The phenomenology of moral wrong and evil is vast and complicated. -- Charles Griswold
At the end of La Strada, Anthony Quinn's brutality is pierced through by Masina's absence, perhaps even silence. Are we supposed to forgive Zampano? What does Fellini insinuate about oppressive relationships? If the biracial inner city Miss Eddie had not caught me totally by surprise-- she was preparing to leave, turned around and lunged at me, and her mouth said what lips say when someone hits on you-- if I was not so shocked, I would have lacerated her skull with any blunt object available, within my reach, and I would have felt justified, and might have attempted to break her arm, dislocate her shoulder; if the police had come, I am not sure if I would have been arrested. Officers on the scene are not interested in twenty plus years of traumatic events, The only method I have to circumvent my hatred of her slovenly indulgence is contempt. I know from what she told me that her Caucasian father was murdered (good) and that she "kisses everybody" when I fought with her the next day and suggested she leave. She looked frightened.
When I went to a basketball game with a technician named Rick; it was obvious about thirty seconds in I had made a mistake dumbing down to my sister's idea of white welfare trash. After an excruciating two hours, I almost almost got rid of him, but he coughed in the hallway. Taking pity I offered him tea. He kissed me. Fuck him and get it over with. Things proceeded accordingly until I discovered he lacked protection. He tried a soft force, but had obviously never confronted the resistance of palsied legs; he left, called me two three times after he skedaddled for real. I forgave both him and myself long ago. Date gone bad. If I ever see Eddie again, however, she'd face my triggered anger as a representation of ablest violation that I have experienced over the course of a lifetime.
Jesse Bering might say this is a classic aggressive response to unwanted erotic stimulus, but I'd object that attendant care management doesn't respect me as equal to ambulatory humans, and won't unless I'd rematriculate. I feel justified in defending myself against black females on the down low.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
Unlimited Staffing
This is in fact a criminal syndicate; it is why traumatic stress is the end result, and I live in fear that minorities will continue to hurt me. A lawyer may not want to wade through the thicket of my case managing nightmare with Liberty, but Unlimited was a more recent folly, and Marilyn Gunby still works there. I wanted to take Liana to small claims court for swindling me, and Marilyn played me, assured me US would return my money, and then said the girl would not sign what I assume was a liability waiver. Then they sent me the kissing dyke. If an ambulance chaser is out there, ding-a-ling. The incident triggered my panic attacks, and that is why my landlord then escalated pressure until I spent enormous sums of my own money.
It never stops, and that is the issue. I'd like a little peace.
It never stops, and that is the issue. I'd like a little peace.
Triage Eros
Tyrant is analogous to Alan Alda's reprisal of Hawkeye in ER, where the conflict revolved around a great physician coming to terms with what could not be concealed with a gentleman's agreement, and in the resolution of acceptance, Alda has a micro soliloquy with Laura Innes. Do I kill myself now? What if I wait too long and forget? Then the scene is taken from him by circumstances, concluded by offering a flawed man the saving grace of being needed. Some actors typecast into certain schema due to their personality are withered by it, but Alan Alda had an interesting post-MASH resurgence, having never quite been able to fill the lead role on screen, unlike Cary Grant. His arc in ER started it, his support role in The West Wing enlarged and maximized it-- and his documentary on PBS that imitated the Biggest Loser illustrates the flaw of his attempt to neutralize his celebrity by joining in the diet with the other participants. You cannot be a famous television actor and Everyman simultaneously.
I did go to therapy for what the center did to me, but every time between 01 and 08 wherein I made an effort to resume career I got knocked down again, and you need to filter through *the demonic supervisor* in that context. She knew better than to do what she did, and she knows she did me a grievous wrong. The center rationalizes it by patronizing those whom it ostracizes, violating federal and state labor laws on a regular basis. We need policy changes to this model.
I did go to therapy for what the center did to me, but every time between 01 and 08 wherein I made an effort to resume career I got knocked down again, and you need to filter through *the demonic supervisor* in that context. She knew better than to do what she did, and she knows she did me a grievous wrong. The center rationalizes it by patronizing those whom it ostracizes, violating federal and state labor laws on a regular basis. We need policy changes to this model.
Monday, July 29, 2013
New Format?
Since I am discontent with the limitations of Tim Gilmer's self interest, and generally believe that community integration regulatory compliance needs to be reformed, and significantly reduced, I am turning over in my mind the attempt to create a policy think tank that is not going to limit itself with personal experience stories-- but examines the problems of single payer options (Medicare/Medicaid) and the lack of efficacy in their administration and costs, and examines hard things like cognizance capacity toward viable matriculation.
Tim was a fairly decent editor; he let me take a risk, but as a manager Josie Byzek was not, and I will deal with that later, because I am working on a column about that. The magazine they run is Helen Gurley Brown's model for Cosmopolitan. I'd like to move toward a Foreign Affairs model. I need a web designer and qualified people. Twitter please pass this along. I want departmental academics like Laura Overstreet. I know it will take time.
Tim was a fairly decent editor; he let me take a risk, but as a manager Josie Byzek was not, and I will deal with that later, because I am working on a column about that. The magazine they run is Helen Gurley Brown's model for Cosmopolitan. I'd like to move toward a Foreign Affairs model. I need a web designer and qualified people. Twitter please pass this along. I want departmental academics like Laura Overstreet. I know it will take time.
Tyrant Savant?
Last evening I contemplated writing a long post to the old cricket, then telling you all I was weary of my burdens, and commit death by smashing power chair, or shortening the span than it might otherwise be through a political protest migration, the end result of that being a horrific assisted living facility. I did not have it clearly thought out, then said "listen," and made an omelet not dressed with oysters, ate, prepared coffee, missed most of Identity on free broadcast. Unfortunate, but caught enough to see the intrigue. I enjoy intrigue, but my neighbor does not quite justify the hurdle; I am loyal to his girlfriend for my own reasons. The member who follows me on this site is my neighbor, a moderate of sorts, commending management on its relatively new leniency, and able to address my concerns at the same time.
Unlike Frank, who is clueless when my train leaves the station, Ed and I can engage each other, and I was happy he got a new job. He wrote me in email "You're right Joanne, your blog blew me away, but I was struck by how literate it is!" That is praise. It should gratify me, because even when I am lazy and lag too much slice of life at you, I attempt to justify it, or repair the post later, and the Joyce group wondered why I was there, with Lance marching valiantly on through the text while I wanted a comparative literature course instead. Lance is okay--that is an endorsement. Yet I am empty.
If I continue to fight the disability center that launched me off into the wonderful world of Project Shares and partial hospitals, it is because I want to destroy Linda, expose her own ruthlessness, unmask the villain. If I manage to force her resignation, I still lose. She and I destroyed what we admired and supported in each other because, and this is odd, I feared asserting myself as clearly as I could, and the way she responded to a poem unnerved me and at the end of the day, on that November evening, I blew up at her as never before I blew at anyone, and I've blown. If I give up, and fight the pain of my internalized hurt, I still lose there as well; if I break the law then I revert to full invalid status, restrained, strapped to a bed, and what does that do? All over a place that teaches people like me, most of them limited intellectually, how to make coffee. I learned all that very long ago. Yet their case management model, as with DHS, abuses people who cannot fight back.
If Ann Tran can educate me as my brother was supposed to about feeds and tumblrs and applications, maybe there is a collaboration there in the future, the taming of scaly baby demons with a song?
"You are normal!"
"No I'm not!"
My mother and I could go on like that, a tennis match: I am right no I am right. Only way way back when I was Jerry's student did I believe this wonderful fiction, that if I could not live through him, or have one like him, then I'd succeed through imitation. I haven't been very good copy. But I will check Ann's links.
Unlike Frank, who is clueless when my train leaves the station, Ed and I can engage each other, and I was happy he got a new job. He wrote me in email "You're right Joanne, your blog blew me away, but I was struck by how literate it is!" That is praise. It should gratify me, because even when I am lazy and lag too much slice of life at you, I attempt to justify it, or repair the post later, and the Joyce group wondered why I was there, with Lance marching valiantly on through the text while I wanted a comparative literature course instead. Lance is okay--that is an endorsement. Yet I am empty.
If I continue to fight the disability center that launched me off into the wonderful world of Project Shares and partial hospitals, it is because I want to destroy Linda, expose her own ruthlessness, unmask the villain. If I manage to force her resignation, I still lose. She and I destroyed what we admired and supported in each other because, and this is odd, I feared asserting myself as clearly as I could, and the way she responded to a poem unnerved me and at the end of the day, on that November evening, I blew up at her as never before I blew at anyone, and I've blown. If I give up, and fight the pain of my internalized hurt, I still lose there as well; if I break the law then I revert to full invalid status, restrained, strapped to a bed, and what does that do? All over a place that teaches people like me, most of them limited intellectually, how to make coffee. I learned all that very long ago. Yet their case management model, as with DHS, abuses people who cannot fight back.
If Ann Tran can educate me as my brother was supposed to about feeds and tumblrs and applications, maybe there is a collaboration there in the future, the taming of scaly baby demons with a song?
"You are normal!"
"No I'm not!"
My mother and I could go on like that, a tennis match: I am right no I am right. Only way way back when I was Jerry's student did I believe this wonderful fiction, that if I could not live through him, or have one like him, then I'd succeed through imitation. I haven't been very good copy. But I will check Ann's links.
Steve Israel, Hate Speech, Censoring What We Know
Dear Steve,
Since the Democratic algorithm addresses mass recipients individually, I too will be informal, and use your first name. I would like to address your last email about Congressman King, highlighted in my last post, through using the same strategies of translation deployed by Bill Maher, though my scars, and internalized anger make Maher look positively patrician. I invite you to read my Blogger account and be offended; it would surprise me if you would be able to read it without indignation and look past that; let me not make any assumptions.
I know the porous American border is front and center in this second, and reactionary term of the Obama Administration, and I do not post about immigration because the issue is too complex for me to deal with it as a policy matter, but I have to defend Congressman King's right to offend YOU. To translate what King means in more neutered terminology, he is saying for every successful aspirant under the Dream Act, you have a proportional excess of drug mules trying to evade border control guards. It may have been rude; it may have been stereotypical, but it is not hate speech. He is not inciting violence against children of illegal parents, nor did I read any derogatory division between them and us, only that the Mexican drug cartels are a fact of life.
I understand why Jewish secular liberalism sounds the alarm in every possible instance of distasteful public discourse, given Europe's Anti-Semitic history, but the tea party is not American fascism in action.
Regards
Since the Democratic algorithm addresses mass recipients individually, I too will be informal, and use your first name. I would like to address your last email about Congressman King, highlighted in my last post, through using the same strategies of translation deployed by Bill Maher, though my scars, and internalized anger make Maher look positively patrician. I invite you to read my Blogger account and be offended; it would surprise me if you would be able to read it without indignation and look past that; let me not make any assumptions.
I know the porous American border is front and center in this second, and reactionary term of the Obama Administration, and I do not post about immigration because the issue is too complex for me to deal with it as a policy matter, but I have to defend Congressman King's right to offend YOU. To translate what King means in more neutered terminology, he is saying for every successful aspirant under the Dream Act, you have a proportional excess of drug mules trying to evade border control guards. It may have been rude; it may have been stereotypical, but it is not hate speech. He is not inciting violence against children of illegal parents, nor did I read any derogatory division between them and us, only that the Mexican drug cartels are a fact of life.
I understand why Jewish secular liberalism sounds the alarm in every possible instance of distasteful public discourse, given Europe's Anti-Semitic history, but the tea party is not American fascism in action.
Regards
Sunday, July 28, 2013
Sneaker Quest Masochism
Last week, King asserted that "for [every DREAMer] who's a valedictorian, there's another 100 out there who weigh 130 pounds -- and they've got calves the size of cantaloupes because they're hauling 75 pounds of marijuana across the desert." That ugly, hateful language has no place in our debate about immigration. Period.-- Steve Israel
And yet, the Democratic Party doesn't seem to care, doesn't connect my public email address that it spams with thirty emails a week, to my use of pejorative language on this Blogger account. I have had little to offer on immigration issues, that porous movement of the masses, but I do not feel Congressman King has crossed any line in his characterization of drug trafficking, not with the aggression I struggle with daily through having been so wounded by identity politics, not when I detail how Kmac's erotic appetites had their effect on any healthy sexual satisfaction as a disabled woman that I have failed to experience. LiveJournal allowed me to lash out at the lesbian harassment I experienced in the field, and it was too torrential, but my early drafts usually are, just as in Stardust I am behaving like a jackass, skirting around an auto erotic attraction (mostly imaginary) rather than simply admitting that I would not mind going on kinky.
Not that I can heal trauma through vivid dissection, not that I want to bore you as the man who has been busy getting amputated might, but petting games as an outlet for life long frustration would only succeed in continued unhappiness. Breast nipples and clitoris engorgement do not hold any appeal for me. I have asked my alter ego about it-- and this is where the public LBGT activists have to be called out, om the fact that homosexuals engage in duplicitous predation. I've been damaged by it, from my clients at Matrix Research, on through the mixed race paraprofessional who enveloped me in her suggestive complicity of seductive behavior. It made me nauseous, and I have few ways to defend against it as I age and may have no choice if an abuser is going to exploit me, treat me like a fuck bag. Case managers offer classes! I have published articles about classes, but they do not protect the vulnerable from opportunists.
