"Kill the wino." James Caan
Though I woke on time (obviously, since this is a rare daylight post) I canceled my attendance at the Sims job fair in an email to his Harrisburg account at 7:20. I need some adjustment time with this hated Jazzy Quantum, the encroaching humidity, and if I lack the confidence to deal with recruiters in public at this moment, it will show. I'm an old woman skewering her fucking skull in desperation, and though the developing world would laugh in my face on the true measure of desperate lives, comparisons have little mitigating effect, even with the unintentional humor in the room mate search questionnaire.
Why are you looking for a room mate now?
"My wife is leaving me." Not ideal, but I called his number, out of sheer amusement, and I cannot find the electrician whose wife has cancer and whose current roommate is "psycho." Not idea either. I've been on ward with cancer patients, but was going to reach out to said electrician anyway, since I consider myself highly undesirable. Found him. He and his ailing spouse would put me closer to little brother, but an electrician with one ailing spouse considering me as an addendum would be up for canonization, yes, si?
21 years of my life with Protestant skinflints who've given me fonts of trauma, with their nigger chicks just piling it on, lancing my wounds because I'm furious that I came here, not considering it a choice in Meryl Streep's stark terms in her Priestly Prada habitation. Despite this section 202 building location, I turned it down after my assault. I did not want to live here, ever, because I knew what it would do to me, and I'm no longer sure which evil is worse, the real ghetto or this crematorium, 21 years of strenuous hate. Why didn't I get out before? Well, Linda humiliated me and recovery time took two years; Paratransit was then lost, Frank happened, my mother died, had to put first cat down, the aide abuse, power chairs breaking, this is why, and any mind can only take so much contiguous crisis. I do not know if I hate Trudy Richardson for her integral nature or for her continued escalation and aggressive attacks against me, but I am either leaving this building or going to jail for pushing back; it's that simple.
Onward. Either way, I'm suing this company, and that because it cost Presby absolutely nothing to move me fifteen minutes past Diamond Park. I had already been pre-approved, and the only individuals who paid were my father, mother, the tenant who I bumped. At this point, it has little to do with ideology. I keep getting hurt, and the people imposing the pain aren't exactly on Lynch'es pay grade.
Showing posts with label meryl streep. Show all posts
Showing posts with label meryl streep. Show all posts
Friday, May 8, 2015
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
Cuckoo's Forfeiture
My point is that illness is not a metaphor, and that the most truthful way of regarding illness---and the healthiest way of being ill---is one most purified of, most resistant to, metaphoric thinking. -- Susan Sontag
Meryl Streep presents herself as a translucent mirage in Dark Matter (2007), a progressive caught between multicultural faith and the reality of academic politics. Forget extrapolations. Chen’s direction and Shebar’s script are irresponsible in their rendition of events that transformed Gang Lu into a spree killer, with his goal perhaps being the elimination of an entire department. Liu Xing is too sympathetic as an alter, and the triggers that lead him to kill Aidan Quinn’s Reiser foreshadowed on the cheap, with tai ching intersplices dispersed between scenes; its binary closures of the women racing, both the attache and the mother, in a fatuous attempt to contain the damage. The Virginia Tech massacre was a real and traumatic event, one that perhaps forever pierced the notion of intellectual ambition as a form of insulation against the vulgarity of urban violence.
In many respects, I am a radical advocate of free speech, doomed and dwarfed thereby due to the worrisome rise of the digital global conglomerate, and rarely engage in the moral chastisement of cheap theatrical manipulations, but Bridget Fonda’s Single White Female falls into the same category as Chen‘s lame interpolation. The unedited scene of deceptively forced fellatio between Jennifer Jason Leigh and Steven Weber was a masturbation stimulant that I did not need to incorporate in the psyche of my delayed sexual maturity, but the scene made an indelible impact, this out of nothing but a B grade slasher formula dressed up by psychological excuses for purposes of justification, just another patriarchal brick thrown at the shrieking and hysterical female, not a few leagues past the range of veracity.
I’ve needed a bit of rest, trying to finish some much needed chores, remind myself that I actually was a writer before portals and search engines. At my age it's increasingly difficult, and in the rare instance that I view television to escape, I did not need that unexpected tantrum of blood and guts with a shiny Colt revolver and a bling starburst.
Meryl Streep presents herself as a translucent mirage in Dark Matter (2007), a progressive caught between multicultural faith and the reality of academic politics. Forget extrapolations. Chen’s direction and Shebar’s script are irresponsible in their rendition of events that transformed Gang Lu into a spree killer, with his goal perhaps being the elimination of an entire department. Liu Xing is too sympathetic as an alter, and the triggers that lead him to kill Aidan Quinn’s Reiser foreshadowed on the cheap, with tai ching intersplices dispersed between scenes; its binary closures of the women racing, both the attache and the mother, in a fatuous attempt to contain the damage. The Virginia Tech massacre was a real and traumatic event, one that perhaps forever pierced the notion of intellectual ambition as a form of insulation against the vulgarity of urban violence.
