The Fulfillment of Herve Villechaize

"hey boss," the beloved tattoo

In its summation of Hollywood’s dwarf suicides, Fox News fails to mention that Villechaize was an accomplished painter, which makes his suicide all the more poignant against Troyer’s undercurrent of lewdest denominators, $5000 sex tapes indeed to private collectors who vanish down the rabbit hole to Alice’s wonderland, snorting powder highs on a mirror, a frustration lunging to that old florid refrain, I just wanna make love to you, love to you, which somehow captures the rhythmic movements of a 69 in exploration of itself, knives and coitus ache in the nearly dried flower of an old woman’s cunt, and if I truly believe in what I stand for, either eliminate the problem or force the damn issue, little spears of saline running their course, no matter how magnanimous, he doesn’t want me, and this gives progressives a first down at the fifty yard line, when it comes to pursuit in the travesty of the pursuer whose lewd jibes and body contact are so cute, the color of skin doesn’t matter when the needs awakened against male virility won’t go away, in the cycle of a spastic life skirting the edge of a fetish as lost financial opportunity. As with anything, Dinklage is the standard of midget success, full rugged face echoes enough physically normal appearance, lends itself to the stardom of an all together man, married, and thus, an adept mimic. The pain of Villechaize, if otherwise unable to be entered, corresponds to the swollen feet of soon to be coming summer. “Leave me alone,” I told him in my minute down swell, and meant it, though his lion’s heart cannot stifle the impetus of consolation. He devastated by the Cosby verdict, me less so after an odd 36 months of reading  over the icon’s cratered avalanche, dealing with, and losing one of his accusers, Joan Tarshis, if I step back, as a traumatized woman in her own right, it isn’t about picking a victor so much as the inadequacy against years of silence. I may not know the truth, but I do know about the consequence of a woman foolhardy enough to be alone with a man in such a context, particularly in 1969, more about regret than love? I did not see a judicial process which secured justice in the Cosby trial, I saw a rubber stamp to placate women’s pain, and at the heart of the matter, the throb in the vibrating vein in my chest cage is simply riled because it cries, this is what it feels like when it’s right. I cannot change that as an absence I’ve had to bear through life even with the burden of Frank Versante on my back. I never had right, and had I been better focused in 16, I suppose I wouldn’t be juggling this now, would I? I told them I wanted a man, in unwitting folly, due to whatever trigger, I’ve fallen, moaning on my soul, as if I don’t have enough to reassemble, still over and above the turgid bellow of Mini-Me, a mere caricature of evil. The dowager flirted herself as the real thing, little realizing plow horses can slay dragons.

A Civet’s Perineal Gland

The civet produces a musk highly valued as a fragrance -- a Wiki entry

Would viewer’s like this implosive and still not master of the blogger format to walk it back, offer an expression of remorse against tantalizing aspects of destructive impulses? Let’s listen to the planks creak under a plodding tread and see where we wind up this Monday morning. I was going to try to explain some of this to the caretaker, with the pressures she’s under, colliding with mine, leading to another failed outreach, in my continuing attempt to rebuild a support system. I don’t wish to diagram her as I have Karina, (and even here, my diagram of white post-beatnik flakes is meant to illustrate that trying to circumvent regulated paradigms has failed me, more than once in recent months) but for women in their 30’s, they seem to share certain attributes of fragility in common beyond grieving for their mothers. We all grieve for mothers if we live long enough, although in Arrival we have an inverse loss of a mother losing a daughter to a terminal illness. I tend to agree with Renner’s physicist that Amy Adams, in character, made the wrong choice. Vileneuve created an excellent film, made me interested in Chaing’s novella, but I have to reject the transcendental consolations of the director’s vision. It is bad enough having cerebral palsy, but I’ve had so much cut out of my life that so many of you in my class have had, and a studio in which I am sick of living looks more like a storage locker in a bus depot. It makes Dinklage seem nearly art deco chic in The Station Agent What my father is doing to his third wife is exactly what he did to me as a child, and the incessant drama of this woman’s hammock swing between life and death, for the last ten years, wears on me, wears on my sister, it’s wrong, and I vow not to prolong my pain on that road, even though I am in a dreadfully vulnerable tumult at the moment.

