Random Genetic Mutation

 "I didn't mean to kill him, Frenchie."-- John Hurt, The Discarded

The day after Christmas, the former Walmart shit-faced imbecile who discards my disposable underwear, (mainly from CVS ) came down with a chill, and the end result of that is, I have been stricken nearly two weeks with possible COVID-19 induced influenza, and all I have to show for it is the Elon Musk nigger modal owl hooting over my embittered carcass: I created an only partially successful GoFundMe campaign which stopped dead at the doorstep of my father's relatives, and that's that, a former writer, of some small reputation, driven to such hate, even as I am almost better, I find relief only in a type of ventilation genocide, because Twitter is nothing but a refuse pile, bot accounts of the poor choking each other to death, and I think of the late Brian Dennehy, charging, taking a stand, getting killed by a polycephaly gimp, because this is what super attenuated pressures achieve, beneath the overlay of Stephan Hawking's voice box, and the best we can do for ourselves is Elon, or his peer, Vivek? Not that the two are comparable, but India already has Narendra Modi. We don't need him in the West Wing.

Anointing Hillary and Jeb without the bother of retail handshakes

"Is my sex too straight?" Diane Keaton

Brian De Palma is in many ways a shameless hack. Kirk Douglas certainly enjoys himself, realizing, that his lead billing days were fading. John Cassavetes offends sensibility as Childress, and Amy Irving has "fuck me I'm new babette" stamped on her brow, but given all this, I have an attachment to the implosive repressions at play in The Fury (78). People actually were that new age, and the sixties had been that corrupted by Saccharine, making the viewer squint with bemusement. Preposterous, a cheap commercialization that anticipates ISIS aping Arabic stereotypes. To illustrate to my audience that I am capable of mortification, ISIS has gone too far in how it killed the Jordanian. There is absolutely no honor in that excessive overkill toward a fraternal adversary, and Abu Bakr is disrupting my desire to die on European soil, I'm no longer amused.

Even as I'm seriously considering sending Toomey my resume without deleting this blog or the tweets linking to it, but if Toomey's people were willing to consider deploying me as a consultant, then I'd have a pickle. I don't like online shaming, which is why I stand by my belligerent rivulets. It has not yet truly affected my pitching, my attitude, to my knowledge, but it could, and if Toomey's people said "okay she has a point, let's use her mandate attack", then outlets like Daily Beast would look at my posts, privately asking wtf is the Thorzine?

True, I shamed a former supervisor into a demotion, but that is not the same thing as lynching people for sensitivity into extreme life altering circumstances, and I do not like what was done to Sacco, nor did I like the routing of Amy Pascal. I never felt her remarks about Obama's viewing habits were insensitive; they were white, and sardonic, but should never have cost her her executive position, and I hold this take on Jeb Bush'es advisor Ethan Czahor. The left cannot wish utopia into being by wiping out human prejudice. The species would not be human anymore. (I just wrote a radical beatnik type, of the kind with whom I used to associate, sent her some samples and wrote I was against lesbianism. If she gets back to me and I go up before her audience, I might have a routing of my own.)

Princess Andromache, Croupier

.... not so Agamemnon, who spoke fiercely to him and sent him roughly away. "Old man," said he, "let me not find you tarrying about our ships, nor yet coming hereafter. Your sceptre of the god and your wreath shall profit you nothing. I will not free her. She shall grow old in my house at Argos far from her own home, busying herself with her loom and visiting my couch; so go, and do not provoke me or it shall be the worse for you."-- Samuel Butler's translation

How is it that one can eschew James Joyce and still appreciate the consequences of Modernism? There is much to appreciate in Ulysses, regardless if a pauper invalid spends well over five hundred dollars on cheat sheets and the nullification of her own pretensions, particularly the Calypso section, and then Nausicca, and the disjunctions from Nausicca between Bloom and Gerty leading into Circe which I absorbed with psycho-sexual shock, and will ponder beyond the conclusion of this reading group cycle. Joyce is  on par with the blindness of subsuming into appetite, and still illicits my scorn.

Scorn is a strong sentiment, a reaction against pity and the pathos of Joycean grandiosity, something that glimmers in Dubliners, rises in Portrait, and reaches a crescendo in Ulysses. Perhaps I am more Cartesian than I realize, certainly not as skillful as Nick Davis in deconstructing Greenaway. Nick helps me to see why The Belly of an Architect preoccupies and remains an insufferable pretension, and the argument it makes about feminism and legacy is to some extent historically relevant, structuralist, to say the least. Problematic films like these are needed even more than masterpieces. If you need to visualize what I mean in my charge toward a thesis, there is the gnat chameleon aspect of Jake Gyllenhaal's roles: the sounding center geek in Proof, The Zodiac Killer, a type against his A list swashbuckler bid Prince of Persia, a formula for which I could not sit still. Moving in part, more rugged in its realism than Errol Flynn's output, reminiscent of Douglas and Curtis maiming each other unto death, a film based on a game nevertheless doesn't belie expectations.

I ended my implicit contract with the long winded Timothy Artis, the talking mule of the Torah, and this time, I ended it for good. There is little between me and a major shit fest if I do not find a replacement soon, or return to the Medicaid waiver.

Should I give up, prepare for death? Like anyone has the balls to type in my comment section on accepting limitations and the inevitable. I have only a thin, thinning veneer for African American dominion in Philadelphia-- indeed, the cracks in black identity toward true matriculation into the mainstream has ushered itself in a little late for my adoption of developmental dove like expressions.