"What are you, my wife?" -- a harried paraprofessional who was grateful I recalled he forgot to fax his time sheet
When management turns on the radiator, I always tend to destabilize in my intestinal region, though somewhat unbeknownst to me, I was vulking waste into my disposal briefs because of a summer cold, so the situation has somewhat reversed itself, even though my interior air quality is now analogous to a fabled Turkish bath. And we've had so much of this lately. Erdogan's authoritarian hypocrisy, the House of Saud and its Janus face. If I am familiar with Khashoggi's writing I cannot remember it. Of course he did not deserve death in a choke hold with dismemberment, but I am going to assert a truism via which I only diminish my once vaunted desire to return to the ranks wherein those with contracts club each other over the head: Saudi Arabia is an enemy.
It is over now, the cold, but I desperately need to regain some independence. I cannot continue to function like this, with or without this minority and our near affair. I don't want him, and this is a near 180 degree turn, but I can't feel anything for a man who disdains my thirst to return to analysis. Our welfare partnership nearly tore asunder this past Monday. He became furiously angry that the kitchen was in moderate disarray, given my punishing helplessness in this Quantum model. I love my godfather, but the vendor he runs, Mainline Medical, failed me. My suffering is obdurate, and my purported nurse blew a gasket because I did not make the fill-in aide do a better job. He frightened me as if I had actually been weak enough to sleep with him, and it nearly ended that morning between us. It is probably the way it will end, although he grew tender, appreciative, when I simulated "being" his woman, reminding him the time sheet had to be faxed, after we closed the rift which only fuels my confirmation bias. A failed little boy who cries for his mother, this fellow. I'd flick him away like a speck of lint, remembering I too can reject able bodied men. I'd go on, colder, harder, bigoted, but you've had enough implosive virulence from yours truly whose first priority is weaponizing anesthetics against homosexuals, mounting them with pins, despite the papal voice of Francis: Do not condemn them. Indeed, I admire the illumination of Foucault despite his resistance to thesis, on body mechanization. AIDS was in its infancy as a known pathogen in 1987, so I cannot, much like Erdogan, go "too" far, but I respect Foucault's use of a structuralist approach to make us see the insidious nature of control on our physiology, invidious , ever encroaching. Perhaps, the more rigorous the work product, the more sexual risks Michel Foucault needed to take. Well, he was French.
Into this, the Facebook engaged in a mass purge last week, and Breitbart, nonetheless, stirred me into empathetic anger for Brian Kolfrage. I am following him on Facebook, not yet on Twitter. Here is the article informing many of us about why we lost PM Beers. Here is the press release. It may read like a conscientious consumer protection plan, yet I never trusted social media from day one, and have some degree of difficulty placing a three limb amputee with a family to support on par with Rasputin. I will have a more focused post on the conflicts herein, perhaps on LinkedIn, which censored me briefly from participating in groups due to "lack of relevance." Now I simply do not engage. Before my older more functional Quantum failed, I made a tremulous job search on LinkedIn, and nothing ever panned. I received letters of interest from unfunded grants, like Plato's cave wall. I have to broaden my efforts. However weakened, the dragon wakens once more. Help me.
Showing posts with label recep tayyip erdogan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label recep tayyip erdogan. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 24, 2018
Friday, July 7, 2017
Hackneyed Contremps in Ankara
So you don't like stupid people. Susan Sarandon
Although I'd be perfectly content to eat fish for the remainder of my shortening lifespan, there is a degree of disenchantment with the gelatin texture of the flesh, less prevalent in shark steaks, but I happen not to be big on flounder or salmon, that unpleasant jaw jutting stream fighter, except in a pate; when consumed in copious amounts as a spread, on anecdotal testimony, salmon reduces vitriolic levels of intense recrimination, but it will not change how minorities in an urban environment created scars too prevalent to give way to remorse. I have a last battle to fight with blacks whom I cannot perceive in anything but reduced terms, as harsh and impolitic as you may find that sentiment, and despite my former co-worker's optimistic Jesus advocacy on Facebook. I cannot tell you why I approved Cheryl's friend request. In our energetic adulthood, she possessed what I cannot, charm, a touch of class, like Cosby's television daughters, but the public square is one thing. My private life is another, and black exploitation, attitude, particularly when preying on my former naiveté, progressive guilt, if you like, has taken too much out of me. Trudy Richardson may have backed off because I've fought her like a hellhound, and used the Diamond Park assault to scare both her and Debra Horne as to legal consequence, but in eight years, I had threatening letters under my door once a week, in addition to her unceasing, back stabbing attacks, and no ambulatory white woman would endure that, you know it, and I have to fight back. That is the way it is. I could have cost Presby a significant settlement when I was 31. I did not, and my compensation for that has been to endure 24 years of bigotry and stigma. It makes a criminal record seem perfectly reasonable, let alone my own unapologetic mindset about black culture and its vernacular, and no uptick in foreign national followers under Erdogan's lackadaisical authoritarian posture will change that. Not to say that the dowager isn't intrigued by this influx of Turkish citizenry, but sympathies for Orhan's dialectical balancing between modernism and faith as a national statement doesn't make me an expert on the Ottoman's interchange with Arabia, Slavic influx, and Western alliance. As a people, you represent an ethnic oddity in peculiar geographical circumstances. I can give you a run for your money, with a practice warm up, at a backgammon table, but happy, fluffy, four years before 60? That will take a bit more than Eastern scales strummed to a mesmerizing reverberation on exotic strings: I foment until it's no longer possible, and should have gone to bed at two o'clock, a bad Friday to creak overtired with imperative deadlines nipping palsied tendons, but you baffle me.
