotes of Western pretension. Iñárritu is much more complex, and his work is something I have not fully dealt with, and in the stupid way the human mind works, I cannot do my laundry this evening because of Nicole Kidman's ability to emasculate, because Cunningham took one of my few very favorite female writers, Virginia Woolf, and yes, I am hard on on female writers, but that is because most of us, myself included, refuse to suffer for the sake of genius, and this is another reason I literally despise Josie Byzek-- not because she is stupid, but because she lives in pragmatic denial, like my sister, despite the differences between my sibling and former editor, both now antagonists, he took Virginia's anguish and transcended it, and he did this all without directly invoking faith, and I do not know that I will ever read his novel, would love very much right now to scream at him and dig my fingers into his chest and no, of course I shall not, and dare I find an email address and write to him, if I get any response from him at all, it would be a standardized publicist response, but I haven't read the book, so he is safe from the failure of spastic's... what?
Never mind. I spotted this morning, nearly a year to the day that I thought I stopped menstruating. Leave it to me to defy the medical model. I forget which physician it was, of course, but there was an article published about my extraordinary verbal skills in JAMA, or some buried and yellowed medical text. I am not supposed to have them, these skills, the acuity, even the ability to speak as well as I do. I will do laundry later, hopefully tomorrow, and even though one is not supposed to use rhetoric in this fashion, orthopedic surgeons, eliminated, would make the world more bearable. I could write it in more inflammatory fashion, but I hate doctors; they have not made my life or body better, and I'd sue Shriners Hospital for being worse than butchers. They were no more than torturers back in the late 60's, and yet, mio padre is my last parent. How can I hate the man who never allowed me the honor of being his first born daughter, who only wanted to be her father's princess?
Never mind. I spotted this morning, nearly a year to the day that I thought I stopped menstruating. Leave it to me to defy the medical model. I forget which physician it was, of course, but there was an article published about my extraordinary verbal skills in JAMA, or some buried and yellowed medical text. I am not supposed to have them, these skills, the acuity, even the ability to speak as well as I do. I will do laundry later, hopefully tomorrow, and even though one is not supposed to use rhetoric in this fashion, orthopedic surgeons, eliminated, would make the world more bearable. I could write it in more inflammatory fashion, but I hate doctors; they have not made my life or body better, and I'd sue Shriners Hospital for being worse than butchers. They were no more than torturers back in the late 60's, and yet, mio padre is my last parent. How can I hate the man who never allowed me the honor of being his first born daughter, who only wanted to be her father's princess?
Saturday, January 5, 2013
REM Terrors
Still, I am not feeling well, all in all, neither for work nor play, the stress of impending loss of economic autonomy leading to the recurring nightmare that Trudy Richardson, transformed in the dream to an ethnically ambiguous Barbie doll, walks in to have me placed, and I dial my father on a black office phone that appears, a typical disjointed dream incongruity, from my earlier more spacious apartment, and he pops up with my winter coat, shoving my arms in as when I was a child. "Do I have to go to a nursing home?"
"Maybe."
Then I wake and feed the cats, always in a variation of running from this, no friends, my brutalist father soon to be a geriatric nightmare himself, I cannot spare myself this eventual indignity, but also have little to show for it, no three D prototypes, like we have today, to rescue myself by repairing the scarring in my brain. By the time that will be viable my DNA will be worthless. Simply caught between the inexorable reality that living life to the fullest I could has escaped me, and I fight against a tank with matchsticks, too much poultry in my tract. Do not have disabled children, not if you will abandon them to my fate, please.
"Maybe."
Then I wake and feed the cats, always in a variation of running from this, no friends, my brutalist father soon to be a geriatric nightmare himself, I cannot spare myself this eventual indignity, but also have little to show for it, no three D prototypes, like we have today, to rescue myself by repairing the scarring in my brain. By the time that will be viable my DNA will be worthless. Simply caught between the inexorable reality that living life to the fullest I could has escaped me, and I fight against a tank with matchsticks, too much poultry in my tract. Do not have disabled children, not if you will abandon them to my fate, please.
