I can be lazy every so often and be entirely unremarkable, even though my father is still alive at 81, and my maternal grandmother bridge spans three centuries, her age lost to me if not her birthday, 12/18-- my mother collapsed at 62, so of course, my 56th year, scrawny, dry, soiled, and even slightly gnarled, quietly out of sight, makes me nervous. Death will relieve me of mortal psychological anguish, and I'll die alone, no Schiavo with a second wife to be caressing me while I starve and growl like staggering motorcycle pistons, god have mercy and give me save haven from bulge eyed niggers who talk chewing feces, god have mercy. I pray this daily and constantly and don't hear Richard Spencer leading a stampede, but Thomas's death, at 69, is interesting in the context of his late roles. He was the husky bookseller facilitating whatever elements of the actual resistance is in High Castle, and though A Strange Affair is an insipid watercolor, Thomas at least has the more significant energy as a traitor any besieged wife might desire to concussion and get off despite doing it. How William Russ gets any work at all points to the tenacity of cliche, as in greeting card verse.
Sixty nine; bit young for a wiry Texan.
.
you have a rotten mouth yes I do grandmom Pauline, in the blackguard of my tantrums, the likes of which I shall not punish myself with merciless detail, but I love this woman; her youngest daughter, now too in the era of ailments, hives, replacement joints, is almost 70. I am setting myself up, quietly, plotting. I have nothing to lose.
This thing needs to be destroyed.-- John Huston's Cronkrite as bastard
I unloaded some of my ever bridled fury at Niume's official twitter account Friday evening, for those of you paying attention to the needy outlets embedded in developmental damage, and of course it wasn't fair of me, for those of us old enough to remember what life was like writing penny articles before the bloated carcass otherwise known as the Department of Defense bequeathed us with the Internet, barely relevant as the noun is at present. Indulging my neurotic tendencies in the blogosphere may still be a writing exercise, but most of us no longer get paid, unless we're predicting stock market crashes, unraveling diverse financial instruments. Andrew Sullivan, late of the Daily Dish, whose sole dialogue with me, before I became a nasty Richard Spencer empath, was to send me a screen shot of my Amtrak building, was a master of the web log format, briefly became the go to institutional voice, similar to how Cato darlings emerge out of policy analysis onto the documentary video, spend their currency but maintain their admirers (Niall Ferguson?), and he still failed. I never succeeded, merely lit a precursor spark of nihilist rage, keeping illegal details against real persons mainly to myself, sometimes with heavy insinuation, survived Google's threat of suspension, which reminds me, the collective voice of the playful Silicon Ewe, on whom the fate of the world depends, sent me an email about resetting AdSense, which may be interpreted as permission to use despite my mafiaoso tendencies to derive satisfaction out of being a hate crime, but I haven't yet expended three or four gigabytes trying to unravel and regain access to my 3 dollars and change. Add in Niume's suspended revenue, that makes four, and I am, pretty much, into my last cognitive quality years, while James Bennet gets to play a tort pissant against everyone's favorite Alaskan female. Not that I haven't made errors, like misspelling a lawyers name, having for pay topics fall apart, but poor, sympathetic James, who tweeted to me not to feel "guilty," made a game changing falsity. Who am I kidding? Whatever their political differences, Tim Gilmer and Charles Krauthammer are men with their respective province who broke their backs, able to emulate the memory of the ambulatory world they lost. Savants, spastics, such as I, merely conceptualize what we never were. Some of us actually can walk. Gimpy, pigeon toed, but none of us are important, and I've long blown my Inquirer capital. Twitter, thus far, allows my outages to glide, even if Niume's model illustrates what we cannot resolve: everyone can blog, but follower economics? Tenuous at best. My intellectual ally, Mark Antro, has an uphill battle, if Niume's failure to actually improve revenue generation is any indicator. Less collaboration, more accreditation, might work better, in collective venues. I am not sure, or uncertain, and I did not ventilate on Virily because they will be lucky if I post once in an eclipse. I should stop doing this altogether if I need revenue, in other words.
