Modular Four Legged Application

When I first interviewed with Riverside, after my attack, I turned in down, in 1993, under what must have been the original managers. I returned to Diamond Park. That evening, a cabbie was left for dead a foot or two from my bedroom window, and I am not certain what led me to plead with Terri weeks later, to get me out of what her supervisor extracted her from. I do not like the perpetual motion of litigation any more than anyone else, but at the time, it was a choice between two evils: the hyper dictation of Riverside, which, no more than anything, did not truly protect me from more victimology, or the incessant vandalism to violence spectrum of the accessible Diamond Park units. I did not fully understand 202 housing. I was still traumatized, and it was not my place to purloin Richard Baron or Daniel Raudenbush into my personal advocates. They were directors, not the justice league, and it’s moot, twenty years afterward, as they have little love for the fact that I talked to Pew after my resignation, and, while I am still resolved, assuming the chair doesn’t short out for good, a distinct possibility, on rolling out, I am ambivalent about my unit key—not so much that Trudy cannot lock me out—lupus lady can do as she pleases from her caramelized perspective—but what do I owe the feline? I have no one to take her temporarily.

1.       I never wanted to live at Riverside, and everyone is tone deaf to this, Trudy in particular, Debra, the Health & Human Services civil servants who either glare or bleat at me.

2.       Presby’s Diamond Park owners, and Riverside’s, were negligent in the assaults, molestation, and robberies I suffered.

3.       The Liberty Resources homosexuals with whom I am forced to reside, whom I once thought I could trust until I learned of their illegal activities, spiraling into a DOJ investigation, is not helping me.

And I am now the bad guy, will wind up paying some sort of further criminal, legal, inhumane penalty, because I say the unsaid, and refuse to comply until I say so, and will never allow another minority paraprofessional to touch me again, not willingly, and I’m worried about what I owe a shelter animal who also suffered. I am not sure who to call. I am sure most of you say give an inch. No one has given one to me. My fear of Trudy’s power, not exaggerated, her constant lashing out at me to give my notice, isn’t enough. I gave it after they attempted to remove me, and she is still threatening me. This is not the United States in which I once believed, not the country where no one would come to my side, give me physical support, not just that of virtual reality. My mother’s sister is a good woman, kept her sister’s children out of foster care, emptied my commode. She cannot do it again, but my father’s indifference, in my adolescent bitterness, is still the inevitable conclusion of my life: I’ll die as hard as I’ve lived. Many do, silently. I did, by the way, receive a job offer Friday and wish I could take pleasure in it. Perhaps next week.

Misery

I have been rather silent about Niume and Virily both since I've joined them and since gone awol, though I have a post in my head which may please Virily, when I can get to it. I am busy not being busy because this damn foster cat I adopted for my dead baby boy is going to kill me. Kimmy is a good girl, but she is my fourth pet child, my semi-second female, and one cannot help but love them but she refuses to let me drive my damn chair, refuses, without first combing the carpet for prey. This, and controlling my summer bowel, is my life, not to create an affinity with suicidal post modernists, but you have little idea how much I have refrained from constantly talking about the tyranny of stool movement and control, and how remarkably well I have done thus far despite almonds and four pints of ice cream. I have mainly ceased eating ice cream because whether or not I'm lactose intolerant milk makes me sick and speeds trots, but I have had so little I had the pints to create mucus, cursing fate. I am not a day person as is but my age, in these temperatures, in an environment where I am constantly angry and want to hurt minority women who are so ignorant it makes you question evolutionary process. How can such stupid people exist? I hate shallowness and have worn thin with baby pictures, but it takes no great degree of temerity to realize that perhaps collaborative blogging isn't a troll tamer. I do not generally like niume content, and I am still traditionalist enough to know that computer graphics don't translate well, whether the artist's creation or a photograph, like oscar's work. It is not the same experience as viewing in a gallery. Virily, I haven't really read, but I'm slightly too leery of Russian hackers. Nato isn't going to exactly do a hula hoop for the sake of Estonian sovereignty, and I am about as poor as the average Russian female trapped in Chernobyl. Both sites say they miss me. Very nice, but they too, will kill me before I ever see any real profit from either. Fuck em. I have other priorities right now, like enough coffee for a caffeine overdose, despite the weather.