In many respects, I am a radical advocate of free speech, doomed and dwarfed thereby due to the worrisome rise of the digital global conglomerate, and rarely engage in the moral chastisement of cheap theatrical manipulations, but Bridget Fonda’s Single White Female falls into the same category as Chen‘s lame interpolation. The unedited scene of deceptively forced fellatio between Jennifer Jason Leigh and Steven Weber was a masturbation stimulant that I did not need to incorporate in the psyche of my delayed sexual maturity, but the scene made an indelible impact, this out of nothing but a B grade slasher formula dressed up by psychological excuses for purposes of justification, just another patriarchal brick thrown at the shrieking and hysterical female, not a few leagues past the range of veracity.
I’ve needed a bit of rest, trying to finish some much needed chores, remind myself that I actually was a writer before portals and search engines. At my age it's increasingly difficult, and in the rare instance that I view television to escape, I did not need that unexpected tantrum of blood and guts with a shiny Colt revolver and a bling starburst.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Streep In Stilletto
I can envision taking Lauren Weisberger's novel out of the library on a slow day, one that might involve the leisure of trivial pursuit, but whatever the film adaptation leaves out, what it augments it augments so that getting beneath the surface of high couture isn't an issue for me. We do not need to see beneath the surface of Miranda Priestly, because Streep's minimalism says enough about the cost in and of itself that further exploration isn't necessary. Like Alexandre Dumas' dazzling marionettes, The Devil Wears Prada offers a material surface that becomes its own argument, and the pushback from Andrea's friends and family is obligatory, because the story has to acknowledge that the rarified atmosphere of high fashion is one that most mortals could not flourish in, not just those made obese and diabetic by high fructose corn syrup.
Yet we're all fascinated by pagentry and style, and why we are is interesting, even if it might have convoluted evolutionary triggers, our ability to distinguish color and pattern, to desire the perfect human figure even as we exploit and react to its varied entropic deformities. Meryl Streep does something virtually impossible in this film, or in real life, in that she embodies a perfect figure, that on a small scale is the epic equivalent of Grecian mythology-- not that Prada is a great film, or can stand with the classics, but it is great within the urban world it inhabits, one that makes Islamic fanaticism look like a biological nightmare by way of comparison, as if our species were losing its remarkable ability to conquer environments rather than evolving, as science fiction either suggests we shall or will fail, which sums up this vast genre in a nut shell, but is the basic truth behind it.
Is style an evolutionary adaptation? Andrea seems to reject it, on the surface, when it is time, she does not want to pay Miranda's price for ruthless perfection, but is that really what is going on with this movie, and why it was such a hit, strikes so many chords?
The fact that I don't need to read Weisberger's book isn't a reflection on her work; all serious writers have some version of it, like mine with selecting Alexandra Grilikhes over Bob Small, for instance, with her aesthetic vision more in tune with mine over Bob's working class post-beatnik brass knuckles, the two of them represent the basic division within the American literary presses. My thoughts here are only scratching the surface, goaded on by what Harvard modernist critics have written too, in their critical shorthand that my range does not quite match, though I can see where writing about Prada might assist me in making that leap. I did not expect that Weisberger's self-discovery, however Hollywood translated, would imprint on me in my environment to such a degree, the brutalism of a life style barren of any glamor whatsoever.
Yet we're all fascinated by pagentry and style, and why we are is interesting, even if it might have convoluted evolutionary triggers, our ability to distinguish color and pattern, to desire the perfect human figure even as we exploit and react to its varied entropic deformities. Meryl Streep does something virtually impossible in this film, or in real life, in that she embodies a perfect figure, that on a small scale is the epic equivalent of Grecian mythology-- not that Prada is a great film, or can stand with the classics, but it is great within the urban world it inhabits, one that makes Islamic fanaticism look like a biological nightmare by way of comparison, as if our species were losing its remarkable ability to conquer environments rather than evolving, as science fiction either suggests we shall or will fail, which sums up this vast genre in a nut shell, but is the basic truth behind it.
Is style an evolutionary adaptation? Andrea seems to reject it, on the surface, when it is time, she does not want to pay Miranda's price for ruthless perfection, but is that really what is going on with this movie, and why it was such a hit, strikes so many chords?
The fact that I don't need to read Weisberger's book isn't a reflection on her work; all serious writers have some version of it, like mine with selecting Alexandra Grilikhes over Bob Small, for instance, with her aesthetic vision more in tune with mine over Bob's working class post-beatnik brass knuckles, the two of them represent the basic division within the American literary presses. My thoughts here are only scratching the surface, goaded on by what Harvard modernist critics have written too, in their critical shorthand that my range does not quite match, though I can see where writing about Prada might assist me in making that leap. I did not expect that Weisberger's self-discovery, however Hollywood translated, would imprint on me in my environment to such a degree, the brutalism of a life style barren of any glamor whatsoever.
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