It is comparatively easy to dismiss Richard Yates. His novels are dated, and not particularly in a charming way, with only Richard Price's introduction standing out as a heart felt affectation. Yet every white nuclear family seems to undergo some form of sublet breakdown that destroy Frank and Alice. The Everyman edition I purchased is bound as well as an LOA edition, yet I am not sure what to do with it. I would not get much attempting to resell it used, wearing brave faces. Every holiday seems marked by increments of tragedy in my family, and tonight, rest assured, I just don't have the stones, this either for revelation or gloating of the sort that led to Christopher Dorner's unique signature of death by manhunt. This site is Pinerest managed shit, and what I am reduced to dealing with at my age. I no longer know the use, I truly do not.
You cannot see the extent of my corrosive malevolence, the sort that led to ISP tracking when I lashed out at Josie Byzek and the dyke free radicals didn't like it-- but it is a malevolence made all that much stronger. Lack of control, increased marginalization, these will do it, and I have written about payback, in the old fashioned Victorian sense of comeuppance fracturing hubris; it does not change the psychology of middle child sisters who believe everyone else should keep them afloat, does not change her children carry the triggers into the next generation on the sins of the father. The projective powers of Magneto and Xavier in the X-Men franchise are entertaining; take them seriously and discover that delusional states lead to injury, and yet, beneath the surface, the process of thought has to derive from some sort of reflective neuron activity. Can emotional pain run so deep that it can have a collective ripple effect? I saw a summary of one study suggesting as much.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Wednesday, November 27, 2013
Intransigent Poultry Farms
"This sounds like a very old story told in a new voice."-- Yusef Komunyakaa
Rosemary Murphy's animated death narrative in Milcho Manchevski's 2001 Dust had more of an impact than the story deserves. We've seen this kind of thing before done better in other contexts, the ferocious struggle with letting go as the body fails and the will defies, longing for a cigarette more than sex, which is seemingly the longing of every intellect seeking deliverance, including Svevo, which is indicative of necessity. Smokers should be allowed to die in peace. Rosemary's Prue is not central to Manchevski's Ottoman love story. Her character is absent, not solely because it is a history of her multi-ethnic conception. She is trapped by a past to which she is so bound that her only outlet is embellishment, a particularly eastern, Turkish conceit. It is an attractive absence, like my on again off again dialectic with the poet Robert Thomas.
I have engaged with him as a poet myself for many years, and he and his wife Cheryl and myself met briefly during a University of Pennsylvania's attempt at hybridization of the traditional literary reading. The hybridization failed; the coffee house in which the reading took place has shuttered its doors, our mothers have expired, Robert and I are still slugging it out in our fifties, and sixties in his case, with me cratering in to an overwhelmed nearly destitute obsolescence, wondering about his art, my own, my struggle to comply with marketable demand.
There is no need to over-analyze that our vocational endeavor made us friends, Robert and I, but what the hell is it that this relation is digitally derived? We are and aren't familiar to each other, and I have restrained the worst aspects, my lack of reticence, because I appreciate his aesthetic skill without resentment. His motifs are so different I appreciate them without desire of emulation. Not that I can't consider some of his strategies in comparison to mine, inclusive of hedging minute portions of envious snot for his bylines which every creative writer wants. Meaning I'll never see space in Poetry Magazine. My technique would never please Don Share nor his successors. And since I am perfectly attuned and stereotypical of the anonymous miserable poet, that's fine. I tried Poetry once. Perhaps there is a rebound goal on my deathbed.
For the sake of veracity, however, most authors and writers lives are not changed substantially, even by success.
Rosemary Murphy's animated death narrative in Milcho Manchevski's 2001 Dust had more of an impact than the story deserves. We've seen this kind of thing before done better in other contexts, the ferocious struggle with letting go as the body fails and the will defies, longing for a cigarette more than sex, which is seemingly the longing of every intellect seeking deliverance, including Svevo, which is indicative of necessity. Smokers should be allowed to die in peace. Rosemary's Prue is not central to Manchevski's Ottoman love story. Her character is absent, not solely because it is a history of her multi-ethnic conception. She is trapped by a past to which she is so bound that her only outlet is embellishment, a particularly eastern, Turkish conceit. It is an attractive absence, like my on again off again dialectic with the poet Robert Thomas.
I have engaged with him as a poet myself for many years, and he and his wife Cheryl and myself met briefly during a University of Pennsylvania's attempt at hybridization of the traditional literary reading. The hybridization failed; the coffee house in which the reading took place has shuttered its doors, our mothers have expired, Robert and I are still slugging it out in our fifties, and sixties in his case, with me cratering in to an overwhelmed nearly destitute obsolescence, wondering about his art, my own, my struggle to comply with marketable demand.
There is no need to over-analyze that our vocational endeavor made us friends, Robert and I, but what the hell is it that this relation is digitally derived? We are and aren't familiar to each other, and I have restrained the worst aspects, my lack of reticence, because I appreciate his aesthetic skill without resentment. His motifs are so different I appreciate them without desire of emulation. Not that I can't consider some of his strategies in comparison to mine, inclusive of hedging minute portions of envious snot for his bylines which every creative writer wants. Meaning I'll never see space in Poetry Magazine. My technique would never please Don Share nor his successors. And since I am perfectly attuned and stereotypical of the anonymous miserable poet, that's fine. I tried Poetry once. Perhaps there is a rebound goal on my deathbed.
For the sake of veracity, however, most authors and writers lives are not changed substantially, even by success.
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Malls and Mood Rings
Real bone ash is chemically inert and free of organic matters. -- Axner Pottery Supply
Ted Danson never quite made it to the top of the A list, unless Cheers at its peek is equivalent to Clark Gable not giving a damn as Dixie smoldered. Our favorite libertarian bar tender is now just a familiar face who can graft into series as filler. The two greatest romances of my network epoch were Steve Austin and Lindsay uniting the orthopedic ward cheering our first tacky cyborg lovers, though how that would actually work at face value raises interesting issues. Would it have been piston oil coitus?
The other was Ted Danson and Shelley Long. I was as invested in that chemistry as the rest of you, hooting and swooning and wondering if I'd survive or die gladly with that kind of Yankee bronco fuck, but the man could never propel himself aloft toward deification after the series ended, perhaps because his character's feather weight gravity in Cousins couldn't ground the actor into really challenging roles. The Canadian birthday cake pastoral suited the plane on which his ambition hovered, betrayals and regroupings playing themselves out in Vancouver's postcard version of an American metropolis, indulgent, pretty to look at, generating nausea up digestion.
Two interesting moments within the episode arcs: Rossellini with her lip bleeding when the couple consummated their revenge. It was not an authentic sexual expression it itself, but catches something about seven year itches which hits the right note, and made me chuckle at my escapades, and Petersen in the doorway afterward, with his beer. He hits weird notes as an actor in forgettable ensembles, cutting his dialogue in key moments, imprinting memory. Danson transplants him in this remake, only to replace Petersen as CSI's driving force. One with diminished stature the other only gained as the deaf forensics expert.
I pity Gallagher's daughter. Eight years old, and her affluent well educated mother has her diagnosed because her tantrums are *violent rages*. Do any of us ever stop to wonder whether or not a species should trust its own efficacy to reprogram itself? I had a few bitter altercations with my mother. We served to trigger each other. But my developmental physiology mimics emotional fluxes that in my mother were dangerous, and thus made me overwrought. This poor kid already has life long inadequacy grilled right into her psyche; here's hoping mom gets payback. Parents are well meaning enemies, but often can't envision long term consequences.
No two trajectories of every emotional aberration are the same, and as someone who was branded from the moment I was bundled into an incubator, I do not have to imagine the stigma the Gallagher's institutional paradigm inflicts on their eleven year old girl, their alarm at her volleys. I have not experienced them, but I spent a lifetime coping with them, in autistic deaf dumb and blind children, in my own institutional youth grafting, let alone my dead career. This professor's clutch on the throttle may harm as much as mitigate her child's behavior. My mother's censure and judgment did as much to me, especially when she was under her own psychiatric treatment, waltzed into Shriner's to push my buttons, among other items on the lengthy laundry list we accrue into maturity.
Ted Danson never quite made it to the top of the A list, unless Cheers at its peek is equivalent to Clark Gable not giving a damn as Dixie smoldered. Our favorite libertarian bar tender is now just a familiar face who can graft into series as filler. The two greatest romances of my network epoch were Steve Austin and Lindsay uniting the orthopedic ward cheering our first tacky cyborg lovers, though how that would actually work at face value raises interesting issues. Would it have been piston oil coitus?
