"The soup that eats like a meal," a copywriter's cashier check.
The Dreiser estate should have sued Paramount posthumously for the hatchet job that is A Place in the Sun (1951). Whatever one feels about the great American movement authors in their milieu, the farther away we move from them, An American Tragedy is a nuanced labor that deserves the sweat of a reader's commitment and a scriptwriter's respect. Clift manages somehow to project the clueless demeanor that reasonably captures Clyde Griffiths wishful fast track waltz, but only just. I spent a great deal of time self-teaching the novel to myself before the kindle Paperwhite was born and my 2nd generation model was hot stuff, and it is a depressing book, one that upends American culture through deployment of the nuclear option, far greater in literary impact than Majority Leader Harry Reid's institutional scuttle of the filibuster. I'll freely admit I am not prepared to open the fuchsia casing that holds my most charming Amazon device and give you my notes and points this morning.
I rather hit a brick wall after I hired that cleaning company for nothing. A real wall, deeper than the reality of my bigotry. I'm tired, and almost ready to just pay the ultimate penalty, roll myself down to the office and tell my female minority wardens who I would slur but that would be a cheap shot, that they win, and they may inform their superiors that I will fold, and be placed in a hell like Inglis House. If I do that, I only increase a likelihood that a renewed major depression will finish me off, strapped and bound, an intravenous of joy juice burying me in Tarkovsky's voided afterlife. The Russian version is better than the Clooney Solaris upgrade, more in keeping with Lem's genius and mastery of genre that transcends collectivism.
I cannot suicide, but I can no longer truly hope to vindicate myself either and I know it. I can fight vigorously and transfer out of Presby, and that may happen. My sister and I are now in a marginal truce, and my mother's sister wants me back in middle brow Catholic suburbia, trading in little Italy nigger city once again for Caucasian gated sublet life I left behind because of my graduate student obsession, a sounding fury masquerade.
I was a stupid girl and I regret it but I've said that before, but the price has--I can no longer do what it takes to hope for a reasonable level of affluence as I head to my mid fifties. On that note, let me welcome Staff and Scrip. Finally a European who knows how to put on a fiery argument!
Showing posts with label stanislaw lem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stanislaw lem. Show all posts
Sunday, December 8, 2013
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Forced Conversion Expressions
"I was filled with anticipation; the tension had grown to the point where I didn't want to have open space behind me." -- Bill Johnston translation, location 237
In the not so distant past, Hari Sreenivasan was the good guy, fighting for a more sound equilibrium among our numerous yet fragile masses. There are still many cases of egregious exploitation everywhere, but this PBS profile also has its own egregious tilt. Never mind the lack of any sort of sexual discipline in inner city communities; never mind the fructose-heavy husband who we can speculate has some sort of disability claim pending that games the system and hurts real chronic condition inclusion. We all game it these days, even me, playing evasion to the last resort, angry that I allowed desire to trap me here, even though I did not realize it in my twenties. In my own lack of efficacy, I did not realize my conservative provider had already activated the 5c. The tranquility, however temporary, is luxurious, yet hesitation remains. Utility and device. No one has ever quite sold me. Google and Amazon better than Microsoft, yes, but I will never quite see micro chip miniaturization as indispensable. My sister Stephanie, on the white end of slovenly entitlement, sent me a text. Can't open it. Still in the tutorial stage, but we'll get there, despite women with more children than they can handle. Who am I to judge with my over-extended self-reliance? If I was smart I'd euthanize Vinnie and send the little female back to the no kill track and neuter shelter. It may come to that, but I can scream common sense while I learn to post home shots. Don't have children you cannot afford, regardless of your position on termination.
Progressives need some sort of reigning in, some sort of personal responsibility, just as I knew, before I pulled on my last decent affinity with another woman, that disability center assurances were broken reeds, piercing though the palms, poor adductor. Too much proficiency may be dangerous, but universal leveling leads to collapse under its own weight. Twenty five words in to an abstract that has more layers than I supposed, the signatory status of an auteur we hope survives extinction. Demise. Distinction may be all we have, but it is not much of an answer to destructive overkill.
For the most part, the better part of valor, I forgive Stephanie, and little Benny. I understand their precarious dashed hopes, despite the fact that they believe in a straight jacket containment for spastic investments. I cannot, however, love them as fully as I used to before they allowed this city to grind me into chum. Children are important, but not so important that they narrow futurist import.
In the not so distant past, Hari Sreenivasan was the good guy, fighting for a more sound equilibrium among our numerous yet fragile masses. There are still many cases of egregious exploitation everywhere, but this PBS profile also has its own egregious tilt. Never mind the lack of any sort of sexual discipline in inner city communities; never mind the fructose-heavy husband who we can speculate has some sort of disability claim pending that games the system and hurts real chronic condition inclusion. We all game it these days, even me, playing evasion to the last resort, angry that I allowed desire to trap me here, even though I did not realize it in my twenties. In my own lack of efficacy, I did not realize my conservative provider had already activated the 5c. The tranquility, however temporary, is luxurious, yet hesitation remains. Utility and device. No one has ever quite sold me. Google and Amazon better than Microsoft, yes, but I will never quite see micro chip miniaturization as indispensable. My sister Stephanie, on the white end of slovenly entitlement, sent me a text. Can't open it. Still in the tutorial stage, but we'll get there, despite women with more children than they can handle. Who am I to judge with my over-extended self-reliance? If I was smart I'd euthanize Vinnie and send the little female back to the no kill track and neuter shelter. It may come to that, but I can scream common sense while I learn to post home shots. Don't have children you cannot afford, regardless of your position on termination.
Progressives need some sort of reigning in, some sort of personal responsibility, just as I knew, before I pulled on my last decent affinity with another woman, that disability center assurances were broken reeds, piercing though the palms, poor adductor. Too much proficiency may be dangerous, but universal leveling leads to collapse under its own weight. Twenty five words in to an abstract that has more layers than I supposed, the signatory status of an auteur we hope survives extinction. Demise. Distinction may be all we have, but it is not much of an answer to destructive overkill.
For the most part, the better part of valor, I forgive Stephanie, and little Benny. I understand their precarious dashed hopes, despite the fact that they believe in a straight jacket containment for spastic investments. I cannot, however, love them as fully as I used to before they allowed this city to grind me into chum. Children are important, but not so important that they narrow futurist import.
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