"You better mean it!" the widow Chaz to Charlie Rose
How Dead Like Me wound up in "the MGM library," to quote Comet's response to me on a related matter, is probably as much a mystery as the weird rules Fuller makes up in his head, but the dowager can see why the series made a splash, and I certainly identify with Muth's acerbic disillusioned puss as she comes of age in that space between the temporal and beyond. I could watch this series a long time and live in it, and see how it illustrates. Fuller succeeds in the industry because he takes the worst of human nature and redeems it. Whereas I just drive the forces of the Furies, looking for the next Big Bang, young or old, I've always been the same, evading the exterminator, living a flea bag life, watching my effusiveness harden liked glazed sap bled on bark off a bore hole. I have changed, disillusioned myself, not with literary ambition so much, as questioning its utility. What does an anti-hero like Hannibal offer us, after all? Irony aside, we couldn't function if celebration of psychopathy became normal, however vicariously liberating such visionary mechanisms appear to be. The majority of of live droll little lives, our guts and arthritis overtaking us, pests like moths and roaches and mice an embarrassment to be battled, wondering if billionaires ever have these problems. Doubtlessly Thiel would be horrified by what my quadriplegic incontinent living does to carpets and furnishings, though no coils have broken through the mattress yet. I am disheartened by all the revising I have to do with this account, not so much worried about my viciousness as my tendency to obscure correspondences in my earlier posts.
Have to repair it, and sometimes want to kick it to the curb. I am not going to live long enough to go in search of my own lost time and Proustian perfect captures of weaving his memory into a mature authorial voice. Putting a note on my door (for the custodians) that I'm unstable due to end of summer humidity might be the truth, but it only delays the inevitable condemnation: I was never good enough, not to sustain relationships, certainly not to create a family. I sucked myself into an 811 box in North Philly, finished my harsh urban life at Temple University, and then sank in amber, like an autonomic gangrene representation out of a French director's Dadaist nightmare, here thinking of one of Ebert's clips, probably buried on his website. Even he didn't know what to make of this film. The actors looked putrid while riding a bus. That was probably a distinctive vision of the modern condition, but again, the bodies of the dead turning into maggot consumption don't engage us. My sister said I could not see the full view of our dead mother in 2005. I raised a meek objection toward a closed casket service.
Unlike George, I do not learn from mea culpas thrown my way. I just say give me a fucking Uzi. I am cognizant that giving Presby and its Riverside Negro Womens' League my notice, keeping my fiery denigration of management to a minimum, probably spells my doom, but this year, I mean what I say, and though I am stalling, I do intend to abandon my secure, if miserable, routine, under the banner of a so called "Inspired Life". The tenants in 202 are expendable, diseased, ill, unbalanced, stupid, damaged, failures. I have a piece of white trash named Rich eating out of my hand because I am kind to him. His entitlement is managed by a representative payee because he is a gambling crackpot. The former advocate in me is only a facsimile of decency in dealing with him, and this coldness in me, judging this happy broken piece of voluble shit on his phone as worthless, is roughly the truest literary vision I can offer, and I am just a dirty post-menopausal cripple running her last energies on acrid coffee, about to break the piggy bank, facing threats more mundane than flaming space debris.
Showing posts with label roger ebert. Show all posts
Showing posts with label roger ebert. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Friday, August 7, 2015
del Toro's Falange
Why was Spanish Fascist dictatorship left in power after World War II? - History Stack Exchange https://t.co/nYZJJqVuy7— Joanne M Marinelli (@Jozannyme) December 3, 2017
The outer framework of Pan's Labyrinth, one where the brother of Mercedes, Pedro, is tactically successful against Vidal, this has a ring of wish fulfillment for del Toro, as modern Spain is one geographic location where Philip K Dick's alternative timelines are a quiet reality rarely given any attention. Who cares about crumbling Catholic edifices in Europe's once mighty Catholic regime? The partisans must have had some victories, and perhaps Vidal's execution has a basis in reality, but Franco's legacy lives in the country that conquered and reshaped central and South America.