The other was Ted Danson and Shelley Long. I was as invested in that chemistry as the rest of you, hooting and swooning and wondering if I'd survive or die gladly with that kind of Yankee bronco fuck, but the man could never propel himself aloft toward deification after the series ended, perhaps because his character's feather weight gravity in Cousins couldn't ground the actor into really challenging roles. The Canadian birthday cake pastoral suited the plane on which his ambition hovered, betrayals and regroupings playing themselves out in Vancouver's postcard version of an American metropolis, indulgent, pretty to look at, generating nausea up digestion.
Two interesting moments within the episode arcs: Rossellini with her lip bleeding when the couple consummated their revenge. It was not an authentic sexual expression it itself, but catches something about seven year itches which hits the right note, and made me chuckle at my escapades, and Petersen in the doorway afterward, with his beer. He hits weird notes as an actor in forgettable ensembles, cutting his dialogue in key moments, imprinting memory. Danson transplants him in this remake, only to replace Petersen as CSI's driving force. One with diminished stature the other only gained as the deaf forensics expert.
I pity Gallagher's daughter. Eight years old, and her affluent well educated mother has her diagnosed because her tantrums are *violent rages*. Do any of us ever stop to wonder whether or not a species should trust its own efficacy to reprogram itself? I had a few bitter altercations with my mother. We served to trigger each other. But my developmental physiology mimics emotional fluxes that in my mother were dangerous, and thus made me overwrought. This poor kid already has life long inadequacy grilled right into her psyche; here's hoping mom gets payback. Parents are well meaning enemies, but often can't envision long term consequences.
No two trajectories of every emotional aberration are the same, and as someone who was branded from the moment I was bundled into an incubator, I do not have to imagine the stigma the Gallagher's institutional paradigm inflicts on their eleven year old girl, their alarm at her volleys. I have not experienced them, but I spent a lifetime coping with them, in autistic deaf dumb and blind children, in my own institutional youth grafting, let alone my dead career. This professor's clutch on the throttle may harm as much as mitigate her child's behavior. My mother's censure and judgment did as much to me, especially when she was under her own psychiatric treatment, waltzed into Shriner's to push my buttons, among other items on the lengthy laundry list we accrue into maturity.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Hegel in Vancouver
"Married men and married women can only be close friends in large crowds."-- Ted Danson, has been heart candy.
Aunt Marie fell earlier in the week, broke her wrist. I did not tell her ancient cunning "I told you so," but I told her over the summer to begin the process of case managing her decline. She claimed she wasn't ready. Now that she is in pain with a joint fracture which will not heal properly, she is "ready to throw everything to PCA," and mildly incensed me by saying she doesn't know how I do it with one hand. She is old and in excruciating pain, but Jesus H Fucking Christ I need a new set of colorful expletives. I considered poon in the sense Ellroy uses it, but as slang it is more rancid and degenerative than I care to be. Barriers need not be built so thick.
I spent the early years of my childhood shuttled from row home to row home to row home, yellowed with cellophane lamp shades and plastic upholstery, Marie's included, on my knees on her kitchen linoleum as a monkey child screaming at her Rottweiler, thinking it was going to eat me, which led Uncle Richie to yell at me for frightening the damn dog, the tumors in his chest floating into place with T-1 switches, then I lived with her prior to my entry into the steaming dung of North Philadelphia, but the bigotry rolls like kidney stones from colon polyps.
Any time blacks start something between Temple University and Drexel, it becomes an international incident, but drive byes in Kensington, robberies in West Philly, these are slasher lede segments for the local broadcasts (Fox still sleeps with Coppola's opera; as a local network they believe traditional mafia is still relevant). I have been dealing with the guilt terror in that street thief's face, even if the kid has a defense to play, for 27 years now. It is the face of every black man who cannot matriculate into a professional niche within the business class. It is the face that destroyed whatever liberal creed I had twisted in my vaginal mucous when I migrated back, the face that angrily moved me rightward, the face that allows me to lose intimidation if I set out to teach Spike Lee something about humility.
Of the 600k minorities who legally reside in this large but dilapidated urban grid, two thirds of their children are texting me in face time audio urging me to "get mommy out of the toilet." My restraint has been admirable; it shall not last. In studio when I feel the need I toss the 5c in my canvas and hook it where I can access it. That alone helps me relax, but having matured from a vigorous 30 something into a bitter hag sow on Internet screens, sexting Jobs rib cage is beyond my day dreams.
Aunt Marie fell earlier in the week, broke her wrist. I did not tell her ancient cunning "I told you so," but I told her over the summer to begin the process of case managing her decline. She claimed she wasn't ready. Now that she is in pain with a joint fracture which will not heal properly, she is "ready to throw everything to PCA," and mildly incensed me by saying she doesn't know how I do it with one hand. She is old and in excruciating pain, but Jesus H Fucking Christ I need a new set of colorful expletives. I considered poon in the sense Ellroy uses it, but as slang it is more rancid and degenerative than I care to be. Barriers need not be built so thick.
I spent the early years of my childhood shuttled from row home to row home to row home, yellowed with cellophane lamp shades and plastic upholstery, Marie's included, on my knees on her kitchen linoleum as a monkey child screaming at her Rottweiler, thinking it was going to eat me, which led Uncle Richie to yell at me for frightening the damn dog, the tumors in his chest floating into place with T-1 switches, then I lived with her prior to my entry into the steaming dung of North Philadelphia, but the bigotry rolls like kidney stones from colon polyps.
Any time blacks start something between Temple University and Drexel, it becomes an international incident, but drive byes in Kensington, robberies in West Philly, these are slasher lede segments for the local broadcasts (Fox still sleeps with Coppola's opera; as a local network they believe traditional mafia is still relevant). I have been dealing with the guilt terror in that street thief's face, even if the kid has a defense to play, for 27 years now. It is the face of every black man who cannot matriculate into a professional niche within the business class. It is the face that destroyed whatever liberal creed I had twisted in my vaginal mucous when I migrated back, the face that angrily moved me rightward, the face that allows me to lose intimidation if I set out to teach Spike Lee something about humility.
Of the 600k minorities who legally reside in this large but dilapidated urban grid, two thirds of their children are texting me in face time audio urging me to "get mommy out of the toilet." My restraint has been admirable; it shall not last. In studio when I feel the need I toss the 5c in my canvas and hook it where I can access it. That alone helps me relax, but having matured from a vigorous 30 something into a bitter hag sow on Internet screens, sexting Jobs rib cage is beyond my day dreams.
Monday, November 18, 2013
Virtua Q610
To soothe the City Kitties breast, here is their little girl illustrating why Medicare actuaries should be flown to Polish secret rendition facilities. Retail price assembled runs about 7k, and the damn motor is so slow it would kill me on the Parkway. I'll update this later.
Sunday, November 17, 2013
Hackman's Armature
"Aging is a disease."-- Jonathan Weiner
Not four hours after uploading Turnstile, drifting into Weiner's obsession with gerontology, and balking despite symmetrical mindsets, the Apple 5c pings me into a Hollywood lesbian's group messaging circle. Despite the encroachment of late spring indigence with less and less ability to counteract it, I am not beyond a certain level of bemused sniggering at interconnected folly. I queried Diane Anderson-Minshall roughly two years ago with a cinema centered pitch, one in which I am still interested, for Curve Magazine, with minor diabolical motives on my part: Once in the gateway, there is no harm in keeping an eye out on gay glamour confetti. I mentioned Josie's name in the pitch to indicate I had associates. Diane did not respond, and I am mature enough to understand those odds, but never imagined importing Gmail into an iPhone would open the shutter on this woman's privacy, which, even within my psychological hostility, wouldn't be fair. Necessity being the mother of literacy as well as invention, I managed to shut off group messaging, and then fussed to both aunts before finally sinking under REM activity. I balk at this level of obtrusiveness in texting, and the fact that I held onto to her editorial email doesn't mean I want to read her fluff about getting ready for school.
Funny, none the less.
The European rendition of The Birdcage is superior to the American version. Lane and Hackman have a valiant pillow fight, but the foreign release is better grounded in the trigger ignitions of gender identity. Now that I am really sabotaging what's left of my career ambitions, my twilight zone may have a few intriguing page dates left, si?
Weiner's view on biological entropy is far too fixated on stability and stasis.
