In terms of dramaturgical import, Tilda Swinton's collapse to the floor is a repeat pattern maneuver with Dionysian potential. In The Beach, it has no relevance within an already fragmented and contradictory climax, not as a signifier of colonial conquest and its destruction which fomented the anger of Achebe's productive years; it rings hollow as an expressive gesture, and yet it hearkens back to Michael Clayton, much starker, bleaker, an existential implosion where all one can do is drop to your knees and pound the carpet. It is a distinctive motion, a signature only Swinton can enact, learned in the rough on the set of Orlando, which itself is less a responsible to Woolf's satirical aim and more pastiche, aping the farce masculinity in the loss of her Russian lover, because our fool proof procedures turn out to be flawed after all. This is why she is amply suited when cast as the foil against individual identity in our futurist speculations, a modern Medea melded within the characteristics of a rodent-like opportunism, utilitarian, grasping for power.
Clayton was a slap in the face to those who believe in due process. We're exposed, the audience, to how things truly operate in the alpha world. As in house counsel, Swinton is the lawyer who thinks corporate insulation will allow her to override the annoyances of victimization, disavowing personal loyalties over lapsed ethics. In The Beach, muddled as it is, she is a comical version of Conrad's Kurtz who cannot seem to grasp that agrarian harmony is contingent on the metropolis, and it is the city, invariably, which leads to the anxiety of transhumanism. It may be resisted by self-determination, but the city state is the collective power of human intelligence, as well as our downfall, the mechanization of rote efficiency, but that collapse brings us back to the mythos of origin, snake like, hubris buckling in upon itself toward the Oedipal pathos of dramatic exaggeration, with the chorus in the background beating its breast as triumph fractures. We either abandon it or put it under lock and key.
Friday, May 22, 2015
Bigfoot's Sensory Perception
For example, if the animal does not have enough food, is it a kind of cruelty or not?"--Adisorn Noochdumrong, not quite the autocrat
Thailand seems to be a hot property, in this century, for an uneasy cultural fusion between permissiveness, hegemony, and corruption, almost as a guild-province rather than a country. It is where the youngest brother of The Legacy, Emil, gets imprisoned for a sour deal. It is the locale of choice for the clever travel detective author Timothy Hallinan, who skillfully juxtaposes innocence with a stark nihilism which makes Roman tempers picturesque, and it is almost part of the cast in Danny Boyle's flailing film with DiCaprio, The Beach.
DiCaprio also seems to be the gilded boy always under threat when he takes the side of the vulnerable. It is a motif he seems to consistently deploy in films like The Titanic, The Quick and the Dead, or playing Howard Hughes.
The narrative exasperation DiCaprio adopts strikes the right tone of skeptical disillusion with material accouterments and ennui, but Alex Garland should have sued Hodge over that screen play. Every major scene backfires like a faulty transmission in a Ford station wagon: the talking shark, the dead Daffy, the killing of the American jackasses toward the conclusion, in which Tilda Swinton engages in nearly the exact maneuver as she does in Michael Clayton: the dramatic collapse of the true believer exposed for crossing too many lines.
Though the adaptation here is less ridiculous than The Blue Lagoon of Brooke Shields' sexual peak, the killing of the last three Americans by the Thai pot farmer seems arbitrary. However, there is a touch of survival of the most ruthless going on here. Subsistence manufactures brutality out of its own necessity, and athleticism isn't always an advantage in subtropical climates.
I came up with a fairly good idea for a pitch last week, (of 6/15/15) and fed it to OZY anyway (why I do these things I am not quite sure, I have been angry with the lies of the American left for a long time, which isn't to convey that conservatives don't deny reality when it suits them) and then dared to pitch it to Wapo, but it made me reflect upon the difficulty of gaining access, especially when it is all about pedigree, and I am trying to figure out how to cajole my quarry without being overly forceful. (Sigh) Freelancing without a contract is a bitch.
Thailand seems to be a hot property, in this century, for an uneasy cultural fusion between permissiveness, hegemony, and corruption, almost as a guild-province rather than a country. It is where the youngest brother of The Legacy, Emil, gets imprisoned for a sour deal. It is the locale of choice for the clever travel detective author Timothy Hallinan, who skillfully juxtaposes innocence with a stark nihilism which makes Roman tempers picturesque, and it is almost part of the cast in Danny Boyle's flailing film with DiCaprio, The Beach.
DiCaprio also seems to be the gilded boy always under threat when he takes the side of the vulnerable. It is a motif he seems to consistently deploy in films like The Titanic, The Quick and the Dead, or playing Howard Hughes.
The narrative exasperation DiCaprio adopts strikes the right tone of skeptical disillusion with material accouterments and ennui, but Alex Garland should have sued Hodge over that screen play. Every major scene backfires like a faulty transmission in a Ford station wagon: the talking shark, the dead Daffy, the killing of the American jackasses toward the conclusion, in which Tilda Swinton engages in nearly the exact maneuver as she does in Michael Clayton: the dramatic collapse of the true believer exposed for crossing too many lines.
Though the adaptation here is less ridiculous than The Blue Lagoon of Brooke Shields' sexual peak, the killing of the last three Americans by the Thai pot farmer seems arbitrary. However, there is a touch of survival of the most ruthless going on here. Subsistence manufactures brutality out of its own necessity, and athleticism isn't always an advantage in subtropical climates.
I came up with a fairly good idea for a pitch last week, (of 6/15/15) and fed it to OZY anyway (why I do these things I am not quite sure, I have been angry with the lies of the American left for a long time, which isn't to convey that conservatives don't deny reality when it suits them) and then dared to pitch it to Wapo, but it made me reflect upon the difficulty of gaining access, especially when it is all about pedigree, and I am trying to figure out how to cajole my quarry without being overly forceful. (Sigh) Freelancing without a contract is a bitch.
Thursday, May 21, 2015
What you never know about people
Baby sneezes/Mommy pleases/Daddy breezes in-- Carly Simon
Unlike the recording artist Joni Mitchell, Carly is less equidistant, richer but more shallow in timbre, with an armor piercing poignancy that made me cry when Heartburn's title track played. What is the use of crying at this point, caught in the vectors between spinsterhood and the lucky escape from domestic discord?
One can see the studio appeal in Nora Ephron's bittersweet, if superficial, Heartburn tale of growing disenchantment. Nicholson's rage is seasoned into mid-course, and Streep reprises her character in Kramer, here the conflict less about self-discovery, and more about skepticism, a leonine skepticism. This movie is amphibious with its mediocrity, capturing something intangibly lost about the late Reagan era, something we cannot go back to again, something we might have held onto a little longer if Bill Clinton had not been an irrepressible skirt chaser, his erections distracting us from more lethal national traumas to come.
Unlike the recording artist Joni Mitchell, Carly is less equidistant, richer but more shallow in timbre, with an armor piercing poignancy that made me cry when Heartburn's title track played. What is the use of crying at this point, caught in the vectors between spinsterhood and the lucky escape from domestic discord?
One can see the studio appeal in Nora Ephron's bittersweet, if superficial, Heartburn tale of growing disenchantment. Nicholson's rage is seasoned into mid-course, and Streep reprises her character in Kramer, here the conflict less about self-discovery, and more about skepticism, a leonine skepticism. This movie is amphibious with its mediocrity, capturing something intangibly lost about the late Reagan era, something we cannot go back to again, something we might have held onto a little longer if Bill Clinton had not been an irrepressible skirt chaser, his erections distracting us from more lethal national traumas to come.
