"It is easy to kill; harder to be loved!"-- not the Michel Lonsdale of Jackal
Why I log on and then drive to the kitchen for a hot coffee at the end of the month is one of those things, an inefficiency of poverty overwhelmed, restraining myself from writing a rather graphic notice to Trudy Richardson, building manager, threatening her safety, not her life. I am attempting to hold off just a week or two more before I crash any last hope on my head. I put Sanchez's Freeman article in my file not as a compliment, but as a store away to argue with later, as I basically disagree with most of it, having read it all before. Bullet points from the Left:
- genocide is politically generated
- resurgent nationalism leads to suspicion of foreign nationals (how many Chinese Americans are covert agents, we wonder)
- war is an invention of modernity (right)
I myself have argued for sympathy for Fascists, nor am I the only secret admirer of Mussolini. Porn stars drop his name to stir the paparazzi, but I am not facetious this morning, sadly. I am a murderer of intent, not of fact, as long as I would not draw it out, and obey my code, a dehumanized survivor who believes that dehumanizing is a necessary psychoanalytic mechanism, and slightly fascinated with Hoover's legacy in aftermath, I did a little digging into the Seberg Cointelpro case. There are a slew of urls on it, and maybe this is worth my time, a little investigating. I do distinctly remember that Hoover had been retired by 79, the year of Seberg's ruled suicide. But what I'd ask the conspiracy minded is what would federal agents have to gain by putting her under that level of duress? She was not the first mediocre actress to push the political spectrum to extremes. Law enforcement makes us all expendable at the street level, particularly black males, but the truly powerful fear soldiers like Kokesh more. Military men like him know the system and speak simply, spitting in chunks. As I am manufactured, I'm more deadly, capable of playing a long game.
I am not the least interested in assassinating figureheads, be it de Gaulle or Obama. I want to upend entire regulatory processes and then some. I am also slightly disenchanted with Fee's appreciation of my little donation. I told Jeffrey Tucker I believe in patronage even if I can no longer afford it, and 15 dollars is a pittance to publications fighting for survival. I don't know if I'll try with Jeffrey again. I failed to hold up my end, and as it stands, I'm tapped, not sure I have any ability to capture the attention of kids in their twenties, but I may, and suspect he and I share similar attributes when it comes to shirking accolades.
"Yeah I like Senator Toomey!" -- Nicholas Marinelli, enthusiastic
Even for the decade in which it was written, The Marseille Contract (74) is little more than a composite pastiche that justifies a decorum to its violence with an almost Victorian reasoning: Anthony Quinn gets in the car with the two Parisian hitmen because he was asked, why else? And yet I chose this flick to dull the monotony of a Memorial holiday weekend with no plans, over a modern, mature, virtuoso performance film like The Aviator. The only thing DiCaprio and Quinn share in common is diffident gestures towards being Everyman to every director's demand. Caine doesn't quite have the range to do this, and yet this film, which we've all seen run half a dozen times over the years, is the only Michael Caine role I actually enjoy, racing automobile toys along Cannes as a stylized foreplay, prefiguring Clooney in The American, as a perfectionist, although this assassin flicker is also more deeply flawed than it has to be.
I can concede total victories to liberals every so often: AO Scott does his job, and there is something simply off about Clooney here, miscast. Not so Caine in Marseilles. Even Quinn rises to the occasion with practiced cynicism. Should we spill so much blood over underworld kingpins? Not a chance, and yet the film should offer you cues about my argument as to when, and where, violence is acceptable to achieve certain aims, as in my rage with the concept of warehousing wheelchair users in elderly poverty housing as something of an upgrade on a centralized facility: not really, and only in a decorative sense.
Another case in point, which some may read as retributive: I am being subjected to a hostile environment anew here at Riverside. Erik's personal care attendant, Chris, has been behaving like the real belligerent, as opposed to Harambe. The incidences may give me the opportunity to put the squeeze on my old freak ally, because I'm crafty, whether or not I truly *fear* a ghetto boy's denigration. Let's make Google wince: Chris is worthless to me. If my local right wing alliance beats some contusions into his ignorance for me, I've taught the ape who actually needs manners a lesson.
There are intangible attributes which language struggles to break, and why Morris Chestnut is cast as the gatekeeper in every American speculative science fiction series or films is one of them, the black actor who oozes sensitivity, with charming Eurasian features, which make his lips thinner, less intimidating. Rosewood, however, is simply a demographic Quincy update which leaves me wading behind on Jack Klugman's adam apple, as if we should congratulate ourselves that Liberty City vomited long and hard, and voila, out comes a pathologist, a pretty lesbian sister and more convincing white partner. Spastic dowager is the foreign invader, viewing a series which is actually speculative, waiting for a tendril to pop off the set of V to snap the neck of the doomed caught between two worlds.
Bruce Hunt cheats in The Cave with cliches that are obvious, relying mostly on the spectacular location and extreme sport tenacity as opposed to a viable story. Chestnut is the Afro diversity stand in. Perhaps it's enough for glib satisfaction to carry his show in the present tense.
