I seem to remember some of Dead Man's Gun from my last year of cable television, long ago now, so I was mistaken in the belief that when This TV first ran the series, it was a new experience; not all of them, but Peter Firth doing a double feint as The Ripper, posing as a precursor to Scotland Yard, throwing suspicion on the surgeon, this is eerily familiar in the epoch of my vigor. I still had hope, in 1997, that I'd "recover" from my Matrix Research Institute divorce. It was more like a critical injury actually, despite my vigorous combat with my misery at the job: I used to say to myself, "look at Linda, dedicated, disciplined" and I'd picture Jewish princess on her knees in her office. I was never her, however, and if moving into the ghetto was my first fatal mistake, going into mental health was my second. Never had the requisite emotional armor, and affixing myself to online interaction, 30 odd years or so in, is having too much of an impact. I differentiate posting addiction and cyber sexual chatting-- which I stopped --I could see I was potentially compromising my safety after a round of Turkish Backgammon smut (he was a valet in Jersey, nothing exotic)-- from the fact that now I log on to decrease agitation, and conversely, wind up provoked and over extended, even as I am rolling myself out of Riverside, I am fussing about a damn data plan on laptops over six years old, is an indication of my organic failure: I'll be dead or insane in about five years, best estimation-- but just because Showtime produced all this conscientious liberal learning to accept people for who they are material, it does not make their product better than commercial series, necessarily. Dead Man's Gun is, at is essence, the Jewish liberal dominion in Hollywood smirking at Gentile intrigue over mysticism, Christian investment in it, with sharia law fatigue. The Snakefinger episode is actually a cruel penalty, amputating a safecracker's hand deliberately with a backfired gun. It is more Middle Eastern than American frontier. I have issues with ambulatory fears over chronic conditions, but I am not that irrational as to say disarticulation for a bank robber in late Victorian America is justified.
I ask forbearance. Cripples do not leave senior housing after 32 years of blunt force trauma, but I know, whatever I have to abandon, I'm going, and I won't make it. I am internalizing charming murder sprees, novelizing them on one end, terrified of losing my balance on the other. I never really had a good home life, but my mother's trash trying to fuck me in Ridley Park was an oasis next to my life in this rust belt Commonwealth and the urban ignorance which has magnified my stress.
No comments:
Post a Comment