Humbling Appropriation of Jewish Satire

"He had elements in him that allowed him to do what he did. -- Al Pacino

I would have endured vaginal castration to have had the thunderbolt with the Al Pacino who brought Puzo's Michael Corleone to life. What woman doesn't want that dark and daring menace willing to use massacre as a conversation? Dropped everything to listen to Rose draw him out in his March 2015 interview, which cost me time-- noting that Pacino can be distempered and say fuck you to an assistant, get away with it and get away with telling it, in context, but Christ forbid a disabled writer display the same passion, deflecting intense racial enmity into an admission of hate, substituting asshole for a more denigrating scorn. But there were certain absences. Most obviously no mention of G3, the stereotyping in Scarface, or a relevant discussion of what right Pacino had to inhabit Simon Axler in Roth's controversial and cold novel.

Pacino isn't right for the part. Pacino is just shy of decimated aging that tears my heart. Pacino is my movie idol exception and drives me fucking crazy in the this is why actors have body guards way. His fingernails aren't in the best shape, and why do I want to run and email celebrities of a certain period? What whim am I catering to? What could I possibly say to a legend who became diffuse? Why didn't Charlie press him on playing Wortzik? Dog Day was and remains weird, whether you are a pro-sodomy advocate or fake it so as to not be a target of gay rage (believing in hate crime). One can truly see the faggot in Al here, which is why between the lines, he was difficult on the set, booze or no booze, this little boy having the drama queen moment. The movie chilled me in the sense none of us beat the system, more than that, the seventies brought the docu-drama into its own, and Dog Day Afternoon has that effect of urban realism, grit, texture. Anyone who truly threatens power is taken out, despite Coppola's wet dream.

When I stop and remember my failed potential I feel badly about doing my own variation of Alexander Pope's satirical attacks on my past, almost too self-conscious, but then again, my online audience is small, my ferocity appalling. If the Old Cricket made a hypothetical entrance to scold me, I'd hide under the fucking bed and roll out to have a raging argument with him at the same time. Not about learning how hard it is to write for a living-- but about my matriculation as a normal once top tiered student-- before it was too late it would have been nice had someone put it in context that I couldn't have a normal career, but the man is human, so am I, and I put our memories into a Euripides' over the top mass death by Mount Olympus. The above linked piece is more reminiscent of what he taught me, though it doesn't matter. 

I needed to be good enough, tough enough as a writer, to rescue myself, and thus far, I'm not, despite an old man's limpid eyes, still able to mesmerize. Pacino was my fucking cunt slinky, and he's crafty too, given half a chance. Squandered a great deal, he's ridiculous in his present posture, verging on decrepit odiousness. He taught me a great deal about his craft in 50 minutes. Nostalgia's ability to wound is sharper than an arrow's pierce.

Why have the African Americans who run Presby made me racist? Because they do not strive to make themselves better, because you cannot see that Trudy Richardson does her damnest making me feel alienated and even more marginalized. I have no problem with my hostility toward a nigger bitch like that persecuting me relentlessly. My family is not on intimate terms with minorities in the manner forced upon me because I have no choice. It's killing me. And I'll never be a normal suburban girl again.

Explosive Postures in the Arc of Compassionate Praise

But it is precisely here that a disastrous limitation in his position shows itself. --Martin Heidegger on Hermeneutics and Facticity

Ian McEwan is very good at illustrating corrosive anxiety which eats away at British definition for lack of an answer. As a novelist illuminating Western liberalism which is overwhelmed, Ian keeps it right on the edge; neither Daniel Craig nor director Roger Mitchell can master this in Enduring Love. The opening sequence is spectacular, and for that reason contrived, and Mitchell might have done better to consider a montage, some other form of adaptation. Ifans does a good job at being sick, using Gnosticism to implode toward annihilation, but Craig simply grows vicious and angry to the point that Ifans' mania seems mewing against it.