Wednesday, May 20, 2015
The Occupation of Paris
They hoped Petain was playing the Germans at a double game and was secretly planning the liberation of France. --Terry Crowdy
You have to reach for it in odd places, in schematics like The Song of Bernadette, a film not so friendly to institutional Catholicism as it might initially appear, though it is otherwise reverent to Mary, who was elevated by the Church as a strategism against pagan goddesses like Diana, but Vincent Price, in the right role, wasn't all high camp, and rather presages how he'd die in this youthful vehicle. The film, dated as it is, has its own medical model ruthlessness towards cancers we're still fighting, to little avail, and beneath the surface, buttered up with palatable salvation, it is a bit stark about disease.
Of all celebrity absences, I feel Price as a loss, a cutout with his outline that comes through in translation. I haven't quite digested Lauren Bacall's death either, though I have little reason to mourn her, as I study a film like Birth with care, as a precursor to The Others, which also acts as a sealant to Kidman's split with Cruise, maniac man with a grin. I do mourn Peter Falk, but his homeliness is a dated palliative to a liberalism stripping us of every possible anchorage.
In my relief at finding the late Bruno Cremer's new time slot, he too felled by the crab, I wondered if I'd have been happy married to a cool cucumber like Georges Simenon, and rapidly surmised a negation due to a sense of an urgent ruthlessness about his work. If I ever get back on my feet, however unlikely, I need to read more Simenon. My hatred of what I've done to myself is killing me as fast as any future date with advancing COPD, congestive heart failure, or colon polyps. I keep missing medical appointments for script even as I master the shimmy to deal with the Jazzy Quantum, and leave you now to try try again, setting the scaffold, my wheels, at least, still turning; my version of immortality, living on as one of Maigret's enigmatic females. I do not know how to save Europe, but I am related to the Marinelli's in Italy who work the Don Matteo production crew.
You have to reach for it in odd places, in schematics like The Song of Bernadette, a film not so friendly to institutional Catholicism as it might initially appear, though it is otherwise reverent to Mary, who was elevated by the Church as a strategism against pagan goddesses like Diana, but Vincent Price, in the right role, wasn't all high camp, and rather presages how he'd die in this youthful vehicle. The film, dated as it is, has its own medical model ruthlessness towards cancers we're still fighting, to little avail, and beneath the surface, buttered up with palatable salvation, it is a bit stark about disease.
Of all celebrity absences, I feel Price as a loss, a cutout with his outline that comes through in translation. I haven't quite digested Lauren Bacall's death either, though I have little reason to mourn her, as I study a film like Birth with care, as a precursor to The Others, which also acts as a sealant to Kidman's split with Cruise, maniac man with a grin. I do mourn Peter Falk, but his homeliness is a dated palliative to a liberalism stripping us of every possible anchorage.
In my relief at finding the late Bruno Cremer's new time slot, he too felled by the crab, I wondered if I'd have been happy married to a cool cucumber like Georges Simenon, and rapidly surmised a negation due to a sense of an urgent ruthlessness about his work. If I ever get back on my feet, however unlikely, I need to read more Simenon. My hatred of what I've done to myself is killing me as fast as any future date with advancing COPD, congestive heart failure, or colon polyps. I keep missing medical appointments for script even as I master the shimmy to deal with the Jazzy Quantum, and leave you now to try try again, setting the scaffold, my wheels, at least, still turning; my version of immortality, living on as one of Maigret's enigmatic females. I do not know how to save Europe, but I am related to the Marinelli's in Italy who work the Don Matteo production crew.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
The devil is in the nose
It's all part of an effort to bring attention to "Red Nose Day," which started in Britain in 1988 to raise money for poverty-stricken children in the UK and Africa.-- Todd Leopold
Part of what makes the career arc of Price interesting, aside from Tim Burton's panache in utilizing how an old man would die from emphysema, is the dramaturgic hints of truly great acting beneath the surface, which forms the irony of his later horror comedies, although he did try to play Richard the III seriously in an old black and white, and it was a bad performance. Yet, in The Song of Bernadette, Price was the Grand Inquisitor, and he wasn't a joke; he was frightening, as anyone would be in threatening prison to a future saint, borderline savant, persecuted for not towing the line. How well researched the screen play for Saint Bernadette was remains beyond my purview, but the film respects its audience, and has interesting things to say about caste, about chronic illness, disruption, and the criminalization of poverty, long before it became vogue to a modern progressive sensibility.
If actors become typecast due to their range limits, need for money, the impetus to keep working, Vincent Price leaves room for doubt, the possibilities of richer interpretation only occasionally realized. The meta-fictional Madhouse (1974) toys with hamming it. Peter Cushing also had minimal straight screen roles before he started killing vampires and dying as the mad scientist, but the realism beneath the camp genre is not quite edgy enough, and Pinewood Studios dropped an egg, perhaps because Vincent wouldn't quite be pushed. Cushing had moments of true stark menace here, but this was 74. Watergate, and radicalism opted to get a bit puffy, losing its way in the stuff of being a fashion statement. There is a great deal of this in Vincent's 70's films. Spoofing the textures, the hair, the rich cuisine. Only in The Whales of August, up against Bette Davis in tenacious infirmity does he tone down this mercurial quality. This was his true swan song to those whom he became endeared to over the years-- not Burton's fantasy about human nature, but as an aging ladies' man too emotionally brittle for constancy, a sweet and vulnerable dilettante. He certainly wasn't my generation, and skirted the edges of my grandparents time, but he is irreplaceable, however thick the melodrama.
If you'd like me to surprise you with a positive diachronic movement in time, one of the members of Liberty on the Rocks was involuntarily kind to me at the last meeting. I have forgotten what that is like, to be offered attention, friendship, without an ulterior motive, without throwing myself at the man, without pushing any buttons, without using digital space to push limits. It won't save a hair on my dry and peeling scalp, but I suppose it is why we cling to life.
Part of what makes the career arc of Price interesting, aside from Tim Burton's panache in utilizing how an old man would die from emphysema, is the dramaturgic hints of truly great acting beneath the surface, which forms the irony of his later horror comedies, although he did try to play Richard the III seriously in an old black and white, and it was a bad performance. Yet, in The Song of Bernadette, Price was the Grand Inquisitor, and he wasn't a joke; he was frightening, as anyone would be in threatening prison to a future saint, borderline savant, persecuted for not towing the line. How well researched the screen play for Saint Bernadette was remains beyond my purview, but the film respects its audience, and has interesting things to say about caste, about chronic illness, disruption, and the criminalization of poverty, long before it became vogue to a modern progressive sensibility.
If actors become typecast due to their range limits, need for money, the impetus to keep working, Vincent Price leaves room for doubt, the possibilities of richer interpretation only occasionally realized. The meta-fictional Madhouse (1974) toys with hamming it. Peter Cushing also had minimal straight screen roles before he started killing vampires and dying as the mad scientist, but the realism beneath the camp genre is not quite edgy enough, and Pinewood Studios dropped an egg, perhaps because Vincent wouldn't quite be pushed. Cushing had moments of true stark menace here, but this was 74. Watergate, and radicalism opted to get a bit puffy, losing its way in the stuff of being a fashion statement. There is a great deal of this in Vincent's 70's films. Spoofing the textures, the hair, the rich cuisine. Only in The Whales of August, up against Bette Davis in tenacious infirmity does he tone down this mercurial quality. This was his true swan song to those whom he became endeared to over the years-- not Burton's fantasy about human nature, but as an aging ladies' man too emotionally brittle for constancy, a sweet and vulnerable dilettante. He certainly wasn't my generation, and skirted the edges of my grandparents time, but he is irreplaceable, however thick the melodrama.
