The Antecedents of Nolle Prosequi in Semi-Darkness

"nothing to see here"-- Randy Barnett, former sardonic prosecutor

One of the dowager’s waylaid theses, due to the continuing calamity of age and equipment breakage, was an examination of Jodie Foster, primarily due to her chameleon on screen swivels; her mature performances represent a chink in the armor of homosexual lifestyles as a statement of defiance. A critic need not necessarily have all of Miss Foster’s biographical details present and accounted for to actualize her thematic interest in women who provoke strong reactions, female characters violently thrust out of the mainstream, or willing to utilize violence to restore her place as a productive member of society. On occasion, these characters are guided or misguided through the process of discovery and revelation. In The Accused (1988), the mission statement film of its time, the resistance to Foster as Tobias, and the subsequent conversion to her cause, pivots on Kelly McGillis as the initially pragmatic DA Kathryn Murphy, whose methodology can be compared to the controversial State Attorney for Cook County, Kim Foxx. We might also interject here a contra-indicator to Nick Gillespie’s assertion that libertarians “suspends judgment” because in this particular Reason headline Robby Soave is being a scold in relation to the conduct of the SA. It brings to mind the rapid fall from grace of a real Attorney General, Kathleen Kane, whose white privilege was so conspicuous in the gradations of American liberalism that she is now a pariah in a Montgomery County prison, a betrayer of the public trust.

Foster revisits some of the motifs from her other films in The Brave One (2006), a mid-life dramatic failure for the darling of Martin Scorsese, but this overwrought revenge fantasy introduced Terrence Howard as a possible figure of reconciliation in his guise as Mercer, which I’ve mentioned before, in my burrowed archives of buckling strength. He subsequently garnered attention, as a short lived prosecutor for the now satirized Law & Order expansions on the basis of geography, the producer in Crash, a meridian character at best, the bifurcated mogul in Amazon’s despairing Electric Dreams. If my viewers believe my next move is to convey that Howard gives me license to enter into the Empire saga, now leeched into Chicago’s gritty underside, they would be wrong. I have been silent on the Smollett scandal, despite recent research, because nearly all players involved come out of this with the faint odor of garbage attached to them, not that hoaxes can't expose a greater hypocrisy, but all Jussie seems to have done here is snap his own spine, and then gave Foxx leeway to sabotage whatever her aspirations amounted to, in the face of such blatant favoritism. These aren't as grave as the charge and convictions thereof leveled at Kane, but there is still a degree of paternalism involved. Progressives tend to be apologists for black women, even if they fail ethical standards long accepted for the patrician class. If there is any light at the end of the tunnel here, conservatives on Twitter deserve credit for smelling a red herring early on in January's polar temperatures.

Pin Cushions, Pitch Black

Natasha Richardson, in my estimation, never really seemed to fit in her films, except for The Handmaid's Tale, and in that laughably histrionic Margaret Atwood vehicle, none of the big names fit, because it was a turbo charged warning which was so grandiose that it metamorphoses its own mockery. Often the industry does this intentionally. Sometimes my own heaviness achieves this by accident. Alpha and Beta is a case in point. I showed it to one of the agency aides, in my nine year revolving door with the system, before I let Mary Johnson have it for her now defunct site, and I expected that Esmin the easy Jamaican soul would have been offended. "You're funny!" she said, laughing, on her scan of the final page. I wasn't trying to be. My world had shattered, and I was desperately trying to glue the egg back together, and in a rather convoluted sense, this entire account is a sort of vomit on my ruptured idealism. I screamed in Linda's voicemail, in my nervous breakdown, during that fresh turn of the century, (think I'm recovered?) "I believed in you!" And that is the truth. I thought she represented a triumph of integration.

