"There is no getting even."--Kathryn Erbe, the invisible ink
The last time I held Stoker in canonical esteem, I held a sturdy yellowed fine print paperback of Dracula under the table in university cafeteria, surreptitiously eyeing the classic as a preference over and above my French language homework.
Bram is more of a fortunate opportunist than might be supposed. Vampire lore extends back to India. Stoker sanitizes it for a late corrupted Victorian culture, and it has been a spicy popcorn snack ever since. Not positive I ever completed the novel in print, as I'm a victim of vapirism glut. Stoker's diction grates the nerves, but not to be defeated, I pulled the text from archive due to NBC's reprisal (long gasping sigh). Now I simmer like a shill, but the show seems produced with care for decor and continuity, and it has its own dialogical exchange with the Original text, subtly choreographed, its subtext being the decline of old empire and the rise of new power. Telsa is an interesting historical figure, often exploited with high cinematic Gothic ambiguity, but I can only do so much at one time.
To the extent the conceits still hold my interest, atavistic vampires, the Nosferatu versions, are more compelling than Stoker's count. Predation is difficult and brutal, and that is how life and death battles with our primal memory should be; I am not ready to rate Rhys-Meyers yet, but he could gain if he studied Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal.
I am guilty of the same sin as any in theory development. Even if I manage to publish a paper of respectable hostility, not all parents will abort monstrous issue. Am I a futurist?
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Tuesday, October 29, 2013
Queens, Courtiers, Something Other Than Bianary
If I write the abstract and submit the abstract and as a proposal the abstract is accepted, I shall then be trapped, and viewers will only see a post like a yelp in the dark while I attempt to gain access to vaunted European film directors. I did not realize Alejandro would be young and pleasing to the eye. There is a distinct possibility an (the) abstract would not be accepted, but that does not rip out the fingernails. Remember Peter O'Toole's no audio screams? Being a dry literary critic is annoying. We want to medicalize art, dice it an slice it in our fascination with our own aesthetic inclinations, distracting ourselves from flight or fight responses to our frustrating inability to ask the Why? about life. Why is the misdirected question. Henry James is an obsession, and this has cycles of love and hate, stupid little patsy, not very well educated, and yet his insight into repression, his mastery of insinuation that makes me look for the damn code to loosen that twist of the screw, I cannot stand it, and my critique of James is essentially life long warfare to catch him, beat it out of him. This is why I forgive his tortured sexuality, regardless of how active it was or wasn't. I see his struggle, but mine was not the same. My brain is too injured for that paradigm, my body forcibly altered and fused, I did not envision lesbian games growing up, and that my own sex finds suckling teats attractive beyond weaning, this was classified as regressive. The Gay Shame cover, recollected, is reminiscent of the advanced homo sapiens body paint in The Quest for Fire, a pastiche allegory of a film, one which no longer impresses me, though it was one of the few times Jerry and I discussed rape as victimology over a way of life. Let us be lenient on the cinematic quality. It is a visually engaging narrative.
Queer theory is an intractable problem, intractable in terms of progressives with "untrammeled" glee (George Will's adjective) salivating over homoerotic subversion in literature and theater when it doesn't reflect real world consequences, and my willingness to make notable exceptions adds to the difficulty of getting out from under; it is an objection based on more than personal trauma, though insecure body image weighs into it, and failed associations cemented the deal. The thesis extrapolated from this is that homosexual culture being given *equal* legal and social status is unsustainable, which is not to plea for elimination, as that would be impossible. This does not mean there aren't gradations, evolutionary values in play, and more than a few of my old associates are on the extreme end of that scale. Jodie Foster is not, but there is more to it than the fact that she is not aggressive about lesbian identity. Sexual choices should not be an identity; sexual preferences as a classification is problematic, and I fail to see why celebrity status necessitates lack of privacy in personal affairs. Why can't we reformulate these membranes? Why do we need to know Ms Foster's personal intimacies, or see Montgomery Clift's war films as code for a faggot outcast who is made expendable? But The Young Lions, From Here To Eternity, these have to be read that way, even if we chuckle at the stigma of Ulysses as the dirty book, the forbidden book, annihilating formulaic stricture to reduce us to mucous. What a mucous, what a damn machine we are, humanity.
Queer theory is an intractable problem, intractable in terms of progressives with "untrammeled" glee (George Will's adjective) salivating over homoerotic subversion in literature and theater when it doesn't reflect real world consequences, and my willingness to make notable exceptions adds to the difficulty of getting out from under; it is an objection based on more than personal trauma, though insecure body image weighs into it, and failed associations cemented the deal. The thesis extrapolated from this is that homosexual culture being given *equal* legal and social status is unsustainable, which is not to plea for elimination, as that would be impossible. This does not mean there aren't gradations, evolutionary values in play, and more than a few of my old associates are on the extreme end of that scale. Jodie Foster is not, but there is more to it than the fact that she is not aggressive about lesbian identity. Sexual choices should not be an identity; sexual preferences as a classification is problematic, and I fail to see why celebrity status necessitates lack of privacy in personal affairs. Why can't we reformulate these membranes? Why do we need to know Ms Foster's personal intimacies, or see Montgomery Clift's war films as code for a faggot outcast who is made expendable? But The Young Lions, From Here To Eternity, these have to be read that way, even if we chuckle at the stigma of Ulysses as the dirty book, the forbidden book, annihilating formulaic stricture to reduce us to mucous. What a mucous, what a damn machine we are, humanity.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Fustian Saturation
"Go and fuck your fish."--Barry Unsworth
We can appreciate Amanda Plummer, appreciate that she is fatally typecast with assurance, despite its reasonable guarantee of employment, as the creepy female, the woman who is always slightly off key, ripe for victimization or elimination. She emotes from the heart because the duress of special circumstances and the atmospheric supernatural grips this much vaunted organ in a gaunt frame of a woman neither beautiful nor homily, not quite, so much as intriguing. Beady watery eyes that yet impels us not to look away as they well with an outcry to save a lost kitten adrift, that she chose to carry the weight of Seven Days to Live, an amalgamative lurch and slosh between The Amityville Horror, The Shining, and The Poltergeist rolled into one, was an unfortunate decision on which to propel her insouciant inscrutibility. If a script this badly written can be produced and directed by someone who borrowed Tom Hank’s bladder infection, then I can always adopt Dirk Ahner as a pseudonym in my retirement planning. Mimesis needs to involve a plausible, derivative irony. This film positively lacks it all. Not camp, not homage, it limps toward any build of foreboding and suspense, as the death of the son in the opening should have included the violence and trouble of a tracheotomy. Amityville itself was an early form of gonzo journalism, so much crap in short order that succeeded because it tapped into an underlying anxiety about affluent homeowner associations, I balk, nonetheless, at the meristic designations. The most empirical laboratory observer is still limited by a narrative configuration evolved within an omnivorous primate brain.
This is not a defense of Jonah Lehrer or plagiarism. My former supervisor Linda has not filed defamation charges against me because I have not written any fabrications about our interactions, and indicted myself as much as she. In other words, whatever my tilt, I am not a rip off, but my objection to the excoriation of plagiarists is that it's a false dichotomy. Written language is manipulative because symbolic vocalization is a lightning bolt of cognition, and the lines between fraud and bias and verity within the use of the written word is more ambiguous than credentialed academicians might wish.
We can appreciate Amanda Plummer, appreciate that she is fatally typecast with assurance, despite its reasonable guarantee of employment, as the creepy female, the woman who is always slightly off key, ripe for victimization or elimination. She emotes from the heart because the duress of special circumstances and the atmospheric supernatural grips this much vaunted organ in a gaunt frame of a woman neither beautiful nor homily, not quite, so much as intriguing. Beady watery eyes that yet impels us not to look away as they well with an outcry to save a lost kitten adrift, that she chose to carry the weight of Seven Days to Live, an amalgamative lurch and slosh between The Amityville Horror, The Shining, and The Poltergeist rolled into one, was an unfortunate decision on which to propel her insouciant inscrutibility. If a script this badly written can be produced and directed by someone who borrowed Tom Hank’s bladder infection, then I can always adopt Dirk Ahner as a pseudonym in my retirement planning. Mimesis needs to involve a plausible, derivative irony. This film positively lacks it all. Not camp, not homage, it limps toward any build of foreboding and suspense, as the death of the son in the opening should have included the violence and trouble of a tracheotomy. Amityville itself was an early form of gonzo journalism, so much crap in short order that succeeded because it tapped into an underlying anxiety about affluent homeowner associations, I balk, nonetheless, at the meristic designations. The most empirical laboratory observer is still limited by a narrative configuration evolved within an omnivorous primate brain.
This is not a defense of Jonah Lehrer or plagiarism. My former supervisor Linda has not filed defamation charges against me because I have not written any fabrications about our interactions, and indicted myself as much as she. In other words, whatever my tilt, I am not a rip off, but my objection to the excoriation of plagiarists is that it's a false dichotomy. Written language is manipulative because symbolic vocalization is a lightning bolt of cognition, and the lines between fraud and bias and verity within the use of the written word is more ambiguous than credentialed academicians might wish.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Colon Viscosity
Save any free email addresses you inadvertently receive from current or former faculty @ Harvard. You could imitate Pynchon's illustrious homage to Joyce in Gravity's Rainbow and suck the excrement straight from Wood's colon, using the hose portion directly affixed from the scope. I take this link to James Wood on faculty to be the James Wood I've so often read on TNR. In another life, Wood may not have found me the perfect good wife, but we might have gone snit to snit over an anomalous crab salad in the faculty cafeteria. I am actually deploying my stalking skills on another Personaged Instructor, who shall remain unnamed because I am going to WHINE as politely and literately as possible about writing a post on my pet light bulb for him; but I can't read every thing, and this is me screaming about reading everything and raging at the ridicule of taking down a supervisor I looked up to because of a homoerotic panic that was fake and triggered by other underlying anxieties, not that it doesn't mean she did not deserve a comeuppance. More will follow, perhaps in accelerated fashion, because I will be a centurion before the Congress of the United States yields to the spastic dowager. Where were we again? The unnamed academic, yes, not that I have not named a few. Sheldon would not be entirely startled to discover he is the digitized father-rabbi I never had. He is a good man, and that is spastic's seal of approval. Where was I?
Research, yes, sick to my puss. I have no desire to set foot in Paley ever again but I have to schedule a contact. Alma mater electronic utilization. Lie down an hour. I have too much to do, oddly enough, though spastic can't stop the train. My savings may evaporate entirely by spring.
Research, yes, sick to my puss. I have no desire to set foot in Paley ever again but I have to schedule a contact. Alma mater electronic utilization. Lie down an hour. I have too much to do, oddly enough, though spastic can't stop the train. My savings may evaporate entirely by spring.
Brass Tacks
"It sounds like a movie." --Dorothea Stillman, when Newsweek was still a viable rival.
The production values in and of themselves weren't all that flawed. The NBC derivative on the original was shot well. The dialogue was brisk. Underwood was credible, but in the dialectical tension between network past and network present, Burr's more abstract chief was more viable. Those of us who watched Underwood in this tinsel song and dance knew the con was on, but what were the contents which made the snake oil difficult to swallow? The veracity of the character was wrongly concentrated in the script; I've no doubt the FOP bats for officers disabled in the line of duty. Perhaps some get day jobs, but playing a paraplegic who becomes a mimetic of his former mobile self whose physical dignity is respected by his perpetrators pitted against him in a hissing of discharged helium going over the top, this was simply an assault on any viewer's intelligence.
I remember as little as possible about Raymond Burr, but recall enough to know his series was wisely treated as a stage play, Burr expounding accordingly, a muscular, if two dimensional pitch on how Arthur Miller would define manhood akin to the lion in winter. I kept thinking of Denzel, comparing major and minor notes, perhaps even the praxis of performance between them, especially when a girl in school clothes screamed with piercing pitch in my right ear, turning me into a court tv troll. I frightened her, in my beret, glasses, distended teeth, as I admonished her and minority wilding sisters to control themselves in public. Sales associates who know me, witnessing this, suspected something else was afoot. I only occasionally get combative with these cliques, if I see something particularly abysmal. In this instance, the girl's scream triggered a slightly painful leg seizure, so I took it on, the admonishing, not sure what I should feel that I intimidated a school girl who forgot herself.