If you'd like me to surprise you with a positive diachronic movement in time, one of the members of Liberty on the Rocks was involuntarily kind to me at the last meeting. I have forgotten what that is like, to be offered attention, friendship, without an ulterior motive, without throwing myself at the man, without pushing any buttons, without using digital space to push limits. It won't save a hair on my dry and peeling scalp, but I suppose it is why we cling to life.
Monday, May 18, 2015
Arrested Development
"She wasn't a bad girl."-- Marcel Proust
I remember taking notes I now cannot find on a particular Grey's Anatomy episode. Jessica Capshaw makes amputation the entire world, and Sara Ramirez pretends to be salivating at the prospect of being masturbated in more girl games in a hotel suite above Bailey's wedding, while the Chief's wife is succumbing to heart disease. If NBC gets sometimes courageously stark with its dramas, ABC likes to revel in our naivete, trying my patience. What made the series popular with its viewing audience led to my disavowal for its lack of nuance, although a monologue caught me once in awhile: the Asian surgeon's bad housekeeping speech.
I was rather late, as a student of literature, in coming to Marcel Proust, and his magical dips in and out of fugue states, as when we get introduced to Mlle. Vinteuil's scandalous lesbianism, about a third in to Swann's Way. Google has been uncooperative in helping me find the mildly voyeuristic passage, to which I'll return, conditioned upon my safe transitioned survival as the end of July nears, but the wily socialite of an author nearly reconciles me to the difficulty of vicious same sex liaisons in a way that Henry James is incapable of doing, because James sees the reality of physical passion as invidious in its consequences. Proust wouldn't necessarily disagree with this Jamesian subtext; he's simply more forgiving of human frailty and obsession, moving the consequences along to the next window, like peeking at more or less outrageous sexual adventures in hotel rooms.
What genius reconciles, the screen writer's guild dissuades, however, with nearly puerile infantilism. Ramirez and Capshaw might have been behind the bleachers at a high school pep rally, for all this pepto we're all the same love scene between Caucasian damage (lost limb) in the bosom of minority lasciviousness, even if it is more inferred than shown. Nipple sucking is built up permissively in erotica, biting is moved up a gradient into porn. Tolerance comes due to what we're willing to screen away from deviations of fantasy.
I remember taking notes I now cannot find on a particular Grey's Anatomy episode. Jessica Capshaw makes amputation the entire world, and Sara Ramirez pretends to be salivating at the prospect of being masturbated in more girl games in a hotel suite above Bailey's wedding, while the Chief's wife is succumbing to heart disease. If NBC gets sometimes courageously stark with its dramas, ABC likes to revel in our naivete, trying my patience. What made the series popular with its viewing audience led to my disavowal for its lack of nuance, although a monologue caught me once in awhile: the Asian surgeon's bad housekeeping speech.
I was rather late, as a student of literature, in coming to Marcel Proust, and his magical dips in and out of fugue states, as when we get introduced to Mlle. Vinteuil's scandalous lesbianism, about a third in to Swann's Way. Google has been uncooperative in helping me find the mildly voyeuristic passage, to which I'll return, conditioned upon my safe transitioned survival as the end of July nears, but the wily socialite of an author nearly reconciles me to the difficulty of vicious same sex liaisons in a way that Henry James is incapable of doing, because James sees the reality of physical passion as invidious in its consequences. Proust wouldn't necessarily disagree with this Jamesian subtext; he's simply more forgiving of human frailty and obsession, moving the consequences along to the next window, like peeking at more or less outrageous sexual adventures in hotel rooms.
What genius reconciles, the screen writer's guild dissuades, however, with nearly puerile infantilism. Ramirez and Capshaw might have been behind the bleachers at a high school pep rally, for all this pepto we're all the same love scene between Caucasian damage (lost limb) in the bosom of minority lasciviousness, even if it is more inferred than shown. Nipple sucking is built up permissively in erotica, biting is moved up a gradient into porn. Tolerance comes due to what we're willing to screen away from deviations of fantasy.
Thursday, May 14, 2015
Hulk Hogan Machismo
"What is your primary concern?"
"The overthrow of the federal government."-- a conversation with an anarchist where spastic dowager reads the tea leaves for good grades.
Actually, with two glasses of beer in me I managed to upset the socially tolerant computer programmers with my astonishing level of hostility for the LBGT community, and I am not sure I should risk banishment by writing what my assertions were, in the public square, about lesbians, transsexuals, and mind fucking in my new found community. Anarchists are hot, and got my blood flowing with excitement at the inquiry of "It was mass murder, but was it wrong?" I inquired as to which mass murder this was, but my voice failed to reach the beef steak's attention. And if I think I've found a solution hobnobbing with volatile paranoid reactives who make their money in computer science, precisely what problem is being solved with this delightful carnivorous indulgence remains obscure. The anarchist who offered me his approval for my intent to vacate public housing said I'd manage, and we'll see about that, but I am still to some degree my mother, entranced by men with an aura of danger, even as my views of crisis management grow more dismal. Why Judy Woodruff went on a fishing expedition with Michael Nutter about the speed of the Amtrak engine on Wednesday evening is baffling. Philadelphia, as a municipality, has nothing to do with regulating the publicly funded railroad. I, on the other hand, know something about scheduling mass transit tours to the minute, and the pressures operators and drivers face attempting to make up delays. I used to believe in well funded mass transit.
But it is obvious we're being overtaken by systems complexity. Even with Michael Apted turning physical abuse into a world wide wrestling spectacle, Ebert misses a beat or two. As a professional critic, he isn't wrong about Enough. It is an excellent disservice in terms of its sociological interpretation of domestication in a world defined by testosterone, but Kazan is playing with tropes of Social Darwinism: the alpha male up against the effeminate male, the woman taking on the attributes of aggression, even this loses itself to the dynamic of the processes we've created and spread in the western hemisphere: legal jurisdiction as a preeminent solution (custody battles, divorce proceedings), juxtaposed against the overwhelming tendency of American men to game the system. Fred Ward and Noah Wyle are in the same operating theater in this regard. Billy Campell's unpleasantness as Mitch is explained in the salvo of the opening scene: he is a manipulator, and is out manipulated.
I have written about the embarrassment, and conflicted loyalties Josie Byzek caused me before,and will not continue to milk how she treated my long ago prospective cyber interest, but I'll throw down a gauntlet, cognizant it will go unanswered: If she is so holier than thou, and so damned correct as a liberal, why can't she offer me a public apology for betraying my trust? Her behavior wasn't simply one of lashing out at a man who had my interest. She made an observation to me that he had a thing for me, then turned on him, disrupting what I created my disability group for, causing him to quarrel with me. Homosexual self-righteousness is sacred ground, until they bite like vicious ferrets. Where is their humility? Packed in their anal plugs?
"The overthrow of the federal government."-- a conversation with an anarchist where spastic dowager reads the tea leaves for good grades.
Actually, with two glasses of beer in me I managed to upset the socially tolerant computer programmers with my astonishing level of hostility for the LBGT community, and I am not sure I should risk banishment by writing what my assertions were, in the public square, about lesbians, transsexuals, and mind fucking in my new found community. Anarchists are hot, and got my blood flowing with excitement at the inquiry of "It was mass murder, but was it wrong?" I inquired as to which mass murder this was, but my voice failed to reach the beef steak's attention. And if I think I've found a solution hobnobbing with volatile paranoid reactives who make their money in computer science, precisely what problem is being solved with this delightful carnivorous indulgence remains obscure. The anarchist who offered me his approval for my intent to vacate public housing said I'd manage, and we'll see about that, but I am still to some degree my mother, entranced by men with an aura of danger, even as my views of crisis management grow more dismal. Why Judy Woodruff went on a fishing expedition with Michael Nutter about the speed of the Amtrak engine on Wednesday evening is baffling. Philadelphia, as a municipality, has nothing to do with regulating the publicly funded railroad. I, on the other hand, know something about scheduling mass transit tours to the minute, and the pressures operators and drivers face attempting to make up delays. I used to believe in well funded mass transit.
