The Finnish upgrade to Wybe's global media feed, Look of a Killer, however synthetic in its charm, has only furthered my conviction that Slavic Eurasians against Siberian backgrounds says something uniquely telling about the human condition, which the adaptations of Jussi Vares exposes with more precision than the more contemporary, jazzier series. We can't shake the traces of absurdest, abstract expressionism, just as I can't shake the fact that I am a cripple, a pig, with all the best of intentions, aging out of relevance. Why should millennials care, in other words, about the most destitute Americans glued to the dictatorship of social service paradigms? I just got off the phone with UCPA, searching for alternatives, to what though? I'm an old stubbly pear, personal aide, room mate, or cavern like Inglis House notwithstanding, only alive when I'm writing. Off the keyboard I'm a numb racist by virtue of having lived under the auspices of a Presbyterian syndicate for 30 years. I cannot change the end result of my downward escalation, the impassive masks of ambulatory persons to whom I appeal. "Cripple is a whole other country," I told the public policy guy with his affirmative sympathy. Commiseration doesn't alter that landscape, and though engaging in dialogue with an activist mentality may not be so bad, making connections one has, I no longer know how to sell myself optimism. Within a decade I'll be bed ridden. Ask yourself, in that context, what the relentless pressure Trudy Richardson imposes on me hopes to achieve other than making me someone else's problem. Being quadriplegic sucks. It hurts, and the positive attitude of empowerment is only a constraining measure, a conviction that this existence is better than nothing.
I have to ease up over the next few weeks, as if I'll actually hold myself to that.
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