Vive ru Mort-- graffiti in French Connection 2
Operating on less than six hours of sleep in 48 hours, I sat and watched Gene Hackman's excruciating struggle against drug addiction in his second attempt to bring down Charnier, realizing it's virtually impossible to make films like this anymore, so stark, so complex to unravel, so willing to pit doomed moral principles against cesspools of liberal relativism, never imagining I'd live to see Ireland defying the Catholic Church over abortions on demand, wondering why something so hedonistic as Vampira made me ponder the parasitic elements of vampire lore, in its over-used persistence exploring the transformed human into an innate predator driven to tear flesh and blood. David Slade's 30 Days of Night more aligned to my preferences than canonical variations with Jonathan Rhys-Meyers, not that I did not appreciate the revival attempt, putting this all together, we cannot seem to dismantle how we're out-pacing ourselves. My not quite boyfriend paraprofessional may not have noticed the stony numb hatred in my face when I allowed him to sling me into the hoya lift, valiantly repressing my desire to dehumanize him, this African American who puckers his lips like a failed little boy looking for mamma's approval. It ignites my tenderness, and yet I still reduce him, myself, in scurrilous depreciation. Why don't I write it then? I've written it often enough, maybe because I keep hitting the same keynotes, I am afraid, agonized beyond my ability to endure what I am suffering, what I swore never to allow, what I've seen happen to residents here afflicted with cerebral palsy over and over again, for the sake of the fact I am willing to love this loony jamboree fellow, I have become Kafka's metamorphosis, even on the verge of kicking the logs out from under it. And if I kick the logs out, then I must not love him very much, confident if I ceased being his paycheck I'd never see him again, let alone fuck him to death. That phrase is an important concession in our increasingly binding symbiosis. Everything I've despised and fought, my entire 34 years battling and losing in the city of Philadelphia, for him I am a spider bound in a sling, to make his work keeping me here less of an effort, almost ready to terminate every other socialized medical effort around him, the Visiting Nurses Association, Residential Health Services, leeches, blood sucking leeches, while I keep this account active rather than prioritize reassembly of my published work, learn Duotrope, desperately lunge back in as a journalist. My exhaustion is not from any of this. I merely forced myself to stay in the tilt chair, and failed, to await the equipment delivery, texting my equally suffering, steadfast cousin. I need her. My venting was merely she cannot see what she has, and even if one day we transcend his current stability, and become real partners, all Galahad represents is the defiance of desire in the face of death, but unlike Frank, I care about this bumbling lion roaring at me with his nonsense to keep my spirits up, care about him more than any other attendant, as he sucks the fucking life out of me, wearing himself down, unable to afford to do otherwise. Like Josh Hartnett, I will absorb enough of this poverty octopus to burn to ash with the dawn, having slain the virus, its fermenting pestilence, ignoring the pain in my chest. My physiology won't sustain this much longer. Prepare, therefore. Like the morning sun.
Showing posts with label jonathan rhys-meyers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label jonathan rhys-meyers. Show all posts
Friday, June 15, 2018
Sunday, June 3, 2018
Sacrifice Fly
I've got you under my skin.-- a crooner
She reminds me of mine too-- Alan :Gordon
She reminds me of mine too-- Alan :Gordon
I am
up this morning, restless, hay fever sick, with the nurse practitioner who
isn’t licensed to treat me come and gone, nothing said about the allergy ooze
burbling up into my crotch, if the significance of what cunt denotes is now
front and center in our social forums, James Woods ever tongue in cheek in that
regard, my resilience put to the test over Memorial Day weekend due to the fact
that the provider sent me a homosexual drug addict whose shriven swishing ass
was continually revealed in all its dark brown nakedness. True to my
survivalist libertarian sentiment (waving congenially at Austin), I told the
kid to do what he needed to do without getting caught, not bothering to explain
to him the statue passed by Congress making eviction mandatory for any public
housing tenant whose attendant is found in possession of drug
paraphrenia. The dowager knew these demographics for residential urban
minorities long before this volley took its aim, and she’d have to be able to
cope with it for Galahad’s sake, in all its divisive currency, if there is a
future between us. What do I know? He’s here now, oblivious both to what I’m
writing now and what I blurted out in text to him Friday when his car broke
down. I went into a virtual panic so fraught with paranoia it might have well
as been one of Woody’s early classics.
