It's the omnipresent constable." -- a sardonic Patrick O'Neal against Peter Falk
Microsoft offered me free antivirus software so I'm installing it, or part of it, wincing at what I paid Norton every cycle, and annoyances like this dart through our thought processes even in very dark places. Given how much I've hammered out on this account, how much further can a poor dowager descend? This spastic is aware of the gravity of making things so much harder by rolling out on these monsters, but if she doesn't go, she will wind up with forcible first response removal at some point, police struggling to put the Jazzy in manual while my hypertension explodes, hitherto merely the roar of a Roman lion. I sent Tony Stiles a copy of the New Jersey law firm prohibiting me any further contact with Philadelphia's notorious independent living center, without explaining things to him, without even realizing he might as well have been a geeky kid brother, given the disc jockey images of him which popped up, but the New Jersey law firm tactic crumpled: I roared into Nancy Salandra's voicemail last week about how I was traumatized and wanted to return to Delaware County, and a more recently minted den mother named Patricia McIntyre dialed my number back in less than 60 seconds but she and I have yet to speak. So much for Roman felines.
I think Agatha Christie's prodigious output is an indication of deep seated unhappiness, aside from pecuniary concerns. I read her more when I was younger, not so much recently. Can't go back into it as readily; there was also a television film about her suicide attempt which limped despite the efforts of Hoffman. In my list of 500 projects I'm never going to finish, I've pondered a murder novel and I've done preliminary research, and I seem to jumpstart myself by starting anew when I'm struggling with preposterous theories which I can see but others may not, as in Walter Hill is a political animal, The Driver is a political film without saying a word about the calamity lurch from Nixon to Ford losing to Carter. I am preparing this for a popular scholastic journal which once upon a time paid well, and I have to get there. Meanwhile, in short order, access to things taken for granted will become my latest logistical issue.
Should I dare to try my hand at a detective tale, and I do not know that I can succeed, I'd aim not so much for Shakespeare's flirtation with graphic brutality as for the traumatic, and I'd push, to the breaking point, right on the edge between immolation and art. Of course, I can wait, and drag this, and let Presby threaten me more, despite half the shit I have on them, but I'm tired, hate them, and hate my familial indifference. I've hated Riverside since my mother, still living, set me up here, and there have been meanders, but if I ran into Terri Way today I'd throttle her for my passive tolerance of letting her snow me, and in very small ways preferred Diamond Park. Christie, however, did herself push the traumatic when Poirot, and this actor doesn't quite capture my image of Christie's Belgian-- [fuck Miss Marple]-- used his drug tolerance to snare his greatest nemesis. She gave Poirot a denouement surpassing what Doyle gave Holmes.
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