It is going to be a difficult week, ground down to starving my way through Monday. Blogger posted a caption about European Union cookie requirements which are beyond any consternation on my part. Why driving myself to force the city to arraign me is a solution for the depth of my pain resides in the hope it will spark something.
Miss Richardson has eased off her pressure tactics since I recertified in June, ripping out my fingernails in the process, but I've lost my civility at this point. It is drowning in my own bodily fluids, as I've begged my frigging family to help me leave for the last five years, and that is my family.
What my best instructors saw in me, and what I'm failing to carry. I just can't do this anymore, all my bad options like Cormac's pretty horses, rearing in fear.
Showing posts with label cormac mccarthy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cormac mccarthy. Show all posts
Monday, July 27, 2015
Thursday, July 23, 2015
In the velvet
This reflection restored all his self possession. -- Stendhal
What I enjoy about Zoo, despite the fact that James Patterson is an old school hack of the sort to which I do not stoop, is precisely the fact that it is stupid entertainment none of us need take seriously. I want to follow it and have seen only the second episode, alas, mainly to be blamed on apathy, running the gamut of negativity, the rage to strike back juxtaposed against every transfer now a risk of focused poise. I really do hate Debra Horne, Riverside's cut rate shamble ass enforcer, and I would not necessarily stop hating her or Trudy Richardson if I ever get the fuck away from the Presbyterian modal before it is too late. I do not know how far I'd go mentally over the injustices perpetrated on me, as imaginary infliction of violence is one thing, and what I lived on the razor edge of the badlands off North Broad Street is another. Brandon Phillips was a coward, which is, in essence, why I'm still alive. He was also stupid, as, in the time he was taking to subdue me, the exterminator may have gained access to my unit, and Brandon would have gotten caught, in the act. Debra Horne, in her intimidation tactics, perpetuates the cruelty of her race, which I only knew by default, in Home of the Merciful Savior, although, to my memory, there were not many African Americans who worked the wards in Shriners where mio padre had me butchered, latter day.
Poise is important to Europeans. The French make it a raison d'etre, but it runs the gamut of Western Europe with the exception of my ethnic group, the Romans. I am 45 pages in to Cormac's other notorious book, Blood Meridian, and realized I could care less. McCarthy is a master tactician who runs hula hoops around James Patterson's commercial emphasis, and yet it is Patterson's revenge fantasy which consoles me. All I have to do is touch foreheads with the king of beasts, and the lion king would turn my enemies into viable cadavers for honeycombs, but of course, that is play acting. Actual retribution has a price, and leaves its mark, ever to be done effectively as a form of argument, this is a fine thread in the needle's eye, the main thesis of Cormac's argument. It isn't his skill I reject necessarily, but I still balk, at what, precisely, I think, is the lack of the toll on his protagonists, even when they take their punishment, they move from point A to Z unchanged. This is not how it scores itself on personal experience.
What I am trying to get at in the controversy over Shakespeare's genius does not relate to factual accuracy. Just as I'm not quite a Jamesian, I am certainly no expert on the English Renaissance, though Kermode and Jerry lifted fascinating curtains. If William served as a shield for the provocateur of a man who was an Earl and had the inside skinny on Elizabeth's insecurities, then that shield being so successful cannot be discredited, and must be seen as an essential component of the times, regardless of which camp has the evidence on its side, but there was controversy surrounding attribution of Alexandre Dumas' authorship, namely in the name of race baiting. If we use Dumas' characterizations of royalty as a model, there is no reason a man named Shakespar could not have created R2, R3, H4 and 5. The lack of a personal library after his death is not evidence that he did not have access to Hollinshed. And getting lost in trying to prove this theory over that one is a problem of tunnel vision, a cautionary tale in its own right about levels of investment.
What I enjoy about Zoo, despite the fact that James Patterson is an old school hack of the sort to which I do not stoop, is precisely the fact that it is stupid entertainment none of us need take seriously. I want to follow it and have seen only the second episode, alas, mainly to be blamed on apathy, running the gamut of negativity, the rage to strike back juxtaposed against every transfer now a risk of focused poise. I really do hate Debra Horne, Riverside's cut rate shamble ass enforcer, and I would not necessarily stop hating her or Trudy Richardson if I ever get the fuck away from the Presbyterian modal before it is too late. I do not know how far I'd go mentally over the injustices perpetrated on me, as imaginary infliction of violence is one thing, and what I lived on the razor edge of the badlands off North Broad Street is another. Brandon Phillips was a coward, which is, in essence, why I'm still alive. He was also stupid, as, in the time he was taking to subdue me, the exterminator may have gained access to my unit, and Brandon would have gotten caught, in the act. Debra Horne, in her intimidation tactics, perpetuates the cruelty of her race, which I only knew by default, in Home of the Merciful Savior, although, to my memory, there were not many African Americans who worked the wards in Shriners where mio padre had me butchered, latter day.
