Crack Pipes

The opening of the 09 Pippa confused me at first due to still difficult ABC/WPVI reception, not West's direction. Woman directors tend to take more chances with vicious undercuts, and Rebecca's vintage is no exception. Initially I believed Bello, whom I tend to track through the buried anguish in those almond eyes, was the female lead, but I sorted the three blonds out before Arkin ran decrepitude to ground. Alan Arkin has recycled himself in interesting ways as the man who feels "the dirt in his mouth," but unlike my recent sexual appetites for hale septuagenarians, or the sandpaper smoothness  of Jason Beghe (yes, I'd like to fuck the actor in the latest Wolf formula, just as I said in archive), Arkin carries a lizard like repulsion more suited to my distaste for Andie MacDowell. Crush is less chancy than Pippa, but McKay brings us closer to truth about impermanence of human bonds, to find the motif swimming in the undercurrent of a vacant first decade farce.

Linda has her side of the story, my former supervisor. Louise, the detachable Munchkin from the James list (ouch) with whom I stupidly Joanne you stupid fuck became familiar, told me this was confusing--my topic cut into my obsessive, dangerous pain with pongo stick woman. My sister and brother say the same thing about my verves in email. Sometimes this is deliberate, a writer taking chances with fragmentation, and pain. Linda has wiped out many subordinates before me, and the only reason I gained any ground on her is because our breach with each other violated the center's sacred federal mandate, but my posts with so many hints, not only indicate trauma that resets at ground zero of a massive depression, but may leave her vulnerable. Live wire risk, but I want her punished, removed from the center, and compensation for my trauma, knowing full well the trigger, my mental corrosion, is life abuse anguish that she unwittingly made lethal. 

She did what she did in response to me mainly without much thought to it, and I pulled on her. Willpower to shut it down when she was really hurting me might have been the better part of impulse control which broke on me, but I cannot turn it back. If I haul Liberty into court, they will castigate my rather obvious fixation. I know this, but if I do nothing next time she will wind up killing another naive asshole. I did confuse her, but that was my subordination to her, fearful of being more forthright. 

I am one of those, the one who jumps if an alpha like Linda gave me the height, the altitude. A challenge for white chick resolution films. I am unkind to my own passive recipients like Louise. I did not want knowledge of her brittle bones, and regret that I created the situation for termination, which indicates I'm as fraudulent as Limda, on a smaller scale. The only impact I had on the younger woman was to cease the shared experience interchange, but I had to. The interaction became an obligation rather than a desire, and if my trust was destroyed by real people, her OI wasn't any guarantee of safe harbor. Had she wanted creative writing emulation, I might have reconsidered.

I haven't had sexual intercourse since 1997, angry with the husband for leaving me vulnerable; he neither cared nor had enough time. Maybe you can understand why Linda's voice preening about convulsions with such self satisfaction is still an emotional scourge. 

Shins on Jason Beghe's Shoulders

"I don't know what to tell you." -- the common toxic phrase of those without brain damage

On a lark I looked up my old history teacher. His telephone number is exactly the same, it seems, as when I was drifting away from his guidance way back in the city of Chester. He is not Jerry, which is obviously an arcane thing to write. My puppy love and melodramatic adolescent manipulation of the man is long dead, but not when it comes to Jerry. My subconscious keeps using the itinerant Shakespearean to torture me, and I know why and even realize what it's doing, but I cannot beat my breasts and flay myself alive either. He was Italian, the history teacher, and I'm guilty of having pulled on him too hard, just as the absence of presence of Christopher and Dana Reeve haunts me for no good reason on the face of the Earth. It may have something to do with how quickly the couple died.

Don't have little brothers. Don't drop your mask, split your heart fifty times over more than anyone deserves. Mine has particular reasons why he scuttles behind the credenza, hiding like any vulnerable mammal. I've never used it against him, the circumstances of his birth, and thus never imagined we'd be here. He lurks around my online profile and won't return my phone calls, rescinded his invitation to pay a visit. I would have enjoyed being a proactive aunt; I won't rumble to the extent of thundering fuck the little bastard, but will slam something with our tried and true idiomatic sealant.

Fuck it. Find someone like Beghe, a man whose maturity seems well preserved and therefore sexually interesting, spreading your legs over his shoulder blades to stop spasmodic jack knives of pain when on the receiving end. He plays his conniving cop with the orchestrated poise of a Capuchin. I'd like one but would have to let the cats go, in fun and games with a preposterous movie. Then again, what would I do with a primate trained to flick switches and pick things up. At some point it would bite me.

Kinetic Comorbidity

"You're being sucked into a void you that can't control." -- Joe Biden, secondary consoler

In the 2001 Hannibal, Gary Oldman plays Mason Verger, a survivor of Dr. Lecter's distinctive methods. In typical melodramatic fashion, Harris utilizes the character for didactic purposes, assuming the novel bears a family relation to the screenplay. Being utterly consumed with the desire to destroy evil puts you on an even footing with evil itself. How such a hideously deformed victim had the command to create an elaborate pit of boars with which to trap the psychiatrist stretches credulity, but it signifies the standard industry conceit of the diabolical invalid who barks orders at more able minions. Bongo Mbutuma, if I am accurate enough in my narrow casting, performs the same function in District 9, as the Nigerian warlord who wants prawn power. In earlier films such as Monkey Shines and Gattaca, Jason Beghe and Jude Law are allowed some latitude to flesh out the misery within their character arcs, but their own tyranny destabilizes their moral balance. I should not make this pun, but, as someone in the life, Monkey Shines is a fucking joke as far as its plot and its sex goes, but Beghe does deserve credit for encapsulating the frustrations of a sum zero mobility accurately.

The flip side of this is the Hallmark Hall of Fame paraplegic, the Roy Campanella bio epic of the week, the sentimental commiseration  tale of which I dunno if My Left Foot is an included nomenclature.

In entertainment, there seems to be no tertiary space just to be a real wheelchair user, unless you're Daryl Mitchell, with the fortune to be produced by David Letterman.

I am aware of the black actor with the respiratory ailment who was a recur on Malcolm in the Middle, but viewers of this popular comedy never got to see what it took for this character to engage in matriculation. The director of Ed was brave, toward the end run of the series, to take a long capture of Mitchell getting out of bed, then struggling to put on his socks. The power of the video age is such that viewers need to see more of this for their edification.