But it is obvious we're being overtaken by systems complexity. Even with Michael Apted turning physical abuse into a world wide wrestling spectacle, Ebert misses a beat or two. As a professional critic, he isn't wrong about Enough. It is an excellent disservice in terms of its sociological interpretation of domestication in a world defined by testosterone, but Kazan is playing with tropes of Social Darwinism: the alpha male up against the effeminate male, the woman taking on the attributes of aggression, even this loses itself to the dynamic of the processes we've created and spread in the western hemisphere: legal jurisdiction as a preeminent solution (custody battles, divorce proceedings), juxtaposed against the overwhelming tendency of American men to game the system. Fred Ward and Noah Wyle are in the same operating theater in this regard. Billy Campell's unpleasantness as Mitch is explained in the salvo of the opening scene: he is a manipulator, and is out manipulated.
I have written about the embarrassment, and conflicted loyalties Josie Byzek caused me before,and will not continue to milk how she treated my long ago prospective cyber interest, but I'll throw down a gauntlet, cognizant it will go unanswered: If she is so holier than thou, and so damned correct as a liberal, why can't she offer me a public apology for betraying my trust? Her behavior wasn't simply one of lashing out at a man who had my interest. She made an observation to me that he had a thing for me, then turned on him, disrupting what I created my disability group for, causing him to quarrel with me. Homosexual self-righteousness is sacred ground, until they bite like vicious ferrets. Where is their humility? Packed in their anal plugs?
Monday, May 11, 2015
Revenge Fantasy
"A Feast for February," is an unpublished constant, a tie to my youth in Dixon Hall, sitting at my desk then in Chester as I am sitting at Tom Reid's desk here on North 23rd street, wishing I could give Riverside's owner a coronary by demolishing his building and perk my engines up after that in a wild chase with federal agents where I'd win, overthrow the constitutional government of the US, to revert to an old idea, the city state, which actually still exists, beneath the surface, if we take the Vatican as the Medieval model for regional principalities. "February" was written before Philadelphia made its substantial contribution, other than medical and institutional torture, to my well endowed social fear, based on the same premise as Quindlen's book, as Michael Apted adapted it in Enough. My protagonist kills a taxi driver in New York who was stalking her. Violently. I don't explain certain things in the story, but like many things when I am on, it was a driven piece, fueled by the hatred of the damage done by the scum my mother allowed to damage her children, fueled by my hatred of knowing I'd never snare a good hippie. A later editor who later changed her mind liked how I depicted violence against women in the piece, hence whatever Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell think they observe in my antagonism toward them as rental agents attempting to put me in another institutional portfolio has always been there. I'm simply older, more ready to illustrate my contempt for black competency, regardless of how offensive this is to minorities. Many blacks openly tell me to my face they think I'm possessed, and you do not see that.
J-lo's character goes off grid and wins, kills the misogynist, who has the ability to do what he does to her through the convenience of privilege, and Apted gets canned for a sharply delineated film with a beneath the radar approach-- but he isn't wrong. The law cannot rectify the punishment battered women sustain. Me? I get stalked by Debra Horne and her assessment team, who insist I return to receiving services through a corrupt disability center which expurgates as many people as it lifts, and then I ratchet up the volume, and dare to deny Trudy Richardson a fifth inspection of my unit in as many months, and play a game of send in the clowns with Department of Health civil servants who apparently like naked spastic women. Must get them off, maybe they have a vested interest in fetish porn.
Apted's solution for Jennifer's working class doormat is a mechanism, a vicarious pleasure for those who cannot create a careful plan for departure. The only thing I can do is seek self-reliant alliances, fall on deaf ears, or sacrifice myself in a noble death, or give up and go wait to die in a home like Inglis. Such options make terrorism appealing, especially when one knows the clock is ticking. If viewers find that frightening, I never had a say in what orthopedic surgeons did to my body. My little brother, relenting to be one of my followers, had some years to get conceived when I was defecating and being deformed in plaster casts, and I've earned the right to end my last viable years as I see fit, even if this means I force the state to kill me.
J-lo's character goes off grid and wins, kills the misogynist, who has the ability to do what he does to her through the convenience of privilege, and Apted gets canned for a sharply delineated film with a beneath the radar approach-- but he isn't wrong. The law cannot rectify the punishment battered women sustain. Me? I get stalked by Debra Horne and her assessment team, who insist I return to receiving services through a corrupt disability center which expurgates as many people as it lifts, and then I ratchet up the volume, and dare to deny Trudy Richardson a fifth inspection of my unit in as many months, and play a game of send in the clowns with Department of Health civil servants who apparently like naked spastic women. Must get them off, maybe they have a vested interest in fetish porn.
Apted's solution for Jennifer's working class doormat is a mechanism, a vicarious pleasure for those who cannot create a careful plan for departure. The only thing I can do is seek self-reliant alliances, fall on deaf ears, or sacrifice myself in a noble death, or give up and go wait to die in a home like Inglis. Such options make terrorism appealing, especially when one knows the clock is ticking. If viewers find that frightening, I never had a say in what orthopedic surgeons did to my body. My little brother, relenting to be one of my followers, had some years to get conceived when I was defecating and being deformed in plaster casts, and I've earned the right to end my last viable years as I see fit, even if this means I force the state to kill me.
Saturday, May 9, 2015
If Worst Comes
If I cannot find a watering hole by July, I am considering a temporary admittance to rehab, and if that is the end of my productive life as a writer, a living human, perhaps I will be hurt on the inside of the institutional paradigm, but I have to part company with Riverside. I cannot do this with Presby as a parent company anymore. I cannot, even if it means I vanish and my psyche goes to hell. I can't. I simply cannot. We'll see. I'll miss-- doing this, being passionate, and I owe staff and script. I will read more of his work, try to buy his books. Maybe I can apply for asylum somewhere.
And good riddance to The Following. All the show conveyed was fanaticism belies trustworthiness. It touched too many nerves.
And good riddance to The Following. All the show conveyed was fanaticism belies trustworthiness. It touched too many nerves.
Free Radical Amphibian
The event left her with an enduring dread of cats-- Antonio Frank
The shepherd which had to be buried in the 1993 Sommersby looked like a real dog, and perhaps it was, enjoyed playing dead for an anticipated treat. Richard Gere and Jodie Foster are known quantities by this time, 22 years ago. Mature blooms, certainly not harried by small felines who need to take two hours to cajole beleaguered wheelchair users to watch them eat, then complain, as small carnivores will, wishing to be what they are, but have their cake in the caretaker, a simultaneous desire, which, when all is said and done, remains a contradiction, unless a feral state beckons. Would you adopt cats?
Sommersby is about identity and who we want to be, a not uncommon conceit in historical dramas, where a coward grows into an extraordinary gesture of courage, even if he cannot pick sides in the amorphous spectrum between the blue and the gray. One moment Foster epitomizes the regal widow, and the next she is the tomboy those of my generation grew up with, to become such a conflicted childhood celebrity whose coming out was a mumble.