Friday, January 4, 2013
A Crack in The Door
Let's talk about my lengthy and long in the making antagonism toward the LBGT community and its advocates, just briefly, despite my subversive, or would be, finger waggle at terms of service guidelines: I do not advocate violence against homosexual orientation in the abstract. Everyone breathe a sigh of relief? Good. Violence against any group en masse is counterproductive, regardless of how fucked up American progressive sanctity has left me, and for the moment, I will tie one hand behind my back and not discuss personal experiences (thank god, mutter the detractors of one really bitter failure of a spastic), but this does not mean I do not intend to generate controversy; I am hanging fire for the sake of being responsible, and gathering data, and some ambivalence in relation to a few things: I use the threat of bisexual experience in my writing, just as the old lady Henry James did in his. I have, in fact, much like James, a bisexual character in one of my very difficult stories, and revealed her to former associate Josie Byzek looking for street cred (waves and says up yours holier than thou backstabbing bitch) and do not know what I am going to do with her and my equally problematic sexual trauma in which she is engaged, and Josie transmitted back that said character read bi.
In terms of my public hostility to Josie, I do not have to keep engaging it. Women burn each other all the time over men, to use the voice of my pragmatic sister, but only in my universe, does this burn come from a woman who is an actively Christian lesbian with multiple sclerosis. Can any able bodied woman imagine the value to me, of a romantic dinner date with an interesting and intelligent man I had managed to land on my own? Josie damaged a prospect for me in an instant, a mere instant, but in terms of the tools with with I have to compete, no well toned calves nor shapely buttocks, the extra time I have to sweat with hose, and shaving, this woman in Lancaster made me pay a high price for my loyalty. I'd love to ask a more pedestrian blogger like Laura Overstreet how I am supposed to keep trusting the disabled community whom have my cognitive capacity, when I have to keep taking blows like this?
Nothing will reconcile me to the American gay community, nothing, even if I was faced with the prospect of appearing on television with Andy Sullivan and had to abide by FCC standards, my civility would be an ice sheet of jagged edges, but when you combine homosexuality with disability civil disobedience, that combination is nearly as fanatic in terms of imposed duress as anything that comes out of the right wing.
Goal accomplished for my character, a as an evolutionary matter, primate homosexuality is here to stay, however. I am not going to stamp it out, put it back in the closet, or stop gay marriage from revolting a succinct minority and making powerful liberals like Kristof weep for joy, as if someone spiced his bland rice with curry. That is what I am not going to do, but I am going to try very very hard to make some of you think about the price tag involved in not being true to ourselves, and examine, much as South Park did, the extra-categorization of hate crime in terms of giving it extra legality, and yes, what I allowed my former supervisor to do to me caused me traumatic doubt, though it did not drive me to seek out a conversion. That I was molested by a mixed race paraprofessional six years later took care of that. I was victimized, not aroused, and no woman will ever do that to me again. Quadriplegic or not, I will defend myself to the best of my ability. We are going to crack that can of worms, follow that trail of minute waste the poor panicked creatures will leave on your arm, ew boy.
In terms of my public hostility to Josie, I do not have to keep engaging it. Women burn each other all the time over men, to use the voice of my pragmatic sister, but only in my universe, does this burn come from a woman who is an actively Christian lesbian with multiple sclerosis. Can any able bodied woman imagine the value to me, of a romantic dinner date with an interesting and intelligent man I had managed to land on my own? Josie damaged a prospect for me in an instant, a mere instant, but in terms of the tools with with I have to compete, no well toned calves nor shapely buttocks, the extra time I have to sweat with hose, and shaving, this woman in Lancaster made me pay a high price for my loyalty. I'd love to ask a more pedestrian blogger like Laura Overstreet how I am supposed to keep trusting the disabled community whom have my cognitive capacity, when I have to keep taking blows like this?
