"Kill the wino." James Caan
Though I woke on time (obviously, since this is a rare daylight post) I canceled my attendance at the Sims job fair in an email to his Harrisburg account at 7:20. I need some adjustment time with this hated Jazzy Quantum, the encroaching humidity, and if I lack the confidence to deal with recruiters in public at this moment, it will show. I'm an old woman skewering her fucking skull in desperation, and though the developing world would laugh in my face on the true measure of desperate lives, comparisons have little mitigating effect, even with the unintentional humor in the room mate search questionnaire.
Why are you looking for a room mate now?
"My wife is leaving me." Not ideal, but I called his number, out of sheer amusement, and I cannot find the electrician whose wife has cancer and whose current roommate is "psycho." Not idea either. I've been on ward with cancer patients, but was going to reach out to said electrician anyway, since I consider myself highly undesirable. Found him. He and his ailing spouse would put me closer to little brother, but an electrician with one ailing spouse considering me as an addendum would be up for canonization, yes, si?
21 years of my life with Protestant skinflints who've given me fonts of trauma, with their nigger chicks just piling it on, lancing my wounds because I'm furious that I came here, not considering it a choice in Meryl Streep's stark terms in her Priestly Prada habitation. Despite this section 202 building location, I turned it down after my assault. I did not want to live here, ever, because I knew what it would do to me, and I'm no longer sure which evil is worse, the real ghetto or this crematorium, 21 years of strenuous hate. Why didn't I get out before? Well, Linda humiliated me and recovery time took two years; Paratransit was then lost, Frank happened, my mother died, had to put first cat down, the aide abuse, power chairs breaking, this is why, and any mind can only take so much contiguous crisis. I do not know if I hate Trudy Richardson for her integral nature or for her continued escalation and aggressive attacks against me, but I am either leaving this building or going to jail for pushing back; it's that simple.
Onward. Either way, I'm suing this company, and that because it cost Presby absolutely nothing to move me fifteen minutes past Diamond Park. I had already been pre-approved, and the only individuals who paid were my father, mother, the tenant who I bumped. At this point, it has little to do with ideology. I keep getting hurt, and the people imposing the pain aren't exactly on Lynch'es pay grade.
Showing posts with label devil wears prada. Show all posts
Showing posts with label devil wears prada. Show all posts
Friday, May 8, 2015
Sunday, May 4, 2014
Ambrosia Stings
"Everyone has choices!"-- Gordon Alexander
A psychoanalytic theorist named Marcia Ian just gave me the cold shoulder, and I can feel the singe from her offices on campus to the swollen crest of the Schuykill flooding, one which had the Fire Department lock down my building last week. So I can only surmise I confuse most of you most of the time and that is why I never receive suggestions? hmm. This is what I wrote her, admittedly hurried, asking her to be an article source:
" Hello Marcia,
A psychoanalytic theorist named Marcia Ian just gave me the cold shoulder, and I can feel the singe from her offices on campus to the swollen crest of the Schuykill flooding, one which had the Fire Department lock down my building last week. So I can only surmise I confuse most of you most of the time and that is why I never receive suggestions? hmm. This is what I wrote her, admittedly hurried, asking her to be an article source:
" Hello Marcia,
It has been a long time since I dumped my scars on Jamesian scholars like yourself, but I have come to admire your mettle even within my defeat. I am writing, however, to request a source quote from you on a Simpson's puff piece, if you are willing.
I aggregate for Examiner
for an appalling commission, but I have trapped myself in a damned if I do or don't mode. An original source would get me promoted on Google News for a few more pennies, and if I am a good girl perhaps Clarity Media will help me out one day. (I highly doubt it.)
I'll write it up and then think of something along the lines of satire, animation, a better world. The editorial team posits a 48 hour deadline, but a credentialed assignment gets more latitude. Perhaps I will purchase one of your studies."
My opening sentence obfuscates, granted, as I did not want to rehash my laments of 14 years ago on which she deigned to advise me-- and I have no reason to feed you that either, as I still like how she thinks-- but she verbally slammed the door in my face as smartly as a nun with a ruler.
I am not sure what to make of it, and replied to her rebuff, regardless of the danger of being junked in her trash folder, but let that be a lesson on the justification of paranoia.
