This evening's Simenon mystery was affecting, and I missed just enough of the title not to be able to give it to you, but it was an Assassin La Jeune Fils type. Lesbian petting which doesn't entice me. (My problem is masochism and pain associated with it, but another day when I'm ready to lose 20% of my small social media cotillion for exposing what Keats paraphrased as "hateful thoughts".) Then a grand old woman with her own tragedy trying to save the culprit. Only she goes too far, and the ending, affecting. Fucking French norms. Crazy and yet in part they get it right.
Dirty Snow I've mentioned. Not ready to reread it. No need to in my five hundred things, but I must have every Simenon title. I must, absolutely, at least before, well. Let me return to the conscience of Charles Lane and suicidal depression. Therapeutic advice runs thus: take happy drugs and don't recriminate over what cannot be changed.
Okay. Happy drugs do not work for varied technical reasons, and I cannot change a great deal, including not being able to sit outside and get away from a broken transsexual who I despise, not being able to get away from my clients, my fucking ex, who looks like a corpse, and every fucking organization and working class minority tells me to keep going back to Liberty Resources without respecting that I cannot, without respecting that I know too much about the corruption that turns Medicaid into a pimping service. Do you live with the elderly who attacked you? And an ex fiance? And disability center board members who are as corrupt as mafia dons? It is bad enough aging with cerebral palsy to the extent I have it, eating the reverberations of trauma every day. If I want to go to sleep, and I am absolutely sure, then I should be allowed.
I really have become a racist, and I apologize, but black society and its counter culture isn't where I belong, and I have to eat it. More on this later. I've decided to visit City Council and try to greet Denny, and deliberately ruckus, paying the price of the pissed.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Fluck of the Irish
"I, personally, do not believe there is a ghost in the machine." Stephen Hawking on voice amplifier.
My exasperation with my incidental attempts to engage with the Toomey reelection campaign has little to do with the Senator himself. I do not keep track of his voting record, though cognizant of the fact that he was a tea party conservative who made gestures of reconciliation after Sandy Hook. I support him on ending Pennsylvania's status as a sanctuary zone, despite my unwillingness to recommit to the Republican Party. What irks me is on a good day in spring I wanted to go to his office on JFK to report for duty, and was under a misapprehension.
"Madam, mam," the staffer exclaimed on the phone, as if warding off a pit bull. Legislative offices for government business is distinctly separate from campaign headquarters in New Wales, which, if I had attempted to reach prior to Memorial Day of 2016, would have been problematic, with my large humidity altered two day defecations of mostly phlegm, drying out slowly in my century plus skeleton. Trolling for voters on my overly rich 5s isn't my strongest suit, in my desire to rally to keep myself alive.
In the zenith of his middle-aged bigotry, mio padre had little regard for either the Irish or the Poles, and was always keen on a reducible joke of the sort to which Joyce wasn't immune. My father's racism was only fiery when it came to niggers sleeping with whites. That was the sacrilege, but now in his eighties, it only has a wraith like echo to his slow enfeebling. My tap dancing flirtation with the senator's clan has left me disheartened, dubious about representation altogether, as if it would have been such a contested breach of ethics to allow me a reasonable accommodation to appear, if for nothing else but the discovery of incumbency's larder. This isn't to convey I give McGinty a second thought, only the realization that constituency is an over-valued classification, and the right's ideology is little more than fried rat on hickory next to violating federal regulations. I want to literally punish American liberalism, and Republicans seem merely to genuflect, or looking like a Seraphim during the papal visit.
I have absolutely no idea if raising my voice to Toomey and Sims and the convivial Dennis O'Brien did anything at all, other than shrink my body mass for a six foot depth dug grave. I softened the title because I'm not angry, only dissipating beyond the two political parties.
My exasperation with my incidental attempts to engage with the Toomey reelection campaign has little to do with the Senator himself. I do not keep track of his voting record, though cognizant of the fact that he was a tea party conservative who made gestures of reconciliation after Sandy Hook. I support him on ending Pennsylvania's status as a sanctuary zone, despite my unwillingness to recommit to the Republican Party. What irks me is on a good day in spring I wanted to go to his office on JFK to report for duty, and was under a misapprehension.
"Madam, mam," the staffer exclaimed on the phone, as if warding off a pit bull. Legislative offices for government business is distinctly separate from campaign headquarters in New Wales, which, if I had attempted to reach prior to Memorial Day of 2016, would have been problematic, with my large humidity altered two day defecations of mostly phlegm, drying out slowly in my century plus skeleton. Trolling for voters on my overly rich 5s isn't my strongest suit, in my desire to rally to keep myself alive.
In the zenith of his middle-aged bigotry, mio padre had little regard for either the Irish or the Poles, and was always keen on a reducible joke of the sort to which Joyce wasn't immune. My father's racism was only fiery when it came to niggers sleeping with whites. That was the sacrilege, but now in his eighties, it only has a wraith like echo to his slow enfeebling. My tap dancing flirtation with the senator's clan has left me disheartened, dubious about representation altogether, as if it would have been such a contested breach of ethics to allow me a reasonable accommodation to appear, if for nothing else but the discovery of incumbency's larder. This isn't to convey I give McGinty a second thought, only the realization that constituency is an over-valued classification, and the right's ideology is little more than fried rat on hickory next to violating federal regulations. I want to literally punish American liberalism, and Republicans seem merely to genuflect, or looking like a Seraphim during the papal visit.
I have absolutely no idea if raising my voice to Toomey and Sims and the convivial Dennis O'Brien did anything at all, other than shrink my body mass for a six foot depth dug grave. I softened the title because I'm not angry, only dissipating beyond the two political parties.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
Range Assertion
"Get involved," but if you don't agree with independent living center paradigms you'll have to sue me-- Thomas Earle
If anyone is undecided about Stewart's range, count spastic in for doubt, as I am not entirely certain what range signifies, as one could reasonably ask why Jean Luc Picard couldn't have been British, with French relations, My favorite episode of Next Generation is Family, and I'm apparently not the only viewer who felt its strength, for it is in part a teleplay about handling disappointed expectations, adversity, violation, learning to live with it, even if sometimes we cannot, which is the lesson of Black Snake Moan, embedded in Ricci and Timberlake's characters. "Family," resolves itself, since Stewart still cared about his job, but Picard's depth of feeling is saved for the first Borg movie. As dor Stewart's diabolical tyrants, crippled or not, they remain one dimensional. For poignancy, it is his small ensemble part in Lady Jane Grey, where just for a moment, he displays the magnanimity of the doomed. Is Stewart Macbeth?
The Thane is the most haunting, of all the tragedies, Macbeth seems the most psychologically corroded by overreach, akin to yours truly and the ambulatory world, but I just don't see Stewart so tortured by culpability. I concede I don't know if the play available to view.
Tom Earle is an unlikely adversary, the type of boy-man women coddle with food and St. Christopher medals. He is perfectly happy playing tag with his walking stick with baby fat toddlers. I'll admit I am harassing his voice mail, daily. I've said what the fuck forcefully and recounted numerous follies by his staff, the people who work at these places are inept to the point that my own skills have corroded in psychic pain. Brian Coleman was Earle's second to last housing counselor before the center lost it's budget, and in the world of the way things work in Black Cities USA, my rental manager Trudy Richardson followed brother Coleman of Maryland around, never completed any repairs. The same Coleman who said "Liberty can help with the move," during the renovations, and then told me, the erstwhile former consultant, "Liberty doesn't offer that service." My assigned coordinator never opened her fucking mouth, and nothing ever changes with this paradigm.
He is gone, but I hate the little dodo with a vengeance, injured as badly as I was that year, but as ugly dykes are wont to say, these centers are all the disabled have. When we're ousted, even if homily but not persuadable to lesbianism,what then?