Today, I am in fact much closer to Karl Shapiro's defense of the notorious Tropic of Cancer, which I am still reading. Miller is, for me, a stop and start nihilist, and though he is terrific with oral cadence, and a necessary voice, he isn't a great writer, hardly as canonical as his defenders would like. Henry James achieved more with his attenuation in the relic of the Victorian age than any of the leftists who mushroomed in the thirties. Miller is so raw he makes the throbbing radioactive vein in my chest seem cowardly, when I discuss which minority [substitute nigger bitches if you are in the she needs lithium like her mother category] exploited me in what fashion. They were not all uncouth brassy caste stricken Medicaid recipients, but a substantial minority of all those women in my revolving door have taken their toll. With my every transfer a feat of engineering physiological memory, I'm damned unless my remaining intellect can pick up my body after my next mistake, can guilt trip my way out of my corporate landlord before I lose myself, and I am doing that, at only fifty three, numb with apathy and avoidance, resilient only because of a corrosive-- well, I understand, in certain respects, the destructive attractions of the jihadists, though for me decapitation is lame. Everyone can breathe easy there.

So it perplexes me. Natasha Richardson cannot internalize, like Jodie Foster, who was a great actress because she internalized identity conflict. Ms Foster is not Ellen. DeGeneres radiates dyke like a wallowing hippo. Jodie Foster doesn't fit the categorical LBGT mold. Oh, I am not challenging her private intimacy so much as complimenting what will soon be lost, and that is the ambiguity of the outsider. It is what has made the child actor with whom so many of us came of age a powerhouse. Richardson, by contrast, is a two dimensional doll for thirteen year olds, hard to cast in the appropriate venue, but it is her role in Past Midnight which triggered my recent distress, conjoined with Benitiz's outreach. The soldier did not do anything wrong, exactly, and I never understood Hang Outs and now, duh, it is a chat scroll, but I am done whoring myself for nothing and should have ignored him. If I can find a divorcee like Cecil Morales who has the intellectual affinity for which I am starved, which is why I cannot forgive Josie Byzek, then yes, I'll take him, but I do not want anymore PC fantasy, as such. I was never shallow enough.

Natasha often paid a heavy price for similar psychological risks, despite the fact she'll never have a legacy beyond historical relevance, unlike Vanessa.

Ultima Preda: Chances of Fortune

"I take the side of the animals though," Terrence Hill, Eastwood's dialectical absudist

There are reasons Natasha Richardson interests me as an industry standard-bearer, particularly when juxtaposed against Jodie Foster, the child tom boy who never played lesbian but still challenges gender in subtle fashion, even as a forceful straight heroine who will do what she has to for an imperiled daughter or son. Sequenced into this, Past Midnight is your standard plot point thriller, nothing particularly special about it or Richardson's performance, except that it has the visceral undercurrents that are pertinent to the faux feel good economy of the first Clinton presidency. As an aside, I have no reason to give a flying fuck if Hillary prevails, as the Obama administration managed to kill me; I simply didn't realize this when I supported Barack in the Pennsylvania primary in 2008. If I thought I was a gasping fish out of water in my very early forties, I was under a misapprehension, as I may be hanging on nearly a decade later, but just that, despite consumption of fish oil; Hillary, it is sort of a naturalized anathema. The husband was sexually intriguing, liked women too much, and it remains an embarrassment that his seminal fluid became an impeachment vote while Saudi Arabia's bin Laden was brewing his spectacular blow. There is enough blame to go around for 9/11, but morally Clintonian narcissism was a nearly fatal distraction, so I cannot quite forgive the 42nd president, and think the left is incredibly stupid to elevate his wife for her public injuries in relation to Bill's philandering, but that is the United States, in a nutshell: a pretty woman who wants to engage in social justice becomes a social worker, sets eyes on Rutger Hauer, who cannot possibly be guilty in his role as a slightly more attractive genotype of Anthony Hopkins-- just as Clancy Brown is a tinsel variation on Ron Perlman, who had the courage to humiliate himself as second in rank in The Quest for Fire. Natasha's Laura preens off compliments, picks up her torch, and gets drawn into a threat which would keep most women under psychiatric care for the rest of their lives. Pluralism rarely takes account of the toll in its insistence on the inherent intrinsic value.