Louise Norlie attached herself to me via the James list subscribers, and perhaps Louise was a student of one of the subscribers. I tried to accommodate Louise at first. Some of you may remember me writing about this in earlier seasons, and I then told Louise I needed to stop interacting with her, which was the truth. I was afraid of hurting the girl down the road, and really did not want to be her buddy.
I can also understand that many terminal degree scholars do not like my manner, and I simpered about Greg Zacharias for a bit after he scolded me; I do not hold onto every grudge, however. I'll get past it, but I once believed Marcia a sympathetic mind set, and she is a decent instructor, capable of challenging perspective. Licking my wounds is obviously much more interesting than serving up Simon Baker like a suckling roast, which was my initial intent. I'll weigh just diving right back into it.
Meryl Streep's character in The Devil wears Prada has real world equivalents. I surpass that a bit being a reactionary troll bitch whom Google probably can't wait to see institutionalized so they can bury her nasty and bitter-- but we'll venture back over that unholy ground later.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
Sheeba's Dirge
"I seek to root out the phallic mother from her real and imaginary place at the heart of what I call psychoanalytic modernism."-- Marcia Ian in her introduction.
I was fascinated by Milkman as a young girl, and yet, I have turned my back in defiance on the old guard of Toni Morrison and Alice Walker in my old age, and yes, it troubles me, especially as I accept the science of evolution. Our DNA is primarily African. We're all hermaphrodites modified from a basic female template, and embryos go awry, much as I did, but biological explanations are one thing. Social dynamics are another, and I am not predisposed to be optimistic about transhumanism or our future, merging ourselves to technology and robotics. Perhaps I demand too much of Toni Morrison, demand solutions of her that I absolve in Richard Wright or Ralph Ellison. I respect Ellison. Invisible Man is as yet an argument in my psyche, still wrestling in the ring, with little love lost, on my part, for African American contra indicators as Philadelphia and other venues have presented it. Certainly there is a difference between behavior and the equality of opportunity, but equality is a bad thing. It lies about strata. It lies about caste and it lies about difference, dependence, and fails to address what liberty and freedom are in a world burgeoned with a successful species that is toppling under its own weight. The stupidity of how we entertain ourselves, whored to impulse products and mediocrity of content, and by the same token, to dazzle with masterpieces, is at the same time disjunctive with routines, patterns we fall into, aging into risk adversity, sating appetite with culinary ambitions, intensity of erogenous sensation.
The deft cruelty of Baker's character in Prada toward Hathaway's Sachs is something no woman ever truly gets over. She moves on, wises up about sexual motives, but that deflating blow against superlative romantic inclination shows what can be done with a golden boy vanity in the right hands, despite the fact that Baker comes off as vapid and somewhat clueless when lending himself out for interviews, or doing banal move to DVD flicks like S&D 101. Nothing wrong with a light sexual comedy that makes fun of itself, but no idiot would mistake a sick old woman in the dark for a centerfold offering coitus for being a good front. The script and direction could have been slightly more integral, biting, at least sufficient to offer pause. Oversexed as we are, we shield ourselves from the consequences of aging, the inability of the medical model to do anything but contain the decline, offer props. Oxygen, catheters, face lifts. We break, yet epitomize the vanity of perfect chic and the convenience of style, with less fortunate in looks relegated to being lesbian office assistants.
I was fascinated by Milkman as a young girl, and yet, I have turned my back in defiance on the old guard of Toni Morrison and Alice Walker in my old age, and yes, it troubles me, especially as I accept the science of evolution. Our DNA is primarily African. We're all hermaphrodites modified from a basic female template, and embryos go awry, much as I did, but biological explanations are one thing. Social dynamics are another, and I am not predisposed to be optimistic about transhumanism or our future, merging ourselves to technology and robotics. Perhaps I demand too much of Toni Morrison, demand solutions of her that I absolve in Richard Wright or Ralph Ellison. I respect Ellison. Invisible Man is as yet an argument in my psyche, still wrestling in the ring, with little love lost, on my part, for African American contra indicators as Philadelphia and other venues have presented it. Certainly there is a difference between behavior and the equality of opportunity, but equality is a bad thing. It lies about strata. It lies about caste and it lies about difference, dependence, and fails to address what liberty and freedom are in a world burgeoned with a successful species that is toppling under its own weight. The stupidity of how we entertain ourselves, whored to impulse products and mediocrity of content, and by the same token, to dazzle with masterpieces, is at the same time disjunctive with routines, patterns we fall into, aging into risk adversity, sating appetite with culinary ambitions, intensity of erogenous sensation.
