"I'm the radical atheist humanist your parents told you to stay away from." Professor McGuire, circa 1985, terminated, arms outstretched, palms splayed upward, curiously reminiscent, Catholic posture
Oh yes, dance. Go to ATT and make pouty faces and work out some kind of integration lower bill deal. Dance. The service reps at the counter, customer reps on the phone, get too fusty and they'll boot you undoubtedly, old ma, always wagging fingers at dissenters. Something changed once again on my twitter account this afternoon, but luckily, I am a bit too numb to care about who was the latest to have their cosmopolitan manners recoil. Can't lose myself that way; can't care. But my heart is torn asunder, even if I may not always be in the mood for Simenon, the Dune France 2 production of Maigret is a work of art, but public television needs to follow the herd, team with a distribution service, bye bye free down time.
The commercial and public airwaves are stripped, barren, a damn football game here or there. I don't want to stream all the time, but decided I am interested in Jonathan Rhys-Meyers Man In The High Castle and will stream at least some of the first season. It sounds as if it has Phillip K Dick influences.
The Harrouff case contains as many puzzles as it answers, but this gruesome narrative hearkens back to Enlightenment era beliefs about the berserk, superhuman strength, and, perhaps Krauthammers' damnation of the culture is a playback, of the way modern derangement looks. Since the original 68 film, which I predate, and to Harrouff, is stone age camera work, zombie literature has permeated the horror genre substrata. Perhaps Austin got too into Walking Dead. The series might not have caused the psychotic break which led to these events, but those of you who are Austin's age know how blurred camp and realism have become. I may vanish by summer.
I have relented and spoken to Marie briefly. I told her Joseph should go to a home, like my father's wife. And Marie said "You belong in a home," the shadow over me my entire life, but it is wrong, not letting go. Joe Marinelli and I don't like each other. We bark back and forth, the greaseball, his spastic niece, but if he is going blind, Marie is wrong. He is dying, she is dying, and we all have to accept that, myself included; I'm just not letting Presby burrow me under, nor anyone else. I'll kill myself first. Billy won't answer my emails, but okay. Happy New Year.
Showing posts with label bruno cremer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bruno cremer. Show all posts
Friday, December 30, 2016
Saturday, December 17, 2016
Seedy Undercurrents
Cagliari has been the capital of Sardinia since at least Roman times. travel guidebook, p 1071
If I was stranded on a desert island, one of the most prevalent of literary motifs in American literature, regardless of genre, as Lost in Space owes its analogue optimism to Robinson Crusoe, and on this island, had the ability to steal wireless passcodes, but could only have one serial, I'd opt for Bruno Cremer's Maigret, not solely based on my fascination with Simenon's ability to be unsparing, stripped and terse, with flourishes; there is just an aesthetic appeasement in the France Belgian production, sadly absent from more contemporary grafting of other writers, like Higgins Clark. These mysteries may be done in France, but they feel like hatchet jobs. Cremer transcends this, when it comes to marrying Simenon's exposes to the modern world, and any number of these teleplays can be studied again, and again. Simenon recognizes provincialism, and the people Maigret knew often serve as lynchpins, either as victims or perpetrators. Maigret's schoolboy friend, from the estate where his father was a steward, initiates the action which leads to the death of a courtesan, and that is still the proper term. We can argue about prostitution as a designation, but these are more properly street walkers, risking their lives, and I am not sure what the local LOTR chapter hopes to achieve today in demonstrating against violence street walkers face as par for the course. I certainly cannot say that legalizing whore houses makes whores any safer than a Craigslist notice. I am, never less, confirmed to attend, rather irritated. I had intended to show with useless objects in a shopping bag, a twenty four dollar butane lighter I no longer use, old Glimmer Train issues for five cents, other things. All this takes time to prepare, and hard winter is around the corner, with my disability insurance static, once again, even if a small COLA was restored for 2017. I am going to have to opt out of Medicare shortly, if I do not want SSI-- SSI has stringent overpayment rules, and even if I never sell another article, I cannot live with threats from Social Security. In 1987 they suspended my entitlement, for what I'm not entirely sure, and I had nothing, for months, in the dawn of getting sucked into Presbyterian Homes-- so those of you who marvel at my obstinacy may want to reconsider. I was a kid, a student, and the Social Security Administration halted Supplemental Income because ?-- I don't know. Lack of case management review. I cannot remember how I survived, but now I'm in my mid-fifties, and I fear government more than I hate Thiel for taking a media outlet away from me and others who challenged boundaries.
I rushed another piece on Daulerio's settlement with Bollea's legal team, against my better judgment, but if I go down, I go down fighting. I'm building a dossier. Why, I'm not sure. Nick Denton revolts me. Every homosexual does, but there are degrees, and I'm still a bit bruised over the fact I wanted to save a radical British faggot's successful media model-- but Peter Thiel, there we have revulsion combined with fear. Homosexual psychology cannot be trusted, and I'll never get away with asserting this in mainstream outlets. It will not stop me from trying, notoriety, name recognition, notwithstanding. If Denton had survived, yes, I would have had the utter nerve to tell him he was a radical abomination, and then showed him my CV, and would have expected him to take me seriously, at least under the ADA. Bafflement away.