Although I'd be perfectly content to eat fish for the remainder of my shortening lifespan, there is a degree of disenchantment with the gelatin texture of the flesh, less prevalent in shark steaks, but I happen not to be big on flounder or salmon, that unpleasant jaw jutting stream fighter, except in a pate; when consumed in copious amounts as a spread, on anecdotal testimony, salmon reduces vitriolic levels of intense recrimination, but it will not change how minorities in an urban environment created scars too prevalent to give way to remorse. I have a last battle to fight with blacks whom I cannot perceive in anything but reduced terms, as harsh and impolitic as you may find that sentiment, and despite my former co-worker's optimistic Jesus advocacy on Facebook. I cannot tell you why I approved Cheryl's friend request. In our energetic adulthood, she possessed what I cannot, charm, a touch of class, like Cosby's television daughters, but the public square is one thing. My private life is another, and black exploitation, attitude, particularly when preying on my former naiveté, progressive guilt, if you like, has taken too much out of me. Trudy Richardson may have backed off because I've fought her like a hellhound, and used the Diamond Park assault to scare both her and Debra Horne as to legal consequence, but in eight years, I had threatening letters under my door once a week, in addition to her unceasing, back stabbing attacks, and no ambulatory white woman would endure that, you know it, and I have to fight back. That is the way it is. I could have cost Presby a significant settlement when I was 31. I did not, and my compensation for that has been to endure 24 years of bigotry and stigma. It makes a criminal record seem perfectly reasonable, let alone my own unapologetic mindset about black culture and its vernacular, and no uptick in foreign national followers under Erdogan's lackadaisical authoritarian posture will change that. Not to say that the dowager isn't intrigued by this influx of Turkish citizenry, but sympathies for Orhan's dialectical balancing between modernism and faith as a national statement doesn't make me an expert on the Ottoman's interchange with Arabia, Slavic influx, and Western alliance. As a people, you represent an ethnic oddity in peculiar geographical circumstances. I can give you a run for your money, with a practice warm up, at a backgammon table, but happy, fluffy, four years before 60? That will take a bit more than Eastern scales strummed to a mesmerizing reverberation on exotic strings: I foment until it's no longer possible, and should have gone to bed at two o'clock, a bad Friday to creak overtired with imperative deadlines nipping palsied tendons, but you baffle me.
Monday, January 2, 2017
Incipient Titan Shellac
"Talo tayo dito."-- Rodrigo Duterte
How men like Clint Eastwood and Jack Nicholson are behind the scenes, with the tap off, is difficult to ascertain. There are moments, glimpses, and despite his ineffectual political jabs, Clint Eastwood is an admirable force. Nicholson, comparatively, is a lecherous pig, but the two of them are some of the very last supernovas of "the industry ". Their leonine coda is comprehensible and informed on my world, and I declare the right to mourn. I may grasp Dita's angle, but millennial celebrity, crowd funded as it appears to be, leaves me chasing after its linguistic relevance; Ben Landis is another example. I respect his metrics-- and that comes with qualifier, namely, that a million plus followers may not be as relevant as media shorthand makes it out to be, but as I tweeted to Ben, he is a more glamorous version of my brother. To me he is just people. Observant, yes, good debater, but still people. I cannot puff chest feathers over the fact that he was gracious to me, though I appreciate it. Put Clint in his place and spastic would turn to stone. She would go "ga" and the stardom of an actor near the twilight of his life would instantly achieve what a corrupt Protestant housing agent has thus far failed to do: create a passive savant. In As Good As it Gets, that would be the dog, "Boo".
I wanted to see this movie, and agree with Ebert's cadaver on nearly every point of his review. Does this mean a short post? Yes, no, perhaps. I'd augment the bolo critic who became a freak only to this extent: Brooks and Andrus were hoping situational irony would override the lack of credulous sexual tension between Jack and Helen Hunt. Hunt works with Spacey, but her shared wounds with Nicholson did indeed deserve more subtly, and perhaps darker torsion. And for a guy trying out homosexual regression, Greg Kinnear might have been vying for an executive position at Cosmopolitan. Skeet Ulrich was a much more energetic truism, his strip scene wonderful in its sheer predatory aspects, but as I once said in a poetry workshop, this movie was a cop out. The pooch, however, almost made me reconsider dislike of terriers. Boo had marvelous comic timing. Language cannot create that kind of dramatic disbelief that Brooks asks of us to get what we want out of our most famous bastards, but literature has a parallel mechanism that films, in their turn, cannot quite achieve. In the same way the receptionist at the desk was felled by Nicholson's genre technique, Orhan humanized the Turkish dilemma for me, made me care, with Chekhovian pathos, against a turbulent genealogy unlike any inverted verbals I grew up with out of Luce's signature periodicals. I am struggling a great deal with multicultural conscience these days, and don't have any easy answers. Snow prepared me for Mevlut Mert, and the swift judicial ban issued on the case. Whether it's Erdogan or a military coup, however, if Turkey falls, then my advancing age may see the advent of a third world war. Writers always know ahead of time, but how often do we stop the inevitable?
How men like Clint Eastwood and Jack Nicholson are behind the scenes, with the tap off, is difficult to ascertain. There are moments, glimpses, and despite his ineffectual political jabs, Clint Eastwood is an admirable force. Nicholson, comparatively, is a lecherous pig, but the two of them are some of the very last supernovas of "the industry ". Their leonine coda is comprehensible and informed on my world, and I declare the right to mourn. I may grasp Dita's angle, but millennial celebrity, crowd funded as it appears to be, leaves me chasing after its linguistic relevance; Ben Landis is another example. I respect his metrics-- and that comes with qualifier, namely, that a million plus followers may not be as relevant as media shorthand makes it out to be, but as I tweeted to Ben, he is a more glamorous version of my brother. To me he is just people. Observant, yes, good debater, but still people. I cannot puff chest feathers over the fact that he was gracious to me, though I appreciate it. Put Clint in his place and spastic would turn to stone. She would go "ga" and the stardom of an actor near the twilight of his life would instantly achieve what a corrupt Protestant housing agent has thus far failed to do: create a passive savant. In As Good As it Gets, that would be the dog, "Boo".