The deft cruelty of Baker's character in Prada toward Hathaway's Sachs is something no woman ever truly gets over. She moves on, wises up about sexual motives, but that deflating blow against superlative romantic inclination shows what can be done with a golden boy vanity in the right hands, despite the fact that Baker comes off as vapid and somewhat clueless when lending himself out for interviews, or doing banal move to DVD flicks like S&D 101. Nothing wrong with a light sexual comedy that makes fun of itself, but no idiot would mistake a sick old woman in the dark for a centerfold offering coitus for being a good front. The script and direction could have been slightly more integral, biting, at least sufficient to offer pause. Oversexed as we are, we shield ourselves from the consequences of aging, the inability of the medical model to do anything but contain the decline, offer props. Oxygen, catheters, face lifts. We break, yet epitomize the vanity of perfect chic and the convenience of style, with less fortunate in looks relegated to being lesbian office assistants.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Streep In Stilletto
I can envision taking Lauren Weisberger's novel out of the library on a slow day, one that might involve the leisure of trivial pursuit, but whatever the film adaptation leaves out, what it augments it augments so that getting beneath the surface of high couture isn't an issue for me. We do not need to see beneath the surface of Miranda Priestly, because Streep's minimalism says enough about the cost in and of itself that further exploration isn't necessary. Like Alexandre Dumas' dazzling marionettes, The Devil Wears Prada offers a material surface that becomes its own argument, and the pushback from Andrea's friends and family is obligatory, because the story has to acknowledge that the rarified atmosphere of high fashion is one that most mortals could not flourish in, not just those made obese and diabetic by high fructose corn syrup.
Yet we're all fascinated by pagentry and style, and why we are is interesting, even if it might have convoluted evolutionary triggers, our ability to distinguish color and pattern, to desire the perfect human figure even as we exploit and react to its varied entropic deformities. Meryl Streep does something virtually impossible in this film, or in real life, in that she embodies a perfect figure, that on a small scale is the epic equivalent of Grecian mythology-- not that Prada is a great film, or can stand with the classics, but it is great within the urban world it inhabits, one that makes Islamic fanaticism look like a biological nightmare by way of comparison, as if our species were losing its remarkable ability to conquer environments rather than evolving, as science fiction either suggests we shall or will fail, which sums up this vast genre in a nut shell, but is the basic truth behind it.
Is style an evolutionary adaptation? Andrea seems to reject it, on the surface, when it is time, she does not want to pay Miranda's price for ruthless perfection, but is that really what is going on with this movie, and why it was such a hit, strikes so many chords?
The fact that I don't need to read Weisberger's book isn't a reflection on her work; all serious writers have some version of it, like mine with selecting Alexandra Grilikhes over Bob Small, for instance, with her aesthetic vision more in tune with mine over Bob's working class post-beatnik brass knuckles, the two of them represent the basic division within the American literary presses. My thoughts here are only scratching the surface, goaded on by what Harvard modernist critics have written too, in their critical shorthand that my range does not quite match, though I can see where writing about Prada might assist me in making that leap. I did not expect that Weisberger's self-discovery, however Hollywood translated, would imprint on me in my environment to such a degree, the brutalism of a life style barren of any glamor whatsoever.
Yet we're all fascinated by pagentry and style, and why we are is interesting, even if it might have convoluted evolutionary triggers, our ability to distinguish color and pattern, to desire the perfect human figure even as we exploit and react to its varied entropic deformities. Meryl Streep does something virtually impossible in this film, or in real life, in that she embodies a perfect figure, that on a small scale is the epic equivalent of Grecian mythology-- not that Prada is a great film, or can stand with the classics, but it is great within the urban world it inhabits, one that makes Islamic fanaticism look like a biological nightmare by way of comparison, as if our species were losing its remarkable ability to conquer environments rather than evolving, as science fiction either suggests we shall or will fail, which sums up this vast genre in a nut shell, but is the basic truth behind it.
Is style an evolutionary adaptation? Andrea seems to reject it, on the surface, when it is time, she does not want to pay Miranda's price for ruthless perfection, but is that really what is going on with this movie, and why it was such a hit, strikes so many chords?