Potatoes in the Dacha

The Kremlin concedes Snowden is a Russian agent-- XX committee

Despite the fact that yours truly bends and wipes after inadvertent miscues with feminine urinals, the other day I had a choice: pivot, or face loss of bowel control. Despite echoes of lifelong slip ups, the dowager took the pivot, and much like a baller on the field, it might have gone either way, but, utilizing the Jazzy castor as a counterweight, things prevailed in her favor. The mechanics of age and tremors on wet tile aren't going to change if the line is crossed, and Presby initiates eviction: as a practical matter, I cannot functionally wander the street, so, behind as I am on my escalation plan, technical homelessness is moot, barring I do not get killed, authority would force me somewhere in relatively short order. I still comprehend this, rationally, as an event I shouldn't force on myself, but I cannot bring myself to comply with the rules. It will take me a nearly insurmountable force of will, and thus you have the end result before of 32 years of life with minority modals, on the basis of the fact that in 86, I had no where else to go, but to the twin Diamond Park unit on Page Street. If I find myself out in a back alley being raped by an alcoholic with the clap, that purportedly would put Miss Richardson's contiguous duress in a different light, but not in the seams of my scar tissue it doesn't; I'm very nearly starting a racial incident with every black resident who attempts to engage me. It's virtually an intolerable bind for me psychologically. I've already written off the corporate office for southeast PA, in Spring Mills, however.

My prestige jobber is starting to take shape, in my new adage learned via Mr. Tucker: if you're not getting paid, take your fucking time. I have to tie in some bits and ends from Mueller's "expanding" areas of interest, Manafort's kickbacks so much more aggrandized than inner city extermination of best and bright invalid minds, minds which readily concede mild conflict: I can see my way through certain spaces to defend Trump some of the time, diagramming the gaps in his aphasia, but he won't slow down long enough to give me a reasonable accommodation. At the same time, despite utter loathing for Clinton, he makes me ashamed, on any number of levels. I've carried pain all my life: before, during, and after histrionic adhesion to academics, but I know, as well, my reactionary warfare has made an irrefutable stamp, my last vestige of any decency to be concentrated in love of the feline, despite undercurrents of weariness with our pet children.

Dissolved in Water

A work in progress?-- Trudy Richardson, being diffident while Karina was being obstinate in 2014

You may laugh: I cannot find my fiction file with my hard drafts, and I have no idea where "Jawbone" is sitting. I remember the story, and as I've previously indicated, I have the first seven pages, but for all its weaknesses, which I wanted to revise, it was one of my favorite fictions. And I'm furious, with ambulatory persons not respecting that as a writer I horde articles and facts and drafts. Karina didn't respect it, nor my father's dead mother, nor any African American attendant (hissed). One of my younger aides, who works for a dentist, if social media is any indicator-- I-- ah, it came back, Lakisha Doe. I fired Kisha twice, not before before mother's mother took her to lunch-- but she bought me a huge heavy plastic storage bin. It may be there. It may be under the desk. I threw out the entire Cigna Medicare Part D prescription plan from welfare. I threw out half of the United States Postal Service, which Speaker Ryan may want to close, and my poor female, the one getting the short end of the stick, in my peevish old age, as yes, I am old, I mean this in a variety of ways, is all excited, lively, playing with wheelchair parts. Mom, what is going on?
My accumulations kimmy, things that mattered to me, have to be dictated by the government as forbidden, or discarded, and it just isn't enough, brain damage, a life of recoiled pain, people who walk have to dictate which markers even indicate that a quadriplegic once aspired and existed. The little girl is on my thigh, needy, alone, no babies to attend, as her litter was destroyed, and no more Vinnie to quarrel with; he was destroyed. She is a good girl, but I am no longer the good mother, I'm now too poor for that, a world away from the six thousand I still had when I fought my conscience, paid her adoption fees, donated to the shelter in Joey's name. I have to rest, work from memory but basically now rewriting, but I will assert this. Do not tell me not to hate. Writing, above all else, is the only thing I ever had transcending all else. Trudy can have the police break my wrists dragging me out of the building, but I swear to Christ, I'll take her job with me if I have to before anyone ever railroads my life again while I still breathe, while I yet cognate.