If anyone is undecided about Stewart's range, count spastic in for doubt, as I am not entirely certain what range signifies, as one could reasonably ask why Jean Luc Picard couldn't have been British, with French relations, My favorite episode of Next Generation is Family, and I'm apparently not the only viewer who felt its strength, for it is in part a teleplay about handling disappointed expectations, adversity, violation, learning to live with it, even if sometimes we cannot, which is the lesson of Black Snake Moan, embedded in Ricci and Timberlake's characters. "Family," resolves itself, since Stewart still cared about his job, but Picard's depth of feeling is saved for the first Borg movie. As dor Stewart's diabolical tyrants, crippled or not, they remain one dimensional. For poignancy, it is his small ensemble part in Lady Jane Grey, where just for a moment, he displays the magnanimity of the doomed. Is Stewart Macbeth?
The Thane is the most haunting, of all the tragedies, Macbeth seems the most psychologically corroded by overreach, akin to yours truly and the ambulatory world, but I just don't see Stewart so tortured by culpability. I concede I don't know if the play available to view.
Tom Earle is an unlikely adversary, the type of boy-man women coddle with food and St. Christopher medals. He is perfectly happy playing tag with his walking stick with baby fat toddlers. I'll admit I am harassing his voice mail, daily. I've said what the fuck forcefully and recounted numerous follies by his staff, the people who work at these places are inept to the point that my own skills have corroded in psychic pain. Brian Coleman was Earle's second to last housing counselor before the center lost it's budget, and in the world of the way things work in Black Cities USA, my rental manager Trudy Richardson followed brother Coleman of Maryland around, never completed any repairs. The same Coleman who said "Liberty can help with the move," during the renovations, and then told me, the erstwhile former consultant, "Liberty doesn't offer that service." My assigned coordinator never opened her fucking mouth, and nothing ever changes with this paradigm.
He is gone, but I hate the little dodo with a vengeance, injured as badly as I was that year, but as ugly dykes are wont to say, these centers are all the disabled have. When we're ousted, even if homily but not persuadable to lesbianism,what then?
Larry Carroll Cheat Ledes
I thought Stewart was in trouble, like the 39th POTUS with his braying jackass teeth. This is why I do not write for television. Carroll knows he is wrong about the type casting, and that Stewart will always owe his breakthrough fame to Rick Berman. I would not make much more money doing what Carroll is doing, and I know precisely how to do it. But no, I keep butting my head against the wall. Liberal fastidiousness. Conservative silence, or admonishment. As usual, I came online to research some items and overstayed.
What is upsetting me is my awareness of the fact I am Vester Flanagan. The furrows in his face match so many thousands, only I wanted to go further, like McVeigh, and take out an entire system with explosives, implements of mass destruction about which I know nothing. I am not Flanagan in that I wouldn't live stream any hit list kills, and I want to be clever enough not to get caught, much like Hannibal. If we come the 01 movie to Mads scene with Fuller's Pazi, both are weak, but Giancarlo Giannini's Pazi succeeds in swinging the pendulum back to remind us that Hannibal's pathological allure violates the shield of decency. What Fuller attempted to ask viewer's with his kill of Pazi, was did Hannibal rectify historical guilt, since we are to infer the Pazi crest shielded much sin.
Turning grievance into virtual reality isn't a solution, even I know that, but I do not think some of you realize what caviler attitudes leave us, in terms of consequences. I am getting nit-picky with Swarthmore. I knew I never had a chance for that position because the assistant editor viewed my profile and went mum and only told me today she wanted the full CV. I'm sure having an adamant conversation with her next week will miraculously reveal the stairway to heaven, but I'm intent on having that dialogue, and may get arrested downtown after that. I like Lane's writing at times. I prefer that masculine force, liked his character in the movie against Glass, but if he could see my home movie, the years of medical torture, the abuse, my systemic battles with the welfare state, he then might see more of a moral dilemma.
What is upsetting me is my awareness of the fact I am Vester Flanagan. The furrows in his face match so many thousands, only I wanted to go further, like McVeigh, and take out an entire system with explosives, implements of mass destruction about which I know nothing. I am not Flanagan in that I wouldn't live stream any hit list kills, and I want to be clever enough not to get caught, much like Hannibal. If we come the 01 movie to Mads scene with Fuller's Pazi, both are weak, but Giancarlo Giannini's Pazi succeeds in swinging the pendulum back to remind us that Hannibal's pathological allure violates the shield of decency. What Fuller attempted to ask viewer's with his kill of Pazi, was did Hannibal rectify historical guilt, since we are to infer the Pazi crest shielded much sin.
Turning grievance into virtual reality isn't a solution, even I know that, but I do not think some of you realize what caviler attitudes leave us, in terms of consequences. I am getting nit-picky with Swarthmore. I knew I never had a chance for that position because the assistant editor viewed my profile and went mum and only told me today she wanted the full CV. I'm sure having an adamant conversation with her next week will miraculously reveal the stairway to heaven, but I'm intent on having that dialogue, and may get arrested downtown after that. I like Lane's writing at times. I prefer that masculine force, liked his character in the movie against Glass, but if he could see my home movie, the years of medical torture, the abuse, my systemic battles with the welfare state, he then might see more of a moral dilemma.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
... And Les Innocents of Georges Simenon
What I was actually going to attempt to post about was the adaptation of Les Innocents on Worldview. I would drop Patterson for Simenon any day and did, and Marshal's performance as the duped cuckold got to me, pierced, no Maigret in sight; it felt fresh, this implicit complication of human motives.
I make people nervous because I'm obviously willing to use revelation when it suits me. Why trust me with how I post on Blogger? However much Linda Dezenski destroyed my emotional well being, the other side of her willingness to be an expending sociopath is that I've embarrassed her. She went over the top and the crime of it will never stay buried if my work survives-- but there are events, episodes, where I've kept those experiences to myself, particularly my sordid comic flings with married men.
I would discuss him and the others, but euthanasia via cat fights with ex-wives and other confessions isn't what I had in mind, and families are involved, and for once, Simenon opens this egg without too many conceits pertinent to mystery dramas.
We're human. People get hurt, even me, through becoming vulnerable, and Simenon exposes this with certain truisms about why women in spite do what they do; the story rang true, Marie's motives, Jean-Paul's scourged conscience, keeping his deceit close, Celerin's grief forcing him to seek out the verities. The novel was published in 72. The adaptation was fitted for the digital age, more powerful for it, in an evening where I should not have sat for it, perhaps, enjoying my plummet back to asceticism. I shall not be able to sustain it, not much longer. As fragile as our interior sense of self is, however, it isn't easy to die. Life fights for itself.
I make people nervous because I'm obviously willing to use revelation when it suits me. Why trust me with how I post on Blogger? However much Linda Dezenski destroyed my emotional well being, the other side of her willingness to be an expending sociopath is that I've embarrassed her. She went over the top and the crime of it will never stay buried if my work survives-- but there are events, episodes, where I've kept those experiences to myself, particularly my sordid comic flings with married men.
I would discuss him and the others, but euthanasia via cat fights with ex-wives and other confessions isn't what I had in mind, and families are involved, and for once, Simenon opens this egg without too many conceits pertinent to mystery dramas.
We're human. People get hurt, even me, through becoming vulnerable, and Simenon exposes this with certain truisms about why women in spite do what they do; the story rang true, Marie's motives, Jean-Paul's scourged conscience, keeping his deceit close, Celerin's grief forcing him to seek out the verities. The novel was published in 72. The adaptation was fitted for the digital age, more powerful for it, in an evening where I should not have sat for it, perhaps, enjoying my plummet back to asceticism. I shall not be able to sustain it, not much longer. As fragile as our interior sense of self is, however, it isn't easy to die. Life fights for itself.
Les Innocents in the Arc of Evolving Bag Lady
I logged on to chastise the Jefferson labyrinth in vain, depressed at how obvious the avarice is within Medicare as a single payer option. The best thing for me is to return to employment, and yet that goal has the road blocks built into it: I'm homeless, in all but actual fact, once removed, depressed and suffering some form of traumatic stress, and the Swarthmore College editorial department simply shut down after viewing my Linked In profile. What can I do? Trying to take a better picture will not change the toll these years have taken if, god forbid, I show up to a job interview with my occlusion.
