Mmm. Part of Act's problem is the fact that weapons manufacture is a money making industry, however astute the analysts are in assessing potential conflict. Certainly the Russian Federation can reignite the Cold War, but as the ruthlessness of the IS group illustrates, the technical ease of mobility, excepting the invalid class, threatens all state models, none of which are as secure as they seem, not even Canada, with its territorial expanse equivalent to the US, which points to how science fiction writers like Daniel Keys Moran may not be so far off the mark.
His Last Dancer franchise, for those not in the know, was about forced global hegemony under the UN, clones, and cyborg AI's gradually taking over. Unwittingly, spastic purchased the last novel in the series, and know only that the United States was the last sovereign territory to fall, defeated by French forces, (oddly enough). A little too melodramatic for my taste, and I could not enter into all the concluding story lines, but for a wildly vacillating future dystopia, Moran's dismal voice was a lens over my own. For all we know, France may indeed be the first to advocate the death of territorial sovereignty. If the third world war is an advent, however, I am not sold on Putin's paranoia or Xi Jinping's muscle flexing being the primary trigger to put an end to the global leadership of the US. Libya might have a domino effect on Egypt, Erdogan may push to expand Turkey's regional dominance, as it may be under a nationalist Muslim banner, but is neither Sunni nor Shi'ite, moving my pieces on the board with the same fallacy toward predictable scripts, but one thing is certain: State governance is being outstripped by meta data, which presents its own vulnerability.
Monday, November 30, 2015
Saturday, November 28, 2015
Apricot Canning
"But you are human, human as I could make you."-- William Hurt, before embracing the garrulous conservative approach.
The
British android series Humans doesn’t
bring anything new to the table. In the SO2 climax, Laura’s mildly insistent
argument to the actor performing Hester was an apologia to the viewing audience
for the fact that we can only approximate what we hope sentient machines will
be like. The actress in Ex Machina does
a little better, merely observing the death of her creator. The geek who freed
her had scruples, in the movie’s initial inclination toward sympathy. The end
is ambiguous, mildly chilling—but we still don’t really comprehend the issues
inherent in AI creation. Forbes had an interesting backstory piece about Bell
Labs technical secrets leading to the behemoths of our 21st century
anxieties: Apple, Google, Facebook, and the government’s drive to break
AT&T into component spinoffs might serve as a warning to the Big Three.
What we might also consider, however, is that we don’t need Hal, Arnold
Schwartzenegger, or Spielberg’s sentimental AI romance to be alarmed at the
human digital interface already having something of a negative impact. Computer
processing as it already exists sets off sequential events with detrimental
results. Do we want drone technology and drone kills to eliminate human pilots?
Or facial recognition software to turn the planet into a quantum prison?
Despite William Hurt’s ostensible cameo, allowing the audience to pit the
British no nonsense sensibility against AI’s grandiosity, comparing David with
Odi, and their inadvertent threat, Humans is more or less an English domestic
quarrel with diversity and its economic caste system. Leo Elster, if not an
anemic beatnik, looks like an exhausted punk who’s lost the nerve to be crude. Niska
is the outraged feminist who goes butch, making a rather huge leap,
conceptually, into simulated incest. The writers don’t really trouble
themselves with how a self-aware android would intuit penetration as a
violation, or even why Mia and Hester pursue sexual objectives, proletarian as
they are, the caretaker and exploited chemical worker. The actor who embodies
the Beatrice/Karen composite puts in a sturdy performance as a woman divided
between domestic tranquility and despair, the least autonomic of the
prototypes, hence improbable.
Since
Asimov inflicted readers with the moral dilemma of robotic awareness in the mid-20th
century, machines are either victimized children or a malevolent efficiency
model. In Terminator, the machines are DOD systems which eliminated most of
human civilization, then came up with time travel to ensure the resistance did
not survive Siri’s destruction. Granted, the saga is simply an action thriller
with characters to root for, but we never ask if machines designed for combat
would be so relentless, and we might wind up with something quite different if
we bring these things to life, an alien mindset that doesn’t mirror and magnify
human behavior. I am not saying I was unmoved by the story line of the series,
but we’ve seen it all before, trapped by our own anthropomorphic tendencies. If
Terminator offers a sliver of hope against the hubris of the military
industrial complex, and The Matrix is a futurist parable warning us not to be
too caught up in technical optimism, Humans has faith we’ll remain true to our
core values in the age of Google, with a Zuckerberg-like CEO trying to make
happiness just that much less effortless. Uh huh.
Friday, November 27, 2015
Travesty Optimization
Applying the proportionality test to both negative and positive rights may undermine any margin of appreciation of the [sic] state authorities. This gives rise to the problem of over-determination.-- Dual authors Klatt and Meeter, The Constitutional Structure of Proportionality, p 86
How one views the Lionel Tate case, almost twenty years old, depends on your filter. Dana Canedy doesn't bother to cast doubt on the "wrestling defense," because The New York Times couldn't fathom how the prosecutor filed for premeditation, while it is overtly challenged by Bill Kurtis three years later. And then, true to form for troubled African American men, Tate engages in recidivism. It tempts reactions along the lines of dangerous eugenic fallacies, but ethnicity is not a meaningless term, certainly not in the medical field, and in jurisprudence, experts eradicate bias through pretense. Caste, social station, are irrelevant behind the shield of our systems process. Never mind that, according to accepted norms, if you baby sit a six year old and leave her with your son twice her size and hear cries of distress, you get yourself out of bed and check. Kathleen Grossett-Tate was culpable in the death of Tiffany Eunick, but what do we wind up with? Traumatized liberal attorneys, a besmirched ADA, a judge who couldn't craft an appropriate punishment because his hands were tied by state guidelines, a single mother scarred for life by the loss of her little girl, a governor currently limping along in the primaries who attempted to split the difference in a glaringly ineffectual fashion, and the United States once again exposes its bongo justice, during the Clinton years, to foreign ridicule.
At the time this case became one in a series of sensational events the state of Florida just keeps on giving, I was a fledgling journalist. The lesbian ADAPT activist gave me a byline, and the rest is moot, given present earnings capacity. I did not really understand search, and came late to Google, which is why I intuit a vague familiarity, at best, with the trial.
Similarly, during the last days in the life of David Koresh, I was a work incentives advocate due to the wide latitude of a Pew Charitable Trust grant, and Waco was for all intents and purposes a prelude to Xbox, where we begin to lose the ability to differentiate collateral damage. I accepted the concern for the welfare of the children as paramount over and above a radical sect to command adherents as it pleased. Against the stress of case management, it was dramatic entertainment which might have been negotiated better, but hardly a trigger for sedition, sans McVeigh. What created him, what created ISIS, isn't going to fizzle due to drone technology, especially when one's former youthful enthusiasm evaporates because a female feline dashes out in the hallway, gnaws neighbor's trash after you spent the holiday morning chasing cat chow, screaming "Get the fuck in the studio," and Tim opens his door, helping you reign in a spayed foster rescue little bigger than a football. She puked outside Jim's door, the brother with end stage renal disease. I wanted a writing studio exactly like that of Andre Dubus, and instead, I am like a samurai gutting her intestines, familial aspirations imploded, after a middle class life more affluent than this.
My father doesn't want to see me; the sister put him up to it. I don't want him in my unit. He should go back to die at Myrtle Beach, and I envision my own demise in a deportation cell outside of Paris, dreaming of a much more inclusive global conflict than that Niall Ferguson or Jennifer Rubin might see ahead.
How one views the Lionel Tate case, almost twenty years old, depends on your filter. Dana Canedy doesn't bother to cast doubt on the "wrestling defense," because The New York Times couldn't fathom how the prosecutor filed for premeditation, while it is overtly challenged by Bill Kurtis three years later. And then, true to form for troubled African American men, Tate engages in recidivism. It tempts reactions along the lines of dangerous eugenic fallacies, but ethnicity is not a meaningless term, certainly not in the medical field, and in jurisprudence, experts eradicate bias through pretense. Caste, social station, are irrelevant behind the shield of our systems process. Never mind that, according to accepted norms, if you baby sit a six year old and leave her with your son twice her size and hear cries of distress, you get yourself out of bed and check. Kathleen Grossett-Tate was culpable in the death of Tiffany Eunick, but what do we wind up with? Traumatized liberal attorneys, a besmirched ADA, a judge who couldn't craft an appropriate punishment because his hands were tied by state guidelines, a single mother scarred for life by the loss of her little girl, a governor currently limping along in the primaries who attempted to split the difference in a glaringly ineffectual fashion, and the United States once again exposes its bongo justice, during the Clinton years, to foreign ridicule.
At the time this case became one in a series of sensational events the state of Florida just keeps on giving, I was a fledgling journalist. The lesbian ADAPT activist gave me a byline, and the rest is moot, given present earnings capacity. I did not really understand search, and came late to Google, which is why I intuit a vague familiarity, at best, with the trial.
Similarly, during the last days in the life of David Koresh, I was a work incentives advocate due to the wide latitude of a Pew Charitable Trust grant, and Waco was for all intents and purposes a prelude to Xbox, where we begin to lose the ability to differentiate collateral damage. I accepted the concern for the welfare of the children as paramount over and above a radical sect to command adherents as it pleased. Against the stress of case management, it was dramatic entertainment which might have been negotiated better, but hardly a trigger for sedition, sans McVeigh. What created him, what created ISIS, isn't going to fizzle due to drone technology, especially when one's former youthful enthusiasm evaporates because a female feline dashes out in the hallway, gnaws neighbor's trash after you spent the holiday morning chasing cat chow, screaming "Get the fuck in the studio," and Tim opens his door, helping you reign in a spayed foster rescue little bigger than a football. She puked outside Jim's door, the brother with end stage renal disease. I wanted a writing studio exactly like that of Andre Dubus, and instead, I am like a samurai gutting her intestines, familial aspirations imploded, after a middle class life more affluent than this.