Not four hours after uploading Turnstile, drifting into Weiner's obsession with gerontology, and balking despite symmetrical mindsets, the Apple 5c pings me into a Hollywood lesbian's group messaging circle. Despite the encroachment of late spring indigence with less and less ability to counteract it, I am not beyond a certain level of bemused sniggering at interconnected folly. I queried Diane Anderson-Minshall roughly two years ago with a cinema centered pitch, one in which I am still interested, for Curve Magazine, with minor diabolical motives on my part: Once in the gateway, there is no harm in keeping an eye out on gay glamour confetti. I mentioned Josie's name in the pitch to indicate I had associates. Diane did not respond, and I am mature enough to understand those odds, but never imagined importing Gmail into an iPhone would open the shutter on this woman's privacy, which, even within my psychological hostility, wouldn't be fair. Necessity being the mother of literacy as well as invention, I managed to shut off group messaging, and then fussed to both aunts before finally sinking under REM activity. I balk at this level of obtrusiveness in texting, and the fact that I held onto to her editorial email doesn't mean I want to read her fluff about getting ready for school.
Funny, none the less.
The European rendition of The Birdcage is superior to the American version. Lane and Hackman have a valiant pillow fight, but the foreign release is better grounded in the trigger ignitions of gender identity. Now that I am really sabotaging what's left of my career ambitions, my twilight zone may have a few intriguing page dates left, si?
Weiner's view on biological entropy is far too fixated on stability and stasis.
Monastic Infidelity
Wang 's book makes the larger case “that aesthetic forms are inseparable from social, political, and historical contexts when it comes to the writing and reception of poetry.”
The CW ran the intriguing Adrian Lyne adaptation from the French over the past week of March 2014, and a toggle to my memory reminded me of the subtext within the film about style and affluence being somewhat fine and brittle. I sandwich this memento in between my more forceful retractions from liberalism in part to illustrate the difficulty of my Gordian knot, since monogamy itself has always been a difficult contract for us, the advanced human primate. I see humanity as nothing more than repulsive apes who made cognitive leaps and bounds by inexplicable accidents of anatomy, and yet remain attracted to ascetic rigor, remain supportive of flings, the liberating aspects of affairs.
Though I cannot speak for Gere's performance on a single viewing, Lane and Martinez inhabit a chic crackling which leaves me indecisive about both the murder and Lyne's conclusion, but his direction offers a distinctive, haunting collage, one that remains past the narrative itself. I am not sure whether it's worth eating up my usage to view it online or wait for it to run on broadcast again, but for our purposes, the film is a theatrical antithesis.
The CW ran the intriguing Adrian Lyne adaptation from the French over the past week of March 2014, and a toggle to my memory reminded me of the subtext within the film about style and affluence being somewhat fine and brittle. I sandwich this memento in between my more forceful retractions from liberalism in part to illustrate the difficulty of my Gordian knot, since monogamy itself has always been a difficult contract for us, the advanced human primate. I see humanity as nothing more than repulsive apes who made cognitive leaps and bounds by inexplicable accidents of anatomy, and yet remain attracted to ascetic rigor, remain supportive of flings, the liberating aspects of affairs.
Though I cannot speak for Gere's performance on a single viewing, Lane and Martinez inhabit a chic crackling which leaves me indecisive about both the murder and Lyne's conclusion, but his direction offers a distinctive, haunting collage, one that remains past the narrative itself. I am not sure whether it's worth eating up my usage to view it online or wait for it to run on broadcast again, but for our purposes, the film is a theatrical antithesis.
Turnstile Passes
"It may even be worse for you, in the end."-- Robert Shaw
Richard Rodriguez is perhaps ecstatic, positively jubilant. With only a glancing reference to his essays, I relent and forgive him for his sexual orientation. Why am I able to offer Rodriguez this gift, when I would otherwise drive Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern, my mother's surviving ex-friend Kmac, my own ex-collegiate friend Alan Gordon, who met Jimmi exactly once, ditto for the old queen Jim who I had to tolerate in the strange topography of Germantown when I drew my salary off of the Pew Charitable Trusts, why does Rodriguez get off when LBGT activists could throw themselves off Niagara? I have never observed the fabled hysteria of lemmings stampeding themselves off an escarpment, but that would be my jubilee, as far as the activists and myself are concerned. "Why are you blaming us for a trauma triggered by your supervisor, who enjoyed her little mind fuck at your expense? We didn't do it."
Your permissive promiscuity lays the groundwork for evil that has nothing to do with a messiah as a transmuted human deity. Zealous willful blindness of indulgence, Richard Rodriguez may not lack it, but he recognizes it as a Hispanic Catholic minority, and he is willing to be conflicted with it, not let himself off. He knows he sins, and this is his metaphysical decency within his faith, so I forgive and respect him, though I only know how heart felt his writing must be from the sincerity and gravitas of his media appearances. In a future dalliance, one day I must immerse myself in his work beyond that offered on public airways. Not that this isn't further complicated by Proustian intertextual superfluity, but I have spent the evening with the night, and plod one plank at a time, even in envy.
Envious. Thomas Harris generates psychical wounding thrillers, Hannibal churned out of covering criminal courts, or at least, speculated as such. Black Sunday was spawned from the 72 Munich games, but let us enlarge on geopolitical aspects. We once believed in Robert Shaw's Major from the film. Understood him, held fast to his ruthless expediency keeping us safe in our beds, perhaps even held a reservoir of sympathy for Bruce Dern's sociopathic veteran, but even this has vanished. The complicated mosaic of the Mossad is not quite so contingent on move and counter move in causation, saving us in the end. As a thriller, Black Sunday has an elocution, a prescient elegance of a unipolar map long since vanquished in the post 9/11 era. It began here, however, with a weak southern politician still ambling about in his near 90's, with his prefabricated simple dwelling habitats, carrying Guinea and the Sudan in his harvester. Jimmy Carter is a guilty man, and he knows it, all the more why he posits onus on Israeli apartheid. The heirs of Zionism may carry age old intransigence, but it is within the bloom of Carter's failure that the world we have today is what it is, right in the bosom of Obama's exhausted integrity.
More is the pity.
Richard Rodriguez is perhaps ecstatic, positively jubilant. With only a glancing reference to his essays, I relent and forgive him for his sexual orientation. Why am I able to offer Rodriguez this gift, when I would otherwise drive Josie and Erik and Jimmi and Fern, my mother's surviving ex-friend Kmac, my own ex-collegiate friend Alan Gordon, who met Jimmi exactly once, ditto for the old queen Jim who I had to tolerate in the strange topography of Germantown when I drew my salary off of the Pew Charitable Trusts, why does Rodriguez get off when LBGT activists could throw themselves off Niagara? I have never observed the fabled hysteria of lemmings stampeding themselves off an escarpment, but that would be my jubilee, as far as the activists and myself are concerned. "Why are you blaming us for a trauma triggered by your supervisor, who enjoyed her little mind fuck at your expense? We didn't do it."
Your permissive promiscuity lays the groundwork for evil that has nothing to do with a messiah as a transmuted human deity. Zealous willful blindness of indulgence, Richard Rodriguez may not lack it, but he recognizes it as a Hispanic Catholic minority, and he is willing to be conflicted with it, not let himself off. He knows he sins, and this is his metaphysical decency within his faith, so I forgive and respect him, though I only know how heart felt his writing must be from the sincerity and gravitas of his media appearances. In a future dalliance, one day I must immerse myself in his work beyond that offered on public airways. Not that this isn't further complicated by Proustian intertextual superfluity, but I have spent the evening with the night, and plod one plank at a time, even in envy.
Envious. Thomas Harris generates psychical wounding thrillers, Hannibal churned out of covering criminal courts, or at least, speculated as such. Black Sunday was spawned from the 72 Munich games, but let us enlarge on geopolitical aspects. We once believed in Robert Shaw's Major from the film. Understood him, held fast to his ruthless expediency keeping us safe in our beds, perhaps even held a reservoir of sympathy for Bruce Dern's sociopathic veteran, but even this has vanished. The complicated mosaic of the Mossad is not quite so contingent on move and counter move in causation, saving us in the end. As a thriller, Black Sunday has an elocution, a prescient elegance of a unipolar map long since vanquished in the post 9/11 era. It began here, however, with a weak southern politician still ambling about in his near 90's, with his prefabricated simple dwelling habitats, carrying Guinea and the Sudan in his harvester. Jimmy Carter is a guilty man, and he knows it, all the more why he posits onus on Israeli apartheid. The heirs of Zionism may carry age old intransigence, but it is within the bloom of Carter's failure that the world we have today is what it is, right in the bosom of Obama's exhausted integrity.