If I were to ask Tim Gilmer a hard question, it would be why his survival as an ailing paraplegic, or my uncle Joseph's survival as a demented, mildly menacing greaseball, is worth so much money. I personally would rather be dead than deal with paralysis generated gangrene or being bedridden, not cognizant, talking to the dead. Can we afford this medical model indefinitely as we head to population totals pushing 11 billion?
I face the future prospect of losing part of my left leg. Like the jogger victim in the classic gothic camp, we could all sacrifice ourselves for stronger models, so euthanize and lets move on. Two immediate goals I need to complete:
1. buy new shoes
2. get to Penndot before the end of August
My imaginary audience is my baseline.
And yet, the Democratic Party doesn't seem to care, doesn't connect my public email address that it spams with thirty emails a week, to my use of pejorative language on this Blogger account. I have had little to offer on immigration issues, that porous movement of the masses, but I do not feel Congressman King has crossed any line in his characterization of drug trafficking, not with the aggression I struggle with daily through having been so wounded by identity politics, not when I detail how Kmac's erotic appetites had their effect on any healthy sexual satisfaction as a disabled woman that I have failed to experience. LiveJournal allowed me to lash out at the lesbian harassment I experienced in the field, and it was too torrential, but my early drafts usually are, just as in Stardust I am behaving like a jackass, skirting around an auto erotic attraction (mostly imaginary) rather than simply admitting that I would not mind going on kinky.
Not that I can heal trauma through vivid dissection, not that I want to bore you as the man who has been busy getting amputated might, but petting games as an outlet for life long frustration would only succeed in continued unhappiness. Breast nipples and clitoris engorgement do not hold any appeal for me. I have asked my alter ego about it-- and this is where the public LBGT activists have to be called out, om the fact that homosexuals engage in duplicitous predation. I've been damaged by it, from my clients at Matrix Research, on through the mixed race paraprofessional who enveloped me in her suggestive complicity of seductive behavior. It made me nauseous, and I have few ways to defend against it as I age and may have no choice if an abuser is going to exploit me, treat me like a fuck bag. Case managers offer classes! I have published articles about classes, but they do not protect the vulnerable from opportunists.
If I were to ask Tim Gilmer a hard question, it would be why his survival as an ailing paraplegic, or my uncle Joseph's survival as a demented, mildly menacing greaseball, is worth so much money. I personally would rather be dead than deal with paralysis generated gangrene or being bedridden, not cognizant, talking to the dead. Can we afford this medical model indefinitely as we head to population totals pushing 11 billion?
I face the future prospect of losing part of my left leg. Like the jogger victim in the classic gothic camp, we could all sacrifice ourselves for stronger models, so euthanize and lets move on. Two immediate goals I need to complete:
1. buy new shoes
2. get to Penndot before the end of August
My imaginary audience is my baseline.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
Lucky Fox Furs
To engage in my usual pattern of disrupting new found efforts at thematic generation, I caught the same preview you did of the new Michael J. Fox series. While it is good that his Parkinson's is included, and the *community integration* sophists have made enough in roads so that the screen writers guild can ask for laughs about progressive conditions, the series doesn't offer anything new in terms of the notes this eighties comic actor can hit, riding solely on his commanding preening for the girls. I peeked at his memoir years ago when I still actively browsed in Barnes & Noble; found his voice more methodical than I would have supposed, contrasted with the on screen persona. He isn't a bad writer, especially now that he is the archetype of tragedy transforming him into an emblematic voice for those disenfranchised by spiraling deterioration.
I think we take the wrong approach to the doomsday conditions. Easy for me to say and what if it was your child?
I hear you, but I am looking through the lens of hundreds of dramas and miseries. Turning over my rocks
I think we take the wrong approach to the doomsday conditions. Easy for me to say and what if it was your child?
I hear you, but I am looking through the lens of hundreds of dramas and miseries. Turning over my rocks
Mitochondrial Deformity
"Look at her labia." Joanne Marinelli, the first one
What I had hoped, at least until a couple of years ago, was that my half brother and his wife and myself could scrape up the resources to renovate his basement, and that, while not ideal, would have gotten me away from Jimmi Shrode's constant silent censure that I have to deal with here in the building on a daily basis.
Before Benny and I quarreled, I wanted evidence from him that would illustrate that he was behind me, and provided him with the tools to do that before I lost patience with the fact that no movement was forthcoming. After my resource site AccessLife went out of business, and after New Mobility's management ceased to acknowledge me by 2005, the only supports I really had were inertia, both personal and systemic-- systemic in the sense that no regulatory model in Pennsylvania has ever propelled me forward, as opposed to becoming a hindrance. Seven years is a long time to feel stranded, to be doled out more molestation, then physical trauma.
And if I had the means to give my notice, I would force Jimmi to respond to me, because ugly gay men, in particular, have this sanctimonious way of cutting. I've burst into tears in front of him after realizing the enormity of what Limda had done. Playing me like that damaged me almost irrevocably, dashing any hope I had for the same things most Americans want. Mortgage, self-sufficiency. I don't want to be his friend again, but would like to take off the heat and get both him and Erik to realize that utilizing their personal relationship as paramount, not to be challenged, hurts the center the two of them supposedly govern. And the board of directors doesn't govern very well. Liberty Resources is constantly settling lawsuits.
I *see* my damage in the context of these events the same way that my site member sees it, but I know myself well enough to know that if I did not have to put up with the 8th floor LBGT A team as a daily reminder that I am exiled, it would be easier on me. Battling to keep my head up is hard enough. Now, let me put my progressive gay love hat back on for a minute:
When Linda told me she supported Jimmi for the job he wasn't supposed to have, she meant it in terms of peer support, and that bubble boy would be better off matriculated (impossible, trust me, what local media will tell you about Phila ADAPT bears little or no reflection on reality; they are terrorists, with brain disorders and palsies and intense moods and fat broken bodies, but still zealots who don't worry law enforcement since they are zealots easy to kill). I get that, but when you treat a federally mandated center as if it was a point guard mafia for the 5, 6 at the top who are indispensable, that is the corruption of socialism.
The corruption of materialism lies in the fact that I cannot be a burden to Benjamin and his wife. Rare thing in the US these days that families are the main resource for each other, and Benny is scared of what I am willing to say, like that his biological parent abused Stephanie, and that Stuart Lone, the wrong stepfather, would have killed little Nicky if powerful uncles had not intervened. Sensible people say "It's over."
I have a lot of overs, in this building, in my career, school years, institutions. When is the last time someone was able to touch me? My mother was always telling Kmac to check out my anatomy because my bipolar mother whose estimable gifts have watered themselves down within did not like how I looked. Kmac's ugly ruddy hands were always clutching my pubic area. If I had known what she was, I would have let child services take me away. They asked me at school if my mother was unfit.
It is unfortunate I was such a clever, loyal child. In Dr. Rubel's words, I am not done being pissed. Tough enough for you? I am going to hit even harder. I want to save future spastics from needing the dowager.
What I had hoped, at least until a couple of years ago, was that my half brother and his wife and myself could scrape up the resources to renovate his basement, and that, while not ideal, would have gotten me away from Jimmi Shrode's constant silent censure that I have to deal with here in the building on a daily basis.
Before Benny and I quarreled, I wanted evidence from him that would illustrate that he was behind me, and provided him with the tools to do that before I lost patience with the fact that no movement was forthcoming. After my resource site AccessLife went out of business, and after New Mobility's management ceased to acknowledge me by 2005, the only supports I really had were inertia, both personal and systemic-- systemic in the sense that no regulatory model in Pennsylvania has ever propelled me forward, as opposed to becoming a hindrance. Seven years is a long time to feel stranded, to be doled out more molestation, then physical trauma.
And if I had the means to give my notice, I would force Jimmi to respond to me, because ugly gay men, in particular, have this sanctimonious way of cutting. I've burst into tears in front of him after realizing the enormity of what Limda had done. Playing me like that damaged me almost irrevocably, dashing any hope I had for the same things most Americans want. Mortgage, self-sufficiency. I don't want to be his friend again, but would like to take off the heat and get both him and Erik to realize that utilizing their personal relationship as paramount, not to be challenged, hurts the center the two of them supposedly govern. And the board of directors doesn't govern very well. Liberty Resources is constantly settling lawsuits.
I *see* my damage in the context of these events the same way that my site member sees it, but I know myself well enough to know that if I did not have to put up with the 8th floor LBGT A team as a daily reminder that I am exiled, it would be easier on me. Battling to keep my head up is hard enough. Now, let me put my progressive gay love hat back on for a minute:
When Linda told me she supported Jimmi for the job he wasn't supposed to have, she meant it in terms of peer support, and that bubble boy would be better off matriculated (impossible, trust me, what local media will tell you about Phila ADAPT bears little or no reflection on reality; they are terrorists, with brain disorders and palsies and intense moods and fat broken bodies, but still zealots who don't worry law enforcement since they are zealots easy to kill). I get that, but when you treat a federally mandated center as if it was a point guard mafia for the 5, 6 at the top who are indispensable, that is the corruption of socialism.
The corruption of materialism lies in the fact that I cannot be a burden to Benjamin and his wife. Rare thing in the US these days that families are the main resource for each other, and Benny is scared of what I am willing to say, like that his biological parent abused Stephanie, and that Stuart Lone, the wrong stepfather, would have killed little Nicky if powerful uncles had not intervened. Sensible people say "It's over."
I have a lot of overs, in this building, in my career, school years, institutions. When is the last time someone was able to touch me? My mother was always telling Kmac to check out my anatomy because my bipolar mother whose estimable gifts have watered themselves down within did not like how I looked. Kmac's ugly ruddy hands were always clutching my pubic area. If I had known what she was, I would have let child services take me away. They asked me at school if my mother was unfit.
It is unfortunate I was such a clever, loyal child. In Dr. Rubel's words, I am not done being pissed. Tough enough for you? I am going to hit even harder. I want to save future spastics from needing the dowager.
Lessons From Godzilla
1. Radiation poisoning and dry heat orgasms represent the existential tragedy of desire.
2. The Japanese invented auto erotic stimulation that inspired David Carradine when Rodan's death throes regenerated much needed reassurance about Asian potency.
3. Mothra's spontaneous combustion is a subconscious apology for the Rape of Nanking
4. Resurrection is a theological conspiracy imprinted by Semitic moral guilt for the sake of the film studio.
5. J G Ballard was the stunt man in the original polyureathane suit.
6. If a radioactive dinosaur destroyed Riverside Presbyterian I'd advocate for zoophiliac marriage rights
2. The Japanese invented auto erotic stimulation that inspired David Carradine when Rodan's death throes regenerated much needed reassurance about Asian potency.
3. Mothra's spontaneous combustion is a subconscious apology for the Rape of Nanking
4. Resurrection is a theological conspiracy imprinted by Semitic moral guilt for the sake of the film studio.
5. J G Ballard was the stunt man in the original polyureathane suit.
6. If a radioactive dinosaur destroyed Riverside Presbyterian I'd advocate for zoophiliac marriage rights
Jayne Anne Phillips Kills Gargantua
On a good day in the future I will do this lady a favor and tell you why she towers over other women authors as a storyteller, and does not fall into that insufferable category of women's interest suburban satire, the genotype that includes Susanna Daniel. It will not be today, and it may not be even next year if I do not find solutions for what I need to do if I am to keep myself healthy, but if I pull myself through, the real tribute I can pay her is to retrospectively offer an appreciation.
Surprises you, doesn't it? Conspiratorial smile in the offing; I cannot stand women writers currently active today. Doris Lessing, Muriel Spark, Simone de Beauvoir, whose voices converses with theirs now?
Surprises you, doesn't it? Conspiratorial smile in the offing; I cannot stand women writers currently active today. Doris Lessing, Muriel Spark, Simone de Beauvoir, whose voices converses with theirs now?
Friday, July 26, 2013
Autonomous Straight
"You're going to have to accept the fact that sometimes we can't save everyone." Shemar Moore, toffee muscle
We never see Bobby Goren romantically involved with a woman, only the implication of prospective involvement. Forget Nicole Wallace (sheesh); forget the occasional utilization of Eames as the faux lover despite its dual implausibility-- dual because they often play act couple for the sake of solving the case, but by the end of season six certain insinuations goad Bobby into aggression-- his dying mother, his brother whom he loses to murder, the denouement with the brass busted shrink (again, sheesh), no, the more subtle interstice is with the blond foil with the attachment disorder, or his flirtation with the brunette who had a summer girl crush on the Russian mob girl killed by the cross dresser who killed his mama out of natal jealousy.
I know exactly zero about D'onofrio's ballet with metal affect, but he did not get Goren's stressor imbalances out of method acting, and the beginning of the end of Vincent's deconstruction of his best known character is quite interesting when juxtaposed against the dying Scheider. Even with a multiple myeloma, Roy is the consummate ladies man pitted up against a suffering buffoon whose analytical abilities aren't enough to keep him together anymore. The deconstruction of the super human predator/prey motif is as superlative as it has always been with the use of psychopathy as entertainment, but this is very much an insider's industry script, a homage to Schneider the super cool against Spielberg's super monster. And should Steven feel guilty for the frightening decline of our monster fish? I think about how much fear orcas and sharks inspire real terror within. There is a bucket to do, eh? Go to Seaworld, drive to the edge of the sea tiger's liquid prison. Voila, spastic is an abstract seal to stun into edible submission.