The Ellsberg Anarchism

"Crimson and Clover"-- The Shondells

Normally, I automatically delete the majority of chapbook contests Allison Joseph transmits, but Brain Mill caught my eye, despite that it apparently overflows with generational neo-liberalism. I logged on to check the site for fees and to look for its open poetry series for the month of June, only there seems to be a contradiction between what the email instructs and the links on the site. My lack of sympathy for the five zillion MFA programs within the college of arts academies may be construed as my lack of success within it, but only in part. I am increasingly conservative, with more than trace elements of libertarian sentiment (despite free press antagonism to Peter Thiel) and most writing programs have wallflower multicultural codes already implanted within them-- not that they don't produce good writers, but, with varying exceptions, like David Mitchell, they're all the same, variations in style, technique, notwithstanding.

I have not had a good Monday, and left my key rope on the table because I became distracted, got back to Riverside, plowshared the office like an enemy combatant, exhaustively plopped on mattress sinkhole, today succeeded with my odd trick of getting up exactly on time for a program, and casually measured my emotional pain as self-mutilating, easing, mildly, with chili, burrowing in on the last of my usage before an overage.

It is not a good time to be me, the angry, race baiting militant. You might ask me what I want, within my episodic battles with the Presbyterian modus operandi I now mostly have what I want, being left alone, cleaning up after my dead Vinnie, battling kimmy's stubborn temperament, all apartment dwellings have tenant frictions, and before I inducted myself in Presby's sandpit, I was in Marie's row home, dirty and straggling as reverted to form in my fifties, dumping my commode stool in her back alley. The chip on my shoulder is over my lack of choice. I was this close to getting my own mortgage in 1994, and now, my only options are grin, bear it, or give my notice, then ask myself how I'm supposed to defecate when push comes to shove, if I turn myself out, hence Brain Mill's "Love & Mercy" theme caught my eye, in the turmoil of my own scourge:

I am going to write this, twitter and Google be damned: FBI director James Comey, the swarming liberal apologia for law enforcement's lack of willingness to behave like a police state with Mateen, can go fuck itself, royally. It behaves like a police state with me. I cannot move, and I've been stuck here thirty years, with a near insurmountable ability to restore my economic freedom. 

If The Pentagon Papers changed public perception to the extent Ellsberg's vindication would have it, we would have never fought the Iraq War.

Foster Care Inconstancy in Millibars

"If someone gets shot they should stay shot."-- William H. Macy, or, as I like to say, "all cats are cats".

kimmy has her own peculiar characteristics, one of which is insisting I get off wretched fecal and urine sinkhole mattress when she insists upon it; her mew has a grating high pitch of protest even as she purrs on pillow above my head, bushing out her tail, and befriending the latest super mouse as opposed to killing latest super mouse, but as all my boys have died in this accursed Riverside studio, what am I to do? I applied myself to a grief counselor over Oliver and grief counselor iterated in bourgeoisie fashion that my male felines were my family. Oliver was put down shortly after mother drop in 11/05, and a part of me says fuck this shit, and another part is devastated beyond expectation over Joey's little brother. 

By all of Jesus F Christ, Vincent was a difficult and badly behaved wingman, I should be relieved, by any objective measure, especially as I suspected feline senility, and in part I am, but would like to string some humans up, particularly my own sex, and smoke them like a flank of bacon. I miss my baby boys, and need to get out of this place. Most of you have little idea what a public housing transfer entails and I don't even have the money to pack even if a mega tantrum gets me an exceptional transfer in Sims district; more of the same petty vindictiveness of nigger class poverty, in my deplorable bar stool diction, nine years away from the section 202 age requirement, and I know I don't have them, those nine years.

No expert in astrophysics, I nevertheless assumed if our sun went nova that the destruction of Earth would be nearly instantaneous, so I am uncertain as to what Niven is saying in his dodgy North Hollywood metaphor, nearly certain that I'd hate Vancouver, playful and dynamic as it appears, it certainly doesn't appear to be cyborg friendly.

Extermination Empathy Breathers

Another nearly xenophobic station signal I receive, WTVE, from Wilmington, just another ghetto striven enclave of row homes, is a retro-throwback broadcast, playing 1960 Japanese analog series I evidently should not have viewed as a child in the assassination rife year of 1968. The B grade tenor of the works falls into the category of fascination with vomit while alienated by Huffington Post Live's millennial chatter, however relevant to those spaces in films we do not see, jump cutting the pace of ennui. The station also airs stomach churning veterinary surgeries, and in one episode, a brawny gator farmer rushed an alligator with a colon blockage into surgery, and the veterinarian euthanized the reptile on the table after dumping its fecal waste it a pan.