A racial incident? Yes, no, or depends on the perspective. Kids screaming in the streets could be a harbinger of escalation. I would have flunked out, handling this behavior at the scholastic level or above. Am I a slightly more pliable version of my father? Yes, despite the fact that I can cite socio-economic rationalizations with the progressives in Reich's tableau. I came back to the city of my birth with the best of intentions. There were, or are, remnants of Philadelphia's leisure class who deplore the city's self-depreciation; it is this which is the real blight on the Greater Delaware Valley, regardless of ethnicity. It does not excuse the sense of entitlement which suborns poor social behaviors.
The production values in and of themselves weren't all that flawed. The NBC derivative on the original was shot well. The dialogue was brisk. Underwood was credible, but in the dialectical tension between network past and network present, Burr's more abstract chief was more viable. Those of us who watched Underwood in this tinsel song and dance knew the con was on, but what were the contents which made the snake oil difficult to swallow? The veracity of the character was wrongly concentrated in the script; I've no doubt the FOP bats for officers disabled in the line of duty. Perhaps some get day jobs, but playing a paraplegic who becomes a mimetic of his former mobile self whose physical dignity is respected by his perpetrators pitted against him in a hissing of discharged helium going over the top, this was simply an assault on any viewer's intelligence.
I remember as little as possible about Raymond Burr, but recall enough to know his series was wisely treated as a stage play, Burr expounding accordingly, a muscular, if two dimensional pitch on how Arthur Miller would define manhood akin to the lion in winter. I kept thinking of Denzel, comparing major and minor notes, perhaps even the praxis of performance between them, especially when a girl in school clothes screamed with piercing pitch in my right ear, turning me into a court tv troll. I frightened her, in my beret, glasses, distended teeth, as I admonished her and minority wilding sisters to control themselves in public. Sales associates who know me, witnessing this, suspected something else was afoot. I only occasionally get combative with these cliques, if I see something particularly abysmal. In this instance, the girl's scream triggered a slightly painful leg seizure, so I took it on, the admonishing, not sure what I should feel that I intimidated a school girl who forgot herself.
A racial incident? Yes, no, or depends on the perspective. Kids screaming in the streets could be a harbinger of escalation. I would have flunked out, handling this behavior at the scholastic level or above. Am I a slightly more pliable version of my father? Yes, despite the fact that I can cite socio-economic rationalizations with the progressives in Reich's tableau. I came back to the city of my birth with the best of intentions. There were, or are, remnants of Philadelphia's leisure class who deplore the city's self-depreciation; it is this which is the real blight on the Greater Delaware Valley, regardless of ethnicity. It does not excuse the sense of entitlement which suborns poor social behaviors.
Thursday, October 24, 2013
Gates on the Cutting Floor
"Stop complaining about your on site visits." The former Linda Richman, failing to consider my future rate of attrition.
Hollywood has so commercialized the process of dying it is easy to forget how radicalized the ritual has become since the human animal invented cultural memories. Death through aging or illness used to be an unfortunate but expected communal reality. The invention of theatrical role playing as a form of didactic social instruction reflects this, (setting aside totem transformations). The tragedy of Hamlet is camped today, but in Renaissance Europe, a dead king convulsed the state. Medicalization robs us of communal sobriety and the sharing of grief. It is palliative care, family grouped around a bed, patient set apart by monitors, intravenous feeds, hospice, morphine, barbiturate saturation. We still have sudden death, the shock, handling a dead pet we could not save, losing a husband at the race track to thrombosis, mechanized destruction of our flesh by machine, these days even more chilling since a joystick can deliver it, but the sanitation of death is reflected back via media norms on an ever shifting landscape. The 21st century insists we process the dying as a psychodrama with its own rules. I have dealt with a few of these films, one that eludes me at the moment but it is either still on my other account or buried in here and will come round again, but more important is the modern death as a jigsaw puzzle is a common directorial scheme, good or bad. Darkness, Jacob's Ladder, the poorly made I Inside, Identity. All of these jump cut, keep us guessing, want the viewer to feed on uncertainty.
Fascinating, therefore, that E. G. Robinson would use it, the dying itself, to force Charlton to live energetically in his lead in Soylent Green. I researched this uncited Wiki passage, and dissatisfied, changed it to what traceable sources assert.
This doesn't mean Robinson, who carried Hollywood through the golden age, did not manipulate Heston, shocking the younger man into a raw integrity within a dystopian landscape, already creeping upon us, despite our billions in number. MRSA now eats people because of western healthcare's brutal success. For those of us not species optimists, that spaceship lottery will no doubt be a dicey proposition.
Hollywood has so commercialized the process of dying it is easy to forget how radicalized the ritual has become since the human animal invented cultural memories. Death through aging or illness used to be an unfortunate but expected communal reality. The invention of theatrical role playing as a form of didactic social instruction reflects this, (setting aside totem transformations). The tragedy of Hamlet is camped today, but in Renaissance Europe, a dead king convulsed the state. Medicalization robs us of communal sobriety and the sharing of grief. It is palliative care, family grouped around a bed, patient set apart by monitors, intravenous feeds, hospice, morphine, barbiturate saturation. We still have sudden death, the shock, handling a dead pet we could not save, losing a husband at the race track to thrombosis, mechanized destruction of our flesh by machine, these days even more chilling since a joystick can deliver it, but the sanitation of death is reflected back via media norms on an ever shifting landscape. The 21st century insists we process the dying as a psychodrama with its own rules. I have dealt with a few of these films, one that eludes me at the moment but it is either still on my other account or buried in here and will come round again, but more important is the modern death as a jigsaw puzzle is a common directorial scheme, good or bad. Darkness, Jacob's Ladder, the poorly made I Inside, Identity. All of these jump cut, keep us guessing, want the viewer to feed on uncertainty.
Fascinating, therefore, that E. G. Robinson would use it, the dying itself, to force Charlton to live energetically in his lead in Soylent Green. I researched this uncited Wiki passage, and dissatisfied, changed it to what traceable sources assert.
This doesn't mean Robinson, who carried Hollywood through the golden age, did not manipulate Heston, shocking the younger man into a raw integrity within a dystopian landscape, already creeping upon us, despite our billions in number. MRSA now eats people because of western healthcare's brutal success. For those of us not species optimists, that spaceship lottery will no doubt be a dicey proposition.
Wednesday, October 23, 2013
Does Spader Have Head Lice?
"lnventa la noche en ventura
otra noche,
otra espacio" Octavio Paz, Pasado en claro, with slight license
Carol never had the rabbit's foot, but she educated me about everything else, the elder sister of my best friend to whom I latched after the rift with Susan. Carol was floor captain of the apartment units in my university housing, and instead of turning myself into Vassar Miller or SE Hinton, the blonds of my block fomented my education, like a kid in a five & dime, virgin bugged at the shiny pink and conveniently large penis, less impressed with the egg, vaguely recalling skepticism. Carol was attractive, more mild version of her sister. Sue was voluptuous, more drama queen. I miss them both, terribly. Drank with them both, a drunk pathetic dead weight spaz hanging with the alpha girls who could afford to treat sex like a five and dime. I'm not a virgin any longer, and yes, I really was a mistress to married men, with real sexual intercourse, but those evenings, Carol educating me about pleasures I never could realize, represent moments of positive intimacy with other women I'll never inhabit again; never invested in enhancements. If I did now-- shrug. My clitoris extends slightly, off standard but not unusual. Maybe this is why I shit a horse with Linda's excited email transmission. I miss her too. Not the woman she is, an aged mantis, but the younger tag team we were; there was a personal bond. She sold me down river for an ugly faggot with the emotional repertoire of a five year old, and I can't get away from them, the freaks. His conceptual inequality sounds magnanimous, and I do not doubt Reich has the authentic brawn of a street peddler; he may have even met the transvestite with s/his infantile bitch with testes on the leash, but he'd never socialize with them.
Was there a seduction? I suppose, but not for that kind of experimentation. It was a fencing match and spastic believed I could play the hand, deliberately blind to the fact she and I were in the process of destroying what I should have left alone. My life was about to fall apart, and this game of shirking blades made it worse. The critics are right about Soylent Green. Heston is always a gesture of granite stoicism, but it was a film of my time, textured and colored perfectly for the Me decade jeremiad. Robinson burned in our minds because he really was being cannibalized by cancer that pulled conviction out of Charlton, an intensity of conviction. We did not use the word procedural as a categorization, not in those days, but this was an exceptional dichotomy of pursuit in a world that no longer had standards, practices we trusted.
I can see it, the end of our species. We will not come to our senses, colonize Titan, or have any real sense of intrigue about Spader, in a television slot of viscous and carefully delineated slime, deploying diseases, anhidrosis, like a damn card trick. James, you're of my generation and you are capable of a better disreputable range. What the fuck are you doing?
otra noche,
otra espacio" Octavio Paz, Pasado en claro, with slight license
Carol never had the rabbit's foot, but she educated me about everything else, the elder sister of my best friend to whom I latched after the rift with Susan. Carol was floor captain of the apartment units in my university housing, and instead of turning myself into Vassar Miller or SE Hinton, the blonds of my block fomented my education, like a kid in a five & dime, virgin bugged at the shiny pink and conveniently large penis, less impressed with the egg, vaguely recalling skepticism. Carol was attractive, more mild version of her sister. Sue was voluptuous, more drama queen. I miss them both, terribly. Drank with them both, a drunk pathetic dead weight spaz hanging with the alpha girls who could afford to treat sex like a five and dime. I'm not a virgin any longer, and yes, I really was a mistress to married men, with real sexual intercourse, but those evenings, Carol educating me about pleasures I never could realize, represent moments of positive intimacy with other women I'll never inhabit again; never invested in enhancements. If I did now-- shrug. My clitoris extends slightly, off standard but not unusual. Maybe this is why I shit a horse with Linda's excited email transmission. I miss her too. Not the woman she is, an aged mantis, but the younger tag team we were; there was a personal bond. She sold me down river for an ugly faggot with the emotional repertoire of a five year old, and I can't get away from them, the freaks. His conceptual inequality sounds magnanimous, and I do not doubt Reich has the authentic brawn of a street peddler; he may have even met the transvestite with s/his infantile bitch with testes on the leash, but he'd never socialize with them.
Was there a seduction? I suppose, but not for that kind of experimentation. It was a fencing match and spastic believed I could play the hand, deliberately blind to the fact she and I were in the process of destroying what I should have left alone. My life was about to fall apart, and this game of shirking blades made it worse. The critics are right about Soylent Green. Heston is always a gesture of granite stoicism, but it was a film of my time, textured and colored perfectly for the Me decade jeremiad. Robinson burned in our minds because he really was being cannibalized by cancer that pulled conviction out of Charlton, an intensity of conviction. We did not use the word procedural as a categorization, not in those days, but this was an exceptional dichotomy of pursuit in a world that no longer had standards, practices we trusted.
I can see it, the end of our species. We will not come to our senses, colonize Titan, or have any real sense of intrigue about Spader, in a television slot of viscous and carefully delineated slime, deploying diseases, anhidrosis, like a damn card trick. James, you're of my generation and you are capable of a better disreputable range. What the fuck are you doing?
Friday, October 18, 2013
Shoot The Peacock
NBC is brain dead? If they pull the plug on Hannibal I may borrow a Ted Cruz pit bull. Bryan Fuller created his own derivative language out of the Harris franchise.
*
I knew I was on target in relation to Ironside as revamped matriculation, but I do not expect television programmers to pay any attention to me. The executives in charge might have allowed things to play out a little longer. I need material, after all.
*
I knew I was on target in relation to Ironside as revamped matriculation, but I do not expect television programmers to pay any attention to me. The executives in charge might have allowed things to play out a little longer. I need material, after all.
Strategems
The things we do for love. No not Nathaniel, but honey if you really look like that I am not only willing to corrupt my principles; I might resurrect my courtesan attire, and I am not sure I'm simply teasing, but am also struggling with my inner scholar, who doesn't want to refresh on The Elephant Man, even if duty calls the good lieutenant to task. Mmm.
The tea party was stupid, and if they would listen to me they'd be less so, as one of my recurring issues is merging efficacy with accommodation and getting it right. NCIL cannot reform intake centers, because their design, coupled with their mandate, ensures that Trotsky like expulsions will continue ad infinitum.
A girl has to eat, however.
If it was possible to engage twitter's no reply spam with socially inappropriate responses to "suggestions similar to Nathaniel Burns," I'd whine to the twitter boys to float me the man doll over this way. You know the blue collar whistle, "Thweet!" Too chilled for the cold shower, I apologize effusively to any marital significant other in the wings.
The tea party was stupid, and if they would listen to me they'd be less so, as one of my recurring issues is merging efficacy with accommodation and getting it right. NCIL cannot reform intake centers, because their design, coupled with their mandate, ensures that Trotsky like expulsions will continue ad infinitum.
