Simian Mists Application

Oah oooh, oah ooooooh, Elton John, Curtains

The dowager’s ire, if she is to engage in a certain degree of veracity with her audience, stems from an unexpected reawakening which cannot be satisfied except through an incidence which might seem as exploitive as what she explored in her controversial New Mobility Magazine feature in 2004. Slant it one way, and yes, she can see it through the periscope of an alarmist, regulatory left, and conservative constraint both. I have already given ample indication that I’ve been on the inside of a conflict resolution giving me double vision on the matter of a simulation of an authentic interpersonal relationship borne out of economic and decentralized necessity. But there is this undertow aspect, the full-blooded woman rising to the surface even so close to biological twilight, caught in abeyance, with few outlets other than to restore her functional ability as a writer. What can she do, as a practical matter, to allow reinvigoration to lead where it may? She is too old for neon signs on her chest, rather risk adverse to trading cash for a hustler, and this isn’t really a Fay Wray subliminally lewd moment where the marionette finger of an outraged gorilla is poking her breasts, although the 1933 film popularizes stereotypical fears dramatized by The Birth of a Nation, unless we kill the smart phones utilized in research for galivanting off with a mind of their own while we try to conserve those expensive gigabytes.

If an NPR Georgetown University critic lamented to her listeners that vampirism is the most overused conceit in literature, creature flicks aren’t far behind, though concessions must be granted, and one of them is the original Kong is a classic, with little of that diluting empathy of the later films humanizing the embattled silverbacks and their close lowland mountain relative. All the sudden, we’re responsible for their welfare, even as we utilize Caesar as an implausible didactic warning about taking pharmaceutical miracles too far. Planet of the Apes, whichever versions we prefer, takes the antagonist victory to its fantastical extreme: the monster wins, regardless of human ingenuity attempting to outwit it—but setting that aside for Kong’s magnified context, if the gorilla as we know it wins, then what? What alternate pathway can be reasonably construed? I certainly don’t have one for our slower relatives analogous to our own species afflicted with Downs Syndrome. Unsympathetic as it may seem, I take issue with conservative pricks to our conscience when it revolves around mental retardation. The dowager doesn't exactly put Kasich in the wrong, exiting the stage on a high plateau, or dispute Thiessen's heroic clarion call, which bravely pushes back against presumption. The issue is about destitution. If I, as a near spastic genius, am falling into poverty inverse pyramid trap, due to avoidance and obstinacy in part, those necessarily limited by brain damage only have so many niches.

For every moment of Penn's brilliant dramaturgic portrayal of a mentally challenged man cleaning up after prejudices against him barely registered, giving his audience the near fairy tale resolution which makes Americans feel good about our basic decency, there are three tragedies like Ethan's, toppling from the Empire State, because you either want us dead, or constrained into norms with which you're comfortable. I posted a really hard spiral into the abuse I suffered via Unlimited Staffing, nearly too hard even for me to defeat its masochistic destruction. The woman was a predator, but the difference, between that, and the crack of the walnut shells you've read on this account, is two lonely people fumbling about, trying to fill each other's spaces; it shouldn't be a crime, and as a technical matter, it's not, except the client has to dictate her terms, and the care giver has to meet them, while the man, and the woman dance the slimmest tightrope, waiting to see what drops, and when.