“I’m in love with you,” I typed, not a minute and 30 seconds before
screaming to my cousin that I had to get out if I couldn’t handle it, as I was
deluding myself. I’m handling it now, not referencing a word in relation to
Deep State. Oh, I waited, as women will at this stage, and got Sinatra. Now
that thread sits behind a closed door. We are talking the usual minutia of such
plans between two people, but whether or not it’s an implied us, and as of this evening it once again
isn’t, is moot, even if I cannot mute my damn tongue. With such an affinity for
Roseanne Barr’s pensive bite, my viewer’s might believe I am appreciable of her
rise in the comic genre. Not quite, as she was too close in representation to
our mothers, Alan and I, when prat boy was my best friend, and I had an
antithetical response to her stage routines. I remember enough to posit her
sympathies for the Trumpian brand to her hatred of institutionalization. That,
as well, is a shared value. What I haven’t read, in all the controversy
surrounding her aesthetic choices to reduce and insult Jarrett, though I am
usually a little more obtuse after my “want them dead” post of many years ago,
is the fact that Roseanne’s entertainment abilities come from deep seated
emotional pain. Age many soften what we were, Roseanne, or myself, but doesn’t
eliminate the errors, and the impaired
judgment, in the lingo of psychiatry, hence, she might have been expected
to do something like this. I have no love for Jarrett, but going below the belt
isn’t really a legitimate critique of her near blind idolatry for her president.
I’ve been there before. I have figures like Woody Allen and Clint Eastwood, and
yes, James Woods too, on my mind, because so many of the big stars are gone. Allen and
Eastwood are of an age, and so superlatively iconic, that they’ve become
ruthless, in their respective genres, just as Woods has turned harbinger. My
dear little big man of an aide, a man who wishes I’d shut my mouth when appropriate,
gave me a little holiday with a free viewing of Grand Torino, and nothing in
the narrative was surprising. Goodbye Dirty Harry, I am mourning a superstar,
anticipating the dead, the pre-written obituary—and this is what Match Point
does for me with Woody, particularly with Meyers’ last climatic scenes. We’ll
pick it up then. I am in a swamped and saturated pressure vat. Bad time to be
in love with lost causes, fatal error my heart, my own reiterating pattern.
Friday, December 30, 2016
Unbreakable
"I'm the radical atheist humanist your parents told you to stay away from." Professor McGuire, circa 1985, terminated, arms outstretched, palms splayed upward, curiously reminiscent, Catholic posture
Oh yes, dance. Go to ATT and make pouty faces and work out some kind of integration lower bill deal. Dance. The service reps at the counter, customer reps on the phone, get too fusty and they'll boot you undoubtedly, old ma, always wagging fingers at dissenters. Something changed once again on my twitter account this afternoon, but luckily, I am a bit too numb to care about who was the latest to have their cosmopolitan manners recoil. Can't lose myself that way; can't care. But my heart is torn asunder, even if I may not always be in the mood for Simenon, the Dune France 2 production of Maigret is a work of art, but public television needs to follow the herd, team with a distribution service, bye bye free down time.
The commercial and public airwaves are stripped, barren, a damn football game here or there. I don't want to stream all the time, but decided I am interested in Jonathan Rhys-Meyers Man In The High Castle and will stream at least some of the first season. It sounds as if it has Phillip K Dick influences.
The Harrouff case contains as many puzzles as it answers, but this gruesome narrative hearkens back to Enlightenment era beliefs about the berserk, superhuman strength, and, perhaps Krauthammers' damnation of the culture is a playback, of the way modern derangement looks. Since the original 68 film, which I predate, and to Harrouff, is stone age camera work, zombie literature has permeated the horror genre substrata. Perhaps Austin got too into Walking Dead. The series might not have caused the psychotic break which led to these events, but those of you who are Austin's age know how blurred camp and realism have become. I may vanish by summer.
