Derelict in Transition

"I don't want any surprises."-- a Philadelphia police officer who ignored my request to be placed under arrest as he took my arm and I pivoted.

Or, when you're fucked, you're fucked, like Timothy Hutton as the troubled father on American Crime, a show experienced rather late, without the time for much back episode viewing, but Hutton, like so much in the perpetual motion of the generation gap, is a familiar figure, probably weary of the query I asked on his twitter account about Ordinary People; it is a frightening film, because the taut layer of repression is lethal, to his character and Mary Tyler Moore's, and perhaps for those of us with dead brothers.

Much like the previously referenced novelist, referenced with a mysterious undercurrent of umbrage?, Hutton was never able to quite close the deal with the following he had, and I was one among them, the silent follower who had a hidden reservoir of affection for the cuter, personable, everyman, who, like the stalwart Gene Hackman, could inhabit anything, soldier, con artist, a lost soul threatened by overwhelming guilt. And when the man is on, those undercurrents reach out.

My entire life has fallen apart, simply in shambles, with throbbing maniacal emotional scars off nicotine and doses of salmon oil, with fantasies of physical conflict my diabolical cunning cannot in fact engage over and above my biology, and I keep eating humiliation on top of humiliation and cannot move the needle in a suicide attempt because I am so crippled and so poor failure would simply make it worse, and yet, I'm still not doing the certification HUD requires, deliberately making it very very hard, tweeting to celebrities who comfort me like it's nothing, a casual exchange, and if I was younger perhaps I could cling to a hope of resurgence but I really can't.

Yes, I have the second chair, and I am in it, but the Quantum is not friendly to my independence, and the P-200 may not be worth saving and I can no longer buy a used machine. Too many plates on a stick, and that is assuredly old school variety gawking. I asked poppa to come over. He mistook my meaning. Nicky is always between us, as is his hatred for my mother, miscarrying a first born son, god punishing a bad Korean conflict era hook up with a disaster of a palsied daughter, then a dead imbecile, and his one little boy was a psychotic. Hail to our fathers.