A girl has to eat, however.
If it was possible to engage twitter's no reply spam with socially inappropriate responses to "suggestions similar to Nathaniel Burns," I'd whine to the twitter boys to float me the man doll over this way. You know the blue collar whistle, "Thweet!" Too chilled for the cold shower, I apologize effusively to any marital significant other in the wings.
Old Lions, Fresh Solstice
Not to take issue with Chris Zimmer, since she and I have different agendas, but I give SVU's writers credit for reminding us that adjudication doesn't rectify the hidden costs of our scars. It may have been a soft boiled episode, but Hargitay and Vassilieva brought it home, recapping the earlier story lines. I am soft on Dick Wolf, meaning I forgive what Zimmer opines as tepid, out of familiar reassurance, and I can assure you I don't enjoy rolling off my daybed feeling revictimized every day, but the hardest thing to expurgate from disability activism is the internecine cruelty embedded within it.
In 2002, right around the time I was exiled from the Poets & Writers community, Septa CCT instituted restricted eligibility, and it has been like a Jamesian turn of the screw ever since. There are things I have not discussed about service providers and threats to my survival, items I've held back, attempting to avoid certain stereotypical aspects, and I do not always succeed. If I accuse Philadelphia's spina bifida loud mouth of tunnel vision, I am not so far behind strumming cat guts with a bow.
Reinvention is a difficult task when the environment in which it needs to be done is one you never wanted in the first place that holds so much baggage, more damage than pleasure, and little that is fresh, invigorating. Risk adverse to another failure due to productive decline, I have little desire to utilize the campus of my alma mater; it is older than old. I want to let it go, be rid of the whole city with its inability to govern itself, although these days that is apparently a bicoastal affliction.
I can't work this morning. Post-a-vent yes, slight revising, waiting for one of Anthony Perkin's last films. Another Lovecraft variation, maybe I should pack it in now, resign myself to Inglis House, death industry bar none. In a few years, my lateral transfer skills will be more difficult. I will be off Blogger more than likely, barring a Google Amazon takeover of independent living itself, which I'd support. So many limits, so few choices, and Linda will go on, no matter. Gutting subordinates is often its own reward. I am going to bed.
In 2002, right around the time I was exiled from the Poets & Writers community, Septa CCT instituted restricted eligibility, and it has been like a Jamesian turn of the screw ever since. There are things I have not discussed about service providers and threats to my survival, items I've held back, attempting to avoid certain stereotypical aspects, and I do not always succeed. If I accuse Philadelphia's spina bifida loud mouth of tunnel vision, I am not so far behind strumming cat guts with a bow.
Reinvention is a difficult task when the environment in which it needs to be done is one you never wanted in the first place that holds so much baggage, more damage than pleasure, and little that is fresh, invigorating. Risk adverse to another failure due to productive decline, I have little desire to utilize the campus of my alma mater; it is older than old. I want to let it go, be rid of the whole city with its inability to govern itself, although these days that is apparently a bicoastal affliction.
I can't work this morning. Post-a-vent yes, slight revising, waiting for one of Anthony Perkin's last films. Another Lovecraft variation, maybe I should pack it in now, resign myself to Inglis House, death industry bar none. In a few years, my lateral transfer skills will be more difficult. I will be off Blogger more than likely, barring a Google Amazon takeover of independent living itself, which I'd support. So many limits, so few choices, and Linda will go on, no matter. Gutting subordinates is often its own reward. I am going to bed.
Thursday, October 17, 2013
Smokey Opals
"You'll see my smile looks out of place."-- Smokey Robinson
To be a writer is nothing, but to be an author through the track of my tears exacts the terrible necessity of its price, the over-invested attachment, which for me will lead to some sort of literature generation of the tangible kind, either with a book jacket, or laminated article, through the ebb and flow of accreted megalomania, crested after challenging the levies, don't believe my heart isn't broken, that it has taken so long to see the distaste in exploiting human suffering.
I cared. I still do, and, barring a miracle, will return to the constraints of being a micro managed living wage, an indigent puddle for someone's salary, but there has to be a better way to do it than the socialized lowest common denominator we have. One of those is instituting rational euthanasia, stringent safe guards in place, rating levels of treatment accordingly. The health care professional would make less money, but our species would conserve finite resources through compassionate culling. Given population demographics we will be forced into it eventually, regardless of speculative venue, Soylent Green or Cuaron's contemporaneous homage.
Ethan Saylor would have become expendable; it would have been an inevitable consequence. The officers no doubt over-escalated his compliance, but it is an issue of adaptation, and the boy did not know how to mitigate his behavioral intransigence. It is irrelevant, whom among us had the skills to coax him down; he would have been killed in exactly the same way that compliance models surreptitiously attempted to suck me under while my country was conveying that I too could have equal opportunity. This is how socialized paradigms, disability centers, public housing, socialized medicine, destroy the individuals they deign to assist.
I do not sign the Saylor petition. And I won't. It comes down to a value judgment of husbandry. If you believe this is callused, Liberty Resources does exactly the same thing. A very few become essential personnel, earning their salaries on the basis of rationed scarcity, making personal autonomy more expensive and inefficient than necessary, thereby unable to recognize value, the skills of intelligence that could lead to system enhancement.
To be a writer is nothing, but to be an author through the track of my tears exacts the terrible necessity of its price, the over-invested attachment, which for me will lead to some sort of literature generation of the tangible kind, either with a book jacket, or laminated article, through the ebb and flow of accreted megalomania, crested after challenging the levies, don't believe my heart isn't broken, that it has taken so long to see the distaste in exploiting human suffering.
I cared. I still do, and, barring a miracle, will return to the constraints of being a micro managed living wage, an indigent puddle for someone's salary, but there has to be a better way to do it than the socialized lowest common denominator we have. One of those is instituting rational euthanasia, stringent safe guards in place, rating levels of treatment accordingly. The health care professional would make less money, but our species would conserve finite resources through compassionate culling. Given population demographics we will be forced into it eventually, regardless of speculative venue, Soylent Green or Cuaron's contemporaneous homage.
Ethan Saylor would have become expendable; it would have been an inevitable consequence. The officers no doubt over-escalated his compliance, but it is an issue of adaptation, and the boy did not know how to mitigate his behavioral intransigence. It is irrelevant, whom among us had the skills to coax him down; he would have been killed in exactly the same way that compliance models surreptitiously attempted to suck me under while my country was conveying that I too could have equal opportunity. This is how socialized paradigms, disability centers, public housing, socialized medicine, destroy the individuals they deign to assist.
I do not sign the Saylor petition. And I won't. It comes down to a value judgment of husbandry. If you believe this is callused, Liberty Resources does exactly the same thing. A very few become essential personnel, earning their salaries on the basis of rationed scarcity, making personal autonomy more expensive and inefficient than necessary, thereby unable to recognize value, the skills of intelligence that could lead to system enhancement.
The White Whale
The conniving bitch finally received the demotion she was to be penalized with under Fern, another stellar Judean witch, fourteen years ago. It had nothing to do with the institutional suborning of Linda's criminal malfeasance. Liberty would be the first to tell you this. Linda Dezenski might have buckled under the pressure, and the poisoned neurosis of my pain over their institutional cruelty is my problem, but to continue to expose to you why their Orwellian behavior is a poisoned pill that needs to be dismantled before it is too late-- the executive titles listed are nothing, a bogus conflation of the sort that the dystopians taught us to worry about, especially Kafka.
Tom Earle lists himself as *CEO* over semantic sensitivity/insecurity, to belie marginalization, but the lie only magnifies what this particular center evades with glaring lack of success: Liberty is a caste system for individuals who do not even merit the status of an oppressed minority. Thomas Earle is not Jamie Dimon. Thomas Earle is a legally blind disability lawyer with squirrel nuts for an excuse, and he is an executive director. Linda was assistant director just shy of 15 years, and got booted back to managing attendant care on the community integration model. Liberty also does nursing home in sourcing. Nearly the same difference, with the institutional racism even more pronounced. It makes me physically sick, literally, that I worked with these motherfuckers, that I allowed them all to denigrate me for so many years as less than human. I take my therapy about it from Mariska, and only recently remembered that if getting access to Jodie Foster as a disability journalist is nuanced with complexity, Hargitay is less so, and I connect with her as a life long victim of sexual assault. Olivia Benson got it twice, as did Sofia Vassilieva's Sarah. Me? I literally cannot give you an exact count, and my only solace is a veteran television actress in a veteran formula who hits the appropriate key notes.
Put this in the context that I cannot get away from the psychological pain of seeing all sorts in the *Liberty Resources* family daily, as a constant reminder. I can never go home again, but that home is little more than a criminally incompetent syndicate, however hollow my stark satisfaction. I know forcing Linda's termination is next to nothing, but what Liberty represents is little better than Daria Cassini's life sentence. What kind of dissidence would you attribute to her?
If I had committed to staying in the academic system, don't suppose for a moment that progressives would not have continued to impede their notions of equality with judgments against me; this too was life long in experience. I have been thinking about solutions for a long time, and in more filler moments, those wheels will grind. In the interim, Nathaniel should send me something to review We all know beauty and the beast, yes?
Tom Earle lists himself as *CEO* over semantic sensitivity/insecurity, to belie marginalization, but the lie only magnifies what this particular center evades with glaring lack of success: Liberty is a caste system for individuals who do not even merit the status of an oppressed minority. Thomas Earle is not Jamie Dimon. Thomas Earle is a legally blind disability lawyer with squirrel nuts for an excuse, and he is an executive director. Linda was assistant director just shy of 15 years, and got booted back to managing attendant care on the community integration model. Liberty also does nursing home in sourcing. Nearly the same difference, with the institutional racism even more pronounced. It makes me physically sick, literally, that I worked with these motherfuckers, that I allowed them all to denigrate me for so many years as less than human. I take my therapy about it from Mariska, and only recently remembered that if getting access to Jodie Foster as a disability journalist is nuanced with complexity, Hargitay is less so, and I connect with her as a life long victim of sexual assault. Olivia Benson got it twice, as did Sofia Vassilieva's Sarah. Me? I literally cannot give you an exact count, and my only solace is a veteran television actress in a veteran formula who hits the appropriate key notes.
Put this in the context that I cannot get away from the psychological pain of seeing all sorts in the *Liberty Resources* family daily, as a constant reminder. I can never go home again, but that home is little more than a criminally incompetent syndicate, however hollow my stark satisfaction. I know forcing Linda's termination is next to nothing, but what Liberty represents is little better than Daria Cassini's life sentence. What kind of dissidence would you attribute to her?
If I had committed to staying in the academic system, don't suppose for a moment that progressives would not have continued to impede their notions of equality with judgments against me; this too was life long in experience. I have been thinking about solutions for a long time, and in more filler moments, those wheels will grind. In the interim, Nathaniel should send me something to review We all know beauty and the beast, yes?
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Garnets in a Typhoon
All the Powers of old Europe have entered into a holy alliance to exercise this spectre: Pope and Czar, Mettermich and Guirot, French Radicals and German police-spies.--Frederick Engels, anticipating the National Security Agency, kindle location 1-2.
Conte's role as Barzini is obscure in relation to the actor's past as assimilated yet uneasy with being the good bling material boy, yet age did for Conte what playing off a theatrical force like Jose Ferrer could not. It gave him character, and this necessitates a look again at how the dynamic with Brando plays out the next time the original godfather is available to view. It is not quite falling in lust with anti-matter, as the video images we have of celebrities come and gone is still a representation, more exact than any portraiture, but this does not mean it isn't as close to an alternate universe as is possible beyond the texture of imagination.
Conte was a character matinee idol, why complicate matters? Reviewers charge him with the sin of linear woodenness, and so he was. Playing against Ferrer in Whirlpool there is yet another undercurrent in the body language, coded or not in the script. Conte looks at Jose as a foreign devil, one who has maintained an ethnic identity Conte himself had to scrub clean, and you can see the wheels turning in Conte's head at the bedside of Ferrer's theatrical dominance: "I can't hold the scene against this vaudeville bastard, so the best I can do is exude unease at his disruption of my bourgeoisie achievement."
Range can have its own layers of complexity, and whatever Conte's limits, he makes the most of them in a dialectical tension with our present, a present that is in between periods, unlike Conte's, who defined the post-war immigrant experience. Gene Tierney is also a bit of a tin ear in this wicked bit of classic noir manipulation, but the tragedy of her domestic travail leaps right into the first decade of our 21st century. Tierney tried to commit suicide in substantial fashion in 1958. Why? Guilt. American blue blood hides away the horror of deficient siring, like the Kennedy's Rose.