Medicare, which Krugman announced as an event on his eligibility day, cannot go on like this indefinitely. If I balk at my freefall, look at my stepmother’s. She is bedridden, barely cogent on a good day, in constant pain and in need of round the clock care, for ten years, a virtual trade deficit in her own right. All I’ve ever really been in need of was a decent power chair, good technology, an efficient transport and my career back. Regardless of your politics, I never intended, regardless of my belief that an urban grid would be easier, to have the clock stopped because the Commonwealth’s rehabilitation governance is a joke everyone knows. I get mad because it is up to us, the people, to change it, but we don’t, certainly not in Pennsylvania. Aging, the end of life, it is neither easy, nor efficient, but we could do better, unlike the Visiting Nurses Association. They have no authority to get Mike from Mr. Wheelchair to undo the damage he’s done; they shoved an unsafe generic hospital bed down my throat, and then Nancy Lotz says “oh, sorry, call your father, put your bed back together.” It isn’t that simple, and I’d have to pay people for their time, non-linear or not, and the VNA bills Medicare—for taking my temperature. That’s fraud. So was my week in the hospital. I wasn’t sick, I’m simply being killed by a scooter a shady jackass foisted on me, and I need to pick a day to stay up until morning to find a lawyer. I’d have an easier time sleeping with Peter Thiel.

From Here to The Eternal Plague

Alessandro Manzoni’s seminal work is on my mind because of Renzo’s forced migratory path in Milan. My history with The Betrothed is somewhat quixotic: I started reading the text at a free access site, perhaps Harvard classics, or John Hopkins. I then paid ten dollars and change for a kindle academic edition, started the novel once again, and left Manzoni’s besieged youth at the inn, slightly imbibed. I also purchased an academic study of Manzoni which I had also just started, it was expensive, and I engaged briefly with the Italian literature instructor about it, and it is hopefully undamaged in one of my boxes, but maybe this gives my audience another perspective on my vehemence about public housing. It refuses to cease disrupting my ambition, and it I really do go down in a criminal flare of rage, don’t be surprised. I have barely been able to live a semblance of my former life since October, one that was already too constricted, and the VNA keeps saying they will “bring me back.” They have made this assertion since November while I am struggling in Mike’s power chair with no desk arms on a two inch cushion which leaves me dangling. I am no stranger to temporary loan chairs, but this thing, for me, is a health hazard. I keep trying to divorce VNA, and the Jewish crones want to continue on with this love fest of ineptitude. They will not continue on for long, because I have to bring myself back, and I am starting to rebel. As soon as the Muslim is exchanged for another brow beaten fatalist of the underclass, I’ll push back more, though I considered dousing my scalp tonight, and shelved it, despite my knowledge that I’d feel better if I did, Saran’s ever constant accented protests ringing in my ear.

I have little idea why she was allowed to emigrate to the US, under the Clinton Administration. She is 53, certainly not moving on up, in the lingo of Norman Lear’s aspiration when The Jeffersons had cultural relevance. She misses Africa, her religious absolutions interfere with things I need to do, and though I have been through worse, her prayer activity is unprofessional. No one confronts her, not the health care Jewish league I’m arm wrestling, not the intake coordinators, nor I. If I get too confrontational before my switch, she could drop me, and yes, she stays where others would have quit, until I solve the toiletry issue, or I don’t, well aware I could die from this. I may not be comfortable with her, but I feel horrible about what she does for me. It is too much, for me, her, anyone, but like Renzo, miraculously untouched by buboes as he walks the length of Italy under Austrian rule, a journey of displacement, nevertheless one I envy so much. I am not entirely untraveled, but remain impressed that Jason Dorwart has transversed the heartland, while I remain in stasis, weakening in the city of my birth. I had a small exchange with Jason about his material needs, and do not know how to accommodate him at this time.

In my archives, I have written before I am diffident about performance and empowerment in disability culture, but I also do not have much access to it, so this is problematic, especially as not all of us have Dinkage’s cross over appeal, so recently off the lone hip Superbowl commercial. Doing an analysis from a YouTube viewing, even if it was pertinent to his theatrical periodical, might not be entirely fair to the troupe, but yes, I am glad he found me, peer to peer. One can’t always get away from identity politics, or autocratic injustice. Manzoni ranks highly with me, however, nearly Stendhal’s equal at psychological penetration. Will I live long enough to read him in dialect? I’d like to.

