"They are more afraid of assisted living than they are of dying." A liberal analyst
Liberals always ably diagnose problems of their own making, which invariably leads to retrenchment, the brawn of knocking a defined but slightly less ripped contract killer Jason Statham inhabits as himself. Statham is not a portrait actor. He doesn't inhabit. He performs as an action figure, in most of his films in affiliate circulation, but he seems to have a particular comprehension of his niche that is put together just well enough to be funny. I like Crank, which says something about me. Some of my regular readers know this already.
Having stipulated viewing pleasure, however, doesn't mean a trained eye doesn't see the narrative as fantastical. Gangsta may get off on breaking each other down, but surely Chev's employers knew he was dangerous, and if they wanted him to die hard, they would have further disabled him in the opening jump, mind games aside. Neveldine and Taylor make up for their preposterous plot devices, and Statham is in obvious sympathy with the notion that action achieves more than sensitivity training, but even here there is a beneath the surface subtext: Defiance is maintained through perseverance. Loopholes, like keeping yourself on uppers, can pay dividends, and being smart about not over-reaching can pull you out of a tight spot. How real world is Statham's urban jungle for the rest of us? Well, poverty is mostly accrued in increments of petty vandalism. Not that gun ownership isn't ubiquitous in black society, but city violence is by and large, banal, taking a toll on everyone.
My eye was running over my old files, and I still have Dana's email from Poets & Writers Speakeasy, banning me in 02 for personal attacks against other users, as if I was the Tantrum Special Needs student from The Slap, or Modern Parenting. I remember a few flares, and suppose, justifiably, users may have been frightened. Vitriol comes from unreachable pain-- but what I wanted, from P&W, from anyone, was out of the regimented hell of my domestic life. The poet Bob Zordani suggested going back into the MFA system (if you know of him he was pretty cool back in the day) and so forth. I wanted the fucking liberals and more moderate suburbanites to come rescue me, literally, and a part of me still does. We do not, in general, tend to do that for each other, but cripples do, without much hesitation. The new social media, to some extent, reigns me in, and there are only so many ways to reap revenge on a system, and a supervisor, who did their number, then their expulsion; family pushes back, even mio padre, however, on the arc of where I've been, where I'm going, honestly, children do not need to be saved if they cannot make their own decisions. I may start something in the morning, filing a police complaint against Presby. It may not be enough of a something that the officers will arrest me. I don't know, but I'm starting it anyway, hopefully with enough composure intact. I want to be able to vacate Riverside with a modicum of safety.
My instructors meant well, but my wounds go too deeply for ever a full recovery. "Hang on for a little while." Whisper in my ear. May be a bummer busy week.
Showing posts with label amy holman. Show all posts
Showing posts with label amy holman. Show all posts
Sunday, March 29, 2015
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
In the Stockholm of Neuro diversity
"It's not a PC thing."-- Amy Harmon
Ms. Harmon's facial expression lends itself to superciliousness, and this is what centered my focus on her appearance at the end of a brief documentary about Rosie Glynn, her widowed mother, who teaches writing in the Pittsburgh area, and the younger Glynn sister, who is normal. Rosie is mentally retarded, and is herded like a livestock animal in a curtailed supported employment program, a very regulated form of slavery for aggressive imbeciles who are aggressive because they know their minds are a garbled bouillabaisse.
Amy, mind, has made her specialty out of the developmentally disabled autism spectrum. Case manager once removed, which is why her disingenuous expression is so easily read in her evasions, telegraphing itself loud and clear. The progressive expansion of radical equality isn't going to stop until our desiccated bones merge in ecological empathy for a blade of grass. Not that I don't understand.
On the contrary, I weep for Rosie, pity her mother, and realize the younger sister will deploy the psychiatric profession at some point in her maturity in order to handle the emotional guilt. I comprehend why Rosie Glynn removes oxygen from the dining room, creating a vacuum which crushes the soul 20,000 leagues beneath the sea.