More is the pity.
Familiar Umbrage
Here is my last piccolo diavolo, Vincento, the surviving brother. "See what I have to put up with on my bed? Devices, wires, flashes, photographs. Could I wake her up when Joey needed emergency surgery?
When nonna is broke I will have to stop guilt tripping her with that argument."
When nonna is broke I will have to stop guilt tripping her with that argument."
Saturday, November 16, 2013
Swinging It
Or I could have married an economist like Timothy Taylor, which is a subversive assertion without the provocation of temptation. He doesn't turn me on, but parses my plight more reasonably than the public housing residents with whom I live so unwillingly, or the disability center staffers who simply outsource institutional compliance and make the disillusioned expendable, and even more than a few believers expendable, as a price for the lie in the paradigm. I didn't have this insight when I was a physically mature 28. It escaped me, that all Liberty proffers is the same centralized institutional care, with blue collar level skill, outsourced within the community rather than the institution.
I had what Liberty now calls skills training at Home of the Merciful Savoir as a precocious child, and support coordination staff start off on their entry level 18k making this lifetime compliance model a rectal scope to shove up our asses.
Ambulatory individuals might ask what the fuck is it that I want, to be able to entertain myself in a cockroach colony?
Not quite. What Tim's hard driving cerebral analysis grapples is the cost of a domesticated biology, and getting it right isn't always about equilibrium of expenditure so much as the right level of investment early with applied and rational levels of ruthlessness. Hence Vonnegut's assault on Billy in Slaughterhouse Five, or the disjunction between scene locale, precision acting, and the real Americana buffeted and billowed by the great recession that Up in the Air epitomizes to the point of a near gold standard. Jayne Anne Phillips, in whose work I was once enviously invested because I couldn't "fool around" with my teachers, a flippancy that Vera Farmiga throws off so coolly, decries the injustice of mandatory drug sentencing, channeling a Nicholas Kristof column, like good militant liberals.
I no longer have the ability to be outraged by individual trafficking circumstances which have quadrupled the growth of the prison industry. We've already damned ourselves with welfare state corporate models so top heavy they implode with every uptake in the climate shift.
I had what Liberty now calls skills training at Home of the Merciful Savoir as a precocious child, and support coordination staff start off on their entry level 18k making this lifetime compliance model a rectal scope to shove up our asses.
Ambulatory individuals might ask what the fuck is it that I want, to be able to entertain myself in a cockroach colony?
Not quite. What Tim's hard driving cerebral analysis grapples is the cost of a domesticated biology, and getting it right isn't always about equilibrium of expenditure so much as the right level of investment early with applied and rational levels of ruthlessness. Hence Vonnegut's assault on Billy in Slaughterhouse Five, or the disjunction between scene locale, precision acting, and the real Americana buffeted and billowed by the great recession that Up in the Air epitomizes to the point of a near gold standard. Jayne Anne Phillips, in whose work I was once enviously invested because I couldn't "fool around" with my teachers, a flippancy that Vera Farmiga throws off so coolly, decries the injustice of mandatory drug sentencing, channeling a Nicholas Kristof column, like good militant liberals.
I no longer have the ability to be outraged by individual trafficking circumstances which have quadrupled the growth of the prison industry. We've already damned ourselves with welfare state corporate models so top heavy they implode with every uptake in the climate shift.
Urban Vigilantes
"Just in case you skimmed over that, Eminem is saying he wants to kill a woman he particularly despises with a machine gun."--Lucy Jones, NME
Dick Costolo is sanguine about suspending the twitter accounts of lawyers if they attempt to corral class action clients through the micro-network, yet Spike, because he is a celebrity, can engage in an overt vigilante attempt, which, despite his lauded artistry, he doesn't verify, gets his facts wrong, and disrupts the lives of innocent people. Settles with them for pocket change, wants the suit dismissed, and no doubt holds the loyalty of his followers with a bond stronger than the variability of melanin. Is it fair that market value dictates access and privilege in this manner?
I am no particular fan of George Zimmerman despite my experiences in the inner city, but I do care about the rule of law, which is why I never published any direct threats to my disability center, or to my former supervisor Linda, despite years of duress as a consequence, yet this man can do as he likes and come away with a wrist slap because he has an agenda, and airs dirty laundry on the inside of his brothers and sisters, swimming the established currents of the left because he got Jackson to do a shuffle parody. The virtual highlight of Jungle Fever. Given that I have been victimized by entitlement and identity, I think the suit against Lee should hold, and that twitter should consider suspending his account until the case settles, and the issue of inciting the public is examined with serious consideration. Whatever the future holds for Zimmerman, he was acquitted in the death of Trayvon. Killing the man amounts to giving all of us an open season. Perhaps a boycott of future Lee projects is in order. The breakout work had energy, to the limited extent I'm familiar, but the chocolate chip that drives his work walls off entry into it. Spike likes to kick box his audience. I wonder how he'd feel about a spastic steam roll.
Dick Costolo is sanguine about suspending the twitter accounts of lawyers if they attempt to corral class action clients through the micro-network, yet Spike, because he is a celebrity, can engage in an overt vigilante attempt, which, despite his lauded artistry, he doesn't verify, gets his facts wrong, and disrupts the lives of innocent people. Settles with them for pocket change, wants the suit dismissed, and no doubt holds the loyalty of his followers with a bond stronger than the variability of melanin. Is it fair that market value dictates access and privilege in this manner?
I am no particular fan of George Zimmerman despite my experiences in the inner city, but I do care about the rule of law, which is why I never published any direct threats to my disability center, or to my former supervisor Linda, despite years of duress as a consequence, yet this man can do as he likes and come away with a wrist slap because he has an agenda, and airs dirty laundry on the inside of his brothers and sisters, swimming the established currents of the left because he got Jackson to do a shuffle parody. The virtual highlight of Jungle Fever. Given that I have been victimized by entitlement and identity, I think the suit against Lee should hold, and that twitter should consider suspending his account until the case settles, and the issue of inciting the public is examined with serious consideration. Whatever the future holds for Zimmerman, he was acquitted in the death of Trayvon. Killing the man amounts to giving all of us an open season. Perhaps a boycott of future Lee projects is in order. The breakout work had energy, to the limited extent I'm familiar, but the chocolate chip that drives his work walls off entry into it. Spike likes to kick box his audience. I wonder how he'd feel about a spastic steam roll.
Friday, November 15, 2013
Harry Bergeron
"Tried it. We're no picnic ourselves."
Exactly. The key scene in the lounge between Vera and Anna on lesbian experimentation is subtle. Up in the Air (2009) offers sly renderings with each reviewing, and there is a swipe here about lack of discipline towards appearance and grooming. Reitman winds his cinematography as tight as an Apple OS platform (and I am still not sold on the essential necessity of the convenience, partly generational), the literate cued in now to Alexandra's duplicity over being comfortable (appearances don't matter) and deceptive about the degree to which she was utilizing Ryan like a truffle, although he treats his lifestyle in such a fashion, a decorous candy dish, leading us to Kurt Vonnegut and his back handed warnings. The actual story on which the Bergeron adaptation is based, if you do not know it, would give Obama a frontal lobe injury.
Vonnegut, like Rajaniemi, uses satirical conceits which in lesser hands is akin to mutilating your pussy and scrotum on a bed of nettles, and yet this is Vonnegut, who defies classification. I am old enough to remember his biology of the English iamb, unlike you, in my hard copy archive, and realize from where Kurt jacks that he is no more a genre adherent than Hubbard is a reincarnation of Moses.
I have had a running allergy for three weeks. Colds sparked by Presby's idea of humane heating I am used to, but not this constant itch, clear post nasal drip frothing, relieved not by a decongestant but an anti-inflammatory, hard study of euthanasia papers. I've come up with a bizarre idea, in the nomenclature of uproars, and if I want to get myself drummed out of the mainstream, or merely intent on an emulating hard on for Estelle Getty's provocative timing, depends on how cleverly ugly Blogger will allow me to be. Don't doubt that I am not simply because I fear terms of service.
The older I grow, the angrier I get, the closer I come to carnage seemingly for the sole purpose of obliterating and then I pull myself up short. Is it that bad? I'm not Spike Lee, and he utilized twitter for vigilantism on innocent people. Being a brand with a chip as hard as pink quartz up his ass, recognition is a shield under which he can get away with it.
I will show you little vinnie pictures soon.
