"I did not force your mother to have an abortion because I was trying to be a good Catholic."-- Nicholas Marinelli, the yuletide season following the death of his second wife.
Cooksey and Matheson seem to suggest that the Judeo-Christian conception of Satan has Manichean aspects, particularly in The Cowboy. The original Maya kills herself and the old man replaces her with the blond. I know cast changes have to be handled and television is pissant when it is free, but the notion that the devil may undo cf 2281 is an irresponsible offense to the French Canadians who want autonomy for Quebec.
I had assumed, from carefully bored followings of NBC's Cozi TV, that "The Campaign Manager" was the last, and one of the darkest of Cooksey's offerings, but the episode guide says it is "The Exorcist". I missed the Tattoo Artist. Not a regular viewer of The Supernatural, (the writers do not know what to do with the endless bro-male Caucasian angst), the two shows are nevertheless the same in terms of bromides. The American screen writers dance around personifying God. Their Lucifer was a petulant romantic, now MIA, but God is just hip dude, discussed but unknown even by the now half crazed archangels. Cooksey dispenses with all that, but the underlying cynicism in the dispensation squirms a displeasure. Then again, the series was canceled. The shows that exist emphasize the absence of divine will simply through the sheer dominance of demonic trickery. Does this indicate European maturity about divine manifestation? Over the course of the forty plus episodes in syndication, Cooksey slowly collapses the triumphant metaphors into human monstrosity hard enough for any of us to wrap our minds around, but only up to a point. The show touches domestic abuse lightly.
I may have taken risks battling my demons for all of you to read, but Derek Medina defies the capacity of ignorance. He loves his FB contacts, then murders the reality of his failing marriage. Of course, I do not know who is reading my posts, though I have been told my anger at my landlord has had a ripple effect--but I assume a certain degree of anonymity. Liberty ignores me, for instance, or if not, maybe they remain a little worried about future legal action. So does my family, and if Mary has seen this I have a good idea of what chastisements might be in order, and still take the risk. I understand the temptations that led men like Dorner and Medina to their destruction, and I understand them because I have faced a life of brutality and near violent abuse-- but I do not love you, and in fact do not know if I still care about anyone. Saving felines from poachers still matters, and I get an overwhelming emotional response when hunters and scientists kill my kitties. Other than that? Perhaps an unfortunate testament.
Showing posts with label the collector. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the collector. Show all posts
Sunday, August 11, 2013
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
Cooksey Conveyance, Secondary Submissions
How frozen and how faint I then became,
Ask me not, reader! for I write it not;
Since words would fail to tell thee of my state.
I was not dead nor living.--La Divina Commedia, Canto 34.22-26
Since I do not have the wherewithal to play detective and find the contact information for Jon Cooksey's production company that he runs with his spouse, Ali Marie Matheson, which is less awkward than my full name written long, this is an open post to the couple, for the time being, to advocate for The Collector's return, perhaps as a digital exclusive for Amazon Prime members, even if Chris Kramer isn't available, we could reinvent the wheel. I am not sure if my viewers on Blogger know that I was approached by the casting directors of the Exorcist franchise to play the institutionalized cripple in distress against Linda Blair, but I was, when I lived at Rusk. Decent place, but those same domicile old maidens who field American case management systems like the plague, then as now, prevented me from earning some decent money for college tuition. The evil cripple syndrome is what led Presby, and its hypocritical motherfuckers, to attack me ceaselessly in the 28 years they have been my landlord, so why not take a shot at being Satan? A cold and chilling inanimate Satan, the way Dante Alighieri properly conceived its menace. We could use exacerbations for high brow special effects. What is hell, after all, but a chronic obstruction?
Your original series wasn't perfect. Something about that pinched Canadian mien, care worn, genteel, submissive, leaves your actors at a loss, like the monastery abbot in 1348 A.D. While it may be true you have roughly fifty minutes of air time, you seemingly overlooked the power of the cardinals who burned the damned during the Inquisition. Morgan Pym's keepers did not provide much of a contest against evil. Yet it is equally true your vision was more realistic, bleaker than your American counterparts who also dabble in the genre. Maya was a brave child of incest. This would probably place you in agreement with Jessica Valenti.