If you're going to use a hot air balloon as an allegory for humanity's precarious suspension between heaven and hell, in other words, going psycho-thriller on the time tested motif lends itself to being a cheap plot twist. Language is interdependent with visual acuity, so the motion picture is necessarily linked to language, and its proto-scientific discipline, linguistics, but narrative and film are also two different beasts, and fidelity to the text can be an Achilles's heel.

What Jerry does really well on occasion is getting his morphemes in just the right combination of synecdoche. "the whizzer" is evocative of blood spurting up out of a slit vein. Me? I simply pummel my stanzas, hating the definite article with a vengeance. I do not pun. I compact, and close with a thud, taking on even speculative traumatic conversion with defiance. Without necessarily having cured myself, since I have to deal with the residue of a senile transsexual who cannot register that I hate s/him and want nothing to do with its living carcass, I've managed, nonetheless, to close the door.

What I cannot do is restore my sensual self-esteem. That would take money my vanity as a broiled prawn doesn't have, though I'm sexually attracted to two of the men from Libertarian meet-up. Would I dare to do anything about that? Ah.

Tim Kenneally has done some decent reporting for the Wrap on Bobbi's health care, and I wish I could take my piece of this as a disability journalist: none of us are immune from the fact that the costs of long term care will bankrupt the global economy, but what journalists on Bobbi's beat cannot answer is why Brown's physicians cannot counteract whatever it was she ingested. People as young as Bobbi can come out of persistent vegetative states, but it takes extraordinary commitment to capture that spark of spirit as opposed to mere brain stem activity. We need to start letting go. I still have my faculties and want to return to employment, but the death industry takes precedence, while I starve on my pride.

Anti-Theist Scales in the Merger feeling its way

"The only thing more embarrassing than yanking the tour might have been the pictures of empty seats."-- Soraya Nadia McDonald

The moral manuals existed well into the first 60 years of the twentieth century. --James F Keenan

Copying Beethoven is ever too slightly contrived, like an Isben play updated for our modern ears to illustrate 19th century fluidity between the seams, or evoking the Lippizzaner Stallions, a fascinating regiment in its own right, but the film displays that Ed Harris had his decade in the zone. He manages to bring the maestro alive, illustrating that certain cruelty of genius, the disruption and indifference of chronic conditions, the urgency which is dismissive of hygiene, but Diane Kruger is less confident as the implanted amanuensis who never actually existed. Holland is a careful director beneath the stricture of her staged scenes to implant the necessary progressive schema, which arguably weakens the movie. Yet Harris remains a great Beethoven, a man splitting the difference between devotion and rebellion against the divine, a rebellion which is still romantic, attempting to cling to something beyond the grim materialism of biology as a mechanism we want to comprehend.

The raw emoting toward The Hours was in fact due mainly to Harris' ability to hit the touchstone of lives lived in anguish. Streep was off her game here, not a believable lesbian in the least, and two years have cooled down the sense that Cunningham truly broke boundaries merging aspects of Woolf's inability to persevere with the contemporary devastation AIDS wrought on sexual liberalism. Will I get a chance to read the novel? I cannot say. The power chair is hurting me, regardless of whatever tricks I've learned to write at the keyboard with, and my lack of decent medical equipment says it all, in a way, but Cunningham, at least through what the screen adaptation offers, was attempting to recover the novel of manners for its once predominant audience, while making homosexual repression and even gay unhappiness a centralized theme. His translucence might have overreached. 

No third way for mortal coils?