Chocolate on the Graham

I am going to open this softly and then take a hard pugilistic stance of the sort that drives my followers down, but not because I am raw, not this morning. If my tongue in cheek allusion to Reid implies that I've stepped in dog shit, part of my edginess  in relation to it is my magnified dependence. In September 17, I was still doing what I wanted when I wanted, like an ambulatory individual, and now I can't, which points to the gravity of my failure in approaching an ad hoc wheelchair vendor. I am entirely dependent on Shane, as I now brand him, and this magnifies the transgression due to erotic need, magnifies that I have less time for research, for getting my files unlocked, for writing, for getting out, and despite my privileged nepotism speeding the construction of my chair from Mainline, I may never be able to cut my attendant care again, transfer myself freely, and my dedicated aide isn't going to save me, regardless of his unwillingness to put me entirely in my place. He should. I told him some stark and ugly things about myself, and yesterday, finally, he pointed out one of my sentiments about the inner city was racist, and in my curious way, I was glad to get that rise, as I told him as early as digging out Debbie Reynolds that I was, and this is what made me laugh that particular morning: I really have embraced diametric contractions, and though I don't enjoy framing it in this fashion, my avatar for this account has merged to my personality. I have always believed that black men were easier to sleep with, I'm mainly right, and my dissonance broke the pain of my desire as I studied his face before he left Sunday, and yet it still felt like we we're exploring our prospects, which is insane. The gulf between us is too wide, and I'd never be able to cross it whether he is really considering it somewhere in the future or deflecting for the sake of keeping me gratified. Had I actually and forcefully kissed him that first evening after, that might have been the thunderbolt, but I seem to have caught myself, punctured the attraction. Next to one of his former girlfriends, I am moldy spam on a plate, reverting back to myself with a shock. The view of her looks flung me away and it hurt. I'm never that you know, sexy. He only revealed her as men and women reveal pasts, in exploration, but the blow was mortal, maybe, but what really went with it was salvation. The man may be keeping me afloat, doing a damn good job, but I cannot expand outward if I cannot lessen the bond between us, right now, impossible. There is nothing here for me to hope for. I see him as a man, care for him, and maybe do love him, but I reduce him, and myself to the lowest common denominator, a spaz on nigger waltz, and in the mouth of Nick Gillespie, Reason's editor at large, that's sad.
But so are the images Josh Groban grafts to his progressive tolerance. "Don't Give Up" is nothing less than a page lifted from Faulkner's Light In August. Joanna Burden's destructive moral guilt is fatal in her attempt to appropriate Joe Christmas.

The arc of Vegetable States

"I couldn't help but feel sorry for him."-- Teddy Bear, Zone Blanche

Though I have not been overly persistent on the matter, once a year I text message Thomas Paine of True Pundit about working for him, and have a sustained interest in learning his true identity. Speculation that he is a former federal agent or DOJ official may spring from how he tweets to Eric Holder and the FBI, and makes sense except for the tagline on his account, which contravenes the notion of authority figure, despite the fact award winning journalists necessarily have good investigative skills. Given the unraveling of the Bureau under Trump, and Mueller's rather serious blow in revenge, raiding Cohen's offices, my interest has intensified, and my approach may be blockheaded, given that he is a Patreon content creator. I may simply not understand how to join True Pundit, or other aggregators of their type. Beneath the surface of everything I have been writing about, being steamrolled and hamstrung by welfare, the freeze of my most important content in Office 7 wps files, and eclipsing my independence by submitting myself to a nursing aide from whom I am deriving sexual comfort--trust me when I say this is never where I wanted to be, and I had something of a serious argument with the man this afternoon, which resolved little, other than the knowledge that I'm falling in love with an intellectual inferior for the reason these things always occur within the subculture of broken bodies. It has ensnared me too finally, this regression to a caregiver, though to some degree, it always has, as I am panicked about the restoration of some professional function. The sheer intensity of how aroused I've been within this last week hasn't helped in my progression towards troubleshooting my issues.

This is what has been drawing me back to persistent vegetative states. The Criminal Intent episode Conscience is comparable to the Zone Blanche pilot, in which viewers are tricked into corresponding shots of the forest and the evidence on the boy's body as being supernaturally linked. Then the reality is exposed. A mother cannot accept that her son's condition came about as the result of being falsely accused of rape, and drags him through the soil on a nightly basis in an attempt to reverse his all but successful suicide. Shawn doesn't want me to wind up the same way, and though my family might not share this perspective, his strategism to help me see I'm still a living woman both worked and backfired, and now we're in a gray zone of almost lovers, though I've said some terrible things about my attitude on interracial fondling of this sort. I wanted him to see what I'd made myself. He asked if I truly reduced him to these racial terms, and when I'm in his arms I don't, but those arms are not the real world with its social stratification. Paine believes the raid on Cohen is deep state at its worst, an attempt by the meritocracy to disassemble Trumpian populism, and the skeptic within me has concurred in silence. Shattering lawyer client privilege due to speculative hush money is a big deal, as we of a certain generation wade toward minimal awareness. I published one scoop in my lifetime, and now I have to consider it a privilege that I'm limited to merely writing a post a night, as opposed to pitching. If I truly want a psychic separation between me and my nurse, I can do it without firing him, merely by treating him like a servant, and dimming the dial on the scent of his testosterone, politely asking him to respect my space, fading into a routine which in and of itself has the beat of a respirator in an atmosphere deliberately created to stoke our paranoid fantasies.

