The persona Donna Leon projects on her one television interview I've seen is an insouciant fastidious reminiscent of Henry James's dinner gossip, a catty brittle old woman with a hint of viciousness, and as such, I do not care for her interpretation of Venetian cronyism that her stalwart Brunetti untangles, not that I fail to comprehend her dialectic within the procedural formula: Brunetti is a home boy, schooled, potty trained, righteous to the point of stepping on toes, but she seems more interested in acclimating Victorian values in a modern Italy which only suffocates on its history.
I like Ornen even less, in my objection to Scandinavian social mores, and I am so fed up with Danish and Norwegian and Swedish police methods that the television will stay off any further study of soft-pedaling Russian crooks, but I've seen enough of The Eagle to grasp that Halgrim's writers suggest that the shields we develop take physiological tolls: Divorced twice, absent from mother's demise, estranged from his father, Halgrim, the Danish Icelander (and what is that?) is physical vulnerable as the action hero. He has a heart attack, dies on the table after a stabbing, and much like a super predator, is a fragile hero in pursuit of justice.
I have been tempted for weeks to scold the Georgians for killing their escaped zoo animals, and we all have favorites that ignite our outrage: wolves, bears, dogs, the giraffe. For me, its felines, and in truth, it breaks my damn heart. We're 7 billion, and whatever our innate fears of our hunters as we became human, driving the big cats extinct is a crime which merits our own disappearance from the earth. I would have taken the bullet for the tiger, would it have been spared as a result. Hannibal seems to have run its course, and last week's episode seemed soft in terms of Red Dragon's adaptations. There is very little in Unit One, however, to suggest how Mads goes from emulating Persbrandt's tough love cop to the irony of Harris's superlative cannibal.
Showing posts with label heart disease. Show all posts
Showing posts with label heart disease. Show all posts
Sunday, July 5, 2015
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Hepatic Cirrhosis
"There is this sense of urgency."-- Charlie Rose
It is not enough for me that Sally Mann is the cipher and the filter for her stricken husband, Larry. It may be enough for him. It may be enough for Sally, who, obviously, is insecure with the recognition her photography provoked, and needs discretion as a shield despite the impact of her aesthetic revelations, and it may be enough for an intrepid interviewer like Rose, but a much more difficult video for Charlie's audience to digest would have been to interview Larry Mann about what it is like dying from muscular dystrophy after giving his life for his wife's pursuit of interpreting the world through a camera lens. That's tougher than for what mercy allows, and it would have created controversy for a tired old man whose heart did not kill him, and made Sally herself more of a lightning rod.
In fact, I am going to throw down the gauntlet: Before Charlie retires, I am challenging him to interview nobody. I'd like to see what he would do with an individual with a developmental disability who strove and failed. I want him to cut across the insularity of success and sit at that table with a cripple scorched by poverty, a squandered genius, and see what happens, because I've grown cynical about aesthetic bubbles, and the priesthood surrounding altered perspectives. It isn't that images cannot change the world, merely that we're all inundated to their previous power to move us. In the world of color rods in the cone of the iris, Sally's dead greyhound with it's head lolling on a fence, elongated body like the slash of an angel, is a dead dog. If it had been a crushed insect, we would have had a different reaction.
I'm dying. Before you tell me to go to the doctor, I've been to one, another young Asian resident who knows absolutely nothing except the pathology of various rote causations. My identity is beginning to submerge into my autonomous bodily functions. In part you can thank these motherfuckers with their subtle avarice, death panel profiteering at my expense; in part it is my social fear, but if I'm broken, I haven't been broken the way Trudy Richardson may believe: I did the recertification to stay on in 202 housing at the last possible second, but am ready to give my notice, abandon everything but my computer briefcase, shed my library, and roll, with nothing but a farthing, with the realization that with every sleep, I drift off into the end result, into an occlusion of my cardiovascular system, shrinking away. I've burrowed down very far, so far away there is no room for the recrimination of human social structures falling apart at the seams. I cannot sustain encroaching uselessness, and that is breaking me of its own accord.
It is not enough for me that Sally Mann is the cipher and the filter for her stricken husband, Larry. It may be enough for him. It may be enough for Sally, who, obviously, is insecure with the recognition her photography provoked, and needs discretion as a shield despite the impact of her aesthetic revelations, and it may be enough for an intrepid interviewer like Rose, but a much more difficult video for Charlie's audience to digest would have been to interview Larry Mann about what it is like dying from muscular dystrophy after giving his life for his wife's pursuit of interpreting the world through a camera lens. That's tougher than for what mercy allows, and it would have created controversy for a tired old man whose heart did not kill him, and made Sally herself more of a lightning rod.
In fact, I am going to throw down the gauntlet: Before Charlie retires, I am challenging him to interview nobody. I'd like to see what he would do with an individual with a developmental disability who strove and failed. I want him to cut across the insularity of success and sit at that table with a cripple scorched by poverty, a squandered genius, and see what happens, because I've grown cynical about aesthetic bubbles, and the priesthood surrounding altered perspectives. It isn't that images cannot change the world, merely that we're all inundated to their previous power to move us. In the world of color rods in the cone of the iris, Sally's dead greyhound with it's head lolling on a fence, elongated body like the slash of an angel, is a dead dog. If it had been a crushed insect, we would have had a different reaction.
I'm dying. Before you tell me to go to the doctor, I've been to one, another young Asian resident who knows absolutely nothing except the pathology of various rote causations. My identity is beginning to submerge into my autonomous bodily functions. In part you can thank these motherfuckers with their subtle avarice, death panel profiteering at my expense; in part it is my social fear, but if I'm broken, I haven't been broken the way Trudy Richardson may believe: I did the recertification to stay on in 202 housing at the last possible second, but am ready to give my notice, abandon everything but my computer briefcase, shed my library, and roll, with nothing but a farthing, with the realization that with every sleep, I drift off into the end result, into an occlusion of my cardiovascular system, shrinking away. I've burrowed down very far, so far away there is no room for the recrimination of human social structures falling apart at the seams. I cannot sustain encroaching uselessness, and that is breaking me of its own accord.
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