Maybe I'd be lucky and not die at all. Maybe I'd be a cripple all my life ... maybe I'd be paralyzed and have to sit in a wheelchair. The Tropic of Cancer, almost in the middle
Like I need another of these.
In the secret space of my callous self, I had always wanted to be free of pet rearing so I could give my notice and die a hard tragic death on the asphalt, and now I'm nearly there, but for kimmy, whom I'm giving a hard time, because my guilt has the corrosive power of destruction. I have a soft spot for all cats, but I loved my boys, and could not give any of them a good death, though Oliver got the best, and I had time to grieve with him. Educated liberals, when not taking human pet attachments seriously, lampoon them, and I fully comprehend the impetus, yet realize, as most feline lovers do, conspiratorially, that cats are superior to humans, and I miss my boys, putting all my energies into a fantasy which is cerebral, almost finished, and has me torn. Upload it to Amazon as a single, or not? I have not made up my mind, envious of Henning Mankell's ability to put his balls on a string. There are female authors who can do the same, but not like men.
Talisman is almost 20 years old, and Manning isn't afraid to kick himself in the ass, have a little fun, and have a relevant message about how our lack of ethics ripples outward; he makes it look easy, within a relatively simple meta-fictional framework, and it isn't. I blocked this shit without a word, increasingly disaffected.
Showing posts with label oliver marinelli. Show all posts
Showing posts with label oliver marinelli. Show all posts
Monday, May 23, 2016
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
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.
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.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Squibs
The Dickensian Christmas, with its cozy homes, hearty dinners, and festive pleasures, is the embodiment of the Victorian Christmas.-- Tom Pold
Why the mostly antithetical relationship to the voice of Dickens? It goes back early, to the guilty imposition of presence on my academic adviser. Michael had a soft spot for Dickensian caricature, exaggerations of type. I had not yet read Casamassima, not between 82 to 85, but the Jamesian attack in this flagging middle years novel embodies some of my hostility to Dickens and type. Do you believe the modern world is any less brutal than what Oliver Twist conveys about the welfare state in the Victorian era?
My appreciation of Polanski's distinctions as an auteur come late. I did not know before 2009 that I would be setting up this topic, failing, remaining stubborn, but his interpretation of the famous tale seems uneasy. Jump cut to pastoral abstraction. By a certain hour, my temperature belies my artistry and legacy and though I hope NBC or another network runs the film again to save me the trouble, I stopped viewing after the caning. Perhaps a reflection of my intolerance for the genius of Dickens himself. I have ground to a halt in the opening chapters of Our Mutual Friend. It is the giant's voice slightly muted. I started it for a reading group thread on TLN, before the owner banned me for life (isn't this shit silly?), and trying to get through it is analogous to slicing lethargy for lard substitution. The decline of Christmas itself may be tied to the waning influence of Dickensian sentimentality. his over the top melodrama for the death of figurines like Dora, his horrific grief for prostitutes. Defenders would argue he did clear the brambles for progressive social justice.
One could also look at the family tree of influences and turn away, dismayed.
Why the mostly antithetical relationship to the voice of Dickens? It goes back early, to the guilty imposition of presence on my academic adviser. Michael had a soft spot for Dickensian caricature, exaggerations of type. I had not yet read Casamassima, not between 82 to 85, but the Jamesian attack in this flagging middle years novel embodies some of my hostility to Dickens and type. Do you believe the modern world is any less brutal than what Oliver Twist conveys about the welfare state in the Victorian era?
My appreciation of Polanski's distinctions as an auteur come late. I did not know before 2009 that I would be setting up this topic, failing, remaining stubborn, but his interpretation of the famous tale seems uneasy. Jump cut to pastoral abstraction. By a certain hour, my temperature belies my artistry and legacy and though I hope NBC or another network runs the film again to save me the trouble, I stopped viewing after the caning. Perhaps a reflection of my intolerance for the genius of Dickens himself. I have ground to a halt in the opening chapters of Our Mutual Friend. It is the giant's voice slightly muted. I started it for a reading group thread on TLN, before the owner banned me for life (isn't this shit silly?), and trying to get through it is analogous to slicing lethargy for lard substitution. The decline of Christmas itself may be tied to the waning influence of Dickensian sentimentality. his over the top melodrama for the death of figurines like Dora, his horrific grief for prostitutes. Defenders would argue he did clear the brambles for progressive social justice.
One could also look at the family tree of influences and turn away, dismayed.
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Twins, Arches, & Basalt, 1
The Visitor (2008) with Richard Jenkins, is a remarkable rebuttal to the Bush era climate of our last decade, but it is also a masterpiece with a variety of exculpatory layers.
Oliver Marinelli is gone seven years now, and when Joey and Vinnie were born, I told my aunt I did not want them, but here I am, six years in a parent, torn between my bond, the stress of Joey's health cycles, and the need to conserve my own strength, a problem that has been ongoing many weeks into the future, and will reach a crisis sooner rather than later.
I need to sit down and literally create a new writing schedule. My head alone cannot jiggle the demands of the digital age, and this may take some time.
Oliver Marinelli is gone seven years now, and when Joey and Vinnie were born, I told my aunt I did not want them, but here I am, six years in a parent, torn between my bond, the stress of Joey's health cycles, and the need to conserve my own strength, a problem that has been ongoing many weeks into the future, and will reach a crisis sooner rather than later.
I need to sit down and literally create a new writing schedule. My head alone cannot jiggle the demands of the digital age, and this may take some time.
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