I am really not feeling well, and remain convinced, if I cart myself off to a regional hospital, yielding up all my bodily secrets, because I do not like the internal medicine department training students on my poverty, that I will not be returning to this building, and that I am therefore done, so what do I do, or Blogger, or twitter, or my cached history online, what do I do with it?
I've damaged, or taken aim at reputations of people who failed me. I'm anti-homosexual because I've had to wrestle with lesbian hits more than once, and became too intimate with a number of homosexuals in turn. I am not calling 911 now. I don't think so, and I'm still running the digital hustle, importing some of my published material to Ev's platform, trying to learn how to edit on it, and I'm clawing with my fingernails, stressed to the toxic. If I give up, yes, I'm punishing myself, on one level, but I'm truly worn out and have no where to go to catch a break or recharge and I no longer have friends; I'm talking to strangers, and it could be a bad adaptation to the liquid nicotine, my coffee too acrid. At some point it is time, and mine is evidently tangible atrophy at fifty three. I've been lousy before we all have, but this is different, maybe colon cancer for all I know, and I won't fight that.
All That Jazz doesn't shrink from this greatest fear. Fosse makes the ontological anxiety of nullification as theatrical as one can, and Christ knows I'd like going out on a jazz number with a conveyor belt. The much more rigorous Austrian film with the flamboyant Sheila Florance, A Woman's Tale, delivers the same message, more process involved, much more compliance until the son's final shift to his mother's spirit.
I'd rather Schneider's metaphor, wondering if he thought of this movie on his death bed. If the strenuous nature of the production left him dismayed. Do we even have empathy to spare for the billions we've buried before us?
But I'm bawling, eh, invisible tail winds in flame? I wish I had the money to hire a hit man, had something to offer someone for my list.
Showing posts with label roy schneider. Show all posts
Showing posts with label roy schneider. Show all posts
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Monday, January 19, 2015
Teeth Grit
Gary Oldman's Romeo is a precursor to Things To Do in Denver, of a kind, though Garcia and Walken finer tune their ridicule. Oldman and Olin are Medak's marionettes, self-consciously absurdest, overtly farcical, only Roy Schneider playing the Don like a Prospero who has learned the value of enhanced interrogation behind the finesse of seemingly victimless corruption, the short cut to the buffer zone of high class bling worth transforming into a gimp, or a one-armed villain like the elusive one armed man from The Fugitive, only difference is Olin is a brass tit menace, and Oldman doesn't need veneers to grind himself into a grimace offering the illusion of soot between the incisors of his under bite, suggesting the permanence of his tainted morality, unable to erect the decency of his desire to be the straight man with the model trophy wife.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Sarin Neurotoxins
"You never really learn something until you teach it." My latter day drama instructor.
Look at that face. You would never imagine such a female maintains a benevolent dictatorship. Mother watch me hunt. Mother the foot massage means we need to eat as a family, but only after I beckon you to the food bowl three times and only after I see you engaging in mastication will I shoo you so a jaguar may gnaw daintily. Mother make the bed, and your little black panther is a pain in the ass, but when he lets me curl up with him then that's the ticket! No I won't come back in the house! Yes I will when they scare me! And on and on. I have been raising cats since I was a kid and little little kimmy is a young 2, and will outlive my independence, which is reason enough to purchase my blog on your kindle. The unfortunate orphan needs an endowment, and you will save the cats if you want me to outgrow my caustic flint spark cynicism. She lost her babies and deserves the good life. I considered joining PETA due to my feline zeal, but Wallace turned it on the dime, and PETA is almost too fanatical, because evolution cannot be managed like a suburban duplex. I am on the fence because feline poachers deserve the death penalty, and in indecision cannot cash in my chips.
This post was an entirely different subject, but let me get my cold calculus which has driven some of you off out of the way: My stepmother is dying, and Marie no doubt reasoned it was her brother's place to inform me, since he is my father. My feelings about Louise are not pleasant. She was my mother's colleague in nursing school and dated my father behind my mother's back. My lover never understood my umbrage about that, but even married husbands who cheat are befuddled by the bitch codex. The bitch codex says you do not marry your nursing friend's divorced husband and Louise did anyway and never imagined what she was in for, and that includes my indignation with her mouth. My father's impotence is not something I as his eldest daughter am going to treat as a clinical seminar suggesting solutions, and this became an international incident, along with other choice cuts from her invalid tongue.