American Paladin, a closer look

"He is a man who cannot be rejected."-- Charlie Rose

Not having a phone is a rather radical act of self-assurance for Dinklage's  Finbar, an ascendant insularity that really isn't punctuated by the insistent overtures of the Cuban food vendor, and it is in this sense that I'd argue that McCarthy reverses the polarity of the pro-forma progressive paradigm of The Station Agent into something more unwittingly tragic, not that McCarthy denies Dinklage a human range. Much like Garcia's deployment of the dwarf actor in Things, both these directors go against the theatrical absurdity of type, and Finbar is a person, whom, according to interpretation, is yanked out of his shell by the disruptions of the fallible beings around him, but what do we know at the end of the day, about the train aficionado, aside from the fixation repressed persons without other outlets develop for objects of technological condensation?

We know he had an implied intimacy with the deceased Henry, through affinity and shared interest. We know he's had sex, this through Joe's inquiry, and McCarthy's adept poke in the eye of tiresome ambulatory curiosity, we see a regressive boyhood within the adult whose interior rage dares a suicide but pulls back. We see him chastened into empathy for Clarkson as the inconsolable mother who uses her grief for the loss of her son to feed off Finbar's stoicism; no needy cripple here, only selfish ambulatory grifters, and though McCarthy happily resolves his film into the usual bromides of acceptance within loss while life still moves forward, even chilling with beers on the porch, that is about it. The jester lets down his shield, not performing on demand for the court, as was superimposed on viewers for most of the 20th century. Dwarfs were macabre signatures, from the wizard of oz through the Michael Dunn of Porter's Ship of Fools. Of course, the dwarf in Porter's character study fills the role of the chorus, and is allowed to be a mature persona too wise in the folly of life, but he is still a device, which is exactly what Dinklage remains in McCarthy's world of what's possible: the form of the shrunken human body is a mask, a mask to disguise, cover hideousness that may hide an ideally brutalized heart, in one of Peter Laurie's less typecast roles, straight through Mickey Rourke picking up the time honored conceit in Johnny Handsome.

Dinklage, much like Garcia's Albert, is actually more relevatory in Death at a Funeral as the hyped up prostitute for the secretly gay family man, conveying more in the stereotypical fetish than he does attempting to fully flesh out McCarthy's libertarian, somewhat self-hating freak.

Shoestring budget or not, Clarkson does a disservice to the taxing culture of mental illness, waltzing down the hospital corridor in scrubs, a my bad smile on her face after being the pill popping drama queen. Attempted suicides rolling back the emotional pain which reverberates on all those around them doesn't lend itself to that level of resolution.

Richard III, in Mammary

My problem is this, and I have posted about it before, from time to time: I do not want to have to publish simply for free anymore through the small presses. Cannot afford it, but I am admittedly off my game, not that one failed article idea means I should stop pitching, or even that the idea itself was wrong, and I may need to utilize travel time to do some ground research, and give the nice editor a reboot at a later date, after I make a medical outline, screaming while I rip out my hair; my confidence has dwindled, entangled in my anger with you know what and who, but this goes deeper than her and their violations. It is panic at what it will take me to get back in the door with old clips, the clock running on my savings, and I cannot simply tie my hopes on contests for my few strong fiction bits, poetry manuscripts, or even restoring my ad banners, which may be a lost cause. I even found an open managing editor position that I am interested in, yet I do not wish to forsake independent presses entirely.

No, will not tell you where, but it has been open for some time, and I may break a sweat over it for nought, but will likely take the five hours necessary to make a cv package; the good news is I finished a memoir, not quite as playful as Death at a Funeral, which makes Peter Dinklage more interesting still, about my mother and her horse; it is going to a paying market, and I do not know if I have enough time to turn it into a story for a contest deadline which is yawning, if I can work that fast, or have a chance to win. The British just have a way with comedy of manners, and the defecation scene in the above mentioned was very true to life about incontinence and impaired mobility. My decision to fight back against the hell Liberty Resources has put me through may have come too late, we'll see, but engaging the battle has liberated my ability to really return to working again. Leaving this landlord for something less regimental will be the positive cure, but I do not know if my window for that has viable currency.