Nothing will reconcile me to the American gay community, nothing, even if I was faced with the prospect of appearing on television with Andy Sullivan and had to abide by FCC standards, my civility would be an ice sheet of jagged edges, but when you combine homosexuality with disability civil disobedience, that combination is nearly as fanatic in terms of imposed duress as anything that comes out of the right wing.
Goal accomplished for my character, a as an evolutionary matter, primate homosexuality is here to stay, however. I am not going to stamp it out, put it back in the closet, or stop gay marriage from revolting a succinct minority and making powerful liberals like Kristof weep for joy, as if someone spiced his bland rice with curry. That is what I am not going to do, but I am going to try very very hard to make some of you think about the price tag involved in not being true to ourselves, and examine, much as South Park did, the extra-categorization of hate crime in terms of giving it extra legality, and yes, what I allowed my former supervisor to do to me caused me traumatic doubt, though it did not drive me to seek out a conversion. That I was molested by a mixed race paraprofessional six years later took care of that. I was victimized, not aroused, and no woman will ever do that to me again. Quadriplegic or not, I will defend myself to the best of my ability. We are going to crack that can of worms, follow that trail of minute waste the poor panicked creatures will leave on your arm, ew boy.
Firebrand Dissidence
"The US is not a third world country!" -- a victim of superstorm Sandy on Staten Island
If I had my health, my former strength, I would be ramming my power chair tires against Chuck Hagel's door to become one of his political operatives, and Senator, I have no qualms about putting my foot to the pedal: I salute you. I salute you for the courage to oppose a war which spelt the beginning of the end of global dominion for the U.S. I salute you for having the courage to oppose homosexual equality, and I understand why you issued an apology to the "aggressively gay" ambassador, but you should not have had to do that to reignite your political career as a possible Principal in Obama's second term, and I am, in fact, going to badger both of my Senators in support of your nomination should it become a reality and you make it out of committee for a full floor vote. I salute you for the courage to see that the state of Israel does not have the sacrosanct right to do whatever it damn well pleases for the sake of its existence, and I can promise you I am going to research your voting record and come up with a more succinct analytical praise than I can do off the top the of my head in this post.
We may be too late to save our republic in accordance with its Enlightenment ideal, but I, who have absolutely no power, am quite willing to raise my doomed voice for those of you who can still grasp it. You were a man of great courage in your active legislative years, and I deeply regret not having paid more attention, written with all the thirst and desire for real leadership I can muster, regretting that I did not go into some kind of political arena so that I could solicit you for for employment. Please hold firm.
If I had my health, my former strength, I would be ramming my power chair tires against Chuck Hagel's door to become one of his political operatives, and Senator, I have no qualms about putting my foot to the pedal: I salute you. I salute you for the courage to oppose a war which spelt the beginning of the end of global dominion for the U.S. I salute you for having the courage to oppose homosexual equality, and I understand why you issued an apology to the "aggressively gay" ambassador, but you should not have had to do that to reignite your political career as a possible Principal in Obama's second term, and I am, in fact, going to badger both of my Senators in support of your nomination should it become a reality and you make it out of committee for a full floor vote. I salute you for the courage to see that the state of Israel does not have the sacrosanct right to do whatever it damn well pleases for the sake of its existence, and I can promise you I am going to research your voting record and come up with a more succinct analytical praise than I can do off the top the of my head in this post.
We may be too late to save our republic in accordance with its Enlightenment ideal, but I, who have absolutely no power, am quite willing to raise my doomed voice for those of you who can still grasp it. You were a man of great courage in your active legislative years, and I deeply regret not having paid more attention, written with all the thirst and desire for real leadership I can muster, regretting that I did not go into some kind of political arena so that I could solicit you for for employment. Please hold firm.
