"You're nasty!" Trudy Richardson, often accurate in the vernacular
One doesn't mind the original Predator, as the 1987 make was suspenseful. Did it add anything to the process of elimination narrative contingent to horror genres? Only that it was well done, kept your eye on the ball, made you reconsider Schwarzenegger's psych-out warfare with Lou Ferrigno when they were competitive, and on a primal level, offered a certain degree of faith in brawn juxtaposed against unknown lethal menace. Nice camp, crass sequels that did not know what to do with a culture based on killing as a form of conversation, which leads me to the question of price tags for junk food.
Star Trek, in the canonical sense, give the Klingons exaggerated moral values via and through which we reconsider human nature. The Predator franchise has one basic keynote which doesn't quite hold its rationale: that sentient species can evolve simply to kill in sophisticated manners that can leave them vulnerable to extraordinary effort in one on one battles. Predator versus Alien, Predator versus the unknown species that could wipe out a Borg cube, Predator versus Vladimir Putin, mixing their phosphorus blood with vodka, but how can an advanced species so hell bent on a Gothic spooky carnage have advanced using infrared technology without having the acuity to flag someone like Fareed Zakaria for using a very quick sleight of hand in his parentheses, that totalitarian state model transitions do not apply to oil rich states?
To some degree we're all analysts, excluding those with brain lesions, who need not insist on a place at the table, but foreign policy always makes certain assumptions about the stability of national identity, when beneath the surface there are always tensions, and greater or lesser degrees of sovereignty, perhaps not strictly applicable to islands at the mercy of the Pacific Ocean, but the analyst, like the clergy, seeks to help us understand what the issue is and what the solution entails, often missing the surprise, entirely. "Oh the Arab Spring is a good thing..." Most of them missed that Bashar al-Assad would move along the spectrum from westernized despot being wooed toward secular moderation to a pariah as the Syrian civil war emerged, now being compared, with ominous parallels, to Franco's consolidation of power in Spain as a preamble.
We don't know what we don't know: Ebola could gain a foothold in China, escalating tensions on the Russian border, or Hindu nationalism under Modi could spark an unanticipated ignition, or a real alien could infect us with their version of the measles. I don't bank on guarantees.
Showing posts with label assad. Show all posts
Showing posts with label assad. Show all posts
Sunday, October 5, 2014
Wednesday, February 19, 2014
Terms of Service
The Peruvian Maoists killed people with rocks, clubs and knives in hand to hand combat.-- Santiago Romcagliolo, page 148
The effects of nicotine vapor shortage, and the custodial employees doing me a favor, so they believe, by unlocking my door to leave pet supplies in the kitchenette; it disrupts my colon solidification, my need to stay off my pressure sore; sometimes leaves me unable to go back to sleep without pushing toward exhaustion. If I forbid Mike Pera or Niles entry in relation to what may be added labor for me to push up to my unit, I may end up regretting it, but Wednesday morning was physiologically frightening, even with pastrami and a nice spinach salad; no coffee, though I need a pot this evening, two and a quarter cups with the big fellow here; not sure if my total caffeine intake has increased accordingly, just as I'm equally uncertain if I should apologize to viewers for behaving like the typical road rage quadriplegic. Despite my efforts, I am a quadriplegic who has sustained systemic modal failure, and I could not lock in focus, and relaxation, with Pera's horse's ass boot jacking and my need to clean up after cats I am weary of raising, bound in obligation.
So you saw a peek of how similar I am both to David Foster Wallace, with too much heart, and an Alawite member, with vested and ruthless interests. A calcified outcry not quite contained by the 3600 milligrams of salmon oil, though by now the dead spawn has done its saturation.
Adaptation was never the main issue: When John and I knew each other as students, he captured in his critique of my work how cerebral palsy altered my spatial relation; it was an astute capture from the man whose children I longed to womb gestate. He is the only Italian American whose sons and daughters I wanted to bring into the world, but this is my point. All I possess, to countermand the sexual assaults and institutional cruelty I sustained, is longing for what I cannot conceptualize, literally: bipedal motion and perspective.
Violations I know. Walking on two feet might as well be as fantastical as warp drive. Back to work, but I do not see my desire for controlled euthanasia as irrational. If I have been brutalized out of the meritocracy, I'll be damned if I will allow a nursing home to utilize my body for a malpractice portfolio.
