Perhaps Blogger was right about the personal voice versus the objective post, and writing online less might lead to stronger sinews down the road. I looked up my non-fiction collection, weary with my desire to break past my limitations, and it is small. Only a handful of articles, memoir bits, so I am scrolling through this account to see what I want to pillage, and protest perhaps I should just vanish. Parents of disabled wheelchair users probably cannot read into my emotional pain braided into this canvas not so subtly between the lines without a recoil of moral guilt. When Linda Dezenski referred to them as the enemy when our Usenet posts collided in 1999, I was right there with her, as in Elton John's suggestion, "we'll fight our parents out on the streets," and 13 days into 2016, I'm procrastinating, worn out with trivializing her as a pop out target at base camp. It isn't as if I'm Natalie Portman's Mathilda.
One delights in Jean Reno, who accepts what he is, a working assassin, without the niceties of complicit conscience, but for the child. The Professional hinges itself in unlikely ways. Oldman seems superficial. Preliminary assessment.
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