Wednesday, January 2, 2013
Pork Rinds
Not phased by pictures of Hannah Storm's gas grill injury photos in the least, and yes, I am being cheap riding piggy back on the long troubled Yahoo portal, but I suspect many of us came of age immured to our embarrassed investments in Yahoo plus 30 chat, or threats and counter threats in Monkey backgammon (ew!) If I was most at home anywhere online it was as a league member, and it wasted an enormous amount of time, those tournaments. Never again, and that was my laxity, my shuffling ease of investment in a software and interrelation for losers who have no other life.
For a quick addendum: Not everything about how Yahoo taps the popular tempo is a net negative. Some of the portal site communities are valuable to me, and taught me I am not sterling silver as a group owner, but those who spend a great deal of time online in a fashion not integral to work, like myself, are bound to be disappointed, and I prefer real time social interaction in direct proportion to its decline in the physical space of my existence. Living through a device can be alienating, and we should be cautious about the nature of digital dependence, integration.
The writers of profile procedurals have it pegged correctly, however. Human flesh is not very flammable. Burning to death is not easy, which has led to nefarious admiration and exposure of Inquisition methodology. An Atlantic contributor, whose name I will track down later, provided interesting correspondences between that temporal Roman Catholic power and the enhanced interrogation techniques of the CIA. My interest is not exactly geared toward a liberal apologia.
For a quick addendum: Not everything about how Yahoo taps the popular tempo is a net negative. Some of the portal site communities are valuable to me, and taught me I am not sterling silver as a group owner, but those who spend a great deal of time online in a fashion not integral to work, like myself, are bound to be disappointed, and I prefer real time social interaction in direct proportion to its decline in the physical space of my existence. Living through a device can be alienating, and we should be cautious about the nature of digital dependence, integration.
The writers of profile procedurals have it pegged correctly, however. Human flesh is not very flammable. Burning to death is not easy, which has led to nefarious admiration and exposure of Inquisition methodology. An Atlantic contributor, whose name I will track down later, provided interesting correspondences between that temporal Roman Catholic power and the enhanced interrogation techniques of the CIA. My interest is not exactly geared toward a liberal apologia.
Tuesday, January 1, 2013
The Schema: It's not about me.
Mr. Deasy chases after him to deliver a final vulgar sally against the Jews. Ireland has a clean sheet in the matter of persecuting them because, wisely, 'she never let them in.' The New Bloomsday Book, p 10, kindle paperwhite.
The curse of naivete and sensory loss, a jingle of smirks, jibes, I had no idea Leopold was a Europeanized Semitic until Blamires cued me in, and I should have caught this earlier, even if I have difficulty hearing the summaries and questions of young Lance. My neighbor in the 14 above, David, is running his garbage disposal; the odor from his apartment during the renovations that started in 2007 freaked everyone out, everyone. I do not like him, but never complained, because I understood he was trying to do as much as he could for himself, and not attempting to victimize the octogenarian Nego league, but his apartment was so bad that Trudy's pressure may have borne fruit had he not complied, and he is a bad power chair driver, breaking his plumbing line and caving in my ceiling beneath his commode, a product and casualty of the inner city, he begs for change every so often, and this is another aspect of disability culture dirty laundry. In the interplay of progressive dialogue, a historian out of Harvard in the guise of Dr. Gordon-Reed has more to say to me than my neighbor above, solely a product of his environment, and a disruption therein. Do I have a right to judge David against the brutality of my own urban failure? Maybe not, but I should not have to have his lifestyle imposed upon my own standards of conduct.
For being drunk this morning, I did pretty well getting in, wailing to the guard I was a monster--"I am on the phone!" I managed, by three in the morning, to feed the children, undress, curse my father's voicemail, post here, rinse out my pants, and then, get into bed even with the shakes, soldier on with Ulysses because I was sick to my stomach, and then finally listened to kimmy's teeth, and got up, living on tea and mint, I may not be dead yet, but I know I am finished, and will never get to live in a spacious art studio, with a patron mindful of my demands and my autonomy both. The living death of Presby will ultimately be victorious, even if I fight like a wildcat, and sue Philadelphia Corporation for the Aging.
