Sponge Cake

Roger Greenspun pinpoints the leaky unraveling in Angel Levine as a film. The basic real time plot is Mostel witnesses a bodega theft, protests while the thief dies in a hit and run, reappears as Belafonte. From that point on we are asked by Kadar to consider the strike at hubris in the parable of Babel, and this is what I meant about lack of coherence, rather than an ambiguity of doubt. I wasn't in the frame of mind on the seventeenth to stay awake and examine the cinematography once more past the swirling kaleidoscope of fragmented effect.

Now I know where I am relocating once I charge Presby with a hate crime, civil rights violations, and a Chief Justice Roberts favorite, reverse discrimination. The secrets of exploiting the disadvantaged like slaughter house cattle are buried here, which makes my diabolical intelligence a threat to the system. Before I hired the swindling cleaning service T2S, I verbally offered Trudy a deal in return for an affidavit (not that I used the word affidavit--Trudy is a good imitation of an educated woman, but my IQ would put all three of the downstairs sisters on the defensive, and has, partly why I've survived to type this post). But fuck the deal.

Despite my lifelong education in black manner, I left the cleaning technician from Wilmington alone. I gave her space, and ninety dollars. I still lost, and I am tired of letting Protestant hypocrisy whiplash me. The fight goes on. Hopefully Dru man won't regret it if I trot on up for a visit. We'll see. Lovely holiday gift, I would think.

Half Past Dead

"If it offends people you don't do it." -- an Independent Lens participant in the Liberation theology tradition.

What I really wanted Monday evening was to take my typical sitting shower. Instead I checked my enfeebled bank account, dressed, fought with the cats to let me get done, made it to Joe's, fought with the cats to return to the studio, ate a cold wrap, ate more English toffee than I should have, but stopped myself on the edge of over-indulgence, tin in the fridge. Is food shopping a twelve hour affair for you?

If I give up the pets I effectively give Little Vinnie a death sentence, but I am going to do two things this week. Battle Presby head on to transfer me out of the company within 24 months, and threaten my father with the fact that there will be consequences if I do not get an appropriate change of environment. Nothing will change about my vulnerability, but for my regular readers, would you want to stay with a landlord that gave you so much blood in the water?

Is it my impaired judgment that sees an egregious breach of ethics when under a manager named Debra Schwab, I was banned from the meal program but forced to pay for the service? This is what these companies do; it is how they operate, and they will strike at me again if I stay, in a circumstance where I might not be able to access a tenant attorney in time. Bernard Malamud was aware in the prepubescent decade of my youth how merciless and alienating big city life is; he was a fabulist in an era when Doris Lessing was only fomenting her memoirs-- but his work escaped my familiarity-- unfortunate, as The Angel Levine represents the type of fiction on which I was educated. The film is running once again this morning; it does not come together with coherence, not for me. I have attempted to be humorous about encroaching senility, but I am frightened, alone, and marvelously contemptuous of my jar of instant coffee, soluble in hot water, while ground beans are not.

Trivial things like that generate epistemological material?