Exactly. The key scene in the lounge between Vera and Anna on lesbian experimentation is subtle. Up in the Air (2009) offers sly renderings with each reviewing, and there is a swipe here about lack of discipline towards appearance and grooming. Reitman winds his cinematography as tight as an Apple OS platform (and I am still not sold on the essential necessity of the convenience, partly generational), the literate cued in now to Alexandra's duplicity over being comfortable (appearances don't matter) and deceptive about the degree to which she was utilizing Ryan like a truffle, although he treats his lifestyle in such a fashion, a decorous candy dish, leading us to Kurt Vonnegut and his back handed warnings. The actual story on which the Bergeron adaptation is based, if you do not know it, would give Obama a frontal lobe injury.
Vonnegut, like Rajaniemi, uses satirical conceits which in lesser hands is akin to mutilating your pussy and scrotum on a bed of nettles, and yet this is Vonnegut, who defies classification. I am old enough to remember his biology of the English iamb, unlike you, in my hard copy archive, and realize from where Kurt jacks that he is no more a genre adherent than Hubbard is a reincarnation of Moses.
I have had a running allergy for three weeks. Colds sparked by Presby's idea of humane heating I am used to, but not this constant itch, clear post nasal drip frothing, relieved not by a decongestant but an anti-inflammatory, hard study of euthanasia papers. I've come up with a bizarre idea, in the nomenclature of uproars, and if I want to get myself drummed out of the mainstream, or merely intent on an emulating hard on for Estelle Getty's provocative timing, depends on how cleverly ugly Blogger will allow me to be. Don't doubt that I am not simply because I fear terms of service.
The older I grow, the angrier I get, the closer I come to carnage seemingly for the sole purpose of obliterating and then I pull myself up short. Is it that bad? I'm not Spike Lee, and he utilized twitter for vigilantism on innocent people. Being a brand with a chip as hard as pink quartz up his ass, recognition is a shield under which he can get away with it.
I will show you little vinnie pictures soon.
Thursday, November 14, 2013
Invariably Droll
Unlike my hearing loss piece, I met this deadline with all due speed under the 400 m limit, and expect criticism and a rewrite request, perhaps just minor revisions to my data and title, but haven't the faintest hope of earning all that much, mainly out of distrust for a conglomerate which doesn't make embedding easy, as does Blogger. I am not entirely sure that the .com is a genuine publishing entity.
I'll leave it unnamed until they get back to me and I complete the filing requirements, and even then, I may let you sort it out on an individual basis, but it has the insinuation of vanity publishing, hacking to the last resort.
I so wanted to be pleased; now I am not, but let's wait, let's see, and when something comes up, I'll keep applying. Not that I have to stop pitching; I'd just like real part time assignments. It is after six am. Sleep patterns changing. Stress.
I'll leave it unnamed until they get back to me and I complete the filing requirements, and even then, I may let you sort it out on an individual basis, but it has the insinuation of vanity publishing, hacking to the last resort.
I so wanted to be pleased; now I am not, but let's wait, let's see, and when something comes up, I'll keep applying. Not that I have to stop pitching; I'd just like real part time assignments. It is after six am. Sleep patterns changing. Stress.
Wednesday, November 13, 2013
Inimitable Autonomies Within a Myeloma
Brown initially shared Garrison's pacificism. As a boy, he'd been so disgusted by what he saw of soldiers during the War of 1812 that he later refused to drill with local militias and paid fines to avoid military service. -- Midnight Rising, kindle edition loc 375
In relation to the ACA, I take a different view. Health care will never be radically equalized; it is impossible to achieve this on a global scale. Access to humane treatment is not entirely beyond scope, but this has regional variability.
I have written that I believe in self worth, and do, but cannot delude myself, on macro scales, that my individual life is valuable. My birth was dangerous and difficult and the fetus was supposed to die, didn't, and when that is the summation of an existence, it alters the viewpoint. Someone like Monica Carr, herself a warped challenge for you not to judge her disapprovingly, as she is not simply heavy, but repulsive, like the teletubbies, of which I've been suspicious since I first laid eyes on them, used to tell me that my reactions were irrational. Mmm. For a happy god-fearing suburbanite who successfully raises her progeny and keeps her partner's testicles in a vise, a desire for a short lifespan might be irrational.
Not for me. Existence, to be precious, needs contingency, and it's okay to be single, if you have sustaining relationships and function around that; during youth, dreams of ambition kept me afloat, but I should have realized as an undergraduate that I was doomed, simply as a matter of policy containment and failed domestication. I am sloppy, cluttered, have Italian sinuses, and when I have not been caged, or made into a Frankenstein facsimile, pedestrian sensibility wants it done as a matter of course, hence the dimmer on empathy for aggressive treatments of complex cancers, or even Dick Cheney's heart disease. Continuous fighting in this sense is the irrationality on a evolutionary scale. We're a complex primate, but possibly not unique, and sustaining each 7.1 billion self interested persons may be beneficial to selfish desire to stick around as long as possible, but not in the best interest of the large egg on which we live. If you are over fifty with a multiple myeloma, all that chemo, all those drugs, may buy you time at the expense of other long term viabilities.
I never believed in my own invincibility, and that is one value the long term disabled community can offer. That I'd rather have euthanasia available as an option is not an easy thing to write, but I write it in terms of my expenditures. I have not raised children. Career has been a lifelong unhappy battle, and because people need to make a living themselves, they get the right to manage how I live, and from here, within how many months, I will be forced, once again, to depend on quasi-asinine nursing care, primarily bed ridden because lifting me off a mattress invites liability. I'd rather go to sleep than spend an excruciating period of time under that duress. Now I have to go work on my 400 word piece of snark. Harrumph.
In relation to the ACA, I take a different view. Health care will never be radically equalized; it is impossible to achieve this on a global scale. Access to humane treatment is not entirely beyond scope, but this has regional variability.
I have written that I believe in self worth, and do, but cannot delude myself, on macro scales, that my individual life is valuable. My birth was dangerous and difficult and the fetus was supposed to die, didn't, and when that is the summation of an existence, it alters the viewpoint. Someone like Monica Carr, herself a warped challenge for you not to judge her disapprovingly, as she is not simply heavy, but repulsive, like the teletubbies, of which I've been suspicious since I first laid eyes on them, used to tell me that my reactions were irrational. Mmm. For a happy god-fearing suburbanite who successfully raises her progeny and keeps her partner's testicles in a vise, a desire for a short lifespan might be irrational.
Not for me. Existence, to be precious, needs contingency, and it's okay to be single, if you have sustaining relationships and function around that; during youth, dreams of ambition kept me afloat, but I should have realized as an undergraduate that I was doomed, simply as a matter of policy containment and failed domestication. I am sloppy, cluttered, have Italian sinuses, and when I have not been caged, or made into a Frankenstein facsimile, pedestrian sensibility wants it done as a matter of course, hence the dimmer on empathy for aggressive treatments of complex cancers, or even Dick Cheney's heart disease. Continuous fighting in this sense is the irrationality on a evolutionary scale. We're a complex primate, but possibly not unique, and sustaining each 7.1 billion self interested persons may be beneficial to selfish desire to stick around as long as possible, but not in the best interest of the large egg on which we live. If you are over fifty with a multiple myeloma, all that chemo, all those drugs, may buy you time at the expense of other long term viabilities.
I never believed in my own invincibility, and that is one value the long term disabled community can offer. That I'd rather have euthanasia available as an option is not an easy thing to write, but I write it in terms of my expenditures. I have not raised children. Career has been a lifelong unhappy battle, and because people need to make a living themselves, they get the right to manage how I live, and from here, within how many months, I will be forced, once again, to depend on quasi-asinine nursing care, primarily bed ridden because lifting me off a mattress invites liability. I'd rather go to sleep than spend an excruciating period of time under that duress. Now I have to go work on my 400 word piece of snark. Harrumph.