Only when I saw the opening of the film after Prime suggested it did I recall Ebert's sated appetite for great artistry in film, and the deceased critic's contention that a great movie is the most elevating aesthetic has a powerful advocate in del Toro's masterpiece, but it is a masterpiece forged in respect for Spain's literary traditions. If the French utilize decorum as a coping mechanism, Spaniards use sleep dream states as an anesthetic, and Pan's Labyrinth applies chloroform to our breathing apparatus in spades, and as such, is not for everyone, with its saturated melancholy, one which takes its time, builds, and even suggests the dowager need not stream, in mortal ennui, for some time to come.
Was there anything worthwhile in Vidal? I liked him, as of course I would, unrepentant, but as I am posting this in an archive timeline, as yet unbroken, I will not proclaim myself heir apparent to Falange intellectualism.
Monday, November 3, 2014
Unsworth out of hiding
Hydrochloric Acid? It is what the Russians used.
Issue: I might not have the manual dexterity not to burn my thigh off, but the good news is this: I hid my Stone Virgin edition so the inadvertent dope fiend would not take it, in the pet supplies yellow coarse weave carry bag, hanging on my useless manual wheelchair. Scorched earth soul appeased. I can delete Karina's number from my Apple, remembering articles read about picture phones in the 70's, but those concepts weren't Skype, nor Steve Jobs and his touch interface fetish. Karina called me back, despite my constant indictment of her behavior. I take no pleasure in the continual accusation, as she was not exploiting me the way the sisters do.
I remember Ebert's 30 second discussion of The Constant Gardner, before silence clutched him. I am fighting the desire to cry over the infamous critic, and that conjures my email to Hitchens. Neither Ebert nor Hitchens ever replied to me, but I fancy inferences, though those could be erroneous, I avoided the film like the plague, knowing the British penchant for moralizing and fastidious faith in red tape, and should have continued to avoid the film, like the plague, and right now, we're not going to discuss it, suffice to say here is a radical idea: Everyone get the fuck out of Africa and let Africans solve their own problems.
In another life, Ralph Fiiennes is the husband I wanted, however. He would not have failed to protect me, to make me happy, and that sorrow is my beaker's jagged edge. Le Carre is adept at characters, fully fleshed, driving his plots, but at the end of the day, his pessimism is another shovel of dirt in our graveyard, like my internal struggle to stop writing for Examiner. I log on to send them a tag, quit, and then realize it is a crock, and I can slow to an inexorable crawl, in search of another venue.
Issue: I might not have the manual dexterity not to burn my thigh off, but the good news is this: I hid my Stone Virgin edition so the inadvertent dope fiend would not take it, in the pet supplies yellow coarse weave carry bag, hanging on my useless manual wheelchair. Scorched earth soul appeased. I can delete Karina's number from my Apple, remembering articles read about picture phones in the 70's, but those concepts weren't Skype, nor Steve Jobs and his touch interface fetish. Karina called me back, despite my constant indictment of her behavior. I take no pleasure in the continual accusation, as she was not exploiting me the way the sisters do.
I remember Ebert's 30 second discussion of The Constant Gardner, before silence clutched him. I am fighting the desire to cry over the infamous critic, and that conjures my email to Hitchens. Neither Ebert nor Hitchens ever replied to me, but I fancy inferences, though those could be erroneous, I avoided the film like the plague, knowing the British penchant for moralizing and fastidious faith in red tape, and should have continued to avoid the film, like the plague, and right now, we're not going to discuss it, suffice to say here is a radical idea: Everyone get the fuck out of Africa and let Africans solve their own problems.
In another life, Ralph Fiiennes is the husband I wanted, however. He would not have failed to protect me, to make me happy, and that sorrow is my beaker's jagged edge. Le Carre is adept at characters, fully fleshed, driving his plots, but at the end of the day, his pessimism is another shovel of dirt in our graveyard, like my internal struggle to stop writing for Examiner. I log on to send them a tag, quit, and then realize it is a crock, and I can slow to an inexorable crawl, in search of another venue.