How much did this cost the farmer? Wouldn't it have been more humane to shoot the creature and freeze it, ensuring death? We all have affinities, and without truly intending to disparage the farmer, there is going a bridge too far. Gators and crocodiles lay lots of egg clutches, easily replenished, and going through all that evasive butchery for a primitive fresh water predator seems beyond the pall, while we have a fairly affluent dentist behaving like a fugitive. If there is anything on the face of this earth that makes existence an irreparable folly, it is an animal surgeon dumping fecal blockage and then destroying what he couldn't save, much as what we did to ourselves years ago. 

I mourn Cecil, and hope his brother managed to defy the odds, as his tracker asserts, but this isn't really the point. The point is we're asinine stewards unable to manage our own innate impetus. I do not know what doctors told my parents in 1963. I know the story, as in countless other disability tales, I was supposed to die, and African Americans seem predisposed to help me right along with that, intimidating me back into being exploited for their economic benefit, while I lie struggling with withdrawal, losing to years of psychic pain, and no one will do for me what in animal medicine is standard.

I have to endure literal crippling agony, persecuted by motherfucking assholes who can't get better jobs. Zoologists dart and track and study. Industrial farmers engage in wholesale slaughter to keep chronic impoverished failures like me alive, and, in the conservative codex, I am one of those women without children whose fury Walter Palmer is attempting to evade.

But turning Palmer into an effigy isn't going to solve a fundamental exigency. The only thing left to poach when habitat is gone and magnificent stalkers like Cecil are confined into domesticated paradigms for which they were not evolved, are humans, already preying on ourselves. I just can't see my way to optimism of any sort. If I did not mention that kimmy my foster rescue isn't a royal pain in the ass, now might be the time, weary with the responsibility of pet rearing. One I let her go, it is probably over, the degree to which my lifespan might be considerably brutalized by that point.

Perhaps the meritocracy will surprise me, and rescue the manufactured urban spastic racist gradually decelerating, but I'll never be the same as I once was on the ascent.

Waking Wound

I still have a dialogue going with the man from India who will be in the US next week, but I doubt this is a partnership that will succeed, because I am not sufficiently agile, and I'd have to drop everything and absorb the consequences, namely, that I could never return to Riverside. Whatever the spiritual bliss of that, I still need a landing, in essence. I learned from foreign correspondents that Asian Indians are more likely to interact with vulnerable groups, and herein lies my proof. 

California liberalism on the socialist side of the spectrum will paternalize me, and that plays out like a Jimmy Dean commercial, but the disabled woman dares have a valid counterpoint, and oh, her email goes to junk, but the Asian programmer deigns to interact with me. It was pleasant, however futile, or nearly futile (I am determined that team OZY and I will have a real conversation. Do I expect this conversation to provide me employment? Further my career? No, but if I can contribute a nano liter to putting OZY out of business, it would be good fodder for his program).

Dreams about my felines invariably mean something else, driving on a nearly pitch black road with little kimmy on my lap. She jumps off behind a car and I am panicking she will be killed and ask for directions at a crossroad, needing to pick which direction I want. These intra species bonds are invariably selfish, whatever I'm in the process of losing.

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.

Over Pizza

Initial thought: "Interesting," in a perverse sort of way. Immediately took me into Lessing's prescience in the creation of her menacing, predatory children, and my inability to reread Memoirs during 9/11. I still have my copy, yellowed paperback, Jerry required for his course. For me Tribal Imagery, Jerry's ambitious synopsis, was nothing more than an orgasm generator, and look at me now, unable to be shocked by underdeveloped amoral curiosity.

I still have limits. Killing prairie dogs with strychnine ignites the furious woman that most men fear, even the ranchers using the poison. The worst torture left, imaginable to me, is to torture my cats to death in front of me. Couldn't bear it, but home invaders do that to aging women. I've read about it, recalled it as kimmy barreled into the reading lamp. The Apple ring tone upset her. Wrong number. Spic banger, looking for his dealer, or a bang, and I laughed at my vulnerable carnivores, scolding the female. Little Vincento trotted under my hand. I'm in charge mom. He is ten years, slowing down, going to be dead soon.

