My face is ashen to the point that the Market Street public has noticed; maybe they believe I am terminally ill. I have set a baseline, and that is, give my state representative and others time to respond, and then maybe I will prepare to go to Pittsburgh. I have been to Pittsburgh, and probably have enough strength to take flight there; maybe the beatnik community would help, I don't know. We'll discuss it after the exterminator leaves tomorrow.
Tired as I am, I'll add that I refused even to look at Erik sitting outside the entrance on my way to the store; without his bulldog Goth bitch around we still talked, Erik and I. Not anymore, even though I relented after Joey's demise my displeasure remains. I do not hate him, but I simply can't play the game anymore and no longer wish to see. My own lungs are burning, and though he turned toward me, I pretended, like his partner, that the three of us never had connection.
Aside from the political story, which I have doled out in fragments, Jimmi and Erik play our former interaction like a bipolar disorder. Jimmi despises me for my contempt directed at his intellectual arguments, and Erik, when he still recognized me, would say, "I thought we still were [friends]" Then Jimmi would convey, when I tried to force him to listen, that Erik treats me with the same disdain he reserves for Linda's denial.
My disillusion, at this point, is eating away at my physical health, and I am weary of trying to ferret out sincerity in any of us, this freak transgender couple, my scarred intellect that wants established street cred but may be too constrained by illness and biological entropy to jump those hoops, and the sociopathic chief operating officer who I internalized far too highly in superlative terms.
I hate to say this, but the Vatican is right, chronic conditions and some disease is simply evil, and my heart and soul have been too corroded, living as a life long cripple.
As I suspect Louise would protest, I am not as bad as my online tone suggests, but that tone carries a great deal of restraint, and by that I do not necessarily mean foul rants, so much as blunt hatred. I hold it back because I know I'd come to regret it and hit delete, if I wasn't banned first. Hard snicker.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Present
Kenny is one of the nicer rent a cops downstairs in the lobby, and obesity doesn't prevent him from actually doing his job. Like Tim, he is stick thin, and reported the car jacking that I was witness to, and if our backgrounds were just slightly more in sync, I would not mind dating him. Tenants get evicted for things like that here, and because I am naive, I got myself embroiled in something similar years back, with a piece of white trash who makes Frank look like the Bronx Casanova, and many of you may recall how my assessment of my ex-fiance has played out.
Kenny is near a hundred percent illiterate about digital technology and the new world of app-gadget fetish we live in today, but I blew some chatter out of my head about my tonsillitis episode. Nineteen is somewhat late in life for swollen tonsils, and Kenny says, with that inner city transplanted agrarian wisdom that leaves me impatient, "Focus on the present now, not the past."
All writers have is the past. The disabled woman on Sunday cut off, in her battle of wills, from her baby brother, is the same disabled woman Gretchen Laskas refused to respond to when I thought my ability to empathize with her agrarian mindset meant something. Has talking about our past in Speakeasy actually hurt her in any concrete terms? Did I print her telephone number? Or hurt her earnings? What I am driving at is when abandonment is merited, or not, and how it reflects reality. I have connected to thousands of people online over the years, but what makes a connection real, or my feelings of lost affinity germane? I miss Gretchen; if anything, I may have increased them if your curiosity is piqued. The best I can say about her novels, given the excerpts my fading memory recalls, is that she has the women's interest meme down, but weakly echoes Eudora Welty, and I have to be in the right frame of mind for Welty as it is.
Right now is as good as any to throw a tantrum about southern writers, but I believe I am well enough for coffee, even with my facial structure akin to over-heated cracked porcelain. It is perhaps accurate to suggest that if I stripped naked with a man as dark as Kenny, I'd have a panic attack; I will probably never be in a position to know.
Kenny is near a hundred percent illiterate about digital technology and the new world of app-gadget fetish we live in today, but I blew some chatter out of my head about my tonsillitis episode. Nineteen is somewhat late in life for swollen tonsils, and Kenny says, with that inner city transplanted agrarian wisdom that leaves me impatient, "Focus on the present now, not the past."
All writers have is the past. The disabled woman on Sunday cut off, in her battle of wills, from her baby brother, is the same disabled woman Gretchen Laskas refused to respond to when I thought my ability to empathize with her agrarian mindset meant something. Has talking about our past in Speakeasy actually hurt her in any concrete terms? Did I print her telephone number? Or hurt her earnings? What I am driving at is when abandonment is merited, or not, and how it reflects reality. I have connected to thousands of people online over the years, but what makes a connection real, or my feelings of lost affinity germane? I miss Gretchen; if anything, I may have increased them if your curiosity is piqued. The best I can say about her novels, given the excerpts my fading memory recalls, is that she has the women's interest meme down, but weakly echoes Eudora Welty, and I have to be in the right frame of mind for Welty as it is.