We never get to see the aftermath. Films aren't very good at evolving, or in this case, devolving characters, this is why Victor Hugo could write a tome like Les Miserables and we have flawed great classics that do embody full lives of our projected alter egos, even if they are ponderous reads, but Past Midnight strikes chords in terms of how liberalism crushes the spirit of the noble crusade, and ties in with the ambulatory carelessness of Richardson's 2009 death. Yes, on the surface, this seemingly content and happy starlet with her authentic Hollywood romance was simply the victim of a mishap. Beneath the surface, she really wasn't thinking about her age and the risks of learning to ski at 45. Foster, as a more conflicted woman, would have been more instinctually wary. The greater the talent, the better the intuition. Spastic was never held at knife point by a rural slasher with womb triggers, but the dowager has been subjected to everything else short of attempted murder, and yet, even in victimhood, remains, surviving with rage addicted tenacity, while Natasha's vivacious privilege becomes the suddenly absent, perhaps more to her fortune than the pondering with which we cling to temporal circumstance. As a figurine, a paper cut out of the Clinton era, she manages to let the pieces of her part in this film fall into place.

Free Radical Amphibian

The event left her with an enduring dread of cats-- Antonio Frank

The shepherd which had to be buried in the 1993 Sommersby looked like a real dog, and perhaps it was, enjoyed playing dead for an anticipated treat. Richard Gere and Jodie Foster are known quantities by this time, 22 years ago. Mature blooms, certainly not harried by small felines who need to take two hours to cajole beleaguered wheelchair users to watch them eat, then complain, as small carnivores will, wishing to be what they are, but have their cake in the caretaker, a simultaneous desire, which, when all is said and done, remains a contradiction, unless a feral state beckons. Would you adopt cats?

Sommersby is about identity and who we want to be, a not uncommon conceit in historical dramas, where a coward grows into an extraordinary gesture of courage, even if he cannot pick sides in the amorphous spectrum between the blue and the gray. One moment Foster epitomizes the regal widow, and the next she is the tomboy those of my generation grew up with, to become such a conflicted childhood celebrity whose coming out was a mumble.

Foster was confusing because her persona is complex, as veracity is complex. As far as I know, she never played a butch onscreen outright, and this was too her benefit as such a remarkable performance artist we're not likely to see again, as we ossify orientation with identity, and though I am not God, and that is a good thing-- I'd break the covenant with Noah and rain the apocalypse on our hoary pates-- I think Foster is in conflict about her femininity. She certainly wants to be viewed as sexually attractive to men in a good portion of her films, especially The Brave One, 2007, which is necessarily intense, to justify its brutality, full circle back to Taxi Driver (eh). Her ambidextrous duality is intriguing at its most challenging, and yet, there is a certain trigger, hostile to the fact she settles for simulation of intercourse, dildos, kitten tricks for comfort. Is it due to vulnerability, the dark side of Hinckley's claim of susceptibility? Her publicist would never let me wrap her in shrink wrap like this, but she is a deconstruction, the boy girl imprint of my adolescence, and all things being equal, however she bankrolled her economic security for her gentle dimming down as the marquee A-list superstar, she'll outlive me, barring I painlessly replace the hated indolence of my flesh, the complexity of her translation of difference not so easily grasped, by identity militants, by moderates, by her fans. I'd wrote, in archive, that I'd give her a pass, and my study of her in media is still indicative of that, but I'd push her, if I ever figure out my contention and its motif. I'd pry, not to get at her responsibility for deranged assassins, since she has none, but for her responsibility to womanhood, her conflicted signaling within her pliant strength, determination, fuzzy metaphysical conclusions.

Black Adder, Wobbly Amin

"I am not kind, I'm vicious. It is part of my charm." -- Clifton Webb

Forest Whitaker oozes with a glutton's agitation. In a world where whites like the hard menace of Shaft, Whitaker is Fat Albert, edgy and twisted with angst by turns, this asserted with only passing familiarity with his recur on The Shield (a series worthwhile here for its stark honesty; I know, I know, I may never get to it, and only know as much as I do about it because Fox ran it after midnight for a stint and I regret not taking more care--another day). But I do not mesh with viewing Chiklis for much the same reason.

Hypermania is difficult to perform without annoying your audience. Chiklis has it, James Woods finesses it. Whitaker wobbles attitudinally, which is why he fails as a lead. Playing off Foster in Panic Room just works. Prat boy with conscience picks a side, securing his sentence in the process, but Diary of A Hitman doesn't, because it's a slobber, much as of course casting him as the colorful African tyrant.