Did I really believe I was going to incite rebellion in a bar where I rolled in like the ghost of Bukowski? Still, thanks to Drinker's West. You are an accommodating establishment, and if I was a non competitive incongruity, the able and better made up women were nice, and I was happily multicultural and was cool. Why? Because I was able to make my own choices. Your establishment will be relieved to know I shall not become a regular fly on the tap, cannot afford it, but every now and then, since you have enough space, I'll make an occasional invasion. Rachel, little J-man believer sweetie, sorry if I stuck my foot in it, but I was in serious buzz land by the ball drop. I only saw one older man even remotely sexually exciting, and wonder if this is an evolutionary downgrade strategy, but I had a nice night, thank you.
The historian Annette Gordon Reed , who I mention above in terms of her comparative cast, her appearance on the newshour, is something I'd like to get to when my analytical penetration resumes online functioning. My title is a paraphrase of Gretchen's last rebuff. I was wrong not to accept my slaying by the Speakeasy community, as I have admitted, but by the same token, I cared about my 2002 regulars, and these loss of sustained connections do matter as we age, discarded.
The curse of naivete and sensory loss, a jingle of smirks, jibes, I had no idea Leopold was a Europeanized Semitic until Blamires cued me in, and I should have caught this earlier, even if I have difficulty hearing the summaries and questions of young Lance. My neighbor in the 14 above, David, is running his garbage disposal; the odor from his apartment during the renovations that started in 2007 freaked everyone out, everyone. I do not like him, but never complained, because I understood he was trying to do as much as he could for himself, and not attempting to victimize the octogenarian Nego league, but his apartment was so bad that Trudy's pressure may have borne fruit had he not complied, and he is a bad power chair driver, breaking his plumbing line and caving in my ceiling beneath his commode, a product and casualty of the inner city, he begs for change every so often, and this is another aspect of disability culture dirty laundry. In the interplay of progressive dialogue, a historian out of Harvard in the guise of Dr. Gordon-Reed has more to say to me than my neighbor above, solely a product of his environment, and a disruption therein. Do I have a right to judge David against the brutality of my own urban failure? Maybe not, but I should not have to have his lifestyle imposed upon my own standards of conduct.
For being drunk this morning, I did pretty well getting in, wailing to the guard I was a monster--"I am on the phone!" I managed, by three in the morning, to feed the children, undress, curse my father's voicemail, post here, rinse out my pants, and then, get into bed even with the shakes, soldier on with Ulysses because I was sick to my stomach, and then finally listened to kimmy's teeth, and got up, living on tea and mint, I may not be dead yet, but I know I am finished, and will never get to live in a spacious art studio, with a patron mindful of my demands and my autonomy both. The living death of Presby will ultimately be victorious, even if I fight like a wildcat, and sue Philadelphia Corporation for the Aging.
Did I really believe I was going to incite rebellion in a bar where I rolled in like the ghost of Bukowski? Still, thanks to Drinker's West. You are an accommodating establishment, and if I was a non competitive incongruity, the able and better made up women were nice, and I was happily multicultural and was cool. Why? Because I was able to make my own choices. Your establishment will be relieved to know I shall not become a regular fly on the tap, cannot afford it, but every now and then, since you have enough space, I'll make an occasional invasion. Rachel, little J-man believer sweetie, sorry if I stuck my foot in it, but I was in serious buzz land by the ball drop. I only saw one older man even remotely sexually exciting, and wonder if this is an evolutionary downgrade strategy, but I had a nice night, thank you.
The historian Annette Gordon Reed , who I mention above in terms of her comparative cast, her appearance on the newshour, is something I'd like to get to when my analytical penetration resumes online functioning. My title is a paraphrase of Gretchen's last rebuff. I was wrong not to accept my slaying by the Speakeasy community, as I have admitted, but by the same token, I cared about my 2002 regulars, and these loss of sustained connections do matter as we age, discarded.
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