Just after six, fed, charging, I am supposed to do intake this afternoon and I can't bring myself to go through with it. I can't do it and I'm afraid, namely that I'll critically injure any future attendant out of fear for my life. I really cannot do this, and for now, passed the hat, what I went through in 97 no different than 2015; if I investigate and create an upheaval in the administration in Waiver services, what changes in the essentials? Caught between inextricable realities. I hate unskilled black labor, and should put an end to this project. Google would be happy, and I could go back in city, and find a crew, teach Philadelphia ADAPT a lesson, resume my training in archery.
I have murdered my former supervisor many times, ripping out her throat in fantastical payback, snapping her vertebra by rotating her chin 180 degrees, livid and tired, the list has grown to include others. Yes, channel it into a Kindle 5 cent thriller, with credible developmental maniac, basically violent at her core, making Trudy Richardson's tactics to intimidate me totally reasonable, but she only increased my hatred, and the beat goes on. I have to get back to real work, pitch more, and if I get a hit, stop posting. I downloaded the KDP tool, neither ready nor entirely sanguine about it. Maybe I'll thread some of Disability In Entertainment Arts into a smaller collection of essays while I'm threatened with service disruption.
Yes, imagination is one thing, and murder is actually taxing. Victims aren't easy to create. Strangulation takes strength. I used to be good with bows and arrows, like James Ellroy and his improbable LA corruption.
We need innovative ways of thinking about architecture and land ownership which go beyond Marxist ideology and how capital intersects with land management. I have been pounding my skull about this for some time, and may nag Beacon again to let me crowd fund articles that look beyond housing authorities and regulation. I mean, okay, I am more fortunate getting brow beaten by a Presbyterian Corporation for being a destructive housekeeper than a Palestinian who sees Gaza as little more than an internment camp, absent getting gassed to death, but this doesn't change the collective unhappiness, and in my case, as well as Muammar's, misery at living in a space I did not choose. I felt compelled to exchange Diamond Park for Riverside, and do not envision it as a choice. Conservatives may say I could have stayed on Page Street, and yes, I could have, but might have been deranged by now. Only Darby Loop felt more dangerous than Page Street when I was still gainfully employed, and Darby, Upper Darby, have been taken over by the violence of Philly's inner city. Ditto Willmington, Delaware's hot spot, Newark, Chester, the District.
Transplanting ISIS to American Ghetto, that would be a carnival of blood spurting, and indeed, as a reality on the ground, not so far fetched, but I'd give Muammar my studio at the same rental subsidy I pay in exchange for a more appropriate environment for a non-accredited writer, implode the regulatory paradigm through ignoring it, and that would alter the economics. See what I'm driving at? Looking beyond self-interest and familial obligation, if we restored the Renaissance mechanism of patronage, we open up another dynamic. If I do not get out of this studio within the next 18 months, I'm finished. My mental health has taken too many blows with this landlord.
Giving my notice is a day to day thing, hour by hour, despite the reality that would entail. I really can't take it much longer, and I'm seriously considering a battered woman's shelter.
Even when it comes to zoning laws, we could put the homeless in offices overnight, in our empty skyscrapers.
"Look at him. He's just pissing himself to tell us about the fake Aryan Cosmetics conspiracy!" --Vincent D'onofrio
The narrative behind the rise of Catherine the Great is fascinating in its imposition. A fairly low key Prussian enlightenment era aristocrat marries well, excels in the game of court intrigues, has her husband murdered, or the truth around his death successfully repressed, and Voila, long live Czarina, the great Russian ruler who isn't Russian. I wrote a poem about her after extensive research. It is a poem in need of a tuning, but one of the last I showed to Robert before Trudy Richardson's hire at Riverside nearly annihilated my existence. If you think I am being unfair to the evasive minority who will tap dance any way but loose in order to avoid a civil rights lawsuit against her parent company, look at what we do to the damned; it is in this sense that I pity young Tsarnaev, regardless of his motives. David Brooks gives me cover here for incredulity at the sheer magnitude of the manhunt that took place in Boston. A kid is a kid, despite the marathon deaths, the loss of the campus security guard. Slavic conventions baffle me, but Alexandra published my poems that used those conceits to signify desolation, my Grecian editor who had to fucking die of breast cancer despite the fact that prim and proper lesbian was the best promoter I had. Here too, back in the day, initially, when I heard Alexandra's voice for the first time, I grew excited. "New literary friend!" This assertion ran in my mind until I met her in person. Flag went up and chilled any sentiment I had about confidential intimacy when she presented herself. The able bodied world can't even allow me confidantes in my own fucking field, and more still, she did not functionally edit me. This is what I asked of her when she was dying, and I could not get the manuscript out to her in time, and so she died on me also, a pissant of a hanging chad.
Doubtlessly, I stay with WaPo as a reader because of its national gridiron mentality, but let me respond to Joel Achenbach's points by objecting to his use of grid iron simplicity. I am as perplexed as any of you about the motives of the brothers, but the tactics of the terrorist is not about winning, it is about resort.
I am hesitant to press on with this in any thorough fashion in the moment given the national tempo and corporate suppression, which I find absolutely ludicrous, but I am always mindful that I am letting my id, scars, analytics, dangle under the largesse of a powerful corporate tolerance.