Monday, November 11, 2013
The Psychology of Deadlines
How does one accurately transliterate agony? The challenge of symbolism to depict--during my public housing home invasion that forever conflated my perspective on social fear, vocal chords were frozen in silence, and then terror broke lose once my Mighty Joe dragged me into my own bedroom. The damn exploded and I shrieked, my voice voluminous in sound waves, tenants in laundry room heard but were afraid to intervene. Time saved me, as Bradon would have had to asphyxiate or fracture my skull in less than ten minutes; within that time frame the salaried minorities appeared, old Myers, exterminator, young Terri, who I correctly evaluated as integration material in the urban business district. He was also not hardened enough to kill a white nearly penniless (these fuckwits exploited me for minimum wage without health insurance toward the event of my departure), invalid, but terror overwhelmed me, would have haunted my family had a black addict murdered me after they begged me not to do what I did after moving into North Philadelphia. The Washington Post loves analysts who are American triumphalists, but that triumph rests on nearly horrific--I cannot convey the recoil of the inner city--had the Luftwaffe reversed expectations and bombed our ghettos it would have not been unimaginable to believe it would have been a backhanded cleansing. Now you see how I handle pressure, and the expectation of delivery under pressure, for what? .05 cents a word on aggregate basis? I'm hastily throwing together five hundred word for my first pop, despite diffidence. I am not sure I will not fail here as I did for my hearing loss piece, but then again, this is inglorious assembly line journo-infotainment. With edits I'll get two dollars for Google Wallet. Spader just had an interesting scene smothering an old ally terminal with cancer?
Bronchial Nitrates
"Like all eighties kids, I was so busy being told how special I was I didn't get that went for everybody else."-- a lift from @TBlackford3
The prosthetic finger was a shock, and if I remember nothing else from The Piano, vaguely recollected as having run on network, but not overkilled, remembering that finger, remembering an inchoate grunt of protest, this is sufficient in inimical effervescence, the recognition of Anna Paquin raven haired, with that cherubic mouth she carries over to Darkness (a film which aired three times at least after my initial viewing, a film which I need to sit still for a fourth try, which in euphemistic terms means pushing the Quickie switch down. It emits a chirp which sounds cut off in mortal peril, a fragile Easter chick snapped like a wishbone, then making sure bladder remains pacified). Enigmatic images. I was not haunted like our avuncular ghost who spent so much money reconstructing a jaw and a mouth he could not use. I wrestled slightly about continuing to follow Chaz, but that would have been an act of fetishistic supersize fawning. I respected Ebert, but he played to audience catering in ways I'd refuse as a critic. A mechanized finger, elegant imperfection in a moving and vivid visual poem leagues removed Westworld, yet the props evoke each other, hinged digit and silver contacts of an ethically ambiguous chameleon casting directors can't utilize on the cheap that way ever again. Bynner played every type except starched bread: Indians, Asians, mulattoes, Russians, Christ knows what I've missed besides the robot, not nearly as sophisticated as the nightmare that kept Asimov up at night as he sequeled his Foundation trilogy, but Asimov might have appreciated Yul's last death stance as the living Yoda turned gollem in his notorious service announcement. I may have also seen Polanski's swan, the haunted survivor threshing out America's narcissistic victimology. This is the universal thread binding all Americans. Emotionalism flows outward from us like liquid gold. The majority of us aren't worth a great deal as a matter of tort, regardless of self interest. This is the reason I tweaked Troy's tag, aside from copping to denominators along the subtle distinctions among networking aggregates, as the inflated Americanism that makes the United States insufferable, a repetitive chase after cotton candy, the best drug to slurp at the zoo.
I applied for my first online job, a freelance two bit perhaps ethically dubious, but too busy with my schedule to work during these few days of a break. Sanguine however, about Blogger post time consumption, as I have a book and a few articles buried in here, even if my portrait from Drinker's West inexplicably vanished. Perhaps it was data usage.
The prosthetic finger was a shock, and if I remember nothing else from The Piano, vaguely recollected as having run on network, but not overkilled, remembering that finger, remembering an inchoate grunt of protest, this is sufficient in inimical effervescence, the recognition of Anna Paquin raven haired, with that cherubic mouth she carries over to Darkness (a film which aired three times at least after my initial viewing, a film which I need to sit still for a fourth try, which in euphemistic terms means pushing the Quickie switch down. It emits a chirp which sounds cut off in mortal peril, a fragile Easter chick snapped like a wishbone, then making sure bladder remains pacified). Enigmatic images. I was not haunted like our avuncular ghost who spent so much money reconstructing a jaw and a mouth he could not use. I wrestled slightly about continuing to follow Chaz, but that would have been an act of fetishistic supersize fawning. I respected Ebert, but he played to audience catering in ways I'd refuse as a critic. A mechanized finger, elegant imperfection in a moving and vivid visual poem leagues removed Westworld, yet the props evoke each other, hinged digit and silver contacts of an ethically ambiguous chameleon casting directors can't utilize on the cheap that way ever again. Bynner played every type except starched bread: Indians, Asians, mulattoes, Russians, Christ knows what I've missed besides the robot, not nearly as sophisticated as the nightmare that kept Asimov up at night as he sequeled his Foundation trilogy, but Asimov might have appreciated Yul's last death stance as the living Yoda turned gollem in his notorious service announcement. I may have also seen Polanski's swan, the haunted survivor threshing out America's narcissistic victimology. This is the universal thread binding all Americans. Emotionalism flows outward from us like liquid gold. The majority of us aren't worth a great deal as a matter of tort, regardless of self interest. This is the reason I tweaked Troy's tag, aside from copping to denominators along the subtle distinctions among networking aggregates, as the inflated Americanism that makes the United States insufferable, a repetitive chase after cotton candy, the best drug to slurp at the zoo.
I applied for my first online job, a freelance two bit perhaps ethically dubious, but too busy with my schedule to work during these few days of a break. Sanguine however, about Blogger post time consumption, as I have a book and a few articles buried in here, even if my portrait from Drinker's West inexplicably vanished. Perhaps it was data usage.
Thursday, November 7, 2013
Predatory Yellow
"It had all the facts wrong."-- Stephanie Verderame, on the IRS agents seizure of future estate assets.
I have never ever fabricated a source in my commissioned articles. Ever, but I am wizened with cynicism in the ever ongoing professional mourners waltzed in by The Fourth Estate over Glass, Blair, and some other justifying frauds of note. We all lie; everyone in the business knows it. We lie by omission, by lack of nuance, so on. Sometimes we organize the facts into a transfixing narrative that feels like veracity, (cf Ana Montes), but every hungry journalist has a prism. To what degree the audience dances depends on trust. Violating it is heinous! But there is a darker truth behind the excoriation of Glass, the massive manhunt that led to the incineration of Dorner. Insurrection. Threatening the underpinnings of the establishment. Now, Dorner played his menace wrong. When I vented that I wanted him to win and received gawker views, it was not a joke. Some of us are that angry-- but he executed his agenda so poorly one has to shrug in a disappointed "WTF?" The minute he put a bullet through that girl's brain, he committed suicide as opposed to launching a crusade. Glass sort of does the same thing. Confirming media bias by getting caught in a fabrication erodes a willingness to believe in our system and the consensus built around it.
Writing such sentiments in rheumy-eyed exhaust is a challenge to delineation, and illustrates the habituation of distracting tendencies, but people who can be fooled usually are, because they bring a set of preconceived notions before the table, but whether or not the Great Recession posited the seeds of a great unraveling remains to be seen. My local media company subversively headlined mass murder as the new national pastime. The sentiment accurately captures the tempo.
I have never ever fabricated a source in my commissioned articles. Ever, but I am wizened with cynicism in the ever ongoing professional mourners waltzed in by The Fourth Estate over Glass, Blair, and some other justifying frauds of note. We all lie; everyone in the business knows it. We lie by omission, by lack of nuance, so on. Sometimes we organize the facts into a transfixing narrative that feels like veracity, (cf Ana Montes), but every hungry journalist has a prism. To what degree the audience dances depends on trust. Violating it is heinous! But there is a darker truth behind the excoriation of Glass, the massive manhunt that led to the incineration of Dorner. Insurrection. Threatening the underpinnings of the establishment. Now, Dorner played his menace wrong. When I vented that I wanted him to win and received gawker views, it was not a joke. Some of us are that angry-- but he executed his agenda so poorly one has to shrug in a disappointed "WTF?" The minute he put a bullet through that girl's brain, he committed suicide as opposed to launching a crusade. Glass sort of does the same thing. Confirming media bias by getting caught in a fabrication erodes a willingness to believe in our system and the consensus built around it.