My father doesn't want to see me; the sister put him up to it. I don't want him in my unit. He should go back to die at Myrtle Beach, and I envision my own demise in a deportation cell outside of Paris, dreaming of a much more inclusive global conflict than that Niall Ferguson or Jennifer Rubin might see ahead.
Tuesday, November 24, 2015
Begrudgingly, Foot and Mouth
The Norwegian adaptation of Christensen's novel is kinetic enough, and I certainly appreciated the dripping excrement in the boys shared bedroom during episode four. Our European counterparts are always braver, and it signifies that this was the best shit scene I've ever seen on video. It beats Death at a Funeral, and Styron's 98 Shadrach, which was less about the might of grand nigger burden and more about family clasping hold, even if we're invariably eclipsed in that battle against the dark, so spastic has to eat soap. It is a relevant series, the Half-Brother, pity the post war working class doomed to their station.
Speaking of which, my reactionary pain shall not gravitate to Donald Trump, but that very same reactionism supports his right to be ugly, all the same. If the angry Caucasian working class want their spleen with the casino realtor mogul, they have a right to it. Wapo's contributors have been all over the map on this, offering cautious respect, and alternately comparing him to Putin, and yesterday, to Hitler. There are times it is useful to ignore established news content, and this is one of them. On the off chance that Trump can beat Clinton, his term in office would be paralyzed by SCOTUS litigation, and he would wind up impeached, and the federal government would cease to function. Yours truly would wind up a hate crime, barring some cleverness, as in spinning my drying vagina around a libertarian erection.
My anger at Charlie Sheen's cover-up is germane, and if it is an outcry against a certain fundamental unfairness, so be it. 10 million may not be what it once was against the backdrop of Google Apple Silicon uber wealth, but it is still an astounding amount of money for a performer to engage in a desperate evasion; alternately, the sexual partners purportedly suing him have no real standing to claim personal injury. If they fucked him consensually, that is simply a fact of life, the kind of promiscuity Salon enjoys quantifying as liberating, positive-- not that I haven't weighed a submission to the publication.
I am scrambling to create employment, dared to contact the National Review with a slightly antiseptic tone, as they produced David Brooks, not my favorite analyst.
Speaking of which, my reactionary pain shall not gravitate to Donald Trump, but that very same reactionism supports his right to be ugly, all the same. If the angry Caucasian working class want their spleen with the casino realtor mogul, they have a right to it. Wapo's contributors have been all over the map on this, offering cautious respect, and alternately comparing him to Putin, and yesterday, to Hitler. There are times it is useful to ignore established news content, and this is one of them. On the off chance that Trump can beat Clinton, his term in office would be paralyzed by SCOTUS litigation, and he would wind up impeached, and the federal government would cease to function. Yours truly would wind up a hate crime, barring some cleverness, as in spinning my drying vagina around a libertarian erection.
My anger at Charlie Sheen's cover-up is germane, and if it is an outcry against a certain fundamental unfairness, so be it. 10 million may not be what it once was against the backdrop of Google Apple Silicon uber wealth, but it is still an astounding amount of money for a performer to engage in a desperate evasion; alternately, the sexual partners purportedly suing him have no real standing to claim personal injury. If they fucked him consensually, that is simply a fact of life, the kind of promiscuity Salon enjoys quantifying as liberating, positive-- not that I haven't weighed a submission to the publication.
I am scrambling to create employment, dared to contact the National Review with a slightly antiseptic tone, as they produced David Brooks, not my favorite analyst.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Oklahoma City
it strains belief to suppose that this appalling crime was the work of two men--any two men. I believe it came about because of foreign involvement. I also believe our government might have prevented the whole thing. --Stephen Jones, Others Unknown
To take a cue from a titular local, and change direction when the geopolitical tilt is in a certain head wind, I do believe that reverberations remain in the wake of McVeigh's and Nichols' attempt to schism federal cohesion, though I am altogether uncertain that federal agents involved in the back end of building the case against the co-conspirators would have sat on the knowledge of foreign handlers. As McVeigh's defense lawyer, Jones is still advocating for his doomed client, attempting to shift the burden. If there is a burden to shift, I think it is domestic, close-lipped, bound in the code of western frontier silence, and now is as good a time as any to imagine there are stones still to be upturned.
According to Hollywood's pro-forma logic in Arlington Road, which isn't new, as utilized the same device in the more placid Parallax View, sating Warren's liberal hard on, government commissions accept the patsies created for them by black ops. Jeff Bridges moves from point to point, believes he's uncovering a home grown coup devised by Tim Robbins, and instead becomes the fall guy shielding the shadow syndicate, and nothing works that smoothly. If it did, Chinese authorities wouldn't debase themselves through the use of brute force for the sake of central planning.
But what Jones and the studio system do tap into is our underlying knowledge of civil service competency. It doesn't exist, and as such, all governments go to great lengths to assure us otherwise, hence, there is our cover up, proof of how debilitating it is to make it appear that Hillary Clinton actually deserves her authority.
To take a cue from a titular local, and change direction when the geopolitical tilt is in a certain head wind, I do believe that reverberations remain in the wake of McVeigh's and Nichols' attempt to schism federal cohesion, though I am altogether uncertain that federal agents involved in the back end of building the case against the co-conspirators would have sat on the knowledge of foreign handlers. As McVeigh's defense lawyer, Jones is still advocating for his doomed client, attempting to shift the burden. If there is a burden to shift, I think it is domestic, close-lipped, bound in the code of western frontier silence, and now is as good a time as any to imagine there are stones still to be upturned.
According to Hollywood's pro-forma logic in Arlington Road, which isn't new, as utilized the same device in the more placid Parallax View, sating Warren's liberal hard on, government commissions accept the patsies created for them by black ops. Jeff Bridges moves from point to point, believes he's uncovering a home grown coup devised by Tim Robbins, and instead becomes the fall guy shielding the shadow syndicate, and nothing works that smoothly. If it did, Chinese authorities wouldn't debase themselves through the use of brute force for the sake of central planning.
But what Jones and the studio system do tap into is our underlying knowledge of civil service competency. It doesn't exist, and as such, all governments go to great lengths to assure us otherwise, hence, there is our cover up, proof of how debilitating it is to make it appear that Hillary Clinton actually deserves her authority.
Another Hack Day
Frying my brain, I applied to be an upload writer once again at an automated upload site and failed their entry test with a 60% correct answer ratio. They want 70%. I preferred speed, simply getting it done, and this is what the digital age has reduced us to, never mind the 34 years I've spent slogging through the small presses. I really used to believe my CV amounted to something, and without logging in, discovered my mostly aggregated content at Examiner.com is still there, laughing with insane raspy squirrel vocalizations, the site applied to didn't want to know anything about me. Researching pitches. I have ceased querying everyday, wondering what the point is if I cannot afford guild/union fees. Writer's Market rarely lands me anything usable. I'll share something stark: I hit Reason Magazine with a pitch about McVeigh's legacy, tying it into Arlington Road thanks to this esoteric account with my disturbing negations, and supposed I could jump through security clearances necessary to correspond with home grown Oklahoma anarchy and actually received a no thanks! I mean we know enough to be ignored, right? How dark is that? Maybe the editor wanted to keep me on his good side, but it is still an idea I'm turning over, negotiating with myself how to toe the line without simply delving into hermeneutic prognostication.
But I can't keep hitting the same publication due to libertarian arousal. Kimmy is on my lap, pestering me to watch her eat. I need a break. Maybe I am simply a stupid obnoxious bitch. McVeigh went after indiscriminate targets. I prefer targeted assassination, but as Gary Sinise told a corrupt Nicholas Cage in another conspiracy film, there is always an adjustment in every operation.
But I can't keep hitting the same publication due to libertarian arousal. Kimmy is on my lap, pestering me to watch her eat. I need a break. Maybe I am simply a stupid obnoxious bitch. McVeigh went after indiscriminate targets. I prefer targeted assassination, but as Gary Sinise told a corrupt Nicholas Cage in another conspiracy film, there is always an adjustment in every operation.
Continuing Currency, Apocalypse Thrall of ISIS in a 4/5ths Moon
"I failed as a father," -- Martin Sheen, an Anger Management cameo no longer as ironic in its original air date.
Oh, I do not know. As a good lieutenant, I've never been much of a herd animal, never prefaced children, and cannot enter the vacuum of this particular feminine privilege which makes most women diffident with my attitude and in social media, it's almost an unstated requirement to gain access to the repository. Not that this is a complaint. Given that a France 24 anchor found my heartfelt response to GQ Magazine the night of the Paris attacks, a Monday and a world away by now, I have a new found respect for the extraordinary collapse in communication technology to level the field-- not that this incident will get me jobbers-- but here I am, cripple extraordinaire facing down a corrupt housing classification on sheer will-- and my landlord's perplexing inability to boot my racially antagonistic but courteous in context ass out the door, and I get quoted on international television. Worth starving for? I don't hate my building manager and her scions for being black with a lesser intelligence than mine. I hate that hers and their employment is contingent upon threatening me with re-incarceration, that she doesn't have half my education, struggles to keep up with my defiance of her trained for cruelty, and she is presumably Philadelphia's definition of the lower end pluralistic black middle class, while I'm living hand to mouth, owing over $23k on this damn brain. I kicked up with the sloth-indolent receptionist too. "Why not just evict me?" She couldn't comprehend that in my view this was kinder than 22 years of harassment, threatening letters under my door on a daily basis, and continuing assessment team escalation-- yet I get quoted on an international 24/7 news feed. Irony, indeed, not that I'm a huge footprint, just as likely to tell the glamour veneers to fuck off, which douses me down a bit, as I could have had over a thousand followers by now, but that I take risks, indulge provocation. Hush money for this iconic entertainment scandal to the tune of 10 million has earned my prevalence for the caustic bite. What kind of society is it where a smart quad has to engage in extraordinary rendition just to earn 23k until 36, but the son of a man best noted for playing a fake president doles out that kind of hush money for a disease that made its way from the bush to gay sex hostels and then invariably found its way to the street?