I wanted to see this movie, and agree with Ebert's cadaver on nearly every point of his review. Does this mean a short post? Yes, no, perhaps. I'd augment the bolo critic who became a freak only to this extent: Brooks and Andrus were hoping situational irony would override the lack of credulous sexual tension between Jack and Helen Hunt. Hunt works with Spacey, but her shared wounds with Nicholson did indeed deserve more subtly, and perhaps darker torsion. And for a guy trying out homosexual regression, Greg Kinnear might have been vying for an executive position at Cosmopolitan. Skeet Ulrich was a much more energetic truism, his strip scene wonderful in its sheer predatory aspects, but as I once said in a poetry workshop, this movie was a cop out. The pooch, however, almost made me reconsider dislike of terriers. Boo had marvelous comic timing. Language cannot create that kind of dramatic disbelief that Brooks asks of us to get what we want out of our most famous bastards, but literature has a parallel mechanism that films, in their turn, cannot quite achieve. In the same way the receptionist at the desk was felled by Nicholson's genre technique, Orhan humanized the Turkish dilemma for me, made me care, with Chekhovian pathos, against a turbulent genealogy unlike any inverted verbals I grew up with out of Luce's signature periodicals. I am struggling a great deal with multicultural conscience these days, and don't have any easy answers. Snow prepared me for Mevlut Mert, and the swift judicial ban issued on the case. Whether it's Erdogan or a military coup, however, if Turkey falls, then my advancing age may see the advent of a third world war. Writers always know ahead of time, but how often do we stop the inevitable?
Thursday, December 22, 2016
Shavuot
"What if they learn to laugh at God?"-- Umberto Eco
It pierced the blood, the actions of Mevlut Mert, pierced the blood in remembrance of fervor, of devout aspiration which even Roman Catholics are taught to hold at arms' length, the passionate conviction of belief, the struggle of belief, which yet provoked laughter, yes, laughter, at the private gatherings of women in ad hoc prayer groups, speaking in tongues, no descent of the Holy Spirit here, just ridicule, before doing a 180 towards atheism, one which would become a life long dissatisfaction with the explanations of mere biological impetus. Frightening, perhaps, that I do not joke, remain inexorably moved, never having imagined I'd live to see an instantaneous warrior, martyring, out maneuvering, circumventing internal security forces, his fire making the rest, left or right, seem paltry. Most true acts of terror have a yellow streak embedded in them, including Osama's spectacular operatives, despite that it was indeed a historical blow,9/11, one that has an indelible infamy whose repercussions reverberate. The points can be plotted: Al Qaeda strikes, Afghanistan becomes occupied territory; Iraq turns into a casualty of an extended ideological argument, a fruit seller in Tunisia ignites sectarian factionalism which no one outside of policy institutes understands, and in a game of superpower volleyball, Libyan and Syrian territorial integrity ceases to exist, and ISIS too, for all its ruthlessness, has an underbelly of loathsome cowardice. Not this young man, whether or not he followed this Gulen who resides in my state, this unknown figure who is Erdogan's favorite bogey figure, a disruptive element within Turkey's own internal tensions.
Something inside the breast broke, a floodgate, I believe, ready to take up arms for -- for-- what? Rolling to parish, throwing myself on my knees to light a candle for the soul of a twenty two year old man who was trained to be what he was, fully expecting that the military's attempt to depose the yet again discredited civilian power structure to be successful? I grew up with the military taking over the government in Turkey, never saw anything like Mevlut. Informed as to the after effects of calamity? Certainly, there were the bloody pictures of Sadat, the death of Lord Mountbatten, but never this, a direct strike on the residual Soviet hierarchy. The sheer awe of what zeal can do in striking truth to power restored something to me about the divine, left me shaken with its force, with Orhan's narrative voice superimposed, not that I may ever peruse his work again beyond what Snow offered, since there are limits, within my morbid frame, to my multi-cultural pathways, and I'm not the least interested in writing the typical correspondent analysis of Turkey as the nation of crossroads, a bridge. Why would I care beyond the knowledge of Germany's sizable community of Turkish expatriates?
There are certain levels of empiricism beyond intuitive understanding, despite the ready access to the genealogy of events, to the explanations of the divisions between Muslims over successors. Sides not understood are sides not to be taken, but nonetheless, some actions have the potential for paradigm shifts, to permanently alter perspectives, break the order of things, despite a hastily papering over. Times have changed, and repression of such striking dissent is not as easily accomplished as it once might have been. If I can grieve for such a sacrifice, an alien so many leagues away in a Quakertown backwater overrun by waves of ethnicities subsumed by urban blight, how much more will those closer to these roils in Ankara burn the torch of his memory? Send a prayer for his soul, this Mevlut in black. have mercy on it, as Bashar has had none to spare in his bloody desert.
It pierced the blood, the actions of Mevlut Mert, pierced the blood in remembrance of fervor, of devout aspiration which even Roman Catholics are taught to hold at arms' length, the passionate conviction of belief, the struggle of belief, which yet provoked laughter, yes, laughter, at the private gatherings of women in ad hoc prayer groups, speaking in tongues, no descent of the Holy Spirit here, just ridicule, before doing a 180 towards atheism, one which would become a life long dissatisfaction with the explanations of mere biological impetus. Frightening, perhaps, that I do not joke, remain inexorably moved, never having imagined I'd live to see an instantaneous warrior, martyring, out maneuvering, circumventing internal security forces, his fire making the rest, left or right, seem paltry. Most true acts of terror have a yellow streak embedded in them, including Osama's spectacular operatives, despite that it was indeed a historical blow,9/11, one that has an indelible infamy whose repercussions reverberate. The points can be plotted: Al Qaeda strikes, Afghanistan becomes occupied territory; Iraq turns into a casualty of an extended ideological argument, a fruit seller in Tunisia ignites sectarian factionalism which no one outside of policy institutes understands, and in a game of superpower volleyball, Libyan and Syrian territorial integrity ceases to exist, and ISIS too, for all its ruthlessness, has an underbelly of loathsome cowardice. Not this young man, whether or not he followed this Gulen who resides in my state, this unknown figure who is Erdogan's favorite bogey figure, a disruptive element within Turkey's own internal tensions.