Writing such sentiments in rheumy-eyed exhaust is a challenge to delineation, and illustrates the habituation of distracting tendencies, but people who can be fooled usually are, because they bring a set of preconceived notions before the table, but whether or not the Great Recession posited the seeds of a great unraveling remains to be seen. My local media company subversively headlined mass murder as the new national pastime. The sentiment accurately captures the tempo.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Forced Conversion Expressions
"I was filled with anticipation; the tension had grown to the point where I didn't want to have open space behind me." -- Bill Johnston translation, location 237
In the not so distant past, Hari Sreenivasan was the good guy, fighting for a more sound equilibrium among our numerous yet fragile masses. There are still many cases of egregious exploitation everywhere, but this PBS profile also has its own egregious tilt. Never mind the lack of any sort of sexual discipline in inner city communities; never mind the fructose-heavy husband who we can speculate has some sort of disability claim pending that games the system and hurts real chronic condition inclusion. We all game it these days, even me, playing evasion to the last resort, angry that I allowed desire to trap me here, even though I did not realize it in my twenties. In my own lack of efficacy, I did not realize my conservative provider had already activated the 5c. The tranquility, however temporary, is luxurious, yet hesitation remains. Utility and device. No one has ever quite sold me. Google and Amazon better than Microsoft, yes, but I will never quite see micro chip miniaturization as indispensable. My sister Stephanie, on the white end of slovenly entitlement, sent me a text. Can't open it. Still in the tutorial stage, but we'll get there, despite women with more children than they can handle. Who am I to judge with my over-extended self-reliance? If I was smart I'd euthanize Vinnie and send the little female back to the no kill track and neuter shelter. It may come to that, but I can scream common sense while I learn to post home shots. Don't have children you cannot afford, regardless of your position on termination.
Progressives need some sort of reigning in, some sort of personal responsibility, just as I knew, before I pulled on my last decent affinity with another woman, that disability center assurances were broken reeds, piercing though the palms, poor adductor. Too much proficiency may be dangerous, but universal leveling leads to collapse under its own weight. Twenty five words in to an abstract that has more layers than I supposed, the signatory status of an auteur we hope survives extinction. Demise. Distinction may be all we have, but it is not much of an answer to destructive overkill.
For the most part, the better part of valor, I forgive Stephanie, and little Benny. I understand their precarious dashed hopes, despite the fact that they believe in a straight jacket containment for spastic investments. I cannot, however, love them as fully as I used to before they allowed this city to grind me into chum. Children are important, but not so important that they narrow futurist import.
In the not so distant past, Hari Sreenivasan was the good guy, fighting for a more sound equilibrium among our numerous yet fragile masses. There are still many cases of egregious exploitation everywhere, but this PBS profile also has its own egregious tilt. Never mind the lack of any sort of sexual discipline in inner city communities; never mind the fructose-heavy husband who we can speculate has some sort of disability claim pending that games the system and hurts real chronic condition inclusion. We all game it these days, even me, playing evasion to the last resort, angry that I allowed desire to trap me here, even though I did not realize it in my twenties. In my own lack of efficacy, I did not realize my conservative provider had already activated the 5c. The tranquility, however temporary, is luxurious, yet hesitation remains. Utility and device. No one has ever quite sold me. Google and Amazon better than Microsoft, yes, but I will never quite see micro chip miniaturization as indispensable. My sister Stephanie, on the white end of slovenly entitlement, sent me a text. Can't open it. Still in the tutorial stage, but we'll get there, despite women with more children than they can handle. Who am I to judge with my over-extended self-reliance? If I was smart I'd euthanize Vinnie and send the little female back to the no kill track and neuter shelter. It may come to that, but I can scream common sense while I learn to post home shots. Don't have children you cannot afford, regardless of your position on termination.
Progressives need some sort of reigning in, some sort of personal responsibility, just as I knew, before I pulled on my last decent affinity with another woman, that disability center assurances were broken reeds, piercing though the palms, poor adductor. Too much proficiency may be dangerous, but universal leveling leads to collapse under its own weight. Twenty five words in to an abstract that has more layers than I supposed, the signatory status of an auteur we hope survives extinction. Demise. Distinction may be all we have, but it is not much of an answer to destructive overkill.
For the most part, the better part of valor, I forgive Stephanie, and little Benny. I understand their precarious dashed hopes, despite the fact that they believe in a straight jacket containment for spastic investments. I cannot, however, love them as fully as I used to before they allowed this city to grind me into chum. Children are important, but not so important that they narrow futurist import.
Monday, November 4, 2013
Demi Moore's Clairvoyance
I resisted cell phones for a long time. During the fist Obama campaign I was on Stephanie Verderame's family plan, a woman once my sister on whom I flipped during the building renovations (circa 2007). Nasty flipped. I called her a cunt, and however much she yanked my apron strings, baby sister and cunt snaps a ribbon somewhere, but I am too tired to claim I am not impervious to shame.
Anyway, however briefly, I entered into a two year contract for the Apple iPhone 5c, and as you can see, Steve Jobs did not carve me a pancreatic cancer choice cut to deify him. I am going to attempt to activate the damn trinket now. What the fuck is wrong with you to believe the world is changed over a pocket data device? Jesus Christ, a martini evening of allergies and foul mood, I am going to try to make this union work, as I'll travel easier. Tom Cruise might have taken Katie's role in this baked over youth angst Stepford Wives fin de siecle as a non-compliance omen. Not sure I'm feeling well enough to tolerate snark tripe engaged in coitus.
Anyway, however briefly, I entered into a two year contract for the Apple iPhone 5c, and as you can see, Steve Jobs did not carve me a pancreatic cancer choice cut to deify him. I am going to attempt to activate the damn trinket now. What the fuck is wrong with you to believe the world is changed over a pocket data device? Jesus Christ, a martini evening of allergies and foul mood, I am going to try to make this union work, as I'll travel easier. Tom Cruise might have taken Katie's role in this baked over youth angst Stepford Wives fin de siecle as a non-compliance omen. Not sure I'm feeling well enough to tolerate snark tripe engaged in coitus.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Black Adder, Wobbly Amin
"I am not kind, I'm vicious. It is part of my charm." -- Clifton Webb
Forest Whitaker oozes with a glutton's agitation. In a world where whites like the hard menace of Shaft, Whitaker is Fat Albert, edgy and twisted with angst by turns, this asserted with only passing familiarity with his recur on The Shield (a series worthwhile here for its stark honesty; I know, I know, I may never get to it, and only know as much as I do about it because Fox ran it after midnight for a stint and I regret not taking more care--another day). But I do not mesh with viewing Chiklis for much the same reason.
Hypermania is difficult to perform without annoying your audience. Chiklis has it, James Woods finesses it. Whitaker wobbles attitudinally, which is why he fails as a lead. Playing off Foster in Panic Room just works. Prat boy with conscience picks a side, securing his sentence in the process, but Diary of A Hitman doesn't, because it's a slobber, much as of course casting him as the colorful African tyrant.
Big daddy is a fading species. Idi. Papa Doc. Baby Doc. They peopled our latter day socialist stagnation, which is now going to send our republic into convulsions. I am drawing closer to George Will's colorful umbrage, and think the president should resign, but then again, the 43rd president is a war criminal. The 44th dulls Harvard's preeminence considerably. I no longer believe in the American two party system. I do believe Whitaker has an authentic touchstone in The Crying Game. Fat boy out of his depth, playing the hand he had, with bleary gaze, just enough blubber to evince inner city terrain and poor nutrition. This leads to brain plaques, the aggression of dementia. His portraitures may be adept, but not memorial in any conflated measure of acclaim.
Perhaps intense malevolence does have a ripple herd like effect, given the extraordinary cluster of spree killing episodes we have to field. Perhaps the Coke a Cola security footage commercial has a point.
Forest Whitaker oozes with a glutton's agitation. In a world where whites like the hard menace of Shaft, Whitaker is Fat Albert, edgy and twisted with angst by turns, this asserted with only passing familiarity with his recur on The Shield (a series worthwhile here for its stark honesty; I know, I know, I may never get to it, and only know as much as I do about it because Fox ran it after midnight for a stint and I regret not taking more care--another day). But I do not mesh with viewing Chiklis for much the same reason.
Hypermania is difficult to perform without annoying your audience. Chiklis has it, James Woods finesses it. Whitaker wobbles attitudinally, which is why he fails as a lead. Playing off Foster in Panic Room just works. Prat boy with conscience picks a side, securing his sentence in the process, but Diary of A Hitman doesn't, because it's a slobber, much as of course casting him as the colorful African tyrant.
Big daddy is a fading species. Idi. Papa Doc. Baby Doc. They peopled our latter day socialist stagnation, which is now going to send our republic into convulsions. I am drawing closer to George Will's colorful umbrage, and think the president should resign, but then again, the 43rd president is a war criminal. The 44th dulls Harvard's preeminence considerably. I no longer believe in the American two party system. I do believe Whitaker has an authentic touchstone in The Crying Game. Fat boy out of his depth, playing the hand he had, with bleary gaze, just enough blubber to evince inner city terrain and poor nutrition. This leads to brain plaques, the aggression of dementia. His portraitures may be adept, but not memorial in any conflated measure of acclaim.