But the intangible fascination lies in the fact that Schneider has aged, his eyes muddied, his neckline in rivulets, and he is still the Schneider who could sexually satisfy, could be for me the alpha coitus of the century, while D'onofrio has to give mea culpas to tattles that his weight gain in season seven was due to medication.
Different cultures have different values when it comes to physical vanity-- and I wonder, actually, if this is the real problem with the nature of being human. We conceive perfection, dignity, metaphysical harmony, unable to reconcile this entirely with a strictly biological, material narrative, chemically manipulating pain and suffering, altering and sometimes torturing the female shape. Demi Moore's fortune spent on plastic surgery isn't quite enough to fool the close observer that she is now preserved as opposed to attractive. But Liz Taylor was forever Cleopatra. She just had that goddess aura straight through to cessation.
I have my own vanity, but it never laid in the attempt to compete with an ambulatory woman's considerable advantages. Perhaps a more ruthless humility would have served my old age.
We never see Bobby Goren romantically involved with a woman, only the implication of prospective involvement. Forget Nicole Wallace (sheesh); forget the occasional utilization of Eames as the faux lover despite its dual implausibility-- dual because they often play act couple for the sake of solving the case, but by the end of season six certain insinuations goad Bobby into aggression-- his dying mother, his brother whom he loses to murder, the denouement with the brass busted shrink (again, sheesh), no, the more subtle interstice is with the blond foil with the attachment disorder, or his flirtation with the brunette who had a summer girl crush on the Russian mob girl killed by the cross dresser who killed his mama out of natal jealousy.
I know exactly zero about D'onofrio's ballet with metal affect, but he did not get Goren's stressor imbalances out of method acting, and the beginning of the end of Vincent's deconstruction of his best known character is quite interesting when juxtaposed against the dying Scheider. Even with a multiple myeloma, Roy is the consummate ladies man pitted up against a suffering buffoon whose analytical abilities aren't enough to keep him together anymore. The deconstruction of the super human predator/prey motif is as superlative as it has always been with the use of psychopathy as entertainment, but this is very much an insider's industry script, a homage to Schneider the super cool against Spielberg's super monster. And should Steven feel guilty for the frightening decline of our monster fish? I think about how much fear orcas and sharks inspire real terror within. There is a bucket to do, eh? Go to Seaworld, drive to the edge of the sea tiger's liquid prison. Voila, spastic is an abstract seal to stun into edible submission.
But the intangible fascination lies in the fact that Schneider has aged, his eyes muddied, his neckline in rivulets, and he is still the Schneider who could sexually satisfy, could be for me the alpha coitus of the century, while D'onofrio has to give mea culpas to tattles that his weight gain in season seven was due to medication.
Different cultures have different values when it comes to physical vanity-- and I wonder, actually, if this is the real problem with the nature of being human. We conceive perfection, dignity, metaphysical harmony, unable to reconcile this entirely with a strictly biological, material narrative, chemically manipulating pain and suffering, altering and sometimes torturing the female shape. Demi Moore's fortune spent on plastic surgery isn't quite enough to fool the close observer that she is now preserved as opposed to attractive. But Liz Taylor was forever Cleopatra. She just had that goddess aura straight through to cessation.
I have my own vanity, but it never laid in the attempt to compete with an ambulatory woman's considerable advantages. Perhaps a more ruthless humility would have served my old age.
Thursday, July 25, 2013
Hypothetical Pull, fortissimo
But woman in God's hands is not only this blade, this burn; the riches of this world are not meant to be always refused.-- Simone de Beauvoir
Dear Jayne Anne,
I gave myself a bit of a turn there, posting about your voice in summary fashion, even in hyperbolic relapse to my memory of my former potential. I have visited your web site off and on between computer crashes and crises and upgrades, always intent on purchasing my own edition of "Black Tickets". I am over-extended with my reading for the time being, and I need to begin taking extensive notes on Giuseppe Tomasi if I am going to cajole any remaining ambition I have left to be respected. I exaggerate when I say idiomatically that the State is going to kill me, but on the basis of what I have lived and experienced, I believe it deep down. (A psychiatrist with cue cards once quipped at me, "You believe the world is against you." And I queried back, "Have you a chronic condition like cerebral palsy?" He reminded me of Bram Stoker's Renfield, or a centurion with jaundice. Wards of the state should be so lucky.) I had a major depressive episode at the turn of the century. I am ashamed, not so much of the episode, but of my own weakness, giving this woman so many weapons to utilize in her humiliation of me-- a punishment for elevating her. I needed rescue financially and overplayed my hand. A political aide told me to stop feeling guilty that I talked to her, but this is difficult. I should have been stronger, less panicked.
When I browsed through Fast Lanes in 1987 I was merely despondent, doing research. My heart wasn't in it due to infantilism over my professor, but your voice was important to me because it reached me like a living connection with its own vibrancy, and this is rare with me, regardless of particular weaknesses, strengths, thus my ode to you which had absolutely nothing to so with your work (giggles at our egos). It was about sexual envy mostly, as opposed to vocational. You deserve your acclaim. I want the validation without the sacrifice of discipline to get there, and it may be too late now, in my race against subsistence. The crack in my bibelot is an obsessive emotional investment, and by the time we wise up, we're dead. I had a few difficult hours this week, wondering if I was going to ask you to help me break my public housing paradigm, but that would not be fair. I was never your student, and in terms of using your influence to ask a writing residency to grant me a length of stay exemption would take more than an online dialogue. Even if you were willing to have that, my psyche is a bit tremulous, and if fans who have that state of mind about my work annoy me, I do not want to inflict the same fallen on my ass impact onto you. I have every single credit listed, no matter how small, but I have yet to complete something to break ranks. Perhaps I can't, and hubris feeds a certain degree of delusion; maybe I fritter and procrastinate.
But your voice held me up in those insular years when I moped because I couldn't be the graduate student who caught her big fish. I am grateful your talent held that degree of consolation. For this reason, it is an honor to follow you.
Dear Jayne Anne,
I gave myself a bit of a turn there, posting about your voice in summary fashion, even in hyperbolic relapse to my memory of my former potential. I have visited your web site off and on between computer crashes and crises and upgrades, always intent on purchasing my own edition of "Black Tickets". I am over-extended with my reading for the time being, and I need to begin taking extensive notes on Giuseppe Tomasi if I am going to cajole any remaining ambition I have left to be respected. I exaggerate when I say idiomatically that the State is going to kill me, but on the basis of what I have lived and experienced, I believe it deep down. (A psychiatrist with cue cards once quipped at me, "You believe the world is against you." And I queried back, "Have you a chronic condition like cerebral palsy?" He reminded me of Bram Stoker's Renfield, or a centurion with jaundice. Wards of the state should be so lucky.) I had a major depressive episode at the turn of the century. I am ashamed, not so much of the episode, but of my own weakness, giving this woman so many weapons to utilize in her humiliation of me-- a punishment for elevating her. I needed rescue financially and overplayed my hand. A political aide told me to stop feeling guilty that I talked to her, but this is difficult. I should have been stronger, less panicked.
When I browsed through Fast Lanes in 1987 I was merely despondent, doing research. My heart wasn't in it due to infantilism over my professor, but your voice was important to me because it reached me like a living connection with its own vibrancy, and this is rare with me, regardless of particular weaknesses, strengths, thus my ode to you which had absolutely nothing to so with your work (giggles at our egos). It was about sexual envy mostly, as opposed to vocational. You deserve your acclaim. I want the validation without the sacrifice of discipline to get there, and it may be too late now, in my race against subsistence. The crack in my bibelot is an obsessive emotional investment, and by the time we wise up, we're dead. I had a few difficult hours this week, wondering if I was going to ask you to help me break my public housing paradigm, but that would not be fair. I was never your student, and in terms of using your influence to ask a writing residency to grant me a length of stay exemption would take more than an online dialogue. Even if you were willing to have that, my psyche is a bit tremulous, and if fans who have that state of mind about my work annoy me, I do not want to inflict the same fallen on my ass impact onto you. I have every single credit listed, no matter how small, but I have yet to complete something to break ranks. Perhaps I can't, and hubris feeds a certain degree of delusion; maybe I fritter and procrastinate.
But your voice held me up in those insular years when I moped because I couldn't be the graduate student who caught her big fish. I am grateful your talent held that degree of consolation. For this reason, it is an honor to follow you.
Not totally a worthless indulgence...
I actually care about my imaginary contention with Gerson, and with slightly more tweaking, may submit it somewhere. Any reaction from the gallery? Who cares you pretentious psycho spaz!
Aside from that?
Reactions from readers are useful some of the time, and to be honest I am not sure what this absolute lack of reaction indicates; if I am being dismissed? Or I have incensed to the point that my countrymen simply bite their tongues? Mmm. I can understand my family members who have virtual access. My surviving sister, her children, if they have viewed this account, will not forgive me, not that I know, but it's out there. *My past*, as well, would never deign to legitimize my memoirs. Issues with online contacts are more opaque.
Speculation or assumption one way or another won't get me anywhere, but I am not that fragile, nor as prone to inflammatory indignation against critique, if it is thoughtful, when I am serious about idea development. I can't make you engage, but if voyeurism is protective, so be it.
Aside from that?
Reactions from readers are useful some of the time, and to be honest I am not sure what this absolute lack of reaction indicates; if I am being dismissed? Or I have incensed to the point that my countrymen simply bite their tongues? Mmm. I can understand my family members who have virtual access. My surviving sister, her children, if they have viewed this account, will not forgive me, not that I know, but it's out there. *My past*, as well, would never deign to legitimize my memoirs. Issues with online contacts are more opaque.
Speculation or assumption one way or another won't get me anywhere, but I am not that fragile, nor as prone to inflammatory indignation against critique, if it is thoughtful, when I am serious about idea development. I can't make you engage, but if voyeurism is protective, so be it.
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Continuing Education
Ophelia snaps—just like a lot of people who spend their lives obeying other people without any sense of personal agency.
The smallest moment of what a real couple might have been, this when I was typing out Scott's term paper and he purchased breakfast egg rolls. Cleaned while I typed, this young man whose act of making love to a twenty-four year old woman was an act of self hatred because I had a Penmate clamped between my teeth, fearing the pain; I must have looked like a literal developmental troll, however, rubbery mouth and flushed face-- but in that instantaneous domestic idyll, it was a nice warm sunny moment when I could almost forget my exile to nigger land.
Still alive, towering inferno of spent embers, it just dawned on me that poor Mr. Bryan telephoned to taunt me a year after he broke with me because I taunted John with TMI while the involvement with Scott was ongoing, and payback is a bitch, or an episode of Grey's Anatomy.
I have been awake since two pm yesterday, and urge myself at the very least not to tweet these maudlin tendencies. Every woman has some hymen folly, perhaps not as grotesque as a felt marker bit, but I concede that Google's algorithm is more powerful than my discretion. I did not want him to leave me, this terse and anemic cocaine user. Odd isn't it? At forty two I wanted to kill Frank the minute I let him touch me, the intimacy with his decomposing fat and folds of skin was the ultimate act of self flagellation. Philip Roth's chunky cheap shot hit an on switch, and I have been blooming for business since I finished my notes on the last page. Scott had a firm ass in tight nylon underwear. The havoc of hiring a hustler, which I have never done, almost feels like a lethal dare, and if I tried to track my last affair, wouldn't the wife try to kill me? Did I forget how long ago this was? I need to leave Presby, seriously.
The smallest moment of what a real couple might have been, this when I was typing out Scott's term paper and he purchased breakfast egg rolls. Cleaned while I typed, this young man whose act of making love to a twenty-four year old woman was an act of self hatred because I had a Penmate clamped between my teeth, fearing the pain; I must have looked like a literal developmental troll, however, rubbery mouth and flushed face-- but in that instantaneous domestic idyll, it was a nice warm sunny moment when I could almost forget my exile to nigger land.
Still alive, towering inferno of spent embers, it just dawned on me that poor Mr. Bryan telephoned to taunt me a year after he broke with me because I taunted John with TMI while the involvement with Scott was ongoing, and payback is a bitch, or an episode of Grey's Anatomy.