Something inside the breast broke, a floodgate, I believe, ready to take up arms for -- for-- what? Rolling to parish, throwing myself on my knees to light a candle for the soul of a twenty two year old man who was trained to be what he was, fully expecting that the military's attempt to depose the yet again discredited civilian power structure to be successful? I grew up with the military taking over the government in Turkey, never saw anything like Mevlut. Informed as to the after effects of calamity? Certainly, there were the bloody pictures of Sadat, the death of Lord Mountbatten, but never this, a direct strike on the residual Soviet hierarchy. The sheer awe of what zeal can do in striking truth to power restored something to me about the divine, left me shaken with its force, with Orhan's narrative voice superimposed, not that I may ever peruse his work again beyond what Snow offered, since there are limits, within my morbid frame, to my multi-cultural pathways, and I'm not the least interested in writing the typical correspondent analysis of Turkey as the nation of crossroads, a bridge. Why would I care beyond the knowledge of Germany's sizable community of Turkish expatriates?
There are certain levels of empiricism beyond intuitive understanding, despite the ready access to the genealogy of events, to the explanations of the divisions between Muslims over successors. Sides not understood are sides not to be taken, but nonetheless, some actions have the potential for paradigm shifts, to permanently alter perspectives, break the order of things, despite a hastily papering over. Times have changed, and repression of such striking dissent is not as easily accomplished as it once might have been. If I can grieve for such a sacrifice, an alien so many leagues away in a Quakertown backwater overrun by waves of ethnicities subsumed by urban blight, how much more will those closer to these roils in Ankara burn the torch of his memory? Send a prayer for his soul, this Mevlut in black. have mercy on it, as Bashar has had none to spare in his bloody desert.
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
Istanbul, Weather vane
It was not so long ago that Americans such as I witnessed a Russia, if not in the second act of the Bolshevik Revolution, was at the least doubled over by a herniated disk, courtesy of glasnost. It is sufficient, in this context, to weigh the President-Elect's remarks about Putin as not entirely inaccurate. The former KGB clerk is a wily fox, getting bit on his ass by Erdogan's colorful bipolar method of governance. It impresses me immeasurably that Mevlut Mert martyred himself for a lost cause, for believing in Obama's "red line" that, oh, wait a minute, the Land of Oz was but a poor girl's ennui on the plains of Kansas, and the Ottoman's poor imitation of a secular empire in an equally corroded Islamic mindset needs a dose of political lithium, evidently. I am running up my last few MB, since I have no funds to roll to the ATT outlet where I could work, mind, but have no money now to haggle over wireless upgrades on my old PC's, and since I am running them, don't have a great deal of time, but both Putin and Erdogan are so clever they are out maneuvering themselves. I know the Turkish foreign service did a double take. I know Iran and the Russian Federation are having a slurpee over the beatitudes woven into the price of Syrian stability, but don't ever forget what constitutes true heroism. Regardless of what I do about my personal situation in the next few months, I'm out of time: safe bathroom transfers are the stubborn persistence of bio-kinetic memory, and if I refuse to obey re-certification, I am essentially giving the ambulatory world what it wants: my enslavement so serfs can earn low wage groceries, but like Mevlut, some principles are worth cutting it short, going down on your own two feet. That is rebellion that never forgets, the kind that changes world order. Stand up to the state. This young man did something that could change history faster than 20 truck wild terrorists.
History may be doomed to repeat, but never in an exact correlation to the heyday of Marxist theory at its worst.
History may be doomed to repeat, but never in an exact correlation to the heyday of Marxist theory at its worst.
Monday, July 25, 2016
Seepage Encroaches
"I've learned to fear the law," Sam Waterson
De Niro might have reasonably ended his acting career with City by the Sea, a film whose parallels are too contrived even if they are based on verifiable events. Why soften the story? Why not allow Joey LaMarca to be vicious and premeditated? Because Frances McDormand represents the tyranny of feminine insistence? William H Macy brought up something interesting on HuffPost Live, which will feature as many varieties of melanin triggered chocolate libertines with stiff dreadlock expressions as they will acutely ignore disabled voices-- but Macy brought up something which has interested me in my maturity as a writer, which is how those related to predators who engage in the unspeakable cope with it. Similar to my younger brother and I, only worse. Nicholas junior was your typical strung out ape who actually did have the police nearly kill him at gunpoint when they chased him into New Jersey, near Asbury Park, if its drug scene as depicted here still held true for the late Reagan era, but that my brother victimized his father by raping a tenant, and since my aggravated assault under this same rental corporation was similar this is why my antagonism with Richardson is so prevalent. I do hate Trudy Richardson because she is black, but I hate her more because she refuses to be accountable for Presby's negligence. The tenant my brother raped sued my father, and that legal action marked the beginning of the end for our family security. I never sued Presby, and I had a case, hence by any rational measure, I should not still be a tenant with them, even if they did spin off the Diamond Park units. I never sued my erstwhile independent living center either, and I had a case, more than a case, and yes, I am now willing to go to prison for something as abstract and intangible as never having truly received justice.
Whatever my deceased brother's pathology, it was run of the mill, however driven by insatiable brain chemistry. Franco makes it look chic, but in Little Nicky, a title only ever deployed by Adam Sandler's mediocre depreciation, the drug use was chillingly atavistic. Nicky ceased being human long before AIDS weakened him to the point that meningitis wasted him away, his mind mostly vanquished even years before; my mother walked him around like one of Michonne's collared rotters, though we're never quite informed why the walking dead she chained to herself didn't bite her into the zoophytic zone, but the answer isn't so perplexing. She's a lead. But what of the Tunisian attacker in Nice? Does he have a father, a mother, siblings? I am a capo at heart, and what he did, the Tunisian lorry driver, separates him, puts him apart, even from operatives like bin Laden; it was a low cowardice attack. If I strike my enemies, it might entail consequences, and yet be comprehensible. I trusted people like a second family. I let a huge senior rental corporation "off," and they humiliate me in a gift which keeps giving, re: Chris's ogling, but the Tunisian's actions were beyond any form of strategic comprehension; if we presume his family has a conscience, the story of how they live with it and cope certainly seems the new intrigue at hand.