"I owe the woman something, she kept me alive."-- Ed Harris

Disintegration. I have limited knowledge about abstract expressionism. One of my former Yahoo group members who understood what I was after, a disabled teacher from Britain, introduced me to the issue of de Kooning's work in conjunction with his end of life Alzheimer's, and then unsubscribed, in the story of my life. de Kooning lived a long time, and Pollock went in tyrannical fashion. I come on to piss and moan, nearly falling off the Jazzy getting off my deplorable bedding, transferred back to sunken lumpy mattress after rare accident, half-shit myself, got transfer right on the second round, logged on instead of cleaning what I can and going to get a little food, discover Anthony Riley has earned my envy, a rather selfish observation to offer, pondering these issues. I know why Ed Harris excels at portraiture, but remain diffident about Jackson Pollock's place among his contemporaries. Why couldn't he die alone? The film is a remarkable piece of biography, but the story is more or less sordid. What legacy does Namuth capture? Why did Lee Krasner sacrifice herself? What is it to break past Picasso? Why does the biography lead to cynicism even as the film itself is transcendent?

It leads me back to David Foster Wallace, my anger with him, because he had the skill to give me a place at the table, and doubtlessly would have understood me, and the bastard caved in, and I understand why, rejecting the medical model solace utilized by his wife, his father. What some established columnists felt about Phillip Seymour Hoffman's relapse and last trip on his dose over the rainbow, I felt about Wallace. I don't have to have known David to know we would have made sparks, engaging with each other, and yet I persist, obstinate blockhead, Harris' extraordinary abilities sneaking up on me. I should go, but let me let you know, I am giving my notice soon, told myself to give it a week or two, but I'll need a crash site, kabeesh?

Annexing the Crimea

I ain't really here tonight, thus Blogger can sigh with relief that I am too tired for targeted insinuations, as my formerly transgendered intimate who is only of local ADAPT notoriety, is a living corpse, and not worth the trouble. I wasn't going to discuss Bruce's transition, precisely for the reasons Kathleen chooses to elucidate. If a resident with terminal cancer thinks I am a pretentious drama queen, but doesn't have the wit to make that zing, I think an aging athlete needs money, and I think this because the evidence suggests that biological males and females who see themselves as members of the opposite sex know this at an early age, and I grew up with Bruce Jenner's ass in his jockey shorts, and never heard a peep out of him that he really wanted breasts and his penis removed, not until reality television; this type of sensationalism leaves a bad taste in my mouth, the shallow strobes of bread and circuses from which the peasants never quite divorce themselves, the need for titillation. I am loathe to add to it, regardless of my peevish arteries which now hold these individual needs, self-interest, in circumspect reserve. Caitlyn certainly had no problem with her male identity when it came to the decathlon; Erik von Schmettering is much less glamorous, and is shied away from, welts on its arms, the persona all but vacated, neither quite male nor female, inciting a piteous revulsion. My ex is right that I waste my reserves letting this eat me to death, but I am merely reverting to form: in 94 I utilized Erik for emotional solace, and it was a mistake, and my pain no longer has access to comfort, sucking it out of the atmosphere. I'm pondering the magnificent energies of Ed Harris.

His talent to be Beethoven, his ability to become Jackson Pollack, or a bisexual novelist with AIDS in Cunningham's already backdated novel, is nothing short of extraordinary, and I'd like to fuck the man in appreciation, which doesn't mean he in turn would oblige, but my finesse meter is squandered this fine Sunday morning, wasting what little I have in my all consuming need for change. What's it getting me?

The protest of Salmonella's delicacy

One of those wincing days, getting up to comply with the public housing requirements as I've done with the same exact rental agent for 29 years at a frenetic pace, even though I know I'm leaving, trying to remind myself my little brother is following me and can read this, lest I revert to the stark corrosion which led to staff and scrip's support, but it is public housing which has bred my hatred, what my eye sees in the withered skin of these descendants of civil rights and slavery. If I stay I'm dead, and giving my notice merely expedites the matter. I went to a luncheon for the sake of a slice of pizza to listen to a next generation black professional talk about life insurance, and he was quite good at presenting, eliciting my elocution from my haggard frame, and if my mouth was a sword, I would have then committed mass murder: I snapped back at the older minorities who run the tenant's council, then debated Dominic in the lobby, a blustery white guy subsumed by his terminal cancer. You would not know he is dying, and I was as blunt with him as I am with anyone. Upon using the word "egalitarian" he said I was bullshit, that I use my acumen to camouflage my handicap. I sniggered. Wished him well, and here I am, expediting my death at the hands of Protestant positrons.