Medicare arbitrarily signed me into a part D prescription plan, and I am ready to walk, freely lashing out at Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell on the way out, lasting mere hours, if that, but it is what my soul wants, to tell the system to unhinge itself from my torso. I do not need prescriptions. I need rehabilitation technology, a new location to live, work, but our hallowed Constitution doesn't apply when it comes to entitlement, and I'm beginning to recontour myself as just another cripple.
It isn't what I wanted.
Medicare arbitrarily signed me into a part D prescription plan, and I am ready to walk, freely lashing out at Debra Horne and Trudy Richardson and Ken Cantrell on the way out, lasting mere hours, if that, but it is what my soul wants, to tell the system to unhinge itself from my torso. I do not need prescriptions. I need rehabilitation technology, a new location to live, work, but our hallowed Constitution doesn't apply when it comes to entitlement, and I'm beginning to recontour myself as just another cripple.
It isn't what I wanted.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Subdural Hematoma in the Decline of Randy Quaid
"Well, don't you see, he's typical of the man who has married a whore--" Anatole France, reimagined.
Boris Karloff goes without saying, but then came realism, Randy Quaid's temper, De Niro's ferocity coupled to Branagh's need for succor, Peter Boyle's hilarious send up, Jennifer Beals and Sting, Aaron Eckhart's relatively recent fizzled attempt. The Revenge of Frankenstein, with Peter Cushing, is a transitional knock-off of Shelley's novel, more minimalist than the time stamped Karloff, it's outer-lying framework, as written by Sangster and James, combines a whiff of vampirism and perpetual reconstitution, with Cushing emanating a false humility and ruthless process, some years before directors suddenly had to display fealty to the Enlightenment transitioning into early Victorian anxieties, treating the novel like scripture. The book endures because Mary Shelley annihilates domestication. Scripts may give Dr. Frankenstein a feminine halter in a tug of war with the hubris of the God complex, but Shelley doesn't dwell on doomed love for long in her fast paced death chase.
Quaid's trappings in the role are of menacing sympathy. Such a creature would be developmentally challenged. What Wickes tapped into in 92 isn't so far removed from Quaid turning dodger of justice across the border today; even when actors snap, they still tap into their greatest strength which now makes them difficult to bridle. There is a wee bit of Frankenstein as creation myth in Vanilla Sky too.
The Cushing reprisal points to where science fiction went after such adaptations, in the analog age: transplantation. It might be far simpler to stay with this macro-biological grafting than manipulating gene switches toward the transhumanism of Weiner's uneven study. Weiner's main problem as an author is he attempts to fuse too many choices.
Boris Karloff goes without saying, but then came realism, Randy Quaid's temper, De Niro's ferocity coupled to Branagh's need for succor, Peter Boyle's hilarious send up, Jennifer Beals and Sting, Aaron Eckhart's relatively recent fizzled attempt. The Revenge of Frankenstein, with Peter Cushing, is a transitional knock-off of Shelley's novel, more minimalist than the time stamped Karloff, it's outer-lying framework, as written by Sangster and James, combines a whiff of vampirism and perpetual reconstitution, with Cushing emanating a false humility and ruthless process, some years before directors suddenly had to display fealty to the Enlightenment transitioning into early Victorian anxieties, treating the novel like scripture. The book endures because Mary Shelley annihilates domestication. Scripts may give Dr. Frankenstein a feminine halter in a tug of war with the hubris of the God complex, but Shelley doesn't dwell on doomed love for long in her fast paced death chase.
Quaid's trappings in the role are of menacing sympathy. Such a creature would be developmentally challenged. What Wickes tapped into in 92 isn't so far removed from Quaid turning dodger of justice across the border today; even when actors snap, they still tap into their greatest strength which now makes them difficult to bridle. There is a wee bit of Frankenstein as creation myth in Vanilla Sky too.
The Cushing reprisal points to where science fiction went after such adaptations, in the analog age: transplantation. It might be far simpler to stay with this macro-biological grafting than manipulating gene switches toward the transhumanism of Weiner's uneven study. Weiner's main problem as an author is he attempts to fuse too many choices.
L'Amore Non Bastina por Mary
You will rejoice to hear that no disaster has accompanied the commencement of an enterprise which you have regarded with such evil forebodings.-- the opening.
Some authors imprint better than others on damaged neurons. Henry James, whose list serv I miss but remain off of because I would prefer to contribute intelligibly and lack confidence to tango with a group of catty overburdened teachers whom I annoy, at the end of the day, relieved to be gone as well. The dwarf female who precipitated my departure did not intend these consequences, but my pique remains. Should I email Dr. Hathaway? Perhaps. He was a favorite, even with his cataracts. One of my first scholars.
David Foster Wallace. I am still evaluating how much genius Wallace had, in contrast to pretension, but his narrative voice is stitched into my self-hating faculties.
These are two examples. Those that slip away might surprise you: Dickens, Lawrence. Shelley is among them, not due to her flaws so much as she writes in such a fashion as to anticipate screen plays, and I can barely remember her epistolary novel. Her sympathy is far, far ahead of its time, especially when her voice is compared to Maupassant, Henry's contemporary, whose lucidity fails when tackling blind family members left to starve. Mary's blind man is the creature's educator, ironically, its humanist who doesn't judge.
Jerry once conveyed to class that he hated the Enlightenment and refused to teach it, in a charming moment of Celtic petulance; following in that vein, I disdain the Romantic Movement as much overwrought-- not to say Keats doesn't melt the heart -- but this was a very imprecise literary generation, who made drug dependency seem exotic, and left us with the eternal argument over what Romanticism means, god-fucking-dam-it-to-hell-sounding off as a joke, don't be alarmed,
but this morning they're banned! The Renaissance makes sense. Even the Medieval period makes sense. The Victorians are guilty of collapsing into Modernism but even they make a perfectly sound argument for knowing one's place. The Romantics wanted to dance and space out in poppy fields. Fuck that.
Some authors imprint better than others on damaged neurons. Henry James, whose list serv I miss but remain off of because I would prefer to contribute intelligibly and lack confidence to tango with a group of catty overburdened teachers whom I annoy, at the end of the day, relieved to be gone as well. The dwarf female who precipitated my departure did not intend these consequences, but my pique remains. Should I email Dr. Hathaway? Perhaps. He was a favorite, even with his cataracts. One of my first scholars.
David Foster Wallace. I am still evaluating how much genius Wallace had, in contrast to pretension, but his narrative voice is stitched into my self-hating faculties.
These are two examples. Those that slip away might surprise you: Dickens, Lawrence. Shelley is among them, not due to her flaws so much as she writes in such a fashion as to anticipate screen plays, and I can barely remember her epistolary novel. Her sympathy is far, far ahead of its time, especially when her voice is compared to Maupassant, Henry's contemporary, whose lucidity fails when tackling blind family members left to starve. Mary's blind man is the creature's educator, ironically, its humanist who doesn't judge.
Jerry once conveyed to class that he hated the Enlightenment and refused to teach it, in a charming moment of Celtic petulance; following in that vein, I disdain the Romantic Movement as much overwrought-- not to say Keats doesn't melt the heart -- but this was a very imprecise literary generation, who made drug dependency seem exotic, and left us with the eternal argument over what Romanticism means, god-fucking-dam-it-to-hell-sounding off as a joke, don't be alarmed,
but this morning they're banned! The Renaissance makes sense. Even the Medieval period makes sense. The Victorians are guilty of collapsing into Modernism but even they make a perfectly sound argument for knowing one's place. The Romantics wanted to dance and space out in poppy fields. Fuck that.
Friday, August 21, 2015
Hitting Stride
My post about Kane's legal problems is mainly a rehash, in order to reach another thesis, not that I can fault myself. I don't have any fresh sources, but my point was about the forgotten in all this, which, going out on a limb, were the athletes Sandusky sodomized, as I'm assuming he engaged in anal penetration, though being convicted on sexual abuse charges is not statutory rape, I think. I'm undecided if I should delete my file, or just keep researching bylines and let my interest simmer. One insight I've gained: the coverage between Philadelphia and Allentown has succinct differences, which is also an interstice of interest.