I have been awake since two pm yesterday, and urge myself at the very least not to tweet these maudlin tendencies. Every woman has some hymen folly, perhaps not as grotesque as a felt marker bit, but I concede that Google's algorithm is more powerful than my discretion. I did not want him to leave me, this terse and anemic cocaine user. Odd isn't it? At forty two I wanted to kill Frank the minute I let him touch me, the intimacy with his decomposing fat and folds of skin was the ultimate act of self flagellation. Philip Roth's chunky cheap shot hit an on switch, and I have been blooming for business since I finished my notes on the last page. Scott had a firm ass in tight nylon underwear. The havoc of hiring a hustler, which I have never done, almost feels like a lethal dare, and if I tried to track my last affair, wouldn't the wife try to kill me? Did I forget how long ago this was? I need to leave Presby, seriously.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
A Response to Michael Gerson
Michael, the fact that I have adopted the role of a gadfly to mask very deep seated levels of emotional pain sometimes deliberately obfuscates my intent of getting my viewers to think, as well as the price I pay for the struggles I have in my need for legitimacy, desperate to de-marginalize, (un-marginalize?) as I have been for a significant length of time in my uneven bid for matriculation, but let me take on the raw wound of George Zimmerman, not as an adjudicated legal debate, nor even how it is viewed strictly along the lines of ethnic perception, but as a personal narrative that points to the complexity of lack of answers:
At the risk of her sons ostracizing me along with the rest of my family, I know my paternal aunt feels that Zimmerman was justified in murdering Trayvon, and I find her attitude horrific. Diminished as I may be through my admission of bigotry, I do not like stacked decks, and even under my aunt's rationale, if Trayvon was a troubled juvenile, he did not deserve the summary execution that Zimmerman's actions provoked. My aunt's attitude reflects the reality of my family's need for boundaries of the type that existed before Johnson managed to get civil rights legislation passed, reflects the difference between my white Catholic/Methodist/Jewish family and African Americans, even that of my mother's sister, with her PhD in education leadership. Over the dinner table, in her discussion of pedagogy and the Philadelphia school district, she says, "Who wants to deal with that?" As you have a background in speech writing, I am sure you can infer her meaning.
I, as a disabled woman, have had to deal with that, since my parents institutionalized me in Home of the Merciful Savior, from the time I was nine years old: I was sexually abused by minority internees I lived with, and by the orderlies who attended to my personal needs, and then I was assaulted by my mentally ill mother's lovers, was a matriculated out cast in high school, pretty much the same during my active university years, and then exposed myself to a genocidal third world subsistence level of poverty in North Philadelphia, nearly lost my life once to a drug addict there, and what I have sustained in the years since is none the less horrific as the bullet on which Trayvon bled to death. It is even worse for developmentally disabled and black. Danieal is dead despite all the DHS and disability services within Philadephia combined, not only because she was voiceless, but worthless by this city's standards. The fact that I was of an affluent well educated family protected me from Danieal's end of life starvation, but only up to a point.
I hate urban African American norms, and it is a hatred learned through the observation of inner city devaluation of their own lives. I hate the depreciation and the fatalism of those norms, and the bigoted narrow mindedness of the working class who cannot even read Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. I have had the text thrown back in my face as a near implied accusation because I dared to use great minority achievements in literature as a starting point for discussion. Have you yourself ventured much beyond K street, gotten your hands dirty, ignoring your own affluence and demeanor, waded into the hood so you can be accused of paternalism for trying to reach out to a black boy under threat?
Obama is not a miracle. He is a multi-faceted exception who has the same symbolic level of helplessness as the titular ADAPT activist who has left me hung out to dry because I keep trying to build bridges back to the ambulatory world you inhabit.
At the risk of her sons ostracizing me along with the rest of my family, I know my paternal aunt feels that Zimmerman was justified in murdering Trayvon, and I find her attitude horrific. Diminished as I may be through my admission of bigotry, I do not like stacked decks, and even under my aunt's rationale, if Trayvon was a troubled juvenile, he did not deserve the summary execution that Zimmerman's actions provoked. My aunt's attitude reflects the reality of my family's need for boundaries of the type that existed before Johnson managed to get civil rights legislation passed, reflects the difference between my white Catholic/Methodist/Jewish family and African Americans, even that of my mother's sister, with her PhD in education leadership. Over the dinner table, in her discussion of pedagogy and the Philadelphia school district, she says, "Who wants to deal with that?" As you have a background in speech writing, I am sure you can infer her meaning.
I, as a disabled woman, have had to deal with that, since my parents institutionalized me in Home of the Merciful Savior, from the time I was nine years old: I was sexually abused by minority internees I lived with, and by the orderlies who attended to my personal needs, and then I was assaulted by my mentally ill mother's lovers, was a matriculated out cast in high school, pretty much the same during my active university years, and then exposed myself to a genocidal third world subsistence level of poverty in North Philadelphia, nearly lost my life once to a drug addict there, and what I have sustained in the years since is none the less horrific as the bullet on which Trayvon bled to death. It is even worse for developmentally disabled and black. Danieal is dead despite all the DHS and disability services within Philadephia combined, not only because she was voiceless, but worthless by this city's standards. The fact that I was of an affluent well educated family protected me from Danieal's end of life starvation, but only up to a point.
I hate urban African American norms, and it is a hatred learned through the observation of inner city devaluation of their own lives. I hate the depreciation and the fatalism of those norms, and the bigoted narrow mindedness of the working class who cannot even read Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man. I have had the text thrown back in my face as a near implied accusation because I dared to use great minority achievements in literature as a starting point for discussion. Have you yourself ventured much beyond K street, gotten your hands dirty, ignoring your own affluence and demeanor, waded into the hood so you can be accused of paternalism for trying to reach out to a black boy under threat?
Obama is not a miracle. He is a multi-faceted exception who has the same symbolic level of helplessness as the titular ADAPT activist who has left me hung out to dry because I keep trying to build bridges back to the ambulatory world you inhabit.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Red Ball-- Minority Report
I have some nerve; even my detractors have to give me that, as I sit here almost every day with a decanter of unrequited love, and there she is, one of the very few woman authors who has been able to elicit the cooing pleasure of the Gerber baby out of my blunted emotional cynicism. From a fantastical daydream of a literary BFFL like her to a 30 second cryptic tweet as if we were equals, and yes, if Jayne Anne follows me I shall squeal, diffidence about mutual achievements aside; next to hers mine are minute. Despite my length of time online, it is still disconcerting. I frame my past of longing for a nostalgic farewell, slightly frustrated at lack of email access, since I still enjoy the art of the epistle, and she has a concurrent virtual footprint while I am fomenting the arc of lesser and greater influences. Do boomers ever get used to this pancake collapse of psychic space?
In the hierarchy of recognitions, if it was between Mia Farrow reaching out past her celebrity, or Jayne Anne Phillips willingness to indicate she remembers the issue of which I posted, the latter means more to my aging decline. This is unreal; totally unreal. Chill break.
In the hierarchy of recognitions, if it was between Mia Farrow reaching out past her celebrity, or Jayne Anne Phillips willingness to indicate she remembers the issue of which I posted, the latter means more to my aging decline. This is unreal; totally unreal. Chill break.
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Indelible Banana Peels
I really have you going, don't I? Well, bemusement may be a small consolation for beggars, but what I was straining to remember in Stardust is why I would not offer Jayne Anne any further appreciative missive, or need the mentorship somewhat glazed over by her meritorious caste. She and I appear together in Oxford Magazine, some years ago now. She is transcribed addressing the freshman class, in a rhetorical tropism with angels, why I don't know. Her address opens the issue. My byline closes the issue because the graduate department telephoned me, appreciated my acid pouring forth against the Iraq war, shredding American materialism, and to the extent that this creates a dialogue with a financially secure feminine has been from the south, and a feminine has been who was a has been arriving for departure since she started, it is enough. Perhaps she is a catty embrace your inner bitch type, or has a fragility I cannot hear in my ringing ears. I no longer have praise to offer, nor the power to be moved by her output, nor anyone with which to share. I told myself to stop engaging with my aunt Marie, but I am worried she is going to die, and so returned her call yesterday; the sheer inanity of provincialism never ceases to amaze me. This is why I want to go home to Rome, I ask myself, to listen to histrionic crows screeching in sound and fury?
I cannot live with her again. I can't stay here. Adoption along Rittenhouse Square seems unlikely, and all I wanted to do was watch a movie.
As to the letter I mailed to Ms. Phillips, all I remember is an exuberant gush of the sort I have received from bush babies-- the strange psychology of fandom which may not have reached her, as I sent it in care of a publisher. The only thing I remember about experiencing Black Tickets was the edginess of the authorial voice had its appeal.
I cannot live with her again. I can't stay here. Adoption along Rittenhouse Square seems unlikely, and all I wanted to do was watch a movie.
As to the letter I mailed to Ms. Phillips, all I remember is an exuberant gush of the sort I have received from bush babies-- the strange psychology of fandom which may not have reached her, as I sent it in care of a publisher. The only thing I remember about experiencing Black Tickets was the edginess of the authorial voice had its appeal.
Stardust Once Removed
The woman weighs no more than a child. She has a smell. My mother fights it continually; bathing her, changing her sheets, carrying her to the bathroom so the smell can be contained and flushed away. --Jayne Anne Phillips, "Home"
I am not sure why Jerry recommended that I read Phillips. I remember nearly next to nothing about her collection "Black Tickets," but I consumed it as if attempting copulation with the recommendation as a sort of compensation, not being able to abase myself over the penis of the master. I wrote Phillips a poorly expressed letter from the inner city. Why? I wanted to feed off her confidence, imitate her vigorous sexual skills, if possible. I cut her picture out of a Poets & Writers article and published a poem about the fantasy of her competitive literary companionship in Metis, a local Jersey Xerox and staple effort. Admiration, as I have written, can be a dangerous attribute to those with low self-esteem.
Never heard from her, and she doesn't have the sustaining power needed for her novels. Her arc has passed its zenith, but she is at Rutgers, her look suggestive, even conspiratorial, exciting only insofar as if I could reach out and penetrate her shield, then I get to hold onto how Jerry at least enabled me to stay alive. I have weighed it once again, contacting her, in the time it has taken me to write this post, but I haven't read her work in years, and her voice, somewhat ponderous, bowed perhaps by an agrarian weight, has been surpassed; she does represent a sexual charge, not for herself necessarily, but the eroticism is inescapable: "I should have been Jayne Anne Phillips and I am not. I am a broken and pathetic--" a whine a whine. Moth to the flame, but moths are silent, not particularly aggressive and I did not enjoy her later novel Machine Dreams. Again, what is it I would want from her? What could her faded reputation offer me, scarred on so many levels as I am? What could Dr. Phillips heal that Bowie's predation in The Hunger offers in the recognition of insatiable appetite?
When I first saw this film the pace of Bowie's spectacular disintegration made an indelible impact, and offered exactly the kind of dangerous sexual foreplay I have always wanted with a man, one that impinges on the trauma of violation, with the elegance of cool. A local literary instructor, whose name escapes me for the moment, said on Fresh Air that vampirism is the most overused literary conceit. I agree with her, except for where it turns in interesting ways. The Hunger is a precursor to the terror we feel about being consumed, wasted from the inside out by viral flavors of the season: avian influenza, AIDS, ebola, and that wasting, in turn, make us focus on that one sole desire, which is the very damnation of its heat. It still contains something of the romantic in Gothic horror, and the danger of seduction that goes too far, lesbian or otherwise, but it is also a precursor film to the rise of retro-fitted zombie genres, like 28 Days Later, 30 Days of Night.
As a selfish outreach, I regret trying to make a connection with Phillips, but perhaps not the poem which is a preserved scrapbook tribute of a sort, saying, in effect, I wanted to be pretty like you, to have accomplished like you, to share gratifications which you seem to convey are in the realm of your experience. I toyed with viewing the film again on Saturday evening, but senile aunts, spoiled felines mewing, the usual things of poverty in tandem with broken bodies making nothing ever go right.
Bad day, but found an unexpected network opportunity, if a summary skim of my post intensity doesn't kill it.
I am not sure why Jerry recommended that I read Phillips. I remember nearly next to nothing about her collection "Black Tickets," but I consumed it as if attempting copulation with the recommendation as a sort of compensation, not being able to abase myself over the penis of the master. I wrote Phillips a poorly expressed letter from the inner city. Why? I wanted to feed off her confidence, imitate her vigorous sexual skills, if possible. I cut her picture out of a Poets & Writers article and published a poem about the fantasy of her competitive literary companionship in Metis, a local Jersey Xerox and staple effort. Admiration, as I have written, can be a dangerous attribute to those with low self-esteem.
Never heard from her, and she doesn't have the sustaining power needed for her novels. Her arc has passed its zenith, but she is at Rutgers, her look suggestive, even conspiratorial, exciting only insofar as if I could reach out and penetrate her shield, then I get to hold onto how Jerry at least enabled me to stay alive. I have weighed it once again, contacting her, in the time it has taken me to write this post, but I haven't read her work in years, and her voice, somewhat ponderous, bowed perhaps by an agrarian weight, has been surpassed; she does represent a sexual charge, not for herself necessarily, but the eroticism is inescapable: "I should have been Jayne Anne Phillips and I am not. I am a broken and pathetic--" a whine a whine. Moth to the flame, but moths are silent, not particularly aggressive and I did not enjoy her later novel Machine Dreams. Again, what is it I would want from her? What could her faded reputation offer me, scarred on so many levels as I am? What could Dr. Phillips heal that Bowie's predation in The Hunger offers in the recognition of insatiable appetite?
