Polynomial Spectrums

Alessandro Manzoni's mother was the beautiful and brilliant daughter of Cesare Beccaria, a distinguished writer on penal reform who enjoyed considerable fame not only in his native Lombardy, but also in liberal literary circles in pro-revolutionary Paris.-- Bruce Penman, an introduction.

I do not particularly enjoy considering myself a stalker, not beyond a certain point, and if I was as callous as I purport myself to be, I would have simply removed Tassoni's account from my Facebook feed, in tacit correction of a mentally hamstrung minority who thought he was doing something good for me, but instead, as grist for the mill, with a mastication near to that of Jamesian attenuation, I weigh the matter as heavily as Queen Elizabeth does in beheading a Catholic subversive. Heartburn versus he isn't the bad guy, and why did he accept the request if we quarreled in 02 in our relatively hale middle age? He achieved his goals, and I've done remarkably well, considering, annoyed at myself. My feelings are still involved, as if my consciousness teleported itself into Marquez's Love in The Time of Cholera.

The care worker, however, provided me with an understated life jacket. John is an authentic link to my more aspirational past, when I did believe my writing was a calling. He has 417 Facebook connections. I have 23, and torched more than a few of those, removed my mother's family from view because Mary wants me to go to a home because her brother, my dear godfather, couldn't get his apathetic technician to do the fitting right for my needs. So I am dying, simple as that. This is a serious rift between me and my aunt, also a partial cyborg. From what I have read of Cronin's trilogy, the Fox Network has its work cut out for it, and I'm rather in agreement with critics like Wheldon that it doesn't interweave properly between the novelist's past and future shifts. It does, as a show, tap into our anxieties in this post Ebola age better than Stephen King does with The Stand. That novel, while driven by well formed characters, was never worth the effort. It simply transforms calamity into Armageddon, a 70's era neurosis in tow. Cronin taps into a more complex undercurrent of civilization overwhelmed by a brute atavism humans never truly conquered.

I have witnessed the same ghastly minority devaluations in North Philadelphia, with the same white clean up operation, that has left district attorney Matthew Weintraub so visibly shaken. We all see the paternalism involved here, the privilege aghast at the color coded gasps of despair. Gosselaar and Sidney's studio manufactured bond, for our disappointed escapism, is no palliative, neither is the progressive fairy tale that egalitarianism is the better part of valor. My sister in law disrespects me because I don't coo at her son's child in the mall, not stopping to think how long it's actually been since I voluntarily went to a mall, or even have any funds to spend there. Instead, my finely educated mind has to spar with a black man who goes off on me because I do not salivate at his movie recommendations. There isn't any statutory requirement in Medicaid Waiver services that I have to be grateful to be diminished by his rote series of tasks, after living a life of mostly sterile disparity, and yet for all the violence in my failing lungs, nearly aspirating to death on a flu shot I did not want, but complying with an Asian resident's request to receive, I still refuse to go down. Should the FBI tag me, you think?

The Long Pincers Umbra

"That statue is not about football," Gleason, straining to speak because of the effects of ALS, said moments before the formal unveiling on a rain-soaked Friday afternoon.-- a hero in continuing pan shots of emaciation

What I see in the above image is the less than illustrious rise of an ancestral peasant class, with its nearly denuding and uniformless dressing of the crone age female body, mass manufactured couture, making the best of it on a parochial teacher's salary, representative of the culture wars surrounding gender today, more den mother than feminine, all in slacks. They would not use the terminology of Gloria Steinem, but there is no doubt they've benefited from the feminist generation, emasculating males who simply do not have the fortune to be a Monsignor in charge of secondary education. They submit as the obedient second sex to Catholic priests, but dare I say this is primarily pro forma. The large woman in the back right is a retired principal, and doesn't live in the same building with a priest who let her go, many years ago, relieving her of her responsibilities, unlike myself, forced to delightfully reside with dying clients and one heinous transsexual who protected and covered up my toxic humiliation at the turn of the century. More on the limpid retraction of disability independent living due to the centralized triumph of Maximus later. However bad things were before under the decentralized Medicaid Waiver before, things under Maximus are like lining up humans over fifty for slaughterhouses, and this merciless safety net for indigence is traded on the NYSE. I can only snicker, starkly, not even compliant with near dying well, with brave smiles. Oh, my aunt, she only wants what's best for me. Not offering the same appearance of frailty as Justice Ginsburg and bubble wrap, she nevertheless encloses herself in a dome, with her own fears, near to 70, with allegories of rebirth in heaven. She is upset with yours truly for throwing a spear at the sacred pantheon of her mother, my grandmother, who sits at a table with a geriatric aplomb, zoological spectrum of vacancy. And exactly what, you ask, does this have to do with Robert Mueller's Russia probe rumbling along in avalanche? Aside from the need to demystify Putin, who has the same financial inability to restore the former Soviet empire as any other colonial power, Mueller's applied brute force is destroying lives, as opposed to protecting domestic election integrity. Manafort is no more or less unethical than the flash boys of Wall Street, and my eyes glaze over with the new, if recycled, Slavic paranoia. that's right, but I got sucked into a Twitter brawl with blat, and Mary. It cost me, but doesn't it always, at that? If Pelosi decides to impeach the ignoramus in chief, and starts to chip away at Senate solidarity, it doesn't change the continuing erosion of our former unifying ties as a country. Regular readers can scroll through 1600 posts, to discover my integrity in disposable linens. From this perspective, Justin Cronin manages to convince me of world's end. We're overwhelmed with pathogens, meaningless, aimlessly frail identities. His trilogy is so similar to Carey's film I thought the series was a clever spin off. Another error. Worried? Alas, don't be. I have decided to suspend medical services, soon. That will be the start of my journey as well, as if I am the first of the last. I am determined to leave Philadelphia.