So am I, my compassion eroded so significantly that it doesn't matter. I was going to assert certain prospective intentions, but that is also irrelevant-- not so much about idiotic, or diabolical scheming-- as much as damage is damage, like an occlusion. Killing the enemy only resonates the possibility of better future outcomes; it would not mitigate the proportional suffering of my life. I am angry at Jerry, a man whose abilities once elicited reverence, shock and awe. Angry because intelligence was never enough. Murdering instructors only has so many subversive implications.

*********
And anytime I insinuate rather than write it straight out, little fuckers do gaping views. Jerry is fine. He might have prepared me for the stigma I would face, but that was asking a lot of the dear best bastard I ever knew. My mind was on the dish best served cold for the knives in my back, but it isn't even Google as gate keeper which concerns me anymore. Best laid plans, kids, delay the inevitable for empty people.

Feline Separation Rift

I raised my voice to my orphan because I was in the middle of writing digital fish wrapping [I AM NOT A PHOTOGRAPHER] and I have to laugh. My boys, living and deceased alike, scuttle under the bed when I really lose my temper because I am not a saint in this confined space. Girls are different. Kimmy rolled in my sweater on the floor and said mom you know I'm adorable.

It worked. She is adorable. I am going to attempt a cell phone conference with Examiners Clarity owners on Tuesday. Attempt, one PM my time. Why? To get myself banned? (Not that they care what I do or say detach or stay with them one way or another...) but right now they are all I have. Ahem. Going to try a straight news piece soon, as they seem to like it so short I can cull a secondary back piece even if I cannot rattle a fresh source quote quickly, so perhaps it would be useful to reign in a fusillade  (ahem).

This is not the kind of journalist I am. I know it's a business, and that Fox kills people for the sake of covert practices, and I am a fiery bitch on Google's largesse, but I'm troubled, all the same. Spam in the can. 

Virtua Q610

                                                        


To soothe the City Kitties breast, here is their little girl illustrating why Medicare actuaries should be flown to Polish secret rendition facilities. Retail price assembled runs about 7k, and the damn motor is so slow it would kill me on the Parkway. I'll update this later. 

Omelette Influenza

Kept myself off eggs for a few weeks. On an anecdotal level I seemed to dry out, but upon cratering  to my tastes and driving out in the rain and despite phlegm expectorants, spastic doesn't feel well and paid for my hot bowl of chili this morning, little kimmy on Joey's favorite pillow looking up at me saying I know I am not your most beloved feline but I keep house and une peu Vincento in line and insist you make additional efforts to give sans audience the pet children picture showcase after you dry out that damn puss!

My genetic line must have absorbed a bit of those gladiator lions who slaughtered true believers, given the troubles I put up with. I'd like a spot of pea soup, with ham, but my schedule is on official sick day. Does Asia chortle, or should that question be nixed for my own protection? 

Sarin Neurotoxins

"You never really learn something until you teach it." My latter day drama instructor.

Look at that face. You would never imagine such a female maintains a benevolent dictatorship. Mother watch me hunt. Mother the foot massage means we need to eat as a family, but only after I beckon you to the food bowl three times and only after I see you engaging in mastication will I shoo you so a jaguar may gnaw daintily. Mother make the bed, and your little black panther is a pain in the ass, but when he lets me curl up with him then that's the ticket! No I won't come back in the house! Yes I will when they scare me! And on and on. I have been raising cats since I was a kid and little little kimmy is a young 2, and will outlive my independence, which is reason enough to purchase my blog on your kindle. The unfortunate orphan needs an endowment, and you will save the cats if you want me to outgrow my caustic flint spark cynicism. She lost her babies and deserves the good life. I considered joining PETA due to my feline zeal, but Wallace turned it on the dime, and PETA is almost too fanatical, because evolution cannot be managed like a suburban duplex. I am on the fence because feline poachers deserve the death penalty, and in indecision cannot cash in my chips.

This post was an entirely different subject, but let me get my cold calculus which has driven some of you off out of the way: My stepmother is dying, and Marie no doubt reasoned it was her brother's place to inform me, since he is my father. My feelings about Louise are not pleasant. She was my mother's colleague in nursing school and dated my father behind my mother's back. My lover never understood my umbrage about that, but even married husbands who cheat are befuddled by the bitch codex. The bitch codex says you do not marry your nursing friend's divorced husband and Louise did anyway and never imagined what she was in for, and that includes my indignation with her mouth. My father's impotence is not something I as his eldest daughter am going to treat as a clinical seminar suggesting solutions, and this became an international incident, along with other choice cuts from her invalid tongue.