Foster was confusing because her persona is complex, as veracity is complex. As far as I know, she never played a butch onscreen outright, and this was too her benefit as such a remarkable performance artist we're not likely to see again, as we ossify orientation with identity, and though I am not God, and that is a good thing-- I'd break the covenant with Noah and rain the apocalypse on our hoary pates-- I think Foster is in conflict about her femininity. She certainly wants to be viewed as sexually attractive to men in a good portion of her films, especially The Brave One, 2007, which is necessarily intense, to justify its brutality, full circle back to Taxi Driver (eh). Her ambidextrous duality is intriguing at its most challenging, and yet, there is a certain trigger, hostile to the fact she settles for simulation of intercourse, dildos, kitten tricks for comfort. Is it due to vulnerability, the dark side of Hinckley's claim of susceptibility? Her publicist would never let me wrap her in shrink wrap like this, but she is a deconstruction, the boy girl imprint of my adolescence, and all things being equal, however she bankrolled her economic security for her gentle dimming down as the marquee A-list superstar, she'll outlive me, barring I painlessly replace the hated indolence of my flesh, the complexity of her translation of difference not so easily grasped, by identity militants, by moderates, by her fans. I'd wrote, in archive, that I'd give her a pass, and my study of her in media is still indicative of that, but I'd push her, if I ever figure out my contention and its motif. I'd pry, not to get at her responsibility for deranged assassins, since she has none, but for her responsibility to womanhood, her conflicted signaling within her pliant strength, determination, fuzzy metaphysical conclusions.
The shepherd which had to be buried in the 1993 Sommersby looked like a real dog, and perhaps it was, enjoyed playing dead for an anticipated treat. Richard Gere and Jodie Foster are known quantities by this time, 22 years ago. Mature blooms, certainly not harried by small felines who need to take two hours to cajole beleaguered wheelchair users to watch them eat, then complain, as small carnivores will, wishing to be what they are, but have their cake in the caretaker, a simultaneous desire, which, when all is said and done, remains a contradiction, unless a feral state beckons. Would you adopt cats?
Sommersby is about identity and who we want to be, a not uncommon conceit in historical dramas, where a coward grows into an extraordinary gesture of courage, even if he cannot pick sides in the amorphous spectrum between the blue and the gray. One moment Foster epitomizes the regal widow, and the next she is the tomboy those of my generation grew up with, to become such a conflicted childhood celebrity whose coming out was a mumble.
Foster was confusing because her persona is complex, as veracity is complex. As far as I know, she never played a butch onscreen outright, and this was too her benefit as such a remarkable performance artist we're not likely to see again, as we ossify orientation with identity, and though I am not God, and that is a good thing-- I'd break the covenant with Noah and rain the apocalypse on our hoary pates-- I think Foster is in conflict about her femininity. She certainly wants to be viewed as sexually attractive to men in a good portion of her films, especially The Brave One, 2007, which is necessarily intense, to justify its brutality, full circle back to Taxi Driver (eh). Her ambidextrous duality is intriguing at its most challenging, and yet, there is a certain trigger, hostile to the fact she settles for simulation of intercourse, dildos, kitten tricks for comfort. Is it due to vulnerability, the dark side of Hinckley's claim of susceptibility? Her publicist would never let me wrap her in shrink wrap like this, but she is a deconstruction, the boy girl imprint of my adolescence, and all things being equal, however she bankrolled her economic security for her gentle dimming down as the marquee A-list superstar, she'll outlive me, barring I painlessly replace the hated indolence of my flesh, the complexity of her translation of difference not so easily grasped, by identity militants, by moderates, by her fans. I'd wrote, in archive, that I'd give her a pass, and my study of her in media is still indicative of that, but I'd push her, if I ever figure out my contention and its motif. I'd pry, not to get at her responsibility for deranged assassins, since she has none, but for her responsibility to womanhood, her conflicted signaling within her pliant strength, determination, fuzzy metaphysical conclusions.
Friday, May 8, 2015
Teardrops on the scales
"Kill the wino." James Caan
Though I woke on time (obviously, since this is a rare daylight post) I canceled my attendance at the Sims job fair in an email to his Harrisburg account at 7:20. I need some adjustment time with this hated Jazzy Quantum, the encroaching humidity, and if I lack the confidence to deal with recruiters in public at this moment, it will show. I'm an old woman skewering her fucking skull in desperation, and though the developing world would laugh in my face on the true measure of desperate lives, comparisons have little mitigating effect, even with the unintentional humor in the room mate search questionnaire.
Why are you looking for a room mate now?
"My wife is leaving me." Not ideal, but I called his number, out of sheer amusement, and I cannot find the electrician whose wife has cancer and whose current roommate is "psycho." Not idea either. I've been on ward with cancer patients, but was going to reach out to said electrician anyway, since I consider myself highly undesirable. Found him. He and his ailing spouse would put me closer to little brother, but an electrician with one ailing spouse considering me as an addendum would be up for canonization, yes, si?
21 years of my life with Protestant skinflints who've given me fonts of trauma, with their nigger chicks just piling it on, lancing my wounds because I'm furious that I came here, not considering it a choice in Meryl Streep's stark terms in her Priestly Prada habitation. Despite this section 202 building location, I turned it down after my assault. I did not want to live here, ever, because I knew what it would do to me, and I'm no longer sure which evil is worse, the real ghetto or this crematorium, 21 years of strenuous hate. Why didn't I get out before? Well, Linda humiliated me and recovery time took two years; Paratransit was then lost, Frank happened, my mother died, had to put first cat down, the aide abuse, power chairs breaking, this is why, and any mind can only take so much contiguous crisis. I do not know if I hate Trudy Richardson for her integral nature or for her continued escalation and aggressive attacks against me, but I am either leaving this building or going to jail for pushing back; it's that simple.
Onward. Either way, I'm suing this company, and that because it cost Presby absolutely nothing to move me fifteen minutes past Diamond Park. I had already been pre-approved, and the only individuals who paid were my father, mother, the tenant who I bumped. At this point, it has little to do with ideology. I keep getting hurt, and the people imposing the pain aren't exactly on Lynch'es pay grade.
Though I woke on time (obviously, since this is a rare daylight post) I canceled my attendance at the Sims job fair in an email to his Harrisburg account at 7:20. I need some adjustment time with this hated Jazzy Quantum, the encroaching humidity, and if I lack the confidence to deal with recruiters in public at this moment, it will show. I'm an old woman skewering her fucking skull in desperation, and though the developing world would laugh in my face on the true measure of desperate lives, comparisons have little mitigating effect, even with the unintentional humor in the room mate search questionnaire.
Why are you looking for a room mate now?
"My wife is leaving me." Not ideal, but I called his number, out of sheer amusement, and I cannot find the electrician whose wife has cancer and whose current roommate is "psycho." Not idea either. I've been on ward with cancer patients, but was going to reach out to said electrician anyway, since I consider myself highly undesirable. Found him. He and his ailing spouse would put me closer to little brother, but an electrician with one ailing spouse considering me as an addendum would be up for canonization, yes, si?
21 years of my life with Protestant skinflints who've given me fonts of trauma, with their nigger chicks just piling it on, lancing my wounds because I'm furious that I came here, not considering it a choice in Meryl Streep's stark terms in her Priestly Prada habitation. Despite this section 202 building location, I turned it down after my assault. I did not want to live here, ever, because I knew what it would do to me, and I'm no longer sure which evil is worse, the real ghetto or this crematorium, 21 years of strenuous hate. Why didn't I get out before? Well, Linda humiliated me and recovery time took two years; Paratransit was then lost, Frank happened, my mother died, had to put first cat down, the aide abuse, power chairs breaking, this is why, and any mind can only take so much contiguous crisis. I do not know if I hate Trudy Richardson for her integral nature or for her continued escalation and aggressive attacks against me, but I am either leaving this building or going to jail for pushing back; it's that simple.
