Flora, Fauna, Cashew butter

"But we like suffering."-- Sebastiano Somma

The Woods, being an 06 release, doesn't lack for atmosphere, but as an allegory for the destruction of Camelot, I am still trying to put the thread through the needle. In this instance, the plot summaries do not fill in the gap. Absentee fathers who make promises they cannot keep, those are long realized, but the wardrobe, the hairstyles are too Kennedyesque not to suggest the worst of the ecosystem against the urbane liberalism built on the corruption of bootlegging during Prohibition. Beyond the implication, however, the feminine anguish loses me. Patricia Clarkson is getting on my nerves, and even when it goes to syndication, I'm skipping Learning to Drive on purpose. 

Clarkson has a range similar to Jane Alexander, pensive Protestant females with good breeding who encompass the disjunctive as best they can within the fine tuned chiseled features: thin lips, kept figure, a nurturing conduit of more mothering than sensual definition. I have had the runs for three days, incommoded with sickly sweet stench, washing the mattress of my damnation, today it is the power chair cushion, and this is happening because I've ceased transferring to my shower stool, in order not to corrode the Jazzy engines, since I shall have to make due with this model at least another year.

I do not mind that I'm sloppy, but losing to a filthy downgrade is another matter, and attendants are not going to tolerate this level of battle fatigue. I give up, resign my fate, go insane in an institution. Commiseration will not alter this reality.

I did construct a plan. I finally settled on one, and hope it will not cause an extreme internal struggle, not that I'm ready for it, fortuitous or otherwise, I cannot seem to go down, not quietly. Is this necessarily beneficial? Time to clean the soil, once again. 

Auto Struct Alpha

"I wasn't rude enough to let them know what I was thinking."  -- Patrick Stoner, passionate Sherman detractor

Careful attention was paid. How Stewart's voice rose across the table from the intrepid interviewer whose mannerisms and verbal stilettos where formed in the states of American feudalism, but who knew when to hold back with the classically trained presence before him. "Why did he do it?" Patrick's voice rose an octave, not losing control but invested, trying to sort out the enigmatic nature of Shakespeare's darkest protagonist. Macbeth is less John F Kennedy getting his magisterial head blown off like a ripe melon, more Eliot Spitzer using his prosecutorial techniques to rationalize the perfect legitimacy of his needs to exhort power through ejaculation. Any literary mind can relate to Patrick's outcry. Why in the name of god does a good lieutenant destroy the sanctity of his place of honor in the realm and over reach, triggering an apocalyptic bloodbath? Beneath this is the unspoken frustration in the mind of a man who knows no matter how well trained he is, his fame rests on his inexplicable role as a Frenchman with an English accent in a children's science fiction series that turns grown men and women into loons, hence his modulated dialectical mentorship and rivalry with Ian Holm, who can play a synthetic android and escape being fenced in by a figure like Jean Luc Picard.

Stewart owes a great deal to Rick Berman's send up of European finesse, despite the entrapment, but the hints of frustration remain for public distillation. In his minor roles of ruthless villainy, one could envision Stewart actually inhabiting the Union's terrorist general, the one who raped the Shenandoah Valley. William T Sherman's destruction of the South was necessary. His mind was brilliant, critical, calculating, compartmentalizing native tribesmen into nuisance thugs. His brutality paved the way for this modern world where identity is paramount and genocidal in the same breath, and true value is in the efficiency profit margin.

We can't all be matinee icons.