Have I made a choice to write out of my depth? I am posing the question as a failed freelancing tutorial, in a sense. More research. (Sigh)
Have I made a choice to write out of my depth? I am posing the question as a failed freelancing tutorial, in a sense. More research. (Sigh)
On Labor Day
"It's not that I don't have some sympathy for Ms. Kane. As the old saying goes, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean there aren't people out to get you."-- Brian O'Neill
Media sometimes obfuscates as much as it informs, and I personally have no stake in whether the once vaunted Attorney General stays or goes. I did not like that she declined to defend Pennsylvania's defense of marriage act before SCOTUS nullified two thousand years of Judeo-Christian principles, nor did I care for her investigation of an assisted suicide case that wasn't, as re-litigated by the free daily City Paper. The daughter did not actively help her father die, so it was moot whether we're for or against euthanasia, but this whole scenario is patently absurd. Kathleen Kane is anyone's starling sister whom we wish to see succeed, and what her tribulations expose says less about her and more about the fact that if one of the oldest European land masses in the New World has lost the ability to govern, and China's state model is no particular antidote, I might as well take a sip of water, lie down, and pass away after a few weeks of excruciating dehydration.
My post title refers to a youthful stanza about never having anything to do on these lesser ceremonial holidays. Same conditions apply at the age of 53 with a dollar in the bank, but this hardship is entirely my fault, as I refuse to reapply for EBT or SSI, and will continue to refuse until the state forces me against my will, even as I milk homicidal aggression to get off my mattress finally, both the fault of the mattress and the poor quality of the Jazzy. I want a live-in companion, not an aide so much as an ambulatory friend, and that is easier said. I'm not Wonder Woman, but I am not all that sick despite incontinence and my lung function decline, and yet thinking out of the box to help a fiercely independent disabled writer beat welfare abuse is too much to ask, evidently.
People living together is analogous to a courtship, I know, but this is in the spirit of the new collaborative economy. Think about it, pass the word. I'm willing to leave Philadelphia, and even consign my felines to lethal injection. My entire online life has been a cry for change.
Media sometimes obfuscates as much as it informs, and I personally have no stake in whether the once vaunted Attorney General stays or goes. I did not like that she declined to defend Pennsylvania's defense of marriage act before SCOTUS nullified two thousand years of Judeo-Christian principles, nor did I care for her investigation of an assisted suicide case that wasn't, as re-litigated by the free daily City Paper. The daughter did not actively help her father die, so it was moot whether we're for or against euthanasia, but this whole scenario is patently absurd. Kathleen Kane is anyone's starling sister whom we wish to see succeed, and what her tribulations expose says less about her and more about the fact that if one of the oldest European land masses in the New World has lost the ability to govern, and China's state model is no particular antidote, I might as well take a sip of water, lie down, and pass away after a few weeks of excruciating dehydration.
My post title refers to a youthful stanza about never having anything to do on these lesser ceremonial holidays. Same conditions apply at the age of 53 with a dollar in the bank, but this hardship is entirely my fault, as I refuse to reapply for EBT or SSI, and will continue to refuse until the state forces me against my will, even as I milk homicidal aggression to get off my mattress finally, both the fault of the mattress and the poor quality of the Jazzy. I want a live-in companion, not an aide so much as an ambulatory friend, and that is easier said. I'm not Wonder Woman, but I am not all that sick despite incontinence and my lung function decline, and yet thinking out of the box to help a fiercely independent disabled writer beat welfare abuse is too much to ask, evidently.
People living together is analogous to a courtship, I know, but this is in the spirit of the new collaborative economy. Think about it, pass the word. I'm willing to leave Philadelphia, and even consign my felines to lethal injection. My entire online life has been a cry for change.
Thursday, August 20, 2015
A Good Defecation, Trembling
In our times, as was remarked, no one is content with faith, but "goes right on." The question as to whither they are proceeding may be a silly question; whereas it is, a sign of urbanity and culture to assume that every one has faith, to begin with, for else it were a curious statement for them to make, that they are proceeding further.-- Soren Kierkegaard
Nice old AT&T hasn't booted me. I failed to mention, on Blogger, as well as social media, that sins of overage in my last billing period wasn't simply due to nagging pet children. I've lost my battle with nicotine, and Vuse essentially rekindled dependency, and here we are again, my emotional health doomed to a rhetoric of vehement helplessness. Despite the fact that stuffing Jimmi's balls down his throat is a boring impossibility, let me return to Mr. Shrode's sanction when he spun around on his thick elephant soles to address me with "I read your blog," two weeks ago, the spitting image of Beavis.
Jimmi and Erik are exceedingly disadvantaged freaks, as I've written before, and reading, if Jimmi did read it, that I wanted a laundry list of ADAPT activists dead is a hard pill to swallow; if someone wrote they wanted me dead I too might waffle between context and complaint, but the assertion indicates just how hard loss of faith is, then not being able to leave the source of so much pain. We all knew each other once, Josie Byzek, Jimmi, Erik, Linda, Cassie, myself, and making assertions like that in public has rental agents justifying their continued dehumanization of my person with rationalizations.
Erik was a source for my first HTP article, for which I was paid a decent commission. Something I may have also posted before, and I understand why the severity of their disadvantage led to their gaming of the intake center, but they absolutely refuse to admit they could ever be wrong about anything-- hence my emotional health is analogous to Olivier's caricatured sadism in The Running Man. Jimmi said "I read your blog," as if to imply my posts were compensating indicators, and maybe they are, but Jimmi's emotional maturity is that of a thirteen year old in the body of a Shirley Booth who needs a cosmetic surgeon. If he inadvertently winds up alone with me his fear of me makes him sway nervously, which only increases my contempt, this thick, fat child tyrant on whom I've wasted so much energy. He once wrote an article, submitted to Josie, that a disabled lawyer who was matriculated, representing client X against PA's rehab law, would one day "find out" the extent of the jeremiad he was aiding (my paraphrase-- Jimmi doesn't have my diction, and he writes like a wailing tyrant, as well).
It is Jimmi's turn to now learn a hard lesson: Unethical behavior due to a strident and overbearing sense of entitlement can, and does, impact other people adversely, and before I am dead this bully bitch is going to learn why state civil service guidelines have rules discouraging nepotism. I'm going to clip some wings, and the near absolute power Jimmi and Erik had, I intend to see that mitigated within NCIL. Am I really capable of tolerating the degradation of my enemies? I do not know, but I've been known to be unmoved by individual collapse on sidewalks. In Patricia Clarkson, that erosion of empathy might translate as dispassionate reticence. As an actress, she absorbs loss and longing within herself, even while the audience reads her like an instruction manual. She serves her scripts with much the same function James' Maria Gostrey serves Strether. The academics have a term for it, slipped my mind many years ago. We see it over and over, The Station Agent, which, interesting as it is, glosses over her ideation as a mother with irreconcilable losses; in Lars and the Real Woman, she's the doctor none of us have, a real humanist sensitive to the dignity of marginal crackpots. In Pieces of April, she is the tyrannical scourge running out of time. Learning to Drive follows these same reasonable, liberal parameters; I do not need to know how it tests the limits of friendship to everyone's satisfaction, but do know what is broken cannot always be fixed by reconciliation.
Nice old AT&T hasn't booted me. I failed to mention, on Blogger, as well as social media, that sins of overage in my last billing period wasn't simply due to nagging pet children. I've lost my battle with nicotine, and Vuse essentially rekindled dependency, and here we are again, my emotional health doomed to a rhetoric of vehement helplessness. Despite the fact that stuffing Jimmi's balls down his throat is a boring impossibility, let me return to Mr. Shrode's sanction when he spun around on his thick elephant soles to address me with "I read your blog," two weeks ago, the spitting image of Beavis.