Big daddy is a fading species. Idi. Papa Doc. Baby Doc. They peopled our latter day socialist stagnation, which is now going to send our republic into convulsions. I am drawing closer to George Will's colorful umbrage, and think the president should resign, but then again, the 43rd president is a war criminal. The 44th dulls Harvard's preeminence considerably. I no longer believe in the American two party system. I do believe Whitaker has an authentic touchstone in The Crying Game. Fat boy out of his depth, playing the hand he had, with bleary gaze, just enough blubber to evince inner city terrain and poor nutrition. This leads to brain plaques, the aggression of dementia. His portraitures may be adept, but not memorial in any conflated measure of acclaim.

Perhaps intense malevolence does have a ripple herd like effect, given the extraordinary cluster of spree killing episodes we have to field. Perhaps the Coke a Cola security footage commercial has a point.

What are Hoodies But Cloaks as Fashion Statements?

no boy will take me because I was born without a nose-although I am a good dancer and have a nice shape-- Miss Lonelyhearts, page 2

Grumbling. I need to get myself on the journo list to make myself available to the paparazzi junket, deploying the term loosely. Patrick Stoner says you put your name on it, this list. I'll turn blue before any salaried member of the fourth estate informs me how this is done. Reluctant admission that one likes Jonathan Rhys-Meyers a little better this evening, though fucking the enemy started on True Blood. One can take pride in a strength which has not yet led to the typical tactics of Caucasian self-destruction, or is it merely functional inability? I glanced at the headlines for our newest network fresh face, and Jonathan babe, you don't know how lucky you are; my adventures amount to not falling off my bath chair. I do not let myself drink as I did when an undergraduate, though you could tell me a few things about wardrobes, the pressures of continuity on a derivative period drama. 

I found an interviewing celebrities module, which earns a belly hiccup of amusement. Despite what some of you may believe, I am not out to break down the insulating level of security people like Jodie Foster need. I don't care who has bipolar disorder, who has a sexual fixation with Obama, who is cheating in the Zeta-Jones saga, nor even who has a cross dressing fetish in green stockings. I'm after a different kind of veracity about performing and film, something similar to the highbrow analysis Kidman did for The Others (2001). That feature profile stays with me because it was damn decent writing examining craft front and center and I can't remember who did it, a WaPo syndicate, more than likely.

Why am I talking to any of you out loud? 

As tolerant European culture is toward Jaye Davidson's Dil, transvestites always seem to have criminality associated with them, no matter how feminine, something not necessarily the fault of the public at large, though she-males transition into popularity with much less success. Willa Cather did males in drag, but her celebrity wasn't derived from that. Jaye stands front and center, however, in a film that seems to convey our seductions matter more than ideological conviction. The actual center of the love story is between Rhea and Whitaker. Dil is merely triumphant in The Crying Game because Rhea's Fergus is guilty. The black soldier he holds hostage breaks past the barrier of conviction, something of a stigma the former terrorist will carry beyond the terms of his sentence. Is Davidson reticent because he is too successful as a gender chameleon?

I don't know how to meet a good man anymore, one who would be interested in me, for myself. Frank said he loved me but I never felt that, and it is irrelevant anyway, due to his poor social skills and my contempt. Before him I have simply an interesting string of rebuffs, a wearied cumulative effect. 

How do you find a companion to walk with you in your last fifteen or twenty years? Is it too much of an effort, habituated as I am?