Onward. Either way, I'm suing this company, and that because it cost Presby absolutely nothing to move me fifteen minutes past Diamond Park. I had already been pre-approved, and the only individuals who paid were my father, mother, the tenant who I bumped. At this point, it has little to do with ideology. I keep getting hurt, and the people imposing the pain aren't exactly on Lynch'es pay grade.
Thursday, May 7, 2015
Dandy Walker Recriminations
for her part, she liked her boobies. -- Virginia Woolf, one hundred fifty pages in prior to the stones in her coat
Au contraire, Rotten Tomatoes, Grauman and Davis created the first real anti-metropolis film of its kind with Lady in a Cage, a stark black and white with an uber realism to countermand a certain Shakespearean absurdity. This is a film that imprints itself in utero, exposing liberalism for what it is, a crock in the eddy of self interest. There is a little Sunset Blvd, here, consciously or otherwise, upgraded to be a little less exaggerated, closer to the big NE or Midwest cityscape, with a dash of Chaplin. but for the fact that Grauman wasn't offering viewers a digestible farce. Lady is closer to an existential travesty, its hint of mother son incest translatable, as it is always translatable for aging glamour girls, as di Haviland biding farewell to regal beauty, and James Caan saying hello, an imitable Brando who always has a streak of malevolence, whether he is the good guy or not. He's mean, cowed only by more ruthless brawn.
Davis pulls a few strings, even for a 53 year old film. Fences would not normally be as brazen as Mr. Paul, but this movie is otherwise chilling for its honesty in relation to crowd theory and unwillingness to act, how the underclass preys on vulnerability, the aging, makes lack of functionality,expendable, namely with the death of the wino who precipitated the home invasion. Just as with the dead dog in the opening, we gaze in curiosity before we'll help, or act, sucking the life's blood out of those we can.
I conveyed to Sims, little center city big man, that I'd go to his job fair tomorrow, and for that, ought to lie down, knowing I will not really sleep, nor probably be treated with any receptive interest, even if I perfume. The faces of my former mental health consumers have carved themselves into my sad, anxious gaze, with my deep passive aggressive contempt. None of what I've been through since I moved to Temple University is Brian's fault, but if I could hold his attention for 30 minutes god help the man. Why?
I am not sure. I'm 52, with violent dumps which intimate I ain't getting anywhere near Oliver Sacks terminal old age, the mortal guru of equanimity, and it is not precise to label my state legislator an adversary, as such. His Gnosticism hasn't harmed me, but if I had the nerve, which, tomorrow, I shall not, I'd tell him this equal treatment for orientation business is just more Orwellian comfort food. Brian could pass as anything, a partner for Deloitte & Touche, but no. Gay identity is but party noise. When the world can look past me as a spastic savant? Not possible.
Au contraire, Rotten Tomatoes, Grauman and Davis created the first real anti-metropolis film of its kind with Lady in a Cage, a stark black and white with an uber realism to countermand a certain Shakespearean absurdity. This is a film that imprints itself in utero, exposing liberalism for what it is, a crock in the eddy of self interest. There is a little Sunset Blvd, here, consciously or otherwise, upgraded to be a little less exaggerated, closer to the big NE or Midwest cityscape, with a dash of Chaplin. but for the fact that Grauman wasn't offering viewers a digestible farce. Lady is closer to an existential travesty, its hint of mother son incest translatable, as it is always translatable for aging glamour girls, as di Haviland biding farewell to regal beauty, and James Caan saying hello, an imitable Brando who always has a streak of malevolence, whether he is the good guy or not. He's mean, cowed only by more ruthless brawn.
Davis pulls a few strings, even for a 53 year old film. Fences would not normally be as brazen as Mr. Paul, but this movie is otherwise chilling for its honesty in relation to crowd theory and unwillingness to act, how the underclass preys on vulnerability, the aging, makes lack of functionality,expendable, namely with the death of the wino who precipitated the home invasion. Just as with the dead dog in the opening, we gaze in curiosity before we'll help, or act, sucking the life's blood out of those we can.
I conveyed to Sims, little center city big man, that I'd go to his job fair tomorrow, and for that, ought to lie down, knowing I will not really sleep, nor probably be treated with any receptive interest, even if I perfume. The faces of my former mental health consumers have carved themselves into my sad, anxious gaze, with my deep passive aggressive contempt. None of what I've been through since I moved to Temple University is Brian's fault, but if I could hold his attention for 30 minutes god help the man. Why?
I am not sure. I'm 52, with violent dumps which intimate I ain't getting anywhere near Oliver Sacks terminal old age, the mortal guru of equanimity, and it is not precise to label my state legislator an adversary, as such. His Gnosticism hasn't harmed me, but if I had the nerve, which, tomorrow, I shall not, I'd tell him this equal treatment for orientation business is just more Orwellian comfort food. Brian could pass as anything, a partner for Deloitte & Touche, but no. Gay identity is but party noise. When the world can look past me as a spastic savant? Not possible.
Monday, May 4, 2015
Amanuensis to Moby Dick, Guardian Mentality No. 2
Dreamt I stood in a china shop so crowded from floor to far-off ceiling with shelves of porcelain antiquities etc. David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas, p.43
William Gaddis, for the uninitiated, is a fine writer, and my edition of The Recognitions has a far less elaborate jacket, a lamination of white green yellow blue, like an atheist Christmas card, but the novel, while a precursor to the genius of David Mitchell, is a ponderous effort, a hell on earth labor to actually finish, living as I did, on the edge of the badlands, 1500 W. Page Street, closing a tome about frauds, fakes, originals, with the final phrase "rarely played." reverberating with the stark imprint of an epitaph. Perhaps Gaddis's publisher believed Gaddis was a modern James Joyce, but no. Whatever one feels about the author who murdered the novel, Joyce is a lively labor. Gaddis is a dissertation down the rabbit hole, with a density somewhat thicker than the later Gravity's Rainbow, if my imprint dates are in alignment. and following on the heels of my first nominee, you can still appreciate what literary movements like Modernism have to offer without adding The Recognitions as a very long spooling funnel to your archives. I started the first chapter again approximately six months ago, and if I wind up as a most unfortunate casualty of this youthfully old birth city of American independence, I may never get to fully reengage with William's game theory.
Ali darlin, I have absolutely no idea who you are, and I almost have absolutely not a creative word to post about the fact you've followed me. I do not stream much. Don't have a playlist, and don't use my 5c like an iPod, though I am sure Apple and ATT and Google would be ecstatic if I grasped at the straws of my zealous turning thirteen obsession with Elton John and went back to the British sound of my era as opposed to being part of the problem, as tommyturbo asserted, but what I can convey is the amazing ability of language, to create a word like amanuensis, a word I never knew until Mitchell gave me a visceral existential crisis. If Modernism killed the novel, Mitchell destroyed the aspiration of any ambition I ever had, and yet, I did not expire on the table when this revelation sucker punched me after I finished his profound display of virtuosity. I passed on my battered and stained copy to young Lance, who patiently waltzed this spastic through Ulysses in 2013. I kindly offered Lance my edition and he said no he had to give it back because he needed to buy Cloud Atlas in hard cover. I cannot guarantee you I'll trudge on at this softer pace, as my intention to vacate this unfortunate studio apartment I've inhabited since 1994 by the end of July is not, in fact, particularly salient to the imagination. Disabled writers on entitlements simply do not vacate section 202 housing. It is not done, but I cannot stay. My ability to cope with Presbyterian corporate methodology, beating and beating at me as long as it has, because I was a naive 23 year old who saw this way of life as a mere stepping stone toward a fulfilling literary adventure-- I do not know what I thought. I thought I could become like my mentor Jerry, whose name I weary of typing, but anyway, what was I saying? Oh.