Struggling with my memory, I may have read portions of The Man in the High Castle. I certainly read plenty of poor Dick, spared my wrath, much like Ben Gleib, whom I may have reduced unintentionally. I was attempting to be funny, and may change my mind and bring him back, despite my lack of context for his on camera role. I can say a few things about the series: the title theme song is ingenious. Only recently recognized Ridley Scott. Some actors are known qualities, and the stark brutality comforts me. Take that anyway you like. I will move the plunger along, but not this morning. I had a grave attack, one that tells me if I have to flee the Presbyterians, I had better ratchet up. My only relatively droll news is I got the battery to behave.
We all have bad days, and the Jazzy's battery memory, despite all my precaution, is on the way down. This is not a machine worth repairing, but caramel bitch started terrorizing me during my first equipment failure, and I cannot do it again, not with her nor her bull dykes, and the stress weighs me, vanishing in pain and out of the way because I left internal medicine and refuse to go back to Jefferson. This seems to make the brutality of High Castle applicable. I am in mid stride on S1, E3, with one operable ear plug to match my "bad" ear on the right. My left, which was my better ear drum, either has a permanent wax affliction, or lost sensitivity the last time I was actually on my bath chair. My acumen can only compensate for so much, and I'm telling you what I said years ago: staying at Riverside is destroying me. Linda Dezenski never fully understood what her conduct toward me did, truly leaving me without any allies. I have never heard one disability advocate, ever, systemically examine independent living corruption and suggest reforms. It's difficult because at one end of the spectrum you have Krauthammer, the crippled shrink who still plays policy doctor, and on the other end people like Cherry, barely in the world, and then Joe Delesio, the savant who imitates normal until he exposes his idiocy, and me, the outcast, terrorized by Africans who jump ship out of guilt, or stay on because they are as thick as SS guards in a New York skyscraper. I am going to die as hard as I've lived. What the fuck can you do?
"Can I still play the violin?"--Lois Smith
Where
Defiance ends and The Man in The High Castle begins in
2015, there is a thematic congruence, one superficial, the other overly dramaturgical.
Both series suggest American values have been tested and raise questions in
relation to our global role in the aftermath of successful blows on our soil.
The “races” of Defiance address pluralistic tensions. The nuclear device in
High Castle which incinerates the White House in the Smith family flashback
resonates with the same sobering shock as watching the Twin Towers implode on
9/11, not that it need be translated in that fashion, since the series’
creators are faithful to the spirit of Dick’s unsparing depreciation of
American sensibilities, however heightened the realism for the sake of Prime’s competitiveness
with Netflix, this too something of a retail fiction. Streaming is streaming, whatever
we put in the pipeline. I have not gone into High Castle at great length because
I sequenced it rapidly after the start of my still ongoing personal crisis, and
there is a great deal of material to peel. Whatever viewers feel about Berlin
as the superpower du jour, the cinematic quality of SO1 & 2 seems well done
to me, and one hopes the set personnel received worthwhile compensation. Amazon
proved itself rather shrewd as opposed to SyFy, since revamping Kennedyesque authoritarian
alternatives is easier than bringing otherworldliness to St. Louis and beyond.
The outer framework of the Defiance plot falls well within the traditions of
the genre, and isn’t anything we have not seen before, particularly in print. Megalomania
pits itself against the upright and the just. Asimov may be able to get five
Foundation novels out of that, but cable television can’t expect its audience
to join all those threads so seamlessly. High Castle’s writers have more
dramatic tensions and complexity, and Julia Crain manages to play both sides
against the middle, just as we aren’t altogether certain about Joe Black’s
moral compass, especially given the revelation that he was a Leidermoif [sic]
newborn.
The
most fluid episodes, those of the Trade Minister’s visions of history as we
know it, are more tenuous, though they expose what the citizens of today are meant
to appreciate: how fortunate we are to live in a constitutional republic where
the descendants of bootleggers were de facto royals who kept us out of war with
the Soviets. Dick wasn’t quite so highbrow, and his aims nearly juxtapose those
of Ridley Scott and his team. Everything Dick did was an attack on our pretensions, not a tribute to our
national innocence.