If I was stranded on a desert island, one of the most prevalent of literary motifs in American literature, regardless of genre, as Lost in Space owes its analogue optimism to Robinson Crusoe, and on this island, had the ability to steal wireless passcodes, but could only have one serial, I'd opt for Bruno Cremer's Maigret, not solely based on my fascination with Simenon's ability to be unsparing, stripped and terse, with flourishes; there is just an aesthetic appeasement in the France Belgian production, sadly absent from more contemporary grafting of other writers, like Higgins Clark. These mysteries may be done in France, but they feel like hatchet jobs. Cremer transcends this, when it comes to marrying Simenon's exposes to the modern world, and any number of these teleplays can be studied again, and again. Simenon recognizes provincialism, and the people Maigret knew often serve as lynchpins, either as victims or perpetrators. Maigret's schoolboy friend, from the estate where his father was a steward, initiates the action which leads to the death of a courtesan, and that is still the proper term. We can argue about prostitution as a designation, but these are more properly street walkers, risking their lives, and I am not sure what the local LOTR chapter hopes to achieve today in demonstrating against violence street walkers face as par for the course. I certainly cannot say that legalizing whore houses makes whores any safer than a Craigslist notice. I am, never less, confirmed to attend, rather irritated. I had intended to show with useless objects in a shopping bag, a twenty four dollar butane lighter I no longer use, old Glimmer Train issues for five cents, other things. All this takes time to prepare, and hard winter is around the corner, with my disability insurance static, once again, even if a small COLA was restored for 2017. I am going to have to opt out of Medicare shortly, if I do not want SSI-- SSI has stringent overpayment rules, and even if I never sell another article, I cannot live with threats from Social Security. In 1987 they suspended my entitlement, for what I'm not entirely sure, and I had nothing, for months, in the dawn of getting sucked into Presbyterian Homes-- so those of you who marvel at my obstinacy may want to reconsider. I was a kid, a student, and the Social Security Administration halted Supplemental Income because ?-- I don't know. Lack of case management review. I cannot remember how I survived, but now I'm in my mid-fifties, and I fear government more than I hate Thiel for taking a media outlet away from me and others who challenged boundaries.
I rushed another piece on Daulerio's settlement with Bollea's legal team, against my better judgment, but if I go down, I go down fighting. I'm building a dossier. Why, I'm not sure. Nick Denton revolts me. Every homosexual does, but there are degrees, and I'm still a bit bruised over the fact I wanted to save a radical British faggot's successful media model-- but Peter Thiel, there we have revulsion combined with fear. Homosexual psychology cannot be trusted, and I'll never get away with asserting this in mainstream outlets. It will not stop me from trying, notoriety, name recognition, notwithstanding. If Denton had survived, yes, I would have had the utter nerve to tell him he was a radical abomination, and then showed him my CV, and would have expected him to take me seriously, at least under the ADA. Bafflement away.
Saturday, March 14, 2015
Envy as a nauseous prelude
The care the Belgians took in their production of Maigret was remarkable, when one looks at the copyright. This is a 21st century series that virtually transports the viewer back into the Fifth Republic, a bygone, magisterial age, to steal an excellent adjective from Dana Stevens, who gets paid to turn the lights on when the late Mr. Hoffman juiced himself into the send up of L Ron Hubbard. Ms Stevens found the right word for the era, magisterial-- in the US, it lasted from 52 to 65.
Georges Simenon may be as slithery as an eel to pin down, worth pursuing in his original language, but Bruno Cremer was the best Maigret, and Maigret is the best detection procedural on the face of the earth as adapted for a teleplay. The British can do conspiracy to make the roots of your hair stand on end, with riveting plots, but France simply crucifies when it comes to fidelity, understanding that excellence is derived through attention to detail, the definition of poise to the point of actually being duped into time travel. Maigret is at once an antithesis to the disruptions caused by crippling the body, and at the same time, nearly a brilliant ornamentation of the fusionary aspects between bipedal afterthought and the psychosis of damage hidden in the dark, whether I can chisel an article out of this raw and cooked striving or not, for all his reticence about treating his Parkinson's, Michael Kinsley has vanished from the scene. Whimsy, which carries the voice of his few columns I've seen since he appeared on Charlie Rose trying to control his involuntary spasms, doesn't compensate for his loss of prestige, but he goes down quietly, a gentleman, recognized as a celebrity writer better than most, an astute, perceptive analyst at his peak, none of us dwell on his circumstances, except as a footnote. Slate is a loose jointed progeny, not of Wapo, actually, but of the Time Magazine essayist, which cannot be reproduced on a web page.