When I first saw this film the pace of Bowie's spectacular disintegration made an indelible impact, and offered exactly the kind of dangerous sexual foreplay I have always wanted with a man, one that impinges on the trauma of violation, with the elegance of cool. A local literary instructor, whose name escapes me for the moment, said on Fresh Air that vampirism is the most overused literary conceit. I agree with her, except for where it turns in interesting ways. The Hunger is a precursor to the terror we feel about being consumed, wasted from the inside out by viral flavors of the season: avian influenza, AIDS, ebola, and that wasting, in turn, make us focus on that one sole desire, which is the very damnation of its heat. It still contains something of the romantic in Gothic horror, and the danger of seduction that goes too far, lesbian or otherwise, but it is also a precursor film to the rise of retro-fitted zombie genres, like 28 Days Later, 30 Days of Night.
As a selfish outreach, I regret trying to make a connection with Phillips, but perhaps not the poem which is a preserved scrapbook tribute of a sort, saying, in effect, I wanted to be pretty like you, to have accomplished like you, to share gratifications which you seem to convey are in the realm of your experience. I toyed with viewing the film again on Saturday evening, but senile aunts, spoiled felines mewing, the usual things of poverty in tandem with broken bodies making nothing ever go right.
Bad day, but found an unexpected network opportunity, if a summary skim of my post intensity doesn't kill it.
Virtuous Self-Interest Over Alleviation
Maybe you'll be our leader one day.-- a former consumer over 70 years old I've characterized as The Gladhandler
I should not have written this post, let alone drawn attention to it, the avalanche tumbling on my head, and it shall at some point be revised or deleted, while I have plenty of time to agonize over access to vulnerable actors who may also be classified as cancer survivors, since I have to by necessity reconstruct the piece for which I need it. This falls under nothing anyone can do, even with the best sympathy available, though I will never know that if this is also the case when I contacted Phillips' office about the issue of Oxford Magazine she and I appear in together, never having so much as received the courtesy of a response. Apparently it is far too burdensome for pristine liberalism such as hers to reach down beyond those matriculated students on whom her income depends. A marginalized quadriplegic with disillusioned admiration and aspiration isn't a passing grade for her progressive finesse. I did not want her issue (if she had it). I just wanted a copy of my "Custer" poem, complex and fine as it is. Did she have to respond? No, but what would the harm had been if a TA had searched and made me a copy, simply to help? I'm a product of that academic system as much as she, and can't see that my posts were an issue, ambivalent or not, my voice hearkens her currency. Conservatives may not be beating down the gate to relocate me the fuck out of here on humanitarian grounds, but imagine they would have made me a copy of my misplaced work, had the situation been commensurate. There are nearly as many causes as there are people, to echo Krauthammer: no one has time for them all, inclusive of my subtextual bent to embed policy issues threaded in a bruised narcissism, though immigration is a league outside of this ballpark, all those starving and malnourished Houthi taking a lesson from the Nigerians who've preyed on Roman pity for years, never mind the Italy barely has the ability to salvage its ruins from earthquakes, at least since season 8 of Don Matteo, where whores of village back alleys get the justice of our spaghetti western priest. Catholic mercy never fails, having found a docking grappler for the besieged under the shadow of Boko Harem at a port in Spain, thus a libertarian moment of hosanna. On the abstract level, the dowager has to support the libertarian outcry for freedom of mobility. This embodies what personal liberty is all about, but it is also equally true, as in James Woods vocal retrenchment, supporting the Trumpian border wall, that the European Union's charitable acceptance will one day break the camel's back, already eroding what once made the United States seem indomitable. Doubtlessly Spain won't do a doubletake and ask Putin to find these poor victims of their own government some space in Kaliningrad. The communists do love indigenous tokenism so, after all. After Mussolini was hung like a dog in the streets, Italians rightly slowed paying the piper on the moral debits of history.
I should not have written this post, let alone drawn attention to it, the avalanche tumbling on my head, and it shall at some point be revised or deleted, while I have plenty of time to agonize over access to vulnerable actors who may also be classified as cancer survivors, since I have to by necessity reconstruct the piece for which I need it. This falls under nothing anyone can do, even with the best sympathy available, though I will never know that if this is also the case when I contacted Phillips' office about the issue of Oxford Magazine she and I appear in together, never having so much as received the courtesy of a response. Apparently it is far too burdensome for pristine liberalism such as hers to reach down beyond those matriculated students on whom her income depends. A marginalized quadriplegic with disillusioned admiration and aspiration isn't a passing grade for her progressive finesse. I did not want her issue (if she had it). I just wanted a copy of my "Custer" poem, complex and fine as it is. Did she have to respond? No, but what would the harm had been if a TA had searched and made me a copy, simply to help? I'm a product of that academic system as much as she, and can't see that my posts were an issue, ambivalent or not, my voice hearkens her currency. Conservatives may not be beating down the gate to relocate me the fuck out of here on humanitarian grounds, but imagine they would have made me a copy of my misplaced work, had the situation been commensurate. There are nearly as many causes as there are people, to echo Krauthammer: no one has time for them all, inclusive of my subtextual bent to embed policy issues threaded in a bruised narcissism, though immigration is a league outside of this ballpark, all those starving and malnourished Houthi taking a lesson from the Nigerians who've preyed on Roman pity for years, never mind the Italy barely has the ability to salvage its ruins from earthquakes, at least since season 8 of Don Matteo, where whores of village back alleys get the justice of our spaghetti western priest. Catholic mercy never fails, having found a docking grappler for the besieged under the shadow of Boko Harem at a port in Spain, thus a libertarian moment of hosanna. On the abstract level, the dowager has to support the libertarian outcry for freedom of mobility. This embodies what personal liberty is all about, but it is also equally true, as in James Woods vocal retrenchment, supporting the Trumpian border wall, that the European Union's charitable acceptance will one day break the camel's back, already eroding what once made the United States seem indomitable. Doubtlessly Spain won't do a doubletake and ask Putin to find these poor victims of their own government some space in Kaliningrad. The communists do love indigenous tokenism so, after all. After Mussolini was hung like a dog in the streets, Italians rightly slowed paying the piper on the moral debits of history.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Bilateral Relations; Monica Carr
"I don't know how I cut my toenails."-- Kevin Costner
In deference to Masterson, what she chooses for closure, for the knowledge her characters have in intimate terms that viewers are cut off from seeing in The Cake Eaters, these live inside the absences created in the film. Examples are in the opening arc, with Melissa Leo engaging young boys in 16 millimeter home movie style, framing itself on the inside of modern post production technology, evoking, much as the classics do, a wistful longing for less complicated and more magical moments, the memory of being so excited when a father went up on the rooftop to mimic reindeer, and his eldest child lie on her pillow, so excited that Santa was coming! Wakes in the morning and finds a doll figurine in a plastic flower bulb right where she slept, in awe that St. Nicholas could do such things. This is the omniscient Leo's secret smile for the unknown holder of the video camera, the outcry of pierced innocence as Aaron Stanford and Elizabeth Ashley drag Kristen to the flea market outhouse. What is Masterson suggesting about endurance? The toll of the things our internal censors screen us from sharing fall into so many variations. The plea of a spaz in a twenty inch nylon seat, bolted as these thing are to a titanium frame she bought at a cut rate deal from a long dissolved vendor, glued to telephone receiver, chasing a morbidly obese and disgustingly repulsive nominally Catholic woman over many blocks of voice mails, a so called attendant who had at least a half dozen clients, committing fraud against the state of Pennsylvania. She never did her hours, whatever Homemaker Services was paying her at the time, 8, 9 an hour. The quad in the Quickie was likely to see this vicious viper for an hour a week, assigned 12 by Medicaid waiver regulators, and the quad was, of course, down a power chair, waiting and waiting on our single option medically rationed traumatic nightmare we call Medicaid and Medicare eligibility. This blew up into a *serious allegations* incident with Homemaker Services, who have since created a clock in system. You don't see the punishing hostile environment Monica creates for her spastic enemy, spearing each other with venom, my retraction from how her erotic needs promulgate themselves on the Puerto Rican amputee that reads almost to the letter like the regressive episode with the paralytic husband and his caretaker in Lady Chatterley's Lover, but Google images are kind. Monica Carr is 300 lbs of toxic lard, and Nelson the double amputee is that 300 lb toxic lard in a state of decomposition. His incontinence is daily. She calls him "my baby." You want a visual of that physical intimacy in the way we are to imagine Beagle catching his father humping?
Before you make assumptions about my 19 years under Riverside's tactical assault, remember the interstices none of us can ever fully engage with each other. There are gradations to duress, and Monica made her contribution which is common in this paradigm. Never showing up and criminalizing my helplessness. I cannot create I dream of Jeanie through telecommunications, and her cowardice, moral shrink wrap, would be amusing if her body did not inspire very much in the idea of revulsion. When I see a roast pig on a spit, I like a crispy skin, not too willing to contemplate sentience.
The question remains if Masterson's attempt to be honest with the drollery of defeat overtakes her. Lacks just slightly too little of that movie magic.
In deference to Masterson, what she chooses for closure, for the knowledge her characters have in intimate terms that viewers are cut off from seeing in The Cake Eaters, these live inside the absences created in the film. Examples are in the opening arc, with Melissa Leo engaging young boys in 16 millimeter home movie style, framing itself on the inside of modern post production technology, evoking, much as the classics do, a wistful longing for less complicated and more magical moments, the memory of being so excited when a father went up on the rooftop to mimic reindeer, and his eldest child lie on her pillow, so excited that Santa was coming! Wakes in the morning and finds a doll figurine in a plastic flower bulb right where she slept, in awe that St. Nicholas could do such things. This is the omniscient Leo's secret smile for the unknown holder of the video camera, the outcry of pierced innocence as Aaron Stanford and Elizabeth Ashley drag Kristen to the flea market outhouse. What is Masterson suggesting about endurance? The toll of the things our internal censors screen us from sharing fall into so many variations. The plea of a spaz in a twenty inch nylon seat, bolted as these thing are to a titanium frame she bought at a cut rate deal from a long dissolved vendor, glued to telephone receiver, chasing a morbidly obese and disgustingly repulsive nominally Catholic woman over many blocks of voice mails, a so called attendant who had at least a half dozen clients, committing fraud against the state of Pennsylvania. She never did her hours, whatever Homemaker Services was paying her at the time, 8, 9 an hour. The quad in the Quickie was likely to see this vicious viper for an hour a week, assigned 12 by Medicaid waiver regulators, and the quad was, of course, down a power chair, waiting and waiting on our single option medically rationed traumatic nightmare we call Medicaid and Medicare eligibility. This blew up into a *serious allegations* incident with Homemaker Services, who have since created a clock in system. You don't see the punishing hostile environment Monica creates for her spastic enemy, spearing each other with venom, my retraction from how her erotic needs promulgate themselves on the Puerto Rican amputee that reads almost to the letter like the regressive episode with the paralytic husband and his caretaker in Lady Chatterley's Lover, but Google images are kind. Monica Carr is 300 lbs of toxic lard, and Nelson the double amputee is that 300 lb toxic lard in a state of decomposition. His incontinence is daily. She calls him "my baby." You want a visual of that physical intimacy in the way we are to imagine Beagle catching his father humping?
Before you make assumptions about my 19 years under Riverside's tactical assault, remember the interstices none of us can ever fully engage with each other. There are gradations to duress, and Monica made her contribution which is common in this paradigm. Never showing up and criminalizing my helplessness. I cannot create I dream of Jeanie through telecommunications, and her cowardice, moral shrink wrap, would be amusing if her body did not inspire very much in the idea of revulsion. When I see a roast pig on a spit, I like a crispy skin, not too willing to contemplate sentience.
The question remains if Masterson's attempt to be honest with the drollery of defeat overtakes her. Lacks just slightly too little of that movie magic.
Tuesday, July 16, 2013
Why not Gelato?
The film The Cake Eaters was probably made for various bona fides, feminist and various modes of exploitation, with Kristen Stewart's Goth fragility the modus operandi on forbidden loves that have worn smooth Bram Stoker's headstone. I did not link her from Masterson's quiet slice of life ensemble to the Twilight saga, and I am not sure why this earlier sobering vehicle had to be made. Flawed people coping with loss and absence, chronic conditions that make us lust, invest far too heavily. Running from mortality staring us in the face. Kristen certainly seems to have the genotype to be stricken with a future degenerative unraveling, but she serves Masterson's desire for eye candy over and above the honesty about the human body in its bare essentials, the calluses on our shins and elbows, the shame of obesity and diarrhea. In the notoriety of tradition, the wry British comedy of manner attempts a close scatological scene, but I am not sure how much it contributes to the nuanced wickedness of our pleasure as we engage the characters. We cannot visualize these things on a strip of film that is created with lenses capturing scenes and jump cutting, then lenses again projecting them onto a surface, not without a wince and a strong constitution. All cinematic representation is a lie in this sense, a vanity motivator to defy biology, to enforce self hatred.
