We were promised The Jetsons, but instead life today still looks pretty much like it did in The Jeffersons.-- Paul Wiecek
First, let me get this off my breast bone. Fuck Canada, the permanently wealthy liberal opposition, just to illustrate that the Commonwealth sycophant to the the impostor over in Buckingham Palace playing QE2, (she cannot possibly be that alive and well, just look at President George Herbert Walker Bush), is so different from the United States. They do not utilize fuck in an inverted sentence, but Wiecek did give me a sounding board which I do not intend to submit as a letter to the editor, and this is to his credit. I dropped everything for this bit of holiday writing. My other assignment is complex, and as I am not getting paid, I insist on going slowly; if I do perhaps then I'll wind up with a latter day commission on the same topic. Or maybe I'll fail, again, and that is important only to the extent I'd like to do some policy writing before my mother's sister tricks me into an institutional environment. I do not trust her. She has assisted living on her frontal lobe like a gliona. Her father-in-law could afford to die in assisted living care. I cannot, and they wouldn't accept me. She does not understand the system. I do, and it is not going to happen. This represents why I take my rupture with Linda so hard. She understands family selfishness as the enemy, and I no longer have peers whom I like, at all, except a scattered handful of writers and scholars, and I realized, when I wrote, days ago, that I was fond of Gretchen, I do not think she'll mind her sudden currency, I realize that this is my problem: I despise everyone in 202 housing, and when I knew Josie, there was an element of recoil in me, and I need more instances of this not being the case. This makes Wayne Booth's thesis more telling, even if it's problematic. Post-modernists like Jerry are correct. Morally responsible aesthetics are incredibly difficult, but this doesn't mean Booth didn't give me insight as to reading Jane Austin as a beautiful, conflated, liar. Take a dip in theory now and again. For Booth too is correct that Benchley is superficial-- but this doesn't mean it lacks any value. The Raw Shark Texts, which I assiduously bunted to archive, may be playful, and derivative, which I tend to enjoy, but Hall didn't give me reason to care for his correspondences.
When I really need to be my old vehement self, I will not draw any extra button notices to my posts. The rest is up to Google's power and majority indignation, but don't kid yourself about the damages to my moral compass because I allowed a black girl my age, named Terri Way, to dupe me into moving into this hellhole which robbed me of my life. Not every wheelchair user gets sucked out to dry like this, and Presbyterian Homes shall pay the piper, or I am going to prison.
Showing posts with label stolen hours. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stolen hours. Show all posts
Monday, July 3, 2017
Sunday, July 2, 2017
One If By Land
"I want TO FUCK you," Lionel Shriver's Post-Birthday World snooker athlete
The only emancipation Susan Hayward had was a vivacious personality hemmed in by the fact that she seemed incapable of having a profession. I know of only one film where she isn't the vibrant victim of sacrificial circumstance, but even there, she trundles headlong into marital discord with a child. Michael Craig is ludicrous in Stolen Hours, my birth year film. At least in Dark Victory, however frothy, George Brent's character is appealed to, convincingly, with a feminine outcry beauties have used for ages. Those eyes of Bette beg for deliverance from peril, and the damsel's pieces fall into place. Everyone undercuts Dark Victory, with good reason, but it lives, in its many remakes, because of a preeminent dramaturgic defiance. Daniel Petrie tries to tone down the roar of pathos in this Kennedy era upgrade, and while the comparisons to the other versions shouldn't be discarded, Hayward doesn't really give us a rationale for why the ERA surged to the forefront, and then failed to pass not much more than a generation later. She isn't self-made, cannot project herself as a manipulator capable of wielding power, like Stanwyck can. She is the perky bitch with an underbite to whom men apply their fists, and it is embedded in the way Hayward's romantic males treat her in this film. Craig bullies her with his adamant stance. "It must be marriage," really means I need you to submit, properly, for the good of my social standing in merry old England. We cannot snoop around with my eschatological fascination over your impending doom, and it isn't credible. Men will fuck anything, but shackle themselves to lost causes? Hayward's socialite rebuffs rescue, but not the need for a high end trollop to cling to bravado. It is mildly disgusting, in a way, this tactic of hers, with so little range, all this energy, with nothing to sate it, except to apply her knitting needles for new mothers giving birth. Hayward's merger of her kitten with a whip vitality into Barbara Graham's saga almost pulls something off, something close to the female fury of insurrection, five years earlier, in 58, but even this is mired in revisionist controversy, as journalist Edward Montgomery purportedly skewered himself over Graham's culpability. Did Graham deserve the pink butterfly of the gas chamber? Is it really less humane than lethal injection, especially in light of the fact that pharmaceutical conscience is overriding American law on the matter, by withholding the drugs which allow death penalty state executions?