Queens, Courtiers, Something Other Than Bianary

If I write the abstract and submit the abstract and as a proposal the abstract is accepted, I shall then be trapped, and viewers will only see a post like a yelp in the dark while I attempt to gain access to vaunted European film directors. I did not realize Alejandro would be young and pleasing to the eye. There is a distinct possibility an (the) abstract would not be accepted, but that does not rip out the fingernails. Remember Peter O'Toole's no audio screams? Being a dry literary critic is annoying. We want to medicalize art, dice it an slice it in our fascination with our own aesthetic inclinations, distracting ourselves from flight or fight responses to our frustrating inability to ask the Why? about life. Why is the misdirected question. Henry James is an obsession, and this has cycles of love and hate, stupid little patsy, not very well educated, and yet his insight into repression, his mastery of insinuation that makes me look for the damn code to loosen that twist of the screw, I cannot stand it, and my critique of James is essentially life long warfare to catch him, beat it out of him. This is why I forgive his tortured sexuality, regardless of how active it was or wasn't. I see his struggle, but mine was not the same. My brain is too injured for that paradigm, my body forcibly altered and fused, I did not envision lesbian games growing up, and that my own sex finds suckling teats attractive beyond weaning, this was classified as regressive. The Gay Shame cover, recollected, is reminiscent of the advanced homo sapiens body paint in The Quest for Fire, a pastiche allegory of a film, one which no longer impresses me, though it was one of the few times Jerry and I discussed rape as victimology over a way of life. Let us be lenient on the cinematic quality. It is a visually engaging narrative.

Queer theory is an intractable problem, intractable in terms of progressives with "untrammeled" glee (George Will's adjective) salivating over homoerotic subversion in literature and theater when it doesn't reflect real world consequences, and my willingness to make notable exceptions adds to the difficulty of getting out from under; it is an objection based on more than personal trauma, though insecure body image weighs into it, and failed associations cemented the deal. The thesis extrapolated from this is that homosexual culture being given *equal* legal and social status is unsustainable, which is not to plea for elimination, as that would be impossible. This does not mean there aren't gradations, evolutionary values in play, and more than a few of my old associates are on the extreme end of that scale. Jodie Foster is not, but there is more to it than the fact that she is not aggressive about lesbian identity. Sexual choices should not be an identity; sexual preferences as a classification is problematic, and I fail to see why celebrity status necessitates lack of privacy in personal affairs. Why can't we reformulate these membranes? Why do we need to know Ms Foster's personal intimacies, or see Montgomery Clift's war films as code for a faggot outcast who is made expendable? But The Young Lions, From Here To Eternity, these have to be read that way, even if we chuckle at the stigma of Ulysses as the dirty book, the forbidden book, annihilating formulaic stricture to reduce us to mucous. What a mucous, what a damn machine we are, humanity.   

The White Whale

The conniving bitch finally received the demotion she was to be penalized with under Fern, another stellar Judean witch, fourteen years ago. It had nothing to do with the institutional suborning of Linda's criminal malfeasance. Liberty would be the first to tell you this. Linda Dezenski might have buckled under the pressure, and the poisoned neurosis of my pain over their institutional cruelty is my problem, but to continue to expose to you why their Orwellian behavior is a poisoned pill that needs to be dismantled before it is too late-- the executive titles listed are nothing, a bogus conflation of the sort that the dystopians taught us to worry about, especially Kafka.

Tom Earle lists himself as *CEO* over semantic sensitivity/insecurity, to belie marginalization, but the lie only magnifies what this particular center evades with glaring lack of success: Liberty is a caste system for individuals who do not even merit the status of an oppressed minority. Thomas Earle is not Jamie Dimon. Thomas Earle is a legally blind disability lawyer with squirrel nuts for an excuse, and he is an executive director. Linda was assistant director just shy of 15 years, and got booted back to managing attendant care on the community integration model. Liberty also does nursing home in sourcing. Nearly the same difference, with the institutional racism even more pronounced. It makes me physically sick, literally, that I worked with these motherfuckers, that I allowed them all to denigrate me for so many years as less than human. I take my therapy about it from Mariska, and only recently remembered that if getting access to Jodie Foster as a disability journalist is nuanced with complexity, Hargitay is less so, and I connect with her as a life long victim of sexual assault. Olivia Benson got it twice, as did Sofia Vassilieva's Sarah. Me? I literally cannot give you an exact count, and my only solace is a veteran television actress in a veteran formula who hits the appropriate key notes.

Put this in the context that I cannot get away from the psychological pain of seeing all sorts in the *Liberty Resources* family daily, as a constant reminder. I can never go home again, but that home is little more than a criminally incompetent syndicate, however hollow my stark satisfaction. I know forcing Linda's termination is next to nothing, but what Liberty represents is little better than Daria Cassini's life sentence. What kind of dissidence would you attribute to her?