I have relented and spoken to Marie briefly. I told her Joseph should go to a home, like my father's wife. And Marie said "You belong in a home," the shadow over me my entire life, but it is wrong, not letting go. Joe Marinelli and I don't like each other. We bark back and forth, the greaseball, his spastic niece, but if he is going blind, Marie is wrong. He is dying, she is dying, and we all have to accept that, myself included; I'm just not letting Presby burrow me under, nor anyone else. I'll kill myself first. Billy won't answer my emails, but okay. Happy New Year.
Oh yes, dance. Go to ATT and make pouty faces and work out some kind of integration lower bill deal. Dance. The service reps at the counter, customer reps on the phone, get too fusty and they'll boot you undoubtedly, old ma, always wagging fingers at dissenters. Something changed once again on my twitter account this afternoon, but luckily, I am a bit too numb to care about who was the latest to have their cosmopolitan manners recoil. Can't lose myself that way; can't care. But my heart is torn asunder, even if I may not always be in the mood for Simenon, the Dune France 2 production of Maigret is a work of art, but public television needs to follow the herd, team with a distribution service, bye bye free down time.
The commercial and public airwaves are stripped, barren, a damn football game here or there. I don't want to stream all the time, but decided I am interested in Jonathan Rhys-Meyers Man In The High Castle and will stream at least some of the first season. It sounds as if it has Phillip K Dick influences.
The Harrouff case contains as many puzzles as it answers, but this gruesome narrative hearkens back to Enlightenment era beliefs about the berserk, superhuman strength, and, perhaps Krauthammers' damnation of the culture is a playback, of the way modern derangement looks. Since the original 68 film, which I predate, and to Harrouff, is stone age camera work, zombie literature has permeated the horror genre substrata. Perhaps Austin got too into Walking Dead. The series might not have caused the psychotic break which led to these events, but those of you who are Austin's age know how blurred camp and realism have become. I may vanish by summer.
I have relented and spoken to Marie briefly. I told her Joseph should go to a home, like my father's wife. And Marie said "You belong in a home," the shadow over me my entire life, but it is wrong, not letting go. Joe Marinelli and I don't like each other. We bark back and forth, the greaseball, his spastic niece, but if he is going blind, Marie is wrong. He is dying, she is dying, and we all have to accept that, myself included; I'm just not letting Presby burrow me under, nor anyone else. I'll kill myself first. Billy won't answer my emails, but okay. Happy New Year.
Monday, December 12, 2016
Super Id on the Periphery
"I never molested Dylan."-- Woody Allen, not dispositive, but given the benefit of the doubt by the Grahams, before or after Bezos ate them
Spastic is fully cognizant of the fact that even "established" writers get rejected, but at my age, similar to Kathleen Parker, I should be able to shoot out of the park at a better rate, and why can't I? The after effect of miscreant disability activists. I know British and Canadian cripland occasionally deign to pat attention to me, and I'm going to be blunt: November 1999 was the last time I transmitted an email to the formerly named Linda C. Richman, now Dezenski. I cannot remember every word of that last transmission, but I did tell her I'd like to kill her, and I was never more serious in my life, though the last time I spoke to her, diminished to an ineffectual turnip, my psyche might have been shrink wrapped by a witch doctor. Five years later I would be molested again by a bovine mulatto who makes me look pretty, at least next to Scarlett Johansson. Allen, it seems, knows what to do with this woman so difficult to cast, and then, two years after that molestation, thanks to ADAPT holding HUD at gunpoint, which included the now infantile transsexual, Erik von Schmetterling, whose female nigger nanny, name unknown, received the strident assertion, after Erik saw my finger-- for the uninitiated, the middle finger is an obscene gesture in the States-- "I'd break his neck if I could, he's lucky I can't."