Wheelchair cushion rinsed, about to be put back together, my true challenge not to fear another slip off. But I have to return to using it, as the base of the Jazzy is too hard. Shins and thighs suffer alike, and I'm going to trot around, attempting to sell some bits this week, during the convention, raising a little cash on pity, perhaps. If Erdogan's purges are indicative of what civil unrest might look like under a Trump administration, the worries of the left are too ominous. Entertainment may be increasingly politicized, but authoritarianism is increasingly Hollywood; by that metric, it isn't self sustaining. See what happens when I lose a background research piece?
De Niro might have reasonably ended his acting career with City by the Sea, a film whose parallels are too contrived even if they are based on verifiable events. Why soften the story? Why not allow Joey LaMarca to be vicious and premeditated? Because Frances McDormand represents the tyranny of feminine insistence? William H Macy brought up something interesting on HuffPost Live, which will feature as many varieties of melanin triggered chocolate libertines with stiff dreadlock expressions as they will acutely ignore disabled voices-- but Macy brought up something which has interested me in my maturity as a writer, which is how those related to predators who engage in the unspeakable cope with it. Similar to my younger brother and I, only worse. Nicholas junior was your typical strung out ape who actually did have the police nearly kill him at gunpoint when they chased him into New Jersey, near Asbury Park, if its drug scene as depicted here still held true for the late Reagan era, but that my brother victimized his father by raping a tenant, and since my aggravated assault under this same rental corporation was similar this is why my antagonism with Richardson is so prevalent. I do hate Trudy Richardson because she is black, but I hate her more because she refuses to be accountable for Presby's negligence. The tenant my brother raped sued my father, and that legal action marked the beginning of the end for our family security. I never sued Presby, and I had a case, hence by any rational measure, I should not still be a tenant with them, even if they did spin off the Diamond Park units. I never sued my erstwhile independent living center either, and I had a case, more than a case, and yes, I am now willing to go to prison for something as abstract and intangible as never having truly received justice.
Whatever my deceased brother's pathology, it was run of the mill, however driven by insatiable brain chemistry. Franco makes it look chic, but in Little Nicky, a title only ever deployed by Adam Sandler's mediocre depreciation, the drug use was chillingly atavistic. Nicky ceased being human long before AIDS weakened him to the point that meningitis wasted him away, his mind mostly vanquished even years before; my mother walked him around like one of Michonne's collared rotters, though we're never quite informed why the walking dead she chained to herself didn't bite her into the zoophytic zone, but the answer isn't so perplexing. She's a lead. But what of the Tunisian attacker in Nice? Does he have a father, a mother, siblings? I am a capo at heart, and what he did, the Tunisian lorry driver, separates him, puts him apart, even from operatives like bin Laden; it was a low cowardice attack. If I strike my enemies, it might entail consequences, and yet be comprehensible. I trusted people like a second family. I let a huge senior rental corporation "off," and they humiliate me in a gift which keeps giving, re: Chris's ogling, but the Tunisian's actions were beyond any form of strategic comprehension; if we presume his family has a conscience, the story of how they live with it and cope certainly seems the new intrigue at hand.
Wheelchair cushion rinsed, about to be put back together, my true challenge not to fear another slip off. But I have to return to using it, as the base of the Jazzy is too hard. Shins and thighs suffer alike, and I'm going to trot around, attempting to sell some bits this week, during the convention, raising a little cash on pity, perhaps. If Erdogan's purges are indicative of what civil unrest might look like under a Trump administration, the worries of the left are too ominous. Entertainment may be increasingly politicized, but authoritarianism is increasingly Hollywood; by that metric, it isn't self sustaining. See what happens when I lose a background research piece?
Monday, November 30, 2015
Exploring the Option
Mmm. Part of Act's problem is the fact that weapons manufacture is a money making industry, however astute the analysts are in assessing potential conflict. Certainly the Russian Federation can reignite the Cold War, but as the ruthlessness of the IS group illustrates, the technical ease of mobility, excepting the invalid class, threatens all state models, none of which are as secure as they seem, not even Canada, with its territorial expanse equivalent to the US, which points to how science fiction writers like Daniel Keys Moran may not be so far off the mark.
His Last Dancer franchise, for those not in the know, was about forced global hegemony under the UN, clones, and cyborg AI's gradually taking over. Unwittingly, spastic purchased the last novel in the series, and know only that the United States was the last sovereign territory to fall, defeated by French forces, (oddly enough). A little too melodramatic for my taste, and I could not enter into all the concluding story lines, but for a wildly vacillating future dystopia, Moran's dismal voice was a lens over my own. For all we know, France may indeed be the first to advocate the death of territorial sovereignty. If the third world war is an advent, however, I am not sold on Putin's paranoia or Xi Jinping's muscle flexing being the primary trigger to put an end to the global leadership of the US. Libya might have a domino effect on Egypt, Erdogan may push to expand Turkey's regional dominance, as it may be under a nationalist Muslim banner, but is neither Sunni nor Shi'ite, moving my pieces on the board with the same fallacy toward predictable scripts, but one thing is certain: State governance is being outstripped by meta data, which presents its own vulnerability.
His Last Dancer franchise, for those not in the know, was about forced global hegemony under the UN, clones, and cyborg AI's gradually taking over. Unwittingly, spastic purchased the last novel in the series, and know only that the United States was the last sovereign territory to fall, defeated by French forces, (oddly enough). A little too melodramatic for my taste, and I could not enter into all the concluding story lines, but for a wildly vacillating future dystopia, Moran's dismal voice was a lens over my own. For all we know, France may indeed be the first to advocate the death of territorial sovereignty. If the third world war is an advent, however, I am not sold on Putin's paranoia or Xi Jinping's muscle flexing being the primary trigger to put an end to the global leadership of the US. Libya might have a domino effect on Egypt, Erdogan may push to expand Turkey's regional dominance, as it may be under a nationalist Muslim banner, but is neither Sunni nor Shi'ite, moving my pieces on the board with the same fallacy toward predictable scripts, but one thing is certain: State governance is being outstripped by meta data, which presents its own vulnerability.
Thursday, October 29, 2015
Hillary Clinton, Benghazi Viceroy?