Poise is important to Europeans. The French make it a raison d'etre, but it runs the gamut of Western Europe with the exception of my ethnic group, the Romans. I am 45 pages in to Cormac's other notorious book, Blood Meridian, and realized I could care less. McCarthy is a master tactician who runs hula hoops around James Patterson's commercial emphasis, and yet it is Patterson's revenge fantasy which consoles me. All I have to do is touch foreheads with the king of beasts, and the lion king would turn my enemies into viable cadavers for honeycombs, but of course, that is play acting. Actual retribution has a price, and leaves its mark, ever to be done effectively as a form of argument, this is a fine thread in the needle's eye, the main thesis of Cormac's argument. It isn't his skill I reject necessarily, but I still balk, at what, precisely, I think, is the lack of the toll on his protagonists, even when they take their punishment, they move from point A to Z unchanged. This is not how it scores itself on personal experience.
What I am trying to get at in the controversy over Shakespeare's genius does not relate to factual accuracy. Just as I'm not quite a Jamesian, I am certainly no expert on the English Renaissance, though Kermode and Jerry lifted fascinating curtains. If William served as a shield for the provocateur of a man who was an Earl and had the inside skinny on Elizabeth's insecurities, then that shield being so successful cannot be discredited, and must be seen as an essential component of the times, regardless of which camp has the evidence on its side, but there was controversy surrounding attribution of Alexandre Dumas' authorship, namely in the name of race baiting. If we use Dumas' characterizations of royalty as a model, there is no reason a man named Shakespar could not have created R2, R3, H4 and 5. The lack of a personal library after his death is not evidence that he did not have access to Hollinshed. And getting lost in trying to prove this theory over that one is a problem of tunnel vision, a cautionary tale in its own right about levels of investment.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Canadian Bacon, Danish Pancakes
"I had already killed one of your officers, in the corner of the blind alley that leads to the tannery, in order to take his automatic, because I wanted one. I did things that were much more shameful. I committed the worst crime in the world, but that has nothing to do with you. I am not a fanatic, an agitator, or a patriot. I am a piece of shit." -- Frank Friedmaier, the spree murderer anti-hero, Dirty Snow
If you are an American, or a western European, you would process a BBC report like this differently than you would a profile on James Holmes and his psychiatric treatment, correct? The latter is the price we pay for the taming of the western frontier, the mythology and fact surrounding that domestication, the conflict between the indigenous warrior cultures and a mechanized European military that bequeathed to us the post modern fragmentation and erosion of moral cohesion. Pedophiles need compassionate case management too, remember. Whereas the tea workers, they merely rose up against authority, possibly horrific, but in terms of survival, and resources, understandable. I do not think the tea workers would have any problem understanding my anger against disability activists and leaders who turned on me, betrayed me, abandoned me, and here I sit, and sitting mainly due to inertia. However, I feel empathy for the manager. A mass acted in concert and burned him to death, and this as an escalation is worse than the glamorization of Pesci's temper, in which part of my impulses believe acting on would provide catharsis. I cry for dead cats, but relish the thought of eliminating hypocritical liars, not sure where the truth lies between those two propositions, as I'd also cut off my hand before touching a firearm, but would like nothing better than deploying my fists against the prevarication, ignorance, and cruelty I've had to carry, obviously not unique in this sentiment, as Simenon understood it as well, to create an interested audience, but also to suggest that aggression has a possibly complicated ambiguity, one that should serve as a warning to materialists who want to reprogram our primate origins through neuroscience. I prefer the post-war Frenchman to Cormac McCarthy, because Cormac leans to the superlative. Simenon carefully punctures it.
In some ways we are all Eddie Rico, the man in the middle with his own secrets. Guy Savage created a good synopsis of the film as a hatchet job as opposed to the novel, which I'd like to read someday, but I am not necessarily hamstrung, at this moment, by lack of access to the text. Karlson's adaptation carries the unease of its own certainty, and that includes the rapid fire pace at which Conte has to negotiate between his own culpability and Kubik's desire to eliminate loose ends, eroding loyalty. Is criminality, at the height of its organized power, any different than case management burrowing in its paradigms to obfuscate wrongdoing and enforcing stigma we can find in any baboon troupe? Not a bad question to ask in the ration of bacon, which presumably does not slow the industrial slaughter of the livestock which gives us such an interesting meat, to quote a culinary chef.
If you are an American, or a western European, you would process a BBC report like this differently than you would a profile on James Holmes and his psychiatric treatment, correct? The latter is the price we pay for the taming of the western frontier, the mythology and fact surrounding that domestication, the conflict between the indigenous warrior cultures and a mechanized European military that bequeathed to us the post modern fragmentation and erosion of moral cohesion. Pedophiles need compassionate case management too, remember. Whereas the tea workers, they merely rose up against authority, possibly horrific, but in terms of survival, and resources, understandable. I do not think the tea workers would have any problem understanding my anger against disability activists and leaders who turned on me, betrayed me, abandoned me, and here I sit, and sitting mainly due to inertia. However, I feel empathy for the manager. A mass acted in concert and burned him to death, and this as an escalation is worse than the glamorization of Pesci's temper, in which part of my impulses believe acting on would provide catharsis. I cry for dead cats, but relish the thought of eliminating hypocritical liars, not sure where the truth lies between those two propositions, as I'd also cut off my hand before touching a firearm, but would like nothing better than deploying my fists against the prevarication, ignorance, and cruelty I've had to carry, obviously not unique in this sentiment, as Simenon understood it as well, to create an interested audience, but also to suggest that aggression has a possibly complicated ambiguity, one that should serve as a warning to materialists who want to reprogram our primate origins through neuroscience. I prefer the post-war Frenchman to Cormac McCarthy, because Cormac leans to the superlative. Simenon carefully punctures it.