Yes, much has changed. Women now run countries with the same ineffectual parity that Trudeau junior makes Keystone pipeline deals. They've managed homeland security, which should be constrained as a bureaucratic nightmare. They've run state departments, and Harvard, and lost money which was never there in The Big Short, but our primal instincts still lurch in emblematic pursuit of Hayward's need to cling to masculine anchors toward her end game: getting snuffed, extinguished, despite desperate advocates on her behalf, who never really stop to examine just what it is about her presence which needs to be preserved. She certainly has no idea of why she fights the straight jacket she challenges but yields to continuously, as long as the script offers her the appropriate stature, a working class woman with no education who mimics a certain degree of brassy cosmopolitan hauteur.
The piece I am working, which I bounced of Wiecek giving Twitter the polite version of the Canadian finger, may take me more time. I am writing it specifically for an unapologetic Facebook magazine whose publisher already told me he wasn't sympathetic, and I pushed back, and then he hedged, so I've decided I need a few different versions, but my above hostility may just make a pop culture deadline for another market, which I'd like to meet. It closes in ten days, and with a little tweaking, maybe I'll make it. See defiant dowager post it raw, just like Hayward micro-managed: dead woman walking. I am both pushing myself hard, and not hard enough, as I really should bite the bullet, and allow my analytical ability not to break in finding an attorney who will assess my case before I do something unwise, and I am not joking here. My building manager humiliated me above, beyond, any legal authority to do so. She has a case for eviction, and instead, she appears to prefer to jeopardize her own personal security. No one really sees how angry I am, and why I really cannot drag this out another year, winding up in jail, sacrificed on the liberal corruption of which large metropolitan areas like Philadelphia have an inexhaustible supply.
The only emancipation Susan Hayward had was a vivacious personality hemmed in by the fact that she seemed incapable of having a profession. I know of only one film where she isn't the vibrant victim of sacrificial circumstance, but even there, she trundles headlong into marital discord with a child. Michael Craig is ludicrous in Stolen Hours, my birth year film. At least in Dark Victory, however frothy, George Brent's character is appealed to, convincingly, with a feminine outcry beauties have used for ages. Those eyes of Bette beg for deliverance from peril, and the damsel's pieces fall into place. Everyone undercuts Dark Victory, with good reason, but it lives, in its many remakes, because of a preeminent dramaturgic defiance. Daniel Petrie tries to tone down the roar of pathos in this Kennedy era upgrade, and while the comparisons to the other versions shouldn't be discarded, Hayward doesn't really give us a rationale for why the ERA surged to the forefront, and then failed to pass not much more than a generation later. She isn't self-made, cannot project herself as a manipulator capable of wielding power, like Stanwyck can. She is the perky bitch with an underbite to whom men apply their fists, and it is embedded in the way Hayward's romantic males treat her in this film. Craig bullies her with his adamant stance. "It must be marriage," really means I need you to submit, properly, for the good of my social standing in merry old England. We cannot snoop around with my eschatological fascination over your impending doom, and it isn't credible. Men will fuck anything, but shackle themselves to lost causes? Hayward's socialite rebuffs rescue, but not the need for a high end trollop to cling to bravado. It is mildly disgusting, in a way, this tactic of hers, with so little range, all this energy, with nothing to sate it, except to apply her knitting needles for new mothers giving birth. Hayward's merger of her kitten with a whip vitality into Barbara Graham's saga almost pulls something off, something close to the female fury of insurrection, five years earlier, in 58, but even this is mired in revisionist controversy, as journalist Edward Montgomery purportedly skewered himself over Graham's culpability. Did Graham deserve the pink butterfly of the gas chamber? Is it really less humane than lethal injection, especially in light of the fact that pharmaceutical conscience is overriding American law on the matter, by withholding the drugs which allow death penalty state executions?