She has been crippled for years by RA. Takes one to know one, and now she has leukemia or Roy Schneider's multiple myeloma and I am only worried about the impact of her death on my father. That is the way it is. I love my daddy and daddy needs his wife, relieved that her estate issues will presumably enter tort before padre himself expires and my sister and I will then litigate each other, but I am not emotionally invested in stepmother hate. I don't like her or her children, but Louise has paid for landing padre as a caretaker, in more ways than I am willing to reveal, or that you'd want me to.
If she dies, however, this changes things, and maybe I shall be able to part company with PresbyHomes before my future end stage hospice care, within a year or two. I cannot grieve her. My father. My poor father.
Look at that face. You would never imagine such a female maintains a benevolent dictatorship. Mother watch me hunt. Mother the foot massage means we need to eat as a family, but only after I beckon you to the food bowl three times and only after I see you engaging in mastication will I shoo you so a jaguar may gnaw daintily. Mother make the bed, and your little black panther is a pain in the ass, but when he lets me curl up with him then that's the ticket! No I won't come back in the house! Yes I will when they scare me! And on and on. I have been raising cats since I was a kid and little little kimmy is a young 2, and will outlive my independence, which is reason enough to purchase my blog on your kindle. The unfortunate orphan needs an endowment, and you will save the cats if you want me to outgrow my caustic flint spark cynicism. She lost her babies and deserves the good life. I considered joining PETA due to my feline zeal, but Wallace turned it on the dime, and PETA is almost too fanatical, because evolution cannot be managed like a suburban duplex. I am on the fence because feline poachers deserve the death penalty, and in indecision cannot cash in my chips.
This post was an entirely different subject, but let me get my cold calculus which has driven some of you off out of the way: My stepmother is dying, and Marie no doubt reasoned it was her brother's place to inform me, since he is my father. My feelings about Louise are not pleasant. She was my mother's colleague in nursing school and dated my father behind my mother's back. My lover never understood my umbrage about that, but even married husbands who cheat are befuddled by the bitch codex. The bitch codex says you do not marry your nursing friend's divorced husband and Louise did anyway and never imagined what she was in for, and that includes my indignation with her mouth. My father's impotence is not something I as his eldest daughter am going to treat as a clinical seminar suggesting solutions, and this became an international incident, along with other choice cuts from her invalid tongue.
She has been crippled for years by RA. Takes one to know one, and now she has leukemia or Roy Schneider's multiple myeloma and I am only worried about the impact of her death on my father. That is the way it is. I love my daddy and daddy needs his wife, relieved that her estate issues will presumably enter tort before padre himself expires and my sister and I will then litigate each other, but I am not emotionally invested in stepmother hate. I don't like her or her children, but Louise has paid for landing padre as a caretaker, in more ways than I am willing to reveal, or that you'd want me to.
If she dies, however, this changes things, and maybe I shall be able to part company with PresbyHomes before my future end stage hospice care, within a year or two. I cannot grieve her. My father. My poor father.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Addendum Death Dance
All That Jazz is, of course, an able-bodied film with its own subtext, and Dave Kehr does offer me what a poet once named Wendy would phrase as, "the shock of recognition," in Gideon's Mephistophelean aspects, but what it offers to a disability thesis is a certain Kantian aspect, that, whatever makes you a hot property, be it Scheider's restrained sex appeal on camera, or a potential political power on the rise, or skills that lend themselves to choreography, none of us have it for very long, and need to make the most of it, even as our biological design breaks down, kills us through our own behavior, though Gideon is a type of an anachronism, the basic fun loving self-destructive addict, one that I'd wager no longer exists, even in Fosse's world.
Schneider too declined and died of blood cancer, maybe not a bad way to go.
For a technical quadriplegic, I was once fairly affluent, however I have to square my father in my psyche as he heads toward dementia, and I decline, but I assert this as a basic truth: I face the prospect of dying in squalor in the last superpower standing because I was a confused 23 year old who wanted love with a passion, took risks toward total independence, and failed, and this is unjust. I no longer know, at 50, how much work I can take on in a traditional employee context, and I can bust my ass fifty ways from Sunday on article pitches, and it might not matter. I cannot force publishers to contract me, and can still fail, as I did with my editor last year.
I cannot even leave section 202 housing like a fucking normal human being. If you want me to readjust my attitude, it is simple, give me hope, and leave your community integration rhetoric in the outhouse, where it belongs.
Schneider too declined and died of blood cancer, maybe not a bad way to go.