My dead brother was mildly psycho, an angel dust rapist. His life haunts me, for that shame of it, and yet in the Hollywood bubble, Charlie Sheen eats his own hype like coprophagic poultry. It is difficult to pity Sheen for his antics in recent years, but perhaps it should have been him against the unpleasantly brittle boned Michelle Pfeiffer in Hollander's slate grey, clinical interior Vancouver of the equally unpleasant arc of Personal Effects. His ethics are more in tune with beating the shit out of retards.
If my small conservative base suspects I am branding a white hot liberal tong here, no, not really. I've seen the bottomless pit of the deranged who die like rabid dogs, and A-listers like Sheen make Sodom and Gomorrah look like a Bedouin sanitarium for consumptives. Does the man have any sense of personal responsibility whatsoever? Given his age and self-destructive promiscuity, he will probably be dead on the inside of 72 months.
Oh, I do not know. As a good lieutenant, I've never been much of a herd animal, never prefaced children, and cannot enter the vacuum of this particular feminine privilege which makes most women diffident with my attitude and in social media, it's almost an unstated requirement to gain access to the repository. Not that this is a complaint. Given that a France 24 anchor found my heartfelt response to GQ Magazine the night of the Paris attacks, a Monday and a world away by now, I have a new found respect for the extraordinary collapse in communication technology to level the field-- not that this incident will get me jobbers-- but here I am, cripple extraordinaire facing down a corrupt housing classification on sheer will-- and my landlord's perplexing inability to boot my racially antagonistic but courteous in context ass out the door, and I get quoted on international television. Worth starving for? I don't hate my building manager and her scions for being black with a lesser intelligence than mine. I hate that hers and their employment is contingent upon threatening me with re-incarceration, that she doesn't have half my education, struggles to keep up with my defiance of her trained for cruelty, and she is presumably Philadelphia's definition of the lower end pluralistic black middle class, while I'm living hand to mouth, owing over $23k on this damn brain. I kicked up with the sloth-indolent receptionist too. "Why not just evict me?" She couldn't comprehend that in my view this was kinder than 22 years of harassment, threatening letters under my door on a daily basis, and continuing assessment team escalation-- yet I get quoted on an international 24/7 news feed. Irony, indeed, not that I'm a huge footprint, just as likely to tell the glamour veneers to fuck off, which douses me down a bit, as I could have had over a thousand followers by now, but that I take risks, indulge provocation. Hush money for this iconic entertainment scandal to the tune of 10 million has earned my prevalence for the caustic bite. What kind of society is it where a smart quad has to engage in extraordinary rendition just to earn 23k until 36, but the son of a man best noted for playing a fake president doles out that kind of hush money for a disease that made its way from the bush to gay sex hostels and then invariably found its way to the street?
My dead brother was mildly psycho, an angel dust rapist. His life haunts me, for that shame of it, and yet in the Hollywood bubble, Charlie Sheen eats his own hype like coprophagic poultry. It is difficult to pity Sheen for his antics in recent years, but perhaps it should have been him against the unpleasantly brittle boned Michelle Pfeiffer in Hollander's slate grey, clinical interior Vancouver of the equally unpleasant arc of Personal Effects. His ethics are more in tune with beating the shit out of retards.
If my small conservative base suspects I am branding a white hot liberal tong here, no, not really. I've seen the bottomless pit of the deranged who die like rabid dogs, and A-listers like Sheen make Sodom and Gomorrah look like a Bedouin sanitarium for consumptives. Does the man have any sense of personal responsibility whatsoever? Given his age and self-destructive promiscuity, he will probably be dead on the inside of 72 months.
Sunday, November 22, 2015
Gladiator Emasculation, Fabricated Sheaths
"She doesn't do anything to make herself attractive," Kathleen Ann Quinlan, in foil against a serial poisoner
Jane Campion aims for piercing through feminine pain in her 2003 In the Cut, a film which miscasts Meg Ryan as a poet teacher and does an abominable disservice to my favorite novel. Writers tend to have detached personalities, but Meg Ryan’s teacher is a swishing slut, pale and effervescent in comparison to her younger supporting lead in Flesh and Bone, taken aback by the metropolitan brutality in which she deigns to thrive, in a narrative with an otherwise predictable bait and switch, with Ruffalo’s edginess lacking the requisite ambiguity for suspense. Why Bacon was cast as the jilted boyfriend is beyond this blogger’s ability to enter into, in reference to Nicole Kidman’s verve as the producer; he may represent a generalized post-9/11 anxiety, in addition to serving as the typical supporting character for misdirected suspicion, but the repugnant turgid aspect to his role doesn’t quite ratchet up the audience sympathy for the imperiled heroine. Damici spoils everything as the Detective Richie long gone into section 8 territory, more meatball than methodical predator.
Despite these posterior impediments, Campion does manage to break past the battery of inured defenses. The lack of a musical score concentrates the sickening stench of the body butchery which hypersexualizes Ruffalo’s Malloy for Ryan’s Avery. Kidman’s iciness cues the damsel backstory, with a nod to the snow white feline sauntering along the alleyway, and Ruffalo cannot save the girl because the girl offered the recognition of the tattoo she recognized to the wrong player. Homage to Doris Day’s Que Sera, as the title track, sears the breasts of every woman who necessarily has to be disappointed with patriarchal dominance, settling for ineffectual decency.
This is an incontrovertibly modern movie, understating drama for a stark view of new century difference, a template perhaps not consciously but certainly genetically related to the 2009 Personal Effects. Hollander may have intended this ensemble view of murder victims to be a marquee vehicle for Ashton Kutchner, but the bad aftertaste Vancouver leaves in our mouths is a sad testament to the fact that studio executives insist audiences have to accept mediocre actors as celebrities. Kutchner doesn’t have Charlie Sheen’s ability to make the camera love him, and the screenplay relegates the disabled to indigestible burdens: the honorable retarded man a scapegoated casualty due to the need to assign blame, a fatherless deaf boy indulging in homicidal impulses to salve his losses. Kutchner may be the duty driven protector, but his cruelty surpasses boundaries, both to the retarded suspect, who he calls “a man like that,” and to his ostensible lover’s deaf son, with whom he deliberately maintains fences. Hollander takes so many shots of the megabird costume he might have well marketed this flick to Henson’s muppet market. Being well made doesn’t always translate into being responsible for your end product, which may or may not be the problem with Ben Carson’s candidacy. I am not the first person to suspect the minority with miracle hands might be gaming the nominating process.
In USA today he calls the racism of the Charleston shooter a disease, and then turns around and associates Sunni extremism with rabies. I don’t necessarily disagree with his rhetoric there, but do acknowledge the sand pit in which he’s trapped himself. Racism is not a disease. It may corrode, and with pronounced virulence, may be symptomatic of physiological decline, but in and of itself, prejudice is not equivalent to illness. To his credit, and despite the mote in my eye, as it stands, he is the only GOP candidate who fascinates me as a journalist in pursuit of a subject, the only one who ignites any semblance of a motivation, but surgeons aren’t generally inclined to be tea party absolutists, as those who administer the brutality of the medical model the disabled have to live, and if Carson isn’t the victim of conflicting mental impulses in his own right, perhaps he is running in the top tier so he can die a black millionaire. Powell did the same thing after he left the Bush administration, but kept it within the confines of accepted parameters. Carson is not, and that is fine, but it may also indicate the death of the American two party system. The lunatic fringe is catering to a hunger for flamboyance, and the democratic left, even if Hillary Clinton prevails, is weak. If Xi Jinping sucks this into his vacuum cleaner, like any good opportunist, I’ll join in with the violinists. With some thinking, I may wedge in a more impassioned post to the doctor later. A long post like this may attest to a spastic with no life, but a power chair turned torture chamber makes a poverty sunken mattress a haven of resignation, with which both Hollander and Campion conclude their problematic dramas.
Jane Campion aims for piercing through feminine pain in her 2003 In the Cut, a film which miscasts Meg Ryan as a poet teacher and does an abominable disservice to my favorite novel. Writers tend to have detached personalities, but Meg Ryan’s teacher is a swishing slut, pale and effervescent in comparison to her younger supporting lead in Flesh and Bone, taken aback by the metropolitan brutality in which she deigns to thrive, in a narrative with an otherwise predictable bait and switch, with Ruffalo’s edginess lacking the requisite ambiguity for suspense. Why Bacon was cast as the jilted boyfriend is beyond this blogger’s ability to enter into, in reference to Nicole Kidman’s verve as the producer; he may represent a generalized post-9/11 anxiety, in addition to serving as the typical supporting character for misdirected suspicion, but the repugnant turgid aspect to his role doesn’t quite ratchet up the audience sympathy for the imperiled heroine. Damici spoils everything as the Detective Richie long gone into section 8 territory, more meatball than methodical predator.
