Paul Martel Figments

When I first mentioned Unfaithful on this account many years ago, I had not fully absorbed Adrian Lyne’s emphasis, and the camera’s focus is one which grows fuller over time, even if the script is nothing we haven’t seen before in relation to discontent and betrayal. The exposition truly functions as a literary device, such as when Martinez glances at the knife on his table, briefly considering whether or not he would need it for defense, or the opening wind storm, all of it. We’re being asked why we get set into habits, routines, comforts, and then shatter them for another card in the deck, another card which leads us back to the same interior landscape. Familiarity breeds contempt, and this is what we kill ourselves over when we’re not engaged in killing ourselves due to ideology. Did I get the ending the first time? A pipe dream straight out of Jane Austen’s comedic moral teachings? Not as fully as on a third capture, with the Sumner’s knowledge that the bough was fully splintered, and undone, sitting there at the police station, all that was needed nothing more than a reality crime drama to reenact the reverberating scandal and consequences to follow. But this telescopic focus isn’t reality, so much as an American copy of a French template, something Gere has done before, simply to remind us that perspective, and point of view function like an acid reflux treatment. What was Constance’s trade off? Freedom to breathe, akin to my knowledge that rolling into thin air, away from my hostile building owner, means merely a foreshortening of the inevitable, my work stupidly locked away because I wasn’t careful enough? Didn’t utilize cloud services to best practices? I don’t feel like telephoning Tom Cook, who undoubtedly isn’t going to go out of his way to restore me to my history without feeling inconvenienced.

I just spoke to him and encapsulated the problem. He had another call. Me? I barely have any food, but what difference does that make, as I’m barely eating. Yes, 365 is nice, but I have to relearn some things, and if I do refinance another machine, I’ll have to relearn that, while we’re all busy scoring points, or consoling ourselves through the images of what the perfect bourgeoise life is or isn’t without hunger, tripping through your kitchen in bare feet. Paraplegics may retain ambulatory memories. I never knew them to begin with. He is my age, this Cook. Perhaps I should bathe, throw on a pair of slacks. He may stop by again tomorrow, because my ability to understand telephone voices is in the decline. This I cannot cure, but neither can I compel sources to respond online. I can hear my debt load increase, the one thing which hasn’t changed. Cash registers, storage and retrieval of promissory notes.

Monastic Infidelity

Wang 's book makes the larger case “that aesthetic forms are inseparable from social, political, and historical contexts when it comes to the writing and reception of poetry.”

The CW ran the intriguing Adrian Lyne adaptation from the French over the past week of March 2014, and a toggle to my memory reminded me of the subtext within the film about style and affluence being somewhat fine and brittle. I sandwich this memento in between my more forceful retractions from liberalism in part to illustrate the difficulty of my Gordian knot, since monogamy itself has always been a difficult contract for us, the advanced human primate. I see humanity as nothing more than repulsive apes who made cognitive leaps and bounds by inexplicable accidents of anatomy, and yet remain attracted to ascetic rigor, remain supportive of flings, the liberating aspects of affairs. 

Though I cannot speak for Gere's performance on a single viewing, Lane and Martinez inhabit a chic crackling which leaves me indecisive about both the murder and Lyne's conclusion, but his direction offers a distinctive, haunting collage, one that remains past the narrative itself. I am not sure whether it's worth eating up my usage to view it online or wait for it to run on broadcast again, but for our purposes, the film is a theatrical antithesis. 

Mr. Bojangles

I am in no condition for professional distance. My small following online will have to be patient for my aging mind to resume burrowing towards my theses and recounting the resumption of some sort of living as mine nears its end, and yes, I am as morbid as you like, but also an astute observer, and suspect my mortality will match my mother's in longevity if not suddenness: bad vascular circulation in my legs, decrease in breathing function, broken heart, and in some ways just as ignorant as I find most others to be. Perhaps Jerry treated me as normal when I was 19 because he himself had mildly manic qualities so that we clicked on the teacher/student paradigm, and I could manipulate him, but that only up to a point. I am angry at him too, but not for rejecting my confessional mind games; cognizant of the fact that this anger is unfair to the man. The grown up spastic looking back knows he treated me better than my own family does, did the best he could for me, and it is not his fault that my own intellectual discipline failed to conquer my self-pity, which I dole out and dish up in spades.

I do not want to be this spinster, a quintessential Aileen Wuornos in my own right, with dead animal trophies, mourning carnivorous personalities. It is a character type often and easily ridiculed, even while I realize I killed my proxy child through lack of vigilance. A hard truth for a quadriplegic in my situation, but a basic one. Joey nagged me incessantly for treats, and I gave in, buying the available rather than coaxing him to accept the medical diet, and in trying to curb my anxiety over his straining, trying to constrain my reactions and budget, I killed him, my baby boy, the sweetest cat in the world, a maudlin biddy telling The Cat Doctor staff "I'm sorry," as if I expect their absolution.

I'd rather be the Diane Lane in Unfaithful, conflicted even in the liberation of sexual betrayal, but I was actually the Paul Martinez figure. The reason I do not discuss this is fear of the wives. I got caught, once, and it was pretty horrible. A dead cat is pedestrian by comparison to a courtesan's criminality.