Some may not be comfortable viewing women as an oppressed class across the spectrum, and certain issues surrounding domestication, and the stodgy matron upholding propriety, this may undercut how Ms Valenti frames sexism in sociological terms. Then again, I haven't been shy about the price of my survival, which has included homosexual vicissitudes, as well as female on female and minority victimization. And then there's this charming buzz bit. WTF indeed, or is aborting for sex selection more sinister still?
My caustic tongue seems quaint in comparison. This is why we need a revival of your series, and its struggle for a moral center; if I can generate enough interest to bring it out of mothballs give me a buzz. I'd like to recoup on my quashed foray into the industry.
Ask me not, reader! for I write it not;
Since words would fail to tell thee of my state.
I was not dead nor living.--La Divina Commedia, Canto 34.22-26
Since I do not have the wherewithal to play detective and find the contact information for Jon Cooksey's production company that he runs with his spouse, Ali Marie Matheson, which is less awkward than my full name written long, this is an open post to the couple, for the time being, to advocate for The Collector's return, perhaps as a digital exclusive for Amazon Prime members, even if Chris Kramer isn't available, we could reinvent the wheel. I am not sure if my viewers on Blogger know that I was approached by the casting directors of the Exorcist franchise to play the institutionalized cripple in distress against Linda Blair, but I was, when I lived at Rusk. Decent place, but those same domicile old maidens who field American case management systems like the plague, then as now, prevented me from earning some decent money for college tuition. The evil cripple syndrome is what led Presby, and its hypocritical motherfuckers, to attack me ceaselessly in the 28 years they have been my landlord, so why not take a shot at being Satan? A cold and chilling inanimate Satan, the way Dante Alighieri properly conceived its menace. We could use exacerbations for high brow special effects. What is hell, after all, but a chronic obstruction?
Your original series wasn't perfect. Something about that pinched Canadian mien, care worn, genteel, submissive, leaves your actors at a loss, like the monastery abbot in 1348 A.D. While it may be true you have roughly fifty minutes of air time, you seemingly overlooked the power of the cardinals who burned the damned during the Inquisition. Morgan Pym's keepers did not provide much of a contest against evil. Yet it is equally true your vision was more realistic, bleaker than your American counterparts who also dabble in the genre. Maya was a brave child of incest. This would probably place you in agreement with Jessica Valenti.
Some may not be comfortable viewing women as an oppressed class across the spectrum, and certain issues surrounding domestication, and the stodgy matron upholding propriety, this may undercut how Ms Valenti frames sexism in sociological terms. Then again, I haven't been shy about the price of my survival, which has included homosexual vicissitudes, as well as female on female and minority victimization. And then there's this charming buzz bit. WTF indeed, or is aborting for sex selection more sinister still?
My caustic tongue seems quaint in comparison. This is why we need a revival of your series, and its struggle for a moral center; if I can generate enough interest to bring it out of mothballs give me a buzz. I'd like to recoup on my quashed foray into the industry.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Mewing CBS
"Russia is a gas station masquerading as a country." --Senator John McCain, frustrated shepherd
Yes, as I once mocked my grandmother for watching Lawrence Welk, though mocked is too strong a word for a stern and bemused affection for a demented woman trotting with Alzheimer's pony, I too more easily pause as an occasional lackadaisical tourist for reruns in traditional formats. Lest you belittle the unfortunate ungulate, she is a piteous invalid. You, CBS are to blame for airing The Collector during Superstorm Sandy, thus piquing my interest. I want the series back on Cozi's programming schedule so I can avoid eating my usage; I never saw the last episode and I adamantly insist on my rights as an indigent American to watch the CBC dapple in the supernatural with that deliciously dissuasive Canadian mien, whose actors cannot stage an episode about father daughter incest without the utmost cordiality!
Talk to Cooksey. Make a cripple happy and get the licensing rights back. After all, mine is a conservative intelligence which doesn't dismiss a few thousand years of Slavic culture owing to oligarch fossil fuel enrichment.
Yes, as I once mocked my grandmother for watching Lawrence Welk, though mocked is too strong a word for a stern and bemused affection for a demented woman trotting with Alzheimer's pony, I too more easily pause as an occasional lackadaisical tourist for reruns in traditional formats. Lest you belittle the unfortunate ungulate, she is a piteous invalid. You, CBS are to blame for airing The Collector during Superstorm Sandy, thus piquing my interest. I want the series back on Cozi's programming schedule so I can avoid eating my usage; I never saw the last episode and I adamantly insist on my rights as an indigent American to watch the CBC dapple in the supernatural with that deliciously dissuasive Canadian mien, whose actors cannot stage an episode about father daughter incest without the utmost cordiality!