Right now is as good as any to throw a tantrum about southern writers, but I believe I am well enough for coffee, even with my facial structure akin to over-heated cracked porcelain. It is perhaps accurate to suggest that if I stripped naked with a man as dark as Kenny, I'd have a panic attack; I will probably never be in a position to know.
Monday, April 2, 2012
Silver Linings
By some interesting quirk of fate, it seems I will not have to use my savings for at least a week or two. I have been playing the usual parlor games since I was a young woman between jobs, and now? What choices do I actually have?
I can make things worse; this is what constitutes the illusion of having any further options. I am looking at InstaBulb here. The extra light would be useful, and I can use it near the PC when I want to charge but read kindle at my desk. It is late summer now as I archive this on Blogger, and I not only do not know when this order will ship, but have no idea how to contact the marketer.
They claim they will utilize COD, but I guess the tool would only work as well as the brand of battery used. In this unit I need it, but then I may return to bed. Not feeling well, not sleeping well, I can milk for my source later tomorrow if I do not hear from first contact. I may also be in the full throttle of a menopause adjustment, as it has only been three months since my cycle stopped.
I still get cramps, and wasted, or took the time to type the Administration a message @ the White House, but the portal did not carry. Not sure what use it would be to try again this evening. My shins are swelling. My brother Benjamin will not speak to me. I tried him three times this Sunday, because my health actually is failing, and I'd like my nephews to remember me. I don't know why this price is so extraordinary.
I am not sure what I once imagined about my life, but it wasn't this, and the real subtext behind my sibling rivalry breach is guilt. They took my assets, and expected a free ride. Now I am not a person because I am asserting that I have needs.
However you read me, or what conclusions you draw, I have no support, no friends that I actually like to be around for themselves, and more than likely will never regain a career in any viable sense of the word, and what I meant to convey is, you can't know how it feels.
I am not my mother. I do not find a vein in Will Self's drug culture and do dangerous things with the syringe for the thrill of it. I haven't gotten myself pregnant, or medically sucked a fetus I did not want out of my uterus, like my sister, and yet, because I never wanted to live in 202 housing, and it angers me due to the waste of my intelligence, this is an indication of crisis for homosexuals who insert their penises into the rectums of other males, or an excuse for my damn family to close off in rank, never mind that doing the same thing to my mother probably increased the pressure she felt to do hard core psychotropics, which may have contributed to her cardiac arrest.
I can't rebuild myself a viable social outlet, and if you are going to say look at how I treated Schneider, an over the top trigger is conceded; had I known it was that Daniel Schneider, I would have ignored him after a preliminary query, or tried to utilize his outreach in better fashion, dubious as that might have played out as an alternative.. List serves and viral networking take time. They are not cocktail parties, and I happen to like cocktail parties, the clink of ice, a joke regarding All About Eve.
I can make things worse; this is what constitutes the illusion of having any further options. I am looking at InstaBulb here. The extra light would be useful, and I can use it near the PC when I want to charge but read kindle at my desk. It is late summer now as I archive this on Blogger, and I not only do not know when this order will ship, but have no idea how to contact the marketer.
They claim they will utilize COD, but I guess the tool would only work as well as the brand of battery used. In this unit I need it, but then I may return to bed. Not feeling well, not sleeping well, I can milk for my source later tomorrow if I do not hear from first contact. I may also be in the full throttle of a menopause adjustment, as it has only been three months since my cycle stopped.
I still get cramps, and wasted, or took the time to type the Administration a message @ the White House, but the portal did not carry. Not sure what use it would be to try again this evening. My shins are swelling. My brother Benjamin will not speak to me. I tried him three times this Sunday, because my health actually is failing, and I'd like my nephews to remember me. I don't know why this price is so extraordinary.
I am not sure what I once imagined about my life, but it wasn't this, and the real subtext behind my sibling rivalry breach is guilt. They took my assets, and expected a free ride. Now I am not a person because I am asserting that I have needs.
However you read me, or what conclusions you draw, I have no support, no friends that I actually like to be around for themselves, and more than likely will never regain a career in any viable sense of the word, and what I meant to convey is, you can't know how it feels.