Daria Cassini died in 2010 at the age of 67. She might have been mute as well as deaf and blind in one eye. Did she have the cognizance to recognize that Mommy was about as A list as it gets since the modern invention of Mary Pickford? Probably not. At best she might have seen herself as least among humans, knew her father hated her, as much as Jose's Korvo hates the caste he deceptively imitates. The projection of Korvo's manical hostility is what gives Whirlpool its place in the historical lexicon, making love to the grave, obsessively.
Conte's role as Barzini is obscure in relation to the actor's past as assimilated yet uneasy with being the good bling material boy, yet age did for Conte what playing off a theatrical force like Jose Ferrer could not. It gave him character, and this necessitates a look again at how the dynamic with Brando plays out the next time the original godfather is available to view. It is not quite falling in lust with anti-matter, as the video images we have of celebrities come and gone is still a representation, more exact than any portraiture, but this does not mean it isn't as close to an alternate universe as is possible beyond the texture of imagination.
Conte was a character matinee idol, why complicate matters? Reviewers charge him with the sin of linear woodenness, and so he was. Playing against Ferrer in Whirlpool there is yet another undercurrent in the body language, coded or not in the script. Conte looks at Jose as a foreign devil, one who has maintained an ethnic identity Conte himself had to scrub clean, and you can see the wheels turning in Conte's head at the bedside of Ferrer's theatrical dominance: "I can't hold the scene against this vaudeville bastard, so the best I can do is exude unease at his disruption of my bourgeoisie achievement."
Range can have its own layers of complexity, and whatever Conte's limits, he makes the most of them in a dialectical tension with our present, a present that is in between periods, unlike Conte's, who defined the post-war immigrant experience. Gene Tierney is also a bit of a tin ear in this wicked bit of classic noir manipulation, but the tragedy of her domestic travail leaps right into the first decade of our 21st century. Tierney tried to commit suicide in substantial fashion in 1958. Why? Guilt. American blue blood hides away the horror of deficient siring, like the Kennedy's Rose.
Daria Cassini died in 2010 at the age of 67. She might have been mute as well as deaf and blind in one eye. Did she have the cognizance to recognize that Mommy was about as A list as it gets since the modern invention of Mary Pickford? Probably not. At best she might have seen herself as least among humans, knew her father hated her, as much as Jose's Korvo hates the caste he deceptively imitates. The projection of Korvo's manical hostility is what gives Whirlpool its place in the historical lexicon, making love to the grave, obsessively.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Eagle Scavengers
"If you could drive you could get a better job."-- Daniel Raudenbush, a director who hit the nail on the head
I could have written a piece similar to that of James Mulvaney. Obviously I did not, and I do not resent his byline; I resent the fact that I cannot marshal my facts fast enough to mediate between timeliness and an interesting perspective. Mulvaney is persuasive, but a devil's advocate like me, who would have also referenced Aaron Alexis, might have weighed the alternative of law enforcement caution. If Miriam had crashed the barrier with her Infiniti, killing herself and her child, the issue driving the debate would have been of a different caliber. Even if James makes new allies in the ever specialized behavior modification field, we cannot be expected to master and isolate every contingency.
If you are asking if I am reversing my sentiments which echo that of the body politic, of course not. Even as a reactionary I feel that Miriam's death was a disgrace. She was not an enemy, only expended collateral for the sake of protecting sculpture and property, collectively important landmarks, yes, but it points to my philosophical intransigence with public housing. As a tenant, I am expendable, treated as such.
Where I would also diverge from Mulvaney is on the emblematic nature of Carey's pursuit and death. Post-modernists, perhaps Henry James, would utilize a crack in an aesthetically pleasing object, and this is a well worn and time honored literary conceit. I view it somewhat differently: that our competence isn't keeping pace with our paradigms, and that homo sapiens fears species inadequacy as much as it does planetary annihilation, thematically enlarged as a motif beyond expert specialization. We should apply ourselves to the issue. Perhaps there is a Carey back story in my future, but not in the immediate aftermath; it is unfortunate, an epistemological generation to which I could contribute.
I could have written a piece similar to that of James Mulvaney. Obviously I did not, and I do not resent his byline; I resent the fact that I cannot marshal my facts fast enough to mediate between timeliness and an interesting perspective. Mulvaney is persuasive, but a devil's advocate like me, who would have also referenced Aaron Alexis, might have weighed the alternative of law enforcement caution. If Miriam had crashed the barrier with her Infiniti, killing herself and her child, the issue driving the debate would have been of a different caliber. Even if James makes new allies in the ever specialized behavior modification field, we cannot be expected to master and isolate every contingency.
If you are asking if I am reversing my sentiments which echo that of the body politic, of course not. Even as a reactionary I feel that Miriam's death was a disgrace. She was not an enemy, only expended collateral for the sake of protecting sculpture and property, collectively important landmarks, yes, but it points to my philosophical intransigence with public housing. As a tenant, I am expendable, treated as such.
Where I would also diverge from Mulvaney is on the emblematic nature of Carey's pursuit and death. Post-modernists, perhaps Henry James, would utilize a crack in an aesthetically pleasing object, and this is a well worn and time honored literary conceit. I view it somewhat differently: that our competence isn't keeping pace with our paradigms, and that homo sapiens fears species inadequacy as much as it does planetary annihilation, thematically enlarged as a motif beyond expert specialization. We should apply ourselves to the issue. Perhaps there is a Carey back story in my future, but not in the immediate aftermath; it is unfortunate, an epistemological generation to which I could contribute.
Saturday, October 12, 2013
Ablating Matt Dillion
The book ends with an epilogue consisting of a series of warnings and exhortations and forming an inclusion with the prologue by resuming its themes and expressions--note of the US council of bishops steering the flock.
Most Roman Catholics are atheists at heart. Ratzinger is. Shocking, presumptuous of me to make such a claim of the Pope Emeritus, a man who was conveniently deconstructed as unaware of his homosexuality by Andrew Sullivan, a transplanted Briton not conservative enough, as he was careless, inflecting himself with HIV, just like my brother, who is dead from meningitis received from AIDS. My brother was merely a middle brow sociopath. Andrew is a homosexual policy analyst, and therefore infinitely more valuable. To whom, exactly? But this is why I write this blog as I do, hating all pretension but my own. My remaining and very ailing grandmother is not an atheist. She is a simple Austrian peasant, unaware of her own anger, and a true believer. She terrifies me, raised me through a good portion of her daughter's journey through lithium to ultimate psychotropic death, and I miss her memory. More than likely I'll never see her again. I am not sure about Mary, my Catholic principal aunt. Better educated. Faithful, yes, but mainly lip service. I left the Church because I could see a pathway toward zealotry without belief, battling myself about returning to parish, raising troops in the service of a medieval doctrine which nominally commands 750 million, despite my recent inquisition by Sister Veronica. The nun may be right, and I should stop resisting, and comply.
Fuck you.
It is difficult to explain why Catholics are what they are. Dawkins accuses Roman Catholicism of polytheism. Not really. Roman Catholicism is hierarchical, ordered in accordance with the chain of being, the road to heaven a stricture dictated by ecclesiastical authority, and it is as much a chimera as a ranking of Hindu deities, but it is also Roman, despite modern diffusion and sexual molestation by homosexuals and pedophiles once burned at the stake; perhaps I have the biological memory of grand inquisitors, with this streak of Austrian retention in my barren uterus. AO Scott complained Crash (2004) is too schematic, and he is right. Haggis has a burr stuck in a rectal crevice. Ironies are conveniently placed to ensure what I've long contended. We all reduce each other by denomination, and we all have redeeming salient points.
I had not forgotten about my group DIA so much as left it alone after my former lesbian editor did her damage, and did not realize my Australian page views were coming from Rayna, who has cerebral palsy. Rather than disagreeing with my anger, or contending with my hatred of IL centers, she unsubscribed from the group, from where she was accessing my blogger url, at least presumably. I know little of the woman; we've had some discourse, but I'll say this. Passivity doesn't solve anything. I can understand ambulatory individuals not taking me on. Maybe you presume I am in denial on any number of fronts and don't need a dose of my medicine, and as so many writers have written me, "you don't know what to say," but the disabled community does, and our intake centers need to stop causing so many of us so much harm. I am in part culpable for allowing Liberty Resources to railroad me, but by 2007 that railroading took a serious and negligent turn. It happens far too often and it has to be dismantled and corrected. It also has nothing to do with how Australia handles its model. Philadelphia's center is now playing musical chairs with itself, and this too is so much guano to be washed out of your scalp; they do it all the time. The real reform is with Medicaid's fun and games, and I am not ending my crusade. I have been punished enough, and intend to ensure my former supervisor gets a taste of her own medicine.
Most Roman Catholics are atheists at heart. Ratzinger is. Shocking, presumptuous of me to make such a claim of the Pope Emeritus, a man who was conveniently deconstructed as unaware of his homosexuality by Andrew Sullivan, a transplanted Briton not conservative enough, as he was careless, inflecting himself with HIV, just like my brother, who is dead from meningitis received from AIDS. My brother was merely a middle brow sociopath. Andrew is a homosexual policy analyst, and therefore infinitely more valuable. To whom, exactly? But this is why I write this blog as I do, hating all pretension but my own. My remaining and very ailing grandmother is not an atheist. She is a simple Austrian peasant, unaware of her own anger, and a true believer. She terrifies me, raised me through a good portion of her daughter's journey through lithium to ultimate psychotropic death, and I miss her memory. More than likely I'll never see her again. I am not sure about Mary, my Catholic principal aunt. Better educated. Faithful, yes, but mainly lip service. I left the Church because I could see a pathway toward zealotry without belief, battling myself about returning to parish, raising troops in the service of a medieval doctrine which nominally commands 750 million, despite my recent inquisition by Sister Veronica. The nun may be right, and I should stop resisting, and comply.
Fuck you.
It is difficult to explain why Catholics are what they are. Dawkins accuses Roman Catholicism of polytheism. Not really. Roman Catholicism is hierarchical, ordered in accordance with the chain of being, the road to heaven a stricture dictated by ecclesiastical authority, and it is as much a chimera as a ranking of Hindu deities, but it is also Roman, despite modern diffusion and sexual molestation by homosexuals and pedophiles once burned at the stake; perhaps I have the biological memory of grand inquisitors, with this streak of Austrian retention in my barren uterus. AO Scott complained Crash (2004) is too schematic, and he is right. Haggis has a burr stuck in a rectal crevice. Ironies are conveniently placed to ensure what I've long contended. We all reduce each other by denomination, and we all have redeeming salient points.
I had not forgotten about my group DIA so much as left it alone after my former lesbian editor did her damage, and did not realize my Australian page views were coming from Rayna, who has cerebral palsy. Rather than disagreeing with my anger, or contending with my hatred of IL centers, she unsubscribed from the group, from where she was accessing my blogger url, at least presumably. I know little of the woman; we've had some discourse, but I'll say this. Passivity doesn't solve anything. I can understand ambulatory individuals not taking me on. Maybe you presume I am in denial on any number of fronts and don't need a dose of my medicine, and as so many writers have written me, "you don't know what to say," but the disabled community does, and our intake centers need to stop causing so many of us so much harm. I am in part culpable for allowing Liberty Resources to railroad me, but by 2007 that railroading took a serious and negligent turn. It happens far too often and it has to be dismantled and corrected. It also has nothing to do with how Australia handles its model. Philadelphia's center is now playing musical chairs with itself, and this too is so much guano to be washed out of your scalp; they do it all the time. The real reform is with Medicaid's fun and games, and I am not ending my crusade. I have been punished enough, and intend to ensure my former supervisor gets a taste of her own medicine.
Red Hair and Posture Prat
What is now the “Lucille Ball Comedy Festival” began in 1991 as “Lucy Fest” – an annual celebration of Lucille Ball as well as an opportunity to feature up and coming comedians.
On my invitation note to Ms Kline, I wrote "I'm still a bitch." Seemed to work. I shall not seek her advice on either vaginal discomfort or moving to California. My desire is not to switch from old east to the nearly semi-autonomous west so much as to go inland or set eyes on Tuscany, with some degree of peace on my native soil.
She is a kindly soul, my old roommate, forgiving of her own foibles, even if they aren't akin to making a career out of ungainliness.
On my invitation note to Ms Kline, I wrote "I'm still a bitch." Seemed to work. I shall not seek her advice on either vaginal discomfort or moving to California. My desire is not to switch from old east to the nearly semi-autonomous west so much as to go inland or set eyes on Tuscany, with some degree of peace on my native soil.