The renovation to the building in 07 took I do not know how many years off my life, and the Quickie decided to expire; for very nearly 13 months, I could not write, barely do anything; Trudy Richardson sees her opportunity, and attacks. On her side of it, I had been missing pisses, until Frank mentioned urinals, which still aren't perfect-- but Richardson's attacks don't seem to do anything but justify my temper to strike her down-- which once again begs the question: If a disabled woman doesn't want to comply, why not evict, whether or not the self-same woman recertifies? I hate a building manager beyond what her character is worth. At least Linda was a worthwhile adversary, a role model I looked up to. I don't quite elevate Richardson, much as Rhys Meyers elevates Johansson in Match Point (05). My only major complaint with Woody's arc is that Woody makes Johansson a little too complicit in her own spiral. I actively pursued married men, and did so before the Internet. How did I manage that? An independent press trade secret. Minorities like Trudy are pests to me, like the mice all my dead males make short work of. Kimmy toys with them, but if they escape her they tend to vanish.
In a longer, more objective post, I want to eviscerate what Jimmi and Erik actually achieved. Very little. Diamond Park, at least, was designed for wheelchair access. Riverside is just a senior living facility with basically stupid, mentally ill, and chronic tenant refuse better off being recycled by predators much sooner than they are. Even with all PHA subjected Riverside's tenants to, in other words, these studios are not user friendly to affective quadriplegics. No small feat, then, that I could once subsidize myself to the tune of three thousand dollars, to then being reduced to scrambling for pennies. I cannot afford to go insane. My Commonwealth made a huge investment in my intelligence quotient. But I am being outpaced by automated upload.
Rhys Meyers made a decent Dracula. One that fucked like a perv, but since we're talking about humanity being afraid of its own atavistic tendencies, it is a soft critique. In this end of life arc by a tarnished genius, the intensity Rhys-Meyers displays, setting him apart even after he solves his problem-- though it is unclear if he'll evade the law forever, is the same intensity which emanates me, apart. I've paid all my life.
Spastic is fully cognizant of the fact that even "established" writers get rejected, but at my age, similar to Kathleen Parker, I should be able to shoot out of the park at a better rate, and why can't I? The after effect of miscreant disability activists. I know British and Canadian cripland occasionally deign to pat attention to me, and I'm going to be blunt: November 1999 was the last time I transmitted an email to the formerly named Linda C. Richman, now Dezenski. I cannot remember every word of that last transmission, but I did tell her I'd like to kill her, and I was never more serious in my life, though the last time I spoke to her, diminished to an ineffectual turnip, my psyche might have been shrink wrapped by a witch doctor. Five years later I would be molested again by a bovine mulatto who makes me look pretty, at least next to Scarlett Johansson. Allen, it seems, knows what to do with this woman so difficult to cast, and then, two years after that molestation, thanks to ADAPT holding HUD at gunpoint, which included the now infantile transsexual, Erik von Schmetterling, whose female nigger nanny, name unknown, received the strident assertion, after Erik saw my finger-- for the uninitiated, the middle finger is an obscene gesture in the States-- "I'd break his neck if I could, he's lucky I can't."
The renovation to the building in 07 took I do not know how many years off my life, and the Quickie decided to expire; for very nearly 13 months, I could not write, barely do anything; Trudy Richardson sees her opportunity, and attacks. On her side of it, I had been missing pisses, until Frank mentioned urinals, which still aren't perfect-- but Richardson's attacks don't seem to do anything but justify my temper to strike her down-- which once again begs the question: If a disabled woman doesn't want to comply, why not evict, whether or not the self-same woman recertifies? I hate a building manager beyond what her character is worth. At least Linda was a worthwhile adversary, a role model I looked up to. I don't quite elevate Richardson, much as Rhys Meyers elevates Johansson in Match Point (05). My only major complaint with Woody's arc is that Woody makes Johansson a little too complicit in her own spiral. I actively pursued married men, and did so before the Internet. How did I manage that? An independent press trade secret. Minorities like Trudy are pests to me, like the mice all my dead males make short work of. Kimmy toys with them, but if they escape her they tend to vanish.