I may be old enough to worry about our transformation into a digital world, but not quite old enough to say that the visual medium has had far too much impact on my self image, lacking any telegenic appeal myself. WPVI, ABC's affiliate for my region, did film me for Liberty Resources Inc when I was a fresh face, and it did nothing for me, simply an unremarkable homily face whose eyebrow ridges and grandfather's pudgy nose did no favors. Every year, the cycle of heat waves punishes me more and more, whether or not I engage my creditors, the account holders of my pithy federal debt. Horrible cramps, trots leaking, and I revive long enough to rinse liquid stool, and voila, like magic, the shower pipes for the 14's, the units where Riverside houses most of its wheelchair users, springs a leak into my ex fiance's studio, and the custodial employee who has seen me naked almost as often as Frank, the vilified ex in question, knocks on my door while I am trying to mitigate having soiled myself. These leaks are systemic; if I transfer and shower Frank's drop ceiling saturates and caves in, but we will try it your way, that I have lived in this section 202 senior living facility since I was 34 because I was exposed to systemic trauma in the other one adjacent to Temple's campus, and I am so strong that I have not snapped out yet and deliberately defaced a unit, or in this case, my unit, to get carted off in a facility that would constrain me under lock and key, and haven't quite yet resorted to attempted murder. Edward Snowden and Georgie boy are national bywords, and homosexuals neigh that I should "get help," a codex for not seeing that my symptoms require it. I'd love to work, to develop my thesis, to apply for jobs I will not get because my appearance screams that I've been brow beaten by indigence. Only in the United States. Mass murderers and paranoid racial profilers, and paranoid data systems analysts gain instant celebrity. If I advocated for a fascist revival Eric Holder wouldn't bat a damn eyelash. My soul is screaming to run; it wouldn't change a damn thing.
I may be old enough to worry about our transformation into a digital world, but not quite old enough to say that the visual medium has had far too much impact on my self image, lacking any telegenic appeal myself. WPVI, ABC's affiliate for my region, did film me for Liberty Resources Inc when I was a fresh face, and it did nothing for me, simply an unremarkable homily face whose eyebrow ridges and grandfather's pudgy nose did no favors. Every year, the cycle of heat waves punishes me more and more, whether or not I engage my creditors, the account holders of my pithy federal debt. Horrible cramps, trots leaking, and I revive long enough to rinse liquid stool, and voila, like magic, the shower pipes for the 14's, the units where Riverside houses most of its wheelchair users, springs a leak into my ex fiance's studio, and the custodial employee who has seen me naked almost as often as Frank, the vilified ex in question, knocks on my door while I am trying to mitigate having soiled myself. These leaks are systemic; if I transfer and shower Frank's drop ceiling saturates and caves in, but we will try it your way, that I have lived in this section 202 senior living facility since I was 34 because I was exposed to systemic trauma in the other one adjacent to Temple's campus, and I am so strong that I have not snapped out yet and deliberately defaced a unit, or in this case, my unit, to get carted off in a facility that would constrain me under lock and key, and haven't quite yet resorted to attempted murder. Edward Snowden and Georgie boy are national bywords, and homosexuals neigh that I should "get help," a codex for not seeing that my symptoms require it. I'd love to work, to develop my thesis, to apply for jobs I will not get because my appearance screams that I've been brow beaten by indigence. Only in the United States. Mass murderers and paranoid racial profilers, and paranoid data systems analysts gain instant celebrity. If I advocated for a fascist revival Eric Holder wouldn't bat a damn eyelash. My soul is screaming to run; it wouldn't change a damn thing.
Sunday, July 14, 2013
Anglo Habitation: Black Judaism
"Who cares what model the weapon is?" -- Leon Wieselter
I did not mind Roth's specificity over Simon Axler's shotgun in The Humbling. This is not to dispute Leon's churning efforts at literary distillation. I am a failed woman with birth brain damage we classify as cerebral palsy, but do the same thing Leon does, think in the hues of comparative terms, and I do not understand the American Jewish Left's argument with itself. Not for lack of trying, or not so much trying as exposure--perhaps too much of it-- inclusive of the particularly Jewish obsession with Henry James-- where the fuck does that come from? I often ask. How did Jewish academic culture appropriate a fairly affluent but rather fucked up and somewhat not well educated Anglo-Irish snobbish old fart who could never make up his mind and had a great deal of enmity toward American Jewry, as he saw it, in the late Victorian era? My belonging or enmity or both belonging and enmity with the academics surrounding those of us obsessed with the Master is trumped up. I know it. I am neither friend nor foe to Greg Zacharias, and my speculation about his use of anti-depressants exposes me for what I am: a silly cripple who isn't trying hard enough. I wrote to a more accommodating member of this sometimes queer community that I was writing an essay on Lampedusa "for myself," implying that if I ripped my fucking soul apart over James that it was out of obligation to the dead who aren't even necessarily my dead.
I liked Roth's faulty little book, more than Wieselter's nearly overweening deconstruction of it. The Humbling is a satirical take on the pernicious influence of Jewish culture in the arts and the American entertainment industry, and reiterates what Roth achieves with The Human Stain. Hopkins was miscast to play a high yellow masquerading as a Jew who is murdered by Richard Harris in Anti-Semitic mode. This whets my curiosity over the genius of Philip Roth. I also did not read hostility to homosexuality in Pegeen's boomerang relationships. I read a send up of Jewish mothers, of infantile narcissism, an encapsulation of the customer review I may write for Amazon in a concomitant act of phlegm melt and decomposition. Green dildo in a harness?
I think not, but if you like Roth, his send up of the psychiatric modality, one I lived with my mother's continuous hospitalizations, points to my lack of belief in counseling therapy. Not that ableism can't kill me at any time.
I did not mind Roth's specificity over Simon Axler's shotgun in The Humbling. This is not to dispute Leon's churning efforts at literary distillation. I am a failed woman with birth brain damage we classify as cerebral palsy, but do the same thing Leon does, think in the hues of comparative terms, and I do not understand the American Jewish Left's argument with itself. Not for lack of trying, or not so much trying as exposure--perhaps too much of it-- inclusive of the particularly Jewish obsession with Henry James-- where the fuck does that come from? I often ask. How did Jewish academic culture appropriate a fairly affluent but rather fucked up and somewhat not well educated Anglo-Irish snobbish old fart who could never make up his mind and had a great deal of enmity toward American Jewry, as he saw it, in the late Victorian era? My belonging or enmity or both belonging and enmity with the academics surrounding those of us obsessed with the Master is trumped up. I know it. I am neither friend nor foe to Greg Zacharias, and my speculation about his use of anti-depressants exposes me for what I am: a silly cripple who isn't trying hard enough. I wrote to a more accommodating member of this sometimes queer community that I was writing an essay on Lampedusa "for myself," implying that if I ripped my fucking soul apart over James that it was out of obligation to the dead who aren't even necessarily my dead.
I liked Roth's faulty little book, more than Wieselter's nearly overweening deconstruction of it. The Humbling is a satirical take on the pernicious influence of Jewish culture in the arts and the American entertainment industry, and reiterates what Roth achieves with The Human Stain. Hopkins was miscast to play a high yellow masquerading as a Jew who is murdered by Richard Harris in Anti-Semitic mode. This whets my curiosity over the genius of Philip Roth. I also did not read hostility to homosexuality in Pegeen's boomerang relationships. I read a send up of Jewish mothers, of infantile narcissism, an encapsulation of the customer review I may write for Amazon in a concomitant act of phlegm melt and decomposition. Green dildo in a harness?
I think not, but if you like Roth, his send up of the psychiatric modality, one I lived with my mother's continuous hospitalizations, points to my lack of belief in counseling therapy. Not that ableism can't kill me at any time.
Simon Axler
...the sense she had now when Mr. Carmichael shuffled past, just nodding to her question, with a book beneath his arm, in his yellow slippers, that she was suspected; and that all this desire of hers to give, to help, was vanity. -- Virginia Woolf
To ready a sonorous viola that is an omnipresent suture to a heart of festered scabs, the subtext in many of my biographical posts is about lack of belonging: I did not fight to close the deal for a terminal degree, never found my way through the thicket of becoming an independent scholar, my shoddy case management training has turned me into a wistful exterminator, and I failed to establish myself as a journalist; creative writing can go fuck itself. I still practice it, will continue to do so, but most artistic expression, when you take a step back, is an eddy of vomit, canonical or otherwise. Rereading Les Miserables is an insane idea. I do not even know why it occurs to me to return to Victor Hugo, but perhaps reminding myself about the arc of Jean Valjean is relevant to modern alienation. When I was still under Linda's supervision, then I belonged, and that is where my internal bleeding truly resides; not in my career satisfaction, for I can vouchsafe that disability center employment is Orwellian, but I did what I did for as long as I did for her, not for the most discarded and broken bodies on the face of the earth, not for the dozens of mentally ill who challenged my own health not long after, but for a Jewish woman with a milder case of cerebral palsy whom I defended like a pit bull against all her detractors, then enabled her to become a fatal catalyst, making me a bull dyke in all but name, and I lashed out at her as much. Now I'm your bitch, hissing it out of my countenance violet with fury, stupidly emoting, never able to remove myself from this casualty laden environment. Padre's solution, if it isn't a shell game, is for me to move in with his sister and my demented uncle who paws my breasts when he can get away with it, but Joe is in Alzheimer's land, so I chalk up those behaviors there. If I could graft myself to the Rosenbach, it would be a gently vindicated landing, and they are good, despite that my cleaving to wade through Joyce was wobbly--but negotiating that slope is tricky, not being a nuisance, making myself useful. They fascinate me in many ways, these archivists and patrons, and their secular liberalism is good. Linda's is a psychopathy, much like Edward Snowden's transitory impermanence; his narrative goes deeper than his dissidence, deeper than immediate analysis.
The systems we've created have overtaken us.
The genie I cannot put back in the bottle isn't homoerotic desire: after Ms Dezenski bucked about her orgasms, I asked myself if she was flirting with me, and rolled into the bathroom with a COPD temperature and proceeded to puke. No, what I am going to grieve the rest of my life is the affinity of mutual esteem. I doubt I will ever have it again in another woman to admire or respect. There is an old adage that pontificates we really do things for ourselves. Indirectly, my loyalty to what Linda represented was an internal reward based on belief of derived power through her leadership. Indeed, I held onto my position at Matrix as long as I did because I wanted to be as strong as I thought she was, and that example mattered more to me than sex.
I still live it, to channel Kevin Whately, but I have to pay the price for that in my hope for more equitable futures. If I lose to savagery, and then face elimination through that, then perhaps all I can hope for is to be my own voice of consolation for the suffering that finds its way to me.
To ready a sonorous viola that is an omnipresent suture to a heart of festered scabs, the subtext in many of my biographical posts is about lack of belonging: I did not fight to close the deal for a terminal degree, never found my way through the thicket of becoming an independent scholar, my shoddy case management training has turned me into a wistful exterminator, and I failed to establish myself as a journalist; creative writing can go fuck itself. I still practice it, will continue to do so, but most artistic expression, when you take a step back, is an eddy of vomit, canonical or otherwise. Rereading Les Miserables is an insane idea. I do not even know why it occurs to me to return to Victor Hugo, but perhaps reminding myself about the arc of Jean Valjean is relevant to modern alienation. When I was still under Linda's supervision, then I belonged, and that is where my internal bleeding truly resides; not in my career satisfaction, for I can vouchsafe that disability center employment is Orwellian, but I did what I did for as long as I did for her, not for the most discarded and broken bodies on the face of the earth, not for the dozens of mentally ill who challenged my own health not long after, but for a Jewish woman with a milder case of cerebral palsy whom I defended like a pit bull against all her detractors, then enabled her to become a fatal catalyst, making me a bull dyke in all but name, and I lashed out at her as much. Now I'm your bitch, hissing it out of my countenance violet with fury, stupidly emoting, never able to remove myself from this casualty laden environment. Padre's solution, if it isn't a shell game, is for me to move in with his sister and my demented uncle who paws my breasts when he can get away with it, but Joe is in Alzheimer's land, so I chalk up those behaviors there. If I could graft myself to the Rosenbach, it would be a gently vindicated landing, and they are good, despite that my cleaving to wade through Joyce was wobbly--but negotiating that slope is tricky, not being a nuisance, making myself useful. They fascinate me in many ways, these archivists and patrons, and their secular liberalism is good. Linda's is a psychopathy, much like Edward Snowden's transitory impermanence; his narrative goes deeper than his dissidence, deeper than immediate analysis.
The systems we've created have overtaken us.
The genie I cannot put back in the bottle isn't homoerotic desire: after Ms Dezenski bucked about her orgasms, I asked myself if she was flirting with me, and rolled into the bathroom with a COPD temperature and proceeded to puke. No, what I am going to grieve the rest of my life is the affinity of mutual esteem. I doubt I will ever have it again in another woman to admire or respect. There is an old adage that pontificates we really do things for ourselves. Indirectly, my loyalty to what Linda represented was an internal reward based on belief of derived power through her leadership. Indeed, I held onto my position at Matrix as long as I did because I wanted to be as strong as I thought she was, and that example mattered more to me than sex.
I still live it, to channel Kevin Whately, but I have to pay the price for that in my hope for more equitable futures. If I lose to savagery, and then face elimination through that, then perhaps all I can hope for is to be my own voice of consolation for the suffering that finds its way to me.