She is a kindly soul, my old roommate, forgiving of her own foibles, even if they aren't akin to making a career out of ungainliness.
Ornamental Condensation
Oh please. I am not above writing puff pieces for promotional purposes, but there is more to life than millennium era Caucasian augmentation, where these men need endowments to have three times the output of Morrison on the mike coked up and raw. Diversity and maturity elude the CW at a conceptual level. Glossy, chic, know your lines. I doubt Ironside's producers can maintain the pace and keep it real, but at least NBC is in the ballpark of our post 9/11 reverberations with broken vessels.
Look to cable?
Gladly, but digital can only achieve so much within the time constraints of multiple organ failure, and I have limited streaming access. Orphan Black in my prime queue, with ten seasons of classic cuckoo switch to bone up on. House of Cards isn't applicable for the most part, and for the money, even if I had it for expendable vanity, Netflix is a neuron killer. DVD library just more of our unquenchable need for lists.
When our species supplanter sneaks up on us, we won't realize it. My old street in Ridley Park is beginning to feel like a damn idyll it never was.
Look to cable?
Gladly, but digital can only achieve so much within the time constraints of multiple organ failure, and I have limited streaming access. Orphan Black in my prime queue, with ten seasons of classic cuckoo switch to bone up on. House of Cards isn't applicable for the most part, and for the money, even if I had it for expendable vanity, Netflix is a neuron killer. DVD library just more of our unquenchable need for lists.
When our species supplanter sneaks up on us, we won't realize it. My old street in Ridley Park is beginning to feel like a damn idyll it never was.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Keratin Perturberance
This then is how I drowned Bianca in effigy, this is my witchcraft. She herself saw the figure standing in the liquid and she laughed at it; such things amused her; like a child. I remember that she brought her face up close to the glass to look at the face of the model and she laughed.-- Barry Unsworth, Stone Virgin, p 314
Salman Rushdie's post-fatwa decline has been a topic of debate in recent years; perhaps decline is the wrong word and it is closer to diminished capacity, but what do we expect an author to do after such a notorious condemnation? It elevates the subversive nature of language far too much, whatever we feel about the polemical nature of persuasion. I waited some years after the book burning and other forms of Islamic hysteria to blow over before I read The Satanic Verses. The sacrilege merited a shrug, damaging Rushdie's correspondences or not, depending on the point of view. That one of his goals might have been to go into film production crossed my mind, meta-fictional in scope, but Rushdie's aim often eludes me.
Islam and Judaism are the same faith. Mohammad simply opened an ethnically closed system, and made himself equivalent to Mosaic law. Christianity is slightly different in cultural terms and most Protestant denominations are corrupted by material greed, but the art of equivocation is definitely an Eastern form of moral corruption, no doubt why it gave Elizabeth and Jacobean tragedy both majesty and sensationalism.
If this new rupture between East and West started somewhere it was with Khomeini and the 79 hostage crisis, the remnants of Persian identity. Consider this a lead in to a provocation probably unjust; I will key you in on a few salient points:
The coordinators at Liberty repress their ridicule. No one cares how Linda used her authority to hurt me and make me a scapegoat, which is still a powerful Hebraic conduit through to our contemporary gnosticism of self-love through the divine. I do not doubt it. People have died with my tears haplessly consoled or advised with impatience. No one gives a shit that her gloating prior to her divorce caught me off guard and has become my own Jacobean sensation. You included. This doesn't mean I can still utilize Liberty. I can't, and the reasons involve more than my relation to her and my mourning over the loss of colleague congeniality. Yet there is no other disability support system I can use. Liberty is it, and it is a non-option.
It isn't that I'm not okay. I am fine and believe in myself enough that I'll get back to some kind of work, but if I hit a crisis before I can relocate, these Stalinist assholes are it. Case closed, and it is not conducive to my continued well being. The last time I was there was 07, only because I wanted a lawyer. My former co-worker wouldn't speak to me. Do you follow?
Salman Rushdie's post-fatwa decline has been a topic of debate in recent years; perhaps decline is the wrong word and it is closer to diminished capacity, but what do we expect an author to do after such a notorious condemnation? It elevates the subversive nature of language far too much, whatever we feel about the polemical nature of persuasion. I waited some years after the book burning and other forms of Islamic hysteria to blow over before I read The Satanic Verses. The sacrilege merited a shrug, damaging Rushdie's correspondences or not, depending on the point of view. That one of his goals might have been to go into film production crossed my mind, meta-fictional in scope, but Rushdie's aim often eludes me.
Islam and Judaism are the same faith. Mohammad simply opened an ethnically closed system, and made himself equivalent to Mosaic law. Christianity is slightly different in cultural terms and most Protestant denominations are corrupted by material greed, but the art of equivocation is definitely an Eastern form of moral corruption, no doubt why it gave Elizabeth and Jacobean tragedy both majesty and sensationalism.
If this new rupture between East and West started somewhere it was with Khomeini and the 79 hostage crisis, the remnants of Persian identity. Consider this a lead in to a provocation probably unjust; I will key you in on a few salient points:
The coordinators at Liberty repress their ridicule. No one cares how Linda used her authority to hurt me and make me a scapegoat, which is still a powerful Hebraic conduit through to our contemporary gnosticism of self-love through the divine. I do not doubt it. People have died with my tears haplessly consoled or advised with impatience. No one gives a shit that her gloating prior to her divorce caught me off guard and has become my own Jacobean sensation. You included. This doesn't mean I can still utilize Liberty. I can't, and the reasons involve more than my relation to her and my mourning over the loss of colleague congeniality. Yet there is no other disability support system I can use. Liberty is it, and it is a non-option.
It isn't that I'm not okay. I am fine and believe in myself enough that I'll get back to some kind of work, but if I hit a crisis before I can relocate, these Stalinist assholes are it. Case closed, and it is not conducive to my continued well being. The last time I was there was 07, only because I wanted a lawyer. My former co-worker wouldn't speak to me. Do you follow?
Miscellaneous Protocol
"They do not have to be doing this," Cassie James Holdsworth, linear whiner at regulatory restriction
No, I am not feeling particularly better, though I am less phlegmatic in color. Food is an anathema. It would be a pleasure to cease digestion and consider the possible vaginal absorption of Ensure. The Golden Years Rush.
Common Sense LOA edition back on shelf, due to other priorities, but Paine's anti-authoritarian rationale derived from agrarian Semitic polemicists mistrustful of city states would fit right in with the bravado insurgency. Would you enjoy a small token of honesty? Okay. I took a dig at the Miriam Carey event yesterday, a dig on the basis of deconstructing irrational behavior, upending it with the tenet that Obama speaks to everyone on nearly a weekly basis.
But in my annoying interdisciplinary approach, the Carey family has my commiseration. Miriam was sick, much sicker than the system ever attempted to make me accept about myself. I have been in Senate offices in DC, and I do not fuck with the capitol police, and I'd vanish at the approach of the Secret Service, who would kill me because I am mad at the President, which in translation means the trappings of the Oval Office would not subdue the Spastic Tongue Lashing, and then I'd go boom, like Miriam, poor woman. I do not believe she had to die like that, but what to do? I'm not that radical about non-compliance. She did fuck with the capitol police, the secret service, the landscaping contractor.
Nonetheless, the odds of her gaining access to the President were 10 to the sixth power to one, and it is unseemly, playing wild west with a citizen in pain in Washington's metro area with her baby in the vehicle.
On the less slim chance that my energy realigns sufficiently and I can land future assignments that I will complete to an editor's satisfaction, I am in search of a photographer with a decent portfolio who can negotiate their own contracts. I'll reiterate this every so often. I cannot deal with pics, even if Apple had spastic smart phones. I do have a portfolio. It may not be Vanity Fair, but it is sturdy, with one byline to a Pulitzer Prize winner. I am not in the mood for breakfast. Sulky morning, wondering how a dental hygienist could afford an Infiniti in the first place.
We need a moment of conscience.
No, I am not feeling particularly better, though I am less phlegmatic in color. Food is an anathema. It would be a pleasure to cease digestion and consider the possible vaginal absorption of Ensure. The Golden Years Rush.
Common Sense LOA edition back on shelf, due to other priorities, but Paine's anti-authoritarian rationale derived from agrarian Semitic polemicists mistrustful of city states would fit right in with the bravado insurgency. Would you enjoy a small token of honesty? Okay. I took a dig at the Miriam Carey event yesterday, a dig on the basis of deconstructing irrational behavior, upending it with the tenet that Obama speaks to everyone on nearly a weekly basis.
But in my annoying interdisciplinary approach, the Carey family has my commiseration. Miriam was sick, much sicker than the system ever attempted to make me accept about myself. I have been in Senate offices in DC, and I do not fuck with the capitol police, and I'd vanish at the approach of the Secret Service, who would kill me because I am mad at the President, which in translation means the trappings of the Oval Office would not subdue the Spastic Tongue Lashing, and then I'd go boom, like Miriam, poor woman. I do not believe she had to die like that, but what to do? I'm not that radical about non-compliance. She did fuck with the capitol police, the secret service, the landscaping contractor.
Nonetheless, the odds of her gaining access to the President were 10 to the sixth power to one, and it is unseemly, playing wild west with a citizen in pain in Washington's metro area with her baby in the vehicle.
On the less slim chance that my energy realigns sufficiently and I can land future assignments that I will complete to an editor's satisfaction, I am in search of a photographer with a decent portfolio who can negotiate their own contracts. I'll reiterate this every so often. I cannot deal with pics, even if Apple had spastic smart phones. I do have a portfolio. It may not be Vanity Fair, but it is sturdy, with one byline to a Pulitzer Prize winner. I am not in the mood for breakfast. Sulky morning, wondering how a dental hygienist could afford an Infiniti in the first place.
We need a moment of conscience.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Omelette Influenza
Kept myself off eggs for a few weeks. On an anecdotal level I seemed to dry out, but upon cratering to my tastes and driving out in the rain and despite phlegm expectorants, spastic doesn't feel well and paid for my hot bowl of chili this morning, little kimmy on Joey's favorite pillow looking up at me saying I know I am not your most beloved feline but I keep house and une peu Vincento in line and insist you make additional efforts to give sans audience the pet children picture showcase after you dry out that damn puss!
My genetic line must have absorbed a bit of those gladiator lions who slaughtered true believers, given the troubles I put up with. I'd like a spot of pea soup, with ham, but my schedule is on official sick day. Does Asia chortle, or should that question be nixed for my own protection?
My genetic line must have absorbed a bit of those gladiator lions who slaughtered true believers, given the troubles I put up with. I'd like a spot of pea soup, with ham, but my schedule is on official sick day. Does Asia chortle, or should that question be nixed for my own protection?
Iron Circle of Zidan
High-throned in secret bliss, for us frail dust
Emptied his glory, even to nakedness -- a young Milton, sighted
Yaphet Kotto's execution sequence in the 78 film Blue Collar is an orchestrated marvel of plausible incredulity, textured with a granular, menacing quality. If the little people like Keitel and Pryor want to vie with the leadership of the union for power, they don't know what hard ball is, not until the bosses demonstrate they can even take on a pit bull like Kotto's character and deal him a lethal hand, and these are auto workers, with families and small row homes. Management needs to divide the Keitel-Pryor united front, and to do that, they eliminate the brawn, locking him in a spray paint trailer with a non-operational mask, turning on the paint nozzles to asphyxiate the little guy loyalist, one who roars like a lion. It is an unforgettable moment in the films of the me decade, and it is a texture the later Zodiac Killer reminiscences with poise and authenticity, the earth tones, the muted palette of ecological anxiety, particularly with the dead and the stressed grey squirrels in cages.
Blue Collar is not a great film, but it is true to the anxieties of my childhood, and if Kotto and Pryor were to be noted for nothing else, how their paranoia feeds off each other under Schrader's poignant look at hardened men who are desperate to make it, is one of the originals in a now nostalgia driven medium. The kill is also as much a metaphor on the consequences of defiance and expulsion as is Leah Remini's splinter from Hubbard's jazz and glitter. We are not so far removed from our primate origins, the ruptures within varying group dynamics, as we like to believe. Qaddfi may have been an Islamic socialist loon, but under his authority Libya at least had a known identity. What is it now? Collateral damage to the best intentions of the freedom loving US, where beneath the surface, how that freedom is defined isn't quite on par with constitutional articles.