If I had committed to staying in the academic system, don't suppose for a moment that progressives would not have continued to impede their notions of equality with judgments against me; this too was life long in experience. I have been thinking about solutions for a long time, and in more filler moments, those wheels will grind. In the interim, Nathaniel should send me something to review We all know beauty and the beast, yes?

Chapter 17, Four Seasons in Damascus

What in water did Bloom, waterlover, drawer of water, watercarrier, returning to the range, admire?-- James Joyce, Ulysses, pg 522

Balefully intrigued, I may look at Almost Human beyond the pilot, but it presupposes a successful reintegration of damaged individuals, and this strains credulity, regardless of how futuristic the techniques of law enforcement, and the expenses of production being such that we need preseason press conferences, though perhaps these have always existed since the creation of movie cameras. Despite this blog, and despite the fact that I hope to develop a few articles out of it, and know I am good enough to interview Jodie Foster, I am still studying however, and waiting for a respectful idea to percolate that is different but still publishable, despite all this, I loathe the industry most of the time, despite its significant intersection with literature. If we are not utterly lampooning on the side of Milton Berle and The Three Stooges, or depicting a hackneyed dime novel on the set, these days, we are rigorously imitating the collapse of the United States, and I can see Jay Carney playing himself in a film funded by the MPLA once the dust settles, and the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia realigns itself with China for regional hegemony.

It is actually about regime change, and I am angry enough to be dangerous. What holds me in check is not physical helplessness, though that is an issue; it is the knowledge that if I wanted to engage in an insurrection I'd lose, and also the understanding that I could not do any better than all the other assholes in politics. If NBC cancels Hannibal I will take to the streets. I understand Syrians are suffering, but the US has been engaged in failed military action in the Islamic world for over a decade. John McCain keeps rationalizing like a caveman hinging on our military superiority. That superiority isn't going to hold or even last very long when the social safety net keeps spitting out shattered lives.

Nubile Antecedents

When she looked in the glass and saw her hair grey, her cheek sunk, at fifty, she thought, possibly she might have managed things better--her husband; money; his books.-- Virginia Woolf, To The Lighthouse, p.14

Michael Apted engages cinematic allusions as well as the dramaturgical in his direction of Nell, and perhaps even some narrative traditions. According to the lucky theater critic, Handley was aware of this in the production of his play, but the film superimposes a diachronic continuum with the history of Grizzly Adams, the short lived Lucan, or Truffaut's rigorous battle as an auteur. What about on set romances that seem to be requisite to belong to the screen actors guild, or Foster's characterization of Nell's rape phobia as a mythological echo, even older than the taunts of demonic possession in The Exorcist?

What I am driving at is my willingness to equivocate on Jodie Foster's public projection of her sexual ambiguity, despite my betrayed disdain and contempt for my fuck wit neighbor. It involves more than her life long navigation from child actor celebrity to contemporaneous diva. As an artist, Ms. Foster seems wary of binary definitions of otherness. Certainly not present in all her roles, it is still an important subtext in many of them, a willingness to evade certain aspects of identity that I can respect.

I could push this post a little further, but we shall return to it, my health permitting. Lithium batteries are an untrustworthy crutch, and my frustration with their flimsy durability is of the sort that makes the ambulatory frightened of me. Tomorrow is an event day. Rare thing.

Two Corners, Many Shades

I love the people,
But do not like to stage me to their eyes:
Through it do well, I do not relish well
Their loud applause and Aves vehement;
Nor do I think the man of safe discretion
That does affect it. --Measure for Measure (1.1.67-72)

