"It's not a PC thing."-- Amy Harmon
Ms. Harmon's facial expression lends itself to superciliousness, and this is what centered my focus on her appearance at the end of a brief documentary about Rosie Glynn, her widowed mother, who teaches writing in the Pittsburgh area, and the younger Glynn sister, who is normal. Rosie is mentally retarded, and is herded like a livestock animal in a curtailed supported employment program, a very regulated form of slavery for aggressive imbeciles who are aggressive because they know their minds are a garbled bouillabaisse.
Amy, mind, has made her specialty out of the developmentally disabled autism spectrum. Case manager once removed, which is why her disingenuous expression is so easily read in her evasions, telegraphing itself loud and clear. The progressive expansion of radical equality isn't going to stop until our desiccated bones merge in ecological empathy for a blade of grass. Not that I don't understand.
On the contrary, I weep for Rosie, pity her mother, and realize the younger sister will deploy the psychiatric profession at some point in her maturity in order to handle the emotional guilt. I comprehend why Rosie Glynn removes oxygen from the dining room, creating a vacuum which crushes the soul 20,000 leagues beneath the sea.
Five years ago I wrote that I wasn't going to deal with agenda films like this often, but now and again they have to be included, because Amy Harmon struggles with the brutality of forthrightness to the degree that she herself is more the monstrosity than an adolescent screaming at her mentally ill mother to have an abortion, getting whipped across the face for it, and with a bloodied eye, almost going into foster care. This is the vitriol for which the fortunate, if droll, poet, Amy Holman, rebuked me, a vitriol that would have turned my half brother into a fetal carcass, as so many women do with their pregnancies. It is all about the demeanor, how we get censored, how we conjoin Asian women with their abortion rate. Bill Kurtis is offering an expose. I use his story with an undercurrent of divisiveness that incites Indian women with indignation. What's my point?
*
All I wanted to do is go out to dinner, enjoy the man's company, and fuck him, if applicable. I was healthy enough at the time to still engage in a romper room frolic, whether he needed Viagra or did not, and I still feel it. No matter how much I might humiliate my former editor, nothing will return the moment to me, the heightened magic of anticipation, that she destroyed lashing out at him over her keyboard, right in front of my eyes. Please. Don't tell me to buck up and keep trying. I lunged at nearly every possible opportunity I could since I was 36.
What man wants me at 52, with only the virtue of thinning pubic hair? I know women do this to each other, but what I did in my past life to wind up drawn and quartered by the ultimate third world den mother with multiple sclerosis must have been unimaginable. If I ever see her again, for all my physical vulnerability, she'll feel my scorn, the all consuming bitterness, like a phoenix reborn out of bone ash. I have to keep revising, keep pushing, now the blog, now the article, my only polish a glittering ferocity.
Showing posts with label tea workers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label tea workers. Show all posts
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
Friday, December 28, 2012
Canadian Bacon, Danish Pancakes
"I had already killed one of your officers, in the corner of the blind alley that leads to the tannery, in order to take his automatic, because I wanted one. I did things that were much more shameful. I committed the worst crime in the world, but that has nothing to do with you. I am not a fanatic, an agitator, or a patriot. I am a piece of shit." -- Frank Friedmaier, the spree murderer anti-hero, Dirty Snow
If you are an American, or a western European, you would process a BBC report like this differently than you would a profile on James Holmes and his psychiatric treatment, correct? The latter is the price we pay for the taming of the western frontier, the mythology and fact surrounding that domestication, the conflict between the indigenous warrior cultures and a mechanized European military that bequeathed to us the post modern fragmentation and erosion of moral cohesion. Pedophiles need compassionate case management too, remember. Whereas the tea workers, they merely rose up against authority, possibly horrific, but in terms of survival, and resources, understandable. I do not think the tea workers would have any problem understanding my anger against disability activists and leaders who turned on me, betrayed me, abandoned me, and here I sit, and sitting mainly due to inertia. However, I feel empathy for the manager. A mass acted in concert and burned him to death, and this as an escalation is worse than the glamorization of Pesci's temper, in which part of my impulses believe acting on would provide catharsis. I cry for dead cats, but relish the thought of eliminating hypocritical liars, not sure where the truth lies between those two propositions, as I'd also cut off my hand before touching a firearm, but would like nothing better than deploying my fists against the prevarication, ignorance, and cruelty I've had to carry, obviously not unique in this sentiment, as Simenon understood it as well, to create an interested audience, but also to suggest that aggression has a possibly complicated ambiguity, one that should serve as a warning to materialists who want to reprogram our primate origins through neuroscience. I prefer the post-war Frenchman to Cormac McCarthy, because Cormac leans to the superlative. Simenon carefully punctures it.
In some ways we are all Eddie Rico, the man in the middle with his own secrets. Guy Savage created a good synopsis of the film as a hatchet job as opposed to the novel, which I'd like to read someday, but I am not necessarily hamstrung, at this moment, by lack of access to the text. Karlson's adaptation carries the unease of its own certainty, and that includes the rapid fire pace at which Conte has to negotiate between his own culpability and Kubik's desire to eliminate loose ends, eroding loyalty. Is criminality, at the height of its organized power, any different than case management burrowing in its paradigms to obfuscate wrongdoing and enforcing stigma we can find in any baboon troupe? Not a bad question to ask in the ration of bacon, which presumably does not slow the industrial slaughter of the livestock which gives us such an interesting meat, to quote a culinary chef.
If you are an American, or a western European, you would process a BBC report like this differently than you would a profile on James Holmes and his psychiatric treatment, correct? The latter is the price we pay for the taming of the western frontier, the mythology and fact surrounding that domestication, the conflict between the indigenous warrior cultures and a mechanized European military that bequeathed to us the post modern fragmentation and erosion of moral cohesion. Pedophiles need compassionate case management too, remember. Whereas the tea workers, they merely rose up against authority, possibly horrific, but in terms of survival, and resources, understandable. I do not think the tea workers would have any problem understanding my anger against disability activists and leaders who turned on me, betrayed me, abandoned me, and here I sit, and sitting mainly due to inertia. However, I feel empathy for the manager. A mass acted in concert and burned him to death, and this as an escalation is worse than the glamorization of Pesci's temper, in which part of my impulses believe acting on would provide catharsis. I cry for dead cats, but relish the thought of eliminating hypocritical liars, not sure where the truth lies between those two propositions, as I'd also cut off my hand before touching a firearm, but would like nothing better than deploying my fists against the prevarication, ignorance, and cruelty I've had to carry, obviously not unique in this sentiment, as Simenon understood it as well, to create an interested audience, but also to suggest that aggression has a possibly complicated ambiguity, one that should serve as a warning to materialists who want to reprogram our primate origins through neuroscience. I prefer the post-war Frenchman to Cormac McCarthy, because Cormac leans to the superlative. Simenon carefully punctures it.
In some ways we are all Eddie Rico, the man in the middle with his own secrets. Guy Savage created a good synopsis of the film as a hatchet job as opposed to the novel, which I'd like to read someday, but I am not necessarily hamstrung, at this moment, by lack of access to the text. Karlson's adaptation carries the unease of its own certainty, and that includes the rapid fire pace at which Conte has to negotiate between his own culpability and Kubik's desire to eliminate loose ends, eroding loyalty. Is criminality, at the height of its organized power, any different than case management burrowing in its paradigms to obfuscate wrongdoing and enforcing stigma we can find in any baboon troupe? Not a bad question to ask in the ration of bacon, which presumably does not slow the industrial slaughter of the livestock which gives us such an interesting meat, to quote a culinary chef.
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