I am not my mother. I do not find a vein in Will Self's drug culture and do dangerous things with the syringe for the thrill of it. I haven't gotten myself pregnant, or medically sucked a fetus I did not want out of my uterus, like my sister, and yet, because I never wanted to live in 202 housing, and it angers me due to the waste of my intelligence, this is an indication of crisis for homosexuals who insert their penises into the rectums of other males, or an excuse for my damn family to close off in rank, never mind that doing the same thing to my mother probably increased the pressure she felt to do hard core psychotropics, which may have contributed to her cardiac arrest.
I can't rebuild myself a viable social outlet, and if you are going to say look at how I treated Schneider, an over the top trigger is conceded; had I known it was that Daniel Schneider, I would have ignored him after a preliminary query, or tried to utilize his outreach in better fashion, dubious as that might have played out as an alternative.. List serves and viral networking take time. They are not cocktail parties, and I happen to like cocktail parties, the clink of ice, a joke regarding All About Eve.
Cheers to Ylan Q. Mui
Thank you for your article Ylan, for it represents the predicament in which Linda C. Dezenski left me twelve years ago, and now my lung issues leave me too much further impaired to undo the damage; more than likely I am now going to decline worse than any animal mortally injured in its habitat, which leaves me empty handed but for this age old question about the human condition.
I cannot apply for a hardship exception anymore, and that is my fault for being honest with the lawyer assigned to me during my bankruptcy hearing. I told the lawyer about my mother's death leaving an uexpected windfall from insurance, and the lawyer was not happy with me, as a practical matter. She and I could have applied for hardship, and I probably would have won, but I told her about my mum. I did not want to be prosecuted by the state for fraud had I not spoken, but you know, I begin to feel as if I might have succeeded in life with a criminal record, and I am starting to giggle on the verge of insanity, to steal a direct phrase from Henry James.
My conditions are bad, but not as dire as when my mother died, and before you ask, I wound up having to use most of those funds for medical bills, and to pay Tim for not having the time to take care of me very well. I'd like to stop using him altogether, but professional cleaning services would cost more, and inflame my bronchial issues just the same. Would you like a dark anecdote? Do you have a choice?
My colon erupted, little more than a half hour behind this paragraph; it felt like a decent half gallon of paste, with all the phlegm I have been producing, and that eruption would have been an accident, but I had a chuck liner stuck to my thigh, and that caught the opening discharge, like a loose diaper, spared the worst. I got lucky, in a sense, but I will never get better, and so Chris Beasley bans my account @ the literature network because I tried to approach him on the fact that I was ill, but could he pay me for the work he accepted, and this discussion constituted an attack.
You know what I think it constitutes? Spastic_dowager absorbs a great deal of punishment, whatever else I am guilty of. Posting frequency does effect concentration, and I tried to limit my usage before I crossed swords with the big kahuna, not become too invested, but did anyway, but how far we go with banning online accounts makes me wonder. I did not threaten to sue Mr. Beasley, though I will soon file a discrimination claim against him, because some of those virtual connections mattered to me. I never harassed or attacked any poster, nor emailed them to talk, though I did make a few research requests from young and healthier instructors, and I never consciously attempted to violate their rules, nor given an *infraction*. I know about this from live meeting three members, and in short I'm tired of being punished like this.
I cannot apply for a hardship exception anymore, and that is my fault for being honest with the lawyer assigned to me during my bankruptcy hearing. I told the lawyer about my mother's death leaving an uexpected windfall from insurance, and the lawyer was not happy with me, as a practical matter. She and I could have applied for hardship, and I probably would have won, but I told her about my mum. I did not want to be prosecuted by the state for fraud had I not spoken, but you know, I begin to feel as if I might have succeeded in life with a criminal record, and I am starting to giggle on the verge of insanity, to steal a direct phrase from Henry James.
My conditions are bad, but not as dire as when my mother died, and before you ask, I wound up having to use most of those funds for medical bills, and to pay Tim for not having the time to take care of me very well. I'd like to stop using him altogether, but professional cleaning services would cost more, and inflame my bronchial issues just the same. Would you like a dark anecdote? Do you have a choice?
My colon erupted, little more than a half hour behind this paragraph; it felt like a decent half gallon of paste, with all the phlegm I have been producing, and that eruption would have been an accident, but I had a chuck liner stuck to my thigh, and that caught the opening discharge, like a loose diaper, spared the worst. I got lucky, in a sense, but I will never get better, and so Chris Beasley bans my account @ the literature network because I tried to approach him on the fact that I was ill, but could he pay me for the work he accepted, and this discussion constituted an attack.