Georges Simenon may be as slithery as an eel to pin down, worth pursuing in his original language, but Bruno Cremer was the best Maigret, and Maigret is the best detection procedural on the face of the earth as adapted for a teleplay. The British can do conspiracy to make the roots of your hair stand on end, with riveting plots, but France simply crucifies when it comes to fidelity, understanding that excellence is derived through attention to detail, the definition of poise to the point of actually being duped into time travel. Maigret is at once an antithesis to the disruptions caused by crippling the body, and at the same time, nearly a brilliant ornamentation of the fusionary aspects between bipedal afterthought and the psychosis of damage hidden in the dark, whether I can chisel an article out of this raw and cooked striving or not, for all his reticence about treating his Parkinson's, Michael Kinsley has vanished from the scene. Whimsy, which carries the voice of his few columns I've seen since he appeared on Charlie Rose trying to control his involuntary spasms, doesn't compensate for his loss of prestige, but he goes down quietly, a gentleman, recognized as a celebrity writer better than most, an astute, perceptive analyst at his peak, none of us dwell on his circumstances, except as a footnote. Slate is a loose jointed progeny, not of Wapo, actually, but of the Time Magazine essayist, which cannot be reproduced on a web page.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Beyond Pierre Gringiore
"There is no going back to this other person, this other place. This thing, this stranger, she is what you are now."-- Jodie Foster, The Brave One
French society has a way of sublimating disingenuity which is particular to itself, and cuts across its authorial class, reaching back before Victor Hugo, but certainly linking him in a flowering genus: Balzac, Flaubert, Maupassant, the genius of Stendhal, the superb Stendhal, Moliere, Proust. Yet it is linked, too, to Spanish sleepiness, the lassitude of the Spaniard's daydream themes, coupled with fervor, and the crafty shrewd Italian. Even Simenon's sparse discipline is not unaffected by it, and somehow, Bruno Cremer makes Maigret greater than the sum of gossip, realism, sliding the calculus in a great hunter's mind. No one is ever discomfited by the deception of gas, slowly bursting as a stool moves in transit. Bloating is just bloating, until it becomes the biological eruption of death, the thing which kills. Bowl blockage, cervical cancer.
For Simenon, this substitute for wasted, withered flesh is the morphine needle, and in Maigret On Trial, Maigret's Patience, the 20th century is perfected to tradition. The stories tell the battle of Maigret and Manuel Palmeri, who may be Italian, what the fuck do I know about borders being porous, and Manuel's mistress, Aline, and the novels hearken straight back to Hugo's genius in Gringiore's adventures with the Circus of Miracles. Dangerous people fake blindness and amputation to steal, to beg, and Simenon's brilliance is entirely aware of this conceit, while the Belgian production and Cremer's near perfect realization, for a bit actor, makes the novels themselves nearly unnecessary to read. Criminality and the law both exploit disability, create it, and ruthless avarice destroys and eliminates it. I am finally penetrating the coda, finally. I can begin to see, despite the alarming length of fecal discharge, my anger with overages I should be perfectly capable of avoiding.
Violence as an argument, this will always be with us, and I'm a rare woman, like Jennifer Lopez donning Harlee like an overcoat, entranced by her own abuse, who believes in its cathartic consequences, and that's all I've ever really feared, justifiable homicide, even with its anti-climatic dissonance, and so what. Murder, the stuff of the kitchen table, humanity reverting with age to simple, reptilian responses: fight, flight, bite, tear, before the snake asphyxiates your ability to breathe.
French society has a way of sublimating disingenuity which is particular to itself, and cuts across its authorial class, reaching back before Victor Hugo, but certainly linking him in a flowering genus: Balzac, Flaubert, Maupassant, the genius of Stendhal, the superb Stendhal, Moliere, Proust. Yet it is linked, too, to Spanish sleepiness, the lassitude of the Spaniard's daydream themes, coupled with fervor, and the crafty shrewd Italian. Even Simenon's sparse discipline is not unaffected by it, and somehow, Bruno Cremer makes Maigret greater than the sum of gossip, realism, sliding the calculus in a great hunter's mind. No one is ever discomfited by the deception of gas, slowly bursting as a stool moves in transit. Bloating is just bloating, until it becomes the biological eruption of death, the thing which kills. Bowl blockage, cervical cancer.
For Simenon, this substitute for wasted, withered flesh is the morphine needle, and in Maigret On Trial, Maigret's Patience, the 20th century is perfected to tradition. The stories tell the battle of Maigret and Manuel Palmeri, who may be Italian, what the fuck do I know about borders being porous, and Manuel's mistress, Aline, and the novels hearken straight back to Hugo's genius in Gringiore's adventures with the Circus of Miracles. Dangerous people fake blindness and amputation to steal, to beg, and Simenon's brilliance is entirely aware of this conceit, while the Belgian production and Cremer's near perfect realization, for a bit actor, makes the novels themselves nearly unnecessary to read. Criminality and the law both exploit disability, create it, and ruthless avarice destroys and eliminates it. I am finally penetrating the coda, finally. I can begin to see, despite the alarming length of fecal discharge, my anger with overages I should be perfectly capable of avoiding.
Violence as an argument, this will always be with us, and I'm a rare woman, like Jennifer Lopez donning Harlee like an overcoat, entranced by her own abuse, who believes in its cathartic consequences, and that's all I've ever really feared, justifiable homicide, even with its anti-climatic dissonance, and so what. Murder, the stuff of the kitchen table, humanity reverting with age to simple, reptilian responses: fight, flight, bite, tear, before the snake asphyxiates your ability to breathe.
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