"David, you've killed me!" Donald Sutherland, protesting Nimoy's autonomic miasma.
The 78 remake is somewhat different in subtext from the original 56 Body Snatchers, whose classic delineation is preferable to the muddied liberalism which ushered in the disaster of the Carter presidency. Domesticated, pasteurized kindness, tabulated to Sutherland's empathy enabling, isn't going to achieve jive squat over the ruthless need of a more potent conqueror, hence George W. Bush'es response to Osama bin Laden failed because it was a transference. The actual *enemy* in the aftermath of 9/11 was the Saudi kingdom's buy off of hard line extremism, but the neo-conservatives who had taken over the West Wing, lacked the will to uproot a corrupt oligarchy, and so, 14 years after the fact, we're pea shooting in Afghanistan, which is an ungovernable failed state, destroyed the British Empire's nicely drawn territorial borders for the sake of world order in Iraq, Iran, and another piece of shit country called Yemen, and Obama's carefully controlled airstrikes in 2011 against Qaddafi has essentially destabilized North Africa, while NATO and Putin eyeball each other, pissing in the wind over Kiev, and hoping to avoid a third world war in Syria.
First: If Hillary Clinton is truly responsible for the death of Ambassador Stevens, she should suspend her campaign and leave her party to scramble. Second: the GOP needs to realize that if the US has essentially ceased deploying the army for ground force occupation for anything other than mass die offs in Haiti, then chaos ensues, shit happens, and Secretary Clinton was in treatment for a blood cot derived from a hematoma during the attack on the compound, and the fault, if it lies anywhere, lies at the doorstep of two failed Administrations who have lost the ability to define goals and execute accordingly, because they realize progressives have lost the will for body counts.
Do I have any salient solutions? No, but a good starting point might lie in the realization that the U.N. would survive losing 5 members from the General Assembly. Yemen and Syria and Iraq and Afghanistan and North Korea and Sudan and Somalia need to be dissolved. That's seven, but such niceties like a shared national identity and ethos have long fled the scene. Erdogan would not mind seeing the restoration of the Ottoman Empire's prestige. That's a start. India could reabsorb Pakistan and Bangladesh. Would there be blood? How much collateral damage have we seen already since ISIS has become a cause? This is the sentiment you get on defecating through a second week of a bronchitis flare up for which powerful decongestants like Mucinex have not yet been deployed. I will not elect Hillary Clinton, but if you do, my antipathy may not supersede my suffocation on my own phlegm, but I'll go down fighting, fanatic ablaze to destroy those by whom I've been thwarted.
The 78 remake is somewhat different in subtext from the original 56 Body Snatchers, whose classic delineation is preferable to the muddied liberalism which ushered in the disaster of the Carter presidency. Domesticated, pasteurized kindness, tabulated to Sutherland's empathy enabling, isn't going to achieve jive squat over the ruthless need of a more potent conqueror, hence George W. Bush'es response to Osama bin Laden failed because it was a transference. The actual *enemy* in the aftermath of 9/11 was the Saudi kingdom's buy off of hard line extremism, but the neo-conservatives who had taken over the West Wing, lacked the will to uproot a corrupt oligarchy, and so, 14 years after the fact, we're pea shooting in Afghanistan, which is an ungovernable failed state, destroyed the British Empire's nicely drawn territorial borders for the sake of world order in Iraq, Iran, and another piece of shit country called Yemen, and Obama's carefully controlled airstrikes in 2011 against Qaddafi has essentially destabilized North Africa, while NATO and Putin eyeball each other, pissing in the wind over Kiev, and hoping to avoid a third world war in Syria.
First: If Hillary Clinton is truly responsible for the death of Ambassador Stevens, she should suspend her campaign and leave her party to scramble. Second: the GOP needs to realize that if the US has essentially ceased deploying the army for ground force occupation for anything other than mass die offs in Haiti, then chaos ensues, shit happens, and Secretary Clinton was in treatment for a blood cot derived from a hematoma during the attack on the compound, and the fault, if it lies anywhere, lies at the doorstep of two failed Administrations who have lost the ability to define goals and execute accordingly, because they realize progressives have lost the will for body counts.
Do I have any salient solutions? No, but a good starting point might lie in the realization that the U.N. would survive losing 5 members from the General Assembly. Yemen and Syria and Iraq and Afghanistan and North Korea and Sudan and Somalia need to be dissolved. That's seven, but such niceties like a shared national identity and ethos have long fled the scene. Erdogan would not mind seeing the restoration of the Ottoman Empire's prestige. That's a start. India could reabsorb Pakistan and Bangladesh. Would there be blood? How much collateral damage have we seen already since ISIS has become a cause? This is the sentiment you get on defecating through a second week of a bronchitis flare up for which powerful decongestants like Mucinex have not yet been deployed. I will not elect Hillary Clinton, but if you do, my antipathy may not supersede my suffocation on my own phlegm, but I'll go down fighting, fanatic ablaze to destroy those by whom I've been thwarted.
Thursday, October 22, 2015
Stockholm Material, Prescient Palpitations
The notion that the future is hidden--that prediction is the realm of seers, necromancers, and other unsavory types--is part of our cultural heritage. NC Dalkey, Rand Corporation.
The fact that I referenced a Baltic residency in Stockholm this morning doesn't necessarily follow that traumatized subconsciousness had intimations of the sword wielder to which I woke on France24 news feed this evening, but duress usually recognizes itself in the snap of another's desperation. A UN undersecretary, also appearing on France24 three months ago, said the disabled are often lost in this debate, and there are reasons these voices are often so muffled. Standards of objective analysis.
Helpific, for instance, has nothing to do with the self-justification for Russia's military expansion, nor apologias for the assassination of Putin's most steadfast opposition, coming forth from the Kremlin. I am the one who collapsed one into the other, limiting the establishment's ability to take me seriously, since Estonians seem collectively endearing and should welcome NATO's protection, but why don't we see more reports about the disabled in Europe, in comparison to their American counterparts? Bedcause Angela Merkel uses supported employment factories as a form of silencing dissidence?
