Cardiac Trauma in Folie Et deux

I have, as yet, bunkered down, and even giving my notice to Riverside hasn’t stopped the merry carnival at my expense, though I, in ailing fashion, continue to beat back authority: I have no track marks, no weapons cache, yet the march of the indomitable Commonwealth continues, as I am no longer a person worthy of encouragement, only a mortal quantity whose grave is being dug by a corrupt system embedding poverty to keep the civil service afloat. If I am a self-righteous prig going down in defiance, Winter’s Bone (2010) is one of those rare films muting industry stock reel conventions to embody the Ozarks regional sensibilities in its own competition with the characters Debra Granik unapologetically plants onto the camera lens, in a real embodiment of what makes American resilience so particular unto itself, a resilience gradually being lost to European state models. Tim Dillahunt is the only recognizable sit com star Granik uses for bankability, as the fleeced straight arrow sheriff, and this may be excused, being offered as comfortable terrain. Does he fit as the conscientious humanitarian with the force of authority to consider? Every community not truly broken has figures like him. Best groomed, resisted or embraced, or met half way, and this community may not have the Obama era dynamic of Hawaii, nor is it quite dead-alive. It is stark, no nonsense, willing to be honest about the greater strength, and what tenacity achieves. What I liked, in particular, was how Ree’s uncle came alive toward the climax, with that sharp, pensive face. We’re left with an implied sentiment that he goes off to avenge his brother’s murder; given what Ree has already peeled away with her own tenacity, we may interpret her uncle as a doomed warrior, risking death for honor. If I might have become a screen writer (a bit late for that now, with the lampoon of the million dollar slush pile in LA) accomplishing narratives such as Granik does here, this would have given me pride in an equal compliment.

Normally, when I am quiet, my twitter stock rises before the invariable drop. The only mechanism I know to handle the mind breaking stress I inflicted on myself, in lieu of attempted homicide, is to tunnel inward and become monolithic, which is what I have done. It would be a lot easier if I had a best friend, one who would not leave me at Pennsylvania’s mercy, but I have no one like that, and my small accrual of followers fades away. I honestly don’t have the luxury to sit and worry about it, trying to ween myself from the addictive strength of automated psyche penetration. Not for the time being. I am not entirely positive Presbyterian Homes will receive a last rental check from me. What would Toomey tell me, as the revamped Irish conservator, if I had access to him directly? What would he think, that the invalid is lucky niggerland hasn’t caved her skull in already?