Chlorine Blade Lines in Backed Up Septic Tanks

"I will not hide from you that I am sending you into the midst of the wolves."-- Stendhal,  rouge et noir, loc 4183

Memories of New Jersey drive throughs begin to fade, not as vivid as those Nick Gillespie possess, such that he would declare the Garden State “the greatest state on earth,” in a moment of superlative appreciation. It seems the charming ignominy of dilapidated beachfront properties is closer to the truth, with the seediness of Burt Lancaster’s Atlantic City reverberating through the dull grey sand beneath Wildwood’s Boardwalk, with its titillation of cheap carny thrills, Keystone Cop rides a senile grandmother might retrieve in a lucid flash, Gerald Ford on black and white badly received VHF, vainly attempting to save the GOP from the wavering barometer of agrarian sensibilities which would translate into President Carter's self-flagellation, with his residual sympathizers congregating around his last public Bible lectures by virtue of rather expensive glioma-shrinking drugs. Farmland in Georgia isn’t as temperate as Jersey’s perhaps, not that the dowager has geographic expertise in regional topsoil, remembering northern Jersey as more sedate, darker, not so many beach bodies jiggling swimsuit love handles. When things go rancid in this state, within Trenton's environs, or beyond its borders, as in the Thomas Tramaglini arrest, they spoil in rather dramatic fashion.
If this had been the late summer of 1981, the most flagellant controversy surrounding a superintendent would have been the schedule for driving school over the summer. This was the dowager's first journalism article, in a high school publication better designed, according to Tassoni, than the inter-departmental magazine we produced on a perennial basis. At the time Tramaglini's arrest, a forgettable reference to the flashback of Potter's protagonist in The Singing Detective was made. A childhood actor stands in for Gambion to defecate in a school aquarium, but a more tolerant allusion to the accommodation of such a bizarre eccentricity which is more shameful than menacing is The Vanishing of Pato. On the whole, this two part mystery is Rai's copy of the English formula for putting the pieces together in the traditional whodunit, directed with the fabled provincialism of Italy in mind before helping to cement the United States as the new age global power. In Pato, Nino Frassica has an exchange with a commoner about a villager who eats feces in palm leaves with warm milk. The humor lay in the actors dragging out the details of such a repast. 
While public defecation is not a precise parallel with the criminal intersection of penalizing or victimizing chronic afflictions (such as incontinence), runner's trots may not be the sole reason for Tramaglini's furtive expression in his photographic image. Bad table manners convey social hostility towards the infantile freedom of relief. 

The Wasp Woman

"I had to do that."-- Susan Cabot in her final film

While I was pondering the lesson of Alison, realizing I never had that I never had the will such as that, the will to optimize for positive outcomes even without the benefit of being stabbed 37 times and left for dead in a gaming reserve, I chanced upon NBC's Reverie by accident. As of this writing, ZapIt no longer provides me with a local programming guide, and in my spastic inefficient manner, I now bounce from network to network when my nose isn't buried in Prime, wondering when, if ever, I will simply sit and read again quietly. Was it by sheer coincidence I caught episode 6, "Pas de Deux", with a paraplegic dancer in a rather disembodied atmosphere? I decided then and there to ditch the marginally better medical drama Code Black for Shahi's winsome, wounded, Marla, downloaded the NBC app, and with the pilot under my belt, have three of ten episodes viewed, as uncertain as published critics how unwitting persons of interest can be tricked into entering Reverie with interrogators without the command prompt, mindful that Hollywood's depictions of virtual reality are nothing new, just more prevalent, closer to the cutting edge, unlike Tron, which was a video game inside. Part of my frustration with the standard medical serial is audiences are cued to marvel at doctors as superheroes, when we all know this is mainly the furthermost thing from the truth. Care is a variance, and Reverie is more accurate than most about institutional processes destroying the individual character. Pilar's life as a cancer patient is ruthless and barren, and Marla's rescue of her in the turbulent Chile of 1973 is more pyrrhic than cathartic, just as doctors cannot do anything for my primary condition, or its secondary symptoms, until my immune system gives way to my now severely limited control. So my energies to restore my published history move at a monolithic pace, only in part due to the paraprofessional and his wretched daytime television. The discomfort I experience in this new model Quantum is more systemic than the old models which have preceded it, and I have taken inordinate droughts behaving like Tim Mccarthy's bludgeoned character in Remainder, a novel Amazon reminds me I purchased in 2010 of all my approximate 630 electronic titles, this personal narrator marginalized into apathetic numbness seems to be overtaking me with the prevalence of Marla's new hallucinatory uncertainty.
The paragraphs I lost on the day of Frank Versante's death are few. I pitched them to Quartz perhaps a year and a half back, looking for clues as to my original coffee piece path. Did I make sense to the editors? I don't know. They were polite, as always, but this reconstruction is catastrophic, unseen by anyone, even Galahad, whom I've ceased to reference. I have to breathe, despite the breadth of my digital losses, including my penny articles. I already know Blogger will not protect this account should I not memorialize it. Perhaps I should have anticipated this now violently sterile way of life, but I never saw it coming, that my entire legacy could nearly be wiped out due to poverty and lack of precaution. Whatever the rage of my betrayal by the wasted space insolence of homosexuals like Jimmi Shrode, this I do not deserve, not the loss of my every accomplishment, everything I aspired to. Real killers are actually memorialized. Journalists tell their stories. A week after the date of this post, I moved, made a pitch. It's something.