Merely asking the question, is Vladimir Putin a war criminal? Fleet Street is courageously hitting this harder than mainstream media at home, but Obama and Cameron would sooner bake fecal bricks than unite with Erdogan in a hawkish alliance against Putin's program, following the heels of Hitler's playbook, even if the battlefield is increasingly under the direction of Google Earth. How does the search giant get satellite access?
War is terrible, creating sometimes excruciating collateral damage, but it is also sometimes necessary, which is why the Defense Department should hire more civilian disabled contractors. We're willing, sometimes as ruthless as KGB clerks with maverick smiles.
The fact that I referenced a Baltic residency in Stockholm this morning doesn't necessarily follow that traumatized subconsciousness had intimations of the sword wielder to which I woke on France24 news feed this evening, but duress usually recognizes itself in the snap of another's desperation. A UN undersecretary, also appearing on France24 three months ago, said the disabled are often lost in this debate, and there are reasons these voices are often so muffled. Standards of objective analysis.
Helpific, for instance, has nothing to do with the self-justification for Russia's military expansion, nor apologias for the assassination of Putin's most steadfast opposition, coming forth from the Kremlin. I am the one who collapsed one into the other, limiting the establishment's ability to take me seriously, since Estonians seem collectively endearing and should welcome NATO's protection, but why don't we see more reports about the disabled in Europe, in comparison to their American counterparts? Bedcause Angela Merkel uses supported employment factories as a form of silencing dissidence?
Merely asking the question, is Vladimir Putin a war criminal? Fleet Street is courageously hitting this harder than mainstream media at home, but Obama and Cameron would sooner bake fecal bricks than unite with Erdogan in a hawkish alliance against Putin's program, following the heels of Hitler's playbook, even if the battlefield is increasingly under the direction of Google Earth. How does the search giant get satellite access?
War is terrible, creating sometimes excruciating collateral damage, but it is also sometimes necessary, which is why the Defense Department should hire more civilian disabled contractors. We're willing, sometimes as ruthless as KGB clerks with maverick smiles.
Tuesday, March 17, 2015
Dangers of Black Ice
My vague admiration for Georges Simenon is unsatisfactory-- but this is due to a sensibility of not being able to judge him on the basis of Dirty Snow alone, which, excepting for my skid marks over Ellroy, was my favorite genre exposure through Jay Gertzman. I should be awarded my doctorate on the basis of just how many English professors I've waltzed with, how extraordinarily well read I am, even if Derrida may defeat me. I've earned professorial status, but cannot judge Simenon's legacy with the study I've thus far made.
He is unquestionably vulgar, Simenon (hint hint) and the ferocity of his title character signing his own death warrant in this short and sharp little novel made an indelible impact-- and I'm uncertain as to whether Orhan was being a tad too clever with his novel Snow. I'm only speculating. The French Belgian is different in style and tone from the self-effacing Turk with his penchant for Chekhovian mimicry, but both novels offer death knells in a Siberian like atmosphere.
Pamuk, for those initiated in literary traditions, has forced me to care about Turkey as a character in a geopolitical amphitheater, and I resent him for it. Is this a victory for the power of art? Overlaid with the Turkish actor who plays Cenu in Tatort, overlaid with Grecian Turkish name calling over Cyprus, and this family, which sparked so much controversy and clash of values (the Ottomans in this instance had the upper hand and should have sent the physio-behaviorists packing), or the many easterners on Netgammon I played and sometimes outwitted. It baffles me how good I am at backgammon and chess not so much. Mediterranean blood-- but there are limits, even to the poignancy of identification with the special subset of alienated writers. Multi-culturalism is a voyeuristic activity, but in practice it gets people killed as often as not.
He is unquestionably vulgar, Simenon (hint hint) and the ferocity of his title character signing his own death warrant in this short and sharp little novel made an indelible impact-- and I'm uncertain as to whether Orhan was being a tad too clever with his novel Snow. I'm only speculating. The French Belgian is different in style and tone from the self-effacing Turk with his penchant for Chekhovian mimicry, but both novels offer death knells in a Siberian like atmosphere.
Pamuk, for those initiated in literary traditions, has forced me to care about Turkey as a character in a geopolitical amphitheater, and I resent him for it. Is this a victory for the power of art? Overlaid with the Turkish actor who plays Cenu in Tatort, overlaid with Grecian Turkish name calling over Cyprus, and this family, which sparked so much controversy and clash of values (the Ottomans in this instance had the upper hand and should have sent the physio-behaviorists packing), or the many easterners on Netgammon I played and sometimes outwitted. It baffles me how good I am at backgammon and chess not so much. Mediterranean blood-- but there are limits, even to the poignancy of identification with the special subset of alienated writers. Multi-culturalism is a voyeuristic activity, but in practice it gets people killed as often as not.
Thursday, September 4, 2014
Gateway finesse
"There is something wrong with you," -- a Turkish liberator in New Jersey masquerading as a backgammon player during failed phone sex
Not to get too self-referential about this account, (who cares?) but my page view data sometimes amazes me. Why do the former Warsaw Pact Poles read my posts? I've written absolutely nothing about Lech Walesa as a precursor to the fall of Soviet hegemony. Yet my muted appreciation of Orhan Pamuk's ability to dissect the tension between fundamentalism and secularization draws 30 page views from the fine, if beleaguered, citizens of Turkey. I am quite free to break the Turkish law on the books about mocking Turkish citizens if I please, but such a law was evidently written to be mocked for its very existence. It is a silly law, telegraphing to Muslims and Christians alike an inferiority complex.
I am interested, if a Turkish viewer cares to respond, in what has drawn these 30 views? Pamuk is a fine writer; that unfortunate Turkish family with its hand walking children speaks to the global problems of outcasts among outcasts, and Erdogan, whatever his aspirations, and political corruption, will not reconstitute the Ottoman Empire-- but beyond this there are limits to what (Westernized) multi-culturalism can hope to achieve. Turkey is in a highbrow third world status? How does this earn my commiseration when I have been a lifelong American untouchable whose educators led her to believe she could achieve self-sufficiency? Is it the policing of chronic conditions and poverty as a criminal act which interests you? Snow is a rich novel, full of taupe-skinned romanticism, inadequacy, with a poignant dose of irony and Chekhovian tendencies to exaggerate foibles. I will finish it with pleasure, and remain delighted that I was able to actually pay attention to a foreigner on Charlie Rose, but I wouldn't be caught dead in Istanbul. Midnight Express still informs the popular culture about Turkish predilections for rough play. More than one can insinuate gently.