Jimmi and Erik are exceedingly disadvantaged freaks, as I've written before, and reading, if Jimmi did read it, that I wanted a laundry list of ADAPT activists dead is a hard pill to swallow; if someone wrote they wanted me dead I too might waffle between context and complaint, but the assertion indicates just how hard loss of faith is, then not being able to leave the source of so much pain. We all knew each other once, Josie Byzek, Jimmi, Erik, Linda, Cassie, myself, and making assertions like that in public has rental agents justifying their continued dehumanization of my person with rationalizations.
Erik was a source for my first HTP article, for which I was paid a decent commission. Something I may have also posted before, and I understand why the severity of their disadvantage led to their gaming of the intake center, but they absolutely refuse to admit they could ever be wrong about anything-- hence my emotional health is analogous to Olivier's caricatured sadism in The Running Man. Jimmi said "I read your blog," as if to imply my posts were compensating indicators, and maybe they are, but Jimmi's emotional maturity is that of a thirteen year old in the body of a Shirley Booth who needs a cosmetic surgeon. If he inadvertently winds up alone with me his fear of me makes him sway nervously, which only increases my contempt, this thick, fat child tyrant on whom I've wasted so much energy. He once wrote an article, submitted to Josie, that a disabled lawyer who was matriculated, representing client X against PA's rehab law, would one day "find out" the extent of the jeremiad he was aiding (my paraphrase-- Jimmi doesn't have my diction, and he writes like a wailing tyrant, as well).
It is Jimmi's turn to now learn a hard lesson: Unethical behavior due to a strident and overbearing sense of entitlement can, and does, impact other people adversely, and before I am dead this bully bitch is going to learn why state civil service guidelines have rules discouraging nepotism. I'm going to clip some wings, and the near absolute power Jimmi and Erik had, I intend to see that mitigated within NCIL. Am I really capable of tolerating the degradation of my enemies? I do not know, but I've been known to be unmoved by individual collapse on sidewalks. In Patricia Clarkson, that erosion of empathy might translate as dispassionate reticence. As an actress, she absorbs loss and longing within herself, even while the audience reads her like an instruction manual. She serves her scripts with much the same function James' Maria Gostrey serves Strether. The academics have a term for it, slipped my mind many years ago. We see it over and over, The Station Agent, which, interesting as it is, glosses over her ideation as a mother with irreconcilable losses; in Lars and the Real Woman, she's the doctor none of us have, a real humanist sensitive to the dignity of marginal crackpots. In Pieces of April, she is the tyrannical scourge running out of time. Learning to Drive follows these same reasonable, liberal parameters; I do not need to know how it tests the limits of friendship to everyone's satisfaction, but do know what is broken cannot always be fixed by reconciliation.
Tuesday, August 18, 2015
Special Emissary
When Ronald Reagan announced in November 1994 he had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, even some of his most ardent political opponents paused to wish him well.-- Cal Thomas
I am considering petitioning the Obama Administration to place me on a citizen's guest list for the ceremonial lying in state when Jimmy Carter passes away. His impending absence is relevant to individuals like columnist George Will and I, in the startling things we discover about the impending loss of time worn adversaries. When the moment arrives I'd like to pay my respects, a genuine sentiment which astonishes me. In an upper track history course, with yet another teacher who aroused my father as first love sexual promiscuity, the essay election choice question for Ronald Reagan over then President Carter served as a bell weather prediction for the 1980 election. Twenty odd essays going pro-Reagan predicted that November evening landslide, just as a grey Cardigan sweater on television with the grooved face of a peanut farmer sparked the dawn of political consciousness, and created the ex-President's trajectory, of which Carter's was tedious, overly long. Habitat for Humanity, which I've contacted, is absolutely no help, and sends pre-formatted emails suggesting the disabled contact Liberty Resources, for which you may picture my wearied and martyred tableau of emotions, but this flags the notion of persistence and maybe I need to persuade Carter's organization that the intake center needs to be closed.
The rise and fall of a peanut farmer in the evolution of liberalism is dynamic; his programs are, in contrast, monolithic, and at least in the fabric of the social safety net, sterile. I little minded leaving Reagan's passing as a video footnote. His was the celebrity artifice, the uneasy realization that ideology merely moves the needle one way or other, unless revolutions implode, and tyranny has its run until succession softens things up. Jimmy's failure as a leader tailgated a certain youthful idealism that spastics could also be whitewashed into a meteoric rise, actually more like that of a portable ramp incline. I find myself wishing to say goodbye, which would involve convincing the Secret Service that I'm not Miriam Carey, and of course, the man hasn't yet been admitted to hospice, but the inevitable has begun. He's 91 this October.
I am considering petitioning the Obama Administration to place me on a citizen's guest list for the ceremonial lying in state when Jimmy Carter passes away. His impending absence is relevant to individuals like columnist George Will and I, in the startling things we discover about the impending loss of time worn adversaries. When the moment arrives I'd like to pay my respects, a genuine sentiment which astonishes me. In an upper track history course, with yet another teacher who aroused my father as first love sexual promiscuity, the essay election choice question for Ronald Reagan over then President Carter served as a bell weather prediction for the 1980 election. Twenty odd essays going pro-Reagan predicted that November evening landslide, just as a grey Cardigan sweater on television with the grooved face of a peanut farmer sparked the dawn of political consciousness, and created the ex-President's trajectory, of which Carter's was tedious, overly long. Habitat for Humanity, which I've contacted, is absolutely no help, and sends pre-formatted emails suggesting the disabled contact Liberty Resources, for which you may picture my wearied and martyred tableau of emotions, but this flags the notion of persistence and maybe I need to persuade Carter's organization that the intake center needs to be closed.
The rise and fall of a peanut farmer in the evolution of liberalism is dynamic; his programs are, in contrast, monolithic, and at least in the fabric of the social safety net, sterile. I little minded leaving Reagan's passing as a video footnote. His was the celebrity artifice, the uneasy realization that ideology merely moves the needle one way or other, unless revolutions implode, and tyranny has its run until succession softens things up. Jimmy's failure as a leader tailgated a certain youthful idealism that spastics could also be whitewashed into a meteoric rise, actually more like that of a portable ramp incline. I find myself wishing to say goodbye, which would involve convincing the Secret Service that I'm not Miriam Carey, and of course, the man hasn't yet been admitted to hospice, but the inevitable has begun. He's 91 this October.
Friday, August 14, 2015
Rectifying Chemical Imbalance
"Don't be so sensitive!"-- Robert De Niro, naturally inclined to mimic palsy
Jack Goes Boating is as much about transference as it is a contrast between experience and innocence, in attempting to come to terms with Phillip Seymour Hoffman, his craft, destructive escapism, and the use of a hookah as a biographical antidote. There is resistance toward full commiseration with the absence of his gift, repugnance toward his pudgy and nascent clueless character he portrays here, four odd years ago, but also admiration for the willingness on his part to savage vanity, passing the buck to Ortiz, whose limousine driver is more than the sum of Vega's contempt.
Why do we see the extended capture of an amputee engaged in rehabilitative training at the pool, which clearly serves for an extended metaphor for fleshing outward towards cumulative maturity? Appreciation of the actor doesn't lend itself toward connective sympathy for the liberal arguments embedded in his roles. He upended that by dying like hundreds of junkies before and since, either on a libertarian or material note, depending on the perspective we have toward addiction, and in spastic's view, the naturalist thesis is the prevailing victor. Complex life forms gravitate towards destructive dependence to alleviate negation, which to me seems covalent with our tendency towards being corrupt hypocrites, sans the plight of Pennsylvania's Kathleen Kane.
The Attorney General might hold my equivocal sympathy for her plight somewhat suspect, as well she should, since her review of Corbett's handling of the Jerry Sandusky investigation clearly had a political agenda to it, but the entire sorry fiasco illustrates that one doesn't have theological objections to gay marriage and the equality of sexual orientation as a purely cosmetic, Orwellian denial of bestiality. Is it really a form of political liberalism that led to the discipline of Pennsylvania's judicial employees over pornographic emails, or is Kane a closet authoritarian? If I disagree with her allegiance to Democratic principles, why am I standing by her now?