You know what I think it constitutes? Spastic_dowager absorbs a great deal of punishment, whatever else I am guilty of. Posting frequency does effect concentration, and I tried to limit my usage before I crossed swords with the big kahuna, not become too invested, but did anyway, but how far we go with banning online accounts makes me wonder. I did not threaten to sue Mr. Beasley, though I will soon file a discrimination claim against him, because some of those virtual connections mattered to me. I never harassed or attacked any poster, nor emailed them to talk, though I did make a few research requests from young and healthier instructors, and I never consciously attempted to violate their rules, nor given an *infraction*. I know about this from live meeting three members, and in short I'm tired of being punished like this.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
A Simple Explanation
Meat Loaf's guest star appearance on House is one of my favorites in the deteriorated mid-season arcs. It was one of the first episodes I streamed on my damaged desktop, and is far too clever by half, troping on expectation reversal, perhaps carrying the faint whiff of the Lazarus curse, which has its subterranean literary conceit spawned out of biblical apocryphia, anchoring this motif in a realistic character study of a monogamous pair bonding whose attachment, however genuine, led to a disappointment, unwittingly enabling demise, and the condemnation of fate following from this, namely in the husband's revival.
Penn's departure was the disruptive and jarring note, never convincing, even when the producers scripted it for 30 seconds in the last episode; the writers could argue that the implausible Kutner suicide fits the motifs of the show. House the sociopath revolves round his trajectory, destroying the more stable, but by that rationale, I'd be a millionare tomorrow funding super pacs; this doesn't cancel its high status for me, but I would have been happier seeing a Kutner scoring some kind of victory over the central character. If the suicide was the victory, it violates the dramatic tension, going too far over the edge, in terms of screwing your boss, perhaps the trajectory of the missile I seem seem to be riding as our warm weather transitions to the next season.
Penn's departure was the disruptive and jarring note, never convincing, even when the producers scripted it for 30 seconds in the last episode; the writers could argue that the implausible Kutner suicide fits the motifs of the show. House the sociopath revolves round his trajectory, destroying the more stable, but by that rationale, I'd be a millionare tomorrow funding super pacs; this doesn't cancel its high status for me, but I would have been happier seeing a Kutner scoring some kind of victory over the central character. If the suicide was the victory, it violates the dramatic tension, going too far over the edge, in terms of screwing your boss, perhaps the trajectory of the missile I seem seem to be riding as our warm weather transitions to the next season.
Culture Shock Hair
I had to think for a moment to recall Eye of the Needle, which I knocked about in a paragraph when I first conceived of this project, but Sutherland seems to simply roll in and roll out of his parts after this war thriller. I can't think of any film I know of after that where he is not playing Liberal Conscience With Boof Shag; this includes Kienzle's whodunit. It is not that I do not respond to him as an actor; he projects comfort, sometimes balanced compassion, and when he dons the diabolical psychopath, audiences involve their feelings because they see the humane within the menace, but somehow it doesn't quite carry him as a clerical sleuth, not that this doesn't have its own conceits in solving mysteries. Derek Jacobi seems tailor made for his medieval monk. Alec Guinness has Father Brown, which also served him in being George Smiley better than anyone else, but Sutherland doesn't quite carry the dichotomy of the humanist holy man about him, and this is the first problem with the film; it has a subtext that the movie doesn't quite flesh out in the fact that our protagonist is weary with obedience. I am not objecting to this weariness in and of itself, but it drags on the narrative that propels the movie, instead of serving it. Koesler's platonic relationship with the journalist Pat Lennon, which I fully understand is integrated with Kienzle's personal experience of breaking his vows, is a loose strand left to hang, rather than engaging the viewer.
Incest between father and daughter is the primary trigger for the serial killing spree that opens with a nun about to go secular. I am not quite clear how Koesler works out the killer's twisted logic towards the climax, but the killer, Javison, assigns blame for not being stopped, and this is the juxtaposition that interests me about the film. It handles nearly the same problem as Shanley's Doubt, about whether evil is subsumed in the very institution that tries to torture it out of our flesh, if possible, handles it poorly, with all the thud of Medea's deus ex machina; my sensibility is that of implicit seepage.
See the last section on good and evil acts on this Vatican Catechism page:
The issue of moral guilt is doled out like so many eucharist wafers. Of course Javison is a monster, much like my mother's second husband, (and I give credit here to my then parish in Chester for helping me survive Stuart Lone, who I hope is dead, or will die as painfully as he treated my family) but his daughter's school is guilty, for not believing the girl about the abuse. Durning's staunch pastor is guilty, even Koesler has to carry that balance between penitent and pain that simply decelerates into slaughter.