Or maybe its ISIS? Not to worry. Certain levels of militancy are still of American manufacture, super-sized.
Not to get too self-referential about this account, (who cares?) but my page view data sometimes amazes me. Why do the former Warsaw Pact Poles read my posts? I've written absolutely nothing about Lech Walesa as a precursor to the fall of Soviet hegemony. Yet my muted appreciation of Orhan Pamuk's ability to dissect the tension between fundamentalism and secularization draws 30 page views from the fine, if beleaguered, citizens of Turkey. I am quite free to break the Turkish law on the books about mocking Turkish citizens if I please, but such a law was evidently written to be mocked for its very existence. It is a silly law, telegraphing to Muslims and Christians alike an inferiority complex.
I am interested, if a Turkish viewer cares to respond, in what has drawn these 30 views? Pamuk is a fine writer; that unfortunate Turkish family with its hand walking children speaks to the global problems of outcasts among outcasts, and Erdogan, whatever his aspirations, and political corruption, will not reconstitute the Ottoman Empire-- but beyond this there are limits to what (Westernized) multi-culturalism can hope to achieve. Turkey is in a highbrow third world status? How does this earn my commiseration when I have been a lifelong American untouchable whose educators led her to believe she could achieve self-sufficiency? Is it the policing of chronic conditions and poverty as a criminal act which interests you? Snow is a rich novel, full of taupe-skinned romanticism, inadequacy, with a poignant dose of irony and Chekhovian tendencies to exaggerate foibles. I will finish it with pleasure, and remain delighted that I was able to actually pay attention to a foreigner on Charlie Rose, but I wouldn't be caught dead in Istanbul. Midnight Express still informs the popular culture about Turkish predilections for rough play. More than one can insinuate gently.
Or maybe its ISIS? Not to worry. Certain levels of militancy are still of American manufacture, super-sized.
Wednesday, September 4, 2013
American Buffalo, Chit
"Turn on your television set." -- My mother.
9/11 was both a real and surreal horror. Engaged in an unsuccessful fling with a married therapist with spina bifida at the time, he was free therapy who did not heal me, and he had a farm not many miles from the flight 93 crash. Our dialogue ceased because we were not going to have sex, but not in the immediate aftermath of the great event. I had also lived in NYC and been to the Twin Towers. Disconnected and in shockwaves of outrage at the same time, I wanted a response. Overkill. If it had been me in charge I would have wiped out the Saudi royal family, turned Afghanistan into the Fukushima wasteland. The Bush family had more vested interests, and granted, between the Bush wars and the establishment of the Obama administration, American prowess killed many Islamic radicals, but the people in power did a lousy job.
We've had the response, and thirteen years later, we are going to play war games in Damascus to curb Hezbollah's temptation to acquire chemical agents? Why not let Turkey's Erdogan echo the imperial Ottoman Empire and be our proxy? He would put boots on the ground in Syria; I am not a policy analyst, but I read them choc through my ear inflammation, and I really do not see that a missile strike against Bashar is going to do any good; he is a despot as much by default as anything. What is a missile strike going to achieve in a sectarian schism that is creating gimps and paralytics by the minute? The BBC had some surreal footage of the capital, and I saw a man limping, supporting himself on cuff crutches. Google has everything now, even our dead, the ghosts of our memories.
My mother and I did not have a healthy relationship; we set each other off, especially toward the end. My sister killed her by relying on her to support the grandchildren. I killed her because she made me miserable and I broke my engagement to the imbecile one floor below me who is a bedridden industry for the Pennsylvania threadbare social safety net. Never get involved with public housing tenants if you wind up going into public housing, never. Do not have sex, simulated sex, and don't get too friendly. Keep an appropriate distance, and work with me to eliminate the Department of Housing and Urban Development. We'll remain a superpower that much longer.
9/11 was both a real and surreal horror. Engaged in an unsuccessful fling with a married therapist with spina bifida at the time, he was free therapy who did not heal me, and he had a farm not many miles from the flight 93 crash. Our dialogue ceased because we were not going to have sex, but not in the immediate aftermath of the great event. I had also lived in NYC and been to the Twin Towers. Disconnected and in shockwaves of outrage at the same time, I wanted a response. Overkill. If it had been me in charge I would have wiped out the Saudi royal family, turned Afghanistan into the Fukushima wasteland. The Bush family had more vested interests, and granted, between the Bush wars and the establishment of the Obama administration, American prowess killed many Islamic radicals, but the people in power did a lousy job.
We've had the response, and thirteen years later, we are going to play war games in Damascus to curb Hezbollah's temptation to acquire chemical agents? Why not let Turkey's Erdogan echo the imperial Ottoman Empire and be our proxy? He would put boots on the ground in Syria; I am not a policy analyst, but I read them choc through my ear inflammation, and I really do not see that a missile strike against Bashar is going to do any good; he is a despot as much by default as anything. What is a missile strike going to achieve in a sectarian schism that is creating gimps and paralytics by the minute? The BBC had some surreal footage of the capital, and I saw a man limping, supporting himself on cuff crutches. Google has everything now, even our dead, the ghosts of our memories.
My mother and I did not have a healthy relationship; we set each other off, especially toward the end. My sister killed her by relying on her to support the grandchildren. I killed her because she made me miserable and I broke my engagement to the imbecile one floor below me who is a bedridden industry for the Pennsylvania threadbare social safety net. Never get involved with public housing tenants if you wind up going into public housing, never. Do not have sex, simulated sex, and don't get too friendly. Keep an appropriate distance, and work with me to eliminate the Department of Housing and Urban Development. We'll remain a superpower that much longer.
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