Despite these posterior impediments, Campion does manage to break past the battery of inured defenses. The lack of a musical score concentrates the sickening stench of the body butchery which hypersexualizes Ruffalo’s Malloy for Ryan’s Avery. Kidman’s iciness cues the damsel backstory, with a nod to the snow white feline sauntering along the alleyway, and Ruffalo cannot save the girl because the girl offered the recognition of the tattoo she recognized to the wrong player. Homage to Doris Day’s Que Sera, as the title track, sears the breasts of every woman who necessarily has to be disappointed with patriarchal dominance, settling for ineffectual decency.
This is an incontrovertibly modern movie, understating drama for a stark view of new century difference, a template perhaps not consciously but certainly genetically related to the 2009 Personal Effects. Hollander may have intended this ensemble view of murder victims to be a marquee vehicle for Ashton Kutchner, but the bad aftertaste Vancouver leaves in our mouths is a sad testament to the fact that studio executives insist audiences have to accept mediocre actors as celebrities. Kutchner doesn’t have Charlie Sheen’s ability to make the camera love him, and the screenplay relegates the disabled to indigestible burdens: the honorable retarded man a scapegoated casualty due to the need to assign blame, a fatherless deaf boy indulging in homicidal impulses to salve his losses. Kutchner may be the duty driven protector, but his cruelty surpasses boundaries, both to the retarded suspect, who he calls “a man like that,” and to his ostensible lover’s deaf son, with whom he deliberately maintains fences. Hollander takes so many shots of the megabird costume he might have well marketed this flick to Henson’s muppet market. Being well made doesn’t always translate into being responsible for your end product, which may or may not be the problem with Ben Carson’s candidacy. I am not the first person to suspect the minority with miracle hands might be gaming the nominating process.
In USA today he calls the racism of the Charleston shooter a disease, and then turns around and associates Sunni extremism with rabies. I don’t necessarily disagree with his rhetoric there, but do acknowledge the sand pit in which he’s trapped himself. Racism is not a disease. It may corrode, and with pronounced virulence, may be symptomatic of physiological decline, but in and of itself, prejudice is not equivalent to illness. To his credit, and despite the mote in my eye, as it stands, he is the only GOP candidate who fascinates me as a journalist in pursuit of a subject, the only one who ignites any semblance of a motivation, but surgeons aren’t generally inclined to be tea party absolutists, as those who administer the brutality of the medical model the disabled have to live, and if Carson isn’t the victim of conflicting mental impulses in his own right, perhaps he is running in the top tier so he can die a black millionaire. Powell did the same thing after he left the Bush administration, but kept it within the confines of accepted parameters. Carson is not, and that is fine, but it may also indicate the death of the American two party system. The lunatic fringe is catering to a hunger for flamboyance, and the democratic left, even if Hillary Clinton prevails, is weak. If Xi Jinping sucks this into his vacuum cleaner, like any good opportunist, I’ll join in with the violinists. With some thinking, I may wedge in a more impassioned post to the doctor later. A long post like this may attest to a spastic with no life, but a power chair turned torture chamber makes a poverty sunken mattress a haven of resignation, with which both Hollander and Campion conclude their problematic dramas.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
Cromwell's Invidious Frustration With The Unforeseen
For the more delicate and costly articles of food for the sick we relied mostly on the agents of the Sanitary Commission.-- William T Sherman, ushering in the modern era, p 883
In terms of its neo-realism, Surrogates has many issues. Critics ask why humans would desire to be enveloped in a body length sensory console, but as the studio FX for this Willis vehicle illustrates, our physical bodies could not long survive such extended periods of inactivity, unless one has to adapt, as Cromwell's Canter does, to being a mobility impaired tyrant. The plot is also problematic. If VSI hired Stone to kill its founder in order to prevent catastrophe, one that makes the Third Reich seem inept, then you hire a contract killer to penetrate to the source, to make sure the hit is done right. If Willis can do it as Greer in the flesh, one can assume Kodjoe's no nonsense cueball supervisory agent could have found someone methodical and efficient enough to kill Canter before he uploaded the virus. But beneath the surface of its weak story, the industry's kick in the teeth toward itself might generate rancor. Even seeing what we see, and making pneumatic blockbuster allegories reveling in the very psychosis of mortality, we cannot stop the train. We're already plugged in and enhanced automated liars, and even the dowager, courageous as she is with appalling truths about physicality, poverty, and a stacked, corrupt deck, has certain episodes of omission. I do not reveal certain things about Lakisha Doe, not because I know she is online, but because her guilt doesn't deserve that I use it to hurt her. She wasn't a bad assistant as far as really African blacks go; tried to help me, using her money to buy me clothes, but I did not want a nigger surrogate for a daughter, and booted her, doing her a favor, really. Where she is at now with her dental company is better than where she was with me on the waiver system. And I'm sitting here writing this to jack up. God forbid I stay offline for a week and prioritize my many issues. I am sure this is what many followers who've abandoned this voice think. Do what you need to do, but like Rosamund Pike, many of are infected avatars, and mine concurs with Cromwell's final, insidious, implosive, intent. In the alternate timeline of Surrogates' futureworld, Canter would have become an immortal legend, demonized in eternal infamy. The truth of the matter, however, is there are already thousands of people in an extended matrix much akin to sim operators, forced to view the world through lenses with limited periphery. Of course it will not evolve in the manner of the graphic serial brought to life like a plastic surgery bill, but the allegory already lives. Much as Black Mirror's writers already know. Humanity isn't sure what exactly it wants for itself, a homogeneous utopia which removes adversity from our existence, which is what makes us thrive, or to limit our collective altruism for individual circumstances unique to each.
In terms of its neo-realism, Surrogates has many issues. Critics ask why humans would desire to be enveloped in a body length sensory console, but as the studio FX for this Willis vehicle illustrates, our physical bodies could not long survive such extended periods of inactivity, unless one has to adapt, as Cromwell's Canter does, to being a mobility impaired tyrant. The plot is also problematic. If VSI hired Stone to kill its founder in order to prevent catastrophe, one that makes the Third Reich seem inept, then you hire a contract killer to penetrate to the source, to make sure the hit is done right. If Willis can do it as Greer in the flesh, one can assume Kodjoe's no nonsense cueball supervisory agent could have found someone methodical and efficient enough to kill Canter before he uploaded the virus. But beneath the surface of its weak story, the industry's kick in the teeth toward itself might generate rancor. Even seeing what we see, and making pneumatic blockbuster allegories reveling in the very psychosis of mortality, we cannot stop the train. We're already plugged in and enhanced automated liars, and even the dowager, courageous as she is with appalling truths about physicality, poverty, and a stacked, corrupt deck, has certain episodes of omission. I do not reveal certain things about Lakisha Doe, not because I know she is online, but because her guilt doesn't deserve that I use it to hurt her. She wasn't a bad assistant as far as really African blacks go; tried to help me, using her money to buy me clothes, but I did not want a nigger surrogate for a daughter, and booted her, doing her a favor, really. Where she is at now with her dental company is better than where she was with me on the waiver system. And I'm sitting here writing this to jack up. God forbid I stay offline for a week and prioritize my many issues. I am sure this is what many followers who've abandoned this voice think. Do what you need to do, but like Rosamund Pike, many of are infected avatars, and mine concurs with Cromwell's final, insidious, implosive, intent. In the alternate timeline of Surrogates' futureworld, Canter would have become an immortal legend, demonized in eternal infamy. The truth of the matter, however, is there are already thousands of people in an extended matrix much akin to sim operators, forced to view the world through lenses with limited periphery. Of course it will not evolve in the manner of the graphic serial brought to life like a plastic surgery bill, but the allegory already lives. Much as Black Mirror's writers already know. Humanity isn't sure what exactly it wants for itself, a homogeneous utopia which removes adversity from our existence, which is what makes us thrive, or to limit our collective altruism for individual circumstances unique to each.
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
Reporting correspondant spastique pour le service
"Why can't man be as free to dance in the sunlight in the time that he has?"-- Thomas Gibson
When nine eleven hit, I was here, same desk, asking my fellow writers in Speakeasy if they were okay, before my account was banned a year later. Happily, I haven't been banned from commenting at The Washington Post. I do not personalize disagreements with Eugene Robinson or Jonathan Capehart, haven't worn out my welcome, and in 2001, I was vainly attempting to hold onto my belief in independent living rhetoric. September 11 was surreal. More or less a source of dissonance, even with the knowledge that the Twin Towers was a tourist treat when I lived in Rusk Institute. Fourteen years ago it was simply shock, too much video of debris and passenger jets, and the literature of Islamic radicalism amounted to little more than the standing ovation President Bush received before a joint session of Congress uttering the name of "al qaeda". Everything is big in the US. Big disasters, epic wars, sometimes too lengthy, blockbuster futurist parables about the dark side of perfection which do little more than announce we're already here. These days, anyone who pays attention to foreign correspondents can whip up a pate of the failure of civilization for Arabian-Semitic non-Jewish peoples.
The Paris attacks have hit me profoundly, and like the handful of Americans who volunteered for de Gaulle during the Resistance, I want to apply for a Visa and trot off to France in a fervor of retrenchment, petite ailing almost life long welfare mongrel, not quite at James Cromwell's level of horrific deterioration in Surrogates. Interesting premise, stupid movie. Even I realize we aren't turning back from this evolution to integrated cyborgs.
My sister wants me to be careful with my level of provocation, and surely, if I was confronted with ISIS, I'd fare worse than Kayla Mueller, but I cannot sit here and watch European heritage collapse and fall to its knees as an apologia for thousands of years of imperial strife. This is where I am right now.