Yes, much has changed. Women now run countries with the same ineffectual parity that Trudeau junior makes Keystone pipeline deals. They've managed homeland security, which should be constrained as a bureaucratic nightmare. They've run state departments, and Harvard, and lost money which was never there in The Big Short, but our primal instincts still lurch in emblematic pursuit of Hayward's need to cling to masculine anchors toward her end game: getting snuffed, extinguished, despite desperate advocates on her behalf, who never really stop to examine just what it is about her presence which needs to be preserved. She certainly has no idea of why she fights the straight jacket she challenges but yields to continuously, as long as the script offers her the appropriate stature, a working class woman with no education who mimics a certain degree of brassy cosmopolitan hauteur.
The piece I am working, which I bounced of Wiecek giving Twitter the polite version of the Canadian finger, may take me more time. I am writing it specifically for an unapologetic Facebook magazine whose publisher already told me he wasn't sympathetic, and I pushed back, and then he hedged, so I've decided I need a few different versions, but my above hostility may just make a pop culture deadline for another market, which I'd like to meet. It closes in ten days, and with a little tweaking, maybe I'll make it. See defiant dowager post it raw, just like Hayward micro-managed: dead woman walking. I am both pushing myself hard, and not hard enough, as I really should bite the bullet, and allow my analytical ability not to break in finding an attorney who will assess my case before I do something unwise, and I am not joking here. My building manager humiliated me above, beyond, any legal authority to do so. She has a case for eviction, and instead, she appears to prefer to jeopardize her own personal security. No one really sees how angry I am, and why I really cannot drag this out another year, winding up in jail, sacrificed on the liberal corruption of which large metropolitan areas like Philadelphia have an inexhaustible supply.
Friday, June 6, 2014
Call It Sleep
Susan Hayward would die from a brain tumor twelve years after doing Stolen Hours, a remake that contributes very little to the conversation between the melodrama of mortality and the banality of turning cadaver. Party girl more than actress, yet one projection Hayward carries through is the vivacious defiance of will in the face of the insurmountable, never inhabiting her characters so much as flinging her impertinence at her audience, the 63 film is a cheap sham, a meager Kennedyesque decollage that follows the Davis model with unnecessary religiosity, indicative of the fact that we're impatient with video of medical model treatment and remission, cleaning up after chemotherapy vomit, or knowing everything, like Lance Armstrong, the disgraced paragon, or knowing nothing, or knowing what physicians think the pathology indicates.
We all decline, a word I got from my follower, Edward, when I met him in the community room for coffee. He was casual about the fact that Trudy Richardson sent up an assessment team to my unit at a most vulnerable moment, with Debra Horne and I threatening each other, the entire building knowing about it within minutes. I was not *declining* in 2007. The entire system imploded over my head. Keystone Mercy had dropped me as a carrier because I was Medicaid ineligible. The Liberty Resources case manager cannot handle anything not compliant with Medicaid spend down. The only resource I had was my mother's brother, an executive at a medical equipment carrier, but I had to pay him.
The renovations that Erik von Schmettering and Jimmi Shrode, as a piteous LBGT couple and zealous advocates, foisted upon Presbyterian Homes, traumatized me, as did the mixed race nursing aid who hit on me two years earlier. She would have probably told the police she was just attempting to console me rather than putting me in an episode of Orange is the New Black, but I am cognizant of what a lesbian move is, tried to force myself to an orgasm after the sense of violation, couldn't climax, and let a trigger move me to my always incessant tears, periodic and overwhelming. I rarely masturbate on any masochistic submission fantasy anymore. A healthy sexual relationship is a bad romance-- or Hayward's mature coitus with her strong men imagined off screen. She never transforms, Hayward, whatever her role, or her age, she is the noble pioneer female, taking a punch like a brass tack, dying hard, sometimes with irony.