Medical models, creating their own apologia for the mechanisms of psychopathy, do not really resolve the capacity for human anguish, anymore than the silence of bishops, for the sake of preserving the institution. Sound familiar?
Incest between father and daughter is the primary trigger for the serial killing spree that opens with a nun about to go secular. I am not quite clear how Koesler works out the killer's twisted logic towards the climax, but the killer, Javison, assigns blame for not being stopped, and this is the juxtaposition that interests me about the film. It handles nearly the same problem as Shanley's Doubt, about whether evil is subsumed in the very institution that tries to torture it out of our flesh, if possible, handles it poorly, with all the thud of Medea's deus ex machina; my sensibility is that of implicit seepage.
See the last section on good and evil acts on this Vatican Catechism page:
The issue of moral guilt is doled out like so many eucharist wafers. Of course Javison is a monster, much like my mother's second husband, (and I give credit here to my then parish in Chester for helping me survive Stuart Lone, who I hope is dead, or will die as painfully as he treated my family) but his daughter's school is guilty, for not believing the girl about the abuse. Durning's staunch pastor is guilty, even Koesler has to carry that balance between penitent and pain that simply decelerates into slaughter.
Medical models, creating their own apologia for the mechanisms of psychopathy, do not really resolve the capacity for human anguish, anymore than the silence of bishops, for the sake of preserving the institution. Sound familiar?
Mendacity In Canon Law
Perhaps Father William Saunders assisted the SWG with the script of The Rosary Murders, because his article sounds just like the debate between Koesler and Kileen in the film. I quote:
The sacramental seal is inviolable. Quoting Canon 983.1 of the Code of Canon Law, the Catechism states, "...It is a crime for a confessor in any way to betray a penitent by word or in any other manner or for any reason" (No. 2490). A priest, therefore, cannot break the seal to save his own life, to protect his good name, to refute a false accusation, to save the life of another, to aid the course of justice (like reporting a crime), or to avert a public calamity. He cannot be compelled by law to disclose a person's confession or be bound by any oath he takes, e.g. as a witness in a court trial. A priest cannot reveal the contents of a confession either directly, by repeating the substance of what has been said, or indirectly, by some sign, suggestion, or action. A Decree from the Holy Office (Nov. 18, 1682) mandated that confessors are forbidden, even where there would be no revelation direct or indirect, to make any use of the knowledge obtained in the confession that would "displease" the penitent or reveal his identity.
Roman Catholicism, throughout its history, seems to brace itself, and fails, as a bulwark against the failings of the human animal. What I miss about the Church is not its corporate and legal structure that enforces the foundation of faith, not its placement of Yahweh and the Christ, Mary, Apostles, saints, and a coup d'etat by Polish Communist Superstars. What I miss about it is the comfort of certainty, and my rebellion against it did not begin with Jerry as my new source of succor. I butt heads with Father Kelly when I was sixteen over some fine point about Scripture, when he was hearing my confession in the rectory.
"We're not going to discuss that," he said. So much for docility.
The sacramental seal is inviolable. Quoting Canon 983.1 of the Code of Canon Law, the Catechism states, "...It is a crime for a confessor in any way to betray a penitent by word or in any other manner or for any reason" (No. 2490). A priest, therefore, cannot break the seal to save his own life, to protect his good name, to refute a false accusation, to save the life of another, to aid the course of justice (like reporting a crime), or to avert a public calamity. He cannot be compelled by law to disclose a person's confession or be bound by any oath he takes, e.g. as a witness in a court trial. A priest cannot reveal the contents of a confession either directly, by repeating the substance of what has been said, or indirectly, by some sign, suggestion, or action. A Decree from the Holy Office (Nov. 18, 1682) mandated that confessors are forbidden, even where there would be no revelation direct or indirect, to make any use of the knowledge obtained in the confession that would "displease" the penitent or reveal his identity.
Roman Catholicism, throughout its history, seems to brace itself, and fails, as a bulwark against the failings of the human animal. What I miss about the Church is not its corporate and legal structure that enforces the foundation of faith, not its placement of Yahweh and the Christ, Mary, Apostles, saints, and a coup d'etat by Polish Communist Superstars. What I miss about it is the comfort of certainty, and my rebellion against it did not begin with Jerry as my new source of succor. I butt heads with Father Kelly when I was sixteen over some fine point about Scripture, when he was hearing my confession in the rectory.
"We're not going to discuss that," he said. So much for docility.
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