Talk to Cooksey. Make a cripple happy and get the licensing rights back. After all, mine is a conservative intelligence which doesn't dismiss a few thousand years of Slavic culture owing to oligarch fossil fuel enrichment.
1348 A.D., Fetishize 2
"I am not going to comment on prosecution."-- Barack Obama
I wonder how well Cooksey knew his Fowles when he conceived his canceled series. I have too much else to do even to borrow the novel of the same title at the moment. None of you bothered to inform me about Terence Stamp and the film. Thank you so very much. Why should I worry about my audience when your timidity belies the necessity of having one? Fowles' irony is not totally lost on me, but I can remember only fragments of The French Lieutenant's Woman, nothing of the alternate endings beyond what the film vaguely calls to mind.
I can see now that Stamp was no doubt cast for the lead in The Mind of Mr. Soames because of The Collector, and some of you may remember my earlier preoccupation with Soames, its analog era thematic structure. Fowles worries something else, and exploits the dark side of acquisition more brutally than Henry James, (in physical aspects) though Fowles is probably equal to Balzac for melodramatic effect.
People seem to worship Ulysses as a matter of civic pride? As much as I love literature, to see a mock epic interior prose poem enshrined in a metropolis that became a backwater about five minutes after the Quakers ceded it to the huddled masses is discomfiting, literally. Once an excellent reader, I fucked up on my five minute passage with Gerty's burlesque so badly I fled the scene of Bloomsday virtually in tears. None of this was an intentional humiliation. I am struggling to keep a grasp on matriculation so wanted to stay involved, and the little museum made an effort to accommodate me, but when Lance offered me an out perhaps I should have retired.
It doesn't really matter when we aren't ready to die, does it? O yes, I will get to a lung center and explore my fucking options, but I'd like to see how you'd feel if you had to depend on slovenly insolent lard asses that make up the paraprofessional class. I hate them. I hate this city. I hate my family. I hate my simpleton ex whose advice is to stay engaged with the Jewish bookseller's enshrined space on Delancey Place.
I don't know that I can; it feels like a tumor, like a lung cancer at a certain stage. I pray for vengeance on their souls. Figure whose souls for yourselves. I pray with all the malevolence I can muster that she will pay for her callousness that has left me in these circumstances. The hate will live beyond my demise; I believe that.
I wonder how well Cooksey knew his Fowles when he conceived his canceled series. I have too much else to do even to borrow the novel of the same title at the moment. None of you bothered to inform me about Terence Stamp and the film. Thank you so very much. Why should I worry about my audience when your timidity belies the necessity of having one? Fowles' irony is not totally lost on me, but I can remember only fragments of The French Lieutenant's Woman, nothing of the alternate endings beyond what the film vaguely calls to mind.
I can see now that Stamp was no doubt cast for the lead in The Mind of Mr. Soames because of The Collector, and some of you may remember my earlier preoccupation with Soames, its analog era thematic structure. Fowles worries something else, and exploits the dark side of acquisition more brutally than Henry James, (in physical aspects) though Fowles is probably equal to Balzac for melodramatic effect.
People seem to worship Ulysses as a matter of civic pride? As much as I love literature, to see a mock epic interior prose poem enshrined in a metropolis that became a backwater about five minutes after the Quakers ceded it to the huddled masses is discomfiting, literally. Once an excellent reader, I fucked up on my five minute passage with Gerty's burlesque so badly I fled the scene of Bloomsday virtually in tears. None of this was an intentional humiliation. I am struggling to keep a grasp on matriculation so wanted to stay involved, and the little museum made an effort to accommodate me, but when Lance offered me an out perhaps I should have retired.
It doesn't really matter when we aren't ready to die, does it? O yes, I will get to a lung center and explore my fucking options, but I'd like to see how you'd feel if you had to depend on slovenly insolent lard asses that make up the paraprofessional class. I hate them. I hate this city. I hate my family. I hate my simpleton ex whose advice is to stay engaged with the Jewish bookseller's enshrined space on Delancey Place.