In some ways we are all Eddie Rico, the man in the middle with his own secrets. Guy Savage created a good synopsis of the film as a hatchet job as opposed to the novel, which I'd like to read someday, but I am not necessarily hamstrung, at this moment, by lack of access to the text. Karlson's adaptation carries the unease of its own certainty, and that includes the rapid fire pace at which Conte has to negotiate between his own culpability and Kubik's desire to eliminate loose ends, eroding loyalty. Is criminality, at the height of its organized power, any different than case management burrowing in its paradigms to obfuscate wrongdoing and enforcing stigma we can find in any baboon troupe? Not a bad question to ask in the ration of bacon, which presumably does not slow the industrial slaughter of the livestock which gives us such an interesting meat, to quote a culinary chef.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
Subjunctive Sinews
Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness. I don’t think an artist can ever be happy. Georges Simenon
I am not an expert in the revival of American minimalism, but Georges Simenon is much more interesting precursor than a man like Cormac McCarthy. Cormac is exceedingly aware of his craft, but that craft, much like Lionel Shriver's, has flaws that illuminate flags for me, flags that do not allow my applause without reservation. Simenon pares it down to the bone, but his stature has been on the rise in recent years, perhaps because his sparse diction leaves room for intrigue and ambiguity.
I examined, as opposed to truly studied, Dirty Snow with Jay Gertzman (second reviewer) and it was worth the entire participation in the live book club, and aside from Maigret, I hope to pursue more of Simenon's oeuvre. It is his contribution to The Brothers Rico that makes this more than just your sanitized Hollywood mafia staple, and also why it is an interesting adjunct to later films like Brazil and Arlington Road. My wheels have been spinning on this through the last week and a half, through my last three posts of equally minimal political sentiments, through the fact that I still mourn mio bambino and apparently cannot be kind to my internal loss and allow things to take their course. Like most pet owners who disagree with science, I am convinced that Vinne misses his brother still, and that dear kimmy does her best to take charge of both of us (which reminds me I need to get on and use my wonderfully sardonic verbal skills to help my shelter friends, about whom I have never uttered so much as a barb, and why is that? Because I snivel in torrents for my Joey? mio bambino, mio bambino, weeps the soul I no longer have; had I only died with my boy, this throbbing wound for a feline, six months going, is this why?) The little girl sticks her ass in my face, as if to say I am here now, get over it. And oh, grief shall fade, but I'll never have another bond such as that.
Let us examine Rico a bit, and although I rarely put the plot under a microscope, what analytical skills that remain tell me this is the best way to continue my pursuit of this thesis.
I am not an expert in the revival of American minimalism, but Georges Simenon is much more interesting precursor than a man like Cormac McCarthy. Cormac is exceedingly aware of his craft, but that craft, much like Lionel Shriver's, has flaws that illuminate flags for me, flags that do not allow my applause without reservation. Simenon pares it down to the bone, but his stature has been on the rise in recent years, perhaps because his sparse diction leaves room for intrigue and ambiguity.
I examined, as opposed to truly studied, Dirty Snow with Jay Gertzman (second reviewer) and it was worth the entire participation in the live book club, and aside from Maigret, I hope to pursue more of Simenon's oeuvre. It is his contribution to The Brothers Rico that makes this more than just your sanitized Hollywood mafia staple, and also why it is an interesting adjunct to later films like Brazil and Arlington Road. My wheels have been spinning on this through the last week and a half, through my last three posts of equally minimal political sentiments, through the fact that I still mourn mio bambino and apparently cannot be kind to my internal loss and allow things to take their course. Like most pet owners who disagree with science, I am convinced that Vinne misses his brother still, and that dear kimmy does her best to take charge of both of us (which reminds me I need to get on and use my wonderfully sardonic verbal skills to help my shelter friends, about whom I have never uttered so much as a barb, and why is that? Because I snivel in torrents for my Joey? mio bambino, mio bambino, weeps the soul I no longer have; had I only died with my boy, this throbbing wound for a feline, six months going, is this why?) The little girl sticks her ass in my face, as if to say I am here now, get over it. And oh, grief shall fade, but I'll never have another bond such as that.
Let us examine Rico a bit, and although I rarely put the plot under a microscope, what analytical skills that remain tell me this is the best way to continue my pursuit of this thesis.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)