Even though I do not stream all that much, as I am sorting all of this out, listening to your work is on my list, but Tony's radio show comes first. If you have, oh, I do not know, access to writer's studio digs where I could bring my cats. I love the feline children, one cannot help that, well, let me know. If you're interested in what I have to say, well, I've reached across the generation then. Now I need to rest a bit, but I had to log on and dissect this. Compulsion must be satisfied.
William Gaddis, for the uninitiated, is a fine writer, and my edition of The Recognitions has a far less elaborate jacket, a lamination of white green yellow blue, like an atheist Christmas card, but the novel, while a precursor to the genius of David Mitchell, is a ponderous effort, a hell on earth labor to actually finish, living as I did, on the edge of the badlands, 1500 W. Page Street, closing a tome about frauds, fakes, originals, with the final phrase "rarely played." reverberating with the stark imprint of an epitaph. Perhaps Gaddis's publisher believed Gaddis was a modern James Joyce, but no. Whatever one feels about the author who murdered the novel, Joyce is a lively labor. Gaddis is a dissertation down the rabbit hole, with a density somewhat thicker than the later Gravity's Rainbow, if my imprint dates are in alignment. and following on the heels of my first nominee, you can still appreciate what literary movements like Modernism have to offer without adding The Recognitions as a very long spooling funnel to your archives. I started the first chapter again approximately six months ago, and if I wind up as a most unfortunate casualty of this youthfully old birth city of American independence, I may never get to fully reengage with William's game theory.
Ali darlin, I have absolutely no idea who you are, and I almost have absolutely not a creative word to post about the fact you've followed me. I do not stream much. Don't have a playlist, and don't use my 5c like an iPod, though I am sure Apple and ATT and Google would be ecstatic if I grasped at the straws of my zealous turning thirteen obsession with Elton John and went back to the British sound of my era as opposed to being part of the problem, as tommyturbo asserted, but what I can convey is the amazing ability of language, to create a word like amanuensis, a word I never knew until Mitchell gave me a visceral existential crisis. If Modernism killed the novel, Mitchell destroyed the aspiration of any ambition I ever had, and yet, I did not expire on the table when this revelation sucker punched me after I finished his profound display of virtuosity. I passed on my battered and stained copy to young Lance, who patiently waltzed this spastic through Ulysses in 2013. I kindly offered Lance my edition and he said no he had to give it back because he needed to buy Cloud Atlas in hard cover. I cannot guarantee you I'll trudge on at this softer pace, as my intention to vacate this unfortunate studio apartment I've inhabited since 1994 by the end of July is not, in fact, particularly salient to the imagination. Disabled writers on entitlements simply do not vacate section 202 housing. It is not done, but I cannot stay. My ability to cope with Presbyterian corporate methodology, beating and beating at me as long as it has, because I was a naive 23 year old who saw this way of life as a mere stepping stone toward a fulfilling literary adventure-- I do not know what I thought. I thought I could become like my mentor Jerry, whose name I weary of typing, but anyway, what was I saying? Oh.
Even though I do not stream all that much, as I am sorting all of this out, listening to your work is on my list, but Tony's radio show comes first. If you have, oh, I do not know, access to writer's studio digs where I could bring my cats. I love the feline children, one cannot help that, well, let me know. If you're interested in what I have to say, well, I've reached across the generation then. Now I need to rest a bit, but I had to log on and dissect this. Compulsion must be satisfied.
Saturday, May 2, 2015
Retrofits we don't have very long
From an ambulatory perspective, the older Quickie P-200 is not much different from the Jazzy Quantum. They are both six-wheeled motorized vehicles, both with large center tires balanced by front and back castors. The Quickie, however, is a performance chair, which Medicare decided "was a luxury," and so the horse's ass at Jazzy reversed the axis. The Quickie is slanted back. The Quantum tilts forward, and I've taken slight dips even opening the door. It is a dangerous unsafe machine, developed in a skewered and corrupt rationing system. Journalists do investigate corruption in health care. The Washington Post exposed issues at Walter Reed, but dissecting how fucking sick the system is becomes a mission for Lionel Shriver, and I can only stretch the chain links. I have never known one medical supply company to last more than five years, and the provider which furnished me the chair, JeffQuip, is now New Motion, and they refuse to service me. Magee, as well, is going to give me a hard time. My life is in danger in this contraption, and I let Mary, the therapist, pick the provider, pick the model. I liked another one similar to this Quantum at the time, and the well meaning rehabilitation expert said she'd stand with me for that over this, but I need a performance chair, and I no longer have the ability to empower myself with this narrative.
This is going to consume all of my time. My savings are gone. My life might as well be a hologram on Brian Greene's debit card, and Midwesterners observe, "your anger is frightening," get me banned from communities I care about, and tweeters are left to marvel at my savagery. I could try Moss. I was a patient there once as well, but Moss cares more about its contract with Septa, and denial of service options.
This all makes me puke, and it essentially forces me back on the Medicaid system. Tarantino's protagonists manage to cut the net, and the pleasures to be derived no doubt come in part from our merger with their fantastic liberation and ability to dash on the freeway at dangerous speeds. The first half of Quentin's Kill Bill is the only thing running this afternoon, and I am surprisingly ambivalent about the beginning of the end I already know. I love David Carradine, always have, but I am not sure what the point was of all this fun loving gore. Kill Bill is, obviously, a homage, and allows Carradine to bring out his inner prick, something he had done in the past after Kung Fu, but being creative and decorative with human capacities for anger and torture simply for its own sake could have just as easily been animated.
Straw Dogs, whatever one feels about it, had a message, and a dark, concordant irony. Kill Bill seems to have a singularity of purpose, but doesn't know what it wants. To celebrate ruthless bastards? To celebrate taking extraordinary levels of punishment need to achieve one's objective?? Something gets lost in all this conflated wilding.
This is going to consume all of my time. My savings are gone. My life might as well be a hologram on Brian Greene's debit card, and Midwesterners observe, "your anger is frightening," get me banned from communities I care about, and tweeters are left to marvel at my savagery. I could try Moss. I was a patient there once as well, but Moss cares more about its contract with Septa, and denial of service options.
This all makes me puke, and it essentially forces me back on the Medicaid system. Tarantino's protagonists manage to cut the net, and the pleasures to be derived no doubt come in part from our merger with their fantastic liberation and ability to dash on the freeway at dangerous speeds. The first half of Quentin's Kill Bill is the only thing running this afternoon, and I am surprisingly ambivalent about the beginning of the end I already know. I love David Carradine, always have, but I am not sure what the point was of all this fun loving gore. Kill Bill is, obviously, a homage, and allows Carradine to bring out his inner prick, something he had done in the past after Kung Fu, but being creative and decorative with human capacities for anger and torture simply for its own sake could have just as easily been animated.
Straw Dogs, whatever one feels about it, had a message, and a dark, concordant irony. Kill Bill seems to have a singularity of purpose, but doesn't know what it wants. To celebrate ruthless bastards? To celebrate taking extraordinary levels of punishment need to achieve one's objective?? Something gets lost in all this conflated wilding.
