The Thing Itself

I esteem William Hurt for his public reticence. I have never seen him do an interview on television about any of his films, neither on Charlie Rose nor other syndicated segment, and since my volubility manifests in stark contrast to his weighty pauses and force of expression, I am drawn to it, most of the time. In his earlier work, like Gorky Park, his emotional silences seem to matter less. In A.I. the existential focus of his character is as doomed as any other human social dynamic still in operation. Many of his roles involve definitions that viewers hope to draw on for assurance, only to find ourselves unfulfilled, a hanging chad being sucked into the void, as illuminated in films like The Plague, and Dark City. Very different narrative vehicles, but part and parcel of his presence being a misdirection that frustrates expectations. Doctor Hobby cannot resurrect his son, at the end of the day, and unintentionally creates more suffering, though I have always had trouble conceptualizing robots as truly anthropomorphic. Asimov sees robotic evolution as a rather frightening encroachment of paternalism, the ultimate case manager, determining the future of its creator; in essence, vanquishing the free will humanity once believed it had. Spielberg turns the tables on this, of course, and the meme becomes a bummer, to cull a contemporary reviewer's term.

To undercut my objectivity, as I usually do, I was forced to forfeit my entire day for the sake of cat food supplies, since my order had not shipped, and I grew agitated because I am still not fully adapted to a secure transfer to the Quantum model chair, which is why I rarely use it, although I know I need to change this strategy. Most of you do not know how low I can get on bad days, in part because I grew ashamed of the depth of my anguish in public, and do not want to dredge it up, and I myself do not like reading depressed women crying out and then getting advised by half the damn country on the brand name half the damn country is using, and yet, like an insane idiot, I am afraid of not having the cats to take away what would have been quality writing time if I did not have to charge and then frantically get to the nearest outlet. I am almost far gone enough to roll myself on the nearest Amtrak and get off somewhere in Rhode Island. I have no idea what this would achieve-- if in fact such an impetus is just another way of giving up and letting society cage me now, as opposed to five years down the road; even if I do leave Presby, this is not a magic charm. Nothing would change. I'd still need to be compliant with the categorization of my status of a nursing home candidate. Of course, I will kick my attitude about the bush after some sleep.