I don't know that I can; it feels like a tumor, like a lung cancer at a certain stage. I pray for vengeance on their souls. Figure whose souls for yourselves. I pray with all the malevolence I can muster that she will pay for her callousness that has left me in these circumstances. The hate will live beyond my demise; I believe that.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
Convex, Concave
"Our friendship is an ethical responsibility."-- Robert Sean Leonard
The confluence of spiritual beliefs is handled with the appropriate level of reverence in the Dreamer episode of The Collector, and the high camp gives way to a more authentic sincerity, at least momentarily. For all the differences between American and Canadian mien, however, Cooksey is at once more honest and more subversive than his muscled friend to the south. The indigenous natives were notoriously screwed by European conquest in the northern hemisphere, which recalls to me the interesting demands by the British Empire for the creation of an Indian Free State during treaty negotiations as the war of 1812 came to a close, the victor inconclusive. Clever ploy by the mother country to slow the expansion of American land consolidation, that was pissed away in a murky conflict that seemingly had no raison d'etre. Not that my favorite Scott would give me a hand here, but I'll take a clever grad student, as I am interested in expanding my history studies. Not an encyclopedia like David Foster Wallace, I'm afraid.
Cooksey's subversion is the twist that makes the Chief a near megalomaniac who needs to retain his power at any cost, to the point of killing unborn fetuses, and this is so close to the real nature of the modern banality of human evil that the satiric goading of the Satan is left out in the denouement, although this is the standard the directors employ when Pym is victorious. Cooksey is much better at troping the classical God versus Lucifer struggle to contemporary significance than these guys.
I may expand on this later, but my lung is struggling this morning; I'm weak.
The confluence of spiritual beliefs is handled with the appropriate level of reverence in the Dreamer episode of The Collector, and the high camp gives way to a more authentic sincerity, at least momentarily. For all the differences between American and Canadian mien, however, Cooksey is at once more honest and more subversive than his muscled friend to the south. The indigenous natives were notoriously screwed by European conquest in the northern hemisphere, which recalls to me the interesting demands by the British Empire for the creation of an Indian Free State during treaty negotiations as the war of 1812 came to a close, the victor inconclusive. Clever ploy by the mother country to slow the expansion of American land consolidation, that was pissed away in a murky conflict that seemingly had no raison d'etre. Not that my favorite Scott would give me a hand here, but I'll take a clever grad student, as I am interested in expanding my history studies. Not an encyclopedia like David Foster Wallace, I'm afraid.
Cooksey's subversion is the twist that makes the Chief a near megalomaniac who needs to retain his power at any cost, to the point of killing unborn fetuses, and this is so close to the real nature of the modern banality of human evil that the satiric goading of the Satan is left out in the denouement, although this is the standard the directors employ when Pym is victorious. Cooksey is much better at troping the classical God versus Lucifer struggle to contemporary significance than these guys.
I may expand on this later, but my lung is struggling this morning; I'm weak.
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Molten Eggs
"You cannot enforce this deal with him; he's deranged!"-- Chris Kramer, UFOlogy
The one last observation I have to offer about my curious conflation, for the time being, is that I am more forgiving of Marty's acquired prejudices against Muslims than the scofflaw that surrounded him at Harvard and his resignation from The New Republic over them. I was still very active on the TNR site at the time, and remember much of the salient details of the uproar, but Marty has been formed by his experiences much as I have been formed by mine, and he is as entitled as he is cultured, despite the fact that old age has turned him into a Mario Puzo character (and Michael, you successfully bored me to tears only two paragraphs in, despairing for my non-existent byline, alas!). Bigotry is never the sum total of anyone, even those less erudite and flaming in reaction. My experience with the disabled/LBGT activists has taught me this: betrayal is more important than the principles these activists purportedly stand for, that they have no honor, and that they will subvert anything to their own ends, including the Christian faith, or any doctrine, biological science, for that matter, and their minds are not so stable as the psychiatric shift warrants, and though I can be duped, I shall not reconcile with libertines simply because they wear dress clothes and imitate pedestrian modality. I have been too close, seen too many head games, whether or not they involved me, and hurt too often. Human homosexuality is not moral, nor blessed, nor spiritually sanctioned, virtuous.