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Cruel Seas, Clef
As seems to be the norm for this project, the British have their own peculiar variations, though Esther Costello feels like an American brand because of the standard tilt by Joan Crawford. Lousy performer, the camera loves her despite this, and yet in this muck raking narrative, she seems to struggle in a way that Nicholson's skill would not readily reveal to a viewer, to dim her alpha status for the sake of the story. Heather Sears is far less titanic than Patty Duke as the famous mute, yet there is also more realism, oddly, despite the fact that we're familiar with the prescriptive patterns the studio system followed in the fifties.
I am bewildered, Roger Ebert is dead, and I would have to make the time, or will have to if this really interests me, to discover why Monsarrat wrote this novel, and I do not mean it simply as a question of money, but as a question of Keller's fame conflicted with the issue of exploitation. I would not know where to begin, but it has thrown me a curve. Purchasing the novel is neither here nor there; I do not really wish to buy it. Looking at it can wait until I make space to browse in library, but I keep asking myself if the naval officer was fair to the iconic heroine, and I'm entirely in the dark; in addition, the wiki entry suggests the script substantially reversed the book. The movie, however, covers all the bases I've covered. Sexual development and abuse, chicanery, compliance over tyranny, rebellion, the angel demon dichotomy.
Beneath the film we have, there seems to be a counter narrative, one that was not followed through but would have been more intriguing, though we've seen this motif many times as well: abject poverty creating a banshee devoid of normal human intercourse. It opens the film after Esther's accident unique for its era. I'll see what I can do in terms of further inquiry, at least in a future tense.
I am bewildered, Roger Ebert is dead, and I would have to make the time, or will have to if this really interests me, to discover why Monsarrat wrote this novel, and I do not mean it simply as a question of money, but as a question of Keller's fame conflicted with the issue of exploitation. I would not know where to begin, but it has thrown me a curve. Purchasing the novel is neither here nor there; I do not really wish to buy it. Looking at it can wait until I make space to browse in library, but I keep asking myself if the naval officer was fair to the iconic heroine, and I'm entirely in the dark; in addition, the wiki entry suggests the script substantially reversed the book. The movie, however, covers all the bases I've covered. Sexual development and abuse, chicanery, compliance over tyranny, rebellion, the angel demon dichotomy.
Beneath the film we have, there seems to be a counter narrative, one that was not followed through but would have been more intriguing, though we've seen this motif many times as well: abject poverty creating a banshee devoid of normal human intercourse. It opens the film after Esther's accident unique for its era. I'll see what I can do in terms of further inquiry, at least in a future tense.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
Corrosive Postures
"It becomes just what it should not be, the story of an escape."
Roger Ebert should have never appeared on television nor gained the international recognition he did, nor made his saliva gland cancer a documentary special. He debased his critical acuity by becoming a buffoon, even if this is in part my resentment at my own lack of recognition, it is still more than that, because one thing that is gone forever, outside of the studio make-up room, is public deportment-- and I hear at least 10,000 bloggers stampede on my skull. "What about you?" My "public behavior," which would lead to Google's sanction if I had the money or the acumen for advertisement, is merely symptomatic of the disease: We only look "our best," to use fat man's phrase, in front of the camera.
Heaven surprised me because I knew nothing about it; had I seen it before I saw Babel perhaps Inarritu would not have traumatized me so forcefully, despite the fact that I cannot give the man his leftist victory, leaving it at that-- which is not to imply I want to argue against his movie-- far from it. Every director needs to care as much, even with lighter fare.
The question, unresolved, is whether Tykwer cares as much as Alejandro, and I am absolutely undecided, because the escape to which Ebert refers may be one of forgiving grace, but it also may be one of consequence. The opening with Blanchett engaging in her violence made me think yet another political thriller along the lines of The French Connection, and I was entirely unprepared for the fact that it transforms into a secular Christian allegory with a touch of genocidal overtures to its lighting and costume. A hardened ideologue would not be imbued with Blanchett's vengeful remorse.