Five years ago I wrote that I wasn't going to deal with agenda films like this often, but now and again they have to be included, because Amy Harmon struggles with the brutality of forthrightness to the degree that she herself is more the monstrosity than an adolescent screaming at her mentally ill mother to have an abortion, getting whipped across the face for it, and with a bloodied eye, almost going into foster care. This is the vitriol for which the fortunate, if droll, poet, Amy Holman, rebuked me, a vitriol that would have turned my half brother into a fetal carcass, as so many women do with their pregnancies. It is all about the demeanor, how we get censored, how we conjoin Asian women with their abortion rate. Bill Kurtis is offering an expose. I use his story with an undercurrent of divisiveness that incites Indian women with indignation. What's my point?
*
All I wanted to do is go out to dinner, enjoy the man's company, and fuck him, if applicable. I was healthy enough at the time to still engage in a romper room frolic, whether he needed Viagra or did not, and I still feel it. No matter how much I might humiliate my former editor, nothing will return the moment to me, the heightened magic of anticipation, that she destroyed lashing out at him over her keyboard, right in front of my eyes. Please. Don't tell me to buck up and keep trying. I lunged at nearly every possible opportunity I could since I was 36.
What man wants me at 52, with only the virtue of thinning pubic hair? I know women do this to each other, but what I did in my past life to wind up drawn and quartered by the ultimate third world den mother with multiple sclerosis must have been unimaginable. If I ever see her again, for all my physical vulnerability, she'll feel my scorn, the all consuming bitterness, like a phoenix reborn out of bone ash. I have to keep revising, keep pushing, now the blog, now the article, my only polish a glittering ferocity.
Ms. Harmon's facial expression lends itself to superciliousness, and this is what centered my focus on her appearance at the end of a brief documentary about Rosie Glynn, her widowed mother, who teaches writing in the Pittsburgh area, and the younger Glynn sister, who is normal. Rosie is mentally retarded, and is herded like a livestock animal in a curtailed supported employment program, a very regulated form of slavery for aggressive imbeciles who are aggressive because they know their minds are a garbled bouillabaisse.
Amy, mind, has made her specialty out of the developmentally disabled autism spectrum. Case manager once removed, which is why her disingenuous expression is so easily read in her evasions, telegraphing itself loud and clear. The progressive expansion of radical equality isn't going to stop until our desiccated bones merge in ecological empathy for a blade of grass. Not that I don't understand.
On the contrary, I weep for Rosie, pity her mother, and realize the younger sister will deploy the psychiatric profession at some point in her maturity in order to handle the emotional guilt. I comprehend why Rosie Glynn removes oxygen from the dining room, creating a vacuum which crushes the soul 20,000 leagues beneath the sea.
Five years ago I wrote that I wasn't going to deal with agenda films like this often, but now and again they have to be included, because Amy Harmon struggles with the brutality of forthrightness to the degree that she herself is more the monstrosity than an adolescent screaming at her mentally ill mother to have an abortion, getting whipped across the face for it, and with a bloodied eye, almost going into foster care. This is the vitriol for which the fortunate, if droll, poet, Amy Holman, rebuked me, a vitriol that would have turned my half brother into a fetal carcass, as so many women do with their pregnancies. It is all about the demeanor, how we get censored, how we conjoin Asian women with their abortion rate. Bill Kurtis is offering an expose. I use his story with an undercurrent of divisiveness that incites Indian women with indignation. What's my point?
*
All I wanted to do is go out to dinner, enjoy the man's company, and fuck him, if applicable. I was healthy enough at the time to still engage in a romper room frolic, whether he needed Viagra or did not, and I still feel it. No matter how much I might humiliate my former editor, nothing will return the moment to me, the heightened magic of anticipation, that she destroyed lashing out at him over her keyboard, right in front of my eyes. Please. Don't tell me to buck up and keep trying. I lunged at nearly every possible opportunity I could since I was 36.
What man wants me at 52, with only the virtue of thinning pubic hair? I know women do this to each other, but what I did in my past life to wind up drawn and quartered by the ultimate third world den mother with multiple sclerosis must have been unimaginable. If I ever see her again, for all my physical vulnerability, she'll feel my scorn, the all consuming bitterness, like a phoenix reborn out of bone ash. I have to keep revising, keep pushing, now the blog, now the article, my only polish a glittering ferocity.
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