In a longer, more objective post, I want to eviscerate what Jimmi and Erik actually achieved. Very little. Diamond Park, at least, was designed for wheelchair access. Riverside is just a senior living facility with basically stupid, mentally ill, and chronic tenant refuse better off being recycled by predators much sooner than they are. Even with all PHA subjected Riverside's tenants to, in other words, these studios are not user friendly to affective quadriplegics. No small feat, then, that I could once subsidize myself to the tune of three thousand dollars, to then being reduced to scrambling for pennies. I cannot afford to go insane. My Commonwealth made a huge investment in my intelligence quotient. But I am being outpaced by automated upload.
Rhys Meyers made a decent Dracula. One that fucked like a perv, but since we're talking about humanity being afraid of its own atavistic tendencies, it is a soft critique. In this end of life arc by a tarnished genius, the intensity Rhys-Meyers displays, setting him apart even after he solves his problem-- though it is unclear if he'll evade the law forever, is the same intensity which emanates me, apart. I've paid all my life.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
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?
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?
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Hemorrhagic Gibblets
"There is no getting even."--Kathryn Erbe, the invisible ink
The last time I held Stoker in canonical esteem, I held a sturdy yellowed fine print paperback of Dracula under the table in university cafeteria, surreptitiously eyeing the classic as a preference over and above my French language homework.
Bram is more of a fortunate opportunist than might be supposed. Vampire lore extends back to India. Stoker sanitizes it for a late corrupted Victorian culture, and it has been a spicy popcorn snack ever since. Not positive I ever completed the novel in print, as I'm a victim of vapirism glut. Stoker's diction grates the nerves, but not to be defeated, I pulled the text from archive due to NBC's reprisal (long gasping sigh). Now I simmer like a shill, but the show seems produced with care for decor and continuity, and it has its own dialogical exchange with the Original text, subtly choreographed, its subtext being the decline of old empire and the rise of new power. Telsa is an interesting historical figure, often exploited with high cinematic Gothic ambiguity, but I can only do so much at one time.
To the extent the conceits still hold my interest, atavistic vampires, the Nosferatu versions, are more compelling than Stoker's count. Predation is difficult and brutal, and that is how life and death battles with our primal memory should be; I am not ready to rate Rhys-Meyers yet, but he could gain if he studied Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal.
I am guilty of the same sin as any in theory development. Even if I manage to publish a paper of respectable hostility, not all parents will abort monstrous issue. Am I a futurist?
The last time I held Stoker in canonical esteem, I held a sturdy yellowed fine print paperback of Dracula under the table in university cafeteria, surreptitiously eyeing the classic as a preference over and above my French language homework.
Bram is more of a fortunate opportunist than might be supposed. Vampire lore extends back to India. Stoker sanitizes it for a late corrupted Victorian culture, and it has been a spicy popcorn snack ever since. Not positive I ever completed the novel in print, as I'm a victim of vapirism glut. Stoker's diction grates the nerves, but not to be defeated, I pulled the text from archive due to NBC's reprisal (long gasping sigh). Now I simmer like a shill, but the show seems produced with care for decor and continuity, and it has its own dialogical exchange with the Original text, subtly choreographed, its subtext being the decline of old empire and the rise of new power. Telsa is an interesting historical figure, often exploited with high cinematic Gothic ambiguity, but I can only do so much at one time.
To the extent the conceits still hold my interest, atavistic vampires, the Nosferatu versions, are more compelling than Stoker's count. Predation is difficult and brutal, and that is how life and death battles with our primal memory should be; I am not ready to rate Rhys-Meyers yet, but he could gain if he studied Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal.
I am guilty of the same sin as any in theory development. Even if I manage to publish a paper of respectable hostility, not all parents will abort monstrous issue. Am I a futurist?
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