When nine eleven hit, I was here, same desk, asking my fellow writers in Speakeasy if they were okay, before my account was banned a year later. Happily, I haven't been banned from commenting at The Washington Post. I do not personalize disagreements with Eugene Robinson or Jonathan Capehart, haven't worn out my welcome, and in 2001, I was vainly attempting to hold onto my belief in independent living rhetoric. September 11 was surreal. More or less a source of dissonance, even with the knowledge that the Twin Towers was a tourist treat when I lived in Rusk Institute. Fourteen years ago it was simply shock, too much video of debris and passenger jets, and the literature of Islamic radicalism amounted to little more than the standing ovation President Bush received before a joint session of Congress uttering the name of "al qaeda". Everything is big in the US. Big disasters, epic wars, sometimes too lengthy, blockbuster futurist parables about the dark side of perfection which do little more than announce we're already here. These days, anyone who pays attention to foreign correspondents can whip up a pate of the failure of civilization for Arabian-Semitic non-Jewish peoples.
The Paris attacks have hit me profoundly, and like the handful of Americans who volunteered for de Gaulle during the Resistance, I want to apply for a Visa and trot off to France in a fervor of retrenchment, petite ailing almost life long welfare mongrel, not quite at James Cromwell's level of horrific deterioration in Surrogates. Interesting premise, stupid movie. Even I realize we aren't turning back from this evolution to integrated cyborgs.
My sister wants me to be careful with my level of provocation, and surely, if I was confronted with ISIS, I'd fare worse than Kayla Mueller, but I cannot sit here and watch European heritage collapse and fall to its knees as an apologia for thousands of years of imperial strife. This is where I am right now.
All Eyes on the Neurosurgeon
The 2009 Surrogates has tracer elements. Part deconstruction of Bruce Willis as the Die Hard action figure, part terminator, and playing a bit on Keanu Reeves angst with The Matrix, and the carnage of Terminator, the dowager confesses she only caught approximately 50 minutes of the second half, unaware that it was scheduled as a Saturday afternoon matinee. While not retracting that certain aspects of the narrative were nonsensical, spastic has flagged it as a non eating up my usage review, noting the shock value of its human operator cinematography juxtaposed against the perfect grooming of the androids providing the perfect vicarious extensions. Does anyone believe Dr. Ben Carson can defeat Hillary?
Spastic agrees with much of what the man says in public, despite previous spurious use of simian epithet in previous post. It was the hesitation behind the bigotry of disaffection, not that this woman has the inside skinny on which of the remaining GOP candidates will prevail. Twenty percent of me which remains committed to advocacy might wish to throw my lot behind this man, despite dowager's impoverishment. I'll have a longer post on this soon. I've come to prefer writing out my posts on Word and then augmenting them in the window, particularly when I wish to push, but like the good doctor, I have my serious, impassioned side, and truly believe, despite Tony Blair's observation about "power shifting rapidly West to East," that the time for comprehensive military engagement has come. Sometimes, civilization has its price. When Islamic State was on the rise, some of us looked on it with muted respect, but never envisioned this yellow liveried barbarity of cowardice this paramilitary force has subsequently displayed. The Iraq War may have helped IS to rise, but the Sunni's need to be punished, the Iranians defanged, and NATO needs to act, and stop playing patsy. Empathy, much as vaunted, fragile, civil liberties, isn't a suicide pact either, to pick up the post-9/11 cry.
Spastic agrees with much of what the man says in public, despite previous spurious use of simian epithet in previous post. It was the hesitation behind the bigotry of disaffection, not that this woman has the inside skinny on which of the remaining GOP candidates will prevail. Twenty percent of me which remains committed to advocacy might wish to throw my lot behind this man, despite dowager's impoverishment. I'll have a longer post on this soon. I've come to prefer writing out my posts on Word and then augmenting them in the window, particularly when I wish to push, but like the good doctor, I have my serious, impassioned side, and truly believe, despite Tony Blair's observation about "power shifting rapidly West to East," that the time for comprehensive military engagement has come. Sometimes, civilization has its price. When Islamic State was on the rise, some of us looked on it with muted respect, but never envisioned this yellow liveried barbarity of cowardice this paramilitary force has subsequently displayed. The Iraq War may have helped IS to rise, but the Sunni's need to be punished, the Iranians defanged, and NATO needs to act, and stop playing patsy. Empathy, much as vaunted, fragile, civil liberties, isn't a suicide pact either, to pick up the post-9/11 cry.
Saturday, November 14, 2015
Solidarity
"Socially, culturally, morally, America has taken on the aspect of a decadent society and a declining nation."-- Patrick J. Buchanan, preface to Suicide of a Superpower
It is rather disconcerting to respond to a GQ image of the stadium exodus in Paris just prior to heating up your fish and chips and then find yourself quoted live on France 24 three hours later, rushing to telephone the dying aunt now holed up with dying brother and my immediate progenitor, my father, exhausted with tales of his dying wife, as fed to you by a sister you listen to, mouthing support you do not mean. Louise is dying, the fleeting nurse and more evincing invalid with her rheumatoid arthritis. "Her rectum is falling out of her ass," says besieged sister, and this makes you, as a cripple who wants to kill her apartment manager on any given Sunday, feel curiously more lucid than the rest of my clan: I am now evidently in charge, hanging by a thread while being quoted by France 24, watching the civilized world simply descend, trying to curb my hyperbole, but truly believing that Caucasian moral decency is imperiled, aware that this is a draconian throwback even to the 19th century. I could tell you too, how I took on Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne and the new one, Gail Sims, last week, losing my temper, standing up to Debra, calling her incompetent, a lout, realizing my contempt for these mocha women isn't worth my soul.
Louise has Sundowning Syndrome, to hear my sister tell it, while I continue to accrue a better, diminished, picture of Ben Carson, my mild interest in the black boy who did good in Detroit waning. He fooled Nightline, evidently, those many years ago, the carefully groomed and educated minority now revealing levels of bombast which alarm the establishment, reminding yourself you have little idea who the establishment is. But the generalized anxiety among the fractious conservative class seems to convey "What if Trump or Carson gets the nomination, or worse, becomes president if the edifice of ossified Clinton centrism cracks?"
My response to this is cynicism: So what? Neither the smirking monkey with his evangelical definition nor the mogul-shyster would have the actual power to do much damage, not immediately, in this facade of a democratic republic where a wastrel of a reactionary like me gets quoted on live international television looking for social media filler about the latest attack on Europe which has broken many congruent hearts.
If I in turn had the power to generate hawkish policy, I'd say its time for the third world war. Assassinate Assan Rouhani of Iran, dissolve Syria, expose the Russian armed forces for their ineptitude, and so forth, as withering in rhetorical sentiment as papier-mache, while I was quoted on France 24, trivialized spastic on the margins, preferring to die in battle. Ludicrous, my family decimated by chemotherapy, innocent Western blood flowing in the age of a troubled new century molded by the fanaticism of a nefarious Saudi named Osama. The disintegration of Airbus 321 was tactically effective. It caused a united retrenchment. The attack on Paris, in contrast, will backfire, in expected ways and otherwise. All I can do is regret benighted choices, observe the web of familial disease, crack ghoulish jokes. Consider the hospice industry with disgust. People need to know when it is time to make peace with death, and my stepmother, and my father's sister Marie, and her brother, need to stop receiving extraordinary medical intervention. They will not do it of course, but it would free up resources to ease the stringency of the welfare state we all hate. The brutality of a cause, the brutality of centralized institutional paradigms, these are flip sides of the same coin.
It is rather disconcerting to respond to a GQ image of the stadium exodus in Paris just prior to heating up your fish and chips and then find yourself quoted live on France 24 three hours later, rushing to telephone the dying aunt now holed up with dying brother and my immediate progenitor, my father, exhausted with tales of his dying wife, as fed to you by a sister you listen to, mouthing support you do not mean. Louise is dying, the fleeting nurse and more evincing invalid with her rheumatoid arthritis. "Her rectum is falling out of her ass," says besieged sister, and this makes you, as a cripple who wants to kill her apartment manager on any given Sunday, feel curiously more lucid than the rest of my clan: I am now evidently in charge, hanging by a thread while being quoted by France 24, watching the civilized world simply descend, trying to curb my hyperbole, but truly believing that Caucasian moral decency is imperiled, aware that this is a draconian throwback even to the 19th century. I could tell you too, how I took on Trudy Richardson and Debra Horne and the new one, Gail Sims, last week, losing my temper, standing up to Debra, calling her incompetent, a lout, realizing my contempt for these mocha women isn't worth my soul.
Louise has Sundowning Syndrome, to hear my sister tell it, while I continue to accrue a better, diminished, picture of Ben Carson, my mild interest in the black boy who did good in Detroit waning. He fooled Nightline, evidently, those many years ago, the carefully groomed and educated minority now revealing levels of bombast which alarm the establishment, reminding yourself you have little idea who the establishment is. But the generalized anxiety among the fractious conservative class seems to convey "What if Trump or Carson gets the nomination, or worse, becomes president if the edifice of ossified Clinton centrism cracks?"
My response to this is cynicism: So what? Neither the smirking monkey with his evangelical definition nor the mogul-shyster would have the actual power to do much damage, not immediately, in this facade of a democratic republic where a wastrel of a reactionary like me gets quoted on live international television looking for social media filler about the latest attack on Europe which has broken many congruent hearts.