For a technical quadriplegic, I was once fairly affluent, however I have to square my father in my psyche as he heads toward dementia, and I decline, but I assert this as a basic truth: I face the prospect of dying in squalor in the last superpower standing because I was a confused 23 year old who wanted love with a passion, took risks toward total independence, and failed, and this is unjust. I no longer know, at 50, how much work I can take on in a traditional employee context, and I can bust my ass fifty ways from Sunday on article pitches, and it might not matter. I cannot force publishers to contract me, and can still fail, as I did with my editor last year.
I cannot even leave section 202 housing like a fucking normal human being. If you want me to readjust my attitude, it is simple, give me hope, and leave your community integration rhetoric in the outhouse, where it belongs.
Myeloma Glitter Maw
"You have to be careful with something like that in national policy. It corrodes the forces; it corrodes the torturer."--Gen Stanley McChrystal
General McChrystal, sir: Obama may be relieved, or not, and most likely no one will care that I face the danger of Ezra Pound in his decline, and I am aware that I face such a danger as I recoil from the sordidness of the flesh, the sordidness of urban America, but I do not dislike Barack, and sometimes even agree with him. However, if Mitt Romney had not been nominated, I would have voted against the president. Radical equality progressives are as extreme as national socialists once were, and they are destroying the United States. I think you were treated unfairly by the current administration over the Rolling Stone expose. It is not as if you endangered national security by fucking female officers, and I have your book in my queue. Here is the deal: If you have national political aspirations, the spastic_dowager will support you, as long as you give me a tasty victual. I want the federal mandate that secures independent living centers eliminated. Kabeesh? If it was up to me I'd say let's go for a coup d'etat, but since it is not, and I am debating showing up for my local inauguration event to troll for kindle users to give me a subscription, I'd settle for seeing you at the head of, or in, a 2016 transition team. I want the people in Philadelphia who hurt me punished, and I know you've seen much worse in Iraq, but sir, the third world does exist in the US, and I deserve the compassion to stop living in it, because I am a gifted woman, and should not have to be watching my soul perish, like Roy Schneider producing his own death journey in Fosse's flawed but smart aleck musical hybrid.
I miss Roy Schneider the actor for more shallow and more sexual reasons, as compared to the moral certitude of Anne Bancroft, but miss him I do, the hyper cool tight ass, the perfect foil for the damn great white shark who probably would have been a better president than the majority of the men who held the office, and for those very reasons, All That Jazz had a powerful effect on me as a young woman. Even with multiple myeloma, Schneider kept his edge, commanding the desire of women like me to unify in the elegance of his eros (the scene where he kisses the dying woman with white hair). Fosse's devil may care moxie reaches me, despite the mild sexism inside the world of dance subculture. They just don't make movie stars like him anymore.
General McChrystal, sir: Obama may be relieved, or not, and most likely no one will care that I face the danger of Ezra Pound in his decline, and I am aware that I face such a danger as I recoil from the sordidness of the flesh, the sordidness of urban America, but I do not dislike Barack, and sometimes even agree with him. However, if Mitt Romney had not been nominated, I would have voted against the president. Radical equality progressives are as extreme as national socialists once were, and they are destroying the United States. I think you were treated unfairly by the current administration over the Rolling Stone expose. It is not as if you endangered national security by fucking female officers, and I have your book in my queue. Here is the deal: If you have national political aspirations, the spastic_dowager will support you, as long as you give me a tasty victual. I want the federal mandate that secures independent living centers eliminated. Kabeesh? If it was up to me I'd say let's go for a coup d'etat, but since it is not, and I am debating showing up for my local inauguration event to troll for kindle users to give me a subscription, I'd settle for seeing you at the head of, or in, a 2016 transition team. I want the people in Philadelphia who hurt me punished, and I know you've seen much worse in Iraq, but sir, the third world does exist in the US, and I deserve the compassion to stop living in it, because I am a gifted woman, and should not have to be watching my soul perish, like Roy Schneider producing his own death journey in Fosse's flawed but smart aleck musical hybrid.
I miss Roy Schneider the actor for more shallow and more sexual reasons, as compared to the moral certitude of Anne Bancroft, but miss him I do, the hyper cool tight ass, the perfect foil for the damn great white shark who probably would have been a better president than the majority of the men who held the office, and for those very reasons, All That Jazz had a powerful effect on me as a young woman. Even with multiple myeloma, Schneider kept his edge, commanding the desire of women like me to unify in the elegance of his eros (the scene where he kisses the dying woman with white hair). Fosse's devil may care moxie reaches me, despite the mild sexism inside the world of dance subculture. They just don't make movie stars like him anymore.
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