It is subversive, psychologically twisted, indulgent, and gratuitous, even if its practitioners are happy, or have an untouchable A list status, or falls into queer genius, but I will deal with cultural and literary contributions at a later date.
Lament as I may that I have no fresh series to attach to, I have found rewards in the dead zone of cancellation, and I am finding The Collector of use, as I have mentioned in previous posts, and I hope someone in the industry one day attempts to reinvigorate it. The UFO episode was a decent bit of gamesmanship, and funny, to boot. I am not quite sure where Cooksey was taking all the threads, all the motifs within the mainframe, but suffice to say, I am mining the episodes that exist, and need to review the pilot once more. Remind me that I cannot wilt with surrender back into the literary journal entirely, but a great deal of that is sheer fatigue. 28 submissions a month on average down to two. Do you see what you are sapping out of me? Stingy lurkers, the lot of you.
The one last observation I have to offer about my curious conflation, for the time being, is that I am more forgiving of Marty's acquired prejudices against Muslims than the scofflaw that surrounded him at Harvard and his resignation from The New Republic over them. I was still very active on the TNR site at the time, and remember much of the salient details of the uproar, but Marty has been formed by his experiences much as I have been formed by mine, and he is as entitled as he is cultured, despite the fact that old age has turned him into a Mario Puzo character (and Michael, you successfully bored me to tears only two paragraphs in, despairing for my non-existent byline, alas!). Bigotry is never the sum total of anyone, even those less erudite and flaming in reaction. My experience with the disabled/LBGT activists has taught me this: betrayal is more important than the principles these activists purportedly stand for, that they have no honor, and that they will subvert anything to their own ends, including the Christian faith, or any doctrine, biological science, for that matter, and their minds are not so stable as the psychiatric shift warrants, and though I can be duped, I shall not reconcile with libertines simply because they wear dress clothes and imitate pedestrian modality. I have been too close, seen too many head games, whether or not they involved me, and hurt too often. Human homosexuality is not moral, nor blessed, nor spiritually sanctioned, virtuous.
It is subversive, psychologically twisted, indulgent, and gratuitous, even if its practitioners are happy, or have an untouchable A list status, or falls into queer genius, but I will deal with cultural and literary contributions at a later date.
Lament as I may that I have no fresh series to attach to, I have found rewards in the dead zone of cancellation, and I am finding The Collector of use, as I have mentioned in previous posts, and I hope someone in the industry one day attempts to reinvigorate it. The UFO episode was a decent bit of gamesmanship, and funny, to boot. I am not quite sure where Cooksey was taking all the threads, all the motifs within the mainframe, but suffice to say, I am mining the episodes that exist, and need to review the pilot once more. Remind me that I cannot wilt with surrender back into the literary journal entirely, but a great deal of that is sheer fatigue. 28 submissions a month on average down to two. Do you see what you are sapping out of me? Stingy lurkers, the lot of you.
Sunday, December 30, 2012
Forever In Bluejeans
"Where do I find the cones?"
This was Frank, telephoning me Christmas day, since it is the time of year that he makes his Spanish coffee. You will consider it an improvement that I have stopped peppering his hideously deformed epidermis with invective, and that because I no longer care, whether you consider this a good, or bad thing. I wanted to love a variation of my father, burnished by a humanist polish, and wound up living my grandmother Pauline's life with Big Lou, the more favorable comparison going to the fruit picker and WW2 laundry driver, my grandfather, and so what, so say, I may be an alpha next to you spastic, but I have inane conversations with my husband, lover, or dildo. Every compensation we make is a mechanism for coping with the truth.
I dance on the grave of my failed marriage to this man, laugh starkly that even here I invested so much in trying to ignore the fact that our sexual intimacy was an exchange: his obedience for using my vagina breasts and anus for his gratification, which ties in to the distortion of aesthetics in the human body throughout the known history of our civilizations, their history of using form for the mythos of their own manifest destiny; my link is not the series I am recalling, however. [I remembered the series after log off and will pick up on it later.]
My agitation increases significantly with bowel impaction, and it would bode well for me to remember it the next time my monologues threaten to rival Jamie Foxx performing race related schizophrenia, except that I do not delude, only feel like a rat in a cage waiting for Debra Horne's checklist to finish me off, more Sancho than Beowulf to my draconian cleverness. Why don't I just put this woman out of my mind? Why does it frighten me so much that an idiot makes me feel less than human? I have dealt with her type all of my life, and I would like to stop matching wits with them. This wish shall never be granted to me-- unless.
