Savant Nova

But Communism, my friend, is more than Marxism. -- Graham Greene, Haitian apostate

 “How unusual,”  a starved intellect made note of the fact, that a writer such as Graham Greene would turn to acting in serialized, grounded space opera like Defiance. This fascinated me as an early streaming viewer, not yet given over to the lassitude of despair, that an important legacy author of post-war Britain would turn to acting in his old age, more riveting than the plot itself to destroy counter culture libertarians co-habitating  with stranded aliens. The series was an inversion of the Roddenberry formula, darker, perhaps, not bad, and not quite realizing that indigenous Canadian aboriginals might also take on archetypal Anglo-Saxon names for themselves.  Jesus Christ what a moron.

Although I am not quite sympathetic to the novelist’s embrace of sacrament as penance in The End of The Affair  as received through Kerr’s charming performance, Greene the Englishman is more relatable by far in his morose lack of optimism than Greene the actor playing Parcheesi with the sins of neo-imperialism in blood strewn epics like Dances With Wolves. I hated Dances With Wolves, so declared in a deploring over-simplification of sentiment. Nevertheless-

Estonia is no more sovereign than Haiti

In misery we seem aware of our own existence, even though it may be in the form of a monstrous egotism.-- Graham Greene

Perhaps my emendations on Virily pass muster in the risible sense. I had forgotten that I had saved the piece in the weeks prior to my rupture with Clarity Media, and it was an easy feint to adapt, one all seasoned writers learn, and it is oddly perfect to expand, seasoned with basil, to spice up my non-fiction collection. I will probably not last too long, however, with Natalie's overzealous plagiarism checks, on this Baltic mock up. Niume's staff does it too, but they have sense enough to see I have standards, and leave me alone (I think). Here I can engage the whimsy of telling Vladimir Putin to go fuck himself, so as to secure not dying in senility, but the Baltic millennials would sooner drop an ovum than allow my decorum breaches to fester, not with the bear's breath always in their downwind. Greene himself is one of the most influential least read authors on my psyche, though The End of the Affair is tawdry even with the Feinnes upgrade.
It does illustrate the failure to which I allude far better than I can bully my way into it, even if Bendrix is disillusioned on an entirely different pretext. Greene's voice is not so dissimilar to mine, both brutalized, but where Greene is stark and sacrificial, I am a vengeance ride with the flat of my foot on the gas, waiting to be put down like a rabid travesty. I wasn't able to truly work last night. Groin pain, impaction becoming more symptomatic, I have to coax myself into hatred of Debra Horne's peasant sloping posture to shed anxiety over a lateral transfer fall, and how much longer murder will keep me aloft is anyone's guess: this is part of the failure. In a seven year effort to bind both worlds, as I once hoped I could help Linda Dezenski do, I have transposed the thesis and become a rolling hate crime whose any explicit detail would merit another visit by law enforcement. The same thing might have happened, invariably, if the state had left me institutionalized, instead of matriculating, educating me into indentured servitude, a few steps removed from how harsh it was for Helen Keller. These intestinal battles knock the wind out of me, and my shins need a rest. Then I hope I stabilize, but if I do make a minor news item on a first arrest warrant, I suppose it is unfortunate. I've been driven that far, nearly 60.

Emancipation of the Flesh

"What do I have to do?"--Franka Potente

What can be added to Ebert's review of Run Lola Run is Tykwer's captures of German physiognomy is subversively disturbing, and his Berlin of 20 odd years ago unpleasant, irregardless of meta insular playfulness. Post Nazi Germans cast here look like African albino marionettes. Phew. Holding one's nose, the father's relation to the mistress has the same torpor as any over familiar relation. In Unfaithful, we're drawn into a titillating, irresistible compulsion which in turn leads to irresistible brutality. This is the way cinema dishes it up. No one is immune these days to the hypersexuality of augmentation. The reality is anything but, barring those rare moments of young love.

I have hinted at my affairs, but censored myself out of caution as well as delicacy. I was caught once and the ex-wife was civil, but I prefer not to go through it again. Next to my fabled dog fight with Linda Dezenski, that conversation, rippling from Montreal to my ghetto, is the searing sin of muted conscience, but it was the sin of relatively inconvenient fluids and farcical flopping about. I am not much for bragging with enthusiasm category, and maybe it is sad, too old, vaginally drying out now, for any real hormonal productive liberation to find its way back to the future, and the deceased Frank Versanti's weight was repugnant. He and I couldn't have intercourse, didn't, but his body was a graphic horror novel writing itself. I'd be facetious, tongue in check, and aim a barb at traumatic conversions, but naked women provide their own inhibited repulsions-- and yet, our ability to desire perfect form and design did not start with cinema.
A simple philosophical syllogism intimates a proof for God in this way: if we can conceive the possibility of its existence, then it can exist, ergo, perfection, since we conceive of it, is possible. We fail. Bendrix's sex life too, is merely the tension between the illusive security and comfort of the hearth being disrupted in the analytical British attitude toward a happy shag and the frustrations of obsession: Greene has as much an unerring way with protagonists who have their view blocked by possession, as much as I do with the masochism of longing: I literally have no idea why meeting a Shakespearean named Jerry McGuire when I was a 19 year old entering freshman of English literature in my father's living room, why this coincidence was so overpowering I fucked myself royally. I do not know. There were other instructors, but under Jerry's awning I was a wildly rotating dwarf star who fell very badly for the Italian antithesis of the angry veteran of Suny. Ashes to ashes, god's joke was to give me a buffoon as a stand in who in part let himself die because my contempt made a genuine bond of affection impossible. Unfaithful, locks Gere in to something that ultimately will destroy the marriage he committed murder to reset, and if I take the night of the Munich attack, being streamed live, as an indicator of the corrosion of monoculture, the only difference between a bus stop in Germany after hours and the bus stop at Darby, in my wheelchair, is cleanliness, the lack of drunk black hustlers perceived as a threat.