The fact that I don't need to read Weisberger's book isn't a reflection on her work; all serious writers have some version of it, like mine with selecting Alexandra Grilikhes over Bob Small, for instance, with her aesthetic vision more in tune with mine over Bob's working class post-beatnik brass knuckles, the two of them represent the basic division within the American literary presses. My thoughts here are only scratching the surface, goaded on by what Harvard modernist critics have written too, in their critical shorthand that my range does not quite match, though I can see where writing about Prada might assist me in making that leap. I did not expect that Weisberger's self-discovery, however Hollywood translated, would imprint on me in my environment to such a degree, the brutalism of a life style barren of any glamor whatsoever.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Crash Dump Curdle
I was surprised when Monica queried me voluntarily about Frank, during Brenda's international incident two weeks ago, surprised that she chose to speak to me on her own, at all, though I'd have to look up the date. If I do not write it down, either online, hard drive, or hard copy, I cannot remember the time frames about these things. I still dislike Monica, in the sense that white attendant reactionism to me, or paternalism, as with the-Susan-who-treats-Sherry-like-a-large-t
I am not trying to rap Ebert for attempting to bridge the gap with his fans; if he gets a few to turn their civic conscience on, this is not a bad thing, but Roger got old and got sick, and I have been swimming in this cess pool since my sister Michelle's childhood. I remember her institutional environment, remember mine, and by default, my local disability center destroyed my life. I may salvage something, but it is too late for me to go back, absorb Hathaway's stress as Andrea, and climb back up, and even if, when I mail my missive, someone gets me a lawyer, and this lawyer comes up with a tactical approach that works, and Linda is politely retired, and Tom either institutes reforms or moves on, my compensation wouldn't amount to chicken feed, and that is the enormity of injustice.
It took me a superhuman effort not to hurt myself back in 2000. I could not stand up for myself with EEOC intake personnel while I was decelerating and fighting it at the same time, even with a therapist, and this is the issue about time limits and the law. There is no other support system out there for me. Liberty is it, and they make me sick. My sister doesn't care. To her I am like Sherry, and to be treated like Sherry, and so I shield myself with contempt. My brother cares just enough not to be as callous as Stephanie, but when it comes to educating himself, and being aware, like the advocating author Rachel Simon, he chooses, like my sister, to stay blind, because they have children, and I am a terrifying burden.
Some people reading this may be moved, disabled or not, but do not know what to say or how to help, and I have already had my fill of Josie's compassionate pretensions that possibly cost me a happy memory of fun out on a date, with the anticipation of romance. I would wipe out the ideology behind the simplicity of independent living as a phrase with my bare hands, if I could, and it would not change a thing.
I am not trying to rap Ebert for attempting to bridge the gap with his fans; if he gets a few to turn their civic conscience on, this is not a bad thing, but Roger got old and got sick, and I have been swimming in this cess pool since my sister Michelle's childhood. I remember her institutional environment, remember mine, and by default, my local disability center destroyed my life. I may salvage something, but it is too late for me to go back, absorb Hathaway's stress as Andrea, and climb back up, and even if, when I mail my missive, someone gets me a lawyer, and this lawyer comes up with a tactical approach that works, and Linda is politely retired, and Tom either institutes reforms or moves on, my compensation wouldn't amount to chicken feed, and that is the enormity of injustice.
It took me a superhuman effort not to hurt myself back in 2000. I could not stand up for myself with EEOC intake personnel while I was decelerating and fighting it at the same time, even with a therapist, and this is the issue about time limits and the law. There is no other support system out there for me. Liberty is it, and they make me sick. My sister doesn't care. To her I am like Sherry, and to be treated like Sherry, and so I shield myself with contempt. My brother cares just enough not to be as callous as Stephanie, but when it comes to educating himself, and being aware, like the advocating author Rachel Simon, he chooses, like my sister, to stay blind, because they have children, and I am a terrifying burden.
Some people reading this may be moved, disabled or not, but do not know what to say or how to help, and I have already had my fill of Josie's compassionate pretensions that possibly cost me a happy memory of fun out on a date, with the anticipation of romance. I would wipe out the ideology behind the simplicity of independent living as a phrase with my bare hands, if I could, and it would not change a thing.
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