I always believed, if I was going to live long enough to die from it, I would go out fighting with my last breath, screeching "Jerry!" and hating myself for the tinsel strength of circumstantial imprints. I really did believe meeting this Shakespearean was a kind of destiny, but odd discovery in warding off full blown toxic shock symptoms (I did not break out with this rash or go into fever, but loss of my menstrual cycle has made me vulnerable, and I know what happened toward genuine viral infection). If you are going to pass out from hypotension, there is no clinging, no concentration of focus, as with Sally Field in her gangling effort, which Cavanagh's support wasn't enough to hold in all of Stockman's dribbling ooze.
The emptiness of my past vanished, and the for-itself, in Sartre's existential formation, fought to restore my center, and this is real intimation of death. I have been sick before, even anesthetized numerous times, but this was different, having to pull myself back from the brink. The only firm perch I had was my flaming rage that wants her dead. She can only die once, but for me, killing them, her, it is like the familiar rhythm of a train car, a snap back of eight hours or so, and I was the me I knew once again, but your self, it drains away as fast as a light switch clicks, and Tyne Daly had the correct body language. Authentic death in hospital bed in a chintzy melodrama. Mother to daughters tit for tat. Tyne smoking a cigarette and doing a chilling death bed. Cavanagh is forgiven for being Canadian. Like Sally Field in character, video within video, I too read Tom as a good boy, dutiful, compliant. With a strong script, he is a real to life humorist who would do us all a favor by putting Jim Carey out of his misery. My biology is on notice, and I have to get the fuck out of this building, paralyzed, panicked over how little time.
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