Karl (louderback) wrote,

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Movie Day

I'm having an odd day today. I've spent the morning and early afternoon "watching" movies, than which, for me, there are few occupations more frustrating. Listening to Thom Harris' "Hannibal" is just not the same as being able to see Anthony Hopkins mug his way through the role. I can't, at this point, imagine anyone who could perform the particular role any better.

I am a big fan of all of the movies made from Thomas Harris books thus far, "Manhunter", "Silence of the Lambs", and "Hannibal". For sheer style I prefer director Michael Mann's "Manhunter" made from "Red Dragon" in which "Hannibal the Cannibal" has only a cameo role. For story my favorite is "Silence of the Lambs". Of the books, the last, "Hannibal" is my favorite, though as a movie I like it least of all.

My day of movies has left me melancholy. I don't get much enjoyment out of television of late and the "talking books" I am enduring are as much noise-makers and enjoyable "reading". Using this computer has become more burdensome than enjoyable. I am left with a dearth of media in which I may take enjoyment. I suppose I might take up the traditional blind man's art — sculpture and in that clichéd medium endeavor to express some creativity but it seems unnatural to think of it. Of those daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne, from Helicon have descended only Calliope and Clio to my side and no others save, on rare occasion, to brush me lightly and pass on. Which is to say, I fancy myself more writer and poet than sculptor.

My apprehension of apprehension in regard to my surgery grows on a daily basis. I dislike the prospect but would not forego the operation for any reason. Why worry? Well, I might name a thousand complications that in foolishness my mind has fastened upon but the simplest answer to the interrogation preceding is that it is easier to worry about it than to worry about the fact that it well may not affect my vision to the good.

I honestly don't want to go back to work in this condition. Nor am I ready to retire. Should I manage to qualify for a pittance from my employer and some form of support from the government, I would find myself in such irretrievably reduced circumstances that my prospects and, I think, my self respect might never recover.

Whilst I have no foolish trepidation as regards acceptance of recompense to which I most certainly am entitled through the payment of years of taxes, nor any illusion of social status decreased thereby, still I find it unacceptable to be "on the dole" in any form when it just seems wrong! It should does not in any seem right that all things are so bloody hard for me to perform. I am — honestly, demonstrably — capable of effecting change in my methods and in my patterns of thinking, yet despite learning a host of techniques and employing a myriad of mechanisms, the simplest tasks seem dulled to laboriousness and lugubrious in execution.

Do all the blind live out the fate of Sisyphus? I had not thought it so.

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