Now I am declining, but what I cannot accept is that I've been forced to eat rust my entire life, brutal youthful surgeries which improved nothing and maybe I did not need, and that one other strong woman with cerebral palsy humiliated me beyond my ability to recover, after lifelong threats to my survival, the erosion of my dignity. I want them dead, the prominent members of ADAPT I came up with, because the paradigm needs to change, and no one is lifting a finger. Jimmi talks on his cell in his thick footed sandals and ignores me, this fearsome advocate who is as progressive for broken bodies as the holy grail, but sniggers at everyone, with Erik, behind their backs. A transvestite and his fat homosexual partner know the truth, and individuals like me, those who thought we could make a rewarding life, career, are fools. This is what their advocacy and activism, willingness to engage in fraud, amount to, and it is why gay marriage advocates, and more prominent progressives, are fooling themselves with the persuasive arguments posited under the equal protection clause.
Mainstream conservatives have given this up, and even I see it is inevitable, but what stems forth from it will invariably lead to more complications, and I'll be declining, dribbling with incontinence, getting a pressure sore dressed. I'd rather be a terrorist, even a suicide tourist, going blind in my last moments, fade to black.
We all decline, a word I got from my follower, Edward, when I met him in the community room for coffee. He was casual about the fact that Trudy Richardson sent up an assessment team to my unit at a most vulnerable moment, with Debra Horne and I threatening each other, the entire building knowing about it within minutes. I was not *declining* in 2007. The entire system imploded over my head. Keystone Mercy had dropped me as a carrier because I was Medicaid ineligible. The Liberty Resources case manager cannot handle anything not compliant with Medicaid spend down. The only resource I had was my mother's brother, an executive at a medical equipment carrier, but I had to pay him.
The renovations that Erik von Schmettering and Jimmi Shrode, as a piteous LBGT couple and zealous advocates, foisted upon Presbyterian Homes, traumatized me, as did the mixed race nursing aid who hit on me two years earlier. She would have probably told the police she was just attempting to console me rather than putting me in an episode of Orange is the New Black, but I am cognizant of what a lesbian move is, tried to force myself to an orgasm after the sense of violation, couldn't climax, and let a trigger move me to my always incessant tears, periodic and overwhelming. I rarely masturbate on any masochistic submission fantasy anymore. A healthy sexual relationship is a bad romance-- or Hayward's mature coitus with her strong men imagined off screen. She never transforms, Hayward, whatever her role, or her age, she is the noble pioneer female, taking a punch like a brass tack, dying hard, sometimes with irony.
Now I am declining, but what I cannot accept is that I've been forced to eat rust my entire life, brutal youthful surgeries which improved nothing and maybe I did not need, and that one other strong woman with cerebral palsy humiliated me beyond my ability to recover, after lifelong threats to my survival, the erosion of my dignity. I want them dead, the prominent members of ADAPT I came up with, because the paradigm needs to change, and no one is lifting a finger. Jimmi talks on his cell in his thick footed sandals and ignores me, this fearsome advocate who is as progressive for broken bodies as the holy grail, but sniggers at everyone, with Erik, behind their backs. A transvestite and his fat homosexual partner know the truth, and individuals like me, those who thought we could make a rewarding life, career, are fools. This is what their advocacy and activism, willingness to engage in fraud, amount to, and it is why gay marriage advocates, and more prominent progressives, are fooling themselves with the persuasive arguments posited under the equal protection clause.
Mainstream conservatives have given this up, and even I see it is inevitable, but what stems forth from it will invariably lead to more complications, and I'll be declining, dribbling with incontinence, getting a pressure sore dressed. I'd rather be a terrorist, even a suicide tourist, going blind in my last moments, fade to black.
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