If I in turn had the power to generate hawkish policy, I'd say its time for the third world war. Assassinate Assan Rouhani of Iran, dissolve Syria, expose the Russian armed forces for their ineptitude, and so forth, as withering in rhetorical sentiment as papier-mache, while I was quoted on France 24, trivialized spastic on the margins, preferring to die in battle. Ludicrous, my family decimated by chemotherapy, innocent Western blood flowing in the age of a troubled new century molded by the fanaticism of a nefarious Saudi named Osama. The disintegration of Airbus 321 was tactically effective. It caused a united retrenchment. The attack on Paris, in contrast, will backfire, in expected ways and otherwise. All I can do is regret benighted choices, observe the web of familial disease, crack ghoulish jokes. Consider the hospice industry with disgust. People need to know when it is time to make peace with death, and my stepmother, and my father's sister Marie, and her brother, need to stop receiving extraordinary medical intervention. They will not do it of course, but it would free up resources to ease the stringency of the welfare state we all hate. The brutality of a cause, the brutality of centralized institutional paradigms, these are flip sides of the same coin.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Costner's Blessing
"I don't want to get on your bad side!"-- the black adder, now burdened with complications of appeasement
Despite its subject matter, Mr. Brooks is not about the impact of psychological pathology on the American scene, unlike ABC's new Wicked City, which is a bit of a toss up-- and in a brevity of an aside-- this spastic's young adulthood wasn't populated with the discothèque remembrance the show attempts to evoke with nonchalance. Reviewers noted certain things about Brooks: Costner loosens up playing against William Hurt, who in the right context is every woman's prime capture if she has ambition toward a fulfilled life, and the director Evans suggests, subversively, that a successful businessman is analogous to being a serial murderer, but there are vectors in this film which come together like blades in a jigsaw, actually sending up celebrity, notoriety, their hanger's on, and what goes on beneath the surface of successful appearances. Demi Moore says something about her tabloid rep encapsulating her brass balls detective who defeats the spree menace of the Hangman killer and his badass girl, offering viewers, perhaps her fans, a sense of the cutthroat approach necessary to say on top. The fact that her cop, Atwood, is insulated by wealth in an estranged familial environment is also a veiled reference, but to what exactly? Pimping to the market is no guarantee? Photographs of women almost nude in revealing pregnancy no longer generate the chatter they did when Demi was still young, before she spent small fortunes on her plastic surgeries, and what Brooks reads in the aberrant behavior of the daughter is a third person limited narration. As an audience, we aren't offered an alternative viewpoint, loose threads to fall where they may. The police may be smart enough to figure that someone was trying to throw suspicion off the daughter, for instance, or, if she killed her father as an eventuality, how would she have planned to get away with it.
The difficulty with Brooks lies in its substrata toward the ironic, confusing us with the reflections breaking off like shards, despite Costner's diabolical pleasure with himself. Brooks neither quite succeeds as a parable about undercurrents, nor as a truism about the urban underclass, such as we are invited to wince away in Henry, portrait of a serial killer, which itself lost its nerve for the sake of its rating. I have not lost mine, I am simply so beset with inevitable unraveling that my caustic invective threatening Google's pecuniary market interests wouldn't help even if I freaked out other somewhat troubled lone wolves, and no, I do not mean I want to rant death on the heads of my perceived tormentors either. I am a failed writer, but my own acuity denies frothing, if not a hideous temper. Another way to say this is Mr. Brooks examines macro-aggression in a microscopic context, and does so unsure of its balance. To hint, with slight mystery to the nuance, why able-bodied individuals destroy themselves against the biographies of quadriplegics who've been beaten, regardless of precocious sensibilities, is unfathomable. Alcoholics can walk, and yet disease themselves into the dependence of mass material victimhood, as do addicts, and the demographics of Caucasian suicides in my age group. PBS had a seven minute segment on whites my age killing themselves due to disenfranchisement, and nothing is as bad as a cripple who has seen the institutional hell she refuses to return to, without being able to find a pathway to safety. If you can walk and drive a car, count your blessings. I am certainly past the ability of spontaneous pleasure when architecture and poverty defeat it. Then again, maybe I can write some lyrics for Louy Fierce, an intriguing possibility between ableism and reconciliation with ferocity of chronic impairment denial of wholeness.
Why did he decide to follow me? The inner voice need not be sated on that puzzling note.
Despite its subject matter, Mr. Brooks is not about the impact of psychological pathology on the American scene, unlike ABC's new Wicked City, which is a bit of a toss up-- and in a brevity of an aside-- this spastic's young adulthood wasn't populated with the discothèque remembrance the show attempts to evoke with nonchalance. Reviewers noted certain things about Brooks: Costner loosens up playing against William Hurt, who in the right context is every woman's prime capture if she has ambition toward a fulfilled life, and the director Evans suggests, subversively, that a successful businessman is analogous to being a serial murderer, but there are vectors in this film which come together like blades in a jigsaw, actually sending up celebrity, notoriety, their hanger's on, and what goes on beneath the surface of successful appearances. Demi Moore says something about her tabloid rep encapsulating her brass balls detective who defeats the spree menace of the Hangman killer and his badass girl, offering viewers, perhaps her fans, a sense of the cutthroat approach necessary to say on top. The fact that her cop, Atwood, is insulated by wealth in an estranged familial environment is also a veiled reference, but to what exactly? Pimping to the market is no guarantee? Photographs of women almost nude in revealing pregnancy no longer generate the chatter they did when Demi was still young, before she spent small fortunes on her plastic surgeries, and what Brooks reads in the aberrant behavior of the daughter is a third person limited narration. As an audience, we aren't offered an alternative viewpoint, loose threads to fall where they may. The police may be smart enough to figure that someone was trying to throw suspicion off the daughter, for instance, or, if she killed her father as an eventuality, how would she have planned to get away with it.
The difficulty with Brooks lies in its substrata toward the ironic, confusing us with the reflections breaking off like shards, despite Costner's diabolical pleasure with himself. Brooks neither quite succeeds as a parable about undercurrents, nor as a truism about the urban underclass, such as we are invited to wince away in Henry, portrait of a serial killer, which itself lost its nerve for the sake of its rating. I have not lost mine, I am simply so beset with inevitable unraveling that my caustic invective threatening Google's pecuniary market interests wouldn't help even if I freaked out other somewhat troubled lone wolves, and no, I do not mean I want to rant death on the heads of my perceived tormentors either. I am a failed writer, but my own acuity denies frothing, if not a hideous temper. Another way to say this is Mr. Brooks examines macro-aggression in a microscopic context, and does so unsure of its balance. To hint, with slight mystery to the nuance, why able-bodied individuals destroy themselves against the biographies of quadriplegics who've been beaten, regardless of precocious sensibilities, is unfathomable. Alcoholics can walk, and yet disease themselves into the dependence of mass material victimhood, as do addicts, and the demographics of Caucasian suicides in my age group. PBS had a seven minute segment on whites my age killing themselves due to disenfranchisement, and nothing is as bad as a cripple who has seen the institutional hell she refuses to return to, without being able to find a pathway to safety. If you can walk and drive a car, count your blessings. I am certainly past the ability of spontaneous pleasure when architecture and poverty defeat it. Then again, maybe I can write some lyrics for Louy Fierce, an intriguing possibility between ableism and reconciliation with ferocity of chronic impairment denial of wholeness.
Why did he decide to follow me? The inner voice need not be sated on that puzzling note.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Tossed in Through A Stretcher?
For by the 1970's, opposition to the allegedly uniformitarian strictures of the Enlightenment was rampant throughout universities in Europe and America," Isaiah Berlin's Counter-Enlightenment, Vol 93--Joseph Mali, Robert Wokler,eds.
Though it surpasses anything on American public broadcast, Anno 1790 is a disgraced handmaiden in comparison to Nicolas le Floch, so blatantly as it follows the French model. Jerome Robart may play his titled detective as sympathetic to the hysterical masses in France who would behead poor Louie 16 and his hated queen, but Jerome's Nicolas understands the aristocracy in its concourse with mercantilism, and his role as a chameleon between the court, his boss, and the bug-eyed piss pot Parisian barker, serves as the sinews trying to hold things together. Anno 1790 is somewhat more strident, messier, a bit gruesome, less playful, and no audience truly cares about corruption in Sweden's historical court. Without so much as a breath on Google, name a Swedish monarch.
Exactly. Where Floch is more piercing about sexual duplicity, Anno is more intense about the consequences of forbidden sexual liaisons, offers up incest, anarchy, serial child murder, the torture of the police state and the guerrilla strikes against it, abortion, the struggle for woman's suffrage, all in one breath, and Protestants could have hardly been so progressive in the fin de siecle close on Immanuel Kant as the greatest moral philosopher of the era, if in the 21st century, the doxology serves as a shield for corruption, negligence, in the essential incompatibility between individual choice and social conformity . This blogger's hostility toward homosexuality and its mimical evasions runs counter to personhood and choice, and counter to the necessity for a falling birth rate, the culling of the elderly, and the advocacy to terminate known disabled fetuses, and yes, I believe it would have been more merciful to let the majority of spastic quads die in birth.
For my regular viewers, seriously, what's my future, even supposing I pick up limited employment, pop a few tranquilizers? It is difficult to provide you with a description of how I might have defined success before biological entropy, but Presby's agents constantly browbeating me over cleanliness wasn't it. Like Steve Jobs, I stick my imaginary feet in the toilet. He died a cult icon over fetish for touch interface. I'll be lucky to leave Race Street in one piece, not pining for fame, but a sense of accomplishment, that is another matter.