Because she's right, even if she engaged in some sort of orchestration of the grand jury to play hardball with her perceived enemies. Next week I'll have more time for substantive research to really wade into our modern jeremiad and the urgent need to scale back from regulatory reliance.
Jack Goes Boating is as much about transference as it is a contrast between experience and innocence, in attempting to come to terms with Phillip Seymour Hoffman, his craft, destructive escapism, and the use of a hookah as a biographical antidote. There is resistance toward full commiseration with the absence of his gift, repugnance toward his pudgy and nascent clueless character he portrays here, four odd years ago, but also admiration for the willingness on his part to savage vanity, passing the buck to Ortiz, whose limousine driver is more than the sum of Vega's contempt.
Why do we see the extended capture of an amputee engaged in rehabilitative training at the pool, which clearly serves for an extended metaphor for fleshing outward towards cumulative maturity? Appreciation of the actor doesn't lend itself toward connective sympathy for the liberal arguments embedded in his roles. He upended that by dying like hundreds of junkies before and since, either on a libertarian or material note, depending on the perspective we have toward addiction, and in spastic's view, the naturalist thesis is the prevailing victor. Complex life forms gravitate towards destructive dependence to alleviate negation, which to me seems covalent with our tendency towards being corrupt hypocrites, sans the plight of Pennsylvania's Kathleen Kane.
The Attorney General might hold my equivocal sympathy for her plight somewhat suspect, as well she should, since her review of Corbett's handling of the Jerry Sandusky investigation clearly had a political agenda to it, but the entire sorry fiasco illustrates that one doesn't have theological objections to gay marriage and the equality of sexual orientation as a purely cosmetic, Orwellian denial of bestiality. Is it really a form of political liberalism that led to the discipline of Pennsylvania's judicial employees over pornographic emails, or is Kane a closet authoritarian? If I disagree with her allegiance to Democratic principles, why am I standing by her now?
Because she's right, even if she engaged in some sort of orchestration of the grand jury to play hardball with her perceived enemies. Next week I'll have more time for substantive research to really wade into our modern jeremiad and the urgent need to scale back from regulatory reliance.
Monday, August 10, 2015
Sbaro di Anzio
When a writer says "I'm no good," it is a conventional phrase that can mean any number of things in a desultory midsummer predawn with its fetid, heavy air. There are always the typical reasons for procrastination, but in this instance, it is the over-whelming weight of the obstacles to surmount as a woman's mid-fifties encroach, the difficulties of trying to reenter the labor force pretending one has the same enthusiasm and drive more readily tapped at a younger age. It is too late for children. The husband to divorce went as far as a broken wedding engagement. Equity in the quicksand of the welfare state is a pipe dream, and so dull edged free broadcast television is a form of equivocation with impending nullification.
"Go to bed," is an imperative ignored for the staid films of the late middle twentieth century, whose texture in Panavision, sometimes Technicolor, now has the drab feel of a Stalinist museum done in oil on canvas. Anzio has this quality, the sixties era spin about the folly of Europeans killing each other over political ideology, where Robert Mitchum as the skeptical liberal supposedly radicalizes World War II by parsing it down to an essence: men enjoy killing each other, while Peter Falk is the supporting foil who needs the adrenaline. In terms of the zillions of war films out there, Anzio evades the moral repercussions of genocide and types of governance for which we engage in armed conflict. As a character study it doesn't engage with any sartorial interest, given its historical context. Black and whites from this generation seem more energetic even when script writers bracket them as if they were being read off the newswire.
This was the next. My life is over. A wail of narcissism, of poverty, loneliness. A black and white of more of the same, or so the failed writer thought. Anthony Quinn. Brave Bulls. Another tiresome war film? No. Mel Ferrer has the Hollywood face the camera loves in a lanky body. A documentary style film about Mexican bull fighting without really much of a storyline, but Mexico isn't much of a storyline. Mexico is the tragic end result of exploitation and interbreeding between Spaniards and Aztecs, that reputedly fierce tribe of human sacrifice which couldn't stand up to horses or bayonets or measles. Interior digression wonders how the United States was so lucky, but the convenient answer is lack of British stomach for killing its former subjects who rejected a monarchy for something much worse: the federal government, which really only started to become what it is today under the Roosevelts. Another story.
One thinks of Ciudid Juarez as a dangerous city in relation to kidnappings for ATM withdrawals, or Traffic with Michael Douglas. Rossen's story is much more schematic than that, and yet has the same fractures beneath its surface; the developing world is a literal anxiety, an exposure of civilized insecurity. The fact remains that a that majority of peoples eek out a life of subsistence. This writer's American subsistence is perhaps a notch or two above the contemporary Hispanic working class which stays put. Rossen seems to wish to convey with this weird film something about those who didn't migrate, about defiance against the odds, that bravery may not be what it appears. That a white Mexican platinum blond woman is a premium trophy too good to be true, so she dies off camera with Quinn, a diffident traitor to his protégé. Ferrer recovers his manhood in the slaying of a good fighter. Thud. What the hell was this?
Remembered childhood debate about bullfighting with a closet lesbian. Youthful conscience made strenuous objections. Fifty three may be a more dispassionate age, but there is still discomfort with the business of breeding powerful cattle for torture, even as Rossen illustrates the alternate view of the matador as a professional engaged in a unique cultural signature, a vestige of imperial glorification, endeared to the citizens of a weak state, one that resents invasions and loss of territory. The gay Hispanic writer Richard Rodriquez claims the Hispanic race is a fiction, without qualifying what he meant by it, and an otherwise unemployed journalist who hasn't had a contract in years can't pretend to have the camaraderie with an angry liberal and former public television regular to ask what he meant by it, unless one extrapolates from it that sorting out the indigenous tribes from those of mixed race heritage doesn't make the people in Latin America a homogeneous ethnicity.
The bulls never win in the contest, even if the occasional goring due to lapse of attention or skill leads to death. The bull is never honored like Baal, the Mesopotamian threat to an anthropomorphic creator. A pause to consider the folly of rooting for aggressive male herd animals over an aggrandized species like homo sapiens, though in our collective intelligence, we enjoy rooting for the underdog's ability to strike back against our system, our technologies. Godzilla, Lassie, Black Beauty, the Lion King, why not the damn bull if the animal is to be used for entertainment and gilded displays of predatory gaming dominance? It is a symbolic totem in the world of high finance, whose gilded capital only trickles down the margins of static safety nets of the predominant welfare state, so top heavy it boggles the mind, the strictures of entitlement.
It too is a business, socialism. Women without looks need something to do, so they case manage indigence, their pensions in some sort of portfolio, all of us with a paper trail, the most marginalized to the most affluent, commingling only in theatrical downfalls of our fictions, or disgraced in scandals, while those in anonymity, broken by the service sector and impulsive choices, remain resistant to commercial formulas, value content, angry with the patronizing assurances of disability intake centers whose bread and butter is the Medicaid Waiver budget, basically no more than a regulated pimping system for low skill caretakers, the one in downtown Philadelphia run by a legally blind Mexican lawyer whose outcomes are no better than those before him, Thomas Earle, who paces softly, an effeminate man, girlish legs and buttocks, often tapped for speeches, offering ten minute conversations to those expurgated or preyed upon, of course, unable to beat the clock, aging out of a vindicated matriculation. Due to his vested interests, Mr. Earle couldn't be expected to admit to bad coordination leading to victimized outcomes. That is why we have tort, and settlements off the docket, unless circumstances precluded the hire of legal assistance, and we continue to sink, hostile landlord, hostile paradigm, toppling under our own weight, like the last shot of the bull, lying recombinant, really dead by sword thrust, or wrangled by a handler, the climax is still the same. The beast is slain. Hail the conquistador.
