Joe Caroll

Beneath the stark application of its squish bags, and its cheats, (we'll never see Purefoy actually killing the females who then comprise his dark art), The Following has a subtextual frustration with liberalism which appeals to Fox's audience. One can understand the need to gut progressive propensities and squelch around in the carnage, and beneath every moderate, domesticated middlebrow lies a secret zealot. The show's writers are careful to placate progressives in one possibly unrealistic sense. Caroll doesn't discriminate over whom he inducts. Perhaps due to political sensitivity, we do not see any Cambodian cult members, but blacks and whites and Indians are equal opportunity looms or hard ass informers, hence the show's dark humor between its graphic eruptions. Yet I cannot watch much of the series without an undercurrent of fear in my own vulnerability, one which Hannibal doesn't elicit. Both shows are applying ascetic values subversively, however. Both have an aesthetic defense, which I am not sure applies to the chances I've taken with my reactionary scorn.

Disability in Entertainment Arts will never be promoted in mainstream outlets, even if I clean it up and find a way to stop insinuating murder revenge plots according to powerful medieval Curia codes. Different as Britain's worldview is from Roman bloodlust, both imperial modalities understood ruthlessness, something which gave the original Avengers a modernist style which cannot be copied. I was a young girl during its American run, and its satirical arrows toward the superpower it spawned was over my head, but Emma Peel was an early and impossible superlative standard. I cannot wear leather without connoting granary sacks.  

Recertifications, half and half cookie

I do not believe in James Purefoy's acting, nor his character, but if Christopher Dorner had taken his pain, calculated better, and had attempted to become a genotype such that the fictional character Joe Carroll of The Following represents, I would have become an accessory after the fact for poor Christopher, and that goes for anyone with real balls enough to know that the American political system does not work, not nationally.

In Sex and the City, fans remember the Blair Underwood arc with Nixon, and how the extra who played one of the condominium owners raised the issue of the sports doctor with financials under pressure, then we swerved to the hot chocolate. Would those financials have continued to be investigated daily if the character had remained a recur?

Every nine months total strangers, adversaries, like Trudy, and Ludie (the infantilism here in black female names)-- I was living here before Ludie was hired, yet I have to give this girl total access to my financial information. I am about to refuse, and that will essentially force everyone's hand, including my own. I was once making close to 26,000 a year. What does Presby save in real dollars due to the fact that, through hands on experience, Ludie knows how to foot?

I do not begrudge Ludie her job, but this company has had its hand in ending my matriculation. I don't want to play this game anymore. This, for my internal sensibility, is the choice I have, the death of a thousand cuts because my credit rating is in the congestive heart failure of a marginal debt, in comparison to this young woman's, versus making myself homeless, an irrational act, because it is a fast rupture against the lethargy of failure.

Harvard has never posted one word, not as chastisement, nor pity, in response to my irritable volubility. Our interaction, as such, is an accommodation. Once in a while I follow her links, encourage her with the passion I once had, and she is too busy to argue with me to sing "here comes the sun," not that I know what she thinks. I can infer, however. The safety net in Texas is, I am assuming, harsher than eastern PA's, and a new location is not a cure for my life, but I need to make one last play toward mobility, and where I land, it will be my last act.

Oligarchs

"Snakes don't eat people."-- the incredulous Jennifer Lopez

Luis Llosa may have been offering a homage to Spielberg with Anaconda, but the film was ridiculous, barely lucid in its underlying subtext of preserving the Amazon's mystique. At this point in my life I fail to see why mechanical sharks and snake machines with a malevolent sense of humor shouldn't be made Secretary General of the United Nations, and if I ever get through The Feast of The Goat by Llhosa the novelist, I will have to view the filmmaker's adaptation, and this unwittingly brings me back to my trouble: my literacy fluency has done absolutely nothing for me, not in terms of personal security, and Llhosa has stated to English media repeatedly that he belonged to a Latin American left which thought it could change things. But that seemingly took forever in blue jeans.

Modernism changed literature and left it for dead, which does not mean that content will not continue to be sold as impulse products for consumers, but what has modernism done to the moral glue, the third chimpanzee's empathy? And by that I mean us, culling Jared's title. I have spent my entire life consuming the English novel and science fiction, and only later getting into the subtlety, sheer marvel, of the action taking place on the continent. Stendhal is more than Balzac's equal, and I can only wonder at where Marcel picked up his cues, not quite 100 years later-- but Joyce? If we were to superimpose Ulysses onto the scripts for The Following, aren't we saying that an abstract modality, taken to its absurd forms, makes it easier to clear the way for immolation? And yes, I get the subversive irony of the fact that James Purefoy brings the terminal degree scholar into the ever burgeoning tent of the American serial killer (hello to my internal vengeance driver). Late 20th century cold war thrillers were an early version of this video game mentality, with the real monster being the American operative flipped for money, or the thrill of it.

In the good old days, I would not have feared a Soviet agent. The Soviet agent believed in what Lenin and Stalin bequeathed, but today's Russian thugs lead us back to Bulgakov's ridicule, which doesn't need an apologia for its reductionist, dystopian tendencies. Bulgakov may not be the best counter example for me to use to bolster hostility towards Joycean meta-fictional overlay, because I may hear the jazz in Mikhail's masterpiece, but cannot say he is right about Christian orthodoxy, but unlike Joyce, Bulgakov is empathetic to the need for hope.

I said something stupid in group when some there asked me if I was a grad student. I said we have a lot to blame the Modernists for, in the accusative. Let me put it this way: I doubt Joyce could have foreseen Osama Bin Laden, but I can see what the rise of Al Qaida means when I read the mock epic of this over educated Anglo-Irishman.

Since I had my bowel impaction yesterday, went off schedule, and have to go to the store, I leave you with that questionable lucidity.