The effects of nicotine vapor shortage, and the custodial employees doing me a favor, so they believe, by unlocking my door to leave pet supplies in the kitchenette; it disrupts my colon solidification, my need to stay off my pressure sore; sometimes leaves me unable to go back to sleep without pushing toward exhaustion. If I forbid Mike Pera or Niles entry in relation to what may be added labor for me to push up to my unit, I may end up regretting it, but Wednesday morning was physiologically frightening, even with pastrami and a nice spinach salad; no coffee, though I need a pot this evening, two and a quarter cups with the big fellow here; not sure if my total caffeine intake has increased accordingly, just as I'm equally uncertain if I should apologize to viewers for behaving like the typical road rage quadriplegic. Despite my efforts, I am a quadriplegic who has sustained systemic modal failure, and I could not lock in focus, and relaxation, with Pera's horse's ass boot jacking and my need to clean up after cats I am weary of raising, bound in obligation.
So you saw a peek of how similar I am both to David Foster Wallace, with too much heart, and an Alawite member, with vested and ruthless interests. A calcified outcry not quite contained by the 3600 milligrams of salmon oil, though by now the dead spawn has done its saturation.
Adaptation was never the main issue: When John and I knew each other as students, he captured in his critique of my work how cerebral palsy altered my spatial relation; it was an astute capture from the man whose children I longed to womb gestate. He is the only Italian American whose sons and daughters I wanted to bring into the world, but this is my point. All I possess, to countermand the sexual assaults and institutional cruelty I sustained, is longing for what I cannot conceptualize, literally: bipedal motion and perspective.
Violations I know. Walking on two feet might as well be as fantastical as warp drive. Back to work, but I do not see my desire for controlled euthanasia as irrational. If I have been brutalized out of the meritocracy, I'll be damned if I will allow a nursing home to utilize my body for a malpractice portfolio.
Tuesday, September 10, 2013
Taps
High features, naturally strong and powerfully expressive, had been burnt almost into Negro blackness by constant exposure to the tropical sun," Sir Walter Scott, Ivanhoe
The more we learn. It was an accidental circumstance that a Jewish public housing tenant, who is in a comparatively soiled outhouse more lowly than the gorilla below me, reconnected me to mental illness empowerment intake; my anger was triggered because I asked the aforementioned tenant for more information, and should know by now that ethnic Communists undergo lobotomies in terms of gate-keeping skills. My spirit, my very essence, needs a change, and the reason America is in jeremiad is because the social safety net is destroying our ability to take the initiative, and my starvation for fresh space is turning into a pathology, and it need not.
This is not about mood swings. I have client confidentiality I need to maintain-- Christ-- but I knew well enough how pedestrian Edward is-- never again. Never. You may hold me accountable. No more overtures to public housing residents. That the president has lost all credibility with me is not nearly as disconcerting, but represents a national disheartening. I would prefer to leave the country, seriously. I can more readily doom myself under European case management than rot in the city of my birth, watching my digital clocks tick. Given the time I should be resting, but I am trying to contract typhoid like John Malkovich, who also does blindness in his first major supporting role. Actors never get it right, even the top billed like Malkovich whose face is now in protean death mask stage, sightlessness. Not Cameron Diaz in Garcia's vignettes.
Things You Can Tell is very good, merges into itself and its inclusionary frictions, yet I balk at saying it is a great film meshing disability, urban loons drawn familiar, to our recognition. I have dealt with Garcia as auteur before-- but the film doesn't fit on the mantelpiece properly in terms of really challenging viewers. This is how I am dealing with it now. With Garcia, it is about the magical realism of the father. The style is a shield, because we know we're looking for nuances of interpretation. These days we're all magical realists, our wars fought to be cached on YouTube. Living the science fiction we read as affixed adolescents, our government at the bidding of a Charlie Rose scoop. Yet despots fascinate us. Admit it. We create narratives around them, held by megalomania, giddy when it is fractured by hubris. Mussolini hung like a dead and bloated mule carcass. Czar Nicholas out of tune and executed in countless variations of Doctor Zhivago; all of Russian literature is Doctor Zhivago, the American induced mortal illness of Hugo Chavez, or Elizabeth's beheading of Mary Queen of Scotts via Glenda Jackson.