"Go to bed," is an imperative ignored for the staid films of the late middle twentieth century, whose texture in Panavision, sometimes Technicolor, now has the drab feel of a Stalinist museum done in oil on canvas. Anzio has this quality, the sixties era spin about the folly of Europeans killing each other over political ideology, where Robert Mitchum as the skeptical liberal supposedly radicalizes World War II by parsing it down to an essence: men enjoy killing each other, while Peter Falk is the supporting foil who needs the adrenaline. In terms of the zillions of war films out there, Anzio evades the moral repercussions of genocide and types of governance for which we engage in armed conflict. As a character study it doesn't engage with any sartorial interest, given its historical context. Black and whites from this generation seem more energetic even when script writers bracket them as if they were being read off the newswire.
This was the next. My life is over. A wail of narcissism, of poverty, loneliness. A black and white of more of the same, or so the failed writer thought. Anthony Quinn. Brave Bulls. Another tiresome war film? No. Mel Ferrer has the Hollywood face the camera loves in a lanky body. A documentary style film about Mexican bull fighting without really much of a storyline, but Mexico isn't much of a storyline. Mexico is the tragic end result of exploitation and interbreeding between Spaniards and Aztecs, that reputedly fierce tribe of human sacrifice which couldn't stand up to horses or bayonets or measles. Interior digression wonders how the United States was so lucky, but the convenient answer is lack of British stomach for killing its former subjects who rejected a monarchy for something much worse: the federal government, which really only started to become what it is today under the Roosevelts. Another story.
One thinks of Ciudid Juarez as a dangerous city in relation to kidnappings for ATM withdrawals, or Traffic with Michael Douglas. Rossen's story is much more schematic than that, and yet has the same fractures beneath its surface; the developing world is a literal anxiety, an exposure of civilized insecurity. The fact remains that a that majority of peoples eek out a life of subsistence. This writer's American subsistence is perhaps a notch or two above the contemporary Hispanic working class which stays put. Rossen seems to wish to convey with this weird film something about those who didn't migrate, about defiance against the odds, that bravery may not be what it appears. That a white Mexican platinum blond woman is a premium trophy too good to be true, so she dies off camera with Quinn, a diffident traitor to his protégé. Ferrer recovers his manhood in the slaying of a good fighter. Thud. What the hell was this?
Remembered childhood debate about bullfighting with a closet lesbian. Youthful conscience made strenuous objections. Fifty three may be a more dispassionate age, but there is still discomfort with the business of breeding powerful cattle for torture, even as Rossen illustrates the alternate view of the matador as a professional engaged in a unique cultural signature, a vestige of imperial glorification, endeared to the citizens of a weak state, one that resents invasions and loss of territory. The gay Hispanic writer Richard Rodriquez claims the Hispanic race is a fiction, without qualifying what he meant by it, and an otherwise unemployed journalist who hasn't had a contract in years can't pretend to have the camaraderie with an angry liberal and former public television regular to ask what he meant by it, unless one extrapolates from it that sorting out the indigenous tribes from those of mixed race heritage doesn't make the people in Latin America a homogeneous ethnicity.
The bulls never win in the contest, even if the occasional goring due to lapse of attention or skill leads to death. The bull is never honored like Baal, the Mesopotamian threat to an anthropomorphic creator. A pause to consider the folly of rooting for aggressive male herd animals over an aggrandized species like homo sapiens, though in our collective intelligence, we enjoy rooting for the underdog's ability to strike back against our system, our technologies. Godzilla, Lassie, Black Beauty, the Lion King, why not the damn bull if the animal is to be used for entertainment and gilded displays of predatory gaming dominance? It is a symbolic totem in the world of high finance, whose gilded capital only trickles down the margins of static safety nets of the predominant welfare state, so top heavy it boggles the mind, the strictures of entitlement.
It too is a business, socialism. Women without looks need something to do, so they case manage indigence, their pensions in some sort of portfolio, all of us with a paper trail, the most marginalized to the most affluent, commingling only in theatrical downfalls of our fictions, or disgraced in scandals, while those in anonymity, broken by the service sector and impulsive choices, remain resistant to commercial formulas, value content, angry with the patronizing assurances of disability intake centers whose bread and butter is the Medicaid Waiver budget, basically no more than a regulated pimping system for low skill caretakers, the one in downtown Philadelphia run by a legally blind Mexican lawyer whose outcomes are no better than those before him, Thomas Earle, who paces softly, an effeminate man, girlish legs and buttocks, often tapped for speeches, offering ten minute conversations to those expurgated or preyed upon, of course, unable to beat the clock, aging out of a vindicated matriculation. Due to his vested interests, Mr. Earle couldn't be expected to admit to bad coordination leading to victimized outcomes. That is why we have tort, and settlements off the docket, unless circumstances precluded the hire of legal assistance, and we continue to sink, hostile landlord, hostile paradigm, toppling under our own weight, like the last shot of the bull, lying recombinant, really dead by sword thrust, or wrangled by a handler, the climax is still the same. The beast is slain. Hail the conquistador.
Friday, August 7, 2015
del Toro's Falange
Why was Spanish Fascist dictatorship left in power after World War II? - History Stack Exchange https://t.co/nYZJJqVuy7— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) December 3, 2017
The outer framework of Pan's Labyrinth, one where the brother of Mercedes, Pedro, is tactically successful against Vidal, this has a ring of wish fulfillment for del Toro, as modern Spain is one geographic location where Philip K Dick's alternative timelines are a quiet reality rarely given any attention. Who cares about crumbling Catholic edifices in Europe's once mighty Catholic regime? The partisans must have had some victories, and perhaps Vidal's execution has a basis in reality, but Franco's legacy lives in the country that conquered and reshaped central and South America.
Only when I saw the opening of the film after Prime suggested it did I recall Ebert's sated appetite for great artistry in film, and the deceased critic's contention that a great movie is the most elevating aesthetic has a powerful advocate in del Toro's masterpiece, but it is a masterpiece forged in respect for Spain's literary traditions. If the French utilize decorum as a coping mechanism, Spaniards use sleep dream states as an anesthetic, and Pan's Labyrinth applies chloroform to our breathing apparatus in spades, and as such, is not for everyone, with its saturated melancholy, one which takes its time, builds, and even suggests the dowager need not stream, in mortal ennui, for some time to come.
Was there anything worthwhile in Vidal? I liked him, as of course I would, unrepentant, but as I am posting this in an archive timeline, as yet unbroken, I will not proclaim myself heir apparent to Falange intellectualism.
French Cuisine
"I read your blog,"--Riverside's pork style fairy
I did not goad Jimmi when he actually spoke to me a few days prior. I made an observation to an ever case managed former consumer about my enemy status with the developmental faggot and dying husband, and since I made the observation, I let the potential fight slide. Jimmi is weak, goading him can be amusing, and my balls are going to get me killed, but if he chooses to wade into the disjunctive link between his beliefs, his corruption, and my hatred of ADAPT, he isn't any worse for wear. Insurrectionists haven't yet found the appeal within my interior Joan d'Arc. More to the point, Mr. Shrode refuses to understand that state and federal employment guidelines exist for a reason, and the disability team of my era broke those rules with impunity, destroying my career, and I have to see him and Erik daily. How would you live with something like that? I doubt many of you would find it tolerable.
There is an antipathy to Jean Luc-Bideau with his grandfatherly bulbous nose, and there is also animosity toward Baiot-- the black French actor who in The Churchmen of course has to be a gay seminarian. Bideau has too much of Flaubert's Tostes ruralism about him with that turkey gobble neck of his, and Baiot I've seen around and never liked, too much simper, but other than the jump cut erotic scene between Baiot and the other working class family boy coping with his spiritual calling, I've reluctantly allowed myself to be entangled with WYBE's run of the series, mindful that this is France2's spin on the Vatican, their Pope a bit clueless and modeled on whom, precisely?
It is a better series about Catholicism than anything produced in the States, as is typically the case, and if I was a God fearing Catholic atheist I'd laugh at the irony. I'm reluctant to go forward with Six Feet Under because of its simulated sexual intimacy between Michael C Hall and a gay black partner, and here comes charging out of Paris, with its aggravating double standards, a second decade series about faith and coitus in the real world, and a gay French African, with impulse control issues, climbing the stairway to heaven The French have had an occasional battle with Italy over the Papacy, so its voice is not to be engaged with too much skepticism in its muted but still relevant battle with Protestant Germany, but this is France, and my patience with sniping remonstrance begins to take its toll. Flaubert, Proust, Dumas, no wonder they hated Dumas, even Stendhal. Simenon too, the rich and heavy cream, over-indulged steady diet, wreaks havoc with the blood sugar.