Tight Buttock Bellbottoms

One major issue with black entertainment media is its failure to escape being cartoonish to the point of ridicule. One exception, on the basis of limited clips the dowager attended to, is The Wire, since HBO is under pressure to deliver, but nearly everything else, Spike Lee's angular paranoid defensiveness included, doesn't anticipate 21st century mature realism. Black exploitation is arguably a rather early form of comic book sequences adapted to film. The idiots who graphed Shaquille into the end of century Steel, with its loping shaggy production values, certainly understood this, and those same idiots did a mite better with Snipes as Blade, but not by much. The franchise, turning Dracula into a virtual demi-god, did not really know what to do with itself. Even Menace II Society, which had reviewers in major media outlets in the thrall of a major moral dilemma, rolled off my back when it was fresh from theater to cable syndication. It was stark, but equally an over exaggeration of urban self depreciation when the arguments come down to a drive by roil with semi-automatics. Eliot Ness would have been right at home. Nevertheless, Jim Brown and Fred Williamson were the cool cat upgrades of my tweenish post Sidney Poitier years. Suffice to say, they do not exist in the inner city, only in a casting director's transference from football to urban crime drama. 

Black Caesar's torque ratio earns its three star rating in its last 40 minutes, but I've certainly never seen a capo of any ethnicity have such a vigorous death scene, constraining a gut shot to defeat a car chase, throttle his assassin, doom his geek brother to death, and kill the mickey who crippled him, only then to get bitch slapped by a wolf pack not dissimilar from the kids who jumped my window bars with taunts, "She's afraid! She's afraid!" My unwitting epitaph bestowed on my graduate twenty two year old head. Torque is no salve for banality, however, and Caesar lacks credence in every aspect, its graft, Williamson's ability to project menace, or command power, even using a disability very much not in evidence, to foster the title character's menace. Jim Brown mastered taciturn minimalism, at least, a necessary prerequisite for black males simmering with rage.

Information and Referral

Shut the fuck up, I'm not going to hurt you-- lines I have to live with the rest of my life

My sin, such as it is, a skim of the jeremiad written by John Lewis for The Atlantic. With the latest tally in Peshawar being 141 killed by the Taliban, initially supported by ISI, as I need not remind you, African Americans seem to have it pretty good these days, despite their own predation among themselves, and what their social dysfunction has inflicted on me. I have seen what  local police experience daily, indigent minorities engaging in systemic violence among themselves with impunity, in some of the poorest urban environments. Danieal Kelly wasn't killed because my Italian father fled South Philadelphia, or because a cop shot first and assessed later. Despite the fact that this child was case managed by city services, she was an embarrassment to her mother, who ignored her daughter's pleading for water. Lewis might rebut me that police aggression is different in kind from racial shame, and my response?

Oh please. Poverty and wealth are not entirely about the luck of distribution. Inner city entitlement breeds its own myopia, among blacks, among certain classes of disenfranchised homosexuals, among disabled individuals like myself. I am overweight, and it is hard to knock those extra pounds off with one good arm, but I have made an effort, in maturity, giving up ice cream, eating at least two salads a week. I saw a new tenant get on the elevator as I was coming in, and she easily doubled me for obesity, probably due to soda, which I swore off a long time ago. The woman probably doesn't care, given her age-- you have to be 62 to live here--I, and a few other crippled sots, were let in younger because we're exactly that--the tarts-- I just have the misfortune to have a genius IQ battered by my own obstinacy-- and that indifference to her health isn't socio-economic. Poor people are either brutal or fatalistic; if they are white like me with a useless humanist education stuffed into them beaten down by the procedure, then they are angry and pissed off.