Savant Density

As far as I can tell, in terms of Google Blogger services, I still have an inactive AdSense account, and would like to reactivate it, except I do not know how. Since my purchase of a domain against those who object to how I push with my reactive dips into psychic negation, I do not have an earnings tab, at least not that I can see in settings, and I'm not sure what Google customer service agents will tell me if I contact them next week to buy in again since my departure from LiveJournal. 

I entertain the idea of asking my Libertarian adoptees for assistance, but that presumes Blogger will permit me to have ads despite my dim view of civilization. I suppose I'll have to telephone the company and see what's what. I could leave Blogger, but know I would not fare much better on other host services, though I only skirt the edges of blood, gore, radiation poisoning and plastique manufacture for explosive ordinance; of course I am not being serious, not in this post, about thriving in the violence of guerrilla warfare, unlike Michael Caine in The Quiet American, but I should know how to navigate through simple things like re-monetizing my damn account. Unlike Van Johnson in The End of the Affair, Michael Caine is suitably pathetic as Greene's callous journalist, Tom Fowler. Brendan Fraser, however, looks like a Clark Kent beefsteak. Perhaps he was supposed to, serving as a contrast to the wan Vietnamese amputated like fish sticks. Why do they always have to kill the loyal and loving dog? Directors do that, exposing the heartless developing world.

Should we kill the psychopaths of animal cruelty? Should Halle Berry's character in Losing Isaiah have been vindicated? I do not remember what Jackson did as the lawyer to persuade the court to overturn the adoption, but it was never made clear how it was discovered that Isaiah as a crack baby was Halle's dumpster guilt to begin with. Who the hell was supposed to know? My sympathies were for the conscientious Caucasians that Strathaim and Lange represented, the Hollywood version of the Clintonesque middle class which doesn't exist. Certainly not for Catholics.

If Almighty Google, which undoubtedly is now hardwired in every row home and apartment complex over one story, allows me to monetize again, I am not under any illusions that my ... what the fuck are you... viewers? My family having a heart attack every time fecal matter becomes a predominant motif? An audience? I'd doubt you'd click enough to provide much more of a supplement than what I earned at Examiner, but at least I could afford the yearly fee for the domain until the welfare state tortures me to my grave. Odds are it will, bad parenting and all. Government needs to get out of the business of child protection services, and progressive Innocence Project lawyers have their own blinders.

Too much trash television: I saw one of those American Justice episodes where three or four low IQ blacks gunned down a more stringent black couple who tried to foster boys who would go onto car jacking anyway, and all holy shit was raised over a platypus named Darren Wilson, who went with the guy with the low IQ and was implicated in the felony murder. The defense lawyer who took the appeal to get Wilson off death row said the blood on the shorts wasn't that of the deceased, and since Wilson was asleep in an alcoholic stupor during the killing, that he was innocent. Maybe this was Illinois, which is the Midwest. 

Never have I seen liberalism go on such a crusade for such a sorry ass mother fucker as Darren, who took absolutely no responsibility for what the violently predisposed brother did to these black business owners. Moral culpability still applies, exactly the same as it would if anarchists bonded with me and knew I was up to something if I wanted to go after the pathological bigots who took such a toll on my economic security. If I had a crew that knew I had intent, in other words, they'd still be accessories even if they did not aid me in my vendetta. The more attention I give to criminal litigation, the less faith I have in it, even as I never went after my rental agent, nor a breach of contract settlement for myself.

It isn't that I am not *over* the immediate psychological damage perpetrated on me by the center between 99 and 07, but the blows have taken tolls which cannot be undone, and it is unlikely I'll find patrons to protect and get me out of Riverside, as I weaken steadily.

The Tyranny of Rayon Cossacks?

I've only ever read one Graham Greene story in the linear fashion, a first person sardonic account of White Liberal Writer in Haiti, and remain frustrated; his texts have not been readily digitized, and I am not keen on paying 10 to 30 dollars to get used texts as old as I was during my newborn combat with death in incubation. Deborah Kerr brought her gifts to bear in the 55 The End of the Affair, but Van Johnson is an unpleasant as a whiny and self-righteous author, and I'd rather at the novels themselves, without being able to analyze much about Greene's struggle with conscience and promiscuous satisfaction. Greene pits Catholicism in real world contexts without the special effects of the Madonna appearing as a strobe light effect to take persecuted saints to heaven, and climaxes his plots with credible sacrifices which do not in all circumstances bring grace.

Does it seem I am persuading myself back to my faith?

I am going to be gone soon, and merciless ignorantly cruel fecal bitches like Deborah Horne will win, and destroy my dignity,unless my acumen outwits such fiends, so no, I am simply a would be executioner looking at the moral struggles of a man whose realism about authority precluded the zealotry of Osama bin Laden. How's that for a brief checking in reflection? I'm about to engage in a mammoth struggle with the service sector in this city which I know so intimately, and I'll probably drop dead roaring at local bigwigs who aren't used to being cut down to size, but in between then, I can find Greene at my branch, after Francis returns to the Vatican. I am not sure whether I'm attending the service.