I did not goad Jimmi when he actually spoke to me a few days prior. I made an observation to an ever case managed former consumer about my enemy status with the developmental faggot and dying husband, and since I made the observation, I let the potential fight slide. Jimmi is weak, goading him can be amusing, and my balls are going to get me killed, but if he chooses to wade into the disjunctive link between his beliefs, his corruption, and my hatred of ADAPT, he isn't any worse for wear. Insurrectionists haven't yet found the appeal within my interior Joan d'Arc. More to the point, Mr. Shrode refuses to understand that state and federal employment guidelines exist for a reason, and the disability team of my era broke those rules with impunity, destroying my career, and I have to see him and Erik daily. How would you live with something like that? I doubt many of you would find it tolerable.
There is an antipathy to Jean Luc-Bideau with his grandfatherly bulbous nose, and there is also animosity toward Baiot-- the black French actor who in The Churchmen of course has to be a gay seminarian. Bideau has too much of Flaubert's Tostes ruralism about him with that turkey gobble neck of his, and Baiot I've seen around and never liked, too much simper, but other than the jump cut erotic scene between Baiot and the other working class family boy coping with his spiritual calling, I've reluctantly allowed myself to be entangled with WYBE's run of the series, mindful that this is France2's spin on the Vatican, their Pope a bit clueless and modeled on whom, precisely?
It is a better series about Catholicism than anything produced in the States, as is typically the case, and if I was a God fearing Catholic atheist I'd laugh at the irony. I'm reluctant to go forward with Six Feet Under because of its simulated sexual intimacy between Michael C Hall and a gay black partner, and here comes charging out of Paris, with its aggravating double standards, a second decade series about faith and coitus in the real world, and a gay French African, with impulse control issues, climbing the stairway to heaven The French have had an occasional battle with Italy over the Papacy, so its voice is not to be engaged with too much skepticism in its muted but still relevant battle with Protestant Germany, but this is France, and my patience with sniping remonstrance begins to take its toll. Flaubert, Proust, Dumas, no wonder they hated Dumas, even Stendhal. Simenon too, the rich and heavy cream, over-indulged steady diet, wreaks havoc with the blood sugar.
My Aunt Cecily was more chill about homosexuals in the priesthood, my grandmother's half sister. She enjoyed the impersonal circumspect tone, trying to be the grand lady in the know, except during an episode where my mother had a short-lived relationship with a Jamaican. It was repugnant, simply too much for the old woman. Yours truly was mercifully absent.
If I wind up giving my landlord notice in a fit of hysteria, I cannot rescind it and change my mind out of fear. I can't survive on the street and yet the torsion on my leash is at a breaking point. My stepmother is in a home, and after she married my father she wanted me put away, which ignited the war of the Cinderella's in the family until my sister changed her mind about her loyalties.
I need to get the fuck out of this building so badly I'm likely to wind up in prison, while my father the bullshit artist will assure me on a monitored line that he'll bail me out in the next couple of weeks.
Faith is as fragile as our loss of muscle tone.
I am on down time out of weariness more than overages. Next week, with provider forbearance.
I am on down time out of weariness more than overages. Next week, with provider forbearance.
Sunday, August 2, 2015
Extermination Empathy Breathers
Another nearly xenophobic station signal I receive, WTVE, from Wilmington, just another ghetto striven enclave of row homes, is a retro-throwback broadcast, playing 1960 Japanese analog series I evidently should not have viewed as a child in the assassination rife year of 1968. The B grade tenor of the works falls into the category of fascination with vomit while alienated by Huffington Post Live's millennial chatter, however relevant to those spaces in films we do not see, jump cutting the pace of ennui. The station also airs stomach churning veterinary surgeries, and in one episode, a brawny gator farmer rushed an alligator with a colon blockage into surgery, and the veterinarian euthanized the reptile on the table after dumping its fecal waste it a pan.
How much did this cost the farmer? Wouldn't it have been more humane to shoot the creature and freeze it, ensuring death? We all have affinities, and without truly intending to disparage the farmer, there is going a bridge too far. Gators and crocodiles lay lots of egg clutches, easily replenished, and going through all that evasive butchery for a primitive fresh water predator seems beyond the pall, while we have a fairly affluent dentist behaving like a fugitive. If there is anything on the face of this earth that makes existence an irreparable folly, it is an animal surgeon dumping fecal blockage and then destroying what he couldn't save, much as what we did to ourselves years ago.
I mourn Cecil, and hope his brother managed to defy the odds, as his tracker asserts, but this isn't really the point. The point is we're asinine stewards unable to manage our own innate impetus. I do not know what doctors told my parents in 1963. I know the story, as in countless other disability tales, I was supposed to die, and African Americans seem predisposed to help me right along with that, intimidating me back into being exploited for their economic benefit, while I lie struggling with withdrawal, losing to years of psychic pain, and no one will do for me what in animal medicine is standard.
I have to endure literal crippling agony, persecuted by motherfucking assholes who can't get better jobs. Zoologists dart and track and study. Industrial farmers engage in wholesale slaughter to keep chronic impoverished failures like me alive, and, in the conservative codex, I am one of those women without children whose fury Walter Palmer is attempting to evade.
But turning Palmer into an effigy isn't going to solve a fundamental exigency. The only thing left to poach when habitat is gone and magnificent stalkers like Cecil are confined into domesticated paradigms for which they were not evolved, are humans, already preying on ourselves. I just can't see my way to optimism of any sort. If I did not mention that kimmy my foster rescue isn't a royal pain in the ass, now might be the time, weary with the responsibility of pet rearing. One I let her go, it is probably over, the degree to which my lifespan might be considerably brutalized by that point.
Perhaps the meritocracy will surprise me, and rescue the manufactured urban spastic racist gradually decelerating, but I'll never be the same as I once was on the ascent.
How much did this cost the farmer? Wouldn't it have been more humane to shoot the creature and freeze it, ensuring death? We all have affinities, and without truly intending to disparage the farmer, there is going a bridge too far. Gators and crocodiles lay lots of egg clutches, easily replenished, and going through all that evasive butchery for a primitive fresh water predator seems beyond the pall, while we have a fairly affluent dentist behaving like a fugitive. If there is anything on the face of this earth that makes existence an irreparable folly, it is an animal surgeon dumping fecal blockage and then destroying what he couldn't save, much as what we did to ourselves years ago.
I mourn Cecil, and hope his brother managed to defy the odds, as his tracker asserts, but this isn't really the point. The point is we're asinine stewards unable to manage our own innate impetus. I do not know what doctors told my parents in 1963. I know the story, as in countless other disability tales, I was supposed to die, and African Americans seem predisposed to help me right along with that, intimidating me back into being exploited for their economic benefit, while I lie struggling with withdrawal, losing to years of psychic pain, and no one will do for me what in animal medicine is standard.
I have to endure literal crippling agony, persecuted by motherfucking assholes who can't get better jobs. Zoologists dart and track and study. Industrial farmers engage in wholesale slaughter to keep chronic impoverished failures like me alive, and, in the conservative codex, I am one of those women without children whose fury Walter Palmer is attempting to evade.
But turning Palmer into an effigy isn't going to solve a fundamental exigency. The only thing left to poach when habitat is gone and magnificent stalkers like Cecil are confined into domesticated paradigms for which they were not evolved, are humans, already preying on ourselves. I just can't see my way to optimism of any sort. If I did not mention that kimmy my foster rescue isn't a royal pain in the ass, now might be the time, weary with the responsibility of pet rearing. One I let her go, it is probably over, the degree to which my lifespan might be considerably brutalized by that point.
Perhaps the meritocracy will surprise me, and rescue the manufactured urban spastic racist gradually decelerating, but I'll never be the same as I once was on the ascent.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)