Lewis fears for the country. Christ. I don't get stoned, don't drink, don't have a criminal record. and my life is on the margin. Because of predatory lending? Hardly. My mother was a fucking nut case and I couldn't get what I wanted as an undergraduate, trotted off to live life in an urban liberal dictatorship, and got screwed by activist collusion at the end of the day-- with the Matrix Research Institute's Pew grant funding being a noble experiment pitted against an entitlement system designed to ration and penalize incentives. Once an individual gets on disability, getting off is life threatening, barring the relative security of civil service, or tenure, and I am too old to aspire to that now. Ambulatory minorities don't have that excuse; they have chips on their shoulders, or dream of professional sports, but none of us have equal worth, regardless of which nation we inhabit. The Scandinavians, maybe the Japanese, have the closest thing to a classless society, but there is hardly any nirvana in that when these nations depend on China or Russia being placid, or on America power maintaining a certain status quo for Europe and the Pacific.

Progressive idealism is noble? Fine. Move in with me and see what life is like in North Philadelphia or Kensington for two years. I'm done beating my breast over officers who profile on the basis of ethnicity or criminalizing on the basis of a chronic condition. I spent my whole life trying to be decent, as a case manager or otherwise, and certain situations are irredeemable. 

Scales to Skin, Anthropogenic?

"I thought you might like to have it back."-- Dustin Hoffman

There are two films in American distribution entitled Heaven. Blanchett's pre-Babel dramatic allegory, and the earlier Scott Reynolds construct, where Martin Donovan is coyly etched with attractive facial lines, and Danny Edwards does a good job at being a Cosmo coca exotic lure. Both films pit metaphysical conceits with no real world veracity against Western materialism-- in the case of Reynolds a gritty and colorful American materialism-- and in each narrative-- materialism loses. In the 98 film, the loss goes to a transgendered minority with second sight, and in the 02 film, corruption and greed fail to swallow the self-righteous, as encapsulated by Blanchett and Ribisi, barely male and female in their sexual division of the name Philip.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, purposely archived in 2013, Ebert is unhappy with Tykwer's denouement for his poignant morality play, but I am less sanguine that the escape via helicopter was meant to be happy. The fugitive couple vanish like pin pricks in a particle wave as if they never existed in the first place.

Hollywood loves tantalizing audiences with the prospect of the sordid glamorized on screen. Black victimization, cross-dressed in the minstrel tradition, that's entertainment! In real life, inner city sexual practices in the closet veer toward the slovenly, slothful repugnance, thirty second news clip, cousin of so and so from the block raping a five year old, or my *agency* attendant throwing herself on top of me. Dirty, in this context, doesn't mean sexually naughty. It means soiled, just as Phillippa's self-made bomb, in a real city environment, has a grotesque sputum streak about it, even if the terrorist cause has legitimate grievance. Sometimes it does.

Gay marriage will not elevate all homosexual activity on an equal playing field with sexual expressions of love between a man and a woman as representative of a celebration of life. This is just progressive wishful thinking, and won't mitigate corruption that Hollywood does correctly associate between queer lifestyles and criminal illegality. I have had too much real world experience . Where activists and people on the fringes congregate, unethical behavior and corruption usually have a thriving nest. Stability comes with a price, and that is affluence, which itself is not self-sustaining for very long periods of time. Even in a film like Tootsie, probably one of the last of its kind, the script had the courage to illustrate that sexual deception can, does, have negative consequences. Durning's character fell for an exaggerated variation of a drag queen, but that character, the butt of audience laughter while the cat was in the bag, wasn't so funny, humiliated, when Hoffman's character gave up the game.

Dance The Jitterbug

Come learn how to care for the feral and stray cats in your community and make use of the many resources now available to assist you

The line between commiseration and pity can be porous, or run the gradient of a fine tooth comb. I feel an ironic level of antagonism that I actually feel sorry for Leonard Nimoy. I have been blessed by fawning old niggers, comforting me with their liberation theology Jesus, since I was sweet sixteen trying to get laid in NYC (blacks need to learn to stop pulling this shit; it's getting old boys) and I feel sorry for the man who was Spock. A talented actor typecast into a wax figure, and I feel sorry, as if I should go run and buy his book that every entertainer writes when they become identified with their roles.

To satisfy my travel mug fetish I was going to buy this one. I've left it bookmarked, as it is chic, but I spotted this one on site, four dollars less, and if I start dosing a pot a day we're in trouble, like mice under the oven.