She has been crippled for years by RA. Takes one to know one, and now she has leukemia or Roy Schneider's multiple myeloma and I am only worried about the impact of her death on my father. That is the way it is. I love my daddy and daddy needs his wife, relieved that her estate issues will presumably enter tort before padre himself expires and my sister and I will then litigate each other, but I am not emotionally invested in stepmother hate. I don't like her or her children, but Louise has paid for landing padre as a caretaker, in more ways than I am willing to reveal, or that you'd want me to.

If she dies, however, this changes things, and maybe I shall be able to part company with PresbyHomes before my future end stage hospice care, within a year or two. I cannot grieve her. My father. My poor father.

Dangerous Idylls

It symbolizes a crucial lesson about craft: utility is not contingent on perfection of form.--David Sherwin

Anton Corbijn offers an inspired interpretation of landscape and enclosure, from the opening shot of rushes and thicket in a Swedish winter, to his claustrophobic overlay of Italian villages and underground freeway tunnels. AO Scott is right about Corbijn's practiced composition. AO Scott is absolutely correct that it is not enough and there are things not to like about The American, a film I wanted to view again before my rental time clocked out and did not, but the preeminent critic under the employ of the Sulzbergers is also wrong, because there are pleasures, insights gained over time, under the breezes of transfixing arcs. I was never big on George Clooney. Liked him well enough; he and the original ER cast made those early seasons, and there too, he portrayed sexual indolence with a shiek and brassy extra, asking her why they did not marry? It is there in Solaris as well, a fatal envelopment, a man done in by his own pampered intimacy, which points to why he cannot quite be the equal of Cary Grant. 

Grant was an onscreen dandy and womanizer who had the ability to contain himself. Clooney cannot; he dies for the nurturing maternal climax that smothers him. Occasionally he plays off its negation, as in Michael Clayton. I think this is why his sociopath Jack/Edward is nervous, unpleasantly taunt in certain key shots; he is attempting to demythologize the autonomic predator. With a better story line it might have worked.

It took me nearly three hours to make my coffee and omelet Saturday evening, in between copper urinal shots. We die young for fried eggs. One pitch, two submissions, in addition to all this time spent on Blogger where I earn not a fucking cent! Dedication, but I can do no more, and missed the spout because her royal highness now runs the studio. 

We shall save all felines! Had to get the incitement in-- and yes, I know your interest would peek markedly if I got past Clooney's publicist, but pricking the guilt of his privilege over his arrest record for the sake of Sudanese advocacy is a high bar.

Desert Heat

Just because it is hard doesn't mean we should not try.-- Jay Carney, our indomitable conduit between the administration and the fourth estate.


I paid Amazon's price for the Windows 7 upgrade disk, as I would need it even if the download is free, and if I can get it to run in my corrupted drive, then all is well, and if not, I go to my virtually unused Toshiba, cross my fingers, and while I am doing that, play patty cake with this poor HP, grand old lady suffering under my illiteracy. She really is not worth much more money, but I cannot afford to keep buying computers, tablets, and a new battery for her, that will come next month. The HP is definitively she, a fusty queen, in contrast to my Dell, who was a good boy until my landlord's oh so wonderful subcontractors terminated his hard drive, but let me not dwell on my resource drainage. And as per my aunt's advice, I will do my best with the Vista drivers, but remain confused, debating my television choices for this afternoon. I saw a portion of Tuck Everlasting before, and other than the fact that it left my shift in neutral, my jury is out as to its utility, but I believe for now, this is a skip, not that I necessarily eschew children's literature, I just never tried to be that kind of writer.

Let me scour my sentiments about Israeli politics with slightly more over-simplified persistence, while I push Vinnie and his nagging off with my skull, and tell him to leave me alone. No sale. They do not like the fish, but little kimmy was a good girl, and after the excitement of mommy's fall from bed, she ate her breakfast. I am snowed in, as even minor accumulations can damage either power chair, so they have to tolerate the supply I have available. My sympathies toward the Jewish state cooled during the first intifada. A video of a gaunt vulnerable father getting killed while trying to shield his child, a young boy also killed in a hail of bullets at a military checkpoint, shrivelled my heart. I have never been marginalized to that extent, but I am certainly that expendable. What was the price of their deaths in the course of geo-political reality? Nothing but the price of my memory, and perhaps burial in a network video archive, but it was enough.