Out of the Post-Mortem Veld

Maldoror's attitude to God and man is one of utter and insolent defiance.-- Paul Knight, Introduction

One of the most remarkable things about the documentary Alison is the power of the testimonials of those who witnessed the condition of the victim and the near state of grace with which she survived her trauma. The assigned prosecutor emoted with the starkest credulity imaginable that she expected to be dealing with a corpse. Alison Botha’s friends, the judge, her doctors, the constables handling the case, even her perpetrators, all were rocketed by the impact of her barely survivable injuries. The lead constable heading the investigation seemed to be the most affected by the savage infliction of wounds. He was fairly direct about the fact that he would have shot to kill du Toit and Kruger, and it would have been a valid execution when examined against Faulkner’s adage, “the past is never the past”.  What is extraordinary about this post-colonial misogynist virulence isn’t the physical mutilation. Examples of these by and large cut across cultures. Foucault was able to ferret out a French pathological killer for his social norm analytics which at first glance, seems atypical in its historical time frame. India has flash point gang rapes. North America makes serial pathology a cottage industry. The extraordinary thing here is Alison’s resilience, however a viewer wishes to contextualize it, this woman managed to stay sane, have children, marry, become a public speaker. This is the anomaly, in a country which became a harbinger for 20^th century guerrilla warfare.

Alison barely alludes to religion, except to counter-balance scientific empiricism with its subject’s miraculous rebound, and doesn’t reference politics, except for Ms Botha’s opening allusion to the Kingdom of South Africa, toying with the abstraction of a fairytale, which would be upended at the conclusion, but at the time of this unfortunate incident, an escalation of a serial pattern, the government was in transition from the National Party’s rigor, de Klerk being the last apartheid president, to Nelson Mandela’s majority rule reconciliation under the ANC, and such magnified social destabilization this crime represents seems to follow on the heels of national uncertainty. The dowager, like many shot out in the sixties, grew up with Africaan oppression being the uncontested whipping boy, similar to the childhood majesty of the Gargantua's. Gaira may have eaten people as if they were so many buffalo wings, but however primitive the FX for its day, the stuntmen give their creatures a grandeur that makes Gaira’s rescue from the torture of laser beams appropriate. The denouement, too, differs from the Godzilla franchise, by popularizing and disseminating Eastern ideas of the ying and yang attached to each other in a perpetual balance. Though investigation into the possibility of du Toit’s parole has thus far gotten no further than Giovanni Gerbi’s article, the notion of rehabilitation for these men is liberalism on a runaway train far worse than the authoritarian stricture it replaces. The responses of the citizenry stoops to the level of the perpetrators twenty year old savagery, and Alison doesn’t have enough to cope with without taking a side swipe from an American girlfriend, a woman named Sabrina engaged into the stupendous folly of romantizing a rage slasher. We can never believe we’ve seen it all, not that I did not cast my despair into this, telling myself if Alison put her pieces back together, I can survive the shortening life-span stresses of my wheelchair failure which hasn’t been rectified, but nothing in my autobiographical shrinkage is so mind altering.