The blind rarely have a fixed eyeball. Their countenance usually has the appearance of a pronounced brow ridge.
Some affection for Isabelle Allende. The aide who received the stories of Eva Luna recognized me this morning. She was a single mother child herself years ago. Blows to the solar plexus aren't helpful. Deep breaths. I thought Edward Berkowitz cared enough about my concerns to be discriminating, and taking a few minutes to categorize the situation behind these private lectures he disseminated with Zen-like laissez-faire would have shielded me from a past with very negative consequences. Perhaps some of you understand how leaving a job is like a divorce. He worries my use of detail compromises online safety, but my emotional vulnerability never crossed his mind; he and I know each other and have the ability to ascertain each other's reality, unlike forum moderators. Existential hopelessness.
The more we learn. It was an accidental circumstance that a Jewish public housing tenant, who is in a comparatively soiled outhouse more lowly than the gorilla below me, reconnected me to mental illness empowerment intake; my anger was triggered because I asked the aforementioned tenant for more information, and should know by now that ethnic Communists undergo lobotomies in terms of gate-keeping skills. My spirit, my very essence, needs a change, and the reason America is in jeremiad is because the social safety net is destroying our ability to take the initiative, and my starvation for fresh space is turning into a pathology, and it need not.
This is not about mood swings. I have client confidentiality I need to maintain-- Christ-- but I knew well enough how pedestrian Edward is-- never again. Never. You may hold me accountable. No more overtures to public housing residents. That the president has lost all credibility with me is not nearly as disconcerting, but represents a national disheartening. I would prefer to leave the country, seriously. I can more readily doom myself under European case management than rot in the city of my birth, watching my digital clocks tick. Given the time I should be resting, but I am trying to contract typhoid like John Malkovich, who also does blindness in his first major supporting role. Actors never get it right, even the top billed like Malkovich whose face is now in protean death mask stage, sightlessness. Not Cameron Diaz in Garcia's vignettes.
Things You Can Tell is very good, merges into itself and its inclusionary frictions, yet I balk at saying it is a great film meshing disability, urban loons drawn familiar, to our recognition. I have dealt with Garcia as auteur before-- but the film doesn't fit on the mantelpiece properly in terms of really challenging viewers. This is how I am dealing with it now. With Garcia, it is about the magical realism of the father. The style is a shield, because we know we're looking for nuances of interpretation. These days we're all magical realists, our wars fought to be cached on YouTube. Living the science fiction we read as affixed adolescents, our government at the bidding of a Charlie Rose scoop. Yet despots fascinate us. Admit it. We create narratives around them, held by megalomania, giddy when it is fractured by hubris. Mussolini hung like a dead and bloated mule carcass. Czar Nicholas out of tune and executed in countless variations of Doctor Zhivago; all of Russian literature is Doctor Zhivago, the American induced mortal illness of Hugo Chavez, or Elizabeth's beheading of Mary Queen of Scotts via Glenda Jackson.
The blind rarely have a fixed eyeball. Their countenance usually has the appearance of a pronounced brow ridge.
Some affection for Isabelle Allende. The aide who received the stories of Eva Luna recognized me this morning. She was a single mother child herself years ago. Blows to the solar plexus aren't helpful. Deep breaths. I thought Edward Berkowitz cared enough about my concerns to be discriminating, and taking a few minutes to categorize the situation behind these private lectures he disseminated with Zen-like laissez-faire would have shielded me from a past with very negative consequences. Perhaps some of you understand how leaving a job is like a divorce. He worries my use of detail compromises online safety, but my emotional vulnerability never crossed his mind; he and I know each other and have the ability to ascertain each other's reality, unlike forum moderators. Existential hopelessness.