I'm really leaving, destitute as much through exterior ambiance as in emotional ravage, the film Winged Creatures strives, and fails, to authenticate sudden violence, depending heavily on the performance of Dakota Manning to hold the centrifugal force of the narrative, but as much as one may disdain agreement with NYT, the indie arcs here never meld, despite the cast, and Whitaker's character, diagnosed with his own metastasis, mopes his way through frailty. What concerns me is not that Woods attempts sincerity and unravels, but that writers should be wary of adaptive translation. As usual, the traumas resolve in holistic fashion, save for the diphthong of Beckinsale's far too nuanced denial of childhood neglect. It dims the desire to read an author like Roy Frieirich. His prose may be better, or worse, than his script, but both Frierich and Woods strive for an extended metaphor and wind up with the ubiquity of a Big Mac ground out of fillet, in summation of an unfortunate viewing experience-- it was one of my first films seen on the new Escape.

I cannot run from my limitations. I know that. I'm the textbook dirty cripple who challenges ambulatory endurance, but a battered women's shelter, in comparison to Presby's dominant minority management, feels like a fucking vacation. I have to let this location go. I know the state will win, eventually, but I'm still running; this is my response to what I knew would happen if I couldn't step it up. When I started blogging in 2009, I had 10,000 dollars left, transformed to ground carrion in six years. Poof.

PS: Personal loyalty means a great deal to me. 

Hepatic Cirrhosis

"There is this sense of urgency."-- Charlie Rose

It is not enough for me that Sally Mann is the cipher and the filter for her stricken husband, Larry. It may be enough for him. It may be enough for Sally, who, obviously, is insecure with the recognition her photography provoked, and needs discretion as a shield despite the impact of her aesthetic revelations, and it may be enough for an intrepid interviewer like Rose, but a much more difficult video for Charlie's audience to digest would have been to interview Larry Mann about what it is like dying from muscular dystrophy after giving his life for his wife's pursuit of interpreting the world through a camera lens. That's tougher than for what mercy allows, and it would have created controversy for a tired old man whose heart did not kill him, and made Sally herself more of a lightning rod.

In fact, I am going to throw down the gauntlet: Before Charlie retires, I am challenging him to interview nobody. I'd like to see what he would do with an individual with a developmental disability who strove and failed. I want him to cut across the insularity of success and sit at that table with a cripple scorched by poverty, a squandered genius, and see what happens, because I've grown cynical about aesthetic bubbles, and the priesthood surrounding altered perspectives. It isn't that images cannot change the world, merely that we're all inundated to their previous power to move us. In the world of color rods in the cone of the iris, Sally's dead greyhound with it's head lolling on a fence, elongated body like the slash of an angel, is a dead dog. If it had been a crushed insect, we would have had a different reaction.

I'm dying. Before you tell me to go to the doctor, I've been to one, another young Asian resident who knows absolutely nothing except the pathology of various rote causations. My identity is beginning to submerge into my autonomous bodily functions. In part you can thank these motherfuckers with their subtle avarice, death panel profiteering at my expense; in part it is my social fear, but if I'm broken, I haven't been broken the way Trudy Richardson may believe: I did the recertification to stay on in 202 housing at the last possible second, but am ready to give my notice, abandon everything but my computer briefcase, shed my library, and roll, with nothing but a farthing, with the realization that with every sleep, I drift off into the end result, into an occlusion of my cardiovascular system, shrinking away. I've burrowed down very far, so far away there is no room for the recrimination of human social structures falling apart at the seams. I cannot sustain encroaching uselessness, and that is breaking me of its own accord.