Patricia Highsmith

My darkness isn't as original as that of Hitchcock's appropriated lesbian. Revenge killing over betrayal of trust is as old as the hills. Highsmith utilized more complex repressions and triggers, those which basically sucked good people into suspense-filled, dangerous situations, and by today's standards, faggots are the new angels, except for those Christians who feel the power of apostasy, and thus, even Highsmith's bitterness, which Matt Damon brought to life as Ripley, is passe. What bothers many people about me is the belief that I am capable of the beheading in Oklahoma, at least morally, or that like Cumberbatch, I can go up against a nearly invincible opponent, and shoot a bullet through their skull, while the Catholic laity rejoins harp to homily to ask, "What is this doing to you?"

What it has done is destroyed a time in my life wherein I should have been able to relax with a decent man, visit Tuscany, greet my damn family who stayed at the other end of the pond. Although I may annihilate myself in the process, I am going to dissolve and destroy the Philadelphia disability center. I'll send Tony Stiles the pre-written saga which always leads to these poignant trajectories of destruction.

To steer these insinuations back to the literature and the screen plays themselves, for all of Benedict's attuned energies, and all the mobility of the modern camera, His Last Bow ends on a disappointing, anti-climatic note.

Doyle is... Sir Arthur Conan Doyle is a master mechanic, conceptually, but his high and corrupted Victorian voice, ushering in the ambiguity of the modern, Edwardian? era gets on my nerves. Sorry.

This be it said, me believes I have the etext in the cabbit patch. I'll check. Someday, if I don't keel from arteriosclerosis triggered by starvation, it is worthy to compare.

Catherine Deneuve

I could not meet the demands of working at The Washington Post, whatever standards remain, but I study the special bylines, the one timers-- that I hope to break; if I can do it with the Inquirer I can do it with Wapo, one day, but if I am going to bounce, cancel my digital access and move on, I am ambivalent, reluctant, and familiar with contempt. I've not made up my mind, and cancellation would not be a total blackout-- and yet, elongating  hyper sigh, I like my comfort zone of being part of its community, as long as I keep a check on running the comments (the moderators, those almighty arbiters of online speech, did not grant me a comment badge; sniff, but then again, I am a guppy competitor, and a sociopathic blogger who hasn't quite quite truly lain it out on the mat since then again I am a quite vulnerable sociopath, and vengeance killings have been done by better lesbians than I am ever going to be-- does a sardonic jibe diminish my serious hostility to the gay community?) I've held my fire, and we'll see what happens when I go to target practice. I will be honest, however. I know I cannot roll back the social acceptance-- but what I am going to do is leave a warning for the future-- and when ape men cloning leads to recombinant disaster a futurist will pull me out of archive with smug reverberation. Highsmith aged quite awfully. She is an unsettled factor in my personal canon. I did one novel in group, the rest, well, of course-- through the studio filter. I just had an unpleasant picture, a vomit lurch, of Highsmith meeting Josie Byzek, pushing my limit on nauseating visuals and digestion. A tired superego, well. I know. What revolts, this is entirely irrelevant in the progressive pantheon. I regret not having studied Roman Polanski with an expert. What the motifs are beneath the surface of his claustrophobic spaces. Repulsion doesn't  have the ruthless upper cut of Rosemary's Baby, but I've now seen the trilogy. Hopefully I'll find the language I'm looking for, beyond his brilliance with repression. Is an auteur's signature merely a matter of style? Should women always expect to be pin cushions, fatuous with hatreds?

Men still make me happier, on the whole, despite the fact that I was a bloody fool. I almost wish Jerry had struck me across the face, shook me violently, though he did, as such, kick my ass in the process of his migratory journey and final placement.

Mafioso Googliia!

Only in America can a quadriplegic rewrite Highsmith in real time while her corporate handlers siphon what profits they can off her flaking epidermis while she subsists in entitlement bondage and her right wing aunt wants her to simply give in to the welfare state. If Google will not allow me to utilize my AdSense account on Blogger because my posts are indicative of potentially disturbing signals, it isn't so much a question of what I can or cannot do about it, as it is an issue that I cannot access any technical support to repair the problem. I suspect Google itself is a conspiracy at this point, not manned by human agents at all in their quest for efficiency.

I executed today in relatively good sequence, but, as with old Tommy, I am still past my prime. Perhaps you believe my need for justice is callow. I'd agree with you, except for one thing. Putting justice on a glider because no one cares about the apartheid of independent living centers leads to horrific injustices, such as Danieal's starvation and suspects like Ariel. I cannot rely on my family, I cannot trust the activists who lead in Philadelphia not to keep me from turning into another sordid statistic. I already know I cannot rely on you, but if I can rouse the smallest civic conscious of engagement to stay alert on those tracks, maybe we can challenge worthwhile paradigms and move on from trivial pursuit.