Perhaps intense malevolence does have a ripple herd like effect, given the extraordinary cluster of spree killing episodes we have to field. Perhaps the Coke a Cola security footage commercial has a point.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
What are Hoodies But Cloaks as Fashion Statements?
no boy will take me because I was born without a nose-although I am a good dancer and have a nice shape-- Miss Lonelyhearts, page 2
Grumbling. I need to get myself on the journo list to make myself available to the paparazzi junket, deploying the term loosely. Patrick Stoner says you put your name on it, this list. I'll turn blue before any salaried member of the fourth estate informs me how this is done. Reluctant admission that one likes Jonathan Rhys-Meyers a little better this evening, though fucking the enemy started on True Blood. One can take pride in a strength which has not yet led to the typical tactics of Caucasian self-destruction, or is it merely functional inability? I glanced at the headlines for our newest network fresh face, and Jonathan babe, you don't know how lucky you are; my adventures amount to not falling off my bath chair. I do not let myself drink as I did when an undergraduate, though you could tell me a few things about wardrobes, the pressures of continuity on a derivative period drama.
I found an interviewing celebrities module, which earns a belly hiccup of amusement. Despite what some of you may believe, I am not out to break down the insulating level of security people like Jodie Foster need. I don't care who has bipolar disorder, who has a sexual fixation with Obama, who is cheating in the Zeta-Jones saga, nor even who has a cross dressing fetish in green stockings. I'm after a different kind of veracity about performing and film, something similar to the highbrow analysis Kidman did for The Others (2001). That feature profile stays with me because it was damn decent writing examining craft front and center and I can't remember who did it, a WaPo syndicate, more than likely.
Why am I talking to any of you out loud?
As tolerant European culture is toward Jaye Davidson's Dil, transvestites always seem to have criminality associated with them, no matter how feminine, something not necessarily the fault of the public at large, though she-males transition into popularity with much less success. Willa Cather did males in drag, but her celebrity wasn't derived from that. Jaye stands front and center, however, in a film that seems to convey our seductions matter more than ideological conviction. The actual center of the love story is between Rhea and Whitaker. Dil is merely triumphant in The Crying Game because Rhea's Fergus is guilty. The black soldier he holds hostage breaks past the barrier of conviction, something of a stigma the former terrorist will carry beyond the terms of his sentence. Is Davidson reticent because he is too successful as a gender chameleon?
I don't know how to meet a good man anymore, one who would be interested in me, for myself. Frank said he loved me but I never felt that, and it is irrelevant anyway, due to his poor social skills and my contempt. Before him I have simply an interesting string of rebuffs, a wearied cumulative effect.
How do you find a companion to walk with you in your last fifteen or twenty years? Is it too much of an effort, habituated as I am?
Grumbling. I need to get myself on the journo list to make myself available to the paparazzi junket, deploying the term loosely. Patrick Stoner says you put your name on it, this list. I'll turn blue before any salaried member of the fourth estate informs me how this is done. Reluctant admission that one likes Jonathan Rhys-Meyers a little better this evening, though fucking the enemy started on True Blood. One can take pride in a strength which has not yet led to the typical tactics of Caucasian self-destruction, or is it merely functional inability? I glanced at the headlines for our newest network fresh face, and Jonathan babe, you don't know how lucky you are; my adventures amount to not falling off my bath chair. I do not let myself drink as I did when an undergraduate, though you could tell me a few things about wardrobes, the pressures of continuity on a derivative period drama.
I found an interviewing celebrities module, which earns a belly hiccup of amusement. Despite what some of you may believe, I am not out to break down the insulating level of security people like Jodie Foster need. I don't care who has bipolar disorder, who has a sexual fixation with Obama, who is cheating in the Zeta-Jones saga, nor even who has a cross dressing fetish in green stockings. I'm after a different kind of veracity about performing and film, something similar to the highbrow analysis Kidman did for The Others (2001). That feature profile stays with me because it was damn decent writing examining craft front and center and I can't remember who did it, a WaPo syndicate, more than likely.
Why am I talking to any of you out loud?
As tolerant European culture is toward Jaye Davidson's Dil, transvestites always seem to have criminality associated with them, no matter how feminine, something not necessarily the fault of the public at large, though she-males transition into popularity with much less success. Willa Cather did males in drag, but her celebrity wasn't derived from that. Jaye stands front and center, however, in a film that seems to convey our seductions matter more than ideological conviction. The actual center of the love story is between Rhea and Whitaker. Dil is merely triumphant in The Crying Game because Rhea's Fergus is guilty. The black soldier he holds hostage breaks past the barrier of conviction, something of a stigma the former terrorist will carry beyond the terms of his sentence. Is Davidson reticent because he is too successful as a gender chameleon?
I don't know how to meet a good man anymore, one who would be interested in me, for myself. Frank said he loved me but I never felt that, and it is irrelevant anyway, due to his poor social skills and my contempt. Before him I have simply an interesting string of rebuffs, a wearied cumulative effect.
How do you find a companion to walk with you in your last fifteen or twenty years? Is it too much of an effort, habituated as I am?
Friday, November 1, 2013
Mucinex Valors
I was a putz too fourteen years ago. Got soppy, maudlin, panicky when she did not answer me. I advise anyone facing student loan default not to go this route, though I do not know how this crushing debt becoming nearly inviolate helps anyone, the debtors, or the economy. I literally let Linda exacerbate my anxiety, triggering the depression joined to it into an overwhelming-- cascade. Not sure how else to describe it. Episodes have roots, however, and this started in 95 with my brother's AIDS death. Padre told me to go to work on the day it occurred, which was a mistake. My then executive director shared his personal experiences about not being there for the death of his mother, which was kind of him, but despair gnawed hope into ground glass after Nicky died, and I resigned from Matrix not long thereafter. First damn broke with that. People in wheelchairs don't quit jobs, and I'd left three positions in a less than contained fashion. My last day under Linda's supervision, while friendly, came less than 12 hours after my assault, so I was on shaky pinions in my early thirties. By the time she threw me with her opinion that spastics have better orgasms than the rest of you, my eggshell was a thinning vellum, and my cherry was a flagellation center in which the hatred that creates assassins came to life, freshly minted.
By the time I stabilized, the building renovations started, and the inner city butch sack who wanted to ply her desire to indulge, unfortunately selected me for a target.
Second leg of long nightmare. Yes, I know; whipping this up in a post is not self-curation, but Miss Eddy's stealth and predatory deception leads to violence not due to denial and repression of auto erotic response; her deceit has its part, similar to that my mother's best friend Kmac played. This was not Chris Cooper in American Beauty, who was roused to courage by the sight of Spacey getting ripped. Eddy was a nursing aid, and it took me a long time to live down her hit, so long that black women in scrubs still make me uneasy. Not everyone has the self-confidence of a comedic character actor to make dung bitches switch it off fast enough. A young Canadian biology technician posted that gays can misinterpret signals. That might be fine for heterosexuals highly confident in their own sensuality, but aggressive lesbians shouldn't be surprised when they provoke their own injuries.
My abstract on James has nothing to do with this. I shall write it over the weekend. I do not always lighten it up, but this contest sounds fun. I'd like a writing party. Email me, bearing in mind I'm in cyclic bronchitis mode, taking extra rest, dying in my own fluid.
By the time I stabilized, the building renovations started, and the inner city butch sack who wanted to ply her desire to indulge, unfortunately selected me for a target.
Second leg of long nightmare. Yes, I know; whipping this up in a post is not self-curation, but Miss Eddy's stealth and predatory deception leads to violence not due to denial and repression of auto erotic response; her deceit has its part, similar to that my mother's best friend Kmac played. This was not Chris Cooper in American Beauty, who was roused to courage by the sight of Spacey getting ripped. Eddy was a nursing aid, and it took me a long time to live down her hit, so long that black women in scrubs still make me uneasy. Not everyone has the self-confidence of a comedic character actor to make dung bitches switch it off fast enough. A young Canadian biology technician posted that gays can misinterpret signals. That might be fine for heterosexuals highly confident in their own sensuality, but aggressive lesbians shouldn't be surprised when they provoke their own injuries.
My abstract on James has nothing to do with this. I shall write it over the weekend. I do not always lighten it up, but this contest sounds fun. I'd like a writing party. Email me, bearing in mind I'm in cyclic bronchitis mode, taking extra rest, dying in my own fluid.
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