That I am damned runs at this point, mmm, 93 percent to 7 for unless? As far as I can ascertain, I am not failing, but do exhibit some death stage symptoms, interestingly enough, and to take a clunker trope from The Collector, where the photographer connected to the journalist who has the autistic son who can discern the intent of the devil, how is hope still possible for someone like myself? My relations with my brother and sister are damaged, forever. Easy enough for them to exploit my sense of obligation as a barren elder, but quite another matter to offer me social equality, visit me despite where I live, I am facing the total abandonment prevalent among both the elderly and disabled populations. Must I forever be a victim to some mechanism of injustice?
Time to feed the pet children. Partially ready for Drinker's West, not going to Arch street in this deserted city morning, my dark blue slacks deodorized in the bathroom, a notation that I will be mocked for my sneakers and my cap, if I wear either. I like my cap, makes me look like a golfing troll. Wink. My father's brother is dying, by the way, and I feel guilty for my not so subtle realization that my senile uncle has been useless for a long time. Marie would kill me, literally, if she knew what I tell you. And just in case I do not have the time tomorrow, happy new year, a phrase so innocuous I should not write it. Medicare has spent thousands and thousands on my uncle's poor quality of life, and inversely destroyed my own by making it impossible to get technology I need to be healthy, happy, which equally suggests I may not be manic, only being driven to it.
This was Frank, telephoning me Christmas day, since it is the time of year that he makes his Spanish coffee. You will consider it an improvement that I have stopped peppering his hideously deformed epidermis with invective, and that because I no longer care, whether you consider this a good, or bad thing. I wanted to love a variation of my father, burnished by a humanist polish, and wound up living my grandmother Pauline's life with Big Lou, the more favorable comparison going to the fruit picker and WW2 laundry driver, my grandfather, and so what, so say, I may be an alpha next to you spastic, but I have inane conversations with my husband, lover, or dildo. Every compensation we make is a mechanism for coping with the truth.
I dance on the grave of my failed marriage to this man, laugh starkly that even here I invested so much in trying to ignore the fact that our sexual intimacy was an exchange: his obedience for using my vagina breasts and anus for his gratification, which ties in to the distortion of aesthetics in the human body throughout the known history of our civilizations, their history of using form for the mythos of their own manifest destiny; my link is not the series I am recalling, however. [I remembered the series after log off and will pick up on it later.]
My agitation increases significantly with bowel impaction, and it would bode well for me to remember it the next time my monologues threaten to rival Jamie Foxx performing race related schizophrenia, except that I do not delude, only feel like a rat in a cage waiting for Debra Horne's checklist to finish me off, more Sancho than Beowulf to my draconian cleverness. Why don't I just put this woman out of my mind? Why does it frighten me so much that an idiot makes me feel less than human? I have dealt with her type all of my life, and I would like to stop matching wits with them. This wish shall never be granted to me-- unless.
That I am damned runs at this point, mmm, 93 percent to 7 for unless? As far as I can ascertain, I am not failing, but do exhibit some death stage symptoms, interestingly enough, and to take a clunker trope from The Collector, where the photographer connected to the journalist who has the autistic son who can discern the intent of the devil, how is hope still possible for someone like myself? My relations with my brother and sister are damaged, forever. Easy enough for them to exploit my sense of obligation as a barren elder, but quite another matter to offer me social equality, visit me despite where I live, I am facing the total abandonment prevalent among both the elderly and disabled populations. Must I forever be a victim to some mechanism of injustice?
Time to feed the pet children. Partially ready for Drinker's West, not going to Arch street in this deserted city morning, my dark blue slacks deodorized in the bathroom, a notation that I will be mocked for my sneakers and my cap, if I wear either. I like my cap, makes me look like a golfing troll. Wink. My father's brother is dying, by the way, and I feel guilty for my not so subtle realization that my senile uncle has been useless for a long time. Marie would kill me, literally, if she knew what I tell you. And just in case I do not have the time tomorrow, happy new year, a phrase so innocuous I should not write it. Medicare has spent thousands and thousands on my uncle's poor quality of life, and inversely destroyed my own by making it impossible to get technology I need to be healthy, happy, which equally suggests I may not be manic, only being driven to it.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Insidious Possession
Satan's three faces are a grotesque counterversion of the three Persons of the Trinity.
