While we sit here with the left lung elongated like papier mache fracking above the diaphragm, struggling with oxygen in a fetid interior, or waiting for the onset of congestive heart failure, perhaps startled by Commissioner Goodell’s only recently found permissiveness, with a hint of bombastic fraudulence attached, like everything in the adolescence of the American athlete, a vestige of Roman gladiator braggadocio attached, nonetheless, our governing system modeled on the Republic as it is, it is only now, in this financially unsuccessful writer’s last viable years, that she sits here with her insistent feline, reflecting on the incredible entrapment of the pus that has erupted out of her ass since childhood, even my now dying grandmother, in her energetic fifties, helping my mother with my accidents, lower extremities locked in a primitive lower torso exoskeleton I discarded in my teens, would exclaim, “you just don’t quit.” Indeed, my biology is an aberration, an organic mechanism which should never have thrived. In recent months though, the axis has shifted from concern with control to persistent abdominal discomfort, normal or not for post-menopausal tissue in the preliminary stages of final entropy. Perhaps my efforts to salvage my files constructed on 07 software will be a final blow, one with which my physiology will not be able to cope, as I have put too much physical labor into continual reconstruction, though I did not print everything, not having space to insure that physical drafts remain undamaged. We take all this chaotic reality and turn them into constructs, as Adrian Lyne does in his erotic thrillers, but what I am attempting to percolate, now that I have rapidly rushed hot coffee, is we do not seem to do any better for the humanities which build over time. If we utilize the George Smiley method of back tracing, in the work of the great Stendhal, who is the only novelist anyone need ever read, says the dowager from her precipice, it is the erotic sin which triggers devout fervor through contemplation. This is something generally lost to us in the contemporary era. Arguably lost even in monastery or seminary, from what I am able to access-- Julian doesn’t destroy the marriage of Madame Renault. He wakes her up to what loving sensuality means, even if all he wanted was the conquest. She has no choice but to find solace through the post-Reformation Catholicism of its day, as she cannot chase after a penniless peasant scholar who doesn’t have much of a scruple in relation to chastity. Lyne’s early 21st century parable dispenses with this sentiment, even if all human foibles are present in Unfaithful: jealousy, suspicion, guilt, even the preening growth of being alive due to the sheer pleasure of exotic physicality. I felt this way when I was the Other Woman, though my motives, before the disaster of being pursued by a drooling pig from New York, were different from that of Lane’s driven character. I was not lured in; I was rather in search of a man without fear, and that ferreted out wounded, bored, or unhappy husbands, who left both me as mistress and their wives to pick up the pieces without rippling each other to shreds—rather difficult, as I’ve indicated in the past, not to mention the overlay of Mark Sanford and Chapur. Look at the capital a once promising political star relinquished in the name of desire. Was it worth it? Did he read French literature before we toasted ourselves into non-entities? Just as Lyne asks if his characters deserve the consequences of their deception, the arguments we’re having about fundamental fairness and distribution don’t really change anything, unless it relates to insularity juxtaposed against the tensions of diversity. Unfaithful is unique in another way, as it is unabashedly about the license of white privilege gaming its own destruction. The people of color we glimpse in the movie function as a buffer, more or less.