Roger Ebert should have never appeared on television nor gained the international recognition he did, nor made his saliva gland cancer a documentary special. He debased his critical acuity by becoming a buffoon, even if this is in part my resentment at my own lack of recognition, it is still more than that, because one thing that is gone forever, outside of the studio make-up room, is public deportment-- and I hear at least 10,000 bloggers stampede on my skull. "What about you?" My "public behavior," which would lead to Google's sanction if I had the money or the acumen for advertisement, is merely symptomatic of the disease: We only look "our best," to use fat man's phrase, in front of the camera.
Heaven surprised me because I knew nothing about it; had I seen it before I saw Babel perhaps Inarritu would not have traumatized me so forcefully, despite the fact that I cannot give the man his leftist victory, leaving it at that-- which is not to imply I want to argue against his movie-- far from it. Every director needs to care as much, even with lighter fare.
The question, unresolved, is whether Tykwer cares as much as Alejandro, and I am absolutely undecided, because the escape to which Ebert refers may be one of forgiving grace, but it also may be one of consequence. The opening with Blanchett engaging in her violence made me think yet another political thriller along the lines of The French Connection, and I was entirely unprepared for the fact that it transforms into a secular Christian allegory with a touch of genocidal overtures to its lighting and costume. A hardened ideologue would not be imbued with Blanchett's vengeful remorse.
Friday, April 5, 2013
Cessation's Farce
A cloud was on the mind of men, and wailing went the weather,
Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys together.--G.K. Chesterton
I did not read Christopher Hitchens' last review of Chesterton in the Atlantic, but I did read Bennet's editorial note on kindle about the processes involved in editing a polemicist who was literally breathing his last on a hospital mattress, and I had to wonder if in the modern sense of the word, terminal conditions have become a consequential folly, a paradox that the Menippean G.K. himself might have appreciated. Ebert also engaged in a form of self delusion. His optimism could not bargain with death any more than anguish does not hasten it, unless the anguished utilize accouterments; the will to die must have to be very great indeed, and the bargaining with the limits of our biology is nothing new. On his deathbed Henry James bestirred himself to consider Napoleon's delusions of grandeur (again, oddly not uncommon among homosexuals) and it is asserted that Proust revised his lost time to his last breath; J Edgar Hoover, I believe, died in office at a near miraculous time of history. Hollywood would have us believe that Charlton Heston revived Rex Harrison from his deathbed.
Is it necessarily a good thing that Westerners refuse to yield to the inevitable? Cripples face the constant threat of annihilation, and the more astute are circumspect about ontology, but not Caucasians with contemporary bourgeoisie sensibilities. I do not mean to suggest that people past 50 should not fight disease and attempt to remain relevant, only that eradicating death as a ritualized transition, giving way to a sterile clinical environment where our cadavers are rolled to the morgue, seems too much of a trade off to banality. This is more than the residue of religious nostalgia. Death needs to be respected as part of the natural process of a living ecosystem.
Yea, a sick cloud upon the soul when we were boys together.--G.K. Chesterton
I did not read Christopher Hitchens' last review of Chesterton in the Atlantic, but I did read Bennet's editorial note on kindle about the processes involved in editing a polemicist who was literally breathing his last on a hospital mattress, and I had to wonder if in the modern sense of the word, terminal conditions have become a consequential folly, a paradox that the Menippean G.K. himself might have appreciated. Ebert also engaged in a form of self delusion. His optimism could not bargain with death any more than anguish does not hasten it, unless the anguished utilize accouterments; the will to die must have to be very great indeed, and the bargaining with the limits of our biology is nothing new. On his deathbed Henry James bestirred himself to consider Napoleon's delusions of grandeur (again, oddly not uncommon among homosexuals) and it is asserted that Proust revised his lost time to his last breath; J Edgar Hoover, I believe, died in office at a near miraculous time of history. Hollywood would have us believe that Charlton Heston revived Rex Harrison from his deathbed.
Is it necessarily a good thing that Westerners refuse to yield to the inevitable? Cripples face the constant threat of annihilation, and the more astute are circumspect about ontology, but not Caucasians with contemporary bourgeoisie sensibilities. I do not mean to suggest that people past 50 should not fight disease and attempt to remain relevant, only that eradicating death as a ritualized transition, giving way to a sterile clinical environment where our cadavers are rolled to the morgue, seems too much of a trade off to banality. This is more than the residue of religious nostalgia. Death needs to be respected as part of the natural process of a living ecosystem.