Easter Parade, Severely

"It is a street where poverty meets ambition." -- John Steinbeck hosting O'Henry adaptations

When I was in 11th grade Steinbeck was a deity. Grapes of Wrath was a masterpiece I never yet repurchased and remember my lessons about the text with some clarity. Seeing Steinbeck projected on digital flat screen narrating O'Henry's sentimental vignettes humanizes him, Dust Bowl reporter extraordinaire, an old man  even prior to writing Travels With Charlie. Small microcosms like that, the little episodic revelations, make my thankless task here worth it, not writing to please you, but myself. Steinbeck would smash the ten commandments over my skull due to my learned intolerance. My sister chastised me through her torrential tears. All blacks are not the same, this between bouts of anguish. Her boozer husband had an alleged affair and my eldest niece has MS, and this is why I feel living in the sterile vanguard of Richard Yates, and don't care, but she is still my little sister, with all her sins, terminations. She does not have to deal with the black working class the way I do, Stephanie, my valley girl younger sister who siphons narcissism out of the room, finally settled on being a nurse, the 1400 she owes me gone, but this is sisters. Do I hate her?

No, not akin to how I hate certain classes of activists, but our relationship will henceforth be wary.

Capitalism did not solve my problem with minority exploitation of my disability. Cleaning lady damaged my new interview skirt, tossed some personal effects, and may have filched my food. I am going to take this out on the building manager, Trudy Richardson, also black, whose career seems to benefit from my economic duress in these circumstances. You, no doubt, see my causal links as unfair, (and they are, as Caucasian managers equally benefit from my containment) but I frankly remain indifferent. Black women of certain caste and type victimize me. I've put up with this for a very long time, and fail to envision requisite solutions. If not the custodial staff of this company it will be a future aide on some model via Medicare or Caid. My sister does not have African Americans in her home, rushing about trashing things without asking because their labor is high pressure stress. Furious internal struggle about keeping verbal agreement for second paid visit or not. I fall behind, best of intentions notwithstanding. Complaining to the hustler in charge won't do any good; kicking my landlord's ass keeps me flagged. What a wonderful life. 

Rasp Off the Grass

One fact alone is enough: that over fifty thousand Federal soldiers perished of starvation in Southern prisons. Malarial fever contracted in camps and hospitals had wrecked his health. --Mobi text, Literary Times Supplement, 1915

The inconsistency of ideology. Moderates like David Brooks and the dame of Wapo want to save monogamy by expanding the tent. What does it lead to? Idiotic political articles about the manicures of Cory Booker and masculine identity. On the basis of my experience with urban black culture, African American sexuality is more fluid than what is admitted. This includes the innuendo, allegations, and political demise of Jennifer Carroll, let alone my fount of follies with blacks in attendant care, graphic sordid tales that would make Kathleen's chastisement of Miley seem positively preschool. Ms. Parker now says the pendulum always swings back. This is an over simplification of social retrenchment, because now we have a new closet, one not initiated by Cory, granted, but one that stipulates "since my orientation does not matter there will be neither confirmation nor denial regarding my sexual preferences."

The Roman Empire did not fall due to the sexual bestiality of its ruling elite; it fell due to overt military pressure and over- extension, which does not mean the distraction of bread and circuses doesn't have a pertinent analogy to the sheer scope and breadth of American materialism and callow corruption through video saturation. I am as much at fault as anyone; my online footprint is overpersonalized, graphic with anger, and at least on Blogger nibbling at tinsel town bread crumbs.

My study of a pansy like Walt Whitman was cursory at best, and of the little I know of Leaves of Grass from upper track summaries of the Transcendentals, I never found the verse particularly moving. My Mobi purchase was partially obligatory thereby, trying to cram everything in before my occlusion or stroke hits, which it will, invariably-- but, and this is the caveat, the Transcendental movement had a point. Whitman's fame rests not on his homosexuality, but on his grandiosity and idealism, his hope that the revised editions of his work would halt the nation at the brink, before the shot at Fort Sumter. Gay and lesbian couples in and of themselves aren't going to destroy anything, as they have existed as long as human awareness, but radical egalitarianism is well on its way to turning everything into a triviality. In Whitman's era, the belief in transcendence was possible, despite the horrors of collateral damage we can now only imagine. I never liked MTV.