Twins, Arches, & Basalt, Voila Auteur

I evidently appreciate Thomas McCarthy vision of progressive pushback despite the fact that trying to live it in my own life has turned my innards overripe. Films being what they are, however, it seems only the Farrelly brothers take risks with the grotesque, with spina bifida contained by leg brace and diaper and crutch, and McCarthy is cautious, not risking this over much in his desired, some might say extracted, performances. Jenkins' Walter Vale has the slight and not unkindly whiff of a pruned Puritan about him, especially in his jagged rebuff of his student, his interaction with the piano instructor who mildly offends his sensibility, Hiam Abbass is muted in ethnicity, not Syrian, slightly too Anglicized so as to evoke empathy and lower defenses. Haaz Sleiman is like the jazz player, infusing the somewhat shriveled European cultural polish. Danai Gurira clips it like a Nile Queen. I've seen the type before, in students, bad attendant pair bondings, but my point being that McCarthy very carefully polishes his collection, edgy, but with all the parts clicking in the right places, rather than the inner city disrupting, or threatening, the pattern of the wearied American academic.

This is still a great film, and it is the real reason I persist with disability themes online, despite what you may believe to the contrary, to deconstruct such precious jewels, probably the only thing that keeps me human, at the end of the day.

What McCarthy manages to expose is the cost of the systems we impose upon ourselves, their crushing weight, sacrificing the gifts of cultural infusion. The gifts of the west are not dead when seen through fresh eyes. Mouna's ability to get emotionally involved with the Phantom of the Opera encapsulates and reflects on her situation, with her son in a dungeon she cannot penetrate, and Mrs. Vale's music offers this mother solace in much the same way that Walter finds an outlet in learning the djembe

No one is accountable here, certainly not the guards at the center where Tarek is detained and removed, individuals against whom a strike would be futile, which Walter finally accepts in resignation. This does not mean that immigration is not an intractable problem due to the imbalance of affluence, nor would McCarthy's compassionate leniency solve for it any better than Arizona hardliners, just to cull an example, but the US certainly lacks a sane and coherent policy, something that transcends administrations.

That such divergent visionaries as Tolstoy and a post modern independent director could illuminate the same problem, how our systems subsume autonomy, points to the fact that we'll probably need to shave a few billion of ourselves off before we scare ourselves straight, and start to really pay attention.

Banquo's Ghost

There are politics in every situation, I realize that, despite my psychological injuries, and I am not quite positive I am still working for the publication I just failed. Nasty nasty little voice in my head, but the editor has no real reason to keep me, so I am pretending, and will give myself the week, though it seems to be melding into a loss. When I look at LiveJournal's most popular entries category, I am frustrated. I could not even pick a good nascent service provider, and for the moment I am stuck because of my limited and fearful understanding of computer science. I know when it serves me not to post too much detail, but I too am trying to read the tea leaves with my temporary editor, and I am here, and not there because a mind that is a half century old works a little differently. I cannot work as fast as I used to, and a post, however indulged, is at least a jump start. I am a night owl, also something of a disadvantage to a freelancer, depending on the topic, and I may have to go buy cigarettes for the sake of the work itself. My stash of fakes, if it gets here intact, will not be in until Thursday, Friday, at the latest, because I am always running behind. I open my draft, and it is not really so bad.
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Linda Dezenski's real crime against me centers on her willingness to sacrifice me to employees less able, like Jimmi. As a manager, Linda made many enemies before me, and I have received my education on that score, but I defended her, very loyal for seven or eight years, and what I get in return is to be chewed up and spit out like a ball of pulp fiber. I thought she recognized my value, and respected it, and this is the touchstone where my pain resides. I recognized what I thought was her quality as a leader, and I did push her to take more chances, be more visible by accepting the position with the national council, just as Liberty pushed her later, shaping her as a local spokeswoman who could actually handle the pressure of appearing on a program like Radio Times.

The full sequence of what she did to me is what causes those hard to swallow postal episodes that surface as an event in this country, so much shattered glass, like the blood fest in Macbeth; bloodshed and power vacuums lead to psychosis, resolved in Shakespeare's methodology by a just application of ruthlessness, in oposition to the inbalance of clinging, at all costs, to an authority you do not have the faintest idea how to use.

I had a bit of breakfast, and I am pausing now for more caffeine, almost ready to go, debating a more careful shift to the shower, it is very blustery, very cold, and maybe the uneven weather is why fluffball caught a stomach ailment. Vinnie swat his brother, as if to say, "You should not upset mommy!"

All is well now among our most anthropomorphized carnivore companions. Cats beat dogs in this category, and if you think about it, the evidence is obvious. Batman never had a nemesis dubbed Rovergirl.

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I am pondering the issue, however, of how cheap it is for me to malign bad editors and scholastically limited writers like Josie, or Jimmi-- but Shrode is a lightweight, so let's focus on the dyke, and her more valid advocacy position. Contention: Her betrayal of me rather undermines what she stands for, and I resent it despite the effort both she and partner Ginny took to meet me at the Asian restaurant I could not afford, and was too mundane, too close, to my building. This is what I cannot explain to cyber contacts like Manny, that I have so few opportunities for fresh pursuit.

It was the same that day with two lesbians, a cripple, and a whippet thin and painted foster adolescent from Bangladesh. It makes me sick to my stomach, literally, to dwell on what I am willing to subject myself to, in a series of ever diminishing returns. Even a superb cinematic narrative like The Visitor cannot sway me that our contemporary multi-cultural deluge is the brighter future we should embrace. Josie has forever lost my respect, but if she wanted to keep it, and the price it took her to "come out as a Christian gimp" she should not have lashed out at Cecil. If I had behaved like that with Ginny, it would have never been forgiven.

Twins, Arches, & Basalt, 1

The Visitor (2008) with Richard Jenkins, is a remarkable rebuttal to the Bush era climate of our last decade, but it is also a masterpiece with a variety of exculpatory layers.

Oliver Marinelli is gone seven years now, and when Joey and Vinnie were born, I told my aunt I did not want them, but here I am, six years in a parent, torn between my bond, the stress of Joey's health cycles, and the need to conserve my own strength, a problem that has been ongoing many weeks into the future, and will reach a crisis sooner rather than later.

I need to sit down and literally create a new writing schedule. My head alone cannot jiggle the demands of the digital age, and this may take some time.