Foster's forgettable reticence is interesting. Fathomable? This is something that has preoccupied me for the two and half thankless years I have had a blogging account. She is not merely my contemporary, of course, and would not be the actor she is if her talent did not in some sense speak to the American soul. The pretty tomboy, the man girl who dares to transmute a vibrant sexuality, a fast-paced self-reliance that flows with her wit. I tend to think the media backlash she received over Hinckley was a form of moral castigation otherwise unfair to the woman. Taxi Driver was a Scorsese vehicle thick as thieves with Actors Studio methodology and experimentation that doesn't quite pan. Let me put it this way: I have been socially inappropriate with men in order to get laid, and the end result is I am alone with weak legs and a colon which has a mind of its own. Bickle's disturbed mind just doesn't seem consistent with his action of taking a golden girl to a sex education movie. It is akin to me rolling down to the lobby naked after I had enticed the husband, and that isn't an end game, even for a war veteran who is a wounded lone wolf. I have not approached Foster's publicist yet, and perhaps there is no way I could get around the formulaic industry promotional interview to do something different, and this includes the fact that I do not give a flying fuck what she thinks about Hinckley, an assassin of pretend who is notorious for attempting to murder a B-grade actor who had a chimpanzee side kick, an actor who believed in the blacklist during the tenure of his presidency of the screen actors guild before he was senile in the office currently held by a law student who needs to dismiss our highest federal law enforcement official.

I do not agree with McCain about much, but he is an astute politician enough to know when Principals mortally wound themselves. Did you notice Holder's hand shaking in his recent congressional testimony? I did, but in fairness to the Clintonian, I cannot remember any attorney general who was capable of running the DOJ. Holder's competence has been a steady spear in Barack's side since those giddy post-election days in 09 when he opened his mouth about race relations. He just doesn't embody the command and the ability to administer, to adjudicate terrorism, to hold his officers accountable for mismanaged operations.

Near midnight defecation disaster fortunately avoided, I did consider killing myself during the turn of the century. I am not quite sure what force of will stops me, what belief. Defiance has a great deal to do with it. My mind is focused on my leg strength. The level of pretense surrounding Hinckley's nearly successful attempt almost places us in Chesterton's landscape, now that I focus on it. Young Foster was pretending to be Martin's Lolita; Hinckley was pretending anarchy for the pretend kiddie hooker, and Reagan pretended his mettle had solid foundation. I wrote an essay supporting Reagan over Carter and bumped my GPA up significantly. 

Nautica

The distinguished scientist Herr Professor Luitpold Blumenduft tendered medical evidence to the effect that the instantaneous fracture of the cervical vertebrae and consequent scission of the spinal cord would, according to the best approved tradition of medical science, be calculated to inevitably produce in the human subject a violent ganglionic stimulus of the nerve centres of the genital apparatus, thereby causing the elastic pores of the corpora cavernosa to rapidly dilate in such a way as to instantaneously facilitate the flow of blood to that part of the human anatomy known as the penis--Ulysses, page 289

Joyce and his whore house venereal disease, saved by a chambermaid. According to this sensibility I should have seen Frank and his spic Bronx survival skills as a blessing, this from an ex-fiance who only told me later that he had bee exposed to the herpes virus and that he nearly asphyxiated the cousin wife who left him, and yes, I turn back to him, but only because of our history, however negative. "I cannot become like you!" I rage, and this is cruel to his pus laden flesh, never even started the murder mystery where his killer remains undetected because I do not know how to break off closure for a killer who is not caught, a Hannibal of my own. How much trophy fucking Bryan Fuller must be able to tap. Blows a kiss.  Television is growing up. Bryan baby you've just got it down man.

I do not know if I would not kill Linda for real, given her illegal humiliation from which I have (obviously), never fully recovered. If you want to know what in part prevented me from filing with the EEOC, I wrote to her that "I'd like to kill you." And I was afraid the government would not take my case. The statement encapsulates the lack of restraint; 14 years ago it was an idiomatic outlash written out of hurt, anger. In no way literal then, now I am not sure, quite honestly. Poor little crip joint, it would not take much for me to beat her clock, drive to Liberty, start what would amount to an illegal confrontation, and thus force a change in my life, getting myself arrested because of incompetent case management, interpersonal cruelty that only she and I remember, except that she left it behind, the sociopathic weasel who complies with her leash as long as her seniority is respected.

Think you need to put me back on probtheme? Well, if that day ever comes, I will not announce my plans beforehand. Missed Little Man Tate this afternoon, unfortunately, because I am not done with Foster's importance to my thematic intent.