Saturday, July 13, 2013
Endeavour
I am the living legacy to the leader of the band-- Dan Fogelberg, sentimentalist
It is rather other worldly that I still mourn John Thaw in his nearly perfect cast as Inspector Morse. When I listen to Barrington Preloung's score for the series, it is a movement that seems to perfectly evoke poignancy, gently waltzing me back to a generosity of spirit, one that I could not replenish on my own through an actual reading of Colin Dexter's franchise novels. I skimmed through one of them in the library many years ago, and stopped skimming due to an inverse on originalism: the teleplay with Thaw had my loyalty and investment, not the text. To amend my sense of what the score captures, more than poignancy, it is the consolation of commiseration. Am I grieving for art? An imaginary love affair? I normally pride myself on lack of celebrity affectation in this manner, but herein lies the rare exception. I watch Inspector Lewis not out of equal appreciation of Whately so much as to hold on to my lenient affection for Thaw-- lenient in the sense that sometimes the motives of these crusty Oxford killers seem contrived.
You are wondering what this has to do with anything, but I am pushing it, and have to convince Kimmy the Tyrant to let adoption mommy sleep when adoption mommy leaves REM activity for a deeper lack of consciousness.
I discovered, happily, despite my psyche, that I am still a writer offline, however, and managed to achieve one scheduled goal on Friday. If any of you have the knack of garnishing a response from twitter whales, I wondered offhand whether Patrick Stewart knew Thaw, at least professionally. Why don't I pose the question? Ah.
It is rather other worldly that I still mourn John Thaw in his nearly perfect cast as Inspector Morse. When I listen to Barrington Preloung's score for the series, it is a movement that seems to perfectly evoke poignancy, gently waltzing me back to a generosity of spirit, one that I could not replenish on my own through an actual reading of Colin Dexter's franchise novels. I skimmed through one of them in the library many years ago, and stopped skimming due to an inverse on originalism: the teleplay with Thaw had my loyalty and investment, not the text. To amend my sense of what the score captures, more than poignancy, it is the consolation of commiseration. Am I grieving for art? An imaginary love affair? I normally pride myself on lack of celebrity affectation in this manner, but herein lies the rare exception. I watch Inspector Lewis not out of equal appreciation of Whately so much as to hold on to my lenient affection for Thaw-- lenient in the sense that sometimes the motives of these crusty Oxford killers seem contrived.
You are wondering what this has to do with anything, but I am pushing it, and have to convince Kimmy the Tyrant to let adoption mommy sleep when adoption mommy leaves REM activity for a deeper lack of consciousness.
I discovered, happily, despite my psyche, that I am still a writer offline, however, and managed to achieve one scheduled goal on Friday. If any of you have the knack of garnishing a response from twitter whales, I wondered offhand whether Patrick Stewart knew Thaw, at least professionally. Why don't I pose the question? Ah.
Thursday, July 11, 2013
Bullocks on a Wire
If any of you recall that I have been an American Mistress, and even now probably place myself in jeopardy by holding my head high on the matter, then you can imagine my riveted interest in the 2007 Shattered. I am also old enough to understand the urbane knowledge production of Neil Simon's world, a world where we get to glimpse past the boundaries, of which Bernard Slade is an astute apprentice, and takes a much more sympathetic approach as compared to Bronsnan's shattered sense of indignation. I am holding it in place.
Tuesday, July 9, 2013
Local Break, Maduro on the Schuykill
Kenneth Moton's article does not reference it, but last evening's newscast paraphrased local authorities, suggesting this woman would not be charged for her drowning attempt due to an obviously severe depression. She might have injured the boating athletes on the river, and even drowned someone else, and if Al Pacino's psychiatrist in his five minute movie lecture was correct, insanity is a legal concept, and thus a difficult hurtle to overcome; since Edward Snowden is now purportedly beholden to the world's foremost megalomaniac bus driver, the computer thief should be able to relate to ephemeral degrees of mercy.
This incident is also the second local tragedy to wade in under my nose since I started blogging. The first was the death of Brian, a former tenant of Presby. He was flattened to a pancake when his wheelchair got stuck on the tracks which form the view from my window. These traumatic brains are starting to make me feel sheepish.
This incident is also the second local tragedy to wade in under my nose since I started blogging. The first was the death of Brian, a former tenant of Presby. He was flattened to a pancake when his wheelchair got stuck on the tracks which form the view from my window. These traumatic brains are starting to make me feel sheepish.
Monday, July 8, 2013
Intermission
People will disappoint each other, of course, and I wander alone in the wilderness like the ancient theologians who envisioned Yahweh as a world wide wrestling federation owner, one with the biggest dick in the room, because I am disappointed, neither vain nor sculpted nor telegenic enough to become a cult heroine (if the atheists are wrong and a divinity exists, it would not matter to me; I'd revert to anti-theism like Lautreamont) but my intellectual divergence with Josie runs deeper than rabid stricken neurons that run rampage on an MRI. If you wonder why I take it so much to heart that she snapped at a possible dinner date, it is because I made an effort to treat her like a social equal and a friend, and she committed a breach that cannot be undone, regardless of how I would have fared with Cecil on my own. He was also the last man with whom I dared to assert a romantic interest. My ex Frank was not. Frank was a five dollar fuck who operated on my pity to stretch a two hour mistake into a partnership I could not sustain, and it took me three years of hating him for it before my vociferous vitrification ran its course, in the petty vignettes of familiarity and contempt.
I am not sure what reserves I have for the dating game at the half century mark, and don't have the money for matchmakers. I am taking a few days off. I am thinking and playing catch up, and may wade into my old HP for an attempted rescue mission.
I am not sure what reserves I have for the dating game at the half century mark, and don't have the money for matchmakers. I am taking a few days off. I am thinking and playing catch up, and may wade into my old HP for an attempted rescue mission.
Saturday, July 6, 2013
An Elaboration
In the life of a freelancer, egos get bruised; even those with name recognition receive rejections, and as it stands today, New Mobility would be within its rights to freeze me out, since I am iterating a private betrayal between myself and a bona fide lesbian who would give my bylines exposure up to a point but no further, since she and her partner think like case managers, and neither of them share my brain damage, so they know what is best for me. When my interaction with Josie was active, I was expected to be obedient to her conventional wisdom, and in my present maliciousness, I pay a price.
However, let's back it up a step: Post 2004, I was not blogging, and my Josie antipathy was the kind of repressed undercurrent we bury to get along in life; due to my cover feature Tim Gilmer included me on his contributors mailing list, and I needed it, the camaraderie. I was not after Josie's job, nor that of any other regular, and Tim dropped me. This is the nature of the publishing business, but it belies everything disability advocates say they stand for, and this is what goads me about such a narrow minded sterile culture.
Tim is a paraplegic himself, and he could have had one of those electronic conversations with me about why I was cut loose in the time frame to which I refer; it is a disgraceful behavior from a man in Oregon who writes so openly about his own emotional health, after I had worked so hard on what was a difficult cover feature, and it points to why the empowerment rhetoric of the independent living movement is so destabilizing to American autonomy. Perhaps not today, but I am going to confront the publisher on it. Will it do me any good? Perhaps not, but I intend to push the point.
However, let's back it up a step: Post 2004, I was not blogging, and my Josie antipathy was the kind of repressed undercurrent we bury to get along in life; due to my cover feature Tim Gilmer included me on his contributors mailing list, and I needed it, the camaraderie. I was not after Josie's job, nor that of any other regular, and Tim dropped me. This is the nature of the publishing business, but it belies everything disability advocates say they stand for, and this is what goads me about such a narrow minded sterile culture.
Tim is a paraplegic himself, and he could have had one of those electronic conversations with me about why I was cut loose in the time frame to which I refer; it is a disgraceful behavior from a man in Oregon who writes so openly about his own emotional health, after I had worked so hard on what was a difficult cover feature, and it points to why the empowerment rhetoric of the independent living movement is so destabilizing to American autonomy. Perhaps not today, but I am going to confront the publisher on it. Will it do me any good? Perhaps not, but I intend to push the point.
Corporate Tolerances
Tiffiny, your post about Dr. Tepper and his instructional video points to why I have stopped supporting New Mobility, aside from my rift with your managing editor Josie, whose lesbianism is so sacrosanct that it is holier than my prospective dinner date with an Argentine journalist, but of course, she has rank on you so what can I expect you to say?
What I can tell you is that advocacy involves risk, and you do not really examine the first amendment issues you raise in relation to consumer needs for tactical advice, corporate censorship, and public access to digital environments. I do not have a vertebrae fracture. My spinal cord is intact, and I am able to feel sensation in my vagina; I am also fifty one years old, and the issue of constant sexual assertion becomes strident after half a century of listening to it. Sexual liberalism has binary positives and negatives. It leads to a certain degree of narcissistic selfishness, and indeed, led you to drop the ball on the larger issue of public access, prurient interests versus access to expert advice to relieve frustration or overcome obstacles. Lionel Trilling, a literary critic of stature, one whom I'd wager would draw a blank in your academic experience, raises his voice to say Henry James doesn't presume the poor to be stupid.
New Mobility presumes that all wheelchair users care about is sex, medical equipment, the rhetorical conveyance of legal equality without being honest about the reality many of us face, and inclusion over viable and workable matriculation policies. Tim Gilmer's long winded personal article about his journey to emotional stability doesn't interest me, not in a glossy that purports to be of use. This does not mean cerebral palsy isn't a reality in my life, and that I do not have flaws, one being honest about my hatreds. I shall never forgive Josie, and consider her nothing more than a pedestrian hypocrite who needs a new experience, like turning her crucifix into a vibrator. She took the pleasure of a personal intrigue away from me. This shall not be forgiven. The reality of my quadriplegia, however, does offer perspectives that lead to befuddlement. Why is is such a precious thing to conquer certain geological formations in dangerous isothermic patterns that could have been avoided? True, I could drop dead from not easing up on the buttock with the pressure sore, but this is the difference between unfortunate circumstance and manufactured tragedy. Elucidate your issues with more focus. That is what I strove for in my 2004 feature that Tim published before he dropped me without explanation. Linda Dezenski, my criminally liable former supervisor, emailed her group that we were "like a second family."
That analogy is all but equivalent to a stake in my heart, with how many betrayals I have had to absorb.
What I can tell you is that advocacy involves risk, and you do not really examine the first amendment issues you raise in relation to consumer needs for tactical advice, corporate censorship, and public access to digital environments. I do not have a vertebrae fracture. My spinal cord is intact, and I am able to feel sensation in my vagina; I am also fifty one years old, and the issue of constant sexual assertion becomes strident after half a century of listening to it. Sexual liberalism has binary positives and negatives. It leads to a certain degree of narcissistic selfishness, and indeed, led you to drop the ball on the larger issue of public access, prurient interests versus access to expert advice to relieve frustration or overcome obstacles. Lionel Trilling, a literary critic of stature, one whom I'd wager would draw a blank in your academic experience, raises his voice to say Henry James doesn't presume the poor to be stupid.
New Mobility presumes that all wheelchair users care about is sex, medical equipment, the rhetorical conveyance of legal equality without being honest about the reality many of us face, and inclusion over viable and workable matriculation policies. Tim Gilmer's long winded personal article about his journey to emotional stability doesn't interest me, not in a glossy that purports to be of use. This does not mean cerebral palsy isn't a reality in my life, and that I do not have flaws, one being honest about my hatreds. I shall never forgive Josie, and consider her nothing more than a pedestrian hypocrite who needs a new experience, like turning her crucifix into a vibrator. She took the pleasure of a personal intrigue away from me. This shall not be forgiven. The reality of my quadriplegia, however, does offer perspectives that lead to befuddlement. Why is is such a precious thing to conquer certain geological formations in dangerous isothermic patterns that could have been avoided? True, I could drop dead from not easing up on the buttock with the pressure sore, but this is the difference between unfortunate circumstance and manufactured tragedy. Elucidate your issues with more focus. That is what I strove for in my 2004 feature that Tim published before he dropped me without explanation. Linda Dezenski, my criminally liable former supervisor, emailed her group that we were "like a second family."
That analogy is all but equivalent to a stake in my heart, with how many betrayals I have had to absorb.
Friday, July 5, 2013
Crip Sex, And Then
It is too humid. I am feeling it, and haven't eaten much, but let me reference Tiffiny Carlson's Spin 2.0 column about SCI sexual issues, and my latter day emails to Linda. Frankness is part of the territory, in the educational sense, and when Linda and I had a healthy camaraderie, we had a good laugh about a soft smoker I saw during my teens with Sue. I described it.
"I think I saw that!" was the exclamation, and on the basis of the unexpected recognition, this represented a healthy bit of fun, but there is a difference between that and crossing personal boundaries, then making me eat shit about my discomfort, and setting me up to fall on my sword over a job I could not do that then illegally went to Erik's lover, and subsequent to that nearly killing me over the next seven years. Independent living centers are corrupt simply by the segregated nature of the paradigm. New Mobility knows this, but they thrive on puff pieces mainly useful for wrapping fish bones. Ragged Edge, now defunct, was actually closer Washington Monthly in terms of its investigative caliber. Some of Mary's contributor's had good policy critiques.
As to Tiffiny's indignation about the You Tube cull-- that I can't speak to, whether or not your children need that exposure. Now I need to lie down; haven't even made my coffee.