Friday, May 1, 2015
The Bear is Growling
Okay, now that we are in a social media panic, I applied for a third writing position through LinkedIn. I had an advisor lady from the sometimes fiddle to faddle resource site following me on twitter, but even in my neural net which takes things personally, what happened to her is anyone's guess. I am never going to be the eccentric old woman who inadvertently grabs the scruff of the meek out of sewer pipes, and, since I promised myself no etudes to the fiascoes to my north, I will not provoke the pressure cooker this evening, other than to ask if I dare order take out as I am, hoping not to be judged too harshly on delivery. Demonic streaks being what they may, there is still a side to me which is full of life, it is simply obscured by stifling quicksand--
One question, seriously, for the embroiled African American agitators-- are any of you donating to Nepal from the businesses you're vandalizing? The death toll for the wee little country is over 6,300, of late, and I can tell you, I hate section 202 housing with enough vengeance to risk mortal injury at the hands of Philly's finest, simply by virtue of my age and condition, but I've never deliberately damaged this building, ever, whatever my escalating friction with management. I've been on the other side people, I have, ready to declare war on SEPTA, screaming at CCT drivers in a cardiac rage. Paratransit services remains exactly what it was in the eighties, with more efficiency only by virtue of the fact that power chair use was drastically curtailed in 2002. It is how the activism is applied, but emoting, all that earns is a jacket.
One question, seriously, for the embroiled African American agitators-- are any of you donating to Nepal from the businesses you're vandalizing? The death toll for the wee little country is over 6,300, of late, and I can tell you, I hate section 202 housing with enough vengeance to risk mortal injury at the hands of Philly's finest, simply by virtue of my age and condition, but I've never deliberately damaged this building, ever, whatever my escalating friction with management. I've been on the other side people, I have, ready to declare war on SEPTA, screaming at CCT drivers in a cardiac rage. Paratransit services remains exactly what it was in the eighties, with more efficiency only by virtue of the fact that power chair use was drastically curtailed in 2002. It is how the activism is applied, but emoting, all that earns is a jacket.
Big Yellow Taxi
"Oooo, nah nah nah," Joni with her back up in the folk era
Mmm. I missed a luncheon date at The Watermark, because I skipped a day, distracted over the Quantum, and upset with Rhett Hackett. I posted to his site that I did not like "being bluffed by liberal bullshit artists," and then tried an email later, and only got a courtesy call explaining his foundation's change of heart; I was trying to be persuasive so that they would understand that if I can do anything with the little time I've left, I want to stop medical model brutality and other forms of violence from destroying women with my ability in the future, but it was a plea for shielding on deaf ears, and if I try this again remind me that I hate liberalism, would you? And I'd imagine there goes any write up as a nice profile piece on New Jersey's mission in life to be the escape haven from New York and Philadelphia. (But we'll allow that to simmer.)
It does matter, the long term affect, despite the fact that it discomfits my sister and brother, I'm still suffering the consequences of being an aggravated assault victim at the hands of Brandon Phillips, just as the treating psychologists predicted when I was on my liberal tether with the defunct Matrix Research Institute, and I feel like a pin cushion for any mode of target practice you'd care to imagine, which is why I do not trust CNA's, even Tim, whom I've known for any number of years-- not in the sense that he'd hurt me, but that he's a welfare player, and will feel smug when the Department of Public Welfare processes me into a Soylent Green wafer. We do not literally cannibalize ourselves, but we're already there, rather late in the day to examine primate controls the primates are placing on themselves without stopping to reflect that risk is necessary, so is disease, and decomposition.
Mitchell, though she falls into my generational nomenclature, might as well be Lady Gaga. I know they are recording artists, but draw blanks. Mitchell was simply recognized as a decorative beatnik, popularizing the Kerouac zeitgeist to always burn the tread on asphalt, warning Madonna in the 80's that the limelight would fade for the Material Girl at some point, never really giving ourselves time to pause, put a break on the controls we inject into and onto our anatomy, to reconsider the industry surrounding the obituary, the underlying avarice we display when faced with the fallibility of mortality. With all the ethics surrounding journalistic integrity, apparently the paparazzi cannot distinguish being comatose from other ailments into a seventieth decade which might lead to fainting spells.
I am very bitter about the surgical aggressions to my body, unlike some, if all it amounts to is cruelty and entrapment in a public housing matrix which is an inhumane forced form of diversity, which all comes down to how and where we invest resources. I might have been perfectly happy, in my late twenties, to live in a small group home, and I mean small, for those who were developmentally damaged but had matriculative ability. I should have been with my peers, not terrorized by the venomous elderly, and what the fuck can I do about it now? Riverfront told me, yesterday, if the Jazzy is seven years old, Medicare would allow me a new one.
Uh huh. I cannot stay at Riverside, and most of you have no idea what equipment acquisition is like with my level of indigence.
Mmm. I missed a luncheon date at The Watermark, because I skipped a day, distracted over the Quantum, and upset with Rhett Hackett. I posted to his site that I did not like "being bluffed by liberal bullshit artists," and then tried an email later, and only got a courtesy call explaining his foundation's change of heart; I was trying to be persuasive so that they would understand that if I can do anything with the little time I've left, I want to stop medical model brutality and other forms of violence from destroying women with my ability in the future, but it was a plea for shielding on deaf ears, and if I try this again remind me that I hate liberalism, would you? And I'd imagine there goes any write up as a nice profile piece on New Jersey's mission in life to be the escape haven from New York and Philadelphia. (But we'll allow that to simmer.)
It does matter, the long term affect, despite the fact that it discomfits my sister and brother, I'm still suffering the consequences of being an aggravated assault victim at the hands of Brandon Phillips, just as the treating psychologists predicted when I was on my liberal tether with the defunct Matrix Research Institute, and I feel like a pin cushion for any mode of target practice you'd care to imagine, which is why I do not trust CNA's, even Tim, whom I've known for any number of years-- not in the sense that he'd hurt me, but that he's a welfare player, and will feel smug when the Department of Public Welfare processes me into a Soylent Green wafer. We do not literally cannibalize ourselves, but we're already there, rather late in the day to examine primate controls the primates are placing on themselves without stopping to reflect that risk is necessary, so is disease, and decomposition.
Mitchell, though she falls into my generational nomenclature, might as well be Lady Gaga. I know they are recording artists, but draw blanks. Mitchell was simply recognized as a decorative beatnik, popularizing the Kerouac zeitgeist to always burn the tread on asphalt, warning Madonna in the 80's that the limelight would fade for the Material Girl at some point, never really giving ourselves time to pause, put a break on the controls we inject into and onto our anatomy, to reconsider the industry surrounding the obituary, the underlying avarice we display when faced with the fallibility of mortality. With all the ethics surrounding journalistic integrity, apparently the paparazzi cannot distinguish being comatose from other ailments into a seventieth decade which might lead to fainting spells.
I am very bitter about the surgical aggressions to my body, unlike some, if all it amounts to is cruelty and entrapment in a public housing matrix which is an inhumane forced form of diversity, which all comes down to how and where we invest resources. I might have been perfectly happy, in my late twenties, to live in a small group home, and I mean small, for those who were developmentally damaged but had matriculative ability. I should have been with my peers, not terrorized by the venomous elderly, and what the fuck can I do about it now? Riverfront told me, yesterday, if the Jazzy is seven years old, Medicare would allow me a new one.
Uh huh. I cannot stay at Riverside, and most of you have no idea what equipment acquisition is like with my level of indigence.
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