"That's Kim Kardashian's husband! He was in prison and had a problem with drugs. He was on a program."-- my mentally retarded and enthusiastic client Joseph, with his complimentary data banks
Having finally streamed the first episode of High Castle, my main dismay had nothing to do with its quality as an Amazon original, and its exposition was finely tuned for a war era drama; it is merely terrain in which I've been to before, alternate timelines already adapted for the small screen. I will meander into the intrigues of the series slowly, you'll have to be patient as I fail to resolve or succeed at some level with my long overdue transition, though I made poor Joseph happy, the high function mental retardation client, the sole constant in my brief rise and more torturous descent, as far back as 1991, perhaps even earlier I may have shared space with him. He recognized Cameron Hilson's picture on my phone and grew excited, and told me your story, Cameron. This, the simplicity of a senior aged child is one of the sole reasons I followed you back, a retarded man adding to celebrity literacy. All it means, at best, is a sardonic bemusement, which does not have to be virulent for its own sake. You were a baller. I, who can barely conceptualize balance on my feet, can barely fathom the exhilaration of sprinting like a gazelle on the field. You have a drug problem, did some short time? My little brother died a drug problem, and North Philadelphia, in my lifelong game of hopscotch, can be liked to hard time in the obstinacy of my insistence in making my own way. I have mentioned Lydia Nayo before, the lawyer who blew Philadelphia for San Francisco, feeling the need to confide in me, unbidden, that she, having been raped by a white man, had the ability to compartmentalize bad actors apart from white privilege and ethnicity. Good for Lydia. I applaud, and invited her to lunch when her mother died and she had to return east.
Surprised? It never materialized, which is just as well, with my dismal view of African American norms, it's brass insolence, even insistence that I give it recognition, as it pertains to this public housing environment. As unpleasant as it is to stipulate, blacks can be just as cruel, and stigmatizing, as an Asian who perceives Europeans as barbarians, though this is a neoclassical conceit long since superseded, layered and obfuscated, as everything is in the digital era.
I caught fire on George Will's "Dangerous Disability" column, and as the crusty and challenging libertarian trespassed my provenance, I had my chamber loaded, and lost my thread, and now I'm surly, our governance via New York City's jackass not rectifying matters. I've naught returned to my other assignment, but I've been a bit overly phlegmatic mid-May, and have much up in the air. Given that it will rain through mid week, I'll counsel my own re-entry, seeping my way back, not giving anyone room to comfort me in a hospice bed, when it comes to that.
Like many public housing tenants who end up becoming agitated and enveloped, literally, by lack of mood health, I am caught between inextricable forces: If I do not leave Riverside Presbyterian Apartments, I will wind up losing my ability not to engage in law breaking conduct, one way or the other. Some of you may say that marginally competent black women come a dime a dozen, however aggressive, cruel, and conniving they've been, focus, hang on, you've been through the worst. I know all this. I just need to leave. So leave, but doing that gives Presbyterian Homes exactly what it desires, and if I am not clever enough to get from destination A to (temporary?) destination B by August, what choices would first responders have, even if I hypothetically leave the borders of the Commonwealth? What the fuck would I do in a shelter, with this chair, if I could keep the more hopelessly deranged from an aging and damaged machine, with bedpan, and whatever else I could carry? It simply isn't fair, this delusion that I could be an independent woman who had options. I can barely sit here without some memory tied to this building, in my 23 year history in it (31 total under the same corporate 202 contract with HUD, I've never had another agent, just corrupt Presbyterian owners, basically a 15 minute Septa ride between Broad and Race), without a trigger begging me to strike back, and I cannot continue. I need to go, and I cannot manage. It is literally, as we speak, killing me, but in the interim, I've always had a forgiving blindness toward Philip K Dick, and as with ... _ElectricSheep? it will be fun to compare High Castle. Dick is one of those writers, flawed, on the mildly raw side, whose tendency toward abstract composites leaves screen writers, directors, room to breathe. I really do not know what I'm going to do otherwise.
Yes, I beat back Presby's escalating and illegal aggression toward me, but the price I have paid has destroyed intonations within which I'll never recover, and I write this without hyperbole. The system has destroyed my compassion. I am not capable of anything, but I am capable of unbridled fury which needs relief.