Emptied his glory, even to nakedness -- a young Milton, sighted
Yaphet Kotto's execution sequence in the 78 film Blue Collar is an orchestrated marvel of plausible incredulity, textured with a granular, menacing quality. If the little people like Keitel and Pryor want to vie with the leadership of the union for power, they don't know what hard ball is, not until the bosses demonstrate they can even take on a pit bull like Kotto's character and deal him a lethal hand, and these are auto workers, with families and small row homes. Management needs to divide the Keitel-Pryor united front, and to do that, they eliminate the brawn, locking him in a spray paint trailer with a non-operational mask, turning on the paint nozzles to asphyxiate the little guy loyalist, one who roars like a lion. It is an unforgettable moment in the films of the me decade, and it is a texture the later Zodiac Killer reminiscences with poise and authenticity, the earth tones, the muted palette of ecological anxiety, particularly with the dead and the stressed grey squirrels in cages.
Blue Collar is not a great film, but it is true to the anxieties of my childhood, and if Kotto and Pryor were to be noted for nothing else, how their paranoia feeds off each other under Schrader's poignant look at hardened men who are desperate to make it, is one of the originals in a now nostalgia driven medium. The kill is also as much a metaphor on the consequences of defiance and expulsion as is Leah Remini's splinter from Hubbard's jazz and glitter. We are not so far removed from our primate origins, the ruptures within varying group dynamics, as we like to believe. Qaddfi may have been an Islamic socialist loon, but under his authority Libya at least had a known identity. What is it now? Collateral damage to the best intentions of the freedom loving US, where beneath the surface, how that freedom is defined isn't quite on par with constitutional articles.
One That Got Away
The Town That Dreaded Sundown was produced while the Zodiac
killings were still under active investigation, approximately 400 miles away.
The documentary drama came of age in the decade of my childhood, although I did
not know anything of Pierce’s work until very recently, when ThisTV purchased
syndication and ran it in their cyclic fashion. While the trombone sequence can
be considered signatory for the seventies idea of graphic exploitation, my
concern with the film is less critical, and more symmetrical, to allude to
Brian Greene’s reminder about the past and present, in physics. The 07 Zodiac has an uncanny familial reflection
when compared to Pierce’s more primitive lampoon. Like The Onion Field, Zodiac elevates the focus of the true crime genre,
and raises questions about justice and equity. If we wind up haunted by the heinous whom we never apprehend, the penal systems we have for those criminals proven guilty seems to be little more than an existential boomerang. Wambaugh brackets his film between the explosive annihilation of a good man with a strong center juxtaposed against an abscess of judicial process for his impulsive villains, and Fontana and Levinson, in Oz, bind all together in manipulative
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Anti-Trust Harpsicord
"I've been missing in action for over a month."-- David Carradine, swinging funerealist
Solutions are always trickier, and always imperfect, but one I can suggest off the bat is to bifurcate advocacy from case management systems. The disability center services recipient controls absolutely nothing. They are merely led to believe otherwise. The ones with the control are the fund allocators for Medicaid waiver services, and, as I've previously indicated, I have some research to do.
As Cassie used to empower her troops by commandeering Septa vehicles, she was also perpetrating the continuation of class conflict (cf Blue Collar) through the intimidation of non-unionized primarily minority CCT drivers, CCT drivers who also victimize and infrequently kill their clients due to poor training, criminal jackets. And Ms. James knows this is a valid charge on her doorstep, has been investigated by the DOJ, and in contemporary terms she mews softly, defanged and spayed.
I've always believed in more constructive engagement, even in terms of old American cities with impossible transport authorities.
For those of you who've suggested work at home on per hour basis solutions, I am not excluding the option, merely hampered by phlegm derived inflammation welling up through my Eustachian tube, building up the ear wax. Writing is and must by necessity be an insulating process, but I need constructive social engagement, not from Presby, and certainly not from 714 Market Street. Linda Dezenski may stay healthy when she is through eating her own by fidelity to the process, but I cannot be in that environment, even after I force her resignation.
Solutions are always trickier, and always imperfect, but one I can suggest off the bat is to bifurcate advocacy from case management systems. The disability center services recipient controls absolutely nothing. They are merely led to believe otherwise. The ones with the control are the fund allocators for Medicaid waiver services, and, as I've previously indicated, I have some research to do.
As Cassie used to empower her troops by commandeering Septa vehicles, she was also perpetrating the continuation of class conflict (cf Blue Collar) through the intimidation of non-unionized primarily minority CCT drivers, CCT drivers who also victimize and infrequently kill their clients due to poor training, criminal jackets. And Ms. James knows this is a valid charge on her doorstep, has been investigated by the DOJ, and in contemporary terms she mews softly, defanged and spayed.
I've always believed in more constructive engagement, even in terms of old American cities with impossible transport authorities.
For those of you who've suggested work at home on per hour basis solutions, I am not excluding the option, merely hampered by phlegm derived inflammation welling up through my Eustachian tube, building up the ear wax. Writing is and must by necessity be an insulating process, but I need constructive social engagement, not from Presby, and certainly not from 714 Market Street. Linda Dezenski may stay healthy when she is through eating her own by fidelity to the process, but I cannot be in that environment, even after I force her resignation.
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Developmental Fecal Discharge
I will put enmity between you and the woman, between your offspring and hers; they will strike at your head, while you strike at their heel. 3:15
Sean is not an ideologically committed Marxist. As channeled through Mickey Rourke, Penn realizes the film industry is a business. Dead Man Walking and I Am Sam reflect this. Both cater to the popular impulse. Conservative reaction is corrupted tunnel vision. Progressives are the bona fide heroes in this argument, but don't push your audience too hard, driving it to the mat, for the state does have legitimate interests in protecting children from developmental limitations. Sean wears Sam like a fashion statement, much like his politics. Where was he, or this prima donna, when this poor child needed rescue? We don't see things in the film that just barely scratch the surface. Mentally retarded people can be aggressive, thereby possibly abusive to offspring, as much so as the paradigm discards them. Cassie James is a militant exhibitionist; my critique will not change that, but for all her static, she apologizes for case management racism, her psyche divided and contradictory precisely because she failed to matriculate outward.
Actions can speak louder than words, and she quit Liberty twice, the first time as my peer support counselor, which is nothing but a fraudulent method of being tone deaf, repeating the concerns of the nascent inductee back to them, the second time for marriage and a move to Britain, where upon an accidental pregnancy, she has an existential crisis akin to my own, and Nancy flies to England to bring the ADAPT firebrand home, tail between her legs. I despise Cassie James almost as much as I hate what Linda did to me. They are both analogous to the thunderous collapse of the Twin Towers. Penn, however, has a creative artist's versatility. Leftist that he is, the dialogical interplay in some of his riskier roles offers another language, something authentic in the merger of paranoia and a skewered perspective that is as conversant with the Outsider as one of Eastwood's westerns with their snark. Cassie just hits scales with a spoon, tone deaf, keeping Depends as brand name adult diaper viable in the rhythm and commerce of our capitalist system. She paid her dues. I have no issue with that, as opposed to the corruption she maintains, soiled, stinking up the hallway, as blind in her vision as Rush Limbaugh.
Does anything I post get back to the vanguard at the center, and its political arm? I have no data on that and don't care, not after the hoops I've jumped, but much of what ADAPT does backfires, intimidates (hello), and has negative consequences. If Cassie was as principled as her public rhetoric is to be believed, Liberty Resources would actually take pride in being a competent system of support. In its 30 years of existence, it vomits as much entrails as it elevates on the other, much like Sean's hairstyle generates electricity.
Sean is not an ideologically committed Marxist. As channeled through Mickey Rourke, Penn realizes the film industry is a business. Dead Man Walking and I Am Sam reflect this. Both cater to the popular impulse. Conservative reaction is corrupted tunnel vision. Progressives are the bona fide heroes in this argument, but don't push your audience too hard, driving it to the mat, for the state does have legitimate interests in protecting children from developmental limitations. Sean wears Sam like a fashion statement, much like his politics. Where was he, or this prima donna, when this poor child needed rescue? We don't see things in the film that just barely scratch the surface. Mentally retarded people can be aggressive, thereby possibly abusive to offspring, as much so as the paradigm discards them. Cassie James is a militant exhibitionist; my critique will not change that, but for all her static, she apologizes for case management racism, her psyche divided and contradictory precisely because she failed to matriculate outward.
Actions can speak louder than words, and she quit Liberty twice, the first time as my peer support counselor, which is nothing but a fraudulent method of being tone deaf, repeating the concerns of the nascent inductee back to them, the second time for marriage and a move to Britain, where upon an accidental pregnancy, she has an existential crisis akin to my own, and Nancy flies to England to bring the ADAPT firebrand home, tail between her legs. I despise Cassie James almost as much as I hate what Linda did to me. They are both analogous to the thunderous collapse of the Twin Towers. Penn, however, has a creative artist's versatility. Leftist that he is, the dialogical interplay in some of his riskier roles offers another language, something authentic in the merger of paranoia and a skewered perspective that is as conversant with the Outsider as one of Eastwood's westerns with their snark. Cassie just hits scales with a spoon, tone deaf, keeping Depends as brand name adult diaper viable in the rhythm and commerce of our capitalist system. She paid her dues. I have no issue with that, as opposed to the corruption she maintains, soiled, stinking up the hallway, as blind in her vision as Rush Limbaugh.
Does anything I post get back to the vanguard at the center, and its political arm? I have no data on that and don't care, not after the hoops I've jumped, but much of what ADAPT does backfires, intimidates (hello), and has negative consequences. If Cassie was as principled as her public rhetoric is to be believed, Liberty Resources would actually take pride in being a competent system of support. In its 30 years of existence, it vomits as much entrails as it elevates on the other, much like Sean's hairstyle generates electricity.
Cherry 3000
"Tone it down a little." Jack Neale, a man who wanted native American wish fulfillment.
Miss Jack. He injected humor into my strident injury. Good man, but best left where it was, pressed in a rain slicker on the stow away coat hanger. I do not want a relationship with another wheelchair user, and the odds of finding an ambulatory male who finds my mettle engaging? I met one, in fact, just recently. My libido surged back to life, grateful, but playing the game involves hassle not worth the price of admission whether or not he can sustain an erection. He is potty trained, lively, and not an imbecile. So sorely tempted. Damn it all to hell.
Men. If even half of you took the time to understand assertion and accommodation, and that winning a mind like mine is its own reward. Men.
John Kerry is a life sized prosthetic, and this reflects the nearly intangible difference between China and the United States. The most marginalized American sat a foot away from one of the wealthiest and privileged blue bloods and engaged him in national policy even while in the present tense she is turning insurgent on a service offered on one of our most powerful corporate models.
Kerry probably busts his face playing hockey to frustrate his own sensibility of being mannequin deadwood. He is also one of the last of his species, and his disappearance from the political landscape is cause for concern, equivalent to Trader Joe's being a rare case of a California franchise success. This is not ideology. It is the elder statesman, and pragmatic inclusionary business model always improving on efficiency. The nature of grocery retail is such that Joe's cannot hire wheelchair users at their retail outlets, but they conspired with regional bakeries to create maple walnut blondies.
I will be there to nominate Joe's as an insurgent candidate on the floor of the convention in 2016. Why can't we remember that we know how to get things right, and be sensible? Infrastructure and mobility, aspiration. Important parts of the recipe.
Miss Jack. He injected humor into my strident injury. Good man, but best left where it was, pressed in a rain slicker on the stow away coat hanger. I do not want a relationship with another wheelchair user, and the odds of finding an ambulatory male who finds my mettle engaging? I met one, in fact, just recently. My libido surged back to life, grateful, but playing the game involves hassle not worth the price of admission whether or not he can sustain an erection. He is potty trained, lively, and not an imbecile. So sorely tempted. Damn it all to hell.
Men. If even half of you took the time to understand assertion and accommodation, and that winning a mind like mine is its own reward. Men.
John Kerry is a life sized prosthetic, and this reflects the nearly intangible difference between China and the United States. The most marginalized American sat a foot away from one of the wealthiest and privileged blue bloods and engaged him in national policy even while in the present tense she is turning insurgent on a service offered on one of our most powerful corporate models.
Kerry probably busts his face playing hockey to frustrate his own sensibility of being mannequin deadwood. He is also one of the last of his species, and his disappearance from the political landscape is cause for concern, equivalent to Trader Joe's being a rare case of a California franchise success. This is not ideology. It is the elder statesman, and pragmatic inclusionary business model always improving on efficiency. The nature of grocery retail is such that Joe's cannot hire wheelchair users at their retail outlets, but they conspired with regional bakeries to create maple walnut blondies.
I will be there to nominate Joe's as an insurgent candidate on the floor of the convention in 2016. Why can't we remember that we know how to get things right, and be sensible? Infrastructure and mobility, aspiration. Important parts of the recipe.