"I think I saw that!" was the exclamation, and on the basis of the unexpected recognition, this represented a healthy bit of fun, but there is a difference between that and crossing personal boundaries, then making me eat shit about my discomfort, and setting me up to fall on my sword over a job I could not do that then illegally went to Erik's lover, and subsequent to that nearly killing me over the next seven years. Independent living centers are corrupt simply by the segregated nature of the paradigm. New Mobility knows this, but they thrive on puff pieces mainly useful for wrapping fish bones. Ragged Edge, now defunct, was actually closer Washington Monthly in terms of its investigative caliber. Some of Mary's contributor's had good policy critiques.
As to Tiffiny's indignation about the You Tube cull-- that I can't speak to, whether or not your children need that exposure. Now I need to lie down; haven't even made my coffee.
Thursday, July 4, 2013
The Imagined Meritocracy, Rosy Muniment
Everyone has their own views on James. To Ellen Moody he was an aggressive lover of other men; to Sheldon Novick he was coy about homosexual practices. Others believe he was a tortured celibate; this also applies to the lens we bring to the text.-- the spastic dowager
When I raised my voice in transmission to Gregory Zacharias about my weariness in the role of the good lieutenant, perhaps I should have paused to reflect on why I always find myself in the uniform. I have been trying to revise, simply revise, a poem of mine which I like. It sits in my strongest manuscript which I am attempting to take out of moth balls and put it back into the contest circuit. Since the title of the poem is appropriate to cite in anticipation of this evening's spectacle, I will feed it to you: "A Festive Independence". Do you see what the immediacy of the digital age has done to those of us who had some sense of tranquility before it? As a member of the Henry James Society, until the early summer of 2014, I am now coddling the aggrieved ego of the non academic acolyte, and have done so in an attempted sympathy, with doubts in the back of my mind as to whether or not I didn't make things worse. I take no quarrel with Lionel Trilling's attempted rescue of The Princess Casamassima. Lionel's knowledge illuminates Henry's motives for the novel, but here, James's masterful ambiguity fails him, because anarchy is not amendable to the qualities of the fairy tale. Hyacinth is almost a protean transvestite for his beauty, and little convincing as the man in the middle between zealotry and aesthetic appreciation, and yet I think of James at his most invested in his middle years, his most cynical, trying to keep his creations, the doll-like Rosy, from "blowing her brains out." This is how the narrator leaves the poor girl, dreaming of aristocratic finesse and their vivid estates. Yet James did disability cultural a favor by pitting Rosy in a dialogical contest with the fabled Tiny Tim, because we have two extremes on the spectrum, pity, and the tyranny of guilt.
Every time I reveal that cerebral palsy necessitates dependence on my power chair, and that I am one of those in poverty who Henry James varnishes in semi-gloss, affluent white males, either in the vigor of their public roles, (Niall Ferguson), or in looking to me for assertive sympathy, convey the same sentiments, the same sorrow for my *situation*. Perhaps I am better off that Greg assumes the posture that I'm a disruptive force.
This certainly applies to Edward Snowden's mortal fear. Dana balances the bone stuck in my throat, and though I rarely agree with any columnists opinion in its entirety, Milbank touches upon the crux of the problem. Snowden's paranoia about Obama is overblown; Snowden's cowardice flies in the face of the gravity of his actions. Outsourcing security clearances to USIS represents the real problem, more so than whether or not his ass is fried. I'd contend, even if Snowden evades the executive branch for the time being, his ass is fried anyway, but you cannot run the CIA on absolutist free market models.
When I raised my voice in transmission to Gregory Zacharias about my weariness in the role of the good lieutenant, perhaps I should have paused to reflect on why I always find myself in the uniform. I have been trying to revise, simply revise, a poem of mine which I like. It sits in my strongest manuscript which I am attempting to take out of moth balls and put it back into the contest circuit. Since the title of the poem is appropriate to cite in anticipation of this evening's spectacle, I will feed it to you: "A Festive Independence". Do you see what the immediacy of the digital age has done to those of us who had some sense of tranquility before it? As a member of the Henry James Society, until the early summer of 2014, I am now coddling the aggrieved ego of the non academic acolyte, and have done so in an attempted sympathy, with doubts in the back of my mind as to whether or not I didn't make things worse. I take no quarrel with Lionel Trilling's attempted rescue of The Princess Casamassima. Lionel's knowledge illuminates Henry's motives for the novel, but here, James's masterful ambiguity fails him, because anarchy is not amendable to the qualities of the fairy tale. Hyacinth is almost a protean transvestite for his beauty, and little convincing as the man in the middle between zealotry and aesthetic appreciation, and yet I think of James at his most invested in his middle years, his most cynical, trying to keep his creations, the doll-like Rosy, from "blowing her brains out." This is how the narrator leaves the poor girl, dreaming of aristocratic finesse and their vivid estates. Yet James did disability cultural a favor by pitting Rosy in a dialogical contest with the fabled Tiny Tim, because we have two extremes on the spectrum, pity, and the tyranny of guilt.
Every time I reveal that cerebral palsy necessitates dependence on my power chair, and that I am one of those in poverty who Henry James varnishes in semi-gloss, affluent white males, either in the vigor of their public roles, (Niall Ferguson), or in looking to me for assertive sympathy, convey the same sentiments, the same sorrow for my *situation*. Perhaps I am better off that Greg assumes the posture that I'm a disruptive force.
This certainly applies to Edward Snowden's mortal fear. Dana balances the bone stuck in my throat, and though I rarely agree with any columnists opinion in its entirety, Milbank touches upon the crux of the problem. Snowden's paranoia about Obama is overblown; Snowden's cowardice flies in the face of the gravity of his actions. Outsourcing security clearances to USIS represents the real problem, more so than whether or not his ass is fried. I'd contend, even if Snowden evades the executive branch for the time being, his ass is fried anyway, but you cannot run the CIA on absolutist free market models.
Wednesday, July 3, 2013
Italian Anglais
"Will you be civil!" --Nicholas Marinelli, Sr.
Fathers and daughters invariably disappoint each other. As an undergraduate, I had to do some forging on ahead with vocational services when padre could no longer afford the tuition. I doubt yanking vocational services along as I did in the mid-eighties would be possible today as it was then. My education was expensive, as my old age will be even more so. I told myself not to get my hopes up when I heard "looking for a new place," before my aging parent's cell phone went dead, but leaden despondency vanished.
My father hates me. You may say I exaggerate, but he attempted abandonment of all his children, even his dead son, when my mother divorced him; he hates the fact that I am a cripple, hates the fact that I am slovenly via biological inclination; I hate my father, but always loved his elegance, sense of style, his drive for material acumen.
I have been trying to make him proud of me for 50 years, and my grief for my sociopathic ghost of a brother is mainly through his eyes. He loved little Nicky, loved Italy. Gandolfini's sudden death was a story in my head I am writing in irony before it became an obituary, much like Pacino's ...And Justice For All was an episodic soap opera in the foment of his Godfather arc. The former film is not a Francis Ford Coppola masterpiece, but getting past the fact that Justice is a situational argument about jurisprudence, it is actually a very dark rendition about the dirt that goes on in the criminal courts, and how the law grinds people with a civic sense of decency into a pulp, and favors sadists, which John Forsythe's one dimensional demeanor adapts to conveniently, in this instance.
It was some years ago now. Padre may have been 69 or 71, still handsome. I was lowered on the hydraulic Paratransit lift, growling about the driver's incompetence, before my sister and I ruptured into civil war, appearing for my usual compulsory holiday visit, and I was admonished. All whites are racists, but they hide it behind whatever vinaigrette you'd like me to list: veneer, condescension, affluence, ripping off (immersion in) black culture, belief that Barack Obama is a demi-god, or one of my favorites, paternalism toward the Sudanese in relation to the eradication of the guinea worm.
Fathers and daughters invariably disappoint each other. As an undergraduate, I had to do some forging on ahead with vocational services when padre could no longer afford the tuition. I doubt yanking vocational services along as I did in the mid-eighties would be possible today as it was then. My education was expensive, as my old age will be even more so. I told myself not to get my hopes up when I heard "looking for a new place," before my aging parent's cell phone went dead, but leaden despondency vanished.
My father hates me. You may say I exaggerate, but he attempted abandonment of all his children, even his dead son, when my mother divorced him; he hates the fact that I am a cripple, hates the fact that I am slovenly via biological inclination; I hate my father, but always loved his elegance, sense of style, his drive for material acumen.
I have been trying to make him proud of me for 50 years, and my grief for my sociopathic ghost of a brother is mainly through his eyes. He loved little Nicky, loved Italy. Gandolfini's sudden death was a story in my head I am writing in irony before it became an obituary, much like Pacino's ...And Justice For All was an episodic soap opera in the foment of his Godfather arc. The former film is not a Francis Ford Coppola masterpiece, but getting past the fact that Justice is a situational argument about jurisprudence, it is actually a very dark rendition about the dirt that goes on in the criminal courts, and how the law grinds people with a civic sense of decency into a pulp, and favors sadists, which John Forsythe's one dimensional demeanor adapts to conveniently, in this instance.
It was some years ago now. Padre may have been 69 or 71, still handsome. I was lowered on the hydraulic Paratransit lift, growling about the driver's incompetence, before my sister and I ruptured into civil war, appearing for my usual compulsory holiday visit, and I was admonished. All whites are racists, but they hide it behind whatever vinaigrette you'd like me to list: veneer, condescension, affluence, ripping off (immersion in) black culture, belief that Barack Obama is a demi-god, or one of my favorites, paternalism toward the Sudanese in relation to the eradication of the guinea worm.
Monday, July 1, 2013
Hannibal's Antlers, Sauvignon Blanc
This last fact was the real issue, for the way grew straight from the moment one recognized that the poet essentially can't be concerned with the act of dying. Let him deal with the sickest of the sick, it is still by the act of living that they appeal to him -- Henry James
There is a preoccupation with 88 Minutes that is analogous to fascination with a ruined edifice, not that this is anything new in the subversions of how we entertain ourselves. Whatever Jon Avnet and Pacino intended, the end result of their two film partnerships, both of which I viewed as if invited to consume rancid mayonnaise, spells out a curious exhaustion, an interesting dialectic with superstardom, thriller formulas, going through the motions, slasher fears, and using Vancouver as a location, this last clause maintaining my consistency towards a dig at Canadian models. Look at William Forsythe's face as the film limps toward it's drooling close. The misdirected agent wants to be an obstacle to the (gangster) psychiatrist trying to get to the bottom of the puzzle. Forsythe is supposed to provide resistance. Pacino throws one of his hyper fits and the camera cuts to Forsythe's face as he simply says "okay". There is an unintended dichotomy here, as if Avnet falls out of the visual framework he never believed in the first place, and what we see is a worn out entity, the face of a tired character actor who might as well have been evocative of the Egyptian empire in disintegration after the death of Ramesses2.0.
Do we really believe in Pacino's vendetta riddled shrink? Julie Andrews gives a more plausible rendering as the analyst who gives in to being Burt Reynold's lover. She is able to exaggerate the clinician with more credibility than Pacino could command in this project. Whether he was on pain killers or not during filming, that he literally looks doped up sparks a conversation, perhaps not with the vibrant addict of Needle Park, but certainly with his dual interaction with Robert De Niro in Righteous Kill, which belies their struggle in Heat. Akin to what the end of Bronson's career signified via the Death Wish saga. Aesthetic malaise as a terminal disease.
My reference to Bryan Fuller's cinematic creativity with the countenance of Mads Mikkelsen has layered meanings I have left somewhat opaque, somewhat unexplained, but they apply here to both the Harris character and Pacino's aging flophouse strategy, its unintended disastrous result.
There is a preoccupation with 88 Minutes that is analogous to fascination with a ruined edifice, not that this is anything new in the subversions of how we entertain ourselves. Whatever Jon Avnet and Pacino intended, the end result of their two film partnerships, both of which I viewed as if invited to consume rancid mayonnaise, spells out a curious exhaustion, an interesting dialectic with superstardom, thriller formulas, going through the motions, slasher fears, and using Vancouver as a location, this last clause maintaining my consistency towards a dig at Canadian models. Look at William Forsythe's face as the film limps toward it's drooling close. The misdirected agent wants to be an obstacle to the (gangster) psychiatrist trying to get to the bottom of the puzzle. Forsythe is supposed to provide resistance. Pacino throws one of his hyper fits and the camera cuts to Forsythe's face as he simply says "okay". There is an unintended dichotomy here, as if Avnet falls out of the visual framework he never believed in the first place, and what we see is a worn out entity, the face of a tired character actor who might as well have been evocative of the Egyptian empire in disintegration after the death of Ramesses2.0.
Do we really believe in Pacino's vendetta riddled shrink? Julie Andrews gives a more plausible rendering as the analyst who gives in to being Burt Reynold's lover. She is able to exaggerate the clinician with more credibility than Pacino could command in this project. Whether he was on pain killers or not during filming, that he literally looks doped up sparks a conversation, perhaps not with the vibrant addict of Needle Park, but certainly with his dual interaction with Robert De Niro in Righteous Kill, which belies their struggle in Heat. Akin to what the end of Bronson's career signified via the Death Wish saga. Aesthetic malaise as a terminal disease.
My reference to Bryan Fuller's cinematic creativity with the countenance of Mads Mikkelsen has layered meanings I have left somewhat opaque, somewhat unexplained, but they apply here to both the Harris character and Pacino's aging flophouse strategy, its unintended disastrous result.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)