Though it surpasses anything on American public broadcast, Anno 1790 is a disgraced handmaiden in comparison to Nicolas le Floch, so blatantly as it follows the French model. Jerome Robart may play his titled detective as sympathetic to the hysterical masses in France who would behead poor Louie 16 and his hated queen, but Jerome's Nicolas understands the aristocracy in its concourse with mercantilism, and his role as a chameleon between the court, his boss, and the bug-eyed piss pot Parisian barker, serves as the sinews trying to hold things together. Anno 1790 is somewhat more strident, messier, a bit gruesome, less playful, and no audience truly cares about corruption in Sweden's historical court. Without so much as a breath on Google, name a Swedish monarch.
Exactly. Where Floch is more piercing about sexual duplicity, Anno is more intense about the consequences of forbidden sexual liaisons, offers up incest, anarchy, serial child murder, the torture of the police state and the guerrilla strikes against it, abortion, the struggle for woman's suffrage, all in one breath, and Protestants could have hardly been so progressive in the fin de siecle close on Immanuel Kant as the greatest moral philosopher of the era, if in the 21st century, the doxology serves as a shield for corruption, negligence, in the essential incompatibility between individual choice and social conformity . This blogger's hostility toward homosexuality and its mimical evasions runs counter to personhood and choice, and counter to the necessity for a falling birth rate, the culling of the elderly, and the advocacy to terminate known disabled fetuses, and yes, I believe it would have been more merciful to let the majority of spastic quads die in birth.
For my regular viewers, seriously, what's my future, even supposing I pick up limited employment, pop a few tranquilizers? It is difficult to provide you with a description of how I might have defined success before biological entropy, but Presby's agents constantly browbeating me over cleanliness wasn't it. Like Steve Jobs, I stick my imaginary feet in the toilet. He died a cult icon over fetish for touch interface. I'll be lucky to leave Race Street in one piece, not pining for fame, but a sense of accomplishment, that is another matter.
Damage Differential
The pubs and eateries along my radius on Walnut Street have a certain old city charm, and the Cafe at 2011 can boast a certain picturesque insularity, this wounded warrior gratified, that, last spring, the burly Irish got me over the innocuous step, onto the portable ramp, and I set eyes on the Black Adder for the first time, sort of indicting myself for a now pronounced anti-social aura that radiates from me, as I asked him if I could "stay". His response: All are welcome, and while I am not quite as committed an ideologue as he, I've become emotionally invested in the Liberty on the Rocks Meet Up.
But I'm self-conscious in terms of my physical dilapidation. This is not to convey I was ever great at flaunting my femininity through dressing. Orthopedic surgery made my flexed contortions worse even in youth, but I have graduated, since I wiped out my savings in 2013, toward a more thorough deterioration. I look like someone now living off the street, except when the will that has kept me alive resurges. Episodic breakthroughs.
I'm also tired of sitting outside, forcing my boys (whoa!) to sit with me on the sidewalk tables when they'd rather congregate in the bar. It is chilly now, and even if the thick set Irish firefighters were so inclined to haul the Jazzy Quantum up the plank, I cannot risk a circuitry breakdown as a result. My Quickie P-200 was already battered that spring, and was off balance, falling apart, so I cannot assume a gratifying struggle to enter the Cafe actually shorted it. I live in the power chair, and no model is that durable, but the Quantum is basically a battery and a plastic caster wheel casing, metal base, and I hate the fucking thing, know it cannot be subjected to punishment. If I attend, therefore, I will be consigned to waving at the guys through the window, feeling alienated as a result, irritated with my hearing loss--but the group matters to me. I've developed an emotional attachment to center city's marzipan radicalism. What to do?
I no longer support the Americans With Disabilities Act. It is a useless statue if properly scrutinized, and for every activist victory, there is regulatory pushback. The owner of the Cafe should not have to modify his establishment for a former middle class cripple on the skids, nearly deranged from the banquet of human suffering exposed and experienced in the Quaker geography of Southeastern Pennsylvania; Black Adder cannot be blamed for picking a location not modified for access, and it may be I am not perceived the way I imagine. It is equally true that I cannot fully engage if the clique has to be charitable by making a point of coming to me. They are there to mildly booze and share a meal while discussing politics. I am there to constrain my inner Mussolini from engaging in a shoot out with federal agents. Maybe one or two of them could hook me on downers, but it is not particularly a soluble issue. If Tom Reid were to pop up, and remember our off campus watering hole called Walios, he'd look at that continuum, probably shocked to compare me as the undergraduate he knew then, turning herself a corkscrew for Tassoni, hanging on Jerry McGuire's sleeve, to the ravaged grand dame that a non-violent software developer, with some additional assistance from Tony Stiles, has to reign in. A handful of local anarchists, conservatives, proselytizers, to these I've attached such internalized importance, in the waning days of functionality. A real diehard libertarian would probably say that the doctors kept you alive as a body to be exploited, and that is just the way it is. Liberals may have felt it was their duty to lift up your potential toward inclusion, and your failure is on your own head for giving the socialist paradigm the finger.
The real truth of the matter lies in self-hatred, what I am, the hell I've seen, like the surgeon detective in Anno 1790, and that too, is insoluble. Quadriplegia is a bitch. I've lived it over a half century, and want to stop living it now, and in disability culture, that is heresy, grumbling. If I want to attend, then attend already. Sigh.
But I'm self-conscious in terms of my physical dilapidation. This is not to convey I was ever great at flaunting my femininity through dressing. Orthopedic surgery made my flexed contortions worse even in youth, but I have graduated, since I wiped out my savings in 2013, toward a more thorough deterioration. I look like someone now living off the street, except when the will that has kept me alive resurges. Episodic breakthroughs.
I'm also tired of sitting outside, forcing my boys (whoa!) to sit with me on the sidewalk tables when they'd rather congregate in the bar. It is chilly now, and even if the thick set Irish firefighters were so inclined to haul the Jazzy Quantum up the plank, I cannot risk a circuitry breakdown as a result. My Quickie P-200 was already battered that spring, and was off balance, falling apart, so I cannot assume a gratifying struggle to enter the Cafe actually shorted it. I live in the power chair, and no model is that durable, but the Quantum is basically a battery and a plastic caster wheel casing, metal base, and I hate the fucking thing, know it cannot be subjected to punishment. If I attend, therefore, I will be consigned to waving at the guys through the window, feeling alienated as a result, irritated with my hearing loss--but the group matters to me. I've developed an emotional attachment to center city's marzipan radicalism. What to do?
I no longer support the Americans With Disabilities Act. It is a useless statue if properly scrutinized, and for every activist victory, there is regulatory pushback. The owner of the Cafe should not have to modify his establishment for a former middle class cripple on the skids, nearly deranged from the banquet of human suffering exposed and experienced in the Quaker geography of Southeastern Pennsylvania; Black Adder cannot be blamed for picking a location not modified for access, and it may be I am not perceived the way I imagine. It is equally true that I cannot fully engage if the clique has to be charitable by making a point of coming to me. They are there to mildly booze and share a meal while discussing politics. I am there to constrain my inner Mussolini from engaging in a shoot out with federal agents. Maybe one or two of them could hook me on downers, but it is not particularly a soluble issue. If Tom Reid were to pop up, and remember our off campus watering hole called Walios, he'd look at that continuum, probably shocked to compare me as the undergraduate he knew then, turning herself a corkscrew for Tassoni, hanging on Jerry McGuire's sleeve, to the ravaged grand dame that a non-violent software developer, with some additional assistance from Tony Stiles, has to reign in. A handful of local anarchists, conservatives, proselytizers, to these I've attached such internalized importance, in the waning days of functionality. A real diehard libertarian would probably say that the doctors kept you alive as a body to be exploited, and that is just the way it is. Liberals may have felt it was their duty to lift up your potential toward inclusion, and your failure is on your own head for giving the socialist paradigm the finger.
The real truth of the matter lies in self-hatred, what I am, the hell I've seen, like the surgeon detective in Anno 1790, and that too, is insoluble. Quadriplegia is a bitch. I've lived it over a half century, and want to stop living it now, and in disability culture, that is heresy, grumbling. If I want to attend, then attend already. Sigh.
Friday, November 6, 2015
Heavy Treading
The 1957 Hell Bound doesn't have many accolade tracer elements. Medically primitive even by the standards of a 70's serial like Emergency, it nevertheless has an interesting dialectic between the plot at the top billed end, and all the seedy cast members in between, tying chronic conditions to criminality in conventional and less conventional ways: a blind dope pusher, defining the essence of the burgeoning beatnik class, the addict, a morbidly obese diabetic, a dead child, casualty of our fabled car accidents, representative of the world which made Arlen Specter of the Warren Commission, and with less spectacular luck, more freshly deceased Thompson, who was a crucial aide during the Watergate hearings. In his last reverse mortgage commercial, which was a tacit admission to death panels, the leg he favored and the limp he staggered are perhaps testament to the quiet dignity of steely reticence.
If only Wework could do for public housing as it does for millennials. I may call them. I signed up for writers coworking philly, and remain hesitant, my social skills not that of an optimistic graduate, but I'm more or less curious about the coffee shop.
The problem with architecture is its relative permanence, lack of elasticity
If only Wework could do for public housing as it does for millennials. I may call them. I signed up for writers coworking philly, and remain hesitant, my social skills not that of an optimistic graduate, but I'm more or less curious about the coffee shop.
The problem with architecture is its relative permanence, lack of elasticity
Tuesday, November 3, 2015
Synergenic Oxymorons
Both technology and religion are found to have transcendence as a common motivation. -- Susan George, Religion and Technology in the 21st Century, introduction.