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Corrollary, sans Ivanhoe
"I had a late term abortion and was black balled in Hollywood." -- Toni Collette, absorbing to upend
A few insensitive emails crowing about sexual satisfaction does not amount ipso facto to a sexual harassment case. I have put a good deal of study into it, but Linda pressed the bar pretty close, because when I lost my temper and plowed into her things became pretty dire for me at Liberty. Cassie and Tom can't answer for what happened. Cassie and Tom were not back running the center Linda was in charge and I had a meltdown. My Aunt Roe supported my desire to file a lawsuit. My mother didn't. "You'll never work again," she inveighed dramatically, and in point of fact I haven't been able to find anything to keep me out of extensive travel, but Linda did indeed violate state law by contravening right to work guidelines, in a deliberate struggle with her boss, and this is what I'm pissed off about.
I turn to this spastic Jewish princess in a great deal of trouble, allow myself to get snowed, traumatized, and eat another seven years of it by coordinators who get defensive if your intelligence threatens their superiority, and then in comes the minority housing managers to join the battle. I have nothing to assure me that things won't worsen significantly within the next 36 months, and even this Seuss imprimatur, in sentient moments, told me to hire an attorney. Easier said.
A few insensitive emails crowing about sexual satisfaction does not amount ipso facto to a sexual harassment case. I have put a good deal of study into it, but Linda pressed the bar pretty close, because when I lost my temper and plowed into her things became pretty dire for me at Liberty. Cassie and Tom can't answer for what happened. Cassie and Tom were not back running the center Linda was in charge and I had a meltdown. My Aunt Roe supported my desire to file a lawsuit. My mother didn't. "You'll never work again," she inveighed dramatically, and in point of fact I haven't been able to find anything to keep me out of extensive travel, but Linda did indeed violate state law by contravening right to work guidelines, in a deliberate struggle with her boss, and this is what I'm pissed off about.
I turn to this spastic Jewish princess in a great deal of trouble, allow myself to get snowed, traumatized, and eat another seven years of it by coordinators who get defensive if your intelligence threatens their superiority, and then in comes the minority housing managers to join the battle. I have nothing to assure me that things won't worsen significantly within the next 36 months, and even this Seuss imprimatur, in sentient moments, told me to hire an attorney. Easier said.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Insolence and Mercy, Calypso
Sean Penn infuriated since childhood. He bristles, but this is Penn, Castro's general on the mainland, carrying public nonchalance in his back pack like the fabled Gibraltar, started his brand in Bad Boys, making an actor's decision not to engage in vengeance, and it may be a false memory that I was on the floor splayed like Kafka's vermin, staring bugged-eyed at young Penn's punk nose and stringy hair, like so many former punks I once knew. John now resembles Patrick Stewart. Takes the cake. When punk academic and I were young, he had a full bodied mane, uncharacteristic for an Italian.
Never got a chance to run my hands through that mane, now a polished pate, but it was my poem I wrote about doing so that set my supervisor off. I mailed it to her to imply she had my confidence, and there we had it, an unrequited longing fractured against her blind husband's industrious performance.
Irony. We've all seen Sarandon work her way into Prejean's progressive tenacity many times. Her mercy nearly destroys her, and perhaps this will be my fate, consumed by a more dominant woman's mangled empathy brutalized into making so many subordinates expendable. Yet the death penalty is a binary American ignition. For or against, we polarize around what remains of ritualized executions, an act which can never undue the horror of aggression just to get off on the rush.
To the extent that the Internet reflects reality, mama told my my temper is frightening. Who wants to deal with a peevish spinster so unforgiving of pedestrian frailty, bearing the brunt of my censure? Let me place you in my sister's shoes. If her younger daughter experienced life long surgery, institutional constraint, developed the need for a wheelchair, wound up a rape victim despite parental efforts, was inspired by a leader, then denigrated, abandoned to a landlord's threats, would you want it brushed off, swallowed, if you passed away unexpectedly? I cannot move. I am dependent on battery powered technology capable of malfunction. Why is it so strange that this builds into frustration that I do not vent on society, since it is ineffective?
It isn't simply about narcissism. Decentralization is as cruel as a centralized environment, sometimes more inefficient, and just as prone to abuse as that which makes ambulance chasers drool. Lack of accountability means that equal protection doesn't apply. Do you believe in a caste system where individuals like myself should be untouchable? Cassie James is fiery too, like a cyclops. She has been escorted by security agents more than once in her actions against Paratransit. The system beat her by imposing restrictions. Used to be we applied for the service with a physicians signature. Now we have to be evaluated by physical therapists who know nothing about our conditions. I refuse. When you watch Sarandon invest so deeply in a spree killer, you can think of me. Never committed fraud; never cheated HUD out of a dime, broke my damn back as an advocate even for a homeless man whose fungal stench made my BO seem like a welcome scent. I never lied to my caseload, never classified them as a case management issue, nor misinformed them.
I want justice. I intend to have it.
Never got a chance to run my hands through that mane, now a polished pate, but it was my poem I wrote about doing so that set my supervisor off. I mailed it to her to imply she had my confidence, and there we had it, an unrequited longing fractured against her blind husband's industrious performance.
Irony. We've all seen Sarandon work her way into Prejean's progressive tenacity many times. Her mercy nearly destroys her, and perhaps this will be my fate, consumed by a more dominant woman's mangled empathy brutalized into making so many subordinates expendable. Yet the death penalty is a binary American ignition. For or against, we polarize around what remains of ritualized executions, an act which can never undue the horror of aggression just to get off on the rush.
To the extent that the Internet reflects reality, mama told my my temper is frightening. Who wants to deal with a peevish spinster so unforgiving of pedestrian frailty, bearing the brunt of my censure? Let me place you in my sister's shoes. If her younger daughter experienced life long surgery, institutional constraint, developed the need for a wheelchair, wound up a rape victim despite parental efforts, was inspired by a leader, then denigrated, abandoned to a landlord's threats, would you want it brushed off, swallowed, if you passed away unexpectedly? I cannot move. I am dependent on battery powered technology capable of malfunction. Why is it so strange that this builds into frustration that I do not vent on society, since it is ineffective?
It isn't simply about narcissism. Decentralization is as cruel as a centralized environment, sometimes more inefficient, and just as prone to abuse as that which makes ambulance chasers drool. Lack of accountability means that equal protection doesn't apply. Do you believe in a caste system where individuals like myself should be untouchable? Cassie James is fiery too, like a cyclops. She has been escorted by security agents more than once in her actions against Paratransit. The system beat her by imposing restrictions. Used to be we applied for the service with a physicians signature. Now we have to be evaluated by physical therapists who know nothing about our conditions. I refuse. When you watch Sarandon invest so deeply in a spree killer, you can think of me. Never committed fraud; never cheated HUD out of a dime, broke my damn back as an advocate even for a homeless man whose fungal stench made my BO seem like a welcome scent. I never lied to my caseload, never classified them as a case management issue, nor misinformed them.
I want justice. I intend to have it.
Friday, October 4, 2013
Lieutenant To Grisham's League
"I believe people think their lives are more important than they really are."-- Daniel Schneider, pratfall analyst
I could use some pro bono assistance researching statue of limitation exemptions under Pennsylvania state law.
I am also interested in whether systemic failure of service delivery is actionable as gross negligence if it led to significant asset reduction and physical injury, I have a documentary timeline to establish this.
Can I bring a complaint to the Philadelphia bar association if I can establish that an attorney failed to engage in due diligence as an officer of the court when he was given evidence of hostile environment conduct and failed to act due to vested interest?
A legal aid professor I attempted to discuss this with wasn't interested due to a contractual relationship and budgetary gutting. I will find a legal forum, but I'm establishing my thought processes. Unlike bit industry guru's, I believe in self-worth.
I could use some pro bono assistance researching statue of limitation exemptions under Pennsylvania state law.
I am also interested in whether systemic failure of service delivery is actionable as gross negligence if it led to significant asset reduction and physical injury, I have a documentary timeline to establish this.
Can I bring a complaint to the Philadelphia bar association if I can establish that an attorney failed to engage in due diligence as an officer of the court when he was given evidence of hostile environment conduct and failed to act due to vested interest?
A legal aid professor I attempted to discuss this with wasn't interested due to a contractual relationship and budgetary gutting. I will find a legal forum, but I'm establishing my thought processes. Unlike bit industry guru's, I believe in self-worth.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Aperture by Spurs
"I have no choice."-- Blair Underwood's rendition
Things sometimes take a leisurely pace in permeating consciousness, indicating that Fitzgerald had a most timely jazz age idea, to be born with the acumen of life's experience first. In my visual study of films-- only visual at this point, since the approach to film studies and expending precious capital by causing offense to instructors is a non-sequitur if I cannot spare the time for a crash course (and the back of my mind worries about giving the Rosenbach a coronary; I did print sheets of my listing and meekly suggested a quid pro quo promotion, turning over in my mind how to wryly get past plumbing the depths; if Elyse peeked I have not the faintest idea of her reaction, ditto Althena, ditto young Lance, who I may never set eyes on again). I was sheepish with the director, and have to work on dropping the sheepish. This is a game, but with a deadly serious intent.
Only in recent years has it dawned how much Confederate guerrillas were responsible for the actual, the mythologized violence in the western territories. Dances With Wolves, at first breath taking, now under my breath I'd ask Christ to spare me Kevin Costner's immersion if he (Jesus) wasn't anything more than sugar candy. Pope Francis is giving me pause, but patriotic fealty softens that hesitation. Emperors are politicians too, fingers to the wind. It can be found in older studio films as well, Southern rubes, urbane Unionist troops. Costner and others muddied those succinctly drawn lines from Ike's era. It is interesting, the shift of the image in tandem with changing cultural mores. What Hank doesn't tell you I shall. Blair will fail for the same reason Bochco's Blind Justice failed. Disabled police potentially jeopardize lives. There are things we cannot do, also things we shouldn't do. Ironside is progress, but it is not veracious enough.
My mother would be turning in her grave, as my aunt is, still above ground, that I have bucked attendant care at my age. This is Liberty's fault as much as mine. Their community services department dropped me because I was angry about the sexual harassment circa 2006. They would not have treated me like this if Linda and I had not eviscerated each other. Some of you are astute people, and hear it. Tick tock. Duress aside, I never wanted the service, only custodial assistance.
Things sometimes take a leisurely pace in permeating consciousness, indicating that Fitzgerald had a most timely jazz age idea, to be born with the acumen of life's experience first. In my visual study of films-- only visual at this point, since the approach to film studies and expending precious capital by causing offense to instructors is a non-sequitur if I cannot spare the time for a crash course (and the back of my mind worries about giving the Rosenbach a coronary; I did print sheets of my listing and meekly suggested a quid pro quo promotion, turning over in my mind how to wryly get past plumbing the depths; if Elyse peeked I have not the faintest idea of her reaction, ditto Althena, ditto young Lance, who I may never set eyes on again). I was sheepish with the director, and have to work on dropping the sheepish. This is a game, but with a deadly serious intent.
Only in recent years has it dawned how much Confederate guerrillas were responsible for the actual, the mythologized violence in the western territories. Dances With Wolves, at first breath taking, now under my breath I'd ask Christ to spare me Kevin Costner's immersion if he (Jesus) wasn't anything more than sugar candy. Pope Francis is giving me pause, but patriotic fealty softens that hesitation. Emperors are politicians too, fingers to the wind. It can be found in older studio films as well, Southern rubes, urbane Unionist troops. Costner and others muddied those succinctly drawn lines from Ike's era. It is interesting, the shift of the image in tandem with changing cultural mores. What Hank doesn't tell you I shall. Blair will fail for the same reason Bochco's Blind Justice failed. Disabled police potentially jeopardize lives. There are things we cannot do, also things we shouldn't do. Ironside is progress, but it is not veracious enough.
My mother would be turning in her grave, as my aunt is, still above ground, that I have bucked attendant care at my age. This is Liberty's fault as much as mine. Their community services department dropped me because I was angry about the sexual harassment circa 2006. They would not have treated me like this if Linda and I had not eviscerated each other. Some of you are astute people, and hear it. Tick tock. Duress aside, I never wanted the service, only custodial assistance.
Second The Motion
It is difficult for nationally syndicated columnists to merge issues with micro-localization, but Samuelson gets credit for understanding and explicating the disability insurance explosion. Another flower in his buttonhole is deserved for recommending Timothy Taylor to educated readers. Mr. Taylor, more familiar with the American idiom than Niall Ferguson, did not dispense pity on a penny platter, and he and I had a civil exchange, at least until I was brazen enough to paste in my blogger url in my final response.