--Allen Mandelbaum, note to Canto 34, Inferno
All western countries make bad television series better than the America that gave the world the technology for television, gave the world the technology that makes some of us diffident about the digital age, in fact, not that this is not good. I labored and starved and threw my impassioned energies into the small presses for years, which, just outside of the relative security of small presses in academia, was a small club of loons, alcoholics, mental cases, and hippies reading out of notebooks. By the eighties, nearto the death of Bukowski, a man with whom I have published, and disdain, beatniks were already an anachronism, much like my mentor's late life poetry readings. Listening to his aging YouTube voice, I allowed Jerry too huge an imprint on my life, but am yet able to step out of the narrative, and observe that his pathway ossified, even as mine has stalled, and dwindling into sterility. Where his ambition has settled disappoints me, and my own, we have been over that, my weakened frame hanging in the balance. How we allegorize evil in contemporary tropes has been much more dynamic. My accidental viewing of the Roboticist episode of The Collector reinforces this sensibility. Here Lucifer seems to be an ironic moral arbiter. In a show like Supernatural, he is an angry existentialist. What did he represent to Polanski in Rosemary's Baby? Polanski's genius takes us closer to the truth about the banality of moral corrosion, and most other commercial films do a terribly bad job of actualizing horror to make us take a step back and take measure of the autonomic amoralism we're hurling ourselves through. If I am an atheist, I am one who carries a huge Roman, Catholic chip, at least when I am not looking at the murdered mice of my pets.
I was going to deconstruct the episode in this post, before I spent three hours uploading this blog for Amazon kindle, but let me also step back, since this insipid Canadian production triggered the links between evil and acquisition, a steady diet in which Henry James luxuriated and Fowles updated. The Fowles novel is on my wish list, but I am cool to it at present, over taxed, to the point that I foreshadow what we know now about Obama's mandate. He did not need me. I was busy leaking urine on my poor ancient history hard copy reference guide, stressed, apoplectic that I still do not know how to find the print screen key to take screen shots when I need them. How long have I been online now? Would you like to guess?
--Allen Mandelbaum, note to Canto 34, Inferno
All western countries make bad television series better than the America that gave the world the technology for television, gave the world the technology that makes some of us diffident about the digital age, in fact, not that this is not good. I labored and starved and threw my impassioned energies into the small presses for years, which, just outside of the relative security of small presses in academia, was a small club of loons, alcoholics, mental cases, and hippies reading out of notebooks. By the eighties, nearto the death of Bukowski, a man with whom I have published, and disdain, beatniks were already an anachronism, much like my mentor's late life poetry readings. Listening to his aging YouTube voice, I allowed Jerry too huge an imprint on my life, but am yet able to step out of the narrative, and observe that his pathway ossified, even as mine has stalled, and dwindling into sterility. Where his ambition has settled disappoints me, and my own, we have been over that, my weakened frame hanging in the balance. How we allegorize evil in contemporary tropes has been much more dynamic. My accidental viewing of the Roboticist episode of The Collector reinforces this sensibility. Here Lucifer seems to be an ironic moral arbiter. In a show like Supernatural, he is an angry existentialist. What did he represent to Polanski in Rosemary's Baby? Polanski's genius takes us closer to the truth about the banality of moral corrosion, and most other commercial films do a terribly bad job of actualizing horror to make us take a step back and take measure of the autonomic amoralism we're hurling ourselves through. If I am an atheist, I am one who carries a huge Roman, Catholic chip, at least when I am not looking at the murdered mice of my pets.
I was going to deconstruct the episode in this post, before I spent three hours uploading this blog for Amazon kindle, but let me also step back, since this insipid Canadian production triggered the links between evil and acquisition, a steady diet in which Henry James luxuriated and Fowles updated. The Fowles novel is on my wish list, but I am cool to it at present, over taxed, to the point that I foreshadow what we know now about Obama's mandate. He did not need me. I was busy leaking urine on my poor ancient history hard copy reference guide, stressed, apoplectic that I still do not know how to find the print screen key to take screen shots when I need them. How long have I been online now? Would you like to guess?
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