I remain diffident about following Justina Hadnott's account. Oh, the grooming and poise take work, and she wouldn't be caught dead in my static bubble guts environment, but I am too familiar with the smooth moving love joy routine of her less dazzling lard hindered sisters. My disposition is far too acerbic to love each day like it's my last. I've fought every day as my last, from calcified fecal matter buffering my hip spike cast on the ward (destroy them!) to my most recent calamities with having parked the Jazzy too far back to extend my bad arm to sit up on my concave stained mattress, and instead of giving in, calling 911, then getting a memo from Trudy Richardson asking why I did not contact the office. Well, because Lanishea the receptionist barely bothered to make a note to ask maintenance to bring up my new phone, and so I was left without the 5s until late Saturday, then the guard on duty did not respond to my pull cord signal for over six hours. This is minority competence in the inner city, hardly the pop corn comfort of Terrence Howard's scheming in prison issue orange.
The problem is temporarily solved, driving in so close to my milk crate bed stand that I endanger my pivot onto the toxic bedding, not that days cannot be numbered unexpectedly. Dave Goldberg's rather amusing treadmill demise is actually a perfect argument against mercy killing, since we never know, in the assurances we use to go on with our day, whether or not our propulsion driven tin cans will turn us into victuals for Elijah's ravens.
Airplanes are marvels of physics, and have been used in warfare since their manufacture became practical, and of course a passenger jet is still safer than most motor vehicles, but the post 9/11 environment has seen a dramatic change. We do not stop to think. Not necessarily that Airbus 321 may have been destroyed as an act of vengeance for MH17, (and if it was Putin is hardly chastened by conscience), but that we're rapidly losing control of the complex environment we've created. Cold War disinformation, the worry of my generation, is an outmoded tactic in the age of Goggle's amoral, if playful efficiency, and Obama's occasionally daring foreign policy insights ineffectual. Democracy is a shell game, and Communist central planning leads to the Orwellian cruelty of black children.
What does freedom mean in this context? We all have to game the system. We could mitigate it, on our own terms, but who does that anymore?
I remain diffident about following Justina Hadnott's account. Oh, the grooming and poise take work, and she wouldn't be caught dead in my static bubble guts environment, but I am too familiar with the smooth moving love joy routine of her less dazzling lard hindered sisters. My disposition is far too acerbic to love each day like it's my last. I've fought every day as my last, from calcified fecal matter buffering my hip spike cast on the ward (destroy them!) to my most recent calamities with having parked the Jazzy too far back to extend my bad arm to sit up on my concave stained mattress, and instead of giving in, calling 911, then getting a memo from Trudy Richardson asking why I did not contact the office. Well, because Lanishea the receptionist barely bothered to make a note to ask maintenance to bring up my new phone, and so I was left without the 5s until late Saturday, then the guard on duty did not respond to my pull cord signal for over six hours. This is minority competence in the inner city, hardly the pop corn comfort of Terrence Howard's scheming in prison issue orange.
The problem is temporarily solved, driving in so close to my milk crate bed stand that I endanger my pivot onto the toxic bedding, not that days cannot be numbered unexpectedly. Dave Goldberg's rather amusing treadmill demise is actually a perfect argument against mercy killing, since we never know, in the assurances we use to go on with our day, whether or not our propulsion driven tin cans will turn us into victuals for Elijah's ravens.
Airplanes are marvels of physics, and have been used in warfare since their manufacture became practical, and of course a passenger jet is still safer than most motor vehicles, but the post 9/11 environment has seen a dramatic change. We do not stop to think. Not necessarily that Airbus 321 may have been destroyed as an act of vengeance for MH17, (and if it was Putin is hardly chastened by conscience), but that we're rapidly losing control of the complex environment we've created. Cold War disinformation, the worry of my generation, is an outmoded tactic in the age of Goggle's amoral, if playful efficiency, and Obama's occasionally daring foreign policy insights ineffectual. Democracy is a shell game, and Communist central planning leads to the Orwellian cruelty of black children.
What does freedom mean in this context? We all have to game the system. We could mitigate it, on our own terms, but who does that anymore?
Sunday, November 1, 2015
Out with a whimper
I have revised and revised, and if I think Bob from Twin Peaks is going to split my head open, nothing ever happens in Philadelphia. I'm case in point, but it begins, and I'll over ride any statue of limitations, just like an eruption, flowing right back to the inferno.
Awareness Peeling Away to Unremitting Savagery
Free will made the fickle will of man the basis of divine decrees; it made 'the great controller of the world a bare spectator'.-- Peter White, Predestination, Policy and Polemic, p5
The kiss that Alicia Witt plants on Daesha Lynn, playing Chaz Burke, newly pregnant wife of the half-brother in Brian Jun's Joint Body (11), is ambiguous, demonstrably more of a desperate outreach for sanctuary rather than a traumatic conversion, or repressed curiosity, but it doesn't save the dialogue between the two actors. An astute woman doesn't ask a wife and nascent parent to be "Why does Dean call you mommy?"
Nor would the wife deny that her man joins nurture and sexual need into an endearment that connotes an infantile lack from his past. Jun may have been attempting to convey elements of denial and lack of accurately assessing characters around us, but it fails, whether or not the ponderous fatalism that Pellegrino and Witt carry like an expressionist ball and chain is enough to save the film. Both Pellegrino and Witt look effectively shell shocked at the conclusion, Witt in a literal jail cell and Pellegrino hemmed in his small boat on a lake which seems claustrophobic. It packs a powerful punch in terms of its exposition, much as Mike Mulligan does in the 1972 classic, The Other. To this day, the Udarnoky brothers encapsulate something intrinsic about evil in a masquerade behind our best altruistic instincts. And Mulligan achieves this not simply through getting the boys to put heart and soul into performance, but through respect. Mulligan doesn't condescend to rural sensibility, but allows the community its dignity, disrupted by the subversive reverberation of pain, penetrating dignity like a lance, all the more effective for relying on atmosphere and sense of place, attention to detail, as opposed to being a slasher attempting to evoke terror.
I have little use for neuroscience; materialism abnegates what self-awareness deems a unique individualism, but the nursing students I lived with at Widener were probably right about me all along. Scolding myself in the dusk of Halloween's burgeoning party hours no longer has the same effect. I called my aunt, of whom I'm proud, but wish she would return to education; neither of us mentioned twitter, nor my housekeeping. Though I am dragging my feet, I am going to give my notice, soon, nothing more than an agonized outcry from a woman who's her father's daughter, and needs to work, needs ambulatory people to stop telling me I can't live alone, needs space, all she ever wanted was to be happy in her work, selfish in her man. Whatever the accuracy of observation about my emotional problems so many once attempted to alleviate, before I unwittingly imprisoned myself in the section 202 housing paradigm, I now have some form of post-traumatic stress, ground meat for the maggots who will eventually penetrate my coffin. I'm a fool, and should have never gone into case management, as I'll have little choice but to invariably die in Inglis House. I can't handle it, and perhaps I predetermined it rather early in my lousy self esteem and truant ideation tantrums.
I cannot accept the price, and will not allow myself to be forced back into that environment, and have to hold that conviction fast.
The kiss that Alicia Witt plants on Daesha Lynn, playing Chaz Burke, newly pregnant wife of the half-brother in Brian Jun's Joint Body (11), is ambiguous, demonstrably more of a desperate outreach for sanctuary rather than a traumatic conversion, or repressed curiosity, but it doesn't save the dialogue between the two actors. An astute woman doesn't ask a wife and nascent parent to be "Why does Dean call you mommy?"
Nor would the wife deny that her man joins nurture and sexual need into an endearment that connotes an infantile lack from his past. Jun may have been attempting to convey elements of denial and lack of accurately assessing characters around us, but it fails, whether or not the ponderous fatalism that Pellegrino and Witt carry like an expressionist ball and chain is enough to save the film. Both Pellegrino and Witt look effectively shell shocked at the conclusion, Witt in a literal jail cell and Pellegrino hemmed in his small boat on a lake which seems claustrophobic. It packs a powerful punch in terms of its exposition, much as Mike Mulligan does in the 1972 classic, The Other. To this day, the Udarnoky brothers encapsulate something intrinsic about evil in a masquerade behind our best altruistic instincts. And Mulligan achieves this not simply through getting the boys to put heart and soul into performance, but through respect. Mulligan doesn't condescend to rural sensibility, but allows the community its dignity, disrupted by the subversive reverberation of pain, penetrating dignity like a lance, all the more effective for relying on atmosphere and sense of place, attention to detail, as opposed to being a slasher attempting to evoke terror.
I have little use for neuroscience; materialism abnegates what self-awareness deems a unique individualism, but the nursing students I lived with at Widener were probably right about me all along. Scolding myself in the dusk of Halloween's burgeoning party hours no longer has the same effect. I called my aunt, of whom I'm proud, but wish she would return to education; neither of us mentioned twitter, nor my housekeeping. Though I am dragging my feet, I am going to give my notice, soon, nothing more than an agonized outcry from a woman who's her father's daughter, and needs to work, needs ambulatory people to stop telling me I can't live alone, needs space, all she ever wanted was to be happy in her work, selfish in her man. Whatever the accuracy of observation about my emotional problems so many once attempted to alleviate, before I unwittingly imprisoned myself in the section 202 housing paradigm, I now have some form of post-traumatic stress, ground meat for the maggots who will eventually penetrate my coffin. I'm a fool, and should have never gone into case management, as I'll have little choice but to invariably die in Inglis House. I can't handle it, and perhaps I predetermined it rather early in my lousy self esteem and truant ideation tantrums.
I cannot accept the price, and will not allow myself to be forced back into that environment, and have to hold that conviction fast.
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