Thursday, April 4, 2013
Tron Beats
This is the difference between me and a dead optimist who is as vibrant as I am leaden: he keeps making the best of it and he's dead. I am calculating a pitch based on the cost of his saliva cancer as a rational argument for a federal euthanasia standard; if you're wondering if I am that ruthless, yes. What saddens me is the fact that Siskel & Ebert taught me how much I like to argue. I paid attention to the conversation as much as to the movie under discussion. What does Chaz do with Roger's online accounts, or the Chicago Sun-Times with theirs, for that matter?
I could not bring myself to take his twitter account off my following list, and now I'll never know whether it went like this:
EBERT: "Dan I have a dysfunctional groupie for you; look at her comment in response to my post on loneliness..."
Or like this:
SCHNEIDER: He won't mind if I peel off this spastic figure for my Cosmoetica lists. (and a week later). "Look at what I get for trying to be nice. She told me to fuck myself because I don't have a hard on for Marcel Proust."
I could not bring myself to take his twitter account off my following list, and now I'll never know whether it went like this:
EBERT: "Dan I have a dysfunctional groupie for you; look at her comment in response to my post on loneliness..."
Or like this:
SCHNEIDER: He won't mind if I peel off this spastic figure for my Cosmoetica lists. (and a week later). "Look at what I get for trying to be nice. She told me to fuck myself because I don't have a hard on for Marcel Proust."
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Freelancer, Half-Assed
I wonder if I have enough clout to approach McCarthy in relation to work, in yet another speculative feather. I am too old to reinvest and create a new career with the industry, but can develop amnesia over incidents like Daniel Schneider. Even online, people of similar look and build behave like compatible molecules, don't they? Since not all of my older posts will be transferring to Blogger, I should explain that Daniel accessed one of my comments on Ebert's blog, found me on LiveJournal, invited me to his Cosmoetica gmail community, sparks flew, I left, and blew a gasket due to being naive and vacuous in my own right, subsequently damaging this long term project, and yes, the paranoid intensity of my reaction was not healthy, and you may be satisfied with your holistic balance in comparison. I am not really angry with the well meaning fool, so much as [was, sic] really upset that I let myself be flummoxed; it is over, and in the same mold can leave my Roger Ebert anxiety at the door, strike out on my own. I still respect the old man, but think his mild detractors, those whom I've read, have a point in the way he caters to popular sentiment, perhaps confusing respect with common denominators.
I doubt I can earn a living on regret, but as an episode, the situation points to the limitations of connecting via device. I did not know who, or what, Daniel Schneider was, and he in turn was entirely ignorant of my economic and social marginalization, and the length of time I have spent in online communities of all different stripes. Before he ended his interaction with me, he wrote, "I have done thousands of interviews in this industry, and David Foster Wallace is a fraud." I honestly don't know what I am supposed to take from this assertion, and a Cosmoetica gmail community with eclectic discussions about movies and Daniel's pontifications about politics, his wife's personal literary reviews, may be charming to some, but I am a spastic quadriplegic whose last and best hope is to restore her work ethic. Email groups clog our inboxes, along with tons of spam, and whatever support he and Mrs thought they were offering, let me pose a question, do they have the ability to hire a wheelchair user at their bakery?
I handled this contact badly, and there is no way around that, my own level of impatience and insolence, but even his rape-victim nurse who chased me down to my LiveJournal inbox, believing that her emotional pain would give me pause, this woman had employment, and has much better access to resources through her hospital to get treatments, access and medical expertise I do not have, and need to restore in my actual, physical existence, a social structure. Daniel calls David Foster Wallace a *fraud* to level an accusation, but lacks the expertise to see why Wallace succeeded, deploying fraudulence as a literary conceit.