I like his work; he is worth following, and deserves a paid subscription. I have sold my last potentially commissioned essay. I am out of manuscripts, and need to cull my posts to develop more articles. Spastic takes on economic theory? The Swiss will undoubtedly upgrade security.
I intend to dismantle independent living centers. I shall not succeed, but do not underestimate my zeal to expose their abuses and remove the mandate that gives them the security of incompetence. I have to do some research and weigh the level of exposure to my disability entertainment public. I did give myself an escape clause for hitting a little of this, a little of that.
I like his work; he is worth following, and deserves a paid subscription. I have sold my last potentially commissioned essay. I am out of manuscripts, and need to cull my posts to develop more articles. Spastic takes on economic theory? The Swiss will undoubtedly upgrade security.
I intend to dismantle independent living centers. I shall not succeed, but do not underestimate my zeal to expose their abuses and remove the mandate that gives them the security of incompetence. I have to do some research and weigh the level of exposure to my disability entertainment public. I did give myself an escape clause for hitting a little of this, a little of that.
Wednesday, October 2, 2013
Day of The Locust
Our national flag ship cites 3,300 public housing agencies. Spastic, like the rest of the known universe, doesn't believe the Tea Party has the moxie to reignite historical sparks by holding firm long enough to put section 811, 202 and rent control tenants on the streets, but my sympathies are inclined toward their desire to clean house.
29 years of African American wardens of various stripes with access to my personal fiances. 29 years of black rape, animal cruelty, violence due to mental illness, regulating my speech, discourse with other tenants, knuckled under to give low skilled laborers a wage. If I could trust white libertarian and conservative charity and compassion, I would start a secessionist movement.
From 2004 I've had no gainful employment, and from 1997 I have been harassed by the DOE. I have no credit. If Cassie James wants to know why I am as angry with her methods as I am with the systemic regulatory oppression, it is because the activists were only willing to look out for me when I complied with a paradigm designed to hold me down.
I am not a felon, but I have essentially been convicted and hanged. Progressives want control and behavior compliance. The right can't see its way past radical capital strangulation for those born into it.
29 years of African American wardens of various stripes with access to my personal fiances. 29 years of black rape, animal cruelty, violence due to mental illness, regulating my speech, discourse with other tenants, knuckled under to give low skilled laborers a wage. If I could trust white libertarian and conservative charity and compassion, I would start a secessionist movement.
From 2004 I've had no gainful employment, and from 1997 I have been harassed by the DOE. I have no credit. If Cassie James wants to know why I am as angry with her methods as I am with the systemic regulatory oppression, it is because the activists were only willing to look out for me when I complied with a paradigm designed to hold me down.
I am not a felon, but I have essentially been convicted and hanged. Progressives want control and behavior compliance. The right can't see its way past radical capital strangulation for those born into it.
Danny DeVito, Birdseye
Not only do people point to very different features when they describe aesthetic experience or justify aesthetic judgments, but the language of aesthetic discourse also varies tremendously from one place and time to another.--Marcia Eaton
10 Rillington Place encapsulates a verity that transcends its age as a film. I remember viewing parts of it at a young age, but believe the lugubrious waif this spastic moll once was took it as a thriller; the revisitation and nostalgia of it is more chilling, and sexually arousing. Being drugged into passivity pussy access is a stimulus. Asphyxiation after the fact is not. Necrophilia is putrid. No one looks at a man like Christie and wants to suspect that he can strangle an innocent child, achieve erection with cadavers, and yet the lexicon has overtaken us, giving Hannibal in his incarnations another kind of veracity, a language of irony with pop culture and the liberation of murder, a liberation that takes on its own linguistic structure, embedded in Saussure's classification of human vocalization. The parent empire has staid formulations, even the same frictions with the African diaspora. Bryan Fuller mitigates it by being hip. Americans like a classy subversion.
I mull Devito's arc. Drowning Mona has yet another kind of truism, marred or not by familiar casting. Mothers have to live with the psychological score cards imprinted, and as a consequence, we laugh at the adult maiming and emasculation, wincing. Marcus projects a good old schlub in the end while we whack each other with all our emotional baggage, naked vulnerability. Jamie Lee Curtis hits one out of the park. She made me laugh in a 25 year old satirical drama that ran fresh for me, cuing recognitions in its exaggeration. But our real vulnerabilities inflict real trauma.
"I've always recognized the personal bond between us."
Linda Dezenski wrote that to me fourteen years ago and what the fuck is she doing? is what I asked myself. She never telephoned Matrix to see how I was. Never extended her friendship after I had resigned from her department. I felt gratified, however, and thought her authority would remain a safe harbor for me. Infantile? Perhaps. In 01, in a tactical mistake, I met with her between mutual human shields. You stay away from me. An indictment uttered I've been putting on trial ever since. I liked her before I made the attempt to trust her. It is difficult, not having healthy and happy social bindings, and that was one thing I wanted, friendships. The esteem of work, my own self reliance, all up in smoke. Let's see.
Louise tried. Daniel Schneider tried, but these are online contacts. Schneider was a misconstrued apprehension. Louise was too close to home and too young. Ed tried, and miscued and I bristled, again, on trust, I engaged his associate. Zach and I bumped like fools, but it was not Zach. My history with Project Share is best left as ancient history. Everything instant digital access is necessarily beneficial?
10 Rillington Place encapsulates a verity that transcends its age as a film. I remember viewing parts of it at a young age, but believe the lugubrious waif this spastic moll once was took it as a thriller; the revisitation and nostalgia of it is more chilling, and sexually arousing. Being drugged into passivity pussy access is a stimulus. Asphyxiation after the fact is not. Necrophilia is putrid. No one looks at a man like Christie and wants to suspect that he can strangle an innocent child, achieve erection with cadavers, and yet the lexicon has overtaken us, giving Hannibal in his incarnations another kind of veracity, a language of irony with pop culture and the liberation of murder, a liberation that takes on its own linguistic structure, embedded in Saussure's classification of human vocalization. The parent empire has staid formulations, even the same frictions with the African diaspora. Bryan Fuller mitigates it by being hip. Americans like a classy subversion.
I mull Devito's arc. Drowning Mona has yet another kind of truism, marred or not by familiar casting. Mothers have to live with the psychological score cards imprinted, and as a consequence, we laugh at the adult maiming and emasculation, wincing. Marcus projects a good old schlub in the end while we whack each other with all our emotional baggage, naked vulnerability. Jamie Lee Curtis hits one out of the park. She made me laugh in a 25 year old satirical drama that ran fresh for me, cuing recognitions in its exaggeration. But our real vulnerabilities inflict real trauma.
"I've always recognized the personal bond between us."
Linda Dezenski wrote that to me fourteen years ago and what the fuck is she doing? is what I asked myself. She never telephoned Matrix to see how I was. Never extended her friendship after I had resigned from her department. I felt gratified, however, and thought her authority would remain a safe harbor for me. Infantile? Perhaps. In 01, in a tactical mistake, I met with her between mutual human shields. You stay away from me. An indictment uttered I've been putting on trial ever since. I liked her before I made the attempt to trust her. It is difficult, not having healthy and happy social bindings, and that was one thing I wanted, friendships. The esteem of work, my own self reliance, all up in smoke. Let's see.
Louise tried. Daniel Schneider tried, but these are online contacts. Schneider was a misconstrued apprehension. Louise was too close to home and too young. Ed tried, and miscued and I bristled, again, on trust, I engaged his associate. Zach and I bumped like fools, but it was not Zach. My history with Project Share is best left as ancient history. Everything instant digital access is necessarily beneficial?
Tuesday, October 1, 2013
Available Kindle Loans, Yip
I have Mingmei Yip Petals From The Sky available to loan on Amazon if you enjoy romance after the fashion of the time honored Harlequin pulp. I could probably write a Harlequin blinded in one eye operating a mouth stylus, and before my silent chorus says if you can pump out trash then shut the fuck up and do it, I am already over extended, and do not wish to stoop to market impulse purchases for pennies.
I am turning over the creation of a horror noir, for more overwhelmed psychic stress. If Petals interests you, my email is on my Amazon profile.
I am turning over the creation of a horror noir, for more overwhelmed psychic stress. If Petals interests you, my email is on my Amazon profile.
Time Out
To be idiomatic, let me say something: There is more to the problem of what urban disability centers promise the disabled and what they deliver, and most wheelchair users, or those otherwise afflicted with chronic conditions difficult to accommodate, like epilepsy, are indoctrinated, and then spit out, never to be heard from again. Some matriculate out, and those who have, reading my posts, would say if they cared to contend the issue, that I am only alive vibrating in a broken vessel of a past that is over, and if my supervisor remains as a token facade with her excesses overlooked, I am dining on sour grapes, as opposed to adapting to my old age.
I will grant my jock crip readers that, but I underwent a great deal of duress, and my independence was endangered, because one supervisor fed me platitudes, and the other was more of a sociopath, and the center's case management staff behaved as bigots who are trained to think in a very narrow set of parameters that actually impede the potential of matriculation. Not in all cases, certainly. Mental retardation has a plateau, and this woman claims to get off on it.
For the record, Cassie is full of shit. That was her welcome home present from me, and if I get too strident I fall on deaf ears. However, I am physically weakening, and due to that, we're going to go for a ride, and I am going in deep. I cannot solve every free market inequity in this country, but I for the remainder of my life will fight the federal mandate that leads to such evil that I almost engaged in mortal injury. It took me years to find this degree of courage. Patience, and if I stay healthy long enough, I am a force for change. It matters to every citizen who believes in constitutional freedoms.
As a technical matter, that November evening I spiraled an outburst on Linda, the cascade, the torrent of emotion was pretty lame. I rolled to the kitchenette and grabbed a steak knife, weeping, then laughing, hard sniggering. I put the knife away and told Jack soon thereafter that I was going for emergency services, and was as good as my word. That was that, and I am not so self aware to know what I would have done if I had narcotics or more lethal implements available. I selected the wrong center on my first access attempt, tried a medical student later. I would not recommend discussing emotional trauma with interns. This was fourteen years ago and I am not keen on admitting I snapped out, but this is how difficult it was, the realization that she played me, like she played Chris, and he warned me a long time ago. Pay attention when third parties offer advice.
I've never been cured, if that isn't a misnomer. Things simply happened and became so dire I had to walk through hell to survive, like Keanu Reeves playing games with angels, so often paired with schizophrenia in modern parlance. I sketch the outline for the small chorus, like Homo Tweets, who urged me to get help. There really wasn't any that could fix what happened in my life after 2001. It evened out, but I will never forgive Liberty, nor, by extension, ADAPT.
I will grant my jock crip readers that, but I underwent a great deal of duress, and my independence was endangered, because one supervisor fed me platitudes, and the other was more of a sociopath, and the center's case management staff behaved as bigots who are trained to think in a very narrow set of parameters that actually impede the potential of matriculation. Not in all cases, certainly. Mental retardation has a plateau, and this woman claims to get off on it.
For the record, Cassie is full of shit. That was her welcome home present from me, and if I get too strident I fall on deaf ears. However, I am physically weakening, and due to that, we're going to go for a ride, and I am going in deep. I cannot solve every free market inequity in this country, but I for the remainder of my life will fight the federal mandate that leads to such evil that I almost engaged in mortal injury. It took me years to find this degree of courage. Patience, and if I stay healthy long enough, I am a force for change. It matters to every citizen who believes in constitutional freedoms.
As a technical matter, that November evening I spiraled an outburst on Linda, the cascade, the torrent of emotion was pretty lame. I rolled to the kitchenette and grabbed a steak knife, weeping, then laughing, hard sniggering. I put the knife away and told Jack soon thereafter that I was going for emergency services, and was as good as my word. That was that, and I am not so self aware to know what I would have done if I had narcotics or more lethal implements available. I selected the wrong center on my first access attempt, tried a medical student later. I would not recommend discussing emotional trauma with interns. This was fourteen years ago and I am not keen on admitting I snapped out, but this is how difficult it was, the realization that she played me, like she played Chris, and he warned me a long time ago. Pay attention when third parties offer advice.
I've never been cured, if that isn't a misnomer. Things simply happened and became so dire I had to walk through hell to survive, like Keanu Reeves playing games with angels, so often paired with schizophrenia in modern parlance. I sketch the outline for the small chorus, like Homo Tweets, who urged me to get help. There really wasn't any that could fix what happened in my life after 2001. It evened out, but I will never forgive Liberty, nor, by extension, ADAPT.
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