Showing posts with label rouge et noir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rouge et noir. Show all posts
Friday, September 22, 2017
The Frantic Movements of House Flies
Mark Sanford has nothing left to lose--Tim Alberta
While we sit here with the left lung elongated like papier mache fracking above the diaphragm, struggling with oxygen in a fetid interior, or waiting for the onset of congestive heart failure, perhaps startled by Commissioner Goodell’s only recently found permissiveness, with a hint of bombastic fraudulence attached, like everything in the adolescence of the American athlete, a vestige of Roman gladiator braggadocio attached, nonetheless, our governing system modeled on the Republic as it is, it is only now, in this financially unsuccessful writer’s last viable years, that she sits here with her insistent feline, reflecting on the incredible entrapment of the pus that has erupted out of her ass since childhood, even my now dying grandmother, in her energetic fifties, helping my mother with my accidents, lower extremities locked in a primitive lower torso exoskeleton I discarded in my teens, would exclaim, “you just don’t quit.” Indeed, my biology is an aberration, an organic mechanism which should never have thrived. In recent months though, the axis has shifted from concern with control to persistent abdominal discomfort, normal or not for post-menopausal tissue in the preliminary stages of final entropy. Perhaps my efforts to salvage my files constructed on 07 software will be a final blow, one with which my physiology will not be able to cope, as I have put too much physical labor into continual reconstruction, though I did not print everything, not having space to insure that physical drafts remain undamaged. We take all this chaotic reality and turn them into constructs, as Adrian Lyne does in his erotic thrillers, but what I am attempting to percolate, now that I have rapidly rushed hot coffee, is we do not seem to do any better for the humanities which build over time. If we utilize the George Smiley method of back tracing, in the work of the great Stendhal, who is the only novelist anyone need ever read, says the dowager from her precipice, it is the erotic sin which triggers devout fervor through contemplation. This is something generally lost to us in the contemporary era. Arguably lost even in monastery or seminary, from what I am able to access-- Julian doesn’t destroy the marriage of Madame Renault. He wakes her up to what loving sensuality means, even if all he wanted was the conquest. She has no choice but to find solace through the post-Reformation Catholicism of its day, as she cannot chase after a penniless peasant scholar who doesn’t have much of a scruple in relation to chastity. Lyne’s early 21st century parable dispenses with this sentiment, even if all human foibles are present in Unfaithful: jealousy, suspicion, guilt, even the preening growth of being alive due to the sheer pleasure of exotic physicality. I felt this way when I was the Other Woman, though my motives, before the disaster of being pursued by a drooling pig from New York, were different from that of Lane’s driven character. I was not lured in; I was rather in search of a man without fear, and that ferreted out wounded, bored, or unhappy husbands, who left both me as mistress and their wives to pick up the pieces without rippling each other to shreds—rather difficult, as I’ve indicated in the past, not to mention the overlay of Mark Sanford and Chapur. Look at the capital a once promising political star relinquished in the name of desire. Was it worth it? Did he read French literature before we toasted ourselves into non-entities? Just as Lyne asks if his characters deserve the consequences of their deception, the arguments we’re having about fundamental fairness and distribution don’t really change anything, unless it relates to insularity juxtaposed against the tensions of diversity. Unfaithful is unique in another way, as it is unabashedly about the license of white privilege gaming its own destruction. The people of color we glimpse in the movie function as a buffer, more or less.
While we sit here with the left lung elongated like papier mache fracking above the diaphragm, struggling with oxygen in a fetid interior, or waiting for the onset of congestive heart failure, perhaps startled by Commissioner Goodell’s only recently found permissiveness, with a hint of bombastic fraudulence attached, like everything in the adolescence of the American athlete, a vestige of Roman gladiator braggadocio attached, nonetheless, our governing system modeled on the Republic as it is, it is only now, in this financially unsuccessful writer’s last viable years, that she sits here with her insistent feline, reflecting on the incredible entrapment of the pus that has erupted out of her ass since childhood, even my now dying grandmother, in her energetic fifties, helping my mother with my accidents, lower extremities locked in a primitive lower torso exoskeleton I discarded in my teens, would exclaim, “you just don’t quit.” Indeed, my biology is an aberration, an organic mechanism which should never have thrived. In recent months though, the axis has shifted from concern with control to persistent abdominal discomfort, normal or not for post-menopausal tissue in the preliminary stages of final entropy. Perhaps my efforts to salvage my files constructed on 07 software will be a final blow, one with which my physiology will not be able to cope, as I have put too much physical labor into continual reconstruction, though I did not print everything, not having space to insure that physical drafts remain undamaged. We take all this chaotic reality and turn them into constructs, as