Wednesday, August 28, 2013
Houyhnhnms
...there will be found the future warriors of the faith who will march out one day, burning and slaying in Christ's name, against a heathen Europe sunk in corruption, to see at last, amid the smoking ruins of Rome, a black Pope will sit on the throne of Peter.--Hermann Broch, The Sleepwalkers, p.29
Two pitches in one month, wow, aren't things looking just grand? The failure of my hearing loss article came about because I looked at deafness and chronic conditions as distinct, and then became rapidly confused, and beyond that I am still running a ticker tape, revising the pitch. Tried to behave with the editor as these losses are costly, and I am sulky about that, and have been sulky most of the week as it is the holiday and I'd like to get out and have no plans. Sticky and grumpy and for you, no doubt, your shower is routine. For me it is a damn death dance and I cannot do it today. Dana Byrd wrote me a short personal note on my membership renewal request, thanking me for participating in the Ulysses group last year, as if it was somehow commendable that spastic Italian trolls rubbed shoulders at the intersection of Dublin and Jerusalem. When I last saw her she was impeccable. Member appreciation night. Tight blond bun, blemished slightly by acne, she seemed preoccupied with her own worries, perhaps that her employment wasn't up to scale? Or a lover's rift, and despite the fact that I am on the edge, the brink of true madness, maintaining my membership matters. Next week it shall be renewed, because I believe in the preservation of what we were.
I can barely remember the pleasurable heat of a man's penis inside me. More than likely I will never again have the opportunity for willing and consensual pleasure, and I am angry about that too. But let me qualify: I am mad that Obama essentially changed nothing; I am mad that the tea party essentially changed nothing and in addition, they seem to think behaving like morons is a virtue. I am an American, regardless of my lust for Tuscan soil, but I am tired and have been beaten down by the disabled community in this city, no less, by a landlord that now walks on egg shells with me, by my declining strength, and for the Europeans and others who have viewed my posts, forget the myth of American exceptionalism. It works only for a minority, and of that minority, fewer sustain success through the course of a lifetime. Corporations can be compassionate to loyal cripples, of course, and I blow a kiss to old Ma Bell, but more than likely I will not be blogging after 2014, whether on Google's platform or another. My debt default will hound me to my grave, and no one cares about independent living center collusion, nor what it did to me; this is peanuts in the scales of corruption, and I am sure the feds will get right on it when I get to them; my health and ability will never be the same, however, and in a counter narrative I could just surrender and heed Veronica, find a care facility and then wait in pain because I am still strong willed, not ready to die.
Can't you just live your life?
The risks involved in taking a leap of faith once again at my age are different than yours, and I'd be alone in taking them. I have very little new manuscripts to submit, and I have to start culling these posts for transformation. I hope that odor is a gasoline discharge wafting in, rather than something in the studio. None of the powers laid a finger on China over Tiananmen but the Alawites need to be scolded into the next century's persecuted minority. I cannot imagine the loyalists around the Assads could not calculate the risks of a mass carnage. I did not know Hafez was guilty of the similar atrocities when I used to read Time's coverage of his rule. I thought in black and white terms. Good guys and bad, but I can envision dying by a police taser, if disease doesn't get me first.
Two pitches in one month, wow, aren't things looking just grand? The failure of my hearing loss article came about because I looked at deafness and chronic conditions as distinct, and then became rapidly confused, and beyond that I am still running a ticker tape, revising the pitch. Tried to behave with the editor as these losses are costly, and I am sulky about that, and have been sulky most of the week as it is the holiday and I'd like to get out and have no plans. Sticky and grumpy and for you, no doubt, your shower is routine. For me it is a damn death dance and I cannot do it today. Dana Byrd wrote me a short personal note on my membership renewal request, thanking me for participating in the Ulysses group last year, as if it was somehow commendable that spastic Italian trolls rubbed shoulders at the intersection of Dublin and Jerusalem. When I last saw her she was impeccable. Member appreciation night. Tight blond bun, blemished slightly by acne, she seemed preoccupied with her own worries, perhaps that her employment wasn't up to scale? Or a lover's rift, and despite the fact that I am on the edge, the brink of true madness, maintaining my membership matters. Next week it shall be renewed, because I believe in the preservation of what we were.