The Holocaust is no excuse for 66 years of Palestinian blood on the hands of Israeli capability, sweeping up nearly mute collateral damage along with perhaps justified intransigence of refugee resistance. The Islamic faith has its own appalling callousness, but I am quite capable of entering into how and why their radicalization occurs.

Subjunctive Sinews

Writing is not a profession but a vocation of unhappiness. I don’t think an artist can ever be happy. Georges Simenon

I am not an expert in the revival of American minimalism, but Georges Simenon is much more interesting precursor than a man like Cormac McCarthy. Cormac is exceedingly aware of his craft, but that craft, much like Lionel Shriver's, has flaws that illuminate flags for me, flags that do not allow my applause without reservation. Simenon pares it down to the bone, but his stature has been on the rise in recent years, perhaps because his sparse diction leaves room for intrigue and ambiguity.

I examined, as opposed to truly studied, Dirty Snow with Jay Gertzman (second reviewer) and it was worth the entire participation in the live book club, and aside from Maigret, I hope to pursue more of Simenon's oeuvre. It is his contribution to The Brothers Rico that makes this more than just your sanitized Hollywood mafia staple, and also why it is an interesting adjunct to later films like Brazil and Arlington Road. My wheels have been spinning on this through the last week and a half, through my last three posts of equally minimal political sentiments, through the fact that I still mourn mio bambino and apparently cannot be kind to my internal loss and allow things to take their course. Like most pet owners who disagree with science, I am convinced that Vinne misses his brother still, and that dear kimmy does her best to take charge of both of us (which reminds me I need to get on and use my wonderfully sardonic verbal skills to help my shelter friends, about whom I have never uttered so much as a barb, and why is that? Because I snivel in torrents for my Joey? mio bambino, mio bambino, weeps the soul I no longer have; had I only died with my boy, this throbbing wound for a feline, six months going, is this why?) The little girl sticks her ass in my face, as if to say I am here now, get over it. And oh, grief shall fade, but I'll never have another bond such as that.

Let us examine Rico a bit, and although I rarely put the plot under a microscope, what analytical skills that remain tell me this is the best way to continue my pursuit of this thesis.

Flesh Fair: Quest In the Design

Vladimir Nabokov uses a narrative framework similar, but upgraded, to that which Conrad developed with such success. It is an omniscient framework within a framework, like a boxed set of novels that make up a franchise, only on a smaller scale. It is a technique that opens Lolita with blaring trumpets, in the incident report which summarizes the death of all the parties involved. (You might be surprised to know that I do not own a copy of the novel extant, but for me this is not a must have addition to my personal library, not under the duress of my present circumstances. I'm hostile to it as a masterpiece for reasons I shall not tackle here.) It is also present, but in softer fashion, in the earlier title, The Luzhin Defense. I have not seen the film, nor am I ready to view it, though some brief capsule skims convey the disappointment of reviewers; nor am I going to discuss the novel in great detail, except to say that one of its major motifs seems to be that if humans do not search for transcendence in religion, or even divinity, we still search for it through mastery of patterns and formal structures, which is a dystopian subtext when we take up androids, cyborgs, and robots in science fiction, the crux of the matter coming down to a dichotomy between personhood and a set of programmed responses, like kimmy using her piglet self to lie down on the keyboard when cynical adoptive parent is on a roll. I wonder if she'll inadvertently reformat the HP for me. Sulking, she is snuggled with Vinnie on the Quantum, so adorable we should all just die and cede the field to felines, and this too cute moment makes me regret that I cannot join marshmallow heads and upload another 7 billion cat pictures online, and tongue ties me when I say "She's not Joey!" Joey was special in that marshmallow overweening sentiment so very and extraordinarily difficult  to define. He feared all ambulatory humans except those in wheelchairs, and suspect my aunt rushed him and his surviving sibling to me because something happened that instilled fear that left its imprint, at least on the deceased. Spielberg uses the same framework technique in A.I., almost, suggesting that in the end all we can hope for is that testament will survive, but this is an obdurate, romantic review of machine (and man) over the brutal realism of evolution before our eyes. What transforms particles into Being is beyond the scope of our own CPU's to understand, and I am highly skeptical that a mechanical device will ever evolve in the Darwinian sense, although I am less skeptical, and almost alarmed, that through mimicking microbiological processes, we will create artificial life. It scares me, as even cloning sheep and cows seems to create vulnerable immune systems as a residual effect of losing sexual division.

