"But we like suffering."-- Sebastiano Somma
The Woods, being an 06 release, doesn't lack for atmosphere, but as an allegory for the destruction of Camelot, I am still trying to put the thread through the needle. In this instance, the plot summaries do not fill in the gap. Absentee fathers who make promises they cannot keep, those are long realized, but the wardrobe, the hairstyles are too Kennedyesque not to suggest the worst of the ecosystem against the urbane liberalism built on the corruption of bootlegging during Prohibition. Beyond the implication, however, the feminine anguish loses me. Patricia Clarkson is getting on my nerves, and even when it goes to syndication, I'm skipping Learning to Drive on purpose.
Clarkson has a range similar to Jane Alexander, pensive Protestant females with good breeding who encompass the disjunctive as best they can within the fine tuned chiseled features: thin lips, kept figure, a nurturing conduit of more mothering than sensual definition. I have had the runs for three days, incommoded with sickly sweet stench, washing the mattress of my damnation, today it is the power chair cushion, and this is happening because I've ceased transferring to my shower stool, in order not to corrode the Jazzy engines, since I shall have to make due with this model at least another year.
I do not mind that I'm sloppy, but losing to a filthy downgrade is another matter, and attendants are not going to tolerate this level of battle fatigue. I give up, resign my fate, go insane in an institution. Commiseration will not alter this reality.
I did construct a plan. I finally settled on one, and hope it will not cause an extreme internal struggle, not that I'm ready for it, fortuitous or otherwise, I cannot seem to go down, not quietly. Is this necessarily beneficial? Time to clean the soil, once again.
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