I invested far too much in my iconic sensibility toward Linda, but it mattered because she was the only woman ever like me who wielded power. I tried to follow her example and the price tag wound up too traumatic. I did not follow through on the belief of my instructors either and if I am still a functional journalist?

Linda's response to you about these issues would be, aside from pointing out the anxiety in my transmissions, generated by knowledge that default would be a nightmare from which I could not escape, is that she fobbed me off on her dead coordinator Gil, who in turn fobbed me off on his local actress associate from painted bride. This amounts to additional insult onto injury, no more or less than that. What Linda did doesn't rise to the level of a sexual harassment case, not if President Clinton could drop his pants in front of Jones and get away with it, which he did; I was the party engaged in the urgency of communique, as well.

But my economic security was in jeopardy, and for eight months she treated me like her own personal Igor, and subsequently made it impossible for me to utilize Liberty without continuing to salt the wounds of what had become an abusive paradigm, and I have not been able to remove myself from it since-- how would you feel with this level of helplessness in a barren environment?

Trying to swallow broken glass. An inmate at Bellevue survived this; a vegetable, tube in his stomach, if memory serves. 

Fallen Woman: Corollary

I thought of another interlocking subtext, one which I have skirted around, and highlight here, briefly: As different as the fifties and the eighties were from each other, the establishment media takes the prerogative upon itself to assume that an actor's opinion about real events has some sort of validity for the public. Susan Hayward's assessment of Barbara Graham's innocence or lack thereof was solicited, just as, after the attempted assassination of Reagan, I do not think it much of an exaggeration to say that Jodie Foster was virtually assaulted by the press. I remember all this vividly, ignorant at the time of Taxi Driver's full impact. I have stated my sympathy for my talented contemporary, but I think there is something deeper going on here, perhaps a Puritan indictment of theatricality?

Half Century Skin

It must be nice for a playwright to spawn something like Heaven Can Wait.
Segall may be a footnote, but his conceit bridges two centuries, and I can think of four, five other films besides the 41 original, only the David Niven version of mild weight, having the right touchstone for its English fable qualities. What underlies the fantasy mechanism between that sacred and profane in temporal transit, is the resolution of interrupted fulfillment. I am sore, perhaps a symptom of diabetes, even though I do not abuse my diet as badly as my mother, on my elbows, and where I bend, under my belly, and I am not ready for prime time. It has turned rather chilly very quickly, and, if I can haul myself out later today, I may need more than my shawl, trying to make breakfast, fighting languor.

We all have to die, at least, thus far; we are not anemones. Some biologists think they are immortal under environmental constants. I would not want immortality, but dying unresolved and unhappy will only increase my anger, sharpen my bitterness. All I want to do is move, and I might as well be igniting the start of the Afghanistan action, rather than watching its withered climax. I am unreasonable and must have a hole in the head if I believe I can leave public housing in this climate, but my weariness is in my marrow, and I am not allowed even this level of selfishness, a change of environment. I opted in for hash browns patties, just two, because I am going back to bed. It may be the fall air. My rage builds, then crashes, builds again, feeling like I have been duped my entire damn life, a naive dunce. Many of my early posts on this study looked at Jodie Foster's film career, as I grew up with the actor that she is, and the thought occurred to me that if I contact her agent for an interview, if I can come up with an idea, I will censor Hinckley on my own, even if the media has their names inextricably linked. I have the publicist. Foster's oeuvre belongs here, and a film like Nell only confirms this, as painfully bittersweet as it was to see Natasha and Liam in a youthful mode.

Natasha Richardson's acting has always felt fake to me, and I think in the context of the girl's story, she almost makes it work, as a flaw, in her conservative supporting role, but the qualifying flag has to remain, almost. I was able to see Neeson's hunger for his wife, but not vice versa, perhaps only a flattered coquetry. If they married in 94, mmm, I have to give it up, whether this was the laudable, drooling set romance that fans, in shallow fashion, ga ga over. kimmy bit me awake at 8 last night for her supper, but next I looked, when I attempted to settle down it was 10:30. Then I managed the film. We'll have more when I can think.