In mulling my quite exasperated conscience, I do not really want to explore the dark side of attendant care too much in this account, and Tim is better than much of the trash I've dealt with, past tense, but the system, designed toward de-institutionalization, is still a highly charged source of class conflict. Tim is basically a good man, and if I could walk, he would not exist for me, unless I was a paternalistic globe trotter like Niall Ferguson or Nicholas Kristof. Do those of you who can balance on the balls of your feet ever think about it? I have no organic sense of what it feels like. I accept it as a fact, our bipedalism, but I can feel my lungs expanding; I'm intimate with what it is to breathe. Walking was ever and only an approximation, and an exercise in pain, as indeed, is much of what mobility I do have.

Feline and Female

The foster child is mine now. Grumbling. She is my last cat, and I still cannot say it was right, but if I had given her back, Vinnie would have been depressed, and like a mother who cannot stand the guilt of loving the lesser son less, if I had been as realistic as I should have been, this guilt would have probably led to fresh psychiatric evaluations, involuntarily mandated rather than freely sought to allieviate. I need work people, technical support, and my ad banners.

I love cats more than anything, but I care about my ability to be good to them, and I am too haunted by losing them, and will never have Joey again. Tim, my helper off  the rolls, aims his barbs at me, particularly on ambitious days when I am wound hard and want him to come and go as rapidly as possible, but I do not sleep all day, an observation both he and my sister believe, in their exclusive views, is an accurate observation of my denial that pharmaceutical dependency would upgrade my outlook, and I'd kick his ass if I could, hers too. I have to get out of the chair to change my position. My legs swell and like many of his other clients, meaning he should know better, I have a pressure sore. If liberals don't meet these challenges, I am going to kick their asses through aligning myself with Krauthammer in the creation of the Militant Quad Party. And this is not all hyperbole, not entirely a barb of my own to stub progressives toes. I always have to bite my tongue, why? Because gay is now a gnostic spiritual quest, and blacks like Tim don't have my erudition. I have been impolitic myself with the fellow in the provision of free sociology lectures, but I am getting real tired, with celerity, of getting singled out for behavioral issues that are not symptoms of mental illness in and of themselves without factoring in the severity of my physical vulnerability. If I could find anyone else who would do the job and keep their mouths shut about my life, I would burn not a few minority views about wheelchair users, and fire him like a raging bull, to boot.

What I am attempting to emphasize here is not Timothy's prejudicial views as a passive and harried paraprofessional, or that my bigotry is virtuous, but that in certain respects, provincialism was beneficial to our species, and losing the bond of extended familial ties cannot be augmented by regulated social services. We speak nearly an entirely different language, Tim and I, even if he has the non threatening aspects coded in appropriately so that my trust is not too wary. I told him I was waiting for him to finish so that I could work on what I need to do to update my curriculum vitae, and he took this to mean I blamed him for my delay in filling out a job application. He has absolutely no idea what a cv is, what creating a professional paper trail looks like, and it is not that I do not understand; I understand perfectly, but also eschew liberalism's holy grail that diversity solves our problems. Was it necessarily a good thing that a private university accepted me, that my professors led me to believe I could become like them, on the one hand, while on the other the student body treated me like a foreign object?

Glowering Embers

Because the end is just too hard to take.-- Gordon Lightfoot

Not everything has to have Shakespearean elevation, and though a body may understand Ewan McGregor's appeal, The Island, which glimmers in its opening with such potential, pissed me off so badly I'm taking a break. Everything in Hollywood devolves into a fucking LA freeway disaster, and I want absolutely nothing more to do with Michael Bay's fear of taking chances with real moral implications. Spielberg and Lucas, whatever else may be said, at least know how to aspire, though I am eased that I found my dates. I idiotically adopted little kimmy in 12, her age an estimated nine months. She kept little Vincento alive three -- no, four-- years. She objects to my emotional distance and insists I love her, but my heart is already a dwarf star on the event horizon. What the problem is with Johansson in a dramaturgical context eludes me, at the present time.