When Mickey Rourke Still Had A Face

Our mothers were right Charlucci, it's better to stick with your own kind.-- the post dexterously maimed Eric Roberts, as Paulie

I no longer get offers to family gatherings. What I was invited to attend this afternoon, and not attending after all, is a birthday party for my 96 year old grandmother here at Fair Acres. This is where her daughter Mary Worrilow, with her cyborg joint replacements, wishes for me to relocate, as if I need to keep an eye on the vacancy of identity in Pauline Cristinziani's emaciated frame. My father's sister Marie is diametrically opposed to the idea, preferring that I accept my lot here at Riverside, with its understated ideas of significantly abusive minority competency, while I play shuffleboard with the skepticism of a world weary soul. This is an image of Pauline in her ever so slowly stoic withdrawal from her sense of herself, part regal Catholic warrior, devout, unshaken, part peasant, the life she led during the war era makes us look like a group of distressed hatchlings saturated in fossil fuels. The spastic dowager should honor this grandparent in the celebration of a life extended beyond any reasonable meaning. She appears to be miserable in the Fair Acres visiting room, well groomed, hair white and nearly matted, her hand grasping her knee, she bears an appearance of anguish. Septa's route 21 is onerous, from Chestnut Street to 69th Street Terminal, it is damp, and although it would be good to get away, and I would be seeing family I never otherwise get to see, Saturday morning, a spastic colon pole vaulted into a lovely stress attack, ever so slowly enabling death through sepsis in my feces, domineering beyond what we would wish on enemies, presumably--

My administration is reviewing the strength of this ruling. In the event any court damages the #ACA, I will do everything in my power to direct state agencies to protect Pennsylvanians. https://t.co/pVOaLtBkKn

— Governor Tom Wolf (@GovernorTomWolf) December 15, 2018

--unless it's my governor, willfully maintaining the forest of the Commonwealth's poverty-stricken, as careless, otherwise, with the deciduous oaks, still wondering whatever happened to a citizen's self-esteem. And this, too, is an image of John, nearly 60, playing games with his vanity and conceit; it was partly his rebuff, as I've written, being the propeller behind the reason I boomeranged into the inner city in the first place.

Arguably, however, things might have not been appreciably different if I had played my cards closer to home. If John's post-graduate partner, whom I saw once, while they were totally into each other in a slow dance, parted ways with him, or he her,the link I give you provides ample reason why. If I had been able-bodied, with an appropriately toned body, would the demise of what I thought I wanted. birthing his children, among other things, have taken so much out of me that I never loved again? My novelist friend Gretchen, in the interim, faces the possibility of losing her son, Brennan, to an interior brain infection already surgically tackled once. She's such a polished writer that I am living this with her, but it's also why Facebook is anathema to me (and yes, my account chungs along). Even if she was still in West Virginia, I couldn't help her.

My beautiful boy is in deep trouble. He's got an infection. They seem to feel they have caught it in time but he was doing very poorly. Please help Adrian's Cancer Fund. Every person in our family is struggling at our limits, Adrian most of all. https://t.co/jK2LFuMqtX pic.twitter.com/V0MQZb2xB9

— Troy Blackford (@TBlackford3) December 16, 2018

The same applies to my steady follower. If Troy Blackford's plight with Adrian is genuine, I feel for the child. Even if I had the money, even some expertise, I couldn't change the outcome, but this is different in kind, again, from mobility medical indifference beating hordes into a pulp. Those of you who truly believe health care is a right, have no damn idea how you're referencing it. It is certain not inalienable as a pathway to freedom.

Awareness Peeling Away to Unremitting Savagery

Free will made the fickle will of man the basis of divine decrees; it made 'the great controller of the world a bare spectator'.-- Peter White, Predestination, Policy and Polemic, p5

The kiss that Alicia Witt plants on Daesha Lynn, playing Chaz Burke, newly pregnant wife of the half-brother in Brian Jun's Joint Body (11), is ambiguous, demonstrably more of a desperate outreach for sanctuary rather than a traumatic conversion, or repressed curiosity, but it doesn't save the dialogue between the two actors. An astute woman doesn't ask a wife and nascent parent to be "Why does Dean call you mommy?"

Nor would the wife deny that her man joins nurture and sexual need into an endearment that connotes an infantile lack from his past. Jun may have been attempting to convey elements of denial and lack of accurately assessing characters around us, but it fails, whether or not the ponderous fatalism that Pellegrino and Witt carry like an expressionist ball and chain is enough to save the film. Both Pellegrino and Witt look effectively shell shocked at the conclusion, Witt in a literal jail cell and Pellegrino hemmed in his small boat on a lake which seems claustrophobic. It packs a powerful punch in terms of its exposition, much as Mike Mulligan does in the 1972 classic, The Other. To this day, the Udarnoky brothers encapsulate something intrinsic about evil in a masquerade behind our best altruistic instincts. And Mulligan achieves this not simply through getting the boys to put heart and soul into performance, but through respect. Mulligan doesn't condescend to rural sensibility, but allows the community its dignity, disrupted by the subversive reverberation of pain, penetrating dignity like a lance, all the more effective for relying on atmosphere and sense of place, attention to detail, as opposed to being a slasher attempting to evoke terror.

I have little use for neuroscience; materialism abnegates what self-awareness deems a unique individualism, but the nursing students I lived with at Widener were probably right about me all along. Scolding myself in the dusk of Halloween's burgeoning party hours no longer has the same effect. I called my aunt, of whom I'm proud, but wish she would return to education; neither of us mentioned twitter, nor my housekeeping. Though I am dragging my feet, I am going to give my notice, soon, nothing more than an agonized outcry from a woman who's her father's daughter, and needs to work, needs ambulatory people to stop telling me I can't live alone, needs space, all she ever wanted was to be happy in her work, selfish in her man. Whatever the accuracy of observation about my emotional problems so many once attempted to alleviate, before I unwittingly imprisoned myself in the section 202 housing paradigm, I now have some form of post-traumatic stress, ground meat for the maggots who will eventually penetrate my coffin. I'm a fool, and should have never gone into case management, as I'll have little choice but to invariably die in Inglis House. I can't handle it, and perhaps I predetermined it rather early in my lousy self esteem and truant ideation tantrums. 

I cannot accept the price, and will not allow myself to be forced back into that environment, and have to hold that conviction  fast.