*
When felines want to wake up their crippled mothers, they push the call switch, summon security, and freak out when a minority unlocks my door. Of course I was naked and finally sound asleep, and had to get up, shout that I was indecent. I cannot quite cross the Rubicon, and lose my lions to make a venue change easier. Not that I do not love my boys, and indeed, during that *assessment team* intimidation tactic that Trudy Richardson, the manager, threw at me in 08, I offered to get rid of my pets, and this was Debra Horne, a woman who passes for a social services professional:
"We do not want you to get rid of the cats," yet she was standing there with two black men and a swaying older woman of lighter color, trying to gauge my removal, never mind that their subcontractors broke my desktop, that I could not get the CRT equipment I needed, and that I am still paying for. Debra is pretty high up on entitled but ignorant people I hate list. I know why they want me to keep the children, however. My responsibility for them is a distraction, but I am not working, and at this rate, I may never get back on my feet. Thus my children add to my financial burdens, and without them I'd be freer to leave, at least lighten my options.
I love da Joey, and little Vinnie. Of course I am a sap, but. It is a balancing act of bad choices, and depositing them at the SPCA would probably end their lives, and is no guarantee I can find better living arrangements.
I have to make some revisions to my complaint letter to previously mentioned officials, but I should be packed up by Friday. Rocking the boat is so very difficult, but I have to. What I went through could wind up killing someone else like me. I am old and tired, but have to shout, and this is complete. Here is hoping for Tuesday.
I doubt I can earn a living on regret, but as an episode, the situation points to the limitations of connecting via device. I did not know who, or what, Daniel Schneider was, and he in turn was entirely ignorant of my economic and social marginalization, and the length of time I have spent in online communities of all different stripes. Before he ended his interaction with me, he wrote, "I have done thousands of interviews in this industry, and David Foster Wallace is a fraud." I honestly don't know what I am supposed to take from this assertion, and a Cosmoetica gmail community with eclectic discussions about movies and Daniel's pontifications about politics, his wife's personal literary reviews, may be charming to some, but I am a spastic quadriplegic whose last and best hope is to restore her work ethic. Email groups clog our inboxes, along with tons of spam, and whatever support he and Mrs thought they were offering, let me pose a question, do they have the ability to hire a wheelchair user at their bakery?
I handled this contact badly, and there is no way around that, my own level of impatience and insolence, but even his rape-victim nurse who chased me down to my LiveJournal inbox, believing that her emotional pain would give me pause, this woman had employment, and has much better access to resources through her hospital to get treatments, access and medical expertise I do not have, and need to restore in my actual, physical existence, a social structure. Daniel calls David Foster Wallace a *fraud* to level an accusation, but lacks the expertise to see why Wallace succeeded, deploying fraudulence as a literary conceit.
*
When felines want to wake up their crippled mothers, they push the call switch, summon security, and freak out when a minority unlocks my door. Of course I was naked and finally sound asleep, and had to get up, shout that I was indecent. I cannot quite cross the Rubicon, and lose my lions to make a venue change easier. Not that I do not love my boys, and indeed, during that *assessment team* intimidation tactic that Trudy Richardson, the manager, threw at me in 08, I offered to get rid of my pets, and this was Debra Horne, a woman who passes for a social services professional:
"We do not want you to get rid of the cats," yet she was standing there with two black men and a swaying older woman of lighter color, trying to gauge my removal, never mind that their subcontractors broke my desktop, that I could not get the CRT equipment I needed, and that I am still paying for. Debra is pretty high up on entitled but ignorant people I hate list. I know why they want me to keep the children, however. My responsibility for them is a distraction, but I am not working, and at this rate, I may never get back on my feet. Thus my children add to my financial burdens, and without them I'd be freer to leave, at least lighten my options.
I love da Joey, and little Vinnie. Of course I am a sap, but. It is a balancing act of bad choices, and depositing them at the SPCA would probably end their lives, and is no guarantee I can find better living arrangements.
I have to make some revisions to my complaint letter to previously mentioned officials, but I should be packed up by Friday. Rocking the boat is so very difficult, but I have to. What I went through could wind up killing someone else like me. I am old and tired, but have to shout, and this is complete. Here is hoping for Tuesday.
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