I can barely remember the pleasurable heat of a man's penis inside me. More than likely I will never again have the opportunity for willing and consensual pleasure, and I am angry about that too. But let me qualify: I am mad that Obama essentially changed nothing; I am mad that the tea party essentially changed nothing and in addition, they seem to think behaving like morons is a virtue. I am an American, regardless of my lust for Tuscan soil, but I am tired and have been beaten down by the disabled community in this city, no less, by a landlord that now walks on egg shells with me, by my declining strength, and for the Europeans and others who have viewed my posts, forget the myth of American exceptionalism. It works only for a minority, and of that minority, fewer sustain success through the course of a lifetime. Corporations can be compassionate to loyal cripples, of course, and I blow a kiss to old Ma Bell, but more than likely I will not be blogging after 2014, whether on Google's platform or another. My debt default will hound me to my grave, and no one cares about independent living center collusion, nor what it did to me; this is peanuts in the scales of corruption, and I am sure the feds will get right on it when I get to them; my health and ability will never be the same, however, and in a counter narrative I could just surrender and heed Veronica, find a care facility and then wait in pain because I am still strong willed, not ready to die.
Can't you just live your life?
The risks involved in taking a leap of faith once again at my age are different than yours, and I'd be alone in taking them. I have very little new manuscripts to submit, and I have to start culling these posts for transformation. I hope that odor is a gasoline discharge wafting in, rather than something in the studio. None of the powers laid a finger on China over Tiananmen but the Alawites need to be scolded into the next century's persecuted minority. I cannot imagine the loyalists around the Assads could not calculate the risks of a mass carnage. I did not know Hafez was guilty of the similar atrocities when I used to read Time's coverage of his rule. I thought in black and white terms. Good guys and bad, but I can envision dying by a police taser, if disease doesn't get me first.
Tuesday, August 27, 2013
Arianna's Umbrella
The problem of Syria is analogous to the bilateral argument between atheists and theists. If the major powers do nothing, we face the prospect of a regional military conflict that will only grow in size and scope, and might threaten Israel. If the major powers act, or take sides in a proxy conflict, then we may wind up with the same playbook, and break the bank in the process. The use of chemical agents to exterminate life is an engagement of excessive torment on living bodies. Physical torture is one thing, but poisons are another, an overwrought condensed agony living things should not have to experience from human manufacture. Our planet is deadly enough on its own, and more to the point, Assad who trained to be an ophthalmologist, thinks he can get through this by utilizing Mithridatic tactics, and this not against an external enemy. Why does the Middle East remain in the mindset of eighth century jurisprudence?
On that question I submit greetings to Ms. Morin, who replaces Amy, who understandably had enough of my lack of beatitudes. Happiness is difficult to come by given one set of experiences over another, aside from my relief mechanisms in anarchy, but I have my own honor code. What I'd convey to JL Morin on far lighter terms than my above paragraph, is that I would be happy to engage in inglorious grunt work for the Huffington Post, if I understood how an aggregate works, which I only partially grasp. Fact checking is fine, and the like, since it is in the field I wish to remain with my lingering viability. We shall see.
I am risk adverse to this extent: If I snowball myself into full time work in another location and fail due to the fact that I am aging, I cannot just chuck it up to a loss and then scurry back to Philadelphia's public housing system. I have to be sure an employer can truly accommodate my limited functionality. I am still smart, to a varying degree, but need quadriplegic supports better than those received in the past, and negotiating this isn't easy. I have covered breaking news stories, and it is high octane, but obviously, going to Damascus would be absurd.
Reluctantly, I remain against a surgical intervention. What would it solve?
On that question I submit greetings to Ms. Morin, who replaces Amy, who understandably had enough of my lack of beatitudes. Happiness is difficult to come by given one set of experiences over another, aside from my relief mechanisms in anarchy, but I have my own honor code. What I'd convey to JL Morin on far lighter terms than my above paragraph, is that I would be happy to engage in inglorious grunt work for the Huffington Post, if I understood how an aggregate works, which I only partially grasp. Fact checking is fine, and the like, since it is in the field I wish to remain with my lingering viability. We shall see.
I am risk adverse to this extent: If I snowball myself into full time work in another location and fail due to the fact that I am aging, I cannot just chuck it up to a loss and then scurry back to Philadelphia's public housing system. I have to be sure an employer can truly accommodate my limited functionality. I am still smart, to a varying degree, but need quadriplegic supports better than those received in the past, and negotiating this isn't easy. I have covered breaking news stories, and it is high octane, but obviously, going to Damascus would be absurd.
Reluctantly, I remain against a surgical intervention. What would it solve?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)