Mayonnaise treatments, Josh Barro finesse

It is a mild winter afternoon for a Christmas week Friday, small pleasure denied, spontaneous desire to join the joggers on the Schuykill River path. Neither chair is charged enough for my shimmy hour plus half dressing to go nowhere, lacking destination. The lack of spontaneity is the downer of mobility impairment, to on top of that have to deal with people like Debra Horne, a life long battle with vocational rehabilitation case management. VR is the repository of the most hated modality wheelchair users have to negotiate, and Jimmy Devane was nearly Debra Horne's replica during my very early post-high school years. I do not just hate her, with the woolly mammoth mindset for which PresbyHomes no doubt hired her. The antagonism, which puts it mildly, has a long memory.

Devane did receive the petite version of the 03 Hulk. Stricture, implosion, pretending that I am pushing back against Barro, not necessarily due to the pain and mechanics of anal sex. Most aspects of sexual activity have a certain incongruity, more often than not comic, like the urgency of Theron's ardor turned on to Ricci during the skating courtship; perhaps this was Jenkins' strategy, to display these hard women fondling moments as laughable, reductive as opposed to binding.

No Josh, I may not always do my best to penetrate collective projection in my criticism of various contra-indicators, but, just as an effeminate mimetic may be an evolutionary mechanism to curb aggression, the triggers that provoke hostility to it may equally be related to the perception of self-preservation. I'm sympathetic to Robertson only to the degree that progressives like yourself want to erase history, which conversely paves the way for worse extremes. I know.

Much of what I am posting with Blogger's adult flag banner cannot be written this way in any media, even aggregates, and though I am not paying a price now to own it, I may in the future-- the only caveat to that being I am too weak now, on average, to return to a 40, 45k salary, which is where I reasonably saw myself by now, with an IRA.

I am leaving my country one hell of a finger, opening those seams where the larvae wriggle, ghostly plump protein bodies. Happy New Year

Neeson in Dublin

It was always a great affair, the Misses Morkan's annual dance. Everybody who knew them came to it, members of the family, old friends of the family, the members of Julia's choir, any of Kate's pupils that were grown up enough and even some of Mary Jane's pupils too. Never had it fallen flat.  --James Joyce, The Dead

Perhaps Agnieszka Wojtowicz-Vosloo was attempting to do something more ambitious with After.Life than what she could deliver, but it is to her credit that I see things in her feature film that echo my undergraduate studies of the early Modernists, things that recall Eliot's grasp for an existence made inert through anesthesia, or Joyce's ability to show a mode of living entirely paralyzed. We have seen such things before. Virtually everyone with the ability to operate a video camera uses a nose bleed to suggest something sinister is afoot in the transient netherworld. We are not told why Ricci's middle school teacher has a bleed, uses meds, or why the mother behaves like a shellfish with a claw attached to your finger. We do not see Liam's Deacon at the initial crash site, and don't know how he gets his victims out of the ER, or why he can fool the doctors so readily with a muscle paralytic. We do not quite need to know these things for the narrative to work better than it does, but Justin Long, scion of Jeepers Creepers the first, is not up to pitting himself against Neeson's absolute and short tempered faith. Long's on and off panic switch is as much static as Ricci's desperate phone call. I am still waiting for little Ricci to inhabit a role I can believe in, her complicity in Monster aside, and I am not entirely clear on Canterbury's Jack. An apprentice, yes, but Wojtowicz seems to want him to stand as an ambiguous observer whose conscience is finally swayed.

More than suspense, Agnieszka seemed to be aiming for suspension, asking us how we live inside the routine entrapments we fear changing: There is the promise of more potential within the failure.

Ennui's Last Omelette

The sad thing is any American woman could wind up becoming Aileen Wuornos. My mother came closer than I did to this type of existential tragedy, but her pregnancy with Benjamin, for those of you keeping score, my half brother who now like my sister has ceased talking to me, screwed her brain back on temporarily, and she pulled up just enough, at least just enough to see my other brother to his death, then her father, and she survived just barely long enough to see me end the Italian wedding gala to Frank. Part of me wonders if I killed her because I did not marry the poor ugly  bastard, and my sister feels the same way, guilty, because granny had to give her money for the brood. That is how my mother's life ended, with Stephanie's dependency. My sister is a weak and shallow mother, expecting hand outs, and the last time she and I spoke, she screamed at me that I hated her, and no, that isn't quite the case, but I don't like her very much, and don't miss her angst and its primacy, honestly, even though I myself have lost every social extension except for my online relatively impolitic interactions, or meeting new editors in email and then failing them. With a sniggered gut curdle, I am not sure this counts, not that I am actively going to make a proactive save attempt today. Maybe a passive one, due to the weather.

I streamed Monster on a whim, and my initial reaction is that I did not need another welfare white trash story on top of all the others that have pissed on my life. I am not faulting Charlize Theron. She pulls out a master habitation with her B-grade actress larger than life bravado. The reviewers are right, and Patty Jenkins indicts this country more than Aileen Wuornos herself. The story just hits too close to home, too close to my own sense of desperate strain against the feeling of the noose around my neck, and I have no desire to pump bullets into tricks, good bad or sick, and know it is late in the day for justice to ease my circumstance, and my education is no longer enough, perhaps, against encroaching physical vulnerability. I am going to rest now before the second to last episode of my favorite network show airs this evening. I was going to post a LiveJournal poll asking if anyone wanted to party during the last episode next week, but did not want to put myself in the position of not getting any responses.