Adrian Lyne does in his erotic thrillers, but what I am attempting to percolate, now that I have rapidly rushed hot coffee, is we do not seem to do any better for the humanities which build over time. If we utilize the George Smiley method of back tracing, in the work of the great Stendhal, who is the only novelist anyone need ever read, says the dowager from her precipice, it is the erotic sin which triggers devout fervor through contemplation. This is something generally lost to us in the contemporary era. Arguably lost even in monastery or seminary, from what I am able to access-- Julian doesn’t destroy the marriage of Madame Renault. He wakes her up to what loving sensuality means, even if all he wanted was the conquest. She has no choice but to find solace through the post-Reformation Catholicism of its day, as she cannot chase after a penniless peasant scholar who doesn’t have much of a scruple in relation to chastity. Lyne’s early 21st century parable dispenses with this sentiment, even if all human foibles are present in Unfaithful: jealousy, suspicion, guilt, even the preening growth of being alive due to the sheer pleasure of exotic physicality. I felt this way when I was the Other Woman, though my motives, before the disaster of being pursued by a drooling pig from New York, were different from that of Lane’s driven character. I was not lured in; I was rather in search of a man without fear, and that ferreted out wounded, bored, or unhappy husbands, who left both me as mistress and their wives to pick up the pieces without rippling each other to shreds—rather difficult, as I’ve indicated in the past, not to mention the overlay of Mark Sanford and Chapur. Look at the capital a once promising political star relinquished in the name of desire. Was it worth it? Did he read French literature before we toasted ourselves into non-entities? Just as Lyne asks if his characters deserve the consequences of their deception, the arguments we’re having about fundamental fairness and distribution don’t really change anything, unless it relates to insularity juxtaposed against the tensions of diversity. Unfaithful is unique in another way, as it is unabashedly about the license of white privilege gaming its own destruction. The people of color we glimpse in the movie function as a buffer, more or less.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Delayed Quest for Hot Spot, ctd
"What was he getting at?"-- Stendhal, in the mind of his astute peasant courtier
There are limits to how far Kantian concerns can bind the sinews of our differences, just as allowing myself to be antagonized by digital burlesque trolls is an exercise in futility, no matter what their breast and stocking entrapment to visit their web cam footage might conceal. Objectified, ostracized, sometimes feared from a very early age, only desired by white addicts sniffing on the trail of my mother's phonons, for a fat woman she wreaked of slut, and it never left her at a loss for shit at our door after the fabled divorce, so deeply gouged in this family's psyche. One may have a bad body image bordering on dysmorphia, but to have red light women fling it in your face that they are so much more desirable is a vicious cruelty, whether intended or not, and then, on top of that to have a fuck-witted socialist from California be so impolitic as to tell me I'm ugly, this is a brush burn on the grain. His daughter is too a spaz, and why not, as the most common birth defect? Even after all these years, of wounded naiveté taught so many lessons, I let my guard down for parents with crippled children, purportedly comparing. My Roman father's blunt cruelty is oddly preferable. I'm fully aware, however, even with Demi Moore's resources, or her former resources, which I'll never have, I'm a homily peasant, with a madam's airs, and plastic surgery would have Phyllis Diller results without the moxie. I also feel at least a slight commiseration for the daughter of such a jackass. Wouldn't it be nice to have an auto hypoxia button for parents, bagging them for alien lizards nesting ships?
There are limits to how far Kantian concerns can bind the sinews of our differences, just as allowing myself to be antagonized by digital burlesque trolls is an exercise in futility, no matter what their breast and stocking entrapment to visit their web cam footage might conceal. Objectified, ostracized, sometimes feared from a very early age, only desired by white addicts sniffing on the trail of my mother's phonons, for a fat woman she wreaked of slut, and it never left her at a loss for shit at our door after the fabled divorce, so deeply gouged in this family's psyche. One may have a bad body image bordering on dysmorphia, but to have red light women fling it in your face that they are so much more desirable is a vicious cruelty, whether intended or not, and then, on top of that to have a fuck-witted socialist from California be so impolitic as to tell me I'm ugly, this is a brush burn on the grain. His daughter is too a spaz, and why not, as the most common birth defect? Even after all these years, of wounded naiveté taught so many lessons, I let my guard down for parents with crippled children, purportedly comparing. My Roman father's blunt cruelty is oddly preferable. I'm fully aware, however, even with Demi Moore's resources, or her former resources, which I'll never have, I'm a homily peasant, with a madam's airs, and plastic surgery would have Phyllis Diller results without the moxie. I also feel at least a slight commiseration for the daughter of such a jackass. Wouldn't it be nice to have an auto hypoxia button for parents, bagging them for alien lizards nesting ships?
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